Part 1: Production
The vault dweller let out a tired groan as they lowered their body into the bathtub. Merely seconds after making contact with the warm water, the once clear liquid turned to a slurry of indescribable filth. It mattered not to him, the warmth was euphoric on his sore joints.
A knock on the flimsy bathroom door roused the man.
"Clothes," a raspy voice called out.
"Leave 'em on the stool."
The vault dweller paused for a second before adding a tired, "Thanks."
I ought to be nicer to the ghoul. As robotic as they may be, Charon was an ordinary person at one point.
If the ghoul appreciated his newfound manners, he certainly didn't vocalize it.
After an hour of soaking in the murky water, they finished up with a quick scrub of Moria's homemade soap before rinsing off with their trusty bucket. A flip of a few switches later and his electric water heater ceased its dull hum.
They eyed the clothing selection Charon had left for them; a pair of faded jeans and the only unblemished t-shirt in his collection.
He's getting better at this.
Now thoroughly free of blood and grime, he motioned for the ghoul to conk out for the rest of the night. Charon silently nodded and headed to his room. He'd been up for days already, and while he was far more exceptional than anyone else in the wasteland at staying alert and awake, even he needed a few hours of rest here and there.
With his bodyguard gone, the vault dweller headed downstairs towards the kitchen.
"Shall I whip something up for you, master?" Wadsworth asked.
The vault dweller shrugged. "Knock yourself out."
His robotic butler politely squeezed past him and began looking for anything resembling ingredients. With that task taken care of, he occupied himself sorting through their most recent trip's spoils. Several stimpacks, a few hundred rounds of various types of ammunition, and a fresh set of Talon Company brand combat armor that had been generously donated to them by a fearful merc.
It was hardly their best take-home of the month, a prior excursion to the ruins had yielded enough rifles to arm all of Megaton several times over. Still, once the armor was sold they'd eek out a profit.
He wasn't exactly hurting for caps. A quick look around the "living room" proved it. Hundreds of assault rifles, submachine guns, sniper rifles, handguns, and dozens of sets of high quality armor littered the shelves. Even more high explosive ordinance was piled up so high it almost reached the second floor. So much so that he was starting to get genuinely concerned that the fairly thin metal flooring would give in one day.
No, he was exceedingly wealthy by this town's standards, almost unbelievably so. But in the grand scheme of things he was still practically meaningless.
Men like Ashur, the chieftain of the Pitt, men like that were truly wealthy. While he toiled in hostile battlefields to scrape together enough ammo and weaponry to sustain himself, the forges of the Pitt pumped out thousands of rounds a day. They had smelting, recycling, and their own take on urban farming. There was even an attempt to restore the rail network to do trade with 'Ronto and Philly.
That was power, that was wealth. That was the spark of human revival, of hope, that led him to swallow tears and pride, to leave the city's slaves under the iron grip of the Chieftain. The decision tortured him till this day, but in decades, slavery would be a thing of the past for this rapidly industrializing society. At least, that's what the chieftain had vowed.
Charon hadn't gone with him to that trip, but Charon was from the old world. When he discussed his experience, Ashur's vision, the ghoul didn't seem impressed. Far greater civilizations had met his gaze before, and unlike the vault dweller, they had been more than mere mentions in books.
A plate of sliced mutfruit and razorgrain porridge interrupted his thoughts.
"Do mind the temperature, master. Enjoy," Wadsworth said before puttering off to clean the growing stockpile.
The path to empire, republic, or even just a mere commune had been undertaken by men of all walks of life. From powerful warriors to charismatic shamans, from generals to bus drivers, great societies had emerged. But why not DC? What did the Capital Wasteland lack?
It would be a little unfair to say nothing had developed. The Talon Company Mercenaries were not just a mere business but a city-state with vast resources and reach. He and Charon had personally killed 11 of their personnel during his travels, and encountered dozens more conducting difficult operations in the DC ruins. Reports from the Brotherhood had put their numbers in the high hundreds. They had standard issue armor, very good armor at that, and a reasonable level of training. Rumor had it that they also had howitzers and vertibirds in operation, maybe even power armor. Should Ashur go to war with such a group he'd surely lose. But they lacked production. Looting, extortion, and mercenary work kept them afloat.
Production…
Only a few "civilizations" could claim to have any meaningful production capacity in the wastes. Rivet City had been having success with hydroponics, and their location meant that ample amounts of seafood could be caught most of the year. He supposed that this would fit the bill for production.
The Brotherhood now controlled the purification plant after a long battle. This as well could count as production.
Megaton had small razorgrain and brahmin operations, plus a modest fishing industry that kept the town fed. This too could be production.
There were the others as well. Cattle from Arefu, slaves from Paradise Falls, coal and slaves from Evergreen Mills, electricity from Tenpenny Tower, and medicine from Underworld.
All these sources of production combined though, they paled in comparison to a day's output from Ashur's factories.
He polished off the bland porridge and wordlessly handed the empty bowl to his robot butler.
The man stored the day's bounty and recorded the findings in his ledger. Weary legs carried him up the flimsy metal stairs and he eventually flopped down on his worn mattress.
"Dogmeat, you're on duty."
The hound growled, clearly upset with having his rest interrupted. It complied nonetheless. The dog was expressive but obedient to a fault.
Despite his prior ramblings occupying his mind relentlessly, the sheer exhaustion of battling through the DC ruins eventually forced sleep to wash over him.
The Lone Wanderer was lounging on the sofa, reading through an encyclopedia that they'd recovered during an earlier trip.
He called his bodyguard over to him.
"Charon, c'mere for a sec."
The ghoul grunted but obeyed.
"What is it, sir?"
"Get a load of this. In 1980 a low ranking soldier and about a dozen of his friends led a coup d'état against the state of Liberia."
"1980 was before my time, sir."
"I know, I know, just bear with me."
He continued.
"They, in one day, besieged the presidential palace and killed the leader of the nation and his loyal troops. The guy was hardly literate, and not a particularly accomplished soldier by the looks of it. In one day they ended over a century of political dynasty and took control of over two million men."
The ghoul just listened silently. Waiting for him to make his point.
"A nobody like him could topple a state with spies, soldiers, bureaucrats, and enough money and personnel to obliterate him. So, why can't I do the same?"
"You wish to take over Megaton?"
The ghoul thought to himself for a moment before nodding.
"There's five good fighters and two robots to worry about. Not easy but doable, sir."
He shook his head. "Not quite, and I wouldn't want to take this town violently anyways. No, I want the Capital Wasteland. I want what Ashur has. I want factories, I want soldiers. I want to build, Charon. Not salvage, not recycle. Build."
He opened up a large leather pouch, filled to the brim with caps.
"Today, we take the first step."
A humble razorgrain farmer on the lower levels of Megaton found himself flanked by two intimidating figures.
One man was of average height, skin yet darkened by years of field work like his own. Childish features remained on his face, but the dark combat armor he wore commanded respect. Such equipment took decades of saving for honest folk like him to acquire.
The other was a hulking giant of a ghoul. He donned a similar suit of combat armor and a myriad of dents and scratches on its plate showed that it was no mere decoration. The ghoul didn't utter a word, he just stood there, arms crossed.
"U-Uh, how may I help you, Mister…?"
"Abel. This gentleman besides me is Charon."
"Mister Abel, then. What can I do for you?"
The man pointed to the sorry plot of land that he owned. Stalks of razorgrain were already beginning to poke through the rough soil. The crop yielded little food, but it in turn needed next to no inputs beyond a pittance of water and some sunlight. Not to mention that it grew damn fast.
"I want your farm and your labor."
"S-Sir! Please, I am but a mere farmer. This crop is just enough to subsist on!"
"You misunderstand. I wish to purchase your land, and I wish to contract you to work the land on my behalf."
He pulled out a piece of paper and a pen.
"I can pay 200 for the land and give you 8 caps per harvest regardless of yield."
"8 caps? A good harvest can yield me 40!"
The lone wanderer looked at the absolute squalor the man was living in. A flimsy shack that most definitely did not keep out the rain, and no possession to speak of beyond basic tools and cookware.
He scoffed. "A few good harvests would buy you a home like mine at that price. I may be young but I'm no fool. The grain I buy at market price, already processed mind you, is a mere 12 caps a pound."
The man looked visibly nervous but held firm.
"I won't sell for that deal."
Charon looked ready to assist in negotiations but Abel held up a hand.
"Eight caps per harvest. I've seen what you bring in. We can renegotiate once your yields increase. And remember, I pay whether the harvest is scarce or bountiful. You will never starve should multiple bad seasons come. Plus, with the 200 cap payment you can get yourself a more comfortable place to live, a new roof to start with."
The man still didn't look convinced.
"What's your name?" Abel asked.
"Dwayne…"
"Dwayne, you see those barren plots besides you? I'm going to buy them. I'm going to have someone grow grain there. That could be you, or it could be someone else, but it's going to happen. You can grow with me or get crushed slowly by lower prices as my yields outshine yours."
"...You swear you'll adjust our agreement once the yields increase?"
He held up a hand to his heart.
"I swear to our heavenly father, that I, Abel, will fairly adjust compensation as our yields improve."
Dwayne chuckled at his oath.
"Didn't take you for a man of God. Coming here and strong-arming an honest farmer..."
"We both want the best possible deal for ourselves, but I have a reputation in this town, surely you've heard of me?"
He nodded. "I've heard some stories, never seen your mug before, is all."
"Then you know I pay on time, every time, exactly as agreed. I won't burn the goodwill I've built over a few pounds of razorgrain."
He stuck out a hand towards the farmer.
"We got a deal, Dwayne?"
Still somewhat reluctant, the farmer shook his hand.
Caps were exchanged and paper was signed. He gave him an extra 65 caps to buy seeds and materials for the adjacent plots before making his way to the saloon.
"You think my deal was too harsh, Charon?"
"Farmers make squat. They eat most of their crop just to survive. Eight caps is fair."
A rare talkative moment for the ghoul…
"I thought so. Plus we still need to process it… Maybe I can toss in an extra two caps if he does that for us?"
The ghoul just grunted.
A bit of back and forth later, Abel had managed to snag the empty land plots near the impact crater from Moriarty for a little under a thousand caps. While barren, they were fairly large. Given how easy razorgrain took to even the worst soil he could probably get several dozen pounds out of the area each month. In less than a year he'd be in the green.
He gave his bodyguard a pat on the back.
"Thanks for the assist back there."
The ghoul gave another wordless grunt.
Moriarty was a tough son of a bitch when it came to doing business and he'd built up a thick skin to mere human threats, so much so that even people like Jericho rarely got to him. But Charon was a different beast. The man displayed no emotion. His hulking frame and cruel looking shotgun gave even Brotherhood knights pause. With his non-stop cold glare towards the bar owner negotiations had steadily moved in his favor.
"Anything you'd like to do before our next stop?"
Nothing. Despite traveling with the man for months at this point, he rarely gave opinions or voiced preferences.
"Abel. Charon." The town sheriff walked past them, giving the duo a courteous tip of the hat.
"Sheriff." He nodded respectfully towards the man.
The two were cordial. While his growing wealth, firepower, and influence over town politics concerned Sheriff Simms, his donations towards the town militia and the decommissioning of the dormant bomb in the town center had earned him his respect. With time Simms himself could prove to be a key ally.
The sound of work and banter filled the air as Abel and Charon continued towards the town gate. The cruel August sun beat down on them as they left the comfortable shade that the high walls provided. A fifteen minute walk through rocky hills and a well worn footpath eventually led them to the waterfront. Teams of fishermen could be heard bantering in a foreign tongue as they approached the docks.
Megaton had little room for agriculture, let alone raising livestock, so the majority relied on the bounties of the Potomac river. Big game like mirelurk was delicious and could feed a half dozen men, plus the shells made for excellent soup stock. Hatchlings were a bit saltier but plentiful. A myriad of smaller, less dangerous critters would regularly be hauled back as well.
Abel called out to the fishermen to make his presence known.
"I'm here to buy!"
Wary, the men set down their rods and walked over with rifles in hand. Once they were close enough to see his face, their leader slung his rifle over his shoulder and motioned for his men to do the same.
Threat now gone, Charon quietly moved to set up shop on a large boulder overlooking the area while the men exchanged pleasantries.
An elderly asian man stepped forward to greet the Lone Wanderer. "Abel, my friend! Good to see you!"
"Likewise, Mr. Kwang." He gave the man a firm handshake.
"No 'lurks today, I'm afraid. Oh, but we've got razor clams and radcarp! The usual rate lah."
"I'll be sure to pick some up later, but I'm here for something a little more long term."
"Long term? Sure, we can set something up. What are you looking for?" Kwang said, reaching for his notepad.
The Wanderer motioned to Kwang's workers and the shack they operated out of.
"You poor lads need to lure out Mirelurks from afar and haul those impossibly heavy bodies back to town on days when no one comes to pick them up. Your boats are on their last legs, and skilled as your men are, one can only fish so much in one spot without drying it up."
"Have you come just to criticize my business?" The man's signature smile began to fade.
"No, I'd actually like to invest in it. Your meat is always good and clean, never been sick from it before. The price is more than fair as well."
That first one was a lie. His first mirelurk soup gave him the shits for several days, but then again everything did during his first weeks out of the vault.
The fisherman gave him a wry grin. "An investment, ah? Okay Mister Abel, let's hear your terms."
"I'll fund two new boats, a brahmin for hauling over land, and a working freezer to keep the product fresh. I want 25% of your business for that."
The workers whistled and quickly broke into an argument in their own language. Only slivers of it could be made out like "diu lay" and "say gwai low," though what it meant was beyond him. After a bit of back and forth they settled down.
"Haiya, 25% is too much wo! We make good money, Mister Abel. Maybe in a year or two we could get these things on our own. Maybe 5-6%, for that we could make a deal."
Kwang had been in the game for decades. He'd been shaken down by raiders and skirmished with the odd mutant or two that made it this far south. He wouldn't bend over to anyone so easily, especially not someone as young as him tossing him an obvious lowball.
"Tell you what, I'll throw in a proper boat. Something that can get you to the deep waters for the big game fish. Hell, I'll throw in five hunting rifles as well. You know my guns are always in prime condition. All of that for 25%."
A bigger argument erupted, though with less laughter and anger than the previous one. After a few minutes, Kwang turned back to face him.
"Hah! If you can find a boat like that, you'll have your 25% share. Without it, no deal."
Abel stuck out a hand.
"I'll get you that boat and the other things we talked about. Give me a few weeks to get it all ready."
The old man laughed as he accepted the handshake. "Diu! A few weeks, he says! Haha, okay Mister Abel! See you then!"
Wadsworth presented the weary wanderer with an ice cold nuka cola. The man took it and pressed it against his sweaty neck. A blissful sensation on a hot summer's day. He looked over at the ghoul standing guard by the door. The man didn't seem to sweat much, if at all. He never once complained about the weather. Snow, rain, blistering heat, rad storms, nothing phased him. At least, he never mentioned as much.
"Wadsworth, get Charon a cold one as well."
No reaction from the ghoul. When the robot returned he just grabbed it silently and kept monitoring the door.
"See anything, Charon?"
"Nothing yet."
"Take a break for half an hour then, I'll keep an eye out for trouble."
The ghoul complied. He went upstairs, soda in hand. Whether he'd drink it or add it to his stash was anyone's guess.
Abel kicked his feet up and took out his diary. He had a pretty busy itinerary for the coming days. A trip to Dukov's Place to see about getting a proper boat, then came Rivet City to offload art to the preservation society. He'd get a checkup from the doc as well for the weird rash developing on his back…
For such a short trip he'd need to go in fully loaded. Combat armor, assault rifle, 450 rounds of ammo, food, water, stimpacks, rad-away, a shot of med-x, the list went on and on.
It was at that moment that things started to make sense to him. Of course the wasteland never developed into anything like the Pitt. How could it? Sure, the Pitt had its Trog problem, but Trog went down easy. One or two shots center-mass from his rifle dropped them like flies, only the tougher breeds would ever require a third. Even their "crippling" disease allowed children to reach adulthood before inflicting its cruel end. But the Pitt had no deathclaws, radscorpions, yao guai, or the most existential threat: Supermutants.
Those damn mutants could take half a magazine to the chest before dropping dead, and they were smart enough to use tools and shoot back. The "overlords" that led their gangs were fearsome, with hides as thick as iron and a much steadier aim than their dumber brethren. And there weren't just a hundred or a thousand of the slow aging, hulking monsters. There were thousands, if not tens of thousands. Unlike animals that hunted for food until full, the giants liked to raid settlements perpetually. They almost farmed the human population to sustain their numbers.
The beasts were about the only thing that could unite people, even if just for a moment. There'd been times in downtown DC when he had no choice but to team up with raiders or Talon mercs to deal with mutant patrols, only to kill each other again once the muties were put down. Any scenario that would lead to him fulfilling his little nation building ambition would need an answer to the threat.
But before any of that, he'd need to iron out his foundation: Water, food, energy, security. Project purity secured the water issue, and Megaton was going to get more meat and grain with his investments, maybe enough to bring in settlers. Energy was going to be a problem. Fission batteries and a bit of wind turbine energy kept the grid afloat, but it was fairly unreliable and prone to outages. He didn't know shit about it so step one would be to find a qualified engineer, a rarity in these lands.
Then came the matter of security. The militia was capable and the walls were strong, but they served Megaton first and foremost. His faction really just consisted of Charon, the mutt, and perhaps Jericho once he paid his retainer. To really make this work he'd need to see about getting Kwang's boys loyal to him, maybe add a robot or two to his team. Would that be enough to bring him up to parity?
I'm gonna give myself an aneurysm at this rate…
"Wadsworth, watch for intruders. I'm gonna take a nap."
He kicked off his combat boots and settled into the filthy couch cushions. Tomorrow would be another step towards his greatest ambition yet.