Chapter 10: Transcontinental
The horizon was an endless, jagged expanse of cracked orange clay and sun-bleached canyons that blurred together into a nauseating, sweeping landscape of nothingness.
Every single time the Vertibird hit an atmospheric pocket of hot desert air, the entire multi-ton metal chassis plummeted downward by a sudden, jarring ten feet. Why the hell is the sky bumpy?!
My stomach immediately retaliated, violently slamming up against my ribcage with the absolute certainty of a geological disaster. I shouldn’t be flying a plane. Helicopter. Whatever word we can call the Vertibird except Vertibird, because the word Vertibird sounds weird to me after saying Vertibird so much.
See? It’s weird.
My baseline Intelligence of nine was the only thing actively keeping this… aircraft from performing a devastating, high-velocity nose-dive into the ruins of the Great Salt Lake; I could read the spinning, analog dashboard needles, understand the fuel-to-air ratio metrics, and calculate the wind resistance formulas in real-time.
But abstract intellectual comprehension did absolutely nothing to fix the fact that I fundamentally sucked at flight simulators.
Back in my past life, whenever I hijacked a virtual helicopter, I always toggled the camera view into a comfortable, forgiving third-person perspective so I could actually see the spatial perimeter of my vehicle. Navigating this roaring, trembling monstrosity entirely from a deeply restrictive, first-person cockpit view while strapped into a hard leather seat was a pure, unadulterated nightmare.
My eyes darted frantically across the cracked windshield, a sudden surge of primal panic seizing my chest as a tiny speck appeared on the trajectory line. What if we crashed? What if a stray flock of suicidal birds flew directly into the engine and killed is all?!
Oh, wait. The bombs dropped two hundred years ago. All the birds are dead. Never mind.
Everything’s going to be okay.
“You know, Kenneth, this is an absolutely historically significant trajectory we are maintaining right now!” Sierra Petrovita squealed from the copilot’s seat, her thick, oversized lenses pressed so firmly against the side glass that her nose was completely flattened.
I spoke too soon.
Sierra didn’t notice my panic. She was entirely blind to the white-knuckled terror currently paralyzing my fingers against the flight yoke. “Did you know that in the summer of 2076, the marketing executives at the Nuka-Cola corporation actually initiated a hostile corporate buyout of the entire lower airspace over the Utah territory!”
I… didn’t know that, actually.
“They bought a state?” I blinked, forcing my wrists to stay steady. “They can do that?”
“Just the airspace over the state.” She waved it off, like that was somehow better. Which… it was. A little. “They wanted to anchor a permanent fleet of three hundred floating promotional blimps shaped like vintage rocket ships to cast a literal shadow of carbonated dominance over the local competition! Isn't that just the most beautiful thing you've ever heard?!”
“It sounds like an absolute logistical clusterfuck, Sierra,” I muttered through clenched teeth, desperately fighting a sudden, violent updraft that forced me to yank the collective stick back. I hate flying.
The only reason I’m doing it is because I hate walking slightly more. Still, though. If man were meant to fly, we would have been born with jet packs.
“Oh, it was an absolute triumph of commercial capitalism!” Sierra countered, clapping her hands together with hyperactive glee, entirely unfazed by the sudden drop in altitude. “They were going to distribute complimentary Nuka-Cola samples with mini-parachutes directly into people's backyards! The legal department only cancelled the initiative because two test-weights accidentally crushed a herd of prized cows in Ogden!”
Nuka-Cola bottles crushed a cow?
I call bullshit… and that’s not a pun. Unless it’s funny.
I stared straight ahead, seriously wondering if it was too late to construct a wooden pirate plank and force her to walk it. Instead of jumping into shark-infested waters, she’d just be skydiving from three thousand feet without a parachute mechanism.
What? I’m kidding. Obviously… Mostly.
It was a genuinely fascinating historical anecdote, though. It was just a massive shame that about ninety-nine percent of the current global population couldn't even read a basic billboard anymore, let alone appreciate corporate marketing satire.
“Just let me try it!” A voice hissed in the back.
“I told you no, already! Get your own!”
“Hey! I hear you back there!” I roared over my shoulder, the tinny internal comms headset rattling against my ears as a series of heavy, metallic thuds resonated from the main cargo bay. “No fighting while I’m flying, unless you want us all to crash and burn! Literally! Sit your asses down!”
“Maximus is hogging the power armor!” Thaddeus’s muffled, high-pitched voice filtered through the aircraft, accompanied by the distinct clatter of a heavy iron gauntlet scraping against the floor plating. “He won’t even let me try the helmet on! Make him share!”
“I found it, so I get to keep it, Thaddeus,” Maximus’s synthesized, deep-bass mechanical rumble boomed from the darkness of the rear hold. “It’s the oldest Law of the Wasteland. But, you can cry if you want to. Losers are allowed to weep, according to the Law.”
“I am not crying!” Thaddeus argued back. “I’m pissed! You don’t deserve that armor! You’re just a nobody who got lucky enough to earn the Grand Wizard’s favor!”
“Never call me that again.” I said/pleased/commanded.
“The Great Wizard?”
“Um… sure.” I allowed. “I’m the Great and Powerful Wizard of uh… the Wasteland. I guess.” Better than the deep South…
“Where was I?” Thaddeus scratched his head, before snapping back to Maximus. “Right, look here! I’ve been in the Brotherhood longer than you, ergo, I’m a higher rank than you! I should get the suit.”
“We deserted from the Brotherhood.” Maximus retorted, the metal suit giving off a loud, heavy hiss as he shifted his weight. “If anything, that just means you’re more of a traitor than I am.”
“Gimme! In the name of the Great Wizard!”
“No!”
“Both of you shut up or I will dump the secondary fuel cells right now and leave us stranded in a deathclaw nesting ground!” I shouted, my left knee twitching as I tried to find a comfortable resting angle against the metal seat frame.
But alas. It was impossible.
My Agility stat of one was actively treating this entire cross-country flight as a personal insult; my balance was a joke, my left ankle was stiff, and my body felt like it was trying to steer a shopping cart with three broken wheels through a radioactive swamp. I couldn't even adjust my sitting posture without accidentally bumping my elbow against the primary landing gear toggle.
“Kenny! Look! There’s a whole family of those giant, scaly horn-lizards down in the canyon!” Lucy’s voice suddenly echoed from the wide, open side bay door, completely brimming with an aggressive, unyielding wave of Vault-bred optimism. “They look so small from up here! But oh my goodness, Kenny, they look absolutely famished. The poor, neglected things are just wandering around in circles in the dirt.”
I glanced through the viewport, my vision tracing her line of sight down to the orange ravine below. A massive, terrifying herd of alpha deathclaws—each easily nine feet of pure, muscle-bound killing potential with razor-sharp talons capable of shredding a tank—were currently tearing apart a dead wasteland creature.
“Lucy, step away from the open door,” I said, my voice dropping into a flat, exhausted register.
“I’m just going to drop them some of these standard-issue Brotherhood emergency survival crackers!” Lucy announced cheerfully, her athletic frame leaning out over the three-thousand-foot drop with the casual confidence of someone throwing breadcrumbs to pigeons at a community park. “The manual says these rations are packed with fortified corn meal and essential dietary fibers! It’s the least we can do as neighbors navigating the shared ecosystem!”
“Lucy, do not throw the corn meal at the biological murder machines,” I said, desperately trying to tap into the marginal Charisma boost provided by my pre-war aviator sunglasses. I needed a flawless dialogue execution right now, or she was going to accidentally start a terrestrial humanitarian crisis. “Listen to me. Deathclaws are biologically incapable of digesting processed grain.”
Probably? I’ve only ever seen them eat people. I think they’re carnivores.
“If you drop those crackers down there, the high sodium content will upset their delicate internal chemistry and make them incredibly aggressive toward local trade caravans.” I concluded, with more confidence than I felt.
Charisma! It makes you sound right, even when you’re probably not!
“Wait, really?” Lucy paused, her hand hovering over the open sky as she held a cardboard box of dry crackers. She turned her head back toward the cockpit, her big, sincere eyes blinking in genuine concern. “The surface manuals didn't mention anything about reptilian sodium intolerance.”
“It’s a specific, post-nuclear evolutionary mutation,” I lied smoothly, the words flowing out with the absolute certainty of a seasoned dungeon master inventing lore on the fly. “They subsist entirely on raw, unrefined protein. If you give them corn meal, you’re basically committing ecoterrorism.”
Not that I actually care. If those things really can kill Deathclaws, I say go for it.
“Oh. My goodness. I had no idea,” Lucy muttered, instantly pulling the box back against her chest and stepping away from the ledge with a look of profound, remorseful guilt. “Thank you for telling me, Kenny. The last thing I want to do is disrupt the natural balance of the surface world with irresponsible agricultural outreach.”
[Speechcheck: Passed.]
[+0015 XP]
Thank the universe for my aviators. If my prices were improved by ten percent for buying and selling, apparently my ability to fabricate absolute brahmin shit about deathclaw dietary tracks was similarly amplified.
“See? I told you he’s a prophet!!” Thaddeus shouted from the back, his tone instantly shifting into deep, fanatical adoration. “How else would he know so much about giant mutant lizards? Repent for your sins! Join me in worshiping the Great Wizard!”
“He’s a pilot, not a prophet.” Maximus rumbled back, though there was a distinct, subtle hint of hesitation in his synthesized voice now. “But… the stuff about the salt makes sense. Lizards are weird. They get dry.”
“It’s totally accurate!” Sierra chimed in from my right, adjusting her thick frames with a sharp, plastic click. “In 2075, Nuka-Cola actually experimented with a carbonated calcium supplement derived from horn-lizard DNA, and the test subjects showed a massive aversion to standard stadium popcorn! The corporate archive records are incredibly explicit about the kernel rejection metrics!”
“Great. Perfect. We are all on the same page regarding the popcorn and the lizards,” I sighed, rubbing the bridge of my nose behind my shades as the flight deck shuddered through another low-frequency wave of turbulence. “Can we please just focus on maintaining a quiet, happy place for the next fifty miles? Or hundred miles?”
How far is Massachusetts from California, anyways?
God, I miss Fast Travel.
“Can I at least switch seats?” Thaddeus asked.
“No,” Maximus replied.
“Come on! Why not?!”
“Because you have an open can of chili, Thaddeus,” Maximus stated firmly, the mechanical fingers of his gauntlet pointing aggressively. “If you spill that junk inside the seat, it’s going to get into the leg wires. And I’m not cleaning up your mess.”
“I am not going to drop my food!” Thaddeus yelled back, a loud, metallic clattering sound instantly echoing from the hold. “Whoops.”
“See?” Maximus rumbled. “You’re messy, man.”
“It was just the spoon! The beans are safe! The wizard blessed this can, so it’s not going to spill!” Thaddeus scrambled around on the floorboards, his heavy boots kicking against the hull.
“Kenny, do we have an official organizational chart for the vehicle yet?” Lucy asked, poking her head through the cockpit doorway with an eager, terrifyingly organized expression. “Because I really think we should establish a cleaning roster for the cargo bay. If we don't designate a specific storage zone for the logistics crates, the entire structural flow of our community space is going to collapse before we hit the next state line.”
“The destination is the roster, Lucy,” I said, keeping my eyes locked on a blinking green navigation icon on my Pip-Boy interface.
“That’s not an organizational policy, Kenny,” she pointed out, her voice dropping into that gentle, corrective tone she used for misbehaving children in the vault. “A policy requires a written framework.”
“We’ll write the framework when we’re on the ground,” I muttered, my left knee letting out an audible crack as I shifted my weight again. “Right now, the framework is just me keeping us from clipping a mountain range.”
“I can help you look for mountains!” Sierra offered, her face slamming right back against the glass side pane. “Oh! Look over there! That canyon looks exactly like a giant bottle of Nuka-Cola Cherry if you squint really hard and ignore the left ridge line!”
I closed my eyes for a single, fleeting second, listening to the deafening roar of the twin turboprop engines, the scratching static of the 1950s jazz radio on my wrist, and the continuous, unhinged bickering of the four companions crammed into my stolen military asset.
“Yeah,” I whispered to myself, pulling the flight yoke slightly to the left to steer us away from the cherry-shaped canyon. “Beautiful.”
…
The frost inside Vault 31 didn't melt; it clung to the black rubber seals and steel bulkheads like a structural disease, catching the dull, blue tint of the auxiliary emergency lights.
Hank MacLean let the heavy fire axe slip from his grip, the metal head clattering against the grated floor with a sharp, echoing ring that sounded entirely too loud in the mechanical tomb. He wiped a smear of chilled condensation from his brow, his breathing heavy and ragged in the sterile air.
Directly in front of him, the reinforced glass panel of the primary containment unit was a jagged, ruined spiderweb of fractures, completely smashed open by his own frantic swinging. He had genuinely thought there was still time. He had genuinely thought the life-support indicators were just experiencing a software glitch.
A complete waste of time, as it turned out.
Inside the shattered pod, Bud’s robo-brain chassis was a total disaster.
The bio-med gel meant to cushion the organic matter had completely frozen solid, expanding until the containment jar cracked wide open, exposing the delicate tissue beneath. The living brain was entirely, textually dead—shriveled, blackened by frostbite, and completely ruined.
Apparently, exposing a living human brain to experimental, centuries-long cryogenic storage without a full, biologically insulated body had a flat one hundred percent failure rate. Who knew?
Bud’s grand, corporate vision for “Bud's Buds” was officially over.
And so was the man himself.
Hank stared at the frozen mess, his jaw tightening as his mind traced the digital breadcrumbs left on the terminal logs. It hadn't been an accident. Kenneth Conroy—that little tech-genius bastard from the maintenance tier—had been the one who breached the sub-levels and uncovered the entrance to Vault 31. Hank knew the timeline perfectly.
The boy hadn't likely hadn’t meant to execute Bud; if he did, let’s face it, there are easier ways to kill something the size of a trashcan than to open a sealed cryo pod, and shove them inside. A wrench, for example, would take much less effort. No, far more realistically, the boy had been trying to imprison the robo-brain to buy himself time to escape the complex.
But the kid's complete lack of senior administrative training had backfired, triggering a cascading thermal failure that froze the unit solid. The junior technician had inadvertently murdered a senior executive vice president.
Another thing to add to his list of crimes. Stealing Hank’s own daughter, chief among them.
“You’re lingering, Hank,” Betty Pearson whispered from the dark shadows of the corridor, her form stepping into the blue light with the steady, quiet posture of a seasoned corporate secretary. Her face was an absolute mask of cold, unwavering pragmatism, completely detached from the physical reality of the corpse, or, near-corpse, in front of them. “The security feeds indicate the Vault 33 junior staff are already asking questions about your extended absence. We have a scheduled quarterly assembly in twenty minutes.”
“The assembly can wait, Betty,” Hank said, his voice dropping into a flat, dangerous register as he turned around to face her. “Look at this. Bud is gone. The entire oversight matrix for the regional development program is completely compromised.”
“Bud was a valuable asset, but he was always a middle-management dreamer,” Betty countered, her eyes scanning the cracked glass with zero emotion. “The protocol handles executive redundancy. What the protocol does not handle is the Overseer of Vault 33 abandoning his post. The management pool is already operating at a critical deficit after the breach. Risking a senior executive on a solo surface expedition is a direct violation of the directive.”
“My daughter is out there, Betty!” Hank snapped, stepping directly into her personal space, his eyes flashing with a sudden, vicious intensity. “Lucy is wandering around the surface world because she doesn't know any better. And that little Conroy parasite is out there too, running around with our access codes. You think I’m going to sit behind a desk and file inventory reports while a loose end drags my family through the mud?”
“Your family is an administrative metric, Hank,” Betty stated calmly, not flinching an inch. “The mission of Vault-Tec comes before the preservation of your personal legacy. If you leave that door, you are abandoning the product line. We cannot afford to lose a man with your experience.”
“Then find a new calling, Betty,” Hank growled, pushing past her shoulder and marching toward the secondary row of cryogenic pods lining the back wall. “Because I am going through that door, and I am going to bring my daughter back into compliance.”
“And who is going to manage the floor?” Betty demanded, her heels clicking sharply against the metal grates as she followed him. “Who is going to ensure the breeding cycles match the projected labor requirements for the next cycle? I can’t run two vaults simultaneously without causing an operational bottleneck!”
“Don’t worry. I’m not leaving you high and dry,” Hank said, stopping directly in front of pod number 014.
He didn't hesitate. His fingers danced across the manual override keypad with absolute precision, inputting the senior executive authorization codes he had held for over two centuries. A heavy, pneumatic hiss echoed through the chamber as the automated heating coils engaged, the thick layer of white frost covering the glass beginning to melt away into long, running streams of water.
Inside the pod, the shape of a woman began to clear. It was Steph.
Hank watched the glass clear, his expression instantly shifting from raw fury into a very specific, deeply unsettling brand of warm, conditional executive affection. He looked at her the way a regional director looked at a high-performing piece of manufacturing equipment that had just been brought back online ahead of schedule. She was reliable. She was vetted. She understood the company policy perfectly.
“Hank?” Steph gasped, her chest heaving as the internal oxygen mask detached from her face. She blinked rapidly against the blue emergency lights, her body trembling violently from the immediate effects of the cryogenic thaw. “Is it… is it time? Is the surface ready?”
“Not yet, sweetheart,” Hank said, his voice dripping with a comforting, practiced tenderness as he reached into the pod to gently steady her shoulders. “There’s been a slight deviation in our quarterly projections. A minor security breach from the lower tiers.”
“A breach?” Steph echoed, her voice weak and raspy as she clutched his arm for support. “Did… did something happen?”
“Nothing we can’t manage,” Hank assured her, offering a warm, confident Overseer smile that didn't reach his cold eyes. “But I need to step out of the office for a little while to personally handle this. Betty will bring you up to date.”
Steph blinked, trying to process the information through the lingering fog of a two-hundred-year sleep. “You’re… leaving me?”
“I’m the executive in charge, Steph. It's my responsibility,” Hank murmured, patting her cheek with a light, patronizing touch. “And I need someone I can trust to maintain the corporate culture while I’m away. You’re in charge of the floor now, Steph. You’re the acting Overseer of Vault 33.”
Steph straightened her posture slightly, the ingrained corporate conditioning taking over her physical weakness as she nodded. “I understand, Hank. I’ll take care of it.”
“That’s my girl,” Hank said, his smile fading the instant she looked away to check her vital monitors. He stepped back toward the staging area where his pristine Vault-Tec security kit was waiting, his mind completely focused on the hunt. “Betty, assist her with the onboarding process. I have a solo-expedition to prep.”
…
The mechanical harmony of the twin turboprop engines lasted for exactly another forty minutes before the dashboard layout erupted into a synchronized, panic-inducing Christmas tree of flashing crimson warning lights.
A heavy, wet clatter started vibrating straight through the floorboards beneath my boots, followed by a thick cloud of dark, sweet, cherry-scented black smoke pouring directly out of the primary starboard ventilation intake. I stared at the dropping fuel pressure needles, a cold sweat instantly breaking out beneath my pre-war aviators.
Sierra’s casual lore-dump back over Utah had apparently involved a lot of wild hand gestures, and one of her prized, vintage Nuka-Cherry bottle caps must have slipped right out of her pockets and vacuumed itself directly into the main air manifold. Damnit. I should have made her walk the non-existent plan when I had the chance.
The flight controls went completely stiff, turning the heavy steel yoke into a useless piece of decorative scrap metal. And my Agility stat of one actively chose this exact moment to turn my physical motor skills into a complete comedy of errors.
As I frantically lunged across the console to flip the auxiliary backup regulators, my elbow violently slammed against the primary landing gear toggle, causing the heavy hydraulic struts to deploy prematurely with a deafening screech.
The sudden drag yanked the Vertibird downward, the nose dipping into a terrifying, uncoordinated plunge toward a dilapidated, neon-lit pre-war structure coming up fast over the horizon. It was a classic Red Rocket station, its massive, rusted overhead rocket structure pointing toward the gray sky like a monument to a forgotten future.
Or the end of my present, if I can’t pull the fuck up!
“Brace yourselves!” I screamed over the deafening rattle of the cabin, violently yanking the yoke back with both hands as my left ankle locked up in pure panic. “We’re coming in hot! Literally!”
The landing wasn't a landing; it was falling. Without style.
The heavy steel wheels clipped the jagged concrete edge of a ruined billboard, sending a shower of bright yellow sparks cascading past the windshield as the aircraft sheared the entire sign off its base.
We slammed into the dirt parking lot with a tooth-rattling thud, the entire multi-ton frame skidding sideways through an ancient pile of rusted car chassis before finally grinding to a halting, groaning stop right next to the fuel pumps. The starboard engine let out one final, pathetic hiss of cherry-scented steam and died completely.
[Your left leg is crippled.]
Naturally…
“Shit.” I sighed, jabbing myself in the injured thigh with a stimpack, and sighing with relief as the magical, video-game medicine instantly knitted the bone back together. “There goes another one.”
But, at least it took the pain with it. God bless America for drugs.
“Oh, my goodness!” Lucy gasped, immediately popping her head through the partition, her face slightly smudged with soot but her posture completely rigid with emergency-prep readiness. “Is everyone alright? Kenny, that was an incredibly terrible landing, but I think the Vertibird will be okay!”
Then it wasn’t that terrible after all, was it? Any landing you can walk away from.
“Thanks for the critique. And yes. I’m fine. Physically, anyways. Emotionally? That’s up in the air. Unlike our aircraft.” I groaned, leaning my forehead against the dead steering column as my companions stirred themselves into motion. Might as well help them get a move along. “Everyone get out. We need to check the intake manifold before the whole thing decides to explode or something.”
“Oh, we couldn’t have picked a more charming place to crash!” Sierra squealed, already pushing her door open and jumping down into the dirt, entirely unfazed by the fact that we had just cheated death by about four inches.
Not that I would admit that.
“Not a crash.” I said, trying to stir myself into motion. “We’re all alive, and everything’s okay.” I better not have set myself up for dramatic irony.
“Kenneth, look at the vintage neon styling on those fuel pumps!” Sierra continued, either uninterested, or oblivious to my observations, as she was enraptured in her own. “This is a genuine, class-four regional distribution hub! The molding on the rocket fins is completely pristine!”
“Keep your weapon drawn, Sierra,” Maximus’s deep, synthesized voice rumbled as he stepped out of the rear hold, his heavy T-60 power armor boots leaving massive, deep indentations in the cracked asphalt. “The perimeter is unsecured. Thaddeus, get the rear perimeter line.”
“I’m securing it! I’m securing it!” Thaddeus scrambled out behind him, still holding his open can of chili in one hand and a standard-issue laser rifle in the other, his eyes darting frantically around the abandoned highway. “I don't see anything! Just a bunch of dead bushes and… wait. Is that a person?”
A figure slowly stepped out from the shadow of the garage bay, holding a rusted lug wrench over one rotting shoulder. He was a Ghoul, his skin a mottled, leathery texture of decayed radiation burns, wearing a perfectly preserved, bright red pre-war gas station attendant’s cap perched at a jaunty angle on his bald scalp. His nose was entirely gone, but his teeth were wide and bright as he offered us a massive, terrifyingly enthusiastic grin.
“Well, blow me down and call me Barnaby!” the Ghoul shouted, his voice a gravelly, sand-paper rasp that echoed across the quiet lot. “A genuine, flyin’ military ice-cream truck right in my own front yard! Welcome to Barnaby’s Premium Transit and Coolant Depot, folks! We got full-service hospitality, provided you got the proper commercial collateral!”
“Greetings, sir!” Lucy stepped forward instantly, her hand extended for a firm, Vault-certified handshake. “I am Lucy MacLean, and this is our transit collective. We have experienced a mechanical failure due to foreign debris in our intake. We would be absolutely delighted to trade for some of your premium coolant assets!”
Barnaby blinked his cloudy, rimmed eyes at her jumpsuit, his smile widening. “A Vault girl! Haven't seen one of those since the winter of '45! Well, missy, I got all the coolant your big metal bird can drink, but I don't take those shiny little metal bottle caps the local dirt-scratchers keep trying to pass off as currency. Caps are a fiat illusion! A corporate trick!”
How? All the corporations are dead.
Except maybe Vault-Tech, technically.
“We didn’t have any, anyways.” I muttered, stepping down from the cockpit and leaning against the hull, my Stimpak-healed leg still feeling a little tingly. “Great. Excellent. What do you take, Barnaby? Pre-war money? Gold? Sarcasm?”
I have that in spades, at least.
“Literature, my boy!” Barnaby declared, slapping the rusted side of a fuel pump with his wrench. “Pristine, un-crinkled, beautifully preserved pre-war literature! The written word is the only true currency left in this godforsaken world! A man can’t feed his mind on copper circles, but a mint-condition copy of Grognak the Barbarian? That’s institutional wealth!”
“Literature?” Thaddeus scratched his head with the barrel of his laser rifle. “Like… the instruction manuals for the latrines?”
“No, you absolute troglodyte!” Barnaby hissed back. “Art! Romance! Mystery! High-stakes drama!”
“Oh! Oh! I have it!” Sierra suddenly shrieked, her hands diving frantically into the hidden pockets of her puffy red dress. She pulled out a perfectly preserved, plastic-wrapped booklet with a bright, glossy cover featuring a smiling cartoon rocket. “I have a mint-condition, 2076 special-edition corporate prospectus catalog for the Nuka-Cola regional distribution network! It has embossed silver lettering on the spine and a complete breakdown of the syrup-to-water ratio regulations for the entire tri-state area!”
Barnaby’s jaw literally dropped. He dropped his lug wrench entirely, the heavy iron tool clattering against the dirt as he approached Sierra with his trembling, rotting hands held out like he was looking at the Holy Grail. “Is… is that the silver-embossed edition? The one with the scratch-and-sniff scratchpad on page twelve?”
“Yes!” Sierra gasped, her eyes watering with shared fanatical passion. “It smells exactly like synthetic passion fruit and corporate dominance!”
“It’s a deal!” Barnaby shouted, snatching the booklet with the speed of a feral ghoul and pressing it against his chest like a newborn child. “Take the coolant! Take all of it! The main reserve tank is behind the garage! Just pump until the dial turns green, you beautiful, beautiful corporate angels!”
“Awesome. Sierra, you are officially the MVP of this logistics cycle,” I said, letting out a breath I felt like I’d been holding since Utah. “Maximus, help me drag the hose out. Let's get this bird filled before—”
A sharp, high-pitched, echoing howl cut through the stagnant desert air, freezing all of us in our tracks.
From the crest of the nearby highway overpass, a dozen dark, low-slung shapes began to emerge from the rusted car wrecks. They were Vicious Rad-Hounds—their skin completely hairless, covered in glowing, radioactive tumors, their jaws snapping with a wet, rabid hunger as their yellow eyes locked directly onto our position.
“Movement on the ridge!” Maximus bellowed, his power armor servos roaring to life as he stepped between Lucy and the treeline. “Multiple hostiles! Thaddeus, lay down suppressing fire!”
“I’m trying! The safety is stuck!” Thaddeus panicked, frantically pulling at his rifle as a massive, glowing alpha hound leaped off the concrete overpass, sprinting across the asphalt directly toward him.
“Get behind me, Thaddeus!” Maximus yelled, but he didn't even have his minigun spun up yet.
Instead of waiting for the heavy weapon to cycle, Maximus lunged forward in the massive steel suit, his Agility clearly outmatching mine as he grabbed a rusted pre-war tire iron from the dirt and swung it like a baseball bat. The heavy iron bar connected with the alpha hound’s skull with a sickening, metallic CRACK, sending the mutant dog flying twenty feet backward into a pile of old tires.
“Oh, fuck!” Thaddeus screamed, finally getting his safety off and firing a wild, bright blue laser beam that completely missed the hounds and vaporized an innocent cactus fifty yards away.
“Lucy, grab the hose!” I yelled, scrambling toward the back of the garage where the massive, rubber coolant line was hooked to a rusted holding tank. My Strength stat of four meant the heavy, lead-lined hose felt like a literal log of solid concrete in my arms. “We need to fill the secondary cells right now while they’re distracted!”
“I am on it, Kenny!” Lucy announced, her athletic reflexes kicking into overdrive as she sprinted past a lunging rad-hound, delivering a flawless, textbook-perfect drop-kick to its ribs that sent it rolling into a ditch. She grabbed the nozzle from my hands, her face a mask of fierce determination. “Where does the input valve go?!”
“Under the starboard wing! The big silver cap!” I yelled back, wrestling with the heavy manual pump handle on the rusted tank.
Behind us, the battle was absolute chaos.
Maximus was holding the perimeter like a mechanical wall, his heavy iron fists smashing into glowing hounds left and right, while Thaddeus kept shouting about the Great Wizard and firing blue lasers in every direction except where the dogs actually were.
Sierra was sitting safely on the hood of a rusted Corvega, completely oblivious to the flying teeth and radiation, happily reading over Barnaby’s shoulder as the Ghoul wept tears of joy over his scratch-and-sniff corporate catalog.
I threw my entire weight against the rusted iron pump handle, my muscles straining as the thick, glowing blue coolant fluid began to surge through the rubber lines.
“Come on, you piece of junk!” I muttered, watching the internal Pip-Boy display shift as the transfer metric slowly ticked upward. “Just give me enough juice to reach the coast!”
The manual iron pump handle felt like it had been welded in place by two centuries of baked desert grime. I threw my entire body weight against it, my knuckles turning white as a heavy, mechanical clunk echoed from inside the rusted holding tank. Bright, glowing blue coolant fluid finally began to chug through the translucent rubber lines, pulsing like a radioactive artery toward the Vertibird’s starboard wing.
“It’s flowing, Kenny!” Lucy yelled over the din of the battle. She was leaning over the wing structure, using both hands to keep the heavy nozzle locked into the input valve while a thick, sweet mist of Nuka-Cherry exhaust hissed out of the nearby air manifold. “The dial on the wing console is ticking up! Twenty percent! Thirty!”
“Keep it steady!” I fired back, my breath coming in ragged gasps as I forced the pump handle down for another grueling stroke. My Strength stat was screaming at me, every muscle in my back lamenting the fact that I hadn't invested a few more points into physical conditioning during my character build. “We just need enough to clear the regional hot-zones!”
A terrifying, guttural snarl cut through my complaints.
One of the stray rad-hounds had broken past Maximus’s defensive perimeter, its hairless, tumor-ridden body skidding across the dirt lot as it locked its glowing yellow eyes directly onto my throat. It lunged, its jaws snapping open to reveal three rows of jagged, yellowed teeth.
[V.A.T.S. Initiated.]
[Target: Mutant Hound — Head 45%]
Time didn't slow down—because Survival Mode doesn't give you a magical temporal pause button—but my baseline Intelligence of nine instantly calculated the trajectory. I didn't bother aiming for a cinematic headshot with my pathetic physical precision. Instead, I yanked the 10mm pistol from my waistband, braced my wrist with my off-hand, and dumped three rapid-fire rounds directly into the beast's center mass.
The heavy slugs tore through its mutated chest cavity, the kinetic impact flipping the hound completely over mid-air. It crashed into the dirt two feet from my boots, kicking once before going entirely still.
[+0012 XP]
“I got your back, Great Wizard!” Thaddeus shrieked, sprinting around the corner of the garage with his laser rifle raised high. He held down the trigger, letting out a continuous, panicked volley of bright blue energy beams that completely missed the dead hound, punched three smoking holes through Barnaby’s garage roof, and set a stack of ancient rubber tires on fire.
“Thaddeus, stop shooting the scenery!” I yelled, ducking as a stray reflection of blue light singed the top of my aviators. “The threat is already neutralized!”
“Oh. Right! Flawless victory, Your Holiness!” Thaddeus cheered, instantly lowering his weapon and wiping a thick smear of dirt across his forehead. “The dark entities have been thoroughly banished by your divine lead projectile!”
“It’s full!” Lucy’s voice ringed out from above, followed by the heavy, metallic snap of the input valve closing. She slid down the side of the fuselage with practiced agility, landing lightly on her feet. “The gauge is completely in the green, Kenny! The primary and secondary cooling reservoirs are fully saturated!”
“Get inside! Everyone into the bird, right now!” I commanded, abandoning the pump handle and sprinting toward the cockpit door, my left leg still feeling a little stiff despite the Stimpak’s intervention, but I would have been running on it if it was still crippled at this point.
Maximus was already executing a tactical retreat, his heavy T-60 power armor boots crushing the gravel as he backed toward the open cargo bay, his massive iron gauntlets holding two struggling rad-hounds by their scruffs before violently tossing them into each other like bowling balls. He leaped into the rear compartment, the metal deck groaning under his immense weight. “Perimeter collapsing! Drive, Kenny! Drive!”
“Sierra! Let’s go!” I shouted over my shoulder.
Sierra was still standing by the hood of the Corvega, completely unbothered by the lingering laser smoke or the burning tires. “Oh, just one more second, Kenneth! Barnaby was just showing me the original 2075 distribution map for the Nuka-Cola expansion into New England! It has the most adorable little illustrations of fruit baskets on the border lines!”
“Sierra, if you don’t get in this aircraft in three seconds, I am leaving you here to become an assistant station manager!” I roared, flipping the primary ignition switches on the dashboard console.
The threat worked instantly.
Sierra let out a sharp gasp, snatched her vintage prospectus catalog back from the weeping Ghoul, and sprinted across the lot with her puffy red dress fluttering wildly behind her. She dived into the copilot’s seat just as the twin turboprop engines roared back to life, the primary rotors spinning into a massive, deafening blur of grey steel.
“Thank you for the hospitality, Barnaby!” Lucy shouted out the open side door, waving cheerfully to the leathery figure standing amidst the ruins of his parking lot. “We will certainly leave a stellar review of your facility with the regional transit authorities!”
“Come back anytime, angels!” Barnaby yelled back, holding his hands up to his face as the immense downdraft from our rotors kicked up a massive cloud of orange desert dust. “Keep the written word alive! Down with the fiat currency!”
I didn't waste time on a graceful taxi sequence. I wrapped both hands around the flight yoke, gritted my teeth, and violently yanked the collective stick back.
The Vertibird didn't just rise; it leaped into the sky like a startled vertibird—damnit, there’s that word again. The multi-ton metal chassis shuddered violently as the fresh coolant surged through the thermal regulators, completely neutralizing the sweet, smoky scent of the Nuka-Cherry cap that had threatened to drop us out of the atmosphere.
We cleared the rusted overpass by a margin of about three feet, the remaining rad-hounds shrinking into tiny, harmless black specks against the vast, orange clay of the canyon below.
[Location Discovered: Red Rocket Transit Depot.]
[+0020 XP]
I leveled the aircraft out at three thousand feet, steering our nose back toward the jagged eastern horizon as the static-heavy jazz radio on my Pip-Boy began to stabilize.
“Well,” Sierra sighed happily, adjusting her thick frames as she carefully slipped the plastic-wrapped corporate booklet back into her hidden pockets. “I think that went well. Don’t you think so, Kenneth?”
I stared straight ahead at the endless expanse of the ruins of America, my hands firmly locking the flight path toward the distant shores of Massachusetts.
“Yeah, Sierra,” I muttered, letting out a long, exhausted breath behind my sunglasses as the rhythmic hum of the engines finally settled into a steady vibration. “An absolute triumph of commercial capitalism.”
…
The heavy, gear-shaped blast door of Vault 33 groaned under the strain of the manual override jacks, its massive steel teeth weeping rust as the outer hydraulic seals began to bleed pressure. The staging area was entirely devoid of its usual celebratory cheer; there were no banners, no cake, and no bright-eyed committees waiting to welcome a fresh batch of trade partners from the adjacent sectors.
There was only the cold, industrial hum of the air filtration units and the faint, unmistakable smell of ozone drifting up from the sub-level maintenance tracks.
Hank MacLean pulled the canvas strap of his pristine, blue-and-yellow Vault-Tec canteen tight against his hip, his fingers checking the lock on the secure storage canisters lining his utility vest. Every single piece of his equipment was meticulously curated, sanitized, and approved by the senior management directives.
He didn't look like a man preparing to plunge into a radioactive wasteland; he looked like a regional director stepping out for a routine site inspection of an underperforming subsidiary.
As he should be.
“Dad, please,” Norm whispered from the edge of the yellow safety line painted onto the concrete floor, his small shoulders hunched forward as he clutched a frayed technical manual against his chest. His voice was incredibly thin, completely swallowed by the vast, echoing geometry of the airlock chamber. “You can’t just walk out there. Lucy left, and she isn't coming back, and now you’re leaving too? You’re the Overseer. The vault needs you. I need you.”
Hank stopped his adjustments, his expression instantly shifting from a calculation of local survival metrics into a flawless presentation of paternal devotion. He crossed the concrete floor in three long, deliberate strides, wrapping his arms around his son’s trembling frame with a firm, unyielding squeeze.
He made sure to hold the boy just long enough to project absolute stability, the kind of heavy, reassuring pressure that senior executives used to pacify stockholders before a major restructuring phase.
“Listen to me, Norm,” Hank murmured, his voice dropping into a deep, gentle register right next to the boy’s ear. “I have to go. Your sister is a sweet girl, but she doesn't understand how dangerous it is out there. She was tricked by someone she shouldn't have trusted. You and Lucy are my entire world, Norm. Everything I do is to make sure you two have a future.”
Norm pulled back slightly, his eyes wide and glassy under the harsh fluorescent lights of the vault ceiling. “But the surface… the manuals say it’s completely unlivable.”
“The manuals are just to keep people safe, son,” Hank assured him, giving Norm’s shoulder a firm, paternal pat that left no room for further argument. “Between you and me? ‘Completely’ is a bit of an exaggeration. I am going to find your sister, Norm. And I am going to bring her home. Safe and sound. I need you to stay here, keep up with your studies, and trust the process. Can you do that for me?”
Norm swallowed hard, his jaw tightening as he offered a small, hesitant nod. “I’ll… I’ll do my best, Dad. I promise.”
“That’s my boy,” Hank said, his smile remaining perfectly fixed in place until he turned away, his mind already shifting to the final loose end remaining on the residential tiers.
The walk down the corridor to the Conroy family quarters took exactly four minutes through the quiet, residential corridors. Hank didn't use the service lifts; he wanted the physical exercise to calibrate his heart rate before the atmospheric transition.
When he reached the threshold of unit 204, he didn't use the standard intercom chime. He simply tapped his gold-plated Overseer key-card against the proximity scanner, the heavy steel door sliding open with a smooth, pneumatically silent hiss.
Inside, the Conroy family was gathered around the small, formica dining table, their dinner completely interrupted by the sudden appearance of the chief executive.
Elena Conroy was halfway through portioning out a tray of reconstituted nutrient paste, a warm, practical smile instantly breaking across her face as she wiped her hands on her clean, Vault-Tec issue apron. Marcus Conroy stood up immediately, his posture shifting into the quiet, slightly gruff respect of a veteran maintenance supervisor who knew exactly how much authority the man in the blue suit carried.
“Overseer!” Elena blinked, her eyes darting to the heavy surface pack strapped to Hank’s shoulders. “We didn't expect a personal visit before the evening assembly. ‘A scheduled check keeps the pipes from a wreck,’ as my father used to say. Is everything alright on the residential line?”
“Everything is perfectly fine, Elena,” Hank said, his voice instantly filling the room with a warm, comforting wave of charm as he stepped over the threshold.
He looked down at the couch, where little Mia Conroy was aggressively ignoring her math modules, her sassy expression a mirror image of her older brother’s stubbornness. Hank’s eyes lingered on the girl for a fraction of a second before he snapped his gaze back to Marcus.
“I’m actually stepping out of the vault for a brief period to handle a routine matter on the outside.” He idly noted, gauging their reactions carefully. The fact that they were still here was a good sign that Kenneth acted alone, but you can never be too careful.
If even just one of them was traitorous, with him gone, the entire Vault’s security could be at risk.
Marcus frowned slightly, his thick eyebrows knitting together as he looked at the heavy-duty leather boots Hank was wearing. “On the outside, sir? With the main blast doors open?”
“It’s a matter of safety, Marcus,” Hank explained, his face settling into a deeply practiced, sympathetic expression that oozed warmth and communal solidarity. “I know how much pain your family has gone through since your boy Kenneth ran away. It’s a tragedy when a young man with so much potential throws away his future like that.”
Elena’s smile faltered for a brief second, her fingers clutching the edge of her apron as a look of profound, maternal longing passed over her features. “Kenneth is… he’s a good boy, sir. He just got confused by the old logs. He always did think he could fix everything with a monkey wrench.”
“Of course he did, Elena,” Hank said, his voice dripping with an incredible, terrifyingly soft tenderness as he stepped closer to the table, his eyes completely flattening into two dead, frozen pools of blue ice behind his smiling mask. “And that’s exactly why I wanted to stop by personally before I left. I wanted to give you my word. If I happen to run into Kenneth out there in the wilds… I am going to take care of him myself.”
Marcus let out a long, ragged sigh of pure relief, his shoulders visibly dropping as he reached out to shake Hank’s hand with honest, quiet gratitude. “Thank you, Overseer. That means the world to us. We’ve been worried sick about what the surface would do to him. If you can just bring him back home, we’d be deeply obliged.”
“I’ll make sure the boy gets exactly what he deserves, Marcus,” Hank murmured, his grip on the maintenance supervisor’s hand firm and steady, his smile never wavering for a single, fleeting second as he backed toward the sliding door. “Don't you worry about a thing. Enjoy your dinner, folks.”
“Safe travels, Overseer!” Elena called out after him, her warm voice brimming with the unyielding optimism of a true vault-dweller. “‘A journey well-paced is a journey well-placed!’”
Hank didn't reply as the steel door slid shut, completely sealing the Conroy family back inside their bright, sterile little box. The smile vanished from his face the instant the lock engaged, his jaw setting into a hard, vicious line as he marched back toward the main airlock where the gear-shaped door was finally hitting its maximum clearance.
He didn't care about the radiation, and he didn't care about the wasteland. He had an asset to retrieve, a loose end to liquidate, and an entire product line to bring back under absolute corporate control.
Bud may be dead, as were his dreams. But he was right about one thing.
The future really is management
…
The steady, rhythmic thrum of the Vertibird's engines had long since ceased being a terrifying novelty, melting instead into a comforting, background hum that felt like the pulse of their entire journey. Lucy leaned her shoulder against the metallic frame of the cockpit entryway, her eyes tracing the dramatic shift in the landscape below.
The endless, scorched orange clay of the western deserts had finally given way to rolling, dense stretches of overgrown green forests, cut in half by the crumbling concrete ribbons of ancient elevated highways. In the far distance, beneath a heavy canopy of grey New England clouds, the jagged, unmistakable silhouette of a ruined skyline was just beginning to break through the horizon.
Kenny was practically vibrating in the pilot’s seat, his hands gripping the flight yoke with a loose, buoyant energy that she hadn't seen since they left California. He kept leaning forward, his pre-war aviators slipping slightly down the bridge of his nose as he stared at the distant highway loops like a kid staring at a pile of wrapped birthday gifts.
“Yes! Finally!” Kenny shouted over the engine roar, a massive, unvarnished grin splitting his face. “We are officially in the state of Massachusetts. I am about to fast-travel my way straight to the endgame gear.”
“What does that mean?” Lucy asked, her eyebrows knitting together in genuine confusion. She leaned a little further into the cockpit, trying to mentally parse the strange, rhythmic phrases he always spun out whenever he got incredibly excited.
“Huh? Oh, crap,” Kenny muttered, his posture instantly stiffening as he glanced back over his shoulder. “Did I say that out loud? Pretend I didn't do that.”
“Pretend you didn't do what?” Lucy asked obligingly, a warm, bright smile immediately returning to her face. If Kenny needed her to overlook a minor eccentric slip of the tongue, she was more than happy to accommodate him. It was what a supportive friend did.
Especially supportive friends with romantic intentions.
“That I didn't say that stuff about endgame gear out loud,” Kenny answered, tapping his fingers against the instrument panel. “You just heard me say it. Keep up, Lucy.”
“No, I know,” Lucy hummed, nodding her head with sincere, unblinking clarity. “You told me to pretend I didn't hear you say that… so I did.”
Kenny blinked at her through his dark lenses, his jaw dropping open slightly before a look of profound, amused defeat washed over his features. “Oh. Well. You’re an amazing actress.”
“Thank you!” Lucy beamed, her chest swelling with a sudden rush of happy, nostalgic pride. It was so incredibly nice of him to notice. “I always did get the lead role in our plays back home! Do you remember when we did Romeo and Juliet for the spring festival? You looked so cute in your little costume!”
“Lucy! Don’t embarrass me in front of our minions,” Kenny hissed, his cheeks turning a very sudden, faint shade of pink as he pointedly redirected his eyes toward the spinning dashboard dials.
“Companions,” Lucy corrected gently, her tone light and playful.
“That’s what I said,” Kenny lied, adjusting his grip on the steering column with a sudden, rigid focus. “And, also, in case you’re still wondering about the stuff I said about endgame gear, that was just a weird phrase I used to describe us getting great apocalypse stuff from Nuka-World. Don’t read into it.”
“Oh,” Lucy murmured, the explanation clicking perfectly into place. That made a great deal of sense. A big place like that would naturally have a lot of neat supplies left behind. “What do you think we’ll find there, anyways? Isn’t it just an amusement park?”
“It’s an amusement park for Nuka-Cola,” Kenny retorted, a knowing, almost fanatical glint appearing in his eye as he gestured blindly to the right side of the deck. “Which means there will be lots of bottle caps. Right, Sierra?”
The question was like flipping a high-voltage switch on an automated factory line. Sierra Petrovita practically launched herself out of the copilot’s seat, her thick, oversized glasses smacking against the upper console with a sharp clack as she clapped her hands together in a state of hyperactive ecstasy.
“Oh, it is so much more than just a park, Kenneth!” Sierra shrieked, her voice easily piercing the mechanical drone of the turboprops. “It is an absolute, historically unparalleled monument to the genius of John-Caleb Bradberton! There are five entirely distinct themed zones, including the Safari Adventure, the World of Refreshment—which features a literal flowing river of actual Nuka-Cola Quantum!—and the Galactic Zone! The automated security grid alone utilizes over three hundred synchronized Protectron units painted in exclusive white-and-blue corporate livery! It is, without a single doubt, the absolute happiest place on the entire planet!”
Lucy smiled warmly at the woman's enthusiasm, though her eyes naturally drifted past Sierra’s bouncing head to inspect the dashboard. She liked to make sure everything was running smoothly, and keeping an eye out was just part of being a good neighbor. Her eyes traced the bouncing green needles, stopping abruptly on a small, circular gauge tucked near the side. The golden needle was resting deeply within a prominent, red-shaded arc at the very bottom of the dial.
“Kenny?” Lucy asked, pointing a finger at the gauge. “The fuel needle is getting really low. Is it supposed to do that?”
“Don't worry about it,” Kenny said, though his head tilted slightly to get a clearer view of the needle. “It’s a long flight from California all the way to the Commonwealth, so of course we ran a little low. I would have stopped for a quick refill earlier, but there was literally nothing but rad-scorpions and dirt on the way over. According to the highway sign I spotted a few miles back, the nearest Red Rocket shouldn't be far. I calculated it all in my head when I saw the sign, and we can get there with just over fifty miles worth of fuel.”
Lucy let out a soft breath, her confidence in Kenny’s smarts instantly smoothing over her brief moment of worry. He always seemed to know exactly what he was doing.
“So,” Kenny continued, his voice dripping with an easy, relaxed confidence as he leaned back into the leather cushion. “As long as nobody did anything stupid to massively drain the battery, we should be fine.”
“Um…”
A heavy, suffocating silence immediately blanketed the interior of the cockpit.
Lucy turned her head toward the dark cargo bay.
Maximus was sitting on a storage crate, looking completely frozen. He wasn't wearing his T-60 armor; the empty, heavy metal suit was locked into the wall rack behind him, completely powered down. But a thick, heavy cable was running directly out of the Vertibird's wall outlet, and the other end was shoved straight into the back of the armor's glowing Fusion Core slot.
Maximus slowly looked up, rubbing the back of his neck as he offered a deeply guilty, defensive shrug. “The suit looked low. And the plug just fit right in there. I wanted it to be ready in case we had to fight something.”
“Oh… shoot,” Lucy whispered, her stomach dropping.
“Maximus,” Kenny said, his voice dropping into a flat, terrifyingly calm register that was far more frightening than if he had started screaming. “Tell me you didn't just siphon the last of the aviation cells to charge a suit of cyberpunk cosplay.”
The Vertibird chose that exact second to provide the answer.
The port engine let out a loud, wet cough, sputtered twice, and died completely, the sudden loss of power sending the entire aircraft into a sharp, sluggish bank to the left. The dashboard lights didn't just flash; they let out a continuous, mournful tone.
“Hold onto something!” Kenny yelled, his casual demeanor evaporating into pure, survival-driven panic as he fought against the dropping controls. He violently leaned his entire body weight into the yoke, fighting the dead air currents as the heavy steel frame began to slide downward through the grey clouds.
It wasn't a crash, thankfully.
Kenny managed to steer the dying glide-path away from the jagged concrete of the highway overpasses, guiding the groaning metal beast down through a dense canopy of ancient pine trees. The branches scraped against the hull with a deafening rattle before the wheels finally touched down in a thick bed of damp, mossy forest soil.
The Vertibird skidded twenty feet through the mud, tilted slightly to the right, and came to an absolute, unmoving stop in the dead center of a silent, overgrown clearing. The silence that followed was absolute. Their aircraft was entirely out of fuel.
They were completely stranded in the middle of a massive, unmapped forest.
Kenny sat perfectly still for three seconds.
Then, he unbuckled his harness with a slow, deliberate series of clicks, stood up, and marched directly into the rear cargo hold. He didn't say a word to Lucy, and he didn't look at Sierra. He walked straight over to the fully charged T-60 power armor mounted on the wall rack, stepped inside the open back plate, and let the heavy mechanical frame seal around his body with a loud, pressurized hiss.
He reached down to the floor, hoisted a massive, multi-barreled minigun into his steel gauntlets, and turned his helmet visor directly toward Maximus.
“One,” Kenny barked, his voice amplified into a deep, mechanical rumble by the suit’s external speakers.
“C-can’t we talk about this?!” Maximus panicked, his eyes widening in pure terror as the heavy barrels of the minigun began to slowly rotate with a high-pitched electric whine.
“Two!” Kenny bellowed, taking a massive, thudding step forward.
Maximus didn't wait for three. He turned on his heel and dived straight out of the open side bay door, bolting into the thick treeline with the frantic speed of a frightened rad-stag.
Lucy ran to the edge of the door, her forehead creasing into a deep, worried frown as she watched him vanish into the woods. “Kenny!”
“What? I’m not going to actually shoot him,” Kenny said, his power armor suit letting out a loud hiss as he lowered the heavy minigun barrel. “I just wanted to scare him a little. A lot. Can you blame me? He used up all the fuel!”
“He didn't know,” Lucy pointed out, turning around to face him with her arms crossed. Maximus was just trying to be ready to protect them, even if he didn't think it through first.
“Yeah, yeah. I know… he’a getting pretty far actually. We should probably go after him,” Kenny muttered, his mechanical voice sounding slightly sheepish behind the steel faceplate.
“Oh, is this an official tracking mission?!” Thaddeus shouted, suddenly popping up from behind a stack of crates. He had been hiding under a tarp the entire time Kenny was counting down, his face absolutely pale with fear. He clutched his laser rifle tightly against his chest, his eyes wide. “Because I am an expert scout, Great Wizard! I can sniff out a deserter through three states! Just give the word and I’ll hunt him down like the stray dog he is!”
“Just walk behind me, Thaddeus,” Kenny sighed, the heavy boots of the T-60 armor clanging loudly against the deck as he stepped out into the mud.
The group moved out into the dense underbrush, with Kenny’s heavy suit leading the way to clear the branches. Thaddeus kept creeping from tree to tree behind him, pointing his laser rifle at random rustling bushes and whispering, “I think I hear the traitor, Your Holiness! Stay vigilant!” while Sierra casually walked along, picking mutated flowers and humming Nuka-Cola jingles.
They traced the massive paths Maximus had trampled through the bushes for about ten minutes before the dense treeline suddenly broke open.
They find him standing on the main road, completely motionless, looking up at a billboard. He didn't even look back as the heavy, clanging footsteps of Kenny's armor approached the asphalt.
Lucy stepped out onto the road beside him, her eyes following his gaze upward.
Rising out of the overgrown bushes was a towering, double-sided pre-war billboard.
The paint was peeling and stained with decades of acid rain, but the massive, brilliant image of a giant cartoon bottle of Nuka-Cola wearing a pair of white gloves was completely unmistakable. Bold, faded red letters curved across the top of the metal frame, illuminated by a cracked neon arrow that pointed directly down the crumbling highway path.
NUKA-WORLD: AMERICA’S FAVORITE RECREATION PARADISE!
NEXT EXIT — 5 MILES
Lucy blinked, a sudden wave of relief and excitement washing over her as she looked from the sign back to Kenny’s massive metal suit.
Kenny stood perfectly still on the asphalt, the heavy barrels of his minigun lowering completely as his helmet visor stared at the faded red lettering. He didn't speak for a long time, the only sound being the faint, scratchy static of the pre-war jazz radio station trying to filter through his Pip-Boy interface.
“Well,” Kenny muttered, his mechanical voice sounding entirely flat behind his steel faceplate. “What do you know?”