Lost Orleans

No one knows the year.

The chronometer just ticks uselessly on the dust strewn desk as Oscar scavenged the dilapidated warehouse, shafts of pale light filtering through the high windows above, murky as moonshine. He picks it up cautiously for a moment, the hazy green light from its screen gleaming dimly, and gives it a few taps. Despite its faint glow it wouldn't give the time, the year, the date. That was lost – locked behind a series of digital eights that blinked up at him, as though non-plussed. As though, in this crust of a bygone world, it too couldn't fathom the depths of time. The secret mechanics that whirred and clunked within the confines of its rusted shell were long since broken.

Still the scrap parts might fetch something back at the Post, he thought. The savvy, old scavver pocketed the thing and then sifted through the other drawers, pulling them out one by one, and one by one they clattered to the floor as they were robbed of any mechanism, any device that might fetch some caps.

The Post was Oscar's home. The only home a person can have in this land for miles around. It was surrounded by overgrown wastes, tribals, old towns invaded by looming trees and the snaking river Mississippi. It was an outpost – a waystation for traders between the NCR dominated west and the Commonwealth to the east. Such stations dappled the long road between these sparks of civilization as something like a new silk road sprawled between them.

There were a few old world cities near the Post too. They were cities that once gleamed in neon – warm and inviting, almost like one of those ladies dressed to dazzle in the old world posters; hot with action, bustle, sass and life. Those old world cities were now unrecognizable; looming towers of scorched concrete erect upon scorched earth, eldritch and as forgotten as that chronometer: still with the echoes of a distant past, the same one every eerie city beckoned you to with its posters and dusty record albums; a golden age that was now lost forever in the depths of time. It was all gone because the fire had consumed it. The fire had ate-ate-ate it…

In his pockets the chronometer blink-blinked that same series of eights.

…but, in some ways, that world was still there. It haunted the old world songs that crackled from mended record players. Its pulse beat through from the past in haunting soliloquy. It was still there, in the ruins of the old world, like a ghost. You could always feel it filter through from the past and touch you, like the shadow of a whisper; a murmur.

Now Oscar moved, lithely, stealthily from the desk through the cavernous depot, his body tracing around the light, keeping to shadows where he could, so no one who happened to be there might spot him. There are many hard ways to make a living out in the wastes. Shooting a scavver and stealing his loot ain't one of them. He kept an eye out for traps as he moved. You didn't stay alive as a scavenger for long without taking extra care while moving through these old buildings. You never knew what you might find…

He moved into a corridor and up a flight of stairs before stopping in front of a goddamn door. Yes, it really was a goddamn door. It was steel plated, barred and bolted, locked sideways, front ways, back ways - locked every which goddamn way, and yet Oscar cracked a smile. Excitedly, he pulled out the thermite and set it against the door. No door messed with the Post. He chuckled lightly to himself as he ignited it and rushed out of the way. Especially, when there's bound to be the haul of the century on the other side…

The flash was over in a few moments and the door collapsed to the ground with a tremendous clang.

The sound reverberated through the building. He drew his gun and waited, straining his ears for any sound, inside or outside the building.

There was nothing. The man's smile broadened. Then it slipped from his face.

He moved in and was crestfallen to find an ordinary office, almost perfectly preserved. Pristine. Empty. His eyes narrowed with suspicion. This wasn't normal. He might have expected a vault, some kind of… well… treasure – but this? He stepped into the room as he holstered his weapon.

The man was almost awed by the silence as he stepped around the steel door and paced his way to a desk, like the others he had searched through, and stood there dumbfounded.

Fuck! He'd wasted thermite for this? He pawed his way through the drawers anyway, pocketing a broken watch, hauling a fan, some gears of some broken device, a key, a gold medallion (well, at least that was something), and then, upon consideration, a computer cassette labelled "V.T. Guide". The man checked out the rest of the room for any hidden safes, any secret doors, but from the room's dimensions and layout he knew he was searching in vain. When he found nothing he sighed, resigning himself for a loss on the day and set off out of the South's most heavily guarded admin office. Must have been one paranoid boss to have that as his office door, he thought. It didn't concern him too much. What did concern him was his own boss and how he'd start yammering about the damn thermite. Yeah, it sure was a goddamn door…

He'd noticed the walls were lead lined too, and this might have unsettled him if it weren't for the figure that suddenly barred his path.

Oscar froze.

The figure paced forward.

Oscar reached for his gun.

The figure's arm was a blur as three belches of smoke streamed forth from the figure's own gleaming barrel.

It took a few moments before Oscar noticed the white hot pain, or that he was slumped against the wall, or that he was choking on his own blood. He stared wide eyed at the figure as it continued to calmly pace towards him, feet not making a sound, as though it walked on fucking air. Beads of cold sweat glistened on Oscar's brow as his eyes absorbed the details he hadn't caught before – the heavy overcoat, the intricate black tattoo…stretched across its face, like a crucifix… the lifeless eyes.

The figure, only known in the Deep South as Mr Graves, looked down at the scavver with those black eyes, before reaching for the man's pockets and rifling through them. The scavver spluttered, "Fuck y…" as he made a futile strike at the figure.

A disembodied otherworldly voice interrupted him.

"Tsk, tsk, tsk… That will never do."

Oscar felt his forearm caught in what felt like a vice as the shadowy figure seized it with lightning reflexes. It took a while before he realised that the quaint voice had rolled out not from the figure, but from the sputtering tannoy system overhead.

"I spy with my little eye," the speaker near whispered, "something beginning with a scream…"

The silent figure snapped his arm single-handedly, as though it were a twig. Oscar yelped as he stared down at his disjointed limb, the figure quietly rising with the cassette labelled "V.T. Guide" in one hand and the chronometer in the other. He pocketed the cassette and dropped the chronometer. It clattered to the ground and rolled against Oscar's trembling feet.

Oscar's pale and febrile face swivelled to the loudspeaker on the wall overhead. It was a rusty and splintered shard of its former self, jutting out from the corner like the head of a hollowed out ice-pick jutting out of bare skull. The hell was that voice? Was it this… creature's boss? How'd it gain access to the tannoy system of an empty warehouse? He felt sick. The message that had last crackled from it reverberated through the vast, desolate depot. Oscar was about to dismiss hearing it as some near death delusion, when suddenly that voice, that strange antiquated voice, rolled out yet again on a wave of scratchy static.

"I've been keeping a close eye on you," It crackled with an aloof and callous tone. "You must know how contrite I am over this whole business. I'm not so keen on… blood. But the moment you chose to come out here…well. That was when you made your final decision. My deepest commiserations for getting you caught up in this scene. From your end this deed might seem confounding, bewildering even…"

Oscar croaked in reply. It was a low guttural growl as blood rose up in his throat and splattered over his shirt. Perhaps he was trying to say 'Fuck you' again. He wasn't really sure as the darkness started sinking into his vision.

"But the thing is, Oscar…"

The bastard knew his name! Despite the pain, Oscar felt a jolt of panic rise up from his bleeding guts.

"…there are some secrets that were never meant to be revealed."

A single shot resounded through the building like a punctuation mark. Oscar's body slumped to the floor. Smoke coiled from the silent figure's gun. The tannoy system shut down with a click. The air crackled with silence.

The ghostly figure, Mr Graves to some, then turned and left the building. His job was complete. No man would come after him – and even if they did, if they were so foolhardy, they wouldn't find him. He stepped outside the building – a vast complex with the letters V. . U. L. T. T. E. C. running along the side – before slipping away through the desolate town and disappearing into the looming willows beyond.

Oscar bled to death as the chronometer slowly wound down, blinking its last series of eight's as its electric pulse died away, and the dying pulse of a bygone world with it. He didn't know why the figure only took the cassette; he didn't truly know what he was dying for. The world faded around the lone scavver, and whatever secrets it may have held vanished with it. So much has changed since the last pulse of those eldritch cities.

But war… War never changes.

Act 1

Scene 1

Oswald exhaled from his cigar, the haze of blue tinted smoke wafting up to the rafters of the cabin he shared with the other man. They sat opposite each other. He was the wealthy proprietor of the Post, trade mogul and 'entrepreneur' sat in a plush Brahmin hide seat, leaning back behind his desk and delighting in his cigar in the half-lit room. Early morning southern sunlight peeked through the wooden blinds behind him, casting Oswald in a large and round silhouette – almost like, whassisname, the Hitchcock guy from those old world shows. Lawman, on the other hand, was less comfortable.

"Sure you don' wan' a cigar, Lawman?" Oswald drawled. Lawman – that was a hell of a name he picked up now wasn't it. He wasn't a lawman no more of course. That was a whole age gone by. That didn't stop them calling him it though. You can take the man out of the law and shoot him in the back, but you can't take the law out of the man. Not this one anyway, so they said.

Lawman fidgeted in his chair. His hair was silver-grey now and he looked like he'd seen many gunfights and not always come out entirely on top. His hands itched for the whiskey he spotted on the sideboard.

"Or you're always welcome to some hooch," Oswald smiled as he watched the man's hands. Damn him! And damn his own thirst. But he didn't refuse as a drink was poured for him and placed on his side of the desk.

Lawman downed it in one gulp. Oswald showed no surprise.

"I'll get straight to the point, Lawman. I'm pulling together a team. It ain't the most slick team of gunslingers that ever crossed God's country but I can make do with a few thieves, former raiders, you know the sort. How you finding the scavving business anyway?"

"It pays the bills well enough, more than what being sheriff ever did," Lawman grunted.

"There ain't no law here. Just business."

Lawman said nothing.

"This team," Oswald continued, his chair creaking as he shifted his weight, "I want it to go on a scavenger hunt."

"The usual drill?"

"Not even. You will be travelling south. Deep South." Oswald peered through the haze of smoke. "How do you feel about that?"

Lawman had heard of this South. The post was deep in frontier territory itself, surrounded by tribals only kept at bay by a palisade on one side, the Mississippi on the other and a sizeable tribute. The tribals even then would still raid caravans from time to time and engage in guerrilla warfare, but hey, that's home sweet home for ya.

Now that's the Post, and it ain't tame by any man's measure, but that's the post. Then there's South.

"Marshes, swamps, mirelurks, gatorclaws, radioactive fog and voodoo crazies who make our tribal friends look like fairy godmothers. And here I was just thinking I needed a holiday."

"Lost cities," Oswald countered, "treasure, and, above all… technology untouched by the brotherhood of steel."

"The brotherhood of steel isn't barmy enough to have ever gone that far south…"

"Wrong. They have sent a detachment south. Recently."

"What? Why?"

"I don't know, but I can hazard a guess."

"Well. Guess away, then," Lawman gestured, and then said, "somethings happening down there isn't there. Something… something has stirred the hornet's nest." It wasn't a question. And that was exactly what the south was – a hornet's nest. The great war had blasted most of the continent into a barren wasteland but the further south you went the more the radiation seemed to have the opposite effect. Perhaps it was the climate, but the mutations were unlike anything else and the terrain had been changed permanently. The South was almost a dense jungle of warped willows, vines and mires. Lakes pooled within dark forests to make passage almost impenetrable. On top of that the ever present mists disrupted compasses. It was as though the South had undergone a tectonic shift – it might as well have done, because most of the old world cities there had been lost for generations.

"Evidence has been found by some travelling walk the wastes fuck that there exists tech in the south. Tech that has remained untouched since the great war. He stumbled across it down there and had a tape to prove it. It was a Vault Tec research facility. Some sort of hub. A data collection point for all vault info. All vault technology is collected at one central node and that node is located…"

"…South."

"…The city of sin itself." Oswald's greed flashed in his eyes as his voice became hushed with excitement. "New Orl-."

"Lost Orleans, you mean."

Oswald slammed his fist on the table in a sudden spark of rage. "Don't fucking interrupt me!"

Lawman raised an eyebrow. Oswald cleared his throat. "As I was saying," he said, straightening his tie, "You're right. Lost Orleans. And it's a damn good job it's lost too because that wasteland fuck of a traveller I told you about, went around jabberin' to everyone! That's how I know about it. And now I know others are looking for that tech too…

"Oscar. I sent him on a simple scavenging trip to Vault tec's southern headquarter's - that's not too far from here. Thought it'd be an easy mark."

"So what happened, Oswald?"

"Someone shot him, Lawman. Someone fucking shot him dead. I don't know which son of a bitch did it but clearly someone else had the same idea to look there."

"Coulda been a raid…"

"No items were taken from him. He was found with what he was haulin'."

There was a chill silence as the two men took that in.

"Forces are on the move, and they're already ahead of us. The brotherhood of Steel is already moving in from the east and if they've heard word then how long before the NCR send a squadron of vertibirds that-a way. The hunt has already started, and if we don't get there first we might just be standing slap bang in the middle of a gunfight between our trading partner and those self-appointed, self-righteous, holier than thou fucks!"

"Christ…" Lawman moaned. "You know I hate it when you get all geopolitical."

"Well, there's a lot riding on this. That's what I'm saying, Lawman. Your home is the same as my home after all. We're in this same boat together, you and I."

"Surely if it comes to gunslinging it will be happening in that devils sweat sack down south?"

"How long before it comes to us?"

There was no answer to that question. Trade was the one lifeline that the post had. Blood and sweat had gone into converting the area around here into a safe traversable path where Brahmin packs and convoy systems could be established. The Post had little else.

If trade dried up the caravan companies would up sticks and then what? We'd all be tribals again, tribals with a pretty fort, sure, but no money to pay off the other tribals who would surely attack us. The Post started life as a point of contact between the local tribes and the caravan companies, a sort of gathering point where access to safe passage was negotiated. Soon the Post grew from a prison ruin into a settlement with company employees forming a permanent population. Then some tribes assimilated, joined the Post and its "easy livin'". Nothing easy about it really but it provided opportunities tribal life did not, like the opportunity to gamble away everything you own at the card tables or to explore with a convoy, or, hell, the opportunity to drown your sorrows with booze and forget your past. The temptation for many overcame tribal traditions. For other tribals, well, the company dealt with them in other ways. Those ways usually involved finding the right tribal leaders and setting one tribe against another. Byzantine politics it was called back in the old world. It's one hell of an ace to pull out of ya sleeve, that's for sure.

Oswald seemed to know what Lawman was thinking because next he said, "And what would happen to us if trade were disrupted? Now see, finding this Tech for ourselves would be one hell of a boon – we just sell to the highest bidder, while keeping our involvement hush hush. Anonymous buyer and all that shit. I know how to pull the strings, but if some other group catches wind of it and snatches it from us, well, who knows what could happen. Uncertainty is bad for business. And war is bad for law. Being that there is no law in war. Only blood. You see my problem."

"And so you want me and a collection of cut-throats to travel all the way down south to the heart of darkness and pull out some data file from somewhere, which god knows not where and god knows not what soul dare visit, so that you can get rich…"

"So we can be rich, Lawman! Equal shares all round."

"Equal shares?"

"Square as square can be. Just find me the data file and it's yours. Do it for the money, do it for the Post, or do it to spare this land from a standoff between the two main powers across this nuclear fire blasted continent – I don't care. But that's the job."

"And why me. Why the hell involve me?"

"Because I know you, Lawman. I know you're square. I know you're true to your word, straight as an arrow. Sure I can hire men quicker than you, stronger than you, more skilled than you, I sure as hell can hire them younger than you, and no offense meant there now, but you ain't no spring chicken no more, you know what I'm sayin'." Lawman did but just shrugged as if to say he could give any spring chicken a run for their money. Oswald smiled his big greasy smile. "But you're the one I can trust, Lawman. And in this business that's priceless."

"Uh-huh," Lawman said, sizing up what he'd just heard and deciding he smelled bullshit. "Or maybe you just need me 'cause I'm the only goddamn guy with a pip-boy for hundreds of miles around."

Oswald just shrugged as he sank back in his chair, but his beady eyes watched Lawman shrewdly. "Maybe you are. And maybe that's a factor, Lawman. A pip-boy is invaluable and probably necessary to open any vault come to that – short of a ton of thermite. Of course," he chuckled, "It had been suggested to me by some of the others that we just slit your throat and take the Pip-boy for ourselves, but I told our boys, 'now see here I know Lawman and he's a damn straight shooter, and no mistake. He will be an excellent addition to the team and I won't take kindly to any talk of doin' him harm'."

"I'm so grateful you've got my back, Oswald," Lawman replied dryly. "You want that I go on an expedition with these cut-throats who'd sooner stab me in the back as look at me?"

"Why not? You've dealt with these types before."

"Yeah, back when I was a Sheriff I was exchanging a few rounds of lead with them. Not sure that makes for a good start to any platonic relationship."

Oswald waved a pudgy hand as though this was of little consideration. "It's a… colourful group, that's for sure. They ain't just thieves. There's a few ain't so much gud'uns for sure, but some of them are mercs similar to you."

"That doesn't give me confidence, Oswald."

"Well maybe it don't. But you're sure as hell just gonna have to deal with it. Same as they'll have to deal with you. We're all friends on this expedition. You… them… you're all gonna get on together like peas in a pod. Money makes strange bedfellows, Lawman."

It makes enemies is what it makes, Lawman thought to himself, but he'd got it now. He'd caught the bug. He was hooked and Oswald, the dirty bastard, could see it in the gleam in his eyes. Lawman was in.

After some thought, Lawman leaned back in his chair and considered Oswald. "Let's just suppose now that I go ahead and accept this shindig of yours, Oswald. How we goin' to get to a place we know nothin' of?"

"The wanderer who found evidence of the motherload of data files, he'd found a vault further down the Mississippi. That's where you start. I've organised a boat. Pretty little thing; the Mayweather, they call her. It's a refurbished old world steam boat and she hums like a charm. Lawman, your first half of this expedition is goin' to be a cruise down to that research facility. That vault. And find clues that will lead you to the mother of all tech files. Failing that locate Lost Orleans by some other means."

"How much is this thing worth?"

"If black gold and uranium had a love child how much do you think it'd be worth? It's worth a lot, Lawman. A hell of a lot."

"And if we run into the Brotherhood of Steel?"

"Ah ha. That I leave to your discretion. I will of course wash my hands of any incident. I don't know you. Bad for business, you understand."

There were so many more questions, but only one more that Lawman asked. His hands itched for the liquor again, but his focus remained latched on the smoking silhouette of Oswald in front of him. "The wastelander – The one who found this evidence – where is he now?"

"Shot dead." Oswald's reply was blunt. "Find me the data file, Lawman. Pull it out of that swamp infested, overgrown hornet's nest of a graveyard and bring it back to me. Make us rich men. And make sure it don't fall into the wrong hands…"

…and the tendril of meandering smoke from Oswald's cigar rose up like the Mississippi to the ceiling, like a moonlit path to some question that for now would remain unanswered.

Oswald's eyes gleamed.