Chapter 1-
(General POV)
A facility-wide alarm blared on irritably.
The razor-sharp burst of noise echoed through the narrow corridors of Sublevel Two, rattling old pipes and waking the facility's survivors.
The depths of the C.I.T. ruins stirred as its denizens awoke to complete the daily necessities required just to survive.
The air, heavy and humid with recycled coolant, carried the scent of sour mildew and scorched electronics.
Somewhere down the corridor, a child grumbled, followed by the bark of a technician shouting over static. Pumps wheezed to life overhead as recycled air began its daily churn in earnest.
The sound of hydraulic doors sliding open and shut, the muffled murmur of tired conversations, and the clatter of tools all merged into the familiar industrial rhythm of another day in the underbelly of the C.I.T ruins.
Nevertheless, the auxiliary lights of a certain bunkroom shared between father and son were still dim, humming in standby mode while casting faint orange shadows across its interior.
Their quarters were modest, yet still larger than most of their fellow basement dwellers. A direct line to an auxiliary duct pumped in cleaner air, a small luxury that kept out the worst of the lingering scents.
Under a heap of threadbare blankets, a small boy groaned and rolled over, trying to will the world away. The soft amber glow was comforting, the blanket warm, when suddenly the infernal glow of the ceiling and wall-mounted fluorescents snapped to full brightness with a blinding hum.
"Uugh..." he groaned once more, squinting and burying himself deeper under the blanket.
"Rise and shine, Nathan," came a voice, rough and gravelly yet warm.
Nathan reluctantly peeled back the blanket just enough to see his father already up and dressed in his black reinforced jumpsuit.
Johnathan Ayo moved from their tiny kitchenette to the table by their shared double-decker bunk, two steaming cups in hand. The smell of bitter coffee and fried Cram diffused through the air, a rare and welcome indulgence hinting at a celebration.
"You're up early… that was just the wake-up call, right?" Nathan mumbled tiredly, his still blinking eyes trailing from the steaming mugs to his father's aging face and finally settling on the table, where two bowls of scrambled rehydrated powdered eggs and pan-fried Cram slices sat.
John smirked. "Thought I'd wake you up properly for your birthday, after all you only turn ten once!" His father's words managed to pull the salivating boy's attention away from the meal. "We've got half an hour before I have to head out."
Nathan rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he moved to sit on the edge of the mattress. Once situated, he curiously asked, "How did you manage to score any Cram? I thought your team hadn't found any in the C.I.T. ruins for years?"
"We managed to unbury a supply closet a few months back. It had some food storage along with something far more interesting that I'll show you after our meal," John chuckled in response, plopping down on the bunk next to his son as he spoke.
Nathan raised an eyebrow but said nothing more, deciding that his now rumbling stomach was far more important than questioning his father.
With the kind of single-minded hunger only a ten-year-old could summon, he tore into his meal, savoring the salty, funky taste of the aged Cram, as it made the vile taste of the desiccated eggs almost palatable.
John, watching with quiet amusement, ate slowly, savoring this moment together no matter how brief it might be.
Once the pair finished their meal, Jonathan moved the empty plates to the side, then from the shadows beneath the table he pulled out a cloth-wrapped bundle and placed it in front of his son with a satisfied look.
Nathan blinked as his momentary confusion turned to recognition. "Wait… Is that my present, or the 'something super interesting'?"
"Can't it be both?" John said, smiling so wide his crows feet showed. "Happy birthday, son. Go on and unwrap it. I went through hell to snag this for you."
Nathan didn't need more encouragement. He tore into the bundle with both hands, the fabric falling away to reveal a padded bracer with a small yet thick, glass-faced terminal built into it, the words Pip-Boy embossed on the metal face plate to the right of the screen, sitting proudly above a ginger haired RobCo mascot.
His eyes practically shone as he recognized the device. "Is this seriously a Pip-Boy? Is it actually functional? Is it yours? What model is it and where did it come from?"
Nathan couldn't help but rapidly fire question after question, having only seen a gutted display model in class as well as the brief data slides provided by the C.I.T's associates at Robco, not even daring to assume it may be his own.
John placed a calming hand on his son's shoulder and laughed heartily at the excited babble. "Yes, it is a functional Pip-Boy, and no, it is not mine... it's yours! We found a whole supply crate of them, more than enough to supply all the heads of each division, including one for the Director, of course.
Yours, however, was an extra I had to personally repair." John seemed to pause at that, his eyes darting for the briefest second to the floor. "... fixed it myself" he muttered once more, the words strange as they left his lips.
For the briefest moment, he couldn't remember exactly when he'd repaired it. That part of the memory felt smudged, like a photograph left too long in the sun. But then the thought was gone, overwritten by the certainty that he had done it.
He had repaired it, and the directorate had signed off on the gift. This newly founded fact was now cemented in his brain. The certainty radiated in metaphysical waves, subtly influencing anyone with the authority to question the Pip-Boy's origins… Or its intended recipient.
Nathan, unaware and uncaring in the moment, did not question the conflicted expression on his father's face. Instead his attention was thoroughly entrapped by the personal information professor he was slowly turning over in his hands.
The casing was smooth but worn, the paint dulled. Its screen gleamed faintly even without power. After thoroughly inspecting every inch, he couldn't believe it was actually his.
This device, though seemingly an early 2000-series model (named for its designation, not the year), was top of the line for its time.
"Careful, son," John warned gently, watching as Nathan's fingers hovered over the release clamps. "Don't put it on until you've been through the integration guide."
"Right, right…" Nathan murmured, still awestruck. "I'm gonna be the only kid in the Institute with a Pip-Boy."
"You're definitely going to make some of them jealous," John smirked. "Eli's probably going to ask if you'll trade it for his stash of Grognak the Barbarian comics."
Nathan grinned, cradling his prize and certain in his refusal. "Not even for those plus a lifetime supply of his grandma's sweet rolls."
Before their playful banter could go further, the Mess call alarm trilled, alerting the whole of the facility that it was time to begin moving for breakfast. At least for those that were not fortunate enough to have their own kitchenette. John sighed.
"Well hell, I guess that's my cue. Some genius scheduled a directorate review during Mess. Probably the Zimmer duo again, damned twins." John muttered then gave his son a quick side hug then stood, ruffling Nathan's hair.
"You were lucky enough to have your birthday fall on an off day from your classes and daily tasks, so there's no reason not to take your time in exploring the Pip-Boys functions." John said as he gave his son one last authoritative stare before bursting out in a brilliant smile, trusting Nathan completely.
"I will read everything first, I promise," Nathan called after him, the dull olive green metal of the Pip-Boy unfamiliar yet captivating all the same.
—————————————————
(Nathan POV)
As the hydraulic door hissed shut, I sat alone in the quiet hum of the bunk room. The Pip-Boy lay on the table in front of me, practically begging me to put it on. My father's warning, a constant, nagging voice bouncing around in my mind.
Dad had seemed so hesitant, and the device had a certain air about it, a balance that felt too delicate to risk without me thoroughly understanding how it worked.
"I should probably only scroll through the menus with it on the table, I also should probably brush my teeth and finish waking up for the day… Hmmm, how about a quick experiment first, just to see how it looks on my arm. Everything else can wait a little longer." I murmured my rebellious intent growing stronger by the second.
Having finished my mental gymnastics, I lifted the bracer. 'This is, after all, just an early RobCo specific model,' I reasoned to myself, recalling the lessons from class. RobCo tech was designed to be sturdy, it should be safe... Though this one doesn't quite match what I remembered from the records.
With only a moment's further hesitation, I clumsily strapped it to my left arm. The weight felt oddly final, yet comforting. I adjusted the fit until it was snug against my skin, cold at first but quickly warming to my temperature.
Just as I was about to activate it, my mind snagged on the memory of Dad's far-off look when he mentioned repairing it. A flicker of something I couldn't quite place, a pause that was just a beat too long. The thought was gone as quickly as it had appeared, overshadowed by the Pip-Boy's blank screen.
My thumb found the power button, and I pressed it. The screen, a dull, lifeless greenish gray, flickered to life with a low, electronic hum. A quick RobCo system boot-up sequence scrolled, just like I had seen in the old projections.
Then the feeling changed.
A jolt, like a static shock, raced from the device and into my arm. The shock intensified, twisting into a searing, white-hot fire that spread up my arm, digging deep into my muscles and nerves. I gasped, a silent scream caught in my throat as the pain lanced through my nervous system. It felt like every part of me was being rewired, torn apart and re-stitched with burning thread.
I tried to reach over and unlatch the Pip-Boy, but my hand wouldn't obey. Instead, my spine became ramrod straight as gravity took hold and I fell back onto the mattress, my arms locked at my sides as electricity flowed out from the Pip-Boy.
Through the haze of pain, a detached message sounded, not on the built-in speaker, but in the back of my mind, a cold whisper of data:
[V.A.T.S Integration in Progress. Initiating Systemic Calibration. Standby.]
The pain and stiffness subsided as quickly as it had begun, leaving me gasping for breath, my body drenched in a cold sweat. I looked down at my forearm.
Its casing no longer felt like a separate object, but a permanent, seamless extension of my own arm. The stories about the later Vault-Tec 3000-series models came to mind, the ones with the rumored biometric lock. My professors said those models could be taken off only with the user's explicit permission. I tried to unlatch it out of a growing fear, but my hand still wouldn't obey. A cold panic crept up my neck. I began to sweat again.
I fumbled with my free hand, desperately trying to unlatch the clamps on my left arm. The cold rigid piece of metal was still there, mocking me, but it just wouldn't budge. As a final thought of prying it off with a screwdriver crossed my mind, the screen flashed a single image, not of a map or a menu, but of a shimmering, impossible galaxy.
The stars and nebulae swirled in vibrant colors, and for a brief, transcendent moment, I felt an overwhelming pressure, a feeling of being tethered to something far older and more powerful than any corporation. Then, just as fast as it had appeared, the image vanished, replaced by the normal, neon green interface, but the feeling remained: The Pip-Boy is protected, and no one, apparently including myself, could ever destroy it or remove it from my arm.
My heart was still pounding, but the fear had been replaced by a belated chilling realization. This wasn't truly a gift from dad. If he had really repaired it, he would have known about this or at the very least he said something before leaving.
"He would have normally never left me unsupervised with an experimental piece of tech," I grumbled in realization to myself, slightly ashamed at how long it had taken me to come to that conclusion. "Hell, the old worry wart wouldn't have even given me a normal Pip-boy, much less one that molests my poor brain..."
I couldn't help but to scratch my head sheepishly at this, the weight of the Pip-boy foreign as my forearm rotated side to side, a deep tenderness still radiating.
Eventually in a manner unique to children, I gave up on that train of thought, my mouth widening into a cat-like smile, as I clapped my hands together pointedly ignoring the unease simmering in my chest. "What's done is done, I already suffered through that painful shit, time to see what this baby can actually do!"