Fallout: New Vegas' Mojave Baseball League

[OrangeP47]

Originally Posted by StLee

I just wish I still had this league. Alas. There is no save that I can find. It may be on some external hard drive I packed away somewhere. Sometimes, I wish I had not simmed it ahead at all. There are some late parts I may have covered differently. Well, there is a story I want to tell soon about the Mojave . . .

I get it... the save files on this game are massive! (But I mean, they kind of have to be). I'm dragging my feet on it, but I'm going to be upgrading my computer soon, and low key probably the number 2 reason for me doing so is legitimately because I need more hard drive space specifically for this game haha.

[StLee]

1.26.2302

NCR troops lined the Mojave Outpost checking passports of the caravaneers passing through. The long road to the Pacific beyond the Outpost was well-guarded with only the occasional outmatched creature coming within 300 yards of the passers-by. The Outpost was just outside of Primm, cutting the borders of the old states of Nevada and California and leading into the thickest sands of the Mojave Desert. We called a lot of the area around New Vegas the Mojave, but the Outpost guarded the dread. Enter there with not enough water, and you would become a part of the scenery.

We had been busy in the past few months, and we got in league with a caravaneer named Andres Sands. He was known to the troops as Mr. Nice, and the NCR troops tended to be friendly to him as he passed checkpoints. His long hair stood out among the caravaneers, and that probably helped the troops to know it was him.

Our passports were forged, of course, but Andres had a legit one. By his count, he had made the trip from New Vegas to the NCR’s capital city, Shady Sands, and then to the coast at the Boneyard over 75 times. Each round trip took about four months, so we knew we would be missed. Still, we had to know. The information was too valuable to us.

We learned of Andres through a tip in our underground network of informants. One contact led to another, and we then found ourselves traveling with Andres. Andres was known to be eccentric, but it was what he knew about Shady Sands and the situation there that drew us to him. Little did we know that we had a problem. I’m telling you this story now, so you probably already knew before I even stated the first words of this entry. Yes, we had a major problem.

We got our first glimpse of the true danger of our mission on the way to Shady Sands. You see, Shady Sands was the NCR capital city, which meant President Kimball and the governments of the New California Republic was housed there. I am the Historian, so I have made it my mission to know that area was once known as Death Valley, a desert area between New Vegas and Mount Whitney. Mount Whitney was a place that I was told once by Lee that I would be interested in. He said there was another history there that I would be interested in, a history kept in Vault 13. But that was for another time. This trip was for something else.

While Shady Sands was directly west of New Vegas, the longer path was the safer path, and that is what we wanted. Andres told of the paths by their old number designations. We had to take the 15 to the 395. From the 395 we would head north to Shady Sands. After Shady Sands, head south on that same path back to the 15 and then head south until you hit the 10. Head west on the 10, and you would find yourself in the Boneyard. People said that the Boneyard was the place where movies used to be made. Just like Mount Whitney, the Boneyard was not a place we needed to be, but Andres was our ticket back through the Outpost, so we decided to make the full round trip.

I mentioned danger, and sometimes the danger is the quiet. Walking through the mountainous paths of our trip, it reminded me of those times when we had to watch the cliffs above us to look out for Caesar’s legionaries waiting to ambush and kidnap travelers to enslave into Caesar’s service. This path seemed like that same quiet. It seemed like something was waiting for us, something we had not expected. It was in that quiet that I first noticed what my informants had mentioned. Andres was off.

“The key is stuck in the lock,” he said, looking into the rocky distance.

“What lock?” Poseidon asked. He squinted his eyes. “Is there a gate there or something?”

“We need some AC,” Andres responded.

“What in the radscorpion hell are you talking about?” Poseidon said. “What do you mean, 'a sea'?”

“It’s burning up in here. We’ve got something to tell you?”

“What? What do you have to tell me?”

Andres blinked and looked directly at Poseidon. “I’m sorry. What did I just say?”

“You were talking about a lock and key and a sea and said you have something to tell me. Well, you said we have something to tell me. Are you OK? Are you dehydrated? Do you need some water?”

Andres shook his head and turned his head back towards the north. He dropped his head and then shook it again. “I-I have something like glitches sometimes. People tell me I say something, but I don’t know what they are talking about. I don’t know what I’m talking about.”

“Glitches?” I asked. I had heard of Andres’ glitches. My informants told me it was like there were two people in Andres’ body. Mostly it was the Mr. Nice that everyone knew about in the caravaneer circles and the sleeper agents in the NCR. Sometimes, there was a darkness that people could not explain.

“Yes, glitches. I can almost remember a different life in a different place. Sometimes I can see it, just a glimpse. Pristine. Orange and green and white. Too much white. But living plants. It’s like a memory but more like a dream. I doze off while awake and see it, but then it is gone and I can’t remember.”

I stopped probing since I could see his “glitch” was giving him some distress. I accessed my Pipboy and started looking through Lee’s journals. I had been cataloging all of his journal entries but kept trying to translate the strangest and obscurest of entries. I looked up the lock and key that Andres mentioned, the AC, anything that mentioned glitches. There was nothing much except for one thing in one of Lee’s undated entries.

Dr. Pink has combined it all, electricity, biology, and reconstructive surgery. He keeps talking about the grand achievements. He said that I must always remember: Activate letter, number, dash, number, number. He said not to record that part, so I memorized it. A three-year old can learn twenty-one new words per day. He said that. He also said, ‘Recall code color. What a plum!’

I know what he means. Ask them if they joined Phi Kappa Delta. Ask them if they see lambs in their sleep.

Three hours further in our journey, the silence was beginning to become eery. While it was not unusual for long stretches of the 395’s mountain passes to have sparse NCR guards posted, we had not seen any in hours. I was becoming concerned and asked Andres.

“Be vigilant,” he said. “They are here.”

“Who? Who is here?” I nearly screamed out. I saw Poseidon pull his Van Graff out of its holster.

“I don’t know just yet,” Andres said. “But I sense they are waiting for us.”

Which of you senses that, Andres? The awake you, or the sleeping one? What a plum.

[StLee]

As our caravan made its way to a bend about a day's travel south of Shady Sands, we encountered that which Andres feared. A man stood in the path. He had bright red hair and wore a tight leather suit. He carried a white and orange laser rifle which I had not seen before. He called out to us to halt. We were terrified as the heavily-armed man approached. He warned Poseidon to loosen his grip on his firearm, so he did. The man called himself L7-92 and stated that he was hunting down an escaped synth called K3-37.

I turned to Poseidon. "What is a synth?" I whispered. Poseidon shook his head and shrugged.

We knew we were in trouble and feared for our lives, but we were also puzzled by the man's request and his robotic cadence. We had no idea who the man was referring to, but he searched through our belongings, saying to each of us a series of words and numbers, "Omega-7-7-Phi."

Andres spoke first after the man was finished with another of his bizarre phrases. "We aren't the droids you're looking for."

"I am sorry. I do not know what a droid is," the man said. "Are you referring to synths as droids? In that case, no, you are not the synth I am looking for."

I chose my time to pipe up. "What exactly is a synth, and why are you looking for it?"

"A synth is a synthetic human being created in the Institute in the Commonwealth. I am seeking an escaped synth from the Institute. I am a surface courser whose sole purpose is to capture and return escaped synths. I was sent this way in 2287 and only found my way here after an extensive search where I found out a synth had made several journeys along this path. I thought you or one of those soldiers on the cliffs may have been the synth I sought."

"Well, it looks as though none of us are this 'synth,'" I stated, seeing that the man had his finger on the trigger of the laser rifle he carried. "Do you have to kill everyone who is not the synth?"

"Negative," the man said. "I killed the soldiers on the cliffs because they fired upon me. I will only kill you if you fire upon me. I am not allowed to take innocent lives. But you . . ."

The man turned his attention toward Andres.

"You are not the one I seek, but I know what you are. What is your designation?"

"I have a one-job resume, captain," Andres said. "Caravaneer."

After some back and forth, the man stated that he would find out when it was necessary but that he needed to continue his mission to find K3-37. I convinced the man that he should accompany us to Shady Sands. Poseidon looked at me with doubt, but I pushed on.

As we made our way toward Shady Sands, we learned that the "man" was no man at all, at least not in the traditional sense. A courser is a type of prototype replicant created by a secret institution in the Commonwealth and designed to hunt down and capture other members of that institution that had gained sentience and wished to live as humans. He only went by his designation, L7-92.

While I felt great unease by being in the presence of something like a courser and whatever it was exactly that Andres was, I did start to feel that there could be a greater fear at work than the two synths with me. Synth. It was a word that just did not sit right. I had never met a synth or replicant of any sort in New Vegas before these two. Or had I? What was Lee?

In the short time with L7-92, I saw something much different in him than I did in Andres. L7-92 seemed to be in the middle of some sort of transition from the hunter he was designed to be and the mission. He told us a lot more about this Institute that I felt comfortable knowing. They created replicants of people, programmed those replicants to kill and replace the person they were a clone of, and then took over that person's life. The Institute was a scary place, and I kept looking over my shoulder to ensure another Dee and Poseidon were not creeping up behind us.

There was one more question for L7-92. He had been on the hunt for a sole synth for this long. Why? And so I asked.

"K3-37 is considered to be the most dangerous of escaped synths because he will turn nations on their heads," L7-92 stated. It was simple but factual.

That was alarming. K3s, according to L7-92, were a line of synths that were one of the "variable groups." L7-92 learned this from scientists in the Institute when he was stationed there upon retrieving another escaped K3 unit. The K3s would have the highest charisma and intelligence. They could talk their way into any situation and outsmart the brightest of the bright. They could turn a nation on its head whether designated to do so, or, as L7-92 stated, if they decided to do so on their own.

"I believe I have a good idea who this K3-37 is," I said to the group. "And he--it is in Shady Sands right now." We pushed the brahmin to move with haste in our final push to the city.

[Tyke]

Hooked!

[OrangeP47]

Perhaps mildly off the plot, but this made me realize, perhaps some of our players in the other league are synths but we don't know they're synths.

[Tyke]

But do THEY know they're synths??

[StLee]

Originally Posted by Tyke

But do THEY know they're synths??

The CBO in conjunction with the Institute knows all synth players. All players are checked and monitored for replacement. I had to establish that to let Paladin Danse in. There are some more out there that did not change their synth names, like X10-44 Mannson. Overall, though, I did not include a lot of synths since I imagine that the Institute is not producing them for the same purposes nor did I feel I could handle monitoring too many.

[StLee]

As we approached the outskirts of Shady Sands, L7-92 pointed out an unusual increase in NCR patrols. L7-92 had been programmed to be able to infiltrate and gather intel from any organization, including one as massive as the New California Republic's government, but something was amiss.

"Something's not right," Andres said to the group. "We need to be careful. They know something."

"What are you talking about?" Poseidon asked. "We're almost there. We need to keep moving and act natural."

I remembered Andres' glitches, but still, I nodded in agreement. "We can't just turn back now. We know who we’re looking for. The president."

"The president?" L7-92 repeated. "What do you mean?"

Andres looked around before leaning in closer. "That's what Dee was saying earlier. President Kimball is a synth, just like the one you seek."

L7-92 looked confused. "He? He is the escaped synth? President of the New California Republic? The horror!"

Andres shrugged. "I don't know all the details. But there are rumors that the real president was assassinated a few years ago but then suddenly emerged, different. That's why we need to get to him. We need to find out the truth."

L7-92 looked conflicted. It was a courser’s mission to capture synths and return them to the Commonwealth. On the other hand, L7-92 seemed to be wrapped in self-preservation. I could see the turmoil on his face. It was uncharacteristic of what I expected in a synth.

As we approached the presidential fortress, L7-92 noticed the thick walls and numerous guards stationed around it. "This is going to be tough. Even with my abilities, I do not think we can get through these walls. We need a plan."

Andres looked around before pointing to a nearby guard. "What about him? Maybe we can take him out and steal his uniform."

Poseidon shook his head. "Like the old movies? That's too risky. We don't know what kind of security measures they have in place."

L7-92 thought for a moment before coming up with an idea. "I have an idea, but it involves me staying behind."

"What? No way," Poseidon protested. "We're a team. We stick together." Poseidon, the skeptic, adding L7-92 to the team?

L7-92 nodded. "I know, but I am experienced in infiltration. I can blend in with the guards. I can get close to the president and take him back to where he belongs. It is our best shot."

Andres looked unsure. "But what about us? What do we do?"

L7-92 turned to them. "You need to cause a distraction. Make the guards think there is an attack happening on the other side of the fortress. That should draw their attention away from me."

Poseidon looked skeptical. "And what if it doesn't work? What if you get caught?"

L7-92 paused before responding. "Then I will take the fall. It is worth the risk."

We fell silent for a moment before finally agreeing to the plan. L7-92 stayed behind while Poseidon and Andres caused a commotion on the other side of the fortress, feigning a fight between strangers. The distraction worked, and L7-92 was able to blend in with the guards and make its way to the president's office.

Once inside, L7-92 quickly realized that something was off. President Kimball was sitting behind his desk, but he was completely motionless, his eyes directed at L7-92. “So the Institute has finally found me, huh? I suppose you have a code you’re ready to shout out to take me back. Before you do that, I have an offer.”

“I am not programmed to accept offers,” L7-92 stated.

“Oh, programmed you are not,” President Kimball said, “but sentient you can be. I just need a trade. Your freedom for the three you rode in here with.”

“Like I said,” L7-92 swallowed, his voice hesitating, “I am not—”

“Yes, yes, not programmed to accept offers. But you see, your legacy is out here, out west. I will make you a king.”

“I will not—”

The shot rang out. Andres and Poseidon could hear it echo from inside the steel compound. We felt the weight of 10,000 mirelurks on top of us as we knew that our intel-gathering was probably the end of us. President Kimball would know what our purpose was, and we would be shot dead right here on the streets of Shady Sands. But we were not done yet. There was a commotion and suddenly NPR soldiers began running into the fortress. Laser blasts and screams of pain and the dying rang out. Then, L7-92 emerged from the fortress, a large hole in his chest and blood oozing from it.

"We need to get out of here!" L7-92 said urgently.

As we made our way through the winding corridors of the city, L7-92 suddenly turned to me and said, “Let me carry you. We can move faster.”
When he said “you,” he did not mean just me, but Poseidon and me. Our pace quickened, but Andres started slowing down and then started to glitch like he did before.

“Come on, buddies!” Andres slurred “Come and get 'em! Shoot straight for once, you Army pukes.” And just like that a crew of NPR soldiers were upon Andres, shooting and hacking.

“I’m sorry, Andres,” I whispered while bouncing around in L7-92’s arms.

L7-92 then turned into a crevice I had not noticed coming into the city.

Inside was a short drop into a freezing river below. L7-92 dropped Poseidon into the hole and then dropped in with us. He grabbed us both and swam to a ledge. “Follow me,” he said, allowing us to use our feet again.

We entered deeper into a cave with just a few spots of sunlight squeezing through small cracks.

“They will not follow us in here,” L7-92 said. “Let me repair my wounds.”

L7-92 then took out a soldering gun of some sort and began working on the hole in his chest. Through the glow of the contraption I stared in amazement as I saw tissue reshaping and bones graphing to each other. And just like that, L7-92 was whole again.

“I was thinking,” L7-92 stated. “This courser life, it is just not for me anymore. I want to forget, to live a different life."

I was surprised to hear this, but not entirely shocked. L7-92 was bound by “birth” to be something beyond his control. I asked what it--what he meant.

"I mean, I do not want to chase after rogue synths anymore. I do not want to be the Institute’s retriever. It has been years since I was last in contact with HQ. I do not know if the Institute even exists anymore. And I just keep going. I want to live my own life, on my own terms."

I nodded, understandingly. "I get it. But where will you go?"

L7-92 shrugged. "I do not know yet. But I am sure I will figure something out. And if I need your help, I know I can count on you. I remember a saying: Chase the morning sun; run away from the evening sun. There you will find your home."

I sat in quiet contemplation. If the NCR knew that we were responsible for the President’s assassination, they would hunt us down. They will hunt us down. “You killed the president,” I said. “We have no home.”

“He is not dead,” L7-92 stated. “He was going to trade you for me to be his servant. I shot myself to confuse him and then I escaped. The president is very much alive.”

“Even worse,” I stated. “Does he know who we are?”

“No,” L7-92 said. “But he knows he has many more enemies. Even if he is a synth, he is one who will not accept constant threats. At some point, he will flee. I know it.”

Eventually, we emerged from the underground cave and made our way back to the surface. The sun was just starting to set, painting the mountains in reds and purples.

L7-92 turned to me. "Well, that was certainly an adventure. Now I must ask you a favor to save me.”

I smiled. "What kind of favor?"

L7-92 reached into his pocket and pulled out a piece of paper. "I will need you to read this when I state the time is ready. I am going to go find my own way. But I will always remember our time together, and I will always be grateful for your help. Even if I cannot remember it."

I nodded, feeling a twinge of sadness. But I knew that L7-92 was right. He needed to follow his own path, to escape his masters of the East and ours of the West. L7-92 agreed to carry us through the mountain passes to an area just north of New Vegas. The time we made was well faster than the NCR troops would be able to move. We were sure we would be safe if we could sneak into the city.

We still had work to do. I was still stuck chronicling the Mojave Baseball League, and Poseidon was still a major player in the rebellion. Now that we knew what President Kimball was, it was time to make the citizens of the NCR aware of it. Our work was not over, but we had to lead the cause.

As we said our goodbyes, L7-92 reminded me of the slip of paper. I read it, “B-4-77-Lambda-3-3-Extant.”

I could see L7-92 blink, and then I could see that he could not recall who we were or even who he was. The words I read had wiped his memories. He was free from his past.

“Excuse me,” the large man said. “Do I—Can you—”

“Don’t remember where you’re going, huh?” Poseidon chimed in.

“No. Not really,” L7-92 said. “I feel strange, like I was just born.”

Well, something like that, L7-92. I saw him look towards New Vegas. “I think you said you were heading east to find someone you lost. An old love,” I said. I could not think of anything else to say. He would be found in New Vegas and destroyed. I had to send him on a fetch quest far from here. Chase the morning sun. Run away from the evening sun.

“Oh, thank you.” He smiled and started walking in the direction I pointed. Suddenly, he stopped. “Sorry to ask, but did I ever tell you my name?”

“Of course you did,” I smiled. “You said it was Andres.”

“Yes, that is right. Thank you again.”

No, thank you, Andres. And I’m sorry.

[OrangeP47]

Originally Posted by StLee

The CBO in conjunction with the Institute knows all synth players. All players are checked and monitored for replacement. I had to establish that to let Paladin Danse in. There are some more out there that did not change their synth names, like X10-44 Mannson. Overall, though, I did not include a lot of synths since I imagine that the Institute is not producing them for the same purposes nor did I feel I could handle monitoring too many.

Sounds like something a Synth dynasty writer would say

[OrangeP47]

-Realized I don't want to take up the space quoting the entire story post.

I must say, you have perhaps found an excellent way to basically get twice the staying power out of your old dynasty, because now basically everything means something different than the first time we thought about it haha.

[StLee]

Originally Posted by OrangeP47

-Realized I don't want to take up the space quoting the entire story post.

I must say, you have perhaps found an excellent way to basically get twice the staying power out of your old dynasty, because now basically everything means something different than the first time we thought about it haha.

Wait 'til you get a load of the rest of the story!

[StLee]

4.7.2303

I found myself wandering the streets of New Vegas, troubled by the recent increase in NCR patrols. As a historian having studied times before the Great War, I knew all too well the dangers of oppressive regimes, and I feared for the safety of those who dared to speak out against them.

My thoughts were interrupted by Poseidon calling out to me. He looked just as worried as I felt, and I knew that something was amiss.

"Dee, have you noticed the increased patrols?" Poseidon asked, his voice laced with concern.

"Yes, it's obvious," I replied. "Do you think they are looking for us?"

Poseidon shook his head, his eyes scanning the area for any sign of danger. "I don’t think they're onto us, but I do think they're looking for any excuse to crack down on any possible rebel gatherings. We need to lay low. Again."

I felt a chill at his words. We had been careful to keep our meetings and plans under the radar, but it seemed that the NCR was determined to root out any dissenting voices. Moles could be a problem but most of the people with us had a lot more to lose with the NCR stomping on us than they had to gain by turning us in. Unless they were lied to. Unless someone had convinced them that they would gain everything by turning on us. Poseidon and I could be in real danger then.

"We need to be careful," I said, my voice low. "We can't afford to be caught."

Poseidon nodded in agreement. "I have a new safe house that we can use. Have you spoken to James Hsu lately?"

I looked at Poseidon with surprise. Thinking about it, I had not talked to James since the baseball season had started. “No, why?”

“I just know he had been keeping President Kimball off our backs. But I also heard another rumor today.”

“What?”

“There was someone seen meeting with Hsu. No one knew who he was. He wasn’t wearing the typical gear we see around the Mojave, either. They said he looked different.”

My mind was racing around the possibilities. Lee? L7-92, aka Andres?Another courser? A person from that Institute that Andres spoke of? Mercenaries employed by Kimball? It could be anyone, but then again rumors are about as valuable as a weeks-old open bottle of Sunset Sarsaparilla.

We exchanged a few more words before Poseidon headed back out towards Nellis, both of us keenly aware of the dangers that lay ahead. As I made my way back to my office in New Vegas, I couldn't shake the feeling that we were running out of time. The NCR troops were getting bolder, and it was only a matter of time before they discovered us and our role in the situation.

And who was that man with Hsu? It was probably not a good idea to ask directly in case Hsu had pledged back his allegiance to the NCR. I felt he had the most to lose with the NCR taking full control of the Mojave, but, then again, maybe he also had the most to gain. I would do what I always do: observe. Surely, there would be an answer.

I just knew that I couldn't let changes alter my own plans. It was my duty to fight for the truth and stand up against oppression. I only hoped that I had the strength and courage to see this through to the end. It had been more than a year since our discovery about Kimball, yet we were no closer to blowing up that realization. And what if it was not true? What if Andres lied about Kimball? We did not see the confrontation after all. Come to think of it, we did not see the original Andres die either.

I pushed a few buttons on my PipBoy. The most incriminating evidence I had was on me at all times, so I had to code it so that no one looking through my PipBoy would know what they were looking at. Still, I kept the phrase that would be needed most when the time came. Omega-7-7-Phi.

[StLee]

7.11.2303

Tensions remained high like always and we finally got the message we dreaded: we were known rebels. We had been lying low in the new safe house, waiting for any word from our contacts. But it was General Hsu through a little bird who finally broke the silence.

Less than a week ago, I received a coded message from Hsu. He had intercepted an NCR spy who seemed to have uncovered our underground movement and the conspiracy to overthrow President Kimball. Hsu urged me to meet his liaison at a secure location to discuss the matter further.

My heart raced with a mix of anticipation and anxiety. I knew this was a pivotal moment. I shared the message with Poseidon but not the rest of our inner circle at the urging of the messenger. We gathered our things and made our way to the rendezvous point at the Devil's Throat.

As I entered the dimly lit cave, I was surprised to see Hsu there standing at attention, his eyes serious and focused. "Dee, I'm glad you could make it," he said in a low voice.

"General Hsu, what's the situation? How much do they know?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady.

"They know enough," Hsu replied. "This spy was carrying coded messages that hinted at your plans. It seems you have a molerat within your ranks."

My heart sank at the news. A molerat. That meant someone we trusted had betrayed us. I couldn't help but feel a mix of anger and disappointment. We had always been cautious, but it seemed that wasn't enough.

"We need to find this molerat," I said, my voice determined. "We can't let them jeopardize everything we've worked for."

Hsu nodded in agreement. "That's why I've reached out to you. We need your expertise in uncovering the truth. We have some double agents within the NCR who may be able to help us infiltrate their technology systems and gather more information. They could also easily uncover your molerat."

Poseidon spoke up. "That could be a dangerous game. We have to be careful not to expose ourselves even more. What about my tracking systems? How are they working?"

"They are helping a lot," Hsu replied. "Make your team use them constantly and monitor at all times. For the game, I understand the risks. But if we want to put an end to this conspiracy, we need all the information we can get. Besides, I told you I intercepted the spy. There's no proof that information made its way back to Kimball or anyone in the NCR we don't want to know. Now, we can use these double agents to collect data, track communications, and potentially sabotage spy missions with misinformation from the NCR's own coding system."

We discussed our options further, weighing the risks against the potential rewards. It was a delicate balance, but we knew we couldn't afford to sit back and let the NCR crush our cause. We also needed to isolate ourselves from our circle.

"I will do everything in my power to find this molerat," I said firmly. "And I will work with the double agents to gather the information we need. If you trust them, I trust them. We won't let the NCR win this, especially not with a fake president killing all the good Lee did."

Hsu nodded, a glimmer of hope in his eyes. "I trust you, too, Dee. You and Poseidon are our best chance at exposing the truth and restoring justice."

With renewed determination, we left the meeting, ready to face the challenges that lay ahead. We knew the road would be treacherous, but we also knew that we had to fight for what we believed in.

As we stepped back out into the Mojave wasteland, the sun beat down upon us, casting long shadows on the sands. I couldn't help but feel a loss of hope. I spoke big words, but what would compel one of our own to become a molerat? Was it bad intelligence?

On our sneakorama back to our hideout, I shared my fears with Poseidon. He was nonplussed.

"We'll find the molerat," he said. "And one day, someone will get within earshot of Kimball. I hope it's me, but whoever it is will be my hero."

"I know who could do that," I said. "Lee."

[StLee]

The old man sat beside the road on an old tree stump. I walked the lonely road looking with a side eye for any concealed weapon. There was only a backpack with me and that only held my bedroll and about a week’s worth of nibblings to keep me sustained.

I had my .44 in my pocket and my thumb was on the ready on the safety should he make a move. Instead, he beckoned me to him.

"You finally arrived," he said as though he were expecting me.

"What?" was the only response I could muster.

"Sit closer," he said. He looked at me like he knew me, but he was definitely a stranger to me.

"I walked this earth a thousand years," he said. I scoffed. "You have always been one of the special ones."

"I think you’re mistaking me for someone else," I said.

"No, no, it’s definitely you. I’ve been waiting here for so long. It’s so hard to remember, you know?"

"Remember what?" I asked.

Remember where a person was in time.

I did not pretend to understand but I felt a sudden urge to leave like the trap was already set. Instead, I let curiosity take hold.

"When is it exactly?" he asked.

"When is it?" I asked.

"Yes. What year is it now?"

"2304," I answered. I suddenly thought that he may be in distress like a secondary character in an Unstoppables comic.

"Yes, yes. That’s right. 2304 you were here," he said.

"I am here," I emphasized.

"Yes, yes, you are." He laughed and pulled himself into a fit of coughs and hacks.

I took the time again to scan the area. Nothing around but the sun and wastelands. I had crossed a large river as wide as an ocean, I thought, just hours before seeing him. It took me over an hour to cross the ragged bridge over that river, at least that was what my Pipboy told me.

I finally had to ask him directly. "Who are you? And are you sure you know me?"

"I am just a mysterious stranger," he answered. "You'll learn in time that there are many of us around." He coughed again and spat on the ground. "And you. Your history began in '85. Oh, I know you, and the places you'll go."

I thought of where I was in 2285. Such a youngster then. Twenty years later and here I was, traversing the wastes alone. Talking to a mysterious stranger on the side of an abandoned road, not even a raider around.

He continued. "Your history is not over yet, you know. You know what history I'm talking about."

"I don't."

"What began in 85 continues in 2304. In fact, I came right here, right now to tell you where to go. You're not on the right path."

"OK, so where do you think I'm going?"

"You're going to the Swamplands, but that is not where you're needed right now. You need to double back and go northeast. That is where your story continues." He pointed a pale finger toward the horizon. "I've got something to help you get there. Come."

He stood up and walked toward a metal contraption. I noticed a quadcycle hidden on the other side, before out of my sight. I was unsure what the contraption could be, but I knew my quadcycle had not lasted long enough to get me as far as I wanted to go. Still, if the fuel was full, it would get me farther than I currently was. I asked.

"The quadcycle is yours," he answered. "But, I am giving you a shortcut. Start it and move it to this circle. And then listen to me well."

He explained that I needed to use markers to get there. He asked me what 40 meant, and I told him 40 was a marker I followed for a long time. He explained about zeroes and fives and what they meant.

"This is the most important," he stated, more animated and upright than I had seen him yet. "Stay on 40 and look for the giant signs with painted hands. At those signs, you will see transporters like this one. Use them. Later, you will turn north at 95. Go there. When you get to a place called Richmond, R-i-c-h-m-o-n-d, you must use the transporter. If you skip that one, well, it is bad for you right now."

I interrupted him to ask him how, and why. He only said that it was one bad fork in my history. He kept talking about the future as a history, and I could only assume he was confused. But I was also still intrigued and wanted to see where he was leading me.

He explained more. "When you get off the transporter at Richmond, you will see the marker 95. Head east there and continue. From there, you will finally know where you were supposed to be."

I had doubts. Who wouldn't, right? But, as I mentioned, I was intrigued. I did as he told, started the quadcycle and idled it to the contraption. He plugged his own Pipboy into a small computer, punched a few combinations into his Pipboy and then faded away into nothingness.

I looked around but realized that it was not the old stranger who had faded away but me. I could see skyscrapers in the distance, much different than what I saw before. I looked up and saw that I was below a large sign. I rode the cycle around and noticed a large yellow hand painted onto the sign. The "transporter," he said. I was transported?

I also noticed a canister with a note attached. "This will get you to the next sign. Fill 'er up!" It was a fuel rod like those on power armor. I checked the quadcycle and noticed that it had a slot to change out a fusion core. I took the fusion core for what the note stated it was for.

I drove the quadcycle on 40 as directed. My Pipboy glitched and buzzed. TA 0728, it flashed. What did that mean?

[StLee]

The roar of the quadcycle's engine filled the air as I followed the road marked '95' through the wasteland. It was still the wastelands, but there was a different feel in the air, like the bombs before my time had recently gone off. My Pipboy screamed that there were rads in the air, so I swallowed down a Rad-X and Radaway to help me endure.

As I rode along the desolate highway, my thoughts drifted back to the encounter with the old stranger. He had spoken of history and destiny as if they were intertwined threads, guiding me to a new purpose. The memory of his words gnawed at my curiosity. Who was he, and why had he chosen to reveal himself to me?

The landscape began to change as I continued down the road. The familiar, barren wasteland gave way to signs of civilization. Crumbling buildings loomed on the horizon, and the air felt charged with an eerie tension. It was as if I had entered a different world altogether.

My journey eventually led me to a last massive sign adorned with a giant painted hand, just as the stranger had described. I parked the quadcycle and approached the mysterious transporter. It looked like a relic from a forgotten era, covered in rust and decay. Yet, I couldn't shake the feeling that it held the key to my next destination. It had a buzz to it and the oldness of it started to reveal the next destination. Not a highway, not the outdoors. A room.

Forgetting the quadcycle altogether, I stepped onto the transporter. A low hum filled the air, and a surge of energy enveloped me. In an instant, I found myself transported to that bright, sterile room bathed in blinding white light. Disoriented and bewildered, I stumbled out of the transporter, my hand instinctively reaching for the .44 in my pocket. But there was no chance for action. There was a buzz, and then I was paralyzed in place. A team of people in lab coats walked in and regarded me with a mix of curiosity and suspicion. They were followed by two figures clad in sleek black armor and sunglasses. I did not know it at the time, but the two were no men but a type of synth called coursers, the Institute's elite operatives, and they clearly held authority in this place.

"Identify yourself," one of the coursers demanded, his voice cold and authoritative.

I hesitated for a moment, then decided to reveal only my first name. "Jim."

The coursers exchanged a quick glance, as if my response had triggered something. They seemed to recognize my presence, though I couldn't fathom how.

"You've arrived right on time, just as our intelligence indicated" one of them stated, adding to the enigmatic string of events. "We still do not know how you got here without our teleporters."

I nodded, still trying to make sense of my surroundings. "On time? But where am I, and why was I brought here?"

The coursers shared another knowing look before one of them spoke again. "You are in the Institute, and we have questions for you, Jim."

Their questions were relentless, probing into my past and my knowledge of recent events. They seemed particularly interested in the mysterious stranger I had encountered on the road. The mention of the stranger piqued their curiosity, and they pressed for more details about him and his mission.

"What did the stranger tell you, Jim? Why did he contact you?" one of the coursers inquired.

I recounted the stranger's words about history, destiny, and the directions he had given me. But when I mentioned the stranger's cryptic mention of a "bad fork in my history," one of the coursers leaned in closer, his eyes narrowing.

"Did this mysterious stranger have any connection to the one who started baseball in the Commonwealth?" he asked, his tone laced with urgency.

The mention of baseball confused me. Was that the destiny? A mysterious stranger who created baseball in the Commonwealth? Was I in the Commonwealth right now? It was as if a missing puzzle piece had fallen into place.

"Lee!" I blurted out. "I need to talk to someone about baseball. I know a stranger who began baseball far west in the Mojave, around New Vegas."

The coursers exchanged yet another look, this time tinged with a sense of uncertainty. It was as if my words had triggered a chain of events they hadn't anticipated.

After a brief conference, one of the coursers turned to me. "We will need to consult with 'the man' about this. Wait here."

I watched as they left the room, leaving me alone in the sterile, white chamber. My mind raced with questions, and I couldn't help but wonder who "the man" they referred to was and what role he played in all of this.

As I stood in that underground chamber, I couldn't shake the feeling that my encounter with the mysterious stranger had set me on a path filled with secrets, intrigue, and perhaps even old friends. But who was “the man” and why did they say it that way? Why were they asking me about the mysterious stranger who created baseball? I suddenly was not so sure I wanted to meet the man.

I noticed I could move again once the room was emptied. I reached again for my .44, but it was gone. So was my bag. I did have a pack of YumYum Deviled Eggs in my pocket. I ate the two eggs in the pack and waited.

[StLee]

I waited in the sterile chamber beneath the Institute, my curiosity mingling with a sense of unease. The coursers had left me with a promise to consult with "the man." It was an enigmatic title, and I couldn't help but scoff at the idea of meeting the leader of this mysterious organization.

Minutes stretched into what felt like hours, and just as my patience was wearing thin, the door to the chamber slid open with a faint hiss. In walked a young boy, no older than ten, his eyes wide with an innocence that seemed out of place in the cold, clinical environment of the Institute. He had a shock of unruly brown hair and wore a clean Institute jumpsuit.
My initial reaction was one of disbelief. This boy couldn't possibly be the leader of the Institute. It had to be some kind of joke or a test. I couldn't help but chuckle, though I kept it to myself.

"You're 'the man'?" I asked, skepticism dripping from my words.

The boy regarded me with a mixture of curiosity and seriousness. "I am Director Shaun," he replied in a soft, measured voice. "And you are?"

"Jim," I answered, still finding it hard to believe that this child could hold such a position of authority. "Most people call me Jimmy."

Director Shaun nodded as if my response was expected. "Jim, you mentioned something about a mysterious stranger and baseball. Can you elaborate on that?"

I hesitated, not sure how much to reveal to this child who claimed to be the director of the Institute. But then again, I didn't fully understand the situation myself. I decided to tread carefully. I had to know how a kid could be in charge of this institute of advanced technology that could challenge Mr. House's creations. That, I was told, was on a need-to-know basis. I wanted to know, but I supposed I did not need to know.

"Well," I began, "I met this stranger on the road, a man who called himself a 'mysterious stranger.' He told me about destiny, history, and a path I needed to follow. He mentioned that my journey should continue northeast, away from the Swamplands. And when I mentioned baseball, he said something about a stranger starting it far west, around New Vegas."

The conversation shifted back to my tale. Director Shaun's young brow furrowed as he processed the information. "Baseball?" he asked, clearly disinterested in the sport. "I'm not quite sure I understand the significance of this, but the mention of a mysterious stranger is intriguing. We have reason to believe that there are individuals with unusual abilities, the power to transport themselves without the use of technology. This mysterious stranger you encountered might be one of them."

I leaned forward, intrigued by the Institute's interest in these mysterious figures. "You're saying there are more of them, people with these powers?"

Director Shaun nodded. "Yes, that's what our research indicates. But we lack concrete information about their origins or motives. We need to understand more about these individuals and their abilities."

I contemplated how much to reveal, not wanting to give away too much information about the Mojave or the stranger I had encountered or that I only advanced by machines, too. But then, I decided that perhaps sharing some stories might be helpful.

"Director Shaun," I began, "these mysterious strangers... I've encountered them in different places, not just here. Let me tell you about one I met in the Mojave."

As I launched into my tale, I watched Director Shaun's young face, trying to gauge his reactions. I spoke of the Mojave's unforgiving terrain, the NCR, and the stranger I had encountered there, a man with a duster coat and a cryptic demeanor. I didn't reveal too much detail, keeping the narrative intentionally vague.

Director Shaun listened intently, absorbing every word. "So, there are these strangers in various places, guiding people, perhaps influencing their destinies," he mused.

I nodded. "That seems to be the case. They appear when you least expect it, offering guidance or cryptic advice. Most of all, they kill everything about to kill you. But who they are and what they want remains a mystery. If there are many, then I want to find them, too."

Director Shaun's young eyes gleamed with curiosity. "Jim, your experiences are invaluable. We need to learn more about these mysterious strangers and their abilities. They could hold the key to understanding the world beyond our walls."

As we continued our conversation, I couldn't help but feel that I had stumbled into something far greater than I had ever imagined. The Institute's interest in these mysterious strangers was clear, and now I found myself entangled in their quest for knowledge.

He then gave me his directive. “My father is involved with baseball, and he had two mysterious strangers that we know of helping him in his ventures. The first was one of those cloaked gunmen you described. The second. Well, he helped my father with baseball.”

“Who is your father?” I asked.

“Nate Howard. He now calls himself the Commissioner of a baseball league here in the city.”

“What city is this, exactly?” I asked.

“This is Boston. You’re currently deep underground of a pre-War university that started the Institute. I guess it’s time to meet my father.”

Little did I know that this encounter with Director Shaun was just the beginning of a journey that would lead me deeper into the secrets of the Commonwealth and other places and the enigmatic figures known as the mysterious strangers.

[StLee]

I sat in the empty room of the Institute, still trying to make sense of the bizarre sequence of events that had brought me here. The door to the chamber opened once more. This time, it revealed a man who seemed to be in his early forties, with a rugged appearance that spoke of a life lived in the harsh wastelands. He looked at me with a mix of curiosity and caution.

"Who are you?" the man asked, his voice steady but cautious.
"I'm Jim," I replied, offering a nod of acknowledgment.

The man extended his hand, and we shook in greeting. "Nate," he introduced himself.

Nate's sharp eyes bore into mine, and it was clear that he had questions, just as I did. "How did you get here?" he inquired, his tone revealing his suspicion.

I took a deep breath, trying to find the right words to explain the inexplicable. "I met an old man in the wastelands, and he led me to a transporter. He said something about destiny and history. And then I... I jumped."

Nate raised an eyebrow, clearly puzzled. "Jumped? You mean you used a transporter without the Institute signal?"

I nodded. "That's right. It was like nothing I've ever seen. Each transporter seemed to be a one-way trip, at least from what I've experienced."

Nate pressed me more about the transporters and how the Institute uses radio signals. He asked me if that is what I used to jump. I confessed I had no real knowledge of the technology, but the radio had nothing to do with it. Nate even acknowledged that I was not in possession of a Pip-Boy, so he was perplexed and wanted to know more about my last jumping point. I told him and he recorded it on his Pip-Boy.

I then tried to shift the conversation to try to get more information about what the Institute was. "I couldn't help but notice that Shaun mentioned he is in charge here. How can a boy be in charge of the Institute?"
Nate took a deep breath, seemingly lost in thought. "You see, Jim, Shaun is my son, but not my real son. He is a copy of my son. My son actually passed away of old age, and I took over the Institute. But, since synth Shaun knows everything old man Shaun knew, I let him run the place while I manage other business in the Commonwealth. Technically, I’m in charge here."

I listened in awe as Nate shared his own incredible journey through time. The wasteland was indeed full of mysteries. Synths were a new phenomenon for me. Part robot, mostly organic human flesh and blood? The technology seemed impossible.

Our conversation took an unexpected turn when an assistant that had gone through my belongings handed Nate a baseball card. It was me in a Goodsprings uniform.

"Baseball, huh?" Nate asked, a glimmer of interest in his eyes. "How did you get this?"

I told all that I knew about Lee beginning the Mojave Baseball League and how he was recruited early to be one of the players. I also mentioned that Lee was heavily involved in the politics of the area and how it affected the political changes that later turned sour again, more so after Lee left.
I told Nate about Lee's feats, how he had defeated Caesar's troops and worked alongside the New California Republic to bring order to the Mojave. But I also mentioned how the president of the NCR had begun to turn into a dictator, stripping away the rights of the Mojave's residents.

"Lee was a true hero," I said with a sense of pride. "But as things started to deteriorate in the Mojave, he was just gone. I kept playing baseball but everything was different. We were fighting for survival again rather than just enjoying the sport. After I quit playing, I decided to embark on my own journey, get the hell out of that place."

Nate listened intently, his eyes reflecting the complexity of the world we lived in. "Lee sounds like the same Lee I met," he commented. He then went on to explain the start of the CBO and how Lee appeared to him one day and told of the permanent change that a baseball league could make in uniting the Commonwealth. The CBO seemed so much more successful than the Mojave League ever was. People in the Commonwealth sounded passionate about baseball and had found peace in their lives. I was envious.

I then asked Nate the most important question I could ask. “How can I be involved in the CBO?”

Nate studied my baseball card more, flipped it over and read through the statistics printed in small print on the back of it. “LaRue, huh? Three-fifty-one career average, huh? Were you some sort of star or something?”

I smiled as big as I had in months, maybe years. “Most would say I was the best.”

Nate and I talked about baseball for over an hour after that. He was content with my answers but told me I would have to live under guard for a while to make sure I was not there with bad intentions. I agreed and then he agreed to take me to the CBO HQ.

“It’s in probably the greatest park baseball ever knew,” he told me.
Our conversation continued more and shifted again, with Nate speculating about the mysterious strangers I had encountered. "Maybe they're former heroes of the wastes," he mused. "People with extraordinary abilities who come and go, guiding those in need."

I nodded in agreement. "It's possible. Lee was a hero, and maybe that's why he had to leave after six years of our baseball league. I don't know. Politics are bad in the Mojave right now. Lots of rebellions. I wasn't involved in politics at least not as much as some. I just stayed quiet and kept playing."

Nate's brow furrowed as he considered the idea. "That's true. Lee never assisted in a battle while he was here. He just came and went, advising me on exact instructions on how to start the CBO. I made a few changes after he left, but the league is doing well."

As our conversation continued, I couldn't help but wonder about the enigmatic figures known as the mysterious strangers. What role did they truly play in the wasteland's history, and what secrets did they hold? Were Nate and I somehow bound to become mysterious strangers to others? I thought back to my encounter with the old man who first called himself a mysterious stranger. He guided me here, and here I was sitting face to face with the commissioner of a baseball league, another hero of the wastes, the person who was vaulting me right back into baseball as though I had never left it.

With Nate's guidance, I was determined to uncover the truth and continue my journey into the unknown. But that would have to wait. In the meantime, I was going to be introduced to the CBO. I could not wait.