I don't mind getting nothing when I didn't expect anything. What bugs me is knowing that I would have gotten something if I'd expected it."--Graffiti from the abandoned city of Chicago.

From the Journal of Dr. Martin Frontinac

January 1, 2004

Happy New Year in the dominion of man. It is now four months since The End, and I saw my first large cocentration of people; they were shooting at each other.

It was eerie to watch, knowing that death now is utterly final; no judgement, no afterlife, no reincarnation or transmigration of the soul. Just the maggots and flies performing their self-interested autopsies.

One group was apparently a motorcycle gang backed up oy a main battle tank. I could barely oelieve my eyes. Two weeks ago I was weeping for joy because I found an unspoiled half crate of Dinty Moore beef stew cans (which before the Apocalypse, I would not have touched with a forty-foot fork). I can't even scavenge an uncontaminated Benadryl, and these idiots on Harleys found, fueled and loaded ammunition into a tank!

It's almost enough to make me believe God is still watching the wreckage of His world encouraging the sick comedy that mankind still provides.

The battle ended with some sort of detonation beneath a manhole cover, set off when the tank passed above. The tank burned and kept burning, and the remainder of the bikers departed.

Then I felt something sharp in the small of my back and a cold voice whispered "Make a move, and I'll show the sky your guts."

"Shall I raise my hands?" I asked. As soon as I said it, I worried that my assailant would think I was being a smartass, but my fear must have been apparent.

"Put 'em on the back of your head, lie face-down and spread your legs as wide as they'll go." I was bracing myself to be bayonetted, but I was only frisked, then ordered to turn over.

My assailant was a slight woman dressed all in grey--urban camouflage, I suppose. She had a military rifle with a bayonet. She poked the tip under my sternum, above the right ventricle.

"Who are you? Spy for the Dogs?"

"My name is Dr. Marnin Frontinac."

"Doctor? What kind of doctor?"

"Trauma surgeon."

I could tell she thought I was lying, that I was the lure in some elaborate trap. Keeping the bayonet to my heart and her eyes locked on my own, she called for backup on a portable radio. I was not released until they found the diploma in my truck.

After being handcuffed and blindfolded, I was taken to some sort of underground bunker. Here I sit; at some point I am supposed to meet "the Colonel" who apparently rules Boston. At least they fed me; Dinty Moore, as fate would have it.

January 2

The Colonel is an interesting man--far from the swaggering petty warlord I expected, he was intelligent and articulate. Nonetheless, I find his militarism distinctly at odds with my own personal philosophy. Furthermore, he never took off his dark glasses, a trick I found cheaply theatrical.

He informed me that Boston was at war with a mysterious invasion force from the south -- probably Washington, D.C. He took great pains to assure me that "the Dogs" were the aggressors. The fact that the battle I witnessed was on Boston's "turf" is compelling evidence.

I told him the truth; that I have heen travelling, mostly alone, since the Apocalypse. When he heard I was from New York City, he asked me what was going on there. I told him it was a wasteland, that the locusts and rats had driven out all but the most vicious and degraded. Then he came to the point.

"You're a trauma surgeon?" he asked.

"Yes. I served for ten years at Saint Alphonse in New York City."

"Familiar with gunshot wounds?"

"Actually, I spent much more time on car accidents. Despite what people think about New York, it wasn't all block-to-block firefights. "

He looked disappointed.

"I probably didn't see more than one gunshot a week, on average."

He smiled.

"Doctor, can I interest you in a tour of the infirmary?"

Primarily, they were putting people back together after the previous day's warfare. Their staff seemed to consist of competent interns, but I could see they were at a loss when it came to real "golden hour" situatiions. I asked to see the morgue. After a cursory examination, I believe I could have saved two, possibly three of the seven corpses there if I had been able to operate on them in time. Given the conditions here, probably two. I told the colonel as much and he invited me to Join the colony.

"I will be honest with you doctor; we need a man like you more than you can imagine. We can't offer you slaves, like Atlanta, or the luxuries of Elgin, but you would be excused from front line duties. I know; not much of a trade. But we are at war, doctor, and your presence could save many lives."

I told hm I'd think it over, when we passed by another "ward" in their makeshift hospital.

"Excuse me," I asked. "The woman to the far right is obviously well into her third trimester. Are the other women in that ward also pregnant?"

"Yes," said the Colonel with a smile. "Even at war, even after God's forgotten us, life goes on."

I said nothing in reply.

January 3

At dinner today, a woman I did not know sat down next to me and introduced herself as Sally Snodgrass. She was fit, pretty, and I suspect she had taken pains to make herself attractive.

We chatted. She seemed very pleasant, but I was on my guard. Even before Armageddon, I was familiar with predatory females--most marriageable doctors are. I hoped the Colonel was not resorting to such a transparent ploy, but good manners prevented me from asking her.

Then she propositioned me, there was no way to be polite. I told her she was very pleasant, but that as a victim of testicular cancer in 1997, I had been surgically castrated and was, therefore, incapable of fulfilling the role in which she had envisioned me.

(I know, not medically true; but this approach has always worked in the past.) There was a deeply awkward pause. She apologized. Then there was a great commotion.

The very pregnant woman I had seen the other day had gone into labor, and was hemorraging badly. My assistance was required.

The difficulty of delivering a breech without proper equipment or chemicals was compounded by my lack of experience; I hadn't done OB-GYN since I was an intern.

I lost the mother. The baby lived.

The colony considers me a hero. I feel like a fraud.

Tomorrow I will have to explain my position to the Colonel.

January 4

It took me a while to get an audience with the Colonel, who is terribly busy, of course. When I finally did, I went straight to the point.

"Colonel, I am willing to stay here and labor for you--on one condition. I don't want any extra luxuries; but any colony where I work... I wish to be a sterile one."

"Well, doctor, it's very difficult to keep conditions germ-free in these primitive..."

"No, not sterile in that fashion. I mean, I will not work for a colony in which people are reproducing."

He stared at me. Even his sunglasses couldn't hide his shock.

"You want everyone to give up having babies?"

"Yes. Vasectomies for all the men would be quite time consuming, but it's a very simple operation. Even I could do one in half an hour at most, and with practice I'm sure I could...''

"Why? Why the hell would you want to deny the last chance humanity has of continuing?"

"Isn't it obvious? You're a reasonable man, Colonel. The gates of Hell and Heaven are closed for eternity, never to reopen. In the past, many felt that there was no afterlife, no judgement, no soul. Now, not only do we know that there is a soul, we know that anyone who dies loses their's.

Worse than the condemnation of Hell, the soul winks out, lost in a perpetual oblivion. Don't you understand? Bearing a child is the ultimate sin in a world without God. Any chid who comes to term is simply being born for destruction. There is no chance of salvation, no matter what the child does. I can imagine no deed more evil than to conceive a child, knowing that salvation will be denied forever, through no fault of its own."

He just stared. For a second, I thought he was going to take me up on my offer, but I should have known better.

I can stay in Boston until a good time to depart arises. The Colonel has asked me not to share my phlosophy with others, though he said that he could not, in good conscience, "forbid" me. I thanked him courteously, but told him I felt that my idea was too important to not proselytize. He then warned me that my opinions would probably not get a warm reception. I thanked him and departed.

January 11

This is the first chance I have head in some time to write in this journal. I was reviled when I shared my beliefs, but that did not prevent the people of Boston from eagerly accepting my help when another invasion force entered their city. A man and two women certainly would have died if I had not been present. A number of others would be in critical condition; but I paid the price for this in exhaustion.

However, I cannot consider my time spent in Boston in terms of quid pro quo; even if I do, I would have to count myself fortunate. Two people have decided to leave the colony with me, Ben Schmidt and Marjorie Carver. We set out for Elgin this morning.

I face something of a dilemma, however. If Boston, under extreme duress, was unwilling to see the reason of my beliefs, what can I expect from Elgin, winch is apparently a singularly peaceful and pleasant community?

Tonight, I plan to discuss with Ben and Marjorie the ethics of pursuing my agenda in a covert fashon.

Introduction

Scapegoat Games The End is literally postApocalyptic; only this wasn't some wimpy exchange of nuclear warheads. Rather, God came, smote the sinners, and carried the righteous into Heaven, just as the Bible foretold.

However, there was a small remainder; those who put their faith in things of the Earth were condemned to remain with the Earth--not bad enough for Hell, not good enough for Heaven. These leftovers are known as the Meek.

One of their number is Dr. Martin Frontinac. From his journal, one reams that he was a trauma surgeon in New York, that he survived cancer, and that he believes that the most unethical deed imaginable, in the peculiar circumstances of the Meek, is to have a child.

Dr. Frontinac is not what a psychologist would call "in touch with his feelings." Surviving the anarchy of The End hasn't left him with much time or energy for probing his inner resentments; but since we're sitting back casually, we can take a look at what Marty won't.

He's Mad

In a word, he's mad. Not crazy-mad; angry. His anger started in 1997, when he found out that he had cancer. Being a doctor, however, he felt it necessary to maintain a professional facade. His fellow doctors helped him with this, constantly telling him how much easier he was to deal with than their less "scientifically-minded" patients. When he discovered he was impotent after his operaation, he could not bring himself to get help for what he knew was probably a psychological problem.

Dr. Frontinac had never been particularly religious, but lying in his hospital hed, he calmly and unemotionally (he thought) decided that an all-good God could not punish an innocent man like himself, and that therefore, God did not exist. Or that if He did, He shouldn't.

Finding out rather forcefully (plagues, famines warring angels and devils, the whole Revelations thing) that he was wrong was quite a shock. Finding out that he wasn't welcome in Heaven, despite the lives he'd saved, was another.

Dr. Frontinac has responded to the end of the world the way he reacted to the news that he had cancer in his testicles) outwardly, he's calm and logical. Underneath, he's lividly angry. He will not admit this anger to anyone, least of all himself. Therefore, he has constructed a rational, logical argument that explains why everyone else on the planet should be as barren as he is.

What If He's Right?

Dr. Frontinac is a deeply flawed human being; but hey, aren't we all? Sure he's bitter and predisposed against reproduction; but almost everyone else on the planet is at least as predisposed for it, and probably can't argue their position half as reasonably as the doctor argues his. Most people believe that children are basically a good thing, and they couldn't explain why to save their lives. Don't rule out the possibility that Dr. Frontinac has reached the right conclusion for the wrong reasons.

In terms of the game, of course, this is all academic; people in The End do whatever they want, knowing for sure that there is no Big Cop in the Sky to slap their wrists if they do the wrong thing. However, your character will have to decide if Frontinac is right or wrong.

As a GM, try to be neutral (if you can) and not prejudice the players one way or the othes Lots of players will pick up on signals from the GM and try to either do what you want, or do the exact opposite. In this case, try not to broadcast anything, this decision is a tough one, and it should be theiss alone.

More Sin

Introduction
Meeting the Good Doctor
Frontinac's Secret Agenda
Climax and Confrontation

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