---

---

Winter in the Capital Wasteland, unforgivably harsh as it was to the unprepared, has brought about a brief respite of peace to the countryside of the unstable region as skirmishes with supermutants in the ruins of D.C. reach a fever pitch following the maturity of the next generation of behemoths purportedly organized by a mysterious 'warboss' known only as Shephard, who, if the rumors are to believed, possesses an unparalleled grasp of tactics and strategy for his kind rivaled only by what the children of the Brotherhood of Steel call the 'Master', the nightmarish progenitor of the West Coast's Supermutants.

Organized raider and slaver activity, markedly decreased as of late due to heavy snowfall and a subsequent reduction of overall caravan traffic, remains a danger to any traveler subject to their ambushes born out of a desperation to survive to see the long awaited return of spring.

Rivet City, having benefited greatly from their wealth of technology and equipment gained through their joint escort missions of Project Purity's water caravans alongside Elder Lyon's Brotherhood of Steel Chapter, begins establishing fortified outposts in neighboring buildings to civilize the outer D.C. ruins through 'reclamation'.

In the wake of the cold of winter, with the snow falling heavy, its seems just like a matter of time, until the calm will end. For War Never Changes...

---

---

The chairman pressed down the beetle, that had annoyed him for almost half an hour now, as he looked down the table, at the four other figures, while the familiar sound of the tracks below was breaking the silence, left behind by his order. Dunwitch was sitting to his right, still smoking, the bald head of the general secretary glittering with sweat, even in the cold of the train compartment. He silently stared with the chairman at the slim figure of the speaker of the united workers and farmers union, a thin man named Johnas Pincher, who looked like a stick tugged into a coat. Next to him sat the general, Evertt, his stripy van dyke beard grey, as he tugged his uniform coat tighter. "Scrappers keep pushing from the north, but our boys can hold them off. Chances are, that they wont start another move for the Pitt, until the winters over and with spring, we can make another collection call, drafting new meat up and sending them straight to the frontline." Like always Dunwitch said nothing, just calmly making notes. "Other raider activity? Mutants? Ghouls?" Jones looked over the table, until he found the pack, taking out another cigar. "Raiders aint gonna try anything funny again, after what we did in Morgantown this summer. No, Boss, there are no major threats, outside of the Scrappers in the north, so from my side, yeah, we can start our push into D.C."

Nodding to Everett, Jones turned to Pincher, who coughed into his hand, before smearing the content onto the cloth of the table. Noticing, the eyes of the chairman on him, he blushed in the deepest red, before quickly trying to cover the stain. "Well, as you may have already witness, chairman, our havest last year has been potentially able, under certain conditions to maintain a potential offensive of a limited period of time, if we are..." The cold glare of Dunwitch brought him out of his concept, as he stopped in the middle of his sentence. "Yes or no, Speaker. Take all the time you need." Jones could hear the man swallow, before he nodded. "Yes, we can economically support an intervention in the capital wasteland."

Clapping his hands, Jones rose from his chair, walking through the wagon with a content smile on his lips, before lighting his cigar. "Gentleman, today will go down in history. Today, the PLF will finally push to reconquer the capital of the old world, to use it to rebuild a new one!" Turning around, he raised his hand with the cigar in it, the smoke forming a straight line behind him. "For the people and the revolution..." "...AND THE CHAIRMAN!"

---

The night was bitter cold, as they huddled together in blankets around the fire barrels inside the three towers. Most soldier feared the sound of the door opening, meaning that another watch would be called, out into the infernal cold. The reeking smell of unwashed bodies, powder and wet cloth was almost unbearable, yet at least, inside it was somewhat warm. But all O-dog could feel, was the heat and the fires of the Pitt, as he looked down on the huddled dirty mass, that were the glorious army of the revolution. At least that was what they called themselves, yet for him, they were just meat. Just like he was. Meat to be spend and used, bled and stewed.

O-Dog had been in man strange places in his life, tossed around like a bottle inside the patomac, yet this had to be the strangest gig of them all. Yet, the chairman had already calculated his next move against Wernher, for which he would need more then just the scraps of slave-meat he had. No, he needed badass, fullmetal raider rapid killermachines like O-dog. And O-Dog was happy to be just that, if it would mean he would spared to be torn apart by the slaves eager for raider and slaver blood.

It all seemed to incredible long ago, as he pulled up his gloves, put on his ushanka and closed his pattered coat. Walking towards the door, a groaning voice came from his side. "Coperal, where you think you going?" O-Dog did not turned, before grunting out bored. "Hunting for meat. Will be back soon."

With that, he left the tower.

“Look upon my fucking work, ye mighty, and despair.” Eulogy Jones said as he looked at the crumbling remains of his empire. A tattered, empty shell of the once bustling slaver hub in the Capital Wasteland. Juton, the jovial drunk that towered over Eulogy, gave him a look of pure confusion. “What?” The sloshed slaver asked. Eulogy sighed and returned his trusted lieutenant a tired look of disappointment.

Paradise Falls has never been the same ever since the Lone Wanderer single-handedly killed off their favorite customer. The Pitt was in open rebellion and any communications with Ashur and his gang was gone. Since then a number of slavers have decided to move on to better pastures. What are left in Paradise Falls are the few top lieutenants of Jones. Maybe they were sworn to remain by some deep-seated loyalty to Eulogy. He himself thinks that they’ll be ripped apart the minute they get out into the waste. Facing the combined fury of the people they once preyed upon. Eulogy had just enough to pay them each month. There were still other people willing to buy slaves. It was just that they didn’t buy as many as Ashur did. Nobody would. Nobody could. It seemed like the end of Paradise Falls was coming. Coming sooner than Eulogy would have hoped.

“Hey Jones! You expecting company?” Carolina Red asked perched from her sniping position. It would seen counter intuitive to have a sniper’s nest in a clearly visible giant burger held 30 feet up in the air by a giant mascot. However from this position, she had a commanding view of the horizon. She spot a trail of white snow being disturbed by something. Something fast. Something headed straight towards them.

“What do you see?” Eulogy asked. Running as fast as he could up the sniper’s nest. The long fur coat made his ascent a more troublesome act than it should have been. By the time he made up to the perch, he could clearly see the trouble coming with his bear eyes. “Brotherhood incoming!” He yelled.

---

From inside the war-rig, Maybelle watched their approach with careful precision. The Brotherhood had never done as big of a raid before since their entrance into the Pitt 10 years prior. Back then the Brotherhood had twice the number the Outcast had now. However the Pitt was not the impenetrable fortress it once was in the past. Two war bikes made their approach before the main convoy. A screen of smoke covered them from enemy action. The two armored trucks rolled together with their war bike escorts covering their flanks. A wall of bullets came towards them. Eulogy’s guards desperately spraying ammunition into the smoke cloud. However between their power armor and the metal plating on the war rig and the war truck, the brotherhood were kept safe.

Soon enough the war truck parked itself next to the wall. The Outcast combatants eager for a fight stormed out and took cover. A fierce firefight occurred as Senior Defender Rockfowl pushed his fire team towards the entrance. The slavers were forced to close the gate into Paradise Falls. Before Rockfowl and his team could enter, the solid steel wall dropped down in front of them. The handful of slavers outside quickly raised their hands in surrender. Hoping they’d find mercy with the Outcast. They were shot along with the other wounded clinging on to life.

“Morales, Smith!” Rockfowl barked. Two Outcast defenders took attention and turned towards him for orders. The pair had a M-42 Tactical Nuclear Catapult between them. Better known to the common wastelander as the Fatman. Rockfowl pointed two fingers at the wall. With the order given defender Morales loaded the launcher with a mini nuke warhead. Defender Smith aimed at the door. “Fire in the hole!” Morales yelled out. Rockfowl and the rest of his fire team took cover. Smith took in a deep breath of air. Then he pressed the trigger. There was a strange calm for a few seconds before the payload found its mark. Then detonation. Snow, dirt and debris flew in all direction. Some of the guards who were hiding just behind the steel door were blown away. Their smeared remains the only clue that Human bodies had been in the area.

“Breach! Breach!” Rockfowl yelled. His team quickly rose from their positions and assaulted the stunned protectors inside. Two sentry bots backed the assault. Covering their advance with a suppressive burst from their inbuilt Gatling lasers. Smith stood up and ran towards the rest of his team. Before he could get far though, he heard the sound of his power helmet being penetrated by a depleted-uranium .50 caliber round. He fell flat on his feet. Rockfowl turned around just in time to see his soldier drop to the ground lifeless. His helmet spurting blood. By instinct he scanned the area. Looking for what could have possibly penetrated the defender’s power armor. Then he saw a glint of light from a high lookout. “Sniper!” Rockfowl yelled out.

---

Carolina Red finally got one. Everything she threw at the Outcast bounced off their armor. The depleted uranium rounds finally got her first kill though. “Easy with those rounds. They cost a fortune a pop.” Eulogy Jones said crouched down and returning gunfire with his R91 assault rifle. It didn’t do so much as alert the Outcast about their position. Carolina groaned as she reloaded her anti material rifle. A lecture from Eulogy was the last thing she needed. She found another easy mark and took aim. The sentry bot in her sight had a bullet tore through its chassis. “This rounds really pay for themselves though Eulogy. Think you could get me more of this shit?”

Carolina was getting into the spirit of the hunt. With a grin on her face she looked for another mark. As she scanned the battlefield, an unpleasant surprise met her. She managed to take a glimpse of a Brotherhood soldier aiming a fatman at her direction. The payload was already flying her direction. In that split second she tried to run. Jump out of the nest before she would be vaporized. It wasn’t enough though. The blastwave caught up with her before she could jump. Followed by the searing heat of the fireball behind it. In the blink of an eye, Carolina Red and Eulogy Jones was no more.

---

Rockfowl’s quick thinking saved his team. He dropped the M-24 launcher to the ground and picked up his signature Gatling laser. Before he could pick it up from the gun on the ground next to his feet, he was sent hurtling towards a wall. He hit a wall made of sheet steel. It was enough to dampen his bowl somewhat. The armor did its job too. However it still felt like he was hit by a truck straight to the chest. Rockfowl coughed as he pushed himself to stand up. Trying to shake off the blow he just recieved. In front of him stood the man responsible for his beating. Some blonde-haired slaver with a grim smile on his face. He charged at Rockfowl. Ready to finish off his power-armored foe. He was just about to swing his sledge when a bullet tore through his skull.Spilling his grey matter onto the white snow below him. “You owe me one Rococo.” Even without taking off her helmet, Rockfowl knew that his trusted sergeant, defender Becker was giving him a satisfied grin. Once he caught his breath the senior defender jumped back into the fray.

---

By the end of it all, Paradise Falls was a smoldering ruin. It’s fall from power completed with the death of its inhabitants. Eulogy Jones, a man who once had enough slaves and wealth to rule the wasteland, had nothing left of him. Burned in atomic fire with not even ashes to remember him. His was mighty empire now left for the carrion. As for the few slaves themselves, they were taken by the outcast. The few fortunate onlookers who witnessed the raid saw Outcast saw them herding the few handfuls of slaves that remained. Treating them no better than their previous masters. The Outcast had been docile and passive in the past years. Now something has caused them to stir. Just a brash action would not go unnoticed. Maybe that was what Elder Casdin wanted. A show of force for the emergent broken half of the Brotherhood.

Dressed smartly in a pre-war general's overcoat that had been dyed with Talon Company black, Commander Lance Halscomb surveyed the map laid out before him. Talon Company's position had suffered in recent months, and the attack on Fort Bannsiter had been a rude awakening to their true vulnerability, a fact that Jabsco had been completely unwilling to accept. Thankfully Jabsco's laziness had been his undoing, and a well placed Brotherhood gauss round had removed his weakness from the Company forever. Now it was Commander Halscomb's turn to lead the Company back to its previous heights of power and fear in the Capital Wasteland. He had his work cut out for him, since the attack on Fort Bannister, they'd lost three outposts to raider incursions near Fairfax and Alexandria, and a listening post in the D.C. ruins at Georgetown to a super-mutant attack. All personnel were dead or unaccounted for. If any had managed to survive by fleeing, they'd be shot for desertion. Talon Mercs never abandon a position.

Thankfully, at least, The Brotherhood was more than distracted with catastrophic issues of their own. The destruction of The Citadel had left them open and vulnerable. The Brotherhood had left Talon alone immediately after their scourge: thinking the Company would inevitable collapse in on itself with Jabsco's death. They thought of Talon as little more than a glorified raider gang. That mistake would cost them dearly. Their failure to capitalize on their victory and destroy Talon utterly allowed Lance the time he needed to gather Talon strength: reorganize the company and gather enough manpower and resources to shore up their position. Now it was time to begin pushing back. With the winter months over, they could begin organized hit and run strikes against Brotherhood caravans and outposts. Before long, they would attack Brotherhood positions directly. Lance, in particular, had his sights set on GNR. Destroying that post utterly would be an excellent way to show The Brotherhood that Talon never forgives or forgets a slight. He'd nail the hands of that damn radio jockey to the doors of the station and shut-up that mouth of his forever. Humiliating the Brotherhood in the process by proving them unable to protect even their most ardent supporters in the Capital Wasteland from here on.

Lance ran his finger along the map, considering his next moves carefully. What they needed first was to reestablish an outpost in the D.C. Ruins, from there they could begin attacking Brotherhood positions in and around the area, and perhaps even strike at Rivet City when the time came. Without a port in the storm in D.C., it would be hard to maintain the supplies needed to launch a sustained campaign there.

"But where?" Lance muttered to himself as he considered the possibilities. Georgetown was overrun and Dupont was a hotbed of raider activity, it would be difficult to retake and harder to hold either. Takoma was still hosted a small force of his mercs, but it was too far out to be of any substantial strategic importance.

Lance's finger fell on a singular location.

"The White House," He smiled. The building itself had obviously been nuked to hell in the great war, but the area surrounding it had surprisingly low radiation levels. Mutant activity in the area was even remarkably light. And even better, a Brotherhood outpost had been established right outside the crater. Lightly defended as it was, it would be an excellent place to strike and destroy. Rubbing salt in the wound of the Brotherhood's recent losses.

His mind made up, Lance strode out of his quarters and began his mental preparations for ensuring the attack would have enough firepower and supplies to take the position ten times over. Brutal overwhelming force would be the hallmarks of future Talon engagements with their hated Knightly foes. They'd show no mercy, and expect none in return.

Talon Company was back. And the Capital Wasteland would learn to fear and respect them once again.

"We have a visual on Vault 112A's blast door, Miss President." Lieutenant Brian Richter reported to the distorted hologram image flickering in the palm of his power armored hand as his reconnaissance platoon crammed into the room behind him, their work in the garage overhead complete. "We are prepared to breach the fallout shelter at your command, but be advised, communications will be lost entirely upon entry." He intoned.

"Remember your briefing, lieutenant," came her garbled reply. "Doctor Stanislaus Braun was a scientist first, and an overseer second. His preservation, his cooperation, is vital for our plans going forward. Not only does does he have in his possession over two centuries worth of research from Project Safehouse lost to us ever since the evacuation of Control Station Enclave, the man singlehandedly invented the Garden of Eden Creation Kit, a device capable of terraforming preconditioned sections of the moon in seconds with nothing more than the press of a button. To reverse engineer it ourselves would take too long, even if we retained the personnel and facilities of Raven Rock."

"Acknowledged," Richter affirmed, motioning for his platoon's resident engineer to man the control panel. "Our intelligence indicates a dweller population of eighty-four, if available vault records are to believed. Evacuation should occur on site, even though our nighttime insertion by means of vertibird appeared to avoid detection, there's simply no telling exactly how much time we have before our operation here is discovered."

"Your tactical assessment will be taken into consideration. You may proceed." She voiced before a dossier seemingly materialized in her hands, it's contents giving her pause. "I have just been informed by Doctor Whitley that Tiffany Dithers' inconsistent anomalous readings show an awareness of her simulated experiences caused by the past cannibalization of her cryosuspension pod for it's memory chip. Ensure that her existence is wiped from the minds of the subjects, and bring the woman to research and development. She may yet be able to prove herself an asset rather than a liability."

Richter ended the transmission with a salute. Ordering the blast door of the fallout shelter opened, he stood, arms neatly folded behind his back, as his men rushed inside to secure the vault, eager to begin dismantling and taking over it's many systems.

Lucas's eyes darted about trying to catch a glimpse of them, he scrambled up the mudded path, feet slipping, clothes ripped and tears streaming down his bloodied face. They'd all been left stupefied as the Brotherhood brought down Paradise Falls, he and his friends had all watched it happen, watched as the metal-men left. But they'd never seen the trees coming. Now his friends were all dead. A branch caught his foot and he tripped.

The world spun as Lucas rolled down the embankment, stone and earth battered him until he came to a sudden stop. Then nothing, he stared up at the sky and realised with relief how sweet living truly was, even in a nuclear wasteland. 'Lucky Lucas' they'd called him, he'd left to meet a caravan shortly before megaton erupted, hidden from super-mutants and now he'd run from the ghosts. He pushed himself up to his feet and began brushing himself off, thinking how this would be quite a tale to tell-

A sharp sudden tightness was in his chest and Lucas stumbled backwards. He grasped feebly at the arrow now protruding out from him and screamed noiselessly. Then Lucky Lucas fell, for the last time.

-

Linden lowered his bow. [That's the last of them.] He signalled to the others and the four of them slunk back to survey the ruins of Paradise Falls. The Brotherhood Outcasts were as efficient as he remembered from his time among them, the once thriving slave-market was now desolate and devoid of life. God was dead and now paradise had fallen. This had been foreseen, that was how he'd known to be here, but what he didn't know was why? The Outcasts had no love for slavers, but they were not direct enemies either and unless they'd stumbled across some technology, what warranted this assault?

“It is as the Bloomseer said.” Branchtender Maple spoke coming up to the left of Linden, a light rain had began to pepper the hooded figures. “War is coming to the wasteland.” Linden frowned but nodded. He'd renounced violence once, they all had. But then the Wanderer came and burnt their god to ash. Peace had been replaced with rage in the Oasis. Pacifism did not survive the wasteland and he now had to protect against plasma and power-armour and vastly superior number with sticks and stones.

“Gather the bodies of the slavers and the witnesses.” Linden spoke softly but with an edge. “Riddle the dead with arrows and pile them in the centre in the form of a tree. We must make it so the Wasteland believes we did this, their's will be a sacrifice to the Oasis.”

-

Every night she saw him burn. Felt his death, his pain, crying out to her. Even a dead god it seemed could dream. An ever present reminder of her failure had made her resolute, more so than she'd thought possible in her old age. Their spiritual guides had failed them, the Treeminders answered to her now. She had grown and guided the Oasis. And she would make things right.

But now as she looked upon the ashen husk of Harold it was not him that she thought of. She had awoken last night to a vision, she'd had such since she was girl; one had lead her to this very Oasis. Men in suits of armour awakened an ancient sleeper. She ran an old hand softly over Harold's gnarled cheek. They needed the sleeper, he was the key. And she seen the lock also, though didn't know it's meaning: Vault 108.