Andronicus23

War Never Changes

The Institute, Residential Sector 8B Corridor

Thomas stood transfixed as the Synth stood back up, even after the Director’s Authorization override had been used. That, however, was far from the most terrifying part. The true source of his horror was the fact that, in her hand, she now held the single vital component that was her very being. The equivalent of a living human having just torn out their brain with their own hands: that was what he faced. The utter impossibility of it shook him to his very core. The component clattered to the ground at his feet, but he didn’t even give it a second glance.

"I AM THE HEIRESS OF THE PROPHET!" The Synth shouted, the meaning of the words was lost to him, but he was far from concerned about that right now.

“Orders Director?” X6 asked expectantly, but he was unable to respond.

It was then that one of his Coursers simply….snapped. With its neck, mangled and utterly broken, the Courser fell to the ground almost immediately. Thomas took a step back, had the Synth done that somehow? No...that wasn’t possible.

Half-hearted attempts at explanations entered his mind, but he hardly even had time to truly contemplate the occurrence before the Synth began rushing forward.

"YOU ALL SHOULD NOT BE!" She shouted.

Thomas made no move to stop her as she charged the Coursers. Part of him, he was ashamed to admit, wanted to see what would happen next. He was desperate for a logical explanation...something...anything...that might allow this all to make sense that observing her was the only thing he could think to do.

However, instead of continuing to attack the Coursers, she instead honed in on a new, softer, target. She rushed Cait, and grabbed her, lifting her up with an ease that would have been difficult to achieve even for a Synth. It was then that Thomas came to his senses, he hurled a power armored fist at her torso. It was neither a skillful nor practiced blow, merely a very human reaction to someone he loved threatened.

A3’s body splintered under the force of it, and she was forced to drop her prey. Whatever this thing was...it was mortal at least. With Cait clear of her grasp, Thomas gave the order,

“Kill it!”

The Coursers opened fire, a dozen laser shots tore into her arms and legs, searing synthetic flesh and ripping what was left of A3-18 to shreds.

One Hour Later - Emergency Meeting of The Directorate, Directorate Boardroom

The Directorate had been gathered, each member of The Institute's five divisions seated about the white oval table inside the Boardroom on the top level. At the center of the table on a metal surgical tray was the Synth Component, the one that A3-18 had torn from her head and ‘tossed’ to Thomas. Each of the respective Division Heads, shifted uneasily in their seat. Thomas sat with his elbows on the table, his hands folded in front of his face as his bespectacled eyes were fixed on the component. The uneasy silence was palpable.

Finally someone spoke. It was Dr. Holdren, head of Bioscience,

“Sabotage? Perhaps someone illegally modified the Synth somehow. ” He offered a half-hearted suggestion, it was more to clear the air than anything, “Perhaps Dr. Wagner himself, given that he was a member of Robotics.”

“She tore it from her head, Clayton,” Thomas replied flatly, his eyes didn’t leave the component. There’s no amount of modification that can allow a Synth to do that and still be functional. Initially I had thought we were facing a malfunctioning unit, perhaps even one that had been injected with malicious code to bypass the security safeguards, but this….this is something different.”

“Surely there must be some possible explanation? Can you give an opinion at least, as head of Robotics?”

Thomas was silent for a few moments, before he sighed,

“The only thing I can think of is that someone figured out a way to insert a bootstrap loader into the Synth’s component, an embedded piece of code hidden in memory that we were unable to detect during normal security scans, and which initialized a remote connection to some external process that took over operation of the Synth. When the component was removed, theoretically the Synth may have been functioning off those basic received commands. But that type of technology to allow for direct interface with the Synth’s neuromuscular system without the component is theoretical only. We’re decades away from even prototyping such a thing.”

“That’s a terrifying thought in and of itself...” Clayton replied uneasily.

“On that note, I’m more concerned about the weapon that she used to destroy one of the Coursers,” Dr. Li interjected, “The footage from the security feed seems to indicate that she used some sort of, well for lack of a better term, telekinesis. There’s a number of ways such a feat could be explained scientifically with the right parameters in place, but all of them would require a level of technology surpassing our own.”

Dr. Secord nodded in agreement, “So if this is sabotage, we’re dealing with a group far more advanced than we assumed the surface dwellers were capable of,” She turned to Thomas, an expectant look in her eyes, “So then what do we do?”

There was a brief pause as the room fell silence, each of them looking to Thomas as The Director to make the decision. He unfolded his hands and looked up,

“We deal with the immediate security issue first. Whatever this is….whoever we are facing...we have to assume they have the ability to compromise our Gen-3 Synth network. Any non-essential Gen-3 units will decommissioned for the time being and placed into secure storage. Essential workers will be strictly monitored at all times and only be allowed in designated areas. Gen-2 and Gen-1 units will fill any gaps created in the workforce. We’ll also increase security sweeps throughout The Institute.”

“And the Coursers?” Alana asked.

“If the Gen-3 units can be compromised….we can’t take any chances. I’ll order X6-88 to assume command of the Courser units stationed in The Institute and they’ll be garrisoned temporarily on the surface. A base camp inside the CIT Ruins should do fine.”

“It’s an extreme measure, but I can’t say I disagree,” Dr. Filmore stated, “I’d also recommend we run security scans on the old generation synths, just to be safe. Perhaps install a few more security cameras in the corridors for better monitoring.”

Thomas nodded, “See that it gets done Allie. Next….we need to address what A3-18 said. It’s quite obviously a clue to deciphering the identity of our attackers. Alana, I believe you have something to report in that regard.”

“Indeed,” Alana replied and she pulled out a few manilla folders and laid them on the table in front of her, “A3-18 made mention of an ‘Heiress of The Prophet' when it began to...malfunction. Based on the information our Synth units we able to gather from the Vegas affair, we believe we’ve identified who this is referring to. A one Marie Ashur, currently associated with the group known as ‘The Cult of Ug-Qualtoth.’ We have a number of images captured of her and the other leaders of the Cult that attended the conference including their ‘War-Leader’, a vile looking brute called ‘Dosh-Novan’. We had previously built profiles on all of the attendees to the conference that we could successfully identify, so I can provide her file to you Director if that is acceptable.”

“Please do.”

“So this Cult of Ug-K-ua-ltoth….Ug-Qu-alt…..Uggy…...nevermind. This “Cult”, “A confused look crossed Clayton Holdren’s face, “Your suggestion is that they had something to do with this Alana?”

“Perhaps. Or at the very least, someone wishes us to believe they did. Either way, I suggest we accelerate our plans to investigate them.”

“Agreed,” Thomas said, “To that end. I’ll inform Desmond that he’s to begin his journey to Pittsburgh immediately. Likewise, we’ll begin following up any leads to The Cult that we’ve previously identified. Including those in the Maryland and DC regions.”

“Sir if I may,” Alana shuffled the files in front of her about before pulling out a single sheet, “SRB has discovered a pre-war connection to the cult as well based on the information provided to us by Mr. Lockheart during his stay in Point Lookout. Are you familiar with Dunwich Borers LLC?”

“The mining company?” Thomas asked, a bit surprised, “Vaguely yes. I seem to recall them having a quarry not far from the Salem area. They sold industrial drill bits too I believe. Other than that, I’m confused what connection they could possibly have with this?”

“They’re linked to the cult somehow through the owner, Richard Dunwich. We’re still investigating, but we did a database crawl on some of the pre-war CIT records, and there were a number of references to the company before the war being accused of ‘occultic activities’ in several news outlets. The scandal was not very widespread apparently and was quickly forgotten, but I believe it might be worth further inquiry.”

“The Dunwich Quarry is still there I believe then yes? I’ll task X6 and a few Coursers to comb the quarry and see if there’s any records on the company remaining there. Good work Alana, it's at least something we can follow up on. In the meantime,” Thomas continued, turning to the others, “We’ll consider this an isolated security incident and assure our people that its being dealt with. Let me be clear on something as well, I don’t believe in dark gods or evil powers, magic, or the like. I believe as I’m sure each of your do that there must be rational explanation behind what happened in that corridor. If something can be observed….it can be studied scientifically. Let's find that explanation and learn all we can about it. I’ll ask you all to link your divisions...your resources, work together on this and come to me should you require anything.”

A murmur of agreement came from the Directorate, and after a few thank yous and final words, The Directorate dispersed and left the room, leaving Thomas to his own thoughts. After some time he stepped out of the board room and returned to his own quarters. He had one final matter he wanted to attend to.

He accessed his private terminal, and the read the message he’d received only hours before the incident had occurred. His old colleague had come calling.

ROUND TWO?_ROBERT HOUSE_LUCKY 38 HOTEL & CASINO RESORT_

“I could use some of that cold rationality of yours right about now Robert….,” Thomas muttered and he clicked a button on the keyboard. The data transfer began immediately, but would take some time to complete as it had to bounce through a number of different pre-war satellites before it would finally reach House. The schematics he sent he knew House would be able to understand, perhaps not enough to fully comprehend its workings, but then again he wouldn’t need to. All he needed to do...was build it.

War Never Changes

Vulpes Inculta, SAC HQ Bunker

"What do you think, Vulpes? It's the same woman we saw in the earlier clip....that is confirmed....I'm not sure what to make of it. One minute, she basically commandeers a Raider gang from it's leader, with almost no protest....then she leads them nearly a quarter of a mile into a head-on confrontation with a platoon of Knights without flinching, only to flee from the least well armed and armored man there. I can't stop thinking about it. I know there is something there....but what it is just eludes me!"

Vulpes the playback of video clips, ones that the Inquisition had noted were relevant towards his goal of better understanding the cult. And, more importantly, better understanding how to fight them. He had to admit that the incident in question was...interesting...to say the least,

“You instincts aren’t falling you Inquisitor,” Vuples replied, his eyes squinting at the terror in the face of the woman, “I believe there may be more to this than we assume. However, it's very difficult to say for sure. The woman’s madness could simply be that: madness. What do we know about her?”

"The woman?", Joseph replied, "She still lives...the Field unit in Indianapolis is holding her. She's largely her old self again. The Psychologists assure me she is completely, and probably incurably, mad, as most every committed Cult member we've interrogated has been....you'll find her most unpleasant. I'll make the arrangements with Inquisitor Stahl in Indianapolis to transfer her to your custody at your convenience. She'll be a good introduction to the kind of Enemy we face, and perhaps you will spot what I've been missing."

“Excellent. And what about the soldier? The one to whom she apparently lost her mind in sight of? Where is he now?”

Lancer-Sergeant Kyle is still in Indianapolis as well", Joseph said, "The Paladin-General's staff is debriefing him, trying to learn what happened in Boston. Spends his free time watching newsreels and films...mostly of our History since the Arrival and the Lord-Paladin himself. I can make arrangements through the Lord-Paladin's office if you would like to interview him as well. He's just as baffled by that woman's behavior as we are."

“I would very much like to, please have the details arranged,” Vulpes smiled, “I cannot say whether or not I’ll be able to discern the truth here, but...as a Frumentarius of mighty Caesar, on my honor I will do my best. The Legate will be expecting his report once his legions arrive at Indianapolis. So I would like to move quickly on this. ”

Santa Fe - Capital of The Legion

Santa Fe is the Legion’s largest city and the beating heart of its empire. A sprawling metropolis built atop the ruins of the former old world city. The ruins of downtown Santa Fe contain derelict skyscrapers and pre-war buildings much of which is the domain of scavengers and scrappers looking to pick apart the carcass of its pre-war legacy. Uptown, however, is where The Legion has constructed the new post-war city that now truly defines it. Started under Sallow when he was still Caesar, the city's architecture is a striking mixture of Spanish style adobe buildings reminiscent of its pre-war heritage, and the Legion’s own unique style of architecture which, of course, Sallow based upon that of ancient Rome as well. Large aqueducts, a facsimile of the originals, carry water drawn from the ground to the city. Great forums and open markets where the goods and wares of the wasteland can be found are scattered throughout the city. Livestock of all kinds along with exotic mutated animals are bought and sold alongside great quantities of grain and foodstuffs from the Midwest, and other items that come from as far as the Keys. Slaves too are a common sight, both carrying supplies to and fro or as merchandise themselves. Legion women dressed in distinctive but simple gowns reminiscent of their historical counterparts haggle with merchants to procure the foodstuffs and goods their families’ require, many of them with their children and household slaves in tow. Gold and silver Legion coin are exchanged in great amounts for all these products, and caravaners and merchants alike come from far and wide to trade in the city.

Along with the exchange of worldly goods, come spiritual ones as well. New Canaanite missionaries and traders from Zion walk freely about the city, protected as they are by Caesar’s orders on behalf of his beloved wife. They speak to any who might pass them, and eagerly greet newcomers on the hope of spreading the word of their Lord. While the New Canaanites freely preach the word of their God, the one to whom the majority of the people of the city devote themselves is Mars: the Legion’s God of War and the sole focus of their worship. At the center of the city lies a great temple to Mars: once a great church before the war, that has been converted and expanded upon by the Legion. A statue of Mars crafted from the steel of the old city stands proudly before its doors: proudly holding aloft a Legion styled machete and wearing armor not unlike a Legion centurion. The Priestesses of Mars, a sisterhood that pledge themselves to the God of War, keep this great temple and attend to the faithful of the city, as well as serve as healers and wise women.

Despite the trappings of cultural exchange, the city itself is unmistakably Legion. That becomes clear with the sight of hundreds of Legionaries patrolling the streets. Drilled contubernia march in disciplined formation up and down the streets and alleyways of the city keeping peace and order. The results of which can be seen publicly displayed in gruesome fashion. Crucified criminals line squares of public execution: drug runners, thieves, drunkards, and chem addicts find themselves nailed alongside murders and rapists. The message is clear: those who break the Legion’s laws in its territories are punished severely. Testament to this strict martial control: a sprawling military quarter of the city houses barracks for numerous legionaries and urban cohorts stationed in Santa Fe, as well as training and parade grounds, kennels and stables for legion beasts of war, and blacksmiths and gunsmiths for the Legion’s arsenal. Next to the military quarter, a great arena constructed from metal and scrap walls hosts gladiatorial games and other blood-sports to pit man and creatures against one another. The clashing of blades and beasts can often be heard emanating from it over the usual din of the city.

Finally, the city’s center is the palace of Caesar, the construction of which once served as Edward Sallow’s own vanity project, although he died long before he could see its completion. Sallow himself took the design from illustrations he found in pre-war books on ancient Roman villas: a walled complex with an inner courtyard garden where he might rule the new Empire he intended to create. Although it seems clear the main structure and perhaps the grounds itself are actually a pre-war building modified to look more “roman”. A faded sign reading “Sante Fe Public Library” make that obvious. Praetorians patrol the grounds of the courtyard and guard their posts within the main villa building itself: where Lucius and his inner household reside. Entering into the villa’s doors, guests would find great numbers of items on display throughout the house taken on the Legion’s many conquests as well as mounted trophies of various wasteland animals.

As they enter, delegates would be be greeted by the wife of Caesar, a brown haired New Canaanite woman. She patiently awaits the arrival of each of her husbands invited guests. Like other Legion women encounter in the city, she wears a distinct style of dress, albeit of a higher quality. A small wooden cross hangs from a necklace as the only piece of jewelry she wears.

“Salve,I am Hannah of New Canaan. Welcome to Santa Fe on behalf of my husband, Caesar Lucius. And welcome to our home, please make yourselves comfortable inside.”

They are then led forward into an adjacent room where a large pre-war wooden dinner table, along with Lucius himself, awaits them. Lucius, while bandaged and still bearing the scars of his battle, is dressed in a crimson Legionary tunic. He looks alive and well and ready to begin the meeting.

War Never Changes

The Institute, Director's Quarters

“Warning. Code Black in Residential Sector 8B. Warning Code Black in Residential Sector 8B. Warning…”

Thomas’s glasses nearly fell of his head as he shot out of his desk chair once he heard the warnings, the alarms were blaring throughout The Institute.

“HOLY JESUS FUC…” He heard Cait yell as she tumbled of the couch she’d been lazily dozing in only moments before and crashed to the floor. The half drunk bottle of Nuka Cola Grape that had been at her feet spilled over as her body knocked it aside, “WHAT THE HELL IS THAT?”

As she looked up, she saw a frightened look cross Thomas’s face. One she hadn’t seen on him for a long time.

“No…” Thomas muttered, the dawning horror of what the warning meant sending his mind into a momentary freeze.

Cait pulled herself up, rubbing her sore backside with an annoyed huff, “Goddammit that hurt…oi Tom! What the hell is going on?”

“Code Black,” Thomas replied, as he snapped out of his panic and began striding over to a corner of the room.

“Code Black? The fuck is that?” Cait snapped back. She tried to mentally rewind and remember all the minute details from the protocol briefing that Dr. Watson had given her when she first came to The Institute: she was coming up blank. Probably because she’d fallen asleep halfway through it.

“How the hell am I supposed to remember what that is? Watson had written down like three dozen fuckin’ different safety procedures to follow when someone slips in the damn shower. Tom!”

“Synth Rebellion.” Thomas replied flatly he walked up to the wall. He punched in a code into a small mounted console nearby.

“Wa..” Cait stopped in her tracks, “That’s not supposed to be possible...right?’

“No. Its not. Not with the failsafes I forced The Directorate to implement in the Gen-3 line. Yet here we are.”

The wall Thomas was standing before slid open to reveal a brightly lit hidden storage compartment. As the wall opened up, two large racks of weapons immediately folded out and away to either side of him. The final piece then rolled forward and out of storage: a full suit of power armor. The Institute vitruvian symbol was emblazoned on it atop a coat of bright white paint. The suit was one they’d found after combing ruins of Logan Airport following The Brotherhood's defeat. From the records they’d discovered, The Brotherhood had apparently scavenged it themselves from a place called Adams Air Force Base in the D.C. area. Thomas had the Advanced Systems Division study and improve upon its original design. In her usual way, Dr. Orman had gone above and beyond that call, and it had quickly become an incredibly expensive piece of Institute technology.

Thomas tossed Cait one of the neatly stacked and folded red and white armored jumpsuits stored in the compartment, “Suit up.” He said simply. She quickly stepped into it and zipped it up, feeling the ballistic fiber mesh tight against her skin.

He pulled off his own white lab coat and hastily threw it to the floor. Afterwards, he grabbed one of the many racked Institute rifles and handed it to her, while Cait loaded up on energy cells, along with a cryo grenade or two.

Thomas stepped around to the backside of the power armor, and twisted the release valve, opening the armor swiftly. He stepped inside, and the suit automatically closed around his body, the HUD appearing before him in his helmet gave an indication of the suits status, which was all green. A helpful voice sounded in his ear,

“Welcome Director.”

He squeezed his fist to test the armor and stepped out of the station, and reached for a plasma pistol.

Thomas hadn’t been an actual soldier in the war, the one that had started this whole mess. He’d served as a liaison to the US Army Robotics Division in Anchorage. He was only supposed to be there as part of the arrangement made between The University and the army: a graduate student fresh out and ready to make his mark on the world and help his country. Fighting had not at all been part of his job description, hell there wasn’t even supposed to be a war back then, but he’d nevertheless received some basic training in the event of an emergency situation. The Chinese surprise assault on Anchorage had ensured that the notion that he’d be perfectly safe was so very misguided. There hadn’t been time to get the civilian personnel out, and he did what he had to do to survive. He’d even been lauded as a “war hero” back home, and years after he’d returned he’d still gotten requests to speak at veteran halls and charity events in the Boston area about the importance of “civilian duty” in times of war. In truth he’d been a coward, a coward who’d only fought to save his own skin and in the end, others died so that he could live.

He’d learned an important lesson in Alaska however, one that had served him well when he’d finally emerged into the hell that his own generation had created. The importance of preparation when self-preservation was at stake. He had no idea what the situation outside was like if a Code Black had been initiated, but intended to be ready for whatever it was.

The eyes of his helmet flashed a deep red as he turned to Cait, his voice now emanating from the helmet’s speech emitter,

“Lets go.”

---

Chaos was what awaited them outside. Thomas and Cait threaded the stream of panicked Institute personnel and their families who were scrambling away from the Sector 8B corridor and towards designated evacuation locations and secure zones. A number of Coursers in their armored uniforms were headed in the opposite direction alongside them, and Thomas took it as a good sign that at least the Coursers were operational and en-route to the situation. Even still, he feared the worst and he was on edge as he approached the ‘ground zero’ of the incident.

It was a horror show. There was no other way to describe it. A female Gen-3 Synth had gone mad. She was tearing apart a Gen-1 maintenance Synth that had responded to the disturbance. Two human bodies lay strewn to the side, the mangled body of a Facilities worker and the bloodied body of a scientist. Thomas did not know the female worker personally, but he knew she’d only recently joined the division and was in-training to become a full fledged Facilities engineer: a future for her that would tragically never be realized. The scientist, however, he knew well. Dr. Harold Wagner. Dr. Wagner was one of the Robotics Division personnel. A member of his Thomas’s own division: a part of his team. Wagner was a bit of a loner, everyone knew it, and he'd always preferred the solitude of his work and the company of Synths to humans. He’d even requested a home assistant Synth for companionship and for help around the house. Wagner had taken to calling the Synth his “wife” which had earned him some strange looks from his fellow scientists, but everyone had assumed it was a harmless eccentricity. One that Robotics division personnel were seemingly becoming known for.

Now he was dead, and lying in a pool of his own blood. It was an ignoble death that he really didn’t deserve, regardless of his oddities. Neither of them deserved this, and it shouldn't have happened. Thomas recalled that a similar situation had happened once before: Dr. Alan Binet’s own “wife” had taken to her role too well. The situation had ended poorly then as well, but the only consequence was Eve’s decommissioning. This was far worse. This wasn’t just a matter of a Synth re-prioritizing their programming: a problem that could be corrected. Something had snapped here.

A line of Coursers was already forming as more of them arrived to the scene: rifles raised and pointed at the rogue Synth. Thomas saw that X6-88 was among them.

“Fucking toasters,” Cait muttered as she raised her rifle, “I’ll send her to the scrap heap..”

Thomas immediately raised an armored hand and pushed her rifle down.

“Wait.” He said simply.

“Orders Director?” X6 asked. None of the Coursers were budging an inch. They were waiting on his word to act. Thomas stepped forward, the heavy footfalls of the power armor reverberating around the area like thunderclaps. The Synth hissed and snarled like some kind of rabid animal and she spun around glaring at the Coursers. Her eyes then fell on Thomas as he came closer to her. He couldn’t shake the feeling of unease as she glared at him. There was something in the eyes he couldn’t explain, a tempestuous gaze that spoke equally to confusion, abject terror, and madness.

“What is the unit’s designation?”

“A3-18, sir.”

“A3-18. Emergency Override. Director’s Authorization Code 03492 Zulu Arcus Tempest. End all active subroutines.”

War Never Changes

The Legion - Caesar Lucius, Santa Fe

The cool night air of the desert came blowing in as Lucius stood at the balcony of his chamber and looked out over the sleeping city beyond. So much had happened in the time since the fateful conference in New Vegas a war had been fought and won, and another begun. Alliances had collapsed and lines of battle drawn. A true enemy had revealed itself, one that proved to be far more treacherous than even the great Bear had been. Instead of marching under the banner of false democracy and promises of old world values however, the Cult fought under the banner of their hellish god: Ug-Qualtoth. Lucius had answered the call to this fight because he'd owed a debt to Barnaky and his Brotherhood, but it quickly became apparent that the Cult was a greater evil than any profligate nation could be. To that end, he'd sent Legatus Aurelius with a mission: aid the Brotherhood in wiping away the cult once and for all.

He clutched the missive he'd received moments ago in his hands as he thought about the Legate's forces. The report had indicated that the Legate's legions were on the move, having conferred with Barnaky and organized their offensive. They would be expected to reach Indianapolis soon. Meanwhile, the cohorts sent north to aid Detroit had already arrived. The chess board had been set, and now the play would begin. He'd only wished he could be there himself to lead them.

A twinge of pain struck Lucius as the thought crossed his mind, and he remembered quite well why he could not. Bandages were still wrapped around his torso and shoulder, where Kimball's bullets had tore through and very nearly killed him. The pain had mostly subsided, but the wounds would still take time to heal. The best healers, shamans, and witch doctors in all the Legion's territories had been summoned, but his wife, Hannah, insisted that the doctors of her people: The New Canaanites, be ones to treat him. This had caused great consternation, but seeking to please his wife and set her mind at ease, Lucius had agreed to her request. None could challenge the decision after that.

Lucius understood very well her worry, and he knew that for her sake, he could ill afford to take any chances with his treatment and recovery. The news Hannah had shared with him after he’d survived the battle with Kimball had changed his perspective on life forever. She was pregnant with his child. A child that he hoped to raise alongside her, and perhaps one day see them to become Caesar after him. Yes, he could not be so reckless with his life anymore. Under Sallow: he’d believed that he would die in his service, and thought nothing of a future beyond that. Now….things were very different indeed. He now intended to live for someone rather than resigning himself to dieing gloriously.

As if to drive home the point, Lucius felt a gentle hand on his shoulder, and he turned to find his wife standing beside him, wrapped in the animal fur blankets of their bed. She’d obviously just woken up,

“Sorry I disturbed you,” Lucius said as he squeezed her hand, “There was a rider in the night.”

“What was the message? Ill news?”

Lucius unfolded the slip of paper he held and handed it to her, “Aurelius is marching on Indianapolis with all the legions at his command. We’ve made our first move in the Eastern War.”

“God be with him,” Hannah uttered as she looked over the report and silently reached for the small cross hung around her neck.

“Mars as well,” Lucius once more looked out over the city, “We have to put our faith in the Legatus to do what needs to be done. He’s the finest commander and tactician in the Legion. I, on the other hand, must look to our needs here. The NCR War needs to be put to rest once and for all, and there’s a great many other things I wish to plan for the Southwest that involve The Legion.”

“You speak as if you have something in mind already Lucius.” Hannah replied coyly.

“I do. I wish to invite a number of our neighbors to a meeting. Texas and what remains of the NCR leadership, The Brotherhood chapters, House as well...do you think it would be wise?”

“I think it's a fine idea. Opening The Legion to the world will provide it a path going forward. You’ve already taken many steps Sallow in his arrogance would never have considered. This is yet another my love.”

Lucius smiled and touched her cheek, “I’m glad you approve. I know of no one better to help me ensure its success.”

---

Letter to all Delegates of the Southwest Conference:

I, Caesar Lucius, Imperator of The Legion invite you to a meeting of delegates in the Legion’s capital of Santa Fe to determine the future of the West Coast and of our respective nations. Safe passage is guaranteed throughout Legion territory to all those that bear Caesar's mark.

Dark Matters (Open)

Sanctuary Antechamber - ECS Righteous Truth - 1st Fleet of Faithful Intent, Edge of Ecumene Space

“To care for oneself is to eventually, inevitably, care for others. Our natural aim and our greater purpose are one in the same, to bring about prosperity for our species. The Empire was misguided as you say, and perhaps doomed because of it, but even it had that goal in mind. Ressurectionism, and many other ideologies besides, posit a great many things, but ultimately they suggest solutions to the problems which weigh us down and hold us back from attaining the utopia we have dreamed of for as long as we have existed.”

“But, I must imagine you have your own opinion as to that question?”

“Prosperity you say?” Raynald replied with an approving nod, “A fair answer. After all, what point is there for humans to merely exist in this universe? Should we not thrive as well? But I would perhaps extend that question a bit further, is prosperity alone reason enough for our existence?”

Raynald leaned back and briefly gazed upward, towards an elaborate mural on the ceiling which showed a visual depiction of the galaxy and all its vastness,

“I would submit different answer. Prosperity for humanity is only one goal to achieve an ultimate purpose. Humanity’s destiny, I believe, is not only to thrive in this universe, but to shape and guide it. Perhaps our destiny, our purpose, is to be described as gardeners. Tending to the galaxy and even beyond as one would tend to a plot. Prune what is unnecessary and that threatens the plot, but allowing what makes it beautiful to grow and thrive. That, I believe is our true destiny, not only to dominate the universe, but to shepard it. That is what it means to truly attain Orion’s Mantle.”

The high priest gave a subdued chuckle, and waved his hand dismissively,

“I know, a High Priest speaking of religion when answering a philosophical question. What an utterly predictable response. I know, too, that Resurrectionism does not share our belief in Holy Orion. However, I would simply say that one need not believe in Orion’s existence to see the value in his teachings. To believe in Orion, is simply to believe in the great value of the human spirit itself, beyond that of any other species. A Kineticist might try to argue that it is the ‘Spiritus’ or some other such divine energy that permeates the universe and gives it drive and purpose. Rubbish. There is no such thing. Orion was a mortal man, a mortal man who achieved divinity. The only divine will that acts on our universe is that which comes from Orion. And as heirs to Orion’s Mantle, it is our duty to see his will enacted on the universe and by doing so follow in his footsteps towards ascension. That, I believe, is humanity’s true destiny.”

Raynald gave a sigh, and a final word malice-laden word,

“And we won’t achieve that by kowtowing to Aliens or abiding corrupt governments which seek to aid them against humanity. Would you not agree ambassador?”

After a few moments, the Admiral stood up and offered his hand to the Ambassador,

“I think perhaps that is enough philosophy for one day. We don’t wish to exhaust you with such things before you’ve even had a chance to speak to The Conclave.”

“Indeed, forgive an old man his ramblings,” Raynald said as he likewise offered his hand, “I merely hoped to pass the time, and it seems I was successful in that.” He turned towards the double doors leading to the Sanctuary Chamber, which had now begun to open.

“Please, Ambassador, you are welcome inside. This is where we part for the time. As I said, your business inside is between you and The Conclave.”

The doors beckoned the Ambassador within, and closed firmly shut once he’d entered leaving the Admiral and the High Priest behind in the antechamber. The great circular sanctuary chamber was empty and devoid of furniture. The only visible feature being that of a raise dais at its center, illuminated by a single light emitted from the domed ceiling above. As he stepped forward, seven figures appeared in hologram around the dais and greeted him there,

“Greetings ambassador”, a central figure welcomed him warming. The image that of the Archpriestess Vayla Dreethen herself, “We have much to discuss I hope. I do not wish to waste your time further by waxing poetic or standing on elaborate ceremony. Your superiors sent you here to treat with us on our invitation with the understanding that we might both stand to gain from it. I will speak to the point then, The Ecumene of Holy Orion seeks to extricate ourselves from the corruption that is The Coalition and to reclaim the systems they control for the rightful heirs of Orion."

While the rest of the Conclave remained silent, their agreement to this statement seemed beyond question. The Archpriestess was no doubt speaking from authority for the Conclave entirely. She continued,

"To do so, we need allies. Those that are willing to do what needs to be done to ensure humanity’s ascendance. I despise the notion of playing both sides of this conflict or supporting the vile creatures that Orion himself once waged righteous war against. To support them against fellow humans is abominable. However, as the Resurrection currently is, we cannot allow them to threaten The Ecumene itself. I know what your members within the Ideological Council speak of us, whilst the Military Council would seek to supplant us in due time. It is then to the Economic Council that I appeal. If we might secure a firm and lasting alliance with your superiors, then I see no need to even consider support to the Scorpines. In fact, I would go so far as to say then that the final destruction of the Scorpines would be greatly in The Ecumene’s benefit, and indeed, eminently desirable. I trust that the carrier fleet to which you were offered safe passage to will speak to that desire...”

War Never Changes

Legate’s Camp, Road to Indianapolis

Thousands of crimson cloth tents stretched across the encampment where Legatus Aurelius had ordered his forces to halt for the day’s march. Such was the Legion’s drilled discipline, that even after a full day’s hard march, they were still fit and able to setup a fortified encampment in less than a few hours. Now, by late evening the camp was dotted with innumerable cooking fires while food was prepared. Each conturbinum was responsible for their own food preparation when the Legion was on the move like this and every Legionary received an equal share of rations which included a hearty portion of grains and meats. Great numbers of slaves busied themselves tending to the pack brahmin, distributing supplies, or fetching water while the Legionaries ate, rested, and regained their strength for the next day’s coming march. Some of the Legionary Veterans and Primes, their experience telling them to always think ahead to the battle to come, sharpened machete blades, cleaned their guns, prepared healing poultices, or sparred with one another in preparation for the fight that they were all heading towards sooner or later. The constant sounds of blacksmith hammers falling against anvils that reverberated around the camp as weapons and armor were being made and repaired were a stark reminder of that fact.

The Legate himself, however, had other considerations on his mind. Inside his large tent at the center of the camp, Aurelius stood with his most senior centurion officers watching a curious scene unfolding before them. A young woman garbed in a bright red robe stood with her arms raised, a sharpened knife held aloft in her right hand. Before her was a brahmin bull, painted decoratively with strange symbols and held in place firmly by two strong Legionaries. The woman rhythmically chanted some strange prayer in the language of the Legion, while sweet smelling incense was burned by two female slaves seated at her feet,

“Father Mars, hear our prayers,” The Priestess chanted, “Accept this sacrifice and give us a sign of your favor.”

At this final utterance, she lowered the blade and drew it swiftly and cleanly across the bull’s neck. Blood gushed from the beast like a torrent, washing over her arms and hands, but she paid it no mind. The bull gave one final brief thrash of life before it collapsed on the ground. The Priestess immediately set to work, cutting the creature open and disemboweling it and further adding to the gore already covering her arms and legs.

As the Legate and his officers looked on with apprehension, she wretched forth the creature’s liver, and one of the slaves quickly brought over a large tray for her to sit it on. With a practiced hand, the Priestess began to studying it carefully, lifting it gently and observing each minute part of the organ like it was a rare book or artifact. After some time, Aurelius finally spoke,

“What of the omens? Are they good or ill? Does Mars favor us?”

The Priestess of Mars stood, turning to face the Legatus confidently and folding her bloodied hands before her,

“Aye Legatus, the omens are good. Mars looks down on you with pride and blesses your warriors. So longs as Caesar’s banner remains raised on the field, you shall find victory.”

The audible sounds of relief came from the Legate and the centurions.

“Welcome news indeed, and what of this demon-god? Ug-Qualtoth? What defense can Mars offer against such an abomination?”

The Priestesses eyes darkened and she lowered her head mournfully, “Sadly Legatus, this is where I can give you no aid. Mars has shown me nothing of this demon. Long have I tried to read the signs for some understanding of what you go to face, but all I see is tendril shadows that obscure my vision. I fear this demon’s power is great indeed.”

“I see...and you say that as long as Caesar’s banner remains raised, the Legion will find victory. What befalls us should the opposite hold true?”

The Priestess bowed deeply as if in mourning, “As the standard falls, so falls the Legion.”

Her ominous statement was met with murmurs from the Centurions, before the swiftly raised hand of the Legatus silenced them immediately,

“So then, we shall simply not allow that to happen. We will be as Mar’s scythe and cut through the demonic shadow that seeks to choke out our triumph. Or shall we let The Brotherhood stand alone against this hellish foe?”

“And shame the Legion forever? Never Legatus!” Answered one of the Centurions.

“Good. Then we march to Indianapolis, and to battle. Heedless of whatever fate may befall us. You may leave us now,” He said motioning to the Priestess, “We must make our preparations.”

“As you wish Legatus,” the Priestess nodded. She then turned to the two slave girls and snapped her fingers impatiently, “Go. Fetch some water so that I may bathe.”

The slaves collected the still burning incense and scurried out of the tent, followed by the Priestess. The Legatus then turned to a hand-drawn map of the region that had been pinned to a large board behind them,

“The bulk of the Legion’s forces will continue the march to the city. However Severus,” He pointed to one of his Senior Centurions, “You will take two cohorts from the second Legion and head north to push with The Brotherhood’s troops in Detroit. A force of Great Khan riders will meet you on the road and will join you in your fight. They are good fighters, do not waste them needlessly.”

“Yes Legatus.”

“Once we arrive at Indianapolis, we’ll immediately engage the cult’s forces there and help break the siege. Once we’re through, we’ll continue our drive east. When we learn more from Vulpes’ frumentarii about the size and strength of our enemy, we’ll adjust our battle plans accordingly. Any questions? Good. Dismissed. Prepare your men for the long road ahead. Each Legionary must reach the city well rested and with the strength to fight.”

Dark Matters (Open)

Bridge of ECS Righteous Truth - 1st Fleet of Faithful Intent, Edge of Ecumene Space

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

“Admiral, a single fighter has entered the Fleet’s defensive perimeter.”

Talaran walked up to the screen, and watched the tiny incoming blip on the bridge officer’s monitor as it drew closer.

“Is that our guest?”

There was silence for a few seconds as the officer verified the incoming data, before he turned to look back at the Admiral with a affirming nod.

“Confirmed. It’s a Resurrectionist craft, and its transmitting the encoded greeting specified in our message.”

“Very well. Escort the craft to Hanger 43B. I’ll greet the ambassador myself.”

“Yes sir.”

As Talaran walked off the bridge, the bridge officer began hailing the craft, and opened a direct communication line.

“Welcome to Ecumene 1st Carrier Fleet Faithful Intent, ambassador. Escort fighters will direct you to the waiting hanger onboard the Carrier Righteous Truth. The Lord Admiral is awaiting you.”

Within a short time, the promised fighter escort arrived and began to escort the craft towards the Fleet. Despite the immensity of the seven Heavy Carriers within the fleet, which dwarfed the great many smaller corvette class ships that swarmed around them, the carriers themselves seemed considerably smaller than the Flagship Carrier Righteous Truth that lay at the fleet’s center. As the pride of The Ecumene navy, it was a veritable mobile command platform and it was towards it that the fighters directed the Ambassador’s ship.

Once the craft had successfully docked within the appropriate hanger and the ambassador exited, a small group which had been awaiting his arrival stepped forward. The group consisted only of Talaran himself along with two Seraphim Honor Guards and the lone High Orionic Priest, Raynald. Although there was none of the fanfare or elaborate ceremony which might accompany an official state visit, the fact that this was anything but “official” necessitated the simplicity of the greeting.

They were all still quite elaborately dressed however. With the High Priest being considerably more so, garbed as he was in flowing red and white robes, decorative helm, and carrying a staff that was the symbol of his authority. Talaran was considerably more moderately dressed in martial aspect, with a long buttoned side cape atop a well pressed white naval uniform. The two Seraphim guards were dressed in full combat gear, and carried their railgun rifles slung around their shoulders.

“Welcome aboard the Righteous Truth ambassador. I am Admiral Talaran Victrix, commander of this Fleet and High Lord of The Ecumene Navy. The individual next to me is his holiness Raynald Dagenais, High Priest of Orion.”

“I’m glad to see our message came through,” the High Priest, Raynald gave a slight bow, his elaborate vestments flowing around him as he did so, “On behalf of Orion’s disciples and the Archpriestess, I welcome you as well. If you would be so kind as to follow us.”

Raynald led the way as the Admiral walked beside the ambassador and the two guards through the winding corridors of the massive ship. The High Priest’s staff resonated across the smooth floors and echoed around them as he struck the floor while he walked. After traveling for some time, the group came to a comfortable looking antechamber, well furnished, luxurious, and quite obviously for receiving guests and dignitaries.

“Wait outside,” Talaran commanded the guards, who nodded in reply and sharply spun around with martial flare to stand guard outside the sliding door. Talaran sat first in one of the cushioned sheets, followed by the High Priest.

“We can speak here for a time, afterwards you can proceed on into the sanctuary,” Raynald said, and he motioned towards a pair of large elaborately engraved doors on the opposite end of the room that bore artistic depictions of Orion’s legendary life, “What happens in there then is between you and The Conclave.”

As if on cue, an android servitor emerged from a sideroom, carry a tray of various fruits and candied delights to be offered to the waiting trio. Gently the tray was set before them, and Talaran plucked out a particularly delicious looking fruit. Raynald refrained, and waved his hand to indicate that he would not have any.

“Your war with the Scorpines, it’s become quite the talk of the Coalition membership. How do your people fare against those….threats?” Raynald asked, his voice tinged with unmistakable disgust as he said the word ‘Scorpine’ almost as if he was repulsed at having to pronounce it.

"We've heard scattered reports that you're mounting a successful counter-offensive. Although I imagine it may be some time before the Scorpines are broken completely," Talaran added, as he withdrew a small candied confection from the plate and popped it into his mouth, "We've received communications from various Scorpine military sources requesting to know why the Fleet is stationed so close to their territory. We've provided the same response each time: the Fleet of Faithful Intent is here to ensure that the war does not spill over into the Ecumene. Nothing more. A deterrent if you will. I'm not surprised they are uncomfortable however, considering the reputation of this fleet amongst non-human elements of the galaxy."

The servitor returned once more and brought a second tray, containing a varied number of liquid refreshments. Talaran gladly accepted one and took a sip of the blue tinged beverage: a type of fruited drink that was popular amongst the Ecumene's upper class.

"The Admiral had previously been assigned to the Cygnus V system," Raynald explained, "The fleet was deployed to crush the resistance against humanity there, and ensure it fell once again back into the rule of the heirs of Orion's Mantle. The treachery of the Alien can indeed be a devious prospect. Thankfully, the full firepower of the fleet's carriers made them see the error of their ways."

"A philosophical question Ambassador, if you would be so kind as to indulge me while we wait for your audience to begin," Raynald continued, "Where do you see the path of humanity's destiny leading? What is our purpose here now and throughout these long years of our existence? From the mists of our earliest days, through the misguided domination of the Empire, to now: where is our path taking us?"

Dark Matters (Open)

Ecumene of Holy Orion, Onboard ECS Righteous Truth , 1st Fleet of Faithful Intent - Edge of Ecumene Space

The Fleet of Faithful Intent came out of warp on the edge of the Scorpine's territory. As it entered back into real space, Admiral Talaran gave the command for the fleet to come to a full halt and hold its current position, as The Conclave had requested. His orders hadn't yet specified what exactly the Fleet's purpose here was other than that he knew that The Conclave was keeping the command close to the chest.

That being said, his orders had also included another directive, one which he knew that, while not the entire reason for the fleet's presence, would undoubtedly be part of it: the transmission of an encrypted message. Nobody but he and a few of his select officers, and The Conclave itself of course, knew its contents currently. But knowing what it contained, he could understand why the Conclave would choose to be secretive about this entire operation.

Admiral Talaran stepped out onto the bridge, only small number of bridge officers were present currently, the rest had been given leave for a time with the expectation that the fleet would be out of action for the moment. Of course, the only bridge officers remaining who those privy to transmission, albeit not to the contents itself. However, Talaran could trust them not to speak on its existence, or to whom the message was being directed.

"Everything is ready Admiral, long-range communication is open and encryption is complete. We're ready to begin the transmission at any time."

Talaran nodded, "Proceed."

"Yes sir."

With the press of a button, the message began its transmission. And Talaran sighed, both with apprehension, and with relief in knowing that for the time being it was out of his hands. He'd fulfilled The Conclave's request. Now all he needed to do was hold position and await a response.

"Let's hope we're being received well enough..."

The message was short, purposefully so, but the ambiguity was intended.

SJADKFJHKSHKFHHD82KK8828KHJHSU82392030SJFHJSF298
192349HGGYGH77868GGFTFTYG334FDRIGKGU87gGGKKKY562
-------------Begin Decryption-------------------
-------------Decryption Complete----------------
-------------Displaying Message-----------------
Leadership of [the Economic Council],
Most Holy Ecumene requesting [delegate], safe
conduct assured. [Transmitting coordinates].
231756..334234..342167..413434..562454..454625.3
[Message repeats]
------------------------------------------------
------------------------------------------------

"Transmission complete sir," The bridge officer replied.

"Open a channel to Orion Prime, contact the Archpriestess and inform her that we're awaiting response. If any Scorpine attempt to hail the fleet, provide the prearranged response, and warn that any encroachment on Ecumene territory is grounds for a declaration of war. Fire a warning shot if they become belligerent." Talaran replied swiftly, "That is the order given to me by the Conclave. I have nothing more than that for now."

"By your command Admiral."

War Never Changes

Mags and William Black, Logan Airport Terminal, Boston

“What exactly are we doing in here Mags?” The ire coming from Mag’s brother, William, was clear as he carefully stepped around a broken piece of fallen masonry that had collapse out onto the hallway they were traveling through.

“You damn well know why William.”

“I know 'why', what I want to know is your reasoning. You accepted some strangers invitation that took us halfway across The Commonwealth on a lark? You know how this is going to look with the other bosses right? Fuck I don’t even want to think what Nisha might get up to with us gone.”

“Lizzie can handle our affairs back in Nuka World well enough. I have complete trust in her.” Mags replied, as she turned back to her brother, “As for my reasoning...the invitation was very persuasive. That’s all I’ll say.”

“Any idea what we might be up against at least?”

“No...but I have a hunch. And If I’m right, we’re either be dead or set for life.”

William scoffed but knew that further argument with his sister was pointless. She’d made up her mind. He looked back on the squad of Operator goons he had with him and motioned ahead to two of them, signalling that they should take point going forward.

As they continued walking down the darkened hallway of the old Logan airport terminal, William started to get more and more uneasy. Something about the location was getting to him.

“Gives me the fuckin’ creeps,” He said, as he stared into the darkness of a vacant room, “Didn’t this place used to be where those Brotherhood assholes holed up?”

“Used to be. You haven’t seen the tarmac yet have you?”

“No. Why?”

“Its a mess out there with the wreckage of their airship. And I don’t think it's a coincidence we were sent here of all places either. Its a message.”

“Message for wh---” William stopped mid-sentence and stared down the hallway, “Shit what was that? Did you hear that?”

The Operator group was immediately on guard at the sound of footsteps echoing around them: heavy footfalls of what sounded like armored boots. The steps grew louder until it felt like they were right on top of them.

Suddenly a blinding light shone right in their faces, several in fact, and the Operators found themselves staring down the barrels of a number of guns,

“Raider scum bags. Is this some kind of joke?” A gruff voice called out from beyond the row of lights, “Are you the ones who sent that message? I’ll give you thirty seconds to explain before we start blowing your heads off.

William’s eyes adjusted quickly and he realized that the lights were coming from headlamps, the source of which were a number of heavy combat helmets belonging to a squad of well armed, armored, and clearly pissed off, Gunners.

“I should ask you the same question. We received a message as well inviting us here. But if you received one as well I would assume that you aren’t our hosts.”

“More like your undertakers,” The lead Gunner sneered, “I’m Lieutenant Markus Kilhorn with the Gunners. Won’t bother with introductions beyond that because if you’re not the ones we’re meeting, then we’ll just be shooting you,” he said flatly, “Have a nice day.”

“Idiot. If someone sent the message to both of us, do you really think they want us to blow each other away in this fucking hallway? Obviously they have something planned.” Mags snapped back.

“Well if I don’t get an explanation in the next minute, I’m going to assume this is a trap. So someone, somewhere, better tell me just what the hell is going on here!”

“Hello.”

The sudden unexpected voice caused both the Operator and Gunner teams to immediately turn to the direction of the sound. Standing before them was a metal skeleton.

“Jesus fucking christ. What the hell?” The Lieutenant yelled, “Where did this thing come from?”

Mags and William both had the same question, wondering if perhaps the thing had been following them this entire time, or had just stepped out of the shadows.

“Welcome. We’re glad that you both decided to travel the long distance to Logan Airport. We can assure you that you will not be dissapointed. On behalf of The Institute, I thank you. If you would please follow me now.”

Both the Gunners and the Operators turned pale at the mention, Mags was the only one who seemed satisfied with herself,

“The Institute? What the hell?” One of the gunners said aloud.

“The fucking boogeymen?”

“I think we should follow it,” Mags pointed as the Synth began to walk away down the hallway, “We came this far. Might as well see what they have to say.”

Hesitantly, both the Gunners and Operators followed the Synth, more out of curiosity than anything. A short distance down the dark hallway and the Synth stopped sharply before a metal door,

“Please enter. Before you do however, I must ask that you disarm and leave your weapons behind.”

“We’ll comply,” Mags gave her brother a stern gaze, knowing full well he’d be the one to object. William sighed heavily but signaled his agreement with a nod of his head.

“Like hell we will. Fuck that.” Kilhorn raged, “I’m not giving you jack squat.”

“Please do not argue. This is for everyone’s safety. Your weapons will be returned to you after the meeting is concluded.” The Synth replied in its emotionless mechanical voice.

“And I say again, fuck that.”

“Drop your weapons. Now.”

A far more stern voice answered the Gunner Lieutenant this time, and Kilhorn found himself staring at an Institute laser pistol pointed in his face. A Courser was standing before him, and several more suddenly appeared as they deactivated their stealth fields. The Gunners raised their hands in surrender.

“Fine. We’ll play along, but I warn you if this is a trap…”

“You’ll do what exactly, surface-dweller?”

Kilhorn grimaced but said nothing.

“Thank you, you may proceed,” The Synth then opened the door and welcomed the two groups inside. To the shock of everyone, the room was well-lit, moderately well furnished, and had a table and a number of chairs on either side. More shockingly, however, was the fact that a ghoul in a suit sat at the head of the table. A glass of some sort of alcohol clutched in one hand and a smoke in the other.

“Took you lot long enough. I was beginning to think you’d stood me up.” The ghoul quipped.

“I didn’t realize The Institute employed ghouls…” Mags replied as she took a seat at the table, the others, following her lead, sat down as well.

“I’m a bit of an exception. Names Desmond Lockheart. Former MI6 operative for His Majesty's government, now I’m working with Institute SRB. Bit a favor for an old pal of mine. Don’t expect any of you to really understand what all that means, but all you need to know is that I’m the one you’ll be going through for any communication with The Institute from here on out. Before we get started, anyone want something to drink? Have the tin-can over there bring it to you if you want something. No? Good then lets get started.”

“Just why did The Institute contact us of all things. That’s what I would like to know,” Lieutenant Kilhorn said.

“To offer you both a contract. Simple as that. The Institute needs some extra muscle on the surface. Lot of bad things going on above ground that they’re keen on working with some of the stronger elements of The Commonwealth. You Gunners, from what I understand, are probably the most well organized merc group on the eastern seaboard. Might be even better than Talon Co. The Operators on the other hand caught their attention for capturing and holding Nuka World. Got a good strong position there.”

“Not as strong as we’d like, personally, the Operators are only one of three gangs controlling the park in any case. So I’d like to inquire why the Pack and The Disciples were not invited as well.” Mags stated.

“Because you were the only ones worth working with, frankly speaking, and seemed at least moderately civilized. The Institute felt they could at least work with you on fair terms.”

“So you’re cutting the other gangs out? That won’t go over well you know.”

“Not so much cutting them out, as eliminating them entirely love.” Desmond smiled.

“Pardon?”

“The Institute will soon be imposing more stricter control over The Commonwealth itself. Nuka World included. Raiders like the Disciples and The Pack will soon be a thing of the past. You can either be a part of that future, or you can be eliminated with them. But you understood that when you came to this meeting, right?”

Mags couldn’t help but give a smile, “Hmm. Perhaps I did.”

“So that’s your plan Mags? Throw in with The Institute and take control of Nuka World ourselves?” William interrupted.

“Do you have an issue with that dear brother?”

William was silent for a few moments, before he gave his reply, “Nisha is mine. That murderous bitch has killed one too many Operators and thought she could get away with it.”

“Whatever you like. Not like I or The Director give two shits how you handle your little tribal tiff. So long as you lot keep yourselves in check. A Courser team will back you up during the coup. Should be more than enough. Afterwards you can expand your gang and take over the entire park if you wish. Oh, aside from a few areas that The Institute has identified as points of interest. Nothing to concern yourself over, the rest will be yours to play around in to your heart's content.”

“A fair offer, and I suppose we don’t have much choice either way.”

“No you don’t. As for you,” Desmond pointed to the Gunner team, “You can tell your Captain back at Gunner HQ that he answers to me now. You’ve been running around here like hooligans for too long. You’ve got the discipline and trappings of a military, I’ll give you that, but no organization and no focus. That changes.”

“Or we can fight you, how about that? The Gunners have more than enough firepower to give The Institute a run for their money,” Lt. Kilhorn replied.

“Do they? The last group that thought that was called The Brotherhood of fuckin’ Steel. They flew in a giant armored airship, a fleet of vertibirds, and a entire goddamn army of Power Armored soldiers. If you want to go see the results of that expedition, hang a left out onto the tarmac when you leave.”

“The Captain will never agree to it. I guarantee you that.”

“Oh I think he will. If I recall, he was there when a single Courser blew through an entire company of Gunners without hardly breaking a sweat. Greentech Genetics? Right? He knows better than most that you’ve got two choices, either you can work with us and you’ll never need another contract again, or don’t, and The Institute will eliminate you with extreme fuckin’ prejudice.”

“Say we agree to these terms, both of us, what exactly do they need us to do?” Mags asked.

“The Institute might require some non-Institute elements to assist us in the future. People they can rely on that aren’t Synths. You’ll be that element, and you’ll support The Institute’s efforts to take full control of The Commonwealth. I don’t think I need to explain to you why doing so will be much more beneficial and lucrative for both of you in the long run.”

“But why now? What prompted this.”

Desmond sat back in his chair, taking a few puffs on his cigarette, “Lets just say the world’s a much bigger place than The Institute thought. And that there are some nasty oddball factions out there. Nasty oddballs with goddamn battalions of troops at their command. Ever heard of The Legion? The NCR? The Midwestern Brotherhood? The Free Commonwealth? The Cult? Neither had I. But they’re carving up the continent like a carrot cake.”

“So we’re the muscle to The Institute’s brain, is that it?” William smirked.

“No, those blokes in the black armored coats holding the fucking energy rifles are the muscle,” Desmond pointed to the Coursers standing guard, “You’re more like the appendix. Not worth the trouble of removing if you can help it, and might still serve a purpose if its cooperative. Understand?”

“Hmm…..understood.”