Foalout 4 - Sanctuary Hills chapter 6 - Lothmar

Proceeding back to the concourse you stopped by the Cafeteria and requisitions vendors to check stock on a few things. After filling out some bureaucratic paperwork for things that weren’t readily stocked but available and a short bit of bartering you acquired a few synth relay grenades, a water and some food goo and cleared out all their caps as was your standard practice by selling bits of overstock things you couldn’t possibly use in your lifetime and were simply sitting in vacuum sealed storage lockers. Usually, various drugs but you did your best not to circulate illicit substances in the institute save for a variety of mentats and fixer.

You make a mental note to withdraw up to ten of what you’d exchanged when you got back, carrying too much on you was impractical for space limitations when it came to looting~ er scavenging after all. You didn’t need more relay grenades with what was back at sanctuary, but it was a time saver considering you had an idea plipping around in your head.

Walking up the concourse ramps you find your way to your private quarters and exit your armor outside the room as you take a ‘cleaning request’ sign from your pouched belt and hung it for when the cleaning and service synths did their rounds. As you enter you set your pack down in your locker and pause as you notice the smell. “Why did I get out of my armor in bio science?” You strip your clothes and put them in a baggy along with a claim ticket as you hit a button on the wall to summon a unit to pick them up.

“Well, might as well go one more step.” You say absently to yourself as you head into the restroom and strip off your boxers. While you couldn’t say they didn’t have some factor in your decision to back the institute over other factions, you wanted to believe you wouldn’t let central air, heated toilet seats, perfect water pressure and outstanding temperature range sway you from your morals and ideals. They were just well-earned perks.

After an extensive towel off and blow dry you went to your pack and proceeded to put on your ballistic weave military fatigues. You kept the secrets of it’s production close to your chest, you may have made a few for close friends and confidants but you weren’t about to simply hand this advancement over to the institute. Pulling up a stool and end table next to your terminal you began to sip your bagged meal. You were not a fan of the taste, but you did like how it improved your bowel movements and would often partake in some if you knew you had an upcoming stealth mission with how light you felt after.

You pulled up some files and began to read, every so often clicking to a new page of text while your hands began to doodle. Your first idea was to use some of the Giddy up buttercup parts, primarily the legs. The body would have to be overhauled but thankfully stripping out most of the internal components would more then make enough room for a collection tank and an input port. Remembering how the Giddyup buttercups were supposed to fold down to allow for a dismount from the child you drew a second sketch with the front legs folded. Otherwise, the shocks should support the thing as it’s railed from behind while standing by a micro horse so long as you properly anchor it you think while sketching a base board.

You pause your sketching and cross your legs and hold your chin as you read a particular part of some of the reports on your terminal. “I see… So they’re using my settlement towers along with the radio stations, the minute men relays, salvaged satellite dishes we reinstalled in the established communities and the railroads old surveillance network as a transmission relay system to collect reports from these new synths.” You hated to admit it but it was good work and probably close to something you would have proposed if they had sought your consultation. It covered roughly eighty percent of the commonwealth but only half of that intersected another broadcast or receiver at some point.

“I wonder if they’ve realized they can probably determine which receiver area the synths are in by which is transmitting and narrow it down further if there are multiple transmissions for the same synth narrowing it down to the Ven diagram.” Any short moral ponderings of if it was the right thing to do were quickly quashed when he remembered that these synths probably weren’t asked if they wanted to escape and forced into the wasteland.

You went back to reading and got out a new piece of paper to begin doodling with the components of the synth relay grenade and noting mathematical formula at the bottom. “Wait. . .” You paused drawing and focused. A proposal file locked even to your credentials, requiring unanimous director approval to review? We’ll see about that, hacking time.

“Project MIT, Mental Institute Transmission.” Blah blah blah, brain implants. Blah blah blah, upload brain engrams to synth brain, periodic backup of memories and experiences. If staff should die unexpectedly download them into gen 3+ synths as advancements were made.

“Perpetual reincarnation and effective immortality so long as the infrastructure remains intact huh?” You added with a bit of an exhale. Oh geeze… If you thought the institute was difficult to deal with now, how annoying and corrupt could they be after living a dozen lifetimes? Hell not even you were probably immune to jading effects of immortality… You pondered and debated in your head if the potential for good, the rebuilding civilization and restoring mother earth which others may do eventually but which could potentially be vastly fast tracked under your guidance was worth the risk.

Apparently, the concept had been shelved for some time but Project Giddyup buttercups breakthroughs had cleared enough of the worries of the biological necessity of perpetuating new members for the organization. You could even customize your synth and arrest the development of aging beyond a certain point and change your body as components wore out. Or seem to grow old naturally if that was your desired vanity. Hell if they wanted perpetual birth control was very simple. One could probably even mix samples between same sex genders and just assemble a new baby if someone didn’t want (or couldn’t in the case of two men) to carry it to term. Not to mention the designer baby’s one could produce by cherry picking traits between the partners - or heck between a wide pool of genetic samples to create a kind of super synth. Your head began to hurt imagining the various implications and what effects they could have on the culture of the nuclear family.

You got a bit of medicine for your headache and chugged the remainder of your water bottle. “Honey what should I do?” You began thinking about your wife while rubbing your wedding ring absently and pondering how she might advise you in these matters. . . But nothing came.

‘Am I starting to forget your face?’ You add laying down on your bed as you slide open a panel on your pip boy and look at a fading photograph as single tear on your cheek.

The dream was short but memorable, It was as if she was telling you to love again. You had grown close to a few people but your wedding ring always remained like a chain to your past. With shaun gone, perhaps it was time to live again. Oddly enough you smiled at the prospect of faceless shades of children running through fields with tiny horses and you never once thought of them as synths until you~

You awoke from your short nap by a gentle but persistent knocking in intervals of five seconds. Your dry cleaning was delivered, and the synth held out a requisition ticket implying his package was ready for pickup. “Thank you. Please deliver this to Doctor Watson in Advanced systems." You add handing the synth a pair of papers. "Ask him to verify Director Johnsons theory and if they can be implemented to aid in the detection and recovery of the new synths.” If your hypothesis was correct you could program the synth relay grenades to correspond to containment cells and toss them like some kind of capture ball to teleport a synth within select size parameters back to the institute.

You close the door and go to dump your trash bin into the waste shoot and check your terminal before leaving. A new update? The experimental synth components were having some kind or reaction. It would take time to determine if it was the teleporter, radiation, or some other factor but apparently some of the synths were glitching causing something known as ‘Smarty syndrome.’ You plugged in your pip boy and uploaded the file to review in detail later. Surely a thorough review could wait.

(Might not post on weekend.)


Seems we have yet another loot hoarder elite scavanger going strong. :grin:

Finally smarty syndrome rears its ugly head. As if there wasn’t enough of that already among the creatures roaming the wastelands. Heck, isn’t that almost a requirement to be part of some raider groups? Duke it out until one smarty remains and the ones who got their assed whipped get to act like toughies while plotting to overthrew the present smarty? :thinking: :stuck_out_tongue:


Yeah with how synths tend to have errors and glitch out and suddenly believe they’re real, thus wanting freedom and self determination etc.

I knew right away how i’d introduce smarty syndrome. :slight_smile: