sharkbites
Ojiro Mashirao
Andronicus23Alan Sutler
The Pyramid was designed to be impressive and imposing, Sutler’s mark on the old capital’s skyline, portent of things to come, etc. Functionally, it was built to house the enormous new EnclaveNet computer system that was vital to the Sutler’s control – and indeed his own planned longevity – as-well as a defensive fortress. But when it came to governing in-person from the real world, he preferred to the former Overseer’s Office in Vault 101 with its aspirations of grandeur and faded industrial-opulence. The Vault reminded him of Raven Rock and the Oil Rig somewhat, given that Vault-Tec had been a primary contractors for both facilities.
Stepping out of the elevator into the cavernous Atrium, he and Persephone were treat to a thunderous cacophony of applause from those gathered around the catwalks and upper-levels; his Enclave, clearly distinct in their black uniforms, proportionally more invested than the blue-clad Vault Dwellers. A set of bleachers had been set up in the center of the ground-level as a stage for the choir of the Youth of America whom welcomed him.
“Hail to the Chief who arose for the Nation,
Hail to the Chief we salute him one and all.
Hail to the Chief, as we pledge cooperation.
In proud fulfillment to your great noble call.
Yours is the will to make this grand country grander.
This you will do, is our strong, firm belief.
Hail to the one who has risen as Commander.
Hail to the President. Hail to the Chief.”
He typically went by “President” with the Vault Dwellers, despite the tainted nature of the title in his own eyes; it belonged to a different era than the now and its usage made him slightly uneasy. He brought a hand out from behind his back and gave something between a salute and a wave and dredged up some memory of his dead family, and with it a paternalistic smile.
“Thank you Compatriots,” he saw most of the crowd stiffen as returned to his formal posture. “It is a blessing once again to be amongst you all here. I wish I could match this gesture with some appropriate words, alas my return is merely perfunctory and I have nothing prepared. I can merely wish you all another good, and safe, day beneath the aegis of the United States of America. America prevails, and you are dismissed.”
He had connived “America prevails” as a mantra, and it always brought him satisfaction when it was dully repeated in his wake like an amen. He had also known full-and-fine well of the greeting he would receive since it was protocol. The truth was that he did not like giving speeches, least of all ones primarily composed of platitudes; it stunk of Eden and he was not good at it in any event.
He been a somber and angry child, a soldier but not of the soldier-class. Before being KIA, his father had always told him that the new, Post-Project world, would require technicians and engineers more than soldiers – since all organized opposition would be dead. In countless other lives where he had not capitulated to his anger, he would have died a junior-rate technician in the guts of Deck 12. But it had not been to pass, and all such futures – good and ill – were buried in a pile of slag at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean; and he was still alive, somehow, as either the Enclave’s savior or it's Albatross.
As the gathered clumsily made to return to their duties he locked eyes with Susan Mack, whom blanched and remained rooted as he slowly strode across the length of the Atrium, hands firmly pressed into the small of his back.
“Susan,” he said. “Very good display.”
“Yes, very stirring sir.”
It was always odd to hear the mother of his child refer to him as “sir”, but then Persephone was the product of the Genetic Policy Unit’s algebra and an appointment with an AutoDoc. Susan was pregnant again, by whom he did not wish to know, and likely would be for the next seven years to meet quota; he had granted himself the luxury of only siring one new child. Not including multiples, sabbaticals, or other unfortunate circumstances, it is expected that a young woman could produce a platoon of half-siblings in their lifetimes – who in turn already had their future progeny prescribed. One-day such unpleasantness would no-longer be required.
“Persephone used the term “wastelander” earlier today,” he continued. “That is not in-keeping with the approved terminology. Please correct this error."
“Yes sir,” she said flatly having learned how to control her desire to glower some years ago.
“Goodbye Persephone,” Sutler said with a fatherly shoulder-pat. “I shall schedule some time with you later this week. I expect to hear all about Navarro from you."
“Yes father, I will. Goodbye and have a good day,” she smiled and followed after Susan, who was dismissed with a short nod.
He remained for a moment, watching them depart through one of the Vault's ports, before turning on his heel.
Taking his seat in the Overseer’s Office, he could resume again direct command of the nation. Besides the usual sundries of daily administration, his mind was preoccupied with a specific notion.
The Children of Atom were a lunatic cult, even by present standards, that never-the-less had the wherewithal to produce some very nasty homebrewed energy weapons, as-well as establish self-sustaining outposts across the Eastern Seaboard. They were useful in this regard, as Native-American’s had been as scouts (when not foils) for the colonizers.
Sutler had been preparing to make overtures to the Institute, who were understood to be a concealed and highly scientific establishment... they might even be Pure-Humans too. But that had been dashed when information gleamed from the Children had named “Doctor” Madison Li as their leader.
That she remained alive was bad enough and that she should prosper even worse; officially she was the highest-ranking target for the Enclave, even unofficially a close second, and most certainly the most capable of being hit. Retributive justice was seldom carried out on woman, largely on the grounds of taste as-well as practical considerations, but an exception could be made for she who was responsible for the situation that they were currently in.
Without Liberty Prime, in whose reactivation Li was responsible, the Brotherhood of Steel would not have stood a chance against the Enclave – as Adams Air Force Base had proved. Like most mainland “soldiers” they were effectively garrison troops and lacked an understanding of battlefield tactics, both the strategic and local – as far as Sutler was concerned anyway.
He had dispatched one of the former Talon Company mercenaries to Massachusetts to perform reconnaissance and had taken personal command of the affair. He’d ran the Secret Service back in the Rock and had longed for the chance to return to a line of work he found more fulfilling than the actual administration or a predominantly agricultural nation. That work had all been SIGINT however, primarily using Eyebots, since the Enclave themselves did not make good spies. It was for this reason that he’d dispatched a mainlander to do the job.
Maybe he would consign her mind to an empty cell, in a pocket universe of the Simulation World to be wiped over-and-over again… or perhaps he would just shoot her. Maybe he'd keep her alive until Persephone was ready to execute her; intimate involvement with the Enclave's greatest enemies could become a ghoulish family tradition.
The Pyramid was designed to be impressive and imposing, Sutler’s mark on the old capital’s skyline, portent of things to come, etc. Functionally, it was built to house the enormous new EnclaveNet computer system that was vital to the Sutler’s control – and indeed his own planned longevity – as-well as a defensive fortress. But when it came to governing in-person from the real world, he preferred to the former Overseer’s Office in Vault 101 with its aspirations of grandeur and faded industrial-opulence. The Vault reminded him of Raven Rock and the Oil Rig somewhat, given that Vault-Tec had been a primary contractors for both facilities.
Stepping out of the elevator into the cavernous Atrium, he and Persephone were treat to a thunderous cacophony of applause from those gathered around the catwalks and upper-levels; his Enclave, clearly distinct in their black uniforms, proportionally more invested than the blue-clad Vault Dwellers. A set of bleachers had been set up in the center of the ground-level as a stage for the choir of the Youth of America whom welcomed him.
“Hail to the Chief who arose for the Nation,
Hail to the Chief we salute him one and all.
Hail to the Chief, as we pledge cooperation.
In proud fulfillment to your great noble call.
Yours is the will to make this grand country grander.
This you will do, is our strong, firm belief.
Hail to the one who has risen as Commander.
Hail to the President. Hail to the Chief.”
He typically went by “President” with the Vault Dwellers, despite the tainted nature of the title in his own eyes; it belonged to a different era than the now and its usage made him slightly uneasy. He brought a hand out from behind his back and gave something between a salute and a wave and dredged up some memory of his dead family, and with it a paternalistic smile.
“Thank you Compatriots,” he saw most of the crowd stiffen as returned to his formal posture. “It is a blessing once again to be amongst you all here. I wish I could match this gesture with some appropriate words, alas my return is merely perfunctory and I have nothing prepared. I can merely wish you all another good, and safe, day beneath the aegis of the United States of America. America prevails, and you are dismissed.”
He had connived “America prevails” as a mantra, and it always brought him satisfaction when it was dully repeated in his wake like an amen. He had also known full-and-fine well of the greeting he would receive since it was protocol. The truth was that he did not like giving speeches, least of all ones primarily composed of platitudes; it stunk of Eden and he was not good at it in any event.
He been a somber and angry child, a soldier but not of the soldier-class. Before being KIA, his father had always told him that the new, Post-Project world, would require technicians and engineers more than soldiers – since all organized opposition would be dead. In countless other lives where he had not capitulated to his anger, he would have died a junior-rate technician in the guts of Deck 12. But it had not been to pass, and all such futures – good and ill – were buried in a pile of slag at the bottom of the Pacific Ocean; and he was still alive, somehow, as either the Enclave’s savior or it's Albatross.
As the gathered clumsily made to return to their duties he locked eyes with Susan Mack, whom blanched and remained rooted as he slowly strode across the length of the Atrium, hands firmly pressed into the small of his back.
“Susan,” he said. “Very good display.”
“Yes, very stirring sir.”
It was always odd to hear the mother of his child refer to him as “sir”, but then Persephone was the product of the Genetic Policy Unit’s algebra and an appointment with an AutoDoc. Susan was pregnant again, by whom he did not wish to know, and likely would be for the next seven years to meet quota; he had granted himself the luxury of only siring one new child. Not including multiples, sabbaticals, or other unfortunate circumstances, it is expected that a young woman could produce a platoon of half-siblings in their lifetimes – who in turn already had their future progeny prescribed. One-day such unpleasantness would no-longer be required.
“Persephone used the term “wastelander” earlier today,” he continued. “That is not in-keeping with the approved terminology. Please correct this error."
“Yes sir,” she said flatly having learned how to control her desire to glower some years ago.
“Goodbye Persephone,” Sutler said with a fatherly shoulder-pat. “I shall schedule some time with you later this week. I expect to hear all about Navarro from you."
“Yes father, I will. Goodbye and have a good day,” she smiled and followed after Susan, who was dismissed with a short nod.
He remained for a moment, watching them depart through one of the Vault's ports, before turning on his heel.
* * * * *
Taking his seat in the Overseer’s Office, he could resume again direct command of the nation. Besides the usual sundries of daily administration, his mind was preoccupied with a specific notion.
The Children of Atom were a lunatic cult, even by present standards, that never-the-less had the wherewithal to produce some very nasty homebrewed energy weapons, as-well as establish self-sustaining outposts across the Eastern Seaboard. They were useful in this regard, as Native-American’s had been as scouts (when not foils) for the colonizers.
Sutler had been preparing to make overtures to the Institute, who were understood to be a concealed and highly scientific establishment... they might even be Pure-Humans too. But that had been dashed when information gleamed from the Children had named “Doctor” Madison Li as their leader.
That she remained alive was bad enough and that she should prosper even worse; officially she was the highest-ranking target for the Enclave, even unofficially a close second, and most certainly the most capable of being hit. Retributive justice was seldom carried out on woman, largely on the grounds of taste as-well as practical considerations, but an exception could be made for she who was responsible for the situation that they were currently in.
Without Liberty Prime, in whose reactivation Li was responsible, the Brotherhood of Steel would not have stood a chance against the Enclave – as Adams Air Force Base had proved. Like most mainland “soldiers” they were effectively garrison troops and lacked an understanding of battlefield tactics, both the strategic and local – as far as Sutler was concerned anyway.
He had dispatched one of the former Talon Company mercenaries to Massachusetts to perform reconnaissance and had taken personal command of the affair. He’d ran the Secret Service back in the Rock and had longed for the chance to return to a line of work he found more fulfilling than the actual administration or a predominantly agricultural nation. That work had all been SIGINT however, primarily using Eyebots, since the Enclave themselves did not make good spies. It was for this reason that he’d dispatched a mainlander to do the job.
Maybe he would consign her mind to an empty cell, in a pocket universe of the Simulation World to be wiped over-and-over again… or perhaps he would just shoot her. Maybe he'd keep her alive until Persephone was ready to execute her; intimate involvement with the Enclave's greatest enemies could become a ghoulish family tradition.