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The Hub, New California Republic
2282, November 6th
01:45 AM

Gerald Westin woke up at moonlight to the glint of a chrome silencer pointed in between his eyes.

For a moment, he thought it was just a nightmare. His mind still swam from the moonshine Governor LaBearn offered him during one of their dinners. When the barrel failed to fade away from his vision, the governor’s breath hitched and then, choked as the fingers around his throat tightened like a vice. Beads of sweat fell down is forehead as his s eyes swiveled to where his N99 was. It was on the night-table, a family piece he inherited from his father and grandfather before him. The brown oak grip glistened in the dusklight. If he could just grab ahold of it, there was still a chance he could -

“ Don’t. ,” The whisper chilled him to the bone. “ Don’t scream. You’ll make this worst if you do.”

Westin’s eyes focused away from the barrel. Remember what your father said. Calm heads prevailed over rashness. The bite of adrenaline soon faded from his nerves as the gears of his mind turned, thinking about what step was next. The countenance that had made him prevail over bottom feeder caravan cartels and gung-ho politicians return on his face, cool and candid. His eyes wavered from the barrel to the figure in front of him.

“ I know what you’re thinking right now, Westin,” The person spoke again, their voice cut apart by the harsh static of the helmet’s receiver. The barrel swayed side from side tauntingly. “ How many caps can I pay this feller? How much can I afford to lose to save my worthless piece-of-shit molerat hide?” She jabbed the barrel at his head, causing him to flinch. “ Tell me, what price are you willing to pay to protect that pretty face of yours?”

“ Everyone has their price,” Gerald gritted out. “ Whatever your employers are paying you, I swear I can double it. ”

The silence that followed after made Gerald regret his words. The pistol stopped swaying and the assassin lowered their pistol. The pressure on his throat lightened and a sign of relief escaped him. His hand came up to rub against his aching throat. He wondered if this meant the assassin was having second thoughts.

He was too busy breathing to react to the punch. It came at the side of his head in a blur and Westin's world spun in a spray of teeth and iron on his lips.

“ Don’t try acting like you’re hot shit, Westin. It’s embarassing. I’m not here on your terms. You’re here on mine, Westin. Understand? You try saying my conscience can be paid off with caps and I’ll fuckin’ make you piss caps out your cockhole. Capiche?"

Westin nodded, wiping a smear of blood from his nose.

“ Good.” The assassin leaned back to shake her head with a derisive snort “ Can’t believe it was you who helped get Killian killed. She was a good woman. Far better than your fuckin’ merchant pals.”

“ I didn’t -,”

The second punch caved in his nose this time. Black stars danced in his eyes as the assassin spoke again tauntingly.

“ Did I say you killed her? Nah, a ghoul’s got more balls than you and you didn’t even need to get baked in the Glow to lose yours. I’m saying you helped her.” The assassin then reached behind her back with her empty left hand and took out a cherry-red inhaler that seemed to glimmer in the night. “ Do you know what this is, Gerald?”

“ Sn’jet.”

“ Good boy. Back before the Followers figured out a way to make Fixer, the Mordino family back in New Reno used to make the good stuff. I mean, one puff and you’d skitter ‘round like a bloatfly. Tandi banned production back in 2245. Everything you see on the streets now is cheap crap. Twice as expensive and half the bang.”

Without warning, the assassin crushed it in between their palm with a snap, rubbing their fingers through the mess before letting it drop to the floor in a pile of plastic scrap.

“ Now, here’s what got me and a couple of other people interested in you brahmin baron folk. You see, it’s said that the Mordinos used to make this crap out of Brahmin shit. Don’t ask me ‘bout howthe science works. rahmins cost too much nowadays for us regular folk to buy thanks to you lot.”

They then lifted a finger.

“ But, hear me out. Brahmin barons like you are scattered throughout all of California, each with your own ranches. That’s a lot of brahmin, get what I mean.”

“ I don’t what like you’re implying - “

“ Did you say that to Killian before you blew her brains out? Hell, you were probably terrified of her. Trailblazer from Redding, believing in tales of the Vault Dweller and the Chosen One, righting a wrong when she saw it. Her neighborhood was full of Jet addicts and she wanted to institute formal drug legislation and regulation. Make it so that rehabilitation would be made avaliable and Jet publicly available to drive black market prices down.” The assassin breathing was now heavy and ragged as they hissed their next words in a snarl of static. “ It would have saved a lot of people. All you fuckers saw was a threat to your bottom line.”

Gerald's face was pale white now. The assassin's hand trembled on the trigger guard of the pistol and he wanted to close his eyes. Better to not see it coming than see the flash of gunpowder and nothing after. The next time the assassin spoke, it was in an air of finality, of patience wrung from certainty.

" So, you'll make it right. Where's the fucking Poppy, Westin? Where's the goddamn Poppy?"

---

It is dawn.

The sun rises in the smoky clouds of the Atlantic, a boiled red scar against the gray sky. The dappled crimson light bleeds into the ocean, flowing through the waves and tides of the churning ocean. Amidst to the east of the pacific is a fuming basin of ash and obsidian, heaving clouds that desperately claw up in fits of lightning and screams of thunder. It is the Black Cauldron, the labyrinth that excites adrenaline junkies and frightens experienced captains. The electromagnetic interference in the storm is said to shred silicon chips and wires into scrap and those who survive passing through it are blessed with cankerous blistering sores. Scientists and scholars have posited that the creation of the Black Cauldron is a result of a nuclear detonation which occured near an active faultline in the waning days of hte Great War. Philosophers have attempted to espouse the Black Cauldron as an example of mankind’s folly. Sailors simply say that the Black Cauldron is fucking bullshit.

Everyone considers a trip through the Black Cauldron to be extremely ‘unhealthy’.

The clouds part to reveal a hulking mass. Strips of green paint peel off its surfaceand the 10-inch thick carbon-steel hull is pitted with dents. It cuts through the stormy waters like a knife, shearing through it and leaving a wake of bubbling motor fluid and grease. It inches mile by mile towards a new horizon. A green horizon.

It is dawn. A thousand and thirty souls are onboard, young, hungry, rich, poor, dreamers, the desperate.

Only 14 will survive.

---

---

Starring….

@Randomguy as Clive, a lucky vault dweller, [@Megyschan] as Akane, a tribal of the Salt, @Butteryicarus as Helene, a scavenger of the past, @EmpressDesu as Rebecca, a stateswoman, @Starlance as Vigil, the dreamer, @Ezekiel as Inessa, the woman of many masks and @Theyra as Malcolm, a man in search of his faith.

---

Sam Gallagher, intrepid intern newscaster of Calfornia Channel 89, wondered how the hell he’d arrived here in the first place. His crew had been assigned to the Green Horizon as a strategic move by 89 to secure corporate relations with Gold Galleon Incorporated. A two-week cruise sounded like the perfect vacation for him and his crew to shack up and relax, maybe even take some time off from that Baja fiasco the studio was dealing with. Ever since they’d aired that footage of an NCR veteran ranger shooting some tribal five-year-old in broad daylight, senators had blacklisted the channel from the airwaves. The company was in the red and Gold Galleon had thrown them a veritable lifeline. He had expected a peaceful vacation amongst the ocean as he delved into the treasures of the cocktail bar, one alcoholic binge at a time.

Word of the Green Horizon’s soon-to-be arrival had spread around the ship like wildfire. The Aloha Isles were barely indistinguishable in the featureless grey ocean of the Atlantic. The baking heat of the midday sun made it ebb like a candle flame in the distance.

Thronging masses of people screamed at the fore, locked arms against one another, scrambling to get a glimpse of the green paradise that had been popularized in pre-war brochures and turned into legend over time.The passengers of the Green Horizon had been liberally soaked in a miasma of slick impatience and dreariness for the last fortnight and now, they had been set alight. The guards, prevented by Gold Galleon from harming their customers, tried to control the crowd as best as they could but even their hefty paychecks weren’t expensive enough to cover the costs of being trampled over by dozens of tourists. Rival newscasters from other channels lugged oversized cameras cybernetically mounted to their sternum or used eye-bots mounted with video recorders to get an edge up on their competition.

Sam was at his wit’s end to try and at least get one usable interview until he spotted a lone figure standing on the deck aftside, far away from the crowd. He motioned to his cameraman and brushed his waxed black toupee. Clearing his voice, he silently mouthed for the cameraman to begin recording.

“ This is California Channel 89, reporting live from the Atlantic. We’re nearing the end of our 15 day voyage and I’ve just received word from the captain that we are soon to dock at Kahui Port in three hours. Today is a historic day for the Aloha Isles and the Hawaiian Chiefdom. Once shroud in myth, the island paradise has now thrown open its gates to travellers, immigrants and tourists alike in the past year. Queen Lilua, in a formal decree, has stated that . In a brief press release announced yesterday, Gold Galleon Incorporated assures the citizens of the New California Republic that this cruise will be the first in a new enterprise to build trade and travel relations between the New California Republic and this once fledgeling island nation……”

Sam sidled to the right, directing his cameraman to lug his oversized Codac S4500 to the right where a haggard man in a trenchcoat was leaning over the guard rail. He shoved his microphone into the man’s face as though he was a pest, forcing the man to look at the camera with a stinkeye.

“ Dozens of californians such as this gentleman today we’re interviewing will be one of the lucky few to arrive on the Aloha Isles for the first time. What will you be doing at the Aloha Isles, sir?”

There was a pause. The man scratched his unkept chin before a stoic expression of realisation dawned wearily in his eyes. He dipped into his pockets and produced a tin canteen. The newscaster’s curdled his nose at the smell as the man leaned his head back to take in a deep draught. He then wiped his chin, spat on the floor of the deck and finally spoke.

“Drinking. Getting laid. More drinking,” the trenchcoated man waved his bottle invitingly. “ Want one?”

“ Uh, no, fuck, thank - I mean, I don’t really need it,” The newcaster coughed awkwardly, tugging on his red cravat. He felt strange here in the middle of the Atlantic, standing next to a drunkard who smelt like molerat piss and vinegar whilst he was dressed in a silk suit that had been handcrafted and tailored by an army of orphan children in Boneyard sweatshops.

“ Is that all you want to do?”

The man blood-streaked eyes widened, the newscaster regretting his words, as he stumbled towards him in a delirious sprint. The drunkard grabbed ahold of the newscaster’s collar and spat flecks of brown saliva with every word he spoke.

“ My wife broke up with me on this cruise! We were together for years. Years!” The man sobbed and leaned onto the newscaster, holding the newscaster hostage with the strength of thirty vodka shots that had been taken over the course of several hours. “ You tell me something! What does a fuckin’ protectron have over me? Was I just not good enough for her? I helped out, you see. I helped out with the mortgage. I paid my fair share! That bucket of bolts never did anything but just lie in the basement but noooooo, she says that it’s got more personality than me. Me? Me….” The drunk stranger continued to beat his fists onto Sam’s chest until he slumped over into a alcohol-fueled nap.

“ Right,then,” Sam stepped away from the drunkard before turning back to the camera. “ As I was saying, today marks a historic moment and as we can see from today’s commotion, everyone is clearly excited about the chance to step foot on a hidden nation thought long lost from the world.”

Sam motioned his cameraman to move away from the huge crowd of people occupying the front of the deck to the back where people were scattered around. His approach was guided by general fatigue and a lack of interest from passengers who seemed more concerned with catching a glance of the islands rather than being interviewed. His tongue felt numb as he continued repeating the same sentence again and again, hoping that he could catch a brief sentence, hell, even a word at this point.

“ Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

---

---

---

Deep in the lower guts of the Green Horizon, who were unable to afford the steep price of 5000 caps for a room on the upper decks were consigned to the former maintenance hallways of the cruise ship. Ramshackle welders and mechanics had turned the jungle of corroded steel pipes and rust coated footpaths into a shanty town. Hammocks made from patchwork curtains and blankets were tied onto the pipes whilst cladding had been torn out of the hull to serve as makeshift bedding. It had taken three days for the Psycho and Jet dealers to begin plying their trade and five days for impromptu caravan and bonebrick gambling rings to form amongst the lower deck passengers.

Two common unspoken rules had formed amongst the passengers of the Lower Decks. All crime was legally permissible as long as you didn’t get caught. If you did get caught, then, your rights as a living being would be forfeit and your only remaining choice in life was to determine your choice of death. The second was to keep your noses to yourself. Everyone’s own business for going to the island was private and they didn’t need anyone interfering with their own business. These two sacred rules maintained order in the lawlessness of the lower decks. It was on the 15th final day that Kahana Mika, islander scout of Squad 4, forget the last rule as he desperately tried to fulfill the requirements of the Youth Assistant Badge.

The little islander, no taller than a overgrown molerat, walked around. He was dressed in a denim buttoned shirt, tactical bandoliers and pockets hanging off every nook and cranny of his body. A large belt adorned with a rainbow ensemble of badges sewn delicately from scratch was hung onto his shoulder. A T-51b helmet covered his face as he jumped up and down from an empty nuka-cola crate to gain the attention of passerbys.

“ HELLO. I AM KAHANA OF LEAPER LODGE, SQUAD 4. I AM HERE TO ASSIST YOU WITH ALL YOUR NEEDS. MAY I ASSIST YOU WITH ANYTHING?”

“ Fuck off, you upstart little shite,” A one-eyed trader said, dragging his cart of squid ball sticks behind him.

“ WELL, THAT WAS RUDE. HELLO, DO ANY OF YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE? I WOULD BE GLAD TO HELP YOU. I CAN HELP WALK YOUR MOLERAT, SKIN A LEATHERBACK AND FEND OFF RAIDERS. I AM SKILLED IN ALL USES OF MAN-PORTABLE ARTILLERY AND HANDHELD KNIVES. ON MY HONOUR AS AN ISLANDER SCOUT, I SWEAR TO DO NO - “

“ Say there, little fella. That’s a nice lookin’ helmet you got there.” Kahana Mika looked up and began to tremble slightly as a group of men and women came over. Their faces were gaunt but the smiles on them seem to stretch the skin of their cheeks in a worn grimace. Brown leather hats resembling tricorns adorned their heads while they wore salvaged lifevests that were painfully bright orange. The leader was a brute of a man, hands the size of garbage lid cans and whorled tattoos dotting his body from his arms to his neck. “ Shame if something were to happen to it.”

“ APOLOGIES, SIR, BUT THIS HELMET IS NOT FOR SALE. I PERSONALLY SALVAGED IT FROM THE WRECK OF THE U.S.S CONSERVATOR. DID YOU KNOW THAT THE U.S.S CONSERVATOR WAS ARMED WITH THREE PLASMA - WAIT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING.”

The men and wome n behind the leader started pulling out weapons, chains, bats, hurtful things. The leader, meanwhile, took out a wooden flail with a series of bricks chained onto the end. “ We’re gonna fucking shut your scrawny ass up, that’s what gonna happen, and then, I’m gonna pawn that helmet over on the island. Me and the boys need some good spending money after all.”

Kahana breathed a prayer and drew his knife out, its edge glinting in the dark. Five against one. He faced worst odds before.

---

♪ "Night and you...and blue...Hawaii..." ♪

Clive fiddled with his Pip-Boy's volume knob as he listened to an old holotape he had put in. One of his patients had been a scavenger who had begged to pay him with a holotape he had found rather than caps, as he was in short supply of caps. In the first place, Clive opened his entire clinic service in the middle of the wasteland thing because it seemed entertaining. For one, wastelanders living out in the wasteland usually came in with more interesting medical conditions rather than those living in more civilised settlements. The raiders looking to take over where he had set up shop, the limited supplies, the mutated wildlife...all added extra challenges that were much more engaging than opening a safe, boring clinic in a settlement somewhere.

So, since this scavenger came in practically glowing from all the radiation he had taken it—and frankly, it was a miracle he wasn't a ghoul yet—Clive had already received his 'payment' from him by bringing him the challenge of how to save the guy. Sure, he charges caps because he needed caps to live and buy more supplies, but in this case, since he wasn't hurting for caps, Clive accepted the holotape as a payment.

Clive had to work a bit to restore the holotape—a nice little puzzle to work on in his spare time—but he eventually did it and found out it was a music holotape of an old song. Given that it was about Hawaii, he felt it was appropriate to bring it with him on the trip.

“ My wife broke up with me on this cruise! We were together for years. Years!” The man sobbed and leaned onto the newscaster, holding the newscaster hostage with the strength of thirty vodka shots that had been taken over the course of several hours. “ You tell me something! What does a fuckin’ protectron have over me? Was I just not good enough for her? I helped out, you see. I helped out with the mortgage. I paid my fair share! That bucket of bolts never did anything but just lie in the basement but noooooo, she says that it’s got more personality than me. Me? Me….”

A loud, drunken rant drew Clive's attention. It appeared that a reporter was trying to do an interview, unfortunately, he had picked his interviewee poorly.

♪ "...And blue Hawaii...with all this loveliness...there should be love..." ♪

Clive snorted as the song on his pip-boy ironically got to the part about love just as a drunken man went on a tirade about how his wife cuckold him with a protectron. He said he didn't get why and that protectron shouldn't have more personality than him, but...technically speaking, protectron was made for various purposes from pacifying patrolman to a caring medical worker, and so on. You'd be surprised how adaptable protectron was to do most jobs.Clive looked at APGA, his protectron that he had brought along. There was a reason why he brought a protectron along rather than an eyebot, a Mr Handy, or other robots. Because protectrons are jack of all trades, and so if he had to bring only one, a protectron was it.

Though in any case, he was getting sidetracked. Going back to his previous thought, protectron was very adaptable, able to use various personality module, so...hypothetically speaking, Clive could see a protectron be programmed with a sexbot personality module and subroutines. Perhaps he should try opening that business next. Reprogramming a protectron to fit a specific fetish or niche a client wanted seemed like a fun little challenge.

He then noticed the reported walking in his direction instead. Maybe the Pip-Boy and Vault 52 Jumpsuit he was wearing drew his attention?

“ Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

♪ "Dreams come true...in blue Hawaii...and mine could all come true.." ♪

Dreams, huh? Well, if Clive had to say what 'dreams' he wanted out of this trip, it was to be properly entertained. A good change of pace, the clinic in the middle of the wasteland gig had been getting too easy ever since he managed to restore a sentry bot.

Clive replied, "Well...the Aloha Isle has been known to be quite the famous vacation spot even in the old world before the bomb fell, you see. I happened to receive a ticket from the father of one of my patients, and I figured it would be a good change of pace to go on the trip. I guess I'm just looking to have a good time since I got a ticket for free."

Andrew Rivers

All right, time to be the do-gooder, Andrew thought as he observed the foes arrayed before him, walked up to the wiry man behiind the leader, and tried to punch him at the back of the head, hoping against hope that this fighter, whom he had inferred to be stronger than this gang's 'boss', would be caught by surprise - He wasn't.

At least he knew that the 'Scout' was trained in combat as the latter had boasted; the kid was prepared to defend himself. Problem was, without the element of surprise, the strongest fighter, the one with a wicked-looking baling hook, was more than a match for an unarmed Andrew. So now, the youth had to draw his gun and risk alerting the crew and maybe being punished, or take on this guy and hope for a miracle win or for the scout to use the distraction he had offered to deal with the gang 'boss'.

He grinned and said to the wiry guy with the baling hook as he took his own boxer's stance, fists raised, "Oi, muscles, you think you're hot shit? Using your weakling of a boss as cover so you can do whatever you want? I and the kid can beat you any day..."

Andrew was going to have to rely on his Trooper Armor and the viciousness of his bluff to survive - For this was a bluff. But by spelling out the weaknesses of the gang and revealing their strengths, the youth was hoping to get others to pitch in, others who, even if not interested in helping an NCR Trooper and a Wasteland Scout (?), would be interested in shanking these gangsters for loot and getting the corpses thrown overboard. Not that jumping these folk was the smartest thing to do; he can admit that.

This was not how he had expected the trip to go; Andrew had hoped to accompany some sort of NCR dignitary on that same mission he was in - After all, this was an official mission set by the NCR military, as far as he knew. He had hoped that he would be around someone he can recieve orders from and also have a general idea of the challenges they faced when looking for a McGuffin to save the NCR in Hawaii. Instead, he had found himself alone, which was a very bad thing to be when in a mission that can affect the fate of civilization. And now, he might die at the first hurdle!

But it was not the time to complain that life was so unfair; he was no weakling despite not being strong enough to win his mission alone. Thankfully, if he won this battle and saved the kid...

It all depends now. On what everyone else would do.

So this is where life is taking me, was the thought on Malcolm's mind as he gazed at the calm ocean. Feeling relaxed and calm, watching the ocean as they neared his destination. From the wastelands of Utah to the Aloha Isles. Something if you asked him years ago where he would be, he would never have guessed this. Heck, leaving Utah was a big change for him already, and now he can say he visited a place he had never heard of until recently. Still, the experience so far has been good, a bit boring, but boring is better than nothing right now. No fights, drunken brawls, or any reason to show people he can handle himself.

Malcolm's right hand was firmly on his satchel despite feeling relaxed He is still on guard duty for he is going to deliver this package and so far. No problem, no one has to steal it, though Malcolm has kept a firm watch over it ever since leaving Utah.

But as he continued to watch the ocean, he could not help but overhear a conversation near him.

“ My wife broke up with me on this cruise! We were together for years. Years!” The man sobbed and leaned onto the newscaster, holding the newscaster hostage with the strength of thirty vodka shots that had been taken over the course of several hours. “ You tell me something! What does a fuckin’ protectron have over me? Was I just not good enough for her? I helped out, you see. I helped out with the mortgage. I paid my fair share! That bucket of bolts never did anything but just lie in the basement but noooooo, she says that it’s got more personality than me. Me? Me….”

Malcolm turned his head to the man and the reporter for a moment and slowly sighed. He was not sure if he should feel bad for the drunken man or not. Since if your wife leaves you for a robot... clearly you are not doing something right. Losing a partner is hard, but losing for the protection of all things is new to him, and now Malcolm knows of another weird thing in the wasteland. Well, maybe the drunken man can find someone in the Aloha Isles once he sobers up, that is.

That was when he spotted another interviewee, a vault dweller by the looks of it. The jumpsuit and Pipboy were the clear indicators of that. Malcolm has met vault dwellers before, but those were during his... lost years, and he would rather forget about that. Though he hopes they are doing okay since their escape from his old raider camp.

But it looks like the reporter was heading to him now and asked the same thing. Apparently, already done with the vault dweller.

“ Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

While Malcolm would have preferred not to say anything and just keep quiet. He decided to humor the reporter.

"Well, I am here to deliver a package to someone on the Aloha Isles. As one last favor, I owe to the people who saved me from raiders back on the mainland. So, I guess you can call me a courier, and I am keen on making sure this package reaches its recipient. After that, who knows really."

The interceptor raced skyward, its launch site nought but a tiny dot in the distance. Its target - likewise still a mere dot in the sky - was rapidly approaching. Deep beneath them, the Seattle Space Needle stood tall and defiant like a true American patriot, a steel and concrete middle finger to the Communist menace grasping at it with its centrally planned claws. The interceptor reached the target altitude and detonated, a blast wave screaming toward the incoming warhead, but alas the fuse triggered early and the shockwave dissipated before it met the incoming munition. With the way clear, the ballistic missile continued its murderous mission until its fiery conclusion, the Space Needle falling to its wrath. ”Frickin' bastahd.” Vigil cursed under her breath, popping the Atomic Command holotape out of her Pip-Boy and returning it back into its protective casing. 300 points and she would’ve passed her high score from two months ago.

She’d spent most of the trip on the weather deck, looking out across the ocean in search of whales. Back in the Commonwealth, she’d of course heard the legend of ‘Ol’ Peg’, a supposed Ghoul Whale living off Boston harbor, but she’d believe it when she saw it with her own eyes, and two weeks on the Green Horizon weren’t looking too good for Ol’ Peg’s credibility. That being said, Vigil was looking forward to getting off the ship. The sight of ocean was nothing new to her, but there was something fundamentally wrong with the scene that greeted her when she looked down along the hull, an endless mass of water churning at the bow and stern, threatening to swallow anything and anyone who’d fall in.

She hung back from the crowded sections of the deck, wanting no part in the moshpit and the landmass ahead being just a landmass to her, uninteresting like any other. Lounging lazily on a squeaky deck chair, she noted the reporter trying to talk to the drunk, rolling her eyes. Bothering a drunk was risky business, much less a grieving one. In a way, Vigil could sympathize with losing a loved one to a machine, a fellow Vault 75 Dweller she was very close to falling to an Institute Courser at Bunker Hill, though the drunken man’s specific circumstance had a special sting to it she couldn’t help but feel bad for. Seeing the newsman and his colleague heading her way, she moved her hat down to shield her eyes from the sun to take a nap, hoping it would dissuade the reporter.

It didn’t.

“Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

“Work.” She replied with one word, merely canting her head so she could see Sam with one eye. “And why do the viewahs cahe? How does knowing help them in life?”

One of the shanties in the Lower Decks had become known as a scene of constant sylvan butchery as its sole inhabitant had taken to the production and trade of wooden tools – bowls, cups and the like. Messy was the work, and shavings of wood had become a common sight about this makeshift workshop, as well as telltale signs of this sculptor’s presence elsewhere. The sculptor was called Hog and his fellow passengers kept their distance from the craftsman and his domain, for few wanted to draw the ire of a super mutant who stood about as tall and thick as a suit of power armor, and even fewer in such a place where one could end up as stew for the wrong deed with nobody even batting an eye about the indignity.

But despite the circumstances, the hovel housing the ogre had almost an air of serenity to it as he chiseled and carved and peeled and blew the shavings away with puffs of breath, like Hephaestus taking a day off. From around the gaps of the curtain that hid his quarters from the rest of the deck, Hog could occasionally see poorer folks quickly swooping up the residue of his handicraft for kindling, anxious as to not attract the attention of the giant that resided behind the curtain. He found it odd that these people who traded and even haggled with him during his hours in the marketplace would give his residence such a wide berth, but he did not mind. The commotion of the deck itself and the constant churning of the engines was distraction enough. Any semblance of quietude was acceptable.

At least, that’s how things had been. Right then, things had taken a different turn outside, and although Hog could be absorbed in things from time to time, more than a hundred years of enduring the Wastes had granted him with a keen affinity towards sensing hostile behavior in even the minutest of sounds. Voices, first disparaging, then full of ill intent. The clanking of chains. The sound of a blade leaving its scabbard. Nothing unknown, nothing not dealt with before. Nothing that, for some reason, he could tolerate then and there. For all his appreciation of wisdom, not all of Hog’s actions were wise. He placed the bowl to his side and reached for his gun.

Pivoting down the buttplate to lower the breechblock, Hog reached into his cartridge pouch and felt inside with his fingers until he found a shot shell. The gun had not originally been made for the use of these but handled them just as well as a purpose built round, and he knew of few living things that could dare to face the payload. Sliding the shell into the chamber, he pushed the buttplate back to lock the breech and rose from his wearied stool, pulled the curtain aside and took a step out, gun in hand.

Seven of them. Close quarters. Not a gun in sight, not yet. No reason to pull the trigger thus far. Perhaps a good talking-to will do the work.

“Fellows,” he barked out in a phlegmy baritone, “this here gun's pointing fifteen hundred grains of lead shot in your direction. That’s about equal to four rounds of twelve gauge, and I won’t to hesitate to pull the trigger if you don’t take it elsewhere. So take it elsewhere.”

Weightless.

She felt weightless. No, no. She was flying.

She heard the soft thrum of the engine at her back, felt her own heartbeat, steadily pulsing in her chest.

Gloved hands gripped the control stick, keeping her steady. She felt the turn with just the slightest touch.

She opened her eyes. Clear skies all around. The horizon stretched out ahead of her, fading to a dim blue.

"Command, this is Osprey. Mission accomplished, we're heading home."

No response. She looked down, fidgeting with the knobs on the radio and smacking the side with her hand. Eyes wandering, she caught sight of the faded postcard stuck to the side. The muted floral print still somewhat vibrant against the gray. She smiled.

"You looking forward to getting home once we kick the commies back to Beijing, Command?" She leaned back wistfully, the radio seeming to crackle in response. "Know I am. Haven't been back to Honolulu in ages."

The radio crackled louder, like a harsh, raspy breath. Osprey looked back to the horizon, lifting up her visor.

"Yeah, it'll be nice to seem them again. To see...." she trailed off, hands trembling. She didn't remember. She hadn't remembered. Not for years.

The engine behind her roared louder, the cockpit shaking under her feet. Her hands slipped, and she started to hum, then to mumble, the words tumbling out of her.

"Love me...as though there were no tomorrow..."

Something flashed in the distance. A blinding light sped towards her.

"Oh my darling...love me..." Tears streamed down her face as warning sirens echoed around her. "Don't ever....let me go."

Her radio crackled to life again.

"So...long..."

Glass shatters. Screaming. Silence.

---

"...fucking!"

Osprey jerked awake with a snarl, beret sliding off her ragged scalp as she shot upright. Glancing down, she spotted the cockroach crawling along her leg.

"Stupid bug," she spat, smacking it away but quickly twisting too far and tumbling right out of her hammock, her satchel landing squarely on her back. Swearing violence on anyone within earshot, she got unsteadily to her feet, stretching her neck and letting out a yawn. Damn it, she was hoping to sleep through this voyage on the way to this Kingdom, but it seemed that wasn't in the cards. Ah well, probably good for her to patrol around, stretch out these rotting bones and keep an eye on people. She already had to break the fingers of some weaselly punk trying to swipe her aviators when she wasn't looking.

Swiping a few tendrils of hair out of her eyes, she set off down the corridor, trying to ignore the pit in her stomach left over from that dream. It was the craziest thing; this ragged bag of bones was going on two hundred years now, her memories of anything that happened before the bombs fell all but faded away, and yet when she heard about this kingdom, it came rushing back to her like a flood. Hawaii. Honolulu, Hawaii. To still burn so strongly in her head, that had to be a sign, right? Well if it wasn't, it'd be a good excuse to get away and see someplace new. Maybe she'd even change careers, like some of the other ghouls she met when she was advising the NCR. After all, even if her memories were spotty these days, there was one thing she knew for certain; she'd been a soldier too damn long.

Rooting around in her pockets for a coffin nail, she heard a commotion up ahead and instinctively pressed against the wall before looking around the corner. Some pipsqueak in a fancy helmet surrounded by a bunch of goons with weapons. Another damned mugging. She had half a mind to walk away and mind her own damn business before she saw the NCR soldier step up to help, followed by a goddamned super mutant of all things confronting them.

"Well shit, this did get interesting," Osprey said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. Stashing away her lighter, she took her pistol with the same hand and slowly approached, ready to ambush one of the thieving little pukes if things escalated.

As the crowd gathered to view the approaching islands, Innessa extracted herself from the attentions of a small group that she had spent much of the journey fratanising with. It wasn't for any particular purpose, simply a way to pass the time, and she had little interest in keeping up the connection once they had made landfall. The shock red of her poodle skirt dress might have made for an able distraction, but she admitted that even on her best day she might not be quite as distracting as an ancient chain of volcanic tropical islands.

The flared skirt of her dress swished with both her movement and the sea breeze as she snuck her way out of the crowd and moved along the deck. With a large cream coloured sunhat, dark sunglasses and the aforementioned red dress, ending in a crop of white polkedots across its rim, the blonde woman was perhaps the very vision of Pre-War America. The thought gave her some amusement, the clack of rather unsensible shoes heralding her movement as she made he way down the weather deck. It was more sparse in individuals, but still inhabited. She paused for a moment to lean forwards on the side of the deck, one hand holding her hat in place as she attempted to spy a view of the islands despite herself, before eventually giving up and turning to more thoroughly exmaine those around her. She'd clearly just missed a more animated conversation from what little she had heard from further up the deck, but now caught glimpses of rather shorter interactions between a spattering of guests and what appeared to be a reporter. He didn't seem to be getting much out of his latest target, or victim, as you could put it.

"I'm sorry Sir, did you say live? Oh my Gosh, however does that work?" Innessa partly interrupted the situation, before the poor fellow could get stuck in yet another interview he'd regret starting. She was hardly subtle in her current attire and unlikely to escape her own round of questioning, so she may as well endear herself. Her large, doe-like eyes settled in an expression of curious excitement, directly into the camera before she spoke again, her sunglasses removed before she had begun speaking. "My, isn't that amazing." The vaguely Southern drawl she put on was a well worn tool of her's in fitting in, more familiar this rate than her true voice. "It's so exciting isn't it? The first outsiders to see these Islands in so long. I can't wait to see what we might discover." Her hands met in front of her as she laughed, just a little, as if embarressed about her own enthusiasm. "I hope some of those folks back home might join us soon."

---

Location: Lower Decks, The Green Horizon, Pacific Ocean
Mentions: N/A

A few clicks, a whirr…the loading of a disk here, there, the electronic hum. The glow of life within an armored core as a fusion reactor thrummed away. Something was happening, something to trigger the protocols, to initiate a routine here, a scan there. Audio sensors began to intake data before he even moved, filtering out the ambient noises to pinpoint individuals here, there…actions by a great many in the lower decks of the ship. There had never been a lack of actions to process, the whole reason why John Doe had not stayed active during the entire voyage. That and he felt undue attention would draw others to try and salvage his parts. Normally, the Mr Handy would have no qualms about removing a few criminals from their existence, but the lower decks were no place to let rip laser-fire willy-nilly. He was certain some part of another would combust. And so, with all that in mind, John Doe had taken another route.

He had been sleeping. Dreams weren’t dreams, not to a Mr Handy, and the startup process was never entirely cleanly done, yet he had been dreaming before. Memories, going over memories again and again and again. Some of them were better than others. The robot had but partial control over which he accessed in such a powered-down state. He remembered the ruins of Portland, the long walk, the Shi. He tried to not remember the Vault. It was not always successful. And yet…and yet he was waking up. The noises of a hawker had gone ignored by the Mr Handy, as well as the casual threats and sounds of metal movement, but what hadn’t gone ignored was a distinct click…a hammer of a gun. He had heard that noise before.

A shift in the large, half-rotten canvas tarp that had covered his shell was all John Doe needed to move one of his eyes to see what was going on. One native, Power Armor covering his head, with a knife…and a good number of criminals about, weapons in their hands. Standing against them was a NCR soldier, who was unarmed, and a Super Mutant with a hand cannon. A shift-about in the crew manifest was quick enough…John Doe had scanned that before coming aboard…Andrew Rivers and Hog, respectively.

A click-clack…whirr of a motor…the steady stream of power to a laser repeater. Approaching the issue wouldn’t go well, all things considered…yet if they attacked, the Mr Handy felt bound by the law in one way or another to help another US citizen.

---

Readied action
If combat initiates between gang and Kahana/Rivers/Hog
Activate engine, come to normal height to remove tarp covering, fire on gang with laser repeater

---

From the shadows, Galina let out a low hiss of irritation. A bad situation had taken a turn for the worse. It was no matter. It was not her problem. What was a little robbery? It was common. It was the way of the post-war world. The cramped lower class quarters of the Green Horizon were no exception. She didn’t care about the bounding islanders salvaged helmet…or his life. The line between life and death in the post-war world was sharp, razor sharp, and a small mistake could be fatal.

She didn’t care about the fight unfolding in front of her. She didn’t care until the Super Mutant strode into the fight like some crazed cowboy, some insane shootist waving his supersized weapon at the gathered thugs.

Shooting was no good on a ship. Ricochets were unavoidable if people started shooting in the people lined cabins. Worse she knew was fire, fire on a ship was feared by every sailor for a reason.

The commotion had attracted a crowd. A crowd scattered at a respectful distance. Eyes watching cautiously. Hands not ready to act, but bodies ready to dive for cover, and feet ready to run. Galina sensed an opportunity. A chance to profit. Fighting was risky. Fighting within the claustrophobic confines of a ship was riskier still. Things were getting out of hand. They had to be cooled down before some real damage was done to the ship.

Moving silently, imperceptibly forward, Galina ducked behind the makeshift counter of some wannabe rich man trader who stood mouth agape staring at the growing scuffle. She found his coin purse quickly. Tasteful. A simple leather bag tied with a simple enough string. It was heavy, but she didn’t bother counting. Slipping away as quickly as she had arrived, she returned her attentions to her unwelcome problem.

"Mawrons! Yeah, yous guys throwing hands over some fucking helmet! Settle down! All of you!" Galina shouted, kicking a nearby crate aside as she strode confidently towards the brawl.

"You smell that boys? That’s land. We’re close. And you idiots want to fight? Big man ovah there is gonna turn you into a fine mist and then put a hole in the boat with his cannon. So shut up. Be smaht, take these caps and fuck off, before the rest of us throw you overboard. Don’t need to waste bullets to feed schmucks like you to the shawks."

She tossed the bag of caps she had liberated from the distracted merchant in front of the ringleader of the tattered criminals. It would be a useful distraction if nothing else. The next step was violence. And a lot of it.

^{PROPERTY OF THE NEW CALIFORNIA REPUBLIC DEPARTMENT OF STATE
IF FOUND, RETURN TO 23 EDITH AVENUE, SHADY SANDS, SHADY, NCR}

Rebecca Alvarez

---

The sea was... underwhelming.

Rebecca knew of the sea, of course, as a child. She had even been to it a few times, when functions for the Army were held in Dayglow or Los Angeles or the politicians her family orbited needed to make a promise about the limitless frontier — of course, ignoring any serious proposals for the foundation of a New California Republic Navy beyond a handful of patrol vessels for customs purposes. There, though, the sea was always a morbid affair, a dark blue mass ruined by mankind's toxins. The waters were still, after all this time, unsafe to swim in for long periods of time, and even fishermen refused to go anywhere near the shore. She hadn't thought of any of that when she made her preparations for this journey, though.

She had thought instead of the stories from her childhood, where intrepid mariners gazed upon a pristine blue body or fought a roiling, gale-force wind to provide for themselves or their families. Where mighty sailors battled using steel beasts well beyond even what her own native Republic could build, in the hundreds and thousands. She had revisited these stories while preparing for the travel to Hawaii, rereading the copies of naval histories still in the Dayglow libraries about the mighty seafarers that once called Honolulu their home port. She hoped, even if part of her knew better, that this journey would transport her into that world before the war, where the sea still held that magic.

However, by this point in the journey, she was long-since disabused of any such notion. The sea was a bland, greyish-blue mass, without any strong redeeming qualities and with many poor ones. Three vomiting episodes would knock the optimism out of anyone, after all. She was grateful for the chance to have had them on the upper decks, though, as from what she heard from those below they were nearly as bad as the refugee trains from the Mojave during her time in the relief effort there. Fighting, killing, stealing, and more seemed to be the order of the day — something she wanted no part of. No, she was happy to be here, even if that meant that the government stipend she received was less. Better to enjoy the pleasantries on the journey and figure something out when she arrived.

Of course, she'd have gotten more money if she hadn't been sent far away from the center of government with the explicit goal of preventing her from taking part in the political game. While the kinder term for a duty station like this was "hardship tour", the more common term was a more vulgar synonym for excrement and "detail". She would have wholeheartedly agreed with the latter definition, even if she couldn't get the special orders she was given off her mind. Did they really mean for her to find a way to get those fugitives all the way out here, or was that just another way of ensuring she wouldn't return — at least, not for a good while? It was a nigh-impossible task, but she also agreed with the motives, given what they had very nearly done to her own people not a century ago. Complicated, indeed, and something she'd need to come to the bottom of. Then again, there was always the locals to contend with...

It was this blend of whirling thoughts that Rebecca was locked into when she suddenly realized she would have to contend with a fourth attack of seasickness... and she was nowhere near a bathroom or the side of the ship. Judging the latter to be closer, she rushed out of her quarters and through several hallways, only reaching the side in time to immediately hurl her latest lunch overboard. Unpleasant, but it was done and over with quickly, which hadn't always been the case. After a few moments, coming back to her senses, she realized that she wasn't just out on deck but was on the main deck, where dozens to hundreds were attempting to gain a view of the islands.

Wincing slightly while hoping nobody saw her, she adjusted her formal outfit — fixing her lapel pin — and made a quick detour to freshen up with stored water and a hasty restoration of her typically-pristine hair at the deck-adjacent head. Coming back out, she gave a sigh of relief when it became apparent that everyone was too focused on the islands to notice her, glancing around a bit before surreptitiously trying to take part in the search for the islands. However, her attempted diversion was a failure, as not long after she began to wonder if she could see them at all from this angle a voice called out to her from the crowd.

“ Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

Oh, shit. The press. Exactly what she didn't need right now, but if she could turn this to her advantage, it would help her case immensely. After a pause for a fraction of a second, she turned, a switch flipping as she gave her best "representative of the Republic smile" and turned to look at both the reporter and the camera at the same time... somehow.

"Well, Sam — warm beaches, good waves, and the chance to establish long-term positive bilateral relations?"

She laughed, though before he could give a response or turn the camera off her, she immediately moved to her next line for the camera.

"Hey, California! This is Rebecca Alvarez, your diplomatic envoy to Hawaii. I'm eagerly awaiting the chance to finally make long-term contact with the people of this archipelago, and looking forward to giving you all updates on how things are going. I'm sure we'll be able to come to a satisfactory conclusion that will benefit both us and the people of Hawaii, bringing the world just a little bit closer in the process. It is my dearest hope that this voyage is only going to be the first of many, reconnecting what was lost and bringing many new opportunities to our two peoples. To the people of Hawaii, from California, I have a message: Welina mai e nā hoa mai ka hiki ʻana a ke kau ʻana o ka lā. Greetings, friends, from the rising to the setting of the sun."

She gave one last smile before the camera turns off her — and after a few more moments, once she was sure it was gone, she returned to her stateroom quickly. That last bit was something she'd been practicing for weeks after finding an old letter from the Universty of Honolulu saying something along those lines with a translation and audio log, hopefully it'd been close enough to not actually cause offense. Oh, well. Nothing she could do about it now. The best thing she could do now was to simply lie down, prevent any further bouts of seasickness, and get what rest she could — the big event is coming up, and she has to look and feel her best for it.

Maybe underwhelming was the wrong word for the sea. Irritating might be more accurate.

---

---

_{Collab between @megsychan and @butteryicarus}

---

The ex-tribal woman sternly glared across the endless horizon in front of her. There was something about the ocean that just felt… off to her. Not in the sense that there was something afoul, but more like, the metaphysical concept of the ocean, in itself, did not gel with Akane. As a native of Utah, the woman with braided hair was used to rugged terrain. Sometimes, the land was verdant and green, like it was in Zion. Sometimes, it was dotted with white powdered salt, like back home in what the settlers called Bonneville. And, unfortunately, many times it was a dead brownish orange, where no life called home but pissed off angry deathclaws. But regardless of the color of the ground, or who called it home, one thing was always certain: she could see the mountains, sticking out from the earth like distant skyscrapers. Even if the area itself was flat– which excepting the stretch of land between Utah and New California (Nevada, they call it?) it almost never was– she could at least rest with the comfort that the mountains were at least somewhere nearby.

But on this damn ship? There are no mountains. There are no cliffs, no mesas, no sign of any elevation changes whatsoever. Everything is flat, and there was something about the sheer flatness of it all that unnerved her. It felt fake and artificial. Like the pre-war roads that scar and disfigure the countryside, but stretched out to cover the entire plane. The Earth was not meant to be this flat! This is wrong! Not only that, but being stuck on this damn boat has caused the unnatural abyss of the sea to stare right back at her. Its unflinching, unchanging flatness mocked her, taunting her that despite her preconceptions of the natural world, there are mysteries that are far beyond her comprehension. For a woman that prided herself on how she was one of the few that attempted to live with, and not above, the natural world, realising that she was out of her depth in the ocean filled her with dread.

Not wishing to dwell on the pit of existential horror slowly filling her gut, the ex-tribal woman allowed her mind to wander to the world within the ship. The murmur of the crowd may have been a good way to deflect from the feeling of inadequacy that was seeping inside her, but it also only reminded her of how much she hated people. Or more specifically, how much she hated settlers. Their inane, vapid yapping only betrayed how empty and meaningless their lives were. No one here on the decks ever had to live like her, living in the fucking woods for twenty odd years, hunting geckos and slumming it in caves. They were too busy investing in brahmin herds or water claims and passing around little trinkets from the old world as if they had any meaning of value attached to them.

And don't get her started on the inane banter that was coming behind her, where some man was desperately trying to shove his mic into peoples' faces and acting like any of their wretched lives were any and all interesting. What kind of man loses their partner to a fucking protectron? That's not even a real person! It was a profane abomination from before the bombs dropped! Yet you're telling her that someone sincerely could not compare emotionally or sexually to some metallic husk? Are Californians really this weak? How the hell did Caesar not wipe the floor with them all those years ago?

It's not like the other answers were particularly inspiring to the ex-tribal either. Most of them, while perhaps not as outrageous as the robosexual wife, still revealed a materialism that frustrated the woman. They talked about these islands, some of the last genuine frontierland still left in the world, as simply a place for vacationing! Like sure, maybe if you spent your entire life underground in a bunker like the man in the audacious jumpsuit did, maybe you really do need a change of scenery. But gods above, the Aloha Islands are not meant to be a place one simply kicks back and relax. It's a land of danger and excitement! Act like you're moving to the edge of society, not just having a fun little romp in the Shady Sands park!

And then don't get the ex-tribal woman started on the woman with the strange accent. Looked like she hasn't worked a day in her life, and yet she's out there blabbering about how amazing it is that she gets to be one of the first people to meet outsiders, like if this was just some kind of game. A group of hardy survivors managed to survive isolated from the rest of America, but the ex-tribal didn't get the vibe that they even register to the woman other than existing as an attraction to her. And she wants more people to come over? So they can turn the Aloha Islands into New New California?

But the most annoying one was, by the far, the ambassador. Gods, the answer that the woman in the suit gave crawled under the ex-tribal's skin. The overly flowery language, the smug cadence of her tone, and the ultimate emptiness of the words, all of it rubbed her the wrong way. It was, to the woman, as if the representative was talking down to the people of the Aloha Islands. While the ambassador might purport to be looking for some kind of relationship between Californians and the islanders, the woman knew anyone who talked like that didn't truly respect the people they were communicating about. It was the language of settlers, of colonizers, who paternalistically viewed the "tribals" as just an impediment to conquer.

At least the dude that was there to deliver a package seemed solid. Can't judge someone who's just trying to do a job-

The ex-tribal's train of thought was shattered as she felt the microphone being shoved right into her face. The man started to blabber about some TV network that the woman never watched, representing a country she never identified with, and trying to get her to divulge her thoughts.

"You wouldn't care," the woman bitterly groaned, wishing to have no part in this charade.

The reporter refused to budge. "Ma'am, it is my job to care. You're part of the first clade to visit Hawaii from the mainland in hundreds of years! Surely, you have a reason to pay the hefty amount of caps to board the Green Horizon?"

"To get away from California," the ex-tribal's voice dripped with venom, "to get away from you and your precious viewers."

Seemingly unperturbed by the woman's hostility, or simply that desperate to build up a story, the reporter soldiered on. "Are you implying that this move is going to be more permanent for you, then?"

"Gods, Are you- Yes." The woman truly couldn't believe the reporter was this dense. Just leave her the fuck alone!

"But why, ma'am?" The reporter seemed genuinely fascinated by the ex-tribal's answers. Or at the very least, thought this was good for ratings. "What does the Aloha Islands have that New California doesn't?"

A bitter sigh comes out of the woman. This man simply wasn't going to leave her alone; he really was persistent to get some kind of soundbite out of her. Her mind flashes back to the ambassador, and her fists clenched. Well, if he wants a soundbite, then the tribal woman could easily oblige.

"New California has nothing. No history beyond aping the ghosts of the pasts, no present other than stagnation, and no future other than returning to the dust that it was built on. Your perverted lust to emulate Old America when it was rightfully driven extinct will be your downfall. Just like the Mormons. And the Enclave. And everyone else obsessed with the ghosts of the past.

The only people who will survive are the people who can recognize that the Old World is dead, and that its relics should be shunned, if not outright destroyed. The Earth will not heal until we accept our place within the wasteland, rather than pretending that we are above it. Otherwise… the Earth doesn't care if humans survive. Just that it does."

Not caring for any followup questions, the ex-tribal woman pushed the reporter's arm away and started to sulk inside the crowd. She's not sure how many people are lost inside their own world, and paid attention to her outburst. So what if they did? Maybe these decadent farts will have to confront the contradiction inherent in Californian society. That their so-called civilization is the reason why no one in the west coast are truly allowed to rebuild, not so long as they continue to grasp at the last remaining ghosts of the old world.

---

The sea was…wonderful. Perhaps some of its lustre may have waned in the days since leaving the shores of California, Helene wouldn’t lie. But as she walked along the decks, sipping her chilled sunset sarsaparilla, she gazed out onto the blue-green waters of the Pacific. The scent of salt invaded her lips, the stench of sweaty cruise guests and the sound of a woman vomiting her innards over the edge-

-okay, it was no New Reno nor New Vegas. But it was new. Helene Liu had spent her life surrounded by the dirt and concrete of Shady Sands, or the dry sands of the Mojave. Large bodies of water? When she looked down a well. God, Lake Mead genuinely shocked her when she saw it in her private days. She still has the sight flashing in her eyes, even more than Hoover Dam. Just…more water than anyone knew what to do with. Water that could power a damn city.

And here was more water than her tiny mind could comprehend. The ocean from the pirate comics she scrounged, the sea from the rotting geography books she used to dive into, mouth agape. It remains to be seen if she'll return to this wonder of the planet, but she has no regrets taking this plunge.

She checks her bags. It jiggles softly. Too softly, Helene pouts and bites her lip. Okay, one regret. Who knew several years of saving would burn up in just a few days? If every future customer was sucked dry like this, these cruise ship operators could tussle with the Brahmin Barons. Bloody barons. She won’t miss them. Should have forced them to tour the entrance to the Long 95. Seen all the refugees and stragglers pouring in. Maybe seen her-

Oh, her bottle is empty.

Her lil’ Eyebot beeps and boops to her left, grabbing her attention. Helene looks up, seeing an interview with an NCR official wrapping up. She manages to catch it; promises of better relations with the Hawaiians. Helene manages to smile a bit. If California had made more friends than enemies, maybe her country wouldn’t be flowing down the drain like it is.

“Better late than never, Botty?” Helene talks to her Eyebot. It does not respond back.

Helene throws her bottle away in a dustbin, a dustbin already overflowing with other bottles, food waste and…um…excrements that she would much rather not repeat. Hey, if this member of the Press is taking interviews, why not? She does look down at her singlet and feels her slightly frazzled hair. Is she even presentable? Eh, good enough.

But instead of a willing and able interviewer, she finds the reporter being subjected to what seems to be a rant. A rant from a...rather fierce woman with a chip on her shoulder. Probably just some entitled cruise passenger ranting about the service?

But then she pays attention, and her blood runs cold.

She hears the woman tearing into everything. Everything Helene cares for. California, the Old World, the values she holds dear to. The Old World was a place of wonders beyond one’s imagination. Where has she been, what has she done, that makes her scorn it? It’s insanity. Her black hole begins to form in her heart. This isn’t the usual complaining, the usual ramble. It almost sounds like a manifesto, and she can’t look away. Especially because the woman’s final comments confirm that this wasn’t just an elaborate ploy to get the crew to pull a Khans and get the hell out. It was a deep, true belief, born from some esoteric-ass defence of mother earth. Did she like…worship the planet itself or something? Not much to worship but sand, dust and ash.

Helene sees the woman barge past the reporter, straight through the crowd and…oh God. Almost next to her. Helene sees the woman stand still and sulk, within spitting distance of her. A huge blush forms on Helene's face, her fingers fidding and twirling around each other. Oh. She’s been through the Mojave and back. Was she actually going to feel intimidated by this lone woman?

Yes she was, apparently. The years away from the army softened her backside, it seems. Helene’s eyebot just stares at the angry, sulking woman, silently.

“So…um, not enjoying the cruise, Miss?” Helene mutters to the woman. Maybe a short chat might defuse her?

The previously ranting woman looked somewhat shocked as one of the other passengers almost immediately hit her up as soon as she distanced away from the forced interview. Was it another reporter? Gods, she hopes not. But judging from the way the interloper is dressed. with a dirty tanktop and pants to match, she's not getting the vibe that the woman is from any competing television network or newspaper. If anything, she looked more like she could have been the mechanic for this ship. But if she was an employee, she wouldn't be talking to her, right?

The woman pensively sighed. She'd rather not get into the topic of the rant, if she could be blunt. But it still remains that there was a previous thought on her mind. "It's too flat. We're not meant to be on the water. This isn't natural."

Too flat? Must be someone inland, away from the heart of the Republic. Rural types. Maybe even Nevada? Utah? No, that’s silly. Too remote.

“It’s certainly a sight to behold. Don’t think I’ve seen land this flat besides the Mojave. But hey, that’s why we have this boat, right? Doubt I could swim…though-” Helene takes at the woman’s…dear God, surprisingly muscular frame. Bet she could crush a rock with that arm.
“-bet you can, phew. You work as a bodyguard?”

The Mojave? The ex-tribal couldn't say she was ever there. Zion was the closest she ever got, and in a way she did play her role in the drama over the Dam by fighting for the losing side in the Battle of Zion. But that felt like a lifetime ago at this point. The entire area, from what she heard, is unrecognizable now that the NCR's gone and the Legion was annihilated. Now it rests as yet another relic of the Old World, defiantly taunting its sinful existence across the desert. A place with the veneer of luxury, but moreso a place of squalor and misery. A somewhat classier Reno.

"Sometimes," the woman gruffly responded, "Not my preferred job though. I don't like being tied down in one place or person for too long. Rather just do something and get out."

She’s still a bit gruff, but surprisingly the woman has not torn out Helene’s windpipe yet. Regardless, her response was hardly surprising. Did not take her as the type to settle down. Felt like no location in the wasteland truly fit what she wanted in her fever-dream of a screed.

“Bit a drifter, then? No worries, um, not judging. Kinda floated around the valley and a bit beyond for the past few years myself. Digging through old world stuff for scrap. It’s how I afforded this cruise. Wanna see what loot these isles have.”

The woman blinked incredulously at the Californian, her face clearly unamused at the response. Did she… did she say that she unironically wanted to loot the place? Gods, she thought the ambassador was emblematic of a sneering imperialist. But this woman just went completely mask off and declared her intention to forcefully steal anything that presumably wasn't nailed down.
"You Californians are all the same. Think anything and everything just belongs to you for the taking. There are people who live on those islands, and I don't think they'd appreciate you barging in and stealing all of their shit."

Helene just looks back at the woman, eyes wide, blood frozen.

This is it, this is how she dies. Shanked by a crazed Idahoan or something with a hatred of anything decent. Yet, yet as she took a step back, some of her words did not register as…they did not…wait. Helene takes a breath-

“I…there were so many locations at the edges of California. Just like…huge ruins. Filled with books, technology, even food. A mountain of old world belongings. No one came for them. 200 years. 200 years and not once did anyone come to claim anything. I just…took the books, took some of the canned food. Sold the stuff I could not use. Everywhere I went; the Mojave, the edges of California, Nevada, Idaho…all the same. People left all these wonders to rot-”

Suddenly, her blood started flowing again. Helene did not understand how, or why, but she did not feel like running. No, she felt something within her bubbling up.

“-I’ll have you know I’ll be damned glad if there’s nothing to loot in Hawaii, madam! Means the people there actually respect things other than letting wonders rot. All the NCR’s good for these days, letting all the good things collect dust-”

Helene almost sounds fiery at points, but when she mentions her country, she swiftly deflates. She looks away from the angry woman, hand grasping her other.

The Utahn's eyes glaze back to the abyss of the ocean, her head shaking in frustration to what Helene had to say. They don't get it. None of the settlers will ever get it. People don't rob graves for a reason. Even if the old world wasn't evil, do they not have respect for the dead? Any sanctity to those who came before them? No, they're too self-centered, focused merely on themselves and their own base needs. There was a reason why, for example, all the tribes in Zion felt the old world buildings were taboo. Despite not even really knowing the Dead Horses or the Sorrows before arriving in the valley, they had similar conceptualizations that you don't touch the ghosts of the past. Just like how you wouldn't dig up a grave to steal the belongings they were buried with, even if, truthfully, the dead guy will never use it. It's just wrong.

"Have you ever thought no one came for them for a reason? Hidden in those precious 'mountains' is the legacy of a vain, decadent society that allowed itself to destroy the world, lest it had to share it with someone they didn't like. They tried to play god, elevating themselves to be above the planet they lived on, and not caring about the consequences of their actions. Their 'wonders' scarred the Earth, destroying and reshaping the planet to fit their selfish needs. Not even just the bombs, mind you. Everything. We see their cancerous scars on every stripped mountaintop, in every clear cut forest, and those disgusting grey metal behemoths that scratch the sky.

To accept their goods is to accept their mentality, their way of life, is of anything to be valued. It isn't. Far from being quote unquote 'looted', those relics need to be destroyed. Torn down, smashed to pieces, and its remnants left to be reclaimed by Earth. Only then, she will be able to heal. We can heal, and be part of the world we were once born in…"

Akane continued to stare into the sea, not even looking at Helene as she lays out her manifesto. In the end, this abyss, this unnatural flatness that the ex-tribal woman hated… it would exist far beyond the measly few years either woman would live on this earth. It didn't care about what happened to either of them on this day, or any day for that matter. It didn't care that the ex-tribal thought it was unsettling, for that matter. It just is, and the woman, as much as it unnerved her, was forced to accept it. Only time will tell if the rest of humanity will follow suit in accepting their place on Earth.

…Madness. Madness is what it is. That’s what raced through Helene’s mind at first. The ramblings of cults that tended to spring up wherever she went. Either decrying the old world as this boogeyman, or worshipping elements of it like they were living gods. So few people took the old world as what it was; the battered remains of a better world. A better world that blew their chance-

-but at that last thought did latch onto her mind like a parasite. This woman was so, so close to making some sense. She was just blaming the technology like they were the ones that pushed that final button. Instead, she was right in another way; the world was scarred, before and after. She had seen the quarries, the mines. The cities rising out of dry land that was barely livable. She had read the tattered science magazines, and the underground prints. All of them warned about the same thing.

“Some of the people back then tried to warn about what was gonna happen, you know? Consuming too much, using too much of the soil and the riches of the world. Then they blew themselves up. People back then had made wonders, just didn’t know how to use it. Wasted it. Now it just lies there, collecting dust. There’s no evil in an old toaster or eyebot like my buddy here. Just…stupidity. Stupid people. Turns out there’s a renewable supply back in California. Now there’s your boogeyman Miss…whoever you are-”

Likewise, to the Utahn, Helene was so close to the opposite breakthrough. Yes, it is conceivable that there were perhaps some Old Americans who were more cognisant to the fact that they were destroying themselves in a suicide pact known as modernity. But importantly, they still went through with it! Even knowing that the life they chose was unsustainable, that they were on the precipice of annihilation if they continued to demand the entire world, still ultimately chose comfort and luxury in the end. There was no possible happy ending to that story. The fact they lived in this cursed reality is proof enough.

"There is no other way to use that kind of technology. What you call people's stupidity, is actually just the logical conclusion of viewing oneself as a god above Earth. Once you accept the luxuries of modernity, that you are no longer part of a delicate ecosystem… it is hard to go back to that life. No one will want to hunt geckos when you can just pay people to do the hunting for you. Moreso than that, but then the quest to support that life will lead you to direct conflict to those who reject that life. Everything becomes a product to consume, and a competition to consume it. There's no room for those who don't want to play that game."

The woman's eyes drop as she says that. She can speak from experience there. The White Legs and New Canaan could never peacefully co-exist. The Mormons kept encroaching on their lands, cordoning off more and more of their hunting grounds so they can raise brahmin and grow crops. In turn, to secure more areas to gather game and scavenge for fruits, the White Legs would have to run out the Mormons from the Salt Lake Valley. Even discounting the intense theological and ideological differences between the two groups, they were doomed to their cycle of violence. And even if the White Legs weren't wiped out, eventually the same issues would have come with New California, as it slowly crept its way eastwards.

"...as for my name…"

The woman pauses, as if she is unsure what name to give.

"Last name I went by is Akane. So for now… Akane."

“Helene…Helene Liu. You are…you’re actually very well spoken. Even if I have to disagree with you, fundamentally. Just, remember that for every asshole who just eats and gambles away everything, there’s someone else making clean water or trying to source power for everyone. You’ll be surprised about what good people can do when given the tools of the old. Just…maybe Hawaii will prove one of us right.”

Helene wasn’t lying. A good chunk of people in the interior were very focused on the here and now. But a few thought of loftier things. Driven by higher purposes. Akane would have been one of those types, except she carried a flame in her heart. She’s going to tear apart the remains of the Old World, forever. Not like the Legion where they used guns and looted gear on civilians while claiming her nation were the decadent ones. Psychopaths. Akane was different. She had conviction. Can only get this from someone who truly saw life beyond California. Beyond…civilisation? Wait-

“Are…are you a tribal, by any chance? We don’t get them often in Cali anymore, not unless you head way North past Arroyo.”

Akane continued to look away from Helene as she asked her armor-piercing question. You can take Akane out of the White Legs, but you can never take the White Leg out of her. Still, its not a fact that the woman is exactly proud of sharing. Most people who have heard of the White Legs, had supremely negative things to say about them. Which, truthfully, she can understand. No one likes being the prey. No one likes to be hunted. But the wolf still has to eat, and if they didn't raid the settled communities, then the Eighties or someone else would have. Not only that, but you can't have a forest of only deer; they'll eat all the vegetation until there's nothing left and then they'll starve. The deer need wolves to cull them to live their own best lives. It's just the circle of life…

"Yes," the woman said, with a tinge of pain in her voice. "Was part of a tribe known as the White Legs. We were once the most powerful tribe in all of Utah… until we weren't. I was one of the lucky few that survived our last war with my freedom intact. Picked a direction and ran. Ended up being west."

Akane's being a little cagey; she didn't just randomly pick west out of a proverbial hat. It was either there or go through the Legion. And after that conversation with Ulysses, Akane felt safer taking her chances in California. The ex-tribal still wonders if she made the right decision.

The White Legs. Shit. She hasn’t heard a whole lot. But none of it was good. You don’t hear about a tribe of raiders from out of state unless they were big business. Remembered them being talked about in hushed whispers from travellers clawing their way out of Utah and North Nevada. Yet she also remembered them being nearly slaughtered to a man and woman by another tribe whose name she’s forgotten. Kinda remained stuck in her head, all these years later. Doesn’t matter how vicious or bloodthirsty you were in the wastes. There’s just always someone worse.

“I’m…I think I heard what happened to your family. Didn’t see none of your kind among the refugees flowing west. Sorry.”

They were still vicious killers. Sadists too, from the rumours. But getting nearly genocided? No one deserves that. Except maybe the Legi-no. No. A lot of them were slaves. Just wished someone had waltzed into his camp and shot Ceasar’s brains out. But this is the real world; no one could. So people like him get by, crushing other vicious tribes and innocent settlements alike till there’s nothing but base violence and savagery. No time for thinking. No time for art. No time for imagination. Just killing, and killing, and killing. How did Akane’s own tribe stomach it? Not that she would ever know.

"I wouldn't imagine most of us would choose to go to California if we had the choice to avoid it. I'm not exactly an outlier when it comes to our views of the old world and those who worship it, even if most of them couldn't articulate it in your tongue."

Akane instinctually tugs on one of the last few connections she has with her people, her distinctive braids. It's been so long since she spoke to anyone in the language of the White Legs. While she knows she literally isn't its last speaker– the Eighties were slavers and went out of their way to capture rather than kill– it still pains her that she is almost certainly part of its last generation.

"I'd rather not dwell on this, though. Not with an outsider."

The ex-White Leg didn't want this to be a debate. She was not ready for more questions about her people. Especially to someone who represented everything the White Legs were against. It definitely had nothing to do with the tears forming in the ex-tribal's eyes. Not at all. Not one for graceful exits, the woman briskly walked away from Helene, shoving her way through the crowd as needed to put space between them.

Helene almost wanted to speak up, but she caught a glimpse of the tears of the tribal. Just a glimpse, before she stormed off. WIthout a doubt, the last time Helene would see her. Beneath that anger, their hatred, that viciousness…sorrow. Despite how alien her views here, she was no stranger to that feeling. Seen similar emotions boiling over in NCR folk. Even her, on her bad days. At least, that’s what she tells herself. She just looks up to Botty. The robot was staring at Akane, then to her, blankly. No care. No thoughts. Helene leaned against the railing that seperated her from that endless sea, and wondered if such a thoughtless life was bliss. No, that was just a fantasy.

---

Tarhook was the first to wake to the conches. He blinked three times; the first time to make sure he was still living, the second time to see if he was still breathing and the third time to make sure he was in the mood for fighting. He slowly pushed pass the knot of limbs gently, extricating himself from the naked pile of people on the sodden mattress. He stood up shakily on his knees and walked to the large cracked pane of plexiglass on the far side of the crowded bunkroom. The room was crowded, buzzing with bloatfly spawn and the listless breaths of his people. He rolled his shoulders, grunting as his joints popped, and grabbed a nearby razor, the edge dulled with brown rust. Dabbing it in a bucket of jellyfish mash, he began to shave off his beard in chunks of hair. The pinpricks of pain that came with each stroke sharpened his mind, cleared his thoughts for the task ahead.

The sonorous bellow of the conch called to him again as he strapped on the kevlar vest. He heard the tones more clearly this time; one high and two low. A raid. He salivated at the thought. Finally. More and more were waking up in the bunkroom, coming to the same realisation as Tarhook. They began messily preparing themselves, shimmying on pants. Some opened satchels of black rust, carved from the hulks of decaying ships, and dabbed their fingers in it, powdering their skin. Others opened books of the old world, reciting cantos and old verses to faceless gods. A dozen rituals played out, the histories of them forgotten, in some hopeless attempt of preservation.

Just as Tarhook was oiling and checking the slide of his N99, a hand slapped his head from behind. It was Crabhead. The mirelurk claw embedded into the side of his left skull was not the reason for his namesake. He had earned it before his untimely accident due to his propensity for his face to become red during times of high stress or excitement. It was the latter. His face seemd to glowin the dark as Crabhead dragged out a long rusty chain. On the end of it hung an black iron anchor that was encrusted with dried blood and barnacle shells.

“ What’s got you acting up?”

“ Haven’t you heard? We caught a big one off the coast of Kaui.Cruiser size. ”

“ From where?,” Tarhook asked as he placed his ear next to the receiver.

“ Scouts report it came from across the Circle of Fire, rom the land of California.”

California. Tarhook nearly dropped his Colt when he heard that word. California. It was a different sort of ocean than the one he had grown accustomed to living in these past years. He remembered the sand that flayed his skin, the hot sun that beat down, the people that looke down upon him as the green skies above him thundered and shook. His finger thumbed the trigger excitedly back and forth like the jaws of a hound that had found its prey.

“ Then, let’s give these tourists a welcome party they won’t forget.”

---

Lower Decks, Green Horizon

There were three truths to living in the wasteland.

Rule number one. Expect the worst in everyone.

Rule number two. Always have a gun.

And rule number three? If rule number two doesn’t work, have a bigger gun.

The sight of a 10 foot tall supermutant toting a massive shotgun was enough to fulfill the criteria of the last two rules in many respects. The crowd in the lower deck parted around the standoff like water, paying little attention to it. The group of bandits eyd the glinting barrel of the supermutant’s weapon nervously but their morale hadn’t completely collapsed yet. After all, no upjumped mutated freak was going to dissuade them from the noble task of robbing underaged minors.

“Fellows,” he barked out in a phlegmy baritone, “this here gun's pointing fifteen hundred grains of lead shot in your direction. That’s about equal to four rounds of twelve gauge, and I won’t to hesitate to pull the trigger if you don’t take it elsewhere. So take it elsewhere.”
“ There’s only one of you, mutie,” The leader donning the tri-corn hat spoke with an air of bravado, albeit his voice shook.. “ I only see one of your ugly ass and no one else around. Seven’s more than one. Did your Master teach you how to count properly?”

Nervous chuckles were shared around the gang like popcorn. Their leader’s logic was mathematically sound. Seven humans did beat one genetically-mutated first generation super mutant. Even so, their bravery was paper-thin. A fewdropped their makeshift cubs onto the ground and began to run into the crowd, hiding themselves amongst the clatter of a bag of caps on the ground. One of the gang members to the left of the leader immediately scooped it up before any one could grab it. He shook the leather bag gently, feeling it in his palms to make sure it wasn’t fake. He slowly looked up at his leader with a pensive gaze.

“Fuck this shit, I’m out.”

“ Good luck, Col.”

“ Hey, wait for me!”

The raiders left one by one like rats leaving a sinking ship. The tricorn-hatted leader was now by his lonesome. His face was red, irate, on the verge of yelling as his gang dispersed into the crowd. The sound of gurgling blood then filled the air as a silver blade protruded out through the leader’s throat. Gloved hands scrabbled at the throat to stem the flow of blood. The leader collapsed on his front unceremoniously, a pool of blood slowly forming where his head was. Lying on his back was the power-helmeted islander scout. The child took a moment to wipe his blade on the deceased gang leader’s shirt before looking up at Hog and Galena.

“ OH, THANK YOU, YOU TWO! ”I’LL BE SURE TO PUT IN A GOOD WORD FOR YOU BACK IN THE-”

Screams erupted as a hideous metallic yawn pierced the eardrums of everyone in the lower decks. The pitch of the sound was taut, akin to an overstrung piano wire. Then came the rapid beat of rivets popping one by one. Kahana felt wetness at his feet and there he could see water rising inch by inch every second. The passengers of the lower deck churned and beat the floodwater with frantic pushes and steps as they The radio strapped on his vest chirped.

“ Scout Kahana, status report!”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, THE HULL OF DECK 5-A WHICH HAS BEEN COMPROMISED.”

“ Scout Kahana, how severe is this hull breach?”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, BASED ON THE VOCAL PITCH AND VOLUME IN WHICH CIVILIANS ARE IN CURRENTLY IN DISTRESS AROUND ME ALONGSIDE THE RATE OF WATER ENTERING THE COMPARTMENT, IT WOULD FALL UNDER THE DEFINITION OF ‘EXTREMELY SEVERE’, SIR! REQUESTING IMMEDIATE EVACUATION, SIR!”

“ Denied, Scout Kahana. You are to immediately assist repair crews in this manner. You are to only evacuate if all occupants of the deck other than you are deceased, do you understand!”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, THERE’S A PROBLEM.”

“ Scout - KZZZTT - , report the -KZZZZTTTof this problem.”

“ SIR, SCOUTMASTER, I'M EMBARRASSED TO SAY - " Kahana had troubled finishing his sentence, sputtering the last few words out in embrassment." - THAT I CAN'T SWIM.,” Kahana leaned back, waiting to get scolded only for the radio to hiss back in a bubble of static. “ SCOUTMASTER?! SCOUT-”

Kahana paused as pale slime drooped from above and splattered all over his helmet. He touched it with his finger and rubbed it in between his fingers. It was cold, stuck to his hands like glue and smelt of rotting radgull. Rotting. Gooseflesh rose underneath Kahana’s clothes as he unsheathed his knife out again. Then, he heard it. Something large and wet landing behind him. He dove immediately to the front, feeling the hot breathe of a mawsnapping behind him. He turned around and though he’d seen plenty of their kind before, he could never.

Its black body was sleek and sinuous, damp and dark in the bowels of the ship. Pale white scars dotted its skin, each a tale of a battle long past. Two spade-like fins protruded out from its side, spines growing out of the edge in some sick fashion of a paw. It’s head was obesely packed to the brim with rolls of fat that dribbled out the side like melted wax. A long needle like mouth curved out from underneath its ruiuned face.

“ BLACKBOTTLE! BLACKBOTTLE ABOAR-!” was all that a Gold Galleon employee had to say before the mutant monstrosity launched itself forward on its two fins. It slid across the flooded floor, reminding Kahana of one of those pre-war ice skating holotapes his troop smuggled across from Maui. The Gold Galleon Employee screamed as the jaw grabbed him on the toros and lifted him into the air, before snapping him in two in a spray of blood and guts.

---

Upper Decks, Green Horizon

Sam was already dreaming of the sounds of caps jingling in his pockets. The amount of material he had gotten in this single hour alone would keep 89 on the airwaves for the next few weeks. Sure, he would have to cut out the seditionist remarks made by who he suspected had a bone to pick wit the NCR, maybe the Brotherhood or the Legion. Everything else was at least tolerable. As he thanked the last interviewee, Sam turned to the camera to make his final remarks.

“And there you have it, folks! Wastelanders from all walks of life determined to start anew in the Aloha Isles. This is Sam Gallagher from California 89 signing - “

“ Hold up, hold up,” A gold-ringed hand pushed the camera away and Sam was dumbstruck at who he was seeing. The Sunset Sarparilla floral shirt and the hideous shades barely covered the man’s sunburnt skin. His face looked as though someone had squished an overripe mutfruit and fingerpainted a smile and eyes on it. The coterie of swimsuit-dressed girls behind him didn’t help either. The man pushed down his shades and looked at Sam like a pest. “Who the fuck do you think you are, shitstick?”

“ Sam Gallagher of California 89. Um, do you mind moving, we’re busy wrapping up over here.”

“ What the hell did you just say to Dole Hannigan, you little pissant?” For the second time today, Sam had his personal territory invaded yet again as the businessman pushed himself chest to chest with the reporter, puffing his chest out like an obese radgull. “ Do you knowwho the fuck I am? In fact, I’m going to educate you today. Goreman, that piece of shit Codac is bugging the hell out of me. Get rid of it, would you?”

Before Sam could complain, a burly guard popped from behind the man, grabbed his cameraman’s Codac and chucked it overboard.

“ What the fuck was that for?” Sam yelped. “ You know how much that cost me -”

A spike of agony suddenly bolted through his legs, making him collapse onto the floor. Drool dribbled out of Sam’s open mouth as he faintly felt a hand yank his hair upwards, forcing him to look into grey eyes that were cut from slate.

“ Let me get it through your little molerat-sized brain just so we’re standing on the same ground. Aloha, Sam, is my territory. So, I don’t know what kind of dainty psy-op radio play bullshit you’re playing with me but you’re not gonna get to me. YOU’RE NOT GONNA GET TO ME.!” Sam tilted his head away in disgust at the smell of stale Nuka Cola and iguana steaks. “ So, get this. If I ever catch you filming for California 85-”

“ -It’s 89-”

“ Speak when I say you can speak, bitch!” If I ever catch you moseying on here again again, I will sue the piss coming out of your shithole when you go back home crying back to California.” The man pulled Sam up by the ear and whispered into his ear. “ Welcome to Aloha, motherfucker.”



It was at that moment that Dole Hannigan’s head chose to explode like a ripe pumpkin. Sam was mute as the shower of warm blood hit him and laid unmoving on the deck of the ship in shock. His mind was frozen, looking at the headless corpse of Dole Hannigan which laid next to him, his tongue lolling out of his decapitated head. The speakers turned on with an electronic whine and a smooth female voice began to speak in a reassuring tone.

“ All passengers, please remain calm. We are currently in the midst of a pirate attack. Please locate your nearest lifeboat. Your nearest Gold Galleon security representative will be there to escort you safely. Please remain calm.”

Warning klaxons blared out in unison as upper deck passengers ran across the deck like a herd of Brahmin. Security guards attempted to control the flow of people only to be trampled underneath the stampede. Sam shakedly stood up and blinked as dots of colours danced in his vision in the vast expanse of the blue sky. He squinted and then, noticed that there was something hanging off these dots. Namely, men. There were at least 30 of them floating towards the upper deck, strapped to ginormous spherical balloons that had strange symbols drawn on them. Some of them were dressed with the classic skulls and bones that every traveller in the Pacific would see whilst others had nails, fishheads, bottlecaps or gecko heads sewn into the fabric. A thin dogwhistle then shrilled through the air as the balloons were dozens of feet away from the upper deck. The balloons began bursting one by one in fiery explosions that turned the blue sky red. The wild evacuation stopped for a moment as onlookers stopped to observe the light show.

It was so pretty that Sam failed to notice the black human missile that pancaked the star-struck tourist in front of him into a sack of broken bones and skin.

he stepped back as the pirate shook her head, slightly dazed, and then, honed her eyes on him like a deathclaw. Her left eye had been replaced with a green-stripped pool ball, the letter ‘4’ staring back at him. Similar landings were occurring across the boat as the attackers began diving from the air, using the tourists to cushion their fall messily. Sam watched in horror as the pirate wrenched her foot out of a caved-in ribcage, drew her cutlass and yelled out loud in a crooked grin.

“ FOR LEVIATHAN!”