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

[Cardboard Box]

Heh. Thanks.

Originally, the scene in Moira's was to be diarised by Moira herself, and even now I think the conversion is a little crude.

Incidentally, there's one detail that I owe to SubRosa - guess who's been reading over my shoulder about Teresa's history lessons and loves his plays!

I've just remembered the word I've been looking for. Exposition. Ra'jirra's about to have an epiphany and I'd rather not use a deus ex Sheogorath - although given the nature of the FO3 universe it'd be bloody apt!

[Cardboard Box]

[Righty. I may as well post some build-up to the exposition. The actual first epiphany will take a while as I compose the ballad of Farmer Fat!]

22 August 2277: Rest and Rat-Catching

It took a while for Moira to return to her normal self. At least, I'm assuming that being almost maniacally fixated on her pet project was normal, and not her way of coping with having a recently unmasked – and even more recently dead – spy bleeding all over her. Then again, her fainting hadn't lasted very long, although it had given us time to clean up most of the mess.

“Let me get this straight,” Ernie said in a strangled tone, “You want us to go into the DC ruins and fight rats... with a stick?”

And Moira just smiles at him tightly. “Mole rats can burrow into almost anything and cause a lot of trouble – you know, wrecking food supplies, chowing on injured people... So I figured I'd make a chemical repellent stick for people to shoo them off.”

And she digs out an honest to gods stick, a fair-sized tree branch really, complete with some sort of frighteningly green and potions-gone-wrong-scented glop all over it, and looks at it as fondly as we do incredulously.

“But I need it to be tested before I put the recipe to paper in the guide. So I need you to find some Mole Rats and test it out a bit.”

“Really.” Haines looked skeptical.

“It'll be easy,” says she breezily, “One tap with the applicator, and it overwhelms their senses with a sort of... 'feel-bad' sensation. Then they're gone before you know it!”

I loved Moira's breezy enthusiasm in the face of total ignorance. She reminded me of that nitwit Ancotar. There may still be a few bits left of him after he blew up Fort Caracatus.

“You could test it out on just a few mole ratties, but for real testing, try it on ten or more. There should be plenty in the Tepid Sewers, downtown. Just visit the Anchorage War Memorial and look downriver... outside Dukov's Place.” She makes a retching sound. “Unfortunately... I haven't worked out a Dukov repellent yet.”

“Well... if it saves ammo...” Haines says thoughtfully, then his brain works, “Why not? We'll try it out! Why, it could revolutionise animal husbandry – create mole rat farms!” And his eyes flash. “Why, there could be variants for other animals too – even these Super Mutants I've heard about!”

And Moira's eyes go wide as saucers, and I find myself saying, “Could have done with scorpion repellent when I came here!” and she bursts into giggles. Turned out it was more the idea of someone sending Super Mutants running with a stick than making stuff for shooing giant bugs that set her off.

“Okay, okay!” she finally says, “You guys go find some mole rats and try it out. Good hunting!”

As we turn to go my left hip plays up and I must have stumbled.

“Ra'jirra?” Haines grabbed me before I fell into the counter. “You okay?”

“Dunno,” says I, “But... look... Doctor... do you need me with you?”

I feel Haines' hand running around the left side of my waist and he brings it up red and sticky. “Not in this condition,” says he, “besides, I've survived four days alone, and I've encountered mole rats before. As a Scientist and a doctor, I recommend bed rest.”

There are people who think Ernie Haines was a fanatical sort, but sometimes he made good sense. This was one of those times.

And so we left Moira's and went over to 'my' place. Unsurprisingly people were talking about what happened earlier, but all I wanted was to rest up and follow doctor's orders. Just to add spice to proceedings the storm atronachs in my head were back and working themselves into a frenzy; being Arch-Mage and unofficial ambassador of the Empire, having a nervous breakdown in public wasn't a good idea.

“I'll be back in a couple of hours,” Haines said, escorting me to the bed in a small upstairs room that also sported a desk and cabinet. He had the decency to turn away as I painfully unpeeled the Talon body armour; fresh red streaks worsened the mess of my body fur.

“You appear to be wounded sir,” Wadsworth noted from the doorway, “may I suggest you seek medical attention?”

“I just need rest,” said I to the machine and more or less passed out until I was woken a couple of hours later by Haines dumping several books and a change of clothes on the table. New stains on his Talon duds smelled of gore and potions gone wrong. The atronachs in my head had at least settled their differences if not ceased hostilities.

“You might find these interesting,” explains he, “and there's something to wear if you're sick of that body armour.” And he grimaces. “Look, I felt the same way when I... left... the Vault. 'What the hell's happened to the world', sort of thing.” And he hefts the stick. “Anyway, at least mole rats don't shoot back – and you can eat 'em! Oh, speaking of which...” and out come more damn Nuka-Colas and some boxed foodstuffs.

“Find any mole rats?”

“A few,” was all he said, “I think Moira might be a little disappointed though.” And he frowns. “Either that or I'm hitting too hard.”

There was a basin downstairs next to another fridge, and I used it to wash myself after Haines left. The dribbling water was tepid and didn't smell too good, but at least it got most of the blood off. The scarring on my side had broken open, but that wasn't my main problem though.

Ever since I'd entered the portal, I had been hauled from one shock to the next. The radscorpion stabbing me in the arm. The ghouls. Radiation poisoning, and Moira's 'cure'. And nearly dying outside the Super-Duper Mart. Almost always accompanied by the angry young fanatic who insisted on being called Doctor Earnest Haines.

I needed a rest. I needed the chance to just take it all in.

And I needed to know where the strange sense of looming, gibbering madness came from.

Upstairs, I lifted my cracked helm and looked at it. Nothing to be done; there were no smiths here, I guessed. And if there were, they wouldn't know what the hell to do with it. I put the helm gently on top of the cabinet.

My new threads were a pair of blue pants, slightly too short, paired with a short-sleeved shirt, and fairly comfortable shoes. The whole ensemble was dirty, but that went without saying. Anything not utterly ruined was dirty in the Capital Wasteland.

Peering at myself in a broken and dirty mirror, I couldn't help noticing that, again, I actually looked quite spiffy. Earth people had good tailors!

Better still, my new garb meant that I could now take off, and have a good long look at, my Talon threads, since I'd be relying on them fairly comprehensively.

I laid out the bulky vest and the blood-crusted padded leggings on the floor downstairs, then had a think and laid out my ruined cuirass next to it, along with a selection of tools. The more I thought and the more I looked, the more I realised I'd have to visit Moira's again if my plan was to work, since I didn't have all the tools I needed.

So I forsook that, told an inquisitive Wadsworth to clean the Talon suit, and went upstairs and settled in for some heavy reading before lunch. I say 'heavy' since I had to not only decipher their alphabet, but also try to work out concepts and interpret local slang from the context.

Also, I had to winnow out useful wheat from the chaff.

Haines had been collecting books during his sojourns. Some were flimsy things that fell apart if you looked at them cross-eyed, such as one item entitled Guns & Bullets. It was also grimy and looked like it had been passed through innumerable hands. As I stumbled through it, I saw why: Once you took all the bardy bits out, there was a fair whack of useful information that could stop you from either breaking your weapon, or dying, or both.

The sheer speed of bullets is the main reason not even plate armour can withstand, say, a direct hit from a .308 'round', and why hits from other weapons can be so messy. On Earth, combat mainly involves trying to shoot the enemy without being hit – a nervy game of waiting for him to stop to reload, then popping out of hiding and hoping that he hasn't reached cover yet. In the open, it's running like mad, spraying bullets all over the shop and – well, you know.

All through the pages were pieces hawking all sorts of businesses and items, not all of which were guns. One page was devoted mostly to a painting of two victorious men returning home with their quarry in the back of a vehicle. I applied the great Ra'jirra brain to deciphering the Earth alphabet and discovered a new word: 'radio'. So that's what we heard blathering away on the other side of Laren's portal. Galaxy News Radio. Apparently this 'Chevrolair' 'pickup truck' boasted one, so you and your passengers would 'stay entertained getting there and back!'

After two attempts I gave up on a hardback volume of dreadful tales labelled True Adventure Stories of MEN Magazine, where men were men, women's clothes fell off, and foreigners were godless scheming evildoers ready to utilise thugs, drugs and exotic animals to further evil schemes that made less sense than Sheogorath at his craziest. Even Zul gro-Rubbish would have scoffed at them.

I dipped into and grimaced at the smugly arrogant racism of The Boy Scout's Guide to Defending America, which pitted American boyhood against just about everyone who either lived beyond their borders, looked 'Chinese', or didn't adhere to a surprisingly rigid set of cultural norms. For a culture that bandied the word 'freedom' around, they seemed rather leery of it.

I leafed with increasing interest through a 'scrapbook' of what looked like annotated clippings from other publications – a piece of paper glued on the front called it Resource Wars Coming 2050. (I think that was the year the collection was started.) Somewhere in there was the explanation I was after, buried in the mass of yellowed and singed scraps.

By the time I'd worked that far, I had collected a kaleidoscope of impressions, but nothing coherent. I was going to take a leaf out of Dagail's book and let my unconscious sort them all.

“The time is two pee-em sir,” Wadsworth said from the doorway, “May I assist with lunch?”

Lunch at two ('pee-em' had something to do with afternoons, I guess) was:

– something claiming to be a 'Salisbury Steak', a ghastly brown object which neither looked, or felt on the tooth, like any steak I'd ever had, cringing beneath a glutinous blob of gravy – and Wadsworth's heating it up didn't help;

– 'Dandy Boy' brand red wizened things claiming to be apples – and may have been at some point in the past;

– another gooey-feeling Nuka-Cola to wash them down.

I then had a rest while my innards debated whether my repast lived up to the claims on the boxes. It sounded like my stomach was on the affirmative side, supported by my sweetbreads, but my intestines and bum-gut were more than a little unconvinced.

Just when the debate reached its noisy height, I had my first epiphany.

(To be continued...)

[Remko]

This made me laugh:

I dipped into and grimaced at the smugly arrogant racism of The Boy Scout's Guide to Defending America, which pitted American boyhood against just about everyone who either lived beyond their borders, looked 'Chinese', or didn't adhere to a surprisingly rigid set of cultural norms. For a culture that bandied the word 'freedom' around, they seemed rather leery of it.

Or I am hitting too hard.......

I think it gets better and better.

[mALX]

Remko already got a perfect example, I loved all the reading material you described - but I think this tops everything for perfect visual producing descriptions:

– something claiming to be a 'Salisbury Steak', a ghastly brown object which neither looked, or felt on the tooth, like any steak I'd ever had, cringing beneath a glutinous blob of gravy – and Wadsworth's heating it up didn't help;

– 'Dandy Boy' brand red wizened things claiming to be apples – and may have been at some point in the past;

– another gooey-feeling Nuka-Cola to wash them down.

ROFL !!! Perfect!!! ...will R'jirra be heading to ... New Vegas?

[treydog]

“…complete with some sort of frighteningly green and potions-gone-wrong-scented glop all over it…”



Beyond that, if I quoted everything that I liked, I would simply copy and paste the entire post. mALX has already highlighted the excellent description of the “food,” and Remko notes the jingoism inherent in the “Boy Scouts Against the World.”

[Cardboard Box]

@Remko: The idea for the 'reading' extends on the existing jingoism that was permeating the FO3 universe, especially noticeable in the planned releases from Hubris Comics. Wait until Ra'jirra meets his first Grognak comic and becomes an art critic

Seriously, such a propaganda campaign makes sense, given the 1950s 'theme' of FO3. Ra'jirra and Quill-weave came up with a good metaphor to explain why to the Cyrodiilic public.

If plausible, I'm thinking of having the two pay a call to the Bethesda offices. They might find what's in there... interesting.

@mALX: This was actually a fun part, since I wasn't sure how to describe the sheer eeergh of eating two-century-old TV dinners!

@treydog: Now we know what the pong was from when they first met Moira The only problem now is that my autocomplete keeps suggesting that phrase whenever I mention 'potions'...

Seriously though, the big reveal/s are causing trouble to phrase in a natural sounding way. The first one finally resolved itself during my postie route today, so onward ho before I drop it...

[Cardboard Box]

[Righty. I've noticed I have more trouble with these contemplative chapters than the action sequences; I guess that's one of the dangers of plugging Genuine People Personalities into your computer game dollies.]

Rest and Rat-Catching (continued)

Said Temple priest,'O Farmer Fat!'
'Where be ye winter hay?
For Last Seed's nearly up and gone
And winter's on the way.'

The resources that kept Earth's civilisations running had become depleted – the 'Energy Crisis' they called it – just like the food ran out for Farmer Fat.

'Be off with ye!' said Farmer Fat,
'I see no winter near,
But only apples ripe to eat
Washed down with foaming beer.'

There had been people playing the Temple priest, and warning of this happening, something to do with inefficient machines or something. But most of the rulers had played Farmer Fat to the hilt, and the warning voices were laughed and shamed – or worse – into silence.

'No fright of future doom for me,
Begone O grim and glum!'
And off the Temple priest did flee
Pursued by clods of dung.

As the situation got worse, nation turned against nation – nowhere more so than between 'China' and the 'United States of America' – in attempts to corner the last few remaining resources for themselves.

The empires of Earth had poured everything they had into one staggering, world-spanning war – a grinding war machine that gobbled up the very resources that it was being fought over, even as the rulers continued to assure their peoples that their way of living would be preserved.

And what became of Farmer Fat?
His fam'ly merely say:
He made them all good victuals,
And kept the famine at bay.

Except spring hadn't arrived on Earth yet and maybe never would.

I sat on the edge of the bed and thought about that. What I'd seen this far was the ruin of a city, yes, but I had also seen the nearest river – a virtually dried-up remnant in the midst of an arid wasteland. With little wet and nothing green, how long would life live here?

Well, that was a question for another sage, and not for a homesick mage, and I went down and collected my not particularly well-laundered Talon duds and battered armour and trudged over to Moira's. Best to do something constructive while waiting.

Moira was inside, attempting to sweep the floor. There was this discoloured area she wasn't keen on standing in.

“Oh! Rajirrer,” says she a bit breathlessly, “has D-Doc Haines returned?”

“Nope,” says I, “Can you help me try something out?” Doing something constructive might help her too.
“Try something?” She looks at my bundle. “Like what?”

I look around meaningfully and she directs me to a sturdy table with tools on it. “Right then,” says I, “I want to take the plates off this–” and I put down my cuirass, “–and fix them onto this,” and drop the Talon gear.

“Giving up your right to bare arms huh?” She grins at me, then realises I don't get it. “Never mind. Let's give it a try then...”

Moira did have the tools I needed to remove the pauldrons and plates from the gousset. It took an hour to lift the pauldrons off, and Moira was fascinated by the mail left behind.

“Man... I thought these rings were welded or something,” says she, peering at them, “but I can see rivets!”

“That they are,” agrees I, “and all handmade.” I didn't think it necessary to mention that the hands most likely belonged to Ayleid slaves.

“Oh, these ones aren't riveted,” she then says, pointing at a patch.

“Well, I've had this suit for twelve years,” says I, “salvage from bowling some marauders. And there's been bandits, necromancers, daedra, assorted wildlife, undead, and Mannimarco. So I've had it at the menders a time or two.” Twelve years takes the rough edges off those memories.

“Who's Mannimarco?”

“King of Worms – wanted to destroy the Mage's Guild,” says I absently, measuring up the pauldrons against the vest. “How's the best way to fix these on?”

“Huh?” Maybe I shouldn't have dropped that list on her. “Oh – uh – we can try rivets I think. Or maybe if I drilled in some bolts or... Idea!”

“Idea?”

“Lemme get some old belts. That way if this Talon suit falls to bits, you can keep, uh, your bits!”

“What a good idea!” exclaims I; certainly I wouldn't have thought of it. Better still, I could take the bright Ayleid clobber off and stash it when stealth was required. There are all sorts of obstacles to moving around unseen and wearing bits of clinky metal is one of them.

So out come a swag of leather belts. “One of the good things about running the store is I get first dibs on the best stuff,” says she by way of explanation, “so I have plenty for my lab!”

As we measured, fiddled, cut and riveted together belts, pauldrons and lamés, Moira started talking about herself – how she'd been here almost all her life, about the terrible journey she'd endured travelling from Canterbury Commons to end up taking over the store, and how she wanted to improve the lives of people. “Like the Wasteland Survival Guide,” she wound down, lifting up the harness we'd developed and looking at it, “that's gonna be a real life-saver now I've got Doc Haines as an assistant.”

Apparently Ernie and his dad weren't the first to emerge from the nearby Vault 101. There'd been a scout twelve years before, but she'd disappeared. “Guess someone or something got her. But ever since then, I got to thinking that a book like this would be really useful, and... well...”

I assure her I'm listening.

“Well, look around at the world we live in. It may be okay to you, but I've read about what it used to be like, and this wasn't it. So we all need something that keeps us going, despite all the terrible things around us. For me, it's things like this book.”

“And the chance to make things better, right?” asks I.

“Hey, it sounds crazy when you say it that way, but that's what I'm aiming for, yeah,” says she, “The Wasteland Survival Guide isn't much towards that lofty goal, but it's an important one. Look,” and she's got that gleam in her eye and she's waving tools around as she speaks, “Did you ever try to put a broken piece of glass back together? Even if the pieces fit, you can't make it whole again the way it was.”

Yep. I knew that from boyhood experience. Not even the thrashing dad gave me fixed that glass.

“But if you're clever, you can still use the pieces to make other useful things. Maybe even something wonderful, like a mosaic.” That gleam was a flame now. “Well, the world broke just like glass. And everyone's trying to put it back together like it was, but it'll never come together the same way.”

I just listen and try the armoured harness we'd created for fit.

“Lemme give you an example. A couple months back, I was playing with an idea for an elevated brahmin feeding system, so they don't have to strain their necks so much. But the caravan master said, 'If it ain't broke, don't fix it.'” And she sighs bitterly. “Guess that applies to improvements, too.”

And up leaps Zenithar and gives it to me right between the eyes.

[mALX]

I always play along with Moira till the very end, then crush her dream and take that "Dream Crusher" perk, lol.

GAAAAAH! Zenithar?

[treydog]

This is a wonderfully cohesive chapter, with the musing and conversations on making things better. Especially insightful is the point that “fixing” may mean “changing.” The rhyme is a perfect bit of cultural crossover- the reason those lessons are still around is because they still apply. Zenithar--- hmmm.

This post has been edited by treydog: Dec 6 2010, 11:19 PM

[Cardboard Box]

[In my notes, I wrote 'Moira wasn't happy about the repellent'. How things dilate.]
Rest and Rat-Catching (continued)

“They just stopped,” I breathed to the rusty ceiling.

It would take later reading to understand – especially history books. Just over a hundred years before the Great War, Earth had emerged, battered and shaken, from the second nigh-world-spanning war in less than fifty years.

All anyone wanted to do was regroup and regain the happy societies that they'd left behind, and no more of this terrible technological advances undermining society, thank you very much.

I know I'm not explaining this very well, but in less than four decades the Earth people had gone from the mass array and the cavalry charge at the start of the first world war – it was drowned in mud and blown to bits – to unleashing the power of the atom and stopping the second one.

That sort of thing probably affects you. Imagine a nation of Kvatch survivors all trying to rebuild their old lives and forget that war ever existed.

They had stopped developing technology, at least on the surface. The scrapbooker had it – any new advances were hoarded in secret for weapons. But there was something else: a sense of self-satisfied inertia. They hadn't seen the need to adapt. They thought their way of life was perfect.

It wasn't just technological developments – for evidence, please see Notes on the Bureau of Technological Advancement, which worked to either hide, cripple or delay innovations. Society itself was frozen in amber – ways of living, ways of thinking, ways of worship of their single god.

Funny thing – their god didn't have a name. Most people just called him 'God'. Rather like a shepherd I met outside Kvatch. He explained his flock was named 'Sheep', 'Sheep', 'Sheep', 'Sheep' and 'Sheep'.

“You don't give them names?” asked I.

“No sor!” said he, “No point! They be too daft to 'member them for a start, so they wouldn't respond iffn ye call'm, and besides they'll be mutton soon enough.”

Some books of theology I read – such as PRAY! And Grow Rich – make me think some Earth folk treated God the same way.

* * *

“Who stopped?” Oh – back to the present. Moira was staring at me. And so I explain my little revelation and about my reading about the Resource Wars.

“So it's as though they just decided no more changes, we're perfect,” says I winding up.
Moira just looks at me thoughtfully.

“Maybe you're right,” says she, and absently reaches over and tweaks some of my straps. “Maybe I can put that in the book... Yeah! I'll rewrite the foreword!”

And she goes and sits in front of her contraption with the glowing green symbols.

“You write with that?” asks I, “What is it anyway?”

“This? It's a terminal... uh... which I got hooked up to a... a... um...” and she looks really uncertain. “D'you know what a computer is?”

“Nope,” says I.

Her explanation was tortured as she obviously was trying to explain something that was, firstly, so mundane to her she didn't know how to explain it, and secondly, she didn't know how it worked, just how to use it. Then again, I use alchemical gear all the time and I wouldn't know how to make any to save my life.

Earth people dealt a lot in information – files, paperwork, and their libraries when intact would have put even The Imperial Library to shame and made Tar-Meena think she'd died and gone to librarian heaven. So much so, in fact, they created machines to handle all this information in scales and ways unthinkable and impossible to us. And these machines they called computers.

Somewhere in the Wasteland, there was a central 'main frame' which people accessed from various points by means of devices called 'terminals'. At these terminals, you typed your instructions and data on a mess of push-buttons called a 'keyboard', rather like the keyboard of a harpsichord or one of those pianoforte things. And the results were displayed on what the engineers, with great imagination, called the 'display'. However, Moira had another gadget roped up to it she called a 'printer'.

And that was how her book was going to get from her head to paper – as long as there was paper to put through it – and as long as Haines didn't get himself killed doing the research.

* * *

Speaking of research, Ernie returned stained, spattered, toting a heavy metal metal box, and annoyed late the following morning. I know this because I heard my shack door bang open and his voice calling for me.

“I'm here, damnit,” I groaned, hauling the old carcass out of bed and lurching over to the railing, “What took you so long?”

The good Doctor Haines just scowled at me and waved the magic rat-scaring stick, which looked big enough to be called the Staff of Moira. So I will.

“Moira's precious repellent doesn't work,” he said disgustedly, “and then there were raiders.”

So I follow him over to where Moira's opening up for business.

“Oh, hey Doc!” Moira looked cheerful. “How's that repellent working?”

“Well,” Haines began carefully, putting his box on the counter, “The first three mole rats I encountered, the repellent didn't really drive them off, but their brains exploded.”

“Their brains... exploded.” Moira stared at him as though she thought he was mad.

“Just like I said,” says he, “I'd strike them, but they still attacked. On the second strike, what looked like mixed blood and brain matter was expelled through the ears, nose, mouth, and to a lesser extent the eyes.

“I had to suspend testing due to there being a raider base within the Tepid Sewer location. Once that was dealt with, I located another seven mole rats and, ah, resumed testing.”

He had a rummage in his increasingly leaky metal box and extracted a head that I assumed was off a mole rat. Now, imagine a regular rat's head. Double its size. Remove all the hair and add heaps of jowls, dewlaps and wrinkles. Squash the muzzle in and make the front teeth twice the size and three times as long. Paint the whole thing a burnt shade of pink. Congratulations! You've got no idea of just how hideous a mole rat is.

“As you can see,” Haines pointed out, “aerated blood and clumps of otherwise liquefied brain matter can be observed emerging from the ear and nasal canals, as well as leaking out around the eyeballs, causing the protrusion in this example, and also from the tear ducts, which suggests matter flooded into the sinus cavities.”

He poked one of the rivulets of pitted brown-grey ooze, which made a horrid crunching sound and – oh gods, I wish I could describe the smell!

“The repellent chemical seems to penetrate the skin with minor surface burning and swelling, and enters the bloodstream, thus arriving in the brain. Contact with brain material results in a violent chemical reaction producing gaseous sulphur compounds including hydrogen sulphide. The expansion of the gas results in the rupture of the dura mater and expulsion of partially aerosolised material–”

Moira finally found her voice. “AlrightwegedditnowputthatfuckinthingAWAY!” she gagged before clapping her hand back over her mouth. The new guy acting as store guard looked as green as she did – and I felt.

“But I'm not finished,” Haines protested, “I mean, if you look in the mouth–”

The guard bolted out the door.

“–you can see how the brain matter–”

Moira joined him faster than a Cheydinhal horse.

“–has flooded the nasal cavity–”

And I joined the other two puking over the side.

“–and also the... pharynx,” Haines finished rather plaintively from inside.

We ignored him and continued leaning over the rail until our stomachs decided it was safe to resume their posts. Inside the store, Haines grumbled and there was this disgusting splot, probably him dropping the head back in the box.

He then emerged from the store with his box under one arm. “One more thing,” he added, “the repellent does not seem to affect the meat. I speak from experience when I say that cutlets from the, ah, test subjects were quite nutritious.”

“Uh.” Moira's colour was probably still around her knees and rising. “Well, we don't... really need the... the head... I... reckon that's a dead end. Uh, research-wise.”

“Are you sure?” Haines was looking at her without actually looking at her. “I think this sort of Scientific research may be a great opportunity for taming the local wildlife.”

“No! I mean, I just wanted to drive them off or herd them, not kill them! If they could be domesticated...” and she trails off looking at where the box is dripping from under his arm and bolts inside, then came back out with an armful of chems – the Earth equivalent of potions.

“Look, keep the repellent stick, and take these for your trouble,” says she quickly, “they're left over from working on the repellent. Now, if you'll excuse me, I gotta store to run...”

And back in she vanishes, followed by the guard, who looked at us.

“Might be an idea to let her cool off for a bit,” says he.

“That's a good idea, actually,” says Haines to nobody in particular, then he looks at me.

“Ra'jirra, I'm off to meet Three Dog. Are you up to joining me?”

“That rat head isn't coming with us is it?”

[SubRosa]

I have not been able to keep up with the two Ra'jirra's. I just pop in now and then to read a post or two. This was particularly funny and disgusting! I especially loved the final line!

[mALX]

Disgusting...yes! There goes my dinner !!!! GAAAAH!!! ROFL !!!!

This post has been edited by mALX: Dec 9 2010, 01:01 AM

[Cardboard Box]

[And now for a chapter that's best described as "filler." Haines has his first thirteen goes at doing magic himself. And then there's a poor retelling of a meeting with Sentinel Lyons that never happened in my first game, and took me by surprise when it did this time.

I've also leaned on Haute Ecole Rider's work for the teaching session, and if the behemoth battle seems rushed... well, Ra'jirra can't recall everything. Also, I'm days behind my game, and I think 9 September 2277 has lasted over 48 hours. Strange...]

23-25 August 2277: GNR

As it turned out, the rat head stayed with us until the river, where Haines threw it in. A split second after it hit the water, something huge and hard-shelled surged up and made the head vanish.

“Mirelurk,” Haines said, and pointedly moved away from the water's edge.

We headed east again, towards the Super-Duper Mart and then further east still, into the dead city. He waved at a woman sitting outside a waterfront shack and she waved back. “Grandma Sparkle,” he explained, “her boys hunt mirelurks. She also said people are looking for someone, and maybe I could help them.”

“Looking for us, no doubt,” says I, “where are we going?”

“Georgetown West metro entrance,” says Haines, “via the Tepid Sewers, which we reach by crossing to the Anchorage War Memorial here.”

It wasn't hard to spot the memorial – the statue of three soldiers on top, the bridge right in front of us. I looked at the blackened craters in the roadbed and then at Haines.

“A most delightful experiment,” says he, “testing the effects of exposure to high-energy coherent light pulses on...”

“You shot some landmines with your laser pistol,” says I.

“If you put it that way, yes,” says he sniffily.

And we go up the top and over and down the other side. There was a brief swim before we reached a door in a low wall. “In here,” Haines said gruffly and in we go.

The walls were metal, but not scraps held together with baling wire and string as in Megaton, but purpose-made units fitted together. Pipes and things ran along the walls and ceilings, connecting machines of unknown use. I needn't tell you it was all coated in the predictable patina of neglect and age.

We stepped over mole rats, only some of which showed signs of the Staff of Moira. The others probably became dinner for the raiders. The metal dungeon terminated in a door opening onto a large tiled chamber with daylight scowling through metal mesh gates.

“We're in the Georgetown North metro station,” Haines explained, “But be careful. There's super mutants in the building facing the entrance.”

As if to confirm that tinny gunfire broke out from outside.

We carefully wriggled out of the gates and up the steps. And I got my first look at a super mutant.

Imagine a cross between an ogre and a muscle-bound Nord, but totally hairless and an odd green-brown colour. The whole creature seems to be bursting at the seams and permanently angry – as though they'd find walking through an Ayleid swinging blade trap relaxing. Got that?

And what you're envisioning is one of the weaker ones.

Anyhow, the super mutants were attacking somebody stage right. We peered over the balustrade and saw Talons. “Better them than us,” whispers I to Haines, who grinned at me behind his helm visor in response.

A broken Talon sailed off the second floor, and landed in front of us. Unfortunately the thrower stuck his head out to admire his work.

“You! Die! Now!” screams he by way of greeting and unlimbered what I had learned was a hunting rifle – it looked like a toy in those huge hands. Haines was quicker with his laser pistol and I absently lobbed a Firestarter with one hand and fumbled for the pistol Haines had given me with the other. With only sixteen arrows I had to learn how to use a gun if I was to survive.

The giant goggled at the pretty ball of light sailing towards it – until the fireball, accompanied by (mostly) Haines' and my shots, smacked into it. The beast howled and fled, its heavy steps clumping inside the ruin.

Haines pointed right, so right we went, arriving in a small square. Décor came from one of those Nuka-Cola machines and a trio of dead Talons. Being respectful of the dead we promptly stripped them of everything useful just as another Talon burst out of the building with our lightly singed super mutant in pursuit.

The mercenary saw us, and in that moment of indecision died, the mutant swinging a sledgehammer through his skull and down into his ribcage. I took a gamble and cast the killing spell, briefly shrouding the newest corpse in black and red.

“What the blazes was that?”

“Magic,” says I trying to catch my breath, “learned it from a chap in Bravil. If your victim is weak enough, it'll kill 'em outright.”

“Clarke's Axiom,” mutters Haines, “Look, Ra'jirra, could you teach me such a spell?”

Well. I have a think and decide that it's worth a go – after all, I could still fling the old favourites about, why not let one of the more important locals have a go?

“Righto,” says I, “we'll kick off with something useful: a healing spell. Tried and tested.”

“It doesn't involve prayer does it?”

“Nope, this one's only for light wounds. Now, imagine you're in a refreshing breeze.”

Ernie looked doubtful, but he closed his eyes. “All right...”

“Now, imagine all your aches and pains are clenched in your right fist, so tight they crush into silver light. Then lift your fist, open it, and let it go.”

Sounds simple doesn't it? But it took Ernie about a dozen goes before I even sensed the vaguest stirrings of magicka in, or spotted the faintest glow of healing magicka around, his frame. His face was red, his knuckles were white, and he was sweating.

“That's enough,” says I, “let's find shelter.”

“No, wait,” says he, “I think I felt something. And there was a sort of light...”

“I said that's enough,” snaps I, “you're wearing yourself out, and for all we know there's other uglies around. Save your breath until we find a place for the night.”

There were other uglies around. One was a super mutant that was bigger and better armed than the others we'd met, and he had what we later learned were called centaurs.

Centaurs still give me nightmares sometimes. Imagine several people all melted together in a semi-erect, tooth-studded, sluglike mass, dragging itself forwards on malformed hands, tongues flickering, and puking poison. Actually they don't look half as bad, but they weren't born that way.

(I'd explain how they're made, but I've been forbidden to do so by the Imperial Council, and I'm sure this chronicle will fall into the hands of a necromancer, a follower of Relmyna Verenim, or some other sicko who'd get ideas.)

After bowling the above-mentioned abominations we had a relaxing time in the Georgetown North metro station, killing raiders who were not distorted or malformed in any way whatsoever.

Well, all right, we had a relaxing time after killing the raiders.

“Well then,” Ernie said after the last raider died – something to do with me managing to hit the target with that damn pistol more frequently.

“Well then what?”

Ernie didn't reply, and up went the fist. The silvery spiral was more obvious in the dim light of the metro tunnel, but still pretty weak.

“Not bad, Haines,” says I, “you'll make Associate yet.” In a pig's eye.

“Ha,” says he, “ha ha. That was funny.” And he frowns as we make our way down a tunnel we hope will bring us closer to the fabled GNR Plaza. “I'll be honest with you, this magic confuses me. At first I thought it was some sort of technology, but what I just did was... just a visualisation. Wasn't it?”

“The visualisation's just part of it,” explains I, “it's a tool to grab hold of the Aurbis and bend its energies to your will. Seriously though,” and I look squarely at Haines, “I'm impressed you've managed that much. I thought this world knows nothing about magic.”

“Well, there's storybooks,” Haines muttered, but I could tell he was pleased, “and then in the Bible there are magical transformations, staffs into snakes, water into wine, stuff like that. But I originally though that was all fairy tales.”

And he looks at me. “Then you happened.”

“Me?”

He stops and glares at me. “You, your fireballs, your healing magic, that damned skeleton! I'm a man of Science and all of a sudden you come along flinging spells all over the damn place!” He shakes his head angrily. “All of a sudden I'm... I find out there's another aspect to the...”

And he trails off, peering into the gloom. I cast Watchfulness but there was nothing within a hundred feet.

“As far as you know,” says I carefully, “nobody on Earth has ever been able to do magic, right?”

“Well, no,” Haines stuttered a bit, but caught himself, “the only reports of magic or psychic powers have always been either fictitious or utterly unreliable. In fact,” and he preens slightly, “attempts to prove such powers by Science have always failed.”

“I wonder why,” and I really did. My hypothesis is that Earth people did so well with Science that they didn't need magic, so the knowledge died out. At the same time, this hypothesis doesn't wash. If they still had access to the Aurbis, surely there'd be the odd involuntary spell recorded, wouldn't there?

But there's all those mutants, suggesting something that, once again, I've been forbidden to share.

“Hang about,” says I, “What's this Clarke's Axiom you mentioned before?”

“I did? It's simple. 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'”

How witty. I'd have to discuss it with Daenlin next time I was in Bravil. My thoughts, so close to home, promptly shot over to Faregyl and S'jirra – then went up her skirt before I could stop them.

From Georgetown we found ourselves entering an immense hub, where metro tracks (or “lines” according to the signs on the walls) converged. Unfortunately so did a colony of ghouls. Killing them didn't help the air much, so the two of us chose a promising tunnel and headed for the surface.

Our tunnel took us to a station at Pennsylvania Avenue, and we gladly pushed past the gates to the sunlight. Then we heard super mutants stomping around. We gladly retreated underground again.

Haines was glaring at his Pip-Boy, which was showing the map. “We've gone too far southeast,” complains he, “We'll have to go back.”

So we did, finally delving to the lowest level of Metro Central and picking yet another promising tunnel. Right at the end, a raider outpost had been set up before a door reading DUPONT STATION ACCESS – STAFF ONLY. Past the door, we were surprised to find a natural cavern with a metal bridge just above the dirt floor.

“Must have been for moving heavy stuff,” Haines observed, kicking up a puff of dust. “Bet they took advantage of this place when digging...”

I was going to respond when a voice echoed from around the corner ahead. Watchfulness showed at least three raiders (from their postures) wandering around ahead. What it didn't show was the fixed gun (a 'turret') suspended from the ceiling, damn it.

Once the raiders were offed and the turret destroyed – apparently Mr Turret and Mrs Shock Magic don't like each other much – we headed upstairs to a small office, where Haines found a wall-mounted terminal. “It's that damn turret's control system,” said he disgustedly, “just when we don't need it any more.”

About five minutes and one rather dead sentry later – apparently his head ran into my mace at speed – Haines was more upbeat. “Night vision goggles!”

“What?” was my intelligent response.

“Night vision goggles,” says he waving a bulky, queer-looking metal mask in my face. “It collects and amplifies ambient light, letting you see in the dark!”

I try them on. The chamber around me sprang into sharp green illumination, but with no colour except green. “I'll stick to the Eye of Night,” says I handing them back.

“Fine,” says the good Doctor Haines slinging them around his neck, and away we go.

According to Haines' Pip-Boy it was about nine-and-half bells in the morning when we emerged in what Haines told me was a place called Vernon Square. Here the metro carriages actually emerged into broad daylight briefly before continuing on their routes.

“Ra'jirra!” exclaims he, “we could go visit Vault-Tec headquarters – they're right around the corner!”

So I grab him and haul him further into the tunnel mouth.

“Keep your voice down,” whispers I, “There's one of those damn mutant men about eighty feet away!”

And he just stares at me, and I mouth magic. The pinky cloud stood where it was for a while, then either billowed or shrugged and resumed walking. Or mooching. Or whatever it is super mutants do when they're not trying to kill or abduct people.

“Our mission is to reach GNR,” says I once I'm sure the mutant is out of earshot, “or had you forgotten that already?”

“Well...” Haines looked pouty. “I guess you're right. We know how to get there, it's just a matter of finding that violin later. GNR and Three Dog, then Dad, then we get that violin for Agatha.”

We scurried from one side to the platform to the other and once underground again, he explained about the lonely old woman he'd met on his visit to Minefield, and how she wanted Ernie to locate Vault 92 and a priceless musical instrument, a 'swah straddy-various'. “Still,” Ernie concluded, “let's finish what I've dragged you down here for first, eh?”

Amazing. He was almost considerate of me there.

Somewhat less considerate were the heavily armoured people who finished off several super mutants as we emerged from Chevy Chase station and promptly turned their guns on us.

Being sensible lads we put our hands where they could see them.

“Goddamn scavvies...” a woman grumbled from behind the armoured people, “I'll deal with this,” and her voice rose. “Look, I don't know who you are but you don't belong...”

The speaker was a hard-faced blonde, sans helm, who'd trailed off when she saw, well, me.

“You're damn right we don't belong here,” says I, “so we'll find GNR Plaza, have a word with Three Dog and get out of your way.”

She wasn't listening. “What the hell are...?”

I sigh and before I can snark, Haines speaks. “This is Ra'jirra, a Khajiit, and I am Doctor Earnest Haines–”
One of the other armoured men lowers his weapon. “The same one who disarmed the Megaton bomb?”

“Initiate...” the woman growls before Haines can even start preening, and the lad gathers himself as she turns back to us, “You don't belong here. The Super Mutants have overrun our brothers at the Galaxy News Radio building, and we're headed there to back them up.”

“Fine,” says I before she can continue, “and we can back you up. I know I'd be happy with the Arch-Mage at my back.”

And she just looks at me without any comprehension whatsoever, sweeping over our Talon duds, arms, and back to my face, my tail and my elven plate.

Then she shrugs. “You can tag along if you want,” says she distantly. “But keep your head down and try not to do anything... stupid.” She looks around. “Well, stop gawking and start moving people!”

So we all stopped gawking and started moving, Haines and I taking up the rear.

Whoever these armoured people were, they were prime warriors. An alleyway opened up to what must have been an automobile stable in front of a building – apparently a school, according to Haines – which turned out to be full of the big greenies – until the armoured people cut them down with brutal efficiency, while Haines and I provided some fire support.

“Damnit! Get back!” the hard-faced pilus spun and yelled at us at one point – just as another damn mutant came charging around the corner with a sledgehammer held high.

She yelled again as I sent Wizard's Fury over her head straight into the giant's face.

He didn't like that.

Haines boiled one of his eyes out with a well-aimed shot. He didn't like that either.

The woman brought her gun to bear and sent most of his jaw out the top of his head. He was so upset by that he dropped dead, and believe me he didn't half make a noise when he hit the ground.

“Brothers!” she yelled then, “get to the positions now!”

“What for?” asks I intelligently, “he looks dead to me.”

And she just stares at me and before she can reply there's another almighty crash – from points west.

“Oh,” says I, and she just rolls her eyes and wheels around and is haring out the north side of the building into a courtyard in front of a building bearing three symbols: GNR. Home of Three Dog and our goal.

And then Mehrunes Dagon smashed his way onto the scene to the left of us.

All right, it wasn't Dagon, but this super mutant stood a good thirty feet high at least. In one hand, twice the size of my head, it held a six-foot length of metal pipe capped with a squat round-headed object I'd seen standing in places on the road. Ernie later demonstrated how these 'fire hydrants' could be used for water. Given how firmly they were fixed in the ground...

...It wasn't surprising, in retrospect, that one swing from that dreadful mace literally smashed one laggard warrior's head clean off, sending both parts of him flying a good twenty feet.

The other warriors had established themselves behind fortifications on steps leading up to the building, and began opening fire on the giant.

All that seemed to do was make the beast groan like a falling tree, and get even angrier. Its club smashed into stone, sending chunks flying.

Haines goggled at the monster from where we were frozen in fear on the second storey of the school building. He eventually hauled out his pistol and started shooting at its head, before the beast finally turned and sent us fleeing with one wall-crushing swipe of its hydrant.

We huddled at the foot of the stairs and stared at each other through a cloud of dust, then back at where the titan hammered again at the walls before turning back to the warriors. Haines crept towards the ground floor doorway, raised his pistol, then paused. Turned to me and gestured me over.

“Fat Man!” hisses he, pointing at the headless torso.

“He looks trim enough to me,” is my intelligent response.

“No! His weapon!” That half-circular chute thing? “How fast are you?”

“Me? I was born under The Steed, why?”

“Er... While it's back's to us, run across and get that Fat Man and all the ammo you can! I'll go upstairs and distract it if you're spotted!” He's already moving upstairs. “Hurry! Run!”

My footsteps felt loud and leaden as I sprinted to the dead man. The behemoth hadn't noticed yet – three – two – one – Yanking at the straps holding the bulky dingus to the dead man. Big fat orbs with fins on the end – these are ammunition? - Oh gods that thing's turning around – one last strap that won't give – now it has – the great club turns the corpse into shrapnel –

“Now what the hells do we do with this?” screams I. The monster smashed its damn weapon into the school again, leaving a great crack in the wall. Apparently my blessings of speed had made the beast angrier, if such a thing were possible.

“Shoot these mini-nukes at it of course!” Haines waves one of the big orbs before retreating into the building. And the great Ra'jirra brain suggests that anything that could harm a beast like the one currently looking over the wall and giving me the stink-eye might need its space.

So I head over to Haines and watch as he props the dingus on his shoulder, slides a mini-nuke down until a little bell goes 'ching', aims, raises his aim, aims again and pulls the trigger.

All the contraption did was go chumpf! and send the orb arcing through the air and over the wall in a puff of anticlimactic vapour.

On the other hand, the mind-buggering explosion that followed – too bright to see, too loud to hear – was well worth three days' slogging underground for.

When the ringing in the ears and lights in the eyes faded the giant was clearly limping and making a noise like a bull who'd not only caught them both in stinging nettle, but got Molag Bal's affections as well.

Then there was another 'ching' – chumpf! – BOOM!!, and I saw a beast-shaped shadow topple out of sight.

And let me tell you, when one of those falls, it makes one hell of a noise when it hits the ground.

[SubRosa]

I always did like the Fat Man. I can see Ra'jirra does as well! Living proof to the old saying: "It's not over until the fat man sings!"

This post has been edited by SubRosa: Dec 16 2010, 09:09 PM

[mALX]

I just got one hour in on New Vegas, and this chapter made me so homesick to play Fallout 3 it isn't funny! Great chapter !!

[Cardboard Box]

[This next chapter ballooned in a way I hadn't expected. As such, I'm hiving this 3000+ word piece into its own chapter, since there's a couple very emotional incidents. Kudos if you get the reference.]

25 August 2277: Blowups Happen

“Now that's what I call an entrance!” The voice was familiar, a boisterous growl that came from the Redguard man hanging over the balcony rail. “Glad you guys could make it!”

“Glad to see you too Three Dog,” the warriors' leader called back, “but we had these two tag along.” Her thumb jab said quite clearly that she wished we hadn't.

“Those two...?” he peered at us through the ever-present dust and smoke. “Hey – is that Doc Haines in that mask down there?”

And Ernie pulls his helm off and I catch it before it hits the floor. “I certainly am,” says he arrogantly, “and I'm told–”

“Well hot damn! The saviour of Megaton himself heeds my call!” Ernie looks about to object, but Three Dog charges on, “Well c'mon up to the studio Doc, and bring your friend! We got a lot to talk about!”

And then I'm chasing Haines as he charges up the stairs hard on Three Dog's trail.

Three Dog's footprints led us into a large room festooned with machinery of all kinds, desks, tools and a humming smell like shock magics. Despite his waiting for us at the top of the central stairs, his voice came from elsewhere, enthusiastic as ever:

“The boys and girls of the Brotherhood of Steel continue to fight the Good Fight, folks. They've recently stepped up patrols in the downtown DC ruins...”

And I look surprised and Haines smirks at me thinly. “The wonders of Science,” says he, “in particular, the wonders of sound recording, but never mind that now.”

I think that made it two-all now Or did Haines doing magic make it three-two to him? And why was he all fidgety?

“Hey, it saves my lovely voice,” Three Dog agrees, “especially since as soon as repairs are completed, I wanna interview you... two.”

He's staring at me, especially my tail. “I'm sort of lost,” says I.

“That's Ra'jirra,” Haines adds shortly, shifting from foot to foot like there's a slaughterfish in his pants, “he's a Khajiit from Cyrodiil. Now about...”

“Woah,” Three Dog is still goggling at me, “this is gonna be... interesting.”

“Well, interesting or not,” Haines finally bursts, “I've been told you spoke with my father and I've spent three futting days grovelling through metro tunnels to get here now where is he!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Three Dog raised his hands and gave Ernie a look. “Smoke a peace pipe. Take a deep breath and count to ten. Whatever it is you need to do to calm down. You need Three Dog's help, and Three Dog needs your help. Let's get together and make it work.”

Haines was actually shaking so I step in fast.

“He's got a point, Doctor,” says I, “I think this man needs some proof you're trustworthy.” I cocked an ear. “Especially regarding this 'Good Fight' you're talking about in the background. Last time I heard that phrase, the Black Horse Courier was using it during the Oblivion Crisis.”

“You're one smart cat, y'know that?” Three Dog smiled at me behind his spectacles. “Sounds like you've fought a Good Fight of your own, so you know what's at stake. I got a problem I can't fix on my own, and, well–”

“I don't give a fut about your goddamn futting bullmerd!” Haines suddenly screamed and I had to pull him away from a startled Three Dog, face red and gods help us he was starting to cry! “You're blackmailing me!”

There were startled voices and clanking footsteps as Brotherhood soldiers entered the room.

Well, there was only one thing I could do wasn't there? I fetched him one across the face. Claws sheathed of course, but it took some control.

“Pull yourself together you fool!” snarls I into what now resembles a startled plum, “You're a man of Science, not a baby!”

“B-but I'm... I'm so c-close...” Lovely, he was whimpering.

“Three Dog,” asks I over my shoulder, “is there a cot or something he can blub his eyes out on?”

“Uh... through there,” points he and I deposit the shaking Haines on a much-abused mattress before returning to Three Dog.

“Sorry about that,” says I to not only Three Dog but the two soldiers giving us the puzzled eye, “but I know he's got some really pointy questions for his dad, so he's obviously wound up.”

“I can see that,” Three Dog shrugs, “but the Good Fight is bigger than him, his dad, or any of us. I'll do whatever it takes to keep the Capital Wasteland free.” And his face goes stony. “Whatever. It. Takes.”

“Do you want us to keep an eye on, uh, that guy?” one of the soldiers asks.

“Naw man,” Three Dog replies, “He's kinda upset or somethin'.”

And the soldiers nod and return to their posts.

“Hopefully I'll be found soon and I can get away from that idiot,” says I disgustedly, “I wasn't meant to come here but a spell went wrong.”

“You mean like a magic spell?” Three Dog looked confused. “Listen, I really need to ask you some questions, but until we come to some agreement there's no point.”

I remembered Gob and his radio.

“Like fixing your signal?” Somewhere Zenithar applauded. “In Megaton, someone said your signal's been merd lately.”

“Yeah, it's merd, and I'll tell you why.” Three Dog's face softened. “Galaxy News Radio is my baby. I love it, I feed it, I keep it changed. But there's one problem: no one outside D.C. can hear her cry. You see, some brainless Super Mutant thought it would be funny to shoot at the shiny round thing on the Washington Monument.”

“And you need someone to find a replacement.”

Three Dog beams! “Man O man, are you the cool cat! Yep! That shiny thing was our broadcast relay.” And his face falls. “Now it's swiss cheese. Without it, our broadcast range is... politely speakin', quite limited.”

“Not that limited surely?” says I, “there was a radio out near the Super-Duper Mart picking you up. In fact, yours was the first voice we heard through the portal before...” I trail off.

“I was?” He looks surprised and pleased. “Well, I've been told that's close to the edge of our range right now. With that relay in place, you'll be able to hear me all over the Capital Wasteland – instead of those Enclave cullyholes. More to the point,” and he leans towards me, “when your rescuers show up, wherever they show up, they'll be able to take a tip from ol' Three Dog about your whereabouts.” And he winks.

Assuming their portal opened up near a radio tuned to GNR of course. But a slim chance is better than none...

“Right then,” says I, “Where can we find one? Sooner we know, the sooner we get you up and running.”

“Oh all right!” Haines emerged from the bedroom where he'd been ear-farming. He still looked terrible, but at least he was resigned rather than hysterical. “Let's do this. After all, you need knowledge of Science to fix relays.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Somehow I doubt your magic will work.”

Three Dog looked a bit puzzled at us, then decided not to worry just now.

“OK then!” and he rubs his hands together. “My relay was the same kind they used on the Virgo II lunar lander when it went to the moon, and a little Brotherhood birdie saw said space vee-hickle over in the Museum of Technology. Go take that dish to the Washington Monument and plug it in, and come back and see me. I'll be brushing up on my interview skills. And you'll be going out live on air!”

“The Virgo II?” Haines actually perked up. “Well now! We'd better be off! Come on Ra'jirra! You're about to see what Science can do!”

Three Dog and I exchanged worried looks as Haines charged towards the door.

* * *

Haines had me worried. He'd made it clear before on my first night here that he held a grudge against his father for abandoning him, but that disgraceful exhibition in front of Three Dog suggested something else. He'd been increasingly manic as we approached GNR, recklessly endangering my life, then once inside he went off the deep end, hit bottom about the time I hit him, and now he was manic again.

If we did find his dad, I'd be ready to prise the two apart. I honestly wasn't sure if Haines, to use a crudity of Zul gro-Radagash's, would kiss'm or kill'm.

I don't remember much of our descent into those damnable metro tunnels again – I did note that Haines immediately went all business though as we entered unknown territories. There was a raider camp, which quickly became their necropolis, then Ernie gave a glad cry as he extracted a limp thin booklet from a corpse.
“Grognak!” cries he happily, “a Grognak number eleven!”

“What the hells is a Grognak number eleven?” asks I irritably, as Ernie switches on his Pip-Boy light and settles down on one of the bigger blokes to peer through it.

As it happens, Grognak number eleven is a chapter-book in a style called a 'comic': a story told through a sequence of small pictures, adorned with bits of text to show speech, sound, and at times tell you what was going on. Ernie had some copies of Grognak the Barbarian as a child, and fortunately I don't see such books becoming widespread any time soon.

* * *

To give you an idea of the type of story Grognak the Barbarian is, let me describe the cover:

The cover depicts, in pride of place, a dark-haired musclebound Nord (Grognak, no doubt), wearing a fur loincloth and brandishing a ludicrously large battleaxe over his head – perfect for letting his opponent run him through his unprotected torso. And I mean a ridiculously musclebound Nord. His calves are as wide as his head.

Another artist has drawn the foe: some sort of dragon or worm thing, the style of which pays attention to neither perspective nor proportion. In fact it looks like the artist cribbed it out of someone else's book – on gargoyles. The creature is evidently supposed to be rearing erect and threatening to attack.

Cringing behind Grognak the Overblown is a third artist's contribution: a nearly naked woman, evidently liberated not only from clothing (shackles aside), but any limitation of anatomy. Or gravity in the case of the bosom.

Was there a fourth artist? The sketchiness of the dungeon, or mountain range, or whatever it was behind them made it difficult to tell.

The legend on the bottom of the cover read: ESCAPE FROM THE LAIR OF THE VIRGIN EATER!

The story as I could make out followed on from previous editions, like The Argonian Account, and it seemed that the barbarian had entered some sort of temple to rescue a virgin sacrifice, and was now leaving, by dint of unlikely feats of agility, sneaking, and eventually bombastic, implausible and oddly bloodless feats of axemanship against poorly drawn monsters and fanatics in robes.

Then he ended up in dire peril prior to no doubt escaping again in episode number twelve.

And this was considered good entertainment for Earth children, as opposed to the Arena where real people fight real enemies with real skill and tactics, or a public execution, which is also entertaining if slightly less educational.

(I remember well when they finally did something about the Horn Cave Gang and made a public example of them at Bravil. You should have seen my dear little girls squeal and jump when the ringleader's head went rolling towards them... and their faces when I told them they had to give it back. But I digress.)

Actually, reading the thing made me angry. It wasn't the fact it was written and drawn by committee. It wasn't the moronic plot. It was the fighting scenes.

As any child knows, where people are fighting there's bodily fluids – preferably theirs – all over the shop: blood, merd, piss, tears, stomach contents, you name it. Yet in these pages Grognak sailed through bowling baddies without so much as a sweat stain. Maybe his axe was blunt. I asked Haines about it.

“Don't be ridiculous!” exclaimed he, “That sort of thing was banned by the Comics Code Association. It could corrupt children's minds.”

“And near-naked men and women wouldn't? Look Haines, that girl's clothing should have fallen to bits ages ago and the way they're running it'd be flapping about like flags in the breeze. Speaking of flapping,” and I poke a panel where Grognak and the Lady Whatsername are jumping from a ledge, “From that angle her womanhood would be on display for all to see. And I can't see a loincloth under his posing pouch either. But what really pisses me off –” I tap a combat scene. “In reality, that axe should be trailing intestines, maybe a kidney or two, and the floor would be soaked, making footing treacherous. This is rubbish.”

Haines looks murderous, but I keep going. “I'm speaking from experience, Haines. Melee combat – hells, any combat – is messy. And people have privates. And they fut. It's how the race survives. Why in the names of the Nine did your lot pretend otherwise?”

And his mouth flaps like a landed fish and I realise he didn't know. I wouldn't get even a halfpie decent answer for days yet. I wish the missionaries well.

* * *

Now, I made that digression because of what happened next. Haines started screaming at me.

Some of his screaming was about Science versus magic. Some of it was about the populace of Vault 101. A lot of it was about people like Moira and Three Dog and an Overseer of some sort being more or less mean to him.

There was quite a bit about us citizens of the Empire being 'arrogant futting barbarians' which might be right from a pre-war technological standpoint, but currently that was a wee bit moot.

But mostly it was a geyser of therapeutic raging, battering itself to death against the cavernous Metro walls.

And I just stand there and listen as he begins to run down like a broken Dwemer animunculus, sagging back onto his impromptu seat, face puce, breathing hard. Yes, I'd have hit him again if he'd got violent.

“Feel better?” asks I softly.

“No,” comes the sulky reply.

“Fine,” says I with no sympathy whatsoever, “Guess how I feel.”

And he stares at me.

“I'm trapped in a demented futting world where the inhabitants destroyed themselves and can't futting get over it and move on. I'm separated from everybody I love: my parents, my mother-in-law –”

Haines' face twitched but I charged on.

“– My wife, my three children – not to mention all hells could be breaking loose in the Guild and no doubt whatever the fut's going on up Skyrim way is heading south towards my family.” I'm starting to breathe hard too. “Worse, I'm sure I've been deliberately tricked into coming to this merdhole in order to help you and –” finally I managed to express my fear and anger – “Like as not I won't be allowed to go home until your gods-damned futting piece of merd task is done!”

Now Haines was gaping at me and I was the one upset and puffing like a bellows, blasting my frustration to the stony ceiling.

And it felt so good to let it out.

“You belong here,” I managed to continue when I regained my self-control, “I don't. Maybe it's because I was the Champion of the Mage's Guild when it was under threat. Maybe the Nine decided I'd be the perfect mentor for the Champion of Earth.”

“Ch... Champion of Earth?” Haines blinked. “M...”

“You,” says I, sagging to a nearby bench. “It all fits. Your father knows what needs to be done, I guess, he's gone to prepare the way. But he can't do it, so the mantle's fallen on you. So we have to follow him. And finish the quest. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Haines whispers, then gets up and walks off, murmuring to himself. I just sit there, wipe my eyes and watch as he wrestles with my big reveal.

Haine's and Zul's situations were similar. Haines may have been hounded out of Vault 101, but at least he didn't get jug trumpets like Zul gro-Radagash.

At the same time, Haines had no idea of what awaited outside, or why he had to flee, did he? Zul never found out what the charges were, but at least he knew what Cyrodiil was like outside and (eventually) why he was jugged in the first place.

“Culture shock,” Haines said as he returned to where I sat, “I think we're both suffering from it.” And he smiles, but it's a bit forced.

I just nod.

“I keep underestimating you,” he goes on, “after all, you're a very powerful... man... aren't you?”

“I'm the Arch-Mage. That's top dog in the guild. And I get to be bored to sleep on a regular basis in Imperial Council meetings. Yeah, I'd say I'm –”

And he breaks into song! “'The real tip top – Top Cat!'”

And I stare at him and he just grins and the next thing both of us are laughing fit to bust.

(I discovered a Top Cat Annual later on. Much cleverer and wittier than Grognak. Nicer to look at too. However, I did ask Haines to refrain from singing again.)

* * *

One metro tunnel led to another, and finally we emerged in what Haines told me was The Mall. Imagine a linear version of Green Emperor Way, but with roads on both sides, and the remnants of gardens in the middle. Now all they were were sad sundered masses of earthworks and trenches – and super mutants. Things only looked grimmer in the sunset light, but hopefully it would make it harder for the greenies to see us.

Behind us, a stern stone building wrapped heavy shadow arms around the metro entrance, and a female ghoul looked at us curiously through the smoke from a tobacco roll (Earth people call them cigarettes. I call them disgusting. Zul gro-Radagash calls them 'air sugar'.)

“The Museum of History,” says Haines dismissively, “we need to go further along.”

“Just watch your cloonies,” the ghoul woman grated, “the super muties're real pissed these days. Where you headed?”

She sounded like an Ashlander man in tight pants.

“The Museum of Technology,” says Haines, “why?”

“I've seen the big futters goin' in an' outa there a time or two, that's why. Like I said, watch your cloonies.”

And we look at each other. “Wonderful,” chorus we.

[SubRosa]

You should have seen my dear little girls squeal and jump when the ringleader's head went rolling towards them... and their faces when I told them they had to give it back.
Yay for Raj'irra's girls!

[Cardboard Box]

[OK, on with the catch-up. May as well get this done before I end up distracted by Slippery Elmer again. Or Rapture.]

25-26 August 2277: The Museum of Technology

The Museum of Technology was exactly the same on the outside as the Museum of History, but with different letters and ragged banners. Mercifully the super mutants didn't emerge or arrive as I opened the Eye of Night, Haines donned his goggles, and we crept inside.

Beyond the four columns holding up the foyer, the bulk of a super mutant stalked off stage left; another one could be heard stomping around, apparently on top of the balcony that ran along two walls further in. Haines crept right, then pointed at something on the ceiling, then off to the left.

There was a large staircase to the upper floor, beside it a round desk – and a well-lit doorway beyond – that Haines was pointing to. Haines pressed something into my hand, and I looked down to see the same contraption on a strap he'd used in the Super-Duper Mart. Haines took another, strapped it on his wrist, then pointedly placed his finger over a button. One click and he almost vanished from sight before rippling towards the door. These people had chameleon magics better than mine!

So what could I do? I strapped mine on, and pushed the button and scampered after him!

Inside the doorway I saw the entrances to privies, but I felt Haines tap me on the shoulder and I saw him ripple towards stairs. Sidling into the privies I cast Watchfulness and confirmed he'd gone upstairs. The stairs came to a small office, where Haines carefully stood and started manipulating a terminal attached to the ceiling. His mumbling began to grow frustrated until whatever he did to make the thing work worked.

Then he chuckled, and suddenly the turrets he'd pointed out burst into life. The greenies didn't like them at all and actually put up such a good fight that Haines and I had to creep down and finish them off.

“Hang on a second,” Haines said aloud, then shimmered into visibility as he stood up, holstered his pistol and ran back up the stairs. “Making sure the last turret doesn't go for us,” explains he as he came back down. “How'd you like Stealth Boys?”

I looked at the dingus and poked the button again. Nothing; evidently it was dead as a doornail. “Very nice,” says I truthfully, “better than anything I can cast.”

“Science,” says he proudly, and it occurs to me I need to pull something out of my hat because he's leading four-two.

Anyway with the mutants out of the picture – one of them was nothing but a pile of slightly glittering ash – we took the time to look around. There wasn't much. A few terminals, some food, and a lot of looted display plinths. Haines explained to me and my shaky grasp of the English alphabet that there had been an exhibition of modern weapons before the war broke out.

“There's a maintenance log on this terminal here,” he went on, “Let's see, problems with the sound, the planetarium's playing up, some nonsense about potty breaks... oh.”

“Oh?” I spotted another Stealth Boy on a plinth at the back of the room and pocketed it.

“They installed three extra reactors to power the... the Vault-Tec Vault... Tour.” Haines fell silent. “They made the Vaults, you know.”

“I'd never've guessed,” says I untruthfully, “What's this thing here?”

This thing here must have been suspended from the ceiling, but the bombs and two hundred years neglect dashed the device of wood, wire and cloth to earth. It seemed to have a central body, bearing an engine with a pair of large wooden blades or paddles sticking out. From the body, two cloth-wrapped arms jutted out either side.

“Eh?” Haines turned and looked at it sadly. “This is the Wright Flyer, Ra'jirra – the first ever heavier-than-air flying machine.” He cast about and read from a nearby plaque: “The aircraft above is the original Wright Flyer I designed by Orville and Wilbur Wright. On December 17, 1903 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, the vehicle performed its maiden flight for a mere 12 seconds, covering a distance of only 120 feet . This historic event marked the first sustained and controlled heavier-than-air powered flight.”

I stood there in more than a little reverence. These people of Earth had taken to the skies barely – I did my sums – one hundred and fifty years before the bombs smashed them into the ground again. Here was a piece of history, itself dashed to smithereens. I couldn't stop myself if I tried.

“How did it work?”

“Work?”

“Yes, work, Haines. I have a loon attempting to discover the secret of flight, but he's stuck up a blind alley.” I explain how Tarhiel met his end outside Seyda Neen.

“Well!” Oh, if only I could emphasise the arrogant smugness in that word! “It's quite clear that your magic has failed you.” Oh, how I wanted to clock the lidgie! “In the interest of saving lives,” and he straightens up, “let's head over to those desks. I need to draw you a picture...”

I still have that picture, scribbled in blunt pencil on a sheet torn out of an accounting book. It's a matter of balancing forces, and keeping up a decent head of speed. The Wright Flyer was the first ever 'aeroplane' flying machine, following on from the barely controlled 'hot air balloons' and gas-bladder 'airships'. I have every confidence that soon the enemies of the Empire will regard our skies with rightful fear.

Once Arondiel gets his head completely out of Tarhiel's... influence.

We explored some more. There were two more Stealth Boys in an upstairs corner, in front of two collapsed hallways. So much history, so much knowledge, lost. “I feel like I'm stuck in an Ayleid ruin,” I groused at one point.

“Well, let's get the damn dish and get out,” Haines responded as we walked along the balcony and turned into a vestibule – a vestibule that opened into a cavern surrounding an immense cog-shaped door.

Haines slowed, then stopped, staring at it. Lights bumbled ineptly on, and a tinny voice declared, “Vault-Tec welcomes you to our new line of subterranean vaults, featuring our patented Triple-S technologies.”

I gave Haines the elbow and reminded him, “Might as well go through, we can't go 'round.”

“Triple-S technology is Vault-Tec's convergence of the three most important parts of apocalyptic endurance: Safety, Survivability, and Sanitation!” the long-dead shill added.

“Yes,” Haines said softly, “yes,” and he totters through the massive door. Now when I say massive, I'm not talking big. I'm talking about something that's really one huge chunk of metal, a good two feet thick and more.

“Sleep in quiet comfort,” the shill warbled as we entered what I guessed to be the guardroom, “knowing that our impenetrable vault doors can withstand a direct hit by an atomic bomb, with only a two per-cent failure rate!”

The great Ra'jirra brain knows that a one-in-fifty chance of breach isn't 'impenetrable.' I guess people weren't so fussed, more like scared enough to grasp at straws. Then again, I've seen idiot bandits assume that their heavily used gear will provide one more go – and then proven wrong. And I love it when that happens.

Curious, I invoked Starlight and looked around.

Haines' vault was probably in much better nick than this mock-up. Heavy mortar walls on metal frames; metal plates beneath my feet. This definitely was a guardroom; the floor was split-level, so entrants were funnelled between two possible fronts of defence. An alarming contraption depended from the ceiling, which Haines identified as the machine that opened and closed the immense cog-shaped door. Beyond, a rectangular doorway opened upwards to a corridor.

“There should be utilities here,” says Haines in a queerly lost voice, “Vaults have utilities here.”

As we headed down the corridor towards a set of windows, the shill spoke from a box near the ceiling.

“Being underground gotcha down? Smile! Our Simu-Sun lighting mimics the feeling of being outside – with only a fraction of the sunburn potential!”

Oh happiness and joy.

Haines silently stepped to a window, peered into the gloom, then pressed a button on a once-bright yellow box. Decayed furnishings were lit and the shill burbled. “The living sections make use of our revolutionary Floor-Suck auto-cleaner system, for those darn messy kids. Never sweep again!”

“Never sweep again?” says I, “My wife would like that.”

Haines didn't answer, he just continued to walk down the corridor, ignoring the shill's assurances about how marvellous and safe Vault life was. Another window, another button showed chairs flanking a bulky metal magic lantern, displaying a picture of a man riding a goat.

“Bored? Don't be! Step into our Entertainer-tron room and watch the latest holotapes,or perhaps listen to a symphony. Another Vault-Tec innovation!”

“General Occupational Aptitude Test,” says Haines softly. Huh? Oh. The goat. Cute. He stared into the darkened display for a long while, then walked on, morbidly prodding yet another button.

“Moms will love our Cool-in-ate-er 3000 kitchen system makes cooking a breeze! Mmm, I can smell the muffins baking now!”

“Mom...”

I almost didn't hear Haines whisper. There are worse kinds of ghosts than those you find in good honest ruins and this place was full of them. “Let's keep moving,” says I and move forward to a door atop stairs.

“Concerns about security? Our 'Eye on You' cameras enable the Vault's leader to watch your every move. You'll never be alone again!”

Haines suddenly pushed past me and fled out to the balcony beyond, then leaned on the rail. I approached a tad slower. Eventually he pulled himself together and “Well now,” Doctor Haines was his preferred self again.

“You're not getting homesick are you?”

“Homesick?” And he gives me a look. “I have a home of my own... you know...”

And I just wait. Let him tell me if he wants.

“Some people always said I didn't belong.”

“I know the feeling,” thinking of Jarol.

“Butch and his Tunnel-Snake buddies. Officer futting Wilkins. God, I hated that lidgie. And... and...”

There was a lumbering clump off to the left. We both froze and stared at a shadow in the frosted windows of two double doors.

It took me a full two seconds before I thought to dispel Starlight and Haines to draw his gun.

“Somethin' there?” Super mutants are not known for fair speech. In fact it's almost like they're constantly constipated.

I began to slowly sidle toward the exit of the Vault-Tec exhibit; Haines stared then understood.

“What?” The hulking shadow sounded annoyed.

“What you doin'?”

“I thought I heard somethin'. There was a light.”

Pause. “I don't see nothin'.”

“That's 'cos you weren't lookin'. You dumb as a human.”

“And if there was a human, our guys out there would kill 'em! So there's nothin' there.”

“Ah stop talkin' so much! You make my head hurt!”

And we crouch there and listen to two sets of heavy lumbering idiot footfalls moving away.

To be continued

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jan 9 2011, 08:15 PM

[SubRosa]

So Haines is feeling homesick, as suddenly all the memories of the not-so-good old days in the Vault came back to him. I could almost feel sorry him. Almost. But he is such an boat that I just cannot scrounge up the feeling.

The Super Mutie talk at the end was classic of the knuckle-draggers! "I was thinking, and it hurt!"

[Cardboard Box]

[And the second half cometh. I've been sweating over how to describe the radio interview with Three Dog - after all, Ra'jirra alone is fascinating enough - and then there's the fact that in-game I didn't visit Rivet City for another five days. The more I think about it, the more complex Ernie's relationship to Dad becomes...]

After a long tense wait, we crept through the doors into the West Wing. We were on a balcony, overlooking another flying machine, this one made of metal and more sophisticated than the Wright Flyer. Immediately off to my left, what turned out to be another flying machine, this one not only driven forward by its engines, as I would later learn, but directly held aloft by them.

Right in front of us were two sets of great footprints, leading off leftward to a shattered pair of doors. We looked at each other, then moved right, heading down a flight of stairs.

The chamber was split in two by rubble. Evidently there had been a wall of some kind erected, but now it had collapsed. Beyond it, a bulbous object with a porthole rose overhead.

“That's the Virgo II,” Haines whispered, “so we go this way.”

This way led to a circular chamber with a domed ceiling. A ramp led downwards to meet two others in the middle, where a small plinth held a dumbbell-shaped object that looked as though it could be moved. Between the ramps, terraced levels, which no doubt once held seats, made stairs for giants. Across from us at the top of the seating an ornate-looking thing like an altar presided.

“Is that some sort of orrery?” The whole edifice wasn't as grand as the Arcane University's, but its shape and design rang a bell.

“It's the planetarium,” Haines was looking annoyed, “It, ah, displays the night sky, stars, planets, like that.”

“Fine,” says I, “it's an orrery then.”

“No, a planetarium. As in, educating people about the stars and planets. Not about, oh, magical forces or whatever.”

“Watch it Haines,” says I, “I was born under the Steed, which is why I'm so fast on my feet. And since it displays the night sky on demand, and I bet also allows you to turn and twist it at your pleasure, it's a frigging fancy orrery.”

And he gurgles incoherently at that until a voice disrupted proceedings.

“For as LONG as History has been reCORDed,” the voice intoned bombastically, “Man has had an inSATiable hunger for knowledge regarding the Universe!”

And we freeze. Behind us, a door squeals open. Somehow we'd set off the orrery machinery!

“Up there!” Haines hissed, pointing to the altar thing. I don't hesitate, I'm away bolting for cover. Turns out the altar is the control system for the orrery – and it's broken.

“To understand why Man is so INterested in this unknown expanse of Space around our world –”

Right now we were more INterested in the known threat lumbering its way downstairs. Make that both of them. Thank you very much, oh long-dead and overcooked announcer.

“– We must take a journey.”

Haines is lagging behind laying mines before taking a journey at speed to where I'm crouched behind the control panel. The central contraption has spun into life as the lights dim, projecting star patterns. More interesting is the pattern of light and shadow where we entered. It looks like two super mutants, or one super mutant with two heads.

“Please! Sit back, relax –”

Oh dear. Walking on a landmine can't be all that relaxing.

“– and free yourself –”

Another almighty bang and the front mutant bled out from what was left of his groin after his hip gave way.

“– from the BONDS of our planet –”

His off-sider screamed angrily and levelled an assault rifle our way. Worse, this one deliberately stepped over his mate's corpse, skipping the remaining mines completely.

“– as we take off for the s-stars –” the recording crackled, then stuttered, then fell as flat as we did. Rifle rounds whizzed overhead and gouged walls, the controls, and the star-flecked ceiling.

I jumped up and flung Firestarter at the beast, which I noted was wearing what looked like a helm that had been split open in order to fit that fat green bonce. Again, the monster gaped at the approaching fireball – but this time it jumped to one side.

A smart super mutant. Wonderful.

Haines was scampering away, his laser pistol out and stabbing into its bulk with a smell of cooked flesh. I got the idea at once and headed the other way, grasping the lightning and sending it into the mutant's chest, before clawing my little pistol out of its holster and sending several shots anywhere near it.

And that was pretty much the fight. After the creature finally gave up the ghost – not literally, I didn't have any soul gems – Haines holstered his gun and stalked over to me.

“Would you mind, next time,” spits he, “considering actually, oh, aiming at the enemy?”

“Whoops,” says I, “Sorry about that.”

Haines used a selection of rude words, but he was concerned about my apparent lack of competence regarding firearms, since it appeared that it not only affected my aim but also the efficacy and safety of pincer manoeuvres, and perhaps I should consider a little target practice after we finished our business?

I got a bit tired after the second chorus and laid Convalescence on him. “There, I healed it,” says I, “better?”

Haines just looked at the new tissue where one of my bullets had clipped his arm. Then he remembered where we were and closed his jaws. “Well,” says he stiffly, “I accept your apology.”

And he turns and stalks down to the corpses and starts stripping them.

“This one with the assault rifle,” says he, “I swear it's bigger than most of the super mutants we've seen before.” He was right. This one was a foot taller and even more overstuffed than normal – and the standard super mutant looks like it's fit to burst.

“D'you think that giant outside GNR Plaza was once one of these?” asks I pointing at the body.

And Haines looks at me with wide eyes. “You mean these could keep growing until...” he shudders. “God, I hope not.” And he picks himself up and advances on a door.

That was locked, but the other one wasn't. Inside that was a small office featuring a number of nice things including a terminal that unlocked door number one, and a luminous blue bottle.

“Nuka-Cola Quantum!” Haines snatched the potion and gazed at it. “It was all-new just before the war.” And he packs it away, adding, “Get a pretty cap for it, I'll bet.”

Through the unlocked door we found ourselves in a small corridor that no doubt led straight to Virgo II. Unfortunately it also led to the source of super mutant noises. Haines tried a side door and the two of us crept into an upstairs room full of machines.

I peered out the windows, which were made of glass somehow formed around metal mesh. It was amazing how the Earth folk managed to create such huge flat panes of glass. Haines meanwhile was fussing with another terminal until the turrets beyond spun into life.

“That'll fix 'em,” Haines said happily over the gunfire, just before two loud bangs stopped play.

“That was too easy!” grated a voice.

Haines used yet another rude word and carefully reloaded.

I kicked open the door and beheld the ungainly structure that was the Virgo II. Hard to believe men landed on the moon in that. “Hey fetcher!” I yelled at a startled super mutant before hitting him with Spark and running.

Gunfire parted my mane as I ducked back into the orrery room, followed by two bangs, then a third, which did for mutant number the first. Then mutant the second charged in, limping slightly but still grasping its rifle – but Haines was waiting for it. The first shot made it flinch, the second made it howl and clutch at its face as blood spewed from an eye socket, then I ducked in and smashed its gun hand with my mace. The beast howled again and backhanded me, but the delay was enough for Haines to run forward and jam a hunting rifle in its ear. When that thing went off, it probably sent the mutant's eardrum clean out the other side.

“You all right?” Haines asked.

“Am I lying down?”

“Yes...?”

“Well, in that case I'm all right, since those stars I'm seeing are from the orrery.”

“It's a planetarium!”

* * *

“I thought it went quite well,” I said into the stony silence.

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. Then an exciting 'elevator' ride to the top followed by the anticlimactic replacement procedure, followed by an afternoon slog underground back to scenic GNR Plaza and a very excited Three Dog.

Sure, Three Dog had quizzed Ernie on 'just what it's like down in one of those Vaults', and the result was a magnificently boring spiel of almost carefree childhood followed by a routine of work – which ended bitterly with his father's vanishing act.

“Dad,” said he carefully, “If you can hear me... please get in touch. You, uh, we need to talk Dad. Urgently.”

“Seconded,” Three Dog said solemnly. “Folks, if you see James out there, give us a shout. GNR is gonna reunite father and son... with your help.”

Haines just looks at him. Three Dog promised to tell where his father went – but first this interview. Three Dog might act slap-happy but that hid one manipulative swine.

“Arch-Mage Ra'jirra,” Three Dog turned to me, “I know you've explained this already, but I just don't get it. You seriously got here by... magic?”

“Oh God,” Haines buries his face in his hand.

“Certainly did,” says I, “And here's a demonstration,” and I stand up and haul Mister Bones out of the Aurbis.

“Holy –” Three Dog gaped at Mister Bones who glared back with a what-the-hells-are-you-gaping-at pose. I pointed at the microphone and Three Dog regained his voice.

“Ch- children – oh man – you, are... you're not, g-gonna, believe this. Ra'jirra just... stood up, and made this skeleton – which is standing on its own – appear outa nothin'! Folks... I am in awe. I thought Paladin Lyons was pullin' my leg or had a bang on the noggin when she told me Ra'jirra here fired some kinda magic beam into a super mutant... nope.”

Haines was smiling thinly, enjoying Three Dog's discomfort. I took pity on him and sent Mister Bones away.

“Now you see it... now y' don't.” Three Dog stared at me as I pulled up the pew again. “Ra'jirra, just what the hell are you doing here?”

I took a breath. “I'm here because of an experimental transport spell, which went very wrong. Instead of opening outside the laboratory, it opened up in a building west of here.” No need to speak of gods and fates. Part of being Arch-Mage is knowing when to spill the beans and when to keep them in the jar.

“A raider came through and, well, raised havoc. We captured her, but she escaped, killing one of our more promising mages as she did so and stealing Mage's Guild property. I was chasing her, and the portal... failed before I could go home.”

“Whoa.” Three Dog was well out of his league here, I could tell. “Just for the record, what sort of stuff are we talkin' here?”

“A mage's staff,” says I, “enchanted to destroy weapons. Not that that's important. What's important is that if anyone runs into any other mages, tell 'em I'm based in Megaton.” And then inspiration strikes. “And tell 'em to stay tuned to Three Dog and GNR Radio.”

Haines is looking at me like I just crawled out of the privy, but stuff him.

“Damn straight!” Three Dog gives me a thumbs-up and leans into the mike. “So children, if you see any other freaky dude waving wands or swords or whatever, they're probably lookin' for Ra'jirra here. Send 'em to Megaton. Better still, stay tuned, keep up with the news, and tell 'em where Doctor Haines and...”

“Arch-Mage...”

“Arch-Mage Ra'jirra have got to. They might catch up to 'em coming back... or be in time to lend a hand.”

* * *

But that was hours ago, and we were now in Haines' house, sitting on his couch, he with a Nuka-Cola and I with a bottle of red wine. I'm not proud of it, I felt that a little relaxant was needed. And to fill the chilly silence I got up and flicked on the radio.

“...about America. All they care about is fulfilling their own selfish desires,” said a patrician voice, “Let's take a tally of these agitators, shall we?”


“That damn thing only receives Enclave radio,” Haines said irritably.

“...the Raiders. Those anarchistic ruffians who roam the wastes, preying on any and all, stealing, murdering. Beasts.”

And both Haines and I agree with the speaker.

“The so-called 'Brotherhood of Steel.' Don't be fooled by their pseudo-knightly nonsense or supposed connections to the United States Army! These power-armoured boy scouts are nothing more than common criminals with access to some antiquated technology. Criminals who have had the audacity to claim this country's most important military installation, the Pentagon, as their own personal clubhouse!”

And we look at each other.

John Henry Eden (as the speaker turned out to be) went on about the slavers at a place called Paradise Falls, before dropping a brick on us.

“But there is another issue. We have received information, albeit unconfirmed, that we have a foreign dignitary in our midst. I am of course referring to Ra'jirra, the Arch-Mage.”

And we look at each other again. Evidently this bloke's radio picked up more than one signal.

“This man can rest assured that the Enclave are ready and willing to do what we can to ensure his safety, and are willing to enter into talks with Cyril-dill to ensure mutual understanding and goodwill,” and other insincere prattle followed before a brass band launched into a military tune – prior to Haines leaping up and switching the radio off.

“I hope you're not taking that seriously,” says he.

“Not after what Three Dog said,” says I. Three Dog had been quite blunt; his precious Good Fight was apparently against the Enclave and what they represented. My parents came east from the New California Republic... I heard the Enclave wanted to just wipe everyone out... Now they're set up here with their brahmin and they're feeding us the bull.

“What about your friends?”

That was what worried me. I'd been dumped here without knowledge of the political landscape. Now my experiences of political landscapes are brown and lumpy, but this was another order of magnitude. And no doubt Laren and friends were trying to poke holes to find me... well, I'd done my bit. The only problem was...

“What if they find your father?”

“Father.” Haines' face was a picture. “We'll have to cross that bridge when we reach it.”

“And when's that? Tomorrow?”

“I don't know.” Haines frowned. “I'll be honest with you: I need to know more about what life is like out here. Besides...”

What's he being evasive for? We knew where he went. A place called Rivet City. Haines knows where it is, it's marked on that Pip-Boy, so what's the hold-up?

“The hold-up?” Oh damn! Spoke aloud. “The hold-up is: I don't know enough yet. I'd like to make sure my work with Moira's done before devoting myself to finding father.”

“Spoken like a true mage,” says I in as neutral a tone as I can manage.

Haines just looks at me. “I can't put anything past you can I?”

“Nope.”

And he sighs. “You're right. I mean... Dad's probably okay, safe in whatever Rivet City is. And someone's bound to tell him about... if he wasn't listening... maybe I should just... let him come to me.”

There was more to it, but I was feeling tired, not just from the wine, but from being up for the better part of two days. The two of us made our excuses and Haines showed me the trapdoor in the kitchen to a basement where there was some scientific gear and most importantly a bed.

I'd watched his face as he pleaded 'on air', as they say. He was nervous, but not just from being heard by an unseen crowd.

I pondered why a son should fear his father so as I drifted off to sleep.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jan 13 2011, 08:05 AM