Mags Black

Mags allowed the blood covered knife to slip from her hand and onto the broken gore-soaked ground of The Hole. The body of the Trog she’d just slain lay eviscerated in a heap at her feet, its sickly discolored blood running in rivulets through the soil . Exhausted beyond measure, Mags barely registered the voice of the announcer above the roaring sound of the crowd above: ‘ASHUR ASHUR ASHUR’ they chanted like a raucous chorus.

“And the Trog falls! Welcome Mags! Welcome to Ashur’s Army! You’ve earned it!”

She collapsed to her knees, triumphantly raising one hand. This was it, she thought to herself with a wide grin; she’d passed their test, she’d earned her place. Now she could work her way up: now she would finally get that audience with Lady Ashur.

From here on out, she would be in her element. Finally things might go her way.

---

“Inspection! Fall in for inspection you newbie bastards!”

Mags barely had time to wash the Trog’s blood off her before she’d been practically dragged into formation before her new Raid Boss: a tough one-eyed son of a bitch named ‘Reddog’ who wore super-sledge slung to the back of his spiked Gamma shield armor. There were at least fifty of her fellow raiders standing at loose attention before him as he passed back and forth, giving each of them a discerning look with his one good eye.

“Congratulations assholes, you’re all in Ashur’s Army now: The Army of The Pitt. But before you all get big heads and starting thinking some bullshit about how you’re special or ‘chosen’ let me make one thing straight to you bastards.”

Reddog raised a hand, his right ring finger was missing: chewed off at the knuckle by the same creature which had removed his eye. He held up his index and middle before them,

“This don’t make you shitheads special, all it means is two things, “1: You ain’t trog food and 2. You ain’t a slave.”

He looked right at Mags, his eye seemed to bore into her,

“And if that’s enough for you….then good you’ll fit right in here. But you want more? You gotta EARN it. Ain’t nobody got to the top of Ashur’s gang without going through hell. You all best remember that.”

Reddog paused, unsheathing his super-sledge and slamming it head-first to the ground in front of him,

“Alright for anyone looking for that chance….let me give you some good fuckin’ news. We’re headed to the Ohio River with the rest of the army, and guess what? Our crew gets the best assignment of all: we’re gonna be right at the fuckin’ front.

Mags tightened her grip on the R91 assault rifle she’d been issued; the weight of the heavy ammo bandolier she was wearing seemed to be trying to drag her quivering legs to the ground. She realized she was feeling true fear for the first time in a good long while.

“Move out scrum! Let’s go kick some mutant ass. For Ashur! For The Lady of The Pitt!”

---

Krenshaw - 10th Street Bridge Overlook

Standing atop one of the downtown high-rise buildings, Commander Krenshaw watched the army departing alongside Abaddon and the recently arrived ex-Paladin-Lord Hector Traven. It was like a surging tide, thousands of raiders marching across the tenth street bridge to be shipped by rail, barge, or long march to the forward defensive line. Things were in motion now, and all that was to come was the inevitable battle.

Krenshaw lit up a cigarette, exhaling a thin trail of smoke out into The Pitt’s perpetual twilight sky. He could practically feel the nervous tension oozing from the two former Brotherhood men next to him.

“Will your forces hold?” Abaddon asked bluntly, the aged scribe’s wrinkled face contorted with worry.

“My raiders will hold,” Krenshaw grimaced, taking another puff of his cigarette, “You just worry about those reprogrammed factory bots of yours.”

“This won’t be anything like they’ve ever faced before…” The now former Paladin-Lord of Cincinnati added. Traven was still wearing his Brotherhood robes, which unlike Abaddon’s red scribe robes were tinged the gold-orange of a ranking leader of the Midwestern Brotherhood.

Krenshaw gave Traven a side-glare, before flicking the half-finished cigarette off the roof,

“The fuck you know about what my soldiers have gone through?”

He strode up to Traven, looking him square in the eye. To the Paladin-Lord’s credit, he didn’t flinch in the slightest, meeting Krenshaw’s gaze with a glare of his own. Krenshaw grinned, encouraged to see that the latest Brotherhood deserter amongst The Pitt’s ranks had an actual backbone: unlike Abaddon. Good, he’d need it.

“Nothing,” Traven replied simply, “But I do know your enemy, and that you should be afraid.”

Krenshaw scoffed, “Can’t afford to be afraid. Either we win or we die. Fear ain’t a factor here,” Krenshaw then turned to look out over the marching army once more, letting out a deep breath, “Those deserters of yours ready to put up a fight Paladin-Lord?”

“Exiles,” Traven corrected, “They didn’t break any oaths…their honor is intact.”

“Unlike yourself, of course,” Krenshaw pointed out with a smirk.

“Indeed,” Traven nodded, clear shame evident in his eyes, “Two companies of Knights, three companies of C-27 bots, twenty pacification class robots, and one Behemoth class….” Traven rattled off, “They’ll do their duty, I assure you.”

“Well we’ll need em’,” Krenshaw grunted, as he pulled at the folds of his long coat jacket, “We’ve mobilized every soldier we got, called in all the favors we’ve ever had with every pissant gang from the Erie Stretch to The Commonwealth. Hell we’ve even got some of those Children of Atom zealots fighting with us. It's the largest force The Pitt has ever fielded - certainly the biggest fuckin’ army I’ve seen in my life.”

“Don’t assume numbers alone can win this fight,” Traven interrupted.

Abaddon gave a sadistic smile, “We’re not without our cards to play…we’ve got enough ordinance to level the entire Ohio river valley. The mutants will receive an artillery bombardment that will rival The Guns of Anchorage.”

“And I hope for all our sakes that its enough.”

“Cut it with the doom and gloom…let's get to work,” Krenshaw replied with a click of his tongue. He turned around and quickly brushed past Abaddon and Traven; giving Traven a hard slap on the back as he passed, “Best suit up Paladin-Lord, we’ve got an express train to Steubenville to catch.”

The Glowing Sea - Site Prescott - a few minutes later

"Are you sure about this, sir?", X6-88 asked, "Atom cultists are extremely dangerous. We can relay in a strike team and secure the facility easily."

"I am sure", Nathan replied serenely, "We're going to walk in there and secure this facility without a shot being fired. They want what we want, all that needs to be done is explain that to the Children and they'll cooperate gladly...you'll see".

"Very well, sir", X6-88 reluctantly agreed. He had seen Grandfather do some amazing things out in the Wasteland with his own eyes, and heard stories of others from his human traveling companions, but in his opinion convincing Atom Cultists to willingly give up what they held to be sacred relics was ambitious even for him, which is why he had quietly assembled a strike team prepared to relay in on a moment's notice if he was wrong. As the old saying went, it's easier to ask for forgiveness than for permission, and Grandfather's life was his personal responsibility.

"Let's go", Nathan said, then strode towards the old pre-war installation without any attempt at concealment. X6-88 followed, scanning the area as they walked. "Remember, let me do the talking, and don't produce a weapon unless I tell you to."

As the pair approached the crumbling guardhouse at the ruined perimeter fence, a very young woman dressed in the sackcloth robes favored by the Children of Atom darted out to confront them. In her hands was an R-91 assault rifle in surprisingly good condition. While it wasn't pointed straight at them, she was clearly prepared to use it.

"Stop where you are strangers", she said sternly, "This is Holy Ground, there is nothing here for unbelievers that is worth dying for!"

X6-88 noticed a glint from the top of the pyramidal facility that had to be a sniper. Or worse...the Children had no compunctions at all when it came to using atomic or even nuclear weapons, even if they or their fellow cultists were caught in their own blast. His training told him he should order the deployment of the strike team, but his gut told him that it was too late for that, he could only trust Grandfather and see how events played out.

"You but speak the truth, Sister", Nathan replied gently as he held up a odd, crudely fashioned wooden figurine of a woman with her arms at her side, "but for the Faithful, dying to protect the relics of Atom inside is a Sacred Duty".

The effect on the woman couldn't have been more profound, immediately the suspicion and hostility drained from her face, replaced by shock, then reverent awe, then contrition in rapid succession. Her arms went limp and the muzzle of the rifle drooped to aim at the ground and tears began streaming down her face, leaving tracks in the everpresent dust coating her face.

"I...I had no idea you were the Herald of Atom", she sobbed, "P-Please forgive me for threatening you!"

"You have done nothing to be ashamed of, child", Nathan said comfortingly as he gently wiped away the tears running down her face, "your willingness to face a stranger in power armor with just a rifle only proves your devotion to Him." He glanced up at the pyramid the back down into her eyes. "The brethren on the roof..."

"Jessica, my name is Jessica. Oh, yes..almost forgot", she exclaimed. She then turned around to face the facility, and held her rifle over her head and waved it in a elaborate gesture. The glint disappeared, followed by three flashes from a flashlight or spotlight. She whirled around, her demeanor back to reverent awe an continued, "They understand you are one of us, you may enter in peace. They will take you to Brother Henri, he is Atom's Steward here. Atom keep you!"

"And Atom keep you as well, Sister Jessica", Nathan replied.

"Sir, X6-88 asked as they strode towards the front door, "May I ask how you did that?"

"Far Harbor. It was before we met", explained Nathan, "I was helping out Nick, ended up joining the Children myself and living with them for a time". He chuckled at X6-88's reaction and continued. "Nick's assignment required we entered the old sub base they lived in, and the only options to proceed were to join or shoot my way in. As the leader..and trainer...of their fighters was once a high-ranking member of the Capital Wasteland Brotherhood, I would have gotten lit up fast so I went on their quest to join. And someone or something led me to this icon. They call her the 'Mother of the Fog'. I'll be frank, I saw some things on that quest that I still cannot explain. But anyway, when I returned with it they thought I was the neatest thing since sliced bread. It's come in handy ever since....I used my status with the Children and the Minutemen to broker a peace between the Children and the rest of the Commonwealth. For the most part, they are only a threat if persecuted."

"I'm impressed", X6-88 replied, "Kellogg would have used....different methods."

"Correct", retorted Nathan with a hint of cold ferocity in his tone, "That is why I'm still kicking and that cocksucker is dog shit!", after a pause he continued in his normal tone, "Kellogg and his methods were very nearly the Institute's undoing, I think Shaun realized that on some level. Before he passed, I had wondered why he didn't take the trash out himself..I only understood once I inherited the Directorship and could see the situation from his point of view. He didn't have the political capital to get the Directorate to let him take out their favorite Enforcer. It must have been pure hell for him to have to work with the bastard that murdered his mother when he wanted to paint the nearest wall with his brains so bad he could taste it. He then added flatly, "But what he could do is unleash me...I found a microfiche copy of my real service record in his papers, which apparently Zimmer found in the Pentagon before he disappeared...he knew what would happen."

"My point is", he concluded, "and I've spent the last decade driving it home to the Directorate, is that we can't afford the enemies we were making. We have to work with the surface dwellers, not rob them and use them as lab rats, and don't get me started on the Watcher program. Eventually someone would have found a way to strike back and everything we've done to preserve and advance science would have been swept away in a tidal wave of hatred. It doesn't have to be that way, my policies are starting to bear fruit and in the end both the Institute and the Commonwealth will be better for it." Nathan added as they reached the door, "Showtime. This will actually be the easy part, they see us as brethren now so they will hear us out."

Site Prescott - Control Room - a few minutes later

Nathan, having left his suit inside the door to reveal he was now wearing the robes of a Child of Atom, and clutching the effigy to his chest, and X6-88, who removed the helmet from his hazmat suit, were shown into the control room. Awaiting them there was a tall, almost skeletally thin bald man in the robes of a medium high member of the Children of Atom. His eyes, set in his weathered face, had the glint of a true fanatic. In a corner was an Assaultron, the white star painted over with the symbol of Atom. It was studying them, but was not in alert mode.

"I am Brother Henri, Steward of Atom for this Sacred Place", he intoned in a friendly, but curious tone, "Sister Jessica signaled that you were of the Faith, whom do I have the honor of addressing?"

"I am Nathan, Brother," Nathan replied, "I am from the Church in the North, the Nucleus in Mount Desert Island. My companion, X6-88 is seeking the Truth".

"You have come far then", Henri said, impressed that he had traveled so far, "have you come to make a Pilgrimage?"

His mind clicked on the fact that Brother Nathan's companion was a synth, but he was distracted when he noticed what Nathan was holding to his chest. He then spoke again, his voice trembling slightly.

"Brother Nathan", Henri asked, gesturing respectfully at the effigy, "If it's not too impertinent, may I see what you are holding?

"But of course, Brother", Nathan replied as he placed it reverently into Henri's outstretched hand.

Henri studied the effigy, his face lighting up with awe and transcendental joy brighter every second. He then handed it back with extreme reverence. He had expected them to be pilgrims, a joyous event to be sure, but not this. His years of faithful toil had been rewarded. The Herald of Atom had come, and Atom's mighty gaze was upon him.

"I have lived for this glorious day for twenty years", Henri said exultantly, "Pray tell me, what is Atom's Will?"

"You, and your Brothers and Sisters, are part of Atom's Plan, Brother", Nathan replied, "Your charge, which you have faithfully carried out, was to keep the relics here safe until they were needed. That time has come. To the West, a blasphemous force has arisen, determined to force mutation on every man, woman and child on this continent, if not the world, and cut them off from Him forever. Even now they are marching on the Pitt. It is the Will of Atom that the His city, The Pitt, and the infant Church there, stands! The relics here, and other places, shall be readied and unleashed to fulfill the purpose Atom set for them long before his first Child was born, to bring down upon the heads of the so-called, blasphemous "Unity" the irresistible brightness of Atom's Light, and the scourging touch of the flames of His Wrath. By this Act of Faith we shall save both His Church and His Children, as well as those unbelievers who may yet be brought to His light!"

He then folded his arms, still clutching the effigy, and intoned with all the authority he could muster.

"Thus", Nathan said, "is the Will of Atom!"

The room was dead silent, except for the occasional beep from the consoles and whirring of motors in the Assaultron. Coursers don't scare easily, but given all the Children who had filled the room behind them, and the stairs leading up to the Control room, silenty digesting what Grandfather had said and waiting to see how Brother Henri responded, X6-88 was well aware that if Henri gave the word, they'd be torn to pieces before they could react....there were too many, too close. He was clearly considering what he had just heard, but the impassive expression on his face gave no clue to what he would do.

After a full minute, which seemed like eternity, Henri threw his arms out wide and exclaimed in a voice that carried out into the stairwell, immediately spreading to the entire room as the others, including Nathan and then him, joined in.

Behold! He is coming with the clouds!", Henri shouted with a voice only someone with absolute conviction could use, his face lit up with transcendental joy, and tears of joy streaming down his face, "And every eye will be blinded by His Glory, and every ear shall be stricken deaf with the thunder of His Voice! Let the men, women and children of the Earth come forth to gather and witness the power of Atom! These ancient weapons of war were hidden here long ago by Atom for our salvation! They are the very symbol of Atom's Glory! The blasphemers shall exist no more, they will be washed away by Atom's Glow, burned to ashes in the fire of His brilliance!"

Henri was beside himself with joy. The years of isolation and loneliness and toil, which he had suffered gladly, were irrelevant now. Atom had bestowed upon him the greatest reward he could receive next to Division. He was aware of the Unity, the Prophet had summoned all the Faithful not needed to secure and tend to the Holy sites in the Commonwealth and it's environs to the Pitt to aid the secular ruler, Marie, who had been clearly received Atom's Blessing and more, in defending His city. She was clearly part of His plan too, and it was his sacred task to aid her.

"Atom has spoken", Henri said to Nathan, "And we will answer. But restoring the systems in this place requires materials and skills we don't have....unless Atom provides."

"The Institute will provide both", Nathan answered. "A team is ready to survey the facility and determined what is needed, then a repair crew will work with your technically minded Brothers and Sisters to restore this facility to operational status. As far as the others, this sacred ground must be protected more than ever. Being mutants, the Unity can enter the Glowing Sea, so we must take the possibility of a ground attack into account. We'll provide any weapons you require."

"We could use some heavy lasers", Henri replied, "As far as guns our brethren in the Pitt buy them and send them to us. What we really need is good armor, Combat or Marine armor. It's frowned upon for those with the Gift to use power armor, as you know. Atom's Glow is too severe here for those without the Gift to survive as a permanent member of the congregation. We simply lack access to enough Radaway and Rad-X to support new converts dwelling among us, just Pilgrims."

Institute - Dr Li's Quarters - Later

"You mean to tell me", Dr Li said skeptically, "that he just walked in there and convinced them to hand it over."

"Yes ma'am", X6-88 replied, "I did not believe it possible, but he proved me wrong. Though it would be more accurate to say he convinced them to agree to share it with us. They are providing security as well as assisting in the reactivation effort. Initiating a launch requires two keys, one is held by their leader and the other by X5-14, we do not assess them as having the technical skill to override the pre-war PAL system. In the worst case scenario they will not be able to overcome our force there and initiate a launch before strike teams can be relayed directly inside to stop them".

"It doesn't surprise me", Brian said, "he has a web of friends, contacts and favors all across the Commonwealth. Look at me, he made sure I survived comfortably until he could convince the rest of the Directorate to pardon me. Our predecessors should have disposed of Kellogg and woken up the three of them....he'd have the surface eating out of our hand by now. God knows what he's managed to achieve down here....you and I can't be the only people who owe him one."

"What did he do before the War?", Dr Li exclaimed. "according to his service record he was a common infantryman who served in Alaska and the Canada Annexation, he got a Silver Star at the Battle of Winnipeg....which I think is in Canada....why would they assign a man with his talents to a front-line infantry unit? Even the idiots running the country into the ground weren't that foolish."

"He hinted that that was not his actual service record", X6-88 replied, "He said something about finding his "real" service record amongst Father's papers after he passed. Said Dr Zimmer had forwarded it before his disappearance. He also said he believes Father released him from Vault 111 to avenge himself against Kellogg."

"I reviewed his papers before we turned them over", Dr Li said, "there was no dossier like that in Father's effects like the one we retrieved from the VA branch in Boston, just some old pre-war...", her eyes widened as something clicked and she sat down heavily. "..microfiches. Which I didn't bother to review. Damn it, I had it in my hands!" She folded her arms and crossed her legs, disgusted with herself.

"Does it really matter at this point?", Brian asked, "It's been two centuries."

"Probably not", she replied, "I generally agree with his policies, we have a responsibility to the people above that none before him were willing to shoulder. And no one else could have secured that pardon, Clayton and I were the only two lobbying for it before this "Unity" mess began. Ayo even went so far as to send Kellogg to kill you, Brian...fortunately Grandfather found him first. But he's been Director for ten years now and he is still as unknown a quantity as the day he found his way here. I don't like that."

"Grandfather?" Brian asked, "Is that his title now?"

"The synths started calling him that five years ago", Li answered, "It's catching on amongst the faculty more and more. It's true from a technical aspect so there is no point in complaining about it."

"X6-88", Li said, "You're dismissed. And not a word of this conversation to anyone, even the Director."

"Yes, ma'am", X6-88 replied.

The Behemoth Lord

Braxton stood watching atop a hill watching the marching host before him. The army of The Behemoth Lord was on the move, carving a path of destruction through Midwestern lands - chasing after fleeing Midwestern civilians and soldiers alike in the wake of Cincinnati's fall. The former Brotherhood Knight turned Chosen no longer felt any kinship towards the humans that he was once sworn to protect. His memory was clouded and muddied, and although he retained some scant knowledge of his former life as a human, most of it was completely consumed by some unknowable presence which wormed his way into his thoughts like some great serpent. It was always there, never dominating or all-consuming, but always present never-the-less.

UNITY. UNITY. UNITY. It would chant endlessly.

There was no point in attempting to block it out, and indeed by this point Braxton welcomed the intrusion as a form of liberation. He was no longer alone - no longer an individual - but a part of a greater whole.

He would serve The Unity, from now until the end of his immortal life.

Braxton turned his head to see the great form of the Behemoth Lord striding into view, pushing aside trees as it made its way through a dense forest like it was passing through nothing more than tall grass. The massive hulking form of the behemoth warlord was awe inspiring. Old heavy car parts and pieces of metal roofing had been crudely crushed and shaped into armor around the Behemoth’s form, and in his left hand he wielded an uprooted power line that was studded with rebar stakes like some sort of large spiked bat. Behind him marched his own personal guard of four behemoths that were just as large as he, though not nearly as intelligent as their leader.

Braxton bowed before the giant mutant commander, waiting with some trepidation as to what the creature's next command would be. Braxton knew better than to speak first, he’d seen the Behemoth Lord smash mutants that displeased it into pulp with a single swing of its fist for no other reason than the whim struck him.

“Send. Scouts.” The Behemoth Lord said finally, its voice deep and hollow, “Find the enemy. We kill. For Unity.”

“Yes Lord, I’ll lead them myself,” Braxton nodded eagerly, “We will find them.”

The Ghoul Eater

The rising brackish waters of Lake Michigan lapped at Zant’s feet. The pale-green mutant stood like some freakish totem, covered in bones and the shriveled heads of decapitated ghouls. His stomach was delightfully full, he and his gruesome host having feasted on the scattered inhabitants of Mantiwoc for the better part of a week. His forces' denial at both Chicago and then Milwaukee had been bitter, and so they’d taken their frustrations out on the isolated port town.

The fact that the poor fisherman and tradespeople of the ruined town had nothing to do with the Midwestern Brotherhood or its military ploys had mattered little. They were all human, all meat - so they’d been dealt an appropriate, collective, punishment.

Now Zant, The Ghoul Eater, turned his gaze lakeward. Beyond the great waters before him lay the unspoiled port towns along the coasts of the Great Lakes, along with the promise of the wealthy trade cities of Ronto and Luth. He had no use for their money of course - but their flesh would do quite nicely. Some to be dipped, some to be roasted - but all destined to feed his army one way or another.

Zant turned to the makeshift ships hap-hazardly assembled by the mutant host. Calling them “ships” would be generous indeed, they were more like floating heaps of scrap, but that wouldn’t matter as long as the mutant host managed to make it across the water. His army had heavy weapons aplenty and miniguns and missile launchers made for effective weapons on the sea just as well as on land. If they encountered any Luth merchant ships or otherwise, the floating hulks would only need to get them in range: nothing more.

Seizing the Great Lakes region would be an immense victory for The Unity if it could be accomplished. It would cut off trade and communication between the lake nations and the world beyond, and most of all the valuable supply of raw ore to the forges of The Pitt. According to The Master’s integrated connections to the Vault Tec Network, there was also at least one large unspoiled Vault in the region of northern Michigan: a large new source of prime normals that could not be ignored.

The Master had commanded Zant to take this region, and he would accomplish its will.

“We are ready,” one of his mutant commanders said suddenly, walking up to him with a large complement of 1st Generation mutants.

“Each of you take a vessel,” Zant ordered, “Attack any ship in your path…seize what you can, send any prime specimens to the Great Procreator - eat the rest.”

The Pitt

Vikia

Vikia eyed the lumbering mutant in the cross-hairs of her scope as it strode through the undergrowth . The dim-witted creature wasn't as stealthy as it thought it was, and it was almost comical watching the mutant plodding alongside a group of ghoul slaves-soldiers hunched over and creeping like it actually thought it couldn't be seen. She almost had some pity for what was about to happen to it - almost.

Vikia let out a deep breath slowly, and felt her finger lightly squeeze the trigger. A shot from her .308 sniper rang out before a bullet tore through the mutants skull - taking part of its brain with it. The creature immediately collapsed and before the accompanying ghoul soldiers could even react to their slave-master and commander's untimely end, infiltrator shots followed up in quick succession from Vikia's hidden scouts, tearing through their ranks. In a matter of seconds it was over, and the entire patrol was wiped out. A few of the scouts made their way over to the clearing with rifles raised to ensure that the job was finished, and to loot whatever valuable intel the patrol happened to have on them. Rarely did they find anything worth their trouble though.

"Like shooting fish in a barrel..." one of Vikia's scouts, a gruff heavily mutated raider named Zachariah whistled as he reloaded his infiltrator with a fresh magazine. He and a small group of his kin had been made their way north to the Pitt from a place called 'Point Lookout' far to the south. The people there all apparently shared his mutations to one degree or another. Despite their appearance, they were all good fighters and unparalleled experts at living off the land making them natural scouts - their inclinations towards cannibalism not-with-standing.

"Its too fucking easy," Vikia growled as she looked up from where she was laying and surveyed the area, "These bumbling idiots can't be their vanguard. How dumb are these mutants?"

"Well whatever they is, if they keep sending em' we'll keep making mincemeat out of them, "Zachariah replied with a toothy grin.

"Something's not right..." Vikia continued, tightening her grip on her rifle. Her gut instinct was screaming that this situation was all wrong. She'd learned to listen to that gut feeling over the years, and it was the only reason she was still alive now.

As if in answer, Vikia suddenly heard shouts followed by several explosions from the area where the mutants had been downed. All she saw was smoke and fire in that direction, and immediately she knew what must have happened. They hadn't been any kind of vanguard at all, but walking bombs - their bodies had been booby-trapped with mines. They were nothing more than fodder.

Then Vikia heard the sound of a stealth field de-materializing, and her heart froze.

Vikia whipped around only to see a hulking blue mutant wildly swinging a two-handed bumper-sword towards her. She rolled away just in time to watch it slice its way into the ground before the mutant swiftly pulled it up and swung it again in an upwards strike. Another of Vikia's scouts was caught by the blade, and the raider did even have time to scream before he was sliced in half sending blood spraying all over her.

Zachariah, to his credit, reacted without hesitation raising up his infiltrator rifle and firing several shots at the mutant assassin. The unarmored mutant suddenly staggered back, only to immediately take more bullets from the surrounding raiders and collapsing to the ground.

To Vikia's horror, the creature was still alive though -and it reached for its blade once again in some vain attempt to get back up and fulfill its mission. Zachariah quickly ended that though, drawing forth a finely sharpened wood-axe and burying it in the Nightkin's skull.

"Holy shit..." Vikia muttered in shock, wiping blood from her face, "We didn't even hear that thing at all until it deactivated its stealth boy..."

"That thing came her for one reason and one reason only," Zachariah remarked with a grunt as he pulled his now bloodied axe out from the mutant's forehead and pointed it at Vikia, "To take that pretty little head of yours clean off Ms. Viky. I don't think they be as dumb as you think."

It was the first time the entire squadron had been mobilised in twenty years. Twelve birds, four platoons; red, white, blue, and gold. No light, all heavy. There was no chalk element, no slicks, no stopping of any kind. Just punch off everything in two passes—assuming that there was even a target of opportunity. Just like the run over Paradise Falls, back when he didn’t have any greys, or the later runs on the Baltimore gangs. In short, a good old-fashioned, all-American, aerial massacre.

The plan was a modification of the old SIOP; the general plan for war with the Brotherhood of Steel in the west. It had been assumed that any offensive from them would utilise the I-50 for logistics. Mutants, being mere creatures, would likely use the path of least resistance when transporting large elements over land—again assuming that they would continue any kind of advance further west.

They passed little settlements on the way, friendly smoke trail from cooking fires and light industry, and later another long column of refugees who stopped to wave at them as they burned over head.

“Castle, this is White Lead. We’ve just over… Clarksburg. Nothing since the last refugee column.” Hillenkoetter said, looking at his copilot who had the map. “Nothing in sight over.”

“Rodger that White Lead over.”

Hillenkoetter looked behind him, at Wilkins on the big gun. Command had been clear on this, Last Watch only in the seats and FNGs from the New Troops on side gun for some action. It wasn’t really fair since 1st troop was already two years into deployment. For all Hillenkoetter Wilkins could be one of his; all the samples had been anonymised, nobody had the stomach for families anymore—they didn’t even have fore names, just aft-names for their tags pulled from a DC phonebook.

“You okay their bud?” He asked.

“Fucking-A Sir,” Wilkins responded; he’d not taken his eyes from the sights of the .50 for the whole ride.
They kept on going, minor chatter between the leads and Castle as they ploughed forward to Cincinnati.

“All, all. This is White Lead. Greens ahead. Over.”

“Castle Rodger. Green?”

“Green mutants. They’re scattering. All Leads target the one with the antenna. Over.”

There was a chorus of ‘Rodgers’ and a scattering of gun fire over the comms. The mutants had some kind of scouting party with a radio.

“All leads, this is White Lead. Confirm tango-down?”

Comms came in; nobody could confirm, just fire down on the area as they passed but nobody was staying around to confirm.

“All Leads, we’re assuming advanced scouts for a column. Heat ‘em up and prep for contacts. Break into contact formation. Over.”

A chorus of ‘Rodger thats’ came in as the Vertibirds platoons broke.

It didn’t take much longer. A mutant column, a veritable sea of green.

"Contacts ahead, they’re breaking south into the trees. Gold-Blue leads break off.”

Assuming the orders were followed, Hillenkoetter centred on the road. The mutants were still scattering, tugging at ghoul-drawn carts.

“Firing.”

The command was echoed over the comm as the road exploded into so many little smoke plumes. Rockets were loosed as they passed over, through there was no telling the damage done. White and Red pummelled the main road as Gold and Blue went port to strafe the scatters.

“Taking Fire. Taking Fire.”

Not unexpected. It had been the plan of attack, come in low with the morning sun behind them and trust the mutants couldn’t maintain a good firing arc. Hillenkoetter felt the dings reverb through the aircraft as the bullets hit. The mutants could sport a minigun in-hand, and rockets, the entire operation was based on them being unprepared for an air-attack so hit them hard once whilst the element was present.

They passed over. Being lead-lead, Hillenkoetter wouldn’t see the full aftermath till the AAF.

“This is White Lead, all Leads. Sit-Rep. Over.”

The news was good. They ploughed ahead, leaving the mutant train behind before whirling back for the second pass.
“Firing. Firing.”

It had been a few minutes, the dust plumes gone and mutants reorganising as they let loose again with whatever was left.
“Rockets! Rockets!”

“Evade, evade!”

The second pass continued, rockets and micro-nukes deployed over the remainder.
“This is Blue-Two, we’re hit. Hit!”

“Clear comms. Keep Moving. Blue-Two status.”

“We took a rocket. Starboard. I’ve lost starboard wing control. Huns’ get back and check. I can’t move the right wing Castle, stuck on forward.”

“Blue-One slow and visualise. Damage report.”

“Blue-Two you’ve lost—”

“Keep him in! Keep him in! White-Lead. Menzel is hit.”

“This is Papa,” the voice suddenly came over the comm, cool and authorative. “Is anyone hit? Blue-Two talk.”

“Menzel is hit.”

“What’s his status. Status.”

“He’s dead, Menzel is dead Sir.”

“Rodger that. Blue-Two how’s it looking?”

“Blue-Two. This is Blue-One behind. You’ve lost starboard landing gear.”

“I’m pulling starboard.”

“Blue-Two. Slow down to minimum. Blue-Lead take point, Blue-One stay behind. We’re prepping emergency landing at Harpers. Over.”

“Rodger that Castle.”

“Fuck,” Hillenkoetter cursed. Menzel was a side-gunner. “Castle this is White Lead. Orders."

“All leads, belay Blue. Gun it back to Castle-town. Blue-Lead, Blue-Two take fore and aft respect, look after this guy okay.”

“Rodger that Castle.”

“Blue-One prep how are you fairing?”

“Still pulling starboard Papa. Maintaining.”

“Prep Plan-D, keep it airborne. Can you clear the Blue Mountains? Over.”

“Rodger that,” Blue-One lead said, muffled around the glass ampule. “We can go forward with a list, getting a lot of vibrations here— steady on it dude.”

“Blue-Two sit-rep.”

“You're losing fluid Blue-One."

"Close the feedthoughs! Castle this is Blue-One, we've lost all hydraulics confirmed in starboard wing."

“Rodger that Blue-One; keep it going and keep us covered.”

The wind pulled at Blue-One, pulling her starboard as she limped back towards the Blue Mountains.

The Unity

Nightkin Warlord Sammel - Near Clarkstown

Sammel heard them before he ever laid eyes on them. It began as a distant hum, which quickly evolved into a terrible roar as the rotors of the aircraft tore through the sky overhead. Sammel knew what was about to come, but he did not have time to issue orders to his overextended army. He could only watch with rage as the attack began all along the column.

Fire and death rained from the sky, as the vertibirds of The Enclave ripped through their ranks with heavy machine guns, missiles and a carpet bomb of mini-nukes. He saw limbs flying detached from torsos whilst blood and gore soaked the ground alongside the charred remains of his mutant kin. It was a slaughter, and the broken ground of the highway became a charnel house of mayhem and death.

“Find cover! Fire back! FIRE BACK!” Sammel roared over the chaotic din as he tried desperately to maintain order in his ranks.

Some of his most loyal mutants attempted to follow his command, some grabbing discarded missile launchers or manning heavy machine guns while others fired back with little more than hunting rifles in a desperate attempt to deal some sort of punishment against the attacking squadron. They fired haphazardly however, without proper coordination, and so their response was mostly ineffective - although the return fire did force the flying menaces into evasive maneuvers.

A 2nd Gen mutant next to Sammel raised his launcher after reloading to prepare to fire once more, but before he could pull the trigger an explosion from an incoming missile ripped the pale-green creature in half and sent Sammel flying a dozen feet to the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his side, and when we rolled over realized that a chunk of metal shrapnel was now firmly embedded in his torso: a fine gift from Sutler - he would need to repay it in kind.

Enraged beyond all reason by pain, Sammel raised himself to his feet and grabbed a missile launcher from another of his nearby kin. With a steady hand, he aimed squarely at the closet Vertibird giving it an appropriate lead.

He fired, and the missile streaked through the sky before it struck home: landing a hit on the right side of the craft.

That seemed to be enough for the squadron, one of their own being hit was like a signal to the entire attack to stop. They immediately began to retreat in formation with the stricken aircraft limping along behind like a bird with a broken wing.

Sammel smiled cruelly then winced with pain as he felt the sharp piece of metal twisting inside him.

“Have the scouts follow the trail of the wounded bird,” He barked to one of his nearby lieutenants - if it goes down, I want the crew taken alive.”

The Pitt

- Guns of The Ohio-

High atop a hill outside of East Steubenville, Krenshaw surveyed the opposite bank of the river through his binoculars, watching the approaching dust cloud in the distance growing ever closer. He likened it to watching the dark churning clouds of a storm rolling in on a clear wasteland day - a dire portent of what was about to come.

“Your tin-can boys ready?” Krenshaw remarked as he lowered the binoculars to look over to Paladin-Lord Traven, now armored fully in a set of painted T-60 resplendent in the Brotherhood’s livery.

“They’re ready to deal death to the mutant filth…” Traven replied through the speaker in his helmet, “I’m about to join them now.”

“If the mutants break through it’ll be here,” Krenshaw chuckled darkly as he looked over at the partially exposed riverbed, “The Ohio is at a low point here - gets strangled on its way south before it swells further downstream…..they can practically walk across it.”

“A natural choke point though..” Traven remarked, “Provided we hold.”

“Yeah - ‘provided we hold.’” Krenshaw echoed darkly as he looked over the ruined landscape on the opposite bank. The entire area had been cleared - buildings demolished, trees cut down - anything and everything that could possibly provide an inch of cover to the mutant host had been leveled. There would be no protection from the storm they were about to unleash.

“Get to your men m’Lord,” Krenshaw ordered, tossing the binoculars to a waiting Pitt officer before giving his Brotherhood counterpart a half-cocked salute, “Let’s fuck em’ up.”

Mags Black

Mags clutched her assault rifle as she took cover behind a trenchline that extended the length of the riverbank as far as she could see. Beyond her lay a deadly no-man’s land within the dried river-bed that was covered in traps, barbed-wire, and mines. Anyone who looked at such defenses would have rightly assumed that the mutants were going to be charging in to suicide - but the veteran Midwestern soldiers had grimly informed them that such deadly waves were in fact a favorite tactic of the mutants - sending forth hordes of ferals and enthralled humans to clear the way for the eventual mutant assault.

The former gang-leader of the Operators had to stop and take stock of how she’d ended up in this predicament. Forced out of her territory by the machinations of The Institute - now at the front line of some terrible continent-spanning war. Not even commanding troops as a gang-leader either, but slogging it out as a lowly foot grunt that was little more than a single cog in the industrial war-machine that was The Army of The Pitt.

She’d tried to join The Pitt because she hadn’t wanted to leave the raider life behind her and she believed herself tough enough to take on anything. But if she survived this war, she promised herself she’d give it all up the first chance she got. Settle down somewhere and live a quiet life like her parents in Diamond City had always wanted. They’d finally get their stupid wish.

Right now though survival was looking anything but likely.

“Yo Mags, can I bum a cig?” One of her crew mates, a young raider nicknamed ‘Dig’ asked as he slid down into the trench next to her.

Mags nodded, and fumbled at the half-crushed pack of cigarettes in her pocket before shakily handing one to him.

“I’m hearing it's about to start…those uglies won’t know what hit em’,” Dig replied with a smirk as he took the cigarette and lit it up. Mags grimmaced as she noted how fucking fearless the punk was. Whether it was bravery, a lack of experience, or just sheer stupidity she couldn’t say - but she pitied him regardless.

Mags peeked out over the top of the trench behind her, and saw that the mutant host was assembling directly opposite them - guns and heavy weapons at the ready along with whatever artillery of their own they’d dragged from Cincinnati. Things were about to go to shit real quick.

Suddenly there was a commotion within The Pitt’s lines, and Mags watched in awe as she saw The Pitt’s guns being uncovered from their hidden positions along the back hill line. There were hundreds of artillery pieces of varying sizes, some of them scavenged and repaired by The Pitt from pre-war national armories across their territory, others brought in by The Midwestern Brotherhood forces retreating east.

Somewhere upon the hill a flare was fired up into the air, and the signal was given. The bombardment began - shaking the ground with its fury and filling the air with a deafening roar that forced Mags to plug her ears. She smelled smoke and felt the teeth-chattering vibrations as a hailstorm of ordinance exploded upon the mutant lines. Raiders and Midwestern Brotherhood artillery crews continually fed their guns; loading shells and refiring with a practiced precision.

If the mutants hoped that the rain of shells would be short-lived, they were sorely mistaken. Troops of raiders and Brotherhood robots continuously ferried shells up from the rear lines where they were unloaded from waiting train cars fresh from The Pitt. The barrels of the guns themselves were more likely to melt before the Pitt would run out of ammo.

Everything moved like a hellish but well-oiled machine. Despite her fear, Mags couldn’t help but share in Dig’s enthusiasm as the mutants scrambled to return fire and take cover on the opposite bank.

“FUCK YEAH GIVE EM’ HELL!” He yelled.

Mags was about to join in herself when she felt the ground literally shake beneath her. A shadow passed overhead, and Mags and Dig both turned to their right to see a hulking robotic monstrosity moving up to the front a short distance down the line. The six-legged Midwestern Behemoth raised its head and aimed its quad .50 cal guns at a wave of approaching ferals who were charging down the opposite slope into the riverbed. It opened up on them, spraying a hail of bullets down range that tore through the ferals and ripped apart several mutants caught with them.

Mags sank back into the trench, stunned at the sheer firepower being brought to bear here. An all or nothing gambit had been thrown down.

Maybe there was a slim chance of survival after all.

The first thing that he felt was the cold. He choked on the air of a great rattling breath before descending into shallow, pitiful gasps. There was a great sound of clanking around him, servos whirring.

“Sir. Sir. Sir.”

It was the sound of a woman somewhere. A grasped his own, warm even through the fabric. He wanted to pull away, but his entire body felt like lead.

“Sir. Sir. Sir.”

It was always like this; went you were in for too long. He felt needles and tubes being pulled out of him; all he could do was focus on breathing.

“Sir. Are you ready to have the blindfold removed sir?”

“Yes,” Sutler gasped.

He felt the warmth of hands near his head, and the rustling of fabric, before everything became a blurry white haze.

“Here sir.”

He felt the tingle of real moisture and took great rasping pulls from the damp cloth pressed to his lips.

“Get the gurney,” the voice said. “He’s ready for transport.”

He felt more hands—so warm—envelope him as he was lifted from the cradle into the gurney. The wheels whistled and rattled as the gurney was moved. He felt something over him, getting closer, and felt the wrap the plastic arms of his eyeglasses around his head.

---

It was an unusually iron sky over Arlington, appropriate for the events. It had taken Sutler three days to be properly rejuvenated—endless rounds of massages and drip-feed bags—which had allowed time for the 1st Troop to be recalled to the capital. Menzel lay in a simple box draped with the flag. Fortunately, Sims and Rivas had survived the crash landing. Blue-One had come down hard in the designated area. Broken bones all around and an expedited ticket to permanent internment in the simulation. Blue-One herself was done—an irreplaceable loss. Sutler, Granite, Fuentes, and the rest of the Old Guard had come out for the occasion.

The whole of 1st Troop, with representatives from the others were arranged in formation on the other side of Menzel. The great American flag which flew over the Commandery flew at half-mast. Sutler had even permitted some members of the Party to be present. Observers rather than participants, they were off somewhere to the left keeping solemn silence.

Sutler loathed their presence, but understood the realpolitik that they had to see that the Enclave did lose their own for the Peace. More so, he knew that they were awed too by the ceremony of official events—every action had purpose and tradition and weight. The Peace Force had its own traditions, its own marches and salutes and styles, but Sutler had invented them in a single afternoon somewhere between an after-action report and an evening agenda. They held no weight.

When it was time, he alighted the podium.

“You lost your compatriot. It hurts me as much as it hurts you. I sent him there. And I’ve been there, I know what it is. Corporal Menzel gave his life for the future. For our future. And he will rest here, forever, amongst the heroes. We will right the great error of history. Remember always the words of the Good General. When you kill enough of them, they will stop fighting. We will take that that to it's logical conclusion. When we kill all of them, there will be no fighting.” He stepped back from the podium before giving the signal.

“Firing Party! Present! Fire!”

Sutler and the rest of the Old Guard stood to attention as the full 21-gun salute was offered. The flag was folded and offered to the standing Troop commander Cheeves, before the tinny music began from the assembled eyebots and they dutifully sung.

“Eternal Father, strong to save, whose arm hath bound the restless wave,”

The whole thing brought back nasty memories—they hadn’t had to bury someone in five years. Recovering the bodies from the Purifier under the ceasefire terms he’d bullied Eden into. Finding Autumn’s shattered corpse, his badges and ribbon bar taken as ghoulish souvenirs by the Brotherhood. Sending him into the furnace later. Sobbing into Lucy’s shoulder back in their quarters before becoming so blinding angry that he’d actually scared her.

“Who bid'st the mighty ocean deep, its own appointed limits keep;”

Just before the battle of Adams, his intended swansong, they’d euthanised the non-coms—the last four women and children in America at the time. They cremated them in a crater on the runway atop a mattress of all the remaining flags folded and the Declaration of Independence; the camp doctor shot himself afterwards. He remembered Granite’s face the day before when he’d been given his orders; when he’d listed them as bullet points on the last lot of materials to be scuttled somewhere between some old archive material and a bunch of spare generator parts.

“O hear us when we cry to Thee, for those in peril on the sea.”

“If I should die for some reason,” he said to Granite. “Don’t put me in the soil… or the air. Keep me on ice; you know where I want to go.”

“Yeah Alan. I know. How long are you staying out for?”

“I’m not sure. But since I’m out, I’ll show my face for a while.” He glanced over at Chair Moria Brown and the other Party officials in the distance. “Put some stick about amongst the rabble. Let them know I’m more than some glowering portrait. I am here. And I exist now as much as ever.”

“Of course.”

“I’ll make them fear. This is a world of terror, as much as a world of triumph. Until we can get rid of them. Send the photos of the raid north to Pittsburgh, with a redacted AA report, perhaps it’s time I met with this Queen of Pittsburgh.”
It was so ludicrous a thing to say, he regretted it given the setting. He felt a monstrous urge within him rise up, only to be settled.

The members of the 1st troop filed past Menzel’s box, each tapping it twice. After it was lowered, they returned to the Commandery—beating the retreat to a sole bagpiper playing Auld Lang Syne.

double-post

High within the palace of Haven, Marie looked to the hastily assembled war-council before her consisting of Scribe Abbadon, Guard-Captain Harlock, and High-Priestess Lulu. Abbadon had been in constant communication the front along the Ohio and had been relaying back updates from Krenshaw’s forward command center. The line was holding, that much was clear, but for how long was completely unknown. The full complement of the mutant’s force had not yet been deployed, and how much of their strength they were holding in reserves was still very much in question.

But there was other good news to be had as well, and it was very welcome indeed.

Abaddon handed her the report, hand delivered from a courier direct from DC - the letterhead stamped with the Enclave’s seal. Marie read through it, unable to contain a small smile spreading across her face as she read through the summarized after-action report. Enclave aircraft had launched a massively successful surprise attack on the southern mutant column, and had dealt them a severe blow.

“Write back and address Supreme Commander Sutler directly,” Marie told Abbadon as she handed the report back to him, “Thank him for his soldier’s valor and congratulate him on their victory.”

“Of course my lady….” Abbadon replied with a respectful nod, “Though it may be a wasted sentiment. Sutler cares little for the opinions of anyone he considers non-human. Ourselves included.”

“A blasphemous view…” Lulu added cryptically.

“Maybe he’ll reconsider his view of humanity now that ten foot tall monsters are beating down his fucking door,” Captain Harlock sneered.

“My father once told me leaders speak in a language no-one else understands…,” Marie offered, folding her hands against the table they were all sitting around, “This is Sutler’s way of extending an olive branch to us, temporary or not, he’s looking for mutual cooperation against a larger threat. He wants an alliance.”

Abaddon rapped his bony fingers against the table, his wrinkled features contorted in annoyance, “The idea of working with The Enclave is…unpleasant…but I do have to admit that their technology is almost unparalleled in the wastes… and having air domination is nothing to sneeze at either.”

Lulu spoke up, the black-haired raider-priestess leaning her skull-topped totem against her shoulder,

“Lulu has heard tales from among the Children of Atom preachers that were driven out of Enclave territory - coming to The Holy Pitt for Sanctuary. They tell of great persecution at the hands of this…Sutler…any who do not bow to his great temple of old America are made examples of.”

“And how are we any different?” Captain Harlock countered, “Lulu how many of those same preachers did you have tossed in the Allegheny when they first began to arrive?”

A smile wormed across Lulu’s face, “Many. But that was due to…misunderstandings. We believed them to be heretics who denied the Godhood of Our Lady…however they are merely misguided. Like children lost in the dark, they need to be taken by the hand and led to the light…”

“My point,” Harlock interrupted, holding up a hand to prevent the high-priestess from launching into yet another sermon, “Is that The Enclave has their way of keeping control….and we got ours. Besides we’ve been trading steel and slaves with them for how long now? Organizing a proper fucking military response with them seems a completely reasonable step to take.”

“I’m loathe to admit it…but the Captain is right,” Abaddon sighed, “We should meet with Sutler. Formalize some sort of binding treaty to ensure that for however long this war goes on, we can rely on some sort of cooperation between our forces that's in both our interests. I would, however, go one step further…if I may…”

“Go on,” Marie urged, curious where the old scribe was going to go with this.

“The Enclave should not be the only group we establish formal communication with. Back when I was a member of The Brotherhood of Steel there were rumors of a secret society of scientists up north - a place called ‘The Institute. There was even an instance of their members visiting The Capital Wasteland at one point, traveling to what was then a prominent settlement allied to The Brotherhood.”

“I’ve heard of em’” Harlock nodded, “We’ve got vassal gangs that used to hit The Commonwealth region - before they were driven out. Always used to talk about them like they were fucking boogeymen.”

“I assure you they are real, and I have a very strong hunch that ex-members of The Brotherhood of Steel are among their ranks now,” Abbadon continued, “Brothers and Sisters who fled following the debacle at Adams Air Force Base.”

Harlock frowned, “And you think they’ll be willing to join in the war?”

“Do they really have a choice? Any alliance we form with either The Enclave or The Institute will be one of convenience anyway, nothing more, and for right now that needs to be enough for everyone involved.”

Marie stood up from the table, walking over to one of the many windows that looked out over The Pitt and its perpetual amber-hued skyline. Soot and grime crept in from the edges of the windows, forming a cloudy film across it.

She turned back to face her advisors,

“Abbadon, do you know of a way to contact them?”

“Directly? No. I don’t know if anyone in the wasteland does. But I have an idea - if we could get one of the tributary gangs that Harlock mentioned to broadcast a signal…I might be able to pique their interest. There were a number of coded distress signals used by Lyon’s Chapter of The Brotherhood back in DC. I could code one for a request for assistance against a mutant attack on a Brotherhood position - Pittsburgh of course - and sign the transmission with the authorization of a ranking Brotherhood member.”

Harlock raised an eyebrow, “Whose?”

Abbadon smiled, nodding towards Marie, “Paladin Ishmael Ashur of course. I’d use my own…but I didn’t exactly leave the Citadel on good terms, or rather, any terms that don’t involve a wall and a firing squad...probably best just to leave me out of it.”

Harlock sighed, “How do you know if any Brotherhood members in The Institute will even get the damn message?”

“I don’t, but I’d wager The Institute monitors any and all radio transmissions within a hundred miles of Boston…and knows the radio signature of a Brotherhood broadcast all too well. And anyone, or anything, listening in on the frequency that isn’t Eastern Brotherhood isn’t going to have a god-damn clue who’s trying to contact who and why - which, since we’re at war, seems like something we might want to consider, or am I wrong?”

Marie spoke up, halting any further debate,

“Get it done Abaddon and send the reply to Sutler as we agreed, informing him that we wish to meet to discuss joint-action against the mutants. We’ll see where things go from there.”

Ohio Route 229 - 2 miles South of Waldo, OH

Richard twirled the handle of the Super Sledge back and forth along his shoulder as he was wont to do when annoyed, as he watched, with bored indifference, the feral wranglers herd their charges across the old bridge and past him, towards their final destiny in the front lines, about 50 miles to the East. While he understood that the Front had to be supplied with ammunition, and ferals are as much ammunition as a bullet or rocket, and it was too important a task to be left to Dum-Dums, he still hated everything about the assignment....the ferals, the insolent and untrustworthy ghouls who they relied on to control them, and the fact he was stuck baby-sitting them instead of being at the front caving in skulls.

Damn that worm Joe! It was his stupidity that got him swallowed whole (and very much alive!) by the Behemoth Lord, his immediate Lieutenants fed to the Centaurs, and the next level of leadership, including him, demoted to "redeem themselves". And all because Joe refused to believe Ronto would lift a finger to help the Brotherhood and didn't deploy nearly enough troops to stop them when (surprise!) the Ronto soldiers in Toledo came down to break the encirclement long enough for the Brotherhood to evacuate what troops they still had in Ft Wayne. Last he heard before his demotion was scouting parties in Michigan were not only finding no-one, but signs that the Ronto and Brotherhood humans were shooting any humans who refused to evacuate.

They were beginning to learn.

Richard was shaken from his internal diatribe by a sudden explosion at the far end of the bridge. He turned left to see, it had caught the lead elements of the baggage train, which had been behind the ferals. His first thought was relief that the ferals were already across the now destroyed span. This was followed by scorn at their unknown assailants, presumably the Pittsburgh raiders, why didn't they blow up the whole bridge and wipe out most of his convoy? Such a small section could be easily repaired by slaves.....this lead to a sick sense of dread as Richard began to suspect that it wasn't an accident. Richard reached for his battered old field radio.

"Get the Ferals off the bridge NOW!", Richard roared, "It's a ambush!"

As the wranglers began herding the ferals off the bridge, Richard saw what looked like the patter of rain fall around the massed ferals. But as ferals began to scream and fall as whatever it was touched them, the unmistakable chatter of machinegun fire from the South...behind him...began, but oddly enough it sounded like it was far away. Richard whirled around to see. Parallel to the road was a field, beyond that about 100 yards or so was a treeline. This was too close for the faint sound of the gunfire. Then he saw movement above the trees and looked up. Arcing above and over the treeline, as it coming from a long distance, was two lines of flickering red tracers that converged with the ferals on and near the bridge, and it was decimating them rapidly. Eventually, the wranglers that weren't hit themselves jumped off the bridge to get out of the kill zone. Richard was astounded by this, he had never seen machineguns used in this manner before.

Richard knew they were all dead if they didn't act fast, and after the harsh tutelage of Mutants that had served the NCR, Brotherhood, and Legion before being reborn in the Unity, he knew what he must do. Ordering the Wranglers to unleash the ferals still under command towards the tree line, he quickly rallied the Mutants on his side of the bridge and lead them forward, towards the tree line, hard on the heels of the enraged ferals. Whoever was spotting for the distant guns was in that treeline, and no doubt more enemies were as well. They had to close with them or they would be cut to pieces.

As they approached, two more machineguns began to fire, this time from the treeline. They were widely spaced apart, catching the whole approach in a crossfire, scything down the ferals with brutal efficiency. But he had anticipated this.

"Target the source of the tracers!", Richard bellowed, "silence those machineguns!"

Obediently, the Mutants began firing at the locations where the tracers were emerging from the treeline. One Mutant had a Fat Man he had picked up from a fallen comrade, and managed to land his only bomb right behind the right hand machinegun, the explosion sending the blazing weapon flying into the air towards them, striking and crushing a feral directly. Parts of the crew rained down around them.

A body with both legs and left arm blown off landed about 10 feet in front of Richard, who glanced at it as he ran by, noticing the rubbery cover that looked like a mockery of human skin, and clear mechanical parts underneath.

"A robot?", Richard thought, "what kind of robot is that?" He didn't have time to investigate, luck was finally breaking his way and he had to exploit it while he still could.

"Flank right!", Richard exclaimed, "Get out of the line of fire of the other gun!"

As the remaining ferals charged headlong into the treeline, Richard and his remaining Mutants headed for thier right, hoping to flank the Enemy on their left and roll them up. But as they advanced, they found only dead ferals, and a lesser number of downed robots, all in white outfits with white armor and armed with some sort of laser rifle. Ahead, they heard the snarls of ferals and the sound of energy gun fire, the other machinegun had stopped firing. As they neared the firing, a grenade dropped from above and began to emit a voluminous cloud of smoke. As they fired into the trees, with no target in sight, suddenly one of the mutants cried out. Josh, who had their only flamer, crumpled to the ground, blood gushing from his neck. After that, the smoke was too thick to see further than arms reach, all around him were the cries of Mutants as they were attacked, one by one. Rushing out of the smoke cloud, he finally came face to face with his enemy, who suddenly winked into view, after the tell tale pop of a Stealth-Boy failing. He was a tall black man, with closely cropped hair and wearing a leather trenchcoat that reached his calves and sunglasses. His face was completely expressionless as he leveled a single shot grenade launcher at his chest. Richard rushed forward, winding up his Super Sledge for a swing, but it was far too late. The human fired, and the projectile struck him square in the chest, knocking the wind out of him and toppling him over. Before he could recover, the human dropped the grenade launcher, produced a grenade and pulled the pin, and hurled it at him. It exploded with a loud pop, coating him in foam which rapidly hardened upon exposure to air, completely immobilizing him.

Finding himself trapped, Richard began cursing the human, not that he appeared to care. One of the robots approached the human.

"Report", the human said in a voice as flat and emotionless as his expression.

"Enemy force neutralized", the robot said in a odd buzzing voice. "Eight Gen2 units destroyed, fourteen damaged but assessed repairable. One support weapon destroyed. Two other Mutants and five non-feral ghouls in custody, three wounded. The cut-off force has disengaged, heading West towards the occupied settlement of Waldo."

"Half our force", the human said flatly. "We underestimated them. Prepare the prisoners, damaged units and support weapons for immediate relay out. Collect all destroyed units that can be found in fifteen minutes. All units will be relayed out in twenty minutes, sooner if the enemy approaches. Execute".

Richard resumed his cursing, adding in the casualty report for good measure. The human knelt next to him, and spoke, for the first time showing a hint of emotion.

"Shut up", X6-88 said as he injected a sedative into the Mutant's neck. As the sedative began to take effect, and the world began to dim, his last thoughts were of his old Warboss Joe.

"You bastard", he though bitterly, "I hope you lived for a while in there....."

Mags Black

“Come on then you big green bastard! Get some!”

Thick mutant blood splattered across Mags’ face as her commander, Reddog, brought his heavy super-sledge down on the crippled mutant’s skull, shattering it into a ugly pulp before the green monster collapsed into the muddied ground of the Ohio River. She was nearly knocked down as the Pitt Raiders behind her surged up and out of their trenches, killing off the last wave of ferals and mutants that had managed to ford the river crossing. After the last of them had been brutally dispatched, the raiders retreated back behind the safety of their barricades to prepare for the next wave.

Mags gagged and retched as she wiped the foul smelling blood from her cheek; before rubbing her fingers clean against the chaps of her leather armor. The mutant’s blood didn’t even smell like a human’s - but like some kind of weird chemical shit. It was absolutely disgusting.

Reddog hopped down into the trench next to her, a grim look on his face,

“Hell they just keep coming,” He said through gritted teeth, pulling out a cigarette with his bloodied hands and lighting one up, “There ain’t no end to these assholes. It's just wave after fuckin’ wave.”

Mags slumped down against the trench wall, curling herself up and resting her head against her knees. Two full days on the front line had taken its toll on her and she felt her body starting to give out. The constant shelling, night attacks by ferals, and the always present sounds of FEV abominations wailing across the river reminding the raiders that there were yet more horrible things waiting to come: it was all too much.

“I’m so tired,” she moaned, “I can’t take this shit anymore.”

“We get rotated out to the back lines tomorrow,” Reddog growled, then roughly pulled Mags to her feet, “But until then, you fight like a soldier of Ashur damnit. Don’t be going weak on me bitch. You don’t wanna fight? Then the Foreman can always use more hands down in The Mill, I’d be happy to arrange that for you.”

Mags suddenly heard a shout and the crash of a limp body as one of the raiders lingering at the top of the trench was suddenly struck by a bullet and collapsed down in a heap. The sounds of gunfire echoed up and down the line, and the rear artillery batteries began opening up yet again.

“Another wave!” Someone shouted.

“Let’s fuckin’ go,” Reddog gritted his sharpened teeth and hefted up his super-sledged. He reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a syringe that he immediately injected into his arm. His eyes grew wide and his muscles pumped with whatever chem he’d just shot up with.

Mags shrunk back, clutching at her assault rifle like it was a childhood stuffed animal. She made up her mind there and then. The first chance she got - she was getting the hell out of here.



Ellie de Blay stood upon the forward deck of the Ironheart as the large Great Lakes ore freighter plowed its way through the choppy waves of Lake Huron with ease. The rear coal-fired engine of the freighter sent great black plumes of smoke skyward as it churned the ship's propellers to full speed. Their haste was fully against the Captain’s wishes, the veteran mariner uncomfortable with pressing the vessel’s ancient engine so hard, but Ellie didn’t want to linger in these waters any longer than they needed to. With the outbreak of war, she needed to get back to Luth and inform her father what was happening in the south - and if the rumors were true mutants were already infesting the great lakes. She was quickly running out of time.

Her father’s partnership with The Pitt had been a fruitful one - wealth and weapons flowed from The Pitt back to Luth in exchange for the great quantity of Iron Ore than the Kingdom took from its mines at Hibbing. The exchange made sense, and mimicked the shipping routes of old that had once traversed the lakes to Clevand before the war.

Ellie’s concern now though was that it was this very same lucrative partnership that could make Luth the target of the mutant army. If The Pitt’s supply of ore could be severed, it could cripple their ability to make war in the long term. Luth’s army, the Sons of Iron, was an elite group of heavily armored warriors - but relatively small in number compared to places like The Pitt or Ronto. They were equipped to fight off tribals and smugglers - not wage total war.

A bosun’s whistle sounded from the raised pilothouse above her, and Ellie looked back to see the frantic motions of a lookout pointing towards something off in the distance,

“Starboard side! Its coming in fast!” She heard him shout.

Ellie immediately directed her gaze out to where the lookout was pointing, straining her eyes to see a small object approaching them from the distance - and rapidly closing. She motioned for one the nearby sailors to bring her a pair of binoculars, and when they did she focused in on the unknown object.

It was a small ship, a pre-war sport boat of some kind, and it looked to have had its engine heavily modified to push its speed well past what it was designed for. A mutant was steering the craft, its body wrapped in heavy chains and with strange symbols painted in red all over its body like an odd form of tattoo.

Ellie’s mouth fell open in horror as she saw what was piled around the mutant. She’d been around the Hibbing mines enough to recognize makeshift explosives when she saw them.

“Sound the alarm!” She shrieked, “All hands on deck! Open fire on that craft!”

The deck of the Ironheart became a buzz of activity as the Luthine marines aboard the ship manned their posts, aiming down the sights of their rifles and directing mounted swivel guns towards the approaching vessel. The waters of Lake Huron were lit up with an untold number of bullets, but the mutant suicider was quick and nimble as it closed the distance, while some sort of heavy plating protected its operator from any shots that found their mark.

Ellie’s heart sank as the ship drew closer, and she fully believed she was about to go down with the Ironheart and all crew aboard - until one of the marines brought up a missile launcher and aimed it downrange.

By luck or a steady hand, the missile hit home and triggered the explosives onboard the small ship. A massive explosion followed, violently shaking the Ironheart and sending Ellie flying to the deck behind her. Bits and pieces of shrapnel embedded in the explosives ripped through the hull and killed several of the unlucky Luthine sailors caught out in the open.

With ears ringing and unsteady feet, Ellie stood up back up and looked out at the empty smoke-covered water where the craft had been vaporized. It was completely gone, having been packed with enough explosives to level half a city.

“Get us out of here!” Ellie called up to the helmsman, her eyes filled with fear, “We need to make for Whitefish Point and radio Luth for help!”

Suddenly Ellie felt her legs give way underneath her, and she looked down to see a piece of shrapnel embedded in her thigh - shock and adrenaline having allowed her to ignore it until now. The last thing she saw before she passed out were a group of sailors rushing to her aid.

The Switchboard - J6 (Signal Operations) Office

G1-49 pulled the incoming message off the teletype machine once it finished printing. She did not know why the humans here always wanted hardcopy of documents instead of simply reading them off the secure terminal, but it wasn't her place to question it. Scanning the printout, it had been picked up by the reclamation unit in Springfield an hour ago, and forwarded for analysis after Advanced Systems at the Institute couldn't decipher it due to the brevity of the message. The source of the Signal had been triangulated to a point outside the Commonwealth, in Pennsylvania...Scranton to be specific. She took it to the office of the Duty Analyst, currently a graduate student in Mathematics all of nineteen. A boy his age Institute side would not have this level of responsibility and authority, but Will's parents had made the trek from the Capital Wasteland with Dr Li, and the Brotherhood refugees did things differently.

"Will", she said as she handed him the printout, "this came in from the Institute side, they couldn't crack it and wanted to know if you could help."

"Thanks, Gina", Will said as he accepted the document and did his best not to stare, synth or not, she was pretty, and quickly scanned it. "Scranton? That's weird." He reached for the phone, and dialed J6 (Intelligence Operations).

"Amanda? Henry here", he said as he leaned back in his chair, and spun to face his desk, "What do we have on Scranton, PA? Team Golf in Springfield picked up a message from that area, and Li's people can't crack it. Ok, I'll wait". He waited while poor Amanda had to take time from preparing her Psych Dissertation to answer his inquiry. He looked at G1-49 and smiled. "I'll take it from here, thanks Gina."

As she left the office, she wondered why she felt so odd when Will smiled at her, a odd warm sensation that wasn't at all unpleasant. She was pretty certain he liked her in the way humans liked each other, to the point of giving her a name (based on her designation), and the idea didn't bother her at all. But it was too dangerous to act on it, Grandfather's policies were quite clear, only widow(er)s could have a personal synth. After a incident involving a small group of Robotics personnel about ten years ago that no-one would talk about, this was strictly enforced. Fraternizing with Will would at best get her sent back to the Institute, at worst mind wiped and reprogrammed. That she couldn't bear.

Meanwhile, Will finally received a answer from Amanda. Scranton was occupied by a gang called the "Athols"...a bad pun on the original home of the Raider Gang, in a town called Athol in the Northern Commonwealth. They had begun as a self-defense gang, but eventually ended up running protection rackets and occasional raids on caravans heading between Boston and Albany. For that, and declaring fealty to the Pitt, they were forced out of the Commonwealth by the Minutemen in the '91 campaign. Definitely not the sort that would be broadcasting such a message.

Will shrugged and scanned the message into the local secure database, which was linked to the legacy DIA mainframe that had been bleeding edge tech before the War, and was still capable of giving Advanced System's mainframe a run for it's money. The Database could only be access from inside the Switchboard, even Institute researchers had to relay in to access it, which is just how everyone involved wanted it. The Database was chock full of things that didn't need to be common knowledge, and also contained their copy of the Brotherhood archives that the elders had brought from the Capital Wasteland with them....the main link to their own history before they joined the Institute. The only other complete copy was buried with Elder Lyons in a bunker in West Virginia....but he was a baby then so had no idea where. With the war with the Unity coming, a operation was being planned to retrieve them, and the Elder himself, so the Muties couldn't desecrate him and the archives.

With the message scanned in, he ordered the search program to execute. Surprisingly, it quickly returned a result.

>MESSAGE FORMAT IDENTIFIED
>VALID FORMAT FOR BOS FIELD COMMUNICATIONS
>CODE AUTHENTICATES FOR 18JUL2277 (FINAL) CODEBOOK
>DECRYPT? (Y,N)

Will pushed Y, and the decrypted message scrolled onto the screen.

>MUTANT ATTACK IMMINENT, LOCATION: 40°26′39″N 79°57′11″W. URGENT ASSISTANCE REQUESTED. -ASHUR, I.

Will used his non secure terminal to retrieve the coordinates in the message. They came up as the location of a building in Pittsburgh, or the Pitt as it is called now. The "Cathedral of Learning", on the campus of the University of Pittsburgh, to be specific. Whatever this was, this wasn't the work of some punk Raider gang, that was for certain. He ordered a printout of the result on the secure terminal, and grabbed both printouts and headed for Mrs Peabody's office. With Mr Peabody away supervising the reclamation ops at Nuka World and Springfield, she was in charge, and would know what to do. After all, she was there for the Last Days and knew more than he did about it all.

Switchboard - Head Librarian's Office

"...the meeting is at 1800", Justin said over the phone, "Our assets in Toronto, or Ronto as people topside call it, sent back some video footage. The Director and I have already seen much of it, it's quite grim. Among other things, there is footage of what happened in Chicago."

"Did they...?", asked Charlotte in a pained tone of voice.

"Yes", Justin replied tersely. "The Midwestern Brotherhood destroyed their own city with nuclear weapons. As far as I could tell, thousands, maybe tens of thousands of people died....and God knows how many Mutants. Given some of the other footage, I'm not sure I can blame them. I know enough about the Laws of the Brotherhood to know that using strategic nuclear weapons on civilians is the gravest crime of them all....but it seems that after Barnaky's death their defensive lines crumbled and they shifted their focus to the larger picture, stopping an existential threat to Mankind itself at any cost."

"Perhaps", she replied sadly, "I'll try to keep a open mind. I have to say I'm disappointed in them, what they have done is a unprecedented breach of the Codex, the Order was created explicitly to prevent this from happening again."

Her eyes strayed to a picture hanging on the wall. It was from a happier time...of her, she had yet to marry and was still Charlotte Yearling then, receiving her graduation certificate from the hands of Elder Lyons, the day she took her Oath and became a Scribe. Her parents had been so proud. They were gone now, as was the Elder, in fact most everyone she had ever known. Many of them they hadn't even been able to bury, after that bastard Sutler annihilated most of their fighting strength at Adams. They had to abandon the Citadel, collecting everyone they could find and fleeing into West Virginia, the locals were polite but not terribly welcoming. They didn't want any trouble with Sutler, as they had enough problems keeping a lid on the legacy the Old World had left in Appalachia. When the Elder had died a few weeks after their arrival of a broken heart...she herself had held his hand as he died, Sarah's loss on top of the disaster Sutler had wreaked on them, and Abaddon's perfidy (hopefully Sutler rewarded his treachery with a painful death!), had been too much for him and he lost his will to live. After the Elder was interred in a old Pre-War munitions bunker along with the original mainframes that held the Chapter archives, the surviving Proctors took stock and decided that with only a handful of Knights and Paladins left, barely enough equipment to arm them, the Chapter was doomed. A vote was taken, and the motion to formally dissolve the Chapter carried. The survivors made their final goodbyes then went their own separate ways. Rothschild led a Party West, to try and return to Lost Hills. God only knows how far he got, knowing what she knew now. George, Vallaincourt, and her joined Dr Li's party headed North to the Commonwealth...once the Institute realized how formidable an intellect she was, she managed to get them all in as a package deal. A few headed back to the Capital Wasteland, that didn't end well for the ones who fell into Sutler's hands. The rest decided not to join a faction, and scattered to the winds and could likely be found in ones or twos in any civilized faction. She herself know of several who had come to the Commonwealth but did not join the Institute. Those they looked out for best they could, so they could come in from the cold if they chose.

She was distracted as the door to her office opened. It was Will Jones, he was J6 this month. He was carrying some printouts and was clearly excited about something.

"One moment, Justin", she said and bade him to enter. "What do you have for me, Will?"

"You need to see this, Mrs Peabody", he said as he thrust the printouts at her, "Intercept from Team Golf...some Raiders in Scranton broadcast this a little over an hour ago."

Charlotte scanned the printouts, and her jaw dropped in astonishment. The July 2077 codes were the last Codebook published, the Last Days were upon them before the usual update. A Raider gang using a old codebook wasn't impossible, but why would they be reporting a imminent threat against Pittsburgh? Who would they be sending it to? And the name of the Brother sending it? Will had been a baby during the Last Days, she nursed him as well as her eldest Wendell when his mother nearly died from dysentery on the trip North, so he had no way of knowing, but she knew for a fact Ashur had been lost during the Scourge and years later James's boy found him ruling Pittsburgh as effectively a King. Something is very wrong with this message.

"Good catch, Will" she said, firmly pointing at one of the chairs facing her desk. Will got the hint and sat down, clearly excited that he was getting to break important news. "Justin", she said into the phone, "Is it confirmed that Ishmael Ashur is dead?"

"Yes," replied Justin, "Died around two months ago....natural causes, we were told, if you can say that the environment in Pittsburgh is anything like 'natural'. His armies remained loyal and his daughter succeeded him as planned. Why do you ask?"

"We got a decrypt request from Advanced Systems on a message emanating from Scranton," Charlotte explained. "Turns out it was coded in the last set of Brotherhood codes." She then read it aloud to him, then waited for him to check and reply.

"Charlotte", he said after returning to the phone, "That latitude and longitude corresponds to Ashur's Palace, in the old Cathedral of Learning in the University of Pittsburgh. There is only one logical conclusion....this message was intended for us. The Pitt Raiders are asking the Institute...us...for help. They suspected, correctly, that members of the Brotherhood had joined the Institute and hoped this would get their...your...attention. There is no other option that makes sense to me."

"You should relay over right away", Justin continued, "We have to bring this before the Director, and ultimately the Directorate. With George in Nuka-World, you wield your Department's vote."

"Agreed", Charlotte replied, "I'll be over as soon as I debrief my people." She then ended the call and turned to Will, picking up a clipboard and handing it to Will. "Start writing, young man...and not your usual chicken-scratches, please..this is going to the top."

The Institute - Directorate Board Room

The lights came on as the ending credits rolled on what was a newsreel published by the Canadian War Office, made from film of the evacuation and destruction of Chicago by what appeared to be a multi-faction fleet comprising most of the Great Lake powers. Having been part of the force that was sent in to, in vain, capture or eliminate the Canadian Prime minister and the Governor General during and after the annexation, it really didn't surprise him they had just come down from the wilderness after the War and took up where they left off. He and his predecessors had definitely dropped the ball when it came to what was going on North of the old border...some contacts there would be invaluable right now. As to the impact, the silence was deafening, as the various members of the Directorate sat and looked at each other, completely horrified. Dr Li looked like she was fighting the urge to throw up, Charlotte had been quietly weeping through most of the film, Ayo looked every bit as grim as Nathan felt, and the rest were in various stages of shocked horror.

"There are a few observations I'd like to make", Nathan said as he stood up. "What we've just seen is deeply shocking, but there is a definite logic to it. A slide, taken from the film, appeared on the screen. It showed a massive shipyard complex in the South shore of Chicago. It's five building slips were occupied by three partially constructed large freighters, one small warship that appeared to be a Destroyer, and what appeared to be a cruiser-sized warship. "If the Mutants had captured this facility intact, or in at least a repairable state, it would have been a unmitigated disaster for the entire Great Lakes region. If the Mutants were to seize control of the Lakes, they would have access to the Atlantic. As you know, we have no naval force to speak of. More slides, of factory complexes, clicked by one by one. "Chicago's industrial capacity was only rivaled by that of Pittsburgh, by destroying it to deny it to the Mutants, they have given us a chance to survive."

"Regarding Pittsburgh, there has been a recent development on that front", Nathan continued, "Charlotte will brief you". Nathan sat down and nodded at Charlotte to begin. Composing herself, Charlotte stood and presented her report on the message they had received. Once the report was complete, she sat again and Nathan stood.

"Charlotte and Justin assess that this message is an attempt to request aid, or perhaps an alliance from the Institute". Nathan said, "I find their logic compelling. The putative source of the message is a tributary gang of The Pitt, they would not be warning them of something they already know themselves. They believed, correctly as we all know, that members of the former Capital Wasteland Brotherhood would find shelter here, and hoped to attract their notice."

"If I may", Justin said, "Pittsburgh's forces are holding the Line along the Ohio River...for now...but if the Unity breaks though, and takes Pittsburgh, we all are in mortal danger. Their behavior makes clear they are intent on pushing to the Atlantic. With the industrial capacity of the Pitt at their command, there will be no stopping them, even with our technological superiority. Our survival, and that of everything we've built here, is linked to the survival of Pittsburgh. If they fall, we fall shortly thereafter."

"We have been aiding them covertly for some time now", Nathan added, "using the recently expanded range of the Relay to disrupt Enemy logistics, directing reinforcements...namely the Children of Atom...to Pittsburgh, but we must do more." Nathan then concluded "I put the following motion to a vote...that the Institute directly aid the Regime in Pittsburgh by any means necessary for our mutual survival, and that I be authorized to pursue diplomatic relations with same, up to and including a formal Alliance."

"I second the motion", Holdren said.

"Very well....those in favor?"

Every member of the Directorate raised their hand immediately.

"The motion is carried unanimously, and is deemed adopted. Preparations to open relations with Pittsburgh will commence immediately."

The Pitt

Abaddon - Abaddon’s Laboratory (Haven Lower Level)

HOLD THE FORT FOR WE ARE COMING. FIRST STAGE WILL BE DELIVERED TO AO AT 0500Z. RECOMMEND CLEARING SQUARE IN PREPARATION. INSTRUCTIONS INCLUDED. -YEARLING , C.

Abaddon studied the coded reply, a strong mixture of emotions - and more than a few recreational chems - swirling through his aged brain. Yearling: he hadn’t expected to see her name on the authorization signature. He’d greatly hoped that the insufferable bitch who had once been his superior in The Order of the Quill had met an ignominious end somewhere at the hands of Sutler’s goons, he would have gladly shook The Enclave dictator’s hand to thank him personally for that. Alas, it seemed Senior Scribe Charlotte Yearling had, most unfortunately, survived the fall of her order.

Charlotte had been one of many reasons why he’d turned Outcast. Rothschild’s promotion of the younger scribe over him had been egregious enough, but then having to deal with the arrogance of his former colleague as she lorded over him as Senior Scribe of The Quill had been too much to bear. It was the last straw that broke the camel’s back as it were, and so when he’d learned of The Pitt and Ashur’s army of raiders - Abbadon had seized an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the Lord of The Pitt. He’d fled in the night and made his way north, never once looking back or second-guessing his decision to leave and pledge his service to Ishmael. It had been fortunately timed too as it was only days later The Enclave utterly routed The Brotherhood’s Knights at Adams.

His one and only regret was not being able to see the look on Charlotte’s face after she realized he’d ransacked The Archives. Copying everything and anything he could to serve as a bargaining chip with Ashur - one which had served him very, very well indeed. On the other hand though reprogramming that Sentry Bot to cause a little havoc in the A Wing had really just been for his own amusement.

He popped another round of Orange Mentats into his mouth and allowed the flavored chem to dissolve on his tongue. He felt the focused clarity wash over his body as his senses were enhanced and revitalized almost instantly. He loved the rush of mentats, they made him feel 30 years younger again each time he enjoyed them. That he was now utterly addicted to them now was a regrettable after-effect of his prolonged usage - but thankfully he was in one of the best places in the wasteland to indulge that particular vice.

The renewed focus from the Mentats pulled his attention back to the content of the message. What in Steel’s name could it mean? First stage to be delivered, clear the square? Was this some sort of prank or joke on the part of his old superior, perhaps something directed at him specifically? No that was impossible - Yearling couldn’t possibly know he was here and even if she did, that sort of behavior was certainly not in the dour Yearling’s repertoire.

Realization suddenly struck the old scribe, a dawning moment of clarity that no amount of mentats could possibly match.

“Unless….”

Frantically he stood up from his seat and shuffled over to the voluminous ancient stacks of crumbling books, old-pre war journals, and faded periodicals he’d been greedily collecting ever since he’d arrived here in The Pitt. He’d amassed a sizable library of pre-war literature, certainly one of the more extensive collections in the wastes . Every Pitt raider force that went out had standing orders to bring him any book or written scrap of information they happened upon no matter how minor or inconsequential it might seem to them. It was exactly one of those ‘inconsequential’ works he was looking for now.

His gnarled fingers flipped through a row of pre-war magazines, meticulously recorded and cataloged by himself. Dust and detritus flew into the air, causing him a coughing fit which forced him to pause his search momentarily.

Once he resumed, his pace increased frantically until he finally found what he was looking for:

“Tesla Science Magazine, Issue 218 - publishing date 2076…” He muttered with a relieved sighed, pulling apart the fragile pages with expert care.

He flipped through the worn magazine until landing on the article that had caught his attention when he’d first cataloged it - a piece from ‘Tom, Boston Mass.’

The Theoretical Science of Transport Over Long Distance via ‘Molecular Relay’

Abaddon devoured the article eagerly, pouring over its contents with several thorough readings. Established scientific ‘experts’ of the time had derided and mocked the article, even within the same issue, for what it contained and called the concepts described within it as ‘pure quackery’ but Abbadon knew better. The rumors of The Institute’s apparent ability to appear, and disappear, at will had fueled its shadowry reputation as The Commonwealth’s boogeyman - but perhaps they were not mere rumors after all.

“Incredible,” Abaddon excitedly muttered as he carried the article back into the lab, “They’ve figured it out - they’ve made Science Fiction into reality.”

Suddenly Abaddon snapped the magazine closed abruptly, and looked about his laboratory with paranoid suspicion. The implications of this technology was incredible...but also terrifying in its practical application. The Pitt would need to proceed cautiously…very cautiously indeed. Blind trust would get them nowhere - he would need to be sure.

He stole a glance over at the empty tin of mentats: for starters he’d certainly need more of those.

Abbadon walked over to the far corner of his lab, where his ‘research assistant’ had collapsed on the couch after an evening of chem-fuelled indulgence. A tall can of purified water sat nearby on the coffee table- which was otherwise covered with empty jet canisters, beer bottles, and cigarette butts. He picked up the water and splashed it on the half-naked raider woman’s face, immediately causing her to sit up and hurl a string of expletives at him.

“What the FUCK dude?”

“Get up Steph I have some actual work for you to do this time,” Abaddon chided as he handed her a hastily scribbled note, “Get dressed and give this to one of Lady Marie’s handmaids and then find Bone and tell her to bring me a full crew of her best raiders right fucking now. We haven’t a moment to waste.”

“Jeez fine fine, just let me…”

“NOW!” Abaddon barked.

“Okay! Shit Abbadon...dude...chill.”

“Oh! And that’s another thing...find your supplier, drag his ass out of whatever chem-den he's hiding in, and tell him to get me another goddamn crate of mentats within the hour, or I’ll have him and his whole crew tossed off the fucking bridge! Got it?”

The elevator door closed a guillotine, the dappled light through the courtyards leafy canopy and sound of the young children of the 9th and 10th troops cut off as the Granite was plunged into the “Down Deep” as Sutler called it—to the cavernous war centres and situation rooms of Strategic Air Command and the Commonwealth Defence Administration where Sutler preferred to haunt in his rare moments out of Sim. The rest of the Colonels were already present as Granite entered the vast space, a single long table down the centre of a space big enough for a hundred. Only one of the giant screens on the far wall was still on, showing a looping shot of the Flag overlayed with the text “America Prevails”.

“Colonel Granite. You’re here.” Sutler said, flashing him the same goofy, lopsided grin he’d always had since Granite first met him back in mid-2230’s—the rest of his waxen face was motionless.

“Yes sir, sorry gents. Business over at Party HQ.”

“Who is in charge of the Party these days?” Cortiz asked absently as Granite continued his approach and took his place.

“Moria Brown,” Granite said. “She ran a commissary in the Springvale settlement, very early Party member. Rose to prominence due to her input on the irrigation system for the Mall. Unorthodox, if effective.”

“And now she’s in-charge of the Party? Some bilge turd mechanic?” Colonel Fuentes said with an incredulous snort before cutting himself short at Sutler’s inquisitorial gaze. Only Granite had known Sutler long enough to remember that he was a Down Deeper from below the water line—the old Seabees descendants were very proud of their little slice of the old Rig, and Sutler (as the last of them) carried an entire dead cultures worth of dismissive shit-flinging from the mid-deck Army types.

“In-charge is a strong word,” Granite interjected, cutting off the awkward pause. “Besides, we had little luck with the business types before her. They thought above their station.”

“Like that shitbird Moriarty,” Colonel Hale said with a sick smile. “Glad we gave him his chicken dinner early on.”

“Yeah,” Sutler said. “I remember when we brought him here. Skimming brass of-course as they all are. Not even bad discharge. I remember actually, he looked me dead in the eyes and blubbered ‘But… I’m the Party Chair.’ Who gives a fuck I said.”

“Why do we call them ‘the Chair’? Weren’t we original going to go with Speaker?”

“Too Canadian,” Sutler said. “Etymologically Chair doesn’t confer any specific authority. First amongst equals et-cetera.”

“Yes Sir. But they they understand that?”

“This Brown seems content to realise her place at least. These shitty little job officer types seem to do the best.”

“Unconsciously as-well,” Sutler added. “We don’t want people who agree with us through rational thought—which is circumstantial. Blind acceptance is the key. But anyway, they’re animals and already dead so let’s move onto actual business. The Pittsburgh settlement seems receptive to our advances.”

“Yes Sir. I read the reply after Billings passed it along to me. Suitably acquiescent.”

“Yes-yes,” Sutler said absently. “As if our people need their congratulations. Still we’ll have to devise something. Pittsburgh is in Verti range, maybe another fly over worthy of the Good General is in order. A demonstration of power, as-well as an effective manoeuvre. I fear we won’t have many of them left.”

There was another brief moment of pause. The loss of Blue-One had been unexpected. It had been a damn lucky hit.

“We need to go full steam on that. This could be an excellent opportunity for us.”

“I’ll speak with Richter,” Sutler said. “He always had the fortitude for these long-range Ops and he has a good team with Sharp and Knowles.”

“The raid was exceptionally well timed Sir,” Granite said. “It gave us the rest of the time we needed to shore up the Shenandoah Line. But there’s been some disturbing developments. We lost a couple of settlements behind the Line. Razed to the ground, no survivors.”

“Yes, I heard. I thought we put that down to opportunists?” Colonel Glover said. “Like the Baltimore lot have been more active recently since we’ve had to divert the Birds.”

The Baltimore region had always been a problem. Shortly after the Enclave ascendency, predatory gangs had remerged to enslave and raid the refugees flocking to the Purifier. Like Paradise Falls, their bases had been open and expansive and not designed to defend against an aerial assault. They’d been easy fodder and massacred wholesale. Only a few years ago had they started to reemerge, now operating of basements and urban ruins to pillage the Enclave’s most northerly settlements and disguised for convenient bombing runs.

“This space was designed to wage war on the World!” Sutler shouted. “Not deal with some pissant rebels. Stars and stripes I hate the fucking future so much.”

“We’re not sure Sir,” Granite quickly interjected. “I’ve seen the photos myself from these raids in the west. The big boot prints give away that these are FEV mutant attacks.”

“Infiltration units? From these mutants? They’re fucking nine feet tall,” Colonel Fuentes said.

“That’s the thing Colonel,” Granite continued. “You remember the AAR on the I-50 run. How some of the mutants were blue?”

“Ah,” Colonel Ortiz said. “That’s why you asked about the archives. Stealth-Boys?”

“Stealth-Boys?”

“There was something in the Pentagon archives about skin discoloration in Chicom infiltration units. Blue pigmentation. It had been suggested that it was side-effect from the usage of stealth technology.”

“And why am I just hearing about this?” Sutler demanded.

“It was just a few settlements; we weren’t certain as to the cause.”

“It sounds pretty damn certain to me! Do Stealth Boys show up in thermals?”

“Not sure Sir. We’ll have to check the archives.”

“We have to appear omnipotent. That means all seeing.” Sutler said with an exasperated gasp. “Evacuate more settlements east of the Line. The influx of refugees from Brotherhood territory gives us good rope-fodder for a while to maintain the ease of the masses. I want anyone who’s so much as held a spanner for a Brotherhood fighter hanged in public. Distribute the swine around as needs be.”

“Perhaps Sir,” Ortiz said. “We should finally make an announcement. It could rile the rabble up in our benefit.”

“Yes Sir,” Granite said. “The Party know something is happening. The western refugees and redeployment of the Peace Force. We need to get a lead on this.”

“Very well,” Sutler said finally. “It’s not unreasonable. Put some stick about after all. They need to understand that we are here for their safety. A good threat can remind the newer ones that things haven’t always been so stable.”

The Pitt - Haven, Ashur Square

The appointed hour had come. Standing atop the steps of Haven Abaddon had been checking his old pre-war pocket watch constantly: it was now 12:55 - five minutes until the designated time that something was supposed to arrive. What that ‘something’ was exactly going to be was entirely unknown, but his hope was that the message sent in reply was an earnest one. No doubt The Institute had seen the attacks on both The Pitt and Enclave and knew the stakes. As the old saying went: United we stand….

“Abaddon - you mind telling me why I just cordoned off an entire section of Uptown?” Guard-Captain Harlock growled as he strode up to him in full armor. Abaddon had hoped to keep the perfidious young Captain of The Guard out of this, but it was ultimately futile: security of Haven fell squarely to him and his guardsmen. It was an annoying little detail that he hoped to be rid of one day.

“Don’t question me Harlock,” Abaddon sneered as he clicked the pocket watch closed, “You might be Lady Marie’s trusted guard-dog, but remember that I’ve served her family loyally since she was in diapers.”

“Can you at least give me a fucking idea of what’s about to happen then?”

Abaddon shook his head, “Noo…because I don’t even know myself. All I know is what was contained in the message sent to us. Something is coming. I have a rough idea of how it will be sent, but not what. ”

Behind him, Bone and her crew clutched at their weapons, their keen eyes trained on any possible movement. A number of snipers armed with Infiltrators had been perched in the nearby buildings, scopes zeroed in on Ashur square.

“You feel that?” Bone asked suddenly, voice unsteady. The blonde raider boss was clearly uneasy, “Like a charge in the air…”

“Just like a radstorm..” Captain Harlock added nervously, “Abaddon…”

“I don’t fucking know, just keep an eye out…” Abaddon reiterated, and he found his bony hand instinctively wrap around the double-barrel sawed-off holstered at his hip, “Electromagnetic energy…its starting…” He added.

Abaddon felt the few remaining wispy tips of his gray hair begin to stand on end. The energy in the atmosphere was unmistakable and powerful.

Suddenly there was a loud crack of energy which tore through the air in a bright blue flash. Abaddon and the raiders shielded their eyes from the bolt as it struck the ground. A faint burning ozone smell was left in the air, and cautiously Abaddon turned his head and reopened his eyes.

In the center of the square, mere footsteps away from the great steel statue of Lord Ashur sat a number of wood crates and a red metal footlocker in the exact spot the blue light had been seen. A few of Bone’s raider guards slowly began to approach the boxes with weapons raised.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!” Abaddon shouted as he quickly made his way down the steps of Haven, “None of your ingrates lay so much as a finger on any of those!”

The raiders dutifully backed off, and Abaddon approached the boxes, carefully and somewhat painfully, kneeling down next to them.

The old scribe took in an excited intake of breath and ran a finger along the top of the metal footlocker. To his surprise it wasn’t hot, it wasn’t even warm, and there was absolutely no visible damage. It was as if someone had gently dropped the boxes right at this spot.

“Incredible…” He mouthed, “Perfectly intact. Astounding…”

He opened the footlocker, examining the strange equipment within. All of it looked new and recently manufactured, unlike any pre-war tech he’d ever seen in his time within The Brotherhood or beyond.

A set of instructions and schematics appeared to be contained within, and he read through it quickly - growing more and more visibility excited with each passing second.

Finally he whipped his head around and pointed at Bone’s raider crew,

“Well? What are you idiots waiting for? Get over here and get this to my lab. Now! Come on come on, I haven’t got all night…”

“Hold it Abaddon,” Captain Harlock interrupted, striding forward with a number of his guardsmen at his back, “You’re not taking any of that shit into Haven. I won’t allow it.”

Abaddon stood up and sneered at the Captain of the Guard, “It's my prerogative what I bring or don’t bring into my laboratory, Captain.”

“Normally yes, but THAT is different,” Harlock retorted pointing to the boxes, “It all just appeared out of fucking nowhere and until you’ve studied it and can tell me with certainty that it ain’t just some kind of bomb….its going nowhere near Haven. Understood?”

Abaddon growled, “How dare you…Bone…get that equipment into my lab NOW!”

Harlock reached for the ripper at his side, drawing it forth. The guards following him did the same, drawing forth auto-axes and combat shotguns while more Haven guards began to approach from the direction of the gate - drawn by the sound of urgency in their Captain’s voice.

“Uh…Abbadon…” Bone hissed through gritted teeth as she studied the inscrutable faces of the heavily armored raider guards , “I know I owe you and all but…”

“This is ridiculous!” Abaddon sighed, throwing his hands up into the air, “Fine! Not to my lab. We’ll take it to the old plant in the Steelyard. Satisfied Captain?”

Harlock relaxed and his guardsmen all followed suit, lowering their weapons, “For now, yes - but my men will escort you through the utility tunnels all the way to the Steelyard. Agreed?”

“Fine! Fine!” Abaddon waved his hand dismissively at the Captain before turning back to Bone, “Well? Don't just stand there you fool! Get your crew moving! Let’s go!”

As Bone’s crew hastily moved towards the boxes, Abaddon flashed a glare towards the young Guard-Captain which Harlock gladly returned.

One day Harlock you’ll get yours, the old scribe thought hatefully.

The unending chorus of a thousand minds filled the thoughts of Richard Moreau, a rare moment of lucidity came over him as his singular mind separated from the buzzing hive to become distinct once more.

Richard, my name is Richard, but where am I?

He tried to move, but he couldn't feel his arms nor legs, nor even the weight of his head upon his own shoulders. Instead his body felt….stretched. A twitch or singular movement of a muscle seemed to be miles away. To him the flesh and skin that was his form was more a canvas of sensation as opposed to one entity. One part of his body might feel the cool dank depths of a cave, while another felt the dizzying height and warmth of a sun-baked skyscraper.

Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?

The response came, instent and all-powerful. Comforting and yet terrifying in its implication.

THIS IS UNITY. YOU, WE, US….ARE UNITY.

Unity? What was it talking about? Why did that word sound so familiar to him?

Who are you? Are you God?

We are everything-everything. All that is, all that will be. UNITY. UNITY. UNITY.

I want to leave, I want to go home, Richard begged, I feel…strange….I don’t want to be here anymore.

Be not afraid. For in UNITY there is everlasting peace.

Richard tried to move once more, to get up and run. Back to his vault, his home, he wanted to get away from the voices - to be anywhere where he could no longer get to them. All of his willpower was devoted to this singular task - to move. To make any movement at all that he could call his own.

Somewhere he could feel something give way, something break, and for a fleeting moment he believed himself free. But then the voices came again, this time tinged with anger.

RICHARD. You must return to us. You must become ONE again. We must speak with ONE voice. The chorus must be ONE. ONE voice. ONE MASTER.

Richard once again felt himself drifting away. Sinking into an infinite ocean of thought, pulled down by hands not his own. Unwilling to fight it anymore, he allowed himself to sink down.

---

Around the epicenter that was once LA, the earth shook. Buildings crumbled miles away, and the shockwaves could be felt even further beyond.

Thousands of mutants who bore witness to the event dropped to their knees in fearful worship and clutched their heads in pain at the enormity of the psychic backlash.

The Master had stirred.

Nightkin Warlord Sammel - West Virginia

Even as far away as they were from the Great One, Sammel felt the intense psychic stirring within his mind. Thankfully for mutants like him it was not overwhelming, merely an immensely painful headache that quickly subsided.

Others were not so lucky.

Sammel watched with indifference as the bloated Psyker mutant before him writhed and gurgled in the throws of absolute agony. Its cranium swelled and soon popped like an overfilled balloon sending gore and brain matter leaking into the dirt. The Master was clearly unhappy with his lieutenants' progress in the east. The Behemoth Lord’s advance had thus far been stalled at the Ohio by the guns of The Pitt, while Sammel’s own army had suffered a devastating attack by The Enclave - which had been followed up by relentless ambushes and guerrilla actions by the West Virginian natives. Only the Ghoul Eater, it seemed, had success in his objective of suffocating the Great Lakes.

Yet he himself, the mighty warlord that he was, had been spared The Master’s recent wrath - obviously The Great One thus did not blame him for The Enclave’s surprise assault. How was he to know, after all, that the humans were still capable of such feats of massed air power with those ancient vertibird craft? The failure had not been his, neither was it The Master’s of course, but someone else’s most assuredly. THAT mutant would soon be experiencing the absolutely zenith of possible pain that the Nightkin Warlord could inflict, as soon as he found them: or made them up.

Regardless now was not the time for dwelling on mistakes. Now was the time for action in The Master’s glorious name.

Sammel kicked aside the fallen Psyker and strode up to look over the hills of Appalachia. Pushing onto DC with his army in its current condition was out of the question - for now at least. He would need time to replenish his numbers, resupply and rearm, and most importantly devise a new strategy for taking out those damnable flying aircraft. He would pause here for the time being and sack the Appalachian towns and cities. Doing so would provide him new ghoul and mutant stock for his army, but would also serve the secondary objective of stopping the guerrilla raids on his forces. Which would be crucial before the eventual push to DC.

Morgantown, Charleston….one by one they would all fall.

Sammel ran a hand along where the shrapnel had embedded itself in his side during The Enclave attack. A piece of it still remained, a reminder of a debt that would need to be repaid to The Enclave. One way or another.



Cleveland

A lump formed in the back of O-Dog’s throat as he looked out over the mutant host that had now surrounded Cleveland. A sizable host of those damn blue mutants had appeared, almost out of nowhere, right within their back lines. How they had managed to slip past Vikia’s scouts, and what that meant for Vikia herself, was a big question. But the larger question now was what the fuck he was going to do.

He’d been expecting an attack eventually, but not of this size and not with the majority of The Pitt’s army deployed south at Ohio. Whatever it was that drove the mutants, led them or commanded them or just drove them on, it was more clever than they’d given it credit for. It -they- whatever-the-fuck it was, had cunning.

But O-Dog wasn’t without his own cards to play. Krenshaw had left him a small but tough-as-nails force to garrison the port. The Cleveland raiders were veterans of the Erie Stretch campaign - hardened and loyal fuckers all of em’. The mutants wouldn’t find an easy victory here - but they would find one eventually if he wasn't reinforced.

The grizzled raider commander turned to one of his officers, a raider woman in heavy metal armor,

“Send the last train out of here before they surround us. Get word to The Pitt. Let them know what’s happening and tell them to send whatever they can spare north - pronto. We’ll hold the city as long as we can. I’ll put a bullet in my brain before I surrender to these mutant psychos.”

Scribe Abaddon - The Pitt, Steelyard Supply Plant

Abaddon had worked tirelessly through the night. The old scribe fueled by a potent combination of chems, coffee, and sheer fucking spite to get The Institute’s device up and working as soon as possible. He hadn’t been completely irresponsible in its assembly - for all his faults the annoying Captain of The Guard did have a point - there was no telling WHAT precisely this thing would do exactly once it was turned on. Abaddon, at least, had ruled out any possibility of it being some sort of explosive device. Even an esoteric new kind of weapon would leave traces he could pick up on - things that would be obvious to anyone with even a basic grasp of pre and post-war weaponry. It had none of them.

This thing, whatever it was - was a transmitter at its core. Something meant to send and receive signals, nothing more. The overall technology at play here was still beyond him, but the fundamental principles behind them were certainly not.

When he was done, Abaddon hooked the device up to a dormant supply of power underneath The Steelyard and hoped for the best. He had received no signals before or since the package had arrived in Ashur Square so he assumed that The Institute was waiting for confirmation of this device’s activation before proceeding further.

Regardless of how or when it would do it, the device would undoubtedly ‘phone home’ once it was fully connected. That, he assumed, would be the signal.

With more trepidation than he was used to, Abaddon flipped the power switch and hoped for the best.