Jordan looked at himself in the mirror. He had gone through these motions thousands of times, but still he felt strange preparing for a public appearance in this form. He reached into his pocket, removing the purple heart he had earned more than two centuries ago. The mutant stared at the inscription. “For Military Merit, Jordan B. Cockburne.” he muttered, before pinning it to one of his bandoliers.

Straightening his beret on his head, the man grunted as his touched the scorched scars on his face. He couldn't even remember who had caused those, when. Then, Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Report." He said to the shimmering he saw in the reflection, grinning as the nightkin clearly did not appreciate being seen despite the active stealth boy. It was a comforting thing. Jordan remembered days with the psych ward after his first dealings against Chinese stealth suits. Now his beastly eyes could truly make out the technology of subterfuge.

"Johnson and Slasher are fighting again."

"What over?"

"The sewers. Johnson is insisting we keep them as is so we can hunt the mirelurks and such while Slasher wants to clear it out for more workshops."

Cockburne groaned. "Where are they."

"Council room."

The Colonel stomped off traversing a corridor and two flights of stairs to come to the scene of the argument. The two debaters were almost nose to nose until the arrival of their commander. They saluted, their fingers touching the spot where flesh met their flat caps. Jordan was about to spew out a tirade, but then a better idea came.

"I hear you have been debating the matter of the sewers.” he stated.

A raspy “Yessir.” came from both mutants.

“Good. Healthy debate lets the army improve itself. However, you both have as many merits as flaws in your arguments.” he stated, not elaborating. “The solution is simple. Both of you are to take your divisions and march East. You will bring something to me. Whoever brings a better tribute will show that their way is correct. Understood?”

“Yessir!”

“Good.” And with that, Cockburne left. This at least would put the passion of the feud between two of his Lieutenants in the army into a productive outlet. Eventually however, a choice would have to be made, and Cockburne knew that the fact was that the tribute wouldn’t have any relation to what decision he made as to the fate of the sewers. He rubbed his forehead walking towards the balcony of the underground restaurant wherein he would make a speech to his people. The more mutants joined the army the more issues they had with one another, and Cockburne knew one day that this boil would have to be popped.

Manhattan

The view from the 107th floor never ceased to amaze her. Atop the massive steel-framed skyscraper was a prewar restaurant framed by floor-to-ceiling windows. Repaired over the years since the war, the 107th floor was where the North Tower’s residents came to eat, drink, socialize, or simply look out over the city. With a steaming cup of coffee in front of her, Sandra Napolini looked out across the city of New York. The city, roughshod and ramshackle, bore the scars of the old world’s violent conflagration. Buildings, many damaged and some toppled completely, were repaired across the cityscape with scrap or locally fabricated materials.

Even the towers that Sandra hailed from, the World Trade Center complex functioning as the beating heart of the old American economic system, had been repaired piecemeal over the centuries that passed. The war, the harsh environment, the radiation, and time’s unceasing march caused countless problems. Sandra’s mother, Helen, were among the engineers tasked with keeping the Twin Towers alive. Academically gifted with a knack for improvisation and creative thinking, these engineers were the backbone of the Towers’ settlement. Doctors served the people inside, while the engineers healed their home.

Sandra smiled pensively, thinking about how her mother taught the newest generation of engineers and maintainers: they had gone beyond the vertical fiefdom that had been carved out of the old city. Sandra, midway into her forties, had not yet been born when her mother had found the machine intelligence that lay beneath the complex. With its guidance, New York City was reborn in 2234. The last warring tribe, the stubbornly independent and holier-than-thou Staten Islanders, was conquered or bribed into submission by 2249. A community was born, with The Economist serving as its guide. It was all ancient history to her and many of her peers, who often had to endure their grandparents’ tales of scavenging and survival.

Sandra felt a familiar presence behind her: she turned to look and see an old friend standing by a window with a glass of beer. Samuel Powell, a technologist who worked with the Administration Division. In the vein of the old world, New York had come up with untold numbers of divisions and departments to neatly organize the jobs required to run a city. The Twin Towers and its surrounding buildings served as the headquarters for all of these, with branches and offices running into each of the territories that New York controlled.

“Mind if I sit here?” Samuel asked politely, motioning to a seat next to Sandra. She agreed, taking a sip of her coffee. He a facsimile of prewar office clothes, a luxury for tower residents but not one out of touch with the wasteland’s new fashion. His shirt was a dark green and his slacks black: muted colors that avoided the stains and filth that tended to accumulate on such clothes.

Sandra continued to look out the window where a storm cloud was slowly approaching from the shore. The water and the rain, while no longer wholly radioactive, had a slight greenish tint to them. She had heard of the Exploration Division’s scouts reporting similar phenomena in the Commonwealth and the Capital Wasteland. Another reminder that, no matter how hard they tried, there could be no going back to how things were before. She had never been behind the barrel of a gun pointed at a mutant, unless one counted smacking a radroach with a broomstick, but the reminders of the apocalypse were ever present.

“What’s on your mind?” Samuel asked, sensing that his old friend was deep in thought.

“The City Council has a meeting tomorrow, and they want The Economist’s input on a new plan of theirs,” Sandra said. “I’ll have to talk to him… it…”

“It’s okay,” chuckled Samuel, catching her slip. “I suppose we can call it a ‘him.’ After all, we name our boats after women. And The Economist is far more talkative than a boat. More personality, too.”

Sandra rolled her eyes, clutching her coffee in her hand. “Did people really talk like that in the old world?” she asked. The Economist, programmed to convey information like a suave fast-talking stockbroker on Wall Street, often irritated her. It didn’t help that people were already starting to imitate the accent and style, especially as the city developed its wealth and a corresponding population of affluent downtowners.

“I suppose they did. ’Nyah! See?’” he exclaimed, gesticulating wildly with his impression. He mimed picking up a telephone: “’Robco dropped their fourth quarter earnings and boy ain’t they shitty! Sell, baby, sell!’”

Sandra stifled a laugh. Samuel had been a goof since he was a kid. “I could never make it. Took a real wolf to survive back then. I’ll take the radstorms any day of the week.”

“So cavalier,” agreed Samuel, settled down from his act. “No wonder they blew themselves up.”

The crack of lightning dully rattled the glass in front of them. Raindrops started to fall on the windows. It reminded Sandra of her childhood when, on some floors, the windows were still broken or not fully sealed. The cold winter breeze cut through her when she made repairs to the tower’s structure. That had since been solved by the judicial application of epoxy. Good small tasks for the apprentice engineers.

“This meeting won’t be about another block rehabilitation or the subway,” Sandra said after a moment. Samuel cocked his head.

“The Council is doing something? We’ve been rebuilding for years, and they want to do more?”

“Well, not by choice,” Sandra said. She sighed. “Maybe it’s not the best thing to say,” she turned her head to make sure they were alone. Nobody else occupied the 107th floor at this hour, “but it’s a power issue. They want to investigate the old nuclear reactor at Indian Point.”

Indian Point, some thirty miles north of them, was the Hudson Valley’s largest atomic reactor before the war. By some coincidence, it had been spared the bombs. New York could easily have been another Glowing Sea if Indian Point was targeted like the many reactors in Western Massachusetts. It lay dormant and, more importantly, disconnected from the city. But as New York grew, material concerns manifested. Its first and foremost concern was, like the old world, electricity. Indian Point powered the old New York and was eyed as a solution for the postwar. Sandra needed to get The Economist’s input on the operation.

The AI, using millions of data points from before the war and fed into it by people like Samuel afterwards, would generate a suggestion. Predictions on the reactor’s operating capacity, chances of survivability, how expensive it would be to repair, and how easy it would be to hold were all floating around in The Economist’s data banks. Sandra, as its custodian, needed to get the answers from it.

It wasn’t that Sandra had a special relationship with The Economist. She did, or at least as close a relationship as one could have with an AI. She had been trained quite literally since birth to interpret its results and translate the oracle’s sometimes arcane knowledge into reality for the City Council. It meant many nights with The Economist, often hashing out and making sense of its outputs. A lonely life, often devoid of friends. It was never overtly stated, but Sandra often felt like people attached a certain religious quality to her. Was she a priestess? A prophet and a messenger for a god? She didn’t feel like one. Yet there were similarities she couldn’t ignore.

Samuel finished his drink in silence, mulling over Sandra’s new mission. He clinked the empty bottle down on the table as the rain continued to fall. Sandra’s coffee was still half-full. “Are you going to be here a while longer?” he asked.

She nodded. Samuel uncrossed his legs and leaned over to look out the window some more, trying to see where she was focusing on. The raindrops streaked down the glass, obscuring the view. Fog rolled into the harbor and wind started to whip at the boats moored in downtown Manhattan’s piers. “I suppose I’ll leave you to it,” he said. “The wife has made some dinner. You’re welcome over sometime this week if you have the time,” he offered. “I know you’ll be busy though.”

Sandra looked back to him and smiled softly again. “Thanks, Samuel. I appreciate it. I won’t keep you. Have a good night.”

Samuel stood up, grabbing his beer bottle by the neck. A lone Protectron stomped its away around the corner, holding a tray on its bulky metal hands. Samuel walked up the robot and placed his glass down, to which the Protectron’s monotone robotic voice thanked him for not littering. He exited, off into a corridor that led to the stairs down to his floor of the building. Despite the bureaucracy that had taken root in the Twin Towers, people still lived in the building full time. Sandra was one of them, too. She took another sip of her coffee as the storm picked up.

Indian Point. The words repeated in her head. She wondered what The Economist would say about it.

FORT KNOX

For years, the area of Fort Knox was a long-abandoned, mine-laden, robot patrolled, irradiated no man's land which challenged wanderers to see if they could score any of the blessed gold that might've been left behind, in view of the war causing a lockdown of all facilities. Now...things had changed. There was a stone-and-prefab-outpost wall around the perimeter of the base, allowing for soldiers to look out into the world with relative ease...and shoot at it. There was a main entrance area with a metal swing-gate that was currently letting in a hovercraft of some kind before closing its doors. Two powersuited figures with Super Sledges stood out there, seemingly at all times. There was an oddity about them, apart from them always standing rock-still, and it was this: Although the two suits were different in appearance, they were not the X-01 or X-02 powered armor suits. Even while one of them clearly had the Black Devil helmet on and the other had the more classic model helmet, they were updates, courtesy of the Vault below, X-03 Powersuits.

Moving on inside, you could see a wide range of troop and vehicle activity, lots of powersuits in motion along with the latest group of people taken in for inspection. This was an army base, after all. All the landmines were moved outside, all the intact buildings were made livable and given lead shielding against the radiation, and the ruined buildings were either scrap materials or...just left there. The gold vault faciility was the central building that figured into here, and the movie Goldfinger did it no justice. This was a heavily-fortified building, and ALL the auto-turrets worked again. Any of the robots up here that were slavageable were also claimed, refitted, and told to patrol outside the perimeter wall, avoiding the mines. Now, we bring your focus over to two men, and this is actually kind of important. Their suits aren't just in good condition, but they are marked in certain highlights to denote that they are somewhat important. The bulked-up on with the Black Devil helmet has yellow highlights, the other in the classic helmet has them in green. Everyone knows that these men are the bosses. They are from the Fallout Sector.

"Okay, what's on the itinerary today?"

"For me? Well, I've gotta do a wee check-up on the MGB, an' tell it keep up wit' the clean-up operations."

"Again, with that? That seems like such a waste for a machine of that caliber."

"Aye, well, the plant won't build us any construction equipment, no matter how we try an' coax her, so it's this or get yer raw recruits to start diggin' the irradiated soil themselves."

"I have considered it for punishment detail, but Number One advises against it. I'm about to head over to a group now with Bob to do some proper suit training."

"With Bob?! Jack, are ya sure they're ready for that kind of thing? Bob's a flippin' nutter, an' you know that."

"Yeah, he IS a nut, but he's our nut, so no harm done. See ya later."

The two men went their separate ways. The heavy-armored black-and-yellow suit was one that had a bunch of small utility arms hanging off of it, built up and custom-made by its occupant, Engineer Scott, Scotty McLaylen. As the Enclave's leading mechanical expert, he helped design and build a great many things. The troop-carrying hovercraft, the updated or custom-fitted powersuits, the MGB... You're probably wondering what the MGB is, right about now. Well, follow us as he heads on over to a stone building that looks like it's barely standing up in roughly a boxy shape, some of the pieces of it looking like they came from another building entirely. He came to the door, and opened it.

"MGB, activate."

CHOOM!!

He flinched as the inside was now all just bright light.

"Turn that blasted thing off, an' get up!"

And so, it did.



The walls and ceiling of the building shifted to the side as Scott stepped back, as this large robotic figure stood before him. It was machine that stood on reverse-jointed legs, starring at him with a cold and calculating eye. It had a smooth and sealed chassis, like some kind of urban pacification robot, but the single eye and clawed arms seemed more like some kind of alien war machine. In truth, though, the MGB was an automated heavy-armor military device...or a Metal Gear, codenamed 'The Box'. In brief, this machine was designed to move around the battlefield, and then under certain conditions be able to bury itself by hauling intact rocks or rubble on top of itself to masquerade as part of the scenery. Most commonly, the adhesive/suction tendrils would pull in parts of a building to give it a roughly boxy cover, hence the name. Scott had built this thing using a minor-intellect super computer, the Vault's backup reactor, ALL of the Enclave's forcefield equipment, and parts forged by their factory levels. This machine built the stone walls, and it has lately been tasked to try to remove the most heavily-irradiated materials from the area. The MGB stood at the ready now.

"Right. Give yerself a perimeter sweep, and then resume Task-1A, the removal of harmful elements from the base vicinity."

The machine turned to go do its task. Meanwhile, Jack in the black-and-green was meeting up with another group leader, who had orange highlights, marking him as the Enclave's top Pyro Soldier, the one they called Bob. He...was a tall one, taller than Jack. Seemed to have heating elements on his suit, as well as the claymore on his back. They were now facing a group of recruits in their powerarmors - older models, used for training only - on their first day of proper powersuit introduction. Recruits to the Enclave were brought into this area, and they were almost never allowed below ground, where the Vault is. They had to live on the surface, using their lead-shielded areas and training suits in order to make it through the day. The challenge was to be able to perform all tasks adequately without even instruction. Anybody who screwed up, damaged the powersuit, etc. Ho boy... They had a Dornan Riot Act written up, ready and waiting for such an occasion.

"Alright, soldiers. Welcome to powersuit orientation. Follow all of my commands, and you'll not only operate that machine you've been wearing efficiently, but become its master and be issued a proper X-03 refit model for your daily tasks. Don't listen, and it will hurt more, because Bob will probably hit you."

"There's no 'probably' about that."

"As you've noted, while the powersuit does allow you to perform tasks better, it doesn't do all the work for you. Your effort is still required to trigger the sensors that make it operate in conjunction with your body's actions. Sometimes, this makes reaction time a little slow, but with practice, you can sync up your actions with the movements of the suit perfectly."

He dove into a combat somersault and flipped to his feet with ease.

"I'm wearing a custom model, but any suit can perform that one, no sweat. Now, you will notice that all powersuits have a double-layer in defense, which has allowed for the repair of certain sections of the suit without having to replace the whole unit. This does not, by ANY means, make you invincible. You may be a walking slab of metal on the outside, but you still have to withstand the stresses of any attack on the inside. We'll have ourselves a demonstration, right now. You, in the front, step forward and prepare to fight."

He pointed to a recruit, one Allen Parks, who was a man that tended to...fall into alot of dangerous and unusual circumstances out in the wastes, while somehow surviving them despite all the panicking and screaming. In fact, some might even say he was...kind of familiar. He stepped forward, and...immediately focused on the giant MGB that was stepping nearby!

"Oh fuck... Oh FUCK... I'M A BRAVE BOOOY!!!"

Dink! Bob went over and smacked him in the helmet.

"Whaaat?"

"Not that thing. Over there."

He pointed over to a single standing powersuit with a Super Sledge on its back. Allen looked this over, attached the powerfist he'd been issued, went over, and smacked into the thing! The powersuit lurched back, seemingly glared at him, pulled out the sledge unit, and WHAM! Thrown back towards the group by the force of its blow as Jack turned to the rest of them.

"That is not a man in a suit. That is a Replicant, a powersuit filled with robotics to make it look like an actual soldier. They're more solid, they don't feel pain, and they do not fear. They make excellent shields and they can hit pretty hard, but...they lack the soldier's edge."

Allen raised a hand from where he lay.

"Is that what's out by the front gates?"

"Yes, it is. They're also decent eyes and ears."

Now, he was about to continue, but there was a sudden call over the radio that Jack was needed at the foremost guard station, which was fairly close by. Turning to the rest, he said "Well, I'm being called away, so for now, I leave you in Bob's capable hands. I wish you all good luck." before turning and heading off. Allen and the other recruits looked over at Bob now, uncertain as to how things were to progress. For a moment, there was nothing, but then...

"Hit me."

"What?"

"HIT ME!!!"

Aaand as that went on, we'll move over to the guard station, where a few soldiers were waiting. It's just a standard refurbished building that was...currently being powerwashed. Jack asked them what was up, and they told 'im.

"Yeah, I think we have a problem, sir. We were inspecting some guys who wandered too close to the base, looked like caravaners, but we think maybe smugglers. I mean, generally don't care unless they're smuggling something to harm us, and it seems alright, but one guy...ho boy. He uhhh...got violently ill, all of a sudden. We're thinking maybe disease."

"How sudden, and how violent?"

"He turned pale green on the spot, and vomited all over the place in a panic."

"The hell? What'd you DO?"

"Nothing! The interrogation was over! We didn't even harm them! I just said to take them for processing, and the guy let loose!"

"How're his friends?"

"Normal, confused."

"No disease, then?"

"Not that we could SEE, but we wanted to check with you first."

"Uh-huh... Wait a minute. You said 'processing'?"

"Yeah, I said 'Take them for processing', as in information processing."

"Oh, good lord... Guys, he might've been thinking 'meat processing'."

All of them reacted with disgust and disbelief.

"Who the hell would think that?! I mean, WHY?"

"Well, we are a bunch of peeps in scary black powersuits with a bad rep a mile long. Doesn't help that Number One keeps calling our recruitments 'Human Resourcing', either"

Yeah, that Number One was a weird guy. Started calling people by designated numbers, never seemed to get out of his powersuit, saw practically everything that went on... They had their work cut out for them to seem halfway-tolerable to the wasteland. That's why this place was so well-protected. All kinds of folks wanna take their shots at the Enclave, and they couldn't allow it.

Hathaway crept upright in his creaky leather seat, as upright as two bum legs would support. On occasion, he would wobble side to side, rocking to and fro while his rippling arms steadied the rest of his odd 180-pound self in his rickshaw wheelchair. He'd hobble himself up to the corner of his plastic-topped desk - an equally rickety decoration which oozed a constant secretion of musty, synthetic incense into the oscillations of the single rust-and-black fan which turned to his every nostril's movement - and slowly steady himself along the well-nicked corners of his work station. As the old Lieutenant settled his wobbly disposition along his nicked lectern, each biting little scrape, chip, and scratch dug so well into his resting forearms that even the abrasion-hewn skin of a mercenary could not resist but hold each and every minute incision along the counter's coarse contours. And there, while he sat in the misty mugginess that was the New York Waste's morning, in a musty office, in a simply malignant wheelchair which he had no choice but to accept his confinement, Hathaway only looked to the misery...and smiled.

The bi-luminescent reds filled the corners of the corners of the room as he flipped the dashboard-array of buzzers and buttons to his side. Like a piano, Hathaway played each switch in orchestral rehearsal, only pausing to tap the boom upon the top of his desk's microphone. The echoing dust resounded with each tap. It even shook his arms a little. The station, then, was set, and so too was the stage.

"LIVE", the lights flashed.

"Goooooooood morning wastelanders!" Hathaway chortled. He lost his legs, of course, but if even a landmine could not instill the definition of "humility" unto the man, little aside from God Himself could. And that was not - by the word of the Sisters in town - for lack of Him trying.

"This is your one-and-only Cap'n Cripples, callin' in fer' duty! Aaaand what do we have today? Well, folks, looks like we've got 'ere just another fan-tastic mornin' in wonderful Almont: Shit. Just shit. But, guess what, it's my job to talk lotsa' shit, because the world's just kinda' shit. Sometimes, it's good shit. Usually, it's bad shit. But, shit's shit, and your Cap'n Cripples 'ere is the Shit-talkin' Shit of the wastes? And, ya' know what that means, don'tcha?"

"It's time for..."

The airwaves vibrated with his deep sigh, until the Wasteland could taste the back of his throat over the radio waves.

"The God Damn News."

A few taps resonated along the broadcast. Muffles broadly scattered along, the sound of a few pages turning, just as soon broken by the breach of the static silence. The microscopic sound of a switch deadened across, and Hathaway took to his signal as he cleared his throat.

"Idiots Block The George! Well people, some idiot didn't know how to tie any of his damn logs down to his raft, and now, we've got ourselves a brand new shitty dam over at The '87 and George. And until someone dredges up that lumber from back up, if yer' lookin to travel up to 'Beck, get some good boots and clean out your socks, 'cause we're hoofin' it until that shit gets cleaned back up. Seriously, who the hell can't make a god damn knot?! It ain't god damn Robobrain hackin'!"

A frustrated sigh broke out across the airwaves. A boom ruptured across just after, the slam of his fist upon the table translating into a clap of thunder through the static. "Maybe I should talk to Troy and the guys...might be able ta' fetch us a good bounty on him - and any other moron who's violating the riverboat regulations!" He returned in guffaw.

"And, that'll do it for ya's for now! Now, here's a classic for you; And I don't really give a shit if you don't like these songs, 'cause it's sure as shit better than a lotta' crap! And if you don't like it? Change the damn station! Go on, do it! Go listen to the same twelve songs at Galaxy News Radio all goddamn day!" He roared out in laughter, as if he had told a joke to make his britches ripple and sodden the floor beneath him to a Brahmin pen.

A ripple of static cut him off the airwaves.

The music hummed to, roaring into life, as the Wasteland rose from it's morning slumber.

And...what a track it was!

Acadia National Park Observatory - The Institute

Director Xavier Allen Crawford stood atop the balcony rim of the Acadia Observatory overlooking the mountain itself and the town of Far Harbor beyond to the east. Before him the fantastic scenery of Mount Desert Island opened up, giving a commanding view of the region. Xavier thought back to what DiMA had once said to him,

You know, when I first climbed this mountain, above the fog, I thought to myself: now here is a metaphor worth taking in.

The old malfunctioning prototype had indeed recognized the importance of such a place, although Xavier doubted that DiMA could have ever envisioned what this mountain could truly become. DiMA’s ‘spiritual’ mountain top was now far more than just a metaphor for clarity.

Below him, Xavier surveyed what The Institute had transformed this place into. The observatory had been renovated and repaired, its crumbling walls and dilapidated facade replaced with new paneling, stonework, and a fresh coat of crisp white paint. Surrounding the observatory were also now a large amount of new construction: simple rectangular utilitarian buildings in which various laboratories and residential quarters had been set up. Hugging one side of the observatory was a large greenhouse, built to house a myriad of vibrant plant life to be used for botanical and horticultural research, as well as an all important source of fresh food. A large pipe that ran up the mountainside to the summit pumped freshly purified water from nearby Eagle Lake both to the greenhouse as well as to a central well from where it could be distributed via a newly constructed plumbing system to the other structures To the west, all along the mountainside were rows and rows of turbines which spun steadily in the high wind generating electric power. Supplementing this all important feature was a new addition as well: makeshift solar paneling lined the roofs of many buildings including the observatory.

Much of the surrounding trees and brush had been cut back and cleared along the mountainside, allowing them to expand even further down towards its base. With each year that passed, more and more land was reclaimed to either serve as testing grounds for new research, or to give more living space to The Institute’s people. In order to protect these scientists and their families, a high perimeter wall had been built further down the mountain, encompassing Acadia in its entirety. Machine-gun turrets, tripwire alarms, barbed-wire, and spotlights had all been placed evenly along the wall, and Synths troopers and Coursers patrolled it night and day.

Yes, under his leadership, The Institute had turned this place into a veritable haven, a fortress and refuge from where it could recover its strength and project its power across the island. While nothing could match their former underground home in terms of its splendor and security, to Xavier, this was perhaps the closest thing they could find out here on the surface.

Granted, the island was still not without its dangers.

Xavier walked around the balcony until he faced the western side. Far out in the distance he could see a great grey wall that obscured the land and ocean beyond it. To anyone unfamiliar with the region, it would seem as though the earth simply stopped at the point where the churning grey mist met the clear sky. In fact, what lay beyond was simply the land which was still claimed by The Fog. When they’d first arrived on the island, The Fog covered it in its entirety and the people of Far Harbor huddled themselves at the edge of a crumbling dock. But with their superior technology in tow, The Institute had managed to drive The Fog back and contain it to one half of the island. Here mutated creatures called The Fog home, and here too The Children of Atom lived. Deep within their “Nucleus”, The Children of Atom sequestered themselves content in their worship of radiation which they had anthropomorphized into a deity they called ‘Atom’. The Children and The Institute had come to an understanding after Acadia had been taken-over, with both sides largely keeping to their own side of the island. That arrangement suited Director Crawford just fine, although it made some of the people of Far Harbor a little uneasy.

He turned once again towards the fledgling town that hugged the Coast in defiance of the churning waters around it. Far Harbor had profited much from The Institute’s arrival. No longer confined to the lone dock which had served as a last refuge, the Harbormen had broken out and reclaimed much of the original borders of the town. The once ruined buildings there had been repaired and restored so that the people could finally have room to expand and live. A proud makeshift barrier enveloped the new borders of the town and surrounded it in a protective embrace. The Harbormen affectionately referred to it as ‘The Hull’ and they’d politely, yet stubbornly, refused to accept The Institute’s offer of assistance to construct it. ‘The Mariner knows what's best for The Hull’ they’d said, and Crawford hadn’t the mind to argue the point. Besides, in truth they’d managed to survive this long largely on their own, so they must have known a thing or two about constructing defenses. The one thing they’d been unable to do themselves was construct and maintain the Fog Condensers.

Xavier looked up at the final, and perhaps most important piece of new construction. A tall thin tower rose high from the base of the Observatory Dome and reached up at least double its height to the sky. At its apex, a great shimmering blue light could be seen, making the tower look like a ghostly lighthouse on the horizon. This was one of the newer Fog Condensers, a concept that DiMA had developed but that had been made into a triumphant vision by The Institute’s scientists. One of these large condensers could cover several square miles of land and keep the fog at bay, and five of them had been spread throughout the eastern half of the Island. Once constructed and installed, the biggest issue with their maintenance was simply keeping them powered with electricity. The wind turbines, solar panels, and the Observatory's own fusion generator all worked in tandem to generate the power necessary, but there was always a need for more. That was a problem which needed addressing.

“Director Crawford, sir?”

Xavier spun around to see a female Gen-3 Synth standing behind him, wearing the usual jumpsuit uniform emblazoned with a small red Institute vitruvian man on the left breast.

“Yes, what is it B7?”

“The delegates from Far Harbor are here. X1-55 is requesting permission to allow them through the checkpoint.”

‘Delegates’ was probably a stretch to say, Xavier thought, more appropriate would probably be ‘petitioners’ or ‘grumblers’ depending on the day.

“Yes very well, allow them through the perimeter and then escort them yourself B7. I’ll meet them in the Observatory hall when they arrive.”

“Very well sir.” B7 gave a quick bow and scurried off to meet the Harbormen at the checkpoint.

Xavier turned back to the view one last time. He gave a long sigh. Time was when an Institute Director would never have had to entertain surface-dwellers, but instead could focus on the day to day operations of The Institute and its divisions. Those days were over now it seemed, they could no longer afford to ignore the wasteland. They had to allow some part of it, however small, in,

“Let’s see what this is all about then,” Xavier muttered to himself, and turned to descended back down the observatory stairs.

Akron - The Consortium of Ohio.

Bernardo sat near a restaurant in Akron, looking over the destroyed streets of the city. It had been centuries since the great war but the memories were still there. He grew up in this city the smell of pure air in the morning still ringed in his brain he began his career of crime, here first by just some childhood thefts, and then he grew poverty was hard so he stole, killed, contraband, and created his own gang, and then the bombs fell when the memory hit him he took a sigh, and once again saw the cracked streets he survived and lived for 200 years he soon took a cigar from the pockets of his suit.

As he sat on his chair soon approached a waiter, another ghoul just like him, he then said “anything you wish Mr. Bernado?” Bernardo then said “nothing, I am just here in business” “business?” He cut, almost immediately, gunshots could be heard on the other side of the street, Bernardo then gestured for him to get inside the Ghoul then rushed inside as the shots ringed Bernardo lighted up the cigar.

Looking over the building where the shooting was happening he then saw someone leave the front door and begin running taking a puff of smoke out he quickly pulled an N99 10mm Pistol quickly pointing towards the men and opening fire as the men soon collapsed as the barrel smoked he laid the gun on the table and took another puff of smoke from the cigar as the shots finally stopped he raised from his chair grabbing the gun and hiding away beneath his coat leaving a few caps by the table and walked towards the building.

As he approached several men with Tommy guns came out, pulling someone out and throwing him to the floor Bernardo then said “the others are dead?” the man gave nods with a sigh he then said. “fucking hell Robert have you gone out of your mind?” He extinguished the cigar, crushing it with his hand and the man remained silent.

Bernardo then said “you know the rules never sell advanced weapons to possible threats to the Consortium and you ignored it even to the point of planning my own demise” the man stood still in silence Bernardo sighed and said “shooting him already” a man quickly pulled a revolver and opened fire as Bernado looked he then said as the group began to leave “I wished dealing with rebellious garrisons would be less of a hassle” as he walked with his man as he got close to the end of the broken road he saw a car sitting in a dirt road.

Beside the vehicle, there was a man as Bernardo approached he then said “any news from Cleveland? and my project? the man then said, opening the door. “Well Rosemarie has called the council.” Bernardo entered the car sitting in the passenger seat. He then said “great reform is coming… and the project with House Ziermeman and Bruno? the men then said entering the driver seat “both launched the expedition northeast if we are lucky the area of New England and Ronto turns out to be very profitable once the trade area is set”

Bruno gave a nod and pondered what Rosemarie planned. She has been in charge for a year and now she wants to start something big as the car begins its bumpy ride north back to Cleveland as the car drove Bruno sighed. He knew what most likely would be the reason for the call.

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee!

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee...

...That was her cue. Reflexively clearing her throat, Prime Minister Campbell glanced between the tall, broadly built redhead to her right, the two heavily armoured soldiers distantly to the sides of her, and then, finally, the grizzled old ghoul sitting some distance ahead of her, a headset sitting atop his head. She could just barely see his face from behind the enormous array of refurbished pre-war radio equipment huddled about him, from control panels to Toronto-made computers, wires, and microphones. He gave her a thumbs-up, glad in his impeccably tailored grey suit, shockingly shiny white teeth outlining the inside of his smile. Camera operators stood to each side, fiddling with controls she was frankly miles away from understanding.

Still, it was a start. In the distance, outside of the grand windows of the Legislative Building, she could even see the towering edifice of the CN tower from where all this was being transmitted.

"Good morning, citizens of Southern Ontario, the rest of Canada, or wherever else in the wasteland you might be listening from. Thank you for joining us today for our national anthem, and for the morning news - some of you might even be lucky enough to look at me right now." she continued, offering a smile and a wave as she endeavoured to avoid staring too long at the large, muscular redhead sitting beside her. Allison McKinley.

"We've begun the process of experimenting with a television network, and are in the process of rolling out the necessary infrastructure. For many of us - including myself - I'm afraid we'll be forced to wait some time before we can enjoy the full capabilities of the Cee-Enn Tower. That, however, isn't the only reason why I'm speaking to you today. Even if you intend to tune in for the Governor General's speech later today - which I strongly encourage you to do - I implore you to listen."

She quietly cleared her throat, sipping from a nearby glass of purified water.

"We, as citizens of Canada, have made incredible progress in returning civilization to the wasteland. Many people have come here seeking that civilization, that safety from the predation of raiders, that access to food and clean drinking water... It can be difficult, however, to supply so much to so many in such a short time. I want to assure you, however, that we are confident we can do so, and are endeavouring to bring additional pre-war water treatment plants back online to help keep people from getting thirsty. For the rest, we encourage you to contact your local agricultural office - we are always looking for new farmers, and are willing and ready to help our newest citizens get their lives started helping to keep all of our bellies full. Bell and the rest of the scientists at the University are also hard at work on innovative new scientific solutions, and plans to resettle Ottawa are proceeding well." She said, offering a warm smile toward the cameras as she straightened her bright red tie.

"Next, with this year's hockey season in full swing, I want to wish all the participants good luck, whether you're playing at the Scotiabank Arena or elsewhere. We all have our favourite teams, each one gunning for the Cup - however, as a Toronto native, I know the Leafs are going to win. Easy." She joked, chuckling under breath. "I'm kidding, of course - good luck to all of you."

Suddenly, she leaned forward in her chair, resting her forearms on the table as she brought her hands together. The smile faded from her expression, leaving naught but a nearly flat, almost angry line.

"There are, however, other important matters I want to address, and the reasons why I've decided to make this address outside of the usual schedule. First, the Gunners. As many of you know, we've recently established a diplomatic relationship with a band of former - I repeat, former - Gunners based out of the town of Almont, New York. They have mutual interests with us, and have been a great help in protecting local river trade and improving the lives of people in the Great Lakes Wasteland. The Gunners as a whole, however, have not, and we wish to ensure our citizens and those living nearby that Gunner aggression will not be tolerated under any circumstances. We have dealt with the Talon Company because they hurt innocent people, and we are fully prepared to repeat that success." She said, speaking with a forceful, yet moderated tone, her voice coming across quite clearly, at least compared to most radio stations in the wasteland. The survival of the CN tower was to thank for that - and most of its relatively high quality equipment. Every subtle shift of her voice was carried by the microphones, yet the windscreens kept her breath from polluting the airwaves.

She took in a deep breath, as if to calm herself. She did feel angry, of course, but it couldn't hurt to play it up a little for the cameras.

"That's the exact reason why I've brought Brigadier General McKinley with me today, in fact. Travelers have informed us - and some of the pathfinders under her command have confirmed - high levels of Enclave activity around the Louisville area. General?" She asked, turning to face her. Allison nodded, quickly speaking, her tone far more casual and relaxed than the Prime Minister's.

"That's correct, Prime Minister. Based on the information we've gathered, the Enclave has begun a relatively sudden campaign of rapid, sometimes forceful expansion. The rumours trickling out of the region are telling us their leadership's despotic, controlled by a single person... They have more veritbirds than I've seen in a very long time, too, and they've been exterminating anything they deem a raider left and right." Allison nodded, idly drumming her gloved fingers on the table next to her all the while. "Now, of course, in my experience, putting a bullet in everything that you think might be a raider produces a lot of dead innocents, especially when you're supposedly wiping out the groups wholesale. Slaves, prisoners, isolationist tribals who just want to be left alone..." She absentmindedly suggested. Her tone was hardly assertive, but the implication was obvious to anyone listening as she gave a slight, almost dismissive shrug of her broad shoulders.

"Thank you, General. Now, here's the issue - we, as Canadians, have experienced some of the worst impacts of the activity of this "Enclave", but Americans have suffered just as equally, if not worse. Before the Great War, they suffered at the whims of an authoritarian government that seemed hellbent on destroying its own people. They were victimized after the war in much the same way, by Enclave after Enclave. Sometimes, they were marginally less racist towards them than before. Sometimes, they were far worse. They never worked for the people of the wasteland, not really. Even now, this news tells us that they're hiding behind the same cloaks of false security as before, oppressing the people of the wasteland, placing the survivors under a polished bootheel. People of the wasteland, I implore you, do not be fooled by the polish!" She barked. "The Enclave is just as marred by the filth of authoritarianism and fascism as Caesar's Legion, or any other Enclave. They are still a band of dictators that have no right to the land they claim to own. They lost their chance, I say, when the Great War nearly killed us all, or perhaps the dozens upon dozens upon dozens of times they massacred innocent people. We must not let this happen again. It is for that reason that I'm reminding all of you that Toronto offers a bounty of one thousand caps - minimum - for the heads of any Enclave military personnel you cannot persuade to lay down their arms and surrender. It is also for that reason that I will, in no uncertain terms, declare that Toronto will not allow Canada to fall under the American yoke a second time. That, whoever it is that leads that band of vile murderers, is not a mere promise. It is a pure, simple, fact." She said - and then, finally, smacked her fist against the table.

The red light finally went out as she stood, turning to face Allison as she, also, stood. Allison took a step forward, bending down to bring herself to eye-level with Charlotte, her dull eyes and chestnut hair a stark contrast to Allison's bright strawberry orange and emerald eyes. Their skin was, perhaps, the most similar feature, each pale and covered with scattered freckles.

"How did I do?" Charlotte asked.

Allison simply responded by leaning in to plant a kiss on the Prime Minister's lips.

"Great. You did great." She responded.

Acadia National Park Observatory - The Institute

Xavier looked over the comatose form of DiMA sitting within the control chair in the center of the observatory dome. He was strapped in and hooked to all manner of wires which were strung out from the back of his head and connected to the large series of data banks which surrounded him and covered much of the walls. In lieu of an organized ‘dumb’ AI construct to manage the surprisingly complex network within Acadia, DiMA had been used as a suitable replacement. It made sense given that DiMA was already known to be compatible with the network: indeed he’d modified himself specifically to interface directly with it. After putting in place several safeguards and preventative measures, DiMA was permanently hooked up to the datastores and began serving this intended purpose quite effectively.

One part of the safeguards that Xavier himself had put in place was that DiMA experienced a continuous negative feedback loop within his mind. DiMA existed within a perpetual “false reality” and the closer he came to realizing the truth of his current existence, the more difficult it would become to grasp the concept and the more activity it would drive in his mind, which would inevitably result in a return to blissful ignorance. Meanwhile, that increased activity was, in truth, a stream of computations and program executions used to run Acadia’s network. It was a clean self-regulating system created out of something which had been itself unstable. Xavier was quite proud of that fact.

“Alright,” Xavier said, as he turned around and descended the raised platform where DiMA was seated, “Send them in.”

B7 nodded, and she opened the doors to allow in the Harbormen. Three figures entered, and Xavier immediately knew who they were, ‘they’ being three of the most prominent figures in Far Harbor. Captain Avery, of course, Teddy Wright, the town’s self-appointed physician, and Allen Lee: a gunsmith and weapon merchant who laid claim to be potentially their wealthiest resident.

A Courser guard and two nearby Gen-1 Synths stood by, weapons lowered, but ready at a moment's notice to intervene if things became at all heated or potentially dangerous.

“Captain, Mr. Li….Dr. Wright, what can I do for you?” Xavier opened with the usual pleasantry.

“What you can ‘do’ is help us be rid of those damned Children freaks,” Allen Lee growled, “This time they’ve gone too far. I’m done with them.”

“Allen cool it. We came here to talk this over and not make demands,” Captain Avery interjected, “Teddy why don’t you explain the situation...”

“Last couple weeks there’s been a noticeable decrease in fishing hauls,” Teddy began, “At first it wasn’t anything unusual, we’ve had lean spells before, but then it became something different. What fish have been coming up are mutated, many of them heavily affected by radiation. Hell some of them are downright glowing. Needless to say they’re inedible and it's becoming a problem for our fishermen.”

Xavier raised an eyebrow. “And….you think the Children of Atom have something to do with this?”

“I don’t think, I know,” Allen Lee replied, “They’re dumping something in the water. I just know it.”

“Now you can’t say that for sure Allen. For all we know this is something natural.” Avery said.

“Natural are you kidding me Captain? The fish are GLOWING.”

“Half the damn critters on this island glow Allen. Ain’t the Children doing that!”

“You sure?” Allen narrowed his eyes, “Because I’m not.”

“Oh for Pete’s sake..”

“Alright okay, settle down,” Xavier raised a hand, “I see no reason to immediately blame the Children for this. It's entirely possible that there’s been an increase in mid-Atlantic radstorms and a slight change of current that might have brought some poor fishing to your shores. I understand tensions are high however, and recognize the importance of that catch to your livelihoods. If you’d like, I’ll gladly send one of my Bioscience personnel to Far Harbor to evaluate the situation and run some tests. She’s a marine ecology expert…

Our, only, Marine Ecology expert as a matter of fact. Xavier thought to himself.

…and I’m sure she’d be happy to investigate this and address your concerns. Now as for your immediate issues...I’ll furnish a supply caravan to be sent to Far Harbor with produce to supplement your lack of fish stock as well as some anti-radiation medications for anyone who might have consumed or come into contact with the affected creatures. Would that satisfy you?”

“Yes, absolutely, thank you,” Captain Avery nodded.

“Now hold on just a minute...no I ain’t satisfied,” Allen spoke up, “What about the Children? What if they are dumping something and it’ll just get worse while your scientist is running her tests?”

“Very well, I’ll deploy Watch…” Xavier checked himself and cleared his throat, “...that is to say, I’ll make sure the coastline is carefully watched for any signs of foul play.”

Allen grunted and nodded his consent, “Good. And if you see anything suspicious...”

“We’ll discuss handling that situation if it comes to it. But let’s not do so now.”

“Fine.” Allen grumbled.

“If that’s all we needed to discuss...then I wish you a pleasant trip back down the mountain. Help yourself to some purified water on your way out. B7?”

“This way please,” the Gen-3 female motioned for the trio to follow her back down the hallway and towards the exit. After they’d exited the dome and the door closed behind them, Xavier removed his glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

“Permission to speak freely sir?” The Courser who’d been standing guard faithfully spoke up.

“Go ahead X6-88.”

“If I might be so bold sir,” X6 approached the platform, “Why do you entertain these surface-dwellers and their asinine problems? The Director of The Institute should not be dealing with questions of poor fishing.”

“That is indeed bold X6...but a valid question. The answer is because we need them. Our days of being able to ignore the surface and do with it what we will are long gone. We have to find a way to integrate into the wasteland or we’ll be painting an even larger target on ourselves. You know as well as I do that we have enemies everywhere. We need friends and allies.”

“Understood sir.”

“Now that is not to say that I enjoy discussing fish stocks with surface-dwellers either….or for that matter committing resources to it...” Xavier sighed, “Well in any case, we can spare a single researcher if it keeps them happy. Speaking of which...X6 would you please go and find Dr. Mara Holdren? Let her know that she needs to pack some things and be ready for a temporary stay in Far Harbor. I’m sure she’s getting bored down there maintaining the aquaponics system day-in-day out. This will give her something to do.”

“Right away Director.”

---

Sarah Lyons sat at her chair as Elder, head held in her hands as her elbows rested on the metal desk itself.

Damned paperwork. Every. Single. Day. But that was what it took to keep things running in this Republic she and the Lyons' Pride Brotherhood had worked to forge. Over two decades of work, blood, sweat, and tears, and finally her father's dream for the Capital Wasteland was rudimentarily achieved in 'well enough' order at least. She'd learned a lot in the past two decades and counting, both on and behind the front lines, all mostly thanks to that kid from Vault 101...well, she was far from a kid these days at least. The 'kid' was 30 years old in her own right, and she herself was 47 by this point and had a kid of her own for pity's sake! It was a hell of a thing to think about in retrospect.

Sarah glanced from her desk at the half-empty bottle of scotch near her, leftover from a 'few sips' the prior night after getting off of work. Ugh. It had taken some meds to get the pain to go down, though she'd refused the use of one of the Senatorial members' own 'homemade hangover cures' at the morning meeting.

But it all still felt worth it to stick it to that damned golden boy of the Brotherhood, though, whose death she still celebrated once a year. Last night had been that night to celebrate, though it was just her and a certain former vault dweller that had been the celebrators. All sitting alone in her dimly-lit office after turning things down. Hell. She could still see the look in the damn fool's eye the last time he saw her face to face, getting her hopes up for a moment that the kid she'd trained to shoot super mutants was in there somewhere. But after Maxson left...

...hell, why did he leave them alone here?! They still had scraps stored from the battle at Adams, and enough defectors that the Elders out West would have made them a damned target for insurrection! So why in the hell did he just leave them alone! He was the golden boy and promised messiah of the Brotherhood of Steel, he'd gone from a child who seemed to tag shyly along and talked to robots to becoming a real monster. Saying one thing and doing another. A fundamentalist that went right back to the roots of what the Brotherhood had done wrong in the past, blasting apart anything that didn't surrender its food and tech and bend the knee!

The damned man had desecrated all her father had stood for, all she had come to stand for, and endangered the Brotherhood...all for what? To go fly his giant-ass blimp over to the Commonwealth and die to the pissed-off locals somehow? Really? What was how the great 'Elder Maxson' had gone down? Blown apart like no-one's business. Dead. Leaving her and the people he left behind in his stupidity to pick up the pieces.

She clenched her right fist, and even beneath the gloves she wore as part of her Elder attire Sarah could feel her knuckles turning white. Damned Maxson. He haunted her even now, the fool of a boy. To that end, the Elder grabbed up the bottle and took a small chug before slamming it back down onto the metal table with a loud 'clank'.

This time she'd done things right, though, no more foolish youthful notions and idiotic charging into battle to die. She kept on those who would accept her people's viewpoint, kicked out those who didn't want to stay, and kept the former Maxonites out whenever they passed by. Not that they wanted to join. Same general concept was applied when she went to Adams to secure the place, and hell it had been a wreck internally as the leadership was reeling from the loss of the bastard. Most stayed, most took on her viewpoint, and since then she'd secured her power base thoroughly in mindset, tenants, and so forth. They still secured tech, but at least now they used it to help the Capital Wasteland and its people as well to boot. It had taken time, really, but hell all of the efforts and pain and the like were worth it in the end to see things getting genuinely better around the Capital Wasteland itself.

Trees were growing, having expanded a good ways beyond the Oasis by this point. Purified, clean water was being piped to or sent in bottles to local settlements to provide clean hydration for the first time in over two-hundred years. The Super Mutant threat was gone, and what was left was under their purview and training and control. Hell, even Paradise Falls had been blasted clean off of the face of the Wasteland and resettled by the former slaves and had been changed into the processing point for myriad new immigrants that were arriving in the Capital Wasteland.

But that was also the problem, as a number of the papers in front of her had told of so very well.

They had the supplies for the most part right now, but they were working to settle and organize the newcomers and get things laid out safely. Sometimes the errant small group would slip past and try to take over any old spot as their own land, and this could cause local conflict that didn't help matters. Swelling the ranks of the Republic's military to have a non-Brotherhood branch had done wonders for this at times, and combined with brotherhood training and discipline they were properly-controlled and well-managed soldier-police. Didn't solve all the problems, but it allowed them to respond to them more quickly and ensure things didn't spiral out of control.

Any bigger threats, though, and the Brotherhood was there to snuff it out themselves. Migrating Deathclaws, Children of Atom Zealots occasionally trying to force their way in towards Megaton, Raiders trying to prey on the migrants coming their way or attempting to push into the Capital Wasteland again from outside, and even hostile Super Mutants seeking FEV from Vault 87 or just to kill and take over otherwise, all were pains in her ass and the Republic's ass. But at least they were manageable 'exterior' threats. That was the key word there. Exterior. Not a constant internal thing that was as bad as it once was. Though speaking of possible internal threats the Republic was even now still just 'keeping an eye' on those damned blood-drinkers calling themselves "The Family". Only reason they didn't go in there to wipe them out was since they seemed to be keeping a steady and non-aggressive peace with the locals at Arefu, and so they hadn't become a problem that 'needed fixing' as of yet.

Letting out a defeated sigh, Sarah put her arms down and grabbed a nearby pen. She'd finish signing the last of these resource allocation papers, and then it would be heading out for some fresh air and greenery. Harold had donated some seeds to bring some green to the Citadel as well, at least after they had managed to help him sort some things out and cut a deal with him and the Treeminders, and after enough years it had become a very welcome sight. A happier one, calling back to a better time she'd never known.

At least she had the day off tomorrow to be home with her husband and son.

"Every time. Every goddamn time."

"What's that, sir?"

We now take you to the bowels of the Earth, a long way down from the surface which Fort Knox sits upon, where two Enclave soldiers stand, one a normal Tesla Soldier, and the other an especially-advanced looking one with highlights of a lighter blue on his armor. The Fallout Sector member had...kind of an accent, like maybe he came out of San Francisco with its Asian population, but he went by the name of Greg MacRider, and he was...a technological genius. Even still, this one had him puzzled...and maybe a little concerned.

"Every time we boot up the central brain of the Vault for active duty, it basically starts shouting at us with this speech. It looks like just a start-up message, like some cheap prank, but I've combed through millions of lines of programming and attempted to patch it out, and it will just not go. So, I'm thinking the computer is psychotic."

"How bad? Like...should we be worried?"

"No, we have control. It can't do what it wants. But it...doesn't like it, and it doesn't like it a whole lot."

"Okay, next question: What're we gonna do about it? 'Cause I know that Number One isn't gonna like it."

"Well, apart from therapy, I don't know if we CAN do anything about it. I'll let Jack know about this, and he can pass it on up the line."

It was about then that a soldier monitering frequencies and transmissions found something new. He began recording, and then when it hit a certain point, he announced to the other two nearby "I found something else that he's not gonna like. Sending the feed directly to his chambers now.". It needed to be immediately addressed, as their commander's standing orders that all new developments should be relayed to him as soon as possible, so...off went the televised signal from Canada straight to the man himself.

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>



The room was dark, save for the many flickering images upon the screens. Some were television screens, others holographic displays. The entire room appeared to be screens and technical equipment. This was the control chamber of Number One. It was a cold and forboding sort of room, where a hundred things were being displayed at once, and he caught them all from his chair in the middle. The chair was a large metallic unit with various buttons and electronic ports for his suit to connect to. He sat in it often, taking sessions of hours or even days, broken up only be one's own personal needs. Yes, he was a living being, which is why there was a hatchway elevator to his quarters beneath this room.

Number One sat in the center of all this, clad in a large powersuit of black and highlights of red, the eyes of the suit themselves red. He was the tallest one of all, even taller than Bob Malcontente', and broader of shoulder too. He looked more solid than Scott's heavily-armored suit, which was extra-armored so that people and explosions couldn't interrupt his work. And yet, he held that well-roundedness that Jack enjoyed in his suit. Powersuits were incredible machines. A little tweek here and there, and they could do almost anything. Still, this one was sitting passively, for now. That is...until the television signal from Canada popped in on the main viewer. He heard the main part from Canada, and then rewatched the full recording for good measure. And that was when Jack popped in through the heavily-armored door that was the entrance to this room.

"Ah, good. You have seen it. I was warned by Greg. Looks like someone wants to make a move against us."

"The move into the light was always going to bring exposure. It was only a matter of time."

"Didn't expect a television signal. Most televisions out there are scrap. Still, what do you wanna do about them?"

"Nothing."

"Nothing?"

The head of the taller armor turned to look at Jack now.

"Nothing, because - as of now - nothing has OCCURRED. These are words. They are meant to provoke a reaction. Let the fools of Canada send their mercenaries to Enclave-friendly territory. SEE what they get. And if they attack...they will die."

Jack paused to think about this, but then in doing so, he pointed to the speakers in the room, the ones lining the walls near the ceiling.

"Do you have to keep that playing?"

The music suddenly stopped, leaving the chamber in relative silence.

"No."

"That's better. Now then, basically you're saying we don't have to do anything because they're just gonna send people off to get stonewalled and shot at."

"Precisely."

"Alright, then we'll move on. We've been having the folks at Louisville talk to the Indiana Homes. There isn't much friction between them, so it's gotten a bit smoother. Indy still doesn't like us, of course. He's this explorer/historian type. Lives in a museum and curates it.

"I have been giving that some thought. There are some articles in our possession, things which have no intrinsic value to our effort, but were potential bartering tools. He lives in a museum. We will offer him things that BELONG in a museum, and an historical account of what I have done to PURGE the old Enclave. He will learn that the old government is dead, and that New American States shall be born."

"Oh, you've been working on your pitch for when the Republic gets wind of us."

"They are far and away, and hardly a concern...but yes. The tales that I've heard of the handful of soldiers at the Hoover Dam has made it easier for me. When the NCR finally makes their push East, we will be ready for them, because they will be forced to concede that the Enclave does not have to be their enemy, and will not simply open fire."

"That will still take a number of years, so we'd better get onto matters on this end."

"Indeed."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

Up on the surface, certain articles in Enclave footlockers were being loaded into the back of a waiting Vertibird, while others were heading out of armored hatches in the ground that opened up to allow them to the surface. One was obviously going North, to Indiana Homes, while the other two...were loaded up with some kind of heavy capturing gear involving high-test cord-lines, heavy nets, grappling devices, stun units, and also gas. They were bound for other locations, Daniel Boone National Park and the Mammoth Cave. They were on for the hunt. Suddenly, from a spot from the surface, the man in the black-and-orange armor looked up at the one turning for the cave area shouted "Wait for me!", and activated a jetpack to reach them. Bob was going hunting, having basically trounced all the recruits and left them all clean-up detail. Once he came on board the Vertibird...

"So, what's on the list for today?"

"Deathclaws, sir."

"Oh boy! Jack will be so pleased!"

"Will he really, sir?"

"Not a bit. Ever since Texas, whoa boy... Now, let's get a move on! Those labs ain't gonna fill themselves!"

We have fun here, at Enclave HQ.

East Village, Manhattan

Centuries ago, the Franklin Delano Roosevelt Parkway had been a triple-tiered artery in New York’s massive system of roads. Powered by the demand for the automobile, roads were built on top of existing roads, which fed off into additional junctions and outlets. The War had changed that, with the blasts of atomic weapons bringing down sections of the elevated expressway. In the absence of life, these sections of highway sat vacant until settlers began forming camps above the city around them. What once was seen as a high ground for key settlements, separated from the streets, quickly turned into a continuous network of shanty towns.

The FDR Parkway still sat, partially collapsed. It never could be fully repaired, nor did anyone want to take up the job. The organically apocalyptic spread of shacks turned to buildings constructed of brick, wood, and rusting steel plating had covered the entirety of the expressway. Supports were reinforced with a patchwork of uneven repairs of many different materials, matching the buildings behind. Like most of the city, the rubble had been cleared where it could: streets were blocked where buildings had totally collapsed, of course, but the throughfares and detours around them were clear. The rubble of destroyed buildings formed a patchwork of reconstruction in others.

By the shore of the East River, at the foot of New York’s mottled cityscape, the spread of elevated shack structures had produced almost an undercity. Tarps and wires draped unevenly from the highway to the buildings besides hung low, swinging in the wind. Neon signs lit the darkness, advertising anything from stores to bars to more general businesses. Rusted hulks of old boats still lay tied up beside rotted docks, covered in graffiti. These, too, were too low priority to be moved or disassembled for scrap but served a use in allowing old fishermen to sometimes catch fish off their bows.

Rain blew in from the south, gently sweeping underneath the highway’s cover despite its best efforts to protect the people from overhead. A man in a hooded raincoat, scavenged from many years ago, ducked his way into a dark alley where a sign advertised a drinking establishment: its name was the Old New York Pub. An immediate rush of warm air greeted the man and a feeling of comfort washed over him. The brick-walled establishment was lit by soft red light. He let down his hood, taking in the smells of liquor and hearing the piano tune of a swing number played over a gently crackling radio.

“Hey, Charlie!” called out the bartender. Behind the counter, wearing a shirt with rolled up sleeves covered by a vest, a redheaded man waved. Charlie grinned, throwing up a wave of his own before sidling over to the counter.

The bartender didn’t hesitate to initiate the ritual. He poured a beer from the tap in front of him, some avant-garde bitter pale ale flavored with a spicy kick from a radscorpion’s venom gland. It came, naturally, out of Brooklyn. Charlie slid a few bottlecaps across the counter and accepted the pint glass, taking a drink out of the chilled glass. The Old New York Pub’s refrigerator had been out for a while until the owner had paid some mechanic to fix it. Learning how to fix prewar consumer goods and figuring out how to fabricate parts was a lucrative business for the smarter New Yorkers who weren’t picked up by the Engineering Division to work on bigger projects.

“What’s been happening lately?” asked the bartender, who went by the name of Phil.

“Not much, my boat just got back into port,” Charlie admitted. “Took the coastal route up Long Island Sound to go deliver some cargo to New Haven.”

Small trading communities had popped up in some of the old Connecticut cities, initially from the brahmin routes that traders would use along I-95 going to the Commonwealth. As more boats, controlled and regulated by the Trade Division, came into service New York was able to ship greater amounts of cargo much faster to and from these settlements. Most of the city’s food was grown in farms directly around these cities, often owned by feudal lords and squabbling strongmen.

“Nothing exciting?” Phil asked, leaning back against the brick wall of the bar. Charlie shook his head and smirked.

“I saw a mirelurk. Shot it. I’ve been getting good with that hunting rifle I bought from your brother. The one with the scope, remember?”

“Are you able to get a good shot off those boats for yours?” Phil asked. He had always been into guns but could never join the Security Division. As a kid, he had slipped and fallen off a pile of rubble near his native home in the Bronx: he had to deal with a bum leg for the rest of his life. New York’s doctors were not as good back then as they are now. “My brother used it as a sniper for a little bit. Used to say he picked off raiders in Jersey like it was nothing.”

“You know, the boat isn’t that bad,” Charlie replied. “They’re like big barges, they sit very low to the water. Wouldn’t go on the open sea with them, fuck no. But they’re good enough for a nice calm trip up the sound or the river.”

He lifted his hands up and mimed holding a rifle: “I just saw the guy on the shore, just laying there.” He emulated recoil and made a gunshot noise with his mouth. “Super easy, just balanced my barrel on the gunwale and popped him one. It went right through the shell. I love that thing.”

Phil shrugged. “I shot some dinner plates with it once,” he chuckled.

“What a waste of a perfectly good dinner plate,” lamented Charlie as he took another sip. The spice jolted through him as it went down his throat, giving him goosebumps. He was pretty sure the drink was still radioactive on some level, too.

He sat in silence for a bit, listening to the music. The jazzy, upbeat rhythm of the song seemed awfully inappropriate. It seemed more like a dance club’s music: there were about five people inside the bar, none of whom were dancing. The door opened again, another figure entering and taking off his raincoat. He wore the dark blue shirt of a SecDiv man. “Charlie Park?” he called out. “I knew I could find you here!”

“Goddamn, is it a fuckin’ reunion in here?” Charlie said before he turned around. He recognized that voice: Sanjay Knight. Sanjay’s main job had him accompany the boats up the Hudson from time to time, since city policy required that a SecDiv agent be a part of any armed TraDiv expedition. Like many things that got wound up in the city government’s bureaucracy, Sanjay’s presence was often redundant when most of the sailors were armed themselves. He merely served as an official rubber stamp to give “jurisdiction” for use of force in the wasteland. Still, he was a good guy, and Charlie liked having him around.

Sanjay smiled and came to sit next to him. He was tall, striding across the floor with a cheerful bounce to his step. He slapped Charlie on the shoulder: “I heard you got back yesterday, right? Had a job for you.”

“Man, another contract?” Charlie asked incredulously. It made him good money, he just never felt that he had any time to rest. He finished the beer with a loud tap as the empty glass hit the table. Phil wordlessly refilled it for another exchange of caps.

“Gonna have to get a few more of these in me before you convince me,” Charlie told Sanjay. The SecDiv man grinned, reached into a pocket on his grey cargo pants, and put a handful of caps down on the table.

“Shots’ll do it quicker.”

Chelsea, Manhattan

Charlie found himself quite hungover on a pier in Chelsea the next morning, untying a line from the weathered wooden dock. The previous night’s rain had turned into a ghostly grey fog, obscuring the high-rises of the city and casting a dreary mood on the quiet docks. Other boats and barges were preparing for the day’s trip, which typically brought the slow watercraft only to Poughkeepsie. Sanjay helped a sailor dragging a wooden box onboard, making an audible rustling clink when it slammed on top of another one. Sanjay’s contract had them traveling to Almont and the cargo was unmistakable: Charlie knew the sound of ammunition rattling in a box.

The Trade Division never specified any restrictions on who the various companies of New York sold what to, and arms merchants were among the Wasteland’s traditionally most profitable companies. Bullets made in Brooklyn often found themselves in Almont sold to bandits and raiders. The infamous Gunners, who often ambushed settlers and caravans in the wilder regions around White Plains, were big fans of New York ammunition. Security Division officials found themselves confiscating caches of ammunition that were sent back to the city and, curiously, repackaged to sell again. The caps just stamped themselves.

SecDiv officials in the City Council were often at odds with the TraDiv representatives for the back and forth. The Council, meanwhile, tolerated the ordeal so long as it didn’t get out of hand. They were no position to legislate commercial activity like that and didn’t mind the additional revenue being brought in for other projects. Charlie didn’t care much if his cut was healthy enough to do as he pleased.

“How are you feeling?” asked Sanjay, slapping Charlie on the back. The sailor grumbled, shaking his head.

“This is the last time you convince me to do anything,” muttered Charlie. His head was throbbing.

"Well, give us a couple days and we’ll be back in Almont. The pay here is pretty good, just gotta be on the lookout for those Gunner guys.”

The one good thing about Almont is they provided some semblance of mafia-like protection to the New Yorkers. Smaller independent traders were often harassed by the Gunners who didn’t belong to the splinter faction in charge there. New York City, meanwhile, provided good quality products enough to convince the two groups to maintain a status quo. Roving bands of Gunners knew better not to attack the New Yorkers, lest they draw the specific ire of mayor. Potshots and ambushes still happened, but not like they used to. It was the less-organized bands of raiders that they needed to worry about.

The crew of the ship had brought aboard the last of the cargo and signed off on the courier’s order. While the ammunition came from the factory in Brooklyn, it traveled on a specially cleared subway car for intracity cargo. This stopped at the station in Chelsea, one of the “cargo stops”, where a team of workers unloaded the boxes with dollies. The whole process was much faster than the Brahmin carts of old. The boat’s captain, a veteran seaman, climbed to the wheelhouse that sat elevated over the barge’s wide cargo deck. Jad Hemsworth had proven himself for over thirty years on the Hudson and had the scars to prove it.

Charlie and Sanjay both heard the foghorn go off from the wheelhouse once the preparations for departure were complete. Sanjay helped as Charlie pulled the lines connecting the boat to the dock loose and onto the deck. Beneath them, the hull reverberated with the thrumming of the barge’s atomic-powered propeller. A small powerplant no bigger than a common nuclear train’s reactor drove two propellers. In the cool morning air, the boat moved away from the pier and turned due north.

The sun, barely rising above the city ahead, peeked over the fog with its golden rays. Charlie found himself a seat on the deck, an old poolside lounge chair that leaned back next to a table, and made himself comfortable. The trip north would take a while.

Caravan 1, Unknown location, The Appalachia

"Ah-ah-ah-AHCHOO!" A few bottle caps clinked to the ground as a Glowing one sneezed them out. Dr. Fatta sighed, as the only remaining of the original founders he was highly disappointed of how much his people had gone down hill. Sure they had increased a hundredfold, but the latest trend was to stick bottlecaps up your nose. A trend which had at least three Glowing ones hospitalized. Or at least, if you could call it a hospital. Majority of the 'equipment' was rusty knives, but they did the job, and with the healing factor gifted to Glowing ones by radiation, the cut didn't even have to be precise, although you did have to pull out the bottle cap before the skin closed over again.
At least we found a way to tame the mongrels right? He thought to himself. Majority of the glowing ones though of anything that glowed as a friend, and after offering food and water, the feeling was usually mutual. The mongrels had been found as pups, and since then been ghoulified and turned glowing, now they were Vicious attack dogs, at least, to anyone who didn't give them food.
"Speak of the devil!" Shouted out Dr. Fatta, the hunters had returned with food.

"We found this weird thing!" One of the hunters shouted back. A few ghouls they had picked up in the Appalachia murmured among themselves.

"Where did you find this? Was it alive when you found it?" One asked.

"Just outside where we're parked now, it was dead with some slash marks on the neck."

"This is a Yao guai, one of the most deadly creatures of the of the Appalachia. At the moment I can only think of one creature who could do this."

"We'll cook it later then, everyone pack up, we're heading out." Interrupted Dr. Fatta, waving everyone back to their caravan carts.

Soon all of the glowing ones were on the move once again, each cart being pulled by a few Brahmin or radstags, led by a single glowing one sitting on the roof. Inside Glowing ones were feasting on the remains of the meal from the previous day, or trying to get some sleep to prepare for their shift driving the carts. The mongrels play-fought with a glowing super-mutant. A rad-gull flew around it's owner. Older glowing ones told new recruits about traveling all the way to the Mojave with the Bottle Caps United. All was good, but that would change.

Caravan 2, Unknown location, The Appalachia

"Be careful around this cliff Ted, we don't want to fall off." The last of the carts in caravan two trudged along the side of the cliff. If they dropped not even the glowing ones with a higher healing factor could survive... And of course if they did they would have to worry about the gulpers at the bottom. Without warning the cart in front of them suddenly veered off course. Then, the driver, Ted let out an ear piercing scream. Then jerked hard to his left off the cliff.
"What was that?" Shouted out someone from the caravans in front, before driving his caravan off the cliff.

"Everyone down! Raiders are-" Then a bullet shut him up.

Radstags were fleeing everywhere, quite a large number of them leaping off the cliff, caravan and all. Luckily a few hunters and soldiers remained from the attack. Charging up the hill they emitted enough radiation to match a nuclear bomb. Every wound they got healed over within seconds. The raiders may have killed a few ghouls, but the glowing ones massacred all the raiders. In the end the warning got out to the other raiders, don't mess with glowing ones.

The armies of Slasher and Johnson both had around a thousand mutants in their ranks, but they functioned very differently. Johnson in many ways represented the old ways. A new Attis or Gammorin or Keene or Tabitha, they were a true horde. They travelled with whatever they could carry on their hands or back, fully expecting that through slaughter or intimidation they would grab loot, potentially discarding what they arrived with entirety as their meagre ammo stores ran out in favour for better craft. They had brought some FEV with them but for the most part they expected to replenish their numbers by assimilating other supermutant warbands or finding new FEV.

Slasher was entirely different in modus operandi. He did the professionalism implied in "Cockburne's army" justice, it was a true Expedition. Almost half of the force was dedicated to the support of those who would be fighting. Smiths, mechanics, commanders, radio operators, medics, technicians, negotiators. They rode a column with brahmin towing many carts of supplies, RVs were bearing labs, smithies, repair rooms. Cars were used and modified to bring mutants into the close combat they had such an advantage over humans in. Trucks were armoured to make APCs, tractors modified to be IFVs and bulldozers turned into veritable tanks. Only a few hundred mutants of the more than thousand strong force would find themselves going off to raid, fight, scavenge or more peaceful matters trade, investigation, diplomacy. The rest would remain at the camps they would form to ensure the rest would work as efficiently as possible in the field.

But ultimately they were born of the same root and terminated in the same goal.

Johnson’s Army first headed North for a detour to the great lake coast, hoping to strike at the lucrative trade routes there. They did just that of course. Johnson sat on the pile of heads that his underlings had assembled him, watching through the hundreds of mutants before him walk over to present what tribute they had recovered from the town that had been hit. One brought a gatling laser, another a rack of fusion cores, a third a water purification chip. Good, but none were what was truly wanted. Cockburne had commanded that they go East, but Johnson was confident he was making the right choice by not rushing and first consolidating his resources. But no, this paltry town would not do. He threw over his shoulder the helmeted head of the Chieftain of the place, supposed to be some great warrior without parallel. Rising up by his improvised handholds, Johnson grinned at the squelches before moving to address his troops. The mutant had to admit that Cockburne’s methodes were effective. It felt good to have all the flat-capped heads of his armies turn at once with a salute as he cleared his throat.

“One more hour for the looting, then we move out!” he cried out. Nightkin with the army were to later clean up, and leave no trace that it was Cockurne’s army that had been behind the atrocity, with but a few supermutants heading south with the slaves of the place to dip them into FEV back in Titan City. It was a good day’s work, yes. But greater treasures awaited!

---

Slasher was a second generation supermutant, hence the less articulate, tribal name. But potential was seen in him by Attis who had implanted cybernetics into him to ensure he would perform far above what he was born into by the FEV of Texas. Now he was in a position almost akin to the Lieutenant of centuries past, serving the new De Facto Master of supermutants: Jordan Cockburne. But he did not let himself by trapped in what many called old world blues, even if his definition of the term differed by quite a bit from what most humans defined it as. Though bearing wisdom of his own, Slasher believed in the wisdom of Cockburne. The Colonel was wise, for he saw past the pettier conquests of Attis, Gammorin, and the others. He knew that what mattered was the survival of the supermutant race.

His service to the glorious leader had lead him East. Cockburn’e army had good knowledge of the Pitt through the traders that travelled between there and Columbus. But beyond that Pitt was a very alien place to the super mutants. These new treasures had to come into grasp of the Army. Overlooking the billowing cloud of smoke and evaporated coolant that his column made, he knew that this was the future. Eventually the cures to the ails of the supermutant race would be found. Eventually Unity would be achieved, as all men would see the wisdom of super-mutation. Violence would not need to be had! After all, why would men refuse to become so clearly better?

Pressing down the pedal of his command vehicle, Slasher grinned. The Master would reward him for this.

The Grand Confederacy were not savages. They had running water and electricity, organised cities and missile launchers, trade routes and alliances. With all that in mind however, sometimes the old ways were important. Here, in what had been Hiawatha National Forest, a young man, face smeared with camouflaging warpaint, prowled. The farms and fisheries around the waterways here had come under attack, and not by the typical young mirelurks or even raiders. No: a far more fearsome threat had been plaguing these people.

There was a reason why deathclaws rarely came up into the Grand Confederacy's territory. Part of it was temperatures: snow fell on the ground here in the winter, and the naked reptiles that they were, deathclaws would avoid the cold temperatures if at all possible, but another part of it was that their niche had already been occupied by a very different species. Dogmen. Wakon Lefebre didn't pretend to know how they had come about, only that they had, and that they were now a very lethal part of life. Bipedal, some eight feet tall when fully grown, and looking exactly like what some pre-war books about 'werewolves' had described, dogmen were the apex predators of the region. Had the suspicion been that a pack had moved in, Wakon would not be here on his own, but all signs pointed to a lone male, having left his pack to try to find new territory for himself.

An excellent proving ground for the young warrior.

He had been stalking the beast for four days now, narrowing the location where it lived down, bit by bit. Every night-time raid, every slaughtered radstag or muffalo had provided him another piece of the puzzle, another clue as to where the beast was living. Today, he struck. It had to be today too: Dogmen were nocturnal creatures, and every night ran the risk of the tables being turned on Wakon. He wasn't sure if the beast had cottoned on to his presence yet, but he didn't intend on giving it a chance. For fighting the creature, some might have considered him underprepared. Across his back set a quiver of javelins, tightly-packed to keep them from rattling about, whilst in his hands was a home-made Brush Gun. Cottage gun making was a tried and tested role within the Confederacy, and although he knew the gun would fire straight and true, he only had one shot of .30-06 before needing to spend around several seconds to reload, a luxury the wounded Dogman would be unlikely to give him.

At last, he approached the beast's probable hide. A small cave, well-concealed by foliage, and close to a stream where the beast could drink and clean its fur after a hunt. There was precious little birdsong and not a hair from anything larger. The time at the moment was just past one in the afternoon, but dogmen were not heavy sleepers. He had to work quickly. Damp wood, piled high and with dry kindling added, would serve to drive the dogman from his cave. Lighting the fire, Wakon leapt across the stream and sighted the entrance of the cave as smoke began to build, then billow out from his quick construction. Within a minute, he could hear the dogman's snarls and growls. Moderating his breathing, he braced his brush gun, finger curling on the trigger.

Then, in a snarling fury of teeth and fur, the dogman burst free from the cave, ripping at the foliage and snapping through the smoke. Wakon forced himself to concentrate- to focus, and squeezed the trigger firmly. There was a faint pop and a small jerk from the gun, but that was hardly what a brush gun firing was supposed to sound or feel like. He squeezed it again, and didn't hear the click of a hammer hitting a primer. A squib. Shit.

He broke the barrel open and drew out the clearing rod in one smooth motion. As he did, the dogman had left the smoke and was now staring at the fire, processing what it saw. Then, furious, it lifted up a dinner-plate sized paw and stomped it down onto the smoking pile. It repeated the process over and over, until the smoke no longer rose from its remains, then looked around suspiciously. Dogmen were smart enough to know fires didn't just happen, and he was hardly well-hidden here, so Wakon needed to move quickly. He had removed the squib already, and now, dropping the ejector rod rather than fumbling about to make it neat, slid in a new round.

The dogman had spotted him. It snarled once more and dropped to all fours, an explosive energy building within its body as it prepared to sprint over and crush this new nuisance. Wakon snapped the rifle shut and rested it once more on the log he had chosen, even as the dogman burst into a sprint, barrelling towards the hunter. As it came to the river it leaped over it, and just as it reached the apex of its height, Wakon fired. There was no misfire now, the gun bucked hard in his arms and the barrel spat smoke, the young man rolling to one side immediately. The dogman crashed down where he had been positioned, blood splattering across the dirt, and turned towards him, howling in pain and anger.

Wakon drew out the first of his javelins, taking a loose standing stance. The dogman pulled itself up to its feet, and as it did so, he hurled the javelin forward. The beast dodged it, shifting out of the way with surprising grace for something so large, then began to approach again, slower and more cautiously. It had taken a wound, but it knew that this was not a fight it could afford to retreat from. Another javelin bounced harmlessly off the creature's thick hide, and now it was too close to throw another. With a bestial scream of his own, Wakon drew his third javelin and hurled himself forward, sliding underneath the dogman's initial swipes and thrusting hard, impaling his spear deep between the creature's ribs and backing off to draw himself another. Three left.

The dogman whimpered in pain, ripping out the javelin with ease, but Wakon had no intention of allowing him time to rest. Moving around the creature, forcing it to turn on its bad side, he jabbed in again and again, keeping clear of its lethal claws whilst nicking it just enough to slow it down each time. At last, the great beast could no longer put up a fight and slumped down. The man could claim his victory.

Surely, Bonfire Base now awaited him.

And now, we rejoin the Enclave, as their Vertibirds fly off on different missions, one headed North...and the others headed South.

Let's start with...





To anyone below, past the areas of Louisville, the sight of a Vertbird bearing the mark of the 'E' surrounded in stars was either a relatively new thing...or the source of old and frightening memories. Some people in this part of the former America didn't know of the Enclave. Others knew all too well, but were coming around to the idea that maybe the new management didn't have its head up its own ass. The ones that remained fervently convinced that they were up to no good, or simply could not ever BE good, were dwindling at a gradual rate, at least locally. The Enclave shot up every hostile rad-creature they came across, or captured it for study. They had a zero tolerance for any Raider that did not surrender on sight. They were still secretive, still a very scary people, but it was a far cry from 'Obey or Die'.

Aboard the Northbound Vertibird, several soldiers sat with the cargo entrusted to it, flying at an altitude generally too high for anybody without surface-to-air missles to hit. Some people had such things, however, like the folks at Indiana Homes. They weren't far-reaching, per se. The Enclave could easily go around their territory, but barring an actual important need, Number One ordered that attempts be made to secure open routes and proper lines of infrastructure, so that little to no interruption or sabotage may be made. Hence...the crates that now sat secured to the floor of the vehicle. The interior of the Vertibird was somewhat insulated from the outside, but the drone of the engines was constant. It was easier to use the radio units in their powersuits to communicate, which one soldier did, in fact.

"Pilot, how long to our destination?"

"Well, according to this red line on the map, our ETA is ten minutes."

"Alright, then. Remember, the lot of you. There's hundreds or maybe a thousand people here, all of them doing that crazy parkour shit and stunt driving. We're five total, and the pilot stays with the 'bird. The locals agreed not to shoot at us, as long as we don't interfere with them."

"And base thought we could just barter our way with a buncha' trinkets?"

"Number One believes so, yes. Any questions?"

"Yeah, just one: I thought Johnson was sick. Is he he gonna be okay for the mission?"

"Ask 'im yourself."

He did so, but the soldier he addressed did a sort of slow pan of the head with a mechanical precision and ease. That wasn't Johnson. That was a Replicant. He - or rather, it - would be the one pulling the crates on a pallet jack, without delay and without complaint. They soon came to a landing, just outside of the city gates, beside the newly-paved road, with several cars zipping on by. The formation was three soldiers up front, the Replicant in back with the crates. They identified themselves and made their intentions known. The city guard then said that they would have to inspect the cargo.

"You may inspect the cargo to make sure nothing weaponized or volitile is contained, but the examination is for your leader."

"Sir, if we do not examine the boxes thoroughly-"

"If you damage those articles, you will explain to your leader AND ours how you ruined historical pieces and records of events, our bargaining chips and potentially his currency. We've already agreed to leave weapons behind. Don't push it."

There was some continued arguing before the crates were simply opened and the soldier in charge pointed out how the items inside were so obviously not weapons or poisonous or radioactive that even without a physical examination, it was clear to anyone that no harmful material was involved. Of course, anybody here knew that three men and a machine were no match for this entire town, even WITH their armaments, but nobody was going to assault them. SAMs or not, the Enclave still held power, and if provoked, they would make sure it was known that they were not the ones responsible for what happened next. SO! The jack would be wheeled towards the museum, to reach a man who seemed - by all accounts - like a professor, but...there was a hardness in the man's demeanor, like he'd seen the world and dealt with alot from it. This was the town leader, Indy. He DID examine the articles carefully. Flags, busts of past Presidents, war records, Civil War pieces, holotapes of music, etc. Yes, indeed, this stuff was all for bartering, none of it lethal. Indy smirked.

"I half-expected you to offer me gold, for all the good it'd do."

"We use that in electronics. It's not worth giving up. This was."

"No eye for history, huh?"

"No need. The Enclave is working on a fresh start. The old America is a relic, as Number One would say."

"So I've heard. And you want in return...what? Our cooperation, for this?"

"Ideally, but my orders say 'Secure a safe route to Fort Wayne'."

"You could just go around."

"We could not have to, and not have to deal with people taking pot-shots."

"That's true. What do you want with Fort Wayne?"

"We were thinking of turning it into an actual fort."

"This have anything to do with the Ontario people?"

"It couldn't hurt. Fact is, though, if they want to waste their resources coming down this way, they're not gonna achieve much."

"Well, the good news is that you won't have to construct much of a fort in Fort Wayne. There's already one there."

"Already? How come?"

"Fort Wayne had a zoo in the city area. When the bombs fell, there were over a hundred different species in captivity that broke out and roamed the area, eventually becoming mutated by radiation. Because the city had become their home, they didn't roam too far and the area effectively became their eco-system...until more recently, when they mutated further. Are you familiar with a chimera?"

"I read a bit, sure."

"The animals have become bizarre amalgamations of species. They were incredibly violent, and we worked very hard to wall them into the city in the hopes of starving them out. At last check, though, three weeks ago, something let out a primal roar in that place. Something big."

"That's impossible. Radiation can't do that alone."

"Well, it is what it is, and I've a sneaking suspicion that you know what it is that did it."

"We haven't had any contact with the place. If there's something extra-volitile there, we didn't do it."

"But you will clean it up if you want any real cooperation from us. For this stuff, I'll let you through, but we're not helping out the Enclave with a monster hunt. You're on your own."

That was the end of the meeting. The soldiers headed on back to the Vertibird, and reported back via radio.

"Mission successful, but we have a problem."

"What is the situation, soldier?"

Everyone flinched. That was Number One. He must've been watching dispatch.

"I have to report uhhh...a possible FEV presence. Vault 66 may be compromised or contaminated."

>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>

The news was both satisfying, and yet...not. Indy had reluctantly given the Enclave leave to be in the area and proceed onward North, but the area in question they were going to now appeared to have an unexpected mutational level that seemingly couldn't have been caused by anything other than the Forced Evolutionary Virus, which he himself outlawed the study and existence of. The only possible answers to something like that would be a random event so radical that it was borderline miraculous, that it was a pre-war FEV experiment that they simply did not have a record for, that any GECK that was on-site might be malfunctioning, or... Well, they never caught all the deserters who wanted to cling to the old ways, or were far too insane for the new. This may be a very dangerous situation indeed... Number One hit a button to the base dispatch, now.

"Call in FalloutJohn, if you please."

Red Hook, Brooklyn

A row of battery-like objects protruded from a steel shelf. Each of them were slotted into hundreds of ports along dozens of rows of these shelves, each of them flashing blinking green lights to nobody in particular. They all made a low humming noise and radiated warmth into the room around them. Upon closer inspection, these batteries were hundreds of energy cells and electron charge packs sitting in gigantic charging banks. A man in a black suit with a gaggle of technicians wearing mismatched jumpsuits inspected one of the charging shelves.

The man in the suit ran his hand over the energy cells until he picked one at random to yank out from the socket. The flashing green light turned yellow as it waited for the battery to be reinserted to finish its charge. The energy cell was still warm to the touch and carried a noticeable heft in his hand, like a loaded magazine. Its metal was dented and scratched. The labeling and letting from the original manufacturer had long since worn off. But prewar technology was robust, with these energy cells capable of being recharged dozens of times over before it was time to totally throw them away.

“How long does it take to charge these?” asked the man. While he had managed the company’s up and coming energy weapons department, he was never inclined towards the specifics of the technology.

“Well, about two days for a full charge. We’re working on another set of charging banks in the back specifically for overcharged cells, which should take four days,” explained a technician in a red jumpsuit tied around his waist. He wore a faded undershirt bearing the logo of an old world baseball team in Brooklyn. The manager nodded and stuck the energy cell back into its slot. The light turned back to a flashing green.

The manager’s name was Mario Leonetti and he had just overseen the opening of this particular assembly line for Brooklyn AA&E. Famed in the region for its weapons production, Brooklyn AA&E’s iconic stamp could be found on its signature goods: arms, ammunition, and explosives. Usually consigned to restore and produce a sizeable selection of conventional firearms and ammunition, Leonetti spearheaded the development of an energy weapons refurbishment branch. The rows of charging banks, themselves found in the basement of a RobCo facility in the industrial hellscape of Jersey, had been fixed up and put to work recharging spent energy packs. It was the first tangible success of the project.

“May we continue?” he asked the technicians. They all nodded and shuffled out the door, following another lower manager in a white short-sleeved shirt out the door. Only a pair of employees remained in the charging room to monitor the status of the energy cells on a desk with a computer terminal placed nearby.

Across the hall of the old brick building was their open-floor workshop. Lined up in neat rows were workbenches and workstations cluttered with tools, parts, gadgets, and components. Mechanics, highly talented and gifted technicians from across the city, had been hired to work on energy weapons in this bay. Across their desks was a wide assortment of laser weapons, plasma guns, and a fair share of more exotic armament. Most of these were gutted and disassembled with technicians working determinedly to fix them. From the corner, Leonetti heard a slam and turned his head to see a mechanic loudly thumping the stock of a laser rifle against the desk. He grinned and walked over.

“What’re you working on?” asked Leonetti, a measured air of genuine curiosity in his voice. The mechanic looked up from the chamber of the laser rifle, clutching a flashlight between his teeth. He quickly removed it and put it down on the desk.

“Sorry about that, heh,” he said, looking back to the chamber of the gun. “This sonofabitch right here,” he motioned towards some vague internal piece of the rifle, “is supposed to reciprocate. It’s stuck, so I figure if I can give it an ‘ole slam then it should come unstuck.”

Leonetti squinted but couldn’t make heads or tails of the part that the mechanic was referring to. Instead he just nodded his head: “Well I’m sure if you keep smacking it like that you’ll get it out of there in no time. Good work from you, son.”

He returned to his entourage of technicians and surveyed the room again. A rack of weapons laid against the opposite wall, each of them in various states of disrepair. Rusted, broken, or missing components. Leonetti had asked specifically for a cut of AA&E’s revenue for this branch. To front the operation, he had paid dozens of contracted scavengers to loot for energy weapons that others may have missed or thrown away. It now looked like his big bet was paying off. AA&E had asked the City Council for The Economist’s input on laser weaponry and other high technology sites, and a mercenary crew was dispatched to the RobCo facility in Jersey that yielded the energy cell chargers. Right on the money, as per usual.

Leonetti returned to the hallway where the floor manager was standing, idly chatting with one of the technicians about something. All Leonetti could understand was some technobabble about the overcharge banks having electrical issues. He figured it was a problem, like usual, with the old technology. He had confidence that they would figure it out eventually. The floor manager noticed Leonetti’s return: “How’s it looking, boss?” he asked.

“Pretty good in there,” Leonetti replied authoritatively. “You guys are really putting in the work I like to see. We’ll have those laser guns out of there in no time, right?”

The floor manager nodded vigorously. “Oh, of course. Two or three weeks tops and we should have a whole bunch of guns to sell off,” he casually assessed. He looked at a clipboard that he had been holding tucked under his arm and nodded again. He repeated his timeline of three weeks.

“Good, good,” Leonetti said, crossing his arms. He checked his watch in a feigned display of hurry. He always had work to do, and often used that as an excuse to cut social engagements and tours short regardless of the specifics. “Well thanks for showing me around today gents,” he announced as he clapped his hands together. “I’ve got to run… sales is going to love this news. Keep this up and you boys might be getting a nice bonus for your troubles.”

Almont, Upstate Wastes

“I’m getting tired of hearing that fuckin’ kook on the radio,” grumbled Charlie from his bunk.

The half-crazed mayor of Almont had just wrapped up his rambling “newscast” of the afternoon, talking about… something. Charlie tuned out the insanity and tried to get back to the music instead. Unfortunately for him, there wasn’t much this far north. New York’s comparatively more civilized DJs had long since turned to static as they rounded the bend of the Hudson south of Newburgh. Local settlements sometimes had their own radio stations, of course, but those were more for communication and less for entertainment. After a certain way up the river, Hathaway’s madness was the only sound they had.

Sanjay shrugged in his chair as he set down another card. He had gotten used to playing solitaire in his spare time. Another sailor was up on the deck, keeping watch for the dangers of the wasteland. Luckily for them, this trip had so far been uneventful. Maybe the dreary weather was keeping people away. After all, nobody liked to be stalking around the mountains in soaking wet clothes and boots. The weather was still forecasted to be like this for another few days; it was good enough of a cover to get them to Almont and mostly back to New York before it let up. Charlie was just glad that Sanjay had been right about it being an “easy job” for once.

They were a few hours from docking at Almont. The rain pattered at the boat as most of the crew took cover beneath the structure of its bridge. The dull thrum of the engine propelled it further up the river, unceasingly beating against the mild current and light winds of the Hudson. Charlie dozed back to sleep after checking his watch, realizing that morning was yet to come. Their ships had gotten awfully good at scheduling their docking at Almont.

Charlie was awoken from his sleep with a light push. He opened his eyes to see Sanjay standing above him, clad in combat armor. The plated vest, a relic of the old NYPD riot teams, was painted dark grey to match the rest of his uniform. He clutched a carbine in his hands. “Charlie, man, we just docked!” he said as he jostled the sailor from his sleep.

The sailor grumbled again, swinging his legs out of his bunk. He shooed Sanjay away, urging him to head topside while he changed. Charlie wore a pair of underpants and a plain white shirt as he stumbled to his personal locker. Inside were his work clothes: he much preferred a blue jumpsuit with nothing underneath. Anything besides the jumpsuit was too much of a chore in the steamy humidity of New York’s summer. The weather was changing to become much cooler, however, as fall fast approached. He had heard that once upon a time the trees would change colors to shades of orange and red before the leaves fell for winter: not anymore. The land was still too scarred from the war.

Charlie went to work on the boat mooring it to the dock. Almont was nothing like New York. It looked and felt like an active warzone in a carnival. Neon signs lit up all sorts of establishments of sin in town: bars, casinos, brothels, and everything in between. A loudspeaker played the same deranged rantings of the mayor that permeated the airwaves from his radio station. All across the dock was a flurry of activity as the shipment began to be unloaded. A team of local mercenaries had been hired, under Sanjay’s supervision, to guard the pier where the sailors were offloading their wooden boxes. They stood in a tight line, clutching bats and blunt instruments.

Out of the corner of Charlie’s eye he saw a trio of kids, no older than their early teens, try to make a break for a crate that had been set down close to the line of mercenaries. They scrambled out of the shadows, one with a bright red flare gun that he waved wildly in the air. The kid hopped over a crumbled concrete barrier and, to his own surprise, discharged the flare gun straight into the ground next to the foot of a guard. His friends realized that they had blown their cover and rushed away, leaving the teen to his fate. Sitting down on his rear, staring up at the mercenary and clutching the flare gun, his eyes widened. The merc spared no words, strategically lining up the teen’s hand with his bat and smacking the gun away from him.

The would-be thief yelped in pain and evacuated himself into the shadows, clutching his hand. Charlie just shook his head. Vagrant kids were a constant annoyance. He was sure he’d find them begging for caps in an alley later that night. Sanjay turned to Charlie, shrugging with his carbine in hand. He was under orders not to fire inside the city limits unless absolutely necessary: the former Gunners were trigger happy about that sort of thing. Charlie kept unloading the wooden boxes, stacking them neatly next to a weathered wooden shack marked “DELIVERY.”

The captain, satisfied that the cargo was completely offloaded after an hour’s work, hobbled himself off the barge. A stiff leg that never quite healed from a break crippled his movement. Tucked under his arm was a clipboard with paperwork and forms that TraDiv needed from the registered merchants: another cause for griping from the old man. He met with a merchant on the pier who appeared equally as apathetic as the sea captain, merely scribbling a curved line on the form to act as his signature. Another, far more traditional exchange happened as well when the merchant passed the captain a clinking bag full of caps.

The captain hobbled his way back to the ship and motioned for the sailors to cut out and go about their business. He had briefed over the intercom when to expect a muster the following morning: seven AM sharp. Failure to show up used to be punished with a beating, back in the old days. Now, it was more than sufficient to just sever the contract right then and there and leave the tardy sailor stranded alone in Almont. Most of the crew would prefer a beating. Charlie lit a cigarette as he went back down belowdecks for his things. Sanjay followed: he had to trade in his carbine for a sidearm before going out on the town. Company policy dictated that they couldn’t have anything bigger than a handgun out in Almont.

Sanjay ditched his armor and opted for the simple blue uniform shirt, like usual. Charlie couldn’t have been bothered to change out of his jumpsuit. They both filled their pockets full of caps, strapped on their holsters, and went out on the town. Almont was rough and grimy, dangerous and shady. Like a pack of migrating animals, the sailors all headed in one direction to the neon-lit entertainment neighborhood. They would be safer in their massive group, and they all knew the bars and clubs of Almont had little tolerance for allowing violence. Armed guards patrolled the streets, breaking up fights and fending off potential troublemakers. After all, it was far more lucrative to have a drunk New Yorker spending caps at the bar instead of going home empty-handed after getting robbed.

Charlie and Sanjay peeled off from the group once they hit the strip of bars. They had one objective, and that was to get absolutely blackout drunk at their favorite establishment: Stella Supreme’s. Jubilantly, Sanjay practically kicked in the door to the dive bar. He always made a point to come to this place when they were in Almont, if only to see the one special girl that he always liked to spend a night with. Without fail, she always frequented the bar at Stella’s, and she was there again that night. A tall brunette with a cigarette in her mouth, she smiled when she saw the pair: “Back again, huh? I thought you’d miss me.”

Sanjay sidled up to her and flipped some caps on the table while Charlie ordered some liquor. His goal that night was to get as drunk as possible on the cheap, and with cash to spare to bring some bottles back home with him. Almont was half the price of New York for almost everything, especially luxury goods like alcohol and chems. As Sanjay tried to pay for more attention from his friend, Charlie fed himself shot after shot. Minutes passed that turned into hours as Stella’s got more and more packed. Charlie dropped deeper into his state of intoxication as he kept drinking. He danced with the girls, argued with the guys, and in the middle of things lost sight of Sanjay.

It was close to midnight when Charlie said, or rather slurred, something to the wrong guy. He didn’t quite remember what he did wrong, only that he took a haymaker of a punch to the face in response. With all the coordination that his drunk self could muster, he swung back. He didn’t quite remember if he connected or not. A gang of four people rushed him and before he knew it, he had taken a swing of something heavy to the back of his head. He blacked out before he hit the ground and woke up sometime later still drunk in an alley with a figure towering over him.

“Come on, man,” said the figure. Charlie groaned and covered his eyes as the rays of the sun peeked through the scrap-metal awning that provided him shade. The blurriness resolved as he got his bearings: he was curled up next to a dumpster with empty pockets, no gun, and blood staining the front of his jumpsuit. He rolled over, putting his hands on his head, struggling to get a good look at whoever was standing next to him. It was two people: one in a white lab coat of some sort, while the other dressed in a black turtleneck. The man in the coat kneeled down and laid a bottle of water on the ground.

“Who are you?” he grumbled. The man in the lab coat was not actually a scientist, and in fact looked more like a doctor. He was stern behind a pair of thick glasses, entirely unamused with the scene.

“I’m the guy who found you kicking around in this alley,” deadpanned the doctor. He motioned to the water: “Drink this. You got your ass kicked.”

“Fuck,” mumbled Charlie as he sat up. The doctor stuffed his hands in his pockets and looked around. Charlie noticed a silver watch on the man’s wrist and asked what the time was. Nine in the morning. Way past manifest. Charlie swore again, cursing the company policy. He was out of this contract’s pay and had to figure out how to get out of Almont. He took a swig of the water and looked back up at the doctor: “You seen my buddy around?”

“You had a friend? Would have been helpful in that fight.”

“Yeah, well, the kid ran off chasing a broad,” Charlie said. He spat blood onto the concrete before chugging some more water.

“You sailors are all the same,” the doctor sighed. He extended his hand out and offered to help Charlie up. The sailor steadied himself to his feet and got a better look at the man. The doctor wasn’t an average physician: he wore the distinct armband of the Wasteland Aid Society. Charlie had seen them around and figured they were some sort of charity and volunteer group but had never talked to them beyond that. He figured they gave food and medicine to the needy or, in his case, picked up drunks off the street.

“Trust me, you’re fucked. Missing your friend and you missed your boat,” the doctor explained. The man in the turtleneck next to him clutched a rifle in his palms, staring down the alley to make sure they weren’t suddenly attacked. The Aid Society always seemed to travel with bodyguards, seeing as they were as close to pacifists as one could get in the wasteland. “I’m the best friend you’ve got. We’ll go looking for your buddy and hopefully get you out of here in one piece.”

Sanjay was just as drunk as Charlie was and probably was still in Almont as well. The pair desperately needed to regroup and figure out a way to get back to the city. He cursed himself again, wondering how he could be so stupid as to get his ass beat at a bar in Almont. Out of options, he nodded and finished off the water.

“Yeah, good idea,” he told the doctor.

The Town of Far Harbor - Mount Desert Island, Maine

Dr. Mara Holdren couldn’t help but hold her nose as she rode in the driver’s seat of the cart into the town of Far Harbor. The locals had not been exaggerating when they’d claimed that whatever was affecting the waters was devastating their catch. She caught sight of discarded heaps of blighted fish outside the town’s walls and everywhere permeated the smell of decay. Up ahead a short ways was the massive bulwark that was The Hull and she could already see movement on its makeshift battlements indicating that the Harborwatch had seen her approaching. Moments later the gates of Far Harbor were being opened for her.

The sturdy cart which she rode was pulled not by brahmin, or any pack animal for that matter, but a group of six Gen-2 Synths which held on to a series of yolks in front of the cart to propel it forward. The cart was furthermore laden with the promised supplies: fresh vegetables, fruits, potatoes, and other assorted produce from Acadia’s greenhouse were stacked high in wooden boxes behind her. However underneath her feet in a white metal box stamped proudly with the red vitruvian man was perhaps the most valuable part of the supply: much needed anti-radiation and antitoxin medicines for the town’s doctor.

A grizzled looking member of the Harborwatch bellowed as the cart passed through the gate,

“They’re here!” He then rang a mounted brass bell three times.

A small cluster of people shuffled out from nearby houses and began to crowd around the curious cart pulled by the ‘plastic people’ as the Harborfolk had come to refer to the lower generation Synths. Soon a lone figure cut through the crowd and came up to Mara directly, it was Captain Avery,

“Welcome….Dr. Holdren I presume?”

“Mara Holdren, yes,” Mara replied as she stepped down from the cart and brushed off her green and white Bioscience lab coat. She retrieved the briefcase from underneath her seat and offered it to The Captain,

“For Doctor Wright, with our Director’s compliments.”

“Thank you,” Avery nodded as she carefully took hold of the case, “I’ll deliver these to Teddy myself.”

“Zadok!” Avery called out to the Harborman who’d let Mara in, “Grab some of your watchmen and get this produce offloaded from the cart.”

An affirmative grumble followed from the old Harborman. Mara turned to the Synth Leader of her Gen-2 escorts,

“Assist the townspeople with the offloading and distribution. Then come find me when you’re done.”

“Yes ma’m,” the Gen-2 droned out.

Mara then turned back to Avery, “Captain, if it's all the same to you. I’d like to get started right away. I’ll proceed to the docks.”

“By all means Doctor.”

---------------------------------------------------------------

The docks were, perhaps expectedly, far worse. Mara was fully dressed head to toe in her environmental suit but even through the air filters she could still pick up on the stench of death and disease. The town was indeed in crisis if the shores around the harbor were all like this. Some unknown radioactive blight had struck its waters and without these vital stocks, the town could very well starve. She knew that her colleagues were dismissive of the claims of Far Harbor, or at least believed them to be exaggerated, but she had all the proof she needed right here. Something was indeed very, very wrong.

In her hands, Mara held one of the blighted fish: a specimen of Melanogrammus aeglefinus or Haddock. It was affected by advanced tissue necrosis along with an array of other obvious physical deformities and mutations. If she didn’t know better, she’d assume that the creature was displaying signs of Radiation Induced Post-Necrosis Syndrome: also known to the wasteland as ‘Ghouldom’: a phenomenon only rarely observed in non-humans species. That observation alone was cause for alarm, as it suggested an entirely as-yet unknown process by which these fish were being affected by the condition. At the very least, this warranted more study, she had a feeling she wouldn’t be leaving Far Harbor for some time.

“It's the Children, isn’t it?” A voice from behind her asked. Allen Lee was standing on the top of the stairs leading down from the dock.

“No...or at least, I don’t have enough data to make any kind of determination like that.” Mara replied.

“Their poisoning the town...using whatever hoodoo they cook up worshipping that god of theirs. Why don’t you and The Institute do something about it?”

“Because we rely on hard data, not speculation,” Mara said confidently, “And this could still be a natural phenomenon.”

Allen narrowed his eyes, “Hmmph, I thought maybe when you scientists arrived and took out DiMA….things would be different. Thought maybe we’d have someone in our corner finally with the balls to do something about the Children. I’m starting to think I was wrong.”

“Your town is safer and more prosperous than it ever has been thanks to us,” Mara countered, “Mr. Lee, you need to be patient and let us do our work. If the Children are responsible, be assured we’ll find out. I will not report back to the Director speculations and fear with no evidence to back them up….I will however report back the seriousness of the situation here and request further resources and relief. That will have to suffice for now.

“Whatever you say,” Allen turned around and stormed back towards his shop. It was clear he’d heard enough.

Mara turned back to the sea and the rotting fish. Allen was more of a hothead than she’d ever expected when she was warned of his behavior. He was the type of self-righteous idiot who held to his own ideas and wanted it his way or no way at all. What’s more, he was unfortunately also someone that many people in town looked to when things got bad. He was, in other words, a problem. Mara thought how much easier it would probably make things if Allen was simply replaced with a Synth that was less….murderous….when it came to dealing with the Children of Atom. However she checked herself and remembered that The Director had mandated that they weren’t going to utilize Gen-3’s in that manner going forward without serious consideration and dire need. They didn’t need any more ill-will from the surface-dwellers.

Diplomacy it was then. She needed to ingratiate herself with the people of Far Harbor.

The faint smell of burning alcohol hung in the air as the RCMP Vessel Mississauga trundled along through the Erie canal, belching ethanol fumes into the air as it went. Its deck buzzed with activity, men and women dressed in plate carriers and forest camouflage manning their posts. Oliver Adams, for his part, stood at his station, a small cannon with a large, cylindrical drum attached to the side, his lightweight body armour dragging down on his shoulders.

Some small part of him almost wished he'd get the chance to use it. For more hours than he could count, though, he'd been listening to the crazed - and entertaining - ramblings of the former Gunner on the radio.

At least he can pick his music well, the Sergeant thought, and he keeps his guns pointed in the right direction.

Bored, he placed his hands on the old cannon's grip, swivelling the gun around on its mount. he wasn't too worried about being caught offguard - after all, the ship he was on carried far more firepower than was necessary to deter raiders - and he was protected by several inches of armor, both the boat's 'railing' and his gun's shield. Raiders were garbage shots, and even if they weren't, he assumed some mortar fire, at least half a dozen Ma Deuce, several twenty-millimeter cannons, and a handful of Bofors would do the job. Most of the hardware was old, and without point defense lasers, the boat was still vulnerable...

But for a wasteland riverboat, it was more than enough.

Every once in a while, though, some idiots hopped up on Psycho tried to jump them, or some Gunners showed up to cause trouble. It was only the latter that worried him, he thought, swivelling his mount across the treeline, firing imaginary shells at imaginary attackers.

Again... And again... And again. Nobody showed up. Nobody caused problems for the Foreign Affairs Minister, and that made his job all that much easier. Letting out a yawn, he finally released his grip on the gun mount, leaning back against the wall behind him.

Can't see shit out there, anyways. Even if the Gunners showed up, they couldn't hit shit in this weather, he thought, briefly sticking out his gloved hand out from beneath cover, catching a handful of raindrops.

Turning to his left, toward the bow of the ship, he peered far into the distance, down the last stretch of the Erie canal toward the Albany docks. He could see the faint, blinking lights of the radio tower in the distance, a mostly useless relic of a time when civil aviation existed.

"Hey, Campbell! It's your turn to watch the gun!" He shouted, turning to head into the bowels of the ship, eager to change out of his body armour.

The people in town always loved their red sarges.

---

[/hr]

Straightening out his beige Stetson, Oliver sucked in a deep breath, carefully making his way down the gangplank and onto the Almont docks. Fishermen and traders buzzed about the place, some hawking goods, others gawking at the comparatively massive gunboat, the pristine flag of Ronto flying below the Canadian flag on a second, smaller pole. It felt good, honestly, being at the center of attention, even if a good chunk of the townsfolk thought Oliver looked like a stuffy asshole in his carefully maintained uniform, a leather holster clasped shut at his hip.

Making his way down the gangplank, he couldn't help but remember stories his grandparents told him of when the first Canadian Army soldiers rolled into their village. He wondered how many of these people felt the same about him as he gently pushed his way through the teeming crowd, pausing only to glance back at his fellow officers, confirming his departure one last time.

Now, though, it was finally time to get a drink.

Director Xavier Crawford - Acadia Observatory, The Institute

Six synths stood before Director Crawford as he inspected them and their gear closely. Each of them were dressed in Harbormen garb, and were lightly equipped with a survival pack and a lever-action rifle supplied by Far Harbor. They’d be traveling light and keeping a low profile whenever possible, and only contacting The Institute via a long-range transmitter to check in and report status when necessary. Xavier disliked the idea of sending the Gen-3’s out in the wastes unsupported, but The Institute would remain effectively blind if nothing was done. They need to gather valuable intel about what was out there, which factions had arisen in the East, and who they might be able to contact directly. Waiting around and simply hoping to remain undisturbed and undiscovered seemed a poor excuse for a plan, and it had unfortunately been one that Institute leadership had entertained for far too long.

Xavier nodded approval and turned to the nearby Courser, Z4-22: a black haired female synth who’d previously been a member of DiMA’s Synth Refugees before her reclamation.

“They appear ready. You're approved to deploy them,” He said, “Escort them as far as the mainland and then return immediately. After that they’ll be on their own.”

He looked back to the Synths,

“I expect an initial report upon arrival at your assigned destinations. Understood?”

“Yes Director,” The synths nodded.

“All of you, follow me,” Z4 ordered as she began heading for the Observatory doors. The Synths dutifully complied.

Xavier then looked over at his personal Synth assistant, B7. She’d been standing off to the side since the courser had brought the Synths in,

“I hope this works...otherwise we’ll have lost six Gen-3’s and gained nothing.” Xavier muttered as he watched them leave, “But for the record…..I think it’s necessary. I’ll admit I was hesitant when you came to me with the suggestion, but you’re absolutely right.”

B7 brushed aside a strand of blonde hair and watched as the last synth left,

“You need to know what's out there. We need to know. I vetted them personally...each of them could be Coursers if they were given the evaluation tests. They’ll make it to their destinations...and we’ll get valuable information as a result.”

“Then let's see what they find.”

----------------------------------------------------

Dr. Mara Holdren, Far Harbor

“Give me that box of food you stupid plastic freak.”

Mara heard the commotion right as she’d stepped back off the dock. A crowd had gathered around her Gen-2 Synth guards and the crates of produce they and the Harborwatch were offloading. Several angry residents of Far Harbor were trying to grab a couple of the boxes for themselves, and one in particular was attempting to wrestle away one that was held by the Synth Leader. The Synth was holding back and stoically warning the Harborman,

“Please stand back.” It droned out, “Refrain from theft.”

“Everyone back away god-damnit!” One of the Harborwatch members shouted at the increasingly unruly crowd, “Where the hell is the Captain, we’re going to have a full on riot here soon.”

Finally the man who’d been wrestling with the Synth pulled out a meat hook from his belt and took a swipe at the Gen-2’s head. The Synth Leader swiftly dodged the attack and then in one fluent motion, drew out a holstered security baton, extended it, and jabbed it into the Harborman’s stomach. The man immediately let out a sharp cry and fell back to the ground, winded by the strike.

The other Gen-2’s immediately formed up around their leader and raised their laser rifles,

“By order of The Institute, disperse.” The Synth Leader ordered. The crowd immediately backed away, and even the Harborwatch seemed surprised and began swiftly backing away from the cart at the sudden outburst from the Synths.

Mara burst into a run and began waving her hands in the air frantically,

“No! Halt! Stand down!” She shouted. J2 stand down!” The Synth leader immediately lowered his hands and the rest of the Synth guards lowered their weapons.

“What the hell is going on?” Came a voice from the crowd. Captain Avery had, finally, returned.

“Damn thing nearly killed me,” The harborman who’d been struck groaned out as he lay on the ground holding his stomach.

“And why’s that I wonder?” Avery looked at him skeptically. She turned to Mara, “What happened?”

“He and a few others were trying to take some of the crates...forcibly. The Synths reacted defensively, that’s all. “

“They damn near shot at the crowd!” one of the Harborwatch men shouted out.

“They are programmed to protect Institute personnel and property. They wouldn’t have fired unless absolutely necessary,” Mara contended, “I assure you. They were not going to shoot.”

Murmurs and mutterings of disagreement fluttered through the crowd and Captain Avery raised her hand,

“Well they wouldn’t have reacted that way if you damn fools hadn’t been trying to take the produce. What the hell makes you so impatient? The food is going to get distributed fairly and evenly, same as everything else. Honestly, Acadia sends us supplies to help and this is how you react? Shame on anyone who was trying to grab something from that cart. You think you deserve it more than anyone else here?”

“Ain’t that Captain, but damned if my kids aren’t going hungry,” The man on the floor wheezed, “Haven’t been able to fish for days and I just want to provide for my family. That food ain’t going to last forever, what’re we going to do when it runs out?”

“We’ll send more,” Mara said confidently, “The Director will receive my report, and I’ll make sure to emphasize the needs of Far Harbor. We’ll figure out what’s happening here and resolve it. You have my word.”

“How do we know you won’t just go up to your Ivory tower up there and lock your doors?” One of the crowd asked.

“Because I’m staying here in Far Harbor.” Mara replied. Silence fell around her.

“See? There you go. Now quit your bellyaching and go back home!” Avery told the crowd.

The crowd began to disperse with some further murmurings, but there was no further argument or disagreement. Mara’s assurance’s had at least satisfied them for now.

“So you’re staying then?” Avery turned to Mara, “I hope that wasn’t just a bluff.”

“I intend to stay until I’ve determined the cause of whatever blight is affecting the waters. My report to The Director will include a request to do so. I’m sure he’ll approve.”

“Good to hear, in that case I’ll make sure to provide you with quarters. There’s an abandoned house on the south end of town, overlooking the bay. Might take a little work to make it homely, but it's still in good shape. You’re welcome to it. “

“Sounds fine, thank you Captain Avery,” Mara said with a nod.

“If you need anything, or if anyone gives you trouble. You come straight to me. I’ll handle it.”

“Understood.”

@Andronicus23




The cabin radio buzzed and came to life as Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark piloted the Felicity confidently through the murk of the Mount Desert Narrows. For the last couple hours, he had been hoping for it to ease off the fritz. The pilot’s cabin had grown boring. Not for the first time he wished he was sailing in the open breeze with the rest of the fleet. Songs of past and future glories, boasts of hunts, and, above all, excited and grave talk about Far Harbor had all played out beyond everyone’s interest. His Trapper-Kith, those warriors closest to him for various reasons, occupied chairs lining the trawler’s cabin. They were shadowy, quiet shapes under the sticky yellow glow of the two naked light bulbs hanging from the ceiling, one of which started blinking an hour ago. Most of them seemed asleep.

The buzzing finally cleared, as the radio belched out a message: "Next, with this year's hockey season in full swing, I want to wish all the *static* good luck, whether you're playing at the Scotiabank Arena or elsewhere. We all *static* our favourite teams, each one gunning for the Cup - however, as a Toronto native, I know the Leafs are going to win. Easy." A faint chuckle. "I'm kidding, of course - *static* luck to all of you."

"There *static* important matters I want to address, and the reasons why *static* address outside of the usual schedule. First, the Gun-” *static*.

The radio sputtered as the signal gave out again. Liam shook his head about the radio, but also the welling sense of unease he felt. It wasn’t the first signal from far away they had received. The long range radio signals were a sign that other folks outside the people of Maine were getting more powerful. They didn’t seem that different from the Rich Ones of old, or they weren’t immediately eager to prove it. No sense of humility. Still, the woman seemed a decent sort. He wagered that was the Prime Minister of Ronto. Only a fool would pretend they didn’t exist.

All in all, it made his current mission seem small. They were here for personal and Clan honor, and make some good catches. There was… there was also the matter of his older brother Bilge, who mighta been Chief if he hadn’t gone missing. Everyone in his Clan lost, or knew someone who lost, a family member or friend when Bilge led a bunch of Trappers to Far Harbor and never came back. And yet he couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt for leaving the rest of the Trapper Clans behind. That message from Canada was a sign that others, who maybe didn’t chat about hockey like old friends, could turn up any time. There was also Grand Chief Amel’s war against the Iron Giants. By rights he should be there, but… no. Something was funny in Far Harbor, he could feel it. Let the Goldgulls and the Seabats help her. Spearshark had business in Far Harbor.

His stream of thought was broken as the island’s coast came into view. And with it, a ruined dock. A cry of “Land-ho!” went up around the ship that he soon echoed, though his mouth was dry from disuse. It was the ritual that counted, it was a sign of things to come.



Over the next half hour, ships of the Spearshark fleet would straggle into port at dusk. The awkwardness of a fleet mixed in its power source made for that. The Felicity and the Cormorant, two fairly large gas powered trawlers and flagships of the Spearshark fleet, were there first and at the same time. The remaining four ships powered by sail and oar showed up at various times, scattered by shifting winds. As the Felicity docked, armed Trappers kept a careful eye on the town and their sailors rushing about tying up the ship, but carefully made no move to aim weapons at anyone.

A leader in marine armor with no helmet on, a sign of trust, came to the port side of the Felicity. His armor had the crest of a shark crossed with and impaled by a spear painted on the chest plate in red. He had green eyes, dirty blond hair and a beard, with a scarred, sea-worn face. He was still noticeably young to any watchers, who might estimate him to be in his late 20’s or early 30’s. Around him was an entourage of men and women in what islanders might recognize as Trapper and Coastal Armor, though it was better taken care of than they had ever likely seen on the island’s presumably extinct, insane Trapper population.

The leader called out to those assembling to meet the ship. “Hello. I am Chief Liam Carter-Spearshark, of the Spearshark Trapper clan. I am here to look for my relatives, who travelled here to hunt years ago. I don’t want a fight unless you do, and I would be happy to talk to whatever you folks have as a leader.”