The group boarded Pierre’s airboat as the armed ghouls looked on. Pierre looked like a kid with his hand in the cookie jar; everyone else seemed confused. After they’d made some distance from the guards and the shoreline, Pierre apologized for not saying something sooner.
“That was NOLA,, aka Ghoul central in these parts, or at least a suburb of it. I didn’t realize that it had expanded out that far. You see, I’m not exactly welcomed in those parts because I’m too friendly with you smoothskins. When y’all said there was a radio tower that was broadcasting from that area, I thought it might be the Brotherhood staking a claim in town or those Chinese I keep hearing about. I thought we could kill two birds with one stone: Kill some shitbag swampers and help out some fellow ghouls.
At this, Pierre caught some sideways looks from the party.
“What? A guy can’t hold out some love for his kin? Just cause they don’t like me doesn’t mean I have a beef with them. I get it; they don’t want smoothies to find out what they’re up to or else they’d try to ruin a good thing. From the looks of things back there, though, the fair folk of NOLA either took out a few brotherhood patrols though or else they’re in league because those guards were wearing substantially more kit than they did in my day. Either way, they don’t seem to need our help, at least not right now.