WARNING/AUTHOR'S NOTE: This story is going to hit its M rating hard in this chapter. Seriously. You've been warned.
November 25, 2281
Three Dog looked at the message he had received from Elder Lyons again, allowing it to sink in. Finally, the time has come! The excitement flowed through the DJ like a current of electricity. The message was simple, straightforward; an announcement that the Elder requested Three Dog air at every break from the music in his programming. It called on the leaders of all settlements in the Capital Wasteland, from the newly founded ones in the DC ruins all the way to Megaton and Big Town, to meet on December 1st at Rivet City, to begin taking the first steps toward creating a unified government and easing the tensions that had begun to show in the Wasteland in recent months. For his part Three Dog thought the language of the message was very conciliatory; not demanding but rather requesting the presence of all and making clear his desire to make peace before the Wasteland devolved wholly into open war between separate factions. Leaning back in his chair, Three Dog took a moment to collect his thoughts. He wouldn't be airing the announcement live-he had as many takes as he needed to get the message just right-but the gravity of the announcement still gave him pause. He wanted to make it perfect. Finally, feeling he had struck a balance between his trademark style and the appropriate seriousness the announcement warranted, he clicked his recorder to life.
"Big announcement comin' your way, Capital Wasteland! Got a message today from our boys in Power Armor down at the Citadel. None other than Elder Lyons himself is inviting delegates from every corner of the Capital Wasteland-from Tenpenny Tower to the Republic of Dave, and everywhere in between-to assemble at Rivet City on December 1st. The Elder, along with the good people of Rivet City, want to have an old fashioned sit down to find a way for us to start rebuilding here in post-apocalyptia. So mark your calendars, boys and girls. December 1st at Rivet City, we begin moving forward again. Now, back to the music." Leaning back with a smile, Three Dog clicked off the recorder. He was satisfied with how it had come out. Three Dog had no way of knowing that outside GNR's immediate vicinity, nobody was going to hear the message. All across the Capital Wasteland, radios were falling into static and distortion.
Clover watched the pieces of the relay mounted on the Washington Monument come crumbling to the ground; a direct result of her hitting it with several rounds from her Gauss rifle. There was, at least, one positive side effect of her confrontation with Gallows being cut short. The Talon Company and Reilly's people interfering had at least temporarily thrown Gallows off her trail and allowed her to continue on her mission to silence GNR. She had laid in wait for a day, not willing to risk giving her position away until she was sure that Gallows wasn't in the immediate vicinity.
With the relay destroyed, Clover knew she had to move. No sniper worth their training stayed in position after hitting their target. Packing up, she moved off quickly into the night, senses alert but mind wandering. The interference in her fight with Gallows was troubling to her. Talon Company and the Rangers working together was almost incomprehensible. Somewhere, it seemed, something else was happening in the Wasteland, something almost…political. Alliances forming, obviously. An unknown variable she had never factored into her equation when she began trying to stop the Brotherhood from taking over. For all her time with the Wanderer he had told her that if he should ever be gone, the settlements of the Wasteland wouldn't be able to stand up for themselves. She realized then that they had both miscalculated. Learning more was now her objective. She supposed, in retrospect, it was a positive that the Wanderer had hardly introduced her to anyone. She had always remained in the shadows and as such, she could move unhindered through any settlement, hidden in plain sight as an average Waster just trying to make it through the day. That thought settled it for her. She would begin with Megaton; it was the most obvious choice, the largest settlement in the Wasteland outside of Rivet City. It had also been the Wanderer's home and the most likely to be staunchly on his side if there was some sort of opposition to the Brotherhood forming. She thought, briefly, of going to see her friends at the Temple of the Union and taking refuge there; but with Gallows location still unknown she was unwilling to put the Temple at risk. Clover was many things; typically, those things were prefaced by adjectives like "heartless" and "callous." But she had taken an inexplicable liking to the residents of the Temple, and they in turn had welcomed her with open arms. Megaton was capable of defending itself, should Gallows be foolish enough to follow her there. If he followed her to the Temple she had no doubt he would butcher every person there in his quest to see her ended.
After traveling a mile from where she had taken her shots from, Clover came to a halt. It was night. Gazing around, she ascertained that she was both alone and in a part of the city she was familiar with. It would not do well at all to simply arrive in Megaton wearing the stealth suit and carrying a Gauss rifle. Even if her face was unknown, that combination of apparel and weaponry would immediately make obvious that she was something dangerous and make it impossible to eavesdrop on any conversations. There was a cache of clothes and ammunition she kept in a basement of an old factory, relatively close to her current location and on the route to Megaton, she realized. It was slightly to the Northwest. With a sigh, she turned that direction and began moving. Navigating the ruins of DC on the street, instead of through the Metro, could be an exercise in aggravation, given the amount of rubble and collapsed buildings that blocked off roads. Clover moved carefully, stealth field still active, almost instinctively moving from shadow to shadow despite the eerie quiet that pervaded the ruins. The stillness was unsettling in its way, the faint wind that blew through the concrete canyons carrying echoes to her of what this place once was. It carried nothing else though, no sounds of gunfire or other warnings that raiders were nearby; and as she approached her safehouse Clover relaxed, scanning the streets one more time before darting inside and into the basement. As she reached the bottom of the stairs she deactivated her cloaking field, pulling back the hood and wiping the sheen of sweat off her forehead as she did. She was confident in the security of this building, equally confident that she hadn't been followed. She had doubled her precautions, utilizing every countertracking technique she had learned over the years to prevent Gallows picking up her trail.
With an easy air Clover unslung the Gauss rifle from her shoulder and opened a footlocker on the floor, reverently laying the weapon inside before drawing out a sawn-off shotgun and a .45 handgun that she had acquired on her travels. She set them aside, on an old table, before quickly stripping out of her stealthsuit. She never wore anything under it, as tight as it was, and taking it off after her fight with Gallows provided a disconcerting realization that she had taken injuries she wasn't quite aware of. Her body already had its share of scars, none massive enough to stand out on their own; but the bruises on her forearms and along the left side of her ribs let her know that the blows Gallows had landed with his fists had struck home harder than she would have preferred. Sloppy. Careless. Fight more disciplined next time.
Her silent admonitions to herself continued as she pulled on a set of reinforced leather armor. Normally, leather armor that could be found in the Wasteland harkened to the days of antiquity, when a leather cuirass would, if one was lucky, blunt the blow of a sword or spear. Clover, for her part, did not live in antiquity. She was nothing if not practical and acutely aware of how devastating 23rd century weapons were. She had reinforced this armor by hand on her travels, attaching the reinforced ceramic plates that had been created for military use before the Great War over her vital organs. Now, her armor would stop direct fire from weapons as powerful as an assault rifle, at least for several rounds. Pulling on her leather tank-top, she gave a quick smack to her sternum to ensure the ceramic plate was in place. The custom design of her armor had chafed her somewhat; in adding greater protection it also deemphasized her physique, making her far less overtly sexual. In the end she had deemed the tradeoff worth it. Besides, the boys have always been more interested in my ass anyway. Pulling her pants on quickly, she strapped the pistol to her leg and slung the shotgun across her back. It pained her to leave her shocksword behind, but it was a symbol far too obviously associated with the Wanderer. As a finishing touch to her disguise, she picked up a tan, loose fitting shirt, made of woven fibers that had been salvaged over the years. Pulling it on over her head, she completed her transformation from the ghost of the ruins to a desperate Waster. Satisfied no one would recognize her, she ran back up the stairs and out into the night, setting course for Megaton.
Gallows had no time for useless feelings like frustration. He had no time for many emotions, and certainly not those that could distract from whatever task was at hand. He could not honestly say he was frustrated by the interference that had occurred when he had finally tracked down the "ghost of the ruins," as the Wasters called her. It had been as he suspected; Clover, the Wanderer's pet assassin. She had become better in the years following the war, after she left the Wasteland. He doubted that when she was traveling with the Wanderer she would have presented a challenge to him at all.
Her escaping was a hindrance. That was the term he would use to describe it. It created unnecessary work for him to reacquire her, to corner her, to ensure she could not escape again. Grudgingly, he had to give her countertracking skills credit. She knew how not to be found; certainly not a skill she had learned from the Wanderer. He may have been clever enough to hide from raiders and super-mutants, but to a trained eye the trail he left was like a stampede of Brahmin. Aside from having to reacquire her, he now had to report to the Citadel that Reilly's Rangers and the Talon Company had actively fired on him. Peace meeting at Rivet City or not, it was a flagrant act of war that he could not imagine Elder Lyons ignoring. Until he could both report and reacquire Clover, he reverted to his standard mission parameters: gather intelligence within the ruins, locate any large dens of raiders, and attack any targets of opportunity that presented themselves. Truthfully, every target was a target of opportunity in Gallows' eyes. He had the skills and the equipment to handily destroy large raider bands. He had picked up the trail of a group of raiders in the vicinity of where he now was; nearing one of the new settlements that had sprung up after the Wasteland had been pacified. It lay on the fringes of Brotherhood protection, not an area normally patrolled by Knights and outside of the range of Reilly's group. The problem with raiders is that there were no patterns in their movements, no logic, no predictability. They would attack anywhere the opportunity existed to take advantage of other people, of resources, of secure locations to rest. Gallows already had a suspicion what he would find when he reached the settlement he was near, which, if the raiders were in this area, they would almost inevitably have found.
Smoke rising over the ruined buildings, only barely noticeable against the dark, gray-blue of the night sky in the Capital Wasteland, was Gallows' initial confirmation of his suspicion. As he drew closer, other signs became clear-the smell of a body burning, another lying in the middle of the street. The raiders had been here. Another burst of gunfire made it clear that the raiders were still ahead, a scream echoing letting him know that the raiders were amusing themselves at the expense of the residents of the settlement. Quietly, Gallows slipped into a nearby building, making his way up the stairs to a position where he could look out over the streets and attempt to get some sort of idea how many raiders were in this party. Mostly, the view was obstructed; but fortunately, some enterprising soul over the years had built a walkway between the ruined buildings. In a half crouch, Gallows darted over; looking down to see three raiders, 25 meters away on the ground, clustered in a group around a burning barrel. They were obviously settling in to stay for a while. The settlement had been built near a T intersection, the buildings that the roads ran in front of being the main residences. Gallows had a clear view from where he was of that. Multiple bodies. Light from inside the buildings, people there. Use the shadows to come in. Kill the raiders on the street quietly. Dispense justice. He was behind the raider's position, and the walkway was on the second floor of the buildings. Silently, he dropped from it and into the shadows below. He drew a combat knife from where it was sheathed, on his thigh, and in a fluid motion swung it into a fighting grip. Moving along the shadows cast by the ruined buildings, he neared the raiders, their shapes silhouetted by the flickering orange light of the fire they were clustered around.
In an explosive motion he sprung from the shadows, driving his knife into the base of the skull of the raider nearest him, killing the man immediately. Before his companions could react Gallows was on them, a blur of ferocity and silence. In a flash he punched out with his knife, slashing the throat of the man facing him, before driving the elbow on his free hand into the raider to his left, breaking the man's nose. The scream that had only just begun to form in the man's throat was muffled as Gallows covered his mouth and in a violent, jerking motion wrenched the man's neck, hearing it snap and feeling the body go limp. Slowly, he helped lower it to the ground, preventing it from making any noise before crouching over it. Gallows scanned the area, seeing no further raiders on the street. Silently, he moved towards the building from which he had seen flickering lights. Carefully, he pied the corner, making sure the entrance was clear and no raiders lurked in ambush. He entered slowly, raising his sidearm, a silenced 10mm pistol, and moving forward several paces to clear the funnel of death that a doorway presented. Satisfied that the entrance was clear and he had room to maneuver, he dropped again into a crouch and closed his eyes, allowing his hearing to take over. The building had, before the war, been a low rise apartment. No more than five stories. Above him, two floors up he would estimate, he could hear movement, sense vibrations echoing through the structural supports of the building. They were there. Heavy footsteps, telling a story to Gallows; one of a person that was unconcerned with being harmed, who was confident and safe in their new residence. They were certainly not the footsteps of a resident who was concerned with hiding from raiders-too heavy and slow for that. Nor were they of someone trying to escape; they weren't the footsteps of someone running. Gallows estimated that the person was wearing boots, and by the sound of the footsteps was likely a male, given how heavy they were. Reopening his eyes, Gallows greeted the darkness, allowed it to cloak him as he moved like a vengeful wraith up the stairs.
The sight that greeted him on the second floor most closely resembled a charnel house. Bodies scattered in the hallways, blood smeared on the walls. The entire floor stank, of blood and shit and of death. None had any real emotional impact on Gallows. He had long ago seen and accepted humanity's nature, nothing impacted him anymore. Others thought him cold, callous even. He wasn't. Gallows knew that truly, the world was a callous place, and that human depravity had no bounds. When he was a young knight the acts that one human could commit against another shocked him. If he had not built the walls he had over his service in the Brotherhood, he would not have survived. Moving forward, Gallows delicately picked his way over the bodies. Here, a man with a baseball bat at hand. He had been brave, tried to defend his friends. He had been shot multiple times for his bravery. There, a middle age woman, her skull clearly dented from where a blunt object, likely a tire iron, had impacted it with tremendous force. Entering the door to what had been an apartment before the war; Gallows was greeted by the sight of a dog, lying on the floor. It too had been shot, likely trying to defend its owners. Kneeling next to the animal, Gallows examined it. In its teeth he found bits of human flesh. It had gotten its fangs into at least one of the raiders. Without a conscious thought, Gallows ran his hand over the flank of the animal before giving it an affectionate pat. Good dog. Sleep well. I'll avenge you and your family. Standing, Gallows observed the far side of the room; a sofa knocked askew and a man's body draped over the armrest. He passed the man without a backwards glance, going into what had been the bedroom. Here, he found a woman's body, lying on the bed. She had been stripped of her clothing. As Gallows approached he took in the evidence on her body. Bruising on her thighs, swelling on her face; inflicted perimortem. She had been assaulted before being murdered. Somewhere inside of Gallows an unfamiliar sensation began to blossom. It was…hot, for lack of any better term. Physiologically, Gallows felt his pulse quicken, his stomach tighten; he felt a metallic taste began to form in his mouth and his throat contract. Scanning the room, Gallows found a blanket, and draped it over the woman's body, covering her. With a gentle touch he closed her eyes, before pulling the blanket over her face. Turning, he left the room, the apartment, the hallway that the bodies had laid in. He had seen enough to know the enormity of these raiders' crimes. It was not enough that they die. Gallows had determined, when inspecting the apartment, that they had to suffer.
Another flight of stairs, and then the third floor. The floor he had deduced the raiders were on when observing the building. Silently, he stepped from the hallway. In the door to his immediate left he heard noised, muffled voices, and then a woman's cry. Not a cry of pain. Two raiders. One female. Engaged in sexual congress. Guard will be down. Slowly, carefully he moved through the front door of the apartment, ascertaining that it was empty save for the raiders in the next room over. The rapid squeaking of the bedframe, coupled with the increased intensity of the woman's cries, indicated to the Knight that they were approaching climax. He had never had time for physical relationships; saw no point in becoming attached to someone in something so temporary like life. Raising his pistol, he kicked in the door, the sound muffled by those emanating from the room. The man was in the midst of crying out, eyes wide, when Gallows entered the room. The first bullet had entered his female partner's head before the man could react, only just starting to jump when a pair of bullets punched into his chest and knocked him to the ground. Slowly, Gallows crossed the room to the man, lying in a spreading pool of blood. In some ways Gallows found the physiology of this man's death fascinating. He had never killed a person who had been engaging in sexual activity before. The rapid blood loss had quickly caused the man to go limp, but his body had maintained a flush despite the lack of blood. Drawing his knife, Gallows slammed it down through the man's diaphragm, before standing and leaving him to suffocate or bleed out, whichever came first. Standing at the door to the hallway, the Knight allowed his hearing to take over, confirming that there was no one waiting on the other side. Pistol at the low ready, he moved back into the hallway. At the far end he saw a flickering orange light and heard the sounds of laughter. The rest of them. Slowly he moved forward, the light casting dancing shadows on the walls and floor. It was as the shadows advanced and retreated that he saw a tiny leg poking through a doorway. Lowering his weapon, Gallows moved forward, leaning as he did to get a better view.
Carefully, he nudged the door all the way open. It was the body of a young girl, holding…teddy bear. That's what they called it before the war. Her stuffed teddy bear. Gallows examined the body. One of the eyes had swelling around it. Hit her. They had hit her at least once before she died. The feeling Gallows had begun to experience when examining the dead woman on the floor before exploded, roaring from an ember into something akin to a fire burning inside of him. As he looked at the girl, Gallows recalled the word for the emotion he was experiencing. Rage. Utter, all-consuming rage. Standing back up, Gallows looked to his pistol, before holstering it. Slowly, he reached up, removing his helmet and allowing himself to feel the stale air around him. It was rare he removed his helmet in the field. Carefully, he attached it to a clasp on his armor. Unsheathing his knife yet again, he moved forward, towards the flickering lights. He recalled that some prewar religions, specifically the one that Colvin practiced, spoke of a fiery place where the wicked would be punished after they died. Gallows hoped, for the first time in his life, that Colvin's faith was true. He would make the raiders suffer, but there was only so much a human body would take before shutting down. Gallows prayed, for lack of any better term, as he crossed the threshold into the room, that there was a place that these raiders would be tormented for eternity. Quickly, he took a count, as the motley assembly of raiders scrambled to grab weapons. Five of them. Assault rifles and sidearms. No challenge. As he entered the room to face them, idly twirling his knife in his hand, one of the raiders spoke.
"How 'bout you turn back the way you came and you don't die today, Knight." Gallows looked at him impassively, still twirling his knife.
"You hear me? I said turn the fuck around before we kill you. Far as I can see there's five of us and one of you." The raider continued. A flicker of a smile crossed Gallows' face.
"You could have five more and you would still all die," he responded, his voice as monotone without his helmet as with it. The raider snarled at that response, the others beginning to join him in jeering.
"You think you can take us without your fancy weapons, you goody two-shoes fuck? After we're done with you, we'll hang you out for all your friends to see," the raider said.
"You killed her. The girl." It was not so much a question as a statement of fact. A look of confusion crossed the raider's face before he realized who Gallows was referring to.
"You mean that little snot down the hall? Yeah, we killed her. We were just gonna sell her to the Pitt, but she wouldn't stop cryin' about her fuckin' dog and her dead parents, even after we told her to shut the fuck up. So we did her. You wanna make somethin' of that, too, dead man?" The dots connected in Gallows' mind. The second floor. The naked woman on the bed, the dead dog, the man lying on the sofa. That had been the little girl's family. Gallows was not an empathetic man, but in that moment, he felt what sort of terror that girl must have spent the last moments of her life in. The feeling washed over him, quickly, before being replaced by the rage that had been building, bursting forth from where he stored it, deep inside.
"I want you to look at my face. It is the face of the man who will kill you all. This will not be fast. I am not like my comrades. You will all die screaming," Gallows replied, before exploding forward in a blur of motion. He was on the nearest raider before the man had a chance to raise his rifle. Jerking it away, Gallows slashed out with his knife, severing the tendons in the man's wrist and following it with a blow that crushed his larynx. The man collapsed as Gallows faced the next raider, a man holding a tire iron. He swung it in an overhead strike, coming down towards Gallows' head, a blow that would crush his skull should it land. Gallows caught the iron with his free hand before stabbing forward with his knife, piercing through the shoulder on the raider's dominant side and following it with a backhanded slap that lifted the man through the air and into the wall, breaking his jaw in the process. Swiveling, he came face to face with the man he had exchanged words with, finding himself looking down the barrel of the raider's rifle. In a fluid motion he swung himself sideways and out of the way of the weapon, grabbing hold of the barrel as he did and jerking it forward, disrupting the man's grasp on it. As the raider fumbled for control of his weapon Gallows struck out with a fast, vicious low kick, dislocating the raider's knee and likely fracturing his patella. With a yelp the man went down in a heap, clutching his leg. Hesitation was beginning to show on the faces of the two remaining raiders. The moment's hesitation was all Gallows needed as he leapt forward, grabbing the nearest in a hold and tossing him into the other raider that had not yet gone down, driving both of them into the wall and down in a disoriented pile.
The sound of pained moaning was beginning to fill the room. It was not enough for Gallows. He had told the raiders that they would die screaming, and he intended to keep his promise. He spun back to the first man he had closed on, the one whose tendons he had severed. He was grasping his throat, unable to speak due to the crushed larynx, lying on his hands and knees. Approaching from behind, Gallows threw a powerful kick up and into the man's groin, crushing his genitalia with his armored boot. That drew the first scream of the evening, a full bodied one as the man fell forward and curled into a fetal position, tears streaming down his face. Gallows returned to the raider with the tire iron, the one whose shoulder he had destroyed. He was lying against the wall, holding his free hand up as if to plead for mercy. He was just beginning to speak when Gallows wrapped his hand around the man's throat and slid him up the wall, choking the raider as he kicked out futilely. With a quick thrust, he drove his knife into the 5th intercostal region, puncturing the man's lung and collapsing it. The raider's eyes went wide as he began to wheeze, Gallows releasing him to turn back to the leader of these raiders. He had just regained control of his weapon, but had not been able to take aim at Gallows when the Knight seized control of the weapon yet again, drawing a bead on the two raiders at the far side of the room and shooting both in the legs, taking care to avoid the femoral artery in each. Both collapsed, crying out in pain. A smile began to cross Gallows' face as the raider's anguish filled the room. Looking back down at the raider at his feet, he saw fear in the man's eyes. Tossing the rifle in his hands aside, Gallows picked the man up, scanning the room as he did. On a shelf he noted old cutlery, the sort that would have been used for formal dining. Amongst the cutlery he spied what appeared to be very tarnished Sterling silver steak knives. Reaching for them, he grabbed two, and turned his gaze back to the man. Releasing his grip on the raider's neck, Gallows grabbed the man's wrist and pinned it against the wall with his free hand. Without a moment's pause he drove one of the steak knives forward, through the raider's hand, and embedded it in the wall. That drew a full-fledged scream from the raider. In short order Gallows repeated the process with the raider's other hand, drawing a louder scream. Looking into the man's eyes, now wide with fear, Gallows smiled.
"Stick around." And with that the Knight set upon the remaining raiders.
November 26, 2281
Blearily, John opened his eyes in his room at The Tops. The first thing he saw was Gale, sitting across from him on her bed and smiling.
"How you feeling?" she asked, in an extremely cheerful tone.
"Ugh. How can you possibly be that happy in the morning?" John asked, trying to pull his covers over his head as he did.
"How could I possibly not? We're in New Vegas! I won money playing roulette last night! You get to go see the Followers today and get your knee fixed!" she replied, bouncing on the bed as she did. That caused John's eyes to jolt open. The Followers. Old Mormon Fort. Shit! That's today! Bolting out of bed, the Lone Wanderer hobbled over to his dresser and grabbed a fresh set of clothes, pulling them on in a hurry. As he did, he noticed, for the first time, the throbbing headache he had.
"I feel like shit. How much did I drink last night, Gale?" he asked, as they both made their way out of the room.
"A lot," she responded, still cheerful. "I stopped counting after a while. You don't remember Smith saying you better not make him wait this morning?"
"He said that? Shit…"
"I think we're OK. It's only 9 AM. He probably won't yell too much. How did everything go yesterday, by the way? With the Vault and everything?" It took John a moment to realize what she was asking, through the hangover.
"The Vault? Oh, Vault 3. Fine, I guess. We cleared the Fiends out of it. Really, it was mostly the Courier going on a psychotic rampage. I think me and Smith were more useful finding Vault jumpsuits so the guy could try to get laid by Sarah at Vault 21," he replied, drawing a wide eyed look from Gale.
"He's trying to make it with Sarah? She doesn't seem like that kind of girl…"
"It's always the quiet ones that turn out to be crazy," John answered, as they made their way out of the elevator and into the lobby of the Tops. Across the room, he spotted Fawkes' immense frame, dwarfing even that of Smith, standing next to him. Making a quick stop to retrieve his weapons from the Chairman that was at the front desk, John turned to face his traveling companions. It seemed odd to him that they had spent the last four months together, all the time. It felt like they had been together forever. But now that they had arrived in New Vegas, that was ending. Vegas had been the final destination when the caravan set out from the Capital. From here, they were free to do whatever they wished. John knew Fawkes would stay with him, and he was relatively certain that Smith planned to as well. Bonzo had no reason to; he was a merchant, not an adventurer. Gale, John hoped, would remain with him, if only so he and Smith could protect her and make sure she wasn't left alone in a Wasteland on the far side of the continent.
"Ready to head to Freeside?" Smith asked, as they began walking towards the doors and out onto the Strip.
"Yeah. Anyone in particular we're meeting at the Mormon Fort?"
"Julie Farkas," Fawkes responded. John looked at his old friend, drawing stares even in New Vegas.
"Do you know her, Fawkes?" he asked, as the group made their way out of the main entrance to New Vegas and into Freeside. The slum in front of him still surprised him in its general level of shittiness.
"I do. I made her acquaintance when I last came through New Vegas. She is a good woman," Fawkes replied, satisfying John's curiosity. Fawkes trusted her, and John trusted Fawkes' judgment. In silence they made their way through the streets of Freeside, the only sounds being that of the slums aside them. Bottles breaking, loud voices, the conversations of people gathered on the streets, all of which seemed to be discussing the coming battle at the Hoover Dam. Here and there, John heard something familiar-people discussing the Courier, stories they'd heard about him, legends. The same way he remembered them beginning to be told about him after he came out of the Vault. Turning a corner, the tan, brick walls of the Fort appeared in front of them, a large wooden gate being visible along the nearest wall. The group made their way through, their appearance drawing stares and making the guard, a ghoul that was dressed as a cowboy, shift uncomfortably. From across the yard, a voice cried out, over the whispers that had begun upon their entrance.
"Fawkes? Is that you?" a woman with a black, spiked Mohawk called out, crossing the yard quickly as she did.
"It is I. A pleasure to see you, Julie," Fawkes said, drawing a smile from the woman. Surveying the group, Julie spoke again.
"And who are your friends, Fawkes?" Gesturing to them, Fawkes began to make introductions.
"This is Smith, a caravan guard from New Reno. This young lady is Gale Campbell, who joined us in a town in West Virginia…" he trailed off, Julie's eyes going wide as she saw Gale. Gale, not failing to notice, shifted uncomfortably under the woman's gaze.
"You are a dead ringer for Emily. A younger version of her, at least. You could be sisters," she said, smiling.
"Who is Emily?" Fawkes asked.
"A friend of mine, back in the NCR. And who is this gentleman?" She asked, looking at John.
"Ah, yes. Julie, this is my close friend, John Thompson. I spoke to you of him when I was last here." Julie, apparently, remembered; her eyes widening slightly as she looked at the Wanderer.
"And what brings you here, Mr. Thompson?" she asked. Extending his hand to her, John responded.
"Fawkes spoke highly of your organization. I require professional medical treatment, and assistance. I was hoping to be able to meet with your leadership, in whatever form it may take."
"We can certainly provide you with medical attention, although we're overtaxed here. We're swamped by people with alcohol and chem addictions. Any sort of serious medical issue would have to be treated in the NCR. What sort of assistance do you want from the Followers?" she asked in response.
"Assistance in rebuilding the Capital Wasteland. Fawkes told me about the NCR and the Legion. Society has begun to recover here. It has not on the East Coast. I would like help changing that," he said, smiling. He was attempting to make a positive impression on the woman, convince her that he was someone worth working with.
"The Followers are not a hierarchical organization. Here in the Mojave, we're it. I know people in the NCR that would be willing to hear you out, though. What is the nature of the medical attention you need?"
"My knee is severely injured, to begin with. It suffered a traumatic injury." Julie nodded at that, before looking over her shoulder to a blonde, bespectacled man, tinkering with a chemistry set at a table.
"Arcade? Would you mind doing an intake for Mr. Thompson, here? Take an MRI of his knee as well." Looking up from his work, the man sighed, before standing up. He was tall, taller than John while not quite matching Smith's height.
"I suppose. Not like I have anything better to do," he said, before beckoning to John to follow him. Separating from his friends with a wave, John followed the man into the interior of the Fort.
As the two men left, Julie turned back to the remaining three.
"So what else do I need to know about your friend that he won't tell us?" she asked. Standard procedure for people that weren't dealing with obvious issues was to ask those close to them about their behavior. Smith spoke up in response.
"He has a serious drinking problem. Med-X, too. I know he has nightmares. I'd take a guess and say probably some degree of Post-Traumatic Stress. And the associated wear and tear of having fought a nonstop war for about a year and a half." Julie's eyes widened slightly at that, before nodding.
"Well, that's certainly a litany of issues. More than we can handle here, too. For what you all are looking for, and to treat him, your best bet is probably going to be the Followers hospital in the Boneyard. There's more manpower and resources there. I know a Follower in Shady Sands that will be interested in hearing what you have to say. Her name's Emily, the friend of mine that looks like Gale," she said, doing a double take at Gale as she did. "She's been pressing to get an expedition sent east, but the leadership in Shady Sands thinks it's a bad idea and a dangerous waste of resources." Smith frowned at that.
"Isn't that what the Followers exist for? To help the world recover from the war?" Julie held up her hands in response.
"Hey, I'm just the messenger. I agree with you. Anyway, I've got to get back to my work. Feel free to hang around while your friend's intake gets done," she said, smiling before leaving to return to her work.
The MRI completed its work quickly; Arcade looking at the results as they appeared in front of him. He wasn't a medical expert, but even he could tell that there was severe damage to the ligaments in the knee. He frowned, looking at the pictures. There was no way they'd be able to perform the surgery necessary to repair it in the Mojave. Rising from the table he had been laying on, John pulled his pants back on and spoke.
"What's the damage, doctor?" he asked, buttoning his pants as he did.
"Oh, I'm not a doctor. Julie will know for sure what's wrong. Looking at it though I'd guess you have a torn ACL. Let's get these pictures up to her and see what she thinks." Leading John back out of the basement of the Fort and into the yard, he spotted Julie, in one of the tents at the perimeter. He crossed the yard quickly, John limping behind him, and without a word handed her the images. Julie's face blanching and eyes going wide confirmed what he had thought he'd seen on the images.
"Fuck me. You walked across the continent on this?" she asked, looking up at John in disbelief as she did. He frowned at her question.
"Yes…it's that bad, huh?" he replied. She nodded in response.
"Yeah. It's bad. Torn ACL, torn MCL from what I'm seeing here. There's no way we can treat this here. Why don't you sit down and talk to me for a few minutes? Arcade, you can go back to your work," she said, smiling up at her friend as she dismissed him. John slowly took a seat across from Julie, unsure what she wanted to talk about.
"What do you need, Ms. Farkas?" he asked. She fixed her gaze on him, as if trying to get a feel of him.
"Besides your knee. Your friends tell me that you have other problems. That you drink too much. That you use Med-X routinely. Which, given this knee, is understandable. That's actually a positive sign, surprisingly. The fact that you're using Med-X to lessen an injury makes it less likely you've acquired a physical dependence on the chem. I understand that you saw some pretty bad things during the war you fought. Do you want to talk about it?" she asked, her tone gentle.
"Not particularly," John replied, his defenses going up.
"You know internalizing everything you've dealt with and ignoring the feelings will likely only continue to cause you problems, right?" she continued.
"I don't care. I've made it this far. Why would I want to relive the worst days of my life with someone I just met?" he asked.
"Then don't relive it with me. Relive it with someone you know, someone you trust. Just don't keep it all inside. I know some really good people at our hospital in the Boneyard that could help you with that. That's where they'll have to treat your knee. We simply don't have the resources here in the Mojave to treat your knee, even with the deals Achilles made to get us supplied," she explained. John smiled at her mention of the Courier, her tone sounding almost reverent.
"So you've met him too, huh?" he asked.
"That man has been a Godsend helping get Freeside fixed," she answered. That surprised John. Maybe there was more depth to the man than what he had seen in Vault 3.
"How long a trip would it be to the Boneyard?" he asked, changing the topic.
"From here? Probably 10 days. A few to get out of the Mojave and into the NCR and then take a train to the Boneyard from there. You know you'll likely be spending a few months there, right? The rehab time on a knee this damaged is lengthy," she replied. He nodded.
"I heal faster than most people. I think I'll be able to make it." Julie shrugged at his response.
"I hope so. Either way, think about what I said. If you seriously want to try to rebuild society on the East coast, you may not want to be getting drunk every night." With that, Julie stood and left the tent, moving on to see the rest of her patients and leaving John with his thoughts.
Elder Lyons and Scribe Rothchild looked at the messenger that stood across from them, having just delivered the bad news that they didn't want to hear. GNR was down across the Capital Wasteland. The message Three Dog had broadcast had barely been heard outside of the DC ruins. Their main way of reaching the population of the Wasteland, of passing on news that they wanted people to hear, was gone. Lyons and Rothchild knew that having people hear their version of the truth would be important in building a functioning government in the Wasteland.
"Alternatives?" Lyons asked his old friend.
"We could just use the direct radio that we set up between the settlements during the war. They still broadcast to each other on it from time to time," Rothchild replied. Lyons nodded in response.
"Very well. Do it. When is the Pride due back from their rotation in the ruins?"
"Two days. Still no word from Gallows, either. Although I'd suspect he hasn't finished his mission. If I had to guess, I'd say this ghost of the ruins is responsible for GNR being taken off the air," Rothchild said. Lyons grimly nodded at that.
"I agree, I'm afraid. Inform me should we receive any sort of communication from Gallows. How go the preparations at Rivet City?"
"Well. Our security detail has been there for several days, getting a feel for the inhabitants, scouring the hall that the meeting will be held in to make sure there's no sabotage. Between them and Rivet City security, there shouldn't be any incidents," Rothchild answered. Lyons smiled at that.
"Excellent. Excellent. It's hard to believe that after over 20 years the time has finally come, isn't it, old friend?" he said, smiling at Rothchild as he did. Rothchild couldn't help but chuckle at that.
"It is. We were so much younger back then. You certainly had more hair," Rothchild replied, gently teasing his old friend as he did. Lyons laughed at that.
"As did you, Reginald. Alas, age has our number. But after this week, at least no one will be able to say the Brotherhood of Steel never did any good for humanity," he responded, feeling a weight lift as he did. Owyn Lyons knew that his remaining days were likely numbered. He was growing older, weaker. He had outlived his wife. But at the same time he had seen his daughter grow into a respected, powerful warrior and skilled strategist. He had seen his chapter recover from their brutal war and actually help the people of the Wasteland, and not just recover technology as the Brotherhood did in the West. And that, he thought, was enough to be counted as a good life.
Clover heard the sounds of a fight before she saw it. Carefully, she pressed her body against the wall of Springvale Elementary School. Figures something happens when I'm almost there, she bitterly thought to herself. Quietly, she drew her pistol from where it was holstered on her thigh, taking a chance to peek around the corner as she did. There she spotted what looked like a teenager, somewhere between 16-18, lying on the ground, surrounded by three armed men. The boy was wearing a long duster, his dark skin allowing Clover to make an educated guess. This must be the younger Simms that lover told me about. She remembered the stories the Wanderer had told her. That the boy was going to be a Regulator like his father, that soon he'd be helping police the area. Judging by the position he was in, he still had a lot to learn. The voices were growing louder, the men shouting at the boy. She didn't particularly care what they were saying, but the tone made it clear that they were likely reaching the point where the boy would be executed. Well…shit. Better do something. Slowly, she drew the shotgun off her back, holding it in her left hand and the pistol in her right. Quickly, she spun around the corner, firing two quick shots from the .45 that hit the men that were standing alongside the boy in the head and spraying the ground, and the young Simms, with blood and brain matter. The last man spun to find himself staring down the barrel of Clover's shotgun, pointed directly between his eyes. The eyes themselves betrayed a sense of incredulity at the woman that had just killed his friends. Guess the disguise works.
"Drop your weapon," she said, as Simms scrambled back to his feet and began wiping the blood off his face, grimacing as he did. Glancing quickly at the boy, she saw him picking his rifle up. "Get back to Megaton, kid," she said, not taking her eyes off the man at the end of her shotgun as she did. The boy stood his ground.
"Not without him. He's coming back to face justice," he replied. Clover had to fight laughter at that.
"Justice? Kid, I don't know if you noticed this, but society ended 200 years ago. I'll be giving this guy the only justice that's left." Simms stood his ground.
"That's not true. If you cut him down out here you're no better than him. That's what justice is. It's doing the right thing even when the other person wouldn't return the favor," he said, calmly. Clover had to give him credit, he at least sounded like he believed what he was saying. She couldn't resist the powerful urge to roll her eyes at it, though.
"So what. You want me to help you take this guy back to Megaton to lock up until your dad can shoot him?" she replied.
"I could take him alone, but I would be much obliged for your help," he answered earnestly. Eh, I'm going there anyway. Fuck it.
"Fine. I'll take him with you. I'm going to Megaton anyway," she said, taking a step back from their prisoner and nodding her head in the direction of Megaton. "You heard the kid. Walk." Faced with no other choices, the man turned and began trudging toward the high walls of the town, Clover behind him and Simms alongside. The trip passed in silence, neither in the mood to be friendly in the presence of their captive. They entered Megaton to find the town mostly quiet in the early evening, a small crowd gathered at the outdoor bar of the Brass Lantern and noise and light spilling from the windows and door of Moriarty's, on the highest level. The town was larger than Clover remembered it being, the last time she was here. Simms's house, which had a jail built into it, was near the entrance, and in short order they had their captive locked up. It was only after they left the room that the cell was in that Clover spoke.
"Where's your father?" she asked.
"He had resistance business to attend to in Arefu. Should be back tomorrow," the boy replied. "I'm sorry, I'm being rude. My name is Harden, ma'am, Harden Simms," he said, offering his hand as he did. Slowly, Clover grasped it.
"I'm…Alecia. Just Alecia. You said something about resistance business?" she said, not believing that the answers she had been hoping for were literally falling into her lap.
"You been living under a rock, Alecia? The resistance to the Brotherhood trying to take over," he replied, excitement bursting in Clover as he did. There's other people fighting!
"How did this start? I've been down south, I only got back to the Wasteland recently," she answered.
"Why don't I buy you dinner down at the Lantern and I can fill you in there? Least I can do for you savin' me back there," Harden answered. Clover smiled at the boy in response, silently thanking whatever Gods existed for this gift.
"Lead the way, Harden," she answered.
Gallows looked around the room at the bodies of the dead raiders. He had killed four of them, over the course of brutalizing them. He had left their leader alive though, pinned to the wall as he was to watch his comrades die. After they had died Gallows had turned his attention to the man. He had broken his legs, fractured his ribs, cut the man's lips and other areas he knew had high numbers of nerves. The raider had eventually screamed himself out. All that was left for Gallows to do now was kill him. Wordlessly, he removed the knives that had pinned the raider to the wall and allowed him to drop, before grabbing him by his hair and dragging him from the room and into the hallway. He continued down the hallway, the raider not resisting as he did. It was as they reached the stairs that Gallows through the man over his shoulders, hurrying up them and to the roof of the building, five stories above the ground. He made his way to the edge of the building, dropping the man next to it. He reached for where his helmet was clasped to his armor and lifted it, placing it back on his head. It was time to return to his normal procedure. The venting of his wrath had left Gallows exhausted, in a way he did not understand. He looked down to the raider, who had wrapped his arms around Gallows' leg, as if it would stop his pain.
"Time to die," Gallows said quietly, reaching down to pick the man up.
"No, please, no," the man began, his desperate pleading being cut off by Gallows launching the man from the roof of the building. There was a momentary pause, and then the distinct sound of the man's body hitting the pavement, more than 50 feet below. SPLAT! It made Gallows feel nothing. Turning, he made his way back into the building and down the stairs, to the third floor. There, he made his way to the body of the little girl. Wordlessly, he scooped her and her teddy bear up, and, cradling her in his arms, turned from the room, making his way back down the hall, down the stairs, and onto the street. There, he took a knee, gentle lowering the body to the ground before reaching for his radio.
"Citadel, this is Gallows. Come in, over."
"Roger Gallows, this is Citadel. We're reading you. What's your situation, over?"
"Require QRF and extraction on my location in the ruins. Large raider party neutralized. Civilian casualties encountered. Out." With that he returned the radio to its pouch on his armor and picked the girl back up off the ground. He held her there, kneeling on the ground, through the sound of the bird approaching, through the blast of the rotor wash, through the QRF disembarking and approaching him. Ignoring them, he stood, carrying the girl with him onto the Vertibird, taking a seat for the ride back to the Citadel. Not staying in that place. You aren't staying there. If there's anything decent left in this Wasteland I will find it, find a place for you to spend eternity, far away from this place where so much evil was done to you.
November 29, 2281
Clover made her way up the broad, desolate roads of I-95 that ran into the city of Baltimore. Harden Simms had told her enough in Megaton, while they ate at the Brass Lantern, for her to formulate a plan. The broken skyline of the city had drawn nearer, towering over the ruins that spread out around it. Baltimore had been an industrial city, and it's skyline was a far cry from DC. Laws before the war had prevented skyscrapers from being built in the District; so aside from the Washington Monument and the National Shrine, most of the city had been built fairly low, not providing much of a skyline. Baltimore had no such laws, and the area that had been downtown had towering skyscrapers, broken and forgotten after the war. Clover was not heading into the ruins of Baltimore, though. Her destination was the port. The exit for it had approached on her right, and she followed it, threading between the wrecks of old cars. The half hour that it took to walk to the ship she was searching for passed quietly. Evening was just beginning to fall as she made her way up the gangplank, onto the massive cargo vessel, still afloat and maintained by its residents. The entrance to the vessel was guarded, much in the same way Rivet City was. The ghoul at the entrance spoke up as she approached.
"Whaddaya want, smoothskin?" he asked, sounding bored.
"I want you to go to your master and tell him exactly what I say. Bid Lord Pestilence greetings, from a fellow Horseman," she replied, drawing a confused look from the ghoul, as he exchanged glances with his partner guarding the door.
"What?" he asked, drawing a frustrated sigh from Clover.
"Just go to your master and repeat what I said. I'll wait," she answered. Sharing another glance with his partner, the ghoul shrugged and made his way back into the ship. Several minutes passed, with Clover idly leaning against the walkway, examining her hands. Finally, the guard returned, his face showing the ghoulish equivalent to awe. He bowed forward slightly before replying.
"Lord Pestilence instructs me to welcome you to the Cape Wrath, Lady Conquest. If you will follow me, I'll take you to him." Nodding, Clover set off behind the ghoul, following him through the corridors of the ship. It was a lively place, highly populated. The air was unpleasant, but it looked to be a safe community and a thriving trading port. Finally, they reached their destination, the guard opening the door to a large, empty room that was lit only by torches. Across from her, on the far side of the room, she saw a tall, thin figure rise from a chair and slowly make his way forward, limping ever so slightly. His features still obscured by the darkness, he nodded his head at his guard, dismissing him. When the door closed behind the guard, the figure stepped into the light, his face smirking as he did.
"It's been a long time, Clover. Thought you were dead," he rasped, crossing his arms over his chest.
"Aw, do you really think that little of me?" she responded, smiling coyly.
"What brings you to the Cape Wrath after all this time?" he asked.
"The Capital. The game has changed. John and Fawkes have gone West. The Brotherhood is taking over. Everything we worked for is about to be destroyed. People don't know me. There's nothing I can do except fight from the shadows. They know you, though. You're part of the legend. I was hoping you'd…help," she responded, shrugging.
"I think we're the last two Horsemen anyone would expect to work together," the ghoul responded. "It has a certain entertainment value, at least. May as well fill me in," he said, walking back towards the chair he had been sitting in when she entered. "By the way," he called out, looking over his shoulder, "it's good to see you, Clover." She smiled back at him.
"And you, Charon."
December 1, 2281
Elder Lyons looked around the assembly at Rivet City, worried at the turnout. Rivet City and the DC ruins were represented, but other major settlements in the Capital Wasteland-Megaton, Arefu, Canterbury Commons, primarily-were all absent. He glanced over at Rothchild, who nodded back at him, as if acknowledging his thoughts.
"They ignored the message, then," he whispered to Rothchild.
"It would appear so. Do you have orders on what we should do?"
"No. Let's focus on this meeting. Perhaps if we show positive progress we can convince the absent members to join the fold. Ensure that the water caravans are making their rounds to the absent settlements, as well. A peace gesture, as it were," Lyons replied, looking across the room to where his daughter was greeting the arriving delegates. This was her first exposure to diplomacy. Lyons had determined that it was time to begin grooming her to lead the chapter after he had died. Nodding, as if accepting the absence of the other settlements, he turned back to Rothchild. "Shall we greet the others?"
The six weeks that had passed since she had heard of Achilles' death had felt like an eternity for Emily. The acute grief had passed, and her days had become a series of routines, the way they had before she had met Achilles. She woke, she would do some form of exercise, she would teach her classes, she would write about whatever topic she was researching. She was preparing to begin writing about enhanced farming techniques, which the Followers had learned the OSI was investigating, when there was a knock on her door.
"Yes?" she called out, looking up from her journal to the door as a young man, one of the newer Followers, entered the room.
"A telegraph came from the Mojave branch today, Dr. McPherson. For you," he explained, handing her an envelope as he did.
"Thank you," Emily replied, smiling at the man by force of habit as she accepted the envelope. Sliding her finger underneath the seal, she opened it, reading the message and feeling her heart skip a beat as she did.
Emily-John Thompson aka Lone Wanderer en route to hospital in Boneyard. ETA 7 December 2281. –Julie
It was almost too good to be true. Closing the envelope, she set it on her desk, before turning to her dresser and beginning to pull clothes out. She was going to the Boneyard, she didn't need the Followers approval for that much.
December 7, 2281
John had been surprised that his entire group of companions had traveled to the Boneyard. He had just checked into the room that would be his at the Followers inpatient facility, while Gale and Fawkes were shown around the city by Bonzo and Smith. He had just finished unpacking his bag of clothes that he had brought from Megaton, what felt like an eternity ago, when there was a knock at the door. It began opening as he turned around, greeted by the sight of a woman who, at first glance, he thought was Gale. He realized quickly that it was not her, but the woman was a dead ringer for his friend. A memory of Julie back in New Vegas hit him as the woman spoke.
"John Thompson?" she asked, extending her hand to him. Lightly, he took it, nodding his head in confirmation.
"My name is Emily McPherson. I've been waiting a long time to meet you."
So...hi. Yeah. Hope this chapter didn't offend anyone. If it did...well, I did warn you at the beginning of the chapter. There was no intention to be gratuitous here, but rather convey what I think we lose sight of from time to time-that underneath it all, for the average person, the post-apocalyptic world Fallout shows is a hellish place to live.
Anyway, finally starting to connect some threads here. Nearing the end game of this particular story, I feel like I've just crossed a major threshold. Anyway, thoughts, feedback, if you want me to push forward through the home stretch and finish this thing, let me hear it!