Fallout: The Mechanitor

The guards let me pass. It didn't seem like a trap. I kept close to the line of paint that marked the walkway, my eyes darting everywhere. I didn't know what I expected. Chainlink fencing surrounded the outer street layer, cut and welded together with metal sheets. A second barricade of sandbags and car hoods backed it. A small guard shack squatted at the edge of it all, painted with faded red arrows and a stenciled sign: Check-In / Trade Reg. / Curfew Laws Enforced.

Claptrap followed a step behind me. The closer I got, the more I heard people talking. Hammering. Radios. Dogs barking. I smelled something fried. A woman at the desk inside the checkpoint waved me over. She wore patched leather armor under a long-sleeved coat, heavy gloves tucked in her belt. A name tag said "Kendra."

"You're the vault kid?" she asked without looking up from her clipboard.

"Y-Yeah," I said, then instantly hated how it sounded. She looked up. One brow arched. "Uh-huh. Don't worry, we're not gonna scrap your friend. Just... folks around here don't always get comfortable with bots. Especially ones that ain't the brotherhoods."

"M-My bot," I said, louder than I meant to. Too fast. "He's mine. N-Not for trade. O-Or... o-or for sale." The sharpness in my tone cracked. Heads turned. Two guards at the door exchanged glances. I stiffened. Shit. Kendra just gave a small whistle and raised her hands in mock surrender. "Whoa, alright. Loud and clear. You'd think I threatened your kid or something."

Heat crept up my neck. I felt it bloom like a sunburn. "L-Look, j-just... just d-don't touch 'im, okay?" She chuckled once, but it sounded like one of those laughs that people made when they made fun of you. "Sure. Your bot. Your business."

With a quick scribble, she handed me a folded note. "This has the town's ground rules. Don't cause trouble, respect patrols, and stay off roofs unless you're assigned. Curfew's midnight, and don't flash that Vault-Tec tech unless you want scavvers tailing you. Got it?"

I nodded, eyes locked on the paper even though I didn't read it yet.

"Name?"

I blinked. "...Uhm." I didn't want to tell her my name, I was just getting this weird feeling, is all.

"Don't got one, that's fine. We'll call you 159. Nice and easy. Welcome to—"

She looked up, tapped the radio at her collar, then pointed out toward the plaza behind her. "—Croftown. Don't let the 'Times Square' talk confuse you. That's what the tower's still labeled, and everyone just started calling the whole zone that. But the settlement's Croftown. Got it?"

"Y-Yeah... C-Croftown. Right."

She nodded. "Go on, then. Inn's left of the plaza, past the mess line. You'll smell the fried tarberries." It wasn't just a plaza; it was three intersecting streets, cleared and paved flat with packed dirt and old concrete. Power lines zig-zagged overhead between salvaged bus frames. Half a billboard blinked down on the central intersection. A turret on the roof of a red-brick building scanned lazily from side to side.

Shops lined the south side. Metal signage spelled out names like "Hinge & Bolt" and "Glow-Up Scraps" in hand-painted letters. A larger stand labeled "Bennie's Boiled" had a line of tired-looking folks smoking.

 One guy leaned against a market stall, chewing something with pink foam stuck to his lips. A kid pointed at Claptrap and whispered something I couldn't catch. His mother swatted him on the arm.

The inn was obvious. Big, two-story building made from two stacked subway cars welded into the base of an old souvenir shop. A sign hung crooked from chains above the door:

THE LAST PLUG

I sighed and stepped inside and as I expected the floor creaked. The air smelled of dust and roasted something, could've been Bloatfly crispers for all I knew. gross.

Behind the counter, a woman in a patched red coat and goggles around her neck glanced up. "Need a room?"

I nodded. "Y-Yeah... j-just one."

She jerked a thumb to the stairs. "Top left's open. First night's free for newcomers. After that, two bottle caps a night." I nodded and decided to go check the room. The room upstairs wasn't much. Just a cot, a bucket, and a trunk that didn't lock. I stood there for a minute, letting the silence soak in. My legs ached. So did my pride.

The Core still played low on the Pip-Boy, now just instrumental stuff, some jazzy piece with lots of horns. My stomach growled again. "...Right. T-Time t-to s-sell shite." I made my way down and past the lady at the front desk. Who was eyeing me strangely. 

Back outside, the sun had climbed even higher, throwing harsh light down between the buildings. I lifted one of my hands to block some of the light from hitting my eyes, and I looked around. I decided to move toward the market stalls, the ones near the center of the plaza.

They had everything laid out in junk heaps and folding tables. Boxes of wires. Pipe guns with frayed tape handles. One vendor had a little cage full of mole rats babies, tails twitching, eyes like pink stones.

Another had boxes stacked up behind her sign, all labeled with chalk: "Preserved Edibles – No Rot!"

The woman behind the table gave me a once-over, then a twice-over when she saw the number stitched across my chest. "Vaultie, huh? You got meat, I'll take it. Raw, cooked, don't care, long as it's something I can sell."

My hand went to the backpack strap. "R-Radroach," I mumbled. "J-Jus'... raw. F-From today." She leaned over and cracked open a rusted cooler. "Lemme see it."

I knelt, unzipped the back compartment, and pulled the MRE pouch I'd stuffed the roach into. Still slimy. I held it out.

She sniffed once. Grimaced. "Mm. Not the worst I've seen. I'll give you... two caps."

"F-Four."

She barked a laugh. "Vault kid's got bark, huh? Alright, three." I nodded. She dropped three bottle caps into my hand. Slightly warm from her palm. I stood there another second, uncertain. "...Y-Y'got food? A-Actual food?"

She gestured at the racks. "If you're buying, I got:

– two tins of Crispy Squirrel Bits

– a half-stick of Silt Bean jerky

– and some fried Xander Root wrapped in wax paper. Four caps a piece."

"F-Feck," I muttered under my breath. I only had... what? Four total. [if I'm wrong I simply forgot, its been a while.]

I pointed to the jerky. "H-How l-long's that been sittin' out?"

She shrugged. "Ain't crawlin', is it?"

I handed over the caps. She dropped the Silt Bean jerky into a little scrap of cloth and handed it over like it was a royal gift. I bit into it as I walked away. Tough. Dry. Little sweet. Mostly salt. 

I wandered further, letting the crowd thicken around me. One man was arguing about power lines with a woman in a welding mask. "We can't run a line to the bridge, it's not grounded! You'll get someone crisped—"

"They grounded it last week, Frank. The new panel's in."

Over by the fountain—if you could call that mossy metal tub a fountain—someone else was talking about a broken purifier at a place called Backlot.

"Three nights now. We keep pulling water from Pale Hall but that's gonna dry up if we don't plug the damn crack."

At another stall, I saw an old man selling ammo, not guns. Bullets laid out in tidy rows on burlap.

".38 rounds. .45. Ten-mil. Couple hollow points for the fancy types."

I drifted near a bench and sat down, chewing the last of the jerky. Around me, the town buzzed in a steady, low hum—people working, yelling, trading. I had:

1 bottlecap

1 Protectron

1 pistol, barely loaded

No more MREs

Some tape, tools, scraps

A stored charge pistol nobody could see

A backpack

Some stimpacks, radaway.

A tool belt.

The wind had picked up a bit by the time I circled back through Croftown's outer lane. Kinda wet like, like it wanted to be rain. The metal siding on a vendor's tent flapped now and again, snapping with every gust. My boots were sore across the toes, and my back was starting to ache from the way the pack shifted with every step. 

Then I felt the vibration, sharp and low. The Pip-Boy buzzed against my wrist. I flinched, turned my arm up, and saw the screen flash pale green.

SYSTEM UPDATE COMPLETE – NEW MODULES AVAILABLE

LEVEL UP ACHIEVED

Please select one of the following:

[1] Standard Progression Tree (Fallout 4)

[2] Alternate Module: Rimworld Compatibility Mode (Goddess-selected mod list) [you can recommend mods too, by the way]

I stared at it for a second. My thumb hovered. I didn't press anything right away. Just stood there with the whole market drifting past me in the background. Footsteps. Voices. The hiss of boiling something from a soup pot three stalls over. My stomach clenched again, real slow.

The default Fallout tree sat up top. You know, all the stuff I'd watched people pick on YouTube or in streams—Gun Nut, Toughness, Bloody Mess. Neat and tidy. 

But the second one... Mods. Add-ons. I tapped the second option. The screen flickered for half a second. A new page opened.

MOD SELECTION – CURRENT LEVEL

[✔] Deadman Switch

Status: Not installed

Description: (Information redacted.)

Notes: "Functionality enabled. No further data. Trust is part of the gift." – [Rhea]

That last bit made me snort under my breath. Of course, she'd sign it. I didn't need the full rundown. Not really. I'd seen the mod's name back home. I knew what it meant, at least to me.

"Alright then..." I muttered under my breath, letting the words taste the air. "D-Deadman Switch it is." There wasn't a click. No loud sound. Just a blink. The screen updated.

Selection Confirmed. Installation Active.

Next Level Options: [Choose again.]

I exhaled, not even realizing I'd been holding my breath in the first place. That was it. I wasn't locked out of the normal tree. I'd be able to pick from either one again next time. That settled some quiet knot in my gut I didn't know I'd had. Flexibility.

I let my arm fall back to my side, the Pip-Boy's screen dimming down to idle with a soft click. My legs carried me forward. I didn't have a goal now, not really. Just a walk.

By the old transit map, there was a metal bench. Bent on one side, bolted to concrete that didn't match the rest of the plaza. A pack of kids had chalked up the wall behind it with drawings, bad ones. A cow with three heads. A floating eyebot with angry eyebrows. Something that looked like a Vault Boy but with devil horns. I sat.

Claptrap stood nearby. A couple of scavvers eyed him on their way past, probably trying to guess his make and whether he was armed. I was level two now. My legs stretched out in front of me. One foot tapped slowly against the cracked pavement, heel bouncing off a bottle cap that someone had dropped. I kept flicking through the Pip-Boy menus, chewing the inside of my cheek as I scrolled.

Map. Status. Inventory. Research. I tapped in. The screen shifted to a low-res list, pale green text in blocky rows. I squinted, just trying to wrap my head around what I was looking at. The list was long. Way longer than I expected. Dozens of topics broken into chunks. Some grayed out. Some glowing faintly. Some marked with that little "modded" asterisk I recognized from RimWorld.

At the very top sat:

[Locked] Advanced Mechanoid Systems

[Locked] Deadman Switch

[Locked] Cybernetic implants

[Locked] Electronics

I stopped scrolling and sighed.

Made sense.

Beneath all that:

[Available] Simple Robotics

[Available] solar power

[Available] stone cutting

[Available] blowback guns

[Available]mushroom

[Available] Vault-Tec basic's

I tapped on Simple Robotics.

The screen dimmed for a second, then flashed a confirmation:

Begin Research?

Time to complete: ~24 hours

Passive Rate: Active Only

Bench Bonus: 0 

Note: You must be awake for passive research to progress.

I muttered something ugly under my breath. "Course I do." No sleep research? That was... well, it was RimWorld. Figures. Though that would have been super nice.

My thumb hovered a moment. Then I clicked "Begin." A bar appeared at the bottom of the screen. Barely filled. The tiniest sliver of green across a long, empty row. I leaned back against the bench, arms folded. So now I was technically "researching." Only it didn't feel like anything. I waited a few minutes, flicked my wrist, and checked again.

The bar had moved. Not by much. But it had moved. The weirdest part was the sensation—not a buzz, not a pulse. Just this faint... awareness. Like, part of my brain was tuned to a different frequency now. 

I frowned. "Well... guess that's what learning feels like now," I said under my breath. There was a comfort to it, though, seeing the list. It wasn't just robots. That was the plan, yeah, but there were other things. You could unlock:

Cooking Firearms (Ammo crafting basics.)

Scrap Processing 

Basic Chemistry (Might be handy if I wanted to stretch a Stimpack instead of wasting it.)

Workshop Construction (Which, apparently, lets you build benches.)

Benches. That brought me back to the problem. I couldn't build anything. Not yet. I didn't have a space. And sure, maybe I could try doing research faster with a bench, but where was I gonna put one? In the inn? On the sidewalk? People would nick it within an hour.

Still, the option sat there in the list like a dangling carrot. I thought about the stalls again. The vendors. The scaffolding overhead. There had to be a storage shack, a utility room—something around here that wasn't being used. Maybe I could trade my way into a lease, a corner, something off-the-books. If not, I'd have to rough it until I earned enough trust to ask.

And that trust wasn't free. I closed the screen. Let my arm rest again. Even just picking one thing made the weight in my chest shift.

"Simple Robotics…" I whispered to myself, like saying it would make the time pass faster. Claptrap shifted his stance a bit, like he heard it too. I reached over and thumped his arm lightly with the back of my knuckles. "You'll get some upgrades, yeah? S-Soon as I... f-figure this all out."

He didn't answer. I sat there another long while. Let the sun drift behind a low rooftop. Let the Core hum on with someone's voice talking about water rations and a cow that gave birth to twins.

The Pip-Boy sat quiet, the research bar inching along while I did nothing but breathe. For the first time since I crawled out of that subway, I had a moment to think. Well time to head back to that inn, I guess. I walked slowly, trying not to draw eyes. My boots scraped softly across the concrete, one step at a time, the noise muffled by layers of grime and old gum worn smooth by years of feet. 

The inn was just ahead. I looped around the block instead. Just once. I needed to think. It wasn't the food. Wasn't the bed. It wasn't even the radio. It was the signs. Painted on rusted tin sheets. Stapled to wooden posts. Scribbled on walls in faded charcoal:

"Join the Steel Sharks – Reclaim the Future."

"Brotherhood Recruits Needed. See Kendra."

I slowed near one of them. The word reclaim stuck in my head. I kept walking, hands deep in my jacket pockets. My brain was all over the place, spinning and spitting sparks like a busted fuse.

If they're here— if they're really building up in New York, then it's only a matter of time before they come knocking on every door. And yeah, I knew they weren't the same crew from the Commonwealth. Knew that. No Maxson types stomping around barking about purity, hopefully. But does that really matter?

Different coat of paint. Same people underneath. I glanced back at Claptrap. He was still trundling along behind me, optics blinking as he stepped neatly over a broken streetlight cover. He didn't look like much. Just a regular Protectron. Model 89-K, maybe? Couldn't tell without digging inside.

Give it time. They'd find something they didn't like. Maybe just the fact that I had him and they didn't. That was the Brotherhood's way, wasn't it? If you can't control it, take it. If you can't take it, destroy it.

And no way in hell was I gonna let some jackboot in power armor tear Claptrap apart because his serial number wasn't logged in whatever busted archive they scraped from some bunker.

I rubbed the side of my neck, rough fingers scraping against sweat-sticky skin. I still felt gross. I'd kill for a shower. I didn't even need hot water. Just something to make me stop smelling like this. I passed a drainage grate and caught my reflection in the water pooled beneath it. My hair was frizzy and stuck in places. Freckles smeared with dirt. My cheeks looked sunburnt. Firing a gun. Climbing through vents. Drinking a Nuka-Cola Cherry. Building up research points in my Pip-Boy like it actually meant something.

This world wasn't easy. It wasn't fair. But it was better than my last one. I wasn't planning on staying in New York long. Too many signs of the Brotherhood. Too many eyes. Not enough scrap I could call my own. The Commonwealth was still the plan. Minutemen, synths, weirdos in trench coats. At least I knew those devils.

But I couldn't just sprint into the fog with half a charge pistol and a single stimpack. I'd need a way out. A caravan, maybe. Or a trade route. Something. Hell, maybe I'd walk. I could follow the rails. Pip-Boy map said they ran clean up toward the east. It might take weeks. It might be A month. But I'd get there.

My boots hit the last corner of the street before the inn. A gust of wind kicked up grit and wrappers, and I coughed into the crook of my elbow. Claptrap beeped once, as if checking on me. I waved a hand to let him know I was fine. Just the dust made me cough.

I saw the inn up ahead, and that was when I spotted him. The ghoul guard from before. Leaning on the stairs like he'd been waiting there a while. One boot up on the railing, shotgun slung across his back. The same lopsided grin on that half-rotted face.

"Hey, kiddo," he called out, voice gravel-smooth. "Got a minute?"

My stomach dropped. Shit. Was this about the radroach meat? The robot? My feet slowed. Claptrap kept pace, servos clicking along like nothing was wrong. He didn't know better. I did.

My throat locked. I swallowed air and tasted sweat. "I—uhm—d-did I... d-did I do s-somethin' wrong?" My voice cracked halfway through the sentence. I rubbed at my jacket collar with one hand, the other gripping the Pip-Boy like it might save me from social death.

He barked a short laugh. "Whoa, relax. Nobody's kicking you out. You're not in trouble."

My fingers tightened around the strap on my bag anyway. My shoulders were drawn up so high they might snap. I stopped two steps below him. "Y-Y'sure? I... I-I—'cause if it's—Cl-Claptrap's not—he's n-not—"

"Kid," he said, and his tone shifted—just a little lower, less teasing. "Breathe. You're good."

I blinked. Let out the breath I hadn't realized I was holding. My knees still felt like they might wobble out from under me. "I j-just... j-just... y-you w-were waitin'. L-Like f'me, s-so I thought—"

"I was waitin'," he said, cutting in gently. "But not 'cause of anything you did." He looked around once, casually. No guards nearby. Just the two of us and the hum of a distant generator. Wind stirred dust across the steps.

"You seem like a smart kid," he said after a pause. "Too smart to stick around here past tomorrow." I blinked again. "T-Tomorrow?"

He nodded, slowly. "Steel Sharks are ridin' through in the morning. Patrol's makin' its way down from West River. They stop here first. Resupply. Maybe grab recruits." I felt my fingers curl.

"And when they see you?" he said. "Vault suit. Pip-Boy. A bot that doesn't carry their sig. They'll look real close."

I didn't say anything. Didn't need to. We both knew what came after looking close.

"I ain't sayin' they'll shoot you," he went on. "They're not animals. But they might confiscate. For the good of the chapter. For safety. For some tech preservation bullshite." He mimed a salute with two gnarled fingers, then dropped his hand.

I chewed my lip raw, nodding like it might solve something.

"You got options, kid," he added, softer now. "Not a lot, but some." I looked up, flinching against the setting sun that cut low behind the upper walkways.

"You ever heard of a woman named Rose?" he asked. I shook my head. "Old gal. Bit sharp in the teeth. Got three fingers left on her good hand. But she's running a small trade group—real quiet-like. They're movin' east. To the Commonwealth. She's leavin' early tomorrow. Before dawn. Before the Sharks come rollin' in."

I straightened slightly. "T-To the C-Commonwealth?" He nodded once. "They're headed toward Lexington. Might stop at a couple of places on the way. No Brotherhood down there, or so I hear."

"W-Would... would sh-she take me?"

Mick scratched at his neck, what was left of it. "Might. If you offer to watch the camp through the night. Take a shift. She's short on bodies. One more set of eyes might earn your keep."

I blinked hard. "W-Watch d-duty? Like... j-just keep watch?"

"Yup. Easy. Don't fall asleep. Point your gun if someone stumbles up. That's it."

I glanced down at the cracked pavement. It wasn't a lot. But it was something. Mick must've read the look on my face, because he gave a small snort.

"You'll think on it. I ain't your dad, and I ain't here to scare you. But I have seen what happens when the Brotherhood starts sniffin'." I looked up. His eyes, one cloudy, one gold-brown and oddly sharp, met mine dead-on. "They don't hate people like you," he said. "They just don't think you get a say."

The inn creaked behind us. Someone upstairs dropped something metal. 

I ended up jumping a bit. I didn't think long. Maybe I should've, but there wasn't anything left to weigh. I wasn't staying in Croftown. Not with Brotherhood boots on the way.

"I-I'll do it," I said, voice cracking halfway. "Th-The... th-the night watch. I-I'll do it." Mick gave the smallest nod, like he'd already known what I was gonna say. He leaned back slightly, hands sliding into the wide pockets on his coat. The shotgun on his back shifted with him, metal against fabric.

"Smart," he said. I looked up at him, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. "C-Could you... I mean—c-could you t-take me to her? T-To Rose?"

He snorted. "What, afraid she'll bite?"

"K-Kinda...?"

He let out a dry chuckle. It sounded like sandpaper dragged across a rusty pan. "Nah. She don't bite. Not unless you're dumb enough to call her 'ma'am.'" I made a mental note: never say ma'am.

Mick started down the steps. I followed without thinking, my boots falling in rhythm with his old, half-shuffling gait. Claptrap trailed close behind. We walked in silence for a bit, past the power substation near the outer fence, past a few lean-tos with tarps tied in sloppy knots. I saw people watching us, just eyes over steaming bowls, hands gripping mugs, shoulders tense in the half-light.

Mick didn't flinch. Then, out of nowhere, he spoke. "Y'know... I probably ain't got much longer here myself."

I blinked. "W-What?"

He kept walking. His voice stayed level. "Word is, some of the younger boys are movin' to get me relieved. Said I'm... too dangerous."

My mouth opened. Nothing came out. "Brotherhood doesn't trust ghouls. So now the guards don't either. They want someone 'clean' in the uniform. Somethin' with a full face." I felt my chest twist.

"Not surprised," he added, calm as you like. "Didn't think I'd be part of this place forever. But it's still a gut-punch when you hear it, y'know? These boots, these streets, they're mine too. Been walkin' 'em longer than these kids were even a thought in their great-great-grandfather's balls."

"Th-That's... that's shite," I muttered, voice flat.

He shrugged. "Yeah. But it's the shite. The same old flavor. Been smellin' it since I started rot."

I didn't know what to say. I wanted to ask him something—How old are you? Where'd you come from?—but it felt too personal, too loaded. So instead, I asked the only thing that came to mind.

"Wh-What'll you do?" Mick paused at the corner of a long row of tents. He glanced east, where the last of the sun burned red behind half-collapsed towers.

"Maybe I'll take my chances west," he said. "Head toward New Vegas. Heard rumors they still got work for ghouls out there. Heard House doesn't care what you look like so long as you can shoot straight and show up sober."

He glanced sideways at me, grinning that crooked half-skull smile. "Have you ever heard that quote? 'If the Brotherhood had its way, the world would be quiet, shiny... and dead.'"

I nodded slowly. "M-Mister House?"

"That's the one." He chuckled. "Damn man must be a desenndant of Robert house, but he has a better read on them than most of the Wasteland ever has." He turned back to the tents.

"She's up here," he said. "Right-hand tent. The big one." Heavy canvas. Metal poles welded together with jagged rebar. Outside the flap, a woman stood. She was tall, easily six feet two or three. Thick arms, wide shoulders, legs like rebar wrapped in leather. Her vest had patches stitched into it from at least four different factions, none of them matching. A shotgun hung low on her hip, and a scar cut clean across her chin. Three fingers on her left hand.

She looked at Mick first, then at me. "Little thing, ain't she?" Her voice was low, not deep, just grounded. "Is this your project?"

Mick shrugged. "Not mine. Just someone who doesn't wanna be here tomorrow when the Sharks roll in."

She turned to me. "You. Got a name?"

I hesitated. "I-It's... it's fine if y-you just call me... Vaultie. I'm from Vault O-One-Five-Nine."

She nodded once. "Alright, Vaultie. You got a weapon?" I nodded.

"Ever done a night shift?" "N-No. B-But I can stay up. I-I've done it before. I'm q-quiet. I-I can listen."

She squinted at me, measuring. Then at Claptrap. "That one yours?" I nodded again. "H-He listens. D-Doesn't need recharge. H-He's q-quiet too."

She took a long breath. Then exhaled through her nose. "Alright," she said. "Sun sets, you get two hours to rest. After that, you're on watch with me and Pharo. Don't fall asleep. Don't light a fire. Don't shout unless you see movement. Got it?"

I nodded a third time. "Y-Yeah. I got it."

She turned back to her tent. "Good. Pack's movin' out at dawn. You help us tonight, you got a seat on the Brahmin cart."

Then she stepped inside. Mick stood beside me, watching the flap swing shut. "She likes you more than she likes me," he muttered. I laughed. It came out nervous. Shaky. Mick grinned. "You'll be alright, Vaultie."