Chapter Text
There are people in lab coats directing you all forward.
Your chest is tight, this can’t be real.
The flash.
What’s happened?
You remember… the broadcast. The broadcast said confirmed hits in New York and Pennsylvania… Your friend Zoe was in New York. And then Boston. They bombed Boston. Where else? Is this it? Is Montréal okay? Martin. Your apartment building had a little shelter, did your husband make it there? Was Martin dead? Eyes watering as you look down to the thin gold band on your hand. You didn’t love him, not like that, it was a marriage of convenience to protect both of you. But you lived together for nearly three years, and he was your friend, and now… is he gone? Your apartment? Your work? Oh god, your parents? Your vision blurs, and your sister grabs your arm.
She’s just as scared as you are, but she’s here. Don’t think about the rest of it, not yet. You clench your hand into a fist, digging your short nails into your thumb, black polish chipping.
You’re in a daze as the workers shuffle you all along, but you give your older sister a hug before stepping into the pod. At least she’s here. You’re safe. She’s safe. Shaun’s safe. That’s enough. That has to be enough.
. . .
Your throat burns.
After screaming and vomiting this much, you’ve probably done quite a bit of damage to it, but you can still hear the gunshot echoing in your ears.
You’re not there, not really, stumbling through the vault. Bugs—batons—skeletons—a pistol. The overseer’s terminal takes ages to read through, your eyes not wanting to make sense of the words, and you feel outside of yourself as the what-must-be-fiction unravels.
There’s a gun holster in the security stash nearby, thankfully.
The less the pistol is in your hands, the better.
You just keep hearing the bang over and over.
Your hands itch, and you struggle to stave off the urge to hit yourself, make something hurt enough that you can think, or stop thinking, anything to snap you out of this cryo-snowball rushing down the hill and rolling towards disaster.
You fling your hands up and out, away from the holster, away, away, don’t think about the gun and the whispering, slithering urge that you could make this nightmare end, right now. Quickly. Simply.
You told yourself that you could never do that to yourself, it would kill your father. Your uncle had ended it, and dad was never the same. You couldn’t put him through that pain again.
But your dad’s dead now, isn’t he?
Don’t think about it.
You made that promise, you can keep it—at least a little while longer.
There’s still Shaun.
Shaun’s out there, he has to be. You have to get him back. And you have to make whoever killed your sister pay. That’s what you have to do. Stay alive until then.
. . .
The dusty pipboy on your arm pinches as you clasp it, and you wince and fling your arm back as needles suddenly prick you.
“Fuck!”
You grab at the remaining forearm as the machine boots up.
Vitals display on the screen and you flick through the dials. That explains the needles, hopefully. But the date listed has to be wrong. Yes, the story on the terminal, the fuck-off bugs that shouldn’t exist, the clean skeletons all hint that time has passed, but... two hundred and ten years? With a shuddering breath you push the thought down and focus on your objective, getting the fuck out of here.
At least you get to press the huge fuck-off button.
You'd covered your ears as the metal screeched when the walkway extended, and do the same as you rise up to the surface.
The flash replays in your mind’s eye as your physical eyes strain in the daylight.
It’s a fucking wasteland up here.
God it’s so bright.
Your head twinges. A moment of longing for your sunglasses, and you’re back on your knees, somehow managing to wring out more tears. You manage to stand, and step onto the dirt. Your knees wobble, but you pass the rusted chain link fence.
The walk back to your sister’s house takes so much longer than the run up did. You feel heavy and numb, awkwardly lumbering back down the path. More skeletons. Flashbacks to the people you passed struggling with luggage. You can’t see their faces. You didn’t even know their names.
Some of the houses have toppled, but hers is still standing. You see movement inside of it and run forward, delirious with hope for a millisecond—
“As I live and breathe! Sir Theodore it’s really you!”
It’s Codsworth. Codsworth.
“Codsworth, dear god, you’re here,”
“Of course sir, have to have dinner ready for the family! Is the lady of the hour following along shortly? Shall I whip up a snack for the little lad?”
“She’s. They’re. They’re gone Codsworth—”
“Oh now now sir, you’re here, they’re bound to show up! You do know the missus could get sidetracked playing with Shaun.”
“She’s not coming.”
“Away on holiday is she? Did she happen to find…?”
Codsworth’s tone dipped, softly. Your stomach lurches.
“I assume my brother-in-law is dead. Like my sister—”
And now you’ve said it.
“Sir, these terrible things you’re saying, you really must eat something. Two centuries worth of hunger seems to produce such paranoia!”
“She’s—they killed her—some man came and killed my sister, and they took Shaun—”
The bruises on your knees are once more multiplied.
The butler urges you inside, and after picking yourself up, you collapse onto the couch in a wave of dust, adding coughing to your fit as the machine shushes you gently.
“Has it really been two hundred years, Codsworth?”
“About 210 actually, give a few dinks to the ole chronometer,”
“It can’t…”
Your words end as do the sobs, and you just sit; present only in body.
“Shall we search the neighborhood for little Shaun, then, sir? He may just turn up like you have done,”
He seems to be trying to cheer you up, but you can only bite back the bile and fear that is quickly leaning towards rage. Maybe he could sit in denial to avoid the heartbreak. Your anger faltered. You wish you could do the same.
“Did you see anyone, Codsworth? Have you seen anyone going to the vault? Leaving it?”
You need to know, the urgency pushing you past your exhaustion.
“I’m sorry sir, no. I ventured that-a-way hoping to find out you and the family had gotten inside. It was a horrible scene there, but I—I didn’t see any particularly… small… casualties. So I hoped that you all had made it,”
“But since then, has anyone come and gone?”
“Oh the occasional scoundrel might pass by, a looter or two by the neighbor’s yard, but not up thereabouts. Not much reason to pass further than Concord, now, I suppose. I’m terribly sorry sir, but I haven’t ventured up to the gate since, nor have I seen or heard much goings on out that way.”
“You heard that loud screech when I came up, though, right?”
“Oh, yes, sir, that awful ruckus just earlier, was that you? Please let me know if you plan on making that noise again so I can cover my acoustic sensors, right dreadful noise.”
“That was the elevator to the vault. How long ago did you heard it before just that, did you hear it earlier today?”
“Not that I recall, sir.”
“But before today, didn’t you hear it?”
“I’m afraid that was the first time I noticed it, sir,”
A deep frustrated sigh. Data loggers on a two century old plus unit could be faulty. Or he could have pruned the memory himself to empty cache space in his databanks. The people who took Shaun... Who murdered Nora… they could have gone through the woods to the north rather than coming through the neighborhood.
You paused.
“Wait, you said people? In Concord?”
“Oh yes sir, rather rude they are. No common courtesy nowadays I daresay. But the neighborhood is much friendlier—though I daresay not terribly active in the social committee by-the-by. Now, shall we go look for the young lad?”
“He’s not—”
You heave a sigh. You can let yourself follow-along, if not for yourself, for him.
“Yeah... Let’s go look.”
. . .
More of those horrific cockroaches, and then even nastier flies. Codsworth rushed in and handled them all quite quickly, as you fumbled in horror for a clean shot, missing thrice and settling with stomping the roach that got past the butler.
“Dreadfully sorry, he’s not around. Maybe someone in town can help you out. I daresay someone there can at least point you in a decent direction, sir."
Well, it’s more of a plan than you had before. You turn to head out the door without a word.
“Wait—sir,” you glance back at the butler, “this might be useful,”
He hovers away and returns with a weathered box of fancy lad cakes and a canteen. It must be some of Nate’s old army gear. He must have gone through those old boxes.
“Oh. Yeah, Codsworth. That’s probably a good idea,”
You take the canteen, and it feels full.
“Already filled with clean water; though there might be a slight condenser taste to it, apologies. But hop down into town and ask around and jot back by dinner time. I’m sure I can wrangle something up for you by then, sir.”
“You’re not coming?”
“Well someone has to mind the home, sir! The rest of the family need to be welcomed if they show up!” the robot flitters around, anxiously, “—Besides, you managed to calm the neighbors down when they were trying to bother the madam back… back then. So I’m sure you’ll do splendidly.”
“Oh. Well. I guess so. I’ll uh. I’ll try to be back on time,”
Perhaps going alone would be better. You don’t need any help towards delusions, and if you have to actually say the words again, any love you have for the machine might be burned in your raging despair at having to convince someone else that she… that they were gone.
“Do stay safe, sir… I do hope you find them,” he adds quietly.
“Right. Thanks.”
You swipe at the tear tracks left on your cheeks, and set out down the road.
. . .
That’s not a good sign.
At the end of the bridge, dead in the road, are a man and a… mangey dog? The man has… welding goggles on? You feel guilty taking them off his head, and a bit nauseous, but those will have to work for sunglasses in the meantime. You wipe them off with your sleeve. The sun is strong, and your eyes are weak.
There’s a crowbar hooked into the side of the mutt, and it releases with a stinking squelch. You glance around, but the street is empty. Quiet.
You really don’t like this.
Fuck this, you’re going back north and around the stream. If anyone has seen you, if they follow you, they’ll pass by Codsworth, and he seemed handy enough with the bugs to manage better than you could.
You cut past the trail, the same you took that day, and walk around the water, east. It’s a stupid, roundabout path, but seemingly clear until the pond curves.
“Who’s there?”
You freeze. A person. Of course a person. There’s still people. Codsworth said there’s people. He also said they weren’t very friendly in town. You’re not in town, maybe they’re alright? Just one guy, better not spook him.
“Uh, afternoon—”
You are cut off by a shout.
“Get ‘im!”
A beast barks and bounds around the corner of some trees towards you, flesh pulled back tight over its face, snarling, and you remember the dead man by the bridge. You’re still carrying his crowbar. Time slows as you watch the hound pounce, mouth agape, and you manage to line up the bar so the hound crashes its jaws into it instead of your throat. Its body continues forward, flinging over your shoulders and you land on your back. The animal hacks and heaves, and you roll over to see its lower jaw hanging limply as it gags. You scramble up and unholster your pistol and shoot two rounds into its skull, just as you hear the man shout once more. You grab the crowbar and book it, mindlessly running away from the water, winding between dead trees as you hear gunshots behind you.
There’s a concrete building up ahead, it looks like a junkyard, but it's cover. You skid past the door and slam it shut, heaving air, yanking off your goggles to see better inside. You throw the latch of the door down and glance out the slit window to see the man running towards you.
You take three pot shots and pull the trigger again to hear an empty clink.
You’re out of ammo.
You run to the other window, and freeze when you spot a sentry bot in the same junkyard as you, just down the hill.
It’s off, oh thank god.
“I know you’re there, asshole,”
You glance around looking for something in the shack. There’s a terminal. Wait. There’s a bot there and a terminal here. It boots up slowly and you hear footsteps approaching. The man takes a few pot shots at the concrete. The terminal loads and there’s a holotape there mentioning the sentry.
“Come out coward, I know you’re in there!”
He’s getting closer.
Fuck this is a bad idea. You run the tape. The door rattles and then the man slams himself against it.
“Outta ammo are ya?”
His laugh terrifies you.
You activate the sentry.