Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

The wasteland buzzes, rich in poverty, egoistical in its disguise of safety; appearing so barren, so markless and timid wherever your eyes span. 

Though with years one trained to the signs: a settlement nestled along the valleys of sharp rock, the starving remains of a school, housing what has become the playground of a lost youth; remaining only a nightful, only to gather enough to pillage the coming day. Cities cowering under the layer of dust, their inhabitants no more than shadows in the night, sealed behind doors of steel. Shacks far off any shallow shore, prepared, yet alone.

Life is everywhere, creating the vibration Gob feels as he walks under the hot sun, the radio on his hip quiet.

Beside him Charon’s equipment clatters rhythmically, his boots silent against the baked earth. A giant carrying the searing heat, his duty above his soul, his shotgun oiled on his back. A gracious sight. Gob takes a minute to stare, digging his thumbs under the straps of his heavy bag, feeling calluses bulge against his blunt nails. How long has it been? Three years?

His ankle twists on a stray stone, throwing him off balance, yet Charon’s arm prevents him from flipping their valuable merchandise on its side.

“Thanks,” he stutters, unsure whether it’s just the sun making his stomach burn.

Yeah. About three years.

Three years since they took to the road. Seven since they were left to their vices. Eleven in total since the Lone Wanderer chose to change their lives and take upon a different road. First, breaking the chains of Charon’s contract, then breaking Mortiary’s neck in the middle of the night.

Nova had reported it as an accident, the sheriff had taken her word. It was, in all honesty, an accident. Gob remembers peering off the metal balustrade that night, his insides screaming against it, thrashing against the image of the devil’s face staring up at him; eyes empty, body facing the ground. 

His chest had cooled, yet a peculiar tingle had run up the back of his neck.

“What kind of a sick bastard are you?” he’d thought to himself; deriving pleasure from seeing life being ripped off another being’s eyes? Yet as the paint of his brush had hit the wooden sign the following days, perched proudly against the city’s sky, his name now in its center, he forgave himself. Fifteen years of abuse. Fifteen years of being beaten, spat on, berated, woken drunkenly in the middle of the night just so he could clean and scrub, and crawl on the floor like an animal, all while Moriarty laughed, spilled more liquor and kicked him in the ribs. One moment of reflexive pleasure. 

They were even at last.

But that was years ago, when he first noticed Charon standing in the corner of the staircase, his cool gaze observing him cry and heave with panic, Nova too apprehensive to comfort him and the Lone Wanderer already sneaking to the city’s exit. He’d remained all night, unyielding, unmoving; just watching. Watching Gob’s sanity get stripped in slabs, assessing who he really was.

Who knows, maybe if Gob had laughed and clapped his hands, kissed the kid and turned on the radio he would’ve left. Maybe if he hadn’t sobbed till his throat had gone numb and thrown up in the dinner he’d tried to bitterly stomach, he would’ve deemed him unworthy of his trust. Maybe. Gob doesn’t know what prompted a being of such power to stay. All he knows is that somehow, somewhere along the way, he’d remained by his side, becoming the saloon’s bouncer. Until they’d tugged at their agreement and grown much closer than that.

“What do ya think, Charon?” He finds himself asking automatically, his finger pointed somewhere off the path. A rusty, ancient factory sprawls to their west, an irradiated dumping spot stretched in a soft curve around it. Their home for the night.

The ghoul slows his purposeful gait, allowing himself a moment to think. The horizon stretches bright before them, its gown gradient, darkening on its heels. Gob must’ve been longer in thought than he’d realized.

They continue their slowed pace, yet their steps serve only as theatrical to the cracked soil leeching off their shadows. After a minute Charon stops, nodding. “Good.”

Gob can’t resist the small kick of pride stoking his heart.

His palms press against the ruined doors guarding the entrance, shoulders straining under their weight. Slowly, the hefty steel grates against the factory’s old, grayed concrete floors, spearing the pious darkness. The sound echoes throughout the hollow space, quivering the further it spreads and raising the symbolic hairs on Gob’s neck into thick spikes. He lets his backpack thump quietly against the wall, repressing the urge to swirl his pinkie in the thick drape of dust rising around him and kicking the odd bits of bric-a-brac surrounding his feet instead. 

Diluted with movement, the century-old air sharpens its potent aroma, seizing Gob’s nose with little daunt. The air, stale at first, turns muskier the further in he steps, unhelped by the windows that’d broken over the years. He stops no further than twenty paces from the entry, closing his eyes and focusing on the singular click of his flashlight spreading in a soft echo around him. It doesn’t take much to establish this used to be some kind of a brewery, its bitter scent digging somewhere inside Gob’s brain—pulling the bleached sensation of sun, pavement and a long road from somewhere in his pre-war days. 

He of course has no clear recollection of what these images are. Some ghouls remember their past lives like they’re still there, he on the other hand holds only onto the birth year on his driver’s license. If it really is his, anyway. Whatever memories, loved ones, talents, jobs or hobbies he might’ve adored had expired as quickly as fallout in the wind, leaving him only with fear to tend to and techniques on which way to bend his skin so his necrosis shows less. Everyone carries something from the war besides their gruesome scars, everyone shares whatever pulls them closer to someone else.

Only he nods empathetically, lying through rotten teeth.

He calms the tiny twang of jealousy as soon as it rears its festering head, continuing to comb through the building. To his right the wall slowly unfurls into a mosaic of windows, the interior behind them eerily dark. He peers through the coating of dust, pressing his flashlight next to his head. It is… blurry. Almost as if soaked into a vat of oil. He squints harder, trying to piece the shapes on the opposite side, yet it isn’t until he moves his light just a fraction back that a skull knocks softly against the glass.

Gob screams, throwing his flashlight into the glass. He staggers, crawling away blindly as glass topples around him, plastering his body against the furthest wall. He remains there until spectral silence rules once more. Unsteadily, he stumbles to his feet, throwing a look outside where Charon patrols atop a nearby hill, his back turned to him. Gob knocks a fist against his sternum, taking a deep breath. He’s already had enough embarrassments for one day. He can do this.

Carefully, he walks forward with his hands spread in front of him in a wide arc, uncertainty paving his way toward the light emitting from behind the broken glass. Maneuvering around a corner’s edge he swipes his hand over the wall, accidentally crashing it against a door’s handle. “Ouch.”

It is unlocked, opening easily, greeting his boots with the crisp knock of a tiled floor. His light had rolled to the other side of what appears to be some kind of an office, flickering every so often. The skeleton he’d seen remains seated, now only his or her head stretches back, held tightly by a withered collar. So, he not only managed to break his flashlight, but didn’t even inflict much damage. Great job, Gobbie.

He grabs a nearby chair, pushing it in front of him as he walks—the last thing he needs is to fall through a hole he hasn’t seen. His flashlight’s hiding behind what once used to be a fridge; now it serves as a home to a number of gooey algae, some glowing faintly from their irradiated nest. With his light securely in his grasp, he scans the room again.

His initial observation had been correct—he’s standing amidst an old office space. What he thought of as oil proves to be dried glue, the paper it once held crumbled along the oak desk stretching under the glass from one end of the room to the other. Behind him stands a door on weak hinges, a label of “Employees Only” staring him down sternly. Following his curiosity he pushes it open, greeted by more tiles and a hollow corridor. A door is etched in the wall to its right and another at the very end of the tight space.

He opens the middle door first, peering carefully inside. With half of its interior spread in a cluttered turmoil is a kitchen space, lined with plastic cupboards—some open and filled with shattered cultrely, others hanging off the demolished walls. Even so the oven is pristine, save for rust scarring its side and some of the stove controls missing. He opens it… ah. Inside, stacked in thick rolls lie dollops of dollars, tied around one another as if executing an intricate dance.

He pushes them around a little, wary of the oven’s cool sides—his brain still reflexively sending signals of the ghostly heat, even if Gob hasn’t seen a working oven in decades. Not in Megaton anyway.

He stretches up, his back emitting a painful pop, and continues to rummage around. A box of Fancy Lads spread on a table—rock-hard. A box of Blamco—dust. A box of InstaMash—dust he has never trusted, even in the pre-war days. Box, box, box, box. The office life experience at its finest. He smiles to himself, remembering how foolishly he trusted those magazines showing shirt-clad men with green salads on their laps and a minty smile on their face.

Deeper in, mottled among the shadows, two cots hang suspended on the west wall by leather straps, a faint curtain shielding them from the rest of the room. He unlatches one of them, stretching it on the ground with a painful creak. He sits, bouncing up and down, rolling around and relaxing into the thin mattress. Way more comfortable than the cold ground outside. He manages to unstrap the other cot too, yet as he sits to safe proof it, it gives under his weight, mashing his knees into his teeth painfully. He panics, slithering from the steel jaws and landing on his ass with a thump.

He’s out of the room before he hears the bed clatter, like a scared child about to be punished.

Rubbing his teeth, he continues to the other room, though this time it poses less of a threat—a bathroom. A toilet, sink and… tub. A sewage smell wafts off the circular drain, complimenting the yellow stains leaking from stretch-mark-like cracks and making Gob cover his nose in the curve of his sleeve. Even so the thought of soaking his tired muscles into it makes him sigh with bliss and rub the side of his thigh. The floor’s filled with thick shards, the mirror no doubt, and Gob kicks them to the corners as he maneuvers to an abandoned locker to his left. Locked, just his luck.

A framed photograph is balanced on a rusting nail next to the sink. Thirteen men are gathered side by side, their arms clasped around proud shoulders, some kneeling in the fresh dirt. “Huh… 1913. God, this thing is ancient. Well, I still beat it by a good century or so.” He thumbs the elegant writing, his imprint leaving a harsh line against the layer of dust.

When he returns to the main entrance Charon is crouched between the radioactive barrels, his shotgun at his side. Any humor leaves Gob as he cowers behind his revolver, steps hesitant while he rounds the corner and plants his back against the wall. Only the tips of his shoes are visible in the mellow sunset and he moves them so as to blend them with the pipes at his feet.

Charon straightens, stalking the hordes of barrels, kicking them further around; their fat bellies clashing into one another with resounded tunks. His body, although large, moves elegantly—his energy preserved, his limbs stepping no further than to fulfill their goal. Even through the rapid beating in his throat, Gob is entranced by the other’s spell. It’s as if he is watching the prowl of a predator, opportunistic and catlike, controlling his environment with a stern grasp. Even his shadow remains close to him, deepening the stunning dimension of his figure.

The ghoul continues to sweep the area, crouching every so often and rummaging in the glowing dirt, and that’s when it all makes sense—Charon is not in fact searching for danger, he’s laying traps. As the sky darkens further the brief flash of mines litters Gob’s eyes.

Charon spots him, but remains silent for a bit longer, his head swiveling from side to side one last time, lighting every nerve in Gob’s body all over again. Yet, as he nears closer, his gaze is mild. “It is safe now. What did you find?”

Gob holsters his gun, an uneven tremor accompanying the motion. “A whole treasure trove. Definitely a good place to rest and uh… there is a bath.” With that he wiggles his shoulders suggestively, though his face falls down in embarrassment the second he does.

Charon looks him over. Though his face remains stoic, a particular sparkle lights his eyes and he bends over, pressing his lips to Gob’s peeling head. “Sounds good. Let us go rest.”

Slinging his bag over his shoulders, Gob is more than happy to lead the way inside.

They lie sprawled in the tub, the irradiated water buzzing along their skin and soaking into their tired muscles. Gob sticks his leg outside the tub, stretching it lazily, probing their radio—which he’d placed on a small plastic chair—with his toe. He fiddles with the stubborn thing, placing a hand on Charon’s curled thigh, yet all his efforts end in the small machine toppling over, the batteries falling out with a resounded thunk. Embarrassed, he  stands away from the water, bending over and pulling the thing back together.

Choked with static, Crazy He Calls Me fights through the dust-stuffed speakers, its melody playing with the room’s interior and creating a pleasant echo. Gob plops back into Charon’s embrace, spilling some of the warm water off the ridges and coating the ghoul’s chin. Charon only grumbles under his breath, spreading his legs wider and branching his arms to rest on each side of the tub.

With that the men settle into each other, the gentle membrane of water connecting them. Perched high above the tub, Gob’s leg relaxes, the muscle bulging pleasantly, his head pressed drowsily on the junction of Charon’s clavicle and his neck resting on the slope between his tits. Soon he fully submerges his head under the steaming surface, his breath held and pulse beating pleasantly in his ears.

There is nothing better than baths with Charon. Aside from the pleasant contact they share, the bigger ghoul adds an assertive sense of protection, allowing Gob to completely cut the outside world. It’s just him and the radio’s muffled tunes, making him rock his heel above the water, until it too turns into nothing but a mechanical hum, the rhythm of the tunes forgotten entirely.

For a moment he’s in a state of weightlessness. The body under him has entirely disappeared, alongside his own, yet he doesn’t panic. He opens his eyes instead, presented with a starry sky, letting himself be engulfed by it. Still, this one appears different, less harsh and bright than the one of the Wasteland, more obtuse. More alive. 

He continues to stare at it, counting its stars.

As he moves his fingers, lining their bright, bulbous bodies side by side, they shimmy, pressing closer to his face. He squints against the light, yet instead of pushing them, embraces them closer, balling his fists in their hairs.

Hairs?

“Down with FEV!”

“Show us the truth you capitalist pigs!”

“Stop killing us!”

Gob concentrates on the voices, their husks preying on him, the spit palpable from the gaping maws. Smoothskins, gripping signs and pumping their fists into the musty air, lure him into their jagged rocking. Their mass moves as one, not hurting one another but directing their power at a wall further ahead. A wall of blue-coated men, behind their shields a large building.

No, no… the Whitehouse.

He forces himself to concentrate further, the motion strangely heavy on his chest. The screaming escalates, turning into a roaring cataract, shaking him harder, bearing down on his chest. Is he watching a protest? Or perhaps he’s part of it?

Buzzing with static, pictures on a TV flash before him; scientists in hazmat suits handling precious glass with fragile gloves. A large living room, people surrounding him; their vehement faces jittering from word to word. He is back among the crowd, his chest now on fire, the lungs inside pulsing against his ribcage. His arm rises, words spilling from his lips. “ This man fights back!”

Within the crowd a man elbows him and he chokes.

He awakes gagging—water plunging through his nose and more sucking through the sparse muscles in his throat, terrifying him. Water splashes everywhere as he struggles to rise up, his toes catching the curved edge of the tub. He fights against the yell that threatens to jump out, his eyes burning, his hands continuing to grope blindly. Faintly he feels Charon’s arm wrap around him, holding him above the water while puffs of nicotine muddle the room’s interior.

Gob continues to cough and spit, blowing his nose until nothing more comes out and wiping his snot against the side of the tub. Charon doesn’t comment on it, deciding to observe him instead, never relaxing his secure hold. After a moment Gob pats him, relaxing back down and gurgling a soft “I’m alright.”

He makes sure to keep above the surface this time around, feeling around the radiator next to them and taking a cigarette between trembling fingers. He cranes his neck up, seeking Charon’s lips and touching the tips of their cigarettes together until they form a single, bright ball of fire. Gob hollows his cheeks a couple of times and the tobacco catches flame. It isn’t long before he succumbs to his meditation once more, observing the feathery smoke snake upward, leaving ornamental tattoos on the thin paper.

He seeks Charon’s hand along the tub’s edge, squeezing the thick digits and rubbing them with the back of his thumb. “I think I fell asleep there for a moment,” he says, laughing to himself, yet the sound comes out dampened. So much for not embarrassing himself.

He follows the curve of the ghoul’s wrist, trailing his fingers along the exposed muscle. “You know, I think I’m starting to remember who I used to be,” he says after a while, orbiting what’s left of his cigarette from finger to finger. “Though I wonder, are those really my memories, Charon? Or am I so melted that I confuse them with some wild daydream, an ideal… like an old sculpture.”

He throws the now worthless nub toward the toilet, watching as it bounces off its side and falls somewhere in the corner. Heaving a heavy sigh he twists around, reaching for another cigarette.

The radio continues its soft bubbling, spilling around the dark room, making the spider webs tremble wantomly to the upbeat rhythm. Gob takes to observing his cigarette once again, watching the smoke curl and twist, dividing the bathroom into uneven cities, waiting to be conquered by starving traders.

“It is enough, for now,” Charon says.

For a while he remains silent and for a while Gob thinks that’s the end of it. Until: “The more we think of our worth, the more we discount it. We scrutinize ourselves because there is always a better way. A way that would make us appear faster, stronger, less inept. But that is not how the real world works. It is what you do in the moment that defines you.”

Gob is chipping at his nails, following the irregular ridges, dark markings, ugly spots. “So, you’re saying I need to be less in the clouds?”

“No, I am telling you not to compare yourself to an image you idolize, but build your own through the situations you encounter. You can use your strengths to hone your skill, the same way you took time to carefully craft that image in your head.”

“Right.”

“However,” Gob hears the painful rasp in Charon’s lungs as he takes a drag off his cigarette, “I do think it’s real.” When Gob turns to him confused, he continues. “You have proven your prowess in battle, which although crude, is passionate. You only run away when told to and although that leaves you to restlessly stare, it proves a point.” The ghoul links their hands together, descending them under the water to rest on Gob’s hip. “I just wish you saw yourself the way I do, then you will understand.”

In a moment of bravery, Gob flickers Charon’s cigarette away, kissing him through a mouthful of smoke. Charon moves his hand behind Gob’s thigh, circling the girth of it, unhindered by the loss of precious skin. He massages him as they kiss, fingers reaching the soft space between his legs. “Is this alright?”

Gob hums back breathlessly, climbing atop him.

Chapter Text

They strap their gear while the sun is still low, chewing at the remains of the moon’s ribs.

Sleep-stricken as they, flurries of dust swirl their autolary bodies as they walk through the eerie, barren land, stowing away in ancient wrinkles. Only the howl of rising wind accompanies the two ghouls, armed with the cold breeze of the night past. Their destination—Rivet City. Their path—arbitrary each time. Whether it’s the safety in the lack of routine or the excitement of it, they never manage to be surrounded or intercepted, unlike the many caravans they pass.

From the technological amenities of Rivet City to the small trading communities growing precious tobacco or tins of homely preserved goods, to the cool underground of Underworld, filled with Rad-Away and medicine not meant for their kind, ending at last at Megaton where they fill the growing pubs and shops. Little do these communities understand the power of coming together under the same roof, choosing instead to grovel miserably like packs of stray dogs, until the day it would be too late; the day when the dangers of the Wastes would wipe them out completely.

Still, Gob and Charon are no politicians, no messiahs. They simply carry goods from one end of the world to the next, earning enough to sustain themselves for the following week of rest. Earning enough to carry them over to the day one of them would reach their limit or they grow tired and find something else to do.

Nearing a gap, Charon reaches over, breaking Gob’s thoughts. He takes Gob’s calloused hand, his muscles pulsing with a gentle squeeze. Together.

The area they come to is littered with similar gaps—tearing the dirt, some paper cuts on the earth’s skin, other so deep the bottom is but an amalgamation of bruises. In the distance the remains of a highway broods, a thick shadow connecting it to its ruined tail, mending the two pieces together. Gutted and mimicking the concrete’s curve, lies a giant board, the colors on it washed, its writing demolished. Gob has seen most of them by now—either a cheery advertisement for a vault, the refreshing properties of a Nuka-Cola or the similarly fantastical benefits of special oddities.

None that can help life in the post-nuclear holocaust.

He tightens the straps on his bag, interlacing his and Charon’s arms. Wary of their path, the two ghouls move slowly, aware of the contents in Gob’s backpack growing restless and lashing out by weighing on his gaunt frame. With each gap they cross, the next takes upon the challenge, growing wider, its edge cragged and higher than the one they jump off of. Sweat beats at Gob’s face, clustering between the folds of raw skin and breaking off into his eyes, muddling his vision.

A choked gasp leaves him as, all at once, his foot ceases to travel forward and the Wasteland’s bright scenery blurs. Colors swirl and blend as his body is pulled into the pitch black, knees scraping across rock, making him flail his arms in futile resistance, tearing through his pants and dragging across his naked bones. The expected thump doesn’t come, instead he is still falling; only now his fall is broken by a jutting rock, slamming into his ribs.

The pain takes mercy on him, blurring to the point of utter blankness and skipping the part where his body crashes into solid ground.

He comes to Charon’s head blurring into a red waterfall, lips chewing three short syllables, the sound devoid of any meaning. God, he’s dizzy . He tries to get up, but is stopped by a fire fusing his side with the rocky earth. He tries again, groaning into his chest, curving his back into the air. He kicks a leg out, bracing himself against the rocks and with a screwed jaw, rolls off his ruined shoulder.

Charon is touching him, concern swimming with every stroke—guiding him gently, oh so gently, into his lap. Gob can hear him grunt as his weight digs into his crotch, though he doesn’t relent, propping Gob against him and holding his limbs where he is unable to.

“‘m fine, I’m finh…” He mumbles, his throat numbly clutching to every sound and forehead tucked into the smell of old leather.

Charon shushes him, keeping him still, letting him sort through the rumble in his head. He feels the sharp pin prick of a stimpack being injected into his back and can’t stop the pathetic whine leaving him. He lifts a trembling hand, his shoulder curved forward and pulsing as he touches the side of his head. Blood soaks into his palm. 

Clarity crawls into him as the medicine spreads across his body, the lumbering pain ever as heavy, yet the worst of it silenced. He uses Charon’s arm as an anchor to crawl to a crouch, the side of his body still tender, yet mobile enough. As he turns to greet the ghoul proper he notices the blood pouring from Charon’s thigh.

Shit. “Shit…” He reaches toward the wound, stopping short of it. The leather is ruined, the muscle underneath swollen and red. “You okay?”

Instead of an answer, two palms wrap around his head, holding him still. Charon looks at him with steady focus, fingers mapping where numbness makes place for sizzling burns. “You are still injured. Hold still.”

With that Charon slowly plucks himself off the ground, the wound on his thigh moving along the thick strings of muscle. Gob is perched upright, watching him limp to what he presumes is the corpse of his bag.

He winces at its severed shape; the goods that were once tightly packed now spread everywhere, broken and leaking. Charon kneels, fusing the end of his sharp knife with the bag’s precious straps, cutting them off their roots. He digs around, pulling out one of Gob’s clean shirts and folds it lengthwise, placing it atop his wound. At last he circles the cloth with the straps, tightening them. The ghoul returns with some water and a cotton cloth, pressing the soaked material into Gob’s head. A whiff of blood passes Gob’s face.

While Charon takes the time to patch him, Gob takes a look around. It is dark, abandoned and cold. Above him the hole they’d fallen through sizzles with faint light, spreading down around them, accompanied by dust wrestling with clumps of falling debris. Around him are a dozen or so bodies; most cannibalized by starving funga, others weakly clinging to strands of bloated flesh. While most are vaguely humanoid, Gob can see the jutting jaws of mongrels or the flattened foreheads of panicked brahmin crushed in between.

“Where are we?” Mocked by the cave’s walls, his question repeats back at him like a wallpaper’s decoration, withering away the further in the dark it crawls.

Charon stops long enough to throw a chaste look at the bodies around them, filmy eyes jittering somewhere along the dark. He returns to his work with a simple: “We are not safe here.”

Though normally an answer like that would’ve turned Gob into a tumor of panic, something about Charon’s sober declaration and the pain in his ribs leaves the ghoul in an almost docile state. He simply nods, letting himself be scooped to his feet, never leaving sight of the bones around them.

Their steps echo for a long while, following twisted stone with the occasional worried mumble from Gob’s lips. His shoulder still hurts, along with his side, though now he manages to move them freely, the bones inside sealed back together. Every so often he scratches the wounds around his head, catching Charon glancing at him each time.

Ahead, something looms out of the rocky womb. Remains of a massive vault door hug the cave’s wall; the number 115 upon its belly, a control panel at its heels. The contraption is designed to withstand the punishment of nuclear blasts, and it shows, with twelve cogs cut into the thick steel, providing stability for a massive frame. More bodies pave the way to it, knit into one another, their hands extended in a desperate plea.

Gob takes a step back, sensing Charon press his hand against the curve of his lower back. “Only way is forward,” he says.

Only way is forward. Right. Even so Gob’s steps remain hesitant, careful not to disturb what remains of the dead as he traverses their malformed waists. He reaches the mysterious panel first, drawn to its bright hues. Its luminescent, yellow color, combined with the high tech appearance looks off in the natural setting of the stalagmite-rich cave. Even up close its moss-blanketed buttons remain puzzling, the text surrounding them withered and the matted display they guard pitch-black.

The only thing Gob understands right away is the large “OPEN CLOSE” inscripted on each end of a black, titanium handle. He closes his fist around it, pausing. “Do you think this is the right way? These people… they weren’t born here, ya know?” He sees their ruined clothing; the ragged leather of grave robbers and slavers degrading along the ground.

“There is nothing for us back there,” comes the deadpan answer.

He nods. “Yeah,” he nods again, this time for himself. “Yeah, you’re right.”

His side immediately catches on fire as he pulls the handle down. He buckles slightly, holding his shoulder through gritted teeth. This isn’t good. He tries again, cheeks puffing with renewed vigor, yet managing only to worsen the pain. Reluctantly he lets himself be guided aside by his hulking companion, watching as Charon’s muscles flex, filling the leather armor, yet achieving little more than he could.

Gob takes to the door while Charon continues to abuse the ancient controls. The door, sealed shut and unmoving is, for the lack of a better term, fucking huge. It’s at least eight times the ghoul’s frame and spans just as wide, the rows of decorative steel bulging from every crevice. He crouches around it, touching his hands on the cold steel; the light coming from the bubble of fire on his lighter makes the loss of his sturdy flashlight sting the harder. He preys around the edges where steel connects to rock, looking for a gap—foolish he knows, these vaults were built to last and built to protect the small portion of elites that could afford them.

Even so, he perseveres through the dark, pressing, tapping, nudging, kneeling, apologizing to every bone that shifts against his shoe, until his wrist slips through a shadow at the right edge of the door. Bingo. “Charon, look.”

He shifts aside, holding his lighter closer for the other ghoul to see. The gap is a small, angled opening, created through a shift in the door. Charon sticks his arm through, his shoulder alone filling it almost instantly.

Gob knows he can fit with some luck. I could cook ye, ya hear?! He hears Moriarty say, hears his footsteps stomp angrily behind him. …Who am I kiddin’, yar little more than a bowl of scraps. Fuckin’ zombie, can’t even feed the goddamn dog.

“I bet I could fit,” his voice comes out dampened, still partially held by the memory.

Charon’s frown deepens. His eyes bobble from Gob to the gap, and back to Gob. He holds out his arms, setting them on each side of Gob’s shoulders and taking that same distance back toward the hole. It proves a tight fit, but one both know is worth trying. Charon nods and stands aside.

Gob hands him his holstered revolver, his hunting knife, his ammunition, even his shoes and belt, and lowers to his knees. The only thing he keeps is a single grenade, handed over from Charon’s belt and tucked safely at his hip. 

He peers through the narrow opening, hands on the ground, trying to think of the best way to fit through. Eventually he goes shoulder-first, his head tucked to the side, skin dragging against the cold steel and breath releasing with the first, successful push. He shoves himself up to a pectoral before the stretch in his shoulder becomes too much and he grunts, opening his eyes to complete darkness. The first panicked beats trickle in his ears.

Reflexively he flails his arm, tussling with the pressure in his shoulder, yet only manages to twist it harder, feeling his muscles clamp against the door’s edge. He positions his knee against the ground, pushing harder, but the cog-shape of the door lodges into his ribs, anchoring him in place. Gob is stuck. If he moves back he’s going to break his ribs. 

Only way is forward.

Encouraging himself with a couple of strangled breaths, he changes strategies. He starts bobbing his head up and down, shimmying his body one hair-length at a time. Steadily, his shoulder relinquishes to the rhythm, freeing its grip on the wall and paving a way forward. Gob’s eyes sting as the metal catches into his skin, pulling the thick scabs on his face loose and tearing the loose skin wider. He continues to push and shimmy, and hold his breath until his lungs burn, and his bones pop and his muscles spasm.

At last his chest slips through and he silently begs for air through a blinding dizziness. Weakly, he sucks in his stomach, dragging his scrawny hips along and collapsing on the floor with a tud. Shy light floods back in, sparsely illuminating the metallic grating beneath him. Gob rolls over, staring at his feet. Charon’s hand is halfway through the gap, holding the decorated lighter toward him.

Its flame spreads in an intricate halo, inscribing the metal.

Gob reaches for it, enveloping his fingers around it, yet Charon’s hand pauses, gripping his thumb before he can pull away. He doesn’t let go for a long moment, holding onto Gob’s thumb awkwardly. Gob can hear his rasping breath, finding comfort in the way it hollows through the steel, his nails warm where they touch his. Gob squeezes the tips of fingers and lets go. “I’ll be a second.”

Charon’s answer is a sparse hum and Gob hears his armor squeak away.

The dark corridor of the cave opens to… more dark corridor. Metal walls circle him, reflecting his light and mangling his expression beyond recognition; a silent mocking, meant to humiliate whoever walks this path late at night. Too bad he’s already used to this.

Every step Gob takes echoes with an unwelcome jitter, dragging the material of his socks along the cold vents, wobbling his old toes loose. He can barely see more than a foot in front of him, the lustre of his lighter just enough to light his next step. He’s fine. He’s doing it. He’s going to find a way to open the door in no time and he and Charon are going to find a way out.

He trips, crashing into the floor, his source of light flying off into the darkness. He lets a hushed whine, sinking his face into his forearm. Who is he kidding? He’s no adventurer, no explorer. He can’t even walk down a straight corridor without ending in a miserable heap on the floor. He tightens his hand where Charon’s fingers had been. He’s waiting. Gob straightens himself, keeping a hand close to his tender stomach. He crawls toward where he heard the lighter fall, keeping the pressure on his shoulder sparse.

Halfway he bumps his hand against a phenomenon in the dark, hearing its sick rattle stumble under his knee. He startles, kicking it away, watching as the shadow slouches on its side—a broken hiss sinking into his lip as his ribs scissor in his stomach. He crawls away, stopping only when he feels the solid body of the wall behind him. He touches his hip, sliding a finger into the safety pin of the grenade. He remains like that, heart beating into his throat.

Carefully, he reaches out, holding his breath. His hand glides through the floor, fingers nudging against the tattered remains of a zipper. He navigates the metallic fold, squirming at the wet way it sinks and squelches the further up he goes, the way his naked knees stick to the grating, crunching into nests of comfortable larvae. He follows a shoulder, down an arm; there’s got to be a light somewhere. His progress is hindered by a bulky mass, right at the person’s wrist. It’s filled with… with buttons?

He fumbles with it, somehow managing to unclasp it without moving the rotting flesh too much. Whatever it is weighs heavily in his lap as he begins to explore it, eager to find a light. Each button clacks devoid of purpose as he mashes his way through, until finally, the screen lights up.

His face is bathed in a bright, magenta halo, forcing his eyes to narrow and watch in horror as waves of numbers and symbols flow through the screen with lightning speed. He blinks away the spots in his eyes, watching the device dim again. A single figure materializes in the swimming opium of black, sticking out a gleaming thumb with a deep robotic rumble and an animated grin.

“Welcome to the RobCo PIP-Boy 2000 V.”

The voice drags out, so distorted it is nothing but broken static, finishing as a metallic and uneven rumble. The little man disappears and a different screen comes to be, one full of zeroes and empty lines. The little figure is here again too, yet now its button eyes are replaced by two large X’s. Gob waits for a moment longer, but once he sees nothing else changes, tries the buttons again.

“MAP.”

“DATA. Washington DC. 62,6°F. RH - 97%. SUNRS - 06:40. SUNST - 18:02. 03. 16. 2088, 08:45 AM PM”

“STATS. Warning, user unresponsive. Please seek medical staff.”

“MAP.”

“NOTES. (1)” He clicks on it, but nothing happens.

“RADIO. Warning, no signal.”

“STATS. Warning, user unresponsive. Please seek medical staff.”

The device drags each sentence in that same robotic voice, the screen breaking every so often with thin wires of static. At the end of the device is a tightly twisted, pig-tailed cable, still bound to the skeleton’s wrist through a thick amalgamation of steel and leather. Gob carefully maneuvers the sleeve off, slipping it around his wrist instead. As he does the screen temporarily shuts off, only to light again with different numbers.

The zeros are now replaced by his height and weight. The little boy’s head wears a flat smile, the heart drawn inside its chest going back and forth between 81-83 and the ridiculous icon of feet next to its shoes a hard zero. Gob lifts the computer gently, slipping it around his forearm. Even with the thick padding of foam, it hangs off his arm, mimicking the bagginess of the leather glove.

Whoever wore it was better fed than him.

He lets the device hang downward, illuminating the dead body. He tries to ignore the man’s face staring at him, still partially intact, as he tears his blue jumpsuit and stuffs the empty space around his arm. His wrist bends, trying to counteract the foreign weight, but at least he manages to stretch his arm without the device toppling off. Now to find a way to open that damned door.

Gob uses the light from the screen to navigate to the other side of the tunnel where a terminal gathers dust, surrounded by dead vents. It looks to be the same as any other he’s seen—large, clunky and extremely radioactive when hot. He knows how that works at least. He twists the ribbed cog on the monitor’s side, watching as it lights up and swiftly drops a compact keyboard. He navigates to the door controls. Clicks open.

> Unable to open doors. Please input correct password or contact vault security.

Shit. He tries again, but the same text pops up. He slumps into himself. Think, Gobtholemew, think. He runs his hand up his arm out of habit, yet this time the PIP-boy’s mass prevents him from going far. He twists his fingers into the thick cable, pulling it back and watching it bounce up and down when he lets go. Wait. That might be it.

He digs his nails into the end of the V-shaped nub on his glove, popping it out of the intricate mold. He circles the terminal, looking for a suitable receiver and finds one right behind the starting cogs. He inserts the key and the screen restarts, filling in a password automatically. The same little boy springs out, this time however holding a picket sign—”Welcome, Kenneth!”

It disappears, leaving the same screen in its place, this time however with an added section named “Visitors”. Gob clicks on it, but it proves empty. He then tries the door controls again, ending with a definite success.

An alarm rattles through the room, accompanied by the sporadic flicker of red lights. Gob crouches under the terminal, making himself as small as possible as wave after wave of red circles the room. Slowly a hydraulic press clamps each side of the large door, pushing it out with a metallic shriek. A separate mechanical arm extends from the external assembly, locking into the recesses placed on the back of the door, and smoothly slides it into a reinforced container to the side. The alarm ceases, leaving only the shadow of Charon’s frame.

For a moment Gob stares out into the dark, unsure of what to do next. Charon is staring at him, the silhouette of Gob’s shoes hanging from his hand. Gob swallows around the ringing in his ears. “Welcome… Been a while since I cleaned up.“

Charon walks toward him, the light of the PIP-boy twisting his face into a smile. “Charming.”

Enamored, Gob rises to his feet, smacking his head against the terminal. He lets out a bashful laugh, accepting back his gear.

For a moment Charon remains still, content to be used as a hanging stock for the smaller ghoul. He watches Gob wrestle with the device on his wrist as it slips up and down his forearm, stopping every other second to push his fingers inside the crevice, bullying the cotton wraps into place. “Is that what I believe it is?”

Gob ceases his ministrations, exploring the device with a gentle touch. “Yeah, the kid had one, didn’t it? I can’t imagine having to wear this all the time.” He starts playing with the buttons again, hearing that same broken voice spell out his actions. Charon moves to stare over his shoulder, keeping his hands on Gob’s waist. Status, Data, Radio, Notes, Map. They watch each screen come and go, inspecting contents with little value to them.

Charon switches back to the map, though it remains ever as empty. Gob presses the button harder, clamping his thumb down. 

At once the V on his glove lights up, spearing right through their eyes. “Damn!”

Gob blinks, sensing Charon pull away, and rubs his eyes. “So, this is where the light is. Good to know.”

Inside, the floor is smeared with blood. The metallic scent has absorbed into the vents, gyrating in the sickly air and spreading throughout the space. Gob covers his nose, leaning into Charon as they walk, the PIP-boy making their shadows dance against the walls.

From where they stand, the vault appears much different than the moderately well-kept husk he’d visited in the Museum of Technology years prior. Walls slouch against the years of abandonment, escorting them like forlorn figures at a bus stop. In its years of solitude the vault has grown right from her foundations to the honeycomb grates on her ceiling, pulsing with the irradiated green mass from above.

Weirdly enough no bodies litter the insides, though the split caricature of the space itself lends the gruesome image of a heap of skinned limbs. A double pair of mechanical doors drag to their left, exaggerating each movement with a great thump against a gutted, metal locker. Gob shines his light toward the incompatible couple; the gap under the doors appears large enough for both ghouls to crawl under.

The space on the other side looks to be a derelict stationing bay. Three clunky projectors hang off the ceiling, their wiring trailing down like sequin dresses, throttling their plastic corpses. Rows of chairs are scattered everywhere, protesting against the charred, blank slate stretched on the peeling wall. Gob trails the cool vicinity, his light illuminating little in the oppressive space, yet reflecting enough to spot the buzzing monitor of a terminal.

He crouches before it, following its cables as they unfurl into thick veins around the room, rising high behind the projectors’ backsides. He sits on the ground, somehow still worried about his pants’ appearance even as they drip as he walks, taking the time to slide an old stack of papers under his ass. Somewhere behind him Charon curses, struggling with stray lockers in the dark.

Once again he inserts the cable, succumbing to the terminal’s soft whirring as it starts up. “Welcome, Kenneth!” waves the little boy. Kenneth is dead , thinks Gob, ignoring the flash of Kenneth’s bloated face replacing his on the monitor’s surface. The first thing that grabs his attention is a note named “RUN”.

Chapter Text

VAULT-TEC SYSTEMS

WELCOME USER Demian :)

==================================

VAULT 115 TERMINAL 0.93 Briefing Room

==================================

Manna i don’t want 2 die here

Demian looks around himself. They are near. He can hear the heavy footfall of their metal boots echoing throughout the corridors. He steadies his grip on the keyboard, watching as his blood oozes through the keys and unwilling to face the illegible writing further up the monitor. There is simply no time.

These things theyre here in here but one of them is wounded. hide in the lockers down the hall and follow his blood to the entrance once they pass everything else is sealed off i am gonna try and run arhed ahead n buy you some time. DO NOT COME LOOKIGN FOR ME my wounds are too severe

PLEASE Manna whatever you do complete the last test and GET OUT OF HERE.  for bothf our sakes

all my heart,

Demianm.,j/

The only warning Demian gets is a shiver down his spine.

An object, impossibly large, crashes into his skull, hurling his body into the wall. He stares as the shadow of one of those mutants stalks towards him, swiveling a large sledgehammer in its grasp. He feels his boots skid in place, hears the high pitched sound of rubber sliding against the tiles. His body is not under his control anymore. He touches the side of his head… There's a hole there.

He thinks of Manna’s terrified face, the last thing he saw, running off into the dark. He watches her round the corner, throwing one last, terrified glance at him and the world is no more.

Chapter Text

Gob remains seated, unable to get up. His eyes skitter across the keyboard, hobbling over the letters and symbols, all while pressure is building behind his eyes, unnerved by the keys’ pristine sheen. This cannot have been the right terminal. Demian would have known the entrance is sealed and not sent whoever this Manna is, to her death.

Gob strains through the musky flavors of death sticking to his tongue—somehow their imposing presence overpowering his own rotting flesh—and stares up at the screen, blinking through the questions muddling his gaze. What kept them here? Is there a different escape? Where is Demian now? Did Manna get out of here alive? What the hell is going on?

His hands move across the keyboard with an absent touch, paying sparse attention to where they’re pressing; soothing him almost. Behind him Charon is still shuffling, the creak of old lockers straining in the heavy air.

He leaps as the previously dormant projectors light up, bubbling rackety images against the torn canvas.

“ATOMIC WAR can produce strange situations—for an atomic bomb can explode more than once! And it may be that it is on YOU to ensure the post-apocalypse’s best fighting chance in the face of UTTER ANNIHILATION! It is why we at VAULT-TEC™ have provided these EDUCATIONAL MOVIES to go with this TRAINING VAULT."

Training vault?

“Years spent in a vault can result in HEIGHTENED DECLINE in one’s STRENGTHS and CAPABILITIES. This poses a THREAT to your survival potential when faced with the CHALLENGES of the outside, whether in the form of MUTATED LIFE FORMS or ENVIRONMENTAL DETERIORATION. 

These FRIGHTENING MENACES will come in different shapes and sizes, and pose an IMMEDIATE THREAT to your survival. You must learn to deal with these dangers accordingly, using your: STRENGTH, PERCEPTION, ENDURANCE, CHARISMA, INTELLIGENCE, AGILITY and a whole lot of LUCK! You have made it this far already, you lucky devil!”

The movie dims for just a moment, showing that same little man currently idling on Gob’s screen. With each spoken trait, the figure flourishes in an extravagant pose, retaliating a cartoonish threat with whatever illustrates his strengths best. He arm wrestles a bear, a sailor’s outfit tailored to his fit body, his arm bulging with triumphant tattoos. He expertly lockpicks a series of steel doors, weeding out any enemies behind them with a bloody flourish and an eye pulsing inside a sniper’s scope.

The images continue to flash and stutter, all while the little man presents a slew of talents, elegantly overcoming every situation with ease. Until he comes to “LUCK” where he simply walks inside the vault, flashing a final wink at the screen. Something bitter churns inside Gob’s stomach and he looks away.

“You will need to combine your ATHLETIC CAPABILITIES with crucial SURVIVAL ABILITIES to win THE GRAND PRIZE! 

A CLOSELY CONTROLLED PEAK INTO THE NEW WORLD! We cannot have you hurting yourself now, can we?”

And with that the screen dims completely, remaining but as a flickering pool of static and the occasional flash.

So, no wonder every vault dweller he’s met is a pretentious jackass, seeing as they’re brainwashed with shit like this. Even the kid had its odd moments where the cushy life reared its ugly head. Luckily, Gob’s opinion doesn’t get much more sour than it is now. Not after he’d spent weeks crawling and heaving as his skin bubbled and sloughed off in fat strips, the fallout mixing with his blood and curing into a thick paste over his body. 

Though, the worst part had been watching bodies float face down in the river; mothers who’d drunk to relieve their thirst and shoved water down their children’s throats, only to succumb to their burns entirely. Desperate to live on, even if their destiny is a predestinated choice, even if the world is burning around them.

Charon’s hand makes him jump.

He stumbles off the stack of papers, his PIP-boy’s cord tugging the terminal’s monitor in his struggle and planting its bulky mass into the floor. Gob darts across the room, his shadow lurching across him, ballooning against the enlightened wall. Through the veil of projector light his gaze bounces between Charon’s nearing form and the splattered monitor.

The ghoul rounds his side, sliding an arm around his chest. Gob can almost gather the hint of an apology in the touch and strokes a shaky hand across it.

“Uh…” His voice shakes in his chest. “So,” he clears his throat, “you find anything?”

Charon doesn’t answer and instead states: “You looked deep in thought. Did not answer when I called out to you.”

Oh. “Oh.” He slinks away from the ghoul’s grasp, feeling himself chuckle, though the motion intensifies the bitter taste from before. “This… just brought back memories I wasn’t too keen on experiencing again. But what can we do about it, heh?” He tries to smile and sees Charon zap right through it, so he gives up.

Do not be afraid to experience emotions foreign to you , was what he’d said to him one night. It was supposed to make Gob relax when they made love, though the ghoul took it to his brain rather than his heart. 

Whatever passions and intuitivity Gob had had were belted out of him the moment he had stepped inside Moriarty’s bar. He’d been fused with a single emotion—servitude. Submission. Fear. Though he’d never been one to bongo on his chest like an ape, he’d always had independence over his feelings. He’d always known what felt good, what felt wrong, what he’d allow someone to do to him. Not so much after more than a decade as Moriarty’s glorified slave.

He’d lost even the ounce of bravery that allowed him to feel what he wanted in the privacy of his belly.

Do not be afraid to experience emotions foreign to you , Charon had told him after he’d seen him squirm away from where it felt good. And then they’d moved slower, and Gob had realized yet another flaw. Even his brainwashed Charon had a better grasp on his heart. The ghoul that had been bred to serve, knew how to feel. They’d stopped making love for weeks after that. And then Gob had pulled himself out of his erudite isolation and made sure to experience every emotion there was, with Charon’s body as his subject, Charon’s heart as his idol and Charon’s words as his shield.

So he lets his hatred seep into his fibers for a moment longer and lets it go. “So, what did ya find?”

Pleased, Charon brings forth a vacuumed package. As soon as it is in Gob’s hands he sees the jumpsuit’s design. He runs his fingers against the golden embroidery, letting it crinkle in his grasp. Again that bitterness arises in him, though this time it ferments into outright disgust.

“The smallest. It must fit,” Charon clarifies, misinterpreting Gob’s pause.

For once Gob hides his intentions from him. “Good one, dear.”

Following the movie’s instructions the two ghouls gather around the lavishly decorated starting gate; the only door made out of organic material, with intricate columns guarding each side. As long as they finish these “training rooms” they have a chance of breathing fresh air again. At worst they find enough rope in some cupboard or desk to climb back up the way they’d fallen through.

For the first couple of rooms the challenges are pretty fitting: a swarm of rats, a swarm of mole rats, a swarm of mole rats gutted by a gang of radscorpions and a handful of locked terminals they easily bypass with Gob’s PIP-boy. At the end of each haggard room a ding resonates around them, chirped by a tiny mechanism in the wall. If one is to wiggle their finger in the crack, they can activate it and unlock the door.

With some practice over the decades Gob has learned that for every good thing that happens, two more will reveal a rotten core. And such is the case as the door unfurls its steel petals, presenting them with a long stretch of darkness—a single, thick cable spearing its waist. A washed poster illustrates some kind of a canyon, though the condensed glass makes it questionable as no canyons plague what’s left of Washington DC.

Desiccated leather straps hang on the wall, their corpses once a part of a pair of safety equipment. Gob worms his body through one, yet the material snaps apart as he squats forward in a careful lunge. Disappointed, he walks to the edge of the pit, peering down. The cable looks so fragile against the depthless maw.

“Warning. Blood pressure high. Heart rate value: 112.”

“Shut— Shut up!” Gob smacks the monitor, feeling himself redden as the machine continues to list off his increasing beats.

“You are scared.”

Gob stills, letting the screen fall back against his hip. He is; looking over the looming crater and being unable to imagine himself traversing it all on his own. “I am.”

Charon nods. “I am scared too.”

Gob whips his head, observing his hulking companion. Charon’s expression remains flat, although now he is looking at him, his eyes sincere in the empty blue. He reaches out, beckoning Gob closer to his waist. “We will do this together.”

Something hitches inside him as he accepts the ghoul’s embrace; the flair of confidence it wields, impenetrable by Gob’s terrified tremor. The hand brings him closer, close enough to stay around him as Gob wraps his hands around Charon’s waist and squeezes it. They slowly walk toward the deep.

Gob loops his wrists into the belts and notches of his partner’s armor, balling his hands into fists as Charon heaves his arms, latching onto the rope. No one tells you how heavy you really are until a child wants to prove its strength by lifting you or you slouch off someone’s waist while a depthless canyon looms under your feet. Neither does anybody tell you how attractive the sudden thought of letting go appears, letting yourself plunge to your death.

He’d seen it happen to other ghouls—sitting outside, enjoying a smoke, hearing a body splatter in the dust next to him, skull cracked like a warm egg. Ghouls that he’d talked to not long before that. Ghouls that had just found love, ones that had passions light what remained of their skin; turning into an impossible menace to those who sought misery and inspiring those who’d already found it. Ghouls that were perfectly content with the way they were, whistling affectionately to their ruthless fate. Gone in an instant, attracted to the plunge like sailors drowning to the song of sea nymphs.

Attractive it is indeed, he thinks, teetering against Charon’s ribs. Though, not as attractive as actually gettin’ the hell out of here.

They near the opposite ledge and Gob drags his feet, letting himself lean against the pole holding the structure together. He adjusts his sagging vault suit, tightening the sleeves around his waist. He hides a gash in his ragged shirt, tucking it against the spare folds of his stomach.

He will never wear their skin. He will never respect them, look up to them, try to be them. Whatever the threat to his decency might be, his hatred burns harder. He is not one of them, they had made sure to show him that, and he accepted it. Everyone on the outside did.

The protests against those steel doors, the bodies aflame, the deafening silence. Once shut it stays shut, they had said. No space left, they had assured. And after the angry mob had dispersed, succumbing to the harshness of the wastes, they had continued on ignoring them. Years later, as the generations grew inside, festering with patriotic ideas and wearing the rose-tinted glasses from before the war, they crept into the wastes, searching for sympathy. They’d learned that everyone supports one another, after all, how does a vault survive otherwise?

Their purity, their undamaged faith, the look in their eyes that announced their self righteousness, teetering on arrogance. Strolling in the world, expecting it to just work itself out for them. Living in a world made of scraps, ready to cast those finishing touches and call it their new home. It sets Gob’s old wounds aflame, sets his mind spiraling.

He knows they’re not to blame, and yet the ugly myrrh slouching inside him desires nothing but to cast them back to the belly of rock they crept from.

They continue to the next room, following the faint, mechanical ding as it curves its sinister chirp from the walls.

At first glance the new space appears empty, devoid of any latch, enemy or exit. They write it off as a mistake of time—whatever used to breed here has long died. Though on closer inspection the floors appear free of rot or bones. And it doesn’t explain the lack of doors. The ghouls arm themselves on instinct, starting a slow clock-wise hobble around the room. Gob takes to staring at his feet, the cool air slipping from the air vents above him grating into his neck. He strains his eyes, scanning for possible traps, occasionally stopping to press a hesitant foot against an eroded tile.

They finish their waltz in uneventful silence, ending back where they start. Something is very wrong.

He turns to Charon. “What is going on…?”

Charon doesn’t answer at first, listening to Gob’s breath echo around him. As he prepares to speak at last, however, the erratic beeping from Gob’s PIP renders him mute.

Annoyed, Gob prepares to grumble at the screen again, but his vitals are normal. The beeping emits from somewhere inside the map.

They clutter together above the monitor, watching intently as a single arrow pulses among the inky screen. No paths. No threats. Just a pulsing arrow. Gob switches across the other screens, unknowing of what he’s searching for; a hint to what that arrow is? Some sort of description? The ghost of Kenneth even, ready to haunt him for the rest of his life? He stops where the note from before had been, the ghostly print now opaque with grizzly white.

Server room.

That’s all it reads. The title, the description—two words. No date, no time, no direction. Server room. Right through the wall.

In a moment of bravery Gob unholsters his pistol and after a brief hesitation in which he feels Charon eyeing him, shoots into the dark. A faint popping sound resounds from the other side of the room, akin to tearing cardboard, and the falsetto wall topples to the floor. The familiar ding announces the end of the challenge and a strange admiration swims in Charon’s eyes.

Stretched in a series of rectangular strongholds, the server room is, in Gob’s eyes, a server maze. Slave to their conditioning, blocks of electronics clutter the hallways, devoted to the continuous operation of dead terminals, their precious casings humming to a mysterious superior. Goosebumps prickle along Gob’s arms as he succumbs to the eerie sterility. The whole facility is immaculate, as if part of a different vault altogether.

He has the unnatural impulse to strip off his shoes. “It’s almost as if… we’re walking into someone’s house, don’t ya think?”

They walk among the rigid machinery, inspecting for anything unfamiliar to the strict regime. The arrow points them to this room, yet no further, letting the two ghouls piece its mystery on their own. From the defunct path they took, what they’re doing is clearly not part of any challenge. Kenneth had been on his way out, now they’re on their way deeper in. Whether the dead man had come here beforehand or had been dragging himself toward here ensnares Gob’s mind as he walks, though leads to little conclusion.

The room is empty. Spotless, though not new. He follows its curves, sinking deeper into the cable maze and as he rounds yet another corner he sees a lonesome terminal against the wall. Once again he inserts his PIP’s outgrowth, watching the tiny man work his way in. The screen opens to its typical stocky layout, however, as Gob clicks through the different files, most of them appear either encrypted or outright empty.

Gob clicks his tongue as he browses through the defunct files and almost pulls the plug on his investigation. That is until his eye catches a file titled “ Project Honor sides with Vault 115! ”.

“Reliable enhancement of genetically-suitable candidates adapted to the post-nuclear environment, Vault 18, Wisconsin USA, sides with training Vault 115, Washington D.C. USA. The purpose of the collaboration is the possible recruitment and shipment of a number of successful candidates to enhance the grounds of the T.I.O. program. Further information will be disclosed to Overseer Liam M. and Overseer Henry J.”

Something in Gob twists, a sickening curiosity prompting him to scroll further.

“The following list of candidates have been carefully selected in the recent preparation of Dr. H. Stewart’s program: “Project Honor”.

CANDIDATES:

Emilia P. M (Dragonfly) - FAILED

Richard J. S. S. (Ripper) - FAILED

Melania H. R. (Melody) - QUARANTINED (Unresponsive)

William H. S. (Charon) - SUCCESSFUL

George A. P. (Parasite) - SUCCESSFUL (Deceased)

Anna A. P. (Symbiote) - FAILED

Riley F. F. (Remedy) - FAILED

…”

Attached to said list are numerous notes and graphs, all describing the subjects’ test results, appearance and in most cases ultimate demise. Subject deceased during testing phase A. Subject deceased during testing phase G. Subject exterminated due to hostile or destructive behavior. Subject unresponsive; further testing required. Subject dispatched.

Gob’s heart is pounding as he reads the notes, ears pulsing with his blood, echoing one particular detail. William H. S. (Charon).

His fingers are so clammy he almost misses his file.

“Sex: Male

Hair color: Red

Eye color: Blue

Place of birth: Oshkosh, WI

Nationality: American

Age: 6 y.o.

Job: N.A.

Additional family members: N.A.

Genetical suitability: POSITIVE

Additional Notes: 

Subject 4 has passed the GST successfully and is currently housed in the elementary wing where he will be integrated into the other test subjects’ routine and subsequently brainwashed. (11/13/77)

Subject 4 is responding well to disciplinary stimulus. Note: Accelerate conditioning rate. Remove emotional connection to group “employers”. (01/20/78)”

The document cuts short there, the rest of it completely corrupted. Gob’s breath comes in short lacerations now, squeezing his lungs. His fingers crash against the keyboard, opening each and every following file, desperate for more information.

He stumbles upon a vague, half-missing conclusory report.

“Charon (Subject 4) has been introduced to harmful doses of radiation. Subject is responding adversely to radiation therapy with symptoms such as excessive nausea, hair loss, change in skin tone leading to the conclusion that he is suffering from radiation sickness. Subject’s survivability estimates: 28,6%. (04/28/99)”

The rest of the document is destroyed with only vague mentions of Vault 115 and the fate of the other subjects’ nemesis.

Gob’s heart hammers, his stomach twisting inside out. He tries to blame it on fear, disgust regarding the experiment, though he knows better—hate. It’s sharp, instinctive; his body absorbs it instantly. He twists a hand across his forehead, finding his face shriveled in a sour caricature. His whole body sizzles, panicking as the cold hand of apathy snakes around his throat, squeezing him. The movie from before flashes across his eyes; the wink, the pristine grins and nonchalant chatter. It molds into all his memories, planting itself deep and shaking every ounce of malice out of him.

So, Charon is a vault rat. He’s had the time to guess as much, especially after… No. Holy shit, what is wrong with me?

Nothing about Charon is like them . We carry the same shackles… He never had a choice. Not even when he was considered one of them.

The list flashes across his retina once more, like the blurry firelights of a burning flame. Failed. Failed. Unresponsive. Deceased.

Age: 6 y.o.

He’s dragged back to the present by the sound of turning wheels. He gasps as cold metal is pressed against the gash in his bare back. The only mercy he’s granted is to turn around and spot the red cuffs of hair sprawled across the ground before he’s knocked unconscious.

Chapter Text

Gob spends his sparse moments of consciousness grasping through the throbbing fog withdrawing him from reality, only to be clawed back into it on every attempt with no avail. His cheek drags across the floor in a bulbous mess, saliva pouring from the corner of his numb mouth and leaving a trail which pools into his eye. Each attempt at moving his limbs results in a strangling ache nailing him, useless against the mechanical dragging by his arcane foe. He succumbs to unconsciousness once more.

He’s awoken by the throbbing in his head setting his whole skull aflame. He has little recollection of how he’d gotten where he is. Arduously he shepherds his knees to rest under his stomach, rolling somewhat upright against a wall. He rests his shoulders with a thump and immediately rejects it as the action sends a bolt of pain right up to his brain. Shit. He tries to massage his neck, yet his blood turns cold when he touches it.

A slave collar. Briefly, he’s brought back to the Wastes; he is empty and stumbling along the dirt. He can feel the slaver guard’s gun digging where his temple now throbs. It is cold, all too casual; a thin membrane of ignorance the only border between his life and death.

He shakes the memory off, focusing on his body instead.

His whole torso is skinned along with his legs, stinging in rhythmic thrums and adding to the ache in his head. Weirdly enough no fresh blood accompanies the wounds, most already fused with the fibers of cotton in his pants, forming a rough, although sporadic, seal. Gob pauses his groaning, chipping at the newly discovered art with a blunt nail. How long has he been out?

His revelation zaps him into action, stringing his surroundings into a reflection devoid of his pain-drugged thoughts. For the first time since his awakening he finally pierces where he is, or in actuality, the exact opposite—he has no idea where he is. He scans for any traces of Charon, finding only the gutted remains of a large animal and a wall made of fully opaque glass, impenetrable by any form of staring.

A sudden rush of adrenaline coils his limbs and he peels off the floor, staggering into the unserviceable dashboard in front of the glass, holding onto its jutting levers and buttons for support. He’s exposed to his skewed reflection, yet nothing else. He takes a closer look at the dashboard, pressing, flipping, detaching, pulling and probing every colorful button and screw; nothing happens. He growls under his breath, pushing himself upright.

With the panic from before escorting him only partially, he takes a closer look at the room, scanning for anything even a little useful. Several boxes guard the far wall, most deteriorated with age and full of plastic wraps. Lockers decorated with heavy padlocks reflect the dark. A chemistry station is tucked in the corner, fitted with a large mixing station; a particular maze of cylinders, beakers and flasks, and a few clunky, backless chairs supporting it. Everything is so… controlled. Almost as if put in here for a reason. 

Gob stares at the backless chairs, an idea forming in his mind.

He grabs one, gripping its thin legs and hurls it into the mysterious glass. The chair bounces off the surface, landing on the floor with a resounded clunk. He picks it up again, his aching muscles clenching as he strikes it against the glass repeatedly. He continues to batter the steel-like surface, jittering as every blow sends a tremor over him, dedicated sweat forming on his forehead. 

At last he thinks he sees a wound in the surface, stopping for just a moment to pick at the hairline crack, but as he picks the chair to hit harder he is stopped by blinding beams of light throttling his vision.

“DEAR DESIGNATED VAULT 115 INHABITANT, we believe you’ve proven your STRENGTH quite well and any damages inflicted upon VAULT 115’s equipment will NOT be deducted from your daily rationing!”

That same voice from the movie booms at full force, crackling through a set of small speakers in the corner, though encumbering the whole room. Gob blinks past its thunderous clap, focusing on the picture on the floor below him. A large dome stretches atop a barren chapel, shadowed on either side by an elegant stretch of stained glass. Although underground, the pictures behind the glass present a pleasant scenery of carved rock, complimenting the shadow-jagged parlor. In the corner a set of caged platforms braid shadows across the floor, luring him to inspect them closer.

Hurled into a tightened mess of limbs, Charon’s body is chained with electronic locks, the same bomb collar bobbing up and down with his laboured breathing.

Gob freezes. An incessant corrosion of dread consumes his stomach as he steps closer to the glass separating them, pushing his face against it, somehow hoping the other ghoul would look. There is little reaction from his loved one; only the labored breaths, a choked effort at filling his lungs.

Before he manages to send a signal, anything to catch his attention, to let him know he’s okay, the voice slaps his face in its direction. “Life at the WASTELAND above is a tough nut to crack! It will send you into all kinds of DANGEROUS and IMPOSSIBLE situations. Sometimes even the LIFE of one's partner is at stake. However, with our help YOU will succeed at surpassing any challenge!

Introducing T.I.O. — Testing Initiative Observer—to you sir and/or madam, or whoever you decide to be out in the NEW WORLD. This program is especially designed to SIMULATE these impossible situations, preparing you with a 99.8% success rate!”

Gob watches the screen flicker unsteadily, making malicious realizations crawl up his spine. The voice breaks and stutters, lowering to an almost robotic pitch, before springing back to its upbeat programming and continuing as if nothing is out of the ordinary.

“In this SIMULATION you will be pitted against the most RUTHLESS of ENEMIES, derived from our TOP SCIENTISTS’ precise calculations of the OUTSIDE: ROBBER,” a projector flashes toward one of the cages, revealing a menacing pile of bones and a large rat. Foam bites into the corners of its mouth. “CRAZED SETTLER,” the next cage makes Gob’s stomach sink.

A green mutant stands with imposing height, beating its head with an empty gaze. A large door is fused with the wall behind it, sealed completely. 

“MUTATED LIFE FORM,” Oh, God. Oh, God, no. A Deathclaw hurles itself at the cage’s door, growling and slashing at the invisible voice. It appears malnourished and rabid even from this far away.

“And YOUR PARTNER, vulnerable at the threat, and still, WILLING TO FIGHT!” Charon’s collar lights against his throat, emitting a shock which sends the ghoul’s frame shaking in the restraints.

“Stop!” Gob screams, slamming his fist against the glass.

The shocks cease as quickly as they begin, yet Charon is still trembling through it, his gaze frightfully feverish against the bright beams of light. The glowering flame of his eyes is rampant across his face, giving him the complexion of a sick man. Gob has only seen him like this once before, many years ago, when they were still in a virginal duet, barely settling their trading roots. 

In a brisk, but bloody fight, Gob had been cornered by a gang of scorpions, counting his prayers as the creatures had lunged for his exposed form. In an effort to protect him, Charon had embraced him, serving as a barrier between him and the threat. A radscorpion had pierced through his forearm, poisoning him. As the days had progressed the wound had swelled, turning infected and crippling him to a filthy mattress in the middle of the ruined city.

Gob had turned feral with panic, pacing for hours, trying over and over to get the man to walk, trying to lift him up, scouring the buildings around for any sight of medication. By pure blessing he’d stumbled across a caravan, recognizing Quinn as one of the passengers and being recognized in turn before they’d shot him down. A pile of gibberish and a good few questioning stares later he’d managed to drag them to Charon, upon which they’d provided an urgent ride to Underworld.

The memory swirls in him wildly and under it, a seething layer of… hate. Revenge. If this T.I.O. is responsible for this, it is going to pay.

Even so, when the computer speaks directly to him, he leaps. “Around your neck is a BOMB COLLAR! Not to worry, this apparel is simply used PSYCHOLOGICALLY and has ZERO—” The screen blinks, breaking the computer’s voice momentarily. “—99.99%— chance of EXPLODING! We want to make sure you DO NOT run away. Upon exiting the premises the collar will “DETONATE”, simulating the END of this exercise.”   The screen shows a helpful series of images, depicting that same figure from the PIP walking around, seeing a door, running toward it and the collar exploding with a flurry of colorful confetti. Gob has a feeling this is not how it is going to go for him and Charon.

The Deathclaw rattles in its cage again and Gob stares at how the cage bars curve against its power. It roars, but so does the mutant, screaming for it to “Shut up, shut up, shut UP!” In a moment of fury, the mutant picks up its minigun, shooting at the Deathclaw through the bars. An electric barrier lights up, ricocheting the bullets back at the mutant and shredding him to pieces. It twitches for a couple of seconds as the blood leaks out of him in thick rivulets, then grows still.

The computer, which had remained silent throughout the agonizing ordeal, flickers back to life, though now its voice is smooth, human. “So pathetic… Never trust a mutant to do any good. Oh, well.”

The bars open as it says that, letting the Deathclaw rip into the mutant’s fresh corpse. A long sucking and crunching sound reverberates throughout the space. Gob has no time to puzzle what has just happened, lured once again by that soulless, salesman pitch. “GO, little lamb! You have THREE HOURS to use your Strength, Perception,” a series of images flash on the screen, that same little decorated PIP man, a series of him, though Gob stares horrified as they get stapled on top of one another, their guts gushing from under them. “ Endurance, Charisma, Intelligence, Agility and LUCK before the cages are set free!”

Gob reaches for the only exit—a torn ventilation shaft—and is crawling through it before he even hears the last of the computer’s joyful cackle, his heart bulging in his throat. 

“Two and thirty-three, two and thirty-four, two and thirty-five— “ Gob mutters under his breath, forearms on fire as he wiggles his way through the vents.

He’s wheezing against the collar digging into his throat, his sides crushed by the tightness of the corridor. The biggest thing meant to traverse these vents is an obese molerat, and looking at his ripped clothes, his skeletal body and miserable disposition, Gob feels even less than that. Every second counts; every second means Charon is closer to being ripped apart. His PIP-boy is heavy as he drags it in front of him, its screen barely enough to illuminate his hands. But there is no time to tinker with it, he’s already passed his fifth minute. Two hours, fifty-five minutes.

With a sudden rasp his body is folded backwards, crushing its way through the vent’s metal. His front teeth knock against rock, a sharp metallic taste bubbling hot along the roof of his mouth, the bone scraping further as his head is snapped forward. His back emits an unhealthy crunch, heaving his sore ribs back until they too are scraping against the rough walls as gravity drags him down.

He tumbles through thorns of rock and metal for a solid minute, feeling them cut through him. A sheet metal scrapes dangerously close to his eyeball, cutting across his cheekbone, the forceful tug tearing whatever remains of his lower eyelid off. Gob has no time to cry out as his knee twists sharply backwards, taking his breath away. His face rams into the ground, spitting his limbs carelessly around him.

He twitches for a second, cupping his face with a hushed wail. His palm is wet where he presses it against his left eye, spreading a mix of tears and blood across his skin. His jaw tightens as he moves his leg, his knee distorted under his exploring fingertips. He can’t get up. He can’t roll around. He can’t even lick his lips without his incisors shifting against his tongue.

His clothes are soaked in a thin dressing of blood and dust, his wounds sticking to the material and creating a burning bond. He takes a deep breath, grunting Charon’s name like a divine mantra as he uses his forearms to flatten his body, after which he very gingerly rises to a fragile slouch. Two hours and… ah, forget it. 

He spits the clot of blood forming in his mouth, using the wall to limp toward a large metal door. It appears unlocked and he pushes it open, almost losing balance when the hinges rip out, sending the hunk of metal flying forward.

The clash of metal and concrete reverberates for a couple of seconds, buzzing in Gob’s ears. He waits, yet nothing comes and he continues his agonizing march. He struggles through the dark, his PIP-boy’s light a weak glow, and it almost seems to him as though a large cloud of nicotine is looming over his head. He continues to limp along the wall; the smell of cigarettes is impenetrable here. Though, something else catches his attention, the tactical sound of footsteps alongside his own.

He halts, his heart scrambling for refuge between his ears, its pulse shoving its way inside his forehead. The other footsteps stop a second later and Gob can feel a thin ray of warmth setting the goosebumps on his back on fire. Very slowly, he turns, the bait of a question ready on the tip of his tongue, however, as he adjusts his eyes to the dark, he realizes there is a mosaic of abs bobbing in front of him.

He leaps into a sprint, though his foe effortlessly catches up to him, grabbing him between its large, meaty palms. “OHOHO, what I have here? Food? Hm… NO, food too skinny, NO NUTRIENTS!”

Gob’s breath is squeezed away. “L-Let me go!”

He struggles in the mutant’s grasp, but the beast is unphased, pondering to itself in a loud voice. “Maybe fry with some… some meat! And add more meat! AHA, then you taste good! Or maybe bring to other super mutants, have some fun with you…”

Gob continues to struggle, his oxygen cut completely, the mutant’s palms squeezing him harder and harder, slowly ripping his body in half. As it breaks through the wall of muscle keeping Gob’s ribs intact, the ghoul blacks out, wiggling Charon’s grenade free from his hip and with the pin already mysteriously between his teeth, shoves it into the mutant’s open maw.

The mutant shrieks, letting go of him and after a choked cough, implodes. Gob trembles as fragments of the mutant’s skull splat inside his nose, his panicked inhales sucking them down his throat and into his stomach. He heaves, warm vomit surging into his mouth which he can only hold there as he crawls forward, his wounded sides in too much pain to let him cough it out. He lets as much as he’s able roll out of his mouth, feeling more and more being pumped from his stomach and rocking through the agonizing spasms.

He remains seated after that, staring at what he’d just done. The previously hulking mutant lies… stomach down onto the floor, its ripped shirt soaking the steady puddle of insides leaking from the remains of its skull. A square rifle of sorts is plastered on its back, barely holding on by a worn leather strap. A hefty pouch is knotted tightly into its belt, bulging against its hip. Shakily, Gob crawls to the mutant’s corpse, taking a closer look at the weapon.

Straight with oddly sharp edges, the rifle is no larger than any other rifle he’s seen. It is constructed of rudely mashed parts of metal across its original structure, with tubes spread out like veins across the surface. Gob tries to yank it off, but the mutant’s body keeps the weapon’s straps pinned. He rises weakly, limping around the body, searching for an easier angle. In the end he finds none and instead crumbles back to a crouch, continuously pulling at the strap until it drags its way from under the mutant.

Closer now, the ghoul finally sees the large imprint on the weapon’s side— AER9, U.S. Service Rifle . Along the miniscule print he notices a series of numbers, peculiarly ending with the number seventy-seven. Well, that already tells him a lot. A tiny notch hangs low on the weapon’s side and Gob flicks it up, getting saluted by an electrical buzz. Never has he imagined he’d be holding a laser rifle . The materials for it are rare, expensive and the usage of one alone is a special skill on its own. 

Though now as he’s holding it, pressing its butt against his shoulder and peering down the iron sights, it is truly… comfortable. Way more than any gun he’s ever used. It is light, its shape easily accommodating his thin hands and the reloading mechanism far easier than any weapon Charon has taught him to shoot. A smile cracks his lips, twitching weakly; who would’ve thought this is how he comes to this revelation, huh?

He circles the mutant again, twisting the mysterious pouch off. He sits back against the wall, struggling with the knot. A different set of footsteps clang metallically in the distance and he stops. Gob shimmies the rifle around him, clipping the pouch to his pants and ducking further against the wall. He listens to the steps grow closer, covering his PIP’s screen with his hand. 

He waits, watches and sees his worst fear make its way to the corpse mere feet from him—a gang of mutants. They lurk around the body, their rasping breaths bordering on bestial sniffing, as if scouwering for his scraps.

His heart kicks up once more, dangerously close to sending him into a stroke. His PIP-boy picks on it too, burning right through his stomach: “Warning. Blood pressure reaching dangerous levels. Please seek medical attention immediately.”

His next actions pass him in a flurry. He takes his hand off the PIP, bathing his face in curdling magenta. He pulls the cable attached to his wrist. He leaps away from the wall, evading the hands reaching for him. He throws the PIP-boy in the opposite direction, dropping into a tight mound on the floor and remaining deadly still. The mutants take just a few steps in his direction, before the PIP’s voice draws them once again.

Accepting the sparse opening, Gob books it to the opposite hall where he slinks through a door, and before the footsteps catch on to him, slaps the controls shut and shoots them off. The mutants bang and scream through the thick metal, but Gob is long gone, running far, far away.

He stops many corridors later, collapsing into the wall. He is in a tough position: he doesn’t have the helping hand of the PIP-boy, he doesn’t have a steady source of light, he doesn’t have Charon and if he lets go of his side, he is pretty sure he could stroke his spleen bulging from between his ribs. 

Charon is going to die now because he cannot stop the computer on time. And once again, it will be his fault.

Gob grunts and forces his thoughts away from the drifting, poisonous fragments of a dying Charon, digging instead through his scavenged pouch. His last hope in the world gives him only a spare number of fusion cells, each the size of his palm, and a half-empty pack of cigarettes. He digs around the pouch further, finding a tiny box of matches. He thinks his problem about light is temporarily patched until he sees there’s only four matches left. Not even enough for the cigarettes. Great.

In a moment of weakness, he lights a cigarette, eyes fuzzing as the first breath of nicotine kicks in. He smokes mechanically, holding his ripped side. Soon one cigarette turns to five, the previous lit by the next, forming a solid chain at his feet. Through his cool facade his mind is racing: counting the selfish seconds he spends smoking, counting the mutants he’d have to face eventually, counting his chances and realizing how low they are. And yet, his arm moves automatically, from his hollowed cheeks to the tips of his fingers, back down his hips, all while the ashes of his cigarettes keep him company, sinking gently to the floor.

He stubs his last match, throwing the empty pack of cigarettes off into the dark, and arming his rifle once more, limps his way to faithlessness.

Not long after, he crosses a corridor of prison cells; rusted little things devoid of life, lit only vaguely by the occasional torch. He walks the abandoned line numbly, succumbing to his lack of a plan, all while giving his brain constant kicks to come up with a one. Still, through the constant pain and the faint whisper itching along his ear, he comes up with little more than the occasional flurry of imaginative dust. Wait. Whisper?

He turns to the cells, skinning the rooms with a raw gaze, almost sure he’d imagined it. And then a hand sticks out, waving in tight, hopeless circles. “Here, here! Please!”

A gaunt young man, hair plastered to his head in ragged clumps—akin to being forcibly pulled out of frustration or during a fight rather than radiation or age—sits on a bench close to the bars, flagging him down. He’s mumbling gibberish to Gob and the ghoul has to gulp his own thoughts to hear him. “What— What?”

“Please, get me out of here, I-I will give you anythin’, everything. I will give you the clothes on my back if I have to, please, just get me the hell outta here!” His eyes bulge with every word, and for a moment Gob fears they are going to pop out and roll at his feet.

He studies the man; he is of more danger to himself if left here rather than to Gob. “How do I get you out?”

The young man sighs, his orgasmic relief seeping through to Gob. “Down the hall, over there see?” His sinewy finger reaches out toward a chair at the end of the hall. “Use the terminal to get me out. If it’s locked I will guide you, no problem! I’m good with technology, really good, I can look over your gear, too!”

Gob considers the proposal. He’s running out of time. “Okay, I will help you out. But you have to help me get my… friend out, too.”

“Deal! Done and signed. I will do anything you ask, just get me out.”

Gob limps back down where he’d come from, sitting on the pointed chair with a heavy creak. He almost succumbs to the rugged pads, desiring nothing but the brief rest of his aching wounds, but he refuses to let the temptation win. He starts the terminal, inspecting the monitor closely. A wall of text enters his vision, broken sparsely by numbers and foreign keys. He is lost. “So, uh, there’s a wall of text.”

He hears the man groan. “Shit, you need to hack the bitch. Okay, so without gettin’ too much into detail, there’s a list of words, all of the same character lengths, interposed with random characters. The length of the words is determined by the difficulty of the lock. How long are the words?”

“Pretty long.”

“Fuck. Okay. You choose a word by clicking on it. If you didn't guess correctly, the terminal will display "x/y correct" where x is the number of correct letters, and y is the word length. A letter is correct only if it is in the right spot. For example, if the password is "RELEASED" and you choose "DETECTOR" then you will be told that there are 2/8 correct because there are 'E's in the 2nd and 4th place for both. The words have other letters in common, like 'R', but it is in the first spot in one word, and the last in the other.” The man continues to ramble, his explanation precise and mechanical. In other words, completely useless. “You have four attempts at guessin’ the correct password. Now, you got all that, chief?”

“Nope.”

“Jesus fucki—” The stranger takes a slow breath. “Write me those words on that notepad there and bring it over here. Quick.”

Gob does as commanded, noting the lavish sentences down and limping his way over to the man. He takes a short look at the words and circles two. “Try these. It will cost you two attempts but it’s well worth a try.”

Again the ghoul sits before the monitor, using the keys to filter through the different words. The first is false. The second is false too. Panicking he clicks on a random word and the terminal starts as normal, greeting him with the little PIP-boy mascot.

>Open cell number(s)
>Open all cells

He clicks on the second option.

>All cells opening, please wait…

As soon as the cells screech wide enough, the tall man slithers past, making his way to him. “Whew, okay, so where’s your friend?” He looks around himself, pretending to X-ray his way through the cell walls. “Around here?”

“Long story, but he’s currently, uh, T.I.O.’s its name I think. T.I.O.’s prisoner. The floor above us. I have three hours to get him out or— “

“Wait, wait, wait; you met the T.I.O.?! T.I.O?! Nuh-uh, no way, listen, dude, I can’t help you with that. Have you any idea what you’re dealing with? I said I was gonna do anything, but this is goin’ kinda too far— ”

Gob’s hopeful smile burns away. He shoots behind the rambling man, who shuts up instantly. He cocks his rifle at him. “You help me or I won’t miss anymore.”

The young man settles into a moment of stunned silence. Then he lashes out. “Who the fuck do you think you are, asshole?! You wouldn’t have even gotten me out of that cell if it wasn’t for my fucking help, you know! I could just, I could— I could simply walk my ass down that hall and out of this mess, and I bet my hairy fucking nuts you wouldn’ do a goddamn thing about it!” He stomps his boot in a childish stupor, making himself appear even younger than he is.

Gob fully realizes how he looks at that moment; peeling skin and blood-soaked smell, just two blunt eyes staring at the man from the skirts of shadows. And he for once revels in the challenge in his voice. “I’d like to see you try, smoothie. If you hit me, you better hit real fucking hard. You better kill me first try. If you scream, you better crash the ceiling down on our shoulders. And if you run, well, put a goddamn mutant marathon runner to shame or don’t try at all. I wiped one mutant already and I will easily wipe ya out, too.”

He can barely recognise his voice, can barely believe his own threats, but it seems his speech does the job as the young man slumps. He eyes the floor, thick with uncertainty, and nods. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Chapter Text

Their steps echo down the corridor. The young man pipes up—his first words since their short fight minutes before. “So, what am I to call you? I’m Beauregard, by the way. Bo for short.”

“Gobtholemew—Gob. Hey… Sorry for my little outburst back there. I just… I have to get him out. I’ve wasted enough time.” Gob quickens his limping and Bo has little struggle catching up.

“Oh, yeah, i’s not a big deal, have had worse honestly. I’ve been told I’m real bad at keepin’ deals.” He wrestles with what to say next. “Say, heh, botha our parents were fucked up, weren’t they? Weird names an’ all,” he says, peering at Gob hesitantly.

Despite himself, Gob chuckles, brought back to the peaceful moments in the saloon. “Can’t say you’re wrong.”

“Yeah, heh.” Bo clears his throat, the action pulling his friendly veil away. “So, about your friend. This program you’re dealing with is infamous around these parts; a very dangerous sentient computer created to manage an experiment of sorts. Nobody knows what it is and I myself have been trying to uncover Vault-Tec’s treachery for some years now. I am… Used to be from a vault, or actually, my parents were. Actually, my grand, grandparents. Vault 92; it’s a long way from here.”

“Around Old Olney, right?” Gob simply shrugs at the man’s surprised gaze. “Had an old friend that used to travel a lot.”

“I see. Yeah, the Deathclaws used to keep us safe. They are peaceful creatures mostly—you don’t bother them and they turn a blind eye to you. As long as it’s not breeding season that is. Then you’re fucked. Anyways, the vault my parents’ parents came from had this weird experiment. You see, it was designed to hold a small number of musicians, to ‘preserve musical talent’, and was supposed to open after a 100 years. The fucking bitches lied. As soon as the doors closed they activated some kinda sound transmitters; drove everyone crazy.

Luckily my grand, grandies made a deal with one of the guards and escaped on time, the other occupants… not so much. I inherited no musical talent, luckily too, if I’m honest. Spent a good chunk of my childhood tinkering with whatever my dad brought home from the old factories in the area. I shat myself the first time I got my hands on a workin’ terminal, let me tell ya. RobCo-17g, with its own big ass hardware, smooth systems and although the ventilation was shit, it made so many nights sleepless.” Bo smiles to himself, enamored by the memory. His face hardens.

“I’m happy that I’m safe, but that doesn’t mean I will take the fate of so many innocent people blindly. If it makes me look crazy, fine, I don’t fucking care, but I will unearth whatever these rats were cooking behind their desks. Someone is collecting all this data and I aim to find who exactly and what for.” He looks at Gob, a mix of guilt and unadulterated fire blooming inside his dark eyes. His jaw doesn’t let go of its fine line of confidence and his shoulders remain ever as broad.

Gob feels his mouth twitch at the man’s identity, but… what is the point? What is the point of all this hate? More than two hundred years spent hating a group smaller than the grimiest toe of the Wastes; just as vulnerable in their safe little vaults as everyone else in the open. They had no control; dummies for experiments, bred with each other to keep on producing fresh meat for whatever else they’re designed to do. Their rich parents, grandparents, kin, all shredded in the big corporate grinder; only some fall in sooner than later.

Isn’t that what the old Gob used to fight for? He recalls the hallucinatory dream he had in the bath—a big crowd, standing up to a government using them as test rabbits. FEV, “training vaults”, sound experiments… Who knows what else? Nothing to do with the people, but everything to do with their goods and bodies. This man fights back… fights against the victims like a rotten fool.

What Bo is doing, this is the “Good Fight” Three Dog has been preaching about. The water purifier, fighting against raiders and slavers, sparing an ounce of mercy for mutated humans like Gob… trying to reverse the effects of a greedy government; a 200 year shadow continuing to suffocate them with every passing day. Just like the bomb in Megaton that drained the life out of its inhabitants; remorseless, soulless, the perfect picture of the government’s choking hand.

He looks at Bo for a moment longer, even if the young man has accepted his silence, molding whatever answer it brought to either suit or disregard him. Gob makes sure to strengthen the former. “Yeah, they will pay. All of them.”

Bo nods. “Yes, they will. But first this T.I.O. We can’t jus’ pull the plug on that bitch. We have to enter it, attack its core programming so to speak. Lucky for us, there’s a terminal in the Overseer’s office that can help us with that.”

“I suppose there’s also a rotten part to this?” He asks.

“Damn right! You see, the Overseer’s office is locked. Fermé. Completely outta reach, with thick, impenetrable walls and doors, and very complicated outer locks. Now, that wouldn’t have been too bad if you didn’t fuckin’ lose the most goddamn advanced piece of technoology in this building. Beside our dear friend T.I.O., that is.” Bo regards him coldly. ”Wipe the surprise off your face, I know a lot more about what’s goin’ on around here than you can imagine.”

“Right.”

“Still… there is another way. However, I doubt any of us would like it. You see, for all its impenetrable locks and thick walls, the office has one weakness—the outside.”

“The outside? Might I remind you this,” Gob jabs at his collar, “will make an end to our sweet little truce?”

“Damn right. However, I am here, and I can make it so you have a slight bit of leeway before I smear your brains as jam on my breakfast tomorrow. Stressing on slight. Couple’a seconds at most. Long enough for you to run through the maintenance wing, get in and open the tunnel.”

Gob remains silent. Something doesn’t add up. “So, you’re gonna send me, the untrained, wounded ghoul to do all of that for ya? Wouldn’t it be better if you did it? You don’t have a collar after all.”

“Your intelligence precedes you, my friend. Truly, you are a poet of the mind.” The man’s smile falters. “I know that, jackass, and I would gladly not have to deal with you, however, there’s one thing down there I cannot get past—the reactor. The nuclear reactor. Look, I know… what you are. I know enough about you guys to know y’all are into that shit. So,” Bo takes a breath, something struggling in his throat. “I trust you. You can do this and I will help you succeed. We both want out and we are gettin’ the fuck out.” 

Bo halts and it takes Gob a minute to discern the shape of his outstretched hand. A certain determination burns low in the man’s red eyes. “Partners?”

Gob eyes the hand a second longer, the clock inside his brain ticking. He smiles and shakes his hand. “Partners.”

They explore the lower levels of the vault, heading deeper into the metal coffin, skimming each sign for the Overseer’s office. Most corridors lead to ruined ends, others slink into drowned vats of memories and human remains, but for every broken end a new one is shaken loose from Bo’s map. He carries it digitally printed on a small tablet with three red buttons, distending one another with every push. The technology itself is atavistic, a model stripped and revamped from an old video game Gob had used to play in frayed memories from his childhood.

It used to be prone to overheating so it was deemed unsafe for children, getting ported to the military instead. That obviously did very little about its core problem as Bo keeps it in a special blue case even now. “For coolin’,” he says.

Old vats, heated cylinders and heavy duty piping hint them toward the right way, trickling them along the tunnels, descending them deeper, whetting old staircases and slipping across condensed floors. Their journey halts near a pair of acid vats, the colorless liquid swirling against a backdrop of green lamps, giving it the appearance of something from an old comic book. Gob rests against the wall, focusing on breathing without throwing up.

The adrenaline from before is long famished, devoid of the savage sustenance that fear provides. He fingers his pockets out of habit, but the comfortable shape of a pack of cigarettes is no more.

“Hate to be an asshole, bub, but your friend ain’t gonna get more alive and you are not gonna get better until we get you down to that reacto— Help!” Bo’s cry is muffled and Gob snaps to attention, reaching for his rifle.

A group of mutants, their skin a mix of blue and fern lift Bo by the hair, shaking him violently back and forth. He screams and thrashes in their grasp, digging his nails into the mutant’s hands and begging for Gob to save him, yet Gob doesn’t know what to do—there’s too many of them. Each carries a heavy rifle, not much different than his own, but vastly bigger, with an oblong, nosed end. They blink faintly behind them with a menacing, yellow growl.

Bo continues to kick and scream and the mutants continue to laugh, their reigned maws contorting to the acid’s greenish hue. A fully indigo mutant steps toward Gob, its armor barely strapped to its body.“I believe we have someone else here, brethren. Another fool looking for gold.”

“HA! T.I.O. is going to be happy! We bring two humans! We get to do a lot of killing! Get even more humans from outside!” The moment it says that Bo’s boot latches onto the steel plate screwed to the mutant’s side, charging at it until the metal flays off with a wet squelch, colliding with the ground.

The mutant roars, throwing Bo against the wall. “N-NO! NOO! NHG— OUCHIE! YOU WILL PAY HUMAN!”

Blood lashes from its side, rolling over its thick palms as it presses them into the wound. Its weapon clatters to the ground and in the consequent moment of shock Gob ducks, grabbing a hold of it. The weapon is heavy and he can barely lift it, the burning in his side making it near impossible. He poses it awkwardly and shoots through closed eyes, the plasma’s fumes cutting through his nose and watering his gaze.

He blinks his tears away, feeling the salty liquid roll into his cut cheekbone. As his gaze clears he sees the weapon had ripped the mutant clean in half. Emboldened, he shoots again, watching the disc of energy slash across the air for just a second… before missing its target completely. The beam hits the steel pipes behind the mutants instead, and Gob hears the metal let out a thin hiss.

Both remaining mutants look at each other, bursting into laughter. The greenish one pipes up: “HA, HAHA! Rotten man is a fool! Too dumb to hold weapon! Too dumb to shoot weapon! Let me show you how it’s done, rotten man!” With that the mutant pulls out a similar rifle, cocking it at its hip.

Gob’s jaw drops as the plasma warms. His body can barely hold him anymore; he’s too wounded to run. This is it. This is the end.

Behind the mutant Bo screams. “Back up!” Following his voice is a loud thunk against those same pipes Gob had hit and he barely has time to move back before the baths of acid break open, swallowing the mutant. Gob can only stare as the green monster roars in agony, its flesh melting off, and within a few seconds remaining as a bubbling stain on the floor.

Bo jumps across the acidic gap, using the piping to hold himself as he steps across the thickening rivulets. He quickly slinks behind Gob. Gob likes to believe it’s because he appears as a strong figure, but he knows it’s his nature as a possible meat shield instead.

The only remaining mutant is the intelligent indigo and right now it watches from across the acid with a seething gaze. “You… “ It points its finger at Gob. “ You, I will remember and make you pay. Mark my words, corpse.” And with that it turns around, strolling back the way it came from.

Both men hold their breaths until it disappears completely, collapsing into each other’s arms.

By the time they reach the vault’s pits, Gob is barely conscious. He’s leaning on Bo’s side, a steady stream of blood fusing their pants together, creating the illusion of carrying a shared wound. The young man props him up against the wall, shaking him, though it serves little more than to make Gob more nauseous. Bo regards him for a moment, hands on his disproportionate hips. “I know what will help.”

He rummages inside his hip pouch, wrestling a bulky syringe of Psycho and forces it into Gob’s hand. Gob grimaces, sickly chewing on strangled protests. “No… I don’t… I don’t need that shit.”

“Take it goddammit, put it in your bra for all I care, but I’m not lettin’ this all to chance. If you feel like you can’t go on, jab it in. It’s supposed to light you right up,” Bo says.

“I know… what it does.”

“Good job, sweetheart. Daddy will grab you a cookie right after he loosens this up,” Bo says, running his fingers across Gob’s collar. He switches between digging into his hip pouch and digging into Gob’s throat, shifting the tight ring of explosives.

The collar, Gob remembers vaguely, is designed to remind you with every breath, every swallow, every terrified beat of your heart, that you are property. You are filth, the ashtray of a heckling raider, lower than the mud on their soles. You are no more than the dust of the Wastes and it’s up to your owners to decide your worth; you sleep when they feel like it, you eat when they feel like it and the water you drink is an irradiated puddle along the brahmin’s shit, which you lap wetly like the dog you are.

Anger sparks somewhere inside Gob, fighting against the memory, though by this point he’s too much out of it to notice where it goes. Not so much for Bo, however. “You’re such a pussy, you know that? Your whole neck is swelling from fear. I told you. I. Know. What. I. Am. Doing. You will be fine.” He spends a couple more moments tickling Gob’s neck, finally letting go, backing away slowly and holding his fingers in a square in front of his face, peering through the hole.

After a moment he grins. “There we go. Now remember—just push left. You will know you’re there when you reach the reactor. The exit is the door right behind it.”

Gob stumbles through the door, grip ghost-white against the wall. He’s wheezing, his knees barely holding his draconian posture. He takes his first blind steps, but stops not long after, looking back. Bo is still standing behind him, his hesitation clear under his poker facade. Gob has to ask one last thing. “In case I die, I want to know how you… know all this. How… did you know I had a PIP-boy? How do you… know about the broken reactor, the… the corridors, the terminals? Everything?”

He knows he makes little sense, the pathetic gibberish of his speech muddling with his rapid curiosity beading under the surface of his skin. He can barely see the man, labored sweat trickling into his eyes and accommodating the spreading cataracts further. Even so, he hears him laugh, can imagine the sly mirth stapling the corners of his mouth. “You won’t fucking die. Now get your ass to the Overseer’s office.”

When Gob turns his back, he adds: “And consider these mysteries your driving force.”

For a long while Gob simply trips over his feet, groaning and grasping. His eyes have long adjusted to the dark, entering a state of superhuman vision where only the faint apparitions of appliances and grates create his path. Metal broods all around him, its scent long soaked in the musky air, beating with strangled echoes. Skeletal piping weaves the walls, interlacing in long strands; most icy cold, others breathing hot steam at his face and some buzzing threateningly. 

He passes a large, open space, fitted with rectangular tables and grated walls. His knees shake as he limps closer, squinting at the imprinted sign. He sees nothing, tracing his fingers in the crevices instead. Armory and… something he can’t quite make out. He leans his forehead against the sign, feeling his consciousness slip, drool leaking from the corners of his mouth. Sleep overtakes him, throttling him in a peaceful fog, leaving him little chance of fighting back.

A shock jolts through him as his knees crash on the ground.

“Shit… No, come on, Gob,” he trembles, unable to rise back up.

His cheeks swell with hot air, the flesh around his collar spilling over the edges. His fingernails dig into the armory’s sign, grappling it in a desperate feat of something to hold on to. Arduously, he comes to a knee, gasping for life. Just a little more. He pushes his body up, yet scrambles back into a ruin on the floor. “Come on, come on… ”

He pushes once more, squeezing his eyes shut, focusing solely on getting his body to rise up. His molars grind in the back of his mouth, absorbing the pain bubbling in his torn stomach. Just a little more. Just a last push.

As soon as he’s back up he tumbles forward, slipping into the room and smashing his stomach into the back of a chair. He can’t stop the miserable sob ripped from his throat. Tears drip once more from his eyes, thick, shameful droplets shushing his feverish mumble. It hurts so bad, oh, God, it hurts so fucking much. It is like his insides are skewered upon his ribs, stretching across his torso with every short breath. Holding himself makes him squirm, the hole in his ripped side going past the membrane of muscle. Staying still makes the pain swell and expand, riding his rigid body.

He limps further into the room instead, using every desk for balance, pulling their drawers open as he stumbles past. He leaves a path of empty maws and tight seals in his path—some of the drawers too far away for his precious agony. It doesn’t matter anyway, everything is empty; the walls swiped clean, ammunition casing sprawled across the floor like bubblegum stains. In his carelessness he bumps his wrist into a cardboard box, sending its contents spilling across the table.

The bright, orange color grabs his attention immediately. A tiny flare gun, the short barrel no bigger than half his palm, carrying a single shot. Simple. He cocks the barrel open, watching it bounce down and click back up easily. Efficient. He guides it in the fold of his belt, limping back outside. Glorious.

He continues down the hall, the sensation of glass interrupting the monotony of steel and brass. He wonders whether he should turn and look, but the stench of death suggests against it. He focuses his gaze at the dead end of the corridor instead, where an odd highway mirage seeps from under a defunct door. He pauses, not believing the faint tingle rising the hairs on his head. That has to be it…

He limps faster, drawn like a starving coyote to a freshly butchered brahmin, his chest gasping in short, excited breaths. His face twists into a grin as the tingling itches all over him, growing more and more intense within the second. A couple of meters in he’s already walking upright, a couple of more and the wounds across his body are completely sealed. By the time he’s pushing the door open even his eyelid is growing under his left eye.

There, in the middle of the room sits the reactor in its full, unshielded glory and Gob almost has the itch to run right into its open furnace. He settles instead on hugging the sizzling safety rail around it, burying his face into the broken mesh. 

He lets the radiation wash over him, suppressing the uncanny feeling of his slipping humanity and embracing the monster he’s been for 200 years. Pulse after hot pulse is drilling through him, filling him with a limitless sense of invisibility—making him feel all powerful, almost daring any danger to try and come to him. He lays down on the floor, opening his mouth, as if trying to catch the droplets of snowy nuclear energy; trying to fit as much of it inside of him. He feels more healthy than he’s been in years; ever since he and Charon had stumbled upon the remains of Vault 87 where the intoxicating rads had thrown them both into a wild rut.

Charon.

He leaps on his feet. Charon is waiting.

Gob tightens the leather strap of his rifle, twisting it into a thick knot until it lies strict across his body, the handle brushing against his exposed spine. He spies the access door Bo told him about on the other side of the wall. He hits the opening mechanism, watching as the door slowly peels open, revealing a highly technical area with the vault’s other exit old and undisturbed.

He steps toward it reflexively, yet leaps back as his collar barks a warning beep. He scans the area again: the Overseer’s tunnel is to his right; the way is free of obstacles. A straight run, nothing more. “You must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer,” he says, remembering Charon’s pitch and clutching his voice in his throat.

He twists his weapon strap tighter. “Fear is the mind-killer.”

He extends his boot, clasping his other foot behind him. “Fear is the mind-killer.”

He sprints, the beeping accompanying him immediately. It’s there, yet sluggish, skipping beats and twisting irregularly. He clambers up the long stretch of steps, tripping and stumbling; consuming three at a time. He’s on all fours by the time he reaches the top, constantly drawn to the emergency light right above the door as the beeping never stops, beating faster, his leeway completely gone.

It’s okay, he’s almost there. He’s almost there, the door is just within reach, he just needs to unscrew it, push in… He freezes at the sight of a terminal. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

On closer inspection it’s even worse—cemented by the same gibberish are the words and symbols from before, flashing in tune with the beeping against his throat. Gob grasps the monitor, staring at the words. Okay, what was it now? Similar words, same letters… or same amount?

His collar beeps faster.

Same letter in the… Other place… Chariot… Charcoal? Chimera. Chrome. Crime .

His collar is beeping even faster, edging to its bloody climax.

Crime, crime, it has to be crime. It’s the only word without any sense. In his haste he skips it, clicks the word below. Shit .

He hits “crime” and the lock clicks free. He turns the wheel, pushes the door and… the beeping quiets.

He drops to his knees, cupping his face and burrowing his ragged breathing. He made it, God, he made it. His celebration is cut short by a ghostly knock on the opposite door, making him bristle. He removes the knot in his weapon, slinging it over his shoulder and taking thoughtful, calculated steps. He snaps the activation notch digging under his thumb, hearing the energy cell sizzle to live.

The knocks intensify, bordering on plain arrogance as Gob slowly, ever so slowly takes a place behind the door. He slaps the opening mechanism, straightening his weapon and pointing it at the enemy. It appears no danger awaits him, only Bo in all his glory. 

“Took you long ‘nough.” He flickers an access card sleekly as he passes him, before Gob could even form a question to ask.

“Yeah,” Gob closes the door behind him, throwing one last look outside. “You’re welcome.”

As Bo throws the card on the desk and makes himself comfortable behind the old Overseer’s terminal, Gob finally has the time to truly look at the place he almost sacrificed his life for.

Or so he thinks as his thoughts are cut short by his young companion. “Shit.”

“What now?” He asks.

“Can’t start it, no power.” Bo rubs circles in his sparse locks, pulling at them. His imprints match the missing patches of hair. “Okay, okay, listen. We need four elements to power this baby up: a source of energy or power, a means of transmitting power, a dial to record the flow of power and a way to control the power. As long as we do that quickly enough I will have the time to pump a holotape full of a very potent virus and send you on your way. And sending myself on my way, too.”

Gob crosses his arms, surprised as his shoulders bulge against his weapon’s straps. “Something tells me you’d want me to stumble around looking for those, won’t ya?

“Look, dude, I need to keep an eye if everything works here, eh? Besides, you’re the one with the laser rifle, Mr. Badass,” he says, curling his fingers around the last remark mockingly. Gob watches him play with his yellow access card, twirling the opposite edges between his forefinger and thumb. “I will give you my set of maps, by the way, so now worries about that.”

“Fine.” He extends his arm toward him. “Give me your keycard, too.”

“What? No way, stinkass.”

“I need proof you’re gonna stay here and not bolt for the exit as soon as I round the corner. I also need a way to access areas. Now, we can do this the easy way… “ Gob runs his hand over his rifle, flicking the charging nub threateningly. “Or the easier way.”

Bo stares him down; or tries to. His eyes flit between his face and his steady grip, loosening his possessive grasp over the card. His legs tense under the table, just slightly, just enough for Gob to point his gaze to them and drag it back to Bo in warning.

For all his impulsivity, the young man is wise enough to stand down. “Fine.”

He tosses the card at Gob, and the ghoul can’t help his smirk as he locks the door shut and hears Bo mutter: “Asshole.”

Chapter Text

The first place Gob checks is the source of it all—the toxic haven of the nuclear reactor. 

He passes the horizon of infinite metal he’d stumbled through before, following the disturbing tale of his drying blood. A part of him reminisces how hard it is to clean it, listing through valiant options: wipe the stain with a sponge dipped in warm, sudsy water for a wet stain and a poultice of water, powdered detergent, and chlorine bleach for anything that has started to dry up. And if it is anything you have failed to catch early, start scrubbing and pray it is nothing of value.

He embraces the familiar tingle of nuclear rays bouncing in the corridor, yet hesitates before the door. A thin, almost see-through wire is stretched across the door’s threshold; a deadly warning for any trespassers, new or inept. He follows the trap as it stretches above him, knotting in a menacing bouquet of grenades. He steps over the wire, hovering his head low, watching the grenades remain undisturbed. He looks at the trap again, its complexity too elegant for the crude death it’s meant for.

Gob’s stomach ripples. He is being followed. 

The indigo mutant’s face shadows him without hesitation, its threat fresh in his ears. He is left with three options: activate the trap with the possibility of the mutant running to collect or finish his bounty, leave the trap alone in hope of confusing him or try and disarm the trap in hopes of salvaging the grenades. He spends a good few moments mulling over his plan, yet ultimately decides to leave it be, focusing on the task at hand instead.

The nuclear reactor gropes the room with a soft glow, shelling the metal funnel with unsteady rays of radiation. The door leading outside is wide open still, alluring him to the ease of leaving this vault behind. The reminder of illicit freedom only heightens the weight on his shoulders, bringing the timer back to his head. He circles the reactor, searching for… what is he searching for exactly? Source of energy or power , he thinks, and yet, it’s right in front of him.

He sits on his haunches, staring at the machine as it struggles in its impressive casing, each pipe bulging with the gulps of underground water, groaning with metallic glee. Gob drags his eyes along the various tubing connected to the reactor’s core, observing them collide with one another, lurching against the ceiling’s concrete. Steam escapes from their rusted shells, condensing on the ceiling and running down their metal skin, coating their flesh with glossy veins. He compares them, watches where they lead, and notices a strange amalgamation of glass nailed in the corner of the room.

It is not glass, he realizes as he walks closer, but a coordination board, pieced together by different slabs of plastic and scraps. He studies it, running his finger over each interlacing path, bringing himself around the vault. Bright fluid runs through the symbols, blinking and swirling behind the nailed surface. He notices a parcel of the board where no lights blink and the fluid has drained away. He turns to look at the reactor, searching for a similar part and finds it, cold and unmoving.

He looks at his tablet, listing between the various maps, blinking between his screen and the plastic board. The area interlaces with the Overseer’s office and anything around it. He studies the location a little longer. A means of transmitting power.

The swirling hyper-steel tunnel collapses, turning the walls from elegant rays into a jagged heap of rust. Gob’s body pummels the ground, wincing as his wrist gets caught into the commotion, popping forward with a nasty twist. Bone bulges underneath the thin layer of skin, forming a swollen lump. He tears the sleeve of his vault suit, tightening it around the reddened flesh, though the adrenaline does most of the work for him and keeps his mind to the task at hand.

He looks around himself, smelling his surroundings rather than seeing them at first. He is in a brightly lit world with thick steam muddling the room's equator. A row of workers plunge their legs on a long tablet of concrete, the stone grinding loudly, their legs tensing in the confines of their denim overalls. Their bodies crackle with luminescent light and at first glance appear irradiated. Gob steps closer, no—holograms.

He spies the map on Bo’s ancient tablet, bringing the location’s name. Transmit hub.

“Found ya,” he grunts.

A ring of dust encircles the electrical plant as he marches deeper, though the holograms seem little affected by it. They form a city of bright lights, powered by the same fuel they’re pumping so diligently. Gob gravitates toward them, his feet tattling with the tiled floor. Their movements are even, mechanical in every sense; the way their fake breaths rattle through their chests and stomachs, their fake sweat colliding in colossal armpits, their overalls tightening in the crevices of their bodies.

They are working as intended, tireless, even, perfect, and yet Gob spots an anomaly—a small group of holograms missing from the far corner. Someone needs to add a little more force to unclog the power stupor and that someone will have to be him. He rushes around the galloping images, mimicking their tight grip on tattered ropes. He twists his wrist into the handle, relaxing his weight into the rope, letting it dig into his flesh. He puts his foot on the edge of the stone below and with a swift push, sinks down.

The contraption groans and absorbs the added weight, lurching in its metal confinement. Gob’s body gropes the rhythm, stretching his spine with the push and pull of the machinery, knocking his equipment around. His rhythm quickly fires him up and he bites the end of his shirt between his teeth, shivering at the air cooling his stomach. Labored sweat beads on his forehead, marching clusters down his face, sinking into the collar of his neck.

Gradually other holograms curl around him, taking the other empty spaces. By the time the rope is torn from him he’s gasping, his thighs trembling with every move. He’s sent into the belows, screaming against the hot air hitting his naked stomach. He claws his way out, rolling into the freezing concrete floor. 

After the burns diminish, he rises, checking the pressure gauge on the machine’s belly. Everything works.

Time to find the last two pieces.

The command center; the nexus of the vault. He uses an elevator to get down to it. 

The elevator has not been used for some time, starting up with a high-pitched, laborious screech, which vibrates through him. Its metal walls are damaged, filled with holes eaten by the rust plaguing much of the lower levels of the vault, permitting for light to escape as the machine moves down. The rays of light skewer Gob’s eyes each time they pass the lamps lining the elevator shaft, making his head spin. Luckily it doesn’t take long for the machine to settle on his designated floor.

The glaze of leather chairs, broken under the inauguration of time, catches at the corner of his eyes, holding his attention briefly toward a fossilized meeting room. A big deal of it is covered in large chunks of concrete and stone, and so is the corridor leading to whatever once dwelled to his right. He steps over the large stones, keeping his arms closely tucked to himself, reaching only as far as his fragile balance allows.

The large cave in, although unfortunate, opens a fairly safe passage which splits the corner of the room, allowing him to reach yet another area frozen in time. Three ingrown monitors abide their faithful roles as guardians, throwing an imposing shadow over the walls. Underneath them, akin more to a large keyboard rather than an authoritarian super-computer, stretches a long, grayish panel, fitted with a sea of blinking lamps and chatty data screens.

Each is dressed accordingly in concrete labels, daring almost in their assurance of their proper roles.

Gob makes his way to them briefly; time is of the essence. Water controls, security station and armory—he notes the large “WARNING, AREA INACCESSIBLE” scrabbled across the panel—emergency energy control—he slows—electric and hyper-magnetronic reserves. This area of the computer seems to work without a single gripe, safe for the silken layer of dust coating it. He blows the grime away, wiping the residue with the back of his hand.

He plugs Bo’s tablet into the twisted bundle of cables, watching as the adapter blinks momentarily, ripping a thick stream of energy through the compact device. The ancient piece of technology struggles momentarily and for a moment Gob believes he’s made a big mistake, yet everything seems to fix itself quickly enough.

Better not touch anything , he thinks and focuses his attention on the computer instead.

A list of options loads on the screen, oddly devoid of the little vault figure he’s so used to seeing plastered everywhere, though fitting considering the strict passe commiserating in the room. He looks the options over:

>Amplify Nucleo-Electric Production

>Calibrate Energy Impeller

>Deharmonize System Absorbent Shield

>Set Voltage on Reysun-Compatible Capacitor

>Set Voltage on Saturn-Class Capacitor

>Install Overseer Hard Drive

Calibrate?

>Sector A

>Sector B

>Sector C

>Sector Clearance Protocols

Uh…

>Upon confirming desired changes with engineer vault staff, appropriate confirmation must be sent and accepted by the [chosen sector(s)] administration head.

>Head of administration Sector A: Joanne Gallio, General Supplies and Living Quarters Coordinator.

Head of administration Sector B: Hannibal Swing, Emergency Medical Lab Assistance Counselor.

Head of administration Sector C: Henry Jennings, Overseer.

>In an instance where confirmation by the head of [selected sector(s)] is unavailable, closely documented contact with staff and Overseer’s assistant team must be managed.

“I see... Well, I sure hope this is the right one,” Gob mutters, selecting the last sector on the monitor and observing the loading process with cautious optimism.

For a long moment nothing happens. The lone whirring noise encompassing the room quickens minutely and sinks just as unnoticeably into its previous rhythm. Gob looks at the tablet screen, watching the different graphs dilate, stretching to the surface of the glass. Wait, that’s not good.

He leaps aside, covering his face as the screen explodes, feeling particles jab into his forearm. Bitter smoke swirls from the disemboweled body, making him cough and choke. His jaw goes slack, wiping any trace of optimism he’d harbored the moment prior and replacing it with all-consuming terror.

He glues his face to the other monitors, pleading under his breath as modules of soulless data pass through him with starved clarity. Lines, numbers, symbols, text he catches onto, only for it to slip to the next jumble of signs. Why did Bo send him down here? Gob doesn’t know anything relating to technology past slapping a terminal to make it clunk less. Why did he even for a moment think to believe Gob could go as far as fix all of this? He’s a bartender for God’s sake, an ex-slave, a current mule and glorified merchant. None of this should’ve happened, and none of this should’ve been left on him—

>Energy Clearance Sector C Confirmed

What?

>thank you stinky :p

Huh. Little shit.

“You’re not funny, you know that?” Gob grits between hungry gasps for air, holding the stitch in his side. He swiftly locks the door behind him, slapping Bo’s keycard on the desk.

Bo stretches back into his chair, throwing his arms in the air. “What do you mean? Don’t the valuable populace of mature citizens like yourself value politeness? How old are you anyways?”

“Old enough to know better than to tell ya.” Gob twists around the young man, nodding toward the terminal. “The virus?”

“Locked and loaded.” Bo hands him a thin, square chip. “Insert it in any of T.I.O. 's cooling slits and the rest is pancakes.” His voice sombers then, and he moves a spot on his chair for Gob to join him. “By the way, I feel like you’d wanna see this.”

Gob wiggles his hips next to the man, squishing and turning until both of them sit intimately interlaced, staring at the screen unabashed. Bo types something with deft fingers, but Gob pays little attention, focusing instead on the frozen clock at the edge of the screen.

The name Project ArTeRIA stands proudly in the center of the screen, a wall of text underneath it.

“I told you Vault-Tec were fucked up, right? Well, feast your eyes on this— Project ArTeRIA . Fuckers love their abbreviations.” Bo scrolls through the text with surprising ease, stopping to show the various pictures and bolded clusters depicting the project’s true nature. “So, T.I.O., right? This guy is a lot more dangerous than we believed. You see, this was a training vault alright, pretty naive, yes, but still a decent experiment compared to some other shit I’ve stumbled across. These cages your friend is in, those near-suicidal challenges? All supposed to be these mostly superficial symbols of each resident’s S.P.E.C.I.A.L. statistics; dummies and security masquerading as the threat outsiders pose. In other words, controlled.”

Bo smacks the terminal as it stutters like a rapscallion child, cursing loudly. “Fuck, they really didn’t build these to fuckin’ last.”

“Bo, I don’t understand where you’re going with all this,” Gob says.

“Just shut up and keep your ears open for jus’ a second,” Bo finishes with a wild slap, putting the monitor’s images straight. “There we fuckin’ go. So, a harmless experiment goes wrong, or more like, the predicted calculations of what is happening outside are going haywire. Way outta what they’d predicted. Sinister Mr. Jennings—the oh, so, great Overseer, to you—activates phase two; sabotaging T.I.O. 's failsafes, initiating some sort of a ‘real test’. Can’t find shit about what that means exactly. Of course that backfires too as T.I.O. completely takes over and in a desperate last-chance-redemption the Overseer sacrifices himself, placing his own fucking mind as the long-fried fail safe.

As you may gather, this didn’t do much other than make things even worse. Jennings was absorbed into and lost to the computer’s programming, becoming it, but stronger and more… free? Manipulative? Honestly, a fucking shit show. And yet,” Bo pauses, drilling into Gob’s sour expression, “this here particular fact will come mighty handy to you. The name ArTeRIA—Artificial Testing Reconstructive Interactive Analysis—this is the key, a literal code that will stop the program in its tracks, allowing you to access Jennings’ mind, or well, whatever’s left of it anyways.”

He takes Gob’s shoulder, grimacing at the way his hand sinks in. “You sweet talk him long enough to slip the chip in and get the hell out. You damn well know he’s gonna be guarded— they will be guarded, and if I was you I’d cut to the chase and scream ArTeRIA on sight. Do you understand, Gob? ArTeRIA, chip and get the fuck out.”

“But, Bo, what about those other guys? I can’t take them all on my own! You saw that blue fucker had my name tattooed inside his eyelids,” Gob feels himself slip back to helplessness; to his panicked rabbit’s hide. No amount of artificial confidence can hide the scrawny, short and untrained truth that he is.

Yet, Bo seems unperturbed once again, only smirking. “Heh, I wired a little surprise for them, so consider it a final gift. Here,” he digs back into the terminal, pulling a complicated canvas of tubes, each in a line of five, covering each floor of the vault. “I’ve replaced the water supply in the sprinklers with pure acid. Thought I’d fry this place for good before I go. Just find a way to cause some smoke and duck for cover.”

The two men untangle from each other’s grasp, and just before their hands can touch in a final handshake, horror rears its ugly head once more. “LITTLE LAMB! You have most unfortunately FAILED to save your COMPANION on time. That is quite ill-fated, but not to worry, all DAMAGES caused to your companion will be addressed personally by the EMERGENCY MEDICAL DEPARTMENT of Vault 115. THANK YOU for participating in this test and better luck next week!”

Gob’s soul drains through his shoes as the recording sputters to an end with the wild roar of the Deathclaw ripping out of its cage. He stands paralyzed for a good few seconds before he hears Bo clear his throat by his side. “Hey, uh, I’ll be goin’. You still have a chance, you know? So, good luck finding your boyfriend an’ all.”

Gob’s terror mixes with the heightening notes of surprise as he looks to the young man.

“Hey, gimme a little credit here! I could practically smell the pheromones.” He chuckles oddly and when Gob doesn’t smile, his face sobers. “But, yeah, be careful. That machine isn’t here to make friends.”

Chapter Text

With every step Gob takes, a venomous roar clambers alongside it, ripped from the speakers ensnaring his path.

He sprints through the corridors, ignoring the burn in his lungs, the ache in his wrist, the glare of his flare blasting in his hand. He crashes into the chapel’s intricate gate, struggling with the locks.

He grapples the sinuous wrought iron, tangling his fingers into the delicate art. “Let me in, shitbird!”

No response comes through the speakers, only the rise and fall of the Deathclaw’s roar. Gob feels his face pump with blood. He rattles the gate harder, pushing back and kicking at it. “I said let !” The gate bounces back and forth. “ Me!” It taunts him, swinging merily. “ In!” With a last kick the gate’s side rips out of its rusted hinges, holding onto the locks as it clatters to the side.

Panting wildly, Gob stumbles to his knees, crawling under the ruined gate. Charon’s howls push the ghoul to run faster, the sound of thrashing and death scraping the closer to the core of the chapel he gets. He is almost there, he can see the outline of the door separating him from them. He pushes it open and feels his stomach drop.

Charon has crawled under his ripped cage, using its ruined shape as his shield, holding a part of his jaw in his hand. His breathing is ragged, gaze unfocused where the Deathclaw is trying to get through the curved metal bars, hurling its weight into them. At his side the ghoul has nothing but a corroded kitchen knife, gripped tightly between a set of white knuckles. His leather armor—ripped rivulets barring his clawed body—glistens with blood. His blood.

Gob’s heart is hammering. He spins around, looking for anything to rip the Deathclaw’s attention away from the nest of crippled steel. The gleam of a statue grabs his attention—the back of a power armor hangs ajar, its disemboweled husk leaning against the wall. He runs to it.

The interior is small, rusted and cramped. The armor’s parts are held on by a thread, the metal skeleton exposed in between the thick slabs of steel. It doesn’t matter to him. He wiggles his arms inside, his legs, his chest, feeling them pinch into the metal. It does not matter to him. His fingers dig into the controls, startling him when the machine turns on.

The mold locks at the small of his back, pinching the end of his shirt between the steel claws. The fit is tight even for him, his chest bubbling with restrained breaths, the gibberish inside the helmet too close to his eyes. He takes his first awkward steps, wobbling a foot above the ground, his suit’s wrists slack as he does not know how to move them. His body is heavy, shoulders bouncing inside the worn casing as he trips over his steps.

His limbs spread impossibly, splitting the air wildly with the tiniest move of his muscles. How does the Brotherhood even use these things?

He swallows through the ineptitude and tear, charging at the beast. He collides with its flank, throwing it off balance. His fist comes up, or rather his open palm, and he strikes it. Enraged, the Deathclaw ensnares him in its claws, slinging him across the room. He is smashed against the wall with a crack. His body is sore, and yet, entirely whole. He rises again. “Come on, fucker! This all you got?!”

As if understanding him, the beast’s ribs swell, ripping a thunderous roar. And yet, its tail circles the floor as it crouches down, lowering its flaking horns. Its body curves into a ragged bow, mewling with a wounded plea. Gob cannot believe he has done it. Had the Deathclaw so little in it? And yet… the pose is odd. Almost as if…

His thoughts are cut by the beast’s form charging toward him, tongue flailing in its maw. Gob takes off running to the opposite wall. He skids to a stop just short of it, dodging to the side. The Deathclaw splatters with a sickly twack, though it barely needs a second to shake its large head before it’s coming at him once more. Its horns lift him up, toppling him over, sending him flying to the side. Once more it charges toward him, opening its maw, and once more Gob ducks away.

Gob continues to stumble in circles, slamming the Deathclaw over and over. His moves gain confidence with every sprint, his body getting used to the armor’s commands. He even stops long enough to taunt the beast, riling it up even further. And yet, as he reaches for yet another wall, a strange whir fills the inside of his helmet. The noise engulfs him and he tries to cover his ears to no avail, fighting against the stunning alarm.

His body is ensnared by claws, though this time he is not thrown away. Instead, he is slammed into the corner, pinned down by the beast; its teeth digging into his helmet and its paws flattening him into the wall. Gob is crushed, screwed between the suit pushing him out and the beast slamming him against the rock. He is hyperventilating in the metal husk, scrawling in frantic kicks.

The suit sticks needles under his skin, pumping him with things he doesn’t recognize. He wails in panic. His body thrashes, stuck between the rusted metal tearing him with mechanical ease and the Deathclaw’s breath choking him through the helmet. Vomit sticks to the roof of his mouth as he kicks his legs harder and harder, flexing his fingers in the suit’s hollow gloves. Seeing as its actions do little more than hurt its occupant, the suit screeches in alarm, the brash sound agitating the Deathclaw further. It twists away, hurling Gob behind itself.

The air is knocked out of the ghoul, legs twisting into his chest. He crawls away from under the armor, wheezing as the metal pushes into his throat. He’s halfway out of the suit when cold sweat pools into his groin and the shake of footsteps registers to him. The Deathclaw. It is getting closer. Just a foot away, just a lunge more and… the beast collapses at his feet. He yells as its claws graze his side, not hurting, only warning.

He covers his nose against the stench of pus and iron, staring at the gaping wound between the beast’s ruined horns.

Shakily he rises back up, stifling his choked sobs as he pulls the remaining needles bulging under his skin. Blood oozes across his arms, dripping past his trembling fingers. His focus shifts when a choked gasp echoes behind him. He gazes over his shoulder to where Charon had dragged himself from under the cage, propping his corpse against the wall.

“Charon…” Charon’s name comes out as a pained whine as Gob shuffles over to his lover, curling around the ghoul. He wraps his arms around him, bathing the remains of his lips in a soft kiss. They hold onto each other, forgetting the agony of their wounds, the smell of copper coating them, focusing instead on their breaths mingling, their cheeks warm where they brush in their embrace.

Charon’s hand rests on his neck, tenderly circling Gob’s nape with his thumb and it shakes Gob to the verge of weeping, making him press into him, drowsy, enamored; kissing not the creed of his soft skin, but the wounds digging into it instead.

Their respite is skinned off them, replaced with the hollow monocity of T.I.O. turning back to life. “BRAVO vault dwellers of VAULT 115! You have managed to persevere through yet another CHALLENGE! However, we are NOT done yet, and as per your upcoming challenge you will—

“No! Enough!” Gob strides up to the sentient screen, his footsteps hard and the sole procurer of attention in the caving room.

Despite the collar digging into his throat with every swallow, his flesh around it itchy and swelled, the energy in the room electrifies him, pushing his chest out. “You will not hurt him any further. I am putting an end to this.”

He can see his scrawny body be projected everywhere as he speaks, see Charon’s face reflected behind him, looking at him through a veil of pain. He is slouched, soaking in a puddle of his own blood, his knuckles torn and raw. Gob blinks the image away, turning his focus on the screen again. It remains quiet, distant, yet ever as cheery as if not registering his words at all.

Until it breaks character just like before. “Typical.”

Gob’s rifle is in his grasp in an instant, grip white against the ominous tremble of walls. The monitors shift and scuttle into the depths of rock, making place for a row of rocket canons to take place on the surface. Their lids open with a threatening hiss, aiming down. “Always the same. I knew undignified creatures such as you could serve merely as bait.”

“Even so, you forget something T.I.O.,” Gob says.

The supercomputer pauses, humoring him. “Impossible, I have calculated everything.”

“Except ArTeRIA .”

The great explosion Gob expects doesn’t come. Instead the large screen stalls, mulling over his words. Furtively it encloses its spread canons, sinking them back into the wall. It remains silent; a startling contrast to Gob’s drumming breast. “I… “ The mechanical voice wavers. “I wanted to protect them.”

T.I.O. is no longer in control, it is Jennings now that answers back.

The screen settles into a worrisome hum, its words rapid; an avalanche of nonsense. “Once T.I.O. took over, it wanted to let them out, but no, no, I wouldn’t let it, it was too dangerous, too dangerous. I let the danger in! Yes, yes, I caught any and all that crossed the vault, analyzed them, subdued them just enough to control them and then tested them. Megan, Chanse, Kody, Johanna, Demian, Arnav, Walter, Manna, Terrance, Maribel, Roger— All of them, all of them! I gave them food, water, I challenged them, I made sure they knew the outside. I prepared them.”

T.I.O.—Jennings’—screen breaks apart, tearing the room with a high-pitched screech. Gob’s brain fills with static and he senses his collar rattling against his neck. By the time he has enough sense to panic the sound has stopped. He tries to reason with him. “But, I found Demian’s notes… Him and Manna…” He lets his silence pave the rest. “These challenges, they haven’t helped them—they’ve ruined these poor people! You’ve killed them Jennings! You must stop!”

The crazy static stills and for a brief moment Gob sees whatever is left of Jennings’ shell. It is almost as if he considers them: two ghouls on the verge of turning into yet another pair of corpses, listening to him through their begging, bloodied lips. Whatever it is, he seems to consider Gob’s words.

If Jennings still had a face Gob is sure it would be pinched in agony. “It is true, isn’t it? I have failed. All these years all I wanted was to protect them, but… No, it is not too late. Listen, I will help you. Just give me a second to disable— AH!”

Sparks fly above them as the monitor splits in two, though continuing to work, the man inside fighting through the program’s grasp. Gob watches Jennings slip away, watches as the program takes over, and for the first time after spending a life made through others’ decisions, he makes a decision for someone else—jamming the square chip into the core of sparks.

The monitor collapses as if struck by a blow of its own weapons, glass crumbling all around it. Gob ducks, covering his head and absorbing the shock, wincing against the sharp chunks slicing across his patchwork flesh. An alarm rises above the zapping of electronics, a low tremble accompanying it. He loses his footing briefly. Earthquake? No—that must be whatever installation is meant to cover this vault’s tracks. “Shit. Charon, we gotta go!”

But Charon does not move from his spot, head lolled back, bouncing with the rock’s movement. His eyes are closed, his face pale; an eerie contrast to his ragged breaths. Gob crouches next to him, shaking his shoulders, yet no response comes. “Shit.”

He maneuvers the ghoul’s arm over his thin shoulders and tensing his body, rises up, his back reflexively soaking the movement. Gravity pulls Charon’s weight down, taking the edge of Gob’s shirt with him, twisting it around his neck. Gob does not give up, groping and pulling until he can stand confidently with the ghoul by his side. He takes his first arduous step back to the exit, gritting his teeth against the blaring alarm and swearing as every shake of the floor beneath him makes him lose his grip over his hulking companion.

This isn’t going to work. He pulls out the syringe of Psycho. And stabs it.

He is filled with an inexplicable high, lighting every cell in his body on fire. His eyes bulge inside his skull, pushed out by wave after wave of adrenaline kicking through his brain. He growls from the sensation, his movements frantic as he maneuvers in front of Charon, pulling his arms to hang in the air in front of him. Crouching, he can already taste the failure in the ghoul’s increasing weight even through the drug’s effect, balling the material of his pants into tight fists. His thighs fill the elastic fabric of his jumpsuit and taking a sudden breath, he rises.

For a moment he celebrates his small win, a victorious grin lifting at the corners of his dry cheeks. Yet, after a single wobbly step he stumbles forward with a yelp, taking his companion down with him. His knees hit the floor hard, sending pulses through his femur. He holds tightly onto the ghoul as his body leans threateningly to the side.

He pulls his rifle to hang in front of him and tightens Charon’s limbs around his shoulders. And crawls. He feels the other’s legs drag behind him, spending every moment flickering and dipping like a flame on a windy porch, knees shimmying in small, uneven drags toward freedom. His vision tunnels and his head balloons under the pressure, pushing the lit end of the exit an immeasurable distance away. A pathetic whine reverberates inside his throat and he hurries his steps in vexation.

Suddenly, a strange whistle fills the air and he turns, only to be met with a steel boot kicking him in the mouth. In his confusion a strong pair of hands lift him up, throwing him aside. He lands on his back with a thump, groaning as his rifle smacks his forehead hard. A shadow drowns him and he opens his eyes. His heart sinks in his stomach.

Before him is the indigo mutant, face decorated in a maniacal smile. “So, we meet again, you filth. Time for some payback.”

It grabs him again and again it throws him, this time, however, aiming for a pile of rocks. Gob’s mind blanks as the rocks spear into his spine, the pain spilling into waves over him. Even so Gob’s eyes immediately shoot out to Charon, who remains undisturbed behind the mutant. He rolls over, meeting the mutant’s eyes, but bristles as it is in fact not looking at him—it is looking at Charon. Its muscles flex as it pulls out its weapon, cocking it in his direction.

He isn’t sure what happens next. He hurls himself at the mutant, grabbing onto its arm. He is slapped away, the burn of its hand sizzling against his face. He is grabbed by the throat, lifted in the air. He is kicking, fingers digging into its arm, nails hooking into its flesh, but it does not let go—only laughs. His vision darkens, blurs as the creature spits into his face, its saliva crawling down his open jaw. His neck is squeezed harder, fingers positioning to the side of his face, digging into his cheek. The mutant is going to break his neck.

For a brief moment he is brought back to the orange hue, the armory. Weakly he reaches into his belt, pulling out the flare gun. He aims up through trembling fingers. And shoots.

A thin drizzle of fluid spreads from the ceiling, coating them in a light mist. He mutant lets go with a screech, dropping Gob into a pile on the floor. The ghoul coughs, sucking oxygen into his starved head. He only briefly notes the mutant running around in terror, its rubbery skin peeling off, and he himself too weak to care for his own. He starts crawling to Charon, dragging his body with a dedicated slouch.

Pain. It pierces through him. Gob looks down—the end of his stomach hangs in a puddle at his knees. He looks over his shoulder with bulging eyes. The mutant barely has any skin on, and yet holds its rifle, grinning at him. “I am taking… you… with me…”

Gob falls over.

A voice is calling to him. A familiar, kind voice.

“Gob.”

Gob struggles to open his eyes, finding the border between sleep and wakefulness entirely more appealing.

“Come on. I know you can hear me,” the voice says.

“Ugh, jus’ leave him, he will wake soon enough,” another voice pipes somewhere off to the side.

He stirs. God, his body hurts all over. How did he even sleep? He opens his eyes, meeting the blurry image of Charon on top of him. Wait.

Hands stop him before he can get up, easing him back. “But… ”

“Slowly,” Charon says.

Gob relaxes. A hand crawls down to his stomach, searching for his wound, but there is nothing there; only the hole in his shirt, a phantom of it proving it had even been real. He loops his hand through it; another proof he hasn’t just imagined it. He tries to rise once again, slowly this time, piecing himself together. He trails the arm on the small of his back, holding onto it, squeezing its fingers between his own.

He’s amidst a dugout of barrels, clothes soaked in the radioactive liquid seeping from them. A strange, rubbery sensation fills his mouth. He chews on it, grimacing against the bitter taste. “Whaf’e hell?”

“Mushrooms,” Charon says, pointing to the bunch of them in his lap.

“Oh.”

A faint thread of sadness hitches Gob’s breath as he chews; is it perhaps the handprint of relief? The rust leftover of loss? The fact that, once again the Wasteland has stepped on top of them, leaving them jobless, vulnerable, with less than tatters on their back? And even so, he thinks. And even so, what? Even if they are battered, with Charon missing the side of his face, with the metallic taste of blood coating Gob’s mouth, which he’d be unable to let go for weeks… even with the other ghoul scooping him closer, embracing him as his sadness turns to grief, twitching the corners of his mouth bitterly.

Even so, they’ve made it out; they’re alive.

His forehead presses to Charon’s shoulder, sinking his sobs into it. The giant shushes him, stroking a hand across his back, repeating over and over that he knows, and Gob has no sense left to wonder whether he really knows, only the wound in his chest guiding him to believe him and give into his warmth.

They remain like this until another voice breaks the moment. “Hey, listen, very sweet moment you two are havin’ there, dude, but could you let go of that hulk for just a moment and untie me . Right . Now .”

Gob pulls away, wiping at his sore face in embarrassment, feeling some of his tears drip down his arm. Bo sits against the wall, a belt tying his arms behind him. “Jesus, Bo… So, it wasn’t a dream after all?”

A haughty chuckle shakes the younger man, bordering on pure disbelief, and yet too proud to admit to it. “Boy, even Jesus won’t save ya once I’m outta this thing. FUCKING, YES, IT WASN’T A GODDAMN DREAM, YOU IMBECILE! Your fucking boy toy over there woke his sorry as up as I was trying to patch you up and threatened me with a shotgun , after which he TIED ME UP and jus’, fuckin’, SAT HIS FAT ASS DOWN!”

Gob lets him kick out for a moment, holding Charon still at the threats spilling from the man’s lips. Something strangely hopeful expands in his stomach.

After a while Bo stills, his purple face returning to its usual, ghostly hue. “Listen, I saw everything, okay? I couldn’t jus’ leave you after everything we went through. You’re fucking strong, you know that? That’s a talent for your scrawny ass.”

As Gob gets closer to untie him, he hears the man whisper, face averted as to be hidden from the bigger ghoul. “Besides, I needed a way out, okay? We’re in the middle of fuckin’ nowhere and I ain’t got much chance on my own without a gun or armor. Also your boyfriend is hot, we should share.” Gob takes a step back, once again surprised. “What? You thought that ‘pheromones’ thing was for real? Come on, I know a fellow dick-lover when I see one.”

Once again, Gob sighs—a reaction hard-wired to Bo’s antics. “Right. You’re an absolute ass, you do know that, right?”

“Sure do. Am proud. Glad to see you’re finally usin’ your freedom of speech for something other than threatening me all the time,” Bo says, rubbing his sore wrists. He smirks before Gob can issue any further protests.

“And I’m glad to see you can make a joke instead of flippin’ everything off all the damn time,” Gob counters. He considers the young man for a moment. “Say… you wouldn’t have some other gadget hidden somewhere that could lead us over to Rivet City, would ya?”

Bo pouts, creasing the fine lines on his face. “Dunno… What will I get for it?”

“A warm meal and a soft bed, smoothskin.”

The young man feigns a state of deep thought, though Gob can see right through his antics. Bo smiles and presents him his open palm. “Deal, stinky. Now, let’s get these collars off and get the fuck outta here.”