The light got me first. Just… there, laying across my face through the window i had unboarded, warm enough that my eyes opened on their own. I blinked a few times, staring at the ceiling, I was a little confused as to where I was but then it all came back to me. My body felt good. Actually good. Bed was solid, springs didn't stab me, and my muscles weren't screaming.
I rolled onto my side and sat up slow, letting my head catch up. Boots on the floor beside the bed where I left them. Labcoat folded over the chair. The Charge pistol was within arm's reach, right where I'd set it before I passed out. I exhaled through my nose, quiet, and stood up.
My stomach growled the second I moved. "Alright," I muttered, rubbing my eyes. "Yeah, yeah." I pulled my boots on, laced them, and tugged my labcoat back over my shoulders. The air upstairs was stale, dust and old cloth and that faint smell houses get when they've been shut for a long time. Not terrible. Just… old.
The bathroom was down the hall. Door half open. I nudged it with my knee and stepped in. Mirror was cracked. Sink had dried toothpaste crust at the rim. Toilet looked normal until I pressed the handle and got absolutely nothing for it. No water sound. No swirl. Just a sad little clunk and my own breathing.
"Course," I whispered. I did what I had to do anyway, because my bladder didn't care about plumbing, then stood there a second with my hands on my hips, thinking. My eyes swept the room. Counter. Cabinet under the sink. Medicine cabinet mirror. After I finished I went to the cabinet first and opened it. Hinges squealed. Inside were the usual pre-war nonsense: a comb with half the teeth missing which was still useful to someone like me, an empty tube of toothpaste, a cracked plastic razor, and thank fuck, soap.
Not one bar either. A few. They were those chunky old hotel-looking ones, wrapped in paper that had gone yellow at the corners. I picked one up, sniffed it out of habit, Clean. Like actual clean. Floral in a boring way... "Sigh"
I took them all. Every single one plus the comb. Then I checked the bottom drawer and found a towel folded up tight. Dust on the top edge, but when I shook it out it was still… a towel. No holes. No damp rot smell. Just dry cotton.
"Mine," I said, and folded it back up. I ran water at the sink on reflex. Nothing came out at first, then a weak dribble that spat and stopped. "Geat here i was hoping you would work." I opened my bag and used one ot the bottled waters. I wet my hands, used one of the soap bars, and scrubbed like I had all the time in the world. The lather felt almost wrong. Soft. Normal. I rinsed by pouring abit more water from the bottle, then used the towel to wipe my hands, then my face. room temp water woke me up fully. I wiped behind my ears, my neck, under my hairline.
I looked at myself in the cracked mirror while I did it. Red hair all over the place. Eyes still a bit puffy from sleep. I didn't look like some wasteland badass like i wished. I went back into the hallway and started checking rooms properly. Bedroom that i was in first. Dresser drawers were probably a good place to start.
The top one had socks. Old-world socks. Rolled up in pairs, Id pocket those. Can never go wrong with more socks. I dug under them and found a little bundle of paper money tied with a rubber band that had turned stiff and brittle. The bills were faded, but the faces and numbers were still there.
"Pre-war money," I murmured. The kind you'd stuff in a wallet back when the world made sense. Not that I wanted to live in a world like that ever again. I slid the bundle into my bag cause if nothing else it could be use to start a fire.
Second drawer had a jewelry box. I opened it and found rings, a broken chain, a couple little earrings. Nothing fancy. Took em all, cause at best I could use them for trade. Closet had coats. Dresses. A stiff suit jacket that smelled like mothballs and dust. On the floor, shoved into the back corner, was a cardboard box.
I crouched and pulled it out. Inside: random junk. A flashlight with dead batteries. A pack of bobby pins. A lighter that still clicked when I flicked it. And, bless the person who owned this house, duct tape. Duct tape in the wasteland wasn't just duct tape. It was fixing armor. Fixing straps. Hell could fix some weapons if needed.
I took it and the bobby pins too. Then I moved to the next room. Looked like a kid's room. Posters half peeled off the wall. Little plastic toys scattered on the carpet. My eyes went straight to the desk. Drawer had pencils, pens, and a little tin.
Inside the tin were two packs of cigarettes and a tiny orange bottle with a childproof cap. I turned it in my hand. Mentats. I stared at the label for a second and felt my mouth pull into a grin I couldn't stop. "Okay," I whispered, I put it in my bag gently. But why were these in a kids room?
Across the hall was appeared to be a guest room. That one had a suitcase open on the bed, still half packed. Clothes inside. Under the clothes was a leather belt and a little pouch. But there was more pre-war money, folded into a neat stack, and a small silver key.
I pocketed the key without thinking. Back to the bathroom for the medicine cabinet. I opened it properly this time, pushing past the cracked mirror door, and dug deeper into the back corners. Old pill bottles. Some empty. Some still rattling. A little brown glass bottle with a faded label. I didn't trust anything I couldn't read, cause i wouldnt be able to sell them off.
But tucked behind the bottles was a small, sealed first-aid kit, one of those white plastic ones with a red cross that snapped shut. I popped it open. Bandages. A couple of antiseptic wipes, a stimpak, just some pre-war needle kit. I grabbed kit and stuffed them in my bag. My bag was getting heavy. Not crazy heavy, but enough that the strap started biting my shoulder in a way I didn't like.
"Alright," I muttered. "Downstairs next. You've got a backpack and a strong frame, baby." I headed down, careful on the steps. The house creaked under my boots, not angry, just old. Halfway down, I could already hear him. A Protectron had a sound. The little servo whine, the heavy foot thunk, the occasional soft hiss-click when it shifted its weight. When I stepped onto the first floor, he was exactly where I left him, parked near the living room, torso angled toward the front door.
His head turned toward me. "Good morning ma'am," Claptrap said. I smiled without trying to. "Mornin', Claptrap."
He made a small mechanical adjustment. His chassis had a few scuffs from travel, a bit of grime around the joints, and some dust on his shoulders. I set my bag down and walked right up to him. "Look at you," I whispered, and patted his arm plating with my hand. "My handsome lad."
I dug the towel out and gave his shoulder a wipe. Dust came off in a faint grey smear. I wiped his other shoulder, then his chest plate, then the top of his head like I was polishing a trophy. He just stood there and let me do it. "Maintenance acknowledged," I shifted the towel back into my bag and started unloading everything I'd gathered onto the living room floor in a little pile. Soap bars. Duct tape. pre-war money. bandages. Mentats. bobby pins. the chain. the lighter.
Claptrap's backpack was on him. I opened it and started packing. Soap first, because if I dropped one later and it cracked, I'd cry. Towel folded tight. Duct tape tucked along the side. Medical stuff next. Mentats in the inner pocket. pre-war money slipped into a zipper pouch. Claptrap watched me the whole time. "Inventory updated," he said.
"Good," I replied, and reached up to tap his chest plate again. "Keep track. You're the smart one."
"Statement: Incorrect. You are the smart one."
I snorted. "aww well arent you sweet." My stomach growled again, louder this time, like it was done waiting for me to finish. "Food," I said, and headed for the kitchen. The kitchen looked like normal, Chairs still at the table. A pot on the stove. A mug in the sink. Cabinets closed.
I started opening them one by one. Top cabinet: plates. Cups. A box of fancy-looking glasses that were somehow still intact. Next cabinet: pantry stuff. And there it was. Fallout food. Real Fallout food. A couple cans of Pork n' Beans. A box of Sugar Bombs that looked like it had been opened. A tin of Cram shoved behind a stack of napkins. A bottle of Purified Water.
I grabbed the water first twisted the cap and took a drink. Cool. Clean. "Okay," I whispered, and took another sip slower this time. I set the water on the counter and went back to digging. Drawer had utensils. I grabbed a spoon and a butter knife. Another drawer had a can opener which I would totally need.
I chose Pork n' Beans. I popped it open, grabbed the spoon, and ate right there standing at the counter. Warm it up? Maybe if I had power. Cold beans tasted like cold beans. But they filled me up fast. Halfway through the can, I glanced toward the living room. Claptrap was still facing the front door, like he was making sure nothing came in while I ate.
I smiled again, when I finished, I licked the spoon clean and pocketed it. Then I looked at the Sugar Bombs. I grabbed the box and shook it. It rattled. Plenty left. I poured a small handful into my palm and ate them. Sweet. Crunchy.
"Breakfast of champions," I said out loud and snorted. I packed the rest of the food into Claptrap's backpack, cram, Sugar Bombs, whatever else I could fit without crushing stuff. The purified water went into my own bag because I wasn't risking it breaking in his pack if he bumped a wall.
Then I pulled my Pip-Boy up and clicked the radio dial. Static. A little hiss. Then, clear as day, music. A bouncy old-world beat came in, cheerful as hell. 🎵 "Bongo, bongo, bongo, I don't wanna leave the Congo…" 🎵
My eyebrows shot up. I turned the volume up a bit and leaned back against the counter, grinning like an idiot. 🎵 "Oh no no no no no…" 🎵
I started singing without even thinking about it.🎵 "Civilization, I'll stay right heeere!" 🎵
I pointed at Claptrap like he was my audience. "Hear that? That's a good song." He rotated his head toward me slowly. "Observation: You are producing sound."
"I am singing," I corrected, still smiling, still chewing the last bit of Sugar Bomb crunch out of my teeth. "Try keep up." The song kept going, and I kept going with it, swaying a little, tapping my fingers against the counter.
🎵 "They have things like the atom bomb, so I think I'll stay where I am…" 🎵
I snorted mid-line because, yeah. Fair point, Danny. Bit late for that. I finished the chorus and took another sip of purified water, then set about the last bit of looting downstairs while the song played. Living room drawers had junk: a pack of cards, a cracked holotape case with nothing in it, and a little tin of Abraxo Cleaner under the coffee table that I grabbed on sight. Good for cleaning, good for components. I didn't even care which. It went in the pack.
By the front door was a little bowl on a table with loose change and a set of keys. I took the keys. Not because I knew what they went to, but because keys were keys. Maybe a lock later would match. Maybe not. Maybe I could melt em later.
I checked the coat closet and found a raincoat folded up, still in plastic. I wasn't wearing it now, but I took it anyway. I kept moving, packing, sorting, making little piles: keep, pack, leave.
When the song looped into another verse, I started singing again while tightening straps on Claptrap's backpack. 🎵 "why does the sun go on shining…" 🎵 Claptrap stood there letting me adjust his straps. When I finished, I stepped back and eyed him.
"Alright," I said, voice bright from food and sleep and old music. "We're set."
"Affirmative," he replied.
I slung my own bag on, tested the weight, adjusted the strap, then checked stored the Charge pistol and equiped the laser musket. But this time i made sure to have the knife i had totally forgotten about from my bag onto my hip so i could use it if needed instead of a screwdriver.
I clicked the radio lower but kept it on. I walked to the front window and peeked through the slats of the blinds. Street outside looked the same as last night, but the bodies from those moalrats were gone. I just watched long enough to make sure there wasnt anything around.
I turned away and looked at Claptrap. "Ready to go, handsome?"
"Affirmative: ready."
I took one last glance around the house, kitchen counter, hallway, stairs, the door to the basement that I just honestly didnt want to go check and then headed for the door. "Stay close," I told him, hand on the knob.
"Affirmative: escort protocol engaged." I cracked the door open, just enough to listen. Then I stepped out, radio still low and my Protectron clanking right behind me. The door clicked shut behind me, soft but final. For a second I just stood there on the porch, one hand still on the knob, listening.
I started down the front steps and onto the street, boots crunching gravel and old glass. The radio stayed low on my wrist, just enough sound to keep my head from getting too loud. I didn't want to be staring at my Pip-Boy every five minutes, but I also wasn't about to wander Boston like an idiot.
So I checked it once at the corner, turned the map a little with my thumb, and then kept moving. The world out here felt… stretched. Not like the game. Not like a clean little jog between icons. Blocks were bigger. Streets bent weird. Half the time you couldn't go straight anyway because a building had collapsed into the road, or a truck was jackknifed across the lane, or there was a crater that forced you to pick a side. It ate time.
And it ate energy. I kept my pace steady, not rushing, not dragging. Just walking. One foot, then the next. Laser musket in my hands, the wood stock warm under my fingers. Claptrap followed a pace behind, his backpack stuffed so full it made him look even chunkier than usual. Every now and then his servos hissed like they were complaining, but he never slowed down unless I did.
I kept my eyes up. Windows. Rooftops. Alley mouths. A couple times I saw movement, far away stuff. A shape slipping between cars. A flock of those grey birds exploding off a streetlight. Once, I heard a burst of gunfire somewhere far off. I didn't even turn toward it. I just kept walking with my shoulders a bit tighter.
Not my fight. Not my problem. I passed a little diner with a sign hanging crooked. Passed a smashed Red Rocket sign half buried in rubble. Passed a fenced-in lot with old construction equipment rusted into the ground. Each one of them was the kind of place that looked like it might have something worth taking, but I could already feel the weight of my own bag, and Claptrap's pack was full enough I didn't want to push it.
So I just… marked them in my head. That diner had a back door that wasn't boarded. That lot had a toolbox sitting under a broken table. That Red Rocket had a roof that was still intact. Later. Maybe. If I lived long enough to have a "later."
The sun climbed while we walked. I wiped sweat off my upper lip with the back of my hand and adjusted my lab coat collar. After a while my legs started to feel it. I stopped once in the shade of a half-collapsed building, mostly to drink. Just a few swallows of purified water. Enough to keep my mouth from feeling like dry.
Claptrap stopped too, facing the street like a guard. "You doin' alright?" I asked him, because I couldn't help myself. "I am operating within acceptable parameters."
"Good lad." I tightened the strap of my bag again and kept going. At some point, the road started to slope upward. Not a big hill, The wind picked up a bit. I could smell dry dirt and old brick dust.
That was when my Pip-Boy chimed. I glanced down without stopping, thumb flicking the map tab open.Two icons blinked onto my screen almost at the same time.
FORT HAGEN
GREATER MASS BLOOD CLINIC
I slowed for half a second, eyes scanning the names, One had a bunch of fucking bugs around it the other had Synths if I remmebered right. "Not today," I murmured, mostly to the screen. I tapped both locations, letting them sit there on the map. "Later."
Claptrap's head turned slightly, like he'd noticed the pause. "Are we deviating from route?"
"No," I said quickly, and started walking again. "We're stickin' to the plan."
"Affirmative." The plan was simple: get to the shelter. Get inside. Make it mine before something else. Dead trees started showing up more often, along with living one's, those twisted, bare things that looked like they were reaching for the sky.
I saw it. A squat, ugly bunker shape half set into the ground. And beside it, bright as a warning sign, an old excavator, paint burned and rusted until it looked like a big yellow corpse. I didn't walk straight in. I circled a little, keeping distance, scanning the whole area before I committed.
There was a trailer up on metal supports to the right. A set of metal stairs climbed up to it, green paint peeling off the rails. The windows were dirty, but intact. Chain link fencing hugged parts of the perimeter, broken in places.
I crouched behind a chunk of rock and watched for a full minute, breathing slow. I didn't see movement. Didn't hear voices. No smoke. No light flicker. Just wind and the faint rustle of dry brush. My fingers tightened around the laser musket.
"Claptrap," I whispered.
He stepped closer. "Stay," I told him. "Right here. Don't go marchin' up without me."
"Affirmative: standing by." Good. I moved forward slow, boots placing careful, avoiding anything that looked like a wire or a bottle or a weird patch of dirt. The bunker entrance was set into a small concrete structure. The excavator sat in front of it like it had been used to rip a door out.
I didn't go through the bunker opening first. I knew I had to open the lock first. The trailer on the raised platform was my first stop. So I angled toward the metal stairs. The first step creaked under my boot. Just a tired metal groan. I kept going, slow and light, trying not to clang too much.
Halfway up, I glanced back. Claptrap was exactly where I left him, facing outward. I climbed the last steps and stepped onto the platform. The railing felt cold under my palm. "Alright," I murmured, and moved my laser musket to hang against my side for a second while I moved to the terminal. Screen dark, but the casing looked like it still had power run to it, old wires leading down into the ground, disappearing toward the bunker.
I reached out and tapped the power button. The screen flickered once, then came to life in that familiar green text. My shoulders loosened a fraction. "Okay… good." I leaned in, fingers moving over the keys. The plastic keys were cracked and worn, but they still clicked. The menu loaded slow.
SECURITY CONTROL
ACCESS DOOR STATUS: LOCKED
I just clicked straight to the door control.
ACCESS DOOR STATUS: UNLOCKED
A mechanical clunk echoed somewhere below. I straightened and looked down toward the bunker entrance. I climbed back down the stairs fast but careful, boots hitting metal with a dull rhythm. When I reached the ground, Claptrap turned his head toward me.
"Update?" he asked. "Door's open," I said, and my voice came out steadier than I felt. "Come on." He stepped into motion, servos humming, backpack swaying slightly with each heavy footfall. We crossed the dirt and broken concrete together.
I paused at the bunker entrance, laser musket raised, shoulders tight again. I looked at the skeleton hanging on the window and sighed. I flicked my pipboy light on. As I walked in. Walking past the bones and towards the door.
[[do you guys want me to raise the safe chapters from 20 to 40?]]