Chapter 9: Free Bird
The green monochrome glow of my Pip-Boy was the only thing keeping the crushing darkness of the barracks at bay. I sat perfectly still on the edge of my squeaky mattress, watching the digital seconds tick down with the absolute focus of a man waiting for a bomb to drop.
11:51 PM.
Nine minutes left. I had spent the last three hours forcing myself to take a tactical nap… which honestly makes it sound harder than it was. I basically watched the number three tick down in a box, while I remained conscious throughout the whole thing.
“I miss sleep.” I sighed. How sad is my life that I miss being blacked out for a third of the day?
Upside is? My one and only auto-save updated to just now. I guess in Survival Mode, sleeping was the closest you got to a quick save… as long as you don’t mind biting it to load one up. And for the record? Sleep doesn’t fix everything, despite what the Well Rested perk might say.
My body still felt like it had been run over by a pack of bighorners thanks to the day's brutal conditioning drills. But mentally, at least, I was locked in. The exhaustion was gone, replaced by a cold, sharp edge of adrenaline. There was no turning back now.
No more loops, no more trial runs, and absolutely no more getting vaporized by Gatling lasers or blown to pieces by hidden tripwires. This was the run. I’m done talking.
“Time to start playing.”
Right on cue, a familiar, quiet chime resonated directly in my skull, and crisp green text manifested in the upper-left corner of my vision, cutting through the shadows of the concrete bunker.
[QUEST STARTED: FREE BIRD]
I flickered over to the data tab on my wrist interface, scrolling to pull up the fresh mission log.
Wow. First Vault 33, now the Brotherhood of Steel? Good for you! Nothing can tie you down! Be a man! Say no to commitment and responsibility! Say yes to freedom! Oh, but, you may want a ride out, first.
Goal: Escape The Brotherhood of Steel
“Yeah, no shit. You stupid piece of pre-war junk,” I muttered under my breath, the tiny, scratchy whisper instantly swallowed by the chorus of heavy, synchronized snoring filling the room. “How the fuck did you guys stop the rise of smartphones?”
It was accurate, though.
I had zero loyalty to this hypocritical, sexist, racist, tech-hoarding military cult, and I had even less desire to spend the next year of my life scrubbing grease off vertibird landing gear just to earn the right to sit in the cockpit. I was a Vault-dweller with a stolen identity and a brain full of twenty-first-century video game trivia. I belonged out there, in the wide-open wastes, making actual moves to fix this broken world instead of playing soldier for a bunch of paranoid zealots.
But to do that, I needed a damn Vertibird.
What can I say?
Walking sucks.
I toggled over to my stats menu, staring grimly at the digital representation of my physical limitations. My Endurance was a beautiful, rock-solid nine, which was probably the only reason my heart hadn't exploded from the sheer stress of dying four separate times. My Intelligence was a towering nine, meaning I could see every single moving part of this base like a grandmaster analyzing a chessboard.
But then there was that miserable, mocking number one sitting right next to my Agility stat.
“So this is why dungeon masters always want you to distribute points wisely…” It’s a shame my S.P.E.C.I.A.L system didn’t have wisdom as a base stat. Then again, it’s a Catch 22. You have to have wisdom, in order to use it wisely.
With that said, I think I can wisely say, I could have benefited from putting more points into agility.
Moving my body still felt like trying to steer a shopping cart with three broken wheels through a swamp. I lacked baseline reflexes, my balance was a joke, and if I tried to pull off a classic, high-speed stealth heist entirely on my own, the universe would absolutely find a loose wrench for me to trip over within ten seconds. Believe me. I know.
Not all hope is lost, though. I still had one unspent perk point hovering in the corner of the screen, a glowing little green cross that I was purposefully hoarding. It was my literal emergency panic button. If everything went entirely off the rails during the execution phase, I could drop that point into whatever survival perk saved my skin in the moment.
But for now, the plan still required human resources.
I double-checked my inventory, making sure my prized, pre-war aviator sunglasses were securely pushed up the bridge of my nose to grant me that sweet, much-needed charisma bump. My trusty 10mm pistol was tucked securely into the waistband of my initiate jumpsuit, the cold steel pressing against my lower back as a reassuring reminder that I wasn't entirely defenseless.
I turned my head, casting a slow, calculated gaze across the dim barracks at the sleeping forms of Squad Four. In my mind, they weren't just a bunch of brainwashed recruits anymore; they were my companions.
If this were a classic tabletop campaign, I’d be able to adventure with a solid three-man party, leaving only one person behind at the camp… Dane.
Probably Dane.
Even after saving their skin from a surprise audit with that backdated ammunition loophole, I still didn't like them very much. They were too cold, too bureaucratic, and far too attached to that stupid clipboard. I want to snap it so much!
But personal feelings didn't matter tonight. What mattered was getting the hell out of this concrete cage, and to do that, I needed my meat-shield to move into position first.
I slid off my bunk with agonizing slowness, my feet hitting the cold concrete without making a single sound. I crept across the narrow, shadowy aisle, bypassing Lucy’s bunk entirely—she was sleeping peacefully, completely unaware that her entire moral compass was about to be weaponized against her—and stopped right beside Maximus.
The guy was sleeping in a rigid, military posture, his brow furrowed even in his dreams as if he were actively brooding while unconscious. I reached out, pressing two fingers against his shoulder and shaking him just enough to break his sleep cycle without triggering his cult-trained survival instincts.
“Max? Maximus? Maximillian? Maxi-pad? Mad Max? Wake up. It's time.” I whispered rapidly, my voice barely a breath as his eyes snapped open in the darkness. He immediately went to sit up, but I clamped a hand over his shoulder, pinning him to the mattress before he could make a sound. “Keep your voice down. I need you to do a quick comms check for me. And from this moment on, you need to do exactly what I say.”
He licked my palm.
“Gross, dude!” I hissed, snatching my hand back.
“You started it!” He hissed back, pointing at me accusingly, before redirecting the finger at his chest. “I was sleeping! I was just defending myself!”
“With your tongue?”
“The human tongue is a lethal weapon.”
Well…
He’s not wrong.
…
The concrete corridors of the bunker were cold, dark, and smelling faintly of scorched wiring and the cheap, synthetic lard the scribes used to grease the blast doors. Perfect. It was a dirty night for a dirty job, the kind of night where a man had to look deep into the dark, hollow eyes of fate and whisper, “Not today, sweetheart.”
Maximus crept forward in his standard-issue, terribly un-aerodynamic initiate boots, his heart hammering against his ribs like a rad-roach trapped in a tin can. Ahead of him, Kenny was gliding through the shadows—well, gliding was a strong word.
Kenny was shuffling with immense intellectual purpose, occasionally stubbing his toe on a floor grate and whispering something venomous about his personal attributes, but he moved with the absolute certainty of a man who owned the place. Maximus could relate. He too, was burdened with glorious purpose.
The Shield Hero.
That was who Maximus was now.
Kenny had laid it all out for him during their secret, high-stakes barracks briefing. The Brotherhood talk about being the sword, cutting down the wicked, but swords get blunt. Swords chip. Swords are overcompensated pieces of sharp metal for people who want to look imposing in a painted portrait.
A shield?
A shield takes the hit. A shield stands between the monster and the innocent, getting dented, scratched, and bloodied, but never breaking. Maximus wasn’t just a recruit anymore. He was a holy barrier.
“The shadows grow long in the valley of treason,” Maximus murmured under his breath, his voice dropping into a raspy, gravelly register that felt entirely appropriate for the gravity of a midnight heist. “A man walks a lonely road when he chooses to be a guardian instead of a soldier. The air is thick with the scent of impending doom. And motor oil.”
“Max, what the hell are you doing?” Kenny paused in the shadow of a massive ventilation duct, his pre-war aviator sunglasses reflecting the dim, red emergency lights of the corridor. “Are you narrating yourself? Did you swallow a holotape?”
“A man’s thoughts are his own business, Kenny,” Maximus muttered, adjusting the collar of his jumpsuit. “The world outside doesn’t give you a script. You have to write your own in the dirt.”
“Please stop doing that voice. You sound like a ghoul with a throat infection,” Kenny whispered, peering around the corner with intense focus. “Alright, look. In exactly twenty-three seconds, Knight Varley is going to get a sudden, violent urge to check the secondary auxiliary hall because his stomach is rejecting the mystery stew from dinner. We’ll go on three.”
“On three, or after three?”
“Same thing.”
“No way. On three would be like, one… two… go. After three would be one… two… three… go.” Maximus explained, counting the numbers on his fingers. “So, that’s like a whole second difference.”
“Who counts up?”
“I do!”
“That’s dumb. You’re dumb.” Kenny muttered in a whisper, as he rolled his eyes. “We’re going to miss it. Fine. After three. And we’ll be counting down. Okay?”
“Fine.”
“Fine.”
“Great!”
“… that got weird. Sorry.”
“Me too.”
“Cool, now shut up.” Kenny whispered, and Maximus regretted apologizing. “It’s happening. Get ready. Three… two… one… go.”
Sure enough, a heavy, armored sigh echoed from around the bend, followed by the distinctive, metallic clanking of a T-60 Knight groaning in digestive agony and shuffling rapidly in the opposite direction. Maximus blinked, utterly awed.
Thaddeus was convinced Kenny was some kind of ancient, mystical wizard, but Maximus knew better. Wizards were fairy tale garbage from old pre-war books. Kenny was a prophet. Obviously. The Almighty had clearly looked down at the Wasteland, seen Kenny’s immaculate sunglasses, and decided to give him the secrets to reality.
It was the only logical explanation.
They darted across the open intersection, Maximus sprinting so hard his left boot caught on a jagged piece of loose rebar protruding from the foundation. Pop. The cheap canvas split right down the seam, and his foot launched completely out of the footwear, sending the boot skittering loudly across the floor.
“My shoe!” Maximus gasped, freezing in horror as he stared at his exposed, gray-socked toes. “The pavement claims another victim. A soldier stripped of his armor, one foot in the grave, the other—”
“What did I say about that voice?! Pick up the damn shoe, Philip Marlowe, and keep moving!” Kenny hissed, grabbing Maximus by the scruff of his jumpsuit and dragging him into the secondary staging hangar.
Maximus snatched his ruined boot off the floor, cradling it like a wounded pet as they slipped through the heavy rubber curtains of the maintenance bay. The room was a cathedral of steel. Dozens of vacant, skeletal Power Armor frames hung from yellow overhead cranes, looking like dead giants waiting for a soul.
In the center of the room stood a beautifully unassigned, fully assembled suit of T-60. Its gunmetal gray plating gleamed under the sparse maintenance spotlights, the painted Brotherhood insignia on the chest looking sharp, imposing, and completely ripe for the taking.
“There she is,” Maximus whispered, his gravelly inner-narrator immediately roaring back to life. “The Dame in the Iron Dress. She’s cold, she’s heavy, and she’s got enough firepower to turn a man into Salisbury steak.”
“Seriously, Max, if you don't shut up, I’m going to let the scribes catch you,” Kenny said, pulling a heavy, glowing yellow fusion core from his satchel. He handed it over, his eyes deadpan behind his shades. “Here. Go baptize yourself. I’ll watch the door. Your agility is higher than mine, so if you screw up the mounting animation, I’m running away without you.”
Maximus hopped on one foot over to the back of the massive suit, his bare sock soaking up a questionable puddle of hydraulic fluid. He didn’t care. The righteous fire was burning hot in his chest. He reached for the circular hatch on the back of the armor, his fingers trembling slightly as he prepped the fusion core.
“You know, Kenny,” Maximus said, his voice dropping its dramatic edge for a moment as he looked back at his friend. “The High Cleric always talks about the spiritual purity of the steel. The sacred duty to the memory of the elders. It’s all a bunch of brahmin shit, honestly.”
“Wait, really?” Kenny looked genuinely surprised, pausing his perimeter sweep to look back. “I figured you were the most brainwashed guy in our bracket. You literally tried to fight a bear for a squire patch.”
“I just wanted the cool suit,” Maximus admitted, shoving the fusion core into the receptacle with a heavy, satisfying clunk. “The prayers are long, the food is terrible, and the robes itch like crazy. But this? This is real. This keeps the world from breaking you.”
The fusion core spun, locking into place with a sudden, violent surge of electrical energy. The massive armor instantly came to life. The chest plating hissed, the hydraulic seals along the spine releasing with a pressurized gasp of steam that billowed out around Maximus’s bare ankles. The back plates ground open like a pair of mechanical wings, inviting him inside.
“Go on, Shield Hero,” Kenny muttered, a small, wry smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Get in the robot.”
Maximus didn’t hesitate. He dropped his broken boot, stepped up onto the mounting block, and slid his limbs into the cold, padded interior of the frame. The moment his hands gripped the internal control joysticks, the armor reacted. The heavy outer plating snapped shut with a series of thunderous, overlapping metallic crashes, sealing him away from the fragile world outside.
Inside the helmet, the darkness vanished. The heads-up display flickered to life in a brilliant, amber flash of diagnostic data, glowing tactical grids, and amber status bars. The internal air filtration system kicked in, smelling of ozone, fresh filter charcoal, and raw, unadulterated power.
Maximus flexed his fingers, watching the massive, armored metal gauntlets replicate his movements with terrifying precision. Every stomp of his foot vibrated through the concrete foundation. He felt invincible. He felt holy.
“Systems nominal,” Maximus boomed, the armor’s external vocal synthesizer transforming his voice into a deep, echoing mechanical rumble that resonated off the hangar walls. “The shield is forged. Let the wicked come.”
“Holy shit, that is loud,” Kenny whispered loudly, wincing and waving his hands frantically. “Keep it down! And turn around, your backside is completely unarmored, we didn’t put the rear battery plating on yet!”
“A minor tactical oversight,” Maximus rumbled, adjusting his internal posture as he took a heavy, thunderous step forward, completely ignoring the draft on his lower back. “A true hero never looks back anyway.”
“You better keep your admirers in front of you, then.”
…
The flickering green terminal screen cast sharp, sickly shadows across Dane’s face, but their hands didn’t shake. They were utterly terrified, a cold bead of sweat slowly tracing a path down the back of their neck, but the panic had crystallized into a state of hyper-focused clarity.
For the first time in their life, they weren’t using their beloved aluminum clipboard to log minor logistical infractions or track missing boot laces. They were using it as a weapon to orchestrate a complete bureaucratic nightmare.
Propped up right against the terminal housing was a crumpled, grease-stained scrap of paper covered in Kenny’s erratic handwriting. Dane cross-referenced the scribbled notes with the live data flowing across the Brotherhood’s mainframe, their fingers dancing over the clacky, ancient keyboard with practiced efficiency.
According to Kenny’s insane instructions, a standard security routing glitch could be forced if three specific maintenance logs were submitted simultaneously.
Dane inputted the final command string, flashing a series of false coolant leak warnings directly to the watchtower. On the main monitor, the automated patrol routes stuttered, froze, and reset. The perimeter turrets outside slowly dropped their barrels, entering a forced five-minute diagnostics loop.
They were completely blind.
Dane let out a shaky breath, marveling at the sheer, terrifying absurdity of it all. Kenny was a clumsy, uncoordinated Vault boy who couldn’t clear a basic obstacle course without nearly breaking his own ankles, yet he had completely unmade the security architecture of a heavily fortified military stronghold using nothing but scrap paper and flawless timing.
“Hey, Dane. You think he can see us right now?” Thaddeus whispered from his post by the secondary blast doors, his voice a frantic, breathy hiss that cut through the low hum of the server racks. He was clutching a dented, pre-war can opener tightly against his chest like a holy talisman. “Like, with his mind? His wizard eyes?”
“He’s a person, Thaddeus, not a radio tower.” Dane muttered, keeping their eyes glued to the terminal clock as the countdown began. “He’s just smart. Dangerously, ridiculously smart. Now keep your eyes on that corridor.”
“No, you don’t get it, man.” Thaddeus shifted his weight from one foot to the other, his boots squeaking loudly against the metal floor plating.
“Not a man.” They corrected.
“I call everyone man.” He argued. “I’d call a robot man”
“You know we’re supposed to kill robots, not talk to them, according to the Brotherhood. Right?”
“Well… good thing we’re deserting then, isn’t it?”
“Fair enough.” Dane sighed. “What don’t I get?”
“Kenny knew exactly when the rad-roach warning was going to sound yesterday.” Thaddeus announced, entranced. “Down to the second. You can’t just guess that. He’s got the sight. He’s like an ancient mystic, but with really nice sunglasses.”
So… what Dane wasn’t getting was that Thaddeus was now a fanatic? Awesome.
“If your ancient mystic gets us caught, High Cleric Quintus is going to feed us to the air filtration intake fans.” They countered, fiercely tapping a key to clear a blinking error prompt before it could trigger an audible alarm. “So unless his wizard powers can turn us invisible, I need you to stop pacing. You’re making enough noise to wake up the dead Paladins in the crypts.”
“I’m just saying, he’s always right. You see this can opener?” Thaddeus asked, tapping the rusty piece of metal against his belt buckler with an irritating, rhythmic clink. “He told me which crate in Sector Four had the cram cans that weren’t expired, and he said if I kept this opener on me, good fortune would follow. It’s a blessed object, Dane.”
“It’s a piece of garbage, Thaddeus.” Dane snapped, finally looking up from the screen to glare at him through the dim light. “If you don’t stop tapping it, I’m going to take your blessed object and shove it down your throat. We have three minutes left before the watchtower manual overrides the turret diagnostic loop.”
“You’re just tense because you’re not a believer.” Thaddeus muttered, defensively tucking the can opener into his jumpsuit pocket and crossing his arms. “When Kenny becomes a High Elder and we’re his chosen disciples, you’re going to regret having such a negative attitude.”
“I don’t want to be a disciple, I want to not be executed for high treason.” Dane checked the terminal grid one last time, verifying that the automated blind spots were holding perfectly. “The logistics network is completely snarled. If anyone tries to pull up the hangar manifest for the next hour, all they’re going to get is a data loop about undergarment distribution… shocking number of skid marks. Our path, on the other hand, is clear.”
“See? The wizard path provides.” Thaddeus grinned, a clueless, optimistic expression cutting through his sweat-stained face as he gripped the door handle. “We’re really doing this, aren’t we? We’re stealing a whole damn flying machine.”
“We are.” Dane said, sliding their clipboard under their arm and stepping away from the terminal. “And if we crash, I’m blaming your wizard.”
…
My feet felt like two concrete cinder blocks wrapped in wet cardboard.
Every single step across the polished, grease-slicked floor of Hangar Bay Three was a high-stakes gamble against the laws of gravity. My Intelligence might have been high enough to memorize the exact patrol schedules, and my Endurance was robust enough to take a plasma bolt to the chest and keep ticking for a bit, but my Agility was a flat, unyielding, pathetic one.
In a universe governed by cold, hard code, a one in Agility didn't just mean I was clumsy; it meant the physical world was actively hostile to my existence.
I know, I know. I need new material. But as long as this is going to screw me over, I don’t see myself complaining about much else in the near future. Case in point…
Clank.
My left boot caught the edge of a heavy-duty hydraulic fuel hose that had absolutely no business being draped across the primary walkway. The world tilted violently. My arms windmilled in a desperate, deeply uncool scramble for balance, my vision pitching toward a very sudden, very painful introduction to the concrete foundation.
Before I could faceplant, a firm, ridiculously strong hand locked onto the front of my initiate jumpsuit. With a single, effortless yank, Lucy hoisted me back onto my feet, her grip steady and her face entirely focused. Her athletic stats were soaring in the high numbers, an aggressive testament to a lifetime of Vault 33 gymnastics and pristine genetic structuring.
To her, a sudden stumble was a minor variable to be corrected; to me, it was a near-death experience. So, you can see why I brought her along… even if technically speaking, she followed me.
“Careful,” Lucy whispered, her breath brushing against my ear as she slowly released her grip on my collar, ensuring my center of gravity had actually reestablished itself. “The floor is uneven here. Just keep your weight centered on your heels, Kenny.”
“Right. Heels. Got it. Thanks.” I muttered, keeping my voice down to a harsh, strained murmur as I adjusted my pre-war aviator sunglasses. Even in the dim, amber-tinted light of the hangar, the Charisma boost from these shades was the only thing keeping my social anxiety from cratering my composure. “The universe just really hates my footwear choice tonight.”
“It’s not the shoes, it’s the environment,” Lucy whispered back, her eyes shining with that intense, fiercely optimistic fire that always made me feel like I was standing too close to a spotlight.
Huh. I wonder if she would have been a pageant girl in another life?
She looked around the massive hangar bay, her jaw set in a line of pure, righteous indignation. “They deliberately design these facilities to be hostile. It’s part of the whole structural hierarchy. By making the physical space difficult to navigate for anyone who isn’t encased in two tons of mechanized steel, they reinforce the patriarchal dynamic of the Knighthood. It’s classic systemic suppression, Kenny.”
Is that how that works?
Probably not, but I couldn’t help how incredibly stunned I was by the sheer, unadulterated depth of her Vault-bred worldview. She genuinely believed we were currently executing a high-stakes, tactical liberation mission to dismantle the Brotherhood’s inherent biases.
I, on the other hand, just wanted the keys to the flying machine because my feet were killing me and walking across the post-apocalyptic ruins of California sounded like an absolute nightmare.
“You know, Lucy, you’re entirely right,” I said, leaning into her perspective with the practiced ease of a man who knew exactly which dialogue options kept his companion’s affinity bar trending upward. “The whole system is designed to keep us on the ground. Literally. That’s why we have to take the high ground.”
[Lucy loved that.]
Nailed it.
“Exactly!” She beamed, a brilliant, aggressively positive smile cutting through the tense, shadowy atmosphere of the stolen military base. “We aren’t just stealing a transport, Kenny. We are liberating a tool of colonial oppression and repurposing it for egalitarian community outreach. When we fly out of here, we’re showing them that the sky belongs to everyone, not just the people with the biggest guns.”
“Absolutely. Egalitarian outreach. That’s the code word for tonight.” I nodded sagely, taking another slow, agonizingly cautious step forward. “Just keep an eye out for any more systemic oppression hoses on the floor. My ankles can’t take much more liberation.”
“I’ve got you,” she promised, slipping her arm through mine with casual, athletic confidence. It was humiliating, but functionally necessary. She was quite literally acting as my physical anchor, her strength compensating for my complete lack of baseline coordination. “We’re a team. Golden Rule, remember? We look out for each other.”
“Golden Rule. Classic.” I murmured.
We glided—well, she glided, I shuffled like a broken department store mannequin—through the secondary shadow cluster toward the primary tarmac. Up ahead, the silhouette of the Vertibird loomed like a beautiful, twin-engine bird of prey. It was glorious. No more walking. No more rad-scorpions chasing me through the sand while I gasped for air after a ten-yard sprint.
As we neared the boarding ramp, a massive, metallic figure stepped out from the darkness of the maintenance alcove. It was Maximus, encased completely in the gunmetal-gray plating of the T-60 Power Armor. The suit looked terrifyingly imposing, though the illusion was slightly dampened by the fact that his entire lower backside was completely exposed, revealing the fabric of his initiate jumpsuit beneath the unarmored spine.
We really should get that fixed at some point.
A sharp clink from the upper catwalk signaled Thaddeus’s position, and a faint green flash from the security terminal confirmed Dane had the automated turrets locked in a bureaucratic chokehold.
It was a perfect, flawless stealth run. The dialogue trees had aligned, the timing was immaculate, and the script was playing out exactly as memorized. I felt a surge of pure, mastermind satisfaction washing over me. I had beaten the system.
“We’re actually doing it,” Lucy whispered, her fingers tightening slightly against my arm as she stared up at the Vertibird. “Look at it, Kenny. It’s magnificent. Where should we fly first? Should we head toward the coordinates my dad left, or should we scout the perimeter for local settlements in need of agricultural assistance?”
“Let’s focus on getting the engines started before we plan the charity drive, Lucy” I said, pulling my arm free to cautiously climb the first step of the boarding ramp. “First rule of grand theft auto: secure the perimeter, start the ignition, then debate the socio-economic impact of the getaway.”
“I just think it’s important to maintain a clear mission statement,” she said, following me up the ramp with effortless grace. “If we don’t establish our moral framework early, we risk becoming no better than the people we’re leaving behind.”
“Trust me, our moral framework is completely intact,” I said, reaching into my jumpsuit pocket to ensure the 10mm pistol was ready. “We’re the good guys. We have the sunglasses to prove it.”
“Maximus looks very dedicated,” she noted, glancing back at the silent, brooding Power Armor suit standing guard at the base of the ramp. “He really took your speech to heart, Kenny. He told me earlier that he finally understands what it means to be a shield.”
“Yeah, well, let’s hope his shield can block a laser grid if things go south,” I muttered, stepping into the cramped, metallic belly of the cockpit. “Alright, get inside and hold onto something heavy. The takeoff might be a little bumpy, mostly because my piloting skills are entirely theoretical.”
“Theoretical?” Lucy paused, her brow furrowing in sudden concern. “Kenny, you told me you knew how to fly these things.”
“I know the mechanics of it, Lucy,” I corrected quickly, shifting my weight to avoid a loose floor plate. “I’ve seen the manuals. In my head. It’s basically just a collective stick, a throttle, and a lot of prayer. It’s fine. Standard Vault tech principles apply.”
“Vault tech principles involve a lot of standardized testing and safety protocols,” she pointed out, her voice dropping into a skeptical register. “There are usually checklists.”
“We’re improvising the checklist,” I said, reaching for the primary console. “Checklist item one: don’t die. Checklist item two: see item one.”
“That’s not a checklist, Kenny, that’s a coping mechanism,” she said, though a small, affectionate smile softened her critique. “But I trust you. You haven’t broken a promise yet.”
“And I don’t plan to start tonight,” I said, my fingers hovering over the ignition toggle.
Everything was set. The perfect run was seconds away from completion.
GRRRRIIIIIND.
The sudden, violent screech of heavy iron scraping against concrete echoed through the massive hangar bay, shattering the silence like a brick through a window. At the far end of the tarmac, the massive, multi-ton heavy iron blast doors began to slowly grind open, casting a wide, harsh beam of bright white light directly across our pristine, hidden escape route.
My heart dropped directly into my stomach.
The security schedule didn't have a deployment listed for another two hours. Dane’s terminal loop should have frozen the logistics routing. This wasn't a standard patrol. This wasn't an automated reset.
This…
“This is some bullshit.”
…
“Language!”
“Sorry.”
He didn’t sound sorry. Lucy was going to add washing Kenny’s mouth out with soap onto her mental checklist… granted, there were still a few things they needed to tick off first, but a lady never forgets.
The harsh, white light spilling from the opening blast doors cut straight through the dark interior of the cockpit, pinning Lucy’s shadow against the aluminum bulkhead. Her heart hammered against her ribs, but it wasn't fear that made her pulse race; it was a sudden, jarring shock to her system.
This wasn't a patrol. It was a procession.
A heavily armed escort of four massive Paladins, their T-60 armor gleaming with cold authority, marched directly into the center of Hangar Bay Three. They were dragging a woman between them, though dragging was a generous term. The captive was kicking, thrashing, and shrieking at the top of her lungs, completely immune to the terrifying presence of the steel giants flanking her.
Lucy pressed herself lower against the copilot's seat, her eyes wide as she took in the stranger's appearance. The woman was a walking explosion of pre-war historical vibrancy, wearing a pristine, bright red dress patterned with swirling white logos, matched with a pair of oversized, thick-rimmed glasses that threatened to slip off her sweat-slicked nose.
She looked like a citizen from one of the old educational Vault-Tec slides come to life, entirely out of place in the grim, gray concrete of the Brotherhood stronghold.
“You can’t do this! This is a gross violation of historical preservation protocols!” The woman shrieked, her voice a piercing, nasal crescendo that bounced off the high rafters of the hangar. “I am a certified curator! A protector of the realm! You’re just a bunch of big, mean metal bullies who don’t appreciate the finer things in life!”
High Cleric Quintus stepped forward from the shadows of the watchtower staircase, his heavy, crimson-trimmed robes trailing behind him like a wake of dried blood. He didn’t look angry; he looked profoundly bored, the weary exhaustion of an aging zealot carving deep lines into his face. He held a leather-bound ledger in one hand, completely ignoring the woman's dramatic thrashing as the Paladins forced her down onto her knees in the center of the tarmac.
Lucy felt a cold knot twist in her stomach.
This was a summary judgment. She had read about these in the historical archives of Vault 33—the old, dark days of frontier justice before standard administrative procedures were established. To see it happening right in front of her, under the banner of an organization she and Kenny had tried so hard to understand, felt like a physical blow to her optimistic worldview.
They weren't just soldiers; they were judge, jury, and executioner.
“Sierra Petrovita,” Quintus intoned, his deep, resonant voice effortlessly slicing through her frantic protests. He didn’t look up from his ledger. “You have been found in possession of restricted pre-war assets. You have actively resisted capture, and you have uttered blasphemous declarations regarding the spiritual sanctity of the old world’s technology. How do you answer for your heresy?”
“It’s not heresy, you old prune, it’s our history!” Sierra screamed, her bright red skirt flaring out as she tried to plant her heels against the concrete. “My limited-edition Nuka-Cola Quantum refrigerator is an artifact of vital cultural significance! It’s the coolest thing ever! Literally! You can survive a nuclear blast in it! And I am not sorry!”
Lucy squeezed her hands into tight fists, her knuckles turning white against the edge of the console. The sheer, unhinged bravery of this woman was baffling. She was staring down a firing squad of mechanized knights and a religious fanatic, and she was choosing to defend an antique kitchen appliance.
It was mad, entirely detached from reality, but there was a pure, unadulterated passion in it that Lucy couldn't help but admire. The surface world was full of people who had lost everything, yet this Sierra person was willing to die for a piece of the past.
“The technology of the elders belongs to the Brotherhood, to be cleansed and cataloged for the protection of mankind,” Quintus said, his voice flat, completely devoid of empathy as he finally closed the ledger with a dull, final thud. “A refrigerator designed to harbor volatile, irradiated isotopes for commercial consumption is an abomination. You have hoarded it. You have worshipped it. The sentence for tech-hoarding heretics who refuse to yield is absolute. Execute her.”
Two Paladins immediately stepped backward, the heavy mechanical whir of their laser rifles cycling to full charge echoing through the silent hangar bay like a pair of angry hornets.
Sierra’s defiant posture vanished in an instant, her eyes expanding to the size of Nuka-Cola bottle caps behind her thick lenses. The reality of the red glowing barrels pointed at her chest finally punctured her eccentric bubble. “Wait! No! Hold on! Time out! I’m sorry! I am so, so sorry!”
Lucy leaped up from her crouching position, her baseline Vault instincts screaming at her to intervene, to shout, to do something to stop a murder, but Kenny’s firm hand instantly clamped onto her shoulder, anchoring her back down into the shadows of the cockpit. He didn’t say a word, but the subtle shake of his head behind his aviators was clear.
We can’t go out there.
Lucy bit her lip, her heart tearing between her aggressive need to do the right thing and the cold, survival-driven logic of their escape.
“I’ll give you everything! Just don’t shoot me!” Sierra wailed, her hands flying to the oversized, bulging canvas backpack slung over her shoulders. She began tearing the zipper open with manic, hyperactive speed, her arms plunging into the depths of the bag. “Look! I have offerings! Tributes! The greatest products that Nuka-Cola ever made!”
The Paladins didn't lower their weapons. They advanced by a single, synchronized step, their armored boots shaking the floor.
“Take it!” Sierra cried, pulling a handful of bright, colorful objects from her pack and launching them wildly through the air like an unhinged bride throwing a bouquet.
A shower of vintage merchandise rained down upon the armored vanguard. A pristine, plastic Nuka-Girl action figure bounced harmlessly off a Paladin’s shoulder plate. A heavy, metal bottle-opener belt buckle clattered against Quintus’s boots. A rare, illustrated promotional comic book fluttered through the air, its pages scattering across the grease-stained floor.
“And this! And this!” Sierra kept shrieking, spinning on her knees as she dug deeper, throwing a glossy, dark red ceramic bottle shaped exactly like a rocket ship directly at the lead executioner’s helmet.
Lucy watched the red ceramic bottle sail through the air in a perfect, slow-motion arc. On further inspection, it didn't look like a uniquely shaped bottle. It had a heavy, metallic pin pulled from its neck, trailing a faint, fizzing spark of bright red phosphorus.
Wait…
That wasn't a soda.
That was a Nuka-Cherry grenade.
The ceramic rocket struck the Paladin’s faceplate with a sharp, ceramic crack, shattering instantly and unleashing a blinding, violent flash of cherry-red fire and pressurized concussive force. The explosion roared through the center of Hangar Bay Three, a wave of sweet-smelling, chemical-laced smoke expanding outward as the shockwave knocked the massive armored soldiers completely off their balance.
Sierra was already on her feet, her red dress billowing behind her as she bolted toward the nearest dark corridor, screaming in terror at her own accidental ordnance.
Lucy shielded her eyes from the sudden glare, the warm blast of air washing over the Vertibird's boarding ramp as the hangar devolved into absolute, chaotic madness. The perfect stealth run was officially dead, buried under a pile of glowing red smoke and corporate branding.
“Uh oh…”
…
The world dissolved into a blinding, hyper-saturated cloud of sparkling crimson fire and the overwhelming scent of artificial cherry flavoring.
The Nuka-Cherry grenade didn’t just detonate; it performed a theatrical production of an explosion. Radioactive, sticky red shrapnel hissed through the air, painting the pristine metal chassis of the Vertibird in a gooey, glowing layer of weaponized high-fructose corn syrup. The lead Paladin took the brunt of the blast directly to his helmet, his iron posture folding like a cheap lawn chair as he went down hard, groaning through his external vocal filter.
Then, the automated security turrets woke up.
Dane’s brilliant, beautiful bureaucratic terminal glitch had forced them into a diagnostics loop, but a high-yield corporate explosive detonating in the center of the tarmac apparently constituted a manual override. The ceiling-mounted laser grids dropped down, their target-acquisition subroutines completely scrambled by the data corruption.
They couldn't tell the difference between a high-ranking cleric, a fleeing heretic, or a rogue Vertibird.
Zap-zap-zap!
Bright red energy beams stitched a line of melting concrete right across the hangar floor. A nearby scribe caught a stray laser pulse to his shoulder, his high-pitched, terrified scream echoing over the sudden roar of the base-wide alarms. The remaining Paladins immediately pivoted, their heavy laser rifles cycling to life as they began aggressively returning fire at their own automated defense grid.
My beautiful, pristine, flawless speedrun had completely devolved into a three-way circus of unadulterated chaos.
“Kenny! What do we do?!” Lucy shouted, her voice barely carrying over the deafening, metallic thunder of the crossfire. She was still pressed against the cabin partition, her face pale but her eyes locked onto me, waiting for the master plan.
“We commit grand theft auto!” I yelled back, dropping all pretense of caution. I practically threw my uncoordinated body across the cockpit gap, my pathetic one in Agility ensuring that I slammed my left knee directly into the pilot’s seat frame with a sickening crack. I didn’t care. The adrenaline was screaming through my veins, masking the pain as I scrambled into the primary leather chair.
My hands hovered over the massive, archaic control panel. I had never touched a real Vertibird in my life, but I had spent roughly four hundred hours staring at the interior cockpit assets in Fallout 4 while flying back and forth across the digital ruins of Boston. Granted, most of it was from me shooting a minigun, but I had probably played enough flight simulators to split the difference. Right?
Right.
Muscle memory from a past life took the wheel. I reached out, slapping the primary avionics breakers on the overhead console, flicking the fuel pump toggles, and slamming my hand forward onto the heavy, mechanical engine engagement lever.
Beneath our feet, the twin turboprop engines let out a low, guttural whine that slowly built into a high-pitched, deafening scream. The massive rotor blades above us shuddered, beginning their slow, heavy rotation.
“Get down!” A booming, synthesized voice rumbled from the base of the boarding ramp.
Maximus stepped into the breach, a literal knight in shining armor—aside from the breeze on his backside. He raised a massive, multi-barreled minigun he must have ripped right off a maintenance cradle, the weapon spinning to a blur before unleashing a continuous, blinding sheet of lead toward the watchtower.
The empty brass shell casings rained down onto the hangar floor like heavy, metallic hailstones, clattering against the concrete in a beautiful, protective rhythm. He was the ultimate meat-shield, absorbing a stray laser bolt directly to his armored chest plate without even flinching, his internal stabilizer gyros keeping his aim perfectly true.
“I’m throwing the food! I’m throwing the blessed meat!” Thaddeus shrieked from the rear bay doors, completely hysterical. He was grabbing random wooden crates of logistics supplies from the staging area and throwing them wildly into the back of the Vertibird. A heavy can of Cram flew past Lucy’s head, smashing into the bulkhead behind her. “The wizard commands it! Don't let the heretics take the snacks!”
“Thaddeus, just get inside!” I roared over my shoulder, frantically pumping the throttle lever to force the fuel mixture into the freezing engines. The dashboard gauges were spinning wildly into the green, a series of urgent amber warning lights flashing across the pre-war display screens. “Lucy, pull the cabin door shut! We are leaving, right now!”
“But what about the woman in the red dress?!” Lucy pointed a shaking finger out the side window. Through the swirling red smoke and the flashes of laser fire, I could see Sierra Petrovita sprinting in a wide, erratic circle, desperately trying to dodge a security turret that was actively chasing her with a spotlight. “We can’t just leave her to be executed, Kenny! That violates basic humanitarian asylum protocols!”
“She just threw a weaponized soda at the pope, Lucy! I think she’s handling her own business!” I shouted back, my fingers white-knuckled against the collective stick as the entire aircraft began to lift, the landing gear groaning as it separated from the concrete floor. “Hold on to something! This is going to be incredibly theoretical!”
…
The industrial drone of the twin turboprop engines expanded into a deafening, bone-rattling roar that vibrated straight through the concrete foundation of Hangar Bay Three.
Wisps of acrid, gray hydraulic smoke and sweet-smelling, glowing red cherry residue swirled through the air as the massive Vertibird lifted its landing gear by a tentative, trembling six inches. Inside the main cabin door, Lucy’s athletic frame was stretched out at a precarious angle, her fingers hooked firmly into the collar of Thaddeus’s standard-issue jumpsuit as she dragged him over the lip of the metal threshold like a landed mirelurk.
Dane wasn’t so lucky.
They sprinted hard across the secondary staging tarmac, their boots slapping against the grease-slicked concrete in a desperate, uncharacteristic burst of physical exertion. The aluminum clipboard was tucked securely under their arm, a thin metal shield against the absolute madness unfolding behind them.
High Cleric Quintus was screaming orders through a bullhorn over the thunderous exchange of laser fire between the armored Paladins and the corrupted ceiling turrets. They were so close. Three more strides, a solid leap, and they would be inside the belly of the stolen flying machine, entirely free from the agonizing, endless cycle of checking boot laces and inventorying undergarments.
Almost there…
Zap!
A stray, dazzling beam of blue energy from a rogue laser pistol sliced through the haze, striking Dane squarely across the top of their left foot. The canvas boot split instantly with a sharp, sickening smell of scorched fabric and singed flesh.
“Son of a—” Dane collapsed instantly, their momentum sending them skittering wildly across the concrete floor. The beloved aluminum clipboard slipped from their grasp, spinning away into a dark puddle of leaked transmission fluid, its meticulously backdated logs ruined forever.
They clutched their burning ankle, a wave of blinding heat radiating up their leg as they stared up at the hovering aircraft. The Vertibird didn’t stop. It couldn't. The nose was already tilting forward, the massive rotor blades cutting the air with an aggressive, rhythmic thumping that threatened to pull the entire hangar ceiling down.
Maximus stood like an immovable iron monument on the landing ramp, his smoking minigun lowered as his mechanical visor slowly tracked Dane’s crumpled form on the ground.
A sudden, heavy pall of profound, collective group guilt descended over the cockpit and the cabin, entirely halting the frantic rush of the getaway for a bizarre, suspended half-minute.
“Oh no! Dane!” Lucy wailed, her face pale as she leaned out of the open bay door, her aggressively positive features twisting into an expression of pure, unadulterated heartbreak. “We can't leave them! Kenny, put the flying machine back down! We have a moral obligation to the logistics department!”
“The landing gear is already coming up, Lucy!” Kenny’s strained, panicked voice echoed from the pilot’s seat, his thumbs white-knuckled over the collective stick as the craft wobbled through a low, uncoordinated arc. “If I try to parallel park this thing in a war zone, we are all going to become a permanent installation in the concrete! You’re so brave, Dane! We’ll honor your sacrifice!”
“I am not brave!” Dane screamed at the top of their lungs, their voice cracking with pure indignation as they glared up through the emergency spotlights. “I don’t want to be sacrificed! Put the damn bird down!”
“I’ll never forget you!” Thaddeus roared from the floor of the cabin, tears actively streaming down his sweat-stained cheeks as he clutched his rusty can opener like a religious relic. “Your name will be written in the great database in the sky, brother! A disciple of the wizard’s chosen vanguard!”
“If you don’t want to forget me, then you can start by remembering me right now!” Dane hissed, pushing themselves up on one elbow as the Vertibird rose another three feet into the smoky air, its massive shadow drifting across their face. “Grab my arm, you absolute lunatics!”
“We’ll carry your memory to the settlements!” Lucy promised solemnly, a tear gathering in the corner of her eye as she raised a hand in a dramatic, aggregate farewell gesture. “Your administrative spirit will live on through our egalitarian community outreach!”
“Traitors!” Dane yelled, their voice instantly swallowed by the rising, concussive thrum of the engines.
They dropped back onto the concrete with a heavy, defeated sigh, watching the gunmetal-gray underbelly of the aircraft lift toward the high rafters. But as the initial sting of the laser burn began to settle into a dull, manageable throb, a sudden, beautiful clarity washed through their analytical mind. They stared at their ruined, smoking boot, then looked back at the chaotic circle of screaming scribes and frantic Paladins currently dismantling their own security grid.
This was actually… perfect.
If they had gotten on that Vertibird, they would currently be a high-profile target of a multi-state military manhunt, forced to sleep in the dirt and eat expired Cram while running away from an army of heavily armed zealots. But now? They had a verified, physically undeniable combat injury.
High Cleric Quintus couldn't accuse them of high treason when they had quite literally been shot in the foot while trying to intercept the thieves. They could just point at Kenny, blame the entire security failure on the Vault boy’s terrifying, psychic wizard brain, and resume their comfortable, quiet life inside the bunker.
Better yet, with a documented injury like this, the Elder wouldn't be able to deploy them into the field for at least six months. No patrols, no rad-roaches, no clearing out feral ghoul nests in the dark. Just pure, unadulterated desk work. It was an absolute logistical masterclass of a self-inflicted retirement.
“Good riddance,” Dane muttered under their breath, a tiny, deeply satisfied smirk tugging at the corner of their mouth as they adjusted their posture against the concrete pillar.
Suddenly, a blur of bright red fabric and clattering plastic bottles erupted from the lingering cherry-flavored smoke cloud at the far end of the tarmac. Sierra Petrovita was sprinting like a terrifying, caffeine-fueled gazelle, her giant canvas backpack bouncing wildly against her shoulder blades as she made a hard, direct line for the escaping aircraft.
“Wait for me! The historical society requires a tactical extraction!” Sierra shrieked, her thick glasses sliding completely down to the tip of her nose.
The Vertibird was a full five feet off the ground now, its nose dipping aggressively as Kenny prepared to punch the main throttle. Sierra didn’t even hesitate. With a wild, desperate screech, she launched her body through the air in a clumsy, horizontal dive, her outstretched fingers catching the very edge of the closing metal side door.
Lucy’s Vault-trained reflexes kicked in instantly; she grabbed the back of the bright red dress, hauling the eccentric curator into the cabin with a heavy, undignified thud that sent a dozen vintage Nuka-Cola bottle caps scattering across the metal floor plating.
“Hold on!” Kenny’s voice exploded through the internal comms as he yanked the collective stick back with everything his strength stat could muster.
The Vertibird tilted violently, its massive, twin engines screaming in protest as it lurched forward with terrifying momentum. The aircraft completely bypassed the primary exit path, tilting sideways and smashing its reinforced nose gear right through the flimsy, corrugated metal of the secondary hangar doors.
The steel plates buckled and tore with a deafening, grinding screech that showered the tarmac in sparks, before the machine punched cleanly through the barrier, bursting out of the smoky cathedral of the bunker and launching itself directly into the vast, cool, starlit expanse of the open desert night sky.
…
The massive, fortified silhouette of the Brotherhood airfield shrieked past our landing gear, shrinking into a tiny, smoking dot on the vast desert floor below within a matter of seconds. In my head, the iconic, blistering four-minute guitar solo of Lynyrd Skynyrd’s Free Bird was blasting at absolute maximum, window-shattering volume.
In actual reality, the tinny speaker of my Pip-Boy was physically just humming with low-frequency radio static and a faintly warped, scratching recording of some old 1950s jazz standard.
I didn't care. We were airborne. We had a Vertibird. My legs didn't have to touch a single blade of irradiated Wasteland grass for the foreseeable future.
A heavy, metallic hiss echoed from the cargo bay just behind the pilot's partition, followed by the deep, pressurized sigh of pneumatic seals releasing. I glanced back through the narrow viewport. Maximus had finally disengaged the locking mechanisms on his T-60 Power Armor, the heavy steel chassis splitting down the spine to let him step out onto the metal flooring.
Instantly, the entire vibe of the cabin shifted from terrifying military escape to a feral, post-apocalyptic feeding frenzy.
“Dibs!” Lucy yelled, her hand shooting into the air with the aggressive, unyielding enthusiasm of a Vault 33 junior counselor claiming the last box of sweetened oatmeal.
“Dibs!” Thaddeus roared at the exact same millisecond, his eyes bulging as he practically threw his half-empty can of Cram onto the deck to clear his hands. “I am the closest thing we have to a squire, I should have next!”
“Dibs!” Sierra Petrovita shrieked, her thick glasses nearly flying off her face as she lunged over a stack of wooden crates. “No one can arrest me if I’m wearing that!”
“Hey! No! Stop it!” Maximus yelled, his deep voice cracking into a panicked squeak as he realized his massive tactical error. He turned around instantly, desperately trying to scramble his unarmored body back into the open frame. “Get away from it! You don't even know how to calibrate the fusion core!”
“We can figure it out together as a team!” Lucy shouted, grabbing Maximus by the left shoulder of his under-suit and pulling him backward with surprising Vault-tec strength.
“It’s my turn to be the giant metal monster!” Thaddeus babbled, wrapping both arms around Maximus’s waist and physically yanking him kicking and screaming away from the machine. “The wizard needs a tank, Max! You had your fun!”
“Give me the robot suit! Mama wants!” Sierra screamed, diving underneath Thaddeus’s flailing legs to touch the shiny metal pauldrons.
I shook my head, turning my attention back to the forward console and adjusting the flight yoke to level us out at three thousand feet.
I honestly didn’t understand why they were fighting over it so damn much. Sure, it was an iconic piece of protective military hardware, but the armor still didn't have shit for the ass. That wasn't even a pun; there was literally no armor back there. At first, I thought it was just that suit, but I saw a lot of sets in the escape, and I think it’s like that for all of them?
So much for covering your ass.
“If any of you scratch the fiberglass plating, I will throw you out of the bay door!” Maximus bellowed, his voice muffled as Lucy successfully pinned him into a corner with a firm, optimistic lecture about shared group assets.
“We aren't going to scratch it, Maximus, we are going to establish a fair and equitable rotation schedule!” Lucy explained, her voice carrying that infuriating, aggressively positive tone that could make a public execution sound like a neighborhood potluck. “Two hours per person, starting with the most senior Vault representative!”
“I’m the one who stole the food!” Thaddeus argued, stamping his foot. “I should get more time!”
“No one gets more time, Thaddeus.” Lucy snapped at him with a glare. “Because that wouldn’t be very fair or equitable, would it?!”
“Um… yes?”
“That was rhetorical!”
“I don’t know what that word means!”
“Does it have a cup holder?!” Sierra asked, her face pressed directly against the glowing yellow headlamp of the helmet. “Because if it doesn't have a designated slot for a classic twelve-ounce glass Nuka-Cola bottle, I am so totally going to freak out!”
“It doesn't have a cup holder!” Maximus snapped, trying to shake Thaddeus off his arm. “It’s a weapon of holy purification!”
“Well, that just seems like a massive oversight on the part of the United States military,” Sierra huffed, crossing her arms in deep, historical disappointment.
Right at that exact moment, a massive, brilliant green chime echoed across the center of my vision, accompanied by the distinct, satisfying cash-register ring of a completed objective.
[QUEST COMPLETED: FREE BIRD]
[+4,000 XP]
The bright green experience bar slammed forward across my retinas, ticking violently past the threshold and illuminating my brain with a triumphant, flashing notification.
[LEVEL UP: LEVEL 13]
I let out a long, slow sigh, leaning back into the worn leather padding of the pilot’s seat as the reality of my situation finally settled in. I looked at the unspent perk points hovering in the corner of my eye. Then I looked back into the cargo bay, where my childhood best friend was currently trying to teach a terrified Brotherhood squire how to properly share a mechanized weapon of mass destruction with an unhinged soda enthusiast.
This was supposed to be a simple, quiet faction mission. I would do a quick “Join the Brotherhood” intro, get access to all of their stuff, and become like the new Elder or something. Or maybe I would just do the first thing, and take forever to get to the rest of the questline.
Instead, my life had officially mutated into a full-scale, completely unhinged, wildly unstable RPG companion party. On the bright side, I did get a pretty sick ride out of this. Down side…
I still have no idea where I’m going.
“Kenny!” Lucy called out, her smiling face appearing in the cockpit doorway. “Where are we going first? Do we have a manifesto? I think we should draft a community manifesto!”
“We don't have a manifesto, Lucy,” I said, reaching up with one hand to adjust my aviators against the glare of the dashboard lights. And carefully evading her first question.
“Well, we need a destination!” Thaddeus yelled from the back, still trying to fit his fat head into the T-60 helmet. “The snacks are getting warm!”
“Oh! Oh!” Sierra excitedly raised her hand. “If we’re going to fly, I know a really cool place we should go to.”
I stared out through the cracked plexiglass windshield at the vast, dark, beautifully terrifying unknown stretching across the horizon.
Yeah.
I’m completely lost.
“Um… okay. Where?”