Rosie ditched everything except her pack and axes. Brandon talked her through using the camera. Paul showed her the geometric hunks of steel attached to wire loops, demonstrating how to set them, and snap the rope through a carabiner.

Things started smoothly. Rosie scrambled up the steep slope, hacking and stabbing at the ground with her axes for a better grip, trailing the rope behind her. Before long she stared up the rock face from below, finding it looked a good deal higher at this angle.

“Set a bolt at your right hand.” Paul spoke over the comm with a calm confidence. He’d climbed for years, even before joining the Brotherhood. He’d told her that this wasn’t much higher than what he’d learned on, without a safety rope. Rosie unclipped a bolt from her harness, wedging the steel pentagon into a crack and pulling it tight. She clipped the rope through the wire loop and pressed on.

Paul directed her to handholds, guiding her along a route she couldn’t see. Brandon kept the safety rope taught. Between that and bolts set every few feet Rosie felt safe, despite her view consisting of only rock and endless blue. The directions became less frequent the higher she got, as did firm handholds. Instead Rosie struck with her axes, using the spikes on the bottom and rear to gouge at the grey rock. The sounds carried away on the wind.

“Last ten feet, doing great Tornado.” Paul kept her calm as Rosie made one last push to reach the top. The axe spike sunk deep into the flat surface and Rosie finally heaved herself up, rolling onto the clifftop. She had to fight an urge to stand and look at the view, focusing instead on the reason for the climb.

Almost at eye level with her, Rosie saw a giant dish made from metal, rusted, and missing sections. It had a tripod like structure protruding from the centre at an angle. Like a giant version of the parabolic microphone she had used. The dish stood atop a lattice of triangular steel and oversized gears, long seized tight.

Beneath that stood a narrow tower that looked like an addition to the three storey concrete block of a building. Rusted blast shutters along the grimy windows, exposed rebar mesh, in disrepair but still standing solid. A few out buildings had heavy doors and curved roofs. An open area in front, and a solid gate made from a truck between the natural rock formation. And crawling over everything like little insects, the Red Hand.

A quick head count reached four dozen at least, the similar clothing and masks they still wore made it difficult. They all look the same, Rosie thought to herself.

Rosie pressed the visor in and pulled back the hood of the stealth suit, feeling the bracing wind and early sun on her face, all while lying flat. Next she pulled the cloak from her pack and began smearing the mottled hide with dirt and dust.

Her current spot along the ridge seemed as good as anywhere else she could reach so Rosie began to shift into a more comfortable position. First covering herself with the now grey striped cloak and then gradually rolling over to her stomach. Keen not to dislodge small rocks that could break free bigger ones.

“This is Tornado. Observation post is set. How copy?”

“Solid copy Tornado.” Brandon answered. “We’re going to fall back out of the rads, but have you covered. What do you see?”

“Everything.”

The initial activity died down. The sackful of caps became divided among the others, scooped up and weighed, then dispatched with three teams of two. After the teams had left most of the ghouls went inside. Rosie picked out activity on the third floor with the camera as the ghouls slept during the day. She focused the long lens, lining up the split circles like crosshairs, inspecting the defences.

In the bottom of the dish sat a heavy machine gun nest. Fifty calibre, full auto, capable of covering the open area and beyond the gate. The blocky body and round barrel looked clean and in working order. Those manning it seemed engrossed in their chess game. More bags of earth were piled neatly on the corners, green tins of ammo nearby. No patrols, no watch. Arrogant, Rosie thought, and that gave her an idea.

With a rough headcount, entrances and defences photographed, Rosie found a moment and took in the view. Red canopy encroaching on ruins. Swathes of burnt ground where nothing could grow. Large warehouses and factories cut off from the roads long ago.

Rosie took a picture, enjoying the analogue sensation of wondering how it would eventually turn out instead of reviewing it instantly. It took her a minute to realise that in the middle distance she must be overlooking the Vault. She wanted to take another picture to wave in people’s ignorant faces, but stopped. That would mean going back and that wasn’t happening. Also she only had nine shots left.

Rosie spent the rest of the day trying to notice things, behaviours, patterns, routines. Anything that might betray more information than the obvious. One of the near identical figures stood out, red mask and clothes like the others, but reacted to differently. She followed him round with the camera, keeping the figure in frame while keeping her cloak hood drawn to prevent the lens glinting as the sun set.

The figure walked and talked with each of the clusters of red masks sitting at tables outside. Drinking, cleaning rifles, crafting explosive collars. The commander, Rosie thought. Different pairs of red masks took up position at the heavy machine gun nest, and positions on the rooftop. Switching without leaving the nests unmanned. Although the next pair had no more discipline than the last. They think they’re safe, Rosie thought.

The truck that formed the gate moved to the side, pulled by chains and counterweights. Outside the teams that left in the morning had returned, laden with bags and sacks. The contents. were divvied up, ammo going to one bunker and explosives another. Sealed tin cans and cuts of meat went into the main building, then the chems got handed out.

Some burned through the inhalers, becoming twitchy and animated. Others began holding foil, heating it from underneath and breathing in the smoke through brass tubes made from bullet casings.

“Tornado, Maelstrom. Exfil.” Rosie slipped away under the fallen night, repelling down the cliff facing forwards and running while Brandon held the rope.

“Charlie teach you that?” Brandon asked as Rosie pulled her boots and shin plates on.

“Yeah, she said you taught her.” Rosie knew Brandon would like that answer.

“I did, I also taught her to shoot while doing it.” Brandon always pushed her a little further, Rosie welcomed it. He showed her a knot for attaching different types of rope together. Something about teaching knots made him smile a bittersweet grin.

He attached the near invisible line from the fishing rod she'd bought, then pulled the thicker rope fully through the bolts Rosie had placed in the wall. The black climbing rope came free, leaving the plastic line in place and unnoticeable.

Rosie descended the hill rapidly, following Brandon and finding Paul, stood over neat piles of junk. Between them they had disarmed and disassembled every mine from the field. As if they were picking crops, and yielding a bounty of putty like explosives.

“You got any shots left?” Brandon tapped the camera slung under her arm.

“Seven.” Rosie didn’t need to look at the dial.

“Better use them up, just wasted film otherwise.” Brandon hoisted his pack up as Paul threw in the last of the ball bearings and did the same.

“What should I take pictures of?” Rosie didn’t understand, and found herself oddly nervous for the first time today.

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“Anything you want. Things you like, things you want to remember, things that look—” Rosie interrupted Brandon.

“Hey Paul.” Paul turned and Rosie took his picture, the time between pressing the button and the shutter snapping longer than before. “It’s just in case he steps on another mine or something on the way home.” Rosie took a chance and made a joke. It paid off as Paul smiled and shook his head.

They walked for an hour, finding a clearing wide enough for the Velocibird to land. Charlie stepped out with her smg levelled, then gave the all clear sign. Paul went first, stopping to hug Charlie in a way that she didn’t expect. Rosie held the camera tight and got a shot of that.

“The less light there is the longer you need to expose the film.” Brandon talked her through using the dials and shutter settings, having been told to leave them on auto previously.

“Tornado, Whirlwind. Velo is yours, how copy?” Charlie came over the comm, having cleared the Velo and left it for Rosie to override remotely.

“Solid copy Whirlwind.” Charlie stepped well back and watched the Velo take off without a pilot.

Rosie let the autopilot handle the flying, then took control for the landing. Brandon flew back manually, leaving the side doors open. They touched down sooner than Rosie thought, seeing Paul and Charlie waiting. Charlie hugged her tight as soon as she got out. Paul had obviously brought her up to speed.

“Lose the gear and put those on.” Charlie tossed her a pair of jeans and t shirt, then helped pull her free of the stealth suit. Almost two days in the suit, most of them walking, made Rosie grateful for a change of clothes. She brushed down the cloak and folded it into an unassuming stag hide backpack, sliding in the stealth suit. Smiling at the differences between the old ways and the new.

Paul held her duster for Rosie to slip into. “We’ll be in Bakersfield before sun up, I’m buying you breakfast.” Rosie couldn’t remember the last thing she ate. It felt like eating hadn’t been a priority, and now she realised how hungry she felt.

“Tornado core check.” Brandon finished loading the Velo and stood by it.

“Sixty four.”

“Good. Send it home and let’s eat.” Rosie flew the Velo up and then landed it at home a short while later.

Bakersfield lived up to its name. A huge square of yellow and brown plants that shimmered in the breeze. Wind driven mills made from pylons stood on each corner. The fan blades spinning slowly, and provided excellent sniping positions.

As they drew closer Rosie saw the mishmash of buildings around the edge of the field. Some made of reused metal, others made from treated logs, some looked like the pre-war houses restored to their former glory. Rosie took a picture to show John, wondering what he’d make of the peaceful little village.

Matt joined them on the edge of town, dressed like them, like everybody else. Although something seemed different about him. Rosie noticed he didn’t look tired, his trousers and white t shirt looked clean, and he wore lightweight canvas shoes. He hadn’t walked half the night to get here, he looked well rested. No one mentioned anything so Rosie didn’t either.

A short distance from the small, square town, Paul let out a relaxed sigh and bumped Rosie with a broad shoulder. “Smell that?” Rosie breathed in the warm morning air, laced with a mixed scent she couldn’t quite place. Sweet, cut with bitter and sour notes that only made it sweeter.

“What is it?” Rosie asked. Charlie laughed from behind her.

“I wonder what Bakers-field smells like. Best time of the day to get here.” Paul made sure Rosie took note of that.

Rosie followed Paul, not entirely sure he wasn’t just following the scents in the air. In the short walk into town, Bakersfield had sprung to life. Carts loaded with boxes left with armed guards. Inside men and women slammed dough onto to clean metal surfaces, working it with their hands. Traders laid out their stalls and tired looking teenagers delivered woven baskets to doorsteps.

“Paul!” The flour faced baker greeted Paul by name as he entered the shop. An older man, short and stout, with broad arms. “And you brought friends, come in, come in!” Rosie sat at the nearest of three tables, ready to take a bite out of it.

Her eyes fell across the woven trays behind the stone counter, stuffed with fresh bread. Some long and thin, others square, and more round loaves with a smooth texture. Further along the counter were glass cases, mostly empty, but being filled with bright colours. Neat rectangles with a yellow filling and sticky top. Circles with holes in and a shiny finish and swirls of pastry lined with something gooey.

“Go on up, we’ll be up in a minute.” Paul let the others head upstairs while he pulled Rosie into the kitchen, reaching the source of the smell that made her stomach rumble. Ovens made from brick roared from behind iron doors. A younger man smiled and welcomed them, breaking from his folding and kneading of dough. Paul took something from a steel cabinet, tossing it from hand to hand then tearing it in half.

“Careful, it’s hot.” Paul threw the fluffy, flaky bread into his mouth, fanning his hand and laughing. Rosie did the same, letting the rich taste come through the folded texture.

“That’s amazing.” Rosie sprayed crumbs as she spoke. “What is it?”

“A croissant.” The younger man half shouted over the sound of dough being slammed down. “There’s plenty more, you dig in.” Paul handed her another one and she let that cool. He took a tray and a pair of tongs, clacking them together with glee. Rosie held the tray while eating the delicious curved bread and Paul plucked all manner of baked delights from behind the counter and in the kitchen. Neither baker seemed to mind, quite the opposite in fact.

“Rosie!” An unfamiliar voice from behind calling her by name set off a jolt of fear through her. So much so that her free hand gripped the sidearm on her thigh. Paul grabbed her wrist without looking, then let it go, telling her she didn’t need it.

Rosie turned to see a smiling woman. A similar age, dark hair tied back, and smears of colour on her face and apron that matched the cakes. She rubbed her hands on her apron and walked over, arms outstretched.

“I’m so happy to see you safe and well.”

“Andrea?!” Rosie finally recognised the woman that had been enslaved with her, that helped her escape.

“Yeah it’s me alright.” She stepped back to take a look at Rosie. “You look real good, love the coat. Try one of these.” The woman handed her a person shaped biscuit with icing lines for features. Rosie bit a chunk of the head clean off finding a crunchy texture with a sharp taste, smoothed by the icing.

“Gingerbread men.” Andrea snapped off a leg and crunched it down. “Needs more ginger, what do you think?” Rosie nodded along convincingly to a question she didn’t fully understand.

“Dad, this is Rosie. She saved me…” Rosie saw Andrea think about that day and then drive it from her mind. The baker waved off the customer and approached Rosie. She shifted awkwardly, not really knowing what else to do. The baker kissed her on both cheeks, transferring flour from his face and hands.

“You saved my girl. You are a most welcome guest in our home from this day forth.” Rosie picked up on an almost formal tone. Tradition maybe, she wondered.

“She saved me as much as I saved her.” Rosie couldn’t have undone the chains without help.

“Does not matter, now you go eat, you’re skin and bone girl.” The baker went back to his customers, the tears of gratitude leaving lines in the flour smeared across his cheek.

Paul led her upstairs, clearly having been here before. The downstairs of the rebuilt pre-war house had been converted into the shop and kitchen, upstairs the living area, then above that the bedrooms. At the end of the hall a set of glass doors opened onto a balcony. Rosie stopped and crouched, snapping a picture of the others sat eating.

Right away Rosie noticed the smears of colour on Matt’s face, and realised how they got there. Charlie drank coffee and picked at a purple loaf, the bread baked with fruit inside. Brandon tore into ham sandwiches, while Paul took Rosie through the items on the tray.

He cut each one in half and shared it with her, going in a particular order, moving from crisp and savoury to sticky and sweet. Rosie took her last picture of the view and handed Brandon the camera. He showed her the simple method of winding the film back into its canister. Letting her judge when the resistance had stopped and teasing her before opening the back.

“Rosie, sit down.” Brandon had a serious look that pulled her from the view. “I want you to know that what you did today would get you a medal for bravery. I’ve seen operators with ten times your experience fall apart under the strain of days like yesterday.” Rosie could already feel a but coming, yet decided to avoid it for now.

“It’s nice to see Andrea.” Rosie hadn’t given her a second thought, she couldn’t even remember the others with her. Yet it made Rosie happy to see someone that had escaped with her.

“I’m sure it is.” Brandon sensed her next question before she even asked. “We didn’t bring you here sooner in case it brought things back, but given how you’ve spent that last twenty four hours that’s not an issue.” Brandon got that half right. If Rosie would’ve had a rifle up on that ridge she’d have shot till she ran out of ammo or the Red Hand were dead.

“It’s also a lesson. What we do matters to people, what you’ve done today will save dozens of people like Andrea.” Rosie looked perplexed, a few pictures wouldn’t keep anybody safe. “I’m giving the intel to the Brotherhood.” Brandon spoke clearly and plainly. Rosie’s jaw clenched and her knuckles went white as her prize went to someone else.

“Why?” Rosie kept her temper from boiling over, knowing there had to be a reason.

“They outnumber us ten to one Rosie. Sara can take a dozen armoured knights and roll in heavy, couple of Scouts for sniper support, and the Red Hand is a ghost story by breakfast.” Rosie knew Brandon was right. It occurred to her that she wouldn’t have made the climb if she’d have known this would be the result. And she knew that wasn’t right.

“We’re Reconnaissance Rosie. We watch and pass it up the chain.” Charlie sounded like she knew how Rosie felt, but she didn’t, she couldn’t. Rosie forced calm breaths into her lungs, knowing an outburst wouldn’t help.

“Let me present my plan and if you think it won’t work I’ll deliver the intel myself.” Rosie watched the glance travel around the table, each agreeing to at least hear her out.

“Fair enough.” Brandon didn’t give any indication beyond that.

“I need to do some shopping.” Rosie kept a calm tone, walking slowly out, through the town and into the woods. With an axe in either hand Rosie took out her anger on the trees, hacking and whirling until the tiredness caught up with her.

“Feel better?” Charlie pulled the axe free and handed it to her as she knelt. Rosie took it and slipped it back onto her thigh plate.

“Yeah. I’m sorry.” Rosie didn’t like the way she’d reacted.

“Don’t be. No one likes having a mission taken off them.” Charlie sat next to her in the dirt. “Shit, first time they took one off me I sulked for a week.”

“It’s a solid plan.” Rosie knew she needed the pictures to explain it, and had grown weary of the quirks of analogue technology.

“I don’t doubt it.” Charlie put an arm around her. “If it doesn't go your way don’t worry, plenty of scumbags out there. And you know what, I wouldn’t trade one of us for all the dead scumbags on the continent.”

“Neither would I.” Rosie felt her anger melt under the weight of reason.

“That being said, I’m not ready to be a baker’s wife just yet.” Charlie got to her feet, helping Rosie up. “Do you really need to buy stuff?”