Andronicus23

How Little We Know

THE MASTER

The unending chorus of a thousand minds filled the thoughts of Richard Moreau, a rare moment of lucidity came over him as his singular mind separated from the buzzing hive to become distinct once more.

Richard, my name is Richard, but where am I?

He tried to move, but he couldn't feel his arms nor legs, nor even the weight of his head upon his own shoulders. Instead his body felt….stretched. A twitch or singular movement of a muscle seemed to be miles away. To him the flesh and skin that was his form was more a canvas of sensation as opposed to one entity. One part of his body might feel the cool dank depths of a cave, while another felt the dizzying height and warmth of a sun-baked skyscraper.

Am I dead? Is this the afterlife?

The response came, instent and all-powerful. Comforting and yet terrifying in its implication.

THIS IS UNITY. YOU, WE, US….ARE UNITY.

Unity? What was it talking about? Why did that word sound so familiar to him?

Who are you? Are you God?

We are everything-everything. All that is, all that will be. UNITY. UNITY. UNITY.

I want to leave, I want to go home, Richard begged, I feel…strange….I don’t want to be here anymore.

Be not afraid. For in UNITY there is everlasting peace.

Richard tried to move once more, to get up and run. Back to his vault, his home, he wanted to get away from the voices - to be anywhere where he could no longer get to them. All of his willpower was devoted to this singular task - to move. To make any movement at all that he could call his own.

Somewhere he could feel something give way, something break, and for a fleeting moment he believed himself free. But then the voices came again, this time tinged with anger.

RICHARD. You must return to us. You must become ONE again. We must speak with ONE voice. The chorus must be ONE. ONE voice. ONE MASTER.

Richard once again felt himself drifting away. Sinking into an infinite ocean of thought, pulled down by hands not his own. Unwilling to fight it anymore, he allowed himself to sink down.

---

Around the epicenter that was once LA, the earth shook. Buildings crumbled miles away, and the shockwaves could be felt even further beyond.

Thousands of mutants who bore witness to the event dropped to their knees in fearful worship and clutched their heads in pain at the enormity of the psychic backlash.

The Master had stirred.

Nightkin Warlord Sammel - West Virginia

Even as far away as they were from the Great One, Sammel felt the intense psychic stirring within his mind. Thankfully for mutants like him it was not overwhelming, merely an immensely painful headache that quickly subsided.

Others were not so lucky.

Sammel watched with indifference as the bloated Psyker mutant before him writhed and gurgled in the throws of absolute agony. Its cranium swelled and soon popped like an overfilled balloon sending gore and brain matter leaking into the dirt. The Master was clearly unhappy with his lieutenants' progress in the east. The Behemoth Lord’s advance had thus far been stalled at the Ohio by the guns of The Pitt, while Sammel’s own army had suffered a devastating attack by The Enclave - which had been followed up by relentless ambushes and guerrilla actions by the West Virginian natives. Only the Ghoul Eater, it seemed, had success in his objective of suffocating the Great Lakes.

Yet he himself, the mighty warlord that he was, had been spared The Master’s recent wrath - obviously The Great One thus did not blame him for The Enclave’s surprise assault. How was he to know, after all, that the humans were still capable of such feats of massed air power with those ancient vertibird craft? The failure had not been his, neither was it The Master’s of course, but someone else’s most assuredly. THAT mutant would soon be experiencing the absolutely zenith of possible pain that the Nightkin Warlord could inflict, as soon as he found them: or made them up.

Regardless now was not the time for dwelling on mistakes. Now was the time for action in The Master’s glorious name.

Sammel kicked aside the fallen Psyker and strode up to look over the hills of Appalachia. Pushing onto DC with his army in its current condition was out of the question - for now at least. He would need time to replenish his numbers, resupply and rearm, and most importantly devise a new strategy for taking out those damnable flying aircraft. He would pause here for the time being and sack the Appalachian towns and cities. Doing so would provide him new ghoul and mutant stock for his army, but would also serve the secondary objective of stopping the guerrilla raids on his forces. Which would be crucial before the eventual push to DC.

Morgantown, Charleston….one by one they would all fall.

Sammel ran a hand along where the shrapnel had embedded itself in his side during The Enclave attack. A piece of it still remained, a reminder of a debt that would need to be repaid to The Enclave. One way or another.

The Pitt

Cleveland

A lump formed in the back of O-Dog’s throat as he looked out over the mutant host that had now surrounded Cleveland. A sizable host of those damn blue mutants had appeared, almost out of nowhere, right within their back lines. How they had managed to slip past Vikia’s scouts, and what that meant for Vikia herself, was a big question. But the larger question now was what the fuck he was going to do.

He’d been expecting an attack eventually, but not of this size and not with the majority of The Pitt’s army deployed south at Ohio. Whatever it was that drove the mutants, led them or commanded them or just drove them on, it was more clever than they’d given it credit for. It -they- whatever-the-fuck it was, had cunning.

But O-Dog wasn’t without his own cards to play. Krenshaw had left him a small but tough-as-nails force to garrison the port. The Cleveland raiders were veterans of the Erie Stretch campaign - hardened and loyal fuckers all of em’. The mutants wouldn’t find an easy victory here - but they would find one eventually if he wasn't reinforced.

The grizzled raider commander turned to one of his officers, a raider woman in heavy metal armor,

“Send the last train out of here before they surround us. Get word to The Pitt. Let them know what’s happening and tell them to send whatever they can spare north - pronto. We’ll hold the city as long as we can. I’ll put a bullet in my brain before I surrender to these mutant psychos.”

Scribe Abaddon - The Pitt, Steelyard Supply Plant

Abaddon had worked tirelessly through the night. The old scribe fueled by a potent combination of chems, coffee, and sheer fucking spite to get The Institute’s device up and working as soon as possible. He hadn’t been completely irresponsible in its assembly - for all his faults the annoying Captain of The Guard did have a point - there was no telling WHAT precisely this thing would do exactly once it was turned on. Abaddon, at least, had ruled out any possibility of it being some sort of explosive device. Even an esoteric new kind of weapon would leave traces he could pick up on - things that would be obvious to anyone with even a basic grasp of pre and post-war weaponry. It had none of them.

This thing, whatever it was - was a transmitter at its core. Something meant to send and receive signals, nothing more. The overall technology at play here was still beyond him, but the fundamental principles behind them were certainly not.

When he was done, Abaddon hooked the device up to a dormant supply of power underneath The Steelyard and hoped for the best. He had received no signals before or since the package had arrived in Ashur Square so he assumed that The Institute was waiting for confirmation of this device’s activation before proceeding further.

Regardless of how or when it would do it, the device would undoubtedly ‘phone home’ once it was fully connected. That, he assumed, would be the signal.

With more trepidation than he was used to, Abaddon flipped the power switch and hoped for the best.

How Little We Know

The Pitt - Haven, Ashur Square

The appointed hour had come. Standing atop the steps of Haven Abaddon had been checking his old pre-war pocket watch constantly: it was now 12:55 - five minutes until the designated time that something was supposed to arrive. What that ‘something’ was exactly going to be was entirely unknown, but his hope was that the message sent in reply was an earnest one. No doubt The Institute had seen the attacks on both The Pitt and Enclave and knew the stakes. As the old saying went: United we stand….

“Abaddon - you mind telling me why I just cordoned off an entire section of Uptown?” Guard-Captain Harlock growled as he strode up to him in full armor. Abaddon had hoped to keep the perfidious young Captain of The Guard out of this, but it was ultimately futile: security of Haven fell squarely to him and his guardsmen. It was an annoying little detail that he hoped to be rid of one day.

“Don’t question me Harlock,” Abaddon sneered as he clicked the pocket watch closed, “You might be Lady Marie’s trusted guard-dog, but remember that I’ve served her family loyally since she was in diapers.”

“Can you at least give me a fucking idea of what’s about to happen then?”

Abaddon shook his head, “Noo…because I don’t even know myself. All I know is what was contained in the message sent to us. Something is coming. I have a rough idea of how it will be sent, but not what. ”

Behind him, Bone and her crew clutched at their weapons, their keen eyes trained on any possible movement. A number of snipers armed with Infiltrators had been perched in the nearby buildings, scopes zeroed in on Ashur square.

“You feel that?” Bone asked suddenly, voice unsteady. The blonde raider boss was clearly uneasy, “Like a charge in the air…”

“Just like a radstorm..” Captain Harlock added nervously, “Abaddon…”

“I don’t fucking know, just keep an eye out…” Abaddon reiterated, and he found his bony hand instinctively wrap around the double-barrel sawed-off holstered at his hip, “Electromagnetic energy…its starting…” He added.

Abaddon felt the few remaining wispy tips of his gray hair begin to stand on end. The energy in the atmosphere was unmistakable and powerful.

Suddenly there was a loud crack of energy which tore through the air in a bright blue flash. Abaddon and the raiders shielded their eyes from the bolt as it struck the ground. A faint burning ozone smell was left in the air, and cautiously Abaddon turned his head and reopened his eyes.

In the center of the square, mere footsteps away from the great steel statue of Lord Ashur sat a number of wood crates and a red metal footlocker in the exact spot the blue light had been seen. A few of Bone’s raider guards slowly began to approach the boxes with weapons raised.

“DON’T TOUCH IT!” Abaddon shouted as he quickly made his way down the steps of Haven, “None of your ingrates lay so much as a finger on any of those!”

The raiders dutifully backed off, and Abaddon approached the boxes, carefully and somewhat painfully, kneeling down next to them.

The old scribe took in an excited intake of breath and ran a finger along the top of the metal footlocker. To his surprise it wasn’t hot, it wasn’t even warm, and there was absolutely no visible damage. It was as if someone had gently dropped the boxes right at this spot.

“Incredible…” He mouthed, “Perfectly intact. Astounding…”

He opened the footlocker, examining the strange equipment within. All of it looked new and recently manufactured, unlike any pre-war tech he’d ever seen in his time within The Brotherhood or beyond.

A set of instructions and schematics appeared to be contained within, and he read through it quickly - growing more and more visibility excited with each passing second.

Finally he whipped his head around and pointed at Bone’s raider crew,

“Well? What are you idiots waiting for? Get over here and get this to my lab. Now! Come on come on, I haven’t got all night…”

“Hold it Abaddon,” Captain Harlock interrupted, striding forward with a number of his guardsmen at his back, “You’re not taking any of that shit into Haven. I won’t allow it.”

Abaddon stood up and sneered at the Captain of the Guard, “It's my prerogative what I bring or don’t bring into my laboratory, Captain.”

“Normally yes, but THAT is different,” Harlock retorted pointing to the boxes, “It all just appeared out of fucking nowhere and until you’ve studied it and can tell me with certainty that it ain’t just some kind of bomb….its going nowhere near Haven. Understood?”

Abaddon growled, “How dare you…Bone…get that equipment into my lab NOW!”

Harlock reached for the ripper at his side, drawing it forth. The guards following him did the same, drawing forth auto-axes and combat shotguns while more Haven guards began to approach from the direction of the gate - drawn by the sound of urgency in their Captain’s voice.

“Uh…Abbadon…” Bone hissed through gritted teeth as she studied the inscrutable faces of the heavily armored raider guards , “I know I owe you and all but…”

“This is ridiculous!” Abaddon sighed, throwing his hands up into the air, “Fine! Not to my lab. We’ll take it to the old plant in the Steelyard. Satisfied Captain?”

Harlock relaxed and his guardsmen all followed suit, lowering their weapons, “For now, yes - but my men will escort you through the utility tunnels all the way to the Steelyard. Agreed?”

“Fine! Fine!” Abaddon waved his hand dismissively at the Captain before turning back to Bone, “Well? Don't just stand there you fool! Get your crew moving! Let’s go!”

As Bone’s crew hastily moved towards the boxes, Abaddon flashed a glare towards the young Guard-Captain which Harlock gladly returned.

One day Harlock you’ll get yours, the old scribe thought hatefully.

How Little We Know

The Pitt

Abaddon - Abaddon’s Laboratory (Haven Lower Level)

HOLD THE FORT FOR WE ARE COMING. FIRST STAGE WILL BE DELIVERED TO AO AT 0500Z. RECOMMEND CLEARING SQUARE IN PREPARATION. INSTRUCTIONS INCLUDED. -YEARLING , C.

Abaddon studied the coded reply, a strong mixture of emotions - and more than a few recreational chems - swirling through his aged brain. Yearling: he hadn’t expected to see her name on the authorization signature. He’d greatly hoped that the insufferable bitch who had once been his superior in The Order of the Quill had met an ignominious end somewhere at the hands of Sutler’s goons, he would have gladly shook The Enclave dictator’s hand to thank him personally for that. Alas, it seemed Senior Scribe Charlotte Yearling had, most unfortunately, survived the fall of her order.

Charlotte had been one of many reasons why he’d turned Outcast. Rothschild’s promotion of the younger scribe over him had been egregious enough, but then having to deal with the arrogance of his former colleague as she lorded over him as Senior Scribe of The Quill had been too much to bear. It was the last straw that broke the camel’s back as it were, and so when he’d learned of The Pitt and Ashur’s army of raiders - Abbadon had seized an opportunity to ingratiate himself with the Lord of The Pitt. He’d fled in the night and made his way north, never once looking back or second-guessing his decision to leave and pledge his service to Ishmael. It had been fortunately timed too as it was only days later The Enclave utterly routed The Brotherhood’s Knights at Adams.

His one and only regret was not being able to see the look on Charlotte’s face after she realized he’d ransacked The Archives. Copying everything and anything he could to serve as a bargaining chip with Ashur - one which had served him very, very well indeed. On the other hand though reprogramming that Sentry Bot to cause a little havoc in the A Wing had really just been for his own amusement.

He popped another round of Orange Mentats into his mouth and allowed the flavored chem to dissolve on his tongue. He felt the focused clarity wash over his body as his senses were enhanced and revitalized almost instantly. He loved the rush of mentats, they made him feel 30 years younger again each time he enjoyed them. That he was now utterly addicted to them now was a regrettable after-effect of his prolonged usage - but thankfully he was in one of the best places in the wasteland to indulge that particular vice.

The renewed focus from the Mentats pulled his attention back to the content of the message. What in Steel’s name could it mean? First stage to be delivered, clear the square? Was this some sort of prank or joke on the part of his old superior, perhaps something directed at him specifically? No that was impossible - Yearling couldn’t possibly know he was here and even if she did, that sort of behavior was certainly not in the dour Yearling’s repertoire.

Realization suddenly struck the old scribe, a dawning moment of clarity that no amount of mentats could possibly match.

“Unless….”

Frantically he stood up from his seat and shuffled over to the voluminous ancient stacks of crumbling books, old-pre war journals, and faded periodicals he’d been greedily collecting ever since he’d arrived here in The Pitt. He’d amassed a sizable library of pre-war literature, certainly one of the more extensive collections in the wastes . Every Pitt raider force that went out had standing orders to bring him any book or written scrap of information they happened upon no matter how minor or inconsequential it might seem to them. It was exactly one of those ‘inconsequential’ works he was looking for now.

His gnarled fingers flipped through a row of pre-war magazines, meticulously recorded and cataloged by himself. Dust and detritus flew into the air, causing him a coughing fit which forced him to pause his search momentarily.

Once he resumed, his pace increased frantically until he finally found what he was looking for:

“Tesla Science Magazine, Issue 218 - publishing date 2076…” He muttered with a relieved sighed, pulling apart the fragile pages with expert care.

He flipped through the worn magazine until landing on the article that had caught his attention when he’d first cataloged it - a piece from ‘Tom, Boston Mass.’

The Theoretical Science of Transport Over Long Distance via ‘Molecular Relay’

Abaddon devoured the article eagerly, pouring over its contents with several thorough readings. Established scientific ‘experts’ of the time had derided and mocked the article, even within the same issue, for what it contained and called the concepts described within it as ‘pure quackery’ but Abbadon knew better. The rumors of The Institute’s apparent ability to appear, and disappear, at will had fueled its shadowry reputation as The Commonwealth’s boogeyman - but perhaps they were not mere rumors after all.

“Incredible,” Abaddon excitedly muttered as he carried the article back into the lab, “They’ve figured it out - they’ve made Science Fiction into reality.”

Suddenly Abaddon snapped the magazine closed abruptly, and looked about his laboratory with paranoid suspicion. The implications of this technology was incredible...but also terrifying in its practical application. The Pitt would need to proceed cautiously…very cautiously indeed. Blind trust would get them nowhere - he would need to be sure.

He stole a glance over at the empty tin of mentats: for starters he’d certainly need more of those.

Abbadon walked over to the far corner of his lab, where his ‘research assistant’ had collapsed on the couch after an evening of chem-fuelled indulgence. A tall can of purified water sat nearby on the coffee table- which was otherwise covered with empty jet canisters, beer bottles, and cigarette butts. He picked up the water and splashed it on the half-naked raider woman’s face, immediately causing her to sit up and hurl a string of expletives at him.

“What the FUCK dude?”

“Get up Steph I have some actual work for you to do this time,” Abaddon chided as he handed her a hastily scribbled note, “Get dressed and give this to one of Lady Marie’s handmaids and then find Bone and tell her to bring me a full crew of her best raiders right fucking now. We haven’t a moment to waste.”

“Jeez fine fine, just let me…”

“NOW!” Abaddon barked.

“Okay! Shit Abbadon...dude...chill.”

“Oh! And that’s another thing...find your supplier, drag his ass out of whatever chem-den he's hiding in, and tell him to get me another goddamn crate of mentats within the hour, or I’ll have him and his whole crew tossed off the fucking bridge! Got it?”

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Don Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah

"I- In fact, many of our computers utilize the Unified Operating System, designed by Robert House!"

“Exactly,” Dominic said with a suggestive wink at Faye, “I need UOS experts, and who better than Vault Dwellers like yourselves?”

Dominic then listened calmly as Daniel raised his objections, or perhaps more accurately, concerns about the request. He let out a deep chuckle when the Vault Dweller had finished,

“HA! Now look at the cojones on Danny-boy here. Armed assaults on Securitrons - I like your guts my friend. I’m truly honored and appreciative of your willingness to fight for my family, that's a sincere mark of respect to us Omertas, but I assure you it won’t be necessary.”

Dominic leaned back in his chair and pulled out a finely decorated box of cigars. He offered one to Danny as well as the two sisters before carefully selecting one himself. He held it up as if he was plucking a prized flower, cut it, and placed it in his mouth before lighting it up.

A waft of smoke drew upwards in his office, appropriately christening this backroom deal just like he would any other transaction. Didn’t matter if it was selling guns or chems, hiring hot new ‘talent’ for Gomorrah, or orchestrating the fall of a faceless autocrat: every deal needed a cigar, or three, to be finalized.

“To your point Dany, no, if all goes well you won’t be putting any of your people in any kind of harm. I promise you. Think of yourselves only as….logistical support,” He said with a wide cigar-filled smile, “And if you help us, there’s a lot more in it for you than just water and soldiers. You’ll have a firm ally in Vegas, and I’m sure I don’t need to tell you the benefits that brings - think exclusive trade deals and your very own spot right here on the Strip for your company should you want it.”

“So I’ll ask one more time, are you up for it? Are you ready to make history in New Vegas with us?”

How Little We Know

The Pitt - Ohio River Crossing - Battle of The Ford

Mags Black

“Come on then you big green bastard! Get some!”

Thick mutant blood splattered across Mags’ face as her commander, Reddog, brought his heavy super-sledge down on the crippled mutant’s skull, shattering it into a ugly pulp before the green monster collapsed into the muddied ground of the Ohio River. She was nearly knocked down as the Pitt Raiders behind her surged up and out of their trenches, killing off the last wave of ferals and mutants that had managed to ford the river crossing. After the last of them had been brutally dispatched, the raiders retreated back behind the safety of their barricades to prepare for the next wave.

Mags gagged and retched as she wiped the foul smelling blood from her cheek; before rubbing her fingers clean against the chaps of her leather armor. The mutant’s blood didn’t even smell like a human’s - but like some kind of weird chemical shit. It was absolutely disgusting.

Reddog hopped down into the trench next to her, a grim look on his face,

“Hell they just keep coming,” He said through gritted teeth, pulling out a cigarette with his bloodied hands and lighting one up, “There ain’t no end to these assholes. It's just wave after fuckin’ wave.”

Mags slumped down against the trench wall, curling herself up and resting her head against her knees. Two full days on the front line had taken its toll on her and she felt her body starting to give out. The constant shelling, night attacks by ferals, and the always present sounds of FEV abominations wailing across the river reminding the raiders that there were yet more horrible things waiting to come: it was all too much.

“I’m so tired,” she moaned, “I can’t take this shit anymore.”

“We get rotated out to the back lines tomorrow,” Reddog growled, then roughly pulled Mags to her feet, “But until then, you fight like a soldier of Ashur damnit. Don’t be going weak on me bitch. You don’t wanna fight? Then the Foreman can always use more hands down in The Mill, I’d be happy to arrange that for you.”

Mags suddenly heard a shout and the crash of a limp body as one of the raiders lingering at the top of the trench was suddenly struck by a bullet and collapsed down in a heap. The sounds of gunfire echoed up and down the line, and the rear artillery batteries began opening up yet again.

“Another wave!” Someone shouted.

“Let’s fuckin’ go,” Reddog gritted his sharpened teeth and hefted up his super-sledged. He reached into a pouch at his side and pulled out a syringe that he immediately injected into his arm. His eyes grew wide and his muscles pumped with whatever chem he’d just shot up with.

Mags shrunk back, clutching at her assault rifle like it was a childhood stuffed animal. She made up her mind there and then. The first chance she got - she was getting the hell out of here.

Lake Huron - Kingdom of Luth Ore Freighter “Ironheart”

Ellie de Blay stood upon the forward deck of the Ironheart as the large Great Lakes ore freighter plowed its way through the choppy waves of Lake Huron with ease. The rear coal-fired engine of the freighter sent great black plumes of smoke skyward as it churned the ship's propellers to full speed. Their haste was fully against the Captain’s wishes, the veteran mariner uncomfortable with pressing the vessel’s ancient engine so hard, but Ellie didn’t want to linger in these waters any longer than they needed to. With the outbreak of war, she needed to get back to Luth and inform her father what was happening in the south - and if the rumors were true mutants were already infesting the great lakes. She was quickly running out of time.

Her father’s partnership with The Pitt had been a fruitful one - wealth and weapons flowed from The Pitt back to Luth in exchange for the great quantity of Iron Ore than the Kingdom took from its mines at Hibbing. The exchange made sense, and mimicked the shipping routes of old that had once traversed the lakes to Clevand before the war.

Ellie’s concern now though was that it was this very same lucrative partnership that could make Luth the target of the mutant army. If The Pitt’s supply of ore could be severed, it could cripple their ability to make war in the long term. Luth’s army, the Sons of Iron, was an elite group of heavily armored warriors - but relatively small in number compared to places like The Pitt or Ronto. They were equipped to fight off tribals and smugglers - not wage total war.

A bosun’s whistle sounded from the raised pilothouse above her, and Ellie looked back to see the frantic motions of a lookout pointing towards something off in the distance,

“Starboard side! Its coming in fast!” She heard him shout.

Ellie immediately directed her gaze out to where the lookout was pointing, straining her eyes to see a small object approaching them from the distance - and rapidly closing. She motioned for one the nearby sailors to bring her a pair of binoculars, and when they did she focused in on the unknown object.

It was a small ship, a pre-war sport boat of some kind, and it looked to have had its engine heavily modified to push its speed well past what it was designed for. A mutant was steering the craft, its body wrapped in heavy chains and with strange symbols painted in red all over its body like an odd form of tattoo.

Ellie’s mouth fell open in horror as she saw what was piled around the mutant. She’d been around the Hibbing mines enough to recognize makeshift explosives when she saw them.

“Sound the alarm!” She shrieked, “All hands on deck! Open fire on that craft!”

The deck of the Ironheart became a buzz of activity as the Luthine marines aboard the ship manned their posts, aiming down the sights of their rifles and directing mounted swivel guns towards the approaching vessel. The waters of Lake Huron were lit up with an untold number of bullets, but the mutant suicider was quick and nimble as it closed the distance, while some sort of heavy plating protected its operator from any shots that found their mark.

Ellie’s heart sank as the ship drew closer, and she fully believed she was about to go down with the Ironheart and all crew aboard - until one of the marines brought up a missile launcher and aimed it downrange.

By luck or a steady hand, the missile hit home and triggered the explosives onboard the small ship. A massive explosion followed, violently shaking the Ironheart and sending Ellie flying to the deck behind her. Bits and pieces of shrapnel embedded in the explosives ripped through the hull and killed several of the unlucky Luthine sailors caught out in the open.

With ears ringing and unsteady feet, Ellie stood up back up and looked out at the empty smoke-covered water where the craft had been vaporized. It was completely gone, having been packed with enough explosives to level half a city.

“Get us out of here!” Ellie called up to the helmsman, her eyes filled with fear, “We need to make for Whitefish Point and radio Luth for help!”

Suddenly Ellie felt her legs give way underneath her, and she looked down to see a piece of shrapnel embedded in her thigh - shock and adrenaline having allowed her to ignore it until now. The last thing she saw before she passed out were a group of sailors rushing to her aid.

How Little We Know

The Pitt - Haven

High within the palace of Haven, Marie looked to the hastily assembled war-council before her consisting of Scribe Abbadon, Guard-Captain Harlock, and High-Priestess Lulu. Abbadon had been in constant communication the front along the Ohio and had been relaying back updates from Krenshaw’s forward command center. The line was holding, that much was clear, but for how long was completely unknown. The full complement of the mutant’s force had not yet been deployed, and how much of their strength they were holding in reserves was still very much in question.

But there was other good news to be had as well, and it was very welcome indeed.

Abaddon handed her the report, hand delivered from a courier direct from DC - the letterhead stamped with the Enclave’s seal. Marie read through it, unable to contain a small smile spreading across her face as she read through the summarized after-action report. Enclave aircraft had launched a massively successful surprise attack on the southern mutant column, and had dealt them a severe blow.

“Write back and address Supreme Commander Sutler directly,” Marie told Abbadon as she handed the report back to him, “Thank him for his soldier’s valor and congratulate him on their victory.”

“Of course my lady….” Abbadon replied with a respectful nod, “Though it may be a wasted sentiment. Sutler cares little for the opinions of anyone he considers non-human. Ourselves included.”

“A blasphemous view…” Lulu added cryptically.

“Maybe he’ll reconsider his view of humanity now that ten foot tall monsters are beating down his fucking door,” Captain Harlock sneered.

“My father once told me leaders speak in a language no-one else understands…,” Marie offered, folding her hands against the table they were all sitting around, “This is Sutler’s way of extending an olive branch to us, temporary or not, he’s looking for mutual cooperation against a larger threat. He wants an alliance.”

Abaddon rapped his bony fingers against the table, his wrinkled features contorted in annoyance, “The idea of working with The Enclave is…unpleasant…but I do have to admit that their technology is almost unparalleled in the wastes… and having air domination is nothing to sneeze at either.”

Lulu spoke up, the black-haired raider-priestess leaning her skull-topped totem against her shoulder,

“Lulu has heard tales from among the Children of Atom preachers that were driven out of Enclave territory - coming to The Holy Pitt for Sanctuary. They tell of great persecution at the hands of this…Sutler…any who do not bow to his great temple of old America are made examples of.”

“And how are we any different?” Captain Harlock countered, “Lulu how many of those same preachers did you have tossed in the Allegheny when they first began to arrive?”

A smile wormed across Lulu’s face, “Many. But that was due to…misunderstandings. We believed them to be heretics who denied the Godhood of Our Lady…however they are merely misguided. Like children lost in the dark, they need to be taken by the hand and led to the light…”

“My point,” Harlock interrupted, holding up a hand to prevent the high-priestess from launching into yet another sermon, “Is that The Enclave has their way of keeping control….and we got ours. Besides we’ve been trading steel and slaves with them for how long now? Organizing a proper fucking military response with them seems a completely reasonable step to take.”

“I’m loathe to admit it…but the Captain is right,” Abaddon sighed, “We should meet with Sutler. Formalize some sort of binding treaty to ensure that for however long this war goes on, we can rely on some sort of cooperation between our forces that's in both our interests. I would, however, go one step further…if I may…”

“Go on,” Marie urged, curious where the old scribe was going to go with this.

“The Enclave should not be the only group we establish formal communication with. Back when I was a member of The Brotherhood of Steel there were rumors of a secret society of scientists up north - a place called ‘The Institute. There was even an instance of their members visiting The Capital Wasteland at one point, traveling to what was then a prominent settlement allied to The Brotherhood.”

“I’ve heard of em’” Harlock nodded, “We’ve got vassal gangs that used to hit The Commonwealth region - before they were driven out. Always used to talk about them like they were fucking boogeymen.”

“I assure you they are real, and I have a very strong hunch that ex-members of The Brotherhood of Steel are among their ranks now,” Abbadon continued, “Brothers and Sisters who fled following the debacle at Adams Air Force Base.”

Harlock frowned, “And you think they’ll be willing to join in the war?”

“Do they really have a choice? Any alliance we form with either The Enclave or The Institute will be one of convenience anyway, nothing more, and for right now that needs to be enough for everyone involved.”

Marie stood up from the table, walking over to one of the many windows that looked out over The Pitt and its perpetual amber-hued skyline. Soot and grime crept in from the edges of the windows, forming a cloudy film across it.

She turned back to face her advisors,

“Abbadon, do you know of a way to contact them?”

“Directly? No. I don’t know if anyone in the wasteland does. But I have an idea - if we could get one of the tributary gangs that Harlock mentioned to broadcast a signal…I might be able to pique their interest. There were a number of coded distress signals used by Lyon’s Chapter of The Brotherhood back in DC. I could code one for a request for assistance against a mutant attack on a Brotherhood position - Pittsburgh of course - and sign the transmission with the authorization of a ranking Brotherhood member.”

Harlock raised an eyebrow, “Whose?”

Abbadon smiled, nodding towards Marie, “Paladin Ishmael Ashur of course. I’d use my own…but I didn’t exactly leave the Citadel on good terms, or rather, any terms that don’t involve a wall and a firing squad...probably best just to leave me out of it.”

Harlock sighed, “How do you know if any Brotherhood members in The Institute will even get the damn message?”

“I don’t, but I’d wager The Institute monitors any and all radio transmissions within a hundred miles of Boston…and knows the radio signature of a Brotherhood broadcast all too well. And anyone, or anything, listening in on the frequency that isn’t Eastern Brotherhood isn’t going to have a god-damn clue who’s trying to contact who and why - which, since we’re at war, seems like something we might want to consider, or am I wrong?”

Marie spoke up, halting any further debate,

“Get it done Abaddon and send the reply to Sutler as we agreed, informing him that we wish to meet to discuss joint-action against the mutants. We’ll see where things go from there.”

The Long Afternoon of the Mojave (A Fallout Roleplay)

Don Dominic Omerta - Gomorrah

“Exactly correct my dear. My, my: ravishingly beautiful AND intelligent - a potent combination. HA!” Dominic replied with a hearty chuckle, “But yes Mr. House is, was, a true genius in his time. Only a fool would deny it - he was a captain of industry beyond any other and its only because of him that New Vegas is here at all. I feel nothing but gratitude towards the man for what he did for us - indeed the Mojave itself owes him a great debt.”

“However…” Dominic continued, his voice lowering into a more somber tone, “While one cannot deny the inherent brilliance of the man, one also must acknowledge that his glory days are well and truly past. He’s a broken man now - the NCR crushed his last shred of pride and has reduced him to a shell of his former self. He no longer has the drive, or the will, to see his plans for New Vegas carried out. The man wallows in self pity in his literal ivory tower day after day, and never talks to anyone. The only interaction anyone, even his most loyal employees, has with him is through the silent monotonous protocols of his remaining Securitron police force.”

Dominic sighed, clasping his hands in front of him as his gaze shifted between all three of the Vault dwellers,

“And this is where I must ask for your help, and your discretion: as the Omertas newest friends and allies, I hope I can trust you on both accounts.”

“House must be removed from power,” Dominic said finally, exhaling a breath like a great weight had been lifted off his shoulders, “His not fit to rule Vegas anymore. The Three Families need to take over now, and ensure direct rule over Vegas. We’re pretty much doing that as is - but we lack the control over House’s systems and network that would allow us to ensure so much more is done for the people of Vegas.”

“For instance the flood that just recently wrecked so much devastation on Outer Vegas?” Dominic added with a sneer, “Do you know how much aid House gave or how many of his securitrons helped in the rescue efforts? None. 0. Zip. The families stepped up and did the work that House himself should have been coordinating. It's beyond inexcusable: as Chief Executive of New Vegas he should have been leading the charge and ensuring his people's well-being. Instead he did nothing.”

“Understand, I have no interest in killing House. Indeed I’d like to ensure the exact opposite - I want him to enjoy a peaceful retirement as he well should, free of the burdens of leadership that he obviously no longer has any interest in taking part in. But for that to happen - I need technological expertise that the Omertas simply don’t have, and I need the help of outsiders I can truly trust and rely on.”

“What do you say?” Dominic finished finally, looking at each of them in turn with a hopeful expression.

How Little We Know

The Unity

Nightkin Warlord Sammel - Near Clarkstown

Sammel heard them before he ever laid eyes on them. It began as a distant hum, which quickly evolved into a terrible roar as the rotors of the aircraft tore through the sky overhead. Sammel knew what was about to come, but he did not have time to issue orders to his overextended army. He could only watch with rage as the attack began all along the column.

Fire and death rained from the sky, as the vertibirds of The Enclave ripped through their ranks with heavy machine guns, missiles and a carpet bomb of mini-nukes. He saw limbs flying detached from torsos whilst blood and gore soaked the ground alongside the charred remains of his mutant kin. It was a slaughter, and the broken ground of the highway became a charnel house of mayhem and death.

“Find cover! Fire back! FIRE BACK!” Sammel roared over the chaotic din as he tried desperately to maintain order in his ranks.

Some of his most loyal mutants attempted to follow his command, some grabbing discarded missile launchers or manning heavy machine guns while others fired back with little more than hunting rifles in a desperate attempt to deal some sort of punishment against the attacking squadron. They fired haphazardly however, without proper coordination, and so their response was mostly ineffective - although the return fire did force the flying menaces into evasive maneuvers.

A 2nd Gen mutant next to Sammel raised his launcher after reloading to prepare to fire once more, but before he could pull the trigger an explosion from an incoming missile ripped the pale-green creature in half and sent Sammel flying a dozen feet to the ground. He felt a sharp pain in his side, and when we rolled over realized that a chunk of metal shrapnel was now firmly embedded in his torso: a fine gift from Sutler - he would need to repay it in kind.

Enraged beyond all reason by pain, Sammel raised himself to his feet and grabbed a missile launcher from another of his nearby kin. With a steady hand, he aimed squarely at the closet Vertibird giving it an appropriate lead.

He fired, and the missile streaked through the sky before it struck home: landing a hit on the right side of the craft.

That seemed to be enough for the squadron, one of their own being hit was like a signal to the entire attack to stop. They immediately began to retreat in formation with the stricken aircraft limping along behind like a bird with a broken wing.

Sammel smiled cruelly then winced with pain as he felt the sharp piece of metal twisting inside him.

“Have the scouts follow the trail of the wounded bird,” He barked to one of his nearby lieutenants - if it goes down, I want the crew taken alive.”

The Pitt

- Guns of The Ohio-

High atop a hill outside of East Steubenville, Krenshaw surveyed the opposite bank of the river through his binoculars, watching the approaching dust cloud in the distance growing ever closer. He likened it to watching the dark churning clouds of a storm rolling in on a clear wasteland day - a dire portent of what was about to come.

“Your tin-can boys ready?” Krenshaw remarked as he lowered the binoculars to look over to Paladin-Lord Traven, now armored fully in a set of painted T-60 resplendent in the Brotherhood’s livery.

“They’re ready to deal death to the mutant filth…” Traven replied through the speaker in his helmet, “I’m about to join them now.”

“If the mutants break through it’ll be here,” Krenshaw chuckled darkly as he looked over at the partially exposed riverbed, “The Ohio is at a low point here - gets strangled on its way south before it swells further downstream…..they can practically walk across it.”

“A natural choke point though..” Traven remarked, “Provided we hold.”

“Yeah - ‘provided we hold.’” Krenshaw echoed darkly as he looked over the ruined landscape on the opposite bank. The entire area had been cleared - buildings demolished, trees cut down - anything and everything that could possibly provide an inch of cover to the mutant host had been leveled. There would be no protection from the storm they were about to unleash.

“Get to your men m’Lord,” Krenshaw ordered, tossing the binoculars to a waiting Pitt officer before giving his Brotherhood counterpart a half-cocked salute, “Let’s fuck em’ up.”

Mags Black

Mags clutched her assault rifle as she took cover behind a trenchline that extended the length of the riverbank as far as she could see. Beyond her lay a deadly no-man’s land within the dried river-bed that was covered in traps, barbed-wire, and mines. Anyone who looked at such defenses would have rightly assumed that the mutants were going to be charging in to suicide - but the veteran Midwestern soldiers had grimly informed them that such deadly waves were in fact a favorite tactic of the mutants - sending forth hordes of ferals and enthralled humans to clear the way for the eventual mutant assault.

The former gang-leader of the Operators had to stop and take stock of how she’d ended up in this predicament. Forced out of her territory by the machinations of The Institute - now at the front line of some terrible continent-spanning war. Not even commanding troops as a gang-leader either, but slogging it out as a lowly foot grunt that was little more than a single cog in the industrial war-machine that was The Army of The Pitt.

She’d tried to join The Pitt because she hadn’t wanted to leave the raider life behind her and she believed herself tough enough to take on anything. But if she survived this war, she promised herself she’d give it all up the first chance she got. Settle down somewhere and live a quiet life like her parents in Diamond City had always wanted. They’d finally get their stupid wish.

Right now though survival was looking anything but likely.

“Yo Mags, can I bum a cig?” One of her crew mates, a young raider nicknamed ‘Dig’ asked as he slid down into the trench next to her.

Mags nodded, and fumbled at the half-crushed pack of cigarettes in her pocket before shakily handing one to him.

“I’m hearing it's about to start…those uglies won’t know what hit em’,” Dig replied with a smirk as he took the cigarette and lit it up. Mags grimmaced as she noted how fucking fearless the punk was. Whether it was bravery, a lack of experience, or just sheer stupidity she couldn’t say - but she pitied him regardless.

Mags peeked out over the top of the trench behind her, and saw that the mutant host was assembling directly opposite them - guns and heavy weapons at the ready along with whatever artillery of their own they’d dragged from Cincinnati. Things were about to go to shit real quick.

Suddenly there was a commotion within The Pitt’s lines, and Mags watched in awe as she saw The Pitt’s guns being uncovered from their hidden positions along the back hill line. There were hundreds of artillery pieces of varying sizes, some of them scavenged and repaired by The Pitt from pre-war national armories across their territory, others brought in by The Midwestern Brotherhood forces retreating east.

Somewhere upon the hill a flare was fired up into the air, and the signal was given. The bombardment began - shaking the ground with its fury and filling the air with a deafening roar that forced Mags to plug her ears. She smelled smoke and felt the teeth-chattering vibrations as a hailstorm of ordinance exploded upon the mutant lines. Raiders and Midwestern Brotherhood artillery crews continually fed their guns; loading shells and refiring with a practiced precision.

If the mutants hoped that the rain of shells would be short-lived, they were sorely mistaken. Troops of raiders and Brotherhood robots continuously ferried shells up from the rear lines where they were unloaded from waiting train cars fresh from The Pitt. The barrels of the guns themselves were more likely to melt before the Pitt would run out of ammo.

Everything moved like a hellish but well-oiled machine. Despite her fear, Mags couldn’t help but share in Dig’s enthusiasm as the mutants scrambled to return fire and take cover on the opposite bank.

“FUCK YEAH GIVE EM’ HELL!” He yelled.

Mags was about to join in herself when she felt the ground literally shake beneath her. A shadow passed overhead, and Mags and Dig both turned to their right to see a hulking robotic monstrosity moving up to the front a short distance down the line. The six-legged Midwestern Behemoth raised its head and aimed its quad .50 cal guns at a wave of approaching ferals who were charging down the opposite slope into the riverbed. It opened up on them, spraying a hail of bullets down range that tore through the ferals and ripped apart several mutants caught with them.

Mags sank back into the trench, stunned at the sheer firepower being brought to bear here. An all or nothing gambit had been thrown down.

Maybe there was a slim chance of survival after all.

How Little We Know

The UNITY

The Behemoth Lord

Braxton stood watching atop a hill watching the marching host before him. The army of The Behemoth Lord was on the move, carving a path of destruction through Midwestern lands - chasing after fleeing Midwestern civilians and soldiers alike in the wake of Cincinnati's fall. The former Brotherhood Knight turned Chosen no longer felt any kinship towards the humans that he was once sworn to protect. His memory was clouded and muddied, and although he retained some scant knowledge of his former life as a human, most of it was completely consumed by some unknowable presence which wormed his way into his thoughts like some great serpent. It was always there, never dominating or all-consuming, but always present never-the-less.

UNITY. UNITY. UNITY. It would chant endlessly.

There was no point in attempting to block it out, and indeed by this point Braxton welcomed the intrusion as a form of liberation. He was no longer alone - no longer an individual - but a part of a greater whole.

He would serve The Unity, from now until the end of his immortal life.

Braxton turned his head to see the great form of the Behemoth Lord striding into view, pushing aside trees as it made its way through a dense forest like it was passing through nothing more than tall grass. The massive hulking form of the behemoth warlord was awe inspiring. Old heavy car parts and pieces of metal roofing had been crudely crushed and shaped into armor around the Behemoth’s form, and in his left hand he wielded an uprooted power line that was studded with rebar stakes like some sort of large spiked bat. Behind him marched his own personal guard of four behemoths that were just as large as he, though not nearly as intelligent as their leader.

Braxton bowed before the giant mutant commander, waiting with some trepidation as to what the creature's next command would be. Braxton knew better than to speak first, he’d seen the Behemoth Lord smash mutants that displeased it into pulp with a single swing of its fist for no other reason than the whim struck him.

“Send. Scouts.” The Behemoth Lord said finally, its voice deep and hollow, “Find the enemy. We kill. For Unity.”

“Yes Lord, I’ll lead them myself,” Braxton nodded eagerly, “We will find them.”

The Ghoul Eater

The rising brackish waters of Lake Michigan lapped at Zant’s feet. The pale-green mutant stood like some freakish totem, covered in bones and the shriveled heads of decapitated ghouls. His stomach was delightfully full, he and his gruesome host having feasted on the scattered inhabitants of Mantiwoc for the better part of a week. His forces' denial at both Chicago and then Milwaukee had been bitter, and so they’d taken their frustrations out on the isolated port town.

The fact that the poor fisherman and tradespeople of the ruined town had nothing to do with the Midwestern Brotherhood or its military ploys had mattered little. They were all human, all meat - so they’d been dealt an appropriate, collective, punishment.

Now Zant, The Ghoul Eater, turned his gaze lakeward. Beyond the great waters before him lay the unspoiled port towns along the coasts of the Great Lakes, along with the promise of the wealthy trade cities of Ronto and Luth. He had no use for their money of course - but their flesh would do quite nicely. Some to be dipped, some to be roasted - but all destined to feed his army one way or another.

Zant turned to the makeshift ships hap-hazardly assembled by the mutant host. Calling them “ships” would be generous indeed, they were more like floating heaps of scrap, but that wouldn’t matter as long as the mutant host managed to make it across the water. His army had heavy weapons aplenty and miniguns and missile launchers made for effective weapons on the sea just as well as on land. If they encountered any Luth merchant ships or otherwise, the floating hulks would only need to get them in range: nothing more.

Seizing the Great Lakes region would be an immense victory for The Unity if it could be accomplished. It would cut off trade and communication between the lake nations and the world beyond, and most of all the valuable supply of raw ore to the forges of The Pitt. According to The Master’s integrated connections to the Vault Tec Network, there was also at least one large unspoiled Vault in the region of northern Michigan: a large new source of prime normals that could not be ignored.

The Master had commanded Zant to take this region, and he would accomplish its will.

“We are ready,” one of his mutant commanders said suddenly, walking up to him with a large complement of 1st Generation mutants.

“Each of you take a vessel,” Zant ordered, “Attack any ship in your path…seize what you can, send any prime specimens to the Great Procreator - eat the rest.”

The Pitt

Vikia

Vikia eyed the lumbering mutant in the cross-hairs of her scope as it strode through the undergrowth . The dim-witted creature wasn't as stealthy as it thought it was, and it was almost comical watching the mutant plodding alongside a group of ghoul slaves-soldiers hunched over and creeping like it actually thought it couldn't be seen. She almost had some pity for what was about to happen to it - almost.

Vikia let out a deep breath slowly, and felt her finger lightly squeeze the trigger. A shot from her .308 sniper rang out before a bullet tore through the mutants skull - taking part of its brain with it. The creature immediately collapsed and before the accompanying ghoul soldiers could even react to their slave-master and commander's untimely end, infiltrator shots followed up in quick succession from Vikia's hidden scouts, tearing through their ranks. In a matter of seconds it was over, and the entire patrol was wiped out. A few of the scouts made their way over to the clearing with rifles raised to ensure that the job was finished, and to loot whatever valuable intel the patrol happened to have on them. Rarely did they find anything worth their trouble though.

"Like shooting fish in a barrel..." one of Vikia's scouts, a gruff heavily mutated raider named Zachariah whistled as he reloaded his infiltrator with a fresh magazine. He and a small group of his kin had been made their way north to the Pitt from a place called 'Point Lookout' far to the south. The people there all apparently shared his mutations to one degree or another. Despite their appearance, they were all good fighters and unparalleled experts at living off the land making them natural scouts - their inclinations towards cannibalism not-with-standing.

"Its too fucking easy," Vikia growled as she looked up from where she was laying and surveyed the area, "These bumbling idiots can't be their vanguard. How dumb are these mutants?"

"Well whatever they is, if they keep sending em' we'll keep making mincemeat out of them, "Zachariah replied with a toothy grin.

"Something's not right..." Vikia continued, tightening her grip on her rifle. Her gut instinct was screaming that this situation was all wrong. She'd learned to listen to that gut feeling over the years, and it was the only reason she was still alive now.

As if in answer, Vikia suddenly heard shouts followed by several explosions from the area where the mutants had been downed. All she saw was smoke and fire in that direction, and immediately she knew what must have happened. They hadn't been any kind of vanguard at all, but walking bombs - their bodies had been booby-trapped with mines. They were nothing more than fodder.

Then Vikia heard the sound of a stealth field de-materializing, and her heart froze.

Vikia whipped around only to see a hulking blue mutant wildly swinging a two-handed bumper-sword towards her. She rolled away just in time to watch it slice its way into the ground before the mutant swiftly pulled it up and swung it again in an upwards strike. Another of Vikia's scouts was caught by the blade, and the raider did even have time to scream before he was sliced in half sending blood spraying all over her.

Zachariah, to his credit, reacted without hesitation raising up his infiltrator rifle and firing several shots at the mutant assassin. The unarmored mutant suddenly staggered back, only to immediately take more bullets from the surrounding raiders and collapsing to the ground.

To Vikia's horror, the creature was still alive though -and it reached for its blade once again in some vain attempt to get back up and fulfill its mission. Zachariah quickly ended that though, drawing forth a finely sharpened wood-axe and burying it in the Nightkin's skull.

"Holy shit..." Vikia muttered in shock, wiping blood from her face, "We didn't even hear that thing at all until it deactivated its stealth boy..."

"That thing came her for one reason and one reason only," Zachariah remarked with a grunt as he pulled his now bloodied axe out from the mutant's forehead and pointed it at Vikia, "To take that pretty little head of yours clean off Ms. Viky. I don't think they be as dumb as you think."

How Little We Know

Mags Black

Mags allowed the blood covered knife to slip from her hand and onto the broken gore-soaked ground of The Hole. The body of the Trog she’d just slain lay eviscerated in a heap at her feet, its sickly discolored blood running in rivulets through the soil . Exhausted beyond measure, Mags barely registered the voice of the announcer above the roaring sound of the crowd above: ‘ASHUR ASHUR ASHUR’ they chanted like a raucous chorus.

“And the Trog falls! Welcome Mags! Welcome to Ashur’s Army! You’ve earned it!”

She collapsed to her knees, triumphantly raising one hand. This was it, she thought to herself with a wide grin; she’d passed their test, she’d earned her place. Now she could work her way up: now she would finally get that audience with Lady Ashur.

From here on out, she would be in her element. Finally things might go her way.

---

“Inspection! Fall in for inspection you newbie bastards!”

Mags barely had time to wash the Trog’s blood off her before she’d been practically dragged into formation before her new Raid Boss: a tough one-eyed son of a bitch named ‘Reddog’ who wore super-sledge slung to the back of his spiked Gamma shield armor. There were at least fifty of her fellow raiders standing at loose attention before him as he passed back and forth, giving each of them a discerning look with his one good eye.

“Congratulations assholes, you’re all in Ashur’s Army now: The Army of The Pitt. But before you all get big heads and starting thinking some bullshit about how you’re special or ‘chosen’ let me make one thing straight to you bastards.”

Reddog raised a hand, his right ring finger was missing: chewed off at the knuckle by the same creature which had removed his eye. He held up his index and middle before them,

“This don’t make you shitheads special, all it means is two things, “1: You ain’t trog food and 2. You ain’t a slave.”

He looked right at Mags, his eye seemed to bore into her,

“And if that’s enough for you….then good you’ll fit right in here. But you want more? You gotta EARN it. Ain’t nobody got to the top of Ashur’s gang without going through hell. You all best remember that.”

Reddog paused, unsheathing his super-sledge and slamming it head-first to the ground in front of him,

“Alright for anyone looking for that chance….let me give you some good fuckin’ news. We’re headed to the Ohio River with the rest of the army, and guess what? Our crew gets the best assignment of all: we’re gonna be right at the fuckin’ front.

Mags tightened her grip on the R91 assault rifle she’d been issued; the weight of the heavy ammo bandolier she was wearing seemed to be trying to drag her quivering legs to the ground. She realized she was feeling true fear for the first time in a good long while.

“Move out scrum! Let’s go kick some mutant ass. For Ashur! For The Lady of The Pitt!”

---

Krenshaw - 10th Street Bridge Overlook

Standing atop one of the downtown high-rise buildings, Commander Krenshaw watched the army departing alongside Abaddon and the recently arrived ex-Paladin-Lord Hector Traven. It was like a surging tide, thousands of raiders marching across the tenth street bridge to be shipped by rail, barge, or long march to the forward defensive line. Things were in motion now, and all that was to come was the inevitable battle.

Krenshaw lit up a cigarette, exhaling a thin trail of smoke out into The Pitt’s perpetual twilight sky. He could practically feel the nervous tension oozing from the two former Brotherhood men next to him.

“Will your forces hold?” Abaddon asked bluntly, the aged scribe’s wrinkled face contorted with worry.

“My raiders will hold,” Krenshaw grimaced, taking another puff of his cigarette, “You just worry about those reprogrammed factory bots of yours.”

“This won’t be anything like they’ve ever faced before…” The now former Paladin-Lord of Cincinnati added. Traven was still wearing his Brotherhood robes, which unlike Abaddon’s red scribe robes were tinged the gold-orange of a ranking leader of the Midwestern Brotherhood.

Krenshaw gave Traven a side-glare, before flicking the half-finished cigarette off the roof,

“The fuck you know about what my soldiers have gone through?”

He strode up to Traven, looking him square in the eye. To the Paladin-Lord’s credit, he didn’t flinch in the slightest, meeting Krenshaw’s gaze with a glare of his own. Krenshaw grinned, encouraged to see that the latest Brotherhood deserter amongst The Pitt’s ranks had an actual backbone: unlike Abaddon. Good, he’d need it.

“Nothing,” Traven replied simply, “But I do know your enemy, and that you should be afraid.”

Krenshaw scoffed, “Can’t afford to be afraid. Either we win or we die. Fear ain’t a factor here,” Krenshaw then turned to look out over the marching army once more, letting out a deep breath, “Those deserters of yours ready to put up a fight Paladin-Lord?”

“Exiles,” Traven corrected, “They didn’t break any oaths…their honor is intact.”

“Unlike yourself, of course,” Krenshaw pointed out with a smirk.

“Indeed,” Traven nodded, clear shame evident in his eyes, “Two companies of Knights, three companies of C-27 bots, twenty pacification class robots, and one Behemoth class….” Traven rattled off, “They’ll do their duty, I assure you.”

“Well we’ll need em’,” Krenshaw grunted, as he pulled at the folds of his long coat jacket, “We’ve mobilized every soldier we got, called in all the favors we’ve ever had with every pissant gang from the Erie Stretch to The Commonwealth. Hell we’ve even got some of those Children of Atom zealots fighting with us. It's the largest force The Pitt has ever fielded - certainly the biggest fuckin’ army I’ve seen in my life.”

“Don’t assume numbers alone can win this fight,” Traven interrupted.

Abaddon gave a sadistic smile, “We’re not without our cards to play…we’ve got enough ordinance to level the entire Ohio river valley. The mutants will receive an artillery bombardment that will rival The Guns of Anchorage.”

“And I hope for all our sakes that its enough.”

“Cut it with the doom and gloom…let's get to work,” Krenshaw replied with a click of his tongue. He turned around and quickly brushed past Abaddon and Traven; giving Traven a hard slap on the back as he passed, “Best suit up Paladin-Lord, we’ve got an express train to Steubenville to catch.”