The original mission plan hadn't just changed; it had gone completely caput. The sentience ruling the underground didn't seem interested in the chaotic games of the Think Tank. Instead, it treated the Rangers with a chilling, clinical dignity—and for that, Case was grateful. The robots weren't shooting.
As they descended, the environment shifted. The grime and green-tinted madness of Mobius's Roboscorpion arena gave way to a facility that looked more like a pristine Vault—reminiscent of Vault 21 or 81, but on a grander scale. Every surface was scrubbed clean, and the air smelled of ozone and industrial filtration rather than decay.
But it was the janitors and guards that gave Case pause. They weren't clunky Protectrons or hovering Mr. Handys. They were humanoid machines that Jacob immediately labeled "Assaultrons," though Case knew better.
These weren't the hunched, laser-headed killers from the Commonwealth. These were android-like figures with proper armored plating and articulated, five-fingered metallic hands. Their heads featured a pair of expressive robotic eyes rather than a single cyclopean lens. All of them were painted in white, too.
"An Assaultron with a proper human face and a pair of working hands, huh? Never thought I'd see it," Jacob commented, his grip tightening on his M60 as one of the machines walked past them with a silent, heavy tread.
"That's one way to put it," Case replied, his Internist brain calculating just how much damage those "proper hands" could do.
They were everywhere—a literal army of them. They weren't Synths; Case could see the lack of synthetic flesh or rubberized skin. They were purely mechanical, yet their design was a leap forward in robotics that dwarfed anything Robco had, only beaten probably by the Commonwealth Institute.
"Assaultrons, Mark II? Do those even exist?" Amelia asked, her eyes tracking a unit that walked with a LAER rifle slung over its shoulder.
The security robots were armed to the teeth—LAERs, Plasma Rifles, and heavy Casters. The message was clear: she didn't want visitors, at all, whatsoever. The question burning in Case's mind was: Why? Why give a familiar humanoid touch to a place entirely managed by machines?
The underground was a labyrinth of hallways carved into the subterranean bedrock of Big Mountain. The robots moved with eerie purpose; some were dressed in fabrics of pre-war butlers and maids, while others were brutally combative, outfitted in reinforced combat armor that mimicked a human soldier's silhouette.
The interior of this "vault" was pristine, but it wasn't the sterile, cold laboratory aesthetic of the domes above. Case noted rich wooden paneling on the walls and warm, oak-colored pillars that broke up the white plating. It felt like a British manor from the early 1900s had been smashed together with the high-tech insanity of Big Mountain.
It didn't fit the lore—at least, not the lore Case remembered. The Big Empty was supposed to be… empty. This place felt like a home.
"Just... why?" Case whispered, his eyes darting from a robotic 'maid' polishing a brass fixture to a guard with a plasma caster.
"It's an ego thing," Milla suggested, her voice hushed. "The Think Tank forgot they were human. Maybe this Professor Stone is the opposite. Maybe she's obsessed with it. She's built a world where she's the lady of the manor, and the rest of us are just... uninvited guests."
The further they walked, the more it felt like they were trespassing in someone's private living room rather than a government research hub. The "British" touch—the wood, the refined robot attire—was a projection of a personality that had been trapped underground for two hundred years.
The robot butler—in a chassis of suit-wearing assaultron, Harry—led them past a massive reinforced window overlooking the reactor core. It was a cathedral of power: colossal pillars hissed with blue steam and ionized smoke, glowing with the unmistakable, sterile luminescence of Big MT technology. In the center sat a heavily reinforced column, pulsing like a mechanical heart.
"Sir, that is not our destination," Harry noted politely when Case lingered too long at the glass.
The team followed him further down the hall, entering a space that felt entirely disconnected from the wasteland. They stepped into an office that was the epitome of Edwardian comfort: mahogany bookshelves lined the walls, a holographic fireplace crackled with silent warmth, and the air carried the faint scent of old paper and bergamot.
Standing by the bookshelves was another Mark II Assaultron. This one was different; a flickering holographic veil draped over its metallic frame like a translucent blue dress, giving the machine the appearance of a woman with a calm, blue-tinted face.
"My, you've arrived. Please, sit down. I truly apologize for the… welcome. The place has seen much better days," the woman said. Her voice was a soft, melodic British lilt. She turned her glowing eyes toward Jacob and Amelia. "And the people in weapons-grade power armor—would you mind taking them off? I don't feel comfortable with such... hardware in my study."
Case halted, his hand hovering near his holster. "They're my bodyguards. Sorry, but the armor stays on."
The woman sighed, a very human gesture for a hologram projected over a war machine. "Understandable, I suppose."
Case sat on a plush oak couch, the white fabric feeling incredibly soft—real pre-war cotton, or a perfect synthetic replica. Milla sat right next to him, her posture tense, while Amelia and Jacob took up tactical positions in the corners of the room. The android took a seat opposite them and gestured to Harry, who began preparing a tea service.
"I apologize for the less-than-polite introduction, I'm Emily Stone, head of this… Sanctuary, though you might know my sister more," Emily introduced herself.
"Your sister?" Case raised his eyebrows, the name clicking into place with a jolt of recognition.
Jacob didn't wait for her to explain. He stepped forward, his voice echoing with the gravelly authority of someone who had seen the Old World fall. "Don't tell me... Diana Stone? The once-famous, way-too-idealist academic? The Vice President of Greenway Hydroponics? You're her sister?"
"Precisely," Emily replied, her holographic veil flickering with a soft, pleased light. "Though I'm not quite as idealistic as she was. Still, we are sisters; we aren't that different. Are you from Greenway Hydroponics as well? You seem to know the history."
Jacob sighed and reached for the seals on his neck. With a pressurized hiss, he pulled off his T-60 helmet, revealing the scarred, leathery, and noseless face of a survivor who had lived through the Great War.
"Oh my..." Emily gasped, the Assaultron's head tilting in a mimicry of genuine horror. "What happened to the world outside? Your skin... it's..."
"It's called ghoulification. It's complicated," Jacob said shortly, his eyes weary.
"Do you feel pain? Are you hurt someplace?" Emily stood up, her holographic dress trailing behind the metallic frame of the Assaultron as she approached him. She reached out, the cold, articulated fingers of the robot gently pressing against Jacob's sunken cheek.
"No, no—and please, ma'am," Jacob muttered, firmly but gently catching her metallic wrist and moving her hand away. "Personal space."
"My sincerest apologies," Emily said, retracting the limb and smoothing her holographic skirts with a fluid, practiced grace. "I haven't seen a living human—or a human in your condition—in over two centuries. My curiosity simply reacted before my manners did."
She turned back to the group, the glowing robotic eyes behind her veil softening. "It seems the world has become a very cruel place while I've been down here keeping the reactors cool. Tea, Mr...?" She paused, offering a steaming cup to Jacob.
"Jacob," he grunted, reluctantly accepting the delicate porcelain cup with his massive, armored gauntlet.
"I believe you'll find the bergamot quite soothing for the... transition you are currently undergoing," she said kindly.
Jacob paused, a dry, raspy chuckle escaping his throat. "Ma'am, I've been living like this for the last two hundred years. The 'transition' ended a long time ago."
"Two hundred years?" Emily's hologram flickered for a second, her digital composure momentarily breaking. "How in the... this is fascinating. Truly fascinating." She leaned in slightly, her processors audibly whirring as she scanned him. "To survive that long with such extensive cellular necrosis…"
Case watched the interaction, realizing that while the Think Tank saw humans as mere playthings, Emily Stone saw them as a bridge to a world she thought was lost. She was more human than the "geniuses" upstairs—closer to the kind of scientist Case had always idolized. She might not have been smarter than the Think Tank in a raw, computational sense, but she was infinitely kinder.
Still, his mind raced with a localized panic. Lore-wise, she shouldn't have existed. This kind of idealism in the heart of the Big Empty? It was impossible. How had she gotten here? Why was she hidden?
"I'm sure you have a lot of questions, Case," Emily said, her holographic veil shimmering as she tilted her head. "Just like your brain did."
"Yes," Case managed, his voice tight. "I have a lot."
"And your brain was… quite vocal," Emily continued, her tone conversational as she smoothed her dress. "It told me we are living in a game world. Fallout: New Vegas, it said. I'm not entirely sure I buy into the metaphysics of it, but he spoke quite a lot. Case. Is that true?"
"HUH? WHAT?" Case jumped, the metal of his armor clattering against the plush couch. "I assure you, my brain is in a state of chemical imbalance! It's not in its right mind!"
The room went deathly silent. Milla turned to him, her eyes wide with a mix of confusion and hurt. "Case?"
Amelia didn't say a word, but her glare was like a physical weight, pinning him to the cushions. Even Jacob, usually the stoic rock of the group, simply shook his head and looked at the floor.
"Case…" Milla whispered. "Is there something you haven't been telling us?"
"No, no! It's just a depressive hallucination nonsense!" Case stammered, the heavy plates of his armor clattering as his heart hammered against his ribs.
"Really?" Emily Stone mused, her holographic veil shimmering as she leaned forward. "I'm quite certain that even for a man of your age, you shouldn't know the events before the 23rd century in such precise, clinical detail. I know the nuclear war ravaged the surface; information about the Old World should be scarce. Yet, your brain possesses an intense, almost intimate knowledge of this world—including this ultra-secretive facility."
"I think I... read it in a book somewhere?" Case tried, his voice cracking.
"Really? And your brain said that in the near future, Caesar will fight for a Dam? That the NCR will win the first round because the Rangers led them into Boulder City and blew it up with C4?" Emily's robotic eyes glowed with a terrifyingly calm intelligence. "It even spoke of a 'Second Battle' where a 'Main Character' decides the fate of it all."
Case felt the air leave his lungs. "For real? It told you all that?"
"And the cherry on top," Emily added, her tone becoming almost playful, "is that you only came here because you were shot in the head. You were convinced that since the Courier of this so-called game survived a bullet to the brain and found his way here, you could too. Well, Case, I own the tubing here. I've had a lovely cup of Earl Grey with your brain while it was in transit. And I must say... I trust him far more than I trust you."
Amelia kneeled down, the heavy thud of her power armor echoing in the quiet study. She reached up, unsealing her helmet with a hiss of pressurized air. She knelt down in front of him, her face weathered but filled with a sudden, sharp intensity.
"Case… I've watched you since you were ten years old," Amelia said softly, her voice trembling with the weight of decades. "You can't lie to me. You've always known things you shouldn't. You've led us through hell because you seemed to know where every trap was buried." She reached out, her hand trembling slightly. "Please. Tell us the truth."