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Chapter Text

Boston Quarantine Zone, 2033

20 Years since the Cordyceps Outbreak

The World’s end was a swift and brutal affair. When the first signs of the fungal infection now simply known as Cordyceps had shown, it was already too late for the world. When the infection caused people to spring up, stark-raving mad, and attack their fellow living beings, biting them, eating them to further spread the damnable fungus that turned everything inside out, the Army was in disarray, the government in tatters and Martial Law was the last thing keeping any semblance of order.

That Martial Law now manifested as FEDRA. The Federal Disaster Response Agency. The military junta that had been in charge of what was left of America for the last twenty years of human existence with the parasite that was the fungal infection, Cordyceps. Outside the boarded-up windows of an old apartment in the Boston QZ, soldiers clad in dark-blue uniforms with mixes of riot gear and bulletproof vests patrolled the dingy, dirty streets, toting assault rifles as an intimidation tactic.

The town itself was a slum. An old neighborhood, repurposed as the habitation area for an unknown number of civilians and the hundreds of soldiers FEDRA had at its disposal since the Apocalypse’s start. The streets were run-down, barely-functioning infrastructure held together by duct tape, hopes and dreams worked the toilets and even prostitution was sort of under-the-table legal here.

Joel Miller, one of the survivors of the apocalypse that was stuck in the QZ, stared out from the window of his apartment at the streets below, where piles of garbage bags rose high and patrolling vehicles and troops rotated in and out around both the dreary buildings, some of which were actively being raided for infected, and the tent cities that had appeared on the sidewalks to help sustain a plateaued population’s need for housing.

He sighed, pinching the bow of his nose and mumbling, “Security’s gotten tight now, Tess. We can’t leave yet.”

The man saw himself in a dingy, stained mirror. Elderly, wearing a dirty green flannel shirt, worn blue jeans and combat boots, but with the build of a fighter. His dark hair was greying from the top of his head down to his scruffy beard and his sunken eyes looked like the same kind of eyes an old, drunk homeless man from the pre-Apocalypse days would have. 

It wasn’t exactly an unfair assessment. A bottle of smuggled Jack Daniels Whiskey was sat cozily on the kitchen counter with only enough liquid remaining to barely be above the worn-out, ripped black label. It sat among several old dishes, broken and glued back together or still whole, but worn and faded by use, and old cutlery. 

His whole apartment was a dirty mess, with clothes strewn about, empty food containers, cut ration cards he’d spent and even old magazines and items sat on the floor among piles of aforementioned clothes. He stared at the woman in the doorway, a beauty around his age with her hands on her hips. Her dirty, brown hair was put up in a messy bun, her own eyes locked onto the older man before her as she said, “We’ve snuck through worse than a couple Humvees…”

“They’ll have patrols ready…” The man replied, slightly disillusioned while staring at a wheeled armored vehicle rolling forward, too, before disgorging a platoon of FEDRA soldiers. He scoffed and whispered, “Son of a bitch… They’ve deployed a squad to the next block over from a Stryker,” which caused Tess Servoupoulous, his partner in crime, to pause, stunned.

She marched up to the window, too, peeking in-between the boards just as the first door was kicked in by a leading FEDRA Breacher armed with a shotgun. She sighed and threw her hands up, then mumbled, “Knew we should’ve left at midnight, but you had to get drunk,” as she walked away. She told him, “I’ll call you when this shit winds down in a couple of hours. We’ll be a little late, but nothing our clients should mind.”

“Alright,” Joel replied, still watching their martial government go about their business in raiding buildings and dragging suspected infected out into the middle of the street, either to throw them into quarantine-capable vehicles for study, or to blast them. One man attempted to flee from the formation of troops, scrambling away, only for audible gunfire to fill the air. A burst of automatic fire from the M4 of the squad’s commanding officer cut him down, meaning more troops in HAZMAT gear had to dismount and remove the corpse. 

FEDRA had gotten increasingly authoritarian in the past couple of years due to unknown reasons. It started slowly, with most of the rats and undergrounders of the various Quarantine Zones eavesdropping on the conversations of troops that talked about a larger dissident force than even the infamous Fireflies. The Fireflies had been classified as terrorists by FEDRA, but their original manifesto had them acting as a resistance, a new Continental Army that was trying to return the rule of the Constitution and Democracy over FEDRA’s authoritarian control of all QZs.

Some Zones had gone dark. Radios played disparate reports and word of mouth said the Infected were attacking, at least before FEDRA’s propaganda machine had gotten to work. One such FEDRA-sanitized radio report began to play now over the ham radio on Joel’s apartment countertop. A female voice, clear as day and calm as could be, spoke, “ ... tonight, on this evening’s reports, more information coming from the Western Front Lines about the dissident ‘NCR’ state that they have lost ground in Southern Nevada.  FEDRA Tactical Groups are engaged in mop-up procedures as far north as Washington State, where more dissidents, rebels and Anarchists… ”

Joel tuned the rest of it out of his mind. FEDRA was not a fighting force. It was a particularly brutal police state with an armed force meant to keep the people down as what’s left of humanity dies a meager, painful death in the end. So the concern now was ‘who the hell was blasting FEDRA troops away in those missing QZs.

Outside, FEDRA Infantry marched toward a nearby Checkpoint. The Lieutenant, one Parker, sighed as they marched toward it. Transport trucks, namely armored Humvees and HEMTTs waited for them to arrive so they could all depart. He grumbled to himself, “This is insane. Command wants us rolling out West this early?”

“Word is despite what they’re telling us, shit’s going down there and it isn’t going for us,” A female Trooper replied as they marched. They showed their papers to the security guards, then climbed aboard the vehicles, some manning the fifty caliber turrets on the Humvees. The woman was Sergeant Kapernik, raised in this shithole of a place since before the Outbreak.

As she and the Lieutenant mounted up in the front cab of the HEMTT, the Lieutenant replied, “I’m aware of the fact FEDRA’s lying to most of the QZ Populations about this stuff,” quietly, “That doesn’t mean I wanna be out of my comfort zone. If FEDRA’s getting its ass kicked this hard by the new guys that they have to drag people from as far out as the East Coast QZs…”

“Yeah, I know,” The Sarge shot back as the vehicles began to roll out into the darkness of the damaged city. Overgrowth had taken over and damaged much of the dilapidated infrastructure of Boston, leaving gaping craters and deep trenches filled with green-colored water and slurry where roadways and underground tunnels had once been.

Abandoned armored vehicles and cars lined the sides of the road, cleared out by the last military convoys to leave the QZ before them. The vehicles turned onto the Boston Turnpike, rolling gently right onto one of the few roads that were still maintained in this crumbled nightmare of a former country:The Interstate 90.

As they ascended the concrete jungle’s upper passageways, the Lieutenant looked around, stating, “Look at this place…” as they passed by the overgrowths on some of the more futuristic-looking buildings, “I went to school here, before the shit hit the fan I mean. Always wondered what else we could’ve seen if… Y’know.”

“Yeah,” The Sarge nodded, shifting uneasily in her seat, “Now it’s a tomb, or a nice little nursery for those fucking mushroom bastards,” as her eyes locked onto a window that was almost completely obscured by muck and what looked like the growths of a Cordyceps victim attached to the wall. She pulled out a cigarette and slid it between her lips, thumbing the BIC lighter she had on her and lighting the flame as she spoke, “Eggheads got my mom last week in Penn… Got bit while doing scavenging work for a few extra rat cards.”

“Jesus,” Mumbled a Private aboard, a frown on his face, “Sorry to hear, sarge.”

“Push comes to shove, kid, it’s us or them,” She replied, breathing in a puff before she blew the smoke into the soldier’s face, clearly upset but trying not to show it. She continued, “Our families… Our friends. If one of them gets infected and we don’t have the balls to shoot them down, we’re all fucked…” 

The entire truck suddenly went quiet. The good Sergeant was clearly unhappy with the idea of having to put down her own family, but  the fact she had to defend it meant that FEDRA was getting a bit pissy at their newfound enemies and at the old ones, like the Fireflies or the traitors from the Washington Liberation Front.

Disregarding that thought for a moment, the Lieutenant peered over the cover of their HEMTT’s bed, noticing the infected lurking in the shadows. He pointed and said, “Horde, down below. We’re about to wake the lot of’em up…” before pulling back on the bolt of his rifle, thus feeding a round into his rifle. The fifty cals soon swiveled around toward the gathering of infected, preparing for the worst.

The vehicles rolled on over the area where they’d spotted the small horde, fully expecting the bastards to go feral. As moments passed, sweat beads forming on their brows, the soldiers watched, the trucks and cars continuing their movement, dust falling as they drove over the bumpy road. And yet, moments later, nothing moved, nothing came out screaming at them and nothing so much as twitched.

The Sarge peered through the ACOG scope on her rifle, noting a bit of muck on the edges of the windows, then sighed and lowered the rifle. She told them, “Guess what, kids? Soundproofed windows… Guess someone forgot to bomb that specific shithole,” before sitting back down. The others started laughing, relief washing over the entire platoon over not having to fight a whole uncoordinated horde of fungus-infected zeds.

The Lieutenant himself agreed quietly, checking over his equipment as if he was trying to make sure he didn’t magdump into the air, counting each magazine and testing them for weight and the sound they made. The group thus settled in for what was pretty much the Long Haul, a full trip down the I90 toward Old Washington State, then down into the hellscape Deserts of Nevada to meet their new enemy.

God, this really wasn’t looking too good for FEDRA or any of its constituent QZs. The Federal Disaster Response Agency had been in charge for so long and had only dealt with low-intensity insurgencies like the Fireflies and maybe the WLF. The NCR? It seemed to be an entirely different threat, an armed military with actually capable people that FEDRA Hi-Com was downplaying specifically so its recruits didn’t start mass-deserting. The situation was about as dangerous as it could be…

And here a bunch of rookie no-good troopers were, going out to fight the big bad NCR who was trying to wrangle control from FEDRA to make a better future. If these guys were really a Republic akin to the US of old, maybe the idea wasn’t so bad after all. Maybe, thought the Sergeant, gently tending to the rifle as the vehicles drove on…

Outskirts of the town of Jackson, Wyoming

The thick forestry and sprawling hills of green and gold welcomed them. A platoon of figures, clad in trenchcoats and heavy armor, stood in front of a small town ahead of them, a walled and defended fortress of a location with guards patrolling the tops of the walls themselves. One of the men present, clad in standard NCR-marked Riot Gear, looked down the scope of his Anti-Materiel Rifle, a heavy-duty weapon with a polymer stock and grip, a heavy barrel and a massive muzzle break.

He spoke, his voice like nails scratching chalkboard, “Looks like the place is guarded. Counting maybe twenty at the front gate with snipers,” before he cast a glance back at a familiar, gentle face. A pale man with jet-black hair and a shaven face held up a pair of binoculars, his own green-colored riot gear melding well with the bright leaves around them. The Desert Ranger before him asked, “What do you wanna do, Courier?”

“... Go down and talk to’em, nice and easy…” Replied the man, lowering his binoculars. He had a smooth, calm voice, his own emerald eyes locked onto the town. He smiled, then looked back at a redhead with a straw hat, shotgun in her hands and piercing emerald eyes, before asking her, “You good with that?”

“Long as they don’t shoot us,” She replied, cradling the shotgun and feeling up her own body armor. Behind her, a younger pair of girls, one with glasses and clad in a labcoat and another, wearing her own reinforced clothes, including a golden flannel shirt, glasses and a golden straw hat, nodded, the latter smiling as she chewed gum.

“Alright,” The Ranger answered quickly, looking at Courier Number Six, the famed man who cheated death many times over to bring the NCR victory at Hoover. He added, “On your move… I’ll hold pos here, keep them scoped in,” and he watched the First Recon man beside him already sighting in, too. The sunglasses-wearing gentleman with a red beret had foregone the latter in favor of actual camouflage for the time being. 

He rammed forward the bolt of his new rifle, an M700 sniper taken out from the cold storage of a navy base that had strangely ‘merged’ with their version of the Boneyard, or Los Angeles. He peered down the scope next, then gave a nod to the Courier as he and the rest of the Rangers and First Recce members present waited.

The Courier sighed, slung his rifle onto his back and said, “Alrighty then. Let’s get moving, ladies and gents,” before he stood up. He dusted off his shirt and chest armor, then started walking through the golden lanes and rows of what seemed to be wheat. The rest of his squad followed close behind, a few decent people who’d helped him win his way to the ‘top’, so to speak.

The town guards seemed to notice them, some calling out for others, aiming weapons, visibly preparing to welcome the crew in case they were raiders. The Courier, sanest man alive despite the twin bullet holes in the side of his head, raised his hands and called out, “We come in peace!” with a grin behind his helmet. 

The bolt of a local’s rifle slammed forward before a man in a blue jean jacket with a fluffy collar appeared. He pointed the scoped weapon at the Courier, before calling out, “That’s far enough!” as his own troops aimed. He then warned them, “If you’re here to try and hit this town, you’re a little undermanned!”

The Courier shook his head, then replied, “We’re friendly and we mean your people no harm! I swear that to you!” before he removed his helmet, revealing a rugged-looking thirty-something man with jet-black hair, a trimmed beard, dark eyes and a pair of bullet holes on the left side of his forehead. He smiled at them and put a hand on his chest, saying, “I’m Samuel McGraw, a Courier for the Mojave Express… Formerly, anyhow…” he shrugged, then continued, “And I and my friends are representatives of the New California Republic!”

“California? Mojave?” The man on the wall demanded, lowering his rifle and leaning forward, “That’s mighty far West! Didn’t think there were that many people left on that side of the Country!” all while keeping his eyes locked onto the Courier himself. He’d only lowered his rifle as common courtesy toward the man and his friends.

“Trust us, it’s a long-ass story,” The man then replied, “Can we come in? Under a sign of peace and all that!”

Cass spoke, “We should really just fuckin’ leave.”

“Hey, a little bit of trust,” Lunette chuckled, “You know him and his silver tongue.”

“Yeah,” The redhead scoffed, though she cracked a small grin. So did the Courier. He clipped his helmet to his belt while Cass continued to stare, prepared just in case any of the Infected were to show up. The rest of the team was prepped and ready, too, eyes peering outward to the rest of their group, all of whom stood on guard to help, too.

He watched the man before him visibly ponder it, only to pause a moment later as a blonde-haired woman walked up and whispered something to him. He cast a glance sideways and down while listening to the woman, thern sighed and leaned his rifle onto his shoulder, safety now flicked on, before telling the Courier, “C’mon in! I’m Tommy! Tommy Miller! Welcome to Jackson!”

The Courier smiled again, nodded, then raised a balled fist and opened it. The man blinked as the gate began to open, then saw more movement in the large field of grain. He blinked, raised his rifle, which still had its safety on, then peered through the scope at the well-equipped platoon of NCR Troops. He then looked down, looking a little angry, but impressed, before tilting his head left and slinging his rifle over his shoulder.

As the gates fully opened, revealing the dirt road sat between the various buildings of Jackson, the people inside, perhaps a hundred locals or so, watched with muted awe as the NCR’s party moved inside. The town resembled familiar ones within the Mojave and wider New California Republic territories:An old Western whose main road was dirty and dust that had been well-travelled by trading Caravans and pack animals.

Tommy descended from the wall with the woman, approaching the Courier and offering his hand. Sam didn’t hesitate to grab and shake it firmly, a smile on his face. The rest of the Ranger force, Boone included, caught up with the team with their weapons on their backs. Tommy let out a, “Jesus Christ. You lot sure you aren’t FEDRA?”

“We’re sure,” Sam replied calmly, then hummed and looked over at the radio tower, pointing at it and asking, “How come you haven’t heard? It’s a whole big deal now that we’re at war with the bastards. I caught some of their radio transmits on this old thing,” before lifting his left hand, revealing his Pip-Boy 3000A, which caused Tommy and his partner to pause.

“Huh,” Tommy blinked, “Our radio station’s been outta commission for a while.”

His counterpart blinked, then looked back toward the platoon, ordering, “Boone, get Craighead on the radio and have him call for Veronica or Arcade while we go negotiating. We’ll need an egghead to help fix their radio station,” then looking at the man ahead while the trooper activated his backpack radio. He saw Tommy looking at one of the Rangers’ high-caliber Sniper Rifles and smiled, “Fifty cal Hecate Two. Nasty piece preferred by the Desert Rangers for when they really wanna rip heads off.”

“... Damn,” The woman beside him said this time, grinning as she continued with a thicker accent, “Y’all could’a taken this town with little issue…” which seemed to cause the team to smile. Another member of the team let out a distant ‘YEEHAW’, which garnered laughter from the others as she approached.

“NCR doesn’t do things that way,” The Courier replied, smiling still, his helmet slung under his arm, “We’re here to actually talk with y’all. Figure out something that’ll be beneficial for both sides as we expand and figure our shit out in this weird version of the world,” and that seemed to pique their interest, clearly.

Tommy looked at his girl, then at them and nodded, “Alright, well, you met me, but you haven’t met my wife. This is Maria, she’s kind of the boss of this place, so whatever she says goes.”

“Don’t put all the weight’a’negotiating on me, Tomas Miller,” She snorted, giving him a gentle elbow, then turning toward the Courier and saying, “We’re husband and wife and we kind of lead this place. Obvious by all the eyes lookin’ to us to start talks,” then she offered her hand to the Courier, stating, “Pleasure makin’ your acquaintance, Samuel.”

“Pleasure’s all mine, madam Miller,” He replied with a grin, then tilted his head to the glasses-wearing nerdy girl in a labcoat and said, “That’s my wife. Lunette McGraw… Nee Short,” and watched the girl immediately get flustered, her face burning red. The rest of the more familiar crew started laughing, the two other girls in the party bumping fists while Boone shook his head, grinning.

“Nice to meet’cha, miss McGraw,” Maria greeted, offering her own hand for a shake. Though she was embarrassed, she took and shook the woman’s hand. Miss Miller chuckled, stating, “Bless her heart, she’s shy…” then she put her hands on her own hips and said, “Well… If we’re here to negotiate our little friendship, we should start with a drink. Bar’s right this way, if you’ll follow.”

“Hell yeah,” Cass grinned, “You all got Whiskey?”

“A real Southern Belle, this one,” Joked Maria, “Hell yes, we got Whiskey. What’s your name?”

“Rose of Sharon Cassidy, ma’am. Call me Cass, though,” She nodded, proud. Willow remained quiet, visibly tired from the trip, before Cass threw an arm over her shoulder and said, “C’mon, Willow. We’ll getcha a drink while we wait for Dave and the rest of his platoon to come by, alright?” to which the blonde smiled and nodded.

As they entered the Bar, they were greeted by the sound of music, a rustic location of beautiful dim lights and wood walls and floors, booths and tables filled with laughter and chatter and clinking glasses. They approached the Bartender and Maria said, “Whiskeys for the lot. We’re drinking for a chat today.”

The man nodded and tilted his head toward the back door, stating, “Meeting room is open. I’ll bring y’all the drinks myself…” as he eyed the newcomers. He whistled and said, “God damn, boss. When did we get the Military back in business with wearing cool shit?” which made the group laugh. The Millers nodded, waving the rest of the crew over.

Entering the more quiet meeting area, a room with wooden panels, paintings and no windows, plus visible soundproofing and a massive sixteen-person table, the Courier turned around to the Rangers and tilted his head outside, stating, “Help the locals keep watch. Don’t take the helmets off any of the Gees… Don’t wanna spook people yet.”

“You got it,” The Officer replied, waving his team out. As they departed, the rest of the gang entered the room, joining the Millers at the surprisingly large table and sitting themselves face-to-face with their hopeful future comrades. Then, the drinks came in, the Bartender slowly spreading them out among the people present, plus a few snacks like peanuts and walnuts to chew on. 

Nodding in thanks to the man, who departed soon after offering a customer service smile, Tommy looked at the Courier and said, “Alright, well… Let’s start with the beginning if we’re gonna start. What the hell is the New California Republic, if you don’t mind me askin’? And what did you mean when you mentioned ‘world’?”

The Courier and his comrades exchanged quick looks, before nodding to one-another. This had become somewhat standard procedure for them. Sharing information was a part of setting up trade deals and possible connections with the wider world. So, the Courier, leader of the New Vegas Independent Economic Zone and representative of the NCR, leaned onto the table and said, “... You’re really not gonna believe what I’m about to say, but I have the proof…”

He grinned, lifting up his glass of Whiskey, then said, “Cheers. Enjoy the story, mister and missus Miller…”

Chapter Text

And so the story began, some two years ago…

In the Mojave, Nevada Desert, Semi-Autonomous Economic Zone of New Vegas

The Lucky 38 towered over all of Vegas, a monument to the former hedonism of the Old World and, now, a gleaming jewel in the night’s sky and a beacon summoning the old and young to the Strip’s already-overcrowded casinos. The upper penthouse, ever luxurious, was now home to two very friendly souls and their AI Companion.

Yawning as she crawled out of bed, her tank top hanging loosely off her svelte frame, the first of the two McGraw members and the sciencier member of the two grabbed her glasses off of the nightstand and hit the atomic clock just before its alarm rang. She wanted to leave her hubby to sleep a little longer, or so she thought as she cast a glance back at him, a small smile forming on her face.

Courier Number Six, also known simply as the Courier, Samuel McGraw, or Sam to friends, was fast asleep, the blanket barely covering the lower half of his body, upper half clearly visible and lacking a shirt. She could see the muscles, his well-built frame and the dozens of scars, healed gashes and zipper-like stitching she had had to improvise on the fly when they ran out of Stimpaks mid combat.

Sighing, she picked up her scrunchie and stood up, putting her dirty blond hair in a neat ponytail and grabbing her labcoat and pants. After getting dressed and checking her own Pip-Boy for the time(It was around eight o’clock in the morning), she walked into what passed for the local kitchen and brewed herself a hot mug of actual, homegrown Coffee.

Vault 22 had been a bountiful harvest for the entire Mojave and the NCR as a whole, provided by doctor Hildern’s research, a little bit of help from Lunette and the subsequent assistance from doctor Keely. They’d managed to actually make semi-functional post-nuclear genetically-engineered crops, though many were still in a very, very broad testing phase.

Of course, the first thing they’d had to breed and test, then properly clear was coffee beans. Because even before the Great War, throughout most of the cities and towns of America, and then after in Vaults, outposts, bunkers and the likes, Coffee ran the world in the early morning. She smiled, taking a sip of the bitter black liquid, before scowling and shaking her head. She mumbled, “How Sam can drink this thing black, I’ll never know…”

She then poured herself some brahmin milk into it and made sure to let it foam up a bit before walking out from the place and into a converted room. There, she spoke, “Good morning, Yesman.”

“Gooood morning, Doctor!” The ever-positive AI greeted, its smiling face manifesting onto the monitor of a nearby computer terminal. He asked, “I hope you slept well! And I see mister Samuel’s still fast asleep. Suppose that makes sense, though.”

“Yep. Figured I should let him sleep some. Politics and Couriers don’t mix so well,” Lun smiled, calmly sipping her coffee as she looked over reports, information about tax plans and even gathering the ‘City Council’, meaning the various members of the local gangs, casino chiefs and those on the outskirts of town to discuss plans for how to help further ‘integrate’ Vegas into the wider NCR Economy.

Obviously, Ambassador Crocker would be attending on the NCR’s side and delivering all the requests from the President and his people. She mumbled, “Barely won Hoover for a year or so and here we still are, discussing petty politics…” before she set her stuff down. She then shrugged her shoulders and stretched a bit, walking over to one of the multitude of large windows that overlooked the city, saying, “Keep us updated for when we need to head to that Meet down at McCarran… And let me know when the Big Empty’s gonna finish testing their new teleport system.”

“Will do!” Yesman replied happily from the massive computer screen to her left. She stared down at Vegas, sipping her favored brew and watching the work going on below. Freeside, once the slums outside the massive city’s walls, slowly grew back into normalcy as NCR Civil Engineers worked tirelessly to do what they had done for every NCR State from Shady Sands to the Boneyard and on:Rebuild the infrastructure.

The Kings, formerly the ruling gang of the suburbs, assisted and guarded the NCR’s little representative party in rebuilding by guiding them to specific buildings that needed renovations. Low cranes helped patch up the holes in the walls and even some newly-deployed military vehicles, namely old Fusion-powered Jeeps and transporters, brought supplies into local markets. 

Vegas itself was currently undergoing a sort of renaissance from the outside in. Her husband had decided to help negotiate a somewhat peaceful settlement with the NCR, wherein the city, its outskirts and most of the Mojave was on track to become a new member State, but only after they helped rebuild the place. Even then, it was a Semi-Autonomous Economic Zone, a Pre-War concept regarding the usage of specific locations for trading goods without all the Value-Added Taxes and bull like that.

Basically, the Mojave was being rebuilt with NCR money and she and Samuel got to reap some of the spoils, being elected governors and friends with the Republic. Sure, that wasn’t wholly viewed as a positive thing. Lunette remembered the discussions they had with some of the other smaller Parties in the NCR’s Congress. Shady Sands was very much like Old Washington DC:Plagued by indecision at times, but working… Mostly.

She sighed, checked her Pip-Boy, then heard a groan from the bed. Turning her head, she cracked a smile as she saw her husband slowly rise like a freshly-roused Ghoul. She chuckled, noticing his ruffled hair and the bite marks on his neck, then blushed a little at the latter. She asked him, “Are you alright, honey?”

“Ugh…” He coughed, then smiled, “You went a little rough, but I ain’t complaining. How’re you doing?”

“Left leg’s a bit numb, but I’ll manage,” She giggled, watching him stand up and wade toward her in his baggy pants. He walked up to her, running a hand through his jet-black hair, then pecked her on the cheek. She felt the sting of his shaved beard, but giggled again like a lovesick schoolgirl. They’d only been married since after Hoover Dam became theirs.

He laughed before he walked off to get dressed in his own gear. Though Vegas was mostly secure by now, with the Securitrons still being actively tested to make sure the late Mister House hadn’t left some sort of failsafe system within their programming, it was tough to stop some crimes from occurring in areas outside the city limits.

The Boomers and Veronica's Brotherhood of Steel Chapter were doing considerable work in keeping everything under control, though, with the remnants of the Fiends having long retreated past the Colorado, probably trying to chase after the remnants of the Legion and join them. Lun mumbled to herself, “Wondering how the Legion’s doing right now.”

“Intelligence reports from the NCR Scouts sent east of the Colorado sure don’t paint a pretty picture!” Yesman quipped jovially. He continued, “The Legion’s broken down into a Civil War after the Legates and Caesar all perished!”

“And thank the Maker for that,” The Courier replied as he waded out of the dressing room, donning his standard Desert Ranger outfit, his helmet slung under his arm. As his wife turned toward him, he said to her, “Hold the fort down ‘till I’m back, okay? I can already tell I’m gonna get a headache trying to fix the Kings’ issues…”

“Shouldn’t you call Arcade, then?” She asked, “I mean, the Followers of the Apocalypse can probably help deal with that well pump if nothing else.”

“I’d have asked him, or Veronica,” He shrugged calmly, “But nope. Mister Gannon has problems that also need solvin’. Namely, having to explain being the child of the Enclave…” before he scratched his chin, “Man, you’d think the Enclave was just a bedtime story or legend to scare the kids into behaving, but here we are…”

“Heh, you forgot about me meeting them before I met you?” She asked as she turned to face him fully, coffee mug in hand. He shook his head as he retrieved his gear from the nearby lockers, including a trusty marksman carbine known as the ‘All-American’, a lever-action and a revolver. He stowed the gear and extra ammo in his pouches, then slid his helmet on while she watched, smiling. She said, “You ever wash that armor?”

“Several times,” He replied with a smirk, then slung his survival backpack onto his shoulder and said, “I’ll be back in a few hours, hon. Hold the fort down while-” only to pause. He felt the hairs on his neck and arms stand on-end, a rippling wave of pinpricks washing across his skin. He looked at his wife, watching her twitch and freeze in place while the air around them grew staticky.

A bright, burning azure flash rolled in like the shockwave of a nuke. It was blinding and the energy it released, terrifying. Each pore in the Courier’s skin suddenly felt like it burned for a hot second before it all went from azure to a terrifying white. His ears rang loudly as years of tinnitus felt like they’d suddenly caught up with him. He’d tried to reach for Lun in the haze, but never managed to touch her…

… Moments later, reality seemed to shift back to normal. The Courier felt his veins bulging and thumping against his helmet. He groaned loudly, holding onto his head as his vision, though still blurry and burning pale, began to recover. At first, it was spots of colors in the brightness, followed by what looked like blurs of motion, then by the slow revealing of a human form.

Then, the tinnitus began to fade and he could hear her call out to him, “Sam! Sam! Are you okay!?” only to see him suddenly twitch. She gasped, then breathed a sigh of relief and whispered a shaky, “Oh, thank God… I thought you’d…” only to crack a small, awkward smile. She said, “A bit of Deja Vu, huh?”

“Yeah, except the Rejector shot you hit me with felt like a massage,” He groaned out, causing his girl to laugh a little. As he slowly straightened up, he took his helmet off and shook his head, feeling his face for any damage, any blood running down his lips, anything of the sorts. Thankful he felt nothing, he looked at Lun and made sure she was okay, quickly giving her a once over and placing a hand on her cheek. Relieved upon seeing she was fine, he then asked, “Any idea what the hell just happened?”

“Other than a massive energy discharge?” Lunette spoke, clearly already having a theory about the matter as she helped her husband to his feet, “Not much… Vegas is still out there, we’re still whole, our windows are still dirty, but undamaged and… Everything else just feels a tad weird, though. Like something shifted.”

He quipped, “I can already see you have a theory, Lun. Tell me.”

The girl rolled her eyes, then crossed her arms and motioned broadly in the direction of the Big MT research center with her head. “The energy discharge matches the same teleportation beam hue we got hit by when we got transported to the Big Empty by the Doctors’ little ambush. And we know they’re researching some kind of new teleport system that’s meant to allow them to not only go in, but leave Big Mountain. Y’know, in case they wanna deploy their weird alien experiments out here.”

“Lun, I’m kinda aware of that. We only authorized it thanks to the NCR agreeing we might need faster travel between here and the inner states. The Docs, in their infinite insane wisdom, agreed,” He replied, then looked out of the window at the people still on the streets, all of them recovering after that blast of energy, NCR and local medical personnel from the Followers already spreading out to help. He asked, “What do you think happened?”

“I saw the device blueprints,” She shrugged, then looked outward, too, at the NCR troopers moving out to help, “If I was gonna hazard a guess… Probably overfed the energy modulator with a burst from their fusion core. Caused it to overcharge and send a shockwave out. I’d have to go there, but until power’s restored, we won’t-” 

And just as she said that, Yesman’s voice came out of the computer. He told her, “... Your assessment is correct, Lady McGraw!” in the most jovial tone possible. The two members of the McGraw family had nearly jumped out of their skin, looking up at the AI. Its smile remained forever plastered on the screen, flickering slightly as he added upon that, “... Power is being restored across the entire Mojave and Republic.”

“... The shockwave reached the Republic!?” Sam balked while Lunette immediately got to crunching numbers mentally.

Yesman replied, “Yes! Oh, I should also say, I have access to Satellites now! Somehow…”

“Huh… Well, that’s not as weird, I think,” The Courier mumbled.

“On the contrary…” Yesman answered, voice surprisingly low this time, “The Satellite network doesn’t match the Pre-War American, Chinese or Russian networks I have in my databases. It’s the same, but… Different . I may need help from Lady McGraw if I’m gonna decipher what’s going on in here, if that’s okay with you.”

“Perfectly fine. Get on it and get me a SITREP-” The Courier started, only for the Bear Line, the direct link to Shady Sands and the NCR Command, to ring. He looked at his wife, then at the AI, then at the phone as it kept ringing. He mumbled, “I got it…” before approaching it and picking up the microphone and receiver. With his voice filled with respect, he spoke, “President Hanlon, sir… Should’ve known you’d give me a call…”

… Back in our current time …

Tommy started, “Wait, you guys have a straight line to your Prez? And TELEPORTER TECH?”

“... Yeah?” Sam nodded, “I mean. I think most State governors have access to this kind of phone. I’d have to check with the President or Congress in case they needed something,” then he shrugged, “And Tech-wise, the Big MT Research Base is pretty up there in terms of advanced gear,” and looked to his left, watching Cass down her fifth bottle. He sighed deeply, smiling, then said, “Should we get back into the story, or do we take a short break.”

“Break,” Both Millers replied kindly, much to his surprise. Well, who was he to say no to that? He simply requested a few more drinks and let the Millers reconvene, making sure to prepare some sort of proof of his story. Obviously, he could ask for NCR Airlift to get them back to Vegas to show them what had happened, but…

… Eh. Not yet… Some part of him, however, wondered how the War was going.

Twin Falls, Idaho

Though what was once Twin Falls was now nothing more than another ruin on the blemished face of the once great United States, it was by no means an unimportant ruin. The Crossroads to the North of Idaho and the nearest point of access to Old Interstate Eighty-Four, the place had become a contested territory. FEDRA infantry, clad in old desert camouflage fatigues, pushed under the cover of fifty-cal machine guns from their Humvees.

The town was also one of the only crossing points over the Snake River within the vicinity of major front lines near Nevada, Utah and Wyoming. It was important to both sides just for that, a crossing point to ford a river meant a lot to two armies trained in mobile warfare across a wider front. Though the NCR seemed to be focused down on certain areas, too.

The infantrymen pushed forward, led by one Lieutenant Blaine. She was a tough cookie, an older woman bearing features from both Latin-American and Japanese roots, Maria Blaine led her boys forth into combat just as a trio of rockets lanced forth, striking the Humvee. The explosions that followed shook the platoons as they advanced, washing some men with shrapnel while 5,56 rounds from the NCR’s famed Service Rifles skimmed by their ears.

She barked toward her troops, a lot of them being youngsters dragged in fresh from the Academy, “GET INSIDE THE SHOP TO THE LEFT!” before she kicked the door in and, with a quick snapshot, gunned down a pair of Infected that were inches short of charging out into the street. The glass ahead, stained by twenty years of sandstorms and dust, cracked in spiderweb patterns as the NCR troops positioned at the end of the intersection ahead laid down hell. 

She took cover behind the thick stone countertop as rounds skimmed over their heads, before poking out and shooting a burst back with her own M4 while glass shattered around them. She dropped her spent magazine, then said to her boys, “Alright, here’s what we’re doing! Hernandez, take Wilcox and get upstairs! Set up a perch and lay into’em with the Two-Forty! Pin’em down! Lee, Haynes and Maddock, stay down here and return fire! Everyone else, prep smokes! We’re flanking! GO!”

As the teams scattered to their specific positions, a flash and a hiss filled their eyes and ears. A shockwave and blast of wind shattered the windows of the store, with one exploding inward from the impact. The pressure wave washed over the squad like a hammer, causing several to fall on their asses while the Lieutenant felt her eardrums rupture.

A second later, fire poured through the broken windows, tracers dancing, ricocheting off of the walls or tearing through old mannequins. The Lieutenant let out several noises with her mouth, trying to make sure the pressure equalized and she could hear again. Beside her, her machine gun team settled their rusty-looking M240 Bravo onto the damaged counter and began letting it rip, 7,62x51mm rounds ringing through the belt.

The team’s medic dragged back a wounded member, though she had a shard of glass the size of a standard-issue combat knife stuck in her own kevlar vest. She slid the man behind cover and called out to the Lieutenant, but saw the blood pouring out from her ears. She scoffed, then gave several hand signals to the Lieutenant, who nodded, before bellowing, “FALL BACK DEEPER INSIDE! WATCH OUT FOR INFECTED!”

She watched a Silhouette, then another, then another, all marching out of the dust clouds. Muzzles flashed and bullets struck around them, rounds tearing through what was left of the place’s displays, shattering the glass on cabinets and the counters and causing the MG Gunners to shift their fire toward the windows. A grenade and a dynamite stick flew in simultaneously and exploded, concussion mixing with shrapnel to create a cloud of death.

The Lieutenant moved to the rearmost door in the place and kicked it open as she fired her rifle at the silhouettes, catching one in the neck. She watched the humanoid drop to the floor, then gasped as one of its buddies swiveled about with what almost looked like an M60 of some kind. He let loose, the slow-chugging machine gun sending shot after shot into the wall behind the woman and even nailing one of her own as they were retreating.

Blood stained the broken floor, another comrade of the FEDRA troopers’ falling with his back eviscerated by heavy machine gun fire. The rest of the squad returned fire through the thin door as the NCR’s infantry pushed on through, bullets zipping past them, snapping and popping as they impacted the wall of the brick building beside this store, sending geysers of red dust and concrete flying.

“Move! Move!” An NCR Infantryman barked out. The click of a grenade pin being removed filled the Lieutenant’s ears and another fragmentation bomb hit the wall behind them with a clank, then fell to the floor. The team Sergeant jumped onto it, curling his body around it just as it detonated. It slammed him against the wall, staining it even redder, blood pooling in the bullet holes.

On the main road, where the convoy had been halted by the destruction of their lead vehicle, infantry had dismounted and formed a perimeter, some moving into the surrounding buildings of the Old Wild West-style town. The Snake River crossing lay right behind them, under the cover of a reserve element that kept demanding updates over the com.

A FEDRA Corporal fired his rifle from behind the door. Another, brandishing an M700, tried to snipe at the enemies in the windows of the saloon-like building up ahead, but got met with a fifty-caliber round that turned his head into a fine mist of red, grey and bone matter dust. His corpse fell, sprawled as his rifle clattered to the floor next to another FEDRA Medic. 

A block away, a Ranger machine gun section and one supporting Paladin from the Mojave chapter of the Brotherhood of Steel let loose with their respective weapons. The Paladin, clad in the heavy T45 Power Armor painted in a desert camouflage fired his scoped laser rifle at an advancing FED Grenadier, leaving only a bloody stump where the man’s throwing arm had once been and causing him to scream in pain.

A pair of Rangers lifted up their Service Rifles, now modified with plastic furniture that more closely resembled the M16A1, a former standard-issue assault weapon of the Old United States in this world, (triangular handguard included) and opened fire. Their guns coughed bursts of three rounds each, forcing several enemy troopers to take cover behind the walls or behind the vehicles trapped in this area, too.

 A Stryker transport swiveled its CROWS-mounted fifty caliber machine gun toward the Paladin. Its barrel melted the next second as the Paladin acquired and sniped it with the laser rifle. He barked, “LAST ENEMY FIFTY’S DOWN! PUSH THE ADVANTAGE!” before he pushed out into the street, moving toward an abandoned car that recent fighting had left riddled with bullet holes. Fresh marks of laser fire that had boiled away the thin metal of the body also showed a faint orange glow around each entry point from the melting metal.

The Rangers beside the Paladin pushed up, several pulling out dynamite and igniting fuses before long-arming them toward the enemy position up ahead. Explosions rumbled and glass shattered beneath the pressure waves as the team pushed up. Shots rang loud, troops still next to the damaged convoy pulling back and out toward the defensible positions across the square.

Some had dismounted with M240s and M249 MGs, the latter firing them on the move in a semi-successful attempt to suppress the Rangers. One of them, however, got hit by an Anti-Materiel Rifle clean through the shoulder, shearing the arm clean off in a bloody mess that left him screaming on the floor. 

Normal NCR Infantrymen, clad in dual color uniforms with tan jackets and green pants and boots pushed forward, their hands, covered in fingerless gloves and tightly gripping their weapons. On their heads, some wore standard M2 steel helmets, others wore Kevlar. More yet had flak jackets and body armor from the old US Armories left around them.

Some fell to the M240s. Others still found cover, dragging wounded comrades behind them while the Paladin and Ranger in charge of this assault urged the groups forward. The Paladin hefted his laser rifle and domed another man, spraying red mist onto the man behind him. The top of that man’s hand was gone, scalped by the laser. Both corpses dropped, only for one to be crunched under the foot of the Power Armor. 

The ground rumbled, tracks audibly grinding the sand and broken roads beneath their weight. The Paladin cast a glance back, taking cover to change out his laser rifle’s Microfusion Cell. He watched with mild awe as friendly armor rolled forward to meet the enemy. Angular armor layered upon a thick upper glacis and lower glacis. A 105mm cannon mounted in a rounded turret. On said turret, a cupola with a fifty caliber MG housed within it, meant to shield the officer within.

Raiding the Armories of the Old National Guard had helped a great deal in rearming the NCR’s troops. In the two years since their arrival, they’d gathered a grandiose stockpile of equipment, just enough to help them fight FEDRA on even ground. Meanwhile, they’d recruited more and more former QZs and villages into their ranks.

The tank’s 105mm cannon roared, a reverberating shockwave that washed away gathering clouds of sand and dust kicked up by the fighting. A house ahead took a High-Explosive shot right through the window, exploding from the inside out and sending shrapnel across the field as more Army Troopers pushed up behind it, using it as cover.

The Paladin had to wonder deep down how mankind had gotten into another pointless war with each-other. Yes, FEDRA was very close to the bloody Enclave, but… He was aware of previous attempts at politicking their way out of helping the NCR, too. Veronica, ever the bright girl, however, had said to them that the enemy was the same as ever:Tyrannical and corrupt. And like their ancestors, they needed to help throw the enemy back. 

He was one of the first to volunteer, too… Paladin Keaton. One of the higher ranks of the Mojave chapter, inducted a year prior, after Hoover Dam. He’d mostly done patrols to keep Raiders down until now…

Until now… Here he was. At war again…

Ad Victoriam.

Chapter Text

Back to the story, during the Emergency Cabinet Meeting

Within the confines of Shady Sands’s Central Government Building, the NCR’s greatest representatives and minds met to discuss the events that’d just transpired. Outside the window, through the panes of glass, the city was bustling with its usual activity, hundreds of thousands of inhabitants going about their business with little regard to having just been snapped out of and into reality.

Former Ranger Chief Hanlon, now President Hanlon, a man with slicked-back grey hair and a now trimmed beard, fingers interlaced and hiding his mouth. His suit was tight, the room was boiling hot in both the literal and figurative sense and the people discussing the issue were by no means doing it calmly. It was an argument. Like toddlers trying to steal each-other’s toys, Hanlon thought.

His gaze swept around the reclaimed wood table, which had surprisingly been carved and lacquered to resemble one of the Old World meeting tables. His gaze first settled on his Minister of Internal Affairs, a rowdy man by the name of Michael. He was calling out, “... The military cannot be used on civilian grounds! It’s why we even established a Police and Marshal force in the first place!”

Sitting opposite the man and the person he was arguing with, General Oliver replied, “The current issue precludes Civilian oversight in favor of the military. We just got jumped to God-knows-where by a flash of light. Ninety percent of reports from the Boneyard are yelling about changes to the surrounding areas that match nothing we know of and now people are out in the streets, pissed off because they can’t understand why their muttfruit’s dying. My MPs can get you at least some security until the situation calms the hell down.”

Beside Oliver were the Minister of Defense, the Minister of Education and an empty seat. Beside Michael, there were the Minister of Economy, Minister of Health and the Minister of Food, plus a few representatives and governors from the various states seated close enough to hear the discussion. At the other end of the table, facing a mildly annoyed Hanlon and listening in on the Discussions was Christine Santangelo, a scarred young woman and wife of Veronica Santangelo, the woman in charge of the Western Brotherhood.

She remained quiet, listening to the indignant arguments between Military and Civilian oversight committees while chewing on something. Reports were that they’d found her wandering outside the Sierra Madre Ghost City months after the Courier had visited the place and months after Hoover Dam. She’d been keeping the Madre secure, a job that now fell to the NCR’s makeshift Chemical, Biological, Radiological and Nuclear, or CBRN Units. They’d made them specifically to deal with some of the most dangerous areas left in the Wasteland

She cleared her throat, an audibly painful endeavor, then spoke, her voice smooth, but low volume, “... Gentlemen, we should wait for the Courier to get his ass over here from his Big Empty visit before we make any further assumptions or argue pointlessly. The Elder of the Brotherhood has already gone to the Big Empty with a platoon of Paladins to guard him,” of course, referring to her wife, Veronica.

“Anyone mind telling me why we’re still paying those lunatic brainlets at the Big Empty?” The Minister of Economy demanded, arms crossed to her chest, “It’s a waste of goddamned funds…”

“We’re not paying them,” Christine clarified, “We’re paying the workers supplying the site with raw materiel. Miners, truck drivers, chemical refiners and the people who actively recycle the Old Technology and items we keep finding in ruins. The Courier pays an extra tax from Vegas specifically for the Big Empty, too… He’s in charge of the place.”

“And had he brought any fucking thing that’s useful?” Oliver asked.

Christine breathed a sigh, pinching the bow of her nose. She replied, “Aside from the refined formulas used to tame Vault 22 and to grow crops that can sustain the New California Republic, you mean? Aside from the ability to repair and build new MFCs to fuel our more sophisticated armaments? Aside from allowing us to access the Old Satellite Network in orbit? No. Not much.”

Oliver wanted to reply, raising his hand, but he shut up when Hanlon cleared his throat, leaning back into his seat. The elderly man began, “Head Paladin Santangelo’s right. Petty squabbles aren’t going to get us anywhere. My call to the Courier went through, so we’ll get our answers as soon as he gets here.”

“Sir, with all due respect, we should deploy something to deal with the-” Oliver started, but Hanlon cut him off by raising his hand.

The President told him, “And we’re not deploying the Military to deal with Civilian issues. I’ll talk to the representatives of the protesting groups, if there even are any. Hash something out to calm them down. But to do that, I need solid intel, not a gun pointed at our own people, ” then he paused as the PA system on the table rang. He leaned forward and tapped a button, then replied, “Go ahead?”

“ The Courier has just arrived, sir, ” A young woman, his secretary, replied. The entire table looked around, shocked at how prompt the Courier was. Hanlon didn’t waste time, giving a quick verbal confirmation to send the man up. While the argument resumed, much to his and Christine’s chagrin, the sound of footsteps drew ever closer.

The main doors to the meeting room, two large wooden doors reclaimed from some of the Boneyard’s least damaged buildings, swung open, revealing a man under the escort of some of the NCR’s finest troops. He wore his own battered Ranger Armor, painted with several markings including a faux bullet hole where the two rounds that had once struck his head had hit.

He took his helmet off, revealing his calm smile, then said, “Ladies and gentlemen. Chie-” and he caught himself, looking at Hanlon, “Sorry. Mister President. I came as fast as I could from the Big MT…” and he saw everyone’s gazes fall upon him. Hanlon smiled, as did Christine, though the latter seemed a lot more jubilant to see her old pal from the Sierra Madre. She lifted up a balled fist that the Courier bumped with his own in a sign of friendship.

“You were fast. What, did the Big MT brain jars do something right this time with teleport tech?” She jabbed, causing the man to snort. His usually amused expression, however, settled into a slightly concerned one.

He nodded, “I’m gonna have to say yes to that, sadly,” causing everyone to gasp. He raised a hand and said, “Before anyone gets excited, folks, let me tell you the Tech is barely usable. It eats so much power trying to teleport one person it’s not even worth it, but at least I got up here in time to tell you that… That tech, or a first mishap born out of Mobius crossing a wire with it, is exactly the cause for our current predicament.”

“What do you mean? What current predicament?” General Oliver, ever his militaristic self, inquired as his mind began to prep and process contingency plans. “We understand there’s a few more buildings around the Boneyard now, but that isn’t anything out of the ordinary, considering archaeological findings aren’t that rare in the Old Great Deserts…” 

The Courier sighed, asking the General, “We already have scout teams deployed, right? It’s been almost a week since we arrived in this place, after all…” only to receive a nod from the man. He gave a thumbs up, put his hands together and spoke, “Right, well… As I’m sure some of you might know, like Christine here, our Computers re-linked to a Satellite network once the jump hit us. YesMan and my wife’s PipBoy told us as much. They said, however, that the wavelengths don’t really match. Almost as if the technology above us, which contains hundreds more sats than we had back home, is of a different architecture.”

“... Alright?” One of the other people in the room spoke while Christine visibly shifted in her seat, suddenly concerned. 

The Courier rolled his eyes, “For anyone who’s even a lil’ bit into technology? Those sats up there? An entire latticed network of hundreds of’em? They aren’t Old World ones. Not Pre-War,” then he pointed up with the flourish of a man trying to emphasize a point, “Add upon that the GREENERY I saw around fucking Big MT when I went to scout it out?” and yet more gasps and shock streaking across the people’s faces.

“Not in normal California anymore,” Hanlon mumbled, sighing deeply.

The Courier nodded, then said, “We’re all still studying stuff, I’m pretty sure, but the Docs assured me that they’ll come up with some sort of explanation for this in the coming days. Whether that explanation’s gonna be useful to us or not is a matter of perspective, considering their scramble to examine all the SAT data they suddenly received might leave their brains a bit… Overheated.”

Hanlon replied, “They’ll always get hot for some alien technology or other,” before standing up and stating, “I want the leaders of the Protests here to talk to them. Only take them if they agree and for God’s sake, keep the Military working on scouting out our new surroundings. No MPs, no military deployment, nothing else. We’re not the Enclave. Courier, you take a team out and help with the scouting.”

“Roger that, sir,” The Courier nodded. He looked at Christine and asked her, “You gonna go back to Lost Hills and keep talking to that chapter there?” 

Christine nodded, “We gotta get them fully up to task with helping the NCR. They’ll probably want to survive whatever this new hellscape throws our way, too, so… I hope they’ll listen to reason the same way McNamara did when he quit and left Vero in charge,” before she turned to him and said, “You and Lun gonna go off and explore, too?”

“Yeah. Best to start mapping out the surrounding terrain anyways,” He replied, then looked at Oliver and said, “Sir, with all due respect to you, we’re gonna pull some of the Rangers stationed in the Mojave to help us. My ream’s gonna need the backup… And First Recce if you can spare them. Boone’s been looking to get back into the Service.”

“Of course,” Oliver replied, a surprising amount of respect behind that reply. He continued, “We’ll see what we can do about providing you all a car or a truck. Walking the path from here to the ruins of New Canaan, or whatever this place’s version of NC would be, probably won’t be healthy, nor productive for any of us.”

“Yeah, probably not,” The Courier mumbled. He nodded in thanks, then said, “Cheers, General. Don’t let your boys be too rough with the Civvies,” more in a joking manner. He walked out of the place, quietly wondering just what the fuck had occurred between then and now to where there were protests in the streets demanding information and the goddamn Army was being considered for deployment to quell civilian unrest.

Thank the maker for Hanlon being in charge. Despite the lowest of lows the Courier had found him in, he was glad he helped him get his shit together before Hoover. And here he was, a year or so later, running the show with the NCR. He sighed deeply, wondering if he could ask for air support, a couple Vertibirds or something, though he doubted it. Half the fleet was supposedly still undergoing maintenance at Nellis while the other half was waiting to take off.

… Speaking of, he didn’t have time to check on Nellis. Loyal and company did send out jubilant but barely-understood messages about the Air Force Base having gotten a few new, massive buildings or something. He made a mental note to visit it after this meeting, which soon turned into a mild argument about deploying MPs alongside the standard NCR PDs to stop the fighting while they negotiated.

He sighed, knowing damn well he’d be the one to be asked to go and negotiate with the folks. As usual.

Outskirts of Azalea, New California Republic territories. Around the same time as the Presidential meeting.

The township of Azalea had been one of the Pre-War hubs for the California National Guard, even in their world. ‘In their world’, because, even to the NCR Troopers that rolled aboard salvaged trucks from the pre-war days, a whole platoon of them, it was clear they were somewhere entirely different. The green once so sparse across the Nuclear Wasteland of Old America now spread far as the eye could see. To their right, a massive mountain, called Mount Shasta on old, rusty signs, rose high.

The New California Republic Army’s First Platoon, Third Regiment, Fifth Infantry, one of the first motorized units of the NCR after Hoover, gripped their mix of guns tightly as the sights of an overgrown forest sprawled for miles around them. One of them, Private Nichols, commented, “Christ almighty… Did the Lord suddenly warm up to us?”

“Don’t start looking  for reasons, Nic… The guys at Big MT fucked something up,” Warned his partner, Zara. She watched the third member of their thirty-man platoon check the radi pack he was carrying, hands dancing over the knobs and straightening the antenna out to ensure proper signal strength. He tested it by tapping the mic button twice and receiving only a slight chirp of static. Nodding approvingly, he set it down, then checked his submachine gun.

He paused as he saw the corner of a building pop into view from amidst the overgrowth, then pointed at it and said, “House, nine o’clock and passing,” while raising his gun, his voice steady. The other Troopers aboard the truck, half the complement of the Platoon, turned their gazes toward the house, a small suburban home whose paint faded and chipped, windows broken and vines growing out of multiple places like a curtain of green.

The vehicles rolled past a series of destroyed cars sitting on the sides of the road. Skeletons, still draped in shredded clothes, lay in various positions in the cars. Some had been drilled by high-caliber machine guns, others still by explosives. Broken spike strips lay on the road, too, just in front of destroyed vehicles very similar to their own:The old High Mobility Multipurpose Wheeled Vehicles of the US Military. 

The dead of this encounter lay slumped over rusted machine guns and damaged hulks. One overturned Humvee stood in the way of their own Jeeps, hiding the gate and the walls of the National Guard station ahead of them. The lead vehicle’s troops dismounted, three Scouts from First Recon, their modified hunting rifles raised.

The Platoon’s Lieutenant, who was in the rearmost truck, ordered, “Alright, lads and ladies! Dismount and form a perimeter! Stick with your buddies!” before she jumped over the side, cradling a point-forty-five auto Submachine Gun with a wood stock, handguard and a square, stainless steel mag, apparently based off of the old M1A1 Thompson Submachine Guns of World War 2. The Gun Runners were kind of different when it came to firearms.

“Zach, Mike, on me,” She ordered toward two boys clad in very different equipment from the others. A pair of Mercenaries, both formerly NCR, now private security for the Strip alongside Securitrons, the two gentlemen, one wearing green ranger gear with his name scribbled onto his collar and the other, wearing a black leather vest and red NCR 1st Recce beret, walked with them.

“Right with ya, boss,” Replied Zach in a disinterested voice. He looked at Mike and asked, “Remind me why you volunteered us for this shit again?” as he drew his shotgun and racked the pump, “I was supposed to go on a date with Cass like two hours ago…” before noticing several of the damaged houses, destroyed vehicles and even corpses around them.

Mike shrugged, replying lackadaisically, “I wanted to get us out of the Strip after so long. Didn’t really wanna see Securitrons meandering about either,” as he drew his own Marksman Rifle, an extended version of the Carbines they found throughout the entire Old Wastes. His gaze locked onto the reinforced, but damaged gate and walls separating them from whatever military compound was in this weird little town.

Or, well, Ghost Town. Why was there even a National Guard station here? Like, for what purpose? And how’d the NCR even run into it in the first place? None of that felt like it was gonna get an easy answer, Zach thought as the platoons marched forward toward and through the pileup near the Gate, entering what looked like it used to be a military safe zone, graffiti with the writing ‘FUCK FEDRA’ and ‘BASTARDS LEFT US TO DIE!’ etched and sprayed onto the walls and ground around piles of rotting body bags. Who was FEDRA? Nobody knew.

Broken store windows, bullet holes in the walls and spent brass cartridges that were also fading into nothing lay on the floor, one Trooper’s boot toe lightly touching a tube and moving it with a quiet, almost imperceptible clink. Around them, birds chirped and squirrels chittered. Creatures from ancient zoology books, thought extinct or irreversibly mutated by the nuclear hellfire and various weapons of mass destruction the failed predecessor of the New California Republic and their seemingly more Totalitarian Communist foe had thrown at each-other to try and win an unwinnable War.

One Squirrel approached Zach, looking up at him, tilting its head as its bushy tail moved with the wind. The black-haired shotgunner cracked a smirk and said, “Hey, Mike. Check this little guy out,” as he crouched down. It chittered at him while a couple of female NCR troopers cooed at it. Mike looked down, smiling, before Zach reached out to try and pat it, “It’s kinda cute for a critter like this… Wonder how it-” only for its two front teeth, resembling a mole-rat’s own dentures, to scratch the man’s hand, forcing him to retract, “OW! SON OF A BITCH!”

“Hazard, for fuck’s sake,” The Lieutenant spoke, voice flat, “Leave the fucking wildlife alone.”

“He bit me!” He replied with a mild whine.

The team’s NCO, a Staff Sergeant by the name of Talbot, replied snarkily, “And if you bitched less about it, maybe Cass wouldn’t stand ya up for every date. It’s not like that thing’s gonna spread any diseases to ya through biting,” which caused a few people to laugh. Zach scoffed, then grumbled as he and Mike continued to move. 

Mike replied, “You gotta admit, he got you there,” as he checked over the thirty round magazine on the weirdly metallic rifle. His best friend glared at him, which caused the somewhat-redhead to raise a hand defensively and wave it off, “It was still kind of a shit thing to say to someone helping you, but ya know…”

Zach rolled his eyes. As they marched deeper, past abandoned bus stations and bullet-riddled trucks and cars, they came upon a repurposed building, an old Westerns-tyle saloon that had been barricaded and had the metaphorical gun barrel poking out of every open spot. The place was a small fortress, clearly reinforced with HESCO Barriers and more sandbags than there was sand in this section of California.

More marks of a shootout appeared. Congealed and dried blood formed streaks and stormlike droplets, corpses piled on the wooden porch, claw marks and light poking through the grimy, damaged windows. The Lieutenant sighed, then gave a chop of the hand forward. Zach took lead, sliding his helmet on and kicking the swinging doors and the metal grid in, knocking the latter over while the former broke off their hinges.

The team moved into the building, some troopers remaining outside to form a perimeter. As they moved in, the first to notice something strange was Zach. He pointed at fallen soldiers in camouflage gear, then said, “They’ve got gas masks on…” which meant the Lieutenant immediately gave the order for those inside to put theirs on.

The NCRA had started issuing gas masks and anti-radiation meds to many of the troops deployed to dangerous scouting operations beyond the limits of the currently-known areas of California. The NCR wasn’t gonna leave its troops out to dry. Not since Hanlon took over as Prez. The teams sealed their masks, suits and everything else that was necessary, with Mike and Zach taking point as they moved deeper into the building.

The old decor of the place had given way to muck, dirt, debris and the dead. One of the troopers coughed, pulling on his mask. Everyone turned toward him, but the trooper, Private Nichols, commented, “Relax… Must’ve…” he coughed again, “Put it on wrong. Gonna fix it in a sec,” all while the team delved further in.

Spent ammunition casings and more dessicated corpses was all that waited for them. Mike commented, “I’m seeing a basement,” and pointed at a door frame in the rear hallway that missed its door, revealing a sloped descent. Activating flashlights or the Night Vision in their helmets in Zach’s case, the team descended down into a basement thick with what looked like dust particles floating heavily in the air, reacting to rays of light from their weapon-mounted torches.

Lining the walls were barrels of alcohol, left untapped and untouched for years, signaling this place had once had its own sort of brewery, a place where people not only drank alcohol, but made it for the sake of selling and drinking for themselves. A picturesque place, frozen in time on one side of the place. 

Terrifyingly enough, however, the place was this zone’s former command post, filled with broken computers, fold-out tables and chairs and corpses. And it was something else. Something much worse, from the looks of things. With wide eyes, wonder and fear, the team watched as pulsating walls of what looked at first like flesh appeared in the beams of their flashlights. Zach let out a, “Oh, what the fuuuuuuck… ” as he scanned the wall.

It wasn’t flesh. Protrusions, flowerlike and alien, grew from among mycelium, ducts of spores visibly emanating the cloud that surrounded them. Several of the corpses in the room had similar protrusions poking out from parts of their heads, though they were clearly dead. The back door to the cellar, visible as light poked through the shaft, was sealed almost completely, parts of it broken and stained with congealed blood.

And in the center of this wall, much to the concern, fear and horror of everyone present, there were four corpses, long-embedded into the fungal flesh, their heads split open, skulls deformed, mouths filled with rotten teeth from which the cloud of spores emanated. Three corpses looked like adults, while a fourth was smaller, more frail and clad in what looked like a kid’s pajama.

“Jesus fuck…” Murmured the Lieutenant. 

They paused as they heard Nichols begin to dry heave, his coughs getting more and more frequent. Zara turned toward him and asked, “Nic? You alright?” her voice muffled by the mask’s materiel. He looked up at her, hunched over and began to cough even more violently. She gasped, watching him try to rip off his mask. He fell backward, collapsed onto the floor and began to writhe, trying to pull his mask clean off. Zara called out, “Son of a bitch! SARGE, EL-TEE!  HELP ME DRAG HIM OUTTA HERE!” before she grabbed his arm, before she looked up and screamed at those still upstairs, “MEDIC! GET ME A MEDIC OVER HERE!” 

They dragged him out, trying to carry him over the steps as he began to violently thrash about, finally managing to take his mask off. The Lieutenant caught it, examining it as they dragged him up to a medic, outside of the pub and on the ground in front of it. He writhed, screaming, his voice growing more and more hoarse as he clawed at his neck. Zara begged, “Nic! Nic, for fuck’s sake, stay with me!” as she tried to hold him down for the Medic to administer a Stimpak.

Nichols’s face contorted, twitching, skin growing pale as his veins began to bulge. His eyes turned bloodshot, irises turning an unnatural yellow from the mix of blood and whatever the fuck he might’ve inhaled. Zach and Mike, meanwhile, watched the man thrash about, voice turning to sandpaper as blood spewed from his nose and mouth.

Zach mumbled, “Jesus Christ…” before noticing one of the dead around the outpost. Though its skin sloughed off its form, he could see the faint traces of a bite mark lined by fungal growths. He gasped, drew his Colt 1911 pistol and turned toward the man being helped before yelling, “GET THE FUCK AWAY FROM HIM!”

Zara turned toward Zach, letting go of her partner for one second… And Nichols sprang up like a coiled spring, jaw wide open, gargled screaming rippling from his throat. Without hesitation, Zach pushed up, pinned the man down with his boot and put three shots of .45 into the man’s skull, splattering it and a very sickly-looking blood onto the ground, all three shots ringing loudly in the valley.

Zara took a step back, stunned and feeling the side of her neck before Zach asked, “You bit!?” and knelt beside her, checking her neck. Not even a scratch, he saw, making him sigh in relief. He saw a few NCR Troopers point rifles at him while Zara began to weep, before he started, “Woah, woah, wait a fucking minute!”

 The Lieutenant whistled, forcing everyone to turn around, before demanding, “Lower your guns. And you, Hazard, best have a good fucking explanation for why you just turned one of my boys’ heads into a nice, fresh stain on the floor.”

“... Look, I’m not the smartest motherfucker alive, I’ll admit it,” Zach started, then looked at the corpse and noticed the cilia of the infection poking out from the wound, “But that ain’t normal… What we saw in the basement. The corpses around us. Some of’em have bite marks, but most look the same as the corpses we just saw embedded in a wall of mushrooms down there. Nichols’s mask probably had a bad seal… He inhaled the spores.”

Then he tilted his head and said, “And he went Feral… This is some kinda Fungal infection, turns people into some new kind of feral ghouls, and I think we just-” only to pause as the area around them echoed with screams, hundreds of them. He swore quietly, “oh, fuck…” before stating aloud, “We just rang the dinner bell…”

“... Oh, shit…” The Lieutenant murmured, “FORM A PERIMETER!”

Chapter Text

Azalea, NCR Territories

The gargling screams of what had once been humans echoed across the valley as the team moved to their Vehicles, forming a perimeter by the trucks and cars armed with machine guns. The Lieutenant gave Zach a pat on the back and told him, “Seems like we’re about to get fucked from all sides! You got a plan for me, Hazard!?”

“Thinking!” He replied as he checked over his equipment. Mike clambered onto the truck and shouldered his DMR, while Zach said, “We could just bail out, but I have a bad feeling these fucks would follow us all the way out to Shady Sands! And I don’t think command wants an outbreak of Ghoul Fungus at home!”

“If that winds up being its name, I’m shooting you myself!” The woman joked, then ordered, “GET THOSE FIFTY CALS TURNING!” as she heard the clatter and clamoring, the clap of footsteps, monsters rushing out of the woodwork and the overgrown houses around them. Rifles thundered on semi-automatic as the troops aimed center-mass, staggering but not killing the monsters.

Zach barked, “AIM FOR THEIR FUCKING HEADS, GOD DAMMIT!” before slamming the butt of his shotgun against the face of one that drew too close, putting the barrel in its mouth and firing, which scattered the monster’s infected brain across the floor. He pumped the gun, aimed and fired for the head again, nailing another and taking half of its face off. It tumbled to the floor.

Mike popped heads with his semi-auto rifle, quickly snapping between targets while some of the troopers finally managed to get onto the fifty-caliber machine guns and turn them toward each side. The weapons began to chug, spitting out spent point-fifty casings and ripping apart the creatures. Shots landed in the chest, two ripping massive holes into their bodies and exploding the lungs, heart and spine.

The Lieutenant clambered aboard one of the trucks, pulled the radio transmitter off of the box and calling out, “This is Exploration Team Zero Seven to Central Command! We’ve encountered heavy resistance! Ghoul-like creatures infected with some sort of fungal parasite are swarming our current position and we need reinforcements!”

“ Stand by, ET Seven. We’re receiving similar reports from other away teams in the border regions. Be advised:Securing support may take time, ” The officer in charge of them replied as the Lieutenant poked her gun out through the window and fired in bursts, cutting down three enemies in three seconds. 

The woman scoffed, then squeezed the transmit button again and barked, “SEND WHATEVER YOU CAN, ASAP, DAMMIT!” before slamming the microphone down and climbing out while firing her gun. She walked up to Mike, watching the man snap off shots like no tomorrow, nailing lucky headshots on the squiggly fucks while their fifites continued pouring lead. She dropped to one knee, dropped her spent mag and slapped a fresh one in, opening fire again.

Zach racked the pump of his shotgun, slid a round in the chamber, then the pump forward, then started loading shells into his gun. He drew his sidearm and knelt beside the Lieutenant and behind Mike, firing while loading his primary with one hand. He told the Lieutenant, “Knew fucking well enough I shouldn’t have followed you guys in here!”

“Complain about it when you’re dead, Hazard!” She shot back, firing bursts. One of their troopers screamed as he was pounced by two more heavyset creatures, their heads resembling blooming fungal flowers. Both the Lieutenant and Zach turned their weapons toward the monsters just as they bit into the soldier’s right hand and neck, respectively, ripping flesh and drawing blood.

“Jesus fuck!” Another Trooper screamed as she scrambled back, her shots going wide as two more creatures appeared out of the woodwork. They pounced her as the perimeter tightened, their long, claw-like dirty nails digging into the girl’s flesh. One of the fifty caliber gunners swiveled his turret and aimed, blasting apart the monsters and the corpse.

Mike spoke, “Should’ve brought flamethrowers!” As he dropped a spent magazine. The metal mag clattered to the floor while the man pulled another out of his vest and sent it home before sending the bolt of the gun forward and opening up again. He turned and called out, “Sorry about this!” before putting shots into the skulls of both troopers that were pinned and bitten by the infected.

Zach racked the pump of his shotgun as he climbed aboard the back of the truck, then fired again. The rest of the infantry gathered up on top of the vehicles, firing away from within or from the flatbeds of their transports as more and more of the creatures swarmed out from the woodwork. Gunfire beat like drums of war, spent casings piling on the flatbeds and on the roofs of the Humvees as the troops continued firing.

“Did we underestimate the numbers?!” Zach wondered as he crouched, sliding more shells into his gun, “Place barely looks like it could house two hundred people!”

“We’re on one block of the town!” The Lieutenant replied, then barked, “FIX BAYONETS!” before pulling out her long blade from the sheath on its belt and clipping it onto the front of the gun. Zach looked back nervously. He never liked it when that order came to pass, mostly because it meant the enemy was close enough for it to be used.

And going by the swarms of the damn Fungus Ghouls charging them, yeah, shit, he could see it. He watched Mike take a step back to reload his gun, only for one of the monsters to try and grab him, its long, spindly arm stretching out and reaching for his collar. Mike nearly panicked, but his buddy was quicker on the draw, pumping three shells slam-fire into the face of the bastard that tried to do that. He asked, “YOU GOOD!?”

“ALIVE!” Mike replied, his voice cracking, “Jeez, that was close!” as he continued pumping shots into the crowds of monsters. The gunsmith and the Lieutenant went back-to-back as more and more of the creatures clambered and scrambled over each-other and the piles of corpses forming around the vehicles like rabid dogs.

“LAST MAG!” The Lieutenant barked as she slid in the last rounds she was probably ever gonna fire, considering how things were going. She aimed as carefully as she could, each shot dropping another enemy out of the hundreds, perhaps thousands that were currently swarming their position. Zach continued slam-firing his shotgun until he ran completely dry, then slung the gun on his back and drew his pistol while Mike grabbed an ax. 

Blades tasted human and fungal flesh as the troops started using their bayonets and knives to go for the heads of the monsters. A few more troopers were grabbed, some being pulled into the crowds and ripped apart while others managed to fight off their assailants with their bladed weapons. They held the force back to the best of their abilities.

“Mike!?” Zach called out as he finally resorted to pulling out his combat knife.

Mike replied, “Yeah?!” while preparing a modified pipe he’d strapped scissors to. 

“I’m really sorry about taking your iguana bits outta the microwave!” The man told him. Mike furrowed his brows, mouth slightly open as confusion overtook him. He shook his head, slammed the pipe into the head of another one of the critters, then looked at his best friend with the confusion that kind of statement would earn. Zach told him, “What?!”

“... Dude, what do you mean-” Mike started, then took a step back as a monster swung at him. He killed it(and broke the scissors on the pipe), before asking Zach, “Do you mean that one time where the Microwave was actually broken?! Cuz I put those things in there specifically to make people think it wasn’t!”

“Did you break it?” Zach asked, then ducked and thrust the knife into a monster’s face. Mike nodded, to which his friend rolled his eyes, “Of fuckin’ course…”

“DO YOU TWO MIND!?” The Lieutenant demanded as she heard their last machine gun go dry. She scoffed and prepared to draw her blade… Only to pause as she heard the chop of rotorblades overhead. As if angels from the heavens descended down to pick up the scared masses, three Vertibirds bearing the cogs, sword and wings of the Brotherhood of Steel descended upon the battlefield, their maw-mounted miniguns and door gunners opening up on the Horde of creatures. The Paladins landed on top of some of the infected, squashing them underfoot like bugs.

Lasers and plasma cut down and melted away the clamoring masses of the undead Fungoids while a fireteam of Paladins dropped down utilizing their jetpacks. Each carried a heavy weapon of some kind, either a plasma caster, or a gatling laser. Two of each weapon found themselves laying waste to the hordes, cutting them down, drilling holes into the flesh or outright melting the alien creatures into puddles. 

The Miniguns on the Vertibird, manned by Scribes, poured lead down-range while the NCR cheered their newfound comrades’ arrival. One of the Paladins took a couple of steps back, the very ground shaking below the heavy Fusion-powered T45 power armor, then swept the area ahead in a forty-five degree cone of fire, bolts of light shearing through the treeline and blasting apart any other figures that charged them.

Moments later, the place went quiet, only the hiss of sizzling flesh and scent of burning bodies filling the air. The Lieutenant covered her mouth and mumbled, “Note to self… Get the Gun Runners to produce a shitload more ammunition and recommend attaching flamethrower troops to every platoon to Command,” before she jumped out of the vehicle and said, “Thanks for the rescue, Tin Boys.”

“You’re welcome,” The Paladin in charge, a woman, replied as she hefted her gun. She nudged one of the corpses with her foot and spoke, “Fucking things are weird. Command had several of our Squads commandeered to reinforce other Scout Teams out there. All of them ran into these,” then she looked at the Lieutenant and asked, “They also reported finding ‘Spore’ emitters. Basically chunks of ground where a corpse or more got embedded and started sending out infectious spores. Any idea where one might find’em in this place?”

“Try every goddamn basement in the area,” The woman replied, then looked at the corpses of their fallen. She made sure they were dead via stab to the back of the neck, quietly whispering apologies before she turned to the Paladin and watched her lead her team in. The Vertibird touched down in a nearby opening, crunching several corpses beneath its frame. A platoon of Scribes in what looked like HAZMAT Equipment descended and retrieved the least damaged of the creatures with heads like blooming fungi. They put them in heavily sealed body bags before putting them into containment units on board the Vertibirds.

The Paladin told her, “We’ll deal with everything here. Get back to base, rearm and re-equip. You Bearers of Bad News need to upkeep your gear better,” before she led the way out to the first building in the area:That same pub where one of their own had turned in front of them. The Lieutenant rolled her eyes, then boarded the truck, waving the rest of the troops aboard so they could depart.

With the Courier and Company, around the same time

Samuel had decided to talk the crowds down himself. It had worked out surprisingly well when the ‘Hero of the Mojave’ and his party of elite soldiers, mercs, medics, scientists and the mechanic Ghoul had rocked up to the protests to talk everyone away from doing something stupid. Again, it had worked way too well.

He and his team were currently and rather obviously away, riding in an armored truck they’d been given by the military. Which meant a truck Raul could tend to and sometimes fix while they were on the road. Meanwhile, Arcade seemed to be keeping an ear on the radio transmissions from across NCR lands and Boone was being Boone, AKA the guy who would be keeping watch for hostiles.

Cass sat in the front, her feet on the dash and shotgun at the ready while Lunette was parsing through all of the new data streaming from the satellites up above. She whispered, “Incredible… Simply incredible,” while her whiskey-drinking ‘auntie’ stared at her with mild confusion. For the sake of gun safety, Cass had pointed her shotgun’s barrel out of the window.

Lunette noticed the look, then told her, “The data here it’s… Well, for one, incompatible with the operating systems of our Pip-Boys, but for two, it’s… Vast . The kind of Vast only possible if the SATCOM network above had petabytes of raw data stored within whatever advanced drives they have. And this is after what seems to be two decades of neglect.”

“You got a date to give us, Lun?” Samuel asked as he gently turned the steering wheel left as they left the turnpike and entered what looked to be a side road. 

His wife pulled up the data and looked it over, then hummed, “Still 2033, hon…” before thumbing the device off. Yes, the crew had been made aware of also having possibly time travelled. Yes, the reactions had been tentatively varied, with Veronica herself nearly flipping out, but everyone quickly realized that there was no way this was 2033’s US. 

They realized it because of the ruins they were driving by. Like a song, it rhymed with other reports from across the bend:Abandoned cars, destroyed houses and corpses scattered haphazardly throughout the area. They rolled through into a small neighborhood area and Lun immediately said, “... Well, we’re in Arizona now.”

“Specifically, Kingman,” Boone added from the back of the truck, looking through his sunglasses and scope. As the truck rolled past the street sign denoting their entry into the small town, the team began to prepare. Boone paused, knelt and grabbed the radio transmitter off the bench of the truck, then listened in while everyone else waited.

He looked at the Courier and said, “Command sent the following:Be advised, possible infectious threat across all unknown and uncontacted villages and towns on scout routes. All Away Teams are advised to proceed with caution. Ghoul-like hostiles expected,” before sighing deeply and mumbling, “Never the easy days with you, eh?”

“Nope,” The man replied as they rolled forward, past an overgrown gas station. He pulled over to the side, by the parking lot full of broken cars, then ordered, “Alright, folks. Dismount and be ready for anything. Keep your gas masks close,” as he grabbed his own Service Rifle off of the dash and pushed the door open.

The others piled out, too, with Veronica quietly stretching and preparing her power fist. She’d chosen to ditch the Power Armor this run, leaving herself in standard Scribes’ wear with some extra added plating. She said, “Well, this oughta be interesting. We never went beyond the borders of old Nevada beforehand.”

“Says the woman who’s currently helping mend the relationships between us and the Lost Hills chapter,” Joked Raul. The Ghoul Vaquero quickly checked over his .44 pistol, spun it on his finger, then holstered it and added, “What are we doing all the way out here, though? Like, should we be out explorin’, boss?”

“Much as I know there’s very little trust in terms of the Big Empty’s think tank being able to do something without blowing us to another place,” Samuel began, holding his rifle at low ready, “They’re trying to figure out if there’s a way to send us back home right now. In the meanwhile, the NCR wants away teams exploring our surroundings to see what kind of nightmare we wound up in…”

“Going by the fact there’s green all over the place,” Lunette spoke, holding the Rejector up, “We’re probably somewhere where the Bombs Never Fell, as so many have surmised,” then she checked a few of the knobs and switches on the ‘weapon’. The Rejector was a stun gun of a sort, a gravity-defying pistol capable of sending people flying backward and outright disarming them if it hit right.

Boone slammed the bolt of his rifle forward, feeding a .308 round in. He scanned the area ahead of them with the scope while they marched deeper in. They stuck to cover with their weapons always at the ready, Veronica commenting, “... Man, bet Arcade wishes he was here,” as she held her power fist up. She’d mentioned Arcade due to the fact the team marched by a local clinic, which had its windows broken and boarded up, as well as bullet holes in the sign and the fake brick walls.

The others chuckled, with Lunette adding, “Nah, he hates mushrooms…”

“Hehe,” Chuckled Willow nervously. She held her lever action rifle very close, eyes peering down the odd notch sights. She spoke, “So… Fungus Ghouls. Anyone wanna talk about that, or are we just gonna ignore the fact we might be walking into possibly something creepier than Vault 22?” all while she scanned the few buildings that still had windows for movement.

“Nope,” The rest of the team replied without even skipping a beat. They were well aware of their current predicament, so why overthink the issue when they had to explore this place and find more resources, right?

“Oh…” Willow let out, then sighed and added, “Okay. Guess I’m the only one that’s a lil’ scared.”

Lunette replied, “No, ya ain’t. We just don’t wanna acknowledge it,” before pausing. The team saw bloody handprints on a nearby house wall, as well as more bullet holes and a rusted shovel embedded into the ground next to a weird bump in the ground over which desert grass had grown. She blinked, mumbled, “Not my War Crime, not my problem…”

The others silently agreed again, pushing past the mass grave and toward what looked to be a school at the end of the road. Boone showed everyone to halt, however, pushing up to an overturned car and taking cover behind it while looking down the scope of his rifle. The others dived behind the cover of building walls or other cars on the street, with Samuel and Lunette moving up right behind their Sniper.

Boone whispered, “Movement…” as he peered through the scope. He aligned his crosshair with the first figure down the road. A dark-skinned man dressed in ragged clothes and holding a rusty pipe in one hand led four other men, each armed with some sort of melee weapon, down the road. Boone told them, “Raiders, from the looks.”

“They’re a bit ragged for the kind of Raiders we’re used to,” Samuel murmured, shouldering his rifle, “And they’re patrolling the School…” which got a hum of agreement out of Boone. He pat the guy’s back and told him, “Keep an eye on’em for me. I’m gonna move ahead. See what I can find out…” before he checked over his weapon to make sure it was okay and walked forward.

Boone sighed deeply, then told Lunette, “Your husband’s off to do stupid shit again…”

“When isn’t he?” The girl giggled, then told Boone, “Cover me,” before going out to follow the Courier. Boone rolled his eyes and mumbled something to himself about ‘the two of them being made for each-other’ as he watched them. Cass, Veronica, Raul and Willow seemed all the more concerned, each of them keeping their weapons trained on the Bandits.

Another patrol of them moved out from the main school building, exiting through the front door and laughing together as they went straight toward the Courier and Lunette. The two split up, each taking cover behind another car in the road while their comrades held their breaths. Boone already had the leader of the enemy patrol in his sight, crosshair pointed straight between the man’s eyes.

Samuel showed everyone to wait, making sure that both he and Lunette were properly hidden. He wanted to hear what they were talking about. And, as the first man approached, they could hear him speak, clearly annoyed, “... The folks we nabbed from that travelling band? Turns out it was some sorta food convoy delivering supplies to some town nearby.”

“Well, shit,” Another replied. He was the only one holding a firearm, a snub-nosed forty-four of some kind. He told the man, “And what, that mean they only had two chicks in the entire village or something? And where the hell’d these people even come from?”

“Midwest, maybe? They’ve got the accent,” The first guy answered, “And yeah, mennonite chicks don’t leave their communities much, even before the Cordyceps. Turns out these two were headed out to meet potential husbands from their trading partner, too. Got lost along the way and wound up in our little desert corner,” before shrugging, “Lucky us, I guess.”

“Still doesn’t explain how the fuck they got all the way from there to here, just shy of goddamn Las Vegas,” A third added, “Don’t think Donahue is too happy about us stealing from the mennonites, though, considering all the Christian paraphernalia he’s got hanging around in the Old Church. Wasn’t he one?”

“No. The Boss is a former National Guardsman from upstate. Nothin’ to do with’em,” The first man shrugged, “Guessing he just doesn’t wanna piss God off all too much.”

“Bit late for that, considering we killed the rest of the Convoy,” The second joked, twirling his firearm around his finger. Lunette and Samuel exchanged a glance as the trio passed by them, with Lunette immediately drawing her pistol. She fired first, three emerald shots of pure kinetic force made manifest striking the men and sending them tumbling to the floor.

The Courier stomped the head of the one with the revolver in, marched up to the leader and pinned him down with his boot while Lunette kept an eye on the second man, who had a crowbar. He then leaned forward, barrel of his rifle pointing at the back of his skull and asked him, “So… Capture girls, huh? Mind telling me where they are?”

“W-Who the fuck are yo-” The man tried to speak, but felt the sharp heel of the boot pressing down into his spine, “J-Jesus fuck! Fine! In the school basement…!” only to yelp again as the boot pressed deeper into his back.

“And your Boss? Donahue, ya called him?” He asked.

“P-Probably same place,” The man answered, then he tried to threaten the Courier, “... We got a hundred guys here. Y-You’re not gonna walk out ali-” but the wet crunch of his skull being caved in by the boot silenced him. He walked over to the third guy and did him in as well. Lun had turned away, well aware of how her Husband dealt with these types.

Samuel then turned to the others and, with a single wave of the hand forward, gave the order to move to the School. They had a job to do now, with the Courier immediately radioing, “Command, contact has been made with Raiders in the town of Kingman. A group believed to be around one hundred strong. Be advised:We are proceeding on foot to eliminate them…” 

“ Roger that, Courier. We have an away team en-route to reinforce you at that crossroad, but considering your track record, we’re just gonna tell’em to be ready to perform cleanup duty. Command, over and out, ” The woman in charge of their telecommunications replied jovially. Indeed, they were expecting a second platoon to come by right after them, a unit of Rangers led by a Ghoul.

Raul spun the cylinder of his revolver and said, “Just like old times, then. Let’s go deal with some bandits,” which got the others to give out a very light, semi-serious cheer. Minus Boone, obviously. Boone, the man who’d lost his wife to slavery, was not the type to cheer for putting down rabid animals.

Despite that, though… He felt a little joy at what was about to happen…