[b]The Long Watch, Think Machine 3600r—The Commandery, Washington D.C.[/b]

The Executive Committee conference room was clearly a Sutler creation. Like his office, it was needlessly voluminous space—dimly lit—centred around a single table and atmospheric spot lighting. The sole criteria for membership was being born in the earliest years of the century. Sutler himself was actually the youngest; he was born in 2222. They were the last generation that knew the Oil Rig. 

The usual affairs were dealt with swiftly, denizen affairs, a hearty cheer at Ashur’s death, a teleconference with the Party’s Steering Committee. Granite watched the two dozen or so committee members, shabby and nervous, delivering their reports to Sutler who—they couldn’t see—looked somewhere between bored and repulsed at the indignity of the whole thing. Granite saw Sutler examining his finger nails, whilst the Party rep bleated out some potato-yield statistics—finger naials didn’t even grow in here, and there wasn’t any dirt.

“Mainland vermin,” Sutler said dismissively; the vid-link shut off after the committee had finished their rendition of “Hail to the Chief”.
“Now that that’s dealt with, is there any other business?”

“Sir,” Granite said. “I’ve been thinking more about the Brotherhood of Steel situation. I had a report from the Peace Force garrison at Twin Lakes concerning some refugees—from the Brotherhood of Steel territory. They said that there was fleeing from mutants… their description bore a strong resemblance to the Mariposa Mutants.”

“Mariposa? Some of the remnants of the Vault 87 strain then?” Sutler said.

“They said they’d come from Cincinnati.”

“Cincinnati? Well then probably not. And they’ve came east, all this way?”

“From what I can tell, they made it sound like there’s war. Full mobilisation by the Brotherhood of Steel. They’d heard about us and our state, and figured the Enclave would be a more secure place.”

Sutler leaned back in his chair.

“It would certainly be an explanation as to why their border-zone with us is so short-staffed,” he said finally. “But, really? Mariposa-strain mutants? In large numbers? That lunacy was confined entirely to the Mariposa base… and Vault 87 for some reason. You’ll have to send me the report, circulate it around us all.”

“I was thinking sir, that maybe we should take a more proactive stance on this one. Maybe conduct some reconnaissance. If something is large enough to concern the Brotherhood of Steel, then it must be serious.”

Granite saw the steely look already forming on Sutler’s face before he’d even finished.

“The western-most area of the pretenderate Brotherhood of Steel state is being threatened by some unknown force. Who cares. Even if they topple the Brotherhood, what difference will it make? The Mariposa-strain mutants are mindless animals, we saw it here. They’ll burn themselves out, I’m not risking any of our personnel for this.”

[b]The National Mall, Washington D.C.[/b]

Of all the things that they’d accomplished in the last 20 years, Granite considered the great green expanse of the National Mall to be their greatest. He looked out from the sidecar as Denizens toiled away at tomato vines growing around rebar and fields of potato bushes—all looking so small against the looming monolith of the new Pentagon in the distance over the Potomac. Thundering booms and sirens in the distance heralded more and more of old Washington falling. The entire city was to be systematically razed—buildings and roads—and then reconstituted into the new city. Granite’s destination was the only building that had been spared. 

The Party’s headquarters had been, perhaps fittingly, been located in the Department of Agriculture building. As the motorcycles pulled up outside, a few Peace Corps officers loitering around outside snapped to attention, placing their fist over their heart. Before Granite had even had time to get to the building, a Party official was almost tripping over himself to arrive and greet him. They never announced when they were going to drop in, and after a recent purge the Party was very eager to please.

The "Party” had been a Sutler idea, a middle-rung between themselves and the denizens. Truthfully, the remaining Enclave did not have the experience, or the numbers, to manage a commercial operation. Fortunately, there had been no shortage of lackeys, boot-lickers, and hangers-on amongst the growing circle at the Jefferson purifier whom had been more than happy to avail themselves in return for concessions. Despised equally by the Enclave and the Denizens, they were a self-serving clique that dispensed the Enclave’s orders and soaked up most of the resentment.

“Sir, Colonel Granite,” the official said standing to attention. Granite and his guards didn’t break stride, and the official stumbled about himself to turn around and keep pace. It was genuinely gruelling to keep the pace, Granite’s muscles stung and ached after his stint in the simulation—but no weakness could be shown in front of the rabble. 

“Welcome back to Party Headquarters sir. Should I call Commissioner Gustavo?”

“No. I’m here on other business. There should be eight Peace Force officers waiting for me in a conference room. Do you know which one they have booked?”

It was a bit cruel he had to admit as he saw the colour drain from the official’s face, his fatigues and blue party armband utterly powerless in the face of their actual masters.

“No sir, but I can find out for you right away.”

There was a brief look between them, before the official made a squeaking sound and scurried off ahead of them to make his enquiries. It didn’t take too long, Granite stood silently in the atrium, watching various officials scuttle around looking appropriately tired. Before long, some hurried looking official appeared and usher him towards a conference room. Granite and his guards marched through the corridors, watching as anyone in the vague vicinity jumped out of the way. Bidding his guards to remain outside, Granite entered the conference room.

As he entered, the assembled Peace Corps officers dutifully saluted.

“At-ease,” Granite said with a casual wave and they returned to their seats.

Granite momentarily caught the portrait of Sutler on the wall, sternly staring down anyone that may be present and felt a pang of unease.

“I’m sure long-timers like yourselves are more than acquainted. Some of you have been with us since the very beginning I believe. Daniels, you were one of Gustavo’s boys at Twin Lake’s I believe?”

“Yes sir,” Daniels said, his neck stiffening. 

“And that’s why you’re all here, you’re all veterans and possess between you several lifetimes of experience. I’ll cut to the chase; the Enclave has a mission for you. One which you are uniquely suited too. There have been disturbing intelligence reports coming from the west in the lands occupied by the Brotherhood of Steel. They’ve completely redirected their forces to their western-most territories to fight some-kind of mutant uprising, and we need boots on the ground intel as to what is happening out there.”