I woke up with my face cold and my back sore. For a few seconds I didn't move, just lay there staring at the grey morning sky. It wasn't bright yet. Just that pale early light that makes everything look washed out. My cheek was against my rolled-up jacket, and there was a rock pressing into my hip.
I hated sleeping outside, and if I could help it id never do it again. Still better than a hospital bed. I lifted my arm and checked the Pip-Boy.
5:47 AM.
"Ugh," I muttered, sitting up slowly. "That's a fuckin early." Vlaptrap turned his head toward me. "GOOD MORNING."
"Mornen"
"ACKNOWLEDGED."
Milo was near my boot, The little thing had stayed close the whole night. Or maybe it had moved around and come back. I didn't really know.
"Morning, Milo," I said.
The others were still in their spots around the little hill. The Protectrons were standing watch. The two worktrons had the duffle set between them. Everything was quiet besides the soft wind and the little ticks and whines from their joints. No dead bodies nearby. No raiders. No dogs.
Small wins were worth being happy about in the wasteland. I ate quick, just a few bites of cold food and some water. My stomach wasn't happy with it, but it would live. I checked the laser musket, then the charge pistol on my hips. I got the bots moving once the sun started pushing through the trees.
The service road kept going south, if you could call it a road. Most of it was broken asphalt and dirt, with weeds growing up through every crack. The bots had to step carefully in places. The worktrons were slow with the duffle, but they managed. The Protectron missing an arm kept drifting a little when the road got uneven, but it stayed upright.
"Careful," I said, more out of habit than anything. We followed the road for a while. No talking, not much anyway. I was too tired to fill the silence, and Claptrap seemed to have decided not to make it worse, which was sweet of him. Or random. Hard to tell with him.
The morning was pretty, even with all the ruin. There were old houses half-collapsed behind trees, and grass growing through their floors. A rusted fence leaned over a ditch. Little white flowers grew around a mailbox with no house left behind it.
By midmorning, the land started feeling more familiar. Not exactly, but close. The roads bent in ways that made sense. I saw a broken bit of highway through the trees and stopped to check the Pip-Boy.
"Should be close," I said.
Claptrap turned his head. "VAULT EIGHTY-ONE?"
"Aye. I think so."
"CONFIDENCE LEVEL?"
"Don't ask me that."
"ACKNOWLEDGED."
I kept walking, and a bit later, we passed an old diner sitting beside the road. Windows smashed, sign hanging loose, front door open. It probably had nothing. Or maybe it had food. Or caps. Or a ghoul waiting behind the counter with opinions.
I looked at the duffle. Then Claptrap's bag. Then my own backpack. "No," I said. "It can wait until I have the fancy lady bot." The smell hit maybe twenty minutes after that.
Rot, Not old dry rot but fresh wet rot. The kind that made the back of my throat tighten.
Ahead, the road dipped toward an old drainage cut. Concrete walls on both sides, grass hanging over the edges, a couple of rusted cars shoved half-sideways like someone had tried to block the road years ago. The place looked wrong.
I raised the laser musket. The Protectrons shifted behind me. Claptrap moved closer to my left.
"DECAY DETECTED."
"Aye, I noticed."
A scrape came from the concrete wall. Milo turned first as he lifter his shotgun hand. I looked where he was aiming and saw fingers curl over the edge. Long fingers with torn nails, the skin stretched tight over bone.
Then the thing pulled itself up, it wasn't standing like a normal feral. It crawled over the wall on all fours, low and quick, with bits of scrap and leather strapped across its back. Its jaw hung open, and its head twitched hard to the side.
For one second, we all just stared at each other. Then it came at us.
"Fire!"
Red lasers snapped from the Protectrons. One hit the road. Another struck the crawler in the ribs, but it kept coming, skittering fast over the cracked asphalt. I cranked the musket once, twice, and fired.
Missed.
"Fuck."
Milo fired.
Some of the shotgun blast caught it in the shoulder and knocked it sideways. It rolled, hit the ground, and sprang back up like nothing happened.
"Nope," I breathed. "No, no, no."
I backed up, cranking again. The crawler came low, claws scraping the road. Claptrap fired and hit it in the chest. Red light burned through meat, and it stumbled.
I fired again.
This one hit. The musket beam punched through its upper body and threw it down hard enough that it slid.
Milo shot it again before it could twitch up. Then the screaming started. More came out from behind the cars. Three regular ferals first. One had an old coat hanging from one shoulder. Another had its jaw split open too wide. The third was missing one eye and didn't seem bothered by it.
The Protectrons opened fire. Red beams cut across the road, one feral dropped before it made ten steps. Another caught a shot in the leg and fell, but kept dragging itself forward with both hands.
The third got around the side, One of the Protectrons turned too slow. The feral hit it full-force, clawing at its chest plating. Metal screeched and the Protectron staggered, nearly stepping into the worktron behind it.
Claptrap fired into the ghoul's back. It fell off the Protectron and hit the ground twitching.
I tried to reload the musket, but the crawling one with the ruined leg had gotten closer than I liked. It grabbed at my boot and I kicked it in the face.
It hissed and snapped its teeth as I stumbled back and nearly fell on my ass. Milo stepped forward and fired at pount blank through the head.
I stood there breathing hard, musket half-cranked in my hands.
"Okay," I muttered. "Okay, that's all of—"
Then a fat one came through the gap between the cars, it was swollen in the stomach. Its belly hung wrong, full and tight like something inside was pushing against it. It moved slower than the others, Its mouth opened and this wet bubbling sound came out and the smell got worse.
My stomach turned. "Back up," I said while the Protectrons fired. Red lasers hit it in the chest and side. It jerked, smoked, but kept coming. The worktrons started moving the duffle back, slow and awkward.
I cranked the laser musket hard. One. Two. Three. My hands slipped on the crank because I was sweating as the fat ghoul kept coming, bubbling and twitching, arms reaching.
I aimed at its head.
Fired.
The beam clipped the side of its skull and burned through part of its face, but it didn't drop.
"Ah, come on!"
It stumbled closer. My hand went to the charge pistol on my hip. I pulled it free and fired before I fully aimed.
Blue light snapped across the road and punched into its upper chest.
The ghoul made a wet, choking sound.
Then its stomach split open.
It explode with Yellow-green liquid sprayed everywhere. I threw myself back, but not fast enough as some of it hit my sleeve and splashed across the side of my neck.
Pain bit into my skin.
"Ah! SWEET BABY JESUS!"
The Protectron nearest it took the splash across the chest and shoulder. The missing-arm Protectron got hit worse, acid smoking over its torso and leg before it toppled sideways with a heavy crash. One of the worktrons caught a spray across its hip and front casing and dropped its side of the duffle. The other worktron got splashed across one arm and stumbled back into a car hard enough to dent the door.
The smell was horrible.
I grabbed my water and dumped it over my arm and neck. The burn eased but didn't stop all the way. My eyes watered.
"Shite, shite, shite."
"UNIT MORGAN INJURED," Claptrap said.
Another ghoul shrieked. Of course there was another one. The second crawler came over the wall, low and fast. It hit the road and went straight for the worktron that had dropped the duffle.
The worktron tried to lift its arm, but the damaged hip made it slow. While Milo fired, the blast hit the crawler's side. It twisted, but kept moving and slammed into the worktron's leg, climbing with its claws digging into metal.
"Get off!" I still had the charge pistol in my hand. I fired again, but the shot went wide and burned a hole through the side of the rusted car. The worktron slammed its big hand down and caught the crawler by the back. For a second, it actually held the thing there, pinned against its own leg. The crawler shrieked and clawed at the metal.
Claptrap fired as a red laser punched into its head. The crawler dropped and I stood there, charge pistol raised, breathing too fast.
Nothing else moved as the Protectrons kept their arms up. Red emitters pointed at the road, the cars, the concrete walls. Milo stood near the duffle, shotgun angled forward. Claptrap moved a few steps ahead and scanned.
"HOSTILES NEUTRALIZED."
"Don't say that too soon," I muttered. We waited another minute. Only the hiss of stomach acid eating into the road.
I lowered the pistol. My sleeve had two holes in it. The skin under it was red and angry. My neck burned, but the water had stopped it from getting worse.
The missing-arm Protectron was in bad shape. It wasn't dead, or whatever counted as dead for a robot, but it wasn't getting up on its own. Acid had eaten into the side of its torso and one leg joint. The chest plate looked ugly. The speaker crackled when it tried to say something.
"Don't," I told it. The other damaged Protectron could still stand, but one shoulder joint stuck when it moved. The worktron with the hip damage was worse. It could walk, but each step dipped to the side. The second worktron's arm was scarred and smoking in places. I stared at all of them, then at the duffle lying in the dirt.
"Brilliant," I said flatly. "Love that. Wonderful."
Claptrap turned his head toward me.
"No, I'm not yelling at you."
"ACKNOWLEDGED."
I started with the missing-arm Protectron. The acid had damaged one of the leg control lines. I grabbed some wire from our bag, used one of the fuses I'd taken, and made a bypass. It twitched when I powered the line.
"Stand."
It tried.
Failed.
"Again."
Claptrap helped lift it. One of the worktrons braced from the other side, slow because of the hip. The Protectron finally got upright. It stood crooked, but it stood.
"Walk."
One step and then another. "Good enough," I said. The worktron took longer because the hip actuator kept catching. I couldn't fix it right there. Not without unloading half our stuff and setting up in the middle of ghoul stink road, which was a stupid way to die. I tightened what I could, locked the joint so it wouldn't swing too far, and moved some weight around.
The healthier worktron and one of the regular Protectrons took the duffle. The damaged worktron got lighter things. I put a few small bits into Claptrap's bag, careful not to overload it. Then some in my own pack, which made my shoulders complain the second I stood up.
"You're all going to owe me a spa day," I muttered. I didn't even bother loot the ghouls. Whatever they had they could keep it. I was not touching anything covered in stomach acid and rot. There were limits, and this wasnt a game anymore.
We left the road and kept going. The damaged Protectron dragged one foot slightly. The worktron dipped every few steps. The duffle swung less, at least, since I had tied it tighter. My neck burned every time sweat touched the red patch, which was often, because the day warmed up fast.
I kept the laser musket in my hands again. The charge pistol went back to my hip. I didn't like having used it out in the open, but I liked not being melted more.
The road climbed after that, curling along a rocky slope. The trees thinned out. I saw more stone walls, more old signs, a rusted guardrail half-buried in brush. The area felt right now. Annoyingly right. Like my memory had finally decided to stop being useless.
I checked the Pip-Boy, then the land ahead.
"Should be close," I said. Claptrap turned. "CONFIDENCE LEVEL?"
"Higher than before."
"DEFINE—"
"Don't."
"ACKNOWLEDGED."
We followed the bend around a cluster of rocks, and there they were, Metal stairs.
I stopped so suddenly one of the bots clanked behind me. The stairs climbed up along the rock, rusted railings bolted into stone, leading toward a dark opening in the hillside.
"Found it," I whispered, for a second, I just stood there. Then the worktron with the bad hip made a grinding noise and ruined the moment.
"Aye, I know," I said, rubbing my face. "Stairs." The stairs were a pain in the ass. I went first with the musket, checking the top and the landing. Nothing jumped out. No ghoul, no raider, Just metal steps, old rust, and the dark cave entrance above.
Then came the bots. The sound was awful, metal feet on metal stairs, echoing up the rock face. The damaged Protectron almost slipped on the third section, and I had to stop everyone while Claptrap steadied it. The worktrons were worse because of the duffle. We had to pass it up in stages, which made me want to throw myself off the railing. "Slow," I said for the sixth time. "Slow and steady, we got this." By the time we reached the top, I was sweating through my vault suit, my neck burned, my sleeve was ruined, and every part of me wanted to sit down.
The cave was cooler inside. Damp too. My boots crunched over gravel as I stepped in. The Pip-Boy light washed over stone and old metal supports. The bots followed, clanking quieter now but still loud enough to make me wince. If anyone was inside, they would hear us. Hard not to.
The cave opened wider after a short walk. And there it was, vault 81. The big door sat set into concrete and metal, yellow numbers clear as anything.
I stared at it for a second, I felt too tired to even be relieved. "Thank Christ," I breathed.
The intercom crackled before I touched anything.
A man's voice came through, sharp and confused. "Hold it right there."
I froze and the bots shifted behind me. "Don't bring those machines any closer," he said. "Who are you?"
I looked down at myself. Acid-burned sleeve. Red mark on my neck. Dust on my boots. Laser musket in my hands. Charge pistol on my hips. A line of damaged robots behind me.
Great first impression. I stepped closer to the intercom. "Name's Morgan," I said. "I'm lookin' for Vault 81."