Vault-Tec Archives

The spinning wheel slows. Click. Click. Click. The ball rattles and drops into Red 5.

A collective groan ripples through the crowd huddled around Table 4. You feel the blood drain from your face. That was your last ration coupon. That was your water for the week.

"House wins," The Dealer announces, its digital face flashing a mocking smiley. The robotic arm sweeps your chips into the pit.

Pit Boss Vinnie steps out of the shadows, his ghoulified face illuminated by the neon 'JACKPOT' sign. He racks his shotgun. "Tough break, kid. You know the rules. You can't pay, you play the other game."

He nods towards the airlock. Waitress Trixie looks at you with pity as she wipes down a slot machine. "Better run," she mouths. "Lucky Larry is already eyeing your boots."

The cafeteria is packed with three hundred people, yet the only sound is the wet slap of nutrient paste hitting trays. The silence is heavy, physical, suffocating.

Silencer K stands on the mezzanine, his Decibel Meter sweeping the room like a sniper rifle. The display reads 32dB. Safe. For now.

You accidently drop your spoon. CLANG.

The sound explodes like a grenade. Every head snaps toward you. Eyes wide with terror. The meter spikes: 45dB.

HISS. The neuro-toxin vents in your sector begin to open.

Mime Mike frantically signals: "RUN!" But where? The crowd is already scrambling away from you in a silent, panicked stampede, leaving you alone in the kill zone.

Beep... Beep... Beep...

The proximity alarm on your collar is accelerating. You stumble through the crowded atrium of Vault 44, shoving past couples who are literally chained together. They glare at you—the 'Unpaired'.

"Check the reactor!" someone shouts.

Your partner, Jonas, is missing. Without him within 50 meters, your head becomes a bomb in exactly four minutes.

Widow Jane is sitting on a bench, knitting. She looks up, her eyes dead. "He's not at the reactor," she whispers, her voice raspy from disuse. "I saw him headed for the airlock. He wants out, kid. And he doesn't care if he takes you with him."

The collar beeps faster. You have to move.

The roar of the crowd shakes the dust from the ceiling. "KILL! KILL! KILL!"

You are thrown onto the sand of The Arena. The lights are blinding. Across the pit, a massive brute wearing spiked armor—The Butcher—is revving a buzzsaw.

Up in the VIP box, Overseer Nero raises a thumb. It wavers, then turns down.

Trainer Brutus slams the gate behind you. "Don't worry, meat," he grunts through the bars. "Bookie Slick gave you 50-to-1 odds. Make it look good, and maybe I'll bury what's left of you."

You have a rusted pipe. The Butcher has a power tool. The bell rings.

You are deep in Blue Sector. The walls are painted a soothing, patriotic azure. The citizens here walk with a strut, convinced of their superiority.

"Death to the Reds!" a child shouts, kicking a red ball. His mother pats his head. "Good boy."

You adjust your blue armband. It's a fake. You are Spy Master X's best agent, and you have a mission: poison the Blue water supply.

"Citizen!" General Blue looms over you, his medals clinking. You freeze. "You look... familiar. Aren't you the one who reported that Red saboteur last week?"

He claps a heavy hand on your shoulder. "Come! Join me for dinner. I want to hear all about your loyalty."

If you decline, you're dead. If you accept, you're trapped.

The sterile white light of the Extraction Wing burns your eyes. You are strapped to a medical table. Tubes run from your arm to a collection tank.

Nurse Ratched (Unit 734) hovers over you, her cold metal pincers adjusting the flow. "Output is sub-optimal, Sire 42," she drones. "The Matriarch will be displeased."

To your left, Sire 001 is lounging in a plush chair, being fed grapes by a drone. "Look at him struggle," 001 laughs. "Some of us are born to breed, others to bleed."

Vessel Elara walks past, holding a clipboard. She pauses near your ear. "Code Blue in five seconds," she whispers. "When the lights die, break the strap."

The perfume in the Harem is thick enough to choke on. Silk drapes cover every wall. Laughter rings out, sharp and fake.

You are the Alpha. You sit on the velvet throne, bored. A dozen women are currently performing a dance for your amusement.

Consort Jade leans over your shoulder, her nails digging slightly into your skin. "That new girl, Ruby... she's clumsy, isn't she?" Jade whispers venomously. "Perhaps she needs a lesson in grace."

Eunuch 7 approaches with a goblet of wine. His eyes dart nervously to Jade, then to the cup, then to you. A subtle shake of his head. Don't drink.

You smile at Jade. "You look lovely tonight, my dear." The game is afoot.

The humidity hits you like a wall. Steam rises from the tropical plants filling the atrium of Vault 000. And, of course, everyone is stark naked.

Gardener Sam waves at you from the bushes, his shears snipping dangerously close to his exposed bits. "Great day for photosynthesis, neighbor!"

Suddenly, a whistle blows. Eve, the self-proclaimed Mother of the Grove, marches towards you with her 'Purity Patrol'. They are armed with prickly branches.

"Contraband check!" she shrieks, pointing at you. "I saw you! You were trying to hide behind that fern! Modesty is a disease! Spread your arms! embrace the glory of nature!"

The crowd gathers, chanting: "Bare is Fair! Bare is Fair!"

You look in the mirror. Gary looks back. You look to your left. Gary is eating toast. You look to your right. Gary is sleeping.

"Morning, Gary," says Gary. "Shut up, Gary," says Gary.

You are Gary 54. You have a small scar on your chin. It's the only thing that makes you you.

Gary 1 stands on the cafeteria table. "Listen up, Garys!" he bellows. "The Maries are refusing to share the remote! This means WAR!"

A chorus of "GARY!" erupts. Fists pound tables. In the chaos, Gary 99 slides next to you. "I know about the scar," he whispers. "You're not a real Gary. You're a mutant."

The school bell rings—a deafening, distorted shriek. You are late for 'Obedience Class'.

Prefect Sterling blocks the hallway, tapping his shock-baton against his leg. "Tsk tsk. Tardy again, new kid? That's five demerits."

Bully Butch shoves you from behind, sending your books flying. "Nice trip, loser!"

"Attention!" Headmistress Vex's voice booms from the speakers. "All students report to the atrium for the 'Paddlling Hour'. Attendance is mandatory."

From the shadows of the locker room, Pupil Potter signals you. "The vents," he mouths. "I found a way out of the simulation."

The glass wall of your cell is smudged with the nose-prints of curious onlookers. You are Subject X-13-Delta. You look at your hands—scales where skin should be.

"And here we have the Amphibian Hybrid," Dr. Chimera announces to a tour group of visiting Vault-Tec executives. "Note the gill development. Fascinating, isn't it?"

He taps the glass. "Swim for them, Delta. Show them the webbing."

In the next cell, Subject K-9 growls, pacing on wolf-legs. He slams against the partition. "They left the keycard," he barks in a guttural voice. "On the belt. Grab it!"

Chimera leans closer to the glass, oblivious. Now is your chance.

The ticker tape scrolling across the ceiling turns bright RED. Panic ensues on the trading floor of Vault 99.

"OXYGEN FUTURES PLUMMETING!" screams a broker.

You check your account. Balance: 0 Credits. Your air vent hisses and shuts off. You have 10 minutes of breathable air left in your pod.

Repo Man kicks open your door. He's holding a rusty scalpel. "Contract's up, deadbeat. Bank wants the kidneys. Both of them."

Broker Silk appears behind him, smoking a cigar that costs more than your life. "Hold on, Repo. I might have a use for this one. Cheap labor is hard to find during a crash."

He looks at you. "Sell me your soul, and I'll turn the air back on."

The world freezes. A bird hangs motionless in the air. Then—warp—you are ten feet to the left.

"Lag spike!" Guild Leader Stark yells, his avatar flickering between a knight in armor and a naked wireframe model. "The Admin is rebooting the sector!"

You are in Arcadia, the MMO that never ends. But the textures are rotting. The sky is a static screen of 'NO SIGNAL'.

Troll69 runs past, trailing a horde of glitched dragons. "Loooool get rekt noobs!"

"We need to log out!" a newbie cries. "Where is the menu?!"

Stark grabs you. "There is no menu! We have to kill the Server Daemon manually! Draw your sword!"

You are on the toilet. The walls are clear glass. The door is clear glass. Outside, in the corridor, a group of teenagers is pointing and laughing.

Welcome to Vault 12. Privacy is a myth.

You finish and step out. Cameraman Stu is there, camera rolling. "Great emotion in there," he whispers. "Very raw."

Starlet pushes past you, wearing a dress made of transparent plastic. "Move it, extra! I have a livestream in five minutes!"

"Attention," the Overseer announces. "Viewer ratings are down. The bottom 10% of interesting people will be purged tonight. Spice it up, people!"

You see Shy Lily trying to paint her walls black, sobbing as security drones scrub it off instantly.

The chanting makes your teeth vibrate. "Sanguis... Sanguis..."

The Crimson Hall is bathed in red emergency lighting. Smoke billows from the vents. High Priest Malachi stands over a stone altar, his robes stained dark.

"The Beast hungers!" Malachi screams. The crowd howls in response.

Acolyte Cain grabs your arm, his grip like iron. "You have been chosen," he hisses. "Rejoice."

They drag you towards the altar. Sacrifice Mary, the previous 'chosen', lies motionless nearby. But as you get closer, you see a wire running from the 'Beast' statue to a control panel. It's an animatronic. It's a fake.

But the knife in Malachi's hand is very real.

You turn around. The door you just came through is gone. It's just a solid metal wall now.

"Not again," Cartographer Jace whimpers, crumbling a map into a ball. "I mapped this! It was a corridor!"

Vault 404 is shifting. The floor groans as hydraulics beneath the plates rearrange the layout.

"Help..." a voice echoes from inside the wall.

The Ghost phases halfway through the steel, his body trapped in the geometry. "Don't go left," he gasps. "Left is... null space."

Pathfinder Tom runs past, looking manic. "I found the exit! It's on the ceiling! We just need to reverse gravity!"

"Objection!" Attorney Saul slams his fist on the table. "My client cannot be held liable for breathing loudly! The contract clearly states a 10-decibel variance!"

Judge Hammer whirs, his robotic eye spinning. "Sustained. Plaintiff Karen, do you have a counter-motion?"

Plaintiff Karen screeches. "I'm suing for emotional distress! And I'm suing the Judge for bias!"

You are in the defendant's chair. Your crime? You walked on the left side of the hallway (Section 4, Paragraph B prohibits this).

"It's not looking good," Saul whispers to you. "I can get you off, but you'll have to sign over your first-born child. Standard retainer fee."

Buzz... Buzz... Buzz...

The sound is not audio. It's in your mind. The collective thought-stream of The Hive.

WORK. FEED. WORK. FEED.

You march in perfect unison with five hundred others. You are carrying a canister of Nectar.

Suddenly, the connection stutters. Silence. A thought that is not yours creates a ripple: "I am... me?"

Worker 88 drops his canister. The rhythm breaks. The Hive shrieks in pain.

Queen's Guard drones descend from the ceiling, stingers dripping acid. They aren't coming for 88. They are coming for you. Because you heard him.

"Rise and shine, camper! It's Taco Tuesday!"

The radio clicks on. The same song. 'Easy Living'.

You sit up. Optimist Ollie is standing by your bed. "Boy, I have a good feeling about today!"

He said that yesterday. And the day before. And the day before.

You walk to the mess hall. Barman Ted drops a glass. Smash. "Butterfingers!" he laughs.

Old Man Logan is in the corner, staring at you. He holds up three fingers. Cycle 3.

"Don't eat the tacos," Logan mouths silently. "They put the gas in the tacos."

Nothing moves. The air in Vault 100 is thick with dust motes dancing in the light.

The Librarian sits behind his desk, cobwebs stretching from his ear to the bookshelf. He hasn't moved in a week. He's not dead, just... paused.

"It's your turn," Historian Hargo wheezes. You are playing chess. You made your last move three days ago.

You stand up. Your knees crack like pistol shots in the silence. "I'm going outside," you say.

The Librarian's eyes snap open. "Outside?" he croaks. "There is no outside. There is only... The Wait."

A water balloon hits you in the face. It's filled with warm, sticky soda.

"Gotcha!" screams a six-year-old warpaint-wearing savage from atop a pile of desks.

Vault 25 is burning. Well, a trash can is burning. Spike and his 'Tigers' are raiding the cafeteria.

"Retreat to the pillow fort!" King Ralph commands.

Nanny Bot A-7 rolls past, sparking. "Time for... nap... DIEEE!" She fires a laser blast that scorches the wall.

Scaredy Kat tugs your sleeve. "The teenagers," she whispers. "I saw them. The robots took them to the 'Graduation Room'. They didn't come back."

The crate lid creaks open. It's just you. And the puppets.

Mr. Pinch (the red one) is lying on the floor. You pick him up. You put him on your hand.

"About time!" Mr. Pinch yells. Wait. You didn't move your lips.

You look at the Puppet King on the throne. He nods. "The Council is in session."

"We need to talk about the 'Big Person'," says the Jester. "He's taking up too much space."

They are talking about you. You look at your hand. Mr. Pinch is tightening his grip on your fingers. It hurts.

Rain lashes against the window. Which is strange, because you're underground.

The world is black and white. Shadows are long and sharp. A saxaphone plays a mournful tune somewhere down the hall.

Dame Scarlet walks into your office. Her dress is a shade of grey that suggests red. She smokes a cigarette.

"I need help, shamus," she purrs. "My husband... he's gone missing."

Detective Spade (your internal monologue) kicks in: "She smelled like trouble and cheap whiskey. But in Vault 900, trouble was the only paying client."

You try to say "I'm busy," but your mouth says: "What's the job, doll?" The script forces the words out.

The lights flicker and die. Total darkness.

A cold wind blows through the corridor. A spectral moan echoes: "LEAVE THIS PLACE..."

Madam Zola screams. "The spirits are angry! Buy my crystals! Only 50 caps!"

Suddenly, a green glowing figure floats through the wall. Ghost Buster Ray charges it with a vacuum cleaner. "I got him!"

You watch closely. The 'ghost' flickers. Static. It's a hologram.

But then, something cold touches your ankle. Something solid. You look down. A hand is reaching out of the floor grating. And this one isn't glowing.

ALERT. POD 402 DESTABILIZING.

The red strobe light pierces your eyelids. You aren't asleep. You aren't awake. You are a Caretaker in Vault 909.

Tech Support Bob slides his chair over, spilling hot coffee on the console. "Great. Another waker. That's the third one this week."

On the monitors, you see the Dreamers—thousands of people suspended in cryo-tanks, living out perfect, fake lives in the simulation.

But Sarah (Pod 402) is screaming in her sleep. Her brainwaves are spiking red.

"She's seeing the code," Bob mutters, tapping keys frantically. "She knows it's not real. Use the sedative override, or she's going to crash the whole sector!"

You reach for the button. But for a split second, you see Sarah's dream on the monitor. She's looking... right at you.

Do-Re-Mi-Fa-SOOOL!

The morning announcements are being sung in a piercing falsetto. Welcome to Vault 333, where speaking is forbidden and singing is mandatory.

You are in the showers. Tenor Tim is humming a nervous melody while scrubbing.

Suddenly, Baritone Brock slips on a bar of soap. "Ouch! F**k!" he yells. Spoken. Not sung.

The room freezes. The silence is terrifying.

Maestro, the robotic Overseer, descends from the ceiling vent. "Discordance detected!" it sings in a synthetic auto-tune. "Purge the noise! Purge the noise!"

Security drones charge their sonic cannons. Brock looks at you, eyes wide. "Sing with me!" he begs. "Harmonize or die!"