Chapter 10: Unwritten Advice

Tim Frost was a man who desperately wanted to be known as a pioneer. The first true and blue documentarian in what had to be two centuries. The standard by which all who would proceed him would be measured, and exemplar for the future. His was to be the one who would make his mark on history by recording it, a historian not seen since Tacitus or Gibbon. He was not, however, going to let a bad first impression ruin that. He just had to find a way, however, to get past that.

Currently he was sitting in the middle of the 14th Volunteer Scout Brigade's primary garrison tent. He was currently surrounded by a handful of what he gathered were the brigade's officers and NCO's. Judging primarily by appearance, there wasn't a single individual inside that was happy to see him.

Soldiers, no, warriors surrounded him, faces caked in warpaint and scowls, carrying everything from throwing axes built from scrap to rifles with crude bayonets. Before him, their leader sat, drinking from a bag made from animal hide. She was a wild-looking woman, possessing a lanky strength that came from the result of her survival skills and pride. She glared him down as she threw the hide to the base of her chair.

"You may speak, outlander," she growled.

"…Uh… Captain Ta-"

"WAR CHIEF!" she snapped.

"War Chief!" Frost quickly corrected. "War Chief Tandi! Would you mind if I asked you some questions?" he began, hesitantly.

The warrior curled her lip before leaning back. "Ignorant as the rest of your people. Do you wish to educate we "savages" on the nature of our being in this cause?"

"Absolutely not!" Frost violently shook his head. "I have nothing but the utmost respect for the indigenous cultures and their people. I am in fact a card carrying member of-"

"Such organizations mean little to us," Tandi growled. "Your actions are paltry. Our loyalties are with your military, not whatever charitable foundation you seek to impress upon us."

"I meant no…" Frost paused. "I apologize if I sound ignorant, I just wanted to ask you about the situation a few years back. Involving one Captain Milligan?" he pressed.

Said Captain waited outside, taking a drag as he heard the dead silence taking part inside the tent. A few minutes later, a defeated Frost left the tent. "I don't understand," he confessed. "Everything I do gets shut down. How did I offend them so much? I didn't even ask for that much," he muttered to himself as he slunk away, struggling to hold onto all of his equipment.

Putting out his cig, Milligan leaned inside the tent, watching as the warriors inside tittered and snickered, their head warrior covering her mouth after their performance.

"Can you believe that guy?" Tandi giggled. "Fuckin' liberals, am I right?"

"I see you all settled for the usual welcome, then?" Milligan asked, remembering his own first experience with the scouts.

"Lay off," Lieutenant Seth spoke out. "If he wants to know about the Spokane deal, he could just ask you."

"And here I thought you guys don't like it when I talk about our stuff behind your backs," Milligan replied.

"Hey," Tandi called back. "You want to unpack that mess, you are free to do so with your own ass on the line. I'm content to leave that with everything we had buried."

"And here I thought honesty was one of your tribe's virtues," Milligan said.

"If your government expects me to stay beholden to it, it will forgive me if I shall decide to live by its rules," Tandi shot back.

Milligan shrugged. "Fair enough. One of these days, though, we ought to let the public in on what went down, though. Frost is as good a guy as any to tell anyone. When you guys change your mind, try to let me know."

"Right, we'll do that," Tandi laughed.

Milligan ducked out of the tent, only for a moment later to stick his head back inside. "He's coming back."

As Milligan stood aside, Frost flung the tent flap open, only to meet with the same silently hostile stares he had fle- left in order to attend other matters. He spied his recording device in the center of the shelter. "I… forgot this," he mumbled, lamely. Snatching it up, he once again made a hasty retreat from the tent, leaving them to their snickering the moment he was once again out of earshot.


Some distance away, the screaming inside the HQ almost came to a stop. "WHAT POSSIBLY GAVE YOU THE IMPRESSION YOU WERE ON VACATION?!" Natalie shrieked at the three. Joseph had his head bowed. Jimmy looked away. Rosa just glared back, defiantly.

"RIGHT AS WE WERE ENGAGED WITH HOSTILE FORCES, YOU THREE DECIDE TO TAKE THE OPPORTUNITY TO GO AWOL!" Natalie continued.

"How could we be AWOL if we aren't part of the military?" Rosa retorted.

"QUIT BEING AN IDIOT!" Natalie snapped. "YOU KNOW GODDAMN WELL WHAT I MEANT!"

"Oh, so if I am a member of the army, where's my commendation for saving that Heilong hot ass?" Rosa shot back.

Natalie quickly shot a glance at Gorobets, who had largely stayed out of the immediate fracas. "That is NCR business. Confidential. I advise you all drop the matter."

"Now you are just making me more curious," Rosa heckled.

Natalie slammed her fist onto the table. "ROSA! ENOUGH IS ENOUGH! Starting now, you are effectively under probation."

Rosa scoffed. "You want to put me under house arrest in a tent? Aren't you ambitious," she joked.

"From this point forward, you will be directly under Carla and Tobey's supervision. You will not leave their sights and they will report directly to me everything about your activities," Natalie continued.

"You're having your kids babysit me?" Rosa complained.

"The alternative is you remain at Headquarters for the duration of the expedition, directly under MY supervision," Natalie offered.

"Oh for- I DIDN'T EVEN WANT TO COME!" Rosa screamed.

"AND I DIDN'T WANT TO BRING YOU!" Natalie shot back.

Rosa and Natalie stared one another down as best they could. "…If it means anything," Joseph spoke up, "It was my idea to-"

"I DON'T REMEMBER ASKING YOU A GODDAMN THING!" Natalie snarled.

"Well, Commish, let me humbly apologize for our actions," Jimmy stood forward. "It was a severe lapse in judgment on our part. You have my word that it will not happen again under my knowledge."

Natalie cast her gaze towards the crime heir, her face a mixture of bemusement and derision. "Off all three of you, how is it that the mobster is the only one with any sense? Anyway, you three aren't going anywhere else tonight, I just figured I'd let you all know that. You all are confined to your tents until further notice. That will be all. Dismissed."

"You can't-" Rosa tried to interrupt.

"Dismissed," Natalie repeated, emphatically.

Jimmy was the first to turn and leave. Joseph hesitated, reaching out for Rosa's shoulder. She shook off his grip, continuing to glare at Natalie as she brushed past the young pastor. Joseph pursed his lips together. "…Will Melody also see disciplinary actions?" he asked.

Natalie looked towards the blind man. "She's been busy ever since you all returned. Between all the wounded she's been dealing with, I'd say she'll be cleared by the time that mess at the fort has been resolved."

"Thank you, Commissioner," Joseph bowed his head. "I am very grateful."

"Good. Now leave," Natalie stated, dryly.


"Tim?" a familiar voice spoke up as Frost finally set his equipment back in his tent. The documentarian turned to see the striking face of Miss California herself, as she had often been billed on various marquees. Her face had been increasingly recognizable, particularly around the urban centers that propped up the film industry in its infancy. Her brown eyes and bright smile was the last thing he expected to see this far out in the Unclaimed Wastes.

"Andrea," he called out in bafflement. "What are you doing here?"

Andrea Heilong was one of the rising new stars of the growing NCR media, and somehow here she was peeking into his tent hundreds of miles from home. As a celebrity, she had often described her best attributes to be her fair features, her adaptable mind, and her patriotic spirit. Tim heard rumors that she was interested in partaking in envoys on behalf of her country, but he never imagined that those duties would take her this far out here.

"Business trip gone wrong," Andrea replied. "Kind of a farce, now that I think of it. If I ever start dabbling in screenwriting again, this might have some promise," she joked.

"Business trip?" Tim sounded out. "That doesn't… what on earth are you doing this far east, anyway?"

"I could tell you that, but…" she drew out. "I'd have to kill you," she said with a smile.

Tim let out a small laugh. He had last seen Andrea during the opening night of the Tandi biopic, during the afterparty. She had been ever the social butterfly, chatting up with everyone from her agent to the producers down to the crew and staff. Part of it came down to professional obligations, but when she went to get some air, she chatted with him after dropping the veneer of the smiling starlet, bellyaching about the "artistic liberties" the producers took and how she and Chet weren't seeing eye-to-eye as of late.

"What do you-" Tim tried to get something out.

"I'm messing with you, man. Mission of mercy, that's all it is," she laughed. "Followers were looking to establish some medical facilities out here in the badlands, and some of their guys out west figured a cute, persuasive face would help with the relief," she grinned.

"Oh. Oh!" Tim finally managed to get out, his current articulation was not living up to his usual standards.

"So, this is your new place, huh?" Andrea asked as she invited herself inside. Well, I'm not going to say it beats a Shi-Friscan studio, but it's pretty competitive, don't you think?" she joked. "So, I'm guessing you got signed off, after all?"

"Yeah," Tim smiled. While it would be a stretch to call his relationship with Andrea a friendship, they had been close acquaintances for a number of years, going back to her early auditions. Even back then, she prided herself as a student of history, so their mutual interest in seeing history as it unfolded made conversations easy between the two. "How's your father doing?"

"He was just elected president of the local veterans club a few months back," she smiled. "He's been pretty hands on so far, but he's also not afraid of putting his foot down."

Even Tim had to snicker at that. As usual, Mojave veterans had a rather morbid sense of humor. "So, I take it his candidacy for local dogcatcher didn't pan out?"

Andrea covered her mouth as she snorted. "Ah, inside jokes." She looked around the room. "So, do you mind me seeing anything you've been working on?" she asked, eagerly.

Tim looked away, a little embarrassed. "Well, it's still early in the expedition, and I haven't really developed my rapport that well with the boys on the ground, so it really has to come down to…"

"It's not going well, is it?" Andrea said, bluntly.

"Things… could be better?" Tim admitted. "I don't think the rank and file care much for my presence. On a rather palpable level," he confessed.

"Babysitting some civvie hump will do that to them," Andrea brusquely admitted. Tim shot her a look. "What?" she exclaimed. "Generally, the military, particularly grunts, resent tourists, and I'm sorry but that's what you are to them."

Tim folded his arms. "…Well, as the local military brat, what would you suggest?"

Andrea thought for a moment. "Well, as much as these guys don't care for you, they all seemed pretty stoked about having a cute little starlet in their camp."

Tim's stomach sank. "Andrea, are you suggesting that you stay on as my assistant?"

"Well, I don't know much about your equipment," Andrea admitted. "But if you need someone to do a little dance behind you to reel in interviews, I'd be your gal," she grinned.

"That wasn't exactly what I had in mind," Tim groused.

"Me neither. I'm going back to Cali in the morning, anyway," she said. "Besides, you don't need me to put yourself over to these guys. You need… clout," she said.

"And how do I get-" Tim started.

"Shh," Andrea interrupted. They could faintly make out some outlines of figures standing outside the tent, trying to keep quiet as they eavesdropped. Tim, annoyed, was about to storm out and, if he couldn't drive away the interlopers himself, at least file a complaint to the commanders. Andrea, on the other hand, held him down.

"So, Tim, it was nice to meet back up with you," she began, clearly and slightly louder than she had been speaking. "I haven't seen you in so long, I don't know-" she abruptly stopped. "Tim, what are- not, not here," she said in a hushed whisper. "What if someone- oh," she moaned. "You haven't… lost a step, have you," she keened softly, breathing heavier. "OK, but what if someone- mmh," she continued as Tim heard the frantic whispering outside the tent. The awkwardness of the situation really put him in a very confusing predicament, not helped as Andrea continued to softly moan from the ecstasy "he" was giving her.

"Oh, Tim, tell me I'm your one and only. Tell me I'm your sweet little flower," she continued to breathe heavily, groaning as she stretched her back and peeked to the shapes as they began to mutter and gossip. "Tell me you left her," she enunciated as she began to pick up the "intensity." "That little bitch better never come between us again, Timmy. Now, what are you waiting for? Rip the rest of my clothes off," she hissed.

As the figures retreated, Andrea stretched herself onto Tim's cot, laying down as she looked up at the roof. "That was your… solution?!" Tim hissed.

"No," Andrea admitted. "Just phase one of two."

"And what is phase two?" he asked, trepidation evident in his voice.

Before Andrea could reply, she heard the audience outside return, this time with even more onlookers. "You have some headphones?" Andrea asked.

Catching her meaning, Tim fished out a headset, resolving to work on some audio editing of his own as Andrea put on a performance the likes of which her audience outside would never soon forget. Her fling with Chet Hemlock had been a quick one, but he did teach her a few things about "theatrical voyeurism" as his old job was wont to explain it. As such, this afternoon's show would be memorable, but tonight promised to be unforgettable.


Rosa bitterly made her way back to her assigned tent. With most of the AEG currently tending to the Fort Abandon situation, most of the personnel were occupied in resecuring the fort and reestablishing the Follower's control over the facility. Most of the Marshals were overseeing the handful of non-wounded prisoners that had been secured, and the head honchos were working to establish something with Mojave Correctional to transport them to the Mojave Supermax. Still, they could spare someone to babysit her.

"So, I have to watch your ass from this day forward, huh?" Carla asked.

"Yeah, I'd rather be dealing with your brother, too. He's more fun," Rosa snarked back.

"You are a spoiled brat," Carla hissed.

"And you are a bitter old maid," Rosa told the woman who was her senior by a few months.

"This whole thing doesn't work if you get killed or carted off to slavery," Carla replied with a hint of resentment. "These people are out here because of you, you realize that?"

"The reason these people are here," Rosa retaliated, "Is because the old man is playing politics with the confeddies, and as such is playing along with an overgrown raider with delusions of grandeur. What am I supposed to do when I meet this Lanius guy, huh? Has anyone bothered to explain that to me?"

As they reached her tent, Melody ducked back out. "What the hell?" Rosa called out as Melody took off her gloves. She eyed Rosa wearily as she picked up her bag. "Fort Abandon is at peak overflow. I didn't have any place to put the guy."

"So you chose my tent?" Rosa asked.

"I mean, you seemed to care more about his wellbeing than you do for, well, most people," Melody stated, flatly.

Rosa ignored the side-eye she was getting from Carla. "So, what am I supposed to do with him?"

"Nothing," Melody explained. "He's stable, I've stopped the bleeding, mended the more critical injuries, and just got done overseeing the transfusion. He needs rest and time. Basic nurturing," she explained.

"I see," Carla said. "So why is he in Rosa's tent?"

"Eat my ass, Carla," Rosa replied. "Well, Doc, if it's all the same to you, I would like to get some shuteye."

Melody stood aside, allowing Rosa and her escort to enter the tent. Propped up on a simple and portable medical cot was Larain, the color steadily returning to his face as he breathed shallowly but consistently. Rosa took a moment to look him over before setting her things down beside her sleeping bag.

"So, what's he to you?" Carla asked.

"Who invited you in, anyway?" Rosa snapped.

"Relax, I'm not staying. You found your way back here without instigating anything, my job is done for today," Carla replied, dryly. "I think I'm going to head back and get some shuteye for myself." She paused to look the sleeping man over. "Not going to lie, kind of cute."

"And now you've officially overstayed your welcome. Get out," Rosa said as she held the door open for her.

"So, are we talking one-night stand, here, or is he just a more consistent boy-toy?" Carla asked.

"Out," Rosa repeated.

"Come to think of it, perhaps it is for the best that I watch over him as well, y'know, for his own safety. What, with your reputation being as it is-"

"OUT!" Rosa screamed as she shoved her outside. Sealing the tent, she turned back to Larain. She had no idea what he was doing this far out east and whatever had happened to him. Raiders made the most sense, but something about that didn't fit quite as well as it probably should have. He had somehow held on to most of his stuff, which didn't add up considering how often robbery was often a matter of survival this far out on the frontier. Not to mention his wounds weren't consistent with those of gunshots. They'd been closer to knives, but even that felt a bit… off.

Rosa shook her head. What good did it do to play detective now? All she wanted was her own tent back. She didn't want to share it with someone she EXPLICITLY NEVER WANTED TO SEE AGAIN. She calmed herself down. It wasn't a big deal. She could always just room in with Jimmy. Or, considering that he was currently out like a light, maybe a quick nap wouldn't be intolerable. And she could always kick his ass out in the morning. Right back out to whatever the hell jumped him.

It had been getting dark when she had returned to her tent. Of course, as insufferably hot as the days had been, at nights it could be borderline freezing. She looked over to the unconscious Larain, his teeth beginning to chatter. Even under the thin blanket the Followers could spare, having just gotten out of improvised surgery, she knew that even in this state, hypothermia could be a serious concern.

She figured she could just call out to Melody and get some extra blankets. But Mrs. Boone did say she was explicitly forbidden to leave her tent. As such, who was she to argue, she thought to herself. She was hardly a medic, most she could do was slap a stimpack on a busted limb and wait for it to run its course. That being said, she knew one way to bolster someone's falling body temp. Stripping herself to her skivvies, she joined him on the cot. As the chattering began to cease and snoring began to overtake it, Rosa wondered just how awkward the morning after was going to be for everyone.


Time had not been kind to the Sierra Madre. Built as a monument to vice and prosperity, it had been warped and abandoned by years of neglect and its own self-sabotage. This was a land that killed people and would never let their spirits leave. After it had finally been defeated, two of its victors decided to put it to better use. Thus, the Sierra Madre Casino and Resort had been recrafted into the Mojave Supermax, the premier penitentiary for the Mojave Nation and home to the worst criminals the Marshals hadn't outright killed. While most of the wasteland was content to plant bullets in skulls, the Governor wanted to make an effort to try and rehabilitate even the most dangerous offenders, even if he had to plant them inside hell on earth.

Relatively recent additions to the prison often consisted of chain-link fences, mounted by barbed wire, and catwalks that stretched from the rooves of the villas for the correctional staff. A specialized branch of the Marshals, the correctional department served as the heavily armed and armored prison guards to the facility, keeping everything from raiders to terrorists to psychotics restrained and secure. From atop their perches and walls, the wardens had ample firing lines and plenty of cover from the native dangers below. Most of those who had been called the ghost people had been driven underground, literally, and the holograms were under the direct command of the Chief Warden herself.

Chief Warden Royce watched the monitor as it transmitted an encoded message on the screen. Taking a sip of her lukewarm tea, she began punching instructions onto her monitor to the nearest Retrieval team in the area. Vegas had been weening itself off bounty hunters for major jobs, and a few who did not leave for relatively greener pastures may have settled for a steady government check. Judging by the number of reported captives, she reasoned that three squads supported by four Securitrons would be enough to transfer all forty or so reprobates to their new and hopefully temporary homes.

Warden Royce sat back in her chair, her office atop the former casino giving her a birds-eye view of her loathsome petty kingdom. The Mojave justice system was bare-bones, a skeleton of a functional system that could one day become something worthy of being considered civilized. Her world was a combination of necessary brutality and compromised ethics, the only thing the broader wasteland could understand for the immediate future. Deep down, Royce hoped that she would live to see something better come from this.

Elsewhere, deep underground, two Securitrons and a correctional officer stood outside the vault door. "Food's here. You know the drill," the guard shouted. He watched on the monitor of one of the robots as its occupant turned to the wall, holding his hands behind his head. "Commence opening," the guard ordered. Laboriously, the heavy steel door cracked open, the robots leveling all their weapons at the ready as the guard made his way inside.

He took a glance at the occupant's massive frame, placing the tray down by the mass of dollar bills on the floor. "So, read any good books lately?" the guard joked. "Any literature you'd like to share with your old buddy Max?"

The occupant just took a moment to sniff the air. "Beef and potatoes," the occupant rumbled. "One of these days I hope you'll bring me the heart of a deathclaw."

"Sorry, Padre. The only requests we do are final ones," Max shrugged as he turned away. The door sealed behind him. The Padre grabbed the tray in a fist and poured its contents down his throat in a single gulp. Throwing it with the others, Padre Hex made his way over to the mound of useless money he used as a bed. Resting his heavy frame, the formerly fiery super mutant pondered what the Spirit of the Great Cataclysm had in store for him. He had spent years in this prison, his devotion to the cause tested every day, every hour and minute. Once, he had felt a strand of hope when a careless guard, the one before Max, let slip that his men had staged an attack on the prison, the first raid since the prison's first occupant had managed to escape, but alas they had clearly not been as successful.

Still, when a disciple has nothing, they still have faith. Padre Hex could do nothing but sit and wait, for if nothing else, he still had his passion, his will, and all the time on this doomed world. One day, the door would open, and no one, not the Warden, not the Governor, not even the rotting soul of Humanity itself, would stop him on his holy rite to bring about the rebirth of the world as others saw it.

Excerpt from the Judicial Marshal Basic Training Guide and Manual

Sierra Madre Super-Maximum Security Prison: Look, if we're going to say we're civilized, we may as well act the part. For Class 3 felonies or higher, detainees are to be escorted to the designated drop site immediately upon sentencing. Prison staff are to receive the detainee and escort them to the penitentiary, where their terms will begin. Please consult with the security pamphlet for a more detailed rundown of procedures and protocol regarding the Sierra Madre. Also, a reminder, we can't control the Ghost People, we can only corral them. The holograms we can control, but if you are detected in an unauthorized area, we cannot guarantee your safety -Commissioner Floyd Wilson