[b]Alan Sutler[/b]

Alan Sutler opened his eyes as dim light played though the hissing gas escaping the pod. He felt himself being moved against the sound of mechanical whirring, tossing within the restraints of the Hibernation Chamber’s bed as it moved him into an upright position. He drew a first rattling breath.

The whole process was fairly sordid, and humiliating, as strong arms seized him and hoisted him onto a waiting gurney. He was left naked as tubes were removed from his nose, colostomy, and groin, and shivering before being draped into a warmed blanket. Wheeled to a nearby antechamber, he was massaged and showered, new baseline readings were taken by the attending doctor, groomed, and was permitted time alone to shakingly navigate his first true meal.

An hour after disinterment, feeling and strength returned, he moved to dress himself in a freshly pressed uniform. However, it wasn’t until he popped the sealed case that he truly began to feel himself again. His gauss pistol lay within, nestled in thick foam, and he reached out for it – running a still trembling finger across the cold surface. Nobody else had ever touched this weapon, nobody still alive anyway, and it was the oldest thing he still possessed; a constant companion and a link to another reality brought home by the worn stamps and marking of the original Control Station Enclave. He drew the weapon from its case, inserted a new atomic battery and loaded a fresh clip, before returning it to his holster.

He emerged from the antechamber to a flurry of salutes from awaiting officers.

“Welcome back Your Excellency,” the attendant said.

“Thank you Lieutenant. It’s good to be back,” Sutler replied with an appreciative nod. He looked over at the scruffy mainlander huddled against the wall of the room, biting his lip as his eyes darted between each of them.

Sutler steeled himself, shoulder-face to the man. He drew and levelled the gauss pistol in a single motion and fired a round into the man’s chest, which obliging unfurled across the wall behind him.

“Still works,” Sutler said, holstering the weapon again. “What was he?”

“A one Thomas Henrys, sir.”

“I meant his function.”

“Oh,” the lieutenant paused. “I… think he was a farmhand or something to that effect. Honourable Captain Williams bequeathed him for you.”

“Good good. I’ll have to send him regards.”

There were four tinny-sounding pips from a public address speaker.

“Attention. Attention. His Most American Excellency Alan Concord Sutler, Supreme Commander, of the United States of America Acting-President, is on deck.”

[center]* * * * *[/center]

His first port-of-call was always the same after disinterment. The sun was bright overhead, even through the sun-cheaters, and the neat grass still yellowed slightly despite their best efforts at irrigation. 

[center][i]Lucy-Annapolis Sutler, né Briggs
06-05-2231
03-05-2277
The Fourteenth Star[/i][/center]

His son Norman, and the girls' Richardine and Grace-Constance were arranged alongside. In a moment of weakness, he’d considered a more elaborate mausoleum for his family. Even disregarding the favoritism he’d decided against it. They wouldn’t have wished for such a thing and such a mawkish extravagance would only be for his own edification. Instead they were marked by simple white tombstones, identical amongst the hundreds. 

“Do I look like them?” Persephone asked, looking away from the graves.

“In so much as you look like me,” Sutler said, not looking away; she had his thin nose and slightly sunken watery blue eyes.

“I’ll take them now,” he said, accepting from her a small bundle of American flags. He leaned down in-turn at each grave, removing the sun-bleached little flag planted before each tomb and replacing it with a fresh one – as he would do again as his final act before reinternment. Finished he returned to Persephone’s side and handed her the removed flags.

“Father, there’s something on your fingers.”

Sutler peered down at his right-hand, turning it over. There were small flecks of dried blood above his knuckles, a residual reminder of the mainlander he’d shot earlier. He rubbed them away with the pad of his thumb. 

Leaving behind the graves of his family, they walked together along the path leading up to the reservoir, Sutler parading the deceased as his eyes roved across each grave.

“I trust that Susan is keeping you well?”

“Oh yes Father,” she said earnestly, looking up at him and squinting in the light from the sun; like the Enclavers themselves, the Vault-Dwellers were equally pale and unaccustomed to harsh natural light.

“And I was playing with my half-brothers and sisters earlier,” a stabbing reminder that truly nothing was sacred anymore. “And we were learning more about The War again today, how we stayed and fought at Navarro to ensure that the child…

“Arcade Gannon.”

“So that Arcade Gannon could escape in the Vertibird.”

“Do you remember the names of the others?”

“They have strange-names… like Orion, and Judah.”

“They were good people.”

“Did it all happen like that Father?”

“Well of-course, it’s all my account. You’re just reading a reiteration of my After-Action Report… reiteration it means [i]another version of[/i].”

“Oh okay,” she looked up at him every time. 

“Stop,” he said; she did so, halting to attention. He removed his sun-cheaters and placed them over her eyes; too large she held them in-place by one of the hinges.

“Thank you,” she said meekly.

The old depression into which the mainlanders had built the “Megaton” slum had been cleared years ago and replaced with a glistening pool of fresh water. Another of the many memorials was built here, this one to Augustus Autumn and all of the soldiers who had died at the Purifier. At the summit they turned and Sutler winced his eyes near shut at the dazzling sheen reflecting from the walls of the Pyramid. It still struck him each time he saw it in reality; it reminded him of the momentary awe the first time he’d truly seen Control Station Enclave with unfettered eyes from the deck of the Tanker – though that time the blinding light had come after.

“Is it true that the wastelanders eat children Father?” Persephone asked. She was staring further east, at the labour camp built around the fence-line of the small city which supported the Pyramid.

“Mainlanders,” Sutler corrected her. “And yes, [i]some [/i]of them do,” it was certainly true, since it encompassed the population of the entire world save some couple hundred people. 

“Why do you and the Officers call them mainlanders?”

“Because we’re from the sea Persephone.”

“Okay.”

“You do remember this right?” He turned to look at her. “It is very important.”

“Yes, we’re from the Oil Rig… and the Raven Rock too?”

“Yes."