Diatribal

Super mutants were something of an idiosyncrasy, Andrew thought. The strength and resilience they had been imbued with from their mutagenic genesis made them the indisputable physical Übermensch of the wasteland— and yet, they were so very easily led. Cavemen, intellectually speaking. He had heard of The Master, from whispered wastrel-spun stories, and the anecdotes of old-timers who’d been around in those days, and he truly did feel a sense of awe, to imagine some mutated post-human abomination, exerting what was rumoured to be inconceivable psychic potency across his great Super Mutant army, whose remnants were even now scattered across the west coast.

But The Master had been exploiting a fundamental part of Super Mutant nature; their habit of consigning higher thought processes to those that appeared mentally superior. Super Mutants, the baseline ones, anyway, were beholden to whatever pathological fixation was provided to them. By placing himself at the centre of any such fixation, and regular reinforcement with speeches and rhetoric-filled soliloquies, they were entirely happy to simply addend Andrew to their standard primitive functions.

All of this, to explain why he was now sitting in a moth-eaten chair, in a stunningly intact but squat building, listening to one of the big green Neanderthals try and articulate whatever had happened this time. Raiders, it sounded like. Some upstarts with tin cans and car parts strapped to their bodies trying to muscle in. Andrew raised a hand edge-ways up, leaving the Super Mutant to trail off into silence. “Begin setting traps near the areas they’ve overtaken. Mines, if we have them. Twelve of you, go and get some guns, then come back here. I’ll lead you outside then. They’ll be gone by tomorrow evening- ah, night, and we can re-secure our territory after that.” There was a moment, as they parsed his words, but then they got to work, following their assigned tasks, muttering and grunting as they moved.

So very easily led, Super Mutants.

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