Chapter 1: Memories of Tomorrow

The air had taken a chill. Fall came to the Northwest Commonwealth with a month long rain and an unseasonably sharp bite. From southern Beaverton to northern Vancouver, bodies and spirits were frigid. Bodies due to the weather of course, spirits, for another reason. While the rest of the United States marched to a clearly patriotic tune, this community moved to another beat. Socialism won hearts and minds here. Anchorage stood as a fearful example to those thousands of miles away, but not that far, the Northwest Commonwealth felt a different experience. They witnessed increased surveillance and paranoia. Long-time creatives who sought freedom in Portland felt the ever watchful gaze of the government.Thinkers who thought 'too red' suffered too. Some simply vanished. When the soldiers began marching in the streets, they weren't surprised.

After nine months some called the soldiers armed for combat the occupation. Disease and famine spread throughout the country, but the Northwest had escaped the brunt. Famine came, but disease less so. Once those who took ill were quarantined the people were left hungry, questioning the steel-plated men in their streets. They could saw the food shortage. Saw Anchorage reclaimed and China laid to siege. They saw disease held back. However, none of these things explained the soldiers on their doorsteps. Life is changing, so what will you do?

20 October 2077
Portland, Oregon
Morning, Light Rain

"What did you say?"

Tiny reflections spotted the glass as if eyes fixed solely on him. For every inch an eye rolled it multiplied until the audience was beyond count. He stood awhile with a phone to his ear, but the voice seemed more distant than before. There was only a rhythmic thumping that penetrated his chest as it came and went. The phone felt slick. A familiar feeling twisted his stomach and put the hairs on his neck at end. He felt exposed.

"I said we're gathering. Feds are in the streets going door-to-door, man. Why wait for'em to kick mine down when I can bring the fight to'em?" the voice paused. He heard what sounded like puckering, then a deep, throaty cough. "We got guns too, man! Hand cannons and shit. You ain't talkin'. You comin' or not, man?"

Perry blinked. In that brief moment the world restarted. Things came back into focus. He watched as raindrops slipped down the glass walls of the phone booth to the muffled pitter-patter of a drizzle outside. Through his shoes he felt the subtle vibrations of a nearing train, in his chest faintly metallic chugging. The small reflections shifted as he turned, fixing the phone firmly against his ear and clearing his throat. He pulled what the voice had said back into mind, but stumbled on the thought.

"Yeah, of course. I'm coming," Perry replied, each pause a bit too long. "Just didn't expect to hear about guns. I might know some of these guys from before, see? Didn't think it'd turn out like this."

"N' I didn't expect some tank-motherfucker to start callin' every protester n' black man commie. Shit's different, get it? Might be hard, but it's dog-eat-dog n' shit's changing. Change with it or get bit, man... Pioneer Square. Dusk."

Perry hung up before the voice could turn to a buzz. As soon as he opened the phone booth two men stepped forward. One practically lunged for the door, his arm already projected out, but the other paid him no mind. They bounced off one another, barely grazing Perry as he slipped by and continued to the street. Weaving between indefinitely parked petro run cars, he glanced about for the still running fusion rigs and dashed. After a few steps a blur in the corner of his eye caught his attention. Just across the street at the phone booth there now was a loosely formed crowd. He heard the tell-tale jeering of a fight and in his mind's eye saw the men from before. A part of him yearned to linger, to watch the bit of sport and jeer too, but then came the horn.

On both sides of the road people dropped to a knee. Some went so far as to duck-and-cover, their asses up to the sky as if some sacrifice to appease the great nuclear fire. Perry nearly laughed, if only he could after seeing the soldiers appear. Figures clad in glistening steel approached the crowd from further up the street. He felt his knees weaken and leaned in beside the window of a small store-front. The door swung open, he smelled dark roast, but for the life of him, he could not tear his eyes from the metal men. When he felt jerked to the side he flailed, yet fell into the store all the same. A salt-and-pepper bearded man crouched low with a finger to his lips. The man pushed up his thick lensed spectacles and turned to the window. Several others huddled low near the window, their heads peaking just over the sill. Perry gawked absently a moment. His thoughts returned to the photo booth and rain speckling the glass -- the eyes, watching.

When the metallic clap sounded they all shuddered. Perry's neck twisted as he stood a little higher over the sill as if chasing the sound. Across the street the crowded mass shook and cried out. A steel encased soldier cut through the crowd with his pistol still aimed at the sky. An alien crackle of a voice kept the fearful mass low to the ground, but between the rain and panicked breathing around him the words were lost. Four stood around the booth. The soldiers circled around the two men and the prize for which they fought. Perry heard the crackling peak like a cough or, perhaps a laugh. One of the men opened his arms and spat. Just like that the soldiers lunged forward, one whipping the man with their pistol, the other kicking out their knees. Without hesitation the second man dove inside the phone booth. His fist slammed against something just above the phone before a yellow light flashed inside and out. A piercing, shrill warning siren bellowed from the booth and echoed throughout the streets. Perry and those within the shop covered their ears, fighting their training to fall back into the nearest bunker. One of the soldiers placed their pistol against the back of the kneeling man's head; the other approached the phone booth. Thick metal walls detracted from atop the booth as was standard should the emergency procedure be activated. Despite the distance, Perry made out the cocky grin on man's face standing inside his glass box as it coated itself in its "nuclear proof" shell. Yet, the soldier did not respond. They stood without movement until the shell lowered to chest level, at which point, they twitched. Perry heard three muffled pops before the booth's glass shattered, splattered with blood, and was hidden shortly after by the blasting shield. At once the kneeling man's head jerked forward and burst.

Perry crouched low behind the sill and turned to those behind him. "Is there a back door?" he whispered, his voice raspy and strained. "We need to go."

20 October 2077
Seattle, Washington
Morning

Primo opened his eyes ever so slowly as he rolled onto his back and let out a loud and somewhat dramatic yawn. The sun was coming up and it was time to start yet another unusually stressful day. Unfortunately lately the unusual was becoming increasing usually, much to Primo's displeasure. To all of his two dozen soldier's as well he imagined. They had grown accustomed to this job being relatively easy, most likely due to routine. The life had been peaceful for the last couple of years. There hadn't been any family wars and not even that many murders when he thought on it. Recent times were changing that though. People had started calling the shit that was going on an occupation. If things carried on the way they were already going pretty soon people would stop saying occupation and start saying war zone and when people start bringing the word war into the mix pretty soon you'd have scores of people acting like warriors. The business opportunity's these happenings had opened up certainly had their bad sides.

Grudgingly Primo climbed out of his exquisitely comfortable bed and put on his black silk robe. It was time to get ready for the day.

Half an hour later Primo was bathed, dressed and looking his usual immaculate self. Due to the strife in the streets he couldn't just leave in a nice suit however, he would have to go out heavy today. In normal circumstances he wouldn't, he had a very skilled bodyguard but at the moment things were just too dangerous. Anybody could take advantage of the chaos to see him off out of their lives. Everybody's lives actually... It was a risk that warranted the precaution. He wouldn't need something for heavy fighting, just something for emergency protection. He quickly went into his gun cabinet and grabbed his .357 Taurus Revolver. With that done he rushed outside where his bodyguard Ray was waiting for him, standing next to a Highwaymen car. It was a nice, practical and very common vehicle. He liked to think it helped them blend in a little. Ray was a good man. He wasn't Italian but he was smart, honest and very skilled.

“Ray.” Primo smiled, nodding a greeting. “Sorry about the time, I woke up a little late.”

“That's not like you.”

“Tell me about it, but what is like it is right now, huh?”

“Yeah, you got that right. Some of the shit I've been hearing... I hope half of it is bullshit.”

“Forget about it. Let's go see if we can capitalize on some of this shit.” Primo smiled, patting his friend on the shoulder and getting into the passenger side of the car. Ray went around and climbed into the drivers seat. Primo instinctively knew there was bad news when Ray didn't start the car up and get to driving straight away.

“About capitalizing... I don't think it's such a good idea. Some of the soldiers have been talking... Right now we're having trouble even maintaining. Everyone from the city gangs to the fucking store clerks have been giving us trouble when it comes to coughing up the vig. Maybe we should focus on locking things down for a day or two and then move on to the idea of expanding... Just a thought.”

Primo looked into the man's eyes as he spoke. These were strange circumstances. It was rare for anyone to ever even suggest something to Primo. The think worked on a very strict chain of command. No one below the captain influenced the captain and the captain influenced everyone. It kept things simple and strong, but sometimes, just sometimes it could be a weakness. Finally a smile crossed Primo's face.

“Thanks for being straight with me Ray... I guess we're going to need to send a few messages. One for the gangs and who knows how many for the fucking clock punchers... I've got an idea that might deal with both though. What's the most respected gang who refused to pay up this week?”

“That'd be the Face Family. Word is they've even been doing our thing. They were getting the less powerful gangs to pay them not to wipe their weak small time asses out. I guess now they figure they're on our level and think they can skip a few payments.”

“Huh... Tell Vito to get in touch with whoever their leader is. Tell him to tell that fuck that we're moving out of the gang protection business but we're looking for someone to keep them all in line so they don't start stepping on our other businesses toes when we back off. Tell him we think the Face Family is a good candidate to do that. That we have a certain... Respect for the way they've been doing things. Tell him to have his gangsters trash every fucking business that didn't give up the vig this week... Rob them, even give a beating or two. If he has his boy soldiers do that, tell him we're willing to have a sit down and discuss handing the gangster side of the extortion business over to them... Then, when the sit down comes, fucking kill them all. Make it as loud and as public as possible. Use a couple of the Hitler's Buzz-saws we've got at the warehouse if you have to. Just make sure to send a blood soaked message to the gangs that we wont tolerate lack of payment and an equally powerful one to the business owners that their lives wont run any where near as smoothly without us in them. You got all that?”

“Damn... Yeah, I got it, I'll fill him in when we meet a little later, we'll split and gather the rest of the soldiers for the sit down after.”

“Good. Now drive Raymond-O, I'm starting to get sick of my own damn neighbourhood.”

Washington DC
Morning
20 October 2077
A thumping sound awakened Max this morning, and when he lifted his head from the pillow yawning in the process he realised that it was someone knocking on the door.

"One minute" Max shouted groggily.

He swiftly jumped out of his king sized bed and quickly shot on a dressing gown that was slung over a chair in the far side of the bedroom, and walked towards the door.
Max was staying in one of the most prestigious hotels in D.C, which was thanks to his standing as a person, the President himself made sure that this suite was provided for him upon his arrival into the nations capital, it was in a prime location as the White house was very close and the capitol building wasn't far away either.
The suite itself looked as though it was made with great care and incredibly precision, the decor was a traditional Victorian style and the furniture was made from solid Mahogany with gold leaf carved into tables and other furniture and it had been sown into the rugs and the curtains, it truly was a room fit for a king. But none of this made Max's mood any better than the sour one he had.
Just yesterday Congress turned down, by a majority vote, to start peace talks with China.

Max reached the large, snow white, double doors that lead to the hallway and opened them to find his '2nd in command' Mia, there, she was a rather straight up sort of woman, the sort who'd tell you what she thought of you straight to your face with out any regard of the consequences.
Max sort of liked this about her as sometimes she could be rather humorous.

"Good morning sir, it's time to get breakfast before we depart for Portland."

"Yes. It is." Max gave a stifling yawn before finishing his sentence.
"Go down and order me something hearty, I'll be there shortly"

"Of course sir" with that she turned away of to the lifts.

Max closed the door lightly and made sure he heard the click which signified it being locked and turned away towards the master bedroom to get dressed for the day ahead of him.
Max flicked the television on to see what was happening in the world as he was getting dressed into his standard clothes.
The world appeared to be going to the dogs from what he seen in a short 5 minutes, plague, famine, war, threats of nuclear intervention, public shootings. He quickly got sick of it and turned it off before he threw up, Max's face turned into a sneer and shook his head as he put his boots on and said aloud
"I've picked a right good time to become someone to rely on; fixing this mess is going to take a bloody miracle."
He checked and patted himself down to ensure he had everything he needed before he picked up his Black Cromby and rested it over his forearm and walked towards the doors, but first he stopped and corrected his posture. Max was obsessed with correct posture, he felt it defined the man, he's stood as if there was a string pulling his spine straight and had his shoulders low and chest out, the real difficulty with this was not to look as if you were a peacock, something Max has mastered many years ago.

Max opened the door and shut them before swiftly walking down the immaculate hallway towards the lifts, the master suite was on the top floor so the lift journey took about 2 minutes, he spent this time humming to himself in order to try and cheer himself up, but it was futile. Unless he heard congress ask for another talk over this matter Max was doomed to a very difficult time in America.

Max entered the dining hall to hear the sound of clinking cutlery and soft talking mixed with the smell of breakfast wafting through the air.
He knew fine well where Mia would be sitting, which was just on his right away from the main seating area. Max preferred some privacy whilst he ate so that's why they sat in the corner.
He sat down at the table to, disappointingly, find that his 'hearty' breakfast consisted of boiled Quails eggs with some toast. he raised his eyebrow towards Mia and she could only give a stifled snigger with the words "We have to keep your physique in check you know"
Max sighed long and deep and pushed his plate away, began sipping his tea and reading today's paper.

I was an hour before it was time to leave the hotel and set off to the airport. Max and Mia were both stood in the foyer ensuring that everything was all packed away in the cars provided and that nothing was left behind.
"Right that's everything sorted, time to set off"

Max put on his cromby and buttoned it up before stepping outside onto the street, all at once a wall of cold, crisp, autumn air hit Max and the sounds of a city waking up resonated through out the air.
The weather itself was very good, the sky was a Azure blue and perfectly clear, not a cloud in sight.

Both Max and Mia got in the back of the car; which was a black Corvega and began relaxing as the driver began whisking them off towards the airport.

"Right, you know what we're doing and where we are going?" Mia said whilst looking at Max.

"Yes yes, stop doubting me, we are off to Portland and we are going to a conference in order to increase international awareness of Vault-tec.

Mia smiled slightly "Good, it appears you do listen to me every now and then"

Max started observing the city and the numerous people going about their everyday business outside the car, it's almost hard to think that a war is taking place looking at these people, but Max had to admit...
'Ignorance is bliss'.

The wind howled like a witch with cancer in her belly. It was the eerie reminder of what was prophesied; but it was only a minuscule reminder. In fact the armored beasts that marched with stunning precision, like ants swarming to war. These men, or beasts as they were portrayed, were of the deepest fathoms of man's fear, and the summit of his technology. They were enforcers, juggernauts, sentinels of doom. Civilians scattered like sheep fleeing a pack of wolves. The metal men, trying to retain a level of order among the chaos, abused their authority profoundly, beating innocents to a bloody, mangled pulp, a far worse fate than those popped in the grape execution style. People tried, oh they tried so futilely to retaliate against these metal men, but they were primitive and weak. A woman, blonde and fair skinned clawed at the menacing, emotionless face of her executioner; he responded by snapping her wrist with ease, peeling her arm back and countering with a heavy metal gauntlet to her sniffling, reddened face. She went limp and lifeless. A man lunged on the back of one, but was beaten profusely off, like a mosquito before it was able to draw blood. Everywhere chaos was trumped by "order" and it was gruesome indeed.

Sirens wailed suddenly, overpowering the wind and the screams and foul language of the surrounding area-- a metropolis city, in flames of course. Street lamps flickered, car security systems went off, gunshots echoed from every street. This was the rapture, the apocalypse, the end of days, and the armored men were the demons upon Earth. The civilians ran on, those escaping the heart of the city found refuge anyplace they could. A small group, a group of seven to be precise, all familiar with each other, perhaps even family, sought refuge in a church, a cathedral of ancient architecture. A muscled man, bald and bearded, pushed the great oaken doors open and bid his companions to enter quickly.

"Hurry up damnit! They'll be on our heels no doubt! They're large but fast as I e'err seen," the bearded man howled.

The bearded man was last to enter the cathedral, which was dimly lit by candlelight. The architecture was gothic and gave off a haunting emotion. A woman in the group, the furthest ahead, screamed hysterically. Acting on his instincts, the bearded man pushed his way through the other five individuals, smashing his hip on the foot of a marble statue of an angel wielding a sword. He winced in pain and shuffled forth to the side of the woman, the other five cautiously remained at the rear. The woman shuddered, goosebumps formed on her appendages; she was terrified. The entire place was dimly lit, but in the distance, near the altar, a small, orange glow seemed to hover in mid-air.

"Who's there!?" the bearded man yelled.

The orange glow moved just then, a cloud of bluish-grey crept down the steps to the altar, and dissipated to the cathedral ceiling. It moved downward at an angle, stopping momentarily until a small flame appeared-- a candle wick had been lit, barely revealing the mystery man, whom was obviously wielding a cigarette. Parallel to the first, a second candle was lit, revealing the altar and the sinister man leaning over it. He was a tall man, clean shaven, the sides of his head buzzed leaving neatly parted, greasy black hair on his cranium. His eyes, pools of dark blue, like the heart of a glacier stared forth menacingly at the group. A sinister sort of smile retained on his visage revealing his sharp canines. Crow's feet stretched from the corners of his eyes. His posture remained still, the cigarette pinched between his index and middle finger. A small laugh escaped his smile quickly amplifying in volume until it boomed over the sirens outside the cathedral. The mystery man slapped his free hand on the altar and leaned forward, pointing a long arm forth, the finger pointing accusingly at the group. The cigarette remained.

"You'll know me soon enough!" roared Icarai.

The sinister laugh continued as the puzzled expressions on the seven quickly turned to fear and panic as more than a dozen armor-clad figures stepped forth, wielding weapons of destruction. Automatic fire was released, Icarai still laughed as the muzzle flash illuminated the entire cathedral, six of the seven were mowed down instantly, the bearded man took only a single bullet to the arm, managed to escape the onslaught, pulling the oaken door open and stumbling outside-- to only a worse horror. In the distance an omnipotent glow ascended to the heavens, the bearded man shielded his eyes from the initial flash until it dimmed, a colossal mushroom cloud fattening rapidly towered like a deity behind the metropolis. Falling to his knees, tears poured down the cheeks of the man, defeat was in his heart. A wave of thermo-nuclear energy tore through the city, obliterating everything instantly, as it approached the man felt it's warmth, he felt it's brilliance. He quickly loved it. Until, a face appeared. A sneering face, a cigarette chomped down beneath sharp, pearly whites. The face of Icarai.

"You'll know me soon enough!" the face roared.

The bearded man screamed, his facial hair fizzled away first, then the eyes burned to dark coals, the face peeled back and melted into the nuclear wind. The man's face was gone, completely skeletal, almost ghoulish. This was the end. Maybe.

Salem, Oregon
8:15 A.M., Light Drizzle
October 20th, 2077

"Ouch! Fuck!" screamed Icarai, whom awoke unpleasantly from his slumber to a charred finger. He shouldn't have fallen asleep with a cigarette in his hand again. The slender man threw off his blanket, rolled down to the floor and crawled to the table, squishing the filter and inch long ash into a green glass ashtray. He ran his fingers through his greasy black hair, and produced a comb from his pocket, forming it back to how it was before he rested. Icarai stood to his feet, his knees popping as he rose, and he grunted accordingly.

"The whole fuckin' worlds goin' to hell, and me right along with it."

Icarai was 41, and has been haunted by apocalyptic nightmares longer than he can remember. Such a thing could drive a man crazy don't ya think? Anyways, this along with his past, made Icarai a mean, evil son of a bitch; but he was no fool, and wasn't a murderous barbarian. He was clever, and will climb whichever ladder to the top he could, even if it was a mountain of corpses. Power, tyranny, control. These were Icarai Hawthorne's virtues.

He moved to the corner of his room, in a small, inconspicuous motel on the outskirts of Salem, Oregon. A perfect hideout. In said corner, on a small desk were his belongings. Clothes, wallet, and a golden necklace with more history than you could imagine. All were quickly equipped and a cigarette was quickly placed in the lips of the man. In the next room over was an associate of Icarai, a Mr. Otto Sommer, a beast of a man with a short fuse-- easily manipulated by Icarai. He had no ill intentions for the man, in fact he quite liked him and his barbaric ways. The brute would and has so far proved useful to the slender, cigarette-smoking man known as Icarai.

The shades to the small room were parted, gazing out into the dawn and to a Chevrolet 1500 pick-up, black in color with chrome sidebars and rims. A muscled arm hung from the window, resting on the driver's side. Otto Sommer was prepared to depart, wherever his boss, Icarai demanded.

Salem, Oregon

8:15 A.M., Light Drizzle

October 20th, 2077

Otto sat in the black Chevrolet 1500 pick-up yawning thumping the side of the door while listening to the radio. The light sprinkle of rain not really bothering him much, few people were scurrying around the street trying get out of the rain or find food. It was non of his concern he worried about himself but he was hired by Icarai has a hired muscle and protection. Some people thought Otto was slow or stupid but he actually wasn't he was no means a genius but had average smarts. He didn't really know what to think of this Icarai but he had money that’s all that mattered to him.

He looked in the rear-view mirror and adjusted his hat and then took it off, because he had no head room to wear it. He caught a muffled scream he rolled the car window up grabbed his hat and lock the door. He dropped the keys into his coat pocket he put the hat back on, he walked to where he heard the scream. He walked into an alley and saw two guys surrounding a woman. He shook his head and walked down the alley until he over shadowed the men. The woman looked at Otto in horror, Otto grunted and the men turned to look at him.

They took a step back to look up at him “holy shit look at this big mother fucker” said one man. “Yea looks like he wants to help rob her” said the other man Otto sneered and cracked his knuckles. He picked the two up by their collars, he grinned at them before chucking them into some of the garbage cans. They scrambled to get up but before they could he was already to them. He kicked one square in the ass, sending him tumbling out of the alley onto the side walk.

He grabbed the other one by the throat but the man pulled a knife. Otto grabbed the mans hand his hand swallowed the guys hand. Otto squeezed the mans hand slowly increasing the pressure. The man started hitting him with his other hand, while trying to free his other hand to no avail. The man started yelling as Otto started crushing the mans hand.

The bones started cracking the man screamed in pain. Otto finally let go of his hand the knife fell from the mans grasp Otto turned to the woman and walked to her. She was panicked stricken he looked to the man and said “apologize”. The Panicked man said “ anything anything you want mam me and my associate would like to apologize for trying to rob you”. Otto shook him “and and what other nefarious plans we had!” the man said. “Now please please let me go you made your point I will not rob or steal for the rest of my life”.

Otto tipped his hat to the woman and carried the man out of the alley. He threw him on the ground and pointed down the street the man got up and started running. He held his hand while he ran, the woman came up and thanked Otto for his help before leaving. Otto walked back to the car unlocking the door, he climbed back in his hat hitting the ceiling. He removed the hat 'mumbling damn truck.”

20 October 2077
Portland, Oregon
Morning

Rainfall pattered against the steel plating of Nate's suit, the rattling sound that it made almost dulling his senses to the two gunshots that rang out a couple of blocks away. On instinct, his grip tightened around his R91 and he snapped his head towards the direction of the noise, scanning the street through his visor for any sign of an assault. Nothing, it seemed, but his gut told him to check on it, prompting him to bring a hand over to his radio and speak with a wearied tone. “Anyone got a sitrep on that noise?” For a few moments, nothing, only the sound of rainfall pinging off his helmet, before eventually another voice answered back. “Just two civvies stirring up trouble a couple of blocks away from the perimeter, we’ve dealt with them.” He knew what he meant when his fellow soldier had used the term ‘dealt’. It was always the same, these days. Some poor bastard would get into a fight over something like groceries or gas, and then wind up being cut down when the cavalry arrived.

And what did anyone expect? They were soldiers, not cops and after so many years facing the Chinese in the frozen wastes of Alaska, most of them were unable to differentiate between the concept of ‘war’ and ‘martial law’. And the others, well... he’d heard about those who couldn’t overlook what their orders told them to do for the ‘good of America’, especially after what happened in Canada. Sometimes he thought about joining them, or at least heading back home, but what was home? He’d spent so long living out of FOBs and barracks that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to have a place to call your own. He’d heard plenty of rumours about other deserters headed up north, across the Canadian border, but it would’ve been a long trip and he didn’t even know if there really was a hidden military compound where Uncle Sam’s fighting men could find shelter.

Before he could dwell on it any further, he heard a voice call his name from behind, and when he turned to see who it was he noticed one of the new CO’s that had been assigned to their checkpoint after Captain Morgan had eaten his own gun, unable to cope with what they were doing. “Lieutenant,” he answered, acknowledging the man with a tilt of his T-45d’s helmet. “With me, Sergeant - we’ve got a couple civilians causing some unrest at the other checkpoint.” The Lieutenant, who’s name he couldn’t particularly recall, was a typical ensign fresh out of officer’s school, pushed out onto the streets by the higher ups and willing to follow whatever directives high command passed down to them in a boot-licking effort to earn favour when it came to promotions. When they finally reached the checkpoint, which consisted of a warning sign, a chainlink fence, some haphazardly placed sandbags and the remaining man left behind to watch it, Corporal Quentin, the problem in question became obvious.

A small crowd of civilians, very few of them older than twenty-one at most, had gathered around the other end and started hurling every jarhead insult under the sun at them, alongside the occasional demand for food or gas rations, or an explanation for why their friends or family had been locked up. Reasoning was a pointless effort - the first instances of his fellow american heroes kicking their friends and family down as ‘commies’ before hurling them into the back of a security van had put an end to any chance of reconciliation. Turning to both Nate and Quentin, the Lieutenant quickly spoke up. “Intel reports that we’ve got communist agents that may be trying to stir up more unrest in this area, and to put down any more sign of it - small or large - before it spreads like wildfire, however necessary.” Thing was, it was too late for any of that - sending in Uncle Sam’s finest had just inflamed the passions of the downtrodden. Whilst Quentin was trying to bark orders to disperse over the raging voices of the crowd, the Lieutenant quickly withdrew his sidearm and fired it into the air, intended as a warning shot.

Granted, a few of the crowd’s more timid looking figures quickly fell back, but most of them - young, stubborn and foolish as they were - didn't, instead the volume of the crowd increasing over Corporal Quentin's own shouting voice, stepping further towards the chainlink fence. “Damn civilians, alright - they had their chance. Weapons free, Corporal.” Quentin quickly seemed to balk at the prospect, however - instead voicing his doubts. “Sir, is this necessary? They’re just kids.” From the looks of it however, the Lieutenant didn't like that. Then again, officers like him had tendencies to become defensive whenever their authority - and pride - seemed to be placed into doubt, but he quickly responded with an attempt to reassert his waning authority. “Corporal, don't question my orders.” No dice, however. Quentin seemed to become more fervent with his protest. “Sir, they’re just kids. Do they look like a bunch of fucking commies to you?” Impatiently, the Lieutenant quickly hit back with a “Don’t get insubordinate with me, I can have you court martialed before the week’s over. Now, follow your damn orders.”

A moment passed before the Corporal grimaced, levelled his weapon with the crowd and slipped his hand over the trigger, yet at the last minute, he hesitated and gave the CO a firm glare. “Fuck you, Lieutenant, I’m not gunning down a bunch of fucking kids!” Snorting impatiently, the Lieutenant went to withdraw his own sidearm. “Fine, you can tell your story at the court martial. I’ll handle thi-” The crack of Nate’s R91 putting a round through the Lieutenant’s skull prevented him from finishing off his sentence, whilst Quentin stood there frozen in shock. It took another minute for Nate to realise he was still aiming at where the Lieutenant had been stood. When he looked back towards the street past the confines of the checkpoint, he saw that the crowd had indeed dispersed by this point. ‘However necessary’, was it, Lieutenant? At least he’d be able to say that he never disobeyed orders.

20 October 2077
Portland, Oregon - Downtown
Morning, Light Rain

Only three others snuck outside the back of the shop with Perry. After creeping through a winding alleyway they reached the street where the tension began to thaw. Among them stood a broad shouldered, clean cut man in a leather coat, a woman with bohemian-style clothes draped about her slender frame, and finally, a mid-toned woman so sharply dressed Perry found himself staring. When the woman in the pant suit noticed Perry's prolonged gaze, the rest began to look about too.

"Hope you don't expect compensation," said the sharply dressed woman, her chin raising at 'expect'. Perry cocked a brow. "Leaving was as natural of a thought as any -- a good one, yes, but regardless. My thanks should be enough. Thanks."

Without another word the woman buttoned her wool overcoat jogged out from the alley. Between them, the three remaining simply watched with perplexed looks.

"Runnin' like that, ain't nobody's fault but hers if a soldier puts her down," the large man exclaimed with a shake of his head.

Bohemia tipped her head and stared daggers over her, her thin-framed, circle lensed glasses. "That a joke? 'Better keep it in low-gear else the pigs'll lay down the pain'. Fuck that. I'd rather get even than be some G-Man's little bitch," she retorted. Like an elephant set against a mouse, the man stepped back. "If all you're good for is playin' the vic you best keep walkin'. You too! Can't make eye contact, huh?"

"Tone it down," Perry sighed as he gazing into his watch. He knew for smaller riots a street team would start preparing a few hours beforehand. They usually gathered in a safe-house or some abandoned storage facility to assign objectives, if any, and escape routes, always many. With executions in the street he figured tonight's riot would be more than just some pep rally. "Do what you'd like. No matter what you do though, keep your head down. I don't think these guys think much past the trigger. I've got somewhere to be though. Y'all are welcome to join me."

20 October 2077
Portland, Oregon - Portland City Hall
Mid-Morning, Light Rain

Deborah settled into a relaxed pace and unbuttoned her wool coat. Smoothing out her charcoal pant suit, she took a deep breath. A Renaissance inspired building stood four stories high to her side with another, much taller building just up the road. She knew both quite well, but had her eyes on the smaller of the two -- City Hall. Between her and the elegant wood entrance stood two guards with pistols strapped to their hips. As she approached, both men raised one hand, reaching for their side-arms with the other. Despite their aggression and the rain, Deborah reached into her coat, flashing a smile with such poise that the men paused. She flashed a small leather booklet to the men. Instantaneously their shoulders relaxed, their warnings now embarrassed beckoning for her approach.

Before making her way to the staircase a man had already taken Deborah's coat. By the time she ascended the stairs and came to the main hall's doors, the woman who stood ready to enter and the woman who just before had run blocks through the rain were far, far apart. Her mind, the shootings, and the rush dissipated and left her mind clear. She took a small breath, curved her lips into a smile, then entered.

"Madam, perfect timing. The first of the ambassadors are set to arrive this afternoon. I need your approval on this order so we can be ready for the conference tomorrow morning," a thin man explained too fast in what sounded as if a wheeze. "Madam, are you alright? It's not like you to be late."

Deborah glared at the man sharply before offering the twinge of a smile. He immediately lowered his head as if fearful. "Quite alright, but I assure you, I know far better what is and is not like me. Show me the order. We need preparations finished before the first ambassador arrives. How can you expect them to take Vault-Tec seriously if we can't have a simple banquet ready upon arrival? Oh," Deborah paused, and for a moment her poise broke and a glimmer or something appeared in her eye. "The city is growing rebellious. I need two soldiers for every ambassador should they leave City Hall. I know we did not budget for this originally, but it is important. See to it."

20 October 2077
Portland, Oregon
Morning

".... Sergeant?" A nervous, shaky voice trailed behind Nate as he knelt beside the Lieutenant's corpse, prying his 10mm sidearm from its late owner's holster. He ignored it, instead aiming the sidearm towards the clowards and firing off a single round, before quickly pushing the weapon towards the Lieutenant's side, as if he'd been holding onto it when he'd died. When he finally saw Coporal Quentin's frozen gaze once again, he gave him a firm stare from behind the visor of his helmet, before speaking up. "He snapped, just like the Captain did." On paper it might've sounded like a statement, but face-to-face he may as well have been pointing a rhetorical question at the man. Corporal Quentin gave a stiff nod without another word.

With that out of the way, Nate quickly brought a hand over his radio and blurted out, as if on-cue ,"We've got a man down!". It wasn't too long before the cavalry showed up, a small squad comprised of yet another CO and several men who were a little more beefed up than Nate's own post, perhaps because they were expecting a fight. Instead they found a shell-shocked kid, a worn-out sergeant and the cadaver of their CO with his brains splattered all over the wall. In peacetime, there was a good chance Nate would've been sniffed out by some hardass MP who was smart enough not to take the word of two potential suspects, but with Uncle Sam's finest straining to keep the city under wraps it had been something of a cakewalk. As far as the relief team were concerned, the Lieutenant had grabbed for Nate's gun, then failing that pulled out his own and made a meal of it. When they questioned Corpoal Quentin for his side of the story, he gave the same answer he'd given Nate earlier - a stiff nod, accompanied with the mutterings of "Like Captain Morgan..."

Even under his 45d, Nate could still hear the CO muttering 'poor kid' under his breath as he turned away, not that it was anything new, before shifting his wearied gaze back towards Nate and offering him a few parting words. "There's nothin' more you can do here, Sergeant. It's a damn shame... waste of good men like that, but there's nothin' more either of you two can do. We'll take over and clean up from here, you just take the kid with you and get some rest. Dismissed." The middle aged CO, a limping old wardog who had probably been kept out of a desk job for the sake of the war effort, gave Nate a reaffirming nod and patted him on the shoulder plate of his T-45d, before turning his attention back towards the scene. Glancing back towards Corporal Quentin for a moment, Nate stiffly gestured for hi mto follow with a tilt of his head.

For a short while, the two were silent as they passed through the streets of downtown Portland - a few prying eyes occasionally glanced from behind the safety of their barred shopfronts to get a look at them, but otherwise nothing. Turning into an alleyway, intentionally, Nate's thoughts were interrupted by the Corporal's voice "What did you just-" only to be cut off by Nate, who hit back with a "What -we- just did, you mean." He shifted his view back towards the Corporal, and continued. "You heard it straight from the Lieutenant. 'Weapons free, Corporal.' Tell me, why'd you enlist?" It took a little while before he got an answer. "To protect my country. Friends, family." Just as he expected. "And you think that taking potshots at a couple of rowdy civvies is going to protect this country? Hell, you even refused to do it yourself. It was either the Lieutenant or them, and it's not the civvies that are pointing rifles downrange at their fellow Americans."

Yet another long pause followed, before the Corporal eventually spoke up once more, this time somewhat dejected. "Al.. fine. You did what you had to Sergeant, but... what now? I... we can't just go back after this, can we?" At least this time, he had something of an answer for the Corporal. His thoughts drifted northwards, to a place where rumours were born. "No. But there's other places, too."