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The ex-tribal woman sternly glared across the endless horizon in front of her. There was something about the ocean that just felt… off to her. Not in the sense that there was something afoul, but more like, the metaphysical concept of the ocean, in itself, did not gel with Akane. As a native of Utah, the woman with braided hair was used to rugged terrain. Sometimes, the land was verdant and green, like it was in Zion. Sometimes, it was dotted with white powdered salt, like back home in what the settlers called Bonneville. And, unfortunately, many times it was a dead brownish orange, where no life called home but pissed off angry deathclaws. But regardless of the color of the ground, or who called it home, one thing was always certain: she could see the mountains, sticking out from the earth like distant skyscrapers. Even if the area itself was flat– which excepting the stretch of land between Utah and New California (Nevada, they call it?) it almost never was– she could at least rest with the comfort that the mountains were at least somewhere nearby.
But on this damn ship? There are no mountains. There are no cliffs, no mesas, no sign of any elevation changes whatsoever. Everything is flat, and there was something about the sheer flatness of it all that unnerved her. It felt fake and artificial. Like the pre-war roads that scar and disfigure the countryside, but stretched out to cover the entire plane. The Earth was not meant to be this flat! This is wrong! Not only that, but being stuck on this damn boat has caused the unnatural abyss of the sea to stare right back at her. Its unflinching, unchanging flatness mocked her, taunting her that despite her preconceptions of the natural world, there are mysteries that are far beyond her comprehension. For a woman that prided herself on how she was one of the few that attempted to live with, and not above, the natural world, realising that she was out of her depth in the ocean filled her with dread.
Not wishing to dwell on the pit of existential horror slowly filling her gut, the ex-tribal woman allowed her mind to wander to the world within the ship. The murmur of the crowd may have been a good way to deflect from the feeling of inadequacy that was seeping inside her, but it also only reminded her of how much she hated people. Or more specifically, how much she hated settlers. Their inane, vapid yapping only betrayed how empty and meaningless their lives were. No one here on the decks ever had to live like her, living in the fucking woods for twenty odd years, hunting geckos and slumming it in caves. They were too busy investing in brahmin herds or water claims and passing around little trinkets from the old world as if they had any meaning of value attached to them.
And don't get her started on the inane banter that was coming behind her, where some man was desperately trying to shove his mic into peoples' faces and acting like any of their wretched lives were any and all interesting. What kind of man loses their partner to a fucking protectron? That's not even a real person! It was a profane abomination from before the bombs dropped! Yet you're telling her that someone sincerely could not compare emotionally or sexually to some metallic husk? Are Californians really this weak? How the hell did Caesar not wipe the floor with them all those years ago?
It's not like the other answers were particularly inspiring to the ex-tribal either. Most of them, while perhaps not as outrageous as the robosexual wife, still revealed a materialism that frustrated the woman. They talked about these islands, some of the last genuine frontierland still left in the world, as simply a place for vacationing! Like sure, maybe if you spent your entire life underground in a bunker like the man in the audacious jumpsuit did, maybe you really do need a change of scenery. But gods above, the Aloha Islands are not meant to be a place one simply kicks back and relax. It's a land of danger and excitement! Act like you're moving to the edge of society, not just having a fun little romp in the Shady Sands park!
And then don't get the ex-tribal woman started on the woman with the strange accent. Looked like she hasn't worked a day in her life, and yet she's out there blabbering about how amazing it is that she gets to be one of the first people to meet outsiders, like if this was just some kind of game. A group of hardy survivors managed to survive isolated from the rest of America, but the ex-tribal didn't get the vibe that they even register to the woman other than existing as an attraction to her. And she wants more people to come over? So they can turn the Aloha Islands into New New California?
But the most annoying one was, by the far, the ambassador. Gods, the answer that the woman in the suit gave crawled under the ex-tribal's skin. The overly flowery language, the smug cadence of her tone, and the ultimate emptiness of the words, all of it rubbed her the wrong way. It was, to the woman, as if the representative was talking down to the people of the Aloha Islands. While the ambassador might purport to be looking for some kind of relationship between Californians and the islanders, the woman knew anyone who talked like that didn't truly respect the people they were communicating about. It was the language of settlers, of colonizers, who paternalistically viewed the "tribals" as just an impediment to conquer.
At least the dude that was there to deliver a package seemed solid. Can't judge someone who's just trying to do a job-
The ex-tribal's train of thought was shattered as she felt the microphone being shoved right into her face. The man started to blabber about some TV network that the woman never watched, representing a country she never identified with, and trying to get her to divulge her thoughts.
"You wouldn't care," the woman bitterly groaned, wishing to have no part in this charade.
The reporter refused to budge. "Ma'am, it is my job to care. You're part of the first clade to visit Hawaii from the mainland in hundreds of years! Surely, you have a reason to pay the hefty amount of caps to board the Green Horizon?"
"To get away from California," the ex-tribal's voice dripped with venom, "to get away from you and your precious viewers."
Seemingly unperturbed by the woman's hostility, or simply that desperate to build up a story, the reporter soldiered on. "Are you implying that this move is going to be more permanent for you, then?"
"Gods, Are you- Yes." The woman truly couldn't believe the reporter was this dense. Just leave her the fuck alone!
"But why, ma'am?" The reporter seemed genuinely fascinated by the ex-tribal's answers. Or at the very least, thought this was good for ratings. "What does the Aloha Islands have that New California doesn't?"
A bitter sigh comes out of the woman. This man simply wasn't going to leave her alone; he really was persistent to get some kind of soundbite out of her. Her mind flashes back to the ambassador, and her fists clenched. Well, if he wants a soundbite, then the tribal woman could easily oblige.
"New California has nothing. No history beyond aping the ghosts of the pasts, no present other than stagnation, and no future other than returning to the dust that it was built on. Your perverted lust to emulate Old America when it was rightfully driven extinct will be your downfall. Just like the Mormons. And the Enclave. And everyone else obsessed with the ghosts of the past.
The only people who will survive are the people who can recognize that the Old World is dead, and that its relics should be shunned, if not outright destroyed. The Earth will not heal until we accept our place within the wasteland, rather than pretending that we are above it. Otherwise… the Earth doesn't care if humans survive. Just that it does."
Not caring for any followup questions, the ex-tribal woman pushed the reporter's arm away and started to sulk inside the crowd. She's not sure how many people are lost inside their own world, and paid attention to her outburst. So what if they did? Maybe these decadent farts will have to confront the contradiction inherent in Californian society. That their so-called civilization is the reason why no one in the west coast are truly allowed to rebuild, not so long as they continue to grasp at the last remaining ghosts of the old world.
The sea was…wonderful. Perhaps some of its lustre may have waned in the days since leaving the shores of California, Helene wouldn’t lie. But as she walked along the decks, sipping her chilled sunset sarsaparilla, she gazed out onto the blue-green waters of the Pacific. The scent of salt invaded her lips, the stench of sweaty cruise guests and the sound of a woman vomiting her innards over the edge-
-okay, it was no New Reno nor New Vegas. But it was new. Helene Liu had spent her life surrounded by the dirt and concrete of Shady Sands, or the dry sands of the Mojave. Large bodies of water? When she looked down a well. God, Lake Mead genuinely shocked her when she saw it in her private days. She still has the sight flashing in her eyes, even more than Hoover Dam. Just…more water than anyone knew what to do with. Water that could power a damn city.
And here was more water than her tiny mind could comprehend. The ocean from the pirate comics she scrounged, the sea from the rotting geography books she used to dive into, mouth agape. It remains to be seen if she'll return to this wonder of the planet, but she has no regrets taking this plunge.
She checks her bags. It jiggles softly. Too softly, Helene pouts and bites her lip. Okay, one regret. Who knew several years of saving would burn up in just a few days? If every future customer was sucked dry like this, these cruise ship operators could tussle with the Brahmin Barons. Bloody barons. She won’t miss them. Should have forced them to tour the entrance to the Long 95. Seen all the refugees and stragglers pouring in. Maybe seen her-
Oh, her bottle is empty.
Her lil’ Eyebot beeps and boops to her left, grabbing her attention. Helene looks up, seeing an interview with an NCR official wrapping up. She manages to catch it; promises of better relations with the Hawaiians. Helene manages to smile a bit. If California had made more friends than enemies, maybe her country wouldn’t be flowing down the drain like it is.
“Better late than never, Botty?” Helene talks to her Eyebot. It does not respond back.
Helene throws her bottle away in a dustbin, a dustbin already overflowing with other bottles, food waste and…um…excrements that she would much rather not repeat. Hey, if this member of the Press is taking interviews, why not? She does look down at her singlet and feels her slightly frazzled hair. Is she even presentable? Eh, good enough.
But instead of a willing and able interviewer, she finds the reporter being subjected to what seems to be a rant. A rant from a...rather fierce woman with a chip on her shoulder. Probably just some entitled cruise passenger ranting about the service?
But then she pays attention, and her blood runs cold.
She hears the woman tearing into everything. Everything Helene cares for. California, the Old World, the values she holds dear to. The Old World was a place of wonders beyond one’s imagination. Where has she been, what has she done, that makes her scorn it? It’s insanity. Her black hole begins to form in her heart. This isn’t the usual complaining, the usual ramble. It almost sounds like a manifesto, and she can’t look away. Especially because the woman’s final comments confirm that this wasn’t just an elaborate ploy to get the crew to pull a Khans and get the hell out. It was a deep, true belief, born from some esoteric-ass defence of mother earth. Did she like…worship the planet itself or something? Not much to worship but sand, dust and ash.
Helene sees the woman barge past the reporter, straight through the crowd and…oh God. Almost next to her. Helene sees the woman stand still and sulk, within spitting distance of her. A huge blush forms on Helene's face, her fingers fidding and twirling around each other. Oh. She’s been through the Mojave and back. Was she actually going to feel intimidated by this lone woman?
Yes she was, apparently. The years away from the army softened her backside, it seems. Helene’s eyebot just stares at the angry, sulking woman, silently.
“So…um, not enjoying the cruise, Miss?” Helene mutters to the woman. Maybe a short chat might defuse her?
The previously ranting woman looked somewhat shocked as one of the other passengers almost immediately hit her up as soon as she distanced away from the forced interview. Was it another reporter? Gods, she hopes not. But judging from the way the interloper is dressed. with a dirty tanktop and pants to match, she's not getting the vibe that the woman is from any competing television network or newspaper. If anything, she looked more like she could have been the mechanic for this ship. But if she was an employee, she wouldn't be talking to her, right?
The woman pensively sighed. She'd rather not get into the topic of the rant, if she could be blunt. But it still remains that there was a previous thought on her mind. "It's too flat. We're not meant to be on the water. This isn't natural."
Too flat? Must be someone inland, away from the heart of the Republic. Rural types. Maybe even Nevada? Utah? No, that’s silly. Too remote.
“It’s certainly a sight to behold. Don’t think I’ve seen land this flat besides the Mojave. But hey, that’s why we have this boat, right? Doubt I could swim…though-” Helene takes at the woman’s…dear God, surprisingly muscular frame. Bet she could crush a rock with that arm.
“-bet you can, phew. You work as a bodyguard?”
The Mojave? The ex-tribal couldn't say she was ever there. Zion was the closest she ever got, and in a way she did play her role in the drama over the Dam by fighting for the losing side in the Battle of Zion. But that felt like a lifetime ago at this point. The entire area, from what she heard, is unrecognizable now that the NCR's gone and the Legion was annihilated. Now it rests as yet another relic of the Old World, defiantly taunting its sinful existence across the desert. A place with the veneer of luxury, but moreso a place of squalor and misery. A somewhat classier Reno.
"Sometimes," the woman gruffly responded, "Not my preferred job though. I don't like being tied down in one place or person for too long. Rather just do something and get out."
She’s still a bit gruff, but surprisingly the woman has not torn out Helene’s windpipe yet. Regardless, her response was hardly surprising. Did not take her as the type to settle down. Felt like no location in the wasteland truly fit what she wanted in her fever-dream of a screed.
“Bit a drifter, then? No worries, um, not judging. Kinda floated around the valley and a bit beyond for the past few years myself. Digging through old world stuff for scrap. It’s how I afforded this cruise. Wanna see what loot these isles have.”
The woman blinked incredulously at the Californian, her face clearly unamused at the response. Did she… did she say that she unironically wanted to loot the place? Gods, she thought the ambassador was emblematic of a sneering imperialist. But this woman just went completely mask off and declared her intention to forcefully steal anything that presumably wasn't nailed down.
"You Californians are all the same. Think anything and everything just belongs to you for the taking. There are people who live on those islands, and I don't think they'd appreciate you barging in and stealing all of their shit."
Helene just looks back at the woman, eyes wide, blood frozen.
This is it, this is how she dies. Shanked by a crazed Idahoan or something with a hatred of anything decent. Yet, yet as she took a step back, some of her words did not register as…they did not…wait. Helene takes a breath-
“I…there were so many locations at the edges of California. Just like…huge ruins. Filled with books, technology, even food. A mountain of old world belongings. No one came for them. 200 years. 200 years and not once did anyone come to claim anything. I just…took the books, took some of the canned food. Sold the stuff I could not use. Everywhere I went; the Mojave, the edges of California, Nevada, Idaho…all the same. People left all these wonders to rot-”
Suddenly, her blood started flowing again. Helene did not understand how, or why, but she did not feel like running. No, she felt something within her bubbling up.
“-I’ll have you know I’ll be damned glad if there’s nothing to loot in Hawaii, madam! Means the people there actually respect things other than letting wonders rot. All the NCR’s good for these days, letting all the good things collect dust-”
Helene almost sounds fiery at points, but when she mentions her country, she swiftly deflates. She looks away from the angry woman, hand grasping her other.
The Utahn's eyes glaze back to the abyss of the ocean, her head shaking in frustration to what Helene had to say. They don't get it. None of the settlers will ever get it. People don't rob graves for a reason. Even if the old world wasn't evil, do they not have respect for the dead? Any sanctity to those who came before them? No, they're too self-centered, focused merely on themselves and their own base needs. There was a reason why, for example, all the tribes in Zion felt the old world buildings were taboo. Despite not even really knowing the Dead Horses or the Sorrows before arriving in the valley, they had similar conceptualizations that you don't touch the ghosts of the past. Just like how you wouldn't dig up a grave to steal the belongings they were buried with, even if, truthfully, the dead guy will never use it. It's just wrong.
"Have you ever thought no one came for them for a reason? Hidden in those precious 'mountains' is the legacy of a vain, decadent society that allowed itself to destroy the world, lest it had to share it with someone they didn't like. They tried to play god, elevating themselves to be above the planet they lived on, and not caring about the consequences of their actions. Their 'wonders' scarred the Earth, destroying and reshaping the planet to fit their selfish needs. Not even just the bombs, mind you. Everything. We see their cancerous scars on every stripped mountaintop, in every clear cut forest, and those disgusting grey metal behemoths that scratch the sky.
To accept their goods is to accept their mentality, their way of life, is of anything to be valued. It isn't. Far from being quote unquote 'looted', those relics need to be destroyed. Torn down, smashed to pieces, and its remnants left to be reclaimed by Earth. Only then, she will be able to heal. We can heal, and be part of the world we were once born in…"
Akane continued to stare into the sea, not even looking at Helene as she lays out her manifesto. In the end, this abyss, this unnatural flatness that the ex-tribal woman hated… it would exist far beyond the measly few years either woman would live on this earth. It didn't care about what happened to either of them on this day, or any day for that matter. It didn't care that the ex-tribal thought it was unsettling, for that matter. It just is, and the woman, as much as it unnerved her, was forced to accept it. Only time will tell if the rest of humanity will follow suit in accepting their place on Earth.
…Madness. Madness is what it is. That’s what raced through Helene’s mind at first. The ramblings of cults that tended to spring up wherever she went. Either decrying the old world as this boogeyman, or worshipping elements of it like they were living gods. So few people took the old world as what it was; the battered remains of a better world. A better world that blew their chance-
-but at that last thought did latch onto her mind like a parasite. This woman was so, so close to making some sense. She was just blaming the technology like they were the ones that pushed that final button. Instead, she was right in another way; the world was scarred, before and after. She had seen the quarries, the mines. The cities rising out of dry land that was barely livable. She had read the tattered science magazines, and the underground prints. All of them warned about the same thing.
“Some of the people back then tried to warn about what was gonna happen, you know? Consuming too much, using too much of the soil and the riches of the world. Then they blew themselves up. People back then had made wonders, just didn’t know how to use it. Wasted it. Now it just lies there, collecting dust. There’s no evil in an old toaster or eyebot like my buddy here. Just…stupidity. Stupid people. Turns out there’s a renewable supply back in California. Now there’s your boogeyman Miss…whoever you are-”
Likewise, to the Utahn, Helene was so close to the opposite breakthrough. Yes, it is conceivable that there were perhaps some Old Americans who were more cognisant to the fact that they were destroying themselves in a suicide pact known as modernity. But importantly, they still went through with it! Even knowing that the life they chose was unsustainable, that they were on the precipice of annihilation if they continued to demand the entire world, still ultimately chose comfort and luxury in the end. There was no possible happy ending to that story. The fact they lived in this cursed reality is proof enough.
"There is no other way to use that kind of technology. What you call people's stupidity, is actually just the logical conclusion of viewing oneself as a god above Earth. Once you accept the luxuries of modernity, that you are no longer part of a delicate ecosystem… it is hard to go back to that life. No one will want to hunt geckos when you can just pay people to do the hunting for you. Moreso than that, but then the quest to support that life will lead you to direct conflict to those who reject that life. Everything becomes a product to consume, and a competition to consume it. There's no room for those who don't want to play that game."
The woman's eyes drop as she says that. She can speak from experience there. The White Legs and New Canaan could never peacefully co-exist. The Mormons kept encroaching on their lands, cordoning off more and more of their hunting grounds so they can raise brahmin and grow crops. In turn, to secure more areas to gather game and scavenge for fruits, the White Legs would have to run out the Mormons from the Salt Lake Valley. Even discounting the intense theological and ideological differences between the two groups, they were doomed to their cycle of violence. And even if the White Legs weren't wiped out, eventually the same issues would have come with New California, as it slowly crept its way eastwards.
"...as for my name…"
The woman pauses, as if she is unsure what name to give.
"Last name I went by is Akane. So for now… Akane."
“Helene…Helene Liu. You are…you’re actually very well spoken. Even if I have to disagree with you, fundamentally. Just, remember that for every asshole who just eats and gambles away everything, there’s someone else making clean water or trying to source power for everyone. You’ll be surprised about what good people can do when given the tools of the old. Just…maybe Hawaii will prove one of us right.”
Helene wasn’t lying. A good chunk of people in the interior were very focused on the here and now. But a few thought of loftier things. Driven by higher purposes. Akane would have been one of those types, except she carried a flame in her heart. She’s going to tear apart the remains of the Old World, forever. Not like the Legion where they used guns and looted gear on civilians while claiming her nation were the decadent ones. Psychopaths. Akane was different. She had conviction. Can only get this from someone who truly saw life beyond California. Beyond…civilisation? Wait-
“Are…are you a tribal, by any chance? We don’t get them often in Cali anymore, not unless you head way North past Arroyo.”
Akane continued to look away from Helene as she asked her armor-piercing question. You can take Akane out of the White Legs, but you can never take the White Leg out of her. Still, its not a fact that the woman is exactly proud of sharing. Most people who have heard of the White Legs, had supremely negative things to say about them. Which, truthfully, she can understand. No one likes being the prey. No one likes to be hunted. But the wolf still has to eat, and if they didn't raid the settled communities, then the Eighties or someone else would have. Not only that, but you can't have a forest of only deer; they'll eat all the vegetation until there's nothing left and then they'll starve. The deer need wolves to cull them to live their own best lives. It's just the circle of life…
"Yes," the woman said, with a tinge of pain in her voice. "Was part of a tribe known as the White Legs. We were once the most powerful tribe in all of Utah… until we weren't. I was one of the lucky few that survived our last war with my freedom intact. Picked a direction and ran. Ended up being west."
Akane's being a little cagey; she didn't just randomly pick west out of a proverbial hat. It was either there or go through the Legion. And after that conversation with Ulysses, Akane felt safer taking her chances in California. The ex-tribal still wonders if she made the right decision.
The White Legs. Shit. She hasn’t heard a whole lot. But none of it was good. You don’t hear about a tribe of raiders from out of state unless they were big business. Remembered them being talked about in hushed whispers from travellers clawing their way out of Utah and North Nevada. Yet she also remembered them being nearly slaughtered to a man and woman by another tribe whose name she’s forgotten. Kinda remained stuck in her head, all these years later. Doesn’t matter how vicious or bloodthirsty you were in the wastes. There’s just always someone worse.
“I’m…I think I heard what happened to your family. Didn’t see none of your kind among the refugees flowing west. Sorry.”
They were still vicious killers. Sadists too, from the rumours. But getting nearly genocided? No one deserves that. Except maybe the Legi-no. No. A lot of them were slaves. Just wished someone had waltzed into his camp and shot Ceasar’s brains out. But this is the real world; no one could. So people like him get by, crushing other vicious tribes and innocent settlements alike till there’s nothing but base violence and savagery. No time for thinking. No time for art. No time for imagination. Just killing, and killing, and killing. How did Akane’s own tribe stomach it? Not that she would ever know.
"I wouldn't imagine most of us would choose to go to California if we had the choice to avoid it. I'm not exactly an outlier when it comes to our views of the old world and those who worship it, even if most of them couldn't articulate it in your tongue."
Akane instinctually tugs on one of the last few connections she has with her people, her distinctive braids. It's been so long since she spoke to anyone in the language of the White Legs. While she knows she literally isn't its last speaker– the Eighties were slavers and went out of their way to capture rather than kill– it still pains her that she is almost certainly part of its last generation.
"I'd rather not dwell on this, though. Not with an outsider."
The ex-White Leg didn't want this to be a debate. She was not ready for more questions about her people. Especially to someone who represented everything the White Legs were against. It definitely had nothing to do with the tears forming in the ex-tribal's eyes. Not at all. Not one for graceful exits, the woman briskly walked away from Helene, shoving her way through the crowd as needed to put space between them.
Helene almost wanted to speak up, but she caught a glimpse of the tears of the tribal. Just a glimpse, before she stormed off. WIthout a doubt, the last time Helene would see her. Beneath that anger, their hatred, that viciousness…sorrow. Despite how alien her views here, she was no stranger to that feeling. Seen similar emotions boiling over in NCR folk. Even her, on her bad days. At least, that’s what she tells herself. She just looks up to Botty. The robot was staring at Akane, then to her, blankly. No care. No thoughts. Helene leaned against the railing that seperated her from that endless sea, and wondered if such a thoughtless life was bliss. No, that was just a fantasy.
