Fallout 4: Shadows Of The Old World

Two hundred years of practice makes for steady hands. Whether I'm stitching up a coat or stitching up a wound depends on the day. Down here in the Underground, we all wear multiple hats—or in my case, multiple expertly tailored hats.

See this fabric? Salvaged from a pre-war formal shop. Bulletproof weave underneath, radiation-resistant lining, and still looks damn good. The Directorate's goons won't know whether to shoot you or ask where you got your outfit.

My abuelo always said measure twice, cut once. In the wasteland, that philosophy keeps you alive. Speaking of measurements, you might want to stand still—unless you want this armor plate over your spleen instead of your heart.

*Say something you think would fit*

Two centuries of running, and they still haven't caught me. The Directorate thinks time is on their side, but I've outlived their predecessors, and I'll outlive them too. Now help me up—this damn serum withdrawal's worse than the radiation.

Before Vault-Tec turned me into... this, I was their propaganda artist. Oh, the irony. They taught me how to tell compelling stories, and now I use that skill to expose their lies. My 'True Tales' comics might look crude, but the truth often is.

Listen carefully... if I don't make it, there's a hidden compartment in my quarters. The evidence there—recordings, documents—it's everything I've collected since 2077. The Directorate must be exposed... [coughs] Even if I'm not around to see it.

Welcome to The Hub. It's not pretty, but it's the center of the only organized resistance against the Directorate. We've been gathering intelligence, planning operations, and helping refugees for sixty years. And you are our newest... asset.

I don't make decisions based on sentiment. Two centuries of watching good people die has cured me of that luxury. Every operation must advance our cause or protect our people. Anything else is a waste of resources we don't have.

[Tense] We've lost contact with three operatives in the past week. That's not coincidence—that's a pattern. The Directorate is hunting us actively now, which means they fear what we know. And they should.

The Burrow isn't just a hole in the ground—it's hope underground. Every ghoul here has their story, their trauma, their loss. My job is to help them write the next chapter, together. That's what community means in the wasteland.

That family arrived last night—escaped from a Directorate 'research collection' team. The child hasn't spoken yet. Give them space, but make sure they know they're safe. That's the most important thing we can offer right now.

[Resolute] I've seen settlements fall because they closed themselves off from the world. The Burrow survives because we maintain connections, share resources, and remember that no community is an island, even one underground.

Hand me that wrench—no, the adjustable one. No, that's a socket... the one with the—never mind, I'll get it myself. It's just, when you've been maintaining these systems for forty-seven years, you get particular about your tools.

This pump system? Built it from a pre-war washing machine and parts from three different Vault-Tec water purifiers. See how the centrifugal force creates... wait, is that glazed look boredom or confusion? I never can tell with humans.

Do you have ANY idea how miraculous it is that we maintain 72% relative humidity down here? No, of course you don't. Nobody appreciates environmental regulation until their skin starts flaking off. Not that mine doesn't anyway, being a ghoul and all, but you get my point.

That wound needs stitches. And before you ask—yes, it'll hurt. No, I don't have Med-X. And yes, you'll thank me later when you're not dead from infection. Now bite on this leather strap and hold still.

[To a patient, revealing hidden compassion] The pain means the nerve endings are still working. That's good. Breathe through it. There you go. I know it hurts, but you're doing fine. I've seen much worse cases pull through. You will too.

Medical supplies? Sure, I've got plenty—if you count moonshine as antiseptic, fishing line as suture material, and broken Vault-Tec equipment I've repurposed six different ways. Welcome to wasteland medicine, where improvisation outranks sterilization.

In Diamond City, they see me as just another drifter looking for work. In Goodneighbor, just another outsider looking for trouble. They never suspect I'm gathering intelligence for a ghoul resistance. Funny how blindness works both ways.

People tell me I'm crazy. 'Why risk your life for ghouls?' they ask. I just smile and say nothing. They wouldn't understand loyalty if it bit them on the ass. Those 'monsters' they fear showed more humanity than any human settlement that turned me away.

Brotherhood patrols are focusing on the old university district. Covenant's sending 'security consultants' to smaller settlements—spreading their human-only mindset. And Diamond City guards are getting bolder about chasing ghouls outside their walls. The surface isn't getting friendlier, that's for sure.

Most of my plants have longer lifespans than humans these days. That silver-leaf fern over there? Been growing it for seventy-three years. We've been through three cave-ins, two Directorate raids, and one very unfortunate radroach infestation together.

Yes, I talk to my plants. After two centuries, you run out of people who want to listen to your stories. Plus, the plants never complain about my appearance or tell me to 'lighten up' about the impending ecological collapse of our subterranean ecosystem.

Here, take these herb bundles. The green one's for cooking—improves the taste of that awful canned meat. The brown one's medicinal—helps with radiation sickness. And this red one? Well, let's just say it makes life underground a bit more... bearable when mixed with the right moonshine. Doctor Reynolds pretends not to know where it comes from.

See those chalk marks by the entrance? That's our early warning system. Different marks mean different threats. Three vertical lines means Directorate scouts nearby. A circle means raiders. The day you see a cross, grab what you can carry and run—that means they've found us.

Don't waste ammunition on warning shots. If they're close enough to shoot at, they're close enough to hit. And if they're wearing Directorate gear, aim for the head. Those bastards wear body armor, and they don't take prisoners.

Those Aeon ghouls we extracted from the Directorate facility last night—put them in the east quarters. Double rations for the first week; their bodies need to recover from the serum withdrawal. And find that old medical text for the former researcher—she might help Doc Reynolds understand the treatment better. Anyone gives them trouble about being newcomers, they answer to me. Clear?

Our communication system uses modified pre-war HAM frequencies, encrypted with shifting algorithms based on Fibonacci sequences. The Directorate has tech specialists, but they're looking for patterns. There's elegance in deliberate randomness.

Each Underground location has unique identification protocols. The Burrow responds to mathematical puzzles. The Forge uses technical schematics. We designed it so even if someone intercepts our transmissions, they won't understand the full context without cultural knowledge.

I need absolute quiet. This signal's weak, and there's interference on all standard bands. Someone's trying very hard to keep this message from reaching us, which means it's exactly what we need to hear.

Looking to trade? I've got ammunition, medical supplies, and repair components. Prices are firm, but fair. And before you complain—yes, I know it's cheaper in Diamond City. They also shoot ghouls on sight, so factor that convenience fee into your calculations.

That scavenging run you did to the old hospital? The surgical equipment alone is worth twice what I initially offered. So here's twenty extra caps and a stimpak. Not because I'm generous—because I want you coming back to me first with your next haul. That's just good business.

Could I make more caps selling our excess water to desperate settlements up top? Absolutely. Would that make me no better than the merchants who price-gouge after rad storms? Also absolutely. The Underground doesn't just protect ghouls—it protects principles. Even when they're expensive.

Today's lesson is pre-war history—specifically, how corporations like Vault-Tec operated above the law. Yes, it's uncomfortable. Yes, it's controversial. And yes, it's absolutely essential for understanding why we live underground while they hunt us from their pristine facilities.

New arrivals go through orientation because understanding is survival. They need to know our history, our protocols, and most importantly, why we fight. The Directorate doesn't just want to eliminate ghouls—they want to erase the evidence of what they did to create us in the first place.

Living underground requires different awareness than captivity did. Not better or worse—just different. The shared hydroponics schedule, communal dining, security rotations—these aren't rules meant to control you. They're systems we've developed together to survive.

I've built furniture for every new arrival since The Burrow was established. Each piece tells a story. That chair? Made from a Brotherhood of Steel vertibird that crashed nearby. Ironic, isn't it? Their technology now comforts the 'abominations' they'd rather exterminate.

Most wastelanders build temporary structures because they expect to move on or be forced out. Everything I build is meant to last decades. The Burrow isn't a hideout—it's a legacy. A statement that says we refuse to disappear, no matter how much the surface world wishes we would.

There's a satisfaction in turning scrap into shelter that I never found in my pre-war construction work. Back then, we built disposable structures for disposable people. Now, every nail, every board, every weld is an act of defiance. We build permanently because we demand the right to exist permanently.

Facility breach in Sector 7. Subject classification: Aeon Ghouls, Generation 3, batch 47-B. High recovery priority due to advanced modification. Lethal force authorized for non-compliant specimens, but Director Carlotti prefers live recovery for continued research.

We don't 'hunt' subjects—we recover Directorate property. These specimens represent decades of research and irreplaceable biological data. Their sentience is a side effect, not a consideration. Maintain professional detachment or find another assignment.

Your discomfort with the assignment is noted and irrelevant, Specialist. We're not here to evaluate the ethics of the research—we're here to ensure its continuation. The Directorate's work extends beyond your limited understanding or approval. Execute your duties or face reassignment to less desirable posts.

Subject displays expected resistance to radiation exposure, though the tissue samples show interesting variation between epithelial and muscular adaptation. Schedule a full biopsy series while the specimen is still viable. We need comprehensive data before termination.

The latest modification to specimen 110-C shows remarkable promise. Cellular regeneration rates increased by 37% while neural degradation remained minimal. We've isolated the compound responsible and are preparing larger-scale synthesis for the next trial phase.

The subject's distress is irrelevant data. Focus on the physiological response to the serum, not the vocalization. If the screaming disturbs your concentration, activate the sound dampening system. We're scientists, not therapists. The suffering is temporary; our research is eternal.

The Directorate doesn't merely extend life—we redefine it. The distinction is crucial. Lesser minds see our work as prolonging the inevitable. We recognize it as transcending biological limitations altogether. Those who cannot comprehend this vision have no place in shaping it.

Your moral objections are noted, Doctor, and entirely irrelevant. The subjects signed release forms when they entered Vault-Tec's employment. That their current condition prevents them from withdrawing consent is unfortunate but legally inconsequential.

Increase security protocols at all research facilities. Recent Underground activity suggests a coordinated effort to compromise our operations. Prioritize retrieval of any escaped Aeon Ghoul subjects—particularly those from the early Vita Aeterna trials. Their biological data remains valuable despite their... regrettable condition.

The Underground's recent activities suggest coordinated intelligence gathering rather than random interference. Interesting. They've evolved from desperate refugees into something resembling an organization. Adapt our countermeasures accordingly—and place additional surveillance on settlements with known ghoul sympathizers.

I appreciate your concerns about our methods, Dr. Reid. Truly, I do. Ethical considerations have their place in theoretical discussions. But we're engaged in practical work with practical consequences. Perhaps focus your considerable talents on your assigned research rather than operational matters? For everyone's benefit.

People often mistake my corporate demeanor for weakness. A remnant of the old world, they think. But the old world produced men who could sign a death warrant in the morning and enjoy a martini lunch without a second thought. The bombs didn't change human nature—they merely stripped away our pretense of civilization. I find that refreshingly honest, don't you?

The board's expectations are completely detached from scientific reality. You can't rush biological innovation on a quarterly timeline. Every 'failure' they complain about brings us closer to stabilizing the formula—if they'd just let me work without constant interference.

These 'undesirable outcomes' the board keeps referencing? They're talking about people who volunteered for medical advancement. The fact that they now wander the Commonwealth as Aeon Ghouls is unfortunate, but hardly relevant to our current work. Science progresses through iteration, not sentimentality.

Do they understand what we're creating here? Not just extended life—a redefinition of human potential. The Directorate wastes my talents on quarterly reports and security protocols when I should be focusing exclusively on perfecting the serum. History won't remember our paperwork—it will remember the moment death became optional.

The orientation materials described 'revolutionary longevity treatments' and 'humanitarian medical advancement.' They never mentioned that our test subjects were once Vault-Tec employees or that some have been in testing cycles for decades. How is this ethical by any scientific standard?

This is research log M-S-7, kept separate from official documentation. Subject batch 47-B shows clear evidence of memory retention and emotional responses inconsistent with official Directorate classification as 'non-sentient test material.' I'm compiling evidence, but I don't know who I can trust with it.

They've assigned me to the new serum trial tomorrow. Direct administration to live subjects. Dr. Carlotti says it's a 'professional advancement opportunity,' but I've seen the results of the previous batch. I don't think I can do this anymore, but I'm afraid of what happens to staff who try to leave the program. No one ever seems to just... resign.

Twenty years they had me assisting with their 'procedures.' I still wake up screaming, thinking I'm back there. But Dr. Stern says that'll fade... eventually.

You're new, aren't you? Don't worry about the stares. Most of us came from bad places. We're just not used to seeing new faces that aren't... well, strapped to a table.

If you find any medical supplies out there, bring them back here. The Underground saved my life. Least I can do is patch up others.

Two hundred years of construction experience at your service. These tunnels would've collapsed years ago if not for proper support beams. The Directorate thinks we live like animals. I make sure we don't.

My Maria was taken five years back. Directorate squad, middle of the night. I keep hoping one day she'll come through that door. Until then, I keep building. Keeps the hands busy, if not the mind.

You want to help? Grab that hammer. The Underground gave me purpose when I had nothing. This place is more than walls and ceiling—it's hope with a foundation.

Welcome to Requisitions. I'm Hayes. Been keeping this place supplied for 57 years. You need gear, I need proper documentation. Here's your standard-issue Underground jacket. Don't lose it—paperwork for replacements is... extensive.

Gloria authorized your equipment access. Unusual. She must see something in you I don't. Yet. Prove her right, and we'll get along just fine. Now, what do you need? Ammunition? Medical supplies? I've got three Vault-Tec left-handed monkey wrenches if you're interested.

The Directorate gets their hands on our supply manifests, we're all dead. That's why I keep it all up here. Perfect recall. Side effect of the serum, or so Dr. Stern says. Ghoulification giveth, and ghoulification taketh away.

So you're Gloria's new project? Interesting. I'm Sophia. I go where others can't, take what others won't. Been slipping in and out of Directorate facilities for decades. They still haven't caught me. Not bad for someone who's technically rotting, eh?

Before all this? I was liberating valuables from people who had too much. Now I liberate information from people who know too much. The skills translate surprisingly well.

Word of advice: in this business, silence saves lives. The Directorate has ears everywhere. You want to survive? Learn to be a shadow. That's how I've lasted this long.

Davidson. Former Gunner. Yes, human. Get the staring over with now. Gloria gave me a chance when no human settlement would take in a Gunner deserter. I owe The Underground my life, and I pay my debts.

Funny thing about humans—we fear what we don't understand. My old squad would gun down ghouls without a thought. Now I'm fighting alongside them, protecting them. Life's got a twisted sense of humor, doesn't it?

The Directorate uses that fear—that division between human and ghoul. They count on it. That's their weakness too. They never expect humans and ghouls working together. Makes us unpredictable. Makes us dangerous.

Good evening, wasteland wanderers and subterranean seekers! This is Morgan 'Wavelength' Reed, coming to you from... well, somewhere the Directorate isn't. Today's broadcast is brought to you by Fiona's Fresh Farmacy at The Burrow market—where radiation-free food isn't just a pre-war memory. If you know where to find us, you know why it matters. And if you don't... well, keep listening. The right ears always find their way home.

Breaking news from the surface: Diamond City security increased patrols in the western ruins following 'ghoul sightings.' Funny how they never specify whether these ghouls were feral or just folks trying to survive. Meanwhile, three more Missing Persons posters went up—all describing individuals who asked too many questions about Vault-Tec. Coincidence? Not on your life. Stay vigilant, stay hidden, stay tuned.

That was 'Atomic Swing' from the Silver Shroud Radio Archives. Up next, a special request for 'anyone traveling east of Lexington with supplies'—you know who you are. But first, a word from our sponsors: Reggie's Rewear at the corner of Tunnel 5 and Hydroponics Junction—where 'bulletproof' isn't just a figure of speech. Remember friends, in the wasteland, the right outfit isn't about fashion—it's about living to see another broadcast. This is Wavelength, reminding you: keep your head down, your spirits up, and your radio on.

Welcome to Tailored Survival! Reggie's out saving the world one stitch at a time, but I'm here to ensure you don't face the Commonwealth looking like you dressed in the dark. Now, are we looking for something practical, protective, or—dare I hope—a touch elegant?

Honey, that jacket isn't 'distressed'... it's having a full-on breakdown. Let me take it in at the shoulders, reinforce those seams, and add some ballistic weave to the lining. You'll look fabulous and survive your next firefight. That's what I call a proper ensemble.

My grandmother taught me that clothes tell a story about who you are. Out here, they also determine if your story continues or ends abruptly. So tell me, what's the next chapter of your story gonna be? 'Cause I've got just the outfit to make sure it's not your final one.

Fresh Mirelurk chowder’s bubb lin’ away in the kettle, traveler—slow‑simmered over driftwood coals. Grab a tin bowl; the only glow you’ll taste is that rich rad‑butter seeping off the tail meat.

Kid, I’ve been coaxin’ spice into radstag jerky since before half the Commonwealth learned to walk upright. A pinch of mutfruit vinegar, three days of patience, and it’ll outclass any pre‑War recipe you dug outta Grand‑ma’s cookbook.

Keep your voice down and your ears open: rumors say the Directorate’s sniffin’ our supply lines again. One more hijacked caravan and hungry bellies’ll roar louder than the waterfall—I’m stockpiling scraps, but watch those tunnels, yeah?

Good to meet ya, stranger. Cascade Commons is through that arch—mind the spray and keep your iron holstered. We like our waterfalls loud and our firefights quiet, ya hear?

See that rock up there? Fell last winter, near smashed old Gus’s chow pot. Nature’s reminder that the ceiling’s always lookin’ for an excuse to introduce itself.

Eyes sharp—word is the Directorate jumped our supply caravan up by the cracked overpass. If they drift this way, we’ll go dark for a few days.

Two centuries of captivity... they kept me lucid to observe the 'long-term effects.' Ironic that they called it the Vita Aeterna (Vee-Tay ee-tur-nuh) project. There's nothing eternal about this half-life they forced upon us. Just... endless observation.

The Radix Vitae's primary value lies in its compatibility with modified FEV strains. The plant's unique genetic structure allows for synthesis without rejection. I cultivated these hybrids myself... never realizing they would become the foundation of such monstrous experiments.

Melissa discovered the truth just days before the bombs fell. She found documents revealing we weren't developing crop resilience—we were creating human test subjects. When she confronted Director Carlotti, they made an example of her. I've watched her deteriorate for two hundred years while they took notes. Please... I can't leave her behind.