Chapter 4: The Breach
The air in the atrium was thick with the scent of industrial-grade lavender floor cleaner and the nervous sweat of thirty sixteen-year-olds. It was G.O.A.T. Day—the Generalized Occupational Aptitude Test. In any other world, this was just a standardized exam, a minor hurdle before the slow crawl toward retirement.
In the Vault, it was the moment the simulation assigned you a permanent role in the machine.
I stood by the water fountain, adjusting the collar of my “Sunday Best” jumpsuit. It was the same shade of blue as the others, but my mother had pressed it so flat the creases could probably cut bread.
“You look like you’re heading to a funeral, Kenny,” a voice chirped.
I turned to see Lucy. She didn’t just look ready; she looked like she had been born for this… which, depending on Hank MacLean’s true origin, she just might be. Which wasn’t to suggest she didn’t look amazing.
Her hair was pulled back in a perfect, bouncy ponytail, and her smile was so bright it felt like it was actively trying to combat my cynical mood. She had her study guides tucked under one arm, though I knew for a fact she’d memorized them three years ago.
“Just mentally preparing for the possibility that I’m destined to be the assistant cook’s apprentice,” I said, leaning back against the cool metal of the fountain. “I hear the mashed potato consistency is a matter of national security.”
Lucy laughed, that warm, unironic sound that usually made my Charisma 5 feel like it was punching way above its weight class just to keep up.
Yeah. That puberty debuff wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon.
“Don’t be silly.” Lucy assured me. “You’re the smartest person in our year. You’re going to get something wonderful. Maybe Research and Development? Or even a junior seat on the Council? Dad was saying just this morning how much he admires your ‘unorthodox’ approach to maintenance.”
“Unorthodox is one word for it,” I muttered. My Intelligence 9 was currently running a sub-routine that had nothing to do with maintenance or any career paths.
No. I was thinking about the six black felt-tip pens I’d spent the last week slowly pilfering from Reg McPhee’s desk. Reg was a man of intense, almost religious attachment to his stationery. And I was absolutely going to take advantage of that.
The plan was beautiful in its simplicity.
Reg was already convinced that a “phantom thief” was targeting his office. And he was right. It was me. But I’m pinning it on someone else.
Woody Thomas, a man whose only crime was being slightly more disorganized than a toddler, had no idea that his laundry basket was currently a secondary storage site for stolen goods.
Now, you might be asking why I’m doing this. And I’ll tell you.
For fun.
And also because I needed a distraction big enough to pull the Overseer out of his office for ten minutes. You know, so I could investigate all the shady stuff this Vault’s up to, whatever that may be.
A “Pen War” was just the kind of low-stakes drama that would drive Hank MacLean to play peacemaker.
“I’m serious, Kenny,” Lucy said, her expression softening into that sincere, wide-eyed look that made me feel like the worst person in the world for gaslighting her neighbors. “Today is about our future. We’re finally going to know where we belong. I just hope... well, I hope our tracks keep us on the same levels. It would be lonely in the classrooms without you walking by every hour.”
“I’ll always be around, Lucy,” I said, and for once, the sarcasm didn’t quite make it to my tongue. “Even if I’m just the guy scrubbing the vents outside your door.”
The buzzer sounded, a harsh, mechanical rasp that signaled the start of the first testing block. We filed into the classroom, the desks arranged in a rigid grid that felt more like a cage than an educational environment. Mr. Brotch stood at the front, looking like he’d been wearing the same tie since the bombs fell.
“Pick up your styluses,” Mr. Brotch droned. “You have sixty minutes. Remember, the G.O.A.T. is the final word on your contribution to our community. There are no wrong answers, only revelations.”
I stared at the screen of my testing terminal.
Question 1: A frantic Vault scientist rushes up to you and shouts, ‘I’m going to put my quantum harmonizer in your photonic resonation chamber!’ What’s your response?
A) “But doctor, wouldn’t that cause a parabolic destabilization of the fission singularity?”
B) “Yeah? Well, up yours too, buddy!”
C) Say nothing, but grab a nearby pipe and hit the scientist.
D) “You put your what in my what?”
My instinct was to go for A. It was the “Intelligence” answer, the one that would land me in a lab coat where I’d be monitored 24/7 by people like Betty. I couldn’t have that. I needed to be invisible. I needed to be the guy everyone ignored because his job was too boring to discuss.
I tapped B.
Question 2: You are approached by a frenzied Vault dweller who yells, ‘I’m going to kill you! I’m going to kill everyone!’ What do you do?
I scrolled past the “Diplomatic” and “Tactical” options. I picked the one that suggested I hide in a locker and wait for it to blow over.
As I worked through the test, intentionally failing every logic puzzle and choosing the most mediocre social responses possible, I stole a glance at Lucy. She was three rows over, her stylus moving with a fluid, confident grace.
She was probably answering the “Quantum Harmonizer” question with a dissertation on the ethical implications of photonic resonance. She looked happy. She looked like she belonged here.
It made my chest tighten. In a few hours, she’d have her teacher’s certificate, and I’d be “Unassigned Maintenance Grade 4.” To her, it would look like I’d failed. To the system, I’d be a low-priority asset. To me, it was the only way to find out what I needed to know.
I finished the test in twenty minutes and spent the remaining forty staring at the “The Pen Plan” nodes in my head. I’d already confirmed the final drop. Woody’s room was the target. The tension between him and Reg had been simmering for weeks; all it needed was a catalyst.
When the final buzzer rang, Mr. Brotch began collecting the results. “Results will be posted in the cafeteria during the mixer. You are dismissed.”
We poured out into the hall, the atmosphere shifting from silent dread to manic energy. Lucy caught up to me, her face flushed with excitement. “How was it? I thought some of the ethics questions were a bit tricky, but I think I handled them!”
“It was... enlightening,” I said, tucking my hands into my pockets. “I think I’m going to be surprised by my results.”
“Oh, stop it,” she said, nudging my shoulder. “You probably got ‘Lead Researcher.’ Come on, everyone’s heading to the cafeteria. Dad’s giving a speech.”
We walked toward the cafeteria, and as we rounded the corner, I saw Reg McPhee. He was standing near the buffet table, his face a sickly shade of pale, his eyes darting around like he was expecting an ambush. He clutched a clipboard to his chest, but notably, there was no pen in his pocket.
The trap was set. My Luck 3 gave me a tiny, mischievous nudge.
I looked at Lucy, who was waving at her father on the raised dais. Hank looked every bit the benevolent leader, shoulder to shoulder with Betty as they surveyed their “children.” They looked so certain of their world. They looked like they had everything under control.
I felt the weight of the bobby pins in my hidden pocket and the memory of the holotape in my locker.
“Let’s go, then,” I said, offering Lucy my arm. “I wouldn’t want to miss the festivities. I have a feeling today is going to be a real landmark in Vault history.”
“You’re being weirdly dramatic today, Kenny,” Lucy said, taking my arm with a giggle. “It’s just a test.”
“It’s never just a test, Lucy,” I replied, steering her toward the center of the room, right where Reg and Woody were destined to collide. “Sometimes, it’s a revolution.”
…
Lucy my ever faithful companion, was soon engrossed in shaking hands, making small talk, being all social. She was jubilant. Had every right to be. Her results had already come back. Turns out? She passed.
Which was amazing. Because it meant that I could start working on my own plans, conscience free, as I roamed down the cafeteria.
The place was humming with the forced cheer of the G.O.A.T. mixer.
So many people were glued to their pip-boys, as they checked their scores. Others, having checked their scores, were subtly crying into their mac‘n’cheese
But I only had eyes for the two tectonic plates of Vault 33’s social hierarchy about to grind against one another… not in a gay way. Not that I have a problem with gay people. I mean, the Vault might, for population/’50s values reasons, but I don’t.
Um… getting back on track.
Reg McPhee was hovering near the punch bowl, looking like a man who had lost his soul, or at least his favorite Papermate. Woody Thomas stood three feet away, obliviously checking his pockets for a napkin.
I watched with the cold, calculated patience of a predator—or at least a very bored gamer—as Woody pulled his hand out of his pocket. Along with a crumpled tissue, a sleek, black felt-tip pen clattered onto the linoleum floor.
Reg froze. The color drained from his face, then rushed back in a localized tide of crimson fury. He stared at the pen like it was a severed finger.
“Is that… is that my limited edition felt-tip, Woody?” Reg’s voice was a jagged whisper that carried perfectly across the sudden lull in the room.
Woody blinked, looking down at the pen as if it had just teleported there. “Oh! Gosh, Reg. I don’t know how that got in there. I must have… found it? In my laundry?”
This was the moment.
I stepped forward, putting on my best ‘concerned citizen’ face. My Charisma 5 felt like a warm hum in the back of my throat. “You know, Reg, I hate to say it, but I’ve noticed Woody hasn’t exactly been subtle lately. It’s almost like he doesn’t respect the time and effort you put into your filing system. Like he thinks your things are just… community property.”
[Speech Check: Successful]
Reg’s eyes went wide, his nostrils flaring. “Community property? You think I’m a joke, Woody? You think you can just take whatever you want because you’re ‘easy-going’?”
“Now hold on, Reg! You’re being a real… a real meanie-head!” Woody shouted back, his eyes scrunching behind his glasses. “I’m a nice guy! You’re just a big, grumpy old stick-in-the-mud who spends too much time sniffing ink!”
“Oh yeah? Well, your jumpsuit is always wrinkled and you smell like old yeast!” Reg countered, stepping into Woody’s personal space.
It was pathetic. A playground spat between two grown men who had been raised on a diet of conflict-resolution seminars and mandatory politeness. They were vibrating with rage but lacked the vocabulary to express it.
“You’re just… you’re just jealous because my father was a Senior Hydro-Tech and yours was just a filter-scrubber!” Woody yelled, his voice cracking. “And besides, maybe I found them in my laundry because you put them there yourself, you… you dumb, silly-billy incest baby!”
The room went deathly silent. Even for a Vault, where the gene pool was more of a gene puddle, that was the ultimate nuclear option. Woody’s eyes went wide with immediate, soul-crushing regret. “Oh, gosh, Reg. I didn’t mean—that was uncalled for. I’m so sorry, I—”
But Reg was gone. The “incest” comment had snapped the final tether of his Vault-bred restraint. With a primal, high-pitched shriek, Reg lunged forward.
He didn’t punch. He didn’t kick. He grabbed Woody by the shoulders and began a frantic, uncoordinated slapping motion that looked like a bird trying to dry its wings. Woody let out a startled yelp and began shoving back, his hands splayed out as they tumbled into a table of Deviled Eggs.
“Fight! Fight! Fight!” someone yelled—I think it was Chet—and suddenly the entire cafeteria was a sea of blue jumpsuits rushing toward the spectacle.
It was a riot by Vault 33 standards. People were standing on chairs to get a better view of the two men rolling on the floor, their limbs tangled as they traded weak slaps and muffled insults about each other’s lineage and work ethic.
“Break it up! Immediately!” Hank’s voice boomed from the dais, his Overseer authority finally kicking in. I saw him vault over the railing with surprising agility, followed closely by a horrified Betty.
This was my window. While the entire leadership and security detail of the Vault were busy untangling two grown men covered in egg salad, I turned on my heel and slipped through the side door.
The corridor outside was eerily quiet, the sound of the ‘brawl’ muffled by the heavy bulkheads. I moved with a quick, silent grace, my heart doing a light tap-dance against my ribs. My Agility 1 meant I wasn’t exactly a ninja, but nobody was looking. Everyone was too busy watching the most exciting thing to happen in a decade.
I reached the Overseer’s office in record time. The heavy door was, as I’d hoped, unlocked in the chaos. Hank had been in such a rush to play hero that he’d forgotten the basic tenets of op-sec.
I slipped inside, the door hissing shut behind me with a satisfying click. The office was cool, smelling of old leather and expensive tobacco—a sharp contrast to the smell of sweat and mustard I’d just left behind.
I made a beeline for the terminal. It was a beautiful piece of pre-war tech, its green screen glowing with the promise of secrets. I sat in the plush chair, my fingers hovering over the keys. I didn’t have the perk to crack this thing if it was locked, but I knew my target. Hank MacLean wasn’t a hacker; he was a bureaucrat. And bureaucrats always left a trail.
“Okay, Hank,” I whispered, my Intelligence 9 brain already scanning the desk for the one thing every middle-manager can’t live without. “Where do you keep the keys to the kingdom?”
I tapped the keyboard, and the screen flickered, demanding a level of authorization that made my stomach drop. Master. Of course it was. Even if I’d spent every single perk point since my tenth birthday on Hacker, I still wouldn’t have been able to touch this for another ten levels.
It was a digital fortress, one that I sadly would not be hacking my way into.
But I wouldn’t say it was hopeless.
The thing with “geniuses” like Hank MacLean, is that they’re a specific breed of predictable. They spent so much time playing four-dimensional chess, worrying about grand conspiracies and master strategies, that they completely stepped over the glaringly obvious.
All of which is to say, he can probably compute Pi to the fiftieth digit. But I bet you a million dollars he’s the kind of idiot who needs to write his own password down so he doesn’t forget it, and keeps it right by his device.
I began a systematic sweep of the desk.
Not in the drawers—too obvious. Not under the keyboard—too cliché. I picked up a heavy ceramic mug that sat near the monitor. It was a “World’s Best Dad” trophy, probably a gift from Lucy years ago, and I turned it over.
Taped to the bottom was a small, yellowed strip of paper with a string of alphanumeric gibberish scrawled in Hank’s precise, slightly cramped handwriting.
“Gotcha, you magnificent moron,” I whispered, the words barely a breath.
I punched in the code, and the terminal let out a triumphant chime, the RobCo logo swirling into a complex menu tree. I worked fast, my fingers flying over the keys. I bypassed the standard announcements about crop yields and the latest “Keep it Clean” motivational messages.
There was nothing overtly incriminating on the surface—no files labeled Top Secret Evil Plans—but there were communication logs.
My eyes snagged on two active nodes: VAULT 31 and VAULT 32.
I still didn’t know much about 32, other than the fact that they were our sister vault, but 31 was the black box. The source. I opened a remote terminal link, the interface shifting to a starker, colder blue. It asked for a handshake protocol.
I hesitated for only a second before I channeled every “Dad-ism” I’d ever heard Hank utter. I adopted a formal, slightly stiff typing style, the kind of corporate-speak that favored words like synergy, compliance, and optimization.
ADMIN-33: REQUESTING IMMEDIATE LOGISTICS SYNC AND MATERIAL EXCHANGE GATEWAY. STANDBY FOR HANDSHAKE.
The screen pulsed.
ADMIN-31: HANDSHAKE ACCEPTED. OPENING INTER-VAULT TRANSIT LOCK 01. ALL HAIL BUD.
A heavy, low-frequency hum vibrated through the floorboards of the office. It was a sound I’d never heard in all my years in the Vault—the sound of a massive, ancient mechanism finally being told to wake up.
“Wait,” I muttered, my heart suddenly hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird.
The notification on the screen flickered: INTER-VAULT TRANSIT LOCK 01 ENGAGED. LOCATION: SUB-LEVEL 4.
“Sub-level four?” I stood up so fast the chair screeched against the floor. “That’s across the entire damn Vault!”
The realization hit me like a physical blow.
I’d opened the door, but the door wasn’t in this office. It was almost half a mile from me, with hundreds of people between us, and I’d just sent a massive signal to whatever—or whoever—was on the other side of that lock.
If I didn’t get there before the “sync” timed out, or before Hank finished playing referee to the Great Pen War, I was dead. Or worse, I was caught.
I didn’t bother closing the terminal. If I made it, it wouldn’t matter. If I didn’t, I was screwed anyway.
I bolted for the door, my Agility 1 making the turn into the hallway feel like a clumsy drift in a heavy-duty truck. My boots thudded against the metal grating as I ignored every safety protocol in the manual, my lungs already starting to burn. I had to book it.
I had to get to the sub-levels before the shadow of Vault 31 decided to crawl back into its hole.
…
The cafeteria looked less like a venue for celebrating the future and more like the aftermath of a particularly aggressive food fight at a pre-war daycare. Lucy sighed, gingerly picking up a bent fork that had somehow ended up lodged in a decorative centerpiece. It was all so very un-Vault-like.
They were supposed to be the shining examples of civilization, yet here were two of their most senior residents, two/thirds of the Council even, being carted off to the med-bay because of a disagreement over office supplies.
At least they were safe now. Her father had handled it with his usual grace, though he did look uncharacteristically frazzled as he wiped a smear of deviled egg off his sleeve.
“I just don’t understand the breakdown in communication, Lucy,” Hank said, his voice tight with a rare flicker of genuine irritation. “Reg is usually so composed. And Woody… well, Woody is Woody, but ‘incest baby’? That’s a level of hostility we simply don’t see in thirty-three.”
“Everyone is just on edge because of the G.O.A.T., Dad,” Lucy said, offering him a sympathetic smile as she stacked a tray of discarded napkins. “It’s a big day! Big emotions are bound to happen. I’m sure once they’ve had some rest and a stern talking-to, they’ll be back to their old selves.”
She tried to keep her voice light, but her eyes kept drifting toward the door.
Kenny was gone. He’d been right there beside her when the shouting started, but the moment the first slap landed, he’d vanished. She’d checked the “Unassigned” roster on the main terminal by the door—a little habit she’d picked up whenever she wanted to see where her friends were landing—and his name was still a glaring, empty white space.
It was starting to worry her. Everyone else had their icons: Teacher, Technician, Hydro-Worker. Kenny was just… blank.
“Have you seen Kenny, Dad?” Lucy asked, trying to sound casual as she wiped down a table. “I thought he’d want to hear the final scores.”
Hank let out a heavy breath, checking his Pip-Boy with a frown. “Kenneth? No. And frankly, Lucy, his G.O.A.T. results were… concerning. He didn’t just fail to specialize; he seems to have actively avoided every high-level placement he’s qualified for. I have half a mind to call him into the office for a private review. We can’t have minds like his idling in Level 4 maintenance.”
“He’s probably just contemplating his path!” Lucy interjected quickly, her defensive instincts flaring. “He’s deep, Dad. You know how he is. He doesn’t just pick a job; he has to understand how it fits into the whole ecosystem of the Vault. He’s taking his future seriously. He probably just needed some quiet time to process everything.”
“I hope you’re right, Lucy,” Hank said, though he didn’t look convinced. “But I need him to check in soon. Betty is already asking about the unassigned pool.”
Lucy finished her section of the cleaning and made a quick excuse to head toward the residential levels. She told herself she was just going to check if he was in his room, but her feet carried her past the administrative wing instead. The halls were mostly empty, the residents still huddled in the cafeteria or celebrating in small groups elsewhere.
As she neared her father’s office, she slowed down. The heavy door wasn’t clicked shut. It was sitting ajar by a fraction of an inch, a sliver of the interior light spilling out into the corridor.
Her heart gave a little skip. Was he in there? Maybe he’d gone to talk to her father and they’d just missed each other?
She reached out, her fingers inches away from the cold metal of the handle. She could just peek in. If Kenny was in trouble, or if he’d left something behind, she should know. Her curiosity tugged at her, a rare, rebellious urge to see what lay behind the forbidden threshold of the Overseer’s sanctuary.
Then, the “Good Girl” voice in the back of her head—the one that sounded remarkably like the etiquette holotapes they played in primary school—cleared its throat. An Overseer’s office is a place of privacy and trust, Lucy. To enter without an invitation is to undermine the very stability we work so hard to maintain.
She bit her lip. Entering would be wrong. It would be… sneaky. And Lucy MacLean wasn’t sneaky. She was a teacher. She was a leader. She was a MacLean.
With a small, resolute nod, she placed her hand on the outside of the door and gently pushed it shut until she heard the magnetic lock click into place.
“There,” she whispered to the empty hallway. “Nice and secure.”
She turned and continued on her way, a proud little spring in her step. She’d done the right thing. She’d respected the rules. As she headed toward the elevators, she felt a surge of warmth at how much she and Kenny were growing up today. He was off being a deep, mysterious thinker, and she was already demonstrating the integrity required of a future community leader.
Vault 33 couldn’t be in better hands!
…
If I could, I would travel back in time, and crush the hands of the person who designed Vault 33! So. Many. Floors!
By the time I hit the sub-levels, my lungs felt like they were being scrubbed with steel wool. Agility 1 was a cruel mistress. I wasn’t running so much as I was a runaway freight train made of awkward limbs and desperate intent, stumbling over floor pipes and nearly eating a face-full of bulkhead at every corner.
How did Hank do this? Seriously. The man was a middle-aged bureaucrat who looked like his idea of a workout was a brisk walk to the coffee machine. Maybe there was a secret Overseer golf cart I hadn’t found yet. Or maybe the “Management” path just came with a hidden buff to cardio.
I rounded the final turn into the Maintenance Terminus, my boots skidding on the slick metal floor. The massive, circular door to Vault 31 was already unlatched, a heavy, groaning hiss of pressurized air escaping into the hallway. It didn’t open like the main gear door; it slid back with the ponderous weight of a tombstone being shoved aside.
“Time to see what’s behind the curtain, Dorothy,” I wheezed, bracing myself against the frame.
I stepped through the threshold, and the temperature dropped forty degrees in a single heartbeat. It wasn’t just “Vault chilly”—it was a deep, aggressive, bone-biting frost that felt like it wanted to crystallize the moisture in my eyes. I sucked in a breath and felt the cold bite into my throat, but my Endurance 9 kicked in, a dull, stubborn warmth spreading from my core to keep my muscles from seizing.
The lights flickered on, dim and sterile. It wasn’t a dungeon. There were no rad-roaches, no traps, no high-level sentry bots guarding the gate. It was a morgue. Rows upon rows of sleek, vertical tubes lined the walls, frosted over with a thick layer of ice that obscured whatever was inside. It was silent, save for the low, rhythmic hum of a massive refrigeration system.
Then, I heard it. A mechanical whir. A frantic, rolling clicking sound.
From the shadows of the main aisle, a shape emerged. My pulse spiked. I’d played enough Fallout 4 to know what a Robobrain looked like—monsters made of tank treads, Tesla coils, and a human brain suspended in bio-gel. They were mid-to-high-level threats that could turn a player into ash before they even saw the combat music start.
“Initiating... management... protocol!” a voice squeaked.
It sounded like a disgruntled accountant speaking through a tin can. As the thing rolled into the dim light of the entryway, I froze. It had the treads. It had the glass dome with the pulsing brain. But it was... tiny. It was the size of a glorified Roomba. A miniature Robobrain.
“Unauthorized entry! This is a secure... Bud’s Buds facility! Halt! Halt, I say!” The little bot bumped into a protruding floor vent, backed up, and bumped into it again.
I didn’t care about the size. In my head, I was seeing a Level 30 encounter. I didn’t wait for the Mesmetron blast or the dual-mounted laser fire. I lunged.
I used every bit of my momentum and my Endurance 9 to launch a flying tackle that would have made a football coach weep. I hit the little bot like a sack of bricks. There was a pathetic clunk as my weight bore down on the machine, and we skidded across the frosted floor in a tangle of blue jumpsuit and vibrating treads.
With a desperate grapple, I gripped the side of the chassis and heaved, flipping the thing over.
I scrambled back, hands up, waiting for the self-destruct sequence or the hidden turret to pop out of its base. I waited for the fire. I waited for the end.
Instead, the little Robobrain just lay there on its rounded glass dome, its tiny treads spinning uselessly in the air like a flipped turtle. It emitted a series of indignant, high-pitched beeps.
“This is... highly irregular!” the bot shrieked, its brain pulsing a frantic pink color. “You have compromised the integrity of the Management! Flip me back! I am Bud Askins! I am the visionary behind the future of corporate longevity! Help! Help! I’m having a non-optimal experience!”
I stood up, wiping frost and grease from my palms, my heart still trying to exit my chest. I looked down at the ‘visionary’ at my feet. The thing was barely a foot tall. It didn’t even have arms. Just a speaker, some sensors, and a very grumpy-looking gray matter floating in a jar.
“That’s it?” I said, my voice echoing in the freezing hall. “You’re the big secret? The mystery that’s been hanging over my head for the last six years? Really?”
Words alone cannot express my disappointment.
“I am the Senior Executive Vice President of Vault-Tec! I am the architect of the ‘Bud’s Buds’ initiative!” ‘Bud’ (apparently) shouted, his treads whirring so fast they created a small breeze. “You are in violation of your employment contract, young man! I demand you right me this instant, or I shall record a very negative performance review in your permanent file!”
I looked around the room again. The “Management.” The people in the pods. The cold. It was just a bunch of middle-managers waiting for the world to end so they could take over the ruins. It wasn’t a master plan; it was a corporate retreat that had lasted two centuries too long.
I looked back down at Bud. I considered just crushing the glass dome. One good stomp with my maintenance boots and “Management” would be a puddle of gel and broken dreams. He was a would-be murderer, a man who had helped end the world just so he could be in charge of the ashes.
But then he hit a wall. Even on his back, he managed to wiggle enough to slide an inch, and his dome bumped into the base of a cryo-pod with a dull thud.
“Ow,” Bud muttered. “That was... sub-optimal.”
It was too sad to kill. It was like kicking a puppy that was trying to lecture you on your 401k.
“Alright, Bud. Here’s how this is going to go,” I said, crouching down so I was eye-level with the spinning treads. “I’m not going to flip you over. In fact, if you don’t start talking, I’m going to find the loudest, most obnoxious pre-war pop music I can find—probably something with a lot of autotune and synthesizers—and I’m going to loop it through your external sensors for the next forty-eight hours. And after that? We’re going to watch trashy reality TV. I’ve got holotapes of ‘The Real Housewives.’ It’ll make your brain liquefy.”
“You... you monster!” Bud gasped. “That is a violation of the Geneva Convention and several Vault-Tec employee wellness guidelines!”
“I don’t have a contract, Bud. I’m ‘Unassigned,’“ I reminded him, a cold smirk crossing my face. “Now, tell me where the Master Keycard is. And tell me exactly what your ‘Bud’s Buds’ are doing, and how my best friend’s father is involved, or I start the music. I think I’ve got some ‘Scat Jazz’ saved on my Pip-Boy just for an occasion like this.”
“The Keycard is in the central hub console!” Bud squealed, his treads finally slowing down in a sign of mechanical defeat. “Just... please. No synthesizers. I have a very sensitive auditory processor. It was calibrated for soft jazz and the sound of falling stock prices.”
“Good choice,” I said, standing up. “Now then, buddy… let’s talk.”
…
This was, by every conceivable metric, a catastrophic breach of corporate protocol.
Bud Askins—Senior Vice President of Vault-Tec and the singular visionary behind the salvation of the human race—lay on his rounded glass dome, staring up at the frost-dusted ceiling of Vault 31.
His treads whirred in a high-pitched, pathetic whine of mechanical distress. From this angle, the rows of cryo-pods looked like a forest of frozen productivity, and right now, a "variable" was walking through that forest with all the grace of a rad-roach in a server room.
This is why we have HR, Bud’s consciousness pulsed in a frantic, pink rhythm. To filter out the non-compliant elements before they reach the executive suite.
The boy, this "Kenny," wasn’t even looking for the data he’d supposedly come for yet. Instead, he was leaning over Pod 14—the current residence of a very promising Junior Executive from the Accounting Department—and was using a gloved finger to smear the frost on the glass.
“What... what are you doing?” Bud shrieked, his speaker crackling with indignation. “That is sensitive corporate property! You are interfering with a high-value asset!”
Kenny didn’t look back. He finished his work with a flourish and stepped aside. Bud’s sensors adjusted their focal length. On the front of the pod, scrawled into the ice with juvenile precision, was a crude, anatomical drawing of a phallus.
“It’s called ‘Performance Art,’ Bud,” Kenny said, moving on to Pod 15. “Consider it a critique of your management style. I’m not a big fan of the whole ‘end the world’ philosophy.”
“This is vandalism!” Bud’s brain swirled in its bio-gel, the equivalent of a stress-induced migraine. “Do you have any idea how much those pods cost? The maintenance requirements alone are—wait, no! Not on Director Halloway! He’s a sensitive soul!”
Kenny ignored him, humming a discordant tune as he added another "critique" to the Director’s pod. It was a targeted, systematic humiliation of the entire Vault-Tec hierarchy. It was inefficient. It was chaotic. It was exactly the kind of un-optimized behavior Bud had spent two hundred years trying to breed out of the human race.
Finally, the boy seemed to grow bored with his art project and wandered toward the central hub console. He moved with a heavy, uncoordinated stride—Agility was clearly not his primary attribute—but his eyes were sharp. Too sharp.
He bypassed the primary terminal lockout and headed straight for the high-security lockbox mounted to the side of the mainframe.
“You won’t get in,” Bud asserted, attempting to inject some executive authority into his tinny voice. “That box requires a multi-factor authentication string that changes every six hours based on the pre-war stock market closing prices. Unless you have a direct uplink to the—oh, come on!”
Kenny hadn’t even tried to hack the keypad. He’d simply produced a set of heavy-duty maintenance shears from his jumpsuit and jammed them into the seam of the box, using his entire body weight to lean against the tool. With a sickening screech of metal, the door groaned, warped, and eventually snapped open.
“Brute force,” Bud muttered, his pink light dimming in despair. “How very... primitive.”
“Sorry, but I was fresh out of bobby pins.” Kenny reached inside and pulled out a sleek, translucent card that shimmered with an amber internal glow. The Master Keycard. The skeleton key to every bulkhead, every terminal, and every secret door in the tri-vault system.
But the boy wasn’t done. He reached back into the box and pulled out a physical folder—one of the few paper records Bud kept as a backup for the eventual Reclamation. On the tab, in neat, pre-war lettering, were the words Project Dandelion: Genetic Pairings.
Kenny flipped it open. Bud watched the boy’s face change. The smirk vanished. His jaw tightened, and his eyes scanned the pages with a cold, terrifying intensity.
“Lucy MacLean,” Kenny whispered, his voice sounding like grinding gravel. “Pairing Status: Primary. Target Match: Executive Candidate 31-04.”
“She’s a high-value breeder!” Bud defended, his treads spinning in a nervous twitch. “Her lineage is impeccable! Hank did a marvelous job ensuring her traits were—wait, what are you doing with that pen?”
Kenny didn’t answer. He took a heavy black marker from his pocket and dragged it across the page, blacking out Lucy’s name, her pairing, and the entire "Project Dandelion" header with such force that the paper nearly tore. He didn’t just redact it; he erased it from the narrative.
“The ‘Long Game’ just ended, Bud,” Kenny said, slamming the folder shut and shoving the Master Keycard into his Pip-Boy. “Now, it’s just a race to the exit.”
The boy turned back to Bud, and for the first time, the "Roomba" felt a genuine chill that had nothing to do with the room's temperature. Kenny walked over and scooped Bud up by his chassis.
“Wait! What are you doing? Where are we going?” Bud asked, his sensors spinning wildly as the floor disappeared. “I can be very helpful! I have ideas for a new synergized work-flow for Level 4!”
“You’re going into a meeting, Bud,” Kenny said, walking toward a large, empty pod labeled MACLEAN, H. “A very, very long meeting.”
“No! This is Hank’s pod! It’s calibrated for a much larger frame!” Bud shrieked as Kenny popped the latch. “The thermal distribution will be all wrong! I’ll be off-balance! This is a violation of my personal space!”
Kenny didn't say a word. He simply set Bud inside the pod, right on top of the padded seat meant for a human being. The little brain-bot looked tiny and ridiculous in the cavernous space.
“Sorry, not sorry,” Kenny said, his hand lingering on the manual override lever. “Stay frosty, Bud.”
He pulled the lever.
The glass door hissed shut, and the internal cooling system let out a blast of nitrogen. Bud’s sensors began to frost over immediately. His last sight of the world was Kenny Conroy turning his back on the "Management," the Master Keycard held firmly in his hand, as he walked away toward the light of the sub-levels.
Sub-optimal, Bud’s last conscious thought pulsed weakly through the ice.
Deeply... sub-optimal.
…
Lucy stood at the front of the classroom, her hands smoothed over the crisp fabric of her teacher-candidate apron. It felt official. It felt right. The scent of old paper was the smell of her new future. This was exactly where she was meant to be, though a tiny, persistent ache in her chest kept drawing her thoughts back to the cafeteria.
Poor Kenny.
She’d seen the way he looked at his terminal during the G.O.A.T.—so focused, yet so strained. It was such a shame that his brilliant mind had been subjected to those nonsensical questions. He was probably devastated.
She hadn’t even seen him since the cafeteria debacle.
She could already picture him, shoulders slumped, eyes downcast as he processed the news of a mediocre placement. He’d need a friendly face. A supportive hand on his arm. Maybe even a long, comforting embrace in the quiet of the hydro-ponics bay. Or his room. Yes, his room was much more private for the kind of intensive emotional support she was planning to provide.
And if things happened to get a little… adventurous… while she was “comforting” him, she certainly wouldn’t be the one to stop it. If anything, she’d be the one making sure the door was locked…
“Miss MacLean?”
The voice snapped Lucy back to reality. A dozen pairs of eyes—young, expectant, and slightly bored—were staring at her.
“Sorry about that! I was just reflecting on the gravity of today’s topic,” Lucy said, her voice reclaiming its natural, sunny lilt. She tapped the chalkboard, where a bright, hand-drawn map of a fictional green valley sat. “Today, we’re talking about the Great American Reconstruction. The reason we are all here. The reason our ancestors survived the fire and the shadows. To one day reclaim the surface and make it whole again!”
A small hand shot up in the second row.
It belonged to Mia Conroy, who was currently wearing an expression that suggested she found the entire concept of history to be an elaborate prank. “If the surface is so great, why are we still in a hole, Miss MacLean? My brother says the air up there probably tastes like rust and despair.”
Gosh darn it, Kenny!
Don’t corrupt the precious youth!
Lucy leaned forward, her eyes sparkling with the kind of absolute conviction that made her the favorite child of Vault 33. “Oh, Mia, your brother just has a very… colorful imagination. The surface isn’t rust. It’s potential!”
And it is! She loved them, but she really wished the Conroy family wasn’t so cynical… aside from Elena, of course, who selflessly kept all her positivity genes to herself.
“Imagine a world where the ceiling is so high you can’t see the lightbulbs because the sun is doing all the work for you.” She continued. “Grass so green it looks like a painting, and a sky so blue it makes the atrium lights look like dim candles. We’re here to be the seeds, waiting for the right season to bloom.”
“But it’s been over two hundred years,” Mia pointed out, crossing her arms. “That’s a really long winter. Even for seeds.”
“That just means the bloom will be even more spectacular when it happens!” Lucy laughed, her optimism acting like a physical shield against the girl’s skepticism. “We are the caretakers of the flame. Every time you study your math, every time you help in the gardens, you’re helping us get one step closer to that blue sky. We have to be ready, because the world is waiting for us to fix it.”
She continued the lesson, spinning a tale of pre-war grandeur and post-war destiny that had most of the kids leaning in, their skepticism melting under the heat of her enthusiasm. Out of the corner of her eye, she saw a movement at the classroom door.
Kenny was standing there.
He was leaning against the frame, his arms crossed, watching her with that unreadable, slightly lopsided smirk he always wore. For a fleeting second, their eyes locked. Lucy felt a sudden, frantic flutter in her stomach—a mix of pride and a desperate urge to run over and tell him everything was going to be okay. He looked so serious. So contemplative.
Then, as quickly as he’d appeared, he slipped back into the shadows of the hallway.
A surge of warmth flooded Lucy’s chest.
He was taking it seriously. Even with the G.O.A.T. behind them, he was still checking in on her, still thinking about their future together. He might not end up as a Lead Researcher or an Assistant Overseer, but he was trying. He was finding his way.
And no matter what his Pip-Boy said, she was going to be right there to make sure he knew that as long as he had her, he’d already won the highest honor the Vault had to offer.
“Now, class, turn to page forty-two,” Lucy said, her voice practically singing with a newfound energy. “Let’s talk about the first pioneers of the Reclamation!”