Chapter Text
Deacon had always been a patient man.
So when he caught wind of institute activity around a previously unheard of vault just north of Concord, it didn’t bother him that after five months of dutiful scouting and observation, the most exciting thing he witnessed was a rad rabbit with only three feet.
Totally didn’t bother him at all.
After another six weeks, Deacon could only see two explanations. One- After a bout of jet-induced paranoia, Radcat had dispensed yet another dead end lead. Moderate probability, but meant he’d have to hunt down a dealer. No fun, but sloppy tourists were useless. Two- The institute was here, got what they wanted ages ago, and scurried away never to return again, meaning he’s been sitting for six months on a chair that made his ass hurt for no damn reason. Highly likely, incredibly annoying, and literally the least amount of fun possible.
Guess there was only one way to find out.
Deacon ducked out of his slap dash lean-to and made his way towards the vault platform. He took out his rifle and did a quick inspection of the structures around the platform. Nothing special. A couple skeletons, a few warped old terminals, until finally, bingo! A big red, highly conspicuous button. Time to party. Deacon pressed it and immediately heard a loud grinding sound.
The vault was wet, cold, and hot damn that smell. This kind of ‘decaying matter’ aroma was usually reserved for places that hadn’t been touched in a long, long time. Disheartening, he thought, but not game over. After the sixth or seventh skeleton though, he decidedly labeled the mysterious Vault 111 as a seriously grim locale.
And then he found them.
Rows upon rows of bodies, frozen in time. Encapsulated in big hulking pods, their faces pale and covered in frost, like something out of a sci-fi movie.e His original glimmer of hope had been quickly dashed when an inspection of the nearby terminal told him every occupant was deceased. Every single one of them. Pre-war popsicles cryogenically frozen when the bombs fell, only to die as a result of a "technical malfunction." He frowned. A mass grave. Gee, thanks a million, Vault-Tec.
What a fucking bust. What would the institute want with a bunch of dead vault-dwellers? Deacon wove through the vault with an increasing sense of unease. Maybe it was all the frozen corpses. Who could say? Poor dead bastards. Thought they were gonna wake up in some ‘rebuilt America’ or whatever other propaganda Vault-tec pushed back then. Goddamn posters were still hung up everywhere. Maybe it was better that they never saw what was waiting for them outside the vault. Doubt many of them would’ve survived it anyway.
Deacon stopped suddenly as one of the cryo pods caught his eye. While the rest of the corpses were limp in their pods, heads lolling at strange angles, the woman inside this pod was pressed against the glass, her face contorted in horror. Her hands were balled up, as if she had fought to get out, and frozen tears sparkled against her cheeks.
A gross, messy feeling bubbled up into his stomach and he coughed in frustration. He knew it was ridiculous, to be upset over a woman who died two hundred years ago, but it was hard not to be. She was young, couldn’t be older than twenty-five maybe? Pretty kid. Doll face, big doe eyes. She looked so innocent. And she died terrified. What a fucking waste.
And what was she so scared of? He followed her gaze to the pod across from her and found his answer. A man, with dark purple blood painted down his neck and chests. Deacon stood on his tiptoes and studied a small wound in the man’s temple. His breath fogged up the glass and he wiped away the condensation
Now, who went and slugged you, big guy?
Deacon bounced back on his heels as he thought. Life support malfunction, eh? Sure didn't look like it. He looked down at the pod number painted on the glistening concrete. C6. Hm.
He spotted a terminal connected at the end of the row and made his way towards it. He scrolled through the pod numbers until he found it, Pod C6. Mr. Nathaniel Castavet... and infant? That was interesting. There certainly wasn't a baby there now.
Mr. Castevet’s status was listed as “unknown.” Ha. Okay, sure. Also listed was a “pod door manual override.” Hm. A rude awakening, then.
Next on the list was pod C7. Mrs. Rosie Castevet. Ah, fuck. This place was bound and determined to give him an emotional kick to the nads. A young wife witnessed her husband’s murder, and quite possibly the kidnapping of her baby, and now the poor thing is-
Status: Stable.
He blinked. No fucking way. Someone kills this dude, takes the baby, but leaves just one person alive in this shit-hole? If this was institute, he was way out of his depth here.
He returned to pod C7. What do you know, his own personal sleeping beauty. He discovered her after all, he knew her story, and if this really was institute work, she must be important. A key piece. After all, somebody left her alive on purpose. Oh yeah, he was all over this one. What a wonderful distraction.
Deacon tapped a finger on the glass.
“Don’t worry,” he breathed-
“I’m comin’ back for you.”