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Rudi tutted, her long black ponytail swishing around her scowling face, “why must the Commonwealth be full of such…” her voice filled with disgust, “varmints.”
She wore combat armour, prewar military badges pride of place. Her german accent tilted the words as she spoke them, but the sheer vitriol was all a listener could truly grasp.
“Varmints, Paladin?” A young Scribe, wearing red robes, asked the pale skinned woman.
“Ja, Scribe,” she hissed, “varmints. Pesky, stupid, useless, little, varmints.”
“The mole rats ar-“
The scribe squealed as Paladin Rudi Schleicher, “not the mole rats, fool. The,” she stared at them, blue eyes looking through the brown ones of the scribe, “Railroad. The synth-loving-communist-bastards.”
“But, we can’t get rid of them- we can’t find them, Paladin?” The scribe gulped, every muscle urging them to run.
“Now now now. Rats are easy to catch with a hint of cheese,” she smirked, “and we have that. Besides, do you know what Schleicher means?”
The scribe shook their head, knuckles white from clenching.
“It means sneaky,” she smiled, “nominative determination at its finest. A spy, named after being sneaky? What else was I to do?”