Fallout: Miasma [BoL: Mythic Edition + Barbarians of the Aftermath] (IC)

[Sophistemon]

FALLOUT: MIASMA

War. War never changes.

Originally commissioned in 1961, the Mount Dora Catacombs were constructed to safeguard 25 of the city’s wealthiest families from the threat of nuclear annihilation. When the end didn’t come, the Catacombs fell into disuse and the entrance was sealed away – its existence hidden, but not forgotten.

Decades passed, and by 2056 the Resource Wars were ravaging the planet. Inspired by Vault-Tec advertisements, descendants of the founding families pooled their remaining fortunes to modernize and expand the Catacombs to accommodate 500 people, five times the original number, in perpetuity.

When the Great War ended the world in 2077, the Catacombs’ conspirators were prepared. One by one, forewarned families filed through the secret door and took their places underground. Their lives spared from the apocalypse above, they worked together for the greater good of their new community.

For 165 years the careful guidance of the Executive Committee has ensured that the Catacombs represent a perfectly preserved slice of pre-War American life. Its virtues and values live on, with each new generation raised to carry that torch into the future, lighting the way to an even greater tomorrow.

It is 2242. Many would consider the Catacombs to be a paradise... But nothing lasts forever.

PROLOGUE – A PARADISE UP ABOVE

Abigail Dufresne sat on her front porch, sipping lemonade and watching the sunset. She was 63 years old. Her daughter, beside her and grousing about the latest generation, was 44. The rocking chairs on which they sat, still comfortable after all these years, were roughly 300 years old. The chairs been beloved family heirlooms long before they’d been carried down the tunnels into the Mount Dora Catacombs in the weeks leading up to October 23rd, 2077. That was the day when, 165 years ago, the bombs had dropped. That was the day the world had ended – but not for the Dufresnes, and not for their friends and neighbors counted among the lucky few that had been saved.

God bless America, God bless the Founding Families, and God bless the Executive Committee.

It was the Executive Committee that decided, in a majority vote many years ago when Abigail was a girl, that the Catacombs should have a sunset in the evening before curfew. There had been a contest, a mass perusal of archival footage for the 365 greatest sunsets on record, and when it was over the citizens could sit and watch a different one every night of the year projected across the walls and ceiling of their underground home. Tonight was Abigail’s favorite night, when the artificial sky was awash in a painter’s smock of ripe plum and brilliant, blazing orange.

Abigail’s daughter prattled on, something about graffiti being found in one of the public restrooms, but the elder Dufresne toned her out. Kids would be kids no matter the era, and when the younger Dufresne had a few more years under her belt she’d remember again the mountains of trouble she’d gotten into at their age and find it all so quaint, all so quintessentially Dorian. Maturity pains, that’s all they were, to be expected when growing up underground. It may have been that way above ground too, before the bombs had wiped it clean, but nobody now living remembered. Nor cared to, really; what good was such a grim and ancient history when you lived in a future like this?

Her lemonade was deliciously bitter against her tongue, all credit to the Agricultural Committee and their successful citrus crop. True, the Dufresnes had an old family recipe, but words in a book were worthless without quality ingredients, and the lemons this season were perfect. In actuality, everything in the Catacombs was perfect – or as perfect as things could be, circumstances considered. Abigail was 63 years old and healthy. She could be expected to live at least another 30, long enough to watch her grandchildren and great-grandchildren grow to adulthood and start families of their own.

The sunset reached its crescendo, a gorgeous display of light and color painted across a darkening sky. The ice in Abigail’s glass clinked delicately as she sipped, leaning forward in her chair to take it all in, her free hand raised to silence her daughter’s complaining. This was a special moment, a secret holiday that Abigail cherished above all others. She wanted to watch it uninterrupted, without distraction, the way her God must have intended when she first truly realized its beauty all those years ago.

And then, quite suddenly, the sky went out. The sun vanished, along with the blinking stars. The porch light too went out, as well as the lamps in the house and the guiding lights built into the walks and pathways of the community. In fact, as her heart raced and her eyes searched for light, any light, it seemed as though the entirety of the Mount Dora Catacombs had been plunged into a complete and terrifying darkness. Abigail’s hand spasmed, sending the glass to shatter at her feet, and she could hear her daughter screaming as she fainted.

---

Emergency power had kicked in within minutes, provided by a much smaller and less capable fission generator than the one the Dorians has so long relied upon. Life could continue in the Catacombs, but greatly reduced in comfort. Austerity measures were introduced to preserve electricity. Secondary luxuries were now rationed, and by order of the Executive Committee many of the tertiary luxuries would be completely unavailable for the foreseeable future. Days passed, and then weeks. People groused, and gossiped. There were fights, actual brawls more severe than schoolyard scraps, for the first time in generations. Something had to be done, or the carefully cultivated culture that persevered in the Catacombs would be at risk of unraveling over something so minor as the availability of boiling water or easy access to the archives to watch a mid-afternoon film.

A great sigh of relief went out among the people when the Executive Committee announced their solution: there would be a lottery. Seven citizens, between certain ages, would be selected at random to leave the Catacombs. They would be the first first to exit in 165 years, and would be tasked to find and retrieve replacements for the damaged components the primary generator required for repair. They would leave as heroes, and return as legends; the greatest since the Founding Families.

The day of the lottery was tense. Everyone in town, all 500 or so citizens of the Catacombs, crammed themselves into the community auditorium for the announcement. Apprehension hung thickly in the air as the crowd buzzed with equal amounts dread and excitement when the Executive Committee took their places behind the podiums and prepared to read from the list of names. The people when silent – no one dared even to cough, to clear their throats. The members of the Executive Committee stepped forward in sequence to read off the names, their voices solemn as a funeral speech.

“Doctor Aaron Alexander.”
“Reverend Joseph Kennedy.”
“Sherwood Augustine.”
“Harris Bridges.”
“Marilyn Cash.”
“Elena Perez.”
“The Handyman.”

The crowd erupted with grief and celebration. It was a good list, a strong list of capable people, but they were family, friends, and their absence would be mourned for the duration of their journey. Cheers and tears came out in equal measure as those selected were pointed out by their peers and exalted above their fellows. Paul Sterling, the infinitely respected Director of the Security Committee, approached his microphone and tapped it with a finger for attention. The auditorium went silent again as he spoke in a voice all but devoid of emotion and yet still flecked with powerful emphasis.

“The Chosen Ones have one hour to report to City Hall for their mission briefing. Please do not be late, or we will be forced to collect you. That is all; this town meeting is concluded.”

With that, the Executive Committee turned smartly on their heels and walked, in single file, away.

---

Spoiler: Gamemaster Note

Show

Please have your characters react to being selected. Feel free to create and control some Dorians, such as friends and family, to really sell the moment. Then, have them make their way to City Hall.

This is the In-Character thread, where players act and react to the events of the game. The Out-of-Character thread can be found HERE.

[Hazuki]

Marilyn had found a corner of the auditorium to stuff herself into when they were called in for the lottery, lest she stand out among the crowd. Besides, she liked the shadows. She didn't much like the idea of the lottery - it was easy to figure out who the best people were and they were the ones who should be sent out. The fact that said group would include her, with her nimble fingers and slick shooting, had no bearing on that opinion, definitely not.

Then her name was announced and she couldn't help but smile, a lopsided one that stretched across her left cheek. Her imminent departure from the comforts of the catacombs, the separation from her family, both of those were lost on her as her head filled with images of herself roaming around the outer worlds with a big iron on her hip and coming home to a hero's welcome with a sack full of components and at least one suitor willing to give her a date. If she idn''t come back with one; an amazon like from the stories who'll carry her around on her shoulders...

Her imagination was interrupted by her family seeking her out, all kinds of Cash arriving to give her their well-wishes, their farewells, and doing so with the soft-spoken manners that they're known for. There were pats on the back, squeezes of the bicep, and there would have been ruffling of the hair were it not for her hat. But all too quickly, that was over and she departed to city hall with a spring in her stalking gait.

[protheuz]

Aaron sat at the front in the large auditorium. As a semi celebrity with the younger kids, he shook a lot of hands and got a few looks from the teen girls. He was still dressed in his white medical coat, as he was with the Tolden twins in the lab. The old men had almost 100 years old and had caught flu.

The idea of the draft wasn't bad: He knew that the conditions would mean that the choices were small and would almost be a pick. But for the general people it would sound as an act of luck. Easy to explain and without any blame against the committee, especially if something went wrong.

And as he was mulling over all these, his name came. As a response he got up and put his hand in the air, as if all his breath was removed from his lungs and his body reacted. In his face a smile. Not a real smile of joy or happiness. A smile that covered all his emotions. A crooked, half smile, that gave him an image of enfant terrible.

And then the air returned, entering his lungs, and feeling as if they were on fire. The burn never touched his face, and to all that might be looking he was calm and radiating.

He seated as he heard the other names. As a small community, with not a lot of youngsters, he knew most of them by sight.
His father, next to him grasped his hand and pulled him into a tight embrace. “You’ll make us proud son”. The Alexanders always had high expectations for their children.

And the time started to pass as he was pushed and pulled into the arms of friends, family and even people he didn’t know. But all those moments were fused into a single moment. And to make it worse, in his head all he could hear was the numbing rhythm of a sad song.

“All that I know will be left behind … The world outside is big … and dares my heart … gives it temperance and fire”

The song creating itself, forming from the doubts, the fears, the strengths and the feelings inside him.

“… All will be well … Baby don’t cry…”

[Mr Stereo1]

While others sat with their families Joseph sat at the front with the elderly Revered Thomas, his mentor and the head of the Dorian church if such a man were ever needed in the settled society of the Catacombs. While others curled up in fear at the looming sentences to be handed down Joseph faced it with pride, with fire in his eyes and in his heart. When his name was spoken he knew it no less than Divine Providence, no matter the mortal greed and cowardice the Lord's Will was worked through. Reverend Thomas flinched beside him and turned a worried gaze towards him, and Joseph knew that somewhere his parents and sister would be worrying over him, yet his heart was without fear and with pity and judgement he looked back to the neighbors staring to him and his destined companions.

They were the guilty, he knew. They were those he must redeem through his words and his deeds. In their wickedness the Executive Commitee would name their brothers' children to be sacrificed for their sins. In their fear the flock cast them out into the wastes to preserve themselves. All denied the will of the Lord.

"Don't do it boy." Thomas said tiredly, a wrinkled hand grasping Joseph's. "At least say goodbye to your family first."

Joseph gently unclasped the older priest's hand as he stood. Thomas was a kind and worthy man but he would not cast judgement. To listen one's conscience one must hear it, and sometimes to hear it another must speak it. All Dorians, save the Committee, were gathered here and there would be no better time to speak.

"This meeting is not done!" Joseph cried out, casting his voice over the crowd as he might from the pulpit. He glared out at the shocked Dorians, waving his arm up in fury and roaring his words. "Do you think yourself so worthy of utopia? The world died and we remained! Alone of all America we lived in comfort and plenty!" His disdain of his fellow Dorians was clear to all. "This 'failure' was a sign! A calling! We were preserved to bring back the True America, not to wallow in sloth and comfort beneath it's corpse!"

"Son!" His father's furious whisper came from behind as the old technician pushed through the crowd and grabbed his arm. Joseph pushed him off.

"It is time we rebuild America!" The young priest cries. "It is time we march as one to our destiny! Instead you lash out at one another, you shirk away! You cower and sacrifice your children for your safety!" Joseph's eyes cast over the shellshocked audience with damning judgement. "I'll get you your generator, your thirty pieces of silver, but I will not return here. The Catacombs were a vessel to carry the seed and spark of the True America to this troubled age, not a promised land for a promised people. If you wish to... cower here in luxury while our American brothers and sisters suffer in ignorance above us... then may God lay His judgement upon you."

It was the greatest curse Joseph could offer, for if he said it it meant he considered that judgement warranted.

"Reverend, I trust you to guide the flock well in my absence." Joseph offered, nodding his head respectfully to the older priest. Thomas just groaned and kept his head in his hands.

The security officers had worked their way through the crowd now and were glowering at Joseph through their visors. He met their eyes fearlessly and went where they led.

It pained him to hear his mother's sobbing behind him, but he didn't look back. She had the same duty as all Dorians, and his words were for her as much as any other whether she chose to embrace or deny them.

Spoiler: OOC

Show

So, uh, yeah that's where I'd want to go with Joseph's persona. For fun I'll roll Preacher and Appeal for how effective that was.

(2d6+4)[12]

[Wyldephang]

The names were announced, and a few moments passed before Harris leapt into the air in a show of equal parts unbridled enthusiasm and disbelief: "Yes!"

Weaving his way through the crowd like his pitball idol Ronnie King, the star running back of the Dynamos, Harris ran over to his father, Rex, who had been listening one aisle over. Rex could hardly contain the smile on his face, his fatherly pride beaming.

"Alright, Rock! You did it!" There was a firm handshake, followed by laughter from both parties. Rex cupped his hand around the back of his son's neck and pressed Harris' forehead against his own.

"You're going to do great out there, y'hear?"

The laughter abated, and a moment of silence passed. Harris pulled away slightly. Rex continued.

"And did I hear that you were traveling with a reverend? Hoo-boy! You're in the big leagues now!" He winked. "Be sure to put in a good word for me."

The joke didn't register for Harris. "I ... I don't know what to say." He paused for a moment, staring at the now-empty stage. The crowd was thinning around him. Hundreds of Dorians would be going home with their families tonight. The adrenaline was wearing off, and the gravity of the moment now weighed on him. "I know I have what it takes to survive out there, Pa, but ... this is my home. This is my world." He looked down pensively. "Are you sure you'll be alright?"

Maintaining his smile, Rex's shoulders relaxed as he let out a deep breath. He took his time to gather his thoughts. This could be the last time he would see his son, and Rex decided it was the right time to get something out in the open.

"Harris, I'm not going to lie to you. I'm proud of you, boy. Real proud. You've been with me at the shop for four years now, but there's something I've been struggling with." He scratched the back of his head and put his hand in his pocket. "I feel ... something I can't quite put into words. Guilt, maybe? It wasn't right for me to take you away from your dream--to take you away from pitball. I knew how much it--"

"Pa," Harris started.

"No, son, let me finish. When your mother passed away, things got rough. We were barely making ends meet as it was, but ... I needed your help. I'm not blaming myself for asking you to work for me because it needed to be done, but that doesn't change the way I feel. You were all that I had. And it wasn't right."

Rex reached into his wallet and pulled out a faded Doricam photograph of a young man in a pitball uniform holding a ball and crouched in a three-point stance.

"'Relentless' Rex Bridges. That's what they used to call me. DPL. Pre-association days."

"Pa, you used to play?"

"Play?" Rex chuckled. "I was the god-damned best. Broke a dozen league records my rookie season. Eleven sacks in one game. Played with all the greats: Bill Larue, Don Shifflett, Pete Holmes."

"What happened?"

"I met your mother. We had you. I started to realize that pitball wasn't going to pay our bills or put food on the table. There wasn't money in it back then like there is now. We did it because we loved the game. But those five years were some of the greatest in my life--I've never felt more alive--and it tore me apart to make you miss that. I felt like such a damned hypocrite."

Harris was silent.

"That's why you need to do this," Rex continued. "You have the chance to do something special here, son. And these people need you. I've already made you miss out on your dream; don't make me live with the guilt of making you miss your calling." Rex patted Harris on the shoulder. "Don't worry about the shop. Don't worry about me. Just promise me you'll be smart out there. I don't know what it's like on the outside. No one does. You need to stay close to your friends; have their back and they'll have yours. What is it that Coach used to say?"

Harris replied, "Classic 10-5 formation. Man-on-man coverage." They laughed.

Their attention was briefly broken by the sound of shouting emanating faintly from the front of the auditorium. A crowd could be perceived gathered around some rabble-rouser, but at this distance, neither father nor son could determine what the commotion was about.

"Here." Rex handed the old photograph to his son. "I want you to keep it. I want you to remember that it's never too late to live your dreams. It's never too late to make new ones. And don't forget ... that you always have a home here."

"Yes, Pa." Harris' eyes stung, but his father's words resonated with him, and with a firm resolve, Harris hugged his father one last time before making toward City Hall.

[GideonBurkheart]

Chuck couldn't believe his ears....He had been selected to help the entire community. "But why'd they have to use my real name?" He grumbled to himself. He held onto his mother as hey walked to their room, his two little brothers followed closely behind them. As soon as they got to their living quarters Chuck's brothers began asking question after question: Wether they think we'd find zombies or dragons, wether if he'd get along with any of the others, or even (jokingly) wether I'd get married out in the wastes. He tried to calm them down as his mother sat quietly in the corner reading a book, but they just became more and more hyper so he decided it was time for bed. As usual the best way to get his brothers to calmly fall asleep was to play a melody from their family's pan flute wrapped around his neck; an heirloom passed down from generations and a former possession of a Seminole cheiftan (his great-great-great-gre.....grandfather, Wind Song. His family unfortunately outgrew such names hundreds of years ago.)
Twenty minutes later the young boys finally fell asleep and Chuck stepped out to speak to his mother. He knelt squatted down in front of her so he could talk eye level to her.

"I know it sucks, mama. But you've always been saying I was born to do great things! Now's my chance to help everyone and I'm not going to look away from that." She nodded her head slowly, still looking at her book. "The boys are asleep and I don't got a lot of time left. I'll figure out a way to keep in touch, and it's not like I'll be alone anyways."
Chuck stood up and walked to his bed and pulled out his 6 pack of beer, something had he had stashed away for a rainy day. He quickly downed two of them before doing some stretches before making his way to the door.

"There's a few more left here mom, good luck with the boys." He set the case of beer on her nightstand and stepped away. His mother's hand grasped his forearm with the speed of a cheetah, "J-Just... remember your geiger counter..." and her hand slipped from his arm letting him walk out the door. He had only one objective now, help fix Mt. Dora. Staring straight ahead, looking forward at his future, he made his may through the corridors toward the city hall.

[Spectre_j]

Elena simply nodded when her name was called, as if she had expected this very thing. After all, how "random" could the selection process be with such a small population? No, she had been picked, she was sure of it. She was one of the most gifted minds the Catacombs had ever produced. If not for the Great War, she surely would have attended CIT like her great-great-grandfather. They'd have been fools to send anyone else in her place. She was also sure that they had an ulterior motive. How else to get rid of a pariah than to send her into a hostile wasteland where survival was far from certain? It was a win-win for them. Elena understood this: she was nothing if not pragmatic.

For her own part, she also had an ulterior motive: she had accomplished all she could with with her own research into her great-great-grandfather's work. She needed new equipment and new specimens. She needed to get out.

She stood, and her parents stood along with her. She turned to face them. Her father, Dr. Ernesto Pérez, stoic and still possessing the regal bearing of his aristocratic ancestors, plantation owners who had ruled Cuba before the red tide of communism had rolled over the Caribbean and forced them to flee. He nodded to her, and offered his hand. She took his hand in a firm grip, not surprised by his reaction. He had never been one for strong emotions.

Her mother, Barbara, a head shorter than Elena, stood behind her father's right shoulder with tears shining in her eyes. Where her father was stoic and stern, her mother was cheerful and passionate. She wore her feelings on her sleeve, and, though it had always irked Elena (she had always been so much like her father), she realized that she would miss her mother most of all. Stepping out from behind her husband, she went to hug Elena hesitantly, knowing that her daughter hated such displays, and was surprised when Elena hugged her first. She was no more surprised than Elena herself, who hugged her fiercely, with no care for appearances. She was suddenly filled with all the things she wished she had said to her mother, knowing that she might never get the chance, now.

She let go of her mother reluctantly, putting her hands on the smaller woman's shoulders and moving her to arm's length. "We will return. We will save our home." She said, looking them each in the eye as she spoke. She walked away before either of them could say anything else.

Despite the outpouring of emotion, Elena was still excited to explore the world above. "And maybe" She thought to herself as she walked toward City Hall, "We will find even greater treasures than spare parts for a generator."

[Blarghy]

The Caldwell house was in turmoil.

"We'll launch an appeal to the Executive Committee," the patriarch, Silas, decided with (outward) confidence. He had the Handyman's stern resting face. Now, his typical frown was cut with worry. "Yes. There isn't much time, but we can..."

"This is Jerry Griswold's work," Brook (the matriarch) was saying, arms folded and pacing. Like her son, her intelligence was almost palpable, though at the moment she had trouble remaining coldly rational. "Ever since I rejected him for the Spring Formal thirty years ago, he's had it out for this family. He must've rigged the lottery. He must've."

The married pair was so anxious and engrossed in their desperate thoughts that they hardly looked at the source of their despair. The Handyman sat on the living room couch, impassive as usual, palms on his knees. Thinking.

He rolled the basic question around in his head--How do I feel about this?--along with tangential matters. He tried to calculate the rough odds of being chosen, in the process realizing that he didn't actually know how many young people his own age even lived in the Catacombs. It never mattered before. He supposed it still didn't, and let the thought drift away.

How did he feel? This development would upend his projects. Half-assembled machines littered the garage and his room upstairs. Now he might never finish them. This was regrettable.

How did he feel? The outside world was a complete mystery. In light of the Resource Wars and subsequent nuclear destruction, logic suggested that the surface was more dangerous than Mt. Dora. At the very least, the Handyman was ignorant of it, and ignorance was dangerous in and of itself. This was concerning.

How did he feel? Although he didn't often show it, the Handyman did care for his family. If he left, he might never see them again. This was tragic.

And yet...

My studies have reached a near-plateau. Our library has no additional research materials of interest to me. I have examined the majority of available machinery. New data is increasingly rare. Future discoveries in this environment will likely be minimal. In contrast, the old world theoretically has all the technology of the Catacombs, plus additional samples not included by our Founding Families. Furthermore, there is the possibility of innovation along different creative tracts, in the event that any other humans have survived.

How did he feel? Excited.

"I want to go," the Handyman said in his calm, neutral voice. The room went silent.

"What?" both parents asked incredulously.

He repeated himself, not understanding that they spoke with more than just confusion.

Silas quickly moved to the couch and sat beside him. "Son. You don't know what's out there. No one does."

"Correct. The possibilities are near-infinite."

"You...you're being foolish!" Silas jumped back up just as quickly and raised his voice. "I won't allow it! I'll take your place if I have to."

The Handyman blinked, starting to find all this emotion uncomfortable. "I suspect that is not permitted. Even if it is, I still want to go."

Now Brook came to his other side. She put her hand on his shoulder and just said his name--his real name--as though it was a magic charm that could bind him in place.

The Handyman rested his own hand on hers and made himself smile, two deliberate gestures that he had learned to simulate for the purpose of making people feel at ease. Occasionally, it even worked. He rose up and spoke with conviction: "The others need my skills. But I will come back."

"Son..."

Eye contact was difficult for him. Normally, when the Handyman felt that he had to look at another human, he stared at their chin, their nose, their forehead...but for this rare moment, he met each of their gazes in turn.

"I will find the generator components. And then I will come back. I promise you this. I promise."

A tense and tearful hour later, he marched stiffly to City Hall, his tools in a canvas knapsack over one shoulder and the family shotgun slung from the other. Let the outside world watch out, because the Handyman was on his way.

[Sophistemon]

The apprehensive reverie of the moment was broken by Reverend Kennedy’s impromptu sermon, delivered in the roaring tones that made him famous among the Dorian faithful. The amphitheater fell into stunned silence as he spoke, his voice carried to every ear in the vicinity. There were gasps of shock, stunned faces aplenty, but also a few cheers of agreement and even more nodding heads. The good book said to love thy neighbor, to treat others as you’d want to be treated. Perhaps, after nearly 200 years, it was once again time to put out the welcome mat? Of course, others wanted nothing more than the promise of safety and comfort returned to them, and the preacher saw quite a few angry glares cast his way as the security forces reached him and escorted him from his seat. With his mother’s anguished sobs echoing in his own ears, the man called “Dog-Collar” moved down the row, towards the waiting City Hall and the destiny it demanded of him. But as he went he felt an aged, leathery hand grip his own and force something hard and sharp into his palm. When he looked, he saw a pre-War penny, flattened oblong by rollers and stamped on one side with the Lord’s Prayer. It was aged and worn smooth by the pad of a thumb, and the reverend realized he was holding a sacred thing as holy and beloved as any heirloom Bible. When he looked up, searching for the giver, he saw that they’d already disappeared back into the crowd. A hand on his back, connected to a member of the Dorian Security Committee, pushed him forward.

While the Reverend sat in a waiting room and prayed, looking forward to the arrival of his soon to be companions, said Chosen Ones were saying their own good-byes, collecting well-wishes from family and friends. Some were tearful, some were joyous, some were even contentious, but all had a terrible air of potential finality to them, an unspoken element of danger. The oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown, and that fear now permeated the Catacombs like a fog. The citizens were being asked to place their faith and hope in a handful of strangers who knew nothing of the world above, yet were expected to brave its challenges and return with the essential components that would restore their quality of life. It was, like the lottery that chose their saviors, a gamble with very high stakes.

The waiting room was, like the rest of the building, a deliberately spartan environment meant to emphasize the civic-minded nature of the Executive Committee. Free from material distractions, they could focus their energies on the running of their little society to the best of their respectable ability. One after another, the remaining six Chosen Ones filtered into City Hall and took their seats in the waiting room. Small talk was sparse, and the remaining time was predominantly spent silently gauging the others for competence and reliability. The last of them arrived only moments before the allotted hour had run its course, and breathed a sigh of relief as they slumped into a chair. The bag they’d packed to take to the surface slid to the floor with a rattling clunk just as a sliding door opened in the far wall and a Miss Nanny floated through, its three arms coiled daintily to fit through the gap.

“Good aftairnoon, evairyone!” it said, three eyes swiveling to take in all seven guests at once. “Ze Executive Committee weehl see you now. Please fullow me zis wai.” It swiveled, about-facing, and made its way back out through the door and down a hallway and into Briefing Room 1, which was plushly carpeted and sported wood-paneled walls. The members of the Executive Committee sat along the convex curve of the U-shaped conference table that dominated the center of the room. In the center of the table was a pitcher of cool water, condensation beaded on the glass, and several matching cups. Behind them, across the far wall, was a large television screen. Turned off, it was a black mirror that reflected the Chosen Ones back at themselves.

Paul Sterling sat on the left, and swept an arm at the seven empty chairs that lined the concave curve. “Have a seat,” he said, in his emphatically emotionless way. This Miss Nanny hovered anxiously in one corner, its eyes swiveling back and forth, limbs coiling with a desperate need to serve.

“Zo many guests at once!” it gushed. “Would anyone laik a coffee? Zum tea? Pairhaps zum burbon?”

Another Committee Director, Dwayne Rosario, shook his head. “Not now, Daisy. We’re fine with the water. We’ll call if we need you.” The robot’s eyes blinked, disappointed, but it did not complain as it maintained its position in the corner, hovering fitfully in place. Rosario turned his attention to the Chosen Ones, now seated, and smiled as warmly as he could. “So,” he said. “You’re going to save our world – how does that feel?”

[Mr Stereo1]

"A new generator will fail just like the old did, eventually. Most like much sooner than 200 years from now. Whatever we'll find will have been left abandoned in the wastes for centuries exposed to who knows what." Joseph said tersely, meeting the Committee Director's eyes levelly. "It'll be worse if you send another team out then, and even harder for the one after that. We're only delaying the inevitable. We can't maintain our systems here indefinitely and we can't live without them. One way or another we need to grow to survive. Take this for the warning that it is, Director."

[Hazuki]

Mushroom opens her mouth as if to answer the man's question, but, before she can, Joseph starts rambling about the future and things. She respectfully stays quiet, silently wondering whether she's going to be able to get her hands on a good gun before they depart.

[protheuz]

Aaron walks in and gracefully thanks the robot. He moves as if gliding each step strong with a theatrical poise and quality. He looks each of the committee members and seats.

“I disagree.” He says as he looks at Joseph “I don’t want to overstep my position and answer by the committee, as they have a more insightful, big picture and pondered idea which led to this decision.”

He looks the pastor in his eyes and continues “I disagree with you. Even if the new generator only lasts for 100 years, or 50 years or as long as my parents live it will be worth it. If we can protect this bastion of civilization from what’s outside, whatever it may be, it’s worth it. And then it might be another generations quest to solve. But as long we can provide an Eden, protected from radiation, from the wild, for the ones we love and care, we must.”

He looks at the committee members and adds “And that’s an ideal I’m ready to fight for. Home.”

[Blarghy]

Without moving his head, the Handyman cut his eyes toward Joseph. Then to Aaron. A compromise between your extremes suits me best. The Catacombs are safe and relatively sustainable; without data on the outside world, it is impossible to compare all our options, but this location is objectively defensible. However, few closed systems last indefinitely. If it is possible to open new supply lines to the Catacombs, we could maintain our position of strength while also restocking as necessary.

But he said none of this. Keeping his thoughts to himself, the Handyman merely looked at Rosario's chin--in contrast to the Director's smile, he wore his usual flat frown--and answered, "I am excited." His tone was anything but.

[Mr Stereo1]

"Don't doubt our own judgement, brother. What except experience can give our elders' their wisdom?" Joseph asks Aaron rhetorically. "In this the Committee knows no more than we do. No Dorian has left this place for two centuries, as soon as we take one step from the Catacombs' doorway we shall be the ones to see the 'big picture' clearer than anyone. We shall see, and know, more than any Committee Member about the world outside, and the plight of our American brothers and sisters. You heard my judgement as well as anyone else, so for now I shall ask only that you keep an open heart and mind to what we might see in the world outside."

[Wyldephang]

Harris sunk deeper into his chair as if to avoid being seen and called upon--a terribly difficult task for a man blessed with his physical frame. Harris believed with some degree of confidence that he could overpower most of the dangers in the wasteland, but even he was in awe of the behemoth of a man who sat at the opposite side of the table. Harris muttered under his breath, "Now here's someone who would've made it in pitball." A second, not less important thought suddenly entered Harris' mind: strong allies were going to be needed for the road ahead, and this was a man worth befriending. Harris quickly glanced down the curve of the table to assess his team's potential and wondered what brought them here; why they were selected; and what they were fighting for back home.

"You're going to save our world -- How does that feel?"

Harris never excelled in school; he always preferred the challenges of the pitball field to those of the textbook, and his skill in the mechanical trade did not come to him without a great deal of effort. He still remembered vividly those arguments he had with his father in the shop about the quality of his work, and he remembered the time he spent in afterschool detention--not for trouble-making, but for simply slacking off. Harris still had his dreams, and wasn't entirely certain that he was ready to leave them behind, but at present, he could not be any farther removed from them.

Harris pulled his father's photograph out of his pocket and looked down at it, turning it in his hand, the glossy finish reflecting the various light sources in the room. He studied the photograph as he listened to the dialogue unfolding in the room, and sensing a break, he mustered up the courage to speak.

"I ... I don't know much about the future. I guess I've never thought much about it. But I do know that my father is home right now wondering when things are going to start getting back to normal. I do know that we've been struggling since the lights went out, and things weren't exactly easy for us before, and I suppose it's the same for lots of other Dorians."

"That's why we're here, right?" Harris asked somewhat incredulously. "To fix this."

Somewhat surprised by the confidence building in his voice, Harris straightened his posture. He pocketed his father's photograph and turned to Director Rosario:

"I'm damned proud, sir."

[GideonBurkheart]

Chuck took the whole scene in as he sat down. He suddenly felt quite small speaking with the committee and then he slightly chuckles at the thought of himself ever being small, quickly swallowing the fear that had sprung up just as fast. He crosses his arms as he listens to everyone speaking, very much wanting to hear their thoughts on the ongoing situation. His pride in Mt. Dora wished to keep it pure and clean from the outside radiation but deep down he knew there would have to be a compromise somewhere. Things were never going to be the same for any Dorian now, all they could do was make best of what they had; what was feasible.

Chuck pipes in when he sees a chance between the debate currently going on. "I for one want to protect my family from at least the radiation outside, and who knows what else lurking around every corner. Getting the power running like it used to would at least encourage people and keep their spirits going. Show them that it can be done. And that they can do it again and again and again!" He slowly took a deep breathe and sighed. "Look, I'm not saying that we should keep ourselves completely shut out, we just have to be careful. If there's a slip up, who knows what could get in..."

Chuck's chest expands as he looks at the director and boldly states, "Sir I feel honored with the chance to help my family and friends. To help heal my home. I may not have accomplished much else besides many many shiny sports medals, but you can have faith that I will do everything in my power to see this through. Put that in the morning announcements!"

[Spectre_j]

Elena sat back in her chair and listened to the two men bicker, content to wait until everyone else had said their piece before answering. It would give her a chance to take her measure of them. She only knew a couple of them beyond just names and occupations, but none of them well enough to have any idea of beliefs or temperaments. After the giant fell silent, she cleared her throat and sat forward, poised for her moment on the soapbox.

"Of those assembled, only myself and the Handyman," She began, addressing the whole room, "Have the expertise to speak to the viability, biologically and technologically, of the Catacombs long-term. The input of the rest of the team is, of course, valued," She continued, holding up her hands in a placating gesture as if to ward off offense, "But to the settle the disagreement between the reverend and the doctor: neither extreme is tenable, at least not yet. Dorians, by and large, are not prepared psychologically, physiologically or even culturally for life outside. But staying locked away is equally absurd. We are already at risk of a pathogen developing that could kill enough of us to make a stable population impossible, to say nothing of genetic instability. Both of which become even more likely with each interaction with the outside. The solution, then, is a sort of middle ground. In the short-term, we must fix the generator. Long-term, we must prepare for Dorian society becoming part of what civilization still remains outside, if any. That, as my grandfather liked to say, is my two cents on that." She took a deep breath and sighed. "You ask me, Director Rosario, how it feels to save our world? When going out there is not only the solution to our short-term problem but also our long-term survival? The prospect is both exciting and harrowing."

[Mr Stereo1]

"You and the maintenance team already let catastrophe come once, Elena. The single most important part of the Catacombs' system broke without the slightest warning! Complacency will see it happen again, and next time we might not be so lucky to survive." Joseph speaks bitingly of her supposed 'expertise'. "You need parts that you can't make. If we remain here scavenging only what we need eventually the Wastes will be picked clean, even if centuries don't take their toll on whatever tech is left. Eventually we must depart, that is inevitable. The only question is whether we force that work onto our children out of sloth and fear or we do our part, unlike our parents or grandparents." The Reverend casts a damning eye to the Chairman.

"Yet none of you address our duties to our American brothers! 'Our world' is theirs as well." The Preacher's eyes are bright with fervor, but he restrains himself visibly from a second tirade aimed at the Chairman and his companions. "If the Dorians remain hidden away in plenty until the world outside is safe, then we force the burden of rebuilding our great nation onto others, far less fortunate than ourselves. It is no less than treason, and it shall be remembered and judged by both God and These United States!"

"Yet, your true measure is still to the taken." Joseph allows his fellow youngsters, forcing himself to untense in his chair and wrestling his voice into a more consoling tone. "When you are faced with your countrymen each of your characters will be revealed. To me and to the Lord. Until then I shall keep my... peace, on the journey."

[Spectre_j]

"Well, Reverend," Elena said with a smile that did not reach her eyes, "No amount of preventative maintenance can forestall bad luck or 'The Wrath of God'" She used air quotes and chuckled, unable to resist getting his goat. "We have done our jobs, and well. What, exactly, is yours? Besides judging and doomsaying?"

[Mr Stereo1]

The priest looks doubtfully at the scientist's claims. "I guard the soul of America from damnation." Joseph answers with the utmost seriousness. "If you doubt the meaning of that mission I need only point to the Wastes above us to show you what becomes of a people without Christian morals."

[Hazuki]

"Can't even guard the six of us from a pain in the ass..." Marilyn mutters under her breath, having spent the duration of the argument thus far staring at the table and waiting for it to end.

[Sophistemon]

Debra Lorraine, Director of the Agricultural Committee, raised her work-rough hands and urged for civility. “Please,” she said, voice quavering. “Please, let’s not forget why we’re here. We’re all friends and neighbors; that’s what binds us together as one great big happy family, and why we’re asking you to go to the surface. We need to keep our minds, and our hearts, set on what’s important: restoring the generator so that things can go back to normal.” She looked at the Chosen Ones, each in turn, until her gaze settled on the Reverend. “That means – I’m sorry – this means all other concerns are secondary.”

Director Rosario, head of the Medical Committee, nodded sagely and intertwined his fingers on the polished tabletop. “Look, we understand going up there is asking a lot, and we understanding that you’ve all got your reasons for wanting or not wanting to go. But this is what being a community is all about, isn’t it? Making sacrifices for the good of your fellow man: your friends and neighbors, to quote my colleague.” He sighed, clearly unhappy with the tone of the conversation. “Reverend Kennedy may be correct that the situation may not be infinitely sustainable; nothing lasts forever. But I’m sure we can all agree that fixing the generator will give us a greater opportunity to plan our next steps. Please, believe me when I say we’re already weighing our options and looking into what would be best for the Catacombs in the long run.”

“What my fellow Committee members are trying to say,” droned Director Sterling, “is that fixing the generator and restoring the Catacombs to normalcy is not only your primary objective, it’s your only objective. What’s more, and I cannot stress this enough, the location… hell, the existence of the Catacombs… is to remain a most closely guarded secret, to be protected with your lives if it comes to that.” He shifted in his chair. “We can all appreciate the Reverend’s devotion to the ideals of Christian charity, and I don’t blame any of your for thinking that way. The fact is we simply can’t support an influx of outsiders, or put our people at risk of losing what may be the only safe haven left in the United States. We have limited living space and, until we’ve repaired the generator, even more limited resources than normal. There simply isn’t enough to go around.” He, too, looked at each of the Chosen Ones. “I hope I’ve made myself clear. Understand that any and all outsiders will be barred entry, by force if need be. Nobody wants that confrontation on their hands.”

A soft cough interrupted the discussion, and all heads turned to regard Director Patricia Morton, of the Maintenance Committee. “We’ve gone off-track,” she said. “Though not without good reason; the human element of what we’re doing is important, and part of why I believe the Reverend’s presence on the team is a good thing.” She lifted a small remote and thumbed a button, bringing the screen behind her to life. It displayed a rotating green wireframe of the damaged fusion generator. “Here’s what we know so far: a currently unexplained energy surge damaged three critical components beyond our ability to repair. These components, a flux sensor, a haptic drive, and a reflex capacitor, need to be replaced if we’re going to get the generator up and running again.” With three more clicks, the damaged components also appeared on scree, slowly rotating. “Please study the diagrams. I shouldn’t need to tell you that the most likely place to find these pieces of hardware are in similar generators, but I’d encourage you to seek out newer examples if possible, to ensure a greater longevity. You could prioritize pre-War hardware stores, perhaps.” She leaned forward in her chair. “Remember that we need compatible components, or it’s pointless. I’d hate to think of you risking your lives for a piece of technology we can’t use.” She glanced at the more engineering-oriented members of the group. “I imagine it will fall to you to identify and extract the components.” She leaned back in her chair and smiled. “I want to say that I have full confidence in your ability to succeed. I think that’s been understated; I don’t think the lottery could have produced a more qualified group of people, on average.”

“Hear-hear,” interjected Lonnie Burke, Director of the Civic Committee. “Let me just say how much we all appreciate what you’re setting out to do. Now, I know it isn’t ideal, but I’m so glad we’re able to solve this little problem of ours with a community effort. Sure, sure, I know some people might say it’s smarter to send a ‘strike force’ of the Security Committee’s best and brightest to go and get what we need, but I think we can all agree it’s best we’re handling things more democratically.” He beams widely, and then tries to force a more serious expression. “Right, so, I can already see that you’ve got some of your own equipment, but I don’t want you to think the Executive Committee’s throwing you to the wolves while you’re up there saving our bacon. Each of you will be given a sidearm, ammunition, and ballistic vest from the Security Committee, two Stimpaks each from the Medical Committee, and some long-lasting rations from the Agricultural Committee. What’s more, the Maintenance Committee has retrofitted one of their robots to provide you with much-needed information on the surface, to function as a sort of portable terminal, with all of the abilities that implies. You’ve already met.” He raised a hand and indicated Daisy, the Miss Nanny hovering silently in the corner of the room. The robot bobbed down and back up, limbs arching in an approximation of a curtsy.

“I ahm so hahppy to ahccahmpahny you on your journey!” it gushed. “I ahm very eagair to be of service. I prahmise to do my very very best to get everyone hahme sahfe ahnd sound.”

[Wyldephang]

Harris said nothing as the preacher and the scientist traded barbs, as he believed it was important not to appear to take sides this early in the partnership. A long journey was laid out before the draftees, and one never knows when one might need the support and timely counsel of a friend. Besides, Harris discovered at this moment that he really did not know much about prewar culture, religion, or politics and struggled to find a stake in any of it.

"I guard the soul of America from damnation."

America, to Harris, was little more than something talked about in history class. What is America? Life in the Mt. Dora Catacombs comprised his past, present, and future and the entirety of his worldview, and no one in Harris' private circle ever spoke of what life was like before the bombs fell. It was just occurring to him now that he would be making first contact with people on the outside who may have never attended a pitball game or tasted the succulent bite of grilled rashpepper steak. These were people, Harris imagined, who had no reason to trust outsiders.

When the schematics of the crippled generator and the faulty components flashed across the screen, Harris studied them carefully, attempting to recall details from the numerous lectures he endured in his father's shop. He recognized some of the components and could recite from memory their basic functions. He remembered deconstructing an old haptic drive meant for a much smaller piece of machinery, and wondered if the principles were the same for the generator powering the catacombs.

Acknowledging Director Morton with his eyes still fixed on the monitor, Harris said, "Hardware stores would be a good start. And I'm sure they ought to have some garages out there, too. Maybe we could pick some salvage there. But none of this matters if we're going in blind. We need to make connections."

Harris then turned to face Reverend Kennedy. "Sir, I think this can work both ways. Look, I'm all for helping the folks outside, but we won't get anywhere without their cooperation, and we oughtn't to do anything to mess that up. Let's talk to them and see where they're at. We earn their trust, get the parts we need, and then we can worry about peoples' souls."

Harris stood up and approached the robot.

"Nice to meet you, miss."

Turning back toward the table, Harris asked, "When do we set off?"

[Blarghy]

Initially, the debate about the Mt. Dora's future was intriguing, but as tempers flared, the Handyman became quietly uncomfortable. He studied the ceiling, the table, his own shoes, and tried to block out the discord. It all seemed so premature. Brainstorming and hypothetical scenarios were sometimes helpful, but they had no idea what the outside world held for them. For all he knew, the Catacombs could very well contain the only remaining humans on Earth. Alternatively, the surface could've fully recovered and rendered their sanctuary unnecessary. Without more data--or frankly, any data--all this bickering was a waste of valuable time.

He memorized the diagrams with greater interest (and little effort). Here was his objective, not souls or philosophy. Tangible machinery in need of repair? That was a problem he understood.

On the subject of resources, the Handyman mentally incorporated the new gear into his budget. Armor was good. Stimpaks and rations, better. And a Miss Nanny, the best. Daisy got a rare treat: a tiny smile. All of his companions hovered between the "Reliable" and "Unreliable" categories in his mind, but this robot, he was confident he could depend on. When time permitted, he would speak with her about possible improvements. No one was perfect, after all, so who'd complain about a bit of tinkering among friends?

It was the Handyman's habit to typically speak only to answer necessary questions, so when Harris brought up their departure, he suggested, "We should leave immediately. Preparations are already complete." Why wait?

One final issue weighed on his mind, however. Director Morton described the initial problem as an unexplained energy surge. The Handyman was well aware that sometimes these things just happened, but after witnessing the discord concerning their future, a strange possibility occurred to him. He watched the preacher from the corner of his eye. Out of all of them, Joseph wanted to leave. He wanted to open the Catacombs to the outside world.

What if this was no accident?

The Handyman knew that speculation without data was potentially risky and, if nothing else, wasteful. But he wondered.

[Spectre_j]

Ellie wasn't particularly ready to stop antagonizing the self-righteous Reverend, but she acknowledged it wasn't he best start to their journey. The world above would provide ample opportunity to humble him, she was sure. Dropping the caustic remarks that were ready to leap from her tongue, She stood and walked over to the robot, looking it up and down, considering. "Charmed, Daisy," She said, looking the hovering automaton in one of its optical sensors, "I will be speaking to Handyman about your sensor capabilities and what upgrades we might be able to give you. You could be the most useful asset we have." "Not to mention your value to my research." She added in her head, "Please, as your first task, retrieve any prewar physical maps we have of the surface above. Much will have changed over the last century and a half, I'm sure, but the information could prove invaluable and," She looked at the Handyman, "I think we should take some small amount of time to gather what information we can and try to figure out a hierarchy before leaving. Disputes above could endanger our survival, so we need to figure out how we handle the interpersonal issues. I know it isn't exactly something you enjoy, but it is necessary."

She turned to face the Executives. "Unexplained energy surge? Without knowing the cause, getting new parts might not mean much if another "unexplained" surge can put us right back to square one. Do we have a contingency plan for that? Or any leads on what happened? If we are sent on this mission and it is invalidated by incompetence I will be very unhappy."

[Blarghy]

"Charmed, Daisy," She said, looking the hovering automaton in one of its optical sensors, "I will be speaking to Handyman about your sensor capabilities and what upgrades we might be able to give you. You could be the most useful asset we have."

Though his smile had quickly faded, the Handyman found this agreeable as well, and nodded twice to signal not only understanding, but approval.

She looked at the Handyman, "I think we should take some small amount of time to gather what information we can and try to figure out a hierarchy before leaving. Disputes above could endanger our survival, so we need to figure out how we handle the interpersonal issues. I know it isn't exactly something you enjoy, but it is necessary."

Then a moment later, his eyebrows lifted just a fraction in mild alarm. A hierarchy among themselves? When the group was already rife with discord? Social matters were hardly his expertise, but the Handyman predicted that Ellie's goal might prove difficult. He'd probably have to talk, and any plan based on conversation was a plan the Handyman viewed with apprehension.

Unsure of what to say, he merely glanced at the others and gave a tiny shrug.

[Hazuki]

Marilyn loiters as the introductions continue and she still doesn't have her gun.