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Desert Rat

{Desert Rat} <0005Local, May Eighteenth Fallout Year Seventeen [2037 Anno Domani]> A middle-aged man shut the lid on his laptop and tipped a grin to the bartendress. "Thanks for letting me jack in through your port, Jess" The Red-haired, hourglass figure in the semi-formal black and white uniform smiled back, revealing a double-row of inhumanly well mantained teeth. It was almost blinding. "You can thank me in ways other than words, sweetie." The man couldn't help but chuckle. He never could figure out Jessica's attraction to him. He was really not much to look at, and in fact would have fit in pretty well with the old colloquialisim of the wisend college professor. He was thrity-seven years old. He remembered Fallout. Hell, he remembered the invention of cybernetic implants. His hair was thinning, and he was to vain to apply a toupe or get surgery to replace the recceeding hairline. the blonde locks, still short from force of habit and his stint in the Air Force, were already begining to whiten with age and stress. He remained clean-shaven, and his eyes bespoke of fatigue, world-weariness, and the stress he was constantly under. His brief military carrer had been doomed ever since his arrival in Texas during Fallout Year Zero. That didn't matter much, what mattered was that this young girl, too young to remember Fallout, or even have seen what became known as a "tortise", or the extremly slow ancient computers. Hell, She was always amazed at how LARGE the man's laptop was. "So, why do they call you the 'Desert Rat', anyway?" She asked. "Like I've told you, please... call me Jack." "Okay, Mr. Rat," she said with a giggle. "You still in Three-Zero-One-Seven?" "Of course, I should apply for residency there," "We're already working on it for you," "Thanks, doll. When do you get off, anyway?" "About 0500," "I'll be ready," Jack gently slid the laptop into the backpack, slung it over one shoulder, and trapised up the stairs to the third floor, and ducked inside room seventeen. He then proceeded to conceal the monofilment knives on the end table by placing them under the matress and placed the antiquated Five-seveN pistol underneath his pillow. From there, he jacked into the bar downstairs again, and sent out a message through the Shadow-net, which would only be traced so far as Jessica. Poor girl. She was so obsessed with sex, that it would soon be her downfall. That'll teach her. The message read: .
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