I have not been able to keep up with the two Ra'jirra's. I just pop in now and then to read a post or two. This was particularly funny and disgusting! I especially loved the final line!

Disgusting...yes! There goes my dinner !!!! GAAAAH!!! ROFL !!!!

[And now for a chapter that's best described as "filler." Haines has his first thirteen goes at doing magic himself. And then there's a poor retelling of a meeting with Sentinel Lyons that never happened in my first game, and took me by surprise when it did this time.

I've also leaned on Haute Ecole Rider's work for the teaching session, and if the behemoth battle seems rushed... well, Ra'jirra can't recall everything. Also, I'm days behind my game, and I think 9 September 2277 has lasted over 48 hours. Strange...]

23-25 August 2277: GNR

As it turned out, the rat head stayed with us until the river, where Haines threw it in. A split second after it hit the water, something huge and hard-shelled surged up and made the head vanish.

“Mirelurk,” Haines said, and pointedly moved away from the water's edge.

We headed east again, towards the Super-Duper Mart and then further east still, into the dead city. He waved at a woman sitting outside a waterfront shack and she waved back. “Grandma Sparkle,” he explained, “her boys hunt mirelurks. She also said people are looking for someone, and maybe I could help them.”

“Looking for us, no doubt,” says I, “where are we going?”

“Georgetown West metro entrance,” says Haines, “via the Tepid Sewers, which we reach by crossing to the Anchorage War Memorial here.”

It wasn't hard to spot the memorial – the statue of three soldiers on top, the bridge right in front of us. I looked at the blackened craters in the roadbed and then at Haines.

“A most delightful experiment,” says he, “testing the effects of exposure to high-energy coherent light pulses on...”

“You shot some landmines with your laser pistol,” says I.

“If you put it that way, yes,” says he sniffily.

And we go up the top and over and down the other side. There was a brief swim before we reached a door in a low wall. “In here,” Haines said gruffly and in we go.

The walls were metal, but not scraps held together with baling wire and string as in Megaton, but purpose-made units fitted together. Pipes and things ran along the walls and ceilings, connecting machines of unknown use. I needn't tell you it was all coated in the predictable patina of neglect and age.

We stepped over mole rats, only some of which showed signs of the Staff of Moira. The others probably became dinner for the raiders. The metal dungeon terminated in a door opening onto a large tiled chamber with daylight scowling through metal mesh gates.

“We're in the Georgetown North metro station,” Haines explained, “But be careful. There's super mutants in the building facing the entrance.”

As if to confirm that tinny gunfire broke out from outside.

We carefully wriggled out of the gates and up the steps. And I got my first look at a super mutant.

Imagine a cross between an ogre and a muscle-bound Nord, but totally hairless and an odd green-brown colour. The whole creature seems to be bursting at the seams and permanently angry – as though they'd find walking through an Ayleid swinging blade trap relaxing. Got that?

And what you're envisioning is one of the weaker ones.

Anyhow, the super mutants were attacking somebody stage right. We peered over the balustrade and saw Talons. “Better them than us,” whispers I to Haines, who grinned at me behind his helm visor in response.

A broken Talon sailed off the second floor, and landed in front of us. Unfortunately the thrower stuck his head out to admire his work.

“You! Die! Now!” screams he by way of greeting and unlimbered what I had learned was a hunting rifle – it looked like a toy in those huge hands. Haines was quicker with his laser pistol and I absently lobbed a Firestarter with one hand and fumbled for the pistol Haines had given me with the other. With only sixteen arrows I had to learn how to use a gun if I was to survive.

The giant goggled at the pretty ball of light sailing towards it – until the fireball, accompanied by (mostly) Haines' and my shots, smacked into it. The beast howled and fled, its heavy steps clumping inside the ruin.

Haines pointed right, so right we went, arriving in a small square. Décor came from one of those Nuka-Cola machines and a trio of dead Talons. Being respectful of the dead we promptly stripped them of everything useful just as another Talon burst out of the building with our lightly singed super mutant in pursuit.

The mercenary saw us, and in that moment of indecision died, the mutant swinging a sledgehammer through his skull and down into his ribcage. I took a gamble and cast the killing spell, briefly shrouding the newest corpse in black and red.

“What the blazes was that?”

“Magic,” says I trying to catch my breath, “learned it from a chap in Bravil. If your victim is weak enough, it'll kill 'em outright.”

“Clarke's Axiom,” mutters Haines, “Look, Ra'jirra, could you teach me such a spell?”

Well. I have a think and decide that it's worth a go – after all, I could still fling the old favourites about, why not let one of the more important locals have a go?

“Righto,” says I, “we'll kick off with something useful: a healing spell. Tried and tested.”

“It doesn't involve prayer does it?”

“Nope, this one's only for light wounds. Now, imagine you're in a refreshing breeze.”

Ernie looked doubtful, but he closed his eyes. “All right...”

“Now, imagine all your aches and pains are clenched in your right fist, so tight they crush into silver light. Then lift your fist, open it, and let it go.”

Sounds simple doesn't it? But it took Ernie about a dozen goes before I even sensed the vaguest stirrings of magicka in, or spotted the faintest glow of healing magicka around, his frame. His face was red, his knuckles were white, and he was sweating.

“That's enough,” says I, “let's find shelter.”

“No, wait,” says he, “I think I felt something. And there was a sort of light...”

“I said that's enough,” snaps I, “you're wearing yourself out, and for all we know there's other uglies around. Save your breath until we find a place for the night.”

There were other uglies around. One was a super mutant that was bigger and better armed than the others we'd met, and he had what we later learned were called centaurs.

Centaurs still give me nightmares sometimes. Imagine several people all melted together in a semi-erect, tooth-studded, sluglike mass, dragging itself forwards on malformed hands, tongues flickering, and puking poison. Actually they don't look half as bad, but they weren't born that way.

(I'd explain how they're made, but I've been forbidden to do so by the Imperial Council, and I'm sure this chronicle will fall into the hands of a necromancer, a follower of Relmyna Verenim, or some other sicko who'd get ideas.)

After bowling the above-mentioned abominations we had a relaxing time in the Georgetown North metro station, killing raiders who were not distorted or malformed in any way whatsoever.

Well, all right, we had a relaxing time after killing the raiders.

“Well then,” Ernie said after the last raider died – something to do with me managing to hit the target with that damn pistol more frequently.

“Well then what?”

Ernie didn't reply, and up went the fist. The silvery spiral was more obvious in the dim light of the metro tunnel, but still pretty weak.

“Not bad, Haines,” says I, “you'll make Associate yet.” In a pig's eye.

“Ha,” says he, “ha ha. That was funny.” And he frowns as we make our way down a tunnel we hope will bring us closer to the fabled GNR Plaza. “I'll be honest with you, this magic confuses me. At first I thought it was some sort of technology, but what I just did was... just a visualisation. Wasn't it?”

“The visualisation's just part of it,” explains I, “it's a tool to grab hold of the Aurbis and bend its energies to your will. Seriously though,” and I look squarely at Haines, “I'm impressed you've managed that much. I thought this world knows nothing about magic.”

“Well, there's storybooks,” Haines muttered, but I could tell he was pleased, “and then in the Bible there are magical transformations, staffs into snakes, water into wine, stuff like that. But I originally though that was all fairy tales.”

And he looks at me. “Then you happened.”

“Me?”

He stops and glares at me. “You, your fireballs, your healing magic, that damned skeleton! I'm a man of Science and all of a sudden you come along flinging spells all over the damn place!” He shakes his head angrily. “All of a sudden I'm... I find out there's another aspect to the...”

And he trails off, peering into the gloom. I cast Watchfulness but there was nothing within a hundred feet.

“As far as you know,” says I carefully, “nobody on Earth has ever been able to do magic, right?”

“Well, no,” Haines stuttered a bit, but caught himself, “the only reports of magic or psychic powers have always been either fictitious or utterly unreliable. In fact,” and he preens slightly, “attempts to prove such powers by Science have always failed.”

“I wonder why,” and I really did. My hypothesis is that Earth people did so well with Science that they didn't need magic, so the knowledge died out. At the same time, this hypothesis doesn't wash. If they still had access to the Aurbis, surely there'd be the odd involuntary spell recorded, wouldn't there?

But there's all those mutants, suggesting something that, once again, I've been forbidden to share.

“Hang about,” says I, “What's this Clarke's Axiom you mentioned before?”

“I did? It's simple. 'Any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic.'”

How witty. I'd have to discuss it with Daenlin next time I was in Bravil. My thoughts, so close to home, promptly shot over to Faregyl and S'jirra – then went up her skirt before I could stop them.

From Georgetown we found ourselves entering an immense hub, where metro tracks (or “lines” according to the signs on the walls) converged. Unfortunately so did a colony of ghouls. Killing them didn't help the air much, so the two of us chose a promising tunnel and headed for the surface.

Our tunnel took us to a station at Pennsylvania Avenue, and we gladly pushed past the gates to the sunlight. Then we heard super mutants stomping around. We gladly retreated underground again.

Haines was glaring at his Pip-Boy, which was showing the map. “We've gone too far southeast,” complains he, “We'll have to go back.”

So we did, finally delving to the lowest level of Metro Central and picking yet another promising tunnel. Right at the end, a raider outpost had been set up before a door reading DUPONT STATION ACCESS – STAFF ONLY. Past the door, we were surprised to find a natural cavern with a metal bridge just above the dirt floor.

“Must have been for moving heavy stuff,” Haines observed, kicking up a puff of dust. “Bet they took advantage of this place when digging...”

I was going to respond when a voice echoed from around the corner ahead. Watchfulness showed at least three raiders (from their postures) wandering around ahead. What it didn't show was the fixed gun (a 'turret') suspended from the ceiling, damn it.

Once the raiders were offed and the turret destroyed – apparently Mr Turret and Mrs Shock Magic don't like each other much – we headed upstairs to a small office, where Haines found a wall-mounted terminal. “It's that damn turret's control system,” said he disgustedly, “just when we don't need it any more.”

About five minutes and one rather dead sentry later – apparently his head ran into my mace at speed – Haines was more upbeat. “Night vision goggles!”

“What?” was my intelligent response.

“Night vision goggles,” says he waving a bulky, queer-looking metal mask in my face. “It collects and amplifies ambient light, letting you see in the dark!”

I try them on. The chamber around me sprang into sharp green illumination, but with no colour except green. “I'll stick to the Eye of Night,” says I handing them back.

“Fine,” says the good Doctor Haines slinging them around his neck, and away we go.

According to Haines' Pip-Boy it was about nine-and-half bells in the morning when we emerged in what Haines told me was a place called Vernon Square. Here the metro carriages actually emerged into broad daylight briefly before continuing on their routes.

“Ra'jirra!” exclaims he, “we could go visit Vault-Tec headquarters – they're right around the corner!”

So I grab him and haul him further into the tunnel mouth.

“Keep your voice down,” whispers I, “There's one of those damn mutant men about eighty feet away!”

And he just stares at me, and I mouth magic. The pinky cloud stood where it was for a while, then either billowed or shrugged and resumed walking. Or mooching. Or whatever it is super mutants do when they're not trying to kill or abduct people.

“Our mission is to reach GNR,” says I once I'm sure the mutant is out of earshot, “or had you forgotten that already?”

“Well...” Haines looked pouty. “I guess you're right. We know how to get there, it's just a matter of finding that violin later. GNR and Three Dog, then Dad, then we get that violin for Agatha.”

We scurried from one side to the platform to the other and once underground again, he explained about the lonely old woman he'd met on his visit to Minefield, and how she wanted Ernie to locate Vault 92 and a priceless musical instrument, a 'swah straddy-various'. “Still,” Ernie concluded, “let's finish what I've dragged you down here for first, eh?”

Amazing. He was almost considerate of me there.

Somewhat less considerate were the heavily armoured people who finished off several super mutants as we emerged from Chevy Chase station and promptly turned their guns on us.

Being sensible lads we put our hands where they could see them.

“Goddamn scavvies...” a woman grumbled from behind the armoured people, “I'll deal with this,” and her voice rose. “Look, I don't know who you are but you don't belong...”

The speaker was a hard-faced blonde, sans helm, who'd trailed off when she saw, well, me.

“You're damn right we don't belong here,” says I, “so we'll find GNR Plaza, have a word with Three Dog and get out of your way.”

She wasn't listening. “What the hell are...?”

I sigh and before I can snark, Haines speaks. “This is Ra'jirra, a Khajiit, and I am Doctor Earnest Haines–”
One of the other armoured men lowers his weapon. “The same one who disarmed the Megaton bomb?”

“Initiate...” the woman growls before Haines can even start preening, and the lad gathers himself as she turns back to us, “You don't belong here. The Super Mutants have overrun our brothers at the Galaxy News Radio building, and we're headed there to back them up.”

“Fine,” says I before she can continue, “and we can back you up. I know I'd be happy with the Arch-Mage at my back.”

And she just looks at me without any comprehension whatsoever, sweeping over our Talon duds, arms, and back to my face, my tail and my elven plate.

Then she shrugs. “You can tag along if you want,” says she distantly. “But keep your head down and try not to do anything... stupid.” She looks around. “Well, stop gawking and start moving people!”

So we all stopped gawking and started moving, Haines and I taking up the rear.

Whoever these armoured people were, they were prime warriors. An alleyway opened up to what must have been an automobile stable in front of a building – apparently a school, according to Haines – which turned out to be full of the big greenies – until the armoured people cut them down with brutal efficiency, while Haines and I provided some fire support.

“Damnit! Get back!” the hard-faced pilus spun and yelled at us at one point – just as another damn mutant came charging around the corner with a sledgehammer held high.

She yelled again as I sent Wizard's Fury over her head straight into the giant's face.

He didn't like that.

Haines boiled one of his eyes out with a well-aimed shot. He didn't like that either.

The woman brought her gun to bear and sent most of his jaw out the top of his head. He was so upset by that he dropped dead, and believe me he didn't half make a noise when he hit the ground.

“Brothers!” she yelled then, “get to the positions now!”

“What for?” asks I intelligently, “he looks dead to me.”

And she just stares at me and before she can reply there's another almighty crash – from points west.

“Oh,” says I, and she just rolls her eyes and wheels around and is haring out the north side of the building into a courtyard in front of a building bearing three symbols: GNR. Home of Three Dog and our goal.

And then Mehrunes Dagon smashed his way onto the scene to the left of us.

All right, it wasn't Dagon, but this super mutant stood a good thirty feet high at least. In one hand, twice the size of my head, it held a six-foot length of metal pipe capped with a squat round-headed object I'd seen standing in places on the road. Ernie later demonstrated how these 'fire hydrants' could be used for water. Given how firmly they were fixed in the ground...

...It wasn't surprising, in retrospect, that one swing from that dreadful mace literally smashed one laggard warrior's head clean off, sending both parts of him flying a good twenty feet.

The other warriors had established themselves behind fortifications on steps leading up to the building, and began opening fire on the giant.

All that seemed to do was make the beast groan like a falling tree, and get even angrier. Its club smashed into stone, sending chunks flying.

Haines goggled at the monster from where we were frozen in fear on the second storey of the school building. He eventually hauled out his pistol and started shooting at its head, before the beast finally turned and sent us fleeing with one wall-crushing swipe of its hydrant.

We huddled at the foot of the stairs and stared at each other through a cloud of dust, then back at where the titan hammered again at the walls before turning back to the warriors. Haines crept towards the ground floor doorway, raised his pistol, then paused. Turned to me and gestured me over.

“Fat Man!” hisses he, pointing at the headless torso.

“He looks trim enough to me,” is my intelligent response.

“No! His weapon!” That half-circular chute thing? “How fast are you?”

“Me? I was born under The Steed, why?”

“Er... While it's back's to us, run across and get that Fat Man and all the ammo you can! I'll go upstairs and distract it if you're spotted!” He's already moving upstairs. “Hurry! Run!”

My footsteps felt loud and leaden as I sprinted to the dead man. The behemoth hadn't noticed yet – three – two – one – Yanking at the straps holding the bulky dingus to the dead man. Big fat orbs with fins on the end – these are ammunition? - Oh gods that thing's turning around – one last strap that won't give – now it has – the great club turns the corpse into shrapnel –

“Now what the hells do we do with this?” screams I. The monster smashed its damn weapon into the school again, leaving a great crack in the wall. Apparently my blessings of speed had made the beast angrier, if such a thing were possible.

“Shoot these mini-nukes at it of course!” Haines waves one of the big orbs before retreating into the building. And the great Ra'jirra brain suggests that anything that could harm a beast like the one currently looking over the wall and giving me the stink-eye might need its space.

So I head over to Haines and watch as he props the dingus on his shoulder, slides a mini-nuke down until a little bell goes 'ching', aims, raises his aim, aims again and pulls the trigger.

All the contraption did was go chumpf! and send the orb arcing through the air and over the wall in a puff of anticlimactic vapour.

On the other hand, the mind-buggering explosion that followed – too bright to see, too loud to hear – was well worth three days' slogging underground for.

When the ringing in the ears and lights in the eyes faded the giant was clearly limping and making a noise like a bull who'd not only caught them both in stinging nettle, but got Molag Bal's affections as well.

Then there was another 'ching' – chumpf! – BOOM!!, and I saw a beast-shaped shadow topple out of sight.

And let me tell you, when one of those falls, it makes one hell of a noise when it hits the ground.

I always did like the Fat Man. I can see Ra'jirra does as well! Living proof to the old saying: "It's not over until the fat man sings!"

I just got one hour in on New Vegas, and this chapter made me so homesick to play Fallout 3 it isn't funny! Great chapter !!

[This next chapter ballooned in a way I hadn't expected. As such, I'm hiving this 3000+ word piece into its own chapter, since there's a couple very emotional incidents. Kudos if you get the reference.]

25 August 2277: Blowups Happen

“Now that's what I call an entrance!” The voice was familiar, a boisterous growl that came from the Redguard man hanging over the balcony rail. “Glad you guys could make it!”

“Glad to see you too Three Dog,” the warriors' leader called back, “but we had these two tag along.” Her thumb jab said quite clearly that she wished we hadn't.

“Those two...?” he peered at us through the ever-present dust and smoke. “Hey – is that Doc Haines in that mask down there?”

And Ernie pulls his helm off and I catch it before it hits the floor. “I certainly am,” says he arrogantly, “and I'm told–”

“Well hot damn! The saviour of Megaton himself heeds my call!” Ernie looks about to object, but Three Dog charges on, “Well c'mon up to the studio Doc, and bring your friend! We got a lot to talk about!”

And then I'm chasing Haines as he charges up the stairs hard on Three Dog's trail.

Three Dog's footprints led us into a large room festooned with machinery of all kinds, desks, tools and a humming smell like shock magics. Despite his waiting for us at the top of the central stairs, his voice came from elsewhere, enthusiastic as ever:

“The boys and girls of the Brotherhood of Steel continue to fight the Good Fight, folks. They've recently stepped up patrols in the downtown DC ruins...”

And I look surprised and Haines smirks at me thinly. “The wonders of Science,” says he, “in particular, the wonders of sound recording, but never mind that now.”

I think that made it two-all now Or did Haines doing magic make it three-two to him? And why was he all fidgety?

“Hey, it saves my lovely voice,” Three Dog agrees, “especially since as soon as repairs are completed, I wanna interview you... two.”

He's staring at me, especially my tail. “I'm sort of lost,” says I.

“That's Ra'jirra,” Haines adds shortly, shifting from foot to foot like there's a slaughterfish in his pants, “he's a Khajiit from Cyrodiil. Now about...”

“Woah,” Three Dog is still goggling at me, “this is gonna be... interesting.”

“Well, interesting or not,” Haines finally bursts, “I've been told you spoke with my father and I've spent three futting days grovelling through metro tunnels to get here now where is he!”

“Whoa, whoa!” Three Dog raised his hands and gave Ernie a look. “Smoke a peace pipe. Take a deep breath and count to ten. Whatever it is you need to do to calm down. You need Three Dog's help, and Three Dog needs your help. Let's get together and make it work.”

Haines was actually shaking so I step in fast.

“He's got a point, Doctor,” says I, “I think this man needs some proof you're trustworthy.” I cocked an ear. “Especially regarding this 'Good Fight' you're talking about in the background. Last time I heard that phrase, the Black Horse Courier was using it during the Oblivion Crisis.”

“You're one smart cat, y'know that?” Three Dog smiled at me behind his spectacles. “Sounds like you've fought a Good Fight of your own, so you know what's at stake. I got a problem I can't fix on my own, and, well–”

“I don't give a fut about your goddamn futting bullmerd!” Haines suddenly screamed and I had to pull him away from a startled Three Dog, face red and gods help us he was starting to cry! “You're blackmailing me!”

There were startled voices and clanking footsteps as Brotherhood soldiers entered the room.

Well, there was only one thing I could do wasn't there? I fetched him one across the face. Claws sheathed of course, but it took some control.

“Pull yourself together you fool!” snarls I into what now resembles a startled plum, “You're a man of Science, not a baby!”

“B-but I'm... I'm so c-close...” Lovely, he was whimpering.

“Three Dog,” asks I over my shoulder, “is there a cot or something he can blub his eyes out on?”

“Uh... through there,” points he and I deposit the shaking Haines on a much-abused mattress before returning to Three Dog.

“Sorry about that,” says I to not only Three Dog but the two soldiers giving us the puzzled eye, “but I know he's got some really pointy questions for his dad, so he's obviously wound up.”

“I can see that,” Three Dog shrugs, “but the Good Fight is bigger than him, his dad, or any of us. I'll do whatever it takes to keep the Capital Wasteland free.” And his face goes stony. “Whatever. It. Takes.”

“Do you want us to keep an eye on, uh, that guy?” one of the soldiers asks.

“Naw man,” Three Dog replies, “He's kinda upset or somethin'.”

And the soldiers nod and return to their posts.

“Hopefully I'll be found soon and I can get away from that idiot,” says I disgustedly, “I wasn't meant to come here but a spell went wrong.”

“You mean like a magic spell?” Three Dog looked confused. “Listen, I really need to ask you some questions, but until we come to some agreement there's no point.”

I remembered Gob and his radio.

“Like fixing your signal?” Somewhere Zenithar applauded. “In Megaton, someone said your signal's been merd lately.”

“Yeah, it's merd, and I'll tell you why.” Three Dog's face softened. “Galaxy News Radio is my baby. I love it, I feed it, I keep it changed. But there's one problem: no one outside D.C. can hear her cry. You see, some brainless Super Mutant thought it would be funny to shoot at the shiny round thing on the Washington Monument.”

“And you need someone to find a replacement.”

Three Dog beams! “Man O man, are you the cool cat! Yep! That shiny thing was our broadcast relay.” And his face falls. “Now it's swiss cheese. Without it, our broadcast range is... politely speakin', quite limited.”

“Not that limited surely?” says I, “there was a radio out near the Super-Duper Mart picking you up. In fact, yours was the first voice we heard through the portal before...” I trail off.

“I was?” He looks surprised and pleased. “Well, I've been told that's close to the edge of our range right now. With that relay in place, you'll be able to hear me all over the Capital Wasteland – instead of those Enclave cullyholes. More to the point,” and he leans towards me, “when your rescuers show up, wherever they show up, they'll be able to take a tip from ol' Three Dog about your whereabouts.” And he winks.

Assuming their portal opened up near a radio tuned to GNR of course. But a slim chance is better than none...

“Right then,” says I, “Where can we find one? Sooner we know, the sooner we get you up and running.”

“Oh all right!” Haines emerged from the bedroom where he'd been ear-farming. He still looked terrible, but at least he was resigned rather than hysterical. “Let's do this. After all, you need knowledge of Science to fix relays.” He gives me a meaningful look. “Somehow I doubt your magic will work.”

Three Dog looked a bit puzzled at us, then decided not to worry just now.

“OK then!” and he rubs his hands together. “My relay was the same kind they used on the Virgo II lunar lander when it went to the moon, and a little Brotherhood birdie saw said space vee-hickle over in the Museum of Technology. Go take that dish to the Washington Monument and plug it in, and come back and see me. I'll be brushing up on my interview skills. And you'll be going out live on air!”

“The Virgo II?” Haines actually perked up. “Well now! We'd better be off! Come on Ra'jirra! You're about to see what Science can do!”

Three Dog and I exchanged worried looks as Haines charged towards the door.

* * *

Haines had me worried. He'd made it clear before on my first night here that he held a grudge against his father for abandoning him, but that disgraceful exhibition in front of Three Dog suggested something else. He'd been increasingly manic as we approached GNR, recklessly endangering my life, then once inside he went off the deep end, hit bottom about the time I hit him, and now he was manic again.

If we did find his dad, I'd be ready to prise the two apart. I honestly wasn't sure if Haines, to use a crudity of Zul gro-Radagash's, would kiss'm or kill'm.

I don't remember much of our descent into those damnable metro tunnels again – I did note that Haines immediately went all business though as we entered unknown territories. There was a raider camp, which quickly became their necropolis, then Ernie gave a glad cry as he extracted a limp thin booklet from a corpse.
“Grognak!” cries he happily, “a Grognak number eleven!”

“What the hells is a Grognak number eleven?” asks I irritably, as Ernie switches on his Pip-Boy light and settles down on one of the bigger blokes to peer through it.

As it happens, Grognak number eleven is a chapter-book in a style called a 'comic': a story told through a sequence of small pictures, adorned with bits of text to show speech, sound, and at times tell you what was going on. Ernie had some copies of Grognak the Barbarian as a child, and fortunately I don't see such books becoming widespread any time soon.

* * *

To give you an idea of the type of story Grognak the Barbarian is, let me describe the cover:

The cover depicts, in pride of place, a dark-haired musclebound Nord (Grognak, no doubt), wearing a fur loincloth and brandishing a ludicrously large battleaxe over his head – perfect for letting his opponent run him through his unprotected torso. And I mean a ridiculously musclebound Nord. His calves are as wide as his head.

Another artist has drawn the foe: some sort of dragon or worm thing, the style of which pays attention to neither perspective nor proportion. In fact it looks like the artist cribbed it out of someone else's book – on gargoyles. The creature is evidently supposed to be rearing erect and threatening to attack.

Cringing behind Grognak the Overblown is a third artist's contribution: a nearly naked woman, evidently liberated not only from clothing (shackles aside), but any limitation of anatomy. Or gravity in the case of the bosom.

Was there a fourth artist? The sketchiness of the dungeon, or mountain range, or whatever it was behind them made it difficult to tell.

The legend on the bottom of the cover read: ESCAPE FROM THE LAIR OF THE VIRGIN EATER!

The story as I could make out followed on from previous editions, like The Argonian Account, and it seemed that the barbarian had entered some sort of temple to rescue a virgin sacrifice, and was now leaving, by dint of unlikely feats of agility, sneaking, and eventually bombastic, implausible and oddly bloodless feats of axemanship against poorly drawn monsters and fanatics in robes.

Then he ended up in dire peril prior to no doubt escaping again in episode number twelve.

And this was considered good entertainment for Earth children, as opposed to the Arena where real people fight real enemies with real skill and tactics, or a public execution, which is also entertaining if slightly less educational.

(I remember well when they finally did something about the Horn Cave Gang and made a public example of them at Bravil. You should have seen my dear little girls squeal and jump when the ringleader's head went rolling towards them... and their faces when I told them they had to give it back. But I digress.)

Actually, reading the thing made me angry. It wasn't the fact it was written and drawn by committee. It wasn't the moronic plot. It was the fighting scenes.

As any child knows, where people are fighting there's bodily fluids – preferably theirs – all over the shop: blood, merd, piss, tears, stomach contents, you name it. Yet in these pages Grognak sailed through bowling baddies without so much as a sweat stain. Maybe his axe was blunt. I asked Haines about it.

“Don't be ridiculous!” exclaimed he, “That sort of thing was banned by the Comics Code Association. It could corrupt children's minds.”

“And near-naked men and women wouldn't? Look Haines, that girl's clothing should have fallen to bits ages ago and the way they're running it'd be flapping about like flags in the breeze. Speaking of flapping,” and I poke a panel where Grognak and the Lady Whatsername are jumping from a ledge, “From that angle her womanhood would be on display for all to see. And I can't see a loincloth under his posing pouch either. But what really pisses me off –” I tap a combat scene. “In reality, that axe should be trailing intestines, maybe a kidney or two, and the floor would be soaked, making footing treacherous. This is rubbish.”

Haines looks murderous, but I keep going. “I'm speaking from experience, Haines. Melee combat – hells, any combat – is messy. And people have privates. And they fut. It's how the race survives. Why in the names of the Nine did your lot pretend otherwise?”

And his mouth flaps like a landed fish and I realise he didn't know. I wouldn't get even a halfpie decent answer for days yet. I wish the missionaries well.

* * *

Now, I made that digression because of what happened next. Haines started screaming at me.

Some of his screaming was about Science versus magic. Some of it was about the populace of Vault 101. A lot of it was about people like Moira and Three Dog and an Overseer of some sort being more or less mean to him.

There was quite a bit about us citizens of the Empire being 'arrogant futting barbarians' which might be right from a pre-war technological standpoint, but currently that was a wee bit moot.

But mostly it was a geyser of therapeutic raging, battering itself to death against the cavernous Metro walls.

And I just stand there and listen as he begins to run down like a broken Dwemer animunculus, sagging back onto his impromptu seat, face puce, breathing hard. Yes, I'd have hit him again if he'd got violent.

“Feel better?” asks I softly.

“No,” comes the sulky reply.

“Fine,” says I with no sympathy whatsoever, “Guess how I feel.”

And he stares at me.

“I'm trapped in a demented futting world where the inhabitants destroyed themselves and can't futting get over it and move on. I'm separated from everybody I love: my parents, my mother-in-law –”

Haines' face twitched but I charged on.

“– My wife, my three children – not to mention all hells could be breaking loose in the Guild and no doubt whatever the fut's going on up Skyrim way is heading south towards my family.” I'm starting to breathe hard too. “Worse, I'm sure I've been deliberately tricked into coming to this merdhole in order to help you and –” finally I managed to express my fear and anger – “Like as not I won't be allowed to go home until your gods-damned futting piece of merd task is done!”

Now Haines was gaping at me and I was the one upset and puffing like a bellows, blasting my frustration to the stony ceiling.

And it felt so good to let it out.

“You belong here,” I managed to continue when I regained my self-control, “I don't. Maybe it's because I was the Champion of the Mage's Guild when it was under threat. Maybe the Nine decided I'd be the perfect mentor for the Champion of Earth.”

“Ch... Champion of Earth?” Haines blinked. “M...”

“You,” says I, sagging to a nearby bench. “It all fits. Your father knows what needs to be done, I guess, he's gone to prepare the way. But he can't do it, so the mantle's fallen on you. So we have to follow him. And finish the quest. No matter what.”

“No matter what,” Haines whispers, then gets up and walks off, murmuring to himself. I just sit there, wipe my eyes and watch as he wrestles with my big reveal.

Haine's and Zul's situations were similar. Haines may have been hounded out of Vault 101, but at least he didn't get jug trumpets like Zul gro-Radagash.

At the same time, Haines had no idea of what awaited outside, or why he had to flee, did he? Zul never found out what the charges were, but at least he knew what Cyrodiil was like outside and (eventually) why he was jugged in the first place.

“Culture shock,” Haines said as he returned to where I sat, “I think we're both suffering from it.” And he smiles, but it's a bit forced.

I just nod.

“I keep underestimating you,” he goes on, “after all, you're a very powerful... man... aren't you?”

“I'm the Arch-Mage. That's top dog in the guild. And I get to be bored to sleep on a regular basis in Imperial Council meetings. Yeah, I'd say I'm –”

And he breaks into song! “'The real tip top – Top Cat!'”

And I stare at him and he just grins and the next thing both of us are laughing fit to bust.

(I discovered a Top Cat Annual later on. Much cleverer and wittier than Grognak. Nicer to look at too. However, I did ask Haines to refrain from singing again.)

* * *

One metro tunnel led to another, and finally we emerged in what Haines told me was The Mall. Imagine a linear version of Green Emperor Way, but with roads on both sides, and the remnants of gardens in the middle. Now all they were were sad sundered masses of earthworks and trenches – and super mutants. Things only looked grimmer in the sunset light, but hopefully it would make it harder for the greenies to see us.

Behind us, a stern stone building wrapped heavy shadow arms around the metro entrance, and a female ghoul looked at us curiously through the smoke from a tobacco roll (Earth people call them cigarettes. I call them disgusting. Zul gro-Radagash calls them 'air sugar'.)

“The Museum of History,” says Haines dismissively, “we need to go further along.”

“Just watch your cloonies,” the ghoul woman grated, “the super muties're real pissed these days. Where you headed?”

She sounded like an Ashlander man in tight pants.

“The Museum of Technology,” says Haines, “why?”

“I've seen the big futters goin' in an' outa there a time or two, that's why. Like I said, watch your cloonies.”

And we look at each other. “Wonderful,” chorus we.

You should have seen my dear little girls squeal and jump when the ringleader's head went rolling towards them... and their faces when I told them they had to give it back.
Yay for Raj'irra's girls!

[OK, on with the catch-up. May as well get this done before I end up distracted by Slippery Elmer again. Or Rapture.]

25-26 August 2277: The Museum of Technology

The Museum of Technology was exactly the same on the outside as the Museum of History, but with different letters and ragged banners. Mercifully the super mutants didn't emerge or arrive as I opened the Eye of Night, Haines donned his goggles, and we crept inside.

Beyond the four columns holding up the foyer, the bulk of a super mutant stalked off stage left; another one could be heard stomping around, apparently on top of the balcony that ran along two walls further in. Haines crept right, then pointed at something on the ceiling, then off to the left.

There was a large staircase to the upper floor, beside it a round desk – and a well-lit doorway beyond – that Haines was pointing to. Haines pressed something into my hand, and I looked down to see the same contraption on a strap he'd used in the Super-Duper Mart. Haines took another, strapped it on his wrist, then pointedly placed his finger over a button. One click and he almost vanished from sight before rippling towards the door. These people had chameleon magics better than mine!

So what could I do? I strapped mine on, and pushed the button and scampered after him!

Inside the doorway I saw the entrances to privies, but I felt Haines tap me on the shoulder and I saw him ripple towards stairs. Sidling into the privies I cast Watchfulness and confirmed he'd gone upstairs. The stairs came to a small office, where Haines carefully stood and started manipulating a terminal attached to the ceiling. His mumbling began to grow frustrated until whatever he did to make the thing work worked.

Then he chuckled, and suddenly the turrets he'd pointed out burst into life. The greenies didn't like them at all and actually put up such a good fight that Haines and I had to creep down and finish them off.

“Hang on a second,” Haines said aloud, then shimmered into visibility as he stood up, holstered his pistol and ran back up the stairs. “Making sure the last turret doesn't go for us,” explains he as he came back down. “How'd you like Stealth Boys?”

I looked at the dingus and poked the button again. Nothing; evidently it was dead as a doornail. “Very nice,” says I truthfully, “better than anything I can cast.”

“Science,” says he proudly, and it occurs to me I need to pull something out of my hat because he's leading four-two.

Anyway with the mutants out of the picture – one of them was nothing but a pile of slightly glittering ash – we took the time to look around. There wasn't much. A few terminals, some food, and a lot of looted display plinths. Haines explained to me and my shaky grasp of the English alphabet that there had been an exhibition of modern weapons before the war broke out.

“There's a maintenance log on this terminal here,” he went on, “Let's see, problems with the sound, the planetarium's playing up, some nonsense about potty breaks... oh.”

“Oh?” I spotted another Stealth Boy on a plinth at the back of the room and pocketed it.

“They installed three extra reactors to power the... the Vault-Tec Vault... Tour.” Haines fell silent. “They made the Vaults, you know.”

“I'd never've guessed,” says I untruthfully, “What's this thing here?”

This thing here must have been suspended from the ceiling, but the bombs and two hundred years neglect dashed the device of wood, wire and cloth to earth. It seemed to have a central body, bearing an engine with a pair of large wooden blades or paddles sticking out. From the body, two cloth-wrapped arms jutted out either side.

“Eh?” Haines turned and looked at it sadly. “This is the Wright Flyer, Ra'jirra – the first ever heavier-than-air flying machine.” He cast about and read from a nearby plaque: “The aircraft above is the original Wright Flyer I designed by Orville and Wilbur Wright. On December 17, 1903 in Kitty Hawk, North Carolina, the vehicle performed its maiden flight for a mere 12 seconds, covering a distance of only 120 feet . This historic event marked the first sustained and controlled heavier-than-air powered flight.”

I stood there in more than a little reverence. These people of Earth had taken to the skies barely – I did my sums – one hundred and fifty years before the bombs smashed them into the ground again. Here was a piece of history, itself dashed to smithereens. I couldn't stop myself if I tried.

“How did it work?”

“Work?”

“Yes, work, Haines. I have a loon attempting to discover the secret of flight, but he's stuck up a blind alley.” I explain how Tarhiel met his end outside Seyda Neen.

“Well!” Oh, if only I could emphasise the arrogant smugness in that word! “It's quite clear that your magic has failed you.” Oh, how I wanted to clock the lidgie! “In the interest of saving lives,” and he straightens up, “let's head over to those desks. I need to draw you a picture...”

I still have that picture, scribbled in blunt pencil on a sheet torn out of an accounting book. It's a matter of balancing forces, and keeping up a decent head of speed. The Wright Flyer was the first ever 'aeroplane' flying machine, following on from the barely controlled 'hot air balloons' and gas-bladder 'airships'. I have every confidence that soon the enemies of the Empire will regard our skies with rightful fear.

Once Arondiel gets his head completely out of Tarhiel's... influence.

We explored some more. There were two more Stealth Boys in an upstairs corner, in front of two collapsed hallways. So much history, so much knowledge, lost. “I feel like I'm stuck in an Ayleid ruin,” I groused at one point.

“Well, let's get the damn dish and get out,” Haines responded as we walked along the balcony and turned into a vestibule – a vestibule that opened into a cavern surrounding an immense cog-shaped door.

Haines slowed, then stopped, staring at it. Lights bumbled ineptly on, and a tinny voice declared, “Vault-Tec welcomes you to our new line of subterranean vaults, featuring our patented Triple-S technologies.”

I gave Haines the elbow and reminded him, “Might as well go through, we can't go 'round.”

“Triple-S technology is Vault-Tec's convergence of the three most important parts of apocalyptic endurance: Safety, Survivability, and Sanitation!” the long-dead shill added.

“Yes,” Haines said softly, “yes,” and he totters through the massive door. Now when I say massive, I'm not talking big. I'm talking about something that's really one huge chunk of metal, a good two feet thick and more.

“Sleep in quiet comfort,” the shill warbled as we entered what I guessed to be the guardroom, “knowing that our impenetrable vault doors can withstand a direct hit by an atomic bomb, with only a two per-cent failure rate!”

The great Ra'jirra brain knows that a one-in-fifty chance of breach isn't 'impenetrable.' I guess people weren't so fussed, more like scared enough to grasp at straws. Then again, I've seen idiot bandits assume that their heavily used gear will provide one more go – and then proven wrong. And I love it when that happens.

Curious, I invoked Starlight and looked around.

Haines' vault was probably in much better nick than this mock-up. Heavy mortar walls on metal frames; metal plates beneath my feet. This definitely was a guardroom; the floor was split-level, so entrants were funnelled between two possible fronts of defence. An alarming contraption depended from the ceiling, which Haines identified as the machine that opened and closed the immense cog-shaped door. Beyond, a rectangular doorway opened upwards to a corridor.

“There should be utilities here,” says Haines in a queerly lost voice, “Vaults have utilities here.”

As we headed down the corridor towards a set of windows, the shill spoke from a box near the ceiling.

“Being underground gotcha down? Smile! Our Simu-Sun lighting mimics the feeling of being outside – with only a fraction of the sunburn potential!”

Oh happiness and joy.

Haines silently stepped to a window, peered into the gloom, then pressed a button on a once-bright yellow box. Decayed furnishings were lit and the shill burbled. “The living sections make use of our revolutionary Floor-Suck auto-cleaner system, for those darn messy kids. Never sweep again!”

“Never sweep again?” says I, “My wife would like that.”

Haines didn't answer, he just continued to walk down the corridor, ignoring the shill's assurances about how marvellous and safe Vault life was. Another window, another button showed chairs flanking a bulky metal magic lantern, displaying a picture of a man riding a goat.

“Bored? Don't be! Step into our Entertainer-tron room and watch the latest holotapes,or perhaps listen to a symphony. Another Vault-Tec innovation!”

“General Occupational Aptitude Test,” says Haines softly. Huh? Oh. The goat. Cute. He stared into the darkened display for a long while, then walked on, morbidly prodding yet another button.

“Moms will love our Cool-in-ate-er 3000 kitchen system makes cooking a breeze! Mmm, I can smell the muffins baking now!”

“Mom...”

I almost didn't hear Haines whisper. There are worse kinds of ghosts than those you find in good honest ruins and this place was full of them. “Let's keep moving,” says I and move forward to a door atop stairs.

“Concerns about security? Our 'Eye on You' cameras enable the Vault's leader to watch your every move. You'll never be alone again!”

Haines suddenly pushed past me and fled out to the balcony beyond, then leaned on the rail. I approached a tad slower. Eventually he pulled himself together and “Well now,” Doctor Haines was his preferred self again.

“You're not getting homesick are you?”

“Homesick?” And he gives me a look. “I have a home of my own... you know...”

And I just wait. Let him tell me if he wants.

“Some people always said I didn't belong.”

“I know the feeling,” thinking of Jarol.

“Butch and his Tunnel-Snake buddies. Officer futting Wilkins. God, I hated that lidgie. And... and...”

There was a lumbering clump off to the left. We both froze and stared at a shadow in the frosted windows of two double doors.

It took me a full two seconds before I thought to dispel Starlight and Haines to draw his gun.

“Somethin' there?” Super mutants are not known for fair speech. In fact it's almost like they're constantly constipated.

I began to slowly sidle toward the exit of the Vault-Tec exhibit; Haines stared then understood.

“What?” The hulking shadow sounded annoyed.

“What you doin'?”

“I thought I heard somethin'. There was a light.”

Pause. “I don't see nothin'.”

“That's 'cos you weren't lookin'. You dumb as a human.”

“And if there was a human, our guys out there would kill 'em! So there's nothin' there.”

“Ah stop talkin' so much! You make my head hurt!”

And we crouch there and listen to two sets of heavy lumbering idiot footfalls moving away.

To be continued

So Haines is feeling homesick, as suddenly all the memories of the not-so-good old days in the Vault came back to him. I could almost feel sorry him. Almost. But he is such an boat that I just cannot scrounge up the feeling.

The Super Mutie talk at the end was classic of the knuckle-draggers! "I was thinking, and it hurt!"

[And the second half cometh. I've been sweating over how to describe the radio interview with Three Dog - after all, Ra'jirra alone is fascinating enough - and then there's the fact that in-game I didn't visit Rivet City for another five days. The more I think about it, the more complex Ernie's relationship to Dad becomes...]

After a long tense wait, we crept through the doors into the West Wing. We were on a balcony, overlooking another flying machine, this one made of metal and more sophisticated than the Wright Flyer. Immediately off to my left, what turned out to be another flying machine, this one not only driven forward by its engines, as I would later learn, but directly held aloft by them.

Right in front of us were two sets of great footprints, leading off leftward to a shattered pair of doors. We looked at each other, then moved right, heading down a flight of stairs.

The chamber was split in two by rubble. Evidently there had been a wall of some kind erected, but now it had collapsed. Beyond it, a bulbous object with a porthole rose overhead.

“That's the Virgo II,” Haines whispered, “so we go this way.”

This way led to a circular chamber with a domed ceiling. A ramp led downwards to meet two others in the middle, where a small plinth held a dumbbell-shaped object that looked as though it could be moved. Between the ramps, terraced levels, which no doubt once held seats, made stairs for giants. Across from us at the top of the seating an ornate-looking thing like an altar presided.

“Is that some sort of orrery?” The whole edifice wasn't as grand as the Arcane University's, but its shape and design rang a bell.

“It's the planetarium,” Haines was looking annoyed, “It, ah, displays the night sky, stars, planets, like that.”

“Fine,” says I, “it's an orrery then.”

“No, a planetarium. As in, educating people about the stars and planets. Not about, oh, magical forces or whatever.”

“Watch it Haines,” says I, “I was born under the Steed, which is why I'm so fast on my feet. And since it displays the night sky on demand, and I bet also allows you to turn and twist it at your pleasure, it's a frigging fancy orrery.”

And he gurgles incoherently at that until a voice disrupted proceedings.

“For as LONG as History has been reCORDed,” the voice intoned bombastically, “Man has had an inSATiable hunger for knowledge regarding the Universe!”

And we freeze. Behind us, a door squeals open. Somehow we'd set off the orrery machinery!

“Up there!” Haines hissed, pointing to the altar thing. I don't hesitate, I'm away bolting for cover. Turns out the altar is the control system for the orrery – and it's broken.

“To understand why Man is so INterested in this unknown expanse of Space around our world –”

Right now we were more INterested in the known threat lumbering its way downstairs. Make that both of them. Thank you very much, oh long-dead and overcooked announcer.

“– We must take a journey.”

Haines is lagging behind laying mines before taking a journey at speed to where I'm crouched behind the control panel. The central contraption has spun into life as the lights dim, projecting star patterns. More interesting is the pattern of light and shadow where we entered. It looks like two super mutants, or one super mutant with two heads.

“Please! Sit back, relax –”

Oh dear. Walking on a landmine can't be all that relaxing.

“– and free yourself –”

Another almighty bang and the front mutant bled out from what was left of his groin after his hip gave way.

“– from the BONDS of our planet –”

His off-sider screamed angrily and levelled an assault rifle our way. Worse, this one deliberately stepped over his mate's corpse, skipping the remaining mines completely.

“– as we take off for the s-stars –” the recording crackled, then stuttered, then fell as flat as we did. Rifle rounds whizzed overhead and gouged walls, the controls, and the star-flecked ceiling.

I jumped up and flung Firestarter at the beast, which I noted was wearing what looked like a helm that had been split open in order to fit that fat green bonce. Again, the monster gaped at the approaching fireball – but this time it jumped to one side.

A smart super mutant. Wonderful.

Haines was scampering away, his laser pistol out and stabbing into its bulk with a smell of cooked flesh. I got the idea at once and headed the other way, grasping the lightning and sending it into the mutant's chest, before clawing my little pistol out of its holster and sending several shots anywhere near it.

And that was pretty much the fight. After the creature finally gave up the ghost – not literally, I didn't have any soul gems – Haines holstered his gun and stalked over to me.

“Would you mind, next time,” spits he, “considering actually, oh, aiming at the enemy?”

“Whoops,” says I, “Sorry about that.”

Haines used a selection of rude words, but he was concerned about my apparent lack of competence regarding firearms, since it appeared that it not only affected my aim but also the efficacy and safety of pincer manoeuvres, and perhaps I should consider a little target practice after we finished our business?

I got a bit tired after the second chorus and laid Convalescence on him. “There, I healed it,” says I, “better?”

Haines just looked at the new tissue where one of my bullets had clipped his arm. Then he remembered where we were and closed his jaws. “Well,” says he stiffly, “I accept your apology.”

And he turns and stalks down to the corpses and starts stripping them.

“This one with the assault rifle,” says he, “I swear it's bigger than most of the super mutants we've seen before.” He was right. This one was a foot taller and even more overstuffed than normal – and the standard super mutant looks like it's fit to burst.

“D'you think that giant outside GNR Plaza was once one of these?” asks I pointing at the body.

And Haines looks at me with wide eyes. “You mean these could keep growing until...” he shudders. “God, I hope not.” And he picks himself up and advances on a door.

That was locked, but the other one wasn't. Inside that was a small office featuring a number of nice things including a terminal that unlocked door number one, and a luminous blue bottle.

“Nuka-Cola Quantum!” Haines snatched the potion and gazed at it. “It was all-new just before the war.” And he packs it away, adding, “Get a pretty cap for it, I'll bet.”

Through the unlocked door we found ourselves in a small corridor that no doubt led straight to Virgo II. Unfortunately it also led to the source of super mutant noises. Haines tried a side door and the two of us crept into an upstairs room full of machines.

I peered out the windows, which were made of glass somehow formed around metal mesh. It was amazing how the Earth folk managed to create such huge flat panes of glass. Haines meanwhile was fussing with another terminal until the turrets beyond spun into life.

“That'll fix 'em,” Haines said happily over the gunfire, just before two loud bangs stopped play.

“That was too easy!” grated a voice.

Haines used yet another rude word and carefully reloaded.

I kicked open the door and beheld the ungainly structure that was the Virgo II. Hard to believe men landed on the moon in that. “Hey fetcher!” I yelled at a startled super mutant before hitting him with Spark and running.

Gunfire parted my mane as I ducked back into the orrery room, followed by two bangs, then a third, which did for mutant number the first. Then mutant the second charged in, limping slightly but still grasping its rifle – but Haines was waiting for it. The first shot made it flinch, the second made it howl and clutch at its face as blood spewed from an eye socket, then I ducked in and smashed its gun hand with my mace. The beast howled again and backhanded me, but the delay was enough for Haines to run forward and jam a hunting rifle in its ear. When that thing went off, it probably sent the mutant's eardrum clean out the other side.

“You all right?” Haines asked.

“Am I lying down?”

“Yes...?”

“Well, in that case I'm all right, since those stars I'm seeing are from the orrery.”

“It's a planetarium!”

* * *

“I thought it went quite well,” I said into the stony silence.

After unplugging the relay unit from the machine that, according to Haines, had not only brought two men to the surface of the moon, but delivered them home again, there had been a refreshing scuttle to the crumbling Washington Monument, like most buildings a crumbling stone facade on a steel framework. Then an exciting 'elevator' ride to the top followed by the anticlimactic replacement procedure, followed by an afternoon slog underground back to scenic GNR Plaza and a very excited Three Dog.

Sure, Three Dog had quizzed Ernie on 'just what it's like down in one of those Vaults', and the result was a magnificently boring spiel of almost carefree childhood followed by a routine of work – which ended bitterly with his father's vanishing act.

“Dad,” said he carefully, “If you can hear me... please get in touch. You, uh, we need to talk Dad. Urgently.”

“Seconded,” Three Dog said solemnly. “Folks, if you see James out there, give us a shout. GNR is gonna reunite father and son... with your help.”

Haines just looks at him. Three Dog promised to tell where his father went – but first this interview. Three Dog might act slap-happy but that hid one manipulative swine.

“Arch-Mage Ra'jirra,” Three Dog turned to me, “I know you've explained this already, but I just don't get it. You seriously got here by... magic?”

“Oh God,” Haines buries his face in his hand.

“Certainly did,” says I, “And here's a demonstration,” and I stand up and haul Mister Bones out of the Aurbis.

“Holy –” Three Dog gaped at Mister Bones who glared back with a what-the-hells-are-you-gaping-at pose. I pointed at the microphone and Three Dog regained his voice.

“Ch- children – oh man – you, are... you're not, g-gonna, believe this. Ra'jirra just... stood up, and made this skeleton – which is standing on its own – appear outa nothin'! Folks... I am in awe. I thought Paladin Lyons was pullin' my leg or had a bang on the noggin when she told me Ra'jirra here fired some kinda magic beam into a super mutant... nope.”

Haines was smiling thinly, enjoying Three Dog's discomfort. I took pity on him and sent Mister Bones away.

“Now you see it... now y' don't.” Three Dog stared at me as I pulled up the pew again. “Ra'jirra, just what the hell are you doing here?”

I took a breath. “I'm here because of an experimental transport spell, which went very wrong. Instead of opening outside the laboratory, it opened up in a building west of here.” No need to speak of gods and fates. Part of being Arch-Mage is knowing when to spill the beans and when to keep them in the jar.

“A raider came through and, well, raised havoc. We captured her, but she escaped, killing one of our more promising mages as she did so and stealing Mage's Guild property. I was chasing her, and the portal... failed before I could go home.”

“Whoa.” Three Dog was well out of his league here, I could tell. “Just for the record, what sort of stuff are we talkin' here?”

“A mage's staff,” says I, “enchanted to destroy weapons. Not that that's important. What's important is that if anyone runs into any other mages, tell 'em I'm based in Megaton.” And then inspiration strikes. “And tell 'em to stay tuned to Three Dog and GNR Radio.”

Haines is looking at me like I just crawled out of the privy, but stuff him.

“Damn straight!” Three Dog gives me a thumbs-up and leans into the mike. “So children, if you see any other freaky dude waving wands or swords or whatever, they're probably lookin' for Ra'jirra here. Send 'em to Megaton. Better still, stay tuned, keep up with the news, and tell 'em where Doctor Haines and...”

“Arch-Mage...”

“Arch-Mage Ra'jirra have got to. They might catch up to 'em coming back... or be in time to lend a hand.”

* * *

But that was hours ago, and we were now in Haines' house, sitting on his couch, he with a Nuka-Cola and I with a bottle of red wine. I'm not proud of it, I felt that a little relaxant was needed. And to fill the chilly silence I got up and flicked on the radio.

“...about America. All they care about is fulfilling their own selfish desires,” said a patrician voice, “Let's take a tally of these agitators, shall we?”


“That damn thing only receives Enclave radio,” Haines said irritably.

“...the Raiders. Those anarchistic ruffians who roam the wastes, preying on any and all, stealing, murdering. Beasts.”

And both Haines and I agree with the speaker.

“The so-called 'Brotherhood of Steel.' Don't be fooled by their pseudo-knightly nonsense or supposed connections to the United States Army! These power-armoured boy scouts are nothing more than common criminals with access to some antiquated technology. Criminals who have had the audacity to claim this country's most important military installation, the Pentagon, as their own personal clubhouse!”

And we look at each other.

John Henry Eden (as the speaker turned out to be) went on about the slavers at a place called Paradise Falls, before dropping a brick on us.

“But there is another issue. We have received information, albeit unconfirmed, that we have a foreign dignitary in our midst. I am of course referring to Ra'jirra, the Arch-Mage.”

And we look at each other again. Evidently this bloke's radio picked up more than one signal.

“This man can rest assured that the Enclave are ready and willing to do what we can to ensure his safety, and are willing to enter into talks with Cyril-dill to ensure mutual understanding and goodwill,” and other insincere prattle followed before a brass band launched into a military tune – prior to Haines leaping up and switching the radio off.

“I hope you're not taking that seriously,” says he.

“Not after what Three Dog said,” says I. Three Dog had been quite blunt; his precious Good Fight was apparently against the Enclave and what they represented. My parents came east from the New California Republic... I heard the Enclave wanted to just wipe everyone out... Now they're set up here with their brahmin and they're feeding us the bull.

“What about your friends?”

That was what worried me. I'd been dumped here without knowledge of the political landscape. Now my experiences of political landscapes are brown and lumpy, but this was another order of magnitude. And no doubt Laren and friends were trying to poke holes to find me... well, I'd done my bit. The only problem was...

“What if they find your father?”

“Father.” Haines' face was a picture. “We'll have to cross that bridge when we reach it.”

“And when's that? Tomorrow?”

“I don't know.” Haines frowned. “I'll be honest with you: I need to know more about what life is like out here. Besides...”

What's he being evasive for? We knew where he went. A place called Rivet City. Haines knows where it is, it's marked on that Pip-Boy, so what's the hold-up?

“The hold-up?” Oh damn! Spoke aloud. “The hold-up is: I don't know enough yet. I'd like to make sure my work with Moira's done before devoting myself to finding father.”

“Spoken like a true mage,” says I in as neutral a tone as I can manage.

Haines just looks at me. “I can't put anything past you can I?”

“Nope.”

And he sighs. “You're right. I mean... Dad's probably okay, safe in whatever Rivet City is. And someone's bound to tell him about... if he wasn't listening... maybe I should just... let him come to me.”

There was more to it, but I was feeling tired, not just from the wine, but from being up for the better part of two days. The two of us made our excuses and Haines showed me the trapdoor in the kitchen to a basement where there was some scientific gear and most importantly a bed.

I'd watched his face as he pleaded 'on air', as they say. He was nervous, but not just from being heard by an unseen crowd.

I pondered why a son should fear his father so as I drifted off to sleep.

Another episode of Ra'jirra and the boatmaster. Raj thinking the planetarium is an orrery was perfect. What else would an ES person assume it was?

not literally, I didn't have any soul gems


Three Dog might act slap-happy but that hid one manipulative swine.
Indeed, Treydog is no fool!

Part of being Arch-Mage is knowing when to spill the beans and when to keep them in the jar.
I love this statement!

nits:
After unplugging the relay unit from the machine that, according to Haines, had not only brought two men to the surface of the moon, but delivered them home again, there had been a refreshing scuttle to the crumbling Washington Monument, like most buildings a crumbling stone facade on a steel framework.
Not only is this an extremely long sentence, but it also has the word crumbling repeated in it.

SubRosa already quoted my fave line:

Yes, the spill the beans line was great

[Finally! Writer's block broken. I'd actually done the racing-through-quests thing here, and I couldn't figure out how to explain why Haines would want to shoot off so soon after injuring himself. Then inspiration struck out, before hitting for six...]

27 August 2277: Magicka, Mirelurks and Madness

I awoke to the sound of Haines doing things to his weapons on a bench across the basement. Seeing as I wasn't interested in moving just then I simply looked around.

Beside me bed was a wall-mounted 'safe', a sort of fortified cupboard. A peculiar cabinet adorned with glass bands wrapping about the sides and over the semi-circular top. Three metal cupboards, then in the corner some sort of stand. Then another of the 'fridge' cupboards, but this one painted with a picture of a bottle in red and gold. Next to Haines, a table supported one of the terminals and what looked like alchemical gear.

“You're up then,” says he, “Let's see what Moira has in store for us.”

One unpleasant breakfast later and we start walking south towards Megaton, through the ruins of a town Haines identified as Springvale. Further confirmation came from a red board outside what used to be a school. “I stay away from it,” says Haines, “raiders.”

We walk on down the crumbled road between blackened skeletons of buildings. “Something's eating you,” says I at last, “what?”

Haines just ignores me and walks towards some sort of sheltered bench and sits down.

“Before...” he begins slowly, “you told me I was some sort of... champion.”

“Probably,” says I.

“And you spoke of being tricked into coming here,” says he.

“Read my lips,” says I, then once he's looking I say: “Curious crows caress cows crunching cabbages.”

And his forehead furrows. “Say that again?”

So I do.

“Translation... magic, right?”

“Right. We didn't know until that raider bungled through. Zenithar for some reason wanted us to understand you people, and then there's the fact that that girl managed to escape her bonds and four armed men. If that doesn't mean Divine intervention I'll eat my helm.”

“But what does it mean?” Haines pulled off his helm and ran his fingers through what little hair he had, ruining his combover. “You make it sound like we're in some sort of battle for humanity's survival!”

“Could be,” says I. “I think there's people who want to wind the clock back to before the war. But you can't.” No more than I could save Emperor Uriel. Or Martin.

“I suppose you're right there,” says he, “but what about rebuilding?”

“That's learning from your mistakes,” says I, “not trying to undo history. I'm a bit of a scholar in my spare time – and I've been going through history books recently. One guy, Likao, wrote it best: All roads back to 'the golden age' lead through a slaughterhouse.”

And we digest that in silence.

“I'd like to finish off Moira's guide before I find father,” Haines says at last, “I want a success to show him.”

So that's it. Evidently he must have been a disappointment when he was younger.

“Can I be honest?” About time. “Guess how old I am.”

Huh? “When we met, I'd have pegged you at around late thirties,” says I at last.

“Nineteen.”

“Don't joke, Haines!”

“I wasn't,” says he grimly. “I'm nineteen now and I'll be twenty on the fifteenth of November. I lost my hair because I made a mistake in my hair dye formula.”

“Hair dye.”

“Hair dye,” Haines replied grimly. “And that was a year ago.”

We walk to Megaton. There's more to Haines and his dad than a hair dye gone wrong, I'm sure of it. But now when I look at Haines I see not an arrogant snot, but a genuinely lost young man trying to prove himself to his father.

Wellaway, that's what I'd help him to do!

As if I had a choice.

-o-o-o-o-

“You know, I think I've found a new way to prepare Radroach meat,” Moira was saying as we entered, musing over something hideous on a plate. “Still tastes like old feet, though.” Eugh. “Anyway, what's up with you?” She looked up and blinked.

“Ah, Moira,” Haines said breezily, “What's next for the Guide?”

“Okay!” And her eyes twinkled. “Now, I've written up your information about the mole rats, so that leaves information on mirelurks and how to handle being injured.”

“What is a mirelurk?” asks I, “I know we saw one glomp that rat head, but I didn't see all that much.”

“Hope it got tummy ache,” Moira muttered, then spoke up. “You want to do that? Knowing more about them can help people learn to avoid, or even outsmart them. They're vicious in a fight, or so I'm told, but there's more to them than attacking anything that approaches. Like, what do they do in their nests when they're alone? How're their societies set up? That kind of thing.”

And she puts this round thing on the counter with little whiskery bits sticking out.

“So I picked up this observer device to study them in their natural habitat. I need you to hide one in one of the spawning pods in their lairs.”

“Sounds fair,” says I, “got any place in mind?”

“I recommend the nest at the Anchorage War Memorial. I knew a trader who talked about the Mirelurks down there. Just go inside and find one of their spawning pods, probably down near the water. Put this observer inside, and get out quietly.”

“And not get seen,” is my intelligent surmise.

“Exactly! If they do, they'll attack, and if you kill any Mirelurks inside their nest, it could ruin the validity of the study!”

“All right then,” says Haines, “Ra'jirra can go play with the mirelurks and I'll help you with the injury part.”

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“You know where the memorial is,” says he, “and there's a door over the far side, facing the Tepid Sewers. I... looked inside when hunting mole rats –”

Picked the lock, eh? I can tell these things. No doubt a skill his dad disapproves of.

“– and there were mirelurks in there, and I think spawning pods too. Just sneak in and out.”

“All right,” says I, and to be honest I realised that Haines and I needed time apart again. Also I wanted another look at the memorial.

I also had a loaded die in my sleeve, to go with the observer device now in my hand.

“Oh, and Ra'jirra?”

“Yes, Moira?”

“If the worst comes to the worst, come back here with some serious injuries, maybe a crippled limb or two, and I'll take notes and fix you up!”

And Haines and I stare at her, but she's cheerfully oblivious.

“I'll be waiting here with plenty of bandages for you. So don't worry, and just go get horribly injured. Oh, and be careful!”

And Haines and I stare at each other before I split.

-o-o-o-o-

Moira was like Carandial: bit between the teeth. At the same time there was no way I was going to let a mirelurk bash me up just so a loony shopkeeper could write a book. If Haines was right about that door, I wouldn't get hurt anyway.

“At least I'm not crawling underground today,” says I to myself crossing the bridge to the memorial. Up top, I stopped to peer at a ruined plaque, but couldn't figure it out. I'd just have to ask someone.

Over the eastern side, there was the door as described by Haines. And as I'd suspected, his key was in two parts – I could see the scratches on the locks. I dug into my pockets and extracted the Stealth Boy I'd filched from the Museum of Technology, strapped it on and fired it up. Then I took a deep breath, closed my eyes, opened the Eye of Night and entered.

Inside was a gloomy, damp tunnel that led past sandbag fortifications to a junction, but my eyes were on the monstrosity mooching further down. It looked like a walking mudcrab, complete with waggling mouthparts emerging from a hole in its shell where I assumed its face was.

I crept, looking for anything that might be a spawning pod. I'd eaten mudcrab roe before, but these might be different. I had a horrid vision of slitting open a giant egg and being swarmed by a horde of little nippers.

The mirelurk – must have been – wandered left. I scuttled right.

Beside a grisly pile of refuse sat a pile of what looked like eggs. I fished out the observation device by feel and carefully probed the things. They didn't burst, which made me relax, and they didn't seem loaded with miniature mirelurks. Evidently this would be a fine spawning pod for Moira's purposes. The sounds of approaching steps made me reconsider – this would definitely be a fine pod for Moira's purposes!

The pod was affixed to the ground by a squishy mass; I carefully prised two eggs apart, pressed the observation pod into position between them, then let go. The eggs hid the pod nicely.

I turned and froze. The mirelurk was standing dead centre of the tunnel, mouthparts waggling like mad. Carefully I stepped to the side – there was a light fitting still working, and I wasn't completely invisible. As fast as I dared, I shuffled sideways past the oblivious crab-thing close enough to touch its odoriferous shell. It stank of foul water and rotten meat.

The damned thing turned around as though watching me. I froze. It turned away. I resumed my crabwise flight, freezing again as it creaked in a suspicious fashion, or maybe it was just its now-raised claws. They looked like the beast had two Vvardenfell mudcrabs attached to its arms.

The creature turned and took two steps towards me as I made the corner, faced forward and fled.

I didn't breathe easy until I was outside in the blinding – idiot, close the Eye! – sun, on top of the memorial. Chugging the only drink I had – one of those Nuka-Colas – I looked around.

The Anchorage memorial was on a small, and apparently artificial, island on the northern bank of the river. A yellowish stone bridge had partially collapsed to the east, and beyond there was a faint suggestion of some immense building. Mind you, the builders of Washington seemed to like immense, but there was something about that shadow on the horizon that was different.

The river was flanked by roads, which made sense, and I wondered what it would have looked like when there were automobiles and boats thronging the place. Or maybe they only allowed... oh never mind. Like I said to Haines, what's done is done.

There was, closer to me, a hole in the mortared expanse where I sat; I went and peered in. Stairs and a door. Curiosity near killed the Khajiit, but not today. Instead I found a corpse with a note.

Which was nothing compared to what I found when I returned to Megaton that afternoon.

-o-o-o-o-

There was a throng outside Moira's again. The fact I wasn't the reason was disturbing.

Then Lucas Simms emerged from the crowd, saw me and started down the ramp over the clinic. What the hells?

“Ra'jirra,” says he once he approaches, “I don't think it's a good time to go see Moira.”

“Why?” says I, “what's Haines done?”

“He fell over the railing,” he says grimly. “Moira grabbed him and she's trying to patch him up now.”

“What!” That railing was over twenty feet above the ground! Simms was saying something but I didn't hear it. I was up the railing and barging through the crowd and hammering on the door.

“Simms, go away!” Moira's voice was strained and irritable. “I'm busy!”

The door was locked, but I had learned a thing or two in my time, especially from a chap in Cheydinhal. I channelled my anger into the lock and was pleased to hear it pop open. And I fling the door wide and there's Moira with a limping and somewhat resigned-looking Haines behind her.

“What the hells is going on?” is my quite understandable enquiry.

Neither of them replied, but Moira looked a little guilty for some reason.

“Nothing,” says she, “Haines and I were discussing handling injuries, especially crippling ones.”

“So she led me outside and pointed out where some drunk had fallen off the edge and broken his leg,” Haines butts in irritably. “I'm looking down, when, well, I must have... slipped and...” he shrugs, “over I went.”

And I just look at him. “You're taking it very well,” says I.

“Like I told Moira,” says he grimly, “Pain's an abstract. You have to stay focussed on the definable things, like survival.”

“Really? I tend to be like other people. Pain hurts me. Speaking of healing, how's your healing spell coming along?”

“Ah. I hadn't tried that.” He set his face into a mask of concentration and a dubious little silver shine shuffled up his arm.

Moira watched Haines demonstrate his lack of progress, fished out another pair of stimpacks and advanced on him. “How's that?” she asked after skewering his leg at knee and ankle.

“Foul ball,” says he for some reason, “but I can feel them meeting halfway. In fact,” and he stands up and walks around without limping all, “I'd say everything's knit back together just fine.”

“Great,” says she, “and for being a good sport, take this environment suit. It'll help with medical treatment as well as protecting against radiation.” And she hands him a bulky yellowish mass of wrinkly fabric with a built-in helm.

“Very good,” says Haines looking doubtfully at several strips of silvery stuff stuck to one elbow, “anyway, Ra'jirra, how did you find the mirelurks?”

“I went to the Anchorage Memorial and there they were.” I wait for Haines to finish rolling his eyes. “Oh – I found this note. Would you believe people were trying to farm them?”

“Really?” Moira perked right up – bit between the teeth, or did I already say that? “So, are they intelligent? Did they revolt or something? Do they have a leader? Some sort of king? Or priests? Or some sort of scaly community centre?”

“Scaly...” Moira's bouncing on her feet. Unbelievable. “More like a crab's shell. That's what they look like to me – like giant mudcrabs.”

“Scylla serrata horrendus,” intones Haines.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“You're probably right about their ancestors being crabs,” says he, “I'd name them scylla serrata horrendus.”

“That is so intelligent sounding!” Moira's eyes sparkled while Haines suppressed a groan. “I'll just get you to spell that for the book, and then I'll write it up with all the data I'm getting from the module. Great work, Ra'jirra!”

“Did you turn yourself invisible?” Haines asked with a faint smirk.

“I like Stealth Boys,” says I. And I do.

“Well, if you like them, you'll love what's next on the list!” And she fishes out another piece of machinery, this one a squarish box with all sorts of cords and things hanging off it.

“Old technology again?” Haines' enthusiasm sounded forced. “Sounds interesting.”

“It does, doesn't it?” Moira didn't notice, waggling her prize. “I mostly just deal with it after it's junked. But a trader gave me this RobCo processor widget. He said it's worth a fortune!”

And I look at this boxy chunk of machine guts and remember a heavily guarded helm. It wasn't what the thing was but what it did.

“According to him, if it's connected to the mainframe in the RobCo factory, you could have access to all the robots you'd ever want! Now that would be a great example of how to harness technology, wouldn't it?”

“Just plug it in and go? We can do that, can't we Ra'jirra?”

“I suppose,” says I still peering at the thing, “Haines can stop me sticking it in upside down.”

“Yeah, you should just be able to plug it into the mainframe at the RobCo production facility,” and my feeble jest went over her head and splat on the wall. “It'll give you access to the robots and terminals. And be sure to keep an eye peeled for any other examples of how to make old technology work for you out there!”

“Of course,” Haines said too cheerfully as he took the thing, “In fact, we'll set off right away.”

I didn't have time for an intelligent response before Haines was hustling me out of the shop, out of town, and didn't stop babbling about robots and such until we were attacked by mole rats a hundred feet south of Megaton.

“Haines,” I asked as politely as you can when butchering soggy-looking giant rats, “just what the hells is going on? You just broke your damn leg in an accident and now you're hauling me off to mess with robots!”

“It wasn't an accident,” Haines said quietly over his rat.

“Come again?” was my intelligent response.

“It wasn't an accident, she pushed me.”

And I stand there catching flies. Well, as it turned out, a fly – one of those immense bloatflies that always look like they're drowning.

“Can we get on?” Haines asked after it was swatted, “I'd like to get the hell away from that mad criso.”

After about two seconds' consideration I decided not to teach Moira any magic. She was dangerous enough without it.

Ooooh, those molerats just outside Megaton are right by the hollowed out rock !!

I think Haines cared less about potentially hollow rocks and more about getting the HELL away from the mad criso!

ROFL!!! Never too busy to loot, lol.

[Oogh, been way too long. Had a bout of writer's block, and mild amnesia, and New Vegas, and elephant strangling in rum for all I know. Still, this little chapter finally got written, so...]

28 August 2277: A Night in RobCo

“Just stop the fargnaxing things!” I screamed at Haines, straining to keep the chamber's door closed. The protectron inside was attempting to pull the door open, and its laser shots were starting to burn my hands. There was also an interesting burnt-wood smell coming from the door and the desk I'd hauled in front of it.

The previous night's travel had involved sneaking around a pile of buildings Haines identified as Fairfax, before heading south towards one of those elevated roads they call 'free ways'. Despite our best attempts at stealth, we had still attracted the attention of the residents, and I put my new toy to good use.

After my less than impressive performance in the orrery, Haines had relieved me of the pistol and given me what he called a hunting rifle – actually a collection of salvaged parts from myriad rifles. Looking at it reminded me of a particularly confusing discussion with Daelin about a boat: If you just kept replacing bits as they fell off, until you'd replaced every part, did you still have the same boat you started with?

This rifle was much the same and, more importantly, a great improvement over the pistol. I could use it like a crossbow, braced against my shoulder, which meant better accuracy. And while it was slower to fire – again, like a crossbow – it did more damage when it hit. As I tend to like doing as much damage as possible to foes, of course I was well pleased with Haines' wisdom. This time anyway.

Sorry. Back to the story.

What happened was that one of Fairfax's resident raiders saw us and raced out to meet us, toting an enormous weapon on his shoulder. Ernie gaped and dived for cover, while I aimed my rifle and fired.

I missed the lidgie's head, but shot off a chunk of his weapon in a shower of sparks. The silly sod yelled with rage, dropped it, and came after us with a knife. And there we were with guns. Brave but suicidal.

“Nice shot,” says Ernie as he picked up the weapon, “shame you wrecked the trigger mechanism.”

“What is it?” is my intelligent response.

Turns out it was called a 'missile launcher', a bit like a cut-down Fat Man but using rounds that weren't lobbed, but actually burned fuel to race to their targets before exploding. Think of it as a mechanical version of Enemies Explode.

And guess who got to lug that trophy all the way to RobCo and back to Megaton?

Anyway, once away from Fairfax and on the road it was a straight run towards the hulk of the RobCo factory – a grim grey pile. Apart from the name emblazoned on the flank of the building, it stood unadorned and serious. Earth people took their workplaces seriously.

Inside the place teemed with vermin, and as expected more robots, but these were apparently tumbled lifeless where they had stood. Not majestic like Haines had promised.

“What the hell?” Haines muttered, poking at one. “I can't get it to reboot.”

“Get it to what?” is my intelligent response.

“Reboot... to boot up... start.”

“What, you kick it or something?”

“No, no! It's... oh, never mind. Let's keep looking.”

So we had. Eventually we'd found a set of offices, and on the top floor a room containing an immense blocky machine festooned with little lights and switches – and a built-in terminal. Off to one side, a cylinder held another protectron, erect but apparently just as lifeless as the others.

“The mainframe!” Haines said happily, then pointed to a slot in one side of the blocky thing. “And the gizmo goes in there.”

“I thought it was a widget.”

“It's a left-handed gonkulator for all I know! Hand it over.”

So I did and he carefully plugged all the plugs in before ramming it home. As it clicked into position, several more lights came on. About ten seconds later, a laser blast smacked into the mainframe casing over our heads.

We gaped at the scorch mark, then back at the entrance. The protectron which we had stepped over outside was now upright, very much functional – and aggressive.

“The door!” Haines yelled, and I agreed. I hugged a wall, darting out and slamming the door shut, then strained to pull a desk across it. “Haines!”

“I'm busy!” he yelled back in a strained voice with added metallic thumping. Looking over my shoulder I realised the protectron in the cylinder had also come to life – and was just as angry!

Desperation lent me strength as I shoved the desk far enough to block the door, then raced over to help Ernie, who was losing the fight. “Hold it!” yells he, “I'll try to shut these things down!”

So there we were. I was getting burnt hands, while Haines was getting frantic. It was probably only a minute, but it felt like a year, as glowing spots formed on the cylinder, burn spots formed on the door, and finally Haines cried out with joy.

“I'm in!”

“Well turn them off!” screams I.

“I'm doing that! No wait...” The protectron stopped firing, but there were shots outside, some distance away. “Let go, Ra'jirra, they're safe now.”

So I let go, arms screaming with relief, and watch the robot lurch out, ignoring us completely, stopping before the barricade. “Maintenance – required,” says it, “Furniture – malfunction. Vermin – removal – incomplete.”
“I switched programs,” says Haines, “They're now running pest control routines.”

“What if they decide we're pests?” asks I, quite reasonably.

“They won't,” says Haines smugly, “because they're robots. They can only do what they're programmed to do – which in this case is exterminate rats and roaches. We're not rats or roaches, so they'll just complain if we get in the way.”

And so I find myself with Haines pulling the desk out of the road. The machine lurched towards the door, then opened it, revealing a one-sided battle between another protectron and a pair of radroaches.

“See?” Haines exulted as we walked, bold as brass, past more protectrons, all apparently obsessed with hunting down vermin. “They don't even care we're here.”

“Vermin – eradication – in progress,” one of the machines intoned, “Please – return to – your station.”

“Except if we get in the way, of course,” adds he as we pass on, pausing in the breakroom as two turrets turned a selection of mole rats and radroaches into unappetising barbecue.

“Warning!” Another protectron lurched up to us. “You are – not – RobCo personnel! - This is a – staff only – area! - Please follow me to – reception!”

And Haines looks at me, says, “basic security program”, and what do we do? Follow the robot back to the reception area!

-o-o-o-o-

Overall, there are four basic types of robot which I ended up being shot at by during my time on Earth.
The protectrons were the first sort. They're sturdy, clumsy, but they have lasers in both claws and their heads. They also make a nice noise when they fall down.

Then there's the floating balls – if they have fairly shiny silver paint jobs, they're called Mister Handys and talk with snooty accents. If they're green, they're the army version known as Mister Gutsys and talk like some halfwit tiro destined for the Ninth. However, they have those evil bloody saws, spout fire if you get too close, and the Mister Gutsys have an additional gun. So they're more dangerous than a tiro from the Ninth.

If you see a big metal barrel with fat snakelike arms and a brain beneath a dome, you've the misfortune to meet a Robobrain. They not only shoot with lasers (again) but can fire some sort of concussing beam. Duck, weave and run.

And then there are the sentry-bots. On three wheels, a head sunk into its shoulders, toting truly terrifying firepower in heavy armour. Your options are simple: Avoid being seen or die. The other option requires truly devastating firepower.

Their main weakness is shock, since apparently the things harness shock energies to function. Just be careful since sometimes they explode.

Like Dwemer animunculi, they don't have souls, so don't waste soul trap on them.

-o-o-o-o-

“And so we went home,” says I back at Moira's the next day.

“Which is the main problem with the robots,” says Haines, “they can only respond as their programming allows them to. Since they don't have any real ability to learn from the past, and most of the programming knowledge has been lost...”

Except mine, I can tell what he's not saying. But I recall his panicky breathing and a whimpering of goddamnit where the farg is the shutoff option among other incantations. Playing with a strange computer isn't a sensible thing to do under fire.

But Moira just sighs. “Well, they're only human.” Then she blinks. “Err, well, made by humans.” And her brain stalls. “Well, probably manufactured by other robots, but you know where I'm going with this.”

Well of course I do! They're just the local version of a Dwemer animunculus.

“Still, seems like a good thing to watch for when dealing with tech of any age. And it helps to pack a few pulse grenades, just in case. Here, have a few for your next mission. Oh, and speaking of books–”

And I look at Haines and he looks at me and yep, Moira's lost us both.

“Oh, and take my book on science,” and she hands Haines an enormous hard-bound volume entitled The Big Book of Science. “For some reason, I just can't get into the computer parts, but I've got the rest pretty much memorized.”

“Here,” Haines gives it to me! “You might find it interesting. Now, Moira, you were saying something else about books?” Such as an entire paragraph that fell out of your previous statements?

“Yes,” and there's fire in her eyes again. “Books are where the old world kept its knowledge, and libraries are where it kept the books. And there's supposed to be one in Arlington.”

And Haines forgets the snarky remark he was about to make and pricks his ears up. So do I. I'd like to see an Earth library.

“See if it's still there, and if you can download records from its computer. Information dumps like those would be invaluable for rebuilding humanity!”

“I quite agree,” Haines replied with genuine excitement, “In fact, what are we waiting for? Why, we might find a book like yours there!”

And Moira just smiles. “Ours,” says she, “and it won't mention exploding mole rats, will it?”

Another fun episode of the Ra'jirra show!

“Just stop the fargnaxing things!”
This reminds me of Johnny Dangerously - Farging Iceholes! Now I am wondering if Haines is toting an .88 Magnum to shoot through Springvale Elementary School with!

And Haines looks at me, says, “basic security program”, and what do we do? Follow the robot back to the reception area!
This is simply brilliant!

“Well, probably manufactured by other robots, but you know where I'm going with this.”
I just love Moira. She is probably my favorite NPC in FO3.

[And here I am resuming where I left off. There's still a whack of catchup writing to do, but thanks to a desperate fanfiction.net plea to continue, I intend to do so. Therefore...]
30 August 2277: A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Library

I woke in some pain on a suspiciously stained mattress in an office converted into a mad scientist's laboratory. The madness of said scientist was obvious when she pulled out a missile launcher and actually used it. I suspect use in enclosed spaces was forbidden in the instructions. I would forbid it. Because even a near-miss from the damn things really, really hurts.

“Thanks again Doc,” says I to Haines, who just shrugs modestly.

“Three cheers for modern flak armour, eh?” says he, “but then again, what sort of nut fires that sort of thing at close range?”

I'm fairly used to seeing dead people when I wake – when you're crawling through crypts or whatever, you can't be choosy about your neighbours – but there was something about the expression on the woman's head, over and above the fact it was skewered on a broken light fitting twelve feet away from the torso, that disturbed me. Somehow she looked less shocked than offended.

“Here's what I found anyway,” Haines went on, “apparently she called herself 'The Surgeon'. She was working on mind control implants – all the ghouls and mutants in here were her slaves.” What she'd done, apparently, was make little machines and place them into her victim's brains. Once inside, they either forced you to do things, or prevented you from doing them. Like leading a revolt against the tyrannical umbrella seller who butchered your brain.

Offing an evil scientist wasn't on our agenda when we entered the Red Racer factory, but it soon became needed when we realised the ghouls that had colonised it were acting strange. Less out of bloodthirstiness than curiosity, we made our way through the maze and up to the highest levels, where the offices were. As always, the lord high mucky-mucks prefer to be far above those lads who actually do any useful work.

Once there, Haines had done something to a terminal in an office which had made the super mutants hanging around grab their heads before pitching over, stone dead, bleeding from ears, eyes, nose and mouth. It was after that when we met The Surgeon and stopped her from extending her experimentation to people – especially me and Ernie!

All of which was the finale of a reasonably interesting trip south from Megaton. Our plan was to skirt the DC Ruins by going south and then around to Arlington, following a major roadway.

Along the route, we encountered a man fleeing Grayditch. He was scared out of his wits, but he did mention that 'things' had overrun the place. Suited us just fine. We weren't going there anyway.

Screams later drew us to where two late people had been attacked by a slightly less late raider. While inspecting the bodies, Haines frowned, and started poking at the elaborate collars the victims wore.

“There's electronics in here,” says he, “and something...” and he sniffs suspiciously before gasping. “Explosive!”

“Exploding collars?” asks I.

“Slaves, I bet,” says he, “no better fence than one that'll kill you if you step out of line.”

I looked at the dirty face of the slave I was searching. She might have been pretty, if not for the dirt, the signs of abuse and starvation. If I met any slavers Imperial justice would be their last meal.

“What's this?” Ernie pulled a paper out of his slave's rags. Sure enough, mine also had a piece of paper. On it were instructions and a map to The Temple of the Union, whatever that was.

“Ra'jirra.” Ernie sounded tense, looking over my shoulder. “Let's get out of here.”

And so I follow him to Donny's bridge redoubt. Donny wasn't there, and the two nasty-looking men milling about near the slaves weren't either, so we put our looted papers together and compared notes.

“It looks like this Temple of the Union is devoted to stamping out slavery,” observes Haines, somehow putting the coordinates of the place into his Pip-Boy.

“Like the Twin Lamps in Morrowind?” asks I.

Haines just looks at me as though about to be scornful, then stops and nods. “Could be.” And then he points. “See that factory south of here? I was intending to explore it when I found you.”

“Really,” says I.

“Yes, we can shelter in there by nightfall. Have a look around, see if there's anything interesting inside.”

Well, we did find both, I suppose.

-o-o-o-o-

Later that morning we ate a rough breakfast – cereal sticks in my teeth, and Nuka-Cola isn't a decent substitute for milk – and headed off, down a ramp that led to the road to Arlington.

There's nothing like a raider attack to get your heart pumping. I could think of better ways to get my heart pumping, of course, but S'jirra was very far away.

The road wasn't just a road – it was a major thoroughfare, four lanes across. Four lanes of traffic, not just jammed, but crushed where the bombs had caught them. No doubt the terrified passengers had simply abandoned their vehicles and fled to whatever safety a nearby metro station promised.

“Must be the Arlington station,” Haines remarked as we passed between it and the wrecks.

I wandered over to what looked like a map and eyed it. I soon recognised the words 'Museum' – that would be the Museum of History – 'Vernon Square' – that was where Ernie had wanted to run off to Vault-Tec – 'Arlington' was over to the left on the white line, and between it and 'Metro Central' was...
“Foggy Bottom?”

“What?” was Haines' intelligent response.

“Is that station really called Foggy Bottom?”

“It's not obviously painted on after the fact,” Haines eyed the map, “so I do believe it was. So?”

“You realise I'm going to have to start calling the Imperial Council chambers that, right?”

Haines just got a pained expression. “Don't tell me. I do not want to know. At. All.”

“And as for the Champeen of...” and I trail off and point.

The target of my pointing was hanging from one of the arches on a walkway across the road, where it dipped eastwards. A turret. Underneath it was a man. Neither looked friendly.

We bolted northwards into the concealment provided by the building next to the metro as we took a closer look. The turret was bad enough, as was the raider beneath it. Over the walkway was a serious-looking fortified encampment. One whispered discussion later, we both agreed that taking on an entire raider camp was not the way to go, and with Stealth Boys armed, we crept around, back north to where rubble made a handy ramp, then hauled tails east to where a building reminiscent of the museums stood, forlornly watching the fleeing sun. If this was Arlington, then we had almost made the library.

“What?”

A lone Talon spun around, looking for us. honoured user heard our footsteps.

“Where?”

He drew his gun, still looking about wildly as we skidded to a halt. There are ways to avoid being spotted and running full tilt into an enemy isn't one of them.

So we put his mind at ease – all right, eternal rest – and collapsed at the doorway, getting our breath back as the Stealth Boys ran out. As that nice young man had lent us his duds, we took the time to fix the worst of the Surgeon's handiwork, along with that of the raiders, before entering the library proper.

[And we continue. Now I have to get the lads to Rivet City in two pieces - one each.]
A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Library pt II

There are things you don't expect to happen in a library and having weapons stuck up your nose by blokes in heavy armour is one of them.

“Hold it right there...” one armoured dork started off, then got a decent look at me. Furry face and Ayleid plate on a Talon backing obviously wasn't your typical sight. “Hey, wait a minute, aren't you that mutie –”

“I am not a mutant, s'wit!” spat I. S'wit is a very fine Dunmeri epithet, especially made for spitting. Doubly so if you have teeth like mine.

“Sorry,” and he lowers his gun, his off-sider following suit.

“Doctor Haines?” This came from a woman in a sort of cross between a robe and a jacket, reddish with chunky trim. It actually looked quite fetching – those Earth tailors again. “I am Scribe Yearling, of the Brotherhood of Steel. Order of the Word. What do you want here?”

“We're searching for records from the library,” says Haines, “as part of a research project.”

And Yearling just looks at us. “It seems that we have similar goals in mind. It's rare to meet someone who has proper priorities... although I doubt you will find your father here.” And she continues to look at Haines. “No matter how emotional you get.”

And Haines just goes all red. Of course their offsiders at Galaxy News Radio would pass the news around about his little tizzy.

“Now then,” she goes on, “Let me explain what I'm supposed to be doing here.” And then she pauses and winces at the distant sounds of gunfire and crashing from further inside. If Tar-Meena were there, she'd be on the warpath immediately.

“My task here is to collect the written works of those who came before in order to supplement the Brotherhood Archives at the Citadel. Although most of the pre-war books have been destroyed, there are a few that have survived. But finding a book in these ruins is...”

“You'd like us to turn in any that we find,” is my intelligent response.

“Precisely,” says she, “The collected knowledge of a lost age is worth far more than any weapon. So, return here with any books that you find in good condition.” And she flinches as a loud bang shakes everything. “However, you might like to wait until we fix our little problem here.”

“Problem?”

“We're short-handed at the moment, and there's a pack of raiders bailed up in the back. It's the usual – booby traps, mines, close quarters and those psychos know the place better than we do.”

“Well, far be it from us to interfere,” says Haines, “and we will be sure to pass along any legible books we find. Oh, by the way,” and his eyes slide to the one working terminal at what must have been the main library desk, “is that the access to the library's archives?”

“The front desk computer has access to the card catalogues, but it appears that it's lost the connection to the main archives out the back. Here's the password,” and she rattles off a string of letters and numbers.

“Well, it appears we have to lend a hand,” says Haines pompously, “Well then, Ra'jirra, shall we reconnect the archives?”

“Do I have a choice?” groans I.

“Good luck,” grins Yearling.

Once, I guess, the library was full of books, and people reading them, light and colour. Now it was dull, burnt and blackened. And, increasingly, bullet-pocked.

In a two-level chamber big enough to swallow the Mystic Archives whole, three lumbering Brotherhood soldiers were more or less pinned down by twice as many raiders, who made up for a lack of armour with nimbleness. So we looked at each other and agreed to let them have their fun while we snuck around the edge of the fight, looking for another way in.

It wasn't hard to find. What was left of the plate above the door read '..HIV...S S...F ON...' which our great brains decided was destroyed for 'Archives Staff Only'. As we needed access to the archives, and there were no staff available, we let ourselves in.

Right behind the door was a stair leading upwards. For some reason I was expecting them to plunge into the basement, don't ask me why.

Anyway, up the stairs we crept, then Haines stopped and stared at the floor. There were a number of large balls in front of a doorway opening onto a hall, and just beyond the doorway more balls surrounded some sort of square cushion and a wooden club.

“Baseball practice?” murmurs Haines suspiciously.

“What's baseball when it's at home?” murmurs I back.

Haines just pointed out a lifted part of the floor – which, suspiciously enough, sat right across the doorway and couldn't be stepped or jumped across. I mimed poking it with a stick. Haines nodded, but instead of using a stick, he plopped a frag mine on top of it.

Sure enough, when the thing hit the floor something clunked, and the next thing I knew balls were flying past the doorway!

“Wouldn't want to be hit by those,” Haines murmurs to me, “I used to play as a kid, and I speak from experience with the old beanball.” And he mimes getting hit in the head, which I understood at once. I'd played a similar sort of game in my youth, except we didn't have fancy bats or balls. We used branches and dead rats. And you know all about it when you get a dead rat in the mush.

The rain of balls stopped, and we listen to voices approaching down the hall.

“I tolya we should've left the futtin' thing alone!”

“So? Can't you hear those clankers out there? We check it out and blow their futtin' tin heads off. This is our turf. We're the motherfuttin' Bad News Bears!”

Subsequently one of them got some very bad news of his own when our mine blew his legs off. His partner screamed with surprise and rage at that, and... Well, really, you'd think, seeing they were in a library, they'd check out some books on combat strategies. Charging directly into two sets of gunfire with knife in hand isn't very effective.

I blame Grognak the Barbarian myself. Bad influence.

Apart from a set of privies there was nothing else of interest aside from the “pitching machine” on this level. Haines pointed to it. “Brings back memories of baseball practice,” says he, “bat in hand and waiting for the coach to rev it up and send a ball my way.”

The contraption had a little holder for balls and fed them between two wheels that could spit a ball out at up to fifty miles per hour, apparently. Haines claimed that some pitchers could throw a ball even faster. I just nodded and wondered what would happen if you fed a dead rat through it.

“I was crap at baseball,” Haines then added and kicked it over. “Let's go.”

The rest of our quest for archives was relatively dull. At one point there were turrets, and a Brotherhood soldier who'd got cut off and obviously didn't listen to GNR. Therefore we had to act in self-defence.

The barricades and such became less elaborate and more desperate as we pushed onward. I got the impression that Scribe Yearling and Company had only recently arrived, and with the only exit effectively blocked, the Bad News Bears were preparing for a last stand.

And there was something else. Surely the better equipped and armoured Brotherhood of Steel was able to simply rumble through and bowl the opposition? Yet they seemed to have fought to a standstill already.

I mentioned this to Haines as he bent over a working terminal, but all he did was raise a hand and continue alternately typing gibberish symbols and potential passwords. Eventually he sighed in triumph as he found it and got in.

“Turret controls,” mutters he, then deactivated them; the chirps from the next room over ceased. “Few less dangers now. We must be close.”

We were. More voices emerged from a room off a collapsed hallway.

“I say we take down as many of those futters we can, we break for it and hit the Alexandria Arms 'cross the road there, we get those guys on our side an'–” And about this time Mister Panicky stopped because someone punched him in the mouth.

“We ain't goin' nowhere, an' specially not the futtin' 'Lexandria!” This man wasn't so much panicky as angry. “Firs' off, tha's Butcher turf, an' Butcher don' like us, an' we don' have anythin' to bargain wit'. Secon', know who you're talkin' to?”

There was a mumble.

“Damn straight. You're talkin' to the Bear. An' the Bear don' run, he fight an' he win! An' we were here firs', an' those clankers an' tha' criso with 'em're gonna learn. Futtin' wit' the Bear means bad news. Why the fut you think we're called the Bad News Bears, dumbass?”

Now a harpy's voice cut in. “You want me to roast yellow-boy here?”

'Yellow-boy' apparently made a frightened noise, because Bear and the harpy both laughed. “Naw,” Bear says, “I got a better idea. Get up, meat!” And there's the sound of a man being hauled to his feet with extra smacks about the chops. “Take this, guard the entrance. Yo' got the turret on your side, so you're safe. Unless you don' shif' yo boat, 'cos then I'll fut you up mysel'! Got it?”

Evidently he had. Haines fished out another mine and carefully placed it in the doorway, then we retired to a shady corner, unlike the frightened 'Yellow-boy'. He was so scared of Bear, he didn't notice the tell-tale light until it was too late for his left foot. I pointed my rifle, Haines drew his pistol, and in three shots the hapless raider was dead as mutton.

Notice was served. From the angry noises down the hallway Bear and his doxy weren't happy. “C'mon cullyholes!” roared he, “This's Bear turf, an' on my turf the Bear Mess wit' you!”

Oh what magnificent speechifying. On the other hand, neither he nor his lady friend were coming to greet us, so we crept towards them. Haines sensibly bent to place yet another landmine in the doorway to Bear's den.

A belch of fire exploded the mine almost as soon as it hit the ground.

So there I am hauling Haines, now sporting burns, a shattered arm, and an equally shattered faceplate, back down the hallway. A hard-faced woman stalks out the door beyond us, and I haul up the first spell I can think of: my custom shock spell I call Discharge.

The sparks not only brought us some time, but somehow set the weapon she was using off. I dumped Haines in a corner and went for my mace while practicing off-hand casting again. Whatever her weapon was, it seemed to be a blackened hose attached to a container on her back, but she needed both hands to work it. Which meant that she couldn't deflect the blow I landed, dislocating her left elbow.

My return swing landed right at the point where the spine meets the skull, snapping it.

Then the Bear landed a few shots of his own. Just flesh wounds, but painful enough that I dropped my mace for the umpteenth time. Dropping my mace is a bad habit I'm trying to wean myself from.

What I could see through the door was that a makeshift barricade of tables, machines and other debris had been set up inside the room, forcing anyone entering to run a gauntlet around one side in order to get within striking distance. Then I dived out of the way as another set of shots attempted to put more holes in me. I've been hit by spells, arrows, axes, clubs, swords, bloody great hammers, and more sets of teeth and claws than I can count, and frankly bullet wounds are the worst.

So there I am calling on Stendarr again and grasping for my rifle when an idea comes to me.

The ghost appeared in the doorway, causing Bear to ask, quite understandably, “What the fut?” before discovering that bullets aren't much chop against the undead. I then grasped for the image of a scamp in my mind, and with an effort pulled the little beast into the world. The little daedra scampered after the ghost as I got my breath back, readied my rifle and followed the loudest yells.

Bear was an upside-down triangle of meat wrapped up in bits of metal, with a pair of ham-hocks clamped about what looked like a fat rifle with a round box hanging off it. It didn't half make an almighty bang when it went off, and I noticed that instead of one hole in the wall, it left several.

“Fut!” screamed he as the ghost remained not only unaffected, but smacked him again with a frost spell. Earth people seem to like that word. He said it again when the scamp finally got a clear shot in and warmed him up again a little too fast.

Then I lined up the shot and cracked his helm just as the ghost finally dissipated. He looked at me, went to raise his gun, and I popped another one right in his left eyeball.

I was actually aiming for his right.

The scamp stopped attacking, stretched, yawned and scratched itself, which was a fairly obvious hint that the Bear was dead. Speaking of dead, I hurried back out to check on Haines.

“So nice of you to visit,” Haines says to me irritably, “And how are our new friends?”

“Sick,” says I laconically, “they've all come down with a bad case of dead.”

“They have my well wishes,” lies he, “they owe me about six bloody stimpacks and a bottle of Buffout.”

And he flexes his arm and winces in pain, but I'll tell you what, those stimpacks are amazing. If it wasn't for needing to be injected they could give potions a run for their money.

Anyhow, off we went to see what was in the Bear's den, Haines giving the woman a kick as he passed. Rifling through cabinets and drawers netted us some ammunition and bottle-caps, and the weapons were always going to be added to our burdens, but it was the lone working terminal that was the true prize.

“Jackpot!” Haines exclaims, “It's the main archive computer! Now,” and he rattles away, “Okay... archives... hmm... ah!” and he looks at me all triumphant. “The connection to the front desk is restored. So let's head back there and get them downloaded!”

“Why not do it here?” is my common-sense response.

“No place to plug in my Pip-Boy,” explains he. Oh.

Thanks to an excess of exploration and a fragile bit of flooring, we ended up having to fight our way through the children's section. The raiders had been using the place as a dormitory. At one point Haines picked up a well-thumbed but legible volume and showed me the cover. A set of feisty children wielding baseball gear. The title was The Bad News Bears. Cute.

“You're back,” Scribe Yearling responded upon seeing us, “and I notice the shooting's stopped. I take it from your expression you were successful?”

Haines found a pry-bar and removed the smug look off his mush.

“Of course,” says he, and sits down at the front desk terminal. “Observe.”

And away he rattles that keyboard, and Yearling watches over his shoulder as the screen fills with – “The archives!” gasps she, “You found them!”

“That we did,” Haines replies as he extracts a little cable out of one side of his Pip-Boy and plugs it into a hole in front of the terminal, “I'll just take a copy for myself and Moira Brown.”

“Moira Brown?” one of the Brotherhood soldiers pipes up, “the Mad Scientist of Megaton?”

Evidently she had a bit of a reputation.

“I take it this Moira Brown sent you on this research project of yours,” Yearling observes. She apparently hadn't heard of Moira or her reputation.

“Yes,” Haines says, looking at the screen which is now showing an ever-growing string of dots, “She and I are researching a survival guide.”

“Oh, I found a book. Apparently the old tenants named themselves after these guys.” I hand her the storybook.

“The Bad News Bears,” she murmurs, “Well... we do take orphans in sometimes. This would be a good story to tell them. Follow me,” and she walks over to a lockbox and pulls out a long string with caps on it. “There,” says she, “one hundred caps payment as promised.”

I just hoped caps with holes in them were valid currency, and was about to say so when we heard a loud beep from Haines' position. And he looked back at us, said, “Never seen that before,” and held up his Pip-Boy. The screen showed an unhappy and bilious Vault-Boy with a bulging stomach. The legend read PIP-BOY MEMORY NEARLY FULL! Remove files to free up space and improve performance.

“All done,” says he, “Now let's go home and get some reading in, shall we?”

“I will send an envoy to Moira to discuss an arrangement with her,” Yearling adds as we head out the door.

“And I'll make another copy on my home terminal for my private use,” Haines mutters to me as we turn right and prepare to slink upriver to the Super-Duper Mart and Springvale.

Ok, caught up with the last two episodes of the Ra'jirra Wasteland Chronicles.

As always, the lord high mucky-mucks prefer to be far above those lads who actually do any useful work.
So true! I love these little observations.

If I met any slavers Imperial justice would be their last meal.
Well said Ra'jirra!

Now it was dull, burnt and blackened. And, increasingly, bullet-pocked.
I think this sums up the entire Capital Wasteland!

We used branches and dead rats.
Ewwww!

Why the fut you think we're called the Bad News Bears, dumbass?
I love the name of the gang! Plus how you tied that in with the pitching machine trap.

I can feel Haine's pain! More than once I have dropped a mine at a corner, and a second later it went off as someone stepped around it!

“Moira Brown?” one of the Brotherhood soldiers pipes up, “the Mad Scientist of Megaton?”
I love how Moira's fame as preceded her! She is probably my favorite NPC in the game.

[@SubRosa: The game was actually even simpler. You got to bat until you hit the rat, instead of either missing or the rat hitting you. So there was a fair bit of dodging.

This next part really took time to work out. Inevitably the guildies would find him, but for now Ra'jirra's off to Rivet City with a lilt in his step and a jubilant scream in his craw.]

1 September 2277: A Taste of Home

Haines was drooling on the keyboard, dead to the world, when I finally awoke, went down to his basement workshop and checked on him. His Pip-Boy was still morbidly obese, but the file transfer was complete, if I read the text aright. As well as an option to access the archive file, there were several 'blog' entries dated back what I guessed was almost a year – before Haines had supposedly come out of that Vault.

Out of altruism, I picked up Haines and laid him on the bed next to the ladder. Out of curiosity, I figured out the right key presses to open up the earliest entry.

It's taken me long enough to get here, but at last I'm out of Big Town. This house is in unbelievable shape, like the original owners just left. Only thing is the raiders in the school. I gotta be careful not to let them see me. Maybe I should board the kitchen door back up.

I'm Ginger, and this is my house.

N)ext entry L)atest entry E)xit

Wherever Big Town was. Evidently Ginger was happy to see the back of the place. If I read the date right, Ginger had come here in 2276 – a year before Haines did. I pressed N and moved on:

Can't find a job in Megaton. There's an old mungo there who runs the plant, but I don't know enough about fixing things to help him. And he spends all day in that place with the machines. That's no fun. I never have fun anymore. I thought leaving Big Town would mean I'd find a place that's more fun.

I'm Ginger and this sucks.

Couldn't argue with that. I wondered what a 'mungo' was, then shrugged and moved to the N)ext entry.

I found two books today! One was red with a man on the cover and funny little pictures instead of writing. I can't figure it out, maybe someone in Megaton can. Mungos are weird.

I also found a little book called Grognak with a picture of a big mungo on the front waving a big axe at a green thing. It was all pictures like a story. I wish I was brave and strong like he was.

Why am I still saying mungo? I'm a mungo now.

I'm Ginger and I hate it.

I wondered if 'mungo' was what residents of Big Town called outsiders. It didn't sound complimentary.

Been down to Grayditch today. Scored another laser pistol, so when I get the chance I can fix my other one.
They have another radio station there, GNR. That guy's fun to listen to, not like the man on Enclave radio. I wish I could get GNR back home.

Thought of going to the Super Duper Mart but there were raiders in front. I heard guns and screaming. Looks like the folks who ran the place got overrun. I'd have helped but I don't have the ammo to spare. Or anything else.

I'm Ginger and I'm lonely.

“I'm Ra'jirra,” said I softly to the long-gone Ginger, “and I'm lonely too.”

And I felt it bear down again. I wanted green grass and living trees and S'jirra's famous potato bread and S'jirra's arms around me...

I shook myself. Doing the gods' work came first, then getting home, then I could have a nervous breakdown. Judging from the sudden jump in dates, the next entry was Ginger's last.

Went scrounging down south the other night. Landed some mole rats and dogs. I've found some neat books too.

Coming back I saw raiders hanging around my house. I hope they don't see me. I try to keep quiet and let nobody see me leaving. I had to wait for hours before they got bored and left.

I'm Ginger and I'm scared.

I wondered what had happened. Had Ginger collected his or her things and fled elsewhere? Or had the raiders finally finished the poor wretch off? What was so bad about Big Town that they shunned mungos?

Haines' entries were radically different – almost all of them were angry. Anger that was directed at his father, at Vault 101's Overseer, at me, and at Moira for sending him into danger all the damn time.

Speaking of danger, Ernie stirred and groaned, instinctively pressing on his back. I E)xited and pressed the red button that turned the thing off, then turned to him as innocently as I could. Somehow I doubted he would accept my reading his diary.

“God, my back...” he grunted and attempted to force his spine into shape by willpower alone. “What time is it?”

I climbed up out of his basement workshop and peered through the blackened windowpanes. “About noon,” calls I down to him.

“Anything in the fridge up there?” asks he, “Don't think I could face Moira on an empty stomach.”

While he groaned his way up the little ladder connecting the basement to the kitchen, I assembled a couple of Nuka-Colas, some chunks of what turned out to be dog meat, and sliced something that looked almost like a lumpy fruit in two. Not the breakfast of champions, but it beat raw radroach six ways from Sundas.

With this repast in our bellies, we took some loot and the Pip-Boy off to Megaton. While Haines shifted the archives to Moira's terminal, I set about liberating Moira of rather a lot of caps.

“Scribe Yearling said she's sending someone to talk to you about these archives,” says I after dickering away the “flamer”. Ugly thing, that sprays your foes and surrounds with burning fuel – and has you lugging a big tank of potential explosion on your back. Give me a good honest fire spell any day.

“I'm not surprised,” says she, arranging the bulky piece of junk on a nearby shelf and chocking some hunks of wood under it to stop the damn thing sliding off. “An entire library's archives. You know how valuable that is, right?”

“I know Tar-Meena would kill for a copy in her archives.” Well, nowadays more like my archives; I am the Arch-Mage after all. “After all, the Brotherhood have a copy, and they'll want to have a spare on hand.”

“Oh my goodness,” and she goes all miles away, “when I'm done with this book, I'll have to work on copying all of that information. It could take a while, you know.”

“When you're done? We're not finished yet?”

“Obviously,” Haines snorted from his seat at the terminal, “The last part of this chapter is about researching local history, right?”

“Yes, Rivet City's in particular. It's the most successful survivor settlement around, but no one here really knows how it started.”

“Rivet City?” Haines looked up. “I remember Simms telling me about it, right before telling me not to even try going there.”

“Well, we've been there plenty of times and come out alive,” says I, “this shouldn't be any different, and besides there'll be friendlies at the end of the road.”

Haines fiddles with his Pip-Boy. “More like the river,” says he, “Simms was kind enough to set its location. Actually, it's almost... yes... right across from the Arlington Library and further along.” And he shrugs. “Shouldn't be too hard to learn their story.”

But Moira's shaking her head. “Don't be so sure. You'd be surprised how confused people get, even about important things.” There was a bitter tone in her voice. “F'rinstance, the main reason Megaton's thrived is because this crater's naturally defensible, and we're far enough out of the DC Ruins that the super muties don't come close. But we're also close enough to scavenge anything we need. See what I mean?”

“And yet here's Rivet City, right in the middle of that mess, going strong,” says I. “The question is, how and why?”

“That's why it's important to know how a place like that succeeded,” Moira nods, “So I need you to go there and do some researching!”

“Well, if that's the case, we'd best get ready to go,” says Haines, unplugging his Pip-Boy and standing up.

Then Simms came in.

“Heard you were in town again,” says he to me, “This came for you.”

And I'm staring stupidly at the tightly rolled scroll in his hand.

It had the seal of the Mage's Guild on it.

“How...?” whispers I and I touch it. It's real. I pick it up. It remains real.

“I was patrolling past your house yesterday and I heard voices,” explains he, “one was that robot but the other was excited. So I looked in, and there's the robot, and this... this...”

“Like a hole in space?” Haines suggests.

“Yeah... yeah, like a glowing... hole about an inch and a half across, maybe... six and a half feet off the ground?”

Sod. Short of some sort of shrinking magic I wasn't going home yet.

“Anyway, I had a talk to the guy on the other side. Said his name was Hen-and-tier...?”

“Henantier!” shouts I, “Praise the Nine, they've found me!”

“Yeah, they've been trying for a while, he said, and apparently it didn't go all that well at first. But I got them to leave you this message,” and he points to it.

And there I am tearing off the seal and devouring the good honest Aldmeris words.

Arch-Mage Ra'jirra,

If this man Simms is right, we have found your refuge in that other world. We have been searching for you for the past week, once we finally worked out how to make the portal more stable.

Unfortunately, thanks to various men and creatures we have encountered, our searching fell off until safer alternatives were found.

As this portal seems stable, and we doubt that any more dangers can fit through it, we will keep this open and watched.

When you receive this note, let us know at once. Your family misses you.

H.

You couldn't see my tail for dust as I barrelled out of there, down the clinic and back up the other side and into my house. (I'm unsure when I started thinking of it as my house.)

“Good afternoon sir,” Wadsworth greeted me, “Are you in need of lunch?”

I ignored him, staring up at the glow-edged orb. As Simms had said, it was only an inch and a half across.

“Hello Black Plateau!” calls I.

There was no reply.

“Hello there!” shouts I again, “It's me! Ra'jirra! For the gods' sake!”

There was still no reply.

I looked about for something to stand on, which was about the time Haines, Moira and Simms arrived. Moira fetched a chair from outside, which creaked alarmingly as I stood and weaved on it, trying to see if anyone was there.

The room was empty, apart from a few bottles and some food scraps. I felt my spirits sink. Evidently those idiots had decided that with the portal so small, they didn't need constant guard on it.

At least now. As well as food waste there were what looked like poorly cleaned bloodstains, claw and scorch marks, and unmistakable bullet holes. They had been looking for me, but what had they found instead?

“Nobody's there,” says I unhappily.

“Send them a note?” suggests Haines. “I'd like to see what happens if you insert something...”

“Doctor Haines,” says I after about a million years, “I could kiss you.”

Ernie clearly hoped I wouldn't.

And so I gallop at speed up to my bedroom and feverishly search for something to write with. One of Haines' books had a blank page at the back, which I tore out and wrote on with a blunt pencil that was laying around:

Henantier:

I'm alive and got your message. Tell Long-Drink I have met this world's champion, I think I'm supposed to help the poor spurius not get killed. While I'm here, I need:

I absently chewed on the pencil as I thought.

Two gross steel arrows

I'd feel better with a nice quiet arrow-shot. Also, I doubted I'd run into undead around here, so I didn't need silver.

Alchemy gear

The unusual meats and such deserved study. If possible, I might be able to distil water and make potions as well.

Soul gems (all types, 3 each – YES black as well)

Creatures had souls. What types of soul also had to be recorded for posterity.

There's two Robes of Concealment in the wardrobe in my university quarters. Those might come in handy.

Try to keep this location and expand the portal. This is a friendly town. I'm going to a place called Rivet City. I should be back in

“Ernie,” calls I downstairs, “how long should our research in Rivet City take?”

Haines shrugged. “Oh... three to four days, including getting there and back, I should think.”

about four days. If you need to know more about this place, speak to Moira or Simms.

Ra'jiira

I rolled the page up into as tight a scroll as I could and headed downstairs. Haines was still eyeballing the portal, and a small crowd had gathered, all weaving their heads as they looked through it. I had to elbow and shove my way through to get to where Haines was standing on the chair and Simms was forcing a boundary. Guns are very good at stopping people getting too close to things.

“'Scuse,” says I to Haines and he looks at me and hops off, nearly landing on someone's toes.

As I lifted the scroll over the top of the portal, I had a thought. What if the paper unrolled itself halfway through? Would part of it return here, or would the whole thing simply... or would it collapse...

“I need a piece of string,” says I lowering my hand.

Moira elbows my knee and holds up a piece, and so my message was bound and I prepared again to drop it through.

“Here I go,” breathed I, and let the scroll fall.

It didn't hit the floor.

I did, however, legs weak with relief. “They'll hopefully find it in the morning,” says I, “might was well get going, eh Haines?”

Before I scream, I didn't add.

I finally got some time to catch up a bit on the stories I've been missing - and a great laugh reading this again !!! Great Write !!!

[It's been a while thanks to the dreaded writer's block, amplified by playing way too far ahead. In-game I'm about a fortnight ahead of my writing. But I managed to break it... a bit... and here's the result.]

3 September 2277: The Road to Rivet City

There are some things you don't want for breakfast: radroach meat, 'Sugar Bombs' in dirty water, and a boastful merchant are three of them.

“You're talking to the right man!” the braggart declared. Apparently his name was Bannon, and he was on some sort of council along with a Doctor Li and a Chief Harkness. If it hadn't been for him, if he was to be believed, there wouldn't have been a Rivet City.

“But enough about me,” and our impromptu audience sighed in relief, I expect, “what was the road here like?”

The somewhat holed nature of our raiment and selves should have been a pretty good indicator.

“There was a big greenie with a missile launcher on the way,” says I disgustedly, “on a little bridge between buildings, you know, at the end of that bridge?”

“The yellowish one,” Haines explains, “where one span has fallen down on the south side to make a ramp.”

“Yep, know what you mean,” replies a leathery bloke who smells of road dust and brahmin, “When you see the ramp you run like hell and hope no raiders are around.”

“Oh, they were around all right,” snarls I. “But they came down with a bad case of dead.”

“Must've been catching,” Bannon laughs, trying to stay in the light.

“As a medical professional,” Haines manages to grin, “I can say it was one of the most serious cases I have ever seen. Those raiders will remain dead for the rest of their lives.”

“What about the launcher?” This came from a rectangle calling himself Flak. He and his mate Shrapnel ran the local armoury, a stall next to the cook-shop we were in. The cavernous metal chamber that housed the Rivet City market stank of unwashed bodies, fire, rust, and decay.

“Sorry,” says I, “nothing but parts now.”

“Anyway,” Haines picks up, “after that we decided to explore that Metro station nearby, see where it went. After all, we didn't want to have to fight the rest of the bastards if we didn't need to.”

“That one?” this was a tatty looking scavenger, “That just goes to L'Enfant Plaza. Right outside the Capitol Post offices. You can't get here from there!”

“We noticed,” says I dryly, “but when we emerged there, a pack of Talons was waiting. So we had a debate.”

“And then some mutants joined in,” Haines added disgustedly. I think it was the term 'debate' being used for a fight, but really, when you think about it, when you're debating, you're fighting with words, aren't you?

“Okay,” says one listener, “now I know you're full of it. Talons are mean enough, but we're supposed to believe you fought them and a bunch of greenies?”

“It's like this,” bristles I, “The Talons were between us and them. The mutants, I mean. So they weren't as tough as they could have been, and by the time they fell down the greenies already had a few holes in 'em. Besides, there were two greenies and their centaurs.”

This explanation was well received with various sages all agreeing that wounded super mutants were easier to kill.

“Find any salvage?” was the next question.

We hadn't. Apart from a desultory exploration and second firefight against more twisted brutes, all we'd done was pop into the Capitol Post building and catch up on the latest news – at least, the latest pre-war news, at any rate.

Being the intelligent people you are, you'll have realised by now that the Earth folk were in fact civilised enough to have their own versions of the Black Horse Courier. Such as the Capitol Post, for example. But forget the broad sheet we're all used to; apparently a newspaper was actually several sheets bundled together, full of advertising, stories from all over the world, and so on.

The news from two centuries ago was fairly depressing, discussing such topics as the collapse of some council called the 'United Nations'; food riots; the homicidal antics of a 'Pint-Size Slasher'; the annexation of somewhere called 'Canada'; and a mystery super-weapon that was going to be revealed very soon.

In more recent news, according to a rather dead correspondent slumped in a basement full of machines, someone wanted to 'Search the house!' Gods only knew which one and where.

“In other news,” concludes I to the amusement of our audience, “there was no way for us to get to Rivet City, save by retracing our steps back to the damn river!”

I didn't mention that we caught our breaths in what used to be a stall for renting boats and fishing rods. Looking like just another shack from the outside, inside you could tell that it was actually built to last. I looked at old posters, some hawking watercraft, others slightly newer; patriotic stuff involving a woman with a strange spiked crown called 'Lady Liberty' and an old, stern-faced man in a suit and tall hat of red, white and blue, 'Uncle Sam'.

I looked down at the three skeletons, two pathetically small, that were huddled behind the counter, and wondered what had happened here. They were blackened and burnt, so perhaps they had sought shelter when the bombs fell. Or had they just found a place to curl up and wait for death to take them?

“And then we hauled tail to get here,” Haines finishes our tale.

'Here' was obviously Rivet City – a ship the size of Bravil! Now, though, its hulk rested in pieces, one run aground and dark, the other ablaze with light.

“Say,” asks an old-timer, “why're you two here anyway?”

“We're on a mission from Moira,” says I before Haines can open his gob.

“Moira? The Mad Scientist of Megaton?” exclaims Flak, “You're not gonna blow things up are you?”

“Certainly not!” snorts Haines, “We're looking for information about Rivet City's origins.” Then he grins, “And we won't blow anything up without permission.”

“Well if you need to blow merd up, see us first,” Flak shills with a grin of his own.

[Well, I'm back. This chapter's been proving awkward, but I think I cracked it. Part of this is that Ernie's put through the wringer emotionally...]

Rivet City was a metal warren, but well signposted. That meant we only got a little turned around heading for Doctor Li's laboratory.

The chamber was awash with all sorts of machines, alchemical gear that would have had Julienne Fanis drooling, and an old man who was berating a young lady for preventing him speaking to Doctor Li. That worthy was doing things that seemed to involve fruit and vegetables that actually were fruit and vegetables, and looked up as we approached.

“What the...” she started, staring at my handsome Khajiiti features, while I observed her almost Altmeri ones. It was her human ears and human stature that confirmed she was, indeed, human; the more I looked, the more I was reminded of a description of a man claimed to be from Akavir: the oddly sloped eyes, the dull gold skin, the jet black hair. At the same time her face was careworn and strained.

“You're that Ra... jirra, aren't you?” And she blinks and looks to Ernie, who's starting to shift from foot to foot. “And you're... you're James' son. You look so much like him.” She shakes her head to get the dust out. “He gave me the impression that you were... somewhere else, and that we wouldn't be seeing you again.”

“Again?” Haines asks, “We've met?”

“You were too young to remember, and I suppose James never spoke of me.” And she rolls her eyes. “Typical.”

And she draws a breath. “I am Doctor Madison Li,” she introduces herself, “I worked with your parents many years ago. Now I run the Science Lab here in Rivet City. It was all I had left.” I saw darkness pass across her face.

“When your mother died, your father decided to leave with you. He abandoned our work. We had no choice but to do the same.”

“Died?” Haines whispers, then gets his voice back. “What happened?”

“Complications from childbirth. None of us were expecting it; we weren't as prepared as we could have been.” And she shakes her head, a sad and frustrated movement that's too natural. “You have to understand, we were struggling with scavenged, derelict equipment. We did everything we could.”

“I understand,” Haines says slowly, but his face says something else. “What was... were they working on?”

“Take a look around,” and Li waves a hand. “When I'm not working on power supplies, my work is in water purification, especially with hydroponics. Just about all the water here is radioactive, and most people are surviving on scavenged TV dinners and radroach meat. You may have noticed most people show signs of malnourishment, especially pellagra, scurvy and beriberi? That's because folks aren't getting a balanced diet. Which is where our hydroponics work comes in – and for that, we need clean water.”

“And that's what my... my parents were working on?”

And Doctor Li just snorts. “This is just a small-scale replica of Project Purity! No, James and Marion had bigger goals. 'Fresh, clean water for everyone.' Such a simple idea, and yet so impossible to realise...”

“He was building water purifiers?” Haines and I exchanged looks. “Seems straightforward enough.”

“I don't think you understand how big your father thought. The plan was to build a facility that could purify all the water in the Tidal Basin at once. No radiation, no muck, just clear water.”

“What?” On the whole I agreed with Ernie's response. Li just grinned, but it was a tight, unhappy one.

“Small-scale tests were fine. But any time we tried to test the process on a larger scale, it was just too much.”

“So why not just sell the little models?” is my intelligent response, “Seems to me that having a whole lot of little purifiers around and about is safer than putting all your eggs in one basket.”

“Sure,” Haines retorts, “and then what happens when the guy who knows one end of a wrench from the other gets his head blown off by raiders? What happens when the damn thing breaks down and you don't have the parts? There's millions of gallons of potentially potable water out there for the taking. Nobody can fence off the entire basin!

“Anyway,” and he turns to Li, “Why'd you stop trying? What happened?”

“You.”

“Me?”

“Well, not just you; we had more problems than we could handle already, but your birth is what finally pushed it over the edge. Your father decided that you were more important than everything we'd been working for, and he left.” And her face shows her bitterness. “He left all of us. Once he was gone, the Brotherhood decided we weren't worth their time anymore. Without their protection...”

That hopeless shrug again. “We couldn't keep the super mutants out, so we had to abandon the purifier.”

“What on earth would those snot golems want with the purifier?” wonders I.

“How the hell would I know?” Li finally blows up, “All I know is that James left with you, we were lucky to escape with our lives, and we've been here ever since, actually getting things done, and what happens? He comes traipsing in as though nothing's happened and wants us to pick up where we left off!”

“He was here?” Ernie yelps, “Is he still here? Where is he?”

“Not here! I told the damn fool repeatedly that it's too late, the project's too far gone to be revived. He insisted we–” her scowl spoke volumes “–can just pick up where we left off 20 years ago, and said he could prove it to me. So he's probably at the damn lab. And he can futting well stay there.”

“Where's this lab then? He owes his son here an explanation for doing a runner.”

And Li stares at me as though I've grown a second head.

“Mad,” she mutters, “he's gone completely...” And she shakes her head. “It's in the old Jefferson Memorial. I told him not to go, it's too dangerous, but he wouldn't listen.”

“Well,” shrugs I, “we know where we're off to then. Just more thing. You heard of Moira Brown?”

“The mad scientist of Megaton?” This came from Li's offsider, who'd been edging closer along with the old fellow who'd been annoying her.

“The same. We're doing research on Rivet City, and your name came up. What can you tell us?”

And Doctor Li blinks at that. “Me? Well... I was there at the start, but I can't really tell you much. Ask Pinkerton. Wherever the old goat's got to.”

“Anyone else?”

“Bannon, but he's full of merd.”

“We noticed. Who's this guy anyway?”

“Doctor Karl Zimmer,” the oldster introduces himself, “of the Commonwealth. This woman,” and he glowers at Li's assistant, “refuses to let me speak with Doctor Li about important scientific matters!”

“More important than feeding people?” I didn't like the prick. He made me think of Ancotar and pre-marriage Henantier – full of himself and cocksure that he was going to set the world in its ear.

“Mere chemistry,” now I really didn't like him. “Playing with plants when she could be advancing in robotics?”

“Can you eat robots?” is my reasonable response.

“What? No!” is Zimmer's bewildered one.

“Well, from what I've seen, you lot need food in your bellies more than mechanical men running around,” explains I in plain language, “so why don't you leave these people alone and go bother someone else?”

“Because this is important!” Balls. “Doctor Li here, despite the crudeness of her equipment–”

Haines snickered, Doctor Li and her assistant both gasped, and Zimmer yelped as I sent a fireball past his ear.
“Try leaving the insults out,” I add by way of explanation.

His explanation was trite. Apparently all he wanted was to find a runaway 'android' – a fancy robot that looks just like a human being.

I don't get the reasoning behind androids. Why would anyone want a robot that looks like a person? Seems to me that all that would do is make some folks confused. Not to mention some robots.

-o-o-o-o-

“He left me for a pipe dream,” Haines said later. The two of us were sitting on the top deck of Rivet City looking towards the round building. Apparently that was Jefferson's memorial. Our company had been a couple of bottles of two-hundred year scotch, but they'd lost their balance and gone over the side.

And he gestured towards the building. “A futtin' giant water filter! An' he gave up when I was born.” Another bottle found itself being upended into his mouth. Shame it was empty.

“An' now he futs off an' leaves me behin'!” The bottle sailed into the drink. “Like I never 'sisted!”

“You heard his message,” I reminded him, “you're a big boy now.”

“He jus' futtin' left me!” Haines looked about to cry. “Jus' left me to futtin' swing...”

“Oh dry up,” I said disgustedly. “He didn't know they'd blame you for his vanishing. Anyway, getting drunk isn't going to find the sod... what the hells?”

A small figure rounded the bend near the memorial at quite a speed. This wasn't surprising, since a much larger figure was chasing it. Things went downhill as fast as additional mutants who burst out of the fortified camp we'd gone past ourselves.

“Wanna kill something?” I asked.

This story would be far better if we saw some Unity Forces!

I'm just going to be over here looking uncomprehending, is that OK with you?

[Another cow of a chapter, but it had to be done.]

3 September 2277: Echoes of the Past

By the time we made it down from the top deck of Rivet City to the bridge, we had a plan. Admittedly the plan was “go into the camp and kill everything big and green” but never mind.

Haines amplified the plan a bit. “We go into the camp,” explains he, “kill every damn mutant we see, and get some practice in for cleaning out Jefferson Memorial.”

He was still a bit vinegarish obviously.

“And if they're lookouts for a bigger mob,” says I later as we loitered with intent at the base of some statue of a man in a circle, “That's a few less to worry about.”

Haines didn't answer, just unlimbered his laser pistol and hooked a trio of grenades on his belt. Then he pointed to beneath the fortifications, where a raised platform had been made, and we began our daring rescue.

The camp was a straightforward arrangement with only one entrance: a remnant of road spiced with barricades, and fenced with hunks of steel girder and piles of fallen building. A breeze ruffled the few bits of plant still more or less alive. A thin line of smoke swayed behind the fencing.

“Help me!” A woman's voice, close to tears. Had she heard us? We froze and listened; nothing silenced her. And I look at Haines and mouth bait with questioning eyebrows.

Haines just shrugs and creeps along the rubble.

Peering at the camp entrance. Barricades and brush. No sign of life. Now we saw that as well as the entrance, the raised platform's sides had enough holes to let defenders broadside anyone dumb enough to attack. The barricades were end-on to it so they weren't any use as cover.

“Someone please!” I could see a huddled shape – the victim – but nothing else. I smelt ambush.

“Cover me,” Haines breathed in my ear.

“What?” is my intelligent response.

“I have a hand free,” explains he, “for balance.” Oh.

So he bravely raced up the road while I bravely covered him with the hunting rifle.

A thousand years later, he reaches the entrance, waves the all-clear and I run to meet him. He points leftward and we rush the corner.

The super mutants' camp was not a nice place. It would have been even worse if the n'wahs had actually been there.

There were, as well as truly disgusting proof that super mutants have bowels, crude bags made of wire mesh that were full of body parts in various stages of decomposition and mutilation. The hapless Redguard woman they'd caught was probably destined for said jakes by way of their larder.

She was kneeling on that platform, shaking; from the looks of things she'd turned her ankle; and the bruising on her arms suggested she'd tried to protect herself from their love-taps. The wire cutting into her wrists didn't help her looks either.

“Let's get this off before they come back,” says I gruffly, finding one end.

She just nodded and bit her lip even more bloody as I prised the wire out of her flesh. Then she gasped as I sought Stendarr's favour and channelled healing through her.

“Right then,” says I once I get my breath back, “You get to Rivet City there and see a healer. Why'd the hells did you travel alone anyway?”

“I didn't,” explains she, “but we got split up in a firefight once over the bridge.” Oh yeah, those super mutants. “One of those fetchers had a chaingun.”

“I thought you'd be killed,” says Haines pulling out a stimpack and carefully grasping her ankle.

“So did I – aaach!” Haines' bedside manner was best experienced unconscious. “Farg! Ah – the biggest fetcher said something about more of us. Then he asked if I'd like that. Wouldn't take no for an answer.”

“I guessed that,” says I, “so where'd they go?”

“In that building there.” She points to the Jefferson Memorial. Oh, wonderful. “The big one was talking about 'green stuff', whatever that means.”

And I look at Haines and he looks at me and on a scale of one to ten neither of us knows what she's talking about.

“Well, no point waiting for them to come back,” Haines says at last, “can you walk?”

Apparently she can. A little tender in places, but she can stand and walk and do the things that set people apart from the more stupid creatures.

“Right then,” says I, “You head for Rivet City, and we'll keep those monsters off your back.”

We saw her backside for dust as she limped out of the camp before us, then turned left towards the safety of Rivet City. We, on the other hand, turned right, braced ourselves, and then trudged towards the pipe-strangled building and the hulking shapes roaming there.

This fight was more brutal, a straightforward brawl. My summonses helped distract the moronic humanoids, although the third time I summoned Mister Bones I swear he gave me a dirty look before having at them again.

Afterwards we licked our wounds as we rifled the mutants for what little loot they carried. Ernie raised his fist high, and I actually saw the silver benison against the afternoon daylight.

“You're improving,” says I.

“As if I have a choice,” says he. “Interesting feeling isn't it?”

And I just grunt as we follow the patchwork walkway to its far end.

The pipes and scaffolding weren't hopelessly thrown together. I also noticed signs that the memorial wasn't original either. The amount of workmanship involved said that back in the day, Project Purity enjoyed a lot of engineering and scientific support.

Underneath the pipework was what looked like a footpath; I began to wonder why they'd chosen this building for their work. Looking back at the broken bow of what should have been more Rivet City, I wondered: why not there instead?

Well, they hadn't, so here we were ducking underground.

As we feared, there were more mutants. The building's halls looked like they'd once been shining marble and granite before the war, and the mutants, and all the gear that had been dragged in for Project Purity. Once polished floors now bore scrapes where heavy equipment had been hauled through en route to one of a pair of doors. Cables slumped from the ceiling like spider-webs.

The doors opened onto what must have been the memorial proper, now dripping with moisture from the immense pool of water in its middle. A tall tube rose from the surface, full of water, and a platform ran around the periphery before rising to some sort of central chamber around the tube.

Then three more greenies jumped us and we had to hang fire on gawking for a bit.

“This must have been the control room,” Haines remarked as we explored the raised chamber. Certainly there were more machines and gizmos and who knows what. I peered into the murky water in the tube. A stone face gazed back at me. They'd built their machinery around Jefferson's statue.

Clattering poked my ears and I turned to see Haines scooping up a collection of little square objects. “Holotapes,” he explained, “and they're fresh. Dad was here, but...”

But we hadn't seen him yet.

There was a third door, and a metal sub-basement like the tunnels beneath the city. And another mutant, who hadn't heard us. Haines popped the pin on a grenade, then did something I couldn't believe.

He stuck it down the back of the monster's pants!

“Hey!” The monster grabbed at it's backside, spinning around until it saw us. “You die! N–”

Fortunately for us the beast's body acted as a shield. For a moment it stood there as spine, blood and bowel sprayed behind it and ran down its legs, a stupid look on its face, before trying to charge us. A bit difficult when your guts are falling out your suddenly enlarged arsehole.

A large door was locked, so we headed to the stairs. A room on the left held another mutant, slamming things about and growling with frustration. “Where?” it kept moaning, “Must be here! Where!?”

After easing its mind out its ears, we looked about. Among what Haines identified as medical gear, he found another holotape, this one older than the others. This went into Haines' pockets before we started the unpleasant task of cleaning out vermin from the lower level.

There was a room with an unmade bed in it, and that was where we stopped for a breather. There was also still no sign of Haines Senior, apart from some recently emptied tins of 'Gas-n-Go' brand pork and beans as well as several packets of Fancy Lads snack cakes. Ghastly things, those cakes. I swear given a chance Earth folk would happily live on nothing but fat, salt, sugar and sawdust.

“He's gone,” Haines says at last, then extracts one of the holotapes. “Let's see what's on these,” he adds, sticking it into one side of his Pip-Boy.

“Well, there's no more mystery behind Catherine's health problems.” His father sounded tired, but happy. “The news of her pregnancy has lifted the spirits of everyone here, and given us a renewed interest in making the purifier work. We now have a future generation to provide for. The latest tests show that our methods are horribly inefficient, but I think we're on the right track.”

If your methods are 'horribly' inefficient, that usually means it's a good idea to look at course correction. I was about to say that but Haines shot me a look.

“–insists on spending all day in the lab. I've never seen her more driven. She's determined to resolve the power problems before the baby is born. I've tried to reason with her, but it's no use.”

The recording ended with a little bleep. Without speaking Haines swapped it for the next tape in the series. It was mainly concerned with the increasing attacks from the mutants, and growing tension between the Brotherhood who were getting toey about no joy regarding drinking water.

“I am at a loss. My beloved wife is gone. In her place is my son, Earnest, small and helpless.” His father's voice this third recording was tarnished and blunted with grief and alcohol. Haines himself stared up towards the medical room for a moment, before whispering.

“I was... born... here.”

“–meant to Catherine, this is no place for an infant. Especially an infant without his mother.” The recording ended with the clink of glass. Haines mechanically sorted through the tapes. Popped the next one on.

“It's time to go.” Haine's father sounded grim, worn down. In the background, the muffled drums of distant gunfire. “The project was in trouble before, both internally and externally. Progress has come to a halt, both because our re-calculations have gotten us nowhere, and because the mutant attacks occur several times a day. I regret that it has come to this. I know that if I leave, our work may come to an end.” A sigh. “Madison has never been on the best of terms with the Brotherhood; aside from Scribe Rothchild, she'll tolerate none of them. If she's the one dealing with them, who knows what will happen.” Now a distant, familiar wail. “It breaks my heart to go, but I must put the needs of little Ernie before my own.”

Now not-so-little Ernie was sitting on the bed, looking wetly at nothing. “He gave this up for me,” he whispered to the rusty, damp air, “He gave this up for me.”

“What else does he have to say?” I felt the little metal square in my own pocket. I didn't dare give it to him yet. Not if it was from who I thought it was.

The next holotape was one of the newer-looking ones. The voice this time was older, wearier.

“Well. Here we are again. Project Purity and me. It's been close to twenty years since my last entry. Since I left all of this behind to make a life for my son. We've spent that time in Vault 101, tucked away from the rest of the world. It wasn't perfect, but it was safe, and that's all I could have hoped for. Now, my son is a grown man. Handsome, intelligent, confident. Just like his old man.” There was a sound, half-snort, half... sob?

“And as hard as it was to admit it,” definitely a sob, “he doesn't need his daddy anymore.”

“Do so.” Superior Khajiit hearing you know.

I'd picked up another bottle of scotch – the taste was growing on me – and I found two glasses. I poured one for Ernie, who definitely needed it, and another to keep him company. It didn't touch Ernie's sides going down.

The next tape had his old man sounding like he was trying to believe in himself.

“So here I am, back where it all began. Project Purity. God, we wanted to change the world. We really thought the 'waters of life' could be a reality. And that's why this is a momentous occasion. Because even after nineteen years, I still believe it. Project Purity can and will be operational. This is just the beginning.”

“Is that why you left me?” Haines' eyes were weeping but his choler was high. “Decided you'd come back to your stupid project?”

“Shaddap and play the next one,” says I, “there's more rope to hang himself with, and hopefully a clue where to send the lynch mob.”

“Yeah yeah,” says he, and click and clack and right at the end his father groans, and his voice grows anguished and hard. “Project Purity is bigger than me. It always was. And without Catherine... Cathy... God, I can't let this die. Not again. Not like this!”

“Even in Vault 101, my work on Project Purity never really stopped,” he explained in the next tape. Apparently he'd gone a-roaming at night, exploring where he shouldn't, and eventually broke into the Overseer's office, and found out about a man...

“I knew of Braun's work, of course. He was a celebrity in his day, Vault-Tec's "Sorcerer Scientist," leaving his peers in awe of his technological wizardry. But it was in Vault 101, that night in the Overseer's office... I first learned of Braun's involvement in Vault-Tec's Societal Preservation Program, and his work on something called the G.E.C.K. The Garden of Eden Creation Kit.”

“Sorceror scientist, eh?” muses I, “I'd like to have a word with him I think.”

Haines just looks at me. “Well, we find Braun and no doubt Dad will be there.”

'There' was Vault 112, out west somewhere, our only reference point something called 'Evergreen Mills'. Whatever that was. “Someone will know!” cries Ernie, and is about to race off to Rivet City and ask before I stop him.

“I found another one.” I hold up the tape. This one wasn't numbered. His father had scrawled Happier Times on it instead.

When the woman's voice emerged from the Pip-Boy Haines froze.

“...that batch of tests was inconclusive, but Madison and I are convinced it's a problem with the secondary filtration system. We’re going to re-calibrate the equipment and try again tomorrow, so that–” there was a short pause – “James, please, I’m trying to work. Now’s not the time...”

Judging from the tone of her voice it soon would be.

“So that's the next step. Assuming we get the results we need, we'll move on to– James! Stop! I need to finish these notes... Where was I? We'll move on to diagnosing the issues with the radiation dampeners. That should... Ow! James!” Soft male murmuring. “Now? We really shouldn't...”

I knew what that tone of laugh meant. So I turn to Ernie but his expression muzzles me.

He looked down and started the recording again; I saw moisture appear on the Pip-Boy's screen. As quietly as I could I got up and gave him some privacy.

There was a dog once, and his master was a real vicious man. One time after a relaxing evening beating, the s'wit turfed the poor animal out into what was then a typical autumn thunderstorm.

That's what the sound reminded me of.

[Been a while, I know, but really this is a chapter in and of itself. Some Google-fu produced an interesting strategy...]

4 September 2277: Picking Up the Trail

It was night when I emerged from the mutilated Memorial, and when Haines finally emerged the predawn light was peering nervously over the horizon.

Not to put too fine a point on it, he looked terrible. Another half-empty bottle dangled from one hand as he came up onto the walkway beside me and looked westward to where Rivet City was aglow.

“We are born in the Vault,” he recited in a hollow tone, “and we die in the Vault. Sent to compost, our bodies...”

Rote faded to swilling, then the bottle smashed to the ground. Dawn was a probing stick, the city a dead rat.

“We need to go to Vault-Tec headquarters,” he said in the same hollow voice. “No point thrashing about blind.”

And I have a think and he's right. Moira and her book will have to wait, but me, I can see one or two reasons myself for folks taking the plunge and making Rivet City what it is.

For one, it's incredibly well fortified, with a natural moat all around it – and no other way in except for that drawbridge. Mentally I doffed my hat to whoever was sturdy enough to first make entry. It also had machinery and electricity. To all intents and purposes, it was a perfect fortress, waiting for occupants.

At the same time, so was the Jefferson, since there was only one entrance, and that was easily fortified. I remembered a barricade of sandbags around a corner from the door. Not that they'd managed to keep the mutants out. On the other hand, with Rivet City you could haul up the drawbridge and shoot at hostiles without danger; at the Jefferson you had to open the front door, which might be a problem.

I looked at Haines' face. Like a dead rat, it was flaccid, expressionless, but innards and gas waited to burst out if poked too hard.

“Right then,” says I, “we go to Vault-Tec.”

The slog to Vernon Square was not pleasant. Going across Vernon wasn't pleasant either, except for the repeat performance of Talons vs. Super Mutants, the latter winning by a huge margin. This was followed by Dr. Haines & Arch-Mage Ra'jirra vs. Super Mutants, the former winning by a somewhat smaller margin.

Ernie needed a fair few stimpacks afterwards along with some soap to wash his mouth out.

The Vault-Tec building was instantly recognisable by the fact it had its name on it; that it had greenies roaming in front of it; and also all sorts of dishes and gizmos and spindly things on top and hanging off the sides.

And if you made it inside without figuring out where you were, there was a Vault door hanging from the ceiling. Admittedly after two hundred years without maintenance said door and ceiling were sagging alarmingly but never mind. The building was occupied.

“My programming now requires me to kill you,” a strange-sounding woman said in a totally wrong reassuring tone. On the other hand, since the speaker was a luminous brain in a bowl, on top of a metal barrel, shooting laser beams from tentacles, it was the right sort of tone.

The 'you' in question was a rather upset super mutant down a stairwell. There are all sorts of places you do not want to be assaulted by a robot brain tentacle monster in, and at the bottom of a blocked stairway is one of them.

Once the mutant stopped fighting and started, from the sound of things, drowning in his own blood, the robot brain thing turned on us, explaining, “I'm sorry, but no trespassers or communists are allowed in this area,” or words and shots to that effect. Since we weren't communists, whatever they were, this apparently made us trespassers.

“I've got an idea,” says I to Haines, “try and distract it while I crack its brain open.”

Ernie just gives me a look like I'm crazy, but I'm not dumb. I know my way around atronach powers.

The first magic I smacked it's brain-bowl with was Firestarter, tried and true – also rather hot. The second was a frost spell – rather cold. A combination that field smiths and tinkers use to good effect. They call it 'tempering'.

In Vault-Tec's headquarters, it also had a good effect. There was a dull crack as a pair of bullet-pocks joined hands – and the machine turns on me, dribbling fluid.

“Warning!” It sounded rather upset. “Cranial containment system is compromised! RobCo recommends against operation of robo-brains in extreme temperatures...”

Ernie's a smart lad. He swaps his laser for a rifle from our collection and starts shooting. The 'robo-brain' turns back to him as the current threat – and then glass goes flying everywhere as he finds a weak spot.

“Emergency! Help! Maintenance required!” and the machine goes into a right tizzy, arms flying everywhere until up steps I and down comes my mace. Brains and goo everywhere. Stinky too.

“I've heard of these,” says Ernie extracting some power cells from the guts of the thing, “Robobrains. Used monkey brains to make 'em more flexible than regular robots. Then again after two hundred years without maintenance...”

I looked at the grey mess in the bowl. The only thing 'flexible' I'd seen about it was its tentacles and its mouth. All the while it had been shooting at us like every other robot we found as we grovelled our way through the shattered offices and crumpled cafeterias of Vault-Tec. I soon found a cunning plan against them though – it seems that their workings don't like shock magics, and the resulting paralysis meant more time for us to get out of the firing line and get in some licks of our own. Rather like fighting Dwemer animunculi with frost.

Yes, I know, I should have worked this out back at RobCo, but back then we'd turned them on unexpectedly, so experiments weren't high on my agenda, alright?

As we climbed upwards, the security became tighter. Soon we were peering through a grate at a huge mass of machinery, apparently still working if the lights and heat were anything to go by. “The Vault-Tec mainframe,” says Haines, eyes gleaming, “We need to get access.”

A nearby terminal explained that this would be tricky. Apparently as well as requiring authorisation from two others, there was a 'Masterbrain' running the security systems. This turned out to be another robobrain with a slightly different paint job.

Anyway, a zillion robots later, we finally managed to turn the security off – mostly by smashing it – and Ernie went to town on the mainframe's console while I sat and sweated. I'll say this for Vault-Tec, they had a much more impressive – and hot – setup than RobCo did.

Also impressive was Ernie's scream of rage once he'd done things to get the locations of all the vaults!

“Deleted! Deleted for fargnaxing security reasons! Why the hell did they...” and on and on in quite an un-Scientific fashion. Apparently the mainframe had every other Vault in the area, but not Vault 112.

“Hey Ernie,” says I in a long-awaited lull, “If you had a sorcerer-scientist on your books, would you want to risk these communist blokes finding him first?”

Ah, blessed silence as Zenithar smacked him one about the chops.

“Of course,” says he softly. “Well then – what we do now is –”

“Clean our plates,” interrupts I. “We go back to Rivet City and finish our business there, then we get our dues from Moira, then we head out West. Sound fair?”

Ernie doesn't answer, he just gives the console a little more poking and prodding. “You may be right...” mumbles he, “...hello?”

“What've you found?”

“Another list of evaluated sites... damn, no coordinates. I wonder...”

And away he goes tickling the keys. I say nothing and we go halves on some Fancy Lads. He eats the cakes and I eat the more nutritious box, ha ha.

“Sfmiff Cafeef Gafaff!” comes out of his mouth along with crumbs, “It's come up a few times in staff mail – and there's a reference to Evergreen Mills too!”

“The place your father mentioned?”

“Must be. According to this, they wanted to install Vault 112's entry in back of it, but they weren't allowed due to lawyers. Reckoned hundreds of frightened people running past all that wood-cutting machinery was a danger.”

And world-destroying war wasn't? I actually know the sort of man who'd think that: Short as a Bosmer, twice as wide, balding, totally inadequate moustache, full of himself, frightened of litigation and resentful of anyone who isn't. I should know. He's on the Imperial Council – not as court jester, alas.

“And Smith Casey Garage,” he goes on, “apparently was their second choice for an entrance. Worth a look at the very least.”

“Whatever,” says I. “Let's head back to Rivet City.”

“Why?” was Ernie's intelligent response.

“We still need to clean Moira's little task off our plates, remember? We're closer to finishing that, so let's see if we can find Pinkerton, get his story, then we can drop it all off at Moira's on the way.”

I didn't tell him that Ifelt he was still too emotional over hearing his mother's voice and that no doubt there would be a few more chances to get all that out of his system. Nothing like a good bloodbath to bring you back to the here and now.

Ernie's an intelligent lad, so we went back to Rivet City, booked into the hotel there and slept like the dead. He was dog-tired, I was cat-tired. Not even the drunken brawl outside woke us.

[Interlude time! In-game, Ra'jirra and Ernie are about to get sidetracked, but I've been neglecting what's going on back home. This came to me just this morning while on my postie route.]

Interlude: You had me pose in the nude to model for a...?

With-Teeth thought of himself as being tough as a daedroth, something to do with toting a genuine daedric battle-axe and willing to use it. That the axe's previous owner had simply purchased it from Slash & Smash, and wasn't strong enough to wield it properly when in combat with With-Teeth, was beside the point.

Unfortunately, in more recent times, the appearance of a supply train where no supply train had any right to be had pricked his curiosity. By the time he got a good look at its destination, Black Plateau had already had a good look at him. Subsequently With-Teeth found himself cooling his heels in the cells.

The mystery smoothskin female had been mildly entertaining while she was there, and he hoped she'd made her escape. Unfortunately, his escape was currently being hindered by being shackled to a chair, flanked by two unfriendly guards, and smiled at in a creepy way by an elf.

“Right then,” the Mer started, handing a potion to the guard on With-Teeth's right, “We'll commence testing with the soft pills.”

“Pills?” was With-Teeth's quite understandable response.

“I suppose I should explain, shouldn't I?” the Mer explained cheerfully, “You know how potion bottles break when you don't want them to, right?”

“Er...” the Argonian eyed the plate the evidently mad mage was placing before him, “right,” he decided to humour him.

“Well,” the elf extracted something small, pinkish and egg-shaped from a pouch and placed it on the plate, “we found a way around that. If you remove all the water out of a potion, you get a residue – all the essence of a potion, you see?”

With-Teeth desperately wanted water. Lots of it. So he could dive in and swim away from this place, and especially this lunatic wizard.

“So in theory you could carry the powder in a little pouch, and when you need it – just add water! Except in battles. I mean, 'Pardon me sir,” the Mer adopted an upper-class accent, “could you kindly cease stabbing me for a moment while I mix up some healing balm?'”

With-Teeth's fearful whimper was drowned out by the guards chuckling.

“Exactly. Now, you know that strange woman who was here before? Well, she had some tablets on her, which turned out to be powdered potions! So I wondered, how could I make those?

“Well, I know that flour paste works for some, but reacts with others, which isn't good, but don't worry! You'll be helping me test these pills made with marrowbone jelly. Softer, but they should be easier to swallow, don't you think?”

If the Argonian had been a Khajiit, his ears would have been lowered in fear so far they could have met below his jaw. As it was his colour was almost bleached from his face and his eyes looked fit to fall out of their sockets.

“Anyway, this is a healing pill. Just like a healing potion. Or it should be, if my recipe's aright... So, would you..?”

The guard on With-Teeth's left grasped his left arm and drew his dagger.

It was about this time that With-Teeth started screaming and voiding his bladder uncontrollably.

Well, it took long enough for my muse to return. Here's another round of the Ra'jirra and Ernie show.

5-7 September 2277: Good Intentions

“I hate you,” Ernie sulked at me as we wended our way past, and at one point through, the super mutants of the Mall en route to the National Archives.

“What?” asks I, “That nice old man wants to preserve the important documents of this world. And that means finding the Declaration of Independence before some greenie uses it for tinder.”

“That fool claimed it was transported by plane! They didn't have aircraft back then! What else could he be wrong about?”

“Keep your damn voice down,” urges I, “my danger-sense is tingling.”

Fortunately the danger in question was far enough away that we were able to reach the entrance without being molested.

The National Archives was elevated above the common buildings by a great set of steps, the circled stars and serried bars still drooping between the almost Ayleid-style columns. The Earth folk took their founding documents seriously.

Inside the air smelt of fresh burning. I look hard at Haines and he looks at me and we ready our weapons in case the Bad News Bears are back.

Behind a crumbled wall bearing a wrecked portrait, there was a door, light and a little smoke emerging. Above, metal letters spelled ROTUNDA FOR THE CHARTERS OF FREEDOM. This place was feeling more and more like a temple by the minute.

The rotunda itself only strengthened my belief. It was almost exactly the same proportions as the Temple of the One! However, it was also larger, and now had fires burning in barrels, over which someone had been cooking something hairy on a stick, before abandoning lunch and diving for cover behind some sandbags before seeing us.

“You cullyholes!” she yelled angrily, “You made enough noise coming in here to wake the dead, for God's sakes! Just be ready, the Muties are coming!”

And we just look at each other, then back the way we came because things went bump in – well they went bump anyway, night or not. Super mutant sized bumps at that.

And Haines goes and grabs some mines, and I grab a nice spot behind some ancient sandbags, and I cover him as he scurries about laying those non-bouncing borbas outside the doors and in, before racing to join the mystery lady and I as the mutants appear.

“Don't shoot the first wave!” yells I.

“What?” is the smoothskins' intelligent response.

“They'll hit the mines and slow everyone up!”

Apparently they understood, as the forerunners not only stepped on mines, they ended up acting as bleeding, moaning impediments to the other dozen monsters that tried to get in.

It was a slaughter for about two minutes before the beasts finally managed to push their way over – thankfully they didn't think to use their fallen as shields – and about ten minutes later we were shaking our heads to clear our ears of the sound of gunfire. The air in the great round chamber reeked of blood and gunshot, the stench curling in the few shafts of light poking their way through the roof.

“You must be Doc Haines and that Ra'jirra guy,” the woman said once we all could hear ourselves think again, “You're pretty decent in a firefight.”

“We've had practice,” says I modestly.

“So, what brings you to this neck o' the woods? Getting into the relic hunting business too?”

“Well...” Haines hems a bit, “I suppose the Declaration of Independence is a relic these days, isn't it, miss...?”

“Name's Sydney,” replies she, “And I knew good ol' Abraham Washington sent you on the same damn suicide mission as me. Thing is...”

“You want our help,” is my intelligent surmise.

“Wrong. You'll need my help.”

“Excuse me?” is Haines' diplomatic response.

“I know the layout of this place, all the plans. Without me, you'll be going in circles, since the really important stuff is underground, and it's a warren in there.” And she smirks at us. “Then we get the Declaration, book it to Rivet City and split the reward. Whaddya say?”

“Sounds fair to me,” advises I to Haines, “she's obviously a good scout, and an extra sword-arm won't hurt.”

“I suppose you're right,” grumbles he, then, “All right, let's team up. Lead on, MacDuff!”

“Smart move!” laughs she, “just for that I'll show you a shortcut.”

“I thought her name was Sydney,” is my uncomprehending response.

“I was quoting Shake-spear,” is his condescending explanation.

Sydney actually laughed at that, as she squatted over a terminal sitting between two bookcases, tapping away. “And the finish of days of hacking is...” mutters she.

The finish of days of hacking was that a chunk of the floor, dead centre of the chamber, clunked loudly and rose majestically about six inches, then stopped with another clunk.

“This cargo lift will take us straight to the Secure Wing,” says she proudly, “All aboard! It'll start going down in thirty seconds!”

Why the Earth people thought a secret lift in the middle of a public rotunda was a good idea I'll never know. It was something out of one of those drake dreadfuls.

“So, what can we expect?” Haines asks as we make our majestic if rather boring progress downwards.

“Be careful of gas,” says Sydney, looking at Haines' laser pistol, “there's a lot of leaks. And robots. I've seen protectrons and Mister Handys, but there may be some sentry-bots as well.” She thinks for a bit. “Oh yeah, there's turrets too.”

I saw a lot of shock magics looming in my immediate future.

Eventually the shaft slid up over our heads as we descended into a cavernous chamber with a single door out, and a voice blaring from a pair of horns above it.

“Men,” said a voice that sounded very much like Wadsworth, “today I address you with a message of utmost urgency. Our defences have been breached, and soon we'll engage the enemy!”

If that wasn't drake dreadful dialogue, I don't know what is.

“Remember, the will of the people is the only legitimate foundation of any government, and to protect its free expression should be our first object.”

I could see a couple of holes in his reasoning. Most people aren't thinking high and mighty thoughts about serving the Empire between waking and having their first piss of the day; they're mostly wondering what they need to do to earn their daily crust. Some jobs involve all that serving the Empire stuff but not all of it.

“As your leader, Button Gwinnett, distinguished representative of Georgia, I promise you: I have not yet begun to fight!”

And we all look at each other. “Notice is served,” mutters Haines, and off we go.

Sydney was right. The place was a nightmarish maze of tunnels and turrets, many hidden by roiling dust clouds and gas leaks. Oh, and robots. If they hadn't worked out by now that there were intruders here, the succession of gas explosions and shattered robots would have clued them in.

And Sydney was as good as her word, pointing us in the right direction to go at every junction, until we finally arrived at a door labelled STRONGROOM.

“The enemy is at the gates!” the unseen Mister Gwinnett confirmed we were at the right place, “Now is the time for the greatest of rallying cries! Wish not so much to live long as to live well!”

Which was hardly the greatest of rallying cries, but the door was unlocked and in we went, where Button Gwinnett awaited us.

He was a protectron in a wig.

“You've breached our defenses, evaded our best soldiers and you've raided my home,” oh what a preceptive machine. “But I have not yet begun to fight! I cannot allow you to steal our freedom! The Declaration must remain here! It is our symbol of hope, the one thing that cries out 'We are a free nation'!”

Whoever wrote his lines was a fair old windbag in life.

“You must be Button Gwinnett,” Haines cries before I can say anything intelligent, “Second signer of the Declaration!”

“Then my reputation precedes me,” says the machine proudly, “Good. That should make you well aware that I am not to be trifled with and that my loyalty to the States is legendary.”

Have you ever seen a protectron try to fold its arms?

“I know your fighting prowess far exceeds my own, but I will still duel you to the death if I must! What will it be then? Rapiers? Pistols at dawn? Out with it!”

I didn't know about pistols, but looming in the shadows behind the Button Gwinnett robot were two large and menacing turrets, neither of which was brandishing a rapier either. I had no interest in seeing what they could do in a fight.

“Can you shut this thing down?” asks I quietly to Haines.

“No idea,” Haines grumbles back quietly.

“Maybe if we work within its programming?” Sydney interjects.

And we look at her and then back at Button and Haines smiles slightly.

“Tell me, master Gwinnett,” simpers he at the robot, “The British seek to capture the Declaration of Independence, do they not?”

“That they do,” moans the mechanical man, “I hear the thumping of their cannonade getting closer by the minute. Soon, our walls will be breached and the last bastion of the U.S.A. may fall!”

“Ah, but perhaps we can trick the... Redcoats?”

“Interesting,” muses the push-button Gwinnett. “I had a plan for just this sort of situation. Perhaps this will prove that you're here as an ally rather than an enemy.”

And there's a short pause while the robot thinks, or something.

“I have it!” cries it, “We create a forgery of the Declaration and send it off to Great Britain! It might be just the delay we need to get the document out of here safely. I'd love to be at court when King George finds out he wasted all his resources gaining a forgery!”

We could have done with Mankar cursed Camoran getting a forgery of the Amulet of Kings, couldn't we?

“We have to be cautious though, the British scholars would recognize a poor duplicate almost immediately. If you were to bring me some iron gall ink, I could produce a mirror perfect duplication.”

“Ink?” repeats Haines, and then he's off with his pack and pulling it apart in a race to the bottom, where anything you need five seconds ago always seems to end up. Shortly thereafter he extracts an inkwell, of all things. “How about this?”

“Saints alive!” and the machine somehow expressed amazement, tenderly picking up the inkwell and turning to the desk. There was something utterly surreal about watching a product of high technology using a quill pen to painstakingly reproduce a document centuries old.

“I think it was from some sort of theatre,” Sydney said to me, “they probably had a bunch of these playing at being the Founding Fathers or something.”

“Here you are,” Button turned back to Haines, proudly offering a piece of paper, “a perfect copy. That should give ol' George something to think about. Now,” and it looked inquisitive, “What are the next orders from the Congress?”

And we look at each other.

“Well, our job here is done,” remarks Sydney.

“Let's go then,” says I.

“Right,” and Haines turns to the robot, “Keep the Declaration safe, Gwinnett. Don't let anyone take it.”

“It will be done,” cries the Gwinnett, “The only way to get the Declaration now would be to pry it from my cold, dead fingers.” Cold dead fingers with built-in energy weapons. “It's been an honor meeting you, I can see you are indeed a patriot among men. Now go, you'll have no further trouble from my men. Godspeed.”

We godsped.

The more I thought about it, the more convinced I was that what I'd seen in the Archives was a microcosm of what had gone wrong with Earth. They'd become fixated on a perfect past, a mythic dawn if you will, and even as they looked steadily backwards they continued to march blind into the future's sword range.

I've met similar idiots on the Imperial Council, and I've no time for them. There's no heir to the Dragonborn's throne we know of, we can't bring Emperor Martin back from the dead, and we can't simply plop a crown on Ocato's bonce and make everything better.

The best way to deal with the future is face forward, eyes open, shield and sword and spell ready.

Especially when the immediate future involves bowling more damn big greenies as you cross a shattered landscape to Rivet City!

“What day is it?” grumbled I as the three of us wended our way through the ship's guts to the museum. The sun and my stomach both agreed it was lunchtime.

“September the seventh,” grunted Haines as we opened the hatch to the dingy curio exhibition Abraham Washington called a museum.

“You're back?” The old man emerges from a side room he was probably using as a bedchamber. “I can't wait to add the Declaration to the Society's collection!”

“Well, then, wait no longer,” declares Haines smugly, “The three of us have managed to get past all the defences and retrieve...”

And he presents the stupid document with a flourish.

“Oh my lord,” Abe breathes, stroking the thing respectfully, “I never expect... I mean, I am utterly shocked! You three have earned your places in the annals of American History, yes indeed. You will be remembered for this great day!”

And he puts the forged Declaration on a table and struggles to remove a picture frame from one wall. Being a good sport and respectful of my elders I go help him with placing the document in its new home.

I don't think it mattered that we'd basically tricked him. The document's historical importance was far greater than the material it was written on. Sydney would later retrieve the Bill of Rights, and to me that was a more important document. I took a copy back with me, and scholars are still debating its usefulness to us even now.

We could hold those discussions in the Arena. That way we could make some money from wagers.

GAAAAH !! Button Gwinnett !!! What a memory that evoked, now I'm dying to go play Fallout 3 again !!! Great Write !!

This expositional chapter was an exercise in creative Drano and seeing the Wasteland from a slightly different perspective.

9 September 2277: You Have Mail

On the whole, Gilthoniel would rather have been in Valenwood. Second best would have been the eastern Great Forest. His rather distant third option was Black Plateau.

Megaton, as it happened, was definitely somewhere in the high hundreds.

The mission had seemed straightforward enough: as a Bosmer, he was small and nimble enough to squeeze through the portal those idiots Henantier and Tuls had opened. Then he was to speak with the Arch-Mage, drop off the supplies he'd asked for in his note, along with a certain scroll, and come back.

Far be it from him, a mere Magician, to criticise the Arch-Mage, but the damn cat was running late.

And so Gilthoniel watched the sun rise over the wreck of a landscape with irritation, as he had done four times already, and wished that we was in Valenwood. The roundear guard saw his face and knew to stand well clear.

Trees – or rather, the lack of same – were the main reason for this. There were blackened stumps, as well as scrubby grasses that seemed too stubborn to die, but everything was a necrotic mix of ruin grey and merd brown.

The Bosmer hated those colours.

“Movement,” the guard said suddenly, pointing at two figures that had just appeared over the top of the hillock off to the east. Both were armed. “Looks like Talon gear,” the guard added, squinting at them.

Gilthoniel drew his bow and laid arrow to string, then took aim, letting his sight narrow along the shaft towards the targets. Both were wearing dark padded clothing, were heavily burdened...

…and one had unmistakable yellow-gold pauldrons and a tail.

“I think it's the Arch-Mage!” he exclaimed, slacking his bow and blinking as his eyesight reeled back to normal.
“You sure?” the guard asked to the elf's retreating back.

The citizens of Megaton watched the teal-robed figure scramble down from the ramparts and run for the main gate, which was already spooling up to open for the day. Gilthoniel was aware that he was the subject of much speculation, and that those who had attempted to speak to him felt he was a stand-offish jerk, but he didn't really give a damn anymore.

Breathing hard, he slid to a halt in front of the inner doors and straightened his robes as they slid open. Next to some roundear he didn't recognise was the unmistakable Khajiit features of Ra'jirra.

“Arch-Mage,” he started formally, giving the normal gesture of greeting, “I am Magician Gilthoniel, del–”

“Well you're a sight for sore eyes,” Ra'jirra responded, “Have Laren and Henantier fixed up their portal then?”

“Ah...” the Bosmer floundered, “...it's still not stable enough, they say. The first time they tried to open it, this thing came through, like –”

“Save it for later,” the Kahjiit responded, “Doctor Haines and I need to clear our plates and then you and I can talk. Wait for me at my place.”

The Apprentice just blinked at the two as they turned right and followed the outer wall.

Gilthoniel spent an hour sitting at the rusted table outside the metal hovel – he couldn't stand to be inside with that obsequious thing – that apparently had been given to the Arch-Mage before he and the roundear 'doctor' rounded the corner. Both were carting books in their arms and had pleased expressions.

“Been waiting long?” Ra'jirra just grinned at the wood elf as he tried to control his expression.

“Ra'jirra and I have just completed research on The Wasteland Survival Guide, by Megaton's very own Moira Brown,” the roundear Haines declared proudly, holding it up. “Behold the first proofs.”

“Arch-Mage...” Gilthoniel started awkwardly, “What has been going on? Where have you been?”

“Mostly Rivet City,” Ra'jirra responded, “but a few other places as well. Jefferson Memorial, National Archives, Vault-Tec headquarters... fun times in the big city.” He then held up a hand. “Peace, Magician! We'll tell you as much as we can before we finally fall over.”

Gilthoniel nodded, and soon found himself with far fewer blank papers and much less ink. Descriptions of strange machines, queer people, terrible weapons, green monsters, giant ships and weird places all stumbled over each other in his mind. Indeed, the only thing that made sense was that this man Haines was on a quest to find his father and Ra'jirra had apparently been chosen to help him.

“Which is why I wrote that note and asked for all those things,” the Arch-Mage concluded, “Did you bring 'em along?”

“Yes, two gross steel arrows, a basic alchemy set, the soul gems you wanted... how did you know those... altars...”

“Because I'm the Arch-Mage,” he snapped, “And I used 'em myself when investigating the corpse-humpers. Also, some spell-work needs as much energy as... a dremora soul. Which, I am informed, is so large it needs a blackie to snag it.” He leaned forward conspiratorially. “Don't tell everyone or they'll all be running around summoning 'em, okay?”

Gilthoniel blinked, then continued, “There are also two dozen each of potions for magicka and healing, half a dozen repair kits, and these.”

From the baggy depths of his robe he extracted three scrolls. One was tied with a piece of string, lightly scented with earth and potato flour. “This letter is from your wife.” Another was tied with a blue ribbon sealed with the imprint of the Mage's Guild. “This is a report on our attempts to find you.” The third, however, sported three ribbons.

“What's this one?”

“Careful! That's a... well, if you read the report you'll understand.”

The Arch-Mage just grunted, hesitated over untying the string, then chose the report, unrolling it on the table. “Can't say you haven't been trying... those pseudo-zombies are called ghouls, they're human but affected by heavy radiation doses... Haines, what's sort of reptilian, has long arms with extremely sharp claws?”

Haines didn't answer. The Redguard roundear who called himself a Sheriff did. “Sounds like a deathclaw. Fortunately we don't get those in this neck of the woods. Further north and west mostly.”

Apparently their return had attracted a crowd.

“North? Lovely. We need to go that way,” Ra'jirra grumbled and looked at Haines. “Vault 92, remember?”

“I'd rather go straight after Dad,” the roundear was this close to whining.

“I'd rather have a squint at what a Vault looks like inside before we try and find your father. No point in getting whacked by something unexpected eh?”

Haines just sighed and nodded.

“Right now, we need to take a breather, drop off some of our salvage and have a bite, while I fill in Gilthoniel here about a few more things.” The Khajiit got up and opened the door, then stopped dead. “What–?”

The Bosmer smiled in amusement as he gently nudged the Arch-Mage inside, noting idly he stank of sweat, something like saltpetre, and really needed a bath.

“I needed to pass the time,” Gilthoniel said airily, waving a hand at the wall hangings bearing the eye of the Mage's Guild, which now gazed upon a sphere of spacetime about as wide as an Imperial City manhole cover, hovering three feet above the rugs on the metal floor. A neat pile of equipment was stacked in a corner, and the shelving unit next to the stairs sported a covered basket the Bosmer had commissioned from Black Plateau's mess hall yesterday.

Ra'jirra's nose informed him that a familiar repast awaited, and he strode past the Magician and whipped the cover off. Gilthoniel noticed Haines' eyes bulge at the bread, fruit, roasted venison and wheel of Corinth cheese within.

“Real food again,” he breathed, and the elf almost felt pity for him. He'd seen what the people here ate, and even tried some – then exclusively ordered from home.

“Well,” Ra'jirra said over his shoulder as he wandered into the pantry to extract a couple of battered plates and a rusty knife, “You've done what you came here for, so you can leave if you like. I've got a feeling I'm stuck here until his quest –” he jerked his head at the roundear – “is complete.”

“Hopefully you'll be back earlier, Arch-Mage,” Gilthoniel replied, indicating the scroll with three ribbons. “As it says in the report, that should be your carriage out of here.”

Ra'jirra just stared at him and read the report again, slowing as he came to the bottom. He stared at the paragraphs in question for a long time, before rolling the document up and retying it thoughtfully.

“What did it say?” Haines couldn't read Aldmeris, obviously.

“I'll tell you later,” Ra'jirra replied shortly, “Right now I'm starving. Thank you, Magician,” and he gave Gilthoniel a look that told him he was dismissed. With some relief, he turned, picked up a chair and prepared to squeeze through the portal.

“Hold!”

The elf froze. “Arch-Mage?”

“Don't close it up behind you – I've just had an idea. You go through and I'll pass through some toys for the researchers to play with.”

“If they don't kill themselves,” the roundear muttered.

“If they do they'll be expelled.”

Gilthoniel winced at the typical Ra'jirra humour and, like others had, wondered how in all sixteen hells the Guild could have earned the leadership of this farm-boy.

I love this chapter! How fun to see things from Gilthoniel’s view.

[Hello folks and world. And in that order. After a massive and profound bout of writer's block, I've managed to get the Ra'jirra and Ernie show almost to the door of Vault 92. So here's some views along the way.]

10 September 2277: The Road to Vault 92

Arkansas ARKANSAS ArkaNsaS my name is ARKANsas ArkANSas ArkansaS

Every wall, every cement beam of the ruin was scrawled on as far as a lonely, deranged old man with a sniper rifle could reach. He'd used ashes, pencils, mud, and quite possibly his own blood, piss and turds. Sheogorath was his only company, poor sod.

Well, there were plenty of landmines until recently but they don't count.

According to Haines, who filled me in between ordinary adventures on the way (you know, mutant bugs, raiders, stuff like that) he'd been sent to this town by Moira, barely two days or so before our first meeting, to secure one of those borbas for her research. "She cooed over it like it was a baby," said he at one point, "thank God she didn't name it George."

I didn't get the reference.

Originally called Fairfield, the sheer number of mines that old Arkansas had laid pretty much gave the settlement its new name. There were a number of houses that looked surprisingly intact. As we walked along the main street, We passed one house that still had the name Gibson visible on the battered mailbox.

Ernie and I performed a comparison experiment on landmines. It seemed that while my Flare wasn't enough to ignite a mine, my Firestarter was able to blow them up in one go. The problem was that Firestarter needs more magicka than Flare, so it took longer to, ah, 'reload'. As such, in terms of speed, Ernie's laser pistol was superior. This is why you shouldn't look down your nose at ordinary, non-magical weapons, unless I'm sticking them in your face.

Still had some close calls as we satisfied our curiosity about the ex-residents.

The Gibson patriarch, I worked out, was an architect, thanks to a mostly intact book of house designs along with a model house in the front room. A desk in back suggested he worked from home too. They had a fairly rambunctious son, or maybe a sickly one, since his room not only had plenty of sporty-looking toys, but also a pair of crutches and some sort of brace.

I stood in what must have been the parents' bedroom looking at the skeletons on the bed, where they seemed to have died in their sleep. I had a nasty feeling poison had been involved.

And their son... wasn't there. I had a horrid vision of a small boy crawling out of the house, no doubt already dying, looking for help for his mum and dad...

The Gillians apparently went to die with their friends, the Bensons.

I doubt little Miss Zane ever got her mechanical horse, the Giddy-Up Buttercup. She had a poster of it on her wall still.

They survived the war itself. They must have. They attempted to fortify the town, barricade the road, hells, they might even have laid some of those mines to protect themselves while waiting for help to arrive.

Certainly Arkansas wasn't there at the time. From what we've learned, life expectancy in the Capital Wasteland was about thirty – if you were lucky. He just came along, didn't get killed, and decided to stay here and make this town of the dead a fortress, moated with mines.

"If you ask me," Haines stated, "He wanted to go back there. If he was from that state at all..."

We were looking at what appeared to be song lyrics amongst the old man's endlessly repeated name.

Sweet HOMe ARKANSAS wheRE the sKy's alWaYs BLuE sWeEt hOMe ARKANSAS I'm coMINg HomE to yoU

That wasn't the only name that preyed on Arkansas' mind though. Two others, 'Eulogy' and 'Jones', featured, along with some nasty statements I won't repeat here. Arkansas hated these jokers and kept claiming that they wouldn't get him.

"Those corpses we found," says I, "the fresh ones. Think they might be Eulogy and Jones?"

"Might be," Haines shrugs, "but now I want to get out of here. We need to keep going north if we're to reach Vault 92. I've seen an industrial building that way, so let's go there first."

It was a power station, according to the remaining paint on the walls. Huge bold letters, ten feet high: MDPL-13. Almost as high as the hairs on the back of my neck.

"We're being watched," says I quietly.

"I second that," says Haines doing something to his Pip-Boy, "Actually, these mines are kind of heavy..."

So we slipped into what turned out to be an office after plopping mines about the exit. If we were being watched, and the watchers decided to follow us in, we'd hear about it. More importantly, we'd know if the things still all worked.

Apart from ghouls and radiation, there wasn't much else. After Ernie worked his magic on the security system – the ghouls were unappreciative – we decided to stop playing and get on to Vault 92.

"There!" was our watchers' greeting. This was subsequently followed by variations on "Aargh!" Landmines tend to make you say things like that.

After we'd cleared up various wrong assumptions and patched up our gear with the late Talons' donations, we had a look at an ancillary building. Lots of dials and lights and fiddly-diddly bits. And a work table where someone had been working on some sort of weapon.

"Interesting," says Haines looking at the drawing, "it's called a 'Railway Rifle', because it fires these railway spikes." And he holds up a few big chunks of metal, about six inches long and half an inch thick, wrapped in a bit of wire. Not the sort of thing you'd want lodged in yourself. "You could pin your foes to the wall with that thing."

I didn't understand how it all worked, but the idea was it built up pressure enough to send one of those spikes flying through the air and hopefully into someone's joints. Gods know those rusty spikes wouldn't do much against decent armour.


Another rotten night's sleep heralded further slog northward. A major road swept a little east and a lot north, and we soon came to a turnoff with a notice, still vaguely legible. Greener Pastures Waste Disposal. More recently someone had scratched into the wood Raydeashun KEEP OUT!

"Someone didn't," Haines remarked, pointing at obvious bootprints. Either it was a scavenger we were following, or someone in trouble. But we followed them anyway.

The Earth concept of waste disposal was pretty simple: take a big hole and gardy-loo until it was full up. Food scraps, broken machinery, ruined clothes, toxic muck or just plain unwanted – into the big hole. Then they'd dump dirt on top and sell it as cheap land – until the trash started to rot away and cause subsidence, or emit toxic miasmas, or mutate local wildlife into ravening monsters, or other interesting effects.

Greener Pastures was a perfect example. The earth was pockmarked with evil-looking pools of vile fluids emitting nose-raping fumes, in the middle of which a large 'truck' – think a self-powered wagon, but able to carry more – lay on its side, broken in two. Just to underline the danger, plenty of signs warned of the danger of radiation, and advised who to call if any did get out.

"Let's check the office," was Haines' suggestion. I thought it a good idea.

Inside were desks, cracks in the floor which reeked of corruption and, yep, radioactivity, and a safe. While Haines did his magic with that, I went over to a small figurine and looked at it. Picture a big-headed doll of a blonde lad in a blue suit with yellow trim, balancing on one hand. The head jiggles gently when you touch it. The base of the figurine reads VAULT-TEC along the side, and if you turn it upside-down the base reads: AGILITY: Never be afraid to dodge the sensitive issues.

Dodging the issues. I could understand Ernie being angry at his father for shooting through without any explanation; he felt Dad had dodged an issue he was sensitive about. Later research would show that the resident politicians had repeatedly evaded confronting issues that turned into the Resource Wars. And there was one chap we'd meet who took issue-dodging to an art – anything to further his idiot crusade.

But I digress. There wasn't much to find in the office, but there was a shelter further along the trail of bootprints, made out of an old cargo container that somehow kept the interior radiation-free. Someone, apparently, had been living in the middle of this death zone.

As we rested and let our Rad-Away 'drips' do their thing, I wondered what sort of man would live here. Or maybe it was a temporary... no, the camp bed bolted to one wall had been carefully installed. This was meant to be a permanent residence.

My meditations were interrupted by something bumping against the outside, followed by a scraping like huge claws. The container was metal, so we knew all about it. Haines makes a frantic gesture at me and I immediately understand and dispel Starlight.

Whatever was outside made a sort of chuff and then its friend arrived. Or maybe its enemy. Had quite the discussion, then there was a groan that sounded painful. And so we sit there in the darkness until I see their life signs fade into the distance. Whatever they were the shapes of their life signs made me think of a cross between a daedroth and a hunger, both nasty daedra in a fight, and long may they stay away from me.


The next morning we finally left Oblivion on Earth and kept going north, veering westward to avoid some of the biggest, meanest and most decayed-looking bears I'd ever seen. Whatever radiation might have done to beasts that, in their normal state, could shove a dremora through a stone wall, or outrun a courier's horse, neither of us was all that interested in finding out.

Yes, I know, but there were plenty of opportunities later on, and some researchers actually survived.

As we went westward, Haines frowns and starts fiddling with his Pip-Boy. "What?" asks he, twiddling away, "That's odd..."

"What is?" is my intelligent inquiry.

"This," and out of his Pip-Boy emerges this strange gabbling sound – clearly something's language, but apparently Julianos didn't think it worth translating. High-pitched and flat, and oddly soulless. Now that I think of it, as I relate this tale, it reminds me of the chatter of goblins.

Now Haines is sweeping his arm about, one ear cocked, and I realise he's listening to the loudness. So while he's ear-farming that, I'm eye-farming the countryside for potential interruptions. "This way," says he at last and we're off almost due west.

We almost missed our destination because of a pack of dogs which were out for food and didn't really care that dinner shot back.

"That's... really odd," says Haines looking at the mostly circular contraption partly obscured by dead dogs. From the trail behind it, the thing must have been flying, as it apparently smashed through the upper level of what was a two-story house.

Also pretty smashed was a glassy bubble on what probably was the prow, and another glassy bubble on the head of the rider. A rider that looked like an angry sun-dried bell pepper.

"My god!" Haines exclaims, beholding the nasty thing, "An alien! A real live dead space alien!" And he starts dancing about like when my boy got his first toy sword!

"This is amazing!" cries he, "I mean, there's stories and such, but to meet a real live dead space alien–! Oh, I wish Dad could see..."

And it's about this time that he winds down a bit, and sees me looking at him.

"'Real live dead'?" is my enquiry.

And he just does this impersonation of a freshly caught fish.

"Well," says he at last, "you have to understand that, ah, encountering evidence of alien life was not what I was expecting."

"Of course."

"So discovery of an unequivocally extraterrestrial vehicle, and with occupant to boot, is an event bound to cause some excitement."

"Of course."

"And so naturally, ah, one might lapse into a bout of, um, exuberance."

"If he's coming with us, you carry him, right?"

I know, it's been far too long, but I've been crippled by a serious bout of writers' block. I think it's gone. For now.

12 September 2277: Vault 92

It took us most of the rest of the day to sidle around what Haines described as a farm, but was now a raider hangout, before we reached the general location of the entrance to Vault 92.

Vault 101's entrance, according to its most recent emigrant, had faced the nearest township, so Vault 92's should and did do the same thing. At the bottom of a suspiciously flat-bottomed gully, west of a fairly intact cluster of buildings ringed by improvised walls and fences, there was a gate of wire mesh and old wood.

While Haines coaxed the door into moving, I kept watch, and that's when I saw it in the distance. A horror that seemed to be part daedroth, part hunger, with long arms ending in hands sporting huge claws. The horns over the beast's face were fairly superfluous, if you asked me.

It was exactly the same shape as the things that had been sniffing around our shelter back at Greener Pastures.

Nevertheless, I nocked an arrow ready to shoot if the abomination came our way. Then I came to my senses, put the bow away and drew out my old staff. That thing had the reach on us, but long arms are useless when you're paralysed. Also, I'd be more or less shooting out of the late afternoon sun. The only problems I could see were that I'd no idea how tough its hide was, and the pulse of my staff was fairly short-lived. Foolishly, I hadn't thought to soul trap some of those dogs we ran into earlier in case the bloody staff ran dry.

A creak behind me signaled Haines' success in door-unjamming, and I followed him through, pushing the gate closed. He looked about to ask a question, but I shook my head and gestured that we should head further in. After all, I had no idea how good its hearing was and with claws like that I wasn't interested in finding out.

The tunnel dipped a bit before the entrance, which was exactly the same as the example in the Museum of Technology. “What the hell?” was Haines' response as he looked at it.

“Something wrong?” is my intelligent response.

“Well, the door's open for a start,” Haines replies, “It's supposed to remain closed.”

That made sense. Also the chamber beyond was clearly rusted and unmaintained. A collection of bones had been scattered by something looking for a feed, judging by the marks on them.

“These don't look like teeth marks,” says I inspecting them, “Not from anything I recognise.”

They'd been picked over pretty well. There wasn't enough to get a dose of bonemeal out of.

“As long as we spot them first,” Haines mutters, then goes creeping over to the door, resting his hand on a box which I guess was the door control. “Ready?”

So I stow the staff and pull out my bow – nice and quiet. “Ready,” says I.

Turns out the box was indeed the door control, and up it goes, revealing more rust and a sort of wet fishy smell.

It took a while for the great Ra'jirra nose to place it. “Mirelurks,” was my intelligent surmise.

“That tears it,” Haines replies, “Something's happened to this Vault. We should look for survivors.”


After we emerged the next day, we travelled in silence and at speed, retracing our steps to and past Minefield. We didn't talk. Neither of us wanted to. From Minefield we put the sun above our right ears as I followed Haines to a rocky outcrop from which peered a metal tower.

Haines circled around the north side and then led me across a bridge. Seems there was a little hollow in the outcrop and someone smart had set up home here.

So there's me looking around, and there's Haines trying to hide that big heavy case behind his back with one hand and knock with the other. He doesn't manage it, so he holds the case with both hands and knocks with one foot.

And then the door is opened by this sweet old lady. “Oh my goodness gracious!” says she, “Seems like you've been gone forever. Please tell me you have – oh my.”

And she's gaping past Haines at me, obviously.

“Name's Ra'jirra,” says I, “Pleased to meet you.”

“Good news, Miss Agatha,” says Haines and swings that case from behind his back, “We have found your violin.”

And she actually staggers back and has to prop herself against the door frame to avoid falling, until she manages to breathe again.

“C-come inside,” she gasps, “I have to see it... come inside! Please!”

Inside the shack was obviously neatly kept; bed in one corner, bathing and toilet in another, with a few screens for privacy. A desk held a radio and a stack of papers that seemed to be music sheets. “Put it here,” says Agatha, nearly hysterical with excitement, “Oh Hilda... open it! Please, open it!”

And so Haines does, and the case cracks open again with a hiss of air.

The Soil Stradivarius looked like a talisman of the Nine, sitting there amidst the squalid interior of the shack. Its maple wood fair glowed with more than blazing varnish; I've seen a few fiddles in my time and this one would have been a god to their mortals.

“It's... more beautiful... than I ever imagined,” Agatha breathes, then reverently picks it up and pauses. “Could you set that music there,” she points with the bow at one particular sheet, “on the stand? The Gigue there.”

So I pick up the sheet. “I really know it by heart now,” she adds, “but... this is a Stradivarius, so just humour an old woman.”

What can we do? I put the sheet on the stand and Agatha begins to play. And oh, what a sweet sound it was!

How many years had it lain there waiting for a trained hand to make it sing again? How long until its voice would join with others, in a new orchestra rising from the ashes around us?

Sorry. Got carried away there.

When Agatha finally and reluctantly came to the end of the piece, her face was radiant enough without our applause. Then I see she's almost weeping.

“I...” she has to stop herself from bursting into tears, “I can't thank you enough. I wish I had something to give you, a more suitable reward for all your efforts.”

“Miss Agatha,” says Haines, “I don't think there's anything left that could repay us.”

“Watch it sassy-pants,” snorts Agatha menacing him with the bow, “Seriously, all I can give you is the frequency to my radio set. Tune in whenever you feel like listening to the strains of an old woman's violin playing.”

And she reels off a number which Haines plugs into the old Pip-Boy there. “I'm curious,” she asks then, “Hilda loved the Soil, and she would have passed it on to... How did you convince her descendants to part with it?”

And we just look at each other.


When we had emerged from Vault 92 that morning, we were tired, bloody, silent and sombre. I was weeping.

And not just because of the choking stench of rot, rust, strange Dwemer-like stinks, and the omnipresent mirelurks. There were no survivors. Vault 92 was a necropolis.

Perhaps some of them managed to make it to the entrance and get the door open with their dying breaths. We found a note suggesting some had tried. Maybe some managed to reach the surface – and something probably ate them.

But they had all entered the Vault expecting sanctuary.

They were betrayed.

We trekked through the Vault, all of it. We shot bullets, arrows, spells at mirelurks. We discovered that the White Noise system killed them, which made things a lot easier. It also reduced wear and tear on my armour and mace.

I remember a strange creature, half-man, half-mirelurk, whose screams rang in your head long after you smashed its skull in.

I remember Haines staring at an almost illegible cry for help on a terminal, whispering, then shouting, then screaming, “What did they do!?” over and over.

I remember Haines finally working it out and just bashing the wall, screaming, “Those swines, those stupid fargnaxing swines,” over and over.

The notes are transcribed off Haines' Pip-Boy now. They tell a tragic story.

Zoe the innocent musician, overjoyed to be able to spend all her time playing the orchestral pieces she loved. Zoe the victim, realising too late what those swine were doing to her and the other inhabitants.

Professor Malleus, doing research on using sound to implant suggestions into people's minds. Just subtle things at first, impulses to scratch their heads or fuss with their hair.

He didn't know, as far as we can tell, about White Noise Mind Suggestion Combat Experimentation

Overseer Rubin did though. The stupid swine tampered with the experiments to subject everyone to them – as per orders. Orders any sane man would have recognised as evil and refused to obey.

Overseer Rubin, too loyal and too stupid to realise his mistake until too late.

A mind is not one of those computers to be simply instructed on the whims of evil swine who would give the Ayleids a run for their money. The suggestions worked all right – too well. If they wanted berserkers, they could've waited for us to come along and provide Orsinium's finest.

Instead, they threw away the skills and talents of gentle musicians. The knowledge of how to play Haydn or Dvorak – gone. All so they could see if you could mess up people's minds that they became fearless warriors.

That's what gets me, even now. It was the first real indication we had that the Vault programme wasn't as philanthropic as Haines and I thought. It wouldn't be until we found Haines senior that those suspicions would be confirmed.


We hurried back to Springvale and Haines' house in the setting sun. I slumped on the couch in the front room while Haines went down to the basement, returned with some tools, and threw on the radio before applying said tools to its front.

“...a child, growing up in rural Kentucky,” President Eden lied, “I had the best friend a boy could hope for -- my dear old dog, Honey. Oh, the adventures we had! From Knob Creek to Hodgzzsss...”

President Eden's cloying voice drizzled away. I tensed as hissing replaced it. Haines entering in a code. Speakers adding a loud hiss to the sounds of the dying Vault. A mirelurk bursting in its shell, ooze squeezing out of the joints...

The sad strains of a violin drowned out the hiss, making me want to weep again. We'd obviously tuned into the end of the piece, for it came to a mournful ending before Agatha spoke.

“That piece was for the fallen musicians of Vault 92,” says she, “and my great-great-grandmother Hilda. Their voices have... fallen silent... until now.”

And Haines gets up and takes his tools away and comes back with two bottles of booze.

“If my notes sound sweeter it's all thanks to two special someones who helped out a poor old lady living alone in the Wasteland. Thank you, Doctor Haines and, ah, Ra'jirra.”

The tune this time was light-hearted, a sprightly revel that helped buoy our moods as we took a much-needed voyage to the bottom of the bottle.

There was a survivor of Vault 92 after all.

You captured the creep factor of exploring those old vaults very well. Not places of refuge, but charnel houses instead. Raj's comparison of Vault Tec to the Ayleids was nicely done. So was the brief mention of berserkers from Orsinium. But the ending was simply wonderful. There was one survivor after all, and we could hear her beautiful sounds on the radio...

I loved Agatha, so much that I never killed her for her shack even though the caravans stopped there regularly! (although I never left there without the Blackhawk, lol). This is actually one of my favorite quests, finding the violin is easy, but some of that sheet music ... Lol.

Awesome Write! You've been missed !!!

I've been silent for a long time, I know. I got jaded on Ra'jirra for a bit, then attempted NaNoWriMo, and finally managed to write some more. Since I finally managed to expel another Magic, As Opposed To Magic chapter, here's some more of the Ra'jirra and Ernie Show.

15 September 2277: Big Trouble

So the following morning I'm woken by Ernie doing exceptionally noisy things in the basement. Seeing as we'd had a couple of encores the previous night I considered this to be extremely unbecoming of my host, and was trying to figure out if yelling at him would cause my head to split in two and fall off, when the trapdoor to the basement opened as loud as an Oblivion gate.

Up you get," cries he as he shoves a water bottle into my hand, "We head west!"
"What?" is my understandable response.

"Vault 96! You saw what it was like. What about Vault 112?" his eyes were burning with that over-intense flame I saw when I first met him. "He could be trapped inside some mad experiment – or worse! And then there's the whole business with getting there in the first place. I – we – have to save him, and we've, ah, cleaned our plates haven't we?"

And I just sit on the bed draining the bottle and looking at him.

"Reckon you're right," says I, "Besides I've had a gutsful of city life, so let's go west young man."

I took my sweet time getting my gear together, ambled to the bathroom for a much-needed slash, then finally emerged to an Ernie nearly tap-dancing with impatience.

"Can we please go now?" asks he ever so snidely, so off we go, crossing under that ruined flyover and following the river west.

Apart from detouring around a yao guai and chatting to a couple of surly ghouls holed up in what apparently used to be a farm, the day went quietly until sundown, when we noticed smoke coming from a huddle of low buildings, very much like Haines' house. A Red Rocket sign still stood, along with a slightly melted playground set. It turned out that what was left was four roads in a square, houses on the outside, and a makeshift compound swallowed those on the inside. There was one entrance, a plank bridge over a small moat between sandbags.

There was also one guard, a nervous wreck with a gun who called out in a cracking voice, "W-wh-who are you?"

And I look at Haines and he looks back and we both decide tact is the best option here. "We're just simple travellers," says he, "we mean you no harm."

And if we did, from the looks of him we could probably bowl the poor sod with a feather.

"Right," he drawls skeptically, "What do you want?"

"Do you harass all of your visitors like this?" asks I, "Or have you just got bad neighbours?"

"Well, you can never be too careful!" He's trying to sound tough, but I hear exhaustion and despair. "Look, it's not safe here. Super Mutants attacked recently and carried off some of our friends." And he heaves a big sigh. "Come in. Just don't cause any trouble, okay?"

So we look at each other and cross the little bridge. "So, you have a mutant problem?" Haines asks the kid. Now that we're closer, I can see he really is a kid, about seventeen or so. Doesn't look like he's had much sleep, and that gun of his isn't in good shape, let alone capable of doing more than annoying one of the big greenies.

"There was a Super Mutant attack recently and where there's one big ugly, there are ten more just waiting to grab you by the throat." Yep, he's been on duty way too long. "Then the slavers will come and pick off what's left of your carcass, and drag any survivors to Paradise Falls."

We'd heard of Paradise Falls from Three Dog. Somewhere up north, a lair of slavers who would apparently pay good caps for good flesh. Apparently they're into gardening now.

"The best we can ever hope for is that they get here at the same time and fight over who gets to kill us." This came from a swarthy young Redguard whose slouch reeked of defeat.

"Flash," he introduced himself, "as in 'in the pan'. Pretty much sums up Big Town huh?"

I didn't get the reference, unless he was using some slang for chamber-pots.

After speaking to him, and several other residents, we had a pretty good picture of Big Town, and it wasn't a happy one. Apparently all the residents didn't live here all their lives, but came from somewhere called Little Lamplight. For some reason, as soon as you turned sixteen, you became a 'mungo', and that place had a strict No Mungos Allowed policy.

So on your unhappy birthday, you got shown the door, pointed towards Big Town, and hopefully didn't get eaten on the way.

Those who survived got to spend all their waking hours and quite a few sleeping ones dreading visits from the local mutants, raiders and slavers.

Still, it saved Little Lamplight from having to kill their grown-ups themselves.

"Ra'jirra." Haines called me out of my brown study from the door of a nearby house. "I could use a hand here."

The house was apparently being used as a clinic, and from the smell their healer was pretty stretched, wherever they were. Haines was bent over a badly wounded lad on a bed. "Can you cast a spell or something on this kid?"

Could I what! The Nine smile on those who look out for their comrades, at the expense of a little more magicka. I reached out to Stendarr, offering myself as the channel for his mercy to wash the boy's wounds clean. It wasn't easy. The kid was nearly dead, riddled with bullet wounds, and someone had a go at him with a hammer as well. Presumably he was one of Big Town's warriors. I couldn't have healed him alone, and Haines worked alongside, administering stimpacks and aligning bones.

About two hours later the lad's wounds were all patched up, leaving some interesting scars for the ladies. He began to stir, trying to open his eyes.

"Wha... what happened?" He opened his eyes slowly and stared at both of us, me more so of course.

"Well," Haines declared pompously, "Seven bullets, both clavicles broken, and multiple rib fractures are what happened to you. Fortunately Ra'jirra and I came along and were able to fix you up."

And the lad's eyes widen as he runs a hand over the scarring, wincing at some of the bruises. "Wow. That's ... you saved my life! Thanks. You're a good person, you know that?" And then he looks around. "Where's... oh merd. They took Red didn't they?"

"Who's Red?" is my intelligent query, "and who's 'they' by the way?"

"She's our doctor," says he, "but she probably got dragged off by the mutants." And then he pounds a fist on the bed in frustration. "Damn it! Damn it!"

And I think about things for a bit. "Haines," says I drawing him aside.

"What?"

"These kids won't survive without a healer," says I, "we need to find them one."

"What about Dad?" is Haines' response.

Not now! Your father obviously knows how to survive around here, so it's not as if he's taking shelter in an open crocodile or anything. But these kids need their spirits lifted, and this place is right on our line of travel when we bring Haines Senior back. Let's make sure they welcome us with open arms, hmm?"

And he mulls that over for a bit. "I suppose that's an idea," he grudgingly admits.

After that we handed over some tins of canned meat to the lad, Timebomb, he called himself, added some dire warnings about not exerting himself too much, and went outside. The nervous sentry had been replaced by a girl with what looked like chalk on her face.

"Oh, hey..." says she in an affected dreamy tone, "I was just trying to think of a word that rhymes with 'gloom'..." and she hums for a bit, looking off across the road.

"How about 'room', 'doom' or 'tomb'?" asks I. Wasn't hard to come up with 'em. I'd come close to doom plenty of times in rooms of tombs.

And her face might have brightened, it was hard to tell under the makeup. "Oh, those will work great! I'm preparing a poem for when Big Town falls."

Oh what an optimistic outlook.

With Red gone, we've no hope left," she goes on in that overcooked manner, "She was the smart one, but now all we can do is wait for the end."

And Haines tries to roll his eyes so far in his head he could see out the back.

"Sometimes I want to die," Little Miss Miseryguts goes on, "But I'd rather do it poetically. Like slit my wrist under a full moon... surrounded by candles... in my pretty black dress."

"I'd rather go out between one breath and the next myself," says I, getting thoroughly narked by her posing, "or failing that fall in battle, surrounded by the bodies of my enemies. Speaking of enemies, where'd the mutants take Red?"

"There's a police station up there to the northeast or something," she shrugged, "Bury our friends corpses if you find them. I've got enough ghosts haunting me." Then she frowns. "Don't tell Sticky, though. He's liable to kill himself if he knew Red was gone. And that would conflict with my own suicide plans."

"I'm not burying this Red until I confirm she's dead," says I, "C'mon Haines, let's go rescue people."

-o-o-o-o-

A crumbling bridge curved northwest, but our attention was claimed by a woman's scream from due west. Several large shapes were dragging a smaller one towards a lone wooden structure with a short bell tower on one end. It reminded me of a city temple.

"That could be Red," muses I.

"Only one way to find out," sighs Haines.

The firefight was nasty. As well as their spitty pets, one of the mutants was much bigger, tougher and better armed, with some sort of big gun that sprayed bullets like a hose. By the time we felled the lidgie both of us spent some time just catching our breaths and beseeching Stendarr for aid.

"Your spellcasting is getting better," says I.

"I could do without getting hurt first," says Haines.

While Haines got up and ministered to their captive, I had a look at the big gun the mutant leader had been toting at us – I'm assuming that bigger and meaner meant senior. A jerry-rigged harness held a box for ammunition, which was strung together like a ribbon, and there was some sort of mount on the bottom. From its weight, it seemed that this gun was actually meant to be placed on a stand prior to use.

What really got me was that it had six barrels, all attached around an axle. This thing fired so fast, the axle would revolve, bringing a new barrel into play before the previous one melted. Nasty!

"Red?" the captive was female. "Yeah, she's still alive. Or was when these futters decided I needed to go 'home' with 'em, wherever that is."

"Well before you take off," says Haines, "take these supplies, and that minigun Ra'jirra's playing with, to Big Town. Tell whatsername on the entrance that Ra'jirra and Haines sent you. And hug the right-hand side of the bridge so the raiders don't spot you."

"What raiders?" asks I.

"There's a camp on the other side of the river."

"Oh," says I.

I know, it's been way too long. This chapter's been fighting me until tonight, and I swear Magic, as Opposed to Magic is taking over my writing. Anyway:

Germantown's police station – it's Earth for guardhouse basically – was fronted by a small encampment behind wire mesh fence reinforced by sandbags. The building itself looked reasonably intact, but the clutter outside could and did conceal any opposition.

“Hold,” says I, and cast Watchfulness. Sure enough, two large blobs, about mutant size, were mooching around.

From the looks of things – once our attention was no longer claimed by our would-be greeters – the area outside was supposed to be some sort of relief camp, sort of a less ad-hoc version of what the survivors of Kvatch ran up. Unfortunately nobody realised just how bad things were until it was too late. Then I guess the raiders and mutants moved in.

We ended up having to go around the back and argue with the door guard about popping in via the top floor, and almost immediately heard a most interesting confab between a pair of the big lunks.

“...Got two here still.”

“The female is locked up. We'll take her back with us.” Lunk Two sounded had a slightly deeper voice. Still sounded like a constipated dremora though. “The tiny male's too small. He won't be coming back with us, will he?” There was a slapping sound and both laughed. That was happiness and joy. Evidently Red and some other kid were still alive. Double our heroism in the eyes of Big Town.

“We almost got all of those little people from Big Town. What then?” asks Lunk One.

“Find more. Somewhere else!” From the sound of a big green head getting smacked it was clear Lunk Two was getting a little tired of having to explain that.

“What about green stuff?” Lunk One sounded a little wistful. “I haven't found any. Ever. Maybe it's a lie. Maybe we're wasting our time. We could be out killing...”

“We got plenty of green stuff!” Lunk Two adds another blow for emphasis. “Big guy says catch them and take them home. Make them one of us. Then we go and kill them all!”

That thought seemed to cheer up the two mutants immensely.

After adding our two drakes' worth of objections to the discussion, we explored the remnants of the guardhouse. On Earth as it is in Tamriel, the Germantown guardsmen were charged with keeping the peace in many and varied areas, including the apparently thorny issue of where you could leave your vehicle.

Their take on such issues led me to found the Institute of Technological Philosophy, which is founded on the principle that while technology is nice and has much to offer, the last thing we need are victims like Jenny Wilkins. I'm going to gas on for a bit on why I felt the need to found such an organisation, so if all you want is 'Arch-Mage Beats Up Monsters', skim until you run into the sentence 'We found Red in an old holding cell'.

Haines and I obviously found some old terminals that were still working, and there were a few records still available. Including this one, which even years later makes my blood boil:

Owner: Wilkins, Jenny
Offense(s):
4 Parking Tickets <Unpaid>
Note(s):
During tow, perp entered into a screaming match with the driver claiming presence of an infant in the vehicle. Upon further inspection after the tow, her baby was indeed in the back seat. We've since moved the child into the lost and found and are holding it until Ms. Wilkins pays impound fines and retrieves her automobile.

For those who can't read guard, Jenny Wilkins' car was towed, presumably on the fourth time she'd left it for far too long. Cars are mighty big, about twenty feet long by eight or so. Imagine whole flotillas of those rolling around the streets of the Imperial City or Bravil and you'll figure out why parking periods were rigidly enforced.

But they towed the car without checking if Wilkins was telling the truth! They effectively kidnapped her baby, treating the poor child as though it was nothing but a sack of potatoes!

If this had happened in Tamriel, the guardsmen would have given Wilkins the benefit of the doubt, checked the thing, spotted (or heard, or, from my own experiences, smelled) the babe, and attempted to reunite it with its mother. Those Earth idiots didn't even try until half past too late.

It was there in Germantown that I formulated the first question of Technological Philosophy: Does technology make you stupid? Which we haven't answered yet, since it's been pointed out that too much is unknown. Such as the competence and mindset of the guardsman who authorised the tow, the attitudes of Earth people to those in authority and vice versa, and so on and on. But we're getting there. After all, Earth might hold the key to preserving the Empire against its foes. But we must not become reliant on technological solutions, nor walk into the same traps the Earth people did.

Anyway, we found Red in an old holding cell on the ground floor, pretty shaken but apparently not badly injured, since the young Redguardish woman was peering through the bars at us. “Quick!” hisses she, “Unlock the door!”

That was Haine's time to shine, rattling the frankly battered keys on a nearby terminal that the mutants had apparently been working the locks with. With a chorus of clangs the locks all popped and out she jumps, exclaiming, “You're rescuing Shorty and me? Thanks!”

“Shorty?” asks I, “There's others alive?”

“Just Shorty,” sighs she, “I think the others are dead...” and she looks at the bloody bags the mutants use for pomanders, “or worse.”

“No prisoner left behind,” growls I, looking at Haines, “Where's Shorty?”

“I think they took him downstairs just before you arrived. Something about a bite to eat before leaving.”

“Well,” muses I, then off comes the pack and I pull out a pistol and some ammo. “Take that and... no wait. Park yourself behind this terminal where it's dark, and if anything pops in, wait until you see the whites of their eyes. We'll go find Shorty.”

Haines actually waited until we left Red cowering under the desk and were partway down the stairwell, before asking, “Why are we wasting our time? There might be more coming, and this Shorty is probably dead!”

And I just look at him. “We don't know that,” growls I, “and two rescued people are better than one.”

And he thinks and finally says “Oh” as he gets it.

Aside from a few radroaches, which were quietly dispatched with fireballs, we had a straightforward creep towards the sound of raised voices coming from a reeking kitchen.
“You freak! You're going to eat me, aren't you?” The lad had some fairly obvious balls.

“Grrr! Hungry!” was the inevitable response, including the sounds of things being hit with a cleaver.

“There's plenty of body parts laying around, why don't you eat those instead?” I could hear an undercurrent of fear in his bravado.

“Not fresh! Not warm! Taste old,” was the expected and pretty petulant response. Haines looks around and raises one finger. I cast Watchfulness and agreed. Just the one mutant down here.

“I hope you choke on my bones!” Shorty was losing his cool.

Now we could see the bulk of a mutant, standing partly in a doorway with its shoulder to us, taunting the kneeling form of what must have been Shorty. There seemed to be something wrong with its leg, which might have explained why it was down here on kitchen duties. Naturally, the two of us were only to happy to assist the beast's decline.

We were so focussed on the mutant, we didn't notice the kitchen radroach until the creature came over and tried chewing on Ernie's kneecaps. Stealth went out the window at that point in a blast of gunfire on both sides. Did you know that a decent frost spell to the head can freeze to the skull, increasing the damage done by bullets?

Anyway, after we scattered snap-frozen mutant brain all over the place, we had our first look at Shorty. A small fellow who made me think of pictures of Akaviri men, save the surprised look on his mug.

“Thanks! Who – uh, what –” (looking at me, naturally) “– are you – no wait never mind, I don't care right now. Let's go get Red and get out of here!” blurts he.

“Sounds like a plan,” grins I, and out of the station we four get!

-o-o-o-o-

About mid-afternoon we returned victorious to an understandably short-lived celebration.

“Apparently a bunch of mutants were searching up north,” Red explains, “When they find out what's happened, they're likely to take it out on us.”

Hardly surprising to me. Big Town was a reasonably fortified place, but its pathetic little ditch and board bridge weren't a proper gate and moat. They simply didn't have the weaponry, the skills, or the morale, even now, to fight off a group of angry and determined foes.

“Perhaps we can think of something,” Haines strokes his chin, “What do you think... Ra'jirra? Arch-Mage? Hey!”

I wasn't listening. I was walking around the Big Town compound, trying to make a decision. A decision I could only make once, and once it was done that was that.

The layout of the compound was a sort of fat H-shape, with one side having the entrance, and the other an old playground, reached between two houses. Gaps between the buildings were blocked by rubble and stacked old cars. It struck me that it was a most defensible setup.

“Hey! Ra'jirra!” Haines' voice was an annoying buzz in my ear, but I ignored it and pulled out a scroll tied with three ribbons, and held it in my hand, dithering.

“Damn it, Ra'jirra! What the hell are you doing?”

So I look at him, realising that I'd already decided, say “This” and start reciting.

Scrolls are a funny sort of enchantment. Basically, you embed a spell into the paper via a set of runes (usually Daedric), special inks I'm not at liberty to disclose the composition of, and a fair whack of magicka. At the same time, you prime the thing to go off when a key phrase is uttered by the holder. Most scrolls use simple, short phrases for use in life-threatening situations.

This one was more complex. It actually had a sequence of phrases and invocations to the Divines in general and Akatosh in particular, all firing a series of esoteric spells in a specific order.

I will admit that I read the final instruction, 'Release scroll and stand well back!' aloud before twigging.

The scroll in any case was replaced by a swelling ball of blue-white... energy, is the only word that seems apt... that expanded to about seven feet across, before fading into a view of stone walls, wall sconces, and defenders of the Empire.

“Come on through,” calls I, “we've got some folk here need defending.”

And Ernie gapes at me as though I've lost my mind, then at the Decanus as she rolls through. “Decanus Magda Snow-Bear,” she introduces herself, then the drake drops for me.

“Gallus Mag?” says I before I can stop myself, “I remember you spitting me out of the Bloated Float!” Sad to say I didn't remember much else. However, being dragged out of a nice warm tavern by a large Nord woman, who's doing so by gripping your ear in her teeth, is fairly memorable.

It's even more memorable when your ear comes off and you next see it in that pickle jar she kept behind the bar.

“Did I?” To my relief it seemed the Legion had given the lass a sense of humour. “I bounced plenty of drunks out of there like that.” And she looks my head over. “You must have been well behaved too, you still have 'em both.”

“Will someone please explain what the hell is going on?” asks Haines with understandable restraint.

“The Decanus here used to be a bouncer down the waterfront,” says I poker-faced.

“Charmed,” lies Haines.

“And she, along with her contuberii, are going to convince the super mutants that messing with Big Town is a suicidal notion,” adds I smugly.

“How?” Haines still wasn't convinced.

“What's the makeup of your lot?” I ask Mag.

“Half archers, half infantry,” reports she, “And pretty much trained for expeditionary work. These children need defending huh?”

And so I run down our impending super mutant problem for her.

“And we're not kids,” Flash declares, “we're grown up! We're mungos now.”

“And we're professionals,” Mag shoots back, then turns to the portal and summons her troops through. “And bring ladders!”

“Ladders?” is my intelligent response.

“These houses look sturdy enough,” explains she, “They'll provide an elevated field of fire for the archers. If the beasts get to the gate, then they'll have swords to deal with as well.”

Oh.

“What about us?” one of the Big Town residents asks, “We've got guns!”

“Yeah!” adds a lad I recognise from our first arrival, “And that big one that lady brought us!”

“She got here in one piece? Great,” says I.

The legionnaires under Mag's command arrived with their ladders, and not to my surprise one goes up on the house closest to the portal, and then Mag heads to the gate and gets the other set up to the north of it. Also not to my surprise, once all four archers are upstairs one sings out.

“Incoming northwest! Count six... look like ogres.”

“Are they green?” asks I.

“Yeah!”

“There's our super mutants,” growls I, “Time to slam the doors.”

And away Mag goes shouting orders and lining her ground forces around the bridge.

I'm sure for the citizens of Big Town it was most educational. Super mutants don't seem to be able to climb, or change their plans, so the silly sods just kept plodding into the rain of arrows the Legion archers sent their way. The first two of the stubborn sods pretty much turned into pincushions when they went down.

The other just shot at the archers with typical lack of precision. Legion armour isn't exactly bulletproof, and mutant hide's mighty tough, but what a professionally launched arrow lacks in force it makes up for in aim. Also joints and eyes are natural weakpoints, so the greenies were having to protect their heads, which meant they couldn't see to shoot straight, and ended up limping to the bridge.

And that's where a bunch of angry folk with guns were waiting to pick them off.

The last two were noticeably bigger and tougher than their buddies, and these guys actually made it over the bridge. That's when the footsoldiers of the Legion pretty much hacked them off at the knees. Ugly number five was effectively disembowelled at the gate, and ugly number six just stormed over the top of him, waving a huge hammer and screaming in rage. Just in time to get three swords, one war axe, a spectacularly large Nordic battleaxe, a dose of shock magic and the last of the minigun ammo in his guts. At least twice.

Super mutants might be strong, but they still need things like an intact body and a full supply of blood in order to survive, so down he goes in a mighty wet thud. Not that anyone was complaining. The sun was setting and the dragon flew above us.

Afterwards, Haines and Flash both approached me, skirting the Legionnaires who were setting up tents in the faint light of the portal.

“Ra'jirra,” Haines begins, “we cannot help noticing that, er, these soldiers seem to be...”

“Are they gonna leave us?” Flash jumps in.

“No,” says I, “they'll stay here for a fortnight, then another contuberia will rotate in.”

“But...” Flash looks worried. “We don't have enough to share with your...”

“Fear not,” says I, “more than likely they'll share food and medicines with you. Would that be right, Decanus?”

“That's right,” Mag nodded, watching two of her legionnaires swearing a heavy barrel from the portal to where the others were being arrayed. “We're aware of the dearth of food and clean water as you reported, so we'll lay in a supply before fortifying this place.”

“Fortifying?” Flash blinks. “You mean, you're gonna stay and keep us safe?”

“Fortifying?” Haines yelps. “You mean you're taking over here?”

“What?” is Flash's understandable response to that.

“They have to,” is mine. “That portal isn't closing any time soon. The instructions that came with it were clear: find a defensible spot to open the portal, and I'll be honest, Big Town here is just that. Once the compound here is done up as a motte, I'll bet every drake I have that the Legion will annexe all the houses around it for a bailey. Am I right?”

“Don't bother betting,” Mag grins.

“So what that means is that you and the citizens of Big Town are now under the protection of the Empire. Keep your eyes and minds open and you'll learn a few useful trades that might help bring in the caps and goods too.

“I'm gonna be blunt. Whoever's in charge of Little Lamplight exiled you here to die. Well, bugger that. This is your home, and we'll help you make it thrive.”

And Haines just looks at me, promising a heated discussion tomorrow, probably.

[Yes, this has been a long, long delay. I've been through a bad patch of writer's block, depression, upgrading and reinstalling all the things, and only last night did I figure out how to approach this chapter in a halfpie reasonable way.]

17 September 2277: From the Journals of Dr. Earnest Haines
I remember this conversation quite well, even after what happened in Vault 112, and despite Dad's insistence on getting to Rivet City yesterday I must write it down.

The blasted Khajiit refused to answer any of my questions until we were about an hour west of Big Town, and had dealt to the local insect life.

“Well?” I asked, “You kept saying you'd explain later. This feels like 'later' to me!”

Ra'jirra just looked around, then nodded. “All right,” he grunted, “my instructions were to open that portal in a safe location for a staging post, because the Imperial Council think we can help each other.”

The notion sounded absolutely ludicrous to my ears. “How?” I asked, “By taking over this country? This world? I'm not sure we're ready for – for – Stendarr worship yet!”

Yes, I had a little magical ability now, which still surprised me. I am still not convinced that this Stendarr actually exists, but repeated, ah, testing has proven that not only does the visualisation and invocation work, but that its efficacy increases with practice. (It is quite likely that this so-called magic is closer to the concept of a 'super-Science' as hinted at in the derivative works of H. P. Lovecraft's mythos.)

“That fellow in Rivet City may have garbled our history,” I added, “but he was right in that King George was riding roughshod over us, charging taxes that didn't benefit us at all, and understand this – that I will be damned if we're going to swear fealty to your emperor from another world!”

“You won't,” he replied after a little while, “because the Emperor's been dead for a dozen years. That's why we need your help, and we're willing to help you. Fair deal.”

That stopped me cold. “What do you mean?”

“Well,” he started, “depending on who you talk to, we're either in Year 445 of the Third Era, which is the official date, or Year 12 of the Fourth Era, seeing as the Septim line died with Emperor Martin when... when he...”

His eyes went distant as though remembering something terrible. “Let's keep walking,” he muttered and turned westward.

“Turn a little south,” I said after fiddling with my Pip-Boy and the Vault-Tec overlay. “We can check Vault 106; Dad might have passed that way.”

“What? Oh, right,” Ra'jirra nodded and then shook himself. We walked in silence for a bit, then he began speaking.

“Third Era 433, that was when a wanker called Mankar Camoran and his pack of daedra worshipping scum,” this terminal cannot express the venom in his tone, “The Mythic Dawn, assassinated three of Emperor Uriel's sons and managed to chase down and off the Emperor himself, despite the best that one Zul gro-Radagash could do.

“From the sound of things, Ocato suspected that there was a spy for Mankar the Wanker in the royal staff and had Zul thrown in the jug on spurious charges, since there's no way that a respected member of the Fighters' Guild and the Arena would do anything deserving of that.” He turned to me and rolled his eyes. “Obviously.”

“Anyway, every Emperor... had the blood of the Dragonborn in their veins, so the Amulet of Kings let... them wear it.” His struggle with tenses was interesting, as though he expected to hear of a long-lost branch of the Septim family making an appearance. “And that's important, because only with the Amulet c...could the new-crowned Emperor, and I'm not completely sure I remember right, use the power of the Red Diamond of Akatosh to light the Dragonfires at the Temple of the One, which was absolutely vital to protect us from Oblivion's little darlings.”

“Some sort of magical protection?” was my surmise. It sounded like some sort of genetic trait was needed to activate this Amulet of Kings or at least access its functionality.

“A barrier between Mundus and the planes of Oblivion,” he nodded, “Because the Princes of Oblivion... the nice ones are just indifferent. Mankar the Wanker was dancing to the tune of Mehrunes Dagon, Prince of Destruction.”

“One of the nasty ones?”

“One corner of the House of Troubles. There's also Molag Bal, Prince of Rape, Malacath, Prince of... um, Curses and the Cursed I think... oh, and Sheogorath, Prince of Madness. Basically four bad buggers you don't want setting up shop in your reality, and here's some idiot Altmer handing one of them the keys. And where one goes, the others will want a piece...

“Anyway, with the Dragonfires out the Mythic Dawn started getting busy, starting with the opening of the first Oblivion Gates at Kvatch, sacking the place.” He stopped walking and rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Makes sense, Kvatch is a fortress town atop a mesa, and you can see it for miles. When it was sacked...”

“It would have demoralised everyone who saw it,” I surmised.

“More than that,” he agreed, “If it wasn't for the power of Akatosh, Martin Septim would have carked it before he could be found.”

It took me a while to understand what Ra'jirra was saying. “There was a fourth prince?”

“Ah... sort of... look, as far as I'm concerned Uriel was being smart and adopting one out to be raised in secret. Only the Grandmaster of his personal guard, the Blades, knew who he was, and when Zul fronted up with the Amulet of Kings, well, obviously it was time to go fetch the lad. Unfortunately between then and arriving at Kvatch, Mankar's wankers invited the daedra to play.”

“And this Akatosh protected him?” I was getting a little confused. “What is Akatosh?”

“One of the Nine Divines, like your friend Stendarr, also known as the Dragon God of Time.” Space-time, more like, if this being was involved in barring visitors from these Oblivion planes. Perhaps they were like the theories some people had of alternate universes, or so-called 'parallel worlds' or 'higher dimensions'. I suspect if this is the case, then any experimentation or attempts to replicate the portal Ra'jirra had opened with just gestures and words should be undertaken in strictest containment – and well away from anywhere populated or essential!

“So Kvatch was cleansed of daedra, and Martin was rescued,” Ra'jirra went on, “but Mankar pulled a fast one and stole the amulet during that time. Martin was whisked to safety, and Zul was sent running around all over Cyrodiil doing quests and one thing or another, I don't know what, but he killed the last unicorn in the land during it.”

His face was angry. “I liked that unicorn,” he added, “we didn't see eye to eye but we had good times travelling together.”

Unicorn? Well, his world had obviously undergone a radically divergent evolutionary path, so perhaps horses with horns were inevitable.

“Obviously I wasn't paying attention because J'Dargo was born, and then one of those bloody gates popped open virtually on our doorstep, and...”
He trailed off again, obviously remembering something he'd rather forget.

“Anyway, after about a year or so I'm summoned to the Imperial Palace and told to wear my formal rags, and, well, you could have knocked me over with a sprig of fennel when in comes this young man in full royal robes and the Amulet of Kings on his breast, and it's our new Emperor Martin!

“Unfortunately almost right away the Mythic Dorks pulled their last gambit and ripped Oblivion gates open all over the city. Sodded up the coronation ceremonies too.

“So I'm charging outside with magicka at the ready, and I can see the red lightning and hear the screams, and we're charging into the Temple District hells for leather and...”

And he stumbled, caught up in his memories.

“Old Dagon himself was there,” he said at last, kneading his ankle for any sprain or serious injury, “a hundred feet tall, crushing mortal and daedra alike underfoot, but I got distracted by some ziv-il-eye (spelling?) which was about to attack a mother and children, and then, the Temple exploded.

“And there was Akatosh himself, bellowing defiance at Mehrunes Dagon, and everyone just stopped dead and watched them! I didn't know Emperor Martin had sacrificed himself then, all I could see was Dagon and the Dragon in combat...”

He trailed off, shaking his head. “But that meant Martin was dead now?” I asked.

Ra'jirra shook himself back to the present. “Yeah. Ocato's been ruling as Chancellor, but some people are starting to ask why bother with an Empire when there's no Emperor. Society's falling apart, and we need to preserve law and order.”

I am no political scientist, but I could see a flaw in his thinking. Ra'jirra was used to the idea of living in a dynastic Empire, but there were other ways of organising society, such as the fine American institution of democracy. After twelve years, perhaps the time was right to suggest such a superior political system?

“So I've seen radios that allow you to talk to people miles away, as though you're in the same place. I've seen vehicles that would make the Dwemer cry with envy – sure, they don't go any more, but it's the general idea. And these weapons, to protect the Empire's citizens. That's what you –” he waved an arm at the wasteland about us – “can offer us.”

“And in return?” I couldn't see what Ra'jirra's people could offer us.

“Food,” he replied. “Water's half the problem here. I haven't seen that many farms around, and the ones I did see aren't arable any more – or safe to work at.”

He had a point! Dad's work at Project Purity might keep people from dying of thirst and radiation poisoning, but not from starvation. I hadn't seen any signs of old garden stores, and any produce in supermarkets would have long rotted away, or have been rendered sterile by preservation methods. “So that's the trade is it? 'Guns for butter'?”

“Yeah, something like that,” he nodded, “and viable seeds, saplings from pine and other good wood-producing trees, then later we bring in some herd animals, maybe a few farmers to teach the basics, and next thing you know, you'll be eating real steaks for dinner.” (Some time ago, at his querying, I had explained some of the ingredients listed on a Salisbury Steak packet. He's refused to eat them ever since.)

“Anyway, once word gets out about Big Town being the place to go for decent food and water, you can bet anything they'll become the focal point for every swine who thinks might makes right.”

“Hence the troops,” now I understood, “that actually makes sense. Still... to raise crops we need water, and cows and sheep need grass, so... we need to find Dad!”

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Ra'jirra nodded. “So how far to Vault 106?”

As it happened we finally found the entrance barely an hour later. The door was open though, and the place looked abandoned.

At one point, the flickering lights seemed to turn bluish, making the walls seem clean and well-maintained. I turned to mention this to Ra'jirra, but found him a way back, staring in horror with his tail stiff and bristling.

“Haines!” He gasped, “It's a trap! See the grate? The groove in the ceiling?”

“What grate?” The ceiling had plenty of pipes and cables, but no groove. “What groove?”

The lights returned to normal, leaving Ra'jirra confused. “Haines... for a moment... we were in an Ayleid ruin, I thought...”

“Must have been a trick of the light,” I responded.

As we got deeper, Ra'jirra asked me at one point, “Does the air in here taste blue to you?”

“Blue?” I remember replying, “What do you mean, blue?”

“Well,” and he waved a hand, “It's the closest I can come to describing it.”

I didn't fully understand until we entered the main atrium, and now I could smell something in the air, a fragrance that made me think of the perfume old lady Taylor used to wear. I turned to mention this to Ra'jirra, but he didn't seem to hear me, looking around in horror, then he screamed, pulled out that mace he totes all the time and tried to attack me! “Daedric bastard!” he yelled in rage, “we'll see who's the naw-thing [sic] now!”

I did the only thing I could: I backpedalled quickly while trying to reason with him! “I'm not daedric,” I kept repeating, “It's me! Earnest Haines! What's got into you?”

When Dad attacked him from behind with an old pool cue, it still took me some time to understand what the hell was going on. I fired a warning shot with my AEP-7, but it was blue.

And Dad turned into someone else in a filthy Vault jumpsuit, bearded and seemingly insane. Ra'jirra faltered, and my next shot was not only fatal, but its normal red hue.

“What?” Ra'jirra turned around again, blinking. “But... there was... it was a...”

“Hallucination,” I was feeling a little scattered myself. “The air in here's contaminated with some sort of hallucinogenic gas!”

“Gas?”

“Yes, gas!” I slapped him across the muzzle and that seemed to clear his wits. “There's something in the air that's making us see things that aren't there! We have to be careful if we're to find any sign of Dad.”

“Shouldn't we get out of here then before I start seeing dremoras again?”

We should have, but I had the (probably drug-induced) notion that Dad might still have been down there, tripping out of his mind. We trekked through the Vault's rooms and, if I may be literary, the doors of perception before finally admitting defeat and fleeing.

All we found was disturbing evidence that provided a second data point to support my current hypothesis regarding the purpose of specific Vaults, particularly those designated by even numbers.

“So far,” I explained to Ra'jirra once we had escaped into the cleaner air of the surface, “We've been in two Vaults, both collapsed due to experimentation that went out of control, both with even numbers in their designations! I was in Vault 101, which was perfectly fine, and it was an odd number. Now, if even numbers mean experimentation, then Vault 112...”

He got the gist judging by his expression.

“How many fingers am I holding up?” I asked, to make sure no effects of the gas lingered.

“Three,” which was correct, “how many am I holding up?” He made something like a reversed peace sign, in that his palm faced himself instead of away.

“Two,” which was also correct, since my mind was quite stabilised again, “So our heads are all clear, but no more delay! We must head west and find Vault 112 as soon as we can!”

How have I never commented on this before?

I love this story so much! I should admit at this point that I've never played Fallout 3 (although I have played others in the franchise, so the setting is familiar), but it still works for me. I *adore* crossovers, and you make the two worlds mesh so beautifully - watching the continuing Wasteland/Tamriel culture clash is an absolute hoot, from Ernest's "have they never considered democracy?" to Ra'jirra's attempting to comprehend American attitudes towards sex, never to mention his ongoing adventures with technology. I'm also a great fan of close-to-character POV and this is a spectacular example. Ra'jirra's internal monologue and the way he sees and reacts to events is hilarious. There are really too many things about it I adore to list, but I will at least mention the ongoing references to Zul gro-Rutabaga *ahem* gro-Radagash, I mean.

I'm also very, very interested to see where this Imperial outpost business will go. I wasn't expecting it, but looking back it was most likely inevitable. I worry for the Empire, because this could go badly wrong in so many ways... and even if it goes right I'm not sure Tamriel is prepared for Cyrodiil's Imperial Air Force.

This makes me feel much better. Thank you for your feedback!

[I just finished this chapter just now after doing a little historical research.]

18 Rain's Hand 3E445: A Rest Stop on the Road to Rivet City

One of the troops lit the fire in the usual way, while Haines Senior watched in amazement. I don't know why, he'd been travelling with us for the past two days, so there were a few fireballs to ogle between then and now.

“So, now we're back in civilisation again,” says I, picking some good Cyrodiil chicken out of my teeth, “What the hells was all that down in the Vault?”

The previous two days before reaching Vault 112 are only interesting to the terminally boring types, since it was almost all creeping and exploring westward. We did find a place called Jury Street, which must have been a merchant's street if the remaining buildings were any indication, and about this time Ernie got distracted by a nearby radio signal. All it was, once he found where it was being transmitted from, was a lot of little blips, which Ernie told me was something called 'Mores Code'. Turns out there was a hidden underground bunker, but raiders had visited before we got there, so no survivors and a Daedric sense of decoration.

We also spotted one of those behemoths nearby, and decided to steer clear. Also steered clear of was some sort of industrial complex – yep, I was beginning to recognise the building style – down in a deep gorge, like a natural fortress. As we lay on the edge that night, peering through goggles and the Eye, we worked out that if Haines Senior was as smart as his son reckoned he was, he would have steered clear.

Besides, they'd corralled yet another behemoth in some sort of pen with shock magic running through it. (Haines calls shock magicka 'electricity', but same thing.) Anyone with the ability to pull that off was worth giving plenty of space.

We finally reached Smith Casey's garage – a sort of mechanical stable and smithy, where you got your car repaired – the following morning, and didn't have to go far to find the entrance. Inside, however, we found just robobrains, and the only people were all inside some sort of machine. Including Ernie's father (his crying out and hysterical attempts to open the capsule-coffin-thing were a big give-away) and, apparently, Braun.

Naturally we had to describe all this once we returned to Fort Big Town, for the records.

“Well, Ra...jirra,” the silvered man started, “Braun had set up the Vault to support a network of Tranquillity Loungers, including himself. Everyone in the Vault would enjoy a variety of simulated environments, ah, under the control of the Overseer, in this case Braun.”

From what I had seen through the glass, they'd been in there so long they were little more than skin and bone, barely breathing, eyes fixed on screens that flickered disorientingly. Rods protruded from the corners and held their skulls still, while cables and tubes plugged into their now baggy jumpsuits.

“So you had to park yourself in one of them to get to him,” surmises I, “You had to share his dream world.”

“More like a nightmare,” he shook his head, “I wasn't expecting to become a dog.” He shuddered. “Miss Dithers knew, somehow. She'd pet me and feed me treats and whisper that she knew it was all wrong, that I needed to find the way out. And not just to avoid being fed poisoned scraps by Braun, or getting–”

He broke off and shuddered.

“I read the logs on the terminal there,” says Ernie, “Before, he had been running a tropical island simulation, complete with deaths by shark, heatstroke, thirst and so forth. Then there was a ski resort with all sorts of horrible accidents. The swine was torturing those poor people, over and over, wiping their memories and starting all over again when he got bored.”

“And what was he, ah, 'running' when we arrived?” asks I.

“Tranquillity Lane,” says the Senior, “good ol' American suburbia, white picket fences and all.”

“Which made it all the sweeter for the sicko when he pulled the rug out from under,” adds Ernie, “Did you see the road was just a circle with no way out?”

“Try telling that to those poor souls,” replies the Senior, “Once I saw the Neubaum family all pile into their car talking about going to the Smithsonian. They just sat there, ignoring everything and everyone else ignoring them, and guess who was stealing items and putting them in another house?”

“Like a dream within a dream,” muses I. “Keep that stuff away from Sheogorath, it sounds right up his alley. Anyway, why did all the warning bells go off and everyone die?”

“When I entered,” explains Ernie, “I realised something was wrong after a couple of circuits. Like Dad said, just one big circle and no exits. Also, there was a house with no name on the mailbox. Inside, a pile of junk which was a basic sequence lock. Obviously,” and his voice became a little snooty, “imperceptible to the Vault inhabitants. I had a rifle through the files on the terminal and activated the failsafe, which was tied to a 'Chinese Invasion' simulation program.

“Now, normally the Tranquillity Loungers have safety mechanisms to prevent neural damage, but Braun had them removed when the failsafe went off. Apparently he didn't want anyone escaping. Simply put, if you got shot by virtual Chinks, you'd get your brains fried, fatally... unless you're the Overseer.”

That had been hideous. After hours of waiting, pestered by fawning robots apologising for 'my' broken lounger, a bedlam of alarms, the smell of death-purged bowels, the final rattles and whimpers.

“So how come you two got out?” asks I.

“We weren't all hooked up,” explains Haines, “We didn't have eye-vees or electrodes or any of that stuff in their jumpsuits. If you'll look at them, they're actually straight military-grade virtual reality immersion suits.”

“Which of course explains why you both got out and started shouting at each other,” says I.

The two looked a little shame-faced, but then self-righteous.

“And you,” I pointed at the elder before they could start again, “tried to hare off without kitting yourself properly.” Technically his 'armour' was just a motor-cycle riding outfit with extra bits of metal tacked on, but it was safer than running around in just a Vault-Tec jumpsuit. Especially since there was yet another Talon ambush as soon as we emerged outside. How by the Nine did they keep tracking us?

James Haines, it seemed, was yet another bit-in-the-teeth sort. It was only by some magical persuasion that he deigned to stay with us as we backtracked to Fort Big Town. He was fascinated by my basic spellcraft (almost being hit by it might have helped) and he asked plenty of questions on the way back.

“It also explains why everything was in black and white,” Ernie tried to change the subject.

“Look,” Haines Senior begins the argument again, “It wasn't as if I had any choice. I would vanish in the night cycle, and you were supposed to stay safe in the Vault. I know –”

“Those swines had already decided I was in on it!” yells Ernie, “Hell, they shot Jonas – or that prick Mack did anyway. He was questioning Amata and... I saw him...”

And Haines shudders. “Her father was just watching,” he adds.

“Good God,” mutters the elder, “Jonas? His own daughter?”

“C'mon Dad, you know he was a stick-in-the-butt type. I remember him saying over and over again how your experiments were a waste of time. And remember when I told you about the last question in the GOAT? Four options and only one real answer. 'Who is the man who is like unto God on Earth, to whom we owe unquestioning obedience and whose ass emits rays of sunshine?'” He was being sarcastic. “'The Overseer. The Overseer. The Overseer. The Overseer.'”

And something clicks into place. “Wait a minute,” says I, “Is Braun still alive? If he's the Overseer, and he couldn't disable his own neural safety thingies...”

And both Haines look at me and then nod. “He's trapped in there,” Ernie confirms, “along with all those homicidal simulated Chinese.”

“In the body of a little girl,” adds his father. “I don't know if I should feel sorry for him or not...”

I didn't. So far every Vault's Overseer that I'd heard of had turned out to be a tyrant, which worried me a lot. And at least three of them had effectively destroyed their Vaults, if not immediately then by sowing the seeds for later demise – as per their orders. Vault 101's Overseer was apparently a bit of a tyrant as well, but...

“So what sort of experiments were performed on the people in Vault 101?” asks I.

“None,” says the elder, “Well actually... it wasn't supposed to open ever. The idea was to study the genetic impact of a small group of individuals breeding over multiple generations.”

I could see a problem with that. You had a population that was unaware of what was going on outside, and a lot can happen in a thousand years. The Third Empire basically rose and fell in that time, Nine help us all!

Now, in a thousand years it was more than likely that the Vault would be discovered by someone or something from the outside, and probably be opened by force. Which, if things had gone differently, would have probably revealed a decaying, inbred population resembling Skyrim's falmer more than men.

“But obviously it did open,” observes I simply.

“Well, no,” agrees the elder Haines, “At first Amaldovar wanted to just throw us out again, preferably with a bullet in the head, but fortunately more sympathetic ones prevailed.”

It took me a space to recognise that Vault 101's Overseer was called Amaldovar. And if he'd have been happy to shoot a father and infant, well, that settled the tyrant question. He was. Must have been required in the job description.

“Fortunately for you,” says I, “So no doubt he made you useful, Ernie here got a safe place to grow up, and then off you snuck.”

“Well, yes,” and the elder Haines looks a little offended. “Mostly wondering why the population was declining, which is all down to the obvious lack of genetic diversity – inbreeding that is, among other things – but I still tried to learn as much as possible to get Project Purity back up and running. In between being grilled about what life was like outside, that is.”

“Why would they care? If the place was supposed to stay shut forever...”

“The previous Overseer,” explains Ernie, “was more open to contact with the outside world. He sent people out to investigate.”

“And that's partly how we knew of Vault 101,” adds his father, “not to mention the two escapees in '66 and '68. You wouldn't remember those.”

“Well, there was one I know of because Moira gave me her jumpsuit,” says Ernie. “I've only worn it once, Moira's not that good a tailor.”

“Well,” burps I, “All that we need now is a little constitutional to settle our guts and then a nice night's sleep. Coming?”

And the Haines family look a little confused as I didn't intone it as a request.

It was cold outside, but then it is at any time of year. Masser and Secunda grinned down at us while Earnest and James Haines gaped back.

“You said you came from another world,” gasps Ernie, “but I didn't realise it was true...”

“Yep,” grins I, “obviously. We'll take a quick walk around Black Plateau, hit the hay, then it's back through the portal to Rivet City when we're nice and refreshed.”

I love Haines’ journal page. “Mankar the Wanker” had me spitting tea.




It’s always a delight to find Ra'jirra at the top of the board. As usual I enjoyed every word.

[Hi there. As you've probably noticed, I've not been in a FO3 state of mind; I've been doing a lot of Second Life DJ work, Minecraft, and trying to get into Skyrim, around the postie run and the sisyphean, stinking job search.

I've also finished Home for the Holidays, a spin-off from my third Ra'jirra crossover Magic, as Opposed to Magic. But for now, have some Ra'jirra and Ernie Show!]

22 September 2277: Project Purity

Dead super mutants can get mighty fragrant after a few days, so while Ernie snuck off to check that none had either come back to life, or attracted vengeful mourners, I decided to get some background information to pass the time. Haines Senior was too busy pacing in circles to talk, so I asked a rather grumpy-looking Dr Li.

“Is he always this bit between the teeth?” asks I.

“Who – James?” she looks surprised. “He's... very... driven. Determined to change the world. Well, we all were back then, I suppose.” And she shrugs, in a sort of tired, worn-out way.

“He was focused on two things, really. Making Project Purity work, and Catherine. When she died, I think...” and she looks away, then back at me, “I think he gave up. I know he wanted to keep his son safe, but I think part of what he did was run away. But it seems that he never really was able to get over the idea. I'm frankly shocked that he waited all this time, and wants to try again.”

And she frowns. “Almost like he hasn't grown up in the last twenty years.”

So I tell her what I'd gleaned about his time trapped in Braun's dream world. And her eyes go wide, and by the time I'd finished I'd got a little crowd. “So that's what happened,” breathes she, “but if he's right, and he hasn't, well...”

I get her meaning. Being trapped for who knows how long in some sort of mechanical version of Vaermina's realm can't be good for you. There's stories about a wizard who stole something of hers and is stuck in eternal nightmare. Not nice.

“What about you though?” asks I, “How'd you end up working in Rivet City?”

“I'm not sure what there is to tell,” shrugs she. “I grew up north of here in Canterbury Commons, and –”

“Same as Moira?”

And her eyes light up. “You know her?”

“Sure! She's living in Megaton now. Runs the store. Folks call her, ah, 'The Mad Scientist of Megaton'.”

And she actually laughs! “I can't believe it! Moira never wanted to go outside, let alone leave town! We had our own little club as children, me, Moira and Bean... we called ourselves The Mad Scientists' Club after this pre-war book we found.

“The years went by, and I guess we all got itchy feet. Bean started spending more and more time in this old robot shop outside town, Moira must've left after I did, and I basically followed a lead to Rivet City. I'd heard they were looking for scientifically minded people from caravan scuttlebutt, and they were, and that's where I met James and Catherine.

“We worked together for a long time. I think we were really on to something. But then...” and she gestures at the nearest mutant corpse. “So I returned to Rivet City, took over the lab there, started my own research.”

And about this time the door opens and out comes Ernie. “All clear,” says he, and is nearly bowled by his father. So what can we do? Everyone follows him!

Actually, it was interesting to watch the team Li had scrounged up working. Last time we'd been in here, there'd been a few machines still working, but now with a fair whack of elbow grease and swearing, cables were plugged in, broken bits were fixed or replaced, and things started literally humming.

Not seeing Ernie around I headed into the rotunda, where I found the Haines family having a discussion. Ernie nodded briskly and then started past me.

“Anything I can help with?” asks I.

“Ah... I think there is,” James says, “It's not exactly technical, but you seem to be up to some heavy lifting.”
“You want me to haul the dead mutants out of the way,” says I.

“Better still, outside, if you can,” admits he.

So what do I do? Lug dead mutants outside!

Still, I could understand the reasoning. Super mutants are like any living thing, since when they die they rot. Which means bad smells, nasty oozes, and disease. Not conducive to a happy life unless you're a necromancer.

It wouldn't be until later that someone told me about the intercom. I almost jumped when Ernie's voice came out of a little box on the wall. “Flood control's operative Dad.”

“Great work son,” comes his father's voice, “come back up to the control room for these fuses.”

After a little while, the door to the lower levels opens and in comes Ernie, gasping a bit. “Couldn't have given them to me at the time, could he?” asks he in passing.

I was a bit occupied with lugging a centaur outside at the time, so I didn't find out until later that the door to the mainframe needed power to open. There was, also, a distinct thrum in the air I couldn't place. It didn't sound like gunfire, and every time I pulled another corpse out, it seemed to be either louder or closer.

“Ra'jirra!”

Ernie had relocated to the far end of the entry tunnel. He was looking annoyed. “Give me a hand with this bloody valve!”

So I drop the mutant I was lugging and follow him up to a smashed room with a manhole in it. “Down here,” say he, and I follow.

The pipe we were in had a big hole in it with a fine view of the walkway outside. “Time to release pressure,” grunts Ernie, “On three!”

The two of us managed to finally get that damn valve twisted, and the thrumming got a lot louder. And a dirty great vertibird – a real, honest-to-gods original of that model I saw in the Museum of Technology – lands right in front of us!

The thrumming I'd heard was the approaching of the machine, more accurately its two rotors beating the air like a windmill. Little wheels extended out on legs to support it, and I saw what looked like dremora running for the entrance. On the flank of the machine, a circle of stars around a white letter E.

And I look at Ernie and he looks at me. “Dad,” he says, and that's all he had to say. Because the sounds of the vertibird ebbed enough for us to hear his dad on the speaker overhead.

“...The Enclave? What are they doing here... They're where? Madison, lock that door! Now!”

We didn't have any choice but to do one of two things. One was wait for the Enclave to spot us, and most likely shoot first and ask questions later. The other was to continue down the pipe, which involved jumping from one grating to another.

“What the hell are the Enclave doing here?” growls Ernie, breaking out a big sniper rifle.

“My guess is they want Project Purity,” says I, “That way they can enslave everyone in this region. If you're bad, no drink for you or your crops. Like that.”

And Ernie just rubs his chin. “I've heard some of the Enclave broadcasts before,” muses he. “They claim to be the true United States government; accept no cheap imitations. You're right. This city was the seat of government pre-war, so of course they want to capture it!”

And we descend some more and I realise he's right. If it wasn't for the Crystal Tower being razed during the Oblivion Crisis, for instance, the Thalmor would have had a go at capturing it and, by extension, the stones of the entire Summurset Isles. Old Dagon went after Emperor Martin right in the Imperial City, and it would have been a morale-crushing defeat if he'd succeeded. And the Tribunal of Morrowind basically died when the Ministry of Truth smashed into Vivec at last. It's not just artefacts that have power; places do too.

Eventually we reached the bottom; the pipe bent and arrowed straight to an underground chamber I only recognised from chunks of rotten mutant. However, our attention was caught by another dremora-like figure tromping around the upper level, and we took turns peering at it through Haines' sniper scope.

The fellow was dressed in some sort of incredibly heavy armour, featuring parts that flexed and slid in and out with each movement. The helm had two swept-back protrusions that gave the impression of a dremora's horns, along with a faint glow from the eye holes. It was also hefting a laser rifle, and I heard it mutter, “Goddamn noises in this place, giving me the creeps,” in an accent similar to that of President Eden.

The last noise he heard was that of Ernie's sniper rifle nailing him through the eye shield, giving him the deads.

As we stripped the figure, I had my first good look at power armour. It's exactly what it says: Armour so heavy and durable that it needs its own power supply to work a lot of motors and things to lighten the wearer's load. The upside is that there's a little more power than needed, but as I say, we're talking at least twice as heavy as a full daedric suit!

There wasn't anyone else in the lower levels, so we crept upstairs. The door creaked as we pushed it open, and our luck failed us.

“Damnit private, what is it now, potty break?” Another power armoured figure stalked into sight. “I told you to – hostiles sighted! Engaging!”

Sniper rifles aren't much good against someone in power armour who knows you're there. Shock magics, on the other hand, are; according to Haines they briefly overload the armour's systems, giving people time to switch to more suitable weapons. Laser rifles, for instance.

“We need to get to Dad,” Haines mutters, but I tell him to hold and cast Watchfulness. “There's three people below us,” informs I, “two more at the entrance, and... damnit, I can't see to the control room.”

And Haines shrugs. “We'll go in blind, then,” and he's off like a shot, pushing the door open to faint raised voices from inside.

[Hello. It's been a long while. I blame RL, starting a second job, replacing my OS, Minecraft, and finishing my NaNoWriMo 2012 story in that ordure. Have an update.]

22 September 2277: Orphaned

When we fronted up to the control room, we found a frantic Li parked up against the window. Inside the room, two Enclave goons were covering Haines Senior, a frightened looking woman who was probably assisting him, and someone in a fancy looking coat and hat.

“By the authority of the President, this facility is now under United States government control,” says the fellow in the hat officiously. Ah, so he’s Enclave then. “The person in charge is to step forward immediately, and turn over all materials related to this project.”

“What’s going on?” Ernie asks, and I shush him. “Listen and find out,” says I.

“That's quite impossible,” his dad states flatly, “This is a private project; the Enclave has no authority here. I'm going to have to ask you to leave at once.”

And the snot turns to him. “Am I to assume, sir, that you are in charge?” Nice layer of disdain on the ‘sir’.

“Yes, I'm responsible for this project,” says Haines Senior, still keeping remarkably calm.

“Then I repeat, sir, that you are hereby instructed to immediately hand over all materials related to the purifier.” Interesting accent on him. Heah-by, ovah, purifyah.

“I'm sorry,” shake of the head there, you’d almost believe he was, “but that's –”

“Furthermore,” interrupts the snot, “you are to assist Enclave scientists in assuming control of the administration and operation of this facility at once.”

“Colonel... Is it Colonel?” Haines Senior is a pillar of calm, while I can see the snot (sorry, Colonel Snot) getting red in the collar. “I'm sorry, but the facility is not operational. It never has been. I'm afraid you're wasting your time here.”

“Sir,” the colour was in his voice as well – not good. “This is the last time I am going to repeat myself. Stand down at once, and turn over control of this facility.”

“Colonel, I assure you that this facility will not function,” bloody hells he was pressing it! “We have never been able to successfully replicate test results –”

And that was when Colonel Snot pulled his own gun and shot the hapless lab assistant dead. We all gasped, Haines Senior included, and the Enclave soldiers pointed their own weapons at him.

“I suggest,” Colonel Murdering Wanker snarled, “you comply immediately, sir, in order to prevent any more incidents. Are we clear?”

“Yes, Colonel. I'll… I’ll do whatever you want,” you could see the disgust in his eyes, same as mine. “There's no need for more violence.”

The Colonel just nodded, uncaring prick. “Good. Then you will, immediately, hand over all materials related to this project, and aid us in making it operational at once.”

“Very well,” Haines Senior sighs, “Give me a few moments to bring the system online.”

He turns to the main console and that’s when Li gets the intercom working.

“James, no! Stop!” cries she, “This is wrong! You can't do this!”

And the Colonel just turns and smirks at us. I give him the old hairy eyeball. I know his sort. Cut from the same grain as the Mythic Dawn, the bloody Thalmor, and of course Mannimarco and his bootlickers, he is.

“Madison, please,” Ernie’s dad doesn’t really ask. “Now's not the time. I'll get the information the Colonel needs, but I need you to –”

“I won't help you do this James. Not after everything it took to get here! You saw what they did to –”

“I need you,” he outshouts, “to monitor the output levels on pumps three and four. Please step over to the panel and keep an eye on them, will you?” And he smiles, and my neck hairs stand to attention.

“What?” And Li just fly-catches in confusion. “What are you talking about? That doesn't even make any sense...” and she half-turns to a panel on the outside wall.

“Madison, please. It's very important that you do this right now. Just step over to the panel while I access the computer in the control booth.”

And Ernie’s just gaping as well. His dad’s too calm and he’s caved too quickly. “Might as well do as he says,” says I.

“James, I...” Li starts.

“Please. Just monitor the pumps.”

Now I’m certain. Ernie isn’t. “Dad…” he asks at last, “What the hell are you doing?”

And James looks up, his expression set. “Earnest,” he says, “I think Doctor Li could use a hand. Over at the monitor panel.”

“I too would appreciate it if you would be so kind to step away from the control room,” says Colonel Wanker.

“Yes Dad,” mutters Ernie and he slopes off to where Li is looking everywhere except at the panel.

“Thanks son,” James says, “I’m proud of you.”

“Ah,” and I see the Colonel studying what looks like a flasher kind of Pip-Boy, “what is happening with the data?”

“That’s what I want to know,” and James frowns at the console, tapping it. “It must still be compiling.”

And I head over to the panel. “Whatever that thing’s doing,” says I quietly, “It’s not compiling data.”

“He’s up to something?” Ernie’s face brightens a bit. “That’s a relief. Maybe he’s –”

There was a gods-awful crash of blue-white light, like Meridia farted.

By the time our eyes work again, we could see two armoured hulks laid out on the floor. The Colonel was trying to inject himself with something, and James…

James staggered to the window, lurching into it. His eyes were completely filmed over, and worse, where his hands and face touched the glass, the skin completely disintegrated.

“Run…” he half-croaked, half-vomited in red. “Run…”

Ernie did – towards the control room – then stopped as his Pip-Boy went from clicking to screaming.

“Dad?” asks he, “Dad... What the farg happened! Dad!”

“Ernie…” James is sliding down the window now, looking worse, and I swear his eyes were melting and his nose is halfway up his forehead now. “Run… Love you… son…”

Then he slid below the window.

And there’s Ernie bouncing back and forth, wanting to get in there and rescue his dad, and not wanting however much radiation, I guess it was, that had killed everyone in the room.

So I made his decision for him. “Just do what he said and run!”

Ever heard a grown man wail? That’s what Ernie was doing.

“Bloody hells,” groans I, “so what happened? Might as well... learn that while I get a prybar,” and I nod towards Ernie at Li, who’s looking a little teary-eyed herself.

“He...” and she swallows, “James caused an overload. He… he sacrificed himself to keep the Enclave from getting the purifier, and to buy us time to… to escape.”

And she goes over to Ernie and tugs his shoulder urgently. “Earnest, we have to leave him.”

“NO!”

“There'll be more of them coming! We need to get out of here before they find us, or else your father died in vain!”

“I second that,” says I.

“No!” screams Ernie, “We can't leave him! I'll do Science, I'll save him, gotta get this door open...” and so he babbles.

Whack! And Li slaps Ernie! “There's nothing anyone can do for him now!” Li yells, “The radiation levels in there are lethal. You'd die the same way he did!”

“What she said!” cries I, “Listen to that Pip-Boy damn it! And more of those cunts are coming and they think you know the gods-damned code!”

“Code?” Ernie asks, somewhat distracted now by first getting slapped by Li and now this.

“The code to activate this... place! Even I know what it is!” I’m not lying. The clues were there all along.

“What?” the two chorus.

“I'll tell you later. Li, guide us!” orders I.

It was a short guiding. It turned out that there was an emergency egress via manhole right outside the rotunda. After that Ernie and I took point against ghouls and Enclave soldiers. The bastards were evidently pursuing us, and they had access to parts of the tunnels we didn’t. It was a relief to finally run into a completely different pack of armoured goons who were more interested in shooting past us instead of at us.

Next thing we know, we’re climbing out another manhole right in front of the Citadel, and up goes Li demanding entry!

“Don’t even bother lady,” sneers this armoured dork with the big gun, “There’s no way that Elder Lyons would –”

And about then he got drowned out by the sound of the portcullis being raised.

“You were saying?” Doctor Li’s smile was more a wild grimace. Didn’t blame her. And it didn’t hold a candle to poor Ernie’s mug.

We were tired, scared, slightly clawed, bullet-pocked and laser-burned; Ernie was clearly still in shock over his father’s death; Li was actually angry. And what did we get? Some snot in steel acting like a lord’s doorman!

Said snot was now gaping at a blue-robed fellow who was ambling towards us through a passage made by rather a lot of missing masonry. Another heavy armoured warrior tagged along behind him, and she didn’t look happy. “Father,” I heard her protest, “This isn’t safe! How can you…”

“Elder Lyons?” The snot didn’t know what had hit him. “What are you…? I mean…?”

“It’s all right,” the old man said, but his tone was one of someone used to obedience. “These people are friends, aren’t we, Madis– ah, Doctor Li?”

“Right,” Li just stared at the old fellow with an expression. I’d seen that tons of times. The sort of expression that says, I think you’re a bloody fool, but I’m not going to call you on that for now.

“Bugger all this upmanship,” says I, “The Enclave's taken over Project Purity, Haines killed himself giving us a chance to escape, and the bastards still were chasing us through those Nine-damned tunnels, and I've got a snarl in my tail that'll take hours to brush out. Now are you gonna aid us or what?”

And everyone looks at me as if they don't know what's going on. “Besides, the sentry here's right,” adds I, “This isn't the place to discuss things. Those Enclave might be watching us even now.”

“Er...” metal-boy's taken aback, “Thanks?”

“Good point,” Elder Lyons is grinning wryly, “Therefore, follow me and Paladin Lyons. I recommend not deviating. We have live-fire training going on.”

And so we follow the two through the rubble to a double-door that was originally on the inside of what I saw were two buildings, one inside the other. This door opened onto a courtyard alive with Brotherhood training: physical exercises, sparring, lots of shooting, and also lots of being yelled at by instructors. It took me a while to realise that the courtyard had five sides. We were in the 'Pentagon' that President Eden had babbled about!

The two Lyons led us all straight down the middle towards another set of double doors, bearing a sign reading 'Lab'. Laboratory eh? Should be interesting, thinks I.

Turns out the laboratory's centerpiece was a three-storey tall golem. Lyons directed us down some stairs, and into a room that made me think of a cook-shop. We ended up parked in a booth, and then he asked us our story.

Which was mostly told by me, Li, and to a lesser extent Ernie; when we finished, Lyons, and several other folk in red robes who'd snuck in for a good ear-farm, were all looking grave.

“Earnest...” and Ernie just lifts his head and looks at him. “You have my condolences. Your father was a good man.”

“Um...” down goes his gaze to the table, looking for guidance. “Thanks... I guess.”

“Think nothing of it. Your father was a visionary. He spent his life trying to make this world a better place for all of us. Few can say that these days.”

“A visionary.” Ernie starts to chuckle. “A visionary,” and he starts laughing. “A farging visionary!” and he's crying and shouting now. “A fargnaxing visionary who just farging ditched me in farging 101 and farged off for...”

The rest was pretty much repetitious, and our audience was looking a fair bit alarmed, so I had a think and reached out one finger and zapped him on the nose. Weak shock spell. Kid's joke cantrip. Nothing harmful.
And Ernie just jerks back with both hands grasping his honk. “Whassat for?” gasps he.

“Something to do with you being hysterical,” says I, “And right now I think we all need some sleep and a feed. Then we can work out what the hells to do tomorrow. Sound good?”

“Right now I'd kill for a good night's sleep,” agrees Li. “We're all worn out after... after basically running for our lives.”

“Very well,” old Lyons nods, “Sarah, please show our guests where they can make their quarters. Tomorrow at... make it oh-nine-hundred... assemble them here. We'll continue discussions, and I'm sure such skilled people will find use here.” And he looks at me. “I saw you studying Liberty Prime,” he smiles, “You can learn more about it tomorrow.”

“Yes Elder,” the armoured girl salutes, and we were escorted up and out into the ancient building, where we slept like the dead. Not even a direct hit with one of those Fat Man things would have woken us.

Which was unfortunate, since Vaermina threw a party in our dreams.

Always a delight to hear from Ra’jirra.

I'll do Science, I'll save him

Oh, Ernie.

[A/N: Not dead! And I have to re-run from the Citadel outwards. Again.]

23-28 September 2277: Life With the Lyons

During our time in the Citadel, we began to appreciate the quiet life, namely being able to rise with the nice quiet sun instead of being roused by someone blowing a trumpet. Either he wasn’t too good or it was the speaker system that made reveille sound like an ogre dying of flatulence.

Anyway, the next morning, as I said we were roused by that godsawful noise. After some discussions after breakfast I saunter over to where Dr Haines is slumped on an old couch, not really looking at anything. That’s a worry, since we’re in the main lab with the giant robot. Science all over the place and here’s Ernie taking no notice.

“Let’s go outside and get some air,” says I.

“Farg off,” says he.

“There’s someone I want you to meet,” says I.

“Farg off,” says he.

“Do a little job for him,” continues I.

“Farg off,” says he.

“Then we’ll see about showing these Enclave swine up,” continues I.

“How?” asks he, petulant like me as a cub being ‘asked’ to explain about the missing sweetrolls.

“Come up and find out,” challenges I.

So up we go, me striding and him moping, and we go looking for a certain instructor.

Now some of you might be wondering why I’m being all heartless to the newly orphaned Doctor Earnest Haines, otherwise known as The Kid From Vault 101. Well, it’s because I know that letting him fall into a funk is likely to lay him out long enough for the Enclave to work out where we got to and pay a visit, probably one involving heavy weaponry, the blockading of the only entrance, and those vertibird things parking in the middle of the Citadel. No doubt full of soldiers and officers as snotty as that Autumn dork.

The best way to deal with grief on the battlefield is to keep busy, and with any luck you’ll live long enough to have a breakdown afterwards. And I’d been directed to someone who’d be sure to keep Ernie nice and busy.

Said person was a hard-faced man in power armour, glowering at several increasingly nervous recruits as they attempted to turn target dummies into lace. “Initiate Hawkes, [censored], stop farging jerking that trigger! Squeeze it gently, like your girl’s tits. Initiate Spike! Will you stop letting that [censored] rifle call the shots and control your weapon! If you don’t the only way you’ll be useful in the field is as mutant bait! Mariposa!” And he simmers for a bit, and that’s when I take my cue.

“Paladin Gunny?” hails I.

“What in Mariposa is it Initiate?” snaps he, before turning around. “Damned wasteland pussies, always need some… Oh. You’re that Ra’jirra guy.”

“That’s me,” says I, then I clap a hand over Ernie’s shoulder and pull him forward. “Doctor Haines here wants power armour training.”

“You do?” demands Paladin Gunny to Ernie.

“I do?” asks Ernie of me.

“You do,” replies I, “He does,” confirms I to Paladin Gunny, “and before you ask, I had a word with Elder Lyons, so it’s all permitted.”

“It is?” asks Ernie, who’s a bit wrong-footed in case you hadn’t noticed.

“It is,” confirms I.

“So why in Mariposa does a pencil-necked geek like you want power armour training?” inquires Paladin Gunny.

“Why do I…” falters Ernie.

“Because you attack with the products of Science, and with the Enclave looking for you, why not be protected by Science as well?” explains I.

About this time I notice Paladin Gunny trying to hide a smirk.

“Oh,” says Ernie, then, “Of course,” he adds, finally catching up. “Not to mention that, er, either the Enclave presence at Project Purity will eventually be assaulted, er, or we will be attacked. It only makes sense that I should be, er, able to pull my weight.”

And I just stick my tongue in my cheek and look at Paladin Gunny.

“Cute words,” says he, “but they ain’t gonna cut it. Right!” And he turns and raises his voice to a modest bark. “Initiate Hawkes! Initiate Spike! Cease fire! Down weapons and get your skinny butts over here! Now then, ladies, Doctor Haines here will be joining us in learning how to wear, maintain and operate the finest military uniform in the world, namely the USA’s own T-51b Power Armour. As you have had prior training in the basics, you two will be assisting me by being good, or more likely barely adequate, demonstrators. And you,” and here he points at a still slightly stunned Ernie, “will prove my expectations of your complete inability to learn and fail. Am I clear?”

“Sir yes sir!” chorus the two Initiates, with Ernie a half-beat behind.

So he was pretty busy for the next few days, but at least he was learning a lot, including some interesting phrases which he would direct at me of an evening before collapsing into bed.

Yes, including a new curse word, ‘Mariposa’.

While Ernie was learning all about how to walk around inside a suit of heavy metal with a small atomic reactor on it, I was amusing myself with a whole lot of learning. Paladin Gunny had a high old time teaching me how to tame one of those automatic rifles, hells, even Spike lorded it over me at first. More interestingly, I had a chat with some of the resident Scribes, who kindly let me poke my way around some of their terminals.

“You’re absolutely certain the mutants were talking about ‘green stuff’,” asks Scribe Bigsley.

“Definitely,” says I, “seems pretty important to them if they want more of it.”

“If it’s what I suspect it is,” muses he, “then that would explain why there’s so many mutants, and why they’re capturing rather than killing people. There must be another military base in the region.”

“That wouldn’t be surprising,” and a blonde woman butts in. “Sorry – I’m Scribe Jameson. And I suspect what they’re after is the same thing that caused the Brotherhood’s formation.”

“Well, what is it then?” asks I.

“How much do you know about how disease spreads?” asks Bigsley, “Not how it’s caused, but the nature of what one is…”

“Foreign matter entering the body,” shrugs I, “might be a miasma, or dirt, or some other poison. These days I try to keep a cure disease potion on hand just in case. Vampirism’s spread by inhaling the dust off a dead vamp or getting one’s blood in your own wounds, and lycanthropy’s pretty similar but without the dust part... Why?”

And the two Scribes look at me. “The… um, substance… is known as Forced Evolutionary Virus,” begins Scribe Jameson, “It was… tested… on military prisoners before the war at a place called Mariposa.” She takes a breath, before uttering the name, and suddenly Gunny’s use of it makes sense. “The commanding officer there, Arthur Maxson, rebelled at this, took over the base and executed the researchers responsible for their crimes.”

“Hang on, who was behind this… research?” asks I.

“The pre-War government,” responds Bigsley, “as in the Enclave before they became the friggin’ Enclave.”

Now I’ll try to summarise what was explained later. Basically the old pre-war government got it in their heads that these Chinese people would use plagues or something against them. So naturally they decided to drop the technology version of a rotten corpse in the well on their enemy first.

Now here’s where it got a little fuzzy. Apparently this FEV was supposed to be a super-plague that would completely slaughter the Chinese, which is bloody silly. All it takes is one person with enough immunity to hold it off long enough and next thing you know, it’s your team who’s all coughing blood and falling off the perch. Then again I speak from experience when I say that the high-up nobs lack common sense on a regular basis.

Later research found out that FEV could be tweaked to cause changes in its victims. And that led to a whole new avenue of madness: creating ‘super-soldiers’ that were tougher, stronger, more brutal, and more obedient than regular army. So I’ll let you guess what they were doing to prisoners held at Mariposa, and why the great Maxson basically committed treason.

By now you’ve probably gathered that in the run-up to everything going to Oblivion, or hell, or Mariposa, take your pick, the United States government was hardly governing. By all accounts it dumped its obligations to its citizens in favour of not just defeating, but completely obliterating the Chinese. And here’s us, having seen its descendants in the Enclave.

Anyway, the story, such as it was, had Maxson leaving for somewhere called the Lost Hills and founding the Brotherhood of Steel. Unfortunately he didn’t lock the gates when leaving Mariposa, and someone or something got in. And the first super mutants were born.

Then Bigsley started asserting that the Enclave had deliberately gone after the FEV in Mariposa, which Jameson disagreed with, and I just tried to tune them out as they argued. Which I couldn’t.

On the other hand, their arguing knocked a revelation loose, and out comes the fist and bang on the table.

“The mutants have a base in this area,” says I, “but they need more FEV.”

“Damn straight,” Bigsley agrees, “we think it’s west of here, up the Potomac. Unfortunately, we were pretty worn down when we made it to the Citadel, and when the Outcasts broke away, that reduced our strength even more.”

“What Outcasts?” demands I.

So it turns out that the Brotherhood is all about the technology and doesn’t really give a flying about the people. Which is bloody ridiculous, since technology’s useless without people. Elder Lyons twigged to this, since it also helps if the locals don’t think you’re just a pack of bandits with better gear than most. It’s called diplomacy, I think.

Anyway, since I was so interested in the history of the Brotherhood, Jameson lets me access the records terminals in what was called the 'A Ring', and here I found one far more interesting that confirmed what I feared about the Vaults.

By the end of the war, the United States government no longer cared about its citizenry. It was a tyranny like that of the Ayleids.

There was another vault, Vault 76. Notes on it stated that the thing would spring open after twenty years, when 'the residents would be pushed back into the open world for study in comparison to the other experiments'. Vault 101? Literally a study of inbreeding. And of course there was Vault 106, 92 and 112, where the victims suffered needless experimentation.

What gets me about this is that there was no reason for any experimentation. Who would collect the data? What would it be used for? It's sheer, almost Daedric uselessness still makes me want to punch walls when I think about it. Even Sheogorath would have asked if the instigators had thought things over at all.

But what really interested me was the one file – an equipment manifest – I found for Vault 87. It had this line:

1 G.E.C.K.

So of course I up and shoot off to find young Ernie. Young Ernie is performing exercises in power armour, along with Initiates Hawkes and Spike, and for once Paladin Gunny isn't putting them down.

“And nineteen! And twenty! That's it, ten-hut!” Then he notices me. “Well, well, if isn't Tiddles of Sherwood!”

It's taken me years to understand half that reference.

“Well? I suppose you've invented a power bow to go with this armour?”

“I need Haines here for a briefing,” says I. Won't rise to the bait. From what I understand Gunny's still a prick.

“What sort of briefing? Mariposa! I thought you said I was supposed to train this Wasteland noodle in power armour!”

“From what I saw just now you're doing a good job. And this is important to Elder Lyons,” snaps I.

“Fine. Ini... Haines... take five and go with your friend here. As for you two slobs...” and I'm convinced he just likes making trainee's lives a misery.

So Ernie and I walk off until he gets his breath back and doesn't resemble a tomato. “What is it?”

“Vault 87 has a G.E.C.K.,” says I, “and we know it's somewhere out west. We need to go back to Vault 112 and start poking around.”

“Why 112?”

“It's in the area. It could be roughly north or south, we'll just have to find the entrance. How soon do you think you can escape Paladin Gunny's clutches?”

“Tonight. When he finally lets us eat and sleep.”

“All right then, we do a midnight flit. You're able to walk in that thing?”

“Yes, Mom, and shoot guns and work the crap-flap and all the other stuff. That farging Gunny seems to want us to ballet dance in these suits.”

“That doesn't seem useful to me.”

“Then we're agreed?” And he manages a smirk.

“I think you need some practical training in power armour usage. A nice field operation.”

“That sounds like a sensible hypothesis.”

“So, set your Pip-Boy for 3am?”

“Four.”

“Four it is. I'll go ready our things.”