M.A. Kleen

The following story is the third installment in a limited series set in the Commonwealth wasteland world of Fallout 4. Read Part 1 and Part 2.

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The tunnel led downward in a long slope, concrete walls sweating. The yellow lights flickered as they ran, throwing the super mutant’s shadow huge and misshapen ahead of them.

Deep in the Glowing Sea, Rook and Graft followed the directions marked on an old map, navigating disorienting waypoints until they reached a darkened tunnel that felt strangely familiar to Graft’s mutated brain. 

Though the serum that increased his size and muscle mass, slowed his aging, and made him immune to radiation had dulled his mind, it could not erase the shadows of memories still lingering in the recesses.

Behind them, the singing continued… cheerful, relentless, as if the song itself was pushing them along.

They reached a split: one corridor collapsed, rubble piled like a deadfall; the other marked by a metal sign half peeled from the wall.

LANTERN — AUTHORIZED ACCESS ONLY

Rook’s mouth went dry. “It’s… real.”

Graft didn’t answer. He looked at the sign like it offended him.

The speaker crackled overhead.“—custodial breach detected. Assets must remain in designated zones—”

Rook’s grip tightened on her pistol. “Assets?”

Graft’s voice came out hoarse. “People.”

They moved into the LANTERN corridor, and the air changed. Less mold. More antiseptic, residue of it clinging to metal. Old world clean, spoiled into something sour over the centuries.

A security door stood ahead, half buried in debris. A keypad beside it blinked weakly, like a dying heartbeat.

For the first time in days, Rook dropped the scarf from her face and removed her makeshift respirator. The stale air filled her lungs. It felt… good. She knelt, tool kit out. “I can bypass—”

Graft shoved past her. He stared at the keypad, head tilted, lips moving silently. Then his thick finger pressed four numbers. The keypad beeped. The door clicked.

Rook froze, staring up at him. “How did you—”

Graft didn’t look at her. “Hands remember.”

The door began to slide open with a groan, metal protesting after two centuries of silence. The singing stopped. For a heartbeat, the corridor was quiet enough to hear Rook’s pulse, then the door opened fully… And a gust of cold, stale air rolled out, carrying a smell that made Rook’s eyes water.

Old blood. Old chemicals. And something faintly sweet beneath it, like rot wearing perfume.

They stepped inside. The facility beyond was dim, emergency lights painting everything in dull red. The floor was polished tile under a layer of dust. The walls were lined with glass that looked into rooms full of upright desks and chairs.

A receptionist counter sat abandoned, a little bell still perched neatly on top as if someone might ring it and ask for directions.

Rook swallowed. “This place looks like it closed yesterday.”

Graft’s shoulders rose and fell. “Never closed. Just… waited.”

A “Mister Handy” robot drifted into view around a corner, one thruster sputtering, eye lens cracked. Its metal body was soot-stained, but a little bow tie was still clipped to its chassis, absurdly intact. It rotated toward them, saw Graft, and froze.

“Oh!” it chirped, voice overly bright. “Authorized personnel detected. Custodial unit SIR-7LANTERN reporting for duty.”

Rook’s pistol rose automatically.

SIR-7’s saw arm twitched, then retracted politely. “Please remain calm.” It made a little whirring noise that might have been meant as a laugh. “Containment protocols are designed for your safety and comfort.”

Graft stared at it. His jaw worked. “SIR,” Graft rumbled, voice vibrating with restrained violence, “you still here.”

“Of course!” the robot said. “I have been maintaining LANTERN’s standards for two hundred and eight years, three months, and—”

Its voice stuttered, then resumed.

“—and fourteen days. Would you like a refreshment? A towel? A complimentary orientation pamphlet?”

Rook’s eyes flicked to the robot’s underside. Something old, dried, and dark was smeared on its casing. “No refreshments,” Rook said sharply. “Just directions.”

SIR-7 rotated, eye lens focusing. “Destination?”

Rook pulled out the map and pointed to the label. “LANTERN.” Then, guessing, “CLEANSPRING?”

The robot’s thrusters sputtered, and its voice dropped half a pitch, losing some of its cheer. “CLEANSPRING is a restricted resource.”

Graft’s hands clenched into fists. 

“Sounds like we need it.”

“Need is not authorization,” SIR-7 replied. Then, as if remembering itself, it brightened again: “However! Authorized personnel may request an exception via intake. Please proceed to ASSET PROCESSING.”

Rook and Graft exchanged a look.

“Asset processing,” Rook repeated. “Lovely.”

They moved deeper. The halls were labeled with cheerful, bureaucratic signage: WELLNESS, COMPLIANCE, INTAKE, COUNSELING. Words meant to sound gentle, lull you into a false sense of security.

They passed a room with rows of chairs bolted to the floor. A children’s corner in one, tiny plastic chairs, a faded cartoon poster of a smiling atom character giving a thumbs-up.

Rook’s stomach twisted. “They kept families,” she whispered.

Graft’s voice was flat. “Kept everything.”

They reached INTAKE, and the door was already open. Inside, the walls were covered in old forms pinned to boards. A desk sat in the center with a terminal on it. Behind the desk, a thick glass window looked into a room with restraints bolted to the floor.

Rook stepped in, boots scuffing dust. Her light swept across the floor and found the bones. Not scattered like after a fight. Arranged.

A circle of skeletons sat propped against the walls, backs to tile, legs stretched out like they’d sat down to rest and never stood up again. Some still wore lab coats. One had a clipboard tucked under its arm.

Rook’s throat tightened. “They… waited.”

Graft’s face hardened, but his eyes didn’t leave the terminal.

Rook approached it, wiping dust from the screen. The monitor flickered on with a soft hum. A login prompt appeared.

Graft leaned in. His big finger hovered over the keys.

Rook caught his wrist. “Wait. You remember passwords now?” She was confused. Had he lured her here? Was she going to end up like those others? 

Graft’s gaze dropped to her hand on his wrist. He didn’t pull away. “Not password,” he said. “Name.”

Rook swallowed. “What name?”

Graft’s voice was a rasp. “Harlan.” He pressed the keys slowly: H A R L A N. The terminal beeped. A file list appeared, and at the top, in bold letters:

ASSET INTAKE — SUBJECT G-15 (HARLAN) — STATUS: TRANSFERRED

Rook felt the hairs on her arms rise.

Graft stared at the screen like it was a mirror showing him something he didn’t want to see. Behind them, SIR-7 drifted into the doorway, eye lens whirring.

“Congratulations!” it chirped. “ASSET PROCESSING has recognized authorized personnel. Please proceed to COMPLIANCE for corrective evaluation.”

Rook’s voice went tight. “Corrective evaluation?”

The robot’s saw arm extended a fraction, then retracted again, polite as ever. “All returning assets must be assessed for contamination, deviance, and compliance.”

Graft’s breathing grew heavy. His hands shook.

Rook looked up at him. “Graft—Harlan—listen to me. We’re not doing ‘evaluation.’ We find this CLEANSPRING, whatever it is, and we leave.”

Graft swallowed hard. “They… did this.”

“Yeah,” Rook said, voice hardening. “And now we’re going to take something from them. Something that might save the lives of people I care about.”

The distant sound of boots echoed through the facility. They were measured, disciplined steps.

“We’re not alone,” Rook whispered, stiffening.

Graft’s head snapped toward the hall, nostrils flaring. “Metal. Oil. Gunpowder.”

Rook’s stomach dropped. “Gunners.”

The Mister Handy tilted its body, as if puzzled. “Unauthorized personnel detected.” Its voice brightened with unsettling enthusiasm. “Initiating containment measures.”

The lights overhead shifted from white to flashing red. And somewhere deeper, a heavy door began to slowly open, with the grind of old machinery forcing itself to life.

Rook’s Geiger clicked faster. She grabbed the map and shoved it in the super mutant’s face. “Where’s CLEANSPRING?”

Graft’s eyes were wild, but focused. He pointed down the hall. “WELLNESS wing?” he said. It sounded like a guess. “Near… farm?”

“Farm?” Rook repeated.

Graft’s mouth twisted. “Fake farm. For assets. To make them… calm.”

The echoing footsteps grew louder. A voice called out from the corridor, muffled but clear enough: “Spread out!”

Graft moved, grabbing Rook by the shoulder and pulling her toward the wellness wing. They sprinted, the facility’s lights strobing.

Rook’s heart pounded. “How many Gunners?”

“Too many,” Graft growled.

They turned a corner into a hall lined with murals of smiling families holding watering cans. A door at the end was labeled:

CLEANSPRING — AGRICULTURAL SUPPORT UNIT (FIELD)

“There!” Rook’s breath caught, and she rushed the door. It was locked. Of course it was locked.

Graft shoved her aside, then planted both hands on the handle and ripped. Metal screamed. The handle tore free.

The door remained shut.

Rook cursed. “It’s reinforced!”

Graft bared his teeth. “Then we break wall.”

He stepped back—And the facility’s speaker system came to life again, the cheerful song returning, louder now, layered with the Mister Handy’s voice: “Containment breach in progress. Lockdown will commence in thirty seconds.”

Rook looked at the door. Looked at the hall behind them, where a dozen shadows moved and gun barrels glinted. “Graft,” she said, voice tight, “if lockdown hits, we’re trapped.”

Graft’s eyes met hers. For the first time, he looked less like a monster and more like a man standing in the wreckage of his own past. “Then,” he said, “we take what we can carry.”

The door’s seams began to hiss.

Lockdown was starting, and the Gunners were almost at the corner.