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The Hub, New California Republic
2282, November 6th
01:45 AM

Gerald Westin woke up at moonlight to the glint of a chrome silencer pointed in between his eyes.

For a moment, he thought it was just a nightmare. His mind still swam from the moonshine Governor LaBearn offered him during one of their dinners. When the barrel failed to fade away from his vision, the governor’s breath hitched and then, choked as the fingers around his throat tightened like a vice. Beads of sweat fell down is forehead as his s eyes swiveled to where his N99 was. It was on the night-table, a family piece he inherited from his father and grandfather before him. The brown oak grip glistened in the dusklight. If he could just grab ahold of it, there was still a chance he could -

“ Don’t. ,” The whisper chilled him to the bone. “ Don’t scream. You’ll make this worst if you do.”

Westin’s eyes focused away from the barrel. Remember what your father said. Calm heads prevailed over rashness. The bite of adrenaline soon faded from his nerves as the gears of his mind turned, thinking about what step was next. The countenance that had made him prevail over bottom feeder caravan cartels and gung-ho politicians return on his face, cool and candid. His eyes wavered from the barrel to the figure in front of him.

“ I know what you’re thinking right now, Westin,” The person spoke again, their voice cut apart by the harsh static of the helmet’s receiver. The barrel swayed side from side tauntingly. “ How many caps can I pay this feller? How much can I afford to lose to save my worthless piece-of-shit molerat hide?” She jabbed the barrel at his head, causing him to flinch. “ Tell me, what price are you willing to pay to protect that pretty face of yours?”

“ Everyone has their price,” Gerald gritted out. “ Whatever your employers are paying you, I swear I can double it. ”

The silence that followed after made Gerald regret his words. The pistol stopped swaying and the assassin lowered their pistol. The pressure on his throat lightened and a sign of relief escaped him. His hand came up to rub against his aching throat. He wondered if this meant the assassin was having second thoughts.

He was too busy breathing to react to the punch. It came at the side of his head in a blur and Westin's world spun in a spray of teeth and iron on his lips.

“ Don’t try acting like you’re hot shit, Westin. It’s embarassing. I’m not here on your terms. You’re here on mine, Westin. Understand? You try saying my conscience can be paid off with caps and I’ll fuckin’ make you piss caps out your cockhole. Capiche?"

Westin nodded, wiping a smear of blood from his nose.

“ Good.” The assassin leaned back to shake her head with a derisive snort “ Can’t believe it was you who helped get Killian killed. She was a good woman. Far better than your fuckin’ merchant pals.”

“ I didn’t -,”

The second punch caved in his nose this time. Black stars danced in his eyes as the assassin spoke again tauntingly.

“ Did I say you killed her? Nah, a ghoul’s got more balls than you and you didn’t even need to get baked in the Glow to lose yours. I’m saying you helped her.” The assassin then reached behind her back with her empty left hand and took out a cherry-red inhaler that seemed to glimmer in the night. “ Do you know what this is, Gerald?”

“ Sn’jet.”

“ Good boy. Back before the Followers figured out a way to make Fixer, the Mordino family back in New Reno used to make the good stuff. I mean, one puff and you’d skitter ‘round like a bloatfly. Tandi banned production back in 2245. Everything you see on the streets now is cheap crap. Twice as expensive and half the bang.”

Without warning, the assassin crushed it in between their palm with a snap, rubbing their fingers through the mess before letting it drop to the floor in a pile of plastic scrap.

“ Now, here’s what got me and a couple of other people interested in you brahmin baron folk. You see, it’s said that the Mordinos used to make this crap out of Brahmin shit. Don’t ask me ‘bout howthe science works. rahmins cost too much nowadays for us regular folk to buy thanks to you lot.”

They then lifted a finger.

“ But, hear me out. Brahmin barons like you are scattered throughout all of California, each with your own ranches. That’s a lot of brahmin, get what I mean.”

“ I don’t what like you’re implying - “

“ Did you say that to Killian before you blew her brains out? Hell, you were probably terrified of her. Trailblazer from Redding, believing in tales of the Vault Dweller and the Chosen One, righting a wrong when she saw it. Her neighborhood was full of Jet addicts and she wanted to institute formal drug legislation and regulation. Make it so that rehabilitation would be made avaliable and Jet publicly available to drive black market prices down.” The assassin breathing was now heavy and ragged as they hissed their next words in a snarl of static. “ It would have saved a lot of people. All you fuckers saw was a threat to your bottom line.”

Gerald's face was pale white now. The assassin's hand trembled on the trigger guard of the pistol and he wanted to close his eyes. Better to not see it coming than see the flash of gunpowder and nothing after. The next time the assassin spoke, it was in an air of finality, of patience wrung from certainty.

" So, you'll make it right. Where's the fucking Poppy, Westin? Where's the goddamn Poppy?"

---

It is dawn.

The sun rises in the smoky clouds of the Atlantic, a boiled red scar against the gray sky. The dappled crimson light bleeds into the ocean, flowing through the waves and tides of the churning ocean. Amidst to the east of the pacific is a fuming basin of ash and obsidian, heaving clouds that desperately claw up in fits of lightning and screams of thunder. It is the Black Cauldron, the labyrinth that excites adrenaline junkies and frightens experienced captains. The electromagnetic interference in the storm is said to shred silicon chips and wires into scrap and those who survive passing through it are blessed with cankerous blistering sores. Scientists and scholars have posited that the creation of the Black Cauldron is a result of a nuclear detonation which occured near an active faultline in the waning days of hte Great War. Philosophers have attempted to espouse the Black Cauldron as an example of mankind’s folly. Sailors simply say that the Black Cauldron is fucking bullshit.

Everyone considers a trip through the Black Cauldron to be extremely ‘unhealthy’.

The clouds part to reveal a hulking mass. Strips of green paint peel off its surfaceand the 10-inch thick carbon-steel hull is pitted with dents. It cuts through the stormy waters like a knife, shearing through it and leaving a wake of bubbling motor fluid and grease. It inches mile by mile towards a new horizon. A green horizon.

It is dawn. A thousand and thirty souls are onboard, young, hungry, rich, poor, dreamers, the desperate.

Only 14 will survive.

---

---

Starring….

@Randomguy as Clive, a lucky vault dweller, [@Megyschan] as Akane, a tribal of the Salt, @Butteryicarus as Helene, a scavenger of the past, @EmpressDesu as Rebecca, a stateswoman, @Starlance as Vigil, the dreamer, @Ezekiel as Inessa, the woman of many masks and @Theyra as Malcolm, a man in search of his faith.

---

Sam Gallagher, intrepid intern newscaster of Calfornia Channel 89, wondered how the hell he’d arrived here in the first place. His crew had been assigned to the Green Horizon as a strategic move by 89 to secure corporate relations with Gold Galleon Incorporated. A two-week cruise sounded like the perfect vacation for him and his crew to shack up and relax, maybe even take some time off from that Baja fiasco the studio was dealing with. Ever since they’d aired that footage of an NCR veteran ranger shooting some tribal five-year-old in broad daylight, senators had blacklisted the channel from the airwaves. The company was in the red and Gold Galleon had thrown them a veritable lifeline. He had expected a peaceful vacation amongst the ocean as he delved into the treasures of the cocktail bar, one alcoholic binge at a time.

Word of the Green Horizon’s soon-to-be arrival had spread around the ship like wildfire. The Aloha Isles were barely indistinguishable in the featureless grey ocean of the Atlantic. The baking heat of the midday sun made it ebb like a candle flame in the distance.

Thronging masses of people screamed at the fore, locked arms against one another, scrambling to get a glimpse of the green paradise that had been popularized in pre-war brochures and turned into legend over time.The passengers of the Green Horizon had been liberally soaked in a miasma of slick impatience and dreariness for the last fortnight and now, they had been set alight. The guards, prevented by Gold Galleon from harming their customers, tried to control the crowd as best as they could but even their hefty paychecks weren’t expensive enough to cover the costs of being trampled over by dozens of tourists. Rival newscasters from other channels lugged oversized cameras cybernetically mounted to their sternum or used eye-bots mounted with video recorders to get an edge up on their competition.

Sam was at his wit’s end to try and at least get one usable interview until he spotted a lone figure standing on the deck aftside, far away from the crowd. He motioned to his cameraman and brushed his waxed black toupee. Clearing his voice, he silently mouthed for the cameraman to begin recording.

“ This is California Channel 89, reporting live from the Atlantic. We’re nearing the end of our 15 day voyage and I’ve just received word from the captain that we are soon to dock at Kahui Port in three hours. Today is a historic day for the Aloha Isles and the Hawaiian Chiefdom. Once shroud in myth, the island paradise has now thrown open its gates to travellers, immigrants and tourists alike in the past year. Queen Lilua, in a formal decree, has stated that . In a brief press release announced yesterday, Gold Galleon Incorporated assures the citizens of the New California Republic that this cruise will be the first in a new enterprise to build trade and travel relations between the New California Republic and this once fledgeling island nation……”

Sam sidled to the right, directing his cameraman to lug his oversized Codac S4500 to the right where a haggard man in a trenchcoat was leaning over the guard rail. He shoved his microphone into the man’s face as though he was a pest, forcing the man to look at the camera with a stinkeye.

“ Dozens of californians such as this gentleman today we’re interviewing will be one of the lucky few to arrive on the Aloha Isles for the first time. What will you be doing at the Aloha Isles, sir?”

There was a pause. The man scratched his unkept chin before a stoic expression of realisation dawned wearily in his eyes. He dipped into his pockets and produced a tin canteen. The newscaster’s curdled his nose at the smell as the man leaned his head back to take in a deep draught. He then wiped his chin, spat on the floor of the deck and finally spoke.

“Drinking. Getting laid. More drinking,” the trenchcoated man waved his bottle invitingly. “ Want one?”

“ Uh, no, fuck, thank - I mean, I don’t really need it,” The newcaster coughed awkwardly, tugging on his red cravat. He felt strange here in the middle of the Atlantic, standing next to a drunkard who smelt like molerat piss and vinegar whilst he was dressed in a silk suit that had been handcrafted and tailored by an army of orphan children in Boneyard sweatshops.

“ Is that all you want to do?”

The man blood-streaked eyes widened, the newscaster regretting his words, as he stumbled towards him in a delirious sprint. The drunkard grabbed ahold of the newscaster’s collar and spat flecks of brown saliva with every word he spoke.

“ My wife broke up with me on this cruise! We were together for years. Years!” The man sobbed and leaned onto the newscaster, holding the newscaster hostage with the strength of thirty vodka shots that had been taken over the course of several hours. “ You tell me something! What does a fuckin’ protectron have over me? Was I just not good enough for her? I helped out, you see. I helped out with the mortgage. I paid my fair share! That bucket of bolts never did anything but just lie in the basement but noooooo, she says that it’s got more personality than me. Me? Me….” The drunk stranger continued to beat his fists onto Sam’s chest until he slumped over into a alcohol-fueled nap.

“ Right,then,” Sam stepped away from the drunkard before turning back to the camera. “ As I was saying, today marks a historic moment and as we can see from today’s commotion, everyone is clearly excited about the chance to step foot on a hidden nation thought long lost from the world.”

Sam motioned his cameraman to move away from the huge crowd of people occupying the front of the deck to the back where people were scattered around. His approach was guided by general fatigue and a lack of interest from passengers who seemed more concerned with catching a glance of the islands rather than being interviewed. His tongue felt numb as he continued repeating the same sentence again and again, hoping that he could catch a brief sentence, hell, even a word at this point.

“ Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

---

---

---

Deep in the lower guts of the Green Horizon, who were unable to afford the steep price of 5000 caps for a room on the upper decks were consigned to the former maintenance hallways of the cruise ship. Ramshackle welders and mechanics had turned the jungle of corroded steel pipes and rust coated footpaths into a shanty town. Hammocks made from patchwork curtains and blankets were tied onto the pipes whilst cladding had been torn out of the hull to serve as makeshift bedding. It had taken three days for the Psycho and Jet dealers to begin plying their trade and five days for impromptu caravan and bonebrick gambling rings to form amongst the lower deck passengers.

Two common unspoken rules had formed amongst the passengers of the Lower Decks. All crime was legally permissible as long as you didn’t get caught. If you did get caught, then, your rights as a living being would be forfeit and your only remaining choice in life was to determine your choice of death. The second was to keep your noses to yourself. Everyone’s own business for going to the island was private and they didn’t need anyone interfering with their own business. These two sacred rules maintained order in the lawlessness of the lower decks. It was on the 15th final day that Kahana Mika, islander scout of Squad 4, forget the last rule as he desperately tried to fulfill the requirements of the Youth Assistant Badge.

The little islander, no taller than a overgrown molerat, walked around. He was dressed in a denim buttoned shirt, tactical bandoliers and pockets hanging off every nook and cranny of his body. A large belt adorned with a rainbow ensemble of badges sewn delicately from scratch was hung onto his shoulder. A T-51b helmet covered his face as he jumped up and down from an empty nuka-cola crate to gain the attention of passerbys.

“ HELLO. I AM KAHANA OF LEAPER LODGE, SQUAD 4. I AM HERE TO ASSIST YOU WITH ALL YOUR NEEDS. MAY I ASSIST YOU WITH ANYTHING?”

“ Fuck off, you upstart little shite,” A one-eyed trader said, dragging his cart of squid ball sticks behind him.

“ WELL, THAT WAS RUDE. HELLO, DO ANY OF YOU REQUIRE ASSISTANCE? I WOULD BE GLAD TO HELP YOU. I CAN HELP WALK YOUR MOLERAT, SKIN A LEATHERBACK AND FEND OFF RAIDERS. I AM SKILLED IN ALL USES OF MAN-PORTABLE ARTILLERY AND HANDHELD KNIVES. ON MY HONOUR AS AN ISLANDER SCOUT, I SWEAR TO DO NO - “

“ Say there, little fella. That’s a nice lookin’ helmet you got there.” Kahana Mika looked up and began to tremble slightly as a group of men and women came over. Their faces were gaunt but the smiles on them seem to stretch the skin of their cheeks in a worn grimace. Brown leather hats resembling tricorns adorned their heads while they wore salvaged lifevests that were painfully bright orange. The leader was a brute of a man, hands the size of garbage lid cans and whorled tattoos dotting his body from his arms to his neck. “ Shame if something were to happen to it.”

“ APOLOGIES, SIR, BUT THIS HELMET IS NOT FOR SALE. I PERSONALLY SALVAGED IT FROM THE WRECK OF THE U.S.S CONSERVATOR. DID YOU KNOW THAT THE U.S.S CONSERVATOR WAS ARMED WITH THREE PLASMA - WAIT, WHAT ARE YOU DOING.”

The men and wome n behind the leader started pulling out weapons, chains, bats, hurtful things. The leader, meanwhile, took out a wooden flail with a series of bricks chained onto the end. “ We’re gonna fucking shut your scrawny ass up, that’s what gonna happen, and then, I’m gonna pawn that helmet over on the island. Me and the boys need some good spending money after all.”

Kahana breathed a prayer and drew his knife out, its edge glinting in the dark. Five against one. He faced worst odds before.

---

♪ "Night and you...and blue...Hawaii..." ♪

Clive fiddled with his Pip-Boy's volume knob as he listened to an old holotape he had put in. One of his patients had been a scavenger who had begged to pay him with a holotape he had found rather than caps, as he was in short supply of caps. In the first place, Clive opened his entire clinic service in the middle of the wasteland thing because it seemed entertaining. For one, wastelanders living out in the wasteland usually came in with more interesting medical conditions rather than those living in more civilised settlements. The raiders looking to take over where he had set up shop, the limited supplies, the mutated wildlife...all added extra challenges that were much more engaging than opening a safe, boring clinic in a settlement somewhere.

So, since this scavenger came in practically glowing from all the radiation he had taken it—and frankly, it was a miracle he wasn't a ghoul yet—Clive had already received his 'payment' from him by bringing him the challenge of how to save the guy. Sure, he charges caps because he needed caps to live and buy more supplies, but in this case, since he wasn't hurting for caps, Clive accepted the holotape as a payment.

Clive had to work a bit to restore the holotape—a nice little puzzle to work on in his spare time—but he eventually did it and found out it was a music holotape of an old song. Given that it was about Hawaii, he felt it was appropriate to bring it with him on the trip.

“ My wife broke up with me on this cruise! We were together for years. Years!” The man sobbed and leaned onto the newscaster, holding the newscaster hostage with the strength of thirty vodka shots that had been taken over the course of several hours. “ You tell me something! What does a fuckin’ protectron have over me? Was I just not good enough for her? I helped out, you see. I helped out with the mortgage. I paid my fair share! That bucket of bolts never did anything but just lie in the basement but noooooo, she says that it’s got more personality than me. Me? Me….”

A loud, drunken rant drew Clive's attention. It appeared that a reporter was trying to do an interview, unfortunately, he had picked his interviewee poorly.

♪ "...And blue Hawaii...with all this loveliness...there should be love..." ♪

Clive snorted as the song on his pip-boy ironically got to the part about love just as a drunken man went on a tirade about how his wife cuckold him with a protectron. He said he didn't get why and that protectron shouldn't have more personality than him, but...technically speaking, protectron was made for various purposes from pacifying patrolman to a caring medical worker, and so on. You'd be surprised how adaptable protectron was to do most jobs.Clive looked at APGA, his protectron that he had brought along. There was a reason why he brought a protectron along rather than an eyebot, a Mr Handy, or other robots. Because protectrons are jack of all trades, and so if he had to bring only one, a protectron was it.

Though in any case, he was getting sidetracked. Going back to his previous thought, protectron was very adaptable, able to use various personality module, so...hypothetically speaking, Clive could see a protectron be programmed with a sexbot personality module and subroutines. Perhaps he should try opening that business next. Reprogramming a protectron to fit a specific fetish or niche a client wanted seemed like a fun little challenge.

He then noticed the reported walking in his direction instead. Maybe the Pip-Boy and Vault 52 Jumpsuit he was wearing drew his attention?

“ Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

♪ "Dreams come true...in blue Hawaii...and mine could all come true.." ♪

Dreams, huh? Well, if Clive had to say what 'dreams' he wanted out of this trip, it was to be properly entertained. A good change of pace, the clinic in the middle of the wasteland gig had been getting too easy ever since he managed to restore a sentry bot.

Clive replied, "Well...the Aloha Isle has been known to be quite the famous vacation spot even in the old world before the bomb fell, you see. I happened to receive a ticket from the father of one of my patients, and I figured it would be a good change of pace to go on the trip. I guess I'm just looking to have a good time since I got a ticket for free."

Andrew Rivers

All right, time to be the do-gooder, Andrew thought as he observed the foes arrayed before him, walked up to the wiry man behiind the leader, and tried to punch him at the back of the head, hoping against hope that this fighter, whom he had inferred to be stronger than this gang's 'boss', would be caught by surprise - He wasn't.

At least he knew that the 'Scout' was trained in combat as the latter had boasted; the kid was prepared to defend himself. Problem was, without the element of surprise, the strongest fighter, the one with a wicked-looking baling hook, was more than a match for an unarmed Andrew. So now, the youth had to draw his gun and risk alerting the crew and maybe being punished, or take on this guy and hope for a miracle win or for the scout to use the distraction he had offered to deal with the gang 'boss'.

He grinned and said to the wiry guy with the baling hook as he took his own boxer's stance, fists raised, "Oi, muscles, you think you're hot shit? Using your weakling of a boss as cover so you can do whatever you want? I and the kid can beat you any day..."

Andrew was going to have to rely on his Trooper Armor and the viciousness of his bluff to survive - For this was a bluff. But by spelling out the weaknesses of the gang and revealing their strengths, the youth was hoping to get others to pitch in, others who, even if not interested in helping an NCR Trooper and a Wasteland Scout (?), would be interested in shanking these gangsters for loot and getting the corpses thrown overboard. Not that jumping these folk was the smartest thing to do; he can admit that.

This was not how he had expected the trip to go; Andrew had hoped to accompany some sort of NCR dignitary on that same mission he was in - After all, this was an official mission set by the NCR military, as far as he knew. He had hoped that he would be around someone he can recieve orders from and also have a general idea of the challenges they faced when looking for a McGuffin to save the NCR in Hawaii. Instead, he had found himself alone, which was a very bad thing to be when in a mission that can affect the fate of civilization. And now, he might die at the first hurdle!

But it was not the time to complain that life was so unfair; he was no weakling despite not being strong enough to win his mission alone. Thankfully, if he won this battle and saved the kid...

It all depends now. On what everyone else would do.

So this is where life is taking me, was the thought on Malcolm's mind as he gazed at the calm ocean. Feeling relaxed and calm, watching the ocean as they neared his destination. From the wastelands of Utah to the Aloha Isles. Something if you asked him years ago where he would be, he would never have guessed this. Heck, leaving Utah was a big change for him already, and now he can say he visited a place he had never heard of until recently. Still, the experience so far has been good, a bit boring, but boring is better than nothing right now. No fights, drunken brawls, or any reason to show people he can handle himself.

Malcolm's right hand was firmly on his satchel despite feeling relaxed He is still on guard duty for he is going to deliver this package and so far. No problem, no one has to steal it, though Malcolm has kept a firm watch over it ever since leaving Utah.

But as he continued to watch the ocean, he could not help but overhear a conversation near him.

“ My wife broke up with me on this cruise! We were together for years. Years!” The man sobbed and leaned onto the newscaster, holding the newscaster hostage with the strength of thirty vodka shots that had been taken over the course of several hours. “ You tell me something! What does a fuckin’ protectron have over me? Was I just not good enough for her? I helped out, you see. I helped out with the mortgage. I paid my fair share! That bucket of bolts never did anything but just lie in the basement but noooooo, she says that it’s got more personality than me. Me? Me….”

Malcolm turned his head to the man and the reporter for a moment and slowly sighed. He was not sure if he should feel bad for the drunken man or not. Since if your wife leaves you for a robot... clearly you are not doing something right. Losing a partner is hard, but losing for the protection of all things is new to him, and now Malcolm knows of another weird thing in the wasteland. Well, maybe the drunken man can find someone in the Aloha Isles once he sobers up, that is.

That was when he spotted another interviewee, a vault dweller by the looks of it. The jumpsuit and Pipboy were the clear indicators of that. Malcolm has met vault dwellers before, but those were during his... lost years, and he would rather forget about that. Though he hopes they are doing okay since their escape from his old raider camp.

But it looks like the reporter was heading to him now and asked the same thing. Apparently, already done with the vault dweller.

“ Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

While Malcolm would have preferred not to say anything and just keep quiet. He decided to humor the reporter.

"Well, I am here to deliver a package to someone on the Aloha Isles. As one last favor, I owe to the people who saved me from raiders back on the mainland. So, I guess you can call me a courier, and I am keen on making sure this package reaches its recipient. After that, who knows really."

The interceptor raced skyward, its launch site nought but a tiny dot in the distance. Its target - likewise still a mere dot in the sky - was rapidly approaching. Deep beneath them, the Seattle Space Needle stood tall and defiant like a true American patriot, a steel and concrete middle finger to the Communist menace grasping at it with its centrally planned claws. The interceptor reached the target altitude and detonated, a blast wave screaming toward the incoming warhead, but alas the fuse triggered early and the shockwave dissipated before it met the incoming munition. With the way clear, the ballistic missile continued its murderous mission until its fiery conclusion, the Space Needle falling to its wrath. ”Frickin' bastahd.” Vigil cursed under her breath, popping the Atomic Command holotape out of her Pip-Boy and returning it back into its protective casing. 300 points and she would’ve passed her high score from two months ago.

She’d spent most of the trip on the weather deck, looking out across the ocean in search of whales. Back in the Commonwealth, she’d of course heard the legend of ‘Ol’ Peg’, a supposed Ghoul Whale living off Boston harbor, but she’d believe it when she saw it with her own eyes, and two weeks on the Green Horizon weren’t looking too good for Ol’ Peg’s credibility. That being said, Vigil was looking forward to getting off the ship. The sight of ocean was nothing new to her, but there was something fundamentally wrong with the scene that greeted her when she looked down along the hull, an endless mass of water churning at the bow and stern, threatening to swallow anything and anyone who’d fall in.

She hung back from the crowded sections of the deck, wanting no part in the moshpit and the landmass ahead being just a landmass to her, uninteresting like any other. Lounging lazily on a squeaky deck chair, she noted the reporter trying to talk to the drunk, rolling her eyes. Bothering a drunk was risky business, much less a grieving one. In a way, Vigil could sympathize with losing a loved one to a machine, a fellow Vault 75 Dweller she was very close to falling to an Institute Courser at Bunker Hill, though the drunken man’s specific circumstance had a special sting to it she couldn’t help but feel bad for. Seeing the newsman and his colleague heading her way, she moved her hat down to shield her eyes from the sun to take a nap, hoping it would dissuade the reporter.

It didn’t.

“Hi, Sam from California Channel 89! We’re broadcasting live to California now. If you don’t mind, could you tell our viewers at home about what made you come onto the Aloha Isles?”

“Work.” She replied with one word, merely canting her head so she could see Sam with one eye. “And why do the viewahs cahe? How does knowing help them in life?”

One of the shanties in the Lower Decks had become known as a scene of constant sylvan butchery as its sole inhabitant had taken to the production and trade of wooden tools – bowls, cups and the like. Messy was the work, and shavings of wood had become a common sight about this makeshift workshop, as well as telltale signs of this sculptor’s presence elsewhere. The sculptor was called Hog and his fellow passengers kept their distance from the craftsman and his domain, for few wanted to draw the ire of a super mutant who stood about as tall and thick as a suit of power armor, and even fewer in such a place where one could end up as stew for the wrong deed with nobody even batting an eye about the indignity.

But despite the circumstances, the hovel housing the ogre had almost an air of serenity to it as he chiseled and carved and peeled and blew the shavings away with puffs of breath, like Hephaestus taking a day off. From around the gaps of the curtain that hid his quarters from the rest of the deck, Hog could occasionally see poorer folks quickly swooping up the residue of his handicraft for kindling, anxious as to not attract the attention of the giant that resided behind the curtain. He found it odd that these people who traded and even haggled with him during his hours in the marketplace would give his residence such a wide berth, but he did not mind. The commotion of the deck itself and the constant churning of the engines was distraction enough. Any semblance of quietude was acceptable.

At least, that’s how things had been. Right then, things had taken a different turn outside, and although Hog could be absorbed in things from time to time, more than a hundred years of enduring the Wastes had granted him with a keen affinity towards sensing hostile behavior in even the minutest of sounds. Voices, first disparaging, then full of ill intent. The clanking of chains. The sound of a blade leaving its scabbard. Nothing unknown, nothing not dealt with before. Nothing that, for some reason, he could tolerate then and there. For all his appreciation of wisdom, not all of Hog’s actions were wise. He placed the bowl to his side and reached for his gun.

Pivoting down the buttplate to lower the breechblock, Hog reached into his cartridge pouch and felt inside with his fingers until he found a shot shell. The gun had not originally been made for the use of these but handled them just as well as a purpose built round, and he knew of few living things that could dare to face the payload. Sliding the shell into the chamber, he pushed the buttplate back to lock the breech and rose from his wearied stool, pulled the curtain aside and took a step out, gun in hand.

Seven of them. Close quarters. Not a gun in sight, not yet. No reason to pull the trigger thus far. Perhaps a good talking-to will do the work.

“Fellows,” he barked out in a phlegmy baritone, “this here gun's pointing fifteen hundred grains of lead shot in your direction. That’s about equal to four rounds of twelve gauge, and I won’t to hesitate to pull the trigger if you don’t take it elsewhere. So take it elsewhere.”

Weightless.

She felt weightless. No, no. She was flying.

She heard the soft thrum of the engine at her back, felt her own heartbeat, steadily pulsing in her chest.

Gloved hands gripped the control stick, keeping her steady. She felt the turn with just the slightest touch.

She opened her eyes. Clear skies all around. The horizon stretched out ahead of her, fading to a dim blue.

"Command, this is Osprey. Mission accomplished, we're heading home."

No response. She looked down, fidgeting with the knobs on the radio and smacking the side with her hand. Eyes wandering, she caught sight of the faded postcard stuck to the side. The muted floral print still somewhat vibrant against the gray. She smiled.

"You looking forward to getting home once we kick the commies back to Beijing, Command?" She leaned back wistfully, the radio seeming to crackle in response. "Know I am. Haven't been back to Honolulu in ages."

The radio crackled louder, like a harsh, raspy breath. Osprey looked back to the horizon, lifting up her visor.

"Yeah, it'll be nice to seem them again. To see...." she trailed off, hands trembling. She didn't remember. She hadn't remembered. Not for years.

The engine behind her roared louder, the cockpit shaking under her feet. Her hands slipped, and she started to hum, then to mumble, the words tumbling out of her.

"Love me...as though there were no tomorrow..."

Something flashed in the distance. A blinding light sped towards her.

"Oh my darling...love me..." Tears streamed down her face as warning sirens echoed around her. "Don't ever....let me go."

Her radio crackled to life again.

"So...long..."

Glass shatters. Screaming. Silence.

---

"...fucking!"

Osprey jerked awake with a snarl, beret sliding off her ragged scalp as she shot upright. Glancing down, she spotted the cockroach crawling along her leg.

"Stupid bug," she spat, smacking it away but quickly twisting too far and tumbling right out of her hammock, her satchel landing squarely on her back. Swearing violence on anyone within earshot, she got unsteadily to her feet, stretching her neck and letting out a yawn. Damn it, she was hoping to sleep through this voyage on the way to this Kingdom, but it seemed that wasn't in the cards. Ah well, probably good for her to patrol around, stretch out these rotting bones and keep an eye on people. She already had to break the fingers of some weaselly punk trying to swipe her aviators when she wasn't looking.

Swiping a few tendrils of hair out of her eyes, she set off down the corridor, trying to ignore the pit in her stomach left over from that dream. It was the craziest thing; this ragged bag of bones was going on two hundred years now, her memories of anything that happened before the bombs fell all but faded away, and yet when she heard about this kingdom, it came rushing back to her like a flood. Hawaii. Honolulu, Hawaii. To still burn so strongly in her head, that had to be a sign, right? Well if it wasn't, it'd be a good excuse to get away and see someplace new. Maybe she'd even change careers, like some of the other ghouls she met when she was advising the NCR. After all, even if her memories were spotty these days, there was one thing she knew for certain; she'd been a soldier too damn long.

Rooting around in her pockets for a coffin nail, she heard a commotion up ahead and instinctively pressed against the wall before looking around the corner. Some pipsqueak in a fancy helmet surrounded by a bunch of goons with weapons. Another damned mugging. She had half a mind to walk away and mind her own damn business before she saw the NCR soldier step up to help, followed by a goddamned super mutant of all things confronting them.

"Well shit, this did get interesting," Osprey said, taking out a cigarette and lighting it. Stashing away her lighter, she took her pistol with the same hand and slowly approached, ready to ambush one of the thieving little pukes if things escalated.

As the crowd gathered to view the approaching islands, Innessa extracted herself from the attentions of a small group that she had spent much of the journey fratanising with. It wasn't for any particular purpose, simply a way to pass the time, and she had little interest in keeping up the connection once they had made landfall. The shock red of her poodle skirt dress might have made for an able distraction, but she admitted that even on her best day she might not be quite as distracting as an ancient chain of volcanic tropical islands.

The flared skirt of her dress swished with both her movement and the sea breeze as she snuck her way out of the crowd and moved along the deck. With a large cream coloured sunhat, dark sunglasses and the aforementioned red dress, ending in a crop of white polkedots across its rim, the blonde woman was perhaps the very vision of Pre-War America. The thought gave her some amusement, the clack of rather unsensible shoes heralding her movement as she made he way down the weather deck. It was more sparse in individuals, but still inhabited. She paused for a moment to lean forwards on the side of the deck, one hand holding her hat in place as she attempted to spy a view of the islands despite herself, before eventually giving up and turning to more thoroughly exmaine those around her. She'd clearly just missed a more animated conversation from what little she had heard from further up the deck, but now caught glimpses of rather shorter interactions between a spattering of guests and what appeared to be a reporter. He didn't seem to be getting much out of his latest target, or victim, as you could put it.

"I'm sorry Sir, did you say live? Oh my Gosh, however does that work?" Innessa partly interrupted the situation, before the poor fellow could get stuck in yet another interview he'd regret starting. She was hardly subtle in her current attire and unlikely to escape her own round of questioning, so she may as well endear herself. Her large, doe-like eyes settled in an expression of curious excitement, directly into the camera before she spoke again, her sunglasses removed before she had begun speaking. "My, isn't that amazing." The vaguely Southern drawl she put on was a well worn tool of her's in fitting in, more familiar this rate than her true voice. "It's so exciting isn't it? The first outsiders to see these Islands in so long. I can't wait to see what we might discover." Her hands met in front of her as she laughed, just a little, as if embarressed about her own enthusiasm. "I hope some of those folks back home might join us soon."