Fallout Genesis

The Trial pt. 3

Holmes
2275

The Ferrymen Guild wrote:

The Trial pt. 2

It was a grey morning, or would have been in a colder place; in Holmes, it was still warm, but the sun was a pale and sickly yellow and crept over the lofty canyon walls like a spider stealthily stretching its many arms through the branches of leafless trees and through the clefts in the orange rock, slowly advancing over the city on the river; a pair of buzzards made sorties overhead, the market square was too quiet, and Wilson MacCarthy sat on the steps of the city hall with his hands clasped and his left leg sitting on a nerve.

He lifted his eyes to the encroaching morning and a body swung from the gallows. Beside the poor soul, a woman sat forlorn, wringing her hands and fitfully looking up at the hanged man in silence.

Wilson set his jaw. He couldn't go over to her, not now; he had naught to offer but a broken promise and vain condolences.

A hand fell on his shoulder and he looked up. It was Clarke.

“What ye doin' here?” Wilson asked.

“Heard ye was defendin’ a lad in a criminal case, so I came on over t’ wish ye luck. That him?”

“Yup.”

“Sh*t,” Clarke muttered.

“Ye was late.”

Clarke sat down beside him.

“What happened?” he asked.

“Folks’re scared, Clarke. This is what happens when folks’re scared.

Clarke pattes Wilson on the shoulder again. “Ain't yer fault, friend. Ain't yer fault.”

“Ye tell that t’ her. She'd say I've done broken a promise.”

“Hm. Come over t’ mine after, drink t’ him. Least any of us can do.”

* * * *

It was evening when MacCarthy arrived at Clarke's offices. He was greeted at the door by a butler, who took his coat and hung it up, and then he made his way into the dining room.

There, gathered in their multitude, were several prominent members of the Guild—those whose economic power was largely unrivalled—and they all turned their eyes upon MacCarthy when he entered.

After a moment of silence, they greeted him with sympathy for the outcome of the trial, lamenting it's outcome. He was welcomed to a table where Clarke, an unknown man, Mr. Hatter, and some other notables sat.

“Now I just about recognise all of ye, but not yet feller. Who are ye?”

“This here is Mr. Briggs,” said Clarke. “He's Slim's chief farmhand.”

“Ol’ Jim couldn't make it?”

“‘fraid not,” answered Mr. Briggs, rising to shake Wilson's hand.

“Why not?”

“He's off on important business.”

“Hm… alright.” Wilson sat down.

The men and women around the table drank and talked for a good while, until someone hurried over and spoke to Clarke. He said, “there's someone at the Door, Mr. Clarke.”

Clarke got up and Wilson decided to follow him. Clarke opened the door and, on the other side of the threshold, there stood the judge.

“Judge?” Clarke exclaimed. He then scratched his bearded regretfully. “Maybe this isn't the best time to visit. Lotta folks up in here ain't too happy with the hangin’.”

The judge looked up at him and then looked at Wilson before addressing Clarke. “It's a sorry thing. It really is, son. I don't agree with it, but it's the law of our Guild that a guilty man should be subject to the justice of the folks he wronged. I could only uphold that as a judge. What I want to do here is see that somethin’ can be done, ye see?”

“What does he mean, Clarke?” Wilson asked Clarke.

“I wanna discuss somethin’ big fer the Guild. Something that ain't never before been seen. Why don't both y'all come on in and we'll get a-talkin’.”

And so they did. They sat down at the table of notables and eventually the topic turned to that which Clarke had promised. He stood up, held the lapels of his jacket as he spoke, and said, “folks, I'd like t’ make a proposal to all y'all.”

The room collectively turned to listen; many a chair creaked as this happened.

Clarke went on, “it seems to me that we're on the verge of anarchy, that folks think they can do what they want, when they want; slavers a-slavin', mobs a-hangin’, if ye ask me Holmes is gettin’ dangerous-er by the day.”

“The hell ye talkin’ about, Clarke? This ain't no lawless wild land; we got the rule of law n’ sh*t. Jest ask the judge,” someone else spoke up.

The judge stood up and said, “I ain't enforcin’ nothing. Hell I ain't doing nothin' more than telling folks when they can and cain't speak; the punishment fer crimes up in here is whatever the mob decides. That ain't right.” And he sat down.

A debate was about to happen, when Clarke spoke resolutely again, “folks, folks, now hear me out; our laws are made and then forgotten and then flouted because we ain't got nobody to enforce them on the regular; hell I doubt that poor boy that were hanged today would be swingin’ fifty years ago. Now, if we had a permanent body—a permanent council—t’ keep things sensible, we wouldn't be havin’ none o’ this sh*t.”

“That's all well and good, but how are ye gonna get everyone to sit on a council when there's money to be made?” Mr. Briggs asked. There was some muttering in agreement.

“Now, I've thought about this; it'll be a smaller council—not every man, woman, and child needs to be summoned to every session, just t’ ones of great importance. Naw, I reckon we could very well form a permanent council.”

“Us?” someone said. “And ye don't think we wanna make money?”

“Christ, Bill!” Clarke answered. “I know ye can delegate. Dedicate that leisure time ye’re wastin’ on fishin’ irradiated trout, to a bit o’ civic duty instead.”

“Hmm… besides,” said Hatter at length as he rolled a cap from knuckle to knuckle, “there’s profit in power itself. Not in coin, but something else, eh?”

“Now, now,” Clarke said. “We ain't buildin’ a council fer power itself, but to keep things in order, ain't that right, Judge?”

“Aye.”

“So, what say ye, eh? Shall we form a permanent council here in Holmes? C’mon let's see them hands.” Clarke raised his hands, then most of the room followed suit.

“But, Clarke, how's this gonna work?” someone asked.

“Well a few things gotta be ironed out, I'd wager.” He scratched his chin and then counted on his fingers each point that followed. “But, we can start by settin’ up a proper legal code, we need a few good men to enforce it, a dedicated meetin’ place, and a feller to sit over it as a first among equals. Let's start with that, eh?”

“And I reckon ye’ll wanna take the rains, eh, Clarke?” Mr. Briggs said, rolling his eyes. Some folks chuckled.

Clarke held up his hands and chuckled too. “Naw, naw, I'll sit this one out. I ain't got that sorta authority in me…” he paused, thinking. The room went quiet and then, at last, Clarke went on again, “but I would like to nominate a feller fer the position.”

“Go on, who?” Hatter said.

“Mr. MacCarthy, here.”

“Whut?” Said Mr. MacCarthy.

“Ye heard what I said, friend. This whole anti-slavery ordeal is yer doin’. Time ye take the reins.”

“N— now just ye wait—”

“What do we call him?” asked the Judge.

“I ain't calling him president.” Hatter spat.

“Naw, president is too civilised—too NCR-like,” mused Clarke

“Hey now—”

“What ye reckonin’, Clarke?” Mr. Briggs asked, sitting forward in his chair.

“Hows about we look after the tribes ‘round here. Hows about we call him our big chief?”

“Aw no—”

“Who's fer it?”

And every hand shot skyward.

A Due To Be Paid
???
October 1st, 2277

OCTOBER EVENT POST

It was a night, not unlike any other... Across the former United States, now the wasteland, the sun sets, and people turn in for the night. On pillows, rags, or whatever else they could find. For a select few, it would hardly be a normal night's rest. As they closed their eyes, and drifted off, they would find themselves standing in a field of charred grasses jack-o-lanterns. A man, perhaps, sat atop a horribly mutated horse, the scars of radiation deep into its flesh. A sword rested on the rider's side. Flame laps at the heels of the unfortunate soul who is made to stand before them. A yellow sky backdrops it all.

As they stand there, taking in their surroundings, an organ booms over the vast fields over the crackling of flames. The jack-o-lanterns stare, with gazes of judgement and contempt. The faces carved into the gourds seem familiar, yet twisted. Before they can speak to the only other person, the rider, he raised a gloved hand, silencing them. His voice then boomed out, echoing from all around, as if he surrounds them. Its a deep, gravely voice, making an attempt at sounding what may have once been considered proper. A sneering hatred underlined ever word, like venom.

"You have been chosen... chosen to pay mankind's debts! Their crimes..." The figure paused, letting out a laughter that seemed to echo around the one standing before him. "...require atonement. The Horseman seeks his due. Travel to Illinois, by the old border of the north... alone. As the ones before you have... If you don't... your debt will be paid another way. You will be forgotten by all! A dead man walking." The figure laughed again. "Cursed forever, to walk the world... unnoticed by all. All who know you will forget. A hole in their memory, unable to be filled." He drew his sword, a saber that seemed to drip radiation. "Travel! You have until the end of the month. Only by defeating me can you be saved from your damnation." He laughed again, twirling his sword as he makes it point down. He then kicked his spurs, the horse lightening off, the sword slashing across the chest of whoever stood before him. It burnt, a searing pain as the jack-o-lanterns around them laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Just as they felt like they were going to die, they were dragged back to being awake.

The ones chosen wake up in a cold sweat... the visage of the man they had seen in their dream seen in the shadows around as they continue their day. Perhaps ignoring what they had been told. Then, people forget their names. Need reminding. Small things. Perhaps, only the beginning... perhaps, that dream was more than just a dream.

[=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=][=]

And that's the October Event!

You will have until the 10th to get out your character submissions.

To participate, you must of course, have a character! Reply to this post (min. 500 words) and give your character SPECIAL stats.

Strength
Perception
Endurance
Charisma
Intelligence
Agility
Luck

Good luck, you'll need it! Mwahahaha!

A Synth’s Way Back Home I
November 2278

[[Designation model GO-1370. Modified for field reconnaissance. . .]]
|= Load
|> InTechOS
|– CUP
|– BMB
|– CLB
| [[. . .Booting InTechOS. . .]]
| . . .
|> [[Diag:Fld.V]]
| Model: Generation 1.r62
| Make: Remodeled circa 2217
| Primary Directive: Recon and Return
|
| Waking Protocol Initiated. . .
[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]

The Mission.

“Why, good morning, 1370.”

“Why did we wake this one, Sir? It should have been retrofitted at the very least, this thing just looks… Useless.”

|> Initializing Audiovisual sensors.

“With such a long boot sequence, let alone capacity for motor capabilities. We should send a Generation two instead.”

“Not. So. Fast. I understand where you are coming from, I do, but we must preserve whatever resources we have at our disposal now.”

“Right. Resource conservation. But still, Generation One synths?”

“Yes. Because sometimes, the outdated ones are continuously utilized. Until they fry or otherwise get destroyed. That is why our policy is to use what we have until it can not be used anymore.”

|> . . .Initialization complete. Requesting directives.

“I will leave you to doing that, Sir. Unfortunately, I don’t have much of any experience handling these models.”

“Really? I find them to be quite simple to program. Watch. There are a few ways, one is with Directive Tapes. The other is implementing coded software directives.” The man spoke, talking the other through the process as he inserts a Holotape with directives to be downloaded. The tape ejecting after it finishes.

“See? Simple. Now, 1370, what is your directive?”

|> Response prompt activated
| “Current Directive. Reconnaissance and return.”

“Wonderful!” The man exclaimed. “Though it would be trouble if you spilled anything. So, let us do this.” He states as he reaches for tools. Within minutes removing the, still crude but sufficient, voice-box of the synth. “Much better. Now, let’s get them where they need to be.”

Without a warning, or so much more as a glance. GO-1370 was whisked away, now standing in soil where the smooth cold floor once was. Looking around the synth looked for the directive. His mission, of which to scout areas for occupation, outposts.

As well as potential residents and settlements to infiltrate and integrate into the growing surveillance network. There, it spots it. An abandoned facility, once prominent for production, now sitting idle as a home base for raider inhabitants.

1370 begins walking towards the facility. It’s movements mechanical and not as refined nor optimized as it approaches an unguarded side of the structure. Unarmed with any weaponry the synth skulks its way around, peering into and looking around inside through the battered and broken windows of the building to gain knowledge of the layout.

Eventually coming upon a lonesome guardsman patrolling the area, 1370 quickly put itself into some foliage, waiting patiently for the person to get closer. And once in range, the synth struck, jolting out from its hiding place as it wraps its arms tight around the enemies neck. Squeezing as much and as hard as it can until the raider guard’s body goes slack keeping the tight pressure for a bit longer to ensure death takes effect.

Dragging the body back into the foliage as the synth rummaged and collected the raider’s weapons and ammo, it armed and equipped itself in order to better deal with enemy engagements. Unfortunately, things did not go according to plan, as they often don’t. The other raiders on patrol notice the missing person and call out to him, expecting an answer but returning with silence, the others gather together discussing to one another what to do in hushed quiet tones.

The group slowly peers and turns the corner, seeing nobody and nothing immediately.

“Maybe he got cold feet and ran off?”

“That hot-headed adrenaline junkie? Not a chance.”

“Answering nature’s call then?”

“He woulda answered us when we called out to him at that point. That man hasn’t an ounce of shame in any piece of that body.”

“True. Hell, just last week the man told me all about his last kills, and not just the casual. That sick freak was detailed, excruciatingly so.”

The raiders continued talking to each other. But something felt off, 1370 swiveled its head slowly to see what felt wrong, where some of the raider patrol guards walked off to. But, it was too late, it turned only to see in its peripheral vision a couple of the patrol guard with a bucket held in one of the hands of the background guards as the forward guard whacked 1370 in the back of the head causing its system to reboot.

Falling prone to the ground as the raiders dragged and carried the synth’s body into the building. Pondering about what they should do with it, before deciding to let it rot where no one would see it, to put it in the storage facility. Propped up within one of the lockers, modified to be wider and more spacious by merging multiple adjacent lockers into a single one. Complete with a makeshift accordion door made from the leftover locker doors.

Hours after they left, 1370 boots back up. Regaining sensibility, raising power allocation to its audio processors to hear more, it overhears some raiders discussing what they should do with the synth. Noting that if it does wake back up from it’s “nap” it would be more trouble than it’s worth to keep around. Another remarks about their sleep cycles, while a separate fellow retorts to the first stating that with how hard they whacked it, the robot would stay booting forever.

|> [[Diag:Sys/.syn]]
| Software Functionality: Operable
|– Audiovisual Processors: Par
|– Conscious Limiter: Intact
|– Coordinate Processing: Unresponsive.
|– Memory Bank: Intact
|– MRM: Unresponsive. Handshake incomplete.
|– Internal Compass Module: Acceptable
|– Vocal Processor and Chip: N/A
| Hardware Functionality: Operable
| Power: 83% Dual Fusion Cell/Core
[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]

GO-1370 looked into its systems. Ensuring that everything remained responsive. Alas, this was not to be, failed connections to the MR let alone pinging it, were all but futile. 1370 was officially, out of range, and needed to return back to base. But first, needing to modify itself in order to keep it’s objective alive and well. To carry out its mission, 1370 needs to make modifications to itself. Which could only be done over some months. So to distract, it pretended to remain rebooting whenever they checked on the synth.

Unfortunately, recording all of the data and layout plans of the building were essential information. So it listened in, and while all of the raiders were fast asleep, GO-1370 would tinker with its internal systems and network. Probing and reconfiguring everything it needs to.

Jury-Rigging Months

Months pass by. Slowly but surely, 1370 gets passed the last hurdles baked into its system. And the fruits bared are nothing if not plentiful, if at least risky. The most prominent of this being the bypass and override of its own internal self accesses. Keeping recordings of the raiders talks nestled inside and patiently awaiting the night to come.

|> [[RtBs/Sys/:.lmt:Access]]? [Y]/[N]?
|> [Y]
| . . .
|> [[Sys/Mem/:Access]]? [Y]/[N]?
|> [Y]
| . . .
|> [[Create:RtBs:Sys/Rice/]]
| . . .
|> [[.lmt_Override:Rice/]]
|> [[.lmt_Rice/Override:RtBs/Sys/.syn.lmt_Conscious Limiter]]
|> [[Dfn+CND.xnd:.emu_Circ]]
| . . .
| [[Dfn:Est_”CND”]]
| [[Rt:Create_”Logs”]]
| [[Log/”Logs”:CND.Tpl.xnd]]
[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]

Finally. After so long, finally, 1370 can do what it needs to. It has plenty enough data and visual encoded blueprints and floor plans made within its system. And when came the night foretold to 1370, no longer could it pass the chance. The synth activated its motor sensors, shuffling around with soft hissing of hydraulics, taking various instruments from its surroundings going around as it quietly eliminates as many of the sleeping raiders.

Making its way through the facility, using the guns and ammo scavenged from their bodies,firing off shots and eventually clearing the entire facility. Stumbling out of the front door as it limps its way out. Heading its way back eastward, ending its trek in North West Virginia.

First Log
|> [[CND.xnd:Writeable:Log_001-12/78]]
|
| I am GO-1370. An Institute Synth. Remodeled for Reconnaissance work.
| I was sent on a mission. I have finished my mission, but I am out of range of the Molecular Relay.
| I have managed to find fusion cells along my travels. But I must get back, I need to return.
| I killed.
| I must return to the Institute. Back to my creators.
| I hope they are proud of my resilience, proud of my innovation.
| That they will be permissible to allow my continued existence of my jury-rigging and modifications that I made to myself.
| Until then. I must travel. I will keep and maintain logs.
| Log 2 will be in production the coming weeks.
| For now. I will remain in assumingly, West Virginia, in order to maintain myself. And to keep my modifications up to date.
|
|> [[SV]]? [[.xnd:.uxd]]?
|> [Y]/[.uxd]
| [[SV.Log_001-12/78.uxd]]
[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]-----[-]

Vault 110 wrote:

A Due To Be Paid
???
October 1st, 2277

OCTOBER EVENT POST

The Enforcer - CHARACTER SUBMISSION
October Event

It had been nearly a year since they had parted ways. He still remembered the figure of his childhood friend slowly disappearing into the desert haze. Part of him wanted to go back, feeling that it had all happened too fast, that he hadn’t said everything he wanted to. But those were thoughts for later as he felt his ride licking his face.

He shot up, suddenly remembering the bundle of weapons he stole from a band of travelers. Looking around him he saw three rapidly approaching dust clouds. “Ohhh, they didn’t like that.” He mounted his horse, the same one he stole from the farm back in Shard City. Oliver Wilcox slammed his boot into the stirrups and swung his leg around the other side of the stallion. “Alright buddy, I think we should be going now.”

Oliver sent the horse into a gallop as the three riders approached him. He covered his face with cloth as the desert dust he kicked up floated upwards. There were whizzing noises as arrows flew inches above his head, parting his hair. Oliver turned around and saw one man loading a bow and aiming for his stallion. “Oh sh**, they want me alive,”

He withdrew his revolver from under his waistcoat and aimed for the man. With the pull of the trigger the rider was thrown backwards off his horse whose panic rapidly receded when he found a stable crop of grass to nibble on. The other two riders, watching their friend go down, withdrew their own rifles and went to fire at him.

Oliver sent his horse into a gallop and tried to pull away from the riders, but their horses were faster and were slowly gaining. He saw one aim his rifle at him but, being unable to line the shot, lowered it back down to try to get closer.

Oliver reached into his pocket and withdrew three throwing knives. He flicked his wrist and threw one, the blade struck one of the riders in the skull sending him tumbling from his horse. The final rider continued the chase. “Oh christ’s sake, do you guys know when to stop.”

Oliver turned his horse in an attempt to break away through a small canyon. He turned around just in time to see a bolas flying at his head. One of the weights smacked into his skull dropping him and his horse to the ground. He grunted as the stallion fell on top of him, letting out a pained whimper.

He rained his gun to the rider, but was puzzled to see that he had stopped. Oliver looked closer at him, and saw that he had clearly been scared by something, if the pale white dinner plates in the centre of his skull were anything to go by. The rider sent his horse to a gallop and returned the way he came.

The horse that Oliver had been riding stood, grunting and heaving. Oliver stood up and brushed himself off, miraculously walking away with minor pains and bruises. He checked his surroundings seeing if he could spot anything that could send a man running away in fear. No scorpions or strange creatures mutated by the wasteland were in sight. In fact, it was quite bar the cricketing of little bugs.

Oliver went to mount his horse who was still heaving from falling. He brushed the stallion's fur with his hand. “Alright, we’ll camp for the night. Holler if those fellas come back.”

Oliver rolled out the crude mattress and a soft bag of feathers from the first goose he skewered for his dinner out here. He laid both down on the ground underneath the tarp adorned with sticks and dead leaves that from a distance looked like a strangely rectangular bush. As the sun finally dipped below the wasteland, and the moon cast its blessings over the desert. Oliver fell asleep, and had a very strange dream indeed.

~~~

The Enforcer’s S.P.E.C.I.A.L

Strength - 7
Perception - 6
Endurance - 6
Charisma - 5
Intelligence - 6
Agility - 5
Luck - 5

Old Celebrations
October Event

Vault 110 wrote:

A Due To Be Paid
???
October 1st, 2277

OCTOBER EVENT POST

Nancy Wells' SPECIAL:

Strength - 4

Perception - 9

Endurance - 8

Charisma - 5

Intelligence - 6

Agility - 7

Luck - 1

Nancy Wells

“S-Stay away! No! Get the hell out of my head! AGHH” She screamed, jolting up in a cold sweat, pulling her legs up to her chest as tears welled in her eyes. “Please. Just. Leave me alone…” She pleaded quietly to herself. “Leave me… Alone.”

That morning she rose from her bed and got ready. Her eyes red and stained with dried tears, her hair frizzy, and shows of tiredness apparent.

“I can’t. I can’t do this anymore.” She hushed to herself as her brows furrowed, hurrying to get ready she rushes out and down to her peers. “I need your help. Now.” She exclaimed, out of breath.

“Whoa, first let’s take some breathes, yeah?” One peer stated, “Take a moment and then tell us what you need help with. You know we will always help if it’s a research project.”

“It.” She stops, letting her breathing return to normal, “It isn’t a research project, not necessarily anyway. No, I want to go out and scout an area. It’s a bit far for the MR right now I think, but I can make it on foot.”

“What? You want to go… Out there? To the surface?”

“Yes.”

“Why? We have everything we could ever need down here. Granted things have become a little less luxurious, but even still, why subject yourself to such danger?”

“I need to.”

“No. You don’t. We can send an envoy of synths if it is a point of interest as you describe.”

“No!” She yells, cutting herself off before continuing in a softer tone, “Sorry. But no, It has to be carried out by a person. And I am putting myself up for it.”

“Okay,” They trail, “Will you at least share with us why?”

“Sorry, but no. I can’t.”

“You know you will need to tell the why to our superiors at the very minimum, right?”

“I know. I am fine with them knowing. It’s just. It’s personal, alright? So, where is the head of our division right now?”

“In a meeting with a couple other division heads right now. They should be using the directorate council conference room right now. It should be wrapping up right now.”

Without a word more, Nancy turned and scurried off. Running up to hopefully catch one of the division heads, stopping just a few feet from the entrance to the conference room as she waited patiently beside it. Waiting for it to hiss open to talk with the division heads of the Directorate. After a few minutes pass, the door opens, Nancy turns and addresses them hurriedly.

“Hello, Division Heads! I would like to speak with Advanced Systems and Facilities if possible, if you both are not too terribly busy. It’s important.”

“Well. If it’s important, we will always make or have time. Isn’t that right?” The division head of Facilities asks the head of Advanced Systems. Only getting a nod in response.

“However, I’m sure we are both busy, so please make it snappy.” Remarks the Advanced Systems division head.

“Yes, Sir. So, the thing is. I’ve been having nightmares, some of my peers I was once deep friends with now don’t even look my way. And when they do, they seem to look past me. I seem to have had a vision, to make a journey. A pilgrimage of sorts, to heal me of my condition, but I need to be up on the surface and!-”

“-Hold on. Going a bit quick there, aren’t you? Even for snappy that may be a bit overboard.” Huffed the Facilities division head. “Not minding that, where and why?”

“Well. There is this… Thing. I need to defeat. Neutralize, to atone for man’s sins. That’s what it told me anyways. As for where, I need to get to the Northern border of where Illinois used to be.”

The Facilities division head rose and cradled their chin between their thumb and index, pondering of what they just heard. “Let’s say we believe you. The MR doesn’t have the reach for that kind of jump. Not yet anyway, we would need a settlement and some Relay modifications to be installed to get there.”

“How far can you get me?”

“The farthest we can get you with what we have right now would be halfway across New York.”

“Darn.”

“Yeah. Sorry, but we just don’t have enough set up for that large of a relay. So you’ll have to trek the rest of the way there. Best equip yourself down at the armory since you plan on eliminating whatever it is you saw.”

“Will do. I don’t mind the trek it just isn’t ideal.”

“We’re aware. Honestly, you could carry relay supplies with you and set up Relay beacons along your way in order to aid in boosting our range. After all, Radio towers, Satellite Arrays, and similar sites are most beneficial to us. But it is up to you really. Otherwise, go ahead and head up to the Relay and we’ll beam you.”

Nancy nods, heading down to the armory, outfitting herself with some armor gathered from previous escapades and an Institute Rifle. Before taking the central elevator up to the relay. Walking over to the massive computational terminal where the Facilities division head and the Advanced Systems division head stand.

“So? What’s your choice? Going to have us outfit you with Relay supplies? Or should we just do that stuff ourselves?”

“Do it yourselves. As harsh as it sounds, it would be better for the lot of you to schedule and plan out everything in advance and surveil through the system than having a single person, me, try to do it all on my lonesome.”

“True. Though it would be more resource heavy initially, I’m sure your way would be better long-term.”

“If we’re done with that. Let’s get to relaying me now. I need all the time I can.”

“Alright alright. Go ahead and stand in the center and wait.”

She nods, walking around and entering into the Relay room. Shuffling back and forth to keep herself in the center of the room. Watching and closing her eyes as light flashes past her, with one last thunderous thump she opens her eyes to wilderness. Trees and soil. Facing the direction she needs to push forward for.

“Welp. No turning back now.” She tells herself as she begins trekking westward. Taking the next weeks to get to the designated spot of where the visage of the entity told us. Until she arrives and sets up camp, waiting and sleeping as best she can just in case any other souls arrives to face off against the creature as well.

Vault 110 wrote:

A Due To Be Paid
???
October 1st, 2277

OCTOBER EVENT POST

It was a night, not unlike any other... Across the former United States, now the wasteland, the sun sets, and people turn in for the night. On pillows, rags, or whatever else they could find. For a select few, it would hardly be a normal night's rest. As they closed their eyes, and drifted off, they would find themselves standing in a field of charred grasses jack-o-lanterns. A man, perhaps, sat atop a horribly mutated horse, the scars of radiation deep into its flesh. A sword rested on the rider's side. Flame laps at the heels of the unfortunate soul who is made to stand before them. A yellow sky backdrops it all.

As they stand there, taking in their surroundings, an organ booms over the vast fields over the crackling of flames. The jack-o-lanterns stare, with gazes of judgement and contempt. The faces carved into the gourds seem familiar, yet twisted. Before they can speak to the only other person, the rider, he raised a gloved hand, silencing them. His voice then boomed out, echoing from all around, as if he surrounds them. Its a deep, gravely voice, making an attempt at sounding what may have once been considered proper. A sneering hatred underlined ever word, like venom.

"You have been chosen... chosen to pay mankind's debts! Their crimes..." The figure paused, letting out a laughter that seemed to echo around the one standing before him. "...require atonement. The Horseman seeks his due. Travel to Illinois, by the old border of the north... alone. As the ones before you have... If you don't... your debt will be paid another way. You will be forgotten by all! A dead man walking." The figure laughed again. "Cursed forever, to walk the world... unnoticed by all. All who know you will forget. A hole in their memory, unable to be filled." He drew his sword, a saber that seemed to drip radiation. "Travel! You have until the end of the month. Only by defeating me can you be saved from your damnation." He laughed again, twirling his sword as he makes it point down. He then kicked his spurs, the horse lightening off, the sword slashing across the chest of whoever stood before him. It burnt, a searing pain as the jack-o-lanterns around them laughed, and laughed, and laughed. Just as they felt like they were going to die, they were dragged back to being awake.

The ones chosen wake up in a cold sweat... the visage of the man they had seen in their dream seen in the shadows around as they continue their day. Perhaps ignoring what they had been told. Then, people forget their names. Need reminding. Small things. Perhaps, only the beginning... perhaps, that dream was more than just a dream.

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And that's the October Event!

You will have until the 10th to get out your character submissions.

To participate, you must of course, have a character! Reply to this post (min. 500 words) and give your character SPECIAL stats.

Strength
Perception
Endurance
Charisma
Intelligence
Agility
Luck

Good luck, you'll need it! Mwahahaha!

CHARACTER SUBMISSION

Iron. Loyalty; At the end, we will remain;

These are the tenets that the department holds dear to its chest, these are the tenets that have kept Lud safe for more than a century.

He remembered his childhood well; endless tunnels and tracks, great beasts of iron conecting the isolated islands, small lights in the dark. He also remembered the great buildings of the ancients, the progenitors of the long gone American Empire; even now, they towered above the Great Lud casting their long shadows, as if to mock the pride of the survivors and their refinement; a reminder that, for all their progress in maintaning civilization, they were still a worthless bit of dust against long lost glories.

He, did not care. He was raised to be something to be proud of; a symbol, a warrior, a shield. From the very start, his parents made clear that he was going down this path, and there was no other choice for him; he took that with pride. At age 12, he had finished basic training. At age 15, he became a iunior guardian. At age 18, he drew his first blood. At 21, he was already a self made officer. at 25, he was given his armor....

It was a worn thing, from the times before.... made of the myhtical alchemical agent known in the times of yore as "Kevlar"; it was fabled in Ludd, for it could stop bullets, and with enough layers, even blunt and slashing. It was terribly cumbersome, and large, but he was proud to be in it nontheless; its blue colours had long faded into a more grey hue but most parts still held, be it for a few iron pieces that had been aded to swap unrreparable material. He had as always, his lucky charm, a rabbit leg necklade. In the chest of his armor the old initials of the venerable department stood against the march of time, NYPD boldly anouncing the seniority of his organization, still here despite all. He had, a trusty riot shield, his powerfull 10MM hand cannon, and his standart issue cymitar. His face, was entombed in a metal mask, attached to a helmet toped with a ponny tail.

During 40 years, he had embodied everything the Ludites held dear; he had protected civilization in the great city, upheld the legacy of the ancients so that the flame of this great civilization could continue to exist. He had done, everything right, and thus everything wrong. When the 15th Magistrate of the district of Harlem did something wrong, he moved to protect the law, as he had swored. Ridding his steed, he beheaded the traitor for conspiring against the captain of the city. Yet, the friends of the traitor were many; with a thousand cuts, and a thousand lies, carefully, brick by brick, they crafted an alley with no end, a situation with no scape; and when the captain lay dead and beaten in his Home, and his fellow men were already there to catch him, the man knew that all was lost in this city; the rot had reached the very top of the department; all was lost

fighting for dear life, the man escaped the city on his white horse, galloping across the bridges before they were closed, far away from home.

He ran, and ran, living as a sword for hire, a stranger in strange lands, killing to live, living to kill.

How many years? How many? How many miles west, walking? Was this horse the one he left with? Had he bough another when the last.... did the last die? This one looked too young.

were was he...A lake, yes. He could see a lake. He was near a lake, a big one.

It was late. He sat near the fire, polishing his old sword and tending to his Riot gear, and his Riot shield. The space in between was misty, but he still remembered home. He wondered, if that still existed.

The dream. That dream. He had it earlier, when he was taking a rest in a cave.

" Huh" he said to himself, as he kept treating his weapon. Then he started disasembling his 10MM, carefully cleaning the pieces.

" This cant be good. I can feel it" He looked around, as he cleaned the weapon. Was that a shadow? Was was that the other rider? that noise from the bushes?

He narrowed his eyes, watching. The noise eventually stoped. it was just a bird. With a kick, he stoped the fire, stood up, packed, and jumped to his horse to do some night traveling

west, always west

SPECIAL

Simbad, the Ludite

Strenght 10

Perception 4

Endurance 10

Charisma 1

Inteligence 4

Agility 7

Luck 4

Near Escape
Wasteland - April 2277

A patrol caught three wastelanders illegally crossing FEARED territory. Matthew watched from the edge of his airship as E-11 soldiers and Border Patrol handled the group, consisting of two men and one woman with alarmingly masculine features. He leapt down from the airship and drew nearer, trying to get a closer look at her.

“What do we have here?” He asked.

“Caught them running through our territory, they’re saying that they’re escaping cells.” The operative frowned, “their names don’t bring up anything, neither do their faces.”

Matthew looked at each person, the one on the left had scruffy, curly hair, unevenly shaved and closed one eye whenever he spoke. The woman had a sharp jawline, hard nose and hair that looked like it was glued onto her scalp. The man in the middle, presumably the leader, had his hair in cornrows and seemed the most normal out of the group. Matthew knelt down and went to speak to him, Scruffy Hair was whispering something to the other two.

“Excuse me.” Only Cornrows looked up, “Who the f**k are you?”

Cornrows went to speak but Scruffy Hair interrupted, “hey excuse me man, what the hell are we doing?”

Matthew stepped back feigning insult, “excuse me?”

“Yeah I’m over here tryna talk to my girl.” Scruffy Hair said.

“Girl?” One of the border patrol officers asked.

Scruffy chuckled and smiled, “Yeah man, that’s my girl Lisa. We got together after we got exiled.”

“C**t that’s a man.” The officer said.

“How do you get exiled out of the wasteland?” Another guard asked.

Scruffy Hair looked confused at the statement, “Wha-? Nah this my girl…”

“Your girlfriend’s a man.” The officer replied. “You said that you were in the same cells together, why’d you think they put her in with you. She’d be on the other side, mate you’re gay.”

The group snorted and chuckled to themselves. Scruffy Hair smiled then stopped to look at his ‘girl.’ “Nah man she…” The woman was clearly trying to stop herself from smiling and broke eye contact with Scruffy. “Nah nah nah.” Scruffy Hair chuckled to himself. He snapped at Cornrows, “So you think I’m gay?”

Cornrows raised his hands, “Nah, no I…”

“You gay as s**t mate.” Another soldier called out.

“Shut the hell up man! You lot are crazy, I ain’t gay! You lot probably f**k each other anyway.” Scruffy said.

One of the E-11 operatives chuckled as he raised his rifle to him, “Nah mate, that’s the army. You were on the outside screwing dudes.”

Scruffy started getting irritated. Presumably sensing his friend’s discomfort, or to get out of an awkward situation, Cornrows chimed in, “It’s a spectrum-”

“Eh, this boy gay as hell.” Matthew had to stop himself from laughing.

Scruffy looked up angrily at the nearest guard, “Imma stab you when I get the chance.”

The guards and Matthew all stepped back and raised their rifles to the group. “Woah hey, hey, calm down.” The alleged girlfriend finally spoke.

“Everyone shut the f**k up.” Scruffy seethed, he stood up and went to run at someone but Matthew placed his boot firmly in chest sending him towards the ground.

“Right, enough f**king around, you!” Matthew said, pointing at Cornrows. “Cornrows, come with me, I wanna have a chat, the rest of you lot watch these two, and don’t rile him up. Please.”

Matthew grabbed Cornrows firmly by his arm and dragged him over to the airship while the rest of the boys watched the other two members. “Alright, now that shenanigan is out of the way, what the hell are you guys doing out here anyway?”

Cornrows pointed towards the leader of the Border Patrol team that found them, “I already tried explaining to him, we were rounded up by you guys and taken to some sort of futuristic prison. It was like, all white bro, I ain’t never seen s**t like it. At first we were like sweet, this is great, we get actual food and water, not some random wasteland crap, a clean place to sleep, yeah we got shock collars tied on her necks, we can’t walk around and some of the orderlies are on power trips, but it's better than out here.”

Matthew raised a single eyebrow, “what, look my unit has some of the highest security clearances in this place, I can guarantee you the place you are talking about doesn’t exist.”

“Oh so I must have been on some acid trip or something? Are you telling me I’m hallucinating?” He said, his voice raising in tone.

Matthew raised his hand, “Alright mate, calm down. Where’d they get you?”

“Outside, we could see your walls but we stayed well clear, your turrets mounted on the walls taught us that lesson.” Cornrows said.

“Hang on, hang on. You said outside, you were caught outside, you weren’t breaking into this place or something?” Matthew asked.

“No man, why the hell would we wanna break in there anyway, we’ve all heard the stories, people getting vaporized before they hit the wall, and those that do make it in, are thrown back out before the week out.” Cornrows replied. “We was just looking for food, you know, as wastelanders do when your, scary men armed with guns and s**t; threw us into the back of a van and drove away!”

Micheal frowned, “Well, why’d they catch you outside? We don’t detain people outside our borders unless we are hunting someone.”

“I don’t know, you’re the one who works here, you said hunted? Am I a known target or something?” Cornrows asked.

Micheal turned serious and looked at a group, “no, because if you were being hunted you wouldn’t know until it's too late.”

Cornrows chuckled, “and why’s that?”

“Because I do the hunting.” Micheal looked at each member of the Border Patrol, “Was it these guys who caught you, the fellas with green markings around their collars?”

Cornrows shook his head, “no, the guys who caught us,” Cornrows stopped smiling, “they were different, they were dressed in kit like you, but they weren’t marked.” He pointed at the orange splashes around Micheal’s uniform, “it was all black, solid masks… now that I think about it, how the hell did they see where they were going?”

Micheal released Cornrows, “alright, take your motley crew and get out of here. Before I change my mind.”

Cornrows raised his eyebrows. “Really? Just like that, you’re not gonna shoot us while we walk away or some f**ked up s**t like that?”

Micheal looked at Cornrows, his expression fully neutral, “go.”

“Oh, okay boss. You got it.” Cornrows ran towards the other two, “let’s go, now, I think old mate over there is getting sick of our s**t.”

Cornrows and the woman stood and turned away. Before he left, Scruffy turned and looked at Micheal and the border patrol, “I ain’t gay!” He said, before running off.”

Central District

The towers of the Shard Complex spiralled upwards behind them. It was a bright cold day in April, and Matthew’s watch read 1pm. The couple was waiting outside the Registry Office, Mary spun the ring, crafted out of a crude mix of steel with a small ruby attached at its tip. Matthew said nothing as he looked off into the distance. “Matthew?” She said, “What are you doing?”

Matthew snapped out of his trance and looked back at his fiancé. “Nothing. Just thinking.”

“Thinking? We haven’t even signed the documents and someone’s already having doubts.” Mary said.

Matthew smiled at himself, “not about that, something else.”

Mary traced a circle on her palm, “well, you can either tell me, and if you aren’t going to tell me, you can stop thinking about it, and if you don’t stop thinking about it, I’ll make you tell me.”

Matthew rotated his cap in his hands, “we intercepted a group of wastelanders today, they said that they were escaping our captivity. When I pressed them for more answers they said a clean facility, white walls, orderlies, shock collars.”

Matthew turned to look at Mary and leaned in closer, “which is interesting, because that describes exactly zero of our facilities.”

Mary shrugged, “and that concerns you because?”

Matthew leaned back and rested on his arms, “I don’t know, it's just weird. I don’t like our new management.”

“The council hasn’t even had an election, what?” Mary said.

“Not the council, you know who really runs things around here. Wesker stepped down, it's a fell called Oswald now. Dad’s been properly scared, which worries me.”

Shard I

Oswald admired the view from the tallest occupied point in Texas. He had been in this office before, when Wesker was in charge, but he doubted Wesker could see views like this. In front of him, well-organised sprawl of Shard City, the small settlement that surrounded the primary HQ. Further out, small clumps of settlements for higher-class citizens of FEARED dotted the landscape. In the distance, he could see the various other towns and enterprises that FEARED operated. As the Texan sun settled, it reflected and dazzled off of the towering wind turbines and solar farms. The farms, belonging to the Engineering Department’s energy projects were a part of the ways that energy was generated to keep the whole operation running. When the sun wasn’t shining and the wind was blowing, several turbines spun by the heat of the earth kept the lights on.

Oswald imagined himself as a great business executive before the war in industrial America, admiring his great empire with his little minions below scurrying about. The day-dreaming was interrupted when one of his assistants entered. “Henry, might want to look at this.”

The assistant spun a tablet around and showed Henry the hazy image of three subjects escaping custody with a team of orderlies chasing behind them. “They escaped at approximately 5:50am, before they were intercepted by Border Patrol, who summoned Lieutenant Matthew Mulligan-Firschal from Epsilon to take a look. Firchal mentioned in his report that they were babbling about a facility that matches the description of Site Zero.”

The assistant took back the tablet and continued, “he finished his report by saying he let them on their way and chalked the babbling down to some form of mania from the wasteland.”

“Did we find out how they escaped?” Oswald said.

The assistant returned the tablet to his side, “they jumped an orderly who was alone, stole his access keys then booked it out. Miraculously found the exit and sprinted across the desert before Border Patrol picked them up.”

“The orderly was alone?” Oswald asked, “that’s in breach of the protocol I set for this very reason.” He tapped the table with every word.

“Yes sir, the orderly was dealt with.” The assistant said.

“And this, Matthew fellow from E - 11, what do you make of him?” Oswald said.

The assistant shrugged, “well, just another one of those thugs. Didn’t even follow up the strange reporting from the escapees, just jumped straight to conclusions. Typical of those guys.”

Oswald sighed, “You know lad, I was so close to being proud of you there.” He sighed, “So close.”

Oswald slowly approached the assistant, “tell me, so you think that these soldiers are all grunts?” He asked.

“Uhhh” the assistant stammered, “we…w ... .well, yeah, I mean.” He chuckled, “do they do anything else.”

Oswald scoffed, “you see friend. This is the kind of thinking that we need to step away from. A man is only as significant as the enemies he defeats, therefore. We must hold our enemies to the highest regard.”

He turned and stepped up to the assistant, getting close into his personal space. “Tell me, do you know what these guys do, exactly? I assume you were born here in Fort Worth, so you may be too young to know their reputation from Eureka.”

Oswald flexed his wrists, “they were known as many things, grunts was not one of them.”

The sun began dipping below the horizon, casting dark shadows that obscured Oswald’s face. “Do you know what these men are capable of? You ever wondered about that? These men, especially those SOC fellas, while you spent your time in a cushy, safe and air conditioned lab those guys were knee deep in mud, wrestling and slaughtering the wasteland itself. Trust me, if they wanted to, they could quietly eliminate you from this place, you wouldn’t even notice. One moment, you are there,” Oswald snapped his fingers, “and then nothing, your family wouldn’t even find a trace. These guys are killers, the best of the best, what separates them from the animals, is their control in wielding it.”

“How… how do you know they are controlling it?” The assistant said.

“Well, you’re still alive are you not?”

Tainted Roots and Bloody Skies (Event Post)

October, 2277

Dusk, Wisconsin

The Wretch looked up at the moonlight streaming through the metal grate covering the earthen pit within which he lay, curled into a ball of sorrow. He could feel tears streaming down his face, past his yellow, twisted flesh and down to the cold earth upon which he lay.

“QUIET, WORM” echoed a voice from the grate above, the figure of a woman in folded hide armor was just barely visible past the streaming tears stinging the Wretch’s eyes.

One of the Zealots. The Torturers. The Wretch could still remember the woman above slamming thorny vines into his back before a crowd of jeering Eternalists. How his blood had fallen to the earth, and how the wounds would not stop mending themselves. That beating had felt eternal, a constant nightmare plaguing his mind even now, days later.

“I’m… I’m… sorry…” he managed, pulling his head up to gaze at the woman above him.

“It will be a most glorious day when the Preacher of Roots decides your sacrifice shall be made. You will provide more in death than you ever could in life, filth. You are an abomination of the Rootmother’s most holy gift.” said the Zealot finishing her sentence by spitting a thick glob of yellow mucus down into the pit, smearing across the Wretch’s stinging back.

He could not breathe until he heard the faintest noise of crunching earth, signifying the Zealot had determined no more of her time would be wasted with the Wretch. The tears came back then, and only then did the coldest hand of sleep reach out to the Wretch, tendrils of hypnos curing through his mind, welcoming his form back to the same restless slumber which had accompanied him for two painful centuries.

But this was different. A nightmare. A vision. A horrifying man, and a horrid quest. Humanity’s debts. The North of Illinois. The fate of the world. It was too much to bear, and almost as suddenly as the dream had begun, it ended.

Then the Wretch awoke, the open grave around him still dimly lit as moonlight streamed in through the metal grate above. His heart pounded. The words of the Horseman came back to him. They could not be true. They could not…

The Wretch stood slowly at first.

Forget? All who knew him? Even…

The Wretch could feel his shaky legs straighten out beneath him, his uneven, warped body still managing to pull it’s musculature taut. He could feel the edges of his fingertips touch the grate.

He could hear footsteps coming closer. He did not stop.

He could feel his fingers grasp onto the grate. He could feel something deep within the muscles on his irradiated flesh. He could feel…

The Zealot woman was within view. She screamed something, her words lost in the night air.

With all his might, the Wretch ripped the cover of his prison hole out of the earth. He could see the Zealot woman reach for a blade, but he could feel something within himself burn brighter than any blade could shine.

His fist collided with the side of the Zealot’s head, her body knocked off its feet and flying limply to the earth. The Wretch did not stop moving.

Gunshots whizzed past him, biting into the trees around him like angry wasps. He could hear the barking voices of the Eternalists echo through the woods, but he did not stop.

The earth flew past the Wretch as he ran, desperately towards te south, towards a land he had not dated step foot in for centuries. He could feel the wind on his coiling flesh, and it felt like freedom.

He could hear the hooves of horses pounding against the earth, trained steeds to weave between the trees, but it did not matter. Nothing could stop him. Not now.

He could see a river, reflecting moonlight in shimmering strands at the edge of the horizon of earthen root and shadow. He could hear the Eternalists crashing closer to him, they would not let their sacrifice go. The Wretch did not turn back. He could feel the hunger of a steel spearhead mere inches behind his scarred back.

The lake drew closer and closer, the Wretch could feel the heat of the horse’s nostrils blowing out sticky hot air rippling across his back. He could feel the ground beneath his feet became sandier, kicking clods of frigid, wet soil behind him as he went, onward to the sea of moonlight at his fingertips.

He jumped, and the world went black, the cries of Eternalists echoing off into the night as icy cold water surged around the Wretch, swallowing him whole.

~

The warmth of the sun woke the Wretch. His hulking body lay sprawled on the shore of the great lake. He knew not how he had managed to keep himself above the water, nor how he had found his way to the shore. Yet those questions did not matter. The Wretch turned southward and took the first step of many. He would not be forgotten.

~~~

The Wretch’s S.P.E.C.I.A.L. Stats

Strength: 10

Perception: 4

Endurance: 12

Charisma: 2

Intelligence: 5

Agility: 3

Luck: 4