The Chronicles of Ra'jirra II: The Wasteland, In which Arch-mage Ra'jirra has an out of this world experience Options

[Cardboard Box]

CRITICAL EDIT: Haute Ecole Rider pointed out that 1) I'd used a variant of Julian without his permission, and 2) that I'd varied too far from the essential Julian as well. So there's no Julian in this splay any more.

Preface

It's probably a bit early to start posting this second fanfic, but seeing as I already have a chunk of the story... researched... I have no compunction about posting it already. If a fanfic in which Cyrodiil yankees land in Three Dog's court isn't suitable on this forum, just say so and I won't continue.

It's set in the future after the following events:

1. The elevation of Ra'jirra to the position of Arch-Mage
2. His marriage to S'jirra
3. The Oblivion crisis and the equally nasty affair of the Knights of the Nine, which was resolved by Zul gro-Radagash, Champion of Cyrodiil. (Ra'jirra and Zul don't play well together.)

More importantly, this should ensure your regular dose of everyone's favourite khajiit mage until I save up enough for a new graphics card. The original Chronicles will be restarted then, probably in November.

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Chapter 0. Prologue

"Now what's going on here?" I asked the pilus once my horse was stabled at Black Plateau.

I wasn't in a good mood. Five days ago, I'd been having a pleasant week with my family at Faregyl Inn when I received the summons. The kits are growing up so fast; R'mara and Sheeyin are following in their mother's footsteps - along with 'Auntie Abhuki's' – and with any luck will run the inn just as well. At least, once they get big enough to cook and see over the top of a broom.

Don't tell anyone, but we're thinking of taking over the Inn of Ill Omen as well. Gods know that place needs a decent cook at least.

J'dargo... well, he's a big boy and I've told him that when he's older there'll surely be a place in the Legion or the Fighter's Guild for him, if he doesn't go getting himself killed first.

And no, I will never bring them to live in the Imperial City. S'jirra hates the big smoke, and I'm not making her unhappy. Well, more than I have to. Besides, you all know by now about how so many buildings there became slaughterhouses at the height of the Oblivion crisis.

Let me tell you a truth: Despite what that cretinous "Champion of Cyrodiil", Zul gro-Kissmyarse-Radagash says, it was me who closed the gate threatening the Faregyl Inn and the Inn of Ill Omen. I even have the sigil stone, since I knew damn well that any stones that moronic snot golem found would be turned into enchanted gimcracks before you could say chump.

Anyway, the aforementioned summons was in the form of a rather tattered-looking apprentice who stumbled through the door four days ago. "Arch-mage!" cries he, looking very tired and like he misplaced a lot of blood somewhere. And here I am sitting in a corner reading The Children's Anuad to them.

So I get up and over to this apprentice who's bleeding all over our nice clean floor and land a healing spell on him. "What the hells have you been doing?" asks I, "playing with those bandits around Horn Cave?"

He just gave me a sickly look and I make a note to pay the drunken swines a visit. "At the bridge," says he. Ah. Better pay the lazy drunken Legion swines a visit instead then.

"Well," says I, "We'll put you up for the night, at twenty drakes." And he looks at me like a stunned slaughterfish and I explain, "That's bed, potions and labour. You can deliver your message tomorrow."

Then I grin to let him know I was teasing.

"Arch-mage," gods he was persistent! "I have a message from Vito."

And I just look at him. What did the pilus of Black Plateau want?

"The message can wait," says I, "let's get you sorted." And I swing everyone into action and grab J'dargo before he can head out the door.

"No," says I.

"Dad!" whines he, "I'm going to kill those ban-dits!"

"No," says I, "you're too young." And at twelve he was too. "Besides the bridge is six hours away, and they have big axes, and big swords, and bows and spells that will get you before you see them."

Well! He draws himself up to his full height and stares at me from around stomach level.

"I can see in the dark," says he correctly, "I'll kill them all first!"

This is why heroes shouldn't settle down and have kids. I think Trey, you know, the Nerevarine, would agree with me. He didn't let Athlain hare out the door with a toy mace at twelve years old in the dead of night, so why should I?

So I do the only thing I can. I'm bigger than he is, so I yank his mace out of his hand and stick it in my belt. J'dargo knows better than to try and take it from my belt, because when I take his mace off him, I'm serious.

And I look at him and he looks at me and sags. "Please?"

"No." The world would be a better place if more parents put their foot down and said no to their kids. I've got into all sorts of trouble just from wearing my distaste on my face when confronted with brats and their servile sires and/or dams. And I've got out of all sorts of trouble when they recognised me.

And the children of the aristocracy are the worst, which is another reason I'm not bringing my family to the Imperial City.

Anyway I turn away from J'dargo – case closed, father knows best – and he slopes off to mope with his toy soldiers to the amusement of the other patrons.

And I go up to check on our visitor. I find him in better fettle, partly due to the silver flash of healing magic observable under the door.

"You able to talk?" and he nods, but looking a little woozy still.

"Did you come all the way from Black Plateau?" asks I.

"No," says he, "the message came to your chambers at the Arcane University, and Master Polus called for a messenger." And he shrugs.

"I'll discuss your run-ins later," says I, "Now, what's the message?"

And he points to a sealed packet on the dresser; fortunately my girls are sensible and know better than to read the Arch-mage's mail – even if he is formally known as 'Daddy' or 'Husband'. So I opens it and find:

Ra'jirra,

Tuls Laren has had a fire in his laboratory as of 3 bells post-noon, 26 Last Seed 3E445. I think you should come and see this as soon as you can.

Brucellus Vito
Pilus Prior
Black Plateau Magical Research Institute

PS. Don't call me Bruce in front of the men.

That’s Bruce for you. A decorated hero from the battle of Bruma, but a knee smashed beyond repair condemned him to ‘manning the wooden fort’. He may be deskbound, but don't underestimate him. He effectively manages the place with an iron fist.

But at the same time, he knows I'm a busy Khajiit. I've got the various guilds to keep under control; the Guardians of Oblivion to worry about; battlemagi to train in order to deal to said Guardians of Oblivion; a whole new set of buttocks to kiss under Chancellor Ocato and that oaf of a Champion, Zul gro-Radagash; and the Bruma guildhall still isn't back up to speed yet. So he wouldn't summon me for a common or garden laboratory fire.

Moreover, he had a method of directly communicating with me in case of emergency. Whatever had happened in Laren's lab wasn't life-threatening yet, but he still felt I needed to see it.

The apprentice had either fallen asleep or passed out, so I slipped out into the hall. My darling S'jirra was there with a small bowl.

"Some brroth forr the apprrentice," says she softly.

"He's just passed out for now," says I softly, "but he gave me the message. I'm wanted at Black Plateau."

I hate it when S'jirra looks sad. I'd rather see her smile that smile that feels like warm sun in my heart. "Don't worry," says I, "I'm not leaving now. They can wait until tomorrow, when I've finished vital important business here." And I look her up and down in that way that always makes her chuckle and in this case almost spill the broth.

"Silly kit!" says she, "I will take this in, then we will rretirre forr yourr verry vital imporrtant business!"

And so she did and, once we finally got the kits in their own beds, we did. Allow me to add here three asterisks, to indicate the pleasant passing of many hours.

* * *

At dawn we were woken by various grunts and bustles as Abhuki and some of our guests got up and about, readying themselves to head off. And so did I – reluctantly.

My little pride came out as I, looking resplendent in my now increasingly long in the tooth 'travelling clothes' – Ayleid armour, the black bow from my Leyawiin days, and a silver mace I hung onto "just in case" – prepared to mount the white gelding I'd got to replace the unicorn and match my shield.

"Now then hot stuff," says I to J'dargo sternly, "I'll be back between a week or a fortnight, depending on what's going on, so I want you to take care of your mum and Auntie Abhuki–"

"I'll defend them with my life!" Yep, definitely warrior material. But he needs to develop brains to balance his brawn, or maybe it's that I gave him his mace back. Local rats beware!

"–and your sisters," making those two kits giggle. J'dargo made a face, but I gave him a stern look. "No arguments," says I.

"Yes, father," he knows better than to argue about that.

And so with the farewell cries of my family echoing behind me, I rode off into the sunrise to the Black Plateau Imperial Mage's Guild Research Facility.

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Coming up: Mysterious voices! Phonetic spellings! Unexpected visitors! Amusing misinterpretations! More maledictions against the Chuampion of Cyrodiil! All this and less!

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 9 2010, 04:45 AM

[Cardboard Box]

[I just finished this chapter just now after doing a little historical research.]

18 Rain's Hand 3E445: A Rest Stop on the Road to Rivet City

One of the troops lit the fire in the usual way, while Haines Senior watched in amazement. I don't know why, he'd been travelling with us for the past two days, so there were a few fireballs to ogle between then and now.

“So, now we're back in civilisation again,” says I, picking some good Cyrodiil chicken out of my teeth, “What the hells was all that down in the Vault?”

The previous two days before reaching Vault 112 are only interesting to the terminally boring types, since it was almost all creeping and exploring westward. We did find a place called Jury Street, which must have been a merchant's street if the remaining buildings were any indication, and about this time Ernie got distracted by a nearby radio signal. All it was, once he found where it was being transmitted from, was a lot of little blips, which Ernie told me was something called 'Mores Code'. Turns out there was a hidden underground bunker, but raiders had visited before we got there, so no survivors and a Daedric sense of decoration.

We also spotted one of those behemoths nearby, and decided to steer clear. Also steered clear of was some sort of industrial complex – yep, I was beginning to recognise the building style – down in a deep gorge, like a natural fortress. As we lay on the edge that night, peering through goggles and the Eye, we worked out that if Haines Senior was as smart as his son reckoned he was, he would have steered clear.

Besides, they'd corralled yet another behemoth in some sort of pen with shock magic running through it. (Haines calls shock magicka 'electricity', but same thing.) Anyone with the ability to pull that off was worth giving plenty of space.

We finally reached Smith Casey's garage – a sort of mechanical stable and smithy, where you got your car repaired – the following morning, and didn't have to go far to find the entrance. Inside, however, we found just robobrains, and the only people were all inside some sort of machine. Including Ernie's father (his crying out and hysterical attempts to open the capsule-coffin-thing were a big give-away) and, apparently, Braun.

Naturally we had to describe all this once we returned to Fort Big Town, for the records.

“Well, Ra...jirra,” the silvered man started, “Braun had set up the Vault to support a network of Tranquillity Loungers, including himself. Everyone in the Vault would enjoy a variety of simulated environments, ah, under the control of the Overseer, in this case Braun.”

From what I had seen through the glass, they'd been in there so long they were little more than skin and bone, barely breathing, eyes fixed on screens that flickered disorientingly. Rods protruded from the corners and held their skulls still, while cables and tubes plugged into their now baggy jumpsuits.

“So you had to park yourself in one of them to get to him,” surmises I, “You had to share his dream world.”

“More like a nightmare,” he shook his head, “I wasn't expecting to become a dog.” He shuddered. “Miss Dithers knew, somehow. She'd pet me and feed me treats and whisper that she knew it was all wrong, that I needed to find the way out. And not just to avoid being fed poisoned scraps by Braun, or getting–”

He broke off and shuddered.

“I read the logs on the terminal there,” says Ernie, “Before, he had been running a tropical island simulation, complete with deaths by shark, heatstroke, thirst and so forth. Then there was a ski resort with all sorts of horrible accidents. The swine was torturing those poor people, over and over, wiping their memories and starting all over again when he got bored.”

“And what was he, ah, 'running' when we arrived?” asks I.

“Tranquillity Lane,” says the Senior, “good ol' American suburbia, white picket fences and all.”

“Which made it all the sweeter for the sicko when he pulled the rug out from under,” adds Ernie, “Did you see the road was just a circle with no way out?”

“Try telling that to those poor souls,” replies the Senior, “Once I saw the Neubaum family all pile into their car talking about going to the Smithsonian. They just sat there, ignoring everything and everyone else ignoring them, and guess who was stealing items and putting them in another house?”

“Like a dream within a dream,” muses I. “Keep that stuff away from Sheogorath, it sounds right up his alley. Anyway, why did all the warning bells go off and everyone die?”

“When I entered,” explains Ernie, “I realised something was wrong after a couple of circuits. Like Dad said, just one big circle and no exits. Also, there was a house with no name on the mailbox. Inside, a pile of junk which was a basic sequence lock. Obviously,” and his voice became a little snooty, “imperceptible to the Vault inhabitants. I had a rifle through the files on the terminal and activated the failsafe, which was tied to a 'Chinese Invasion' simulation program.

“Now, normally the Tranquillity Loungers have safety mechanisms to prevent neural damage, but Braun had them removed when the failsafe went off. Apparently he didn't want anyone escaping. Simply put, if you got shot by virtual Chinks, you'd get your brains fried, fatally... unless you're the Overseer.”

That had been hideous. After hours of waiting, pestered by fawning robots apologising for 'my' broken lounger, a bedlam of alarms, the smell of death-purged bowels, the final rattles and whimpers.

“So how come you two got out?” asks I.

“We weren't all hooked up,” explains Haines, “We didn't have eye-vees or electrodes or any of that stuff in their jumpsuits. If you'll look at them, they're actually straight military-grade virtual reality immersion suits.”

“Which of course explains why you both got out and started shouting at each other,” says I.

The two looked a little shame-faced, but then self-righteous.

“And you,” I pointed at the elder before they could start again, “tried to hare off without kitting yourself properly.” Technically his 'armour' was just a motor-cycle riding outfit with extra bits of metal tacked on, but it was safer than running around in just a Vault-Tec jumpsuit. Especially since there was yet another Talon ambush as soon as we emerged outside. How by the Nine did they keep tracking us?

James Haines, it seemed, was yet another bit-in-the-teeth sort. It was only by some magical persuasion that he deigned to stay with us as we backtracked to Fort Big Town. He was fascinated by my basic spellcraft (almost being hit by it might have helped) and he asked plenty of questions on the way back.

“It also explains why everything was in black and white,” Ernie tried to change the subject.

“Look,” Haines Senior begins the argument again, “It wasn't as if I had any choice. I would vanish in the night cycle, and you were supposed to stay safe in the Vault. I know –”

“Those swines had already decided I was in on it!” yells Ernie, “Hell, they shot Jonas – or that prick Mack did anyway. He was questioning Amata and... I saw him...”

And Haines shudders. “Her father was just watching,” he adds.

“Good God,” mutters the elder, “Jonas? His own daughter?”

“C'mon Dad, you know he was a stick-in-the-butt type. I remember him saying over and over again how your experiments were a waste of time. And remember when I told you about the last question in the GOAT? Four options and only one real answer. 'Who is the man who is like unto God on Earth, to whom we owe unquestioning obedience and whose ass emits rays of sunshine?'” He was being sarcastic. “'The Overseer. The Overseer. The Overseer. The Overseer.'”

And something clicks into place. “Wait a minute,” says I, “Is Braun still alive? If he's the Overseer, and he couldn't disable his own neural safety thingies...”

And both Haines look at me and then nod. “He's trapped in there,” Ernie confirms, “along with all those homicidal simulated Chinese.”

“In the body of a little girl,” adds his father. “I don't know if I should feel sorry for him or not...”

I didn't. So far every Vault's Overseer that I'd heard of had turned out to be a tyrant, which worried me a lot. And at least three of them had effectively destroyed their Vaults, if not immediately then by sowing the seeds for later demise – as per their orders. Vault 101's Overseer was apparently a bit of a tyrant as well, but...

“So what sort of experiments were performed on the people in Vault 101?” asks I.

“None,” says the elder, “Well actually... it wasn't supposed to open ever. The idea was to study the genetic impact of a small group of individuals breeding over multiple generations.”

I could see a problem with that. You had a population that was unaware of what was going on outside, and a lot can happen in a thousand years. The Third Empire basically rose and fell in that time, Nine help us all!

Now, in a thousand years it was more than likely that the Vault would be discovered by someone or something from the outside, and probably be opened by force. Which, if things had gone differently, would have probably revealed a decaying, inbred population resembling Skyrim's falmer more than men.

“But obviously it did open,” observes I simply.

“Well, no,” agrees the elder Haines, “At first Amaldovar wanted to just throw us out again, preferably with a bullet in the head, but fortunately more sympathetic ones prevailed.”

It took me a space to recognise that Vault 101's Overseer was called Amaldovar. And if he'd have been happy to shoot a father and infant, well, that settled the tyrant question. He was. Must have been required in the job description.

“Fortunately for you,” says I, “So no doubt he made you useful, Ernie here got a safe place to grow up, and then off you snuck.”

“Well, yes,” and the elder Haines looks a little offended. “Mostly wondering why the population was declining, which is all down to the obvious lack of genetic diversity – inbreeding that is, among other things – but I still tried to learn as much as possible to get Project Purity back up and running. In between being grilled about what life was like outside, that is.”

“Why would they care? If the place was supposed to stay shut forever...”

“The previous Overseer,” explains Ernie, “was more open to contact with the outside world. He sent people out to investigate.”

“And that's partly how we knew of Vault 101,” adds his father, “not to mention the two escapees in '66 and '68. You wouldn't remember those.”

“Well, there was one I know of because Moira gave me her jumpsuit,” says Ernie. “I've only worn it once, Moira's not that good a tailor.”

“Well,” burps I, “All that we need now is a little constitutional to settle our guts and then a nice night's sleep. Coming?”

And the Haines family look a little confused as I didn't intone it as a request.

It was cold outside, but then it is at any time of year. Masser and Secunda grinned down at us while Earnest and James Haines gaped back.

“You said you came from another world,” gasps Ernie, “but I didn't realise it was true...”

“Yep,” grins I, “obviously. We'll take a quick walk around Black Plateau, hit the hay, then it's back through the portal to Rivet City when we're nice and refreshed.”