Chapter Text
Prologue
Woodpecker:
Yo, dude, finally crawled out. Where you been? Brawling again?
HalfPintWhiskey:
Yep. Tried to hit this new spot I read about—city, mutants, like that. Total bust. Walked all day, dead tired, then had to drag my ass back. They made this place fucking endless, man.
Woodpecker:
(Laughing emoji) Couldn't make it?
HalfPintWhiskey:
No! Checked it from a high point in the morning, still had just as far to go as I did.
Woodpecker:
Show me!
HalfPintWhiskey:
(Bad screenshot, bad screenshot, swearing audio, bad screenshot)
Woodpecker:
Why’s the quality so garbage?
HalfPintWhiskey:
No clue. The camera’s trash like from stone age. Looks insane in person though, all like real life. Full-on experience. That armor makes everything feel so real, I came out bruised last time. Got whacked by a raider with a sledgehammer, and yeah, blood and all. You can actually get hurt. How wild is that? Where else can you get that in the virts?
Woodpecker:
Dude, bug them to send me an invite! I'm tired of hearing about and getting nothing!
HalfPintWhiskey:
I'll try, but it's their call. They control invites. Say can just take that many, got limited resources. Someone’s gotta drop out for new spots to open up.
Woodpecker:
What BS. Anything cool in VR comes with invites and waitlists. Can’t they just scale up properly?
And the injuries? If it’s real, they better cover it.
HalfPintWhiskey:
They do. Yeah, it's serious. After the last mess, someone even ended up in the hospital. Saw a stretcher when I was leaving their office.
Woodpecker:
I mean, do they guarantee the cover?
HalfPintWhiskey:
Yeah, it's in your sub. You get hurt, they cover it.
Woodpecker:
And you?
HalfPintWhiskey:
All good. Painkillers, injected something, gave me some healing gel and therapy invite. Back alive and well in a day. Totally worth it.
I'll put in a word for you.
Oh, and update your profile. Take off the girlfriend part.
Woodpecker:
Why?
HalfPintWhiskey:
Just remembered when I dumped Jane, got hammered, and rewrote mine while hungover. Put in "Lone wolf, women are trouble, just for hookups." Three days later, invite dropped in. Got in, saw the place, and forgot all about her. When you're in a brawl like that and leave the suit all hyped up, like back from real hell, nothing else matters. Feels like a bonus for dumping her. So yeah, fix your profile and see.
Woodpecker:
On it.
HalfPintWhiskey:
Let me know if it works. I’m going back this weekend.
(A week later)
Woodpecker:
Yo, did you message them?
Hello?
Where are you?
WHERE THE FUCK ARE YOU?! :((((
Got an invite
Want to unvirt, call me
HELLO?
HELLO?!
Screw you, dude!
***
The darkness of the cave swallowed the flashlight’s weak beam – a pitiful island of light. Butch inched forward, stumbling over stones. His leather jacket creaked with every move; the soles of his heavy boots betrayed him on the damp rock. At last he saw what he was looking for – a massive control console on a concrete base, ancient as the Vault behind it.
Holding the light steady, Butch connected the cable from the bulky wrist bracer on his right arm to the console. The fingers on the buttons trembled.
For long seconds nothing happened, then a spotlight flared overhead, making him instinctively shield his eyes.
In the harsh light he looked young – no more than twenty-five. Dark hair fell over his brow; the long combat knife at his belt looked alien against his anxious, almost frightened face.
“The Overseer said you?re not to be let in again, Butch,” a male voice crackled from the speaker.
“Call her!” His voice broke with pleading. “I need to talk to her!”
“Go away!”
“Get Amata, I said!”
He slammed the console, and the speaker went dead. The silence pressed in until at last a woman’s voice came through, tired and irritated:
“Butch Deloria? What do you want now?”
“Amata, please! Let me in!”
“I told you not to come back,” the irritation boiled in her voice. “You’re putting all of us at risk. We’ve already lost people. We can’t open the Vault on your whim.”
“I have information. It’s important.”
“Say it now.”
“I can’t!” He wet his lips nervously. “I have to say it in private! It matters to all of us, Amata, believe me. Let me in!”
“Damn it, Butch!” Her voice trembled with indignation. “Do you even understand what you’re risking? You come and go like it’s your apartment!”
“Amata, I’m begging you!”
“Wasn’t it you who showed up not long ago, hiding out after losing to raiders at cards? After they promised to cut something off?”
“Yes, but this is different!”
“And it was ‘different’ when you hit on some tracker girl, she decked you and promised to shoot you dead if she saw you again. And where did you go to wait it out?”
“Amata, this time it’s truly different!” His voice cracked. “Believe me, it’s important. Let me in, I’ll explain everything!”
Silence seemed to last forever. At last Amata spoke, and fatigue mixed with resignation in her voice:
“Fine, Butch. God help you if this is more of your mess. I’m tired of fixing your problems.”
With a grind, the massive door marked “101” slid aside. Butch stepped into the open passage.
Amata stood at the central console—a tall, dark-haired young woman in a blue jumpsuit, Butch’s age. Two guards with rifles froze behind her. The door clanged shut.
She turned to Butch:
“Speak.”
Butch stood without moving. His gaze was empty, lifeless, like glass.
“Butch?”
Behind her, a door hissed open. Something was wrong.
“What’s going on?!”
“Miss Almodovar, you truly have the finest Vault in the Capital Wasteland,” a creaky, elderly voice said from the emptiness.
The guards lunged for the alarm, but blue beams appearing from nowhere caught them first. Both crumpled to the floor. Amata gasped.
“I promise everyone will be fine,” the same voice continued, calm and almost cordial. “No one will die or even be harmed. And no one will have to leave this Vault. If they don’t resist. Give the order, Miss Almodovar. It’s your only option.”
She understood.
Invaders had entered the Vault with Butch, hidden by a cloaking field. She tried to speak, but the words stuck in her throat.
Damn you, Butch Deloria.
“I will give the order.”
“Very good, Miss Almodovar. You will now inform all Vault residents that they must return to their quarters and lock themselves inside, not coming out.”
Her hands shook as she activated the intercom. Her voice faltered, but she made the announcement.
The air in front of her shimmered, and an old man in a gray suit stepped out of the void, his face scored with deep wrinkles. Enormous glasses gave him the look of a predatory bird. His smile made Amata flinch.
“What do you want?” she asked, trying to keep what little composure she had left.
“Some people need your Vault for their purposes. And I make that happen.” His smile widened, baring teeth. “You’ll all be fine. We’ll simply take measures so you don’t interfere with our work. Open the entrance.”
Confused and frightened, Amata obeyed. The massive Vault door began to move again.
The jab to her neck was quick and almost painless. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed to the floor.
Butch stood beside her, expressionless. Nothing reflected in his empty eyes – no compassion, no guilt, not even recognition. Just the hollow shell of the man he once was.