Fallout 4: Rebirth At Vault 81

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She folded it, sealed it in a heat-stamped packet, and slid it into the outbound relay bin.

The white hallways of the Institute always hummed with a faint, ever-present current — the steady murmur of air filtration, synthetic servos, and the gentle purring of machines that had outlived their creators. But as Nora descended to the sublevels, past the polished labs and away from the wary glances of the Directorate, that background hum felt heavier. Lower somehow. Like the Institute itself was watching.

Her footsteps echoed off the alloy floors as she approached the sliding bulkhead marked ARMORY STATION – LEVEL TWO ACCESS REQUIRED. A Gen 2 synth stood at attention beside the recessed doorway, metal plating exposed around the joints and neck. A matte black number was stenciled just above its collar: AG-92B.

"Authorization required," it said in its clipped, neutral voice, stepping in front of the sensor plate. It tilted its head slightly, optical lenses focusing on her.

Nora kept her posture loose, authoritative — the practiced gait of someone too important to question but not so overtly aggressive as to invite scrutiny. She tapped her wristband against the access pad. It chimed green.

"Nora," she said, using the identity she'd spent months cultivating here. "Code priority: personal requisition. Field test review."

The synth processed this. Its gaze didn't waver.

"No field test deployments scheduled for bioscience personnel," it replied. Not hostile — just protocol.

Nora sighed, drawing closer.

"There's a directive from Father in queue," she said, lowering her voice slightly. "Clearance override tied to contingency planning. Internal matter. Not for general circulation."

The synth paused, processors ticking. Somewhere, the subroutine for threat detection must have registered her tone — clipped, impatient, bureaucratic. It stepped aside.

"Proceed," it said, the door hissing open with a sharp pssthhk.

Nora exhaled and entered quickly.

The armory was a narrow, climate-controlled chamber filled with wall-mounted weapons racks, stacked crates of plasma cartridges, shock-cushioned cases of laser pistols, Institute rifles, concussive grenades, even a few disassembled sonic pulse modules.

The Gen 2 stationed inside wasn't just any model — it was Q9-47, an inventory-grade synth with reinforced spinal plating and upgraded ocular targeting, designed not just to guard the arsenal, but to assess the psychological intent of those who accessed it. Its face was blank — more machine than man — and its voice more robotic than the one outside.

"State requisition purpose," Q9-47 said as she stepped in.

Nora walked past it, heading straight for the weapons racks.

"Surface assignment," she replied. "Verification relay op. Potential hostile contact. Field conditions expected."

Q9-47 didn't blink — it couldn't — but it took a half-step toward her.

"Authorization required for surface exit requisition. You are not cleared for—"

"Override, Alpha-Twelve," Nora cut in, eyes scanning the tags on the racks. "Operational clearance from Father. Not up for debate."

She was gambling — again. But the gamble was rooted in truth. Authority bled from proximity, especially in places where protocol wore the mask of logic.

The synth hesitated. Then a soft chime sounded.

"Alpha-Twelve Clearance Recognized. Requisition log: Temporary. Duration: 48 hours."

Bingo.

Nora moved fast, selecting an Institute marksman rifle — collapsible stock, smart-targeting node, adjustable scope length — and several plasma magazines. She grabbed a hip-slung energy pistol and two compact EMP grenades, sliding them into the sling pack she'd hidden beneath her coat.

The synth stepped forward again.

"Your orders will be logged. Requisition expiry will trigger recall notice."

"I'll be back before then," Nora said, her voice flat. "If I'm not, it means the recall's irrelevant."

She turned to go.

But just before the door reopened, the synth said something unexpected:

"Your heart rate is elevated. Respiratory rhythm inconsistent with baseline. Recommend mental evaluation."

Nora froze.

For a second — just one — she considered turning and melting the synth's core out with the rifle she now carried.

But instead, she looked over her shoulder, expression hard.

"Noted," she said. "Dismissed."

Then she stepped into the corridor.

The elevator ride was agonizingly slow. A glass tube threaded through the core of the Institute, surrounded by energy conduits and gravity compensators. Through the walls, she could see the various departments: robotics, advanced systems, bioscience — all lit in that clean, hollow white that never looked like morning or night. Time didn't move in the Institute. It only ticked.

Nora's reflection in the glass was pale. Tired. She hadn't slept. Didn't plan to. Her hands rested on the rifle's sling, fingers lightly grazing the trigger housing, as if even now she wasn't entirely sure she wouldn't have to use it before she left.

When the elevator finally docked, she stepped out into the Surface Relay Chamber. Another Gen 2 stood guard here — a dull bronze finish to its torso, no visible weapons but likely more than capable of subduing most threats with its bare hands.

The relay chamber buzzed with restrained, barely visible energy — coils lining the walls vibrating with a quiet tension that only someone who'd spent months in the Institute would notice. Nora stepped onto the transfer pad, the hard floor panels humming under her boots as she reached for the console.

The Gen 2 stationed nearby didn't move. It didn't need to. Its presence alone was reminder enough: eyes were always watching, even if they weren't made of flesh.

Nora keyed in the coordinates with precision — a manual override instead of voice activation, careful not to trigger any unnecessary logs or requests for validation.

Destination: Red Rocket Truck Stop.

Not Sanctuary.

She could've teleported directly into the secured perimeter behind the Freemasons Republic walls — could've emerged within the shadow of Sanctuary's fortified gates and bypassed the Wasteland entirely. But she knew better. Justin Ayo's eyes were sharp. Too sharp. And ever since Shaun's tone had shifted, Nora had felt the weight of surveillance pressing tighter against her skin.

If she appeared in Sanctuary with no authorization trail — no verifiable field mission — she wouldn't just burn her cover. She'd invite retaliation.

And worse: Sico would be in danger before she could even speak.

So she chose the long way.

A low vibration passed through the floor as the relay platform charged. She stood tall, braced against the sudden heatless flash of white that came with the displacement. No one ever really got used to it — the teleportation always felt like being yanked out of yourself and shoved into a shell half a heartbeat behind your soul.

Then the world shifted.

She landed with a crackle of displaced air, a bloom of warm static against her face. The Red Rocket station materialized around her — rusted steel supports, weeds bursting through cracked pavement, the tilted frame of the garage slumped like a drunk against the hillside. The air smelled like dust, oil, and the distant tinge of ozone from the relay. Night was beginning to fall — the sky streaked in burnt purples and deepening reds, stars poking through the veil.

She stepped off the platform and crouched near the edge of the ruined concrete slab, her rifle unshouldered and eyes scanning the treeline. The relay signature would still be warm — any nearby patrols, raiders, or ferals might come looking. She waited in silence for a full minute, pulse steady, ears tuned to the sigh of wind through hollowed car frames.

Nothing.

She rose and began moving northwest on foot.

The walk to Sanctuary took nearly forty minutes, but every step helped bleed off the static in her chest. Out here, there were no whispering hallways. No synthetic eyes. Just the honest ache of worn boots on soil and the rustle of branches in the breeze.

By the time she crested the last ridge, the old bridge into Sanctuary loomed ahead — guarded, lit by floodlamps rigged to solar panels, the entire town silhouetted against a backdrop of starlight and soft yellow glow from within its walls.

She raised her hands as she approached, letting the rifle hang by its sling.

"Identify!" a voice called from the gate. Male. Confident. Freemasons Republic lingo, clipped and deliberate.

Nora didn't flinch.

"Nora," she said, not shouting. ". Message for President Sico. Urgent. No Institute tracking."

There was a pause.

A longer one than she liked.

Then a second voice cut in — a woman this time.

"Approach slowly. Hands visible."

Nora obeyed.

The gates parted with a hydraulic groan as the guards scanned her with a handheld verifier — likely one of Tinker Tom's cobbled-together Institute-signal detectors. Nothing triggered. No passive tags. She was clean.

The woman stepped forward, clad in dark combat armor with the Freemasons insignia stitched onto her left shoulder. She was younger than Nora expected. Scar over her brow. One of the newer generations, probably raised inside the walls.

"You came from the Institute?" she asked, low. Suspicious.

Nora nodded.

"I'm not with them. And I need to speak with the President. Alone."

The guard studied her for a beat, then tapped her radio.

"Tell Preston. Nora's here."

Nora blinked.

"Preston's here?"

"Where else would he be?"

Another beat. Then the gate yawned open fully.

Sanctuary had changed since the last time Nora had seen it — even through all the Institute surveillance, the occasional synth report, the glimpses from embedded drones. Seeing it now, up close, made it real in a way her reports never could.

Children ran between reinforced homes, laughter tucked under the noise of generators. Men and women in Freemasons fatigues checked gear along the main street, some nodding as she passed, others watching her with a quiet wariness.

Preston was waiting at the town hall steps — the old house Sico had converted into his central planning post. He was in full uniform, coat snapped to the collar, hat tucked under his arm. His eyes lit up when he saw her, though his brow remained hard.

"Nora," he said, voice low but warm. "You're supposed to be inside the Institute."

"I has important news," she replied.

"You're lucky Artillery didn't drop shells on the Red Rocket relay."

"I didn't give them the chance."

Preston looked her over. Then nodded.

"Come on. Sico's inside."

She followed him into the dimly lit command room — the old living room gutted and replaced with tactical maps, war boards, radio consoles, and a heavy steel desk at the center. Sico stood behind it, sleeves rolled to the elbows, his jaw locked in concentration as he examined the latest deployment reports. When he saw her, his face shifted — first confusion, then relief, then something harder.

"Nora," he said, stepping around the desk. "What happened?"

She dropped her pack. Pulled the data shard from her coat. Set it gently on the table between them.

"Shaun ordered the hit," she said, eyes on his. "Talbot wasn't freelancing. He was following directives."

Sico didn't blink.

"And?"

"And it wasn't just an assassination attempt," Nora said. "They weren't trying to eliminate you. They were trying to replace you."

She tapped the shard.

"They have a Gen Four synth. Built off your biosignature. Grown from your DNA. Mapped with speech patterns, memories, visual cues. It was going to look like you. Sound like you. Lead like you."

Silence stretched in the room.

Then Sico exhaled, long and steady.

"They wanted to turn me into a puppet."

"They wanted to steer the Republic," she said. "In their image. Shaun thinks he's preventing a Brotherhood-style military collapse. But what he's doing—what he's planning—is infiltration. Full takeover. Your people would've never known."

Preston swore under his breath, hands on his hips.

Sico didn't speak right away. He picked up the shard. Turned it in his hand. Studied Nora again.

"Why now?" he asked. "Why tell me now?"

Nora didn't hesitate.

"Because Talbot's still out there. With the prototype. Two days from now, he's supposed to rendezvous in the Glowing Sea. A vault location — hidden from Brotherhood tracking. He makes that handoff, it's over."

Sico set the shard down.

"Then we go after him."

"No Institute tags," Nora said. "No synths. No drones. If they spot us, they'll vanish. This has to be boots on the ground. Fast. Quiet."

Preston nodded. "I'll assemble a strike team."

"No more than twent," Nora said.

Sico nodded slowly, eyes never leaving hers.

"You're coming with us."

She hesitated.

"Of course."

"Good," he said.

Then he stepped past her, placing a hand briefly on her shoulder.

"You made the right choice," he said. "Even if it cost you everything."

She said nothing.

But she felt it — the quiet conviction behind his words. Not praise. Not absolution. Just acknowledgment. She hadn't done it to be thanked. She'd done it because it was right.

Sico lingered a moment longer, his hand still resting lightly on Nora's shoulder before he stepped back, voice softer now—quiet, but steady as iron beneath it.

"Don't worry," he said. "The Institute will never know you helped us find Talbot."

Nora's gaze flicked upward to meet his, searching for the catch, the loophole—the part of the plan where everything unravelled and she wound up cornered, exposed, or worse. But there was no hesitation in his voice. No deception. Just the calm resolve of a man who had navigated too many political fires to be careless now.

"I've already sent our Commandos to search for Talbot," Sico continued, walking back around the desk and slipping into his command posture again, the one she remembered from the holotapes and intercepted broadcasts. "They're moving through the Commonwealth as we speak—under the guise of a long-range Brotherhood patrol intercept. Just a routine sweep."

He gave her a knowing glance.

"And I can quietly reroute them to the Glowing Sea without anyone blinking. As far as our command logs are concerned, they'll have picked up anomalous radiation signals, maybe rumors of synth activity. They'll 'coincidentally' find a Vault hidden out there. And if Talbot's inside, they'll deal with it."

Nora exhaled slowly. A tight, invisible pressure she hadn't realized was building behind her ribs began to ease. He wasn't just reacting—he was already ahead, already moving pieces she hadn't seen.

"And me?" she asked.

"You'll go in with them," Sico said. "Full Hazmat Shita. No facial ID, no voice, no exposed skin. You'll just be another figure in the suit. Silent. Unremarkable. Not even the team will know who you are—except Preston."

Nora nodded, accepting the terms. "You'll trust Preston with the truth?"

"I trust him with my life," Sico said, without a hint of doubt. "And more importantly, I trust him to know what to keep quiet."

Nora let her fingers drift across the edge of the desk, the weight of it all beginning to settle into her muscles like lead. This wasn't just another mission. This was the final thread of the tightrope she'd been walking for months—maybe years. She'd known what she was doing when she volunteered to go undercover. She'd accepted the risk of betrayal, of capture, of being erased. But now it felt real in a way she hadn't expected. Tangible.

If this went wrong, she wouldn't just vanish from the Institute's records. She'd vanish from the world.

Sico seemed to sense her thoughts.

"If we take out Talbot, that synth never reaches the surface," he said. "And if we recover the prototype, I can put enough pressure on the Institute to force a diplomatic freeze. Even Shaun won't be able to deny it. He'll have to pull back."

Nora looked at him again, sharper this time. "You think Shaun will just let this go?"

"No," Sico admitted. "But if we make it costly enough—if we show them that direct action ends in failure—he'll choose containment over confrontation. The Institute doesn't do open warfare. Not unless they think they've already won."

"And if he decides I've turned?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper.

"Then he'll send something worse than Talbot," Sico said. "But that's not your burden. You've already done more than anyone could've asked."

He motioned toward Preston, who had remained near the door, arms crossed, his jaw clenched like a man trying to keep from jumping into action before the gears were set.

"Preston will get you kitted. We've got Shita Hazmats that haven't seen use since the Glowing Sea expeditions. Fully shielded, rebreather-masked, internal mic system disabled. You'll go silent the moment you suit up. No chance of voiceprint detection."

"Good," Nora said.

"And one more thing," Sico added, his eyes locking with hers again. "This mission doesn't leave a trace. You understand? No names. No tags. No records."

Nora gave a tired, grim smile. "That's the only way I know how to live."

The armory was tucked in the lower wing of the town hall now—reinforced, electronically sealed, but accessible with Sico's override code. Preston led her down a narrow hallway flanked with steel-paneled walls and past a pair of guards who barely glanced at her in her nondescript Wasteland cloak.

The door opened with a hiss, revealing an organized chaos of lockers, racks, sealed crates, and glowing weapon cases. Inside, a quartermaster was cleaning the barrel of a Gauss rifle and looked up only briefly when Preston called out.

"She's with me. We need one of the Shita suits."

The man whistled low. "You're heading to the Sea?"

"Not your concern," Preston said without breaking stride.

The suit they pulled from the sealed crate was bulkier than Nora remembered—military-grade polymer weave, vacuum-sealed, with an internal waste recycler, oxygen unit, and a thick, radiation-absorbing liner. The exterior was a dull olive color, like mottled ash and moss, and it bore the Freemasons Republic crest stenciled faintly along the shoulder.

"Old world tech meets post-war panic," Preston muttered, handing her the undersuit first. "You sure you're ready for this?"

"Define 'ready,'" she said, stripping down behind the corner screen.

Preston gave a soft snort. "Good answer."

It took nearly ten minutes to strap in, layer by layer—compression lining, pressure seals, harness tethers, and finally the heavy rebreather mask that clicked into place with a hiss of filtered air. The suit sealed itself with a pneumatic hiss, HUD flickering on across the inside of the visor. No call-sign. No identifying information. Just a flat interface designed to display radiation, vitals, and team tracking pulses.

When she stepped out of the changing alcove, Preston gave a low whistle.

"No one's gonna know who you are," he said. "Hell, I barely do."

She gave him a thumbs-up.

He tapped a silent acknowledgment on her shoulder.

"The rest of the strike team will meet us at checkpoint Echo, near the edge of the Sea. They'll get the briefing once we're on-site. They'll think it's a recon op—tracking synth movement. Not a word about Talbot or Vaults."

Nora nodded.

"We'll move just after first light," Preston added, voice quieter now. "Before the Institute's sensors calibrate for the day. Sico already ordered ECM jammers deployed near the border. That'll give us a few hours' window. We go in, we extract the prototype, we vanish."

And if Talbot doesn't come quietly? Nora didn't ask it aloud. The answer was already in both their eyes.

Preston handed her a rifle—plasma, tuned with a low-energy ion capacitor for silent kills. Custom-made. Untraceable. She accepted it without a word.

"Get some rest," he said. "You'll need it."

She didn't sleep.

But she did close her eyes for a while—long enough to feel her heartbeat steady again.

The next morning, the team moved before dawn.

Twenty of them, not counting Nora. 15 men and 5 woman, all hardened, all quiet, all hand-picked by Preston. None asked about Nora. None questioned why the silent figure in the Shita Hazmat didn't speak. Out here, in the shadow of the Sea, questions got people killed.

Their ride was an armored Truck, treads grinding through irradiated muck as they rolled across the skeletal remnants of what had once been Route 95. Trees had long since rotted to twisted, blackened stumps. Fog clung to the valleys in toxic coils, and mutated wildlife kept to the distance, their eyes glowing faintly in the dark.

________________________________________________

• Name: Sico

• Stats :

S: 8,44

P: 7,44

E: 8,44

C: 8,44

I: 9,44

A: 7,45

L: 7

• Skills: advance Mechanic, Science, and Shooting skills, intermediate Medical, Hand to Hand Combat, Lockpicking, Hacking, Persuasion, and Drawing Skills

• Inventory: 53.280 caps, 10mm Pistol, 1500 10mm rounds, 22 mole rats meat, 17 mole rats teeth, 1 fragmentation grenade, 6 stimpak, 1 rad x, 6 fusion core, computer blueprint, modern TV blueprint, camera recorder blueprint, 1 set of combat armor, Automatic Assault Rifle, 1.500 5.56mm rounds, power armor T51 blueprint, Electric Motorcycle blueprint, T-45 power armor, Minigun, 1.000 5mm rounds, Cryolator, 200 cryo cell, Machine Gun Turret Mk1 blueprint, electric car blueprint, Kellogg gun, Righteous Authority, Ashmaker, Furious Power Fist, Full set combat armor blueprint, M240 7.62mm machine guns blueprint, Automatic Assault Rifle blueprint, and Humvee blueprint.

• Active Quest:-