[color=9e0b0f][b]The Pitt Abaddon - Abaddon’s Laboratory (Haven Lower Level)[/b][/color] [i] 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. [/i] 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 [i]bitch[/i] 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 [i]really[/i] 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? [i]First stage to be delivered, clear the square?[/i] 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. [i]“Unless….”[/i] 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: “[i]Tesla Science Magazine, Issue 218 - publishing date 2076…[/i]” 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.’ [b]The Theoretical Science of Transport Over Long Distance via ‘Molecular Relay’[/b] 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 [i]those[/i]. 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 [b]FUCK[/b] dude?” “Get up Steph I have some [i]actual[/i] 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?”