Stepping off the rusted catwalk onto solid ground. Concrete pavement, cracked and warped by roots. I tightened my grip on the pistol, heart gradually settling into a calmer rhythm. Claptrap trundled behind me, servos humming softly in rhythm with its steps.
The morning sun had already climbed higher, warming the back of my neck. Sweat began to gather beneath my jacket, but I didn't dare take it off. I mean i know it wouldnt stop a bullet but id rather have all the defense i could have. I thumbed the volume dial on my Pip-Boy radio, adjusting it to a faint, comforting murmur.
The crackle gave way to the familiar jazz trumpet of 92.3 "The Core," blending into the low background hum of insects.
"—and just a reminder, folks," the elderly host murmured, voice as crinkly as the old vinyl record, "the water filtration folks at Grid House still have three extra filters up for barter. Don't come empty-handed. And definitely not with any more scrap metal, they're practically swimmin' in the stuff."
I moved down the avenue, my boots crunching bits of gravel and shattered glass. Each step echoed a little louder in my head than it did in reality. Buildings loomed like ancient, hollowed-out giants, ivy and rust vying to claim them fully. The city smelled faintly of dampness and decay, underscored by the distant aroma of woodsmoke drifting from somewhere.
Claptrap paused momentarily, sensors flickering as it scanned an abandoned car, skeletal and rusted. It hummed softly, seemingly satisfied there was no immediate threat.
"Thanks," I whispered, feeling a bit silly for talking to it, yet strangely comforted by the mechanical presence. I skirted wide around the vehicle anyway, just in case.
The Core continued gently in the background, the host's dry humor interspersed with mundane yet oddly comforting community updates. "Gwen from Forty-Seventh has officially opened her greenhouse. Yes, folks, corn. Get 'em quick, barter opens at noon."
I smiled faintly, despite myself. Corn. Times Square, from the sound of it, was the capital of this place maybe.
As I approached an intersection, a flock of birds scattered abruptly. Grey-black feathers sprinkled the pavement like soot. Odd-looking birds, ragged yet clearly thriving amidst the ruins.
They pecked idly at something dark on the ground, then fluttered off as I approached. It took a moment before I recognized what they'd left behind.
I stumbled to a halt, nausea hitting hard and fast. A body sprawled on the broken sidewalk, limbs twisted unnaturally, half-consumed flesh gleaming wetly in the sunlight. Blood smeared the concrete in erratic patterns, ending abruptly near a carcass of a feral dog, by the look of it.
My stomach churned violently. I turned aside, retching. The taste of bile and barbecue chicken burned my throat, mingling unpleasantly. When the heaving stopped, I wiped my mouth, breathing slowly through my nose. I had to check. Needed to check. Supplies were scarce; survival demanded it.
Holding my breath, I knelt beside the remains. The stench nearly sent me gagging again. I patted gingerly around the pockets, careful not to look directly at the mutilated face. Just beneath one twisted arm, a 9mm pistol lay discarded, clip empty. Two more clips rested in the victim's coat pocket, thankfully untouched by blood. As well as a pair of gloves.
I picked them up gingerly, shoving them quickly into my bag. Then I backed away, stumbling a few paces before I regained control. Claptrap waited patiently, optics glowing softly, neutral and mercifully unaware of human frailty.
"Let's keep moving," I said, my voice hoarse and unsteady.
We kept moving. Above, power lines sagged but remained intact. It was comforting, somehow, knowing electricity wasn't entirely a relic here.
The radio host eventually cleared his throat. "Well folks, my time's about up. Gonna leave you in the capable hands of someone with a bit more bounce in her step—young Maggie, who's been learning the ropes. Mind your manners, she's new."
There was a rustle and then a younger, slightly nervous voice took over, buoyant and hopeful in a way that felt out of place yet oddly reassuring. "Good morning, Big Apple! Maggie here, stepping up to keep you company. Let's start with some news. The mutants near Battery Park finally moved on. Ranger teams have given the all-clear for scavengers, happy hunting, just stay cautious."
My lips twitched into a faint smile. We were far from Times Square, but with every step, the idea of reaching it felt less like fantasy and more like something I could touch.
Gradually, the sun climbed higher. Sweat slicked my neck and forehead, and the dull ache in my legs reminded me how out of shape i was. The neighborhood shifted subtly, fewer burnt-out husks and more intact buildings appeared, some showing makeshift repairs.
Signs of recent habitation. A gunshot cracked in the distance. Not my fight, not my problem. "Update for those heading toward West End," Maggie chirped lightly. "Some feral ghouls spotted along Ninety-Third, local militia's already on it, but steer clear just in case. Also, trade convoy from the north brought in medical supplies, stop by Pale Hall if you've got trade."
Good to know. Useful intel. My pace quickened slightly, the mention of medicine a pointed reminder of how fragile survival really was.
Soon, the skyline shifted again, taller buildings pressing closer, shadows deepening. I slowed, eyes scanning every alley, every doorway. Maybe I was being paranoia.
"Well, New Yorkers," Maggie concluded cheerfully, "that's your morning update. Keep tuning in. Now how about a classic to keep your spirits high."
I exhaled softly, the strange music was comforting. I adjusted my backpack. A toppled radio tower blocks Broadway ahead, cables tangled like metal ivy. Too heavy to move; have to climb. I holster the charge pistol, test the frame. "Stay here buddy, Don't wander."
"Affirmative: standing by."
Hand-over-hand I pull up and over crossbeams, boots scraping flaked paint. From the top the view opens west, Times Square. Distance shrinks to maybe thirty blocks.
I grin despite the mess. "Getting closer, girl." I climbed back down being extra careful. Back to radio: Maggie hums the last chord, voice soft.
> "Alright, city lights, Gus is ready. Remember: keep eyes up, mask on if you head south of the river, and feed the pigeons, they'll keep the bugs off your crops. Maggie out!"
Older male rasp fades in, Gus, listing trade ratios for scrap aluminum, then joke about "ash doves falling like hail last night."
I glance skyward: one of the grey birds wheels overhead, coos like a rusted hinge, drops a soot feather at my feet.
The Protectron is exactly where I left him, chassis peppered with pigeon droppings. "Continue escort," I say, tapping its arm. It falls in step.
We weaved through storefront skeletons and burned-out cabs. My mind drifts to that body again, how quick life ends here. I check the 9 mm's action, rack it once, thumb safety. Empty chamber, safety on. No accidental bangs.
Gus's gravel floats through static.
> "Final note: two seats left on tomorrow's convoy to Jersey Freeport. Bring proof of skills or 500 caps for passage. And whoever pinched the Core's last box of vacuum tubes—bring it back or I'm wiring my mic to a siren and blasting Chop that meat 'til your ears bleed." I laugh out loud.
After a bit of walking, I leaned against a busted fire escape, one leg bent, knee resting against a rust-flaked hydrant. A storefront across the street, its windows blown, shelves scattered, looked like it used to be some kinda tech shop. Probably picked clean, but worth a look.
I motioned for Claptrap to hold. "Don't wander. If you spot anythin' breathin', you shot first, aye?"
"Standing by," it droned, voice cheerfully dead. I stepped over a chunk of rebar, ducked under a sagging beam, and picked my way inside.
Dust motes floated slow in the slanted light. Paper still clung to the wall in spots, warranty posters, a half-ripped flyer offering "Vault-Tec Installation Specials." I kicked a lunchbox across the tile and squatted beside a broken console, the kind people used to jack into terminals for holotape storage.
Something blinked at my wrist. I paused. There it was again, blip. A new icon had appeared in the Pip-Boy interface. Not a quest marker, not radio. A tab I hadn't seen before, tucked under SYSTEM.
Pale green text:
[STORAGE ENABLED – Capacity: 50.0 lbs]
My eyebrows shot up. "Now what's all this…?"
I pressed the dial in. The menu opened smoothly. The layout reminded me of mod menus from back home. Tabs for Deposit, Withdraw, even a warning at the bottom:
"Non-reflective hardware. Local device does not possess matching exterior architecture."
I snorted. "Meaning, it don't look like it's got this." My thumb tapped back to the main screen.
The old-world Pip-Boys? They all had that fat casing on the left side, memory banks, storage drives, all stuffed into a unit like a coffee can glued to your wrist. Mine? Sleek. Compact. It made sense now, why the Brotherhood wouldn't bat an eye if they spotted it. To them, it probably just looked like a medical scanner or a comm unit with a vault-girl mascot. Nothing worth salvaging. Nothing worth stealing. Hopefully.
Still crouched, I pulled my charge pistol from the holster. Its hum kicked up faint as a breeze, a sound I'd come to like. comforting in a twisted sort of way. But it was too damn noticeable. Too foreign. And I knew the Brotherhood.
Not this Steel Shark lot specifically, but I knew what they were. What they'd become. Power-armored relic hoarders. Gun-metal zealots with soft spots only for fusion cores and directives. I'd learn what they did to rogue tech on YouTube lore videos.
Claptrap wouldn't last a minute once they spotted him, they would take him. Wasn't a matter of if. Just when.
I opened the Pip-Boy again, scrolled to the new tab. Store Item. The weight counter ticked up as I hovered over the pistol's ID.
[CHARGE PISTOL – Weight: 5.0 lbs]
One click. The screen blinked. The pistol vanished from my hand with a whisper of displaced air and a shimmer of green. Gone. But not gone.
I stared at my empty palm. "...Huh." Then smiled, small and real. "Feckin' magic wrist safe. That's what this is."
I backed out of the shop and rejoined Claptrap, who hadn't moved an inch, bless his chunky bolts. "Still breathin'?"
"Negative. All hostiles remain deceased."
"Good lad." I tapped the side of his arm with the back of my knuckle. I didn't want to say it, but the thought stayed heavy in my chest. The Brotherhood would want him. And I didn't have the means to stop them if they came in numbers. Power armor? Laser rifles? One wrong word and I'd be left holding a wrench.
We walked again the pavement dips under each step, shoes thudding dull against busted concrete. Not as cracked here, but still bad enough I've got to watch where I plant my feet. Should be almost one. Can't be sure. Don't want to keep checkin' the Pip-Boy.
Claptrap trudges a pace behind me. Makes this soft hiss-click sound every time his left foot lands.
Hunger's not clawing at my belly yet, but I'm thirsty. Dry in the mouth kind of thirsty. Not water-thirsty though, but I did use a bottle to rince out my mouth.
That's when I see it.
Right across the street, half-buried in the side of a collapsed corner store. A half-bent Nuka-Cola machine, red and sun-bleached, edges rusted but the logo still clear.
I cross careful. Step over a busted traffic cone, a tire rim, a chewed-up license plate with an old New York tag. The pavement crunches loud under my boots. Still nothing around but pigeons.
I wipe the sweat off my neck, fingers pausing just above the machine's faded button panel. Most of the buttons are busted. Top left one—Cherry—has a deep crack running through it, but it's still there. My finger hovers. I give it a tap.
Thunk.
I hadn't expected that.
Something inside the machine shifts, heavy and reluctant. With a groan, the machine spits a bottle loose and lets it roll out.
I crouch, slow, and pick it up.
Cold. Not ice-cold, but not piss-warm either. Cap still sealed. Nuka-Cola Cherry. The label's faded. I twist the cap off, and the hiss escapes like a tiny secret.
The smell hits me first.
Cherry, not fake cough syrup cherry, but rich, like those red lollipops I used to get when the nurse felt bad about sticking me. There's a little tingle in my nose too, like carbonation trying to be playful.
I take a sip.
Sweet. Sharp. There's this syrupy bite behind it, but it's smooth. Fizzy. Doesn't taste like it's been sitting for 200 years. Tastes like something I shouldn't be allowed to drink before dinner.
I sigh, a little moan slipping past my lips without permission.
"...Mmm... fuckin' hell... that's good."
I drink the rest in four large, slow gulps, letting each one sit on my tongue. Tossing the bottle against a wall, it breaks and I smile. Flipping the bottle cap. "Well at least I have more money now aye."
Another block and a half and it seems like someone's been keeping this area clean. At least cleaner than the blocks behind me. Trash pushed to the sides. Faded paint on the walls. Wires strung between rooftops.
I tap my Pip-Boy, scan the local map. The icon for Times Square Settlement pulses softly at the edge of my screen. I was almost there.
The breeze shifts.
I pause. Ears perk and listening.
Skittering.
To the right. Maybe above me?
I whip my head around, hand hovering near the 9mm, fingers grazing the grip.
Nothing.
But I wait anyway.
A full minute. Breathing slow. Eyes flicking over rooftops, alleys, broken windows. Still nothing.
"…Keep movin'," I mumble to myself. "Don't be jumpin' at shadows."
The closer I get, the more signs of life start stacking up.
A wagon rut. Deep and clean. Recent.
Spent shells on the curb.
That's when I see 'em.
First guard leans against a chunk of barricade, cigarette clenched in his teeth, holding a worn old assault rifle with a patchy sling. He's in some kind of uniform jacket. Faded blue. Over it, a layered vest made of thick, beaten plates.
Two more stand off to the side. One's got a Tommy Gun, slung across his chest. The other's got a shotgun, barrel worn silver from years of cleaning, maybe.
Then I see him.
One look and I nearly stop breathing.
A ghoul.
Not feral. Clean. In uniform.
Same kinda uniform as the others, but worn different. Tidier. Badges still pinned right. Nameplate scratched out, but the POLICE cap still sits proud on his head. Shotgun in one hand. Vest buckled tight. Rotten green flesh pulled over a grin. And a pistol on his hip.
He sees me. Leans his weight forward, squints.
"Whoa there," he rasps. "You lost, sweetheart?"
My throat locks. I try to swallow but it catches. I rub my sleeve against my jaw and nod once. Eyes on the ground. The cracked asphalt. My boots.
"I—uh—n-no... n-not... not l-lost. I-I was j-just... j-just—"
"Relax," he chuckles, and it's warm, weirdly. "You look like someone's kid tryin' to sneak past curfew."
He walks forward a few steps, shotgun lowered but not loose. His head cocks. I flinch, but he just grins wider.
His voice drops a notch.
"What, never seen a guy as handsome as me?"
My laugh comes out wrong, too high-pitched. I bury it under a cough, hand to my mouth. My heart's drumming like a damned band.
He doesn't press. Just gives me space. The other guards glance, but don't step in. I see one of them nudge his buddy and mouth something. Can't tell what.
Then the ghoul's eyes drop to my chest. Not in a creepy way. He's looking at the number.
"Vault One-Five-Nine, huh?" he mutters. "Didn't know we had one of those near here."
I nod. Again. Can't speak. The words won't work right.
"I-It... it's not. N-Not fr-from h-here. J-Just... p-passed through. W-Was—was l-looking f-for..."
"Safe haven?" he finishes for me. Doesn't sound mocking.
I nod again, grateful.
He looks at me a while longer. Not staring—studying. Like he's figuring out how big of a problem I might be.
His voice softens again.
"Town's got rules. And eyes. You bring trouble, it'll end quick. But you seem alright. Nervous, but alright."
I manage to swallow. Finally.
"Y-Yeah... j-jus' me... and m-my bot."
He glances behind me at Claptrap.
"Old tin-can unit, huh? Looks well taken care of. Long as it stays in line, nobody'll bat an eye. We get caravans in with those sometimes. Yours behave?"
I nod, fast. "Y-Yeah. R-Real g-good."
"Alright," he says, and slaps a hand to his vest. "You'll want to talk to the front office before anything else. They're up that path. see the checkpoint with the barricades? Don't stray from it."
He turns to walk back to his post, then pauses, halfway.
"Name's Mick, by the way. Officer Mick, if you're feelin' formal. Just don't call me 'ghoul cop,' yeah?"
He chuckles, loud and dry, and shuffles back to lean against the gate.