A battle between the Oregon Cannibals and Klamath Militia typically ended in favor of the NCR Milita, who, although they did not know the terrain as well as the enemy did, not only worked quickly, but used small-unit tactics similar to that of the tribes'. And of course, they had guns and (light) armor. So, with exceptions, most encounters with the cannibals were lopsided in the Klamath Militia's favor.

However, the Klamathians were not out to massacre the tribes; no, they were better than that. Rather, they would force the tribes to submit to their authority instead, cowing or killing their leaders and forcing the Cannibals to 1.) pay tribute, and 2.) give up Cannibalism. This would in turn be enforced by spies recruited from tribal ranks, as well as the establishment of 'trading posts' which would get the former Cannibals dependent on NCR goods, including alternative sources of meat, and slowly, along with 'teachers' from the NCR, 'civilize' them, albeit on terms more acceptable to the natives.

And of course, additional scouts were always a blessing.

Lieutenant Jessica Rodgers, as well as two dozen men and women, were now being led by one of those scouts, known as Blade-of-Blood, further north, pressing onwards to the former Winema National Forest, where there was a cave of Yao Guai, Mutated Grizzly bears with immense strength and stamina. Getting rid of those monsters would, further win them more prestige, honor, and, of course, bearskins and meat.

Hopefully Blade-of-Blood didn't plan to betray them; several 'scouts' had done that, and got themselves shot and beheaded for their trouble; other commanders were less forgiving, and sometimes skinned any traitors alive. Either way, the group were approaching the cave, where, true to form, two of the bears were prowling; were they mates?

"Train your guns on their eyes," she told the snipers as she readied her own (Edit: Assault Rifle), which had a grenade launcher that would probably be needed, considering the monsters' strength and size. "Hit them with everything you have; spare nothing. Blade," she spoke to the former Cannibal, ready your spear. A few seconds of preparation later, Jessica yelled: "FIRE!" sending out a blast from her grenade launcher as she did so.

The Yao Guai were easily alerted by the shout, and may have even smelled out the attackers; said attackers had taken steps to conceal their smell, with mixtures of stinkweed, but it wasn't enough, it seemed. Anyway, the Yao Guai rushed towards the hunting party, running through the wave of fire as though it were nothing, and reached the troops' cover, roaring in wild rage, ready to tear apart those who had violated their lair.

Jessica was no Ranger, and certainly no Chosen One, either. But she would not give up, not when the troops' initial strategy of shooting failed. Every third person among the militia drew out their machetes, trying to pin the bears in place so that they can be shot further. A brave, but foolish effort, as six of those men and women were torn apart, bitten in half, or just smacked away by the Yao Guai's claws. Jessica, however, only drew her battleaxe at the sight of her people falling, roaring her own scream of rage. With a downwards strike, she clove through one of the front legs of one bear, crippling it so that Blade can spear it in the eye. One down.

The other bear, meanwhile, was posing a problem; it was no longer inflicting casualties, but it was also scattering the men and women arrayed against it, enduring all their shots. Jessica rushed it like an ancient berserker, covered by Blade-of-Blood and several milita, and plunged her battleaxe to the small of its back, breaking the spine. The bear roared, lashing out with a paw and bowling her over, before turning to bite her head off - only to be stopped by Blade-of-Blood, who again speared it in the head.

Victory, at the cost of six dead, two wounded. After setting two medics to work with said wounded, Jessica extracted her battleaxe from the bear's body, and gathered ten men and women around her; the cave didn't look as though it were part of a larger system, but it was best to check whether more of these monsters were around. And so, she rushed into the cave.

---

"These are monsters," one of the men, Andrew, spoke at the sight of the six bear cubs gathered in a pile around the bottom of the cave. "Best to kill them before they grow into more beasts."

But Jessica had other ideas.

"That would be a waste," she spoke. "If we can tame them, we'll have..." she searched for a word, "war-beasts, animals that can be used in battle. We've heard rumors of communities that refuse to be annexed to the NCR, and tribes much more...crafty than the cannibals. Not merely that, but being the first people to have tame Yao Guai in our ranks; we'll be unstoppable!"

"Hmm..." the other militiamen began to see the merits of the idea, although Andrew asked more questions:

"How will we feed them? If they grow up to be like their parents, they'll be pretty big..."

"We feed them Brahmin Milk," spoke Jessica, "and not the Barons', either; we use our own. When they grow larger, we'll feed them meat, honey, and grains. I'll offer the crops of my own farm for this," she continued, not entirely unselfish; already, she can see herself as a bear rider, roaming the northlands...

New York

The vestiges and trophies of extinguished tribes and conquered raider kings hung draped from the walls of the open chamber. Alongside bent and twisted pipes from whence hung lanterns, bathing the ornaments in a broken rainbow of pale electrical blues and greens, or the warm brazen oranges of open lamp fire. Curaisses made of human bone, hauberks of toughened tanned leather. Plates of mangled steel reforged to masks. There was a baseball bat, a bundle of old beer bottles wrapped together at the neck by rigid steel wire. A cool wind crawled through the open windows, the trophies and ornaments danced in the breeze. The swaying dance of the loot rattled out broken notes from glass and dull metal. The sound was hollow, soulless. Heralding the death of their owners passed, or their own enslavement or conversion to the proper way.

It was a sign of purity.

At the heart of the room atop a red rug stained by centuries of irradiated rainwater, blood, grime, and other refuse stood a bowl of fire, propped atop a cone of spears and rifles slung and branded together to form the cup which the bowl sat atop of. The fire inside burned low but hot. The red coals bathing the chamber in a dull glow, joining with the rest of the lights. Putting aside silky shadows. Despite the cool ocean breeze the entire room glowed as if it were the height of a summer afternoon.

A man stood at the fire's side. Broad of shoulder and towering above the brazier much like the city did its residents. Though far more full than the skyscrapers that surrounded him, he gazed down into the licking tongues of flame. His face a dance between contempt and meditative calmness. He frowned into the fire from underneath his great chocolate beard, hand held out over the lapping blades of flame.

He watched the iron rings on his fingers glow with the captured light of the illuminating fire underneath. He felt the beating heat of the flames bleed through the metal, warming it against his thick scarred fingers. More than a few old tattoos shone dimly in the light. Many he had tried to remove himself. Some with more success than others. White blotches and lines ran crisscrossed across the back and palm of his hand. Some scars though were less precise, being more gouges deep into the skin.

He had found the light. For once his eyes were open to the world. He could see and he could understand. This ancient city was his kingdom, and he could see it all. He was no longer shrouded by the veil of his next hit. Or the consuming desire for whiskey. The old tattoos that had been buried into his skin was too great a reminder of those days, and he had sought for years to remove them. But many more remained.

He turned over his hand, sighing. His wide barrel chest rising under his loose fitting clothes. A mismatched series of animal hides and old-world clothes. It was hard to tell – if impossible – to know if the patches was an attempt to fill in damage inflicted on one set or the other. Were the dark-gray patches of an old suit the repair job for a suit of fur? Or was the fur the attempt to fix a once gray business suit?

Outside a roll of thunder echoed in the distance. The powerful figure looked up to watch the sky between the towers light up. Scattering bands of electricity shot through the clouds. Creating a white spiderweb against the dark gray of a storm. The air was already smelling salty and wet. The storm wasn't unexpected.

Against the glowing neon of the storm the skeleton network of scaffolds and cables flashed. The slow deconstruction of old New York. To clear it out, and build for the new. Somewhere in the far distance men should be surveying the streets outside of the great Central Park, now a desolate desert in the heart of an ancient city, it had become a glorified shanty town. The Central Boulevard they called it. New Jerusalem some others referred to it by. To this man, the first King Solomon in many a millennium it was the front yard, and the great boulevard for a grand design to tower the generations and signal a great rebirth in his adoptive kin. Even from his vantage point he could look out into the darkness and see the flickering bonfires that marked that community.

The thunder cracked again. From the far-side of the room there was a hard knock against metal. Solomon looked up to the chamber entrance, two heavy slabs of sheet metal.

“Come in.” Solomon boomed. His voice was as wispy as the wind, dry as the dust that blew from the inland.

The large steel doors swung open, letting in a small scrawny figure. A tattered and greasy black suit clung tightly to his pale flaking skin. A patchy beard fell from his skin in much the same way flakes of skin peeled back to show the tough leathery muscle underneath. His whole body looked and felt to be giving off a dull heat. A large heavy hat crowned his head, sharp eyes peered out from underneath in sunken, wide sockets.

“Milton.” Solomon said, nodding his head to the slouching ghoul. His mangled feet plodding along the floor as he walked across to the appointed king.

“What do I need to know now?” Solomon asked, looking back into the fire. Pulling his hand back.

“I'm merely hear to schmooze, don't get too anxious.” the old ghoul said, his voice dry as he cracked a waning smile. His sunken eyes looked up to Solomon, a mystified expression of sorrow and pride glowed within them. All the same, he kept his distance, keeping Solomon beyond the edge of his dull aura.

“Then talk.” Solomon bid.

The old ghoul nodded. Yet he kept silent. His jerky tongue licked the roof of his mouth as he looked slack jawed into the fire.

“I've been reminiscing.” he said finally. His tone low and darkened, “I walk the streets these days and look up at the sky-scrapers and apartments I once walked between as a boy on my home from home to the synagogue. They were so clear and crystal in those days, the sun would shine off the glass and for a time you could forget the world was shit. And I suppose I was one of a rarity of New Yorkers then, I looked up. Or maybe we all did, but it just took the world to crumble for us to notice that the city we knew went missing from the second-floor up.

“Now when I look up I see blocks covered in a tangle of scaffolding as we take the city apart piece by piece, with whatever we got. I understand full well why we do it. But I'm over two-hundred years old now shim-shin, so I can't help but kvetch.”

“Well why? Why not look ahead?” Solomon asked.

Milton smiled, “You may have adopted us to you, and the rest of the community has adopted you. But there's a lot haven't learned. You're not fully Jewish.”

Solomon shot the old ghoul a offended look. “Don't worry about it!” Milton said, laughing, “It's not like I'm not used to it. I find your choice to convert endearing and attempts at keeping us alive a compliment.

“But have you heard the story of the old Jew?”

Solomon rose an eyebrow, looking at him with piercing brown eyes. “There are hundred of stories I've heard of old Jews. Which one?”

“Yes, the one with the old man. We're a people of many old men. It comes with being an old race!” Milton laughed, “But there was once an old Jew taking a long voyage. On the voyage he complained: 'Oy vey, oy vey am I thirsty. Am I thirsty!'

“It was so heavy that the people with him gave him water and he was satisfied. As they continued he complained again, “Oy vey, oy vey was I thirsty! Oy, was I thirsty!

“You see shim-shin, it's a thing we all do. We all kvetch.”

“I don't get it.” Solomon replied.

“Get what?”

“Why did the old man not carry his own water?”

The ghoul sighed, “Because who the fuck knows.” he chuckled, “Obviously it is no longer the era such stories will be funny.”

“What was the time like before the bombs?” asked Solomon.

Milton smirked, “Pretty great.” he said, “They said we owned everything.”

“Everything?”

“Well that's what they said.” Milton shrugged, “It depends on who you asked back then. To us, well we were just trying to live like everyone else and not get beat by the cops. Or shot by Communists. We had fears like everyone else.

“My great-grandfather came to this country to escape pogroms and assured death in Europe. You don't know what Europe is, do you?”

Solomon shook his head.

“Eh, it's probably better you don't know. In any case, I imagine there's no Europe left to go back too anyways. Or as much Europe as there is America. Don't fret over it Shim-Shin.”

((Pepperm1nts gave me his permission to mention that I had the Hub's support))

Shady Sands

Klamath Representative Marie Strider smiled as she walked out of the cafe; where she had been meeting two of the Hub Senators. Of course, it was a risk to have herself be outnumbered and perhaps outbrained, but in encounters involving individuals and brains, sometimes facing multiple opponents meant that said multiple opponents would clash with each other as well as herself, and that was what she counted on, and what she got, as the two Senators did clash with each other...or pretended to, she wouldn't know. Nevertheless, she got what she wanted; official support and recognition of Klamath's Northern Expansion Plan. All she had to pay in exchange was priority to Hub workers and companies in any areas that would be newly annexed.

Which was all right, she guessed, the influence of Hub Corporations in the annexed zones would increase the Hub's power over the state, but the Hub immigrants, once given free land, would slowly shift their loyalties away from the Hub to Klamath, or at least, that's what she hoped. One of the reasons the Hub supported the expansion measure was because of their growing population and the pressure it was causing, with Klamath's offer of new land functioning as an outlet and a safety valve for it and the other states. And, in exchange, Klamath gets more support for its policies, more freedom, and a larger power and tax base, increasing their clout overall. A win-win situation, or at least, that's what would happen if things go on as planned...

Klamath Marsh

Things were not going on as planned.

"We don't want no NCR here! We is independent!" Two weeks after the killing of the Yao Guai, the Klamath Milita were now encountering their first 'civilized' opposition; a federation of small towns, led by Fort Klamath, which was not to be confused with Klamath Falls, the capital of the state. Fort Klamath had been trading with the NCR for decades now, but had persistently refused annexation, instead using said trade, especially in arms and technology, to put smaller towns under its protection, and hoarding its own guns, as well as, of course, refurbishing the titular Fort, which had been a museum before the war. While even said fort had no chance in hell of averting a full NCR assault, it could, however, cause a lot of pain against Klamath Milita...

...Or at least, that was the plan. They, however, had never counted on the NCR's educational system, which included descriptions on how Medieval Armies besieged old castles. This, in turn, gave Jessica Rodgers, now called back from Wimena Forest, the idea of just blockading the fort, surrounding it with trenches that were further protected with wooden spikes. This simple tactic stymed the Fort's defenders, and they found themselves using up their supplies in short order.

"We need this Fort to fall faster," spoke Andrew. "Every day we waste here is a day that we cannot secure Winema and the Marshlands." A stream of settlers were now entering the now-secure Winema Forest, cutting down trees, building homes, and sowing crops. Many of those settlers were armed, but most came expecting formal miltia protection, which was in short supply due to the siege of the fort.

"I know how you feel," Jessica replied, before taking a swig out of her canteen. "Thankfully, High School didn't just give me the idea of blockading the fort - though it is effective - it also taught me other things."

"Don't tell me that you have a battering ram stored somewhere," chuckled Andrew, "or that your Yao Guai are full-grown in such a short time."

"No, no," was Jessica's response, before the woman smiled. "I'm just having the men dig under the walls, then put some homemade explosives with a timer on them. They should be complete in...a few hours. Wanna play cards while waiting?"

Klamath Marsh, Several Hours Later

The explosives failed in undermining the walls. What they succeeded in, however, was getting the men and women of Fort Klamath terrified. So, the same criers who shouted to the besieging troops that they 'didn't want the NCR there' were singing a different tune now.

Fort Klamath, after some negotiations, was now NCR territorry, opening the way to Crater Lake...

The Atomic Oven

Paul Ray Gifford was grateful for the way things worked out. He served his last day in the Cheyenne prison just a week ago and had managed to build himself up quite the traveler's pack. Granted, he stole most of it, but to him, it didn't matter. He was not getting caught for the same thing twice, not a master thief like himself.

He walked along the unearthed water line that had been maintained by the Solarian government. The water supposedly came from an underground spring the size of a massive lake down south where some plants still thrived. He didn't care where it came from though, and his mind was solely focused on his newly granted freedom.

He saw a small party of people ahead, at about the one-third mile mark from the last tap. As he got closer, they all were armed to the teeth. Mercenary outfits, no doubt, working for the ranchers in this "semi-feudalist" area of the nation where law still failed to gain a foothold. When he reached them, a big man, roughly 6'8" and built stopped him. "You must pay a toll to travel beyond this point." The intimidating man said.

Paul eyed the LMG he held and replied in confusion and exasperation. "What in God's name is a toll?"

"Don't play stupid. Pay up, or turn around."

Paul raised a single eyebrow. "Ah, I see. A government tax. Where's your permit?" he smirked, thinking his intelligent observation would win him a free pass.

One of the men on the side, who hadn't looked at him since the ordeal started, got up out of his chair and walked over to Paul. He smiled with mock kindness. "In case you haven noticed, we ain't government. Now pay up 'fore we take it off your person.

Paul still refused to believe that they would do anything to harm him, considering their role. "Over my dead body."

The man sighed and looked over at the hulking giant in disappointment. He shook his head as he quickly raised his pistol and shot Paul right between the eyes. "Have it yer way, brother." He said to Paul's dead body. Then he looked over to the third man who had been holding the lead pipe the whole time, silent but blatantly eager. "Search him, take everything. The boss's gon' be glad wit what we got 'im today." He remarked, sitting back in his chair and waiting for another traveler to stop by.

Green River, Utah

Demetrius Edarius stopped at the sight before him, absolutely astounded. A river? An honest to Sol river? The Solarian brass needed to hear about this. The only problem was, his missionary group had been accompied by a batallion of soldiers in blaze-red combat armor, and that batallion lost the radio when the party was forced to flee from a group of deathclaws the they had carelessly stumbled upon.

But that was weeks ago. Demetrius had much more to think about than that. Yes, he'd admit that their missionary work had brought no souls into the Sun's righteous light, he felt that he would make progress if the party managed to find something non-hostile for once.

Demetrius found himself rushing towards the river in excitement and glee along with his two brother Heirs and the twelve remaining soldiers that had accompanied them. In their excitement, however, they failed to notice a group of mirelurks lurking in the water of the river. It had been much too long since they'd seen a body of water, and in their excitement they forgot about the dangers of the Wasteland.

They all ran in and dropped their gear on the bank as they went in to cool themselves off and wet their throats. Who cared if the water was irradiated? A short dip wouldn't hurt anything.

Demetrius noticed that one of the Recruits swimming several meters frim him had suddenly vanished. He looked around and noticed, a few yards to the right of where he once was, a massive amount of bubbles were surfacing- as if something were struggling to breathe.

"Get out of the water!" Demetrius yelled as he scrambled for the shore. A mirelurk followed suit and managed to close in on him rather quickly. Luckily, he managed to find one of the soldiers' Assault Rifles and picked it up. He turned as quickly as he could and shot at the creature seven times- a bit overkill considering his second shot landed in the crab's weak spot. He looked over and saw another looming over the batallion's Seargeant, and he quickly fired in its direction. With his extreme lack of combat training, Demetrius closed his eyes and sprayed at the creature until his clip was empty.

His eyes were still closed when an unknown hand lowered the weapon and another was placed on his shoulder. He slowly but hesitantly opened his eyes and saw Seargeant Tibbs looking at him with grateful surprise. He took the gun from Demetrius and nodded. "You done good kid. But next time, try to keep your eyes open. I don't want you to accindentally kill everyone here when your trying to save one person." He smiled, turned, and walked off.

Demetrius looked around and saw two dead bodies being carried away by the river. He immediately got down on his knees and began to pray for the lost men, as did his two missionary companions.

__________________________________________________

Seargeant Tibbs was deeply concerned for the sake of the mission. He knew it was important to both the generic Heir and those in power to find whatever this "Helios" was, but no one in their party had a clue where it was, aside from the generic answer he recieved of "the Mojave". If the Heirs didn't use so much of their "share" of the military to scout out Pre War Solar technology, then maybe the country wouldn't have a semi-feudalist state at the moment.

Klamath State Legislature, A Week And A Half Later

Before The War, before even the expansion of the Old USA, there were the Klamath Tribes, a Native American group that, though long-oppressed by the US Government in this timeline, had gained a second renaissance, using their remaining knowledge of nature to find sources of food other than people, making war with the Oregon Cannibals and expanding from their 'Capital', Chiloquin. Needless to say, they had a grudge against 'Old Americans', and it took adept diplomacy from the NCR to get them on-board. Said adept diplomacy included a promise of power and preference, or at least, true freedom and equality. Now the New Klamath Tribes were a notable power bloc in the State Legislature, proudly wearing their tribal garb there.

What was the reason for this exposition, one may ask? Simple, because the State Legislature was meeting now, and the NKT was angry.

"If you are going to give Winema to the settlers, you must give us Crater Lake!" the NKT representative, Surpasses-the-Wind, spoke. "Crater Lake is old Klamath territorry, filled with legend!" Despite his crude speech, Surpasses-the-Wind spoke with passion and fire, already knowing that the battle was half-won; the Klamath Tribes were integral to the strategy against the Oregon Cannibals and the Independent Towns, and while they were now dependent on trade with the wider NCR, said trade had given them additional clout. That, and the immigrants were, well, immigrants, while the Klamath Tribes have been citizens of Klamath State for decades.

"The settlers are going to complain to their home states if we do that," replied Sally Mayfield, another representative who was now playing Devil's Advocate. "We can't outright deny them the land, and you know it." Her eyes glinted; it seemed she already had a plan.

"Then what do we do?" Surpasses-the-Wind spoke in pretend outrage. "You have much to loose -" intentional misspelling "- too!" He then waited for Sally to respond, and give her own plan:

"Right now," she spoke, "the order of things is first-come, first-serve, as regards to land. However, we control Fort Klamath, which is one gateway to Crater Lake, and you control Chiloquin, which is another, harder, but still possible gateway. If we can declare Fort Klamath an 'unsecured area', then we can temporarily bar settlers from the south from moving on that route, allowing your Tribes to move in on Crater Lake and sieze it, first."

Surpasses-the-Wind smiled.

Winema National Forest

Jessica Rodgers had returned to Winema now, along with many of her troops. Fort Klamath was secure, but there were still tensions between the Klamath State Militia and the Fort Klamathians, and so some militia presence was necessary. Nevertheless, with the fall of the fort, and the siezure of Crater Lake, the first phase of expansion was done. Now was the time to consolidate, establishing positions for defense and supply, and readying themselves for summer, where they'd educate the new settlers in farming on such a cold and rainy territory. They'd also dig up new wells and cisterns, build new towns and camps, and, of course, welcome the new Hub Corporations, particularly the Lumber and Leatherworking companies.

For now, however, it was a time for rest, a time for relaxation, and a time to prepare.

Mojave Wasteland

Azuma Asakura, Klamath-Born Adventurer, was travelling with a Caravan to New Vegas, or at least, that was what he was trying to do; he was seeking rumors that new ways into the Mojave had been found. Pausing to adjust his glasses, the young man, clad in a T-Shirt, bulletproof vest, and leather pants, and carrying an assault rifle, took a moment to observe the scene around him.

The caravan, like most caravans going to the Mojave nowadays, was ghoul-heavy, due to the increased amounts of radiation. Its leader was a ghoul herself, Kaori Harukaze, and she was the one who found this path. Azuma smiled, he was usually good with people. Not to the point of naivete, of course, or at least he hoped. Nevertheless, his mood was optimistic; it was the beginning of a new adventure...

Lower Queens Schul, Zealot New York

The low murmur of passing air was the only sound that swept through the blackened husk of the once bustling synagogue. Still the imprint of forgotten papers littered the ground. Black stains and moldy blackened books littered the floor between pews and tables where from the broken and cracked floor grew glowing green mushrooms. The air was musty and damp, smelling of eternal rot but throbbing with a certain energy. In places the ground seemed almost melted and twisted from a strong heat. But the integrity of the structure had remained firm despite the wear.

Above, the ceiling groaned from centuries of weight. Much of the old drop ceiling had fallen out and cleared away by the synagogues minority residents keeping the floor clean and the memory of a once thriving old-world community cleared for any eyes who wished to see it. Illuminated by the dim lighting of the interior the raised bimah stood dusty, where stood the tall stoic form of the ghoul who kept it. Black robes fell heavy from his shoulders. He didn't have much else to wear. A thin beard fell across his chest and a cap covered his balding and peeling head.

There was a soft mournful way he spoke as he read the faded Hebrew of the Torah scroll between his bony hands. His hands shook weakly as he read allowed to the grim and silent congregation of pre-war Jews, facing him and the city of Jerusalem, somewhere beyond the Atlantic. Its survival in this new wretched world unknown.

In the light and given the decaying condition of the scrolls it was hard to believe if the figure at the bimah was actually reading it. But word for word he recited its passages as he had over the two centuries. Hoping that it brought comfort to the survivors and reminders to who they were. The Torah and the Talmud were God's rock, and it anchored them all. Like Moses in the exodus the old laws were their water to life and clarity.

They were Jews, and for all their torture as a race over the centuries they wouldn't falter. God's people didn't simply give up. And in the gaping maw of disaster's coming bravery was in memory. Their collective history as a race and people. As a faith.

The recital came to an end and the small community of surviving ghouls broke into a low song. Raspy and coarse, they rose from their pews. Looking to their ancient and distant homeland as the long robed priest closed the scrolls and turned to the Torah Ark, a small simple feature, a faded rose-red banner with the ten commandments sewn in gold in the crimson fabric draped over top. Along side an oil lantern burned, illuminating the decrepit shrine in a lonely orange glow.

In the old Hebrew tongue they presented their solemn song as the ark was opened and the ancient frayed scrolls were deposited. The lonely priest looked down at them with frowning eyes and sighed, closing the lid and sealing the ancient scrolls away.

He took a low bow, joining the song in a low and operatic voice, vibrating with a staccato rhythm and he joined the prayer. Things had changed. But they still remembered. That was all that was needed to keep them there. To stay anchored to the rock.

As the service closed and the temple went silent the communion – the Minyan – broke from their place of prayer, drifting into a side room in the structure with their heads bowed.

Leaving the tired and dark sanctuary of their worship they moved on into a much more austere and civil chamber. Though graying and peeling back couches and arm chairs filled the room's center, circling about a lonely central table. Wooden chairs, likely pulled from the ruins of restaurants sat in the corners alongside mismatching end tables. A dull light from flickering florescent shone from over head, basking the tired mummified faces of the old Jews as they crossed into the sitting room.

“Whenever I come in here and look up, I hope to see Albert in the corner. Reading the papers from just before the world ended!” exclaimed a scrawny ghoul. He turned to smile at his companions as he came in, “He'd shout whenever I come in, 'Oy Moses, gas is up a hundred dollars again. How am I to drive to synagogue, Moshe?

“And I'd say to him: 'Albert, what does it matter. It is all over anyways and we all live here now!' to which he'd say, 'I know! But I still feel I should drive across town to go to that cheap butcher in Jersey!'”

“May his soul rest in peace.” replied another solemnly.

“Maybe he finally found it.” Moshe shrugged, “Or maybe he hopes peace will come at a discount around Hanukkah. I don't know.”

“Well perhaps you will give us the gas prices then.” the black-dressed ghoul said, passing alongside the smaller Moshe as he took a seat on the ancient couches.

“You know I would love to, but Wall Street is still on vacation, Leonard.” sighed Moshe.

“Nonsense, they've always said we ran Wall Street. So what would you say the price of gas would be these days?” one of the ghoulish congregation said, walking the parameter.

“Oh, I would not mind to see the days of five-dollars for a gallon!” Moshe cheered, sitting down opposite of the Kohanamen, “That would be a steal. Especially for anyone with a corvega! And maybe now we will start seeing the Taxis come back. New York isn't the same without them.”

“Taxis.” scoffed the previous ghoul. His charred skin more red from the rest. His wide barreled hat more ratty than his skin was, “I remember how well most of them would drive.

“I swear, if Dogballs had an army of cab drivers we would have the entire Wasteland conquered by now. How's that for a thought? America: conquered by negroes at the command of the Jews. The dead would be spinning in the ashes crying conspiracy!”

“Then let it be done, Rothman! Let's find us some cab drivers!” he laughed.

“Good luck with that, I hear their booked well until 2800.”

“Oh I've lived two-hundred years longer than I should. What's another six-hundred!” Moshe smiled, “Can't say the same for out 'Solomon', but what does it matter.

“By cab conversion though, how fun would that be? I remember when some hick new to the city found out and tried to tell me about Jesus.”

“Oh, how did you respond?”

“I just stayed quiet. I didn't have anything witty at the time.”

Salt Lake City Ruins

Seargeant Quenton Tibbs looked down at the ruins from his hillside view. "Holy mutfruit." Commented one of the Recruits near the back, and a solid smack on the helmet could be heard following suit. Tibbs gave a gruff chuckle and shook his head, pointing down to one of the particular craters which should have caught their eye earlier. Within it rested a Legion encampent, not too large in size.

"It could have food," replied who he recognized as Demetrius, his savior from a few days before. Tibbs grunted and made a motion for someone to hand him a pair of binoculars. He simply held his hand out over his shoulder until he felt the binoculars in his hand, then pressed them up against his face and got a good look at the camp.

"Abandoned. Just the way I like it." He tossed the binoculars back and heard it hit someone's hands as they caught it. "Come on, Ladies. We're gonna feast tonight. And I've personally been craving some of that irradiated sh**berry steak from before the war." This got a chuckle out of the soldiers, and the party proceeded to head down to the camp in anticipation of abandoned supplies. Sol knew they needed it, seeing as they only had three days' worth of food left.

Wyoming-Nebraska Border, just south of the tri-state area point.

Mega Benjamin Norton, one of the legendary Blaze Runners, planted the Solarian flag next to the road entering the town of Mondal, on one end of of the community. He and his four fellow Blazemates, Mega Phil Telula, Ultra Tim Oswalt, Ultra Ronald Gailey, and Über Wanda Bynes, swept the town along with about forty Solarian troopers and secured their new holding. Upon reaching the other end of town, they found a group of seemingly well-organized "savages" all clad in metal armor. About one hundred and fifty of them, to be exact. Maybe slightly more.

Über Wanda Bynes stepped forward, being the highest ranking member of the most elite military branch. She was met by Fleshtear, a tribal leader who revealed himself to be a "sect chieftain" over the area's portion of the tribe.

"We are the Dakota Cleansers, and we have come to clear the wasteland of civilizations we deem too advanced for the Earth's desires." Explained Fleshtear when Bynes inquired as to who they were and why they thought the Solarian Armed Forces should make way for them.

"Describe the Earth's desires." Bynes further questioned, feeling insulted that these people seemingly looked to Earth as they themselves looked to the Sun.

"The Earth clearly did not want complex civilizations inhabiting it, so its will was to destroy the filth that mankind had placed upon its surface!" Cried Fleshtear, surprisngly charismatically. "We are here to ensure that man does not recreate its mistake now two hundred years past!" The One-Hundred and Fifty men behind him roared out with deathly enthusiasm.

Ultra Oswalt stepped forward and, being an Heir himself, cried back. "The Sun has decreed that it is our sovereign right to claim any land under it's nurturing light, and we will not surrender its will to some Earth-Worshipper!" The 45 Solarian soldiers, in turn, cried out themselves. Though nowhere near impressive in size, and therefore noise, they demonstrated equal dedication to the deity's instructions. Fleashtear and Bynes, as well as all those behind them, immediately understood the other's position, and instantly the sentiment of each side toward the other took a drastic turn for the worse.

"We'd like to see your Sun tear Earth's own land from its own grasp."

"It is fate that Sol has led us here. You are a threat to Sol's will, and you do not belong here."

"No, civilized woman. It is yo-" before Fleashtear could finish, a Solarian trooper, PFC Gary Hunt, fired the first shot in the Celestial War. Gunfire immediately erupted from both sides and each scrambled to find cover.

The Solarians had technology on their side, as they used grenade launchers and missiles to disorient and spread the attackers' forces, as well as the Blaze Runners clad in T51b Power Armor and equipped with weapons like Anti-Materiel Rifles, Miniguns, Plasma Rifles and LMGs. However, the "Cleansers" had both individual strength and numbers on ther side. There were about four super mutants among the 150, and each did incredible damage to the other side.

In the end, the Solarians emerged with a costly victory. 25 killed, 7 wounded. The Blaze Runners suffered only one casualty, and it happened to be one of the wounds. Wanda Bynes was struck in the shoulder by a super mutant's massive pipe, severely fracturing it. The Cleansers lost 130 men, mostly their "cannon fodder" melee assaulters. The rest retreated back into their own territory.

The numbers were doomed to rise even further in the coming weeks, at the very least.

Primm, New Vegas

"We want your goods, but we want you out," spoke the old woman, one of Primm's inhabitants, to Azuma Asakura, who had disembarked from the caravan and began exploring the town. "NCR has brought nothing but strife and destruction here, and we don't want them anymore." To this, the young man just nodded, and went on to the remains of the Mojave Express, where he could, quite probably, hitch a ride to New Vegas itself...

...Only to be attacked by four thugs who appared almost out of nowhere, wielding billy clubs and machetes. Azuma went for his gun, but found himself overpowered quickly by the men, who bore him down to the ground, before pulling away his precious assault rifle and bulletproof vest, before frisking his pockets for cash. Then, they pulled out a surprisingly clean cloth and gagged him, before tying him up with some crude ropes.

"Well, it looks like we have a new slave! And NCR, too!"

Oh, crap.

The Mojave

This was the price of being naive, Azuma thought, as he, along with a gaggle of captured civilians, were marched around New Vegas, towards the east where, it seemed, the Legion's remnants had found ways back to the Mojave, too. He had no illusions of what awaited him there; it was going to be torture, humiliation, and rewardless work. Which was why he had to escape.

He had knowledge of guns, of course, but melee combat wasn't his thing; he had been thinking of getting a bodyguard or escort when he got to either Primm or New Vegas. He also had knowledge of Biology and Survival in the wild, and, of course, a gift for languages. All those, it turned out, were inadequate to save him from enslavement. But he would not weep, instead, he would be strong, and hope for rescue -

"We know what you're doing, slave," said one of the thugs. "It won't work. If you even so much as move a muscle out of line, we're going to chop off your pretty head and that'll be the end of you." Said thug had a smug expression on his face, while Azuma, right now, wished he should have listened to Kaori or the others when they told him to go back to Klamath. Except that, as a youngest son of a set of seven, there was little for him except to follow the expansion north, and, well, he didn't like cold, rainy weather. Of course, being a slave was something he liked less, but...

...a few hours later, the group wove their way through a twisty, winding pass, and ended up in what was unmistakably a Legion Camp, or rather, a Legion Remnant Camp, well-organized and filled to the brim with bloodthirsty slave-soldiers.

As the new slaves were led to the centre of the camp, they saw the local 'Centurion', who then went up to the lead thug/slave merchant, and had a brief discussion with him about the state of the slaves, with him complaining that most were too thin and malnourished, except for the recent capture, while the lead thug replied that food was scarce in New Vegas, and that they were lucky just to have one capture, which was Azuma.

The Centurion, mollified, paid the man some gold denarius, and then had his men line up the slaves in single file, with Azuma being the first. Azuma was then forced to march up towards the Centurion, who was accompanied by a few healers and slave handlers, who then, after cutting the ropes that had bound his hands, shouted:

"Slave, you're up for inspection and your hands are free. Strip!"

Of course, public humiliation, thought Azuma as he began to take off his shirt...

((Collaborative post, written by myself and Letter Bee, paragraph by paragraph.))

The Mojave Desert

Seargeant Tibbs looked out upon the old desert they had set foot in about ten minutes before. "Well, it's not exacty an Atomic Oven, is it?" He asked. This was rhetorical, of course. Onone responded. They all knew what the Oven was like. Much hotter, but water was available at every turn. Here it was cooler, and the soldiers had been used to traversing the heat. The lack of water, however, was different. Several of the soldiers and all three of the missionaries were panting from the lack of water. They'd need to find water soon...

Luckily, and ironically, the faction founded on the backs of ex-Legionaries found themselves at Cottonwood Cove. The place, much like the camp back in Salt Lake City, was craters and remnants of Legion banners and tents. The place was bombed or shelled, on of the Sergaent's Privates concluded. Everyone else shot this idea down, however. No one had bombers and artillery guns anymore.

_____________________________________________

After wetting their their throats and filling teir canteens, the party made their way north by following the river. They expected to find civilization- and they did. Sergeant Tibbs scanned over the intact Legion camp expecting to find it abandoned once again. To Sergeant Tibbs's surprise, he saw something entirely different. He slowly lowered his binoculars and stared off into the distance. "Holy sh**..." He mumbled.

"W-what is it sir?" One of his Recruits inquired.

Tibbs slowly turned to his men and told of what he saw. "Boys... We got Legion."

The Centurion had one of the Healers, a Female, inspect Azuma's now-naked body, causing no small amount of embarrassment for the 20-year old. As he stood straight as his nude body was being poked and prodded, he wished that he could die, just now. Finally, however, the Healer spoke to the Centurion:

"Healthy, well-built and well-fed, with strong muscles used to a lifetime of work," yeah, farm stuff did that. "Dumb as a pile of rocks, too; not a trained fighter. Should be good for a couple of months." This was met by a nod from the Centurion, who directed Azuma to the right side of the field, before saying:

"Next!" forcing one of the other slaves, a woman who clearly had seen better years, to approach the Centurion, who then ordered her to strip as well. After another insepction, she was herded towards where Azuma was, just as another slave, a man this time, was brought for inspection. This humiliating business would continue till five slaves had been humiliated...

Denetrius Edarius looked down at the camp. They were closer now, and they were running people through some form of inspection. "Um... Mister Sergeant, sir?... Uh, they have slaves. Lots of them.

Tibbs frowned and nodded. "Yes... Perhaps if we free them, maybe one or two would have the kindness in their heart to give us the run down of the area." He said. "Maybe we'll even find out how to get to Helios, and who is in control of it, if anyone." He dropped the cigarrette he had been smoking and stomped it out. "Then it's decided. Garth, head on over to the other side of the overlook and start picking them off when you are ready. When your gunshots queue us, we'll make our charge from the other end of the overlook. Got it? Good. Let's roll, people."

Tibbs handed Edarius his 9mm on his way out. You stay up here and protect yourself and your pals. You're a major part of the mission, and I don't want any of you three getting killed in the crossfire." Edarius nodded, and Tibbs led his squadron over to the other end of the ridge as Garth headed with one trooper as an escort and spotter to the other end.

About fifteen minutes after all were in place, Garth fired the first shot. After the second, the troopers made their way quickly down the hill. Luckily, blaze orange was excellent camo on a desert day, and the Legionaries would undoubtedly be focusing their attention to the sniper fire on the other side of the ridge.

Demetrius Edarius looked down at the camp. They were closer now, and they were running people through some form of inspection. "Um... Mister Sergeant, sir?... Uh, they have slaves. Lots of them.

Tibbs frowned and nodded. "Yes... Perhaps if we free them, maybe one or two would have the kindness in their heart to give us the run down of the area." He said. "Maybe we'll even find out how to get to Helios, and who is in control of it, if anyone." He dropped the cigarrette he had been smoking and stomped it out. "Then it's decided. Garth, head on over to the other side of the overlook and start picking them off when you are ready. When your gunshots queue us, we'll make our charge from the other end of the overlook. Got it? Good. Let's roll, people."

Tibbs handed Edarius his 9mm on his way out. You stay up here and protect yourself and your pals. You're a major part of the mission, and I don't want any of you three getting killed in the crossfire." Edarius nodded, and Tibbs led his squadron over to the other end of the ridge as Garth headed with one trooper as an escort and spotter to the other end.

About fifteen minutes after all were in place, Garth fired the first shot. After the second, the troopers made their way quickly down the hill. Luckily, blaze orange was excellent camo on a desert day, and the Legionaries would undoubtedly be focusing their attention to the sniper fire on the other side of the ridge.

Azuma visibly smiled at the thought of rescue, before ducking down, hands over head, and shouting at the other slaves to do so as well. In the meantime, the Centurion was barking orders, sending out the remains of his Hastati to flush out the snipers, and leaving a reserve regiment behind just in case the attack was a diversion...which it seemed to be, as the sounds of fighting were heard just below the hill, causing the reserve regiment, made up of the heavier troops, to rush in that direction. The Centurion and a few bodyguards, as well as the raiders who had just been about to leave, watched over the slaves to watch for any attempt to escape.

Kyle Garth easily picked off a sizeable portion of the troops sent to flush him out before he reloaded. "There'll be several more coming up after us, and I can't see them anymore. Be ready for them to come up the ridge." He informed his escort. He turned his attention to the heavy regiment of soldiers the Legion had sent after the attack force. "Oh no you don't..." He mumbled as he began to pick off the assaulters. He got four of them before running out of ammo.

"Sonofa..." He said as he drew his 9mm and prepared for the Legion to reach them on the overlook.

Tibbs, meanwhile, led his assault team to the camp and opened fire on the incoming Legionaries. It felt kinda odd to be killing soldiers of the nation that birthed his own... But he shrugged this feeling off as he shot two charging warriors with machetes. He looked over and watched one of his own Recruits get shot in the head by what sounded like a lever action rifle. "Oh, this is fantastic... Regroup and press on! He shouted as he rounded a tent and nailed the Legionary wielding a trail carbine. His own soldiers slowly made their way back to him as they attempted to press on further into the camp.

The Hastati collided with Garth's escort as they reached the overlook, drawing out their machetes and throwing spears, with the last few drawing out some aged guns and expending a few bursts of ammo, which quickly ran out. Nevertheless, they were numerous and fanatical, although also a bit surprised by the attack. This meant that the battle for the outlook was undecided, as of yet.

In the camp, the Principes, or Prime Legionaries, were being pressed back, their ammo running out, and having to resort to crude melee combat. Nevertheless, they outnumbered the assault team two to one, meaning that the battle would be decided by Tibbs' weapons. Nevertheless, the Legion was confused by the insignia of the attackers, while the Centurion, after barking more orders to his guards, prepared to join in the battle...

It was almost as though the Legionaries focused on the man with the bigger gun, much to Kyle's fortune. He had the time to line up his shots and conserve his ammo, making sure each shot connected with its target. Hee succeeded in hitting something... A majority of the time. But his escort was not so lucky. He had been hit by one of the spears in the ankle, which momentarily threw off his aim. He quickly refocused, however, remembering his pain tolerance training and sprayed his assault carbine in the direction of the attackers. He easily took out the machete wielders, and it seemed as though Garth was keeping the ranged guys surpressed. The escort, PFC Zachary Windberg, pulled the pin on his grenade and beamed it at the attackers, trying to hit get them all out of the way.

After Tibbs and his men pressed even further into the camp, he reloaded his 12.7mm submachine gun and surveyed the battlefield. Nine of his soldiers left, but seeing as the Legion didn't have a terribly massive numbers advantage, his squadron was taking down the Legion attackers at a rate that would get them the victory. And maybe Tibbs could hinder his sides casualties if he found the man in charge...

He found just the man he was looking for. A Legion Centurion yelling this way and that. He was definitely in charge. He trained weaves through the maze of tents and found himself in front of the centurion. He trained his rifle on the leader figure and prepared to fire.

The Hastati were destroyed, and, poetically, it was at the same time that the Centurion was killed. The raiders/slave merchants, who had been watching Azuma and the others, spoke among themselves, before the lead thug said:

"Screw this, we're outta here," before turning to leave, with Azuma's gun and bulletproof vest, as well as money, in tow. But it was too late, as Tibbs' team, taking advantage of the Centurion's death, now managed to break through.

"Cut them off." Was Tibbs's final command of the battle. The soldiers made a dash for the raiders ad merchants and surrounded them, guns trained on them and especially keeping an eye on them in case they tried to make a move. One soldier frisked them while the others made sure those waiting didn't make a move. Three soldiers and Tibbs himself got to returning the clothes to their respectful owners, and he asked Azuma personally, "These guys take anything that belongs to you?"

Garth helped the escort down the mountain and immediately aided him in finding medical attention with the squad's doctor, the third of the missionaries named Tyler Vass. The battle was won, but the Sergeant was upset that it costed him a quarter of his men.

"An assault rifle and a bulletproof vest," spoke Azuma as he put on his underwear and pants. "Anyway, thanks for your help," he continued as he put on his socks, shoes, and shirt. "My name's Azuma Asakura, and I'm from Klamath in the NCR, and, well, I'm in your debt."

"I see..." Replied Tibbs, looking over at a man who happened to have a bulletproof vest and an AR in tow. "Fitch! Get this guy next." He demanded, pointing. "Everything on his person goes to this man right here." He turned back to Azuma. "Well, if you wish to pay off at least a small portion of that debt, you can do me a quick favor and give me a rundown of locations in the area. Specifically HELIOS One, and who is in control of it."

The soldier called Fitch dropped everything that that particular criminal had on him in front of Azuma. "All yours."

"Thanks!" spoke Azuma, "as for HELIOS One, you're in luck; it belongs, or rather, used to belong to my faction, the NCR, before the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. Now, according to both what books and newspapers I've read about the Mojave, as well as what the Caravan I was on has told me, it's a been abandoned, and also a solar power station - quite fitting for your emblem."

Sergeant Tibbs listened intently, and gave his signature gruff chuckle at Azuma's last statement. "Oh, it's for a lot more than just the picture on this armor. It's for the people it represents. Thank you for the info, friend. And if you ever happen to tell the NCR about the "Sun people", or whatever you decide to call us, you let them know that we harbor no ill will towards them." He smiled, saluted Azuma, and wished him well.

"Well boys, our day just got a whole lot better."

He paused, then turned back to Azuma. "Oh, hold up a sec. You never mentioned how to get there from here."

"Oh," the Japanese man spoke, before giving them detailed directions to the station.

Tibbs thanked Azuma and turned and went back to his business. "Alright, five of you tie up the detainees, two of you go fetch the monks, and the rest of you search bodies. We're going to deliver these criminals to the NCR ourselves." Today would have been a good day, but he had gotten three more men killed. Tibbs pushed this to the back of his mind and began searching bodies for ammo, and searching tents for any supplies they could get.

They would find much less ammo than expected, but there was apparently enough food to sustain the camp, and the slaves they already had, for at least a few months. Same for supplies of water. They would also find a stash of denarii, some gold, some silver, but most copper. In the centurion's quarters, they would also find additional maps, as well as more gold ornaments. As for melee weapons, those would be abundant.

Upon completion of the search, Tibbs was satisfied with what they got. Everyone, even the monks, found a blade for self defense. And they knew where HELIOS was, which made their jobs much, much easier.

As for Azuma, he thought that he would lead the former slaves back to the Mojave; he had memorized the path. Of course, he could run the idea by them, first, which was what he did, asking simply:

"So, would you guys want me to take you all back to the Mojave?" Faced with no other choice, the other civilians all agreed. And with that, Azuma, after leading the former slaves in taking what weapons and supplies the Solarians had not appropriated already, began the long trek back to NCR territory.

Hopefully, this would lighten NCR-Mojave relations...

The Victoria Avenue Plains, Essex...

The skies had shifted gray and hollow, clouds bellowing with indigestion above the warrior's heads. Between two armies lay a two hundred yard stretch of death and decay, the Victoria Avenue Plains. A dead forest of trees riddled with sandbags, shallow trenches and burned out automobile fortresses stretched out along the northern wall. It stood before the Armies of the Father like a predetermined goal, a quest already completed with stories of it's victory waiting to be told. Alongside a line of thinly placed barbed wire stood a stout force of exactly two hundred and sixty eight men and women. Father Nilsson was counted as the first, and it was there he stood at the helm of it all. Couldn't have been a year less than seventy five, with a wispy white beard tipped off at his belly. His face wrinkled outward and withered, his shady blue eyes astute and wide open, a book older than himself collects an aura of dust within every page turned. From his wavering voice he shouts to the Intimadatus Commandant whom in turn shouts forth the Father's taunting speech to the heathens.

The words ring hollow, of course, through deafened ears. A foreboding silence chills the air, and the old man steps down from his shambling platform. An elegant golden cross draped over his shoulders, his linen black robes carried off the ground by his servants following closely by, his eyes droop down to the earth beneath him and his heart aches for the many fated for doom this dreary night. Within the fog appears a force of over one hundred and fifty men and women collectively displaying their newly fashioned armor. A clenched fist bearing a spark of electricity is painted proudly upon their center mass, with forged steel draping down their chest and over their stomachs. Their shoulder plating shows paintings of a unique variety to each and every one of their individual characters, with an R-91 'Urban-Assault' Rifle at the ready and two more clips fastened to each of their belts. They line up and crouch along the barbed wire, as another hundred come up behind them. A different force this time, tribals adorned with markings of lightning and thunder draped along their skin and their leather hide garments. A loud clapping sound of thunder echoes throughout the plains as a showering storm of hail and rain address the battlefield. The paint steadily washes over their bare hides, their weapons telling every story of their heritage. Some with roughs on two by fours studded with rusty steel bolts deconstructed off security gates, others with a tightly bundled grouping of three rebar sticks their owners spent months filing down and sharpening to a fine point. Raided depot store sledgehammers, machetes, shears, whips created from extension cords and a few gas bombs created with a little ingenuity. The 'Urban Tribes' certainly had an inventive way with things.

To the right side of the massive force was a thing of legends. Robes fashioned of purple silk and cotton draped over the ankles of eight towering figures, fastened up along their chests with a polished metallic armor which protected the upper torso with additional shoulder plating. Tesla coils erected along both shoulders sprouted an aura of small sparks which visibly fascinated most uninformed tribals and wastelanders. The enemy before them, however, remained unamused. They'd slaughtered four of them before in a display of merciless execution, and they'd gladly do it again. These eight men stood reformed, baptized with hatred and fury, yet remaining calm and collected...methodical. They eerily kept hoods over their visage, a shadowed reminder of their mysterious identities. They grip their AER9's with a fierce determination blatantly obvious in their hooded stance. A lone figure reproaches the platform, adorned in a thick layering of crimson robes. He holds an AEP-7 in his right hand, and from his gray mane he spouts forth the holy indoctrination of the Teslaist Battle Speech. It is time to initiate the Siege of Essex, and everyone couldn't be more ready.

"Exterminatus!" The word shot out of Battlepriest Gabriel like a strike of lightning.

A line of forty troopers laid down suppressing fire from their assault rifles as the siege weaponry advanced. Twelve hollow automobile frames, hauled by two brahmin each, headed straight into the mined plains. When a brahmin was killed by a land mine or a stray bullet, a squad of five troopers escorted another one to take it's place. As the army slowly advanced, many had been bathed in the blood and guts and shit of all things brahmin. The automobile husks could only cover so much land before imploding into millions of bits of shrapnel, and all forty of the brahmin acquired were now sprayed over the battlefield like a tuesday shower. Molten laser fire singed through the wood and sheet metal covering the target fortress, burning the flesh of several enemy snipers and cooking several heathen's brains as the Brothers in Arms advanced behind their forces, electrical tesla discharges raging about their physical aura. Twenty tribesmen had been ordered to charge to last forty yards the brahmin couldn't stretch, ultimately covering the last of the minefield as they blew into a dozen bloody chunks. The final charge tore down a fiery section in the fortresses's frontmost wall as they stormed the hill, and from it's bowels spewed forth the marauding heathens with their bats and knives and bloodied fists. Both sides fought hard and tense, and eventually the heathens would retreat into town where they would be extensively rounded up and massacred in the town center in full view of their women and children. A practice not uncommon amongst the newly regulated Teslaist State of Neo Electros.

--

The TMF is what they were called. A conjunction of loosely rehabilitated raiders turned into an as of yet functioning fighting force. To fight in the Teslaist Militant Front required only two things, your name and your dedication to loyalty and hard work. It's benefits included discounted drugs and alcohol, more meals than what the common folk were eating, and a shitty place to sleep every few nights you had the chance to. It was a better life than serving in the 'Cult Raiders', whom had practically become tribal slave fighters through systematic brainwashing and the destruction of identity. Still, one could never understand the life of a Battlepriest or a Brother in Arms, they were the real 'cult raiders'.

More mysterious than their insane religion... Anya thought, a curl of her violet hair intertwined around her index finger. She snapped immediately into herself as she entered any violent conflict, she found herself an artist of conducting death and pain. It was one of very few things she found passion and a love of interest in, sex and painting being the only other two. For now her hair was matted and stained in blood, a piece of shrapnel lodged itself through her shoulder plating and cut into her flesh. If she hadn't gazed down, she would never have felt the stinging pain of a bullet entering her abdomen and cutting through the other end. Clutching her wound, she aimed a ten millimeter pistol six feet ahead toward a fiery entrance in the collapsing wall of lumber and fencing. She squeezed the trigger and blew a kiss to her assailer, watching his forehead pop open with a cloud of blood in satisfaction.

"Ahck...das no good, buddy." Brutus frowned in his thick accent, immediately taking Anya by the arm and laying her down by a cover of concrete debris.

"Ya, it's flow of the painting, handsome. Me getting shot, it is like a good piece of art, ya?" The wounded dame couldn't help but smile in all her coughing fit.

"Only if you live to paint it, Anya! Up an over, let's go buddy."

As the two friends limped out from the battle, dozens more charged in to take their place. A third of Essex was raised to the ground that night, the following morning would be a grieving sight of the Deathmonks wading through the mud and guts and shit to haul away the dead for burial. The total casualty count was one hundred and fourteen TMF soldiers to be given proper burial and eighty slave fighters, along with two hundred and eighty nameless heathens to be dumped into a mass grave. Within three weeks a hefty haul of various metals, brahmin livestock, a small cadre of captured dogs and ammunition stocks had been escorted back to Neo Electros. Once again southern Detroit would be secured and a foothold could be established upon Olympus Bridge, and the making of an empire could finally be at hand.