[IC] War Never Changes 2 : A Post Nuclear Nation Roleplay

[Elgappa]

"I find it naive, yes, presumptuous even, to now, in the luxury of retroperspective, to denounce the clearings of the north-west from 80s settlements and unlawful occupied territory, as brutal and unbecoming of a republic. Have these fools learned nothing from the legion wars? Or the Khans? Yes, these blasted fools, from their coffee-houses in Shady Sands or their vile liberal talking clubs, still engrandise the 80s as "noble savages" rather then the killers, rapists and marauders they were, are and will always be. To remove them, was to bring peace and prosperity to the north-west, yet to spare them, would have brough nothing but another road-horde at our doorstep!"

_{General Cassandra Moore (ret.) / Congress Hearing to the alleged crimes against humanity during the North-Western Clearings 2283-85 / 2289 - Shady Sands}

---

The End of the World for they who willingly lived in it

---

It was a strange feeling, to be willing to die, if it meant that someone else would live. More so, since Red Hair had sworn to herself, that she would not allow, the child she had been forced to bring into this world, to remain in it. Till the day she had given birth, she had sworn herself, that she would make Thunderbird pay, for what he had done to her. She would take the heir, he had been so desperate for, and slit his throat. Maybe, just maybe, it would bring a fraction of the pain upon him, that he had brought upon her, when he had abducted her, torn her from her old life, dragged her across the country, and forced her, to be his wife. But now this monster was dead, his body rotting in an unmarked grave in Shady Sands, and their son was still alive, his head still pressed against her shoulder. And Red Hair knew, that nothing in the world would stop her from keeping her child safe from the terror, that was unfolding beyond that yellow door, and the small room, she was hiding out with him.

Outside, the NCR soldiers, militiamen and mercenaries of the Brahmin Barons had finally come for the Cluba-Housa, shelled it with mortars and shot everyone that had tried to run. Now, that the sun had set, and the fighting of the last remnants in the hills surrounding the small settlement had stopped, they had moved in, to burn it to the ground. She could hear the crackling of wood set ablaze by flamethrowers and firebombs, while the thick Californian accents were carried through the wind, burning and screams into passing. "THAT'S FOR NEW RENO, YOU FILTHY ANIMALS!" Shots rang out, roaring into the night. "THAT'S FOR BATTLE HILL, YOU BASTARDS!" Others joined in, shouting out their anger, most likely to make sense of their own cruelty, and to justify it to their own terrified minds. Red Hair could feel her son shivering against her chest. He had stopped crying, or asking her if they would die, when the shelling had stopped. Red Hair felt his hot breath against her skin, as the young boy was clinging onto her, while she held the revolver ever more tightly in her right hand.

It felt like an eternity, that the two hid like that, in the small room, that had no windows, and reeked of chemical cleaners. In here, she had hidden from the shells, as the surrounding buildings had been shattered, yet old pre-war concrete was stubborn and defiant against the weapons of the new world, and the great house, that she had given birth in, all these years ago, had endured. Red Hair had not dared, to try and make a run for it, like so many others had, for she knew, that out in the hills and woods, the mercenaries waited, with dogs and no mercy for any 80 trying to come their way, no matter if man, woman or child. And least of all, for the son of Thunderbird and his wife, Red Hair. Oh, they would care little for the fact, that she never had wanted this life, and that she had hated Thunderbird more than any of them. Maybe, if it had been regular Troops, she could have found a kind-hearted officer, a father himself maybe, to surrender to, and plead her case. But these mad dogs outside were no regular Troops, but men who had fought years of brutal clearings against the 80s, who had defended their homes with tooth and nail. Most of them had never joined Thunderbirds horde south, yet when the NCR had been called onto them to surrender their arms, they had taken them up, and made for the hills. It had been of little use, and only delayed the inevitable for two years. There no longer was any mercy in this bush conflict, not after the horrors of the great raids of Thunderbird, and the battle of New Reno. Cassandra Moore and her Hawks had made it clear, and given out a carte blanch for retribution upon the 80s that would not bow.

It were the steps that came towards the yellow door, that made Red Hair almost scream out in terror, as she got up from the ground, little Thunderfoot still pressed against herself, and the gun raised in her hand. "Big houses always got the good stuff, I am telling you." She could hear the booze in the man's voice, and in the laughter of the man that was with him. "Gonna have to see something from all this shit. I didn't sign up for that.." Then there was a rattling at her door, and Red Hair knew, that she would have to kill both men. Not that it had been something she had never done. In her old life, before all this, she had been a caravan guard, far to the east, near the Capital Wasteland, keeping eyes on her cousins caravan, as they had made their path along the I80. She pulled back the hammer of the revolver, and raised, knowing that the door would open in a few moments. Her hand moved to the ear of her son, and pressed it, making sure that the sound would not harm him. Then the door swung open, and the man, his rifle over his shoulder and his bald head half turned, came into view.

She did not wait for the red mist to vanish, as she pulled back the hammer for a second time. The bald head, fell like a wet sack of flour, as his companion wanted to raise his voice in shock, yet Red Hair was faster. Again, the revolver roared, and the bullet hit the chest of the second invader. He fell backwards, clutching the side of a chair, which he pulled with him as he fell. Only then Red Hair noticed how young he was. His face had only a shade of a beard on it, and his two young eyes looked at her in pure panic. A third time she pulled down the hammer, as the boy before her was clutching the bleeding hole in his chest. "P..please...please don't...I don't want to..oh mommy pleas..." Red Hair couldn't bring herself to fire a third time, as she jumped over the fallen body, her son still pressed against her. Using the hand she was holding the Revolver with, Red hair stabilized him, as she ran, out of the great house, into the burning village outside. She did not know if the shots had alarmed the invaders, or if the screaming of the boy, that began behind them, would. She ran, towards the woods, into the hills. Halfway past the burning huts, she heard the cries of the men, for her to stop, followed by the barking of dogs and the roaring of guns. She ran, to escape the death and hell that was waiting behind her. Homes, that she once had dined in, now aflame and ripped apart by mortar shells. Fellow women of the local Club-Housa, children and the old, some laying on the street, hardly recognizable as humans anymore, others still dying from gunshots or simply cowering in terror as their old world around them ended. Red Hair had no eyes for them, as she ran, faster than she had ever run in her life before. The barking got louder, as she reached the trees, and ran between them. Wood splinters crashed into her face, as the tree next to her was hit by a bullet, exploding into countless pieces. Barking, louder and more terrible each moment. She ran, climbed over fallen trees and rocks, making her way up the hill, her son still clutched against herself. Then she felt the hot bite of a snapping beast by her feet, which she gave a kick as she jumped up a rock, pulling herself up the last few inches, and then ran once more. She lost one of her shoes, and her feet were torn bloody by the rocks and scrub of the ground, yet she was uncaring. The barking returned, and with it, shouting and howling.

It was a red explosion in her lower left arm, the one she didn't hold her child with, that made her tumble, and finally fall. Crying out in pain and agony, she heard Thunderfoot cry as his head hit the ground, and he whimpered and cried. She was uncaring of her wound in her arm, bleeding strongly, as she crawled towards him. "M...MOMMY....MOMMMY!" He cried in pain and fear, and then the barking came close, howling and whisteling with exhaustion. The dog broke out of the shrub and bushes, and descended upon her child. A cry of terror left her mouth, as she pushed herself onward, and threw her bloody arm into the maw, before it could snap at her child. The pain was blinding, yet also gave her a strange focus, as the single desire to protect her son filled her mind. Her hand grasped for the ground, as the dog was tearing, her arm bloody and a bone already visible where the bullet had ripped a terrible wound. She screamed, all the world red in agony and pain. Then, her finger clutched the rock, and with a roar, she smashed it against the beasts head. Over and over again...until the beast was dead, its fangs still clutched in her bloody arm. A ruin of a body part, the ground sticky with her own blood. "I am here, Honey...mommy is here.." She whispered, as she freed her arm, and picked up her son. Red Hair could hear voices in the wood, distant, yet still far too close. She would have to run, ignore her wound, save her child...

---

The One-Armed Mother of all 80sRed Hair / Salt Lake City / Many years later

---

She still sometimes felt her left arm, when she woke up in the morning, trying to push herself out of the sheets with it, only to just feel the little stump remaining moving. The follower of the apocalypse, had built a few camps and outpost, offering medical services and supplies for the endless stream of 80s refugees moving east, away from the NCR that had expelled them with increasing levels of force. She had been picked up by a group of young 80s prospects, who had found her half dead in the woods, near a road, alarmed by the crying of little Thunderfoot. By the time the Followers had looked at her arm, it had been infected and reeking so bad, that the boys that had found her, already had suspected that she was dead. They had to it clean off to the shoulder, leaving only a little stump behind, that she could hardly move.

It was another pain, that she could curse Thunderbird over. And cursed she did, when she was laying in the medical beds, next to all the others, wounded and dying, because of his mad ambitions over long-lost legends and a childish dream of being a king of a rubble of asphalt. The followers had taken care of her son, better than she ever could in her state of shock, anger and pure hate for this dead man in Shady Sands ground. When she had woken up, her red hair had been hardly orange anymore, she was so thin, that she could count her rips and so ragged, that she looked like the many oldtimers, without the sunburn. She could tell, that she scared her son, when she came to pick him up, and she could tell, that he was not happy, when she told him, that they would go east, back to her home and folks. It was a mad and stupid ambition, one that luckily, the same doctor that had taken her arm of, could talk her out from. She wouldn't have survived the long journey east, or would even make it out of the state. Instead, he had offered her a job. She spoke the tongue of the 80s, knew their culture and had the respect of a mother among them. She had hated the idea, that this people, she had been forced into, would now be speaking through her, yet at the same time, she knew that they were like her. Women, children and old, expelled from their home, and with no place to go, but forward. So, she agreed, and became the voice for and of them.

It had been years, since she had taken that offer. Years since she had been Red-Hair. Now, she kept her hair cut short, as she could not stand the pale, brittle orange it now was shaded in. She was now the great one-armed mother. 80s were not creative when it came to give names, which was why she suspected they went to such lengths to earn themselves new ones. Still, it was a term of great respect, given to them to their leader in the rubble of Salt-Lake City. It had been many years, since she had been in this city. Back then, she had been Red-Hair, Thunderbirds wife as he called it, but slave in all but name. Here, she had watched this brute of a monster slaughter the white-legs, and carry around the head of Salt-Upon-Wounds on a spike for days. It was here, where he declared the great highway war against the NCR, and where he sentenced the 80s to death.

It was here, where she led the 80s that remained, to rebuild and find a new home. Still, after all these years, new arrivals came almost every week, hearing about the "great Cluba-Housa of Salt and Hope". Feeding them all, still proved difficult, yet their harvest grew each passing year, as her people grew more skilled in agriculture, which was greatly helped by the arrival of Mormon remnants, who, begrudgingly accepted their place as equals, yet not as owners of their home city. Sure, their faith, clashed with the dream of the great highway in the sky, yet like with all 80s that settled down, it was not long, for some of them to adopt their faith, or even mix it with 80s believes. These "born-again" 80s, were in a minority, yet very vocal about their new faith, deeming their expulsion from the NCR has a punishment from God, similar to the expulsion of the Jews from Israel, and as a heavenly demand for penance for their sins. The Mormons hardly had much stock in these new converts, led by one of them, they deemed to be dangerous and lost to drink and anger. Another addition to the many troubles, the one-armed Mother faced every day. Utah had been bled deeply by the wars, the sackings and tribal feuds. By the legion and Thunderbirds hordes. What remained, was hers to heal, rebuild and used to lead her people to prosperity. Yet it was not much, and many still went hungry and thirsty.

At least the fact that the angry and disgruntled fanatics and vicious had left with Red-Wheel, whom she had hoped to make an ally, to protect her new settlement and give her a voice among the remaining warriors of the 80s. But like the mad monster that Thunderbird had been, he had pushed her aside, rallied the warriors and moved west, to fight another senseless war, that brought nothing but death and suffering over all involved. Yet, at least it got rid of the troublemakers and had spared her the risk of a potential rival for the leadership of this place. Yet it also had stripped her of the last remaining forces the 80s in Utah had. Her city upon a hill of Salt was able to fight of bands of raiders or tribal’s, yet she had no illusions about the fact, that if the Legion would come, that they would just take the city, and everything inside. There were no great war-hosts and road chapters to go to war, no countless young prospects to rally to a banner to fight. All she had, was a militia of walker 80s and Mormons, whom she only partly trusted, Mem-ber warriors old and gray, on bikes that looked just like them, and a bunch of unruly boys that wanted to be true 80s. Worst of all, her son was one of them...and her son was gone.

---

Not a morning passed, that she did not worry about her son, or wished she could go find him. She had sent men after him, yet they had not come back with him. He, that damn idiot Shinji and Burned-her-hair, had left one Sunday night on their bikes, and only left her a note, not to worry, but that it was time for him to see both coasts. She was sick with worries, and hardly ate, yet she knew that she could not go. She was a cripple and her place was here. Without here, this place would simply tear itself apart in search for a new leader, which either would be a 80s brute, a born-again fanatic or even a charismatic Mormon who would seek to return this city to its original people. No, she could not go after her son...no matter how much she wanted to. These people were now all her children, and it was her place to be with them. Thunderfoot was her baby, yet he also had become too much like his father, no matter how much she had tried to stop it.

"We had seen them. Legion scouts and their legionaries at the south. We know what that means.." The voice of Ammon Issac, who had become her most valuable adviser, due to his deep understanding of the land and logistical means of agriculture, had somewhat of a soothing effect on her mind, as she nodded, sipping her dandelion root-coffee. It turned bitter in her mouth, for she knew what it meant. "They will come, with demands! Tribute or boys." She hated the idea, of what many had already rumored about. The legion needed men for their new armies, and if the 80s had something in abundance, it were young mouths to feed, and nothing to feed them with. Her stomach turned, as she found a practical, but disgusting solution for the issue, that would most likely soon present itself. "What if they attack us?" Issac asked, playing with his beard, like he always did, talking about a topic he really did not wish to address. "Then there is nothing we can do to really stop them. But I assume they know it well, and also that there is nothing to gain by conquering the ruins of this place, beyond thousands of hungry mouths to feed. No, they will bully us for one thing or another...and we will have to accept it."

[Andreyich]

Legio Mexicanus

Aurelius was a man who had seen thousands die and by his own hands had slain somewhere around a hundred. But these new warriors of Vulpes weren’t of his sort. He wasn’t about to pretend that he was a particularly honourable warrior, nor a moral one, but the methodical terror campaigns of the Frumentarii were something else. In their reports they described how they created and then sharpened splinters in latrines that the Mexican forces dug. However they left open boxes of ammunition such that dirt would get into bullets which the Corporals in charge of would be far too fearful to report to their superiors when discovering their “error”. They carefully opened and then reduced the hourglasses used by the cooks to measure time such that meats were just enough undercooked to insure dysentery. Spectacles of officers were removed and replaced with that of others, while rotten grains were dropped into the water supply. They went so far as to tamper with the tinderboxes and matches of the army to insure fires couldn’t be started in a timely manner and to cut holes in socks and other garments they carried. When transcribed, there were dozens of pages listing every single action they had taken to weaken the foe, and looking at their encampment it seemed that over time the efforts of the Agents had truly paid dividends.

Officer and Conscript alike looked awful. They were sweaty and pale with bags under their eyes, their otherwise perfectly drilled manuals of arms were failing them with only every other rifle having its bayonet, sling or optics properly mounted. Sidearm holsters were dangling open, shoes were loose, helmets and body armour not strapped in. They would certainly be easy pickings from this moment on even with a traditional frontal charge in hopes of hand to hand combat that the Legion of yore espoused. But no, today a different strategy would be used. A false camp was set up for the foe’s scouts to find that had just enough men left behind to give the impression it was populated, a camp largely consisting of unarmed men impressed from the previous battles with the Mexicans.

The rest of the men had a great feast to celebrate their victory along with entertainments and a good sleep, and having been well rested went on a long march to strike the foe from their far flank in the night together with the Frumentarii.

Night dawned, and the first screams came long before the sounds of gunfire. As soon as it began the Mexican camp was illuminated with hundreds of flares that made the foe very bright, while blinding them to the surrounding dark. Of course, the Legionnaires the encircle the camp were illuminated by the muzzle flashes of their rifles but this was nothing compared to the persistent shine of the flares. It was a massacre even after the first few volleys of the Legionnaire breechloaders, but it became a far bloodier one when bayonets were mounted and they charged from all sides.

The victory was short, and something about it didn’t feel normal. But it was a victory nevertheless. Aurelius estimated that they’d be able to reach and siege the two cities before the next force came to strike him down. He knew the next one would be a much tougher one of course, given the first thought they were mere tribals and this one was only a partial escalation.

But that would be later. For now the Phoenician enjoyed the plunder and celebrated with his men. Rather fine artillery pieces were towed over by horses that Aurelius would keep for himself, while the rifles would be sent North for the Emperor to see and redistribute accordingly.

Oh, he could just smell the prized cities!

---

The Emperor's Tent

Vulpes drummed his fingers. The reach of the Legion was growing in all directions except the West, where the Bear was fortifying its positions. There was a slight silver lining in this for it meant that the NCR
still saw the Legion as a credible threat to pour in millions of dollars of taxpayer money in defending against, rather than believing they could simply march to Phoenix and Two Sun unimpeded. But then again, was this a silver lining? Regardless of what it was, the Frumentarii would exploit it.

“I propose several points of action my Lord. Trying to hinder or destroy the project of NCR fortifications is futile, we Agents cannot compete with their factories, they produce more than we destroy and we’ll thus only create jobs and better counter-espionage measures among them if anything. Instead I suggest that first we attack the long-term capabilities of this new defence. Tamper with stores of ammunition that might not see action for years but that will be ever so devastating when we finally strike. Dilute their cement mixes and make cracks in the foundations of their pillboxes such that they might crumble from a strike to their core. Map out the minefields, dull the rolls of barbed wire, so on and so forth. Next I propose to create discourse against this project only when it is far too late to cancel it. We must create a narrative amongst their citizenry that it is a waste of money because the Legion is no longer a threat, a withered foe. Alternatively that it is a weakened foe that it is best to crush now, and that thus the money should have been invested into upgrading the troops and sending an expeditionary force to the East. These opposing views must be made amplified and be at the core of press reporting, but must importantly both must state that the project was a waste of funds. At least for now we must use our influence to make their papers center around stomping out the Eighties that yet stand left they amass in number with vengeance in mind. With that said my beloved Emperor, I am not a commander of the Legion but rather of the Frumentarii. However I must recall the example of a Maginot line in Fra-”

“Yes, excellent Lord Dolos. You’ve spoken to me of that before but it is not yet time. I would like to hear from the Lord of Colorado now.”

The man was almost shaking with excitement, and he almost squealed as the Emperor called upon him.

“Emperor Vulpes, the bounties I have found, they have exceeded all expectations.”

“Many supplies untouched by prospectors?”

“No, Lord. Well, yes, but they're but a footnote. The dogs of the city? They were products of machinery functioning from before the war. It churns out cyberdogs who inevitably mate and have puppies of their own. Their visciousness? A product of the fact the cyberdogs being made are programmed to be aggressive guard dogs, and that this trait is only amplified amongst their feral puppies. However my Lord, if we scoop up these cyberdogs when they are young their aggression may be tamed, and they may be socialized to be our own cybernetic warriors. Think of it my Lord, before our dogs were at most used in small shock actions against unprepared foes or as cannon fodder, occasionally also being able to crush some tribes that ordinary Legionnaires might struggle against. But these? Bullets will often bounce off of their steel hides and even when they pierce they will often get stuck before hitting anything vital; even if they do, they are still far mightier in flesh than the mongrels we often have to make do with. But that is not all my Lord.”

Vulpes was skeptical, but he beckoned the man to continue.

“The terminals to control this process are still online. Though none of the men at the site are sufficiently advanced in technical works to truly work with the devices, it was clear that the manufacturing of the dogs is still controllable. We may control for size, behaviour, we can even control for appearance and coats of fur; blond dogs for the deserts, black for the forests. Indeed, we can even have commands that they answer to pre-programmed. A few of the current specimens were even delivered for you to review!”

Though still apprehensive, the expression of the Caesar changed rather quickly to reflect that he was indeed impressed. Nodding to the man, a few cages were brought that contained two howling beasts. They frother at the mouth, and a secondary set of steel bars had to be built in for they had gnawed at the previous ones with such violence they had bent that they could almost escape. To the shock of the Praetorians who dove at the man the Lord of Colorado drew a silenced pistol and fired a shot at the animal. He did it just in time before they tackled him to the ground for the bullet to ricochet off of its breast and then off of a Praetorian’s shoulder.

Vulpes stood and walked over to pick up the flattened piece of copper and examined it. “.45. Subsonic and thus low velocity of course, but nevertheless impressive. I shall give you half of all technicians we have that aren’t needed for other urgent matters, the paper-pushers shall organize this of course.”

Vulpes waved for the Praetorians to let him go, before sitting up his throne again. The Governor stood up and brushed himself off, before inhaling to gain some confidence.

“I’d like all of them, my Lord. I understand something else may come up but please. From the looks of it this may not be the only such manufactorum.”

The Emperor took off his sunglasses, wiping them before putting them on an armrest. He motioned for Dolos and a few other advisers to walk over with a table, and after a whisper they rolled out some maps across it.

Eventually, Caesar threw his arms up in the air. “A simple answer, if you please.” he stated, no longer in a whisper. “What is actually possible.”

Dolos stepped back, shaking his head. “My Lord, I was stationed up in Salt Lake city when the bombs dropped. Its possible from what I remember. They definitely had a lot of projects going on there if memory serves right. But you’re not going to get some sort of hail mary for a free industrial revolution.”

“That’s not the point!” Screamed the Lord of Colorado, whimpering at the gazes he received for this loss of composure. Nevertheless he rallied magnificently. “Yes, this industry will not equip armies, it will not create cities, perhaps only one out of a thousand of our citizens will feel its effects. But it will create elite warriors, it will create luxuries, it will generate value that none of our artisans and sporadic attempts at factories will be able to for perhaps a century.”

After a great deal of whispering, Vulpes once more donned his sunglasses and smiled. “You can have half of what is left after the first half of technicians is taken. We will also send other civilian specialists to make proper living quarters in the locales and better investigate this phenomena of yet operational prewar machines.”

Raising his hand to stifle a celebratory dance from the Governor, the Emperor turned to the trio of Picus, Canyon Runner, and Karl. “Tell me about progress regarding our potential allies. I have high hopes.”

[Andronicus23]

Nick Valentine - Diamond City Mayor’s Office, The Commonwealth

Nick waited patiently, sitting inside the Mayor’s office alongside Wiseman and Becky Fallon. Down the hall, in a separate room where a lone Security Officer stood watch outside, was where Kessler was currently interviewing, or rather interrogating, The Mechanist herself: Isabel Cruz. She’d been at it for nearly five hours straight now and Nick was beginning to feel as though Kessler was going overboard.

“Think we should go in and stop it?” Wiseman said, echoing Nick’s own thoughts, “Mechanist or not...what could Kessler possibly be asking her about that she needs this long?”

Becky started shaking her head before Wiseman had even finished, “No. She gets as long as she needs. That was the agreement. We don’t get to dictate how long it takes her to judge Isabel’s sincerity. She’s stuck to her end of the bargain...so we stick to ours.”

Nick reluctantly nodded, “I just hope she doesn’t need all night.”

Mercifully, as if in answer to his statement, the sounds of footsteps could be heard echoing down the office halfway. The three of them immediately perked up and looked expectantly towards the door. Kessler opened it and stepped through, it was immediately apparent that she was exhausted. Her expression had softened and the look of righteous fury that she’d gone into the interview with had long since disappeared and been replaced with a subdued sense of satisfaction.

“I believe her,” Kessler said after a moment’s pause, “I was so sure that it was all an act. That she was putting on a show just to escape punishment...but I think...I think she’s truly remorseful about what she did. That’s enough for me I guess.”

“So you’ll drop the call for execution then?” Becky asked, hopefully.

“Yes. She doesn’t deserve that. That still doesn't mean that I think she should be set free.”

“Of course,” Nick agreed, “I think we all still agree that she needs to make amends the rest of her life for what happened. It was a mistake...a costly one, but she deserves a chance at least to try.”

“So what’s next?” Wiseman asked.

“Well since Kessler is satisfied with Isabel’s sincerity, we move forward with the council’s vote to keep her under some form of house arrest and of course give her the choice of helping us by utilizing whatever expertise she has in service of The Commonwealth. Only time will tell if that ends up being worthwhile,” Becky replied.

“Sounds fair,” Wiseman nodded.

“Nick...I think it's best that you keep an eye on her when you can spare it, ” Becky continued, “I don’t want to put you on the spot to be her sole minder...but I feel you might be able to help her more than anyone here.”

“I’ll do what I can,” Nick replied with a nod.

“And what of Dr. Li’s request?” Wiseman asked, “Regarding that...proposal she put forward on Isabel.”

“Like hell we’ll accept that,” Kessler replied, “Sincere or not...she doesn’t get a free pass to The Institute. Li can blather all she likes about how much good Isabel would do with access to Institute technology...she can forget it.”

“I tend to agree...although not with those exact words.” Becky grinned, “I think what Isabel needs most now is to work directly with the people of The Commonwealth. Not with Institute scientists of whom I’m sure I don’t need to mention….”

Becky looked to Nick before continuing, who gave a quick nod of assent. He’d thoroughly checked the office for Institute Watchers when he’d arrived. It was safe to continue,

“.....that we all still have our own suspicions of. Chief among them now is the attack that occurred while Nick and the team were within Isabel’s facility.”

“I don’t understand, it was a super-mutant attack was it not?” Wiseman asked, confused.

Becky shook her head, “Think about it Wiseman. How often have super-mutants shown that level of coordination? What they just so happened to stumble upon a secret back-entrance to this pre-war facility just at the very moment that we were attempting to apprehend Isabel? It doesn’t add up. Not to mention the inexplicable loss of power the moment the mutants attacked.”

“Coincidences like that are never just coincidences,” Nick said, “I’m not necessarily sure that The Institute was somehow behind the attack, but it's a logical conclusion. No-one else but the Council knew about the facility. Isabel confirmed that the place had been abandoned since the war when she arrived...and she never gave out its location to anyone but us. While I’m not sure Dr. Li herself is directly involved...others inside The Institute might be.”

“To what end though?” Kessler asked.

“That’s the question that still bugs me,” Nick said, “But I have a feeling if we dig more into the facility...we just might find an answer.”

[Andreyich]

Denver Reclamation Force

Breathe. All he had to do now was breathe. Next on the list was think. Where could he go? Nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, the machines were coming. Oh the Legionnaires had put up a good fight, even busted a few, but it wasn’t enough. They were as durable as deathclaws and just as fierce, but without backing down if gravely injured and yet the Legionnaires and Frumentarii raised their weapons and struck back with their own feoricty. With that said, of the men that didn’t run when realizing the ineffectiveness of their resistance was left mincemeat.

The Frumentarius’s train of thought was broken when he heard the clank of metal robots. CRB-S and Assaultrons, the technician had called them. He knew it was pointless, but nevertheless he rose from his slump against the wall and ran down the hallway. Somehow it was more frightening that they were chasing him, rather than gunning him down as he ran. Trying to slow down so he could turn the corner the man managed to do the ninety degree bend, but from fear and darkness he tripped. Lars turned over to at least look his metallic killer in the eye, but instead they simply stood at the threshold to cross the intersection of hallways.

L̕͜oc̵͜ą́̕ti͝o̵͡ń͢ Se̛cu͡͡͠ŗ͢͏e̴͢.̧
̕͢
R͠eg̀͟ŕo̶͢ư̶ṕ͜i̸͠n̕҉͢g.̡

With that they turned and went back from whence they came. Lars couldn’t believe it, but he wasn’t going to waste any time being astounded. He had lived and he would make this miraculous life count. He was going to report everything that happened - with suitable embellishment of course - and perhaps for his heroic performance could even find himself promoted with a great story to accompany his career. Whatever the Legion had found in the underground of Denver was far, far more than just a cyberdog factory, it was something frighteningly intelligent, (if apparently inept in a few respects) and the scientists had more than overestimated themselves. For their arrogance a good chunk were dead.

No matter. They could be replaced; perhaps Lars could even volunteer for the mission to kidnap their replacements.

[Crimson Paladin]

Brotherhood meeting with the Legion

It was a small but well endowed party. A few specimens of each branch of the Legion's armed forces were present, and all to guard a single RV. It was a spectacular one too with working air conditioning and bathroom, terminals, a radio station, and a great deal of armour. All this was for a very important person: an envoy. Many lesser realms when wishing to perform diplomacy simply showed up at their counterpart's border and demanded to speak to a leader, but Vulpes supposed himself too great for that.

Instead traders were spoken to for the Legion to learn how best to approach the leadership of the Brotherhood of Steel in the Midwest, and thus messengers sent them letters to explain a diplomat would arrive in a few days time to discuss very important matters.

When in core Brotherhood territory Tarsus lay on the roof of the vehicle enjoying the sun. He knew he was perfectly safe with his great entourage and thus why not relax before speaking to the Scribes and other political elite of the Brotherhood of Steel? Besides, as they got closer to the meeting place it would help identify the party such that they'd go through formalities faster. Yes, for now Tarsus would only have to wait sipping his pre-war spirit and gaze upon the scene.

Finally, the Legion arrived at the meeting place, a heavily fortified manufacturing plant. Those in the RV would notice an increasing amount of electronic interference, which only grew worse as they drew closer. Power armored paladins, laser turrets, and refurbished Calculator robots all seemed to stare at the new arrivals through unblinking optic sensors, cautiously watching their every movement.. The entourage came to a halt outside of the main gate, where a paladin approached them.

“Welcome to Buena Vista. We apologize if you are experiencing any electronic difficulties, the electromagnetic activity in the area causes heavy interference.” he spoke to the escorting Legionaries. “I am to take you to the meeting room within the plant.” He strode over to a terminal next to the gate and typed something onto the keyboard. A few seconds later, the complex’s fortified gate opened with a mighty rumble. The representatives of the Legion particular to the diplomatic mission followed, whilst the warriors guarding the envoys stayed back. Whatever they were doing that messed with the electronics about the place, Tarsus could only hope that it wouldn’t mess with his pip-boy and the other elements of presentation he brought along.

“Follow me,” the Paladin directed. After being searched for weapons, Tarsus was led into the complex and to a small room on the right. Within the room were a few chairs, a single paladin standing guard, and a figure in a red environmental suit sitting behind a metal desk. Floating to the right of the desk was a modified eyebot, brandishing a microphone in place of a laser gun.

“It is good to see you have arrived safely, Mr. Tarsus,” the man in the hazmat suit spoke. “I am Head Scribe Wainwright. Please forgive the suit, I have a medical condition that requires me to wear it in this environment.”

“And I am High Elder Renald. I apologize for being unable to attend in person,” sounded the eyebot, conveying the voice of the High Elder. “Am I coming in clear, Head Scribe?”

“As well as we can hope for, considering the plant’s interference.” the scribe replied, before turning back to the Legion representative. “I’m afraid the High Elder is a very busy man, but through a combination of Brotherhood ingenuity and the Calculator’s technology, he’ll be able to communicate with us through the eyebot. Now, Mr. Tarsus, what is it that the Legion wishes to discuss with the Brotherhood of Steel?”

After taking in the many introductions, Tarsus decided not to comment upon them but rather simply get to the point. “There are two main articles we wish to discuss, one more of interest to the Everlasting Realm of Caesar’s Legion, the other more to your palate. As honoured guests, we shall of course begin with the former. If you have media to play holotapes here I would be most grateful to have access to them, but if not then I shall continue regardless.”

With that several folders were placed on the desk, a similar one held in hand for the envoy. “The New California Republic. Long have they been a thorn in our side. We would like to enlist your aid in dealing with them, and we have a great many reasons to help convince you to agree to join us.”

At this point the emissary used several pictures of official reports, newspaper clippings, and other media to illustrate his point. “I do not know how well you keep contact with your Western comrades, but the Chapters of the Brotherhood of Steel that the NCR came upon have been utterly and ruthlessly wiped out, not room left for negotiation. You may of course argue that they have only war with your other Chapters, but no qualms with you, but alas we have reason to doubt this will be the case. In their national discourse you may read that there is made no difference between your Chapters even amongst the few who recognize such a thing exists. For all intents and purposes, the NCR believes it is your enemy and you are theirs regardless of whether or not you disagree.”

A smile graced the Ambassador’s lips. “Of course, cynically you might say that you have the Legion as a buffer, but alas this state of affairs is not eternal. We know that the New Californians are expanding fast, some say even to other continents that Americans haven’t seen since before the war. Yet their animosity towards our state has not left, and we know that given time and opportunity they will strike once more. Should the Legion collapse and they devour its remains, then the NCR will be the premiere force of the North American continent. You will in your inevitable conflict be incapable of stopping them, it will be too late. But we also aren’t fools or beggars, we are aware you have your own troubles; I do not presume to suggest you directly enter the war on our behalf. We would simply like to ask for assistance where it is possible. Technical advisors to create industry, trainers to help in drills of more… advanced tactics than what the Legion has previously used, aid in robotics, the procurement of some modern arms and armour, so on and so forth. Indeed, we believe some elements of such a joint military plan could even be beneficial to you; volunteers sent to fight alongside the Legion will gain priceless experience in fighting real armies rather than mere rabble of the wastes. Further, you will also gain better knowledge of Legionary doctrine should future animosity between our realms - no matter how unlikely - be a worry to you.” With his rather long speech finished Tarsus again smiled, awaiting the response from the motley crew before him.

“You must understand that the Brotherhood of Steel does not involve itself in foreign geopolitical conflicts,” the High Elder replied through the eyebot. “Until the NCR’s scientific advancement evolves into an existential threat for humanity, our only interest in them is their conflict with our brothers and sisters in the western Brotherhood of Steel.”

“And,” he, after taking a breath, “I don’t know how informed the Legion is on Brotherhood of Steel politics, so Head Scribe, could you get them up to speed?”

Wainwright nodded, forgetting for a moment that the High Elder couldn’t actually see anything at the meeting. “We originated as a schism in the Brotherhood over the direction our order should go. We believed that the Brotherhood should share its technology with the people of the wastes in exchange for tribute and recruits. Our founders told them that a cloistered, exclusive organization was not in our best interests, or in the spirit of the order’s founding. The greater part of the Brotherhood disagreed, and the dissidents were sent on an expedition east to track down a remnant of The Master’s army. Almost a century later, we have thrived despite everything the wasteland has thrown at us, while the once-majority Brotherhood has learned firsthand the folly of their ways.”

“Nevertheless,” Elder Renald spoke up again as soon as Wainwright had seemingly finished, “As misguided as they are, and as much as their current predicament is no doubt their own fault, they’re still our brothers and sisters. Now that they are in need, and we have the power to aid them, we cannot ignore their plight. Even so, we cannot commit to a conflict or a plan of action without first being properly informed and appraised of the situation. For now, however, I am willing to open up cooperation with Legion and provide you with technical assistance. Tell your leaders that if they desire specific Brotherhood expertise in training or technology, we will oblige them within reason. In exchange, I expect the Legion to allow Brotherhood observers and scouts to gather intel on the NCR on your side of the republic’s borders. Lastly, if you give us permission to fly our airships through Legion territory and allow us to send recovery teams if one goes down, we’ll provide the Legion with aerial reconnaissance photos of the Legion-NCR borders.”

Tarsus bowed deeply. "I thank you, Sir, this is a wise choice. Though I am not a scholar of your Order's history I know enough. I can only reiterate that though you are not the same organization as your cousin, the NCR doesn't care. Describing it as a foreign conflict I think is inaccurate, for should the Legion be devoured the NCR then the Republic will aim to crush your bunkers and take your technology for itself. All of what you proposed is acceptable to us, all that remains is to formalize the agreement."

Turning to the members of his entourage Tarsus exchanged short words, biting his lips momentarily before speaking again. "There is then, the other matter. Our men found… something in Denver. Machinery from before the war that still works. At first we only found elements that manufacture cyberdogs, but there was more. A facility dubbed The Box that made robotics and other high technologies. Our technicians believed that they had leashed it but alas they soon discovered their folly. There is apparently an artificial intelligence in control and it appears not to be fond of humans in the present day, the remnants of some law enforcement protocols at work. It killed many of our men. We repelled it for now back to its source but it will try again. I believe it falls under the purvey of your Order's purpose so I believed you may be interested in it, so we extend the invitation for you to send any observers you want should you feel this is important, and we are more than happy to provide you with everything we downloaded so far and on the future to review and safeguard."

“We will take you up on that offer, and send some of our people to observe,” Renald replied. “And if you can’t keep it contained, don’t hesitate to ask for our help, because if this AI manages to start scavenging raw materials and begin manufacturing robots, you could have a small-scale Calculator on your hands. Now, if that’s all, shall we ratify a formal agreement? The Head Scribe here has my blessing to sign in my name, if such is required.”

“Most excellent dear Brothers of Steel, the Emperor has given me the authority to create any agreements I see fit on behalf of the whole Legion and as such I believe we should get to it immediately. As a show of good faith, I have already brought along all the data we were able to unencrypt from The Box.”

[MagustheRed]

A view from above – The New California Republic

It sweeps down from the arctic, or perhaps just below there, cold rising winds underneath tawny brown wings. Tracing down a fading summer clime further and further. Over cascading peaks and over tall treed slopes verdant and browning with the unceasing cycle of the seasons, summer is going, autumn coming in. Hello, how do you do? My turn now? See you next year. On and on they go in a spinning dance from one partner to the other. And with them come the tell-tale signs to the world they shape beneath their claying fingers. Buds might bloom in spring, the young in the fields dancing from the wombs into the world, the summer might raise high the corn and fatten the brahmin ready for harvest, or dry and thin them out.

Such is the way of the world, such is the way of this travelling soul from a place it does not know by name, but knows is north, is cold and knows to head south by the motion of the sun above and with the sweeping winds ruffling its feathers to help guide it to safe havens by the warmer crashing waves of a coastal shore. So today it will soar over a land it sees beneath it, turned and turned and changed evermore by the tall-walking figures that live under a fluttering cloth embroidered with a two headed bear. A wilder land in the north, a meandering river, bordered and marked by the constant riders up and down with cracking sticks that keep it to the mists away from the sudden blooms of death that took its father before it and a mate long ago.

More and more tall-walking figures pour into this land, too many even for a land as large as this, felling old friends that once seemed to stretch up with green fingers and wooden arms to bid it rest and sit and tell them of the world a while. They pull them down into squat boxes that spout smoke and the smells of burning flesh. In the higher places, metal burrowing figures hide among the mountains here and there, seeking to not draw the attention of the tall walkers. Who are these metal monsters it wonders? That fear those who might burn the flesh within the metal? The world is changing, and perhaps even the burrowers know this and seek to just survive if they cannot live as they once did.

And then it is past the changing land into a changed one. Here the tall-walkers talk and cry at each other with singular figures on wooden hills harking high and low for a strange reason. And for a moment on a stone skeleton, it waits and listens to the hackling beneath it.

“Is the new republican party even capable of governing anymore? What have you done but fattened the purses of the agricultural barons at the expense of good honest smallholders? Your party is driving this great nation into their hands! We in the democratic alliance party believe that it is time to put the voices of the smallholders back at the heart of our republic! New land for old soldiers! Fresh, organic, unchanged and healthy food is what we need, not these new-fangled geno-modified crops that depress wages and-”

“-Now that is a lie right there and my opponent should know better than to resort to slander! The new crops are a boon to us all! Cheaper food means more on the kitchen table for our children, no more famine! No more lean hungers and hard choices! That is what the New Republican party has brought to this nation, and more change will be brought in a second term! The new crops will open up new lands in sandy Baja and the mountains of Oregon previously unfarmable for our old veterans!”

It does not understand the words spoken therein, but it hears and listens and sees that much ado about something is occupying the minds of the tall-walkers. And then a young tall-walker spots it, throws a pebble and it moves up and away to a place beyond the arm of the ones below. Up and up and south and downwind it keeps on its path once more. O'er fields of golding corn and grassed plains of munching brahmin soon to be harvested and butchered in the fall. O'er a bustling scene of cars, cabs, cycles and tycoons that talk of opportunities in a land it will never see. It sweeps west to the coast and follows the tracks of tall masted ships sailing south to those promised lands of humid heat and perilous jungles that bring fortune to those brave enough to risk the risks. For now though, such plans are in the early stages of motion, a casus belli has yet to emerge from the moving pieces on the board that will secure either the salvation or damnation of the land of the two-headed bear.

And then it is back east. Over a host of red and white marching among a scene of marbled halls and statues and political capital calling and calling for something, echoing the calls of another host from another road. On and on the two hosts go, closer and closer and then through a thin cordon of peacekeeping figures into each other and there is blood on the asphalt and crying and screaming as a ghoul and wolf bray against each other and move the tired republic closer and closer to a darker illness than already afflicts the nation.

Leaving behind the scene of a bloodbath that will convulse the soul of a nation, it continues south and east and east and south. Over the neck of the long peninsula and to the mouth and marshes of the great river. Whereon either side of the banks of the watercourse workers move among the brush, weakening and strengthening constructs and setting about to foil each other’s designs on the other. But it does not care no longer about such things, as it glides gently down, feet in the warm waters of the bay, setting down after a long journey that where a sun rose up on one side, at its terminus it sets down on the other. And for the New Californian Republic, so passes a day, much the same in some places as the last day, much different in other places, and for each of them, all looking to seeing what the next day brought to them.

[Andronicus23]

Dr. Xavier Morales - The Institute

Xavier sat with a piping hot cup of fresh brewed coffee in his hands whilst he read through the data files plastered on the screen before him. The blue hued glow of his terminal was now the lone source of light within his dimly lit quarters. Quiet hours had fallen over The Institute, and although most of its residents lay asleep, Xavier had business to attend to which required solitude.

The data that the Courser unit had managed to abscond with from the lab was a treasure trove of pre-war knowledge. Information about the facility's purpose, its funding sources, the scientists stationed there, along with detailed notes and reports about the research they’d all been pursuing: all of it was now his to study at his leisure. The terminal he was currently using was secure and isolated from The Institute’s network, an act which was in and of itself a clear violation of internal security protocols. However that particular misdemeanor paled in comparison to the far greater crime that Xavier was committing with the data he had in hand: nothing less than an act of treason against The Director herself.

“The CODE Program,” Xavier said softly in between sips of his drink. The bold headline of the dossier he’d just opened was underscored by subtext which read ‘CLASSIFIED’ along with the official seal of the pre-war Defense Intelligence Agency.

Xaviers eyes grew wide as he delved deeper into the report, the vast potential of the pre-war findings that the scientists at the RobCo Facility discovered grew more and more apparent with each passing paragraph.

He sat his coffee down and leaned back in his chair, a plan and a potential use for the research already forming, especially in light of the errant scrapping of the Gen-3 program. First thing was first however, as with all pre-war knowledge they discovered, he needed to replicate and verify results using The Institute’s own strict experiment standards. Innovative and daring they may have been in many cases, but the minds of the pre-war world were often tainted by the influence of corrupt politicians and meddling corporate concerns: exaggerations and outright falsifications were not uncommon. He needed hard data and proof that what he was seeing was not mere conjecture or outright fantasy. And he needed to do this all without any arousing any suspicion whatsoever from Dr. Li.

The Laboratory in Vault 88 would be invaluable of course, but he also did not want to simply entirely entrust the research to Dr. Zimmer and Dr. Holdren. Holdren he trusted, for the most part, but Dr. Zimmer was another matter entirely, he had no intention of allowing his erstwhile rival to have sole control over this research material and be able to do whatever he wished with it while Xavier was tending to duties in The Institute. For the moment, both of them wished to see Dr. Li removed from power, but afterwards once the Directorship was up for grabs: things would get much more complicated.

He would need some time to think on this and come up with a good solution. For the moment however, he’d have to share his investigation with Zimmer and Holdren first, and then figure out where to go from there. He couldn’t risk giving Zimmer any further reason to distrust him this early on.

Xavier looked at the time on his terminal, it was nearly 6:00am in the morning. He’d spent all night reviewing the material, and he’d have to report for work at the SSIB at 6:30. He quickly shut off the terminal, and left his quarters hurriedly.

---

Xavier strode into the SSIB facility at 6:20, cradling his umpteenth cup of coffee for that morning. He’d stopped on his way to grab it and a few nutritional supplements from the Commissary, so at least he’d be functional during his shift.

“Director,” a young woman in the black and white of the SSIB approached him, clipboard in hand, “Good morning sir. I think you’ll want to take a look at this right away.”

Xavier immediately took the clipboard and after a brief examination he set his coffee down at a nearby table and began to scrutinize it intently, a surprised look on his face. The clipboard contained a brief report and several surveillance images taken from Quincy by a Watcher pod.

“Just came in this morning sir, shortly before you arrived,” The woman stated, “Watcher pods were performing routine imaging of the area surrounding Quincy, and happened to capture it. It appears to be…”

“A VTOL aircraft, yes I’m fully aware, “ Xavier replied curtly, with a bit more of a bite to his tone than he really intended. He immediately regretted it, “Sorry Clara. I didn’t get much sleep last night. I’m a bit on edge this morning.”

“Think nothing of it sir,” Clara replied with a nod.

“Any other information?”

“None at the moment. I’m not even sure where or if it landed in The Commonwealth. All I can give is a general location of where it might have gone based on its apparent flight path.”

“That’s good enough for the moment, well done Clara.”

“Sir...do you think it's The Brotherhood? Are they back?” Clara asked, a hint of anxiety detectable in her voice.

“It's impossible to tell any insignia from the details here...but it's a possibility. However, I wouldn’t jump to conclusions just yet. But I’ll need to report it to the Director right away. She’ll want to be informed.”

[Crimson Paladin]

Head Scribe Wainwright, Vault 0

A pre-war IFV bearing the Brotherhood of Steel insignia approached the heavily guarded entrance to Vault 0. After passing through the security checkpoints, it rolled to a stop at the vault's massive doors.

"We've arrived at our destination, sir," the driver spoke to his passengers, consisting of Head Scribe Wainwright, a power armored paladin, and two knights. While you're meeting with the High Elder, we'll be refilling our coolant tank for the return trip."

The ghoulified Head Scribe was grateful to be out of that cramped, uncomfortable vehicle. The trip had taken several hours, and Wainwright was a bit miffed at having been abruptly pulled from his duties at Buena Vista to come here in person.

Wainwright made his way into the vault, and was guided by a Paladin to the war room. Normally the High Elder would've just communicated with him over the radio, so whatever Renald wanted to talk about must be pretty important if he insisted on doing it face-to-face. Or in Wainwright's case, face-to-faceplate. Given the timing, the most likely subject of the meeting would be the alliance with Caesar's Legion, and it'd probably cover subject matter that Renald didn't want Legion spies to overhear.

"Good to see you made it without trouble, Head Scribe," Renald greeted the ghoul as he walked through the doorway. "Have a seat, there is much I wish to discuss with you."

Wainwright sat down at the table. He couldn't help but notice a large pile of papers and photographs lying in front of the High Elder.

"Might I ask what all this paperwork is about, High Elder?" he asked, curious.

"Inquisition reports about an ongoing inter-tribe conflict," Renald answered with a sigh. "Some of these Colorado tribes have feuds going back decades from before they became Brotherhood vassals, and this bad blood sometimes erupts to the surface. Two particular tribes have been going at it pretty badly, with tensions boiling over recently. Several injuries, a few deaths, and destruction of Brotherhood property. It's gotten so bad that I've decided to post an Inquisition squad in each tribe's land. If it doesn't deter them, we'll at least have someone on hand to root out the guilty parties in this mess."

"And once you identify the people responsible, what then?"

"It depends," the High Elder answered, picking up a black-and-white photograph. "If it's merely a few select troublemakers inciting this, we'll have them arrested and tried. The guilty are punished and the rest of them will be reminded that they follow the same laws as everyone else. If this is a more deeply rooted problem, if a significant proportion of the tribes are involved in this, I'll have no choice but to increase the conscription tithe on the offending tribe for the foreseeable future. There'll be fewer able-bodied men and women to cause trouble, and it'll send a message that conflict among Brotherhood subjects will not be tolerated."

"You could simply cut off their access to Brotherhood technology," Wainwright suggested. "As primitive as they are, their quality of life would drop without access to mundane technological amenities like tractors and antibiotics."

"I do not think that would be a good idea, Head Scribe," Renald rebuked his subordinate. "Tribals are proud, resilient people; if we cut them off, they will adapt to the lack of technology, shaking their dependence on us and giving them an incentive to break off their vassalage. The last thing we want is a tribe going independent or defecting to the Legion. But I didn't summon you here to discuss such minor matters of governance. What I actually want to discuss with you is the Legion, and the deal we have struck with them."

"Very well, High Elder," Wainwright spoke, leaning forward in his chair. "If I may ask, sir, how do you feel about this alliance that we've made with the Legion?"

The High Elder sat in silent contemplation for half a minute before giving his answer.

"I'm cautiously optimistic about it. They played up the threat of the NCR to us, but they're not lying that California is a force to be reckoned with. Compared to the Legion, the NCR is more populated, more technologically advanced, and has more infrastructure. Their military has extensive combat experience against both high-tech and low-tech foes, and I've heard rumors that they have access to captured Enclave aircraft. On the other hand, for all their vast resources and military experience, they've got one major limitation: the power of their subjects. They can only commit their forces in military campaigns so long as the citizenry enables it. I'm hoping that our Mojave expedition will be able to shed some light on the NCR's failed Mojave campaign, as well as the similarly ill-fated efforts of the Legion to annex that region."

"I wouldn't underestimate the ability of a republic to spur its citizens to support prolonged military operations," Wainwright advised. "The old United States was able to continue fighting wars on multiple fronts over a decade, and the NCR has shown its resolve in its war against the western Brotherhood. I must admit I'm a bit curious as to what motivates their citizens to push a war for so long."

"That is another question that I hope that the Mojave expedition will be able to produce a suitable answer to," Renald admitted. "If I had to wager a guess, however, I'd say spoils. If the Legion is telling the truth, the NCR has been winning its war with the western Brotherhood of Steel, which means that the conflict will have been yielding a steady influx of the technology that the western elders spent two centuries collecting and hoarding in their bunkers. As long as the war brings such spoils, the citizenry will continue to support it until the well dries up, so to speak."

"I have to ask, High Elder, do you trust the Legion?" the scribe asked. "They don't exactly have a sterling reputation for upholding their word."

The Elder paused for a few moments before answering. Wainwright wasn't sure if Renald was contemplating an answer or scrutinizing him for asking such a blunt question. After what seemed an eternity, Renald gave his reply.

"No. I do not trust them. At least not completely." he answered. "Our nations share many similarities- we both have a strong warrior spirit, we both conscript tribals to fill our ranks, we both utilize crucifixion to punish criminals and warn their fellows, but if they have any honor, it is nothing like the concept that the Brotherhood of Steel upholds. The Legion only honors its word so as long as there is to be more to gained by keeping it than by breaking it, and will commit any atrocity if it furthers their goals, including the destruction of the very tribes that they subjugate."

"From what I've heard over the years, the NCR isn't any different in that regard," replied the scribe. "If you have something they want, they take it by force, any previous promises be damned. Even if you can find an honest politician among them and secure a promise worth anything, their fellows will overrule it, and their successor will not be bound by it."

"That's true, Head Scribe. The NCR isn't known to keep its word, but their penchant for conscious treachery pales compared to what the Legion is capable of," spoke Renald. "In a way, it's like that flag of theirs: befriending one head won't stop the other head from devouring you, and both heads will be nourished by the meal. With the Legion, however, the same man who gives you his word will be drawing up possible plans to break it even as he shakes your hand."

Still," he continued, "The Legion isn't needlessly treacherous, and Caesar is no fool. As long as the NCR possesses the strength to stand against them, the Legion won't risk a two-front war. Our goal is the preservation of our brothers and sisters in the west, not fighting the Legion's war of conquest. As long as we stay true to that goal, we'll be able to stay true to the Brotherhood of Steel's mission. Speaking of which, I have an important assignment for you. We're concerned about the haywire pre-war facility that the Legion has uncovered in Denver, and I want the Brotherhood's best, most physically resilient scribe heading the efforts to ensure this threat is dealt with."

"I wouldn't be so bold as to say I was the most resilient," the scribe humbly spoke. "That honor most likely belongs to Scribe Percy."

"I suppose that argument could be advanced, but he's currently lending his expertise to the Commonwealth Expedition, and he has much less of a scribe's background than you do, so this honor will be yours," Renald stated.

"I am...honored," Wainwright spoke, apprehensive about this mission but unable to admit it. He was thankful that his facial expressions could not be seen behind his suit's faceplate.

"Excellent," the elder commended him. "Speak to the Paladin-Commander outside for your briefing. Dismissed. Oh, and scribe? I must admit I envy you, being able to take part in a conflict against a malfunctioning pre-war intelligence just as the Warrior and Barnaky once did."

Wainwright couldn't deny it was an honor by Brotherhood standards, but following in Barnaky's footsteps was not something he had any desire to do. As much trouble as his ghoulified, radiation-steeped body could be, he would very much prefer to keep his brain inside of it.