The Railroad, Underground Base, Downtown Boston
"Des," Deacon whispered, poking his leader's shoulder, "Des wake up." the red headed leader of the Railroad groaned as she rolled over, blearily blinking her eyes.
"Deacon, you know what time it is right? This had better be important."
Deacon smirked, "Of course it important Des, everyone is waiting for you about the new synth."
Desdemona's eyes widened in alarm, "A new synth! When the hell did I give a go on that project?" Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, "damn it Deacon, stop pulling my leg."
He smiled genially, "got it in one Des," and his smile faded to a frown, "but I've got some info that you need now." the leader of the Railroad frowned thoughtfully; she knew that tone from Deacon. It was usually accompanied by words like compromised, destroyed, or dead.
If her best agent thought something was wrong, she had to know immediately what it was. She quickly rolled out of the covers on her sleeping bag and stood, walking out of the room with Deacon. She slept fully clothed, everyone in the railroad did, you never knew when a Courser might find you, nor how long you had until a synth strike team came in through the roof.
"Ok Deacon, what went wrong," she was looking at the drawing board, trying to figure out which safe house must have been compromised and how to mitigate the damage.
"Actually Des, nothing really went wrong, you could say," Deacon looked sheepish, an unusual look to the normal braggart.
She narrowed her eyes, "alright, I'll bite, what's so important?"
Deacon grinned mischievously behind his sunglasses, "what if I could tell you about a land that is so far away that no one has heard of the terms 'synth,' or, 'the Institute?' What if I said it was so close, that it only took me a day to get there?"
Desdemona frowned, while she didn't believe in such a spot and she wasn't an optimist, Deacon wouldn't lie about this. At least, he hadn't done that before, yet. "I would say that you were pulling my leg, but also that you might have found something important."
Deacon's grin only grew wider, "oh this is important Des, but regardless of how I phrase it, you aren't going to believe me."
"Well then how do I know that this place exists? Just because you said the 'magic words' that you admit that you pull fantasies out of thin air doesn't absolve you of the fact that you make stuff up all the time." Desdemona smirked back at the offended looking Deacon, waiting for his retort.
But he didn't give one, instead pulling out an institute recorder, part of the technology that the Sole Survivor had given them after he had gotten into the Institute. Fiddling with the switch, Deacon managed to get the thing to project onto the wall.
A soft blue light emanated from the recorder, and illuminated a marble Parthenon, restored to its ancient glory. Deacons voice softly whispered out of the recorder, "This place seems to be a piece of old world tech, or even alien. Hell, I don't know, it could be magic. The point is, when you go through here, you emerge on another planet. The constellations aren't even the same."
Desdemona scowled at Deacon, who stood off to her left, arms folded with a slight frown on his face. He didn't even acknowledge her turning to him, "you really expect me to believe that? Only the Institute has ever developed teleporting technology, and it could not get someone to another world."
Deacon shook his head and pointed at the projection, where the Parthenon was growing closer, "So, I've been through this before, but not with any electronics on. Let's hope you survive through," Deacons voice to the recorder. The looming structure enveloped the recorder, and darkness swallowed the device. "Yeah," Deacons voice came through, "it's really dark in here, but if we walk about twenty minutes along the walls, we reach the end of the tunnel on. I'm going to turn off the recorder to save battery."
The screen dimmed, and Desdemona resumed scowling at Deacon, "What the hell are you up too; you realize there are escaped Synths who need the time that you take sightseeing, right?"
Deacon merely smirked back, "Just trust me Des, this is going to be worthwhile." The recorder resumed, and a light appeared in the center of the image.
"Ok, so, this was hard to believe my first time around, and it's going to be even harder for you guys listening," Deacons voice continued, "but that light is a wholly different planet. No nuclear war, almost no background radiation to speak of, at least, compared to the Wasteland." The light enveloped the lens, and a magnificent view appeared.
Green, as far as the eye could see on gentle rolling hills. Mountain peaks defined the shallow valley and encircled the view. A brook, filled with clear water, but most startling was the sky. In the Wasteland that used to be North America, the sun was almost always partially obscured by the clouds of radioactive dust that still hadn't settled down or blew out from the glowing sea. The sun of this new place shined down clearly, unobstructed, and illuminated a clear blue sky. Such a clean, clear cerulean that hadn't graced the Earth since the day of war that had ruined their planet.
"So that's a really shocking view for anyone from the Wasteland," Deacons narrative continued, "but here is something that we would be a lot more familiar with, huh?" The camera panned out, and down the hill lay the remains of a large battle. Craters pockmarked the ruined ground and the remains of an army lay unhallowed and abandoned.
"Yeah," Deacon stated, "it looks like the Super Muties have been through before me. Hell, just getting to the Gate is hard, it's in the middle of Mutant territory and they have it guarded by at least three forts." Deacon once more turned the recorder to the sky, "alright, I'm going to turn you off and head back to the wasteland, the Railroad needs my report."
Desdemona was speechless as the recorder wound down, and Deacon merely stood patiently waiting for his boss to say something. Finally, she found her words, "that's real?"
Deacon nodded, "as real as real gets Des," he spoke softly.
Desdemona spent a few more seconds organizing her thoughts, the mission, focus on the mission. "It's inhabited?" Deacon nodded, but the question was mostly rhetorical. "What do you know about them? I'm sure you at least went through the remains." Deacon had always been the best agent, and that was in large part due to his curiosity, he always needed to find more information, mission critical or not.
Deacon took a breath, "they are not an advanced society, I went to a few of their surviving settlements and posed as a farmhand for some info. I would say that they average about twelfth century, in terms of technology." Deacon groaned seeing his boss's blank face, "Oh come on, Des! Haven't you read a history textbook before?"
She grinned a little ruefully, "I'm sure you haven't looked outside lately Deacon, but the whole, 'nuclear war' thing doesn't lend well to going to the library."
Deacon stared at her a little, but it was hard to tell if he was glaring or not, the sunglasses prevented anyone from seeing his eyes. "Anyways," he continued," that means that they are so far behind us in terms of technology, that they won't know what synths are, nor be able to identify them."
"So, I think what you are trying to suggest Deacon," is that we start channeling all of our escapees to one location, in the hopes that the natives won't pick up on a bunch of strangers showing up from a magic hill? Or that the Institute doesn't figure that out either?"
"If we went one at a time, or even posed as groups of settlers, we could get in without the Institute figuring anything out. And we could just set up villages ourselves, integrating into the native society would be hard until we can build a dictionary. They don't speak English," Deacon pointed out, "we could do it, except for one, tiny problem."
Desdemona raised an eyebrow, "would that be the Super Mutants?"
Deacon nodded, "yeah, we don't have the kind of resources to clear them out either; they really want that Gate to stay theirs."
Desdemona grinned a little, "I happen to know someone who does have the resources to do so, but it's going to take a little trickery to get him into actually clearing those Super Mutants without letting his faction know what's on the other side." Desdemona smirked back at Deacon, "I'm going to need you to write up a report for me and P.A.M."
Before Deacon could start whining about, god forbid, work, Des decided to outline her plan. "What we are going to do is doctor a version of your report and have you take the place of a brotherhood scribe. Then after you hand the report to Quinlan, we can sit back and wait while vertibirds clear out the ruins."
Deacon grinned, now that was his kind of plan, full of misdirection and sneaking. "I'll get right on it Des," he sang, and Des shook her head in amusement while trying to remind herself that he only played the role of lovable idiot.
North of Alnus Hill
The last bandit fell begging, terrified for his life. It was pathetic. These were men who boasted that they were trained killers, hardened by war and deadly capable. None of their group had managed to entertain her for even a second. This last one's blubbering cries and pleases almost annoyed her. What filth.
Still, every century or so, some event or upheaval would occur and she would get to fight a decent fight. In fact, the century since her last good fight was almost up, which was why she was wandering these lands in the first place. Great warriors generally didn't show up when she was watching, it made all the trainees too scared.
She sighed, musing, as the bandit climbed to his knees, hands clasped as snot ran down his nose, "please your holiness," she tuned the creature out, something about family. She had heard all this before and it never changed. Honestly, how hard is it to come up with something more creative than 'I'm just a poor farm boy.' As if a poor farm boy would be out here raping and pillaging as marauders were wont. Well, he was certainly a morally poor farm boy now.
Calmly, she ran her tongue over the blood spatter on her hand, cleaning it as a predator might. The coppery taste, regardless of how unworthy its donator may have been, never failed to excite her. Seeing this, the cretin at her feet sobbed all the harder, head pressed against the rocky ground as he stammered out excuses and apologies. As if she cared about apologies. He could apologize all he wanted in the next life.
Tapping her chin, her smirk turned to a light frown as she sensed a wave of violent intent coming from above her. Faintly, she had to strain her ears to hear over the filth now clasping at her ankles, she could make out the roar of a dragon. Smiling again, she came to a decision.
One swing of her halberd later, she was pursuing the heavy beat of dragon wings. This might just be a good fight. If a dragon found something to prey upon, especially if it were some innocent village, The Reaper's boring evening might turn into a dead dragon, and those always looked excellent on ones résumé.
The wind whipped through her hair, painting a long black trail behind her as she sprinted after the beast, each bounding step covering far more ground than even an elves'. With a heavy thud that Rory could feel even this far away, her prey must have landed. And it had to be an old dragon. Very few ever got this large. Her grin only grew wider in anticipation.
Dull red scales showed out of the darkness and a looming, angry yellow eye stared down at a small caravan. With a feral scream, the creature unleashed a torrent of flame that incinerated several wagons. The Reapers feet faltered as she felt those lost souls slip through her, on their way to the embrace of Emroy.
Regaining her speed, the Reaper was still too far away to make a difference. One of the wagons though was suddenly, magically, fast, whipped around into the dragons blind spot before unleashing a short barrage of silver light. Mages, she thought to herself, and not just average ones either. The dragon had fully turned towards their wagon and away from the rest of the caravan, testament to how much it felt threatened. That lumbering turn alone bought the Reaper all the precious seconds she needed to wind up her arm and heave her halberd into the fray.
Like a purple lightning bolt, her weapon shot out, faster than the eye could track before it struck the ground with a resounding crash. Lightning before the thunder, the short Reaper snorted in amusement, devastation before the storm. Arriving with the explosion of force, her halberd sundered the ground at the dragon's feet, unleashing a devastating cataclysm of energy that concussed the air.
If anything, her smile only grew wider, taking on a feral gleam of its own as bubbles of overpressure pressed down on her blurring form.
The mage's cart survived the destruction if only by the simple reason that it was floating in the air, immune to the shattered ground and quaking earth. The multi-ton dragon that was standing on the soil that suddenly exploded with force? It didn't have such protections.
With a roar to match any thunder, the dragon tipped over, unbalanced. It fell awkwardly, and with a mighty crunch it screamed in pain. She could see where the bones in the beasts arm were ruined, as it vainly tried to support itself. The Reaper licked her lips as she shivered in pleasure. The pain, the shame, that emanated from the dragon as its lessers' stripped it of its superiority - that was a rare treat indeed.
She was still too far away, she realized as the dragon climbed back to its feet, its intent only to escape. She sighed in displeasure as it took to the air, great muscles flexing underneath its ember hide as it leapt into the sky, favoring its forelimb. She would probably never have another opportunity to kill it again. It would be wary of people for centuries now.
There was nothing better to do now that the dragon had fled. The Reaper went to reclaim her weapon, stuck firmly into the soil. With a single fluid heave, she wrested the massive halberd from the earth and looked over towards the caravan, which was only now realizing it was no longer under threat.
It was like watching a glacier move as elders and parents looked at her, then at the shattered ground around her, and then at the fleeing form of the dragon. Then they would look at her again one more time, before ducking into their wagon, whereupon their spouse would do the whole thing over again. With one exception, the Mages cart had drifted over to her, and she was greeted by the sight of a dark bearded short man grinning jovially at her. She grinned back, she had dealt with these kinds of people before; smiling was the key.
Yet, next to the old man sat a blue haired witch, an apprentice, she thought, who seemed to frown softly at her. Whether it was in disapproval or shock, the Reaper couldn't say. Tentatively, the witch raised her hand and gave a soft wave, and the Reaper nodded her head, a smaller grin, but perhaps more genuine, directed towards the apprentice.
A soft tug on her dress caught her attention, and she looked down to find the first of the children beaming up at her, the pump creatures mouth moving without sound. Rory frowned a little in her mind, but kept the smile on her face as she gently patted the child on the head. Nearby, adults were beginning to make their way over to kneel. It was annoying, perhaps, but she was used to it. At least this time she had actually done something worth being thanked for.
Still, it bothered her that she could not hear anything, not the wind, nor the children nor the soft prayers of the adults. The apprentice had approached her, as the adults bowed and the blue haired witch kept a neutral mask while gesturing towards her own ears. Ears, ears, what is she trying to tell me? The Reaper floundered, until realization snapped.
Quite literally, there was a solid snapping sound that happened when her eardrums finished repairing themselves and moved back into position. She grinned once more, and spoke, "it's too bad the dragon ran."
While the children all readily agreed with her, the apprentice frowned, just a small one, before responding, "It was probably best that it left."
The Reaper giggled a little, it had been so long since someone had actually disagreed with her, much less argued. I think I'm going to stay with them for a little while longer. Besides, if their luck had attracted a fully grown fire dragon in the middle of the night, Rory the Reaper was bound to find some fun.
A/N
Thanks for all the awesome suggestions guys, you've made it overwhelmingly clear that you believe an OC would fit better, and we are getting to the point where one might show up. Shouldn't be for a little while longer though, our OC isn't going to be terribly pivotal. Remember in Gate? Itami never really drove the plot, the story was built around his companions, instead of around him. I plan to do something similar.
Thanks for reading guys, have a wonderful week and I will chat again next time. If you have any questions, comments or concerns, go ahead and ask, although I cannot promise to answer, I'm still figuring out the system in my copious amounts of free time.
