Kansas City, Wilbert Harrison

I'm going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come
I'm going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one



I'm gonna be stand’ on the corner
Twelfth Street and Vine
I'm gonna be stand’ on the corner
Twelfth Street and Vine
With my Kansas City baby
And a bottle of Kansas City wine



Well I might take a train
I might take a plane
But if I have to walk
I'm goin' just the same
I'm going to Kansas City, Kansas City here I come
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one



Now if I stay with that woman
I know I'm gonna die
Gotta find a brand new baby
That's the reason why
I'm going to Kansas City
Kansas City here I come
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one
They got some crazy little women there
And I'm gonna get me one

Fallout Theme

(Read by Ron Perlman)

War. War never changes.

The Great War should have been the last. In a few brief hours, the world was wiped clean in a searing flash of nuclear light. But life is tenacious, and even humanity survived its own hubris through a network of underground Vaults. When those vaults opened, it was onto a landscape ravaged by atomic fire.



But rivers still flowed, and seeds still stirred. When they emerged from Vault 64, the ghouls of Liberty set to work tilling the land, nursing life back into the soil. Brahmin, Big Horners, Dogs and Mole Rats all toil beside human and ghoul alike, bringing renewal to the earth. In time, nature flourished again, albeit in a slightly different form.



Even as nature itself transformed, the nature of man did not. In time, the Missouri River came to be claimed by a small group of traders, the most powerful calling themselves the KC Company. Based out of the ruins of old Kansas City, the KC Company began building an empire along the river, repairing bridges and founding new ports with which to trade the bounty of the land with others, seizing the river and its land as their own, all in the name of profit and greed.



With rumours of war in the west, life has become strained. Refugees have begun to trickle into the lands around the Missouri. Famine threatens the farms, and the grip of trading houses grows tighter, yet the situation remains ever out of their control.



In the Missouri River Valley, life has sprung anew. But war, war never changes.

In the still of twilight a human figure climbs the north bank of the Missouri River, far enough between KC Company pickets to avoid notice, and peers across at the small walled town in the distance on the other side, sparkling like a tiny jewel in a too-large setting. The lights in town flicker like those in the guard posts to the east and west, and like those at the small farms, and that makes Mark more comfortable than the steady electric fire that he can still see on the horizon from Kansas City.

That steady white glow stirs something uncomfortable in Mark's breast, and he looks away, across the river towards the flickering knot of light in the distance, and nods to himself.

He has come more than one hundred miles from home, following the river east, walking alone mostly but not out of shyness (he spent two days int he company of some Brahmin and their farmer; the Brahmin were good conversationalists, the farmer less so) not sure what he was looking for. People, eventually he realized, but enough people that he could be a stranger without being an outsider. Cities are used to strangers, families are not, though the families may be more hospitable.

But the big city frightened him, and he spent three days skirting it by a wide margin before finding the river again and continuing on. And now to the south is a town large enough to see at night, but small enough not to have been visible in the day even less than ten miles away. Perhaps there he will find out what it is to be a man among men, and he can go home. Perhaps not.

Mark slides down the bank towards the river on the seat of his pants and stops at the water's edge. He is wearing short pants that stop just below the knee, with many pockets, held up by a belt that has more pockets of its own. His feet and lower legs are wrapped in leather for protection, as are his hands and lower arms. His chest is bare except for tattoos and a bone necklace around his neck. On his back is a bedroll and some bags, which he wrapped in dirty clear plastic before climbing to the top of the bank. Shoved through this roll like a kabob with many sticks are three sharpened throwing poles, their tips stained dark with dried blood, and a long sharp spear Mark made himself. His knife is on his belt.

Mark pulls the glass eyelids from the dead man on the metal horse over his eyes and ties his hair back with a leather thong, and then slips into the water. He shivers as his balls shrink against his body for warmth and then strikes out with a long even stroke for the far bank.

The bow of the Shattered Dream cuts through the muddy waters of the Missouri as it makes its way toward Independence with a routine delivery of goods from Kansas City. Tattered netting hangs in strips and clumps all around the outside of the ship's dark gray hull, some of which hangs down below the waterline on either side, futilely trawling for fish that slip between the ruined fibers of the nets. The bow deck is lined with crates held down by more of the tattered netting and forms a semi circle of shelter from the wind and spray at the front of the boat.

Edward sits in the captain's chair, lazily angling the wheel as he steers the ship north. His feet hang out of the nearest window as he whistles off-key, bored out of his mind. These routine runs always make him tired, but they actually pay halfway decent. With his next payment to Krickner coming up soon, he'll need all the money he can get if he wants to keep his boat.

Movement on the bank draws his attention and he eases back the throttle as he watches a young man sliding down the bank of the river. He angles the boat towards the bank as the young man steps into the water, apparently intending to swim the river. He stops the boat and drops anchor a short distance from shore, far enough to be sure he's still in the main channel and not get stuck on one of the rivers numerous sandbars, but close enough to be heard without shouting.

"You know, that's not exactly the safest way to get across?

Mark gasps and steps back, his goggles catching a bit of light and turning each eye into a shocked silver disk. He falls backwards onto his rear end, thankfully on the bank and not in the river. He'd made it a point to look 'round and make sure no one was nearby before he crossed. How did he miss a boat.

"Maybe not, but it is easier than walking, and cheaper than using the bridges."

This is very true. The KC Company people weren't exactly rude but they were... firm... in their insistence that he give them some of his bottlecaps to use their bridge. And then when he'd said "no thank you" and gone to swim across they fired a rifle near him, as a "warning."

Mark scrambles to his feet on the edge of the river and plants them steadily, one hand on his knife.

"Who're you?"

The place here, the time is now. Enter Tim Wilshire. Occupation: Courier. Formerly a sharpshooter for the New California Republic Army. Tim thinks this is just the typical long distance delivery to Independence, Missouri, but he should learn by now that nothing is typical... in The Wasteland.

Tim walks alone. Alone in the darkness. Tim's been walking for two days now. The motto of his courier service: When it positively absolutely has to get there. Next week. Tim doesn't know what's in the package. That's probably for the best. If he were tempted to steal it, he'd have an army of mercenaries to answer to. The little light there is reflects off his sunglasses, which he takes off due to the lack of sun. His dark red adventuring outfit is nearly invisible at night compared to his bright red beret. But he doesn't worry. These backwater raider snipers couldn't hit a brahmin at point blank. He approaches the river, the low light reflecting the ripples of the water. He sees the native boy. Natives. Tim never understood them. There are hundreds of towns with well adjusted populations. Maybe these small pockets just didn't have people to pass on the knowledge. He then spots the ghoul. Ghouls. Poor bastards. Horribly disfigured isn't on any dames male quality list. Tim doesn't understand why people hate ghouls. Or maybe they just don't want to live with them. Tim wouldn't want to live with natives. Same reason why the Swiss don't want to live with the French. It's a culture thing.

"Could you fellas point me to Independence?

Mark frowns, how do these people keep sneaking up with me? He turns so he can watch the ship from one eye and the... stranger with his other.

"I do no know where that place is. So no."

Tim looks at the ghoul. "And you?"

"Whoa!" Ed exclaims, holding up his hands at waist level, "I'm not here to cause ya trouble, just figured you was new here and didn't know this river ain't 'xactly safe swimming, too many rip currents, sucking mud, and such. As for me name, I be Edward Tich, Cap'n Tich to you," he performs a half bow, sweeping the battered tricorne off his head with a flourish.

Edward stands about five foot eight inches tall, with shoulder length blonde hair and green eyes. His face is friendly, if a little dirty and he's in desperate need of a shave. Try as he might, he just can't grow a proper beard, but he has an easy smile that makes you want to smile back. (Or at least find out what the joke was.)
He is wearing a dark leather long coat that hangs to his knees with a pair of bright red pants and a formerly white shirt with frills that puff out of the chest area. At his waist is a broad leather belt, holding an old, but well cared for, cutlass.



Ed blinks as the newcomer arrives. One lone boy was one thing, but two people, that could mean thieves or raiders. He steps back a bit, putting himself in reach of the throttle in case he needs to make a hasty retreat.

"Sure thing," He answers helpfully, pointing a thumb over his shoulder at the far bank, "It's right over there. Though, as I was tryin' to inform this young gentleman, swimming ain't the best way to reach it. If yer looking ta walk, there's a bridge a few minutes thataway." He waves off in the direction of the bridge Mark likely tried to cross at before. "Or, there's a ferry boat 'bout a doz'n miles thataway," waving off in the other direction.

"I'm not afraid to swim the river!"

And I doubt they'll let you cross the bridge after what you said this morning.

"That town is In-de-pen-dance?"

He points across the river to the flickering lights n the distance.

"Aye, that be Independence, home of the Ghouls. Well, a few o' dem anyways," Ed replies. "This 'ere river be called the Missouri. And it ain't about bein' afraid, just common sense. Rip currents is nasty things, pull you down under the water and holds ya there. Up to you I guess, I just thought ya should know. Either way, I got a delivery ta make in town, so, g'd ev'nin' gentlemen."

And with that, he settles back behind the wheel of the boat and prepares to continue on his way.

Mark listens to the man with the boat talk and talk, like many of those who live by scavenging the Things Left Behind tend to do, and eventually stops paying attention. In-de-pen-dance. Town of ghouls. Gotcha.

Mark gives the other stranger int eh red clothing a quizzical look, because he shouldn't be there tither. Mark was careful to make sure he crossed the river in a lonesome spot, and was patient enough that this man should have come upon him out of nowhere, much less the first stranger and his boat.

Mark pays the scavengers no more heed, slips back into the river and kicks off the bank. He doesn't have any trouble with rip currents, this isn't the first time he's swam the Missouri. It isn't the twentieth.

On the other bank Mark scurries up the berm, checks to make sure no one is on the other side, and, with a look back at the two scavengers out of nowhere, vanishes into the nighttime.

Tim mimics the pointing motion and heads that way. Tim believes his package to be a bomb since it's making a mysterious ticking noise. Hopefully it's set to go off in the recipients possession.

Ed steers the Shattered Dream over to the the far side of the river, pulling into a small inlet the river has carved into the bank providing a reasonably shallow point at which to unload his cargo.
Dropping anchor just before the water gets too shallow, he kills the engine and pulls out the key before climbing down into the engine room. Once there, he lifts the alternator cap off the engine and, wrapping it in a greasy cloth, stuffs it into an interior pocket of his long coat.
Once the engine is disabled, he brings out a couple of small crates, carrying them to shore and loading them into a small hand cart left hidden in the bushes for just this purpose. Pulling the hand cart behind him, he makes his way up to the road and heads toward town.

Independence. Up close, it looks far less grand than its lights make it seem from a distance. The overturned wrecks and concrete slabs amount to a wall that a tall man can easily peer over, and sight therein seems ramshackle and cobbled together. The gate is two sheets of metal siding lashed together, the entrance well lit blazing spotlights.

Mark moves faster than the courier (and both move faster than the captain, porting his goods), but the two reach the gate approximately the same time, due to greater caution on the part of the tribal. Both are greeted by the same gruff, gravelly voice, easily recognised as the ravaged larynx of a ghoul. "You're coming in late. State your business."

"Delivery. For a Mister," Tim checks the tag, "McLauren."