Legatus Aurelius and Vulpes Inculta - SAC HQ Bunker Operations Room

The Legate listened intently as Barnaky laid out the strategic situation and explained in detail each of the fronts that The Cult was being engaged on. As Barnaky spoke, Aurelius couldn't help but admire his tactical knowledge, and appreciated the fact that here was a leader whom he could compare to Caesar as a warrior-king, not merely an elected official playing at one like President Kimball Jr. had been. He understood quite well why Lucius had chosen to work with him as an ally.

"That's the situation in a nutshell", Barnaky said, "If you have questions I'd be pleased to answer them."

Aurelius paused for a few moments, studying the large map projected on the wall and mulling over each of their strategic options. Vulpes remained silent, understanding that his place as Primus Frumentarius was second to the Legate's command over the eastern legions, he was there in an advisory capacity only.

"Overall strategic command of this operation falls to your command Lord," Aurelius began, "You're people have been fighting the cult for longer than we've even known they existed, and you best know their strengths and weaknesses. I will defer to your judgement for the duration of this operation, this Caesar has willed as well. That being said, were I given the preference, I would choose to advance my legions along the central front and push to Indianapolis. With our forces joining yours already there, we should be able to turn the tide of the siege and capture the city in short order. From there we can push onward like a spear through to Columbus. That should allow you to redeploy some of your Knights to Detroit then, where I suspect they will be badly needed. Thanks to your railway, all four of my Legions can be deployed quickly and we can use surprise to our advantage, as I doubt they will be expecting The Legion's forces to be arrayed against them so soon after the NCR war."

"Wisely," Aurelius explained, "Caesar ordered more than half of The Legion's total strength to be held in reserve while the NCR invaded. Each of the legions I've brought with me, the Fifth, Second, Twelfth, and Seventh, are at full fighting strength and did not engage with Kimball. In addition to the six legions that fought off the NCR invasion, we have another three full stength Legions waiting in reserve. Of those three, we can bring the Eleventh Legion up if the situation becomes dire here, but I don't expect we shall need them."

Walking up to the map, the Legate pointed towards the northern front and Detroit,

"I don't wish to leave your men in the North without our support however, to that end I would suggest that a detachment of the Legio II Victrix serve as an auxiliary force to your forces pushing into the Republic. Caesar has requisitioned the support of Great Khan mercenaries who are riding east as we speak, a small force of a few hundred riders but they're well armed and good fighters. We can attach them to the Legion detachment and send them north as well."

"Do you have any objections to this plan Lord?" Aurelius asked, "And you Vulpes? What is your opinion?"

"If Lord Barnaky approves, then I have no objections. My only concern is that as the Legion advances east, we have adequate knowledge regarding the terrain but more importantly the enemy we are facing. With that in mind Lord Barnaky, I would ask that my Frumentarii be briefed by your Inquisitors on the nature of the cult and effective ways to counter them. A psychological war may be improbable to fight against madmen, but not impossible. All men fear something: perhaps we can supply it to them."

"On that note as well," Aurelius interjected, turning to Barnaky, "I would inform you that Caesar has ordered me to show no mercy to these cultists. Civilians will not be harmed, but those tainted by the Cult, and any who serve it...we will be crucified. They can howl to their abomination of a god when they're up on a cross...we'll see if it answers them then."

(OOC: I mentioned the Khans mostly just as a reminder that they're still around. If anyone has objections I can do away with it.)

Director Thomas Milburn, Sanctuary Hills(?) - Inside The Institute

Thomas heard the distinctive crunch of broken glass beneath his feet as he approached the scene. Like a pre-war detective walking up on a homicide, he approached the figure of the young girl splayed out on the pavement with both cold indifference and investigative deduction in mind.

“Oh my God!” Mr. Able yelled as he exited his car, “Oh God I didn’t know she was there Tom. Is she alright? Oh Jesus...”

Someone else from the neighborhood screamed, and a crowd started to gather as Thomas knelt down next to Catherine,

“I...where am I?” The young girl wondered aloud in a haze, “I’m...I’m sorry Mr. Milburn I guess...I guess I just didn’t see the car coming out.”

“It’s alright Catherine. I can take the pain away easily. You’ll be good as new soon, I promise.” Thomas smiled kindly as he gently caressed her forehead.

“U4-88, recall code Cinderella.”

Catherine’s eyes suddenly deadend and she went limp on the pavement.

“Tom what happened, what’s going on?” He could hear Nora yelling, “Shaun go back inside! Now!”

Without looking away from Catherine, Thomas simply said,

“Override current environmental response. Return to starting points. Authorization code: Omega 4 3 Ark.”

The expressions on all the neighbors and his wife immediately went blank, and they walked back to their homes without another word uttered between them. Thomas meanwhile continued studying Catherine’s now lifeless form. He pushed his glasses up and noted the injuries to her head and the oddly self-inflicted scratches along her neck.

“What got into you?” He whispered with a mixture of confusion and pure scientific curiosity.

The sounds of approaching metallic footfalls came from further down the road, and soon a trio of Gen-1 Synths was lined up in front of Thomas,

“Hello Father. Do you require our assistance?”

“Yes. Take Catherine here down to Robotics and have Dr. Loken, personally, run a full diagnostic on the unit. Let him know that it's a Class C Abnormal Autonomic Behavior and ask him to log it. Once that’s done, send a team up here to gather all the event log data from each of the units and send it off to Advanced Systems as well. I want them to go line by line and figure out what just happened here and why. Understood?”

“Certainly Father.”

“Go then,” Thomas waved his hand dismissively, and the Gen-1’s immediately began putting Catherine’s body onto a stretcher and carrying it out of the Sanctuary Hills experiment area.

“Odd..but not entirely unusual..,” He muttered to himself as he tried to think through every possible faulty programming scenario in his head, each one seeming more far fetched than the last. He let out a sigh and looked upwards, letting the artificial sun beat down on his face. A sardonic chuckle escaped him, “Even here, in my sanctuary I still can’t escape from work.”

Free Commonwealth of Pennsylvania

There was a great lull across the border. Not a sound to be heard, not even birds chirping in the air. It was as if all nothing wanted part of what was about to happen. Nothing that valued its existence would want to be here, nor would it want to witness it. Just days ago, the sounds trails of smoke clouds rising from trains could be seen, but today there was stillness.

The thousands of men and women that made up this army group, was reflecting on what was to come. Many clutched their tricord hats or double checked their Kevlar vests that would provide some protections from the enemy. Yet they were all silent, only the gust of the wind could be heard, and soon even that died down. Had this been the Wild West, tumbleweed would roll across the distance.

Sam looked towards her general, who were closely affixed to a communications station. Suddenly a phone rang out. The ringing sound rang out loud, breaking the stillness, the soldiers below stared up at the tower were the governor and her war council convened. They knew that the ringing phone would be sealing in their fates.

The communications tech answered the phone and handed it to Sam. Who remained almost silent throughout the call, once she hung up she just nodded her head, and one of the generals flipped a switch. A red light bulb lit up in the tower and across various locations across the border. This was the signal they were waiting for.

The artillery stations began to hum and grind, as the silence was broken and they began to move. They faced west, but needed their elevations to adjust. Within minutes of the light bulbs turning on, the artillery guns came alive and great thundering sounds echoed across the border. Following the thundering bangs, the horizon lit up in flames as the shells began striking the ground.

The field saturated in exploding shells, surely pulverizing anything that stood in its way without remorse. The shelling continued for what seemed forever. After an hour of continuous, almost nonstop shelling, everything quieted down, just according to plan. Everything had been planned down to the last second, and everyone knew their part.

As everything quieted down again, the silence was once again broken by the sounds of whistles. As the whistles rang, the gates along the walls opened up and on came the troops, marching by platoons, following the Banner of the righteous. As the straight lines of soldiers made there way onward, the artillery began thundering again, providing protection ahead of their steps, this would continue for as long as their range allowed. The war for the Commonwealth began.

Simon Barnaky - SAC HQ Bunker

"Do you have any objections to this plan Lord?" Aurelius asked.

"None, Legate", Barnaky replied. "Paladin-General Wilson is in the process of shifting his Headquarters from Bunker Alpha outside of Chicago to Indianapolis's Airport. He is overall Commander of this Operation, and reports directly to me. Military matters should go through him, but as far as matters of State I am at your disposal." Barnaky then pressed a button on the remote and some icons and arrows appeard on the map, originating in Chicago and circumnavigating Michigan to Detroit, he then continued. A Expeditionary force is being assembled in Chicago...it's goals are to make a landing in northern Michigan, at Cherry City, or Traverse City as it was known Pre-War, and reinforce the forces at the Soo Docks. The ultimate objective is Detroit. Our staffs can work out the details of redirecting the formations you are committing to that front. Outside of Detroit and the parts of Michigan that are claimed by the Republic, Michigan is sparsely populated, we estimate by well under 50,000 people. The Cult's armies depend on foraging in the field....helping the civilians escape the Cult offensive, and bottling the Cult up there, will force them to battle on our terms, or starve. It won't be easy though."

"And you Vulpes?", Aurelius asked, "What is your opinion?"

"If Lord Barnaky approves, then I have no objections. My only concern is that as the Legion advances east, we have adequate knowledge regarding the terrain but more importantly the enemy we are facing. With that in mind Lord Barnaky, I would ask that my Frumentarii be briefed by your Inquisitors on the nature of the cult and effective ways to counter them. A psychological war may be improbable to fight against madmen, but not impossible. All men fear something: perhaps we can supply it to them."

"Funny you should mention fear, Vulpes", Barnaky said, musing to himself. "Brother Joseph tells me he may have have found something, but he is not sure what to make of it. It's very strange...you should talk to him about it. As to briefings on the Cult and it's nature, he has a program ready...not only for you and the Frumentarii, but for the senior officers of the Legions as well. With possession of Pittsburgh came a considerable Pre-War industrial base, and they have made good use of it. Their troops are well armed with crude but serviceable weapons, and they make extensive use of vehicles and artillery. They are also fond of mass assaults employing feral ghouls and have a sizeable number of Mutants among their ranks."

"On that note as well," Aurelius interjected, turning to Barnaky, "I would inform you that Caesar has ordered me to show no mercy to these cultists. Civilians will not be harmed, but those tainted by the Cult, and any who serve it...we will be crucified. They can howl to their abomination of a god when they're up on a cross...we'll see if it answers them then."

"Hah", Barnaky chuckled at the vision the Legate's phrase conjured up in his mind, "Nice turn of phrase, Aurelius. We shoot or hang them, then display the corpses....that gets the message across well enough for our purposes. Crucifixion ought to get the attention of those who willingly align themselves with the Cult, at least. We plan on annexing all of Indiana and much of Michigan when this is over, if blood must be shed, it's best to get it done and over with up front. One thing you should know though, is that the Cult often press-gang common Wastelanders into serving, and even fighting for them, against their will. We do try to screen those out for interrogation...and re-education if judged salvageable...when practical before dealing permanently with the rest. As for confirmed Cult members...I don't know what they do to them there, but any of them that go to Pittsburgh, which seems to be a pilgrimage for them, are driven quite mad by the experience. We get what we can out of them then put them down like the mad dogs they are."

"The Cult itself has no positive message, a vision for the future, or really anything to offer the Wastelanders out there", Barnaky continued, "It relies on terror to compel obedience, and even obedience to their commands offer no guarantee of safety. Lift the Cult's boot off their necks, and offer them a future, and the civilians swing right into line....and they know better than anyone who among them needs killing."

Featuring @Tiberius67

A village frozen in a harsh land - 7:00 local time

Stumbling numbly into the long house Fontaine looked up to see the steam genny standing tall sending a warm reddish hue out with each passing second as she struggled to find a decent seat as seemingly every villager had assembled for supper each with bowls of soup whale fat alongside them while tiered frostbitten whalers sampled the fruits of their labor. Hanging her coat off the side of her chair she clipped her helmet to her belt and pulled out a MRE in another time it was fresh spaghetti and meat sauce perhaps packaged in a way that actually persevered the food many soldiers hoped. Opening the package Fontaine busted out her p38 and went to work opening the can tearing open the spaghetti and watching as everyone let out a ghastly gasp as this gelatinous mush plopped down on the tray, she poked at it and it resembled maggots far from the meal she had hoped to receive after raiding an old abandoned military crate. As one of the natives next to her got up she sniffed the meal looking to see if that was actually edible and just like to popped can of cheese and crackers it sadly was not. Immediately tossing out the pecan cake for nuts never preserved well in these types of kits she was nearly going to abandon her meal dumping everything into a trash can before she was stopped from leaving with a bowl of soup being placed out in front of her.

“Have yourself a proper meal,” The man said as she began to nod furiously thanking the man without a single word. “Don’t worry it’s on me.”

Setting the bowl down she grabbed a notepad Thankyou setting aside the cigarettes from the MRE, Fontaine took the time and ate letting the soup and the steam genny warm her from her core. Her small frame was more visible as she slipped her coat over her shoulders buttoned it up and adjusted her helmet and set off to explore the surrounding wasteland.

Kodiak, Alaska - Kodiak Airport - 7:35 Local time

“Sister Amanda”, the Scribe said, “It’s time to go….the aircraft is leaving for home”

“Very well”, Amanda Nakamura replied, “Inform the pilot that I’m done here and he can proceed at his convenience.”

Amanda sighed as she looked at the poster, holding it, on it’s plastic sheet backing one last time at arm’s length before sliding it back into it’s storage case. It was Pre-War...they had found it on one wall of the Launch Control Center of the missile silo. It said,

Between the two phrases, was the heraldic emblem of the Pre-War Strategic Air Command, a shield with a medieval armored fist over a clear blue sky with a few small clouds. Where the official SAC emblem had the armored gauntlet holding a pair of lighting bolts, the gauntlet on this poster held a pair of severed human testicles by the vas deferens instead. Whether it was just black humor perpetrated by bored missile crews, or an actual official propaganda poster, she had no idea. Either way, it nicely illustrated the insanity that had taken hold of their ancestors and destroyed the Old World. Commander Fulman had noticed her looking at it every time she passed it, and had it taken down and mounted, presenting it to her as a going-away gift. She had already decided where it would be displayed in her office back at the Bunker. She closed the case, and checked the straps that held it in place with the other cargo, the metal lined boxes that held the disassembled re-entry bodies they had extracted from the missile, and the plutonium cores. Satisfied everything was properly stowed, she walked aft along the cavernous interior of the old cargo aircraft, nearly filled by the bulk of the disarmed Minuteman XI ICBM….a break in the weather had allowed it to be extracted from the silo early, so that it could be sent back to Nebraska for repurposing as a satellite booster…..and disembarked out the open cargo doors, which began to close as soon as the pilot noticed her trudging out onto the runway. Once the doors closed, the crew began to prepare for the long flight hole, the engines starting with a whine.

Amanda walked towards the smaller aircraft waiting for her, a C-130, without looking back, shivering in the cold as she noticed the first rays of dawn over the horizon. One mission was accomplished, but another was beginning…..another faction in Alaska asking for Brotherhood to cope with the remnants of the past. She would take charge of the mission, as the needs of the War Effort made it inefficient to send another Scribe of her rank out to relieve her...and if Chinese strategic weapons were recovered, she was best qualified to deal with them anyway. She didn’t mind, though, the work was important, she would do her duty as always. At least the flight to Anchorage would be relatively short, just a couple hours.

Anchorage Airport- Several Hours later

Amanda crinkled her nose for a moment as the rear cargo doors opened, letting the cold in, relaxing as she got used to it. Winters in Nebraska were cold, but this was somewhat worse. As the doors opened, she and her new team, many of which she only knew professionally and some she had never met until she boarded the aircraft at Kodiak, disembarked out the open cargo door at the rear, noticing some locals, supervising some battered old cargo bots, waiting patiently to board and offload the cargo.She hesitated a moment at the foot of the ramp, looking for a sign that would tell her who was the senior of the group.

Swinging his arms to direct the cargo bots, a man covered in hide and fur looking more like a walking gorilla than a human in his winter getup stepped over removing his hood and cutting his bulky profile almost in half. “Afternoon, call me Dev. We got ourselves a short jaunt over to the trainyard. Not more a 20 minute walk, we’ll be passing through the warehouses on the way so you’ll be plenty warm.” Taking a short moment to laugh he continued on. “Well as warm as you’ll get before spring; apologies for the cold the steam gennys have been breaking down lately otherwise we’d be toasty enough. If you’ll follow me.” Leading the group towards the old pre-war hangars tall walls cut from logs and trimmed of branches lined not only the entrance but the path through several warehouses with cylindrical radiators humming along in only a few spots leaving ice to build up and wood to crack. While several spots leaving a shivering cold the warehouse of the trainyard came into sight; larger than the rest and with more working steam gennys sat in the middle of working areas with a large robotic arm mounted along the inside of the trainyard sat loading in supplies. “She’s an old girl that one. Runs fine enough on the rails but whines when it simply gets too cold out. We got a mess hall on the right side and a seating area. It’ll be a bot before all is loaded so, grab some food. If you need me I’ll be directing everything over.”

“Thank you, Dev”, Amanda said, then she and her comrades filed into the mess hall, taking their place in line to get served. Served a respectable meal of baked fish, potatoes, and carrots, she sat down and ate, finding the food pretty good...certainly better than she had gotten in boot camp when she did her National Service twelve years ago, though that food was rather mediocre on purpose. She saw that as a good sign, the people here seemed to be doing rather well….which was good as based on the briefing she had gotten from Barnaky himself, of all people...or robot, as it were, on the flight from Kodiak she was going to be here a while.

Over by the mess hall standing under a sign that read, plenty have ate from this kitchen to lead healthy lives; the cook simply prepared more as other workers shuffled in some finishing their shifts others about to start. Taking a cast iron skillet he walked over towards Amanda and her team. “Have a few local delicacies since we’re up by the river we’re never short especially on sea peaches.” Setting it down fried little carrot like things popped as the skillet cooled. “They’re a little sweet and salty, but it’s all good. Kriner’s kitchen is always open if you need to eat.”

“Thank you”, Amanda replied brightly as she held out her plate for the cook to ladle some of the ‘sea peaches’ from his skillet to it. Eating one, she found it good and ate some more. While they did get fish back in Nebraska, seafood was a rarity, occasionally brought upriver from New Orleans, and quite expensive. Living on the coast, seafood was probably the main staple of their diet so until it became routine, seafood would be something of an adventure for her.

---

---

They had arrived at night...

Hidden away in sewers, trenches and cellars, they had waited for the fools to walk into the trap layed out for them. Outnumbered by the soldiers of the Commonwealth, they had to rely on cunning and wit, and so, their wise warleader had decided to leave it to the night to hide their attack. Now, in a whisper over the radio, their fury had been unleashed onto the invaders of the prophets sacred soil. Their wrath would wash away the unenlightened horde, following an foolish creed of the old world...



They were among them, around them, and soon in the midst of them. Their cutter assault rifles roared in the dead of night, as screams filled the air like a symphony of chaos and agony. The raid had began, and its went with glorious efficiency. "SLAUGHTER THEM ALL! HE WHO SLUMBERS WHATS TO FEAST ON THEIR SOULS!" Tossing a soldier over, he who was just another body, jumped on top of him, the rush of battle filling his soul and mind, as he took in another deep breath of the miasma, as his fists smashed into the Pennsylvanians face over and over again. They were sheep, who had invaded the wolves den...

Feeling the blood on his fingers, the body just looked around, grinning below his re-breather, as he picked up his cutter once more. "SLAUGHTER THEM ALL BROTHERS! WE SHALL TAKE THEIR SKULLS TO THE MONOLITH! HE WHO SLUMBERS SHALL WITNESS US...." There was no telling how the battle went around him, yet the body could feel the triumph drawing near. Ug-Qualtoth would be pleased by this, and with him.



Many voices joined into the battlecry, as the body once more fired his rifle at the retreating Commonwealth soldiers, roaring with laughter, as he felled two more. This was not a war, this was a slaughter to please he who slumbered...



By now the enemy was broken, crushed by the victorious warriors of the warband, who began to fully chase them down. The Body by now had tossed away his rifle, using his machete instead, as he was running with his brother, chasing after the survivors...Then the bullet his his chest. Gasping, the body fell onto the ground, wincing in agony, as night turned into day, and a red dawn came upon them..

---

The men they had chased down, threw themselves on the ground, as behind the ditch, a wall of guns was raised. Flares had been tossed right in front of them, blinding and unleashing a terrible truth, none of the cultists had been ready for. Their sudden advance was stopped cold, as all the euphoric spirit of battle gave way for a horrible reality. Some cultist kept running, while others turned around, trying to get back to the ruins, yet then, the first salvo was fired into them....

---

---

"Casualties?"

With the dawn, the ruines had been fully cleansed of the cultists, yet their vile stenches had remained in place, leaving a disgusting scene behind, as the Captain was slowly walking through the aftermath of the battle, followed by his aid Wilks. "Our scouting party took quite a beating, but i guess we can be lucky that the cult mistook them for our main force. God above only knows what would have happened if we would have marched into them at night. We still counting the enemy losses, but so far, i believe it where around 200 so far! Educated guess would be around 300 to 400..ten of them for every loss of us!" MacCready stood still for a moment, as he looked closer at one of the bodies, a machete still held thigh in his hand. Getting onto one knee, he removed the mans rebreather, before shaking his head. It was a human face, scared, yet not particular mean looking, not how he had pictured the warriors of the cult to look like. "Fuc...I mean god damn. You thought they would look like that Bryan?"

The aid said nothing, and a moment later, Maccready realized that Bryan Wilks had seen them before. "I am sorry, i forgot.." Getting back on his feet, the captain waved towards to soldiers. "Toss this body onto the pyre! Come on you lot, we aint having all day!..."

Turning around, he could see the rows of soldiers marching over the old highway, the sound of a preaching statically hailing over radio, carried on the back of the lay-brothers walking next to the army. "Well...Hallelujah.."

---

---

Nobody, except the daughter of the prophet could get away with storming into the inner sanctum of the Prophets palace. There he stood, brooding over a table, surrounded by his council of warleaders. Grim warriors they all were, yet none of them dared to even raise his voice in the prophets presence, whos iron bolted eyes, silently and empty glared at the desk he could not see.

"Dosh-Novan has send note, he will arrive in Detroit soon, and sack it in the name of Ug-Qualtoth! How shall we respond, your holiness?" The prophet took his time to answer, but when he did, figures moved on its own on the table, once toy, now resembling armies. "He shall take the city and cut of the fools of the Brotherhood from the sea. Send him the beast, so that he shall reign both land and sea! The Brotherhood thinks us weak on the water, so we shall keep them in this believe until they lay eyes on the beast!" Nodding devotly, the warleaders took notes, as Marie approched the table. "Father, may i have a word..." Not even showing a reaction, the prophet once more moved a figure without touching it. "Send word to he warmaster, that the shall increase his speed, and send a force to meet up with Dosh-Novan. With both forces in Michigan, and our main army in Columbus, there is nothing that can stop our advance now...

"What about the Commonwealth! They have mobilized and are marching in with full force! We need to take actions, your holiness.." A shrug moved onto the prophet, as he waved the comment away. "The local warleaders can take care of this minor problem. The Monolith has fortold me, that they are little more then an inconvenience, barley worth a second thought! Just like the brutish fools of the Legion. Upjumped Barbarians, so misguided...a shame, they would have made for great allies. They say that they see their warlord as a god...lets see how they will act, once they lay eyes on the monolith..."

"FATHER! All of this is of no importance.." There was not a sound for a moment, yet then, Marie could feel the grip on her neck, by hands she could not feel, as a burning pain ran through her. "How dare you, speak like that, you insolent brat?" The prophet turned his head, the iron bolts he had as eyes glaring empty at Marie, who closed her eyes, trying to no show the agony she felt. "It matters not, Father! None of this...i must go east.. Now it was the prophets hand, taking hold of Maries face, the grip iron and cold. "And why is that, child?" Marie took a deep breath, before forming fists with her hands. "Because the monolith has shown me the horrors the east hold...and it wants me to stop them!"

Legate Aurelius and Vulpes Inculta - SAC HQ Bunker

"The Cult itself has no positive message, a vision for the future, or really anything to offer the Wastelanders out there", Barnaky continued, "It relies on terror to compel obedience, and even obedience to their commands offer no guarantee of safety. Lift the Cult's boot off their necks, and offer them a future, and the civilians swing right into line....and they know better than anyone who among them needs killing."

“Well said my Lord,” The Legatus replied with a nod, “Very well then. We are agreed. No mercy to be shown to those who call themselves a disciple of that abomination, but those that have no love for their overlords will be treated fairly. I will relay that order to my Senior Centurions. I assure you my legionaries will have no issues with discipline on this campaign.”

“Unless there is something else we should discuss Lord Barnaky, I’m eager to begin. Once my Legions have assembled and are in good order, we’ll begin our push east. Vulpes..I leave you to confer with your equivalents within The Brotherhood about how best to fight this enemy. Should you learn anything, report it to me immediately.”

“Of course. I’ve already sent out some of my Frumentarii to begin scouting ahead for The Legion’s advance.”

“Well done Vulpes. I’m glad Caesar sent you along to support us. We can ask for no better man in The Legion for these tasks.”

“I’m at your disposal Legatus.” Vulpes bowed.

With that Aurelius turned back to Barnaky, “I’m told the Brotherhood salutes their members with the phrase ‘Ad Victoriam’ in the Legion’s own tongue. A fitting phrase I think, and more than rightfully used here. In The Legion, our rallying cry is ‘Legio Invicta’, meaning ‘Unconquered Legion’. A reminder that despite all it has gone through, the Legions of Caesar still stand. However, I will gladly offer a salute in The Brotherhood’s own manner.”

The Legate clasped his fist to his chest in a smart salute,

“Ad Victoriam, Lord Barnaky.”

Director Thomas Milburn, Cait, and Desmond Lockheart - Robotics Technology Facility RB-2851

Flanked by a pair of Gen-2 Synth Security Units, Thomas, Cait, and Desmond rode a large metal elevator as it descended deeper into the concrete lined earth. Desmond had been told little to nothing about where they were going, aside from the fact that he would need to see for himself. While he wasn’t exactly nervous, he was a bit on-edge, knowing full well what sort of horrors these old-world bunkers often held.

In lieu of his usual grimy pre-war wear, which he rarely had time or the inclination to clean in his line of work, he was now wearing a pressed dark grey suit and tie along with a matching overcoat. Underneath his suit jacket was a shoulder holster strapped to his torso, with a brand new .45 auto pistol clipped inside. He’d been offered his pick of The Institute’s energy guns, but preferred to continue using traditional weaponry. “Old reliables” he’d called them. So instead, Institute Facilities had outfitted him the .45 pistol along with the rest of his gear, and a few other goodies that would satisfy a pre-war intelligence agent. Thomas had referred to it as a “Welcome package”, a little something to wet his appetite now that he’d agreed to sign on with them.

Desmond turned to look around, and saw Thomas checking his watch with a bored look. Next to Thomas however, Desmond could see the look of the fiery Irish broad staring right at him with contempt.

“Can I help you with something ‘lass’ or do you always look at your coworkers that way?”

“Not a big fan of the stupid looking wig you’re wearin’. Lets just say you remind me of someone that I hate and leave it at that.”

Desmond caught a glimpse of a brief look of recognition on Thomas’s face, and he guessed that this was some sort of shared history between them.

“Oh...what happened to him then?” Desmond replied, keeping his tone as polite as he could in a way that he was certainly not used to.

“I put two slugs right in his heart.”

“We’re here,” Thomas suddenly interrupted, as the elevator came to a stop and the trio, along with their Synth escorts, stepped out.

The first impression Desmond immediately got was how large the area was, and the next was the sounds of industrial machines coming from what sounded like far deeper into the facility. As they approached what looked to be the glass-encased control him, Desmond looked down to see the engraving etched on the floor.

“United States Army Robotics...where the fuck are we Thomas? Back to old haunts?”

“Not exactly but still a rather interesting location. One we acquired some time back after it was discovered the facility was the source of a robot incursion into The Commonwealth.”

“Robot incursion?”

“Not important right now,” Thomas replied, as they began ascending the metal gangplank leading to the control room, “What is important, is how we can utilize it. But I’ll leave that to her.” He said, pointing into the control room.

Desmond hadn’t noticed her before, but now he could see the nervous looking black haired woman wearing an Institute robotics lab coat that might have looked a size or two too big for her.

“Hello Thomas...sorry….I mean...Director..sir.”

“And who’s this?” Desmond asked skeptically sizing her up.

“I-sabel….Cruz….Isabel Cruz….” Isabel stammered as she offered Desmond a nervous hand, “Sorry I’m still getting used to...people...in general.”

Desmond gave Thomas a ‘Who the hell is this broad?’ look before reaching out to meet Isabel’s handshake,

“Desmond Lockheart,” He replied.

“How do you do Mr. Lockheart.”

“Just Desmond is fine. I don’t exactly get worked up over formalities.”

“Desmond is now a specialized intelligence operative within The SRB. I’ve hired him on to assist us with some of the potential...problems we’ve been facing,” Thomas explained, “And Isabel…” he continued, turning to Desmond, “Is a pre-war Robotics Expert. She’s been tasked with overseeing this facility and our future plans concerning it.”

“Oh? And how’d she get that gig exactly?”

“It’s well...complicated. If you’re concerned about her expertise though, she’s more than qualified. In fact, she initially found this facility of her own accord and got it operational. It's taken her a bit of time to get acclimated to our way of doing things, but she’s got more knowledge about robotics and artificial intelligence than many of my CIT colleagues before the war.”

“Impressive…” Desmond said with genuine surprise. Just by looking at her he wouldn’t guessed she was capable of it.

Isabel blushed nervously and fiddled with her hair, “Oh you know...I’m not all that interesting. Just trying to do what I can to help…..since I kinda...didn’t start off on the right foot.”

“That’s putting it mildly…” Cait muttered, just loud enough for Desmond to hear. Thomas pretended not to notice. Desmond had to wonder what she could be referring to, but thought it best not to ask. Perhaps he’d broach the subject later.

“All in the past. What we need to do now is use this treasure trove of old world technology to our advantage. It’s a massive production facility, with enough industrial output to rival a city. From what we’ve been able to gather, it was a Robotics research facility specializing in the Robobrain Program, but its able to build and refit a variety of different Robco and General Atomics model military robots, and I suspect, much more.”

“Think I can guess where this is going…”

“We’re retooling the facility to produce some of the older synth models, Institute weapons and armaments, as well as modified versions of RobCo and General Atomics military bots...some of my own designs,” Isabel said as she shuffled her feet, “Eventually, we may even be able to start producing larger military hardware as well.”

“This facility’s production capacity matched with The Institute’s should be enough to start supplementing our woefully low military numbers,” Thomas explained, “ We can’t match the sheer military power of many of the states we’ve observed thus far, but hopefully we can at least muster enough strength to give them pause if it comes to it. The Institute’s never needed a particularly large security force, not until The Brotherhood arrived, and from what I understand Robotics was working round the clock during that time to produce more Synths. That can't be the case going forward.”

Desmond crossed his arms, “That’s all well and good, but why exactly am I here?”

“Aside from its uses in production, I want this location to be something of a backup facility, in case The Institute is ever threatened directly. To that end I’ve ordered quarters to be built and the facility expanded to include the necessities required to make it sustainable if we ever need to fall back. It’s well hidden and built to withstand even a direct nuclear strike so I imagine it should be well suited for that. Some SRB and Robotics personnel will be relocating here in the near future. I’ve furnished quarters for you as well.”

“Not exactly the Penthouse Suite, but it's probably better than what you’re used to,” Cait quipped.

“Hmmph. I’ll be the judge of that. About this army you’re building Thomas, I assume part of that had something to do with me as well?”

“Naturally,” Thomas nodded, “In addition to the Synths and the Robots from this facility, we’ll be attempting to work more closely with some human elements in The Commonwealth as well. I’ve already invited the necessary parties to a meeting. I’d like for you to be there. I want this to be cleared out before we start out operation to investigate The Cult.”

“Done. Suppose I can manage a bloody sit-down well enough. Where am I meeting them?”

“Not far from here….Logan Airport. Seemed like an appropriate location. The wreckage of the Prydwen should help them to understand where things stand.”

“Remind me, were you always a dick before the war or did the war change you that much? After 200 years my memory isn’t exactly tip top.” Desmond smirked.

“Between you and Robert….I certainly learned from the best,” Thomas replied as he slapped him on the back, “Don’t be late.”

“Say hi to Maggy for me will ya? Promise she won’t bite.” Cait smirked as she walked over to stand next to Thomas.

“Who?”

“You’ll see.”

Both then suddenly vanished in a flash of blue light, leaving Desmond behind alone with Isabel and the two Gen-2 security Synths.

“So...umm...should I...should I show you where you’ll be staying?”

Mags and William Black, Logan Airport Terminal, Boston

“What exactly are we doing in here Mags?” The ire coming from Mag’s brother, William, was clear as he carefully stepped around a broken piece of fallen masonry that had collapse out onto the hallway they were traveling through.

“You damn well know why William.”

“I know 'why', what I want to know is your reasoning. You accepted some strangers invitation that took us halfway across The Commonwealth on a lark? You know how this is going to look with the other bosses right? Fuck I don’t even want to think what Nisha might get up to with us gone.”

“Lizzie can handle our affairs back in Nuka World well enough. I have complete trust in her.” Mags replied, as she turned back to her brother, “As for my reasoning...the invitation was very persuasive. That’s all I’ll say.”

“Any idea what we might be up against at least?”

“No...but I have a hunch. And If I’m right, we’re either be dead or set for life.”

William scoffed but knew that further argument with his sister was pointless. She’d made up her mind. He looked back on the squad of Operator goons he had with him and motioned ahead to two of them, signalling that they should take point going forward.

As they continued walking down the darkened hallway of the old Logan airport terminal, William started to get more and more uneasy. Something about the location was getting to him.

“Gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” He said, as he stared into the darkness of a vacant room, “Didn’t this place used to be where those Brotherhood assholes holed up?”

“Used to be. You haven’t seen the tarmac yet have you?”

“No. Why?”

“Its a mess out there with the wreckage of their airship. And I don’t think it's a coincidence we were sent here of all places either. Its a message.”

“Message for wh---” William stopped mid-sentence and stared down the hallway, “Shit what was that? Did you hear that?”

The Operator group was immediately on guard at the sound of footsteps echoing around them: heavy footfalls of what sounded like armored boots. The steps grew louder until it felt like they were right on top of them.

Suddenly a blinding light shone right in their faces, several in fact, and the Operators found themselves staring down the barrels of a number of guns,

“Raider scum bags. Is this some kind of joke?” A gruff voice called out from beyond the row of lights, “Are you the ones who sent that message? I’ll give you thirty seconds to explain before we start blowing your heads off.

William’s eyes adjusted quickly and he realized that the lights were coming from headlamps, the source of which were a number of heavy combat helmets belonging to a squad of well armed, armored, and clearly pissed off, Gunners.

“I should ask you the same question. We received a message as well inviting us here. But if you received one as well I would assume that you aren’t our hosts.”

“More like your undertakers,” The lead Gunner sneered, “I’m Lieutenant Markus Kilhorn with the Gunners. Won’t bother with introductions beyond that because if you’re not the ones we’re meeting, then we’ll just be shooting you,” he said flatly, “Have a nice day.”

“Idiot. If someone sent the message to both of us, do you really think they want us to blow each other away in this fucking hallway? Obviously they have something planned.” Mags snapped back.

“Well if I don’t get an explanation in the next minute, I’m going to assume this is a trap. So someone, somewhere, better tell me just what the hell is going on here!”

“Hello.”

The sudden unexpected voice caused both the Operator and Gunner teams to immediately turn to the direction of the sound. Standing before them was a metal skeleton.

“Jesus fucking christ. What the hell?” The Lieutenant yelled, “Where did this thing come from?”

Mags and William both had the same question, wondering if perhaps the thing had been following them this entire time, or had just stepped out of the shadows.

“Welcome. We’re glad that you both decided to travel the long distance to Logan Airport. We can assure you that you will not be dissapointed. On behalf of The Institute, I thank you. If you would please follow me now.”

Both the Gunners and the Operators turned pale at the mention, Mags was the only one who seemed satisfied with herself,

“The Institute? What the hell?” One of the gunners said aloud.

“The fucking boogeymen?”

“I think we should follow it,” Mags pointed as the Synth began to walk away down the hallway, “We came this far. Might as well see what they have to say.”

Hesitantly, both the Gunners and Operators followed the Synth, more out of curiosity than anything. A short distance down the dark hallway and the Synth stopped sharply before a metal door,

“Please enter. Before you do however, I must ask that you disarm and leave your weapons behind.”

“We’ll comply,” Mags gave her brother a stern gaze, knowing full well he’d be the one to object. William sighed heavily but signaled his agreement with a nod of his head.

“Like hell we will. Fuck that.” Kilhorn raged, “I’m not giving you jack squat.”

“Please do not argue. This is for everyone’s safety. Your weapons will be returned to you after the meeting is concluded.” The Synth replied in its emotionless mechanical voice.

“And I say again, fuck that.”

“Drop your weapons. Now.”

A far more stern voice answered the Gunner Lieutenant this time, and Kilhorn found himself staring at an Institute laser pistol pointed in his face. A Courser was standing before him, and several more suddenly appeared as they deactivated their stealth fields. The Gunners raised their hands in surrender.

“Fine. We’ll play along, but I warn you if this is a trap…”

“You’ll do what exactly, surface-dweller?”

Kilhorn grimaced but said nothing.

“Thank you, you may proceed,” The Synth then opened the door and welcomed the two groups inside. To the shock of everyone, the room was well-lit, moderately well furnished, and had a table and a number of chairs on either side. More shockingly, however, was the fact that a ghoul in a suit sat at the head of the table. A glass of some sort of alcohol clutched in one hand and a smoke in the other.

“Took you lot long enough. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.” The ghoul quipped.

“I didn’t realize The Institute employed ghouls…” Mags replied as she took a seat at the table, the others, following her lead, sat down as well.

“I’m a bit of an exception. Names Desmond Lockheart. Former MI6 operative for His Majesty's government, now I’m working with Institute SRB. Bit a favor for an old pal of mine. Don’t expect any of you to really understand what all that means, but all you need to know is that I’m the one you’ll be going through for any communication with The Institute from here on out. Before we get started, anyone want something to drink? Have the tin-can over there bring it to you if you want something. No? Good then lets get started.”

“Just why did The Institute contact us of all things. That’s what I would like to know,” Lieutenant Kilhorn said.

“To offer you both a contract. Simple as that. The Institute needs some extra muscle on the surface. Lot of bad things going on above ground that they’re keen on working with some of the stronger elements of The Commonwealth. You Gunners, from what I understand, are probably the most well organized merc group on the eastern seaboard. Might be even better than Talon Co. The Operators on the other hand caught their attention for capturing and holding Nuka World. Got a good strong position there.”

“Not as strong as we’d like, personally, the Operators are only one of three gangs controlling the park in any case. So I’d like to inquire why the Pack and The Disciples were not invited as well.” Mags stated.

“Because you were the only ones worth working with, frankly speaking, and seemed at least moderately civilized. The Institute felt they could at least work with you on fair terms.”

“So you’re cutting the other gangs out? That won’t go over well you know.”

“Not so much cutting them out, as eliminating them entirely love.” Desmond smiled.

“Pardon?”

“The Institute will soon be imposing more stricter control over The Commonwealth itself. Nuka World included. Raiders like the Disciples and The Pack will soon be a thing of the past. You can either be a part of that future, or you can be eliminated with them. But you understood that when you came to this meeting, right?”

Mags couldn’t help but give a smile, “Hmm. Perhaps I did.”

“So that’s your plan Mags? Throw in with The Institute and take control of Nuka World ourselves?” William interrupted.

“Do you have an issue with that dear brother?”

William was silent for a few moments, before he gave his reply, “Nisha is mine. That murderous bitch has killed one too many Operators and thought she could get away with it.”

“Whatever you like. Not like I or The Director give two shits how you handle your little tribal tiff. So long as you lot keep yourselves in check. A Courser team will back you up during the coup. Should be more than enough. Afterwards you can expand your gang and take over the entire park if you wish. Oh, aside from a few areas that The Institute has identified as points of interest. Nothing to concern yourself over, the rest will be yours to play around in to your heart's content.”

“A fair offer, and I suppose we don’t have much choice either way.”

“No you don’t. As for you,” Desmond pointed to the Gunner team, “You can tell your Captain back at Gunner HQ that he answers to me now. You’ve been running around here like hooligans for too long. You’ve got the discipline and trappings of a military, I’ll give you that, but no organization and no focus. That changes.”

“Or we can fight you, how about that? The Gunners have more than enough firepower to give The Institute a run for their money,” Lt. Kilhorn replied.

“Do they? The last group that thought that was called The Brotherhood of fuckin’ Steel. They flew in a giant armored airship, a fleet of vertibirds, and a entire goddamn army of Power Armored soldiers. If you want to go see the results of that expedition, hang a left out onto the tarmac when you leave.”

“The Captain will never agree to it. I guarantee you that.”

“Oh I think he will. If I recall, he was there when a single Courser blew through an entire company of Gunners without hardly breaking a sweat. Greentech Genetics? Right? He knows better than most that you’ve got two choices, either you can work with us and you’ll never need another contract again, or don’t, and The Institute will eliminate you with extreme fuckin’ prejudice.”

“Say we agree to these terms, both of us, what exactly do they need us to do?” Mags asked.

“The Institute might require some non-Institute elements to assist us in the future. People they can rely on that aren’t Synths. You’ll be that element, and you’ll support The Institute’s efforts to take full control of The Commonwealth. I don’t think I need to explain to you why doing so will be much more beneficial and lucrative for both of you in the long run.”

“But why now? What prompted this.”

Desmond sat back in his chair, taking a few puffs on his cigarette, “Lets just say the world’s a much bigger place than The Institute thought. And that there are some nasty oddball factions out there. Nasty oddballs with goddamn battalions of troops at their command. Ever heard of The Legion? The NCR? The Midwestern Brotherhood? The Free Commonwealth? The Cult? Neither had I. But they’re carving up the continent like a carrot cake.”

“So we’re the muscle to The Institute’s brain, is that it?” William smirked.

“No, those blokes in the black armored coats holding the fucking energy rifles are the muscle,” Desmond pointed to the Coursers standing guard, “You’re more like the appendix. Not worth the trouble of removing if you can help it, and might still serve a purpose if its cooperative. Understand?”

“Hmm…..understood.”

Simon Barnaky - SAC HQ Bunker

“I’m told the Brotherhood salutes their members with the phrase ‘Ad Victoriam’ in the Legion’s own tongue.", Aurelius said, "A fitting phrase I think, and more than rightfully used here. In The Legion, our rallying cry is ‘Legio Invicta’, meaning ‘Unconquered Legion’. A reminder that despite all it has gone through, the Legions of Caesar still stand. However, I will gladly offer a salute in The Brotherhood’s own manner.”

The Legate clasped his fist to his chest in a smart salute,

“Ad Victoriam, Lord Barnaky.”

Barnaky snapped to attention and returned the salute smartly.

"Legio Invicta, Legatus Aurelius."

"The fate of all Mankind rests on the outcome of this war", Barnaky continued, "Together, we will prevail!"


Fort Knox, Kentucky

"Die, you fucking fascist bigots!", screamed the ghoul over a ancient loudspeaker, "You will fall before the wrath of the Golden Throne of His Most Illustrious Majesty, Herman the Undying!"

Items began to lazily arc over the ramshackle, but stout walls, of the settlement. As they began to land, Paladin Stroud could see they were pieces of rotting meat....crudely severed pieces of animals, even body parts of a few humans. Also bladders full of some liquid that sprayed everywhere when they landed. To an untrained eye, it would seem they were showing disrespect, or perhaps trying to spread disease. While they would not be wrong....the true purpose was to mark the target for their deadliest weapon. Stroud was not surprised, even if they had not been warned by the local humans, it was exactly the sort of tactic he expected from the zombies.

"Here they come", Stroud said across the all units channel, "Hold your fire until they deploy."

Abruptly, the gates opened inward, and vomited forth a gibbering nightmare....hundreds of feral ghouls. This ghoul settlement had used salvaged Pre-War weapons and the terrifying threat such a horde of ferals embodied to cow the humans in the surrounding area and extort tribute from them for "protection". With the situation to their liking, they hadn't given much thought to the future, assuming things would always go on as it had.

That was a fatal mistake.

"Eradication robots, Snipers, Fire at Will", Stroud ordered. "All squads, cover the Eradicators. Battery A, stand by" Immediately, four Eradication robots, modified Pacification robots, with their stun weapons replaced by heavy automatic lasers, and a beefed up powerplant to enable sustained fire long enough for any normal engagement, dropped their stealth fields and brought the horde of ferals under a deadly crossfire, the laser beams inflicting terrible carnage on the unarmored ferals, while the infantry, with aimed, deliberate shots, picked off any ferals that made it through the flurry of lasers well before they could reach the robots. Meanwhile, snipers engaged and eliminated any zombie foolish enough to reveal themselves on the walls of the settlement or building tops that cleared the wall. Realizing that the battle was going wrong, the ghoul commander began to panic. From inside the settlement, the "thump" of mortars firing were heard.

"Incoming!", shouted Stroud as he, followed by the other troopers, sought cover or flung themselves to the ground. Within seconds, five mortar shells hit the ground. Reasonably well aimed, the shells impacted in the area the infantry was deployed. Immediately, the troopers got up and advanced away from where the shells had landed....with the snipers suppressing the enemy's forward observers, they were unlikely to be able to adjust. But the enemy mortar-men were about to have a bigger problem....

"Command, Battery A", came the message to Stroud. "Executing Charlie Bravo fire mission in five."

"Acknowledged", Stroud replied, "proceed"

From the direction of Godman Field, two miles behind them, the rumble of artillery could be heard, and the shriek of shells over their heads was followed by large and satisfactory explosions inside the walls of the settlement, followed seconds later by another barrage, and then another. The enemy mortars managed to get off two more volleys...both of which landed harmlessly where the infantry had been...before they were all silenced.

"Score one for counter-battery radar", Stroud said to the Knight-Sergeant beside him, "Once the ferals have been mopped up we can finish this." He then switched to the frequency for the artillery unit, and directed the Battery's Forward Observer to target the walls in the spots they had decided to enter the settlement. The barrage quickly shifted to the walls, the 105mm shells breaching them with ease. Soon, the feral attack had been cut to pieces and the time had come.

"Forward, Brothers and Sisters!", Stroud howled with fanatic fervor across the radio as he hefted his Super Sledge and charged the nearest breach in the walls, "Scourge the unclean! For Barnaky! For The Brotherhood and Mankind! Attack!"

With a mighty shout, the Infantry rose to it's feet and followed their commander, storming the walls in half a dozen places and fighting their way into the settlement. Thrown into disarray by the artillery barrage, the defenders were completely unprepared to put up a organized defense and were quickly routed by the Brotherhood Knights. The few ghouls who survived the assault attempted to flee, only to be cut down by the Eradicators roaming the perimeter outside the walls.

Unable to escape, the ghouls were remorselessly forced inward, making their final stand in the enormous two story building in the center of their settlement. A fortress-like structure made of solid stone blocks and concrete, it was clearly of Pre-War construction. Above the massive twin steel doors was, deeply engraved in the stone lintel, "United States Bullion Depository". their mission was to secure it, and recover it's contents, if any remained. The massive doors were shut and locked, but as they were about to learn, any sense of security the defenders derived from that was and illusion. Finding a dataport next to the wall, Stroud plugged his suit computer into it and linked to the facilities's internal network, loading a program that they had found in the Calculator's Archive, provided by the Federal Government long ago for just this purpose...the contents of the facility were expected to be of use to the new America rising out of Vault 0, after all...that gave him Admin level control of the internal security system. Flipping through the remaining internal cameras, he noted the location of the remaining ghoul defenders, then sealed and locked all internal doors, and turned on the internal defenses. Once the lobby was clear, he unlocked the front doors and his troops rushed inside, and the slaughter began.

The next day

"Why did the Old World people build a fortress to hold this stuff?", Henry Miller, Mayor of nearby Elizabethtown asked, sweeping his arm to take in the stacks of gold bars, waiting to be loaded onto trucks and hauled back to the airport. "Aside from looking pretty, it doesn't have much practical use."

"They used it for money", Stroud replied, "Like folk use bottlecaps now. It's also good for making certain technological items."

"Hmpf", said Miller, "I thought they used outhouse paper for money"

"They did", Stroud said with a chuckle, "Idiots printed so much of it that it wasn't good for much else besides outhouse paper."

Miller laughed, first time in years he had really felt like it. The ghouls here had made their lives miserable, and now they were gone. Miller wondered what would become of them, if they hadn't been able to rid themselves against "Herman the Undying" and his mob they wouldn't have a chance against the Brotherhood, who had stomped them into a pulp like they were nothing.

"From what I've seen at Godman, you're a fixing to stay?", Miller asked tentatively.

"Yes", Stroud replied, "We need the airfield, and we also have no intention of leaving your people to twist in the wind now that we've created a power vacuum. That's why I called you here...."

"We can NOT remain a nation, that has to survive on expansion. No such nation can survive forever - to do so would be the crown one an Empire. No Empire has stood forever - it is the will of the people, that change, progress and understanding develops. But sadly, that will has been abused...many times over. By people, whom tax one heavily. By people, whom send you to die for reasons you can't understand. By people, whom would spout freedom as an excuse to invade those, that might seem 'different'."

"Yes, we have nations at our borders who aren't democratic, free or you might say just. But who are we, do tell them so? Aren't we bound by the notion of freedom of speech? The right to hold one belief sacred?"

"The New California Republic - in its core, will-”

“Joseph, come give me a hand!”, shouted his pa from the front, breaking his focus on the broadcast.

“Coming, Pa!”, he shouted back, a little irritated, but completely used to these interruptions. He dropped the knife he had been using to cut the wavy brown onions and moved towards the front. He could still Hsu’s words as he walked away from the cutting board.

“...can longer do that. We have a choice - we can either change with the growing times or go the fate of our predecessor. If one has to wonder what that is - one has to only…”

“Look out the window”, he finished, mumbling under his breath. The statement had been played repeatedly on various radio stations with all the hosts offering their various opinions. It had caused something of a rebirth in politics in the city. And of course, fate would have it that the Confederation Congress was meeting at the same time as this. He wasn't sure what to think. He just knew the world was changing, and that change could mean peace or another deployment somewhere.

Joseph lowered his head to get through the small doorway into the dining area. His Pa and his Grandpa were short half-Mexican men, but his Ma had given him height and a fairer complexion. He expected to see his father struggling with the new sack of brahmin meat that was supposed to come in that day. Instead, he saw him leaning against the open outside door and talking to somebody outside. As he moved closer to see who it was, his heart sunk. The recruiting sergeant.

The man came by for a burger somewhat regularly. They had always taken extra care with him, giving him a free thing with his meal every now and then. As if an ice cold Dr. Chili on the house would somehow keep Joseph from another deployment.

As Joseph went outside, he got his usual bombardment of novel sights, sounds, and scents. Even though it was cloudy, wet, and a sniff told him another shower was on its way, the hum of business was all around. There was the colorful and junky cluster of shops, coffee houses, restaurants, and street food, which had been refurbished and rebuilt, gentrified and un-gentrified so many times since the 20th century that the supposedly “restored” properties looked nothing like the old holovids. A clammer of incessant instruments and clubs from 6th street could still be heard in the morning, while horse drawn and gas powered vehicles going by competed to be the noisiest. The horses were gradually winning, as gas prices consistently went up and the people up at the Longhorn Institute worked on making cheaper nuclear cells.

The recruiting sergeant was sitting at the rusty table closest to the door, slurping a coffee he got from down the street. Joseph frowned at the man’s choice, which seemed to say favors were useless today. He was an older, bald man, with thick silvery sideburns lining his face. The leathery and lanky blue clad sergeant rode his bicycle around the city, delivering news of military obligations and stoically facing tears and fists for it. The Confederation’s army was technically a volunteer one, but the last New Austinian Secretary of Defense had sneaked a damnable clause in the old volunteer contract. It effectively made him and others “volunteer” for conscription for a number of years. Needless to say, the man was booted out of office not long after his bullshit was found out. The government was “forced” to uphold the contracts though, so now old non-commissioned officers like Sergeant Harrison spread through the city using flimsy paper to summon men and women into service. The irony was that many of them would have volunteered regardless if there was an obvious threat, but the compulsive element just made them angry. Although he was as mad as anyone else, making a scene would only cause problems for his Pa’s reputation. Joseph was prepared to do his part for Texas, as much as he didn’t want to get shot at again.

Harrison looked up at him with watery grey eyes and a stoic frown. “Take a seat, Joseph,” he said in his gravelly country accent. He nodded and drew out an ancient metal chair meant for old world people’s porches. The junk dealer he’d bought it from had hastily painted it white, and now the rust was starting to show itself again after last night’s rain. Harrison sipped his coffee deeply, set it aside, and stared at him again with his reaper face. “I thank you and your Pa for your hospitality to me. God knows y’all are better than most of the people I have to wrangle everyday. But your contract came in, Joseph.”

His heart sunk again, though he had known this was coming. Running flashed through his panicked mind before he forced the thought away. Then anger fired up in him. “With respect sir-”

Harrison spared him the trouble. “It’s horseshit, I know, but Congress has good reasons to enact the conscription this time. All the Governors signed off on it.”

That chilled him immediately. If Angela and Bob and Will had actually all agreed to it, that meant something serious was happening. “Sir?”

“It’s the Vault, Joseph. People are saying that they’re coming back online. Then there’s the Keynesian civil war. Bob wants to send some people to help His Serenity. And there’s rumors of something in the north. General Davis already took God knows how many men into Oklahoma.”

Joseph shook his head in disbelief. Everytime he thought Texas had pulled itself into peace from the chaos of the Wasteland, it seemed like the Wasteland came howling back for them. “Do you know where I’ll be sent, sir?”

Harrison grabbed his coffee cup, stood up, and handed him an information packet. “No. But I’ll bet they’ll have you in a leadership position. It’ll be up to you command some kids into the fire. You gotta make sure they only come out singed.” He shook Joseph’s hand and his Pa’s hand, and then he went back to his bicycle.

Joseph was dumbstruck, wondering where he could likely die in the coming months. The first two fronts he knew about already, but what’s up north? And what’s in Oklahoma?

Legate’s Camp, Road to Indianapolis

Thousands of crimson cloth tents stretched across the encampment where Legatus Aurelius had ordered his forces to halt for the day’s march. Such was the Legion’s drilled discipline, that even after a full day’s hard march, they were still fit and able to setup a fortified encampment in less than a few hours. Now, by late evening the camp was dotted with innumerable cooking fires while food was prepared. Each conturbinum was responsible for their own food preparation when the Legion was on the move like this and every Legionary received an equal share of rations which included a hearty portion of grains and meats. Great numbers of slaves busied themselves tending to the pack brahmin, distributing supplies, or fetching water while the Legionaries ate, rested, and regained their strength for the next day’s coming march. Some of the Legionary Veterans and Primes, their experience telling them to always think ahead to the battle to come, sharpened machete blades, cleaned their guns, prepared healing poultices, or sparred with one another in preparation for the fight that they were all heading towards sooner or later. The constant sounds of blacksmith hammers falling against anvils that reverberated around the camp as weapons and armor were being made and repaired were a stark reminder of that fact.

The Legate himself, however, had other considerations on his mind. Inside his large tent at the center of the camp, Aurelius stood with his most senior centurion officers watching a curious scene unfolding before them. A young woman garbed in a bright red robe stood with her arms raised, a sharpened knife held aloft in her right hand. Before her was a brahmin bull, painted decoratively with strange symbols and held in place firmly by two strong Legionaries. The woman rhythmically chanted some strange prayer in the language of the Legion, while sweet smelling incense was burned by two female slaves seated at her feet,

“Father Mars, hear our prayers,” The Priestess chanted, “Accept this sacrifice and give us a sign of your favor.”

At this final utterance, she lowered the blade and drew it swiftly and cleanly across the bull’s neck. Blood gushed from the beast like a torrent, washing over her arms and hands, but she paid it no mind. The bull gave one final brief thrash of life before it collapsed on the ground. The Priestess immediately set to work, cutting the creature open and disemboweling it and further adding to the gore already covering her arms and legs.

As the Legate and his officers looked on with apprehension, she wretched forth the creature’s liver, and one of the slaves quickly brought over a large tray for her to sit it on. With a practiced hand, the Priestess began to studying it carefully, lifting it gently and observing each minute part of the organ like it was a rare book or artifact. After some time, Aurelius finally spoke,

“What of the omens? Are they good or ill? Does Mars favor us?”

The Priestess of Mars stood, turning to face the Legatus confidently and folding her bloodied hands before her,

“Aye Legatus, the omens are good. Mars looks down on you with pride and blesses your warriors. So longs as Caesar’s banner remains raised on the field, you shall find victory.”

The audible sounds of relief came from the Legate and the centurions.

“Welcome news indeed, and what of this demon-god? Ug-Qualtoth? What defense can Mars offer against such an abomination?”

The Priestesses eyes darkened and she lowered her head mournfully, “Sadly Legatus, this is where I can give you no aid. Mars has shown me nothing of this demon. Long have I tried to read the signs for some understanding of what you go to face, but all I see is tendril shadows that obscure my vision. I fear this demon’s power is great indeed.”

“I see...and you say that as long as Caesar’s banner remains raised, the Legion will find victory. What befalls us should the opposite hold true?”

The Priestess bowed deeply as if in mourning, “As the standard falls, so falls the Legion.”

Her ominous statement was met with murmurs from the Centurions, before the swiftly raised hand of the Legatus silenced them immediately,

“So then, we shall simply not allow that to happen. We will be as Mar’s scythe and cut through the demonic shadow that seeks to choke out our triumph. Or shall we let The Brotherhood stand alone against this hellish foe?”

“And shame the Legion forever? Never Legatus!” Answered one of the Centurions.

“Good. Then we march to Indianapolis, and to battle. Heedless of whatever fate may befall us. You may leave us now,” He said motioning to the Priestess, “We must make our preparations.”

“As you wish Legatus,” the Priestess nodded. She then turned to the two slave girls and snapped her fingers impatiently, “Go. Fetch some water so that I may bathe.”

The slaves collected the still burning incense and scurried out of the tent, followed by the Priestess. The Legatus then turned to a hand-drawn map of the region that had been pinned to a large board behind them,

“The bulk of the Legion’s forces will continue the march to the city. However Severus,” He pointed to one of his Senior Centurions, “You will take two cohorts from the second Legion and head north to push with The Brotherhood’s troops in Detroit. A force of Great Khan riders will meet you on the road and will join you in your fight. They are good fighters, do not waste them needlessly.”

“Yes Legatus.”

“Once we arrive at Indianapolis, we’ll immediately engage the cult’s forces there and help break the siege. Once we’re through, we’ll continue our drive east. When we learn more from Vulpes’ frumentarii about the size and strength of our enemy, we’ll adjust our battle plans accordingly. Any questions? Good. Dismissed. Prepare your men for the long road ahead. Each Legionary must reach the city well rested and with the strength to fight.”

---

---

---

Once more, the city of Detroit was filled with lights, like it had been years ago, before the bombs fell. Yet it was no shades of lamps and electricity or fire that enlightened the streets, but fire...endless fire! For Dosh-Novan, it was the most beautiful sight he had ever seen, as he strolled through the streets, his helmet tugged away below one arm, his hammer held firm in his other hand. This was his victory, his victory alone! No Sarah Lysons, no Maxson, no Warleader to steal it from him. He would forever be known as the man who butchered the republic, who ravaged its decadent corpse and who would errect a shrine to Ug-Qualtoth on its grave, rivaling the Monolith itself in glory.

Pushing away a ghoul with a swing of his hammer, he looked down on the body of a soldier, which said beast had been feasting on. A grim smirk moved on the warleaders face, as he slowly bowed down, in his power armored glory. "My glorious Warleader..." Heavy boots came up behind him, and with a grunt, Dosh-Novan allowed the Worm to speak. "The last defenders have retreated onto the great bridge! Shall we hunt them down..." Dosh-Novan tilted his head a little, looking eye to eye to the corpse in front of him. The mans eyes filled with fear and pain in his last dying moments. "No...let them run! Tonight we sack the city! Gather the captives on the shore...i shall provide an offering that shall wake him-who-slumbers from the Monolith for all time.."

The voice behind him should have known better, but rather then remain silent, it dared to speak up again. "The enemy is beaten...bloodied...we can crush them once and for all! Just give me the word and i see it..."

"GUSH"

The Warrior fell forward, as his head was torn from his shoulders by a mighty blow from the warleaders hammer. Two smaller figures behind the beheaded corpse, quickly fell on their knees, as Dosh-Novan looked down onto them. "See it done! The horde shall not leave a single stone unturned! I want this city to be turned into a monument of what happened here tonight! Let the world forever remember what i have done..."

"Begone now...all of you!"

The steps quickly vanished, rushing away into the sea of fire, blood and screams. For the first time in hours, he was alone on this masterpiece of chaos. Nobody could have done it besides him, nobody could have marched to Detroit, crushing every resistance in his path. This was his victory, his victory alone...

The warleaders eyes grew, as he let go off his helmet and hammer, slowly walking forward with his arms spread wide. "YOU HEAR ME LYONS! YOU SEE NOW WHAT I CAN DO? NOT GOOD ENOUGH FOR THE PRIDE! NOT ENOUGH GUTS....I SAW YOURS WHEN I STABBED THAT RIPPER INTO YOUR BACK YOU OLD BASTARD! NOW LOOK AT ME! LOOK AT WHAT I HAVE DONE!" For a moment, Dosh-Novan could feel again, how it was to be Knight Roland. Never good enough, never able to Impress Lyons...never able to get a second look from Sarah..he could hear their laughter from the rooms, when he was passing...their mocking tone hidden behind polit words...

"I AM DOSH-NOVAN! I AM THE WARLEADER WHO SLEW MORE MEN THEN YOU HAVE EVER MET IN YOUR ENTIRE LIFE! MY NAME WILL BE REMEMBERED FOR ALL ETERNITY, WHILE YOURS WILL DIE! YOUR DAUGHTER WILL BE FORGOTTEN, YOUR BROTHERHOOD WILL BE FORGOTTEN AND YOUR WORLD WILL BE FORGOTTEN...not got enought...not good enough for your miserable brotherhood..." All the anger once more filled him, as he felt the sweat burn on his face like acid, as he saw the Star Paladin shake her head, declining him the promotion to Paladin. They laughted at him...he could feel it! He knew it...but none of them was laughing now...

"I will go back to Washington! I will find out where they have burried you and i swear onto the monolith, that i will..." A coughing laughter ripped Dosh-Novan from his roar of anger, and with a swift turn, he tried to locate the source. Dry and weak, it reminded him of the sounds Lyons had made, when his ripper had still been in his armor, his eyes fixated onto the monolith in his dying breath. Had he mocked him even in his dying breath? They never had admitted it, but he had known it! From the lowest Initiates up to the elder, they all had mocked him, him who had not been able to become a paladin...who had not been able to join the Pride and who not had been able win Sarah..

"You are pathetic, Dosh-Novan.." It was not the voice of the Elder, but a dying one non the less. Bloodied and broken, she wore the armor of the soldiers of the Republic, and had her hand pressed onto her belly. Blood was smeared over her mouth, as she stared with glassy eyes at the Warleader. "G..gloat in your victory! Gloat like the brute you are! You are just a Pawn...my children are on the other side,
and with them the future of Detroit! T..this is not the end, you dog.." Dosh-Novan felt his hands forming fists inside the power armor, as he stared down at the woman. "We will cross the river tomorrow...i will personally find your brats then..."

The woman leaned back, coughing out more blood, as she closed her eyes. "Y..you wont cross that damn river...You will never set foot onto the other side of this river, but you will die below an foot...Roland!"

---

---

"Does the heir of the prophet always speak when she sleeps?" The grim Guardian didnt slept, but he sat still for hours when she did, and so she assumed that he took this time off as well. Marie had wanted to go alone, yet the Prophet had insisted on an Guardian. Raising from the bed, Marie streched herself, as she rubbed her eyes. "These were not my words! Just words that were left in a mind in passing. All i did was speaking them out to a beast needing to hear them.."

The Guardian just grunted, as he rose from his seat next to her bed. The ruin they had spend the night in, had been dry, yet the sole bed remaining had been picked for her. Reaching for a bottle of water next to her, she once more looked at her guardian. "You never sleep, but do you eat? We are on the road for three days now, and you havent even eaten anything so far!" Once more the guardian just grunted, his face hidden behind a mask, the little flesh shown scared and disgusting to look at. "This one eats when the heir of the prophet sleeps...he prefers it this way! This one does not like to lose his mask.."

Nodding, Marie ripped open a the box of Fancy Lads cakes, before picking one. The sweet delight had been something she had been able to sneak out of the Palace, knowing fully well, that her high father, did indeed needed food to surive, having a stash of such pre-war delicacies hidden away, to feast on, while his followers had to make due with what the miasma allowed them to grow and breed. She had been keen to avoid mentioning this Hippocratic behavior to anyone so far through.

"So many of my fathers warriors wear masks...why? You men are afraid of your faces after you look at the monolith? Or are you just shy?" She had hoped for a different response, but the Guardian just grunted and crossed his massive arms. "This one never liked his face... Marie rolled with her eyes, as she took another bite, swallowing the sweet pre-war grocery whole, regretting not to have brought more. "ThIs OnE NeVeR LIkeD HiS FaCE...thats what you sound like...Already regret the fact of leaving the Heaven, if you are what counts as my company.." Packing away the snacks, she nodded at the guardian. "Get ready...we are leaving! Its a long way to Boston..."

Cherry City - 3:30 am

"Damn it, Sarge!", Les, the night guard on the docks said exasperatedly, "What has gotten into you?"

Sarge, the battered old Mr Gutsy that was the subject of the man's protests did not reply. It simply stayed put, quietly whirring, looking out into the Lake and ignoring him. Les had never fully trusted the old robot...and neither did the Mayor, which is why he spent his nights patrolling with it, mainly to make sure it didn't open fire on Lakefolk pulling in at night....but Calypso had given it to them, and refusing a gift from her was...well, unwise to say the least. But, old or not, keeping the robot active was probably for the best...given the lack of any news or orders coming from the Island for the last few days, and the stories from Lakemen of pitched battles between the Brotherhood and some sort of Sea Raiders at the north end of the Lake. Bill, the evening watch, had told him when he took over that one of the Brotherhood's Monitors had been sitting at anchor off the mouth of the bay, just off the lighthouse at Old Mission Point, all afternoon and into the evening. That was odd, the Brotherhood never paid them much mind before, though occasionally a ship of theirs would pull in for some shore leave for the crew. But Les wasn't worried about the Brotherhood....he wanted to continue his patrol and the balky robot was delaying him.

"Come on, you", Les said irritably to the unresponsive robot, grabbing it by the carrying handle on the back if it's some and pulling the still hovering robot along with him, "We need to go to the Academy Pier".

He got about ten feet when the robot suddenly grabbed his arm and pulled his hand off of the handle.

"Stop that, Lester", it said in the familiar faux drill sergeant voice that Mr Gutsy's used, and floated back to where it was.

"Wha...what did you call me?", Les said flabbergasted. In his 49 years no robot had ever talked to him like that before, much less used his name. As the robot had begun ignoring him again, he stomped up to it, grabbed it's dome with both hands and spun it about to face him. "Answer me, you bucket of bolts!".

"Well", the robot replied, "your name is Lester, isn't it? Lester Nessman, 49, night watch on the riverfront? That's what the files say, anyway....as corrupt as the OS in this thing was, maybe that got screwed up and you're someone else...though the other guy called you Les."

Les's jaw dropped and he involuntarily took a step back. He hadn't imagined it, the robot was talking to him like it was a person. He knew enough about technology from years of working on Calypso's various projects...from the old Lake freighter tied up at the Academy dock to Cherry City's radio station, where he was engineer....to realize he wasn't talking to a robot, not anymore. Someone was talking to him through the robot.

"Relax, Lester", the robot said, "Nobody has to die needlessly....they'll be here any second."

"Who are you really", Les said slowly, "And what do you want from us?"

"Scribe Adam Walker of the Brotherhood of Steel, at your service.", it replied. "You can call me Adam, or Brother Adam if you like. I'm on the Monitor you and Bill were wondering about, the Inexorable. I hacked this robot to prevent any...well, accidents. Good thing I did as this thing's combat inhibitors are just about shot. As far as what we are doing, and how it affects you and the other good people here, Paladin Wallace will explain it all later this morning, but for now, suffice it to say Calypso ran out on you, and we're intervening to prevent you from being massacred by the really sick people she ran away from....they are about three days march from here, you should know."

As he tried to formulate a reply, a gray steel hulled open top boat coasted up to the pier....the light from a oil lantern revealing it was packed with people, some of which leaped out onto the pier and tied the boat off. The first ones were sailors, wearing the grey-green rubber hazard suits that Lakemen from clans aligned with the Brotherhood wore, behind them came men in a form of Power Armor he'd never seen before....along with some men in red woolen tunics with the most outlandish armor he'd ever seen over it. Aside from some quizzical gazes, they left him alone and proceeded to form a perimeter as if they were waiting for something else. He thought of doing something, but he knew it would be pointless....and if they had really meant this town harm they would have just killed him.

"The advance party", Adam said through the robot, "If you think they're something, just wait until you see what's coming up next."

Moments later, the bulk of a large pre-war freighter loomed up out of the dark. Unlike the boat, it slowed but did not stop, and noisily ran itself aground, seemingly on purpose. The reason why became clear when the bow of the ship opened up, and a ramp was lowered, followed by a old Army APC driving down the ramp and onto shore, followed by two more, and behind them a force of more Brotherhood soldiers.

"It'll be OK, Lester", the robot remarked, "There will be some changes but life will go on largely as it has before." It then added, "Look on the bright side, remember that "50 and out" rule Calypso had? Not a problem for you anymore."

Windsor, near the Windsor State House

Horace Pendergast, the Brotherhood's representative to the Republic, along with his two Knight escort, made his way through the streets towards his goal, the State House, where he was told that the President was awaiting him. For over two weeks, he had gone through every official channel, and even a few unofficial ones, to try to reach her or a Cabinet officer, but he had been stonewalled at every turn. Only now, at the brink of annihilation, did they want to speak with the Brotherhood. So be it, getting their cooperation at this point was better than the alternative....Commodore Hackett forcing the issue when he arrived in about eighteen hours. Hackett certainly knew his business on the deck of a ship, but the man did not suffer fools gladly, and there were fools aplenty here. He had half expected Hackett to simply have them all shot and take over if they tried with him what he had endured for a fortnight.

He wondered what Barnaky would do when he learned the Cult had overrun Detroit itself and were only tenuously held at bay from it's sister city, Windsor....until Hackett arrived, he didn't even have secure coms with Omaha, he'd had to burn his papers, smash all their electronics and set fire to the quaint little brownstone he'd settled on for a Embassy. Only once he had made sure he left behind nothing but ashes for the Cult, did he flee to Windsor with little more than his trusty laser rifle...a relic of his days in the Army...and the clothes on his back. Probably just tell Hackett to redline his boilers and get here asap. They couldn't afford to let the Cult have the Republic's industrial base....it would make a big problem even bigger.

Eventually, he reached Windsor's State House. After some squabbling, he was ushered through the defense lines around the building and ushered to the Governor's Office, where a blonde woman was looking out the window pensively at the hellscape across the river.

The aide that ushered him to the office announced his arrival, then exited, closing the door behind him, and the woman turned to face him.

"Madam President", Pendergast said, "I am Horace Pendergast, the Midwestern Order's Ambassador to the Republic. I was told you wished to see me?"

---

---

The King – Lucky 38 Casino & Resort, New Vegas

The King plopped a cigarette into his mouth, lit the end, and stirred the ice in his half-empty glass of whiskey. Robert House’s hulking monitor stood before him, but no face emanated from within; only static. It was more than likely that he was occupied with another transmission. The King shrugged and sank into the plush checkered couch facing the screen. Time had elapsed since the New Vegas Convention. The King hadn’t been in this business long enough to know if it had been a roaring success or total failure. He had a feeling that the answer resided somewhere in the middle, but if nothing else, it was a complete disaster for him. It was his audition, and he had failed. But, still, here he was.

By the time Mr. House’s debonair avatar graced the screen, The King was staring at the bottom of his empty glass.

“I’m sorry I’m late, your kingship,” said Mr. House snidely. “My conference with General Owen lasted longer than was expected.”

The King shrugged and gave a half-smile. “You’re the boss.”

Mr. House quickly dismantled the small-talk and dived straight into more pressing concerns. “Your place is, as it seems, is not at the diplomatic table. But I still have use for you, as long as that faulty heart of yours will allow.” He paused for a moment, then continued. “Now for a matter of housekeeping—no pun intended—much is in motion, none of which will be slowing anytime soon. You still have a role to play in this.”

“Alright.”

“First, there is the matter of The Tops.”

“Dean Domino. What an interesting story,” muttered The King.

“Yes, indeed. He’s a clever rat; I had half a mind to send in my securitrons after his little coup d’etat, but as it turns out, the chairmen are now behind him. I guess I should not be at all surprised. The man is much more resourceful and cunning than Swank, who I suspect has either flown far away or is floating in the Colorado River. Either way, he is out of the running.”

“Strange, really.”

“Not exactly. He accomplished more than his predecessors combined with only a pistol and a can of gasoline. That man oozes the aura of the chairmen. Now there is only a question of keeping him in line, which has been surprisingly easy thus far. Perhaps too easy. I want you to keep an eye on him. Our concerns have ballooned to the national landscape, but our capital must proceed in an orderly fashion.”

“I’ll see what I can do, boss,” said The King as he bowed his head.

“You two were made for each other. I see no reason to worry. Now, the most pressing matter is that of the Brotherhood of Steel. And you do have a role to play in that as well.”

“So…I’m not done with the diplomacy table?”

“It’s different. There are many dimensions to our alliance, a bond that is crucial to our future. They desire an audience with the Boomers. I don’t want that to happen without supervision. The Brotherhood will be sending in a representative or two to New Vegas. Give them the presidential suite in the Tops and then escort them to Nellis. I will assign two securitrons to your detail.”

The King nodded. “Right. And if Mr. Domino tries anything off-camber while your brotherhood envoys are here?”

“Hmm. Then he will be dead.”

“Ah.”

“We are very close to becoming a crucial cog in this current climate. The Brotherhood has already shapeshifted our mass of deserters and civilians into a well-trained fight force. There is much work to be done—much doctrine to instill—but I think the Brotherhood realizes that their handiwork in The Divide will yield direct returns. I have no doubt that Barnaky will soon call for my aid against the Cult to the East, and I will have to answer. But before that happens, we must rig the odds in our favor. And for that, I will need privacy. You have work to do.”

The King slowly rose to his feet, picking up his glass and brushing dust off the lapel of his suit jacket. “Right. Okay, then.” At that, The King departed the Lucky 38, trudging over to the Monorail Station to inquire about the potential of the incoming Brotherhood envoys.

Mr. House then switched gears. He ordered a securitron to plug in a dusty holotape—the gift from Thomas Milburn—which sat on the adjacent desk, who then brutishly shoved the apparatus into a nearby computer terminal. Robert spun the data until he could articulate a clear signal. He embedded the invitation with an encoded message.

ROUND TWO?_ROBERT HOUSE_LUCKY 38 HOTEL & CASINO RESORT_

---

Lieutenant Grace Boucher & General Ivor Owen – Hopeville, The Divide

“I need updates for Mr. House, Lieutenant. The census was distributed as planned, yes?”

“Yessir.” The rather short uniformed woman, sporting a beret and a ponytail of wavy brown hair, held up a clipboard as she walked along the concourse of the missile silo with the General.

“Well? Spit it out.” General Owen’s sleep deprivation had bled seamlessly into his mood. The entirety of the Divide had been overworked for more than a month.

“The headcount we have received is 7,500. The amount that are currently fit for service is closer to 5,000. The cleaning sweep is finishing its final stages, removing rubble from the canyon and beginning to piece together apartments for officers on the far reaches of the valley. The Ashton Recovery Project is proceeding as planned, but they predict that it will be three more months before we see any considerable results.”

“Damn. Mr. House was hoping to start rebuilding by the end of the first month. But he will have to understand that he has stretched us very thin, Lieutenant.”

“Right. Equipment is proceeding as planned. U.S. Army Combat Armor is in surplus, which will allow for standard issue, while we are currently repairing the suits of Riot Gear and Power Armor we have managed to scavenge. Training is humming along as planned, but it will be some time before the Brotherhood are finished.”

“We won’t have time. Mr. House has just ordered me to have a bulk of our force at the ready, primed for cross-country travel. He is waiting for word from the Brotherhood. Hopefully that is motivating the Brotherhood to work as quickly as possible.”

“It seems that way. They have accelerated their process, but I doubt they will be nearly ready by the time Mr. House calls for them.”

“We will have to make do.”

---

---

The communion was in full swing, as the Prioress was looking down onto the main hall, where the common faithful gathered in front of the altar, a single shard of stone laying openly on a long table, a fire burning next to it. They had told them, that it had fallen from the stars, an embodiemnt of Starry Glory, the same glory resting in the soul of every human. A pleasant light was shimmering from multiple lamps onto the gathered crowed, filling the hall to such an extend, that the church had to remove benches weeks ago, allowing its sermons only to be witnessed standing..

...at least for the common faithful!

Multiple loges had been build tracing the wall, allowing a discreet and private encounter with the faith, for the ones that valued their privacy, and the caps to pay for it. Few openly admitted to be part of this underground gathering, as it hadnt become "en-vouge" on the strip, yet it was mentioned during cocktail parties, social gatherings and private meetings. The prioress knew, that all private loges were filled. Vegas Starlets, Brahmin Barons, Shot-callers on the strip silently took in the words, just like Captains of Industry and wealthy never-do-well´s did. Many of them would stay, to later have private chats with the priests of this church, or even the prioress herself. Few would leave without making generous donations and promises to soon return for "future services"!

Mr.House knew what was going on in here, so did the King and the other powers that be. For them, it was just a harmless parlor trick, with the prioress herself, confessing in private corespondence with the King himself, right hand to the great Mr. House himself, that this was a business, not a religion! Sinners of the Casino, dreamers of the old Vegas and the broken, could come in here, and lose their worries in a more "social productive" way, then drinking, whoring and gambling like the rest of the hordes that were driven to the Strip. Just another form of escapism from the dark wasteland...

Vanishing beyond locked doors and passing armed guards, the Prioress grinned over how well this con had worked. In her 400 years, she would have never seen herself becoming a priest, yet who could not worship the source of immortality itself? Who could not become devout and faithful, after laying eyes on the monolith itself? She had seen the glory, the endless fire of the stars and the dreamer awake. How pitiful they had been, leeching off a mere spark of the true power that was, is and always will be...

---

The doors were the heaviest in the whole temple, steel and magnetized locks. They were deep below the church now, and with an easy step, the Prioress entered her brothers personal study. The old fool was still out there, digging for what he claimed were "old Spanish and Indian" ruins. A eccentric, yet reasonable hobby for an well educated and spoken man, with a lack of talent with people. Hundreds of drawings, books, maps and holodisks were tossed around, in this vile battlefield of an obsessed man, driven by the desire to find the second city...

"Poor fool...digging in the dirt for what.." Her hands moved along the tables and chairs, cracking under the weight of knowlage and artifacts, and Jacks thousands of papers, written in great hurry during his long conversations with the prophet himself. She herself had found him almost hilariously boring and overly dramatic, while being more impressed by the young Marie. She had calmly watched her, playing with her puppet, humming and moving blocks with just a glare. How one could prefer the endless ramblings of a mad blind man, over this uniquely gifted girl, was beyond her! But, alas, they had been send here, to found this church, and Emogene had once more returned to her third favorite city in all of the US.

---

She could hear the mad scratching against the door of the sealed off cage. Growling and snarling, she felt the same pity she always felt, as she reached for the syringe. Her heart was pumping faster, as she took a deep breath, before walking over to the safe on the wall, her eyes narrowing as she slowly undid the lock, before her shivering hands reached inside, taking the glowing rock out. The snarl behind her turned into a whimper, as she could hear the heavy body quickly rushing away from the door. Guilt filled her, as she slowly turned around, the glowing part of the monolith itself, held firm in her hand. "I am sorry dad...this will just take a single moment..."

Walking to the door, she could hear the mad sobbing, the short laughter and then the snarling. The sounds did no longer scare her, like they did when she saw him change into what he was now. She was just glad, that he no longer was able to form words, with what once had been his mouth. Once more, her mind considered the fearful thought, that he may one day not even host blood in his veins, should he change any futher...but once more, she banished this thought, as she unlocked the door.

"Hello father..."

Night was falling, and with it, so too did the old order. For Charlie Wheatcroft, this was the ending chapter of a horrible story, a nightmare that seemed unending. Shivering in his grey anorak, he clasped the thin coat around himself, watching the herald on the stage reading out from a scroll, bathed in the white halogen glare of the fizzing lights all around them.

“Henceforth, all unapproved societies are suspended. Approval may be sought, all gatherings are furthermore now to be conducted in officiated halls only, and with a custodian on hand. This is to ensure, that all meetings are of a non-political nature, that no such gatherings may be used to ferment dissent and rebellion as has seized our great society these past months.”

The clanking of boots began to drown out the herald’s words towards the end of his speech, a shuffling line of emaciated figures clad in dirty robes and chains pushed forwards up the stairs and towards the waiting lines of the hooded executioners. A small rumbling of murmurs and whispers briefly threatened to break out across from the crowd, but by some unseen signal, the sudden shift from standing to attention to battle-ready stance of the line of power armour figures before the stage was enough to enforce silence.

Charlie found his eyes glancing around the square, at the balconies around, full of fur and leather clad figures, the many tribes of the Brotherhood. They had won the war for Gladstone in the end, the war against the Maxson Lodges, a front for the Circle of Steel. A bomb on the High Elder’s vertibird had knocked the man out of the sky on his way back from the convention, the Lodges had moved into the open, seizing the dams in an attempted coup. A resistance had been formed by the younger and more liberal members, but things had been bleak. And then, word had gone around, of a warlord in the south-east, riding towards Electric City with a horde of savages at his back.

At first, the Lodges had treated it as a mere raider group, sending out a few small parties thinking that a few lasers and power armoured gauntlets would be enough to quell it. Instead, those parties had been defeated, and more tribes had swelled the warlord’s ranks at that point. New tribes had been conquered, the warlord moving to the north, seizing lands and men there, and then back to the south, and then the east, and then circumventing electric city entirely to raise forces in the west. The resistance had been emboldened, and the exploded into activity when Gladstone’s image and voice had seized the airways, stating his return and intent to destroy the lodges and all who harboured them.

The last battle had been at Spokane, the Lodges had been forced to march when Gladstone had raised his banner over the city proclaiming him the one true High Elder of the Brotherhood and calling on the lodges to face him in the field or die in their bunkers. They had marched in full strength and had promptly been harried all the way to Spokane, wherein they found the city empty, and received the news of Gladstone having seized Electric City instead. They next few days, Gladstone didn’t meet the lodges in the field, instead, choosing to hit and run against their limited numbers until at last, forcing them into a small village whereupon he’d subjected the remaining traitors to a sadistic bombardment until they’d surrendered.

And now, they were gathered here, to witness the fate of the defeated. To hear the laws of the new regime. Gone was the calm tempered movements of the old order, in their place a tempest of war and seething anger. Something had happened to Gladstone out in the wilderness among the tribes, the old scholar had died, and in those aged ashes, a warlord had been born. Slowly, a snare drum was tapped, a drummer boy rattling out an execution mass. The prisoners had been seated and with a growing sense of sickness Charlie felt a stab of revulsion at what he knew was coming next, and felt he should turn away, but morbid curiosity stayed his gaze.

The drumbeat grew, a rampaging crescendo building and building, until suddenly it stopped, and was replaced with the flick of a switch, the crackle of electricity, the screams of the guilty, and the smell of acrid smoke. And then suddenly, it was finished, the dimmed flickering lights returning to their full baleful glare, casting down illumination onto the electrocuted dead. The herald steps forward, the ringmaster of the whole sickening affair, his voice loud and clear.

“So unto all traitors, to divide us is to be a heretic against the new order! Let their bodies be cast in gibbets across the land! A warning against those who would seek to divide this new unity!”

Eyes turned up to the sky as a flight of Vertibirds passed overhead, their engines roaring as them made their parade. The eyes keeping there as the herald saluted theretoward, a clenched fist to the sky the symbol of the new order.

“Glory to the Victor and death to the traitor! Strong as Steel!”

And suddenly, they were all moving, either out of fear or love, all moved, raising their hands up, clenching into tight fists, voices rending out that new cry.

“Strong as Steel!”

The shouting went on and on and on, the crowds pressing forwards, arms seemingly stretching higher and higher, as if seeking to prove that they could reach higher than all others, that they could claim to be the most loyal of all. And looking down on those huddled braying people, Gladstone turned away from his stand by a shadowed window, and back to the business at hand. The traitors were dead, order had been restored and eyes turned inward, could now turn outward. His voice was cold as it called out to the waiting squires, a harsh rasp ever since the assassination attempt, since the bomb had burned a third of his face and scoured his throat.

“Have the envoys arrived yet?”

A shake of the head and the bowing of backs, eyes cast down staring at the shadow not the one who cast it, fearful of meeting this new man’s gaze.

“Yes milord. A legation from the Midwestern Brotherhood, they’re awaiting your admittance to the throne room.”

A pained grunt in acknowledgement from the words of the senior-most squire, followed by the rapping of a steel sceptre made walking cane cracked across the floor as the High Elder made his way to the centre of the room. He stood there, eyes resting on the tapestry opposite, of the busts of the High Elders of ages past, his arms raised as if martyring himself before the gaze of the long dead.

“Then armour me squires, for the dawn of a new age is coming, and we must be ready to meet it.”

And with that command, the squires dutifully set about armouring their Elder. The sceptre of the High Elder was gently prised from a scarred grip and lain aside on the table. Already clad in the dark grey recon suit, first to be clasped onto the High Elder’s person was the frame, the Squires working from the torso outwards until it was all fixed and bound ready to receive the armour. In silence they worked, the ornate ceremonial armour of the High Elder of the Brotherhood ever so carefully being fastened like the plate armour onto the knights of old. Dark grey steel traced with etched silver patterns, murals of the old days of Maxson. Here and there, the names of the High Elders carved into the very fabric of the armour, legendary names whose words beheld legendary deeds, upon his death, so too would the name of Gladstone be carved into it.

On this went, until at last, there came the final robing. A black cloak lined with fur bearing the seal of the Brotherhood in gold thread fastened over the armour by a bronze chain. Opened hands awaited their armaments, to one went the sword, and to the other, the sceptre was returned. The head lay bare, and onto it went the steel sword crown of the High Elder. Closed eyes opened and turned as his body pivoted, and with dread purpose moved towards the elevator and from there down to the throne room. Wherein he took his place upon the throne, the cloak moved by the squires around the High Elders body, over the knee with the golden seal of the brotherhood facing out.

Windows were closed, torches were lit, the guards stood at attention with their halberds raised high, at last, they were ready. A nod from the High Elder and the great chamber doors were opened, and in flooded the courtiers, gasps from the easily impressed at the vastness of the chamber, of the great arches above, with rafters holding musty banners from chapters long dead or gathered once again. Drifting pennants holding the oaths of war and battle honours trailed down and silently shifted in the air. The walls holding tapestry after tapestry, scene after scene of glory and honour, of power armoured warriors with their banners high and their enemies crushed beneath them. The stamping of halberds made silent the room as the herald called out.

“His Excellency, the High Elder of the Brotherhood of the Steel, Suzerain of the Mountains and Plains, Warlord of the Northern Wastes, Victor of the Steel Laurels bids you welcome to his court. May his reign be long and stand as strong as steel! All Hail the High Elder!”

Fists were raised, a single shout of “Hail!” ringing out through the hall, and then tribute was paid by the tribes to their Suzerain. The new order cared not for trinkets, henceforth, the tribes paid their tithes in manpower or material. In exchange, aid and protection was promised, patrols were dispatched to secure the borders and engineers to build generators to bring civilisation to a wild land. For hours this went on, until at last, the herald called out the names of the envoys of the Midwestern Order. A hush fell, dispelled by the voice of the High Elder.

“I would speak to these honoured envoys in private, I bid my court depart and gather again once recalled.”

The guards moved quickly, ushering out the crowd until at last, only the High Elder and the envoys remained. Looking down at them with a bored interest, Gladstone’s voice rasped out into the hall and down towards the legation.

“So, the Midwestern Brotherhood has at long last stepped foot inside the Western Brotherhoods halls. A momentous occasion for sure, so come, speak to me, what is it that Barnaky would desire? I think you will find that much has changed since our last meeting.”

Windsor State House

“I see", President Traowski replied peevishly, clearly not pleased by what he had said. "I guess I’ll have to see what your Commodore Hackett has to say about the situation. I’ve already started to mobilize the Republican military, so I have some time before I can even begin to take my city back.”

With that, she turned her back to him again and the audience was over and Pendergast was ushered out of the office. Inquiries were made, and he learned of a nearby hotel where arrangements would be made for him and his escort. He didn't even have a change of clothes, but he'd make do....having grown up in a Regime where asceticism was a virtue made temporary hardships far more bearable. As they made their way to the hotel, Pendergast reflected on the brief conversation he had had with Traowski. She did seem determined to fight, and the chatter he picked up at the State House about arrests and summary executions made it clear that she was...however belatedly...finally cleaning house. He would suggest to Hackett that he offer the services of the Inquisitors with the relief force....they had long practice in finding Cult cells and pulling them up by the roots.

But despite Traowski's irritation at the information he could provide....the meeting, in fact, had gone far better than he hoped. She had not asked the question he had been dreading to have to field.....Why, exactly, did the Brotherhood have a relief force eighteen hours steaming time from Detroit? Hopefully she never would.

Electric City - Throne Room

“So", High Elder Gladstone intoned imperiously, "The Midwestern Brotherhood has at long last stepped foot inside the Western Brotherhoods halls. A momentous occasion for sure, so come, speak to me, what is it that Barnaky would desire? I think you will find that much has changed since our last meeting.”

"What he has always desired, High Elder", Brother McCarthy, leader of the delegation replied, "To end the century long separation between us. He also has instructed me to extend his congratulations on your recent success against those who had challenged your lawful authority." He then continued. "In compliance with the agreement between your Lordship and Lord-Paladin Barnaky, I have come to you to present my credentials as the Midwestern Order's Ambassador to your Court."

Once the ceremony of presenting his credentials to the elder was concluded, Brother McCarthy continued.

"If it pleases the High Elder", McCarthy said, "It is incumbent on me to notify you of a recent change in the state of affairs in the Midwest. In the Eastern part of what was the United States, a group has arisen that is a threat to civilization, if not the future of Mankind itself. Having recognized the severity of this threat, the Lord-Paladin has devoted all the power our Order can muster to destroying it. With your permission, I will read aloud Lord-Paladin Barnaky's official declaration regarding this group.

"The Capitol, Omaha, Nebraska

Whereas, the followers of the so-called Cult of Ug-Qualtoth have, in obedience to the commands, and encouragement of, the leaders of their so-called Faith have murdered many thousands of innocents, often in unspeakable ways,

Whereas, they have embraced Mutants who once served the Master, and elevated them into the highest offices of their Regime, and gave them license to persecute any unfortunate enough to fall into their power,

Whereas, they use feral ghouls as a weapon of war routinely,

Whereas, they intentionally misuse the relics and technology of the Old World, whether it is prohibited by the Codex, or not, to further their own malign ends,

Whereas, they condone, and even encourage, the practice of cannibalism,

Whereas, they have, since their unprovoked attack on forces of my Order in Cleveland seven years ago, committed so many unprovoked acts of subversion and aggression against my People, and innocents outside the lands held by my Order, that they would require many pages to make a full accounting,

Whereas, the Cult aforementioned, has openly proclaimed itself a Enemy of the Brotherhood of Steel and of any sort of human civilization,

I, Simon Barnaky, Elder and Lord-Paladin of the Midwestern Order of the Brotherhood of Steel, by the authority vested in me, do hereby proclaim that for the good of Mankind, and to vindicate the injustices they have showered upon my people, the group known as the Cult, and all it's works, must and shall be Scourged from the face of this Earth. To that end, I command all those subject to my authority to provide their utmost effort to this Sacred task. Furthermore, I respectfully call upon our Brothers and Sisters in other Orders to join us, and our allies outside the Order, in eliminating a threat to all no less dire than that presented to the World by the Master and the Enclave.

Finally, I hereby give fair warning that any person, or political entity, who knowingly supports the Cult and obstructs the effort to implement my Command shall be considered to be de facto allies of the Cult, and therefore Enemies of the Brotherhood, and treated accordingly.

Signed by my hand this day in the Council Chambers at the Capitol

Simon Barnaky

Elder and Lord-Paladin
Midwestern Order of the Brotherhood of Steel"

"High Elder", Brother McCarthy said as he bowed respectfully, "My Lord has sent with us, for your perusal, evidence that will substantiate the charges that justify issuance of such a grave and terrible command. We await your pleasure."

The Western Brotherhood of Steel - High Elder Gladstone – Electric City

"What he has always desired, High Elder, to end the century long separation between us. He also has instructed me to extend his congratulations on your recent success against those who had challenged your lawful authority."

At this Gladstone inclined his head and made a vocal intercession.

“I shall accept the thanks of the Lord Paladin with no small regard for his words. And would gently request of you most venerable envoy, that you pass on my high regards for his words. And my hopes that his reign, strong and stable as it has been, continues as it has done, so that the Midwestern people may not know the horrors of civil strife.”

Falling silent, Gladstone gave a small motion for the envoy to continue.

"In compliance with the agreement between your Lordship and Lord-Paladin Barnaky, I have come to you to present my credentials as the Midwestern Order's Ambassador to your Court."

At this, a guard stepped forwards, accepting the letters of credential and bearing them to the High Elder, who perused them, before nodding. The guard stepped away, another stepping forwards to offer a gift of a bread and wine to the ambassadors.

“I accept you as envoys to this realm. Please, take these gifts and know now that you are protected and shall be given all care as can be given unto you befitting of your rank and status. Might I add your excellency, that I have solid hopes that this moment marks the beginning of a most prosperous relationship between our respective tribes so to speak.”

Gladstone leaned back in his chair, relaxing a little listening to McCarthy continue speaking.

"If it pleases the High Elder-"

A nod of assent from the aforementioned man.

"-It is incumbent on me to notify you of a recent change in the state of affairs in the Midwest. In the Eastern part of what was the United States, a group has arisen that is a threat to civilization, if not the future of Mankind itself. Having recognized the severity of this threat, the Lord-Paladin has devoted all the power our Order can muster to destroying it. With your permission, I will read aloud Lord-Paladin Barnaky's official declaration regarding this group.”

As the declaration was read, Gladstone kept his features calm and inscrutable, and after a few long minutes of silence composing his reply, finally spoke his thoughts on the matter.

“That the Lord Paladin has seen fit to declare this Cult to be scourged is a troubling matter in and of itself. I wish to see the evidence that would justify this declaration, and if it be found truthful, know this ambassador. That the steel banners shall be raised, and from here, a force such as to make the word tremble shall be issued. Should it not be worthy however, know that the Western Brotherhood will make no efforts to assist your nation in your war.”

Free Commonwealth of PA

During the day, things remained quiet and still, but as soon as night fell, madness broke loose. These cultists scurried about like rats, hiding in sewers and tunnels they had dug. For now, they were nothing more than a pest they had to deal with; their numbers were few, as if the Cult dismissed the Commonwealth and hadn’t really thought it would invade. Every so often you’d hear an explosion, as soon as troops came upon a sewer or tunnel, a grenade would go in. For the most part it would seal the hole, but there were instances where it was like stepping on an ant hill, as cultist poured and were a pest.

The men gathered the dead bodies of the cultist, and placed them on great piles far from where the main body of this battle group stood, and set them ablaze. The bodies of their own men, were carried to the rear to be given heroes burials back home. They had marched a few miles across the border, and had a quite a bit to go, based on the Cults tactics, they would need to go slowly or risk being struck from behind.

Whistles rang, and the men picked up their gears, and they continued their march. Near the southern part of the main line, workers were fast at work. They were laying down a railroad track that connected to Harrisburg. The idea being that this line would follow the progress of the men ahead of them, providing a supply line. The down fall being that it meant keeping a slow pace, but since they would need to move slowly due to the cult’s penchant for hiding and attacking at night, this would prove beneficial.

General Samuels marched forward with his men; he was responsible for Battle Group Jericho. His group located dead center of the main battle line. He was a kind man towards his men, but relentless towards his enemies. He gave no quarter, surrender equaled death. He was formerly an officer with Talon Company, he had fought in DC, but once he was given an offer to join the Commonwealth of Pennsylvania for a hefty amount of caps, he couldn’t say no.

Unlike most of the soldiers and officers, he wasn’t a religious man. He only believed in caps, and completing the mission he was paid for. He was unsure how he felt about this religious zealotry he saw in his man, but it was beneficial as it drove them to fight. This he would be able to work with.