I didn't remember when I fell asleep. The floor was hard as stone, cold even through the layers of my vault suit and jacket. My back hated me. My leg throbbed, but only faintly now, more memory than pain.
My eyes blinked open slowly, gritty from dried sweat and exhaustion. The flickering overhead light buzzed gently. My Pip-Boy cast its soft blue glow across the cluttered room. The Protectron stood in the far corner, standing still.
I groaned, pushing myself upright. My joints popped. My back cracked. It was grossly satisfying.
The radroach meat was still in my pack. I didn't take it out. Just thinking about it made my stomach twist. It had this… film. And weird little sacs that squished when I touched it. Nah. Not worth it. I dug around in my backpack until I found the second MRE.
Barbecue Chicken.
When I tore it open, the smell hit me like a warm summer breeze. Rich, smoky, a bit tangy. Definitely not wasteland old. The goddess had done me solid, these things weren't even close to pre-war rations. They were good. Not just edible. Tasty.
I devoured it quietly, sitting cross-legged against the wall. I took my time. Every bite eased the ache in my gut and settled something nervous in my chest. A bottle of water followed, the plastic crinkling as I took slow sips. Not too fast. I wasn't keen on puking it all back up.
Once I'd wiped my hands and packed up, I flicked open the Pip-Boy and pulled up my status screen.
Still Level 1.
My vitals were stable. No rads.
I smiled. The Protectron's eyes flicked on with a whirr. Its voice crackled. "Protect and serve."
"Good morning to you too," I muttered, rolling my neck. "Time to move."
The door was still blocked by the metal shelf I'd wedged into place last night. "Alright, move over, I've got this," I said to the Protectron, and started hauling the shelf away. It groaned like an old man being woken up early. Dust flaked off in little clouds. I got a nice faceful of dust before the thing finally screeched aside. The door itself creaked open slowly, the hinges protesting.
Beyond it… quiet.
The hallway stretched ahead, concrete walls stained with water damage and peeled paint. But the lights worked. Sort of. Flickering, dim, but enough to see by.
"Lead the way, Claptrap," I said, tapping the Protectron on the shoulder, probably not the best name, but it still deserved one. It clanked forward, footsteps echoing with each slow Left foot. Right foot. Shoulder jerk. Buzz. Whirr. I couldn't help it, my lips quirked. It was charming in a dumb, boxy sort of way.
I followed a few steps behind, my hand hovering near the pistol on my hip.
The first side room we passed had its door slightly ajar. I nudged it open with the toe of my boot, pistol drawn just in case.
Storage. Mostly empty. A few busted crates, an old mop, a bucket with something crusted inside I didn't want to look at too long. But in the far corner, under a collapsed shelf, I saw a faint glint.
I stepped over, careful not to trip on the warped tiles, and pulled out a dusty metal case. Hinges rusted. I popped it open with the screwdriver I'd kept tucked in my belt.
Inside:
A small roll of copper wire
Two intact fuses
One power cell, half-charged
And… was that a toy robot? Missing one arm. I stared at it for a second longer than I meant to, fingers brushing over its metal shell. Then I tucked it into my pack. For parts. Not because it was cute or anything.
"Nothing else here," I mumbled, backing out. "Move on."
The Protectron stomped ahead. I checked each door we passed. Some were jammed shut. Others opened into more ruined closets. Mold, broken furniture, empty filing cabinets. I snagged a roll of duct tape, a pair of batteries, and a cracked pair of safety goggles that might be salvageable if I could rig them up. We made it to the stairs and started to climb toanother floor.
The next hallway branched. Left: a door marked Maintenance Bay. Right: stairs with a flickering sign overhead, EXIT LEVEL 3 barely legible.
I paused. Looked at the Protectron. "Well, if there's anything nasty hiding, it'll probably be in Maintenance."
The robot whirred at me. I took that as agreement and pointed toward the stairs.
We started up, each step groaning under the Protectron's weight. My boots were quieter, but not by much. The place echoed like a crypt. Occasionally, I'd hear something, a hiss from a busted pipe, a distant creak, but nothing clicked.
The second floor landing opened up into a wider hallway. A large metal door stood ahead, locked by a terminal blinking red. I didn't like the look of it.
I walked over and popped open my Pip-Boy to see if it could connect. No luck.
Manual hack it was.
The terminal was old. Dusty. But it worked. I leaned in, fingers flying across the keys. Bypassed one layer. Tripped a second. Re-routed the fail-safes. It wasn't hard, just annoying.
Three tries later, the screen lit green. I hit the execute key, and the door groaned as its locks disengaged.
"Protecc-bot, go first," I muttered. The robot stomped inside.
It was a checkpoint. Barricades. A broken turret mounted in the ceiling. A few scattered bones in one corner. Long since picked clean. Whatever had been here hadn't lasted.
The Protectron scanned the room. "No hostiles detected."
"Good," I said softly, stepping inside. I picked through the remains. Found a toolkit with a few screwdrivers, some screws, even a wrench that wasn't rusted to hell. Jackpot. I packed them into my backpack.
The air here smelled less like death. More… dry. slightly warmer, but not rotting. That was something. Maybe we were getting close to surface level.
Back into the hallway, up another stairwell. The signs were more faded now, barely readable. But they were there. Level 2 - Admin Offices
The Protectron didn't say anything, just marched ahead. I followed, glancing through every office door we passed. Most were broken. One was scorched from some long-ago fire. In another, I found a half-working terminal and a ceramic mug with a dumb smiley face on it. I kept the mug. Why not?
Finally, the hallway ended in another heavy metal door.
I sighed. "Of course."
The generator room wasn't far. A tangle of wires and old-world humming tech. The panel buzzed faintly, sparking every now and then. I stared at it, hands on my hips.
Time to get dirty.
"Alright, baby," I muttered under my breath, popping the panel open. "Let's see what's still ticking in there." I was so focused on the wires, which, for some reason, I knew how to fix. After that, the monitor on the side turned on. I went to it, and wouldn't you know it, it was locked. Just as I started to work on hacking it.
BZZZZZT—CRACK.
The shot echoed like a thunderclap in the hallway. The Protectron's arm-mounted laser fired again, the red beam cutting clean across the dark. I ducked lower beside the console, the terminal's dull green glow lighting my face as I typed in frantic bursts.
"Engaging hostile."
Another screech ripped through the air, high-pitched and wet.
I glanced over my shoulder just in time to see the damn thing drop from the ceiling. It slammed onto the floor in a twitching heap, skittering forward on too-long limbs. Translucent skin glistened under the hallway lights, all bones and sinew and teeth, moving like it was yanked forward by strings.
The Protectron didn't stop firing. It blasted shot after shot into the creature, forcing it back with every hit. Burn marks tore through its chest. Its skin peeled open. It shrieked, clawed at the air, and finally crumpled with a hard.
I swallowed hard.
Screeches floated up the stairwell, layered and hungry. They were coming.
"Cover me, Claptrap," I muttered, voice low, then bent to the terminal again. Sweat slid down my temple. The door's security sub-routine was complex, but my hands still shook while I worked Three guesses left. I picked one at random and heard a click, internal locks clunked free.
"GO!" I barked at the Protectron, and together we pushed through.
I slammed the heavy security door shut behind us, twisted the wheel lock into place, and jammed the manual override for good measure. The screeching outside was louder now, clawed hands beating against steel, but the door didn't move. Reinforced security-grade plating. The screeches outside rose, claws scraped metal, then dulled to frustrated tapping.
The room beyond had a stale smell. Dust lay everywhere, soft as frost. I let the pistol lower, peeled off my gas mask, and drew a lungful of air that tasted only of paper and time. The lights burned steadily here, no flicker, must be wired into some private power loop. A single desk lamp cast a warm circle onto a battered metal table littered with yellowing forms.
Shelves lined the walls, picked over in a hurry long ago but not stripped bare. I looked around, sliding tins, rattling old ammo boxes, nudging cracked medical kits open with the tip of my screwdriver. A pair of stimpaks nestled under a stack of personnel files. Three bottles of water sat in a locked cabinet, labels intact, caps still sealed. Someone had stashed a combat knife beneath a clipboard. I tested its edge against some paper; still sharp enough to matter. All of it went into the backpack.
While I scavenged, the Protectron planted itself between me and the sealed door, servos whining each time it shifted weight.
Opposite the entrance stood two elevator doors, painted bronze. One bore a chipped arrow pointing up; the other, an arrow down. Between them, a small recessed panel waited for an access card. I brushed dust away and found the Vault-Tec logo stamped into the metal, bright as the day it was etched. My gaze drifted to my sleeve: Vault 159 in yellow thread.
A half-dead terminal blinked atop a short filing cabinet. Its casing wore the same logo. I slid the knife between side panel and housing, popped the latch, and rerouted a trickle of power from a backup fuse I'd pocketed earlier. The screen cleared, lines of green snapping into focus.
LOCAL USER: ***
ACCESSING…
MAIN MENU
INCIDENT LOG
PERSONNEL MAIL
OVERRIDE CONTROLS (LOCKED)
I eased into the mail archive first, scrolling slowly. Lines of terse messages, each stamped thirty years earlier.
--Project THRESHER – Phase IV Testing
Specimens 005-034 exposed to compound X-94.
Neurological degeneration was observed within 48 hours. Increased aggression.
Reflex enhancement noted.
Subject 018 displayed wall-crawling behavior.
-Stalkers contained in Habitat B. Subjects restless, responding violently to light.
-Request additional restraints, Overseer denies.
Another file:
-We began taking from above. Stragglers. Homeless. Ones who wouldn't be missed. D-Class behavior deteriorated fast under exposure. Still, progress.
-They started calling them Tunnel Stalkers. Fitting. Skin translucent. Fast. But not smart. Just fast and hungry.
—Trials begin again at 0600.
—Habitat breach risk if neural suppressors fail again.
Neural suppressors? Trials?
I opened the incident log. The final entry sat alone, flagged PRIORITY ONE.
Protocol Helix. All doors to the main entrance of the vault: disengaged. Habitat seals unlocked. ~O.
A hush pressed in while I stared at that single line, knuckles whitening on the keyboard. Somewhere beyond the locked door, claws rasped uselessly, but I barely heard them. I backed out of the log and found a directory labelled "EVAC."
It held one file, encrypted. I cracked it after three tries.
Emergency Escape Procedure—Overseer Hoffman
Route: Overseer's office → Escape Hub → Surface Elevator (UP)
Secondary: Escape Hub → Cargo Lift (DOWN) → Vault 159 Overseer office .
Cargo Lift remains sealed.
Overseer access card required.
Vault doors auto-cycle: 40 hours after Helix activation.
That was how the stalkers reached the tunnels, flooding out once the timer ran, finding cracks in old transit lines, breeding unchecked for three decades. The people locked inside, the ones too slow to follow the Overseer, they'd been left to whatever came through when the doors rolled back.
A bitter taste coated my tongue. I pushed the chair away, stood, and combed the rest of the drawers until my fingers brushed plastic. A white access card lay against a velvet lining, Overseer clearance embossed across its face.
I weighed it in my palm. Straight shot to Vault 159. Answers, maybe supplies, maybe, yeah no fuck all that, it was dumb but maybe just maybe....
"Decisions, girl," I whispered, the Irish lilt thick when I got nervous. The Protectron clanked, optics humming as it tracked me pacing the room. I tucked the card into an inner pocket, sealed the zipper.
The computer still glowed. I couldn't leave without digging deeper. There was one more directory, marked "MEDICAL." I typed in the same override string. A catalogue of patient files scrolled by—each tagged ABDUCTION SUBJECT. Ages, genders, and last known settlement. Page after page. Some had notes: "Stage-three adaptation predicted," "Speech centres eroding," "Subject exhibits echolocation."
A final report sat at the bottom:
System Error: Breeding Controls Offline. Request for manual cull denied. The Overseer prioritises above-ground evacuation.
I powered the terminal down, screen fading to black. On a narrow shelf beside the elevators, a small tin can caught my eye, bright yellow paint, "Sugar Bombs" stamped across. I shook it. Weight inside. When I pried the lid off, a handful of crystalline beads rolled into my palm, candy long petrified into hard gems. I popped one between my teeth; it snapped like glass but tasted sweet enough.
My stomach was still twisting over those files, people kidnapped, pumped full of Vault-Tec's goo, spat back as monsters. I'd known Vault-Tec was rotten. But being in the world instead of just reading abkut it, it was a different kind of rot.
All the more reason to keep my brain busy.
I lifted my left wrist and toggled to the Pip-Boy's Radio tab. The screen flipped from dull green text to a neat little dial, numbers arcing across the glass. The internal speaker crackled, with layers of static.
Anything to drown out the scratching at the far door. Three sharp beeps.
The static cleared, and a man's voice came through.
> "Citizens of New York, this is Echo Cast, Brotherhood of Steel, Steel Sharks Network. Broadcasting under clean-signal protocol. Please stand by for your regional updates."
I froze mid-sip of water. Brotherhood … of Steel? In New York? Nobody on those lore videos ever mentioned a New York chapter. I rested an elbow on the desk, chin in hand, listening.
A low electronic chime announced each segment:
Weather & Power Report, Grid Four steady. Flame House? Western feed lines? They had power distribution mapped out. Seems they had some power station online.
Public Reminders, Children of the Apocalypse handing out "rad away." Nice to know that cult was doling out free meds.
Safety Warning, Midtown East red-zoned. Super-mutant behemoth on the loose. One wrong street and I'd be pancake, fuck how does one even deal with something like that.
> "You don't have to believe in the Codex. But you'll believe in us, the power we keep flowing, and the blood we spill to dealing with the super mutants."
Charming bunch.
My thumb hovered over the dial, but I let the broadcast run to the finish:
> "This has been Echo Cast. Next transmission at sixteen-hundred hours. Until then, stay sharp, stay inside the Spine, and keep your boots dry."
One long tone. Click.
Silence flooded back in, thick as dust motes. The only sound left was the faint, steady ping of claws beyond the reinforced door.
I leaned back, head thunking against the wall.
Brotherhood of Steel Sharks. Different crest, same rhetoric. I guess the took a page out of the lions chapter.
The old office chair complained when I leaned back again, boot-heels propped on the metal drawer. The Protectron stood sentry by the door, repeating those same old words, on loop. The clawing outside had gone silent at last, hopefully they had wondered off.
So I stayed put, right thumb on the Pip-Boy tuner. One twist after another. Static swelled, flattened, swelled again.
92.3 — "The Core"
A slow jazz trumpet drifted in first. Then a old voice.
> "—and that was 'Hammond at Dusk,' recorded back in 2072, before the lights went out. Now, listen here, Miss Dora Mae, if you're still missin' that cat, check the roof of Two-Three-Nine. Ol' Louie saw it sunning there at noon. Bring treats."
He chuckled, dry, papery, as if nothing in the world could surprise him anymore.
> "Barter board: Joyce still needs sewing needles. She's offering a half-pouch of sugar and a happyending if you catch my drift. You know where to find her."
Paper shuffled close to the mic. Somewhere behind him, a creaky fan turned lazy circles.
> "And for those worried about the tremors under Fortieth, the big cables held. Engineers from Grid House say 'no collapse today.' Come tomorrow? Eh, ask me then."
I turned to the next station.
107.9 — "Dead Air Radio"
Click—SKRRT. Static ripped sideways. A snort of laughter dropped in, loud enough to rattle the tin mug on the desk.
> "—so the paladin says, 'Hand over the scrap or face righteous fury.' And I say, 'Buddy, my fury's been on back-order since '62, get in line!'"
The host wheezed, hacking up more mirth than lung.
> "Evening, Smooth skins. This is Dead Air, your number-one unauthorized frequency, broadcasting live from somewhere you'll never find. Let's talk sharks, metal ones, specifically."
A slow clap, pure mockery.
> "Heard Echo Cast bragging again: 'We carved structure from ruin.' Big words for lads who hide behind a suit of steel. Word on the street? They lost a whole patrol to a behemoth yesterday, upper torso turned into confetti. Sharks claim to be tough until the tide is against them."
I grinned despite myself. I still found it unfortunate that people died, but this was the fallout universe, people always died somewhere.
> "Reminder, folks: Dead Air accepts love letters, hate mail, and fresh intel. Payment in good jokes or fusion cells, whichever's funnier."
Id have to remember to check on this station again later. But for now let's see what else there was.
101.5 — "Red Line Radio"
No intro jingle. Just a panting runner speaking between footfalls:
> "—line C clear up to Grand Street. Repeat: C is clear. Water halfway to the third rail, watch the live wire. Stalkers near Grand Central Terminal are busy chasing some fool. Over."
Gunfire snapped twice, seemed to be small-caliber. Someone else hissed:
> "Need lift at Canal—knee's out—"
Then another voice, calm, female:
> "Route A-Two shut. Gas pocket blew. Use hatch 12 at Worth. Marked with spray can."
Static smothered her for a heartbeat, returned with the same voice:
> "For trade: two cartons .45, looking for batteries. And spray cans, No raider, no BOS."
These sounded like teens around my age, were they really that crazy to go I to those tunnels with those things. But if for whatever reason I found myself back in these tunnels I'd have to listen to this station. On to the next one.
88.9 — "The Faithful Echo"
Soft chimes rang once, twice, thrice. A woman's voice followed.
> "Beloved travelers, remember the body is dust, and dust remembers the body. Take your rad-aways. Drink de-crackle water if you can find it. If not, boil and pray."
> "Brother Matthias reads from the cracked ledger tonight. Page four-eighty: 'The glow is forgiveness painted in light.' Sit with us, if only in spirit, at the low hour."
Wait were these a mix of the children of the Apocalypse and the children of atom??? Weird, Next.
---
93.7 — "Wreck FM"
The tuner barely landed before a jagged guitar chord howled in my ear, feedback drowning the room. A roar of laughter, men, women, half-feral.
> "Rip the plates off the trucks, boys! We're buildin' armor!"
Metal slammed metal, clangclclang, followed by a burst of automatic fire. Screams folded into the music. The raiders must have patched speakers to a capture mic and flipped the switch for kicks.
Yeah I wasn't going to listen to this crap.
---
95.1 — "Midnight Flesh"
A hush. Then a voice like the one you would hear for those truck commercials:
> "Do you remember the hospital on Ninety-Second? They say at night the gurneys still roll, although no one's left to push them…"
Wait was this a scary story station?
> "A girl with blond hair once slept there. They say she opened and still roams those halls. Killing anyone that comes into her hospital"
The story drifted on, I thumbed the dial moving on.
---
98.6 — "The Glow"
Static cleared like frost from glass. A man's whisper spilled through, warm as embers:
> "Children, the atom hums. Can you hear it? In the low places? In the broken corners? It calls you."
A humming choir rose faintly behind him—men and women on one note, steady as heartbeat.
> "When the light comes, there is no pain. Only bright. Only forever."
He recited coordinates—once, twice, again, unfortunately my Pip-Boy updated the map, not like i ever planned to go there.
> "Come. Stand in the tide of dawn."
I twisted the dial back to OFF. The sudden silence boomed. Those were the only stations I could find.
I sat there a long minute, letting the facts line themselves up.
New York wasn't empty which was good, maybe. It all depended how long I'd plan to stay here. Cause I'd rather deal with the devil I know then the one I don't.
I Sighed as got up and moved towards the elevator. "Come on Claptrap."
I motioned for it to follow as I clicked on the one that would get me out of here. As it dinged open I walked in followed by my Protectron.
The elevator rattled, cables groaning, brakes squealing, dust snow-drifting from the ceiling grille which made me extremelynervous. Claptrap lumbered in behind me, bulkier than the car was built for, but the doors wheezed shut anyway.
My Pip-Boy chimed, 11: 13 | Jul 23, 2287—fresh firmware courtesy of that radio signal. Nice to know what hour I might die.
"Topside, please," I muttered to myself. Before pressing button for ↑ Surface Access, glowed dull amber under my thumb.
With a lurch the lift climbed, gears gnawing each other. Thirty seconds. A minute. My ears popped; we had to be close to street level. Light speared through rusted vents. first grey, then bright gold.
Ding.
The doors parted onto a narrow, gated platform. Security grille half-rolled, bent. Beyond it: the upper galleries of Grand Central Terminal, arched windows shot through, shards missing, sunlight pouring in hot columns onto cracked marble.
I stepped out, leather boots crunching broken glass. The air smelled of pigeons, rust, and faint rot.
Lower down, past the balustrade, the main concourse sprawled, once famous for its chandeliers and bustling crowds. Now? A moving carpet of feral ghouls. Dozens. Maybe a hundred. They shuffled over fallen benches, bumped headless mannequins, hissed at nothing.
One scream, one clatter, and they'd swarm.
I ducked instinctively, loose red hair falling across my eyes. I brushed it back and motioned to Claptrap. "Stay quiet, big lad."
The Protectron answered with a servo-whisper and eased forward, joints surprisingly discreet when it tried.
A sign overhead—TRACKS 100–117 →. The arrow pointed to a stairwell descending into ghoul country. Hard pass. Another plaque read MEZZANINE EXIT with a faded wheelchair icon. A gentler ramp hugged the wall, leading to a shattered set of revolving doors bathed in sunlight.
That was the way.
I crouched near the railing, peering through ironwork. Some ghouls wore decayed MTA uniforms, caps still pinned above empty sockets. Others dripped hospital bracelets—maybe evacuees who'd made it this far before radiation finished the job. It almost felt like the walking dead if it wasn't for the fact I knew I was in fallout.
Slow breaths. In, out.
First obstacle: the security grille. The rolling shutter seemed to be jammed three feet high, enough space to belly-crawl alone, but not enough for a Protectron.
"Claptrap, hold here," I whispered.
"Affirmative." Optics dimmed to half-luminosity.
I loosened two rusted brackets. Metal squealed. A ghoul head below snapped upward, milky eyes scanning. I froze, sweat prickling. After 5 minutes the thing lost interest, turned away.
Breath out. Another bolt. Then I cranked the side chain; the shutter jerked, then lifted just past robot-height with a clang that sent my heart sprinting. Ghouls stirred, a few sniffed, but no screams. But walked towards the sound. Given I was on a higher floor. I was safe for now.
"Through. Now." Claptrap duck-walked under, chassis scraping lightly.
The mezzanine ramp creaked under our weight. Halfway down, a kiosk loomed, its glass long smashed. Inside, luck actually smiled, a stack of pre-war Metro Tour pamphlets, brittle but intact. I grabbed one, unfolded it. A tiny arrow labeled SKYBRIDGE → MADISON AVE. Perfect: an enclosed passage over 42nd Street. If the far door wasn't collapsed, we could skip the ground entirely.
I tucked the map in my jacket and pressed on, knees bent. My tool belt clinked against my thigh; I steadied it, mindful of my charge pistol.
Another minute and we reached the skybridge entrance, metal fire door ling since broken.
As I walked in, i noticed what appeared to be Pigeons flapped away in a panic, their droppings painting the tiles. Sunlight blasted through jagged panes, illuminating a straight shot to the far end.
But forty feet ahead, a ghoul blocked the path, one of the tall ones, limbs too wiry, posture too alert. It tilted its head, sniffing. Only one, thank God, but right where I needed to go.
I slipped the charge pistol free, One beam, I might drop it if I nailed center mass. But that would alert that hord behind me, maybe the knife. I grabbed it in my other hand. I wasn't confident in my ability to take one down with it.....
I exhaled… and the ghoul lurched sideways, tumbling through an already-broken pane, dropping three stories to the street with a wet crunch.
I blinked. "Huh."
Wind whistled where the body had gone.
We hurried, my boot's crunching glass fragments, until the far door came up. This latch had rusted away; it opened with a nudge, revealing open sky, and beyond it, the north façade of some mid-rise still standing proud.
City noise washed over me, distant gunshots, somewhere west.
I stepped onto a narrow catwalk that once serviced signage. Below, the avenue was cluttered with burned-out taxis and vine-wrapped scaffolds, Thankfully no ghouls. For now.
I let the sun hit my face, warm and real. First honest daylight since the goddess's ring of stars.
"Three months," I murmured. "July Twenty-Third, Twenty-Two-Eighty-Seven. I need to get to the common wealth before the solo surviver leavesvault 111."
"Alright, big Apple," I said, gripping the rail, eyes on what remained of New York. "Show me what you've got."
And with that, I started forward, boots tapping rusted metal, a Protectron at my back and a whole new wasteland buzzing in my ears.