Far Harbor

Zadok the Watchmen was making his usual rounds atop part of the rebuilt hull along the coast, carrying a large polehook which he leaned loosely on his left shoulder. The grizzled old Harborwatch veteran was cursing both the cold sea spray and the stench of rotting fish that permeated the air and looking forward to a hot bowl of creamy vegetable soup that he knew his wife would be cooking up this very moment back home. His usual spot by the fireplace in his cozy easy chair was calling to him as well and within less than an hour he’d be off duty and racing home to warm up.

He stopped along the hull’s ramparts and looked out towards the water, the fog was light today but still obscured part of the bay and the ocean beyond. He stared out longingly, daydreaming about how good that soup would be, before his vision focused in on a shape that began to clearly manifest itself through the fog. It didn’t take the old seafarer long to realize what it was,

“Red Death take me that’s a ship!” He sputtered out, and immediately ran towards the nearest bell station atop the hull. He began furiously ringing the bell and shouting at the top of his lungs to alert the rest of the Harborwatch,

“Ship sighted! All hands! Ship in the bay!”

He knew full well it wasn’t one of their fishing vessels, but who could it be?

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The bell mounted in the Far Harbor church tolled loudly and its sound carried across the bay and even to Cadillac mountain. Members of the Harborwatch raced towards the docks along with a few civilians, armed with whatever weaponry they had on hand including pole hooks, meat hooks, and lever action rifles. Some of the Harborwatch ran up to the hull and grabbed hold of large swivel harpoon guns mounted on its wooden parapets and swung them towards the approaching ship. Alarm mounted as it was soon noticed that far from being alone, this ship appeared to be the first in an entire fleet of vessels that were now anchoring themselves just off shore.

When the foreign sailors began to disembark and tie up their ship, none of the Harborwatch made a move to stop them, but instead watched cautiously as someone who appeared to be their leader approached. Decked in marine armor and with a curiously speared shark crest emblazoned on his helmet, he struck an imposing figure along with the rest of his entourage.

“Hello. I am Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark, of the Spearshark Trapper clan. I am here to look for my relatives, who travelled here to hunt years ago. I don’t want a fight unless you do, and I would be happy to talk to whatever you folks have as a leader.”

At the mention of the word ‘Trapper’ the Harborwatch reflexively gripped their weapons tighter, despite the chieftains apparent polite demeanor, and inaudible murmurs filtered through the crowd.

“Lower your weapons,” Came the call from the back. Captain Avery strode forward. She was dressed in a Harbor fisherman’s outfit upon which straps of scrap metal had been attached to form a makeshift armor and wore a brown tricorn hat upon her head. An old fishing net was draped about her left shoulder like a sidecape. She’d obviously come dressed for battle, and when the Chieftain offered peaceful interaction she was more than happy to accept

“I’m Captain Avery, I speak for the Harborfolk. You’ll have to excuse our somewhat tense demeanor and show of weapons, we don’t get many visitors to Far Harbor and we’re always cautious of new faces. I’m sure you can understand. If you’re here to talk, I’m happy to acquiesce. Perhaps we can talk somewhere a bit more private, if you’d be willing to follow me.”

She looked around at the Harborwatch before continuing,

“I only ask that you and any who accompany you disarm before you do so. We’d appreciate a show of courtesy. You have my word and honor as Captain that you’ll be granted safe passage.”

(OOC: if the Trappers refuse to disarm, Avery will still take them in but the Harborwatch will be on their guard)

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

Avery led the Chieftain towards her house situated on the docks. She welcomed him and any members of his entourage in and bid them to sit around a large table on the lower floor. She removed her hat and placed it on the table to the side before sitting down herself.

“Before we begin, can I offer you anything? Something hot to drink? Perhaps a bit of food?” She then nodded to one of the Harborwatch who’d entered the house and was leaning up against the far wall, “Fetch them anything they want from the Last Plank. Tell Mitch that it’s on me.”

Avery shifted uncomfortably in her seat before she continued and addressed their leader, Spearshank,

“You said that you came here looking for your kin; fellow Trappers. I confess that we did not realize that the Trappers here were part of a larger group, although we did know that they came from beyond our shores. If you are here seeking them, then I’m afraid I have some unwelcome news. The Trappers who were on this island were driven mad by the fog, and lost to it. Either falling to the creatures that dwell in the deep fog or driven out by Acadia when they pacified this part of the Island.”

She held up her hand, hoping to calm any immediate protest,

“And before you become quick to anger or judgement. Know that your kin caused much harm to this island and its people. I know many of our Harborfolk, especially those obstinate few who tried to eke out a living in the wilderness, were lost to Trapper attacks and viciously murdered. So understand that we have lost friends and family as well, but even so I do not fault them completely for their actions: the fog is ultimately to blame for consuming them as it has so many others.”

Avery paused and took a deep breath,

“So with that said, I’m sure you have questions aplenty. I’ll do my best to answer them, provided we can all remain civil.”

A collaboration with @Jeddaven.

Almont, Upstate Wastes

At some point the night prior, Sanjay had gotten kicked out of the whorehouse. Hours of binge drinking and mixing every chem he could put his hands on had severely impaired his decision making: he wasn’t sure about the specifics, but he was pretty sure the fateful question of “can I put it in your butt?” didn’t go over well. His final resting place, after stumbling from closing bar to closing bar, appeared to be a ditch on the side of a cracked prewar road outside a decrepit looking and burned-out neighborhood. He awoke to orange rays of sunlight shining into his face and had obviously been robbed blind.

After patting down his pockets, he realized that everything had been taken from him. All his caps had vanished, his gun was absent from the holster, and the cool breeze flowed between his open toes where someone had stolen his boots. He had a pounding headache and smelled the pungent aroma of vomit in the skeletal frame of a dead bush. Sanjay gripped at the rocky lip of the ditch and, with great effort, heaved himself onto his feet. The world swirled around him and he took a minute to collect himself further before clambering back onto the road. Pebbles and rocks dug into his bare feet as he sighed and put his hands on his hips, looking back towards Almont.

The road back into town wasn’t actually that long, but Sanjay felt like he had just finished a marathon by the time he stopped for a breather at a burned-out suburban house. He plopped down onto an old degraded couch in front of a garage door where a prewar car had long since caught fire and burned itself out in the driveway. He looked around at the neighborhood, scarred and burned from the war. Nobody had thought to repair it, but instead the people of Almost had left it to the elements. It was strange to Sanjay: he was from the Bronx, and his neighborhood had even suffered the effects of an airburst atomic weapon during the war. That didn’t stop his ancestors from rebuilding.

He continued his walk through the streets, carefully stepping around piles of shattered glass or the sharp skeletal remains of those who were unlucky enough to be outside in the blasts. He didn’t quite remember coming out this way, but found himself back in the inhabited city soon enough. Sanjay approached a gate made out of junk and scrap metal, where two men stood leaning against the walls or sitting down outside. One of the guards, reading a magazine and sitting in a lawn chair, lazily called for Sanjay to stop before groaning and sitting up. He grabbed a laser pistol from a picnic table that had been dragged over before walking over to the drunkard.

“What brings you here?” he asked apathetically.

“I, uh, I’m just trying to get back in,” Sanjay stuttered, looking around at the checkpoint. The other guard had gone off to smoke a cigarette.

“And where do you come from?”

Sanjay stumbled for his badge, before realizing that had been stolen from him too. “I, uh, my name is Corporal Sanjay Knight, New York SecDiv!”

“I know who you are, dude,” the Gunner shook his head. “You’re wearing that goofy blue shirt like the rest of the drunk assholes from downstate.”

Sanjay narrowed his eyes. “Then, uh,” he searched for the words, “it would be wise for you to let me in. Official business.”

The Gunner shook his head again and shrugged. “Official what? You mean getting your shit back? The last shift told me some New Yorker was running shoeless out the gate chasing some thieves away, drunk as fuck. Must be you. You smell like a brewery, man.”

Sanjay turned around and then back to the guard. The only response he could offer was a meek yes.

“Heh, fine, I’m just giving you a hard time.” He gestured to the empty holster on Sanjay’s belt: “You obviously don’t have shit on you anymore, I’m just gonna let you in to go find your people. You New Yorkers like to hit each other with paperwork and that’s a fate worse than torture to me. Much rather just get the shit beat out of me and get it over with.”

Sanjay looked awkwardly at the Gunner, who chuckled as he returned to his lawn chair. He sat back down in the aged seat with a heavy thump before picking up his magazine. With a careless flick of his hand, he ordered the other guard to heave open the heavy junk fence. The other guard grabbed it by the edge and heaved until there was a person-sized opening along the road. “Head on in,” he said to Sanjay, who slipped through the opening with no further questions asked.

Back in Almont, the town looked as much like a carnival as a warzone. Broken bottles littered the grimy street, much to Sanjay’s annoyance. He tiptoed around the stains of vomit, some pools of blood, and even the corpse of a radroach that was blocking half the sidewalk. Other partygoers stumbled around like him, shambling back to guesthouses or apartments. A Gunner walked the streets, whistling a tune from the radio that played softly from one of the open windows nearby before stopping. He cocked his head as he sized up a hungover sailor before kicking a carefully-aimed can at the man’s legs. The sailor made a confused bark and looked around wildly before seeing the Gunner walk away laughing. Sanjay continued on.

His trek to the “nicer” side of town, if one could call it that, was just as monotonous. It was dirty and grimy. The buildings, even the occupied ones, looked abandoned. Nobody cleaned in Almont, unlike the City. SecDiv would round up prisoners for minor crimes and work off hours from their sentence; Sanjay had done that guard detail a few times. It was mostly boring work watching thieves sweep trash into a dumpster under the supervision of a SaniDiv trashman. The worst part, at least for a man with a pounding hangover, was hearing the insane cackling voice of Hathaway.

By the river, he found what he was looking for. A cafe that was marketed as something like an oasis from the degeneracy of Almont. For every ten looking to drink, there was always the one straight man. They found solace here, with strong coffee brewed in the back and food that wasn’t a greasy pub affair. If there was anyone respectable left in town who could take him back to the City, they were here. Sanjay barged in through the door, huffing and puffing, before he collected himself. Taking a second to straighten his sweat-stained shirt and tuck it back into his pants that smelled of dirt and body odor, he became self-conscious that he still was barefoot.

He walked up to the counter where an attendant in an apron and a cocked chef’s hat was reading a magazine. Absorbed in the pages, he paid no attention to Sanjay. The SecDiv man simply stared at the waiter for a moment before gargling a painful-sounding “mhm” from his throat. The waiter looked up: “Damn, man, are you alright?”

“Yeah,” Sanjay answered. “I mean, maybe. You got any water?”

The waiter raised an eyebrow, then gestured for Sanjay to wait. He went to the back to rummage through a shelf and get what he was looking for. He tapped his foot while he waited, the shoeless foot making a slight sound against the tile floor. The waiter returned with a bottle of water. Sanjay instinctively grabbed it out of the man’s hand and popped the cap, chugging it. The liquid burned as it made its way through his throat: irradiated. He finished it in one pull, slamming the empty plastic bottle down on the counter.

“That’s, uh, one cap,” the waiter said annoyedly. He frowned at Sanjay, who made a show of patting his pockets.

“I, uh, shit,” he said in feigned surprise. “Fuck, I got nothing.”

“Well you gotta pay,” flatly said the waiter.

“Maybe there’s something I can do, man,” Sanjay bargained. “Like, uh, wash dishes or-”

Behind him, a towering figure appeared over Sanjay’s shoulder. He turned around to see a flash of scarlet and a brawny muscular man looking down at the both of them. Sanjay’s heart dropped at the sight of the man, who could easily pass as a wrestler.

Then, the stranger smiled. Strangely, it put Sanjay at ease. “Looks like our buddy here has had quite the night, eh?” he said with a thick and unfamiliar accent. “I’ll buy him the water.”

He withdrew a bright blue bottlecap from a pocket on his red coat and turned it in his fingers. “It’s no Nuka Cola, sorry,” he apologized. The cap had a red maple leaf adorning it.

“Cap’s a cap,” accepted the waiter as he took it. He tossed it into a mason jar filled with a variety of other bottlecaps.

The man turned to Sanjay and extended his hand.

"Sergeant Adams, Royal Canadian Mounted Police," the man said, beaming a friendly smile all the while his hands were protected by light brown leather gloves. "Wish I had some purified water to share with you, but we're on strict rationing until we get to New York."

Sanjay looked the man up and down, then frowned. He wasn't sure what to think of the fellow who didn't shake his hand and could definitely beat him up. He said he was mounted; sure, he was dressed like a rider. He blinked. “Where’s your horse?” asked the dumbfounded SecDiv man.

Adams laughed, shaking his head. "I'm here to protect a diplomat on a riverboat. When I'm not on shore leave, I mean! Horses don't like being on small, rattling watercraft, eh?"

“A diplomat?” Sanjay looked around at the town outside of the cafe. The maniacal laugh of the DJ echoed through the streets again. Someone fired a gun somewhere, but nobody cared. It was simply diplomacy in Almont. “Who the hell is trying to be diplomatic here?”

"Almont's the halfway point." He explained, following Sanjay's gaze. "The hosers've learned not to mess with us here. We've got an agreement with the DJ - he keeps the river clear for our traders, we help him fight the other Gunners."

Skipping over what a “hoser” was, Sanjay still sounded confused. He tried again: “So you’re a mercenary then.”

"It's a diplomatic agreement he has with my government. Canada. Ronto. Ever hear of Ronto, or see those stubby little drink bottles? Ronto's where those come from." Adams continued. The poor man was probably still just incredibly hungover, he thought. "The RCMP, we're Ronto's federal police. Bodyguard duty is part of our mission.”

“Ronto, Ronto,” Sanjay mumbled under his breath. He searched for the information. Most of the traders he accompanied stopped at Almost to transfer goods and went back home. He hadn’t met anyone who had traveled any further up the river. He had heard that it was dangerous, especially the further into the vast Upstate they traveled. Maybe he had seen some crates labeled “Ronto” before, but the mention of Canada meant nothing to him. “No, never met anyone from there,” he admitted after a while. “This is the farthest up I go. Only for the tour money, you see… New York only pays me to go to Almont and back.”

"Well, now you have!" Adams shrugged, patting his revolver. "We do a good job of keeping Northwest New York safe. You say New York's paying you, though... Does that mean you work for them? Government, or mercenary work?"

To Sanjay, Adams was practically living in a different world. And with his accent and dress, he may very well have been. Sanjay had never seen any of these “Canadians” in Northwest New York - which was a strange thing to call the Hudson side of the Bronx anyways. “Corporal Sanjay Knight, New York SecDiv,” he proclaimed with some measure of exhaustion and defeat. It hadn’t impressed the Gunner earlier and he felt like Sergeant Adams wouldn’t feel intimidated either.

“Some asshole stole my badge or else I’d show it to you,” he added meekly. He gestured to his shirt. “Still got this, though.”

Sanjay, unfortunately, was quickly proven right. Adams looked down at Sanjay's shirt, briefly noting the faded patch of a blue torch with an orange flame on his left shoulder and nodded, satisfied. "Did said asshole steal anything else? You look like shit - reminds me of when I first joined the Mounties. I got so skunked the first night that I felt like my head'd explode the next morning."

“I ain’t got shit,” said the SecDiv man. “I get the badge and the gun, but the shoes? Come on, man, that’s low.”

"At least you didn't get dragged off by raiders. You got a ride home, at least?" He replied, glancing back over his shoulder.

“Yeah, about that,” Sanjay chuckled nervously. “Found myself in a ditch in a bombed out suburb outside the gates. Maybe they tried dragging my ass off but I, uh, fought them off.”

Adams shook his head in disbelief. “You got a ride home?” he repeated.

Sanjay looked at his bare feet. “No, late for the boat. These old sea captains leave right when they’re supposed to. Don’t go looking for stragglers, SecDiv or not.”

"Well, sounds like you could use one, then. We're heading down the Hudson in a day or two, if you'd be so kind as to join us." Adams beamed. " 'Course, can't say I'm doing it entirely out of the kindness of my heart, eh? After all, we have been trying to get in touch with you New-Yorkers."

“I’m not authorized to do that,” said the SecDiv man. “I’m a Corporal. You’d have to talk to the City.”

“I mean, I’ll take the ride,” he added hurriedly. “Well, under one condition. There’s a friend of mine out here we gotta find. He never came looking for me since I didn’t make it to the boat. I think he’s still here too… he was pretty fucked up before I left with, uh, a friend.”

"Deal." Adams said, tactfully refusing to inquire further. He slipped off the glove on his right hand before holding it out for a shake.

Sanjay shook it, more confident than he was before in this stranger of a tall man. They finished their drinks in the cafe, Adams downing a cup of coffee while they made small talk about each others’ hometowns. They paid, or rather Adams fronted the bill, and left back onto the streets of Almont. Immediately overtaken by the flash of brilliant light in the streets, Sanjay took a second to compose himself again. The few bottles of water didn’t help much, but he knew Charlie was out there in town somewhere.

“You said we got a day or two, right?” Sanjay asked. Adams affirmed the timeline. “Well, Charlie is around somewhere. I say we head towards the bars again. This guy will probably be around there somewhere.”

Halifax

"Sweet mother of god... She's a big fucking thing, eh?" Two fishermen were sitting on the edge of a downtown pier, attention fixed on the waters below them. Below them, bobbing happily in the diminishing swells, was a massive female seal. Or maybe not so massive, no one living could remember how big seals had been before the war.

"Reckon the family could eat for a week off of her." Said the second man, though neither moved to try and grab their fishing gear. Any sort of hunting within the are controlled by Nature Trust was tightly monitored and controlled. Largely because, and likely for good reason, everyone was desperately worried about any sort of food shortages as had happened in the old days when the Grand Banks had been fished to extinction.

"The Wardens would be a tad pissed, I imagine." The first said and they both glanced around guilty. The Wardens, once the Canadian National Parks Warden Service, had survived the war and now served Halifax as the R.C.M.P. served Toronto. Unlike the R.C.M.P. however, the Wardens wore dark green and had a mandate more focused on protecting resources within the Gulf of Saint Lawerence, and less on criminal offences, that was left to the Royal Constabulary.

"Did you hear they caught some more blue lobster?" Once a delicacy, the blue lobsters were becoming more and more common this far north. There was speculation, largely on the part of the Wardens, that this was because the waters were slowly clearing. So much of the major debris was to the south and since virtually no notable human settlement remained north of The Trust, little pollution was getting into the area.

The sound of a ships bell drew their gaze to a two masted brigantine sliding into port on the oncoming tide. Her sails were a dull red and the name "Eye of the Wind" was still stencilled onto the bow with copper letters. She was a sleek ship, and one of the smaller ones in the fleet. She also served the primary enforcement vessel for the Wardens as she was damned fast.

Like most of the wooden ships salvaged from the old days, the Eye of the Wind had been upgraded to meet her new challenges. Thin steel plates, enough to stop small arms fire, covered her upper hull. The wood hull itself was thick enough to stop any bullet, but the metal served to protect the crew as well. Not built for cannons, she instead mounted two ballista launchers that could hurl explosive charges, a laser mounted in the bow, and a pair of machine guns. By seagoing standards, she was among the most heavily armed ships afloat.

Crew moved about the deck, sailors in their bare feet, white pants, and blue jackets, Wardens in their green, and officers in the dark blue jackets of their trade. A crew of sixty souls who fiercely protected the regions trade and resource interests.

The Eye of the Wind coasted slowly across the waves toward the Naval Base, two other Royal ships lay alongside already and lines soared out from them to the new comer so she could be pulled alongside. Another day, another bottle cap or two.

North and South, two separate situations have emerged, both requiring the actions of a specialist. To the North, the Enclave have secured uninterrupted passage to the city of Fort Wayne, of the former state of Indiana. To the South, the Mammoth Cave and all its terrifying inhabitants awaits. Today, we will be highlighting the perspective of those specialists, starting with...



They calleed him Bob, but his full name - as far as anyone could tell - was Roberto Malcontente' The 3rd. We don't know how true this is, considering nobody's ever met the previous iterations of his family, but nobody really wanted to question him because Bob has several things going for him that deter heavy scrutiny. One, he was strong enough to bend a man in half. No chems, no augmentations, just raw strength and Greco-Roman Wrestling style, he bent a man to the side and left him at a 45-degree angle. Two, he was extremely good with all things incendiary, second only to FalloutJohn in conventional explosive ordinance. And three...the man was flipping nuts. One time, he was on a mission and had been captured by a some members of the Brotherhood of Steel that were, themselves, out on a scouting mission. While they were examining his custom powersuit, Bob had cracked open and swallowed two false teeth in the back of his jaw that contained samples of Buff-Out and Psycho. Needless to say, he broke out of the chains, the room he was in, and pounded through everybody there with a door and a steel chair. He ended up coming back looking like The Humongous and needed a week in detox, which he spent singing opera, especially The Anvil Chorus when he emerged back into the world, roaming the halls naked until he made it to his quarters!

That's the man who now stood outside the Mammoth Cave.

He was cast in his powerarmor, a black-and-orange heavy piece of work that was top-of-the-line in the Hellfire Brigade. This one not only resisted fire, but projected it. Not far, mind you. It was like his claymore, an armored heat weapon, like a Shish-Kabob you wear. Thus, Bob's general loadout would read out as Hellstorm Powersuit, Heat Claymore, Incendiary Grenades, and Flamigaster Deluxe for the customized Heavy Incinerator/Flamer unit in his hands. Bob stood at the entrance to the cave, adjusted the speakers on his suit, took a deep breath, and let out a loud battlecry. The other men behind him looked at each other, then over to him.

"Uhh, sir? What're you doing?"

"What? Oh, yeah. Just getting in the mood."

"Mood, sir? We were planning on sneaking up on the enemy-"

"In these things, tromping around like nobody's business? No way."

"Seems to work for Sniper Division."

"Yeah, but that's Sniper Division, and I'm not them."

He turned around to the men now.

"I'll tell you what I'm gonna do. I'm gonna go raise hell in that cave, and all our slashing buddies'll come right out. You guys just have the capture stuff and the cages ready."

"Are...you sure that's a good idea?"

"No idea! Sounds like fun, though. Better get into position. I'm off!"



Wasting no more time, he went in there. The cave was dark, but it was about to get a whole lot brighter in here. Bob was never a good leader. He just didn't have the capacity to strategize. However, he DID make an excellent spearhead, someone that others gather behind as he presses through enemy lines, plunging deep into the hear to create further openings with the damage inflicted. This place was a dank, dark cave with pools of water. Not very conducive to flame, but he knew his incendiaries. His suit was like a beacon of heat, and his equipment would be spreading flammable cocktails this way and that. The Diamondbacks and Hellwings who didn't want to be caught in fiery explosions of napalm soon left, and in came the first contestants: Mirelurks. Now, these crabcakes held a certain resistance to flame themselves, if they were shelled. Kings were not so, but they were more physically capable too. Not enough room in here for a Queen, unless it was much much deeper. Anyway, when those things started walking through the flames, out came the claymore, plunged right into the exposed faces for quick and easy damage. The only decent weakness they had, really. The heat and the meat were set out, just as planned, and soon enough...he heard the call.

A Deathclaw...no, severel Deathclaws were headed this way. Goody!

He opened with a wild barrage of the Flamigaster into all the tunnels and open spaces, making sure that only the strong could possibly approach now. They swept through the fire like demons of hell itself! Muscular and taloned creatures with horns, hides like leather and faces like death itself... They were here! And this is where Bob ran the fuck away! You see, he was up for any challenge, really. He'd try to kill anything in the world worth going after. But this wasn't about trophies of food. This was the most difficult mission of all: Live samples. Bob kept ahead of them with his training and his jetpack to avoid more than glancing blows by the lunging demons. He emerged from the cave, a full pack of SIX of these creatures bursting from the entrance next...right into the target zone for the launchers. They'd come prepared, of course. Same volt-wire launchers they were using to stun things like Big Horns and whatnot for food, they were using here, mounted on top of the cages they intended these brutes to go into. They were basically spears with trailing electrical cables leading up to the Vertibird. The Vertibird pilot then gets the signal and shoves a proper amount of voltage into the creatures. The other soldiers wanted to lure out one or two Deathclaws at once. Bob thought that was boring and just led a whole bunch into a well-manned killzone.

"Alright, get 'em in those cages before one of 'em wakes up. I'll make sure nothing else comes out."



You call in a specialist of the Fallout Sector when you want something done absolutely the way you intend it to be handled. If it's an issue that requires adaptive ability and leadership, you call Jack. If it needs to be beaten into the ground and burnt to a crisp, you get Bob. If it's a technical or electronic matter, you get Scott or Greg. And of course, it you want to be quiet about it with a slug turning the target's head into mulch, you call in David. But...nothing out of all of these men says 'Just Die' like FalloutJohn, the Enclave's heavy weapons and ordinance master. His powersuit was one of the heaviest there is, second only to Scott, who was kind of a wiry short guy who needed more robotics or else he'd seemingly fall behind in the strength department. The man's a genius, so they gave him leeway on that. The man they called Jonny Bo Drago didn't need anything like that. He just needed armor to survive whatever got flung at him while he pasted the landscape with gunfire.

They had established a perimeter around the area of Fort Wayne. As described, it had walls Most were buildings collapsed on one side so that half the structure was wall on the inner side while the interior of the buildings themselves were just impassable The streets were blocked by a combination of cars, fencing, corrigated steel, and mortared bricks and rubble. They had to contain the animals, of course. It was a jungle in there, so to speak. A zoo had had a number of wild irradiated animals to begin with, but then something made them change for the worst. Chimeras, Indy called them. They saw a few on the outside of the walls. Some of them managed to climb or even fly over, gaining access to more food. Another stronger creature had - at some point - managed to partially break through a wall, jumped the rest of the way. They were fierce mutations, but enough plasma will put down anything.

That was when they lowered John in, by Vertibird.

He was going in alone. Some thought he was like Ivan Drago from Rocky IV, hence the name. Cold and heartless, and without mercy. Others felt he was like Todd from the movie, Soldier, as in Kurt Russell-like. Actually...it was neither of these things. John was a stoic sort of guy, but the truth is that the man was a deadpan snarker. Not cruel, but actually funny. The guy saw Greg working on some kind of project of his - a rocket car - and flatly declared "Oh hey. It's Buckaroo Banzai.", causing anyone within earshot to bust out laughing. There was no laughing, right now, only a job to do. Heavy Troopers had Reinforced Powersuits. John's was a Maximus Powersuit, holding numerous grenades and explosives, a compressed Air-Launcher for them, and also...well...the Enclave had once attempted to build a gauss vulcan, a gatling weapon using the principle of the magnetic-driving system of a Gause Rifle in full-auto form. The ones that didn't do so well were decent enough weapons in their own right and labeled as Vindicators. Any that excelled beyond that was called Vindicator Prime. As soon as John entered the area in his black-and-silver powersuit, he spun up and...



...he made a sweep that would worry most tanks. Remains of buildings in this place suffered within the first few minutes, as he opened up on creatures that use to be wild animals lunged from hidden places if he didn't tag them from far away. John took his hand off the trigger and tossed a grenade from his belt, not carrying how close it landed. If it was in the creature's face, it was fine. He'd take damage, sure, but it would be much worse for them, and that's all that mattered. What he DIDN'T like was that he found two things going on when he wasn't firing: One, the animals were eating each other. They weren't dying when it happened, either. They just started regenerating. Everything ate everything else here, and nothing died. Well...nothing except what he blew apart. But two, though... These animals were smart. They weren't outsmarting bullets, but they were trying to duck and dodge around them. It was like how the Deathclaws were, and the Deathclaws were good at it.

The roar came soon after he started moving out of residential areas, a sound that came from the actual zoo area and seemed to elevate quickly. Taking refuge inside a building through a hole of his own making, he quieted the V-Prime and had a look around. There were sounds you would associate with some kind of colossus on some of the rooftops, heading roughly this way. He opened up radio contact.

"This is John. Anybody get eyes on whatever made that noise?"

"Uhh, Spotter-7 here. That's a big affirmative on the 'What the hell IS that thing?' scale. It's jumping rooftops, looking for you, now."

"Nobody move or make a sound. A thing that big can break containment, easy. What's it look like?"

"Looks like wriggling flesh in a giant lion costume, with croc and octopus thrown in for good measure."

"Does it look at all like it was designed, created to be that way?"

"That? Are you serious? I don't know!"

"But it IS patrolling around, and it's not leaving? None of them are leaving the area, despite their growth of wings?"

"Not even after your rampage."

That was it, then. No way were these mere animals, creatures caught in the middle of something they couldn't understand or know how to handle. Instincts should've told some of them to run, to get away and press their perimeter to try and escape, but they didn't. They were either controlled or commanded, and that meant they were made to obey. They were made by someone, on purpose.

"Send this message back to base: We may have located Dr. Bastion."

A Collab between @Jeddaven and @Andronicus23

"You ever think about what it was like here before the war, man?" Achak whistled, leaning back into the creaky, wooden chair beneath him as he sucked down gulps of delectably pristine water from his canteen, drops of sweat listening on his youthful, lightly tanned face. His uniform, coloured with muted summer greens and browns, was far less pristine, spattered with muck, dust, and grime.

"Backwater and dilapidated, you mean?" The man next to him scoffed, dressed similarly, a freshly machined assault rifle planted in his lap. He looked about the same age, perhaps a day or two older - but Alex's skin was so deathly pale Achak wondered if he'd ever even been outside as a kid. He was one of the few people in the unit who needed to reapply sunscreen over and over and over again, after all.

Achak rolled his eyes. “You know what I mean, asshole. I mean, there’s the ghouls first of all. Then there’s the walls, the defensive ditches, the barbed wire... This used to be a peaceful little rural town, now it’s an isolated hamlet in upstate New York that’s constantly fighting off... Raiders and shit.”

Alex shrugged, downing a mouthful from his canteen. “I don’t really know, man...” He said, gesturing at the thick, wooden palisades about the small highway-side

---

K5-45 had made her way down from Far Harbor towards what her pre-war maps had indicated was once the state of New York , part of The New England Commonwealths. Her journey through the rural Northern Wastes had not been an easy one and without the enhanced senses and survival capabilities that came with being a Gen-3 Synth, she doubted she’d have survived the trek. Raiders, hostile tribals, and all manner of unknown creatures had harried her way all along the coast. She regularly sent back valuable reports to The Institute, who’d been keen on her descriptions of various local groups in the region but were also increasingly interested in fragments of information she’d gathered on the nation known as ‘Ronto’.

Ronto wasn’t completely unknown to the people of Far Harbor. Apparently every once in a great while a trader or merchant vessel who was familiar with it would stop in at the port town to trade and resupply. As such a few known Rontonian goods had made their way into their hands: beer housed in squat glass bottles, a few distinct firearms, and other various knicknacks were all prized by the Harborfolk for their uniqueness. However beyond their wares there was little more to go on. Ronto was known to be a large nation somewhere up North with a reputation for its military might. That alone was enough to pique The Director’s interest. Such people would be highly desirable to have as allies should the rumours prove true.

Following the directions given by a tribal tracker had led her now to an apparent frontier settlement of the Rontonian people. Standing before the palisade, it was clear that, despite probably being a relatively unimportant backwater, the town was well fortified and garrisoned. That certainly gave the impression that the rumours were all too true. Dressed as she was in a far harbor woodsmen outfit, she would certainly stand out as someone who wasn’t a local, but her appearance would not immediately give away who, and more importantly what, she truly was.

K5 made her way towards a pair of longing men who appeared to be soldiers, and approached them cautiously,

“Hello, my name is Kendra….I’m from a town aways to the north of here. I was hoping to rest a bit and resupply, but If you’d be willing to take me to someone in charge, I’d also like to speak about if there’s any way we might establish some kind of trade relationship. A caravan route perhaps?” K5 looked awkwardly about her, trying to find some way to throw something in that might be a tag more convincing, “I’m guessing this is some kind of outpost settlement...so I assume you might be interested in such an offer?”

Stilted and clumsy, she thought. K5 nearly let out a muffled curse. She’d been Scav-team guard, not an infiltrator, back at The Institute. Interacting with the human surface-dwellers in casual conversation was hardly something she had regular experience with. All she could hope was that she’d sounded genuine enough to not get thrown out...

Achak glanced at Alex, and Alex at Achack, the two men exchanging confused, slightly surprised glances. They didn’t speak, but the thoughts exchanged didn’t need to be spoken - it wasn’t often that strangers approached them asking to establish a trade relationship. Every once in a while, a scrap dealer tried to talk their guns away from them, but... Clearly, this was different.

Silent, Alex pushed himself to his feet, nodding at Achak. The darker-skinned man followed, quietly clearing his throat as a small caravan of Brahmin passed by them - caravans were a regular sight in roadside towns like these, roadside truck stops that had little reason to exist aside from service stations for people travelling cross-country. That meant there was little of not there, even after the war - but it also meant that even the Chinese military wasn’t all that willing to expend nuclear warheads on such tiny, insignificant towns. In the post-nuclear wasteland, however, such waystations became vastly more valuable, many such places fortified just like this one.

“Just a moment, ma’am - to the north of here, you said? I’m guessing you’re not from under the great lakes, so... Vermont? Maine?” Achak asked, while Alex reaching for a small, worn walkie-talkie at his belt, displaying the past of Ronto’s flag just below his right shoulder on his uniform, contrasting sharply with the warm, greenish brown of his jacket.

“Maine, yes, a town along the coast there,” K5 replied quickly.

Offering a nod in greeting, Alex stepped away - to get in touch with the outpost’s commanding officer, he assumed - leaving him to engage the traveller in conversation. “My colleague shouldn’t be more than a minute, maybe two - protocols to go by, yknow, to get you in touch with the right people. It’s a good thing you got here when you did. There’s a whole lot of them in these parts, eh?” He nodded, gesturing to the assault rifle in his hands. Unlike many such things in the wasteland, though this one had clearly seen some use, it was relatively free of grime, and the rounded, stamped metal body didn’t particularly resemble any pre-war American designs. Instead, it looked like a strange hybrid of a mishmash of pre-war rifles, as though someone had torn up a bunch of blueprints and mixed them together.

“A whole lot of what?” K5 asked sheepishly, looking about her from side to side, “Raiders you mean? Yes...I had a heck of a time navigating through trying to keep away from them. But traveling by myself let me keep a low profile and I mostly stuck to roads and trails off the beaten path, it was easy enough to slip through their checkpoints. As violent and unpredictable as they can be, you can still learn their patterns and behaviors well enough to keep yourself safe.”

K5 looked back at Achak, noticing the look he was giving her, “I uh...that is to say. I suppose I was mostly just lucky really.”

"You sound like the Pathfinders, Miss Kate." Achak chuckled. "Suppose you can - I mean, we're all trained how to deal with raiders - but it's usually not us frontline infantry that are huntin' down raiders, eh? That's the Pathfinders and the Mounties." He said, snapping his fingers.

“Pathfinders?” She looked confused. Something told K5 she needed to make a note of this and include it in her first contact report.

" Ah, that's right! You might not know - Pathfinders are the boys in charge of securing trade routes and recon. Mounties is slang for our Federal Police!" He said, smiling. "If you're lucky, you'll get to see one in their dress uniform. Bright red jacket, big brimmed hats..." He whistled, reaching down for his belt to grab a quick sip of water from his canteen.

"Maine, you said you were from? What's the name of the tow-"

" S'cuse me, ma'am." Came the sound of the other man's voice, mercifully interrupting Alex. "You're in luck. There's a woman from the Trade Department in town today - border security's going to run you through a basic security exam before you meet her, though. Nothing invasive - just a quick scan for weapons and explosives, if you'll follow me?" He said, gesturing down the cracked sidewalk running along the road cutting through the center of town.

“Of course, of course,” K5 nodded, “No problem at all. Please, lead the way.”

---

Thankfully, the journey didn't take terribly long. The soldier led K5 down the dusty road, along a shoddy - yet shockingly well maintained - sidewalk, past a handful of old buildings and numerous caravans passing through the small town, eventually stopping at a small, white-painted structure, the words "DEPARTMENT OF TRADE AND IMMIGRATION" Emblazoned across its front in big, red letters. He pushed open the door and led her into the structure, two similarly dressed soldiers standing to either side.

Inside, however, security was even more tight - a handful of armed men and women milled about, dressed variably in either military uniforms or bright, scarlet-red jackets and wide-brimmed stetson hats. K5 was quickly ushered through a metal detector, her possessions temporarily confiscated, and then led into a room down an adjoining hallway.

It was a simply-appointed thing - a few chairs lined the sides, and two armed, scarlet-jacketed officers stood to either side of the inside of the door, bulky revolvers at their hips. The man and women were silent, almost deathly still, briefly turning only to watch K5 enter and for the door to quietly swing shut behind her.

Across the white room, sitting behind a light golden-brown desk, was a a middle-aged man with pale skin, a pearly-white smile sitting below a pair of dull green eyes meeting her. For all his age, the man looked to be relatively fit, though far from muscular, simply in good physical condition. Clearing his throat, he reached up to switch off the radio set on his desk. "Special Envoy Callum MacDonald - it's a pleasure to meet you, ma'am." He said, gesturing for her to take a seat in the plush, somewhat worn leather chair opposite him. "I'm told you're from a community in Maine, seeking to trade relations? I'm not sure how much you know about Ronto, but I'd be happy to answer your questions to the best of my ability, as long as you can do the same. Does that sound fair?"

“My name is Kenda and yes, I’m happy to oblige,” K5 replied with a nervous smile. A slow panic began to set in for her as she realized that she had no idea where to go from here. The method of how to approach the Rontonians she’d known, but now what should she say to their Envoy? She had no clue...nothing had been told to her about what to say or how to say it. Should she divulge the nature of The Institute? Inform them directly about her mission? Her mind was abuzz with fear and concern.

And then suddenly, cold logic washed over her and replaced her fears and trepidation with precise knowledge. She felt an innate pull within her synthetic mind as the preconditions for this new subroutine were met. She stood up and her expression dulled, then her eyes went glassy. To the Rontonians, it was like she was becoming possessed.

“People of Ronto,” K5 began, the voice emanating from her quite different from the one she’d been speaking with, though still female, “Standing before you is unit K5-45, one of our Synths: synthetic humanoids constructs. If you are hearing this message, then the unit has achieved its designated mission and made contact with a member of significant enough status within your nation. We are The Institute: a group of likeminded scientists and engineers who seek to redefine the human condition. To uplift us to a world beyond the dregs of the apocalypse. We seek your cooperation and friendship to safeguard our future. The Synth standing before you is proof of the scientific accomplishments of our Institute: and an invitation to discover more. Should you have questions, the Synth will now be primed to answer them. If what you hear is intriguing enough, you may ask the Synth to put you into contact with us or arrange for a face to face meeting. We look forward to such correspondence. K5-45….reset personality matrix.”

With that, K5 slumped over, her arms and torso hanging limp while her feet remained in place. After a brief few seconds, she stood back up straight and came to a parade rest position, with her hands clasped behind her back,

“Unit K5-45 at your service,” she stated, her voice had returned but it remained emotionless and cold. Her previous nervousness and awkwardness was completely gone and replaced with an almost sterile visage.

The RCMP officers, throughout it all, maintained their stoic visages - for the most part, at least. The sudden change in K5's attitude was disturbing to say the least, but they'd been trained to remain cool and collected in far more traumatic situations, their hands reaching toward (but not grasping) their revolvers.

The Envoy, on the other hand, hadn't. He was a mere diplomat, and not a soldier, his combat training limited to resisting interrogation by Raiders and little else. By the time K5 had finished her abrupt speech, the poor man's chair had scooted a whole two feet back, his pupils shrink into pinpricks for fear that the 'synth' - whatever that was - might've been about to explode.

He quickly realized, however, that that made absolutely no sense for a diplomat, and that he was not, in fact, busy being exploded into (at least) a few million pieces.

Clearing his throat, he pushed his chair back into its place as the RCMP officers watched, noting the positions of their hands. Hopefully, if the 'synth' did turn hostile, their high-caliber revolvers would be able to put it down quickly enough.

"Kendra... K5... K5... I'll start with a few questions, I suppose. That message you just delivered. Was it transmitted to you, or preprogrammed?" He asked, quickly sketching out a few notes on his notepad. This encounter definitely warranted an extensive report.

"Second... Synths. Your people call them synthetic humanoids, but our metal detectors didn't find anything. Does that mean you're biological?"

He sighed. This was going to be a very strange day, and the eggheads at the University of Toronto were almost definitely going to interrogate him about it later.

“The message was the result of a pre-programmed subroutine, which ran once its preconditions were met.” K5 replied stoically, “As regards your second question, I can only confirm that a metal detector would not work as a method of detection. Any further questions on the Gen-3 Synth program should be communicated to the Director.”

Something they wanted to keep secret, then, he assumed. Disappointing but expected, considering how advanced this sort of technology would necessarily have to be. "Gen-3" implied a third iteration (at least)... Ethical implications aside, he was here to gather information, not to condemn these people.

"On to the easier questions, I suppose. How is the "Institute" governed? Ronto is a parliamentary democracy."

K5 nodded and answered quickly back, “The Institute is governed by The Directorate, a board of scientists consisting of the heads of each of The Institute’s research and operation divisions. The Directorate sets policy, defines rules and regulations, and allocates Institute resources. While mostly autonomous within their own divisions, each Division Director answers to The Director of The Institute who makes decisions for The Institute as a whole. The current Director of The Institute is Dr. Xavier Crawford, formerly of the Advanced Systems Division.”

While all true, K5 omitted the details regarding how The Directorate had been wiped out in its entirety following the events in The Commonwealth. While it still technically existed, The Director controlled affairs across divisions almost entirely now.

"A sort of technocracy, then? Interesting, but I guess it's not all that unusual considering the context of being able to construct and develop synthetic people, of all things. Onto the next question - is the Institute presently at war with any states in the wasteland?"

K5 paused briefly before answering the next question, considering her words very carefully,

“We have many rivals who seek our technology for themselves or who might wish for our destruction. Groups in The Commonwealth and entities such as The Brotherhood of Steel which covet technology and abhor AI constructs. However, at present, we do not consider ourselves in a state of open war with any of them. Regardless, we seek allies who might be willing to help us prevent any future conflict. ”

"Allies... Alright. Alright. I think we can work something out. We'll need precise locations, of course, and while I can't make promises, I think Toronto will be interested in pursuing this further, Miss... K5." He said, quietly tapping his chin.

"A few more questions, though, first." He said, bringing his pen back to paper. "We know you have reason to be secretive, but to dispatch a delegation, we'll need to know where your people are located, unless we'll be meeting on neutral ground?"

“For security purposes, I cannot specify a location myself: more specifically, I’m physically unable to give you a location verbally. However, among my possessions is a device known as a Deep Range transmitter. It has encrypted coordinates which can be provided to your leadership. The Director would like to warmly offer his hospitality and is prepared to meet your diplomats at The Institute itself, if that is agreeable.”

"It is, as long as your institute has an airstrip." He explained. "Moving by plane is one of the few ways we're allowed to cross that sort of distance without a massive escort."

“One will be made available,” K5 nodded, “I will warn that the weather in the region can be...unpredictable. But we do whatever we can to assist in guiding your aircraft to a safe landing."

"Unpredictable?" He asked, quirking an eyebrow. Something about the way she said that implied something more than mere unpredictable was happening... What were they hiding, exactly?

"What do you mean by that?"

“Ocean bound radstorms blowing in from the North Atlantic are a frequent occurrence this time of year, and the area is usually inundated with thick rolling fog, which makes visibility poor in even the best conditions. Thankfully The Institute has managed to partially control the latter, and the former can be mitigated with sufficient radiation shielding on buildings and clothing, along with regular distribution of anti-radiation chems. As I said...unpredictable...but not impassable certainly,” K5 replied.

"Radstorms... Huh. That could be a problem, but we've managed in the past. In that case, K5, while I'm just the messenger, I'm confident my Prime Minister will be interested in sending an ambassador to meet with your people." He said, quietly drumming his pain against the desk.

“Excellent, I’ll ensure The Director is informed and will be prepared to welcome the ambassador when they arrive.”

“...Right.” He replied. “If you follow my bodyguards, they can see to it that you get your things back. It was a pleasure meeting you.”

It wasn’t.

Second collab with @Jeddaven

---

Word had gotten back to Acadia of contact with Ronto, and Director Xavier Crawford was ecstatic at the notion that a Rontonian delegation’s arrival was not only possible, but imminent. Here, at last, was a golden opportunity to open diplomatic ties with a strong nation in the North. He’d heard rumours of Ronto, and the scant details that had filtered down were impressive. If certain pacts and assurances could be made between them, then The Institute would have gained a powerful friend indeed. But first, they would need to convince Ronto of the potential benefits of such an arrangement.

The Director turned to his every present and capable Gen-3 Synth assistant,

“Are we ready B7?”

“All preparations have been made, Director, I’ll be leaving shortly to greet them.”

“Excellent, inform me when they arrive. And ensure they have a warm welcome…”

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

Before the war the small Bar Harbor airport had catered to thousands of tourists who arrived on Mount Desert Island every year to have a taste of Maine, but wished to avoid any sort of drive. When The Institute had first arrived here, they’d cleared out much of the debris and rusted out aircraft which had littered the airport, scavenging whatever they could. Afterwards they’d established a sort of forward operating base, which served both as a research camp and a supply depot for expeditions around Mount Desert Island or even to the mainland. Slowly the camp had been built up and many of the pre-war structures around it repaired and repurposed.

With the news of a delegation's arrival here, however, the airport had been a flurry of activity. Hundreds of Synths of every generation had worked round the clock to ensure that the airport was ready in every respect to allow a plane to land here and its passengers to safely disembark. Unsightly ruins had been demolished and replaced with pristine Institute prefabricated modular structures of white and blue, which included a squat traffic control tower topped with a series of satellite dishes and a large fog condenser. Armed Gen-2 and Gen-3 Synths carefully patrolled the fenced-in perimeter of the airport, overseen by a small handful of ever vigilant Coursers.

B7 stood waiting on the freshly repaved tarmac near where the airplane would be directed to park. She wore a stark white dress suit reminiscent of pre-war business attire, with a red vitruvian man badge pinned to her left jacket lapel. A uniformed Gen-2 synth stood directly to her right, holding a thin umbrella which provided her shade from the bright sun overhead. The Rontonian delegation was extremely fortunate in the timing of their arrival: the Fog had abated for the time being leaving the island almost entirely free of the mist aside from the areas of Deep Fog on the western side. The Institute’s Fog condensers normally kept the eastern half clear in any event, but their reach only extended so far, and it was better that it had retreated entirely so as to keep the chances of any incident with the landing to an absolute minimum.

Calm and composed, B7 looked up to the sky as the first sounds of the incoming aircraft could be heard many miles away.

-------
It wasn’t long before the harsh, droning noise of turboprops resolved into something clearly discernable to the synths - the small squadron of approaching aircraft had been communicating with air-traffic control for some time, several shapes transforming from pinpricks to rapidly approaching tubes. One, the largest of the group, dipped its nose down toward the hastily rebuilt airport, distant sunlight shining off of the raised stabilizers at the very top of its tail. Outside of the wasteland, its pristine white interior, marked only by the flag of Ronto, would’ve been an unusual sight - but the sheer scarcity of aircraft in the wasteland made its cleanliness and gull-wings seem even more unusual by comparison. One by one, more noises joined the first, but rather than preparing to land, they simply sped past the airfield without a care.

Twin-engined shadows briefly blotted out the sun, Maple Leaf roundels the only distinct features - aside from pairs of gunpods - visible on the undersides. Wasting no time, one after the other, the fighter escorts zoomed by, off to the ocean, only to quickly begin slow, sloping turns in v-shaped formation, back toward Canadian territory.

The largest aircraft, though, continued on its gentle slope toward the landing strip, slowing to a practical crawl barely faster than pre-war cars on the highway.

Halfway down the runway from where B7 stood, the plane touched down, nose pulling gently upward mere moments before impact. It rolled forward for a fraction of a second before the nose gear, too, touched down - and then continued to roll down the runway, onto the taxiway, before finally coming to a stop a couple handfuls of meters from B7, enough distance to avoid striking her with propwash.

The exit door toward the cockpit swung downward, a set of metal stairs extending toward the apron.

One-by-one, guards in the same red, steson-capped uniforms B7 had seen in that tiny frontier town marched down the steps, filing off to either side until they formed two lines six abreast, one deep, standing at attention.

Soon after, a fair-skinned middle-aged man clad in a black suit emerged from the aircraft, marching down the steps after the officers. Two moved into place in front of her, though he was quickly followed by another person - a slightly younger woman of a darker, wheatish skin tone dressed in a navy blue pantsuit.

Followed by their pistol-armed guards, they made their way toward B7, while the pilot and copilot of the aircraft meticulously checked over instruments in the cockpit.

“I trust I have the pleasure of addressing Minister Plenipotentiary Stephen McLeod”, B7 said turning to the gentlemen as the retinue approached her, “As well as Attaché to the Minister of Science and Industrial Development, Harijhatta Jutti,” she nodded toward the woman, “I am B7-34, assistant to the Director of The Institute as well as your aide throughout your stay here. On behalf of everyone in The Institute, welcome to Mount Desert Island. I do hope your flight was a pleasant one.”

B7 motioned with an open palm toward the largest of the prefabricated structures, “Before I escort you to Acadia, I’d like to invite you in briefly for a decontamination screening, use of facilities, and refreshments if you would like some. Do you have any immediate questions before we proceed? If not, please follow me.”

"No immediate questions," the Minister replied, silently noting the mechanical thing standing next to her - another one of the synths, he supposed. Harijhatta already seemed excited, but she managed to contain herself.

"Our flight was pleasant, yes. We've not had any interference, though that may become an issue in the near future, thanks to the somewhat nearby presence of the Enclave - hence the escort. For now, though, let's move through decontamination."

“Of course,” B7 replied with a nod of her head, “Right this way.”

B7 then turned and led the group into the reception building, passing through a set of secure double doors held open by skeletal Gen-1 synths. They then entered a tight hallway lined with wall mounted rectangular radiation sensors. At the end of the hallway, a Gen-3 male monitored a terminal closely and once the entire group had passed through, he gave a quick thumbs up to B7.

Without pausing, the Synth assistant then led the Rontonians into a medium sized open room filled with white tables containing all manner of assorted pre-war snacks and purified water. Slocum Joe’s Donuts, carefully made as precisely as possible to follow the pre-war recipe, were laid out in an elaborate turntable display next to a large self-dispensing coffee machine at the far end of the room. White uniformed Gen-3s manned each table station and happily offered the group any refreshments they desired. A small seating area with cushioned chairs was available for anyone to sit if they preferred to. It was clear the building itself was sparse and utilitarian, and these arrangements had been specifically prepared for the delegation, but that made it no less welcoming.

“Please take anything you’d like and use the restroom to the left should you require it. Also, just an aside, your pilots and aircraft crew are likewise welcome to stay here and make use of these facilities for as long as is required. They will be invited in once we’ve departed.” B7 said cheerfully.

------

Once the Ronto delegation had rested, B7 politely gathered them up and ushered them through the proceeding door at the opposite end from where they’d entered. They now found themselves in a small grey room lined from top to bottom with electronic panels and all manner of unknown equipment, which seemed very different from anything else in the building. A circular base lay on the floor beneath their feet which formed an elaborate spiral pattern.

“Please stand here and wait one moment,” B7 said.

B7 then stared forward, a small smile spreading on her face as she spoke something clear and audible to all, but that seemed to be directed to no-one in the room,

“B7-34 reporting and ready for relay to Acadia. I have the Ronto delegation with me.”

Suddenly there was a flash of blue light, and B7 disappeared before their very eyes, before each Rontontian, in turn, did the same: vanishing into the molecular relay in an instant.

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

Director Crawford had watched from the balcony of the Acadia observatory as the Rontonian planes had descended from the sky. His mind churned with the possibilities of what might be accomplished if an agreement could be reached between them. They were clearly an advanced and established nation, more so than most groups in the wastes. After all, only The Brotherhood and The Enclave had managed to project that kind of air power in the past. He’d seen nothing that would indicate that Ronto outmatched The Institute in technological advancements, but everything pointed to the truth that their resources and mobilization were something to be wary of.

This could prove an interesting meeting.

—-----------------------------------------

After some time waiting, Xavier had made his way down to the lower level of the Observatory with a pair of Coursers in tow and was standing before the opposite end of the relay system. Despite the immense power required for even a short-range usage of the relay, Xavier had insisted on its use, hoping to use it to illustrate The Institute’s full capabilities.

“Sir, B7 has arrived at the relay point.” One of the coursers reported.

“Proceed.” Xavier nodded.

In an instant, the Ronto delegation was standing before him along with B7, the successful relay having transported them from the airport to the Observatory in a split second. He could only hope the countless hours of energy cutback on to enable the traversal would be worth it.

“Welcome to Acadia,” He said warmly as he approached the delegation and extended his hand, “I’m Dr. Xavier Allen Crawford, current acting Director of The Commonwealth Institute of Technology.”

The Rontonians were shocked, certainly - even amazed - but seeing as they were intact and still armed, they endeavored not to show it.

"Minister Plenipotentiary Stephen McCloud," he replied, reaching out to give Dr. Crawford's hand a firm shake. The Minister of Science, of course, shook next, and Stephen continued.

"...And Minister of Science and Industrial Development, Harijhatta Jutti, PhD."

"It's a pleasure to meet you. Doctor Crawford. We'd heard a good few things about your technology, but we certainly didn't anticipate teleportation. You don't mind the presence of our bodyguards, I hope? It's standard procedure for first contact." He said, smiling gently. The Minister of Science, however, looked simply excited.

“Oh, not at all,” The Director replied with a smile of his own, “Provided of course you don’t mind mine.” He gestured towards the dour Coursers to either side of him, “I assure you that you won’t find a safer spot anywhere on the East Coast, but one can never be too careful.”

“I’m sure we have much to discuss and I hope our conversation will be a fruitful one. Without further ado then, if you would follow me I’ll take you to a more comfortable location where we can chat.”

The Director then turned and began leading the group through the observatory basement, with B7 keeping pace directly behind him. They traveled past banks of database servers and various pieces of equipment. Every so often they crossed paths with an Institute scientist in one of their yellow facilities lab coats or synths in red and white uniforms. The Coursers kept a careful watch on the group at all times, but maintained a respectful distance.

Soon they reached an elevator and the Director ushered them inside. Once its glass doors had closed, he turned to the delegates,

“I’m afraid what you’ll see here is a fraction of what The Institute used to be. This is not our original home, you understand. We’ve certainly done what we can to make the best of it.”

Moments later and the elevator doors had opened back up and out into the open air of a bright blue sky. They were standing atop the observatory balcony now, which wrapped around the dome. The entirety of Acadia National park and part of Far Harbor was visible to them, along with the walled-in sanctuary of prefabricated buildings and residences that formed the Institute’s mountaintop home. Xavier then led them around the balcony for some distance until they came to a short flight of stairs which led up to a small enclosure that seemed to be jutting out from the dome and had clearly not been part of the original structure.

B7 went up first and opened the door to allow their guests into a small window-lined sunroom consisting of a pristine white table and chairs. The sunroom looked out onto a magnificent view of the harbor and the wider ocean beyond.

“Please take a seat,” The Director said as he sat down at the far end of the table. He then adjusted his glasses and ran a hand through his dark hair, “I trust B7 has already offered you refreshments but if you’d like anything at any point, please don’t hesitate to ask. Perhaps B7 you can start by fetching everyone a purified water just in case?”

“Of course sir.”

“Thank you B7, “ He then turned back to the delegates, “As for your guards they may have a seat or wait outside. Whichever is more comfortable to you. My Coursers will remain standing outside.”

“Now,” he said, leaning forward and laying his folded hands on the table, “I appreciate the fact that you’ve all come a long way, with the assurances of nothing other than what little you heard from the Synth Scout you received. I’ll start by offering up what I hope to get out of our talks here: I want to open a dialogue, plain and simple. The Institute has remained in the shadows and without friends for far too long, and we suffered greatly because of that. I want us to come to an understanding that will benefit both our peoples greatly.”

"That's exactly what we're looking for, and I'm quite sure there are plenty of things we can offer you," Stephen replied, gesturing for Jutti to sit before quietly sitting down himself. "Generating capacity, for example - in the more than two hundred years since the Great War, we've managed to restore a large portion of pre-war Ontario's generating capacity, and we have a large surplus to offer at the moment, as a result. More soon enough, we believe, now that we've started to push north and secure what remains of some prewar nuclear research facilities. Of course, I'm sure you understand that I can't make promises with nothing in return, but I'm confident we'll be able to come to a mutually beneficial agreement soon enough, particularly considering the breadth and depth of your scientific knowledge." Stephen said, hands folded one over the other in his lap, while Jutti sat silently, waiting for an opportune chance to speak.

“Power is indeed something we are in great need of,” The Director nodded, “As you might guess, our technological progress is somewhat hampered by this limitation. Even before coming here, we were forced to ration power and distribute it according to project priority. Now those problems are even worse.”

Xavier removed his glasses, and cleaned them briefly within the folds of his lab coat putting them back on, “As far as the rest goes, I appreciate that there will need to be a give and take in all things we discuss here. So with that being said lets both agree to lay our cards out on the table and hash things out appropriately. What then, are some areas that Ronto needs scientific or technological support in? Let’s begin with that, and I’ll decide if we are able to meet that need first and foremost.”

"Minister Jutti?"

She nodded, clearing her throat. "At the moment, our greatest need - in terms of technological support - is in improving crop yields. We've dug up as much information as we can find on prewar agricultural techniques, but those only go so far, especially in a world that is still recovering from disastrous levels of environmental pollution. Put simply, Ronto attracts refugees, and it's our duty to feed them. Second to that concern - and related to it - is our communications network. We've made great strides in terms of deploying radio and even television technology, but without access to satellites, we lack the ability of extremely long-range communication that'd be valuable for securing mineral resources and coordinating strikes against the Enclave."

“Ah, yes, agricultural research is something we have made great strides in. Bioscience previously achieved astounding success with The Warwick Initiative, which was able to produce a strain of GMO crops that nearly tripled harvest yields in even relatively infertile soil. Perhaps when we are finished here you might be interested in touring our Greenhouse? I’d be happy to arrange it.”

The Director then paused and raised a hand to his chin thoughtfully before continuing, “As for communications, that is a bit more difficult to solve. Degrading pre-war infrastructure is the largest hurdle to overcome, as I’m sure you know. Every year that passes means that there are less and less pre-war satellites in orbit, as most if not all are well past their expected term of service. However, Advanced Systems did at one point have a project on the table which included in its goals the development and launch of new satellites to reinforce the failing old network. It was scrapped, as you might guess, because of material cost and a simple lack of need. Long-range communication was never in any sort of great demand, as our operations typically did not extend past a certain range anyway. I think we might be able to resurrect that project, and perhaps with our combined resources see it to completion. Is that agreeable?”

"We're absolutely interested in both of your proposals," Jutti replied, after receiving a nod of approval from the Minister Plenipotentiary. "You're aware of the difficulties in launching satellites this far from the equator, I'm sure - and, as you've stated, restoring and maintaining more stable methods of communication when it comes to prewar telephone lines, and the like. Mr. McLeod told me that we'd also like establish a line of communication with you as soon as possible, and, given our relationship proves to be fruitful, it may become possible to enlist your aid in recovering scientific knowledge from other prewar facilities - the Chapman Space Centre, for example." She explained, gradually leaning forward, excited at the prospect of scientific exchange. McLeod, on the other hand, had an entirely calm air about him, neither excited nor bored, a carefully practiced in-between.

"Of course -" McLeod interrupted her. "These locations are in Canada, and we consider a number to be our sovereign property, so we'd suggest that they are not visited without our permission - just as we wouldn't go rooting through your data without permission. I'm able to agree to your proposals as they've been described so far on behalf of my government, however."

"Ah well, that is no problem," Xavier replied, "We have no interest in interfering with your sovereignty. Now as for your earlier point, " he said, turning back to Jutti, "There was some consideration given to the issue of a non-equatorial launch. Frankly, the proposed solution was a bit fanciful at the time, but perhaps still possible. We can discuss those details at a later date however."

"There is something else I'd like to put on the table as well. I'll be forthright and say it's my most pressing concern,” He paused, looking back and forth between the two Ministers, “Ronto is rumoured to be a significant military by those of us in the east, and judging by your fighter escort display earlier I’d say that those rumours are not unfounded. I’d like certain assurances that The Institute will be reinforced in the case of any hostile activity towards us. Of course such a pact would work both ways, we may not be the strongest military power in the wastes, but our Synths form the core of an innately disciplined and trained soldierly which fears nothing and wants for nothing. And our technological expertise could be quite beneficial in certain situations, especially up against groups such as The Enclave. A single well-orchestrated cyber attack can be worth more than an entire army in the field. What would your government say to such a proposal?”

"That... Is an admittedly more difficult matter, Dr. Crawford." Stephen replied, gently pursing his lips. "Now, I'm not saying no - in fact, we can negotiate precise terms right here - but ratification of defense agreements requires a vote by parliament, is all." He explained.

“Indeed, the wheels of democracy must turn and so forth,” The Director said with a shrug, “I understand. Although…come to think of it…..” He rubbed his chin thoughtfully for a moment as he considered his next words carefully, “Perhaps…it would be more appropriate if I should plead my case directly to your Parliament and speak before it? I’d imagine that its members might be more apt to vote in favor of such an alliance if they were able to hear it from me personally, as opposed to a diplomat relaying it by proxy. I will defer to your judgment of course, as I’m unfamiliar with your customs, but I would not shirk such an opportunity.”

"I won't comment on whether or not it'll be more effective, but I can say that, if that's something you wish do to, you'll have to speak with the Prime Minister. Parliament generally doesn't speak with foreign leaders, but the Prime Minister does, and leads the largest party in Parliament. It's largely her duty or that of appointed ambassadors to negotiate high-level treaties, anyways - besides, a visit will give us a chance to show Ronto to you." Stephen smiled. Besides, in the context of a defensive treaty, it'd be best one of them meets with her wife anyways.

"If you intend to do that, I'd recommend bringing along whatever diplomatic staff you'd deem necessary, along with anyone you'd need to negotiate military treaties. I don't anticipate significant culture shock, however." He continued, omitting the issue of synth personhood. Whatever they were, he didn't know - but he knew he didn't want to risk being killed over it.

“That was my thought as well,” Xavier nodded in agreement, “I would very much like to visit it. I confess that I’ve spent most of my life in isolation: I was born and raised in The Institute, and my first interaction with the outside world was my journey here. I think it would do me good to see something more of the world than what my bubble of relative tranquility has offered thus far. As for my staff, I would need only bring myself, my assistant,’ He motioned to B7, “And a few Coursers for personal protection. As acting Director I speak wholly for The Directorate, and therefore all of The Institute’s personnel and am empowered to act accordingly.”

“Excellent, now that’s settled, I’m quite content to hear out anything else you wish to speak on. The floor is yours.” He said finally.

“Well, delving deeper into the matters we’ve discussed, I would like to see more of your facilities. I understand that you have your own state secrets, of course, and I won’t ask you to divulge them, but it’ll nonetheless help your case the more I’m able to see how you and your folk live and work.” Stephen explained, bringing his hands together in his lap. “Words help, of course,, but I haven’t seen enough of the Institute to make any recommendations to my Prime Minister in your favour, aside from how advanced your technology is and your generally hospitable treatment of us.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Xavier said as he stood up, “And with that said I’d like to extend you an offer to stay with us for a night. It will allow you some time to get some sense of our daily life here and then be fully rested before a return journey to Ronto. And perhaps an official tour of sorts could be arranged, I’m sure B7 would be more than happy to conduct it.”

“Absolutely sir,” Came the reply from the female Synth.

“You also have my full permission to explore Acadia for yourself, within reason of course, certain buildings and areas will be restricted. I also ask that if you have any interest in heading outside our walls that you allow us to escort you. The wilderness of Mount Desert Island can be quite dangerous, and the fog….unpredictable. Other than that, you have our hospitality. B7 would you be so kind as to show them to the prepared quarters?”

—------------------------------------------

Minutes later, B7 had led the delegates down and out of the main Observatory building, and took them towards the far end of the Acadian perimeter, towards a one-story prefabricated structure. A couple of skeletal Gen-1 Synths helped carry any luggage they had brought with them. When the door to the building opened automatically, it revealed a hallway with a series of rooms, each one containing a bed, a writing desk, and a smaller lavatory room. It was altogether sparse accommodations, but very clean at least,

“Rooms for you both and your guards,” B7 motioned for them to enter, “If you should need anything, simply speak to any attendant Synth. They will relay your request to me. Otherwise, we will see each other again tomorrow. ”

Third collab with @Jeddaven

Acadia Observatory - The Institute

---

The following morning, B7 was waiting outside the delegate’s quarters alongside a silent Courser. She could only hope that the Rontonian’s rest had not been disturbed by some of the events during the night. It would seem that the temporary withdrawal of the Fog had been just that: temporary, and by nightfall the enveloping mist had once again returned. The Institute’s Advanced Condensers had kept most of it at bay, and the area around both the airport, Far Harbor and Acadia itself had remained unaffected. Yet emanating within the areas of the Deep Fog strange sounds and unearthly cries had been heard throughout the night. The creatures within had been unusually active, and there was some concern that they might become more so as the day progressed.

Breakfast had been sent ahead with a couple of Gen-2 synths to each of the delegate’s rooms, and now B7 was merely waiting as the delegates finished and readied themselves for the day ahead.

When they finally emerged, B7 greeted them warmly,

“I do hope each of you are well rested and ready to proceed. I’ll be leading you through our facilities here at Acadia before returning you to the airport. You’ll have to excuse the heightened state of alert this morning,” She said, gesturing both to the Courser beside her and a squad of six synths that appeared to be marching at a brisk pace towards the Acadian perimeter wall, “The aggressive appearance of the Fog has elevated our alert levels. Rest assured you are not in any immediate danger.”

"It's... Quite alright. We've dealt with a few unusual phenomena in our past. Not us personally, but as a nation, and Minister Jutti is often involved with cleanup operations," he said, gesturing to her as she nodded in reply.

"Additionally, I should inform you - our pilot received a radio message last night. The Prime Minister's able to receive Director Crawford in Toronto at his earliest convenience." He explained. "We don't have access to teleportation technology, obviously, so I'm afraid he'll have to travel like us." He joked, smiling.

“Excellent, then I’ll have someone inform him immediately. My assumption is that he is very eager to make the journey, so perhaps we will be returning with you to Ronto,” B7 replied, “But in any case, let's begin….our first stop will be the Bioscience facilities.” B7 led the group towards a section of buildings directly adjacent to the main observatory structure. A large greenhouse was visible here, along with several other smaller buildings. Scientists in Green and white lab coats busied themselves moving between the labs while a few meaderd over by an open air enclosure in which a few pre-war cows, not brahmin, were housed.

“As promised, here is a sample of The Institute’s agricultural research,” B7 announced as she led the group straight into the Greenhouse building. There was a wide expanse of floral here of all shapes and sizes including various post-war and pre-war crops. B7 reached for modified mutfruit and pulled it from its branch. It was nearly twice the size of her hand, “Here Bioscience develops and tests a variety of GMO plants. Each is evaluated for their hardiness under certain soil conditions, as well as for quality and quantity of yields. We obviously have a wide variety of uses for such plants including food and medicine, but we also have a particular interest in cultivating new varieties of rare or otherwise extinct pre-war flora. I understand that Ronto has a particular interest in this field, so please feel free to ask any questions you may have….ah yes Dr. Reed. Perhaps you’d be willing to speak to the Rontonian delegation?”

A gaunt, slightly graying, man in a green lab coat had just turned the corner of the row of crops they were standing in. He appeared surprised to see them at first, but quickly regained his composure and walked towards the group and introduced himself.

“Dr. Harold Reed, Assistant Director of The Bioscience Division, I confess I was not expecting to meet you directly so I apologize if my appearance is unseemingly in any way. If you have any questions regarding Bioscience I’m happy to address them as best I can. Otherwise I would just like to offer you a warm welcome to The Institute.”

"Well, correct me if I'm wrong, Dr. Jutti - but I believe you'd best field that?" Stephen asked, raising an eyebrow, and the woman quickly nodded in reply.

"Our Minister of Agriculture was unable to attend, unfortunately - so yes. Put simply, while we're narrowly managing to feed our population, the crops we have access to are... Inadequate. Whe know there's a seed bank some eighteen hundred miles northwest of us, in Saskatchewan, but those are pre war crops - so we're wondering, quite simply, how much you can improve the yields and nutritional values of our crops. There's a number involved, of course, but the thing we're most concerned about is corn. That's our staple crop, but we need to get more out of it." Jutti calmly explained, letting out a sigh of relief. "That's a big question, of course, and we're fully aware that a comprehensive answer will take time, but that's the primary reason for our visit."

“Yes well as you stated it's a big question,” Dr. Reed began, “I don’t want to commit to giving you an exact answer yet as to how much we could improve your yields. There’s a variety of factors involved that need to be studied and documented first, not the least of which is soil composition. Mind you that’s not because I don’t think we can do it, in fact I’m confident in saying that I think we absolutely can, but just that I don’t want to give you an exact number or ratio and then we fail to meet those expectations. That is a - what’s the pre-war phrase- ‘politician’s answer’,” Reed chuckled a bit.

“Perhaps Dr. Reed, you would be willing to act as a liaison between Bioscience and your equivalents within Ronto for the duration of this project.” B7 stated.

Dr. Reed seemed a bit confused by this statement, and raised an eyebrow slightly at B7, “Well, B7, should The Director appoint me, of course I would be willing.”

“Of course,” B7 smiled cheerfully back, “I’m confident he’ll agree with such a proposal.”

“Indeed…” Dr. Reed replied, his quizzical expression still apparent, “Well in any event it was a pleasure to meet you both, and I do sincerely hope you enjoy the rest of your stay here in Acadia,” Dr. Reed shook both Minister’s hands before departing.

“The Bioscience facilities also include various research labs and a fully functioning hospital,” B7 explained, “However, I’m afraid our tour will not include those due to both safety and privacy reasons. If you are both ready, we will proceed to Facilities.”

"A pleasure indeed - no need to worry about a politician's answer, either." Stephen said, calling out to Reed as he departed. "Trust me, an honest answer is better than empty promises," he said, clearing his throat before turning back toward B7. "We're ready."

B7 led the group back out the Greenhouse and towards the opposite end of the Acadia campus. Here was a large warehouse-like building which filled much of the space of this section, along with several other smaller structures.

“Facilities is responsible for production, maintenance, and the general safety and well-being of our scientists: which includes upkeep to the residential buildings…”

“Yes we are The Institute’s under-fed workhorse,” A voice interrupted B7’s explanation. The young man to whom it belonged had walked out from a nearby building and strode towards the group. His wispy blonde hair and clean-shaven, almost boyish, appearance made him seem much younger than he was. His yellow and white lab coat appeared different from the rest of the Facilities personnel, with the yellow coloring displayed prominently in the front in a manner which almost suggested a toga,

“Samuel Blackhall, Division Head of Facilities,” He said with a smile, “I was told to expect your arrival.” He proceeded to shake each of the Minister’s hands in turn, “As B7 was explaining to you, Facilities is responsible for the all-important day to day functions that enables the rest of The Institute to operate. Don’t let anyone in Advanced Systems or Robotics tell you otherwise: we are just as important if not more so than anything they do. If Advanced Systems is the Brain, Robotics the Heart…then we are the circulatory system. Eh…something like that anyway, insert whatever cliche anatomical metaphor you think is appropriate.”

“Dr. Jutti,” He continued, turning to the female Minister, “I’m told you are the Minister for Science and Industrial Development in your country. My understanding is that you also hold a couple doctorates in that field. I would be most interested to learn more about your work. Now… I don’t suppose I can tempt you enough to poach you from the Rontonians eh? I can’t say the pay is better, in fact the pay would be entirely non-existent but….you also don’t need to buy anything so it evens out in the end. You’d also get that crisp mountain air!” He made a grand gesture out to the valley beyond which the rolling fog now blanketed and completely obscured any view beyond it, “What do you say? When can I sign you on?” He finished with a sly smile.

"Ah, I'm afraid that's not an option," Jutti chuckled, after a pointed look from the plenipotentiary. "There are restaurants back in Toronto I'd miss too much, and, besides, my resignation would need to be approved. As for my education, though - you'd be correct. I hold doctorates in Civil and Industrial Engineering from the University of Toronto. Important fields, as you can imagine, when you're trying to rebuild civilization." She smiled, momentarily falling silent. "If you don't mind the question - what are power requirements like here? I understand if you can't give away exact numbers, but I imagine it's generally quite difficult and energy intensive to keep this place running."

“Well, you miss 100% of the shots you don’t take,” Samuel shrugged and laughed, and then continued, “Power requirements? Taxing in the extreme, as you can well imagine. Running the condensers alone sucks up a lot of power, and we need to keep them running nearly 24/7 in order to ensure we aren’t gobbled up by the Fog and whatever else is in there. Advanced System is working on potential solutions, but right now it's all we can do here in Facilities to squeeze out as much power as we can from Acadia’s generator along with the alternative power sources we’ve set up,” He pointed to the solar panels atop the Observatory, “We simply lack the resources and infrastructure we once had. And even back at The Institute power consumption was a continuous struggle.”

"I can imagine. Thankfully, that's one of the issues we're looking to help you solve." Jutti said, quietly nodding.

"Precisely. Bringing the power here would be an issue, obviously, but Ronto has a substantial surplus. At the least, we're confident our expeditions into the Chalk River Labs will bear fruit, when it comes to small-scale nuclear power." Stephen continued. "I'm certain there's some way we can be of help."

“I have a feeling you will be my two best friends then,” Samuel let out another laugh, “Maybe I should get a Rontonian flag to put on my desk….now I will say that I’m just the middle man here. Facilities controls our power generators…but Advanced Systems develops them. You’ll want to have a chat with Dr. Rosalind Orman for anything and everything nuclear energy, she’s the new Director of Advanced Systems and, frankly, she’s probably the cream of the crop as far as The Institute goes. Although you won’t see her bragging….well you might a little. She gave the famous ‘Latch-Key lecture that opened the way to the Phase 3 Project back in 2287. I assume you are on track to meet with her?” He gave a quick look over to B7, who nodded in reply, “Ah excellent.”

"We'll be sure to let her know, then - but I promise, we won't forget the people that keep everything working properly. We'd better not - isn't that right. Dr. Jutti?" Stephen joked, and Jutti nodded, smiling in reply.

"It'd be hypocritical of me to snub my own speciality, I think."

Samuel shook both of their hands once more, “Best let you get on your way then. Have a safe trip back to your homeland, and don’t let the Fog Crawlers get you!” He then turned and left.

“We are just going across the way now,” B7 said, and led them off once more, “This will be a bit different.”
—------------------------

The next section of the Acadian Campus that B7 led them to a whole different layout entirely. A single small building stood in the center of a perimeter fence guarded by a couple uniformed Gen-2 Synths. Without pause, B7 led them up and into the small building, which turned out to be housing an elevator platform. B7 pressed a button and the platform began to descend into the earth.

“This is a new section of the Acadia complex which we are actively constructing. Advanced Systems and Robotics are both housed here at the moment.”

The platform descended for several seconds before stopping and opening out into a lit hallway. After they passed through this hallway and the doorway beyond, they found themselves in a large atrium space, not unlike a Vault, with an upper and lower level. B7 continued on and took them through one of the doors in the upper level, which opened up into a small lab filled with terminals and various pieces of unknown equipment. Several scientists in blue and white lab coats looked up from their stations as B7 entered.

“Oh is Dr. Orman not….?” B7 started to ask, before one of the scientists cut her off.

“She’s in the testing area.”

“Again…” Another added quietly, without looking up from her station.

“Apologies, follow me,” B7 said to the ministers as she led them back out and into another doorway on the opposite end of the atrium. Entering it led them into a large open space that was empty aside from two individuals. One of whom was a young, olive-skinned woman with dark hair and wearing a blue labcoat similar in design to that of Samuel’s. The other was a uniformed Gen-2 synth holding a laser pistol. As the group entered, they appeared to be locked in an argument.

“I apologize ma’m but I cannot comply with that order.” The synth said.

“Override restrictions, Directorate level authority,” Came the frustrated reply from the woman.

“Override is denied, this is a priority protocol which requires Director authorization. I’m sorry ma'am, but I cannot comply.”

“Arrrgh! It’s perfectly safe! It doesn’t require Director approval!”

“I’d be happy to forward your request to the Director’s office, if that is helpful Dr. Orman.”

“No…no let’s not do that. Not after last time….oh!” Dr. Orman looked surprised as she noticed B7 and the ministers, “Perfect timing!” She then walked over and grabbed the pistol from the Gen-2 unit and handed it to Stephen, “I need someone who isn’t a synth to help me with this. Their safeguards are a pain sometimes…would you please stand over there,” She pointed to a small yellow circle nearby. She then moved off to stand in a similar blue circle some distance away.

“If you wouldn’t mind doing me a tiny favor….shoot me.”

“Dr. Orman!” B7 looked utterly horrified.

“Now override guardian protocols, both of you,” Dr. Orman said, looking both to B7 and the other Synth. That one at least shouldn’t need Director authorization. Got it? Good.”

“Now if you don’t mind discharging that weapon at me please,” Dr. Orman asked again politely, “I’d appreciate it. Don’t worry, it's perfectly safe!”

For once, Stephen seemed utterly shocked - or shocked enough, at least, for his facade of complete control of his emotions to drop. His eyes widened slightly as he stared down at the weapon for several seconds, all while Jutti looked on, equally confused.

"What is it going to do, exactly?"

“Well what THAT will do is fire a focused beam of coherent light at me with enough wattage to potentially do considerable harm. What it won't do however, is actually hit me. You’ll see. Fire away!” She replied with a beaming smile.

B7 stayed silent, every coded line of her programming was screaming to intervene, but she remained motionless.

"With all due respect..." Stephen said, shaking his head. "I'm not going to shoot anyone, even if it is theoretically safe. If something went wrong, I would almost certainly lose my job."

B7 let out a deep breath and muttered a barely audible, “Oh God thank you.”

Dr. Orman gave off an exasperated sigh, “Fiiiine, jeez what’s a girl got to do around here to get shot at….” She walked back over to Stephen and grabbed the weapon from him, “This won’t be the most thorough manner to test it, but I suppose it will have to do.”

She quickly raised the weapon to her temple, and B7 reacted with a loud cry of despair but had no time to do anything else before Dr. Orman pulled the trigger and a blast of energy emitted from the pistol.

There was a loud electrically charged clash that followed, and an aura of bright blue light seemed to shimmer around Dr. Orman briefly before it once more disappeared. She held out her hands as if to say ‘See? I told you’ and then handed the weapon back off to the nearby Synth.

“Miniaturized photonic resonance barrier,” Dr. Orman explained as she pulled a small device from her pocket, “With a range tweaked just perfectly to fit an average human, and quite capable of deflecting small arms fire. Something I whipped up as a side project. I always personally test my inventions before bringing them up for Directorial approval, and I never test them before I’m 100% sure they are going to function as intended. So you see Mr…..” She cocked her head quizzically, as if noticing for the first time that the pair didn’t belong in The Institute, “Uhhh….who are you?”

“The Rontonian delegates, Dr. Orman” B7 croaked out.

“Oh wow! I guess I kind of lost track of time! I’ve been working all night….” She laughed nervously, “Rosalind Orman, Division Head of Advanced Systems. Soo…uh….what…what…brings you here?”

"Well," Stephen said, clearing his throat with a loud a-hem, "we're here to 'kick off' diplomatic relations with the Institute, as it were, and were graciously offered a tour of your facilities. Everything is tentative, but we’re exploring the possibility of supplying you with surplus generated power in exchange for aid with our crop shortage, and, potentially, wider scientific exchange. I'm Minister Plenipotentiary Stephen McLeod," he said, gesturing to himself - and then to Jutti.

"And this is Minister of Industry, Innovation, and Science, Dr. Harijhatta Jutti."

She nodded, gently bowing her head in respectful greeting.

"We're quite impressed with your technology, I must admit - back home, we're still relying on synthetic fibers and plates for body armour, and we certainly don't have access to... Teleportation technology."

“Ah well not to brag, but the teleporter is kind of old news. Heck that thing was built in my grandfather’s time. You should see the sorts of things Advanced Systems is coming up with now….” Dr. Orman trailed off and bit her lower lip, “Although I suppose I can’t really say anything more. Regardless though, I’m glad you’ve come. The notion of exchanging scientific ideas and cooperating further with the surface…I mean the wider world…is a worthwhile endeavor. I’ve always supported The Director’s new policy of breaking The Institute’s self-imposed isolation whole-heartedly. We’ve achieved great things on our own…but we could achieve so much more if we worked with others. Speaking of which, I hope it's not too bold of me to say that I find myself enthralled with your nation…or at least what I’ve read from our briefing documents. Is it true that you’ve mostly returned to pre-war standards of living?”

"We're on the way there," Jutti said, clearing her throat. "It's only recently that we've been able to begin deploying a primitive television network, but, if I'm frank, our greatest obstacle has been a lack of usable plastics. No oil, few plastics - or other petroleum products." She said, shrugging. "We're working on some solutions, like bioplastics, but deploying those on a large scale is difficult using Ontario alone."

Dr. Orman clapped her hands together excitedly, “I could help with that,” She said quickly, “The Institute has been making use of mass produced bioplastics for some time. In our weapons and early generation synths. I certainly think…well I supposed I shouldn’t make any promises without consulting The Director. Oh I wish I could make a trip to Ronto myself, I think it would be incredibly enlightening to see how a post-war reconstructed nation functions.”

“I agree,” came a voice from the doorway. Director Xavier Crawford had walked in and was approaching the conversing group. He was similarly dressed as a member of The Directorate in a black toga-like lab coat. A watchful Courser followed closely in his wake, “As a matter of fact I came down here directly to speak with you Dr. Orman. I would like you to accompany me to Ronto when I meet with the Rontonian Prime Minister and their respective government representatives. I realize there are risks involved with two members of The Directorate making the journey north, but I’m confident we are in good hands,” He nodded towards the two Rontonian delegates, “And I think the benefits of having one of my best with me when we meet with our counterparts outweighs those risks.”

Dr. Orman became wide-eyed, “I’m…well I don’t really know what to say…”

“Is that acceptable to you?” Xavier asked, looking expectantly to the two Ministers, “

“Absolutely,” Stephen cleared his throat, drawing attention away from Dr. Jutti with a nod and a smile. “Will you be traveling with us, by air - or using your own technology?”

“We will travel with you,” Xavier replied with a smile of his own, “I could make up some excuse and say this is because of proper diplomatic decorum, but the truth is, I’ve never flown before….and I think I would like to.”

“Oh! I’ll pack my things!” Dr. Orman almost shouted, “Just one second! I…” She looked around, seemingly confused for a few moments, and then looked back up at the group, “Uh…well I suppose I don’t have much to pack come to think of it.”

“I took the liberty of having a Synth pack some essentials for you,” Xavier said, “You’re all set.”

“Oh perfect! No wasted time then.”
As Dr. Orman and The Director had been speaking, The Courser bodyguard had held a hand up to his ear and turned away, seemingly getting some kind of communication. He now leaned back in and whispered something quickly into The Director’s ear.

“Ah well…speaking of no wasted time…I’m afraid we’ll need to move quickly. It would seem that the airport is currently under attack. I’m told that the defenses are holding, but that there is some concern regarding potential danger to the plane if it remains on the ground. I apologize to you both, but I suggest we cut your tour short.”

"Oh! Well, it's fortunate our bodyguards are armed, then." Stephen nodded. "We should be able to take off just fine - from what I understand, these planes could manage on runways half the length of what we landed on, and dirt, too. Shall we?" Stephen said, gesturing for the Director to lead the way. Jutti seemed nervous, her eyes darting back and forth - but Stephen, on the other hand, was utterly unperturbed.

“Indeed, follow me.”

—---------------------------

A few frantic minutes later the group had returned to the teleporter and in an instant, were sent back to the airport building. Already upon leaving the teleporter room and exiting into the reception area the sounds of gunfire and laserfire could be heard alongside inhuman, abominable, noises. A group of four Coursers fanned out in front of the delegates and led them back through the reception area and out onto the tarmac.

What they found was a chaotic scene just beyond the perimeter fence. A horde of Fog creatures, Gulpers and Anglers, were scrambling to get over the fencing and towards the plane. A host of Synths were firing their laser rifles and pistols with mechanical precision aiming for whatever parts their combat programming told them would be points of likely vulnerability. In addition to The Institute forces present, a dozen RCMP troopers in full tactical gear had disembarked from the plane and were forming a tight cordon around it. Their automatic rifles rang out as they sent a flurry of sporadic fire towards the creatures. If they were at all unnerved by the horde of unknown monsters from the mist, they did not show it.

A black haired female Courser who seemed to be in charge of the Institute forces present approached The Director as the group left the building, she raised her voice nearly to the point of shouting so as to be heard,

“Perimeter is holding currently sir, but it's been steady like this for a good ten minutes. We’ve no idea where they came from or what else is on the way. We need to get you all onboard and safely away before anything breaks through. Once the aircraft is up, the Synths will fall back to defensive positions inside the building. We should be able to pick them off from there.”

“Lead on A7!” The Director shouted back over the din of fire.

Dr. Orman desperately clutched at her briefcase as the group nearly sprinted for the plane and right into the protective line of Rontonian forces.

“We need to get them onboard straight away!” A7 yelled out to the troopers. Just as she did so a loud crashing could be heard in the underbrush beyond the fenceline. Something big was coming.

“Fog Crawler!” She shouted.

"Everyone up the stairs, buckle in! We're going for minimum takeoff distance, so it's gonna be a bumpy ride! Go, go, go!" One of the RCMP officers shouted, gesturing towards the unfolded staircase. Stephen was the first up, followed by Jutti - only once the Director and Doctor Orman filed in did the RCMP officers begin to follow, continuing to lay down fire as they tightened their cordon toward the stairs, practiced and disciplined in the extreme.

The airplane, perhaps unsurprisingly, wasn't especially ostentatious, certainly not like prewar airliners. It was relatively small, and narrow-bodied - a reduced seating configuration of 25 allowed for two people to pass by abreast, the floor and seats both clean and well-upholstered in calming, dark blue tones.

Stephen and Jutti had already strapped themselves in in two seats on either side in the front, arms braced against the armrests.

Xavier and Rosalind took seats together in the row directly behind Stephen and Jutti, while the four Coursers and B7 spread out in seats next to and behind them. There was a brief moment of awkward unfamiliarity as The Institute personnel tried to work their seatbelts before they quickly figured it out and sat back. Rosalind looked out the window and her eyes grew wide at the sight of a massive mutated crustacean breaking through the perimeter fence and rearing up as if in challenge to the plane: the Fog Crawler had arrived. It tore through a couple of unlucky Gen-2 synths with its massive claws as if they were made of nothing but paper and began making its way across the tarmac towards the aircraft. Mere moments later, the RCMP officers piled in, hopping into their seats - and the aircraft lurched violently forward, the low thrumming of the turboprop quickly transforming into a loud drone.

Moving at a speed that was likely blistering, and probably viscerally uncomfortable for a pair of first-time flyers, the turboprop charged down the runway, directly toward the Fog Crawler. Close, closer, and...

Suddenly, it pulled back, lifting into the air well short of the Fog Crawler, leaving Bar Harbor behind.

"It'll get smoother after this, I promise!" Stephen hollered.

“Oh I hope so,” The Director replied through gritted teeth. Both he and Dr. Orman were white-knuckled, gripping the ends of their arm-rests tightly. The Synths on the other hand, including B7, were surprisingly calm. The Coursers display no visible reaction, while B7 merely pursued an old flight safety brochure. Xavier almost envied them in their poise and control, their emotions tempered by their crisis response programming.

He leaned back, and closed his eyes, content to simply relax as best as he could.

Port Newark, Newark

With a gloved hand, Clifford Smith carefully reached for the control panel of Generator #4. He turned a knob slowly to the left, its dial ticking down as it went down the percentages marked along its circumference. Generator #4’s whining quieted and the glow from inside dimmed. The bank of eight whirring fusion core generators were nestled side-by-side in a dimly lit concrete room underneath the old port administration building on the south side of Newark. There were once ten generators, each supplying power to the largest American prewar port on the East Coast. #3 and #8 were lost to time and disrepair, but the others could still produce a power output for the community that lived there.

Port Newark was an early settlement in the New York City metropolitan area after the war. It provided several benefits to wayward refugees: the military had hardened and secured the port against possible sabotage during the old world’s war with China, which offered protection from raiders and looters after the bombs fell. Indeed, a half dozen sentry bots bearing the faded orange and blue striped service mark of the US Coast Guard still patrolled outside the perimeter. Settlers broke open the mountains of shipping containers inside for their old world goods, hoping to find food and technology to survive.

The resulting settlement of mid-rise dwellings cut into shipping containers and ringed with scaffolding, balconies, and walkways, resembled something like a building under construction. But a fully functional community became fiercely independent and isolationist while the rest of the city burned in post-atomic chaos. The settlers of Port Newark fought with the city government for years, including skirmishing with the mighty General James Hastings. Eventually, however, after Hastings’s capture of Newark Airport and the encirclement of Port Newark by the SecDiv, the community acquiesced and was annexed. Their supply needs were alleviated, except for power.

Nuclear energy supplied by fusion reactors was common before the war. Every office or industrial park had a fusion generator or two, much like the ones Cliff was tweaking in the port administration building. These were great answers to saving money on electrical bills, as generating your own power was always preferable to paying the grid. But they simply were not able to provide energy robustly across an entire settlement. Port Newark was a slight exception, with its massive industrial power generation needs translated to the lesser concerns of domestic heat and lighting for its denizens in makeshift container homes. Despite this, they suffered frequent blackouts for over a hundred years prior to their annexation.

Cliff finished his work, stepping into the generator room’s antechamber to strip off his gloves and lab coat before washing his hands in a sink and returning to the control room. His assistant, Anna Pawlowski, sat at a computer desk with the green monitor illuminating her face. “The reactivity has gone down to appropriate levels,” she assessed calmly. “We should be good for the night.”

Cliff stepped over to her, passing shelves and bins littered with tools and spare parts and drained fusion cores. It was a messy co-use space, often occupied by technicians trying to repair old world pieces to keep the ragged generators running. From over her shoulder, Cliff saw the data streams on the RobCo terminal’s ghastly screen. All according to plan. Every day, they had to manually tweak the reactors to provide as much electricity as the settlement needed. No more, no less. Running the fusion cores at a hundred percent efficiency all the time would drain them faster than turning down the reactivity at night when less power was needed.

Cliff nodded at Anna: “Alright. You good from here?” he asked. His tone of voice was professional, like a teacher to a student.

“It should be,” she replied as she tapped the screen. “According to our data, 59% fusion rate should suffice for the night. It’s not quite winter, the heating in most units won’t kick on tonight.”

“Good work, then,” said her mentor. Cliff smiled. She was learning quickly. He had been letting her make the calls on night shift reactor decisions: he still manually changed the settings on the generators for now, but planned on disconnecting one from the Port Newark grid and giving her a class later.

“Yep. You enjoy your night, Cliff,” said Anna. Keeping an eye on the computer, she leaned over to her briefcase and unlocked it to withdraw a book she had been reading. The Big Book of Science: a classic textbook. It looked new, lacking the yellowed paper and peeling covers of prewar books. Cliff knew the Wasteland Aid Society had just come to town with their portable printing press to deliver some books to the school.

He bid her a good night and headed for the exit. Dimly illuminated by an emergency sign that had long since been relevant, Cliff dressed himself in an overcoat and fedora. It was getting cooler out there and Cliff had never liked the cold. The man pushed open the door to the building and stepped outside. The streets of Port Newark were lit only sparsely: partially because of the power restrictions and partially because the streetlamps had long since been broken. He made his walk towards the stacks of shipping containers where he now lived. Following a winding path through “streets” and “avenues”, Cliff reached the stairs up to his residence. His container was stacked on top of four others and was quite the workout to walk to.

Cliff reached his place, swinging the wooden door open to the same container that he came back to every day. It was a “double-wide”; two containers with a wall cut out between them and supports added in. The interior was almost entirely plywood, with “rooms” made from partitions and the exterior walls stuffed with improvised insulation held behind the simple boards. A window had been cut out to the walkway to let in light. A meager kitchen space, bathroom with improvised plumbing, and bedroom were all he had. Humming a tune, Cliff turned on his radio next to the window and reached into his refrigerator to find something to cook. Squirrel stew it was. Cliff went to bed early that night.

He awoke to a knock on the door earlier than his alarm. The man grumbled, rolling over on his twin-sized mattress to check the clock hung crookedly on his wall. 7:12 AM? He usually woke up at eight to get ready for work. Grumbling to himself, Cliff put on some decent clothes and walked his way towards the entrance to his home. He opened the door and felt his heart sink to his stomach. Standing there in the dawn’s light was a man he had not seen in five years: a former colleague named Arthur Morales.

“Can I come in, Cliff?” asked Arthur plainly. Cliff couldn’t answer the question, staring in confusion at the man who had come all the way from Manhattan to visit him.

“Arthur?” he asked, shocked. “What? I? It’s been years.”

“I know, I know,” said Arthur with a hint of solemn regret. “And I apologize. We’ve done you dirty. But I hope you know I never wanted it to be that way.”

“It took you five years to apologize?” Cliff asked, his shock turning to frustration. His hand clenched around the door handle.

“Listen, Cliff, let me in,” pleaded Arthur. “I can explain.”

“You better,” said Cliff through gritted teeth. He stepped away from the door, motioning for Arthur to come in and sit on his ancient and stained sofa. The man, dressed in a grey suit, obliged and sat wordlessly while Arthur came over with a porcelain cup of coffee from his counter. He didn’t offer any to the visitor.

“NucDiv sent me with a job offer,” Arthur explained.

Cliff cocked his head, gripping the coffee mug in his hand. NucDiv had fired him so many years ago. They fired him with, as the manager said, “extreme prejudice.” They never would have wanted him back in a hundred years.

“What the fuck, Arthur?”

“I… Well, we… We know it wasn’t your fault,” said Arthur as he wringed his hands together.

“Then why did you do that to me?”

Cliff had worked for NucDiv before. He hadn’t always been in Port Newark. A long time ago, he had been born in the Bronx and was brought up through the Wasteland Aid Society’s schools for technology and science in the borough. Clearly talented, NucDiv hired him on as a nuclear engineer for a variety of projects. Cliff ran reactors for NucDiv in the Bronx until a fateful day when a radiation storm had overwhelmed the cooling units on a fusion reactor. There was an explosion. An entire building was leveled. The manager told him people had died. He was brought before the NucDiv supervisors, berated for his role, and fired. Cliff was suddenly left homeless and jobless. He lost everything.

“I tried to tell them. It was the radstorm, not you. But they didn’t listen,” explained Arthur. He frowned. “The Council wanted blood.”

“I blew up a building, Arthur!” exclaimed Cliff. “And I killed Honda. They said he turned into a ghoul in the core.”

“Well… no.”

Cliff’s eyes widened. “What?”

“Honda was evacuated and saved a week later. We pumped pretty much our entire stock of Rad-X and RadAway into him, but he lived. His hair all fell out and he can’t run marathons like he used to, but he’s alive. NucDiv thought he was dead at the time… not sure why. He was in Bellevue the entire time getting worked on by the Society.”

“So… then…” Cliff sat the cup down angrily. “This was all for nothing?”

Arthur shook his head. “The Council wouldn’t let us out of their microscope. You must understand. We were shut down in the Bronx, we had to use fission reactors for fuck’s sake. And I set you up here! I knew a position was open in Port Newark and I got someone to hire you. It sucks, yeah, but you were starving on the street.”

Cliff narrowed his eyes at Arthur. “Give me one reason why I shouldn’t push you off my balcony. Make it look like you tripped.”

“Caps,” sighed Arthur. “Lots of them.”

He reached carefully for his brown leather briefcase and unclasped it. With a deliberate motion, he turned it around and set it down on Cliff’s coffee table. Inside, Cliff couldn’t even count the number of blue Quantum caps inside. Each cap, popped from a Nuka Cola Quantum, was officially recognized as worth one hundred regular caps. An entire system of denominations had developed in New York City as the financial system made reforms to deal with the increasing amount of economic activity. It was easily a small fortune staring him in right in the face. All courtesy of the division that had scorned him so many years ago.

Cliff’s mood changed from anger to confusion again. “What do you want me to do? I don’t get it.”

Arthur left the briefcase on the table and clasped his hands back in his lap. “The Economist made a publication the other day. It was sent straight from the Council to NucDiv. They want us to go reactivate Indian Point.”

Indian Point, as many in the city knew, used to power New York. Featuring an advanced, high-output fusion reactor, it was the pinnacle of American nuclear engineering. At the center, a system of “toroidal containment cells” – tokomaks renamed by the government because the sounded “too Communist for domestic use” – provided unimaginable amounts of energy to the entire region. Indian Point had been secured by SecDiv, but nobody had entered the facility since the war. It was dormant, ready to go, and waiting for someone to turn it back on.

It was no secret that New York had an energy problem. Port Newark was no exception to what many boroughs and neighborhoods faced. An assortment of small generators both fusion and fission simply couldn’t join together in an ad hoc electrical grid with enough energy to power the city’s ambitions. As the Council mulled expansion northward and eastward on the Long Island Sound, it became clear that resources were going to be the limitation on this growth. Indian Point was key to unlocking the full potential of the city’s systems. It was even hypothesized that The Economist could use this to fully interface with the computer networks and automated functions that prewar New York thrived from.

“Why me?” said Cliff simply.

“We know you’re the best. You ran that plant well. You run this plant well. We know you’ve studied toroidal containment cells. And most importantly, we know it was you who stopped the Bronx disaster from wiping out an entire borough.”

Arthur stood up from the couch and smoothed out his suit jacket. He left the briefcase on the table. “I know there’s a lot going through your head right now,” he said reassuringly. “NucDiv is sending a courier next week to take your answer back to the office. It’s a simple yes or no. But if it’s a yes, you’ll need to sort out your affairs. Find someone else to run Port Newark while you’re gone. Goodbye for now, Cliff.”

Arthur walked towards the door while Cliff stared wordlessly. Arthur nodded at his former colleague and excused himself to the balcony. Cliff waited for the door to close and the figure of the NucDiv man to descend the stairs in front of his home before turning his eyes to the briefcase full of caps. The Quantum caps glowed a faint blue in the dimness of his sitting space, as if to lure him further in. Cliff shook his head and closed his eyes, cursing the universe that had ruined his life for the last half decade before suddenly deciding to give him a second chance.

He made up his mind as he sat wordlessly eating a small breakfast. Anna would need to get trained on Port Newark’s fusion generators. The crash course would have to begin that day.

---

---

The three cracked bronze bells of the Constitutional Temples of the Founders, each modeled after the holy Liberty Bell with its own famous crack, called Philadelphians to morning prayer. As the sun began to rise above the horizon, the faithful already waiting outside the holiest temple in the Union made their way up the stairs and into its great chamber. President Franklin Abrams could hear the bells from his office in Independence Hall, rebuilt to imitate the great Oval Office of the White House in the holy city of Washington DC. He had been up early that morning, when the sun barely cracked the dawn, busy laboring over his desk about the request for additional funding the Continental Navy wished for.

In the Union's politics, only the Judges and the Holy Courts held more sway than the Army and Navy. As the son of a Deitsch Amish princess and a Philadelphia Shipmaster, it was no secret he was pro-Navy. The Army's "Western Frontier" plan was more than likely to bring war and devastation to the Deitsch lands, some of which the Union only barely held on because of the half-Deitschman Preisdent. Yet Abrams still couldn't move to brazenly against the Army's interests as he had been elected on a promise of compromise between the Army and Navy and was still barely half way through with his decade-long term.

The admiralty where hoping to ply his favor with sweet talk and seafood dinners, but Abrams hadn't become President by being easily swayed with honeyed words and fish. He had approved the yearly budget for both the Army and Navy, giving both an equal amounts. But it had become clear that the money the government was spending on the Army was giving more dividends than the Navy. The Army's base at the Kinoprus (King of Prussia) Mall continued to grow as traders and settlers were attracted to the military base, growing it into a civilian community all of its own. The worry in the Synod Senate by the pro-Navy Senators was that soon the Army would have its own city-state within the Union that the civil administration had no authority to govern as it would still technically be a military base.

The Navy for their part continued to lag behind with the development of their own attempt to match the Kinoprus Mall by developing the Battleship New Jersey into a strategic center from which defense against Jerseyite raiders could be coordinated from. But the act of moving it from one side of the river to the other had already gone over budget originally during the previous presidency, and that was before mirelurks were discovered in parts of the hull. The projects to repair the artillery guns back into a usable state (the reason the entire project was approved in the first place) had already been scaled back all three turrets down to just one. And it was still overbudget. Funds originally set aside for the restoration of the Walt Whitman Bridge across the Delaware River (another one of Abram's campaign promises) had to be funneled into the Navy's Battleship New Jersey plan. The only saving grace was that at least people where still willing to settle nearby, ignoring the fact that most of buildings that were popping up where just bars and brothels for the workers and sailors stationed there that seemed to be stuck in a sluggish hell.

President Abram held the Navy's letter in his hand, sighing and rubbing his forehead, "Founder Franklin, Founder Roosevelt, give me the wisdom and strength for this bullshit." The Navy was wanting more caps for... everything. More sailors, more boats, expanding the officer corps, building the battleship, paying for wages, paying for bounties for the mercenaries they contract to keep the battleship free of mirelurks, expand the young marine corps so they don't need to use mercenaries anymore. By Washington, this would all be so much easier if the Army would just step in and take care of port security but no, they had to "protect the breadbasket of the Union". Which while fair, there hadn't been any major raider incursion in well over a year. The small gangs and tribes that occasionally wandered in front of their laser muskets hardly warranted the equal budget they shared with the Navy, in Abram's mind at least.

He stood up and looked out the window. He could see the whole of Broad Street from his office, all of the carts and carriages going through. He let his mind wander, going from sight to sight. Men and women dressed in as close to 18th century fashion as they could with what the wasteland provided, typically amounting to nothing more than ruffled sleeves or collars for men and an additional piece of short cloth around the waist meant to imply a dress for women. If nothing else, it was proof that Philadelphia itself was safe, now that there was no longer a raider around every corner that the guards and Army had to look for in every alley and abandoned building.

Suddenly, a light bulb went off in the President's head. A spark of inspiration, no doubt from Founder Franklin himself!

"There were a great number of raiders and bandits, the patrols had to be increased to find them all." President Abrams paced in his office, thinking out loud, "The rivers and the bay still have as many dangers and pirates, just that only the seafolk see them on a daily basis. If the Navy finds more sea-brigands on their patrols, then that would be a result they could show to the Senate. And then I could allocate additional caps to 'expand' their patrol efforts. They would be able to use it for new ships or at least funding for the battleship."

Abrams rushed to his desk and began drafting a letter with his ink pen. The Navy was already hesitant about diverting any more of its precious manpower away from the Battleship, but by invoking the name of Founder Roosevelt, a Master of Ships in Old America, and by throwing around some of his own political sway, Franklin Abrams was confident that he could get the admiralty to sign off on additional patrols even if it meant pausing repair efforts on the New Jersey and weathering the ridicule from the Army. The President wrote furiously as the great bells rang to signal the end of morning prayer. He would be staking a good deal of political power on this order, but it was a safe bet. If the Navy caught or killed more pirates then it was proof that they could also get actual results while also looking better than the random bandit the Army sometimes caught. If the ships were destroyed then that was proof of the danger that the pirates and sea raiders poised to the Union's waterways, which Abrams would also be able to sell to the Senate as a need to give additional funding to the Navy.

"And so as the tide turns, I implore you to deliver upon the sea additional sentinel craft in which to persecute the malevolence-upon-waters that claw their savage talons upon our fair peoples. Yours truly, President F. Abrams." And with that, the letter was signed and with the ring of a bell, an aide came with a presidential raven, a black bird with a golden tassel around its neck. It would be the one to deliver the message to the admiralty at the Naval Yards, and be the one that might be the one to turn the balance towards the Navy for once.

All Fallout Sector members were called to meet in Number One's chambers, minus FalloutJohn, who was currently taking refuge in a basement in the Fort Wayne area. Whether they were busy or not, this required their immediate attention. Bob came in from the field, Jack stopped making the rounds, Scott and Greg pulled themselves away from the computer and engineering sector, and the sniper David Davidson... We dunno where exactly he was at the time, but he suddenly disengaged his Stealth Boy system in the room, revealing his black powersuit in navy-blue highlights. Number One stood up from his seat, hands behind his back.

"Let us not waste any time. You are all aware of our goal to take Fort Wayne, correct?"

"Of course, we are! Do ya think I stick my nose in machinery so long that I don't know what's goin' on?"

"...sometimes, but I digress. After the report that the Vault underneath may have been contaminated, I sent in FalloutJohn to investigate, and it was found that the area was teeming with mutations as of yet unknown to the world. More to the point, these self-evolving creatures - we will refer to them as Chimeras, for the time being - seem reluctant to leave the area, even in the presence of a heavy assault which is harmful to the senses by mere proximity, and immediately lethal upon contact. This lack of fear and extreme territorialism is believed to be unnatural, induced by one who possesses skills in excess to render such creatures controllable."

"In short, you believe it's Bastion."

"The idea was posed by FalloutJohn, but I agree with this assessment. Ergo, the situation is far worse than initially anticipated. We guaranteed that Vault 66 was not contaminated with the Forced Evolutionary Virus...but IT IS. Dr. Bastion brought it there for further experimentation when he was removed from position here and escaped. He and all of his experiments must be destroyed."

This was when the sniper spoke up.

"No offense, but is that info really a 'disaster'? If the folks at Indiana Homes find out, so what? We don't use the stuff because it's completely unmanageable, uncontrollable. We eliminate the problem, we eliminate the reason to rage."

"That is Plan B, where Plan A is that no one discovers the root cause and we proceed with the occupation of the Vault without issue."

"Alright, so right now, John is semi-pinned down, time is of the essence, and we need to move in and clean house. I notice we're not briefing a ton of troops right now. Do I take it we're not sending any?"

"Negative. The large Chimera will only make a target of less-skilled operatives than you. The Vertibirds that are there and the one you take will hold perimeter for your attack. NOTHING is to leave the area."

"Suppose we find something bigger and meaner."

"You know I don't inhibit 'creative measures'. I am simply ordering you specifically because I know the job will get done, and our limited numbers will not suffer."

"That's fine. I love a good challenge, anyway!"

Jack thought about this, and then...had a funny idea.

"Okay, then. There IS one thing I'll definitely need to even the odds."

The men were dismissed, and things got underway...



Time passed, and John had spent it rigging explosive boobytraps for creatures passing by. He and Bob loved explosives. It was just that Bob was way more - and perhaps a bit unhealthily - enthusiastic about it all. Nevertheless, to make sure that he wasn't cornered, he periodically moved to different buildings, and then...set them to explode. They were all decrepit ruins, anyway. the Enclave wasn't going to live in hovels when they could pre-fab a structure suitable for human existence. Even the raw recruits living topside in Fort Knox deserved better than this garbage, and there were people that DID live like this! At least at Indiana Homes, they modified that shit! Still, he had heard a building or two go up, and when it was the big one in the midst of it, the entire town would hear. His air support had backed off, as per orders. When he heard them again, that would be the signal to start shooting once more, because that was when reinforcements would arrivee. His ammo count was...ho boy. Do you even need ask? This suit was made for long hauls, with stores of his stuff to take out a small army. Granted, that small army was suppose to be like NCR or the Brotherhood of Steel, not wild beasts who randomly sprouted wings.

Speaking of which, he'd seen the main aggressor, by now. It was indeed lion-like, and octopus-like, and eagle and reptile and- Look, the flying Deathclaws were bad enough. They never even GOT them all or the Experimental Alpha down in Texas. They could be anywhere, crossbreeding with other Deathclaws and- No, that wasn't worth getting worked up about. Creatures in nature - be they unnatural or not - could and would be dealt with as needed. If they appeared, they'd kill 'em. There was nothing else to it. Still, that big one...

The radio cracked.

"Hello, John. Are you ready for this?"

"I'm ready to begin operations."

"No no... I mean, are you ready for this?"



Over the sound of the Vertibird blades came music. They had established an extreme perimeter outside of Fort Wayne, and the other five Sector members were all approaching on foot from different directions. Jack got over the wall by grappling hook and whipped out a Plasma Defender, opening fire as soon as he saw any creatures. Bob jetted himself straight up to a building and started lobbing Incendiary Grenades. When a flight-capable Chimera swooped down at him, it was practically bisected on his sword. Nobody saw how David got in, but there WAS a severe burst of plasma from when a pair of Chimeras picked up his scent, and nothing further until he was at a high vantage point, opening up with his Sniper Rifle. Scott took out a wall with his Uber Sledge, and Greg rode in on his bike directly after. Greg had a Tesla Cannon at the ready, once he'd attracted some attention, and any of the creatures trying to blindside him were found by Scott's minigun drones. The drones were built from Handys and Gutsys, but without the irritating chatter. They were mindless quadropeds, but they served. Not too difficult for the man who designed the MGB. You uhh...may be wondering why THAT isn't here, by the way. Hah hah hah... Nah, that's overkill here. Definitely not worth the effort for this. Maybe if Dr. Mobius' Giant Roboscorpion were in town, but it's not.

The Giant Chimera, meanwhile, had detected multiple intrusions to its lair at once. As was expected, it was momentarily uncertain as to to where to attack first. So, when it sprouted four large wings and took to the sky, it was clear that it was going to try and make a quick run of all of it. This, however, was John's cue. He stepped out of concealment and made like an anti-aircraft platform, tracking the offending target with high-velocity ordinance and opening fire. He cut through the corner of a building doing it, but the beast was suddenly hamstringed and its wings on the right side disappeared, causing it to plummet. No sooner had it been done than the six men converged. Sniper-fire entered it's multi-eyed face, and even as it was regenerating, a volley of explosive wads of fire, electricity, and railspikes entered its body, as well. By the time Jack - who was furthest away - got to it, the beast was in a rage and trying to ram buildings to get to the offending targets. That...involved one of the buildings John had rigged, so...big explosion there. Unfortunately, Bob had been on top of that, so he had to nearly exhaust his jetpack keeping himself from cratering pavement. When the giant creature was finally still, Bob still insisted on dropping napalm.

"It's dead. You can SEE that it's dead."

"Aww, but we need to make sure! It could regenerate!"

"Its head blew up."

"It could grow another one."

"Bob!"

"Oh, come on, Jack! It's fun! You know Number One wanted us to be thorough!"

"Okay, okay... Let 'er rip."

They had all prepared something in case things got worse for wear. Bob's emergency solution was to load their Vertibird with napalm instead of the usual Mini-Nuke load-out. David had brought a full-on heavy Gauss Rifle, the only thing really stronger than his Sniper Rifle. Scott had explosive RC Cars, while Greg had a load of EMP weapons, just in case a more robotic threat came by. And Jack? Well...his idea was on board the Vertbird, as well. For now, they would enjoy the blaze of the Giant Chimera burning down to slag while the remaining smaller ones started getting picked off at their leisure.



Clean-up had taken much longer than the battle itself. With the regeneration possibilities of all the creatures, it had to be sure that they would not come back, so Jack, Bob, and Greg were on that while Scott worked on opening up the Vault and the other two watched his back. By now, anyone within proximity of this town would see the Enclave working on this one little town for a good while. The big Chimera had made the Fort Wayne Children's Zoo its personal habitat, and in an access tunnel below it was the way to Vault 66. Scott was about ready to open it by the time they had regrouped.

"Alright, let's do it. Any more Chimeras are to be shot on sight. Dr. Bastion is to be taken to Number One directly, where possible."

"Why impossible? He's just a middle-aged jackass, right?"

"A twat with several degrees of intellect and ingenuity, Bob. He's easily up there with me."

"Uh-huh... Yeah, whatever. I'll try not to invoke the chunky salsa rule."

The door was opening in its painstakingly-loud manner, and the six of them walked in. There was no way that Bastion didn't know they were in here. Putting aside the question of them being monitered, you'd have to be deaf not to hear the noise, the alarms, or the computer notification that would follow. And yet...no reception awaited them. This place was dead, or at least quiet. They began a systematic search of the area, because while it was likely that it would be in the labs, he could anticipate such a thought and plan some sort of an ambush of freaks there, instead. Nothing, though. Nothing...until they heard noises from the engineering level...

"I...don't like the sound of that."

"I don't like the sound of you not liking the sound of that."

"That wasn't no equipment sound, down there."

"It had more of an organic quality, to me."

At this deliberation, David just sighed.

"Gentlemen, as much as I don't like whatever that was, myself, you know perfectly well that we're all going to have to go down and find out what that is. We don't like it. We do - in fact - hate this part of the job. But unfortunately, we have no other choice. We've been tasked to clear this Vault and get the scientist, now are we going to do this, or what?"

"Actually, why don't you go down, Mr. Stealthy?"

"What's a'matter, Bob? Spirit of adventure left you?"

"Probably a rare moment in common sense, the likes of which we rarely see. Go on, David. You're the quiet one. Go and take a look."

"Fine, fine, fine..."

He vanished, and proceeded down the stairs, weapon ready. There was pause...then a grunt and a gurgle from something large and unseen...then a loud moan...and finally a rapidly de-cloaking man in a powersuit running up the stairs!

"Fly, you fools!"



They all felt the rumble from below as something BIG got into motion. They looked down...and a HUGE face of Super Mutant quality glared back up at them! Curses were made as grenades were thrown, shortly before running. The explosions went off, and that thing moved up into the next level, flowing like an amorphous mass of protoplasm! You couldn't see the end of it, only that the beginning was a mass of twisted flesh and parts with this multi-eyed mutant face with a deafening moan blasting from its orifice was coming after them. John had no plastic explosives left, thanks to the previous combat. Plasma, Tesla, Gauss, and Incinerator fire was hurting it, but only superficially. It kept coming... It was only slowed down as they go to the upper-most level, and Scott had his explosive cars waiting, commanding his drones to stick to the Vault entrance and fire on anything that came out of that door. All things considered, that wasn't gonna last long, but Jack said...

"It's okay! We're on the surface!"

"It's okay what? I think it just absorbed the slugs and powered through anything that didn't penetrate!"

"It's okay...because I prepared for this."

"Oh right! Wait... All you brought was a half-a-dozen Replicants."

"Yeah, but remember the packs I had on their backs?"

"I remember. What's in 'em?"

"The bombs you took out of the Vertibird...plus some extra."

The creature erupted from underneath the zoo, showing multiple faces, giant horrible limbs, reaching tendrils, and a body that was disturbing to look at by all the ways it fluctuated. However, the Vertibirds were now in place, as the lead craft opened up and a half-dozen powersuit robots divebombed the mass, exploding in nuclear fire on impact. The screams off of this thing were deafening, as the parts that remained were now on fire, taking laser and plasma-fire from the other waiting Vertibirds.

"You see, Bob? There was a time and a place for explosives, and that was the time."





Getting back into the Vault hadn't been that hard, once the fire died down. They weren't done with the operation, but then...as they surveyed the inside once more...it turned out that it was. Sort of... There was no further opposition. There wasn't anything else alive, and there were NO signs of the good doctor. Not at first, anyway. It was indeed in the lab that the most activity was made. Signs of his genetic experimentation were there, but none quite so explicit as two things. Number one, the main lab computer. And number two...a strange and half-wrecked device labeled 'FEG'. The others inspected it, or just sat around, while Jack looked through the computer.

"I've never seen a device like this, but I can guess at its purpose. This is where he made those freaks o' nature."

"That's what he did, alright, but...that isn't the end of it. It's called a Forced Evolutionary Genosplicer, and do you know how it works?"

"Nay, but I've a feelin' you're about to tell me."

He nodded, and explained.

"Vault 66 has no residents. It never did. It was kept empty by the pre-war organization, labeled 'Hellishly unsuitable for human existence', hence the name. This was a lie, however, and instead they used it to store vital equipment, things that might be needed in the future, all in cold storage, safely locked away. This includes-"

"A GECK?!"

"Several."

"Where are they?"

Jack pointed to the machine. They all looked, and even though you couldn't see their faces, you know that understanding crept upon them now.

"He didn't... He fucking used them all for his research?!"

He did, and that meant that their ultimate goal here was probably a failure.

"'The FEG utilizes the properties of the Garden of Eden Creation Kit and that of the Forced Evolutionary Virus to create the new superior form of life which I desire to bring forth into the world. This will be my magnum opus, my brilliant gene machine capable of devising perfect organisms to dominate the landscape.'"

"That son of a bitch! I'll have his head!"

"Where is he? I'll bring him to Number One char-broiled!"

"Not before I have at 'im!"

"You probably already have."

Everyone looked at Jack in confusion, so he showed them the last entry on the computer, the last-recorded words of Dr. Donald Bastion:

“You should perhaps... build it more rigid.” the low voice rolled as the two figures starred down the throat of the great mine-shaft. From its dark throat the echo of the makeshift crane and winch they had constructed went crashing down into the void. There was nothing to see of it, only hear it. Its descent crashing forever and echoing back up. In his mind, Adam Macenzie counted the seconds as heart beats until he heard the final splash as it hit water. He ran the numbers in his head and concluded: it was very deep indeed. But on the ledge just below them the corpse of the radstag they had just killed was laying in a heep in the ashen rock and he wanted it.

Adam Macenzie, a swift twenty-nine year old looked bright for his age and had not shed his youth in those years despite everything. In Greenbriar County he was considered the best of the lot with his soft but clear brown eyes, dirty blonde – and literally dirty – hair, deep rolling voice, and sharp angular chin. He was sharp on the rifle, and clear in the head. Had not taken to chems, on account of his tendencies to seizures and how they killed his ma and as people surrendered to this tendency were looking up to it as a trait of powerful personality. Although he did not talk much, he was considered – ironically – the height of conversation even he rarely listened and detached himself from it. He was not listening to his partner now, the oak-strapped gray-green mutant that half lay across the ground with a shallow expressionless look in his eyes as he drolled softly into the pit and spoke about how the wench Adam had spent the afternoon building needed to be more rigid.

“It was the spruce struts.” he said. “It was the spruce struts. They could not hold the weight. It was not enough rigid. It could hold the weight not.”

Adam thought about responding to him, but could not bring himself to it. He was considering the cause lost. The stag was twenty feet down and the boulder is lay on – its neck broken from the fall – was just too much. He hated himself, thinking it was safe to chase the animal so close to where it was known a mine was. But that was life as it was. “Perhaps the Moth Man will eat it.” he said bitterly, ending his mutant companion's rumbling about structural rigidity.

Dog-Hound was maybe ninety year old super mutant. Perhaps a century. Perhaps more. It was hard to say. His skin was thick and cracked, yellowing and graying and greening at once until he resembled merely a mossy boulder if left motionless. He was not gifted with intelligence, prone to single subject obsession. “Perhaps if the stag were more rigid.” he said, continuing the topic along a new line of thought, “And it might just the cliff climb up.”

“Climb up a sheer cliff-face?”

“Yes.”

“The edge extends out [i]over[i] it, Dog-Hound.”

“I have seen it. Seen it from rigid animals before.” Dog-Hound said without missing a beat. It is certain he has seen many things, no one doubt that. But many doubt exactly what it is he has seen. They however do not doubt his strength, and Adam today and hoped to have him carry a stag or a yaoi-guai for him after field-dressing it. And the hunt had started well when he got up this morning. The sun was not even up and they had found the trail. He should have known it would not go so well. But oh well, the Devil giveth and the Devil taketh and so it goes. He would just have to take on a new trail later.

He picked up his rifle and began to move off. But then Dog-Hound said, “Perhaps if climbed.”

Adam turned around to him and and shook his head. “No, that won't do.” he said, “We have better luck to find something else. I still have half a day. What about you?”

“Sleep need I no.” Dog-Head said, shaking his head. And it was perhaps true. But he was also known to be found standing motionless, unblinking into the distance for long periods of time. Perhaps that was his sleep, and he didn't quiet know it.

Adam didn't chose to acknowledge the comment, and began to move on. Turning to look out passed the trees and the brambly brush he looked out over the valley. Its long expanse bathed in the light of the sun. The mountainsides covered in the mat of the decay and the gradual regrowth of Appalachia. As far as he was concerned: it was his home and in a manner of speaking his kingdom.

World Trade Center, Manhattan

The control room in the basement of the Twin Towers was cold, metallic, and grey. Computer consoles ringed a vaguely octagonal room and walkways stuck to the walls of the tall ceiling. It reminded Sandra of a missile silo, almost. In the middle of this silo was a pillar with a glowing green computer terminal. Wires and cables ringed the floor and were suspended from the ceiling: her mother had spent two years fixing up The Economist and never could get it all the way tidied up. Sandra didn’t touch most things: she was afraid of breaking him.

She had put a small living room there for her conversations with him. A floral rug covered up the bare floor, letting Sandra walk around and take off her slippers without feeling the cold steel underneath her feet. A lone recliner with a coffee table topped by a vase of flowers reminded her of her own apartment in the tower. She tapped at her cup of coffee, listening to the quiet humming as The Economist thought through a question.

“Indian Point, Indian Point,” he muttered. Sandra cocked her head.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“Well there’s so much to it!” The Economist said quickly. “The fusion reactor could produce over a hundred-thousand megawatt-hours annually. It had a patented high density toroidal containment unit developed with secret government funding from WestTek.”

“Did you just find their sales brochure?” Sandra responded dryly, stirring some sugar into her coffee.

“Well yes,” admitted The Economist. “But there were no court cases filed for false advertising and the actual generation data appears fairly close to the advertisement, within five percent variance.”

It was a lot of energy: New York City was running on fumes, its own grid unable to keep up with demand outside of localized fusion reactors. There was a power grid running throughout the city but only rarely could neighborhoods draw from a centralized source. Much of the city was an apocalyptic hack job, and much of that infrastructure was damaged after the war. There was a reason why some of the alleys and streets looked like spider webs of electrical wires. Maintenance was a pain in the ass and it was often easier to just hack in a new cable than replace an existing one.

“Curious, when I look at where all the power is supposed to go there are things that don’t give a return value. And not because the information is restricted,” The Economist said.

Sandra leaned back in her recliner. “What do you mean? There are things offline?”

“Precisely. And mostly government things. City government tools and subroutines. Every department answered to one source.”

“One source… Another AI?”

The Economist scoffed, or at least attempted to. “I hope not. Nobody likes competition. I’ve been enjoying my little monopoly, you know. If the SEC were still around they’d fine us into oblivion! But the building plans for city hall have a bunch of secret tunnels and underground facilities like this place, I would not be surprised. I’m not convinced the military managed to shoot down all those incoming missiles by themselves. They needed coordination, and it wasn’t me.”

Sandra nodded. “It would be worth a shot.”

The Economist chuckled, its electronic laugh reverberating throughout the control room. The console’s screen seemed to brighten with his chuckling. “Well, you know, maybe someone can lighten the load over here. You know how much it isn’t my job running day to day operations? I’m a CEO, not middle management, baby!”

Sandra was not amused. But she was used to him by now. She gestured around the room at the computational equipment scattered across the floor. “It may require some repairs. You know, like my mother had to do to you.”

“Maybe not as much as you’d think!” The Economist replied with a wink of his computer monitor. “In 2073, New York City signed a contract with QuickFix! Repair Technologies. QFRT on the market, if you want to make some long plays on it. Not that I’ll divulge insider trading recommendations, that’d be illegal.”

Another electronic wink. Sandra raised her eyebrow. He had never mentioned anything about automated repair systems before.

“See, some of the city’s municipal repair bots had QuickFix software loaded into their subroutines. I’ll go ahead and print out their lot numbers for you so you can take it to the suits upstairs.”

In the distance, a printer whirred and began churning out a document of data into a carboard box that Sandra had placed underneath its tray. The Economist had learned not to blurt random numbers at Sandra by now: an executive summary of his babbling was much better for the City Council.

“If there is some sort of AI, and if that QuickFix contract had been executed… I only say ‘if’ because you and I both know how slow the… ehem… public sector works… then these bots will automatically connect to the AI’s network and start executing repair subroutines. We’d have these bots working day and night down a patented civil defense repair and reconstruction priority task list to restore essential services and city functions. 24/7! And we don’t have to pay ‘em overtime like some union workers, we’ve got our own metal scabs right here in town, baby.”

Sandra nodded, crossing her arms again. The City had been working on restoring what it could based off of old blueprints, but some of these systems were so degraded and damaged that they only caused bigger problems. If this software was really integrated into a government AI, the humans wouldn’t need to solve that problem.

“So what’s the catch?” she asked. “You tell me all the time, there’s no such thing as a free lunch.”

“Absolutely, my dear,” The Economist said. “Nobody works for free! Well, except me, because I’m a robot slave down here in a basement. Maybe I should take back what I said about unions.”

“You know I never thought I’d see th-”

“Just kidding!” The Economist laughed again. “Anyways, yes, Indian Point has power line connections all over the tri-state region. This includes almost a hundred factories and industrial facilities, dozens of towns, rail networks, and quite a few military installations. I actually have no idea what many of these places look like. I was only able to quickly gather data on close-by corporations and entities using NYPD counterespionage warrants in the hours before the war because everyone else was distracted. But out in the country? I wasn’t able to get that far – that’s why I’ve needed you to manually input data into me.”

“We’d just be flying blind?”

“Well, sort of. I am 65.67% certain that there are no hordes of killer robots out there. Maybe just one or two individual killer robots per county, but that’s not a lot when you have a laser gun from Brooklyn AA&E. But we may be giving our competitors an advantage. I would let the suits figure out if they want those Gunners up in Albany to have factories in their cute little trading port. I’ll print out everything I have!”

The printer whirred again as document after document floated down into the cardboard box below it. Sandra looked over to watch it fill up slowly and methodically. “I still think they’ll do it,” she said.

“Hell, I would do it if I were them. After all, risk is part of the market,” the AI said flatly. He chuckled again. “Well it’s been a good talk, Sandra. I’ll let you go figure this out.”

Sandra stood up from her chair and set the empty coffee mug down on the table. She bid The Economist farewell and walked over to her cardboard box of documents that now had some heft to it. She sighed, picking up the information before trudging over to the waiting elevator. She remembered when her mother got too old to carry up The Economist’s printouts: teenaged Sandra would bear the load instead. She remembered getting bored waiting around while her mom talked about the very same things she quizzed The Economist on today. Sandra got into the elevator and pressed the button to shoot up into the tower proper. As the door closed and The Economist could no longer hear her, she laughed. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same: including that damned AI.

@Andronicus23




At the mention of the word ‘Trapper’ the guards reflexively gripped their weapons tighter, despite Liam’s apparent polite demeanor, and faint murmurs filtered through the crowd. His mouth tightened slightly. Ah shit, what had Bilge done?

It became obvious his instinct that something was rotten in Far Harbor was true. Quite literally. He wrinkled his nose as the smell wafted to him from the heaps of decaying fish. Some in his band with less composure audibly gagged and swore to God, or the Spirits. Interestingly, scattered amongst the refuse were almost pristine food containers with a weird symbol: A four-armed, three-legged man. He even spotted someone in the back of the crowd quietly munching away on some noodles, obviously reluctant to let the meal go to waste despite the alarm of his arrival. The incongruity of the Pre-Bomb looking food amidst the sad wretch of a harbor was too much to process right away.

“Lower your weapons,” Came the call from the back. A woman strode forward, obviously the leader. She was dressed in a Harbor fisherman’s outfit upon which straps of scrap metal had been attached to form a makeshift armor and wore a brown tricorn hat upon her head. An old fishing net was draped about her left shoulder like a sidecape. She’d obviously come dressed for battle, but seemed eager for peaceful negotiation.

“I’m Captain Avery, I speak for the Harborfolk. You’ll have to excuse our somewhat tense demeanor and show of weapons, we don’t get many visitors to Far Harbor and we’re always cautious of new faces. I’m sure you can understand. If you’re here to talk, I’m happy to acquiesce. Perhaps we can talk somewhere a bit more private, if you’d be willing to follow me.”

She looked around at the guards before continuing,

“I only ask that you and any who accompany you disarm before you do so. We’d appreciate a show of courtesy. You have my word and honor as Captain that you’ll be granted safe passage.”

Liam grimaced and tightened his hand on the revolver at his waist, before letting go again, holding his hand distinctly away from the gun.

“I understand,” he replied levelly, before continuing louder to the distinctly better equipped group of Trappers around him “But we keep our blades and hatchets.”



Avery led the Chieftain towards her house situated on the docks. She welcomed him and any members of his entourage in and bid them to sit around a large table on the lower floor. She removed her hat and placed it on the table to the side before sitting down herself.

“Before we begin, can I offer you anything? Something hot to drink? Perhaps a bit of food?” She then nodded to one of the Harborwatch who’d entered the house and was leaning up against the far wall, “Fetch them anything they want from the Last Plank. Tell Mitch that it’s on me.”

Avery shifted uncomfortably in her seat before she continued and addressed their leader, Spearshank,

“You said that you came here looking for your kin; fellow Trappers. I confess that we did not realize that the Trappers here were part of a larger group, although we did know that they came from beyond our shores. If you are here seeking them, then I’m afraid I have some unwelcome news. The Trappers who were on this island were driven mad by the fog, and lost to it. Either falling to the creatures that dwell in the deep fog or driven out by Acadia when they pacified this part of the Island.”

She held up her hand, hoping to calm any immediate protest,

“And before you become quick to anger or judgement. Know that your kin caused much harm to this island and its people. I know many of our Harborfolk, especially those obstinate few who tried to eke out a living in the wilderness, were lost to Trapper attacks and viciously murdered. So understand that we have lost friends and family as well, but even so I do not fault them completely for their actions: the fog is ultimately to blame for consuming them as it has so many others.”

Avery paused and took a deep breath,

“So with that said, I’m sure you have questions aplenty. I’ll do my best to answer them, provided we can all remain civil.”

Liam sat stiffly in a faded red chair in Captain Avery’s house, sipping coffee from his battered, ancient thermos. After denying the offer of food and drink, he had listened calmly as Avery confirmed his worst fears. Now he sat quietly, drawing out a moment of suspense that played to his reputation of quiet intensity. The four members of his Kithcircle with him stood behind him, jaws clenched, wondering just how violent their Chief’s response would be.

In truth, this oft-used tactic gave him time to seriously deliberate Captain Avery’s words. He did not doubt the truth of Captain Avery’s story. He had heard tales of mind sickness deepening from terrors beyond the natural. And it had been years, he had been prepared to learn the worst. Still, he had to strike a compromise and not make his trip worthless.

Liam set down the thermos and stared back at Avery for one more moment before responding phlegmatically with a faint drawl “Hunts can go wrong. I understand that. Still, this… Fog. You take it for granted. We’ll want to see it ourselves.” He was playing with the tension in the room, hoping turn it in his favor with a disarmingly laid-back response.

“I apologize for my kin’s actions,” he continued “Many of them were part of my clan, Clan Spear-Shark. They left ten years ago looking to hunt in Far Harbor,” he chuckled grimly. “Far Harbor is quite infamous in Maine, and I remember how excited they were to spear a laser eyed sea-beast or land angler.”

He sipped from the thermos “We are at something of a draw on this. Had they not been driven mad by this ‘Fog,’ my kin could have been friends rather than enemies. They are not fully responsible, but the violence they inflicted on you calls for some kind of recompense.”

He turned around in the seat to his Kithcircle. “Bring us some canned lobster and potatoes.” The fairly nondescript, brown-haired Kaleb nodded and left the house. “Thank you for your offer of food earlier, but it hardly seems fair to take from a fishing town with a fishing problem. Would you like some? It’s hard to tell your food situation,” he said turning back to Avery, a faint smile on his scarred lips “You seem be getting relieved from famine by some Pre-Bomb rations of some kind. Does it have something to do with this “Acadia” that provided the muscle to defeat my feral kindred? I’ll need to hear who they are while we eat.”

“My Kithband, the Trappers of Clan Spearshark and a few others, are skilled hunters and fisherfolk all. We also have considerable rations with us. Maybe in exchange for a few caps and some of your guides showing us around the island to the mad Trappers’ remains and old campgrounds, we could help your food problem? Have any idea what’s causing it?”

Far Harbor

“We’ve all lost people to the Fog, some are killed outright…some are driven mad. You’re kin were driven mad through no fault of their own. I think we can accept that,” Avery nodded as she leaned back in her seat, “We’ve had more than a few Harborfolk over the years go missing in the fog and turn up later ranting and raving, with a murderous look in their eye. It's a hard fact of life here.”

“As for the food situation,” Avery continued, “Yes things haven’t been easy lately. Our catch has been spoiled and our fishing boats come back laden with only mutated, half-dead things. It's been bad before…but not like this. Never like this. The farther we have to go out to find fresh catch the more dangerous it becomes and there’s more than a little concern that the mutated fish might mean our very waters are becoming toxic. Nobody wants to leave Far Harbor, and I doubt anyone would even if we had to. Which is why we have to figure this out. Luckily, we will have help.”

Avery took the food offered by the Trapper kinsman and waited until her host had already begun to eat before she began to eat herself,

“You seem be getting relieved from famine by some Pre-Bomb rations of some kind. Does it have something to do with this “Acadia” that provided the muscle to defeat my feral kindred? I’ll need to hear who they are while we eat.”

“Those supplies are from Acadia, yes,” Avery nodded as she took a bite of lobster, “You might say we have something of an understanding with them. It's not really for me to say who they are, so all I’ll say is that they’re strange people with strange ways. They’ve done right by us so far though. They have a representative in Far Harbor right now if you want to speak with her. She’s close: up on the hill yonder at the old Admiral’s place overlooking the bay. I’m sure she’s already seen your ship coming in…”

“My Kithband, the Trappers of Clan Spearshark and a few others, are skilled hunters and fisherfolk all. We also have considerable rations with us. Maybe in exchange for a few caps and some of your guides showing us around the island to the mad Trappers’ remains and old campgrounds, we could help your food problem? Have any idea what’s causing it?”

“Well….I suppose that could be arranged,” Avery agreed, “You have deep ties with your kinfolk and wish to pay your respects, I can appreciate that. Do you have any whiskey by chance? Old Longfellow might be willing to take you for a few bottles. That’s his usual fee. He’s our best tracker and guide in Far Harbor. I will warn you though, inland things aren’t near as dangerous as they used to be, but that doesn’t mean it's safe. And if you’re looking to head to the eastern side, by the Children? Well I don’t think Longfellow would be willing to guide you there ....”

“What's causing it?” Avery continued with an exasperated sigh, “Depends on who you ask. How many salty Fisherman wisdoms and old legends are you willing to hear in one sitting? Some say it's just a bad year, some are saying it's The Red Death coming back for revenge, and if you talk to Allen Lee and his lot, well, everything is the fault of the Children of Atom now isn’t it? As for me, I’m not willing to entertain tall tales or accusations without evidence. I just want our fish back. That’s why I wanted Acadia to look into things…get to the bottom of it.”