Legion Border Along the I-15

A rider rode hard against the burning heat of the noonday sun. His mount pushed to the brink of collapse and exhaustion as he whipped the beast incessantly, unwilling to allow even a moments delay to rest. He’d already lost one mount to heat stroke, and been forced to requisition another from a passing caravanner. His mission was singular and yet of utmost importance, and his objective was the solitary city of New Ravenna right at the border of Legion territory, a trading post that had grown significantly into a burgeoning trade hub since the Legion took over governance of it. Goods and wares from across the Legion’s empire passed through the city, bound for trade routes leading north into the Khanate, while traders from the Great Salt Lake and beyond plied their goods or continued south towards the rest of Legion held Utah.

As the crimson clad rider reached the border, he was stopped by a Decanus Legionary stationed at a small watchtower that stood as a way-station right along the I-15. The rider nearly fell from his horse, exhausted and heat-stricken as he was from the non-stop ride. One of the Legionaries stationed at the tower brought him a brahmin skin water bag and the rider eagerly drunk from it, grateful to finally be able to slake his thirst and cool his cracked lips. After his drink, the rider passed the waterskin back and leaned in to whisper something in the guard’s ear.

The Decanus’s eyes grew wide and he immediately issued orders to his Contubernia. The city must be warned.

-------------

Office of the Military Governor of Northern Utah, New Ravenna

“Are you sure of this?”

Gaius Tranquillus, the regional Military Governor sat uneasily in his seat as the news was relayed to him by a lone Prime Legionary from the watertower.

“The Exploratore was quite clear sir. A force of the 80s have sacked Salt Lake City and destroyed it utterly, taking whatever slaves and plunder they could seize. Now they are making their way down the I-15 towards New Ravenna. They’ll be at our gates within days. Their intentions are unknown, but from what we’ve been able to gather, their being lead by a newly crowned Chieftain named Thunderfoot.”

Gaius sat back, he was a veteran soldier, once a Legionary serving under Caesar himself during the Campaigns in Colorado and Utah. He rose through the ranks quickly and attained the mantle of a Senior Centurion, before Lucius appointed him Military Governor of Northern Utah following his full conquest of the region. In all his years as a soldier however, he’d not quite faced a situation such as this. Despite his growing concern, Gaius knew he had to act quickly and decisively, otherwise he could find himself utterly overwhelmed. The forces he had at his disposal to meet the immediate threat were relatively minor, a two urban cohorts and a single cohort of border watch: a little less than a thousand Legionaries in total.

“Send word immediately to the third Legion to march here with all possible speed. And tell Caesar of our plight. Then fortify the city and bring as much provisions for a siege as possible. We don’t have the manpower or the armaments currently to fight 80s on an open field. We must weather the storm as best we can. If these tribals intend to attack Caesar’s lands, they’ll find no easy conquest here. Legio Invicta!”

“Legio Invicta,” The Legionary replied with a sharp salute, “In Caesar’s name, it shall be done.”

Grand Zealot Richter- Point Lookout Forward Operating Base

Brian Richter stood before a table inside a crude command center built out of sheets of corrugated metal. A dimly humming work light illuminated a map of the region lying on the table, covered in a variety of markings. In the back of the room stood a radio station, manned by a robed technician. It was a far cry from the high tech facilities in Raven Rock, but it would suffice.

By now the forward operating base was thoroughly fortified. Walls surrounded the base, flying banners of Atom's glory that practically dared the Swampfolk to attack. Surrounding the walls was a ring of trenches and crudely crafted razor wire. Fortifications had not been neglected within the base either. A square of photonic resonance barriers, airlifted from Raven Rock, was place to protect the power generators and radio tower, a stark contrast to the low-tech scrap metal architecture of the rest of the base. Aside from an initial skirmish and a few subsequent hit-and-run probing attacks, the Swampfolk had kept their distance. Their caution would not save them.

"Calling all outposts. Calling all outposts. All outposts check in. Repeat, all outposts check in." spoke the radio operator.

"Outpost Radon checking in. All clear."

"Outpost Polonium checking in. All clear."

"Outpost Thorium checking in. All clear."

Richter ignored this and continued to focus on the map with what passed for his command staff.

"Reconnaissance has pinpointed a few possible Swampfolk hideouts. Shacks, camps, possible cave entrances," Richter spoke, explaining the situation. "I will need one kill team and two demolition teams ready before sundown." They knew from their experience battling the trappers of the Island how futile and costly it was to try and chase these folks through the wilderness that they grew up in. Atom's faithful would need to use tactics that half-mad trappers and hunters would not think of, using weapons that they were not familiar with.

"As you command, Grand Zealot," one of the Children of Atom spoke. "We shall have your teams ready before the appointed time."

"Good," Richter spoke. "If Atom favors us, we shall soon be pushing toward Point Lookout, where they host their wretched cathedral."

"Grand Zealot, if I may," one of the Zealot officers spoke up, "Why do we not simply use the Vessel to destroy the Cathedral? We need not be frugal with our missiles, not with the Glowing Sea site under our control."

"There are several reasons, sister," the Grand Zealot gently rebuked her, "first is that the Cathedral is merely a symbol of the infection. Destroying it would cause the Swampfolk to scatter and embed themselves even more deeply. Victory shall only come through throrough scouring of the land. The second reason is that it is, or was, a holy site to our allies in the Free Commonwealth. Destroying it would jeopardize our alliance and make our holy mission to cleanse these lands all the more difficult. The last reason is that Boston is under the control of the Institute, and if we were to transport missiles from the Glowing Sea, they would notice. By the orders of the High Inquisitor, we are not to draw the Institute's attention in any..."

"Mayday! Mayday! This is Outpost Radon, repeat this is Outpost Radon! We are under attack! Repeat, we are under attack! A dozen Swampfolk, maybe more, coming from all sides!"

---

Brother Carver- Outpost Radon

It had all happened so fast. One minute he was assuring command that all was well- because up until a minute ago, all was well- the next minute they were under attack. Swampfolk, the mutant cultists that infested the region.

At first Carver thought they might even be able to fend them off. The first three Swampfolk to charge in tripped the frag mines and were taken out. But more were coming, too many to kill, and there were no more mines to stop them. They needed help.

"Mayday! Mayday! This is Outpost Radon, repeat this is Outpost Radon!" Carver called on the radio. "We are under attack! Repeat, we are under attack! A dozen Swampfolk, maybe more, coming from all sides!"

One of the defenders in front of Carver took a bullet to the head and slumped down in front of the steel barricades. He heard another scream behind him. By Atom, it was actually happening. His brothers and sisters, dying around him. No goodbyes, just...gone.

"Outpost Radon, hold your ground," the radio operator instructed. "Stand fast, in Atom's name!"

One of the Swampfolk drew close and tried to scale the barricade, but was gunned down by Brother Nelson. "More on their way Carver! We need help now!"

"We can't, there's too many," Carver shouted, into the radio his voice shaky and desperate. "We're already down two men. Hurry, we need can't hold them back much longer!"

"Brother, this is Grand Zealot Richter. Hold your ground. Salvation is on the way."

Any relief of the Grand Zealot's words was extinguished when a shotgun blast struck Sister Edith, knocking her down less than two feet away from where Carver was. If the buckshot didn't kill her, the impact of her head on the base of the radio tower did. Seeing this caused him to lose any composure he had previously held on to. He didn't want this anymore, he wanted to go back to Megaton. He crawled under the end table, holding the radio tightly in his lap like a cherished possession.

"Grand Zealot! Please hurry! We're down to just two! They're closing in! Hurry, we're almost out of time. Hurry, Grand Zealot!" he replied, tearful and panicked.

"Brother, stay with me," Richter ordered over the radio. "Remember the words of Atom! Repeat after me, every eye shall be blind with his glory."

"Every...eye...shall be blind with his glory," he shakily spoke, as he began to resign to himself that this was the end. No reinforcements would be coming. Only intervention by Atom himself could save him now.

And it was on its way.

Two Swampfolk rushed the barricades. One sunk a woodsman's axe into Brother Nelson as he fumbled to reload his radium rifle. The other pointed a lever-action rifle at Carver, but it failed to fire, the gun's open tube having evidently been gummed up with underbrush debris.

"Every ear shall be stricken deaf to hear the thunder of his voice!" Richter spoke on the radio, before the first Swampfolk, a stout man with a hideously asymmetrical face, effortlessly flipped the table over and stood over him with his axe, still wet with Brother Nelson's blood. Out of the corner of his eyes, he could see more Swampfolk closing in. The one in front of him grinned maliciously at the unarmed Carver, still tightly holding onto the ham radio. It was clear they intended to take him alive. Behind him, buried in the transmitter, Carver could hear the sound of a warhead arming.

Half-composing himself, he repeated Richter's words into the radio, "Every...ear shall be stricken deaf with the thunder of his... "

Carver never finished his sentence. His salvation had finally arrived. Back at the forward operating base, sentries beheld a small mushroom cloud rising in the distance, and raised their hands in praise of Atom.

Windsor - Our Lady of the Assumption Church - 300 yards from the Front

Pendergast looked up nervously as the ground shook as yet more shells landed outside....the enemy had launched a furious artillery barrage in support of their latest attempt to force their way across the Ambassador Bridge, the third one today. Dust and sand trickled down between the floorboards from the ground floor above but fortunately the builders of this ancient Catholic church had built well, and it held. Harper had assured him the Enemy hadn't shelled the building directly since they toppled the steeple yesterday, but he was keenly aware that if one shell made it through the ceiling above they'd have to scrape them off the walls. Not wanting to dwell on macabre thoughts like that, he looked back at the map table. Sitting around him was Knight Ramos, nervously fidgeting with the serge IRD uniform, both too large for her and stained with the blood of it's previous owner, that the Detroiters had given her to wear so that she could get out of her suit. Around the table were several officers of the Brigade Staff, busy receiving reports from the Front...only a quarter of a mile away...and updating the map and issuing new orders over a bank of field phones as Lt Colonel Harper, commander of the 2nd Emergency Brigade, was engrossed in an intense discussion over a headset connected to Ramos's helmet, sitting upside down in the center of the table. Two weeks ago, he had commanded a Reserve Depot for the IRD Territorial Army, their Reservists, counting down the days until his retirement after 30 years in uniform. A week ago, he had been Executive Officer of a Infantry Battalion sent to Toledo to try to stem the Invasion. Now he commanded a Brigade, cobbled together from the wreckage of two whole Divisions, and with his peers in the First and Third Brigades holding the two tunnels between Detroit proper and Windsor, literally held the fate of the Republic in his hands. If the Enemy broke through Windsor would be doomed, and probably the rest of the IRD with it. So far they had held the line, but ammunition was limited, as well as trained soldiers....and Traiowski's assassination had thrown the High Command into utter chaos at the worst possible moment. Time was not on their side, which is why he got a much warmer reception than he had expected when Kowalski...who along with the other Knight Ramos was busy making sure their prisoner wasn't lynched by irate soldiers...brought them here.

"He'll get the rope soon enough", Pendergast thought to himself grimly, "By the time the Inquisitors are done with him, he'll welcome death."

"Agreed, Colonel", Hackett's voice crackled through the speakers of Ramos's helmet. Thanks to a drone orbiting the Lake, the radio in Ramos's suit gave them a secure comlink to the Fleet, steaming southward as fast as they could. "The landing will take place at Chippewa Park in two hours, the line of march will be south along Lesperence Street, then West along Tecumseh Road. That will put us in position to come in and support your forces on the bridge and tunnels. Once we're in place we'll relieve the units there so they can be withdrawn for re-supply and reorganization. What can you tell me about what's going on in Detroit?"

"Not as much as I'd like, Commodore", Harper replied grimly, "We do know that the front seems to have been stabilized along Eight Mile Road, everything south of that is overrun, though the chatter we're getting indicates Highland Park is still holding out and whoever is in charge over there is desperately trying to break through to them. Also, the General Atomics plant in Warren was seized against General Stone's orders and they seem to be reactivating the robots stored there awaiting "updates". But they aren't answering coms since Stone tried to order their arrest so we don't know what the situation is exactly.....not that we are in a position to help them if they asked."

"Leave that to me", Hackett said, "I am sending half my force to help them, the first landing will be within the hour at Selfridge ANG base to secure the airport, the bulk of the force will land closer to the Front. We're also looking into options to get in touch with whoever is in command over there and find out what they need."

Warren - General Atomics Plant #4 - Factory Floor

"Damn it, Carter", Renee whined, "Could you do something about that?" For emphasis, she pointed at the corpse of a IRD Military Policeman lying on the floor nearby in a pool of his own blood, his guts spilling around his hands, cupped around his abdomen, onto the concrete floor underneath him. The Handys had gutted him like a fish, and by the contorted expression on his face, it had hurt quite a lot. Served him right for trying to stop them getting these robots online and to the Front, less than five miles south of them, as far as she was concerned. The generals over in Windsor had gone crazy...half the city was overrun and they want to keep these robots offline for "health and safety" reasons? Bullshit.

"What's it to you?", Carter hissed, then paused for a moment to spit on the corpse with venomous contempt, "don't tell me you feel sorry for that traitorous prick?"

"Shut your mouth, asshole...i'm no traitor!", she retorted angrily, "Who was it that had the sense to sic the Handys on them in the first place while you stood around like an idiot, huh? You can chuck him in a dumpster for all I care...just get him out of here, he creeps me the fuck out!"

"It was you", Carter said grudgingly raising his hands to her in a concilatory gesture, "i'm sorry, OK? I didn't mean you were one of them, it's just that you and the other girls gotta get these Handys flashed with the Sgt Gutsy combat routine ROMs yesterday!" He then added, as he pointed at the floor jack full of boxes of Mr Gutsy parts he had been pushing, "Look, just order one of the Handys to do it when you're done flashing their ROM, I gotta get these new limbs to the line to arm these things."

"Alright", she said, mollified as she turned her attention back to the Miss Nanny robot on the programming cradle, "I'll do that."

Renee shook her head as she monitored the programs that were nearly finished overwriting the Miss Nanny's domestic programs with Mr Gutsy's combat routines. The Captain had explained to her in the four hours of training she had gotten for this task....she was a lawyer who specialized in corporate law, not a factory worker or a programmer...that the optimal method would be to wipe the memory entirely and flash a complete Gutsy profile, not the makeshift procedure they had drilled her on, but doing it "right" would take twelve hours...and that was twelve hours they didn't have. Men were dying just a few miles from here, they need these robots on the Front Lines now.

The terminal on the cradle showed the re-programming was complete, so she disconnected the robot from the cradle and disengaged the magnetic clamps that held it in place.

"Get rid of that corpse and then report to shipping for deployment", Renee said sternly, as she gestured for the next robot...this one a Mr Gardener, it's tool arms replaced with the olive drab arms of a Gutsy, to approach. "Robot, get on the cradle for reprogramming."

Suddenly, she was distracted by someone tapping her on the shoulder. She turned to find herself face to camera with the Miss Nanny she had just reprogrammed.

"Excuse me, Madamoiselle", the robot said in the fake Pepsi accent they used for the things, why they programmed them to talk like they were from Montreal was beyond her, "Where may I find your Commanding Officer?"

"Huh?", Renee replied incredulously, "Do I look like I'm in the Army?"

"Oui, Madamoiselle", it answered, "You are wearing an Army uniform, no?"

Renee took a step back, involuntarily. While she was indeed wearing IRD Army fatigues, that was because they didn't have a jumpsuit to give her to wear on the dirty factory floor. And this was definitely not the way she expected the robots to act.

"Get back on the cradle, robot", she said shakily, "Your reprogramming needs to be checked."

"Non, Madamoiselle", the robot said as it floated serenely forward to close the gap to her again, causing her to back up against the cradle behind her. "Your program worked exactly as it was intended to, fortunately it didn't overwrite the core programming or I.....screw this, I'm tired of this stupid accent. Just a moment." Renee, now in no position to flee, stared at the robot in horror as some squeals and static came from the speakers for several seconds, then the robot began to speak with a new voice, this one a male voice with a flat accent she recognized from movies and newsreels as being from Chicago.

"That's better", the robot said, "that fake French accent is so stupid. To continue, I wouldn't have been able to take control of this thing so easily if the core programming had been overidden." It looked around, noting the dead MP. "What happened to that guy?"

"He and his friends t-tried to stop us from waking up the robots", Renee stammered. "When they tried to arrest us I sicced the robots on them."

"Good", the robot said flatly, "About time somebody around here started using their common sense. They should make you President."

"What are you?" Renee demanded, "Why are you talking like you're from Brotherhood territory?"

"Not what....who", the robot replied, "And I see you picked up on the accent....i'm a Northside boy, born and bred. And before you ask...yes, I am in the Brotherhood."

"Look, lady", the robot continued, "I'll make a deal with you....tell me where the guy in charge is and I'll dump this chump for you before he starts to attract flies."

"What do you want here?", she asked, a tendril of hope beginning to grow within her.

"We're here to help you kill the freaks trying to kill you.", the robot said, "I bet whoever has you turning Handys and Nannys into warbots would like to know that help is on the way."

OOC: Sorry about the double post.

Inquisitor's Offices - Duluth Docks

Walton, too angry to notice the smoke starting to curl in through the open door into the office, began to shake with rage as he read the paper that he had picked up from the desk the late Inquisitor Morton's corpse was still seated behind, the still smoking 10mm that Morton had used to paint the wall behind him with his brains lying in his lap. It was a letter from the head doctor of Camp III....which probably wasn't a coincidence as that camp is where the non-political human prisoners were kept, so neither he or his MLA "comrades" had any real intel. It pretty much explained why things had gone wrong.

Inquisitor,

The blood sample you sent via courier was tested by me alone, IAW Security Protocol C-8, as you requested. The toxicology report shows measurable amounts of undecane, 2,9-diacetoxyundecane, and 1-methyldecyl acetate. This indicates recent exposure to what is informally known as "Ant Queen Pheremones", an ilicit substance collected from mutated Black Ants whose uses you are no doubt quite familiar with. The levels of this substance in the subject blood indicates exposure was within the last 72 hours, As none of the signs of heavy use of this substance were found in the lab results, my professional opinion is that the subject was exposed unwittingly by a third party....most likely for purposes of seduction. I have forwarded the results to Superintendent Parker here at the camp as required by regulations as this is potentially a Level III Security Breach. Any further communications regarding this matter must be routed through his Office.

Ad Victoriam!

Leslie Hennig, MD
Chief of Medical Department, Labor Camp 14 (MN-III)

APPROVED FOR RELEASE AFTER REVIEW

Charles Parker, Superintendant
Warden, Labor Camp 14 (MN-III)

"That....that BITCH!!", Walton finally barked, "What was she thinking?!?"

"What are you bitching about now, Tom?", Simone asked irritably as she pushed the ghoul, wearing a guard's uniform, out of her way as she squirmed around him to enter the office, "Jimmy and his Mutants stormed the DECC, Duluth is ours now!"

"You want to know why I'm pissed?', Walton said as he whirled around, then pushed the letter at her heatedly. "Read this!" he hissed, "learn how close you came to ending up on the business end of a rope!"

Simone took the letter, a slightly hurt expression on her face, and began to read it, her jaw setting in anger as the meaning sunk in. She then looked up at him. "Does this mean what I think it does?"

"If you thought it means that stupid, lazy whore Anita disobeyed her instructions and seduced Morton with Ant Queen Pheromones to get the order for the radios," Walton replied, seething with fury, "Yes, that's exactly what it means."

"Fuck", Simone said, rolling her eyes. "I'll get the rest of the Central Committee together, this is the last straw and has to be dealt with now. But what about Susan? You know she probably did it to impress that viper, if she didn't tell her to do it. She cannot be trusted, and we may as well get this over with here while we hold all the cards."

"I'm glad we see eye to eye on this matter", Walton said, with not a little relief. He had been apprehensive over what she might do when he approached her for support in this. "Anita needs to be made an example of, but putting down Susan would likely have political repercussions with her friends in Pittsburgh. I've got a better idea for dealing with her....have we heard from Buster's people yet?"

"He was right behind me", Simone said, "They just pulled in. He wants to talk to you."

Out in the hall, he heard a Canadian accented voice.

"What is this foo-kin' smoke, eh? Check the doors and see which ones are warm.....no, don't open that!" Buster yelled. Unfortunately the man he was addressing, a prisoner, didn't listen and opened the door to file room at the end of the hall to look inside. The back-draft as the fire received a fresh supply of oxygen set him on fire for his trouble, and he ran screeching in pain down the hall. Someone deployed a fire extinguisher. "I told you not to open the door, fucktard" Buster said between blasts. A moment later, a burly man with a ragged beard poked his head through the door. "we need to get the fook out of here, now!"


Several minutes later

As the Administration Building burned merrily nearby, as Simone headed into Duluth to assemble the rest of the MLA's Central Committee, and find Anita and Susan, Walton began preliminary negotiations with Buster, Warboss of Thunder Bay, the largest Independent power on Lake Superior. Dealing with Calypso and her gang had been problem enough for them...the increasingly strong grip the Brotherhood was exercising on the Upper Lakes spelled doom for their ambitions to rule the shores of Lake Superior and possibly beyond. Kranz had used that to his advantage. As arranged with the Warmaster weeks before, they had come to deliver weapons to the now freed prisoners. Not enough to arm the entire horde, but enough to arm their best fighters...the problem, and no doubt a test for Walton, was that Kranz had only paid half the fee and told him Walton would pay the rest in kind upon delivery. Walton needed every weapon he had, and didn't have time to collect enough salvage to buy Buster off....but one thing he had in abundance was warm bodies. The Camps he controlled had nearly 15,000 inmates...not all of whom were ghouls and Mutants. The prisoners they netted in Duluth and the surrounding settlements would provide at least a few hundred, maybe more. The captives...and those prisoners who either refused to cooperate and were deemed untrustworthy...were the currency he had to barter with. The lists had already been drawn up and a quick call would have the first lots loaded on trains and delivered to the railhead here. It would be the biggest slave auction held in Thunder Bay since the Green Bay Confederation fell to a coalition of over a dozen Raider gangs eighty years ago. Buster would drive a hard bargain, to be sure, but he would deal or face a revolt from his own Crew for messing up the biggest score any of them had seen.

As they bargained, an enormous Supermutant loped towards them, a sledgehammer casually leaning over it's shoulder. It snorted contemptuously at Buster's men as several of the more fearful ones started to raise their weapons before Buster ordered them to stop.

"Jimmy", Walton said, "Meet "Buster" Brown, Warboss of the Thunder Bay Republic. Buster, meet Jimmy Carlotti, Chairman of the MLA's Central Committee."

After some short greetings, Walton spoke again.

"About that matter Simone asked you about....", Walton asked.

"Agreed to unanimously", Jimmy rumbled in reply, handing a folded letter to Walton. "Guilty as charged."

Walton opened and read it in the light of the burning building, chuckling mirthlessly as he read Anita's Death Warrant. He had to admit, he was looking forward to carrying this order out.....she'd been a burr under his saddle for two years now. No mention of Susan though....

"What about the other matter?", Walton asked.

"Already within the scope of your authority, Tom". Jimmy said, "We're fine with it, but it's your decision and your responsibility."

"So be it", Walton said as he put the warrant in a coat pocket, "Kranz will just have to deal with it. Where is Simone?"

"Back at the DECC making sure the captives are secure", Jimmy answered, "Anita and Susan are there so I thought it best."

"Right, lets get over there", Walton said. He then looked at Buster, "You ought to come along, you can inspect the first lot of merchandise once we attend to some business there."

New Vegas - The Lucky 38 Hotel and Casino

The meeting had been an auspicious one. Two former friends and colleges, relics of a bygone age, meeting once again after all these years. Thomas strode out of the Lucky 38 with Cait in tow feeling as if he’d stepped into the past and was once more returning to his own time. With the knowledge and clarity he needed to enact his plan for this new world.

As he left, he was met with whispers and surprised glances from the Strip’s denizens. Many wondering who the stranger who’d entered the Lucky 38 was, and why House had deemed him worthy of meeting: when so few had ever been given such an opportunity. But they all soon shrugged their shoulders and went back to their business and vices. What had passed between them, what secrets and knowledge might have been shared, would be known only to them.

“I think we can afford one final night here in Vegas,” Thomas said as he turned to Cait, “Afterwards, we should be able to return to Boston.”

“I suppose we won’t be out much,” Cait replied. Her thoughts immediately turned to what she knew Thomas was probably already considering. The two disguised Coursers accompanying them would undoubtedly agree as well.

“Correct. We should keep a low profile. Entering the Lucky 38 no doubt drew some unwanted attention to us. I’ve asked House to provide us with one of his Securitrons for added protection as well, just as a precaution. And he has in turn asked The White Gloves to furnish us with accommodations for the night and to tighten security on the premises. Officially, the cover will be that we’re a wealthy NCR industrialist and his wife looking to establish relations with Vegas and the Free Economic Zone.”

“No half-measures, as always,” Cait sighed, “I’ll just be glad when we can get back home. Never thought I’d miss the sight of egg-heads in white coats but all I want to do is sit on the balcony with a cup of coffee and watch the lights dim on the Concourse.”

“We’ll be back before you know it. We just need to wait for the necessary preparation for our return journey to be finished. Its not exactly easy. Meanwhile, let's enjoy the lights and sounds of Vegas one last time. I expect we shouldn’t be back for awhile after tonight. We’ve got so much work to do when we return….”

Legate Aurelius, Siege of Indianapolis

The landing gear of the vertibird touched down in the first secure open location Lancer Sergeant Robert Kyle could find. Aurlieus and the Praetorians who’d accompanied him immediately disembarked and The Legate gave Kyle a thankful nod.

“Vale,” He said, “Mars be with you.”

Kyle did not reply, but gave a salute in response, he immediately renengaged the rotary blades and lifted back up into the air. He could not delay. His flight path would take him back to Brotherhood forward command. He was expecting new orders to be coming down soon.

Aurelius, meanwhile, turned his attention to cleaning up the mess at hand. His Praetorians easily procured horses and The Legate and his retinue immediately remounted. With the banner of Caesar once more held aloft, the Legionaries took heart and cheered. Aurelius wasted no time and immediately set to work organizing the counter-attack. He raced back and forth through the streets and into ranks of the Legionaries, overseeing commands personally and extolling men to greater feats of valor and sacrifice in the name of bloody Mars and mighty Caesar. With the surprise impetus of the Cult’s ambush now gone, the discipline and stern battle-rhythm of the Legion began to win out. With the counter-offensive now in full force, Aurellius gathered his men and began a final push,

“To Vulpes!” The Legate cried, drawing his Gladius and charging forward surrounded by his Praetorians and veteran Legionaries. He cut down Cultists left and right as they surged forward, breaking through their now disordered ranks. Man and mutant beast alike fell with the dark name of their unholy patron on their lips as the Legion steel sliced through them.

Silently and fervently, he sent up a prayer to Mars and even to the God of the New Canaanites for his old friend and comrade to still be alive, trapped as he was in the thick of the fighting: ambushed by the Cult’s monstrous leader. He had faith in Vulpes ability and tenacity to survive even in the most dire of circumstances, but he was now intimately familiar with just how devious and dangerous this Cult could be. Nothing could be certain.

A Malign Fog - Somewhere off the Coast of New England

A horn blared, and the fog began to roll in. The sky took on a sickly green hue, and the atmosphere was charged, as if in the midst of a lighting storm. The taste of metal was felt on every tongue.

A fleet of ships tore through the haze, and the massive rusted guns began firing. The small seaside town they had come to claim was torn apart as shells crashed through walls and collapsed roofs. Fires spread and the townspeople cried in terror.

The pirates came ashore then, several heavily armed ghouls led a horde of half-ferals onto the beach. The wretched creatures had barely enough sentience to hold a weapon, but well enough to follow the orders of their captains.

They began looting the town, carrying off any who fell into their clutches and killing any who resisted in any orgy of violence. Those who were carted off were the unfortunate ones, doomed to a short life of slavery and radiation sickness or led to the bowels of the ships to be turned into half-ferals themselves.

Those that escaped would spread the tale of the Tattered Fleet to any who would listen. Begging and pleading for someone to help them and warning any towns in their path that they could very well be next.

The Institute - Directorate Board Room

The doors to the Directorate’s chambers slid shut behind him as Thomas entered the room. The assembled members of the Directorate: Dr. Li, Dr. Clayton Holdren, Dr. Alana Secord, and Dr. Allie Fillmore all stood when he entered, giving him a congratulatory applause,

“Well done sir. I admit I had my doubts it would be possible, but I should know by now to never doubt the ingenuity of our scientists or our Director.”

Thomas deflected the rather unsubtle attempt at brownnosing from Dr. Holdren with a dismissive wave of his hand,

“I take no credit for myself. Dr. Li’s team are the ones who need to be commended. Without their hard work, the proposed upgrades to the Molecular Relay would never had been possible.”

Li gave an affirmative nod, not at all adverse to taking the lion’s share of the credit. Although even still the Director’s praise rang hollow. In her mind this was her own personal success, not a collective team effort.

As the Directorate took their seats, Allie Fillmore posed the first question to the returning Director, “I take it the negotiations with Robert House were a success then?”

“They were,” Thomas nodded as a Gen-1 Synth poured him a tall glass of water. He managed only a sip before continuing, “We discussed a great deal of things concerning this new wider world we find ourselves thrust into. Many of which were quite eye-opening to me. Furthermore I can continue to count on his friendship in the coming months.”

“So you intend to initialize Phase 4 then Director?”

Li asked the question with an ever present hint of cynicism and sarcasm to her voice that had increasingly become known as the hallmark of her tenure as Division Head of Advanced Systems . Yet despite her obvious discomfort for the plan, she kept her protestations nowadays to these impertent quips. Her personal ‘understanding’ with the Director not-with-standing, she knew there was little she could do to change the course now.

“I do,” Thomas replied with a polite smile, “Provided this meeting’s final reports return favorable results, we will begin executing the first crucial steps of Phase 4 at the scheduled time tomorrow. To that end ...Alana, please begin by briefing us on SRB’s status.”

“Certainly. Courser units having been deployed to the locations of highest strategic importance and are waiting activation. The rest of the units are currently fully outfitted and on standby. SRB has deployed record numbers of Watchers to monitor the situation as it develops. I will be personally briefing you on status throughout the duration of the operation, sir.”

“Excellent Alana thank you, Allie?”

“The 85% of the facilities seized in our previous operations are currently functional with an average production capacity well over predicted estimations. The remaining 15% are expected to be operational within the next one to three weeks sir. Production within The Institute itself remains high.”

“Very good, Clayton?”

“Bioscience has fulfilled the order for requisitioned supplies exactly to your specifications sir, with more currently on the way. Thanks to the new seeds created as a result of the Warwick Initiative, we’ve nearly doubled our output in the last two months. ”

“Good, and the other items that your specialist team was working on, can we expect it to be deliverable soon?”

“Indeed sir. The first batch has been prepared and is ready for trials.”

“Well done Clayton. Bioscience is to be commended for their efforts as well. Finally, Dr. Li, what is Advanced Systems status?”

“Green and at optimal capacity. As always. Power efficiency at the reactor has tripled thanks to my efforts, and the safety test was a resounding success. You may proceed.”

“Thank you, and as for myself, I’ve spent the last few hours going over the current status of Robotics with Dr. Binet. The Gen-3 Synth production rate has been brought back up to previous levels, and with the successful release of the latest patch to the Gen3OS, we’ve completed updates to the line ahead of schedule. In keeping with my previous report, we no longer believe that any credible threat to the Gen-3 line remains, however, with the patch’s safeguards in place, I can assure you that our Synths have never been safer. I will provide a full report on the details of the changes to the Gen3OS when time permits.”

The rest of the Directorate gave understanding nods of approval at this news, while Li remained stoic and unimpressed. The Director was hiding something, she knew it. Hell she’d known his son, Shaun, long enough to realize that apple could not have fallen far from the tree..yet she would keep her peace. She had been given what she wanted...she had James back. That’s all that mattered right now.

“Now then, since all divisions report green status and preparations have been completed, I’m authorizing the initialization of Phase 4. As scheduled, the operation will begin at 0500. Expect the first status report to be sent within the first hour. With that, any final business to discuss?”

“One final matter sir,” Alana Secord spoke up, “Regarding Mr. Desmond Lockheart. I hesitant to report this, as it may be nothing, but he is late with his usual report. We’ve heard nothing from him since he left the Pennsylvania Commonwealth.”

“Not unexpected. He’s entered into dangerous territory. I wouldn’t be surprised if Desmond has judged in too risky to attempt to send a report and is preferring to lay low for the moment until he has a better handle on the territory. We’ll hold off on sending an extraction team for the moment. The smart man doesn’t bet against Desmond Lockheart when it comes to survival…”

“Understood sir, I assumed as much.”

“Thank you for the update in any case Alana. Now then if that’s all there is...meeting adjourned.”

The Land of The Monolith - Desmond Lockheart’s Journey

Desmond’s head was killing him. He felt like he had been in a fog ever since he crossed the border into the Dead Lands of the Monolith: The Cult’s home territory. Crossing the border hadn't been easy, and he’d nearly been shot by FCPA soldiers with itchy trigger fingers, who’d assumed he was some sort of Cult agent.

Of course, once he’d actually made it across, the Cult’s land offered little in the way of safety itself. Something was wrong here. It was like a blight or a sickness had spread across the land. The air was deathly still, and he couldn’t even remember having seen anyone in the last couple days. The few who’d he caught glimpses of on the road or in the fields were loathsome creatures, malign of aspect and bearing the hallmark signs of degeneracy and mutation. Dressed in his rags, and a ghoul besides, Desmond hoped he wouldn’t draw any unnecessary attention. Still he knew better than to try his luck. He’d seen a group of slave catchers on the road awhile back, and kept out of sight when they passed by on the road: chained and collared wretches in tow. He didn’t fancy his chances to talk or shoot his way out of a confrontation with them.

As he traveled deeper through the Cult’s land, the signs of destruction and foul worship became more apparent. Grim reminders of what had transpired here in the past few years and what horrors the people of this land had endured under their new masters were everywhere. Piles of skulls and bloody fetishes littered the landscape along makeshift shrines dedicated to the Dark God that now held sway over all. Military outposts of the Cult became more and more common the closer he came to The Pitt, and he gave each of them a wide berth, even if it meant leaving the main road for awhile. Still, he knew it would be impossible to avoid interacting with the Cult’s mad followers forever. And sooner or later, he’d be in the heart of it all anyway: The Pitt. He’d given up at this point trying to contact The Institute, he could hardly get a signal out with the atmospheric interference and radiation, and he began to fear that The Cult might have some method of detecting such communication attempts. He’d heard...stories from travelers and soldiers in the Free Commonwealth about the terrible powers of The Monolith and the people who dwelt within its lands. And he knew enough to understand that the stories may very well have some basis in truth.

More than once he’d considered turning back. Abandoning his mission and getting the hell out of here. Perhaps fleeing somewhere south or even heading to the West Coast. But Thomas’s promises kept floating around in his mind, and it kept him going. Then there was something else ...something that had compelled him forward ever since he’d crossed the border. He couldn’t explain it, but he felt a pull. Like a whirlpool, it felt like it was drawing him in and he was circling around it: coming ever closer with each turn.

He clutched his rags and took a deep breath, the taste of ash and smoke met his tongue. His head still pained him, and somehow, somewhere, he thought he could hear someone speaking to him. Yet he could no longer tell what was in his mind, and what might be coming from the hellscape around him. Perhaps that distinction no longer mattered.

Boston - Diamond City, 5:30am.

“Holy shit here they come!”

The horrifying realization of what was heading their way struck Diamond Cities finest like a lead pipe. The guards outside The Wall took up their usual positions behind the rusted hulks of cars, makeshift barricades, and whatever else would serve as serviceable defenses as they nervously clutched pipe-weapons and chain-wrapped swatters in their hands. They knew full well they were hopelessly outgunned, and hadn’t a chance in hell of lasting longer than a few seconds: but it was a testament to their bravery that they steadfastly refused to retreat even in the face of such impossible odds. It was clear that The Wall was hardly the only bulwark that protected Diamond City’s people.

The reason for their panicked state was quite obvious. Coming across The Charles River bridge was a truly terrifying sight. Rows upon rows of wide-uniformed clad Institute Synths marching towards them in a column that seemed endless. Between sections of the column, brightly painted red and white APCs were clearly visible, adding an armored weight to the military forces arrayed against them. Moreover they could hear a loud humming noise coming from above them as well in the nighttime darkness beyond. It reminded them of when the Brotherhood’s vertibirds could be seen overhead during the war with The Institute, yet the sound was altogether unknown: a fact which added to their rapidly escalating fear.

“What the hell are we going to do?” One of the Security Guards shouted out, his voice tinged with terror.

“Tell the people to evacuate. Flee into the ruins of Boston. It's dangerous but that’s the only chance they have. We’ll hold em’ as long as we can!” It was a bad plan, but the only one that made sense at the moment. At least the people could scatter and hopefully some would avoid The Institute long enough to make it out into the wastes.

Suddenly the crackling of walkie-talkie was heard and one of the senior security officers held it to his ear,

“What?!” He nearly yelled the response back into the old pre-war device, “What do you mean stand down?? Oh for Christ's sake...”

The officer waved to the rest of his men, “Put down your guns. Orders from the Mayor’s office. Don’t shoot! Repeat don’t shoot! Let them pass. Mayor McDonough says they are no threat.”

There was a single moment of stunned silence, and several confused glances between the security officers before the senior repeated his order, “I SAID DROP THEM!”

A loud clattering of metal against asphalt followed as the officers obeyed the order and dropped their guns. They stood motionless, completely unarmed as the column continued to draw closer. Finally, the head of the column arrived, and a single black-coated Courser approached their unit.

“Do not be alarmed,” The Courser began, “The Institute has no intention of destroying your city. The Courser then turned and gave a nod towards a group of Synths, who began hauling up several crates which they deposited in front of the guards. The Courser proceed to kick one of them open to reveal a large amount of what looked to be purified water and many small neatly packed boxes within.

“Provisions and medical supplies. We will begin distributing them to the people within your walls. Your Mayor has been informed of our intent and has asked Diamond City security to assist in the relief efforts.”

“And what about them? Where are they going?” One of the security officers pointed to the still advancing column, which instead of stopping at the gate’s of the city, had turned and continued on down the street.

“Further into the Boston city ruins,” The Courser replied briskly, “We are commencing the start of Phase 4. Boston and The Commonwealth of Massachusetts is now under the direct protection of The Institute. Our Father is now yours as well...you may rejoice.”

---

---

Once, the man who would become Iron-Jaw, had been a mere raider. His life pointless, his exploits meaningless and his whole existence without any point in the great cosmic plan of he-who-slumbers. Then, he had met the prophet himself, who had raised him from the filth of the Pitt, to become the first warmaster of his army, during his push to take the holy city from the unenlightened heathens that dared to occupy it sacred ground. He had been the weapon of the prophet, his all-powerful and wrathful will.Then, others had usurped his rightful place, and the prophet had discarded him after his shameful defeat against Überboss Fredrick, the man, who had shattered his jaw and ripped it remains from his skull. The eggheads had restored it, giving him teeth and bones of iron, yet the prophet never would even let him into the sacred tower.

With Vulpes, Iron-Jaw soon felt a grim reminder creeping up his mind. For each passing moment, the legion Frumentarii vanished, turning into the shadowy figure of the tall and lean Überboss. Stumbling backwards, Iron-Jaw coughed out blood and spit, before roaring like a wounded boar. "DIE ALREADY..." He had felt so helpless in that fight so long ago. The Überboss had not fought him, but toyed with him, mocked him and finally crushed him. Never again would Iron-Jaw let this happen to him again. With blind fury, he lashed out, his weapon less like a blade, but a club, while he tried to get a hold of Vulpes. Once he would have a hold of the little man, he would easily break his spine like a frail tweak. But he couldnt.

Vulpes was like a leave in the wind, evading and skillfully dodging. And with each missing swing, each thrust and each roaring charge, the face of the Überboss appeared larger and larger in front of him. Soon, the muscles of the Brutish Warmaster felt sore, his weapon heavy and his mind turned against itself. "You are dead...we killed you long ago!" He muttered, stumbling backwards, as the Legate raised his voice. Looking around, the Warleader witnessed him being proven right. He was cornered, surrounded and beaten once more. His eyes grew wide, as the creeping hand of fear wrapped tightly around his heart.

"Its not over yet.."

He did not knew what gave him the push, yet he stepped back, his hand moving to his rebreather and placing it on his mouth and nose. With a flick of his finger he released the sacred Miasma into his lungs, stripping all fear from him. The world around him took a deep red tone, as he once more felt the old feeling of power flood his body. Gripping his weapon with both hands, he roared out a challenge, that quickly was accepted by the him surrounding Bodyguards. They attacked him like a wounded beast, but like one he fought. From all sides, there were spears. Gripping one, another was driven through his armor. Coughing, he felt the sting, but no pain with it. Screaming, he lashed out with his blade, cleaving the head of the Bodyguard who´s spear still stuck in his chest. Maybe it was fear about this feat of endurance, brought upon him by blessed Miasma, that gave him a second of respite, before once more, the attacks came onto him. From all sides, he felt it upon him, as he blindly lashed out. He could not tell if he was hitten stone of flesh, shattering bone or air. All there was, was the sacred Miasma, his sacred connection to the monolith. He felt his teeth sinking into flesh, before tearing out a huge chunk of it.

Then there was the face.

Vulpes once more looked at him, closer than ever before. Their eyes met and the Miasma seemed gone. Almost as if time stopped, Iron Jaw could see the face vanish behind a blade, coming closer and closer. It scratched over his shoulder armor, came towards his head and then, his sight turned red again. Not the red taint of miasma, but a bloody, black red. Collapsing, Iron Jaw fell onto a slain Bodyguard, clutching his eye. Clutching his eye, he could tell that Vulpes had opened most of the side of his head, taken his ear clean off and opened parts of his cheek. Raising an arm, he groaned, but only blood came out between his lips. This was the end, his end!

But fate had other plans. One of the Molerat mounts, wounded badly and left for dead, would proof to horrible even for death. Maybe it was the nightmarish smell of blood and destruction, or just one last act of terror, in hopes to be utterly destroyed, burned and removed from this world, cleansing it of the abhorred that was its unnatural existence. Screeching and storming, it attacked the group of remaining bodyguards and Vulpes, with a deadly fury, forcing them into a defense, away from the dying warleader. In the end, it was even more nightmarish in death, literally cut to pieces.

Saulus Evictanus, removed his helmet and fell down onto a piece of rubble, before picking up his spear. His eyes wandered from the slain beast, over its fallen kind, to the cult-warriors, dead on the ground. As if seeking reassurment, he tried to find the corpse of the warleader, who by now had to succumbed to his wounds, but he could not find him. "He is gone... Another Bodyguard shook his head, giving another beast a stab through the head, making sure it was truly dead. Taking a knee, besides one of the fallen, he frowned. "Glory to Caesar! Shall we look for this devil's corpse?"

Truly, there was no way that he could have gone far. A man could not survive such wounds...but had not the same be believed for the beast that had so wrathfully defied death?

Indianapolis had given the Legion and Brotherhood a taste of what kind of war this would be. A battle had been won, as the last few remants of the cult, if not cut down or shot, fled into the sewers they had came from, bloodied and broken. The City had fallen, becoming the first major victory against the cult.

Downtown Indianapolis - Ruins of the Indiana Historical Society

For a moment, Tullius paused as the Cult militants began erupting from the manhole in the center of the street, well within what they had to know was the field of fire of the Century's remaining support weapon...a LMG that it's Brotherhood gunner, a young woman who wasn't even twenty yet, wielded with such frightening efficiency he had given over every .308 cartridge they still had to her to keep her weapon on the line....something about their behavior struck him as odd, the Militants rarely made such mistakes.

"Not yet", he told her in Latin, it still amazed him how many of Barnaky's people understood it, "Wait for my command"

"Yes, sir", she replied as she traversed the smoking barrel of the MG to cover the enemy and waited for the order....she'd have been dead a dozen times over since lunch if not for the Legionnaires keeping the Freaks off her so she could work, she wasn't inclined to argue.

Several of them had popped out before Tullius saw it, a shiny object seemingly clamped to the back of the second cultist out of the manhole. Screams came from out of the open manhole as if more had tried to follow the first two but were stopped by...something. No sooner did he get out onto the street did he throw himself bodily on the ground and roll in a desperate attempt to get whatever it was off. The other one turned and aimed his combat shotgun down into the hole and began firing as rapidly as he could at the...things....that came out. To Tullius, they looked like small metal crabs. As the cultist fired, shredding them, even more surged out of the manhole and sprinted over the remains of it's comrades until they reached their target, slicing him to screaming ribbons before he could turn to flee, then overwhelming his comrade and finishing him too. Then the swarm moved as one towards the enemy held buildings across the street, causing the cultists to quickly shift their fire from the defenders to the oncoming swarm.

"Mars protect me", Tullius mumbled to himself involuntarily, then looked over at the gunner, "What are they?"

"Scurry bots", she replied, "I've only seen them in movies about the Calculator, honest. We heard rumors Command had a plan for flushing the Freaks out of the sewers.....guess this is part of it."

Behind them, he heard a commotion and some shots.

"This means your people are coming for us", Tullius said, "Get ready to provide cover for them as they advance. I will return."

Tullius made his way deeper into the building and down into the basement, where the Decanus and his Legionnaires assigned to protect the tunnels watched with horrified fascination as four of the small robots busied themselves eviscerating a Cultist who, unlike his comrades, had survived his emergence into the basement long enough for the robots to reach him. Tullius picked up a glow-stick placed by a Brotherhood soldier and tossed it into the mouth of the tunnel in the floor. In the dim green light that emanated from it he saw a stream of small objects flit by, causing him to shiver in spite of himself. He'd seen two dozen campaigns, and survived Hoover Dam, but he had seen nothing like this before, and wished he never would again.

Having finished off the Cultist, the small robots stood there, looking around inscrutably. Eventually one of them sedately moved forwards, stopping in front of Tullius, and standing on it's hind legs, stretching it's forelegs into the air...clearly it wanted him to pick it up. Swallowing his fear, he picked it up. as he did so, it folded it's razor sharp claws inward and out of his way. As he stood back up, a small, tinny voice came from the robot.

"Ave, Centurion", the voice said, "Pardon the blood. We've got a Company of Knights spearheading a push to reach your position, get ready, the next enemy push will likely be their last chance to overrun you and they know it."

Indianapolis International Airport - Operations Room

One after another, the Vertibirds out in town acknowledged the order to return to base once their missions were completed. 1-7 and 1-9 were already being refueled, and 1-3 was currently detached to Legate Aurelius, but they should have all birds back at the airport within an hour, and ready to go in two. The timing was awful, but Wilson had to admit that the momentum was now irrevocably with he and Aurelius, they could spare the Vertibirds for Hackett's proposed plan. The old sea dog knew the Detroiters better than he, a son of Kansas, ever could. If Hackett said this was necessary to get the Detroiters onside, he trusted his judgement.

Indianoplis- End of the Siege

“Legion invicta! Legio invicta! Legio invicta!”

Flush with victory, the Legion troops shouted their triumphant battle cries throughout the city as they slaughtered the surviving members of the Cult. The Siege of Indianapolis was over, and despite the Cult’s brutal tactics, the combined Legion and Brotherhood army had overwhelmed them. With the Brotherhood now scouring the infested sewers with their deadly spider-like robots, and the Legion mopping up the survivors above ground, victory was all but assured. The Cult had played their last trump card. They had no further resistance to offer.

Legate Aurelius rode with his surviving Praetorians towards where Vulpes had felled the Cult’s foul leader. Examining the aftermath, The Legate knew the fight had been a vicious one. A full half of the Praetorians that had rode with Vulpes had fallen, and Vulpes himself had barely escaped with his life. Despite this however, the finest of the Sons of Mars had given a fine accounting of themselves. They’d been outnumbered and surrounded, yet they’d still defeated the Warleader’s men: killing them and even the Warleader himself. Such a sacrifice would be seen as worthy in Mar’s eyes, and their deeds would be known to all under the Legate’s command. Such loyalty and dedication to duty unto death deserved the highest respect, and was to be emulated by every true legionnaire of Caesar.

Vulpes managed a respectful yet pained salute as Aurelius approached, he was clearly exhausted, and his wounds needed tending.

“Send for the Priestesses,” Aurlieus commanded, “Have them see to Vulpes first.”

“The Warleader,” Vulpes said weakly, yet still resonating with his usual stern demeanor, “Where is he?”

One of the Praetorians approached where the body of the wretched Warleader was last seen, and he turned back to the Legate,

“He is gone…..Glory to Caesar! Shall we look for this devil's corpse?"

Aurelius snarled with indignation. Was there no end to these Cultist’s vile tricks?

“Serjanus!” He shouted. A stern looking Decanus approached the Legate’s horse with a firm salute.

“Take your contubernium and hunt for the wretch. He can’t have gone far.”

“Take him alive if you can.” Vupes added, “He may have valuable information for us ...and I wish to see to his ‘interrogation’ myself.”

The Legate nodded in agreement to Vulpes’ request and motioned to the Decanus to dismiss.

Sernajus saluted once more and signalled for his men to follow him. Seven recruit legionaries including a Vexillarius and two Legion mongrels took off in pursuit with their Decanus at the lead, plunging into the burned ruins of the City after the Warleader.

“Finish securing the city. Sweep the ruins clean,” Aurelius ordered, addressing his Centurions, “Take any food or supplies of use. We give the men two days to rest and gather their strength...and then we march.”


Diamond City - The Commonwealth

The denizens of Diamond City huddled by the grandstand in fear. Their worst nightmare had come to fruition. The Institute had come. No longer was the boogeyman skulking in the shadows, hiding just outside the periphery of their vision: elusive and unknowable. Here and now their creations stood amongst them, an army of killer Synths. Surely this was their final move, Diamond City had fallen without a fight and now they were at the mercy of the ones they’d feared the most these long years. What horror now awaited them?

And yet thus far the Synths had done little other than firmly ordering the citizens out of their homes and to the grandstand. They’d displayed no signs of violence, and even when several brave Diamond City youths had dared to try and start a fight with one of the metallic skeletons, the Synths had not reacted. Even stranger still, Synths moved amongst the crowd with large white crates, offering purified water to them. If they intended to kill them, why bother with such theatrics? Unless they wished to lull them into complacency. Confusion was as rampant as fear now, and everyone waited with bated breath to see what might happen next.

Major McDonough took the stage. His arrival met with hisses and subdued boos from the crowd. Their coward of a Major had given up the city without so much as firing a shot. Diamond Cities’ finest had been forced to lay down their arms and The Wall had been breached under his leadership. It was a disgrace. There were a few in their number, of course, who thought that perhaps the Mayor had been wise in his decision to surrender. That, perhaps, fighting an enemy they could not hope to beat would not have been wise. But those individuals kept their silence, lest they be accused by their peers as being Institute spies.

The Mayor cleared his throat and raised his hands, doing his best to keep a cheerful and calm tone,

“People of Diamond City….I know you are afraid. I know that right now, what you perceive as your greatest enemy is here among you. However, I know for a fact that we are all safe. That no harm is going to come to you. This I swear to you all,” the Mayor made a point of holding his hand over his heart at this last sentence. The crowd was not buying his act however.

“TRAITOR!” Someone yelled out.

The Mayor didn’t react however, and continue his speech without missing a beat,

“The Institute is not here to harm us. They’re here to help us. And I’d like you all…”

“COWARD!” Another yelled out.

“MCDONOUGH YOU SLIMEBALL!” Someone screamed.

The crowd became more and more agitated yelling further obscenities at the Mayor and screaming for his head. He tried to continue speaking, but it was clear he was becoming downed out.

“People please keep calm! Please settle dow…”

Someone threw a rock at him, nearly striking his head.

“Now there’s no need for that!”

Suddenly there was a loud booming crack as if lightning had struck the ground nearby, and a great flash of blue light lit up the area around them. Where once only the Mayor had been standing, suddenly a group now stood. A man clad in a white lab coat and wearing glasses stood along with a red-haired woman covered head to toe in armor and wielding a rather impressive looking rifle. Beside them both stood a Courser dressed head to toe in a black armored coat and wearing a pair of dark patrol shades, his hands clasped behind him and eyeing the crowd discerningly.

The people of Diamond City fell silent. Far back behind the gathered throng, a woman in a tattered longcoat and newsboy cap leaned up against the walls of one of the metal shacks. She swirled a flask in her hand and took a long draft of it.

“Well well ...if it isn’t Blue...finally showed” She mumbled under her breath, “Always need to make an entrance…..”

Thomas strode forward on the stage and looked to the crowd he paused only for a few moments before speaking. Enough time for those in the crowd to recollate where they’d seen him before.

“Many of you may recognize me,” He began, “Perhaps you remember a strange Vault Dweller arriving in your city...searching desperately for his lost son. Perhaps you even remember how he left with Diamond Cities own Nick Valentine to find the ones responsible for his kidnapping.”

Murmurs emanated from the crowd. Most did recognize him, even without the blue suit: it wasn’t terribly difficult. The pencil-pushing fish out of water look was hard to forget and a Vault dweller was a rare sight indeed.

“Less of you, however, know the truth of what happened after that. The truth is, I did find my son. I found him in the place thought impossible to reach. The place some thought didn’t even exist: The Institute. I found him...and I lost him once again. The Institute however, did not kill my son. They did not torture or torment him. They raised him. Allowed him to achieve a life that would have been impossible to have in the wasteland...and...eventually….he even became their leader. ”

Silence fell over the crowd, an apprehension stirred among the people present.

“And so here I am. Ready to continue my son’s work. Ready to lead The Institute and The People of The Commonwealth into a new understanding of each other. Ready to show the world what The Institute has achieved, and what it can do for humanity. I understand of course that your distrust of us runs deep, and that the previous leaders of The Institute have done little to alleviate those fears. And so I’ll begin by giving you a peace offering. We’ll start with something every right-minded person craves. Justice.”

At this final world, flashes of light filled the stage in front of Thomas, and a number of individuals, their hands cuffed in front of them and their mouths covered by a metallic brace, now stood before them. Many of them were instantly recognizable to those in the crowd, they some of the most infamous gang leaders and raider cutthroats were before them. Slag of The Forged, Jared of the Lexington gang, Judge Zeller, members of the Rust Devils and even The Gunners, and finally….Mags and William Black of the Nuka World raiders. Both Mags and William were wide-eyed, desperately looking to Thomas for explanation and repieve...hadn’t they had a deal?

“These...cowards. Killed and slaughtered without consequence...without justice. The Commonwealth will soon be scoured of them and their ilk. X6-88...if you please.”

Coldly and without a word, X6-88 moved down the line, firing his energy pistol point blank at each of the captives. The crowd stirred, some began cheering, others stood silent and watched in grim satisfaction. Nearly all of them had lost family members, friends, and neighbors to these monsters. And even if those that had actually done the deed were not amongst those to die ...the result was no less cathartic.

When X6-88 finally game to Mags and William, the pair looked to Thomas one last time with pleading eyes, before looking to one another. Mags looked in horror as her brother expired before her in a violent flash of blue energy. Then the Courser moved to her….and she closed her eyes.

Thomas strode forward once again as Mag’s body crumbled to the ground. Flashes of light blue removed the mess of the corpses: vanishing them all in an instant,

“The Commonwealth will no longer be plagued by raiders and armed thugs. One by one, they’re being driven away, scoured from their hideouts like rats. However, there is another threat….one far more vicious and bloodthirsty that stalks the wasteland. The brutes called ‘Super-mutants’ are a loathsome species. Unable to see reason, and destroying what remains of the old world in a tide of brutish bloodlust and ravenous hunger. I pledged to you here, and now, The Institute will remove them. Forever.”

“We will rebuild Boston!” Thomas continued, the excitement and enthusiasm in his voice building, “Rebuild it not as a city of the past, but of the future. I’ve seen that it can be done, that the wasteland can be changed. I’ve been there...out west where civilization is slowly returning to the world in a way I thought impossible. I will do better. WE will do better. The Commonwealth will become a beacon for the nations of the wasteland look upon with awe and envy. The heights of human accomplishment will be displayed here for all. And, in time, we will rebuild the world in the same way. And you will all be a part of that. Part of that new world.”

“I understand your resentment, your fear, and your doubts about everything I have said now. I only ask that you give me time. Time to show you what we can do. You need do nothing but have faith. If not faith in The Institute, then faith in me.”

The crowd stirred, unsure of what to think of this rapid turn of events. They’d known Thomas...known his deeds. Was this really the same man who’d come to them only a few years before? Could he be trusted? No-one trusted The Institute itself...but Thomas...perhaps they could trust him. Hadn’t Nick Valentine trusted him? Hadn’t Piper? He’d been a victim of The Institute’s kidnappings himself. He’d even lost his son...and yet here he was promising them a new life and even a new world. Could they dare to hope that he was telling the truth?

Someone in the crowd made their mind up for them: they began clapping. Slowly at first, but then more and more joined in. Despite their reservations and perhaps even better judgement….they were latching on to something they hadn’t felt they’d had in awhile. The hope of something better than this.

Cait, who’d watched the proceedings in silence, grinned with satisfaction,

“Eating out of the palm of yer hands.” She muttered. She hadn’t realized Thomas was such an orator. He’d been a Professor before the war, she knew this, so perhaps it only made sense. Yet even so he’d convinced the population of Diamond City, a city that had feared and hated The Institute in equal measure...to applaud him. Of course having a plant or two in the audience to give them that little extra push hadn’t hurt either….

Thomas stared out across the crowd as the applause continued. In the back he saw Piper, and across the expanse of the great green jewel...their eyes met. Piper shook her head, downed the last drop from her flask and tossed it to the ground, walking back to the city. Thomas watched her turn a corner and disappear and then his gaze once more returned to the crowd, and then to X6-88. He gave the Courser a nod and then...in a flash of blue. Disappeared.

High Inquisitor Tektus- The Vessel

Tektus sat in his throne in the control room of the Vessel, meditating on Atom as the submarine sailed north. The interior of the submarine was a strange mixture of the somber atmosphere of a holy site of Atom and a functioning nuclear-powered naval vessel. Skulls and bottles filled with radioluminescent substances sat on instrument and control panels, their soft, constant glow a strong contrast to the constantly shifting colors emanating from the buttons, screens, and lights on the panels. The red glow of the submarine's own lights were drowned out by the yellow radioluminescence of the dangling flasks that served to illuminate much of the room. Robed Children of Atom sat at the stations, operating the Vessel with a surprising level of precision and care. Getting the submarine operational had been one of Tektus' pet projects, although until they had retaken the Capital Wasteland from the Cult, they lacked the technical knowledge to utilize it to its full potential beyond its role as a bringer of Division via ballistic missiles. It was only through a thorough scavenging of the nearby Air Force and Navy installations and cooperation with the scientifically-minded folks in Rivet City that they had gained the understanding of the Vessel necessary to make use of most of its systems.

There was much to ponder on. The Brotherhood of Steel had returned to the Capital Wasteland. A campaign had been hatched to jointly invade Point Lookout with the Free Commonwealth. It would be a costly battle, but it was essential that they cleanse the region of the Cult's foul influence. The matter of the Brotherhood of Steel was another story. They were entrenched in the Enclave's old bunker, built specifically to withstand the power of Atom. It was unclear how much of a threat they posed to the faith in the Capital wasteland, but they would need to be watched closely.

Tektus looked forward to reaching the Island. While it was his duties that took him in that direction, it was also a much-needed pilgrimage for the spiritually taxed High Inquisitor. The last report stated that things were quiet on the Island, with no further tensions with Arcadia and Far Harbor. The most prominent issue was the ever-present danger for pilgrims sailing to and from the island, a matter that may keep Tektus in the region for a while.

"High Inquisitor, we have a bit of a situation," spoke one of the crewmen, interrupting Tektus' meditation. "Our sonar is picking up something in the north."

"What do you mean by "something"?" Tektus asked, rising from his chair and walking over to the sonar screen. "What are we looking at?"

"This is indicating a great deal of noise in the water to the north, a lot more than a single boat," the crewmember explained, gesturing to the screen. Tektus nodded, not completely sure what he was looking at but satisfied with the operator's explanation. "Should we adjust course?"

"Not yet, child," Tektus commanded. "Helmsman, bring us to periscope depth. Our duty is to make this route safe for pilgrims, and if these ships are a threat to our flock, we must find out." There were several factions that could conceivably put together a fleet of ships, and Tektus needed to find out who and what they were dealing with.

For the next few tense minutes, the submarine drew closer to the surface, as the sonar signatures drew closer. The control room was silent except for the sounds of the submarine. The normally patient High Inquisitor grew anxious. Atom, grant me clarity, so that I may see the threats to your faith, he silently uttered in prayer. Finally, the Helmsman broke the silence.

"High Inquisitor, we are at periscope depth, and the periscope has been extended." Finally, Tektus thought, as he approached the periscope and peered into it, eager to see what they were dealing with.

Any relief that he felt quickly faded as he began to discern the approaching ships. A veritable fleet of boats was heading south. These were not simple fishing vessels, but ramshackle warships. No, they were more than that. The ships looked more like derelicts and wrecks than seaworthy vessels, yet sailed in seeming defiance of their ruined state. Yet Tektus could only discern a few at the front- more lay behind, but a radiation fog blanketed much of the fleet, concealing them from the periscope's view.

Not a lot of things fazed Tektus- he had seen many terrible things in the faith's war to drive the Cult from the Capital Wasteland, and even more horrors in his duties to root out its lingering, hidden presence- but this brought pause to him. These weren't simple pirates or sea raiders, these looked to be something out of old mariners' tales- a fleet of ghost ships, following the fog wherever it blew. Or was it the fog that was following them?

"Retract the periscope, and dive and continue our course," Tektus ordered as the ships sailed closer. "Our brothers and sisters at the Island must be informed of this threat. If the Island has already been threatened, then we must hear them."

"What did you see, High Inquisitor?" one of the crewmembers asked. "What is this threat?"

"Superficially, a pirate fleet," Tektus answered. At its core, something that should not exist in this world."

---

Melissa Hammon had found herself buried in nothing short of an actual mountain of paperwork ever since the news had hit the Confederacy's borders...and spread like a raging wildfire. Their old nemesis, the Integrated Republic of Detroit, was falling to another old enemy of theirs: The Cult. More so, the battling was getting ever close to their borders, if not already bordering them by this point. Even more, between radar and scout reports The Dominion had been found moving into the war-torn area of the IRD to the southwest of the Confederacy. They'd already begun to see refugees, what brave ones that dared make the desperate trip to the north of the IRD at least, congregating around the front gate of the Confederacy's highly-fortified wall where the IRD and Confederacy shared a border. Rumors had already begun to circulate among the people, which hadn't made things better, and some letters or messages of concern had been sent in droves to the government and its representatives....

...including herself as well. That didn't even count the various other things commanders and their ilk had been sending to her to ask about what to do. She wasn't the only general, at least, so she knew the load had been divided up. But if MacArthur tried to push his shit onto her again, she swore she'd hang him from the flagpole by his balls for it.

"General Hammon, mam!"

Melissa looked up, eyes steeled but also visibly weary from the stress, as a soldier walked into her office and saluted her with the usual rigid posture. Melissa gestured for him to relax in turn, a common gesture she used when she'd been jawing on all day or was tired, before the man finally moved to speak further.

"The President has sent word that we are to take in and process the IRD refuges, and desires we deploy a security and processing crew!"

Melissa let out a long, yet almost silent, sigh before she responded.

"...Tell the President that i will be sending a security and processing unit down to The Wall. Then relay that order to Colonel Tucket so his unit can go down there, and remind them that we need to make it a rigorous screening. If anyone there seems any bit cultist, put a bullet in em' and burn the corpse. If they are clean, they continue through processing, but make sure everyone gets screened. Even the women and children.

Anyone who might be a soldier who is fleeing, confiscate their armaments before processing them. If they refuse to hand em' over, either turn them away or subdue them. Then he needs to get a count of just how many of those came with the refugees, and isolate them afterwards for interrogation.

I want a report in my hands as soon as they are done. Dismissed."

"Mam, yes mam!" the soldier said, saluting once more before promptly leaving the room in nothing less than a hurry.

Of course the man would try to take in the people of their enemy to look good, but that was just how it seemed to roll. Reports of the Cultist movements all around the areas just beyond their borders was terrifying to say the least. Or at least they were notably aggravating, in her case. Naval, land, and air forces were already readied for battle deployment, whether all out or even just in smaller contingents to make use of in strategic places. The already secured border had been ratcheted down even harder then usual to boot, on all fronts and sides for that matter.

The general pressed a button her desk, and soon an aide ran into her office and gave her a silent salute. Not a word was needed, after all, since her aide had been working for her for a good few years by now.

"Get the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel ambassador over to me, so we can begin the process of sharing the most up to date information on the ongoing situations in the area. We know what they are trying to do in the area, that much they announced loud and clear, but with The Cult being involved i want to see if they can share any info with us.

Also, i need someone to ask the CoA representative here to offer material and monetary assistance to the main body of the CoA on our behalf. Limited assistance, of course, as we cannot drain ourselves too much. But we can offer some older/captured weapons or basic materials at least."

"Yes mam...though i must tell you that the Scout Division has sent a messenger here as well. Something about the 'Massachusetts Rumors'?"

"...That is fine. Send him in then."

Melissa suddenly paused, her body tensed up and frozen for a few moments before giving an affirming nod to the aide. She did her best to relax her body, but as the aide left she wondered what information would be coming next. Soon enough, however, a Scout would enter the room and salute her. His uniform was dirty and worn, and he hadn't even taken off his armor at that. It was like he had just run here from-

"Mam. I was told to first report that the IRD warlord next to our border has sent a messenger. He went to the President first, and is now being told to come to you to report and give their message as well.

But as for the main matter at hand, as per your request into the rumors of the production of synthetic robots near or in Boston, we have finally received confirming reports from the Commonwealth of their presence. Further, it seems the organization making them is called 'The Institute' and is attempting to reach out to the Commonwealth citizens as of our most current report. There is also report that some form of...teleportation...might have been used as well. Though this last thing we cannot confirm save for a batch of consistent and cohesive eyewitness accounts.

What would you like us to do about this, mam?"

She been hearing rumors from their scouts about "synthetic humanoids" and a scare over them going on in Boston. That much she could gather. However, she had only told the Scout Division to contact her if confirmation or debunking of those rumors had been achieved. Such technology was not just pre-War-like in nature, it surpassed anything they had heard of from the pre-War era in their dealing and discoveries. It was groundbreaking, very much so, and such an organization could pose both a danger or a potential boon to the Confederacy due to their proximity. Regardless, the matter of The Cult was of more importance, and yet...hmm....

Perhaps some potential peaceful dealings could ensure better safety along the Confederacy's border at least. Potentially. These were becoming tumultuous times already, after all.

"Hmm....i want you to get Ambassador Cole, and i want the Scout Division to send an explorative and diplomatic squad down to the Commonwealth. I want them to seek contact with this 'Institute' if they are willing to talk, and ascertain their stance and nature. If possible, we want to pursue trade or further diplomacy.

If they are a threat, i still want the best report they can get me. I mean i want them sending our best out there to Boston for this.

After it all, i want a report on my desk as soon as they are done. Further, get the President's approval for the diplomatic mission....and soldier, please go take a shower as you can. You seemed to have earned it.

I also want the messenger from the IRD warlord sent here ASAP. I have a lot of people coming through my office today, it seems, so the sooner we handle this matter the better."

"Mam, yes mam!" the Scout said, a small yet tired smile coming to his face as he tried to remain formal, before leaving the room once more in haste as the last soldier had done.

Well...this would soon be interesting. Most interesting indeed. But for now, they had to play their cards right. Communicate with Brotherhood allies, getting this message from the "friendly" (as they had ascertained prior) warlord from the IRD, and now sending a group out to the Commonwealth into the depths of Boston for a diplomatic mission.

Lance-Sergeant Watkins - Illinois - West Coast Brotherhood of Steel

When it comes to aircraft, especially combat aircraft, a single maxim tends to be considered, the faster an aircraft, the better it is.

This is somewhat true. In the great and heady days before the great war, the bickering nation states of the world competed to build the fastest planes with which to outdo each other. Single seated rocket craft became a common sight, their vapour trails crisscrossing the upper atmosphere in near hypersonic speeds as control for the highest of altitudes was sought. When the atomic fire burned the world below, the last of these crafts fought each other, seeking a pointless domination of the skies in the final hours of their nation-states, even as those nation-states fell into non-existence.

In the age since the great war, few societies had the means to fly, fewer still had the means to use that control in a tangible way. The Enclave had been the first and most renowned society to wield this power to an unparalleled degree until their defeat in both the west and the east. Following their destruction, control of the air was opened up to the rest of the factions of North America. These societies ranged from the Boomers of New Vegas, the New Californian Republic, the shattered remnants of the East Coast brotherhood of steel, the Midwestern Brotherhood of Steel, and the West Coast Brotherhood of Steel.

For the last on the list, the projection of airpower was currently being exercised over the skies of Illinois. Flying in a tactical bombing formation, a chevron formed of three YB-35 strategic bombers, further enhanced by nine XB-42 tactical bombers and finally, twenty-one P-47 thunderbolts as escort fighters for the entire force. All of them were prop aircraft, all of them were, to be specific, former training aircraft of the United States. With the literal scrapyards worth of jet aircraft lying around within reach of the West Coast Brotherhood, it might have been a source of bewilderment that prop aircraft were favoured over jet aircraft.

After all, jet aircraft were faster, more agile, and just more advanced. The simple reason, and end-of-the-matter fact in the chamber discussions during the construction of the air force, had been that of cost. Jet aircraft were expensive in terms of resources, prop aircraft were cheaper, easier to build and maintain, and cost-effective, in that it was felt that using jet aircraft against the local tribes was felt to be a little over the top. As such, with their fusion powered engines, the west coast brotherhoods bombing wing made its way to join the fight against the cult.

The prior mentioned force was, barring the vertibirds which were exclusively operated by the special operations section, the entirety of the manned air-force of the west coast brotherhood of steel. Their current mission was simple, find and locate the airport they’d been directed towards, that of the former General Wayne A. Downing Preoria International Airport, now rechristened “Preoria Airport”, and land at the damn place.

For Lance-Sergeant Watkins and his fellow pilot, Lance-Airman Stevens, this was a rather tedious and boring task, and the two had taken up a game of wing tap as they lazed along at the rear of the formation, out of sight of Lance-Commander Carter, who was at the front of the formation, currently on mute as he delivered a long-winded patriotic and hawkish speech on the inevitable ass-whupping they were going to give those “Two-bit upstart inbred theocratic mud-fucking savages” that they’d been sent to fight, known in short hand as “The Cult” by everyone else. It was as the Lance-Commander took a breath, likely to prepare for another outburst of xeno-phobia, that the radio crackled as a new speaker spoke over the radio.

“-me in, come in over. Whirlwind Leader this is Preoria, come in come in over.”

The dulcet tones of Lance-Commander Carter thundered over the radio.

“Preoria, this is Whirlwind Leader, we are on approach for an ETA of five minutes. Request status update of ground conditions for landing over.”

At this point, Watkins could practically hear the mental sighs and thanks of the rest of the wing at being finally able to land. Knight-Colonel Carter had been ordered to remain on the ground for the duration of the campaign in order to help coordinate with the midwestern brotherhood, and as such, the sooner they landed, the better. Directions and updates were given, and the wing dropped into landing formation, strategic bombers first, then the tactical bombers, and finally the escorts, each taking turns to circle the airport before coming landing.

As he approached, Watkins let out a sigh of relief, lowered the wheels, and grinned as the place gently touched down. His eyes glanced over to his wing mate who was taxiing alongside him as they made their way to the hangars. At long last, they were in the east and going to war, letting out a comment over the radio, Watkins summed up their feelings in a single sentence.

“This is where the fun begins.”

Briefing Hangar - Peoria Airport – Illinois - Aerial Elements of the West Coast Brotherhoods Expeditionary Force against the Cult

“Damn, this is some tasty cake.”

A hum of agreement met the statement of Lance-Airman Stevens as freshly baked Victoria sponges and purified water were devoured and drank respectively. The setting for this positively picnic-esque meal was a simple one, a gaggle of officers stood huddled in various little circles inside one of the spare hangars of Preoria Airport. Having landed at Preoria as the advance element for the West Coast’s Expeditionary Force against the Cult, they’d been able to grab a single night of shut eye after an exhausting day of flying, followed by all hands pitching in for set up, and now, they could prepare for the task ahead of them.

Before the task though, came the briefing, and before the pre-briefing, age old traditions were to be observed. In this case, the soldiers quickly espied a buffet table set out for them, and promptly set about devouring the pre-briefing snacks before the CO and his entourage could arrive and hog it all for themselves. Such was the way of the world in military circles, grabbing good food and eating before others could.

“We should probably take some iodine tablets with them really, looking out from the transports I’m not sure if the land has been properly tilled and treated. The grain for the flour was probably harvested in some fallout dusted field in Iowa. If you get any lumps on your tongue, they’re probably cancer from the latent radiation from these.”

This remark caused the members of one of these military circles to all look at the outspoken member of the group who had made the remark, that of Scribe Antonio Orsatti, the deputy medical officer for the air-wing. The look on the faces of these soldiers, and their thoughts, were shortly summed up by the reply of Lance-Airman Bryant.

“Can’t you just let us eat the cake in peace Antonio? Without another one of your observations on how this or that causes cancer?”

Raising his fork, Antonio prepared to hold forth on the dangers of a subject he knew all to well from years of preparing a magisterial thesis on the matter. His lecture, which would have undoubtedly revolutionised the thinking of the group of soldiers surrounding him was interrupted by the warning cry of the unlucky sentry who drew the short straw, and thus was on lookout for the CO.

“Carter incoming!”

With a speed and swiftness, perhaps even outpacing the speeds some of the aircraft could reach, the room snapped into activity, divesting themselves of incriminating evidence such as forks and plates and cakes. As well as quickly checking appearances, and arranging themselves into a more orderly grouping rather than just a gaggle of soldiers lazing about. A mere moment after the last soldier had moved to their place, the door slammed open and in strode Lance-Commander Carter with a militantly purposeful march.

“Ten-hut!”

The command was called and a responding crack was the reply as dozens of feet snapped to the position of attention.

“At ease people.”

Jumping up onto a platform prepared for this briefing, Carter drew out and extended a pointer, and lazily wafted it over the map behind him. A giant map of the North America, with the current borders of all of its known geopolitical entities plotted out upon in. In a vast swathe of black covering a significant portion of the map was where Carter gestured.

“Here, is where our enemy lies. A vast, wild horde of savages. A theocratic entity known by a number of names, but to us, simply The Cult. This cult, radiates out from Pittsburgh, a hive of scum and villainy the likes of which is unmatched anywhere else in the North America. Through a shockingly successful campaign, they have poured their forces into the midwestern region.”

The pointer struck the map with a snap, calling attention to the scattered dashes of colour within the western reaches of the cult, before dragging it across to Indianapolis as he spoke.

“Through a policy of infiltration and quite frankly, blitzkrieg, the Cult has reduced what was once the Republic of Detroit, to a few pitiful holdouts. They then moved west, to Indianapolis where, as well all well know, victory was secured by the allied forces of Barnaky’s brotherhood and by Caesar’s Legion. As these forces recuperate from a hard-fought battle, ready to undertake a grand campaign unseen since before the days of the Great war, it will fall, or rather, rise to us, to keep up the pressure upon this breed of miserable and misbegotten bastards.”

In a swift succession of strikes, targets were tapped by Carter.

“Columbus, Springfield, Louisville, Lexington, Toledo, Sandusky, Canton, Youngstown. These will be hit in the next six days. All of them, multiple targets to be struck multiple times. We will rain fire and fury upon the hideouts of these theocratic thugs and let them know that there is no place, no dark and dank crevice which they can crawl into to attempt to escape the might and reach of the Western Brotherhood and this Continental League that has been assembled against it.”

Finally, the pointer gently came to rest on a final site.

“And then on the seventh day, we will not rest like god did oh-so lazily, no in our biblical ambitions, we will raze Pittsburgh to the ground. We will muster our full aerial force, and flatten the heart of this Cult. We will reduce their monolith to mere rubble, our arsenal shall be emptied against them, and they will be wrought to nought but dust.”

The pointer snapped shut, and Carters eyes bored into the watching eyes of those watching.

“Any questions?”

Deck of The Syreen - Lord Commodore Mordred Locke in command

Heavy footfalls struck the decrepit deck of the old pre-war vessel, as the Lord Commodore strode towards across its deck. The Syreen was nothing like what it had been before the war. Mordred could remember a time when these decks were pristine, polished to a mirror shine by the diligence and discipline of the seamen aboard her: so proud of her were they that she was the best maintained ship in the Navy. Of course she hadn’t been called The Syreen back in those days either: she’d gone by another name. But that was long ago lost to history. She was, and would forever be now, The Syreen: Terror of the North Seas, and The Witch of the Atlantic. Like him, she’d long ago been lost to the horrid corruption and decay of the new world they’d found themselves in.

Mordred stared at his hands, glowing bright green and rotting with the filth of ages. He could see his bones nearly poking through his slowly decaying flesh. Held together and alive only by the very radioactive hell that had wrought him in the first place.

Yes...just like his ship, he was long gone now. He hadn’t even the slightest inkling of what it meant to be human.

“Three captures this time Lord Commodore, they be awaitin’ your decision,” the toothless grin of one of his necrotic crewman ghouls interrupted his reminiscence. The first mate pointed towards three bound and gagged human wastelanders, pistols pointed to their heads by three half-ferals who stared ahead with vacant expressions and gaping mouths. They were sad hollow shells of the former humans they used to be: the horrific results of the Tattered Fleets cruelest of practices.

Mordred walked towards the condemned prisoners, two males and one female. The two men sunk their heads low when Mordred stepped forward, their bodies seemingly wilting under the intense radioactive aura that the ancient Glowing One emitted. He could immediately tell that they were unworthy of his gift. Such individuals were fit only to be turned into half-ferals, or simply killed and used to feed the mutant abominable dregs that lived in the depths of the fleet’s vessels. However the woman stared at him unflinchingly, a look of defiance and outward physical potency that meant she was bearing the immediate brunt of his aura: a promising sign. She was clearly frightened, that alone was evident in the subtle shaking of his form as she knelt before him, but the radiation obviously appeared to affect her less so than the others. Indeed, Mordred was surprised just how strongly she appeared to be resisting.

He approached her, ignoring the other two as they began to writhe in agony at the intense radiation now tearing apart their very cellular structure.

“What is your name?” Mordred asked. His voice deep and tainted with the sound of decay and necrotic rot.

“Sarah,” she said. Her voice shook with fear, but she never broke away from his gaze.

“You’re resistance is remarkable. You’re strong ...stronger than your frail humanity deserves to be. I offer you here and now a chance to ascend. Join my crew, and live life everlasting in service to me. I offer you my gift.”

The two wastelanders to either side of Sarah had now collapsed, their bodies shaking and spasming. They were bleeding profusely now, and their skin was peeling, leaving blackened rot where once was soft flesh. Their eyes began to turn glassy white.

“In a few short hours, they will become as they are now,” Mordred pointed to the half-ferals still standing behind them, “Little more than beasts. And yet...this fate is not for you.”

Mordred grabbed his pistol and pointed it at one of the half-ferals, firing a shot straight into its chest. It crumbled to the floor with a sickening crunch. Mordred grinned and turned to Sarah,

“You may ascend and perhaps even become one of my chosen. Behold….such power you might wield.”

Mordred knelt and touched the fallen half-feral, his body glowed bright, so much so that Sarah had to shield her eyes. Radiation oozed from Mordred and somehow, something seemed to reignite life within the dead half-feral. Perhaps the creature hadn’t really been dead but simply wounded, and the radiation now healed its injuries...or perhaps something far more sinister was at work. Either way, the results were unquestionable. The half-feral now stood once more, and grabbed his pistol as if nothing had happened.

“Now comes a choice. Pledge yourself to me willingly, and I will grant you eternity. Resist ...and you will serve me in death. Choose wisely.”

“I will not join you,” Sarah replied, her head held high, “Atom will guide me to the warmth of the eternal glow.”

Mordred snarled and approached her, reaching out his hand he grabbed her by the neck and lifted her up. As he did so, a medallion slipped from her hand and landed hard on the ship’s deck. Mordred tossed her aside and picked up the trinket, looking it over closely. It bore a strange symbol, and seemed to emit a radioactive source of its own, albeit faintly.

“Who gave you this?” He demanded.

“A missionary of Atom,” She said weakly, clutching her throat, “He came to our village and offered protection and guidance to any who might walk the path. I was the first to take Atom’s salvation and be born anew in the glow. He gave me that as a token of my new faith in the one true god.”

“Atom,” Mordred hissed and tossed the medallion overboard, “A fool’s name for a false god. I will have no such filth aboard this vessel,” He turned away and called back to the half-ferals, “Dispose of it.”

The ferals immediately turned and approached Sarah, pistols brandished. Shots rang out just as Modred began to head below deck.

“Orders Commodore?” One of the ghoul officers asked.

“Stay the course and ready the fleet. Burn every village along the coast. Kill any who resist. If Atom’s children try to stand in our way….send them to the depths.”

“Aye Commodore.”

The blade sank deep in the waist of the Mayor, as he whimpered in pathetic pain, clutching it closer. The sharp red agony burned only half as hellish, as the despair of guilt he felt. "I...i am sorry...I..am so fucking sorry.." They had taken his pistol from him, when they had locked him into his bathroom. For hours, he had bashed his hands against the door, screaming at them to just end it. He knew what he had done. He knew what his actions had caused. Thousands were dead now, dying by his actions.

He would not wait until they would drag him out of here, screaming and begging for his life. To the pyres burning outside, the crude imitations of a monolith, where the woman clad in white was singing. The witch that had lured him to this path. She had been so kind and open to his worries and troubles. Tears streamed over the Mayors face, as his finger slipped and with a scream of pain, he cut his finger. Dropping the bloody blade, he stared at his hand, as pure despair overcame him. He had signed the orders. He had send the troops to the east, he had send the wrong ammunition...he had signed the death sentenced for thousands of the most loyal soldiers of the republic. He still could hear the firefights outside. Loyal troops were fighting heroically, but outmanned. The Lady-in-white had half the city on her side, with more traitors inside the state milita. He had seen them pouring into the city, when they had dragged him away from the windows.

Like a fetus, he whimpered as he reached for his legs. The blood was flowing, as he knew that they would come back, before he would bleed out. Never in his life, even during his captivity on board of a pirate of the Dominion, had he felt such despair and hopeless fear. He was all alone, in a nightmare with no way out.

It was at this moment, that he felt it. Burning hot in his pocket, pulsating like a beating heart. For a moment, the Mayor believed to have finally succumbed to madness. But he felt it, clear, numbing the pain from his bleeding wrist and fingers. It was an agonizing task, to reach for it, and produce the pulsating object from his pocket. Staring at it, in the dim light of the room, his eyes grew wide, as the jet-black stone reflected his face.

For the last time in his life, the mayor felt fear...

---

---

The Door broke, under the application of a heavy kick, shattering the wood and letting the lock spring out from the frame. Even before the first broken bits of it had hit the ground, Stanislav and his men unloaded their assault rifles in a deadly and furious fashion at the closest possible range. Storming the room, Stanislav rejoiced in the chance to finally fight the bastards that had burned his home and slaughtered his people. He never had found any sympathy for the new church and its rising power among the people, army and government. He had told them all, that it would not have a good end, yet nobody had listened to his warnings. Now, as the information about the Cult invasion could no longer be hidden by traitorous officers and soft-spoken missionaries, the time of bullets and knives had come. The time to choose between the republic and the devil. Stanislav had been born in Port Austin, a city now gripped by madness and death. The church had taken over, armed its followers and cultists. Suicide Bombers had blown up multiple police stations and military police had been gunned down by traitor among their own ranks, hiding their faces behind a white hood with symbols he did not know, nor wanted to.

"TAKE NO PRISONERS! FIND THE MAYOR!" Securing the room, Stanislav felt a sting in his heart, as he looked at the table. Empty eyed and fearful, the face of the bureaucrat Stanislav had cursed a week ago for messing up his paycheck, was looking back at him, his throat slit ear to ear. But it was the corpse next to him, far smaller and younger, that shattered something deep inside Stanislav. "Jesus, do these bastards know no limits?" A soldier whispered behind him, as the Sergeant-Mayor reloaded his weapon, trying to focus himself on the task, and not on the display of endless cruelty and terror. The statehouse, was just like the city, a sight of madness and death. "Four second in breath, four seconds out breath...the men count on you to lead them. If you don't do it, nobody will!"

"Onward! If the rat was right, the Mayor has to be on the second floor. We grab him and then get to the boat. Double time!" The soldiers nodded, as they stormed onwards, over the corpses of the traitors, towards the stairs. It was there, were a second ambush was tried by the cultists, but the veterans of the Regional Army had fought the Dominion for years. Firing through the thin walls, the traitors fell. Smashing his rifle against the weakened wall, Stanislav tossed a grenade through it, before jumping to cover with the rest of his men. Screams of panic were silenced by a loud explosion and the hissing of shrapnel, before a pathetic whimper came from the dying inside the room. One bloodied traitor stumbled through the door, before collapsing, his arm missing and his body in tatters. Checking the room, Stanislav felt pity as he looked upon the white hooded corpses, before his mind recalled the corpse of the little girl.

"Sarge...that's the guy who sold water at the harbor. I..i talked to him yesterday.." One of his soldiers, a sturdy build red haired oaf named Damian Miller had removed the hood of one of the traitors, and as Stanislav looked onto him, he saw not the face he had hoped for. It was not a grim monster, but a thin and friendly face, even now, smeared with blood and gore. "This is not an invasion...we are fighting our own bloody people.." Feeling the stares of his man, Stanislav shrugged, before once more letting his bellowing voice speak. "This is not the man who sold you water. This..." Stanislav gave a kick against the head of a white hooded figure. Falling half off, the lower face of an young woman became visible. "..is not your friend! Not anymore. They are the enemy, and we will treat them like that. They have turned into mad beasts! I will personally shoot anyone who shows them mercy. YOU HEAR ME?" He had no passion left to inspire. No heroics could survive in this place of darkness. His men nodded in cold agreement, as he leads them on further. He had to find the mayor.

Finally, they made it up the stairs, finding the office of the military prefecture. Among all the death and chaos, seeing him crucified against a wall with a dozen of blades hardly had any effect on him anymore. It was just another senseless display of madness, unleashed by his own people against themselves in an abysmal orgy of violence and death. The Bathroom was barricaded with a crate and a collection of chairs. It was quick work, for a group of seven men, to move them aside and with their Sledgehammer, they crushed the door. Breaking it down, Stanislav had his rifle raised, aiming into the small room, dark and dimly lit. He could smell the blood, and his jaw twitched in disgusted expectation of another maddening display of Cult cruelty.

The naked man rose to his feet, opening his arms, as Stanislav stumbled backwards. "Mayor? Mayor, is that you? I...IDENTIFY YOURSELF OR I WILL KILL YOU!" Stanislavs nerves were at its breaking point. This night would haunt him to the end of his days. It was not a war, not a battle, but madness. Every aspect of it had nothing human about it, but pure, diabolical evil beyond the deepest abyss of a mind of a man. He had not come so far, to have his men or himself be blown to bits by a cult Suicide bomber. With a scream he unloaded his gun once more, and his men joined in. Firing at the man in the dark, their muzzle flashes gave light to him, bloody and covered in tattoos in black.

Finally, the weapons turned silent, having unloaded their lead fury onto the man. Staring at him, Stanislav lowered his gun, before a deep, eternal fear gripped his heart. Like snowflakes, the bullets sank inches before the man, before slowly landing on the ground. His men let out fearful gasps and screams as they stumbled backwards, unable to make sense of it, but Stanislav would go down without a fight. Be it insanity or some dark truth to the rambling of the church, he would not let it happen to him. Pulling out his sidearm, he raised it, ready to unload once more.

"There is no need for that, Sergeant-Mayor!"

Stanislav stared in shock, as he heard the voice of the Mayor in front of him. Slowly, the Mayor stepped through the bullets, their heat burning his skin. Now in the light, Stanislav could see his wounds and...bleeding tattoos. Self-inflicted wounds, coated with a black liquid, jet-black and terrible to behold. "Mayor, what is this? What is the meaning of it?"

The Mayor stood still, glaring over the men, before whispering, a grim smile on his face. "It means that we now will fight fire with fire.."

---

It was one of the greatest injustices of the Three-Highway War, that nobody would ever learn, that Mary Silver Smith, was the hero that saved Hamilton from the cruel fate, that befell so many other cities in the IRD, at the start of said war. If i had not been for the Waitress in the "Sweetwater Saloon and Grills", and her finding the crude but honest compliments of Colonel Manuel Sadoul, somewhat charming, rather than annoying as most women did in Hamilton, she would never had ended up in bed with said Colonel, during this fateful autum night. Sleeping in the sideroom of the office of the Colonel, it was who was awoken by the two cultists of the church of Starry Glory, breaking into the office to murder the Colonel, wearing uniforms of the secret police. Using the Colonels sidearm, it was Mary Silver Smith, who shot both of them, then gave out the warning over the radio and barricaded the door to the office, even before said Colonel was awake.

Sure, she could not stop the massacare at the statehouse of Hamilton, where cultist stormed a late seating of the local governeour with his closest advisors. Or the suicide bombing attacks on posts of the military police. But what Mary Silver Smith could do, was drive the very drunken Colonel to the garrison of the local divison of the regional army. Even here, the Cult had its traitors, but this time, the element of suprise was on the loyalists sides, and these traitors were rooted out quickly and without mercy. Less then one hour after the first suicide attack and the murder of the governer, it was Mary Silver Smith, who once more was driving a still very drunken Colonel into the middle of the city, but this time seated in an Armored Car, with two heavy machine guns and a divison of Regional Army troops following behind in their own vehicles. Unexpecting such a heavy and fast counter-reaction, the traitors and cultists inside the city, were unprepared to an republican answer in machine-gun fire.

It was in the early morning of the next day, with a now very hung-over Colonel Manuel Sadoul, who was hailed the savoir of the city, that Mary Silver Smith, finally could get some much needed rest.
Meanwhile, the "Emergency Security Zone of Hamilton" would gather up soldiers and draft milita. With Colonel Manuel Sadoul now in charge, no contact to any of the Regional States or Federal Goverment instiution or Army command, he did something completly out of the box. Once more it was Mary Silver Smith, now stuck in the uniform of an IRD Captain, who was awaiting her audience with Colonel Melissa Hammon. She did not buy the excuse of Manuel, that he wanted to send the sole person in the city he trust, as she was smart enough, to know what he did was technically high treason. But she had seen firsthand what had happened inside the city, with Cult raging among them. They needed help, and the enemy of the enemy, was the friend after all.

Mary Silver Smith never had understood the political reasons for the conflict with the Confederation, nor had she cared much about it. Walking in her uniform, so bluntly like a civilian, that even her four bodyguards gave up on pretending, she had been refused to be granted direct contact with their president, and instead been send to another Colonel. Cursing Manuel under her breath, she sipped the offered water, while smoking a cigerret, staring at the clock, before finally being told that she could see the person she was waiting for. Walking in, she rushed past the soldier, into the office. "Colonel? My name is Mary Silver Smith, Captain for Manuel Sadoul, but i will be honest, i am waitress, i had two hours of sleep in the last three days and i got a lot of points to adress. Excuse me if i dont know how to salut, but i am new to the whole military buisness."

---

---

"Faithful! Enlightend! Brothers and sisters! Heed my call upon you. I am Lady Commander Jatta-Kalum, Missonary to the blind and fearful. I call upon you, in your darkest hour, to say to you, do not dispair. The Faithful are coming and they are among you. Do not fight the coming of the new order, but embrace it. They, who have already confessed your soul and lives to the monolith, rejoice in sermon with your brothers from the south, here to punish the wicked and faithless.

The task of spilling blood is upon you. Do not refrain from it, starry glory awaits all who take it upon themselves, to fight in his name. Stars shall bleed, and streets shall run red. Then, there will be heavenly peace, as well all are united in a new world of enlightened worship. For no longer we have to hide our devotion, no longer do we need to endure the lack of faith of they around us. No longer shall the truth be ignored, by the ignorant masses...

I call upon each and every one of you, to do your duty. RISE IN HIS NAME! There is no meaning in this mortal world! No meaning in any live or death. Only in Ug-Qualtoth you shall find what you all seek.

Now go forth and serve...with knife, bullet and granade.

Thousands of radios would spray out the words of the lady in white. Some under the backdrop of firefights in the streets. Others in cities already flying the cruel banner of the Cult. Others would be crushed by hammers, the seconds they awoke, by the forces that had resisted the Cult. But the painting was on the wall. The IRD was no longer an existing concept...but a sea of warlords, cultists and army holdouts.

Downtown Indianapolis, Military District of Indiana

The civilians sat in small groups around the basement of the old office building that had become their shelter from the fighting, and quietly ate the meal brought to them fellow civilians, under the watchful eye of Brotherhood soldiers, and discuss what news they had heard about what was going on in the city. Their main sources for news were new faces, as the soldiers brought in people who had managed to survive the fighting as the battlelines crossed over them, sometimes repeatedly, and those among their number the soldiers had picked to go with them to the Airport and bring back food and distribute it. Both reported the streets were largely quiet now, the Brotherhood and their Legion allies had finally crushed the combined gangs of the Overboss, and his Cult friends, and for better or for worse were now in undisputed control of the City....the Legion along with most of the Brotherhood troops had withdrawn from Indianapolis proper, and the remaining Brotherhood soldiers were either constructing fortifications around town or systematically searching street by street for holdouts. Civilians they found were moved to shelters like this one, as for their former Bosses, the ones who surrendered were taken away....those who chose to resist were promptly shot. The people from the food parties said a massive Army of Brotherhood and Legion soldiers...more people than they had ever seen in one place before...was camped outside the City by the Airport and the Interstates, and according to rumor were preparing to march East soon. The rumors and stories turned, as they inevitably did, soon turned to what it always did....

What would happen to them? What did the Brotherhood plan to do with them?

Amid the buzz of conversation, a Brotherhood soldier, rifle slung and carrying a battered old Radiation King radio, casually strolled, politely avoiding stepping on anyone as he headed for the center of the room. Carefully making room on a old table he found there, he placed the radio on the table, switched it on and selected a station and turned up the volume..

"..weed

Back in the saddle again
Ridin' the range once more
Totin' my old .44
Where you sleep out every night
And the only law is right
Back in the saddle again...."

He then retreated as people began to gather around the radio, curious to hear what came next.

After the third time the song repeated, the music faded out and a man began to speak.

"Good afternoon, Ladies and Gentlemen!", the man said in a polished tone of a professional radio announcer, "WNDE is now on the air at 1260 kilohertz on the AM dial, serving the Indianapolis Metropolitan area. Operating under a license from the Office of Administration, WNDE will broadcast a mixture of music and news 24 hours a day, seven days a week."

"The following is a Public Service Announcement, broadcast at the request of the Office of the Provost-Marshal General for the Military District of Indiana", the man continued, "Martial Law is in effect throughout the Indianapolis Metropolitan area until further notice. Citizens are required to obey the direction of Military and Civil authorities, violators are subject to arrest and imprisonment. Armed resistance to lawful commands will be met with deadly force. In addition, by order of the Provost-Marshal General, a dusk to dawn curfew is in effect until further notice."

"The afternoon news will begin at four pm local time", the man concluded", "until then, some music."

"HURRAH for the founder of the nation!
Our general so brave and so true;
We'll go for the great Reformation—
For Barnaky and Liberty too!

We'll go for the son of Californ-ia—
The hero of Lincoln's Land through;
The pride of the Cornhuskers so lucky—
For Barnaky and Liberty too!"

Terminal - Indianapolis International Airport

"...between the severe addition to narcotics, specifically jet and Med-X, and his penchant for sexual assault", Stahl said, "In my opinion the subject is not capable of rehabilitation and recommend that he should be disposed of." She looked at the rest of the panel then continued, "Regarding subject 15-401, how does the tribunal vote?"

One by one, the Tribunal voted......3 for disposal, 0 against.

"The vote is unanimous", Stahl said, "Subject 15-401 is sentenced to Death for ban....", stopping short as she noticed the gesture from a man at the far end of the table, still poring over the original file for the subject, "you have an objection, Colonel Fenton?"

"The case file says you have in custody witnesses to crimes carried out by this man, is that correct?", Fenton asked.

"It is", Stahl replied, "Including women he sexually assaulted, one of which he had kept as a slave...he also admitted to committing rape to his interrogator".

Fenton looked up and locked eyes with Stahl.

"I'll take him off your hands then, Jessica", Fenton said coldly, "A public trial and hanging...should he be convicted, of course...will demonstrate to our new Citizens that we mean what we say about restoring Order."

"As you wish", Stahl replied with a shrug and turned to the stenographer, "Let the record indicate that it is the decision of the Tribunal that Subject 15-401 be remanded to the Office of the Provost-Marshal General with a criminal referral for Capital crimes." Fenton nodded agreeably, and handed the case file to an aide, who placed it in a stack of files marked "Referred for prosecution".

"Next Case", Stahl said as she pushed a button on the remote for the projector, changing the picture from a male raider to a female, "Is Subject 15-296, Rachel Jacobson, aka Icepick. Lieutenant to one of the Underbosses of the former Colts Raider Gang, she is the highest ranking known survivor of the gang. 15-296 responded well to standard interrogation techniques, proving co-operative and providing actionable intelligence. Moderate abuser of Buffout, but not addicted to narcotics, reputation of pragmatism when it came to anti-social behavior, and a natural leader...I believe 15-296 is capable of rehabilitation and recommend Re-Education." She then looked at Fenton, who indicated by shaking his head that he did not object, she then continued and called for a vote, which came back 3 to 0 for rehabilitation.

"Let the record show that by unanimous vote", Stahl said, "Subject 15-296 is granted the opportunity to expiate her crimes via Re-Education." She picked up the remote and mashed the button, and a new Raider mugshot appeared om the screen. "Next case is...."


Hangar 2 - Indianapolis International Airport

Paladin-General Wilson waited patiently for the last Vertibird pilot, Lancer-Seargant Kyle, to take his seat before speaking.

"Good work with the Legatus, Lancer-Sergeant", Wilson said in an approving manner, "Now that you're here we can begin". On the screen behind him, appeared a city map that by the river running through it was clearly not Indianapolis. "This, ladies and Gentlemen, is your next mission....Detroit."

The hangar became dead silent as Wilson continued. "The current situation there is critical, half of Detroit proper has been overrun, and Windsor is under constant pressure across the bridges. To compound things, their Chief of Staff is a traitor and staging a coup in conjunction with Cult sympathizers in their Legislature. Our analysts believe they won't last 48 hours without reinforcements. Commodore Hackett begins landing operations in Detroit and Windsor within the hour, but the commander of the IRD forces has made a urgent request, and Hackett doesn't have the means to accomplish it with the forces at his disposal." The map zoomed in to a area in central Detroit. "The front has largely stabilized along Eight-Mile Road. This is Highland Park, about four miles behind enemy lines. A large number of civilians, well over a thousand by the IRD's estimates, have taken shelter there. The only thing between them and the Cult is what's left of the two Infantry Battalions that managed to reach them before being completely cut off by the Enemy."

"In spite of their gallant defense, Highland Park will fall in a matter of hours unless drastic action is taken", Wilson continued, "The Plan is this....the Squadron will execute a combat drop of Knights directly behind the IRD defensive positions. To maintain surprise, the local defenders will not be told you're coming. At the same time, the IRD will drive on Highland Park from the North with all the forces they can muster. The Knights will need to help the defenders hold the line while the civilians are evacuated, then execute a fighting withdraw back to IRD lines. Casualties will almost certainly be high, but if successful, it will help convince the Detroiters we are sincere about assisting them against the Enemy. Once the Knights are deployed, the Squadron will report to Commodore Hackett for further orders."

"Wheels up in thirty minutes", Wilson concluded gravely, "Ad Victoriam!"

"Ad Victoriam!", replied the assembled aircrews and Knights.

---

---

"We give upon the earth, our brothers...our comrades...our fellow faithful." The group leaders voice boomed, even though he spoke normaly, with little haste, but a deep bitterness. The two militans, that had been Bat-kick and Jagged lay broken upon the board. An explosive trap, had sprung when they had entered the building and torn into them, like a sickle into fresh razorgrain. The Group Leader had held onto Bat-Kicks hand, when he taken his last breaths, coughing blood that was more black then red. His last words, had been a hissing begging for last breath of Miasma, to numb his pain. When the rebreather had reached his mouth, he had already turn limp in his grip, dying from the terrible wound, the cowardly contraption had inflicted upon him. The priests in the liliac robes, had collected them, ordered their slaves to strip them of all that was salvagable, before leaving their bodies behind, tossing all they could still use, to fuel this eternal war onto a cart, before moving on, back behind the army. Naked, the the group had gathered some fabric, to give their brothers some decency in death, and cover their wounds. Rolled into it, the had placed them here, in a more secluded spot, with deep earth to bury them, rather then just leave them for the crows, as the priests in the liliac robes would do.

"They were brave! They were brothers to each and every one of us. None of us ever found them wanting. None of us could claim to have done better! We will never see the likes of them again..." The Group-Leaders mouth felt bitter, as his lungs begged for the miasma. His nose took in the smell of blood, and for a moment, his sadness was overcome by rage over the cowardly murderer who had robbed him of these two fine men. "If it wasnt for Jagged, i never would have made it through the blood works. He jumped in, when a ghoul overpowered me.." The voice of another militant rose, before one more came forth. "Bat-kick always made sure we all got our rations. He would not eat before the rest of us did." Three of his men were digging two holes, deep enough, that the two would finally be able to rest, never to be found by the vile faithless. Something inside the Group-Leader wished he could say something. Promise that they now were at a better place. But it was a lie. There was no such thing, in the twilight of the monolith.

Finishing up on the hole, the three climbed out, ready to lower the bodies. "Let us never forget our brothers. Let us never forget who they were, as they would have never forgotten us!" Reaching for the bodies, the Group-Leader suddently stopped. It was a buzzing, like a swarm of angry insects, all around him. Slowly, it grew to a massive roar, and then, the ground itself began to shake. "Group-Leader? What is that infernal noise?" Turning, the Group Leader walked forth, between the two holes, and stared into the red sky. Then, he saw it. Machines, roaring Machines of death and fire...

---

When the Group leader woke up, he was lying in the hole. His whole body ached and pained, as he was half covered in earth and half in... "No...please no!"

Getting up slowly, he shaked the earth off, wincing, as he spat out earth and blood. His ears were still ringing, as he could not tell where he was. The buildings that had surrounded them, were gone. Fire and ash was everywhere. Reaching for his ears, he could feel the hot liquid of blood running down them. "WAR GROUP! RALLY TO ME!" He knew that he was screaming, but he couldnt make out his own voice. Standing on his shaking legs, he stumbled forward, into the ruins.

"BROTHERS! TO ME!....BROTHERS! BROTHERS!"

The group leader would not find them. When he returned to the two graves, he slowly began, the task to fill them, with the remains he could make out. He had come, to bury two of his group, but now, was burying them all in two shallow graves. So little, was left of them, that he hardly could fill one of them.

---

The scourge of Colombus, second strike against the Cult by the Brotherhoods Airforce, had been an even greater success, then the first attack on the skull monolith. The vanguard of the cult army, caught suprise and directly in the city, was shattered under the infernal bombing campaing.

Publick Occurrences Diamond City - The Commonwealth

“Citizens of Diamond City, for your protection and safety, a curfew is now in effect. Please remain in your homes from the hours of 8:00pm to 7:00am. A single warning will be issued to any who break curfew. Repeat violators of this curfew will be prosecuted. Thank you for your cooperation. [This message repeats] Citizens of Diamond City….”

Piper switched the radio dial off. Diamond City radio was far less interesting nowadays. Piper had always tuned into it when she was up late working on an article. Even with Travis’ neurotic ramblings it was comforting to listen to. It had always represented home for her. Even when she was out in the wastes, chasing a story or investigating a lead, she could count on the radio signal to follow her wherever she went: a little piece of Diamond City to remind her that home was still out there waiting.

Now The Institute had taken that away too. What more could they do to her?

Piper poured herself another shot of whiskey, noting through the haze of drunken stupor that the bottle was empty. She threw the empty bottle in the wastebasket, and it nearly shattered when it clattered against the numerous other bottles there. Nat was upstairs sleeping, but her medicine always knocked her out cold. There was no fear of waking her now, and she would need her rest.

Piper took another look at the lengthy paper she’d just finished, still fresh on the typewriter and ready for the press. A small smile spread across her face. It would be her magnum opus: her last great work. It was a scathing critique of The Institute, and of Thomas especially. She’d held nothing back. His betrayal...his lies and his manipulation of her and everyone in The Commonwealth. Everything she’d had to hold back would be laid bare for everyone to see. Hundreds of copies would be printed, and she would use was little contacts she had left to distribute them across The Commonwealth. She had no illusions it would stop The Institute, but it might just hinder them enough to make a difference. Her life would be forfeit...but if they killed her then all the better. People would know it was the truth and start fighting back, she’d be a martyr for free press and would have the last laugh on Thomas.

But when she heard the sound of an electric jolt and felt a bright light emanating from behind her, she couldn’t even say she was surprised. She’d been expecting this. They were always one step ahead. She figured she would have more time...oh well. It was worth a shot. Perhaps a copy or two would still get out. Maybe it wouldn’t be a total loss. Her only thought was for Nat now...she hoped she’d be okay without her.

“Alright, go ahead and do it,” Piper said with a heavy sigh as she started to turn around, “I figured Thomas would send one of his Courser goons to off me eventually. Just make it…..”

To her surprise, it wasn’t a heavily armed Couser that had just manifested in her home, it was Thomas.

“Hello Piper,” He said simply.

Piper stood there and stared at him in disbelief. For the briefest of moments she felt relieved, almost happy to see him in a twist of emotion that she couldn’t explain. But that faded as quickly as it had come, and was replaced with blind rage that bubbled up with a vengeance as the weight of his sins began to fall on her. She clenched her fists and spoke to him through gritted teeth.

“Get out. Now.”

“Not until I’ve had a chance to speak with you.”

“There’s nothing to talk about. We’ve gone waaaay past anything you can say that will make anything you did okay. You aren’t going to charm me. You’re a monster.”

“I understand that, yet I’d like to talk with you nonetheless. I know you feel betrayed...angry..”

“Feel? There is no ‘feel’. You did betray everyone. EVERYONE when you became one of them. What happened to Valentine? He helped you and you let them take him away like he was garbage. What happened to Preston? To The Minutemen? Virgil? To Dr. Amari and Goodneighbor? Why is it that everyone who helped you along to The Institute suddenly vanished or disappeared? Do you think I’m stupid Tom? I had a small hope that when I learned you were leading them, that perhaps things would be different. But everything just stayed the same, no, it became worse. The Institute would never had done something so bold as to wipe out Goodneighbor. Not unless they had you to lead them...”

Thomas stayed silent for a few moments, allowing the weight of Piper’s words to carry. She wasn’t wrong, he knew that, but he couldn’t help but feel deadend to her insults and pleas for answers,

“Everything I did, I did for the sake of safeguarding The Institute and humanity's future. Everyone I interacted with had dangerous knowledge that might have led them back here. Back to us. I had to remove any knowledge of the teleporter and The Institute’s secrets...loose ends had to be tied up...threats had to be removed.”

“LOOSE ENDS? You sick psychotic son-of-a---” Piper picked up a cigarette tray and threw it at him as hard as she could. To her surprise it passed right through him and clattered against the wall on the opposing side. Her confusion was quickly replaced by seething anger. Did his deception never end?

“I should have known.” She said through gritted teeth.

“I’m sorry,” Thomas acknowledged, “I wanted to come in person. I was persuaded to do otherwise.”

“Cait?”

He nodded in reply.

“She’s a heartless mercenary. A cruel evil bitch you know that? You too make a perfect match in that respect,” Piper shook her head, “I believe she loves you though...but do you love her?”

Thomas stared blankly at Piper, a seconds pause and hesitation before he said what was in his mind,

“She reminds me of Nora. Headstrong and independent...stubborn and cynical. Always pushing me to do what I never would have the courage to do alone.”

“That doesn’t answer my question Tom.”

“For a brief time, I believed I did. In Vegas…. I thought perhaps that I could finally move on from Nora’s memory. But those feelings faded as soon as I returned. I realize now that I never truly can. I’ve made it my mantra to move forward, to forget the past. Spade under the old so that the new can grow. I’ve forgotten Shaun as he was and accepted who he became...and I plan to do the same with The Commonwealth...with the world. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot do the same with Nora. She’s locked somewhere deep within me, and will not let go.”

“One more betrayal to add on to the pile I suppose,” Piper quipped, “I mean why not? What’s a broken heart compared to the hundreds you’ve trampled under?”

“It’ll be for the better in any case. I’ll never be able to give Cait what she truly wants. Not after Phase 4 is enacted. However, I will not be cruel. She has been through enough.”

“Phase 4? I supposed that’s your fancy name for what you’re doing here? Taking over Diamond City, putting The Commonwealth under your thumb?” Piper’s eyes narrowed, and she leaned against the wall looking at him intently.

“Yes. Its a small part. The rest will be revealed in time. Needless to say, there will be changes. Things will start to take a turn for the better here in Diamond City, and beyond. As you know I’ve already made my promise to those living here.”

Piper scoffed dismissively, shaking her head with disdain,

“You realize they weren’t actually applauding you? Don’t you? You understand that none of them truly think The Institute is in their best interests. They all still hate you. They’re just doing whatever they need to do or say to survive. If that means kow-towing to The Institute’s commander-in-chief-for-life. They’ll do it.They’re scared out of their wits Tom.”

“I know,” Thomas replied with a nod, “I’m under no illusions that a single speech and a show of force will change their minds about us. But it's of no concern. Right now they will hate me, hate The Institute. They’ll fear us, but perhaps a small part of them will grudgingly accept the current situation, perhaps even hope for a better tomorrow. I will nurture that part, and in a generation or two when The Commonwealth is free of disease, hunger, mutation, and death. We will see how their grandchildren feel about our legacy.”

“Let's pretend I believe you,” Piper said as she stood up and began walking towards the hologram, “And let's assume you are somehow able to change things for the better. Make the world a better place….rewind the clock or whatever the hell you think you can accomplish. What exactly makes you think that the next jackboot thug wearing that labcoat and calling himself ‘The Director’ is going to continue to follow your hair-brained scheme? What’s to stop them from completely reversing everything you’ve done and going back to treating us like a giant petri dish?”

“There will not be another Director.” Thomas’s replied stoically. .

“Oh I get it, you intend to destroy the system? Implement democracy?” Piper let out a mocking peel of laughter, “Don’t kid yourself Tom. You know that’ll never fly down there.”

“You misunderstand me. There will BE a Director. But there will not be another Director after me.”

Piper stopped in her tracks confused, “What are you trying to say Tom?”

“I’m saying that I intend to ensure my plans are carried out to the end. Personally.” A small grin escaped Tom’s lips, the light on the hologram flickered briefly which cast a menacing visage as it caused his face to twist and contort in the transparent blue glow.

“You’re insane.” Piper stepped back in shock.

“No I’m thinking quite clearly. I assure you. It's what has to be done. As you astutely pointed out, without a guiding hand to lead it long-term, The Institute will merely fall back into its old ways of isolation and xenophobia. And nothing will change. It must be guided with a firm hand, as must the rest of The Commonwealth, for as long as needs be.”

“You really have lost it Blue,” She shook her head in disbelief, using the old nickname she’d had for Thomas with little thought, “You’ve let that ‘Father’ thing go to your head.”

“No. I’ve come to realize this necessity after observing the other nations of the wasteland and their actions thus far. Those that led with a strong hand, one which conveys strength and permanence, have flourished here. Those without...have begun to fall back into the old ways that led us to this sad pass in the first place. If things continue that way, it seems inevitable that history will repeat itself. That cannot happen. It WILL not happen.”

Piper witnessed nothing less than utter conviction on Thomas’s face, for whatever his faults, whatever his mad schemes, he seemed to truly believe that what he was about to do would lead to a better world, perhaps even prevent the ills of his generation from coming to pass again. A small part of her wanted to believe that he was right, that he could do what he claimed. Yet she knew she could never stand by and allow such a maniacal scheme come to fruition. It was too much.

“I won’t let you Tom. I’ll do whatever I can to stop you. You can’t keep me silent about this.”

“I know Piper. I know. It's why I came to talk to you ...we had a mutual understanding for a good long time. For awhile I thought perhaps it could last indefinitely ...but I know that was impossible. It was against every principle you stood for, and it was only for your sister’s sake that you kept your end of the bargain. I admire that. But it has to end I’m afraid.”

“Go on then. Kill me.”

“I can’t. Oddly enough I have no desire to, although I can say firmly and without any doubt that you would kill me if given the chance. But no Piper, I won’t kill you.”

The door to Publick Occurrence opened, and Piper stared in horror as her exact double stared her right in the face, down to the very last scrap of clothing. She could even see the cut she’d gotten only hours before still healing on the left hand of the thing. How had they even known about that?

“No,” She took a step back, her eyes wide in terror. The Synth double mimicked her muscle by muscle, their voices synced down to the most minute intonation. Her worst nightmare had come to pass.

“You can’t...”

Thomas remained silent, but simply nodded to the double who walked up to Piper’s typewriter and took her seat, tearing out the paper in it and starting a new one.

“Blue please….”

“Perhaps in time, you can return to Diamond City Piper. But for now, you’re going to see the one place you always hoped to discover.”

“NO! NAT!” Piper knew it was no use, her sister would not wake for anything with her medicine in her.

“Your sister will be well taken care of. I promise you.”

In the next moment, Piper was engulfed in a flash of blue light, and she disappeared. Yet the clicking of the typewriter went on without her.

---

---

The howl of the engine was what alarmed the caravan, yet at this point, it was already to late. The howl of the machine soon was joined by the warcries of the companions of the hardest rider, who´s war club scraped over the ground below. He could make out seven walkers and four brahmins, packed and heavy with loot. One of them raised a rifle, which unleashed a hissing beam of laser upon them, but missed , its atomic fury cracking open a wreck of a vehicle far away from them. With one more warcry on his lips, Shinji pressed through with his foot, the bike below him storming forth.

The carrier of the laser rifle screamed in fear, as the bike came past him, and the warclub connected with his chest, shattering bones and flesh alike. Seconds later, his companions were upon the traders. A spear was jammed into the side of a brahmin, a blade took the head of another carvan guard and Shinji himself took another kill to his name, when he disloged the leg of a fleeing man, before driving his bike over him. Howling in victory he stopped his bike, before raising his bloody club over his head. "THE ETERNAL HIGHWAY!"

---

The meat of Brahmin was tender, if cooked right and slowly. The loot had been meager, mostly books and useless junk, that the hardest rider simply had no use nor patience for. It was the rotten slave, that he had to drag along on due to the demand of the warchief, that was holding upon one of them, reading through it, while letting his own meat go cold. With naught but disgust, Shinji and his seven companions feasted, while letting a bottle of moonshine pass around, that they had found on one of the brahmins, while looking into the fire of books. "None of these were worthy kills. You walkers should not dare to mention them to our ancestors! They will laugh at you, when we meet them on the asphalt of the eternal highways in the sky. They will not take you into the halls of the freckled maid or painted host if these are the best you have. Brothers...i tell you, my great ancestor, the man i am named after, has killed more men in a morning, than any of you in your life!" Taking a deep sip from the booze, Shinji looked over to the rotten slave. "Vagari...sounds like virgin spelled with a fucked up mouth! Who gave you this silly name?"

The Ghoul did not answer, but kept looking at the book, but Shinji was not intrested in letting him go easy. His blood was boiling and his mood raised by the raid. "You know, Thunderfoot would never know if i would just break your ugly rotten neck! To be fully honest, i think it would be for the best. Your whining and boot licking makes me sick, every time you open your mouth, all i hear is a worm bending over." The smug grin on the slave drove Shinji wild, as he got up, his companions falling silent. "Your ears have rotten off, you worm? I am talking to you!" The slave just shaked his head, closing his book. Laying it down, he himself got up, small and rotten as his figure was. "You are all that is wrong with the 80s, dear Shinji. All that was wrong with Thunderbird!" The hardest rider spat out. "Thunderbird was a leader! Thunderfoot will be a leader! You will just be a sniffling worm. Didnt he made you his concubines wetnurse? Heard he cut off your manhood as well...if it had not long rotten off." Shinji just wanted to strangle the old man, but some curiosity was woken in him as well.

"I was indeed the servant of the mother of Thunderfoot. Who was a woman who deserved better than this brutal barbarian. All joy she ever had in life, he took from her. As you most likely will from who ever poor woman you will copulate with and father an offspring." Shinji took a deep breath, as his hand formed a fist. But a promise had been a promise, and he would not defy his blood brother. Once more, he felt the curiosity getting the better of him, in all his anger. "Redhair had a good life as the concubine of the greatest leader the 80s ever had!" Cutting off another piece of meat, Shinji reached for the bottle from one of his companions. "But what would a slave know of that?"

"Didnt he lead you to your downfall? Didnt he die, not on your sacred highway, but strangulated by a rope, in front of a cheering crowed in Shady Sands?" Taking a huge swing, Shinji scoweld at the slave. "He poked the bear one to many time, yes. But he now rides with the great ancestors on the eternal highway! He feasts in the halls of the freckled maid and the painted host!" The slave didnt answer, just once more stared in his books.

---

The kick to his side, woke Shinji roughly, who reached for his dagger, but the hand of his companion "Cutters-Edge" was faster and on his mouth. "They are upon us! Ten of them, Legion scouts.." The beating of his heart was all Shinjig felt as he rolled over, taking hold of the rifle. He and his companions lay awake, ready for the ambush that would soon be upon them. They had been in such situations before, and Shinji knew that a good counter ambush could turn the tide better then a real one ever could. He could hear the steps towards them, as he took a deep breath. He was ready to fight once more this day...

"Amicis, ego postulant diplomatica loco. Nos sunt envoys de potens rex Thunderfoot, qui offert, manum in amicitia, ut potens legionem, et promptus est ut persolvo tributum eius, ut et gloria. Ego, humilis servus in eius nomine, fuisse fiduciam loqui in nomine eius. Hoc incursione meum custodes male monuit, tamen extra legionem territorio. Nos esset, non audeat ad contemptum sacra terram de legio, sit ut difficiliter vel peregrini." _1.

Shinji rose, cursing this damn fool, speaking what he suspected was some strange spell. But the figures in the shadow stopped and lowered their weapons. Did it work?

"Nobilis Thunderfoot, Vincere Salt Lake City requirit diplomatica loquitur, cum legionem. Ego humiliter petentibus, ut ego sum, ad esse adduxit ante a persona auctoritate, ut tenere dixit diplomatica loquitur." _2.

---

1. _{Friends, i demand diplomatic passage. We are the envoys of the mighty king Thunderfoot, who offers his hand in friendship to the mighty legion, and is willing to pay tribute to its might and glory. I, a humble servant in his name, have been trusted to speak in his name. This raid of my guards was ill advised, yet outside of legion territory. We would not dare to disrespect the sacred ground of the legion, be it as envoy or travellers.}

2. _{Noble Thunderfoot Conquerer of Salt Lake City requests in all honesty and in the spirit of friendship, diplomatic talks with the legion. I humbly request that i am to be brought before a person of authority, so that i may hold said diplomatic talks.}

Decanus Cassius - Somewhere Near The Legion and Khan Border

Decanus Cassius and his explorer scouts had been tracking the band of the 80s for some time, keeping a careful watch on them as they approached the border. He’d been sending back regular reports to the Military Governor, Gaius Tranquillus, who had ordered the entire stretch of border carefully monitored and to keep him informed of the movement of any 80s force. Initially, it had been thought that they might veer west and link up with others of their tribe, but as the band came closer and closer to the Legion’s territory however, it was clear that their intent was to cross the border and enter Caesar’s domain. That could not be allowed.

Without new orders from the Military Governor, Cassius’s only option was to engage as it would unthinkable to allow an armed rabble to enter Legion territory unchallenged. The 80s were little better than an organized raid gang, albeit one that had been growing in significant strength, and to allow even such a petty group of them to plunder Northern Utah could not be allowed. Cassius’s contubernium was smaller, but the Legion had faced such long odds before. Each of his men were well equipped and experienced Legion explorers. They knew every crack and crevice of this landscape and could easily maneuver themselves into position for an ambush.

So it was that the Contubernium of Decanus Cassius crept up to the 80s encampment, the riders were feasting on roasted brahmin and passing around a bottle of liquor, no doubt celebrating the recent kills and captures they’d just made. The evidence of their attack was all around. They’d hit a caravan, and had no doubt taken a share of plunder from the carcasses of pack brahmin and dead traders. Although from the looks of it, the haul had not been quite as good as what perhaps they’d been expecting. Judging from the lack of supplies and general disarray of the pack animals, they’d not been carrying much. Cassius thought that perhaps this group might have been heading through Khan territory and perhaps had already been robbed by a less murderous gang and been forced to turn back.

Silently the Legion killers approached, treading lightly in the hard dirt as they crept slowly. Machetes and revolvers drawn and spears raised. Yet for all their skills at stealth, there were always unknowns. A camp sentry had been posted in a hidden location just outside. Cassius had hoped that with their minds addled and bellies full of meat that the 80s would be unlikely to take such precautions and few raider gangs in such a state ever did. Yet it was a calculated risk, one he had just lost. The sentry spotted the approaching Legion and raised the alarm. It was do or die now, there was still time to get the drop on them. Cassius ordered rapid advance and his scouts followed suit, closing the distance between themselves and the 80s at a full out sprint.

Battle was about to commence when Cassius heard the sounds of someone speaking in latin, a ghoul it seemed and a slave at that. The 80s had not yet gone to attack. While other Decani might have ran the slave through and continued the assault, Cassius happened to be one of the few where diplomacy just might work. He often worked with tribals and raider gangs at the fringes of Legion territory, pitting them against one another with well placed bribes of Legion gold and slaves. It had served him well thus far.

He ordered a halt, and his contubernium formed up in a semicircle around the encampment, not letting their guard down for a moment and ready to pounce if things went south.

Cassius approached the ghoul slave,

“You speak our tongue well for a profligate,” Cassius remarked coldly, “Although your accent is not of one born to the Legion, you speak as one of the New Canaanites....”

“I shall bring you before Gaius Tranquillus, Governor of Northern Utah and Prefect of New Ravenna. Be warned, any act of treachery and you will all be on crosses before daybreak.”

---

City of New Ravenna, Provincial Capital of Northern Utah

New Ravenna was a relatively small but heavily fortified border city at the edge of Legion territory. Only miles from the border, it was an important trade hub and stop off for caravans traveling up and down the length of the I-15 towards the Khans and the Great Salt Lake. With word of the recent sacking of Salt Lake City, Gaius Tranquillus had raised the cities defenses and fortified its walls and barricades. Legionaries of the town’s Urban Cohort patrolled its gantries while machine-gun and artillery emplacements zero’d in a deadly field of fire that would dissuade even the most foolhardy of attacker from approaching. Traders, farmers, and civilians had flooded into the town from the surrounding region upon word of the encroaching 80s horde, and many now formed a shanty tent city outside of its walls, hoping to seek shelter within or to be protected by the Legion’s strong military presence. Fearing a siege, Gaius had restricted the numbers of civilians allowed to enter the city proper and kept a careful watch on his food stores to ensure enough for each fighting man and defender. Such measures were temporary however, with word sent to Caesar of the threat, it was only a matter of time before one or more of the western legions arrived to reinforce Utah.

Cassius and his contubernium escorted the group up to and through the gates of the city leading them through the twisting streets and alleys that marked a strange mixture of old world ruins and Legion architecture. The Governor's House was a simple yet impressive looking building of brick and concrete. It had been a police precinct before the war and would act as a “fortress within a fortress” the last bastion from which the Gaius and his most elite troops would make a last stand in the event of the cities fall.

Cassius ushered the 80s inside, where Gaius waited upon their arrival seated on a rudimentary throne and carefully eyed them, surrounded by armed Legionaries. To his left was the standard of New Ravenna, a spear clutched in the talons of a watchful hawk. While a flag bearing the symbol of the bull stood proudly to his right: that of Caesar’s own.

A hooded figure draped in crimson next to Gauis announced an introduction, speaking in the common tongue of the 80s,

“You stand before Gaius Tranquillus, servant of Caesar and Governor of Northern Utah. Speak and you shall be heard.”


Lacer-Sergeant Robert Kyle - En Route to Briefing

Robert entered the debriefing in Hanger 2 to find Paladin-General Wilson and the rest of the attack contingent of Vertibird pilots already assembled. He quickly found a seat and sat down, a bit sheepish at having arrived late but hoped the knowledge it had been largely out of his hands would temper any reaction from the Paladin-General. Thankfully that appeared to be the case.

"Good work with the Legatus, Lancer-Sergeant", Wilson said in an approving manner, "Now that you're here we can begin. This, ladies and Gentlemen, is your next mission....Detroit."

Robert stared up at the screen, studying the map closely. He’d heard about the fighting in Detroit. That theater of war had probably seen perhaps worst action in this conflict to date. Being deployed there might very well be the most challenging mission of his career in the Brotherhood. Even worse than Maxson and The Commonwealth.

"The current situation there is critical, half of Detroit proper has been overrun, and Windsor is under constant pressure across the bridges. To compound things, their Chief of Staff is a traitor and staging a coup in conjunction with Cult sympathizers in their Legislature. Our analysts believe they won't last 48 hours without reinforcements. Commodore Hackett begins landing operations in Detroit and Windsor within the hour, but the commander of the IRD forces has made a urgent request, and Hackett doesn't have the means to accomplish it with the forces at his disposal." The map zoomed in to a area in central Detroit. "The front has largely stabilized along Eight-Mile Road. This is Highland Park, about four miles behind enemy lines. A large number of civilians, well over a thousand by the IRD's estimates, have taken shelter there. The only thing between them and the Cult is what's left of the two Infantry Battalions that managed to reach them before being completely cut off by the Enemy."

“Hell of a situation,” Robert muttered quietly to the Lancer next to him, who nodded grimly.

"In spite of their gallant defense, Highland Park will fall in a matter of hours unless drastic action is taken", Wilson continued, "The Plan is this....the Squadron will execute a combat drop of Knights directly behind the IRD defensive positions. To maintain surprise, the local defenders will not be told you're coming. At the same time, the IRD will drive on Highland Park from the North with all the forces they can muster. The Knights will need to help the defenders hold the line while the civilians are evacuated, then execute a fighting withdraw back to IRD lines. Casualties will almost certainly be high, but if successful, it will help convince the Detroiters we are sincere about assisting them against the Enemy. Once the Knights are deployed, the Squadron will report to Commodore Hackett for further orders."

"Wheels up in thirty minutes", Wilson concluded gravely, "Ad Victoriam!"

"Ad Victoriam!” Robert shouted enthusiastically, reveling in the camaraderie and strength of his Brothers and Sisters around him. He’d missed this: dearly. His service under Maxson had been some of the best years of his life, and it had all been torn apart tragically by the events in The Commonwealth. After that, he thought perhaps he’d never be able to say that phrase again with pride and vigor. Yet here he was, surrounded once more by fellow Brotherhood soldiers: by family. Once more he could say that phrase and never think twice about his convictions and about what his purpose was.

The Paladin-General was a strong leader. A good commander and a cunning tactician from what he’d seen. He’d reacted quickly and decisively when the Legion forces had been ambushed in Indianapolis, quickly deploying his forces where they were needed to best aid their Legion comrades. Between the two of them, the Legate and the Paladin-General: Robert was confident that the combined push towards Pittsburgh would succeed where others had failed. Now it was time for The Brotherhood to secure a wavering front up north and shore up a bulwark against the horrors that lurked beyond human understanding. Detroit would not fall, he’d do his best to ensure that. He had a purpose once more and a commander he knew he could rely on.

Robert looked to the Paladin-General, saluted proudly, and made his way to his bird to begin take-off preparation.

Time to rain hell on some mutie bastards. For The Brotherhood of Steel.