Chapter 15
Getting ourselves situated with Marla was a surprisingly smooth affair. She was brisk, efficient, and clearly overworked—her desk cluttered with requisition forms and a half-eaten sweetroll. The temporary quarters she assigned us were barracks-style, tucked away in the lower floors of what had once been a municipal annex. Four stacked bunks per room, industrial cots with threadbare sheets. Functional, not comfortable. FKSR opted to stand in the corner rather than lie down.
The moment I stepped into their clinic, I was hit with a mix of antiseptic and desperation. The place was clean enough, but everything about it screamed triage and improvisation. Two examination tables. One functioning autoclave. Half of their surgical tools were pre-war salvage that had clearly been sharpened by hand. And their diagnostic equipment? Barely functioning analog relics. At least they weren't using radium-lined thermometers.
Still, it was a space—and they were clearly drowning in patients. I was given access to the equipment under a shared-space agreement, with pay given on a per-case commission based on treatment difficulty and outcome. It was a reasonable arrangement, given that I was essentially renting someone else's table. They needed the help, and I needed to form up some good will. I didn't mind acting the wandering doctor.
But the whole situation still sat oddly with me.
I'm not convinced I want to entrench myself here entirely enough to get property here. Not yet.
The Enclave presence to the south gnaws at the back of my mind. Too quiet. Too civil. That usually means they're playing a long game—trade, charm, infiltration. I've yet to spot where their so-called "trading office" might be, but it's only a matter of time. I'd bet caps they've already slipped a few agents into town. Maybe even into the Town's council itself.
Assuming they've eased their old xenophobic standards—which they'd have to, if they're dealing with wastelanders—they're not the Enclave the Capital Wasteland remembers. They've adapted.
I could reach out, of course. See what they're after. Leverage my knowledge. Offer them something tantalizing—an upgrade, a design, a secret. But I'm not naïve enough to think they wouldn't gut me the moment they caught a whiff of Vault 95's potential.
And sure, they'd fail.
But it would be messy. A mess I can't afford. Not yet.
No, if I'm going to make any sort of real move, I need Vault 95 fully operational. Fully staffed. A proper base of operations—not just a hideout. A cadre of Replikas maintaining internal systems, handling manufacturing, watching the halls. Scouts roaming the Commonwealth. Salvagers tracing old-world routes and marking sites worth seizing.
I want the vault humming. Not just functional—autonomous. Self-sufficient.
A citadel.
A man can dream.
But that dream is within reach. Not a fantasy—just a logistical challenge.
I could hire mercenaries. The Gunners, maybe. Dangerous, ruthless, but reliable—for the right price. They work for whoever pays best, and I'd make sure the price is right. Let them think I'm just another eccentric scavenger with more caps than bullets. No need to let them see the whole picture.
They don't need to know what the pieces are for—just that I need them.
Precision machining tools. Plasma polymer molders. Nanoscale etching units. Organic culturing suites. High-temperature induction forges. Tissue growth vats capable of supporting scaffolded neural substrates. The works.
Once I have that…
Then I'll finally be in a position to fabricate Replikas at a standard I'm actually comfortable with, units I can trust to run the vault, secure its halls, and support operations in the field. Still bespoke, of course. Hand-assembled. Piece by piece. I don't have the manufacturing scale of a multi-planetary Nation anymore…
But that doesn't mean I can't emulate it. At least in miniature.
Once the infrastructure's in place, I can begin construction of dedicated ARAR units—automated robotics and repair subtypes. Let them handle component manufacturing, fabrication, and logistics. Have them maintain both the Replika schematics and the production lines. I've just gotten too used to doing everything myself.
That's going to change.
And once I secure a steady income of caps—or perhaps even CPG dollars—I'll have the leverage to make real investments. The Commonwealth Provisional Government might be dead, but their bills still float around out here. Backed by water, just like the NCR's scrip in the west. Surprisingly resilient for a failed polity.
Quincy still uses them. So does Diamond City, to some extent. The Minutemen back the currency, probably out of a sense of stubborn pride.
That suits me just fine.
With a proper source of income, manufacturing coming online, and the vault secured?
Then we can begin. Truly begin.
I finished my "shift" at the clinic and pocketed what passed for payment—likely fair for a day's work, though I'd need to run the numbers later. Outside, I fished out a cigarette from the half-crushed vault pack I'd stashed, ignoring FKSR's disapproving glance. She didn't say anything, but the way her eyes narrowed said plenty.
In a little while, I'd head back to the municipal building to formalize the water trade. After that, FKSR could do some light surface skimming—pull idle thoughts from the council and support staff while they slept, look for leaks, whispers of Enclave leanings or any other faction's spies. Maybe slide in a gentle nudge or two. Nothing overt. Just enough to keep the finer details of our arrangement firmly in "need-to-know" territory.
I was almost through the cigarette when I heard the voice.
"You've got music in you, boy."
My fingers froze mid-flick.
I turned, slowly, my hand drifting toward the inside of my coat. Not the AER. Not yet. Just... proximity.
The voice came from a second-story balcony across the alley. An older woman rocked gently in a worn chair, her hair white and tied back beneath a tattered shawl. Her posture was frail, but her gaze wasn't. Clouded, yes—but not blind. Her eyes were focused, locked on me with a clarity that didn't match her age.
And there it was. A ripple at the edge of perception. Barely there. But unmistakable.
Bioresonance.
I straightened.
"…What did you just say?" I asked, voice even.
She smiled, slow and knowing. "Said you've got music in you. Not the kind you hear with your ears. The kind that hums in the bones. You and that tall gal of yours."
FKSR shifted beside me, one hand drifting toward her spear. I sent a mental impression: hold. No hostility.
I narrowed my eyes and reached out. Not physically—with my mind. What I felt was like trying to tune into a radio station buried in static. Weak. Disordered. But there.
"You've seen others like us?" I asked.
Her eyes never wavered. "A few. Not many. Most don't last. The world swallows them up—or the chems do. I've been called all kinds of things—seer, madwoman, junkie. They say it's the chems that give me the Sight. Maybe they're right. But I figure they just turn the volume up on something that was already there."
Her resonance was tangled—fragmented by decades of chem use and age-related decay. No symmetry. No control. But there was something instinctual in it. Organic. Untouched by augmentation or design. A raw signal, flaring wild and untrained.
In another place and time I might've run a deep scan, built a model, tried to isolate and map the imprinting pattern for natural bioresonants. But she was too far gone—too fragile, too deteriorated to give me anything precise. Still... her existence proved what I'd started to suspect.
There were others. Not just the anomalies like Far Harbor. Not just synthetics like those I created, like FKSR. There were sensitives. Wild-types.
I crushed the cigarette under my heel and exhaled the last of the smoke.
"Appreciate that, ma'am," I said, giving her a polite nod. "I'll keep an eye out for others with the 'music'."
She smiled again—just a flicker of teeth beneath cracked lips.
"You'll find 'em. Sooner or later," she said. "World's waking up, little by little. Some of us just feel it first."
FKSR said nothing, but I could feel her awareness tightening—already recalibrating her scans. Watching. Listening.
Standing before the council again, I found the air thicker than before—less welcoming, more transactional. The chairs were the same, the faces unchanged, but the tone had shifted. Now they wanted proof.
The mayor spoke first, her voice even but edged with pragmatism.
"So, first things first. You understand we'll need to send some men to verify this—operation of yours. Maybe even do a trial run, if you're willing. One of our working pickups has a mounted tank for water transport. Fill her up, and we'll pay you the standard rate per gallon. Simple as that. You'll ride with a team—guards and a couple of our techs—to make sure what you're offering is the real thing. No offense intended."
I nodded slightly, keeping the link open with FKSR through the implant. Her mental signature pulsed steady—scanning, watching. The Projektor's lights dimmed to a faint pulse, keeping her presence muted. So far, nothing from the minds around us pinged as overtly hostile. Cautious, yes. But not treacherous.
"Fair," I replied. "And since we're speaking openly, I'll clarify a few things now."
I took a breath, letting my tone flatten into something clinical.
"The facility I've reactivated is an abandoned Vault. Functional, now that I've brought its systems back online. It's positioned just near the border of the Glowing Sea. Not within it—but close. Fortunately, the access roads are mostly intact, and radiation levels remain manageable."
A few councilors shifted at that. Understandable. The Glowing Sea had a reputation, and not without reason.
"For this trial run," I continued, "I'll provide a list of components I require—parts that could be included as partial payment, or factored into future trade agreements. Industrial-grade electronics, alloyed fittings, chemical substrates. You'll see the list shortly."
I let that sink in before continuing.
"But let me be absolutely clear: no one enters the Vault."
That got their attention. Subtle changes in posture, a flicker of narrowed eyes. I raised a hand before any of them could interrupt.
"It's not a matter of distrust," I lied smoothly. "Your settlement has proven itself stable and well-organized. But this is about reducing the risk of infiltration—or worse, accidental contamination. The Vault isn't entirely safe for outsiders. There are dormant systems, sealed sections, and environmental risks. Falksir and I know the layout and dangers. Your people don't."
The mayor leaned forward, brow creased. "And the water?"
"Pumped to the surface. We've got the appropriate fittings—hoses, pressure regulators, external ports. You'll be able to take samples, test them however you wish, right there on-site. You'll find it clean. Pure. Vault-grade."
I paused, letting silence do some of the heavy lifting.
FKSR remained still beside me, her expression unreadable but her presence looming. The golden shimmer of her shield reflected faintly in the council chamber's overhead lights, casting a pale arc across the floor like the curve of a setting sun.
I folded my arms loosely. "All I ask is that you keep the location as close to your chest and the operation quiet. A few too many scavvers get curious, maybe even raiders, and We'll be forced to close the vault off as it's original purpose intended.
There was a brief silence.
The kind that settles over a room not because there's nothing to say—but because everyone's suddenly aware of the stakes.
The mayor was the first to break it.
"Well, Doctor Vogt," she said, folding her hands atop the table, "you're either exactly what you claim to be… or you're the most composed con man we've had walk through that door in years."
"I'll take that as a compliment," I said with a faint smile.
Across from her, the wiry technician councilor who'd asked about the facility leaned forward. "The Vault's location being that close to the Glowing Sea is going to make people nervous," he said. "We've lost more than a few patrols near that place over the years. But if the water really is what you say it is... that changes things."
"It is," I replied simply.
"And the list of parts you mentioned?" the mayor asked. "You'll deliver it today?"
I nodded. "Already written up and itemized. I'll have it sent to your logistics officer after this meeting. Nothing exotic—just tools and materials you'd find in any half-decent pre-war industrial hub."
She exchanged a glance with one of the other councilors—an older man with weathered skin and a permanent frown etched into his face.
He grunted. "You'll ride in the truck," he said. "You pump the water, we test it on-site. You don't let us inside, fine—but our techs aren't idiots. If anything seems off…"
"You'll find it doesn't," I said, letting my tone drop slightly colder. "But yes. Agreed. You'll get results."
The mayor tapped the table lightly, then nodded. "We'll organize the team. Morning departure, day after tomorrow. That gives us time to prep the rig and pull together supplies."
"I'll be ready," I said. "Falksir and I will meet your team at the gate at dawn."
Another pause. The mayor's gaze lingered on FKSR for a moment—more cautious than curious now.
"She always that quiet?" the younger councilor asked.
FKSR tilted her head very slightly, not answering.
"She speaks when necessary," I said. "Otherwise, she listens."
A beat passed.
"Alright then," the mayor said, rising from her chair. "This meeting's adjourned. If your offer's good—and your water clean—then you'll be good in our books and any other settlement in our good graces. Don't make us regret this."
I offered a small bow of my head. "That goes both ways."
A.N: One last chapter after this one before I do a quick time-skip of a couple of months.