Sam Littlehorn – Vault 21

“Let me tell you this Pontiff, 3 mile island is the site of a once great nuclear power plant. I’m sure you and your followers will be able to dwell in Atom’s glow there. One of the reactors remains undamaged, and working to bring it online and direct power to our cities. The other reactors is down and leaking.” Sam said as she sipped on a glass of wine handed to her by one of the waiters.

She leaned back on her chair and looked around the room before returning her gaze to Cromwell, “You provide us access to this tech you speak off, and I will assure you and your followers have a safe haven, and can happily pursue Atom’s glow in the safety of our nation. Please consider this offer carefully.”

Sherman Smith –

Sherman was impressed by the proposal from the Most Serene Republic. He was still apprehensive of committing Pennsylvania’s Military to potential conflict. However, the upside is that others would commit their militaries to their aid in case of war. With a neighbor like the cult, that could be inevitable.

“I must say, this agreement seems to be more than agreeable. However, I myself lack the authority of signing this agreement. Our dear governor could sign it, but until our congress ratifies it, we would not be able to participate in it.” Sherman said as Bartholomew finished reading the document. Sherman grabbed a pipe form his pocket, and packed it with tobacco and lit it.

As he took a puff, another representative arrived, this time from the far reaches of Alaska. Her demeanor showed she was more soldier than diplomat. Rough around the edges, very rough, “Well, not everything can be dictated by war. Civilized people should strive for peace, and rebuilding. Our commonwealth of Pennsylvania seeks a future for its citizens. To recreate the safety of the world before it all fell apart.”

Titus Crassus - Queastor of The Legion

"I see. I know not who the NCR are as a people, but from the rumors they do seem the type to roll over others for land; said rumors have not painted either of your nations in a favorable light. But I do not take stock in rumors generated by the disgruntled masses. Though from what I can tell, your culture is one based off the old Romans, even openly practicing Slavery. I will not judge you as I believe to judge a nation means one is ready to act upon their judgement. You say your Caesar was wiling to come to terms, what would those have entailed should this convention gone as planned?"

"I appreciate the restraint on your part," Titus replied, glad that this Alaskan man wasn't so quick to condemn The Legion outright, "Its refreshing after having to listen to that infernal NCR profligate President, or imposter. Depending on who you believe."

"As for the terms Caesar would have suggested: they are quite simple. A stabilization of the western border between The Legion and The NCR and a pact of non-aggression to ward against future outbreaks of hostilities. Had the NCR agreed to that proposal, then Mr. Robert Edwin House would have been asked to be the mediator to further discussions. Vegas is in a unique position of being a buffer state between the NCR and The Legion. Logically, House has an interest in keeping a peaceful border, so he would have made for an excellent third party negotiator."

"Alas, none of that came to pass. And what happened is exactly what we feared would happen. The NCR had been mustering troops for weeks and sending them east. An attack was deemed imminent by Caesar's spies in The NCR. Although the attack came much sooner, it did indeed come..."

Titus shrugged, "And now? Now there will be no peace. Caesar will finish what the NCR started, and he will make them lose all taste for war. Mark my words Mr. North."

Alaskan Federation @Andronicus23

North Ashland

"Do you think there will come a time when slavery will be outlawed? I understand it is a important foundation within your society but as ages pass society changes, and even those who were slaves eventually become free. Is that something the Legion will one day consider?" North asked poking Titus for how the Legion would feel about a hot button topic.

"As for your war." North said as he folded his hands. "I wish for a quick decisive outcome, I do not take pleasure in the deaths of others. However a quick victory is by far the most merciful path one can take, but I will take no stance in it. Alaska is not in a position to send aid logistically, nor do I think our Federation will approve of sending our own to such far flung war zones. That and I'm already sweltering in this heat."

Governor of New Houston and President of the Confederation Harris

Bartholomew presented the agreement on the table, and then proceeded to read the document. The initiative was appealing to say the least. The mutual economic, militaristic, and political benefits were undeniable, and he could see no way Texas would lose any significant sovereignty beyond the defensive military alliance. That might be the most contentious part of the treaty in Congress, and the isolationists would throw a fit at the whole thing. But he could certainly pull some strings, contact contacts, and call up some favors to get it passed. The only questionable part he could see was the location of the joint American Co-Prosperity Sphere Council. Harris fetched the map of the continental United States from his brief case, spread it on the table in front of him, put on his reading glasses, and examined the area. It was at the edge of Key controlled space, on the north end of an island chain off the coast of North Carolina: a worrying distance from the center of Texan and Key influence.

He cleared his throat several times before speaking, as he was worried his voice was going too ghoulish. “This agreement is fantastic, Bartholomew,” he said in a tone dripping with goodwill “I should be able to get this through the Confederation Congress, though I have one concern myself.” He pointed at the proposed location “The location of the joint American Co-Prosperity Sphere Council. It is a long distance from the primary lands of the nations at this table. I understand the desire to keep the Council neutral, but this distance from our collected power could leave the Council’s vulnerable. I propose we establish either a permanent meeting place in one of our nation’s primary borders, or we make the meeting place change every few years. The event of a change could become quite the event, drawing tourists, celebration, and giving nations a chance to show their newest innovations.”

Governor Angela Riviera

Angela’s expectations were more than met by the proposed American Co-Prosperity Sphere. She nodded along to Bart’s reading, and quickly secured a copy for herself to make sure she understood the details. Joint military exercises were a good idea, as the planning behind their cooperation in the Hoover War had been done a bit hasty. Promoting freedom sounded good too… she felt an odd heavy sensation in her, as she realized it would be partially up to her to implement all this. Angela Riviera, a girl from a nowhere farm, deciding world events. Damn.

Harris had something to say about the location of the Council, snapping her out of her sudden rush of nervousness. Looking on the spot, it did seem an odd place for something so important. She waited for Bart’s response.

Titus Crassus - Quaestor of The Legion

"Do you think there will come a time when slavery will be outlawed? I understand it is a important foundation within your society but as ages pass society changes, and even those who were slaves eventually become free. Is that something the Legion will one day consider?" North asked poking Titus for how the Legion would feel about a hot button topic.

"Hm. That I cannot say for certain," Titus said with a shake of his head, "For to do so would imply that I know better than Caesar on such things, which I do not. I do not believe however, that Caesar himself would so such a thing. Slaves are part of the nature order of things after all. The strong enslave the weak, the conquerors enslave the conquered etc. Such is the way of the world. And why should that change? Now on the other hand, Caesar's wife....she is a new Canaanite and personally detests slavery. However, I should not speak of her, it would be impudent of me."

"As for your war." North said as he folded his hands. "I wish for a quick decisive outcome, I do not take pleasure in the deaths of others. However a quick victory is by far the most merciful path one can take, but I will take no stance in it. Alaska is not in a position to send aid logistically, nor do I think our Federation will approve of sending our own to such far flung war zones. That and I'm already sweltering in this heat."

"One thing is for sure, Mr. Ashland, no matter what the outcome is. This war with not be quick, but it will be decisive. The NCR may not have wished it, and perhaps they did not foresee it, but they have started a war that will end all future conflicts between our two nations. Either the NCR will burn to ashes, or The Legion will. Thousands, perhaps millions, will die. And the devastation will be uncountable. But, in the end, we will finally have an ending to things."

Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel - 0300 CT (5:00 AM PT)


Interstate 74, Illinois-Indiana Border (appx 10 miles East of Danville, Illinois)

Small crowds of civilians...some armed...stood on good vantage points along the edge of the town to watch the show. With the recent call-ups, and the general issue of weapons to Veteran's Clubs...not to mention the intermittent firing all day from the artillery positions in the fortifications ringing the town...they knew something big was coming, and what they saw before them proved them correct. Normally, the old Interstate was deserted, especially this time of night, except for the MP patrols, but now it was alive with a level of traffic not seen since long before any of them were born. Hours before, units of mounted Infantry had been spotted traveling the highway, now several massive Behemoths strode down both lanes, followed by columns of marching Infantry, APCs, smaller robots such as Pacification Units, and even a few Tanks. Behind them, were columns of trucks and horse-drawn vehicles, some pulling field pieces, then behind them the rear guard, more infantry backed up by Behemoths. Eventually, they disappeared to the east, and things returned to normal. The mood amongst the civilians as they returned to their homes was generally upbeat....at long last the Lord Paladin was doing something about that damned Cult.

Covington, IN - appx 0330

Inquisitor Wilson, standing exposed from the wast up out of the Commander's Hatch of a APC, impassively glanced at a old Interstate sign as the vehicle rumbled by it.

Indianapolis- 80 mi.
Cincinnati - 189 mi.

He'd likely see both cities eventually, but right now it was the settlement of Covington that demanded his attention. He spat orders to the driver through his helmet microphone, and the APC broke from the main formation and obediently took the off-ramp for Covington, followed by the other APCs and vehicles, not to mention robots, under his command. His mission was to secure the settlement, and oversee the process of integrating it...and it's people...into the Order's lands. Brother Martin's Missionaries had found this fertile ground, so they would have plenty of local help, but nothing could be taken for granted. The Cult was insidious, they undoubtedly had at least some followers here that needed to be purged before they could interfere in the war effort, not to mention other assorted Mutants that had to be rounded up as a matter of racial hygiene.

The column rumbled down the road, coming to a stop near the gates of the settlement, which occupied about a eight of the pre-war city limits. As the Pacification robots strode forward to screen, the Familiars dismounted their APCs and took up a defensive formation. When all was in readiness, Wilson turned on the APC's loudspeaker and spoke.

"Attention people of Covington! I am Inquisitor Wilson, and I speak for the Brotherhood of Steel! Open your gates in the name of Lord-Paladin Barnaky!"

The gate promptly opened, and a tall, thin man with the air of a fanatic strode out. He was wearing a Combat armor chest plate over his rough Wastelander garb, he also wore a black armband with the symbol of the Brotherhood on it and had a IR beacon on a cord around his neck. He carried a AER-9 Laser Rifle by the barrel, which he raised over his head and waved excitedly. His headset crackled and a report came from his assistant inside the vehicle that telemetry from the Pacification Robots was a positive ID for Brother Simon, the Missionary assigned by the Office of State to Covington.

"Praise be to Barnaky!", Simon shouted enthusiastically, "The Jubilee has come!"

Wilson called out a order for his troops to hold fire unless fired upon and climed out of the APC and then down the outside to reach the ground, he then approached the man.

"Greetings, Brother Simon", Wilson said to the man, "What is the situation?"

"My people control the gates, the Sheriff's Office, and the Town Hall, Inquisitor", replied Simon. "Most of the people are with us....Raiders and the Cult have made this fertile ground for Barnaky's Word. There is a Cult cell here, but we've only identified two of them. We've arrested those most likely to be subversives, and posted guards on their property...they await your pleasure. I suggest you talk to the Town Whore, Betty....her information has proven most useful to us, she is responsible for what we have on the Cult cell. We captured one alive, the other shot himself to avoid arrest." He then added, "She'll need to be resettled once this town is purged....her cover was compromised, she lured the one we caught into a trap."

Prostitution was heavily frowned upon in Order lands, though technically legal....if only to avoid forcing it underground. Discouraging their charges from plying the Trade was a significant part of a Block Warden's duties. To the Inquisition, prostitutes did have value as their clients would say the most amazing things to and around them. In the Wasteland, most women only did it out of desperation, such as feeding their children, and an offer of resettlement into Order lands where they could make an honest living and start over without the stigma of having been a prostitute usually quickly get them talking of their own volition. Those that withstood the careful screening tended to prove loyal citizens.

"Make sure that appears in your report, Brother", Wilson said, "and I will see it done." As his men entered the settlement to take control over from the Missionary's Partisans, Wilson patted Simon on the back affectionately and added, "You've done well, Brother."


Evansville, IN

A sizable naval force was assembled in the river just off the city. Four large river monitors, with numerous smaller patrol craft and a couple of rams, all post-war manufacture, ugly but brutally efficient. Towering over them all were two larger ships, clearly of a pre-war design. One had the number 325 painted on the sides of the hull at the bow. The other one closely resembled the first, but different in some details as if it were an imperfect copy. They sat at anchor, waiting. At 0300 precisely, a red flare went up from the shipyard. It was answered by a red flare from the lead monitor. The ships of the Brotherhood's new Ohio River Squadron then weighed anchor, and slowly increasing their speed to ten knots, began to steam upriver, behind a screen of patrol craft, with another group swinging into line behind them.

Bunker Alpha - 0600 CT (8:00 AM PT)

In the busy Operations Room, the reports were coming in from the front. The Central Force was moving forward down I-74 without any significant opposition so far, just scattered Raider bands and a small war-band of Cultists that was quickly dealt with the Mounted Infantry screening the advance. The advance down I-70 was making reasonable progress, though the Raider bands in Terre Haute turned out to be stronger than expected, requiring deployment of two companies of Knights to spearhead a assault. Fighting was in progress but the commanders in the field expected resistance would be broken within twenty-four hours. The Southern force was making good progress, they were on schedule to reach Ferdinand about 1700. The Ohio River Squadron had reached Owensboro, KY and after a short and victorious naval engagement with a group of River Raiders had landed some infantry to clear out their nest...fighting was ongoing but the issue was not in doubt. In the North, Inquisition familiars, backed with troops from the Northern Reserve, were reducing resistance in Gary as the main force continued to advance. The fighting was fierce, but as the enemy had been pushed away from I-90 and I-94, they could not interfere with the Northern Force linking up at the junction between I90 and I-94 around 1000. Current estimates were that it would require two days to secure Gary, but the advance itself was on schedule.

Offut AFB, Omaha - 0300 (8:00am PT)

Three cargo aircraft, and a aerial tanker, took off from the airfield. The largest, a C-5 Galaxy, turned North, the other three West over Legion territory. Over New Mexico, after aerial refueling, the cargo planes parted company, one heading South towards Texas, one West towards the Mojave. the Tanker, it's job done, returned East and landed at Offut. Several hours later, the first cargo plane landed at it's destination, a airfield near Big MT held by the Van Graffs. The other took a route avoiding Texan territory, entering Angels of War airspace and flew to Brownsville, requesting landing instructions.

Arctic Haven Airspace, around 0500 Alaska Time (6:00 AM PT, 8:00 AM CT)
The massive C-5 cruised along at an altitude 0f 10,000 feet. The sun had still not risen, so the lights of the relatively few settlements in what once was Alaska stood out in the inky blackness. About 15 minutes from reaching their destination, the aircraft signaled on the frequency that had been provided to contact Arctic Haven's airfield.

"Foxhound, this is Brotherhood Flight Charlie Five One", the aircraft signaled. "We are inbound, ETA 15 minutes. Request clearance to land and landing instructions, over."

((OOC: Since their islands are too small to support an airport or a runway, they're using Nearby Kodiak Island's runway instead ((Vatrou, if this is an issue in territory use, let me know. I just assume the sight is unused, so if it is a territorial dispute, maybe we can work that into the RP)) of their 'home islands'.))

Kodiak Island, Kodiak Airport

The sight was seemingly unused and since word from the Vegas base had given the Motherbase word of the greenlight for control of Searchlight, the base was buzzing with activity. An old Pre-War military cargo plane had been put to use, its wings unfolded after weeks of repairs. They only had about 3 pilots with any training, courtesy of Pre-War flight simulation pods and today their skills were going to be put to the test. The marshallers on the runway were slowly guiding the plane out, trying to get it out as fast as possible before the snowstorm blew in. Thankfully, the plane was taking off without a hitch. The control tower breathed a sigh of belief as the men and women manning the radar station were thankful there were no errors when a sudden ping worried them. "Ma'am, we've got signs of incoming radar traffic. Looks to be....another cargo plane?" The lead officer's brow furrowed, "It must be the Brotherhood. We hadn't expected their arrival so soon. Standby on the radio for any incoming calls. Badger, call in to Base, tell them we have a possible Brotherhood arrival." The radio's dusty lights began to blink to life and a static broken voice came in. "Fo-...Broth...Flight Charl-..." The officer on the radio grew annoyed, trying to adjust the frequency to pick up the call, "This is Arctic Haven to Brotherhood, you're breaking up, over." After a few more tries, they finally got the frequency right, "Foxhound, this is Brotherhood Flight Charlie Five One", the aircraft signaled. "We are inbound, ETA 15 minutes. Request clearance to land and landing instructions, over." The officer nodded, writing down the expected time, "Roger that, C51. This is Arctic Haven Control Tower, you're clear for landing. Be advised of an incoming snowstorm, the marshallers will see you safely onto the runway. Just look for the flares if the snow picks up before then and watch for ice on the runway. Over."

On the ground, an elite unit of troops in Combat Armor Mk2 with balaclavas and dyed dark brown Yao Guai fur cloaks stood ready for their arrival. They'd been brought in to escort the current team by boat and hadn't expected the Brotherhood, but their job would remain the same. To escort the Brotherhood to the supply trucks and take them to the docks, then ride back to the central base to meet with their commander.

The enlightened would not fear the coming of they, who worshiped Steel and a head in a bowl. Gathered, near the altar, foour voices had joined in prayer, to him who whispered in the void. A pathetic fraction of this formerly growing cult, and it was just a matter of time, until they would be found as well. But who could fear the trivialities of death, as an initiate of the of the one truth that was Ug-Qualtoth?

"We have to act quickly.." The Missionary was a ruin of a man. Radioactivity had left his eyes narrow, his forehead swollen, and removed his lips, leaving him with only a string of a mouth. Clothed in the same black robes he had arrived, he pressed onto his book, as he stepped towards the altar, a crude imitation of the Monolith of the holy city. "..and without fear!" Showing his yellow teeth, he opened the box below, before letting out a sigh. "May every single one of us burn, so that he may revel in the crimson fury that shall our death be!" His hands reached down, before taking hold of the cold cylinders, attached to the string. "May our deaths please him.." Slowly, the Missonary turned around, both hands holding onto the clusters of Microfusion cells, insidious Explosives, created by the factories of the Holy city. "F' ah'n'gha! llll h' f' gotha agony ng li" Wordless, they enlightened recived their explosives, and began to slowly hide them below their clothing, knowing about their final proof of faith.

"What about me, Holy Missionary.. The young boy hand had reached for the cluster, yet received non. "Your service is still required, young one! News about this Advance need to be spread, the faithful need to be alarmed!" An disappointing look, slowly layed onto the boys face, yet the Missionary simply bowed his head. "Run now! The rest, get into positions! I shall wait here for Steel-Worshipers to arrive! Ph'nglui soth!

"PH´NGLUI SOTH!" The faithful answered with one voice, as they turned towards the door. The boy had already slipped past them, leaving only the missionary behind, in silent prayer.



Without any care, the Warleader simply pushed the body off his chest, as he climbed off the bed. The services of this building were sufficent, yet the greed for caps of these whores had been an annoyance that almost had Dosh-Novan consider declining their services...almost!
The large framed man, slowly made his way towards his suite-case, as his body longed for the Miasma! He seldom removed his rebreather, and when he did, he could feel the withdrawl from the Miasma shortly. Yet now he was gone, f His muscles began to twich, as a cold shiver ran over his back, as thousands of bugs began to crawl over him. Biting and nagging, endlessly hungry and without any mercy. The Warleader began to scratch over his chest, trying to kill them, yet they where everywhere!
When he woke up, he was in his bed, the women still asleep, and his rebreather resting on the nightstand next to him. With twiching fingers, the Warleader took it, and pressed it on his nose and mouth, taking in the Miasma into his aching lungs. The nightmare slowly faded, as he suddently noticed the woman standing and staring right at him.

"Our Duty here is done, Warleader! We are leaving for the Holy City at once! My father demands it!" Marie´s voice woke some of the Whores, who´s faces paled, frightened by the woman who seemed to have appeared in the room without any sound.
"What is the meaning of this? Why are we leaving?" Sitting up in the bed, Dosh-Novan narrowed his eyes, his lungs still trying to fill themself with the sweet relive of the Miasma.

"I had a dream of war, and want to talk with my Father! Get your men, and met me at the Airport...oh.." Her eyes moved over the Women in the room, before they locked back at the Warleader. "..they all lied to you, in one way or another! But dont waste a thought about them, for a war is waiting for you!"


The appearance of Order in this town, formally controlled by the fringe of Chaos had been mostly welcome. In the crowd it was easy for the enlightened to make their way towards their targets. They knew about the fate of their brothers and sisters, locked away, awaiting torture and death, yet they would await it, mocking their killers in their dying breath! They knew the truth, the vanity and mindlessness of it all!
The crowd in front of the Sheriffs-Office had given excellent cover to get near the entrance. With a prayer on the lips, and a roaring scream, the man would bash through the door, before unleashing the fury of his cluster, covered by his cloths. A green flash filled the room, before the fire of the energy cut through men and women alike.
Fear and panic, spread like fire in the weed, and in the confusion, the Cultists used his chance. The soldiers had let their attention slip for a second, to rush towards them.

"PH´NGLUI SOTH!"

Death and fire came with him...

Robert Edwin House - President of the F.Z.M.

Thomas Milburne.

The name still bounced around the corridors of Robert's mind like a stray ping-pong ball. "How they hell did they learn of that name?" His digitally-degenerated voice echoed through the cocktail lounge of the Lucky 38. The King returned, gingerly stepping out of the elevator like a hound who'd just been just been reprimanded by his owner.

"What name?" asked The King as he made his way in front of Mr. House's monitor.

"There's a strange family staying here, your kingship." Robert referred to The King by title in a condescendingly sarcastic manner.

"Oh?"

"Something's off about this. How the hell do they know that name? It's been erased from history. Only I should know it."

"You haven't told me their name."

"Unimportant. I want you to watch how a real diplomat operates today. You'll get to sit in the Gourmand and keep your mouth firmly shut while I navigate through the mess you've made."

The King folded his arms. "You try dealing with that fucking buffoon of a president, boss. I was thrown unarmed into the cage of a hungry tiger."

"Your analogy is cute, your kingship, but inaccurate. You were a lightweight who was miscast into the ring with a heavyweight. You still don't have the muscle for it. Charisma and sensibility aren't a switch to be turned on and off."

"Fair."

"You'll learn," House said reassuringly.

The King fiddled with the pin on one of his sleeves and ran his fingers through his greased hair. "Round two?"

"Round two."

The King nodded and exited through the elevator.

"Jane, arrange for the conference room on the 27th floor to be occupied by guests. Upon the Borgios' arrival to the casino, they will be guided to it and offered refreshments, should they require."

House re-directed his signal to a large terminal that had been placed on the end of the conference table in the Ultra-Luxe. It wasn't long before The King himself arrived to the Gourmand, sitting in the chair closest to Robert's end of the table. Many of the remaining delegates had gone home. This was a sign of failure -- two wars had been exacerbated in one day of diplomacy, and many factions were forced to return to their warfronts. Round two had to be an improvement. The well-being of the wasteland demanded it.

Robert House's face flickered onto the screen of the terminal.

"Please, everyone, take your seats. The next wing of the New Vegas Convention is underway."

The Borgio Family - Inside The Gourmand

"Please, everyone, take your seats. The next wing of the New Vegas Convention is underway."

Salvatore perked up as he heard the announcement come down and the face of Mr. House appear on a large nearby terminal. The Don's son, Antony, looked up at the figure of House on the screen like he was seeing a hero for the first time, which he was. His sister, Lucia, however, was far less impressed. And simply rolled her eyes,

"What? He's a computer or something?"

Antony shot her a glare and was about to say something when one of the Gourmand waiters approached.

"Sirs and Madam. If you'll pardon the interruption. But I just received a message from Mr. House's concierge. He's expecting you all in the Lucky 38. He has a room prepared on the 27th floor to meet with you personally."

"Eccellente!" The Don replied excitedly, "We will head there straight away." The Don clasped his son on the back and gave him a warm smile, "You've done well son to set up this meeting. Now, lets go speak with the man himself!"

Antony nodded proudly while Lucia gave a huff but said nothing else. The family then got up from their seats and quietly left the Gourmand, followed closely by their two made-men bodyguards. The group made their way out of the Ultra Luxe and over to the Lucky 38. The doors slid open to them in a dramatic fashion and, awestruck, they entered the old casino.

It felt ancient, and yet pristine. Like a time capsule,

"Right this way please. Mr. House is waiting for you. Step right into the elevator." A nearby securitron informed them.

The New Yorkers dutifully obeyed the robots instruction and stepped inside. A small ding sounded and the doors closed, and they were swiftly taken up to the 27th floor, where yet another robot was waiting for them,

"What's with all these damn robots?" Salavtore muttered under his breath, "Doesn't House have any honest-to-goodness humans working for him?"

The securitron led them to the conference room House had designated for the meeting and took their seats, waiting for the man himself to show.

The trip down the Colorado River was one that James Wilkinson didn’t make often, but in this particular case it was a special occasion. The leader of the Mojave, the enigmatic Mr. House, had hosted a convention of sorts – though the results of the convention’s mere first day was something that upset Wilkinson’s stomach far more than the bad food in Boulder City. The cause of that upset had been something that was unsurprisingly on everyone’s minds, and it more than likely upset more people than just a collectivist forty miles away from ‘real’ civilization. Wilkinson still remembered the first words he said to his personal envoy to Mr. House, Katherin Liao. They were words that he could barely keep to himself when it had happened, after all.

The NCR has lost its damn mind!

The words and Liao’s subsequent laughter still echoed in Wilkinson’s thoughts. A reminder of the worst fucking day that came out of the current year yet, though he was damn well sure that the worst was yet to come; because that was how life always seemed to go.

Thankfully, the convention itself wasn’t exclusively about the NCR’s decisions and Wilkinson didn’t regret taking ship to Boulder City to arrive on time for the proceedings. As one of House’s more relevant subordinates (though Wilkinson preferred ‘allies’ to the term), it was of note to come and keep his ears open. He also wasn’t in the business of shirking the leader of the Mojave just because he didn’t prefer to leave the MRC. If he had to choose between upsetting a vocal minority in his home settlement and upsetting House he would choose the not upsetting House choice every time -- and he was very sure someone back in the Moapa Valley were unhappy. After all, these were the same people who had a problem with him continuing his predecessors policies of working with House and centralizing the settlements in the valley. In short, Wilkinson was not universally popular and this visit had its repercussions. It all made him think back to when Jonathan Vasquez talked about ‘necessary evil’ and ‘essential needs over sensationalist nostalgia’. Somehow, Vasquez had bothered people less in his time.

Wilkinson took a light breath as he shuffled his hands in his coat pockets. He knew he would never be his predecessor and he would have to live with the choices he made, for better or for worse. The past was in the past and the future was now.

He looked over to his cohort and friend, Katherin Liao, as he tried to bury his thoughts. In the last two years that Liao served as his envoy to New Vegas, the infrastructure of the city had continued to be reinforced by House’s policies to the point that Wilkinson did not even recognize it anymore -- and that was not accounting for the political and social effects that had occurred in the same time-frame. Liao provided him the knowledge he needed to know and whilst he was back some forty miles north from New Vegas she served as the only voice the MRC had in New Vegas. With no establishment of a congress proper, she was all he had. He just hoped House saw her as an asset and not another superfluous busybody in the city. She did have more to her than being an envoy, after all she came from one of the largest caravan companies in the Mojave. She looked about as uneasy as he did.

However, before he could make conversation the familiar voice of Mr. House blared across the commons, alerting Wilkinson and the others that things were to continue on schedule. It was time to take their seats.

“Let’s hope that nobody tries to top the NCR today.”

Posted in wrong section :(

Lieutenant General Alfred Miller of Vault 99

The navy blue vertibird’s occupants stayed inside throughout the first night of the convention, as he commanded. No use in spending no more time than necessary in what he assumed were ruins with christmas lights stringed together. General Stein told him not to underestimate the savages, but it was hard not to see the wastelanders as the descendents of the weakest in American society. Descendents of dregs and cowards who didn’t lift a finger to fight against the communists in one of America’s greatest struggles. Now everyone was paying for their weakness dearly in this hellscape. It was up to the veterans to restore this country yet again.

The night passed in a familiar rhythm of weapon maintenance and R&R. It wasn’t long before the message summoning them to the convention hall was received. The delegation was, of course, long ready by that time. Stein had urged some subtlety, but he knew it would be better to intimidate the savages, approach from a position of strength, so only the strongest would be attracted to their cause. They would stage an impromptu military parade. As the Vertibird door opened, they marched out double file. Himself at the front, two aids holding an American flag and a Vault 99 flag behind him, two soldiers playing a marching step with drums behind the aids, and eight more soldiers behind them. The whole column was saluting and marching in order, all in blue digital camo versions of old army fatigues and ranking outfits. The soldiers had blue colored combat armor on and plasma rifles hoisted.

As they marched through the streets, Alfred occasionally glanced at the architecture around them. He was surprised wastelanders had nearly matched pre-war conditions, but he rationalized it as there having to be some guiding pre-war intelligence to all of this. His orders were to make contact with such a designer, and three other factions with similar goals to Vault 99’s: the Enclave, the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel, and the Legion. From the reports, the Enclave were similar true Americans and the MWBoS were wastelanders who trusted in order, strength, and technology. The Legion seemed like filth they had no business negotiating with, but they had shared a similiar goals of annihilating the pretender Texans.

They soon reached the Ultra Luxe and reluctantly handed off their weapons. Alfred entered the room stiffly. “Vault 99, a bastion of true Americans, has arrived. You may approach us for discussion”. His aides and him took their seats and studied the various info readouts that were coming through their Pip Boy 4000s, while the ten soldiers stood stiffly behind them.

Robert Edwin House – President, C.E.O, and Sole Proprietor of the FZM
Lucky 38, 27th Floor

As Robert waited for the remaining delegates to take their seats in the Gourmand, he returned his signal to a flat-screen on the wall in the Lucky 38 conference room. His enigmatic face flickered upon the computer, revealing the digitally-produced facsimile of his likeness.

The Borgios had all gotten comfortable, although this handful of representatives at a massive table (meant for almost thirty) looked awkward and almost humorous to him. Still, he needed what they knew. That name was supposed to be gone. It was supposed to be erased. Yet there it was, clear as day.

Mr. House activated his microphone. “My name is Robert Edwin House – President, C.E.O., and Sole Proprietor of the FZM. I have hosted you in my home, today, because I received transmissions from a very interesting conversation that you had with one of my securitrons.” He paused. “I do hope you are enjoying your stay. I do not mean to alarm you.”

Robert then paused and took a deep breath. “I want to, however, skip pleasantries because I am deeply curious as to why you have come across the name of Thomas Milburn. That name has been wiped away with the Great War, yet it springs up here on my doorstep. Why?”

A Sharp-Dressed Ghoul
The Tops Hotel and Casino

The ghoul scrambled for the Chairmen’s conference room. He had planned this perfectly – he had raided their vault during a meeting, and it was supposedly still underway. Somehow, none of the guards realized that the two massive duffel bags on his back were far too large for innocent winnings, but he phonied himself all the way into the meeting.

The doorman walked into the conference room and bowed his head. “A…uh… ‘Mr. Domino’ has arrived.”

At the conference table, Swank jolted awake from his bored stupor. “What?!”

Dean walked up to the table and slammed the two duffel bags against the table. “It’s a pleasure, ‘Swank’.”

The other chairmen at the table drew their weapons, pointing them at Dean.

“Uh-uh.” Dean retrieved a lighter from his pocket and pointed the flame at the duffel bags. “These particular goodie-bags have been coated in oil and are filled with your precious coffers. Any funny business, and your entire revenue will be lit on fire.”

Swank waved, motioning for the rest of the guards to lower their weapons. He had a furious, nervous expression on his face. “What do you want, Dean Domino?”

“Aren’t you going to ask how I did it?” Dean had a silly, shit-eating grin across his face. He pointed at his sunglasses. “I am clearly a master of disguise. Even after robbing Vault 21, your man at the door couldn’t make the ‘sharp-dressed-ghoul-who-is-liable-to-rob-you-blind’.

Swank rubbed his forehead and sighed. “No. I don’t care how you did it.”

“You don’t? Well, you should.” Dean kept his lighter pointed toward the bags. “I want this casino. For myself.”

“You what?! No!” Swank bellowed. “What kind of delusional cat are you?”

“One who has thought this through,” said Dean in his calculated, articulate voice. “If I burn these bags, you’re through. There’s hundreds of thousands worth of caps and NCR dollars in there. Without them, your casino will go under from debts that you will no longer be able to pay. House won’t bail you out, because he’s been looking for a reason to wipe the slate clean. I will be his voluntary dustpan.”
Swank banged his fist against the table. “I’m not afraid of your silly theatrics!”

“You should be. I drop this lighter, your regime is through.” He looked at the others. “Here’s what I’ll do. You fire this fraud, who was robbed blind under his own nose, and give me the top gig. In return, you’ll have your money back, and everything I stole from Vault 21.”
The other chairmen began to look among themselves.

“You can’t be serious?” Swank folded his arms as he looked at the others.

“Sorry, cat. You’re through.”

General Jimmy Donovan – Leader of the F.Z.M Military
Hopeville Missile Base

The General watched from his office in Hopeville Missile base as the flood of prospective soldiers walked through the halls of the bunker. This gig was new for him – he had been equipped with the U.S. General’s Outfit left behind in the Divide. In fact, there was an entire wealth of military equipment left behind. There was enough U.S. Army Combat Armor to supply an entire army, and several riot gear suits were left as well. It was strange to think that these vagrants and NCR deserters would eventually march on his behalf. Underneath the old-world flag.

Suddenly, the computer on Jimmy’s desk flickered. He was receiving a transmission from Mr. House.

“General Donovan speaking.”

“Salutations, General. How are the accommodations in the Divide?”

“Satisfactory, sir. Hopeville has been cleaned and repurposed, as have the tents, and we’re putting the final changes on Ashton. The final stretch of the Divide itself, as I have said, will take a great deal of time, but we’re on schedule. We are having to demolish a great many of the fallen buildings, sir.”

“Very good. I trust that training is going well?”

“Decently. We are waiting for the Brotherhood to arrive to grant us some elite training, but we are doing what we can. We can expect a regular-issue of M16s, AK-47s, as well as plasma and laser rifles alike from what’s been left behind here.”

“Err on the side of conventional weapons,” muttered Mr. House. “The energy rifles will be extremely expensive to maintain on a large scale. Once the human military has been more firmly implemented into the scheme of things, then we can talk about plasma rifles.”

“Very well, sir.”

“What sort of numbers have the military invitation brought?”

“We haven’t done an official census sir, but the number is in the thousands. Many of them will be unfit for service, but many of them will be trained into your ranks, sir.”

“And my REPCONN scientists have de-activated the ICBM found in Hopeville, yes?”

General Donovan stared out of his window and nodded. “Indeed. It has been scrapped for parts for you and the Brotherhood’s research alike. Just as you asked.”

“Good. Carry on, then.”

Inquisitor Wilson - Covington, IN

Covington, IN - Sheriff's Office - 0635 CT (8:35 PT)

"Allow me", Inquisitor Wilson said as leaned over the the table and presented a flip lighter so the youngish woman across from him could light her cigarette. Normally, Wilson wouldn't allow a interviewee to smoke in his presence...it was a disgusting habit, not to mention unhealthy...but when working for willing cooperation from a subject, small gestures could mean a lot.

"Thanks", she said as she lit the cigarette, then settled back in her chair. she was still relatively young, in her mid-twenties, though the guarded expression women in her line of work assumed made her look older. She was dressed similarly to Brother Simon, who leaned against the far wall listening to the interview, her rifle leaning up against the wall next to him. Though Simon...now Acting Mayor...was relevant to this, he was mainly there to reassure Betty, who was somewhat nervous to find herself face to face with one of Barnaky's dreaded Inquisitors.

"Please be advised, this interview is now being recorded", Brother Wilson said, then picking up a small remote and turning on the camera. "This is Inquisitor Charles Wilson, OIC Field Investigation Group II, in Covington, IN on this date at 0635 Central Time. This proceeding is the initial post-mission debriefing of Betty Henderson, 26, a resident of Covington and Auxiliary of the Office of State."

"To begin, tell me about yourself, Betty", Wilson said, "While Brother Simon has spoken to me about you, I would like to hear from you in your own words why you chose to work with us."

Betty's story was like many he had heard before across the Wasteland outside...a widow with children who had found herself obliged to either sacrifice her pride or see her children starve. To make matters worse, most of the proceeds from selling her body went to the murderer of her husband, the former Sheriff of Covington, now in a cell awaiting his fate. That alone would have seen him hanged for public corruption as an object lesson....the fact that Betty wasn't the only resident he had victimized just made that fate more certain...but he also turned out to be a member of the Cult cell that plagued the town. Word had come down to transport him back to Danville...it seems they had something special planned for him.

Unfortunately for former Sheriff Roscoe P Coletrain...she was made of sterner stuff than he had realized. She had proved eager to work with Brother Simon, to the point of continuing her "work"...and the things Coletrane forced her to perform were revolting, and clearly pained her to discuss in front of a camera...to help the Cause. Thanks to the information she provided, Simon was able to round up most of the Cult cell to present to him gift-wrapped upon his arrival. The demented gibbering he had elicited from the prisoners when he toured the cell-block had proven Mrs Henderson's efficiency...he had already recommended her and her children be evacuated as soon as possible.

Wilson was, as delicately as he could, asking questions about the conversations with Coletrane that led to her discovering his membership in the Cult when he heard two explosions, one after another, seemingly outside. They were close enough that some plaster fell from the ceiling of the old building.

"What the hell?", Wilson said as he reached for his radio to call his command vehicle. "Brother Jones, what just...."

He was interrupted by a third explosion, this one much closer. More plaster fell from the ceiling, and the door was blasted inward and the lights went out as smoke billowed into the room as all three of them were knocked off thier feet (or chairs). After a moment, the old emergency lights flickered into life as Wilson got to his feet and dusted himself off dazedly. Simon helped Betty to her feet and handed her rifle to her. Wilson drew his plasma pistol and approached the door just as the decrepit sprinker system activated, a drizzle of brackish water emanating from each head. Looking cautiously around the door, he saw that the main lobby of the old Pre-War building was devastated....the third bomb had detonated inside the building. The guards that had been posted here were all dead. Staggering outside, he saw bodies everywhere.

"Suicide bombers", he heard Simon say behind him, "Gotta be".

He noticed the War Correspondent from the Administration's Office of War Information climbing down from the APC she had been operating her camera from to help.

"No, Sister", Wilson explained, "Get back to your post, I want you to keep filming!" she hesitated a minute, caught off guard by the order. He added, "the people need to see what kind of degenerates we're fighting!". That did it and she got back aboard the APC and manned her camera.

"Jones", Lewis barked into his radio, "Situation report!"

The command APC reported that the rest of the settlement was quiet...thankfully the bombing did not seem to be the opening of a counter-attack. He ordered the recon drones circling above the settlement to be re-tasked to cover the area around the settlement in case this was a distraction for a larger attack from outside. Fortunately, that was not the case either, though one of the drones picked up a figure running away from the town. Wilson ordered the contact to be followed and turned his situation back to dealing with the aftermath of the attack.

"What do you think, Brother Simon", Wilson asked. "Were they trying to rescue the prisoners...or silence them?"

"Perhaps", Simon replied with the serenity only a true fanatic can display, "Or they might have wanted to provoke a over-reaction against the people, or to make the people doubt we can protect them....or perhaps they just wanted to kill as many people as they could before we finished them. it's best not to read too much into what they do...trying to understand them too much leads to madness and Heresy. All we need know is that they are our Enemy and will stop at nothing to strike at us.

"For my part", Simon continued, "I believe this attack was an admission that Covington is lost to them."

"Yes", Wilson said wearily, "Your words ring true. There are probably only a few left here now....we just have to find them. I suspect in the sewers, though the logical place to start would be to search the homes of confirmed members for clues. For now, I want a curfew set to limit the casualties they can cause."

"It will be done, Inquisitor", Simon said, saluting Brotherhood style before taking his leave to carry out the order.
Wilson then turned to the rather distraught Betty.

"Collect your children...I'll send some men with you...then report to the Command vehicle", Wilson said, "I'm ordering you evacuated with the wounded. It's not out of the realm of possibility that they were trying to get to you....and I am not going to take that chance."

As the detail left for Betty's house, Wilson sighed and pounded twice on the rear door of the Command APC then moved back as it slowly opened to let him in. He was not looking forward to submitting a report on this mess.

It was going to be a long war.

The Borgio Family - Lucky 38, 27th Floor

The Borgio's waited patiently together in silence as they anticipated House's arrival. Suddenly they heard the pop of a microphone and the same dignified voice that they'd heard back in the Gourmand came flowing out.

“My name is Robert Edwin House – President, C.E.O., and Sole Proprietor of the FZM. I have hosted you in my home, today, because I received transmissions from a very interesting conversation that you had with one of my securitrons.” He paused. “I do hope you are enjoying your stay. I do not mean to alarm you.”

Robert then paused and took a deep breath. “I want to, however, skip pleasantries because I am deeply curious as to why you have come across the name of Thomas Milburn. That name has been wiped away with the Great War, yet it springs up here on my doorstep. Why?”

Salvatore was taken aback, and looked to his son in confusion. Antony, meanwhile was completely dumbfounded, while Lucia held back a smug smile.

"I...uh..I Mr. House, err...that is...I'm not sure I understand what you're asking? I don't remember ever..."

"Son..." Salvatore glared at Antony, "What is this all about?"

Antony's mind raced. He tried to think back to his initial conversation with the Securitron. But he was drawing a blank. He knew he'd rattled off a list of names, but he couldn't for the life of him remember ever saying 'Thomas Milburn'. And even if he did for some reason, why in the world would House seem to care so much about this?

"I...uh..." Antony stammered, his nervousness was getting the better of him. He was looking like a fool in front of his idol, and what's more, his father was becoming obviously cross with his blathering.

"Mr. House," Salvatore said cheerfully, trying to change the subject, "Me and my family have come a long way, all the way from New York, the big apple itself, in the hopes of speaking to you. I'd like to speak with you about how we might establish a....mutually beneficial relationship between my family and your New Vegas."

"But please," He began to pull something from his jacket pocket, "Before we do so. Perhaps I can share with you a little piece of New York. Eh? This holotape," He said, holding up the small device, "Is a recording of my daughter Lucia and her lovely voice. She sings the largest venues in the city along New Broadway. Please, let me play a bit for you so you might understand the culture we have back home. Lucia, would you do the honors?"

Eagerly, Lucia stood up and grabbed the tape, giddy with excitement at both the prospect of showing off her singing talent, and the chance to upstage her brother. She nearly ran over to a nearby holotape player and popped it in. She could hear it starting up and waited for the first notes of her favorite performance to resound through the room and impress House. Perhaps, she thought, even woo him.

"Hello Robert."

The voice coming from the holotape startled Lucia and she looked down at the holo-player in shock. What had happened to her recording?

"If everything has gone as I'd planned it to, then you picked up on the mention of my name that Antony slipped in, and your curiosity has no doubt led you to invite the 'Borgio Family' to speak with you in a more personal setting. Borgio...I liked the sound of the name. Strong Italian sounding name, don't you think? Perfect for a crime family from New York."

Lucia was horrified, what was going on? Who was this man talking? She likewise looked to her Father, who was equally stunned by the voice emanating from what was supposed to be a recording of Lucia's greatest performance. Antony simply starred blankly at the holo-player, completely dumbfounded.

"How long has it been Robert? 200? 2010 years? Longer? We hadn't seen each other for a few years even before the bombs dropped. You became a recluse and stayed in Vegas, and I lingered on in Boston. I'd wondered what had become of you during that time, and now I understand. You were preparing. You always were a planner. A planner...and one of the best Robotics engineers I'd ever had the pleasure of working with. We all missed you dearly in the department Robert. Suffice to say, I'd given up all hope of ever speaking to you again, even before the bombs fell, and afterwards, I'd thought I was the last of us left. But then I heard rumors of a rebuilt Vegas in the West and this 'convention', and I knew it had to be you. Had your style all over the damn thing. You know, I've heard Calvert may have survived as well, and it seems Bradberton did for certain. Although both in a less than...ideal state.I'm not sure what sort of condition you are in physically Robert, but I daresay I may have come out of the war looking the best of all of us. Granted that wasn't...intended. And I suffered no less, but we can speak on that later....for now, I'd like to show you something..."

Salvatore stood up, and looked profusely apologetic, "Please Mr. House," He began, "Forgive this babbling nonsense. I will chastise my daughter for obviously having grabbed the wrong tape." He began walking over to the holo-player, "Please, let me just remove this and we can...."

"S5-34. Recall code: Arcus."

Salvatore immediately went limp, and slumped over, but remained standing. A blank expression on his face.

Lucia's eyes widened, and she began screaming. Screaming in utter and complete terror.

"A6-26. Recall code: Sierra."

Lucia followed her father, and likewise went limp. No longer screaming, and her face emotionless.

Antony looked on in utter horror. He stammered in fear and shock, and turned to the two bodyguards behind him, but they appeared strangely unfazed by the whole situation. Antony closed his eyes. Somehow he knew what was coming next.

"H4-22. Recall code: Phoenix."

Antony was suddenly struck with visions. Visions of white tiled floors, pristine bright labs, and himself standing naked before an array of individuals in stark white labcoats. All these memories came flooding back to him at once, and he remembered, for the briefest of moments who he really was.

He wasn't real.

Like his 'sister' and 'father' he too, went limp in his chair, his head dropping down.

"I'm sure by now you've realized what these are. Its...astounding, isn't it? I admit, when I first realized what they'd done...how far they'd come. I couldn't believe it myself. You remember my old prototype Robert? The one I showed you before you left CIT? You remember what I'd called it? An android. They've taken my design Robert, and they did more with it then I'd ever thought possible. They've created the Synths. Highly advanced and fully articulate machines. No...more than just machines. 'Machines' doesn't do them justice. Synthetic organic constructs....synthetic people. That's what they are."

"I could say more Robert, but I'm sure you have questions. While I obviously could not attend your convention in person...not until we determined it was safe of course, I wanted to make sure we could have the chance to talk again. If only indirectly. The 'holotape' that A6 placed into the holotape player was more than just a recording. It is a AI system all its own. Something that I designed myself. It is based fully on my own neurological matrix and is programmed to respond to various inquiries. Its response are sometimes...limited, but it is quite capable of answering some basic questions for you. I know its not ideal...but it will have to do for now. So please...ask away."

Alaskan Federation @Andronicus23

"Yes. Your nation reminds me of another who shares such a philosophy. Though they are simpler in terms of goals, seeking only combat and death. Expanding only to ensure they will find worthy combatants. They too once kept slaves though have since integrated them into their society by allowing them to earn their way to freedom, they created public works; paved roads, cleared rubble. But I think maybe I'd like to speak to your Caesar one day, see what insight I could glean off him."

It wasn't more than five minutes before North's companion arrived, stumbling in attempting to stand on her own two feet as her binge at the bar last night left her quite weak in the knees as a younger scrawny lad trailed behind with a cloth rucksack; comb in hand and bottle strapped to his waist. "North!." She shouted as she plopped herself down. "How is my favorite Destroyer?"

North sighed a bit thinking her boasting of his deeds unnecessary but introduced her to Titus. "Titus Crassus, this is Victoria Bearhorn, leader of the second largest standing army in Alaska. I've heard raiders are regarded as barbaric pests, but her kind differs from the scattered bands of marauders that dot the wastes. Her Guild has rebuilt city blocks and returned stability to our harsh land..." North gazed upon the opening doors as the King entered and took his seat. "I think we're about to start. Perhaps I can arrange a meeting with your Caesar afterwards."

Robert Edwin House House - President, C.E.O, and Sole Proprietor of the FZM
Lucky 38

"I could say more Robert, but I'm sure you have questions. While I obviously could not attend your convention in person...not until we determined it was safe of course, I wanted to make sure we could have the chance to talk again. If only indirectly. The 'holotape' that A6 placed into the holotape player was more than just a recording. It is a AI system all its own. Something that I designed myself. It is based fully on my own neurological matrix and is programmed to respond to various inquiries. Its response are sometimes...limited, but it is quite capable of answering some basic questions for you. I know its not ideal...but it will have to do for now. So please...ask away."

Robert House was, for perhaps the first time since before the war, at a loss for words. It might have seemed insulting to Thomas, after that whole speech, for Mr. House to leave him with such a span of silence. “Thomas…It’s you. By god, the Old World is waking up, isn’t it? The titans of our old power, finding their way back into the world. If you’re real, then there is much work to be done.”

Mr. House sent for Jane. “Jane, catalogue everything uttered in this conversation. It is of upmost importance.” The securitron, having freshly rolled into the room, suddenly froze and went into some sort of data-stasis.

Robert then proceeded with his questions. “Very well. If it is to be later before we truly speak with each other, then I will banter with this coding you’ve written.” He proceeded. “Then Thomas, I must ask, to what extent has your research exceeded. Have you created your own civilization of them? Your own world? Or are you just as humble and careful as I’d remembered.”

He paused again as he drew up another question. “And these ‘synths’ of yours…” He stared at the group of deactivated humanoids through his monitor. “They’re completely malleable? You can shape them…order them to do anything?”

Robert House then managed a chuckle over his intercom. “I am impressed, Thomas. Surprised that you’ve found a way to taste immortality as I have, which I suppose I will ask later. But I am also surprised that you’ve been chiseling at the high-technology sectors. I am impressed.”

Kodiak Airport

After landing safely, the ponderous aircraft followed the marshaler off the runway and onto the taxiway, towards the terminal amid the first flurries of the snowstorm they had been warned about on approach. Once the terminal was reached, they were directed to spot in front of one of the hangars, and instructed to stop. A passenger boarding stair was quickly put in place and Senior Scribe Nakamura, her team behind her, began to disembark from the aircraft. She shivered, feeling the cold even under her pre-war Air Force Parka. Looking around from the top of the stair, she saw the ground crews were approaching the aircraft, preparing to connect it to a pushback tug to bring it inside the hangar. Also approaching were a group of soldiers, their heavy armor visible underneath the bearskin cloaks.

Though her grandfather had been one of those who accompanied the Lord-Paladin to the Midwest from California nearly a century ago, she had never expected to see the Pacific Coast herself. But she had a Duty, her specialty was disposal of the bewildering array of nuclear devices the Old World...both US and Chinese...had built in the vain hope they would protect them, and that Duty had brought her here. The mercenaries had found a live Minuteman XI ICBM, and had asked for help in getting rid of it....help the Brotherhood was only too pleased to provide. No doubt the current inhabitants of Guilin, in China, would also be appreciative.....that was the target for this missile under response plan MX-CN91. Why pre-war planners would target a ICBM on one of China's most popular tourist spots, according to pre-war records, was beyond her understanding. She suspected it was out of sheer bloody-mindedness...which made it all the more obscene to her.

Once she descended the stairs, she apprached what looked to be the leader of the soldiers.

"Good Morning", she said, "I am Senior Scribe Amanda Nakamura, I am the Director of the Midwestern Order's NEST Team. We are here to assist you with your recent discovery."

"Also", Amanda added, "We have brought payment for a contract your Company has taken from us. I was not briefed on the nature of that operation, but I am authorized to say I am delivering payment in full. The flight crew will assist your people in offloading it from the aircraft at your convenience."

Titus Crassus - Queastor of The Legion

"Titus Crassus, this is Victoria Bearhorn, leader of the second largest standing army in Alaska. I've heard raiders are regarded as barbaric pests, but her kind differs from the scattered bands of marauders that dot the wastes. Her Guild has rebuilt city blocks and returned stability to our harsh land..." North gazed upon the opening doors as the King entered and took his seat. "I think we're about to start. Perhaps I can arrange a meeting with your Caesar afterwards."

"Ah, your general is a woman...interesting.." Titus said, noting the obvious. Although looking at the amalgamation of technology and human standing before him, he wasn't sure that it truly was, "Yes Mr. Ashland, perhaps once Caesar returns from the war victorious, I might arrange a meeting between the two of you. Your....Al-aska..sounds to be a fascinating place."

Thomas's AI Holotape - Lucky 38 27th Floor

“Very well. If it is to be later before we truly speak with each other, then I will banter with this coding you’ve written.” He proceeded. “Then Thomas, I must ask, to what extent has your research exceeded. Have you created your own civilization of them? Your own world? Or are you just as humble and careful as I’d remembered.”

"Humble and careful? Now, now Robert there's no need for lies," The voice gave a laugh, "But I must be clear, the Synths are tools, exceptionally versatile and adaptable intelligence systems, but tools never-the-less. I'm afraid though, that I could never take credit for their creation or how they've developed. I created the initial prototype for the earliest version of the Synth, what we refer to as a 'Gen-1' Synth. These are far beyond that, and I admit that I'm still learning new things about them every day. As far as civilizations go however, there's much I could tell you and little I can do to capture the wonder of what I've seen. Its called The Institute, Robert, our old Alama Mater, CIT, and its far beyond anything in the wasteland. A last true bastion of science and technology in the world. Perhaps, given time, you might be able to see it, should you still be able to travel."

He paused again as he drew up another question. “And these ‘synths’ of yours…” He stared at the group of deactivated humanoids through his monitor. “They’re completely malleable? You can shape them…order them to do anything?”

"Yes, they can be programmed for almost any task and can emulate almost any person, real or imagined in both physical appearance and personality. There is, however, an....unfortunate side effect of their increased intelligence and articulation. Its one of the reasons I had sought you out again Robert. I will explain that in greater detail when the time comes, but for now, understand that the Synths are quite possibly one of the most advanced pieces of artificial intelligence this world has ever seen."

Robert House then managed a chuckle over his intercom. “I am impressed, Thomas. Surprised that you’ve found a way to taste immortality as I have, which I suppose I will ask later. But I am also surprised that you’ve been chiseling at the high-technology sectors. I am impressed.”

"I had hoped you would be," The voice replied, "People like us Robert...we're few and far between now. Echoes of the Old World, ghosts of the past. That's what these people call us. This wasteland....its a nightmare, a horror-show, full of degenerates and mutants, murderers and psychopaths...and all the while these new 'nations' if you can call them that, squabble over our country like rabid dogs fighting over the carcass of a long dead animal. It sickens me. But perhaps there is hope, hope that the Old World will reclaim what it had once lost. Hope that one day, the world will be ours again....and perhaps, just perhaps, we'll create a far better world, better even the one that existed before..."