The Smoker - Western Brotherhood of Steel - Eastern Kentucky

A match in the wind.

A crack, a strike of flame, a small flickering light in the dark. It seemed to float and dance in the air, before calloused hands moved it to light the pipe dangled precariously from a man’s lips as he sat reclined in a wicker chair. A sudden shake of the hand, the flame was extinguished, the blackened match dropped into a pristine crystal ashtray. Brown eyes watched the soot stain the once glistening glass, fingers clasping the pipe in between them pulled the pipe to his lips.

Inhale.

Fingers moved, leaving a small trail of smoke from their path.

Exhale.

A cloud of grey wisps sighed into the air, eyes turned upwards, looking up at the night sky in a brief gap from the rainclouds.

“Onscreen.”

The command was simple, a flickering dull projection shining onto a flat plaster wall. The smoker’s eyes cast themselves around their surroundings as the scribe checked their connection was secure for the tenth time. An old airport or something, or an airfield, hard to tell what with the burned-out buildings and ramshackle scaffold structures that had been there. Wendell something or other in Kentucky had been its name and location. Had, his orders were simple, get in and out with no witnesses. It had been a raider settlement, or maybe not, either way it didn’t matter. Their cover was Vertibirds and Advanced Power Armour mark 1, blame it on the Enclave in the event of discovery. That was if the bastards still existed. Rumour was they’d moved east, and then been destroyed, or scattered to the winds.

Three vertibirds, night attack, IR scopes from half a mile out with close up silenced submachine guns and CQC systems had made short work of any of the occupants, about twenty-seven of them. When they were done they’d set thermal charges, make it look like a fire and a raider attack. With war all around, who’d question another burned out settlement on the edges of a war? It'd be just another ruin in a wasteland full of ruins. For now, it served as the temporary HQ of the Mobile Recon and Reaction Force of the Western Brotherhood of Steel. The scalpel in the armoury of the one true brotherhood, a black-ops team formed to gather intel and execute missions, people and whoever needed killing without a trail leading back to the west.

“Drone link onscreen.”

They had the tools to get it done. Three vertibirds with fusion engines for transcontinental range, theoretically at least. Lab tests had said the same, whether that was true in the field remained to be seen, but they didn’t need to go that far. Yet. And other goodies, such as the access to specialist equipment, like the bespoke made to measure weapons his force hoisted. And the latest in reconnaissance goodies the scribes could make. Case in point, a prototype turboprop high altitude recon drone, problem was the further the link, the less secure and stable. Hence his mission, establish a temporary forward position to allow a server connection without risk of signal-intercept by the Midwest.

Also the fact that if it crash-landed, a squad to be with a close enough reach to recover it was a strategic necessity. So, here he was with three Vertibirds, two for his squad, one to act as a mobile server/control centre to co-ordinate the drone’s recon systems. And that was what he was looking at on the projection, staring into the very belly of the beast. This cult, or whatever the hell it was, that was what they’d been sent to establish.

So, with the newest brainchild of the aviation division of the scribe’s military science branch, they were going to do just that. And at a steady two hundred miles an hour, the drone was holding a steady beautiful pace over the skies of Charleston, West Virginia. Just what the hell was he looking at? The smoker wondered that as he felt a headache building at just whatever was onscreen. A giant pile of skulls, like something out of those pulp horror novels and Mongol conquest histories he’d read as a kid.

Psychological warfare.

He’d practiced it before, this was what was happening here. Subjugate the local landscape with something that would cow them into non-rebellion. Kill the rebellious and build a pile of skulls out of them and anyone else who disobeys you. Simple, effective and quite a pragmatic decision he had to admit. The legion crucified, these cultists seemed to build monoliths. Both had emerged through stunning acts of brutality to rule large swathes of America and threaten pre-established polities, evidently fortune favoured the brutal.

“Focus on grid two.”

A click as the image brought up an area of the city in the shadow of the monolith, figuratively speaking as the monolith wasn’t that big. Factories pouring out armaments, slaves toiling on production lines as pyres burned bright in the night. He was impressed, these cultists certainly meant business. For the next hour, the drone scoured the Monolith-ship of Charleston, block by block a full run-down was made. Before finally the Smoker clicked his fingers, a hand beckoning for the secure line back to the west. It was handed to him, a crystal-clear voice on the other hand reaching his ear.

“Confirm code over.”

“Surgery One this is Scalpel One, authorisation three sixty-nine alpha foxtrot. Confirm code long range security coverage over.”

“Scalpel One this is Surgery One, five forty-two gamma tango. Code A-OK over.”

“Surgery One this is Scalpel One. Radio check, we have you loud and clear over.”

“Scalpel One this is Surgery One. Loud and Clear. We have Sixty secs on the clock, go over.”

“Surgery One this is Scalpel One. Request permission for remote full kill mission over.”

A pause. The smoker took a drag from his pipe as ten seconds passed on the clock before a reply came.

“Scalpel One, this is Surgery One. Mission approved. Slash and Burn. Out.”

The phone clicked, the smoker let himself grin, before setting aside the phone and standing up, pipe in mouth, hands on hips, giving orders as he was born to do.

“We have a-go. Lock primary targets on the monolith and what looks like the explosives factory, set command for HE burst. Prep secondary line-up for spread on the guardhouses.”

The screen turned red as crosshairs were laid on the targets, missile systems activated, confirmation of launch status.

“Fire away.”

Two lances of light emanated from the cameras viewpoint, lighting up the night as mini-nuclear warheads struck true. The trails were followed by four more one after the other in quick succession, four plasma-tips bathing the night in green light. A moment went by as the drone increased speed and changed position, rotors shifting to increase altitude and banking to afford a picture of the aftermath. A panorama of death and destruction. Wheat before a burning scythe.

“Kills confirmed.”

“Success achieved. Terminate mission.”

The order was an immediate reply, a suitably immediate response. The projector screen flickered out as the scribes set a course back to home. North over Detroit airspace and then north of midwestern airspace, and then a direct route over khan airspace. Invasions of sovereignty, but to avoid potential midwestern outrage over potential violation of their more developed airspace, and thus more likely to detect them, was necessary.

They’d link up with the drone over cincinatti and set it to follow-my-footsteps mode, and as they did that. The only trace that anything had happened would be when the High Elder saw fit to announce their hand behind this apparent act of god to the wider world. For now, the smoker took a final puff on his pipe, before boarding the vertibird, its engines roaring as they took off, doors whirring shut as behind them, thermal charges ignited. And as they settled into the night, the fires burned in their wake.

For the next few hours, silence was the order, until finally, they passed north of midwestern space and a more direct connection home was established. The smoker giving his field report to the overwatch committee back in Electric City.

“Surgery One, this is Scalpel One. We have a tier three point five plus power facing us, tribal elements with industrial capability. Religious fanaticism suggests destruction of iconography a solid psychologically damaging strategy. In short, destroy their monoliths and factories and they should fold like a house of cards.”

Pause.

“Further suggestion that Midwestern Brotherhood military elements weaker than previously theorised, recommend increase in reconnaissance levels to ascertain accuracy. To be blunt-”

The smoker’s hands moved to prepare a tobacco pipe for landing as he spoke.

“-They must be pussies if they can’t deal with some lousy tribals.”

Ruins of Worland, Wyoming

Under the clear and starry sky, on a small hill well away from the camp, the trio sat alone. One was a man, in the regalia of a Mem-Bar warrior of the Laramie 80s, the other two were women. One, her head resting in the lap of the man, as he caressed her long blonde hair affectionately, wore the leathers common to the 'civilians'...wives, camp followers, and sometimes slaves...who accompanied them wherever they roamed. The third, however, was dressed in a t-shirt and Motorcross style trousers, the jacket spread out on the ground beneath her....not something an 80 would be likely to wear. Nor would the necklace around the neck of the young black woman which bore the rank insignia of a Senior Scribe in the Brotherhood.

"Where did you get a name like 'Whispers-to-robots'?", Sister Tanya asked, "What does that mean?"

"Tell her, Steve!", Ellie, his Ol' Lady, demanded, using his birth name, which was her right as his wife to do, a fact she made a point of driving home to the young woman with them at every opportunity since Tanya had joined the caravan at the Khan's Golden City. She knew her Ol' Man well enough to know she had better put her cards on the table lest he stray...as if the two Mama's he already had in their household weren't enough for him. Like them, Tanya wished to travel to the Followers investigating the secrets of the Buffalo Bill Dam, as the Brotherhood had paid in gasoline to see her delivered safely, it would be done...though it did help that she was pleasant company, full of stories of her travels to far-away places like Oklahoma, and even Nawlins, and was versed in their ways so she was little trouble to the Road-Captain. Ellie liked her, but not enough to share her man with her. "I love that story!"

"Alright", Steve replied, pretending...badly...that he didn't want to tell the story of one of the most important days of his life, for the hundredth time, "It was back in '84. I was still a Prospect then, and had yet to win my war-bike...."

He then launched into the story, how in the Fall of '84 the Chapter's Engine Whisperer had led him and four other Prospects into the Brotherhood lands to disable one of the Brotherhood's giant agri-bots, a rich source of parts and scrap metal. While somewhat hazardous, it was not excessively so...as long as they didn't seriously harm the farmers or other travelers they encountered, or bother the strange hairy Deathclaws Barnaky let roam Western Nebraska because their ancestors had served him against the Mutants and the Great Robot, the most likely penalty if caught was a fine of gasoline, or jail, or one of them having to join Barnaky's Army for a time.

The robots themselves were not a danger unless one was careless, getting in and back out again with the prize of precious metal was where the glory in it was. As many of the Patrol were 80s that had, after an active life, hung up their signs and settled down, taken wives from Barnaky's people, and traded their war-bikes in for Shriekers, they understood their opponents and were a worthy foe. Harvest time was dreaded by Barnaky's Highway Patrol, as the harvest brought 80s looking for glory and metal...and the resultant mandatory overtime. The Great Wheel had turned, and now they were viewing their own youthful exploits from the other side. The favored way of disabling a agri-bot was to dig a trench in a row then conceal it and wait for it to travel down the row and be trapped when one giant wheel fell in the trench and couldn't get out. then the raiding party would swarm aboard and the race would begin...to remove what they could and load it into a truck and retreat before the Patrol arrived. A successful raid would net great amounts of scrap and parts they could use, more than worth the risk.

He had been given the task of counting the rows, locating the targeted robot and determining it's path so they could dig the trench on the right place for it to fall into. Failure to point out the correct row for the trench would merit him a sound thrashing from the rest of the party, who would justifiably be irate at having to dig a new trench and try again. The robot of course, just ran the automated path it was programmed with and only stopped if it detected a man-sized object in it's path and honked at it. That was best avoided as it might attract the local farmer, which meant they would have to abort the attempt if he/she saw them. That, again, would earn the offender a beating. Once the path was determined, and the trench dug, they waited for the machine to fall into the trap then the fun began.

This time, it didn't work that way.

As he approached the agri-bot, from the left, which should have been safe, the great machine suddenly stopped, and one of the cameras swiveled to look at him. And then a voice bellowed from it's loudspeaker. Not a robotic voice, but a man's voice, the voice of a warrior...

"What did it say?", Ellie asked, already knowing. This was her favorite part.

"Well, what do we have here?", the voice said, "You're here to steal parts from me, aren't you?" it then bellowed, "You just fucked with the wrong robot, you little shit!"

"Then it started moving again, it turned and began to chase me", Steve said. "Shouting things that would make a brahmin driver blush all the while, then it started playing this music...", he then hummed a tune that Tayna recognized from old pre-war comedy vids, then continued. "I ran like a rad-rabbit, damn robot chased me all across the field for ten minutes before I managed to lead it over the trench and got it stuck. It fell in, tried to get out, and then one of the cameras swivels back to me and it starts talking again.

"You got me, you little bastard", it said, "Well played." It actually sounded amused. "Then it said we had two hours before it called the Patrol on us."

"What did you do then?", Tanya asked.

"We cut the robot up and got out clean with two full truckloads of scrap", Steve said, "Best haul in years. The Engine-Whisperer gave me a strong engine to complete my war-bike in exchange for my share....and the Oil-Shamans gave me my War-name once he told them what had happened. They say Barnaky himself talked to me, but I'm not sure that they are right."

"It's possible", Tanya replied, "He has the ability to take control of the machines that once served the Calculator...or as you know it, the 'Great Robot'. Why he would do that in this case, I honestly do not know."

"My first trophy was one of the cameras from that robot," Steve said, "If you and the Oil-Shamans were right, then it was a good Omen. Won my sign a year later, out Nevada way....and found my Ol' Lady, here."

"Eloping with you was the best decision I ever made", Ellie said sleepily, "If I hadn't, I'd be stuck back in Nevada farming dust and paying House's taxes like Ma and Pa probably still are, with nothing to show for it. Barnaky has too many rules, but at least he provides for those who ride behind him...House doesn't do shit for anyone."

In the distance, far above, the drone of engines could be heard. Tanya bade the others to be quiet, and pulled a pair of binoculars out of the bag sitting by her and scanned the sky. eventually she saw them, three small shapes moving in a Northwesterly direction, well to their south. No running lights. Just like the ones she had seen several hours ago, going the other way.

"Might be ours", Tanya thought, "But why East to West for a return journey? I had better report this."

She pulled out a compass and a notebook, then consulted her wristwatch and wrote the time and a rough heading down. She then watched the flying objects for a while longer then lowered the binoculars and put her things back in the bag, and then stood and stooped to pick up her jacket.

"We're done here", Tanya said, "Time to go back to camp and hit the sack, we have a long ride ahead of us tomorrow."

SAC HQ Bunker, Operations.

The reports had been flowing in for hours, from listening posts, Missionaries in the field, and troops in the Michigan, Indiana, and Kentucky front. Unknown aircraft had flown across Wyoming and Minnesota, over the Lakes then crossed into Republic Airspace and from there south into Kentucky....then back again. Some radio traffic was picked up, but it was encrypted and not nearly enough was intercepted to decipher it. Who...or why...was unknown for certain, though analysts agreed the likely origin of the aircraft was the Western Order. A high altitude drone recon flight was ordered for Eastern Kentucky, the presumed AO of the mysterious aircraft, to see if the target could be identified....

Duluth Docks - Administration Building - Inquisition Offices

Anita pulled the typewritten letter, on Inquisition letterhead, that she had just finished typing out of her typewriter and examined her handiwork. Satisfied the letter was in proper form, she opened the manila folder on her desk, and shuffled it and another letter into the slim stack and placed it back in the folder, then closed it and turned her attention to compiling a digest of the results of last round of interviews of the brothel workers at the Full Moon, the brothel that serviced the dock area, as she waited for her opportunity. After around fifteen minutes, the phone at her desk rang, the inside line for Inquisitor Morton blinking. She picked up the handset and pushed the blinking button.

"Yes, Inquisitor?", Anita asked in the cheerful, professional tone she always used with him...and hid her true feelings quite well, "How may I serve you?"

"Coffee, please", Morton replied, "Milk and sugar".

"Right away, sir", Anita chirped, hanging up after the Inquisitor did.

"Showtime", she thought as she stood up and put her purse on the desk, fishing around until she found her makeup kit, then placed it on her desk and headed over to the coffee maker, where a fresh pot, from coffee smuggled upriver from the Keys was brewing. She grabbed a cup and saucer, then prepared a cup as requested, and took it back to the desk. Pulling a small brown vial and a Q-tip from the makeup kit, she carefully opened the vial, careful not to touch the contents. The trace scent emanating from the vial alone made her flush and she could feel the dampness that signaled arousal beginning to form. While welcome, given what she was about to do, she knew she had to be careful lest she lose control of herself. She barely moistened the end of the q-tip, then put the lid back on. She then ran the q-tip along the inside of the rim of the cup, then wadded up the q-tip inside a used coffee filter and threw it in the garbage. She then pulled out her compact, checking her makeup and applying more lipstick, admiring her swarthy and slightly exotic good looks, then packed up the kit and put it away. Straightening up her dark blue Brotherhood police uniform, bearing no insignia except for an armband with the word "TRUSTY" on it, she then carefully picked up the coffee cup and saucer, and put the folder under her arm and walked down the hall, past the empty offices where the other three Inquisitors..long since sent East..had once been, to the one occupied office. She quietly knocked, entering at the bidding of a gruff voice inside.

In the office, hard at work behind his desk, was Inquisitor Morton, a not unappealing red-headed man in his mid-twenties. Duluth, and the Iron camps, was his first big assignment. Normally, he would be junior Inquisitor, under the guidance of more experienced hands, but the Order had it's hands full in Michigan and Indiana, the experienced hands were needed at the Front or behind the lines waging the endless counter-insurgency war against Cult spies and stay-behind saboteurs....so by default, he became Head Agent, presiding over a office of one, completely overworked and having to rely on the Security Chiefs of the labor camps and even trusted prisoners, such as Anita, to cope with the workload associated with maintaining Barnaky's Regime.

"Thanks, Anita", Morton said gratefully as he accepted the cup and saucer. "Got papers for me?"

"Just routine, Inquisitor", she said, mugging in a way to non-verbally signal that she wanted him to drink what she had prepared for him, "It can wait."

Morton, picking up the cues subconsciously, obliged and took a drink. He paused for a moment, as the coffee tasted just a bit odd....though the puppy dog eyes she threw at him when she noticed the pause coaxed him into drinking more, just to please her....as he suddenly realized how luscious her lips looked.

Anita watched and waited, it wasn't long before the pupils of his eyes showed the pheromones were working. A tiny dose, but then she just wanted to make him more biddable to suggestion, not compel him to bend her over the desk and ravish her until he was completely spent and then dry-hump her until he was exhausted. She then walked around the desk and shot him a lewd look that had worked on many a man in her line of work. She smiled as he immediately became erect in response. Totally distracted, he didn't even notice as she placed the folder on the desk, just that she had kneeled down next to him.

"That cock looks rock-hard, Bob", she said seductively in his ear, "would you like me to suck it for you?"

"I.I.I can't!", Bob stammered, "They'd shoot me if they found out!"

"No they won't, Bob", Anita replied, "We've been through this before. I promise I'll swallow it all and then there will be no evidence...it will be our secret." She then lazily ran a finger and traced a line up his clothed, and fully erect member. "I just need you to do something for me...."

"Do what?", Morton asked impatiently, "I want you now!"

"Just sign these papers for me", she said as she flipped open the folder, "I need these signed so they can go out in today's packet."

"Oh, right", Morton said. glancing at the top paper, it was the weekly discipline report for Camp 11. he signed it and flipped to the next page, to find his report on suspected sabotage of a mining rig at the Keewatin Pit, the investigation had determined it was a hydraulic failure caused by a defective hose. He signed it, but became distracted again as Anita began fiddling with his belt.

"C'mon Bob", Anita said huskily as she succeeded in unfastening his belt, "hurry up so I can suck it!"

At that point, Morton's resistance finally crumbled and he hastily signed...without reading...each succeeding document in turn, in the spot where Anita helpfully indicated with a carefully manicured nail, casting down the pen when he had signed the last one.

"Good boy", said Anita with satisfaction as she stacked the papers and put them back in the folder and closed it. "Get ready....."

Bob struggled to pull down his pants to his ankles and leaned back, his eyes rolling up into the back of his head as Anita moved in and expertly pleasured him. After a time, he groaned in pleasure has he climaxed into her skilled mouth. After finishing up, she looked up at him, and opened her mouth to show that it was empty, then leaned up and made him kiss her. She then stood up, and picked up the folder.

"Thank you, Bob", she said, then turned and went to the door, as he recovered. She then looked back and said, "Inquisitor, I need a car to pick up correspondence from the camps and Brainerd....It will take most of the day. could you call ahead to the motor pool and get one released for me?"

"I'll take care of it", Morton said, picking up the phone and mashing the button for a outside line, "Just make sure you're back before curfew...and be careful. the Brainerd area isn't secure yet."

"I'll go there first", Anita replied, "Raiders won't be out in the morning." Morton grunted in reply, then waved her off then began pulling his pants back up as she closed the door.

Back at her desk, she prepared the morning correspondence to go out, then examined the last letters...the ones she hadn't wanted Morton to read...and smiled predatorily at the signature on them. Susan had told her to just forge the documents....but why take the risk when she had a Inquisitor wrapped around her finger? Now all she had to do is head to Mimi's, report and pick up a helper, then complete the mission.

As for Inquisitor Morton, his time would come soon enough.

Vulpes Inculta, Indianapolis International Airport- Concourse A



Vulpes read the unsealed message written in latin that Aurelius had sent. The Eastern Legions were closing in on the city. Reports were already coming in of their presence on I-74. From the description of the standard made by the locals, Vulpes guessed that Legio XII Infernus led as the vanguard. If the 12th was leading, that meant that Aurelius was most assuredly at the head along with them, as he was wont to personally command his own legion. Time was short then, he needed to finish gathering the information he and his Frumentarii had been collecting so he might present it to the Legatus immediately on arrival. At which point...the assault would commence and blood would flow.

As Primus Frumentarius, it was Vulpes duty to work closely with the Inquisition to attain the information he needed. To that end, Inquisitor Stahl had been most helpful. Despite being a woman, she’d proven herself remarkably clever and resourceful. A most unusual trait for the fairer sex. She would make a fine wife for a Frumentarius, he’d thought to himself, his mind now treading down a far more dissolute path as it conjured up an image. Normally such primitive thoughts were beneath him, but they occasionally still wormed their way in. Of course as head of the Frumentarii, he would never betray the trust Caesar and the Legatus had placed in him by causing trouble with The Brotherhood in such a manner. Yet the temptation was there.

Snapping his attention back to his duty, he stared down at the envelope of material he’d been handed by the Inquisitor as he made his way down to the debriefing room where the Lancer-Sergeant was being held. He was not being charged with a crime or anything of the sort, but his history and status as a former member of the Eastern Chapter were under investigation, if only because The Brotherhood wished to know that they were dealing with the genuine article. The strange encounter he’d had with the cultic woman had caused no small degree of concern as well. Still, as he understood it, this debriefing was more of a formality than anything, and irregularities were not expected. Vulpes had been asked to perform the debriefing both as a show of good faith to The Legion, and to bring an outside perspective. Of which he was more than happy to do.

Vulpes turned the handle on the debriefing room door and stepped inside. Seated at the table with a single unarmed guard to watch over him was the man he assumed to be Lancer-Sergeant Robert Kyle, formerly of the Eastern Chapter of The Brotherhood of Steel. An unmistakably confused expression crossed Robert’s face when he saw Vulpes enter, dressed in full Legion armor with his machete gladius sheathed at his side. Vulpes suppressed a smirk as he noted the man’s intense confusion,

“Ave amicus, is something the matter?”

“No...no not at all,” Robert stammered out, “I mean...they told me that you….that The Legion was...different, but I didn’t...wasn’t sure what to expect I guess.”

“And now you do,” Vulpes replied curtly as he sat down, “You may wish to get acquainted with the look of a soldier of Caesar. I daresay that will become a much more frequent sight in the future...”

“I understand...apologies if I caused offense Mr...uhh..”

“Inculta, Vulpes Inculta. Primus Frumentarius of The Legion. That is all you need know for the time being. And from the information I have been given, your name is Lancer-Sergeant Robert Kyle, correct?”

“Correct.”

Vulpes began shuffling through the documents he’d been given on the Sergeant, “Formerly of the Eastern Chapter, you say you served under Elder Roger Maxson?”

“I did. In the Eastern Chapter, a Lancer is a rank given to vertibird pilots. I flew regular missions right up until Maxson was killed in action, along with most of the chapter. Men and women I’d serve with for years...and was damned proud to.”

“Sergeant Kyle...I’ve read your file thoroughly which contained all the relevant information The Brotherhood was able to get on you, along with your own account of how you ended up here. I won’t bore you by asking you to repeat it in its entirety. There are however, some interesting pieces of information that I wish to probe you for details on, if you would be so kind.” Vulpes’ tone of voice was calm, polite and even friendly, but there was an icey undertone of cynicism to it that threw Robert off-guard...and frightened him.

“Why did Roger Maxson travel to The Commonwealth with his army?”

“To fight The Institute, or at least, we thought it was to fight The Institute. Now I’m not so sure I guess, but everyone understood that to be the plan. Even those who didn’t go with Maxson knew why.”

“Yes exactly, this ‘Institute’ is what I’m most interested in. Who are they and why did Maxson feel the need to lead such a large expedition northwards to counter them?”

Robert leaned back and thought for a few moments, “Well...I can’t say I honestly know much about them, but from what Maxson told us. The Institute is, or was, some sort of secret society of scientists. They were supposed to be hiding somewhere in Boston and creating all manner of dangerous technology. The type of technology that we in The Brotherhood think needs to be eliminated or at the very least strictly controlled. Maxson believe it was his duty to bring The Institute to heel once and for all and drag the boogeymen out from under the bed and into the light.”

“And so what happened when you arrived in Boston?”

“Well...nothing actually. Nothing at all. We never found The Institute. Maxson had us scouring every corner of The Commonwealth searching for leads. All the while we were burning precious fuel and food resources spinning our heels. Eventually we began to think that, maybe, Maxson was wrong and The Institute didn’t really exist at all. Many people in The Commonwealth told us the exact same thing: that they were just a myth. Finally, I think Maxson began to lose it. He became obsessed with finding them and so he began to turn on the people of The Commonwealth, believing they were “harboring” them somehow. Soon he began to demand tributes of food and supplies, but then that turned to forced conscription...and then things got out of hand from there.”

“Go on,” Vulpes encouraged, “How did it get out of hand?”

“We began to meet resistance from the local populace. Farmers not wanting to give up portions of their crops...mothers not wishing to see their sons taken and trained to be Brotherhood fighters…pretty soon we were fighting The Commonwealth itself.”

“And how did it end?”

“Badly, obviously,” Robert replied, his eyes widened as he thought back, “I was out on a routine verti-patrol when it happened. Logan Airport was attacked by local insurgents. We think, or at least us survivors thought, it was some kind of cooperative attack between elements of a local militia called The Minutemen and a mercenary group called The Gunners. Neither group had got along well in the past, in fact The Gunners had done a number to The Minutemen not long before we got there, but as they say ‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ and both of them had cause to hate us. I don’t know what happened exactly, but they brought down The Prydwen with hidden explosives I was told, and after that The Brotherhood’s defense just crumbled. Everyone at the airport was massacred, including Maxson. After that, the survivors attempted to rally but we were hounded at every step and too few in number to mount any kind of effective counter attack. Pretty soon I was the only one left…”

“And so you came here after all that?”

“Yes,” Robert nodded, “I felt it my duty to report to the Midwestern Elder what had occured, and to join the fight here. Even if my brothers and sisters are dead...I know that The Brotherhood itself still lives, and that’s good enough for me.”

“One final question, if you please,” Vulpes said, not lifting his eyes from the paper or even checking to see if Robert had agreed, “Do you believe The Institute actually existed?”

“No..I don’t think they did,” Robert sighed, “I think Maxson was wrong...and I think he cost the lives of everyone under his command because he refused to accept it.”

“Thank you,” Vulpes nodded, “You’ve been most helpful.” He then proceeded to pack up the document and close them all back up into the envelop before standing up and stepping out of the debriefing room, “I bid you vale Sergeant Kyle.”

“Uhh….vale? I mean...goodbye.”

---

Vulpes returned to Inquisitor Stahl with his report, handing her the detail notes he had prepared.

“I do not believe that the Lancer-Sergeant is a cult spy or anything of the sort,” Vulpes mentioned as he let her read through the document, “He is not lying, of that I can be certain of. He has neither the tone, or posture, nor the slightest hesitation in anything he says. I can only conclude then that he believes everything he is saying to be true. I will be honest Inquisitor, the only thing I find strange about his story is the matter of this ‘Institute’ that he refers to. It makes little sense to me why Elder Maxson, who I can only assume was an experienced Brotherhood commander, would risk so much manpower, equipment, and resources traveling north on a lark. Surely he must have had some sort of evidence of their existence to risk so much? Evidence, perhaps, that none but he and his inner circle were privy to. But then to travel all that way, find nothing, and then steadfastly refuse to leave? Its...its not the moved I would expect. I feel as though we are missing some piece of the story that could explain this. Then again, tactical blunders have been made by many so-called great men throughout history. Perhaps this is just another in a long line of commanders who are forever cursed to be relegated to footnotes…”

“In any case my work here is done. I’m sorry I could not be more help,” Vulpes bowed, “I’m afraid that I must ride to the Legatus at first light. We shall meet again soon Inquisitor, when our armies arrive here...we shall deliver the city into your hands. You can be sure of that…”

Desmond Lockheart - New York City



Desmond winced as he finished off the last of the Manhattan he’d ordered. A shiver ran down his spine and he nearly gagged,

“What a piss-ridden cocktail,” He growled as he set the empty glass down, “These post-war fucks wouldn’t know a decent mixed drink if they had to make it to save their life….at least the smokes are decent.”

Desmond puffed a few times on a hand-rolled cigarette as he stared around the longue at a number of well-dressed patrons. He was...unsurprisingly...a bit underdressed for the establishment, but few seemed to mind. The occasional dirty look was worth it to have a quiet place to drink and have a smoke..even if the drinks tasted like piss water. Hey, at least they weren’t trying to kick him out for being a ghoul. That was a courtesy he didn’t often get.

After taking another puff of his cigarette and letting the smoke waft around him, he flagged down the bartender, waving him over,

“You wouldn’t to happen to know where I could catch a ride to The Free Commonwealth would you? Visiting an old friend and such. Long story.”

The bartender rolled his eyes, annoyed to have to play travel agent to his foul-mouthed ghoul in addition to being a bartender,

“Might ask those gentlemen over there, I hear they're in from The Free Commonwealth....you can tell because they’re giving dirty looks to everyone that’s actually having a good time....and they were trying to pass out Bibles earlier...”

“Them?” Desmond pointed to a number of strangely dressed individuals seated to one corner of the bar. The Bartender nodded.

“The fuck? Where the bloody hell am I headed to? The Quaker Oats Kingdom? Goddamnit Thomas...” Desmond smashed his cigarette into a nearby tray and grabbed his hat and bag, “What kind of fucking ‘magical adventure’ did you send me on…”

SAC HQ Bunker - Secure teleconference room

"Unfortunately, the Primus Frumentarius unearthed nothing new", Inquisitor Stahl said over the securecom from Indianapolis. "In his opinion, Lancer-Sergeant Kyle is being truthful. I think we've learned all we can from him here. He's passed his flight physical, I see no reason not to recommend he be released for duty."

"Agreed", Joseph replied, looking up from the copy of Vulpes's report that had been forwarded to him by Stahl. "The Paladin -General has directed he be assigned to Vetibird Squadron Two in Wichita, he should complete Flight Quals and cross-chapter orientation by the time their last four Vertibirds are delivered by the production line and they are ready to deploy."

Protocols existed in the Codex for a Brother or Sister joining the Midwestern Order from another Chapter, Lancer-Sergeant Kyle would be the first Brother they were ever applied to...a learning experience all around, they might find other remnants of the Eastern Order who needed a new home as well.

From there, the subject turned to the War, and the Counterinsurgency effort behind the lines. Cult moles and Stay-behinds were still widespread, but the Inquisition, working with the Missionaries, were arming and organizing politically reliable elements in the countryside and the Field units believed they had turned the corner in the Occupation Zone as cell after cell was found and destroyed. Aurelius's arrival in Indianapolis was imminent, the artillery was already stockpiling shells to back up the inevitable assault. Central Michigan was rapidly emptying out of civilians, denied victims to forage from, the Cult forces would begin to weaken as their supplies ran out. Fortifications in Grand Rapids were continuing at pace...once the Warmaster came south he would find himself fighting very much on the Brotherhood's terms.

Eventually, the conference entered, and Stahl and the other Inquisitions winked off their screens. Joseph turned to the robot that was taking a seat next to him.

"Vulpes also made some very good points about Maxon in his report, sir", Joseph said. "Either Elder Maxon was privy to information that was not shared with the Brethren at large, or he had gone mad....it's imperative we find out which."

"Yes", Barnaky replied, "But how? From what Brother Kyle said, Maxon's actions have made the Brotherhood widely hated in the Commonwealth. A Expedition there would likely be seen as a second attempt at Invasion and opposed by the whole body of the people....the very thing we've gone to lengths to avoid in our own expansion program. No wonder Gladstone recognized his claim to the Elder's chair so quickly once Elder Lyons was assassinated, they were two peas in a pod."

"Speaking of the High Elder", Barnaky added, "How are operations going in the north?"

"We've increased assets in the Khan's Lands, as well as South Dakota, in conjunction with Martin's people", Joseph replied, "we're also exploring option on how to get people into the Western Order's lands, but any kind of broadcast inside of their lands is likely to be dangerous...that mystery flight was practicing comprehensive OPSEC protocols....one can only assume they are looking for the same sort of things they were trying to hide from us."

"Any idea what they were doing in Kentucky?", Barnaky asked.

"Whatever it was, Joseph replied, "They wanted us kept in the dark about it. Their liason could have contacted the Joint Targeting Staff and gotten a hundred suitable targets, or secured clearance to overfly our territory, for the asking. I can only guess they either just did something they believed we would object to, or are trying to independently verify the data on the Cult we gave them....or perhaps both. Not an auspicious beginning for reconciliation between our Chapters."

"No, it's not", Barnaky said wistfully, "I believe we shouldn't get our hopes up on that front. I hope I'm wrong, but Gladstone's actions give me a strong sense of deja vu...Same Shit, Different Decade."

"Back to Maxon", Barnaky continued, "We can't send in an overt force like we did in the Capital Wasteland....they'll be too busy trying to survive to find out what we need to know. Put together a team...i'll instruct Martin to cooperate....to go in and see what they can find. At the same time, I will direct Strasse to redouble the efforts at the Citadel, we need as much of what Maxon knew when he left as we can find. I also find it hard to believe he did not communicate his findings with the Citadel from Boston, either."

"I will begin immediately, sir", Joseph replied.

"Good."

High Elder Gladstone – Western Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe

The High Elder let out a grunt at the words of the Texan president once the man had sat down, as well as Barnaky’s replies. He dismissed both of them, choosing to focus on the main figure for his plans against the NCR, the Vegas representative, the King. He nodded in agreement with the man’s words before making his own reply. He managed to bite his tongue and hide his disdain for yet another warning against his nation, the Texan representative had mentioned expansion into Oklahoma and nobody seemed to be batting an eyelid at that.

Why not? Oklahoma formed an ideal staging ground into either Legion territory or Midwestern territory, and enabled a buffer area to be formed to ensure that any wars against Texas could be held in check. Better a war in the front garden rather than the front living room.

“I welcome such a pragmatic view as Vegas has come to take with the NCR. And would be happy to discuss further arrangements, pending the agreement of the Midwest and the Legion.”

His eyes glanced over to the two respective representatives, before turning to briefly scan over the NCR and Texas representatives again. The NCR was a wounded bear, it might be bleeding, but it still had its teeth and claws. It had been a worthy adversary, that much he admitted freely in private, a travesty to see it become what it had now. As for Texas, it was an unknown quantity, still, it seemed to hold some potential. It would be interesting how things developed for them.

Special Operations Council – Western Brotherhood of Steel – Electric City

“This meeting of the Special Operations Council will come to order. Please note that only general minutes will be taken and following this meeting, the Council will remain to review and censor the record as necessary.”

Elder Laughlin was the one speaking, an African-American woman of senior age, and once a fearsome warrior in her own right. As of now, with a senior paladin and senior scribe seated to her left and right respectively, she looked across the room at the man before her. Paladin-Commander Thatcher, Director of Military Intelligence sat in the new uniform of the Brotherhood military, a small smile on his features. Laughlin gestured for the man to speak, the Director wasted no time in doing so.

“Thank you Elder, for convening this meeting on such short notice. I will be brief. Last night, a covert operations taskforce successfully completed a mission east of the Mississippi. A success because we completed all objectives and exceeded them in proving the military capabilities of all systems involved. It is my request that the Hermes class drone be approved for immediate full-scale production, the type one will run for a limited run of fifteen drones for deployment against the Cult in the east. And a further nine drones for deployment in the immediate vicinity.”

The director gestured to the dockets he’d handed to the council members before the meeting had been called to order.

“Full details of the mission and the Hermes class are in the briefings before you. Future deployments will be launched from Western order secured airfields under cover of darkness. This well enable a more secure platform to launch drone strikes from. In addition, this will enable any kinks to be worked out, allowing for a type two to be developed and deployed next year. We intend this class to be in use for the long term and have intentions of developing the drone program into short, medium and long-range systems. Along with very low to very high-altitude capable systems.”

Laughlin spoke up as she lazily leafed through the docket in her hands, interrupting the Director just as he seemed to be hitting his stride.

“Tell me Director, why drones? Why not manned aircraft?”

“Easiness.”

The reply was immediate, all replies were with this man, always sharp Laughlin idly noted, looking up from her docket, and over her glasses at the Director.

“Drones are easier to replace than pilots. They’re easier to run and easier to control. They don’t get tired, you can’t really swap pilots in our current fighter craft in mid-air. They don’t have crises of conscience, with a drone, one can switch to a backup operator willing to pull the trigger. They’re cheaper to run, both per unit cost and over their lifetime.”

The chamber fell silent for a few minutes, before the council drew back to confer amongst themselves, and at last, Laughlin leaned forwards.

“This council has made its decision. The request is approved. All missions will be reviewed by this council pre and post mission. Is this acceptable Director?”

“Completely.”

Laughlin nodded.

“Good. Meeting dismissed.”

They talked as if he wasn’t there. He listened patiently as the peacocks fluffed their feathers, but anyone could tell they only spoke so boldly of “containment” and the NCR’s “old world pitfalls”, because of their reliance on the vast power of the Midwest and Caesar. Here he was being threatened by the disfigured remains of the Western Brotherhood, previously destroyed by the NCR, and a trumped up gangster from a city that was occupied by the NCR for seven years. It was bitter irony, but he would have to swallow it. As proudly as he had marched towards Santa Fe for Kimball, he was Hsu’s man now. He also couldn't help but appreciate the Generals order for a peaceful mission at this conference. He had a child on the way back in the Hub. Against that, any personal hatred he still held towards the Legion that might make him advocate for a hawkish stance was weak.

Before he could respond to the King’s postering, Caesar proved to be the voice of reason. “Let us hold fast for the moment,” Lucius stood as Barnaky and The King had finished speaking. “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.”

Harris nodded and responded accordingly, “We act for the peaceful advancement of the Southwest”.

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 Hsu 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.”

Garcia responded smoothly enough, given the circumstances “the NCR is willing to accept these terms wholeheartedly and measures have already been taken to follow this request. Kimball’s populist regime is being blamed and denounced for leading the nation into a needlessly aggressive war against the Legion, nearly destroying chances for peace. We just want to get our veterans home now.” He scratched his beard thoughtfully. “On Californian emigration to Vegas, that is within the rights of our citizens. However, I would like it if you considered letting the NCR re-establish an embassy in New Vegas to help manage this development. We’re struggling to keep track of the emigration, some citizens have requested to retain duel citizenship, and there are other problems with the legal status of these people.” He paused, preparing himself to say something he never dreamed of. “And since the Republics bank isn’t broken, General Hsu is also offering reparations for damages the Legion has taken during Kimball’s illegal war, which was a violation of the Treaty of Goodsprings.”

He stood up now and surveyed the room, giving strong looks to the King and the Western elder. It was time to make his own clever speech. “The New California Republic has failed the world. We showed our worst face at New Vegas Conference. And Kimballs invasion was a violation of the peace the world hoped for.” he looked at Lucius, a former enemy he’d never seen before today, and couldn’t help but respect him some for all this. “Both of our nations have been at eachothers throats for years in a needless conflict. Thousands died for a dam that ultimately neither of us owned when the fighting stopped. Kimball tried to restart that when we ought to have ended our silly conflict. For that, the new leaders of the NCR apologize and hope to make things right in the coming years in whatever way we can. Resentments between our people may continue, but never again another war. The Republic may one day expand into those untouched wastelands at our border, but the people of California have had enough blood. We want to gradually establish peaceful and open economic and diplomatic connections to all nations around us. There is only benefit to be had for Texas, Vegas, the Legion, and both Brotherhoods to discussing open trade agreements with us. To carry out these promises, General Hsu is currently reforming our democratic government and I have been authorized to make binding agreements with you. So by all means, be prepared for some far future conflict with the Republic. But know ‘gluttonous expansion’ and further war is not on the Bears agenda.”

As he sat down, he hoped that that speech would be enough to make his other request compelling. “I have one request Caesar. Would it be possible for the remains of Kimball and his outfit to be turned over to the NCR? The remains could serve as a powerful symbol of Kimballs defeat to the NCR public. They would also be some consolation for the family relations and friends the man left behind, regardless of his final actions.”

Palace of Caesar

“The New California Republic has failed the world", Garcia said, "We showed our worst face at New Vegas Conference. And Kimball's invasion was a violation of the peace the world hoped for.” he looked at Lucius, a former enemy he’d never seen before today, and couldn’t help but respect him some for all this. “Both of our nations have been at each others throats for years in a needless conflict. Thousands died for a dam that ultimately neither of us owned when the fighting stopped. Kimball tried to restart that when we ought to have ended our silly conflict. For that, the new leaders of the NCR apologize and hope to make things right in the coming years in whatever way we can. Resentments between our people may continue, but never again another war. The Republic may one day expand into those untouched wastelands at our border, but the people of California have had enough blood. We want to gradually establish peaceful and open economic and diplomatic connections to all nations around us. There is only benefit to be had for Texas, Vegas, the Legion, and both Brotherhoods to discussing open trade agreements with us. To carry out these promises, General Hsu is currently reforming our democratic government and I have been authorized to make binding agreements with you. So by all means, be prepared for some far future conflict with the Republic. But know ‘gluttonous expansion’ and further war is not on the Bears agenda.”

"Nice speech", Barnaky thought to himself, "Even though you looked like you were sucking on a lemon while giving it." As for Gladstone's bellicose talk, he should keep in mind the NCR wasn't much weaker now than they had been when they forced him to abandon the bunkers that made up the cradle of the Order and into exile in Washington State. Barnaky was sympathetic with Garcia's predicament, however....Hsu had truly given the man a hard duty to perform. Personally, he would have rather have seen his old "friend" Cassandra Moore...one of the authors of this whole mess, and the only one to survive it politically...served up that healthy portion of crow pie than Garcia, she richly deserved it. But that woman had more lives than a cat....not only was she still in uniform, the same clowns in Shady Sands that had been moving a bill through the NCR Congress to demand she be cashiered as news reached them of her victory over Thunderbird, last War Leader of the 80s, turned around and made her a Major General instead. Her leading role in the Mojave War, and the disastrous war with the Legion that followed was all but forgotten in the NCR now.

Garcia sat, then spoke again.

“I have one request Caesar", Garcia continued, "Would it be possible for the remains of Kimball and his outfit to be turned over to the NCR? The remains could serve as a powerful symbol of Kimball's defeat to the NCR public. They would also be some consolation for the family relations and friends the man left behind, regardless of his final actions.”

Barnaky was surprised by this, he had thought Lucius had repatriated Kimball's remains. While returning the corpse seemed like a reasonable request to him, that was up to Caesar. he looked over at Caesar to await his reply to Garcia.

Akeisha Moon - SAC HQ - Former Joint Strategic Target Planning Staff Offices - Four Months Ago

"Here it is", the Scribe said to Akeisha as he placed the thick book on the table before her. "This is where it all begins..."

Akeisha regarded the book, a large softbound tome at least three inches thick, and looked at the black letters that still stood out boldly on the blood red cover.

TOP SECRET//SIOP-ESI

SINGLE INTEGRATED OPERATIONAL PLAN, FY 2078 (SIOP-78)
WITH APPENDICES AND ANNEXES

THE JOINT CHIEFS OF STAFF
WASHINGTON, D.C. 20301
1 OCT 2077

CLASSIFIED BY DIRECTOR, J-3
DECLASSIFY ON OADR

TOP SECRET//SIOP-ESI

There it was before her, one of the most closely guarded secrets of the Old World's Government....the document that spelled out, in meticulous detail, the US Military's comprehensive plan for ending the world. Below her, deep underground, was one of the command centers from which the final war of the Old World had been waged. The men and women assigned to it, all but forgotten except for names on duty rosters and logs, had prosecuted the war relentlessly, managing the initial exchange, and then sending out commands for follow-up strikes to units that one by one, had ceased replying until, in the end, supplies had run out, forcing them to venture out into the hellscape of post-exchange Nebraska for more, which exposed them to the radiation that ultimately claimed them. When the Brotherhood had seized Offut AFB from the Calculator, along with their bones, they inherited the largest known repository of records regarding the Great War known to still exist. Everything from the SIOP itself, to the real-time logs of SAC HQ as the war was being waged, to, reports from SAC assets and Battle Damage Assessments and follow up orders that emanated from them. It would take months to scan it all onto holodisk and years for a dedicated team of historians to catalog and analyze it all....so that historians could properly chronicle the madness that had created the world as it was today.

While Akeisha's specialty with the Followers of the Apocalypse was the study of the Societal Protection Program, or Vault Project as most called it, when the Brotherhood had responded to her requests for information about the Vaults in the Midwestern Order's lands with a counter-offer to help them catalog the trove of Great War-era documents, she couldn't help but accept.

With a mixture of deep curiosity, sadness, and a little fear, she opened the cover and began to leaf through the pages of the massive tome before her.

Lucius, Imperator of The Legion

Lucius listened to the Brigadier General speak with an open mind, willing to do what neither Sallow nor Lanius would have ever considered doing, or even had the capacity to do. It was a strange feeling, having even of modicum of respect for someone that previously he would not have hesitated to kill if ordered. And yet here he was.

One the General gave his final word, Lucius pointed to the General as he looked around the room,

“This is why I gladly speak with the NCR’s military and not its politicians. A soldier means what he says and has the discipline required to carry it out. I would trust the word of General Garcia here over any of those profligate snakes that call themselves the NCR Senate….”

“As for Kimball…” He continued, “His remains along with the fallen at the Battle of Pheonix were collected by NCR POWS. I will allow them to return home. They should be buried in their native soil and honored there. Even Kimball. As much as I found the man to be absurdly arrogant and detestable in life, he died with some honor fighting as a soldier should alongside his men. I bear the scars he gave me proudly as a mark of a worthy foe. I trust you do not misunderstand the trophy I display in the hall as that of shaming. I display it not to shame: but to remember a fallen adversary.”

Lucius stood, and motioned for Garcia to stand with him. He offered his hand,

“Then we are agreed. And there will be the peace. I will have my scribes draft the official agreement immediately, which we might sign here today.”

---

---

It was all Maxons fault!

If he had send reinforcments back to the citadel, they would have beaten the Cult. If he had not claimed the position of Elder, she could have stopped his idotic expedition that had seen his demise in the commonwealth of Boston. If he would have not brokered this damn peace with the Outcasts and if he would have not taken her glory against the Shepard, she would have won the election...and the East-Coast Chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel would still be a power worth mentioning..and not a rabble, hiding away in the ruins of their old enemy!

The plans to restore Raven-Rock, had been to turn the ruins into an auxiliary base for long-range operations into the west, using its distance from most settlements in the captital wasteland, to easily resupply expeditions, without causing much attention, as well as to scavenge for enclave data and technology. The plans had been criticized, for making the base far to small, leaving too little room for personal, which would lead to a shortage of space when in full operation, yet today, they couldnt even fill half the rooms, with others having been simply abandoned and given away to collect dust.

---

Staying close to the terminals, the Lioness looked unmoving, as she could spot the dots on the holo-table, moving a single finger onto her ear. "Knight-Captain Harris, you have a visual?" Static followed, as the three little dots spread out further, keeping their distance as they sneaked towards the building. "Prides Shadow here, Fireteam leader! Can confirm visual! Informants reports seem truthful! MWBoS heraldry confirmed! Request permisson to uncloak and approach!" Lyons felt a sour taste over this request, before taking a step away from the table. "Permission denied! Distance is to be kept and the fireteam remains in cloaking at all times!" Where had the MWBoS been when the Citadel fell? Where had they been when she had launched her counter-attack? They came onto her chapters lands now, like scavenging crows, yet she would not let them absorb her chapter in shame and dishonor! They would force her to stand trial in her fathers place, answer for what had been just and honorable! If it werent for her acts, this chapter would have been as dead as the world believed it to be.
"Keep an eye on them, but avoid all contract and detection! You will not engage, if the MWBoS is attacked, you hear me? You remain in position and report! Lady-Commander out!"

---

---

The knife was sharp and when it slipped into the ghouls neck, the eyes sprang open, as a scream was muffled by the younger brother, who pressed his hand hard onto the mouth of the informant. Licking the stumps of his lips, he leaned in closer, as he looked into the dying ghouls eyes. "Shhh, its all over!" The younger brother could feel the pain and the fear in the ghoul below him, as he pulled out the knife, allowing the rotten blood to flow faster from the cut veins. Finally looking away, the Ghoul let out a sigh, as he cursed his duty, yet for the comming storm, there could be no disloyalty in their ranks. The window was slim, and the order had been given. The Day of liberation came closer and closer, and the force needed to be prepared for it. People like the pitiful worm below him, had earned themselves easy hours, food rations, cigarettes and protection, by giving away information to the guards. Not, that any of them could have come close to the identity of Hastura, she who would liberate them all. Her orders had been whispers, small notices and hints, yet there was no second guessing. She gave the name, and this person would not see another day.

Placing the shiv in the other hand of the ghoul, Hakon closed the deads eyes. Just another suicide among many, another muty who could no longer endure the hard labor and the mines. Others raised their heads from their bunks, yet Hakon knew that there was no longer a need for secrecy about the murders in the camp, nor for threats. Most already had sworn devotion to Hastura, she who would bring liberty, while the rest would not dare to speak out against her countless servants in the camp. Calmly, and without haste, Hakon walked out of the Barracks, his shift taken by another ghoul with a forged number, taking his place, serving the great uprising in his own way.

Outside the Barrack, he was another huddled shadow among countless others, trying to evade the eyes of the watchmen, yet even the most simple minded slave of the brain in the jar would know that something was off. The MLA logo appeared far more often, the fire was back in some mutants eyes, and a whisper had filled the night...yet even this, was shrouding something darker! For the Brothers did not served a petty revolution, they served the prophet, and his favored servant, Hastura, she who would bring liberty. Few had known of the monolith before, yet the words of the older brother had been seed, falling on fertile ground among the ones without hope. For all were equal in the eyes of he who slumbered, human or mutant. The guards would not know the runes carved into the wood and the inquisitors would be too busy with the threat of the MLA looming, seemingly defeated.

Stumbling into him, another prisoners almost fell over, as the younger brother groaned in anger. He felt the paper slipped into his pocket, yet also could see the guard in the edge of his eyes. To not show an reaction would be suspicious! "Watch your step you maggot!" A kick followed, right into the soft part of the knee, as the younger brother wanted to kick again, before a guard shouted. "Thats enough, you ugly mutants!" Spitting out, the younger brother stepped away, the paper feeling heavy in his pocket, slowly moving to his own barrack. In its shadow, far from the eyes of the guard, he opened the sheet, before looking at its content.

"This week, prepare the faithful and the tools!"

The order had been given, the faithful would answer!

---

---

Cthalpol the Irons mouth remained unmoving, as he looked down at the arriving Suttbray and his small escort. Toy soldiers, like Cthalpol had seen so many! They had not bleed in the hills, shivering the in cold of night, and feasted on the flesh of the fallen to endure hardship, that would strip all weakness from them, leaving them hard as iron. He snorted, before stepping closer, his mighty hand calmly taking hold of the bearded mans head. The voice had a sound of grinding metal, sharp as a dagger and cold as the bite of steel. Yet it was lead by a woke mind of a scholar. "Tell me, do you feel in charge of your fate?" Like wolves, the Cult warriors around moved in closer, men and mutants, scared and grim, veterans of the hills, devoted to the monolith. Their hands rested on looted guns, sharp blades and dark trophies, as they waited for how their leader would react. "I had wished to remain in the hills, for i enjoyed the fight there. Killing the men of Franklin was a hard task, yet each victory, was sweet and nurishing. I learned much from their ways, and would have liked to ended them by my hands. But the prophet has ordered me here, to overlook you, Convert! He has hopes for you, but i have not! I am here, to provide military assistance, yet make no mistake, for if you are found wanting, i shall be your executioner, Mr. Suttbray!"
Letting go of the mans neck, the Super-Mutant stepped past him, as he nodded to one of his warriors, who calmly presented Suttbray with an roll made out of dry, brittle leather, some parts of it sowed together, ink markings still on it.
"Half my forces will remain here, to turn this harbor into a fortress of the faith, and paint the swamp red, with all who dare to oppose us! The rest of my army will come with you, and sail to the place you call Jacksonville!"

---

The roll, wrapped into human skin felt alien to all touch, almost shivering and alive. Opened, a disgusting smell would come from it, as a single piece of old, damp paper would fall from it.

The Legate Arrives

Siege of Indianapolis

“Mitterent!”

The loud crack of a howitzer sounded out across the battlefield as the latin order to fire was given. Thin smoke trailed around the artillery as the legionaries quickly reloaded in timed and disciplined precision.

“Mitterent!”

A second gun opened fire down the line. Followed by a third, and a fourth and on and on down the battery. A symphony of death had started to sound, and the peels of explosions in the distance registered that the teams were hitting their mark, ripping through men as well as brick and mortar just as easily. Midwestern field artillery commanders looked on with pride and stoic awe at how easy and natural it had been to drill The Legion’s artillery crews to fire their guns like a violinist might play a stradivarius. Now the fruits of their labors were coming to bear. Indianapolis was aflame.The Legion had finally come.

Legatus Aurelius had arrived with all four of the Eastern Legions, more than 20,000 crimson clad legionaries now covered the hills overlooking the city. Legion standards and golden bull banners unfurled, brahmin-skin drums beating and animal horns trumpeting to announce their arrival. There was a cacophony of cries and chanting in latin as Centurions and Decani shouted encouragements and insults alike to their men, extolling them to great feats of valor and to die in the service of Caesar and Mars. Chainsaws and rippers revved, war dogs barked, and horses stamped the ground. The full military might of the Legion was on display to strike fear into the heart of the defenders, and the Legatus was far from done.

Towards the rear of the line, Aurelius himself sat astride his horse alongside Vulpes Inculta and a troop of mounted Praetorians. The standards of each of the four legions at his command, as well as the sacred banner of Caesar were held proudly by Veteran Legionaries standing beside him. Aurelius surveyed his assembled troops with a discerning eye, ready to correct any gap in his legions’ organization and mentally planning how the initial stages of the battle might play out.

“We’ll be inside the city before nightfall,” He said casually to Vulpes, “Denver was a much harder city to crack than this, and we had less than half the men we do now. The Brotherhood has been softening up the defenders for days now, and they’re ready to break. Their courage hangs by the thinnest thread.”

“Desperate men are capable of extraordinary things,” Vulpes replied, “We should proceed with caution regardless of our confidence in victory.”

“Of course. The wise counselor as always Vulpes,” Aurelius turned to his comrade with a grin, “Mars looks ill on the commander that offers celebration before his enemy is broken. We cannot afford to lose his favor now. Not when such demons as the Cult worships are arrayed against us.”

“Perhaps if we lose it, the god of the New Canaanites might bless us with his favor,” Vulpes chuckled softly, “The missionaries already whisper that he’s blessed Caesar. They say their god brought him back from the brink of death.”

“Whatever the case. Mars is the god of bloody war and strife. I would offer no other prayers but to him. It is to him that I dedicate the sacrifice of life that we will beget today.”

A hard riding legionnaire interrupt the pair’s budding theological debate, his horse halting quickly before Aurelius and offering a sharp salute,

“Salve Legatus. The Midwesterners say they are ready to advance. They await your word to attack. You have command of the field.”

“Very well,” Aurelius nodded, and he raised a hand, “Signal the attack. Skirmishers forward, recruits behind. Primes and Veterans remain in reserve for now.” He lowered his hand swiftly and yelled out at the top of his lungs, “ADVANCE!”

Horns sounded simultaneously across the hillside, whilst two great drums the size of a man began to beat slowly and rhythmically. Suddenly a commotion began as legionaries erected crosses all along the line. Crucified victims, spies and captured cult sympathizers that had been captured by Vulpes’ men, were gruesomely tied and nailed to them and screamed in agony as they were raised skyward. A final indignity meant to show that no mercy would be offered, and to terrorize those in the city who still might have hope of victory. Centurions ordered their men to attack, and the legionaries all shouted in unison. The crimson tide surged forward, and the battle commenced.

---

A Midwestern footsoldier sunk down in his trench as bullets wizzed overhead, the soft thuds of impacts in the dirt behind him was reminder enough to Harlon that he and the rest of his squad were in a deadly crossfire. Positions were advancing all along the entrenchment, and the artillery had done more than its fair share to soften up the defenses, but some key emplacements were still holding strong. He braved a peek out over the trench and could see the fortified position in front of them, sandbags and makeshift walls giving the ghouls within a good firing position. Without power armor, it’d be hell to take. A few well placed shells could do the trick too, but in the heat of battle his squad had gotten separated from the main contingent. They needed to link back up and reorganize the attack.

Cursing his luck, Harlon’s attention was suddenly diverted by the sounds of rushing footsteps. Someone quickly jumped down into the trench along with seven other men following swiftly behind. It was immediately clear who they were. Granted it was hard to mistake a contubernium of Caesar’s soldiers as anything but.

“Ave amicus,” the leading legionnaire greeted him, he held a 10mm pistol in one hand and a machete in the other. The red and white plumed helmet he wore was proof enough he was the officer, “Decanus Quintilius, what’s the situation?”

“It's about time you Legion boys showed up,” Harlon grinned as he began pointing in the direction of the emplacement, “Fortified position about 50 yards ahead or so. They’ve got a good bead on us. Untrained morons can’t hit worth a damn at least though, but we’ve got no cover up ahead. We could use power armor support, but I’m hearing that they’re tied up on other sections. Might be awhile before they can get here.”

Quintillus peered out over the trench at the position, nodded grimly, and then turned back to Harlon,

“We don’t have time to wait. The Recruits are advancing as we speak. Our orders are to clear the way.”

“You mean the first wave is still coming?” Harlon asked, surprised. He'd assumed that this was the main line. He then immediately remembered back to his CO’s briefing on Legion tactics. They advanced in waves. The least experienced soldiers advancing before the veterans, wearing the enemy down before the elites even got to them.

“We’re assigned to the skirmish force. The main group of Recruits for the 5th, 6th, and 8th Cohorts are coming behind us. They’ll be here shortly. If they arrive and we’ve failed to disable this emplacement, I will have failed in my duties. The defenders will dig in deeper, more of our brothers will die and the advance may stall halt.”

“So what’s your plan then?”

Quintillus looked to Harlon, his expression hidden by the goggles and red bandanna he wore over his face,

“Attack.”

Quintillus turned to his Legionaries, they immediately understood what they needed to do,

“Alright you wretched curs!” Quintillus shouted, “Up and over! We’re going to screen the Recruits advance. The eyes of Mars are upon you now! Do NOT shame him! For Caesar!”

“Caesar!” The legionaries replied with a shout, and they began scrambling over the entrenchment. A stray bullet hit home and one of the legionaries fell immediately dead back into the trench. The sheer ferocity of the attack must have surprised the defenders, because the legionaries advanced some distance before their guns were fully brought to bear, but now they were coming under heavy fire from up and down the trench line. The legionaries were taking casualties, but it seemed as if they might actually make it. Soon more and more legionaries were swarming over the position like ants.

“Crazy fools The Legion…” Harlon muttered as he fired his weapon and prepared to follow them in. He wasn’t about to let Caesar’s men have all the glory.

There was a small moment of pause as his words sunk into the gathering. The strange robot representing Lord Paladin Barnaky managed to look unimpressed. And then Lucius abruptly pointed at him as he looked around the room. It was vaguely unnerving to singled out by Caesar.

“This is why I gladly speak with the NCR’s military and not its politicians.”, Lucius began “a soldier means what he says and has the discipline required to carry it out. I would trust the word of General Garcia here over any of those profligate snakes that call themselves the NCR Senate….”

He was that successful? He figured that Caesar would pick up on the fact that he wasn’t happy with all of the things he said like Barnaky seemed to have. It would be good to remember that Caesar preferred army men such as himself.

“As for Kimball…” He continued, “His remains along with the fallen at the Battle of Pheonix were collected by NCR POWS. I will allow them to return home. They should be buried in their native soil and honored there. Even Kimball. As much as I found the man to be absurdly arrogant and detestable in life, he died with some honor fighting as a soldier should alongside his men. I bear the scars he gave me proudly as a mark of a worthy foe. I trust you do not misunderstand the trophy I display in the hall as that of shaming. I display it not to shame: but to remember a fallen adversary.”

Garcia gritted his teeth a little. He was hoping Caesar wouldn’t keep Kimballs regalia as any kind of decoration. Nevertheless, he couldn’t fail to be happy that Kimballs remains could be brought home. It was Kimball that pinned the Brigadier General insignia on his chest in what felt like decades ago. He was also very glad for Lucius’s good treatment of the soldiers. His imagination had conjured up a far worse fate for them, but this Caesar seemed to be almost knightly in his honor. “I accept these terms.”

Lucius stood, and motioned for Garcia to stand with him. He offered his hand, and Garcia clasped the hand of Caesar. Time seemed to slow down in the gravity of the moment. He wondered if there were cameramen or sketch artists watching, waiting to put this in what passed for a newspaper here.

“Then we are agreed. And there will be the peace. I will have my scribes draft the official agreement immediately, which we might sign here today.”

He nodded. “General Hsu has given me the authority to sign today. It will last past tomorrow and the next, Caesar.” And with that, his role seemed to be over for now. But the conference was only beginning. Hey, he had gotten through the hardest parts at least. As he sat down, he asked a little awkwardly “What part of the wasteland should we talk about next? Perhaps the war in Florida?”

President Harris finally wetted his stumpy lips and took the reigns. “Yes, that is probably wise. First, I give thanks to you Caesar for allowing this process with the NCR to go smoothly. Thank you for disconnecting the irrational actions of Kimball from the soldiers who had to follow his absurd strategies. In regards to the Keynesian Civil War, I plan to soon announce my support for His Serenity Bartholomew Hemingway III and his loyalist faction against the rogue slave states. The direct intervention of the Free Confederation of Texan States should likely follow. Peace and freedom must be brought to the region, and His Serenity is the most likely to bring it." He looked towards Barnaky and Lucius "What are your assessments of the situation?”

---

---

The scum that had manned the improvised artillery broke down in panic, as the gun next to them had been turned into a bloody mist and scrap metal, while shrapnel from the explosion had cut down three of them. Dropping the powder and scrapped explosive, the cultists, raiders and mutants almost had made a run for it, before the Pack-master jumped to it. Two strong hands reached for a raiders head, before with a loud, wet "SNAP" he broke his neck and tossed him away. Cracking his knuckles, the cult warrior stared at the faithless, the metal of his chestplate glittering bloody, and his cutter gun hanging loosly over his shoulders. "I kill every little bastard who tries to make a run for it, now back to your posts!"
One of the more brave souls, a dusty and bloody raider, stormed forward, a pipe in his hand, trying to smash the cult warrior over his head, yet he was faster. His sharp gauntlet connected with the unprotected belly of the raider, and tore it open, before he interlocked the arm of the scum, and broke it with an equally loud snapping noise. Bleeding and groaning, this display of violence and brutallity restored order quickly, and moments later, the crude barrel mortar once more fired back at the advancing legion and Brotherhood..

A grain of sand, trying to stop a flood!

---

The giant riding molerat scraped hard over the ground below, its sharp claws scratching over the asphalt of the old parking building, as the Iron-Jaw made his way up the parking building. Behind him, his loyal warriors marched, men who had been with him when they had crushed the Überboss of Fredricksburg, felled the lone-tree republic and burned the capital wasteland to the ground. Another explosion, rather closed, shaked the building and for a moment, the molerat hissed in fear, almost standing up, so that the Iron-jaw gave its rings, connecting the leash to the beasts flesh, a hard tug, that restored its balance. Finally, his group reached the roof, and what he saw made him grind his good teeth over his iron ones.

Far down below, he could see the enemy advance, the ad-hoc defenders of this town no match for legion discipline and Brotherhood firepower. "First wave and this scum already breaks...shameful display!" If he had half the men, but proper cult warriors, he would make the enemy bleed for every step. The roaring guns of the Pitt would return death and destruction onto the bombardiers, the trenches would turn red, as the legionaries would met the hardened veterans of the Capital-wasteland and even the Republic wars, fighting in enclosed spaces, man against man, while roaring marauder tanks would return fire. Yet, all he had was the cultists that had flocked to the banner of the missonaires, and the army of Overboss Lee. And Iron-Jaw found them wanting...

The Overboss was strolling around the deck of the parking-building like a mad chicken, barking orders, and tearing on his hair. "THEY ARE RUNNING! WHY ARE THEY RUNNING! TELL THEM TO STAND AND FUCKING FIGHT...AHHHH!" Iron-Jaw snarrled at the sound of fear in the Raiders voice, as the man turned, glaring at the arriving cult warriors, outnummbering the raiders on the roof. "About fucking time! Your men need to attack now! We need to fight a way out of the city now!" Another explosion came down, this time tearing into a nearby building, and the overboss almost fell over. "There will be no retreat, the prophet has ordered me to hold this city, and this i will do! Your men are lacking faith and spirit, yet the sickness of cowardliness starts at the head of an army.." The head of the Raiderboss turned deep red, as he stepped towards the mount of Iron-Jaw. "Listen here you weirdo fuck! THIS IS MY CITY! These are MY FUCKING MEN! I AM IN FUCKING CHARGE..." Spit flew out of the raiders mouth, yet as he looked around, he could see that his men did not dared to move. Like wolves, the Cult warriors moved in, no raider daring to raise their guns at them. "Your lack of faith is disappointing, Lee! I will not have unbelievers in my defense of this city...men, toss this heretic off the roof!"

Lee wanted to pick up his rifle, yet two cult warriors were faster, taking hold of his arms, and with one swift motion, pulled him towards the edge. The raider screamed in blind fear, while the Iron-Jaw already turned around, taking in the scene around them. Multiple lines and trenches were already overrun, red figures cutting down fleeing rabble, while elsewhere disciplined fire was followed by swift bayonnet attacks. Never before, had Iron-Jaw seen such a combination before. A long fading scream signaled the fall of the old boss, and with a sigh, Iron Jaw turned around. "All Pack masters are to abandon their rabble! All my brothers, my faithful warriors of the Holy City are to take all the supply we can carry, and bring it into the tunnels! You..." He pointed with great calm at the remaining raiders. "Food, supply and ammunition are to be brought underground! Let them have this city...a night of long knifes shall follow for them.."

---

With the last Packmaster abandoning the rabble and the lack of leadership, the defense of the town crumbled quickly. Raiders, mutants and untrained cultist were no match for trained legonaires and the might of the Midwest brotherhood. Soon, even the last barrel mortar was silenced, before being tossed over, and its crew being left behind, cold and dead. The broken body of Overboss Lee was found soon after...shattered on the ground, seemingly fallen from its fortress, the gigantic Indiapolis Mall Parking lot

---

Iron-Jaw calmly petted the head of his giant riding rat, who nervously chewed on the arm he had given her to eat. "Calm girl...calm!" His men had gathered around burning barrels, far below in the old service tunnels and catacombs of the city. In the dim light, their metal armor reflected the fire in an display that was beautiful to behold. "Up there, the faithless have taken the city! Let them have it! They wont find us down here, not in such short time! We will wait, until their back is turned, and then, they will be faced with the full might of prophet. Now, eat and rest. Save your Miasma for the final assault..."

---

---

The warrior jumped down into the ditch, the sand bloody and reeking below his iron plated boots. Naked from his pants up, he grimly stared at the cage in front of him, holding tightly onto the machete in his hand. Slick watched him, as he waited for the signal. One side, the tutors watched, on the other the unproven warriors like him, ready for their "bloodying". "OPEN!" The huge super mutant growled, as he stood behind Slick and another slave, who quickly pulled on the wheels to open the cage below them. Snarling, the ghouls inside began to wake, smelling the blood in the ditch before them, and noticing the single warrior, who would face them, with no way out. A howl went through the mass surrounding the ditch, as the unproven warrior raised his Machete. "Witness me, brothers!"

Then the first ghoul rushed out of the half-open cage, roaring as he ferally moved towards the trapped recruit of the cult. He calmly took the charge, evading in the last second, before decapitating the ghoul with a secure cut to the neck. The rotting body stumbled forward, as the recruit already turned his attention to the fully open cage, still filled with multiple occupants. "SHADAL! SHADAL!" He roared as a challange, swinging the bloody machete in his hand, as his fellow recruits shouted down encouragements. The warcry seemed to be challange, as three ghouls stumbled out of the cage, leaving it empty now. Slick licked his lips, as he looked down into the ditch. He had seen warriors struggle with two ghouls, yet three were a death sentence. Not that he had any sympathy for the recruit down there...

Seemingly aware of the danger, the recruit grabbed his machete tighter and took multiple steps back, hissing as he seemingly new, that once these ferals would surround him, he was as good as done for. Yet fate seemed to smile onto this unproven warrior, as he two of the ghouls charged at him at the same time, allowing him, with a quick side-step, to make them run into each other, before taking off the legs of the third one with a swift, yet brutal cut. Now on the other side of the ditch, the recruits above cheered, before starting to chant. "SHADAL! SHADAL!"

Before the two ghouls could get up, the recruit already had wanted to go at them, yet the ghoul that had lost his legs quickly held onto his boots, snarrling, and making the recruit lose his balance. Screaming, he almost fell, before sending his boot down onto the ferals had crushing it like a ripe mutfruit. For a moment, a cheer broke out, that turned into a shattered mutter, as the ghouls tackled him. Slick was sure, that this would be the end, yet was proven wrong. Skillfully, the recruit burried his machete in the head of the ghoul on top of him, before tossing the dead body over and struggling with the other. The snarrling beast fearally tried to bite him, yet the recruit was able to shift the balance, and ended up falling over, right on top of the beast. Then his fists smashed into the face of the feral, over and over again, the air filled with the loud cheer of the fellow recruits. Finally, after an time that felt endless for Slick, the recruit looked up, coated in feral blood.

The mutant tutor behind Slick took his time, before he roared out his judgement. "WORTHY!" A rope was tossed down, and moments later, the now proven warrior was pulled up on the other side, a new machete pressed into his hand. Slick watched in disgust, as he could see the grin and the pride in his eyes. He would be given an armor, a gun and a rebreather, allowed to breath deep the refined miasma, before being send out, to fight in the great war. The tutor behind him gave Slick a hard kick, almost making him fall over. "Collect the meat, slaves have to eat!"

---

Standing next to the ditch, Slick had to catch the parts that were thrown upwards by his fellow slave, and place them in a wagon, to be send to the slave barracks, feeding them the remains of the ghouls that were slaughtered to train the warriors of the Monolith. Slick could not count how many it were, yet a group of twenty was here, for their final test, to prove their worth to be called warriors of the Cult. Looking up, he could see the one who´s turn it would be next to enter the pitt. He was young, yet broad shouldered and with a wide array of scars on his naked chest, making it rather clear, that he was one of the slaves who took up the offer of warriors service. "D...done master!" The slave in the ditch croaked, as Slick leaned down, helping him out, almost throwing up from the smell of rotten blood down below. Behind them, was the feral pen, in which countless ferals and trogs were herded, to serve as living training dummies. In the early weeks of training, the recruits would have the luxury of fighting against them chained to poles, or with their limbs cut off. It was to get them used to blood and killing. Seldom, the masters decided to use slaves, yet the purple robed masters of the temples of labor called it a waste of workforce, more so with the tunnels and catacombs of the Pitt still sprawling with ghouls and trogs.

Two other slaves, using long poles, forced four new ghouls into the cage, before Slick and his partner closed the second gate, while the young looking recruit jumped into the ditch. He shivered, as his fellow recruits began to once more chant encouragement down to him. Slick felt a strange pity for him, as the mutant behind them stomped down with his foot. "OPEN!" Once more the two slaves were forced to open the gates. This time, two ghouls charged, yet the young recruit made the mistake to stab for the belly, before pushing the ghoul from him. The machete stuck, leaving him unarmed. Slick felt his stomach turn, as he looked away. A long, pained scream followed, as the recruit was torn to shreds. The recruits hissed and muttered, as the Mutant behind them simply spat out.

"UNWORTHY!"

Slick thanked the heavens, that this time, he was not asked, to collect the meat...

Indianapolis - Indianapolis Mariott Downtown

Sergeant 1/c Missey, from his hard won vantage point on the 18th floor of the dilapidated Pre-War hotel, looked out to the North, towards the old Indiana Statehouse, with his binoculars, looking for targets for the guns of his battery, far to his rear. Devastated by counter-battery fire, the Enemy's guns had been silent for at least twenty minutes, so he was now free to devote his attention to helping the boys and girls...and their Legion allies...advance. Ten floors below him, tracers from the LMGs of the Platoon he had attached himself to reached out and raked the windows of the old State government buildings across Washington Street, the current front line. They, and a Century of Legionaries, had only been too happy to storm the building to give him a good place to work his magic from. For his part, he was gratified to not be alone as usual, his dick hanging out in the breeze as he had to do his job while watching out for enemy troops...now all he had to worry about was the muzzle-fuckers back at the Battery aiming short and dropping one on his head.

"There you are, sergeant", came a voice behind him speaking Latin. Turning to look, he saw it was Centurion Tullius, the de facto on-scene commander as Lt Harding had bought it in the fighting in the Convention Center and the Platoon was now commanded by it's First Sergeant. He looked at the armor on the imposing and tough looking man's left arm, fashioned from a T-45 suit by the look of it. Missey wondered if it was true that he had to kill the original owner to win the right to wear it as part of his uniform as they said in the training class. "I need to speak to you before I go downstairs."

"What can I do for you, Centurion?", Missey replied in Latin...the Exam prep classes he had taken in the Barnaky Youth had certainly turned out useful even earlier than he had expected. He'd been recommended to sit the next Brotherhood exam by his Battery commander, and was confident he'd do well.

"Your comrades were able to re-establish radio contact with their superiors", Tullis said, "and two squads of Knights and ammunition resupply has been dispatched, also Circle Square Mall has been taken, and forces are massing there for an assault on the State House. Once everything is in readiness, we will resume the advance." Missey produced his map case, and followed along as Tullius crouched next to him and showed him his plans on the map, pointing out buildings across the street. "I would like you to direct your fire here, here, and here. With your help, as well as the heavy weapons of your comrades, we will be able to cross to the other side with minimal losses. Our orders are to push all the way to the State Library building...here. Once accomplished, the Profligates holding the State House will be trapped."

"You can count on me, Centurion", Missey said, "We'll warm em up for you."

"Good", Tullius replied warmly, slapping the younger man on the back then standing again. He then prodded the bound prisoner..a Raider...with his foot. She, clearly infuriated, tried to says something in reply, but the rag stuffed in her mouth prevented it from being understood. Tullius chuckled at her impotent rage and continued. "Spirited....your Inquisitors will have some sport with her. The reinforcements and ammunition will be delivered by Vertibird to the roof, they want the body of the Cultist and any prisoners for the return trip, as well as the wounded. Make sure the men I send up to fetch the ammunition take this one and the body with them. She's the only one likely to be of any importance...the next leader after the Cultist...the others will be dealt with summarily, we have too many wounded to waste space for garbage."

Indianapolis International Airport - about thirty minutes later.

As the Vertibird landed, the doors opened and stretcher-bearers approached from both sides and began removing badly wounded soldiers, mostly Legionaries in the uniforms of Recruits, with some Brotherhood soldiers along with them. After the medics had recovered the wounded, Inquisitor Stahl approached to see what they had brought for her. Only two....disappointing. By the sheer number of wounded, most likely the commander in the field had elected to evacuate his own men rather than prisoners, so had sent back only the subjects they considered most likely to be of use. One was dead, the back of his skull blown out and a .308 hole under his left eye, not to mention several shots through the chest. His armor and weapons clearly marked him as a full blown Cult soldier, and probably a unit leader of some kind to boot. Useful, and also confirmed the cult presence in the city. The other was a Raider wearing the blue and white colors of the Colts, Overboss Lee's Gang. The quality of her outfit and remaining equipment, not to mention the extensive and intricate tatoos, suggested a set leader. She climbed into the Vertibird and pulled the rag out of the woman's mouth unceremoniously, then began putting on a set of latex gloves she had acquired from the medics.

"We can do this the easy way, or the hard way", said Stahl coldly, "Open your mouth and keep it open."

"Fuck you, bitch!", the Raider spluttered, clearly enraged, "Wanna see what your guts look like? Untie me, and I'll show you!"

"Hard way it is", Stahl said, pushing her thumb into the pressure point in the back of the Raider's ear, "Open your mouth...now. I'm willing to do this all day."

The Raider stood up to the pain for a good minute before finally complying, opening her mouth so Stahl could examine her teeth. She found they were in good condition, at least for someone who didn't have dental care. Most importantly, no sign of the damage that Jet addiction invariably causes. Jet-heads were unreliable informants, to put it mildly.

Next she checked her eyes....pupils were normal, which meant she wasn't strung out on Psycho or Med-X. A bit muscular for a woman, so might be hitting the buffout....but that was manageable. All in all, one of the more promising subjects delivered from the Front so far today.

"You'll do", Stahl said, patting her on the cheek with mock affection. The Raider responded by spitting on her. Stahl laughed mirthlessly. "Don't want to be my bitch? Very well, I'm sure the Legion has a spare cross....would you like me to put in a good word for you?"

For the first time, a trace of fear appeared on the Raider's dirty face. She'd seen what the Legion did with prisoners..they were busy decorating the roof of that old hotel with three of her crew even as she was loaded on the Vertibird.

"If you brought me here just to kill me", she said, "then for fuck's sake at least have the decency to pull down and do it yourself. Otherwise, tell me what the fuck you want from me."

"I'm starting to like you", Stahl replied, toying with the Raider's bedraggled and greasy hair, "Tell you what...we'll get you cleaned up and then we'll have a nice chat. Maybe there's still hope for you yet."

Free Commonwealth – Capital Wasteland

The march from the railway station had not been long. They didn’t receive any surprise welcomes from anyone, neither friendly nor hostile. After all a force this size would make one think twice before attacking. Charon admired the column of Free Commonwealth troops marching southward, with the glistening big golden cross, being at the front. The cross being pulled by Brahmin, was large and overshadow those that stood close to it, as it was roughly the size of 4 to 5 men. He found it spectacular to say the least, a relic of a time gone by.

Charon turned southward and moved out with his personal guards and a small strike force, provided by the Free Commonwealth. His fortunes had turned, the commonwealth had bought his contract and shredded it to pieces. All they asked in return was for his expertise and skills in exchange for some hard cold caps, and plenty of them. He recommend that they take the abandoned Fort Independence, once home to the outcasts, and now refuge for a few settlers.

He led his men at a quick pace, they would arrive before the bulk of the expeditionary force. The settlers would be no issue, they were just a handful. He felt he needed to let them know, and inform them they could stay but would have to work for their housing and food. That was more of a secondary mission, his primary mission was to head west from the Fort and take Tenpenny Tower. The men ran at a quick steady pace and soon reached the outer wall of the tower.

They raised their assault rifles and slammed the gates open. It seemed they were left unlocked, as the inhabitants most likely fled the area when the cult attacked. They slowly filtered inside, carefully watching for any movement. It was eerily quiet, nothing but the sound of the wind. They split into groups. One would go around back and look for a rear entrance, another would remain on the grounds, securing the yards. The third group would go through the main doors.

Charon clutched his shotgun, and held it as a commonwealth soldier opened the main door, and another threw in grenades. They stormed inside, but like the outside, it was quiet. They flipped on the lights on their rifles, and looked around, to an empty hall. They scoured the nearby rooms, and as they entered the area marked bar, they were met with a most obscene stench. Charon headed in, as smell didn’t bother him. Laying on the floor, surrounded by empty booze bottles was the rotting body of a man. Charon gave the all clear, and they continued to scouring the area. The men scoured the rest of the tower and found it empty. The Commonwealth command would be most pleased with the peaceful acquisition of the tower.

Charon approached Fort independence. The army had arrived, and they had promptly entered the facility and set up shop. Outposts were being set up in area between Tower and the Fort, and a large contingent of troops made its way to the tower to set up defenses and make place livable once again. Engineers were busy setting up turrets around the fort, as well as security towers. Charon headed to the main room, as it was busy with activity. These soldiers were quick o get to work. They had pulled up maps, and reports of the area and of their target at Point Lookout. There was a great debate as to what strategy they should take. Charon took a look at the map, and stood there with his arms crossed. He could feel the men staring at him, he could tell his presence made them uneasy. He was used to Softskins looking down on his kind, and these men and women were no different.

It seemed they wished to attack the area in force. Charon disagreed with that point of view he shook his head and pointed to the map, “This area is filled with swamps and marches. We are a force unfamiliar with the terrain, it would be disastrous for us to just storm the area.”

He looked around as the officers viewed the map and nodded in agreement. The colonel looked up, nodding, “agreed, we would be slowed down to a halt in the swamps, and these men there are familiar with the area and could easily ambush us. What is your suggestion?”

“I propose we send out scouting parties to find out the size of enemy troops and just how well guarded the area between us and Point lookout is. Also, once we have the reports, I propose we set up multiple small strike groups to strike at various parts of the enemy defenses. One, to test out their response and two to keep them on edge, Small strike groups can easily move through areas undetected and do some damage.” Charon said as he pointed to possible areas where enemy might be located, based on older reports.

“Very well, we shall go with your strategy Charon. IF you have any other ideas please let us know.” The colonel said as he crossed his arms and shook his head in approval.

Charon turned to leave, but as he was walking he stopped as a thought came to him. He turned around and motioned to the Colonel, “Actually, I know of one excellent little strike group that would be of most benefit to your men. They are pricey but they are worth every cap. They are called Reilly’s Rangers, I highly recommend you send a messenger out to them in DC and hire their services.”

Alaskan Federation

As the train began to depart the Brotherhood members aboard could hear the whistling and grinding of gears a sign that these iron steeds were falling apart and only hope kept them chugging along.

One of the three Conductors inside was pushing a cart making his way down the isle checking in on the passengers. “Sorry about the ride folks. Heard we'll be getting some prime salvage soon, old girl is showing her age.” Patting the walls of the carriage he muttered. “Soon old girl, soon. We'll get you fixed up.” Turning his attention back to the Scribes he pulled open the side panel and sat down some ales. “In case you lot get thirsty, our expected travel time will be about six and a half hours give or take. As long as no Northern Stags graze on the tracks. If you need pillows or a blanket let me or another conductor know.”

Meanwhile as papers shuffled atop North’s desk he slumped over trying to stay one step ahead of not just his enemies but apparently his own allies as well.

“Need me to go over the information again North?” A woman’s voice called out from across the desk one he knew well. Valmet of the Bush Company. Assassin and Spymaster.

North looked up from his large spruce desk misshapen and hand carved, only a portion of it had a flat surface to work on and he somehow loved it. “No. Valmet I understand completely, she thinks she can skirt the boundary of our alliance by banishing her men as traitors. So they can aid the Cult and with it bring gold and glory back. It’s a smart move from Clan Bearhorn.”

“We have no deals with the forty eight states, but that puts us at a disadvantage. They’ll come looking for reparations even seeking to finish off Clan Bearhorn. Worse still if these ‘traitors’ return with caps and treasure they will be treated as heroes, spoken in the same breath as the heroes of old. They’ve had time to make their move.” Valmet sat letting her arms sink into the furred upholstered armchair. “We cannot let them reach that level of fame.”

North silently agreed his head giving a soft nod. “We’ll need to guard our ports, catch them before they reach a port, confiscate the goods so that Victoria’s plan to endorse this war will go awry.”

“Forcing them to uphold their alliance and continue the banishment on her men. That still however isn’t a fool proof plan. But it’s only one problem, we know the Cult met with slavers likely facilitated by Clan Bearhorn. Sometime in the last month or so.”

“And with the Cult’s cash we’ve already seen a resurgence of slavers on the fringes.” North stood up searching for a map grasping pins in his mouth as he unfolded it. “We thought that by taking Stanton we cut them at the balls. Dealing a fatal blow but it hasn’t been long enough for them to simply die out. And with their newfound wealth they’ll search for a new foothold.” Placing pins down Valmet watched as he theorized likely bases. “Keep your scouts in these spots, on the cliffs, the ruins or anywhere you can station them. They’ll move in towards the city and pick off any travelers. Haul any beasts and trade with any unaffiliated raiders.”

While North and Valmet talked the train had pulled up and started unloading. Brotherhood Scribes funneled put ready to see their workstations. A short jaunt to metal shacks and they saw hastily built shacks connected to form a singular building. Men still bringing materials to finish and reinforce it proper.

All the while a taller building stood behind it with a glass roof and a garden inside heated by several large steam generators mounted alongside the walls to ensure the plants grew well.

A man stepped forward to great the Brotherhood Scribes, tall with low hanging tired eyes appearing to be of asian descent. “Ah..hh.” His speech was slow and his exhaustion was clear with every movement. “I'm afraid you will need to share the research labs with another. We need to keep someone there since we are unable to move some of the more sensitive plants. I..” Pausing his breath released from his tensing jaw and came out as a long yawn. “Excuse me. I'm Tenma Hoozuki. One of the Rangers in charge in between my patrols. Your bunkhouse is just about ready, it will keep the cold out until the workers can finish it up; the smaller hut that is the entrance is like a airlock of sorts. Preventing hot air from leaving the main residence and serving as closet.”

Stepping back and covering his mouth again yawning he prepared to head off before stopping. “Oh and if you need to meet with North Ashland you can reach me from the radio inside. All the frequencies are written on a note attached to the desk.”

Lancer-Sergeant Robert Kyle - Siege of Indianapolis

Robert quickly strapped on his flight suit and helmet, heart pounding in his chest as he did so. He’d just received word from the flight commander that he’d be needed to fill the spot of a wounded pilot that had been taken out of action by a anti-air round. His eagerness to finally get back up in the air and be behind the controls of a Brotherhood aircraft was tempered only by his sympathy for the man whose place he was taking. This was war however, and he couldn’t dwell on those sorts of things too much. The Brotherhood needed every bird in the air to evacuate wounded soldiers that were already streaming in from the front lines. His other hope, of course, was that this action would finally prove his worth to the Midwestern high command: finally he could have a chapter and an Elder to serve once again.

Once he was suited up and ready to go, he departed for the helipad immediately. With practiced ease, he warmed up the bird’s engines, did all of the necessary pre-flight checks as thoroughly as if Lancer-Captain Kells was watching him closely from the grave, and once he’d received the all-clear, he was up in the air.

The feel was exhilarating, and he couldn’t help but smile even as the battle raged below him. His destination was an evac point a short distance outside the city, and it would only take a few minutes to get there, but he intended to enjoy every moment in the air he could. He could as well have been flying back to the Prdywen after a successful mission, and he could almost smell the salisbury steak and the cheerful looks of his brothers and sisters as they greeted him in the mess,

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there for you all…” He said, his hand reaching for the dog tags around his neck, “I swear….I’ll avenge you. Somehow...”

He could almost hear their response. It was like the voice of God in his head. One that was forgiving, kind, even gentle. It made him feel immediately at ease.

There’s nothing to avenge. You’re performing your duties admirably...J3-36.

Robert’s eyes widened in horror.

“No...”

Indeed. We need to pull you out of your fantasyland for a brief time. Don’t worry...we’ll put you back. But right now you need to be cognizant. End personality subroutine.

J3’s face lowered. His eyes deadened. He remembered everything. He knew exactly what he was...and he didn’t care.

“How can can I assist Director Secord?”

Watcher pods are gathering as much intel as possible about this battle. This is an information goldmine. It’s everything we wanted and more. Troop movements, supply and logistics information, battle tactics, armor and weapons readouts...we’re getting all of it. You don’t need to worry about all that however, what I want you to do right now...is monitor The Brotherhood’s comm chatter...let's see if we can make some use of you....

Grand Zealot Richter- Megaton, Cathedral of Atom

Grand Zealot Richter walked through the hallowed halls of the holy cathedral, down the nave crafted from division-formed glass, past rows of steel benches, past the radium-painted banners of Atom's symbol lining the walls. No sound passed through these chambers except the Grand Zealot's footsteps and the soft whirring of an aircraft turbine that provided ventilation to the cathedral. To the ignorant, this holy place would no doubt seem crude with its scrap metal construction, but to His devotees, this was the holy of holies, where men and women came to contemplate the nature of Atom, and of Division. At the altar sat Megaton's namesake, the bomb from which the town had been born around. The Grand Zealot paused when he reached the altar, looking up at the holy avatar of Atom's glory. Once, it was nothing more than a reminder of the tragedy that once struck this nation, a hazard to be disposed of when the Enclave reasserted its rightful place as the rightful rulers of the Capital Wasteland. But that long ago, back when the Grand Zealot foolishly placed his faith in young, earthly powers, godless masters who sought only their own glorification. How foolish and unenlightened he was back then, he mused.

But he did not come to the cathedral to worship. He stepped past the altar into a doorway, leading into the office of Inquisitor Tektus. The Inquisitor sat behind a desk in a massive, impressive chair, almost more of a throne, his hand resting on a number of black-and-white photographs.

"Greetings, my faithful Grand Zealot," Tektus spoke. "Please, have a seat. There is much for us to discuss." Richter wordlessly sat in a chair- an old airliner sea- in front of the desk.

"I must commend you on the information you have provided on the so-called Adam's Air Force Base. What we have recovered has been an indispensible boon to our cause, Grand Zealot," the Inquisitor said, looking down at the photos. While the Children of Atom had gathered many useful items from the air force base, such as Vertibirds, weaponry, and a few suits of Hellfire Power Armor, the Inquisitor was no doubt referring to the Eyebots, which the Children had used to broadcast the Pontiff's words, but some of which the Inquisitor had modified for surveillance and scouting. "In particular, the Eyes of Atom have beheld new threats that may face our flock," he continued, handing the photographs to Richter.

The first photograph was of one of a group of soldiers entering a pre-war fort. "Those who call themselves the Free Commonwealth have been seen entering the Capital Wasteland and occupying this fort. Fort Independence, I believe it is called. They have yet attacked our flock, nor have they made any communication with us. We must find out why they have entered the Capital Wasteland, and if they have betrayed out good will, we must remove them."

"Yes, Inquisitor, I shall look into it." Richter replied. "Will that be all?"

"No," Tektus answered, shaking his head. "There is more, and I fear it is far more dire. Tell me, what do you know of this bunker?" He presented another photograph, this time depicting an entrance to a very familiar installation- guarded by what appeared to be power armored soldiers". Richter's eyes widened as he beheld the photo, as memories of his old life came flashing back.

"Grand Zealot, is something the matter," Tektus asked, tilting his head curiously. "Is this perhaps related to your old life, before I rescued you and brought you into our flock?"

"Yes, Inquisitor," Richter spoke, his normally calm demeanor visibly shaken. "This is Raven Rock, formerly the headquarters of the Enclave, before the Cult came to the Capital Wasteland. These soldiers, however, they are not Enclave. From the look of their power armor, I would guess the Brotherhood of Steel, and not the Midwestern branch. Are they here with the Midwestern Brotherhood?"

"I do not know, Grand Zealot," the Inquisitor answered, "Our guests have not informed us about this incursion. The Brotherhood of Steel maintained a presence in the Capital Wasteland before the Cult came, perhaps it these are the survivors of those dark days. I do not know their numbers, but this must be investigated thoroughly. You were formerly one of them, would you perhaps have knowledge of this Raven Rock, should we need to dislodge the Brotherhood?"

"I know the layout of the installation, Inquisitor. It was meant to ensure continuity government in the event of a nuclear war, meaning that its exterior will resist any attempts to inflict Division. It is large enough to house a sizable number of soldiers, scientists, and support personnel, as well as several Vertibirds. Additionally, it houses a ZAX supercomputer linked up to its defense and power systems. Should we need to remove the Brotherhood, it may be an option to initiate Division from within through the supercomputer, should it still function," Richter explained.

"An interesting option," Tektus concluded. "I trust you will not have trouble returning home after all these years."

"It is not longer my home. The Children of Atom are my family now," Richter responded, speaking with conviction. "I will not hesitate to carry out His will, whatever the cost."

"I am pleased with your conviction, Grand Zealot. That will be all. Investigate both of these incursions and report back to me. Take one of my Eyes so that their blasphemies may be recorded and our judgment may be sound."

Richter nodded, stood up, and exited the office. There was much to be done.

Mr. House - El Dorado Substation

“…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.

Robert’s eyes narrowed, and his gaze cut straight through the monitor. Completely disinterested with the mutilated caravan guards on the floor, he gave a half-smile toward the silhouette of Thomas Milburn. “You crazy bastard…a teleporter? If I had even begun to hypothesize molecular travel, I would not have shrouded it in this ancient facility. But I suppose that it is fortuitous that your quick journey has brought you -directly- to New Vegas.”

Upon Robert House’s command, a pair of securitrons rolled into the station, their intimidating cartoon-soldier computer screens staring intently at the arriving party from the Institute. The flickering digital image of Robert’s face slightly bowed its head. “It has been so very long, Thomas…centuries, now, since I have seen your face. I hope that you are not disappointed in return; you and I have found different means to weather these many years.”

The two securitrons motioned toward the door and House spoke again. “I hope, then, that you will accept an invitation into my home. Once you have had your fill of the giant cascade of lights, there is much at work underneath them. We have made it this far because we have visions…meticulous ones…I suspect that they are not terribly different from one another.”

Robert then stared at the remaining scientists. “I want this mess cleaned immediately. In addition, while Dr. Milburne and…” he stared at the menacing red-haired woman. “…his friend…are staying in New Vegas, I want this apparatus transported to the REPCONN facility; there is a far greater conduit of power present, one that will not overload upon use.”

Upon following the securitrons, Milburn and his party would be led to a presidential suite of their choice in any of the three casinos; House would plan so swiftly and exaggeratingly for their arrival that a room outfitted with every possible luxury would be available.

“Enjoy yourself, and pay me a visit in the Lucky 38 when you are ready, my old friend.”

Grand Zealot Richter- Children of Atom Vertibird

A brown-painted Vertibird, several passengers in tow, approached the Brotherhood-controlled bunker. Richter stood in the back, wearing a suit of Hellfire Power Armor, also bearing the livery of the Children of Atom. He would never let anyone see it, but he had mixed feelings and was perhaps even a little uneasy about seeing Raven Rock again. It had been his home once, before his disastrous scouting mission brought him to Atom. It was a relief that he did not have to twist his face to display a calm facade, hidden beneath his power armor's distinct helmet.

"Grand Zealot, we are in radio range," announced the pilot. "Establishing radio contact with Raven Rock's hangar control." Richter snapped back to reality. "And, radio contact established. It looks like that frequency is still good."

It was fortunate that the Verbirds at Adams still had the frequencies to contact hangar control in Raven Rock. The Brotherhood wouldn't be foolish enough to open the hangar's blast doors to anyone with the frequency, but it'd provide a direct line of dialogue with them.

"Very good, sister," Richter said, lumbering forward to the cockpit. "Open the channel, I shall speak to them." The pilot pressed a button on the console and nodded. Richter hesitated. He still couldn't believe he was coming home. If anything, it was a relief to know that his old family wasn't waiting for him, and that he wouldn't have to worry about being court-martialed for desertion. John Henry Eden might still be there, but if the Brotherhood was running the place, Eden must have been taken offline or reprogrammed, for he would never work with them. On the other hand, his records would still be in Raven Rock's computer system, and unless Eden erased them at some point, the Brotherhood would sooner or later figure out that he was once with the Enclave.

"Raven Rock, this is Grand Zealot Richter with the Children of Atom. Do you copy?"

"Raven Rock, on behalf of the Children of Atom, I must speak to a representative of the Brotherhood of Steel regarding your order's return to the Capital Wasteland and your proximity to Fort Constantine. Will you comply?"

---

Zealot Thiel- Near Fort Independence

Thiel approached Fort Independence, accompanied by three Zealots. They were not a large force, as they did not expect trouble with the Free Commonwealth, but they were well-equipped enough to handle themselves if things went south. Thiel was more concerned about Richter, having gone to confront the Brotherhood of Steel, flying right into a lion's den. Whatever a lion was.

"Holster your weapons, brothers, our orders are to come in peace," she commanded. The zealots complied, putting away their radium rifles. She did not want to cause a mishap with their ally so close to the holy city, especially now with the simultaneous mission to Raven Rock.

The Zealots marched up to the gate, where the Free Commonwealth's soldiers stood guard. They did not seem particularly alarmed at the small group of zealots, although Thiel could not tell whether it was more due to the soldiers' numerical superiority or the Free Commonwealth's relationship with the Children of Atom.

"Atom's blessing to you, Commonwealth allies. I am Zealot Thiel with the Children of Atom, and we have come from the Holy City of Megaton. May we speak to whoever is in charge of this garrison?"

@2sky11@Elgappa

Thomas Milburn - El Dorado Substation

“You crazy bastard…a teleporter? If I had even begun to hypothesize molecular travel, I would not have shrouded it in this ancient facility. But I suppose that it is fortuitous that your quick journey has brought you -directly- to New Vegas.”

“Yes...I apologize for the secrecy Robert but, well, you know me...I like to keep things close to the chest...” Thomas looked around stoically at several of the dead individuals who had fell victim to the unfortunate energy discharge, most of whom were charred where they stood, “I’m sorry about your lost workers as well. Hopefully it would be no trouble to replace them. Dealing with energy of this magnitude can be dangerous.”

“It has been so very long, Thomas…centuries, now, since I have seen your face. I hope that you are not disappointed in return; you and I have found different means to weather these many years.”

Thomas gave an understanding nod, “That much seemed obvious. I’m quite curious to know what sort of technology you’ve employed to grant you your longevity, but I suppose that can wait. I’ve heard of a number of different ways others have survived, none of them very pleasant. Perhaps I should begrudgingly thank Vault Tec…”

“I hope, then, that you will accept an invitation into my home. Once you have had your fill of the giant cascade of lights, there is much at work underneath them. We have made it this far because we have visions…meticulous ones…I suspect that they are not terribly different from one another. Enjoy yourself, and pay me a visit in the Lucky 38 when you are ready, my old friend.”

“Vegas it is,” Thomas grinned, “It’ll be fascinating to visit it again. I suppose you finally got your wish, you run the place like a King now. To be honest Robert...I never really understood your fascination with the place before the war. But I suppose I’ll have to see how the post-war version stacks up. I just hope it won’t be like the last time I visited….as I recall the entire engineering department ended up drunk as skunks and I distinctly remember waking up underneath a roulette table clutching some poor ladies footwear…..we didn’t get a travel expense budget anymore after that...”

“Buncha uptight nerds hitting the town. I woulda paid good money to see that…” Cait quipped as she stifled a laugh, “I’m sure everyone was shakin’ when you lot rolled up.”

“You’d be surprised what trouble a group of underpaid, overworked, and perpetually undersexed graduate students can get into in Sin City. We used to joke about that weekend for years after…” Thomas’s train of thought suddenly trailed off, and a forlorn expression crossed his face. Memories of a time and a place that was lost forever to him suddenly flooded back. The reality of the two-hundred year gap between his old life and his new, consistently found a way to worm its way into his thoughts. Even now.

“It's good to see you again Robert, truly,” Thomas said with a slight smile, “I’ll look forward to our reminiscence. In the meantime however…..perhaps you could provide us with some appropriate clothes? I wager we’d stick out like a sore thumb walking down the strip like this.”

Cait’s face lowered, her eyes narrowing suspiciously, even accusingly, at Thomas,

“I’ll tell you right now...I’m not going to be wearing some frilly little dress…”

---

The Vegas Strip

“I can’t believe I have to wear this stupid dress…”

The New Vegas strip was alive with the color of innumerable neon lights and a bombardment of sound. Music wafting in from the casinos mixed with the rowdy noises of teeming crowds of patrons, vendors, and performers. Whatever his reasons for doing so, it couldn’t be denied that House had managed to perfectly capture the spirit of old world Vegas.

Dressed, as House had described, ‘rich NCR patrons’, Thomas, Cait, and the two Coursers made their down the street. Thomas had taken quite a fancy to the well tailored gambler suit he’d been provided in lieu of his lab coat, but the same could not be said of Cait and her own attire, as she pulled at her skirt uncomfortably and seemed unsteady walking in her heels.

“How in the hell do these prissy gambler girls walk around like this? I think that House guy just might be bullshitting me.”

Thomas grinned and shrugged, “It's the fashion trend for NCR tourists supposedly. Besides, like Robert said, if you walked around in combat boots and leather on the strip, you might start drawing the wrong kind of attention…”

“And just what in the hell is that supposed to mean? Anyone so much as looks at me like that I’ll blast their fuc…”

“That’s exactly what I mean,” Thomas interrupted, “We’re not here to cause a scene. We’re here to blend in. We’re just a rich couple from the NCR here to visit the New Vegas strip and all it has to offer, and we’ve brought a couple of personal bodyguards along to keep us safe.” He pointed to the two well-dressed Coursers, now looking like a pair of Triggerman thugs, “Just put on an act and no-one will be the wiser. Oh and, I didn’t want to bring this up, but you may want to lose the accent. I doubt there’s too many Boston Irish girls in California…”

“Lose the…” Cait fumed for a second or two and finally gave a heavy sigh, “Fine. I’ll try.”

She paused in the street for a few seconds and closed her eyes, as if dramatically mustering up some sort of long-latent power, and finally opened them with an over the top smile and the best impression she could muster,

“Golly the Vegas strip is sooooo amazing. Look at all the lights and people! Oh it’s all a girl could ever want and more,” She then slid up to Thomas’s side and grabbed onto his arm, “Darling won’t you show me around? Maybe I can try a cocktail at one of the bars...ooo but maybe that would be too crazy. I don't wish to become inebriated!”

“That’s genuinely terrifying.” Thomas replied with a raised eyebrow, “You know that, right?”

“You asked for it,” She muttered under her breath.

“You there!” A voice suddenly called out from the sidewalk, “Yes you! You look like you enjoy the high life am I right? Could I interest you in some fine jewelry? Maybe a watch or a necklace for the lovely young lady? All high quality and 100% pre-war authentic merchandise. Scavenged from the Boneyard!”

“Oh yes! That would be lovely, wouldn’t it dear?” Cait’s mischievous smile was enough to realize he’d made a massive mistake.

“Ah yes, of course…..” Thomas replied as he walked over to the vendor. The man then opened the briefcase he was carrying and displayed the wares he was offering, all of them neatly folded and tucked into various pockets and folds of the case.

“You said this is all pre-war authentic merchandise?”

“Of course!” The vendor quipped, “100% guaranteed. Real honest-to-god pre-war jewelry. Would have been very high quality stuff back in the day too! Its pricey...but I’m sure you can afford it.”

“Except it isn’t…” Thomas grabbed one of the necklaces and held it up, “The engravings are L&M co.. They were a movie prop and costume company before the war. Lesser known maybe so its understandable...but I know them because I collected replicas of the props they made for a couple of my favorite horror films. Pretty convincing..but they’re completely fake. Where did you say you got them?”

The Vendor appeared crestfallen, as if Thomas had just hit him with a ton of bricks, “The Boneyard, a merchant there told me I could make back three times what I paid for them…”

“Boneyard?” Thomas looked around to one of the Coursers with a confused expression.

“I believe that would be referring to the ruins of Los Angeles.” The Courser replied, tapping into the databank of information SRB had provided them.

“Ah well there you go. Easy explanation then,” Thomas shrugged, “If it's any consolation. The merchant probably wasn’t aware of what they were either.”

“Fuck you buddy. Smart rich assholes...,” The vendor replied and snapped the briefcase closed. He then stalked off mumbling to himself weaving in and out of the tourists.

“Geez….that stupid sod….I mean..” Cait caught herself and paused, “Oh that poor, poor gentlemen…”

Thomas rolled his eyes and pointed down the strip, “Robert recommended we visit The Tops, especially if we wished to revisit old haunts. Can’t say I recall much about the place before the war….”

“Ooo it looks just like a little round spinner!” Cait gleamed, “How delightfu...ah fuck!” The impersonation suddenly dropped as Cait looked down at the puddle of vomit she’d unfortunately just wandered into, “Jesus fu….what the...oh for fucks sake.”

“That lasted about as long as I expected,” Thomas chuckled, “Come on. Let’s see if we can grab a table. Something tells me we aren’t going to have any problems though…”

He then grabbed Cait’s hand and led her away as she continued cursing and rubbing her heel on the pavement. All the while the sounds of Sinatra played out up and over the strip. For a brief time, Thomas felt as if he truly was back home...to the life he’d left forever behind, no longer a man out of time.

Maybe Robert wasn’t so crazy after all to save Vegas….and maybe Thomas could now fully understand why he’d chosen to do so. Even if he didn’t want to admit it, Mr. Robert House was a far more sentimental person than he ever appeared to be….before or after the war. That was an oddly comforting thought.