Chapter 16
The morning of the trial run, I triple-checked my gear.
Pip-Boy synced. Backup toolkit packed. Clip cleaned and slotted. I'd sold off the excess submarine munitions I'd been carting around I had no intention of using. Pulled in a tidy sum, alongside the second day's work in the clinic. And the couple of components I needed to finish the basic automata.
I fastened the vault security vest over my fatigues and slung the modified AER across my shoulder. FKSR joined me, stepping with her usual precision, her boots striking the cracked pavement as she walked at my flank.
The pickup truck they'd assigned us was a pre-war relic: an atomic V8 that purred like a lazy cat. The rear bed was partially occupied by the mounted water tank—bolted steel and polymer, field-welded to a harness system someone had clearly spent too many nights improvising. There was still enough room left for a few of us.
I climbed into the bed first, grabbing the lip of the tailgate and hauling myself up. FKSR followed without a word, her landing thudding heavy enough to dip the suspension. I felt it lurch beneath us. So did the Minutemen already seated near the tank.
They looked up at her in slow, wide-eyed silence. One nudged the other with his elbow, muttering something under his breath. She didn't acknowledge them, merely settled into a crouch, spear secured, AER across her lap, eyes always watching.
The tech team and a senior guard loaded into the front cabin. The driver keyed the ignition, and the engine rumbled to life with that signature v8 fusion whine. Smooth, but old—too much vibration.
We rolled out of Quincy's east gate just past 0700. The guards in the bed were quiet at first. The kind of awkward silence that comes from sharing space with something you don't understand.
It was one of the younger Minutemen who broke the ice.
"So, uh," he said, leaning forward with a half-grin, "it's true then? You gave your lady friend here all those robot gadgets?"
I didn't immediately respond. He continued anyway, gesturing vaguely toward FKSR's back.
"I mean, that shield, the spear—hell, the way she moves. That's gotta be next-level tech, right? You think you could hook me up? I dunno… maybe a robo-arm? Like in those old Drake Tungsten comics? Whole 'one-man-army' thing?"
I glanced at FKSR. She didn't move, but her brow twitched just slightly.
I exhaled through my nose and smirked.
"Let me guess," I said, "you want one that punches through walls, auto-locks onto targets, and has all sorts of inbuilt tools and gadgets for all situations."
He blinked, looked sheepish. "I mean, uh… kinda?"
"Sure," I said dryly. "Right after I finish building my army of robots and cyborgs. I'll put you at the top of the waiting list."
The other guards chuckled, and he flushed a bit but grinned back anyway. It broke the tension. FKSR didn't even glance at him. I suspected she was filtering everything he said into some internal risk profile.
"Seriously though," the older Minuteman beside him said, "we've seen a few scavvers come through with modded limbs before. But she's something else. Not just gear. She feels… different."
I nodded, my expression cooling just slightly. "She is."
"'She' is right here and can speak for herself."
FKSR didn't raise her voice. She didn't need to. Her tone was calm, clipped, and as cold as ice. The kind of voice that made you sit a little straighter without knowing why.
The older Minuteman froze for half a second, then gave an awkward half-laugh. "Didn't mean any offense, ma'am. Just… didn't know if you, uh—talked."
She tilted her head just slightly, a gesture that managed to be both patient and predatory. "I'm here to protect the good doctor."
That shut the conversation down completely.
The rest of the ride was quieter.
It was quiet—until it wasn't.
The calm was shattered by a blaring horn that sounded like someone had strapped a train horn onto something that shouldn't. I turned my head just in time to see the source: a rust-splotched van cobbled together with armor plating, metal spikes, and what looked like parts of two different robots welded onto the front like some post-apocalyptic hood ornament. A circular platform had been welded onto the roof, complete with railings and one very high raider standing proudly on top—shirtless, wearing mismatched armor that looked like it had been ripped off a Mister Gutsy and hot-glued to a leather jacket.
A teddy bear was strapped to his codpiece.
And—of course—he had a fucking Tesla coil rifle. Glowing arcs of electricity jittered across the barrel as he laughed into the wind, letting off wild warning shots into the sky.
The younger Minuteman beside me muttered a curse under his breath. "Fucking Rust Devils... shouldn't be this far south."
FKSR didn't need the warning.
Her AER was already up, one fluid motion from passive readiness to trained precision. The raider didn't even get the rifle halfway down before a yellow beam punched through the air—and a split second later, through his skull. The shot seared a perfectly round hole through his forehead and burst out the back in a bloom of cauterized matter. His body dropped like a ragdoll, flopping off the platform.
Screams erupted from the cab of the van. I caught a glimpse of the driver—wild-eyed, frothing, slamming his foot down on the accelerator.
"Oh, come on—" our driver complained.
FKSR had already shifted.
A second shot snapped through the front of the van. It carved through what passed for a windshield, and through the armored grille's slit cleanly, and clipped the driver through the upper torso. The van didn't stop—momentum carried it forward—but it veered off, crashing into the side of a gutted storefront with a shriek of metal and a plume of dust. Its scrap armor had absorbed most of the kinetic impact.
For a moment, there was silence again.
Then, a nervous laugh bubbled up from one of the Minutemen riding in the back with us. "Shit... you weren't kidding about your bodyguard."
Before I could respond, the rear doors of the van exploded outward.
Inside, amidst tangled wires and a haze of steam, a twitchy raider in grease-stained overalls worked furiously at a rusted terminal. Behind him, something leapt.
It cleared the van in a single bound.
A bastardized assaultron—its legs reinforced with sentry bot hydraulics, scrap armor bolted to its frame, and a literal skull welded where its head module should've been. Thankfully, its head laser had been removed—or broken—but its bladed claws hummed with lethal energy.
FKSR didn't hesitate.
She was already moving—dropping from the truck bed mid-stride, her AER barking in her right hand while her left reached for her spear. Yellow beams of light slammed into the hybrid bot, burning divots into its reinforced torso. It barely stumbled.
Lasers lanced out from the rest of us—Minutemen musket fire and my own modified AER joined in, battering the machine as it advanced.
With a crack like splintering bone, FKSR hurled her spear.
It drove clean through the machine's midsection, impaling it to the cracked concrete and arresting its momentum in one smooth motion. The bot twitched, claws spasming as it tried to wrench free.
She advanced.
Unhurried. Precise.
Then, in one clean, brutal movement—she raised her leg high above her head and brought it crashing down in an axe kick that shattered the assaultron's skull. Sparks and black fluid burst from the crater where its head had been.
Silence returned.
The raider mechanic inside the van had stopped moving. Probably dead. Or praying for death.
I turned to the Minutemen still catching their breath, casually brushing some dust off shoulder.
"So, if it's alright with you," I said, nodding toward the crashed vehicle, "we'll be taking that van. Whatever passes for armor seems to have held up well, and I'd rather not waste a perfectly functional vehicle."
There was a pause.
Then a shrug from the older Minuteman. "Fair's fair. You took it down, it's yours."
The younger one muttered, "Still don't know if I should be impressed or terrified."
FKSR glanced over her shoulder—expression unreadable.
I smiled faintly.
"Both is good."
We finally reached the Vault sometime past midday, the battered van coughing and squealing the whole way like it was personally offended by the trip.
I'd claimed van duty for myself—partly because I wanted to monitor the vehicle's condition, partly because I didn't trust any of the Quincy techs not to start stripping it for parts the moment my back was turned. But mostly?
It was mine now. And I had plans. Big ones.
The interior was exactly what you'd expect from a Rust Devil death-wagon. Mildew and axle grease, mingling with the chemical rot of whatever cocktail of chems they considered "flavor." Empty syringes rattled in the corners with each bump in the road, rolling around next to the shattered remains of a stimpack and something that might have once been a bottle of Buffout. The assaultron corpse still lay sprawled in the storage bay, limbs stiff and twisted, clattering against every bit of junk welded into the floor. Duct-taped wiring hung from the ceiling like jungle vines, and near the passenger-side footwell... something viscous and dark had congealed. I didn't investigate. Some mysteries aren't worth solving.
Still—armor plating was intact, the frame hadn't twisted from the crash, and the axles were only mildly misaligned. Which, all things considered, made this the most reliable piece of post-apocalyptic engineering I'd ever personally owned.
Most importantly, I'd made sure to personally yank the Tesla coil rifle from the corpse of the raider with the unfortunate codpiece. The thing was heavier than it looked—mostly copper tubing, old world power capacitors, and raw spite. It crackled in my hands as I turned it over, static leaping between its exposed coils with a malicious little hiss. Unstable. Volatile. Completely unshielded.
Beautiful.
My inner nerd was losing its fucking mind.
As the pickup and the van rolled to a halt just outside the Vault entrance, one of the Minutemen riding passenger with me gave a long, sidelong glance toward the southern horizon. The roiling green haze of the Glowing Sea writhed like a living bruise on the landscape—unnatural, shimmering, and ever-shifting.
I caught the look and preempted the question.
"As I mentioned to your mayor," I said, slipping out of the van and stretching my shoulders, "we're not in the Glowing Sea. Just near its edge. A few clicks out, at least. We've been established here for weeks—no radstorms, no deathclaws, no half-melted ghouls clawing at the door yet."
He gave a dry chuckle, thumbing toward the massive Vault blast door.
"If I lived in that thing," he muttered, "and that was the first thing I saw coming out? I'd turn right back around and lock the damn door behind me."
The rest of the Quincy crew were dismounting, taking in the surroundings with varying degrees of discomfort. Even with radiation gear and basic protection, none of them looked thrilled to be this close to the Sea. The roiling green mass on the southern horizon gave off an uneasy shimmer, like a sickness spreading across the land.
FKSR remained perfectly still near the vault's external control panel, silent and statuesque—her presence more like a sentry turret than a person. She was watching the horizon, her awareness sweeping wide, prepared to intercept anything that wandered too close. Just in case.
I stepped up to the vault control terminal, plugging in my Pip-Boy and watching as the access lights flickered to life. The groan of hydraulics filled the air a moment later as the blast door began to slowly grind open, sending dust and stagnant air sweeping across the gravel. I slipped inside quickly, navigating the grated walkway just below the threshold to the intake level. From here, I had direct access to one of the auxiliary water pump lines—quietly humming with reclaimed life.
Grabbing one of the thick hoses—more firehose than faucet—I dragged it back toward the vault's exterior, threading it through the gap left by the partially opened door. The hose locked into the input valve on the tank truck with a heavy clunk, but I kept the release closed for now.
I reached for the valve on the handle, loosening it just enough to fill the smaller container the Minutemen had brought along for testing. Water hissed into the steel basin, clear and scentless, pooling up fast.
One of the technicians crouched beside it, geiger counter in one hand, a worn chemical test strip in the other. He dipped it, waited, frowned, then dipped it again—longer this time.
"Well?" asked one of the Minutemen, arms folded, rifle slung low across his chest.
The tech finally looked up from the test kit, blinking behind fogged goggles. He held up the strip, tilting it against the light.
"Clean," he said, almost in disbelief. "Vault-level clean. Zero rads, balanced mineral content. Honestly—cleaner than most of what we drink in Quincy."
He glanced over his shoulder, thumb hooking toward the distant shimmer of the Glowing Sea.
"I mean, I get it's a Vault, but with that behind us?" He let out a short laugh. "I'm surprised it isn't tainted by proximity alone."
One of the younger guards gave a low whistle, shaking his head.
"Damn. And here I thought we'd be hauling irradiated mud back to town."
The veteran Minuteman gave a dry chuckle before turning back toward the truck's cab. I focused on opening the main valve, letting the purified water flow in a steady, pressurized stream into the tanker. The hose rattled slightly as it locked into place, and the faint gurgle of clean water filled the air.
A minute later, the older Minuteman returned—this time with a sack that gave a satisfying clink as it swung from his grip. Canvas, worn with age, but heavy.
"Here's the caps portion," he said, tossing it into my waiting hands. "Should cover the agreed-upon rate for this run."
I gave it a subtle heft. The weight felt right.
I slung the sack over my shoulder, the satisfying clink of caps muffled by the canvas. "I look forward to it—and to the continued partnership between myself, the Minutemen, and the people of Quincy." I offered a nod, measured but sincere. "Though, just for scheduling's sake... when should I expect the next pickup?"
The veteran scratched his chin, glancing toward the technician, who was still watching the flow gauge with faint awe.
"Two days, maybe three," he said. "Depends on the roads and how fast our logistics crew can sort through your parts list. Assuming the tank holds up on the way back, we'll treat this like a standing route. You'll see us again before the week's out."
"Good," I replied simply, already recalculating my timeline in the back of my mind.
The veteran offered a half-salute as he stepped back toward the truck. "Stay sharp out here, Doc. That storm line? Tends to crawl north a bit once winter rolls in."
I followed his gaze toward the southern horizon
I stood there a moment longer, watching the Minutemen finish loading up the last of their gear, the water tanker sloshing full behind them. The engine rumbled to life, a dull hum cutting through the unnatural quiet that lingered near the Sea's edge. FKSR remained by the vault terminal, unmoving. Her spear was once again slung across her back, shield catching a faint glimmer of dying light—like she were standing guard over the threshold between two worlds.
Once the truck turned and began its slow journey back north, I finally exhaled.
"Well," I muttered, slinging the sack of caps onto my worktable by the intake terminal, "that was a successful first contact."
I turned toward the newly claimed van, opening the hood of the car and extracting the fusion core within. That and disconnecting the engine's starter. No reason to leave this thing ready for someone to hijack, though I doubt someone would be prepared to take this thing so far out in the boonies, let alone know how to drive.
Juggling the fusion core in my arms, I made my way back inside, boots echoing softly through the intake corridor. FKSR followed without a word, her presence a quiet shadow at my back. At the vault's inner control panel, I keyed in a short sequence, tapping the interface with my pip-boy for authentication. With a low mechanical groan, the hydraulics engaged.
The great blast door began to slide shut—inch by inch—sealing us off from the surface once again. I watched until the final echo of grinding steel faded into silence.
Then I looked down at the core nestled in my hand.
Cold fusion. Still humming. Still warm with potential. It pulsed faintly beneath its casing—like a synthetic heartbeat. A miracle of engineering, absurd in its elegance. It shouldn't exist. And yet, here it was.
And now… it was mine.
I could already see it—Replikas outfitted with optimized power systems, orbital platforms running off compact cores instead of cavernous reactors. No need for sprawling infrastructure. Just raw, refined possibility in a container the size of a toolbox.
I exhaled slowly.
I'm getting ahead of myself.
My mind and implant buzzed in tandem as I turned the core over once more, feeling the subtle hum through my gloves.
"Lets see what West-Tek hid inside you shall we?" I muttered.
A.N: Timeskip after this chapter👍