[IC] How Little We Know

[Andronicus23]

Cincinnati - The Breaking of The Dam

Knight-Commander Braxton looked up and over the barricade, scanning the fog-choked no-man’s land that lay beyond its protective shielding. Corpses of ghouls, mutants, and all manner of abominable FEV-spawned creatures were scattered about in heaps, piled nearly as high as the barricade itself. The last wave attack had been brutal, and they’d expended all but the last reserves of their fusion cells in repelling it, yet he knew this was only a taste of the slaughter to come.

Braxton turned to look at the weary eyes of the men and women around him. Brotherhood soldiers and civilian combatants in broken armor and tattered blood-stained clothing: exhaustion, fear, and desperation evident in their blood-shot eyes. They’d gone without sleep nor food for many hours now, and most were running on sheer adrenaline alone. The few Calculator robots among them were just as battered and beaten, missing limbs and dangerously low on power reserves. They had no more cards to pull, no more gambits to run, this was it. If the mutants broke through with their next wave, and they almost certainly would, there would be nothing stopping them from taking the city.

Braxton steeled himself and gripped his laser rifle tighter, saying a silent prayer to whatever god would listen - so long as it wasn’t that unholy monstrosity the mutants worshiped as their deity. A god whose voice, if the abominations were to be believed, wormed its way into their thoughts and compelled them into action. UNITY, they said, fight for UNITY, die for UNITY, kill for UNITY.

A siren sounded, and Braxton’s heart sank. They were coming again, he could already hear the inane gibbering and half-crazed shrieks of the ferals. They always used them as cannon-fodder, sending them in uncounted droves to soften up a position before the mutants attacked. The soldiers around him nervously took up their positions, steading their weapons upon the top parapet of the barricade. Some prayed for a reprieve, others begged for a mercifully quick death - but none truly believed in victory.

The pounding of Brotherhood artillery came next, followed by distant explosions and inhuman shrieks of pain as the rounds found their mark. It would slow them, thin them out maybe, but it would never stop them. Nothing ever did. Braxton had been there at the fall of St. Louis - watched his home overcome by the cavalcade of monstrosities as he and the remaining Brotherhood forces fled across the river. Once he’d seen The Brotherhood lines break back then, he knew there was no real hope left. The wall had been breached, the dam had broken - and now the enemy would pour in.

“Here they come!” someone shouted, voice tinged with fear.

The thundering horde of screeching ferals began to break out of the fog-line. Braxton saw a glimpse of life in their still human eyes - the tattered remains of Midwestern civilian clothes clinging to emaciated bodies. These poor souls were the result when the Mutants deemed someone unworthy of being turned into one of their brute soldiers - they instead forced them into chambers where they were slowly, and painfully, flooded with radiation and turned to ferals: then hurled at their former comrades. Killing them was a mercy, but no less horrific for that.

Braxton closed his eyes and thought of home for a brief moment, picturing his once peaceful homestead on the banks of the Mississippi.

Then he opened them again, fierce determination filling him once more. He and his soldiers would die, no doubt, but not without a fight. He refused to be captured alive and hauled off screaming to the vats to be dipped. He would die standing his ground.

“For Barnaky!” He shouted, “For The Brotherhood! And for humanity! OPEN FIRE!”

[Andronicus23]

The Pitt - Haven

“Ashur preserve us. Ashur save us. Ashur grant us life.”

Marie stood silently beside the ornate forged steel coffin which was about to be lowered to her Father’s final resting place. It was a simple, yet powerful symbol of his iron rule over The Pitt for these many long years. The monument that would be placed overtop it would be an even greater one; a mighty marble statue of Lord Ashur clad in his power armor looking ever onwards towards a new horizon just beyond. It would forever stand tall in front the courtyard of Haven - allowing Ashur to watch over the mighty city of iron, steel, and fire that he had created from nothing. His tomb to be guarded day and night eternally by a loyal cadre of his most trusted warriors.

As the coffin was lowered, Marie turned to face the assembled mass of warriors and workers who had gathered to watch the burial of their monarch, no: their Lord and Savior. The God-King was dead, long-live the God-Queen.

Twenty years ago this massive host before her that clogged the streets of Uptown would have been nothing more than murderers, chem’d up junkies, and psychopaths: there were still plenty of those, of course, but now there was also so much more: standing before her now was a more populous and productive citizenry of The Pitt: forever grateful to her family for their deliverance. The cure for the Troglodyte Degeneration Contagion had been found: her Mother, Sandra ‘The Blessed Queen’ as the people called her, had managed to engineer a vaccine from Marie’s “miraculous” blood. It was not miraculous of course, no more miraculous than her Father was a god, but the mutation that had given rise to her immunity to the disease was a rare and unusual one. Perhaps, that in of itself, was miraculous.

The distribution of the cure had meant that The Pitt could stop fearing the contagion that had been brutally culling their people for a generation. They could have children again and the ranks of the Trogs stopped growing. That much her Father had delivered on his promise in spades. Others, such as freedom for The Pitt’s slaves, he had not. The Pitt despite its progress was still a hellish smog-choked city scorched by the heat of a thousand blast furnaces. The slaves were still needed to work the mills, run the smelters, and feed the always hungry fires of industry. Slaves were a necessity, and would likely continue to be so until conditions stabilized enough for the work to be tolerable.

Until then, she would have to harden her heart and bear the same burden her father once had.

“Citizens of The Pitt,” She began, her voice echoing throughout Uptown via the network of speakers that were installed on nearly every walkway which connected the upper floors of the pre-war buildings that made up this part of the city.

“Lord Ashur has gone to Paradise, beckoned home by those who he once left behind in order that he might descend unto this hell and raise up a city from its ashes.”

A great wail arose from the assembled crowd, which continued unabated until Marie raised a delicate white-gloved hand up to halt the display of mourning,

“His work is not yet done, however, and it has fallen to me to continue it. I promise you that while there is breath yet in me, The PItt will never fall back into the horror and despair that once reigned here unchecked. Our industrial might is unmatched in the waste and the Raiders which wield the bounty of our furnaces march forth unopposed to bring civilization to the wastes beyond our borders! The Pitt is strong, our great city unassailable, and our future brighter than ever! Glory to Mighty Ashur! Glory to The Pitt!”

Marie outstretched her hands, the long white dress she wore making it appear as if she were unfolding a pair of wings. She was the picture of angelic grace radiating in the depths of hell: a symbol that her Father had gone to very great lengths to cultivate about her person ever since she was a baby.

“All Hail Lady Marie! All hail the Queen of The Pitt!” The crowd cried, their tone taking on an almost zealous fervor.

“Queen of The Pitt! Queen of The Pitt!” They chanted.

Marie lowered her hands and collapsed them together, allowing herself a moment to take in the undulating adoration of her people. Her hands trembled slightly, though she would never allow anyone to see such weakness from her. To her people, she was the daughter of a literal god, a Queen now in her own right and a divine figure worshiped as such like one of the mighty ancient Pharaohs of Egypt. Marie knew the reality - she was not a god, not the daughter of one either and whatever right she ruled by was certainly not divine.

The crowd's fervor reached a boiling point, goaded on by black and red-robed preachers amongst their midst that fanned the flames of devotion. Multitudes of workers and raiders alike surged forward like a tidal wave, breaking through the first cordon of Uptown raiders that had tried to stem the flow. They were now rushing the gates of Haven itself with manic desperation: not out of hatred or rebellious intent - but with outstretched hands begging for a single touch from the Lady of The Pitt.

Marie felt sick, hearing their pleas and cries for any number of things: the cure of an ailment or the deliverance of a family member who had been mortally injured in the Mill. She wished somehow, someway, she could be the miracle-giver they believed her to be. That with a sweep of her hand she could fix all their problems and more. But she could not, she might be ruler of The Pitt, but right now she was only a mortal woman, and a daughter who had just lost her father.

The Haven guardsmen revved their auto-axes and strode forward, intent on ensuring that any fool who dared step a single toe into the sacred grounds of Haven would be swiftly dealt with. Meanwhile Uptown raiders armed with infiltrator rifles took up positions on the gantry above the streets, and began taking pot-shots at anyone who had crossed the cordon. Several workers were hit, and the crowd nearest the gates erupted into a panic.

“Lady Ashur I think its best if you retire now,” One of her advisors, an elderly ex-Brotherhood scribe named Abaddon whispered to her, “Your presence will only incite them to further acts of zealotry. We should return to Haven, let the guard do their jobs..”

Marie thought for a moment and nodded, turning her head only slightly to meet the eyes of her wizened advisor, “Yes...yes you’re right of course. Let's go.”

The old scribe motioned for several of Marie’s female attendants to grab the hem of her long dress and begin making for the doors of the palace. Marie halted them for a brief moment however, and turned back to the guardsmen that were formed up on the steps of the palace.

“Captain!"

One of the Haven Guard, a man covered head to toe in heavy PItt-forged steel armor strode forward and knelt before her.

“Your command my Lady?”

“Ensure there is no unnecessary bloodshed. These people are not here to cause harm to us, they have simply been caught up in the moment. I do not want a massacre to mark my father’s funeral, is that clear?”

“Yes Lady Ashur,” the Captain replied swiftly before beating his chest in a salute and returning to oversee the defense of Haven’s grounds.

Marie left then with her advisors and attendants in toe, closing the heavy doors behind them as they retreated inside. Marie could hear the wails of her people as they watched her leave, begging her to return and grace them with her presence. She could also hear orders and commands of her raider guard ordering everyone back to The Mills.

A new dawn had come for The Pitt, and Marie feared that this was perhaps an ill omen.

[BangoSkank]

Richard Moreau

He cried shamelessly. Shoulders heaving. Head down. Hands in his knees. Snotty nosed. Trying but failing to speak.

"Well Richard? What do you have to say for yourself?"

He shuddered anew with the finality of it all. He knew what was coming. They'd done this before. In the last year. Since the opening. All the empathy was gone. They didn't have to just go along to get along anymore. They had a new solution for the troublesome. They could be made to disappear.

"I...." these would be his last words recorded for posterity. They would ask him if he was done. He would tell them he was. That would be recorded curtly. It didn't matter if he swore or cursed them all the way to the door. It would be recorded as "Former Citizen Moreau confirmed he had completed his final statement and so began his exile on this the 28th Day of September 2093"

There was only one suitable answer.

"I loved her."

His head sank again. Lower, under the weight of all those eyes. They had seen him all his life. All the little wrongs, all the bad habits, all the good deeds too. Everything. But within the next few moments they would never see him again and he would never see them. And she wasn't even here. She could have been, but dammit she wasn't. She was probably with him. Still. Even now. Hand on his gravestone instead of here with him. With her Richard.

"Richard Moreau, have you finished your statement?"

It was Edmund Burke. Once a teacher. Once his teacher. And hers. Now he was the kindly face they put on exile. An expression of embarrassed pity on his face but a stern posture. Maybe it helped them sleep at night.

"Yes. Yes Mr. Burke, I'm quite done."

He'd not give them the show they wanted. He wouldn't be carried out of here kicking and screaming. Not screaming at them, not for himself, not for her. He'd not make it any easier for Mr. Burke either. Sending him out into the wastes to burn, to starve, to die, alone.

"Richard Moreau," Mr. Burke intoned in his familiar voice, "It is the judgement of those gathered here, a panel of your fellow Vault 8 Citizens, that although you were born and raised here to love and respect your fellow man and to be loved and respect in turn, you have turned from these ways. You have been found Guilty of the crime of Murder and you have left your fellow Vault 8 Citizens with no choice but to exile you. It is with a heavy heart that..."

Mr. Burke went on a bit longer about the heavy burden of such a choice. About the gravity that their considerations had had and about how though he was to be hereby exiled they would not just throw him to the wastes. He would be provided survival materials. So much of this and this much of that. Whatever they hadn't run out of after outfitting the previous exiles. He wasn't the first. He has heard it before. From the other side of the room. This speech, it wasn't for him. It had never been for the Exile. It was for the others. So they could tell themselves they'd done all they could. He kind of hated them for that. All the fake feelings.

The new stuff came next. The stuff you only saw once. Unless you were Burke and his little team. He'd seen them escort or drag, sometimes even carry, Exiles through that big metal door before but this time it was him and before he even really appreciated that he should remember the moment it was over and he was through. The Blue and Yellow of Vault 8 left behind forever.

He'd never admit it but he missed it immediately. The stupid gleaming happy clean colors he'd grown so sick of. Now it was a long utilitarian hallway stripped of all the niceties. Shades of grey and black. Occasional highlights of yellow but not the Vault happy showy yellow. Purposeful yellow. Tying together this or that bundle of wires at regular intervals. Then he was in front and a second later he was through that big Vault Door he had only seen before in paintings and educational videos.

He'd never admit it but here he pushed back against the escort momentarily. Suddenly more aware that yes this was really really actually happening. It was the dirt walls on the other side that did it. Dirt walls with big concrete beams spaced at regular intervals. He'd expected a shove but instead they just stopped for a moment like it was a normal part of the process. Maybe it was.

"It's alright son," old Mr. Burke who had grown a stomach that pushes his Vault Suit out in a most undignified way said, "Gather yourself up."

He'd never admit it, but he began, "Can. Can we."

"No son. I'm sorry. I'm real sorry. I am. But no, we can't."

"I could.."

"You take a moment now. We can't be too long. They'll send more after us if we take too long and then it'll all go too fast. I hate it when it goes like that. You take that moment but don't take too long now."

He kind of hated him for that. The real feelings. He stood there for a moment waiting for a last second reprieve that never came.

"We need to get a move on now."

A bit further and there was a seam of light shining through a door at the end of the tunnel. A door set between a long length of heavily reinforced steel beams and concrete. With an armed guard on either side. Both holding guns a lot bigger than the pistol Mr. Burke's helpers had discretely on their waists. These weren't discrete and they weren't the old long guns or the six shooters from those old Cooper Howard films. They weren't ray guns from Captain Cosmos . They weren't even those blocky jumping things from Sgt. Granite. He didn't know what to call them but he knew what they were for and the faces on the men holding them told him they knew how to use them.

This was it then. This was the door. Heavy and reinforced. He stood before it as Mr. Burke explained again all of what was in the duffel bag he was being presented. He wasn't really listening. But he did hear one thing. One thing that sounded like maybe it wasn't the regular rigmarole.

"Listen now Richard. We're only a few years from opening up proper. We were supposed to a couple years back but, well, you know how things can be in a Vault. You be careful out there. Find shelter. Try and make friends. You'll never be allowed back in the Vault, but might be we could let you sleep in the little trading hub we want to build. We got a plan Richard and a doohickey. Might be real nice. Come on back in a few years if you can."

Burke gave a nod of the head to the two armed men and each pushed a button resulting in a blast of air and a depressurizing sound as the door unlocked and slowly ratcheted open.

"This is it now Richard. Get that bag comfortable on your shoulders. Take a deep breath. I'm afraid you won't be coming back through that door son but that doesn't mean you can't make something of yourself."

With halting steps he crossed the threshold. Burke offering last pieces of advice from behind him as the door began ratcheting closed once again.

"Try to stay out of the wind. Head South. Boil your water. Make something of yourself son."

And then a faint and weak goodbye.

Richard Moreau began walking, following the old man's advice though he would never acknowledge it. From disaster to massacre to graveyard he traveled, and then again, and then again, from one fresh hell into another. Not making "friends" so much as temporary travel companions. Often losing them when they betrayed him, or he betrayed them, or they were attacked by raiders, or wild animals, or traps set up by some clever but cowardly scavengers.

In just that manner Richard Moreau traveled into the wasteland never to be seen again, and in just that manner a new man was born. A learned wasteland doctor. Doc Grey, Doctor Richard Grey.

[RobCoProtectron]

Far Harbor-near Pine Crest Cavern

It certainly was an odd sight. As far as he could see, there was clear forest behind them. For nearly 55 years Doctor Theodore Wright had lived on this island. He had seen the edge of the Fog roll in and out, lapping the forest's edge as consistently as waves that came upon the rocky shores of the island itself. But never before had the Fog receded so far inland. The more he thought of it, never before had he been so far inland either-and for good reason too. The interior of the island was no place for a townie. Sure, like all Harbormen he considered himself tougher than your average mainlander. But as the Far Harbor's physician, he saw firsthand what the Fog could do. Chemical burns to the skin. Bronchitis in the lungs. And whatever the hell it did to the mind. And that was (to his understanding) just radioactive water. Add in the gulpers, the crawlers, the anglers, the crabs...place was a goddamned gumbo stew from hell. Ten years ago, he was almost sure the entire town of Far Harbor would be added to the mix. Fog had swallowed so much of the island and people naturally blamed the rad-worshiping Children of Atom. Tensions got high. Thankfully after the whole Acadia fiasco, things never got as tense as they were back then. But with the Fog recently turning tail so fast after only a matter of weeks...he started to wonder if the blaming fingers might start getting pointed in the other direction…

“If you wanna convince me to stop and sight see with you, better have a souvenir flask handy..Never mind, got my own” Dr. Wright looked back to see Longfellow, -his grin barely hidden by the bottle of whiskey at his lips.

With a roll of his eyes, Dr. Wright resumed his hike. “We truly are too old for this shit”

“Well doc…you owe me one. All them medicinal herbs don't pick themselves. Besides, haven't you ever been curious about what the Island is really like?”

The more he thought about it, the more he had to admit it-he truly was curious. How could he truly consider himself a true islander if he only ever experienced its coasts? But then he saw it -the edge of the Fog. Within its hoary pall was the visage of a derelict Trapper’s fort. He could hear the faint buzzing of flies. He could also detect the faint stench of decaying corpses.

Dr. Wright sighed “I was honestly banking on your liver giving out before the favor would be called in”

“What can I say Doc?” Longfellow said with a chuckle and friendly pat to the doctor’s back “You got healing hands” Longfellow looked deeper into the shadow before them. “You know, even with these Trappers gone, never thought he'd leave the old camp. Much nicer in my opinion.” With a disgusted whiff, he cleared his nostrils. “Certainly smelled nicer”

Dr. Wright squinted his eyes, the cave entrance within the Fog barely visible. He turned to Longfellow. “You know I make no promises, right? This is far outside the realm of my expertise”

“I know”, said Longfellow. “He’s an old friend though. I promised I’d at least try.”

Dr. Wright pulled a bottle of Rad-X from his pocket. With a deftness that only comes with years of popping open pharmaceuticals, he lifted the lid with his thumb and shot a single pill out to land under his tongue. Taking Longfellow’s bottle, he poured a shot into an empty flask, handed the bottle back and raised his flask. “To old friends and bad promises”. And with a smile and a toast, they headed towards the cave in the depths of the Fog.

From the looks of it, Dr. Wright guessed the Trapper corpses had to be at least a week old. Putrefaction had set in. Some early signs of skeletonization. It did seem odd that none of the wildlife had taken hold of more.

“You’d think he’d at least clean house if he was expecting visitors”

Longfellow signed “Like I said doc, something’s not right with him.”

There were right at the cave’s entrance. A sharp crack suddenly took Dr. Wright’s attention. He looked down to see that he had stepped on a partially decomposed human tibia. “Well, I certainly don’t disagree with that diagnosis”

As a wasteland doctor, Dr. Wright never considered himself too far removed from the backwoods shamans of the more remote parts of post-apocalyptia. Perhaps the title "doctor" was putting on airs. Sure, he had a copy or two of the Massachusetts Surgical Journal. A dog-eared copy of the 2076 D.C. Journal of Internal Medicine compendium. But who the hell had a functional “pluripotent stem cell bank,” “targeted liposomal microsonicator and re-aggregator” or “Autodoc rapid qPCR interpretation module” anymore? Pre-war medicine was near magical. What Dr. Wright knew were the things he learned from his father (and likely what his father had learned from the mentors before him): Keep wounds clean. If you see bleeding, apply pressure. Never cut a vessel with a short name. Use all five senses, (and sometimes your gut too). If the Geiger counter clicks come your way, break out a box of rad-away. And when in doubt-stimpak it. Thank God they could still make stimpaks. But psychiatry was a different story. For all of modern science’s advances in twisting nature to its own devices, even the pre-war doctors might just as well have been wasteland shamans when it came to the human mind. At least, as far as Dr. Wright could gather from the pre-war books. He never found much useful there. Sure you could reduce the brain to a bunch of biochemical reactions but what did all that thermodynamic mumbo jumbo mean when it came to a broken heart or melancholy spirit? Drugs could scrub the surface of it and maybe mask things for a time but in Wright’s experience it all came back to talking it out. And when that failed, hell, back to shamanism and pray to whatever power made this cruel world.

When Dr. Wright saw what was in the cave, he certainly made a few quick invocations.

The corpses there were much fresher. For the more intact ones, some even appeared to still be in rigor mortis. But they weren’t human. Emaciated mongrels. Pit bull mixes. What may have been a German shepherd. Bits and pieces of them strewn about the cavern haphazardly as though they had been torn apart. At the far end of the cave between two boulders stood a Super Mutant gowned in a bloodied Yao Gui pelt. It was hard to see completely through the Fog, but Dr. Wright could faintly see the crumpled form of an old dog cradled in the mutant's arms. The mutant was crying uncontrollably.

“Erickson, my god, what happened?” Shouted Longfellow. “Look, just sit down, I brought you a doctor. We can get this all sorted out.”

The mutant looked up at his guests. “They were…imperfect. I couldn’t…fix them. My dreams.” Near the mutant Dr. Wright saw a stack of holotapes. He slowly began to move towards them but he was suddenly caught off guard. A gust of wind blew whistled through the cave entrance behind them, the pressure change suddenly thinning the fog in the cavern. Dr. Wright then realized that the boulders beside the mutant were not boulders, but giant green dogs in sternal recumbency, their glowing eyes piercingly fixed towards the two human newcomers. In unison, the beasts turned their heads to the master between them. There was a sudden resoluteness in the Super mutant’s face. But Dr. Wright could see it beginning to break. A fresh tear began to fall from the mutant's eye.

“You must leave this place” The mutant said firmly.

Their eyes still fixed on their master, the mutant hounds cocked their heads synchronously in curiosity. A pair of growls began to echo throughout the cavern.

“NOW!” roared the mutant. Dr. Wright could only faintly see the two green blurs dart towards each other before he was yanked by Longfellow in the direction of the cave’s entrance. The growling echos in the cavern were suddenly interjected with vicious snarls and the screams of the great mutant in an agonizing cacophony. Then came the cracking of bones. The screams fell silent. Dr. Wright could see the moonlight break through the cave’s entrance, but the echoes of his footfalls along the rock floor reminded him that he was not yet out of danger. Two bone chilling howls shook the walls of the cave as his feet finally met the soft traction of the forest floor. His geiger counter clicked madly as he dove into the depths of the Fog. God he hated psychiatry.

[Andronicus23]

Haven - The Pitt

The throneroom of Haven was packed with supplicants, a high toned chant resonating from a balcony along the base of its vaulted ceiling. Like a great basilica of the pre-war world, it was wreathed in the glow of a thousand candles and perfumed with wafts of incense burning from a multitude of censers held by furtive priests in black and red robes - the hands and faces of these mysterious prelates covered in a myriad of scars and tattoos.

At the center of this great chamber lay an elevated stepped platform, upon which stood the Black Steel Throne of The Pitt: Ashur’s great throne forged from the melted remains of the ruins whereupon he had emerged after having been buried alive and abandoned by Lyons. Next to the throne stood his now empty power armor, surrounded by candles and offering bowls, underneath which was written the words “Eternal Lord of The Pitt.”

Now for the first time, seated upon her father’s throne, was the regal figure of Marie, her hands clasped firmly on either side of the chair’s armrests. Upon the brow of her raven-haired head she now wore the uncomfortable crown of Ashur: a weighty thing of bone and iron, surmounted by the black horns of an Alpha deathclaw. Surrounding her throne on all sides were a heavily armed contingent of The Pitt’s finest warriors, The Haven Guard, each man and woman of the guard covered head to toe in heavy metal armor and wielding sharpened auto-axes which they kept close and at the ready.

In attendance as well were the Lady’s many advisors, powerful political forces in their own right coming from a great variety of origins but all having found their place amongst the court of Haven. Among three of the most prominent was Uriel Abaddon, the old scribe, who stroked his long gray beard thoughtfully as he stood to Lady Ashur’s left side. The altered Brotherhood scribe robes he wore barely recognizable as anything Lyon’s men would wear. Next to him stood High Priestess Lulu, leader of Ashur’s Church and a devoted disciple of his faith who had started out as little more than a cook under Lord Ashur, but who’s zealotry soon catapulted her into power. The last of the trio was Captain Harlock, a young raider who commanded the Haven Guard and a former slave of Downtown who had earned his freedom in the Arena. Instead of an auto-axe he had a ripper belted at his side and his heavy welder’s helmet was cradled in his left arm.

The droning chants from atop the choir balcony suddenly lulled to a stop, and then High-Priestess Lulu stepped forward, raising a long metal staff that was surmounted by a blackened human skull: the grisly charred remains of the Arch-traitor Werhner. She lifted the grim totem upwards with outstretched hands to address the small crowd gathered before Marie’s throne.

“You stand before The Lady Marie Ashur, daughter of the God-King, she-who-wades-the -Three-Rivers, Lifegiver, Queen of Haven, Commander of Ashur’s Army and Ruler Immortal of The Pitt. Let the first supplicant come forth.”

At that, a finely dressed woman stepped forward, her long red hair tied up in a ponytail and her high-heels clacking against the wooden floor. She knelt reverently before Marie’s throne,

“Lady Ashur, my name is Ellie de Blay, daughter of Crag de Blay, King of Luth, who sends his deepest condolences to you in light of your father’s passing.”

“Ashur’s Holy name be praised, for he has returned to Paradise.” Came a chant from all around the throne room, led by the High Priestess.

Ellie seemed unnerved by the outburst, but quickly continued, “....my father hopes for a continuation of the trade agreement that has brought wealth and prosperity to both our peoples. He adds that you have but to send word, and he will supply you with a cohort of his finest warriors should you ever need them. He remains your firm ally.”

Marie smiled and slowly nodded, careful not to let the heavy headdress slip from her brow, “Tell your father his friendship is always welcome and that the Ore Road will remain open as long as I am Lady of The Pitt. The raw ore your family provides is vital to our industry, for without it we cannot forge our steel. Please tell King de Blay as well that he has but to ask, and the forces of The Pitt are at the ready should he call upon them. We remain his ally.”

More than satisfied, and perhaps inwardly relieved, by Marie’s response, Ellie of Luth stood up and gave a final bow before retreating back into the crowd.

“The next supplicant will step forward…” Lulu announced to the crowd once more.

The crowd parted, allowing an armored warrior to stride forward. He had removed his helmet so as to allow Marie to see his scarred face and shaved head, and an orange-side cape bearing the winged symbol of the Gear and Sword was fastened to his left pauldron.

“Lady Ashur,” He began, kneeling down in front of the throne, “I come to you on my knees in desperation. My name is Traven, Paladin-Lord of The Brotherhood of Steel and commander of the garrison of The Cincinnati Bulwark. I humbly request, no…I beg you to send your great raider army east to aid my forces at the Bulwark. Please, you must help us.”

Marie was taken aback by the request, unsure of how to respond. She had no idea who this man was or what enemy he could possibly be facing. Her father had told her of The Brotherhood of Steel, but only that they were not to be trusted and that they only brought stagnation - not progress- whenever they went. Abaddon had told her a little more of his former life there, but his statements were always prefaced by how restrictive and inept his leaders had been.

Thankfully the silence did not last long, as Abaddon immediately chimed in,

“Are the Brotherhood so ill-equipped now that they can’t stand against tribals beating down the doors of their bunkers? I knew that the Chicago chapter was decadent and backward…but I never knew how far they’d really fallen.”

Paladin-Lord Traven scowled, looking up at the old scribe with barely-concealed contempt, “You cannot possibly understand the enormity of the enemy we face. Who are you to judge the valor of my men?”

“Someone who just happens to be in a position to do just that.…I myself was a member of The Brotherhood once. A scribe of the Order of The Quill - and a member of Elder Lyons' misguided expedition to the east, until I left and pledged my loyalty to Lord Ashur instead and took a new name….and a new title - Head Scribe of The Pitt.”

“Elder Lyons?” Traven replied thoughtfully, his brow wrinkling as he considered the name, “There is no one with that title in our order.”

“I wouldn’t expect you to know of him, his expedition was long after your heretical elders were sent on that foolhardy airship escapade…” Abaddon waved his hand dismissively at the paladin-lord then turned to Marie, ‘We shouldn’t waste any further time on this man. It's obvious his little band couldn’t handle themselves without the guidance of the Western Elders and has fallen on hard times. We should….”

“What enemy do you face?” Marie asked suddenly, interrupting her advisor’s tirade.

“A great mutant host known as The Unity,” The Paladin-Lord replied gravely, “I only know what was shared to me thus far, and that which I’ve seen with my own eyes…which is enough to know they are a mutant army from California - hell bent on the wholesale elimination of the human race.”

“California?” Abaddon scoffed loudly, “Now I’ve heard everything. My Lady this is nonsense, I was a young man when I left California and I remember it well enough. There is no mutant host infesting it. Obviously this ‘Paladin-Lord’ is just facing a band of mutants that migrated west from The Capital Region - or more likely he and his incompetents are high on some experimental chem. If what he says is true such a force would have had to cross…”

“Half a continent?” The Paladin-Lord interrupted, “Indeed.”

“How many invaders?” The Guard-Captain Harlock suddenly stepped forward, his blue-tinged mohawk a stark contrast to Abaddon’s stately white beard and hair.

“I don’t know…..” Traven shrugged, “I have no earthly idea. Thousands perhaps besiege my city alone, maybe more to the south and north…they are hulking abominations who fight and kill like possessed beasts. Any who manage to survive their attack are dragged off and turned into more of their kind. It's how they reproduce.”

A quiet shudder ran through the assembled court, and even the skeptical Abaddon seemed taken aback by the Paladin-Lord’s words.

“Well I for one don’t believe it,” Abaddon said firmly after a time, “And I don’t think we should send our army out chasing ghosts at the behest of this man who isn’t even really even Brotherhood of Steel!”

“Why would he lie?” The young raider captain shot back, “And what if he’s telling the truth old man?”

“Lady Ashur, permission to speak before the throne?” A voice called from the crowd, and Marie held up her hand to stop her bickering advisors. A raider woman with purple pigtails strode forward, armored in heavy industrial ‘iconoclast’ armor. She knelt down next to the Paladin-Lord, facing towards Marie.

“Go ahead Vikia,” Marie nodded to her Chief scout.

“I believe the Brotherhood man is telling the truth. My scouts that have returned from the north say that they’ve encountered groups of feral ghouls and other, stranger, creatures roaming the wasteland. They’ve been unusually organized, attacking some of the outlying villages that send us annual tribute…”

“Unity fodder,” Traven nodded, “They’ve started probing your defenses then. They know our forces are going to break soon, and are planning ahead.”

“I still urge caution,” Abaddon sighed, “We’ve no reason to go tramping off to this ‘Paladin-Lord’s aid and if there are scattered raiding forces probing our defenses then all the more reason we should ensure our army is where it needs to be: at home, protecting Lady Ashur and not gallivanting off to steel-knows-where.”

“We protect Lady Ashur…the army defends The Pitt,” Guard Captain Harlock scowled, “The Haven Guard are all the protection she needs.”

“Ashur! Ashur! Ashur!” Came the enthusiastic chant of the surrounding guard raiders, startling Abaddon - though he quickly regained his composure.

“Hmm indeed,” the old scribe sneered, “I meant no disrespect to the guard, of course. I meant only if there is, actually, a present threat to The Pitt then home is where our army should be deployed - defending The Ore Road and the city itself from any possible incursion.”

“Silence,” Marie said sternly, immediately halting the debate of her qualsome advisors. A complete and total stillness descended on the throne room, as everyone waited on her word.

“Vikia, you and a contingent of your best scouts will return with The Paladin-Lord to Cincinnati - you will be my eyes and ears and inform us all as to what sort of threat they face.”

“A wise decision my Lady,” Abaddon said, looking to Harlock with a sly smile of vindication.

Vikia bowed respectfully, but the Paladin-Lord seemed to chafe at her order, “Lady Ashur, with all respect, that will not be nearly enough....and by the time we return it may already be too late…”

“That is my decision Paladin-Lord,” Marie replied, holding up her hand to quell any further protest, “I will not commit my raiders to war without understanding what the situation is. If what you say is true, and the threat is as grave as you say, then, and only then, will the army of The Pitt march.”