The first thing I noticed when I woke up was the sound. Well, mostly the lack of it, just Claptrap's footsteps somewhere out in the hall. Slow. I lay there a second and stared at the ceiling. I felt… well rested. My body didn't hurt the way it usually did. My legs still felt heavy, but not in a bad way. More like the kind of heavy that comes after you work out. I sat up, rubbed my eyes, and swung my feet down to the floor.
Boots, On, Coat. And my Hair… a mess. I stood there for a moment, just listening again. The shelter stayed quiet, the lights stayed on, and the air had that same stale concrete smell that I was already starting to think of as "home."
I walked to the doorway and leaned out. Claptrap was halfway down the hall, turning at the corner. He paused when he saw me, head rotating. "AREA SECURE," he said.
"Aye," I muttered. "Good lad." I didn't waste time standing around. My feet carried me straight toward the stairs down to the lower level, because I had one thing I needed to check. My boots made soft sounds on the floor. The air got cooler as I moved away from the mayor's room and toward the gym.
The gym doors were still shut. That didn't stop my stomach from tightening the second I got close. I slowed without meaning to. My eyes went to the seam of the door, which I opened slowly, and poked my head in to see. And thankfully, the wall was still intact. Still, I didn't trust it. I needed to start working on making bots from RimWorld, so they could layer that wall. and break down ones i didnt need.
I made my way towards the utility room door just ahead. I pushed it open and stepped into that warm pocket of air where the generator lived. I crossed to the panel and leaned in. The display lit my face green. Fusion core: 9%.
I'd gone to sleep with ten. Now it was nine, but I honestly didnt know if it was going to drain at one a day or if I just had arrived at a time that it would have gone down normally. My hand rested on the metal edge of the panel, fingers curling just a bit tighter.
"…Right," I whispered. I shut the panel, slow and careful. Before I left, I looked around the room. Nothing had changed except the number. I walked back out and closed the door behind me. I made myself walk fast as I didnt feel all that safe down here in this part of the shelter. Back up the stairs and towards the kitchen I made my way. I sat down, picked up the pencil, and added one line at the top in big letters.
POWER: 9% NEED NEW POWER CORE SOON
The pencil scratched loudly in the quiet. I stared at the words for a second, then set the pencil down. "Breakfast," I said out loud. The icebox near the kitchen still gave off that coldish air when I opened it. I pulled out the InstaMash and one of the purified waters and set them on the counter.
A dusty bowl and spoon that I had to use a bit of water to clean up witha rag. I used a little of the water to mix the InstaMash. It came out pale and thick, but it smelled fine. I ate standing at the counter, half watching the doorway like something might stroll in, which I knew was kinda unlikely, but it wasn't a zero percent chance either.
The first few bites were bland, but they filled the space in my stomach. That was what mattered. Halfway through, Claptrap clunked by the kitchen entrance again. His head turned toward me. "STATUS: NORMAL," he said. "Aye," I replied around a mouthful. I swallowed. He kept walking. His footsteps faded down the hall, then came back again a minute later from another direction.
I finished the bowl and rinsed it with a splash of water, then set it aside. My hands paused on the counter. I could feel the day trying to form in my head. Fusion core. What places could I go to if needed... ArcJet came up in my mind before I even tried to stop it. Robots. Old security. The kind of place that might have what I needed, and the kind of place that could kill me for trying, but it did have what I needed, and thankfully, no bugs.
And in this world, it wasn't a quick jog across a tiny map. It was a real walk. I rubbed my thumb along the edge of the counter, thinking. Do I bring Claptrap? He was loud. He was obvious. He was also the reason I wasn't dead already. My brain was still waking up. I glanced toward the stairs leading back downand thought of the bathroom down the hall.
I could smell myself a little. Dust, sweat, old concrete. And I had running water. Brownish, but it could work. "Shower time," I muttered. And so I made my way down towards the bathroom. I turned the faucet first, let it sputter and spit for a second. It coughed up rusty water, then steadied into a thin stream.
I watched it for a moment until it ran a little clearer. As I watched, I began to strip, putting my clothes outside the room so they wouldn't get wet. The floor was cold against my feet. Then I made my way under the cold water. I exhaled through my nose. "Aye. Course." Still, cold water was water. I just stepped under the trickle and let it run over my shoulders.
The first shock of cold made me suck in a breath. My skin tightened. My hands went to my hair right away, fingers working through tangles and dust. I had used that old bar of soap, which I had saved to scrub away at any dirt on me. The water ran brownish for a few seconds when it hit my scalp, then went lighter again. It smelled like boring hotel soap. Clean. Simple. I scrubbed fast. Neck. Arms. Underarms. Hairline. Everywhere that felt sticky.
When I finished, I stepped out, shivering a little, and grabbed a towel. Drying off in the bunker bathroom felt almost… normal. I wrung my hair out over the sink and wiped the water off my face. My cheeks looked less grimy in the cracked mirror.
I got dressed again, pulled my coat back on, and stepped out into the hall. Claptrap passed by again, right on schedule. He paused. "CITIZEN. PLEASE REMAIN CALM," he said, because that was apparently his favorite thing to say. I snorted once. "Aye. I'm calm." I walked back into the kitchen and looked at the clipboard again.
I tapped the paper once with my finger. Then I turned my head toward the hall. Toward the stairs that would take me to an elevator. Toward the direction of the surface. ArcJet sat in my mind again. A place that would take time to reach. A place full of machines I wanted and machines that would want me dead.
**Elsewhere**
INSTITUTE // SRB-3 "EYES ON SURFACE"
FIELD OBSERVATION REPORT
SUBJECT: Unknown surface individual
("Vault Girl")
LOCATION OF INTEREST: Boston Mayoral Shelter (surface ingress + sublevels)
REPORTING NODE: Observer Pair M. (Mark) / J. (Julie) + remote support (Hale)
TIME WINDOW COVERED: Prior day (24h)
Mark didn't like writing reports in the morning. Not because it hard but fuck he really didnt want to use his brain this early in the morning.
Julie came in with a mug that looked heavenly to Mark. She slid into her chair without a word and gave Mark a cup, and then the main monitor brightened as she tapped the console awake.
A handful of feeds popped in: stairwell cam, kitchen cam, hallway cam, the one that covered the gym corridor. A second later, an overhead grainy, high angle showed the shelter entrance from outside, framed by trees and broken stone.
Mark set the coffee down after taking a sip. He opened the report template and stared at the blinking cursor like it owed him rent. Julie flicked her eyes toward the screens first, habit more than curiosity.
"She's been up for a while," she said. Mark didn't ask how she knew. The kitchen cam already showed movement. The subject's silhouette crossing the room, He began typing.
Subject remained in Boston Mayoral Shelter for one full day. Primary activity: consolidation and inventory of available supplies; basic route-setting and interior security habits established.
Julie snorted softly but waved a hand at him like fine, continue, then leaned forward as the subject moved into frame. The vault girl's hair was still damp. The Protectron, Claptrap was still on its route.
Mark continued.
Notable behaviors (prior day):
Subject performed systematic scavenging within shelter rooms, returning items to central staging area. Subject wrote an inventory list and organized categories, indicating planning and sustained focus rather than opportunistic looting.
Subject activated and relied on robotic companion for forced entry and interior patrol, Subject doesnt seem to care about robotic companion damaging it self with breaking doors.
Julie's mouth twitched like she wanted to smile but wouldn't give him the satisfaction. "Add that she talks to the robot like it's a person."
On the hallway feed, the subject stopped near the corridor split, looked up at the Protectron, and spoke. The audio was faint, but the cadence was clear, short instructions.
The Protectron answered in that same hollow monotone it always used.
"PROTECT AND SERVE."
Mark didn't argue. He just typed: Subject anthropomorphizes robot unit for morale, it seems.
Hale's voice crackled over the comm line, distant and slightly annoyed, like he'd been dragged out of bed.
"Did you log the wrist device yet?"
Mark keyed the mic without looking away. "Logging now."
Julie tilted her head. "Still no sign of internal storage?" Mark pulled up the zoom feed from the kitchen camera, rewound to yesterday. The subject had been carrying items the entire time, backpack, hands, pockets. No "disappearing" objects. No sudden empty hands after a grab. Nothing that suggested the device had any storage capacity at all.
He typed carefully, Subject possesses wrist-mounted Vault-Tec device consistent with pre-War Pip-Boy model family.
Observed anomaly: no evidence of storage module function. Subject physically carries items and uses backpack capacity in a conventional manner. No visible "stow" behavior. No storage module seen.
Hale huffed. "So it's broken." Julie chimed in, too pleased with herself. "could be it never came with one." Mark ignored her. "From our perspective, yes. Either the module is nonfunctional or we're not seeing the interface behavior."
Hale's voice sharpened. " 'Appears defective.' The last thing I need is someone upstairs assuming we've confirmed it."
Mark typed exactly that. Assessment: Pip-Boy storage module appears defective or absent (unconfirmed).
Julie leaned back, then glanced at the gym corridor feed like she couldn't stop herself. "And the wall." Mark's fingers paused. Yesterday, the subject had done it more than once. She'd walk past that gym door and her eyes would pull toward it like a magnet. Not the door, not the equipment. The wall, the one that separated the shelter interior from the dirty. She'd stop. Look. Listen. Then keep moving.
People didn't do that unless they were expecting something. He resumed typing.
Subject repeatedly directed attention to the gym corridor wall.
Behavior pattern: brief pauses; visual checks; tension indicators, shoulder set, breath holding. No contact with the wall observed.
Julie tapped her nail against the desk. "That's not normal. Who stares at a wall like that?"
"Someone whose last home got opened up," Mark said, quiet. Hale came in immediately. "add it in the report." Mark did.
Hypothesis (low confidence): Subject may have prior experience with a breached confined environment in there vault. Fixation suggests expectation of structural failure or intrusion from the opposite side.
Julie made a little sound that was half laugh, half disbelief. "Or she's just paranoid." Mark didn't respond. Paranoia on the surface kept you alive.
Recommendation: maintain passive watch. Do not allocate active resources unless new movement is seen. Julie's eyes flicked down to another feed, bathroom cam.
Mark didn't like this part. He didn't like it because it was unnecessary in his eyes.
He still typed it, because the report wanted completeness. Subject performed basic hygiene routine (shower) after eating and checking on the power level of the fusion core.
Additional note: remote observers recorded biometric estimates (height, build, approximate measurements) for identification reference, or Synth remaking if needed.
Julie coughed into her mug, trying not to laugh. Hale said, very flat, "Don't write it like that." Julie leaned toward the mic. "Oh, we're writing it like that." Mark rubbed his forehead with two fingers. "Hale, I didn't ask for that."
"You didn't stop it either," Hale replied. Julie cut in, bright and sharp, enjoying herself. "One of the early morning shift idiots called the guy doing the measurements a pervert."
Mark finally looked at her. "And?"
"And," Julie said, dragging it out, "the pervert said, 'It's called data collection.'"
Hale sighed so loudly it fuzzed the comm. Mark stared at the cursor, then typed one sentence and made it as sterile as he could.
Identification data collected for cross-reference; note: collection was contested internally for propriety.
Julie straightened suddenly, all humor fading. "She's moving , looks like she's leaving."
Mark snapped his gaze to the kitchen feed.
The subject was packing, Two bottles and One food item. Minimal weight. Her hands moved fast and practiced.
The next frame: her adjusting the bag strap. Checking her laser musket. A brief pause at the table, then went up the stairs and into the corridortoward that led to the elevator, toward the first level.
Mark leaned closer as the subject stepped into the hall. Claptrap was there, near the upper access, near the choke point. He turned his head toward her, that dead calm voice coming through with faint echo.
"STATUS?"
Her reply was too soft to catch fully, but the intent was clear: stay. Mark watched her , The robot's answer came back in the same clipped monotone.
"AFFIRMATIVE. PROTECT AND SERVE."
Julie narrowed her eyes. "She's leaving him behind." Mark typed as he watched it happen. Subject departed shelter alone.
Robotic unit remained inside second-level corridor on patrol directive.
Subject did not attempt to bring robot as escort; indicates prioritization of shelter security over personal escort.
Hale's voice cut in. "Or she doesn't want a loud metal idiot announcing her position to every raider within a mile."
Julie clicked her tongue. "Still. Leaving your only help behind is really stupid choice for her."
The outside feed caught her exit: she stepped into the tree line with a normal walking speed. A minute later she was gone, swallowed by the brown mess of Commonwealth growth.
Julie drummed her fingers once. "Follow?"
Hale answered before Mark could. "No. Not worth the asset."
Julie's eyebrows lifted. Hale replied. "We already reassigned two birds to the Brotherhood. If she walks into a minefield, she walks into it."
Mark typed, Tracking discontinued after subject left shelter perimeter. Rationale: subject deemed low-priority; and low threat.
Julie stared at the last frame where the subject had been visible. Then she leaned back and sipped her coffee again like she could wash the feeling out.
"Cold," she muttered.
Mark didn't comment. He just kept writing.
Mark opened a new section and the tone shifted the way it always did when the Brotherhood entered a report. Less observation, more tension.
Julie toggled to a different cluster of feeds, overhead shots, long-range rooftop cams, and the most useful one of all: the synth crow relay.
The bird's view was clean, crisp for something so small. Hale's voice sharpened. "Artemis moved again before dawn."
Julie leaned in like she couldn't help herself. "I hate it these ignorant savages."
Mark typed. Brotherhood of Steel presence confirmed: Recon Squad Artemis.
Observed via intercepted comms traffic and visual confirmation through avian synth surveillance. They have entered the Commonwealth proper.
He paused, then added the part the report specifically asked for, numbers. Estimated squad composition: six (6) personnel.
(3) Paladins (power armor signatures consistent with field command + heavy support)
(2) Knights (mixed kit; rifles; perimeter coverage)
One (1) Scribe (field support; comms/technical)
Julie pointed at the crow feed. "There. See that? That's the scribe. Stays in the pocket of the formation." Mark nodded once, then kept typing.
Behavior: Squad demonstrates standard recon discipline: minimal light usage at night.
Intent (inferred): mapping / threat assessment / possible tech retrieval.
Threat level to Institute operations: moderate to high. Squad is small but could represents a forward edge of larger force projection.
Surveillance method: synth avian units ("crows") maintaining visual contact. Low-signal relay used to avoid pattern detection.
Julie added, almost gleeful, "Also, they still haven't noticed." Hale replied, unimpressed. "Don't underestimate them."
Mark wrote the safer version. Note: no confirmation of Brotherhood detection of avian surveillance at this time.
"Chance of them running into her?" she asked. Hale answered first, because he always did. "Unknown."
Mark still wrote it. Intersection probability with subject ("Vault Girl"): unknown.
Subject currently untracked; Recon Squad Artemis route under avian surveillance. No observed overlap within shelter vicinity as of report time.
Julie clicked her tongue. "If she bumps into them, that's… what? Funny? Bad?"
Hale was quiet for a beat. Then: "It's useful. Either she gets ignored, recruited, or shot. Any outcome gives us data."
Any interaction between unaffiliated surface subject and Brotherhood elements may alter local stability; monitor if overlap is re-established incidentally.
Mark stared at the summary section again. Subject appears solitary. No accompanying humans observed; no evidence of external support network.
Subject demonstrates: basic organization, caution, and an emerging defensive routine.
Subject lacks: redundancy (single robot), reliable resupply, and the apparent Pip-Boy storage advantage typical of Vault-Tec field kits (if functional).
Julie leaned over his shoulder and read it silently, then nodded once. "Add that she's not special," she said.
Mark's mouth tightened. "She's wearing a vault suit and living in the mayor's bunker. That's unusual."
Julie pointed at the gym corridor feed again, frozen on a frame from yesterday, her body angled toward that wall like she expected it to bulge.
"She's scared," Julie said, and it wasn't sympathy. It was a diagnosis. "And she's acting like she's already had something break in on her once."
Hale's voice cut in, approving in the only way he ever approved. "Good. That's actionable."
Julie sighed. "We're not doing anything about it, though."
"No," Hale said. "We're not." Mark finished the section the way the Institute preferred. Conclusion: subject remains low priority relative to Brotherhood activity.
Julie stared at the crow feed again, at the Brotherhood movement. Then her eyes flicked back to the empty trees on the shelter entrance cam, where the vault girl had vanished.
"She's gonna get herself killed," Julie said. Mark couldnt help but agree. Hale's voice came through one last time, crisp.
"Submit it. Then get your eyes back on Artemis recon group."