Cymbeline90

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Sister Genetta Williams – Followers of the Apocalypse – Morning, November 20th

The rocking movement of the caravan almost lulled Genetta to sleep, as always. The heat of the sun and the steady motion took her back to her childhood. She remembered the comfort of friends and kin huddled around warm campfires at night. Fire had seemed like magic to a little girl, an alchemical trick of orange flame and eerie shadow, fed by her father’s ministrations.

“Atom’s gift,” her father had called it. “By day a column of smoke, by night a pillar of fire. He sent forth his messenger, a great whirlwind of flame, to lead his people through the wilderness.”

They had eked out a living in the radiation-blighted wilderness, sheltering within their circled caravans from raiders, mutants and tribals. Behind her father, rising from the night horizon into the sky, was the blazing Vegas skyline, always casting its neon shadow over them.

“They ate and they drank,” her father proclaimed, “they built their towers and were exceedingly wicked. And atomic fire and plutonic brimstone was rained down upon them. Babylon, the glory of cities, shall be ashes, even as the cities of the plain. We are all that remains of the Old World. We have been as firebrands snatched out of Atom’s fire - but still we have not returned to him!”

A shout from the forward caravan brought Genetta back to the present.

“We’re coming up to the outpost!” yelled Scuppy. “Must be them Vault folk. Ain’t no other civilisation hereabouts for some ways.”

A couple of the Kings bodyguards riding with Genetta tittered. Dash, a well-intentioned young man who could be a little brash, nudged his buddy Clive.

“Hey Clive,” Dash said, “you heard the rumours about these folks? Somethin’ don’t add up about a Vault handin’ out free stuff. What do you suppose is wrong with ‘em? Five caps says Vault-Tec turned them into super mutants. Half-giant ant, half-ghoul super mutants, brainwashed to fight the Red Chinese.”

“Nuh-uh,” Clive replied, “that don’t make a lick of sense. I reckon they’re maneaters. All that food they provided to Freeside? You ever hear of a Vault sharing its food like that? Like as not, they’ll lure us up there and then we’ll find out all their pies is made of people, only by then it’ll be too late ‘cos they’ll have pushed us into a skillet and turned us into waffles.”

“Now you’re the one talkin’ nonsense. Every knows the -” Dash lowered his voice - “White Gloves have cornered the market on the Devil’s bacon around these parts. They ain’t about to let no Vault compete with them. Slim Johnson told me he saw one of those Vault fellers get wet in the rain, and the feller blew a fuse and sparks came out. Slim says they’re all synths from the Commonwealth, here to steal our faces and memories so’s they can infiltrate Vegas.”

“Slim Johnson couldn’t find his ass with a gotdamn Satellite Assisted Tracking module–”

“Boys,” Genetta interrupted in a low voice, “please mind your tongue when we get near these folks! I know y’all ain’t Followers, but when you’re escortin’ a sensitive mission like this, you gotta abide by our protocols. This ain’t a true first contact, because the Vault’s already reached out to various parties in Vegas. But we know they have superior technology and firepower, and resources to spare. We have to be careful not to negatively influence their perception of the outside world. Please be on your best behaviour.”

“Yes’m, Miss Genetta.”

“Sorry, Miss Genetta. Won’t happen again.”

The caravans pulled up a little ways from the Vault outpost, so as not to alarm anyone. The settlement appeared small and low-tech, but it was safe to assume the Vault dwellers had been tracking the Followers’ approach for a while - at least, they had the equipment to do so. The outpost’s location and its use of supply lines to send goods to Vegas meant that it was likely accustomed to trade caravans. It never hurt to be cautious when intruding on someone else’s turf, though.

Genetta, another researcher, and the two Kings bodyguards broke off from the main group. Genetta flipped a switch on the small recorder at her belt.

“This is Genetta Williams. We are now approaching the public outpost of the Vault-dwellers identifying themselves as the Pinochle Expedition. This is the first organised contact from the Followers of the Apocalypse. Our primary objective is to establish friendly relations. Given time, and the cooperation of the Vault-dwellers, our secondary objective is to study and document their society. If their values are compatible with ours, we may be able to form a mutually beneficial alliance.”

With Genetta leading the way, they walked towards the Meld. Their boots crunched over sand and undergrowth.

“The hairs are stickin’ up on the back of my neck,” Clive muttered.

Genetta took a deep breath. Would she end up a data point, a result for or against the Followers’ belief in the fundamental goodness of humanity?

She stepped across the threshold.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Sister Genetta Williams – Aces Theater – Early Afternoon, November 13th

Genetta shifted on her stool and adjusted the microphone on the stand in front of her. Her eyes scanned the audience. Lunch hour was always a slow affair at the Aces, but Genetta had never cared about crowds. She’d never harboured illusions about being a musician, had no desire to be part of the biz. She simply loved being around music, and making it.

Tommy Torini of the Aces Theater was one of the few impresarios grounded enough to get amateur acts from the wrong side of the street up on his stage occasionally. And the Tops was the only casino in the Strip that Genetta could enter regularly without wanting to enter a decontamination chamber afterwards.

There were advantages to being in the heart of the Strip, of course. There were things Sister Genetta learned here that were useful to her mission. Many of the Followers, especially the most learned members, were antisocial, and did not care for the nightlife. Those who did enjoy nights on the town preferred Outer Vegas and Freeside. Even the few Followers who were wealthy enough to patronise the Strip found it distasteful. It represented the worst of New Vegas’ inegalitarianism.

But the Lord had commanded his disciples to take His light into dark places.

Now, Sister Genetta’s eyes scanned the half-filled room, and settled on someone she hadn’t seen around for a while. There’s a gal I need to talk to, she thought.

Genetta cleared her throat, spoke into the microphone. “I wanna thank y’all for comin’ tonight, and bein’ patient with an old preachin’ gal. I told y’all I ain’t got the best voice. I didn’t have no teacher, don’t have no natural talent. But I was raised in a home where every one of us sang. I know y’all came up to have a good time, not to hear no sermons. So I hope this rusty old voice of mine weren’t too harsh on yer ears.

“Some of y’all know that history’s a passion of mine. Seems pretty natural, I guess, since we’re livin’ in the end times. I suppose when the world’s ended, history’s all any of us have left. But it was music that really took me into other times and places.

“See, when ye learn a song, ye gotta get inside the head of the person what wrote it. You gotta find the musician’s voice. That means knowin’ the language, the story, the culture that produced that very song. There’s a whole world of history in a single lyric, the story of an entire people in one ballad.

“Now my last song for this evenin’s from long before the War. Like all the best songs, it’s both specific and universal. It’s about a man what left his home, because his people were bein’ persecuted there. Some folks says that in one of the Republic’s many other wars, before the Great War, the Nation was divided over the right to keep slaves.

“Anyhow, we may not understand how it was to live back then. But many of us folks know how it feels to be forced to flee our homes. And go someplace that may not see you as a citizen. Maybe too many of us know how it feels to grow up someplace that you still love, though it ain’t never loved you back.”

Genetta plucked her guitar strings, finding the right key, and hummed, aligning her voice with the tone. Then she began a rendition of Alabama Blues.

When she had finished, to warm applause from the crowd (more for her spirit and emotion than her technical skill, she knew), she bowed and made her exit. After packing up backstage, she moseyed up to the bar. The bartender was kind enough to do mocktails especially for her, knowing how sparingly she drank. He placed two tall glasses before her, and waved away her caps despite her protests. She knocked back the California Cream, then grabbed the Vermont Cooler, and headed in pursuit of the woman she’d spotted from onstage.

Rosalie Clairvaux was one of Vegas’ more put-together victims. She remained dazzling and elegantly turned out. Today she was draped in a slightly faded green cocktail dress, her chestnut-brown locks pinned up in a chic beehive. Chips of emerald glass flashed from her ears, and a dark stole hugged her shoulders.

“Good day, Rosalie,” Genetta said. “My, it’s been a while. How you been keepin’?”

“Oh, Gennie!” Rosalie said, giving Genetta a hug and a peck on the cheek. “I’m keeping well, thank you, darling.”

And she did look well. Only some of the Followers knew of Rosalie’s struggle with addictions - habits fed by various of her wastrel boyfriends. She must have been keeping clean. Genetta had not seen her down at the soup kitchens for a long time.

“Say, Gennie,” Rosalie went on, “there’s something I just have to tell you. Are you still a demon for Old World artifacts, and wild savages, and old books and all that?”

“Yes,” said Gennie, smiling. “I most certainly am.”

“Well, have I got a scoop for you! Remember how surprised we all were when the –” Rosalie’s pretty face wrinkled with revulsion at the prospect of having to say the word Omerta – “... when certain of the Families discovered charity? I mean when they began helping with the relief efforts in the neighbourhoods they’d been poisoning?”

“Oh, yes,” said Genetta. “I’m still wonderin’ about that. Not that we can afford to look a gift Brahmin in the mouth.”

“Well, you must have heard all these rumours floating around about a new Vault being discovered? It turns out that a substantial part of the food being donated comes from them. So they must have food to burn, and some kind of philanthropic streak in their tribe. Maybe. And they have an official outpost not far from here, in the Northern Passage!”

“I had heard a whisper or two to that effect,” Genetta said. “But with the floodin’ an’ all goin’ on, I’ve had no chance to follow any of it up. But you say they were sendin’ food to the kitchens?”

“I absolutely guarantee it! I heard it from three different high-ranking NCR men at soirees I attended. The NCR hasn’t officially recognised them yet. But I do know they sent some kind of delegation to the ambassador. And… here’s the thing that worries me. Word is, they sent some kind of message with gifts to Gomorrah… and the Omertas.”

Gennie froze. “Oh, Rosie… if this is true? A newly open Vault, with resources to spare… all that Old World technology... "

And they’ve actually shown some willingness to share with the Wasteland! They’ve shown no sign yet of the extreme xenophobia and selfishness most Vault dwellers display. But some Vault civilisations are extremely naive, with no experience of the outside world, or bizarre cultural beliefs making them vulnerable to corruption. If they’re allying with the Omertas… or even the NCR… And the Followers haven’t had a chance to understand them or liaise with them yet… I gotta make this a priority!

Sister Genetta stopped just long enough to confirm the rough location of the Meld, kissed Rosalie on the cheek, then grabbed her guitar and was on her way.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Followers Holotape Archives, Maximum Security Clearance.


Jakobov, A. April, 2282.

Begin playback

“This is Andrei Jakobov, Camp McCarran. Opening case file on Patient X, an NCR private admitted to infirmary three days ago. Patient symptoms consistent with pneumonia.

“I’m worried about the patient’s outlook. He’s deteriorating slowly but steadily. Based on interview and previous medical file, this is a young and healthy soldier.

“The NCR hasn’t left me much in the way of supplies. The Fiends cleared this place of any useful chems. Unrest in Vegas is occupying the top brass’ attention. Most of the Followers left the camp during the riots. I’m one of the few remaining here. We’ve had little news.

“I asked the patient about his previous whereabouts and was fobbed off. NCR medical and military personnel were also cagey. They’re usually helpful. Everyone insists the Fiends probably left some pathogen behind in the camp, maybe even deliberately. Evidence of heavy drug use was present everywhere in the camp when I got here… it’s likely many of the Fiends suffer from immune suppression, making them vulnerable to long-term opportunistic infection. Given their high mortality and short life expectancies, and constant exposure to deadly combat, they don’t seem to have developed anything beyond basic medical care.

“I suppose with their lack of concern for hygiene, the Fiends would make an ideal population for new pathogens to emerge from… but the NCR cleared Camp McCarran almost three months ago. I haven’t seen any sign of unusual illness, until this young man, three days ago. Something doesn’t add up.

“Given the respiratory symptoms, this could be an airborne illness. Patient X was placed in the corner of the infirmary reserved for respiratory diseases. We are attempting to ventilate the room, and medical staff have followed my requests to practice containment measures. It’s impossible to quarantine in a camp like this, though. The troops were celebrating day and night after retaking the camp. Then news came back about the Freeside riots. Were there actual riots? We don't know how many civilians or soldiers were killed. Some of the troops are angry and confused. They’ve been arguing with each other. Morale is low.

“The last thing anyone gives a shit about is locking down the hospital bay, even if we could. I tried not to push the issue too much. A lot of Followers were involved in the riots. That’s what I’ve gathered, anyway. No one tells me anything, but the uniforms have their own lines of communication. I’ve seen groups of soldiers giving me funny looks once or twice, and breaking off their conversations when I get near. I don’t think they want to take orders from me.

“I just hope no one blames me if this kid dies. All I can do is lower his fever for now and try to ease the cough enough for him to breathe. I’ve been trying to borrow imaging equipment from those assholes at the OSI, but Hildern is saying no just to spite me.

"I’m trying to impress upon him that I need to know what I’m dealing with. The more I emphasise how dangerous an airborne pathogen could be, the more he shuts me down. He’s been avoiding me for days. I’m going to speak to Angela… Dr Williams, again. I can see she wants to help, but Hildern has her under his thumb.

"Oh well. Service to one's fellow man is life's highest calling and all that. Jakobov out."

Playback ends

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Herb Fernandez – Freeside – Evening, October 17th

That evening, they met in the old tin shack which served as a makeshift All Faiths chapel, one patronised by the Followers. There were many places of worship in Freeside, as there had been in Eastside before the Green. Many more than in the Strip itself.

The Strip had its own religion. Worship was confined strictly to the goddesses of Fortune and Desire, and their brother, the god of Commerce. The genius of Vegas was its construction of the casino, a temple in which all three divines could be propitiated at once, in rites which would put the decadence of the Old World to shame. Their High Priest, Mr House, had anointed the Three Families as his chosen people, and given them the Strip to rule over in his name. Each of them enforced his Law with a terrible vengeance - or at least they had until recently.

Mr House had been even more silent than usual, ever since Caesar’s Legion had departed. No loudspeakers thundered the decrees of the city’s Architect from on high. None dared voice the blasphemous thought that the Lucky 38 might now be empty, that the Throne of Vegas stood abandoned by its Maker. At least not out loud, and not while legions of heavily armed Securitrons hovered over the Strip, ready to visit their creator’s wrath upon his enemies, with machine gun fire and lasers, more terrible than swords flashing lightning, and whirlwinds of flame.

This particular All Faiths chapel was different from most. Herb had chosen it as a meeting place because its chaplain, Brother Marsilio, was sympathetic to Herb’s aims. Brother Marsilio believed that religion was the opiate of the masses, and that the same poverty and desperation which made Freesiders vulnerable to chems pushed by the Omertas, made them vulnerable to subtler poisons peddled by preachers and prophets.

“Never trust a pastor who teaches you to quietly endure the suffering of this world, for hope of something better in the Hereafter,” he would say to his flock. “Who benefits from such an attitude? Who benefits from conditioning you to be slaves, and to meekly obey your masters? If such a preacher isn’t in the pocket of Mr House, he may as well be. It wasn’t the plan of an omniscient, Divine Will which designed Vegas. This city was designed by wealthy men for their own benefit, not yours.”

Brother Marsilio was away now, ministering to the poor and sick. He had turned the space over to Herb, whom he trusted. And now Herb and his associates sat in a circle in the center of the floor, speaking of a different kind of judgement, a different kind of balm for the spirit, from that offered by spiritualists and believers in afterlives.

“Did you get Alphonse to change his tune?” Herb asked.

The question was addressed to Ralph Granger, a brawny man in the shirt, suspenders and cap worn by a particular class of workers in Freeside. Troublemakers, the Families called them.

Vegas was a city which ran on an illusion: that everyone could be rich and glamorous, or at least rent the experience for a time. Everyone came to Vegas with something precious to gamble with: caps, beauty, luck, youth, or musical talent. The city made their dreams come true, provided they worked hard, had faith, played their cards right, and cultivated the right attitude.

Even the poorest in Vegas desired to be cool. They spent what little they had imitating the fashions of their superiors, and if they couldn’t afford the clothes, the shows, or the status symbols, they still had the swagger, they spoke the right jive, they instinctively knew what was hip and what wasn’t.

The poorest beggar in Freeside was prouder than a wealthy Brahmin baron from out in the sticks. A Freesider could look at two men in rags and know which was a tourist, and which a local. The Freesider’s clothes might be just as poor, or poorer, but he wore his grimy, torn outfit with… razzle dazzle. That couldn’t be bought by any outsider.

In many ways, the city was a microcosm of the Old Republic’s promise. A promise that anyone could make it if they had the right stuff. Consequently, if you didn’t make it, you didn’t have the right stuff, and you had only yourself to blame.

There were some in Freeside who didn’t dress in the cast-offs of the wealthy, however. These were workers who did not consider themselves temporarily embarrassed millionaires, one roll away from their big break. These people dressed like workers who had the audacity to take pride in being working men. Their fashions were derived from the materials worn by caravan hands, porters and craftsmen. Their pants were of thick, durable fabrics originally designed to absorb sweat and stains. Their plain white shirts were woven to wick sweat and dirt away from those who moved heavy goods or bent at their work all day.

These were troublemakers. Of course, there were lots of poor people in Vegas, but they mostly had the decency to be ashamed of their situation, understanding that it was a personal failing. Those who did not desire to be rich, or worse, to even look rich, were not Vegas material. They did not buy into the Dream. More dangerous still, they made others lose faith in the Dream, wanting everyone to be as miserable as them.

Ralph Granger was one of these Red-sympathising, anti-social types. He paused to take a puff of his cigarette before replying to Herb.

“Alphonse,” he said, “is like a Brahmin whose two heads can’t agree. But he’s more amenable to workin’ with us now. I wouldn’t rely on him for strong support. But he’d be happy to put pressure on our NCR friends.”

Edith Summerton, a motherly looking woman in a neat but plain frock, spoke up. “You got Alphonse on side? How on Earth did you pull that off, Ralph?”

Ralph shrugged. “I can’t take credit for it. Alphonse genuinely cares about the welfare of his boys and girls, I’ll give ‘im that much. See, what you know full well, Edith, is that much as the NCR ‘as done to screw us over, a lot of folks see them as an improvement over the Families and Mr House. And they probably ain’t wrong.

“Lots of Alphonse’s people work in the Strip. Sure, they ain’t allowed to live there, or go in the front doors of the casinos. And a lot of them had families what was caught up in the Riots. But a lot of them was in the Strip when the worst of the fightin’ broke out. And since they was in Strip territory, workin’ in the casinos or under the protection of the Families, they escaped the brunt of the NCR assault.

“See, the trouble we all have with the Families is that they ain’t too keen on people beneath their station. Ain’t got no clue why they consider us beneath them - we’ve all heard the rumours. They was mostly swampfolk, or tribals, or cannibals, before Mr House showed up and put ‘em in sharp suits.

“Anyway, they’re happy for our boys and girls to do all the dirty jobs in the Strip, provided they stay in the kitchens and back alleys and don’t show their faces in front of them fancy folks. But the Families ain’t never let us organise. They never let us demand higher wages. We tried it a few times, and they made it clear the only way to terminate one of their contracts is at the business end of a bullet.

“So Alphonse, and a lot of folks like him, are thinkin’ the NCR is the lesser of two evils. They got laws in the NCR. Sometimes they even enforce ‘em. They got Merchant Houses. They got tradespeople, and Congressmen who are meant to stand up for ordinary folks occasionally. They certainly ain’t like Mr House, who gives the Families a free hand in doin’ whatever the hell they please to us.”

“Alphonse is thinkin’, if the NCR comes, maybe things’ll get better. And a lot of workin’ folks are thinkin’ the same.”

“And what changed his mind?” Herb asked.

The cigarette went back into Ralph’s mouth. He took a long pull, as if drawing strength from it, and then exhaled a billow of smoke as though expelling a bad memory.

“The fuckin’ Green changed it. All these people displaced from Westside and the surroundin’ areas – well, we could deal with that. At least they was from New Vegas. But this was on top of the drought, which brought all those goddamn NCR refugees. And then the Green kept spreadin’, and the NCR folks kept comin’ and comin’. Heck, you walk down a Freeside street these days and half the time you won’t hear goddamn Mojave accent.

“What the f–beggin’ your pardon, Edith – what the hell has the NCR done for these folks? Nothin’, that’s what. Yeah, I know Denver and his army have protected them from bandits, helped settle ‘em in available land - Mojave land, by the way. And this is the same goddamn army that tore up Freeside not long back. But here’s the thing, there are things an army can’t do. Can’t feed folks, educate their kids, teach them to farm or practice a trade, treat their medical conditions. So who’s been doin’ all that?

“The Followers, that’s who. One of the many reasons a lot of us have begun to question our leadership.

“Well, it turns out that if you dump a shi–a crapton of desperate refugees in an area over 5 years, that has an effect on the labour market. So now Alphonse and his boys – who couldn’t form a guild to represent themselves, because the Families believe they have a monopoly on organised crime in this city— are facin’ a situation. Turns out the Families would rather employ some desperate NCR asshole who’ll work for a tenth of the price and thank them for it. And these assholes are being protected by Denver, which we ain’t got the benefit of. All we got is the Followers— but they don’t turn the NCR folks away either, so the NCR folks are sucklin’ at both titt– at both ends of the bottle, if you’ll excuse the expression.”

Herb nodded. “So Alphonse is ready to work with us? To put pressure on the NCR?”

“Yeah. The fact is, the NCR wants to tax the hell out of this place, when we’ve been hosting their frickin’ parasites for years, at our own expense. If we’ll back Alphonse, he’s ready to demand the NCR will pass minimum wage legislation to stop their folks undercuttin’ our standard of livin’. Plus he wants them to guarantee the right to organised labour, and protection from retaliation by the families.”

Edith scoffed. “The NCR will never agree to that.”

Herb smiled. “Then the workers will know who to blame for their living conditions going to hell. And they’ll know where to direct their displeasure. I’m sure they’ll find a way to make their voices heard. Mr Ben Watts wanted this post. He can have everything that comes with it. If he thought it was all fine dining and champagne on the Strip, let’s show him the other side of this fine city.”

“There’s another point that occurs to me,” Edith said. “On the subject of the Followers’ leadership. We have quite a dominant pro-NCR faction in Vegas. I’m thinking of young doctor in particular.”

“Oh, don’t worry about Chez Nathan,” Herb said. “He’s been called upon to put his money where his politics is. The timing is quite fortuitous. He and some of his flunkies are going away to meet the good Colonel Abernathy. Judging by what happened the last few times the 3rd battalion rounded up some of our doctors for a friendly chat… I’d say that’ll give us plenty of time to put things in motion without interference from that quarter.”

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Chez Nathan – I-15 – Early Afternoon, October 17th

The wind ruffled Chez’s hair as the carts trundled along the highway, wheels clattering against potholes in the road now and again.

He sat by the canvas opening in the rear, staring at the road. He had watched until New Vegas faded into the distance - at least the city proper, not its garish high towers, which reared into the sky like monuments to man’s hubris.

How apt, he thought. Here I am, being carried towards the future by other people, staring back at the way we came. I got them Old World Blues, sure enough.

He could have made the trip more quickly riding one of the horses the Followers had offered him - anything involving the 3rd Battalion’s officers was a priority, and Chez was senior enough to access almost any of the Followers’ resources - but he’d never been that comfortable on horseback. Besides, the prospect of riding into one of Denver’s bases on his own spooked him more than he cared to admit to himself.

Once he’d indicated his wish to bring a few bodyguards and medics, it had made sense for them to requisition a couple of carts. It wasn’t an unreasonable request – the roads had generally become safer wherever Denver’s men patrolled, especially near settlements, but more remote stretches were always risky. Chez was now one of the higher-ranking members of an organisation that shunned ranks, and sending a small team to protect him as well as indicate his importance had been Julie Farkas’ intention to begin with.

Chez thought, And if they also make me feel safer around Denver’s soldiers, so much the better.

The mid-October weather was pleasant: not oppressive, but warm enough that he could feel heat wafting from the bitumen’s surface like heat from a clay oven. Waves shimmered off the plains in the distance. Much as Chez thought himself a city boy, much as he loved the colour and character of Vegas’ concrete jungles, he could see the appeal of the desert on days like this. Just a road, stretching pure and clean into the distance, the wind at your back, blue sky above.

He missed having Ronnie beside him, though he knew the Followers who accompanied him were just as deadly as the Kings’ best men. It was too risky taking their Kings guards into an NCR military base, too likely to spark altercations on either side. The Followers had also lost many people in the Freeside riots, but officially they were neutral. They were always neutral.

For though I be free from all men, yet have I made myself servant unto all, that I might gain the more… I am made all things to all men, that I might by all means save some.

“Cap for your thoughts, Dr Nathan.”

The speaker was Beth Jansen, a farm girl turned combat medic. Chez had worked with her occasionally on both medical rounds and aid shifts, and he always appreciated her presence. She was respectful without being self-deprecating, did her job efficiently, and somehow remained cheerful and kind to both co-workers and the people she helped, regardless of how much stress they were under.

Chez smiled. “It’s Dr Nathan now, is it, Dr Jansen?”

“All right, I’ll drop your title if you’ll drop mine.”

“Agreed. And my thoughts aren’t worth a cap, I’m afraid. Just enjoying the big open space of the road, and trying to make the space between my ears just as empty.”

“Judging by your face, you ain’t doing too good a job.”

Chez smiled. “All right, you got me.” Concealing his emotions had always been difficult - another reason he always thought he’d make a terrible diplomat. The Followers had always believed in promoting people with expertise, even if they lacked political acumen. The idea that leaders could create effective change by explaining all the facts very clearly, being honest and direct, and fostering an open exchange of information in order to build consensus, was another one of the Followers’ quirks. Despite their scientific bent, there were some hypotheses that died hard with the Followers - mostly those connected to the fundamental goodness of human beings. They had countless data showing that selfish, amoral sociopaths performed well in politics, but they refused to give this up.

“I’m stressed, Beth. I don’t know what the military wants with us, but I don’t think it’s to sit down and discuss alleviating poverty and recycling sewage.”

Beth exhaled slowly. “I’m glad to hear you say that. A lot of folks think you’re too trusting with the NCR. I’ve worked with you, Chez, I know you’re not stupid.”

“But you’re wondering why I’ve taken a stupid stance on the NCR?”

“No! I’m the last person who thinks that. I understand the logic of your position precisely. That’s why I’m behind you. I’ve seen you work on patients, I’ve seen you at triage. You know when to take the soft approach, and when to slash and burn. You’re trying to heal the rift between us and the NCR, while Lettie wants to amputate completely. I trust your judgement.”

“I’m not sure you should. Medical decisions are one thing. I can say that I’m confident in my diagnoses. Politics is a different beast. It’s not my area of expertise.”

“Don’t put yourself down,” said Beth. “Listen, I grew up on a bighorn ranch. My folks knew a whole lot about farming and how to live a decent, clean life. They didn’t know about much else, and they didn’t care to. So when I joined up with the Followers and decided I wanted to do medicine, I had to learn everything from scratch. I know how huge the gaps in my knowledge were.

"I didn’t have a dad like yours. He didn’t just teach you medicine. You had access to his whole library, and it all went into your brain, Chez. You may not think you’ve been using it, but trust me, I’ve seen it in practice. When you speak, when you form opinions, when you explain something, I hear the wisdom of the Old World. That’s not something a lot of folks have, not even in the NCR.”

“Well, that is gratifying to hear. But there’s theory, and then there’s real-world experience--”

“Listen to me. Since we got to Freeside, we’ve almost been wiped out by the NCR. We rebuilt our alliance with the Kings. We’ve negotiated contracts with merchants and trade caravans, we’ve bribed and begged to stay on the good side of the Families, or at least stop them from taking an unhealthy interest in us. We’ve managed to build community, train and educate people, even work with the NCR. All while managing the dissension in our own ranks.

"You think you don’t have political experience? Anyone who’s stayed alive in Vegas as long as we have has taken a crash course in politics, Chez. We weren’t just practicing medicine or education or science all those years, we were learning how to negotiate our own survival. And you were there every step of the way. Hell, you were even leading us half the time -- leading from behind, in your own way, not trying to convince anyone else, but just being yourself. And you had no idea how much other people looked to you for guidance, even when you were just minding your own business.”

Chez smiled at her again, a smile of genuine pleasure and warmth this time. “Thanks, Beth. We may be riding into Hell, but I’m glad I’ve got you at my back. And all these other good people, too.”

Beth scoffed and slid a hand down to her holster. “Riding into Hell? Baby, we live in Vegas. Hell won’t know what’s hit it.”

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Chez Nathan – New Vegas Medical Clinic – Mid-morning, Oct 17th

There was a knock at the door as Chez was finishing up with Mrs Munroe.

“I’m with a patient,” he called.

The door opened and Jerry the Punk stuck his head in, looking sheepish. “Sorry to disturb you, Chez. Lettie said this couldn’t wait. Urgent message for you from the higher ups. There’s been a communication from the 3rd infantry they want you to deal with.”

Chez sighed and shut his eyes, massaging his eyeballs. “All right, Jerry. I’ll be out as soon as I can.”

Jerry retreated, closing the door behind him.

“I’ve taken up enough of your time as it is, Doctor,” said Mrs Munroe apologetically. “I want to thank you for being so patient with me. These talks we’ve had… well, I just don’t know where else to turn. You see, I don’t really have anyone else to speak to. But we both know the issue won’t be solved until he comes in himself.”

“And you don’t think that’s likely to happen.”

“No more than when I first came to you three months ago. I can’t even raise his problem with him. He flies into a rage. He was never like this before… before his service. The man I knew would barely touch a drop of drink. He’d never raised a hand to me or the children. I didn’t think he had it in him. But the man who came back from Bitter Springs, discharged… he wasn’t the man I’d married. It’s like living with a stranger. A frightening stranger.

“Three years of risking his life, serving the NCR, and this is what they’ve given him for his loyalty. It’s been left to us to pick up the pieces, and… I just don’t know how much longer I can go on for. I don’t blame the children for walking out on us.”

“I’m going to ask you again,” Chez said. “Will you consider moving somewhere safer? We could make space for you here.”

“Oh, I couldn’t do that, Doctor. He has no one else. No one but me. I’m afraid to leave him alone, you see. The children are gone, the army abandoned him. I’m the last thing in the world he has. I couldn’t leave him now.”

“Your sense of wifely duty is admirable, Mrs Munroe. But the problem your husband has makes him a danger to himself and the people around him. You have to think about what’s best for you as well.”

“Oh no, Doctor Nathan,” Mrs Munroe said firmly, rising to her feet. “I said my vows -- in sickness and in health, for better or for worse -- and I meant them. Loyalty may not mean much to a lot of folks nowadays, but it means something with me.”

After Mrs Munroe had left, Chez sat at his desk, staring at nothing for a few moments, toying with a pencil. A peculiar numbness had stolen over him. He felt almost as though he were in an old moving picture, and the frame rate was slowing down. At times he thought he could step out of the frame, detach from the events around him, and walk… where? Into another time? Another place?

He comes into the house. He can hear the sound of his mother’s jewellery tinkling, as it always does when she’s on the move. She is never still, always working at something. From the radio, the deep, rich voice of Ella Fitzgerald is pouring into the air like honey, and his mother’s high tones are sprinkled on top like spices on one of her desserts.

‘Summertime... and the livin’ is easy...
Fish are jumpin’... and the cotton is high...
Your daddy’s rich... and your mama’s good lookin’...
So hush, little baby... don’t you cry...'

He goes to the door and sees her at the sink, stirring a big pink mixing bowl with a wooden spoon.

“Dad said Mr Stanley passed away this morning,” he says.

She turns the radio down. “I know, child. I knew before your Pa left. Knew it was coming for some time.”

“How did you know?”

“Because I saw Mr Stanley. Saw him passing by our house, sweetie, just this morning.”

“But he’s been in bed for days.”

She shakes her head, her dark curls bouncing from side to side. “I ain’t talking about his body, child. I’m talking about… something else.”

A tingle runs down his spine, and he feels a prickling, as goosebumps stand up all over his body. His mother rarely speaks about these things, and never in front of his father. It’s like there’s another side to her, something beyond his understanding, something she hides from the world. He can never predict when she will say something fantastical… but when she does, he feels a thirst, as though part of him needs to understand her in order to know himself.

‘One of these mornin’s... you’re gonna rise up singin’...
You’re gonna spread your little wings... and you’ll take to the sky...
But till that mornin’... there ain’t nothin’ gonna harm you...
With your Mama and Daddy... standin’ by...’

The door slammed as Jerry the Punk came back in, and sat across from Chez. He slid an envelope over.

“Julie Farkas wants you to handle this,” Jerry said. “Came in with an army caravan this morning.”

Chez picked the envelope up. It was heavy, official-looking, and bore the stamp of the NCR military. It was addressed to the Followers, and the return address was… Fort Golf.

There was no question of slipping away from the present moment now. He was very firmly back on solid ground.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Lettie Lawson -- North Vegas Square -- Morning, Oct 17th

The morning sun had crawled into the sky, like a trooper returning to base after a night on the Strip. By its light, the masses of people on Vegas’ outskirts could be seen, seething slowly around the city’s borders: refugees, caravanners, Followers and mercs.

Lettie had stepped back from one of the water distribution tents and was leaning against the corroded remains of a steel fence. She paused to take a sip of precious clean water, swiped the hair out of her eyes. She enjoyed the coolness of the morning breeze against her sweat-coated face, but couldn’t help thinking, I shouldn’t be working up this much of a sweat. There’s endless work to do, but the amount of energy expended in purifying this water versus the value of what I produce with my muscles… that can’t be an efficient exchange. I have to be better. Have to identify the weak points in the equation.

“Morning, Miss Lawson.”

She glanced up and saw Herb emerge from the crowd of aid workers.

“Morning, Herb.”

As he slouched into a spot beside her, Lettie looked up and out, beyond the surging crowd of people. She took in the broken-down public square, the roads radiating from it like cracked arteries from a stone heart. The husks of houses crowding the ghost highway, and beyond them the old factory and the rubble of the former industrial district. If she could look further, she knew, she would find the fragments of homesteads and the old railway tracks.

Railway tracks laid down and built by generations of labourers, following the old caravan trails. Following the lonesome roads carved by couriers and, before them, the old tribes. Lifelines into the desert, arteries which fed old Vegas, fed its rotten, bloated carcass, which consumed everything, and gave nothing back but glitz and gluttony. Railroads to nowhere, now.

Factories constructed and manned by generations of workers, toiling to build casinos they could never enter, produce goods they could never afford. Farms tended and harvested by homesteaders who would never taste the fruits of their labour.

All of them gone now, buried under piles of concrete, suffocated by the buildings they had slaved in. Incinerated by the atomic fire they’d never seen coming.

Mr House boasted, When the bombs fell, I saved the best of Vegas. I saved the city’s heart and soul.

This was the rest of it. This was… expendable.

“You look thoughtful today,” Herb said.

“I’m thinking,” said Lettie, “about the ambassador’s presence here. It deserves a response.”

“I agree,” said Herb. “But Chez and his friends are our usual point of contact with the NCR. We’d ruffle too many feathers if we acted independently of them.”

“I have no intention of interfering with the Followers’ official response to the NCR. What I’m talking about is the will of the people. Our comrades may have decided that the lives of countless Followers and Freesiders can be written off as a tactical error by the 3rd battalion. Whether the people of this city feel that way themselves…”

A change came over Herb’s face. “Of course.”

“Have you heard about the ambassador’s exploits so far?”

“That the first thing he did in Freeside was kill someone?”

“And went to the NCR stronghold to rile them up. And then he moved onto the Strip. He’s being wined and dined by the Omertas today. God knows how many years this one’ll last. It’ll be non-stop carousing, embezzling, kickbacks from here on out. The Strip gets money, independence, the ear of the NCR. Freeside gets bullets and riot control. We know the script well enough.”

“What are your intentions?”

“To remind him that Freeside exists! That we haven’t forgotten the injustice, the mistreatment, the murders. To remind him that the people are angry, and that anger doesn’t just go away when it’s beaten down by superior firepower.”

“But if the people poke the Bear…”

“I don’t want them to poke the Bear. I want the Bear to remember that it’s one apex predator. I want the Bear to remember that it can kill ten, or twenty, or thirty coyotes, but it can’t kill a hundred. Let it stay in its cave, and leave the prairie to us.”

“If Chez finds out about this-–”

“About what? The spontaneous expression of the people’s anger? This has nothing to do with us. It must be managed carefully. I have no desire to bring the anger of the NCR down on the innocent people of Freeside. But I have no desire to let the NCR think we’ve forgotten what they’ve done to us, either.

“Let the NCR see that they can’t send whatever two-cap Shady Sands political hack they feel like down here to stage a good photo-op and set up his pension fund. Let them feel the heat. I want Benny to sweat. I want him off-balance and nervous, and insecure about his bargaining position.

“But he mustn’t see enough to think we’re the primary threat. Not until it’s too late.”

Herb nodded. “I understand. It’s not difficult to hide things from a NCR politician. Not when half the job is learning to look the other way.”

“Then you know how important this is.”

“I do. Leave it with me.”

Lettie watched Herb go, melting back into the swarm of people.

One day, she thought. The Bear, big and blundering as he is, arrogant and short-sighted, confident in his power, will carelessly slip his paw into the vice. And on that day, I pray I'll be the one who springs the trap.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Chez Nathan – Tent outside New Vegas Medical Clinic – Morning, October 17th

There were twelve students in the tent that morning, ranging from ten years old to almost 60. For this meeting the desks had been pushed to the side, and Chez and his pupils sat on old mats arranged in a circle on the floor. The Followers preferred not to recreate hierarchy during lessons except when necessary.

“I’m glad to see you all again,” Chez said. “Let’s continue from where we left off last week.” He picked up a piece of chalk and drew a large circle on the slate before him, then held it up. “Does anyone want to share what they remember about cell theory?”

Tina’s hand shot into the air. She was a bright twelve year old, and she hadn’t yet lost the enthusiasm of a child. Chez dreaded the day she’d hit her teens. He’d seen so many of his students change overnight, drifting towards the bars and the excitement of the city’s nightlife.

Chez made a mental note to start sending Tina to Abby’s classes to get the talk about drugs, boys, and protection. They couldn’t stop teens from taking risks, but with a Followers’ education, a young person was less likely to fall prey to Vegas’ many dangers. At least, Chez hoped so. The city had a way of drawing so many bright young people into its glittering web, then sucking them dry and leaving only withered husks behind, like the carapaces of a spider’s victims.

“Yes,” he said, nodding at her.

“Cells,” said Tina excitedly, “are like little boxes. Everything alive is made up of cells - plants, animals, people!”

“That’s right,” said Chez.

“Now hold on a minute,” said Hank, a handyman who salvaged junk in Freeside. “There’s somethin’ queer about that. I couldn’t make sense of it the last time. Way I see it, you’re sayin’ most of the cells is made up of empty space.”

“Not quite empty,” said Chez. “There’s something important inside it.”

“Well, it ain’t solid. Now machines, they’re efficient. You wouldn’t catch them runnin’ about with a whole lotta hollow space inside ‘em. They’re full of stuff.”

“The empty space inside a cell,” said Chez, “is to make room for something very important. Not just to our body, but to everything that lives. Who can tell me: what’s the most important thing in the Mojave?”

The hand of Rick Rafferty, a picturesque 14-year-old street urchin, shot up. “Caps?” he ventured.

There goes a true child of New Vegas, thought Chez. “Not quite,” he said.

It was Old Lady Mary, who’d grown up on a Bighorn ranch, who saw it right away. “‘T’s water,” she said. “Ain’t nothin’ in the Mojave can live without it.”

“That’s right,” said Chez. “Water is the critical factor for survival in the Wasteland. Five years of drought taught us that. Water was precious even before the Great War. Now that so much of it is tainted by radiation, its value is unimaginable. It’s essential for the chemical reactions that make up life. Not only that, water in motion, harnessed by the tech of the Old World, generates the electricity that keeps New Vegas alive.”

There were murmurs of agreement from around the circle. Much of biology was not intuitive to people who lacked formal schooling. It certainly didn’t seem to the naked eye, or hand, that human flesh was made up of lots of little hollow boxes. The importance of water to life, however, was something everyone grasped.

“Next week,” said Chez, “Dr Usanagi will lend us one of her light microscopes. I’ll prepare a sample of plant tissue in front of you and fix it to a slide. You can see the structure of a plant’s wall for yourself. It’s always good to observe something directly when you can, instead of relying on second-hand reports!”

They continued with the lesson, Chez drawing and labelling the organelles and other cell components.

“Cells can teach us a lot about working together,” Chez said. “You see these things that generate energy in animal cells? The mitochondria? We can’t observe them with the equipment we own, but we have images of them from Old World scientists. The mitochondria have their own DNA. They were once separate entities from us, but they were absorbed by our ancestral cells.

"The mitochondria benefitted their hosts by making energy, and the host cells benefitted the mitochondria by sheltering them and providing favourable conditions for life. It’s a partnership that’s lasted billions of years, if you can imagine that. A similar thing happened with the tiny organelles that let plants eat sunlight - the chloroplasts.

“You know, the Followers say a human society is a lot like a cell. Each structure has its own function, and each contributes to the greater whole. In doing so, each entity gains more from cooperation with its peers than from competing against them. This illustrates the principle of mutual aid, which the Followers say is a powerful natural law. It is found at every level of nature, from tiny cells to entire ecosystems.”

Tina raised her hand again. “But the NCR don’t want to cooperate with us. They almost destroyed the Kings, and Freeside.”

Chez hesitated. “It’s important to remember that the actions of the 3rd battalion don’t represent the entire NCR,” he said. “However, it’s true that the current NCR regime in the Mojave enforces a social model which sharply conflicts with the Followers’ vision for society.

“The NCR did not create all of the Mojave’s problems. Outside of New Vegas, warring factions had by no means entered into a voluntary network of mutual relationships. Most of them were bent on destroying each other. These conflicts were only intensified by the drought. Perhaps under these conditions, we can understand why Colonel Denver felt the need to impose a Pax Californiae in a top-down fashion, backed up by military force.

“In Freeside, however, and the surrounding areas, the Followers and our allies had reached a stable social consensus… the NCR’s actions were heavy-handed and destroyed a peace which had evolved organically and sustainably. More proof that a single strategy, political or biological, will not lead to optimal outcomes in every environment. We must be prepared to adapt to changing conditions.”

Old Lady Mary asked, “And how do you propose we adapt to the NCR?”

Chez thought, we pray they don’t consume us. Or if they do, we become like the mitochondria, and make ourselves useful enough that they have to keep us around. Or else, we mutate… like Lettie wants us to do. And we become something else, something deadly enough to kill the host that ingested us.

But out loud, he said nothing.

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Chez Nathan -- New Vegas Medical Clinic

They sat across from each other at Dr Usanagi’s desk. Lettie fixed Chez with her steely blue eyes. She had always unnerved him with her intensity.

“How goes your work in New Vegas?” she asked.

“As if you don’t know,” Chez said. “You have informants everywhere. I reckon you know my business better than I do.”

“I probably do. And that should embarrass you. You’re supposed to be one of our senior members, remember? Much as you pretend to hate responsibility, you seem happy to invoke your father’s memory and your long history with the Followers when it comes to opposing me. But tell me, in your words, what you’re achieving here. I want to hear it straight from the horse’s mouth.”

“What is this, a performance review? You’re not my supervisor, Lettie. If you want inferiors to lick your boots, join the NCR or the Brotherhood. You seem to be an admirer of their ethos.”

“The NCR and the Brotherhood have a hierarchy, which at its worst devolves into tyranny. At its best, it prevents them from being overwhelmed by the inaction and short-sightedness of their least competent members. I’m beginning to suspect they will outlive us in the Mojave for that reason. We are not at our full strength here, Chez. We are one of the weakest players and the softest targets in this godforsaken desert - and that was before the NCR brought the Greenlung to infest the heart and soul of our organisation. We cannot afford to play the naive peaceniks here. You may want to roam around Freeside wearing flowers in your hair and kissing bighorn ranchers’ stubbed toes better-”

“Listen to yourself,” snapped Chez. “You’re mocking one of the oldest and most sacred missions of the Followers. ‘Into whatsoever houses I enter, I will enter to help the sick, and I will abstain from all intentional wrongdoing and harm, especially from abusing the bodies of men and women, bond or free. I swear by Apollo the Healer, by Asclepius, by Hygieia, by Panacea, and by all the gods and goddesses, making them my witnesses-”

“And have you forgotten the other core mission of the Followers? The Green is spreading. It’s driven countless refugees into our heartland - or at least whatever of our heartland is left, after Denver and the Greenlung finished with it. People say the plants are dangerous. No merc or prospector has gone into an area with substantial growth and survived. But on the outskirts, in its initial stages, the Green… is fertile. It’s almost like a rebound effect from the five years of drought. The desert is blooming, in the midst of radiation, without human toil or effort. Do you know what that means?

“Nowhere in the Mojave was fruitful without human labour or technology, not even before the War! ‘Cursed is the ground for thy sake; in sorrow shalt thou eat of it all the days of thy life; thorns also and thistles shall it bring forth to thee; by the sweat of thy brow shalt thou eat bread, till thou return unto the ground…’”

“What do you want me to do, Lettie? The Greenlung took down Camp McCarran and the Mormon Fort. It gutted the NCR’s forces here, and took our most senior members. And we weren’t even looking for it, researching it - we were trying to treat its victims! Don’t make this my problem. You haven’t convinced any of the others that we can divert manpower to this.”

“Pedro is still doing his research in Westside.”

“Good for him. Why don’t you go ask him how much progress he’s made in studying the Green. That is if it hasn’t killed him yet. I’m not sending any of my students or the new recruits we’ve made here to that death-trap. I’m in the business of saving lives, not throwing them away. Hell, why don’t you and your men go study the Green.”

“Because my people and I have another mission, one that’s equally important. We’re monitoring the political situation here in Freeside. You know, the district that you’re supposed to be in charge of? Have you reached out to our new ambassador? Have you gathered any intel on him? You’re a de facto leader of the pro-NCR appeasement Followers. Did you know that, before the ambassador got to the Strip, one of his CSF goons blew off a mercenary’s head? Did you know that he made a pitstop in the NCR enclave in Freeside, and made some noises about how the annexation is coming? He said this in front of a ragged mob of NCR folks - in Freeside!”

Chez averted his eyes. Goddamit, he had been lax in his duty. He had never wanted to be in a leadership position in the Followers. He had just wanted to live a quiet life, do some good, and enjoy the bright lights and chaos of Vegas. It was a magic city. Time never passed here. Outside in the Mojave, bombs fell, presidents got elected, armies grew and shrank -- while in Vegas, the showgirls danced, the mobsters flaunted their wealth, the high rollers spent their caps, and everyone forgot their troubles. And then one day you looked up, and the storm was upon you, and you couldn’t ignore it any more.

“You’ve certainly given me a lot to think about,” said Chez. He had never wished for this. One day, they'd lost the Old Mormon Fort, and their leadership was decimated. And suddenly, people like Lettie were talking about abandoning civilians in the Mojave, stopping their humanitarian work, and going underground. And Chez had spoken up, and he was one of the few remnants of the old guard who still believed in the Followers’ original mission. He wasn’t more competent than anyone else - he’d just survived, when so many better men and women had died. And suddenly he was responsible for a whole lot of people – when he felt like a boy who couldn’t even run his own goddamned life.

“Yeah?” said Lettie. “Well, here’s something else to think about. Someone on night shift picked up a radio transmission. You’re going to want to hear this. The whole town will know about it soon - nothing moves faster in the Mojave than hearsay.”

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Chez Nathan -- outside New Vegas Medical Clinic

“Chez?”

Chez’s head jerked up as he snapped out of his doze. He was in one of the tents set up as a waiting room for relatives and visitors to the clinic. Workers drifted in and out, while worried locals sat or leaned against the canvas walls in small groups, speaking softly to each other.

“Oh…,” Chez said, recognising the young Follower who had just approached him. “Jerry. Glad to see you.”

“You too!”

It figured that Jerry the Punk would be in the wards. Jerry was an able student, especially in the classics and arts, where his real interests lay. Unfortunately for Jerry, in the aftermath of the Old Mormon Fort’s loss, he had been forced to apply himself more to medicine and the hard sciences, to address the Followers’ shortfalls.

Recently, Jerry had been experimenting with music therapy. His attempts had been met with surprising success. Exposure to Jerry’s singing seemed to cause patients to recover and leave the wards as swiftly as possible.

“Did you hear about the new ambassador?”

“I did,” Chez replied. “That’s all anyone’s talking about.”

“They say he came into town with a CSF escort, and his bodyguard took a merc’s head clean off!”

Chez exhaled heavily. “Not a great start, is it? Especially for those of us who wanted change. It’s getting hard to hold our pro-militant comrades back. Whoever this guy is, walking into Freeside and shooting a man’s head off is not the message we wanted to hear from the capitol. This is just more proof the Republic is unable or unwilling to rein in its people in the Mojave. ”

“Speaking of which, Lettie wanted to see you.”

“Oh God.” Chez rubbed his eyes. “Where is she?”

“In Usanagi’s office.”

“All right. Catch you around, Jerry.”

Chez left the tent and threaded through the crowd of Followers and Freeside residents. Entering the clinic, he made his way to Usanagi’s office. He had already lifted one hand to knock, when he paused, listening to raised voices from within.

“... done for you what I can! There are people here in need!” That was Usanagi.

“There are people in need everywhere, Emi. And they’ll keep coming to you, and the victims at your door will flood this clinic and burn up all our resources… until we address the problem at its root.”

“I’ve already given you my answer. I joined the Followers as a doctor. I respect your right to help the Wasteland as you see fit. But I’m not joining your crusade, and I’m not giving you any more of my medical supplies. These people are civilians! They’re just trying to survive. You’re choosing to put yourself in the line of fire - I can’t prioritise you over them--”

“You’re just the same as Chez. You stand there in your white coat, refusing to get your hands dirty… thinking you’re morally superior to me. You’ll let the Mojave die at the hands of autocrats, if it means you can hide in here and play nursemaid. You’re responsible for these people’s injuries, just as much as Denver is! You’re letting these people die. You’re treating their symptoms but refusing to address the illness! Denver and his kind are a cancer in the Mojave, Emiko! The leadership is diseased and the rot is spreading. Do your duty.”

Chez pushed the door open. Lettie and Dr Usanagi were standing almost face-to-face. Usanagi’s cheeks were flushed with anger, and her chest rose and fell with each breath, but Lettie was calm, though drawn up to her full height. They both turned to look at him.

Lettie said, “Speak of the devil, and the devil appears.”

“Nice to see you too, Lettie,” said Chez.

Dr Usanagi turned and headed for the door. As she brushed past Chez, she said, “I’m done with this conversation. You speak to her,” and left the room, slamming the door behind her.