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

[SubRosa]

Another episode of Ra'jirra and the boatmaster. Raj thinking the planetarium is an orrery was perfect. What else would an ES person assume it was?

not literally, I didn't have any soul gems


Three Dog might act slap-happy but that hid one manipulative swine.
Indeed, Treydog is no fool!

Part of being Arch-Mage is knowing when to spill the beans and when to keep them in the jar.
I love this statement!

nits:
After unplugging the relay unit from the machine that, according to Haines, had not only brought two men to the surface of the moon, but delivered them home again, there had been a refreshing scuttle to the crumbling Washington Monument, like most buildings a crumbling stone facade on a steel framework.
Not only is this an extremely long sentence, but it also has the word crumbling repeated in it.

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Jan 14 2011, 05:35 PM

[mALX]

SubRosa already quoted my fave line:

Part of being Arch-Mage is knowing when to spill the beans and when to keep them in the jar.

[Zalphon]

Yes, the spill the beans line was great

[Cardboard Box]

[Finally! Writer's block broken. I'd actually done the racing-through-quests thing here, and I couldn't figure out how to explain why Haines would want to shoot off so soon after injuring himself. Then inspiration struck out, before hitting for six...]

27 August 2277: Magicka, Mirelurks and Madness

I awoke to the sound of Haines doing things to his weapons on a bench across the basement. Seeing as I wasn't interested in moving just then I simply looked around.

Beside me bed was a wall-mounted 'safe', a sort of fortified cupboard. A peculiar cabinet adorned with glass bands wrapping about the sides and over the semi-circular top. Three metal cupboards, then in the corner some sort of stand. Then another of the 'fridge' cupboards, but this one painted with a picture of a bottle in red and gold. Next to Haines, a table supported one of the terminals and what looked like alchemical gear.

“You're up then,” says he, “Let's see what Moira has in store for us.”

One unpleasant breakfast later and we start walking south towards Megaton, through the ruins of a town Haines identified as Springvale. Further confirmation came from a red board outside what used to be a school. “I stay away from it,” says Haines, “raiders.”

We walk on down the crumbled road between blackened skeletons of buildings. “Something's eating you,” says I at last, “what?”

Haines just ignores me and walks towards some sort of sheltered bench and sits down.

“Before...” he begins slowly, “you told me I was some sort of... champion.”

“Probably,” says I.

“And you spoke of being tricked into coming here,” says he.

“Read my lips,” says I, then once he's looking I say: “Curious crows caress cows crunching cabbages.”

And his forehead furrows. “Say that again?”

So I do.

“Translation... magic, right?”

“Right. We didn't know until that raider bungled through. Zenithar for some reason wanted us to understand you people, and then there's the fact that that girl managed to escape her bonds and four armed men. If that doesn't mean Divine intervention I'll eat my helm.”

“But what does it mean?” Haines pulled off his helm and ran his fingers through what little hair he had, ruining his combover. “You make it sound like we're in some sort of battle for humanity's survival!”

“Could be,” says I. “I think there's people who want to wind the clock back to before the war. But you can't.” No more than I could save Emperor Uriel. Or Martin.

“I suppose you're right there,” says he, “but what about rebuilding?”

“That's learning from your mistakes,” says I, “not trying to undo history. I'm a bit of a scholar in my spare time – and I've been going through history books recently. One guy, Likao, wrote it best: All roads back to 'the golden age' lead through a slaughterhouse.”

And we digest that in silence.

“I'd like to finish off Moira's guide before I find father,” Haines says at last, “I want a success to show him.”

So that's it. Evidently he must have been a disappointment when he was younger.

“Can I be honest?” About time. “Guess how old I am.”

Huh? “When we met, I'd have pegged you at around late thirties,” says I at last.

“Nineteen.”

“Don't joke, Haines!”

“I wasn't,” says he grimly. “I'm nineteen now and I'll be twenty on the fifteenth of November. I lost my hair because I made a mistake in my hair dye formula.”

“Hair dye.”

“Hair dye,” Haines replied grimly. “And that was a year ago.”

We walk to Megaton. There's more to Haines and his dad than a hair dye gone wrong, I'm sure of it. But now when I look at Haines I see not an arrogant snot, but a genuinely lost young man trying to prove himself to his father.

Wellaway, that's what I'd help him to do!

As if I had a choice.

-o-o-o-o-

“You know, I think I've found a new way to prepare Radroach meat,” Moira was saying as we entered, musing over something hideous on a plate. “Still tastes like old feet, though.” Eugh. “Anyway, what's up with you?” She looked up and blinked.

“Ah, Moira,” Haines said breezily, “What's next for the Guide?”

“Okay!” And her eyes twinkled. “Now, I've written up your information about the mole rats, so that leaves information on mirelurks and how to handle being injured.”

“What is a mirelurk?” asks I, “I know we saw one glomp that rat head, but I didn't see all that much.”

“Hope it got tummy ache,” Moira muttered, then spoke up. “You want to do that? Knowing more about them can help people learn to avoid, or even outsmart them. They're vicious in a fight, or so I'm told, but there's more to them than attacking anything that approaches. Like, what do they do in their nests when they're alone? How're their societies set up? That kind of thing.”

And she puts this round thing on the counter with little whiskery bits sticking out.

“So I picked up this observer device to study them in their natural habitat. I need you to hide one in one of the spawning pods in their lairs.”

“Sounds fair,” says I, “got any place in mind?”

“I recommend the nest at the Anchorage War Memorial. I knew a trader who talked about the Mirelurks down there. Just go inside and find one of their spawning pods, probably down near the water. Put this observer inside, and get out quietly.”

“And not get seen,” is my intelligent surmise.

“Exactly! If they do, they'll attack, and if you kill any Mirelurks inside their nest, it could ruin the validity of the study!”

“All right then,” says Haines, “Ra'jirra can go play with the mirelurks and I'll help you with the injury part.”

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“You know where the memorial is,” says he, “and there's a door over the far side, facing the Tepid Sewers. I... looked inside when hunting mole rats –”

Picked the lock, eh? I can tell these things. No doubt a skill his dad disapproves of.

“– and there were mirelurks in there, and I think spawning pods too. Just sneak in and out.”

“All right,” says I, and to be honest I realised that Haines and I needed time apart again. Also I wanted another look at the memorial.

I also had a loaded die in my sleeve, to go with the observer device now in my hand.

“Oh, and Ra'jirra?”

“Yes, Moira?”

“If the worst comes to the worst, come back here with some serious injuries, maybe a crippled limb or two, and I'll take notes and fix you up!”

And Haines and I stare at her, but she's cheerfully oblivious.

“I'll be waiting here with plenty of bandages for you. So don't worry, and just go get horribly injured. Oh, and be careful!”

And Haines and I stare at each other before I split.

-o-o-o-o-

Moira was like Carandial: bit between the teeth. At the same time there was no way I was going to let a mirelurk bash me up just so a loony shopkeeper could write a book. If Haines was right about that door, I wouldn't get hurt anyway.

“At least I'm not crawling underground today,” says I to myself crossing the bridge to the memorial. Up top, I stopped to peer at a ruined plaque, but couldn't figure it out. I'd just have to ask someone.

Over the eastern side, there was the door as described by Haines. And as I'd suspected, his key was in two parts – I could see the scratches on the locks. I dug into my pockets and extracted the Stealth Boy I'd filched from the Museum of Technology, strapped it on and fired it up. Then I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, opened the Eye of Night and entered.

Inside was a gloomy, damp tunnel that led past sandbag fortifications to a junction, but my eyes were on the monstrosity mooching further down. It looked like a walking mudcrab, complete with waggling mouthparts emerging from a hole in its shell where I assumed its face was.

I crept, looking for anything that might be a spawning pod. I'd eaten mudcrab roe before, but these might be different. I had a horrid vision of slitting open a giant egg and being swarmed by a horde of little nippers.

The mirelurk – must have been – wandered left. I scuttled right.

Beside a grisly pile of refuse sat a pile of what looked like eggs. I fished out the observation device by feel and carefully probed the things. They didn't burst, which made me relax, and they didn't seem loaded with miniature mirelurks. Evidently this would be a fine spawning pod for Moira's purposes. The sounds of approaching steps made me reconsider – this would definitely be a fine pod for Moira's purposes!

The pod was affixed to the ground by a squishy mass; I carefully prised two eggs apart, pressed the observation pod into position between them, then let go. The eggs hid the pod nicely.

I turned and froze. The mirelurk was standing dead centre of the tunnel, mouthparts waggling like mad. Carefully I stepped to the side – there was a light fitting still working, and I wasn't completely invisible. As fast as I dared, I shuffled sideways past the oblivious crab-thing close enough to touch its odoriferous shell. It stank of foul water and rotten meat.

The damned thing turned around as though watching me. I froze. It turned away. I resumed my crabwise flight, freezing again as it creaked in a suspicious fashion, or maybe it was just its now-raised claws. They looked like the beast had two Vvardenfell mudcrabs attached to its arms.

The creature turned and took two steps towards me as I made the corner, faced forward and fled.

I didn't breathe easy until I was outside in the blinding – idiot, close the Eye! – sun, on top of the memorial. Chugging the only drink I had – one of those Nuka-Colas – I looked around.

The Anchorage memorial was on a small, and apparently artificial, island on the northern bank of the river. A yellowish stone bridge had partially collapsed to the east, and beyond there was a faint suggestion of some immense building. Mind you, the builders of Washington seemed to like immense, but there was something about that shadow on the horizon that was different.

The river was flanked by roads, which made sense, and I wondered what it would have looked like when there were automobiles and boats thronging the place. Or maybe they only allowed... oh never mind. Like I said to Haines, what's done is done.

There was, closer to me, a hole in the mortared expanse where I sat; I went and peered in. Stairs and a door. Curiosity near killed the Khajiit, but not today. Instead I found a corpse with a note.

Which was nothing compared to what I found when I returned to Megaton that afternoon.

-o-o-o-o-

There was a throng outside Moira's again. The fact I wasn't the reason was disturbing.

Then Lucas Simms emerged from the crowd, saw me and started down the ramp over the clinic. What the hells?

“Ra'jirra,” says he once he approaches, “I don't think it's a good time to go see Moira.”

“Why?” says I, “what's Haines done?”

“He fell over the railing,” he says grimly. “Moira grabbed him and she's trying to patch him up now.”

“What!” That railing was over twenty feet above the ground! Simms was saying something but I didn't hear it. I was up the railing and barging through the crowd and hammering on the door.

“Simms, go away!” Moira's voice was strained and irritable. “I'm busy!”

The door was locked, but I had learned a thing or two in my time, especially from a chap in Cheydinhal. I channelled my anger into the lock and was pleased to hear it pop open. And I fling the door wide and there's Moira with a limping and somewhat resigned-looking Haines behind her.

“What the hells is going on?” is my quite understandable enquiry.

Neither of them replied, but Moira looked a little guilty for some reason.

“Nothing,” says she, “Haines and I were discussing handling injuries, especially crippling ones.”

“So she led me outside and pointed out where some drunk had fallen off the edge and broken his leg,” Haines butts in irritably. “I'm looking down, when, well, I must have... slipped and...” he shrugs, “over I went.”

And I just look at him. “You're taking it very well,” says I.

“Like I told Moira,” says he grimly, “Pain's an abstract. You have to stay focussed on the definable things, like survival.”

“Really? I tend to be like other people. Pain hurts me. Speaking of healing, how's your healing spell coming along?”

“Ah. I hadn't tried that.” He set his face into a mask of concentration and a dubious little silver shine shuffled up his arm.

Moira watched Haines demonstrate his lack of progress, fished out another pair of stimpacks and advanced on him. “How's that?” she asked after skewering his leg at knee and ankle.

“Foul ball,” says he for some reason, “but I can feel them meeting halfway. In fact,” and he stands up and walks around without limping all, “I'd say everything's knit back together just fine.”

“Great,” says she, “and for being a good sport, take this environment suit. It'll help with medical treatment as well as protecting against radiation.” And she hands him a bulky yellowish mass of wrinkly fabric with a built-in helm.

“Very good,” says Haines looking doubtfully at several strips of silvery stuff stuck to one elbow, “anyway, Ra'jirra, how did you find the mirelurks?”

“I went to the Anchorage Memorial and there they were.” I wait for Haines to finish rolling his eyes. “Oh – I found this note. Would you believe people were trying to farm them?”

“Really?” Moira perked right up – bit between the teeth, or did I already say that? “So, are they intelligent? Did they revolt or something? Do they have a leader? Some sort of king? Or priests? Or some sort of scaly community centre?”

“Scaly...” Moira's bouncing on her feet. Unbelievable. “More like a crab's shell. That's what they look like to me – like giant mudcrabs.”

“Scylla serrata horrendus,” intones Haines.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“You're probably right about their ancestors being crabs,” says he, “I'd name them scylla serrata horrendus.”

“That is so intelligent sounding!” Moira's eyes sparkled while Haines suppressed a groan. “I'll just get you to spell that for the book, and then I'll write it up with all the data I'm getting from the module. Great work, Ra'jirra!”

“Did you turn yourself invisible?” Haines asked with a faint smirk.

“I like Stealth Boys,” says I. And I do.

“Well, if you like them, you'll love what's next on the list!” And she fishes out another piece of machinery, this one a squarish box with all sorts of cords and things hanging off it.

“Old technology again?” Haines' enthusiasm sounded forced. “Sounds interesting.”

“It does, doesn't it?” Moira didn't notice, waggling her prize. “I mostly just deal with it after it's junked. But a trader gave me this RobCo processor widget. He said it's worth a fortune!”

And I look at this boxy chunk of machine guts and remember a heavily guarded helm. It wasn't what the thing was but what it did.

“According to him, if it's connected to the mainframe in the RobCo factory, you could have access to all the robots you'd ever want! Now that would be a great example of how to harness technology, wouldn't it?”

“Just plug it in and go? We can do that, can't we Ra'jirra?”

“I suppose,” says I still peering at the thing, “Haines can stop me sticking it in upside down.”

“Yeah, you should just be able to plug it into the mainframe at the RobCo production facility,” and my feeble jest went over her head and splat on the wall. “It'll give you access to the robots and terminals. And be sure to keep an eye peeled for any other examples of how to make old technology work for you out there!”

“Of course,” Haines said too cheerfully as he took the thing, “In fact, we'll set off right away.”

I didn't have time for an intelligent response before Haines was hustling me out of the shop, out of town, and didn't stop babbling about robots and such until we were attacked by mole rats a hundred feet south of Megaton.

“Haines,” I asked as politely as you can when butchering soggy-looking giant rats, “just what the hells is going on? You just broke your damn leg in an accident and now you're hauling me off to mess with robots!”

“It wasn't an accident,” Haines said quietly over his rat.

“Come again?” was my intelligent response.

“It wasn't an accident, she pushed me.”

And I stand there catching flies. Well, as it turned out, a fly – one of those immense bloatflies that always look like they're drowning.

“Can we get on?” Haines asked after it was swatted, “I'd like to get the hell away from that mad criso.”

After about two seconds' consideration I decided not to teach Moira any magic. She was dangerous enough without it.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Feb 4 2011, 08:18 AM

[mALX]

Ooooh, those molerats just outside Megaton are right by the hollowed out rock !!

[Cardboard Box]

I think Haines cared less about potentially hollow rocks and more about getting the HELL away from the mad criso!

[mALX]

I think Haines cared less about potentially hollow rocks and more about getting the HELL away from the mad criso!

ROFL!!! Never too busy to loot, lol.

[Cardboard Box]

[Oogh, been way too long. Had a bout of writer's block, and mild amnesia, and New Vegas, and elephant strangling in rum for all I know. Still, this little chapter finally got written, so...]

28 August 2277: A Night in RobCo

“Just stop the fargnaxing things!” I screamed at Haines, straining to keep the chamber's door closed. The protectron inside was attempting to pull the door open, and its laser shots were starting to burn my hands. There was also an interesting burnt-wood smell coming from the door and the desk I'd hauled in front of it.

The previous night's travel had involved sneaking around a pile of buildings Haines identified as Fairfax, before heading south towards one of those elevated roads they call 'free ways'. Despite our best attempts at stealth, we had still attracted the attention of the residents, and I put my new toy to good use.

After my less than impressive performance in the orrery, Haines had relieved me of the pistol and given me what he called a hunting rifle – actually a collection of salvaged parts from myriad rifles. Looking at it reminded me of a particularly confusing discussion with Daelin about a boat: If you just kept replacing bits as they fell off, until you'd replaced every part, did you still have the same boat you started with?

This rifle was much the same and, more importantly, a great improvement over the pistol. I could use it like a crossbow, braced against my shoulder, which meant better accuracy. And while it was slower to fire – again, like a crossbow – it did more damage when it hit. As I tend to like doing as much damage as possible to foes, of course I was well pleased with Haines' wisdom. This time anyway.

Sorry. Back to the story.

What happened was that one of Fairfax's resident raiders saw us and raced out to meet us, toting an enormous weapon on his shoulder. Ernie gaped and dived for cover, while I aimed my rifle and fired.

I missed the lidgie's head, but shot off a chunk of his weapon in a shower of sparks. The silly sod yelled with rage, dropped it, and came after us with a knife. And there we were with guns. Brave but suicidal.

“Nice shot,” says Ernie as he picked up the weapon, “shame you wrecked the trigger mechanism.”

“What is it?” is my intelligent response.

Turns out it was called a 'missile launcher', a bit like a cut-down Fat Man but using rounds that weren't lobbed, but actually burned fuel to race to their targets before exploding. Think of it as a mechanical version of Enemies Explode.

And guess who got to lug that trophy all the way to RobCo and back to Megaton?

Anyway, once away from Fairfax and on the road it was a straight run towards the hulk of the RobCo factory – a grim grey pile. Apart from the name emblazoned on the flank of the building, it stood unadorned and serious. Earth people took their workplaces seriously.

Inside the place teemed with vermin, and as expected more robots, but these were apparently tumbled lifeless where they had stood. Not majestic like Haines had promised.

“What the hell?” Haines muttered, poking at one. “I can't get it to reboot.”

“Get it to what?” is my intelligent response.

“Reboot... to boot up... start.”

“What, you kick it or something?”

“No, no! It's... oh, never mind. Let's keep looking.”

So we had. Eventually we'd found a set of offices, and on the top floor a room containing an immense blocky machine festooned with little lights and switches – and a built-in terminal. Off to one side, a cylinder held another protectron, erect but apparently just as lifeless as the others.

“The mainframe!” Haines said happily, then pointed to a slot in one side of the blocky thing. “And the gizmo goes in there.”

“I thought it was a widget.”

“It's a left-handed gonkulator for all I know! Hand it over.”

So I did and he carefully plugged all the plugs in before ramming it home. As it clicked into position, several more lights came on. About ten seconds later, a laser blast smacked into the mainframe casing over our heads.

We gaped at the scorch mark, then back at the entrance. The protectron which we had stepped over outside was now upright, very much functional – and aggressive.

“The door!” Haines yelled, and I agreed. I hugged a wall, darting out and slamming the door shut, then strained to pull a desk across it. “Haines!”

“I'm busy!” he yelled back in a strained voice with added metallic thumping. Looking over my shoulder I realised the protectron in the cylinder had also come to life – and was just as angry!

Desperation lent me strength as I shoved the desk far enough to block the door, then raced over to help Ernie, who was losing the fight. “Hold it!” yells he, “I'll try to shut these things down!”

So there we were. I was getting burnt hands, while Haines was getting frantic. It was probably only a minute, but it felt like a year, as glowing spots formed on the cylinder, burn spots formed on the door, and finally Haines cried out with joy.

“I'm in!”

“Well turn them off!” screams I.

“I'm doing that! No wait...” The protectron stopped firing, but there were shots outside, some distance away. “Let go, Ra'jirra, they're safe now.”

So I let go, arms screaming with relief, and watch the robot lurch out, ignoring us completely, stopping before the barricade. “Maintenance – required,” says it, “Furniture – malfunction. Vermin – removal – incomplete.”
“I switched programs,” says Haines, “They're now running pest control routines.”

“What if they decide we're pests?” asks I, quite reasonably.

“They won't,” says Haines smugly, “because they're robots. They can only do what they're programmed to do – which in this case is exterminate rats and roaches. We're not rats or roaches, so they'll just complain if we get in the way.”

And so I find myself with Haines pulling the desk out of the road. The machine lurched towards the door, then opened it, revealing a one-sided battle between another protectron and a pair of radroaches.

“See?” Haines exulted as we walked, bold as brass, past more protectrons, all apparently obsessed with hunting down vermin. “They don't even care we're here.”

“Vermin – eradication – in progress,” one of the machines intoned, “Please – return to – your station.”

“Except if we get in the way, of course,” adds he as we pass on, pausing in the breakroom as two turrets turned a selection of mole rats and radroaches into unappetising barbecue.

“Warning!” Another protectron lurched up to us. “You are – not – RobCo personnel! - This is a – staff only – area! - Please follow me to – reception!”

And Haines looks at me, says, “basic security program”, and what do we do? Follow the robot back to the reception area!

-o-o-o-o-

Overall, there are four basic types of robot which I ended up being shot at by during my time on Earth.
The protectrons were the first sort. They're sturdy, clumsy, but they have lasers in both claws and their heads. They also make a nice noise when they fall down.

Then there's the floating balls – if they have fairly shiny silver paint jobs, they're called Mister Handys and talk with snooty accents. If they're green, they're the army version known as Mister Gutsys and talk like some halfwit tiro destined for the Ninth. However, they have those evil bloody saws, spout fire if you get too close, and the Mister Gutsys have an additional gun. So they're more dangerous than a tiro from the Ninth.

If you see a big metal barrel with fat snakelike arms and a brain beneath a dome, you've the misfortune to meet a Robobrain. They not only shoot with lasers (again) but can fire some sort of concussing beam. Duck, weave and run.

And then there are the sentry-bots. On three wheels, a head sunk into its shoulders, toting truly terrifying firepower in heavy armour. Your options are simple: Avoid being seen or die. The other option requires truly devastating firepower.

Their main weakness is shock, since apparently the things harness shock energies to function. Just be careful since sometimes they explode.

Like Dwemer animunculi, they don't have souls, so don't waste soul trap on them.

-o-o-o-o-

“And so we went home,” says I back at Moira's the next day.

“Which is the main problem with the robots,” says Haines, “they can only respond as their programming allows them to. Since they don't have any real ability to learn from the past, and most of the programming knowledge has been lost...”

Except mine, I can tell what he's not saying. But I recall his panicky breathing and a whimpering of goddamnit where the farg is the shutoff option among other incantations. Playing with a strange computer isn't a sensible thing to do under fire.

But Moira just sighs. “Well, they're only human.” Then she blinks. “Err, well, made by humans.” And her brain stalls. “Well, probably manufactured by other robots, but you know where I'm going with this.”

Well of course I do! They're just the local version of a Dwemer animunculus.

“Still, seems like a good thing to watch for when dealing with tech of any age. And it helps to pack a few pulse grenades, just in case. Here, have a few for your next mission. Oh, and speaking of books–”

And I look at Haines and he looks at me and yep, Moira's lost us both.

“Oh, and take my book on science,” and she hands Haines an enormous hard-bound volume entitled The Big Book of Science. “For some reason, I just can't get into the computer parts, but I've got the rest pretty much memorized.”

“Here,” Haines gives it to me! “You might find it interesting. Now, Moira, you were saying something else about books?” Such as an entire paragraph that fell out of your previous statements?

“Yes,” and there's fire in her eyes again. “Books are where the old world kept its knowledge, and libraries are where it kept the books. And there's supposed to be one in Arlington.”

And Haines forgets the snarky remark he was about to make and pricks his ears up. So do I. I'd like to see an Earth library.

“See if it's still there, and if you can download records from its computer. Information dumps like those would be invaluable for rebuilding humanity!”

“I quite agree,” Haines replied with genuine excitement, “In fact, what are we waiting for? Why, we might find a book like yours there!”

And Moira just smiles. “Ours,” says she, “and it won't mention exploding mole rats, will it?”

[SubRosa]

Another fun episode of the Ra'jirra show!

“Just stop the fargnaxing things!”
This reminds me of Johnny Dangerously - Farging Iceholes! Now I am wondering if Haines is toting an .88 Magnum to shoot through Springvale Elementary School with!

And Haines looks at me, says, “basic security program”, and what do we do? Follow the robot back to the reception area!
This is simply brilliant!

“Well, probably manufactured by other robots, but you know where I'm going with this.”
I just love Moira. She is probably my favorite NPC in FO3.

[Cardboard Box]

[And here I am resuming where I left off. There's still a whack of catchup writing to do, but thanks to a desperate fanfiction.net plea to continue, I intend to do so. Therefore...]
30 August 2277: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Library

I woke in some pain on a suspiciously stained mattress in an office converted into a mad scientist's laboratory. The madness of said scientist was obvious when she pulled out a missile launcher and actually used it. I suspect use in enclosed spaces was forbidden in the instructions. I would forbid it. Because even a near-miss from the damn things really, really hurts.

“Thanks again Doc,” says I to Haines, who just shrugs modestly.

“Three cheers for modern flak armour, eh?” says he, “but then again, what sort of nut fires that sort of thing at close range?”

I'm fairly used to seeing dead people when I wake – when you're crawling through crypts or whatever, you can't be choosy about your neighbours – but there was something about the expression on the woman's head, over and above the fact it was skewered on a broken light fitting twelve feet away from the torso, that disturbed me. Somehow she looked less shocked than offended.

“Here's what I found anyway,” Haines went on, “apparently she called herself 'The Surgeon'. She was working on mind control implants – all the ghouls and mutants in here were her slaves.” What she'd done, apparently, was make little machines and place them into her victim's brains. Once inside, they either forced you to do things, or prevented you from doing them. Like leading a revolt against the tyrannical umbrella seller who butchered your brain.

Offing an evil scientist wasn't on our agenda when we entered the Red Racer factory, but it soon became needed when we realised the ghouls that had colonised it were acting strange. Less out of bloodthirstiness than curiosity, we made our way through the maze and up to the highest levels, where the offices were. As always, the lord high mucky-mucks prefer to be far above those lads who actually do any useful work.

Once there, Haines had done something to a terminal in an office which had made the super mutants hanging around grab their heads before pitching over, stone dead, bleeding from ears, eyes, nose and mouth. It was after that when we met The Surgeon and stopped her from extending her experimentation to people – especially me and Ernie!

All of which was the finale of a reasonably interesting trip south from Megaton. Our plan was to skirt the DC Ruins by going south and then around to Arlington, following a major roadway.

Along the route, we encountered a man fleeing Grayditch. He was scared out of his wits, but he did mention that 'things' had overrun the place. Suited us just fine. We weren't going there anyway.

Screams later drew us to where two late people had been attacked by a slightly less late raider. While inspecting the bodies, Haines frowned, and started poking at the elaborate collars the victims wore.

“There's electronics in here,” says he, “and something...” and he sniffs suspiciously before gasping. “Explosive!”

“Exploding collars?” asks I.

“Slaves, I bet,” says he, “no better fence than one that'll kill you if you step out of line.”

I looked at the dirty face of the slave I was searching. She might have been pretty, if not for the dirt, the signs of abuse and starvation. If I met any slavers Imperial justice would be their last meal.

“What's this?” Ernie pulled a paper out of his slave's rags. Sure enough, mine also had a piece of paper. On it were instructions and a map to The Temple of the Union, whatever that was.

“Ra'jirra.” Ernie sounded tense, looking over my shoulder. “Let's get out of here.”

And so I follow him to Donny's bridge redoubt. Donny wasn't there, and the two nasty-looking men milling about near the slaves weren't either, so we put our looted papers together and compared notes.

“It looks like this Temple of the Union is devoted to stamping out slavery,” observes Haines, somehow putting the coordinates of the place into his Pip-Boy.

“Like the Twin Lamps in Morrowind?” asks I.

Haines just looks at me as though about to be scornful, then stops and nods. “Could be.” And then he points. “See that factory south of here? I was intending to explore it when I found you.”

“Really,” says I.

“Yes, we can shelter in there by nightfall. Have a look around, see if there's anything interesting inside.”

Well, we did find both, I suppose.

-o-o-o-o-

Later that morning we ate a rough breakfast – cereal sticks in my teeth, and Nuka-Cola isn't a decent substitute for milk – and headed off, down a ramp that led to the road to Arlington.

There's nothing like a raider attack to get your heart pumping. I could think of better ways to get my heart pumping, of course, but S'jirra was very far away.

The road wasn't just a road – it was a major thoroughfare, four lanes across. Four lanes of traffic, not just jammed, but crushed where the bombs had caught them. No doubt the terrified passengers had simply abandoned their vehicles and fled to whatever safety a nearby metro station promised.

“Must be the Arlington station,” Haines remarked as we passed between it and the wrecks.

I wandered over to what looked like a map and eyed it. I soon recognised the words 'Museum' – that would be the Museum of History – 'Vernon Square' – that was where Ernie had wanted to run off to Vault-Tec – 'Arlington' was over to the left on the white line, and between it and 'Metro Central' was...
“Foggy Bottom?”

“What?” was Haines' intelligent response.

“Is that station really called Foggy Bottom?”

“It's not obviously painted on after the fact,” Haines eyed the map, “so I do believe it was. So?”

“You realise I'm going to have to start calling the Imperial Council chambers that, right?”

Haines just got a pained expression. “Don't tell me. I do not want to know. At. All.”

“And as for the Champeen of...” and I trail off and point.

The target of my pointing was hanging from one of the arches on a walkway across the road, where it dipped eastwards. A turret. Underneath it was a man. Neither looked friendly.

We bolted northwards into the concealment provided by the building next to the metro as we took a closer look. The turret was bad enough, as was the raider beneath it. Over the walkway was a serious-looking fortified encampment. One whispered discussion later, we both agreed that taking on an entire raider camp was not the way to go, and with Stealth Boys armed, we crept around, back north to where rubble made a handy ramp, then hauled tails east to where a building reminiscent of the museums stood, forlornly watching the fleeing sun. If this was Arlington, then we had almost made the library.

“What?”

A lone Talon spun around, looking for us. honoured user heard our footsteps.

“Where?”

He drew his gun, still looking about wildly as we skidded to a halt. There are ways to avoid being spotted and running full tilt into an enemy isn't one of them.

So we put his mind at ease – all right, eternal rest – and collapsed at the doorway, getting our breath back as the Stealth Boys ran out. As that nice young man had lent us his duds, we took the time to fix the worst of the Surgeon's handiwork, along with that of the raiders, before entering the library proper.

[Cardboard Box]

[And we continue. Now I have to get the lads to Rivet City in two pieces - one each.]
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Library pt II

There are things you don't expect to happen in a library and having weapons stuck up your nose by blokes in heavy armour is one of them.

“Hold it right there...” one armoured dork started off, then got a decent look at me. Furry face and Ayleid plate on a Talon backing obviously wasn't your typical sight. “Hey, wait a minute, aren't you that mutie –”

“I am not a mutant, s'wit!” spat I. S'wit is a very fine Dunmeri epithet, especially made for spitting. Doubly so if you have teeth like mine.

“Sorry,” and he lowers his gun, his off-sider following suit.

“Doctor Haines?” This came from a woman in a sort of cross between a robe and a jacket, reddish with chunky trim. It actually looked quite fetching – those Earth tailors again. “I am Scribe Yearling, of the Brotherhood of Steel. Order of the Word. What do you want here?”

“We're searching for records from the library,” says Haines, “as part of a research project.”

And Yearling just looks at us. “It seems that we have similar goals in mind. It's rare to meet someone who has proper priorities... although I doubt you will find your father here.” And she continues to look at Haines. “No matter how emotional you get.”

And Haines just goes all red. Of course their offsiders at Galaxy News Radio would pass the news around about his little tizzy.

“Now then,” she goes on, “Let me explain what I'm supposed to be doing here.” And then she pauses and winces at the distant sounds of gunfire and crashing from further inside. If Tar-Meena were there, she'd be on the warpath immediately.

“My task here is to collect the written works of those who came before in order to supplement the Brotherhood Archives at the Citadel. Although most of the pre-war books have been destroyed, there are a few that have survived. But finding a book in these ruins is...”

“You'd like us to turn in any that we find,” is my intelligent response.

“Precisely,” says she, “The collected knowledge of a lost age is worth far more than any weapon. So, return here with any books that you find in good condition.” And she flinches as a loud bang shakes everything. “However, you might like to wait until we fix our little problem here.”

“Problem?”

“We're short-handed at the moment, and there's a pack of raiders bailed up in the back. It's the usual – booby traps, mines, close quarters and those psychos know the place better than we do.”

“Well, far be it from us to interfere,” says Haines, “and we will be sure to pass along any legible books we find. Oh, by the way,” and his eyes slide to the one working terminal at what must have been the main library desk, “is that the access to the library's archives?”

“The front desk computer has access to the card catalogues, but it appears that it's lost the connection to the main archives out the back. Here's the password,” and she rattles off a string of letters and numbers.

“Well, it appears we have to lend a hand,” says Haines pompously, “Well then, Ra'jirra, shall we reconnect the archives?”

“Do I have a choice?” groans I.

“Good luck,” grins Yearling.

Once, I guess, the library was full of books, and people reading them, light and colour. Now it was dull, burnt and blackened. And, increasingly, bullet-pocked.

In a two-level chamber big enough to swallow the Mystic Archives whole, three lumbering Brotherhood soldiers were more or less pinned down by twice as many raiders, who made up for a lack of armour with nimbleness. So we looked at each other and agreed to let them have their fun while we snuck around the edge of the fight, looking for another way in.

It wasn't hard to find. What was left of the plate above the door read '..HIV...S S...F ON...' which our great brains decided was destroyed for 'Archives Staff Only'. As we needed access to the archives, and there were no staff available, we let ourselves in.

Right behind the door was a stair leading upwards. For some reason I was expecting them to plunge into the basement, don't ask me why.

Anyway, up the stairs we crept, then Haines stopped and stared at the floor. There were a number of large balls in front of a doorway opening onto a hall, and just beyond the doorway more balls surrounded some sort of square cushion and a wooden club.

“Baseball practice?” murmurs Haines suspiciously.

“What's baseball when it's at home?” murmurs I back.

Haines just pointed out a lifted part of the floor – which, suspiciously enough, sat right across the doorway and couldn't be stepped or jumped across. I mimed poking it with a stick. Haines nodded, but instead of using a stick, he plopped a frag mine on top of it.

Sure enough, when the thing hit the floor something clunked, and the next thing I knew balls were flying past the doorway!

“Wouldn't want to be hit by those,” Haines murmurs to me, “I used to play as a kid, and I speak from experience with the old beanball.” And he mimes getting hit in the head, which I understood at once. I'd played a similar sort of game in my youth, except we didn't have fancy bats or balls. We used branches and dead rats. And you know all about it when you get a dead rat in the mush.

The rain of balls stopped, and we listen to voices approaching down the hall.

“I tolya we should've left the futtin' thing alone!”

“So? Can't you hear those clankers out there? We check it out and blow their futtin' tin heads off. This is our turf. We're the motherfuttin' Bad News Bears!”

Subsequently one of them got some very bad news of his own when our mine blew his legs off. His partner screamed with surprise and rage at that, and... Well, really, you'd think, seeing they were in a library, they'd check out some books on combat strategies. Charging directly into two sets of gunfire with knife in hand isn't very effective.

I blame Grognak the Barbarian myself. Bad influence.

Apart from a set of privies there was nothing else of interest aside from the “pitching machine” on this level. Haines pointed to it. “Brings back memories of baseball practice,” says he, “bat in hand and waiting for the coach to rev it up and send a ball my way.”

The contraption had a little holder for balls and fed them between two wheels that could spit a ball out at up to fifty miles per hour, apparently. Haines claimed that some pitchers could throw a ball even faster. I just nodded and wondered what would happen if you fed a dead rat through it.

“I was crap at baseball,” Haines then added and kicked it over. “Let's go.”

The rest of our quest for archives was relatively dull. At one point there were turrets, and a Brotherhood soldier who'd got cut off and obviously didn't listen to GNR. Therefore we had to act in self-defence.

The barricades and such became less elaborate and more desperate as we pushed onward. I got the impression that Scribe Yearling and Company had only recently arrived, and with the only exit effectively blocked, the Bad News Bears were preparing for a last stand.

And there was something else. Surely the better equipped and armoured Brotherhood of Steel was able to simply rumble through and bowl the opposition? Yet they seemed to have fought to a standstill already.

I mentioned this to Haines as he bent over a working terminal, but all he did was raise a hand and continue alternately typing gibberish symbols and potential passwords. Eventually he sighed in triumph as he found it and got in.

“Turret controls,” mutters he, then deactivated them; the chirps from the next room over ceased. “Few less dangers now. We must be close.”

We were. More voices emerged from a room off a collapsed hallway.

“I say we take down as many of those futters we can, we break for it and hit the Alexandria Arms 'cross the road there, we get those guys on our side an'–” And about this time Mister Panicky stopped because someone punched him in the mouth.

“We ain't goin' nowhere, an' specially not the futtin' 'Lexandria!” This man wasn't so much panicky as angry. “Firs' off, tha's Butcher turf, an' Butcher don' like us, an' we don' have anythin' to bargain wit'. Secon', know who you're talkin' to?”

There was a mumble.

“Damn straight. You're talkin' to the Bear. An' the Bear don' run, he fight an' he win! An' we were here firs', an' those clankers an' tha' criso with 'em're gonna learn. Futtin' wit' the Bear means bad news. Why the fut you think we're called the Bad News Bears, dumbass?”

Now a harpy's voice cut in. “You want me to roast yellow-boy here?”

'Yellow-boy' apparently made a frightened noise, because Bear and the harpy both laughed. “Naw,” Bear says, “I got a better idea. Get up, meat!” And there's the sound of a man being hauled to his feet with extra smacks about the chops. “Take this, guard the entrance. Yo' got the turret on your side, so you're safe. Unless you don' shif' yo boat, 'cos then I'll fut you up mysel'! Got it?”

Evidently he had. Haines fished out another mine and carefully placed it in the doorway, then we retired to a shady corner, unlike the frightened 'Yellow-boy'. He was so scared of Bear, he didn't notice the tell-tale light until it was too late for his left foot. I pointed my rifle, Haines drew his pistol, and in three shots the hapless raider was dead as mutton.

Notice was served. From the angry noises down the hallway Bear and his doxy weren't happy. “C'mon cullyholes!” roared he, “This's Bear turf, an' on my turf the Bear Mess wit' you!”

Oh what magnificent speechifying. On the other hand, neither he nor his lady friend were coming to greet us, so we crept towards them. Haines sensibly bent to place yet another landmine in the doorway to Bear's den.

A belch of fire exploded the mine almost as soon as it hit the ground.

So there I am hauling Haines, now sporting burns, a shattered arm, and an equally shattered faceplate, back down the hallway. A hard-faced woman stalks out the door beyond us, and I haul up the first spell I can think of: my custom shock spell I call Discharge.

The sparks not only brought us some time, but somehow set the weapon she was using off. I dumped Haines in a corner and went for my mace while practicing off-hand casting again. Whatever her weapon was, it seemed to be a blackened hose attached to a container on her back, but she needed both hands to work it. Which meant that she couldn't deflect the blow I landed, dislocating her left elbow.

My return swing landed right at the point where the spine meets the skull, snapping it.

Then the Bear landed a few shots of his own. Just flesh wounds, but painful enough that I dropped my mace for the umpteenth time. Dropping my mace is a bad habit I'm trying to wean myself from.

What I could see through the door was that a makeshift barricade of tables, machines and other debris had been set up inside the room, forcing anyone entering to run a gauntlet around one side in order to get within striking distance. Then I dived out of the way as another set of shots attempted to put more holes in me. I've been hit by spells, arrows, axes, clubs, swords, bloody great hammers, and more sets of teeth and claws than I can count, and frankly bullet wounds are the worst.

So there I am calling on Stendarr again and grasping for my rifle when an idea comes to me.

The ghost appeared in the doorway, causing Bear to ask, quite understandably, “What the fut?” before discovering that bullets aren't much chop against the undead. I then grasped for the image of a scamp in my mind, and with an effort pulled the little beast into the world. The little daedra scampered after the ghost as I got my breath back, readied my rifle and followed the loudest yells.

Bear was an upside-down triangle of meat wrapped up in bits of metal, with a pair of ham-hocks clamped about what looked like a fat rifle with a round box hanging off it. It didn't half make an almighty bang when it went off, and I noticed that instead of one hole in the wall, it left several.

“Fut!” screamed he as the ghost remained not only unaffected, but smacked him again with a frost spell. Earth people seem to like that word. He said it again when the scamp finally got a clear shot in and warmed him up again a little too fast.

Then I lined up the shot and cracked his helm just as the ghost finally dissipated. He looked at me, went to raise his gun, and I popped another one right in his left eyeball.

I was actually aiming for his right.

The scamp stopped attacking, stretched, yawned and scratched itself, which was a fairly obvious hint that the Bear was dead. Speaking of dead, I hurried back out to check on Haines.

“So nice of you to visit,” Haines says to me irritably, “And how are our new friends?”

“Sick,” says I laconically, “they've all come down with a bad case of dead.”

“They have my well wishes,” lies he, “they owe me about six bloody stimpacks and a bottle of Buffout.”

And he flexes his arm and winces in pain, but I'll tell you what, those stimpacks are amazing. If it wasn't for needing to be injected they could give potions a run for their money.

Anyhow, off we went to see what was in the Bear's den, Haines giving the woman a kick as he passed. Rifling through cabinets and drawers netted us some ammunition and bottle-caps, and the weapons were always going to be added to our burdens, but it was the lone working terminal that was the true prize.

“Jackpot!” Haines exclaims, “It's the main archive computer! Now,” and he rattles away, “Okay... archives... hmm... ah!” and he looks at me all triumphant. “The connection to the front desk is restored. So let's head back there and get them downloaded!”

“Why not do it here?” is my common-sense response.

“No place to plug in my Pip-Boy,” explains he. Oh.

Thanks to an excess of exploration and a fragile bit of flooring, we ended up having to fight our way through the children's section. The raiders had been using the place as a dormitory. At one point Haines picked up a well-thumbed but legible volume and showed me the cover. A set of feisty children wielding baseball gear. The title was The Bad News Bears. Cute.

“You're back,” Scribe Yearling responded upon seeing us, “and I notice the shooting's stopped. I take it from your expression you were successful?”

Haines found a pry-bar and removed the smug look off his mush.

“Of course,” says he, and sits down at the front desk terminal. “Observe.”

And away he rattles that keyboard, and Yearling watches over his shoulder as the screen fills with – “The archives!” gasps she, “You found them!”

“That we did,” Haines replies as he extracts a little cable out of one side of his Pip-Boy and plugs it into a hole in front of the terminal, “I'll just take a copy for myself and Moira Brown.”

“Moira Brown?” one of the Brotherhood soldiers pipes up, “the Mad Scientist of Megaton?”

Evidently she had a bit of a reputation.

“I take it this Moira Brown sent you on this research project of yours,” Yearling observes. She apparently hadn't heard of Moira or her reputation.

“Yes,” Haines says, looking at the screen which is now showing an ever-growing string of dots, “She and I are researching a survival guide.”

“Oh, I found a book. Apparently the old tenants named themselves after these guys.” I hand her the storybook.

“The Bad News Bears,” she murmurs, “Well... we do take orphans in sometimes. This would be a good story to tell them. Follow me,” and she walks over to a lockbox and pulls out a long string with caps on it. “There,” says she, “one hundred caps payment as promised.”

I just hoped caps with holes in them were valid currency, and was about to say so when we heard a loud beep from Haines' position. And he looked back at us, said, “Never seen that before,” and held up his Pip-Boy. The screen showed an unhappy and bilious Vault-Boy with a bulging stomach. The legend read PIP-BOY MEMORY NEARLY FULL! Remove files to free up space and improve performance.

“All done,” says he, “Now let's go home and get some reading in, shall we?”

“I will send an envoy to Moira to discuss an arrangement with her,” Yearling adds as we head out the door.

“And I'll make another copy on my home terminal for my private use,” Haines mutters to me as we turn right and prepare to slink upriver to the Super-Duper Mart and Springvale.

[SubRosa]

Ok, caught up with the last two episodes of the Ra'jirra Wasteland Chronicles.

As always, the lord high mucky-mucks prefer to be far above those lads who actually do any useful work.
So true! I love these little observations.

If I met any slavers Imperial justice would be their last meal.
Well said Ra'jirra!

Now it was dull, burnt and blackened. And, increasingly, bullet-pocked.
I think this sums up the entire Capital Wasteland!

We used branches and dead rats.
Ewwww!

Why the fut you think we're called the Bad News Bears, dumbass?
I love the name of the gang! Plus how you tied that in with the pitching machine trap.

I can feel Haine's pain! More than once I have dropped a mine at a corner, and a second later it went off as someone stepped around it!

“Moira Brown?” one of the Brotherhood soldiers pipes up, “the Mad Scientist of Megaton?”
I love how Moira's fame as preceded her! She is probably my favorite NPC in the game.

[Cardboard Box]

[@SubRosa: The game was actually even simpler. You got to bat until you hit the rat, instead of either missing or the rat hitting you. So there was a fair bit of dodging.

This next part really took time to work out. Inevitably the guildies would find him, but for now Ra'jirra's off to Rivet City with a lilt in his step and a jubilant scream in his craw.]

1 September 2277: A Taste of Home

Haines was drooling on the keyboard, dead to the world, when I finally awoke, went down to his basement workshop and checked on him. His Pip-Boy was still morbidly obese, but the file transfer was complete, if I read the text aright. As well as an option to access the archive file, there were several 'blog' entries dated back what I guessed was almost a year – before Haines had supposedly come out of that Vault.

Out of altruism, I picked up Haines and laid him on the bed next to the ladder. Out of curiosity, I figured out the right key presses to open up the earliest entry.

It's taken me long enough to get here, but at last I'm out of Big Town. This house is in unbelievable shape, like the original owners just left. Only thing is the raiders in the school. I gotta be careful not to let them see me. Maybe I should board the kitchen door back up.

I'm Ginger, and this is my house.

N)ext entry L)atest entry E)xit

Wherever Big Town was. Evidently Ginger was happy to see the back of the place. If I read the date right, Ginger had come here in 2276 – a year before Haines did. I pressed N and moved on:

Can't find a job in Megaton. There's an old mungo there who runs the plant, but I don't know enough about fixing things to help him. And he spends all day in that place with the machines. That's no fun. I never have fun anymore. I thought leaving Big Town would mean I'd find a place that's more fun.

I'm Ginger and this sucks.

Couldn't argue with that. I wondered what a 'mungo' was, then shrugged and moved to the N)ext entry.

I found two books today! One was red with a man on the cover and funny little pictures instead of writing. I can't figure it out, maybe someone in Megaton can. Mungos are weird.

I also found a little book called Grognak with a picture of a big mungo on the front waving a big axe at a green thing. It was all pictures like a story. I wish I was brave and strong like he was.

Why am I still saying mungo? I'm a mungo now.

I'm Ginger and I hate it.

I wondered if 'mungo' was what residents of Big Town called outsiders. It didn't sound complimentary.

Been down to Grayditch today. Scored another laser pistol, so when I get the chance I can fix my other one.
They have another radio station there, GNR. That guy's fun to listen to, not like the man on Enclave radio. I wish I could get GNR back home.

Thought of going to the Super Duper Mart but there were raiders in front. I heard guns and screaming. Looks like the folks who ran the place got overrun. I'd have helped but I don't have the ammo to spare. Or anything else.

I'm Ginger and I'm lonely.

“I'm Ra'jirra,” said I softly to the long-gone Ginger, “and I'm lonely too.”

And I felt it bear down again. I wanted green grass and living trees and S'jirra's famous potato bread and S'jirra's arms around me...

I shook myself. Doing the gods' work came first, then getting home, then I could have a nervous breakdown. Judging from the sudden jump in dates, the next entry was Ginger's last.

Went scrounging down south the other night. Landed some mole rats and dogs. I've found some neat books too.

Coming back I saw raiders hanging around my house. I hope they don't see me. I try to keep quiet and let nobody see me leaving. I had to wait for hours before they got bored and left.

I'm Ginger and I'm scared.

I wondered what had happened. Had Ginger collected his or her things and fled elsewhere? Or had the raiders finally finished the poor wretch off? What was so bad about Big Town that they shunned mungos?

Haines' entries were radically different – almost all of them were angry. Anger that was directed at his father, at Vault 101's Overseer, at me, and at Moira for sending him into danger all the damn time.

Speaking of danger, Ernie stirred and groaned, instinctively pressing on his back. I E)xited and pressed the red button that turned the thing off, then turned to him as innocently as I could. Somehow I doubted he would accept my reading his diary.

“God, my back...” he grunted and attempted to force his spine into shape by willpower alone. “What time is it?”

I climbed up out of his basement workshop and peered through the blackened windowpanes. “About noon,” calls I down to him.

“Anything in the fridge up there?” asks he, “Don't think I could face Moira on an empty stomach.”

While he groaned his way up the little ladder connecting the basement to the kitchen, I assembled a couple of Nuka-Colas, some chunks of what turned out to be dog meat, and sliced something that looked almost like a lumpy fruit in two. Not the breakfast of champions, but it beat raw radroach six ways from Sundas.

With this repast in our bellies, we took some loot and the Pip-Boy off to Megaton. While Haines shifted the archives to Moira's terminal, I set about liberating Moira of rather a lot of caps.

“Scribe Yearling said she's sending someone to talk to you about these archives,” says I after dickering away the “flamer”. Ugly thing, that sprays your foes and surrounds with burning fuel – and has you lugging a big tank of potential explosion on your back. Give me a good honest fire spell any day.

“I'm not surprised,” says she, arranging the bulky piece of junk on a nearby shelf and chocking some hunks of wood under it to stop the damn thing sliding off. “An entire library's archives. You know how valuable that is, right?”

“I know Tar-Meena would kill for a copy in her archives.” Well, nowadays more like my archives; I am the Arch-Mage after all. “After all, the Brotherhood have a copy, and they'll want to have a spare on hand.”

“Oh my goodness,” and she goes all miles away, “when I'm done with this book, I'll have to work on copying all of that information. It could take a while, you know.”

“When you're done? We're not finished yet?”

“Obviously,” Haines snorted from his seat at the terminal, “The last part of this chapter is about researching local history, right?”

“Yes, Rivet City's in particular. It's the most successful survivor settlement around, but no one here really knows how it started.”

“Rivet City?” Haines looked up. “I remember Simms telling me about it, right before telling me not to even try going there.”

“Well, we've been there plenty of times and come out alive,” says I, “this shouldn't be any different, and besides there'll be friendlies at the end of the road.”

Haines fiddles with his Pip-Boy. “More like the river,” says he, “Simms was kind enough to set its location. Actually, it's almost... yes... right across from the Arlington Library and further along.” And he shrugs. “Shouldn't be too hard to learn their story.”

But Moira's shaking her head. “Don't be so sure. You'd be surprised how confused people get, even about important things.” There was a bitter tone in her voice. “F'rinstance, the main reason Megaton's thrived is because this crater's naturally defensible, and we're far enough out of the DC Ruins that the super muties don't come close. But we're also close enough to scavenge anything we need. See what I mean?”

“And yet here's Rivet City, right in the middle of that mess, going strong,” says I. “The question is, how and why?”

“That's why it's important to know how a place like that succeeded,” Moira nods, “So I need you to go there and do some researching!”

“Well, if that's the case, we'd best get ready to go,” says Haines, unplugging his Pip-Boy and standing up.

Then Simms came in.

“Heard you were in town again,” says he to me, “This came for you.”

And I'm staring stupidly at the tightly rolled scroll in his hand.

It had the seal of the Mage's Guild on it.

“How...?” whispers I and I touch it. It's real. I pick it up. It remains real.

“I was patrolling past your house yesterday and I heard voices,” explains he, “one was that robot but the other was excited. So I looked in, and there's the robot, and this... this...”

“Like a hole in space?” Haines suggests.

“Yeah... yeah, like a glowing... hole about an inch and a half across, maybe... six and a half feet off the ground?”

Sod. Short of some sort of shrinking magic I wasn't going home yet.

“Anyway, I had a talk to the guy on the other side. Said his name was Hen-and-tier...?”

“Henantier!” shouts I, “Praise the Nine, they've found me!”

“Yeah, they've been trying for a while, he said, and apparently it didn't go all that well at first. But I got them to leave you this message,” and he points to it.

And there I am tearing off the seal and devouring the good honest Aldmeris words.

Arch-Mage Ra'jirra,

If this man Simms is right, we have found your refuge in that other world. We have been searching for you for the past week, once we finally worked out how to make the portal more stable.

Unfortunately, thanks to various men and creatures we have encountered, our searching fell off until safer alternatives were found.

As this portal seems stable, and we doubt that any more dangers can fit through it, we will keep this open and watched.

When you receive this note, let us know at once. Your family misses you.

H.

You couldn't see my tail for dust as I barrelled out of there, down the clinic and back up the other side and into my house. (I'm unsure when I started thinking of it as my house.)

“Good afternoon sir,” Wadsworth greeted me, “Are you in need of lunch?”

I ignored him, staring up at the glow-edged orb. As Simms had said, it was only an inch and a half across.

“Hello Black Plateau!” calls I.

There was no reply.

“Hello there!” shouts I again, “It's me! Ra'jirra! For the gods' sake!”

There was still no reply.

I looked about for something to stand on, which was about the time Haines, Moira and Simms arrived. Moira fetched a chair from outside, which creaked alarmingly as I stood and weaved on it, trying to see if anyone was there.

The room was empty, apart from a few bottles and some food scraps. I felt my spirits sink. Evidently those idiots had decided that with the portal so small, they didn't need constant guard on it.

At least now. As well as food waste there were what looked like poorly cleaned bloodstains, claw and scorch marks, and unmistakable bullet holes. They had been looking for me, but what had they found instead?

“Nobody's there,” says I unhappily.

“Send them a note?” suggests Haines. “I'd like to see what happens if you insert something...”

“Doctor Haines,” says I after about a million years, “I could kiss you.”

Ernie clearly hoped I wouldn't.

And so I gallop at speed up to my bedroom and feverishly search for something to write with. One of Haines' books had a blank page at the back, which I tore out and wrote on with a blunt pencil that was laying around:

Henantier:

I'm alive and got your message. Tell Long-Drink I have met this world's champion, I think I'm supposed to help the poor spurius not get killed. While I'm here, I need:

I absently chewed on the pencil as I thought.

Two gross steel arrows

I'd feel better with a nice quiet arrow-shot. Also, I doubted I'd run into undead around here, so I didn't need silver.

Alchemy gear

The unusual meats and such deserved study. If possible, I might be able to distil water and make potions as well.

Soul gems (all types, 3 each – YES black as well)

Creatures had souls. What types of soul also had to be recorded for posterity.

There's two Robes of Concealment in the wardrobe in my university quarters. Those might come in handy.

Try to keep this location and expand the portal. This is a friendly town. I'm going to a place called Rivet City. I should be back in

“Ernie,” calls I downstairs, “how long should our research in Rivet City take?”

Haines shrugged. “Oh... three to four days, including getting there and back, I should think.”

about four days. If you need to know more about this place, speak to Moira or Simms.

Ra'jiira

I rolled the page up into as tight a scroll as I could and headed downstairs. Haines was still eyeballing the portal, and a small crowd had gathered, all weaving their heads as they looked through it. I had to elbow and shove my way through to get to where Haines was standing on the chair and Simms was forcing a boundary. Guns are very good at stopping people getting too close to things.

“'Scuse,” says I to Haines and he looks at me and hops off, nearly landing on someone's toes.

As I lifted the scroll over the top of the portal, I had a thought. What if the paper unrolled itself halfway through? Would part of it return here, or would the whole thing simply... or would it collapse...

“I need a piece of string,” says I lowering my hand.

Moira elbows my knee and holds up a piece, and so my message was bound and I prepared again to drop it through.

“Here I go,” breathed I, and let the scroll fall.

It didn't hit the floor.

I did, however, legs weak with relief. “They'll hopefully find it in the morning,” says I, “might was well get going, eh Haines?”

Before I scream, I didn't add.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: May 17 2011, 11:50 PM

[mALX]

I finally got some time to catch up a bit on the stories I've been missing - and a great laugh reading this again !!! Great Write !!!

[Cardboard Box]

[It's been a while thanks to the dreaded writer's block, amplified by playing way too far ahead. In-game I'm about a fortnight ahead of my writing. But I managed to break it... a bit... and here's the result.]

3 September 2277: The Road to Rivet City

There are some things you don't want for breakfast: radroach meat, 'Sugar Bombs' in dirty water, and a boastful merchant are three of them.

“You're talking to the right man!” the braggart declared. Apparently his name was Bannon, and he was on some sort of council along with a Doctor Li and a Chief Harkness. If it hadn't been for him, if he was to be believed, there wouldn't have been a Rivet City.

“But enough about me,” and our impromptu audience sighed in relief, I expect, “what was the road here like?”

The somewhat holed nature of our raiment and selves should have been a pretty good indicator.

“There was a big greenie with a missile launcher on the way,” says I disgustedly, “on a little bridge between buildings, you know, at the end of that bridge?”

“The yellowish one,” Haines explains, “where one span has fallen down on the south side to make a ramp.”

“Yep, know what you mean,” replies a leathery bloke who smells of road dust and brahmin, “When you see the ramp you run like hell and hope no raiders are around.”

“Oh, they were around all right,” snarls I. “But they came down with a bad case of dead.”

“Must've been catching,” Bannon laughs, trying to stay in the light.

“As a medical professional,” Haines manages to grin, “I can say it was one of the most serious cases I have ever seen. Those raiders will remain dead for the rest of their lives.”

“What about the launcher?” This came from a rectangle calling himself Flak. He and his mate Shrapnel ran the local armoury, a stall next to the cook-shop we were in. The cavernous metal chamber that housed the Rivet City market stank of unwashed bodies, fire, rust, and decay.

“Sorry,” says I, “nothing but parts now.”

“Anyway,” Haines picks up, “after that we decided to explore that Metro station nearby, see where it went. After all, we didn't want to have to fight the rest of the bastards if we didn't need to.”

“That one?” this was a tatty looking scavenger, “That just goes to L'Enfant Plaza. Right outside the Capitol Post offices. You can't get here from there!”

“We noticed,” says I dryly, “but when we emerged there, a pack of Talons was waiting. So we had a debate.”

“And then some mutants joined in,” Haines added disgustedly. I think it was the term 'debate' being used for a fight, but really, when you think about it, when you're debating, you're fighting with words, aren't you?

“Okay,” says one listener, “now I know you're full of it. Talons are mean enough, but we're supposed to believe you fought them and a bunch of greenies?”

“It's like this,” bristles I, “The Talons were between us and them. The mutants, I mean. So they weren't as tough as they could have been, and by the time they fell down the greenies already had a few holes in 'em. Besides, there were two greenies and their centaurs.”

This explanation was well received with various sages all agreeing that wounded super mutants were easier to kill.

“Find any salvage?” was the next question.

We hadn't. Apart from a desultory exploration and second firefight against more twisted brutes, all we'd done was pop into the Capitol Post building and catch up on the latest news – at least, the latest pre-war news, at any rate.

Being the intelligent people you are, you'll have realised by now that the Earth folk were in fact civilised enough to have their own versions of the Black Horse Courier. Such as the Capitol Post, for example. But forget the broad sheet we're all used to; apparently a newspaper was actually several sheets bundled together, full of advertising, stories from all over the world, and so on.

The news from two centuries ago was fairly depressing, discussing such topics as the collapse of some council called the 'United Nations'; food riots; the homicidal antics of a 'Pint-Size Slasher'; the annexation of somewhere called 'Canada'; and a mystery super-weapon that was going to be revealed very soon.

In more recent news, according to a rather dead correspondent slumped in a basement full of machines, someone wanted to 'Search the house!' Gods only knew which one and where.

“In other news,” concludes I to the amusement of our audience, “there was no way for us to get to Rivet City, save by retracing our steps back to the damn river!”

I didn't mention that we caught our breaths in what used to be a stall for renting boats and fishing rods. Looking like just another shack from the outside, inside you could tell that it was actually built to last. I looked at old posters, some hawking watercraft, others slightly newer; patriotic stuff involving a woman with a strange spiked crown called 'Lady Liberty' and an old, stern-faced man in a suit and tall hat of red, white and blue, 'Uncle Sam'.

I looked down at the three skeletons, two pathetically small, that were huddled behind the counter, and wondered what had happened here. They were blackened and burnt, so perhaps they had sought shelter when the bombs fell. Or had they just found a place to curl up and wait for death to take them?

“And then we hauled tail to get here,” Haines finishes our tale.

'Here' was obviously Rivet City – a ship the size of Bravil! Now, though, its hulk rested in pieces, one run aground and dark, the other ablaze with light.

“Say,” asks an old-timer, “why're you two here anyway?”

“We're on a mission from Moira,” says I before Haines can open his gob.

“Moira? The Mad Scientist of Megaton?” exclaims Flak, “You're not gonna blow things up are you?”

“Certainly not!” snorts Haines, “We're looking for information about Rivet City's origins.” Then he grins, “And we won't blow anything up without permission.”

“Well if you need to blow merd up, see us first,” Flak shills with a grin of his own.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jul 22 2011, 08:17 AM

[Cardboard Box]

[Well, I'm back. This chapter's been proving awkward, but I think I cracked it. Part of this is that Ernie's put through the wringer emotionally...]

Rivet City was a metal warren, but well signposted. That meant we only got a little turned around heading for Doctor Li's laboratory.

The chamber was awash with all sorts of machines, alchemical gear that would have had Julienne Fanis drooling, and an old man who was berating a young lady for preventing him speaking to Doctor Li. That worthy was doing things that seemed to involve fruit and vegetables that actually were fruit and vegetables, and looked up as we approached.

“What the...” she started, staring at my handsome Khajiiti features, while I observed her almost Altmeri ones. It was her human ears and human stature that confirmed she was, indeed, human; the more I looked, the more I was reminded of a description of a man claimed to be from Akavir: the oddly sloped eyes, the dull gold skin, the jet black hair. At the same time her face was careworn and strained.

“You're that Ra... jirra, aren't you?” And she blinks and looks to Ernie, who's starting to shift from foot to foot. “And you're... you're James' son. You look so much like him.” She shakes her head to get the dust out. “He gave me the impression that you were... somewhere else, and that we wouldn't be seeing you again.”

“Again?” Haines asks, “We've met?”

“You were too young to remember, and I suppose James never spoke of me.” And she rolls her eyes. “Typical.”

And she draws a breath. “I am Doctor Madison Li,” she introduces herself, “I worked with your parents many years ago. Now I run the Science Lab here in Rivet City. It was all I had left.” I saw darkness pass across her face.

“When your mother died, your father decided to leave with you. He abandoned our work. We had no choice but to do the same.”

“Died?” Haines whispers, then gets his voice back. “What happened?”

“Complications from childbirth. None of us were expecting it; we weren't as prepared as we could have been.” And she shakes her head, a sad and frustrated movement that's too natural. “You have to understand, we were struggling with scavenged, derelict equipment. We did everything we could.”

“I understand,” Haines says slowly, but his face says something else. “What was... were they working on?”

“Take a look around,” and Li waves a hand. “When I'm not working on power supplies, my work is in water purification, especially with hydroponics. Just about all the water here is radioactive, and most people are surviving on scavenged TV dinners and radroach meat. You may have noticed most people show signs of malnourishment, especially pellagra, scurvy and beriberi? That's because folks aren't getting a balanced diet. Which is where our hydroponics work comes in – and for that, we need clean water.”

“And that's what my... my parents were working on?”

And Doctor Li just snorts. “This is just a small-scale replica of Project Purity! No, James and Marion had bigger goals. 'Fresh, clean water for everyone.' Such a simple idea, and yet so impossible to realise...”

“He was building water purifiers?” Haines and I exchanged looks. “Seems straightforward enough.”

“I don't think you understand how big your father thought. The plan was to build a facility that could purify all the water in the Tidal Basin at once. No radiation, no muck, just clear water.”

“What?” On the whole I agreed with Ernie's response. Li just grinned, but it was a tight, unhappy one.

“Small-scale tests were fine. But any time we tried to test the process on a larger scale, it was just too much.”

“So why not just sell the little models?” is my intelligent response, “Seems to me that having a whole lot of little purifiers around and about is safer than putting all your eggs in one basket.”

“Sure,” Haines retorts, “and then what happens when the guy who knows one end of a wrench from the other gets his head blown off by raiders? What happens when the damn thing breaks down and you don't have the parts? There's millions of gallons of potentially potable water out there for the taking. Nobody can fence off the entire basin!

“Anyway,” and he turns to Li, “Why'd you stop trying? What happened?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Well, not just you; we had more problems than we could handle already, but your birth is what finally pushed it over the edge. Your father decided that you were more important than everything we'd been working for, and he left.” And her face shows her bitterness. “He left all of us. Once he was gone, the Brotherhood decided we weren't worth their time anymore. Without their protection...”

That hopeless shrug again. “We couldn't keep the super mutants out, so we had to abandon the purifier.”

“What on earth would those snot golems want with the purifier?” wonders I.

“How the hell would I know?” Li finally blows up, “All I know is that James left with you, we were lucky to escape with our lives, and we've been here ever since, actually getting things done, and what happens? He comes traipsing in as though nothing's happened and wants us to pick up where we left off!”

“He was here?” Ernie yelps, “Is he still here? Where is he?”

“Not here! I told the damn fool repeatedly that it's too late, the project's too far gone to be revived. He insisted we–” her scowl spoke volumes “–can just pick up where we left off 20 years ago, and said he could prove it to me. So he's probably at the damn lab. And he can futting well stay there.”

“Where's this lab then? He owes his son here an explanation for doing a runner.”

And Li stares at me as though I've grown a second head.

“Mad,” she mutters, “he's gone completely...” And she shakes her head. “It's in the old Jefferson Memorial. I told him not to go, it's too dangerous, but he wouldn't listen.”

“Well,” shrugs I, “we know where we're off to then. Just more thing. You heard of Moira Brown?”

“The mad scientist of Megaton?” This came from Li's offsider, who'd been edging closer along with the old fellow who'd been annoying her.

“The same. We're doing research on Rivet City, and your name came up. What can you tell us?”

And Doctor Li blinks at that. “Me? Well... I was there at the start, but I can't really tell you much. Ask Pinkerton. Wherever the old goat's got to.”

“Anyone else?”

“Bannon, but he's full of merd.”

“We noticed. Who's this guy anyway?”

“Doctor Karl Zimmer,” the oldster introduces himself, “of the Commonwealth. This woman,” and he glowers at Li's assistant, “refuses to let me speak with Doctor Li about important scientific matters!”

“More important than feeding people?” I didn't like the prick. He made me think of Ancotar and pre-marriage Henantier – full of himself and cocksure that he was going to set the world in its ear.

“Mere chemistry,” now I really didn't like him. “Playing with plants when she could be advancing in robotics?”

“Can you eat robots?” is my reasonable response.

“What? No!” is Zimmer's bewildered one.

“Well, from what I've seen, you lot need food in your bellies more than mechanical men running around,” explains I in plain language, “so why don't you leave these people alone and go bother someone else?”

“Because this is important!” Balls. “Doctor Li here, despite the crudeness of her equipment–”

Haines snickered, Doctor Li and her assistant both gasped, and Zimmer yelped as I sent a fireball past his ear.
“Try leaving the insults out,” I add by way of explanation.

His explanation was trite. Apparently all he wanted was to find a runaway 'android' – a fancy robot that looks just like a human being.

I don't get the reasoning behind androids. Why would anyone want a robot that looks like a person? Seems to me that all that would do is make some folks confused. Not to mention some robots.

-o-o-o-o-

“He left me for a pipe dream,” Haines said later. The two of us were sitting on the top deck of Rivet City looking towards the round building. Apparently that was Jefferson's memorial. Our company had been a couple of bottles of two-hundred year scotch, but they'd lost their balance and gone over the side.

And he gestured towards the building. “A futtin' giant water filter! An' he gave up when I was born.” Another bottle found itself being upended into his mouth. Shame it was empty.

“An' now he futs off an' leaves me behin'!” The bottle sailed into the drink. “Like I never 'sisted!”

“You heard his message,” I reminded him, “you're a big boy now.”

“He jus' futtin' left me!” Haines looked about to cry. “Jus' left me to futtin' swing...”

“Oh dry up,” I said disgustedly. “He didn't know they'd blame you for his vanishing. Anyway, getting drunk isn't going to find the sod... what the hells?”

A small figure rounded the bend near the memorial at quite a speed. This wasn't surprising, since a much larger figure was chasing it. Things went downhill as fast as additional mutants who burst out of the fortified camp we'd gone past ourselves.

“Wanna kill something?” I asked.

[Zalphon]

This story would be far better if we saw some Unity Forces!

[Cardboard Box]

This story would be far better if we saw some Unity Forces!

I'm just going to be over here looking uncomprehending, is that OK with you?

[Cardboard Box]

[Another cow of a chapter, but it had to be done.]

3 September 2277: Echoes of the Past

By the time we made it down from the top deck of Rivet City to the bridge, we had a plan. Admittedly the plan was “go into the camp and kill everything big and green” but never mind.

Haines amplified the plan a bit. “We go into the camp,” explains he, “kill every damn mutant we see, and get some practice in for cleaning out Jefferson Memorial.”

He was still a bit vinegarish obviously.

“And if they're lookouts for a bigger mob,” says I later as we loitered with intent at the base of some statue of a man in a circle, “That's a few less to worry about.”

Haines didn't answer, just unlimbered his laser pistol and hooked a trio of grenades on his belt. Then he pointed to beneath the fortifications, where a raised platform had been made, and we began our daring rescue.

The camp was a straightforward arrangement with only one entrance: a remnant of road spiced with barricades, and fenced with hunks of steel girder and piles of fallen building. A breeze ruffled the few bits of plant still more or less alive. A thin line of smoke swayed behind the fencing.

“Help me!” A woman's voice, close to tears. Had she heard us? We froze and listened; nothing silenced her. And I look at Haines and mouth bait with questioning eyebrows.

Haines just shrugs and creeps along the rubble.

Peering at the camp entrance. Barricades and brush. No sign of life. Now we saw that as well as the entrance, the raised platform's sides had enough holes to let defenders broadside anyone dumb enough to attack. The barricades were end-on to it so they weren't any use as cover.

“Someone please!” I could see a huddled shape – the victim – but nothing else. I smelt ambush.

“Cover me,” Haines breathed in my ear.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“I have a hand free,” explains he, “for balance.” Oh.

So he bravely raced up the road while I bravely covered him with the hunting rifle.

A thousand years later, he reaches the entrance, waves the all-clear and I run to meet him. He points leftward and we rush the corner.

The super mutants' camp was not a nice place. It would have been even worse if the n'wahs had actually been there.

There were, as well as truly disgusting proof that super mutants have bowels, crude bags made of wire mesh that were full of body parts in various stages of decomposition and mutilation. The hapless Redguard woman they'd caught was probably destined for said jakes by way of their larder.

She was kneeling on that platform, shaking; from the looks of things she'd turned her ankle; and the bruising on her arms suggested she'd tried to protect herself from their love-taps. The wire cutting into her wrists didn't help her looks either.

“Let's get this off before they come back,” says I gruffly, finding one end.

She just nodded and bit her lip even more bloody as I prised the wire out of her flesh. Then she gasped as I sought Stendarr's favour and channelled healing through her.

“Right then,” says I once I get my breath back, “You get to Rivet City there and see a healer. Why'd the hells did you travel alone anyway?”

“I didn't,” explains she, “but we got split up in a firefight once over the bridge.” Oh yeah, those super mutants. “One of those fetchers had a chaingun.”

“I thought you'd be killed,” says Haines pulling out a stimpack and carefully grasping her ankle.

“So did I – aaach!” Haines' bedside manner was best experienced unconscious. “Farg! Ah – the biggest fetcher said something about more of us. Then he asked if I'd like that. Wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“I guessed that,” says I, “so where'd they go?”

“In that building there.” She points to the Jefferson Memorial. Oh, wonderful. “The big one was talking about 'green stuff', whatever that means.”

And I look at Haines and he looks at me and on a scale of one to ten neither of us knows what she's talking about.

“Well, no point waiting for them to come back,” Haines says at last, “can you walk?”

Apparently she can. A little tender in places, but she can stand and walk and do the things that set people apart from the more stupid creatures.

“Right then,” says I, “You head for Rivet City, and we'll keep those monsters off your back.”

We saw her backside for dust as she limped out of the camp before us, then turned left towards the safety of Rivet City. We, on the other hand, turned right, braced ourselves, and then trudged towards the pipe-strangled building and the hulking shapes roaming there.

This fight was more brutal, a straightforward brawl. My summonses helped distract the moronic humanoids, although the third time I summoned Mister Bones I swear he gave me a dirty look before having at them again.

Afterwards we licked our wounds as we rifled the mutants for what little loot they carried. Ernie raised his fist high, and I actually saw the silver benison against the afternoon daylight.

“You're improving,” says I.

“As if I have a choice,” says he. “Interesting feeling isn't it?”

And I just grunt as we follow the patchwork walkway to its far end.

The pipes and scaffolding weren't hopelessly thrown together. I also noticed signs that the memorial wasn't original either. The amount of workmanship involved said that back in the day, Project Purity enjoyed a lot of engineering and scientific support.

Underneath the pipework was what looked like a footpath; I began to wonder why they'd chosen this building for their work. Looking back at the broken bow of what should have been more Rivet City, I wondered: why not there instead?

Well, they hadn't, so here we were ducking underground.

As we feared, there were more mutants. The building's halls looked like they'd once been shining marble and granite before the war, and the mutants, and all the gear that had been dragged in for Project Purity. Once polished floors now bore scrapes where heavy equipment had been hauled through en route to one of a pair of doors. Cables slumped from the ceiling like spider-webs.

The doors opened onto what must have been the memorial proper, now dripping with moisture from the immense pool of water in its middle. A tall tube rose from the surface, full of water, and a platform ran around the periphery before rising to some sort of central chamber around the tube.

Then three more greenies jumped us and we had to hang fire on gawking for a bit.

“This must have been the control room,” Haines remarked as we explored the raised chamber. Certainly there were more machines and gizmos and who knows what. I peered into the murky water in the tube. A stone face gazed back at me. They'd built their machinery around Jefferson's statue.

Clattering poked my ears and I turned to see Haines scooping up a collection of little square objects. “Holotapes,” he explained, “and they're fresh. Dad was here, but...”

But we hadn't seen him yet.

There was a third door, and a metal sub-basement like the tunnels beneath the city. And another mutant, who hadn't heard us. Haines popped the pin on a grenade, then did something I couldn't believe.

He stuck it down the back of the monster's pants!

“Hey!” The monster grabbed at it's backside, spinning around until it saw us. “You die! N–”

Fortunately for us the beast's body acted as a shield. For a moment it stood there as spine, blood and bowel sprayed behind it and ran down its legs, a stupid look on its face, before trying to charge us. A bit difficult when your guts are falling out your suddenly enlarged arsehole.

A large door was locked, so we headed to the stairs. A room on the left held another mutant, slamming things about and growling with frustration. “Where?” it kept moaning, “Must be here! Where!?”

After easing its mind out its ears, we looked about. Among what Haines identified as medical gear, he found another holotape, this one older than the others. This went into Haines' pockets before we started the unpleasant task of cleaning out vermin from the lower level.

There was a room with an unmade bed in it, and that was where we stopped for a breather. There was also still no sign of Haines Senior, apart from some recently emptied tins of 'Gas-n-Go' brand pork and beans as well as several packets of Fancy Lads snack cakes. Ghastly things, those cakes. I swear given a chance Earth folk would happily live on nothing but fat, salt, sugar and sawdust.

“He's gone,” Haines says at last, then extracts one of the holotapes. “Let's see what's on these,” he adds, sticking it into one side of his Pip-Boy.

“Well, there's no more mystery behind Catherine's health problems.” His father sounded tired, but happy. “The news of her pregnancy has lifted the spirits of everyone here, and given us a renewed interest in making the purifier work. We now have a future generation to provide for. The latest tests show that our methods are horribly inefficient, but I think we're on the right track.”

If your methods are 'horribly' inefficient, that usually means it's a good idea to look at course correction. I was about to say that but Haines shot me a look.

“–insists on spending all day in the lab. I've never seen her more driven. She's determined to resolve the power problems before the baby is born. I've tried to reason with her, but it's no use.”

The recording ended with a little bleep. Without speaking Haines swapped it for the next tape in the series. It was mainly concerned with the increasing attacks from the mutants, and growing tension between the Brotherhood who were getting toey about no joy regarding drinking water.

“I am at a loss. My beloved wife is gone. In her place is my son, Earnest, small and helpless.” His father's voice this third recording was tarnished and blunted with grief and alcohol. Haines himself stared up towards the medical room for a moment, before whispering.

“I was... born... here.”

“–meant to Catherine, this is no place for an infant. Especially an infant without his mother.” The recording ended with the clink of glass. Haines mechanically sorted through the tapes. Popped the next one on.

“It's time to go.” Haine's father sounded grim, worn down. In the background, the muffled drums of distant gunfire. “The project was in trouble before, both internally and externally. Progress has come to a halt, both because our re-calculations have gotten us nowhere, and because the mutant attacks occur several times a day. I regret that it has come to this. I know that if I leave, our work may come to an end.” A sigh. “Madison has never been on the best of terms with the Brotherhood; aside from Scribe Rothchild, she'll tolerate none of them. If she's the one dealing with them, who knows what will happen.” Now a distant, familiar wail. “It breaks my heart to go, but I must put the needs of little Ernie before my own.”

Now not-so-little Ernie was sitting on the bed, looking wetly at nothing. “He gave this up for me,” he whispered to the rusty, damp air, “He gave this up for me.”

“What else does he have to say?” I felt the little metal square in my own pocket. I didn't dare give it to him yet. Not if it was from who I thought it was.

The next holotape was one of the newer-looking ones. The voice this time was older, wearier.

“Well. Here we are again. Project Purity and me. It's been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my son. We've spent that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world. It wasn't perfect, but it was safe, and that's all I could have hoped for. Now, my son is a grown man. Handsome, intelligent, confident. Just like his old man.” There was a sound, half-snort, half... sob?

“And as hard as it was to admit it,” definitely a sob, “he doesn't need his daddy anymore.”

“Do so.” Superior Khajiit hearing you know.

I'd picked up another bottle of scotch – the taste was growing on me – and I found two glasses. I poured one for Ernie, who definitely needed it, and another to keep him company. It didn't touch Ernie's sides going down.

The next tape had his old man sounding like he was trying to believe in himself.

“So here I am, back where it all began. Project Purity. God, we wanted to change the world. We really thought the 'waters of life' could be a reality. And that's why this is a momentous occasion. Because even after nineteen years, I still believe it. Project Purity can and will be operational. This is just the beginning.”

“Is that why you left me?” Haines' eyes were weeping but his choler was high. “Decided you'd come back to your stupid project?”

“Shaddap and play the next one,” says I, “there's more rope to hang himself with, and hopefully a clue where to send the lynch mob.”

“Yeah yeah,” says he, and click and clack and right at the end his father groans, and his voice grows anguished and hard. “Project Purity is bigger than me. It always was. And without Catherine... Cathy... God, I can't let this die. Not again. Not like this!”

“Even in Vault 101, my work on Project Purity never really stopped,” he explained in the next tape. Apparently he'd gone a-roaming at night, exploring where he shouldn't, and eventually broke into the Overseer's office, and found out about a man...

“I knew of Braun's work, of course. He was a celebrity in his day, Vault-Tec's "Sorcerer Scientist," leaving his peers in awe of his technological wizardry. But it was in Vault 101, that night in the Overseer's office... I first learned of Braun's involvement in Vault-Tec's Societal Preservation Program, and his work on something called the G.E.C.K. The Garden of Eden Creation Kit.”

“Sorceror scientist, eh?” muses I, “I'd like to have a word with him I think.”

Haines just looks at me. “Well, we find Braun and no doubt Dad will be there.”

'There' was Vault 112, out west somewhere, our only reference point something called 'Evergreen Mills'. Whatever that was. “Someone will know!” cries Ernie, and is about to race off to Rivet City and ask before I stop him.

“I found another one.” I hold up the tape. This one wasn't numbered. His father had scrawled Happier Times on it instead.

When the woman's voice emerged from the Pip-Boy Haines froze.

“...that batch of tests was inconclusive, but Madison and I are convinced it's a problem with the secondary filtration system. We’re going to re-calibrate the equipment and try again tomorrow, so that–” there was a short pause – “James, please, I’m trying to work. Now’s not the time...”

Judging from the tone of her voice it soon would be.

“So that's the next step. Assuming we get the results we need, we'll move on to– James! Stop! I need to finish these notes... Where was I? We'll move on to diagnosing the issues with the radiation dampeners. That should... Ow! James!” Soft male murmuring. “Now? We really shouldn't...”

I knew what that tone of laugh meant. So I turn to Ernie but his expression muzzles me.

He looked down and started the recording again; I saw moisture appear on the Pip-Boy's screen. As quietly as I could I got up and gave him some privacy.

There was a dog once, and his master was a real vicious man. One time after a relaxing evening beating, the s'wit turfed the poor animal out into what was then a typical autumn thunderstorm.

That's what the sound reminded me of.

[Cardboard Box]

[Been a while, I know, but really this is a chapter in and of itself. Some Google-fu produced an interesting strategy...]

4 September 2277: Picking Up the Trail

It was night when I emerged from the mutilated Memorial, and when Haines finally emerged the predawn light was peering nervously over the horizon.

Not to put too fine a point on it, he looked terrible. Another half-empty bottle dangled from one hand as he came up onto the walkway beside me and looked westward to where Rivet City was aglow.

“We are born in the Vault,” he recited in a hollow tone, “and we die in the Vault. Sent to compost, our bodies...”

Rote faded to swilling, then the bottle smashed to the ground. Dawn was a probing stick, the city a dead rat.

“We need to go to Vault-Tec headquarters,” he said in the same hollow voice. “No point thrashing about blind.”

And I have a think and he's right. Moira and her book will have to wait, but me, I can see one or two reasons myself for folks taking the plunge and making Rivet City what it is.

For one, it's incredibly well fortified, with a natural moat all around it – and no other way in except for that drawbridge. Mentally I doffed my hat to whoever was sturdy enough to first make entry. It also had machinery and electricity. To all intents and purposes, it was a perfect fortress, waiting for occupants.

At the same time, so was the Jefferson, since there was only one entrance, and that was easily fortified. I remembered a barricade of sandbags around a corner from the door. Not that they'd managed to keep the mutants out. On the other hand, with Rivet City you could haul up the drawbridge and shoot at hostiles without danger; at the Jefferson you had to open the front door, which might be a problem.

I looked at Haines' face. Like a dead rat, it was flaccid, expressionless, but innards and gas waited to burst out if poked too hard.

“Right then,” says I, “we go to Vault-Tec.”

The slog to Vernon Square was not pleasant. Going across Vernon wasn't pleasant either, except for the repeat performance of Talons vs. Super Mutants, the latter winning by a huge margin. This was followed by Dr. Haines & Arch-Mage Ra'jirra vs. Super Mutants, the former winning by a somewhat smaller margin.

Ernie needed a fair few stimpacks afterwards along with some soap to wash his mouth out.

The Vault-Tec building was instantly recognisable by the fact it had its name on it; that it had greenies roaming in front of it; and also all sorts of dishes and gizmos and spindly things on top and hanging off the sides.

And if you made it inside without figuring out where you were, there was a Vault door hanging from the ceiling. Admittedly after two hundred years without maintenance said door and ceiling were sagging alarmingly but never mind. The building was occupied.

“My programming now requires me to kill you,” a strange-sounding woman said in a totally wrong reassuring tone. On the other hand, since the speaker was a luminous brain in a bowl, on top of a metal barrel, shooting laser beams from tentacles, it was the right sort of tone.

The 'you' in question was a rather upset super mutant down a stairwell. There are all sorts of places you do not want to be assaulted by a robot brain tentacle monster in, and at the bottom of a blocked stairway is one of them.

Once the mutant stopped fighting and started, from the sound of things, drowning in his own blood, the robot brain thing turned on us, explaining, “I'm sorry, but no trespassers or communists are allowed in this area,” or words and shots to that effect. Since we weren't communists, whatever they were, this apparently made us trespassers.

“I've got an idea,” says I to Haines, “try and distract it while I crack its brain open.”

Ernie just gives me a look like I'm crazy, but I'm not dumb. I know my way around atronach powers.

The first magic I smacked it's brain-bowl with was Firestarter, tried and true – also rather hot. The second was a frost spell – rather cold. A combination that field smiths and tinkers use to good effect. They call it 'tempering'.

In Vault-Tec's headquarters, it also had a good effect. There was a dull crack as a pair of bullet-pocks joined hands – and the machine turns on me, dribbling fluid.

“Warning!” It sounded rather upset. “Cranial containment system is compromised! RobCo recommends against operation of robo-brains in extreme temperatures...”

Ernie's a smart lad. He swaps his laser for a rifle from our collection and starts shooting. The 'robo-brain' turns back to him as the current threat – and then glass goes flying everywhere as he finds a weak spot.

“Emergency! Help! Maintenance required!” and the machine goes into a right tizzy, arms flying everywhere until up steps I and down comes my mace. Brains and goo everywhere. Stinky too.

“I've heard of these,” says Ernie extracting some power cells from the guts of the thing, “Robobrains. Used monkey brains to make 'em more flexible than regular robots. Then again after two hundred years without maintenance...”

I looked at the grey mess in the bowl. The only thing 'flexible' I'd seen about it was its tentacles and its mouth. All the while it had been shooting at us like every other robot we found as we grovelled our way through the shattered offices and crumpled cafeterias of Vault-Tec. I soon found a cunning plan against them though – it seems that their workings don't like shock magics, and the resulting paralysis meant more time for us to get out of the firing line and get in some licks of our own. Rather like fighting Dwemer animunculi with frost.

Yes, I know, I should have worked this out back at RobCo, but back then we'd turned them on unexpectedly, so experiments weren't high on my agenda, alright?

As we climbed upwards, the security became tighter. Soon we were peering through a grate at a huge mass of machinery, apparently still working if the lights and heat were anything to go by. “The Vault-Tec mainframe,” says Haines, eyes gleaming, “We need to get access.”

A nearby terminal explained that this would be tricky. Apparently as well as requiring authorisation from two others, there was a 'Masterbrain' running the security systems. This turned out to be another robobrain with a slightly different paint job.

Anyway, a zillion robots later, we finally managed to turn the security off – mostly by smashing it – and Ernie went to town on the mainframe's console while I sat and sweated. I'll say this for Vault-Tec, they had a much more impressive – and hot – setup than RobCo did.

Also impressive was Ernie's scream of rage once he'd done things to get the locations of all the vaults!

“Deleted! Deleted for fargnaxing security reasons! Why the hell did they...” and on and on in quite an un-Scientific fashion. Apparently the mainframe had every other Vault in the area, but not Vault 112.

“Hey Ernie,” says I in a long-awaited lull, “If you had a sorcerer-scientist on your books, would you want to risk these communist blokes finding him first?”

Ah, blessed silence as Zenithar smacked him one about the chops.

“Of course,” says he softly. “Well then – what we do now is –”

“Clean our plates,” interrupts I. “We go back to Rivet City and finish our business there, then we get our dues from Moira, then we head out West. Sound fair?”

Ernie doesn't answer, he just gives the console a little more poking and prodding. “You may be right...” mumbles he, “...hello?”

“What've you found?”

“Another list of evaluated sites... damn, no coordinates. I wonder...”

And away he goes tickling the keys. I say nothing and we go halves on some Fancy Lads. He eats the cakes and I eat the more nutritious box, ha ha.

“Sfmiff Cafeef Gafaff!” comes out of his mouth along with crumbs, “It's come up a few times in staff mail – and there's a reference to Evergreen Mills too!”

“The place your father mentioned?”

“Must be. According to this, they wanted to install Vault 112's entry in back of it, but they weren't allowed due to lawyers. Reckoned hundreds of frightened people running past all that wood-cutting machinery was a danger.”

And world-destroying war wasn't? I actually know the sort of man who'd think that: Short as a Bosmer, twice as wide, balding, totally inadequate moustache, full of himself, frightened of litigation and resentful of anyone who isn't. I should know. He's on the Imperial Council – not as court jester, alas.

“And Smith Casey Garage,” he goes on, “apparently was their second choice for an entrance. Worth a look at the very least.”

“Whatever,” says I. “Let's head back to Rivet City.”

“Why?” was Ernie's intelligent response.

“We still need to clean Moira's little task off our plates, remember? We're closer to finishing that, so let's see if we can find Pinkerton, get his story, then we can drop it all off at Moira's on the way.”

I didn't tell him that Ifelt he was still too emotional over hearing his mother's voice and that no doubt there would be a few more chances to get all that out of his system. Nothing like a good bloodbath to bring you back to the here and now.

Ernie's an intelligent lad, so we went back to Rivet City, booked into the hotel there and slept like the dead. He was dog-tired, I was cat-tired. Not even the drunken brawl outside woke us.