Chapter Twenty-Nine
It turned out that they weren't even that far from Grand Forks, just six or so hours of walking away, past another old Air Force base. It looked like somebody was there, as they were some campfires and electric lights on. But neither had the inclination to explore it, so they just walked past. Had the train still been functional, they would have been in Grand Forks in less than an hour. When they stumbled into town just as the sun was rising, they were met by a rather motley armed band.
"State your business," one of them with a large mustache and a scar over his right cheek said to Patrick and Colonel Granger, his gun held ready, but pointed at the ground. He eyed the power armor warily, but didn't say anything about it.
"Our train got destroyed, and we were the only survivors," Patrick said. He surprised himself about how blasie he sounded about it all, like if it was another day for him. Considering the past month or so, it was almost an everyday thing to be shot at.
"Huh, figured that's why the train from Bomber City was late," the man said. "Would normally have been here hours ago." He shouldered his gun. "Come with me, we'll talk to the UAR guy here."
The man with the mustache and scar also walked with a slight limp. But the few people that were up in the morning nodded to him, a few called out to him by name. That's how Patrick found out the man was named Ian.
"So what do you do here?" Patrick asked.
"Oh, not a whole lot," Ian said as they ambled along the main thoroughfare. "I just make sure that the town isn't wiped out by raiders or bandits or some massive mutant monstrosity."
"So, you in charge of defending Grand Forks?"
"Evening shift, but yeah," Ian said, spitting on the dusty road.
"Why doesn't Assiniboia do anything?" Colonel Granger asked.
Ian looked over his shoulder. "You're not from around these parts, are you? Are you one of those Enclave blokes?"
"I am, yes. But that still doesn't answer my question." Colonel Granger said.
"Because Grand Forks, and the military base to the west, is independent. We are our own nation, and we like it just fine that way."
"So, you are one of those, whatchamacallit, city states then?" Colonel Granger asked.
"Sure, if you want to get fancy." Ian spat again. "Man, I could use a drink."
"But aren't you worried about the Brotherhood swooping in?" Patrick asked.
"Nah, not really," Ian replied. "We try to get along with everyone here. Assiniboia can run its trains and boats through - for a price, of course. The Brotherhood can come trade with us and stuff. Hell, if the bandits promise to be peaceful like, we'll let them come in, spend their bottle caps or can tabs or whatever else they use for money."
"That's… odd," Patrick said.
Ian shrugged again. "It is what it is. Grand Forks prides itself on being neutral, but that doesn't mean we can't make a buck off of them. Nothing more than personal weapons can be kept on your person, like that fancy looking revolver you got there," he said, pointing to Patrick's hip.
Colonel Granger raised an eyebrow. "And how did you manage to not get annexed by Assiniboia, or taken over the BoS?"
"We were part of Assiniboia for… I dunno, a long time. But way back when I was still a young boy before I ever went out guarding caravans, Grand Forks was able to peacefully separate from Assiniboia. Makes you wonder exactly how much gold and blowjobs they had to give to get that, huh?" Ian chortled at his joke. Patrick and Colonel Granger just looked at each other, but shrugged.
A woman stumbled by, in filthy rags that covered up some parts of her, but left her left breast hanging out. Bloodshot eyes looked at Patrick, but didn't make eye contact, or really even stare. It was like she was blind, but still able to see perfectly well. "Atom will give us peace!" she half shouted, half spoke to the three men. "Let your body divide!"
"Ignore her," Ian said, glaring at the woman. "She's a junkie and a drunk who heard some guy from out east talk of worshiping nukes, and now won't shut up about it."
Patrick watched as she carried on. The couple other people who were on the street did their best to avoid her. One better dressed women shouted some obscenities at her, but the would-be preacher ignored the heckling, still mumbling and shouting about Atom.
They finally arrived at the train station. It was the original two story building from the 1800s, made with stone walls, a clock tower - with the time stuck at 9:47, when the bombs fell on 2077- and a overhang that would have sheltered the passengers before they would have boarded the train, no matter the weather. Not unlike Bomber City, the train station was next to a large market square, with some shacks and stands propped up all around. Even this early in the morning, some people were already gathering around, with some showing produce, meat, weapons, junk, or whatever else they thought they could sell.
Ian took them into the train station, where a man in a suit was yelling into a radio in an office that, though the door was closed, could still be heard as soon as they walked in. "I tell you I have no idea what happened to the Bomber City train, and if I did, I would have told you already!"
Patrick noticed that he had what was called an "English" accent, like what the people in England would have spoke with before the War of 2077. That could only have placed him from one town in all of Assiniboia, Englishfordshire.
There was a mumbled response that Patrick didn't hear.
"I'm not shouting!" There was a brief pause. "Alright, maybe I am. I'm shouting! I'm shouting! I'm shouting!"
The man slammed the radio down, then burst out of his office to come face to face with Ian. He was a tall, round man, with a large grey beard and mustache, and heavily lidded eyes that pierced right through Patrick and everyone he stared at. "Who the bloody hell are these people?"
"Sir, they are the only survivors of the train from Bomber City. It was blown up by the Brotherhood of Steel, or so they say."
The UAR Agent looked them over. "By happenstance, one of you wouldn't happen to know what happened to the Auxiliary, would you?"
"That would be me," Patrick said. "I'm the Auxiliary."
The man's eyes grew wide to the size of dinner plates, something that Patrick wasn't sure any normal human could do. "Well… uh… this is an honour, sir!" he said, taking and shaking Patrick's hand, pumping it up and down very exuberantly. "I'm sorry to hear what happened to you on the trip, but I hope you are otherwise okay."
"I guess," Patrick answered, then yawned. "But I think I'd like to have a sleep by now."
"Of course, of course! I can get you a room at a hotel as soon as I can." The agent nearly sprinted away (which was a surprise to Patrick, considering the man's stature and size), but within ten minutes he was back, though panting slightly.
"The hotel next door has a room available for you, and another for your companion here," he said, motioning to Colonel Granger. "The manager there will set you up."
"That was… quick," Ian said.
"That's great," Patrick said, turning to the English accented UAR agent. He bowed and quickly left back to his office. Patrick and Colonel Granger left the station with Ian guiding them.
"And maybe take a day or two to relax and get a bearing on everything. I need to get in contact with the Enclave," Colonel Granger said. "And I bet the RAMP are wanting to hear from you as well."
"Is there a long distance radio to contact Winnipeg?" Patrick asked Ian.
"Just the one in the train station," Ian replied. "But something feels… off."
"What do you mean?"
"He has never been that lively before. The last time I saw him so excited about something, someone said they were from… Transvestite? Transylvania? I dunno. Nowhere around here. Maybe Ohio." Ian shrugged.
Ian led them into the hotel that was indeed next door and to the front desk, where a middle aged woman in a black dress took over from Ian, who left soon after. Patrick and Colonel Granger were taken to different rooms across the hall from each other.
The room was fairly comfortable, if a bit sparse. A bed with sheets that looked like it had been washed in the past month, a table and a couple chairs, a full bathroom attached on.
But Patrick barely noticed. He only got his boots off before he lay down on the bed and almost immediately blacked out.
"You are listening to Grand Forks Independent Radio. I'm Liz, and I have some news for you."
Patrick sighed as he listened to the radio. Whoever was running this station, Liz or whoever, was clearly not as talented, or had the resources, that DBS had. Liz honestly didn't sound much older than 16, and it showed, sometimes painfully cringeworthy to. But the DBS wasn't coming in at the moment, so he had to make do with the smaller station for now.
"So, as you may have heard already, but Assiniboia has just announced that they would be providing a… uh… 'massive package' to Brandon," she said, and there was some snickering in the background. Patrick rolled his eyes. "Food, water, medicine, and whole bunch of soldiers to protect the town. So maybe those Ass...iniboians are actually trying to do some good to people!"
Patrick had no idea if he wanted to cheer or sigh in disappointment. Yes, Brandon needed the help, big time. He was there, he saw the poverty and misery there. But the government was undoubtedly paying small fortunes to the the CPR, Rediboine Caravan Company and whoever else would move the humanitarian supplies to Brandon. That meant any extra trade that would normally have went elsewhere in Assiniboia or outside of it was being redirected to cash in on those lucrative contracts. Which in turn would raise the prices on pretty much everything else in the Dominion. Most of the river boats that would normally travel up and down the Red River had also decided to take the more lucrative Assiniboine River route to Brandon to ship supplies to the city, meaning he now had to wait for the train.
And that was going to be two days, at the very least. The locomotive that was destroyed had been only one of three that made the long trip from Winnipeg to North Dakota. And since all the other trains that the CPR maintained would now be directed to Brandon, there wasn't going to be a replacement for the regular three train run in North Dakota.
There was a knock at Patrick's door, making him turn around. "Who is it?"
"RadioTelegram for the Auxiliary!" a young, very chipper voice said.
Patrick blinked. Who the hell would be trying to send one of those to him? He opened the door, took the message from a boy not much older than 12 with a smart blue jacket and brass buttons (overtop a greasy white shirt and ratted black pants). Patrick started to reach for his wallet to give the boy something for his trouble, as was just polite to do.
"That's not necessary. Dominion business," the young boy said, shaking his head. "We cannot accept tips for these." He fidgeted a little. "And I was told to take your reply of the message back with me."
That startled Patrick. He knew that usually when the Dominion sent a message on the RadioTelegram, RadGram, whatever everyone called it, it was bound to be bad news. It was the way that the military let next-of-kin know that a soldier had died, or the justice system to notify the defendant of a lawsuit. So no matter what was in this message, it wasn't going to be good.
Patrick opened up the message on the flimsy yellow paper, with VANDERBOK RADIOTELEGRAM, and began to read it. The first few letters and numbers were a jumble, a call sign of where it started and where it was supposed to end up. The actual message, typed out on a long strip of paper by the teleprinter, cut and pasted onto the radiotelegram was below that.
TO: RAMP AUXILIARY
MESSAGE: THIS IS A SUMMONS BY THE PARLIAMENT OF THE DOMINION OF ASSINIBOIA TO TESTIFY TO THE HOUSE OF COMMONS COMMITTEE OF DEFENSE AT THE EARLIEST POSSIBLE DATE. THIS IS A LEGAL SUMMONS. FAILURE TO COMPLY WILL RESULT IN SUBPOENA AND POSSIBLE PUNITIVE ACTIONS. PLEASE REPLY ASAP.
Patrick looked at the paper, then to the kid. "Are you sure this isn't a joke?"
The boy shrugged. "I dunno, I just bring the messages to people."
Patrick swore under his breath. "Well, I guess say I'm coming as soon as I can, as soon as I can get out of Grand Forks."
The boy nodded. "Sounds good! Thank you, Mr. Auxiliary." The young boy then sprinted down the hall. Patrick slammed the door behind him, a bit harder than he planned on doing.
Why the hell did the government, no Parliament, want to talk to him? What the hell did he do wrong? Or right? Or whatever the hell has been happening?
He wished he knew more, but until he got to Winnipeg to find out what was happening. But because there weren't any trains going between Grand Forks and Winnipeg...
So until the regularly scheduled train showed up, Patrick was stuck in Grand Forks.
Something deep down told him that it was going to get worse. But Patrick just couldn't think how much worse it can get.
With a couple days to burn, Patrick ended up doing a lot of touristy things in the town. The old Downtown, where the train station was located, was full of old buildings, most of which were still being used. A monument in the middle of one of the streets showed the high point of a flood of the Red River (1950? 1997? 2043? 2169? Could have been any of them), which was over twice as tall as Patrick was. Being used to floods where he lived, as the Souris had a very annoying tendency to suddenly wash out hundreds of acres of land with very little warning, this marker still impressed Patrick.
The market was also very busy, with all sorts of people milling around, bartering, arguing, talking and relaxing. With a sandwich and a bottle of Nuka Cola, Patrick joined the later group, sitting on a bench and watching everything go around him.
Grand Forks was a decent place to live, compared to many other places in Assiniboia and the wasteland in general. It had a functioning water treatment plant on the Red River, large amounts of land that hadn't been rendered infertile by the War of 2077, and enough people willing to defend the town with weapons they accumulated over the years, as well as the coin to hire mercenaries when locals wouldn't quite cover it. With the essentials covered, everything else was a bonus, including having a military base that even after 140 years hadn't been fully scavenged. Half the town had been built from materials gathered at the base, while ghouls had found the slight background radiation a comfortable place to live. Tensions between the humans and the ghouls was civil, if not all sunshine and roses.
Finding themselves between two hostile powers that weren't yet at war, but could be at any moment, also had its perks. While trade between the two nations directly was forbidden, taking goods from the south, selling them to a middleman in Grand Forks, then selling them again to head north meant that it was a wealthy and prosperous town, one that could afford to hire mercenaries and maintain its water treatment plant.
The downside, as there always was one, was that it was too valuable, to strategically important to let either Assiniboia or the Brotherhood to control it. If one tried to make moves to capture it, then the other would attack. That in itself was a form of protection, but for only so long, until one side grew too powerful.
"Power," Patrick muttered to himself as finished his sandwich. He knew that Grand Forks didn't have a chance to stand up to any attack from Assiniboia or the Brotherhood. The town didn't even have walls around it. The desire for more power, whether it be land, prestige, guns, or money, everyone wanted it. Nation's like Assiniboia and the Brotherhood were no different.
Speaking of the power, his thoughts kept going back to the summons he got to go to Winnipeg. Parliament had a lot of different committees dealing with different aspects, most of them to keep the Prime Minister, his cabinet and the civil service accountable. Well, that's what they said they did. But because it was different MPs who sat on those committees, it would be politics. Supporting the PM if his party had a majority control of Parliament, attacking him if it was a minority.
Patrick really didn't want to get dragged into politics. But he had no choice now.
Patrick continued to sit on his bench, drinking his Nuka Cola, and letting everything around him go on. He wasn't being shot at, he wasn't tramping around the Wasteland, he sure as hell wasn't fighting monsters. It was actually nice, and peaceful, to rest here for a bit.
The quiet mumble of the crowd briefly muffled the sound of engines in the distance, but in a few moments it became too loud to ignore. Patrick looked up to where the sound was coming from, the north-west. He narrowed his eyes, and realized it was a Vertibird, coming in close to the town. Lots of people nearby looked up and pointed it out. Everyone here seemed amazed by it. And frankly, Patrick couldn't blame them.. He just realized that he hadn't seen one of those in weeks. And since that one had crashed, he really had no intention on ever getting on one ever again.
As far as he knew, only the Enclave had a Vertibirds, so that must meant the Enclave is doing something. And Patrick had a good feeling it was going to involve Colonel Granger. He drank the rest of his Nuka Cola, pushed himself off the bench, and walked toward where the Vertibird had set down.
It was to the north of the town, so it took a bit of time before he got out there. When he did, there was a small group of people, all of whom were being held back by power armoured soldiers with miniguns at the ready. Everyone nearby was very cautious around those guns, and the people with the insect like helmets holding them.
Patrick managed to push his way to the front of the crowd near one of the soldiers. He looked to the Vertibird, where he saw a couple uniformed Enclave soldiers talking. The vertibird propellers were still spinning, flinging dust and sand everywhere. Patrick had to hold his hat down to make sure it didn't blow away.
"Excuse me," Patrick shouted at one of the soldiers. "Can I ask why you are here?"
"This is none of your concern Wastelander," the soldier said, his voice muffled by the metal helmet and the propeller blades.
"Is this about Colonel Granger?" Patrick asked.
"Yes… wait, how did you know? This is classified!"
"Because I've been traveling with the Colonel for a long time now," Patrick said. "And I know where he is if you need him."
"That won't be necessary Patrick," Colonel Granger shouted to Patrick behind him. Patrick spun around to see his companion.
"What's going on?" Patrick asked.
"I've been ordered to return to the Enclave as soon as possible," Colonel Granger said. "Something… I don't even know what yet, but something is happening. I have a theory about what it is though."
"Well I'll come with you then," Patrick said.
The soldier who Patrick had talked too shook his head. "I'm sorry Wastelander, but my orders were to only recall Colonel Granger to the Enclave. Speaker Graham was explicit in that order."
The Colonel shook his head. "Sorry Patrick, but orders are orders. Though, I'll be honest, I bet you'd be a big help to me right now."
Patrick sighed. "So, I guess this is where we part ways then?"
Colonel Granger nodded solemnly. "Unfortunately, yes. Maybe when this is all over, we can have a beer together or something." Granger allowed a small smile to cross his lips. "I know we didn't always get along or agree on everything, but, I have to say Patrick, you have done a lot to open my eyes to what is out here. When I stepped out of that Vault, I knew nothing of what was happening here in Assiniboia, North Dakota, or anywhere else, and even after all this time, I still don't know all of it. But you helped me a lot to understand what is actually going on here. And maybe I, and the Enclave, can use it to the best of our abilities." Colonel Granger stuck out his arm.
Patrick nodded, and took his hand. "I'm sorry about not fully trusting you earlier. You're just doing your job."
"That's very kind of you to say," Granger said, then looked over to the Vertibird. The officers were motioning to him to get on board. Colonel Granger nodded, and then fastened his helmet onto his head. "But good luck to you Auxiliary, and hopefully you can save your brother yet."
Colonel Granger, flanked by the two minigun wielding men, marched up to the Vertibird. They all climbed up in, and the doors on the side were closed. The motors began to rev higher, and the big machine heaved itself off the ground, and into the air, before turning back to the north-west, and flying off.
The crowd began to disperse, and Patrick was left standing alone in the middle of the dried, dusty field. And he still had a day before the train would come. And the only person he knew, and could somewhat trust and rely on, both in battle and outside of it for three hundred miles, was gone.
Patrick sighed, and walked back to Grand Forks. He needed a drink. Not like he had anything else to do.
The bar in the hotel wasn't anything special. They had beer, vodka, whisky, and wine, which was about as much as you could ask for in the Post-Apocalypse, along with Nuka-Cola and fresh, clean water run through several filters and worth the ten pound price tag, or so the bartender claimed. There was food as well, mostly some variation of Brahmin meat, some vegetables and fruit that was from Winnipeg that would have to be eaten in the next three or four days or else they would rot.
But the beer was what Patrick was more inclined to take. He didn't even want to get drunk, or at least not too quickly. He still had three empty bottles in front of him, but he wasn't going to get drunk that easily.
Patrick silently cursed himself. Why was he so bummed out that Colonel Granger left? Patrick wasn't even sure if he could have called him a friend, what with the whole secrecy and lies. But he at least was open minded, curious, and willing to stand up for Patrick, so Patrick of course did his best to do the same. Was that friendship? Or is that just being a good person in general?
But in the rough and tumble world of Assiniboia and the Dakotan Wasteland, did you really want a friend to travel with you? Theoretically, yes you would. Someone you knew really well, enough to trust your life to, someone that would do anything to help you, always have your back. Preferably someone with a big gun. And Granger easily provided that. But what if something happened to them? They were injured, and you couldn't help them, and had to leave them, or worse yet burry them far from home? If they backstabbed you, left you to die in the middle of nowhere because you showed weakness? Then what? You were left to die, with no resources, no weapons… and no friends.
No. Sometimes, the best people to travel with are the ones who are simply going in the same direction, or who were only doing it for the money, or just because it, well, worked. Sometimes business, or at least coincidence, was better than friendship.
Then why the hell was he so miserable about Colonel Granger having to leave?
Patrick took another drink. He really didn't want to think about stuff like that… but here he was, doing it anyway.
"Hey there partner, you look like you need some company. Mind if I join?" a man standing next to the table said, a bottle of whisky in his hand. Patrick just realized he didn't even see the man show up until right now. How long had he been standing there?
Patrick shrugged, and waved the man to sit in the chair next to him, which the man did. He was older, with a mixture of grey and light brown hair, a bushy beard, and a leather coat that reached down to his knees, with only a couple patches that were, at least, close to the original colour of the coat so didn't stand out so much. But what really caught Patrick's attention was the eyepatch that covered his left eye, and several scars on his face. Despite the gruff and battle-hardened appearance, he had a gentle smile and his good blue eye sparkled.
"Name's Oliver. Vince Oliver," the man said, offering his hand after he was seated, which Patrick took. His hand was strong, calloused and rough, but he didn't crush Patrick's hand.
"Patrick Morrison." A very brief hesitation. "Though, most people around here know me as the Auxiliary."
Vince looked over Patrick again. "At first glance, I'd say you'd be lyin'. Too young, mostly, though you are also a bit scrawny. But you've seen a lot, done a lot, haven't you? You have that look to ya."
Patrick nodded. "How did you know?"
"Your eyes. Having lost one myself, I know how important eyes are, both to see, yes, but also in showing what other people are like." He looked at Patrick's eyes again. "You've killed, seen people being killed, have had your brushes with death. You regret it though, wonder if it makes you a good person. But there is something else. You lost someone. You are trying to find them. Behind all the pain and regret, there is a fire."
Patrick was taken aback. How did this guy just suddenly know his entire life story, just by looking at his eyes?
Well, no harm in explaining the rest now.
"My brother. He was taken by the Brotherhood of Steel, and being trained as a fighter. I found him once, but I couldn't save him." Patrick looked at the beer bottle. It was empty now, so he waved to the bartender for another one. "I'm certain it's going to be impossible to save him now."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Vince said. "But you clearly are someone that takes 'impossible' as a challenge, not a final command. If what the radio said about the Auxiliary is true, you won't let anything like a deathclaw or a super mutant stand in your way."
"How do you know about deathclaw's and super mutants? I've only ever seen one Deathclaw in North Dakota, and a small town of super mutants."
"So, you've been to Bismarck, eh?" Patrick nodded. "Freindly chaps there. At least friendly than I knew back over the Rockies.
"Well, I've been all over North America," Vince said. "From running caravans in the fledgling New California Republic all the way in the west to helping fix an ancient aircraft carrier in the Capital Wasteland in the east. I've seen mile wide Dustnado's of Texas, the vicious radgators in the swamps of Florida, the reborn Aztecia of Mexico. Ronto, Point Lookout, Hoover Dam, Yosemite, Denver, Empire City… I've seen it all. I've met so many people, interacted with so many others. Shot my own share of raiders and bandits who thought I was an old man, an easy target." He took a swig of his bottle, followed by a long, persistent cough. "They'll never make that mistake again."
"That's quite impressive," Patrick said. "I've only heard stories of those places."
"Well, most of the would be true, if you'd care to share them."
"Then why did you decide to pick me out of this bar?"
Vince gave a friendly smile. "Some of my best adventures started with chatting with a guy at a bar."
"How long have you been doing this? And why did you start?"
Vince took another drink from his whisky. "Oh, I guess about 45 or 50 years now I've been wandering around, ever since I was old enough to shoot a gun and barter a merchant. But why, well that I remember. When I was young, I got a chance to talk to the Vault Dweller out in California, before Shady Sands became the center of a new nation."
"Who's the Vault Dweller? There are a lot of Vault Dwellers out there," Patrick asked.
"Oh, right, you'd have never heard of him," Vince said. "This was a special guy though. The Vault Dweller was a big hero from Vault 13, way out west, who helped save the world from a monster, the guy that made all the super mutants you see. He was then kicked out of his home, and forced to move away. Hearing his stories was most likely the reason why I'm out here right now. But there are others I've met and traveled with as well. John, Marcus, Ian, Olivia, Maria, Harold. I could go on all day and talk about them all, but I'd just be talking your ears off by then, and you'd want to put a bullet in my head to make me shut up!" Vince began to laugh, which made Patrick start to chuckle as well.
"Then what are you doing here in Grand Forks?"
"On my way north to the Glacier. Of all the places I've been, I still haven't been as far north as the Glacier. I met an Ice Ghoul in Ronto who told me a story about a secret research base under the ice, one that was rumored to have treasure inside of it. But no one who has gone into it has ever come back again." Vince grinned. "I want to be the first."
"So you're a treasure hunter then?"
"Heck no. If I was, I would have retired years ago. Hell, I did, for a few months at least, I think in… 2189 or something. Used to be a mercenary, a hired gun really." Vince took a swig from his whisky. "But I'm an adventurer, an explorer, a storyteller and collector. I want to see the world, and the only way to do that is to go and see it, grab it with both hands, and hold on until I've had enough." Vince was smiling now, remembering all his adventures.
"Well, I know you have plans to go to Glacier, but would you want to go with me for a bit?" Patrick asked. "If anything that I've done before this point is any sign, I'm sure I can give you a few more interesting interesting stories."
"Oh, I don't have plans. Just general directions to go. I hear about something, and I just go that way. If something comes up that catches my attention, well I'll do that." He polished off his bottle of whisky. "But sure, why not? Even before I got through the BoS lines - which is a story I'm sure you'd like - I've been hearing about the Auxiliary and his stunts and deeds, and even more so since I got to Fargo and now here. I bet you have a few stories to tell me as well."
Patrick's smile went up. "Oh, I may have a few. Have you ever heard of Camp Shilo?"
Despite spending the entire night drinking and telling stories, Patrick and Vince were both at the train station bright and early the next morning, to watch as the old steam powered Royal Hudson puff into the station, and sigh with a cloud of steam as it was able to rest at the platform.
"I've followed thousands of miles of railroad tracks, but only Assiniboia seems to have actually put them to use," Vince said, admiring the steam train.
Patrick nodded, though he hadn't told Vince about the train crash that brought him to Grand Forks in the first place. Considering that he did have to get on the train soon, he didn't want to think too much about all the bad things that could happen.
The conductor in his blue uniform climbed down from the last passenger car as the last people that were on the train had gathered their bags and luggage and were walking off the platform. Patrick walked over to the conductor to ask when they were leaving, but much to Patrick's surprise was a middle aged woman with short hair.
"Yes, can I help you?" she asked.
"I was just wondering when the train is leaving."
"For Winnipeg?" she asked. Patrick nodded. "It will be a couple of hours. Need to get the engine turned around and everything. Just hold tight!" She gave a polite nod and walked into the train station.
Patrick sighed. Nothing was ever quick, was it? He went to go sit on a bench with Vince while they waited.
"Ah, don't worry about it," Vince said, drumming his fingers on the arm of the bench. "We got all the time in the world."
So they sat at the train station, the big old stone building, and just… sat there. They had run out of things they wanted to talk about, they were both tired from talking all night, but Patrick was getting very impatient.
Out of the corner of Patrick's eye, he saw a young girl at the far corner of the platform, most likely not much more than ten years old, sitting in a patched sundress but with a large red headband with a chin strap. All around her was junk: Nuka Cola bottles, old clothes, tin cans, and an old, beat up sleeping bag. She was simply sitting there, eyes blind to the world, staring out into nothing that she could see. Her fingers were also tapping on an old tin lunch kit on her lap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap tap.
Patrick got up and walked over to the girl and knelt down in front of her. Her head didn't turn, but Patrick could tell her attention was now on him.
"I hearsee you stranger," she said in a very quiet voice.
"Hearsee?" Patrick asked.
"I can't see with eye, but I can see with my ears. Hearsee!" she exclaimed. Taptaptaptaptap.
"Okay, but what are you doing here? You seem to be a bit young."
"Family is gone to another place," she said, but without any sadness in her voice. That almost tore Patrick's heart out. "Gone, gone, gone. But I can still hearsee them, when I don't have my hat on." Tap tap tap.
"Your hat?" Patrick asked.
She touched the red band on her head. "My hat won't let me hearsee everywhere and anywhere at once. Things that happened, things that will happen. But it hurts my head when I don't have it on."
"It's a psychic nullifier," Vince said, startling Patrick. The old man was standing behind him. "I've seen a lot of those, especially out west."
"What does it do then?"
"Well, it's supposed to prevent people which certain abilities - psykers, they call them - to go totally crazy from hearing the voices in their head. It take a lot of training to do it without one, and it's more likely someone would go insane than control it."
"Are you… a psychic then?" Patrick asked the girl. "You can see the future?"
"Some people say that, but laugh when they do. It must be a joke, but I don't get it."
"It's not a joke. It's true," Vince said. "There are people that can see the future. I've met several people, and they also gave me advice that helped me."
Patrick frowned. "Well, would you be willing to… hearsee for me? Please?"
She gave a small smile. "There are few that ask nicely for it. For you, I will."
Her small delicate hands unfastened the chin strap and she carefully took the band off. Patrick could see her wince, a startled whimper coming from her lips, but she still took it off.
"Take my hand," she said quickly. Patrick did so.
Her little body shook and it was clear that she was in pain. But she didn't put the headband back on.. "Known by two names, one that scares and intimidates, but means spare… one that is used in emergencies and crisis when no one else can help. The man with two names is in the middle between three: an old red flag with a one headed brahmin, a mighty sword with wings, and a bird, with many stars, blue, white and red. The brahmin flag is scared for it's life, the sword is angry, the bird tearing itself apart. The man with two names is looking, looking, looking for the right answer. The right answer is wrong, the wrong answer is right. Worry won't help. Choose quick when the time comes. Only two can be saved."
The girl slumped against the wall, panting heavily, moaning in pain. Patrick quickly let go, and with Vince's help got the psychic nullifier back onto the girl's head. She blinked her unseeing eyes, and looked up. "It doesn't hurt now. Thank you. I hoped the hearsee will help you. But I need to rest now."
The little girl laid down into the sleeping bag and promptly fell asleep, leaving Patrick and Vince to look at each other.
"What does that mean?" Patrick asked standing up.
"Anything you want it to mean, really," Vince said. "But it's always the little kid that will give you the best insight into the future. They say it as it is, even if you can't figure it out right now."
"But… 'the right answer is wrong, and the wrong answer is right? Only two can be saved?' What does that mean?" Patrick asked.
"Don't overthink it. That's the problem with being told the future: you try to figure out what she means to the detriment of what is going on around you, it will become even worse that you want."
There was a woosh of steam, followed by a low rumble as the fireman and engineer began to get steam up in the engine, and the shrill blast of the whistle. Several more people were filling out into the platform.
"Either way, it's time to go now," Vince said.
Patrick looked down at the little girl. He wanted to know more.
But now he was going to have to find out the hard way.
PipBoy InfoTracker Note #918
Grand Forks Declaration of Independence
Ratified: July 4, 2153
We the People of the City of Grand Forks have decided that we really don't want to be in the Dominion of Assiniboia anymore. We are mildly annoyed at the Royal Assiniboian Mounted Police showing up and bossing us around (even if most of their rules are fair and balanced) and also peeved that we have to pay money to Assiniboia (though the Assiniboian Army does protect us and the railway they repaired brings a lot of business here). So, from now on we just want to be left alone in peace, do what we want, and not have to do what anyone outside of Grand Forks tells us to do.
We don't hate you Assiniboia: we just want to go our own way. We can still be friends, and you can still protect us and run your trains, but just please don't tell us what to do.
Thanks.
The People of the City of Grand Forks.