Fallout Fallout: Autumn Morning [Director's Cut]

CarlManvers2019

Writers Blocked Douchebag
Any chance we’ll get to see exactly how the Minutemen were integrated to the US Army and still sorta kept the name?
 

Jarow

Well-known member
Any chance we’ll get to see exactly how the Minutemen were integrated to the US Army and still sorta kept the name?
In the past of this fic, or this universe? In the fic, their commander is, as in canon fallout 4, a member of the pre-war US army (don't know if rank was stated there, but is Captain here). This makes him a lot more willing to work with US Army (including a war buddy who got kidnapped by Aliens). At present, they aren't integrated yet, but are in the process of being integrated.

As for in the future... (meaning The Eagle and The Bear) I don't remember whether they've been brought up as retaining name, but there's no reason not to keep the name for a unit with a history like the Minutemen.
 
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Chapter Nine

Navarro

Well-known member
Chapter 9

PRESIDENTIAL ADDRESS ON THE SUBJECT OF UNCOMPENSATED FOOD REQUISITION IN REINTEGRATED US TERRITORY
GIVEN ON ENCLAVE RADIO 7/8/2286

My fellow Americans, it falls to me to once again listen to your troubles. Apparently, the requisition of food supplies by US military forces in areas under temporary military government has caused your farms financial hardship over the past year. You have been made to sell excess produce at what you consider to be an unfair price. You have spoken to local government and military officials and received no answer. There have been numerous cases of small farmers and other agricultural workers point-blank refusing to sell our quartermasters the food that is needed for the US Armed Forces. We are a nation in ruins, and what government has been restored is still at risk at falling into chaos. In such a situation, the behaviour that has been exhibited begins to border on treason.

Imagine, farmers and fishers, a man whose organs argue amongst themselves. The stomach, selfish and short-sighted, refuses to supply sustenance to the rest of the body – and as a result he withers and dies, taking the stomach itself with him. Would you argue that the stomach's actions were wise or good in their ultimate effect? And the United States, too is a body of a sort – made out of countless men, women and children united in a common purpose, bound together by a common citizenship linking them to our Constitution. If you refuse to supply food to soldiers of the United States Armed Forces, the military will not be able to feed itself and America will wither and die just as the man died when the stomach refused to share nutrients with the other parts of the body. And so will you die like the stomach did, when the Raiders and other savages removed from these territories by our hard-fought efforts return and take their toll.

There are worse people in the wasteland than the lawful government. Did the raiders ask politely to buy your food, or did they just take it as they pleased? Did the petty warlords take any care towards the self-government of your towns, city-states, and local communities as we have? What makes us different from the barbarians of all types that continue to afflict the nation is that we bring with us the law, the order on which all civilised life depends, and the eventual restoration of full Constitutional governance. A restoration which the wholesale denial of food to the US military threatens to stop in its tracks.

Should we not expect a little gratitude, a little reward, a little loyalty, for our innumerable efforts helping and defending the American people? You indeed have a point concerning the unreasonably low prices, and from now on we will pay for your food at its market price. but be warned – any civilian who attacks the United States Armed Forces will be prosecuted as a traitor, and any who kills a US soldier will face a summary hanging for murder in the first degree and insurrection.

==*==

Jack Akely entered the mine again, the familiar chill crawling up his spine. The place was creepy as Hell, never mind the weird green pieces of paper these people used as money. Used to be tons of raiders and ferals down in here, but nevermind – even with them gone Dunwich Borers was nightmarish. There were shadows where they shouldn't be, half-heard voices on the edge of his hearing – and worse. One of the miners had gone psycho with a pickaxe screaming about rats in the walls and had killed a bunch of fellow workers before being shot, while another had carved religious symbols all over his body and thrown himself into a deep pool near the bottom of the mine, and yet another had simply gone catatonic, constantly repeating words that human tongues weren't meant to pronounce. Only single digits among the hundreds now working here, but it gave him a bad feeling for sure.

And the US troops didn't care – all the man in charge cared about, Akely was sure, was keeping the mine's productivity up and damn the consequences to the civilians. But it paid well enough, and those green pieces of paper were keeping his wife and children fed through the winter, so working in the mine was all he had. He only hoped it didn't get to him like it had to the others.

==*==

Arcade Gannon looked at Dr. Henry with more than a touch of surprise, sipping some coffee from the Lexington base's bar. He'd known the man was coming, but to actually see him arrive was something else.

“How'd your trip to Philadelphia go?” he asked. The last he'd heard was that the old Devil's Brigade had been invited to a big celebration in Delaware and were staying there until it happened. All but Henry and himself had come along – he'd wanted to see more of – Enclave? American? - territory for himself. Then he'd been sent over, apparently to help set up the NGO.

“It was fine,” Henry said. “We saw all the sites and I talked to some of the troops gathering there.”

“Troops gathering?”

“They're sending an armoured company in mid-December, along with a battalion of engineers. The idea is to clear out the land route to Boston, allow for supplies, reinforcements, and such. Vertibirds can only carry so much food and ammo, there's a constant stream of them just for the basic supplies."

“Anything you saw or heard?”

“Nothing much, just some tanks and artillery pieces. One of the soldiers was very interested in what I did after leaving Navarro though. When I told him about Jacobstown he said I must've been hallucinating the whole time.”

“I'm not surprised. From what I hear, none of the super mutants on the east coast are anything near civilised or even remotely sane. They're all psychotically violent and mentally retarded, so to speak. Quite different physiologically too.”

“Different physiology?”

“You see, they just keep growing. So the longer they avoid death, the more they grow bigger, tougher and stronger. I've even heard of specimens as tall as houses!”

“Amazing. So, onto the NGO?”

“Yes, it's working as planned. I've secured the funding, I have doctors coming in – all we need is a name for the organisation, then we can move to start setting up clinics where the people need it. Diamond City's the biggest settlement here, we can start moving in there and spread out. They only have one clinic for 5,000 people, and it's nothing but a rusty shack, or so the ambassador there says.”

“What about the Eastern Star?”

“Hmm, very clever – the five-pointed star is a symbol of the US, and we're on the East Coast. I say it's good.”

“Exactly,” Henry replied.

That was it decided then.

==*==

Jack Powers grinned savagely as he jumped down from the vertibird, firing his M-500 “Patriot” laser rifle into the raiders below. One or two were hit and died screaming as the energy-bolts struck them, then he hit the ground amidst a squad of them perched on an old fast-food restaurant. The explosive vents in his suit activated instantly after landing, pasting the group and covering his armour with their hot blood.

What a figure of dread he looked! His dark grey armour covered in the blood of his enemies, his eyelights burning red as he fired laser-shots into their midst – he looked like an angel of death. Not bad for a 15-year-old from Philly who'd joined the Service only this summer!

The rest of the battle went quick. After the drop, it took ten minutes for most of the raiders to die, and thirty for the purge team to finish tracking down and doing away with those who retreated or tried to surrender. Then they gathered in the main street of the abandoned theme park – with a view to the ruined fairytale castle that had once been the centrepiece – and prepared to head back to Canaveral.

”Men of the Black Devils,” Lieutenant Walker – the man who allegedly had raided and destroyed an alien mothership during a period when he had, though the details were still highly classified – said. “You did well today. This goodwill gesture, expertly executed, will get the people of Orlando on our side, and on the track to peaceful reintegration. As a reward for exemplary conduct I'm giving all of you who participated in the operation an extra two days of leave for tomorrow and the day after.”

As they flew over the Floridian landscape Powers talked out loud to himself.

“Man, I wish I was in Boston,” he muttered. “It must be far more exciting there than down here. I hear they even have super mutants like they used to have in DC.”

“Be careful what you wish for,” one of the soldiers next to him said. “Ten years ago the 'excitement' in DC cost me my eye. Replacing it cost like hell.”

“I hear there's fighting up in Virginia too, round Roanoke.”

“You wouldn't wanna see it, rookie. Jabsco's men are the most brutal in the Service, and you don't wanna ever get in their way – I hear they used to be mercs we hired to help fight the muties in D.C. Shame the Mayor of the place had to bring them down on him, but what do you expect, putting a United States ambassador in a lock-up like a common criminal? They coulda joined peacefully and kept their leader, but they had to go and do it. VA governor will be sending an aide to put them under military rule for the next five years at least.”

“I suppose. With what I heard they did to the Rattlesnake Gang, I''d be sure as Hell weary of getting on their bad side.”

“Exactly, boy. Still, these new ‘Patriots’ are pieces of shit. R&D eggheads tried to make a gun that could do anything, does everything about half as well as an AER9 ...”

He kept on rambling the rest of the journey back to the Canaveral outpost.

==*==

Nate looked at the power armour sitting in its dock at the Red Rocket station just south of the Old North Bridge. No damage, not even superficial, from the mirelurks. An incredible piece of tech, but he had his misgivings. The Federa; Government seemed to have offered it in good faith, but he had no clue what half the electronics inside did. Could there be a transmitter listening in on him at every moment? A self-destruct that could detonate with him inside if they decided he'd gone rogue?

He'd no clue, to be honest. As he continued trying to work the mechanisms of the alien gun (he'd figured what the problem was, it was a flaw in the circuits he was using. He'd have to get some military-grade stuff to make it work by fusion cells) he focussed on what he was going to do today. Kellogg was out there, waiting at the C.I.T. Ruins. And he was going to die by his hand.

“Piper?” he asked, seeing the brunette reporter out of the corner of his eye.

“Nate, going alone against Kellogg is too dangerous. I was at University Point just after the Institute killed everyone there, and … they're not to be trifled with.”

“What happened to University Point?”

“It was my biggest news story of 2285 - “Institute Synths Slaughter Settlement”, you remember?” she teased.

“I wasn't exactly up to date on the news then."

Piper chuckled at that.

“Anyway,” he said. “Do you want to go with me? I'm just … not sure I can keep you safe with him around.”

“I can handle it,” she said. “Just like we've handled so many things together, as a team.”

“Okay, let's get to work.”

They headed then to Cambridge.

==*==

ENCLAVE RADIO TRANSCRIPT OF ORION MORENO INTERVIEW
GIVEN 12/3/2287

[0:01] Announcer: In related news, Atomicist militants – suspected to be supplied by the illegal “New California Republic” – attacked US troops engaged in New York City, but were beaten back with no loss of life. Now, we have an exclusive interview coming right up live from our studio in Raven Rock – you won't hear this on a privately-owned channel! Americans, tonight we are interviewing Orion Moreno, veteran of the unprovoked NCR attack on Navarro Military Base – itself just nine years after the treasonous, cowardly, and terroristic assassinations of President Richardson and Vice President Daniel Bird by atomic bomb more than forty years ago. Moreno, what can you tell us about the attack on Navarro?

[0:15] Moreno: It was bloody, that's for sure. The NCR threw a lot of troops at the base, and a lot of them died.

[0:20] Announcer: Could you describe the quality of the troops – how they were armed and armoured?

[0:25] Moreno: They were conscripts, a lot still in their teens. No power armour, but they had Brotherhood of Steel support with them. Nasty snipers too. And they had a whole fucking lot of soldiers to throw at us.

[0:33] Announcer: Conscripts – can you imagine that, America? The leaders of “New California” don't even trust their own citizens to voluntarily fight for their secessionist cause, so they send them into battle herded forwards by political officers – just like Communist China two centuries ago! Every man and woman in the United States Armed Forces, by contrast, is a volunteer – he fights because he chooses to! Now, Moreno, just how did we lose Navarro?

[0:45] Moreno: We had no resources, no resupply, no reinforcements. We were, so far as we knew, the last Americans left. But we still gave them quite a good licking 'fore we lost. It took them twenty days to breach the minefield and the fence, and they were climbing over piles of their own dead before they took the airfield.

[1:10] Announcer: And after they took the airfield?

[1:15] Moreno: They took it pretty much intact, planes still on the ground . My immediate superior realised the battle was lost then and we retreated by vertibird, thinking we could regroup and start a guerilla war with other survivors. But there weren't any. Most of them fought to the last and the rest were captured. The last I saw of Navarro was the armoury blowing – whether we or they did it I never knew.

[1:30] Announcer: Can you please comment on the rumours now circulating that female United States citizens were violated en masse by NCR soldiers at Navarro, as well as the claims that infants and children were rounded up and murdered by the secessionists in the aftermath of their victory?

[1:40] Moreno: I can't say those things didn't happen – I didn't see any of the aftermath.

[1:45] Announcer: Only God knows the depths of the atrocities the degenerate secessionists committed. We ourselves may never learn the full measure. So, Moreno, what did you do after the Battle?

[2:00] Moreno: We split up and tried to move into civilian life in our own ways. But I could never let go of of what had happened. I never forgot Navarro and what I thought then was the end of America.

[2:10] Announcer: Truly sobering. Moreno, how did you come back here?

[2:30] Moreno: I joined up with my old squad six years ago and … allied with the NCR in Nevada against a raider “empire” called Caesar's Legion. We licked those savages hard, but the NCR found out our previous role as Enclave soldiers and sent bounty hunters after us. So we fled East from them until we linked up with Enclave forces in Chicago.

[2:45] Announcer: Can these secessionist scum sink any lower? When a former American soldier joins with them to aid them in battle, out of the pure goodness of his heart, they try to arrest him on false charges of war crimes! War crimes allegedly committed more than forty years ago! War crimes which they have not the slightest shred of evidence actually happened! War crimes invented out of whole cloth by their lying, secessionist government to justify vile acts of treason, sedition and terrorism against America and her citizens! I wish I was in Shady Sands right now so I could apply my God-given, Constitutional Second Amendment right on every last “New Californian” traitor I see!-

[Audio cuts off for thirty seconds]

[3:40] Announcer: I'm … in no fit state to continue with the interview. But a last message before I sign off. If any leader in the NCR is listening to this, be warned. America has risen like a phoenix from the ashes, and eventually we will stretch our wings once more from sea to shining sea. We will avenge the five thousand men, women and children you murdered at Control Station Enclave. We will take retribution for the dead and wrongly imprisoned of Navarro. America will be reunified, and the New California Republic will be done away with just like the Confederate States, just like Socialist Germany, and just like Red China. Glenn Coulter, signing off for the night.

[4:10] Announcer (Female): This is Anne Temple, signing on. And now we move onto our archives of patriotic and morally uplifting music, starting with Johnny Horton's The Battle of New Orleans.

[4:15] [Music Begins]

==*==

The sun was sinking in the sky as Nate and Piper entered the C.I.T. ruins. Kellogg stood on the steps, right before them, smirking.

“Heh,” he said. “I gave you fifty-fifty odds of making it to Diamond City. Figured the Commonwealth would eat you up like beef jerky after that. So, what do you want with me? Wouldn't have travelled all that way, so heavily armed and armoured, with your little dog and Ms. Publick Occurrences too, if you weren't planning to kill me. I don’t know why the old man wanted me to camp out here. Guess he wants a confrontation between us for some reason of his own. Maybe he’ll look to replace me with you if he wins.”

“You killed my wife,” Nate spat.

“Didn’t take you long to replace her. And what’s a wife anyway, but a hooker too lazy to go on the prowl? I learned those lessons long ago, pre-War boy scout.”

Anger and sorrow warred in Nate’s mind. He knew the bastard must be trying to rattle him, but still the words stung. He breathed deep, kept himself as cool as he could, and spoke the one question he most desperately wanted answered.

“Where. Is. My. Son!?”

“I'll tell you, Mr. Frozen TV Dinner, since you earned the right to a straight answer. Shaun's in a place where he's loved, respected and taken well care of. The Institute.”

Each taunting word was like a knife to his heart.

“Tell me how to get there, please!”

“You don't find the Institute. The Institute finds you.”

“What do you mean?”

“Doesn't matter. Only one of us is leaving this place, and it isn't you or any of your friends.”

He drew his pistol and fired. The shot grazed Nate's arm, hitting the grass behind him. Blood poured from the wound onto the grass, before he steadied the American plasma pistol, aimed, and fired.

Kellogg lived. His clothing was burnt away where his heart should be – his skin was too. Below that was only a mass of metal, plastic and and wires. Subdermal armour covered an artificial heart and lungs, encased in a ribcage reinforced by titanium alloy. The mercenary was far, far more machine than man. Dogmeat ran over, tried to rip off Kellogg's throat – and the brutal man simply threw the faithful hound off him, followed by a kick for good measure. The dog could only whimper and wheeze on the ground.

Damn. Nate and Piper tried to fire off more shots, but Kellogg simply walked forward, unheeding. The bullets bounced off him like rain, and while the plasma burnt his flesh, what damage it did was simply superficial. He was heading right for them, like he wanted to show off his invincibility.

He was – oh God, he was heading for Piper first. She tried to back away, but he moved faster and then-

Nate threw himself in front of the reporter, trying to shield her, but Kellogg simply backhanded him and knocked him away, blood pouring from his nose. Oh dear God, now he was lifting Piper by the neck, choking her, preparing to twist-

She kneed him in the groin, and Kellogg gave an animal screech of pain, distracted. That part of his anatomy at least had not been replaced with tech. There was just enough time for Nate to fire the plasma pistol, straight at his back, dialling it above all safe limits. The bolt of plasma burnt through his clothes, his skin and the subdermal armour, right at the small of his back. His metal spine melted, underwent molecular destabilisation, failed on him. Kellogg buckled – his legs paralysed – lost his grip on Piper, then screamed in rage and frustration, dropping his gun as he tried to crawl forwards on his hands.

Nate dropped his own weapon himself as the pistol overheated, burning pain stabbing his right hand through his gloves, sparking and smoking as it hit the ground. Piper rose, her hand on Kellogg's own pistol, and shot him right in the eye. The very skeletal reinforcement the Institute had given to Kellogg long ago turned against him, as the bullet ricocheted off and bounced around inside his brain, turning most of it to mush. The grey matter poured out through his ruined eye, until something lodged in the hole.

Piper pulled it out – Nate identified it, from his limited knowledge, as the man's hippocampus. There seemed to be some kind of hard drive attached to it – whatever the Institute meant to keep for itself by doing this, Nate swore he'd find out.

“Well, that's one obituary to put in the newspaper,” Nate joked, though he didn't really feel like it. Piper was still too shocked to laugh.

And then there was Dogmeat (at least as Mama Murphy called him, Nate called him ‘Ace’ after his old golden retriever). The brave hound had a broken leg, and Nate prepared to give him the only mercy he could – until he remembered something. Back before the War the police had used some kind of cyborg dog. Maybe they still knew how to make them – maybe they could save his new dog, preserve him like that.

That was it decided then – he was heading to Lexington with the dog and the piece of Kellogg's brain.
 
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Chapter Ten

Navarro

Well-known member
Chapter Ten

Nate walked into Lexington, noting the soldiers stationed around the town, overseeing the familiar patterns of civic life. They wore full-body combat armour, exposing nothing beneath, and had laser rifles of the same type Nate had seen the power-armour equipped troops wearing. Boxy and black-painted, they had the same dials and buttons Nate had used himself with his new plasma pistol, and either a chain-bayonet or a grenade launcher mounted under the barrel.

The town itself was different from what it had been only a month or so prior. Food and drink, other daily necessities, and even guns and ammo were being sold on the main street while bars and diners were scattered around. Lights now shone from apartment windows and even the great factory dominating the centre of town was now operational. Were it not for the skeletal highway cutting through the town, the ruined buildings (some covered in scaffolding, to be fair) and the piles of rubble still scattered around Nate would have thought the bombs had never dropped and two hundred years hadn’t passed.

Carrying Dogmeat (Who names a dog that anyway?, Nate mused, I better change it to something more fitting. ‘Ace’, or ‘Rex’, perhaps?) into the base (Piper’s clearance apparently needed renewal) he walked by, noting various recruits engaged to the infirmary, noting the antiseptic smell and the spotless appearance. There were three Ms. Nannies and twelve human nurses present (one looked very cute), working under the stern eye of a blonde in a lab coat.

“What’s your business here?” she curtly asked. “This infirmary is for military personnel, not civilians – even if they’re veterans. You’ll have better luck in the general clinic.”

“It’s my dog,” he confessed. “He got badly injured, and I don’t want to put him down. Can you ... fix him?”

A pang of sympathy seemed to cross her face.

“We don’t have the facilities for that here. But if you leave him with me I’ll send him to Adams AFB on the next flight out and have him upgraded there. He’ll probably have a lifespan exceeding yours by the time we’re through with him. Nice present for the great-grandkids, no?”

There was another thing to ask. He knew the Government troops had been round to Vault 111 after he had left. If there was the ghost of a chance that … he would take it.

“In Vault 111,” he said, taking a deep breath. “You know that my wife was shot just before she was taken into cryo. Is there a possibility … ?”

The nurse’s face took on a look of severe disappointment, and Nate’s heart felt a bitter chill as he seemed to sense what she was going to say.

“It doesn’t work that way,” the nurse said. “I was part of the medical team that was sent into Vault 111 and … your wife was shot multiple times in the heart, lung and head with a .44 magnum. She was dead before the cryo kicked in. I’m … I’m awfully sorry for your loss. I can’t say any more.”

Tears ran down Nate’s cheek despite himself. Even if he found his son, even if he hadn’t been experimented on or mutated or God knows what … Nora was irrevocably gone to him. They would never be a family again together, at least in this world. After five or so minutes he took a deep breath, used a tissue that the nurse had given him to dry his eyes. There was still a nation to help rebuild; more than that, Shaun still needed rescuing.

He had to go on. It was what Nora would have wanted.

He left his dog there and went on to his main reason for going here. The main science laboratories weren’t far from the infirmary and he got there relatively quickly. There he found Whitley’s office and knocked hard three times on the door.

The balding scientist quickly arrived and opened the door, before sitting on his swivel chair and finishing what he’d been working on with his computer. Nate noted with astonishment that he was using a keyboard and some kind of tracking device to manipulate a graphical user interface. That sort of thing had only been floated around in science magazines back before the War.

Whitley seemed to notice his surprise and turned round on his swivel chair.

“Like what you see Nate? What you’re seeing right now is the bleeding edge of computer science. The old command-line interfaces will be obsolete soon – they’re all going to be phased out.”

He seemed somewhat sad about that.

“Uh ... well, impressive.”

“Heh, I know you’re too surprised to give a real response. But I don’t think you’re here to be looking at tech, now? What’s your real reason?”

Nate took out the piece of Kellogg’s brain. Whitley blanched at the sight.

“What on God’s good earth is that?!”

“The hippocampus of a mercenary who was working with the Institute, augmented with some kind of external memory storage. I think it might still contain his memories – including how to get in.”

“Joey, come here! Daddy wants you to take a look at something one of his friends brought him.”

An eyebot idly hovering in the corner enthusiastically blipped and beeped before scanning Nate and the grisly object he was holding. After the scan was complete, it gave a whine of frustration.

“It’s very strongly encrypted. Even with my upgrades, Joey can’t get anything out of it.”

“Damn! I need to get into the Institute to find my son.”

“Your son?”

“They ... they kidnapped him when he was a baby. My wife was killed trying to hold onto him.”

Even now, bringing it up still hurt. Bitter tears once more flowed from his eyes. Clinging to that hope more than a month had made it even worse when it was dashed.

Whitley looked pale.

“Well, we do have a possibility.”

“For God’s sake tell me what it is!”

“We could theoretically use a simulation pod to project the memories inside as a VR environment and thus bypass the encryption. Regrettably I don’t know of any simulation pods aside from the ones we recovered from Vault 112, and they’re military-only. Used for pilot training as I understand.”

The memory den in Goodneighbour, Nate thought. I’ll go there with Nick and see if it works. It has to.

“I think I might know of simulation pods present in Boston.”

“Good,” Whitley said. “By the way – if you find out how to enter the Institute, do tell us everything you learn. We have our own reasons for wanting to know how to get in.”

“God bless you,” Nate said as he prepared to head back to Sanctuary for the night.

“Godspeed.”

==*==

The cold air hit Arcade Gannon hard as the APC opened up and the occupants prepared to get out. They were seven in total – Arcade, Dr. Henry, two former combat medics, two civilian doctors, and a Ms. Nanny medical robot. He got out, passed the statue of a baseball player at the entrance, and spoke into the intercom.

“This is Dr. Arcade Gannon, Eastern Star Medical and Emergency Relief Organisation. We’re here to set up a clinic in town.”

“Mr. Beauregard said to expect you. He’ll be waiting at the entrance.”

The door opened, and the group met up with the official ambassador – well, officially consul – to Diamond City.

Beauregard was a tall, handsome and blond man dressed in a heavy black greatcoat with a Mr. Gutsy by his side and a laser rifle carried on his back. He certainly didn’t look like an ambassador, but Arcade had heard there’d been an assassination attempt and he guessed the US Government (was that what he was thinking of the Enclave as now? It was certainly what their radio station said they were over and over.) wanted to dissuade further attempts in future.

He made his introductions, shook Arcade’s hand, and led them to what would be their home for the foreseeable future.

It was a moderately large building located near the centre of town, with two stories (the staff slept above, downstairs was for the patients) and a spacious cellar holding a surgical theatre and the medicine storehouse. It was reasonably clean, but not up to the standards of the government hospitals in core NCR territory where Arcade had trained before heading over to Vegas. But then, those places had been for the middle class and above. Poor people subsisted on the Followers’ charity, or distressingly often, nothing at all. And with the pharmaceutical crisis that’d been brewing before he fled the NCR, he wasn’t sure if those places were still doing as well as they had been.

“How did you come by this place?” Arcade asked idly.

“I brought it. It cost twenty thousand caps, but that’s small change for us. Good time with the Mayor’s secretary too.”

Arcade just rolled his eyes at that. Hopefully the man wouldn’t brag about his conquests any more.

“How’d you get so many caps to spend?”

“The Department of the Treasury has the blueprints and the raw materials to build printing machines and make as many ‘genuine’ nuka-cola bottle caps as we want. Really useful for dealing with people who’re still convinced they’re real currency.”

“Wouldn’t that cause massive inflation as so many caps enter the market?”

“Exactly the intent. You see, from our perspective it’s just another incentive to make people go back to good old US D. The cap inevitably suffers immense depreciation as the amount of people using it stays constant, while that of people using the dollar grows, avoiding inflation on that front. So people gain an additional reason to turn in their caps to the exchange programs we’ve set up. There are additional effects beyond our borders as caps circulate out of are territory … ones that are quite useful for reintegration purposes.”

It was ... logical, but it still felt heartless. At least it was better than what Arcade guessed the old Enclave’s solution to the same problem would have been. Forty years was a long time, but it still felt shocking that the Enclave could have reformed from its previous genocidal mania so quickly. And he was still suspicious that they hadn’t changed so much as it looked like they had.

==*==

REPORT ON UNIQUE SOCIAL, PHYSIOLOGICAL AND PSYCHOLOGICAL CHARACTERISTICS OF HOMO BRUTUS BOSTONII

From: Dr. Karen A. Lewis
To: Dr. Robert S. Whitley, Chief Scientific Adjunct to the Massachusetts Expedition

Thought For The Day: So long as one American lives, so does America.

This report details unique characteristics of the subspecies Homo Brutus Bostonii (the informal designation “super mutant” or “Boston super mutant” will be used from now on) for the purpose of:

A. More effectively eliminating the hostile sub-humans.
B. Increasing our understanding of FEV in hopes of meeting the Project’s original goals, as set by the pre-2077 researchers who first developed it.

First off: physiology. The Boston mutants share many physical similarities with their southern cousins, the extirpated breed of Vault 87 super mutants, including but not limited to:

A. Complete atrophy of all sexual characteristics. Boston mutants possess no primary, secondary or tertiary sexual features and are to all intents and purposes sexless.
B. Continued growth throughout life, culminating in a gargantuan “Behemoth” stage.
C. Lesser intellect, higher than the Vault 87 breed but lower than Mariposa-strain mutants.

Genetic analysis of the FEV strains involved also seems to bear this out, though my results are still inconclusive. Autopsy and vivisection has also established similarities between the two strains (if only we had more records on the Mariposa strain for proper analysis!)

The Boston mutants’ diet is that of an obligate carnivore. They seem to have little qualms about what they eat, and commonly engage in cannibalism. This seems to be the impetus behind their constant raids on pure-strain human outposts and settlements.

Socially, they have established a clear chain of command and dominance-based social structure. Older and thus stronger mutants dominate the weaker ones and thus rule – at least until they reach Behemoth state, their minds atrophy, and they lose all social status. Psychologically, they are driven by a perception of themselves as superior mixed with self-hatred which causes them to lash out at pure-strain humanity – they take out their hatred on themselves from existing towards us, which they express in their ultra-violence and tendency for cannibal feasts. In some way their extirpation will be a mercy killing.

As for their makers – on each and every super mutant I’ve cut apart, whether dead or in vivo, some kind of device has been found implanted in the back of the neck. I’ve sent samples to you for study, as whoever implanted these would seem to be the creators of the Boston super mutants. This is concerning, as whoever is creating these beings must have access to significant supplies of FEV – a highly dangerous mutagen and bioweapon is no small concern. Pre-War records have not helped us to narrow it down, as the FEV Project’s paper trail on the Eastern Seaboard has not survived the passage of time.

Tactically, their increased intellect helps them make common use of traps and more advanced tactics than the Vault 87 mutants. A common tactic seems to be that regular mutants pin down enemy forces while specialised “suicide” mutants flank, reach melee range, and detonate themselves with a mini-nuke. Shamefully, this tactic has cost some of our soldiers their lives, as they were underestimated their enemies and did not think much of “smart mutants”. Land mines and IEDs have also been used by them, resulting in injuries, some requiring amputation while we wait for more cybernetic shipments to arrive (without power armour most of these casualties would have been killed instantly).

As for numbers – we estimate 20,000 at maximum, but highly divided. They could overwhelm out local forces at the present time if they managed to unify – perish the thought! - and even divided represent the largest current threat towards the reclamation and reintegration of the Greater Boston Area.

God Bless America.

==*==

Major Campbell was not impressed by what he saw before him as he entered Fort Independence. The local militia were in threadbare outfits of grey or butternut – a few in proper fatigues scavenged from old military facilities – and there were only a few of them. Dozens, a hundred at best. He’d heard reports that there were approximately 5,000, but for the most part these were right now in their various homesteads and farming settlements. And their weapons! – they used shotguns and hunting rifles, a few with select-fire rifles, but the most common gun was some kind of bashed-together laser rifle which fired slowly but had stopping power enough to take out a super mutant in one hit.

The Patriot took a three-round burst to do so, but it fired faster anyway. Not that the new gun introduced to the US military earlier in the decade was much better than the AER9 – the thing had been designed by eggheads who’d never been within a dozen klicks of shots being fired. Lots of fancy settings, but half of them aren’t worth shit in a firefight, and the dials keep breaking off. It was slightly more powerful in that it fired in the orange portion of the visual spectrum – a 10% or 15% boost in killing power. He wasn't sure that had been worth moving to replace the AER9 with it.

Part of him wondered why the US Government even bothered with these locals. Local militia, paramilitary forces and mercenaries were often essential to reintegrating an area – they could be used for tasks the Army’s actual manpower wasn’t worth being spent on, while eventually being groomed into becoming part of that same force. Back in DC two merc units, Talon Company and Reilly’s Rangers, had been helpful in securing the rear areas during wars with the Brotherhood and the super mutants before eventually being integrated completely into the regular US Army.

It had been very touch-and-go in the beginning of those days, back in ‘77. The number of Americans who held true loyalty to the government had been some 20,000 at most. Many of them had been Vault Dwellers who’d been brought along during the Exodus or incorporated after it took place - Campbell himself had been from Vault 18. One of the largest Vaults constructed, in North California, it had housed 5,000 civilians before it had been evacuated and had its entrance blown in back in ‘46. Campbell had been a young boy then – he remembered his old terror as he looked on the overwhelming vistas of the sun and the blue sky, and had felt an overwhelming urge to run back into the cave where the Vault’s entrance had been located. Together with every last base the people at Navarro could contact, there had been 2,000 fighting men available at DC.

That was all the soldiers America had possessed at that point in time. If the Federal Government had lost then, coming back from such a defeat would have been unimaginable. But Autumn had led them to victory after victory, their numbers swelling with each city-state and settlement brought back into the fold. The US was there again to stay, at least down south. But up here, it was still touch-and-go.

He guessed that was why this militia were being treated as allies. The Army and Marine Corps needed all the help they could get down here, and – well, Campbell had heard the rumours about the commander of these particular forces. Claims that he was a pre-War military officer somehow impossibly preserved. At the least, he had the ear of the President, and that meant something. The man had an undoubted eye for talent – Walker, Holt, Stiggs, Richardson, and more. Campbell sighed as he talked to the man’s 2IC – a dark-skinned man, name Preston Garvey, likeable enough. He would make the estimates of how much materiel these folk needed and send them on to Rhonda – the girl had a good head for organisation.

These people would certainly need a lot of it to be worthwhile.

==*==

MEMO: INSTITUTE INFILTRATORS IN ARMED FORCES

From: Doctor Robert S. Whitley
To: President Augustus Autumn, Colonel Daniel Bradley, Admiral David Keller

THOUGHT FOR THE DAY: Merely to survive is never enough.

I’m concerned about possible Institute infiltration – using their androids designed specifically to pass as human. While they’re unable to make a direct insertion into our bases – the security systems we have are more than sufficient to proof against that, and the chances of infiltrators being among the forces sent to Boston are infinitesimal – I’m worried that they could be along the natives we are presently recruiting at Lexington. As I’ve got no test capable of weeding out androids from humans – not one applicable to a large population, at any rate – I recommend caution when dealing with the new recruits. Perhaps we could deny them promotion above a certain rank or deployment to sensitive sites until the business we have with C.I.T. is concluded? I think caution is definitely called for here.

God Bless America.

-*-

RE: INSTITUTE INFILTRATORS IN ARMED FORCES

From: President Augustus Autumn
To: Dr. Robert S. Whitley, Chief Scientific Adjunct to the Massachusetts Expedition

Have set new policies in place dealing with the issue.

P.S. You’re overdue on the feasibility study re: applying stealth fields to vertibirds and other aircraft. Me and General Duplessis are still waiting, and she’s less patient than I am.

==*==

Some people called him Blackheart. Others called him Bloody Joe. Many more called him Mad Jack, but never when they thought he could hear them. He’d led his gang on dozens of raids from New Haven to Plymouth Rock, and dozens more farms and settlements paid him regular tribute to keep him away. They gave him their food, their water and their women and in return he made sure other people stayed well enough away.

He looked at the pathetic wretch before him, idly waiting for him to speak.

“You said you’re from Boston, right?”

“Yeah, I am,” the teenager desperately said. He was barely old enough to grow a beard, with a shrimpish physique that Jack gave an undisguised sneer at. “All the big shots there are going down. Jared, Slag, Tower Tom, Sully Mathis – they’re all getting wasted one by one. I’m the last survivor of Red Tourette’s gang myself.”

“What happened to Red Tourette?”

“We were chilling at home base after a raid for supplies, when suddenly this big fucking siren started sounding above us. Then these motherfuckers in power armour just fell out of the sky around us and started shooting up the place. There were lasers and grenades fucking everywhere, and that plasma shit as well. One of our guys put on a suit of power armour, but they just fried him with a motherfucking lightning gun.”

“I only survived ‘cause a grenade shockwave knocked me out and sent me into the latrine ditch. After I came to I checked the bunker, but they’d used some kind of flamethrower to smoke the folks there out. Everybody had either burned up or choked to death.”

“After that I just got the fuck out of Boston.”

Mad Jack seemed to be mulling over the situation.

“I think I know who the fuck this is,” he said plainly. “It’s the motherfuckers that set up that damn fucking radio station, call themselves the fucking Government and want to muscle us the fuck out. We’ve all gotta join together or die. Hang together, or hang separately. They'll start in Boston, but before long they'll be wiping gangs out across all of New fucking England.”

“This is what I’m gonna do. I’m gonna gather up every gang from Rhode Island, Cape Cod, Boston and Massachusetts. Then I’m gonna make war on these fuckheads and send them crying back to their mommies in Washington town. And then, I’ll make sure no-one messes with us ever again!”

That was that for the planning of this particular campaign.

The assembled raiders whooped and cheered, firing weapons into the air.
 
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Crow gotta eat

That peckish, patriotic, Protestant passerine.
Nice to see this continuing to be updated. I remember reading the first version.
“We don’t have the facilities for that here. But if you leave him with me I’ll send him to Adams AFB on the next flight out and have him upgraded there. He’ll probably have a lifespan exceeding yours by the time we’re through with him. Nice present for the great-grandkids, no?”[/QUOTE
There was another thing to ask. He knew the Government troops had been round to Vault 111 after he had left. If there was the ghost of a chance that … he would take it.
Seems to be a leftover "[/QUOTE]" here which I bolded here. Had to take off the "]" on it for the actual quote work and show where it is.

And then there was Dogmeat (at least as Mama Murphy called him, Nate called him ‘Ace’ after his old golden retriever). The brave hound had a broken leg, and Nate prepared to give him the only mercy he could – until he remembered something. Back before the War the police had used some kind of cyborg dog. Maybe they still knew how to make them – maybe they could save his new dog, preserve him like that.
Carrying Dogmeat (Who names a dog that anyway?, Nate mused, I better change it to something more fitting. ‘Ace’, or ‘Rex’, perhaps?) into the base (Piper’s clearance apparently needed renewal) he walked by, noting various recruits engaged to the infirmary, noting the antiseptic smell and the spotless appearance. There were three Ms. Nannies and twelve human nurses present (one looked very cute), working under the stern eye of a blonde in a lab coat.
These quotes, sort of sound contradictory, with Nate saying that he already calls him Ace to then apparently trying to decide in his head whether to change Dogmeat's name to either Ace or Rex from Dogmeat.
 

Navarro

Well-known member
Nice to see this continuing to be updated. I remember reading the first version.

Yep. There are some changes that lead in to alterations to the final battle, if you know where to look (plus an F:NC reference lol).

Seems to be a leftover "
" here which I bolded here. Had to take off the "]" on it for the actual quote work and show where it is.[/QUOTE]

Thanks.


These quotes, sort of sound contradictory, with Nate saying that he already calls him Ace to then apparently trying to decide in his head whether to change his to either Ace or Rex.

Silly me, know I shouldn't have waited so long ...
 
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Yes! An update! Great chapter as usual. I always love a chance to catch up with Arcade, his view of the resurgent America is always interesting, along with the other remnants though we seldom see the others.
 

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