High Elder Gladstone - Western Brotherhood of Steel - Santa Fe

Lucius’ first reply brought an internal scowl from Gladstone, outwardly nodding in sympathetic understanding. Gladstone leaned back a little as Caesar continued speaking, and once the man had finished, lay out his plan for the Imperator of the Legion. His voice carrying across the room in as mighty tone as he could muster.

“Then let us divide the Khan lands at the end of this war. This war in the east will finish with our victory. When our forces have returned west, after the appropriate period of recuperation, we can fall upon the Khans from the west and south. Would that be agreeable to you Caesar?”

Gladstone turned to look around the room upon hearing some muffled voices and noted that Barnaky had entered the room whilst he’d been engrossed in conversation with Lucius. The High Elder cleared his throat, leaning forwards in his chair, hands clasped over his tone. Once he felt he had the attention of Barnaky and Lucius, he spoke up.

“Lord-Paladin and Mighty Caesar, might I express my thanks for having such a righteous cause brought to the attention of the Western Brotherhood, and to have such magnificent allies to fight alongside. You will be pleased to know that I have ordered the deployment of the full arsenal; as much of the forbidden weaponry as can be moved marches east against the cult. Chemical weapons to unleash a true plague upon them, along with some of the more savage pre-war weaponry which has proved highly useful in past scourges. No quarter shall be given, all those associated with the cult will burn and die from the highest priest to the lowest serf.”

Gladstone paused, to wet his lips before continuing.

“Such is the nature of the scourge in the laws lain down by the Codex. A full force of ten thousand is being readied as I speak. Along with a further thousand mercenaries as can be hired from the west and north. If you would wish for the Brotherhood to produce any military elements sorely needed in the east, such as tanks and the like, now would be the time to say so. The force will mainly be infantry and artillery, and the vehicles to move them in battle.”

And falling silent, the High Elder awaited the opinions of the two warlords before him.

Caesar Lucius

“Then let us divide the Khan lands at the end of this war. This war in the east will finish with our victory. When our forces have returned west, after the appropriate period of recuperation, we can fall upon the Khans from the west and south. Would that be agreeable to you Caesar?”

Lucius shook his head, “Forgive me High Elder, I’ve not made my intention clear in this discussion. I will not declare war on the Khans without provocation, without casus belli. Sallow was a conqueror, Kimball Jr….tried to be...both men met untimely fates because of their hubris. I don’t intend to follow either to the grave. The Legion I’m forging...is one I intend to be a more stable and productive state than either of them ruled. If you intend to attack the Khans...I will not stop you. As I said, The Legion and the Khans, while amicable, are not allied and I’ve no obligation to rise to their defense. They’ve taken Legion gold in exchange for oaths of battle, but that is all. That being said….I would desire that The Legion be permitted to offer terms of peaceful annexation to the lands of New Canaan and northern Utah. I want to gain what I seek through diplomacy for a change….not warfare. Something Sallow never considered.”

At this point one of the servants handed Lucius a message, indicating that it was from someone waiting outside in the foyer. Lucius quickly read the missive from Barnaky and looked up to see the Lord of The Midwest awaiting the response. Lucius motioned for him to join them. He had no intention of hiding this from Barnaky, nor did it seem, did Gladstone from the tone of his voice.

“However,” he continued, “If you are content to wait until after the war in the east is decided to resolve this, then I’m content with that oath and welcome your support and pledge to do so.”

Once Barnaky entered the room, Lucius address him directly,

“Ave Lord Barnaky,” Lucius said as he rose to meet the robotic construct that served as his proxy, “This meeting has been overdue for far too long, hasn’t it? Please join us.”

Once Barnaky was seated, Gladstone outline his full intentions to join the war, and spoke of an alliance to be forged. Lucius nodded in agreement,

“Your support is welcome, as I previously mentioned. Legatus Aurelius even now marches east to engage the cult. I fear the war will claim many more bodies before the cult is finally defeated.”

The Palace of Caesar

It appeared that Lucius's reply displeased Gladstone as much as it had unsettled him, as Gladstone raised his voice, his answer booming throughout the room.

“Then let us divide the Khan lands at the end of this war", Gladstone thundered, "This war in the east will finish with our victory. When our forces have returned west, after the appropriate period of recuperation, we can fall upon the Khans from the west and south. Would that be agreeable to you Caesar?”

Barnaky glanced over at Martin, he had visibly blanched at the statement. The responsibilities of ruling over Wyoming had accomplished what the NCR, and even Sallow had failed to do...tame the Khans. There was simply no point in dismembering their little Empire....especially since Gladstone had hundreds of thousands of square miles of land to his North and East to expand into. And if that wasn't enough....the Khans were already fighting and dying alongside the Order in Michigan, betraying them after they had shed blood for him would ruin decades of careful diplomacy with the Tribes and small statelets along his borders.

The young slave delivered his note, and after glancing at it Lucius looked directly at him and bade him approach, which he did, arriving just in time to hear Caesar's reply.

“Forgive me High Elder", Lucius replied, shaking his head sadly, "I’ve not made my intention clear in this discussion. I will not declare war on the Khans without provocation, without casus belli. Sallow was a conqueror, Kimball Jr….tried to be...both men met untimely fates because of their hubris. I don’t intend to follow either to the grave. The Legion I’m forging...is one I intend to be a more stable and productive state than either of them ruled. If you intend to attack the Khans...I will not stop you. As I said, The Legion and the Khans, while amicable, are not allied and I’ve no obligation to rise to their defense. They’ve taken Legion gold in exchange for oaths of battle, but that is all. That being said….I would desire that The Legion be permitted to offer terms of peaceful annexation to the lands of New Canaan and northern Utah. I want to gain what I seek through diplomacy for a change….not warfare. Something Sallow never considered.”

“However,” he continued, “If you are content to wait until after the war in the east is decided to resolve this, then I’m content with that oath and welcome your support and pledge to do so.”

“Ave Lord Barnaky,” Lucius said as he rose to meet the robotic construct that served as his proxy, “This meeting has been overdue for far too long, hasn’t it? Please join us.”

"That it has, Caesar", Barnaky replied, taking the seat he had been offered, "That it has. I am pleased to see that you have recovered from your injuries." He then looked at the High Elder. "It's good to see you again as well, High Elder." he then addressed both men. "By all means, please continue."

“Lord-Paladin and Mighty Caesar", Gladstone began, "Might I express my thanks for having such a righteous cause brought to the attention of the Western Brotherhood, and to have such magnificent allies to fight alongside. You will be pleased to know that I have ordered the deployment of the full arsenal; as much of the forbidden weaponry as can be moved marches east against the cult. Chemical weapons to unleash a true plague upon them, along with some of the more savage pre-war weaponry which has proved highly useful in past scourges. No quarter shall be given, all those associated with the cult will burn and die from the highest priest to the lowest serf.”

Gladstone paused, to wet his lips before continuing.

“Such is the nature of the scourge in the laws lain down by the Codex. A full force of ten thousand is being readied as I speak. Along with a further thousand mercenaries as can be hired from the west and north. If you would wish for the Brotherhood to produce any military elements sorely needed in the east, such as tanks and the like, now would be the time to say so. The force will mainly be infantry and artillery, and the vehicles to move them in battle.”

“Your support is welcome, as I previously mentioned, Lucius replied. "Legatus Aurelius even now marches east to engage the cult. I fear the war will claim many more bodies before the cult is finally defeated.”

"I am gratified by your support as well, High Elder", Barnaky began carefully, "Your strength, added to ours, will ensure our ultimate victory over the Cult. But with that said, however, I must make clear that I cannot support the deployment of chemical or biological weapons, or for that matter, deployment or use of nuclear weapons with a yield higher than the sub-tactical devices allowed by the Codex....irregardless of what the Cult has done or will do. At the previous conference, I had no less than three factions ask my Order for aid in destroying strategic nuclear weapons they either had possession of or access to. Why? Because they trusted that when I said I would make sure they were never used, I meant just that....that I would ensure no-one would ever be in a position to use them, ever. Including me. I will not squander my hard-won credibility on this issue for a fleeting tactical advantage. Even were I inclined to use such weapons, i must point out that the logistics of equipping and training the nearly thirty thousand allies currently fighting alongside my Armies to survive in a NBC battlefield during a active campaign would be a nightmare."

"There are also other considerations", Barnaky continued, "We estimate that around 200,000 souls reside in the current Theatre of Operations in Michigan, Indiana, and Kentucky....very few of them support the Cult. The last census of the Integrated Republic of Detroit recorded 923,621 Citizens. While that number has been significantly reduced, they are actively fighting the Cult. While we are committed to honoring the sovereignty and territorial integrity of the Republic, I plan to annex Indiana and Kentucky, and Michigan's status will be decided in negotiations with the Republic post-war. Using prohibited weapons puts the lives of innocents at risk....innocents to whom the Scourge order does not apply to. Pittsburgh itself will be leveled with the dust before this is over...but the lands we are fighting in now have no allegiance to the Cult beyond what they can compel with a bayonet and the inhabitants thereof will be dealt with on a case by case basis."

"And if I may", Barnaky said in conclusion, "I'd like to return for a moment to your proposal regarding the Khans. Like Caesar, I have no treaty obligations to them. But I hold no will towards the Khans, for they do not trouble my lands, nor do they molest my people who reside or travel through theirs. The status quo between them, the Legion, and I is acceptable as it is..I see no reason to make war on them, nor do I understand your position towards them. If you need land, the former Provinces of Canada to your north are wide open for expansion, Alberta in particular had considerable mineral wealth according to pre-war records. Montana and North Dakota are also sparsely populated and suitable for settlement. Attacking the Khans without just provocation now...just as they are finally settling down and abandoning their Raider ways, not to mention aiding us in this War....is not a venture I am willing to participate in, nor will I close my borders to any refugees from any such conflict. I owe the Khans fighting and dying for me in Michigan, even as I speak, that much at least."

High Elder Gladstone – Western Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe

It was, troubling. This attachment to nothing more than a band of raiders, Gladstone knew the history of the Khans. Beaten down by the NCR, given a poisoned chalice to sup by the Legion in their darkest hours. A nation of petty chemists who had spread their poison far and wide and had bemoaned their fate when justice had come calling. He’d seen them rise to his east, unable to do anything as he’d clumsily welded together his people in their own new home. And now with a chance to right that wrong, to crush this upstart band, he found himself opposed.

Taut burnt fingers flexed on his cane as Lucius and Barnaky continued speaking. Lucius was neutral it would seem. His honour stayed his hand, but Gladstone knew that when opportunity presented itself, the political beast inside reared its head scenting the blood on the wind. Barnaky though, why would he care about a nation of savages to his west? It was a mix of bemusing and confusing, perhaps his cybernetics had addled his brain? Though then again, Gladstone recalled the reason why Barnaky was where he was. A rebel whose actions had split and weakened the Brotherhood, what those forces could have done if they had remained in the west, if time had allowed the bunkers to swell with future manpower that had instead been spent elsewhere.

And then there was the matter of Barnaky’s proclamation, forbidding the usage of weapons that would shorten this pestilential conflict by weeks, if not months. Gladstone grit his teeth at that, what was this creature expecting? To hamstring his forces in such a war, to tie with one hand behind the back when two hands would be far easier to throttle this cult with? Still, if Barnaky and Lucius wanted to hold their hands above the mud rather than press in and make something of it, who was he to stop such foolishness?

And so, with that in mind, Gladstone bowed his head, and ceded the ground, or at least that which would lead only to disaster. His voice a soft rasping in the hazy summer heat as he made his reply, his watery contract lain out to the Legion and the Midwest.

“Very well then. I shall have to make do with the current state of affairs as regards the Khans. They will have their autonomy if that is your preference your excellencies.”

It didn’t matter he supposed, in the end, he could always bring the Khans into his sphere of influence. With the Legion and Midwestern Brotherhood busy in the east, he could begin arranging the pieces in the west. He could initiate a diplomatic offensive, water and electricity, as many trade goods as could be moved. And then with such weight on his side, he could make a series of gradual moves, whispers against the Legion and Midwest. Reminding them of past slights by the former, and a few untruths perhaps for the latter. After all, it was rather hard to stomach the idea of some entombed brain as a ruler. And robobrains did go mad, who was to say this wouldn’t occur at some point in the future?

And with such a force surrounding them, they would look to the benevolent power in the west making them rich, watering their lands and peoples and powering their homes and suchlike. A few prominent citizens could be bribed, and by the end of the year, perhaps a protectorate could be established. Yes, that would do, soft power in the east, and his forces marching elsewhere to conquer and empower the Western Brotherhood.

After all, If Barnaky planned to use this war to expand his domain east, then two could play at that game. He would strike whilst the attention was elsewhere. Within shadows and hidden from sight would the steel engrave itself onto the Khans. With a scheme in mind to set in motion Gladstone smiled a grandfatherly smile, or at least as much as he could manage with a half-burnt face. The warmth not quite reaching his eyes at the lopsided smile, one side upwards, the other flat and unmoving. His lips continued to move, or at least one side more-so than the other.

“This war is of your making, it is your choice how to fight it. I shall send word for the offending articles to be held back in storage-”

They would find better usage in crushing the savages elsewhere then, in lands which would find themselves tilled by Brotherhood homesteaders.

“-Though perhaps I could call for a list of the other non-Chemical weapons to be forwarded to both of you. I would recommend the deployment of some of these articles, if only for the tactical ability they will afford us. We have multiple MIRV capable Fat Man’s for instance, able to wipe out thousands in the blink of an eye. Along with Gauss minigun emplacements, and thermobaric cluster weaponry deployable by bomber or missile batteries if modified correctly.”

Nuka World, Nuka Town USA

The sounds of fierce battle filled the streets of Nuka Town as the Operators began their purge. Spurred on by The Institute’s promise of a mutually beneficial relationship, the Black siblings had launched their long awaited plan to seize Nuka Town for their own, and eliminate the other two gangs. Despite the element of surprise things had not gone entirely to plan. The initial strategy devised by William and Mags was to attack and quickly destroy The Pack with overwhelming force before Nisha and her Disciples even had a chance to learn what was going on. However Mason and his gang had not proven easy to dislodge from their little warren. Mags and William both had given a brief moment of introspection to this, and realized how much they’d underestimated Mason’s crew. They’d made a huge miscalculation, and paid the price.

Finally Mason had been killed, albeit only after taking out a few Operators by himself as he fought like a cornered bear. With that done, they could focus their attention on The Disciples. Unfortunately, the delay caused had left The Disciples with time to figure out what was happening and ready themselves. Now, Mags and William found themselves attempting to breach the Fizztop mountain courtyard, which The Disciples had barricaded and now fiercely guarded, leading The Operators into a choke point.

It was here the battle had stalled, and things were getting desperate,

“Fucking mask wearing creeps!” William yelled out over the din of automatic gunfire as he ducked behind a ‘Cappy and Bottle’ statue.

“Will!” Mags yelled to her brother. She could hear bullets whizzing past her head as she lay down behind the fountain, “They're trying to buy time! They’re going to make a run for it!”

“I can see that Sis!” William snarled as he unloaded a few shots at the barricade. One of the bullets struck a female Disciple, and she crumpled to the ground.

Mags could already hear the shots of the Operators she’d sent to swing around the side of Fizztop, evidently having run into Disciples that had been moved to counter just such an encirclement. Nisha was a bloodthirsty monster, but she wasn’t stupid. Mags cursed herself for not realizing that she should have been their first target, not Mason. Mason never possessed the cunning that Nisha had always showed.

“What the fuck do we do now Sis?” William called out again. Mags had always been the brain to William’s brawn. He was no dummy himself, but he’d always relied on Mags to figure out a way to get them out of tight spot. And a tight spot they were in.

“Damnit!” Mags cried out and pounded her fist on the ground, “I really didn’t want to have to do this….this was our fight! Noone elses!”

She withdrew a small white cylindrical object from her pocket, a red electrical warning label was stamped to its side. She pulled the pin and tossed it over the barricade.

“The fuck was that?” William asked incredulously, “The hell did you just do? Was that a goddamn grena...”

Suddenly flashes of blue light began appearing atop and over the barricade, along with the sounds of laser fire….and numerous mechanical voices.

“By order of The Institute, you must be destroyed.”

William knew exactly what she’d done, and he wasn’t happy, “You signaled them?”

“Had no other choice. We fucked up. Plain and simple,” Mags grumbled as she came to her feet. The gunfire had begun to lull as the screams of surprised Diciples faded away with it. A Gen-1 Synth poked its head around the makeshift barricade before stepping out into full view.

“Operation complete. No hostile lifesigns detected in area.”

“Good no lets….wait none at all? What about inside Fizztop?” A worried look crossed Mag’s face.

“No lifesigns detected.”

Mags let out an enraged scream that surprised her brother, “What? What is it?” He pleaded with her for an answer.

“Nisha’s already gone!” Mags fumed, “They escaped!”

---

Back at Institute SRB, Dr. Secord had watched the entire scene unfold with a discerning eye. The Watchers had captured everything she’d needed for her report,

“Not a good first impression,” She muttered to herself as she ejected the recording holotape. They’d captured footage of The Disciples leaving through the back entrance as well, scattering to the hillside like scrambling rodents. She could order a pursuit, but it seemed pointless. What was one more outcast raider gang amongst the innumerable in the wastes? After The Institute’s synths had appeared, she quite doubted too that they’d ever return to bother Nuka World again. And she cared little for where they went beyond that.

---

Nisha tracked the groups of her Disciples streaming in, scattered as they were, as they began to rally up on the other side of the mountains. Dixie approached her, with a hand held to her hip and speaking in that incessantly polite southern twang that hid the true darkness of her soul almost as much as her Mask did,

“Looks like the gang’s gettin’ back together Nisha honey,” She chirped, “Got ourselves out of a bit of a tight spot didn’t we? So where we headin’ now boss? We gunna go back and gut William and Maggy? I wouldn’t mind a few swipes at that pretty little face of Maggy’s myself.”

Nisha didn’t bother to turn to her, instead she gazed down at the scrap of crudely skinned hide she held. She didn’t doubt for a moment that the hide most likely hadn’t been that of an animal. It had come to her via a trader, one of many that frequented Nuka World. Something about that one had made her uneasy however, and now she knew why.

A strange symbol lay tattooed on the hide scrap. The same symbol she’d seen calling to her in her dreams for the past year….and now...it told her where to go next,

“West,” She said simply, as she hid the mark back within her clenched fist, “We go west.”

Gunner’s Plaza - GNN Newsroom

“You’re serious then Colonel? We’re actually going through with this?”

Lt. Kilhorn’s confused expression shifted from face to face, first to Captain Wes, then Colonel Cypress and Commander Kaylor. The three commanding officers of the Gunners sat before him on what used to be the old newsroom table,

“Yeah, and why not? It's a job ain’t it? Are you telling me The Gunners should take contracts from anyone but The Institute?” The gruff voice of the aging Colonel was hoarse but still commanding. Kilhorn involuntary chafed under the reproach.

“I don’t think it's just a job Colonel,” Kilhorn meekly replied, “They’re trying to control us.”

“HA!” That’s a good one, Commander Kaylor threw back her head in a laugh, “As if. They’re just looking for some extra muscle. They know damn well they can’t control us. Besides what's the point? As long as they stay underground or in space, or wherever the hell they are, then we get full run of the surface right? Do as we please.”

“Institute caps wouldn’t hurt either. I’m sure they’ve got plenty enough to give us,” Captain Wes added, “We’ll be set for life.”

“I’m not saying we shouldn’t take a job from them….but..”

“And just what are you saying boy?” The Colonel growled, “Because it sounds to me like you’re saying you’re going to disobey a direct order from Gunner command. Do I have that right?”

“No sir,” Kilhorn suddenly snapped to attention, all thoughts of doubt erased by years of regimented discipline, “Forgive me sir. I spoke hastily. I'll let the other officers know your decision right away. Thank you sir.”

“See that you do. Dismissed.”

With that, Kilhorn gave a salute and turned sharply to walk out the door of the studio, leaving the Gunner leaders behind.

Colonel Cypress turned to Kaylor and Wes briefly, giving them a nod of understanding which they returned in kind. Cypress raised a hand to his ear,

“SRB...this is Unit B3-45 reporting. Operation complete.”

Robert Edwin House – Lucky 38 Hotel & Casino, New Vegas

The Institute data transfer began immediately but would take some time to complete, as it had to bounce through a number of different pre-war satellites before it would finally reach Mr. House. The schematics Thomas sent he knew House would be able to understand, perhaps not enough to fully comprehend its workings, but then again, he wouldn’t need to. All he needed to do...was build it.

Soon, the Lucky 38’s mainframe catapulted into a surge of activity. An amalgamation of equations and schematics flooded the server and Robert trembled as it overwhelmed the computer. It took a great deal of time, but he slowly perused every detail Thomas had sent him. He had seen the likes of this technology before, but never in all his years had he been presented with such a complex and vast variation of these molecular equations.

“Thomas…what in the hell are you up to?” House muttered as he continued to connect the dots. There was only one reason why he’d have sent him these schematics without context from the other side of this world…It was an invitation—perhaps even a challenge—for House to build it.

House’s terminal beamed down at Jane. “Open a long-range transmission to Big Mountain. To Doctor Klein. Immediately.”

“Of course, dear. You will be hearing from him momentarily,” said Jane in her sultry digital voice.

Before long, the image of Doctor Klein—a think tank whose strange robotic construction bordered on the psychedelic—appeared on the screen opposite from Robert.

“It is…uh…good…to hear from you, Mr. House. How may the think tank assist?”

“As we speak, Doctor Klein, I am sending you an array of schematics. Re-active X-8 Research Center and devote all available resources to building the contents.”

“Interesting. Very intriguing. I will send out a memo shortly, as soon as I am able to review the details,” said Doctor Klein as one of his eye-screens zoomed in and widened.

“Good. I want the product shipped back to New Vegas as soon as it is complete, as I am sure I will have to make my own modifications here in the Lucky 38.”

“This means I want Project Aries on standby while this work takes place in X-8. I want all major resources devoted to these schematics.”

“It will be done, Mr. President,” said Dr. Klein.

“Farewell,” muttered Mr. House.

“The King” – Santa Fe

The King had arrived fashionably late to Santa Fe. The final conversation he’d had with Mr. House back in New Vegas suddenly swirled back into his head, one in which House drilled the importance of being professional to the FZM’s allies, namely the hosting Legion and Midwestern Brotherhood. Unfortunately, arriving on time would have been one of them. There was very little he could have done; the journey had taken far longer than predicted.

Flanked by two soldiers in pre-war Riot Gear donning assault rifles, The King entered the palace. His hands were buried in his zany striped suit-jacket and his eyes were only ahead. Had he arrived on time, perhaps he could have admired the splendor unburdened by stress, but now his only objective was to find the table and sit without much of a commotion.

A lovely woman approached and greeted him. “Salve, I am Hannah of New Canaan. Welcome to Santa Fe on behalf of my husband, Caesar Lucius. And welcome to our home, please make yourselves comfortable inside.”

The King awkwardly bowed his head. “Uh…great. Thank you. I will show myself inside.” At that, he motioned toward his guards to disperse and entered the meeting room where a handful of delegates had already arrived and were embroiled in conversation.

He found his way to his seat, nodded slowly, and sat down, quietly observing the others and once again immersing himself in the tumultuous landscape of the west.

Simon Barnaky - Palace of Caesar

“Very well then. I shall have to make do with the current state of affairs as regards the Khans. They will have their autonomy if that is your preference your excellencies.”, Gladstone said, assuming a kindly demeanor that didn't quite jibe with the cold and calculating look in the man's eyes....a look he had seen before.

It reminded him of the expression on the face of the High Elder's long dead predecessor, when he had sent Latham, Dekker, and him East along with their supporters back in '90. He had put on a good show, as Gladstone was doing now...but they had all known they were really being exiled. It only confirmed the obvious when they never received replies to the reports they, and when time and the struggle to survive claimed his comrades, eventually he alone, sent West faithfully. And when, sixty long years later, Owyn Lyons made his own journey to Washington, he had refused any contact with them....it was only after Lyons himself became unable to ignore the misery around him any longer and cut his own ties with the West did he reach out to him, but by then it was too late for them to do much for each other except provide moral support. And of course, once Maxon had seized power contact ceased entirely again.

While it was certainly possible that his statements here and now had caused Gladstone to cool towards him...he no doubt had expected him to endorse his plan without demur...it also occurred to Barnaky that the man may well never have been acting in good faith to begin with. Whatever was happening, he needed to be on his guard with the Western Elders...that much was crystal clear now. Back in Omaha, Barnaky began issuing orders for the first moves of the new game he had found himself in.

“This war is of your making, it is your choice how to fight it", Gladstone concluded, "I shall send word for the offending articles to be held back in storage...”, he paused for a moment, then continued"..."though perhaps I could call for a list of the other non-Chemical weapons to be forwarded to both of you. I would recommend the deployment of some of these articles, if only for the tactical ability they will afford us. We have multiple MIRV capable Fat Man’s for instance, able to wipe out thousands in the blink of an eye. Along with Gauss minigun emplacements, and thermobaric cluster weaponry deployable by bomber or missile batteries if modified correctly.”

"Ordnance such as you describe is not prohibited, and with proper deployment should be quite effective against the massed feral attacks the Cult likes to use", Barnaky replied diplomatically, "I'd love to hear more about your capabilities in these fields, especially in tactical air support....."


Capital Wasteland - The Citadel - F Wing

The old mainframe room was sweltering hot....the air conditioning unit had been stripped by scavengers before the Children had moved in...a state of affairs that wasn't helped now that the mainframe, after two days spent getting power restored to the underground F and G Wings of the ancient and crumbling structure, was finally active. All Scribe Carruthers could do is pray to whatever Gods may be listening that he would find the items on the list Dr Strasse had given him quickly. Scooting his office chair to face each of the four terminals before him, he launched different searches on each. This would go a lot quicker if Jensen were here....but the Children had her setting up flood lights to illuminate their "relic"....a Mk 28 nuclear bomb, salvaged from Liberty Prime's wreckage, that had been left behind first by Maxon when he had embarked on his doomed Expedition to the Commonwealth, and again by what was left of the Eastern Brotherhood when they abandoned the Capital Wasteland. Overlooked during the brief occupation by the Cult, it was found by the Children who had driven them out, who naturally took it as a sign of Atom's favor and a group of them settled in what was now deemed a Holy site.

Noticing data scrolling up the screen in the third terminal, Carruthers scooted over to it. The search he had been doing was for a name, and it had come up with results. Carruthers opened the first one. It was the crew manifest for the Prwydyn dated November 20, 2287, notes indicating it was at the time of the Airship commencing it's final voyage. Under Vertibird Wing 02, he found the following entry:

>Vertibird 2-4
> Pilot: LSGT KYLE, ROBERT J KT-351LS
Co-Pilot: LSGT HARRISON, CYNTHIA M KT-956MT
LWO: SLCR STILES, PAUL R KV-451GA
WO: LCR JOHNSON, BRYAN N KV-570GD

Also present were the index numbers for their individual entries in the Chapter's Codex. Carruthers scribbled them all down and saved the document to his Pip-Boy. He had no idea why Lancer-Sergeant Kyle was important, but orders were orders and the Brethren he served with may be of use as well. As he wrote, suddenly something warm and yielding pressed against his back, and a chin rested on his right shoulder.

"Whatcha writing, Dave?", Alexandra, his 'minder' from the Children living here, purred into his ear.

"Not again", Carruthers thought to himself. Part of the complicated agreement they, with the help of the Talon Company mercs who had escorted them here, had worked out with Confessor Polonium, the leader of the Children of Atom who resided here, had been that they would agree to be watched by one of the Children at all times when they were working, and had to get approval to remove any object from the building. As the Talon mercs had made it perfectly, and rather saltily, clear at the briefing at Adams that they would not raise their hand to the Children for any amount of caps except in self-defense, they had no choice but to agree to their terms. His first minder, Jack, was all of twelve and quickly got bored with his assigned task and began skylarking about and asking incessant questions about everything he did. After a day, he was abruptly replaced by Alexandra, who was even more distracting....for a entirely different reason. It wasn't that she was unfriendly or anything like that....the problem was that she was entirely too friendly.

"Nothing important, Alex", he replied, trying not to react as she pressed up against him a little more, "Just some old personnel records."

"The Prwydyn, eh", she said as she leaned over him and looked at the screen, "That was their airship. It was neat....too bad they Maxoned all the stuff they built that thing from."

It was sad, Carruthers thought, that the memory of the last Maxon would come to this....as an word to describe theft, or a thief. Even the Talon Company mercs called Raiders 'Maxons'.

"Everybody loved the Brotherhood when Old Man Lyons was alive", Alexandra went on, "Even though he was an unbeliever he was a righteous man, but when Atom called him home he was replaced by that asshole Maxon. He just took what he wanted from people...they came to Megaton for the Great Relic at the center of town, they claimed it was because it was dangerous, and threatened to kill anyone who got in their way. The Grand Zealot wanted to fight, we weren't even alone because the unbelievers in town were tired of the Brotherhood Maxoning from them all the time and stuck up for us. The Prophet..the real one, not that Heathen in the Pitt...said no, that it was a sign that Atom wanted us to leave the Capital Wasteland. That was the start of the Great Pilgrimage. After we left, they Maxoned everything that wasn't nailed down to build their airship. They even Maxoned Rivet City's reactor! I tell you, no-one missed Maxon once he finally left to plague Boston.

As talking about the past seemed to distract her from rubbing up against him, Carruthers decided to see how long he could keep her talking.

"What happened next?", he asked.

"Oh, that's the best part!", Alexandra exclaimed excitedly, "We...well, my parents, as I wasn't born yet...went on the Great Pilgrimage of Atom, the faithful spread out all the way to His Holy Island, in the far North. There, we found more, and bigger, relics of Atom, including a ship that can go underwater!"

"A submarine", Carruthers said, as a icy shiver ran down his back, "Dear God."

"You're so smart!", Alexandra said, giving him a quick hug, "Anyway, not long after the Grand Inquisitor Tektus found the nucleus on His Holy Island, the Prophet began to have dreams. It took him a while to understand what Atom wanted from us, but he came to realize that Atom, in His mercy, had not turned his back on the Capital Wasteland...he wanted us to save it!"

"So", she continued, "The Prophet revealed to us Atom's Plan, and work began to make the Vessel ready for the sea, and to get more ships, and gather as many of the Faithful as we could find, and prepare ourselves for the sign!"

"What sign was that?"

"Word reached us that a great host of heathens had invaded the Capital Wasteland, she replied, "and were sweeping all before them in the name of their False God. And that the Brotherhood had fled, and only Talon Company stood against them, but they couldn't hold out much longer. It was then that the Prophet said this was the sign they had been waiting for, that it was Atom's Will that the heathen be driven out of the Capital Wasteland forever, and proclaimed the Great Crusade!".

"Tektus, at the head of the Two Thousand, landed in Alexandria", she continued, "and headed North. Learning that Talon Company were still holding the Mall, and the area around Rivet City and the Purfier, but that most of them were pinned down at Fort Bannister, Tektus realized if he smote the heathens besieging Ft Bannister, that Commander Jabsco would, with or without us, move on the city to relieve the siege of the Mall..to save his men...thus serve Atom's Will whether he realized it or not. So Tektus used one of the small relics from the Vessel to release His Holy Light to scour the heathens, and Ft Bannister was saved. Atom's Light also softened Jabsco's heart, and he agreed to join the Crusade, opened their Armory to the Faithful, and as one Talon Company and the Two Thousand marched on the City.

"By small relic", Carruthers said, nearly speechless by what the girl had said, "do you mean Tektus used a nuclear weapon on them?".

"Of course.", Alexandra said matter-of-factly, "Their imaginary god didn't...couldn't...save them from Atom's Light. Nor did it at Alexandria. Or in Falls Church. Or in Chevy Chase. Or in Bethesda...they had finally had enough after Bethesda, and left to the North East, vanquished by Atom."

"After that, it was over", Alexandra said. "There are still some of them out there, raiding from time to time, but they fear Atom's power now so have not dared to send a Army into His land again. My dad helped drive the heathens from the Pentagon, and when Elder Lyon's grave and the Relics of Liberty Prime were found here, this site was declared Holy and the Prophet gave his blessing for him to to dwell here and he sent for mom and me. It's nice, but I liked the Holy Island better....the water there was full of the glow, but here the Purifier takes it all out of the river, so swimming isn't as fun."

"That's unfortunate", Carruthers said, it just now occurring that he should have been recording this.

"It's OK", Alexandra replied, "The Glow is too much for those without the gift to withstand, I understand this." Her voice then became low and husky as she pressed up against his back again and began to toy with his hair, "Speaking of the Gift, Dave, there is something I wanted to discuss with you...."

"O-Ok", Carruthers replied, his mouth going dry as he realized the girl meant to seduce him. "W-wh-what is on your mind?"

He felt her attempt to spin the office chair around, and instinctively raised his feet off the ground so she could spin the chair so he now faced her. She then plopped down in his lap and drew up to him nose to nose. He could see that the pupils of her admittedly lovely brown eyes were dilated like dishpans.

"As you hath received the gift, even so minister the same one to another, as good stewards of the manifold grace of Atom.", she said gravely. "do you understand what that means, Dave?"

He shook his head no, now too flustered to speak.

"It means", she continued, "that as my Mother passed Atom's gift, which she received from her mother, to me in her womb, it is Atom's Will that in turn I share His gift with others, until that glorious day comes in which all the world can join together in His Glow. I've chosen you to help me carry out His will." After a long pause, she continued.

"I want you to give me a child, Dave."

Before he could speak, Sister Jensen walked in through the open door behind Alexandra. She didn't appear surprised.

"Alexandra", Jensen said, "The Confessor would like to speak to you for a moment. Now, please."

She glared at Jensen for a moment, then reluctantly got up and walked around her and down the hall. Once the door to the stairs down the hall slammed shut, Jensen entered the room.

"Sister, I...", Carruthers began, only to be cut off.

"Don't worry about it", she said, patting him on the shoulder then peering at another of the monitors, "The Confessor explained it all to me. They are hoping for at least one pregnancy from our visit, and they've already gotten to Hagen and Garcia so you may as well join in on the fun. They even offered me a husband...so long as I stayed and converted as they don't want the baby brought up an 'unbeliever'...I politely declined of course."

"Why us?", he asked, "surely there are plenty of men around."

"They have a rudimentary understanding of how genetics work", Jensen replied, "they want to avoid inbreeding, they figure the babies you fellows give them will be smarter and healthier than the average Wastelander, and most importantly, they want to spread what they call 'Atom's Gift' as widely as possible."

"She mentioned that", Carruthers said, "Did he say what trait they are attempting to pass on?"

"He claims someone with the Gift has a near total immunity to radiation", she said, "sounds preposterous, but he believes it, and if true it would explain the things I'm hearing." She looked up from the monitor and down at his lap, then back at the monitor again. "Anyway, Alexandra is no doubt a lot cleaner than the whores in Rivet City, not to mention livelier in the sack", she then added dryly, "and clearly she had your attention...."

Embarrassed, Carruthers pushed himself up against the table, much to Jensen's amusement. "For fuck's sake, Liz!", he groused.

"Hello", Jensen said, as data started to come up on her screen, "Got something.....a after action report." She scanned over the report, then went back and began to read it closely.

"Fuck..me...running", Jensen said slowly as she read further. Reports of Vertibirds falling out of the sky, weapons failing to fire, all but the most heavily shielded electronics failing for no reason...if she had been reading this anywhere else she would have assumed it was a sick joke...but it wasn't. "Dave, you have got to read this. Where is Dunwich Borers? Look it up for me."

Carruthers called up the map on his pip boy and looked it up.

"Centreville, Virginia", Carruthers replied after a bit, "About 20 miles West of here."

"Find Hagen and get him warming up the SATCOM right the fuck now even if you have to pry him off his new 'friend'", Jensen said in a tone that brooked no dissent. "You, my friend, have struck paydirt."

High Elder Gladstone – Western Brotherhood of Steel

"Ordnance such as you describe is not prohibited, and with proper deployment should be quite effective against the massed feral attacks the Cult likes to use-"

Gladstone smiled as Barnaky’s tone smoothened over, the abomination was unlikely to have been completely pacified by his own change of tact, but if an outright confrontation could be avoided, then all the better. The High Elders eyes and ears noted the entrance of a gaudy suited man, the Vegas representative if he recalled correctly.

"-I'd love to hear more about your capabilities in these fields, especially in tactical air support."

His attention returned to the Midwestern Brotherhood’s leader at that question. He considered the question, before cautiously replying.

“Whilst our vertibird capabilities number roughly six Vertibirds of now fully operational capability, and plan to produce more, the Western Brotherhood has invested in more readily secured and easily produced prop aircraft. Specifically a force of fifteen A-1 Skyraiders for ground attack, as well as three B-17s for a dedicated bombing role. We have a range of anti-infantry and anti-armour systems ready for usage.”

Gladstone paused to wet his lips.

“However, should this war last into next year, we should have jet aircraft in service in a tactical and strategic role. Such development is necessary considering the ease of constructing rudimentary anti-air capability against prop aircraft by raider elements. In addition to this, our scribes are building on pre-war experimentation with precision guided bombs should a decapitation strike become necessary in the event of usage of civilian elements as cover.”

Turning away from Barnaky once he had finished, Gladstone addressed “The King” as the man called himself.

“Mr, King, I would be pleased if our nations could come to an arrangement concerning an irritant to the both of our lands. It is my belief that an entente between the Western Brotherhood, Vegas and the Legion should be formed to both contain the NCR and deter it from any future acts of aggression. Would you be open to such an arrangement? And of course, the reopening of trade between our lands would also be on the table as well.”

---

---

The Grim guardians did had to slow his usual pace, as the Heiress of the prophet was strolling next to him, seemingly in an excellent mood, as she was singing loudly, clapping her hands at times and sometimes even snapping her fingers. For him, it was incredible annoying to behold, yet he could do little to keep her from acting in this strange, enthusiastic way. Yet, as far as he knew, it had been the first time that she had been out of the Pitt, so her happiness seemed at least in some way justified. He still was wondering where she had learned about these songs though, as he never had seen anyone singing in the holy city itself.



The Guardian raised an eyebrow, as he was sure that nobody inside the cult would dare to sing such a verse, not with mutantions being seen as a sign of the Monoliths favor. Humming in the tune, Marie grinned wider as she began to move her hands to music seemingly only she could hear. "Is the Heiress feeling alright?" He recived no answer, as the girl continued her tune. For a moment the Guardian considered to raise his hand to signal danger, only to finally get her to stop, yet she had a strange talent for seeing through lies.



Finally, even the Guardian could no longer take it. "Will you finally stop singing, honored Heiress? I need to keep my attention on the road and on the noises around us!" For a moment, the girl simply looked at him, then tilted her head, a grin growing on her lips. "StOp SiNgInG, hOnOrEd HEiReSS" Waving her guardian off, like some nasty fly, she sprinted forward on the road, forcing the guardian to rush after her. He cursed under his mask, as the heavy set warrior sprinted along the road.
Years of cult activity had stripped it clean of any vehicles, and most ruins had been clubbed down, to find the wealth of copper and other metals hidden behind in the walls. Still close to the holy city, trouble was yet not to be expected, yet the roads still held its dangers.
Thousands of words ran through the Guardians head, insults he wanted to scream at this brat, yet he could not let her out of his eyes for a second. The wound in his left leg burned, as he watched her run to the edge of the bridge, where once a river had crossed the land. The bridge had given in a long time ago, its carcass still shattered. Yet right on the edge, the Heiress stopped, and the Guardian had a chance to catch up.

Looking down from the edge of the bridge, into the dry bed of the long-gone river, the Guardian saw what had stopped the heiress. "Junkers..." The Guardian grunted, as he recalled this place once more, back when the bridge had been still standing tall. The world around it had looked so different back then, with a city being build on top of it, proudly defying the cult and the faith. Its ruins had burned so bright and high, that it could have been seen from the holy city itself. "We need to walk another way, Heiress...would you be so kind and follow me?" Marie did not move, but instead silently stood at he edge of the bridge. "Will Detroit at some point look like this? Or Chicago? Or New York?" The Guardian turned back to her, before nodding with a grin behind his mask. "The whole world will look like this, honored Heiress, at least all who defy the true faith and the prophet!" The Guardian could not ignore the scowl and sour look on Maries face, as she looked at the ruins, while her hands formed fists. "I see..."

Indiana Border

A solemn figure clutched at his disheveled cloak as he pressed his hands against a pitifully low burning fire, one he’d attempted to keep burning since the early morning. The wastelander sat atop one of the bluffs overlooking old Highway 36. The sorry excuse for a meal he’d tried to prepare with the meagre amount of wood and kindling he’d been able to gather this morning was little more than a radroach, and it was not nearly fully cooked. It was disgusting, but it was protein and energy. He would need both if he expected to make his way to Tuscola. His flight from the Cult’s ever growing reach had been a hard one, and he was desperately hoping to take refuge in Brotherhood lands. It was his only choice.

As the wastelander sat there, cursing his poor fortune and the empty stomach that he’d suffered with all last night, he became keenly aware of some sort of commotion coming down the Highway. While he’d camped on the bluffs, he’s campsite was well out of sight of the road, and so he quickly sat up and crept his way through the underbrush and over to the edge, deciding it best to keep a low profile while tried to ascertain the source of the strange sounds.

His eyes widened with astonishment. Thousands of men marched below him with armor unlike any he’d seen before. The column stretched on for miles, engulfing the road in a tide of crimson. He backed away immediately….he knew he had to leave. If there was an army this large marching through, then they’d almost certainly…..

“Hold there wastel…”

….have scouts.

He turned to find three soldiers coming up behind him from the treeline, each wore the same strange armor as the army that marched below. A snarling dog was held tightly by one of them. Two held rifles, while one held a sharpened spear at the ready. They conversed with one another in a language he couldn’t hope to understand. The one with the spear approached him.

“I’m not a sp...” He tried to say before the butt of the spear crashed against his head, and his vision went dark.

Dunwich Borers LLC Quarry

“No wait! Please!” A raider scrambled desperately backwards on the floor, hand outstretched in a plea for mercy: something he himself would never have extended to his many victims. X6 continued approaching the man coldly with pistol raised. Without the word the Courser shot the man through the head with a single blue tinged laser blast and simply stepped over his body.

X6 looked up and out the open window of the overlooking structure towards the Quarry below. All along the rim and basin of the carved rock face, blue tinged laser fire burnt flesh, leather, and armor as a force of Coursers eradicated the raiders that had taken up residence here. The rag-tag group of wasteland junkies stood little chance against the deadly efficiency of the Institute’s attack dogs. The surprise attack was over in mere moments, leaving only a few remaining wounded to mop up. X6 turned to acknowledge one of his Coursers approaching up the gantry to give his report,

“All of the surface dwellers have been killed sir. The rest have fled deeper into the Quarry.”

“We’ll follow them in shortly,” X6 said as he popped the spent energy cell out of his pistol and replaced it with a fresh one, “Now that they’re aware of our attack. They’re bound to be more prepared now. I will signal the scavenger teams and inform them that the surface is clear to begin their investigation.”

The Institute - Advanced Systems Laboratory

“The power requirements alone will be staggering Director. I’m not entirely sure we can even guarantee enough with the reactor fully online and the entire Eastern Massachusetts power grid at our disposal. And what about our...associate in this matter?” Dr. Madison Li stood inside her office glaring at Thomas, her perpetually sour faced expression had not changed one iota in the past fifteen minutes. As always, Li tried to be the voice of reason, or in the opinion of some of the Advanced Systems team: a spoil sport.

“He’s more than capable of figuring it out,” Thomas replied, “ And with Hoover Dam operational, he should have what we needs on his end as well. Need I remind you this is a trial run Dr. Li, you have to break a few eggs to make an omelet......I assume that’s still an expression people use now?”

Madison sighed, “It is...and very well. I’ll make sure my team is ready for the power transfer. I’ll do my best to prepare them. We’d better notify SRB as well...this energy spike could be huge.”

“Everyone who needs to know, already does,” Thomas said with a smirk, “You can be sure of that, Dr. Li.”

The Dunwich Building - near the Centreville ruins

The building sat as it always had, silent as the grave under an uncaring sky. On the old parking lot surrounding the ancient, crumbling edifice, a camp had been pitched. The tents and awnings would have been little comfort to anyone sheltering them, as the ancient asphalt still exposed baked under the noonday sun, making it somewhat uncomfortable even under the awnings....but no complaints, or anything else could be heard, only the sound of a hot eastern breeze whistling past the ropes of the pitched tents. Beside that, and the occasional pop or ping from the steel of the rusting cars scattered around the lot expanding under the scorching heat, not a sound could be heard...not the squeals of a mole rat, or cries of a crow, or even the chirp of a rad-roach. suddenly, however, the silence was broken as four Vertibirds, bearing the insignia of the Midwestern Brotherhood, popped up over the hills just to the south of the old building. The Vertibirds quickly approached, and from them, tense and vigilant eyes scrutinized the building and the area around it for threats. Drone and Eyebot surveillance had spotted no movement in the camp, but the battle-hardened men were taking no chances. The Vertibirds slowed, then stopped, hovering over clear spots in and around the parking lot just long enough for the armored Knights waiting at the open doors to step out and fall fifty feet to the ground below, the ground shaking as they landed in quick succession. Their troops deployed, the Vertibirds accelerated away, taking up station orbiting the area from several hundred yards out, ready to pounce if the enemy was spotted.

Forming up with practiced efficiency, the Knights, weapons at the ready, swept through the camp, looking for it's occupants. But not a soul was there, and from the layer of dust from the never-ending dust storms the Capital Wasteland was plagued with that covered everything, no-one had been there for some time...months, or perhaps even a year or more. A cursory search turned up weapons, ammunition, equipment...even papers...seemingly just left behind by the Enemy, along with their fortified camp, but no sign of the Cultists occupying this place. In one tent, they found a short-wave transceiver that had been left on, it's fission battery eventually discharging completely. Oddly enough, they also found the dried and moldy remains of meals being prepared in pots over long dead campfires, and even plates and mess kits with partially eaten meals in them. It was as if the occupants had just suddenly walked away and abandoned the camp and whatever mission they had been assigned....or had vanished into thin air.

"I don't know what creeps me out more", Knight-Lieutenant Stone said to the armored figure at her side, unlike the rest wearing a battered old suit of Enclave Mk II Armor, repainted with the livery of the Talon Company, "That the freaks just up and vanished, or that scavvers didn't pick this place clean afterward."

"Doesn't suprise me a bit", Captain Geisler replied, "No Wastelander in their right mind comes out here since the Cult War....too close to the Deadlands. What few people that did live down this way got dragged off to god knows where....except for the crazy Nuka-Cola lady that used to live up in Girdershade, she hid in the old overpass North of here. She says they made camp around this building for about a week then suddenly pulled up stakes and split up, once force marching North and the other East. Brotherhood tangled with them near Warrington Station...from all the downed Vertibirds out there they lost badly. Rest of them up and left after that. The other group came for us....we tried to make a stand at Evergreen Mills with what Raiders were lucid enough to talk to, but there were just too many....they pushed us back and pinned us down at Ft Bannister while the rest of them headed for the DC Ruins. We thought we were totally fucked...until the Children dropped a nuke on them out of the blue and we were able to get a handle on what was left, anyhow."

"But yeah", he added, "this place gives me the fucking creeps. Our patrols don't run this far south so I have no idea when these people moved in or when they left."

One by one, the squad leaders checked in...no contacts. Stone looked at the building in the center of the parking lot, and shivered a bit in her suit. The ancient structure glowered down at them. While no movement was spotted in the blank, grimy windows, but she couldn't shake the feeling she was being watched by something truly malevolent.

"Command", Stone said into her radio, "Bravo Actual. LZ secure, we are ready to receive the reclamation team."

"Acknowledged, Bravo Actual", came the reply, "Reclamation team en route, ETA 15 minutes. Be advised, weather radar shows a Force 2 rad storm headed your way from the SE, ETA 3 hours. Evac will not be available until it passes, window predicted to be 2-4 hours."

"Very well", Stone said, "We'll make do. Bravo Actual out."

Administration Building, Labor Camp 12 - Hibbing, Minnesota

Battalion Leader Walton's withered hand shook a little as he read the message it held, a message that had just come in from Omaha on the radio-teletype. His first thought upon reading it was that they were on to him...but his mind rejected that as illogical. If they knew, they wouldn't have sent this message...they would have sent a Inquisitor Team backed up by a Company of Knights. He put down the message, and poured himself a stiff drink, then pulled out a key on a chain from under his uniform jacket and opened the safe behind him and took out two books and a map. consulting all three and scribbling down hasty calculations. After the first round was done, he snarled in frustration at the results and did them again....only to be confronted with the same bleak figure."

"A week", he thought bitterly, "A week, at most, before this will be impossible."

He stared at the tumbler of bourbon for what seemed like an eternity, then he finally picked it up and drained it in one gulp, and slammed it back onto the table, then stood up and straightened his jacket, then slipped the message into a pocket.

"So be it", Walton said aloud in his gravely ghoul voice, "We'll go now then."

Leaving his office, he headed for, and exited the main gate, heading for the small cluster of buildings near the train station. Passing a General Store, and a couple of bars, he came to his goal, a building with a pair of guards...pimply faced Wastelanders too green to be sent to the Front...sitting listlessly by the door, their rifles propped up against the wall next to them as they played cards. Above the door was a sign saying "Mimi's" with a woman's leering face on it. the artistry was just good enough to capture a passably lewd expression. Spotting his approach, they sullenly got to their feet and made an attempt to present arms. Once, he would have torn them a new asshole, but he didn't care anymore.

"As you were", Walton growled as he opened the door and stalked in, slamming it shut behind him. Standing at the end of the short foyer, was the greeter, a decent looking brunette in a black girdle and fishnet stockings. The shock bracelet on her left ankle marked her as a prisoner. A brothel staffed by prisoners....one of the many hypocrisies of Barnaky's Regime. Inside the camp a guard..all ghouls now as the War consumed more and more lives...would be shot for having sex with a prisoner. Custodial Rape, the Lex Barnaky called it. But if she agreed to be contracted out to a brothel, the same woman could pull ten hour shifts servicing locals and the free workers out here for the benefit of herself, her employer, and the State. How that was supposed to 'Re-educate' anyone was a complete mystery to him.

"Evening, Boss", she said with a smirk, "I'm sorry...but I'm required at this time to inform you that under Section 512 of the Lex Barnaky, sexual intercourse with ghouls is an offense punishable by no less than thirty da..."

"If you prefer peddling your ass here to hauling taconite, you'll kindly shut the fuck up", Walton snapped, cutting her off mid-sentence, "where is she?"

"Up-upstairs, Battalion Leader", the prisoner replied fearfully. While hardly a death sentence, mining taconite was dirty and unpleasant work and she knew Walton could easily arrange for the privilege of working here to be revoked and she'd be back in the Pit. "She's either cleaning Room 12 or 14."

"Much better", Walton replied with a leer as he walked past her and headed for the stairs. As he walked down the hallway, past rooms where giggling, moans of pleasure, or just the creaking of bed-springs indicated they were in use. He saw the door to Room 12 was open and could hear movement inside. Looking inside, he saw a woman in a orange jumpsuit with a red triangle on the back bend over and pick up a used condom off the floor with a gloved hand and with a flick of her wrist fling it into a bag attached to her mop bucket. He'd never asked her if she "worked" here or not...he didn't really care. As girls from all three of the Iron Range Camps worked here, it was the perfect way for her to spread her web throughout the Camp system right under the nose of the security chiefs and the Inquisition so he pulled strings and made it happen. She then looked up and noticed him, her expression changing to mild surprise as she straightened back up. Walton silently held up his hand and gestured for him to follow and retreated from the door. She exited, and he followed her to the linen closet, which she entered and he followed her inside and quietly closed the door behind him.

"You shouldn't be here", the woman said in as low a voice as she could manage. "They always ask if any of the girls are servicing ghouls on the side...perverts."

"Doesn't matter anymore", Walton replied quietly as he pulled out the note and thrust it at her. "read it and weep."

She unfolded the paper and scanned it, then looked up at him.

"Pretend I'm slow...", she hissed, "...and explain what this means to me."

"Omaha is sending an Infantry Brigade up here", Walton explained, "Given the clusterfuck in Michigan...I can't imagine why, but they are. My orders are to supply laborers to build a camp for them by the docks. They'll be here in a week...ten days tops. And if we're still here when they arrive, we're well and truly fucked."

"I take it you have a plan?", she asked bitterly.

"We stick to the original plan, just move it up", Walton said, "Next scheduled ore freighter arrives in Duluth in three days....it's then or never." He plucked the message from her fingers and put it back into his pocket, and added as he opened the door. "Expect reassignment to the detail that will be sent to Duluth tomorrow..spread the word and notify our mutual friend that we're coming early or not at all. If we make it through the Passage, we'll be there in two days from when we leave so he has five to prepare."

---

---

---

The engine woke with the fury of a wounded deathclaw, as Thunderfoot woke it. One mile away from him, he knew his opponent would do the same. Then, the shot rang through the silence, and with a roar, he gave power to the wheels, as the red bike broke lose. Speed was gained quickly, as Thunderfoot could hear the cheering and chanting behind him. Yet his eyes were on his front, where the cloud of dust came towards him. His enemies bike must have been heavier and slower, most likely with sickles on his wheels and plates of armor on it.
The mile shrank more and more, as he finally could see his enemy and his eyes grew in fear.

"A Trike..."

He was taller, broader and stronger then he, and for a moment, Thunderfoot felt the fear that his fellow companions had for the road-captain he was facing. Holding his handles with one hand, he reached for the lance, bound to his back. The roaring sound of the trike easily muffled out any sound in the surrounding, yet Thunderfoot easily could tell that there was no way he could head on approach it without being crushed by its heavy frame. Cursing under his mask, his heart began to pump so fast in his chest, that for a second he felt like it would shatter. He could see the face of the old road captain, his lance pointed right at him, barley hundred meters away. He would impale him, and if not, easily crush his bike with his heavy vehicle, shattering his bones on the ground below, rolling over his body with high speed and leaving him to bleed out on the asphalt, broken and defeated...

---

Then he was passed him, the lance still in his hand, Thunderfoot had turned the bike in the last moment, to evade both his enemies lance and the glittering sickles on his wheels. Far in the distance, he could see the men of the road-captains chapter, howling at him, and most likely cursing him for not taking the first attack, yet Thunderfoot knew better. Speeding down the highway towards him, she knew, that if he would cross the one-mile, he would be free for them to shoot at, killing as a coward, fleeing the duel. He would have to face the trike again, yet his mind already formed a plan. Reducing his speed, he turned his head, seeing that the Trike already had began its process of turning for a second attack. Hitting the break, the wheels squealed like a dying brahmin, yet finally his bike halted, close enough to the end of the mile, that he could spot the hissing 80s behind the thin line of oil.

"FACE THE CAPTAIN, YOU COWARD!"

Thunderfoot ignored them, as he turned his bike, the lance heavy in his right hand, made of metal and decorated with ribbons of countless colors. Its tip had been sharpened, yet its length would never be enough to allow him to impale his enemy, without crushing his bike on the armor of the trike, or being impale himself by the lance of his enemy. Pulling off the mask from his face, he spat out, before once more giving life to the engine and roaring down the mile, towards his enemy. Fear pulsated in his chest, as he screamed it out, hoping to land a lucky strike on the wheels this time. The distance melted in seconds, and once more, Thunderfoot could spot the face of his enemy in front of him.

"FOR THE ETERNAL HIGHWAY!"

Thunderfoot stood up in the saddle of his bike leaning sideways as he tried to once more move his bike past the trike, yet this time, his enemy had changed his tactic. Taking cover behind the armor in the front, he did not even used his lance, but simply tried to crush him with the superior weight of his vehicle. Thunderfoot screamed, as he tore the handles to the side, trying to evade, yet this time, there simply was to little time. The sickle bit cold and hard into his leg, and the sudden impact made him lose his balance. Falling forward, his chest collided with the handles in front of him, as the spear, still locked into his arm and shoulder slided over the ground. Sparks flew, as the friction tore his arm backwards, before a nasty snapping noise followed.

He was able to let go of the lance, yet the pain was incredible. Gasping, a numb coldness filled his mind, as the bike began to stagger, then leaned far left. Seconds felt like an eternity, and the wold turned darker...

---

He did not felt his good remaining hand moving forward, as he suddently once more held onto the handles, his bike back straight, roaring towards his own men, who´s fear he could spot in their pale faces. Glaring at them, he tried to give a re-assuring war-cry, yet all that left his mouth was a dry croaking, as he stopped his bike before the line of oil, this time on his own side.

Looking on his shoulder, he could feel, rather then see, his dislocated arm pulsating like on fire, while his leg bleed heavily. He had still been lucky, for the sickle had been easily able to tear his leg straight off. Far in the distance, he could hear the triumphant horn of the trike. Spitting out, Thunderfoot turned his bike around once more, before reaching for his belt. Only his club and tomahawk remained, and with a grunt, he pulled out the later. The pipe with nails in it felt heavy in his good hand, yet it gave him a satisfying feel to once more wield a weapon. An idea had peaked in his mind, and with a kick, he gave his bike once more life, roaring back for the next confrontation.

---

This time, he would not lower his speed, but give full throttle, as the trike approached. Guiding the vehicle with one hand, while still holding onto the tomahawk was dangerous, yet the Trike took the challenge as Thunderfoot knew he would have. Once more the dust flew around them, as both duelist knew that this would be the last confrontation. The Road-Captain raised his spear, if as an insult or a salute, Thunderfoot could not tell, he clearly took him off guard, as he made no sign of moving out of the trikes way. Taking the left side in this exchange, the Trike driver suddenly seemed to realize that Thunderfoot was not carrying a lance, yet it was to late to move away. Trying to hit him with his lance, Thunderfoot pushed himself back, raising the front wheel of his bike, before letting go of the handle.

Then he threw the tomahawk, before he felt the trike pass, and the sickles of the wheel cross inches below his feet. Then, the two duelist had passed once more. Pushing his weight back forward, Thunderfoot took back the handle of his bike, and lowered the speed, before halting his bike by hitting the breaks. Trying to catch his breath, he looked over his shoulder, and his heart stopped, as he saw the trike still moving forward with the same old speed. The tomahawk seemed to have missed, and he would be left only with his club...left to be crushed on the one mile.

Then the trike drifted off the road, down into the sand, until the wheels finally rolled out....

Now, it was the screams of celebration from his men that broke the silence...

---

---

The meat of the molerat was bloody and though, yet the chapter had lacked time to roast it for the full day. Taking camp on the hill, Thunderfoot had ordered that half the Brahmins of the last raid should be left alive, so that they could trade them in for gasoline and water at the next chance, but had ordered his men to hunt. Today had been a lucky day, and at least some of the fires had meat over them. Vagari thanked the heavens for the chance, as he eagerly digged his teeth into the meat, sitting on the ground near the fire, close to his master, who glared into the flames.
"And you are sure about these numbers, Shinji?" The concern in his masters voice was hidden, yet Vagari could hear it. Yet this was a situation to be worried, so it was not out of place. "I am! 500 men have arrived this morning, i have counted them." Shinji, as if wanting to prove his point, raised the leg he was eating, as he loudly chewed with his mouth open. "Close your mouth, and learn to count." The engine whisperer muttered as he himself took a a swing from his bottle of beer. "There is no way that the Khans would send 500 men to support Shout-Thunder!"

Spitting out some skin, Shinji grinded his teeth, yet then himself drowned his anger with a sip of beer. With a sigh, the slave coughed, before placing his meat on his plate, before raising his own voice."500, in addition to Shout-Thunders own 300, that makes 900 Warriors against our,what 200? I know little of war and bravery, as proud and educated Shinji quite often reminds me but may i inquire how we plan on beating such numbers?" The engine whisperer grinned, as Shinji seemed to almost choke on his beer, before throwing the slave an angry glare. "By binding you to the front of my bike and letting you soak the bullets! Rotting bastards!" The slave snapped his teeth like a mechanic trap, before once more pulling out some meat from his plate.

Thunderfoot was still glaring into the flames, his own food untouched. "We dont have to fight them. We can still evade them for now, and the border is not far! Khans wont risk the wrath of Vegas. There is good money over there as well! Rich caravans, soft travelers and gamblers. Not like the scraps we can pick of the Khans trade routes.." The mentioning of Vegas woke something in Thunderfoots eyes, as the young leader of the Exiles shaked his head. "Vegas would ruin us, sooner or later! Be it by sending their metal-men on wheels after us, or...men venture into Vegas, and it turns them sick! The place changes them, makes them weak in spirit and body. Now, i can choose not to go there, but what if the offer comes when i am starving? Will i be strong enough to deny the lights of Vegas for the honor of our ancestors? No, we wont go to Vegas, not yet!"

Shinji gave an approving grin, as he leaned forward. "South then? The legion has been bloodied, and their eyes are elsewhere! They dont have the tech Vegas has! We can slip past their guards, take what we want and if they want a battle...they shall have one! We shall cut the bulls balls off and throw them back at them!" Hammering his hand against his chest, he looked around, at the rest of the warriors who were granted a seat on the fire of the leader. Some nodded and grunted in approval. "It would mean to abandon the highway! And then what? You want our souls to forever roam the lands, seeking the path to the stars? Besides, i do not plan on becoming a petty raider like so many other road-captains."

Silence took over the group, and Vagari raised his voice once more. "You still have an army to back your words up, Thunderfoot. If you were to approch Shout-Thunder and surrender, i am sure he would grant you clemency! As far as i understand he was a lieutenant of your father AND holds the Khans trust!" Vagari had expected a storm of outrage, yet what he got was a hissing like an swarm of cazadores. "The Outlander-Slave is right, Chief." The engine-whisperer threw in, placing his bottle at his feet. "I remember Shout-Thunder, he loved you father like a brother. If you ride to him at dawn, and present him your sign, he will give you one of his own, and allow you to ride behind him! He is a kind man...but he has taken the khans gasoline, and will execute his justice for what we have done!"

Shinji jumped up, the plate falling from his lap, as the bald black man was stomping towards the chief. "Talk of surrender? Is that what your father would want to hear? Let these wreched women cry as much as they like! We still can ride west! With 500 Khagante warriors there is no way that they could catch us!" The engine whisperer sight, as he looked at the meat in the dust and at the beer pouring into the dirt. "Our fuel wont last further then Oasis! And our water is already almost gone. Sure, we can always leave the walker behind, but even then, we wouldnt even get close to the border! Which..." The sentence needed not to be finished, as everyone knew, that the NCR would never again tolerate any 80s in their territory.

"There is a third way, besides running and surrendering! A way nobody of you seems to be able to see!" Thunderfoot rose from his seat, before walking closer to the fire. "I can challange Shout-Thunder to a one-mile duel!" Silence followed, with Shinji grinning into the round, while the engine-whisperer took a sip from his private flask. The other Mem-bar warriors began to mutter with each other. "May i inquire why Shout-Thunder should accept such an duel? He has no reason to do so." The mechanic clicked with his tongue, before kicking up some dirt in the direction of the slave. "You should shut up about matters you dont understand, slave! Shout-Thunder will accept...but you wont want him to, Thunderfoot! He has fought more of these duels then he can count, and he never has lost a single one. He is a fearsome warrior, and as strong as a super-mutant! Boy, there is no shame in surrendering to such an opponent! He will treat you like a son, IF you show him repentance."

The chief said nothing, as he kept staring in the flames, before nodding to Shinji. "I want you to ride as fast as you can to their camp, and shout out my challange so that all can hear it! Nobody shall claim ignorance over it! Tell them that Thunderbirds son, is coming for a traitors blood..." The Engine-whisper coughed, as he spat out some of his booze. "You want to call him a traitor? Friend of your father or not, he will kill you for this insult!" Thunderfoots hands formed fists, as he turned to the engine-whisperer. "He is a traitor! He has taken the Khans gasoline, and lead his chapter in his name. If he would have pissed on my fathers body still warm, it would have not been a greater insult! Now, i am going to pray.."

With that, the young chief walked off, calmly as water, yet the old slave could see the shiver in his arms. He would not pray, but most likely empty his bowls in fear. He was afraid of what was to come, yet he did it anyway...once more Vagari could tell, that Thunderfoot had the makings of a great leader, yet also of one who would most likely die tomorrow.

---

---

The injection of the Stimpack numbed the pain a little, as Vagari was pushing the arm. Yet still, Thunderfoot broke his promise not to scream, as the dislocated shoulder was pushed back in place. Gasping, he looked at his slave, almost falling from his bike. "C..cant you put in some more of it? The..the pain is a nightmare." The slave grinded his teeth, before looking into his masters face. "I may put some of it into this empty head of yours, trying to see if i can wake a single cell in your brain! You should get off this bike and lay down..now hold still.."

Thunderfoot still held onto the bloody sign of the I80, which he had cut from the body Shout-Thunder. The old road Captain had been dead when he had reached his Trike, his tomahawk still embedded in his neck. Closing his eyes, Thunderfoot could not help but feel regret over having to kill this man, recalling him from a time that felt like an half-forgotten dream.

The sharp pain on his leg brought him back, as this time he did fell from his bike, as the slave was pushing the hot metal against the wound, after he had injected the rest of the stim into the wound. "HIGHWAY ABOVE...RIDING ETERNAL...NEVER FEEL PAIN AGAIN...AHHHHHH!" A strong arm helped him back on his feet, as Shinji lifted him back on his bike. "The Khans are getting ready to attack! Even if Shout-Thunders men are not with them, they still outnumbering us 2 to 1...lets get out of here, now!"

Maybe it was the fever, or the adrenaline, but as Thunderfoot was looking over to the warriors of Shout-Thunder, he simply could not turn his back to them, even with the Khans approching from the south. Once more, he woke the engine of his bike, shooting back onto the highway. His right shoulder was numb and swollen, and he could feel his leg pulsating as if it would fall of any moment. Yet the single mile was easy to cross. Hundreds of 80s, Mem-bar warriors and Prospects alike, glared at him. Would they attack him? Thunderfoot was not sure, yet for the moment he felt fully immortal. Slowing his pace, he raised the sign he had taken from Shout-Thunder and presented it to his own chapter. "YOU SEE THIS? THIS IS SHOUT-THUNDERS SIGN! HE DIED ON THIS MILE, BY MY HAND!"

He was not sure what he had expect, yet it was for sure not silence. Turning his bike, he once more drove by, as he could see the cloud of the Khan warriors getting bigger and bigger, the first shots being fired in the air. "HE DIED LIKE A TRUE 80! HE DIED WELL.." The words felt like hot Irons in Thunderfoots mouth, as he croaked them out, still not seeing any reaction from the men in front of him. All the confidence from his victory fell from him. Had he been a fool? Why would they join him? He was not his father, and the Khans had given them so much. A bitter cold ran over his back.

The first bikes turned, as some of the warriors in front of him turned away from him, some even spatting out in front of his feet, while others still glared at him. "I AM GONNA FIGHT THE KHANS! BE IT ALONE IF I HAVE TO! BUT I DO SO AS AN 80! YOU CAN RUN OFF NOW, AND SOON TOSS AWAY YOUR SIGNS, AFTER YOU MARRIED KHANGANATE WOMEN...AND SEE YOUR CHILDREN GROW UP AS ANYTHING BUT WHAT YOU ONCE WERE!" It was desperation and fear that drove his words, yet suddently a single cheer came from the mass in front of him. "Fuck it, i am with you!" A single prospect broke off from the group, and rode towards him, before taking place behind Thunderfoot. "Whats your name, friend." Thunderbird still felt his heart pumping, as he fought not to fall out of his saddle. "Burned-her-hair...please dont ask.."

"Burned-her-hair! I will give you a true warbike after this is over! And for the rest of you...YOU WANT TO TELL YOUR ANCESTORS ONE DAY, THAT THIS WAS THE DAY WHEN YOU ABANDONED THE HIGHWAY AND TURNED YOUR BACK ON THEM? THE DAY THAT YOU DID NOT CHARGED WITH THE SON OF THUNDERBIRD? SO BE IT....BUT FOR THEY WHO WANT TO BE ABLE TO LOOK INTO THEIR ANCESTORS EYES, I SAY ONE THING...10 slaves for the man who brings me the first Khan head!" Now there was cheer, and suddently the feeling of immortality returned. Raising his good arm, Thunderfoot waved his own men in the distance, before hundreds of engines roared up like one.

Thunderfoot had only a single slave to his chapter, and he would not give that one away, but as he watched his horde roar past him, into battle, he knew, that after all this, he would be able to solve this problem as well!

As the Confederation Congress hammered through another session, Robert Harris anxiously enjoyed a guilty mannerism of his: fiddling with his old brass pipe. He hadn’t smoked in years to protect his papery ghoulish lungs, but it was still a thing to only be touched in private. The people in the capitol building may be publicly elected officials, obliged to manners and politically correct behavior, but showing any weakness could be dangerous. Especially for a ghoul. Despite holding two of the highest offices in the land, any small weakness arising from his condition could be pounced upon by his opponents. He could see it making the cheap newspapers tomorrow: “President Harris Can’t Control His Hands! Is He Going Feral?”

Fortunately, he was obliged to be primarily in his office on this day. When Congress was in session, he wasn’t allowed in the room. A symbolic and ineffectual measure to show an illusion of Congress’s divorce from the executive offices of Texas. Today was especially important, because it was another voting day. For months, policies had been worked out in committees, debated over, bartered for, and bought on some occasions. Hundreds of hours of work from the lowliest aid to himself had led to this. It built up to a few weeks of final decisions, last minute provisions, and voting rituals. He was happy he didn’t have to participate, though he still knew everything that would come out of the room.

The Destinists would win the day. An informal association of warhawks, frontier politicians, nationalists, ranchers, farmers, ocean traders, and other interested businessmen. New Dallasians had supported them the hardest of the states, but the others had strong sympathies towards them as well. Their primary goals were expansionism justified on the right of the Confederation’s democratic and humanist ideals, growing Texas’s international presence, westward expansion, and intervention in the Keynesian Civil War. Their name was a blatant reference to the old pre-war ideal of Manifest Destiny. Harris could see why they garnered so much support. The world outside of Texas was becoming an increasingly threatening place. The people were frightened by word of the new war in the Gulf, the onslaught of the Cult and Midwest in the east, and the stunning loss of New California against the Legion. The world was rapidly devolving to a state not unlike the Pre-War days: an age of wolves. He had only supported them lightly, as some of their initiatives were too hawkish. One man called for a full embargo on the Legion and the Midwest, which would be frankly disastrous. Many were hostile to his goals of a peaceful trading relationship with those powers, but he felt he could get it through.

There was a knock on the door. Harris set the pipe down, straightened the brown wig he wore, and invited him in, expecting his messenger. It was him, a slight man named Nathaniel, with another man Harris at once recognized and another he did not. It was Base Commander Jensen Banks of the Texas Rangers and Fort Bliss. And with him was a man dressed like a soldier of the NCR. There was a hesitant moment, where no one was sure who should speak first. Harris took the lead, standing up and putting on a grin appropriate for unfamiliar men “Gentlemen?”

Nathaniel spoke first. “This is Brigadier General Garcia.” Brigadier General Garcia stepped forward to shake his hand over the desk. Though he looked lean in the uniform, his handshake was firm. His eyes were steely, but watery at the corners. “These men have flown from Fort Bliss to discuss an urgent foreign policy matter.”

“The Legion are playing at peace,” Garcia started abruptly. “They’ve called a conference in Santa Fe.” His tone was hard to puzzle out. On one hand, he sounded like he wanted nothing more than to march to Santa Fe with his men. On the other, he sounded defeated.

“Lucius’s messenger told us that he’s willing to negotiate terms regarding the final condition of the New California Republic and the status of the NCR troops we’ve been housing at Fort Bliss,” Banks elaborated. He paused and opened a red envelope he’d been holding, pulled out the message, and read it. “I, Caesar Lucius, Imperator of The Legion invite you to a meeting of delegates in the Legion’s capital of Santa Fe to determine the future of the West Coast and of our respective nations. Safe passage is guaranteed throughout Legion territory to all those that bear Caesar's mark.”

There was a quiet moment as all four men processed the message. For most of their lives, the Legion had been a far western boogie man. A horde that was the antithesis to what had been worked for in Texas and California for decades. But the game was changing.

“Sir, I believe we should leave as soon as possible,” Banks said, breaking the silence. “This could be an unprecedented foreign policy opportunity.”

Garcia nodded. “The New California Republic would appreciate Texas taking a lead on this. Tsu has his hands full.”

Harris had no need for hesitation. “Very well. Once the proper notifications have been made, we will leave.”

“There is one more matter, Mr. President” spoke Nathaniel. “Congress has done it. The isolationists have ceded ground. They’ve authorized you to use military force against the Southern Liberal Alliance, operations in Oklahoma, and a number of other things.”

Harris nodded grimly. War would have to wait until matters in the west were solved now.



Santa Fe was a surreal place. The aqueducts and crucifixions reminded him of the old Pre-War historic epic holovids, where slaves fought in coliseums and legions marched through the streets towards victories in Gaul. Only those images had been transplanted from books and Hollywood to the American Southwest. It was a kind of false reality, a place built on artificially placed symbols. An attempt to shroud the institutions of despotism with a romantic sense of purpose and nobility. But as he walked through the streets of the place past hundreds of people doing their jobs, it was hard to call their culture fake. Countries had tried to claim the legacy of Caesar for centuries after the original anyways.

They had flown from New Austin to Santa Fe in a quick enough journey, but they had been delayed by taking the precaution of stopping in Fort Bliss to clear their small plane with the Legion over the radio before entering their airspace. From the only recently refurbished Santa Fe Regional Airport, they had been quickly led by finely armored Legion warriors into the city by foot. The airport was underpopulated except for a few ominous Midwestern jets. The entourage of Texans and Californians in suits and military gear was at odds with their ancient surroundings. Their escort had no reaction to Harris’s ghoulism nature, but the average citizens of the Legion gawked. Meanwhile, both Texan and NCR rangers in the company wore the infamous Ranger combat armor. A coincidence arising from the Pre-War Ranger School in Fort Bliss that trained U.S. Army Rangers for the Gobi Desert. The Rangers were considered necessary in heart of Caesar's power. A turn of events could lead them into a firefight.

The building they were eventually led into was surprisingly modest. A classically styled Pre-War library that was further romanized and embellished. A faded “Santa Fe Library” sign was curiously left up. The praetorian guards in the courtyard snapped to attention with impeccable decorum. Rather than being faced with another gauntlet of soldiers upon entering, a brown haired woman in a simple dress faced them.

“Salve," she said, "I am Hannah of New Canaan. Welcome to Santa Fe on behalf of my husband, Caesar Lucius. And welcome to our home, please make yourselves comfortable inside.”

“An honor to meet you,” Harris shook her hand. And then Jensen repeated the gesture. Garcia, however, was distracted by one of Caesar’s trophies. It gave himself a moment of pause. Inside a glass case, on a carefully folded NCR flag, was a 9mm semiautomatic pistol, a well made leather holster for it marked with the NCR Bear and three stars, and a Tankers helmet, as well as what appeared to be a red vehicle ID plate emblazoned with the three white stars of a Lieutenant General and a NCR military ID card. On a small brass plate attached to the case was a simple statement "Taken in battle outside Phoenix". The ID card read “Kimball”. It was a hell of a trophy: the horns of a leader of the free world.

Before entering the conference room, Garcia said “the remains of our late president shouldn’t be in Legion hands. We should get Caesar to give them back.” Harris nodded and then swept the entourage into the room. It was the Lion’s den, to be sure. Caesar Lucius sat at the head of a table seated by Brotherhood autocrats and a man from New Vegas. One was a robot he knew to be the mouthpiece of Barnaky, while the other dressed like he rode a panzer here. Their entrance came in the middle of his talk.

“...my belief that an entente between the Western Brotherhood, Vegas and the Legion should be formed to both contain the NCR and deter it from any future acts of aggression. Would you be open to such an arrangement? And of course, the reopening of trade between our lands would also be on the table as well.”

He flashed a ghoulish smile, while the rangers took up positions around the room like the other guards. “I’m sorry for our interruption. We are here to represent the Free Confederation of Texan States, as well as the New California Republic.” They took their seats at the wooden table, with Harris sitting closest to the other powers. He waited moments for the other interactions to cease, or for any talk directed towards them, before stating “I come here hoping for peaceful negotiations and the normalization of relations and trade between our countries. There are several worrying matters to address as well, such as the state of the Most Serene Key Republic, the final negotiations with the New California Republic, and the smooth expansion of Texas into Oklahoma.” He shuffled his hands for a half second, smoothing papers he had set in front of him in a nervous slip. “I also wish to hear of conflict with the Cult in the north.”

Palace of Caesar

Barnaky listened intently as Gladstone, obviously choosing his words carefully, outlined his Order's aerial capabilities. Calling up historical records on the Skyraider and B-17, he noted neither was nuclear capable...at least as designed. He then went to mention they were planning to have jet aircraft in service sometime next year. Barnaky recalled that his Order's fledgling aviation community had been agitating for increased production of the Hellion interceptor, or at least refurbishing pre-war interceptors as a stopgap, in case the Texans and the NCR, or some other hostile power, sought to initiate a strategic bombing campaign against them. He had been resisting it so far...the Inquisition had turned up no sign the Texans were even contemplating such a thing, and the synthetic oil factories could only produce so much aviation fuel, after all, not to mention much of their current production was supporting air transport assets that were vitally needed at the Front...but clearly this decision would need to be reviewed.

"I'm afraid our offensive aviation capability is limited at this time", Barnaky replied, "While we have sixteen Vertibirds, and a production line established, most of our efforts have been focused on transport aircraft for logistics."

Barnaky would have gone on, but Gladstone had noticed his attention to the newest arrival, House's representative, known as the King. He had entered, and with a nod at his peers, taken a seat at the table. Barnaky nodded in return. Gladstone looked over at the King.

“Mr, King", Gladstone intoned, "I would be pleased if our nations could come to an arrangement concerning an irritant to the both of our lands...."

Barnaky, noticing more movement at the door to the room, noticed a group of men entered. Most of them were both Texas and NCR Rangers in tier distinctive uniforms, they immediately fanned out and took up stations around the room, calmly being eyed by the Praetorians already present. At the center, were President Harris and a Brigadier General in the NCR Army, who approached the table as the High Elder, seemingly unaware of what was going on behind him, continued to address the King.

"...It is my belief," Gladstone said, "that an entente between the Western Brotherhood, Vegas and the Legion should be formed to both contain the NCR and deter it from any future acts of aggression. Would you be open to such an arrangement? And of course, the reopening of trade between our lands would also be on the table as well.”

"Welcome to Santa Fe, President Harris, General", said Barnaky, nodding at each in turn while wincing inwardly as most likely he was committing a faux pas under Legion etiquette by greeting them before their host, Lucius, spoke....but he felt it necessary to act before Gladstone really put his foot in his mouth. He didn't know for sure what Lucius planned to do, but he was pretty sure he would not have invited Harris and the NCR here if he was planning on kicking the NCR when it was down.

"I’m sorry for our interruption, Harris said with a ghoulish smile, "We are here to represent the Free Confederation of Texan States, as well as the New California Republic.” They took their seats at the wooden table, with Harris sitting closest to the other powers. After a momentary pause, he continued. “I come here hoping for peaceful negotiations and the normalization of relations and trade between our countries. There are several worrying matters to address as well, such as the state of the Most Serene Key Republic, the final negotiations with the New California Republic, and the smooth expansion of Texas into Oklahoma.” He shuffled his hands for a half second, smoothing papers he had set in front of him in a nervous slip. “I also wish to hear of conflict with the Cult in the north.”

"All things I'm dying to discuss", Barnaky thought to himself as he glanced at Lucius, seated at the head of the table, "but this isn't my show..."

As Hemingway and a band of his best men led him through the town to the beach, Suttbray marveled at the change that had come over Point Lookout. The dark heart of the town was beating fervently, in tune with the dark beat in his head. The decrepit and mostly abandoned board walk town was suddenly bursting with cult warriors from the north, as men ran past him and spread throughout the camp. They were exactly what he wanted: a fearless host, well supplied and trained for whatever they might face. Now he just had to take command.

A fearsome chant of “DAL THRO! DAL THRO!” was heard before the vanguard was seen. But the town was small, so he came to the landing site soon enough. They had come in their own fleet, that was good. It might save them an overland march. Hundred of tons of ammo and guns were being placed on the sand. The lowly soldier that had come to Hemingway led them to the leader. He might not have recognized the beast before him as the leader if he hadn’t been shown. The super mutant
was so old that its skin had turned a grey almost as dark as the chunks armor and metal wrought into its flesh. It didn’t scare him. As he understood, those closest Ug-Qualtoths black light made up quite the grotesquerie. But he doubted the war beast before him could be more than a rallying point with a whip.

Suttbray bowed before it as its pale eyes came upon him, though maybe not as deeply as he should have. “Welcome to Point Lookout, elder one. I thank Ug-Qualtoth for your arrival. Your aid is welcome in my quest to subjugate the lands of the gulf under the monolith. You should prepare your men for the journey south. Forces loyal to me in Jacksonville can be added to my army and we can burn our way to the end of Florida.”

"The King" – The Palace of Caesar, Santa Fe

Turning away from Barnaky once he had finished, Gladstone addressed “The King” as the man called himself.

“Mr, King, I would be pleased if our nations could come to an arrangement concerning an irritant to the both of our lands. It is my belief that an entente between the Western Brotherhood, Vegas and the Legion should be formed to both contain the NCR and deter it from any future acts of aggression. Would you be open to such an arrangement? And of course, the reopening of trade between our lands would also be on the table as well.”

The King interlocked his fingers and stretched his arms. He had tried his hardest to stay in the background and digest the landscape that was unfurling around him, but the High Elder had dragged him into the middle of the discussion.

“I speak for Mr. House when I say that the NCR has no future with the FZM. While we all have adapted our goals, our traditions, and our images to coincide with this changing world, the west coast remains a pale facsimile of old world pitfalls. The fate of President Kimball Jr. proved that even with a regime change, they have not changed. They may very well be left behind…”

“…As a result, many of the citizens on their eastern border have flocked to the FZM, which boasts a higher standard of living and a stupendous amount of labor. Still, the NCR is the largest potential threat on the board—larger than even this terror from the East—and our only chance of preventing inevitably being rolled over by their gluttonous manifest destiny is to ensure that the rest of the west keeps them in check. It is useless to wage a war against the NCR, but the objective is to keep them contained. The trifecta of the Legion, FZM, and Midwestern Brotherhood has done so thus far.”

The King then reached into the breast pocket of his suit jacket and plopped a cigarette into his mouth. He lit the end with a shiny silver lighter and let loose a puff of smoke. “If you want to assist us in applying a tourniquet around the west coast, then I shall welcome it. But only on the condition that you do not abuse our understanding to invade other nations in the west. Much is at stake, and we cannot afford distractions.”

The King then took another drag from his cigarette and loosely pointed at Barnaky and then Lucius. “These are the two you should ensure you’ve convinced. Mr. House values his newfound friendships with the Lord-Paladin and Caesar.”

The King then addressed the two across the table. “Robert House sends his regards and offers his support. As we speak, the Securitron Construction Plant in Big MT Research Center operates tirelessly to double its efforts in production. Should you want it, a force of securitrons and flag-bearing soldiers await to take the train east. Our securitrons have no need for sleep or other provisions and will have no problem following orders to the letter. They are fast and immune to the vast majority of chemical weapons.”

After directing his words to Barnaky and Caesar, he leaned back in his chair. “You need only ask.”

Mr. House – El Dorado Substation, Nevada

Robert’s face flickered onto the dusty, grime-coated screen built into the wall of the El Dorado office. House had always intended on having an eye on this place—as it was the conduit which connected HELIOS One and New Vegas—but had not sent his visage to this room in ages. He trusted Thomas to a strange degree, but despite their correlation in vision, he did not trust him enough to connect this piece of technology to Hoover Dam. Instead, HELIOS—a work in progress, at best—would serve as the spark.

“…You could have at least cleaned off my terminal and done away with the filth…” House muttered as a room filled with scientists, caravan guards, securitrons, and soldiers alike stood before him.

One of the infantrymen retrieved his handkerchief and began to briskly wipe away the grime on the screen. Mr. House scoffed; how unprofessional and meaningless of a gesture. No matter. This group of unmentionables was about to witness history in the making.

“Go on, then. Time is of the essence. I want to see…”

Before Robert House’s screen stood a tall object wrapped in a giant piece of cloth. The delivery party stared at each other squeamishly, trying to deduce through eye contact who would unwrap the hulking ‘gift’ that stood before them. House, as usual, had not given any information to the team about the object they’d shipped from Big Mountain. It was astonishing, really, how all the cogs in the ever-chugging machine of the FZM operated without even being able (or trying) to visualize what the mastermind had planned for the future.

“Show me.”

One of the soldiers bearing U.S. colours tugged at the piece of cloth and unmasked a gargantuan sculpture of technology.

“…The fuck is this?” bellowed a security guard who stared up at the machine.

“Based on my research, it is a source of power. A great deal of power. A gift.” Mr. House had concluded that this ‘gift’ was a means for Robert and Thomas to open easier, less intensive radio communication from New Vegas to Boston.

“From where?”

“A place that officially does not exist.”

The group of scientists had already begun unwinding wires and attaching power sources by the time the rest of the caravan had noticed. They were clearly on a different wavelength than the brutes who had protected the device; they knew far more than the others.

Before long, the machine was completely wired into the Dorado. Without saying a word, one of the scientists nodded at House – an affirmation that their work had finished.

“Turn it on.”

One of the scientists anxiously shuffled toward the switch. Incredible…such a small apparatus with so much power resting behind it. The man’s fingers trembled as he wrapped them around the lever. He gave a glance at Mr. House and pulled.

The machine hummed for a minute and the caravan party shrugged at each other, unamused. “That’s it?”

Mr. House kept an intent gaze on the cauldron of electricity. “Wait.”

The device then whirred into a burst of energy. The lights inside of the El Dorado Substation began to flicker violently. Then, before any of the caravan could react, bolts of electricity began to strike out from the spinning metal. The scientists were frozen in awe and terror, but not for long; a chain reaction of energy electrocuted and completely ripped through its unfortunate hosts. The rest of the caravan sprang to the walls. “What the hell?!”

The crescendo of energy continued to absurd proportions. Something had gone terribly wrong. “Turn that fucking thing off!” screamed one of the survivors. One of the caravan guards attempted in vain to navigate through the field of sparks to turn off the switch, but once he stepped too close, another bolt zapped through the man’s chest and immediately snuffed the life from his limp body. The fever pitch of energy continued. Louder and increasingly violent by the second.

Then, there was only silence. The machine’s first trial-run had finally run through its turbulent lifespan. The remaining soldiers and guards had drawn their weapons, but the substation’s power had overloaded, and the lights were completely blacked out. They waded around anxiously in the dark. Mr. House’s image was gone.

Brotherhood I Corps HQ - Indianapolis International Airport- Concourse A

Inquisitor Stahl, seated at her desk, took a sip of coffee and tried to tune out the noise being made by the repair crews, still hard at work making this place habitable, as she persued the latest report from the team at the Pentagon ruins. Regarding Lancer-Seargent Kyle, the info was a mixed bag. References to him were found in the mainframe, mostly regarding the Vertibird Wing he was assigned to, which ultimately accompanied Maxon to his doom in Boston. They had even found a picture of him in a group picture of his unit, published in the Chapter's electronic newsletter, that was a spitting image of the man currently being debriefed by the Paladin-General's staff. It had been unfortunate that the drive modules that made up the Eastern Order's Codex had been carefully disconnected and physically removed from the mainframe, presumably at the time the Citadel was abandoned to the Cult, but while useful it would merely have been confirming the obvious. She had been directed by Omaha to pass what they had on Kyle, as well as the Cult missionary captured in Markle, to the Frumentarii's commander, Vulpes Inculta, when he and his staff flew in from Omaha. An outside perspective, it was hoped, would shed some light on the strange events surrounding the pair.

The information coming back on other avenues was quite interesting though, especially the records of the Eastern Order's unsuccessful attempt to block the Cult's advance into the Capital Wasteland. Initially they had fought them to a stalemate, which the Cult subsequently broke with some kind of device that crippled the Eastern Order's effectiveness to the point that they fled the field altogether. Only the use of multiple tactical nuclear weapons by the Children of Atom had stopped the Cult from overrunning the entire area, and bought time for the remaining armed factions to set aside their differences and drive the Cult out with a desperate counter-attack. A Expedition had been dispatched to the facility it was believed the Cult found the device. According to Pre-War archives, Dunwich Borers was a manufacturer of deep tunneling and drilling equipment. The Calculator's archive of Top Secret government files, not to mention those of SAC, had little information about the firm, other than it being on the list of approved suppliers for equipment for constructing underground facilities. Speculation was that Dunwich Borers may have been another front for DARPA, but that was just speculation. Hopefully the Expedition would turn something up...otherwise attention would turn to the Vault 114 Operation, the Engineer-General's personal pet project, which had been delayed for the time being.

Stahl put down the report and swiveled her chair to look over the wall of sandbags and out the window....a perk of her rank...and looked at the tent city around the terminal building, then out towards downtown Indianapolis, ten miles away, smoke from dozens of burning buildings curling up into the clear blue sky. Michigan was a mess, but everything was largely on schedule here. The Raiders and their ghoul allies, now under constant artillery fire and probing attacks, were becoming even more frantic in their attempts to break out of the siege. The latest attempt to escape, led by a mass feral ghoul attack on the Castleton position, had been brutally cut to pieces by alert troops who had been expecting them. They were now firmly trapped between the I-465 Bypass and I-65, and every day the lines pushed them inward. Even though they were unaware the forward elements of Aurelius's command were less than a days march away, the defenders were getting increasingly desperate. It had been hoped that the Cult outpost in Ft Wayne would come to their aid, but so far they were staying put, fortifying the area around the one bridge South they had been left. It appeared that the defenders of Indianapolis had been abandoned to their fate....which was rapidly marching towards them along I-74. It occurred to her that she had never seen a crucifixion before...under the Order's Law only the corpses of criminals were displayed in such a manner.....and shortly she would likely see many. She wasn't sure how she felt about that.

Caesar Lucius, Imperator of The Legion

“Let us hold fast for the moment,” Lucius stood as Barnaky and The King had finished speaking. The entrance of the NCR and Texan delegates had caused a bit of stir, but nothing that couldn’t be solved with a little bit of order, “There is much to discuss here. I assure you all that we will get to each and every one of the issues that has been put forth. If I might bring some focus to this discussion however, let me first address the item that is most concerning to me. I feel too, that without resolution to this, we will not get far in this meeting.”

“First, I would like to welcome the delegates of Texas and the NCR military. Your presence here is necessary to ensure that what I wish to accomplish is done. As the neutral party in this affair, I hope that Texas may be able to ensure a smooth mediation and a fair agreement.”

Lucius sat down once again and folded his hands in front of him, he looked directly at the NCR delegates sitting aside President Harris,

“The first and foremost item of the agenda is this: I wish to formally end the war between the NCR and Legion. My terms are simple and direct: a continuation of the terms laid out between myself and General Lee Shu during the general armistice and a formal treaty of non-aggression. Under the terms of the armistice, all remaining NCR POWs that have rejected the Legion’s offer will be returned home by the end of the month. Finally, and most importantly, the NCR will accept full responsibility for the actions of its military and President Kimball Jr. The cause of the war, and its conclusion, will be laid squarely at the former President’s feet. The NCR Government will issue a formal condemnation of Kimball Jr, his administration, and his foolish invasion which ended any hope of diplomacy winning out before it could even begin. Those are MY terms, and I will accept nothing less than that. Given the circumstances, I think they are more than generous.”

El Dorado Substation, Nevada

Darkness engulfed the substation, the surviving caravan guards and scientists waited anxiously as their eyes tried to adjust. Suddenly there was a voice that cut through the blackness, one all of them were quite sure they’d not heard amongst those previously gathered..

“Oh boy….what have you done this time Robert?”

“Backup power coming online now!” One of the scientists shouted. Suddenly the lights flickered on once more, and the visage of House’s face on the large screen returned with it.

The survivors gasped when they saw a party of individuals standing atop the strange devices platform. One was a man in his mid-to-late 30s, wearing a pair of eyeglasses, neatly combed hair, and a stark white lab coat emblazoned with a vitruvian symbol. Next to him was a woman with fiery red hair, and a red and white form fitting jumpsuit. Finally two dour looking figures stood to either side of them: clad in dark armored coats and carrying strange energy weapons.

“The hell happened here? What’d you bloody idiots do? You could have got us killed! Christ just look at this place…” The red haired woman yelled out with a thick Boston-Irish accent.

“Now now Cait, there’s nothing to be worried about,” Thomas began examining the wreckage around him with a keen eye, almost as if he was making mental notes, “Signal strength at The Institute was excellent and the failsafe would have triggered if the relay was incomplete. We were never in any real danger. Most likely what happened is a failure to properly disperse the intense amount of energy on this end. Overloaded the fragile pre-war system and caused the mess you see here. Would you agree with that Robert?” Thomas turned to the television monitor with a grin.

One of the Coursers lifted a hand to his ear, “Successful transfer SRB. Relay complete.”

Free Commonwealth Expeditionary Force

Black clouds of smoke trailed the train as it chugged down the tracks. Every so often it word tear apart some barricade foolishly placed in the way by raiders, thinking they could stop the train. The pilot positioned in front of the train, pushed aside obstacles with ease. The train pulled cart after cart of soldiers. Mobilizing from the comforts of the Free Commonwealth, to the battle torn south. Their allies in Florida requested aid, and the Commonwealth answered the call. The men clutched their weapons as they sat on the ground of the railroad carts. Just listening to the clacking of the wheels on the tracks. They were packed tightly, as only a few Locomotives were available to take them on their journey. Most had traveled west, and had yet to return.

The journey from Philly to Baltimore was completed with relative ease, the next leg of the journey was the more perilous one. Asides from the ever so often barricade, shots could be heard hitting the sides of the train. For the most part they were reflected by the armoring but every so often a bullet would hit a weak spot and make its way inside, hitting some unlucky soul. For many of the soldiers, it was the first time they had ridden the Iron horse, and most just couldn’t believe they were travelling such a long distance in a short amount of time. Well short when compared to walking.

The train began to screech as the brakes were applied, and it began to slow down. They had reached their destination. They had arrived to a rail yard in the outskirts of Washington. This was as far as the Commonwealth engineers had gotten to repairing and re-laying tracks. They would’ve kept going, but the closer you got to Washington, the more perilous the journey became, and they had to be recalled so they could lay train tracks leading west to the Pitt from the old capital of Harrisburg.

As the trains came to a halt, the gunners located atop the train carts kept vigilant eye for raiders. The doors to the armored carts opened up and soldiers began pouring out, they were relieved to be out of such a tight confined space, and having room to stretch. The officers were shouting commands, telling the men and women to line up by platoons, and to get ready to move out as soon as possible. They didn’t want to waste time in this old railyard. They wanted to quickly move and take on those that defied the rule of the Most Serene. The men quickly grabbed their weapons, and lined up. The support train with supplies were being unloaded, and they were ordered to assist.

The Intel they received from the most Serene’s messengers, indicated that there was a large force located at Point Lookout. That was roughly 100 miles from their current location, 2-3 days marching. However, traversing DC would be a hassle, sections were highly radioactive, and the raider roamed the wasteland. The idea was to split up in various groups and descend upon the city like a tempest, and shoot and kill any that opposed them. This way and attack from the rear would be less likely, and their Friends, the Children of Atom that resided in the area, might welcome the aid. However, whatever route they took, they were on a time table. They were the land force sent to attack from the north, but a landing party, and attack vessels would attack from the east.

---

Looking from behind the stage the Prioress looked at the slim figure of Billy, who slowly strolled onto the stage, wearing his trademark suit like a slick salesman, before waving into the crowd. "Welcome, Welcome, Welcome! So glad you all could make it! My, my,my...what do we have here! Hey mister, keep your hands where i can see them! Gomorrah is down the street!" Some laughter came from the sides, as a red-faced Brahmin Baron slowly took the hands off the shoulders of what looked to be his companions for the evening.

Strolling over to his armchair, Billy Knight took a seat, as the small band still was playing near him, with the ghoul saxophonist getting more and more into short final solo. "Ay, Ay, Ay...look at that! Better check if your tongue is still in place, Jacob my rotten friend!" The ghoul just rolled his eyes, as the crowd once more broke out into a short polite laughter. Billy used the moment to light himself a cigarette, looking rather dandy in his sharp suit, his hair slick and smooth. "So much going on in Vegas, and so little time. I wont bore you folks with politics, but y´all know if any NCR folks is around, you man notice them due to the gigantic sweat building up on their heads right now. Boyos...next time you invade, try preparing first!" Clapping into his own joke, the Prioress narrowed her eyes, as could not help but feel more disgruntled over her appearance on this show. But there had to be a public face to be maintained.

"But tonight´s first guest, is someone you may have heard before. Like most people, i didnt realized when they appeared, but BAMN...suddently it was the talk of the town! The Church of Starry glory...first time i heard it i thought it was some kind of new menu item at he Ultra-Luxe, but no, its a new religion. Well, some people got worried, but i for my part, got intrigued! So, without further delay...THE PRIORESS!"

Once more, the band was fired up, as the prioress walked onto the stage, a wide, flashy smile on her lips, and a slow pace in her step. The dress was modest enough for her position, yet still fitting for the occasion, as she stept towards the host, who got up from his chair, before gently taking and kissing her hand. "My, my, my...must say, Marrying in your church may be rather hard for most men, with such reminders of lives beauties running around. Its a pleasure, Prioress!" "Oh please, Mr. Knight! Just call me Emogene!" The prioress had little intrest in perusing anything that would seem like pompous or an agenda. She had made her plans the moment she had received the invitation, and would stick with it. She had adapted for almost 400 years now, this was just another masquerade.

"Well then, Emogene, lets be frank and earnest here! And i am not talking about the names i use in Boneyard and New Reno. What is your church, and why is it here in Vegas! Everyone seems to know about it, but nobody seems to know details. Help us understand your little congregation!" Emogene smiled, as she herself would open her small cigarette case, before leaning in, allowing Billy Knight to give her fire. She leaned back in her chair, taking a moment to blow out the smoke, before answering the Question.

"It is not my church, nor my congregation. I am little more then a guiding voice, offering help to the people that seek it. For this is what the Church of Starry Glory is. A helping voice for all, who seek the special something that Vegas CANT offer. Many who come to us, for we welcome everyone, no matter which walk of life, tell us about their angst, which they only felt in the city of Vegas, for even a paradise like this, can lead to melancholy for some people, who feel that life is going over them too fast. This is where our church is coming in, and which brings me such fulfillment! To allow people to slow down, and realize what beauty there is in each and every one of us, beside the glitter and glamour." The prioress could see the sweat build up on Knights face, as he seemed for fear that this would turn into a critique of the city and with it, a critique of Mr. House. Seeing him in such a state woke a strange satisfaction in the prioress, as she watched him. "So think bad of Vegas? Blaming it for the problems these people have?"

The prioress sharked her head, before once more guiding the cigarettes to her red lips. "Not at all! Vegas is a paradise, and rightfully the greatest city in all the wasteland! Yet i do think, that our little church does provide a certain service this city needs, yes...craves! We do so gladly, and for those who cant afford it, free of charge. Nobody needs to feel lonely, for there is a greater community around us all, even if we cant see it!" Knight nodded, before once more lifting up his cigarette. "But there is the accusation that your church is little more then another cult, like the Hubologists or...well, radiating friends of the Atom-Worshippers!" Raising an eyebrow, Emogene looked right into Knights eyes, before smiling. "Do i look like the kind of woman who would worship radiation? Or follow an crazed man called Dick? No, we are not a cult! Our church is open for everyone to come and go, and we dont demand any oaths of secrecy. Nor do we claim some devine truth as our birthright. All we do, is share the ideas and devotion of starry glory...the idea that there is something great out there, and that it loves us!"

Knight blew out some smoke, before he tilted his head to the side, the fear of criticism on the system seemingly gone. "Well, it would be hard to believe for me, that a crazed cultist would get onto a stage like that, and...well, look as charming as you do, Emogene.." "GET A ROOM, BILLY!" The rough voice of the ghoul Saxophonist, broke the silence and it was followed by a long laughter of the crowd. "You are a charming man yourself, Mr. Knight! But you are just as welcome as anyone else, to visit our church in western Vegas. We do have plans to expand, but have yet to find a fitting building for it. Real estate is sinfully expensive in Vegas.."

---

To close the door back to her changing room, had been more then welcome, after the endless chatter of Billy Knight, who soon after the start had drifted into bad jokes and puns, what seemed to be his common form of entertainment. Still, she was quite sure, that the unenlightened had bought her tale and story. Sitting down in front of the mirror, she took a moment to look at her reflection. Closing her eyes, she could hear the squealing of the thing her father had turned into, which now was hidden away, deep below the church...

---

---

Few knew, that the city above, was just a small part of the true extend of the holy city. Below it, had been a true, apocalyptic sprawl of tunnels, chambers and halls, so extensive, that to this day, even the massive excavations and works of the cult, had only opened a fraction of them to be put to use for the Cult. Some where used for storage, to house slaves or as dungeons for sacrifices and prisoners, yet the most feared of them all, where the breeding pits, where the Cult had been experimenting with radiation, chemicals and the miasma. Death had been ripe, yet the prophet had made sure that his devoted flesh-crafters never lacked equipment, beast and slaves to experiment on.

The greatest success had been the giant Mole-Rat, able to carry a man on its back, forming the mount of choice for the cults cavalry. So far, it had been the only creature they had success at breeding in masses, yet the hopes were high for other monstrosities to soon support the war effort...

---

Thousands of steps, the prophet was carried on his palanquin, deeper and deeper into the pits, surrounded by the heavy boots of his personal guard, the iron masked deathless guardians, dark green skinned super mutants, fanatical in their faith and fearsome in battle. At each time, ten of them where around him, armed with heavy rifles, an axe attached to the barrel. Slave, Master and sometimes even beast, quickly fell on their knee, as soon as they saw the palanquin and guardians approch, as the carriers and guardians carelessly stomped over everything in their path. The Prophet remained silent in his seat, his legs crossed and his hands resting on the black book in his hands. Even now, it was whispering at him, confirming his choices and pushing him to greater deeds. "It will be done...all has been to your design! I can see it clear, i can see the path! Fools, vermin, insects...they are mere tools, tools for your deed!" A cold shiver ran down the prophets back, as he threw his head backwards, before breaking out in a loud laughter, roaring and pressing the book closer to his chest, before suddently turning around. "THIS ONE...I WANT HIS HEAD NOW!"

The slave let out a panicked scream, as two of the prophets deathless took hold of him, begging for mercy as he soiled his pants. The blind prophet grinned satisfied as he heard the sound of flesh been torn, before waving off in the direction of the sound. "Give me his head...NOW GIVE IT TO ME! I WANT TO HEAR ITS SECRETS! IT SHALL TELL ME WHERE THEY HIDE IT! NOW NOW NOW!" For the rest of the step, the prophet would clutch both the book, and the bloodied head against his chest. Then clarity once more came over him, like a wave approching a beach, and with a disgruntled groan, he tossed the head from his palanquin, before rubbing his bloodied hand off on his robe. Insanity was as light as a feather, yet a clear mind weight more on him, then the whole city above.

Disgruntled, the Prophet longed for the easiness of the madness, as he glared at his surrounding, blind, yet taking in the sounds around him. Corridor after corridor were passed, as the short snips of sounds came from them, then faded as the openings passed them, as the smell of blood, shit and decay lay in the air, heavier then at any other place in the holy city. Slavers tugged chains of giant beasts, while cages where pushed and whips were cracked. Somewhere, a deathscream of something huge filled the silence, before a louder roar filled the air, broken by a long human scream. The prophet let out a sigh, as he covered his nose, the holy book still in his hands. Then finally, they stopped, and the prophet rose from his seat. Used to the movement, he easily stepped down, a waiting back of a slave already allowing him to lower himself, as his other foot found a back to pass onto, before another allowed him to reach clear fooding. Raising his arm, he felt the strong grip of one of his deathless, as he was guided forward. By now, they had to be miles below the earth, as the monolith seemed so far and so small, that the prophet felt a cold shiver of fear down his spine, as he broke free from his guiding guards.

---

The sniffling great-master of the pits ran around the prophet like a cornered rat, squealing out compliments and excuses alike. "We...we work like madmen! Yes..yes...but there is only so much we can do with the materials we have! We need more equipment! Better laboratories! More scientists...more... The prophet had outpaced him by now, as the heavy steps of the great-master had a hard time to follow, seemingly troubled to press himself against the close walls, that the prophet could feel around him. The hallway was narrow, yet their goal lay right ahead. "Show it to me! Show me what the secrets of the old world allowed us to creat! Show the warrior you have promised me." A heavy door was opened, as futher people fell on their knees. Yet the prophet could feel the thing in front of him. He could feel the wild soul, unbroken and...

Useless..

"A great success already! To form such a specimen from our limited tools! His body is strong, stronger even then the Super Mutants that already serve in your army, blessed prophet! Yet, they lack...well, we cant wake him, but that does not mean he is not alive!" The prophet could feel the fear in the grand-master, yet it was not uncalled for. Stepping towards the thing, the prophet almost fell over something, yet he could not care less, as he placed his hand on the creature. The skin was as thick as leather, and felt warm below his touch. "Be careful prophet! It could wake any moment now." "No, it wont wake! It will never wake...THIS THING HAS NO SOUL INSDIE IT! NO SPARK OF LIFE! IT IS AS GOOD TO ME AS A STATURE.." The prophet felt his anger raise, as his nails digged into the book at his chest. "You promised me, when i brought you the FEV from Vault 87, that you would make me an army of Super Mutants..WHERE IS MY ARMY, YOU WORM?"

It was the muffled whimper of the grand-master, that made the prophet seal his fate. Screaming, he could smell the flesh burn and heat near him, before grand master faded from this world. The silence remained, and the blind prophet slowly placed his hand back on the mutant. His face was deformed, even for such a beast, as his chest lifted up and down, and he took breath, yet never would open his eyes, nor form a thought in his useless brain. "Who is the most senior of you lot.." The prophet spoke into the room, with only the fire of the corpes of the old grand master bringing some noise, to the dry silence of the clicking and flicking of machinery. "That would be me, holy prophet. A shivering voice, just as weak and confused as the old one, yet the death of the former grand-master had sated the prophets anger for no. "What is your name?"

The question seemed to have taken the scientist by surprise, as he needed a moment to answer. "Lesko Weston, holy prophet! Most faithful, and always loyal to the cult! The prophet nodded, as his fingers moved over the maw. Sharp teeth had formed in it. "Tell me, what do we need to created Super Mutants that are ALIVE when they have turned?" Where a nose should have been, was just a snort, and the light breath was cold as ice. "Holy prophet, the samples we work with a highly irradiated! The FEV has been deluded and mishandled for almost 200 years by super-mutants themselves! We can only create super mutants with a clearer FEV sample...and non-irradiated hosts! I am sorry, holy prophet but this is the truth!" The sudden backbone pleased the prophet, as he slowly walked away from the creature, past the stuttering Weston and back to his guard. "We shall see to it then! This project is halted for now...see to it that the labor on it is used on other projects, grand master.."

Weston Lesko would need a whole five minutes, until he realized, that he had been promoted...

---

---

Once, many years ago, the ruins the Skull Monolith resided in, had been a city of hope. A young, yet proud republic had been formed, displaying the lone tree as their symbol and taking it up as their name. The lone tree Republic had rallied farmers and settlers alike and when the Cult came, they had taken up arms in defense of their home. They fought the good fight, yet in the end, the city was sacked in a slaughter, that had been made legend by the monument build in its memory. The Skull Monolith was a gigantic pile of pale bones, bound and glued together. In its shade, the river still ran, yet it was heavy with slag and polution as the tress had long cut, to provide material for forges, barracks and other buildings. Few of the slaves in the city of the Skull Monolith were of the old population, who had survived the slaughter, as the majority had been brought here, into one of the few other places of industry, the cult held outside of the holy city. It was a crude imitation to the factories and forges in the north, yet it still provided the slavers and warbands of the south with weapons, armor and ammunition.

---

Hank was licking his lips, as he tugged the leash of the slave girl, forcing it to walk with him, as he made his way through the workshop. "Good news, you lazy bastards! You are all sold...well, except of you, my darling! Aint no way i am gonna let go of you!" His eyes roamed over the body of the red haired beauty, who still struggled against the tug of his leash. He would enjoy breaking her in, before most likely selling her later, when she got to timid for his taste. Hank loved himself some girls with fight in them. The sack of caps on his belt felt heavy, as he made his way out of the workshop, the crying and sobbing of the slaves soon interrupted by screams and whips. "See girl? Lot easier with me. Gonna take care of you good! Yeah, really..really good!" His grin grew, as the girl spat in his direction, yet Hank laughed, before smashing the back of his hand against her face. "Some delicious fight you have in you...i like that! Dont lose it to fast, or i may make you regret it."

Tugging her back on her feet, Hank, crossed the busy streets, with Warriors, slaves and cultists going their way, light being provided by crude electronic lamps. A few stands offered their wares, yet above all was the chatter and chanting of the priests near the Monolith. Hank had to admit, it was an impressive sight, even though he cared little about the cults religion. All he cared for at the moment, was to get back to his boat with the red haired girl on his leash. "You have name?" Hank grunted, as he stepped through some mud, past a bleeding corpse of a slave, with two dogs ripping pieces of flesh from his corpse. The girl did not answer, yet kept glaring at him with eyes of pure hate. "Fine, i am gonna give you one later! Who knows, maybe i tattoo it onto your forehead, that you dont forget it!"

A dark laughter escaped the slavers lips, as he gave the leash another pull. Passing a line of slaves, that had to constantly push the wheel of a primitive mill, under the watchful eye of two cult warriors, who took turns on lashing the slaves. Far away, a rifles was fired, as drunken laughter filled the night. Another normal night in the town, that both cultist and normal scum frequented. Hank stopped for a moment, to light himself a cigarette, before turning to his slave. "Lets play a little game you trash...left cheek or right cheek?" Walking closer, he took hold of the girls face, grinning down on her, as he struggled, while he moved the glowing cigarette in front of her. "Shhhhh...just a little burn! Aint the worst thing that will happen to.."

---

There was no sound when Hank flew through the air, and the light was all around him. Night turned into day, as everything seemed muffled around him. Like a sack of flour, he was tossed around, by hot waves of air, as he could not even feel the pain. Another flash of fire stripped half his cloths form him, as for a second, he could see a Warrior fire into the sky, before a lance of light hit him, and turned him into ash in an instant. Then, he could feel the ground rumbeling below him, as he slowly turned his head and saw it. The Skull Monolith was burning!
Crawling, the Slaver wanted to get away, yet there was no escape, as the gigantic pile of burning bones, collapsed under its own weight, thousands of skulls falling down onto the people below. For just a second, Hank could feel the irony of the late revenge, the old people of the Lone-tree republic, could now rain down onto the cult that had destroyed their home...then the World around Hank turned dark.

---

It was day, when Hank woke up. Not for a second, he believed to be dead, as many other fools would. The air was heavy with fire and ash, and where ever he looked, he could spot corpses. Yet her had surived, and he would not spend a second longer at this place. It was then, when he noticed that he was stuck, half burried below skulls and debris, yet nothing he could not remove in time. The sharp pressure against his side even told him that he still had his caps. Taking a deep breath, the slaver began to push, trying to free the buried part of his body, yet then, he also noticed the shadow falling onto him. Looking up, he could not make out the face as the light of the sun blended him, yet he could see the red hair...and the glitter of the knife in her hand

"Lets play a game, shall we? Left or right cheek.."