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Post by GuardsGhost on Jan 22, 2014 1:13:58 GMT -5
((Please ask Harry or myself in chat before joining this))
2 Months prior to the events of Rad Apple....
Captain Michael Fitzpatrick walked through the streets of his hometown, greatcoat pulled around him over his standard issue officers uniform. It was a cool day on the Island, and as such he had dressed appropriately, choosing the heavy brown greatcoat that all Guards officers were issued. On his head he had pulled down his officers cap to fit snugly against his head, well polished boots clacking against the stone and gravel on his way to his workplace. In a holster at his hip rested a Nine Millimeter pistol, one he only drew these days on the range. Though the Captain was only in his late twenties, he appeared to be in his mid thirties, perhaps even early forties. It was to be expected though that a hero would look as if he had paid the price for such a title, and rank. Particularly a Captain.
And paid it he had, in full. He had spent almost his entire adult life in service against the natives and bandits who plagued this fair land. Enemies of progress, freedom, civilization, democracy, and the American Dream. "Heh...that's a good one for the radio talk..." The man murmured to himself, grinning as he stepped up to the door to his 'office', pulling the thick red metal door open.
Immediately, conversation hushed inside as the Captain arrived. Men slid up from their chairs and saluted, all wearing the well pressed khaki shirt, green trousers, black boots, and olive green tie of Guards non-combatants. One of said men still had his pencil and clipboard in hand. Corporal McCormick spoke up first, "Sir, it's good to have you with us for the special test of our long range broadcast. Do ye think this will be the one that lets us link up with command?"
Captain Fitzpatrick returned the salutes, and began to pull off his coat and hat, handing it to another Guard nearby. He took this time to contemplate how best to respond to McCormick, eventually settling for a rather typical, not too vague but not too certain response. "It may just do that today Corporal. There's only one way to find out, and I believe that's why I was called in today."
The men grinned at eachother, the air of excitement felt by every man. Michael couldn't help but feel a bit anxious himself as he sat down in his chair, and watched the equipment light up. He pulled the microphone over, many thoughts racing through his head at the same time.
What if the equipment fails- What if I stutter during the broadcast - What if what if what if With supreme effort, the Captain shut all these thoughts away and locked them up. He had a job to do, and by God was he going to do it. He didn't frankly care if they made contact with high command or not. He just wanted to make sure the boys on the front with a ham radio new they were remembered. With this thought in mind, combined with thoughts of his own experience on the front, he took a deep breath and began to prepare himself for speaking. Before his speech, the usual song that the Guards played began playing for every Guards tuned in to their one and only channel. With the new equipment, perhaps some others would get an interesting surprise as an old, pre-war channel flickered back to life.
"Johnny, get your gun,
Get your gun, get your gun,
Take in on the run, on the run.
Hear them calling, you and me,
Every son of Liberty!
Hurry right away,
No delay, go today,
Make your daddy glad to have had such a lad.
Tell your sweetheart not to pine, to be proud her boys in line!
Over there! Over there!
Send the word, send the word over there-!
That the Yanks are coming,
The Yanks are coming,
The Drums tum tummed
Everywhere!"
The song ended, and anyone else listening would get an even new surprise. A mans voice came after the old music.
Michael Fitzpatrick began to speak, slowly at first. "That was 'Johnny Grab Your Gun' boys, a favorite of all of ours. It describes what we have to do perfectly. I'd like to talk to you all about duty today. What -is- duty? I'll tell you Guards, duty is what compels us to fight each day and night without a single word from command. We hold the line, every day against insurmountable odds. The tribals and ghouls come at us, we still hold the line. We are doing our -duty- by following orders. Each and everyone of you has a sworn duty to kill anything that -dares- to threaten our way of life! We are The Guards, but what does that name entail friends, comrades, brothers? It tells the world that we -are- the Guards. We are the last Guards of the Old Way on Long Island, or as many call it these days, 'the Irradiated Forks'. We are the Guardians of the American Way of Life, and the Island itself." He sucked in his breath, and then spoke again.
"Remember that lads. Now, time for our daily broadcast-" His tone switched from the fervent patriotic tone to a typical military man requesting for orders. "Alert, alert. This is the US Army, 69th New York Regiment. We are requesting further orders and confirmation of status of outside world. I repeat. This is the US Army, 69th New York Regiment. We are requesting further orders and confirmation of status of outside world. We are still holding our ground on Long Island. I repeat, requesting further orders and confirmation of status of outside world.....is there -anyone- out there?"
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Post by Deleted on Jan 22, 2014 6:11:56 GMT -5
78th Precinct, District One - Brooklyn. Friday the 24th of January, 2281. Start spreadin' the news
I'm leavin' today
I want to be a part of it
New York, New York,
These vagabond shoes
Are longing to stray
Right through the very heart of it
heart of it
heart of it
heart of it
heart of it
heart of i...Chief De Santa flicked the radio's dial irritably. "Fuckin' things skippin' again." he muttered to himself. The music hissed and spiked, soon replaced by the familiar song of static. White noise on the radio - the loneliest sound in the world, the Chief had always thought. But all that loneliness was not enough to drown out the laughs and jeers of those dumbasses down the hall. The NYF had recently taken on a number of rookies - tribal types from the jungles of Central Park - who were far too close to graduation for the chief's liking, especially as some of them still preferred a spear to a 10mm. Things were tough in the Rad Apple. De Santa had no doubt that within in a week of screaming ferals, fucked up raiders and warring Super Mutants, these tough guys would be screaming for mommy just like the last batch. But for now, they were just happy to be wearing armour that wasn't made from tin cans. That's all well and good, but it didn't mean De Santa had to hear about it. He turned the radio up, and the sound of static filled the office. De Santa opened his desk and pulled out a bottle of Rotgut, confiscated from a perp in Smiley Town. When you absolutely positively have to get so hammered you lose depth perception, accept no substitutes. De Santa grinned broadly, pulling off the cap with his teeth and spitting it out. He took a long sip of the liquor before pulling out another object from the draw that had been resting under the bottle - a "Cat's Paw Magazine." An old pre-war Canadian publication, the magazine's front cover featured a classy silhouette of an elegant pussy cat, along with the words "Made in Canada" and "laminated for your pleasure." De Santa chuckled to himself as he opened the magazine, and allowed his hand to slip down to his waist. This was going to be a good shift... "Alert, alert. This is the US Army, 69th New York Regiment. We are requesting further orders and confirmation of status of outside world. I repeat. This is the US Army, 69th New York Regiment. We are requesting further orders and confirmation of status of outside world. We are still holding our ground on Long Island. I repeat, requesting further orders and confirmation of status of outside world.....is there -anyone- out there?"De Santa cried "oh fuck" and a mouthful of rotgut sprayed all over the desk like fertiliser. He manically turned the radio's dial to DS1 (District One Radio) and listened eagerly for updates." "Hello? Hello? Is anyone out there? Oh my God! They're here! Please send someone... we're all alone out here, it's... no. Oh Christ PLEASE No! Not her! She's just a child. SHE'S JUST A...." .... .... .... "Just funnin' New York. This is Lady Liberty on DS1, from Brooklyn to the Bronx, and that was "Bad Taste Friday! Stay tuned for the latest travel updates, but first... a song."DS1 resumed its regular broadcast of New York themed long dead songs. De Santa turned it off, and scrambled for the door, not thinking to shut it behind him or even tidy his desk. -------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- GALAXY NEWS NY - GNR-NY Building, District One
De Santa took the bus to the GNR-NY. The robotic driver tipped his metal as the Chief flew off the bus. The GHR-NY Building was old and crumbling. A giant carrying a colossal globe on its back was carved into the concrete, with "DS1" crudely carved into the globe with a laser rifle. The Chief made his way into the studio. A handful of technicians busied about the studio tinkering with things, followed by rather impatient looking Mister Handies. Inside the booth was Lady Liberty herself, perhaps the most famous Mister Handy in all New York (although her listeners didn't know about her robotic status. And there, sure enough, at the soundboard, was the girl who pulled Lady Liberty's strings and hardly De Santa's favourite person - Betsy Troy, teenage prodigy and Broadcaster for the NYF. 
Betsy Troy, creator of NYF's radio transmitter, gets to work
All of sixteen years old, Betsy had been broadcasting illegally since she was twelve. Apparently her dad had been some kind of tech whiz. Berthold and the rest of the NYF's tech division eventually found her and gave her a choice - work for them, or work for Umbrage and Hinderman. Anyone who knew anything about New York's infamous "human resources" company knew that wasn't ever an option you wanted. So she became the NYF's broadcaster. Lady Liberty was her idea. And now she sat at her desk, listening through earphones with the passion of a child trying to listen to the sea in a shell. Betsy had faced a lot of challenges in her short life. But judging by her expression, this was something else. "You heard it?" De Santa asked. Betsy didn't answer. She merely made the shush sign and listened for more. This only served to worsen De Santa's mood. Betsy rarely spoke - some kinda teen angst shit, De Santa thought - and prepared just to do her work without a word, where possible. Today that might not be possible however, as she was currently searching through a dusty book of police-approved radio jargon. The words of the unknown broadcaster were repeated amongst the static. "Is there -anyone- out there?" Betsy searched for the appropriate radio phrase. With a gasp of triumph, she held the book up to the glowing console and began to read. "Roger that, unknown friendly," she said tentatively. "We got a 13:6 fat vulture over here. Need to acquire a drowning baby. Ten fifteen and break your heart. over."De Santa snorted. He was sure the girl had either got the phrase wrong, or taken it out of context. It sounded like gibberish to him. The Chief snatched the radio's mic and went for the direct approach.
"This is Chief De Santa of New York's Finest Police Department. Who the fuck are you people? What the fuck is this shit?" |
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Post by GuardsGhost on Jan 22, 2014 13:32:32 GMT -5
Captain Michael Fitzpatricks eyes went wide as, unexpectedly, a voice answered. He turned to the radio techs in the room who were all staring at him with wide eyes that equaled his own, jaws hanging open. Michael motioned for them to cut the broadcast, hissing at them away from his mic. "Cut the broadcast, we need to identify who this is before we do anything. McCormick, go to the Lieutenant Colonel and inform him of what just occurred. He needs to know, -now-." He then turned back to the radio, blinking as the person on the other end said;
"Roger that, unknown friendly," she said tentatively. "We got a 13:6 fat vulture over here. Need to acquire a drowning baby. Ten fifteen and break your heart. over."
"Er..be advised unknown friendly, that code hasn't been used in years. Advise updating your logs to current standar-" And then suddenly, another voice came on. This one rough, angry, and rather annoying sounding. A typical police chief who got interrupted from his morning whiskey break by the sounds of it.Michael mused to himself in his head, slightly amused, slightly horrified by the mans breach of all protocol and codes of respect when dealing with allied forces. If they -were- allied. Fitzpatrick decided he'd return in kind.
"We're the US Fucking army, Police Chief. So watch your god damn mouth would you? Be advised, I will shove a polished boot so far up your ass that you won't be able to talk trash for a year. You'll be puking it out. Then again, I suppose that's normal for you. The standards for police chiefs have dropped I suppose, please put the girl back on the radio, at least she knew a proper code. Outdated or not. Or, answer these questions. What's your status? We need to know, quickly. We don't know how you found this signal, but we don't care. You called yourself a member of 'New Yorks Finest'? How's the City?" These last questions came out in an excited burst of speech.
The radio techs were all clapping eachother on the back, and listening intently for the response from the other end. There was not a sound, all was silent.
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Post by Deleted on Jan 22, 2014 15:09:51 GMT -5
A single, silent "wow" escaped the lips of Betsy Troy, as she hovered on the edge of he seat raptured by the voice on the other side. This was first contact. The first technologically sophisticated settlement ever documented. Better still, he'd just burned De Santa. Although the phrase "US Army" sent a cold chill into Betsy's blood. Even a little of the NYF Officers lingering in the hallway looked uncomfortable. There were rumors about what dwelt on Staten Island. For many in the Rad Apple, "US Army" was another word for "Enclave." Then again, so was "Bogey man."
The guards and Betsy may have been rapt. De Santa however was less so. His face a cocktail of dread, confusion and anger, the Chief clutched the mic in his quivering hand.
"You little fuck!" In the years to come, these first words between the two civilisation were thankfully omitted from the documented history of PRONY. "US Army my ass! You sound like some squeaky voiced tribal teen huffing buffout whilst fuckin’ around with a radio transmitter! “I’ll turn you inside out and gut the fuck outta ya, just so I can wear you on my dick the next time I visit your wife!”
Betsy sprang out of her seat, keen to wrestle the mic from De Santa's hands just as she would be to wrestle a gun from the hands of a drunk.
"How's the city? The city’s great. Just fuckin’ peachy. Next week we’re having an asshole pride parade.You should come on down! Enough with the small talk. How did you get on this frequency? Where's you transmitter, you...”
But Betsy managed to wrestle the mic from De Santa's grip. Calming down, De Santa flew out of the office. "Where's the phone in this bitch?" roared De Santa. "I gotta make a call."
A guard wordlessly pointed down the hall. Everybody knew who De Santa would call. In the Rad Apple, there were only two people with a working phone. The Chief was one of them.
The Officers were eavesdropping, and their attention was divided between Betsy and the Guard, and De Santa.
"Sir we have a situation", muttered De Santa, as he recounted the events of the last two minutes down the line. "Uh-huh. What? Sir I don't think that's wise...your Worship... talk? how can you ta...seriously? Those rusty-ass scrap piles?...but...ok...ok I'm coming down! Okay!"
And with that De Santa stormed out of the GNR Building, desperate to the first bus to 78th Precinct Subway. Meanwhile, Betty picked up the mic and spoke tentatively down the line.
“Erm… scratch that, US Army. We got a skinny dingo in the chicken coop over here. Looks to be settling down now. Over.”
She was uncomfortable with radio talk. She turned round to the Officers, who all gave her thumbs up of encouragement. Her eyes drifted to Lady Liberty - her creation - who was perfectly motionless in the booth, waiting for orders for this unique situation.
Betsy cleared her throat.
“US Army, you should be advised that you’re lived on District One radio right now?" She paused. "From Brooklyn to the Bronx?” She added lamely. "Would it be possible to speak to...like...your leader?" She'd got that from an old holodisk movie. Betsy cringed, and hoped the Guard hadn't seen the same flick. "Our listeners would like assurance that you're not Enclave or...or..." she laughed to herself. "some squeaky voiced tribal teen huffing buffout whilst fuckin’ around with a radio transmitter, as our chief put it." Betsy gave a giant sigh of relief, before remembering something. "Uh...over"
She and the entire office - now packed with NYF - waited breathlessly for the response.
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Post by Ambassador SteelPlate on Jan 22, 2014 15:45:34 GMT -5
(Howdy, Howdy! Any room in this RP for Isaac Berthold, Chief Assistant Daniel Blymire, Lorraine Chambers, The Bus Driver, and The Do-Gooders?)  |
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Post by Deleted on Jan 22, 2014 16:18:44 GMT -5
(Oh my yes! Welcome aboard! Posting is GG, Harry, Steel)
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Post by GuardsGhost on Jan 22, 2014 17:08:17 GMT -5
"You little fuck! US Army my ass! You sound like some squeaky voiced tribal teen huffing buffout whilst fuckin’ around with a radio transmitter! I’ll turn you inside out and gut the fuck outta ya, just so I can wear you on my dick the next time I visit your wife!”
"How's the city? The city’s great. Just fuckin’ peachy. Next week we’re having an asshole pride parade.You should come on down! Enough with the small talk. How did you get on this frequency? Where's you transmitter, you...”
Michael raised an eyebrow as the man went on his rant, and just stared at the radio wordlessly. The other technicians had a similar look on their faces. One man spoke up, tentatively, "Er...think we caught them in a bad mood." Michael shrugged, shaking his head. "Unprofessional of him. I don't know how he ever got his job. Hopefully he doesn't continue down his own self-destructive path and remembers his duty." Then, the girls voice came back over the radio.
“Erm… scratch that, US Army. We got a skinny dingo in the chicken coop over here. Looks to be settling down now. Over.”
The woman cleared her throat.
“US Army, you should be advised that you’re lived on District One radio right now?" There was a pause. "From Brooklyn to the Bronx?” "Would it be possible to speak to...like...your leader? Our listeners would like assurance that you're not Enclave or...or..." she laughed to herself. "some squeaky voiced tribal teen huffing buffout whilst fuckin’ around with a radio transmitter, as our chief put it."
Michael blinked, not expecting the radio to have broadcasted that far. Pride and excitement swelled up in his chest till it felt like it was going to burst. He couldn't believe this! It was better than they had expected. There were people in the City itself then."Unfortunately, the Lieutenant Colonel is not available to speak at the moment. He's currently speaking to a company of Guards out on the North Fork towards the Riverhead-Shelter battle line. I am authorized to speak with the full authority of the Guards however, my name is Captain Michael Fitzpatrick. I'm a soldier in the Guards, your records probably have us listed as the Sixty-Ninth New York Infantry, 'Fighting Irish'. Over."
There was some yelps and cheering behind the Captain, the men reacting to their favorite name. "GARRY OWEN TO GLORY!" The battle cry was taken up, feet stomping on the ground. Captain Fitzpatrick rounded on them and hissed something to them, shutting the group up immediately. They all muttered apologies. By now, the group had attracted spectators, men and women in green and khaki fatigues hanging outside the door with curious looks. The word had spread, people whispering to each other.
"Our unit, as the name implies, was a New York Regiment. The unit, then made up of our ancestors, were deployed to Long Island to..." He paused, trying to decide whether or not to be specific to their role on the Island. The practical part of him said 'no'. He took a deep breath and then continued, sweat pouring down his forehead. This was it. They had finally made contact.
"Well, that doesn't matter anymore. What does matter is that our ancestors survived with a few civilians and established a base on Shelter Island. That's where we're broadcasting from now, we call it 'Fort Shelter', or 'Shelter city' now adays. Also,'Enclave'? We've never heard of that name before. Can't exactly blame us I suppose, considering we've had no contact with the outside world thanks to those yellow mutie bastards and the tribal's. Over."
He soon spoke up again though, this time with more questions. His voice was that of a curious man who had just realized the world was more than just his small patch of dirt. It was kept in line however by the cool tone of an officer who had been on many brutal campaigns against an enemy that did not yield. "What's the status of the City? And your own personal status? We only know that it was hit by at least one atomic bomb during the war, hence the radiation over here. Who are -you-? What is 'district one' radio? And who is the Enclave? I believe it's safe to assume that 'New Yorks Finest' refers to the local law enforcement. What's -their- status?"
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Post by Ambassador SteelPlate on Jan 22, 2014 17:39:55 GMT -5
Assistant Chief Daniel Blymire had been pretty busy that morning...with things that he would like to keep out of the good Chief's line of sight.
He and a few fellow officers were preparing to send a shipment of supplies to the Do-Gooders, the only decent people in the Rad Apple in Blymire's profession opinion as a cop. A lot of the NYF didn't much care for them, especially De Santa, but Daniel, as well as some other good officers who respected him, had made it an underground operation to keep the Do-Gooders armed. Minnie Umbrage did her part to donate food and water and medicine, and those in the underground charity of the NYF "lost" a few confiscated arms to keep them packing heat. Both of them did their part to send caps when it was possible. Nick 'No Hustle', a regular visitor of the New York Public Library, was also known to spare a few caps when they needed it most.
Everyone else hated the Do-Gooders, which made no sense to Blymire whatsoever. The Queen's Representatives over in Queens were largely indifferent to them, as was Murphy and his boys, though the latter were violent to everyone equally.
The shipment was just leaving when something big started occurring. Something was happening at the radio tower where the robotic Lady Liberty (Blymire was one of those who knew of her secret) sent out her daily broadcasts. Feeling it was part of his duty to see what was getting the Chief all up in a grand tizzy, Blymire made his way to the tower as well. When he got there, half the precinct was already standing around trying to figure things out for themselves. Pushing his way through, Blymire made it in just in time to see the microphone be yanked out of the Chief's hands by Betsy Troy, the real Lady Liberty. She didn't get along with Chief De Santa, but Daniel and her had always been amicable.
Before he got a chance to speak with him, De Santa ran out of the room to make a phone call. There was only one person who would be on the other end of that conversation...the mysterious Mayor of New York City. While he was gone, Blymire went up to Betsy.
Again, before he could speak, she picked up the mic.
“US Army, you should be advised that you’re lived on District One radio right now?" She paused. "From Brooklyn to the Bronx? Would it be possible to speak to...like...your leader? Our listeners would like assurance that you're not Enclave or...or...some squeaky voiced tribal teen huffing buffout whilst fuckin’ around with a radio transmitter, as our chief put it. Uh...over"
"US Army?" Blymire asked aloud. "What in the Sam Hell...?"
Someone else came shoving through the ranks of onlookers. Blymire hitched in a breath as Isaac Berthold emerged, dressed in his fancy suit and vest. De Santa and Troy disliked each other. Troy and Berthold loathed each other. No doubt that the word 'Enclave' had driven "Isaac the Egghead" out of the shadows.
"I would like to know what is happening right now," Berthold demanded.
"I don't know yet either, Isaac," Blymire told him. "Yer gonna hafta wait till..."
"Well, then have Ms. Troy tell us!" Isaac said, impatiently. "Surely she can manage at least that! She is slightly more intelligent than our baboon of a Chief!"
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Post by Ambassador SteelPlate on Jan 22, 2014 17:59:58 GMT -5
(Uh, I just realized I went out of turn. Sorry! I'll do it right next time!)
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Post by Deleted on Jan 22, 2014 18:10:08 GMT -5
There was already a buzz in the recording studio of GMR-NYC. No less that twelve NYF Officers were poised near the soundboard, hanging on every word of the Guard's broadcast. Now, no less than Assistant Chief Blymire and Isaac Berthold - NYF's top science guy - were hovering behind Betsy's chair, listening in on history.
"US Army?" Blymire asked aloud. "What in the Sam Hell...?"
Betsy Troy simply shrugged. "Freak broadcast, Chief". She relished calling Daniel Blymire "Chief", especially when De Santa happened to be in earshot. "They identify as "Sixty-Ninth New York Infantry - 'Fighting Irish'." She was careful to cover the mic with her hand."I'll have Lady Liberty run it through her system, sir."[/b] Troy added something else under her breath. "Course, it would be easier if we had a library or something..." Blymire's connections with the Do-Gooders of Manhattan were slightly more than rumour, yet not enough evidence had been collected to confirm it as fact. If that were the case, the Assistant Chief would either be a prisoner in a cell, or a notch on De Santa's holster. Troy, being one of the first generation to be born in District One, was relatively ambivolent to the Do-Gooders (she never met any of them except Kevin Logans) but was always looking for an interesting way to solve a problem. And nothing solves a problem like a building full of information.
"Well, then have Ms. Troy tell us!" Isaac said, impatiently. "Surely she can manage at least that! She is slightly more intelligent than our baboon of a Chief!"
"Miss Troy would be able to tell you more if she could listen to the ground-breaking broadcast without being interrupted" Betsy said sweetly though gritted teeth. Shooting a dirty look at Isaac, she returned to the mic.
"Status of the city is...uhm...A-OK...US Army. The Rad Apple took a helluva beating during the war. We didn't have vaults either, so most of us are descended from those who took shelter in the Subway. Anyway, a hundred years later and our gramps and grandma's came out into the light. They got sick of raiders running the show, so formed the NYF after taking shelter in the 78th Precinct. Several years and several asskickings later, District One was born. We're a city covering the entire area of Brooklyn. We've got electricity, running water, even a bar! Not like I can go in though..."
Betsy clapped her hand over her mouth. She was dangerously close to revealing that she was just some punk kid that the NYF had caught hacking into their systems and recruited, rather than the soon to be most important woman in Rad Apple history.
"My name is..." she fumbled for an invented, cool sounding title. "Special Operations Officer Betsy Troy. I work for the NYF. They maintain and uphold the values laid down by the Old World New York Police Department. They serve the Mayor, who Serves the city." Betsy winced. She suddenly sounded like an NYF propaganda machine - Lady Liberty in other words. Looking around wildly, she placed the mic in Blymire's hand.
"Uhmm... sir? I'm gonna hand you over to the Assistant Chief Okay. This is Daniel Blymire, NYF"
She handed Blymire the mic, and sighed sublimely in her chair, having done her bit for history.
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Post by GuardsGhost on Jan 22, 2014 19:49:11 GMT -5
"Status of the city is...uhm...A-OK...US Army. The Rad Apple took a helluva beating during the war. We didn't have vaults either, so most of us are descended from those who took shelter in the Subway. Anyway, a hundred years later and our gramps and grandma's came out into the light. They got sick of raiders running the show, so formed the NYF after taking shelter in the 78th Precinct. Several years and several asskickings later, District One was born. We're a city covering the entire area of Brooklyn. We've got electricity, running water, even a bar! Not like I can go in though..."
Michael blinked at this bit, genuinely impressed at the peoples ingenuity and progress. The Guards themselves had all of those things, but only on Shelter. They had not been able to increase the benefits to the surrounding areas yet, and in fact this was something that was a key issue among the farmers. The farmers accused the Guards of keeping running water for themselves, and not allowing the rest of the people to reap the benefits. Many a 'Water Revolt' had been put down by the boys who wore green, usually by force.
"My name is...Special Operations Officer Betsy Troy. I work for the NYF. They maintain and uphold the values laid down by the Old World New York Police Department. They serve the Mayor, who Serves the city."
Michael practically rubbed his forehead at this bit. They had established themselves a working police force, -and- a government. A -government- meant a chain of command. But the real question would be, were they the chain of command the Guards had been waiting two hundred years for? Or just another pretender that would eventually have to be crushed by the true sons of Liberty? Was the Guards claim not more valid than a bunch of civilians who had decided to form their own society? But that was for the council to decide, and the Lieutenant Colonel above all.
"Uhmm... sir? I'm gonna hand you over to the Assistant Chief Okay. This is Daniel Blymire, NYF"
His musings were interrupted as the girl announced her intentions to hand it over to the rude mans second in command. He covered his own mic and turned to the men, raising a brow. "Hopefully this one doesn't have a mirelurk with a bad attitude shoved down the front of his pants, yeah boyos?" There were a few chuckles from the men in response as he turned back to the radio.
Captain Michael Fitzpatrick once again responded one last time to the girl, "You do that miss. It was a real pleasure to meet ya. Over." There was a slight hint of accent that the girl might recognize from her old holodisks, apparently saved from the War by these men. Michael waited a few moments before speaking, assuming by this point the new man would be seated there.
"Assistant Chief Daniel Blymire? Are you on the air yet? This is Captain Michael Fitzpatrick, Over."
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Post by Ambassador SteelPlate on Jan 22, 2014 20:35:25 GMT -5
Daniel Blymire took the mic from Betsy, who seemed to already be exhausted from her talk with these "Fighting Irish" folks.
"US Army, this is Assistant Chief Daniel Blymire," The man said. "I'm here to confirm what Ms. Troy just said. I reckon, her report of the status of the city is as good as anything I could give. Forgive me if I'm a little behind, I just walked into the room. But I heard you don't know who the 'Enclave' is. Truth be told, buddy, I don't know who they are myself. We just hear rumors about 'em over on Staten Island.'
'Buy anywhoo, all in all, the city is fine. Except for Queens and the Bronx, or Smiley Town as it's known these days. Manhattan is covered in radiation, and there's two factions of Super Mutants, one from the south, and one from the west. Their both very dangerous, but the yellow ones are stupid and violent and are led by mutant named Murphy. The green ones will leave you alone as long as you leave them alone, and they worship some Queen. They're fewer in number, but they're smarter and have more tech. Smiley Town, or the Bronx as you may know it, is full of Raiders and low-lives and Central Park is full of tribals." Blymire paused. "Now, with all the status giving done, why don't you tell me why you're asking us for a status and what you're intending to do around these parts?"
He had been careful not to mention the Do-Gooders. But he didn't need to, because only moments after he was done speaking...
"Attention US Army," A new voice suddenly appeared on the wave lengths. "This is Sarah DeVille, Administrator of the Do-Gooders. We are a medium sized team of refugee support located within the New York Public Library in Manhattan."
Sarah get off the line...Daniel thought...De Santa will hear this!
"We offer food and supplies to the poor and unfortunate of New York City." DeVille continued. "We are short on medical personnel and trained individuals to offer protection to our patients. Currently, I am one of two trained doctors that are here. If you are friendly and wish to help the poor and neglected of New York, please come to the Public Library in Manhattan."
"Is that the Goody-Goodies?" Isaac asked.
"Reckon so..." Blymire replied. He waited for a response.
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Post by Ambassador SteelPlate on Jan 28, 2014 2:11:57 GMT -5
(Right. It's been over three days. Go ahead and go, Ghost.)
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Post by The Lost Traveler on Jan 28, 2014 2:56:56 GMT -5
Jimbo disliked going to the Waters. He disliked walking by the guards stationed by the old Poseidon Energy station – leering at him, nodding in his direction and snortlaughing to each other as “Jimbo the Jethead” hurried by – stooped and head bowed. It was only made more disconcerting because of that woolen sack that served as a helmet that all the Bootleggers wore – the glass of the goggles imbedded within stared him down as he slipped into the Waters.
The Waters was once the Living Waters Full Gospel Church. A once wooden building, it had been reconstructed during the impending nuclear threat with China into a sturdy concrete refuge. But it still retained it's stark white hue – though the lettering on the top no longer read it's fully name but just “Living Waters” - the rest of the letters stricken down.
The inside was similarly changed. Where once rows upon rows of pews lined up before the altar, now the benches had been replaced with tables – which mainly had men and a few women drunk or in the process of getting drunk and there were several tables in the corners housing games of blackjack and roulette.
Above, in the alcove where the choir once played now sections had been cordoned off with faded cloth – but if it was meant to serve as a preservation of modesty than the sounds coming from it and the half naked women that darted into and from the different “rooms” disabused that notion entirely.
Lastly, in the front where the altar once was stood a bar had been erected. Using the altar as a base planks of metal-reinforced wood stretched along it's length, and Jimbo knew for a fact that the bartender, Ish, had a shotgun or two hidden behind the counter for easy access. Behind Ish stood a wall of beer, whiskey, vodka, scotch and whatever other poison a Raider may require.
If any of the patrons were to glance behind the wall they would see a crucified Jesus hanging – his cross used as building material.
Jimbo took small steps towards the bar. Ish glanced up when the older Raider approached. He finished wiping down a glass, laid it on the counter then leaned over to Jimbo with a grin. “Jimbo. It's been a while, man. No longer holed up in that rubble and playing god with the Wanderers, I see? What can I get ya?”
Jimbo opened his mouth once. Then closed it again. “Something to get me drunk, Ish.” He said with a sigh.
“Heellooo fuuuckkkers!” A familiar voice broke out over the radio.
“Make that very drunk, Ish.” Jimbo said as the man laughed.
On the right hand side of the bar sat a radio that normally played heavy metal, rock, and other music to kill to that the Bootleggers ran out of WVVH. Who knew what the letters once stood for so the Raiders of the Port just called it the Tower – the base of operations for the Bootleggers. Jimbo swiped the moonshine – a homemade concoction that was Ish's specialty, forked over the required caps and leaned back as the head of the Bootleggers spoke again.
“This is Stomper, here, interrupting your usual diet of mind-rotting metal for a important announcement. Now, I know we don't listen to that other radio station much,” At the word “other” boos and hisses broke out in the Waters. “But something's come up that you're all wanna hear. So here it goes – ”
With that a bit of static broke out over the radio, and then –
“US Army, you should be advised that you’re lived on District One radio right now?" A female's voice broke out over the radio, and, all at once the noise in the bar ceased. Stomper was the sole voice on the WVVH station – the sheer oddness of it was enough for her next words to storm through them like wildfire. "From Brooklyn to the Bronx? Would it be possible to speak to...like...your leader?”
“Wait – hold on, what's a Brooklyn or a Bronx?”
“Who are these fuckers? Why did Stomper put them on?”
The buzz of conversation drowned out her following words, till a new voice interrupted and once again the Raiders quieted. “Unfortunately, the Lieutenant Colonel is not available to speak at the moment. He's currently speaking to a company of Guards out on the North Fork towards the Riverhead-Shelter battle line. I am authorized to speak with the full authority of the Guards however, my name is Captain Michael Fitzpatrick. I'm a soldier in the Guards, your records probably have us listed as the Sixty-Ninth New York Infantry, 'Fighting Irish'. Over."
Once the man on the radio had finished talking, Jimbo noticed that the rest of the Raiders in the bar had begun to crowd around him. While the exact break down of the Guard's positions and heirarchy was lost on most of the Raiders – Michael Fitzpatrick was one of the few exceptions. As the Lieutenant Colonel's right hand man and successor he had led his own regiment in battles in their southern frontier a few times, though he mainly worked on the other side of the bay with the Riverhead tribals. He was also the other major voice on the air – the Raiders of the Port have flung more than a few beer bottles at radios when his voice was heard.
This time, however, was different as they listened in on his summary of the Guard's history.
And when he was done, it was one Raider who asked the question, “Hey, isn't he leaving out the whole Manifest Destiny hard on that the fuckin' Rainbows have? You know – the whole taking over farming settlements and burning down Riverhead villages and shit?”
But then Fitzpatrick ended by asking a set of questions himself, and the answers he got had the listeners reeling.
“New York Finest? Isn't New York that old, dead city to the west? Wasn't all pre-war cities blown up to all hell?”
“Fuck that. They have electricity and running water. How strong are these guys? What if they side with the Guards?”
The sheer terror of the idea of the Guards becoming even stronger made the group forget their usual nickname.
But the lady on the radio switched over to someone else – either the leader or someone else higher in the chain of command over there. This newcomer, Daniel Blymire, confirmed the girl's earlier report, but also added of a place called “Smiley Town” that was full of Raiders.
“Shit.” A Raider – bare chested with scars crisscrossing his beer belly – said, as he leaned back on a stool. “Sounds like our type of people. Maybe something good can come out of this fuckfest.”
It seemed like Stomper agreed, because once Blymire finished with, “"Now, with all the status giving done, why don't you tell me why you're asking us for a status and what you're intending to do around these parts?” his voice came in over the air – muting the sound of yet another newcomer's voice over on the New York side of things.
“You know what, boys?” Stomper said, his oily tones gliding over the air, “I think Mr. Blymire here is right. We can't let New York give us a status update without giving one as well. Why don't we tell them how things are really like over here?”
After a cough as the newcomer – some woman from folks called the Do-Gooder – finished up, a ping of static sounded as the Port hacked into the Guard's frequency.
“Fuuuuck yooou, assswwipes!” He screamed, causing the Raiders huddled by the radio to jerk back and cringe, even as several gave smirks to each other. Jimbo just shook his head, spitting to the side in disgust. Great first words, Stomper.
Once a beat passed, Stomper continued, his voice collected and cool. “I'm assuming that caught your attention, correct? This is Stomper of the Bootleggers, the Voice of the Port, and I figured some things needed to be addressed before this talk went on much farther. First off, those fuckin', ghoul-hating, hyper-patriotic American wannabes that you've been talking to? Yeah – they're not interested in making friends. You see, from their little hidey hole on Shelter they've taken control of several settlements around the coast in order to “restore order”. For those who rebel and for those tribal fuckers around Riverhead – they just slaughter them off. Now, the Port may be a den of debauchery, but we aren't interested in conquering, just in ourselves. So, even if you did manage to get past the tribals they're always warring with, past those juiced up Stealth Boy bandits out in the Bay, and past us and those mutant freaks from Montauk – the fuckin' Rainbows would only take what they could from you before plotting to add you into their little empire.
But the Port … well, we just want business. Food, supplies, and arms, but also slaves, chems, whores – whatever. You name it and we sell it and buy it. Of course, however, as I said, we're just out for ourselves – so you can hold out on us if you must, but the Port gets what it wants in the end.”
Silence stretched as the Raiders in the bar stilled, all excited chatting dying in a moment.
But all Jimbo could think was ...Did he just threaten them during first contact?
Jimbo was up on his feet. “Damn.” He hissed, stomping towards the door.
He needs to get off the air, right, fucking, now!
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Post by Deleted on Jan 29, 2014 10:14:37 GMT -5
"This is Sarah DeVille, Administrator of the Do-Gooders"
"Awww, shit pies!" Betsy exclaimed. She hit the various dials and buttons as if her life depended on it. Although it didn't stop the Do-Gooder broadcast, it did give it a certain static, discordant quality. "Erm, please disregard, US Army," Betsy replied sheepishly. "We've got a hacker this end, currently putting on a trace, please stand by. Over." Miss Troy continued her work at a feverish pace.
"Sorry about that, Chief", Betsy told Blymire. "I'm having a helluva time blocking them out. Curse Logans and his radio experience,huh? Please don't tell the Chief. I'll work on it."
Suddenly, the radio groaned with static again and a new voice came crackling into the studio.
"But the Port … well, we just want business. Food, supplies, and arms, but also slaves, chems, whores – whatever. You name it and we sell it and buy it. Of course, however, as I said, we're just out for ourselves – so you can hold out on us if you must, but the Port gets what it wants in the end."
Betsy gave a cold shiver as she listened to the unfamiliar voice. In the last few minutes, New York had become awfully crowded. Now it looked as though the crowd could turn ugly. She looked up at Blymire, hoping he would deal with the situation. Before De Santa did.
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"FUCK FUCK FUCK!"
De Santa had been listening to the broadcast as he made his way to the 78th Precinct Subway. The radio made it until the end of the Port's broadcast until it was dashed to pieces on the steps as the Chief descended into the darkness. Not the stale air, eerie silence or pitch black was enough to freak De Santa out today. He stood up straight in the old broken down tunnel, facing off against the black.
"We got a problem."
The silence remained deafening. The Chief hated it when he couldn't even hear the freak breathe.
"Look, stop with the holodisk horror flick shit! I know you're in my head so you know what's going on! One group of faggots lie across the State with more weapons than God! And now there's another group of faggots who just threatened our city! Our flag! Our life! You always talked about bringing New York back. Well here it is! And I need to know what you're gonna do about it!"
From the darkness came the smallest of sighs, and De Santa's head was filled with the solution within minutes. The Chief shuddered. "Could have just fucking said so" he replied reproachfully.
De Santa left the Subway.
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