Finding nothing of value—nothing that truly warranted our attention—we proceeded with the operation, cleansing every zone systematically. Lobotomites, machines, genetically altered beasts… anything that moved or breathed within the perimeter was terminated without hesitation. We would leave no active remnants in this facility.
After several hours of continuous engagement, I ordered the unit to fortify one of the more secure structures and rest. The day had been long. Fatigue weakens judgment, and we could not afford that. I used the time to integrate all recovered data into my terminal. It revealed little beyond what we had already confirmed: the origin of the abominations now plaguing the Wasteland.
We consumed our rations—reinforced protein bars, isotonic fluids. Functional. Sufficient. There would be no return to the vertibirds for resupply.
Once restored, we resumed formation. The servo-armors' floodlights cut through the darkness as we advanced like a steel wedge, crushing all resistance. Some of the enemy weapons, forged in Saturnite, posed a risk at close quarters—but their reach was limited. That was their flaw.
Deeper inside the facility, we encountered something... anomalous. A discard zone. Most likely the dumping ground for failed prototypes, fractured components, rejected designs—scrap deemed unworthy by their warped standards of "experimental perfection."
The area was littered with mechanical limbs, shattered circuits, bisected robobrain heads. Amidst the wreckage, human remains were strewn like waste—skeletal figures still fused with implants or encased in partially molten suits.
Yet none of that held my focus.
What did was a series of fragments—clearly belonging to a roboscorpion, though unlike any we had previously encountered. The legs were massive. Based on proportion, the construct must have been twenty—perhaps forty—times larger than the standard units we had engaged. A steel colossus.
I hoped, logically, that it had been discarded due to impracticality—excessive scale or structural failure. A machine too large for effective deployment. But one detail was impossible to ignore: its armor plating was Saturnite.
The same material under consideration for our next-generation armors. Lightweight, with superior thermal and ballistic resistance, especially against energy-based weaponry. It explained the durability of their forces. If that construct had ever been fully operational…
I did not voice my concern. I observed in silence, willing fortune to be on our side—that this aberration no longer functioned.
We moved forward, encountering the usual resistance. Nothing sufficient to threaten my century, which pressed on—room by room, corridor by corridor—with unwavering precision.
Then we reached installation X-42.
"It is I, Doctor Mobius, transmitting from my dome-shaped... dome in the Forbidden Zone! A zone... that is, yes... forbidden to you."
The voice echoed through the loudspeakers, theatrical and deranged. "Doctor." Most likely an artificial intelligence remnant, or a biological trace of the original architects. These facilities predated the Fall. For one of them to still be alive implied a preservation system akin to that of Mr. House… an intriguing possibility.
A potential new trophy for the Lucky 38.
As expected, roboscorpions emerged from the walls once more, now joined by automated turrets entrenched above. We responded with our doctrine: concentrated fire—plasma, gunfire, incendiaries.
Our advance was relentless. We incinerated all opposition until we breached a vast chamber within the central workshop… and there it was.
What I feared might not have been just a failed prototype.
A towering roboscorpion stood at the far end of the hangar, its silhouette exposed by our lights. A monster of steel.
It activated instantly. A high-pitched screech tore through the chamber. Its multiple optical sensors locked onto us. Its legs struck the floor like hammers. Its massive tail glowed, charged with deadly energy.
"Robo-scorpion... attack!""Go, my minion, sting them in the name of all that is Mobius!"
"Scatter! Avoid contact! Seek cover—concentrated fire on the joints!" I ordered, already firing my laser rifle in tandem with our automated defenses.
The hangar turrets opened first, laying down suppressive fire. We answered in kind: plasma bolts, ballistic rounds, energy beams, and explosions collided in the chaos. The scorpion advanced unimpeded—its mechanical claws shredded everything. One struck a legionary, crushing his power armor as if it were parchment.
"X-42, attack! In the name of Mobius!"
Its tail completed its charge—releasing a focused energy beam. It struck two legionaries, vaporizing their armor before they could take cover. The floor hissed beneath the beam's passage, cleaved cleanly.
"Stop that, you'll damage the hull!" Mobius squealed as one of our grenade launchers struck the torso.
"Target the forward joints! Cripple the bastard before it closes the distance!" I shouted from a more defensible position.
The right claw rose and intercepted a legionary mid-flank, slamming him into a wall. One of our super mutants took a direct hit from the tail but endured—though his armor glowed red-hot from the heat.
"Destroy this one, I'll make more!"
Multiple squads moved to encircle the construct. The super mutants served as bait, drawing its fire. A team ascended the workshop platforms and unleashed their grenade launchers directly onto one of the legs. It buckled.
"Intruder, you will not escape the eyes of my robo-scorpions! Or their pincers!"
I fired my plasma rifle into its optical core. Two direct hits. The sensor failed. The tail began to swing wildly, discharging uncontrolled arcs of energy, searing the ceiling.
"Target the legs—break its balance!" I commanded.
A coordinated barrage of plasma and shrapnel struck the beast from every angle. Its tail exploded. The machine convulsed and collapsed with a deafening crash. Its claws flailed briefly, then fell still.
We neutralized the remaining turrets. The area was secured quickly. Once the perimeter was confirmed clear, we began our approach to the final structure: the dome—Mobius's supposed command center.
We ascended level by level, each passage secured by the next squadron. I would not tolerate carelessness—not after coming this far. At the summit, we found the dome's doors already open. A poor omen.
We advanced—cautiously...Too easy.
Every step was deliberate. We scanned the ground, the walls, every exposed sensor. I expected anything—hidden turrets, traps, even a sudden release of toxins or experimental gases. Or worse, the triggering of a self-destruct protocol.
At the summit of the installation, we found what was clearly the nerve center of this entire madness: a data and processing lab directly connected to Facility X-42. But it wasn't the terminals or still-functioning machines that drew our attention.
It was the entity waiting inside.
A floating brain suspended in bio-gel hovered before us, framed by three monitors arranged like a face. One showed an eye, another a second eye, and the third a mouth flickering with light distortions. The system's anti-grav unit allowed it to float freely around the lab. When it turned toward us, several of my men instinctively raised their weapons.
The artificial lifeform floated closer. One of its screens blinked intermittently.
"Mmm… OH… hello there… you're... here, aren't you?" the brain said, voice strangely polite. "Forgive my confusion—it's hard to distinguish realities these days."
"You don't look familiar. I assume you're some sort of new... mustard? Or was it custard? Anyway—new. Would you kindly take one step to my left? Your right? Ah... yes. Much better."
"So the monitors serve as your visual interface," I observed aloud.
"Depth is a tricky pickle. This screen here went dark years ago—practically ancient by machine standards. I should reconnect the ocular nerves, but this right eye keeps showing flying turtles. Horrible things. Mentat?" he offered, as if casually handing out candy.
"Mentat? You mean the drug?" I asked, squinting slightly.
"Mmm—yes! Love them. Quite delicious. Makes the brain bubble with scientific wisdom. When they drift into the gel, it's like… fireworks in slow motion."
"I believe we're losing focus," I said, my tone hardening. "You mentioned 'their experiments.' Who are 'they'?"
"Oh—you must mean my colleagues at the Think Tank," the brain replied, with a strange pride. "Yes, yes. They usually take all the lobotomites who stumble in here and turn them into... well, let's call it research. Advancement through... creative meddling. Although, truth be told, not much progress since I—Mobius—left their little party."
So that was his name. Mobius.
"So you were the one broadcasting those threats," I stated plainly, my eyes fixed on the blinking monitors.
"Possibly. Might've been under the influence of... psycho, or sugar. I don't always recall what I say, especially when I say it. I'm not typically violent—except when I am. That version of me? Dangerous. Proceed with caution."
"Your tone is… softer than expected. Not what I anticipated from the mind behind this place," I remarked, surveying the lab.
"Violence rarely adds anything to the scientific salad… but yes, thank you for noticing," Mobius said, almost bashfully.
"So were the threats meant for us—or for the Think Tank?"
"Oh, the Think Tank, certainly. I thought you might be a new lobotomite breed—quite advanced. But given your vocal clarity and lack of surgical scars, I assume not. Are you?"
"No. Then why keep them distracted? Your roboscorpions swarm this entire complex."
"Oh, that. Yes. I had to... reroute their attention. I placed them in an endless feedback loop. Moral reasons, maybe ethical ones... or both? I forget. Honestly, I think I just wanted them to forget the outside world. To forget history. I modified their chronometers, geo-thingameters, and all their maps. Now, they only know Big Mountain. Except for the visitors... which I couldn't stop."
"Visitors?" I asked sharply.
"Yes. Like you. People who come in uninvited and make them start asking questions. And let me tell you—they're smart. The brightest raisins in the pudding. That's why I had to send the roboscorpions—so they wouldn't find a way out."
"Why?"
"Because their experiments… they went too far. And releasing that into the world... was not acceptable. Even if they were my friends," Mobius said, his voice unusually grounded for a moment.
"Here's the situation, Mobius," I said, stepping closer to the capsule. "I represent Caesar's Legion. By right of conquest, this facility now belongs to me. So I will ask you once: are your colleagues worth anything? Or do I execute them and end this?"
Mobius turned one of his flickering monitors toward me. The digital mouth paused, then replied:
"The Roman dictator? Hmm… I don't think history is… cooking again. But maybe. Regarding your question… they mean well. But without boundaries, they conduct experiments that are… unprofessional, let's say. Still, no—they shouldn't be terminated."
I stared at the bubbling bio-gel in silence, measuring the strategic value of this half-broken mind.
"Very well," I said at last. "Mobius, welcome to my FEV research division."
Mobius emitted a soft buzz of hesitation.
"We'll need to address your dependence on mentats—and possibly psycho. I'll take care of it. And your friends from the Think Tank…" I said, my voice sharpening, "…will learn that they now belong to the Legion."
"Splendid!" Mobius chirped awkwardly. "Shall we go visit the thinky-dink fellows?"
"Let's go. We're going to pay the damned Think Tank a visit," I said coldly.
Mobius followed my cohort through the halls, floating lazily behind us. Occasionally, he stopped to talk to himself—or to things only he could see. According to him, invisible turtles, whispering lights, or "thought-flavored particles" floated nearby. No one interrupted. The walk, though short in distance, dragged on longer than necessary.
What was surprisingly brief was the resistance.
Our previous sweeps had done their job. Nothing significant stood between us and the core. A few malfunctioning bots. A lone turret. Nothing worth our time. We approached the heart of the mountain.
The elevator to the Think Tank was disabled. Power had been cut. A desperate attempt at defense. Expected. But this place wasn't built for military stand-offs. The lift's energy system was primitive. We dismantled the fission core from one of my legionaries' power armors and adapted it to the panel. It took minutes.
The platform powered up. I ascended with a full contingent of troops.
When the doors opened, the scene was perfect.
The scientists of the Think Tank—all of them, floating brains inside gel-filled capsules—turned their screens toward us.
One by one, surprise gave way to fear.
And then—silence.