July 4th 2053

"I am authorizing the deployment of our Marines to Columbia. The civil war has spiraled out of control and while we have no intention of picking a side, we will not stand by when their neighbors and our allies are under threat from the violence, nor will we allow American Nationals in that country to face harm's way by themselves."

That was President Dewey this morning in the Rose Garden, announcing his intent to take a more active role in the Columbian Civil War which has now raged for nearly two months. Only hours ago the Columbian People's Front claimed responsibility for the bombing of the US embassy in Bogota which occurred shortly after midnight local time.

"Here you go."

I shifted my attention from the television nobody was watching (there was hardly anyone around at this hour) to the man behind the little cage who handed me a pack, which I shouldered.

I thanked him and headed out the back entrance. From there, it was a few steps out of the alley to a familiar red line.

Ah, the Freedom trail. A thin red line in the bricks snaked its way from C town at Bunker Hill and the old navy yard then before the forks met and made for the heart of Boston.

And here I was carrying a suitcase of something along this trail, and on the fourth of July no less. All the while, the city seemed quiet, no doubt concentrating and the end of the trail in Boston Commons.

I had carried a few suitcases in the last week and they all felt different. Not that I was interested enough to ask questions with the money being offered. Given that I had picked this one up in the gambling den that inhabited the basement of Ron's pizza place did narrow down the possibilities.

Ron Trevio didn't ask any questions about documentation beyond if I wanted it. I was a good fit for temporary work he had told me after looking me over.

I was lost in an unfamiliar environment, with little in the way of the familiar, and an already vested interest in not getting the attention of the boys in blue.

There was another matter that though Ron hadn't said it, I was beginning to understand. It was the factor of being white trash but not the local type.

From various things I'd heard from Will and his bestie Chuck, I got the impression that authorities were always too busy looking for people like Ron.

They were people with darker features and grease in their hair. They struggled to speak without moving their hands every which way.

Me though, I wouldn't likely get more than two looks from anyone. All I had to do was act like a natural and keep my mouth shut.

I followed the trail in the direction of downtown just like any good tourist like salmon down a river. I might have taken the metro from Bunker Hill community college to my destination, but I was fairly close to Boston's North Station where a change of lines would be in order and the T system would take me close to my final destination. Besides, there was a certain spice to smuggling something along part of the Freedom trail, especially when I was dressed like a tourist with a pack.

My destination was the Hotel Rexford across the river Charles which was in Boston's financial district. There was a transfer station at Scollay Square that would get me within a block or so of the place once there.

The closest crossing came a few blocks later, at the Washington Street bridge where the trail went downtown. On my side of the bridge, I could see the far end of Boston bay where the Charles and the Mystic rivers wrapped around C-town to meet salt water.

Boats of many shapes and sizes dotted the water from tiny little inflatable boats, to big luxury yachts, some of which must have been worth millions. It was just another reminder among others I'd had this week of the money that was in this place, that I had heard about in Rome but never got to see until now. None of those reminders I'd gotten north of Boston Proper looked so beautiful though.

Past the boats themselves, the scene on the water was riveting. On one closer boat, that was square shaped, I could see the smoke rising from one man's grill. The man behind it was no doubt flipping meat, and holding a bottle of something heavy by the neck with his clear hand.

On another small craft, I could make out a few older people in swimsuits who even from a distance looked bad in them, cracking open beers.

I had no particularly strong inclination towards wanting a boat before Boston, though I did dream of being a pirate on the high seas as a kid. Back then, of course it sounded like freedom from the life I was living.

Now though, I feel like it meant something a little different. I'd seen a couple local marinas in the last week with boats in every dock. It wasn't quite envy, or the desire to do fun things on the water. I think it had more to do with the thoughts the sight of them brought.

I had escaped from my prison plantation in the Southeast, and was a man on the run who technically wasn't legally a man yet. Not long ago, 100 miles was about the furthest I'd been from Rome.

Now though, I'd made a trail across the East coast in the better part of June. It was terrifying at first blundering into the unknown head first, but I had come to enjoy life on the run. That life did have it's own charm.

In Boston part of me wanted to get comfortable, but another part of me wanted to be able to fuck off to somewhere unknown and exotic, where sands were snow white and the drinks came with umbrellas. That of course all required money which led me to think about my current position.

I was technically a front counter guy at Ron's Pizza shop earning just enough to get by. My other jobs for Ron were working towards other things I needed, like getting a cover identity, and an under the table bonus or two. After that, who knew what the best option would be when I suddenly had more options whatever they were.

With the southern end of the bridge came the crosswalk the map said I'd have to take. Thankfully, the North station was a block away and already visible from there.

North Station was a little smaller than South Station where I had entered Boston, and a lot more local. The South Station was where all the interwealth lines were. Here, pretty much every scheduled train had a final destination somewhere within the hour.

The subway line in the basement looked to be about the same size though, and by now I felt comfortable enough finding my way around. The trip was quick and uneventful (there was hardly anyone around at this hour), and next thing I knew I was ascending the stairs to Scollay Square.

Scollay Square was a place I had known about before I'd come here. There were some things in the world of the Silver Shroud that had been seared into my mind for a long time, and some of things I remembered best happened within sight of this station tucked right in the shadow of the Old State House.

Many dastardly villains from all over New England and Boston itself came and went in places like this.

And here I was walking onto the real life set carrying something dirty. It did add some spice to my current job when I thought about it.

Imagine being a fan of a crime show where somebody dies every episode, then going to the real world setting and committing a murder. That's what I was doing, but with lower stakes.

I crossed the square looking for the hotel, suddenly nervous.

If Scollay Square had that kind of profile, I had to wonder how invisible a hick with a pack truly was. There were plenty of tourists along the freedom trail that passed by the Old State House, but nobody in uniform I could see. There were no shifting eyes of men in plainclothes scanning the area, who I had been told to watch for.

My eyes stayed down as often as I dared going into the hotel, and finding the room.

That room was numbered 215 and behind it was a man in a good three piece suit with a typewriter. The man looked me over with a slight look of disapproval.

He motioned for the pack which I handed over. After opening the pack and giving a cursory glance, the typewriter clicked furiously.

"It's always a pleasure doing books with your people. Give Ron Trevio my regards.

"I don't know you, sir." I let out my Georgian drawl just a little.

"Where the fuck does your boss find his help?"

I shrugged, "He has an interesting eye for talent. I imagine I'm not what you expected."

The man laughed, then grinned. His dirty red hair seemed to reflect the sunlight from the hotel window. "Your boss is a bold man and not as dumb as he looks. I like a man who lives dangerously. Tell Ron that Eddie Winter sends his regards."

Eddie pulled a paper from the typewriter and slid it in front of me. "It's a pleasure doing business."

That night I thought about the impact of today as me and the boys sat on the roof watching the fireworks, sharing rum out of the bottle, and passing around some mentats. The latter I got after my papers were received from Ron.

It was the 4th he had said and if there was a time to get to live like a proper adult citizen it was today. The ID card was good enough to get me Mentats without any hassle, and with luck would help me with any other needs short of dealing with law enforcement. I wasn't confident to push my luck there.

I took a whole tablet of Mentats (the orange kind) and chased it down with a shot of whiskey followed by a Nuka Cola. The cocktail seemed to take effect almost immediately and before long the fireworks show (which was already better than that one I'd seen in Atlanta) became even better.

The explosions seemed to bloom even further, and time seemed to slow. Even paths from the dispersal seemed to take turns one couldn't expect. The sky began to shift and the ground began to sink. All the background noises (mostly from Will and Chuck) started to fade.

When I felt the urge to move I felt wet grass on my arms and back. Outlines of other humans were in almost every direction looking at the sky. Looking down, I saw myself in clothes that I had never seen and when I stretched my legs, I felt a heavy weight in my pockets.

Where the fuck was I?

AN: sorry this one's a little short. Happy 4th of July folks.