Fort Independence – Capital Wasteland
“Send word to the Colonel, 4 men approaching the fort. From the looks of it, they are from the Children of Atom. “A soldier said to another as he watched from a recently built wooden tower, “Hope everyone took their rad-x today.” The other soldier ran over to the building to get Colonel Samuels. They were in the midst of setting up turrets, and other equipment that at the moment was gabling their radio communication.

The Colonel stood from his desk in his pristine white uniform, designed to mimic that of officers of long time past, from the time of the revolutionary war. As he stood up and headed for the door, his personal guard began to accompany him. Two crusaders fully outfitted in plate armor with a Red cross emblazoned on the front. An armor resembling that of crusaders, a fitting image for them on their current mission. They were armed with swords for close combat and assault rifles for long range. However, being elite troops and fiercely devoted to the Cross, they preferred to use their swords when striking down those they considered “heathens”.

The guards at the Main gate stood at attention. They were concerned, not because these were well armed strangers, but because these men seemed to enjoy being bathed in radiation. They had been given plenty of Rad-x due to recent nuclear strikes in nearby areas, but it concerned them being so close to these strange men and woman. The colonel stepped out the front doors of the Fort, and stood there as one of the soldiers at the gate opened it up for their guest. “Greetings, Children of Atom representatives. I am Colonel Samuels, officer in charge of this expedition.”

[u][b]Indianapolis International Airport - Prisoner In-Processing[/u][/i]

Despair. The air reeked of it. She could see it on the face of the other prisoners...only a few days ago masters of all they surveyed.

When you first joined a Crew and went a' Raiding, it seemed like being a King. You could go where you want, and do what you want as you had your Crew watching your back. The Squares just gave you what you wanted, food, chems, sex, whatever, because you had power and they didn't. Of course, you learned quick that there were limits...jumping the claim of a stronger Crew had consequences. And then there were Squares who had the power to fight back. Working her way up to the top of her Crew, the older Raiders had told her stories of Ill-Annoy, to the West...a magical land where the even the poorest Squares were rich by Wasteland standards and didn't even lock their doors at night. When she, or later, a noob, asked them why they didn't go Raiding there and glom onto their stuff....they would look at each other knowingly and then laugh at you like you were retarded.

"Ya want to end up like the Otters, fucktard?", they'd say. Eventually, she got the story out of Eddie....a Underboss she'd slept with for a while to gain support for her move to take over her Set during her climb up the ladder...about the Otters, and why they stayed far away from Ill-Annoy. The Otters were a large Crew that controlled E-ville, down South, at the time, thirty years ago or so. They liked boats, and would raid on the River. They had a good thing going, but their Boss decided to try and Raid West, all the way to the Big Muddy, to a town called Kay-row. River trade ran right though it, the haul of booty would be enormous. Their Boss, Razor, thought it would be the biggest Raid of his career. He had over seven hundred soldiers, his own and smaller Crews that paid him Tribute, how could he fail? So he collected his fleet, and headed West with half his Crew...never to return. Not alive anyway.....about a week later, a fleet of iron ships came up the river and pounded the shit out of E-Town with artillery, then landed troops in fucking power armor who wiped out any of Razor's Crew that didn't run....except for a few they spared to send a message. They say that they were taken on-board the Boss ship, to find Razor and his Underbosses swinging from it's yardarms. Then they let them go and told them anyone else who fucked with the Brotherhood would get more of the same. After that, the Crews in Indiana stayed the hell out of Ill-Annoy.

So from then on, the old hands at Raiding knew they were living on borrowed time...and for the Colts, that time had finally run out. Last week, she had ran a Crew of fifty, plus their slaves and noobs looking for a shot at being soldiers. Now, her soldiers were dead or up on crosses, her slaves gone....and she was reduced to being the bitch of a some brat in her late teens who probably didn't weigh 100 pounds soaking wet, just the kind of Square she'd dragged off a farm for the auction block a dozen times or more.

Icepick scratched at the skin around her neck under her shock collar as she obediently shuffled past the line of other prisoners, waiting their turn, as the guard behind her prodded her along with the end of her baton into the room.

"See those footprints by the table there?", the guard said firmly, "stand on them and await instructions." She then prodded her again with the baton. As Icepick did what she was told, the guard went to the desk and handed a folder to the guard there.

"This one is Priority, Stahl wants to question her stat", the guard said, "We need to process her now."

"Right, the desk clerk responded, "Angie! We got one for you!"

A hatchet-faced woman in her forties came out and approached Icepick, dropping a plastic box on the table in front of her.

"Strip", she barked, "everything into the box."

Icepick numbly complied, stripping completely naked as ordered, and putting everything in the box. When it came to the last item, a locket around her neck that was her last tie to the family she'd run away from at fifteen, she hesitated. The younger guard moved to wield her baton, but Angie bade her stop.

"From your mom?", Angie asked, her tone softening slightly. Icepick nodded sadly. Angle pulled out a small envelope and held it open for Icepick to remove the locket and put it inside. "I'll attach it to your file, I can't promise what the Inquisitor will do, but if you cooperate you may get it back. Rest of your shit's forfeit, though."

"Thanks", Icepick said.

"Don't mention it", Angie said as she pulled out a pair of rubber gloves and put them on. "you can pay me back by not giving me any trouble with the cavity search." She then reached out and put her thumb on Icepick's chin. "open your mouth, please."

Icepick tamely complied as Angie conducted a full cavity search...partially out of gratitude, and partially because she'd seen them shock a prisoner from a different Set until he shit and pissed himself for taking a poke at a guard. At this point, she just wanted to get things over with. Once satisfied, Angie waved her in the direction of the showers, and the two guards followed her in and watched her bathe. The fire hose on one wall was a mute reminder of the price of noncompliance so once again, she did as she was told. Once bathed, a towel was tossed at her and she dried off, and placed the town into a basket. Then she was stood up against a wall, where Angie photographed her ink, front, back, and side. Then she was led down the opposite hall to a new room, where a woman measured her, and she was issued a pair of shoes, three pairs of underwear and three orange jumpsuits as well as a wool army blanket. Once dressed, she was photographed again, then taken to the holding block, where the brat turned her over to the guards there and left. Icepick was taken to a cell, and after a brief explanation of the sparse furnishings, locked inside.

The cell was small, with a cot, a steel toilet and sink, with a polished piece of steel for a mirror, and a small cabinet for her spare clothes. There was also a small television, behind a pane of some kind of thick glass. Next to it were some buttons. Experimenting with them, she found she could turn on the set, adjust the volume, and change the channel. There were four channels, one had news, the Brotherhood's version of it, anyway, one just had words and what looked like times scrolling across the screen slowly...she didn't read so good but it appeared that it was showing some sort of schedule. One had a movie, not a Pre-War movie, but a new one....apparently it was about the Legion. She watched as a huge Crew of Legion soldiers, by the look of it many thousands of them, marched in perfect step down a old highway in what looked like the middle of nowhere, towards a small settlement. But there was no fighting, the people of the town just stood alongside the road and cheered as they marched by. According to the man on TV, they had been expected, they were coming to help the Brotherhood fight the Cult, yet another diplomatic triumph of the 'great and wise' Lord-Paladin Barnaky. Just watching the endless steam of what they called Legionaries pass by the camera made her ill....they had never stood a chance against those kind of numbers....how in hell did Lee think they would be able to fight the Legion and the Brotherhood? He must have been huffing the shit the Cult soldiers were all hooked on if he thought they could win against a Crew that big. All the Cult had sent them to "help" was a bunch of asshole 'advisors' who fucked off into the sewers once the assault came, and left them to be butchered.....by fucking kids! Except for thier leader, a scary Legion fucker named Tullius, none of the group that tore her Crew to shreds could have been older than twenty.

Fuck, she had been so stupid. She had listened to Lee and his bullshit, and because of it she had lost everything. Her raiding days were done...if she was lucky the Brotherhood would shoot her themselves rather than hand her over to the Legion to die on a cross, like Jesus did in the barely remembered stories mom had told her when she was a little girl. She hadn't thought of Mom in years...if only she could go home and tell her she was sorry for how things had worked out. She had run away to join a Crew because she was tired of being a nobody at the mercy of people with the numbers and guns to take what they wanted. only to find that it had all been for nothing....she was right back where she was when she was fifteen. She wasn't even thirty yet and her life was over.

If only she'd listened to her mother.....

High Elder Gladstone – West Coast Brotherhood of Steel – Santa Fe

Discussions and discussions. Gladstone’s eyes swept the room, passing over each and every delegate, idly noting the talk of those present. He had greater plans to implement, this petty squabble with this band of theocratic tribal raiders calling themselves ‘The Cult’ would likely be over by the next year, it would be foolishness and tempting fate to say “Over by Christmas” as the old maxim went. Still, a small war would be good practice come the time for making a path to the sea for his order. Speaking of which, he had to lay the groundwork for that. His hands moved, beckoning to his aide, who promptly leaned in, pen and paper were given, and Gladstone wrote a small missive on it, folding the letter and handing it to an aide. He murmured a few words of instruction, and then returned his attention to the conference.

Ah, the Keys. Yes, a nation on the Mexican Gulf, or was it the Gulf of Mexico? Whichever it was, it was an issue that was far removed from him. And so, leaning back in his chair, Gladstone sat and watched in silence the proceedings before him. All he could do was take note of them, he supposed that was the blessing and curse of the Midwest. Sitting in the middle, all affairs west, east, north and south concerned you. Burned hands moved to sit clasped in his lap, he wondered how he must look, a burned man a picture of an old world dictator. He wouldn’t deny it, he was a dictator, cruel necessity had forced it upon him so. And thus he sat wreathed in military regalia, he supposed he was the only one among the warlords, with the exception of what seemed to be Texas, to freely admit himself a tyrant.

Most likely thought themselves a benevolent dictator, rulers of an autocratic state for the good of the people for their vision was one of peace and prosperity. One hand moved to his cheek, his eyes bored and his face a picture of stormy ponderance. Brooding was something unbecoming of a leader, but he’d be damned if he was to be told what he should do. As the conference wandered on, his thoughts strayed away from the dusky heat of Santa Fe, drifting back home to cold mountains and green forests wrapped in foggy dew. His forces would be marshalling themselves, according to the timetable he had lain out, they should be marching on the day after tomorrow. Passage was being secured through the khan lands, the trucks and tanks would trundle along the 88th highway east towards Chicago. Which reminded him actually, clearing his throat in a lull in the conversation, he directed his words towards Caesar and Barnaky.

“If it would please your eminencies Caesar and Barnaky, might I have permission to withdraw with your aides for deliberations over when and where the Western Brotherhood’s military forces will enter the fray against the cult.”

---

---

"The son of Thunderbird, bandit, looter and enemy of the Khan!" Thunderfoot groaned in pain, as he felt the kick against his wounded knee, forcing him down onto the ground, and leaving him with a pumping pain, where the sickle of the trike had cut his flesh. Twenty men stood behind him, seven 80s member warriors, proudly wearing the holy blue sign on their chests, their war-clubs in their belts and their guns or spears resting easy in their hands. The rest were Khan warriors, broad and tall, wearing the leather armor of the great Khans, the fancy Pickelhaube and Bandanas wrapped around their neck and mouths.
Close to a hundred people were in the hall, yet most of them where followers and khan officals, counting caps, keeping books, or feasting on the long table of Jessup, master of Salt-Lake City. Some had shouted insults at him, as he had been dragged into the halls, yet it was late at night, so most had retired to feasting and drinking anyway, seeing him as little more then an additional entertainment.
Breathing heavily, he felt his hands bound behind his back, as his head had been lowered in front of the master of Salt Lake City, Jessup, who rested on his throne of white metal deep in the halls of the fortress. The old men of the market claimed, that the metal once was part of gigantic birds, that flew in the sky, carrying people in their belly, yet few believed such foolish rumors. After all, how could a bird be made from metal? "He thought he could buy our loyalty, mighty chief, yet we have taken the Khans gasoline, and sworn oaths to your leader! "

The chief on his throne snorted, before tapping his fingers on the armrest of his throne. Thunderfoot could spot the marks on his arm, scars on his veins and the bloodshot eyes. Leader or not, this man was a slave to the needle, like so many khans were. "He didnt met your price is what you really want to say, aye? Well, matters not! You done well by bringing him here. Papa Khan himself has been rather infuriated about the constant assaults on caravans under his protection. Bringing him the head of this bandit will sate his anger! How do you want your payment? Gasoline, Caps, Ammunition...?" Thunderfoots eyes wandered over the court of this petty king, while his disgust grew. Once the Khans had been a gang to be feared, yet now his eyes fell of fat bellies, lecherous men and bureaucrats of the "Follow of the Apocalypse", who hushes along, scribbling on terminals and measuring profits from the trade hub.

Cockroaches, occupying the sacred highway, soft and decadent! Feasting of fresh brahmin beef, drinking heavily and filling the hall with smoke. Little did they knew, that they had brought in the end to their ways, blind to the trap. "Blood!" Thunderfoot jumped on his feet, the bounds falling from his arms, held open with wire, as he pulled out the dagger from the sleeve of his jacket. "Guards!" Jessup screamed, yet the very warriors who had brought him in, raised their guns, yet their aim was on their fellow Khans. Their thunder filled the hall, as screams came with them, with men and women alike ducking for cover, yet most where cut down in the hail of flashing bullets, spewed from the thunderdrums and thunderpumps. Some fell, screaming in pain, clutching onto wounds, as the chaos broke out in the hall. Yet Thunderfoot only had one target, as he crossed the distance to the throne, before burying the blade in Jessups side. Taking hold of his gray hair, he turned him around, the blade now on his throat.

"Order your man to stand down! NOW!" Jessup gasped in terror, croaking out something, yet nobody even noticed his attempt at forming worlds. While the Followers ducked for cover, tossing over tables, caps and papers alike rolling over the floor, some Khans returned fire. One of the Khan warriors, that had brought in Thunderfoot fell over, the helmet falling of, exposing an 80s Mohawk below. With a sigh, Thunderfoot slashed the Master of Salt Lake City´s throat, before tossing him over. "THE ETERNAL HIGHWAY CALLS FOR US!"

The following battle inside the halls was bloody, as the close spaces did not allow for an reload, as both Khans and Mem-bar warriors clashed with enldess fury. Yet Thunderfoots men stood with the back to the wall, in the middle of the enemy camp. There was no way out for them, and their bravery was born out of desperation. Their bellies were empty and their future misty. The khans had places to run to...

Barring the door, Thunderfoot looked at the mass of Follower hostages, and wounded Khans, while his stomach turned, as he looked at his own losses. Five of his group, including him, had remained without wounds. His heart pounded, as he turned to Burned-her-hair, who held onto his bloody club, his back against the barred door. "Keep this door closed and barred, even if the whole NCR army wants to break it open, you hear me?" Not sure if Burned-her-hair was able to hear anything anymore, he moved pass him, towards the wounded that kept the hostages in check, penned in the middle of the hall. "You think you will get away with this boy? Papa Khan will roast you on small fires for weeks! We still have a thousand men in this city!" Thunderfoot stopped, glaring at the speaker, a wounded Khan, whom a young Follower was bandaging. "You even old enough to shave, you whelp? You think you can take the city with 20 men?"

Walking in, Thunderfoot went down on one knee, to look the warrior into the face, before slowly shaking his head. "No, not with 20...but with 500!"

---

---

The sound of alarm had been the sign Shinji had been waiting for. Entering with the Vanguard that had brought Thunderfoot as a captive into the town, they had stayed near the gates, in local taverns, watering holes and shadowy corners, making sure that nobody was getting to close, to spot the holes and blood sports on their leather jackets. The loud sound of large metal plates being beaten with hammers, and Khan warriors Jumping to their feet, made Shinji rally his men with nods and signs. The traders and civilians of the city, fearful of the alarm quickly closed their shops, and retreated into their homes, barring doors and shutting windows. Far of children were crying, as men rushed pass the group, that made their way to the gate.

Huddled around a fire-barrel, a group of warriors and guards was posted, who slowly turned to the arriving warriors. "Halt! Gate is closed during states of alarm! What the hell is going on in the fortress?" Shinji grinned below his bandana, as he stepped closer. "You got problems with your ears, man? What is go..." Shinji´s fist smashed into the face of the leader, filling the silence of the shock with a wet sound of a nose breaking and a jaw being smashed. Head first, the leader stumbled backwards, tossing over the fire-barrel, as the 80s threw away their looted Khan Jackets.

80s Mem-bar warriors lacked the pure endurance and traditions of honorable close combat of the Khans, who´s martial abilities were famous across all of west america. Yet they had the surprise on their side! The roaring warcry of the infiltrators hailed through the night, as they came upon the guardians of the gate, flashing daggers and clubs. Fools all over america, never having layed eyes on battles, may have illusions about the "honor of close-combat", yet a mere glare on the vicious brawl for the western gates, would kill any such notions. Shinji was the first on the wall, after tossing one of the guards down from it, onto the dusty street below, where he remained for a second, trying to get up, before a 80 jumped onto him, cutting his throat with a roaring cry. "OPEN THE GATES YOU FOOLS!" Shinji bellowed out his order, as he pulled out the signal from his belt. The Flare-gun was old, the red plastic brittle. Aiming for the sky, he fired the signal into the night, looking away, as a blazing star was born, red like the morning sun. Down below, and on the walls, the flare gave light to brutal melee below, exposing men in the dance of death, slashing and cutting, punching and choking. Then, the croaking of the gate, as the mighty wings opened...

Then, from the distant far, a second flare, fired up, giving light to the horde. Hundreds of bikes, roaring loudly along the sacred highway, ready to retake their birthright! Shinji tossed the flare away, as he glared down, seeing new Khan warriors arrive, only to freeze on the sight of the mighty dust cloud, drenched in red by the flare above, speedily making its way to the gate. With them, came the warcry of the 80s, the imitation of an engine, with one battle-cry mixed in: "COAST TO COAST!"

The 80s were upon Salt-Lake City!

---

---

Resting on the throne of white metal, the new master of Salt Lake city, glared down onto the rows of captives, that were brought into the halls, guarded by Mem-bar warriors. Thunderfoots men were loaded with loot, be it new weapons, armor or trinkets. Most proudly presented their loot, proclaiming their bravery and the men they had slain, while others relied on the younger warriors to watch the saddle bags of their bikes. Yet there was a typ of loot, that was far harder to take stock off. For Thunderfoot had allowed each Mem-bar warrior to take two slaves from the population of Salt-Lake City...with a few exceptions!

The head of Jessup, an expression of terror on the pale face, was resting on the third step up to the throne of white metal, with most of the captives trying to evade the dead glare of the head. Most of them were traders, hailing from the realm of the bull, the city of light and sin, the great republic and the Brotherhood-land, be it the one in the east or the one in the north. A few had wanted to raise protest, yet a particular brave trader from Reno, had met his end, after insulting one of the guarding warriors one time to many. "I have given orders to have you be spared from slavery and allow you free passage from this city, when we will leave it behind! I lay claim to all your goods, your cattle and any ammunition you carry, if you hail from the NCR! Take solace in the fact, that i let you leave with your wives and children, not putting the leash on their necks as would be my right by conquest!" A storm of angry shouts came up, yet a shot into the air silenced the captives. "They, who hail from the city of sin and lights, may give up half their goods to my Mem-bar warriors, who would otherwise murder you, steal your goods and enslave families!" Raising up, Thunderfoot crossed his arms, as he looked down on the mass. "All, who are from the realm of the Bull or the Realm of Steel, are to give up 500 caps or 100 pieces of ammunition or a gallon of gasoline as a tribute ! If you can bring up neither, a tribute of equal value is accepted! All of you, are to tell that the 80s are here to reclaim their birthright, that is our sacred highway! Respect this right, and Thunderfoot, son of Thunderbird, will be your friend! Deny it, and your home shall share the fate of Salt Lake City!"

The 80s in the hall broke out in a loud cheer over this, hailing and crying out. "THE ETERNAL HIGHWAY! COAST TO COAST!" The traders took the news differently. Some seemed glad to be spared the fate of slavery, like the mass of huddled figures in the pens outside the fortress, yet other grimly glared, whispering curses. "For the children of Joseph Smith among you, you will have found no hostility from my Mem-ber Warriors during the raid! This was by my express order, for i wished your lives to be spared. Yet, i demand a single tribute from you..."

Palace of Caesar

“Then we are agreed", Lucius said as he and General Garcia stood and shook hands, "And there will be the peace. I will have my scribes draft the official agreement immediately, which we might sign here today.”

“General Hsu has given me the authority to sign today. It will last past tomorrow and the next, Caesar”, Garcia replied with a nod. After both men took their seats again he added, “What part of the wasteland should we talk about next? Perhaps the war in Florida?”

“Yes, that is probably wise", said President Harris. "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 state of affairs in the Key Republic is quite alarming to me", said Barnaky, "Especially as it appears to have been instigated by the Cult....it's my understanding that Suttbray is a open worshiper of the Cult's so-called "God". That, of course, means I am at war with him already, whether he is aware of that or not. I think you should know that a faction in this Insurrection, the 'Southern Liberal Concordat', is currently attempting to open diplomatic channels with me." Barnaky turned and gestured at Martin, who handed him a document from his briefcase. He then turned back to President Harris and handed it to him (OOC it is the text of Sault's offer), then continued. "They are offering me access to New Orleans and the Gulf, as well as a trade agreement, in exchange for weapons and support."

"While these are long standing strategic goals of mine", Barnaky continued, "I don't consider them worth the price of helping the Cult tear apart the Key Republic. It has also occurred to me that accepting this offer would contribute to the disintegration of a member of the 'Co-Prosperity Sphere', which would rightly earn the enmity of the other Nations in that Pact, as well as neutral powers such as the NCR." He nodded at General Garcia then continued, "That again would only benefit the Cult."

"As this communication reached me on my way here, I have not had the opportunity to consult with Caesar about this matter yet," Barnaky said, "But my assessment is this. The Cult cannot be allowed to conquer or destroy the Key Republic, or to divide us on this issue. If the Key Republic falls into their hands, it's a direct threat to both my people and yours. To that end, I believe that all parties involved should decide on a joint course of action to put down this Insurrection and excise Cult influence from the Key Republic while it can still be saved."

"To that end", Barnaky continued, "I am prepared to assist in this endeavor. We've been monitoring the situation and I have a small but powerful force upriver at Vicksburg that is in position to lend direct aid, there are also other ways we can assist....I'm sure His Serenity still has loyal subjects in New Orleans willing to fight for him if provided with arms and leadership. The Concordat wants to purchase weapons and ammunition...but the River south of Memphis is a dangerous place and in spite of the unceasing efforts of my Fleet piracy does still happen in the lower River from time to time.

"With that said", Barnaky said, "I want to make one thing perfectly clear. The only outcome of this Intervention acceptable to my Government is that the territory held by the rebels calling themselves the 'Southern Liberal Concordat' is returned to the jurisdiction of His Serenity as soon as practicable, once the rebellion is put down, of course."

"I would also like to request at this time, Mr President", Barnaky said, "Your aid in securing a audience between Brother Martin or I and His Serenity, to discuss how we might be of assistance to him in this dark hour, and the future of our relations as well. While we may disagree on several issues, many of which admittedly stem from the form of Government events forced me to Institute in my lands, there is no reason we cannot live in peace with each other."

“If it would please your eminences Caesar and Barnaky", Gladstone said, "Might I have permission to withdraw with your aides for deliberations over when and where the Western Brotherhood’s military forces will enter the fray against the cult?”

"Of course, High Elder", Barnaky said. Gladstone sounded bored, which surprised Barnaky a bit. "Brother Martin here is fully briefed on these issues, and if necessary a teleconference can be set up with the Paladin-General and, if it pleases Caesar, Legatus Aurelius in Indianapolis can be convened."

Caesar Lucius - Santa Fe, Palace

Lucius waited for Barnaky to finish his thoughts on the question posed by President Harris before giving his own opinion on the matter,

“I sympathize with the Ruler in the South who fights these cultists….I’ve not had the chance to speak with Bartholomew myself, but rumours of his reputation proceeds him. However, I am concerned with over-extension of our forces. More than 20,000 sons of mars are now deployed to the east with my finest commander at their head. And if the information coming back to us from the front is true, the Warmaster is on the move. The actions of the Cult in stirring up disorder in the Keys via this ‘Suttbray’ could very well be a ploy to draw more men away that could be sent against them. Blood that is needed east will be sent south, its an old tactic, but not without merit does a stratagem become such.”

“I agree that allowing the Cult and the rebels to tear apart the Keys, or any stable nation neutral to these affairs, is not desirable,” Lucius continued, “But our focus must be kept to the east. I am willing to send a small force to help intervene in these Southern troubles and aid his Serenity in securing his position, but we should not distract ourselves. If the Keys fall, it is unfortunate, but should we burn Pittsburgh to the ground...and if we can silence The Cult forever by sticking the head of their blind prophet on a stake and raising their ‘Monolith’ to rubble….then it is a trade worth making. That is our true objective, and I wish to ensure we do not lose sight of it. That would be all I have to say on the matter.”

"Brother Martin here is fully briefed on these issues, and if necessary a teleconference can be set up with the Paladin-General and, if it pleases Caesar, Legatus Aurelius in Indianapolis can be convened."

“Of course,” Lucius nodded, “The Legate or one of his staff should be present and available to speak on behalf of the Eastern Legions.”

Indianapolis

“Aurelius! Aurelius! Aurelius!”

The triumphant shouts of the victorious Legionaries resounded across the entrance to Indianapolis as the Legatus entered the fallen gates on horseback alongside Vulpes, his Praetorians, and a marching column of Veterans. The golden bull standard of Caesar and The Legion flew atop numerous rooftops and was held aloft by proud sons of Mars, signally that the siege was over and the enemy had capitulated. The remaining raiders, such as they were, had surrendered without further contest, only small pockets of resistance now remained, but they would swiftly be taken care of.

The Legion were not kind occupiers.

Those raiders that hadn’t killed themselves to escape judgement or been spirited away by the Midwestern Inquisitors, were now at the mercy of The Legate. And so the executions had begun. Every raider old enough to swing a machete was to be killed. Children that such depraved couplings between raiders had conceived, were to be enslaved and either sent to the camps or trained to become Legionaries to replace those that had fallen capturing their city. What few women that were healthy and clean enough to bear children were taken and were to be offered as wives to the Legate’s men.

And so the Legate entered the city to the victorious shouts of his men, and the screaming of the dead, dying, and those soon to be one or the other. The streets and former ramshackle walls of the city were quickly becoming lined with crosses. Screams of pain mixed with the sounds of hammers falling on wood and nails. Such was their number, that the Legion executioners began to run out of enough sturdy wood to make more. And so the beheadings began. Those that were to be swiftly beheaded could count themselves amongst the lucky ones, for their deaths were relatively painless: but no less grisly.

Barnaky’s soldiers looked on grimly, turning a blind eye to the proceedings. They’d expected such actions to be taken by their Legion comrades, their officers had tried to prepare them for it, but perhaps not all were entirely prepared enough to face the grim reality. Propaganda films and fancy words about brotherhood and mutual defense were one thing, but watching the Legion exterminate a city, raider or no, in front of your eyes was quite another.

Lanius rode down the streets of Indianapolis at a brisk pace, leaving the marching column behind, until finally arriving at what passed for the city’s “town hall”. A rough looking pre-war structure that had been turned by the raider leaders into a drug den and caterer to every vice their deviant minds could think of. Both he and Vulpes dismounted in the square outside the building, while the Praetorians stayed mounted.

“Order the men to make camp outside the city walls,” Aurelius said as he looked around him in disgust at the signs of squalor and degeneracy he was witnessing before him, “We’ll leave a garrison force within the city for the time being until we depart just to ensure its security. Once the men are rested and in good order, we’ll continue marching eastward. I don’t wish to delay our advance for long.”

“Culling the city will prevent us having to worry about a revolt flaring up behind us,” Vulpes remarked, “The Midwesterners may not all approve of our methods, but they’ll appreciate the results. With Indianapolis firmly in our hands, we’ll have a secure supply line as we move into the Cult’s territory proper.”

“Agreed. If we…” A sudden noise from afar caused Aurelius and Vulpes to turn in surprise. Some sort of great commotion was accompanied by the shouts and cries of men in battle. Something was wrong.

Suddenly a great hulking green mass burst forth from beyond a barricaded street. A larger than average mutant accompanied by two smaller abominable wolf-like creatures strode forward. The mutant carried a heavy club of some sort: bloodied from having apparently just smashed through whatever Brotherhood or Legion troops had barred its way.

“Where in Mar’s name did that come from?” Aurelius shouted as he drew his gladius.

“It must have been hiding in one of the buildings,” Vulpes remarked quickly. He thoughts immediately turned to this being some sort of trap left by the Cultists.

The creature barreled for the group of Legionaries, and the Praetorians wasted no time in reacting, “Legatus! Get yourself to safety!” The Head Praetorian cried out as he and his men charged forward on horseback. Spears were thrown at the creature but it simply shrugged them off, and with a tremendous effort, the creature swung its club at one of the horsemen: pummeling the Praetorian and poor beast he was riding to a bloodied pulp on the ground. One of the mutant wolf creatures charged for another Praetorian, and knocked him from his horse, but a well placed spear from his comrade felled the creature. The other charged for Aurelius, seemingly intent on sinking his teeth into the Legate. Vulpes immediately came to his old friends aide, and tossed a large throwing knife at the charging beast, hitting it square in the side and causing it to emit a pained yelp before it crashed to the ground and scrambled away.

The mutant brute however, was not so easily stopped, the Praetorians had been unable to delay it, and after taking another swipe at one of the horsemen, it turned and looked directly at the Legate: seemingly ready to run him down. Aurelius made his peace with Mars in that moment.

The sounds of spinning rotary wings caused the abomination to look skywards however, and like a guardian angel descending from heaven, down came a Brotherhood vertibird. Its forward guns pointed squarely at the beast. There was a brief moment of pause, and the mutant cocked its head ever so slightly as if vaguely aware of what was about to happen, before the vertibird’s guns opened up, and tore through its thick hide. The pilot laid down a stream of gunfire while the Praetorians rode clear of the flailing mutant. Seconds later and it had fallen to the ground in a bloodied heap of torn flesh, bone, and blood.

Once the vertibird had touched down, the pilot stepped out, his was face obscured by his helmet. Vulpes greeted him warmly.

“That was fortunate timing, do you realize what you’ve done?”

“Guess it’s just luck I was in the area...I happened to see the whole thing. All I know is I just helped out some of Caesar’s men by tearing a mutie a new one. Why, who’s he?” The pilot pointed to Aurelius, “Are you a Centurion? Apologies for the informal attitude.”

Vulpes was intrigued, he recognized that voice from somewhere...but his usually sharp mind was drawing a blank.

“Aurelius of Phoenix, Legate of The Eastern Legions,” Aurelius grinned, “I owe you my life it would seem. What’s your name pilot?”

The pilot pulled off his flight helmet, suddenly understanding the gravity of the presence he was in. He snapped to attention, “Excuse me, Legate I didn’t realize it was you. Lancer-Sergeant Robert Kyle, Midwestern Brotherhood Air Corp. If you’re the Legate, I’m glad I came when I did.”

“Mars watches out for his sons,” Aurelius nodded, “Your arrival is no coincidence.”

“I’m inclined to agree, sir.”

A crow perched on the roof of the vertibird cocked its head curiously, watching the proceedings below and focusing oddly intending on the Legion soldiers. The glint of red in its eye all but invisible.

Indianapolis International Airport - Brotherhood HQ - Interrogation Room 2

Icepick watched impassively as she watched the drone footage. On the roof of a huge building Downtown, about 5-6 blocks from the Hotel she had been captured at by the look of it, a group of Raiders and Cult warriors stood about facing each other tensely, as thier leaders appeared to be having an argument. The camera zoomed in, and Icepick recognized it was Overboss Lee, and the Cult leader, Iron Jaw. After a brief argument, that consisted mostly of Lee ranting the way he always did when he was pissed, Iron Jaw gestured at him contemptuously and two of his men sprang forward, grabbing Lee and tossing him off the roof into the street below. Her lips curled with contempt as she saw Lee's bodyguard just stood there and watched their Overboss tossed over the side like trash. After watching Lee bounce off the pavement like a dead cat, Iron Jaw turned and walked away, his men herding Lee's men through a door to what was probably the stairwell, passing out of view.

"Pussies", she thought bitterly. "You only had one job..."

Her train of though was interrupted by a click as Stahl, sitting behind the desk across from her, pushed the pause button on the holo-recorder and rewound it until both men were back in view, then paused it again....now Lee was frozen in time, screaming at the clearly unimpressed Iron Jaw, clearly unaware he only had about a minute to live.

"What do you think this was about, Icepick?", Stahl asked, "Do you recognize these men?"

"The guy tossed off the roof was the Overboss", Icepick said wearily, sure Stahl already knew that much, at least. "The other guy is Iron Jaw....he's the leader of the Crew Rog'Reg sent from Ft Wayne to 'help' us. What they were arguing about I have no fucking idea, though I'm sure it had something to do with trying to cope with you people."

"Fair enough", Stahl replied. "It caught my interest because resistance began to collapse within a hour of this event. Do you think this had anything to do with that? New orders, perhaps?"

"Oh, there were orders, alright", Icepick said with a bitter chuckle, "They just weren't for us though. One of those Cult fuckers came and told our 'Pack Master' to cut us loose and link back up with the main group." She laughed mirthlessly and continued. "They didn't get far though...we were on the sixth floor at the time, they headed down the stairs and walked right into the guns of your people and the Legion coming up. Wish I could have seen the look on that shithead's face when they slotted him."

"Where do you think they were going?", Stahl asked.

"Underground", Icepick answered with a shrug, "In the sewers under Downtown somewhere, I guess.....where exactly I don't know. They spent a lot of time down there, doing fuck knows what..nobody they took down there ever came back up again."

Operations Room - a short time later

Paladin-General Wilson watched distastefully as drone footage showed Legion troops already at work crucifying prisoners. The executions didn't bother him.....most of them would have needed to be shot or hanged by his troops anyway...it was the method of execution, he felt it to be needlessly cruel. He was getting complaints from commanders in the field already, but they would have to live with it just as he was. Barnaky knew full well what he was doing when he put the Legate in charge of this Front of the advance, it was out of his hands. With the enemy deep in Ohio and the increasingly dire situation in Michigan, they didn't really have the time or manpower to spare to properly sort them out anyway.

"Sir", Inquisitor Stahl said from behind him, "If I may...."

"Certainly, Jessica", Wilson said as he turned to face him. "If it's about the crucifixions...."

"It's not for me to question the Will of the Lord-Paladin", Stahl replied, "In any case our Allies have been satisfactorily cooperative when it comes to providing subjects for interrogation." She handed the Paladin-General a folder and as he perused it, she continued, "We've got credible Intel that the Cult is preparing a counter-attack from the sewers under the city. My confidence in this assessment is high."

"Very well", Wilson replied, "I'll order redeployment immediately, and acceleration of the preparations for the scurry-bots." He then turned to the Duty Officer, "Execute plan Sierra immediately. And get me the Legate's field HQ....."

A cry of alarm came from one of the drone operators, and one of the large view-screens changed from a map of the city to a drone feed, by the look of it near the crumbling edifice that had once housed Indiana's Legislature. A Mutant at least ten feet tall and a pair of enormous mutant dogs was charging a group of Legion horsemen.

"Focus on the horsemen for a moment", Wilson barked. After a moment the uniforms of the men could be made out. "Those men are Praetorians....Aurelius himself is probably with them!" He turned to the senior controller and spoke again. "That area was declared secure nearly two hours ago....who do we have near there now?"

"Vertibird 1-3", the controller replied after checking his displays, "Sergeant-Lancer Kyle."

"Vector him in stat!"

"He's already engaging", the controller said. "switching to 1-3's feed". Another screen changed, now showing the view of 1-3's gun-sight camera. The mutant glared at the Vertibird facing it, seeming to finally realize it's danger right before the Vertibird's guns opened up at nearly point blank range and tore it to pieces. The Vertibird then immediately vectored into landing mode, settling down on the pavement.

"Get me in contact with that pilot", Wilson said, "we have to warn them."

"We're not getting through", the controller said, "Something's been interfering with the radio signal ever since they landed."

Momentarily, the pilot appeared in the feed, approaching the Praetorians. From this distance Wilson could see that the first man he reached was Vulpes Inculta. Kyle took off his helmet, and after a brief conversation, Aurelius approached them, at which point Kyle stood to attention and saluted him.

"The camera feed is still working, try the alternate frequencies", Wilson said, leaning over the controller.

"1-3 this is Command, over", the controller said several times as she tried the various frequencies. After several tries she got a reply. She then pushed a button and a light next to a yellow handset on her console lit up. "It's the Co-Pilot, Lancer-Sergeant Jordan, sir."

Wilson snatched up the headset and immediately began speaking.

"1-3, this is Actual speaking", Wilson said, "It's vitally important that you get Sergeant Kyle's attention and tell him you're all in danger, and that I need to speak to the Legate immediately. Send one of your gunners, hurry!"

"Yes sir!", Jordan replied, then switched to the intercom and ordered Lancer Henning out to bring Kyle and the Legate to the aircraft, and Lancer-Corporal Smith to man the gun on that side. Jordan then also started going through the pre-flight checklist....if the Paladin-General goes to the trouble of calling you personally to warn you that you're in danger, it's unlikely to be bullshit, after all.

Indianapolis Town Square

“Sergeant Kyle…” Vulpes muttered to himself, “Of course...convenient for you to arrive here….” Dressed as he was in a Praetorians uniform with his helmet distorting his voice, he neither expected nor wished for the Sergeant to realize who he was, or that he’d interrogated him only some hours before. The Sergeant’s sudden appearance was...odd..but perhaps such coincidences could be explained by the work of Mars.

Before any conversation could continue, one of the vertibird co-pilots came running out of the aircraft, making a bee-line for them,

“Sergeant!” He shouted, “Its the Paladin-General! He’s ordering us to take off immediately! There’s some sort of situation! He’s asked that we take the Legate up with us for safety and that he get into contact with him immediately.”

The Legion troops all looked to Aurelius, waiting for his orders,

“Very well,” the Legate nodded, “I assume this must have something to do with the sudden appearance of the mutant. You two..” He pointed to two of the Praetorians, “With me. The rest of you,” His eyes fell on Vulpes, “Make haste back to the column and halt the advance. All legionaries are to hold their current positions until further orders are given. Am I understood?”

“Yes Legatus!”

Aurelius immediately followed Sergeant Kyle back to the vertibird and hopped aboard with two of the guards. In no time the vertibird was off the ground and hundreds of feet in the air. Aurelius watched as the horsemen below turned heel and began riding hard back through the city.

Once they were out of immediate danger, the co-pilot handed him the radio transceiver and Aurelius took it,

“This is Legate Aurelius,” He began, “What is the situation?”

---

---

The warriors that the cult now mustered, were as different from the raiders Iron-Jaw once had lead out of the Pitt against the Scrapper-Union, as steel was to copper. For Iron-Jaw had seen the army of the Cult turn from the very rabble that had fallen like flies in Indianapolis, into a force that did not need to hide from the legion or the brotherhood of steel! In Cleveland, the warriors of the cult had been fearsome, yet then they had been without the monolith. Nowaday, each and every warrior had layed his eyes on the black stone, heard the whispers in the back of their mind and taken deep breath of the Miasma.

For raiders could not lay hidden, while their gang was picked apart, tormented and broken on crosses. Fear would overtake them, stripping them of their will to fight. They would crush under the burden of war, like vermin facing a true beast. A strong enough master, willing to use exessive force, could hold them in place, yet in the end, they never would be reliable to fight or follow orders in a true war. They were rats, while a Cult warrior was a half-mad dog on a leash. Wild, mad and unbroken, yet only half so. He could march, follow orders and think like a soldier. It was only when he was cut lose, his lungs filled with the miasma and his fury would overtake him, that his commander was no longer his master. He was a wild beast at this point, yet also the most effective shock infantryman short of a man in power armor or a super mutant! With the Miasma in his lungs, he no longer cared about wounds, the concept of mercy as alien to him as any thought short of cutting his enemies throat.

Had Iron-Jaw five thousand, he knew he could retake this city! The narrow streets with its ruins and tunnels were familiar ground, their ground. The warriors would fall onto the Legionaries in ways that would make their discipline and formations nearly useless, before hacking them down like lambs to the slaughter. It would have been a mighty slaughter, bringing honor to the monolith and the prophet, yet Iron-Jaw had only four-hundred men...

---

The Legonaries turned, yet not fast enough, as the giant molerat came upon them. A rain of claws and fangs came down on them, as the rider broke out behind it, from the rubble that had hidden the entrance to the tunnels below. ""PH´NGLUI SOTH! SLAUGHTER THEM ALL!"" A machete collided with the Warleaders armor, as Iron-Jaw turned, ramming his head against the Legonaries, the wet noise of a shattering nose filling the air, before he leaned over him, ripping open his throat with a ferocious bite of his iron jaw. The taste of blood send a shiver down his spine, as around him, his warriors broke out from the holes and tunnels. His hands twiched to join them, as he heard the screams, the warcries and the roaring of their cutter guns, unloaded on the ambushed. His own mount, snarlled as it feasted on the two corpses below it, ripping out pieces of bloody meat from the legonaries it had crushed below its paws. It would be so easy to join into the slaughter, fight and die with the warriors..

For Iron-Jaw had not taken the Miasma, his mind remaining cool and clear. There was no victory in Indiapolis, not for him, or his men. Their assault would take them by surprise, if none of the raiders had talked too early, which he was certain they would, but the moment their Miasma would run out, their exaughtion would set in and their momentum would be lost, their deaths were certain!

A grin moved over his bloodied lips, as he looked at his warriors, coming upon the legionaries and soldiers of the brotherhood from holes and rubble, tunnels and sinkholes. Firing down from the upper levels, while others charged forward, sharp machetes in hand. Others already had found themselves in bloody melee, their re-breathers filling their lungs with the blessed Miasma and their hearts with mindless fury. One was ramming his cutter, fixed with a bayonet over and over into the belly of a Brotherhood soldier, while another rider of a giant Molerat was breaking out from the entrance of a building, its beast snarling out loudly, while he lashed left and right. Across the street, he could see a bundle of grenades being tossed down, into a confused mass of soldiers, who were reduced to ash in the explosion of green fire.
For the first time in the war, both Legion and Brotherhood were facing the real soldiers of the cult. No mad cultists, fearful raiders or half-hearted raiders, but the warriors who had pledged their souls in front of the holy monolith itself. Armed and trained in the holy city itself and veterans of the war of the capital wasteland. More MFC grenades flew through the air, engulfing the ambushed enemy in flames of green fire, before more warriors broke out from a ruin, where the rabble had been placed to hide an opening to the sewers. Soldiers trying to pull their wounded comrades to safety were hacked down from behind, while two who tried to surrender in pure panic were beaten to death with their own weapons.

Iron-Jaw could watch the mayhem till its end, when the enemy would rally fully, and push back his men, where they would be isolated and cut down. It would be a triumphant death, a last show of force...yet he was not to die yet! The Prophet would need him, and fresh troops would wait for him with the main cult army! Wiping the blood from his face, Iron Jaw mounted his giant Molerat, before turning it over. He had chosen a handful of companions for his way back to the main army, a small guard of veteran warriors, reliable and seasoned, all on mounts . The beasts could easily make way over impassible rubble and so the group quickly vanished away from the madness, lead by the Warleader, who with a heavy heart cursed his duty to the prophet. A single, measly kill in such a battle, was nothing that would bring him any honor...

Rumbling down a slope, and through a burned out ruin, they once more were on a side street, yet Iron-Jaw could hear a noise above them. A noise he knew well from the campaign in the capital wasteland. "Watch the sky, brothers a..."

Then, for a moment, the incredible happened. Iron Jaws group, halted to watch the sky for the Vertibird, suddenly heard a noise near them and as they turned their heads, a group of horsemen came past them. The snarling of their own Molerat mounts made them easy to spot, and for just a moment, both groups just glared at each other. Then Iron Jaw broke out into a wide, bloody smile.. They were outnumbered by the horsemen, yet their mounts would not be used to the sight of gigantic, hairless rats, bloody and terrifying! Their riders were little less fearsome, their heavy metal armor decorated with spikes, skulls and other body parts, while their faces where half hidden behind rebreathers and helmets, equally decorated with spikes.

"FRESH MEAT FOR THE SLAUGHTER! AT THEM!"

So they charged, howling like demons, waving their blades in an clear challenge, lead by Iron-Jaws blood smeared bold head.

---

---

---

Shots rang in the distance, as the smell of smoke was over the city. Martial Law was active, as refugees clocked up the streets, while national guard milita tried to create something resembling order. "FORM SINGLE LINES! ALL MEN FROM THE AGE 16 TO 45 ARE TO RAISE THEIR HANDS FOR DRAFTING! MARTIAL LAW CODE 23B IS ACTIVE! PLEASE COOPERATE!" Chaos was the answer, as families held onto their sons, husbands fathers, before a single shot into the sky returned the mass back to order. Am officer, slim and tired, with an revolver in hand took his helmet of his head. "We need every man in the city under arms...damn, every woman and child as well! NOW GET A MOVE ON! WE HAVE A WAR TO WIN!"
Rows of soldiers walked passed them, towards the fire and death at the river. "THE CULT HAS CROSSED THE RIVER! THEY WILL KILL US ALL!" A voice shouted, as once more chaos threatened to break out, yet a quick smash with the riflebut into the mans face, brought silence back. Once more the Officer grunted out an order, before climbing onto the back of a truck. "THE RIVERFRONT HOLDS! THE CULT HAS NOT CROSSED THE RIVER! REINFORCEMENTS ARE ON THE WAY! DETROIT IS NOT LOST YET!"

General Stone saw all that from the top of the building, as he once more guided his cigarette to his mouth. Once, this had been a proud staff house of the scavenging union, yet with the cult approaching, he had taken the building as his personal staff headquarter. Here he would endure the night of his treason, his finally attack on his own beloved nation. The smoke felt bitter in his lungs, as he heard the step from behind, the adjutant quickly rushing towards him. "Sir, it is time! Do we have your conformation for tonight orders?"
Tossing the smoke over the edge of the building, Stone glared into the distance. Refugees, soldiers and the distant battle along the river, where the Cult wanted to cross the river. There was no victory here...not at this place, not at this time.

"You have my confirmation! The operation is a go!"

---

---

The chaos on every level of the state-house was a mirroring of the chaos in the city. Officers and soldiers were rushing through the corridors, knocking on doors and quickly leaving, realizing that they had the wrong room. The static of radios was everywhere, as men blindly shouted at each other. Kowalski no longer had an ear for any of it.
The tiredness burned in his eyes, as he was still wondering when the last time had been he had slept more then an hour. It must had been before the battle of Toledo. Since then, hasty retreats, as the leadership had been unable to form any kind of real front, after the much famed and trusted "border garrison" had collapsed like a house of cards. It had taken days, until the high command even had realize the size of the Cult invasion, as it had seemed, that information had been actively delayed or even altered. Before Toledo had fallen, Kowalski had even learned that half the garrison had been send down the I75, to "combat an arriving raider force". This, and the incredible speed of the enemy, made it clear, that this could have not been a simple one-sided invasion. Once, Captain Kowalski had almost a hundred men under his command, now, his twenty-seven men were huddled together in front of the state house, silent and tired. Like him, they still could not believe it, that Detroit had fallen...

Even for a man of his size, close to six feet and four inches, it was hard to make himself a way. He recalled some faces, either from long ago, bright and friendly, or from the last week, pale and fallen in. Many were wounded, bandages around their heads. One man, his face so coated in bandages, that he looked more like a mummy then a human, kept slamming his hand against a locked door. "I aint leaving until i get my damn ammunition! My boys are dying out there..." Kowalski frowned, as he pressed himself past him. "ITS ALL YOUR DAMN FAULT! YOU INCOMPETENT BASTARDS!" A kick followed against the door, as two soldiers rushed towards the bandaged officer. Kowalski pushed on, he had to get back onto the street.

---

Hundreds waited outside of the statehouse, screaming out their demands or pleads at the occupants inside. Civilians demanding to know where their family-members were, men and women demanding to be armed and soldiers, venting out their anger. The city was close to mutiny, and only the president could hold it together. Kowalski had to force himself not to look anyone in the eyes, as he pushed through, crossing the street, to what had remained of his platoon. Twenty Seven men...

"Look Alive! New orders from HQ!" The tired bodies groaned, as they huddled back on their feet, holding onto their rifles and staring with empty eyes at the captain. "There is a Brotherhood Big-Wig in town, and we are to..." The sound of a loud explosion caused a major ruckus around them, as the civilians screamed, yet none of the soldiers even blinked. "Not the river, sir?" The gruff voice of Sargent Miller snapped in. "Not the river boys.." In some faces, Kowalski could spot relive, while others glared in silent anger. It burned on his lips, to tell the men the truth, that there simply was not enough supply in the city, as seemingly nonsensical orders had stripped the garrison and the way to the capital clean of supplies, capable officers and fresh troops. Treason had killed the republic. "We are to secure the hotel, protect the street and make sure that he does not leave the premise..."

---

Windsor - Statehouse - Office of the Speaker of the IRD House

"You understand your orders?", Speaker Herring-Warren barked at the two nervous men standing before her desk. "do you understand how important it is to our plans that you don't fuck this up?"

"Yes, Madam Speaker", Chuck Wendig, her Chief of Staff, replied, nervously tugging at his beard as he received his third tongue-lashing from his volatile and sadistic Boss today. "Agent Mueller has been fully briefed, he'll take care of this...um, matter, discreetly."

"For fuck's sake, Charles", Herring-Warren replied irritably, stressing the syllables of his name, "Can you at least talk like you have a pair of balls for once?". She then turned to the other man, a tall, gaunt figure with flint-cold eyes. His icy indifference to her tirade at her aide, whom she frankly enjoyed tormenting, calmed her down somewhat. Mueller was a sociopathic killer, his position in the Federal Political Police had served the Church well over the years...unlike her gormless aide, she had full faith in his ability. "How about you, Henry?", she added, almost affably.

"General Stone ordered that Pendergast be eliminated immediately, Madam Speaker", Mueller replied. "To better do your Will....may I ask why we are changing the plan?"

"Because he's a fool...", the Speaker said, "...Pendergast gives us the perfect opportunity to lay Traowski's and Bouley's "tragic" deaths at the feet of the Brotherhood. You'll see to it he's found dead at the scene with the murder weapon. It doesn't have to stand up to forensic examination....with them dead, I'll be President and the investigation will say what I need it to say." She then added, "He wanted to sacrifice that opportunity to his martyr complex...by the time the Brotherhood arrives I'll have the streets ablaze to greet them."

"I see now, Madame Speaker", Mueller replied, his normally grim features breaking out into a mirthless smile, "You can count on me. I will need assistance bringing him in without being seen, however."

"Take Charles with you", the Speaker said with a dismissive gesture at her aide, "Even for him, it's a simple matter to get you access to the tunnels under the Statehouse, from there you can get wherever you need to go." She then added in conclusion, "Now go...I have a meeting with the Minority Leader, I can't wait to see the look on that insufferable prick's face when they come for him."


Near the Stonecroft Inn, Central Windsor

"Mueller, Federal Political Police", Mueller said icily as he flashed his ID at the sentry, "We have a Warrant for the arrest of the Brotherhood official at the Stonecroft."

"I'll have to clear that with my commander", the corporal in command of the checkpoint said, "Wait here, please."

Taking his ID, the corporal went to a nearby emplacement and placed a call from a field telephone. After a brief conversation, the corporal waved Mueller over, and handed him his ID card and the receiver.

"Inspector Mueller, Federal Political Police", Mueller said, "whom do I have the honor of addressing."

"Captain Kowalski, Fifth Infantry Battalion", said a exhausted voice, "I was directed to seal off the area, nothing was said about an arrest."

"I apologize, Captain", Mueller said soothingly, "But this is a delicate political matter. We have evidence Pendergast has been passing information to the Enemy....President Traowski has ordered his arrest."

"What?", Kowalski scoffed, "That's nuts! The Brotherhood hates the Cult, why would they help them defeat us?"

"It's above my paygrade to speculate on that", Mueller replied, "But it would explain a lot of things, wouldn't it?" After a pause, he added, "I find it hard to believe as well....but if you contact General Stone, he can confirm the warrant has been issued."

"Very well", Kowalski said, "Wait, please". Mueller waited, receiver to his ear, regarding the nervous behavior of his companion, Wendig, with increasing irritation. It was little wonder Wendig had never made it past the Outer Circle in the Church...try as he might...at heart the man was a rank coward. He had begun to idly wonder if the Speaker would be that upset if he had a "accident" when Kowalski came back on the line. "I've confirmed it with General Stone", Kowalski said, "I was authorized to detail a squad to assist if you need."

Mueller looked at the police detail, six uniformed Federal Police, and another Plainclothes officer like himself, and smiled slightly. More than enough to deal with one man.

"I appreciate your cooperation, Captain", Mueller said, "But I have things under control here, and you have more important concerns than one suspected spy."


Wardroom - Monitor Relentless- off Stag Island, St Clair River

"What happened?", Commodore Hackett asked. "Where is Pendergast?"

"The Cult has overrun most of Detroit, Commodore", said Scribe Whitby, leader of the group the flotilla had picked up heading up the St Clair as they descended it. "After they burned the Embassy to the ground, Pendergast took the Mendez's with him to the Windsor side to try to get in to see Traowski after they got us passage out of the city." Noticing his confusion, Whitby added, "Ernesto and Julia Mendez, the Knight detachment. They're married."

"Right", Hackett said, checking the chart on the table before them. "We won't be in range of their suit radios for a couple hours yet...unless...." He looked at Barrett, "Signal LST-20 and tall them to prep a drone, we need to get in touch with Pendergast and find out what kind of welcome we're going to get when we arrive."

"Aye, sir", Barrett replied.


Stonecroft Inn - Room 304

Pendergast paced the foor, as he listened to the radio. The reports were not good...apparently Detroit south of Ten Mile Rd was overrun, and yet another headlong assault across the Ambassador bridge was currently underway. It was shocking to him how things had come to this....the IRD was on the brink of being swept away, in spite of all it's latent strength. It was almost as if they wanted to die. How Traowski would turn this around was beyond him, he was pessimistic that the IRD could even be saved at this point. His thoughts were interrupted by a loud pounding at the door.

"Who is it?", Pendergast asked, "I didn't request room service."

"Inspector Mueller, Federal Political Police", came a voice through the door. "I need to speak with you at once!"

Pendergast looked through the peephole in the door, seeing what appeared to be two plainclothes Detectives. He unlocked the door and opened it, and stepped back as the pair walked in, followed by a third man, a bestectacled man with a full beard, who he remembered from the Statehouse....Weinnig?

"What can I do for you gentlemen?", Pendergast asked, as Mueller and his companion displayed their badges. "I was not expecting you."

"Ambassador", Mueller said, "We have been sent by the President. We have received credible intelligence that an attempt is planned on your life...we are here to escort you to a secure location."

"Very well", Pendergast said as he reached for the radio to turn it off, which he hoped would get the attention of the Knights in the room next door. But before he could flip the switch, the usual broadcast was interrupted.

"We interrupt this program for Breaking News!", the announcer said excitedly, "We are receiving reports from the statehouse that the President has been assassinated!" As the broadcaster continued, Pendergrast looked over at the two policemen in horror. For a long moment, they looked at each other, then without a word, both Mueller and his companion began to reach under their coats for their pistols. Reflexively, Pendergast reached for his laser rifle, leaning against the side of the dresser the radio sat on, fotunately out of their sight. Grabbing the rifle by it's collimator tube, he pulled it up, grabbing the pistol grip and smashing the butt of the rifle with all the force he could muster into the face of the policeman standing next to Mueller, causing him to stumble into Mueller, spoiling the draw of both men. Quickly reversing the rifle, he shot both men through the chest, then turned his rifle towards the open door. The bearded man just stood there, his mouth agape, until he was violently shoved out of the way by a uniformed policeman, his pistol drawn. Pendergast shot him before he could line up a shot, the policeman shouting out with pain and firing a round as he fell. From the hall, Pendergast heard voices.

"He's armed", a voice shouted, "He got Mueller and Brunner....get the others up here!"

He could hear people running up the stairs. As he was thinking of what to do next, the door to the next room flew open, and a Armored Knight burst into the room. The Knight glanced at the two plainclothesmen on the floor, casually shooting Mueller in the head as he attempted to level his pistol at Pendegast.

"Julie's suiting up now, sir", Mendez said, "Go in our room with her, I've got this."

Obeying, Pendergast entered the room, finding Mrs Mendez, stark naked and soaking wet, apparantly she had been in the shower, stepping into her suit. Outside, he heard more shots, and panicked shouting as the remaining assassins realized they had bitten off a lot more than they could chew.

"What happened?", she asked Pendergast.

"Traowsky has been Assassinated", he said, "They sent people after me....I don't think they knew about you and Ernesto."

"Just when you think these people couldn't be anymore fucked up", Julie grumbled, "they have to go and surprise you. We need to get the hell out of here....now"

"Agreed", Pendergast said, as he followed her out into the hall. The bearded man was cowering next to the wounded uniformed policeman sprawled on the floor. Pendergast grabbed him by his necktie and pulled him to his feet, shoving him against the wall....terrified of Julie, imposing in her power armor, he didn't resist. Noticing the lanyard around his neck and ID card, he flipped it around and glanced at it.

"This guy is a Congressional Staffer", Pendergast said with a mixture of shock and disgust, "We're keeping this one...the others, not so much."

"Sounds good to me", Julie said, putting a shot through the head of the policeman with her laser rifle. "Hold on a minute, Ernesto says that someone on the ground floor is lighting up those mooks from behind....."


Second floor stairwell

Ernesto, chasing the remaining cops down the stairs, stopped as the remaining two cops were cut down with automatic weapons fire coming from the foyer as they tried to bolt out the door.

"Hold your goddamn fire!", a voice shouted. A moment later, a white towel taped onto a cane was thrust through the open door and wiggled for good measure. "Hey Brotherhood! We know you're in the stairwell...we just want to talk!"

"Come on in", Ernesto said, "I won't shoot so long as you don't try any bullshit."

Vulpes Inculta - Indianapolis

Chaos had erupted inside the fallen city, as the Cult’s warriors sprang their trap, assaulting Brotherhood and Legion troops alike in a mad bloody melee. It was like the earth itself had opened up and spit out beasts and men from the depths of hell. The Legion’s forces reacted immediately, and Centurions ordered their men into defensive formations as they’d been drilled and trained to do time and time again. Ambushes of this sort were not uncommon for The Legion to encounter: experienced as they were in fighting tribals and guerilla fighters in Utah and Colorado. But the Cult’s war beast abominations and horrific appearance unnerved even the hardened Veterans.

“Hold them!” A Centurion standing on a rooftop shouted above the din of battle as his Legionaries fought on bravely below. Blades against blades, chainsaws revving and tearing into flesh, gunshots ringing out and blood coating the concrete and rusted steel of the city. A molerat mount, riderless, and covered in spears like some kind of twisted porcupine road through the carnage before collapsing from exhaustion and blood loss. Despite the ferocity of the sudden attack and the horrors they faced, the Legion would give no ground. All would rather die than shame the standard of Caesar.

Vulpes Inculta road with the Praetorian Guard towards the battle, his gaze fixed ahead and his mind immediately turning to planning a counter-attack now that The Cult had revealed its plan. He should have seen this coming, Indianapolis had fallen too easily and it was hard to imagine how the Cult could have allowed such weak fighters to represent them on the field. Now the truth was made manifest: they’d saved their best warriors in reserve and only now committed them to a final assault. They could never hope to claim victory, but victory wasn’t their objective.

He suppressed a grin, he had to give them credit...it was a trap that he would have gladly sprung himself against The NCR. Perhaps it was not entirely as...imaginative as some of his past work...but no less deadly for that. The fact that they’d been able to conceal such abominations and such raw power for long enough to make them count...it all pointed to the Cult’s war leaders even in such a backwater part of their territory having far more strategic acumen than he or perhaps even The Brotherhood’s Inquisitors had been willing to consider.

The group of Praetorian horsemen were just about to regroup with the main column when out behind the rubble sprung a group of cult marauders. The horses reared up in startled protest and stamped impatiently at the sight before them. Each cultist was mounted on horrifically twisted and mutated molerat beasts, abominations that seemed to scream madness. Their riders, too, were no less gruesome with gore-riddled spikes and heavy armor and helmets. The lead rider, a massive ungainly brute, clenched his jaw in a malicious grin, and then he shouted,

"FRESH MEAT FOR THE SLAUGHTER! AT THEM!"

Vulpes steeled his nerve, sent up a silent prayer to Mars, and drew his gladius. The Praetorians immediately followed suit, their unsheathed blades singing with desire for blood and glory. He gripped the reigns of his horse and lowered his blade at the approaching foe,

“Take them head on. Break through..” He said calmly to the men around him, “LEGIO INVICTA!” He yelled finally and spurred his mount forward.

“LEGIO INVICTA!” Came the Praetorians reply. A war horn blared out proudly.

And they charged.

Time seemed to stand still as the two groups raced towards one another before finally they clashed, riders tangling amongst each other in bloody carnage. The Praetorians were the Legion’s elite: the best fighters hand-picked to guard Caesar. They fought just as well with blade, firearm, spear, and fist. Each man would give his all in this battle.

Vulpes knew his target. As the slaughter raged around him, he singled out the lead rider and raised his gladius in a challenge,

“Your dark god cannot help you,” He taunted, “I am a Son of Mars...and I am Legion. We will tear your monolith to the ground, and see your degenerate Prophet nailed to a cross...your end is coming. Sooner than you think.”

The Aces Theatre at the Tops Casino- The Vegas Strip

One scotch, one bourbon, one beer…

The soft jazzy tune drifted around the smoky atmosphere of the Aces Theatre. Thomas, seated in the booth with Cait, was sipping on a ice cold nuka cola orange: his favorite flavor. His arm wrapped tightly around the redhead in a display of affection he rarely showed in public around The Institute. The two Courser bodyguards, disguised as they were, looked like two well dressed button men standing to either side of the booth. Patrons of the Theatre assumed he was some sort of mob figure with his squeeze or perhaps a big-shot Nevada tycoon in cahoots with Mr. House. They were not...entirely wrong.

Cait refrained from any alcohol offered to her by the waiters. She was close to three years sober at this point, and never intended to touch the stuff again despite her earlier jokes. She knew she couldn’t risk falling back into her old ways. Thomas, who’d never been a big drinker in the first place, was more than happy to stick to cola when she was around as well. It suited him just fine: better in fact. So rather than be drunk, both of them just sat listening to the music and taking in the sights and sounds of the Theatre. Enjoying each other’s company in a rare moment of bliss.

Thomas would have to thank Robert later for giving him the chance to cut loose for a bit. It was certainly a nice change of pace from his usual busy schedule at The Institute. Meetings, meetings, and more meetings were the order of the day there. Not that he didn’t enjoy his work mind you, The Institute had become his life. He’d devote everything he could spare to it and its people. All he could hope was that Shaun would have approved of what he was doing, of the path he was treading for them. It was all he had left of him. He would see his final vision come to fruition.

“Is this what it was like?” Cait’s voice snapped him out of the hypnotic-like trance of relaxation the music and cozy atmosphere had him under, “You know….before.”

He looked down at her, wrapped as she was in his arms. He smiled,

“Yes. It was this and more. Not everything was good...plenty was wrong with the world before. But this...this is what was right.”

“I think I would have liked it then,” she replied as she nestled herself in deeper. She closed her eyes and continued listening to the music, nearly falling asleep.

“I think you would have too….”

Dr. Madison Lee - The Institute

“Have a good night Dr. Lee!” The cheery voice of Rosalind Ormand carried out the door of the Advanced Systems Division as it slid to a close. Dr. Lee took a deep breath and began her slow walk home through The Institute’s concourse and back up to her residence on the top floor of the atrium wing. Quiet hours had already begun, and artificial starlight shown through the domed ceiling of The Institute’s interior. To those born and raised in this underground paradise, the lights above were a calming presence, and something of great beauty. But to Madison, born and raised on the the surface, they couldn’t compare with the real thing even if she did find herself occasionally staring up as if she was looking at the infinite blackness that was the night sky. But like much of what was in The Institute, it was still artificial...and she hated it sometimes.

As she began walking up the stairs, she reflected on how things had changed since Shaun had died and his father had taken up his mantle: becoming leader of The Institute. New protocols, new directives...and now the implementation of the next step in whatever master plan the Milburn family had for The Institute and the world. It was being dubbed “Phase 4”, not without reason obviously given the last Phase, and despite her high rank within The Directorate her information about its objective and status was limited. But she knew enough to understand where it was eventually going...how many “Phases” it would take, what they would eventually all lead to. There was only one logical outcome...perhaps the world would be for the better….or perhaps they were wrong and they would replace one horror with another kind. She wasn’t sure.

At this point though, she didn’t care. After she’d confronted Director Thomas about everything….the FEV experiments undertaken by his son…..Dr. Virgil’s confinement....the new Phase 4 directives...the secret missives he’d been distributing to each of the Divisions…the work he’d ordered Advanced Systems to perform without her consent....well after everything he had almost seemed impressed with her deductive skills. She’d threatened to resign, threatened to return to the surface, find Sarah Lyons and give her everything she’d need to bring The Institute to its knees as one final act of revenge.

It was a hollow threat, and she hadn’t expected to survive it, at least not in the form she was...but Thomas had only smiled. Smiled in that gentle, oddly comforting way that he always did. And he offered her a deal.

A deal she couldn’t refuse.

She’d taken it. Taken it like she was selling her soul to the devil, and doing so with gusto. Thomas wasn’t stupid, and he played her like a fiddle. He knew exactly what she wanted...and how far she would go to attain it. He dangled it in front of her like a carrot...and she snapped at the bait. Now...Thomas had her in the palm of his hands: she would admit that fully, but she didn’t care.

Madison stopped at the door to her apartment and paused briefly. The retinal scan confirmed her identity and the doors slid open with a hiss.

“Welcome home Madison, how was your day honey?”

The warm voice greeted her with a rush of dopamine. Stronger than the strongest drug any chem-addict could concoct,

“It was good James, I had a great day in fact…” She nearly ran over to the counter where James was standing: he looked just as she’d remembered him to be. Just as perfect, just as radiant and brilliant. Now...he was hers.

“I’m glad….I tried to make you dinner, unfortunately I don’t think it turned out as well as I imagined it would. I was never a great cook, but you know that...”

“Its alright...I’ll enjoy it all the same…”

And she leaned in and kissed him, kissed him deeply. Finally feeling his lips on hers….no matter how many times she felt them, she couldn’t get over it. After all these years of wanting, needing, and going without...she would do it no more.

“Why don’t we sit down, and you can tell me all about your work. I’d love to hear about it.”

“I’d be glad to share,” She smiled, “I’m so happy you’re here again James….so happy.”

“I’m happy too Madison. Happy to be with you finally…..”

Yes….she now owed no loyalty but to the one who’d given her everything she’d wanted. Even if Phase 4 scared her….she’d see it through now. She had no choice. But then again….she never did really.

Indianapolis International Airport - Operations Room

“This is Legate Aurelius,” a familiar voice from the headset said, “What is the situation?”

"We believe a counter-attack is imminent", Wilson replied, getting right to the point, "We've got reliable intel that the Cult forces in the city abandoned the Raiders to their fate and have rallied in the sewers to wait for the lines to cross over them and attack our troops in the rear. I've taken the liberty of informing your staff, and ordered the implementation of the plans for securing the pre-war sewer system...but we're out of position to deal with what the scurry-bots flush out, and it looks like they may be making their move sooner than we would like.

"Sir!", a ground controller held his hand up, "Fourth Brigade is reporting multiple contacts across Downtown!" He then hurriedly added, "19th Battalion HQ in the Indiana State Library is reporting it is under attack from below!"

"It looks like it's beginning", Wilson said calmly, "Lancer-Sergeant Kyle will take you where you wish to go, I am vectoring in another Vertibird with a squad of Knights to provide your Praetorians cover...I can also patch you through to your Headquarters if you wish."

19th Battalion 4th Infantry Brigade Field HQ- Indiana State Library

"Shit!", the machine gunner exclaimed as the chambered round in his LMG cooked off and fired due to the dully red-hot barrel, forcing him to open the feed tray and pull the belt out. "Change!" he hissed at his assistant, who was already pulling open the barrel latch to change it out.

A sudden squealing and skittering in the dark below turned his guts to water, he suspected his worst fears had come to pass and they had noticed. "Faster, goddamn it!", he hissed again at his assistant, who had plucked out the red-hot barrel and was just beginning to slide the replacement into place when a deep bassy voice shouted "PH´NGLUI SOTH!" and a wave of hideously deformed creatures emerged from the dark and swarmed up the stairs. Instinctively realizing they would never get the LMG back into action in time, he snatched up the laser pistol sitting on a sandbag next to him and joined his comrades firing into the swarm, claiming two of them before the swarm reached his MG nest and swarmed over the defenders, the hungry creatures making short work of them, but not before the word had been passed on the radio that the East Stairs had fallen. Behind the bizarrely mutated mole rats came Cult warriors, charging up the stairs to secure the precarious bridgehead their creatures had won for them. There had been more of the Enemy at this place than they had expected, but it mattered not.

The heavy footsteps of men in power armor was quickly heard, and a Knight strode into view, the barrels of the Gatling laser in his hands already spinning up, sending a torrent of laser beams tearing into the creatures feasting on the slain defenders of the position, then began to sweep the other way, cutting down two of the Cultists before a third was able to twirl a improvised MFC limpet mine up to speed and hurled it at the Knight. Spotting the threat just in time, the Knight raised up his Gatling Laser in an attempt to deflect it. The charge stuck to the Gatling Laser and exploded a mere four inches from his chestplate with a loud bang. The Knight staggered back, still holding the shattered Gatling laser, his chestplate and helmet wrecked and emitting sparks, until he tripped over some rubble and fell on his back.

Smelling blood, the Cultists sprang towards the downed Knight, intent on finishing him before he could get back to his feet, but they never made it. Three more armored shapes loomed up out of the dust, and the Cultists barely had time to realize that one of them had a flamer before the stream of liquid, burning death engulfed them.

Moments later

The Knights stepped over the charred corpses, the leader peering cautiously down the stairs, LMG at the ready, as another used a cryo grenade to deal with the fire the flamer had started, and a third helped their injured comrade out of his wrecked suit. Satisfied the Enemy had had enough for the moment, the leader spoke into his radio.

"East Stairwell re-captured", he reported, "The squad stationed here was wiped out, and I have one wounded. Requesting reinforcements ASAP."

"I'm sending two squads down to you", the Major, in the CP upstairs, replied, "Be advised, the scurry bots are en route, ETA five minutes. Once we have them we need to clear the basement ASAP, the Legion unit holding the Historical Society is under heavy pressure, they're holding but we need to get shit sorted here so I can send Charlie Company to help them out."

House of the Rising Sun - New Orleans

"You look confused, Brian", Amanda said teasingly, then dainty lifted the china teacup from the saucer she held in front of her and took a sip. "Not what you expected?"

"He's watched too many movies", Charlotte, his new partner, stopped blowing on her own cup of tea to say, "In the movies, they always make it like Brahmin auction, just lewder with weeping women paraded nude on the block before being auctioned off to slavering perverts." She shrugged, and added, "Now in Raider country that would be putting it lightly, but N'awlins is civilized, we do things like civilized people."

"Guilty as charged", Brian said self-deprecatingly as he looked around. Amanda's sitting room was, like the rest of the Pre-War mansion turned brothel, immaculately maintained, and furnished and decorated in the archaic Victorian style....something he had only seen in period piece movies. Both women were impeccably dressed in tailor made dresses in the same style, like upper class women in the late 1800s. Not that they would have passed as that, with Amanda, in a black dress, being a ghoul though Charlotte, in a burgundy red dress, could stand a bit more scrutiny by wearing gloves to cover the tattoos on her hands that went down her fingers to the first knuckle. The style of this place, one of the most popular brothels in New Orleans...which is saying something in a city with the decadent reputation New Orleans has enjoyed for centuries...was incredibly archaic, the infamous Bourbon Street district was probably the only place in the Post-War world where such a style would fit in. "I expected a slave auction to be.....seedier."

"The auction isn't here, darling", Amanda replied with a chuckle, "That's at the Auction House at three o'clock. What we're doing here is choosing your instructor. You'll literally be living with your decision, so pick carefully. Questions, modeling clothes, showing the goods, or even a tryout if you're up for it. Everything is on the table, so don't be shy...any chemistry the two of you can create will make this a lot easier for you."

"Before we start", Brian said, "I have a question. I thought Sault had brought Abolition to her lands, yet here we are. Could you explain?"

"The Consul has not abolished slavery entirely", Amanda explained, "But her changes to the Slave Code go a long way towards Abolition over time. New contracts for 'slaves for life' can only be imposed by a Judge as a sentence for a Felony conviction, which also means children of slaves are born free. You can be enslaved for debt, or basically put yourself up as collateral for a loan...but such contracts are for a fixed term not exceeding seven years. The cover story for your instructor is that she sold herself to a broker as collateral for a loan. By purchasing the note from them, you get possession of the collateral."

"Whoever you pick, this won't be her first rodeo", Amanda continued, "Her cover will be that's she's your housekeeper...with benefits. Such arrangements are common here, Sault's reforms haven't changed that. While her emphasis will be on breaking down your inhibitions regarding women like me, she's also available for seducing others if the mission requires it. In the circles you'll be running in, they offer up women to guests and clients the way you'd offer a visitor a Nuka-Cola back in Omaha. Between your housekeeper and Charlotte...Raider girls are the in-fetish this year...you'll have all bases covered. She'll play the role in public and private...but one thing you need to remember is that she's not a slave, she's your comrade, and a nearly irreplaceable asset. Abuse will not be tolerated. And if things go wrong, maintaining her cover is higher priority than yours."

"In short", Charlotte interjected, "If you become a threat to your instructor's safety or cover....you will become the mission." She then arched her eyebrows and added, "I've been to that particular rodeo before...didn't like it...I'd rather not go through that again, especially with a cute one like you."

A couple hours later

"I must say", Amanda said as she watched Brian eat, "your process for choosing has been quite a suprise to me."

"How so?", Brian asked between bites of a breakfast sausage on the end of his fork, "The others weren't leg men? Even with her condition, Jennifer has some mighty fine legs."

"Not that", Amanda answered patiently, "Being a Knight before she changed, she was far more fit than the average woman and fitness helps a lot when it comes to keeping a figure in our situation. What I mean was having the girls cook for you."

"Going 512 isn't going to be easy, that was explained to me at length when I volunteered", Brian said, popping the last of his sausage into his mouth and eating it. "Nobody said I had to put up with bad cooking at the same time."

"Men!", Charlotte said, rolling her eyes.

"I think you'll fit in nicely", Amanda said, chuckling, as she pulled a packet out of a drawer of a cabinet and handed it to him. "Take Charlotte to lunch, if you still have room, and be at the auction house at 3. Jen will be lot 32, I've made arrangements, her auction will be competing with the bail bondsmen default auctions...with the auctioneer in my pocket and some shill bidders that I'll have planted, you should be able to pick her up for $2500 or so without any trouble. Don't forget you meet with the lawyers at seven to start the process of transferring the ownership of Pan-American Import/Exports to you. It's best to get that done before the Avondale Shipyard deal goes public...Saults is not going to be happy when she learns she was outbid. She'll make a killing on the shares she holds, but that might not be consolation enough. And we have to wrap up these last few deals before the Texans make their move."

"When will that be?", Brian asked. "I didn't get briefed on that."

"Not long", Amanda replied, "My friends in Austin tell me the Authorization passed handily, I expect the troop movements to begin in a matter of days."

"Meanwhile, we do what we've been doing", Charlotte said, "Help Bartholomew from behind the scenes...not that he'd thank us if he knew where most of his intel on doings here was coming from."

High Elder Gladstone – Santa Fe Conference

He inclines his head at Barnaky’s words, standing up whilst replying. He makes a motion to his side, an aide steps forward and takes his place at the table, words drift lazily into the air.

“Brother Martin and a sufficiently informed Legion representative will suffice. This is Elder Jacobs. He is my voice at this council until I return.”

His cane raps on the floor as he limps away from the room, leaving the deliberations behind him to focus on the more pressing matter of war. A legionnaire guides him to a small room with a map of the war situation resplendent on a table. Once the necessary representatives are convened, Gladstone dives straight into the situation. His hand traces a single hand along from the Western Brotherhood lands, towards Salt Lake City, and then straight along towards the east.

“The route will simple, south, and then east. I have delegates at the court of the Great Khan already entreating for passage. Bread and Salt will meet us at their threshold, from there, the path is simple, my forces will march for Cleveland. Will raze the city before us, driving the cult scurrying back to Pittsburgh. It is my opinion that a trident must be made. Detroit, Cleveland and Indianapolis, we must keep the enemy on edge, spreading their forces thin to defend along the widest front possible, I would then recommend we close the jaws of the trident. With what forces we have in Detroit and Indianapolis punching through to form a salient around Pittsburgh. From there, we may sever the promontory and contain the enemy.”

A pause as he wetted his lips, not allowing any other to interject.

“Alternatively, my forces can swing south, and rather than attacking Cleveland, will bypass Louisville and instead focus on interdicting within the enemy’s outer interior. With airbase rights in the midwestern territory and boots on the ground, we can sever the enemies supply and communication lines. And in doing so, can serve to act as a funnel from which to emplace partisan elements into the cults inner interior.”

The High Elder rolls on forwards, eyes tracing the map as he speaks, noting the numbers in the east, his own contribution won’t be as large, but he will make sure that it punches above its weight.

“I have a force of eleven thousand preparing to move including aerial elements. One thousand of which are fully power armoured infantry complete with energy weaponry or higher projectile weaponry. Eight thousand are standard combat armour infantry with artillery and armour elements and the remaining two thousand are tribal elements. They will be rather bloodthirsty I daresay, I have commanded them to collect scalps of the enemy in my name, to be piled at the foot of my throne as a sign of fealty once the war is over, local politics, I’m sure you both understand.”

He made the statement in a matter-of-fact tone, Atticus takes a seat clasping his hands together on the top of his cane and eyeing the two dignitaries before him.

“So, what say you? Am I instead to command a march towards Indianapolis? Should I bring more or less soldiers? I would hear the input of my allies, you are both far more acquainted with the needs of this war than I.”

Paladin-Commander Thatcher – Electric City

Preparations for the war were coming along nicely, nothing to match a good cup of coffee and a slice of cake than the rumble of tank treads and the march of power armoured boots below him. He sat overlooking the plains from his privileged seat upon the Grand Coulee dam, he could taste the thrum of power that ran through the air. Its capacity dwarfed the Hoover dam far to the south of them, and the Columbia watershed had around potentially a dozen repairable and reclaimable dams to be put into action. The potential was vast, an empire in the north built on clean water and electricity, the tribals would be pacified, turned into vassals and the Brotherhood strengthened thereon.

Footfalls interrupted his thinking, a message delivered straight to his hands. A printed note, his eyes paused on it. He read it once, and then again, and then a third time, before leaping to his feet, taking a light jog towards his office on the dam. Once inside, the chaos in the room could be seen as analysts stood shouting and arguing, his own voice cut across it.

“Is this confirmed?”

One stepped forward, the lead agent for the Khan desk.

“Yes sir. Salt Lake City was ransacked by raider elements, from what we can gather, they were so-called 80s, under whose command is still being verified. Orders sir?”

“Send word to the Great Khan, as we are marching to Salt Lake City already, we will split our forces to leave a three thousand man detachment to secure the highway, for the safety of our citizens within the Khan lands. Make moves at the Great Khan’s court, have friendly elements step up the rhetoric, we’ve been given a godsend, let’s not waste it.”

A predatory grin made its way onto the Director’s features. Khan blood was in the water, he could smell it, and if he could so could others. The sharks were circling, it was best that the Brotherhood took the first bite.

Captain Jones – Camden Shipyard – FCS Olympia

It was a chilly day, the skies were overcast, and the smell of the river and burning coal permeated the air. He looked around as the dockhands moved back and forth preparing his ship for voyage. The civil war within the Most Serene had affected the trade lanes, and Congress ordered the navy to go out and re-establish control by any means necessary from the rebels, cultists, pirates or whatever got in the way of the free flow of goods.

The captain began walking towards his ship, an old coal cruiser that was part of a museum prior to the war, the Olympia. To the captain it was the most beautiful ship he had ever laid eyes upon. A true steam ship, one that took full advantage of the Commonwealth massive coal reserves. Though many years had passed, the ship was meticulously maintained and refurbished to continue to be in service. The perilous seas demanded that their ships be upkeep at all cost, lest they lose them to pirates and monstrous creatures.

The treacherous seas where how Captain Jones lost his right leg. Attacked by a Razersquid, it had mangled his leg beyond saving and had to be amputated by doctors. Now he had to use a prosthetic, though his fascination with old tales of seamen and pirates, he opted for a true and tried wooden peg leg. He limped as he reached the ship and started making his way up. One of the dockhands handed him a clipboard outlining the work done and he signed off on it.

It was time to return to the sea, it beckoned him to return. It beckoned him to hunt down and eradicate pirates. The ship was unmoored and the vessel began to shake and come to life as the engines fires were lit and the vessel began to slowly move. The billowing black cloud shot out of its smokestacks, and ship shook as it began to move, the engines were kept at low speed as a tug began pulling it out of the dock and into the river that led to the ocean.

As the ship slowly moved, the captain looked up as it passed the largest vessel in the commonwealth navy. An old relic from the old world, a battleship, the New Jersey. He could see workers moving, about and sparks flying as they worked on the vessel on a dry dock. The ship unlike his had an old engine powered with oil. Due to oil being almost non-existing, Commonwealth scientist came up with a solution to retrofit engines, and put in a nuclear reactor.

It wasn’t an easy task, they had been working on it for a few years and it still wasn’t ready. In the meantime turrets and other weapons were installed and loaded, as the old guns of the ships were most likely never to be used. For one the shells required were not easy to produce, there was nothing big enough to use against, against a pirate ship it would be overkill. Plus, there was fear that there could be damage to the ship itself, due to its age.

The captain had wondered who would take command of it, the captains were all eager to be charged with its command, but Captain Jones loved his Olympia too much and would never leave her to take charge of another. He had been aboard this ship his entire naval career, he had fought on it, bled on it and even was married on it. No way would he replace her with anything else.

As he was lost in thought, the ship shook as tugs released it and it made its way to sea. He headed up to the bridge, and grabbed his binoculars as he surveyed the horizon. Up ahead was the bay leading to the ocean. He could see smoke from the ships stationed ahead keeping the bay safe as it was the only access to the Commonwealth’s shipyards. They along with a fort being built along the bay, would make are impenetrable and safeguarding it from any incursion.

As the ship cleared the river and moved into the bay, it began to pick up speed as it moved towards the seas choppy waters. The hunt would soon begin as the ship would move up and down the coastline securing trade lanes. This overcast and gray skies would be beneficial in hiding the smoke from the stacks, but it would make seeing the enemy hard as well.

As the ship travelled a shout could be heard, a vessel had been spotted. Captain Jones grabbed his binoculars and looked towards where the sailors pointed, and there he could see a junker of a ship travelling at a high speed. From the looks of it, it was pirates. Pirates loved placing jagged and sharp metals along their ship’s bodies, making them look more menacing. As well as using rams like old triremes.

The Olympia’s klaxon began to sound and the men moved to their battle stations. They grabbed weapons and put on life jackets as it was policy, a precaution in case the worst were to happen. Captain Jones, never put one on, if the ship were to go down, he’d go down with it. The pirate ship was closing in as it moved at full sped towards them. The captain grinned as he saw the foolish pirates heading towards them. Soon they would realize their mistake.

The main gun slowly turned in the direction of the enemy. The gunners awaiting command to fire. As the enemy drew closer, he could see there was no ram on their vessel. The captain liked his lips as he devilishly looked on. He motioned with his hand not to fire. The gunner disappointed but his men were eager. They would take the enemy head on, and the bloodlust began to overtake them. The captain grabbed a harpoon and headed for the deck. Since the men saw the guns hadn’t fired, they knew what the captain had in mind. They grabbed grappling hooks and readied themselves.

As soon as they were close enough, the pirates realized their mistake, and were beginning to turn and try and escape. It was too late though. As they turned, harpoon guns shot from the deck, hitting the enemy ship and latching on to it. The hooks were chained, and motor on the deck began to turn pulling the enemy closer to them. More harpoons shot off, and when close enough, the sailors threw their hooks at the enemy ship and began to pull. They grunted in unison as they pulled and soon tied the ropes down.

They grunted and began to shout and mock the pirates. The bloodlust took over them. They grabbed their guns and harpoons and jumped towards the enemy ship. Fighting broke out, mostly hand to hand. Blood began to spill, as the sailors began attacking and stabbing the enemy with their harpoons. Screams of pain and anguish began to ring out. The pirates had been overwhelmed, there were too many for them to take on.

Before long the fighting stopped. The pirates had been defeated. Many were killed but some had survived. The men looked at their captain, who stood there with a cold look in his face. He turned to head back to the bridge, and as he turned he extended his arm and then pointed his thumb down. The men began to cheer, as they grabbed the prisoners. A crate was brought on board, with nooses and rope.

The men grabbed the prisoners and placed nooses on their necks, and tied the other end on the rails of the ship. They pushed the pirates overboard, with their hands tied and nooses on their necks. They began to flail as they attempted to remain above water, trying not to drown. The same treatment was given to the dead bodies, nooses and their necks and thrown overboard, but they sank and bled, turning some of the water red with their blood. The pirates were puzzled and worried, unsure of what was to happen. They cried for clemency, but their cries went unheeded.

The Olympias assigned priest began reading from his bible, asking forgiveness for the soul of the pirates. AS he closed his bible and turned, the pirate’s vessels engine began to sound as it was turned on. Still tied to the Olympia. The sailors returned to their ship, they retracted the harpoons and cut off the ropes keeping the pirate ship immobile. AS the last ropes were cut off the enemy ship began to move dragging the pirates that were thrown overboard, as they struggled with the moving ship and the waves.

The sailors looked on with expectancy, and soon they got what they were waiting for. The beasts of the depths were drawn by the blood and the moving ship, and all you could hear were screams as the still living pirates were attacked by the beasts. Cheers rang out on the Olympia as they looked on and soon, you could see razersquids jumping out of the water killing off the last of the living pirates. The men returned to their stations, to continue their hunt for pirates.

Palace of Caesar

Martin listened intently as Gladstone outlined his plans, and waited patiently for the High Elder to finish so he could brief him on the situation as it currently stood.

“So, what say you?", Gladstone asked, in conclusion. "Am I instead to command a march towards Indianapolis? Should I bring more or less soldiers? I would hear the input of my allies, you are both far more acquainted with the needs of this war than I.”

"A force of eleven thousand men will be a most welcome addition to the Allied effort", Martin replied. "Cheyenne is tied into our rail net, from there your entire force can be swiftly deployed East in a matter of days....the timetables are already being worked out. If I may, High Elder, I'd like to begin by going over the current state of the campaign."

"In the North", Martin said, "A major Cult offensive is currently under way. Two seperate Cult Hosts, each led by one of their more well known Warleaders, as their commanders style themselves, are currently active in Michigan. the first, Warmaster Hagur, is advancing down Interstate 75. Cult propaganda claims he is marching on Chicago, but our analysts believe that is a feint intended to aid the other Host, led by Warleader Dosh-Novan, that is currently fighting in Detroit. A defensive line has been formed along I96 from Muskegon on the coast of Lake Michigan to Lansing. From there they will keep I-69 into Republic territory open. We've also occupied Mackinaw City, cutting off Hagur's path of retreat. Central Michigan is only sparsely populated, active measures are underway to evacuate civilians and destroy any supplies that may be of use.....soon Hagur will be traveling over scorched earth wherever he goes."

"Detroit itself", Martin continued, "Is a strategic point of critical importance that must be held at all costs. While the Cult has overrun about two thirds of Detroit proper, the Republic has established a relatively stable defensive line along Ten Mile Road, and so far every attempt by Dosh-Novan to cross the Detroit River into Windsor has been bloodily repulsed. We currently have four brigades, a force of 6,000 men, en route to aid in Detroit's defense, they are transiting Lake Huron now and are expected to reach Windsor and begin landing operations tonight.

Our goal is to liberate Detroit, and keep the Republic in the war. Also, this presents the opportunity of cutting off and destroying two entire Cult Armies."

"In the Center", Martin said, moving on to the next axis of advance, "things are largely going according to plan at the moment. Legate Aurelius initiated the final assault on Indianapolis this morning...while a Cult counter-attack is currently underway, it was not well timed and is, in the Paladin-General's assessment, too little and too late to do more than delay the inevitable. We expect the city will be secure in the next 24-48 hours barring unexpected developments. Work on extending the rail net into Indiana has been underway around the clock, there is now a working rail link between the liberated section of Indianapolis and our core territories. Also, flight operations at the old Indianapolis Airport were restored two days ago...there is plenty of room if you want to deploy your air assets closer to the Front. We can host your forces in other bases, as you require."

"In the South", Martin said, "We have encountered little Cult activity, mostly Raiders of various types. Louisville has been secured, and the main body of the force committed to that theater has reached Cincinnati. Governor Jones has proven more able than his peers and the Central government. While under heavy pressure from the Cult, he's actively contesting the advance of the main Cult Host, which has overrun Columbus, and starting to move West along I-70. their next objective appears to be Dayton.

"With Indianapolis taken", Martin continued, "The next phase will be liberating Columbus from the Cult. From there, we can stage attacks into the Cult's heartland from multiple directions. One complication is the Cult force in Ft Wayne. It's ruler, a Mutant that calls itself Rog-Resh, commands a sizeable force. While it is apparently in a dispute with the Cult Leadership in Pittsburgh, and so far has ignored calls to join the conflict, nevertheless Ft Wayne needs to be taken or besieged before the advance into the Cult's core territories can begin."

"If I may suggest", Martin concluded, "The Northern and Southern Fronts are, to me, the Fronts in which your forces could make the greatest impact. To the north, advancing along I-90 and taking Ft Wayne, then advancing in the direction of Cleveland, cutting off the Enemy in Michigan from aid or retreat, would cause grave injury to the Enemy. If you chose the South, the Enemy's main force would have to face offensives along both I-70 and I-71 from strong forces. Which Front do you think would be most suitable for the forces you are deploying?"

Wardroom, USS Little Rock, Buffalo, IRD

"As you were", Administrator O'Hara said firmly as she strode into the Wardroom of the old museum ship. The dozen tired and dirty men who had been siting around the Wardroom table...strewn with blueprints, and sketches and reports...and had been in various stages of hauling themselves to their feet when her arrival had been announced, gratefully settled back into their chairs. She walked to the empty chair at the head of the table, and after her aide pulled it out for her, she took her seat and looked about at the disheveled and grim-faced men now all looking at her. "What's the verdict?"

"Administrator...", Carter, lead engineer, began to say.

"Maureen", she interjected, "There are no reporters here...no need for formality."

"Maureen", Carter said, "I've got good news, and bad news."

"Start with the bad", Maureen replied. "May as well get that over with."

"We can't repair Little Rock's propulsion plant", Carter said, "We don't have the means to make the parts we need, and quite a few components were scavved and sent to Hamilton to get Haida operational again. The only factory that might have been able to fabricate what we need was in Detroit."

"Damn", Maureen said, "She would have been a game-changer."

"On the bright side,", Carter said, "We've got the 5" turret working, and we believe we can have the 6" turret operational in a week. We need shells, though. Even though she cannot sail, she can serve as a floating battery."

"You'll get them", Maureen said grimly, "If I have to nationalize a factory to have them made. come to think of it, maybe the Commonwealth can help us with ordnance." She then added, "What about the others?"

"Croaker requires a rebuild from the keel up, and without torpedoes repairing her is a waste of resources....better to just strip her for parts. As for The Sullivans, she is operational, we just need fuel oil and shells", Carter answered. "Didn't Administrator Marcus tell you?"

"No", Maureen replied primly, "He did not. I've learned he did not report a great many things to Detroit in the past two weeks since I took office."

"And it's a damn good thing he didn't, too", Carter said, "Or we'd be defenseless right now."

"No need to get defensive", Maureen said, "I understand completely....believe me, it's worse back home than you think. Traowski can't get anywhere with the Bureaucracy, The Legislature is paralyzed, and Abernathy Jones down in Cincinnati isn't even pretending to take orders from Detroit anymore. Rumor has it they sent people to arrest him and he had them all shot, and they are suppressing it because they don't want anyone getting ideas."

"So we're on our own, then", one of the other engineers said bleakly.

"That's about the size of it", Maureen replied wearily, "If they don't get their act together soon in Detroit, we'll have to turn to the Commonwealth....or, God forbid, Barnaky, just to survive."

Corvega Assembly Plant - Lexington, Mass. (The Commonwealth)

Gunners and Operators alike assembled in the town of Lexington, their approach having been hidden by the cover of night. Under The Institute’s watchful eye, the two groups were now undertaking their first major operation, and the lead up to it had not been without pitfalls. The Gunners had taken more persuading, but with their high command replaced by Synths and under direct control by SRB operatives, they’d fallen right into line. The Operators, despite being raiders, had taken much less convincing. With their complete control of Nuka Town now completely secured, Mags and William Black knew which side their bread was buttered on.

The time was fast approaching when SRB had further plans for the two groups, but for now they were acting as a sort of trial run. In typical fashion, The Institute never did anything half-cocked. Experimentation and validation were all necessary before taking any major decision. And so it was with Phase 4. The transformation of Operators and Gunners would serve as that boilerplate template. Something that could be expanded and transposed on others.

Leading The Operator contingent, William Black looked up at his scouts positioned on the Lexington overpass. A flashlight signal indicated they were all set, and William nodded to the Gunner commanding officer next to him: Captain Haverford.

“All set, now we just need to hear from the eggheads when to begin.”

Both William and Haverford turned back to look at the Gen-1 Synth standing behind them, the synth had been silently observing their actions ever since they’d set out.

“Well? We’re here.” William said expectantly.

“All operation parameters successfully met. Standby for instruction.”

“What’s that mean?” Haverford raised an eyebrow.

The synth ignored him and stepped forward, placing a small circular object on the ground and stepping away. Blue light emanated forth, and a hologram of a woman in an Institute labcoat appeared before them: Alana Secord, Director of SRB.

“Congratulations on getting to this point. I’ll admit I had my doubts that you’d be able to keep your organization as well as you did….I am happy to say I was wrong. However, the true test still lies ahead. You’re standing before the old pre-war Corvega Assembly Plant, now the site of a major raider stronghold in the region. You’re to take control of the plant immediately and exterminate anything you find inside. The Institute has been engaging in similar operations throughout The Commonwealth to seize industrial sites of particular interest. The attack you are about to launch will be conducted synchronously with an attack on Saugus Ironworks and The Poseidon Energy plant. As well as several other classified locations.”

“I suppose you’ll eventually tell us why?” Captain Haverford quipped.

“Because Father has ordered it, and so you’ll do it. That’s all you need to know. And Captain...listen, don’t talk,” Alana’s hologram glared back at him. The Gunner veteran shrunk back immediately, a stark fear looming in his eyes.

“Seize the facility and report in afterwards. That is all,” Alana said simply, “End program.”

The hologram immediately dissipated and the Synth walked up to retrieve the device once more. Once it had done so, it looked to William and Captain Haverford once gain, silently observing: preparing to judge their next moves carefully.

“We’ll stick to our original plan,” William said, “Agreed?”

“Agreed.”

“Go in swift and brutal, the less time they have to organize a defense, the better. My Operators will attack up the west ramp. I have snipers already in position on the overpass to give your men cover, once you’re in position. Send up a flare and that will be the signal for the attack.”

Haverford nodded, and motioned for his men to move up through the town towards the plant. William began to move off with the Operators in tow, but before he did Haverford stopped him with a shaking hand,

“I’m not sure what’s more terrifying,” He said in a low voice, looking towards the Gen-1 Synth, “The idea that they can replace you at any time, for any reason…...or that maybe they already have.”

Without another word, the Captain sorrowfully slunk off, leaving William alone with those haunting words echoing in his mind. Then another voice struck up that sent a chill down his spine.

“Serve Father loyally, and there is no need for fear.”

William turned sharply to find the Gen-1 synth staring at him, speaking in an uncanny tone of voice that seemed unusual even for those skeletal things.

“You are all so like children, and so Father shall lead you to a new world. The horrors of this one, will soon be at an end. And the mistakes that led to the Great War will never be repeated again. Will you join us in seeing that done?”

William slowly nodded, not taking his eyes off the robotic skeleton.

“Then do so.”

Without another word, William turned and rejoined his waiting Operators, his mind turning towards the battle ahead. Atop the town, a red flare shot skyward illuminating the dark town for a single brief moment. Gunshots sounded out soon afterwards.

“Let’s go,” William said swiftly. His Operators nodded, and followed him in.

Desmond Lockheart - The Free Commonwealth of Pennsylvania

“Amaaaaazing grace, how sweeeeet the sound that saaaaved a wretch like meeee!”

Desmond sat in the back of the swaying covered wagon as it bumped over the uneven dirt road, and plugged his ears at the sound of the singing caravaners. Obviously having none of their religious fervor. He’d been on the trail with them for nearly three days, and he was just about ready to arrange for them a personal meeting with their lord and savior,

“Mr. Lockheart,” One of the men sitting across from him in the cart spoke up, “Do you own a copy of scripture?”

“No.”

“Well I would think you would want to. An individual with your...affliction should no doubt turn to the Lord for guidance and salvation. Especially in these trying times.”

“Come again Jethro? What ‘affliction’? You mean being a ghoul? Your God sure as hell doesn’t care about that I guarantee it.”

An audible gasp emitted from the surrounding caravaners in the wagon.

“No need for such coarse language Mr. Lockheart. I have no issue with your kind myself, this caravan has traveled from here to New York and as far north as the Massachusetts Commonwealth, we’ve met all sorts of people in our wanderings. I’m merely suggesting that perhaps you’d find some measure of comfort in the good book. Here...take my travelers copy. Read if over a bit while you wait to get to your destination.”

Desmond took hold of the small well-worn copy of the Bible and flipped it over. ‘Printed in Philadelphia, Anno Domini 2285’ was imprinted on the black leather cover.

“If it’ll get you yahoos to shut up, fine I’ll take it,” He said gruffly, “Where in the...” He paused, suddenly aware that all the eyes of the caravaners were now on him, “....uhh...heck...are we?”

The Caravaneers all breathed a sigh of relief, “We’re not far outside of York. We’ll soon stop and let you off as we’ll be turning North to Harrisburg, but obviously you’ll want to keep going west...I pray for your safety Mr. Lockheart, I pray for the safety of anyone, even ghouls, who might travel to that land that God has forsaken.”

“I’ll ignore the ghoul comment for now, what do you know about the Cult’s territory?” Desmond asked.

At the word ‘cult’, a few members of the caravan lowered their heads and began mumbling prayers as if they were warding off evil spirits,

“Little enough. I know our armies are engaged in a heroic crusade to end that blight on this earth once and for all, and send their so-called ‘Prophet’ screaming back to the depths of the pit. Many of us have friends or family fighting on the front...it’s a horrid business Mr. Lockheart. A horrid business. But we must see it through to the end.”

“Why on earth would you wish to go there?” A female caravaner asked.

“I have my reasons. Lets just assume I need information and leave it at that. If you know what’s good for you, you’ll stop prying too.”

“Well whatever the case, go with God.”

The wagon suddenly came to a stop, and the driver called out, “Crossroads, you’ll wantin’ to be heading west now. Just keep following the road to York, from there...it's just a short hop to that black land of evil.”

“Finally…” Desmond muttered and he stood up to get out before Jethro grabbed his arm, “You’ll be wanting to take a look at that book I gave you. You’ll find the words of the Father inside.” He then smiled and released his grip.

Desmond cocked his head and continued out without another word, jumping down from the wagon and finding himself at a crossroads surrounded by grain fields. The caravan continued off down the dirt road north and while he didn’t want to give them much more thought, Jethro’s words had piqued Desmond’s curiosity. He opened reached down and pulled the traveler’s bible from his side pocket, and opened it up.

To his surprise he found the book was hollowed out, and a holotape was tucked neatly inside the pages,

“Son of a…”

Desmond reached down and grabbed the pip-boy he’d been carrying out of his satchel. It was a useful little piece of pre-war tech to have, but he didn’t like to wear it given the attention it tended to draw. He fashioned to his wrist and popped the holotape inside. A few seconds passed while the tape was decrypted before it began to play,

“Desmond. If we are tracking your progress correctly. You are nearly at the border of Cult controlled territory. Proceed with extreme caution. The reports we’ve had coming in from Indianapolis are troublesome and indicate the Cult to be far more organized and deadly than initially assumed. This could, perhaps, be worked to our advantage however. Your status as a ‘ghoul’ may serve you better when trying to remain inconspicuous in their territory. Report back to SRB as soon as you are able.”

“Troublesome, hmm. Coming from them..that’s just vague enough to be horrifying,” Desmond quipped, as he shouldered his pack, and continued on down the road.

Next stop. The Land of the Monolith.

---

---

"Tell him to go to hell.." The Lioness crossed her arms, as she glared at the holo-table, watching the dots approaching. Her fingers tapped on the surface, while in the background the knight picked up the vox. "This is Knight Wong of the Brotherhood of Steel! You are entering a restricted airspace! Remove yourself from the area or we will open fire on you!" Cutting off the contact, the knight turned, as he looked at the Lioness, who picked up her own headset.

"Lance One, fire a warning shot! If the cultist keep coming, blow them up!" Her voice was cold, as her other hand kept tapping on the table below. "It will be done, Madame!" Taking a deep breath, the Lioness turned to face the monitor, waiting for the sound of the AA-Gun to fire. Deep in the bunker, it was just a muffled mumble, a the four barrels would turn from the hidden emplacement, giving way for a hail of fire onto the approaching aircraft. The fire was close, yet far enough to cause no damage, yet to underline the clarity of this warning. Knight Wong once more picked up his headset, dialing in the contact. "This is Knight Wong, this is your last warning, Grand Zealot Richter! Correct your course now, or we will blow you to kingdom come! Over and out!"

---

---

The charcoal was brittle, yet still would easily move over the asphalt, as the slave was drawing the lines, muttering once more to himself, as the outline of the mid-west slowly appeared on the asphalt. "You really do it just out of your mind?" The slave did not answer for a while, before getting back on his knees and turning his rotting face to Thunderfoot. "Yes, my boy! But then again, i spend the entire first half of my life looking at books and maps. Discit in animum, etsi non anima!" Bending forward again, the slave drew the bull onto the land, before filling out the lines, marking the border of the territory of the legion. "Yo have been there! Seen coat to coast! How was it?" The slave turned, before taking a break as he got up, leaving the charcoal on the ground. "Impressive, i may say! The pacific is far larger then the Atlantic, yet you do not know that, when you look at the latter!" Thunderfoot walked past the slave, onto the map, careful not to step on the lines. "I have seen the ocean you call the pacific! It goes from horizon to horizon, yet it is a mere fraction of the size of the eternal highway in the sky! The highway my ancestors and my father roam right now, their eyes focused on me! I am scared, Vagari! I am so fucking scared of failing them..." It was not the voice Thunderfoot had, when he had rallied the 80s after his duel! It was not the voice he had when he had sat on the white-steel throne, commanding the subjugated and conquered. It was the voice of the boy he was!

"You are scared...this good!" Vagari picked up his charcoal, as he walked next to Thunderfoot, before giving him a pat on the shoulder. "How is it good to be afraid, Vagari? My father was never afraid! How can i be like him when i am scared?" For just a moment, Vagari looked at the young warchiefs face, his hand resting on his shoulder. He had his fathers hair, broad shoulders and nose, yet her eyes. "Your father, Thunderbird, was never afraid! Yet he also never cared for his men, like you do! You are the greater man, Thunderfoot, for you were afraid when you mounted your bike to the one-mile duel, yet did master you fear! There is no shame in being afraid...just in surrendering to you fear!" For a moment, Thunderfoot, did looked nothing like the moster that had his father been, but like the man Vagari had hoped, he would become! Then, the War-chief scrowled and stepped away, breaking one of the coal pieces below his boot. "No sense in talking about bravery with a slave anyway...get the damn map finished!" Walking back to his bike, Vagari looked after the boy, even as he vanished back to the smoking city, the roaring bike fading. "There is so much of you in him! I swore to you, that i would not let him become like his father...please, i am trying my best! Give me time.."

---

"There is a clear path for our mighty host!" The map was lightened by a fire, as twenty men glared at Thunderfoot, as he stood in the middle of the map. "By sacking Salt-Lake-City, we have truly woken the wrath of the Khan! One day, we will face him, and crush his armies..." A loud cheer rose from the men, with Shinji even letting out a long war-cry in excitement. The victory in Salt-Lake-City had woken an idea of invincibility in them, yet Thunderfoot knew better! "But this day is not today! Our host needs to grow, and like a the cunning coyote, we need to wait for the right moment to strike!" It felt like a hiss, going through the men watching him, yet Vagari could tell, that only a quarter of them really were eager for the fight, as the rest simply had to keep up the show of the warriors, not to lose face in front of their fellows. "The Khan can mobilize 15.000 men before the month reaches its end! I do not doubt your abilities as warriors...yet we will run out of ammunition before they run out of men!" A grim laughter went through the 80s, as Thunderfoot pointed at the map. "Utah and Colorado! Land of the sister of the holy I80, the I70! There, my brothers, i want to lead our horde! Into the land of the legion!"

An 80 displayed his fear differently then a normal man did. Vagari had learned how to easily read it, by watching the eyes and the hands. For it was clear to tell, that even the most veracious 80 feared the legions cross. Too bitter were the defeats of Shatter-Road who had challenged the Bull and payed the bloody price for it. "Warchief! You do not want us to fight both the Khans AND the Legion?" Thunderfoot shakes his head at the Road-Captain, as he knelt down. "The Bull is at war, and the 80s chapters at his border sniff the wind, when the bull has turned his gaze from them! We will not come as an enemy, but offer our hand in friendship...and pay tribute!" Now it was really a hiss that followed, as Shinji stepped up. "Pay tribute to the bull? Brother, do you wish us to walk down and kneel as well?" The man easily towered over the war-chief, yet Thunderfoot held firm, as he stood back up. "Sit down and let me speak, Shinji! Or have you forgotten about the hostages i have taken? For i will not kneel before the Bull, but offer him a deal of honor! Tribute in slaves and caps...for us to pass through his land, and deal with the problem of the 80s that will soon rise for them! If they accept, we will release our hostages one by one...if not, we will nail them to crosses for all of the legion to see!"

There was a silence among the 80s, staring at Thunderfoot in the light of the fire. "Pack up what you can find in the city, then burn the rest! I want that the Khans will have nothing to re-supply on, when they come past here! We will leave before the week ends! You..." His eyes moved towards Vagari. "You and ten of my best warriors will ride towards the border! The Legion has a chief at Redmond, who was born as one of us, yet became legion when he was taken! You speak their tongue and i trust you more with your skills in rhetoric then anyone else in the world!"

---

---

The ghoulish crew of the Eisernes Grab, earned little more then a glare, as they marched through the crowded streets of the harbor city of Bermuda, nor did their good Kapitän. Roaring men and women, chanting, drinking and cursing, pushes past them, from and to the countless ships at the water. It was a mixed and rowdy bunch, a wild spectrum of the scum of the sea, the pirates of the post-apocalypse, the children of the new golden age of piracy, with nations spread all over the map, rich trade and lacking navies!
Dark skinned Caribbean Cosairs, pushed shoulder to shoulder, with grim slavers of the monolith, who crossed paths with Freebooters of the Key republic. Island Hoppers, mixed with Scrappers and Scavangers, pilgrims and whores...all who traveled the sea up to no good, ended washing up in Bermuda.

Yet the Kaptain was not looking for what every other pirate would come to Bermuda. And while his men tickled away behind him, his pace steady, as the imposing figure, in the ancient attire had little trouble making himself a way. "If Herr Kaptiän does not mind the question..." The first mate, Johann Wagners rough voice, had trouble reaching the Kaptiäns ear, who did not slow his pace. "...it does look like a trap to me! Besides it has been more then 200 years." The Kapitän did not bother to respond, as the two remained, the rest of the crew having left them, to enjoy their rewards and spoils on shore leave! For it was not their revenge, for only the two had been there, down in the depth, cursing the name of the traitor who had sold them so long ago. "It could have been two thousand years, Johann! I have made my peace with the British, i have my peace with the Hansa...Gott, i even made my peace with the bloody Frogs! But there will be a cold day in hell, Herr Kaleun, that i will forgive a traitor!"

---

The damp room was small, so that the Kapitän had to bow his head, even while sitting, as the bend over figure in front of him, dreamy turned the spoon in his tea. "You have returned sooner then i have expected, Captain! I take it you, you have what i desired to trade the information for?" The broker looked up, his eyes hidden behind the thick glasses, milky from the steam of the tea. Picking the mug up, he took a short sip, before letting out a long sigh. "A high price i asked for, yes, but this information is pre-war you see! Hard to come by, even for a man of my reach and abilities!" The frown on the Kapitäns face did not vanish, as he reached for the pocket of his coat, pulling out the papers, packed away in a envelope of leather. "You are a man of class, for you didnt even try to insult me, by offering money! So many make this mistake and wake my ire!" The small hands of the impish broker snatched the envelope from the Pirates hand. The eyes, most likely rushed over the papers, a wicked grin moving onto the impish brokers face. "Mhhh...moves in the great games of the old world! Answers to secrets yet to be asked...and truths that are to be denied for the good of all! Very well! But are you really sure, that you wish to follow this path? For it will lead you to a continent ripe with war and death!"
The Kapitän grunted, as he leaned closer to the impish broker. "I have send the last three years, hunting down your price! I do not fear death, nor war. The sole thing i fear, is that this man will have died, yet not by my hand! So...has be perished in the nuclear flames? Or is he still out there, a wretched figure of a century long gone? Tell me where Stanislav is, Broker and do it now! I have hold my part of the bargin!"

The smile faded from the brokers lips, as he placed the papers back on the table, then finished his tea. "He is alive. Like you, he has endured the centuries, like you, he was locked away in a coffin and like you, he has been liberated from it! The man you seek, is in the land that once was the USA! A wanderer, on the look for someone himself, has unleashed him back onto this world, yet where he is now...

---

"...gib mir deine ne Hand! Deine fleischige Hand! Leb wohl, mein Schatz, lebe wohl... The men of the Eisernes Grab were chanting loudly in the Tavern, roaring out in the rush of life that came into them, when ever they made it into Port, with their pockets full of cash and the ship filled with bounty! Few cared about their strange tongue, and outlandish attire, when they were so lavish in their spending and so eager to share a drink. ...den wir fahren...den wir fahren...gegen Engeland!" Glasses were raised and a loud cheer went through the mass of ghoul pirates, as the door suddenly was pushed open, and a huge silhouette appeared in the door. Then, the booming voice of the first mate broke the rejoice. "STAND AT ATTENTION YOU DOGS! SHORE LEAVE HAS BEEN CANCELLED! REPORT ALL TO THE SHIP....WE ARE SETTING COURSE FOR AMERICA!"

Indianapolis - Indiana State Library - Roof

Major Harding smiled grimly as the first Vertibird slowed to a stop, hovering about ten feet off the roof of the building as the crew began pushing boxes out the door, thudding one after another into the roof below. As soon as the last case was dropped, the pilot applied throttle and the aircraft began to move forward again, banking away from the building as troops swarmed forward to retrieve the boxes and take them below before the next Vertibird arrived. The last few hours had been a mess, between the Legion indiscriminately killing off the locals...and he'd had words with Wilson himself about what he thought of that...and the Cult staging their counterattack before they were ready for it, he'd have better days. The Legion could fight, he didn't deny that, but had Wilson and Barnaky given thought to what they were going to do if they did this in the IRD? His Company commanders already had problems with the men hiding civilians...most, but not all, women and children....and these were Wastelanders, and camp followers of Raiders. As arrogant and feckless as Detroiters are, they still were civilized people and putting them up on crosses and hauling off their women would not go down well at all with the rank and file.

Harding pushed his gloomy thoughts into the back of his mind and returned his attention to the matter at hand. The fighting at the Historical Society, two blocks East of his position, was reaching a critical phase....he had to move fast before the Legion Century there was overrun. He had committed Bravo Company, backed up by half of the power armor troops attached to his Battalion, to fighting through to them, but the Enemy seemed determined to wipe them out and he needed to commit his Reserves, but he couldn't do that until he had repulsed the attack on his own headquarters. Brigade was trying to put out a half-dozen fires across Downtown already, so they couldn't release more men to him....but they could, and did, move him to the top of the list for the scurry bots. The Cult liked to play with feral ghouls and mutated creatures in the sewers. Knowing this, the boffins back at Omaha had adapted Calculator bots to sneak into their house and piss in their Sugar Bombs. The Cult counter-attack came before they could be deployed for their first full-scale combat test, but now was as good a time as any.

Basement - Several minutes later

The Cult warriors, preparing their remaining beasts for another assault on the stairwells, dove for cover as the enemy above began to hurl grenades down the stairs. The mole rats and dogs howled and screeched as they went off, with loud bangs and flashes. But the warriors had little time to reflect on why the enemy had used stun grenades instead of the usual frag grenades when they heard movement from the next floor, beyond the stairs. Pleased that the Enemy had finally decided to engage them , they began firing up the stairwell and the beast masters loosed their charges. The half-starved and frenzied creatures bounded for the stairs unbidden, but within seconds the horrid cries of pain and even fear the beasts emitted, cut off within seconds, made it clear that something had gone wrong. But the blood-lust induced by the miasma from their respirators could not be denied, and with a shout of "PH´NGLUI SOTH!", the Cult warriors rose to engage the enemy. But there were no Brotherhood soldiers, just a loud mechanical skittering across the floor as dozens of metal, spider-like things skittered down the stairs and scattered in all directions. They began firing at them, but there were far too many, and they moved too fast.

From the floor above, the Knights smiled in their suits as they heard the panicked firing and screams coming from below as the scurry bots made short work of the defenders below.

"Bet they didn't see that coming", the Knight-Sergeant said with a smirk. After seeing what the scurry bots did to the Cultist's creatures, he almost felt sorry for the poor bastards.....almost.

deleted

Grand Zealot Richter- Megaton, Cathedral of Atom

"Evasive maneuvers, pilot!" Richter commanded as the Brotherhood fired their warning shot. The Vertibird banked hard and dove, intend on getting out of the AA gun's range of fire. Richter struggled to maintain his balance in the Vertibird as it maneuvered away.

The Grand Zealot was livid. It may have been just a warning, but the Brotherhood showed blatant disregard for the Church of Atom's de facto sovereignty over the Capital Wasteland. The cowards fled from the Cult and left Atom's faithful to set things right, and now they sought to assert their long forfeit dominance over the wasteland.

If only we had a mounted minigun, I might have been able to disable that gun, Richter bitterly thought to himself. On the other hand, doing so may have been unnecessarily risky and brash, he concluded as his fury slightly subsided. Once they were out of range, he approached the cockpit, intent on giving his response on the radio.

"This is Grand Zealot Richter to the Brotherhood of Steel. Be warned that you will no longer be welcome in Atom's lands. If you trespass on our holy sites or encroach upon our holdings, you will be divided. We will never allow the Capital Wasteland to be ruled by cowards who fled the Cult."

"Pilot, switch us to Fort Constantine's frequency." The pilot complied, turning a knob on the cockpit dash. "This is Grand Zealot Richter to Fort Constantine. Do you read, over."

"Grand Zealot, this is Fort Constantine. We read you, over."

"Fort Constantine, the Brotherhood has refused to parlay with us and has fired warning shots on us. Repeat, the Brotherhood of Steel has fired a warning shot upon my Vertibird. Place the fort on alert, and fire on on any Brotherhood knights that approach, over."

"Which Brotherhood, Grand Zealot? Lyons' Brotherhood, or the Midwesterners whom we have allowed passage, over."

"My apologies, Fort Constantine," Richter answered, having realized his mistake. "I am referring to Lyons' Brotherhood, who now occupy Raven Rock. The Midwestern Brotherhood remain our guest, but my orders remain the same, do not let any Brotherhood knights from any Brotherhood in Fort Constantine without orders from myself, Tektus, or the Pontiff himself." The Midwestern Brotherhood may not have caused any trouble, but their mission to destroy pre-war nuclear weaponry was an affront to Atom and would not be allowed in the region.

"I read you, Grand Zealot. We will be on alert until further notice."

"Go with Atom's blessing, Fort Constantine. Over and out." There was much to do. Tektus and Cromwell would need to know of this insolence.

---

Zealot Thiel- Near Fort Independence

"Atom's blessing to you, Colonel Samuels. I am Zealot Thiel of the Children of Atom, acting on behalf of the Grand Zealot."

"What business do our allies in the Commonwealth have here in the Capital Wasteland, so close to our holy city?
Please understand, we do not wish for trouble, but we must remain appraised of all goings on so close to Holy Megaton. If your intentions are noble, we intend to follow through on our side of our alliance by providing communication and coordination while you remain in the Capital Wasteland."

Thiel hoped that they weren't looking for trouble. It'd be a great blow to lose the Free Commonwealth as an ally.

@2sky11@Elgappa