Chapter 13
One millisecond we're in the exploding relay room, in the next; with a flash of blue, we rematerialize just beyond the edge of the Glowing sea.
FKSR's grip on me loosened as her sensors flickered, scanning the horizon.
No immediate hostiles
My own bioresonant pulse echoed her assessment: nothing but wind and the distant skittering of radroaches.
To the south, the air itself roiled—an ocean of viridian smog where the geiger counter in my implant spiked into the red just from its proximity. Even with my error correction gene-mods, venturing there would boil and melt my face off before I'd be capable of doing anything.
North offers better odds. Rocky hills jut like broken teeth, one crowned by a battered concrete structure. Judging by the silhouette, I'd wager it's Vault 95. No jury-rigged guard towers, no makeshift emplacements—no sign of Gunners. Yet. If my timing's right, I've arrived a bit before the game's so-called "start." Still, not interested in pissing off a mercenary outfit that spans multiple wastelands just to satisfy my curiosity.
I wipe the crusted blood from my eye where the surgery punctured through my orbital socket. "Civilization awaits," I mutter.
FKSR's pupils dilate, adjusting to the haze. "Your definition of civilization appears... flexible, Doctor."
I shoulder the half-shredded pack that FKSR grabbed without me looking and somehow also survived our escape, its metal buckles clinking softly against my hip.
A quick inventory as we walk: the Frankensteined Pip-Boy, still barely holding itself together; the supplies I salvaged from the sunken sub, their labels water-warped but intact; and the boxes of surplus ammo—I'd trade them, once I find out their value in this post-apocalyptic economy.
I examine the drawstring bag from the Institute into the sack as well—folded inside is the outfit I wore during my time in Delta, along with a ridiculous amount of microfusion cells I crammed into the coat's compartments. Before stuffing all of that into what remains of the threadbare sack's space. I leave a few cells in my pockets—for quick access, should I need to reload the Institute laser rifle currently slung under my arm.
Speaking of.
I finally give the weapon a proper look. It's sleek, clean, unscarred—too clean, too white. Like someone's idea of what a gun should be, designed by a committee that's never been shot at.
I pulse it with retrocognition.
The world blurs—
An assembly line. Robotic arms slotting together ceramic plating. Power regulators clicked into place, not for maximum yield, but for efficient draw. Blue light emitters tested against ballistic gel. A supervisor frowning over data—complaints of underperformance filed away in favor of prolonged operational time. Durability, aesthetics, efficiency—never raw power.
—and snap back.
I snort. "Of course."
The blue beam. Higher on the visible spectrum than the red lasers of pre-war tech, and yet weaker. Not because it couldn't be stronger—but because it wasn't meant to be. The Institute didn't design these rifles to kill quickly. They designed them to look advanced, draw less power, and avoid overheating. Every choice optimized for sustainability over stopping power.
"Form over function," I mutter.
FKSR glances at me. "A critique?"
"A diagnosis," I reply, inspecting the rifle's casing again. "They optimized themselves into mediocrity."
She hums—an acknowledgment, not agreement. Her eyes linger a little too long on the rifle before turning back toward the ridge ahead.
The vault's concrete bulk loomed ahead, its gear-shaped door still sealed against the wasteland. A minor miracle—no Gunner graffiti, no scavenger scarring. Just raw, pitted steel, weathered by two centuries of radioactive wind.
I trudged up the incline, boots crunching loose gravel, sidestepping jagged stone and fractured concrete. FKSR followed without sound—her stilted legs gliding over the uneven terrain with impossible precision.
The scaffolding groaned beneath us, joints shrieking in protest as we reached the control panel. I pulled the Franken-Pip-Boy from my pack and jacked it into the ancient vault port. Its screen buzzed alive—flickering, glitching, then stabilizing with a chirp of acceptance.
The blast door let out a low, metallic groan. It retracted inward with the sound of something that hasn't been lubricated for, well, centuries. Then rolled aside to reveal the yawning dark beyond. Scaffolding extended with a rattling clatter, forming a narrow catwalk to the vault's threshold. We stepped through, and I sealed the blast door behind us. The mechanism screamed like metal dying.
Inside: ordered, if a bit decayed. The stale air hitting my lungs.
Neat stacks of vault suits filled plastic crates, their gold "95" emblems still vivid against pristine blue. Preserved like relics of a failed faith. I made a mental note—grab one on the way out. Could be useful.
We moved through the antechamber toward the elevator. FKSR had to dip her head slightly—her frame too tall, for the elevator's interior. I avoided looking at her face. The subtle shifts in her expression were becoming too familiar.
The elevator whirred down its shaft. When the doors opened, we stepped into the atrium.
It was quiet. Preserved.
Long tables, bolted benches, scattered trays—all frozen mid-moment. Like the residents had simply gotten up and vanished. On the walls, Vault-Tec's flavor of propaganda still clinging to the walls
TOGETHER WE RECOVER!
ONE DAY AT A TIME!
CHEM-FREE IS THE WAY TO BE!
Empty encouragements.
We climbed the metal stairs to the second floor. Supplies still lined the upper walkway in neat stacks—sealed boxes, their labels faded but legible. Rations. Clothing. Medical kits. Order imposed on entropy. Almost impressive.
Near the Overseer's office—identifiable by its circular window—a single skeleton slumped beside the door. Its bony arms cradled a chem box like a child.
FKSR tilted her head, precise as a pendulum. "This was a social experiment, no?" Her voice had shifted subtly—warmer, clinical. Hirsch's cadence surfacing through the Replika's processors like an echo.
I didn't answer aloud. Instead, I opened a narrow bioresonant channel and pushed a compressed data bundle across our shared link—Vault-Tec's standard operating procedures, their long history of engineered failure, psychological manipulation, and trauma wrapped in patriotism.
She processed the data silently. "Rehabilitation through removal. Then reintroduction." Her tone was even. "A cycle of relapse and collapse, manufactured by design."
She knelt beside the skeleton, eyes scanning the dusty label on the box.
"Med-X. Mentats. Buffout. Psycho." Tilting her head at the rather unknown narcotics, before a simple pulses passed over them. Sating her curiosity.
"They waited five years," I said aloud. "Then one of Vault-Tec's embedded agents opened a hidden stash. Wanted to see what happened when temptation returned."
FKSR ran a finger down the side of the box. "What happened?"
I gestured to the skeletons.
"Case study complete."
She rose and turned toward the Overseer's office door, brushing her fingers across the terminal's surface.
"Power grid stable. Terminal likely functional."
I nodded. "Open it."
She keyed in the override sequence. The door hissed and slid aside, revealing the office beyond. It was spartan—metal desk, a wall safe, filing cabinets buckled under age—but the real prize sat in the corner. The Overseer's terminal, softly humming.
I crossed the room and powered it on. The screen flickered to life.
VAULT 95 – OVERSEER TERMINAL
USER: MYERS, JANE
LOGIN: SUCCESSFUL
[ACCESSING FILES…]
[PERSONAL LOG – 2082.10.23]
"They trust me. That's the worst part. They trust me. The meetings help, the structure helps, and the fact that we all started broken has made this place… whole. Until tonight. I'm opening the stash. Vault-Tec says it's time. They want to observe. Record. I'm not sure I can do this, but I volunteered. I wanted to make things better, and now… I'm about to destroy everything we built."
FKSR stood behind me, reading over my shoulder.
I scrolled down.
[PERSONAL LOG – 2082.10.24]
"They found it. Almost immediately. Three overdosed by morning. Two more by lunch. The rest… fighting. Screaming. I tried to hold a meeting. One man threw a tray at me and called me a liar. He was right. This was never rehabilitation. This was dissection."
[PERSONAL LOG – 2082.10.27]
"They've stopped holding meetings. They don't look each other in the eyes anymore. We're ghosts haunting each other. I locked myself in here with the last chem box. Vault-Tec got their data. I don't know if they'll bother retrieving it."
[FINAL ENTRY – UNSENT DRAFT]
"We proved their theory. Without alternatives, people recover. But recovery is fragile. We proved that, too. I just wish I hadn't had to watch them break."
I leaned back in the chair.
FKSR remained motionless, her gaze on the terminal.
"I was expecting company," I said, breaking the silence. "Turrets, scavvers, at least an automated welcome message. But this… a whole Vault to ourselves."
I gestured at the wide window. Before turning the chair back to the termina as l I begin forming my plan for the vault.
There's enough left to get some automation going. Not enough to start printing Replikas—not without organic material and enough components—but I scanned Gen-1 and Gen-2 synths back in Delta. I'll cobble something together. Hybridized units. Simpler limbs. Easier to repair. No Institute overengineering this time. But first…
I plugged my clip into the terminal. A soft chime acknowledged the handshake.
My first priority is lockdocking down the vault. I watched as lines of code rewrote the Vault door protocol. No random Pip-Boy's opening this place again. I'll rework the OS entirely once I gain access to the mainframe.
The terminal pulsed. Vault 95 was now locked to my biometric signature. My systems. My locks.
Mine.
I opened one of the desk drawers—hoping for another small miracle. Like Vault 118.
And there it was.
A half-full pack of cigarettes.
I pulled one out instinctively, rolling it between my fingers. Habit.
FKSR gave me a look—subtle, unreadable, but unmistakable. Her gaze flicked to the terminal logs. Then back to the cigarette.
The message was clear.
I stared at the smoke for a long second. Then floated it gently back into the drawer and shut it.
"Yeah," I muttered. "Point taken."
With the drawer sealed and the cigarette denied, I stood. FKSR tracked me with her eyes, but said nothing.
"The rest of the Vault needs inspection," I said, voice flat. "Before we start rebuilding, I need to know what's salvageable." Pulsing occasionally to get down the layout of the vault and its internals as I move.
She followed without question as I descended the metal stairs and made my way deeper into the lower levels—residential wing first. The personal quarters.
Rows of doors lined the corridor, marked with fading nameplates and peeling adhesive motivational slogans. "YOU ARE STRONGER THAN YOUR ADDICTION!" one of them proclaimed in bright Vault-Tec blue. The paint had run, like tears.
The first few rooms were typical: preserved, if sparse. Bunk beds. Lockers. More posters. A few skeletal remains curled in bedsheets, others lying next to opened chem boxes or syringes that had long since dried out. No signs of struggle—just surrender.
Then I opened a door that wasn't 'quiet'.
The moment the lock disengaged, my bioresonance flared without prompting—reflexive, involuntary. My Projektor fired a weak pulse before I could stop it.
The echo hit like a brick to the skull.
—
Shouts.
Slamming fists.
Someone crying.
"I can stop anytime, just give it back!"
A man pins another against the wall, screaming about betrayal. Someone punches a mirror until their knuckles split. A woman sits in a corner, whispering apologies to a bloodied inhaler.
The walls pulse—not physically, but psychically—with chaos, relapse, guilt, withdrawal. A collective storm trapped in steel.
Overseer Myers on the intercom, voice cracking: "Please, just stay in your quarters. This will pass."
It never does.
—
I clutched my temple. Blinking spots out of my eyes—fractals of red and blue dancing along the edges. FKSR was there immediately, stabilizing me.
"Backlash?" she asked, already scanning.
"Involuntarily Retrocognition. Echo is too dense in here." I let out a long breath. "This place is still screaming."
She looked around the room. "The resonance is... layered. Amplified."
I nodded slowly.
FKSR knelt beside a bunk, her hand brushing over a diary half-eaten by mold.
"Would you like to proceed with the rest of the inventory?" she asked.
"Yeah," I said, taking a breath. "Let's finish this. Then I start taking stock."
We moved from room to room. Some had useful supplies—vacuum-sealed food, intact medkits, even a few usable tools. Others were nothing but relics and rot. But the vault itself had held up. The structure was sound. That meant potential.
Eventually, we found ourselves back in the atrium, beneath the flaking slogans and dim lights. The silence was dense—thick with memory and rot.
FKSR broke it first.
"You intend to repurpose this installation."
I nodded, slowly.
"For habitation. For production. For defense."
"Yes." I replied
She turned her head, processing. "Structural integrity is within acceptable thresholds. Internal systems are inefficient but serviceable. Resources are limited. Human labor output: currently one unit."
I gave her a look.
"Correction," she added. "Two."
I cracked the faintest smile
"For now," I said. "I'll need more. Not Replikas—yet. Synth analogs. Easier to fabricate."
She nodded once. "You retained schematics from Delta. Gen-1 and Gen-2 units. Enough to construct limited-function prototypes."
"I'll need to work on the software and design for it," I muttered, half to myself. "Some form of central behavioral logic core, but simplified. Strip the excess. Merge it with Replika scaffolding where applicable—limb stability protocols, repair diagnostics…" Sighing "I'm not even a roboticist, but splicing the designs with some Replika designs for certain components should be simple enough and make them more rugged." Rubbing my temples.
FKSR stepped to the center of the atrium, eyes scanning the surrounding architecture. "You will require a fabrication space. Isolation. Access to raw materials."
"There's a maintenance sublevel," I said. "And a still-sealed armory. If the workshop's intact, I can retrofit it."
"You will also require security."
"Already handled." I pointed at my clip attachment. "Vault door is now locked to my codes, I'll eventually swap the OS to a Eusan equivalent it might not struggle to run, considering we have access the the Vault's mainframe, it won't be too much work. Nothing should be capable of overriding it after that. Not unless they've got a full decompiler suite and about six hours of uninterrupted access."
"Statistically unlikely."
"Exactly."
She paused beside looking at the PA speaker, mind peering into its internals.
"This system is non-operational," she observed.
"I deactivated them," I said. "Institute Relays can piggyback off audio infrastructure. That's how Elias pulled me from Vault 114. I'm not letting that happen again."
FKSR nodded once.
We descended into the med-bay next.
Dust hung thick in the air, but the facility was intact. Exam beds. Diagnostic terminals. A half-functioning auto-doc with scorched servos. Locked cabinets, some looted. A few crates still sealed: anesthetics, stim packs, spinal braces.
After, we moved to one of the maintenance rooms that housed part of the Vault mainframe. FKSR approached the terminal, with herself synced to my clip.
I watched her for a moment—expression unreadable, posture clinical. I'd decided to let her handle the OS transition. If she had even half of Hirsch's talent and ability, it would be better than anything I could do in a week.
"I will localize control," she said. "Isolate access points. Destroy redundant backups. Cut all remote observation vectors."
"Do it."
I crouched beside a workstation, hands already deep in bundled wires, mapping what's functional and not, acute pulses here and there to get the full picture.
It would take time.
I woke later on a cot in the room adjacent to the Overseer's office—private quarters, now mine by occupation. My head was fogged. My clothes were gone. Sheets were clean.
FKSR moved me.
I sat up slowly, spotting my fatigues in a folded pile near a makeshift hamper. My Institute bag sat beside my rucksack.
I tried to rise—only to feel like I was made of lead.
Second attempt: better.
I stretched slowly, joints cracking in protest. Blood returning. Systems stabilizing.
For once, I felt lazy. I didn't want to dig through the Institute string bag for a clean set. I pulsed the room, searching. In the corner: a Vault 95 jumpsuit, still sealed. Looked like it might fit. Also sitting next to it was the standard Pip-boy 3000 that was on Jane's corpse. Cleaned, free of grime.
Shrugging, I pulled it out and began slipping into it—only for the door to hiss open mid-sleeve.
FKSR stood in the doorway, deadpan on her face, catching me in the act of awkwardly wrangling my left arm into the jumpsuit.
I straightened, zipped up, and raised an eyebrow.
"I've heard these are comfortable," I said, smoothing the collar. "And I'm feeling... lazy. After getting some much-needed rest."
I coughed into my fist after securing the pip-boy.
"Also—thank you for... dragging me to bed. So to speak."
She said nothing.
I cleared my throat. "Anyway... How far did I get into getting manufacturing and recycling operational? I'm drawing a blank at the moment." I asked as I shrugged my labcoat over the vault-suit.
FKSR fully stepped into the room without a word, her eyes scanning me top to bottom. If she registered judgment, she didn't express it—just filed it away.
"The vault's primary fabrications are still in various states of disrepair" she said, voice level. "Manufacturing subroutines for spare parts are present but deprecated. Some were never enabled."
I rolled my shoulders, still stretching out post sleep stiffness.
"The material recyclers are offline." She finished
"Are they functional?" I asked
"Only partially. I've initiated override attempts using your cipher. One success. The others require further repairs."
Snapping my fingers. "Right I remember It's what I was working on before I— fell asleep…" Clicking my tongue. "I'll be off." Ignoring her glare at my casual disregard of getting proper rest.
A.N: Basic modded contraption DLC machinery is present in this vault for parts production, nothing as sophisticated enough to produce, say: a water chip for example. Nothing to scale up and make a whole army in the Vault but enough to run/recycle what few materials remain in the vault to fabricate a few basic automata using the machinery designed to make spare parts, having to assemble them piece by piece.