I stood there with the laser musket lowered, trying not to shift my weight too much. My neck still burned. My sleeve looked like something had tried to eat it, which, yeah, wasn't far off. Behind me the bots stood in a rough line, all of them too loud even when they were still. The speaker crackled again. "What vault are you from?" I glanced down at my suit without meaning to. The number was still there, dirty but readable. "Vault One-Five-Nine," I said. "New York."
"New York?"
"Aye."
"You're a long way from home."
"Yeah," I said, and looked back at the cave mouth like the road might still be hiding something behind me. "What can I say I wanted something more fresh." There was more static. Then a different voice came through, older woman. "Do you have identification?" I rubbed at my eyes with the heel of my hand. "On my Pip-Boy, yeah. Records should still be on it."
"You'll need to connect it to the exterior terminal." Of course I would. My stomach dipped. I looked down at the Pip-Boy. The normal tabs were one thing. The map, vitals, old records, Vault-Tec junk. That was fine. Annoying, but fine. The problem was everything else. The system. The research. Storage. Things I had no plan to explain because how the hell do you explain magic interface nonsense to a vault full of people who probably kept forms about improper sock folding? The little Vault Girl on the screen popped up.
She smiled and before I even touched anything, half the tabs flickered and tucked themselves away into the space of her breast. Storage vanished. Research vanished. Anything that screamed impossible little gremlin tech went quiet. Vault Girl winked. I stared at her. "...You're a lifesaver," I whispered. The little sprite gave a thumbs up and went back to her idle pose. "Problem?" the intercom asked. "No," I said quickly. "Just... tired." There was a terminal mounted beside the intercom. I stepped toward it slowly and the turrets above the door followed me with a tiny mechanical whine. "Easy," I muttered, more to myself than them. Claptrap shifted behind me. "STAY," I said without turning. He stopped. I plugged the Pip-Boy into the terminal. The screen flickered, green text crawling across it.
The terminal beeped. TRANSFER REQUEST: VAULT-TEC RESIDENT RECORDS I let it share the basic stuff. Vault ID. Name. Age. Medical summary. Surface travel records. The line for radiation came up. RAD EXPOSURE: 0. Another beep.
CURRENT DISEASE MARKERS: NONE CONTAMINATION RISK: NONE VITALS: STABLE
The intercom clicked. "Your rads show zero." I closed my eyes. "Aye." "You crossed the wasteland with no radiation exposure?" "I took meds." "That does not explain zero." "No," I said. "It doesn't." I swallowed since my throat felt dry. "Look, I'm not going to pretend I understand everything my Pip-Boy says. I walked here, got burned by ghoul stomach acid, and dragged a small robot circus up your stairs. If the little green screen says I'm not glowing, I'm choosing to see that as good news." No one answered right away. I rubbed my forehead. The older woman came back. "Why are you here?"
"Looking for Vault Eighty-One."
"You found it." "Aye, got that bit."
"Why?" I looked at the sealed door. Big yellow numbers. Clean metal. Solid enough to make the rest of the world feel like a bad joke. "I need somewhere safe to trade and get my bearings," I said. "Maybe medical, if you're willing. I'm not here to cause trouble."
"You brought armed machines."
"I brought my machines, they kept me alive."
"They cannot all enter." I knew that was coming. Still hated it. "How many?" Another pause. "Two. And they stay under guard. The rest remain powered down outside the vault entrance." My fingers curled, I turned and looked at them. "I don't like that," I said. "Then we do not open the door."
I looked at Claptrap, then at Milo. "Fine," I said. "Im taking Claptrap and Milo. The rest power down here."
"All weapons lowered."
"They won't fire unless I'm attacked." I exhaled through my nose. "Fine. I'll order passive mode." I turned fully toward the bots. "Claptrap, Milo, with me. Everyone else, standby. Passive defense only. The Protectrons clicked and shifted. "PASSIVE MODE CONFIRMED." The worktrons lowered the duffle with a heavy thud. "Power down," I said, hating the words. One by one, the machines went still. I walked over to the duffle and grabbed one handle. Then remembered I had the strength of an underfed desk lamp. "Ah, you're kidding me." I pulled. The duffle moved about three inches. Claptrap turned his head. "ASSISTANCE?"
"No," I said automatically. The duffle sat there, smug as hell. I sighed. "Yes." Claptrap grabbed one side and lifted just enough that I could drag the other without tearing my arm off. I still had to put my whole body into it. My boots scraped against the cave floor, and my shoulder started complaining almost immediately. Milo walked beside us. Silent. Little shotgun angled down. The intercom crackled.
The vault door began to move. The sound hit my chest before anything else. Heavy metal turning, locks grinding open, old machinery waking up. The big door pulled back with a deep groan, then rolled aside. For a second, I forgot to breathe. Then I saw the bridge. Metal walkway stretching inward, lights overhead, security at the far side. A lot of security. More than enough rifles pointed my way. Turrets too, tracking every movement from above. My mouth went dry. I stepped onto the bridge. The metal rang under my boot. Claptrap followed with a heavy clank. Milo came after, small steps almost lost under the noise. The duffle dragged between Claptrap and me, bumping over the seams in the walkway. Every turret moved with us. Every guard watched. My grip tightened on the duffle handle until my fingers hurt. "Nice place, Very... gun-forward." One of the guards blinked. Another one almost smiled.
I kept walking, "That's not a complaint, by the way. Big fan of not being eaten. Just making conversation before my heart crawls out my throat and applies for citizenship." That got one actual snort from somewhere to the side. The older woman's voice came over a wall speaker, clearer now. "Keep moving to the checkpoint."
"Aye." The bridge felt longer than it had any right to be. Halfway across, the duffle caught on a seam. I tugged. It didn't move. I tugged harder. Still nothing. "Course," I muttered. Claptrap lifted his side a little higher, and I yanked with both hands. The duffle came loose so suddenly I nearly fell backward. A guard raised his rifle slightly. I froze. "Sorry," I said fast. "Bag's heavier than it looks." The guard stared at me. Then lowered the rifle a fraction. Finally we reached the checkpoint where 10 guards stood. One of them looked at Claptrap. "Protectron stops there." Claptrap stopped. "Small robot too." Milo stopped beside my boot. "Can they stay where I can see them?" The guard looked toward someone behind the glass. A second passed. Then two. "Yes," he said. "But they don't move unless told." I looked down at Milo. Then at Claptrap. "Hold."
"ACKNOWLEDGED." Milo said nothing. The guard looked at the duffle. "What's in the bag?"
"Things I need." His expression didnt change at all. I sighed. "Scrap, tools, parts, some food, ammo, medical. Nothing explosive." Another guard stepped closer with a scanner. "Weapons." I looked at the laser musket in my hand. Then at the charge pistol on my hip. "Yeah," I said. "I have those." "You'll need to surrender them while inside." My jaw tightened. The guard's eyes narrowed. I made myself let go of the musket first. Slow. Two fingers. Set it down on the table beside me. The charge pistol took longer, I should have kept it in storage. But I unhooked it and placed it beside the musket. "Careful with that one," I said. "We know how to handle weapons."
"Not that one." He looked at me. I looked back. After a second, he picked it up more carefully. Good. The scanner clicked over me. The Pip-Boy got extra attention, of course. The guard looked at the screen, then at me. "Your medical file says sixteen."
"Yeah." His face changed a little. Not much. Just enough. The other guard looked away like that made it less awkward. The speaker crackled again. "Bring her to the clinic first. You have chemical burns." I opened my mouth, then shut it. Honestly, I was too tired to argue with someone offering medical help. "Okay," I said. Then I looked back at Claptrap and Milo. "They stay where I can see them." The guard hesitated. The speaker answered before he could. "They stay at the checkpoint for now. Under watch. You can see them from the corridor." That had to be enough for now I had to keep telling myself I had to deal with this to get to her. I grabbed the duffle handle again and pulled. It didn't move. I closed my eyes. "Please tell me one of you has a cart." This time, one of the guards did laugh.
A few minutes later, someone brought a flat little cargo dolly. I could have kissed the thing. I didn't, because that felt like a bad first impression and also probably unsanitary. We got the duffle onto it, and suddenly the world became slightly less hateful. As they led me deeper past the checkpoint, I kept looking back. Claptrap stood where I'd told him to, still as stone, his optic glowing faintly. Milo waited beside him. The vault door stayed open behind them, but the guards and turrets stayed ready. My bots were behind me. My weapons were on a table. My arm burned. And I was inside Vault 81. I swallowed and looked forward. "Right," I muttered. "Clinic first, then panic.
The clinic wasn't far from the checkpoint, but it felt farther with two guards behind me and one in front. I took the time to look around and noticed how clean the halls were. That bothered me more than I expected cause it reminded me to much of the hospital.
As we walked people stared, just a faces turning as we passed. A woman carrying a basket stopped near a doorway. A kid peeked out from behind her leg. Someone in a vault suit looked at the dolly, then at my burned sleeve, then at the two guards. The duffle rolled behind me with a dull rattle. One of the guards had taken over pulling it after watching me struggle for about five seconds too long. As we reached the clinic, the door slid open, Inside smelled like antiseptic. I stopped in the doorway, For half a second, my body forgot where I was.
My fingers curled. The guard behind me shifted. "Go on don't keep the doc waiting." A doctor waited near a cot, sleeves rolled up, grey hair neat, expression careful. "Please sit there," he said. And so I did as asked, I sat. He pulled on gloves and looked at my sleeve. "Chemical burn?"
"Ghoul acid." His hands paused for one moment. "Acid?"
"Stomach acid. The bloated ghoul I was fighting, It burst." His mouth pressed thin. "Remove the coat." I took the lab coat off carefully. Then the jacket. The sleeve underneath had holes where the acid had eaten through. Skin red beneath it and thankfully it seemed like it was fine beyond that. The doctor leaned in, then looked at my neck.
"Any in your eyes?"
"No."
"Mouth?"
"I don't think so."
"Open wounds?"
"No. Not that I noticed." He didn't answer that. Just reached for a bottle and a clean cloth. "This may sting." He cleaned the spot and it burned fresh for a few seconds, enough that I hissed. A woman stood by the terminal near the wall, watching the screen. A nurse? maybe. Her vault suit was cleaner than mine by miles.
"Name?" she asked.
"Morgan. Just Morgan."
She looked at me and I met her gaze. The doctor dabbed at the burn again. "Age?"
"Sixteen."
"What vault?" I looked down at the number on my chest, then back at her. "One-Five-Nine."
"Location?"
"New York City. Grand Station. Underground." She typed that in. "Grand Central?" the doctor asked. "Something like that. Records called it Grand Station." The woman at the terminal glanced over. "Why did you leave?" The doctor wrapped the burn on my arm with a light dressing. He moved to my neck after. "My overseer was making monsters out of people from the surface," I said. "So I left."
The typing stopped and no one spoke for a moment. The doctor looked at me. "Monsters?"
"Tunnel Stalkers. That's what the files called them."
"Feral ghouls?"
"No."
"Super mutants?" I shrugged. "Then what were they?"
I saw a pale hand over concrete. Long fingers. That clicking in the dark. "Fast," I said. "Climbed walls. Hunted by sound. Used to be people." The room went quiet again. The woman at the terminal typed slower this time. "Do you have those records?"
"Some."
"We'll need to see them."
"You can see the vault ID and the emergency logs. I dont have much beyond that." Her eyes sharpened. "Then you understand why this looks bad." I looked at the doctor instead of her. "I already connected it outside. You had access to everything I had, I cant give you what i dont have."
The doctor glanced between us. "We'll handle medical first." He picked up a scanner and ran it slowly over my arm, neck, chest, then around the Pip-Boy. The machine clicked and He frowned which caused him to ran it again, then checked the side display.
"Radiation exposure is reading zero."
"I know." "You've been on the surface for weeks?"
" A month and some days I don't remember exactly."
"And you took RadAway? Rad-X?" Any chems? Antibiotics?"
"No."
The doctor looked at me for a long moment. "That is not normal."
"I guessed." I said as I shrugged. He set the scanner down and reached for another tool. "Have you been sick since leaving your vault? Fever, chills, vomiting, cough, rash, dizziness?"
"No, Not really."
"Any wounds from ferals?"
"No bites doc."
"Super mutant contact?"
"Killed one. a few days ago thats really about it." The doctor's eyes flicked up as I looked down at my hands. "Blood sample." My hand curled before he even touched my arm. "I really hate.."
The doctor noticed. "I can wait."
"No," I said. "Just do it." I watched the wall while blood filled the little vial. Dark red. Normal-looking. The woman at the terminal spoke again. "Why come to the Commonwealth?"
"Didn't want to stay near my vault. Brotherhood were active in New York." That got a different reaction. Small, but there. The guards near the door looked at each other. "Brotherhood?" she asked. "Steel Sharks. New York chapter, or whatever they call themselves. Didn't fancy having them in my life. their a bunch of tech crazed people." She typed as I spoke. The doctor set the blood vial into a small machine. It hummed.
"Why Vault 81?" she asked. I rubbed my thumb against the edge of the cot.
"I heard good things."
"From who?"
"Trader named Cricket."
One of the guards made a small noise through his nose. "I know who Cricket is," the woman said, not happy about it. "Then you know I could've heard worse." The little machine beside the doctor beeped. He looked at the readout.
"What?" I asked.
"Your white cell count is normal."
"That's bad?" I was slightly worried. "No." He replied. "Then why are you making that face?"
"Because it should not be this normal." He moved to another machine and checked the sample under a scope. The woman watched him now instead of me. The doctor adjusted the lens. His expression changed in a way I didn't like.
"Doctor?" the woman asked.
"Her cells are intact."
"Meaning?"
"Meaning no radiation damage that I can see. No disease markers. No active infection. No abnormal inflammatory response from the chemical exposure."
"Is that possible?"
"Not after weeks outside."
I looked down at the bandage on my arm. The doctor turned from the scope. "Has Vault 159 altered you?" My eyes lifted. "No, Not that im aware of." I needed some kind of cover if they found something. "Your records say nothing about genetic therapy." He watched me for another second, then nodded once. "Any implants?"
"No."
"Vaccines?"
"Probably vault stuff when I was younger. I don't know."
"Family history?"
I laughed. "No idea." The doctor made a note. The woman at the terminal folded her arms. "What exactly is in the duffle?"
"Tools. Parts. Food. Water. Ammo. Medical. Spare weapons."
"Explosives?"
"No, your guards already asked me that."
"Biological material?"
"No."
"Radioactive material?"
"Not that I know of."
"Chems?"
"Med-X, RadAway, Rad-X, Mentats. Trade stuff."
"Stimpaks?"
"A few not a lot" The doctor looked at me. "How many have you used recently?"
"None today."
"Recently."
"Within the week two?"
"For what?"
"Got shot."
The guard by the door looked at my leg like he could see through my clothes.
"It's healed," I said.
"Stimpaks do not heal bullet wounds cleanly without complications," the doctor said. "They did for me." He breathed out through his nose and wrote something else down. "Can you repair machines?" the woman asked. I blinked. "What?"
"Your records show mechanical aptitude. You arrived with modified robots. Can you repair machines?"
"Yes."
"Terminals?"
"Some."
"Generators?"
"Probably."
"Turrets?"
"Aye."
The woman typed that in too. "Is this a test or a job posting?" She looked at me over the terminal. The doctor finished with my neck and stepped back. "Burns are minor. Keep the dressings clean. If pain worsens, come back."
"Alright."
"I want you observed for twenty-four hours."
My stomach sank. "Quarantine?"
"Observation."
"Its the same thing Doc."
"No, quarantine would mean isolation and no contact. Observation means you stay inside assigned limits and report symptoms."
"I don't have symptoms."
"That is part of the problem."
The woman at the terminal finally stepped closer. "For now, you stay in the guest room near the clinic. You do not enter residential levels without an escort. Your weapons remain secured. Your robots remain at the checkpoint."
"My bots stay where I can see them."
"You can visit the checkpoint under escort."
"No the deal was they stay were I could see them." Her eyes narrowed.