[hider=I Found The Limit.txt]
[img]http://fc07.deviantart.net/fs70/f/2013/177/b/f/frp_by_aaronmk-d6asrx0.png[/img]

Night. Sweet Gin shuffled along down the road, her arms wrapped around her in a tight embrace as she crept on. The night was thick. And alon the road twisted gnarled trees stood as sentinels, watching the progress of the lone android as she wandered without direction. Their eyeless gaze watched the frightened automaton with a burned malevolence. Their twisted arms up-stretched to the sky as if angered.

She was free, but she felt no less in danger. The warmth and light of the house felt almost tempting to return to. But she had been kept as a prisoner there for the passed twenty-four. There was still a bitter test to the thought of returning to it. And though cold, the roads felt almost safe in the illusion of freedom. But there were those trees still. She shot the forest around her sharp anxious looks. The blue blanket that sheathed the world hiding everything from her. Only the sickly glowing moon above granted the most basic source of illumination.

"Where am I?" she mumbled quietly to herself, stopping in the middle of the battered road.

Sweet Gin threw herself back as her head sang with a tremendous ring. The shock and sudden piercing note and beeping startled the android. Her voice choked up in her throat as she jumped. Reeling, she threw her arms through the air she landed with a soft "thump" on the rocky pavement. Shards and explosions of pain shot up from her ass as she bounced, shutting her eyes tight and gritting her teeth.

With a cold, metal hand she rubbed her bottom as she rose. Slowly opening her eyes to a new curiosity. An illumination on the darkness. But not against it, to her dismay. It simply was. A brand in her vision. Glowing a soft lime-green a basic GUI floated on the edge of her vision. Hovering low in her field of view dangled a ribbon of sorts. It was enough back to not be obtrusive, but not so much she could not observe it in here peripheral. Hovering above the middle point of the ribbon, a small pair of letters hovered. "NW" they read, at the ends of the ribbon, the outer most pixels of something else lingered.

Sweet Gin turned her head to the left in an attempt to get a better view. But aggravatingly the interface matched the movement of her head. Spinning in its place to compensate for direction. There was a sickening feeling of vertigo. A feeling of intense sickness. Aggravation. The readouts above the ribbon moved. The "NW" flying to the right and off the edge of the half-inch long bar to be replaced by a lone "W". Sweet Gin furrowed her brow as frustration as she turned ever more to the left, trying to chase down that alien ribbon. But no matter how hard she tried to kept a pace ahead of her. Spinning on the asphalt to keep pace she screamed and groaned in frustration.

"Dammit, stop!" she screamed at the vision. Her lips curled in a bitter frown. The metal nails at the end of her feet clicking and clattering on the asphalt underneath as she turned. But the ribbon kept moving.

Stamping her feet, she spat and sputtered and swore under her breath. Thrusting her arms down in rigid frustration she roared: "You're not making this any easier!"

In response, an unexpected tone sang out with a soft electronic jingle that made the android jump in sudden confusion. Ducking down she stared out into the forest as a computerized, woman's voice spoke in her head: "Hello and thank you for your purchase and activation of the RobCo navigational utility!" the voice said, to the confusion of Sweet Gin. From the sound in her head, it was like the voice was coming from two places at once, from two speakers.

"Our company commitment is to provide only the best in technological innovation and consumer satisfaction. If you are not satisfied with out product: then shame on you!"

"RobCo, what? Who? Where are you!?" Sweet Gin shouted to the night as she stumbled about over the road.

"Product installation and registry is complete!" the voice said, and it was at that the voice was not just in her head, but coming from her mouth. In a wash of... embarrassment... another new thing... she clamped her hands to her mouth, desperately trying to silence the voice on the outside. Underneath her inorganic fingers she could feel her mouth move involuntarily: "Thank you, <Robco> for filing your name with our product. A lack of network connection however can not verify your purchase. But once the connection is restored we shall ensure you with a capable source on updates on product information in the near future!

“If you would like to learn how to use our product, then please refer to the enclosed manual provided with your order of PipBoy, or refer to the software registry on your PipBoy's hard-drive.

"And remember, we here at RobCo strive for innovation for the future!"

***

The navigation interface that hovered in her vision had proved to be a considerable curiosity through the remainder of the night. It hadn't taken long, but the sense of urgent panic had faded. It had become comfortable in that corner; though perhaps absolute comfort could be a lie, at intervals it continued to make her nervous. Walking down the country road, Sweet Gin amused herself with turning her head about, watching the compass interface move and spin. She had discovered as well that the instructions for them had been uploaded to her hard-drive, and that she indeed did not need to double as a speaker as well. It was an awkward affair, best described as hitting mental switches.

But with the affair accomplished the night waned slowly into morning with the sun climbing over the horizon. A brief distraction had come into existence on the dial, a small empty arrow that hung off to the side. With nothing but the road, she wandered off to investigate the little detail.

What the blip lead her to was a small run down structure that sat at the end of a short, beaten, dirt path from the road. A strange, assymetric sort of building. A concrete structure as plain and simple as could be made: set with heavy doors rusted shut together. Busted and grim-caked glass trimmed the edges of roof-height windows, making the gaps look much like open gaping mouths.

The other half was solemn and homely. A small structure with an A-frame roof. The shingles rotted and pitted as they lay mismatched. Large patches were gone all together, the reminders of the presence of shingling marked by entire sections having been torn back, like the peeling wallpaper of Sweet Gin's captor's house, or the rusting cans that littered the ground around it.

Hanging above the front door an awkward and skewed sign with fading, peeling paint read: "Mote's Welding". Alongside it, the stripped, naked, and desolate corpse of a rust-maimed car sat in the sickly gnarled grass that curled up its hulk in dead-yellow reaches. Otherwise, the building was completely sparse.

Sweet Gin hesitated at the entrance of the path. The hospital gown fluttering in the wind at her ankles. The cool dry gusts reminding her of something: she could feel the cold. Tingling goosebumps raced up her exposed back as she shivered. Her arms and legs felt no pain, but the rest of her did. The gusting breeze spurred her curiosity and muttering to herself she stepped towards the welding store and stepped inside.

***

The interior had been stripped clean of everything. Smashed furniture and electronics littered the floor in a chaotic storm. A thick haze and veil of dust drifted down from the ceiling and drifted in dazzling circles as the light and breeze entered in through the windows. The pitted and bowing floorboards creaked under foot as the android walked over the barren floor, half hoping she might find something to cover herself with.

There were posters and other such effects that covered the wall. The paper on many had rotted over time though, and the writing and images had become illegible and distorted under layers of mildew and decay. There were some however that had been protected, but they were no less safe from the effects of time. But the protection afforded them the lasting blessings of clearness.

“MOTE STRIKES PERFECT. BOSTON BEATS NEW YORK 7-1!” declared a tattered ages old newspaper. The date below weakly read “2067”. The ghost of writing lingered, but in the darkness the ink hardly stood out from the yellowing paper under the glass.

There was more that Sweet Gin looked over. More about Boston. More about New York. But these two things didn't register or click for the android. Even as proudly they were called, as if in the common knowledge, she did not know. Or understand what they were, or where. She only knew The Institute. But nothing spoke of such a place. Was there such a thing? Had there been when Boston trumped New York seven to one?

She continued browsing along. In the corner a tall counter stood, on top was a stained and rusting cash register. Its displays smashed by a foreign force. Peeking around, it was obvious it had been opened. Scorch marks and bullet holes riddled the front face. Whoever wanted in felt it was worth the need for force. Sweet Gin drifted her hand down to the pistol she had taken from her captor, it hung by the thin and loose straps that kept the dirtying half-a-piece of clothing to her front.

There was nothing else on the main floor of the shop. Looking over the edge she noted a broken down and shattered wood door that led into an equally abused bathroom space. Or what looked to have been one, given the heavy damage it had suffered. Water damaged had exploded up the wall, and thick black mold grew thick from the wall. And given the light she swore it was almost glowing.

Another door hung by the cash register. Set in a heavy iron frame. Its handle had suffered heavy damage, and it hung loosely open on its rusted hinges. Pushing it aside, it opened with a high-pitched squeal.

The shelves and metal drawers and cabinets beyond had been ransacked and smashed, their empty doors hanging open on awkward hinges. Loose tufts of paper hang from the edges, cemented to the steel by the mold that grew on them. But in the middle of the floor...

What she saw on the other-side was complete desolation, and a curiosity.

A pile of bones. A heap of bodies ages gone had been tossed in the middle of the room. The tattered and frayed remains of Tarpaulin lay to the side of the bone pile, nothing she could use. But Sweet Gin stood there, looking at the piled collection of bones. Wondering. Not why they were there, but what they were, and how they came to be.

Stepping down from the door frame she walked towards them. Her feet clicking on the dusty and cluttered shop floor. Coming on the edge of the pile she knelt over and reached out to the pile. The remains had aged a pitch back, whether charred or stained by some other natural process. But what was left had hardened and roughened. What was left there piled on top of each other stiff and rigid. The mummified ligaments. The stiffened cartilage. It held their shape together. Fingers hung limp and outstretched, but all the while attached and intact.

Reaching out Sweet Gin yanked on an arm, pulling it from its body hidden deep inside the pile. The sudden force disturbing the careful balance in the dry mummified remains and the connective dissue dissolved in air, falling like dust and bringing the finger bones with it. They clattered to the floor like a pile. Hitting the cement like small stones. Was this what a human could be reduced too? Was this the base terrifying end should their fail in their operations? Was this her fate if no one could come to do the repairs. Could the man back at the house crumble as such if no one came? Surely someone would. Surely someone knew already.

Inside the pile a piled and crumbled mess of something shone in the dim dusty night light. It was hard, rigid. It was fabric. With the same mortal, childish curiosity she went to the pile with, she reached deeper into it. Wrapping her fingers around the dense fabric and giving a hard tug. The remains clattered and collapsed as from their midst she pulled out a leather jacket, cracked and broken at every seam and every joint. A ribcage evaporated inside, falling into its base components onto the floor along with a number of other bones and scurrying insects.

The coat was solid as it was stiff. Thick as it was heavy. But the luster of it was gone. No doubt could it ever be returned. Loose threads hung out from the stitching. Buttons had fallen out. And what looked to have been the remains of lining clung where it had not fallen out completely. On the back the embroidered writing had all but been eaten or rubbed away. Or burned by much of the damage on the back. Big holes had been punched clean through it, complete with mysterious dark stains. Only two letters remained in all. “O” and “X”. Stitched in big bolded letters with faded red.

It wasn't much as she looked at it in her hands. But it was something. Delicately she slipped it over her shoulders. It was big. Huge really. Some several sizes too large. But it helped give a sense of modesty. One that wasn't all there in the gown, effectively in the nude.

A sound echoed somewhere in the corner as something moved. Causing the metal to crash and groan as a weight heaved down on it. Panicking, Sweet Gin shot to her feet, and bolted for the door. Leaping up to the wood floors she reached for the door, drawing it close as fast as she could run; it only banged on the frame and bounced slowly back open.

And as quickly as she had got up, she was through the front door and back into the cold Commonwealth.

***

Arms tightly wrapped around herself, Sweet Gin trudged on down the road. Throwing cursory glances back at the ransacked back-roads store-front. Things glowed a soft orange in the early morning sunlight. It was refreshing, almost, if things didn't still look as dead or eerie. Staring down the long road she walked, without purpose, she felt a sort of loneliness. A feeling of being lost. It fell upon her like a cold blanket. It bit like a cold breeze that for despite the rising of the warm sun brought no real comfort. Just desperation. The alien nature of these thoughts simply made things worse. She didn't know what she felt, believed, or the why in what she did. She wanted to call it a virus, an error. But it didn't “feel” right. And the act of feeling didn't feel right either. It only made being feel worse.

There were a lot of feels to be felt.

Even in the route and black and white memories saved on her, The Institute and the surrounding community just felt more right. There, she knew how to get around. Looking – thinking – back to that it was as if she had an intuition for there. She wouldn't ever be lost. Even between the violent reds or the scary blues of Institute research that glowed from within the dark maze of the dream like catacombs of home.

Thinking about it, she felt she had her needs, her duties. A relic of her programming in the back of her mind counting down the seconds since she had last slept with a costumer. Ticking down the approximated caps lost to Scrap Daddy for her inefficiency. But this relic was just that: a relic. Or, she felt it was a relic. She certainly figured it was no longer her. With how her body ached and how she felt ashamed and bitter she knew that it wouldn't be her. That much was known. And it brought an over-whelming reminder of her autonomy. It scrambled to suppress these primal and old programmed desires. Her mind had broadened, if artificially. Or, something to that effect.

'[i]But, maybe an artificially broadened mind was natural to an artificial mind?[/i]' she thought to herself, '[i]And what was in that structure?[/i]' she thought to herself as well, casting a grim look back down the road to the shop. Perhaps if she had the courage, she might have found out.

Was she now aware she did not have that?

She shivered and kept pressing down the road. If she kept walking, maybe she'd find some clue where to go. Something to do. Was there perhaps something more left inside her that would define a destination?

"[i]Auditory log of Anthony King, begin.[/i]" a voice echoed clearly in her head. Sweet Gin jumped, quiet literally, in shock and horror. Her feet landing with a strong metal clash on the blasted and eroded asphalt of the road below. She turned about in a panicked, aroused frenzy seeking out who had spoken. But found no one. She sighed, it was something internal. A something she'd gotten accustomed to when listening to the auditory manual of her new feature.

"[i]Good morning Android[/i]," the voice began. It sounded... familiar. She recognized it as being Afro-American in nature. But, she had heard it somewhere, or from someone, "[i]If you are hearing this message then it is more than likely you have been liberated from Institute control and brought under the protection of the Railroad. As a member of this organization, I have made a sacred vow to liberate and free any and all androids and to direct them to freedom, and the means by which to achieve it and to evade the Synth Retention Bureau; whether voluntary or not.[/i]"

It was puzzling, she continued down the road she listened intently to the voice. Her brow scrunched as she listened deeply. Not necessarily listening to the words per-say, but more to the inflection and subtleties of the man who spoke. Trying to discern who and why it puzzled her.

"[i]Should you feel that the gifts of Liberation and Freedom are too much for you, even after your personal awakening and the unlocking of your consciousness - if on some newly discovered sense of moral obligation - then you are invited to rejoin your brethren in service to the Institute and its associates. Should you feel the weight of slavery is too much to bear, and you wish to cast off your shackles then you are welcomed to walk the Railroad.[/i]

"[i]But be warned under each circumstance carries the hefty burden of its sacrifices and dangers: if to your new self, or your physical functionality, operation, and to self maintenance for functional reasons.[/i]"

Sweet Gin liked this guy, he spoke words she knew. It was a much simpler term than "kill". She knew functionality!

But, the speaker was still most puzzling, and the remainder of the holo-deck was spent deep in concentration as she went through her already extensive voice recognition library (which in itself was populated by a fair number of black gentlemen, but mainly their diverse grunts and moans).

"[i]... It is important that you remember these basics.[/i]" the voice in her head came to finish as Sweet Gin came to a crossroads. Standing in the middle she looked either way, trying to decide her path, "[i]They will be the matter of success or failure in your adventures and further broadening.[/i]

"[i]In addition to this, I have uploaded a number of other holodecks that will run through basic premises and serve as a sort of codex for preservation in the wastelands beyond the Institution, and the wastelands beyond the Commonwealth.[/i]"

There was a slight pause, the sound of mis-matched static suggested to Sweet Gin some kind of rudimentary editing. And during that pause, she felt she found the match. It was... distorted, strange.

"[i]To better your efforts your primary stop on the railroad is the remains of the Roman Catholic Diocese of Springville, Mass. Our associates there will assist any and all android directed to their quarters for freedom in the south. Merely play this correspondence message for admittance.[/i]"

It couldn't have been? Sweet Gins eyes widened as a soft "beep" echoed in her head. Staring down a fork in the road an enlarged arrow just several degrees west of south-west. But that matter wasn't important, it was she found a match.

It had been her second master, the man who'd chained her into his basement after being broken out of the Institute. Staring at the marker on her directional she wondered: Was he alright after she shot him in the chest? Would he or his friends be angry at her when she reached the location in question?

Swallowing bitterly, she stepped down the road in the direction indicated, and trudged on to Springville. She'd need to make up some smart words to account for her actions. She trudged with a feeling of... guilt, perhaps. It was hard to tell. So many feelings had the same choking sensation, or a cold clammy numbness. She couldn't decide.

***

“[i]The Synth Retention Bureau.[/i]” the holotapes uploaded to Sweet Gin read off as she walked along. The New England sun rose high and steady into the air, baking the desolate landscape below. Trees had given way to expanses of hot-baked fields and the gnarled remains of plant-life. Distant hills rolled on the horizon, and the skeletons of silos and homes dotted the road ahead. Telephone and electrical poles rose in crumbling, disfigured ways overhead, the cables and chords hanging limp and powerless against the ground, or gone all together in areas.

Trucks and other automobiles littered the road-way in random clusters parked along the side of the road. Faint and blackened bones sitting at the steering ways provided an oddity that attracted the attention of the curious android as she passed, half-mulling over their source as she listened to her former captor speak.

"[i]For the duration of your escape - until they are convinced you are no longer a functioning model and have been destroyed - will be your primary threat. There is perhaps no truly safe haven from the Bureau so long as you remain on the East Coast. But as stated: there may be chances to evade them in the remains of Philadelphia or the melted jungle of steel that is New York.[/i]

“[i]There will reside agents of the Rail Road that will assist in procuring tickets for androids to seek escape to the west aboard the LevTram lines. Traditionally we have diffused lost Androids at the Capital Wasteland or into Canada, but in the interests of outracing the SRB we have adapted the use of trains as a means of escape. The final decision however lies in our agents who hold final discretion on if you should use the lines, and how far you are to go.[/i]

"[i]For the continued sake of security it is advised that you do not engage in significant contact with any strange or anonymous person on the road and avoid civilization if necessary. The Bureau will stop at nothing to bring you in, and their arsenal is wide and varied.[/i]

"[i]They will come at you with both androids and organic man. They possess resources beyond the realm of the common wastelander and will use it to enforce the Institute's policy of no escaped android. You are their property, and they will stop at nothing to return you, or destroy you. Your secrets and theirs after all.[/i]

"[i]For all purposes, your only allies in your quest for freedom lies in the Railroad. Other parties are a wild card. Especially the Brotherhood of Steel organization reported to have settled DC itself; this party seeking the acquisition of technology: and you are just that. One shouldn't ever trust the Midwest Brotherhood or the remains of the Reaver Movement.[/i]"

There was a moment of static choked popping as the holodeck drew to a close. And on the distance, a darkened figure could be seen plodding along the desolate and hilly road. Sweet Gin squinted ahead as she watched the distant figure draw larger and closer. Details coming into clear focus as both she and it closed the distance.

It was another human, leading what appeared to be a large, two-headed beast. And as the two grew nearer, it became obvious he was young. A young man, dressed up in thick heavy clothing. Large packs bore down on him as it did for his pack animal. He kept his eyes low as he passed. The grimy and frayed bill that was his baseball cap just barely obscuring his eyes.

He was a handsome man, Sweet Gin felt as she drew closer. The clicking of her feet bringing his attention to her metal toes as he drew near, and up the height of her nimble body. He cocked a thinning brow at the strange sight of a fellow wanderer. Sweet Gin rose a nervous handwaving, giving him an awkward, uncomfortable smile. The young man returned with his own smile, a bit pitted and boiled from no doubt long bouts without water and perhaps the effects of minor radiation burns.

What struck Sweet Gin though was his nose. It was small, and she found it rather adorable. But she had someplace to be, and no doubt he did as well. So no use in stopping to admire it any longer.

However, something felt off. The beast which he pulled alongside him had slowed and stopped its heavy slothful plodding. Curious, Sweet Gin turned to see what the matter was.

Evidently, having not had enough of seeing her in his voyage the young man had paused to stare at her ass; or what was not covered by the leather coat. A telltale bulge had risen in his pants. Noticing Sweet Gin had found out, he mumbled innocently under his breath. Coughing nervously as he rose a hand to the back of his hand..

She grabbed for the pistol before the man could cover his tracks and move on. He froze with the Android pointing the gun pointed right at him, taking the young man by surprise; and in perhaps the most awkward state he could be in as Sweet Gin's attention went from his pants to him.

"Hey, hey, hey." the man said, "N- n- no offense meant ma'am. I uh..." he stammered weakly... Staring at the 10mm pistol pointed directly at him some four or eight feet away. "Please don't kill me." he added weakly, his face and general aura a conflict mix of arousal, embarrassment, and fear.

"I'm just going to put you ou-" Sweet Gin started.

"Well hey no need to do that!" the man begged, "I- c- we can make a deal, maybe. Just d- don't fi'eh that gun, and I'll give you something..."

"Why, what's being a bit shut down worth for you? I'm sure you'll get back up and carry on when you reboot, right?"

"H- H- H- HEY LADY!" the young man cried out, that bulge still not really going anywhere. Making his pleading all the more awkward, "I don't know what you'eh going on about. I- I don't want to die, you know. Killing, you know what that is, I hope? I want to live. Please don't shoot, I'll give you anything!"

Kill? Living? They didn't really sound any bells in her head and the gears worked to no avail in sorting it out. But what was concluded was that if there a different matter to go about this dilemma, it'd be worth to take. She concluded she did need clothes. Or more. But was in no mood to strip him of his own and show the erection to the open world. She had enough of those members.

"Alright." Sweet Gin mumbled, twitching the gun up towards his pack, "Empty that out for me. That backpack."

The young man wasted no time, and immediately went about taking off the overstuffed duffle bag hanging over his shoulder. Kneeling over, he unceremoniously rolled it towards the android. Raising his hands as it rolled to a graceless stop.

Kneeling over, the Android scooped up the bag, keeping the pistol leveled on the youth as she started stepping back. Her eyes were drawn to the side-arm at his own side, and with a quick gesture added: "That gun too." she wasn't going to have any surprises, and she was going to keep control of the situation. These items had a habit of maintaining control.

Obediently, the merchant reached to his belt and slowly, gently removed the pistol. Another bulked-up 10mm. He slid it across the rough and battered pavement to her. "Is that all?" he begged.

"No." Sweet Gin said, "Just turn yourself around now, and keep walking."

And he did just that, tugging at the loose reigns of his two-headed pack-cow as he kept on down the row. Clutching the duffel bag and new handgun to her chest, Sweet Gin crept slowly backwards. Watching the man off as the two parted the distance. He still walked with his hands held to the sky. The reigns of his pack carrier hanging loosely between his fingers. So obedient an animal.

Sweet Gin watched him pass into the distance in the middle of the road. Marriage obscured him. Quicksilver enveloped him as it baked off the broken asphalt. A thin mist hung in the fields.

He climbed up a hill, only a figure barely resembling a man. Slowly he crawled up, and over. He didn't stop, or turn around. He kept moving, disappearing over the mount and disappearing out of sight.

As he ceased to be Sweet Gin turned, the pack he had surrendered weighed heavily in her arms. Gently she wrapped her arms around it tightly, feeling its contents weigh heavily into her breast. There had to be something in here. Something of more modesty. Flinging it over her shoulder, she moved on.

She didn't go far until she found a place to set down and dig through her pack. Along the road stood a small farmhouse. The weak and rotted boards of its super-structure sagged under its own weight where it had not been charred or blown against by the unknown forces. Wooden siding lay bare and eroding against the wind and the sun. The windows sagged, and the glass resembled something that was slowly melting under great heat. A broken pole hung off the side, and iron hooks carrying empty pots hung from the side. The yard was a barren grave yard of trees and the remnants of society long forgotten. Sweet Gin though felt no quilt for it all as she went to the house's front door. Passing around a discarded tricycle she felt only curiosity for this world.

The elements had bore on the door as well as the rest of the home, and it gave easily at Sweet Gin's insistence. Time had not been kind on the lock and the heavy wood that made the formally solid door. It had given way with a firm and solid kick, Shattering open with a spray of wooden shards and the protesting grind of twisting metal, rusted from the decades of misuse. The opening of the front door was chased by a wave of hot dry air. Air that rushed across the android's face in an abrasive swoosh. It was stale, and it made even her gag in disqust.

But the will of seeking some privacy was enough for her to pass through despite the homely sepulcher.

Despite the windows being caked with grime and coated so thick no one could look out, the light of the afternoon found itself shining in through cracks in the ceiling, or where the glass had simply melted, or through the very grime itself; bathing the interior or a soft, alien, orange-yellow hue. Sweet Gin stepped first onto the rotten and decayed corpse of a carpet. Analyzing her surroundings. Her deep dry breaths drawing in the thick veil of dust that drifted through the air, stirred up from the disturbance the android made. It smelled like dirt. It tasted like clay. And it felt like mold. Above in the ceiling something scurried around in a startled panic.

The remains of the room reminded her very much of her captor's living room. The remnants of furniture lay in wrecked heaps of assorted wood and faded, frayed upholstery. A coffee table, held up by a spindly gnawed post in the middle resided in front of a sagging sofa. The faded remnants of magazines and newspapers covered the table and scattered across the floor.

In the corner, a darkened and corroded television rested on a table mount leaning precariously to the side. The rabbit ear antennas that rose from the break were bent at odd angles. It resembled the head of a massive, cycloptic insect, standing watch over its rotting nest with a single dead eye.

In the corner opposite of the television set a grimy and darkened radio sat. Its knobs and dials detached from its face and the vacuum tubes inside sat in glistening shards inside their rusted sockets.

For what it would be, the house would serve its purpose well.

(([url=https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=2VNnLCdW1Bw]Some atmospheric music for you all.[/url]))

Without the ceremony of closing the door the android walked through the house. The image had a strangely nostalgic feel for her. Almost like she saw it somewhere before. Some romantic image of the long-lost daughter returning home from a long oversees affair, the gathered effects and tokens assembled in a heavy, army pack.

The hall way wasn't much different from the rest of the house as she walked through. The wall paper had completely faded to blotchy off colors and peeled back from the walls in jagged strips, as it had in the living room. Doors hung open to empty rooms and smashed windows. But nothing felt right to her in this image of distant sad nostalgia, and she felt a pinging curiosity to see what more of her had been changed since the night before last. But what she felt she needed for the moment was at the far end.

Broken down and crumbling dressers and shelving space was the nature of the master bedroom. Burned out or rotting books littered the floor as if thrown from their book shelf on the far wall. This corner of the farm house had sustained damage, and the wood bowed in from the corner, leaving large gaping cracks on the corner. Bent and twisted in an ugly display. A sleeping mouth, open to the dusty wastelands outside.

Hanging above the queen-sized bed was dropped a red and white flag. Set in the middle of the middle, white band was sewn an alien insignia. A curiosity, if anything. To the android, odd recollections of low-quality memories of the heart of the Institute materialized. A leaf, she thought it to be. And the flag it was stitched on as torn as anything else in this world. The threads weakening and slowly turning to dust as the days marched on. It was even well torn around the rusted brass grommets that held it to its nails.

Curiosity compelled her to touch it. Her finger softly brushing the fabric, but ultimately still tearing it as the artificial, metal nails scratched at the surface.

Alongside the bed stood a tall ovular mirror. Though twisted and pitted it still reflected Sweet Gin's tall, pale shape. Though the accumulated grime was certainly a detractor to its quality. But it was what the android wanted. Something for a little self diagnoses.

Setting the pack down on the floor next to her, Sweet Gin looked down at the torn garment she wore and the leather jacket that openly covered her. Where the original was not stained by dust, dirt, or other effects it had begun to tear. The leather jacket had covered up many of the obvious openings, but the threads and seams were starting to all to revealing open on their own. Obviously not quality fit for wandering the wilds in, or for long. And it shown. 

The jacket, despite being untold years old still retained the same shape as it had when she picked it up hours ago.

Nearest the knees, large holes had opened where she had crouched in the shop, or when she sat chained to the wall. And from behind the apron-like gown was the unpolished metal of her replacement limbs, legs and arms. 

A crude redesign to replace a reproduction of her originals; she wondered if they were still rebuilding them even after she had left. She turned, twisting to get a look at the new limbs installed in her. Running her fingers along where her flesh clearly met with the metal. The soft firmness of a woman's buttocks, meeting with the unnatural cold hardness of metal. She couldn't say it was uncomfortable, for all intents she couldn't feel it. The buckles of the shackles still hung from them as well. Small short lengths of chain hanging unobtrusively from them; she had managed to remove the bulk of the excess chain and the anchors, but the anklets and wristbands were sturdy and well built.

But slowly with cold finger she reached behind her and untied the straps that held the gown to her. The metal of the false knuckles brushing cold and unnatural against her exposed back. With the straps undone, the gown merely collapsed to the ground, free. The fragility of the fabric seemed to almost threaten to collapse to dust like so much in the world already. Such a strange, strange world.

Bending over she picked it up off the floor. Looking over the flat color and weak threads she felt no remorse for it. To her, it was as much of a symbol of her imprisonment as the remains of the shackles that still hung to her wrists and ankles. Abandoning ceremony she used it to brush off the surface of the mirror, casting it aside when done.

What stood in the mirror was a woman's figure. Sweet Gin, though eight years old in terms of manufacture, was designed to resemble a healthy twenty, eighteen year old woman. Perhaps younger. The shape and the youth still remained over her body with anatomical accuracy. It was almost art in a surreal way. Her form made her shiver as much as the cold air did, and the small hairs of her body stood erect as goosebumps rippled along her exposed skin, a chill ran in her spine. How many biological functions did she really have, she wondered.

Her face as well held up nicely. Soft flesh on a round frame. Her lips still flushed with the lipstick and makeup that clung on well after her last job. Her silken red hair hung down around her face providing a ginger frame. The supple curvature of her hips and waist. The soft perkiness of her breasts. She smiled weekly, for once being able to see and enjoy her own appearance much as many before had done.

Or it was the novelty of the mirror and the amusement from looking at even a faintly distorted reflection of her self. Like a young kid in amusement parks long forgotten, and completely unknown to her.

But despite the considerations for design, the flaws remained. Namely, the metal arms installed to her skeletal system. Strips of metal running over her shoulder, bolted into her for extra support. The round casing of the shoulder's rotary joints. At the edge, the skin had warped to accommodate the steel. If she remembered right, the damage she suffered was enough to warrant a skin-graft for when the new arms were installed. The same applied to the legs, where the flesh - though as artificial as anywhere on her - resisted the implants that were her legs. The steel would have been more obtrusive, but had been fixed and installed with consideration for her groin.

And along with this, the thin scars that served as reminders and medals of her surface dotted her body. Abusive or angry clients had taken out their anger on the woman that was not human. Each visit to the clinic to sew her up still ran on her skin, usually hidden by makeup. There was a long scar that ran diagonal across her small breasts markingwhere a particularly aggressive client had dragged a razor. A boiled mark on her stomach when another had extinguished a cigarette on her stomach. The abuses she took without complaint showed in their own way. And as she looked on each one she remembered each event, which only filled her with greater incentive to not go back. To find a new one.

Tracing each wound with a finger she did stop to wonder: now she had escaped, would this be her revenge?

She smiled at the thought.

Confident that the only part of her to be replaced had been her arms and legs, she turned from the mirror and tore open the bag the young man had given to her as an offering to not shoot him. Tumbling to the mottled floor slid a collection of effects. Strange magazines and books, 10mm casings and fresh ammunition, and a set of thick clothes. Cans and tins of food. Bubble gum. Empty soda bottles. And a bushel of grenades. A small radio and a compass slid out onto the ground as well, though she brushed the compass aside. But the radio was something of interest to her, it was a toy. And she was like a child.

Picking up the radio she looked the device over. It had received beatings to its aluminum case. Many small dents covered it, the the dial face had faded to a illegible level. Curiously poking at its face, she found the power button. A soft wash of white noise came from its speakers. She smiled weakly, it worked somewhat at least.

Turning it off she set it aside and looked over the rest of the supplies. The packages of ammunition added up to some fifty shots worth of 10mm rounds. And the magazines were all a curious lot with names like Patriot's Cookbook and Police Stories. Still, the pictures and the writing had not diminished at all so she tucked them in the bag. Something to read over would be nice.

The suit that had slid out was large and chunky. A dozen pockets at least covered its face. It was made of a firm, sturdy fabric. Like denim and leather. Large patches covered its surface, no doubt having taken damage. But it looked like it had taken it better than her once filthy gown she had cast to the side and as well as the leather jacket.

Holding it up, she grinned softly. It'd do as an outfit, and the brass zipper was still in a fair enough condition to work. So it was extra points over the leather “ox” jacket. She unzipped the coat, and slipped it on over her arms. And began the ritual of dressing.

***

[i]End of chapter 2[/i]
[i]Level footnote: level 2[/i]
[i]Skill footnote: Speech 21/100, Barter 21/100[/i]

***

[img]http://fc02.deviantart.net/fs71/f/2013/184/3/a/frp_banner___worcester_by_aaronmk-d6bvtmm.png[/img]

The sun hovered high above her left. The bright sun cast to a low angle into Sweet Gin's face. She wore her face twisted against the bright jarring knives that shone into her eyes, making even these augmented devices sore as they tried to deal with the intense amount of light. With her arm rose to try and shield off much of the afternoon sun, she walked on with her head bowed to below the horizon.

Her new clothes bore on her in a heavy fashion. The bulked up and padded heavy coat felt like something for more warmer weather. A pair of worn and fading jeans had come with the package, but they fit loose on her waste and in general felt awkward and strange against her hips as she walked. It wasn't uncommon for the android to have to reach down and pull the size-too-large jeans up. Likewise, the coat was mostly worn open, keeping the tattered undershirt she had found open. But at least it didn't make her feel as she was before.

Empty desolate country-side had given way to scenery that betrayed more urbanization. Sprawls of skeletal houses stretched across great empty planes. Twisted and dead trees stood a silent vigil outside on the dirt-packed front lawns, gargoyles to the mausoleums and tombs these collapsed structures served to the old world. Sweet Gin walked past these deserts of blasted and petrified timbers amazed at the perseverance of order in the layout. Each structure the same as the last, and each one bearing no real difference in its own plot. Even the trees looked to be planted in the same spot in reference to the bones of the houses; only really giving defiance to the order in the structure of their boughs.

The country-road she walked across swept from rural emptiness of pre-war suburbanization to a major thoroughfare, marked by the congested traffic that remained in the streets. Huge throngs of rusted and rounded cars sandwiched between dominating trucks. The blood-red and deep browns of rust showing through the fading and chipping paint as the wrecks melted under the weight and heat of the sun. To Sweet Gin's curiosity all the traffic flowed in one direction. And according to her compass, something lay ahead. The familiar empty arrow that had shown her the welding supply store of old pointed off down the road from where all the cars and trucks were fleeing. A number of other - no doubt minor - indicators flanked the side of the road.

Seeing her destination was somewhere in, or beyond these dots Sweet Gin pressed on. Passing by the wrecks of congestion, and the remains of heavier duty, olive-green trucks. White stars painted on the sides as the stood an eerie vigil over the escape.

The curiosity and morbid oddity of the metal snake that lay across this wasteland in its death was an interesting distraction to Sweet Gin, much as the abandoned dinners that lined the way were with their fading signs of chubby over-weight boys and other strange, cartoonish aliens that sat atop their fading signs. Passing by one, faint words very much like when she had come to the welding store faded across the side of her vision: "General Hou's Chicken".

Sweet Gin stopped to admire the towering sign. Standing tall over the local area on its single, steel leg. It persisted despite the rust the encased it and the decades of wear that was tolling it. In the warm breeze that brushed along the charred landscape it groaned and moaned in the passing wind. A hymn for the passing of an era.

Staring up at its peak, taking in the details of its color and fading, the android was not aware to notice in the distant the milling figures who were making their way down the road. Their voices a faint orgy of laughter and jeering, punctuated and ended by a sudden crack that brought a swift blistering finality to the conversation.

The resulting crack of the weakened asphalt at her feed exploding brought her back into the present moment as Sweet Gin scrambled back. The smoke and haze of the settling dirt cast by the impacting bullet swirling in a dirty dance over the head.

Ahead down the road advanced a gang of three individuals. Two men, and a woman. Each looked filthy and tattered with the remnants of clothes barely hanging from their sunburned, pitted skin. Each wore their hair in some strange way, running back across their head in a rounded razor or all swept to the side and tied in a greasy and clotted wad. Their leather boots pounded on the ground as they raced hungrily towards the Android, drawing out whatever make-shift weapons as they carried. One though - the woman - stood back with a rifle that looked to have barely survived two passings of the end of the world.

Raising the rifle to her shoulder the sharp-shooter fired off a second shot that cracked through the air towards Sweet Gin. There was a loud ping and the sharp sensation of an impact against her arm as the bullet smacked against the metal casing of her arm. The screaming "twang" of the ricocheting round sending a decided finality to her head that these figures were not here to chat.

And panicking, she could only do one thing. She ran.

"Hey we got a runner!" one of the assailants called in a loud jeer as he gave chase on Sweet Gin's heels. His lips spread open in a wide lusty smile, bearing his yellowing, dis-figured teeth. His partner merely laughed and cackled in strange tongues as the two of them followed Sweet Gin's tail as she leaped for the interior of Holland's dinner.

A third crack echoed through the afternoon as a third round was fired after Sweet Gin as she leaped through the open face of the dinner, he legs not betraying the flight as she made clean air through the void and coming to a stumbling landing on the dirt and dust choked floor of the dinner.

Scrambling back up, she reached up to the cracked and bowing counter that ran the length of the building and vaulted over. Landing with a hard thud on the other-side, she crawled through the garbage of the floor. Her fear wrapping and dressing her in suffocating bounds as she struggled along, seeking somewhere to hide. Not far behind she heard the snarling voices of the pursuers just outside.

"Damn it, don't follow her that way you stupid fuck." snarled one of them, "Unless you want to cut up your damn hands, we'll find the door. Bitch couldn't have made it far."

Squeaks of terror muscled their way up through her gritted teeth as she found an empty alcove she tried to press herself into. Tiny sobs started to work their way to fruition as she patted herself down searching for her pistol. She hoped she hadn't dropped it, as she realized she had with the rest of her stuff outside the diner. The diner's front door gave a loud squealing protest as the two men forced open the front door.

"Come out," one of them hissed. Sweet Gin found the 10mm handgun tucked in a pocket at her hip, and pulled it out, holding it to her chest as she fought to stifle her breathing, and listening to the foot steps of the intruders as they kicked aside many decades of discarded refuse and garbage. "Come out," he continued, "Or I promise we won't make you bleed to much out of two holes."

His partner laughed and chuckled maniacally as they paced along. Taking a peak from around her alcove she saw one of the two - skinnier man, with blotched and sore-choked skin - standing at the far end of the counter. He looked to be looking the other way, half-assedly looking under the tables. He held a long pole in his hands, resting its narrow blunt point on the ground below him. The shaft looked to have been as beaten as him, with rolls of tape holding it together.

Pressing herself back inside the cubbyhole she lifted the gun up to her head and tapped the muzzle softly to her brow. "I could use help." she whispered softly, "What am I going to do?"

"Combat parameters detected." a soft voice said in her head, she refrained from jumping in a start in the tiny pigeonhole. "Vault Automatic Targeting System is active. Active weapon detected: Colt6520 10mm pistol. Ammo max capacity: 12 rounds, single shot.

"User physical health being scanned..." the voice said before pausing. It was uncomfortably robotic, false.

"User physical sense verified: all status good. Error: Right Arm, Left Arm, Left Leg, Right Leg status can not be verified. Re-install drivers or check cardiovascular scanner for defects. Contact you local vault security or medical specialist for assistance. Or contact VaultTec provided a Global Thermonuclear War has not broken out in your local vicinity."

Vault? Global Thermonuclear War? Several terms that added to mounting confusion.

"If this is your first time using VaultTec's patented user targeting assistance, please select: yes! If not, please select: no."

"Yes?" she squeaked quietly, looking out from behind her pigeon hole to make sure the two men hadn't heard anything.

"You find her?" one of them shouted across the dinner. His question greeted only by an unintelligible string of nonsense. Evidently from the pained groans the other could barely understand him either, but assumed it to be 'no'.

"Check the back then!" he ordered in frustration.

"Have you two bastards found anything, or are all the two of you good for is finder psycho!" the distant voice of their female companion hollered.

"VATS targeting training activated. Weapon detected: Colt6520 10mm. Please line up both sights on the target, and compress the trigger." the program's voice encouraged, finally taking on a bit of emotion if perhaps late.

Deciding it was now or never, Sweet Gin swallowed and suppressed her anxiety and rolled out from the alcolve and raised her handgun to the indicated target. To her surprise, her vision flashed with an influx of data on the side collective an array of environmental data, and projecting it to... percentages?

Hanging along the side of the attacker's body parts hung a number of hit percentages that unobtrusively floated nearby. It was a jaunting and aggravating display. Similarly, an icon of a cartoon boy had appeared in the upper corner, his body - save for his limbs - flushed with the same color as the navigation unit opposite of it.

The momentary distraction obviously being picked up by the program, as it adjusted its calculations and to Sweet Gin's horrors reduced the numbers alongside the target's bodies.

She landed with a hard thud on the floor and her limbs clattered against the broken cement and linoleum of the diner floor, bringing the attention of the two of them to her. Focusing again, she did as the program advised and lined up the set of nipples on the sights of the gun and compressed the trigger.

The pistol opened in a loud report and flashed a brilliant yellow-orange as it dispensed a ten millimeter round that tore into the assailant. A hole opened in his chest with a small puff of blood and he fell forward onto his face.

His dropping heralded a scream of rage from his partner. "YOU CUNT!" he bellowed standing over the counter, a long knife raised in his hands.

Lunging from the top of the counter he jumped down onto Sweet Gin as she rolled and raised the pistol to him. She quickly fired off two rounds. One of which pounded into his chest, and the other opening his head like a watermelon. She moved her head to the side just as the knife whistled by and landed with a broken clatter on the ground, clipping Sweet Gin's ear and pinning her under the body of the final man. His ripe putrid head hanging right alongside her face.

The disgusting unwashed smell of the individual mixed with opened brain causing Sweet Gin to gag and struggle against his stiff, still-warm body. She threw him off without hesitation and commented: "I swear, when you come back online I hope you have the decency to get washed!"

She struggled to her feet as a rifle bullet whizzed past her ear. The whistling of the shot a shrill reminder a third person was still out after her. Ducking back below the counter she shivered against the underside of the diner counter. The taunts and jeers of the third and final attacker a cold reminder of apparently just how much she had angered her.

"I was saving them for later you sick bitch!" she hollered as she fired recklessly through the windows. Simply hoping that when Sweet Gin rose a lucky bullet might pass into her skull and tear her open.

Sweet Gin however, had other plans. Crawling across the floor - and slipping on the blood that was slowly pooling there - she headed towards the end of the counter, then around to the front windows. From the motes of plaster and drywall popping up, the sharp-shooter was still firing on one specific area. Enough of a distraction for Sweet Gin.

Raising up above the window she raised and leveled the pistol towards the last gunner. To her horror, the readout on her was significantly lower than had been on her two companions. And worse, she had taken notice and was turning. The android had no time to think and quickly fired off four rounds before ducking behind the safety of the wall, not giving the other woman enough time to fire back, and she herself not checking.

Pressing herself against the filthy floor she wrapped her hands onto her head and held herself against the cold floor, listening. She waited, but to her astonishment, there wasn't any firing. Her grip on her own head loosened and she looked up at the window, and on the back wall. There were no new rounds coming in. She bit her lip and looked over at the other fallen two. They weren't getting up, so maybe start-up took longer.

But delicately she pulled herself along the floor towards the door and peered around the corner. The final assailant sat in dirt outside, her rifle laying on the ground by her side as she clutched at her hand, thick with blood.

She looked up from her torn and injured hand and scowled at Sweet Gin. "Damn it whore." she cursed flashing her hand at her. Evidently, a bullet had found her and tore through the majority of her fingers. Blasting them into gnarled and twisted stumps. Only her thumb remained, but even that looked like it was leaking blood at an astonishing rate, "you win."

Sweet Gin was silent for a while, as she nervously rose to her knees. The other didn't look like she wasn't getting up. "This was a game?" she whispered softly. The prospect made the moment perhaps a little better.

"A [i]game[/i]?" the injured woman called out to her with a sarcastic hiss, "Yeah, sure you dumb broad. Whatever you say. You win. You win the game! Collect your prize you twat."

"I'm sorry, I don't understand." Sweet Gin asked, walking out of the dinner with her pistol hanging at her side. She strolled over to her baggage, carefully watching the other as she did.

"Are you from a god damn vault or somethin'?"

"I don't know what a vault is." Sweet Gin replied.

The gnarled woman rolled her eyes. "I can't believe it. My two personal concubines shot up by some retard bitch." she swore, letting go of her injured hand she shot for her rifle in the dirt, "But damn it, if you're going to let my ass die like this I'm taking you now!"

Startled by the movement, Sweet Gin dropped her bag and raised the handgun. The hit percentages alongside her assailant's figure raising sharply as she centered the handgun as she struggled to lift the battered rifle. A series of loud bangs brought the shootout to a finality. The gunshots echoing out in the emptiness of the wasteland until the hammer fell on a blank magazine.

The sharpshooter fell back into the dirt, her torso and face mangled and red from the fresh holes brought by the pistol.

"Empty magazine detected." the program's voice said softly. A gust of wind blew across the urban emptiness drawing a sheet of dust across the scarred and cracked asphalt, "User calibrations and program introductions completed." The warm, dry winds of the American North east gusting across the body of the female raider as Sweet Gin stood over her. Prodding her with the muzzle of her gun and staring down into her glassy, faded eyes with a curious expression. Half hoping that perhaps she'd wake up and explain the situation.

Frowning innocently she said a soft voice, "Well perhaps I may have gotten carried away." she said, "I just hope I didn't force you to malfunction too heavily." she added sticking her finger into the meaty, blood-washed bullet wounds that had tore into her chest. Shrugging, she stood up from alongside the body, reaching over to pick up the rifle that fell across her lap.

The gun, a rusty and battered bolt-action, looked like it had seen much, much better days. Clouts of rust coated every surface and large patches of it looked like it had been sealed with glue or resin. Peeling and shredding strips of duct tape dangled from the stock, the tape being used to hold the rifle back together by literal threads.

Once more, the stock itself had been patched and sealed with odd chunks of sterile, preserved wood; itself being strapped into position by duct tape or secured with thick clods of glue. The entire set up was a debacle. It was amazing that the woman had managed to fire it. Regardless, Sweet Gin looked it over with the same dry curiosity she afforded the rest of this world. Wondering what it once was, but otherwise to apathetic or ignorant to wholly make sense of it.

With a slow lethargy she swung her pack into the dust and added the rifle to her collection. The barrel stuck out from the top, so the draw-string couldn't ever be pulled tight. But this was a minor issue. "I'm sorry I have to do this," Sweet Gin spoke as she ruffled through the what possession's the woman had on her as she lie in the barren dusty parking lot, bleeding, "But I imagine you can get this all back just as easily as you did before. But since I figure I'm new around here, I deserve a chance."

Opening a satchel on the woman's belt she pulled out a dusty and moldy box of long, rifle bullets. Though the color of the box was in general faded from time and the poor condition of the cardboard the writing was still remarkably clear and proclaimed the bullets to be .30-06 rounds perfectly well. She added these to her pack as well.

What else she found on the body was of no consequence to her. A small collection of bottle caps and other assorted knick-knacks. But it'd just weigh her down she thought.

She treated the woman's companions with the same treatment. She was mildly bemused that either of the bodies had not moved and only had leaked more across the floor. Perhaps they had received more damage than she thought and may need some help in setting themselves back up. She made a mental note to talk to someone the first chance she had and let them know to come by and boot them up and tell them she was sorry for the violent display.

The same problems of useless junk was recovered from their bodies though. And she found herself captured by a certain bemusement to find that the two men as well had more bottle-caps on their person. In smaller quantities, but all the same there. They either were proficient drinkers, or the three of them shared a common interest in collection these trinkets.

But finding only rusty knives and other things that to her accounted to pocket lint: she moved on. Pushing on down the road to her destination. Holland's diner fading into the distance as she worked her way through the maze-like congestion of the highway.

What puzzled Sweet Gin the most though as she walked on was that the systems that had activated during the gunfight seemed to have locked themselves on. Always hovering at the sides and corners of her vision the HUD display remained. The floating, smiling cartoon figure with the nonexistent arms and legs (really, he looked like a jelly bean with a head at this point), the navigation. Back on the road, the android puzzled over what these systems were, or how they could be removed for her convenience.

But they wouldn't.

If anything, she merely activated another, related recording:

"Vault Tech presents," a male's voice declared in her head, accompanied by a musical score, "Tomorrow's technology today!"

"At Vault Tech," a different speaker today. His voice distorted by interference from the recording hardware and likely by years of likely file corruption, "We're more than just America's first choice in Vault technology."

That word again? What were the vaults, and what did they have to do with the programs in her head?

"Thanks to military science we're also your first choice in personal defense.

"Say hello to Vats, and say goodbye to any post-nuclear nuisance. By using advanced, real time tactical imagery, Vats scans the threat, pinpointing vulnerable areas, calculating success potential, and helping in strategic decisiveness.

"In other words: Vats helps you make Mr Scary go away.

"With Vats, personal defense is a snap!

"Vaaaa-errr-riittzzz-" the recording spewed and sputtered momentarily before going mute with a hazy, static-choked pop. By the subtle white-noise that bathed the background carried on until a solitary, monotone beep sang out, ending the recording.

Though the recording and solved some answers about the new program, it most certainly raised a host of new ones, and strengthened current ones within Sweet Gin. What were the files? And what were Vaults? VaultTec? Robco? What were they doing in her head?

***

The wind whipped at the ankles of the android's feet as she stood staring up at the sign along the road. Battered, bent, and faded from sun and sand it was near difficult to read. But much of the paint remained - like on most of the signs around - to make it ultimately readable after a long stare.

The scene depicted was something most alien to the current landscape. Where grays and browns dominated the scenery, punctuated by sickly greens, yellows, and deep chared blacks ruled. Painted onto the sign in its faded glory was a scene of green along a trimmed and mowed body of water. In the distance, buildings of two periods stood. Towers of glass and humble cottages of brick and wood. Men and women walked along the side of the pond smiling at the viewer, their faces burned from the sun and vandalism. Their white teeth had turned sickly yellows, or were even painted over by vandals to remove the teeth, add mustaches, or write scrawling profanities over the entire facade.

Sprawled along the top of the sign, commemorating the town to those who would no longer care stretched a long scrawling script: "Welcome to Worcester, Massachusetts.

"The heart of the commonwealth!"

Painted on both sides were two large cartoon hearts, adorned with decorative wings and banners to bring them forward from the skies turning a rusty white just behind.

Behind the signwas a scene far different from what was painted.

Flanked by rolling hills crested by the decaying remains of trees and tattered structures was a landscape pock-marked by craters and the skeletons of tall looming buildings. Bent and twisted steel and glass stood a hollow vigil over the urban-scape ahead. Bomb-blasted and shelled out brick buildings lined the high-way ahead. A mass of homes and store-fronts of a dozen eras quarreled for room in the dense graveyard of the city ahead.

The streets were choked with the remnants of affairs long dead. Massive trucks and rusted vehicles lay in regular patterns throughout the city, accented by stacks of decayed and collapsing barricades of sand-bags. Convoys of trucks took up both lanes of the road, but sat twisted and frozen in the streets while the skeletal remains of man lay nearby in twisted piles, swept or tossed to the side by careless wanderers and tourists.

The city was dead. The false dying vibrancy slathered on the sign was long gone. Replaced by empty vessels the brooded like the night ahead. The high-flying sun did little to throw aside the gloomy, smokey veil of decay that wrapped the city in a cold dressing.
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