Case groaned, his hands scrabbling against cold, sterilized tile. His head throbbed with a rhythmic pulse that felt like a hammer hitting an anvil. As he struggled to find his feet, the world tilted violently to the left.
"Ohh..." he wheezed, squinting against a harsh, clinical blue light.
His vision wobbled, the edges of his sight fraying into digital static. He reached down to steady himself, only to realize the rough fabric of his Ranger fatigues was gone. In its place was a thin, hospital-grade gown that did nothing to stop the artificial chill of the room.
"Where the hell... where are my clothes?" he muttered, his voice sounding thin and echoes.
As the spinning slowed, fragments of the "narration" he'd experienced while unconscious began to piece themselves together. It hadn't been a dream; it was a data dump. He remembered the history of Big Mountain.
Case stood there, swaying on his feet atop the balcony of the Sink, the cold mountain air of the Big Empty biting at his exposed skin. He blinked once, then twice, trying to reconcile the blurry horizon with the sharp, clinical reality of his own body.
He looked down at his chest, then reached up to feel the unfamiliar texture of his head—smooth, cold, and entirely bald. His fingers traced the back of his skull, finding the jagged, raised ridge of a massive surgical scar that ran down toward his spine.
He was a Lobotomite—or at least, the Big MT's version of a masterpiece Lobotomite. He had the scar, but he still had the spark. He still had his mind, and that was all that mattered. He looked around, his stuff should be in a footlocker somewhere, if he recalled correctly.
He opened each footlocker, he searched, then he noticed the most crowded footlocker. He opened it, it contained his underwear, his armor, and his rifle, but most important of all, his pip-boy.
Case scrambled across the room, ignoring the dizzying pulse in his skull. He found his gear tossed unceremoniously in a corner—the familiar weight of his Ranger armor and the cold steel of his Marksman Carbine. He dressed with frantic, shaking hands, the fabric scratching against his fresh surgical scars.
Once clothed, he moved to the center of the room where a sleek, circular console hummed with a soft, cyan light. This was the heart of the Sink. He fiddled with the casing until he found a recessed data port that matched the interface of his Pip-Boy. He slammed the plug in, and the screen erupted into a chaotic waterfall of scrolling hexadecimal code.
The Pip-Boy's "handshake" protocol went into overdrive. Menus flickered past—Power Management, Bio-Organic Research, Perimeter Security—until he finally found it:
[MATTER-STREAM RELAY & COORDINATE OVERRIDE].
"Salutations and felicitations, sir, and a most jocund welcome to the Sink," a voice boomed, startlingly clear and unnervingly cheerful.
Case looked up to see a large monitor flickering to life above the console. The Sink Central Intelligence Unit (SCIU). How was it possible? The damn thing didn't even have its chip plugged in.
"I am your electronic valet and household central processor. May I be of service, sir?"
"Not now!" Case hissed, his fingers flying across the keys. "I've got thirty-six Rangers and hundreds of tons of pre-war steel coming through that beam in exactly three minutes."
"Hundred tons of... 'heavy metal,' Sir?" The SCIU's voice shifted, becoming even more refined, each syllable polished to a mirror finish. "A most substantial request, Sir. Truly, the ambition of the modern Executive is a marvel to behold. While I am customarily tasked with the organization of delicate groceries and the occasional, rather talkative, disembodied brain, I shall, of course, adapt to the arrival of your... clutter, Sir."
The code on Case's Pip-Boy turned a steady, deep blue as the Sink's processors began to hum with a bass note that shook the floorboards.
"I have initiated the recalibration of the matter-stream as per your instructions, Sir. I must humbly observe, however, that the concrete carpets were decidedly not woven with tank treads in mind, Sir. It will be a logistical Herculean effort to maintain the upholstery, but for a guest of your standing, Sir, I shall strive for perfection."
Case ignored the AI's fussing, his eyes locked on the countdown timer. 01:00 SECONDS.
"Doctor Mobius' Roboscorpions, sir, are currently converging on the coordinates in which sir friends are going to arrive," the SCIU added, its tone never losing its posh, steady rhythm. "They are not under my jurisdiction, Sir. Might I suggest that sir prepare your carbine?"
Case sprinted away from the console, his boots thudding against the sterile floor as he headed for the wide, panoramic balcony overlooking the crater.
The blue-white flash of the matter-stream faded, leaving a static hum that made the hair on Case's arms stand at attention. The SCIU's voice drifted through the balcony speakers with its signature melodic precision.
"The matter-stream has reached peak density, Sir. I have suppressed the localized static discharge. We wouldn't want your companions to arrive... crispy, Sir."
Case burst through the balcony doors, his lungs burning from the dash. Below him, on the cracked transit road leading toward the X-2 antenna, the atmosphere shrieked. With a sound like a physical punch to the world, the three M60 Patton Tanks slammed into existence.
Their massive weight shattered the pre-war concrete, sending geysers of dust into the toxic, green-tinted sky. Seconds later, the five APCs and two transport trucks dropped into the perimeter, their suspensions groaning as they gripped the alien earth.
"Sir," the SCIU whispered from a nearby speaker pylon, "the roboscorpions are thirty meters from the landing perimeter and closing at an aggressive velocity. Your 'clutter' appears to be quite... reactive, Sir."
"Case?!" Jacob's voice crackled over the radio, rough and disoriented. "Kid, where are you? What the hell is this place? It looks like a graveyard for gods!"
Case leaned over the railing, shouldering his Marksman Carbine. From his high vantage point, he saw a giant Robo-Scorpion leveling its laser tail at the lead transport truck.
"Target left! Scorpions on the ridge!" Vance's voice bellowed through the lead Patton's external comms. The tank's 105mm cannon barked—a thunderous, bone-shaking crack. The high-explosive shell caught the lead Scorpion dead-center, disintegrating the machine in a spray of blue sparks and molten circuitry.
Markus didn't wait for the smoke to clear. The T-60 power armor servos hissed as he stepped off the ramp of the first APC. The barrels of his minigun were already a spinning blur, carving lines of fire through the Big MT twilight.
"Sir," the SCIU added, sounding remarkably unperturbed. "The volume of fire is statistically impressive, though I do fear for the structural integrity of the plaza's drainage system."
From the balcony, Case watched the tactical spread. Jacob had rolled out of the second APC, his 7.62 rifle barking in a steady cadence. Amelia was low-crawling toward the rear of a transport truck, dragging pulse grenades with grim determination.
Then, Corbin's voice crackled through the radio with a wild, adrenaline-fueled laugh. "Howieee, kiddo! Why didn't you tell us we were coming here for this much fun! This beats the hell out of a firing squad!"
Case keyed his radio, his voice urgent. "To all-con, I advise not to break any important infrastructure. This facility is our only home!"
"Don't worry, kid," Jacob's voice came back, calm despite the chaos. "We'll be surgical with the autocannons. We're just clearing the porch."
The five APCs fanned out, creating a steel horseshoe around the transport trucks. Their 30mm turret-mounted autocannons barked in rhythmic, heavy thuds, chewing through the reinforced metallic shells of the advancing scorpions.
In the game, these constructs were notorious bullet sponges that could soak up entire magazines of small arms fire. But against the raw kinetic energy of armor-piercing autocannon rounds, they were nothing more than fragile hunks of robotic junk. The high-velocity shells didn't just dent the plating; they shattered the internal logic processors and hydraulic lines in spectacular bursts of blue fluid and sparks.
The Big MT's automated systems flickered in response, sensing the sudden surge in hostile "clutter." A secondary wave—a swarm of Sentry Bots and Protectrons—emerged from the sub-surface hangars.
The Rangers reacted with the efficiency of a unit that had spent years together. They spanned out into a layered defense: the power-armored units, like Markus, acted as living shields, drawing fire and suppressing the enemy with heavy miniguns while the light Rangers used the APC or tank as cover.
The APCs prioritized the Sentry Bots, their 30mm rounds punching through the bots' fusion cores before they could even spin up their missile launchers. Meanwhile, the M60 Patton tanks didn't waste expensive 105mm shells on infantry-sized targets; instead, the gunners used the coaxial machine guns to stitch lines of lead through the lighter Protectrons, turning the plaza into a graveyard of twitching servos.
"Keep the perimeter tight!" Jacob's voice boomed over the localized comms, audible even over the roar of the engines.
"Sir," the SCIU noted, its voice smooth despite the carnage below. "The threat level has decreased by eighty-four percent. However, I must inform you that the Think Tank has noticed your arrival. They are currently debating whether you are a 'hallucination' or a 'very loud migration of aggressive bipedal organisms'—with arms, of course."
"I'll confront them," Case replied, checking the seal on his armor. He keyed his radio, the channel filled with the rhythmic thuds of autocannons and the hiss of cooling steam. "Jacob, I'm about to go confront the 'managers' of this place. Feel free to tag along when it's all clear down there."
Jacob's laughter came through the receiver, punctuated by the sharp crack-crack of his rifle. "Sure thing, kid. It looks like you were right about this place—it's a hell of a lot better than a jail cell at the Mojave Outpost!" The radio stayed open for a second longer, transmitting the heavy thrum of a Patton tank's engine before being drowned out by renewed gunfire.
Case adjusted his Marksman Carbine, making sure the safety was on but his hand was close.
The think tank might be the manager of this place, but they were nothing more than a brain in a glass jar.