FOREWORD This story is a fan fiction imagining of one possible story from the Fallout Universe by Bethesda Software, a collection of Books, Games, and other media (including Fallout 1, 2, 3, Tactics, New Vegas, 4, Shelter, and 76.) This story is in no way relates to existing characters, nor is it assumed to be part of the lore of the original aforementioned media. This is a fan story from the mind of Marcus Liotta.
All writing Copyright (C) Marcus Liotta 2022.
-Marcus Liotta
Release Details
The story will be published as a series, weekly for each chapter. Follow the site/blog to catch up as it is distributed. Each post will be titled “Protectron # – Chapter” for your convenience in search.
HOME – Published in this post.
DREAM INTERRUPTED – Publishing on the site 10/26/2023
NEW BEGINNINGS – Publishing on the site 11/02/2023
ALIVE – Publishing on the site 11/09/2023
TRUTH – Publishing on the site 11/16/2023
PROTECTRON
A Short Story by Marcus Liotta
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Welcome to ROBCO Industries (TM) Termlink
Standard Protectron Control Interface v2.60
This interface should be used by RobCo-Licensed technicians only. Improper Tampering with Protectron units may lead to permanent injury.
STATUS: Unit(s) Charging/Inactive
CONNECTED: 1 Unit(s) Connected to this terminal
Please Enter Command:
.
..
...
>ACTIVATE
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HOME
It was quiet, a pleasant atmosphere that anyone might appreciate on a calm summer’s day. And yet, there was something out of place.
One couldn’t see the anomaly with their naked eye, however it could be sensed at all times. It was a secret that permeated throughout the home.
The outer walls were surely painted a basic white, and the interior was not any different. A front door of reddened hard-wood, whereas the backdoor hung wide open, only protecting those within by way of a spring-loaded screen door.
There were no ill-fated elements however. Instead, the only movement came from a man who opened the screen door and walked in, carefully holding a metal tray in his right hand.
His short blonde hair never moved, a military cut that was complimented by a freshly shaven face. His gray eyes pierced the room as if it were an enemy to be conquered. His time in service to the United States of America was important, as was his time on leave before duty may once again be called.
He paused once inside the kitchen.
At first the man seemed confused, unsure of where he was or why he had walked inside the home. After a moment, he looked around and smiled.
Brushing off his white shirt and khaki slacks ever so briefly, a subconscious habit, he continued forward. The rear door quickly slapped back to frame, screen closing with a sharp metallic tapping sound.
That noise never normally bothered him before. It was expected. Today however, it felt off, as if the sound wasn’t quite the same as he was used to.
The man wasn’t sure why.
The same man, whose name was Darwin, turned into the kitchen but was suddenly confronted by an upsetting dilemma. He opened a few cabinets hanging from the wall over the sink with one hand.
None of them had what he was looking for.
Smile almost fading away altogether, Darwin blinked and frowned at what fresh conundrum he faced.
"Sandra! Where are plates?" he shouted.
Her faint reply came from the other room, faded from the number of walls between them in the small but still reasonably-sized house.
"I put them up, they finished drying!" she yelled.
Darwin stared at the empty cabinet, a place where those same plates would normally lay in delicate fashion, yet none were there.
He frowned.
None of what he perceived made any sense.
When turning around he nearly ran over a smaller woman in a polka-dot summer dress.
“Oh Gosh!” Darwin sputtered, making sure not to drop the heavy tray of meat he carried in another hand.
“You startled me my dear,” he said with a sigh of relief.
Sandra, in all of her beauty, she didn’t seem to pay attention to his reaction at all. Instead, her auburn hair, full of curls, readily bounced up and down as she walked past. Even her polka dot dress never gave him the time of day, swaying in the air yet hanging down below her knees.
Darwin felt ignored.
Her actions puzzled him.
She seemed to be on a mission, reaching the back door and gazing out absently as if that was her only purpose.
Suddenly she turned and asked, "Darwin, did you pull the steaks off the grill already? I hope they don't get a chance to burn like last time."
Darwin sighed.
His wife was being extra ditzy, and today he hadn’t the time for her mannerisms.
"Of course I handled the steaks!” he exclaimed in annoyance, “can't you see my hand? They're extremely hot and I'm trying to put them down but I can't find the plates. Hell, a hot pad would also be nice about now."
The woman's straight face immediately turned to a smile and she nodded her own agreement.
"Hot pads..." she repeated, scanning the kitchen and opening a few drawers.
Darwin's brow began to sweat and he could feel the metal tray of meat in his right hand beginning to sear through his gloves. It was just a warmth at first but then Darwin's fingertips felt the pain, an uncanny sensation that he could not bear.
The pain made him look at those succulent meats in the metal tray. They smelled overcooked and yet the juicy tenderness in each cut was plain to see. If he was to bite into one it would melt in his mouth, a perfection in both taste and sensation he might soon enjoy.
They were wet, still moistened by the sauces he had grilled them in.
His wife screeched in alarm, a noisy racket, and this brought his mind back to the present.
"Darwin, I can't seem to find them!"
Sandra looked high and low and yet she couldn't find a simple plate or hot pad.
Darwin grimaced as his fingertips grew only more painful.
She finally gave up and approached Darwin with a strange look, completely ignoring his now shaking hand, a hand which barely held up the pan of steaks.
Sandra walked so close to Darwin that he could feel her breath on his cheek.
She whispered in his ear.
Hair stood on end as the chill of her words sank into his flesh, all the while that sensation in his fingers turned to pins and needles.
For a brief moment her breath lingered upon his cheek and only in that moment did he realize something was terribly wrong.
Even after she moved away, he strained to hear the whisper and yet couldn't make out the few words she had spoken. They hovered around his ear like buzzing bumble bees on a summer's day.
His cheek and ear, they felt different.
Though the room was sweltering hot, those two areas were an anomaly. His cheek and ear, hell even that side of his neck was a bitter cold.
Darwin blinked.
Something was wrong.
“Sandra!” he called out, suddenly realizing she had vanished without a trace.
“She couldn’t have gone far,” he thought, and yet, the concept of distance seemed impossible to grasp, as if it never truly mattered.
He was left utterly dumbfounded.
Darwin’s head began pounding madly. In his newfound delirium he stumbled over to the hallway, catching sight of himself in their wall mirror.
He looked perfect.
Blonde head of hair, that shaved and trim beard he had been working on was exactly as he had imagined it would be one day. But it all seemed wrong.
It felt wrong.
He couldn’t recall any of those mornings he had shaved the beard, let alone when he started working on it. Last memory he had of his own face was that of a clean-shaven look.
Darwin was perplexed by this notion.
He reached up to touch his head of perfectly golden hair and realized he couldn’t. His right hand still clasped tightly to that hot metal tray.
He stared at the sight, alarmed that he hadn’t dropped it yet since the searing-pain was constant. He tried to open his fingers and they never budged.
His fingers wouldn’t move.
Dread washed over him.
He seemingly couldn’t drop the tray of meats, they stuck to his right hand as if compelled by some sort of foul magic. The tray had become weightless and yet no matter how hard he threw his hand around, shaking with wild abandon, it would not let go of his fingers.
It was as if the tray and him were one and the same.
A horrified look took over Darwin’s face.
“What is this!” he screamed, half question but mostly hysteria. The scene was something hatched by the mind of a Mad-God, one whose sense of humor was unmerciful, if only it entertained the foul being.
A shrill noise echoed in the distance. It was a siren that grew louder with every waking moment and Darwin clutched at his skull with his one free hand.
“Make it stop!” he howled, screaming at the ceiling as if by some miracle his own voice would be heard over the horrid sound that he could not escape.
It drove him to madness.
Everything became fuzzy.
Darwin blinked repeatedly to clear his vision.
He tried to adjust his eyes and yet the hallway, the house, the mirror, his own features; they were all a blur.
He blinked a second time and his vision faded.
The man cried out, assaulted by darkness.
As Darwin blinked a third and final time, the world he knew disappeared. He fell into an abyss of nothingness.
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