Fallout Assiniboia: Intro

War. War never changes. With the end of civilization through atomic fire in 2077, the view survivors struggled to find a life in the new world that was so different from the old. Some of the lucky ones managed to live out the destruction and aftermath in the underground Vaults, sheltered from the harshness of the wastelands created overnight. Bands of violent raiders, militants interested in only rape and plunder, and horrible mutant creatures born from the radiation and the ruins all terrorized those that weren't able to find refuge in the Vaults, and who only wished to survive and continue in this hostile world.

To the north, in the prairies of annexed Canada, a new power arose from the grips of the enslavement the people suffered at the hands of the United States. Winnipeg, a city that many overlooked or ignored not only survived when the bombs were unleashed, but continues to grow and prosper. After a brief insurrection, a nation was born of a multitude of ancient rivalries and tensions, and new threats and dangers. Under a façade of strength and unity, the Dominion Assiniboia lived in peace for many years, establishing themselves as the premier economic and military power of the Great Plains, continuing the traditions of the old Canada and the British Motherland in both law and government. Groups hostile to the nation are many, from the remnants of old America to technology worshipers, and they grow in strength, and it is not a matter of if, but when, they will besiege this one true remnant of the Old World.

The climate was not as friendly, and only a few years after the war, a massive wall of ice arose in the north as Nuclear Winter swept around the world. The new mountains were a blessing and a curse: the cleanest water you could find melted off the glacier which supported Assiniboia, but dangers greater than any ever known lay frozen in time and space, waiting for the clock to strike midnight.

Patrick Morrison, a young man with nothing to lose, left his hometown in disgrace, and set out to hide his problems and begin again. However, in a world that still reels from the decisions made almost two centuries before, Patrick will find himself in the midst of politics, crisis and war. But the past haunts, the present pains, and the future beckons, but for good or evil, it remains to be seen.

Chapter One: High Noon

May 7, 2218

Melita, Manitoba, Dominion of Assiniboia

There were stupid things, then there were stupid things. Ever since he hit puberty, Patrick Morrison had been testing those limits, whether he was trying to or not. A knack of always being in the wrong place at the wrong time, of luck that was very sour even at the best of times, dogged Pat to no end.

He always thought his hometown was the one place where he could escape the mistakes and accidents of his life, but this time that was not the case.

The three 10mm pistols and a sawed off shotgun pointed at him right at this moment proved that point all too well. Wielded by four identical men, all barrel chested, scarred, and wearing matching black suits, fedoras, and sunglasses, they were men not to be trifled with. They were part of a group of gangsters that controlled Brandon, about 140 kilometers to the northeast, and were known only as The Syndicate. And the sneers and furrowed eyebrows put it across that if you get on their bad side, or, rather, their boss's bad side, they wouldn't hesitate to break you. Heck, if you so much as looked at them funny, nothing could stop them.

"Alright Patty," the one with the shotgun said. "Enough of your games and trickery. Pay up now."

Patrick forced a smile. "What games? When have I ever tried to pull the wool over your eyes, Benny?"

The one with the shotgun, Benny, frowned even more than before. "I'm not here to hear your excuses. The money, now."

"It's not very polite for visitors to come in this late in the day without warning, you know? Was just about to have supper..."

"You can eat after you pay up," Benny growled, aiming the shot gun at Patrick's midsection.

The hostage knew perfectly well that the "Syndies" wouldn't leave until they got the money, or killed him, or at least crippled him enough to wish he was dead… But nobody carried two thousand pounds with them, unless they wanted to be robbed.

Well, at least normal people didn't…

"Alright, I have the money," Patrick sighed, leaning over for the Brahman skinned bag. Every pence he had…

He pulled up the bag, and reached into it. There was his journal… and there was the Brahman leather hat he usually wore, but took off because it got very sweaty and itchy wearing it. Not that it would have done him any good right now.

The four men lowered their guns briefly, their frowns not as big as before. After all, they were going to get paid, and, heck, they could still rough "Patty" up a bit before they left.

"KABAM!" a gunshot echoed, striking one of the thugs in the knee. KABAM! KABAM! KABAM! The other two were hit and dropped to the floor, but the last shot missed the leader with the shotgun. The hidden .44 in his backpack sure had a wallop of a punch.

Patrick jumped off his chair, only wearing a t-shirt and pajama pants giving him more flexibility than the suited thugs had. He rolled over to the nearest thug laying down on the floor, and grabbed the 10mm he had, and pulled it up to the leader.

Benny pulled the trigger, the scattergun firing its deadly projectiles toward Patrick. However, most of the force was taken by the thug he had incapacitated, the rest smashing into the wall of peeling wallpaper and paint, over 150 years old.

Patrick pulled the 10mm up, and shot three times at the one Syndicate still standing, making him shudder from the hits. With a groan, he then fell to the floor and lay still.

The young man stood up, and sighed. Well, Melita wasn't safe anymore. It was time to run again.

He ran over to his backpack, sighing at the four holes at the bottom of it. It should hold for a bit until he could get it patched, but not for long. He quickly threw on some clothes, something that wouldn't draw much attention. The dusty jacket, jeans, chaps and that hat in his bag would help make him look like most of the ranchers or traders in this area. That would have to do.

Patrick stood up as he heard a mumble, with several short gasps. He looked around, and saw that one of the thugs hit in the leg and chest, was trying to radio to his boss.

"Shit!" he exclaimed, kicking the Syndicate thug in the neck and shutting him up, grabbing the last few things he thought he would need. He threw his backpack on, before running out the door.

As he stepped over the leader, a hand reached out and grabbed his leg, making Patrick fall to the floor.

"Yurr not going anywhere!" Benny slurred, blood running from his mouth and nose.

A swift kick to the face, enough to break the nose, sent the thug screaming in pain.

"Sorry, I will have to pass today," Patrick quipped, before picking himself up and running out of the single room apartment.

As he jogged out the door, he nearly collided with a man walking down the hall.

"Patrick! What the hell is going on?" the older, white haired gentlemen in attire not dissimilar from Patrick's growled.

"Mr. Jamison," Patrick smiled. "Let's just say that a debt wasn't repaid today."

The old man groaned. "When are you going to give this up, young man?"

Patrick looked down at the floor boards. "Mr. Jamison, all I can say is that I would like to, but my luck just never seems to go my way, if you understand."

The old man scowled. "That was your excuse the last three times you came back here after something gone wrong at Winnipeg. I'm getting too old for this shit, you see. If you leave right now, you are not welcome back in this town until you clean up, you understand me?"

Patrick nodded solemly. "Yes Mr. Jamison." He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wad of bills. "At least take this for the rent and the damages,"

The old man took it, flipped through quickly, and pulled half of it out. "A few bullet holes and blood stains ain't a big deal." He tossed the rest back. "Just get your life together."

"Yes sir," Patrick said, sliding by the landlord.

"Now git! The Mounties will be here soon, and you better not be!"

Patrick sketched a salute, and continued his run out of the house.

As he stepped outside, Patrick could hear the tell-tale sign of galloping hooves, signifying the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police were dashing to the scene. Riding beasts that kind of resembled pre- Great War horses, the mutated creatures now had six legs, while being almost half as large again as the old equines. Tellingly, they were called sleipnir's (or, more often, a "slepy") after the old Norse mythological eight legged horse, like how the Brahmin were called such after the Hindu legend.

But the RAMP, not to mention most of rural Assiniboia, used the creatures for transportation. And as Patrick looked around, his massive black stallion, Demon, was tied up beside the four that the members of the Syndicate used to get here. With a grin, the newly minted fugitive ran up, and hooked his foot into the stirups, and swung himself over.

Demon shuffled a bit, and nickered softly.

"Sorry boy, time to head out of town," Patrick said, pulling out a switchblade and cutting the rope. "Hiya!" with a kick, Demon reared, whinnied, and galloped off in the opposite direction of the Mounties.

They ran down the old, unkept paved streets of Melita, before turning north and heading up the hill of the Souris River Valley that the small town of a few hundred people was nestled in. If he was lucky, Mr. Jamison would cover up what happened, maybe say that he went south, reading for Minot, instead of North. If he could get to at least Pipestone before the sun set, he would be in the clear, he was sure.

If he could get that far…

May 7, 2218

Melita, Manitoba, Assiniboia

Mr. Jamison watched the armor clad paramilitary men, wearing the wide-brimmed Stetson's and red jackets that their ancient predecessor's wore, as they looked over the crime scene that became his boarding house. The Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police were the best investigators in the nation, perhaps the world, but there was little they could do here. Having told them that Patrick went south, they sent a few men that way, as well as a radio alert to other places around the area, but Jamison knew, as much as they did, that having an hour head start pretty much meant that the suspect would never be found. They went through the actions, nevertheless, and got all the evidence they could, if just to file away reports that would never be read, but must be oh so lovingly maintained.

"Mayor Jamison?" the head of the local RAMP detachment, Captain Craig Daniel asked, coming to a halt and giving a crisp salute near the mayor. "Do you mind if I ask a couple questions?"

The mayor looked over the young, 20 something man in front of him with his weathered eyes. Very few people called him "mayor," just those that had been raised in the towns and cities, along with those from out of Assiniboia. Melita, like most small towns in Assiniboia, had a mayor that was often proclaimed by majority vote ever five years. Roy Phillip Jamison was the man that was currently chosen, and so long as he didn't kill anyone (or, at least anyone that was a law abiding citizen, or a town hero) he would continue to be elected. He could siphon all the money in the bank to his needs, and no one but the few tee-toller's in the area would bat an eyelash. Of course, if he did, and was found out, he would most likely be shoot before the hour was out.

"What would you like?" the mayor finally replied to the Captain.

He maintained a vigilant pose, but pulled out a large, well used notepad and poised a pen over it. "Do you know anything about these men?"

Jamison shrugged. "Dunno. Most likely from Brandon, out to try to get some payment for their bosses, or break some skulls, or something."

The officer nodded, but the Mayor could see him grip his now scribbling pencil a bit tighter. Brandon was one of the few places in what used to be Manitoba not under Assiniboian control, if for no other reason that the city was taken over by criminal families in the aftermath of the war, mostly the ones that traveled from the old US seeking a new city to lay under their control, like they had Chicago and Florida before the War. And Winnipeg hated that, and that went down to the RAMP officer's that kept the peace. There was no real law in Brandon, just the little that existed from having a bigger gun than the other guy.

"Any idea why… Patrick had a run in with them?"

Mr. Jamison shrugged again. "I'm not one to poke my nose into other people's business. But I do know that Patrick is a good kid, just with a string of bad luck around him. Could sell a painting to a blind man, or a super mutant, but he just isn't someone to settle down."

The RAMP officer scribbled it down. "Either way, there are four men dead, and, despite the fact that they are gangsters, he is a suspect in this case."

"Understood," the mayor replied. "Is that all?"

The RAMP officer shook his head. "One more thing. I've received word from Winnipeg that we are supposed to tell all those in positions of authority."

The mayor perked his ears. The Dominion, so long as you paid the taxes and didn't kill anyone, normally left well enough alone. "oh? What is it?"

Captain Daniel leaned forward. "Apparently, tensions are brewing down by Fargo. The Brotherhood of Steel is making noise again, recruiting locals and raising their army, and how Assiniboia shouldn't exist for having technology that only they should have, and that sort of thing."

The mayor's eyebrow went up. "Isn't that what they normally say? And why is Winnipeg concerned now?"

"May is the best time of year to launch military attacks, so the army command says. And Prime Minister McGregor is trying to prove he can stand up to them," the captain replied. "I honestly can't see much happening, but some of us Mounties might be withdrawn if tensions continue."

Now the mayor was concerned. If the RAMP detachment, a grand total of seven men that served the area from Highway 254 to the old Saskatchewan border, and south from the old American border to Road 345 was reduced, regular patrols may have to be cut back, and possibly civilian deputies would have to be raised to look after the town. That was something that the mayor didn't particularly look forward to, because picking random people to be the police would lead to violence and anger, especially when old scores that sometimes go back generations are settled… temporarily, of course. And that would all lead to problems that he would have to deal with…

"Well, let's hope those folks in the Ledge don't over-react to this," was all Mr. Jamison said. The captain may have known what the mayor was thinking, but he didn't let it show.

"As for now…" the captain looked at the three other RAMP officer's putting the dead gangster's into body bags. "We'll have to deal with them."

May 7, 2217

Outside Pipestone, Manitoba, Assiniboia

The steady rhythm of slepy hooves on the crumbling asphalt was enough to nearly lull Patrick to sleep, which the setting sun to his left didn't help matters much. He hadn't eaten at all since he left Melita, and he decided against stopping in Pipestone. If he was going to stop anywhere, it might as well be in the open prairie. After all, who was to say the gangster's that he was running from didn't have a few stationed in Pipestone waiting for him?

But sleeping on the prairie wasn't very safe either. Big coyotes, four feet high at the shoulder, prowled around the area, looking for a Brahmin to hunt down. Even slepy's could be taken down by a pack of them, though the equines could outrun them if given enough warning.

But other creatures were hidden out there. Mosquitoes were a pain, since they could inject radiation straight into you, not to mention diseases. And then there were the wild slepy's that roamed in herds that numbered in the hundreds. They didn't food for months, and could store water for weeks, and they were vicious sonsabtiches, ready to trample and pulverize anything that they considered a threat. The coyotes and slepy's often got into vicious fights, and were oftentimes interesting to watch from a great distance.

Patrick sighed, and pulled the riens of his slepy. "Alright Demon, we better stop for the night."

The equine snorted, and kicked at the ground with his massive hooves as Patrick dismounted, showing his displeasure at being halted, even though the sun was setting. Slepy's had incredible eyesight, or so it was told, in that it didn't matter if it was day or night.

"just for a few hours, okay? You can eat the grass around here, and get some food stored up. I don't know how often we will stop after this."

The slepy waved it's head, almost as if trying to roll it's eyes, but it began grazing as Patrick opened up his pack and pulled out a couple food packages to eat. Lighting a campfire was more for protection, as wild beasts were more likely to stay away from it due to the dangerous nature of fire.

A cold wind roared from the north, making Patrick shiver. It was a good things his sleeping bag was warm, and the fire could help add some warmth. That glacier to the far north was a miserable place to be, what with the cold and almost constant background radiation. Unless you were an ice ghoul, and you could withstand both the radiation and the ice…

As soon as Patrick tucked himself in the sleeping bag he passed out into a dreamless slumber. He didn't wake up until he felt something nudge him. It was insistent, and at last forced Patrick awake. He rolled over in his sleeping bag to come face to face with the one that woke him.

Patrick's eyes opened wide as he scrambled out of the bag, a hunting rifle pointed at him, held by a rather pissed off Native-American male.

"You picked the wrong place to camp, Assy" the gruff man stated, using the gun to get Patrick on his feet, using the derogatory term for an Assiniboian. A loud whiney got Patrick's attention, as he saw five other men tie up Demon.

"What do you want?" Patrick asked, shaking from more than just the cold.

"I don't decide that. But the Chief will for your trespassing on the Rezz."