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

[Cardboard Box]

[Interlude time! In-game, Ra'jirra and Ernie are about to get sidetracked, but I've been neglecting what's going on back home. This came to me just this morning while on my postie route.]

Interlude: You had me pose in the nude to model for a...?

With-Teeth thought of himself as being tough as a daedroth, something to do with toting a genuine daedric battle-axe and willing to use it. That the axe's previous owner had simply purchased it from Slash & Smash, and wasn't strong enough to wield it properly when in combat with With-Teeth, was beside the point.

Unfortunately, in more recent times, the appearance of a supply train where no supply train had any right to be had pricked his curiosity. By the time he got a good look at its destination, Black Plateau had already had a good look at him. Subsequently With-Teeth found himself cooling his heels in the cells.

The mystery smoothskin female had been mildly entertaining while she was there, and he hoped she'd made her escape. Unfortunately, his escape was currently being hindered by being shackled to a chair, flanked by two unfriendly guards, and smiled at in a creepy way by an elf.

“Right then,” the Mer started, handing a potion to the guard on With-Teeth's right, “We'll commence testing with the soft pills.”

“Pills?” was With-Teeth's quite understandable response.

“I suppose I should explain, shouldn't I?” the Mer explained cheerfully, “You know how potion bottles break when you don't want them to, right?”

“Er...” the Argonian eyed the plate the evidently mad mage was placing before him, “right,” he decided to humour him.

“Well,” the elf extracted something small, pinkish and egg-shaped from a pouch and placed it on the plate, “we found a way around that. If you remove all the water out of a potion, you get a residue – all the essence of a potion, you see?”

With-Teeth desperately wanted water. Lots of it. So he could dive in and swim away from this place, and especially this lunatic wizard.

“So in theory you could carry the powder in a little pouch, and when you need it – just add water! Except in battles. I mean, 'Pardon me sir,” the Mer adopted an upper-class accent, “could you kindly cease stabbing me for a moment while I mix up some healing balm?'”

With-Teeth's fearful whimper was drowned out by the guards chuckling.

“Exactly. Now, you know that strange woman who was here before? Well, she had some tablets on her, which turned out to be powdered potions! So I wondered, how could I make those?

“Well, I know that flour paste works for some, but reacts with others, which isn't good, but don't worry! You'll be helping me test these pills made with marrowbone jelly. Softer, but they should be easier to swallow, don't you think?”

If the Argonian had been a Khajiit, his ears would have been lowered in fear so far they could have met below his jaw. As it was his colour was almost bleached from his face and his eyes looked fit to fall out of their sockets.

“Anyway, this is a healing pill. Just like a healing potion. Or it should be, if my recipe's aright... So, would you..?”

The guard on With-Teeth's left grasped his left arm and drew his dagger.

It was about this time that With-Teeth started screaming and voiding his bladder uncontrollably.

[Cardboard Box]

Well, it took long enough for my muse to return. Here's another round of the Ra'jirra and Ernie show.

5-7 September 2277: Good Intentions

“I hate you,” Ernie sulked at me as we wended our way past, and at one point through, the super mutants of the Mall en route to the National Archives.

“What?” asks I, “That nice old man wants to preserve the important documents of this world. And that means finding the Declaration of Independence before some greenie uses it for tinder.”

“That fool claimed it was transported by plane! They didn't have aircraft back then! What else could he be wrong about?”

“Keep your damn voice down,” urges I, “my danger-sense is tingling.”

Fortunately the danger in question was far enough away that we were able to reach the entrance without being molested.

The National Archives was elevated above the common buildings by a great set of steps, the circled stars and serried bars still drooping between the almost Ayleid-style columns. The Earth folk took their founding documents seriously.

Inside the air smelt of fresh burning. I look hard at Haines and he looks at me and we ready our weapons in case the Bad News Bears are back.

Behind a crumbled wall bearing a wrecked portrait, there was a door, light and a little smoke emerging. Above, metal letters spelled ROTUNDA FOR THE CHARTERS OF FREEDOM. This place was feeling more and more like a temple by the minute.

The rotunda itself only strengthened my belief. It was almost exactly the same proportions as the Temple of the One! However, it was also larger, and now had fires burning in barrels, over which someone had been cooking something hairy on a stick, before abandoning lunch and diving for cover behind some sandbags before seeing us.

“You cullyholes!” she yelled angrily, “You made enough noise coming in here to wake the dead, for God's sakes! Just be ready, the Muties are coming!”

And we just look at each other, then back the way we came because things went bump in – well they went bump anyway, night or not. Super mutant sized bumps at that.

And Haines goes and grabs some mines, and I grab a nice spot behind some ancient sandbags, and I cover him as he scurries about laying those non-bouncing borbas outside the doors and in, before racing to join the mystery lady and I as the mutants appear.

“Don't shoot the first wave!” yells I.

“What?” is the smoothskins' intelligent response.

“They'll hit the mines and slow everyone up!”

Apparently they understood, as the forerunners not only stepped on mines, they ended up acting as bleeding, moaning impediments to the other dozen monsters that tried to get in.

It was a slaughter for about two minutes before the beasts finally managed to push their way over – thankfully they didn't think to use their fallen as shields – and about ten minutes later we were shaking our heads to clear our ears of the sound of gunfire. The air in the great round chamber reeked of blood and gunshot, the stench curling in the few shafts of light poking their way through the roof.

“You must be Doc Haines and that Ra'jirra guy,” the woman said once we all could hear ourselves think again, “You're pretty decent in a firefight.”

“We've had practice,” says I modestly.

“So, what brings you to this neck o' the woods? Getting into the relic hunting business too?”

“Well...” Haines hems a bit, “I suppose the Declaration of Independence is a relic these days, isn't it, miss...?”

“Name's Sydney,” replies she, “And I knew good ol' Abraham Washington sent you on the same damn suicide mission as me. Thing is...”

“You want our help,” is my intelligent surmise.

“Wrong. You'll need my help.”

“Excuse me?” is Haines' diplomatic response.

“I know the layout of this place, all the plans. Without me, you'll be going in circles, since the really important stuff is underground, and it's a warren in there.” And she smirks at us. “Then we get the Declaration, book it to Rivet City and split the reward. Whaddya say?”

“Sounds fair to me,” advises I to Haines, “she's obviously a good scout, and an extra sword-arm won't hurt.”

“I suppose you're right,” grumbles he, then, “All right, let's team up. Lead on, MacDuff!”

“Smart move!” laughs she, “just for that I'll show you a shortcut.”

“I thought her name was Sydney,” is my uncomprehending response.

“I was quoting Shake-spear,” is his condescending explanation.

Sydney actually laughed at that, as she squatted over a terminal sitting between two bookcases, tapping away. “And the finish of days of hacking is...” mutters she.

The finish of days of hacking was that a chunk of the floor, dead centre of the chamber, clunked loudly and rose majestically about six inches, then stopped with another clunk.

“This cargo lift will take us straight to the Secure Wing,” says she proudly, “All aboard! It'll start going down in thirty seconds!”

Why the Earth people thought a secret lift in the middle of a public rotunda was a good idea I'll never know. It was something out of one of those drake dreadfuls.

“So, what can we expect?” Haines asks as we make our majestic if rather boring progress downwards.

“Be careful of gas,” says Sydney, looking at Haines' laser pistol, “there's a lot of leaks. And robots. I've seen protectrons and Mister Handys, but there may be some sentry-bots as well.” She thinks for a bit. “Oh yeah, there's turrets too.”

I saw a lot of shock magics looming in my immediate future.

Eventually the shaft slid up over our heads as we descended into a cavernous chamber with a single door out, and a voice blaring from a pair of horns above it.

“Men,” said a voice that sounded very much like Wadsworth, “today I address you with a message of utmost urgency. Our defences have been breached, and soon we'll engage the enemy!”

If that wasn't drake dreadful dialogue, I don't know what is.

“Remember, the will of the people is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect its free expression should be our first object.”

I could see a couple of holes in his reasoning. Most people aren't thinking high and mighty thoughts about serving the Empire between waking and having their first piss of the day; they're mostly wondering what they need to do to earn their daily crust. Some jobs involve all that serving the Empire stuff but not all of it.

“As your leader, Button Gwinnett, distinguished representative of Georgia, I promise you: I have not yet begun to fight!”

And we all look at each other. “Notice is served,” mutters Haines, and off we go.

Sydney was right. The place was a nightmarish maze of tunnels and turrets, many hidden by roiling dust clouds and gas leaks. Oh, and robots. If they hadn't worked out by now that there were intruders here, the succession of gas explosions and shattered robots would have clued them in.

And Sydney was as good as her word, pointing us in the right direction to go at every junction, until we finally arrived at a door labelled STRONGROOM.

“The enemy is at the gates!” the unseen Mister Gwinnett confirmed we were at the right place, “Now is the time for the greatest of rallying cries! Wish not so much to live long as to live well!”

Which was hardly the greatest of rallying cries, but the door was unlocked and in we went, where Button Gwinnett awaited us.

He was a protectron in a wig.

“You've breached our defenses, evaded our best soldiers and you've raided my home,” oh what a preceptive machine. “But I have not yet begun to fight! I cannot allow you to steal our freedom! The Declaration must remain here! It is our symbol of hope, the one thing that cries out 'We are a free nation'!”

Whoever wrote his lines was a fair old windbag in life.

“You must be Button Gwinnett,” Haines cries before I can say anything intelligent, “Second signer of the Declaration!”

“Then my reputation precedes me,” says the machine proudly, “Good. That should make you well aware that I am not to be trifled with and that my loyalty to the States is legendary.”

Have you ever seen a protectron try to fold its arms?

“I know your fighting prowess far exceeds my own, but I will still duel you to the death if I must! What will it be then? Rapiers? Pistols at dawn? Out with it!”

I didn't know about pistols, but looming in the shadows behind the Button Gwinnett robot were two large and menacing turrets, neither of which was brandishing a rapier either. I had no interest in seeing what they could do in a fight.

“Can you shut this thing down?” asks I quietly to Haines.

“No idea,” Haines grumbles back quietly.

“Maybe if we work within its programming?” Sydney interjects.

And we look at her and then back at Button and Haines smiles slightly.

“Tell me, master Gwinnett,” simpers he at the robot, “The British seek to capture the Declaration of Independence, do they not?”

“That they do,” moans the mechanical man, “I hear the thumping of their cannonade getting closer by the minute. Soon, our walls will be breached and the last bastion of the U.S.A. may fall!”

“Ah, but perhaps we can trick the... Redcoats?”

“Interesting,” muses the push-button Gwinnett. “I had a plan for just this sort of situation. Perhaps this will prove that you're here as an ally rather than an enemy.”

And there's a short pause while the robot thinks, or something.

“I have it!” cries it, “We create a forgery of the Declaration and send it off to Great Britain! It might be just the delay we need to get the document out of here safely. I'd love to be at court when King George finds out he wasted all his resources gaining a forgery!”

We could have done with Mankar cursed Camoran getting a forgery of the Amulet of Kings, couldn't we?

“We have to be cautious though, the British scholars would recognize a poor duplicate almost immediately. If you were to bring me some iron gall ink, I could produce a mirror perfect duplication.”

“Ink?” repeats Haines, and then he's off with his pack and pulling it apart in a race to the bottom, where anything you need five seconds ago always seems to end up. Shortly thereafter he extracts an inkwell, of all things. “How about this?”

“Saints alive!” and the machine somehow expressed amazement, tenderly picking up the inkwell and turning to the desk. There was something utterly surreal about watching a product of high technology using a quill pen to painstakingly reproduce a document centuries old.

“I think it was from some sort of theatre,” Sydney said to me, “they probably had a bunch of these playing at being the Founding Fathers or something.”

“Here you are,” Button turned back to Haines, proudly offering a piece of paper, “a perfect copy. That should give ol' George something to think about. Now,” and it looked inquisitive, “What are the next orders from the Congress?”

And we look at each other.

“Well, our job here is done,” remarks Sydney.

“Let's go then,” says I.

“Right,” and Haines turns to the robot, “Keep the Declaration safe, Gwinnett. Don't let anyone take it.”

“It will be done,” cries the Gwinnett, “The only way to get the Declaration now would be to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.” Cold dead fingers with built-in energy weapons. “It's been an honor meeting you, I can see you are indeed a patriot among men. Now go, you'll have no further trouble from my men. Godspeed.”

We godsped.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that what I'd seen in the Archives was a microcosm of what had gone wrong with Earth. They'd become fixated on a perfect past, a mythic dawn if you will, and even as they looked steadily backwards they continued to march blind into the future's sword range.

I've met similar idiots on the Imperial Council, and I've no time for them. There's no heir to the Dragonborn's throne we know of, we can't bring Emperor Martin back from the dead, and we can't simply plop a crown on Ocato's bonce and make everything better.

The best way to deal with the future is face forward, eyes open, shield and sword and spell ready.

Especially when the immediate future involves bowling more damn big greenies as you cross a shattered landscape to Rivet City!

“What day is it?” grumbled I as the three of us wended our way through the ship's guts to the museum. The sun and my stomach both agreed it was lunchtime.

“September the seventh,” grunted Haines as we opened the hatch to the dingy curio exhibition Abraham Washington called a museum.

“You're back?” The old man emerges from a side room he was probably using as a bedchamber. “I can't wait to add the Declaration to the Society's collection!”

“Well, then, wait no longer,” declares Haines smugly, “The three of us have managed to get past all the defences and retrieve...”

And he presents the stupid document with a flourish.

“Oh my lord,” Abe breathes, stroking the thing respectfully, “I never expect... I mean, I am utterly shocked! You three have earned your places in the annals of American History, yes indeed. You will be remembered for this great day!”

And he puts the forged Declaration on a table and struggles to remove a picture frame from one wall. Being a good sport and respectful of my elders I go help him with placing the document in its new home.

I don't think it mattered that we'd basically tricked him. The document's historical importance was far greater than the material it was written on. Sydney would later retrieve the Bill of Rights, and to me that was a more important document. I took a copy back with me, and scholars are still debating its usefulness to us even now.

We could hold those discussions in the Arena. That way we could make some money from wagers.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Jan 2 2012, 09:35 AM

[mALX]

GAAAAH !! Button Gwinnett !!! What a memory that evoked, now I'm dying to go play Fallout 3 again !!! Great Write !!

[Cardboard Box]

This expositional chapter was an exercise in creative Drano and seeing the Wasteland from a slightly different perspective.

9 September 2277: You Have Mail

On the whole, Gilthoniel would rather have been in Valenwood. Second best would have been the eastern Great Forest. His rather distant third option was Black Plateau.

Megaton, as it happened, was definitely somewhere in the high hundreds.

The mission had seemed straightforward enough: as a Bosmer, he was small and nimble enough to squeeze through the portal those idiots Henantier and Tuls had opened. Then he was to speak with the Arch-Mage, drop off the supplies he'd asked for in his note, along with a certain scroll, and come back.

Far be it from him, a mere Magician, to criticise the Arch-Mage, but the damn cat was running late.

And so Gilthoniel watched the sun rise over the wreck of a landscape with irritation, as he had done four times already, and wished that we was in Valenwood. The roundear guard saw his face and knew to stand well clear.

Trees – or rather, the lack of same – were the main reason for this. There were blackened stumps, as well as scrubby grasses that seemed too stubborn to die, but everything was a necrotic mix of ruin grey and merd brown.

The Bosmer hated those colours.

“Movement,” the guard said suddenly, pointing at two figures that had just appeared over the top of the hillock off to the east. Both were armed. “Looks like Talon gear,” the guard added, squinting at them.

Gilthoniel drew his bow and laid arrow to string, then took aim, letting his sight narrow along the shaft towards the targets. Both were wearing dark padded clothing, were heavily burdened...

…and one had unmistakable yellow-gold pauldrons and a tail.

“I think it's the Arch-Mage!” he exclaimed, slacking his bow and blinking as his eyesight reeled back to normal.
“You sure?” the guard asked to the elf's retreating back.

The citizens of Megaton watched the teal-robed figure scramble down from the ramparts and run for the main gate, which was already spooling up to open for the day. Gilthoniel was aware that he was the subject of much speculation, and that those who had attempted to speak to him felt he was a stand-offish jerk, but he didn't really give a damn anymore.

Breathing hard, he slid to a halt in front of the inner doors and straightened his robes as they slid open. Next to some roundear he didn't recognise was the unmistakable Khajiit features of Ra'jirra.

“Arch-Mage,” he started formally, giving the normal gesture of greeting, “I am Magician Gilthoniel, del–”

“Well you're a sight for sore eyes,” Ra'jirra responded, “Have Laren and Henantier fixed up their portal then?”

“Ah...” the Bosmer floundered, “...it's still not stable enough, they say. The first time they tried to open it, this thing came through, like –”

“Save it for later,” the Kahjiit responded, “Doctor Haines and I need to clear our plates and then you and I can talk. Wait for me at my place.”

The Apprentice just blinked at the two as they turned right and followed the outer wall.

Gilthoniel spent an hour sitting at the rusted table outside the metal hovel – he couldn't stand to be inside with that obsequious thing – that apparently had been given to the Arch-Mage before he and the roundear 'doctor' rounded the corner. Both were carting books in their arms and had pleased expressions.

“Been waiting long?” Ra'jirra just grinned at the wood elf as he tried to control his expression.

“Ra'jirra and I have just completed research on The Wasteland Survival Guide, by Megaton's very own Moira Brown,” the roundear Haines declared proudly, holding it up. “Behold the first proofs.”

“Arch-Mage...” Gilthoniel started awkwardly, “What has been going on? Where have you been?”

“Mostly Rivet City,” Ra'jirra responded, “but a few other places as well. Jefferson Memorial, National Archives, Vault-Tec headquarters... fun times in the big city.” He then held up a hand. “Peace, Magician! We'll tell you as much as we can before we finally fall over.”

Gilthoniel nodded, and soon found himself with far fewer blank papers and much less ink. Descriptions of strange machines, queer people, terrible weapons, green monsters, giant ships and weird places all stumbled over each other in his mind. Indeed, the only thing that made sense was that this man Haines was on a quest to find his father and Ra'jirra had apparently been chosen to help him.

“Which is why I wrote that note and asked for all those things,” the Arch-Mage concluded, “Did you bring 'em along?”

“Yes, two gross steel arrows, a basic alchemy set, the soul gems you wanted... how did you know those... altars...”

“Because I'm the Arch-Mage,” he snapped, “And I used 'em myself when investigating the corpse-humpers. Also, some spell-work needs as much energy as... a dremora soul. Which, I am informed, is so large it needs a blackie to snag it.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don't tell everyone or they'll all be running around summoning 'em, okay?”

Gilthoniel blinked, then continued, “There are also two dozen each of potions for magicka and healing, half a dozen repair kits, and these.”

From the baggy depths of his robe he extracted three scrolls. One was tied with a piece of string, lightly scented with earth and potato flour. “This letter is from your wife.” Another was tied with a blue ribbon sealed with the imprint of the Mage's Guild. “This is a report on our attempts to find you.” The third, however, sported three ribbons.

“What's this one?”

“Careful! That's a... well, if you read the report you'll understand.”

The Arch-Mage just grunted, hesitated over untying the string, then chose the report, unrolling it on the table. “Can't say you haven't been trying... those pseudo-zombies are called ghouls, they're human but affected by heavy radiation doses... Haines, what's sort of reptilian, has long arms with extremely sharp claws?”

Haines didn't answer. The Redguard roundear who called himself a Sheriff did. “Sounds like a deathclaw. Fortunately we don't get those in this neck of the woods. Further north and west mostly.”

Apparently their return had attracted a crowd.

“North? Lovely. We need to go that way,” Ra'jirra grumbled and looked at Haines. “Vault 92, remember?”

“I'd rather go straight after Dad,” the roundear was this close to whining.

“I'd rather have a squint at what a Vault looks like inside before we try and find your father. No point in getting whacked by something unexpected eh?”

Haines just sighed and nodded.

“Right now, we need to take a breather, drop off some of our salvage and have a bite, while I fill in Gilthoniel here about a few more things.” The Khajiit got up and opened the door, then stopped dead. “What–?”

The Bosmer smiled in amusement as he gently nudged the Arch-Mage inside, noting idly he stank of sweat, something like saltpetre, and really needed a bath.

“I needed to pass the time,” Gilthoniel said airily, waving a hand at the wall hangings bearing the eye of the Mage's Guild, which now gazed upon a sphere of spacetime about as wide as an Imperial City manhole cover, hovering three feet above the rugs on the metal floor. A neat pile of equipment was stacked in a corner, and the shelving unit next to the stairs sported a covered basket the Bosmer had commissioned from Black Plateau's mess hall yesterday.

Ra'jirra's nose informed him that a familiar repast awaited, and he strode past the Magician and whipped the cover off. Gilthoniel noticed Haines' eyes bulge at the bread, fruit, roasted venison and wheel of Corinth cheese within.

“Real food again,” he breathed, and the elf almost felt pity for him. He'd seen what the people here ate, and even tried some – then exclusively ordered from home.

“Well,” Ra'jirra said over his shoulder as he wandered into the pantry to extract a couple of battered plates and a rusty knife, “You've done what you came here for, so you can leave if you like. I've got a feeling I'm stuck here until his quest –” he jerked his head at the roundear – “is complete.”

“Hopefully you'll be back earlier, Arch-Mage,” Gilthoniel replied, indicating the scroll with three ribbons. “As it says in the report, that should be your carriage out of here.”

Ra'jirra just stared at him and read the report again, slowing as he came to the bottom. He stared at the paragraphs in question for a long time, before rolling the document up and retying it thoughtfully.

“What did it say?” Haines couldn't read Aldmeris, obviously.

“I'll tell you later,” Ra'jirra replied shortly, “Right now I'm starving. Thank you, Magician,” and he gave Gilthoniel a look that told him he was dismissed. With some relief, he turned, picked up a chair and prepared to squeeze through the portal.

“Hold!”

The elf froze. “Arch-Mage?”

“Don't close it up behind you – I've just had an idea. You go through and I'll pass through some toys for the researchers to play with.”

“If they don't kill themselves,” the roundear muttered.

“If they do they'll be expelled.”

Gilthoniel winced at the typical Ra'jirra humour and, like others had, wondered how in all sixteen hells the Guild could have earned the leadership of this farm-boy.

[Grits]

I love this chapter! How fun to see things from Gilthoniel’s view.

[Cardboard Box]

[Hello folks and world. And in that order. After a massive and profound bout of writer's block, I've managed to get the Ra'jirra and Ernie show almost to the door of Vault 92. So here's some views along the way.]

10 September 2277: The Road to Vault 92

Arkansas ARKANSAS ArkaNsaS my name is ARKANsas ArkANSas ArkansaS

Every wall, every cement beam of the ruin was scrawled on as far as a lonely, deranged old man with a sniper rifle could reach. He'd used ashes, pencils, mud, and quite possibly his own blood, piss and turds. Sheogorath was his only company, poor sod.

Well, there were plenty of landmines until recently but they don't count.

According to Haines, who filled me in between ordinary adventures on the way (you know, mutant bugs, raiders, stuff like that) he'd been sent to this town by Moira, barely two days or so before our first meeting, to secure one of those borbas for her research. "She cooed over it like it was a baby," said he at one point, "thank God she didn't name it George."

I didn't get the reference.

Originally called Fairfield, the sheer number of mines that old Arkansas had laid pretty much gave the settlement its new name. There were a number of houses that looked surprisingly intact. As we walked along the main street, We passed one house that still had the name Gibson visible on the battered mailbox.

Ernie and I performed a comparison experiment on landmines. It seemed that while my Flare wasn't enough to ignite a mine, my Firestarter was able to blow them up in one go. The problem was that Firestarter needs more magicka than Flare, so it took longer to, ah, 'reload'. As such, in terms of speed, Ernie's laser pistol was superior. This is why you shouldn't look down your nose at ordinary, non-magical weapons, unless I'm sticking them in your face.

Still had some close calls as we satisfied our curiosity about the ex-residents.

The Gibson patriarch, I worked out, was an architect, thanks to a mostly intact book of house designs along with a model house in the front room. A desk in back suggested he worked from home too. They had a fairly rambunctious son, or maybe a sickly one, since his room not only had plenty of sporty-looking toys, but also a pair of crutches and some sort of brace.

I stood in what must have been the parents' bedroom looking at the skeletons on the bed, where they seemed to have died in their sleep. I had a nasty feeling poison had been involved.

And their son... wasn't there. I had a horrid vision of a small boy crawling out of the house, no doubt already dying, looking for help for his mum and dad...

The Gillians apparently went to die with their friends, the Bensons.

I doubt little Miss Zane ever got her mechanical horse, the Giddy-Up Buttercup. She had a poster of it on her wall still.

They survived the war itself. They must have. They attempted to fortify the town, barricade the road, hells, they might even have laid some of those mines to protect themselves while waiting for help to arrive.

Certainly Arkansas wasn't there at the time. From what we've learned, life expectancy in the Capital Wasteland was about thirty – if you were lucky. He just came along, didn't get killed, and decided to stay here and make this town of the dead a fortress, moated with mines.

"If you ask me," Haines stated, "He wanted to go back there. If he was from that state at all..."

We were looking at what appeared to be song lyrics amongst the old man's endlessly repeated name.

Sweet HOMe ARKANSAS wheRE the sKy's alWaYs BLuE sWeEt hOMe ARKANSAS I'm coMINg HomE to yoU

That wasn't the only name that preyed on Arkansas' mind though. Two others, 'Eulogy' and 'Jones', featured, along with some nasty statements I won't repeat here. Arkansas hated these jokers and kept claiming that they wouldn't get him.

"Those corpses we found," says I, "the fresh ones. Think they might be Eulogy and Jones?"

"Might be," Haines shrugs, "but now I want to get out of here. We need to keep going north if we're to reach Vault 92. I've seen an industrial building that way, so let's go there first."

It was a power station, according to the remaining paint on the walls. Huge bold letters, ten feet high: MDPL-13. Almost as high as the hairs on the back of my neck.

"We're being watched," says I quietly.

"I second that," says Haines doing something to his Pip-Boy, "Actually, these mines are kind of heavy..."

So we slipped into what turned out to be an office after plopping mines about the exit. If we were being watched, and the watchers decided to follow us in, we'd hear about it. More importantly, we'd know if the things still all worked.

Apart from ghouls and radiation, there wasn't much else. After Ernie worked his magic on the security system – the ghouls were unappreciative – we decided to stop playing and get on to Vault 92.

"There!" was our watchers' greeting. This was subsequently followed by variations on "Aargh!" Landmines tend to make you say things like that.

After we'd cleared up various wrong assumptions and patched up our gear with the late Talons' donations, we had a look at an ancillary building. Lots of dials and lights and fiddly-diddly bits. And a work table where someone had been working on some sort of weapon.

"Interesting," says Haines looking at the drawing, "it's called a 'Railway Rifle', because it fires these railway spikes." And he holds up a few big chunks of metal, about six inches long and half an inch thick, wrapped in a bit of wire. Not the sort of thing you'd want lodged in yourself. "You could pin your foes to the wall with that thing."

I didn't understand how it all worked, but the idea was it built up pressure enough to send one of those spikes flying through the air and hopefully into someone's joints. Gods know those rusty spikes wouldn't do much against decent armour.

-o-o-o-o-

Another rotten night's sleep heralded further slog northward. A major road swept a little east and a lot north, and we soon came to a turnoff with a notice, still vaguely legible. Greener Pastures Waste Disposal. More recently someone had scratched into the wood Raydeashun KEEP OUT!

"Someone didn't," Haines remarked, pointing at obvious bootprints. Either it was a scavenger we were following, or someone in trouble. But we followed them anyway.

The Earth concept of waste disposal was pretty simple: take a big hole and gardy-loo until it was full up. Food scraps, broken machinery, ruined clothes, toxic muck or just plain unwanted – into the big hole. Then they'd dump dirt on top and sell it as cheap land – until the trash started to rot away and cause subsidence, or emit toxic miasmas, or mutate local wildlife into ravening monsters, or other interesting effects.

Greener Pastures was a perfect example. The earth was pockmarked with evil-looking pools of vile fluids emitting nose-raping fumes, in the middle of which a large 'truck' – think a self-powered wagon, but able to carry more – lay on its side, broken in two. Just to underline the danger, plenty of signs warned of the danger of radiation, and advised who to call if any did get out.

"Let's check the office," was Haines' suggestion. I thought it a good idea.

Inside were desks, cracks in the floor which reeked of corruption and, yep, radioactivity, and a safe. While Haines did his magic with that, I went over to a small figurine and looked at it. Picture a big-headed doll of a blonde lad in a blue suit with yellow trim, balancing on one hand. The head jiggles gently when you touch it. The base of the figurine reads VAULT-TEC along the side, and if you turn it upside-down the base reads: AGILITY: Never be afraid to dodge the sensitive issues.

Dodging the issues. I could understand Ernie being angry at his father for shooting through without any explanation; he felt Dad had dodged an issue he was sensitive about. Later research would show that the resident politicians had repeatedly evaded confronting issues that turned into the Resource Wars. And there was one chap we'd meet who took issue-dodging to an art – anything to further his idiot crusade.

But I digress. There wasn't much to find in the office, but there was a shelter further along the trail of bootprints, made out of an old cargo container that somehow kept the interior radiation-free. Someone, apparently, had been living in the middle of this death zone.

As we rested and let our Rad-Away 'drips' do their thing, I wondered what sort of man would live here. Or maybe it was a temporary... no, the camp bed bolted to one wall had been carefully installed. This was meant to be a permanent residence.

My meditations were interrupted by something bumping against the outside, followed by a scraping like huge claws. The container was metal, so we knew all about it. Haines makes a frantic gesture at me and I immediately understand and dispel Starlight.

Whatever was outside made a sort of chuff and then its friend arrived. Or maybe its enemy. Had quite the discussion, then there was a groan that sounded painful. And so we sit there in the darkness until I see their life signs fade into the distance. Whatever they were the shapes of their life signs made me think of a cross between a daedroth and a hunger, both nasty daedra in a fight, and long may they stay away from me.

-o-o-o-o-

The next morning we finally left Oblivion on Earth and kept going north, veering westward to avoid some of the biggest, meanest and most decayed-looking bears I'd ever seen. Whatever radiation might have done to beasts that, in their normal state, could shove a dremora through a stone wall, or outrun a courier's horse, neither of us was all that interested in finding out.

Yes, I know, but there were plenty of opportunities later on, and some researchers actually survived.

As we went westward, Haines frowns and starts fiddling with his Pip-Boy. "What?" asks he, twiddling away, "That's odd..."

"What is?" is my intelligent inquiry.

"This," and out of his Pip-Boy emerges this strange gabbling sound – clearly something's language, but apparently Julianos didn't think it worth translating. High-pitched and flat, and oddly soulless. Now that I think of it, as I relate this tale, it reminds me of the chatter of goblins.

Now Haines is sweeping his arm about, one ear cocked, and I realise he's listening to the loudness. So while he's ear-farming that, I'm eye-farming the countryside for potential interruptions. "This way," says he at last and we're off almost due west.

We almost missed our destination because of a pack of dogs which were out for food and didn't really care that dinner shot back.

"That's... really odd," says Haines looking at the mostly circular contraption partly obscured by dead dogs. From the trail behind it, the thing must have been flying, as it apparently smashed through the upper level of what was a two-story house.

Also pretty smashed was a glassy bubble on what probably was the prow, and another glassy bubble on the head of the rider. A rider that looked like an angry sun-dried bell pepper.

"My god!" Haines exclaims, beholding the nasty thing, "An alien! A real live dead space alien!" And he starts dancing about like when my boy got his first toy sword!

"This is amazing!" cries he, "I mean, there's stories and such, but to meet a real live dead space alien–! Oh, I wish Dad could see..."

And it's about this time that he winds down a bit, and sees me looking at him.

"'Real live dead'?" is my enquiry.

And he just does this impersonation of a freshly caught fish.

"Well," says he at last, "you have to understand that, ah, encountering evidence of alien life was not what I was expecting."

"Of course."

"So discovery of an unequivocally extraterrestrial vehicle, and with occupant to boot, is an event bound to cause some excitement."

"Of course."

"And so naturally, ah, one might lapse into a bout of, um, exuberance."

"If he's coming with us, you carry him, right?"



This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: May 22 2012, 08:59 AM

[Cardboard Box]

I know, it's been far too long, but I've been crippled by a serious bout of writers' block. I think it's gone. For now.

12 September 2277: Vault 92

It took us most of the rest of the day to sidle around what Haines described as a farm, but was now a raider hangout, before we reached the general location of the entrance to Vault 92.

Vault 101's entrance, according to its most recent emigrant, had faced the nearest township, so Vault 92's should and did do the same thing. At the bottom of a suspiciously flat-bottomed gully, west of a fairly intact cluster of buildings ringed by improvised walls and fences, there was a gate of wire mesh and old wood.

While Haines coaxed the door into moving, I kept watch, and that's when I saw it in the distance. A horror that seemed to be part daedroth, part hunger, with long arms ending in hands sporting huge claws. The horns over the beast's face were fairly superfluous, if you asked me.

It was exactly the same shape as the things that had been sniffing around our shelter back at Greener Pastures.

Nevertheless, I nocked an arrow ready to shoot if the abomination came our way. Then I came to my senses, put the bow away and drew out my old staff. That thing had the reach on us, but long arms are useless when you're paralysed. Also, I'd be more or less shooting out of the late afternoon sun. The only problems I could see were that I'd no idea how tough its hide was, and the pulse of my staff was fairly short-lived. Foolishly, I hadn't thought to soul trap some of those dogs we ran into earlier in case the bloody staff ran dry.

A creak behind me signaled Haines' success in door-unjamming, and I followed him through, pushing the gate closed. He looked about to ask a question, but I shook my head and gestured that we should head further in. After all, I had no idea how good its hearing was and with claws like that I wasn't interested in finding out.

The tunnel dipped a bit before the entrance, which was exactly the same as the example in the Museum of Technology. “What the hell?” was Haines' response as he looked at it.

“Something wrong?” is my intelligent response.

“Well, the door's open for a start,” Haines replies, “It's supposed to remain closed.”

That made sense. Also the chamber beyond was clearly rusted and unmaintained. A collection of bones had been scattered by something looking for a feed, judging by the marks on them.

“These don't look like teeth marks,” says I inspecting them, “Not from anything I recognise.”

They'd been picked over pretty well. There wasn't enough to get a dose of bonemeal out of.

“As long as we spot them first,” Haines mutters, then goes creeping over to the door, resting his hand on a box which I guess was the door control. “Ready?”

So I stow the staff and pull out my bow – nice and quiet. “Ready,” says I.

Turns out the box was indeed the door control, and up it goes, revealing more rust and a sort of wet fishy smell.

It took a while for the great Ra'jirra nose to place it. “Mirelurks,” was my intelligent surmise.

“That tears it,” Haines replies, “Something's happened to this Vault. We should look for survivors.”

o-o-o-o-

After we emerged the next day, we travelled in silence and at speed, retracing our steps to and past Minefield. We didn't talk. Neither of us wanted to. From Minefield we put the sun above our right ears as I followed Haines to a rocky outcrop from which peered a metal tower.

Haines circled around the north side and then led me across a bridge. Seems there was a little hollow in the outcrop and someone smart had set up home here.

So there's me looking around, and there's Haines trying to hide that big heavy case behind his back with one hand and knock with the other. He doesn't manage it, so he holds the case with both hands and knocks with one foot.

And then the door is opened by this sweet old lady. “Oh my goodness gracious!” says she, “Seems like you've been gone forever. Please tell me you have – oh my.”

And she's gaping past Haines at me, obviously.

“Name's Ra'jirra,” says I, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Good news, Miss Agatha,” says Haines and swings that case from behind his back, “We have found your violin.”

And she actually staggers back and has to prop herself against the door frame to avoid falling, until she manages to breathe again.

“C-come inside,” she gasps, “I have to see it... come inside! Please!”

Inside the shack was obviously neatly kept; bed in one corner, bathing and toilet in another, with a few screens for privacy. A desk held a radio and a stack of papers that seemed to be music sheets. “Put it here,” says Agatha, nearly hysterical with excitement, “Oh Hilda... open it! Please, open it!”

And so Haines does, and the case cracks open again with a hiss of air.

The Soil Stradivarius looked like a talisman of the Nine, sitting there amidst the squalid interior of the shack. Its maple wood fair glowed with more than blazing varnish; I've seen a few fiddles in my time and this one would have been a god to their mortals.

“It's... more beautiful... than I ever imagined,” Agatha breathes, then reverently picks it up and pauses. “Could you set that music there,” she points with the bow at one particular sheet, “on the stand? The Gigue there.”

So I pick up the sheet. “I really know it by heart now,” she adds, “but... this is a Stradivarius, so just humour an old woman.”

What can we do? I put the sheet on the stand and Agatha begins to play. And oh, what a sweet sound it was!

How many years had it lain there waiting for a trained hand to make it sing again? How long until its voice would join with others, in a new orchestra rising from the ashes around us?

Sorry. Got carried away there.

When Agatha finally and reluctantly came to the end of the piece, her face was radiant enough without our applause. Then I see she's almost weeping.

“I...” she has to stop herself from bursting into tears, “I can't thank you enough. I wish I had something to give you, a more suitable reward for all your efforts.”

“Miss Agatha,” says Haines, “I don't think there's anything left that could repay us.”

“Watch it sassy-pants,” snorts Agatha menacing him with the bow, “Seriously, all I can give you is the frequency to my radio set. Tune in whenever you feel like listening to the strains of an old woman's violin playing.”

And she reels off a number which Haines plugs into the old Pip-Boy there. “I'm curious,” she asks then, “Hilda loved the Soil, and she would have passed it on to... How did you convince her descendants to part with it?”

And we just look at each other.

-o-o-o-o-

When we had emerged from Vault 92 that morning, we were tired, bloody, silent and sombre. I was weeping.

And not just because of the choking stench of rot, rust, strange Dwemer-like stinks, and the omnipresent mirelurks. There were no survivors. Vault 92 was a necropolis.

Perhaps some of them managed to make it to the entrance and get the door open with their dying breaths. We found a note suggesting some had tried. Maybe some managed to reach the surface – and something probably ate them.

But they had all entered the Vault expecting sanctuary.

They were betrayed.

We trekked through the Vault, all of it. We shot bullets, arrows, spells at mirelurks. We discovered that the White Noise system killed them, which made things a lot easier. It also reduced wear and tear on my armour and mace.

I remember a strange creature, half-man, half-mirelurk, whose screams rang in your head long after you smashed its skull in.

I remember Haines staring at an almost illegible cry for help on a terminal, whispering, then shouting, then screaming, “What did they do!?” over and over.

I remember Haines finally working it out and just bashing the wall, screaming, “Those swines, those stupid fargnaxing swines,” over and over.

The notes are transcribed off Haines' Pip-Boy now. They tell a tragic story.

Zoe the innocent musician, overjoyed to be able to spend all her time playing the orchestral pieces she loved. Zoe the victim, realising too late what those swine were doing to her and the other inhabitants.

Professor Malleus, doing research on using sound to implant suggestions into people's minds. Just subtle things at first, impulses to scratch their heads or fuss with their hair.

He didn't know, as far as we can tell, about White Noise Mind Suggestion Combat Experimentation

Overseer Rubin did though. The stupid swine tampered with the experiments to subject everyone to them – as per orders. Orders any sane man would have recognised as evil and refused to obey.

Overseer Rubin, too loyal and too stupid to realise his mistake until too late.

A mind is not one of those computers to be simply instructed on the whims of evil swine who would give the Ayleids a run for their money. The suggestions worked all right – too well. If they wanted berserkers, they could've waited for us to come along and provide Orsinium's finest.

Instead, they threw away the skills and talents of gentle musicians. The knowledge of how to play Haydn or Dvorak – gone. All so they could see if you could mess up people's minds that they became fearless warriors.

That's what gets me, even now. It was the first real indication we had that the Vault programme wasn't as philanthropic as Haines and I thought. It wouldn't be until we found Haines senior that those suspicions would be confirmed.

-o-o-o-o-

We hurried back to Springvale and Haines' house in the setting sun. I slumped on the couch in the front room while Haines went down to the basement, returned with some tools, and threw on the radio before applying said tools to its front.

“...a child, growing up in rural Kentucky,” President Eden lied, “I had the best friend a boy could hope for -- my dear old dog, Honey. Oh, the adventures we had! From Knob Creek to Hodgzzsss...”

President Eden's cloying voice drizzled away. I tensed as hissing replaced it. Haines entering in a code. Speakers adding a loud hiss to the sounds of the dying Vault. A mirelurk bursting in its shell, ooze squeezing out of the joints...

The sad strains of a violin drowned out the hiss, making me want to weep again. We'd obviously tuned into the end of the piece, for it came to a mournful ending before Agatha spoke.

“That piece was for the fallen musicians of Vault 92,” says she, “and my great-great-grandmother Hilda. Their voices have... fallen silent... until now.”

And Haines gets up and takes his tools away and comes back with two bottles of booze.

“If my notes sound sweeter it's all thanks to two special someones who helped out a poor old lady living alone in the Wasteland. Thank you, Doctor Haines and, ah, Ra'jirra.”

The tune this time was light-hearted, a sprightly revel that helped buoy our moods as we took a much-needed voyage to the bottom of the bottle.

There was a survivor of Vault 92 after all.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Sep 10 2012, 10:19 AM

[SubRosa]

You captured the creep factor of exploring those old vaults very well. Not places of refuge, but charnel houses instead. Raj's comparison of Vault Tec to the Ayleids was nicely done. So was the brief mention of berserkers from Orsinium. But the ending was simply wonderful. There was one survivor after all, and we could hear her beautiful sounds on the radio...

[mALX]

I loved Agatha, so much that I never killed her for her shack even though the caravans stopped there regularly! (although I never left there without the Blackhawk, lol). This is actually one of my favorite quests, finding the violin is easy, but some of that sheet music ... Lol.

Awesome Write! You've been missed !!!

[Cardboard Box]

I've been silent for a long time, I know. I got jaded on Ra'jirra for a bit, then attempted NaNoWriMo, and finally managed to write some more. Since I finally managed to expel another Magic, As Opposed To Magic chapter, here's some more of the Ra'jirra and Ernie Show.

15 September 2277: Big Trouble

So the following morning I'm woken by Ernie doing exceptionally noisy things in the basement. Seeing as we'd had a couple of encores the previous night I considered this to be extremely unbecoming of my host, and was trying to figure out if yelling at him would cause my head to split in two and fall off, when the trapdoor to the basement opened as loud as an Oblivion gate.

Up you get," cries he as he shoves a water bottle into my hand, "We head west!"
"What?" is my understandable response.

"Vault 96! You saw what it was like. What about Vault 112?" his eyes were burning with that over-intense flame I saw when I first met him. "He could be trapped inside some mad experiment – or worse! And then there's the whole business with getting there in the first place. I – we – have to save him, and we've, ah, cleaned our plates haven't we?"

And I just sit on the bed draining the bottle and looking at him.

"Reckon you're right," says I, "Besides I've had a gutsful of city life, so let's go west young man."

I took my sweet time getting my gear together, ambled to the bathroom for a much-needed slash, then finally emerged to an Ernie nearly tap-dancing with impatience.

"Can we please go now?" asks he ever so snidely, so off we go, crossing under that ruined flyover and following the river west.

Apart from detouring around a yao guai and chatting to a couple of surly ghouls holed up in what apparently used to be a farm, the day went quietly until sundown, when we noticed smoke coming from a huddle of low buildings, very much like Haines' house. A Red Rocket sign still stood, along with a slightly melted playground set. It turned out that what was left was four roads in a square, houses on the outside, and a makeshift compound swallowed those on the inside. There was one entrance, a plank bridge over a small moat between sandbags.

There was also one guard, a nervous wreck with a gun who called out in a cracking voice, "W-wh-who are you?"

And I look at Haines and he looks back and we both decide tact is the best option here. "We're just simple travellers," says he, "we mean you no harm."

And if we did, from the looks of him we could probably bowl the poor sod with a feather.

"Right," he drawls skeptically, "What do you want?"

"Do you harass all of your visitors like this?" asks I, "Or have you just got bad neighbours?"

"Well, you can never be too careful!" He's trying to sound tough, but I hear exhaustion and despair. "Look, it's not safe here. Super Mutants attacked recently and carried off some of our friends." And he heaves a big sigh. "Come in. Just don't cause any trouble, okay?"

So we look at each other and cross the little bridge. "So, you have a mutant problem?" Haines asks the kid. Now that we're closer, I can see he really is a kid, about seventeen or so. Doesn't look like he's had much sleep, and that gun of his isn't in good shape, let alone capable of doing more than annoying one of the big greenies.

"There was a Super Mutant attack recently and where there's one big ugly, there are ten more just waiting to grab you by the throat." Yep, he's been on duty way too long. "Then the slavers will come and pick off what's left of your carcass, and drag any survivors to Paradise Falls."

We'd heard of Paradise Falls from Three Dog. Somewhere up north, a lair of slavers who would apparently pay good caps for good flesh. Apparently they're into gardening now.

"The best we can ever hope for is that they get here at the same time and fight over who gets to kill us." This came from a swarthy young Redguard whose slouch reeked of defeat.

"Flash," he introduced himself, "as in 'in the pan'. Pretty much sums up Big Town huh?"

I didn't get the reference, unless he was using some slang for chamber-pots.

After speaking to him, and several other residents, we had a pretty good picture of Big Town, and it wasn't a happy one. Apparently all the residents didn't live here all their lives, but came from somewhere called Little Lamplight. For some reason, as soon as you turned sixteen, you became a 'mungo', and that place had a strict No Mungos Allowed policy.

So on your unhappy birthday, you got shown the door, pointed towards Big Town, and hopefully didn't get eaten on the way.

Those who survived got to spend all their waking hours and quite a few sleeping ones dreading visits from the local mutants, raiders and slavers.

Still, it saved Little Lamplight from having to kill their grown-ups themselves.

"Ra'jirra." Haines called me out of my brown study from the door of a nearby house. "I could use a hand here."

The house was apparently being used as a clinic, and from the smell their healer was pretty stretched, wherever they were. Haines was bent over a badly wounded lad on a bed. "Can you cast a spell or something on this kid?"

Could I what! The Nine smile on those who look out for their comrades, at the expense of a little more magicka. I reached out to Stendarr, offering myself as the channel for his mercy to wash the boy's wounds clean. It wasn't easy. The kid was nearly dead, riddled with bullet wounds, and someone had a go at him with a hammer as well. Presumably he was one of Big Town's warriors. I couldn't have healed him alone, and Haines worked alongside, administering stimpacks and aligning bones.

About two hours later the lad's wounds were all patched up, leaving some interesting scars for the ladies. He began to stir, trying to open his eyes.

"Wha... what happened?" He opened his eyes slowly and stared at both of us, me more so of course.

"Well," Haines declared pompously, "Seven bullets, both clavicles broken, and multiple rib fractures are what happened to you. Fortunately Ra'jirra and I came along and were able to fix you up."

And the lad's eyes widen as he runs a hand over the scarring, wincing at some of the bruises. "Wow. That's ... you saved my life! Thanks. You're a good person, you know that?" And then he looks around. "Where's... oh merd. They took Red didn't they?"

"Who's Red?" is my intelligent query, "and who's 'they' by the way?"

"She's our doctor," says he, "but she probably got dragged off by the mutants." And then he pounds a fist on the bed in frustration. "Damn it! Damn it!"

And I think about things for a bit. "Haines," says I drawing him aside.

"What?"

"These kids won't survive without a healer," says I, "we need to find them one."

"What about Dad?" is Haines' response.

Not now! Your father obviously knows how to survive around here, so it's not as if he's taking shelter in an open crocodile or anything. But these kids need their spirits lifted, and this place is right on our line of travel when we bring Haines Senior back. Let's make sure they welcome us with open arms, hmm?"

And he mulls that over for a bit. "I suppose that's an idea," he grudgingly admits.

After that we handed over some tins of canned meat to the lad, Timebomb, he called himself, added some dire warnings about not exerting himself too much, and went outside. The nervous sentry had been replaced by a girl with what looked like chalk on her face.

"Oh, hey..." says she in an affected dreamy tone, "I was just trying to think of a word that rhymes with 'gloom'..." and she hums for a bit, looking off across the road.

"How about 'room', 'doom' or 'tomb'?" asks I. Wasn't hard to come up with 'em. I'd come close to doom plenty of times in rooms of tombs.

And her face might have brightened, it was hard to tell under the makeup. "Oh, those will work great! I'm preparing a poem for when Big Town falls."

Oh what an optimistic outlook.

With Red gone, we've no hope left," she goes on in that overcooked manner, "She was the smart one, but now all we can do is wait for the end."

And Haines tries to roll his eyes so far in his head he could see out the back.

"Sometimes I want to die," Little Miss Miseryguts goes on, "But I'd rather do it poetically. Like slit my wrist under a full moon... surrounded by candles... in my pretty black dress."

"I'd rather go out between one breath and the next myself," says I, getting thoroughly narked by her posing, "or failing that fall in battle, surrounded by the bodies of my enemies. Speaking of enemies, where'd the mutants take Red?"

"There's a police station up there to the northeast or something," she shrugged, "Bury our friends corpses if you find them. I've got enough ghosts haunting me." Then she frowns. "Don't tell Sticky, though. He's liable to kill himself if he knew Red was gone. And that would conflict with my own suicide plans."

"I'm not burying this Red until I confirm she's dead," says I, "C'mon Haines, let's go rescue people."

-o-o-o-o-

A crumbling bridge curved northwest, but our attention was claimed by a woman's scream from due west. Several large shapes were dragging a smaller one towards a lone wooden structure with a short bell tower on one end. It reminded me of a city temple.

"That could be Red," muses I.

"Only one way to find out," sighs Haines.

The firefight was nasty. As well as their spitty pets, one of the mutants was much bigger, tougher and better armed, with some sort of big gun that sprayed bullets like a hose. By the time we felled the lidgie both of us spent some time just catching our breaths and beseeching Stendarr for aid.

"Your spellcasting is getting better," says I.

"I could do without getting hurt first," says Haines.

While Haines got up and ministered to their captive, I had a look at the big gun the mutant leader had been toting at us – I'm assuming that bigger and meaner meant senior. A jerry-rigged harness held a box for ammunition, which was strung together like a ribbon, and there was some sort of mount on the bottom. From its weight, it seemed that this gun was actually meant to be placed on a stand prior to use.

What really got me was that it had six barrels, all attached around an axle. This thing fired so fast, the axle would revolve, bringing a new barrel into play before the previous one melted. Nasty!

"Red?" the captive was female. "Yeah, she's still alive. Or was when these futters decided I needed to go 'home' with 'em, wherever that is."

"Well before you take off," says Haines, "take these supplies, and that minigun Ra'jirra's playing with, to Big Town. Tell whatsername on the entrance that Ra'jirra and Haines sent you. And hug the right-hand side of the bridge so the raiders don't spot you."

"What raiders?" asks I.

"There's a camp on the other side of the river."

"Oh," says I.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Dec 13 2012, 05:28 AM

[Cardboard Box]

I know, it's been way too long. This chapter's been fighting me until tonight, and I swear Magic, as Opposed to Magic is taking over my writing. Anyway:

Germantown's police station – it's Earth for guardhouse basically – was fronted by a small encampment behind wire mesh fence reinforced by sandbags. The building itself looked reasonably intact, but the clutter outside could and did conceal any opposition.

“Hold,” says I, and cast Watchfulness. Sure enough, two large blobs, about mutant size, were mooching around.

From the looks of things – once our attention was no longer claimed by our would-be greeters – the area outside was supposed to be some sort of relief camp, sort of a less ad-hoc version of what the survivors of Kvatch ran up. Unfortunately nobody realised just how bad things were until it was too late. Then I guess the raiders and mutants moved in.

We ended up having to go around the back and argue with the door guard about popping in via the top floor, and almost immediately heard a most interesting confab between a pair of the big lunks.

“...Got two here still.”

“The female is locked up. We'll take her back with us.” Lunk Two sounded had a slightly deeper voice. Still sounded like a constipated dremora though. “The tiny male's too small. He won't be coming back with us, will he?” There was a slapping sound and both laughed. That was happiness and joy. Evidently Red and some other kid were still alive. Double our heroism in the eyes of Big Town.

“We almost got all of those little people from Big Town. What then?” asks Lunk One.

“Find more. Somewhere else!” From the sound of a big green head getting smacked it was clear Lunk Two was getting a little tired of having to explain that.

“What about green stuff?” Lunk One sounded a little wistful. “I haven't found any. Ever. Maybe it's a lie. Maybe we're wasting our time. We could be out killing...”

“We got plenty of green stuff!” Lunk Two adds another blow for emphasis. “Big guy says catch them and take them home. Make them one of us. Then we go and kill them all!”

That thought seemed to cheer up the two mutants immensely.

After adding our two drakes' worth of objections to the discussion, we explored the remnants of the guardhouse. On Earth as it is in Tamriel, the Germantown guardsmen were charged with keeping the peace in many and varied areas, including the apparently thorny issue of where you could leave your vehicle.

Their take on such issues led me to found the Institute of Technological Philosophy, which is founded on the principle that while technology is nice and has much to offer, the last thing we need are victims like Jenny Wilkins. I'm going to gas on for a bit on why I felt the need to found such an organisation, so if all you want is 'Arch-Mage Beats Up Monsters', skim until you run into the sentence 'We found Red in an old holding cell'.

Haines and I obviously found some old terminals that were still working, and there were a few records still available. Including this one, which even years later makes my blood boil:

Owner: Wilkins, Jenny
Offense(s):
4 Parking Tickets <Unpaid>
Note(s):
During tow, perp entered into a screaming match with the driver claiming presence of an infant in the vehicle. Upon further inspection after the tow, her baby was indeed in the back seat. We've since moved the child into the lost and found and are holding it until Ms. Wilkins pays impound fines and retrieves her automobile.

For those who can't read guard, Jenny Wilkins' car was towed, presumably on the fourth time she'd left it for far too long. Cars are mighty big, about twenty feet long by eight or so. Imagine whole flotillas of those rolling around the streets of the Imperial City or Bravil and you'll figure out why parking periods were rigidly enforced.

But they towed the car without checking if Wilkins was telling the truth! They effectively kidnapped her baby, treating the poor child as though it was nothing but a sack of potatoes!

If this had happened in Tamriel, the guardsmen would have given Wilkins the benefit of the doubt, checked the thing, spotted (or heard, or, from my own experiences, smelled) the babe, and attempted to reunite it with its mother. Those Earth idiots didn't even try until half past too late.

It was there in Germantown that I formulated the first question of Technological Philosophy: Does technology make you stupid? Which we haven't answered yet, since it's been pointed out that too much is unknown. Such as the competence and mindset of the guardsman who authorised the tow, the attitudes of Earth people to those in authority and vice versa, and so on and on. But we're getting there. After all, Earth might hold the key to preserving the Empire against its foes. But we must not become reliant on technological solutions, nor walk into the same traps the Earth people did.

Anyway, we found Red in an old holding cell on the ground floor, pretty shaken but apparently not badly injured, since the young Redguardish woman was peering through the bars at us. “Quick!” hisses she, “Unlock the door!”

That was Haine's time to shine, rattling the frankly battered keys on a nearby terminal that the mutants had apparently been working the locks with. With a chorus of clangs the locks all popped and out she jumps, exclaiming, “You're rescuing Shorty and me? Thanks!”

“Shorty?” asks I, “There's others alive?”

“Just Shorty,” sighs she, “I think the others are dead...” and she looks at the bloody bags the mutants use for pomanders, “or worse.”

“No prisoner left behind,” growls I, looking at Haines, “Where's Shorty?”

“I think they took him downstairs just before you arrived. Something about a bite to eat before leaving.”

“Well,” muses I, then off comes the pack and I pull out a pistol and some ammo. “Take that and... no wait. Park yourself behind this terminal where it's dark, and if anything pops in, wait until you see the whites of their eyes. We'll go find Shorty.”

Haines actually waited until we left Red cowering under the desk and were partway down the stairwell, before asking, “Why are we wasting our time? There might be more coming, and this Shorty is probably dead!”

And I just look at him. “We don't know that,” growls I, “and two rescued people are better than one.”

And he thinks and finally says “Oh” as he gets it.

Aside from a few radroaches, which were quietly dispatched with fireballs, we had a straightforward creep towards the sound of raised voices coming from a reeking kitchen.
“You freak! You're going to eat me, aren't you?” The lad had some fairly obvious balls.

“Grrr! Hungry!” was the inevitable response, including the sounds of things being hit with a cleaver.

“There's plenty of body parts laying around, why don't you eat those instead?” I could hear an undercurrent of fear in his bravado.

“Not fresh! Not warm! Taste old,” was the expected and pretty petulant response. Haines looks around and raises one finger. I cast Watchfulness and agreed. Just the one mutant down here.

“I hope you choke on my bones!” Shorty was losing his cool.

Now we could see the bulk of a mutant, standing partly in a doorway with its shoulder to us, taunting the kneeling form of what must have been Shorty. There seemed to be something wrong with its leg, which might have explained why it was down here on kitchen duties. Naturally, the two of us were only to happy to assist the beast's decline.

We were so focussed on the mutant, we didn't notice the kitchen radroach until the creature came over and tried chewing on Ernie's kneecaps. Stealth went out the window at that point in a blast of gunfire on both sides. Did you know that a decent frost spell to the head can freeze to the skull, increasing the damage done by bullets?

Anyway, after we scattered snap-frozen mutant brain all over the place, we had our first look at Shorty. A small fellow who made me think of pictures of Akaviri men, save the surprised look on his mug.

“Thanks! Who – uh, what –” (looking at me, naturally) “– are you – no wait never mind, I don't care right now. Let's go get Red and get out of here!” blurts he.

“Sounds like a plan,” grins I, and out of the station we four get!

-o-o-o-o-

About mid-afternoon we returned victorious to an understandably short-lived celebration.

“Apparently a bunch of mutants were searching up north,” Red explains, “When they find out what's happened, they're likely to take it out on us.”

Hardly surprising to me. Big Town was a reasonably fortified place, but its pathetic little ditch and board bridge weren't a proper gate and moat. They simply didn't have the weaponry, the skills, or the morale, even now, to fight off a group of angry and determined foes.

“Perhaps we can think of something,” Haines strokes his chin, “What do you think... Ra'jirra? Arch-Mage? Hey!”

I wasn't listening. I was walking around the Big Town compound, trying to make a decision. A decision I could only make once, and once it was done that was that.

The layout of the compound was a sort of fat H-shape, with one side having the entrance, and the other an old playground, reached between two houses. Gaps between the buildings were blocked by rubble and stacked old cars. It struck me that it was a most defensible setup.

“Hey! Ra'jirra!” Haines' voice was an annoying buzz in my ear, but I ignored it and pulled out a scroll tied with three ribbons, and held it in my hand, dithering.

“Damn it, Ra'jirra! What the hell are you doing?”

So I look at him, realising that I'd already decided, say “This” and start reciting.

Scrolls are a funny sort of enchantment. Basically, you embed a spell into the paper via a set of runes (usually Daedric), special inks I'm not at liberty to disclose the composition of, and a fair whack of magicka. At the same time, you prime the thing to go off when a key phrase is uttered by the holder. Most scrolls use simple, short phrases for use in life-threatening situations.

This one was more complex. It actually had a sequence of phrases and invocations to the Divines in general and Akatosh in particular, all firing a series of esoteric spells in a specific order.

I will admit that I read the final instruction, 'Release scroll and stand well back!' aloud before twigging.

The scroll in any case was replaced by a swelling ball of blue-white... energy, is the only word that seems apt... that expanded to about seven feet across, before fading into a view of stone walls, wall sconces, and defenders of the Empire.

“Come on through,” calls I, “we've got some folk here need defending.”

And Ernie gapes at me as though I've lost my mind, then at the Decanus as she rolls through. “Decanus Magda Snow-Bear,” she introduces herself, then the drake drops for me.

“Gallus Mag?” says I before I can stop myself, “I remember you spitting me out of the Bloated Float!” Sad to say I didn't remember much else. However, being dragged out of a nice warm tavern by a large Nord woman, who's doing so by gripping your ear in her teeth, is fairly memorable.

It's even more memorable when your ear comes off and you next see it in that pickle jar she kept behind the bar.

“Did I?” To my relief it seemed the Legion had given the lass a sense of humour. “I bounced plenty of drunks out of there like that.” And she looks my head over. “You must have been well behaved too, you still have 'em both.”

“Will someone please explain what the hell is going on?” asks Haines with understandable restraint.

“The Decanus here used to be a bouncer down the waterfront,” says I poker-faced.

“Charmed,” lies Haines.

“And she, along with her contuberii, are going to convince the super mutants that messing with Big Town is a suicidal notion,” adds I smugly.

“How?” Haines still wasn't convinced.

“What's the makeup of your lot?” I ask Mag.

“Half archers, half infantry,” reports she, “And pretty much trained for expeditionary work. These children need defending huh?”

And so I run down our impending super mutant problem for her.

“And we're not kids,” Flash declares, “we're grown up! We're mungos now.”

“And we're professionals,” Mag shoots back, then turns to the portal and summons her troops through. “And bring ladders!”

“Ladders?” is my intelligent response.

“These houses look sturdy enough,” explains she, “They'll provide an elevated field of fire for the archers. If the beasts get to the gate, then they'll have swords to deal with as well.”

Oh.

“What about us?” one of the Big Town residents asks, “We've got guns!”

“Yeah!” adds a lad I recognise from our first arrival, “And that big one that lady brought us!”

“She got here in one piece? Great,” says I.

The legionnaires under Mag's command arrived with their ladders, and not to my surprise one goes up on the house closest to the portal, and then Mag heads to the gate and gets the other set up to the north of it. Also not to my surprise, once all four archers are upstairs one sings out.

“Incoming northwest! Count six... look like ogres.”

“Are they green?” asks I.

“Yeah!”

“There's our super mutants,” growls I, “Time to slam the doors.”

And away Mag goes shouting orders and lining her ground forces around the bridge.

I'm sure for the citizens of Big Town it was most educational. Super mutants don't seem to be able to climb, or change their plans, so the silly sods just kept plodding into the rain of arrows the Legion archers sent their way. The first two of the stubborn sods pretty much turned into pincushions when they went down.

The other just shot at the archers with typical lack of precision. Legion armour isn't exactly bulletproof, and mutant hide's mighty tough, but what a professionally launched arrow lacks in force it makes up for in aim. Also joints and eyes are natural weakpoints, so the greenies were having to protect their heads, which meant they couldn't see to shoot straight, and ended up limping to the bridge.

And that's where a bunch of angry folk with guns were waiting to pick them off.

The last two were noticeably bigger and tougher than their buddies, and these guys actually made it over the bridge. That's when the footsoldiers of the Legion pretty much hacked them off at the knees. Ugly number five was effectively disembowelled at the gate, and ugly number six just stormed over the top of him, waving a huge hammer and screaming in rage. Just in time to get three swords, one war axe, a spectacularly large Nordic battleaxe, a dose of shock magic and the last of the minigun ammo in his guts. At least twice.

Super mutants might be strong, but they still need things like an intact body and a full supply of blood in order to survive, so down he goes in a mighty wet thud. Not that anyone was complaining. The sun was setting and the dragon flew above us.

Afterwards, Haines and Flash both approached me, skirting the Legionnaires who were setting up tents in the faint light of the portal.

“Ra'jirra,” Haines begins, “we cannot help noticing that, er, these soldiers seem to be...”

“Are they gonna leave us?” Flash jumps in.

“No,” says I, “they'll stay here for a fortnight, then another contuberia will rotate in.”

“But...” Flash looks worried. “We don't have enough to share with your...”

“Fear not,” says I, “more than likely they'll share food and medicines with you. Would that be right, Decanus?”

“That's right,” Mag nodded, watching two of her legionnaires swearing a heavy barrel from the portal to where the others were being arrayed. “We're aware of the dearth of food and clean water as you reported, so we'll lay in a supply before fortifying this place.”

“Fortifying?” Flash blinks. “You mean, you're gonna stay and keep us safe?”

“Fortifying?” Haines yelps. “You mean you're taking over here?”

“What?” is Flash's understandable response to that.

“They have to,” is mine. “That portal isn't closing any time soon. The instructions that came with it were clear: find a defensible spot to open the portal, and I'll be honest, Big Town here is just that. Once the compound here is done up as a motte, I'll bet every drake I have that the Legion will annexe all the houses around it for a bailey. Am I right?”

“Don't bother betting,” Mag grins.

“So what that means is that you and the citizens of Big Town are now under the protection of the Empire. Keep your eyes and minds open and you'll learn a few useful trades that might help bring in the caps and goods too.

“I'm gonna be blunt. Whoever's in charge of Little Lamplight exiled you here to die. Well, bugger that. This is your home, and we'll help you make it thrive.”

And Haines just looks at me, promising a heated discussion tomorrow, probably.

[Cardboard Box]

[Yes, this has been a long, long delay. I've been through a bad patch of writer's block, depression, upgrading and reinstalling all the things, and only last night did I figure out how to approach this chapter in a halfpie reasonable way.]

17 September 2277: From the Journals of Dr. Earnest Haines
I remember this conversation quite well, even after what happened in Vault 112, and despite Dad's insistence on getting to Rivet City yesterday I must write it down.

The blasted Khajiit refused to answer any of my questions until we were about an hour west of Big Town, and had dealt to the local insect life.

“Well?” I asked, “You kept saying you'd explain later. This feels like 'later' to me!”

Ra'jirra just looked around, then nodded. “All right,” he grunted, “my instructions were to open that portal in a safe location for a staging post, because the Imperial Council think we can help each other.”

The notion sounded absolutely ludicrous to my ears. “How?” I asked, “By taking over this country? This world? I'm not sure we're ready for – for – Stendarr worship yet!”

Yes, I had a little magical ability now, which still surprised me. I am still not convinced that this Stendarr actually exists, but repeated, ah, testing has proven that not only does the visualisation and invocation work, but that its efficacy increases with practice. (It is quite likely that this so-called magic is closer to the concept of a 'super-Science' as hinted at in the derivative works of H. P. Lovecraft's mythos.)

“That fellow in Rivet City may have garbled our history,” I added, “but he was right in that King George was riding roughshod over us, charging taxes that didn't benefit us at all, and understand this – that I will be damned if we're going to swear fealty to your emperor from another world!”

“You won't,” he replied after a little while, “because the Emperor's been dead for a dozen years. That's why we need your help, and we're willing to help you. Fair deal.”

That stopped me cold. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he started, “depending on who you talk to, we're either in Year 445 of the Third Era, which is the official date, or Year 12 of the Fourth Era, seeing as the Septim line died with Emperor Martin when... when he...”

His eyes went distant as though remembering something terrible. “Let's keep walking,” he muttered and turned westward.

“Turn a little south,” I said after fiddling with my Pip-Boy and the Vault-Tec overlay. “We can check Vault 106; Dad might have passed that way.”

“What? Oh, right,” Ra'jirra nodded and then shook himself. We walked in silence for a bit, then he began speaking.

“Third Era 433, that was when a wanker called Mankar Camoran and his pack of daedra worshipping scum,” this terminal cannot express the venom in his tone, “The Mythic Dawn, assassinated three of Emperor Uriel's sons and managed to chase down and off the Emperor himself, despite the best that one Zul gro-Radagash could do.

“From the sound of things, Ocato suspected that there was a spy for Mankar the Wanker in the royal staff and had Zul thrown in the jug on spurious charges, since there's no way that a respected member of the Fighters' Guild and the Arena would do anything deserving of that.” He turned to me and rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Anyway, every Emperor... had the blood of the Dragonborn in their veins, so the Amulet of Kings let... them wear it.” His struggle with tenses was interesting, as though he expected to hear of a long-lost branch of the Septim family making an appearance. “And that's important, because only with the Amulet c...could the new-crowned Emperor, and I'm not completely sure I remember right, use the power of the Red Diamond of Akatosh to light the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One, which was absolutely vital to protect us from Oblivion's little darlings.”

“Some sort of magical protection?” was my surmise. It sounded like some sort of genetic trait was needed to activate this Amulet of Kings or at least access its functionality.

“A barrier between Mundus and the planes of Oblivion,” he nodded, “Because the Princes of Oblivion... the nice ones are just indifferent. Mankar the Wanker was dancing to the tune of Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction.”

“One of the nasty ones?”

“One corner of the House of Troubles. There's also Molag Bal, Prince of Rape, Malacath, Prince of... um, Curses and the Cursed I think... oh, and Sheogorath, Prince of Madness. Basically four bad buggers you don't want setting up shop in your reality, and here's some idiot Altmer handing one of them the keys. And where one goes, the others will want a piece...

“Anyway, with the Dragonfires out the Mythic Dawn started getting busy, starting with the opening of the first Oblivion Gates at Kvatch, sacking the place.” He stopped walking and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Makes sense, Kvatch is a fortress town atop a mesa, and you can see it for miles. When it was sacked...”

“It would have demoralised everyone who saw it,” I surmised.

“More than that,” he agreed, “If it wasn't for the power of Akatosh, Martin Septim would have carked it before he could be found.”

It took me a while to understand what Ra'jirra was saying. “There was a fourth prince?”

“Ah... sort of... look, as far as I'm concerned Uriel was being smart and adopting one out to be raised in secret. Only the Grandmaster of his personal guard, the Blades, knew who he was, and when Zul fronted up with the Amulet of Kings, well, obviously it was time to go fetch the lad. Unfortunately between then and arriving at Kvatch, Mankar's wankers invited the daedra to play.”

“And this Akatosh protected him?” I was getting a little confused. “What is Akatosh?”

“One of the Nine Divines, like your friend Stendarr, also known as the Dragon God of Time.” Space-time, more like, if this being was involved in barring visitors from these Oblivion planes. Perhaps they were like the theories some people had of alternate universes, or so-called 'parallel worlds' or 'higher dimensions'. I suspect if this is the case, then any experimentation or attempts to replicate the portal Ra'jirra had opened with just gestures and words should be undertaken in strictest containment – and well away from anywhere populated or essential!

“So Kvatch was cleansed of daedra, and Martin was rescued,” Ra'jirra went on, “but Mankar pulled a fast one and stole the amulet during that time. Martin was whisked to safety, and Zul was sent running around all over Cyrodiil doing quests and one thing or another, I don't know what, but he killed the last unicorn in the land during it.”

His face was angry. “I liked that unicorn,” he added, “we didn't see eye to eye but we had good times travelling together.”

Unicorn? Well, his world had obviously undergone a radically divergent evolutionary path, so perhaps horses with horns were inevitable.

“Obviously I wasn't paying attention because J'Dargo was born, and then one of those bloody gates popped open virtually on our doorstep, and...”
He trailed off again, obviously remembering something he'd rather forget.

“Anyway, after about a year or so I'm summoned to the Imperial Palace and told to wear my formal rags, and, well, you could have knocked me over with a sprig of fennel when in comes this young man in full royal robes and the Amulet of Kings on his breast, and it's our new Emperor Martin!

“Unfortunately almost right away the Mythic Dorks pulled their last gambit and ripped Oblivion gates open all over the city. Sodded up the coronation ceremonies too.

“So I'm charging outside with magicka at the ready, and I can see the red lightning and hear the screams, and we're charging into the Temple District hells for leather and...”

And he stumbled, caught up in his memories.

“Old Dagon himself was there,” he said at last, kneading his ankle for any sprain or serious injury, “a hundred feet tall, crushing mortal and daedra alike underfoot, but I got distracted by some ziv-il-eye (spelling?) which was about to attack a mother and children, and then, the Temple exploded.

“And there was Akatosh himself, bellowing defiance at Mehrunes Dagon, and everyone just stopped dead and watched them! I didn't know Emperor Martin had sacrificed himself then, all I could see was Dagon and the Dragon in combat...”

He trailed off, shaking his head. “But that meant Martin was dead now?” I asked.

Ra'jirra shook himself back to the present. “Yeah. Ocato's been ruling as Chancellor, but some people are starting to ask why bother with an Empire when there's no Emperor. Society's falling apart, and we need to preserve law and order.”

I am no political scientist, but I could see a flaw in his thinking. Ra'jirra was used to the idea of living in a dynastic Empire, but there were other ways of organising society, such as the fine American institution of democracy. After twelve years, perhaps the time was right to suggest such a superior political system?

“So I've seen radios that allow you to talk to people miles away, as though you're in the same place. I've seen vehicles that would make the Dwemer cry with envy – sure, they don't go any more, but it's the general idea. And these weapons, to protect the Empire's citizens. That's what you –” he waved an arm at the wasteland about us – “can offer us.”

“And in return?” I couldn't see what Ra'jirra's people could offer us.

“Food,” he replied. “Water's half the problem here. I haven't seen that many farms around, and the ones I did see aren't arable any more – or safe to work at.”

He had a point! Dad's work at Project Purity might keep people from dying of thirst and radiation poisoning, but not from starvation. I hadn't seen any signs of old garden stores, and any produce in supermarkets would have long rotted away, or have been rendered sterile by preservation methods. “So that's the trade is it? 'Guns for butter'?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he nodded, “and viable seeds, saplings from pine and other good wood-producing trees, then later we bring in some herd animals, maybe a few farmers to teach the basics, and next thing you know, you'll be eating real steaks for dinner.” (Some time ago, at his querying, I had explained some of the ingredients listed on a Salisbury Steak packet. He's refused to eat them ever since.)

“Anyway, once word gets out about Big Town being the place to go for decent food and water, you can bet anything they'll become the focal point for every swine who thinks might makes right.”

“Hence the troops,” now I understood, “that actually makes sense. Still... to raise crops we need water, and cows and sheep need grass, so... we need to find Dad!”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Ra'jirra nodded. “So how far to Vault 106?”

As it happened we finally found the entrance barely an hour later. The door was open though, and the place looked abandoned.

At one point, the flickering lights seemed to turn bluish, making the walls seem clean and well-maintained. I turned to mention this to Ra'jirra, but found him a way back, staring in horror with his tail stiff and bristling.

“Haines!” He gasped, “It's a trap! See the grate? The groove in the ceiling?”

“What grate?” The ceiling had plenty of pipes and cables, but no groove. “What groove?”

The lights returned to normal, leaving Ra'jirra confused. “Haines... for a moment... we were in an Ayleid ruin, I thought...”

“Must have been a trick of the light,” I responded.

As we got deeper, Ra'jirra asked me at one point, “Does the air in here taste blue to you?”

“Blue?” I remember replying, “What do you mean, blue?”

“Well,” and he waved a hand, “It's the closest I can come to describing it.”

I didn't fully understand until we entered the main atrium, and now I could smell something in the air, a fragrance that made me think of the perfume old lady Taylor used to wear. I turned to mention this to Ra'jirra, but he didn't seem to hear me, looking around in horror, then he screamed, pulled out that mace he totes all the time and tried to attack me! “Daedric bastard!” he yelled in rage, “we'll see who's the naw-thing [sic] now!”

I did the only thing I could: I backpedalled quickly while trying to reason with him! “I'm not daedric,” I kept repeating, “It's me! Earnest Haines! What's got into you?”

When Dad attacked him from behind with an old pool cue, it still took me some time to understand what the hell was going on. I fired a warning shot with my AEP-7, but it was blue.

And Dad turned into someone else in a filthy Vault jumpsuit, bearded and seemingly insane. Ra'jirra faltered, and my next shot was not only fatal, but its normal red hue.

“What?” Ra'jirra turned around again, blinking. “But... there was... it was a...”

“Hallucination,” I was feeling a little scattered myself. “The air in here's contaminated with some sort of hallucinogenic gas!”

“Gas?”

“Yes, gas!” I slapped him across the muzzle and that seemed to clear his wits. “There's something in the air that's making us see things that aren't there! We have to be careful if we're to find any sign of Dad.”

“Shouldn't we get out of here then before I start seeing dremoras again?”

We should have, but I had the (probably drug-induced) notion that Dad might still have been down there, tripping out of his mind. We trekked through the Vault's rooms and, if I may be literary, the doors of perception before finally admitting defeat and fleeing.

All we found was disturbing evidence that provided a second data point to support my current hypothesis regarding the purpose of specific Vaults, particularly those designated by even numbers.

“So far,” I explained to Ra'jirra once we had escaped into the cleaner air of the surface, “We've been in two Vaults, both collapsed due to experimentation that went out of control, both with even numbers in their designations! I was in Vault 101, which was perfectly fine, and it was an odd number. Now, if even numbers mean experimentation, then Vault 112...”

He got the gist judging by his expression.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I asked, to make sure no effects of the gas lingered.

“Three,” which was correct, “how many am I holding up?” He made something like a reversed peace sign, in that his palm faced himself instead of away.

“Two,” which was also correct, since my mind was quite stabilised again, “So our heads are all clear, but no more delay! We must head west and find Vault 112 as soon as we can!”

[Kazaera]

How have I never commented on this before?

I love this story so much! I should admit at this point that I've never played Fallout 3 (although I have played others in the franchise, so the setting is familiar), but it still works for me. I *adore* crossovers, and you make the two worlds mesh so beautifully - watching the continuing Wasteland/Tamriel culture clash is an absolute hoot, from Ernest's "have they never considered democracy?" to Ra'jirra's attempting to comprehend American attitudes towards sex, never to mention his ongoing adventures with technology. I'm also a great fan of close-to-character POV and this is a spectacular example. Ra'jirra's internal monologue and the way he sees and reacts to events is hilarious. There are really too many things about it I adore to list, but I will at least mention the ongoing references to Zul gro-Rutabaga *ahem* gro-Radagash, I mean.

I'm also very, very interested to see where this Imperial outpost business will go. I wasn't expecting it, but looking back it was most likely inevitable. I worry for the Empire, because this could go badly wrong in so many ways... and even if it goes right I'm not sure Tamriel is prepared for Cyrodiil's Imperial Air Force.

[Cardboard Box]

How have I never commented on this before?

I love this story so much!

This makes me feel much better. Thank you for your feedback!

[Cardboard Box]

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He broke off and shuddered.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[Grits]

I love Haines’ journal page. “Mankar the Wanker” had me spitting tea.

“Three,” which was correct, “how many am I holding up?” He made something like a reversed peace sign, in that his palm faced himself instead of away.

It’s always a delight to find Ra'jirra at the top of the board. As usual I enjoyed every word.

[Cardboard Box]

[Hi there. As you've probably noticed, I've not been in a FO3 state of mind; I've been doing a lot of Second Life DJ work, Minecraft, and trying to get into Skyrim, around the postie run and the sisyphean, stinking job search.

I've also finished Home for the Holidays, a spin-off from my third Ra'jirra crossover Magic, as Opposed to Magic. But for now, have some Ra'jirra and Ernie Show!]

22 September 2277: Project Purity

Dead super mutants can get mighty fragrant after a few days, so while Ernie snuck off to check that none had either come back to life, or attracted vengeful mourners, I decided to get some background information to pass the time. Haines Senior was too busy pacing in circles to talk, so I asked a rather grumpy-looking Dr Li.

“Is he always this bit between the teeth?” asks I.

“Who – James?” she looks surprised. “He's... very... driven. Determined to change the world. Well, we all were back then, I suppose.” And she shrugs, in a sort of tired, worn-out way.

“He was focused on two things, really. Making Project Purity work, and Catherine. When she died, I think...” and she looks away, then back at me, “I think he gave up. I know he wanted to keep his son safe, but I think part of what he did was run away. But it seems that he never really was able to get over the idea. I'm frankly shocked that he waited all this time, and wants to try again.”

And she frowns. “Almost like he hasn't grown up in the last twenty years.”

So I tell her what I'd gleaned about his time trapped in Braun's dream world. And her eyes go wide, and by the time I'd finished I'd got a little crowd. “So that's what happened,” breathes she, “but if he's right, and he hasn't, well...”

I get her meaning. Being trapped for who knows how long in some sort of mechanical version of Vaermina's realm can't be good for you. There's stories about a wizard who stole something of hers and is stuck in eternal nightmare. Not nice.

“What about you though?” asks I, “How'd you end up working in Rivet City?”

“I'm not sure what there is to tell,” shrugs she. “I grew up north of here in Canterbury Commons, and –”

“Same as Moira?”

And her eyes light up. “You know her?”

“Sure! She's living in Megaton now. Runs the store. Folks call her, ah, 'The Mad Scientist of Megaton'.”

And she actually laughs! “I can't believe it! Moira never wanted to go outside, let alone leave town! We had our own little club as children, me, Moira and Bean... we called ourselves The Mad Scientists' Club after this pre-war book we found.

“The years went by, and I guess we all got itchy feet. Bean started spending more and more time in this old robot shop outside town, Moira must've left after I did, and I basically followed a lead to Rivet City. I'd heard they were looking for scientifically minded people from caravan scuttlebutt, and they were, and that's where I met James and Catherine.

“We worked together for a long time. I think we were really on to something. But then...” and she gestures at the nearest mutant corpse. “So I returned to Rivet City, took over the lab there, started my own research.”

And about this time the door opens and out comes Ernie. “All clear,” says he, and is nearly bowled by his father. So what can we do? Everyone follows him!

Actually, it was interesting to watch the team Li had scrounged up working. Last time we'd been in here, there'd been a few machines still working, but now with a fair whack of elbow grease and swearing, cables were plugged in, broken bits were fixed or replaced, and things started literally humming.

Not seeing Ernie around I headed into the rotunda, where I found the Haines family having a discussion. Ernie nodded briskly and then started past me.

“Anything I can help with?” asks I.

“Ah... I think there is,” James says, “It's not exactly technical, but you seem to be up to some heavy lifting.”
“You want me to haul the dead mutants out of the way,” says I.

“Better still, outside, if you can,” admits he.

So what do I do? Lug dead mutants outside!

Still, I could understand the reasoning. Super mutants are like any living thing, since when they die they rot. Which means bad smells, nasty oozes, and disease. Not conducive to a happy life unless you're a necromancer.

It wouldn't be until later that someone told me about the intercom. I almost jumped when Ernie's voice came out of a little box on the wall. “Flood control's operative Dad.”

“Great work son,” comes his father's voice, “come back up to the control room for these fuses.”

After a little while, the door to the lower levels opens and in comes Ernie, gasping a bit. “Couldn't have given them to me at the time, could he?” asks he in passing.

I was a bit occupied with lugging a centaur outside at the time, so I didn't find out until later that the door to the mainframe needed power to open. There was, also, a distinct thrum in the air I couldn't place. It didn't sound like gunfire, and every time I pulled another corpse out, it seemed to be either louder or closer.

“Ra'jirra!”

Ernie had relocated to the far end of the entry tunnel. He was looking annoyed. “Give me a hand with this bloody valve!”

So I drop the mutant I was lugging and follow him up to a smashed room with a manhole in it. “Down here,” say he, and I follow.

The pipe we were in had a big hole in it with a fine view of the walkway outside. “Time to release pressure,” grunts Ernie, “On three!”

The two of us managed to finally get that damn valve twisted, and the thrumming got a lot louder. And a dirty great vertibird – a real, honest-to-gods original of that model I saw in the Museum of Technology – lands right in front of us!

The thrumming I'd heard was the approaching of the machine, more accurately its two rotors beating the air like a windmill. Little wheels extended out on legs to support it, and I saw what looked like dremora running for the entrance. On the flank of the machine, a circle of stars around a white letter E.

And I look at Ernie and he looks at me. “Dad,” he says, and that's all he had to say. Because the sounds of the vertibird ebbed enough for us to hear his dad on the speaker overhead.

“...The Enclave? What are they doing here... They're where? Madison, lock that door! Now!”

We didn't have any choice but to do one of two things. One was wait for the Enclave to spot us, and most likely shoot first and ask questions later. The other was to continue down the pipe, which involved jumping from one grating to another.

“What the hell are the Enclave doing here?” growls Ernie, breaking out a big sniper rifle.

“My guess is they want Project Purity,” says I, “That way they can enslave everyone in this region. If you're bad, no drink for you or your crops. Like that.”

And Ernie just rubs his chin. “I've heard some of the Enclave broadcasts before,” muses he. “They claim to be the true United States government; accept no cheap imitations. You're right. This city was the seat of government pre-war, so of course they want to capture it!”

And we descend some more and I realise he's right. If it wasn't for the Crystal Tower being razed during the Oblivion Crisis, for instance, the Thalmor would have had a go at capturing it and, by extension, the stones of the entire Summurset Isles. Old Dagon went after Emperor Martin right in the Imperial City, and it would have been a morale-crushing defeat if he'd succeeded. And the Tribunal of Morrowind basically died when the Ministry of Truth smashed into Vivec at last. It's not just artefacts that have power; places do too.

Eventually we reached the bottom; the pipe bent and arrowed straight to an underground chamber I only recognised from chunks of rotten mutant. However, our attention was caught by another dremora-like figure tromping around the upper level, and we took turns peering at it through Haines' sniper scope.

The fellow was dressed in some sort of incredibly heavy armour, featuring parts that flexed and slid in and out with each movement. The helm had two swept-back protrusions that gave the impression of a dremora's horns, along with a faint glow from the eye holes. It was also hefting a laser rifle, and I heard it mutter, “Goddamn noises in this place, giving me the creeps,” in an accent similar to that of President Eden.

The last noise he heard was that of Ernie's sniper rifle nailing him through the eye shield, giving him the deads.

As we stripped the figure, I had my first good look at power armour. It's exactly what it says: Armour so heavy and durable that it needs its own power supply to work a lot of motors and things to lighten the wearer's load. The upside is that there's a little more power than needed, but as I say, we're talking at least twice as heavy as a full daedric suit!

There wasn't anyone else in the lower levels, so we crept upstairs. The door creaked as we pushed it open, and our luck failed us.

“Damnit private, what is it now, potty break?” Another power armoured figure stalked into sight. “I told you to – hostiles sighted! Engaging!”

Sniper rifles aren't much good against someone in power armour who knows you're there. Shock magics, on the other hand, are; according to Haines they briefly overload the armour's systems, giving people time to switch to more suitable weapons. Laser rifles, for instance.

“We need to get to Dad,” Haines mutters, but I tell him to hold and cast Watchfulness. “There's three people below us,” informs I, “two more at the entrance, and... damnit, I can't see to the control room.”

And Haines shrugs. “We'll go in blind, then,” and he's off like a shot, pushing the door open to faint raised voices from inside.

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Dec 29 2013, 11:21 PM

[Cardboard Box]

[Hello. It's been a long while. I blame RL, starting a second job, replacing my OS, Minecraft, and finishing my NaNoWriMo 2012 story in that ordure. Have an update.]

22 September 2277: Orphaned

When we fronted up to the control room, we found a frantic Li parked up against the window. Inside the room, two Enclave goons were covering Haines Senior, a frightened looking woman who was probably assisting him, and someone in a fancy looking coat and hat.

“By the authority of the President, this facility is now under United States government control,” says the fellow in the hat officiously. Ah, so he’s Enclave then. “The person in charge is to step forward immediately, and turn over all materials related to this project.”

“What’s going on?” Ernie asks, and I shush him. “Listen and find out,” says I.

“That's quite impossible,” his dad states flatly, “This is a private project; the Enclave has no authority here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave at once.”

And the snot turns to him. “Am I to assume, sir, that you are in charge?” Nice layer of disdain on the ‘sir’.

“Yes, I'm responsible for this project,” says Haines Senior, still keeping remarkably calm.

“Then I repeat, sir, that you are hereby instructed to immediately hand over all materials related to the purifier.” Interesting accent on him. Heah-by, ovah, purifyah.

“I'm sorry,” shake of the head there, you’d almost believe he was, “but that's –”

“Furthermore,” interrupts the snot, “you are to assist Enclave scientists in assuming control of the administration and operation of this facility at once.”

“Colonel... Is it Colonel?” Haines Senior is a pillar of calm, while I can see the snot (sorry, Colonel Snot) getting red in the collar. “I'm sorry, but the facility is not operational. It never has been. I'm afraid you're wasting your time here.”

“Sir,” the colour was in his voice as well – not good. “This is the last time I am going to repeat myself. Stand down at once, and turn over control of this facility.”

“Colonel, I assure you that this facility will not function,” bloody hells he was pressing it! “We have never been able to successfully replicate test results –”

And that was when Colonel Snot pulled his own gun and shot the hapless lab assistant dead. We all gasped, Haines Senior included, and the Enclave soldiers pointed their own weapons at him.

“I suggest,” Colonel Murdering Wanker snarled, “you comply immediately, sir, in order to prevent any more incidents. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Colonel. I'll… I’ll do whatever you want,” you could see the disgust in his eyes, same as mine. “There's no need for more violence.”

The Colonel just nodded, uncaring prick. “Good. Then you will, immediately, hand over all materials related to this project, and aid us in making it operational at once.”

“Very well,” Haines Senior sighs, “Give me a few moments to bring the system online.”

He turns to the main console and that’s when Li gets the intercom working.

“James, no! Stop!” cries she, “This is wrong! You can't do this!”

And the Colonel just turns and smirks at us. I give him the old hairy eyeball. I know his sort. Cut from the same grain as the Mythic Dawn, the bloody Thalmor, and of course Mannimarco and his bootlickers, he is.

“Madison, please,” Ernie’s dad doesn’t really ask. “Now's not the time. I'll get the information the Colonel needs, but I need you to –”

“I won't help you do this James. Not after everything it took to get here! You saw what they did to –”

“I need you,” he outshouts, “to monitor the output levels on pumps three and four. Please step over to the panel and keep an eye on them, will you?” And he smiles, and my neck hairs stand to attention.

“What?” And Li just fly-catches in confusion. “What are you talking about? That doesn't even make any sense...” and she half-turns to a panel on the outside wall.

“Madison, please. It's very important that you do this right now. Just step over to the panel while I access the computer in the control booth.”

And Ernie’s just gaping as well. His dad’s too calm and he’s caved too quickly. “Might as well do as he says,” says I.

“James, I...” Li starts.

“Please. Just monitor the pumps.”

Now I’m certain. Ernie isn’t. “Dad…” he asks at last, “What the hell are you doing?”

And James looks up, his expression set. “Earnest,” he says, “I think Doctor Li could use a hand. Over at the monitor panel.”

“I too would appreciate it if you would be so kind to step away from the control room,” says Colonel Wanker.

“Yes Dad,” mutters Ernie and he slopes off to where Li is looking everywhere except at the panel.

“Thanks son,” James says, “I’m proud of you.”

“Ah,” and I see the Colonel studying what looks like a flasher kind of Pip-Boy, “what is happening with the data?”

“That’s what I want to know,” and James frowns at the console, tapping it. “It must still be compiling.”

And I head over to the panel. “Whatever that thing’s doing,” says I quietly, “It’s not compiling data.”

“He’s up to something?” Ernie’s face brightens a bit. “That’s a relief. Maybe he’s –”

There was a gods-awful crash of blue-white light, like Meridia farted.

By the time our eyes work again, we could see two armoured hulks laid out on the floor. The Colonel was trying to inject himself with something, and James…

James staggered to the window, lurching into it. His eyes were completely filmed over, and worse, where his hands and face touched the glass, the skin completely disintegrated.

“Run…” he half-croaked, half-vomited in red. “Run…”

Ernie did – towards the control room – then stopped as his Pip-Boy went from clicking to screaming.

“Dad?” asks he, “Dad... What the farg happened! Dad!”

“Ernie…” James is sliding down the window now, looking worse, and I swear his eyes were melting and his nose is halfway up his forehead now. “Run… Love you… son…”

Then he slid below the window.

And there’s Ernie bouncing back and forth, wanting to get in there and rescue his dad, and not wanting however much radiation, I guess it was, that had killed everyone in the room.

So I made his decision for him. “Just do what he said and run!”

Ever heard a grown man wail? That’s what Ernie was doing.

“Bloody hells,” groans I, “so what happened? Might as well... learn that while I get a prybar,” and I nod towards Ernie at Li, who’s looking a little teary-eyed herself.

“He...” and she swallows, “James caused an overload. He… he sacrificed himself to keep the Enclave from getting the purifier, and to buy us time to… to escape.”

And she goes over to Ernie and tugs his shoulder urgently. “Earnest, we have to leave him.”

“NO!”

“There'll be more of them coming! We need to get out of here before they find us, or else your father died in vain!”

“I second that,” says I.

“No!” screams Ernie, “We can't leave him! I'll do Science, I'll save him, gotta get this door open...” and so he babbles.

Whack! And Li slaps Ernie! “There's nothing anyone can do for him now!” Li yells, “The radiation levels in there are lethal. You'd die the same way he did!”

“What she said!” cries I, “Listen to that Pip-Boy damn it! And more of those cunts are coming and they think you know the gods-damned code!”

“Code?” Ernie asks, somewhat distracted now by first getting slapped by Li and now this.

“The code to activate this... place! Even I know what it is!” I’m not lying. The clues were there all along.

“What?” the two chorus.

“I'll tell you later. Li, guide us!” orders I.

It was a short guiding. It turned out that there was an emergency egress via manhole right outside the rotunda. After that Ernie and I took point against ghouls and Enclave soldiers. The bastards were evidently pursuing us, and they had access to parts of the tunnels we didn’t. It was a relief to finally run into a completely different pack of armoured goons who were more interested in shooting past us instead of at us.

Next thing we know, we’re climbing out another manhole right in front of the Citadel, and up goes Li demanding entry!

“Don’t even bother lady,” sneers this armoured dork with the big gun, “There’s no way that Elder Lyons would –”

And about then he got drowned out by the sound of the portcullis being raised.

“You were saying?” Doctor Li’s smile was more a wild grimace. Didn’t blame her. And it didn’t hold a candle to poor Ernie’s mug.

We were tired, scared, slightly clawed, bullet-pocked and laser-burned; Ernie was clearly still in shock over his father’s death; Li was actually angry. And what did we get? Some snot in steel acting like a lord’s doorman!

Said snot was now gaping at a blue-robed fellow who was ambling towards us through a passage made by rather a lot of missing masonry. Another heavy armoured warrior tagged along behind him, and she didn’t look happy. “Father,” I heard her protest, “This isn’t safe! How can you…”

“Elder Lyons?” The snot didn’t know what had hit him. “What are you…? I mean…?”

“It’s all right,” the old man said, but his tone was one of someone used to obedience. “These people are friends, aren’t we, Madis– ah, Doctor Li?”

“Right,” Li just stared at the old fellow with an expression. I’d seen that tons of times. The sort of expression that says, I think you’re a bloody fool, but I’m not going to call you on that for now.

“Bugger all this upmanship,” says I, “The Enclave's taken over Project Purity, Haines killed himself giving us a chance to escape, and the bastards still were chasing us through those Nine-damned tunnels, and I've got a snarl in my tail that'll take hours to brush out. Now are you gonna aid us or what?”

And everyone looks at me as if they don't know what's going on. “Besides, the sentry here's right,” adds I, “This isn't the place to discuss things. Those Enclave might be watching us even now.”

“Er...” metal-boy's taken aback, “Thanks?”

“Good point,” Elder Lyons is grinning wryly, “Therefore, follow me and Paladin Lyons. I recommend not deviating. We have live-fire training going on.”

And so we follow the two through the rubble to a double-door that was originally on the inside of what I saw were two buildings, one inside the other. This door opened onto a courtyard alive with Brotherhood training: physical exercises, sparring, lots of shooting, and also lots of being yelled at by instructors. It took me a while to realise that the courtyard had five sides. We were in the 'Pentagon' that President Eden had babbled about!

The two Lyons led us all straight down the middle towards another set of double doors, bearing a sign reading 'Lab'. Laboratory eh? Should be interesting, thinks I.

Turns out the laboratory's centerpiece was a three-storey tall golem. Lyons directed us down some stairs, and into a room that made me think of a cook-shop. We ended up parked in a booth, and then he asked us our story.

Which was mostly told by me, Li, and to a lesser extent Ernie; when we finished, Lyons, and several other folk in red robes who'd snuck in for a good ear-farm, were all looking grave.

“Earnest...” and Ernie just lifts his head and looks at him. “You have my condolences. Your father was a good man.”

“Um...” down goes his gaze to the table, looking for guidance. “Thanks... I guess.”

“Think nothing of it. Your father was a visionary. He spent his life trying to make this world a better place for all of us. Few can say that these days.”

“A visionary.” Ernie starts to chuckle. “A visionary,” and he starts laughing. “A farging visionary!” and he's crying and shouting now. “A fargnaxing visionary who just farging ditched me in farging 101 and farged off for...”

The rest was pretty much repetitious, and our audience was looking a fair bit alarmed, so I had a think and reached out one finger and zapped him on the nose. Weak shock spell. Kid's joke cantrip. Nothing harmful.
And Ernie just jerks back with both hands grasping his honk. “Whassat for?” gasps he.

“Something to do with you being hysterical,” says I, “And right now I think we all need some sleep and a feed. Then we can work out what the hells to do tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Right now I'd kill for a good night's sleep,” agrees Li. “We're all worn out after... after basically running for our lives.”

“Very well,” old Lyons nods, “Sarah, please show our guests where they can make their quarters. Tomorrow at... make it oh-nine-hundred... assemble them here. We'll continue discussions, and I'm sure such skilled people will find use here.” And he looks at me. “I saw you studying Liberty Prime,” he smiles, “You can learn more about it tomorrow.”

“Yes Elder,” the armoured girl salutes, and we were escorted up and out into the ancient building, where we slept like the dead. Not even a direct hit with one of those Fat Man things would have woken us.

Which was unfortunate, since Vaermina threw a party in our dreams.

[Grits]

Always a delight to hear from Ra’jirra.

I'll do Science, I'll save him

Oh, Ernie.

[Cardboard Box]

[A/N: Not dead! And I have to re-run from the Citadel outwards. Again.]

23-28 September 2277: Life With the Lyons

During our time in the Citadel, we began to appreciate the quiet life, namely being able to rise with the nice quiet sun instead of being roused by someone blowing a trumpet. Either he wasn’t too good or it was the speaker system that made reveille sound like an ogre dying of flatulence.

Anyway, the next morning, as I said we were roused by that godsawful noise. After some discussions after breakfast I saunter over to where Dr Haines is slumped on an old couch, not really looking at anything. That’s a worry, since we’re in the main lab with the giant robot. Science all over the place and here’s Ernie taking no notice.

“Let’s go outside and get some air,” says I.

“Farg off,” says he.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” says I.

“Farg off,” says he.

“Do a little job for him,” continues I.

“Farg off,” says he.

“Then we’ll see about showing these Enclave swine up,” continues I.

“How?” asks he, petulant like me as a cub being ‘asked’ to explain about the missing sweetrolls.

“Come up and find out,” challenges I.

So up we go, me striding and him moping, and we go looking for a certain instructor.

Now some of you might be wondering why I’m being all heartless to the newly orphaned Doctor Earnest Haines, otherwise known as The Kid From Vault 101. Well, it’s because I know that letting him fall into a funk is likely to lay him out long enough for the Enclave to work out where we got to and pay a visit, probably one involving heavy weaponry, the blockading of the only entrance, and those vertibird things parking in the middle of the Citadel. No doubt full of soldiers and officers as snotty as that Autumn dork.

The best way to deal with grief on the battlefield is to keep busy, and with any luck you’ll live long enough to have a breakdown afterwards. And I’d been directed to someone who’d be sure to keep Ernie nice and busy.

Said person was a hard-faced man in power armour, glowering at several increasingly nervous recruits as they attempted to turn target dummies into lace. “Initiate Hawkes, [censored], stop farging jerking that trigger! Squeeze it gently, like your girl’s tits. Initiate Spike! Will you stop letting that [censored] rifle call the shots and control your weapon! If you don’t the only way you’ll be useful in the field is as mutant bait! Mariposa!” And he simmers for a bit, and that’s when I take my cue.

“Paladin Gunny?” hails I.

“What in Mariposa is it Initiate?” snaps he, before turning around. “Damned wasteland pussies, always need some… Oh. You’re that Ra’jirra guy.”

“That’s me,” says I, then I clap a hand over Ernie’s shoulder and pull him forward. “Doctor Haines here wants power armour training.”

“You do?” demands Paladin Gunny to Ernie.

“I do?” asks Ernie of me.

“You do,” replies I, “He does,” confirms I to Paladin Gunny, “and before you ask, I had a word with Elder Lyons, so it’s all permitted.”

“It is?” asks Ernie, who’s a bit wrong-footed in case you hadn’t noticed.

“It is,” confirms I.

“So why in Mariposa does a pencil-necked geek like you want power armour training?” inquires Paladin Gunny.

“Why do I…” falters Ernie.

“Because you attack with the products of Science, and with the Enclave looking for you, why not be protected by Science as well?” explains I.

About this time I notice Paladin Gunny trying to hide a smirk.

“Oh,” says Ernie, then, “Of course,” he adds, finally catching up. “Not to mention that, er, either the Enclave presence at Project Purity will eventually be assaulted, er, or we will be attacked. It only makes sense that I should be, er, able to pull my weight.”

And I just stick my tongue in my cheek and look at Paladin Gunny.

“Cute words,” says he, “but they ain’t gonna cut it. Right!” And he turns and raises his voice to a modest bark. “Initiate Hawkes! Initiate Spike! Cease fire! Down weapons and get your skinny butts over here! Now then, ladies, Doctor Haines here will be joining us in learning how to wear, maintain and operate the finest military uniform in the world, namely the USA’s own T-51b Power Armour. As you have had prior training in the basics, you two will be assisting me by being good, or more likely barely adequate, demonstrators. And you,” and here he points at a still slightly stunned Ernie, “will prove my expectations of your complete inability to learn and fail. Am I clear?”

“Sir yes sir!” chorus the two Initiates, with Ernie a half-beat behind.

So he was pretty busy for the next few days, but at least he was learning a lot, including some interesting phrases which he would direct at me of an evening before collapsing into bed.

Yes, including a new curse word, ‘Mariposa’.

While Ernie was learning all about how to walk around inside a suit of heavy metal with a small atomic reactor on it, I was amusing myself with a whole lot of learning. Paladin Gunny had a high old time teaching me how to tame one of those automatic rifles, hells, even Spike lorded it over me at first. More interestingly, I had a chat with some of the resident Scribes, who kindly let me poke my way around some of their terminals.

“You’re absolutely certain the mutants were talking about ‘green stuff’,” asks Scribe Bigsley.

“Definitely,” says I, “seems pretty important to them if they want more of it.”

“If it’s what I suspect it is,” muses he, “then that would explain why there’s so many mutants, and why they’re capturing rather than killing people. There must be another military base in the region.”

“That wouldn’t be surprising,” and a blonde woman butts in. “Sorry – I’m Scribe Jameson. And I suspect what they’re after is the same thing that caused the Brotherhood’s formation.”

“Well, what is it then?” asks I.

“How much do you know about how disease spreads?” asks Bigsley, “Not how it’s caused, but the nature of what one is…”

“Foreign matter entering the body,” shrugs I, “might be a miasma, or dirt, or some other poison. These days I try to keep a cure disease potion on hand just in case. Vampirism’s spread by inhaling the dust off a dead vamp or getting one’s blood in your own wounds, and lycanthropy’s pretty similar but without the dust part... Why?”

And the two Scribes look at me. “The… um, substance… is known as Forced Evolutionary Virus,” begins Scribe Jameson, “It was… tested… on military prisoners before the war at a place called Mariposa.” She takes a breath, before uttering the name, and suddenly Gunny’s use of it makes sense. “The commanding officer there, Arthur Maxson, rebelled at this, took over the base and executed the researchers responsible for their crimes.”

“Hang on, who was behind this… research?” asks I.

“The pre-War government,” responds Bigsley, “as in the Enclave before they became the friggin’ Enclave.”

Now I’ll try to summarise what was explained later. Basically the old pre-war government got it in their heads that these Chinese people would use plagues or something against them. So naturally they decided to drop the technology version of a rotten corpse in the well on their enemy first.

Now here’s where it got a little fuzzy. Apparently this FEV was supposed to be a super-plague that would completely slaughter the Chinese, which is bloody silly. All it takes is one person with enough immunity to hold it off long enough and next thing you know, it’s your team who’s all coughing blood and falling off the perch. Then again I speak from experience when I say that the high-up nobs lack common sense on a regular basis.

Later research found out that FEV could be tweaked to cause changes in its victims. And that led to a whole new avenue of madness: creating ‘super-soldiers’ that were tougher, stronger, more brutal, and more obedient than regular army. So I’ll let you guess what they were doing to prisoners held at Mariposa, and why the great Maxson basically committed treason.

By now you’ve probably gathered that in the run-up to everything going to Oblivion, or hell, or Mariposa, take your pick, the United States government was hardly governing. By all accounts it dumped its obligations to its citizens in favour of not just defeating, but completely obliterating the Chinese. And here’s us, having seen its descendants in the Enclave.

Anyway, the story, such as it was, had Maxson leaving for somewhere called the Lost Hills and founding the Brotherhood of Steel. Unfortunately he didn’t lock the gates when leaving Mariposa, and someone or something got in. And the first super mutants were born.

Then Bigsley started asserting that the Enclave had deliberately gone after the FEV in Mariposa, which Jameson disagreed with, and I just tried to tune them out as they argued. Which I couldn’t.

On the other hand, their arguing knocked a revelation loose, and out comes the fist and bang on the table.

“The mutants have a base in this area,” says I, “but they need more FEV.”

“Damn straight,” Bigsley agrees, “we think it’s west of here, up the Potomac. Unfortunately, we were pretty worn down when we made it to the Citadel, and when the Outcasts broke away, that reduced our strength even more.”

“What Outcasts?” demands I.

So it turns out that the Brotherhood is all about the technology and doesn’t really give a flying about the people. Which is bloody ridiculous, since technology’s useless without people. Elder Lyons twigged to this, since it also helps if the locals don’t think you’re just a pack of bandits with better gear than most. It’s called diplomacy, I think.

Anyway, since I was so interested in the history of the Brotherhood, Jameson lets me access the records terminals in what was called the 'A Ring', and here I found one far more interesting that confirmed what I feared about the Vaults.

By the end of the war, the United States government no longer cared about its citizenry. It was a tyranny like that of the Ayleids.

There was another vault, Vault 76. Notes on it stated that the thing would spring open after twenty years, when 'the residents would be pushed back into the open world for study in comparison to the other experiments'. Vault 101? Literally a study of inbreeding. And of course there was Vault 106, 92 and 112, where the victims suffered needless experimentation.

What gets me about this is that there was no reason for any experimentation. Who would collect the data? What would it be used for? It's sheer, almost Daedric uselessness still makes me want to punch walls when I think about it. Even Sheogorath would have asked if the instigators had thought things over at all.

But what really interested me was the one file – an equipment manifest – I found for Vault 87. It had this line:

1 G.E.C.K.

So of course I up and shoot off to find young Ernie. Young Ernie is performing exercises in power armour, along with Initiates Hawkes and Spike, and for once Paladin Gunny isn't putting them down.

“And nineteen! And twenty! That's it, ten-hut!” Then he notices me. “Well, well, if isn't Tiddles of Sherwood!”

It's taken me years to understand half that reference.

“Well? I suppose you've invented a power bow to go with this armour?”

“I need Haines here for a briefing,” says I. Won't rise to the bait. From what I understand Gunny's still a prick.

“What sort of briefing? Mariposa! I thought you said I was supposed to train this Wasteland noodle in power armour!”

“From what I saw just now you're doing a good job. And this is important to Elder Lyons,” snaps I.

“Fine. Ini... Haines... take five and go with your friend here. As for you two slobs...” and I'm convinced he just likes making trainee's lives a misery.

So Ernie and I walk off until he gets his breath back and doesn't resemble a tomato. “What is it?”

“Vault 87 has a G.E.C.K.,” says I, “and we know it's somewhere out west. We need to go back to Vault 112 and start poking around.”

“Why 112?”

“It's in the area. It could be roughly north or south, we'll just have to find the entrance. How soon do you think you can escape Paladin Gunny's clutches?”

“Tonight. When he finally lets us eat and sleep.”

“All right then, we do a midnight flit. You're able to walk in that thing?”

“Yes, Mom, and shoot guns and work the crap-flap and all the other stuff. That farging Gunny seems to want us to ballet dance in these suits.”

“That doesn't seem useful to me.”

“Then we're agreed?” And he manages a smirk.

“I think you need some practical training in power armour usage. A nice field operation.”

“That sounds like a sensible hypothesis.”

“So, set your Pip-Boy for 3am?”

“Four.”

“Four it is. I'll go ready our things.”

This post has been edited by Cardboard Box: Aug 19 2014, 08:29 AM