Fallout: Vault X

An original novel set in the Fallout universe, written to be accessible to all, featuring unique people and places Fallout: Vault X tells the story of John. A vault dweller, who spent every day of his twenty five years underground. Like his father, and his father before him. Proud to live in the last remaining bastion of humanity, all that survived The Great War of the atomic age. Hidden deep below the surface of the earth, toiling under brutal conditions. Year after year, decade upon decade. All to expand into the natural cave system the Vault occupied, building for the future. However, John knew what his forefathers did not, that everything he’d been taught was a lie. After finishing school at the age of ten, John received his standard issue pipboy. An arm mounted personal computer, worn by everyone in the Vault. Used to coordinate the relentless pace of expansion, needed to work as an apprentice. To learn the craft that would be his life’s work. A noble calling to ensure a future for all that remained of the human race. A quirk of fate saw John equipped not with the crude, clunky, pipboy model his father wore. That almost everyone around him wore. His looked smaller, sleeker, finished in a jet black sheen. And capable of doing far more than its drab counterparts. The world above had been ravaged by atomic flames, yet life clung to its bones. The Red Valley fared better than most in the century since the bombs fell. The clean water and rich soil protected by rolling hills. All spared from direct strikes, for the most part. Life survived here. Trees spawned from charred ground, misshapen, green leaves turned red. Along with simple crops, grown wild at first, then cultivated by the survivors. The scavengers of the old world were inventive, hardy people. All determined to rebuild in the ruins of a world they never knew. In the decades that passed settlements emerged. They grew, spreading along the valley floor. Reclaiming the pre-war remnants of the once industrialised heartland. Salvaging the robotic wonders of a bygone age to build their walls and work their fields. To protect them in the dark of the wasteland. But such things are uncommon in this world, and the rarer something is, the greater its value. And the worth of pre-war technology had not gone unnoticed. The last, real, power in this world rested in the mechanised hands of The Brotherhood of Steel. Forged from the mortally wounded old world military. The Brotherhood used its access to the weapons made for a conflict no one won to strike out into the wastes. Men and women were equipped with advanced armour, aerial transportation, high grade weaponry. Accompanied by the training, strength, and will, to put them to use. They established chapters and set up outputs far and wide. All dedicated to a single purpose. To ensure the technology left abandoned by its long dead creators didn’t fall into the wrong hands. Namely, any hands that were not their own. This is the world John escaped into. A place of horrors brought forth from atomic fire. A place where survival meant battling against the darkness. Fighting a war each day to get to the next. And war...war never changes

FourPin · 游戏衍生

分數不夠

223 Chs

Vol. ll Chapter 8 “No number. They always have a number.” (Part 2 of 2)

Charlie pulled the last strap tight to Rosie's bicep. "Too tight?"

"A little." The straps on her legs, arms, and chest help the black metal R frame against her body.

"Good, that's how it should be. I'm gonna put the limiter on ok, we're just going for a walk." Charlie twisted the fusion core and closed the black armoured housing on her back. Black steel became taught and ready, mimicking her stance. Armoured plates clicked into place over her boots. Vice like grips opened under power in each hand, mounted to the frame to absorb recoil.

With a deep breath Rosie stepped forward. The frame echoed her movement, amplifying it, the actuators and pistons doing the work. Rosie strode back and forth, almost gliding along the stone floor with little more than the sound of footsteps.

Her confidence rising, Rosie began to throw punches and kicks, like Charlie taught her. The powered frame made her feel stronger, faster, able to balance and turn with ease. As she fought the air, sharp spikes propelled out from the metal over boots and from the hinged plates that protected her hands.

"Easy there Tornado." Charlie shouted as Brandon strapped her into another frame. "The spikes are for climbing." She added and stepped forward. Rosie watched as Charlie warmed up the frame and her muscles, copying the crouching then jumping exercises.

"Here, palms up." Rosie held out her hands as Brandon asked. The vice like grips opened fully as she took the assault carbine. The grips clamped onto it, leaving her trigger finger free. Brandon stuffed extra magazines of five five six rounds into pockets on her chest.

"Lock and load." The strength amplifying frame meant she could hold the carbine one handed. Her free arm tried to slot the magazine up into the receiver but it glanced off the magwell.

"Out then in." Charlie showed her, flicking her carbine to one side then back to the other. A fresh magazine loaded in seconds. Rosie copied, it took a few attempts to time the flick while pressing the mag release but she got it done.

Rosie glanced around, losing track of Brandon for a moment. The steel suit of powered armour stood slumped and immobile. More like a statue than anything that could move. Then she saw the metal lurch into life. The smaller metal plates around the hips, shoulders and knees readjusted to fit Brandon. With an echoing, whirring stomp the armour stepped forward, hardened glass eyes glowing green.

"Ready?" Brandon spoke through the modulated speakers in the helmet.

"Stood ready Maelstrom." Charlie answered for them both.

The power armour scraped and banged along the walls of the narrow rock corridor as walked back to the small Vault door. Brandon stood a few feet back, and readied a light machine gun. "On your go Tornado."

"Copy. Opening." Rosie began the opening sequence. Ignoring the odd sense of being cheated out of a challenge.

A sharp whistle drowned out the screech of metal as the vacuum beyond the door dew in air. Whistling became a whoosh of air that would have made standing impossible were it not for the frame she wore and the armour she gripped. The all encompassing sound of rushing air began to fade, replaced by the noise of lights buzzing and fans in vents turning.

"On me." Brandon stomped forward into the long abandoned space beyond a door, machine gun held at his hip.

Inside Rosie stood on familiar metal grating in a small room beyond the door. The fluorescent lighting abruptly shut off, plunging them into pitch black. Rosie's vision automatically shifted into grey green. It made the eyes inside the helmet flare like white hot metal.

"Tornado." Brandon sounded tense. She checked the data in her vision.

"Relax, it's de-con." As Rosie spoke, bright ultraviolet light pulsed all around them and the doors ahead slid open.

Pre-war, wall mounted lights cast a soft glow into the large room ahead as the bulbs warmed. The rising light cast shadows across a carpeted room, low shapes covered in white sheets.

"Whirlwind sweep right, Tornado left." Rosie had to focus on moving slowly, the temptation to bolt pushed by the frame rising.

Wood panelled walls with framed pictures on them made up most of the room. At the far end glass showed a menacing reflection of the invaders into the preserved piece of the old world.

"Take the door." Brandon pointed, the armour too big for the corridor. Rosie stacked behind Charlie as she'd been taught, slipping through the double doors into a corridor.

Charlie motioned right and she moved. Rosie took point as Charlie covered. First a through a series of six luxurious bedrooms, huge beds, wooden furniture. Private washrooms bigger than her quarters three times over.

Next came a long kitchen of brushed aluminium and stone worktops. After that a room of exercise equipment and then the last set of doors at the end of the corridor.

The luxurious recreation of the old world stopped immediately. Rosie found herself surrounded by dull steel and oppressively low ceilings. The same hissing doors opened to storerooms filled with canned food, cleaning equipment, tools she recognised. Fluorescent lights that seemed harsher than ever lit the way to the micro reactor. Rosie plugged in immediately. Little bigger than a car, the half sphere of hexagonal sections thrummed with increasing power.

If it had any kind of security it didn't matter to Rosie. The device ran a full diagnostic, reporting back in seconds. No leaks, stable temperature, enough power to last decades.

Rosie marvelled at the mastery of science before her. She'd read about them, even learned about them in the Vault, yet to see the reactor up close felt different. It brought a moment of distraction, but a hissing vent made an all too familiar sound. Whatever the upstairs had been made to look like this was still a Vault.

"All clear?" Brandon asked as they made it back to the first room. Charlie nodded. "Good, jump out, stand easy." Charlie ushered Rosie to the wall as she helped her out of the frame first. Rosie stepped out and did the same for Charlie in turn. Brandon, free of his armour, began pulling away white sheets from plush chairs, low tables made from wooden casks cut in half. More casks had been turned into high stools along a mirror backed bar.

Rosie went to the old photographs on the wall, not even in colour. She saw a hard faced man standing by the same casks. Rolled up shirt sleeves, drum mag submachine gun held in his arms. Boots with steel toe caps on the outside that caught the antique flash. A small brass plate below the picture had writing on it. Rosie brushed away the dust and read it aloud

"Caleb 'Boots' Drecker, nineteen ten."

"I know that name. Local legend, a miner turned bootlegger outlaw." Brandon walked over to another picture, seeing the confusion on Rosie's face. "A criminal, a smuggler."

"Why did they call him Boots?" Rosie asked.

"Had a reputation for kicking people to death. Look here," He pointed to a photograph of the lighthouse then looked out through the glass. Beyond the room stood a natural cavern. Stalactites above and stalagmites below. Rounded rocks indicated the presence of water at some point.

"They must have used this place to ferry booze across the lake and store it here." Brandon couldn't hide his excitement "Man, whoever built this place must have spent a fortune."

"Well that explains this." Charlie reached into a glass case behind the bar and removed the same submachine gun from the picture.

Brandon began going through the green glass bottles from the rack. Charlie busy unpacking booze and food. Both excited by the find, engrossed in bounty at their fingertips. Neither noticed Rosie slip away and up into the night.

She stopped when the real air filled her lungs, dropping to her knees and throwing up. She didn't notice how fast she'd run to get out till now. Charlie found her outside moments later, slumped against the wall.

"I'm sorry, I just need a minute up here and I'll go back…" Rosie couldn't bring herself to say down.

"No you won't. We should have realised." Charlie handed her water from her full canteen and sat next to her in the dirt. "You let me know when you feel better, we'll take the nest tonight."

A few minutes later Charlie pulled a well hidden pack from the seemingly abandoned interior of the lighthouse. She tossed Rosie a bundle of straps with metal attachments.

"Put that on." Rosie stepped into the leg holes and pulled the belt tight over her jeans. Then tighter still, saving Charlie the trouble. From nowhere a single rope tumbled into view, cutting through the centre of the spiral stairs that clung to the round walls. "Grip, move up, release." Charlie showed her to operate the simple metal handle attached to the rope, showing her the same thing with the foot straps.

It's not that high, Rosie told herself. She flexed her hands and arms, trying to gauge the remaining strength. Within seconds Charlie hung a couple of metres off the ground, climbing at speed, in a well practised motion. Rosie followed, swaying back and forth sending waves up the rope that made Charlie laugh.

"Stop there." Rosie let the harness hold her and took a deep breath. She looked up to see Charlie staring at her, hanging upside down. "Relax. Let your legs do the work and find a rhythm. Like sex." Rosie burst out laughing, and found her way.

She'd gone from a room underground with no windows, to a room in the sky with no walls. Better, Rosie thought to herself, much better.

Tarnished brass held broad plate glass windows on all sides. Charlie slid open an old hatch and crawled out to the balcony. Rosie followed but not before counting at least four scoped rifles. Including a fifty cal so long it only just fit in the rack. The gusts of wind flicked at her hair in a welcome manner. The metal of the balcony felt almost warm from the absorbed sunlight of the day.

Rosie ambled all the way round to take in the view. The silver moonlight caught in the otherwise faint green glowing curves of the stream that used to be a lake. Smoothed pebbles gave way to once jagged rock, worn by wind. To one side of the horizon the light that could only be Tower blinked, suspended over a crest of red canopy. In the distance a hazy purple green mist hung low and wide.

"The Glassedlands." Charlie answered without being asked. "Used to be a huge beach by a lake, then it took the brunt of a blast and it turned into radioactive, razor sharp fields of glass. Hell on earth."

"Looks pretty." Rosie tried to hide her sadness at the thought of something so mesmerising being so dangerous.

Sounds of rope being pulled taught and exertion drew them back inside. Rosie sat on the simple bed and Charlie helped Brandon up and in, his strain apparent. Brandon tossed his heavy pack to Charlie who began pulling out the sheets from the luxurious beds deep below. Rosie realised that they were all going to sleep up here. Cramped and uncomfortable, instead of in the huge soft beds below.

"I'm ok, you should sleep downstairs." The others laughed at the idea and Rosie felt more relieved than she'd imagined.

"What and miss this view." Brandon gestured to the view he hadn't looked at. "Besides I found this." He held up a book, "'The life and death of Boots Drecker.'. Listen to this. 'By nineteen twenty Boots is rumoured to be one of the richest men on the east coast. Much of his assets were of course illegitimate. By far the most prominent of his known enterprises was The Grand Hotel. The construction of which he oversaw personally.'"

Brandon sat back in his canvas chair, a wide smile on his face. "We're on the right track."

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