Chapter Eighteen
Getting out of the Asylum was easier than getting in. Well, at least until they got to the front yard.
Deer Wing slid to a stop as soon as she saw a dozen black suited men standing outside, looking at the wreckage of the walls and the front doors of the Asylum.
"Can't go out that way," she muttered. "Unless you want to be a human pincushion."
"No, I'm good for today," Patrick said, pointing to the bloody spot on his shoulder.
"Well that's taking one for the team," Deer Wing said. "No matter, there's other ways out. Let's go."
Deer Wing zigzagged around old beds and carts as Patrick followed behind.
"So how did you get a bow and arrow in here?" Patrick asked.
"I made it. I always had some extra string on me, and I found a decent piece of wood one day, and fashioned it myself. Same with the arrows," she said, pointing to the homemade quiver on her back.
"Isn't it a bit old fashioned Patrick asked?"
"Maybe, but it works, right?" she shot back. Patrick couldn't argue with that.
Deer Wing led Patrick to the back door of the building, ducking before the reached the door and walking the last few steps hunched over so no one outside could see in. Patrick could hear a couple voices outside, but it sounded like only a couple. Well, he sure could go guns blazing out here, he thought.
"Want a gun?" Patrick asked, offering the other Submachine gun that Patrick had been saving. Deer Wing looked at the gun for a moment, and reluctantly took it.
Patrick took a deep breath and slowly stood up. There was only two guys, and they both stood off to the side, one casually leaning against an old barrel, while the other lit a cigarette, and puffed on it.
"I bet one of those old cars finally just went off," one of them said.
"You seriously believe they could just go off like that?" the other replied.
"It was designed that way. Would blow up after so long, so that people would get new ones. Designed obsolescence, I think they called it."
"Then why would it go off now? A hundred and forty-one years later?"
The first guy just grunted, and shut up.
Patrick nodded down to Deer Wing, who drew another arrow on her bow. Patrick reached for the door, slowly twisted the handle, then threw it open.
The guards never had a chance. Patrick fired two bursts of his submachine gun at the first guard, while Deer Wing had pulled and let loose an arrow straight into the eye's of the other guard. Both men screamed bloody murder and fell down.
"Alright, let's get out of here!" Deer Wing said, sprinting straight ahead.
"Where?"
"Just follow me!" she said, and Patrick decided not to argue, and did so.
They crashed through some old dead trees and bushes, before diving in a small ditch a few feet away from that. Patrick squawked as his foot went into a radgopher hole. Deer Wing put her finger to her mouth, and Patrick did his best to remain quiet as he pulled his leg out of the annoying critter's home.
Some guards came racing around the back, noticing their comrades dead.
"She's escaped!" one of them exclaimed.
"Oh fuck," another swore. "This is not good."
"What do we do?" the first said. "We can't tell The Boss, we'll all be tossed to the Yao Gui in the Keystone Center!"
"Shut up," the second said. "They can't have gotten that far. We can find her."
"Then maybe we could finally use her," one of the guys grunted.
There was a gunshot, and a scream of pain. "Like fucking hell you will!" a female Syndie guard said. "The Boss made it perfectly clear that she is not putting up with that, got it!"
"Yes ma'am!" the other Syndicalists bellowed.
The gangsters split up, one heading along the east side of the building, one heading west, and one heading north, straight to Patrick and Deer Wing.
Patrick pulled out his submachine gun, but Deer Wing put a hand on it, shaking her head. She put her finger to her lips again, and snuck away, the dead grass and leafless branches not making a sound.
The guard walked up to the bushes, only a few feet from where Patrick hid, and looked around. He had a flashlight, and pulled it up, switching it on and scanning it through the bushes, staring to Patrick's left and going right. Patrick ducked his head down, pulling his hat down over his face, hoping the lump of his backpack wouldn't be seen. This is what he was going to get for being a pat rack, wasn't it?
The light washed over Patrick, but continued on. Then it scanned back the other way. Patrick screwed his eyes shut, muttering to himself. If only he had been able to sneak into the Asylum without anyone knowing, if only he the RAMP hadn't sent him here, if only Zach hadn't been taken…
The flashlight suddenly went haywire. There was a strangled gurgle of blood filling someone's throat, followed by a heavy thud, the body of the gangster landing inches from Patrick's face.
Patrick carefully looked over, seeing the blank, empty stare of a dead man, blood dripping from his mouth and a cut along his throat. He pushed himself up, and saw Deer Wing, a bloody knife in one hand, her bow in the other, and fierce hatred in her face.
"There, let's get the hell out of here," she whispered, pointing to the car wall that ran around the Asylum, and hadn't been touched by the explosions earlier that evening. Patrick nodded, and the two jogged toward the wall.
They didn't go up to the wall itself, as there were most likely still guards manning the posts. But they followed it south along First Street until the reached the Assiniboine River.
"Good at swimming?" Deer Wing asked, looking at the cold, rushing water.
Patrick shrugged. "Been a while, but I think I can handle it."
The two walked into the water, Patrick nearly crying out as the freezing cold water quickly rose up over his ankles and touched his bare skin. Only the fear of being found by a Syndicate guard along the wall stifled that response.
Deer Wing must have been laughing at the crazy Assiniboian, and easily slipped into the water, barely a ripple appearing in the water as she began to breaststroke her way across the River.
Patrick wasn't as graceful, the heavy backpack and years without practice catching up to him. The cold water did nothing to help. The point of the river was fairly narrow though, so after only five or so minutes of increasingly frigid, body straining effort, Patrick managed to reach the other side.
Deer Wing stood on the shore. If she was frozen or sore, she didn't show it. The First Nation's girl offered her hand to Patrick. The sorry Auxiliary that clasped her hand looked more like a dog or a Brahmin that had just been doused in gallons of water, pitiful and whimpering in shock and surprise. His teeth chattered involuntarily, his body shook with no outside motivation and his muscles ached.
"Wasn't that bad, huh?"
"Can we just go lay down now?" Patrick asked.
Deer Wing led Patrick along some back alleys and streets that were full of rubble and overgrown by brown grass, but eventually they arrived back at The Rez, and the cluster of tents, shanties and rundown houses that housed the impoverished and unlucky residents of Brandon.
The few people still up this early in the morning immediately recognized Deer Wing. At first the people that noticed were surprised she was back some standing up and coming forward to get a better view to make sure it wasn't a trick or anything being played on them.
"Is that really you?" an old woman asked.
"Are you back forever?" a young boy, not much older than 8 asked.
"Yes, I'm back, and I'm here to led us to freedom, to victory over the oppressors, and equality for all!" Deer Wing shouted, pumping her fist in the air.
The small crowd cheered as Deer Wing spoke. More and more people crowded around her, the formally morose and downtrodden now upbeat and excited that their leader and hero was back. Cheers and songs drew more people out of their homes from sleep to join in the increasingly raucous and excited party that developed.
A threadbare blanket was wrapped around Patrick, offering some warmth to the still wet and freezing man. He pulled it close around him, and tried to thank whoever it was that gave it to him, but whoever it was, they got lost in the crowd.
Reverend and Running Eagle appeared in the crowd. Reverend was celebrating as hard as anybody, if the bottle of vodka in his hand was any indication. Running Eagle was still straight faced, but it was clear that the impromptu party was having an effect on him.
"Good job Auxiliary," he said, punching Patrick's shoulder. "You've done a lot to help."
"What about the diversion?" Patrick asked, his teeth still chattering as he spoke.
"We were about to attack, but the explosions at the Asylum kinda undercut us," he said.
"That was partially my fault," Patrick admitted. "I will say, nuclear powered cars were a great way to deal with a bunch of gangsters."
Running Eagle smirked. "A lot of the Syndicate bastards though ran away, thinking that they were going to be attacked next. I know some did head up there, but apparently you managed to avoid it if you have gotten back here."
Patrick wanted to shrug and say something, but a yawn came out of his mouth instead. Running Eagle nodded, and guided Patrick back to the old school and to a bed somewhere within the building, Patrick had no idea where it was. But it was somewhat intact, somewhat quiet, and somewhat comfortable. Patrick fell asleep anyway.
Patrick was woken up by a steady, but distant drumming and patter. At first he thought it might have been rain, the first rain in a while. But it was too distant, and not hard enough.
Patrick sat up, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He stretched and yawned, some joint's popping into place as he grunted and groaned. The mattress he was given was old, moldy and wasn't comfortable at all, which didn't help his body. He glanced out the window, to see that it the sun wasn't even peaking over the horizon. Patrick grumbled, considering his options of maybe going back to sleep for at least a few more hours. Who knew that adventuring and being all heroic and stuff could be so damn tiring?
But then something clicked in his mind. That was gunfire. A lot of it.
Patrick jumped out of bed, grabbing his backpack, .44 Magnum and submachine gun, and dashing out the door and down the hallway to the nearest door marked "EXIT."
Patrick emerged out one of the secondary exits of the old school that stretched out into a playground with rusty slides, broken swings and other aged and weathered equipment for youngsters several generations ago to play with.
Patrick followed the sound of gunfire, leading him to the northwest, around the other side of the school. Patrick quickly ran around the side of the building.
It was carnage now. Patrick could see smoke billowing out in multiple places around The Rez, and now he could hear high-pitched screams of infants and agonized hollers of pain and panic from both men and women, with the constant firing of bullet's providing a deadly chorus to the whole ghastly musical.
Patrick ran to the nearest fire. Around the corner, three Syndicate men in their black suits had grabbed hold of a young woman. Two were holding her down, while the other was working the zipper and belt on his pants and walking towards her.
Patrick could feel his face burning. He had seen people die in increasingly horrible ways and some people who called themselves "civilized" doing downright barbarous things, and then justify it.
But this crossed every line.
A burst of submachine bullets to the back of the would rapist ensured he would never go through with it. The other two men spun around, letting go of the young woman to grab their own weapons. Patrick fired two more burst at the man on the left, then another on the right, making them all fall down, their cries of pain and agony joining the chorus throughout The Rez.
Patrick walked over to the woman, barely 20 years old, as dirty as everyone else who lived in The Rez, rolled up in the fetal position and crying softly. Patrick rested a hand on her shoulder, making the girl freeze, whimpering softly.
"You're safe now," Patrick said. "Better get out of here though."
The girl looked up to Patrick, managed to get a "Thank you" past her lips, before she stood up and sprinted toward the school.
Patrick turned around, and dashed forward to the battle. He confronted two more Syndicate fighters, one armed with a flamethrower that he was using to set the wooden shanties and shacks on fire. The sound of the volatile chemical being set on fire and spit out, catching everything in the range of the gun on fires, made Patrick think of mythical dragons, rampaging through villages and slaughtering everything in their path. The head and hands of the person manning the flamethrower were hidden under a fire-retardant gas mask, but the man (or woman, Patrick couldn't tell) was still wearing the black suit and tie uniform of The Syndicate. Through the rubber and flame, the Syndicate guy with the flamethrower laughed in gleeful pleasure as he set everything around them in flames, making Patrick shudder at what person could take pleasure in that. What dreams of chronic and sustained cruelty…
The second man noticed Patrick, and he fired at Patrick with his submachine gun. Patrick ducked behind a rusted piece of metal, the bullets pinging off like metal rain.
Patrick poked his gun over the top of his protective shelter and sprayed it around wildly, making the Syndicate gangster swear out loud and duck down.
"Pyro! Help me out here, will ya?" he shouted, before spraying more bullets in Patrick's direction to dissuade him from poking his head up.
The Syndicate gangster with the flamethrower turned around, and with a muffled squeal of pleasure raced toward where Patrick was, pulling the trigger on his flamethrower and setting the dried grass, rubble and wood all around on fire. Patrick tried to back up out of the ring of fire he found himself in, but the second Syndicate guy fired into the inferno, making Patrick wince.
"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck," Patrick shouted, drowned out in the roaring fire all around him. He jumped up quickly, firing his submachine gun in a long burst at the direction of both of the Syndicate gangsters, until it clicked empty.
They both flinched and ducked, letting up their assault, so Patrick used the opportunity to escape from the fiery hellhole he found himself in. He managed to find the ruins of an old house, which he raced toward. The edge of his pants caught on fire, and Patrick, hopping toward the building, used his other hand to put it out.
The second Syndie managed to recover and fired a burst toward Patrick. Despite the rather long range, one of the bullet's caught Patrick in the lower leg, making Patrick cry out in agony as he crumpled, just short of what would have been safe cover. He looked down to see the sickening sight of blood ooze out and soak his pant leg. Patrick tried to move, to shuffle toward cover, but his leg refused to cooperate, and his entire body was wracked in pain.
Patrick turned around to see the second gangster fiddle with reloading his gun, while the Pyro ran toward Patrick, the long, black charred end menacingly pointed at Patrick.
Patrick didn't have time to reload his submachine gun, so he flipped it in his hand, and used all his strength to toss it at the Syndicate arson. The gun caught the Pyro in the face, making it stagger and shudder in surprise at the blow to the head. The second gangster was racing up, trying to save his comrade and deal with the bastard that was firing on them.
While Pyro was struggling to regain his balance, Patrick reached down for his .44 Magnum, and fired his gun at the menacing flamethrower.
The first shot got Pyro in the left shoulder, the next in his right arm, and he let go of the nozzle of the gun. The third shot hit the tank that held the flamethrower fuel.
It was an impressive sight, as the thin metal of the tank, most likely made some time before the War of 2077 and weakened and rusted in the 140 years since, erupted at the spark it was given. The pressurized fluid shot out in all directions, and caught everything on fire. The suit the two Syndicate thugs were wearing simultaneously caught on fire, making the second guy scream as his flesh and clothes began to burn. He dropped and rolled, but the flamethrower's fuel wasn't designed to be put out so easily.
The Pyro was disoriented by all the fire around him, whimpering at the pain in his arms. This gave Patrick enough time to catch his breath and lift himself up, firing two shots into the Pyro's head, piercing the fireproof rubber. The arsonist screamed for a moment, before the sounds became more mumbled, something Patrick was unable to understand through the gasmask, and the lifeless body fell to the ground.
Patrick sighed, and leaned up against the half ruined wall of the house behind him, catching his breath in relief. The crackle of flames, the hiss of the tank that was pierced, the smell of burnt flesh all made Patrick shudder and nearly throw up, but he restrained his gag reflex.
Patrick got back up, wincing in pain. He reached into his pocket, grabbed a stimpack, and jabbed it into his thigh. After a moment, the pain went away, and with a sigh, he went to pick up the unused submachine gun magazines, and reloading his own weapons, before he went back to see what was going on.
He didn't confront anymore Syndicate guys, though a lot of those living in The Rez seemed to run by him in the opposite direction, while a few with their own guns raced forward. Patrick had no idea who was winning this battle, though no matter who won, The Rez would be nearly impossible to live in anymore, which meant even more hardships for the poor that already lived here.
Patrick finally found Running Eagle, or more appropriately Running Eagle nearly ran into Patrick. He was panting heavily, one of those handmade pipe rifles in his hands. Four more fighters, all with an assortment of firearms and other weapons, followed him: one person even had a sword and throwing stars, which amused Patrick for some reason.
"Auxiliary!" he shouted, pointing to the southwest. "More Syndie's are lining up to attack us at Park Avenue. Can you help us?"
"Where is Reverend?" Patrick asked.
"Dead," Running Eagle said. "Bullet to the chest on 7th Street."
"Deer Wing?"
"She's up north, holding off an attack on McTavish Avenue. If we can't hold here, then we have to fall back to the old school, and we won't last long there."
Patrick took a deep breath, and nodded. "Alright, let's do this!" Patrick shouted to the grouped people. "Let's kick their ass!"
"Yeah!" The Rez fighters shouted, and Running Eagle grinned, and led the way to where the fighting was already taking place.
They crossed the old Canadian National Railway yards, where miles of good steel still lay untouched, with shacks and huts built all around the sprawling flat ground and industrial area. There was a few fields of corn and wheat that was struggling to grow in the harsh weather of the northern Wasteland, though the people that now trampled, fought and burnt the few shoots that had struggled to rise up would make it even harder. Patrick regretted the fact that he had to walk through some of those fields, the farmer in him telling him to avoid the green shoots if he could. Of course it wasn't that easy.
As they went, people who were still in their shacks came out. Most gathered their most valuable possessions and headed east toward the school. Patrick even saw a man carrying an old TV, even though the screen was busted and the power cord was short a plug in.
But a few men and women came out, armed with stashed weapons and guns: some hand made, clobbered together guns like the pipe rifle that Running Eagle was carrying, others with knifes, one person with an assault rifle, which reminded Patrick of the one that he picked up in Waskada. Part of him wished he had that, and not left in some locker in the RAMP HQ back in Winnipeg..
Past the metal rails and onto the other side of the track, the sound of gunfire, screams and clanging metal directed the ragtag group to the fighting. Patrick was about to reach for his hunting rifle, but the memory of what happened last night prevented him from pulling it out.
"Running Eagle," Patrick shouted, making the man turn but continue walking straight. Patrick pulled the hunting rifle off his back, and tossed it to Running Eagle. He caught it, looking at it like an ancient treasure.
"You're most likely a better shot than me," Patrick said, before pulling out both the submachine gun and .44 magnum in both hands. "I'm a bit better with this anyway."
Running Eagle nodded, and grinned. "Well let's go black jacket hunting then, huh?" He then turned to another man, barked orders to follow the Auxiliary, and dashed off to the north.
Patrick waved to the men and women following him, now about fifteen or so people. "Remember that these guys have submachine guns that can spray a lot of bullets out, so make sure you stay as far away as you can. Making them duck and take cover is as good as killing them, because they can't shoot at you as easily. And for heaven sakes, none of you should do stupid heroics. If you want to survive, to rebuild The Rez and Brandon after we kick the Syndicate out of here, then you have to stay alive. Take cover when you need to, and move around the gangsters when you need to. Okay?"
The men and women, most of them youngsters with a few middle aged and older people to mix it up, nodded, and cheered. "Let's do this!" "For Brandon!" "Down with the Syndicate!"
Patrick grinned, and followed the mob that was chanting, cheering and roaring out all the things they would do to the Syndicate fighters that they faced. If half the things they said were even possible to do to one person, Patrick would have been amazed.
They rounded the corner of a warehouse and all hell broke loose. Four Syndicate guys, barricaded behind some scrap metal and piles of dirt that had been hastily erected, fired a machine gun into The Rez fighters that had charged at them. The poorly armed freedom fighters fell down, many crying out in surprise and agony, a few flailing in spasms as they cried out in pain and horror, a few more lying ominously still.
"Get behind cover!" Patrick shouted over the ratta-tat-tat of the machine gun. The few that did hear found some cover, while Patrick lifted his submachine gun up and fired short bursts at the Syndicate soldiers, some of whom flinched as the 10 mm bullets cracked past their. The other Rez fighter with an assault rifle fired, helping to keep the machine gun from firing at them as much. A loud report of a hunting rifle, followed by one of the Syndicate fighter's chest exploding in blood and gore, told Patrick that Running Eagle must have gotten into position.
"Watch out!" someone shouted beside Patrick, before standing up and pulling the pin on the grenade in his hand. A Syndicate fighter shot at the standing grenadier, three bullets giving a wet slap as they hit the man, who crumpled over.
"Oh shit!" Patrick shouted, dropping his gun, picking up the live grenade, and tossing it toward the machine gun in a fraction of a second, before he even realized he had done it. The loud BANG of the grenade, followed by the shower of dirt, metal fragments and bodies all around, left Patrick stunned, adrenaline pumping through his veins as he leaned against an old fire hydrant. No more streams of death came from the Syndicate fighters and that machine gun.
Patrick fell against the nearest wall, breathing heavily. His mind raced as he thought about everything that just happened. But at least the machine gun had fallen silent, the muzzle pointed harmlessly up in the air, the deafening voice replaced with a few moans and cries of pain.
"Well, that's one way to deal with that," a woman said, looking at where the machine gun had been stationed. Patrick gave a weak nod, before taking a deep breath and grabbing his assault rifle.
"Okay, we should get set up," Patrick said, giving some orders for people to get the machine gun set up and pointed the other way, where the Syndicate would be coming from. Everyone else found hiding positions where they could fire from, perhaps surprising whatever Syndicate warriors would be coming along.
Patrick climbed up to the top of a nearby warehouse, and snuck to the west side of the building, to see if he could scout out what the situation was.
Behind him, toward The Rez, smoke and flames still licked up into the sky, though Patrick could hear gunfire moving away, to the north and east. To the west, toward the center of Brandon and past dead trees and long abandoned homes, Patrick could see small groups of black moving on the streets. A bunch of smoke rose along 18th Street, the casinos and hotels on the strip on fire by the forced workers of The Rez. Even if the Syndicate survived this attack, it would be years to rebuild.
Patrick's eyes finally noticed one rather large group of Syndicate fighters that were making it's way toward where Patrick stood. And in the middle, holding a strange looking gun, was a short, blonde haired woman.
"Really? The Boss?" Patrick whispered, blinking, and looking closer. It was the leader of the Syndicate in Brandon, and she was leading a group of Syndicate soldiers right to his position.
Someone down there must have spotted him, as suddenly bullets flew past Patrick's head. He didn't have time to figure out who it was if he wanted to stay alive. Patrick crouch walked part of the way across the roof, before sprinting the last few feet and down the ladder he used to get up. "They're coming!" he shouted. "Get ready!"
Patrick barely had time to get behind one of the hastily erected barricades before the large mass of black uniformed thugs came charging. Somewhere nearby, Running Eagle's hunting rifle fired, breaking one Syndicate woman's leg and making her fall and scream bloody murder. A man tripped over her fallen body, and lead to a minor pile up.
The machine gun then began firing, mowing down half a dozen Syndicate fighters in one sweeping motion, a scythe of lead harvesting the gangsters.
The machine gun got one my long burst off before it finally ran out of ammo, much to Patrick's disappointment. But many of the Syndicate were down, some from the machine gun, other's by Running Eagle's sniping, more by Patrick and the other fighter's guns and weapons, and by now The Rez fighters had the numerical advantage. Patrick smiled as it seemed that it was all going in their favor.
A weird metallic woosh flew by, a green ball of energy flying by and striking a man behind Patrick, making him duck behind his protection. The man barely had time to scream before his entire body literally disintegrated into a green goo.
"Plasma gun!" someone shouted, before the advanced energy weapon fired again, hitting a the pile of bricks and steel used to protect the Rez fighters. The plasma went straight through, melting the metal into slag that oozed from the perfect circle that had been created.
Patrick gripped his gun, and popped up, firing a three bullet burst at The Boss, just standing and firing her devastating weapon at The Rez. The bullets missed, but she barely flinched as they hit the pavement and dead ground around her.
"You fuckers!" She screamed. "I'm not letting this city fall to you worthless pieces of shit!" Another plasma rifle round, this time striking another Rez resident, disintegrating him in place.
"This City belongs to the strong! And that is me! I am the strongest person here!" The Boss continued to rant. "The Syndicate is stronger than all of you worthless sacks of shit put together!"
Patrick scowled, and this time when he stood up and depressed the trigger, going full automatic on his submachine gun.
The gun jerked in his hand, trying to go up and to the left with each shot, meaning that soon he was firing up into the air well above The Boss.
But some of those bullets did strike her. The plasma gun fired once more as she dropped it, hitting the barricade Patrick was hiding behind, but lower, and dug into the ground with a hiss of heat and steam. She staggered a moment, grabbing at her chest and abdomen as she realized some of those bullets had hit her in vital locations, and blood poured from her mouth and onto the ground. The Boss took one more step, before falling to her knees, then to her side.
Patrick raced up to her, his empty assault rifle still in his hand. He skid to a stop, kicking dirt and stones into her face and wounds. She was reaching toward the plasma gun, only a few inches from her fingers, but Patrick kicked that away from The Boss's reach.
She looked up with blank, dying eyes. "Y-you… Auxillary," she gasped, blood foaming on her lips. "You could have… done so much."
"That's what I'm doing right now," Patrick snarled, pulling out his .44 Magnum and pointing it right at her forehead.
The Boss managed a weak smile, coughing more blood as she did so. "So you are. But what good will it be when the Brotherhood crushed Assiniboia?"
Patrick pulled the trigger, the back of The Boss's head exploding in blood and brain matter.
Patrick looked back to the men and women that had followed him. Some had wounds that were being attended to, some were scavenging from the dead corpses of the Syndicate fighters, other's ensuring that all the Syndicate fighters were dead, and a handful just sitting, staring in disbelief and surprise that they won.
"W-we did it?" one stammered as Patrick picked up the plasma rifle.
Patrick turned, and nodded. "We did it."
Pip-Boy InfoTracker Note #873
History of the Syndicate, Published 2214
The Syndicate that currently rules Brandon is little more than the remains of raider gang from Eastern Assiniboia that managed to not only survive the Pacification Conflicts of the early 22nd Century, but managed to flee west, and arrived in Brandon. Back then, Brandon was still an independent City State, and the former raiders, having hid their identities and posed as displaced settlers, were granted refugee. Many of the former raiders began to settle down, content to have a safe place, food and shelter. But some were itching to continue fighting, among them a raider leader known only as "The Boss."
In the years after they arrived, The Boss began to organize the former raiders into a strong gang that soon came to control the underlife of Brandon. With it's pseudo-anarchy, Brandon was the perfect place for those in Assiniboia that wanted to break loose and find drugs, gambling and hookers, which the newly formed Syndicate was more than happy to provide for a price. The Syndicate became more and more like an old-world gangster gang, with fancy suits, submachine guns, and ruthlessness to control the entire underworld of Brandon.
But when Brandon was on the verge of joining Assiniboia in 2116, The Boss, realizing that his corruption and gangsterism would not be tolerated, instead overthrew the few people that lead Brandon, establishing a brutal criminal empire nation in Brandon. But over the decades that followed, the Syndicate would become more brutal: slavery began, as well as Gladiatorial combat at the old Keystone Centre hockey arena, and instead of just selling drugs, making them and testing new ones became a major industry. By 2170, Brandon was little more than a hell hole of crime, drugs and gambling, with every vice and sin available to man up for sale. The Boss died in 2129, but his successor retained the title, as did everyone after that since then. And the Syndicate has been able to do what many others couldn't: keep Assiniboia out, most notably in the short lived Assiniboian-Syndicate War of 2151, when the entire Assiniboian army was destroyed by a Syndicate ambush.
It remains to be seen if the Syndicate will ever be tossed out of Brandon, or if Assiniboia would be willing to let them last forever.