Field Log — Terminals & Truths

 Field Log — Terminals & Truths

DATE: 10/31/2224
Location: Lafayette Medical Center — Terminal Wing / Night Watch

After the morning read, Clancy and I sat at one of the hospital terminals. The glow from the screen made our faces look older. I asked him to retell the tale the Enclave fed him about RedWolf—the rumor, the myth, the headline version the boys in uniform passed along to scare recruits or make them into ghosts.

He told it straight: the toned-down Enclave legend—Rougarou as monster, lone wolf terror of the bayou, a cautionary story used to keep kids inside on Mardi Gras and soldiers steady at night. He said it like he believed the scare, the pageant of fear that kept people moving in lines.

I let him finish. Then I leaned forward, low and careful, and began to speak—not the enshrouded version, but the truth I carry.

“Listen close,” I said. Clancy sat down, silent and focused.

This is the truth of RedWolf — Ray Marcel Sr., my great-grandfather.

He was born to Choctaw natives in New Orleans. The Marcel family were keepers—undertakers, caretakers of funerary rites. Ray’s father was an undertaker; as a boy Ray walked the burial grounds with him, lighting fires after dusk to keep the wolves from digging graves open. That work taught him the language of the dark...how to read scent and shadow and the lean of wind.

As he grew, something else happened. Ray learned to call the wolves. Not by witchcraft the way outsiders tell it, but by listening and answering—breath to wind, whistle to pack. Word spread until a Voodoo priestess, called Tanti, took notice.

On the midnight of Lundi Gras—the Monday before Mardi Gras—Tanti held a bayou ceremony. The wolves came down to the water and wrecked her altar. Folks scattered, the ritual broken, and she accused Ray of summoning them. In the shouting she threw salt in his eyes and branded him with a prophecy: “I’ve seen you call them—now you are one of them.”

At midnight, Ray changed. Eyes glowed. He became the Rougarou.

Tanti gave him a choice wrapped in a curse: the beast could be tamed, but not without a price. He had to respect the Lenten season—abstain. If the cycle was broken, the transformation would come and not yield. She boiled an elixir in a black bottle and told him it would wear off in one hundred days. Ray drank it and returned to man. He begged to live a normal life. Tanti warned him: if he broke the waiting, the curse would hitch to his bloodline—those who celebrated Mardi Gras and then ate on the fast of Ash Wednesday would carry the bane.

The tall tales about him hunting people? Exaggeration. Ray Marcel Sr. was loved in his community. When the Rougarou came on, he retreated—no harm intended—because instinct drives the body away from kin. His Choctaw family saw it differently: their totem had awakened. It was part curse, part sacred burden. They treated it as heritage, not horror.

I told Clancy this quietly, letting the history settle in the terminal’s light.

He blinked slow. “You’re—your family—this is real?” he asked, the soldier in him trying to measure myth against the man.

“Yes,” I said. “Deeper than the stories you heard. But that’s where the thread begins. If the records survived, if the University archives weren’t gutted, there should be trace—deeds, obituaries, parish notes—things the institutions kept even when people forgot their names. The University of Louisiana at Lafayette will be my next stop. There may be family files, local registries, damage reports—everything that tells what happened after Hurricane Kendra and after the bombs.”

Pinball hovered, LED flicker steady. “Archive query recommended. Cross-reference Marcel, RedWolf,
Ray Marcel Sr., Choctaw funerary records—probability of recovery: moderate.” He projected a tiny holo index of search terms onto the terminal.

Clancy swallowed, fingers tight around his Root Beer. “Do you have it in you, Chief? To go back in there and pull that up? Pull family out from dust?”

I looked at him and felt the weight of the name like an old coin warm in my palm. “Yes,” I said. “The Rougarou line runs deep. Or it did. If it’s still written down, I’ll find it. If it’s not—then I’ll make sure the story is brought back right. Either way, I go. I’ll audit the terminals, the libraries, the parish notes. We’ll find what we can for the Deans and for my line. Then we decide how to use it.”

Clancy nodded. He listened like a man learning what courage looks like when it isn’t loud.

We logged the plan into the Pip-Boy: University archive sweep, priority: Marcel family records, hospital transfer lists (2077), parish registries, post-Kendra damage reports. Pinball cached the queries. The Railroad keeps freight of memory—maps, names, promises. We start collecting.

Night fell on the terminal wing. Somewhere in the hospital the Brotherhood moved like a tide. We moved quieter: prep tools, check weapons, confirm exit routes. The university was the next liminal edge to cross. We’d follow the tracks, read the signs, and see what history still had breath in it.

Clancy spoke, soft now. “If you find something… will you tell me? About him—about Ray?”

I raked my fingers through my hair and smiled without humor. “When I can. The truth’s heavier than a story, son. You’ll know it when I bring it back.”

Pinball chimed, almost playful. “Data integrity protocols engaged. Moral uplift potential: high.”

Larry shuffled paper in his pack somewhere behind us; the Swindler stayed mostly silent, watching the door. He heard the plan and maybe, for once, listened.

We saved the terminal logs, shut the screens, and moved out to ready the convoy. The University waits. The tracks call.

— The Big Chief

Morning Watch

DATE: 10/31/2224

Morning came slow, dragging yesterday’s weight with it. I woke in the Brotherhood-allocated room—bare metal walls, functional bed, no pretense of comfort. Compared to sleeping in a shipping container, it was a palace.

Clancy was already bouncing around, face painted like a jack-o’-lantern. “WAKE UP! IT’S HALLOWEEN! BOOGA BOOGA BOOGAAAH!”

Larry, on the other hand, remained tucked in the shadows of the room, quiet and tense. Past dealings with the Brotherhood had taught him to blend, hide, and survive. Colby hadn’t recognized him yet.. but I wasn’t banking on luck.

The hospital itself was unsettling. Half-cleared rooms, scattered feral remains, corridors that smelled of rot and antiseptic. If the Brotherhood truly intended to secure this place and expand to the university, why leave it like this? Either they were stretched thin...or something else was happening.

I spent the morning combing the terminals, digging through pre-war logs. The chaos of 2077 bled off the pages: overcrowded wards, failing evacuation plans, orders prioritizing VIPs while the rest were left to chance.

10/15/2077
“Evacuation plans are still a mess… VIPs and military prioritized. Regular civilians? Just ‘do your best.’”

10/22/2077
“Confirmed Vault-Tec partnerships. Some patients to be moved to Vault 36, 51… staff uneasy but following orders.”

10/23/2077 – 9:47 AM
“Mass panic in the lobby… lockdown in effect… staying put may mean death.”

No closure. Hundreds left hanging, abandoned by plans that failed before the bombs fell.

Then the recent Brotherhood logs, more chilling:

10/19/2224
Cleansing operations incomplete. Hostile ghouls engaged. Some armored. Signs of intelligence in certain groups. Mutation possible.

10/27/2224
Secured additional floors. Civilians relocated. Ghouls still an issue. High-ranking officers discussing final solutions. Overcapacity a concern.

The Brotherhood wasn’t just securing a base—they were experimenting, studying ferals. Some had armor, some showed intelligence… details carefully omitted in open records.

Pinball hovered nearby, sensors flicking. “Your expression suggests something fascinating, Big Chief.”

“Fascinating isn’t the word,” I muttered. “Concerning is more accurate.”

Colby & the Brotherhood’s Agenda

Colby found me mid-morning, armor clanking softly. “Sleep well?”

“Best since leaving the vault,” I admitted. “Though the place itself raises questions.”

“You’d be a fool not to,” he said, smirking. “But only so many answers I can give.”

I pressed him on the university. Why not secure it yet? His hesitation was telling. “Bigger space, more resources… other interested parties. Not a simple walk-in.”

I caught the unspoken: someone else was already moving in those halls.

Before leaving, he reminded me. “Brotherhood doesn’t offer charity. Security comes at a price. Work, trade, or make yourself useful. That’s reality.”

Larry exhaled softly, he’d been holding his breath the entire time.

Pinball spun in place, flat and measured. “I don’t trust them. Not a bit.”

Clancy was muttering no, yelling. every curse he knew, pacing the room. He didn’t want to die here. I let it go; survival wasn’t polite.

For now, we were here. The Brotherhood wasn’t just running a base—they were running an experiment. And I had to figure out why.

—The Big Chief

A Hollow Wasteland

DATE: 10/31/2224
Location: Lafayette Sector

Tonight is Halloween, though the Wasteland doesn’t recognize the date. Out here, there are no costumes, no sugar, no laughter echoing down the streets. Only survival. Shadows move with teeth and claws, steel and rot. Yet the date carries weight, and for a fleeting moment, I let myself drift into memory.

In the old world, Halloween was a ritual of joy and risk, a delicate dance of innocence and consequence. Streets were alive—lights glowing like beacons against the early fall dusk, laughter rising like smoke from every block. Children raced from house to house, pillowcases swinging heavy with candy, dreaming of Captain Cosmo, Silver Shroud, heroes that shielded them from the night. I was one of them. Weeks of planning went into costumes, each year a choice between the Silver Shroud’s vigilance and Captain Cosmo’s daring.

Candy was more than sugar. Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, Dandy Boy Apples, and the occasional Captain Cosmos’ Space Treat were morsels of freedom. Every bite was childhood, every wrapper a small treasure. But danger lurked then too—not monsters in the streets, but people. Parents checked candy. Every wrapper, every corner, examined for tampering. Even joy carried caution. Survival wasn’t new; it was practiced early.

Fall festivals and school gatherings were the heart of the season. Music spilling over the block, bobbing for apples, laughter, cakewalks, spinning rides—all under string lights. Pumpkins glowed, yes, but they framed something larger: family, community, shared rituals. Even in mirth, lessons lingered joy
alongside consequence.

Larry Breaux doesn’t get it. Last night, he asked questions, wide-eyed. “The Shroud?” he said. “You mean… you actually pretended to be him?”
I nodded. “Someone had to watch the shadows while we ran the streets. Someone had to keep the balance.”
His excitement felt absurd against the darkness, but he listens. Even in the Wasteland, the Shroud survives—in memory, in story, in the spirit of vigilance.

Clancy walks beside me as the night stretches. “Back in the Enclave,” he says, voice low, “they told stories… about a werewolf. Called him RedWolf. Stalked the swamps, cursed soul.”
I glance down at my hands, my fingers tracing the worn edges of my gloves. The words strike chords in me, older than Lafayette, older than the Enclave.
“Not a werewolf,” I correct. “Rougarou.”

He blinks. “Rouga… what?”

“Rougarou,” I repeat. “Cajun. Old. Not just a beast, but a man—caught between worlds. Punishment, consequence, spirit unsettled. Some say for breaking Lent, others for sins too heavy to carry. Half-man, half-beast—but mostly… the weight of reckoning.”

Clancy frowns. “So… not just a creature that tears people apart?”

“No. People fear him because he reflects what they might become. Broken covenant, twisted choices. Not predator, not prey—lesson and mirror.”

Larry chuckles from behind, nervously, shaking his head. “Boogeymen, fall festivals, Rougarou… man, Halloween sounds like a whole different world.”
I smile, eyes scanning the darkened streets. “It was. A world with laughter, candy, faith, and shadows. We carried joy in our pillowcases, and fear walked beside us. That was the balance. Here, that balance is gone. Teeth and steel replace candlelight and sugar. But the memory… the memory is our inheritance. Like candy wrapped in foil, preserved against time. Even here, I walk with the Rougarou—not as prey, not as hunter, but as heir.”

The contrast is sharp, the past so warm, the present so cold...but it fuels me. Memory becomes covenant, and covenant becomes resolve. Out here in Lafayette, among ruins, ferals, and roving Vertibirds, it is the spirit of the Rougarou..and the Silver Shroud..that reminds me why I survive, why I protect, and why I keep moving forward.

Even tonight, Halloween is remembered, and in that remembering, I find purpose.

—The Big Chief

Sanctuary in the Shadows

Date: 10/31/2224

Location: Lafayette Medical Center

The Lafayette Medical Center wasn’t just a stronghold; it was an experiment. The Brotherhood of Steel had taken it over, patrolling the ruined halls like sentinels. Their armor gleamed under the flickering fluorescents, a manufactured promise of order. Safety here wasn’t free, but it was undeniable.

We were intercepted at the main atrium by a Knight who called himself Colby Voss. He stood broad, his presence as heavy as the steel he wore.
“Welcome to Lafayette Medical,” he said, eyes locking onto my bright yellow T-60. His tone carried a hint of admiration. “That’s a fine rig. Makes a statement.”

I told him straight: the armor was worn, and Pinball needed repair. The Knight nodded, acknowledging both with a glance that told me he valued function as much as form.

Larry stayed half-hidden behind me. He didn’t need to speak—I already knew his fear of the Brotherhood was carved from history he wished he could erase. For now, my armor shielded him from more than bullets.

Colby laid it out: their Louisiana mission was still young. “We’ve fortified this place, but it’s not fully cleared,” he admitted, gesturing to the halls where the scent of feral decay still lingered. “The plan is expansion. The University next—turn it into a hub for education, research, preservation. Something better.”

He Then Says to us “I’m sure you’ve heard of the Brotherhood, of what we stand for. Those truths remain, but here in Lafayette, under the Windham Crew, we aim for something broader. Democracy, even.”

The word hung heavy. Democracy. Not what I expected.

Pinball’s optics lit faintly, shifting from red to blue. He skittered like Pong across the room, processing. Then he broke the silence by piping a low, daunting jazz riff from his speakers.

I asked Colby about the Windham.
His reply was almost casual. “Ah, the Windham. You must’ve seen it—the giant airship overhead? That’s ours.”

Before I could press, Clancy snapped. “Stolen from the Enclave!” His voice was raw, bitter, almost shaking.

I cut him off immediately. “Stand down, Lieutenant.” My voice was blade-sharp.

We introduced ourselves properly, but Clancy’s contempt didn’t soften. “I don’t like you,” he growled. Colby gave him the look of a man used to hostility, but not cowed by it.

Then Pinball spoke, his tone uncharacteristically cold. “Colby sounds trustworthy. But the Brotherhood as a whole? They are not to be trusted.” His words cut deeper than Clancy’s outburst. Pinball rarely spoke without evidence, and he never used instinct as his guide.

Colby ignored the tension. He pressed on, clarifying their operation. “This isn’t about hoarding technology. Louisiana is chaos. We adapt, or we break. Here we house families, offer refuge. But nothing is free. Refuge comes at a price—caps, tech, or labor. You work with us, we provide shelter, food, and security.”

His eyes returned to my armor. Admiration, but also calculation. Bright yellow T-60 makes me a beacon, but also buys me passage.

Before leaving, he offered what felt like both an invitation and a test. “We’ve still got work to do tonight. But you’re welcome to stay. Think it over. Stability comes at a cost—but it’s better than the alternative.” His armor clanked softly as he walked off into the dim-lit corridor, shadows swallowing him whole.

Once alone, Pinball whispered through static: “This place functions as a Station. A pause. Shelter. But it is not the Railroad.” His sensors pulsed faintly, almost like a heartbeat. “Observe, Chief. But tread carefully.”

Larry muttered from the shadows, “They’ll kill me if they find out.” His fear was thick, but I didn’t press him. His survival instinct was his only truth.

For now, we had walls, we had light, we had the illusion of safety. Colby’s parting words echoed as the night crept in:

“Making the world better is the Brotherhood's primary mission. We just use less... eccentric methods” "Follow Scribe West to your room"

—The Big Chief

Approaching Medical Center

Daybreak found us well-rested. Lt. Clancy and Larry—the Swindler—were already devouring sweet rolls, Fancy Lads snack cakes, and Nuka-Cola. The smell of sugar and artificial flavors filled the air, clashing with the haze of the city.

I briefed them: the Brotherhood had established a presence at the Medical Center. If we reached it, Pinball could be restored to 100% efficiency, and there was a chance to trade this old, rusted power armor for gear that might actually survive the Wastes.

Clancy stiffened. “The Brotherhood… pure evil,” he muttered, his eyes narrowing. His mind raced with memories of Enclave warnings and preconceptions I’ve long since learned to filter through my own lens.

Larry, on the other hand, sat pale, shaking slightly. Past dealings with Brotherhood tech had left him convinced a misstep would cost him his life. Every story I’d heard about them from him was tinged with fear and caution—none of it reassuring.

Pinball projected historical data: Brotherhood movements, past raids, organizational protocol. Clancy’s reaction was instantaneous, a mix of awe and terror. “We’re going into their territory? I....I don’t even know what to expect!”

We pressed forward, the ruined streets of Lafayette slowing our pace. Three hundred yards from the hospital, a grim sight greeted us: a deceased pack Brahmin, tipped over. Approaching cautiously, we found the baggage and crates—everything taken.

Then, from nowhere, a familiar voice:

“Are you ... Mike Marcel?”

I responded. “Yes.”

“Chief?! I was informed you were coming via signal… I followed the Tracks like you said… one of the others… we know your Codex… RAILROAD... it’s helped us. And look—I even have the Lantern!”

I froze. “How???”

“When you educate one of us, we remember, incorporate, repeat. We may not live the same life, but we all learn via signal. You encountered one of us previously. I am you. I am Samson.”

I exhaled slowly, assessing him. “What happened?”

He grimaced. “The Brotherhood… they killed her,” he said, gesturing at the Brahmin. “I heard them during their sweeps. They tipped her over. She died slowly. I remained… calm. But now—I have nothing. My livelihood… gone. This is not usual.”

I promised him: I would recover what I could...if he agreed to meet at the University later.

Clancy and Larry were baffled. Clancy’s jaw tightened; Larry’s eyes darted in disbelief. I attempted to introduce them to Samson, still uncertain how he knew me so intimately.

“Samson Reed… someone I met in Vault 288,” I explained, softening the truth to shield them from full exposure.

Pinball chimed, clipped and digital: “Sir?”

“It’s okay,” I replied. “They’re ready.”

Data projection illuminated the ground between us: hundreds of thousands of Samson Reeds had escaped the Institute. Each operates independently, shares memory across the network, and trades information—but each moves with variations, individuality. He’s a Trader, a Mechanic, a survivor. He knows terrain, understands the Railroad Codex, and navigates as I do.

I briefed Clancy and Larry further. “He’s a good man. Lives in Vault 288, runs his operations, watches the Wastes. He respects the code—the Railroad. I owe him my vigilance as he does mine.”

Samson slipped into a half-collapsed building for cover. I wanted to be angry at the precariousness of it, but there wasn’t time. The hospital demanded our attention next.

We parted ways. My focus: restore Pinball, gather intelligence, and navigate Brotherhood territory. The Tracks are set; the Railroad moves forward.

—The Big Chief

The Road Through Lafayette

Date: 10/30/2224
En Route to Freetown — Immediate Surroundings: Lafayette

The road drags. The Pip-Boy tells me I’m three miles from the hospital, but in this terrain three miles feels like thirty. The city is corrosion and collapse stitched together with madness. Streets buckle where the swamp eats through asphalt. Skeletons of old cars block the way like gravestones, their rusted frames rattling when the night wind pushes. Every step forward costs twice the energy it should.

The desolation here is alive gunshots tearing in bursts, scavengers whispering behind crumbled walls, and Vertibirds sweeping low like vultures with spotlights. Each pass rumbles the ground and sets Larry twitching. Clancy keeps his hand on his weapon, jaw tight, as though every shadow hides a memory.

Larry’s fear is constant. I gave him my meat hook—extended it on a pole to give him reach. He looks ridiculous, but fear with a tool is better than fear with empty hands. If a radroach or bloodworm jumps him, maybe he’ll stand a chance.

Pinball has been running quiet. Not broken—focused. His tone is sharper, clipped. “Big Chief, perception levels are at peak efficiency. Scanning patterns are green.” He misses the Deans, though I can tell. He buzzes softer at night, like a song cut short.

Clancy Asks of the Old World as we walk. His voice pulls me back—makes me miss it more than I admit. The University skyline rises crooked in the distance, and I feel that old ache. I spent hours in those halls once—the Engineering Department, the library. Places of memory, of learning. If the library still stands, it may hold maps, blueprints, truths worth carrying forward.

But distance is slow. Three miles marked, three miles not yet taken. The terrain consumes time, and the city is in no hurry to give it back.

During one sweep, I stayed awake while Larry and Clancy rested. A Brotherhood patrol passed close. One of them—armor polished, movements precise—caught sight of my frame. He nodded once, acknowledgment without hostility. He told me straight: “Get that suit repaired. If you’re running hot, you’re wasting it.” Then he said they had a post at the hospital and moved on, his shadow swallowed by the fog.

I didn’t answer him. But the words stuck. The hospital isn’t just my next waypoint—it’s theirs too.

Every step forward is slower than it should be. But I will get there. The station awaits.

—The Big Chief

Rested But Cautious

Date: 8.23.2224
Location: Downtown Houston Loft 

I woke up to the smell of tar.

Not fresh tar.

Old tar.

The kind of smell that settles into wood, concrete, fabric, and whatever else has been left alone long enough to absorb the weather. 

For a few seconds, I didn't move.

I just listened.

Nothing.

No ventilation system.

No footsteps in the corridor.

No distant voices from the Chow Room.

No machines cycling somewhere beneath the floor.

No Marcus arguing with Mindy.

No Zee moving through an engineering bay.

No Lydia making some inappropriate comment before breakfast.

No Vault.

Just silence.

Then I opened my eyes and remembered where I was.

The loft looked worse in daylight.

I had slept on sheets covered in old ash.

Fallout, most likely.

Dust had settled into the fabric so deeply that the bed looked less like a place to sleep and more like something the house had been trying to bury. Cobwebs stretched between the bedframe and the wall.

Mold had taken over sections of the ceiling and crawled down the corners in thick, ugly patterns.

There were things moving in places I didn't particularly want to investigate.

Some of the insects were big enough that I wasn't entirely convinced they were insects anymore.

I sat up slowly.

Looked at the sheets.

Looked at myself.

Then laughed.

Because if I had seen this room in the dark last night, I probably wouldn't have laid down.

But apparently...

you rest where you can.

That's one lesson the Wasteland teaches quickly.

Comfort is a luxury.

Sleep isn't.

And considering the last time I slept...

I was in the Vault.

The last bed I remember had clean sheets, controlled temperature, medical monitoring, and somebody nearby who could probably tell me what was wrong before I even knew I felt it.

This bed has mold, ash. cobwebs, and whatever the hell lives underneath it.

Still...

I'm grateful.

A bed is a bed.

I stood and stretched.

My body complained.

Nothing serious.

Just reminding me that yesterday happened.

I walked toward the window.

The city was waiting below.

Downtown Houston.

Or what remained of it.

From up here, the skyline looked like someone had taken the old city and dragged it through a century of weather, war, flooding, and neglect.

Buildings still stood.

Some leaned.

Some had missing sections.

Some had been swallowed by vines and whatever other vegetation had decided concrete was acceptable soil.

The streets below were scarred.

Cracked.

Buried.

There were places where sand had accumulated against buildings as though the city had been caught in a storm that never finished.

Other areas looked like water had once flowed where cars used to travel.

Bayou overflow.

Flooding.

Broken drainage systems.

Hurricane damage.

Years of weather piling one season on top of another.

The city hadn't simply been destroyed.

It had been reclaimed in pieces.

I turned away from the window.

That's when I noticed the table.

A newspaper sat beneath a layer of dust.

I picked it up.

The paper was brittle.

The headline immediately caught my attention.

RED MENACE OR MARTIAN INVADERS?
Houston Civil Defense Monitors Unidentified Craft Drifting Toward Austin
The Houston Chronicle — October 22, 2077

I stared at the date.

I read it again.

October.

My fingers tightened around the paper.

That was after I went under.

After the world I remembered had already become something else.

I read the article.

Unidentified craft.

Civil defense monitoring.

Speculation.

Fear.

Nobody knew exactly what they were seeing.

I set it down.

Another newspaper was underneath it.

Different headline.

Different warning.

The intelligence report described preparations for an imminent Chinese nuclear attack against the United States.

I stared at the words.

Imminent.

That's a word people use when they don't know how much time they have left.

I sat down.

And suddenly I wasn't in 2224 anymore.

I was back in 2076.

I remembered the food riots.

The energy shortages.

The anger.

People standing in lines.

People fighting over supplies.

Military units deployed to control unrest.

A state of emergency.

Then martial law.

The Resource Wars had already changed the country long before anyone admitted the country was changing.

And then there were the preppers. Everybody suddenly became an expert in survival.

People bought generators.

Water.

Weapons.

Canned food.

Seeds.

Fuel.

Whatever they believed might carry them through the end of the world.

Some people built bunkers.

Some people trusted the government.

Some trusted Vault-Tec.

Some trusted God.

Some trusted nobody.

Everybody thought they were preparing for something.

Nobody knew what the something would actually look like.

Then I remembered Hurricane Kendra.

The reports.

The warnings.

The projected path.

The preparations.

The feeling that something enormous was approaching and that everyone was trying to determine whether it would actually hit them.

I remembered watching people prepare for a storm while the country was already falling apart around them.

Back then, I thought we were preparing for a hurricane.

Now I understand.

We were preparing for the end of an era.

Maybe nobody knew it.

Maybe some people did.

I looked back down at the newspaper. It reported the future as though the future still belonged to somebody. That stayed with me. People were still writing headlines. Still printing photographs. Still making plans. Still arguing over tomorrow.

Then tomorrow arrived...

...and it belonged to no one.

I looked around the loft again.

The newspaper had survived.

The people hadn't.

Or at least...

there was no sign of them.

That bothered me.

There were photographs on the same table.

A family.

A mother.

A father.

Two children.

Smiling.

One picture showed them standing outside somewhere in Houston.

Another showed a birthday cake.

Another showed somebody holding a football.

Ordinary things.

The kind of things nobody thinks are important until they become the only evidence that somebody existed.

I picked one up.

There were no bodies.

No blood.

No obvious signs of violence.

No final note.

Nothing explaining where they went.

Just absence.

Abandonment.

And somehow that was worse.

Because death gives you an answer.

Abandonment leaves the question open.

Maybe they made it to a shelter.

Maybe they reached a Vault.

Maybe they joined a caravan.

Maybe they went somewhere north.

Maybe Northt.

Maybe they survived for years.

Maybe they didn't.

I don't know.

And I won't pretend that I do.

That's something the Wasteland is already teaching me.

Not every empty room contains a corpse.

Sometimes it contains an unfinished sentence.

A story that simply kept walking.

I put the photograph back down.

Then I noticed the smell again.

Tar.

Mold.

Old wood.

Dust.

Something sour beneath the floorboards.

Something damp behind the walls.

The smell of things I couldn't see.

That may be one of the strangest parts of this world.

You smell something before you understand it.

Radiation doesn't have a smell, but the places it has touched seem to develop their own language.

The air tells you things.

You just have to learn how to listen.

Outside, Houston had become something I barely recognized.

Sand from storms had accumulated in places where sidewalks once ran.

Floodwater had carried pieces of the bayous into streets that were never designed to hold them.

Highways were cracked and partially buried.

Vehicles sat where people had abandoned them.

Buildings remained because nobody had bothered to tear them down.

Downtown still had the shape of Houston.

But the city itself had become something else.

A corroded version of what I remembered.

I thought about the Houston I knew.

Busy streets.

Office buildings.

Traffic.

People everywhere.

Cities don't die all at once.

They become quieter versions of themselves...

until someone decides to listen again.

A city that felt like it was always moving toward something.

Now it stood almost still.

Almost.

Because there was movement.

A figure crossing the street.

Smoke rising somewhere beyond the buildings.

A caravan moving in the distance.

A bird landing on a broken sign.

Life.

Small.

Persistent.

Unconcerned with what Houston used to be.

I found myself wondering something.

If Vault 288 was beneath the Astrodome...what else is beneath Houston?

The George R. Brown Convention Center came to mind. 

Could there be a Vault underneath it?

Maybe.

The old Red Rockets Arena?

Where the basketball Team Played...

Could Vault-Tec have hidden another facility beneath the city?

Possibly.

Houston was never short on places to hide something underground.

But I'm not going looking.

Not today.

I have enough questions.

I don't need to manufacture more.

Besides...

I have somewhere to be.

East.

I folded the newspaper and left it on the table. I took one last look at the photographs. Then I shouldered my pack.The room was still disgusting.

The mold was still spreading.

The bugs were still entirely too large.

But for one night...

it did what I needed it to do.

It gave me somewhere to stop.

That's enough.

I stepped outside.

The air was heavy.

The city was quiet.

The road east waited.

I checked the Pip-Boy.

Then I looked toward the horizon.

Harrisburg Blvd.

That's where I'll start.

Not because I know exactly what I'm going to find.

Because I don't.

But I've learned enough to understand that I don't need certainty before I move.

I don't need certainty.

Certainty makes people stand still.

Direction makes them walk.

East.

That's enough.

Toward Pasadena.

Toward whatever remains.

Toward whatever comes next.

I gotta Leave this place.

But I won't pretend it means nothing.

I remember what it was.

I see what it became.

And now...

I'll find out what it can still become.

That's enough for today.

— Big Chief Mike Marcel

Focus Before Dawn

Date: 10.12.2224

Location: Red Rocket Truck Stop & Apartment Across the Street

Dinner came and went.

The laughter lingered a little longer than usual.

Maybe everyone understood the same thing.

The Brotherhood knew where we were now.

The Red Rocket was no longer hidden.

It had become a point on someone else's map.

---

Later that evening, I found Clancy and Lauren outside beneath the fading glow of the Red Rocket sign.

The night was quiet.

Too quiet.

I folded my arms.

"I don't know what you two have going on..."

They both looked at me.

"...and truthfully, that's your business."

A pause.

"But ours is changing."

"The Brotherhood has our location."

"They know who's here."

"They know we're organized."

"They'll be back."

I looked directly at Lauren.

"I know you've reached the point where you know this family cares about you."

"You belong here."

"You've earned that."

"But belonging also comes with responsibility."

"I'm not telling you how to live your life."

"I'm telling you to stay ready."

"If tomorrow turns ugly..."

"...I need both of you ready for war."

Lauren nodded quietly.

"I understand."

She looked toward Clancy before slowly excusing herself.

"I'll give you two a minute."

She disappeared inside.

Clancy leaned against the porch railing.

"C'mon, Chief..."

"Open up a little."

I smiled.

"My eyes are already open."

"They've been open since I woke up in Vault 288."

I stepped closer.

"But I need you focused."

"You've come too far."

"I've watched you change."

"I'm proud of that."

"So don't lose yourself now."

Clancy nodded.

"I won't."

"I'm just..."

"...enjoying the moment."

I laughed.

"Fair enough."

"But tomorrow..."

I pointed toward the darkness beyond the truck stop.

"...when I see you..."

"...it's game on."

He stood straighter.

"Yes, Chief."

---

The screen door opened.

Mabel stepped outside carrying an old pre-war camera.

"Oh, before y'all disappear..."

She smiled warmly.

"Let me get a picture."

Lauren stepped back beside Clancy.

They looked at one another.

Then toward the camera.

Click.

"One more."

Click.

"And another."

Click.

Mabel lowered the camera.

"Perfect."

She grinned.

"Thank you, lovebirds."

Pinball floated beside me.

"Chief..."

"I detect compassion deficiency."

I chuckled.

"I have compassion."

"I also have a mission."

Pinball processed that for a moment.

"...Acceptable response."

---

Clancy lingered.

"Chief..."

"Can I ask you something?"

"Shoot."

"Have you ever thought about..."

"...being a husband?"

"...having children?"

"...raising a family?"

For a brief second...

My thoughts weren't in Lafayette.

They weren't in Louisiana.

They weren't even in 2224.

They were back in Vault 288.

Back with Zee.

Her smile.

Her laugh.

Her hand reaching for mine.

I looked toward the stars.

"I have love out there."

"I know that."

"But right now..."

"...love can wait."

"My mission can't."

Clancy nodded slowly.

"I understand."

Then he smiled.

"I'm about thirty percent certain Lauren's going to disagree with that philosophy."

Pinball immediately chimed in.

"I am experiencing uncertainty."

"This is statistically unusual."

Clancy laughed.

"Figures don't always calculate, buddy."

I smiled.

"Good night, Lieutenant."

He saluted.

"Good night, Chief."

---

Lauren was waiting for him across the street.

The apartment was quiet.

Safe.

For the moment.

Clancy closed the door behind him.

Lauren smiled.

"I heard what you and Marcel talked about."

"He wants what's best for us."

"I know."

She sat beside him.

"I think he also knows this can't last forever."

Clancy nodded.

"Probably."

She took his hand.

"I won't pretend I don't wish for things this world probably can't give us."

"I've imagined a future."

"A home."

"A family."

She smiled sadly.

"Some dreams belong to another world."

"But that doesn't mean tonight isn't real."

Clancy gently squeezed her hand.

"No."

"It is."

They sat together in silence.

Neither trying to solve tomorrow.

Simply grateful for the peace they had today.

Eventually the lights went out.

Outside...

No gunfire.

No explosions.

No Vertibirds.

Just another Louisiana night settling over the swamp.

---

Morning arrived quietly.

Clancy woke before sunrise.

Breakfast was already cooking.

Mirelurk eggs.

Breakfast sausage.

Fresh coffee.

He placed everything neatly on the kitchen table.

Beside the plate rested a folded note.

Lauren,

I made breakfast.

Enjoy it.

I'll see you back at the Red Rocket.

— John

He quietly slipped out the front door.

A short while later...

Lauren wandered into the kitchen.

Still rubbing sleep from her eyes.

She noticed the plate first.

Then the note.

A smile slowly crossed her face.

She sat down.

Enjoyed every bite.

For just a few minutes...

The wasteland felt very far away.

After breakfast, she carried the dishes to the sink.

Then headed toward the bathroom.

A hot shower.

A deep breath.

One last quiet moment...

Before returning to the mission.

— The Big Chief Mike Marcel

What We Know About Clancy

======================================================================
                    UNITED STATES GOVERNMENT
          ENCLAVE EXECUTIVE CONTINUITY DIRECTORATE
======================================================================

                       PERSONNEL DOSSIER

CLASSIFICATION: TOP SECRET // PROTO-7 // EYES ONLY
FILE STATUS: ARCHIVED
SUBJECT STATUS: AWOL / PRESUMED DECEASED
CURRENT THREAT ASSESSMENT: VARIABLE
LAST VERIFIED LOCATION: TEXAS COMMONWEALTH (2217)
ACCESS LOG: RESTRICTED

----------------------------------------------------------------------
PERSONAL IDENTIFICATION
----------------------------------------------------------------------


NAME: Clancy, John Michael
DATE OF BIRTH: 11 APRIL 2188
PLACE OF BIRTH: Navarro Sector, New California Region
CITIZENSHIP: United States (Executive Continuity)
GENERATIONAL STATUS: Second Generation Enclave
SERVICE NUMBER: ENC-04-2213-TX
RANK: First Lieutenant
BRANCH: United States Armed Forces (Enclave Continuity Command)

SECURITY CLEARANCE:
EXECUTIVE RESTRICTED
Operational Compartments Authorized

Current Personnel Status:
UNACCOUNTED FOR

----------------------------------------------------------------------
EXECUTIVE SUMMARY
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Lt. John Clancy is a Continuity Program officer raised entirely within
Enclave-controlled society.

Subject possesses no firsthand memory of the pre-War United States.
His understanding of American civilization was acquired exclusively
through approved historical archives, military instruction, executive
briefings, and state educational programming.

Subject entered service displaying exceptional tactical aptitude,
leadership potential, and doctrinal loyalty.

Repeated operational deployments produced increasing divergence
between official expectations and observed behavior.

Subject currently represents an unresolved contradiction.

Operationally indispensable.

Ideologically unpredictable.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
BACKGROUND
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Following the Great War, Executive Continuity leadership determined that
the survival of the United States depended upon preserving its military,
scientific, and governmental leadership rather than the general civilian
population.

Children born under the Continuity Program were educated according to
foundational principles emphasizing:

 • Constitutional Preservation
 • Executive Continuity
 • American Exceptionalism
 • Anti-Communist Strategic Doctrine
 • Civil Defense
 • Military Discipline
 • Biological Security
 • Nuclear Recovery Operations
 • Government Secrecy
 • Extraterrestrial Threat Awareness

Instruction emphasized that the Enclave represented the lawful
continuation of the United States Government.

Official educational doctrine stated:

    "America did not fall.

     America endured."

Subject accepted institutional teachings without measurable resistance
through adolescence.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
EARLY DEVELOPMENT
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Behavioral observations indicate above-average intelligence beginning
during primary education.

Academic instructors consistently documented two recurring traits.

Exceptional retention.

Persistent questioning.

Instructor Evaluation:

"Memorizes procedures after one demonstration."

"Identifies weaknesses instructors failed to consider."

"Requires supervision despite consistently being correct."

Psychological Development:

Subject demonstrated unusually high curiosity regarding operational
assumptions.

This tendency remained within acceptable limits during academy training.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
MILITARY EDUCATION
----------------------------------------------------------------------

ENCLAVE OFFICER ACADEMY

Graduated:
Top Five Percent

Specializations:

 Tactical Leadership
 Small Unit Operations
 Mechanized Warfare
 Logistics
 Survival Operations
 Firearms Instruction
 Battlefield Communications
 Reconnaissance
 Aircraft Familiarization

Instructor Recommendation:

"Excellent command potential.

Limited political suitability."

----------------------------------------------------------------------
PERSONNEL EVALUATION
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Strengths

 • Adaptive leadership
 • Independent decision making
 • Mechanical aptitude
 • Tactical patience
 • High stress tolerance
 • Survival under degraded conditions
 • Strong memory retention
 • Mission improvisation

Observed Weaknesses

 • Direct interpersonal style
 • Limited diplomatic ability
 • Questions optimistic intelligence estimates
 • Increasing concern regarding civilian casualties
 • Demonstrates preference for practical outcomes over ceremonial
   protocol

Recommendation:

Continue observation.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
PSYCHOLOGICAL PROFILE
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Behavioral Sciences Division

Official Classification:

Operational Fatalism

Subject consistently predicts failure scenarios before mission
execution.

Examples include:

"Something was overlooked."

"The intelligence picture is incomplete."

"The weather will deteriorate."

"The extraction will be delayed."

"The generator probably won't start."

"I probably missed something."

Initial assessments interpreted this as pessimism.

Subsequent combat analysis determined the behavior significantly
improved survival rates.

Updated Classification:

Combat Experience.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
CONDITIONING
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Subject was raised under a rigid ideological framework emphasizing:

 • Human genetic purity
 • Executive authority
 • National supremacy
 • Institutional obedience
 • Controlled information
 • Threat categorization

Children were taught simplified distinctions between:

Citizen
Contaminant

Civilized
Mutated

American
Other

Recovered testimony indicates educational devices intended for childhood
learning were modified to reinforce institutional messaging.

Subject later remarked:

"They took things meant to teach kids to think...

and turned them into another brick in the wall."

----------------------------------------------------------------------
CLEARANCE HISTORY
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Subject possessed compartmentalized access beyond standard line
officers.

Authorized Briefings Included:

 Executive Continuity Infrastructure

 Black Budget Aerospace Programs

 Advanced Weapons Recovery

 Biological Containment Procedures

 Strategic Preservation Facilities

 Restricted Scientific Programs

 Limited Extraterrestrial Incident Documentation

Subject possessed operational knowledge only.

Policy formation remained compartmentalized above clearance level.

Behavioral Sciences Note:

"Exposure resulted in increasingly accurate questions."

----------------------------------------------------------------------
SELECTED OPERATIONS
----------------------------------------------------------------------

OPERATION LONG WATCH

Mission:

Secure regional communications facility.

Outcome:

Relay destroyed.

Enemy eliminated.

Friendly convoy lost.

Mission objectives technically completed.

Subject promoted.

------------------------------------------------

OPERATION WINTER MULE

Mission:

Escort twenty-two executive personnel.

Outcome:

Convoy destroyed.

Vertibird lost.

Eighteen personnel survived.

Subject returned on foot.

After Action Statement:

"Transportation became unavailable."

------------------------------------------------

OPERATION GLASS HORIZON

Mission:

Remain undetected.

Outcome:

Enemy headquarters destroyed following unexplained structural collapse.

Subject Statement:

"I left my wallet in El Segundo."

Investigation closed without conclusion.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
THE THUNE INCIDENT
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Aircraft

VB-241 Airship
"The Thune"

Mission Year

2213

Location

Texas Theater

Aircraft Status

Destroyed

Crew Status

Killed in Action

Lt. Clancy

Recovered Alive.

Again.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
INTERNAL REPUTATION
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Among enlisted personnel:

"If Clancy says something feels wrong...

start checking your equipment."

Among maintenance crews:

"If he inspects your Vertibird...

inspect it again."

Among officers:

"He doesn't create disasters.

Disasters seem to arrive where he's assigned."

Operational nickname recorded informally:

"The Clancy Effect."

Definition:

Repeated statistically improbable survival following catastrophic
mission degradation.

No scientific explanation available.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
IDEOLOGICAL OBSERVATIONS
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Initial field reports documented uncompromising adherence to Enclave
racial and biological doctrine.

Subject classified:

Ghouls

Super Mutants

Mutated populations

Non-Enclave wasteland inhabitants

...as contamination requiring containment or elimination.

Subsequent encounters outside Enclave command structure produced gradual
behavioral divergence.

Recent observations indicate subject now distinguishes between:

Threat

and

Identity.

Subject Statement:

"I still struggle with prejudice.

But I've got to adapt."

Assessment:

Conditioning remains present.

Certainty no longer does.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
CURRENT ASSESSMENT
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Lt. John Clancy was engineered to become an ideal officer of the
Executive Continuity Government.

Reality repeatedly exposed inconsistencies between doctrine and lived
experience.

Subject has not rejected his training.

Subject has begun questioning its conclusions.

This evolution increases operational flexibility.

It simultaneously decreases ideological reliability.

Risk Level:

MODERATE

Military Value:

EXCEPTIONAL

Political Reliability:

DECLINING

----------------------------------------------------------------------
FINAL OBSERVATION
----------------------------------------------------------------------

The Enclave teaches obedience.

Combat teaches adaptation.

Experience teaches judgment.

Lt. John Clancy learned all three.

Only the last one was not part of the curriculum.

----------------------------------------------------------------------
POSTSCRIPT
----------------------------------------------------------------------

Recovered field note attributed to Big Chief Mike Marcel:

"John spent his life believing a person's worth came from rank,
bloodline, clearance, and assignment.

The wasteland kept introducing him to people who had none of those
things...

and were still worth saving."

======================================================================
END OF FILE

PROPERTY OF THE EXECUTIVE CONTINUITY DIRECTORATE

UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS SUBJECT TO TREASON PROSECUTION

> TERMINAL SESSION CLOSED
> CONNECTION TERMINATED

Uninvited Company

Date: 10.11.2224

Location: Red Rocket Truck Stop — Lafayette Outskirts

Dinner preparations had barely begun when someone knocked.

Not pounding.

Not frantic.

Three measured knocks.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Every conversation stopped.

Silence settled over the Red Rocket.

Clancy's head turned first.

His instincts beat everyone else's.

His rifle was in his hands before the third knock faded.

I reached for the rifle Barley had entrusted to me.

Lauren quietly stepped away from the doorway, reading the room without a word.

Pinball's optic shifted from green to amber.

"Unknown visitor detected."

Outside came a calm, disciplined voice.

"Brotherhood of Steel. Requesting parley."

Nobody moved.

Clancy looked toward everyone.

"Stand guard."

His voice hardened.

"All ladies clear the room."

He pointed toward the hallway.

"That includes you, Lauren."

Lauren smiled.

"Yes, Lieutenant."

Without complaint, Lauren helped Mabel gather Marcy, Jean Jr., Mercy, and Chuck before ushering them toward the reinforced basement bunker.

Jean remained where he stood.

Watching.

Waiting.

Protecting.

I slowly opened the Red Rocket door.

Standing outside was a Brotherhood Knight in polished power armor.

Laser rifle secured.

Hands nowhere near his weapon.

Professional.

Disciplined.

His visor turned toward me.

"Greeting."

His posture never shifted.

"I am Knight Colby Voss, Brotherhood of Steel."

"My unit received reports from one of our Squires regarding electrical activity originating from this Red Rocket."

"We have confirmed habitation."

"We have also confirmed defensive capability."

A brief pause.

"I am here to establish diplomatic relations."

"If possible."

"We are prepared to negotiate trade."

"Food."

"Medical supplies."

"Ammunition."

"Technology."

"Whatever terms both parties find mutually beneficial."

Clancy raised his rifle another inch.

"Or..."

"You can leave."

Voss didn't even look toward him.

"I acknowledge your concern."

His eyes remained on me.

"I did not come here looking for conflict."

I answered.

"I'm afraid I can't make those decisions."

Voss tilted his helmet.

"No?"

"No."

"This Red Rocket doesn't belong to me, It belongs to the Dean family."

"If you'd like to discuss trade..."

I stepped aside slightly.

"...you'll need to speak with them."

A long silence followed.

Then Jean Dean slowly appeared in the doorway.

His weathered face met the visor of the armored Knight.

Voss studied him.

"So..."

"The Deans..."

"...are ghouls."

Before another word could leave his mouth...

Three voices answered together.

"YES."

Mine.

Jean's.

Clancy's.

The synchronization surprised everyone.

Even Pinball.

I folded my arms.

"So..."

"Still interested in trade?"

Voss nodded once.

"I would appreciate speaking directly with Mr. Dean."

Jean stepped fully into view.

His posture remained calm.

But his voice carried decades.

"Knight..."

"I have lived long enough to know that power armor usually arrives before bad news."

"I have watched soldiers promise protection before they burned homes."

"I have watched raiders smile before drawing weapons."

"I have watched governments disappear while ordinary people buried the dead."

He looked directly into Voss's visor.

"So forgive an old man if he struggles to welcome another armored visitor to his front porch."

A pause.

"My wife..."

"My children..."

"They are all I have left."

"If you've come to take me..."

"I'll walk willingly."

"But you leave them alone."

I stepped forward.

"That isn't happening."

"Not while I'm standing here."

Voss finally looked toward me.

"Understood."

Then back toward Jean.

"Mr. Dean..."

"I did not travel here to execute civilians."

"I traveled here to establish commerce."

"The Brotherhood requires sustainable food sources while operating within Lafayette."

"We are prepared to compensate accordingly."

Jean laughed once.

Not from humor.

From experience.

"You speak of commerce."

"I hear logistics."

"You speak of compensation."

"I hear leverage."

"You speak of sustainability."

"I hear dependence."

He slowly shook his head.

"No."

"No trade."

"Not today."

Voss remained composed.

"I respect your decision."

Then...

his tone became colder.

"I would encourage you to reconsider."

"The Brotherhood maintains long operational memories."

"Settlements that choose cooperation generally prosper."

"Those that choose isolation often discover their circumstances becoming considerably more difficult."

Jean's eyes narrowed.

"There it is."

"The sentence I was waiting for."

"The one dressed in diplomacy but carrying a loaded rifle."

He pointed toward the road.

"You say you're different from raiders."

"But when a man tells me life gets harder unless I cooperate..."

"I stop hearing the word Brotherhood."

"And I start hearing extortion."

Clancy took another step.

"I've heard enough."

Voss finally looked at him.

His visor lingered.

Seconds passed.

Then...

"...Lieutenant..."

Everyone froze.

"...John Clancy?"

The parking lot became silent.

Clancy swallowed.

"...Who are you?"

Voss's helmet tilted.

"I thought you were dead."

Nobody spoke.

I looked between them.

"What the hell?"

Voss ignored me.

"You disappeared."

"There were reports."

"No confirmed recovery."

"No body."

"No signal."

Clancy lowered his rifle only slightly.

"I'm not going anywhere."

Jean immediately stepped beside him.

"No, He isn't."

"Whatever history the two of you share..."

"It stays outside my home."

Voss slowly nodded.

"I understand."

His voice returned to military precision.

"My mission remains unchanged."

"Establish trade."

"If trade cannot be established..."

"I will report accordingly."

He turned.

Then stopped.

Without facing us...

"You should know something."

"The man standing beside you..."

"...has lived a dangerous life."

Jean answered immediately.

"I know."

"I've looked into his eyes."

"I've seen what survives behind them."

"That doesn't frighten me."

"What frightens me..."

"...are men who believe uniforms make them righteous."

Silence.

Voss nodded once.

"Very well."

He activated his jump pack.

Hydraulics hissed.

Jets ignited beneath his armor.

Dust exploded across the parking lot.

He landed atop the neighboring warehouse in one clean motion.

A waiting Vertibird immediately descended.

Its side door opened.

Voss stepped aboard without another word.

The aircraft lifted.

Banked over Lafayette.

Disappeared beyond the skyline.

Clancy looking at the sky.

Jean noticing.

"Old ghosts?"

Clancy:

"Something like that."

Jean:

"Ghosts are strange things."

"They only have power if you keep chasing them."

The Red Rocket door closed.

Everyone exhaled together.

---

The bunker door opened.

Mabel emerged first.

The children followed.

Lauren.

Chuck.

Finally Pinball.

Jean looked around the room.

"Well..."

"I believe dinner is still on schedule."

Then he looked toward me.

"Chief..."

"Thank you."

Clancy sat heavily in a chair.

"I hate those bastards."

Chuck looked over.

"That Knight knew you."

Clancy stared at the floor.

"I'm..."

"...not completely sure how."

Pinball's optic brightened.

"Correction."

"I am approximately thirty percent certain he knew you."

Everyone looked at Clancy.

I couldn't help myself.

I laughed.

"He got you."

Even Clancy cracked a reluctant smile.

"Yeah... He got me."

Jean leaned against the counter.

"The next time armored visitors decide to call..."

"We'll be ready."

"They're disciplined, So must we be."

"They have numbers."

"We have each other."

"And I've survived too many storms to surrender my home because someone arrived wearing steel."

Mabel called from the kitchen.

"Dinner!"

Jean smiled.

"Well..."

"What's on the menu?"

Mabel laughed.

"Lauren recommended frog legs."

"...with macaroni and cheese."

Clancy looked toward Lauren.

"Feeling froggy?"

Lauren grinned.

"For you..."

"Always."

Everyone laughed.

I rubbed my forehead.

"I had an entire mission briefing planned."

I looked around the room.

Then at the bubbling pot.

Then at everyone smiling.

"...I suppose tomorrow will do."

Sometimes leadership meant strategy.

Sometimes...

...it meant letting people enjoy dinner while they still could.

— The Big Chief Mike Marcel