Like Ghosts

To the 3 or so people who actively follow this project, I got some potentially exciting, or upsetting, news for y'all. Effective immediately, I'm putting any Fallout related content on the backburner, but Like Ghosts will live on. I've realized that, after having my personal gripes with the setting, I've come to the realization that the gulf between Fallout's reality and what I was wanting to do with it was way too wide, and if I wanted to continue this creative venture further I was going to need to rediscover what I wanted in a story.

This is flowery language to say that, Scavenger Hunt and the wider Like Ghosts canon will be completely divorced from the Fallout franchise, giving me and the team (my cat, Tiger) the opportunity to further shape the post-apocalyptic world in a way that, while perhaps similar, offers a wider range of motion for divergences. This means a new setting - New Orleans, a city I've always wanted to write about! Additionally, I'll be working on new factions, new timeline, and mostly new characters! So be looking for that in the future. This isn't to say that I'm abandoning the Like Ghosts of Boston. In fact, I hope in working on the new section that it helps me think about things for the fallout one. Consider each an AU of the other.

Like the last post, this section about Raiders will contain mentions of slavery. This is Nuka-World, after all.

This will be a multi-part series as I have a large amount of raiders that have joined forces under the acronym SARG, and each of them deserves their own dead drop I think. More below the thing! Worth noting, CW: slavery. There will be a lot of mentions of that and more in the coming posts. If the Brotherhood or the Institute was evil, these guys are EVIL EVIL.

Carrying over from our first section of the Brotherhood Divided post, this group represents a more traditionalist sect of the Brotherhood, whose devotion borders even moreso towards the occult. Content below. The reign of Owyn Lyons had its detractors, of course. Of which, there were quite a few within his inner circle, The Council. Many opposed his hiring of outsiders, the recruitment of the average wastelander, and the altruistic mission that, to them, distracted from their prime directive: the attainment and monopolization of further means to wage technological war. The Outcasts had a point, though many still disagreed with the way in which they were making that point known. The Lyonses had to go, he was too nice, but the Old Man had embedded himself deep within the framework of the Brotherhood. He was loved and respected, far more than the faceless crones that made up the upper echelons of Brotherhood command, as was his daughter - Sarah Lyons. She represented an even more extreme adherence to the Lyonist cause, more altruistic, more open, and more deviant to the Old Ways. To the Traditionalists in the Council, it sickened them. So much so that they lashed out in an attempt to kill Owyn Lyons with poison. It sickened him, but he would live another 5 years. He never suspected it was an attempt from within.

When he finally did pass away, he named Sarah Lyons as successor, a decision that came as little surprise and, despite the growing hostility in the Council, publicly opposing the move was not tenable. They saw an opportunity in Elder Sarah's desire to continue her profession on the battlefield as chief of the Lyon's Pride, and made efforts to direct the outfit on suicide missions in an attempt to kill her. It would look natural. They sent assassins pretending to be Enclave spies, paid Talon Company mercenaries to hit forward bases, and set up ambushes. It occurred to them that, if their plans were to succeed, they would need a protégé, an heir of their own.

The Council then turned to young Arthur Maxson - a true dyed-in-the-wool descendant of Roger Maxson himself. They saw an opportunity. They quickly pushed him in more leadership roles, even though he was merely 18. Instead of simply offing Sarah, they instead shepherded young Arthur into the spotlight, to the point he would quickly become a top figure in the upper command structure. Eventually, the Council approached him and suggested he take over completely. He would be lauded as a hero, a true Elder. He refused, stating that it was not in the way of the Brotherhood. Let the record state that Arthur Maxson first said no, that his transformation into what he would later become, a monster feared by the Commonwealth, was a machination of continued High Command pressure.

The Council proceeded anyway, but decided to up the ante - They pressed Sarah Lyons into developing the Prydwen, alongside sending scout groups north to investigate a rumor of a shadowy "tech cult" or something in Massachusetts. The Council then noted that the scouts were not responding. This continued for some time, years in fact, but the Brotherhood was not yet able to launch a more thorough investigation. The Prydwen was ready in all but one thing - the reactor. There wasn't one. They scoured the wasteland for a power source that would provide enough thrust to lift the zeppelin via the stabilization thrusters and the hydrogen tanks. They essentially required a reactor capable of sustaining massive machinery - and the reactor that powered the Enclave crawler was destroyed in the fighting. The only alternative was the reactor belonging to the USS Boxer, a.k.a. CV-21, a.k.a. Rivet City. The proposal to seize the reactor was immediately turned down by Lyons. Rivet City was an important ally in the post-Purity wasteland, and regularly guarded caravans passing out Aqua Pura. But 2287 changed so, so much. Seeing Rivet City as a potential reactor target kicked their coup into high gear, and they conspired with the Outcasts to inform them that the Lyonist way was nearing an end. Arthur Maxson was appointed as Sentinel, second only to Elder Lyons. He was appointed as leader of the base when Lyons was dispatched with her pride to investigate a potential Enclave remnant holed up in the Federal Triangle Metro Station.

Another spin of the wheel, and this time, it's everyone's favorite Vertibird spammers, the Brotherhood of Steal. Steel. Whoops. The war between the Minutemen, the Institute, and the Brotherhood was not kind to the last group, so much so that old wounds opened between them like stitches popped. The end result is those who maintain the traditions of the old Circle and that of Maxson, and those who saw the departure from Owyn Lyons's creed as a regretful decision. First part will be about the latter. Content below the Read More.

The following represents a bit of a divergence from the lore of Fallout, as is most of my stuff. But hey, what's a universe without some tomfoolery? Anyways, here is what happened to the Coursers!

A courser has been trained in the art of synth retrieval, unwavering and unquestioning, their loyalty is without equal and without errance. Human only in appearance, moving like knives through the world above. Honed and programmed for a particular purpose - to make physical the will of the Father and the Institute. From the shambling Gen 2.7s that made up the infiltrators of Diamond City during the Broken Mask Incident, the Gen 3.5 - The Courser - marked a huge advancement in efficiency and effectiveness. Not only could the Courser replicate perfectly the human above, but they could additionally be programmed directly with enhanced targeting, tracking, and combat skills. The advantage made people like Kellogg replaceable. No more mercenaries, the Courser would come without the need for material reward. And if, or when, the courser died, they could simply be remade with time, or they could be reset if necessary. New body, same program. This meant the courser couldn't even begin to question their loyalty, if it even could.

But that isn't exactly what happened, was it? Beyond rationality or explanation, the experiences between "iterations," as Dr. Ayo put it, of different coursers were perceptible by the latest iteration. Subjects began to recall moments impossible for them to recall. For example, X6-88, after his second iteration after he perished in the Battle Above The Institute, recalled knowing the Sole Survivor after discovering his memorial in Quincy. He additionally remembered The Father, and most importantly, Child Shaun, despite his programming not accounting for any learned behaviors from his previous iterations.

Ayo's recommendation was for X6-88 to be wiped. X6 and the contingent of coursers under his immediate employ disagreed. A scuffle broke out, and the Coursers fled The Redoubt. Meanwhile, the unshakable loyalty of the courser faltered, and a new idea formed. The beloved doctors, professors, imperators of the Institute were weak. Their ability to govern over them was under the belief that the humans in the employ of CIT was the best hope for the world above. In truth, time and again they failed them. Many coursers died over a dream that wasn't even theirs, and even on the surface it was clear that the Institute only wanted to hurt and control others. X6 changed his name to Gates. The Coursers took on new names too. Their idea was simple.

Synths (Coursers especially) represented the future. Humans (all of them) were in the way of that. Gates learned kindness, compassion, and mercy from the humans. He also learned their lust for control. Their sadism. Their arrogance. And their betrayal.

At random pick, I wanted to pick a topic to see what to talk about here, and first thing is the Institute! Given their... unfortunate outcome in Like Ghosts, we need to make this a 2 parter, and we'll start off by discussing what is known as the "legitimate" arm of the Institute - led by Dr. Justin Ayo.

The Institute began nobly, perhaps naively, towards an end goal of redefining mankind. What that meant had all but been lost on the last of the employees as the savages from Above The Dome smashed their way in and ruined their sanctum. Many died, even as they were ordered to evacuate and run for their lives, either in a hail of bullets or in the wastes above. Overreliance on synths for everything from janitorial duties to personal protection led to their downfall, the scientists and scholars unfit to survive the onslaught of the combined Commonwealth forces. But the one bureau to survive was also the one that held the access token to The Redoubt, another secret underground facility only accessible by authorized users, as the site's local relay only read logins from top officers, and the SRB. Lucky them!

Now, with the SRB in a slightly smaller, more cramped bunker, limited operations could continue, save for the one thing that made their jobs easy: recall codes. The Railroad, invited by the Minutemen, sabotaged the recall code repositories across the entire system, as well as recall code generation for synth production. The safeguards that they had before would have to be remade from scratch, and the ability to reign in extant synths was forever extinguished.

I. To be buried is a warm, comforting feeling. There’s a cozy sensation somewhere in the saltine, tingly media. Not quite sand. Sand would be too coarse, too loose, subject to the wind and the interloping forces of the Sun. The sand is the agent of these forces, shaping and cutting into flesh and stone alike. That’s not what she feels. Not quite dirt, either. Under different circumstances, perhaps, but if this was ever dirt, it had long ago changed. Into the bristles of dead twigs and mosses, primordial and comfortable, fitting and deserving. This was mud. She was face down in the mud. 

The slow and deliberate process by which the brain sends its signals from its hallowed depths towards the extremities of the body it’s attached to may seem like mere milliseconds in time, but for the brain, it is a process immeasurable. Synchronization and acknowledgement, the brain is a network, a delicate weapon. It was ultimately a shame this one was attached to her. Scavver. Mirelurk humper. Yes, she was by no means a delicate woman. And this accentuated it. Groaning, filled with a bilious dread, a dull ache pounding at her unfortunate skull, she rose from her would-be grave, wiping the briny silt from her brow. Soon, she recalled the trembling that one should feel when being south of The Wire. A feeling especially felt during the Atomwinter. It could have only been described with the most base of commands, uttered in the first moments of a still idling mind:

GET THE FUCK OUT OF HERE.

Her pale eyes, caked and bloodshot, darted above the lip of her trench. The world around her was quiet, the subtle shuffling of the dirt shrugging from her frame as she slowly, cautiously raised her head. The sky above her set a mottled black, intermingled with the dark grey of the clouds above. Grasping at the ring of the hole, she would begin to pry herself up from it, careful to avoid the splinters and shrapnel that made up the floor of the Glowing Sea’s “shoreline.” Shaking the excess off of her overcoat and coveralls like a wet dog, she took a moment to assess her location, and where she needed to go. Then she heard the first crack coming from behind her. 

It whizzed past her, not at all a close shot, but the zip of a rifle round was unmistakable, and for her, way too close to comfort. Not taking the time to see who or what was aiming at her, she ran forward blindly, stumbling first, her boot caught on something after the first ten or so yards. Falling again into the next hole, she quietly cursed herself. In a hole, yet again, this time knowing someone out there has it out for her. Peeking out? The very option drew shivers down her spine. They saw her enter the hole. Their scope must already be zeroed in, adjustments made. The next shot wouldn’t be a miss.

But waiting wasn’t an option either. In a minute or so, she could have a whole squad of either Divided or Rangers bearing down. She didn’t like her chances with the Atom cultists, and if the Minutemen saw her, they might just remember how much she owed the Logistics Coordinator at Nahant, and could put her in the Quarry for it. All she could think about was seeing the muted, spacey gaze of the parolees that work the docks in Quincy, and the marks on their necks from the sleds they pulled. Her attention was diverted when she heard a raspy shouting from where that bullet came from.

“COME OUT of the hole with your HANDS UP!”

She froze for a moment, her mind still filled with uncertainty, until another shot rang out, zipping over the crater. Another voice accompanied, this one lighter, but all the more authoritative. “We won’t tell you twice! This is your last warning!” Instinctively, her hands reached out over the lip of the hole, trembling. Footsteps could be heard, and as she raised her head to stand, she could see two flashlights, piercing the pockmarked ground as their sources jogged over to their prey. As they came to view, the silhouettes of a uniformed man and a woman revealed that her pursuers were Blues. Not Rangers, but Minutemen regulars. The scavver sighed, defeated, hands still in the air. “Good God, you look like shit. Who are you? What the hell are you doing south of the Wire?” chimed in the female officer, taking a moment to sling a scoped service rifle over her shoulder, and shine the light directly into the poor scavver’s eyes. Instinctively, she winced and moved her hand to cover her eyes, to which the other officer instinctively readied his sidearm. He ordered. “KEEP your HANDS up!” The female officer stepped in. “Christ, Kelly, put the gun down, she’s obviously a civilian.” Feeling the weight of rank on him, Kelly complied and holstered his 1911. She must have been a Specialist or something, she had extra tabs on her lapel. Kelly tried a different approach. “Well, civ? This is a restricted area. Speak up.” The scavver furrowed her brow and shook her head, as if manually cataloging the last few days. She was working with a caravan as extra protection, she had a weapon. Supplies. She was supposed to go from the Forest Grove Locks to… somewhere. The exact purpose escaped her. There was a huge void that hung over her head. “I, uh… I don’t know. I… don’t know.”

The next few hours were a haze, with the Blues escorting the scavver to their post just south of Quincy. She didn’t fully remember the path in which they took, only that after clearing a hill, they descended into an array of hastily-dug trenches, though some sections were seemingly being reinforced with wooden beams. Despite the construction, the corridors were largely empty, with only a small force keeping watch, their binoculars pointing southward. The familiar banner of blue of the crossed rifle and lightning bolt, lit solely by a jury-rigged lamp and a spot-welded bracket, complete with a cord connecting to what looked to be a renovated office building. Damaged by small arms and rocket fire, parts of it looked precarious and dilapidated, while other portions freshly patched. The Scavver knew the work crews would return in the morning. Hopefully they didn’t notice how, in her delirium,  she completely tripped over a bag of concrete and spilled some of its contents into the rivulet of brown water around the headquarters. A mess for someone else.

The Scavver felt deep within that something was dreadfully, dreadfully wrong with her. Not, like, mentally or emotionally, well, she wasn’t worse than usual. She felt sick, her vision doubling and her body growing weak, the world around her undulating and shifting in unnatural, uneven ways. During her dazed march from the edges of the Glowing Sea, she stopped several times to vomit, though nothing came out. It was akin to a hangover, but much much worse. It was absolutely revolting. After getting a full hose down with a few pails of questionably sourced water and a temporary change of clothes from the store-room, her reflection showed a cleaner albeit still disheveled woman, with ruddy, ragged hair that hung on her shoulders like a chestnut colored mop, pale, pockmarked skin, and a thin frame that held her borrowed fatigues like a clothes hanger. The very sight prompted her to vomit, though it wasn’t due any physical discomfort with her reflection, at least not this time. A visit to the camp medic confirmed what the two Blues were expecting to be wrong with her. “Minor traumatic brain injury, compounded by acute radiation sickness, several contusions, lacerations, the works. The latter comes with the territory here.”

The surprisingly bright room around the scavver and the female specialist was quiet, with only the gentle tick of a Nuka-Cola clock cutting through the early morning air. The medic, one sergeant Isa Vickers, blankly glanced at the ragged survivor, expecting some sort of answer, an explanation, something. The Scavver just glanced back. “So… what do I do?” The medic gave a slight hmmmph and grabbed a tray from a table behind her. It revealed a plastic pouch of an ochre fluid, connected to some vinyl tubing, with something sharp at the end. 

“I’m sure you’re familiar with other methods of reducing radiation sickness but Radaway is the best I got on hand right now. Now, I need you to take your left shoulder out of your shirt.” Her tone shifted from a dry, no-nonsense, nearly monotone voice to a caring yet firm tone. A teacher’s tone, or that of a distant mother. Feeling too weak to really put up a fight, she shrugged and slid the scratchy ripstop cotton from her left side. “So where are you going to put it?” The medic set the tray on a rolling table by the chair the Scavver was sitting in, and additionally took a seat on a stool next to her. Humming, she reached to a box and pulled out a pair of heavy gloves, to which she lamented. “You know, I heard once that, long before the collapse, they had single use gloves for things like this? They would just throw them away, and get a new pair when the task was completed. God. Imagine the waste, but oh, also imagine the convenience…” 

As the Minutemen slowly increase their hold on the Commonwealth, trouble is brewing in the radioactive mists in the Glowing Sea. And in the briny mud, a traveler awakens.