MESSAGE FROM THE WRITER:
Hello everyone, I'm writing this down in order to let you know that the next 8 to 12 chapters are going to focus upon Robert House's time in Boston. It is going to be a bit of a slow burn in order to establish overarching narratives later on in the story. As well as focus on the 4 years that House spends in CIT, getting 5 degrees instead of the 2 degrees he did in Fallout canon. I plan to set up at least 4 different story arcs in the next couple of chapters, some will be long, some chapters will be brief. Please let me know where I can improve and all constructive advice is welcomed. I am trying to keep a highly lore accurate series that focuses more around the Pre-War timeline. I do plan to get into the wasteland timeline but I envision that might be 150 chapters in (T_T ) as we have nearly 35 years worth of time before the world ends. I plan to have Robert House undertake as many complex advantages as possible before the eventual bombs dropping, a little bit of time skipping here and there, but overall keep a steady pace exploring Pre-War America.
__________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Flight VC-22, was a commercial aircraft designed and operated by Trans World Airlines, even dedicated to offering the best domestic flight within America branch of the company. An airline that had built its good will on getting passengers to their destination safely and on time… that was when barrels of oil were not valued over $200 a gallon. Now Trans World Airline gouged whatever they could from their clients, drawing funds away from maintenance, even cutting cost away from on flight meals and snacks, to pay for the growing fuel cost and pocketing the rest, for soon their industry was doomed to go the way of the dinosaur as fuel supplies shrunk and prices only grew more expensive.
So every shuddering of Flight VC-22 was like the desperation of a wounded animal, from the moment it clawed free of the runway, it's metal skin rattling as turbulence punched up through the fuselage, till it reached maximum altitude fighting against the elements while its outer hull rattled loudly like an infant shaking its favorite noisy toy. Robert Edwin House sat rigid in his seat, spine straight, hands resting loosely on his thighs, eyes half-lidded as if bored rather than confined inside a screaming aluminum tube hurtling eastward at six hundred miles an hour.
Above him, wedged into the overhead compartment, was everything he owned in the world—his duffle bag and the battered suitcase filled with pre-war cash. It was all he had following his temporary exile from Las Vegas and Reno, and it was the closest thing he had to a companion accompanying him across the continent. They knocked softly against the plastic frame with every jolt, a dull reminder of how little Robert truly had to his name.
The passengers around him did not share his composure. A woman across the aisle gripped her armrest so hard her knuckles had gone white. Somewhere behind him a child whimpered, the sound thin and panicked beneath the drone of the engines. The plane dipped, rose, dipped again, turbulence hammering the craft hard enough that even the seasoned flight attendants had tightened smiles and clipped voices. But the aircraft held.
The concerns and fear of his fellow passengers were foreign and excessive to Robert. From his position within the commercial grade seating, his 300 in Science and Repair no longer even needed him to see the inner mechanical workings of the plane to know if there was a possible danger of catastrophic engine failure or any other system failures. All of this just from sitting in his seat and feeling the way the plane operated against the opposing wind pressures, House knew the likely hood of crash with this current flight was estimated at 1.23% with a 1% margin of possible error. For someone else this would be enough to make them as terrified as the other passengers upon the plane but with House's 10 in Luck stat he was certain that even in a crash, he might be lucky enough to walk away from it with slight bruising and great sense of inconvenience. The math and system were coming up good as far as House was concerned. So far it always ended up in House's favor and he would not doubt it now.
Robert trusted his chances.
What he did not trust were the eyes on him.
They came in flashes—sharp, lingering glances from men in pressed suits and women wrapped in tasteful silks. His clothes were clean, but only just: worn jacket, scuffed boots, fabric that spoke of thrift and necessity rather than money. He looked like what he was—a street rat who had slipped past a gate meant to keep him out. He could feel their judgments as clearly as if they were spoken aloud. Too young. Too poor. Too out of place. The only thing people like them could fall back to in times of stress, was disregard for those who weren't in their pristine circle.
Robert ignored them all. For he was in his own category and before his 30th birthday, all of these high socialites that can afford a $40,000 price tag on a plane ticket without negotiating lower rates, they would all be lining up, hands out and praises echoing for his attention, for the newly imagined Robco industries will dominate the America market far greater than the cannon version.
House leaned his head back, closed his eyes, and turned inward, where the system waited. Even with his eyes closed he could see the system prompt that displayed a series of perks to choose from. A list with perks unavailable to any other fallout character.
Seven choices. One for each level. Seven lines of future divergence, snapping into focus as cleanly as circuitry slotting into place. House did not hesitate after a thorough investigation of his options and how best to optimize his build.
PERKS CONFIRMED — OVERCAP PROTOCOL ACTIVE
NOTICE: Skill values exceed conventional limits.
All perks now modify output quality, efficiency, time, and systemic influence rather than numerical skill increases.
PRODIGY ENGINEER
"Perfection is the minimum standard."
You do not merely repair or build machines—you refine them beyond their intended design.
Effects:
All mechanical, robotic, and electronic work produces +50% higher output quality.
Resource consumption for engineering projects reduced by 40%.
Construction and repair time are reduced by 45%.
Prototypes automatically integrate redundant safety and optimization features to better display the master crafted work of their creator.
Mechanical failures are downgraded to minor inefficiencies instead of catastrophic errors.
FUTURE SIGHT
"You already lived through the consequences."
Your decisions account for outcomes that have not yet occurred.
Effects:
Automatically identify false technological paths and dead-end research.
Planning errors are negated 90% of the time.
Investment timing optimized to yield maximum return windows.
Market shocks, shortages, and collapses are detected months to years early.
Once per major project, you may retroactively adjust a flawed decision before losses occur.
SLEEP IS A SUGGESTION
"Time is the only resource you refuse to waste."
Your mind operates in continuous optimization mode, refusing to fully shut down unless absolutely necessary. Traditional human limitations no longer apply to your rest cycle.
Effects:
Requires 80% less sleep to remain fully rested and mentally sharp.
Short rest periods (20–30 minutes) count as a full night's sleep for cognitive and productivity purposes.
Fatigue penalties never progress beyond minor inefficiency, even under prolonged workloads.
Mental clarity, memory retention, and decision-making remain at peak performance during extended wakefulness.
Immune to performance degradation from sleep deprivation during long-term projects, crunch periods, or crisis management.
Passive Benefits:
Extended work hours yield no diminishing returns.
Can maintain overlapping schedules, night work, and early mornings without accumulating negative status penalties.
Enables continuous oversight of automated systems and AI processes without rest-related errors.
AUTOMATION SAVANT
"A machine should outlast its creator."
Your automated systems operate beyond expected tolerances.
Effects:
Automated systems consume 50% fewer resources.
Robotics and automation projects complete 40% faster.
Early-generation machines perform at late-generation reliability standards.
Maintenance cycles extended indefinitely unless intentionally sabotaged.
Autonomous systems adapt to suboptimal conditions without manual recalibration.
CALCULATED RISK
"Failure is a design flaw."
You do not gamble—you curate probabilities.
Effects:
High-risk ventures produce consistently superior returns.
Losses from failed projects reduced by 75%.
Risk-heavy decisions gain outcome stabilization, preventing total collapse.
Once per fiscal cycle, convert a near-failure into a break-even or modest success.
Volatility becomes an asset rather than a threat.
INDUSTRIAL VISIONARY
"You don't manage infrastructure. You orchestrate it."
You design systems that scale flawlessly.
Effects:
Factories, refineries, and power plants under your influence operate at peak theoretical efficiency.
Industrial expansion requires 35% fewer materials.
Infrastructure projects complete 30% faster.
Unlocks cross-disciplinary industrial synergies normally impossible without decades of research.
System-wide inefficiencies are automatically flagged and corrected.
TECHNOLOGICAL OPPORTUNIST
"Scarcity only limits those without imagination."
You extract value where others see absence.
Effects:
Rare materials yield maximum utility per unit.
Prototype technology matures twice as fast.
Restricted or experimental tech integrates smoothly with existing systems.
Long-term technological investments compound faster than market norms.
Salvage, black-market tech, and unconventional sources yield unexpected breakthroughs.
Robert exhaled slowly as the interface faded. House did not go for a combat build, instead deciding upon a more optimal build for the future ahead, establishing a foundation for his corporate empire that would eclipse the original House's ambitions. That and given that there weren't much enemies to fight, like the hordes of raiders and mutants that you could gun down in the post apocalyptic America for experience, House had to go with the more reasonable option, finding and given that most of his quests right now were dedicated to advancing the technology tree or following Fallout canon.
The turbulence struck again, harder this time, rattling teeth and rattling nerves. Somewhere overhead a compartment latch clicked ominously before settling back into place. Robert opened his eyes just as two voices carried forward from several rows ahead—low, urgent, and threaded with the kind of tension money could not fully suppress.
"…I'm telling you, it's worse than they're admitting."
Robert did not turn his head. He didn't need to. His 10 in perception sharpened his hearing, isolating the voices from the white noise of the cabin.
"You don't know that," the second man replied, his voice in a hush to, though his tone lacked conviction. "The Department releases updated numbers every quarter."
"Numbers they can manage," the first snapped. "I saw an internal brief. Emergency reserves are under twenty percent. Under twenty."
There was a pause. Even the engines seemed to dim beneath the gossip far bleaker than anything House could Imagine.
"That's impossible," the second man said quietly. "If that gets out—"
"It won't," the first cut in. "Not officially, unless the president wants those protesters turning into rioters, that is exactly what is going to happen if this sort of information gets to the general public. Fuel prices are only going to go up from here. The transportation industry is finished, hell, I hear the grid is next, the coal power plants are being rationed as most coal mines are sending their coal to Blackrock Carbon Solutions. If the marketing at BCS is true, then those nutjobs from Pennsylvania are claiming their boys can turn coal into fuel any day now. President Garviel and his Energy Secretary Walters are funding our taxes into a pipe dream."
Robert's fingers twitched once against his thigh. President Garviel's name surfaced, spoken with a mix of resentment and fear. Little is known about the previous presidents that led up to the fall of the bombs, only that each one grew more insular and plotted among like minded individuals that would go about making up the core leadership of the future Enclave. If there was any one group that House was threatened by, it would be the shadow government that did their part in destroying the Human race. A load of zealous flag waving lunatics, who hide their genocidal tendency, behind a mask of old world nostalgia called Patriotism.
"Garviel is bleeding the treasury dry," the first man whispered. "Emergency funding, crash programs, subsidies to every energy outfit with a pulse. Blackrock Carbon Solutions is just one of hundreds of firms claiming they have the answer. The entire industry is vaportalk, though Poseidon Energy got the best chance with replacing coal plants with ones running nuclear cores. Our company's 401k options are being tied up with them, the safest choice in a playground of uncertainty."
"The payouts are going to take forever. Uranium's a choke point, too much bad press over it. Infrastructure retrofits for a coal plant into a nuclear one is going to take time. Time we don't have." The tone of the 2nd passengers oozed concern, whether it was a fear of riots breaking out or hearing his retirement was tied up with Poseidon energy, Robert House couldn't tell, though his personal choice would be over his retirement plan.
"The Energy Secretary Tim Walters is taking care of that. From what I hear, executive orders have been suggested by him to get certain… inspectors to be more lax with their demands. To speed up the process of full retrofits before the end of the decade."
"Shit. we don't need an American Chernobyl, that Walter's guy has more of his father's money than good sense. President Garviel going to leave us damned if he keeps that moron in his cabinet. Should have gone with Joseph Calvert, at least that rich bunch don't raise fools."
"I hear one of the Calvert's might run one of their own for higher office, they already won a governorship in Maryland, it will be the presidency ne-"
The plane lurched again, a violent drop that drew gasps from the cabin. The two men fell silent even after the aircraft stabilized. The morbid news regarding America's energy future was a sensitive topic, everything discussed so far was the farthest limit of polite dialogue on the matter. Robert stared straight ahead, eyes unfocused, mind already racing, focusing on only one point.
Twenty percent. That is far less than what I had expected. The first resource war is going to take place in 14 years. Mexico being the first victim, followed by the middle east, Europe, then Alaska and Canada…and then the bombs dropping. I'm surprised the whole entire thing did not start sooner with our low reserves. House attempted to place himself in the shoes of President Garviel, the man most likely focused on more peaceful measures. His future successor must have gone for the more warhawk option. It seems the Energy Savior quest is no longer a distant abstraction—it's a countdown to a domino effect that will end the world as we know it.
The intense reflection of upcoming events dissolved as the ambient roar of Flight VC-22's engines drew everyone's attention. Soon the plane's loudspeakers roared to life, the captain piloting the flight VC-22 spoke loudly and clearly alerting everyone that they were nearing Boston International airport, and the ride across the country was coming to an end. Around Robert, passengers shifted, laughed nervously, their pretend act that nothing was wrong turned somewhat genuine as the mad flight was soon to be over. Outside the window, House saw clouds rolled past in endless white layers, serene and uncaring, with the hints of the Boston Commonwealth in a horizon that grew closer. Robert felt no fear, only clarity on what he would have to focus upon during his stay at CIT.
The flight from the West coast to the East ended far smoother than the start or the middle. The plane's wheels screamed against the runway as it touched down, a shrill metallic protest that echoed through the cabin and into Robert's bones. He remained seated while others rose in a clumsy rush, businessmen with hollow eyes hoping to write off the trip as a business expense, socialites expecting the stewards to help them with their endless amount of bags that most likely contributed to the high ticket prices, and a handful of students heading to the same goal as Robert. All clutching suitcases like life preservers, happy to finally get out of the metal coffin that smelled faintly of recycled air and anxiety. House finally stood when 4/5ths of the plane emptied, smoothing the cheap jacket he'd gotten long ago in Las Vegas, and retrieving his duffle bag and Reno winnings. Robert felt the weight of Boston settle over him before he ever stepped outside—an oppressive sense of urgency, as if the city itself knew the clock was running out.
Outside Boston International airport, the air was sharp with salt and exhaust. The sky hung low and gray, clouds dragging themselves along like exhausted animals. Beyond the airport terminal, Robert walked past a taxi line, each wanting enough money to be considered highway robber in the alternative America that the transmigrator had come from, yet in this Fallout America the prices were as good as it was going to get in a world doomed to fuel shortages and war. Miserly sense and a hoarders instinct took hold of House, preferring to walk the distance needed to the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. At least it was a shorter walk than Vegas to Reno.
Boston proper was a legendary city whose history was tied with resisting against the status quo. That history was being properly relived, not with cosplayers boarding ships to throw crates of tea into the harbor, but in protest marches flooding every corner of the city. People, whether out of work, out of fuel, or out of good sense, spent their days marching from one end of Boston to the other complaining about every issue they had with the sitting president and screaming for a solution none of them could decide upon. At least they were not blocking off traffic as the fuel prices had reached a point where House saw more people riding bikes, electric scooters, or going the cheapest method of travel, good old fashion walking like the penny-pinching Robert House than using a car. Shouting, chanting, the rhythmic roar of crowds gathered in angry knots along the main avenues. Hand-painted signs bobbed above heads—NO GAS, NO FUTURE, CORPORATIONS STOLE OUR LIVES, FEED THE PEOPLE—their cardboard edges frayed, ink bleeding from rain and sweat.
"You can't eat promises!" a woman screamed, her voice cracking raw as she shoved a sign toward a line of distant police. Her hair was pulled back too tightly, her face gaunt, cheekbones sharp from either due to genuine missed meals or a recently new trend of fashion by upper woman in order to look the part of a starving revolutionary, either case it got people to pay attention to her words. Nearby, a man in an oil-stained jacket kicked an empty jerrycan across the pavement, the hollow clang echoing like a bell for the end of days.
Robert slowed his pace, hands gripping his few belongings, eyes moving constantly for suspicious activity for if anyone got near his suitcase of cash, Robert imagined he would have more than thieves to worry about if his $409,000 worth of fortune spilled out near the marching protestors. The crowd was agitated, looking for an outlet and had President Graviel been here at this moment the crowd would turn into a feral mob by sight of him alone.
Gas prices were posted on a cracked electronic sign across the street—numbers so high they looked like a printing error. Cars, the few that were on the streets, crawled by, engines coughing, drivers gripping their steering wheels with the tense patience of people who knew every mile might be their last for weeks. Robert didn't need his stat screen to tell him what this meant. He'd read enough of the lore from the online wikis, watched endless hours of lore videos, and read many in-game terminals. This was the opening act that will lead down to a more controlled and restricted America that will enable the powers that be to either cause the fall of the world… or one of them to fall into the hands of Zetan aliens who would do the job. Either case House hurried along his way, making distance from the crowd of protesting residents of Boston.
Soon the noise faded behind him as brick buildings rose taller and more orderly, their facades heavy with age and prestige. Eventually the Commonwealth Institute of Technology emerged from the urban sprawl like a fortress of knowledge—stone and steel, clean lines softened by ivy and time. Wide steps led up to wrought-iron gates, beyond which students moved with purpose, their conversations quieter, their clothes cleaner, their futures—at least for now—more secure.
Robert paused at the edge of the campus and looked down at himself after seeing a particular pair of finely dressed student's walk past him. His clothes were serviceable, but barely. The jacket hung a little loose on his lean frame, sleeves brushing wrists that bore the faint marks of old stress and newer resolve. His jeans had holes around the region where his knees were, a fashionable style in his previous life but in Fallout America a sign of poverty. His shoes had most of the rubber partially melted from the Vegas heat that the asphalt of US-95 soaked up and inflicted on Robert's only pair of shoes. House would go about correcting that for image and reputation mattered. More importantly there was a perk award on the line, and that mattered the most. Turning away from the college campus and drawing upon old memories of a different life, House made his way to Monsignor Plaza. Another walk that took him through another crowd of protestors, but like two ships passing at night, neither collided or interacted with one another. Reaching the large mall, House moved quickly.
Monsignor Plaza's interior opened up around Robert the moment he passed through the glass doors, a controlled climate swallowing the sharp bite of Boston's humid summer air and replacing it with recycled coolness and the faint mingled scents of cheap perfume, and brewed coffee. The interior stretched upward in clean, tiered layers—four levels of balconies ringed with brushed steel railings and soft lighting that cast a perpetual afternoon glow over the central atrium. A decorative fountain murmured at the plaza's heart, its water catching the light in artificial ripples, while escalators hummed steadily, carrying sparse clusters of shoppers between floors. Storefronts lined the concourse in orderly symmetry, glass displays filled with mannequins frozen mid-stride in fashions meant to project confidence and normalcy, even as SALE signs hung just a little too prominently in their windows. The space felt neither empty nor crowded, but suspended—maintained, functional, and still alive, yet quietly strained, like Flight VC-22 running perfectly while its fuel gauge crept ever closer to empty. The SALE signs were accompanied with a couple of GOING OUT OF BUSINESS SPECIAL, offering discounts on goods imported overseas, as such stocked would be unlikely to get a proper resupply.
Robert Edwin House walked through this world of polished tile and capitalist glamor, not buying the consumer slop and advertising that awed many women in spending their entire day looking around the mall. No, Robert knew what he needed, his needs were modest, but his ambitions were anything but. He wasn't here for trinkets or casual browse — he needed a wardrobe befitting a student of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology. Not a single outfit, but multiple, the first set for the all to important first-impression for his academic introduction, the next 2 sets used to maintain his prim and proper image during the classes that would soon follow. Then five more sets for daily life, relaxation, and social events. House had his winnings from Reno, and was only going to use it sparingly, doing his best to stretch it out while also investing into his image that demanded he look like he belonged with his fellow students and professors at CIT. Yet he was not willing to break the bank on something so... skin deep.
The Plaza was his first real test of social navigation in this era. Thanks to his 300 barter skill, House was certain of his victory. Robert negotiated the largest discount the clothing manager had ever offered, a negotiation he clearly was not expecting nor thought he would lose. What should have been a $750 cost for House's entire wardrobe — including tailored trousers, socks, shoes, jackets, and layered outfits perfect for New England's unpredictable climate — was reduced to under $300. The manager grumbled, equal parts irritated and impressed by House's negotiation finesse — a rare blend of cheap practicality and high-end selection. And though the owner walked away muttering about "these tightwad Cape Codders," he was inwardly satisfied that even a thrifty buyer left some currency in his till.
Changing into the stylish first-impression outfit Robert walked out wearing a charcoal-gray wool blazer over a crisp off-white button-down, dark navy trousers with a sharp crease, and polished brown oxfords—clean, tailored, academic, and deliberately unflashy. With his old and new clothes in hand, Robert moved through Monsignor Plaza with a different intention, not measuring price tags or fabric quality, but evaluating foot traffic, sightlines, and which storefronts still pulsed with real demand. Most shops looked tired—clerks leaning too heavily on perfume counters, shelves overstocked with goods no one wanted even at the discounted prices—but one store shattered the trend entirely. The bike shop on the second level was overflowing, its doors propped open as customers crowded inside, voices raised with urgency as they argued over models and payment plans. The line of people spilling into the concourse as each desperate to escape fuel dependence traded engines for pedals. House noted it without stopping, filing the image away as a possible low risk investment option later down the line of Robco's unveiling.
House's continued upward to the third floor of the mall, where flickering neon letters spelled out Gadget Galaxy, the store's interior washed in the soft hum of aging electronics and the low frustration of customers clutching malfunctioning terminals and personal devices. Robert, waited a good while, allowing customer traffic to slow down before approaching the counter and waited until the manager looked up, a tired man in his late thirties with rolled-up sleeves and a permanently pinched expression.
"I'm looking for work," Robert said calmly and direct to the point, hands holding his supplies.
The manager gave him a once-over, eyes lingering on the impressive brand spanking new clothing before drifting back to the counter. "You a student?"
"Yes. Will be starting the Commonwealth Institute of Technology, come September."
A grunt. "We get a lot of you this time of year. Sales floor's full. Repairs are backed up. I don't need another kid who can reset a terminal and call it engineering."
Robert inclined his head slightly. "Then you don't need another kid," he replied. "You need someone who can reduce your repair backlog by half without increasing your overhead."
That earned him a sharper look. "That so, you think you can do that?"
"Wouldn't have been accepted to CIT on a scholarship if I couldn't. And from where i stand, you're sitting on returns you can't refurbish fast enough," Robert continued, voice even, eyeing the disassembled terminal unit the manager of Galaxy gadgets was currently working on. "Faulty capacitors, degraded connectors, power regulation drift. Most of these aren't defective products, they're maintenance failures. I can diagnose and repair them on-site. Faster turnaround means fewer refunds and more repeat customers."
"When can you start?" The manager leaned back, arms crossing, impressed not only by House's knowledge and demeaner, but his business sense. The two worked out the finer details and shook on it, with House securing himself a means of work to payoff the coming room and board that would swamp him during his time in CIT. And if his theory was correct, repairing electronic devices might be a stable source of cultivating Experience points, leveling up and securing a means of improving the Skills that the Fallout 2 Hintbook from Reno failed to increase. With his preparation done, House again walked all the way back to CIT's primary campus. He stepped through the doors of the admissions building, House looked for the department that handle scholarship programs, only for a soft voice to call out to him.
"You look lost—and very new." The voice was warm, curious rather than suspicious. Robert turned to see her approaching, a young woman with chestnut hair tied back in a practical knot, a few loose strands framing a face that balanced softness with sharp intelligence. She stood a little shorter than him, posture upright, eyes bright behind simple glasses. Her clothes were modest but well-kept, skirt hem straight, blouse pressed. There was an energy about her—unhurried, confident.
"Both, technically," Robert replied, offering a polite smile that revealed nothing of the storm behind his eyes. "Robert House. First year student through the CIT scholarship program."
"Dorothy Hayes," she said, extending her hand. Her grip was delicate and House returned it kindly. Here next words were polite but held a bit of tension to her words, like an intern dealing with a difficult task. "I'm part-timing at the front desk, if you're a scholarship student you'll need to speak to Administrator Gorllewin. Let me show you to his office."
The office of Administrator Gorllewin was housed in a quiet corner, near the door the smell of old paper and antiseptic polish was heavy. Dorothy left him at the door, rushing away, promising to give him a tour of the campus, and briefly waved at him, wishing him luck.
The door shut behind Robert with a soft, final click, leaving House alone in the narrow antechamber. The walls were paneled in dark wood meant to suggest tradition rather than warmth, their surfaces crowded with framed certificates and institutional commendations that smelled faintly of dust and varnish. A small brass plaque beside the inner door read ADMINISTRATOR MALVAGIO GORLLEWIN — SCHOLARSHIP OVERSIGHT in severe, utilitarian lettering. A man sat behind a secretary's desk positioned deliberately to block the approach. He was short, stocky, and built like someone who had never wasted calories. His hair was a riot of dark curls, already thinning, and his expression carried the permanent irritation of a man whose authority came secondhand. A cup of coffee steamed beside a ledger thick with forms.
"Name?" the man asked without looking up.
"Robert House." The pen paused. Gors, assistant to Professor Gorllewin looked up then, eyes sharp, accent thick with old Boston grit and something vaguely Irish beneath it.
"Scholarship cases wait," he said flatly. "Have a seat."
House did. While he waited, Robert studied the antechamber in silence. The walls were lined with certificates, commendations, degrees and framed academic accolades from decades past. Among them hung an older print, its paper yellowed with age: a colonial illustration showing a small crowd gathered beneath a wooden gallows. Three figures stood atop the platform, rigid, their heads in nooses, awaiting their fate at the hands of an executioner. Details rendered crudely enough to pass for historical ornamentation. It might have been a lesson, or a reminder, or nothing at all. House noted it only because it did not match the rest of the room, though very in theme with commonwealth history. This work that depiction of the Salem witch trials also presented caption of important, warning against the threat of heresy, corruption, and the danger of impurity within the community. When House had his fill of observing, he started counting the seconds that went by wasted waiting. Forty-three passed before Gors spoke again.
"Administrator Gorllewin will see you now," he said, already turning away. The inner office was larger, brighter, and carefully arranged to intimidate. Tall windows let in a thin wash of gray daylight. Bookshelves lined the walls, heavy with academic volumes that looked curated more for appearance than use. At the center sat Professor Malvagio Gorllewin behind an expansive desk, fingers steepled, his expression one of polite disdain practiced to perfection. He was a thin man, sharp-featured, his hair iron-gray and combed with obsessive care. His suit was old but immaculate, the kind worn by men who believed authority was something one grew into rather than earned.
"Robert Edwin House," Gorllewin said, voice smooth and measured. "Your file says you're from Nevada... you're a long way from home, and arrived earlier than I expected from an orphan with little source of income to rely on. With such an unusual addition for the Commonwealth Institute of Technology to accept. Our scholarship program exists to cultivate excellence, not… curiosity seekers. So, tell me Mr. House what makes you think you are worthy of this scholarship?"
House at first did not respond, his quiet unsettled Professor Gorllewin, as Roberts piercing gaze stared at him leaving the sneering administrator off kilter. In truth House was focusing upon his status sheet, the unbelievable stats he possessed would make anyone jealous. However voicing that he had a system that displayed a numerical number to his psychical and mental characteristics that no one else could see as a reason to be accepted would land House in an insane asylum.
House let the silence stretch a fraction longer than politeness allowed. It was a small rebellion, but a deliberate one.
"I didn't apply to be judged," he said evenly. "I was offered a scholarship. Formally. In writing."
"Offered," Gorllewin corrected, his fingers remained steepled, but the faintest tightening appeared around his eyes. "pending verification. The interview process determines whether an offer is confirmed. We do not hand Commonwealth resources to untested variables."
House felt the irritation spark—hot, sharp, immediately suppressed. Changing terms after the fact was inefficient. Dishonest. He filed the slight away for a later reprisal.
"Very well," House said. "Proceed."
That answer, too calm, too compliant, robbed Gorllewin of some anticipated leverage. The professor reached for a folder and flipped it open, skimming pages he already knew by heart.
"Your academic record is… irregular," Gorllewin said. "Accelerated coursework. Independent study credits. Mechanical electives taken without formal approval. You appear to have ignored prescribed curriculum in favor of your own interests."
"I found the prescribed material lacking," House replied. "So I pursued extending studies instead."
Gorllewin's lips thinned. "Applications such as?"
"Mechanical automation," House said. "Early logic circuits. Servo calibration. Improvised actuators. Most of it unsanctioned by my school, though not unsuccessful. I documented my results regardless."
He watched Gorllewin closely now, not with defiance, but with calculation. The man seemed to disliked deviation, those who went outside of the carefully shepherded herd of upper society America. That made this Professor Gorllewin predictable.
"Words are cheap," Gorllewin said at last. He reached beneath the desk and withdrew a thin stack of papers, sliding them across the polished surface. "Let us dispense with narrative. Solve these."
House glanced down.
Differential equations. Advanced calculus. Load-distribution problems intended for second- and third-year engineering students. A mechanical schematic with missing tolerances, asking not just what failed, but why. Gorllewin leaned back, satisfaction creeping into his posture.
"You may begin."
House sat. Picked up the pencil. And worked.
He did not rush. Speed was unnecessary. Accuracy was absolute.
Equations resolved cleanly, steps precise, margins filled with corrections where the problems themselves were flawed. He annotated inefficiencies, noted alternative solutions, adjusted assumptions that the test's author had taken for granted. On the schematic, he circled a hairline stress fracture no one had asked about and wrote a single sentence explaining how it would propagate under repeated thermal cycling.
Minutes passed. Yet house finished, far faster than anyone taking a test should. Gorllewin's expression shifted—from confidence, to irritation, to something closer to disbelief.
"You're finished?" he asked sharply.
"Yes." The words were as cold as an executioner's act, and just as final.
The professor snatched the papers back, scanning them with growing agitation. Silence stretched. A faint sound escaped him—half scoff, half breath.
"These problems are not meant for first-year students."
"Then they should not be used as filters," House replied. "It makes the scholarship process inefficient."
That did it, but not the sort of trigger to set off an explosion. Gorllewin straightened, studying House anew—not as a nuisance, but as an asset. A valuable one.
"You are… skilled," he admitted, the word tasting unpleasant. "The Institute is always looking for talented individuals. And you possess great potential, the sort that could flourish within our halls. Under proper directed, your time spent with proper supervision could accomplish amazing feats."
House met his gaze, cold and unblinking. Professor Gorllewin played with his words well, but the message of supervision most likely meant his supervision. A chain, to drag him down, something that disgusted Robert more than the inexcusable testing of his skills. "I work better on my own."
A beat. Then Gorllewin smiled, thin and sharp.
"In time," he said, "you may find it advantageous to align yourself with administration. I have positions—research liaisons, internal consultancies. Exceptional students are… cultivated with my help. And you Robert House could become exceptional."
House rose smoothly to his feet. "Respectfully, Professor, I did not come to be cultivated. I am here to get a degree."
Robert's tone brook no argument, nor willingness for further games of an administrator looking to recruit helpers. When that became clear to Professor Gorllewin his smile faded.
"Your scholarship," Gorllewin said stiffly, "will be confirmed."
House inclined his head. Polite. Final, and then decided upon his courses. His scholarship offered everything except room and board, but the finance was enough for House to take as many courses as he desired. Gorllewin's eyes grew wide, as House had already decided upon the courses he would take, and for the first semester he had planned to take more than the standard amount of courses. 4 was enough to leave most attending CIT busy for the entire semester, 6 pushing the capabilities and limits of most geniuses, yet House was going to settle for no less than 10 classes for his semester in the Commonwealth Institute of Technology.
Introduction to Robotics Systems, Principles of Business Management, Human Anatomy & Physiology I, General Chemistry I, Physics I: Classical Mechanics, Computer Programming & Logic, Introduction to Materials Science, Economics I: Microeconomics, 1st Elective: Geology for Resource Understanding and finally a 2nd Elective: Early Automation Concepts. Gorllewin would have protested... had House been his assistant, but the 17 year old from Nevada planned to burn himself out in the first semester.
A shame to lose a potential talent. Yet if the genius wishes to learn his limitations the hard way, it at least made things easier when deciding who would not waste future scholarship funding come the spring semester. He doubted House would be able to maintain the standards that CIT hoped for in a prospect. Approving the impossible amount of classes that House had undertaken, Gorllewin allowed Robert to leave.
Before exiting the antechamber, Robert looked down upon the current assistant to Professor Gorllewin, the stocky Gors, who was still at his desk working through a stack of paper better suited to be handled by Gorllewin himself. The fate that befell those dragged down by parasites like Gorllewin, a lack of self-determination, an inefficient fate, and one that I will avoid.
The door to the scholarship Admissions closed behind House with the same soft, final click—but this time, it sounded less like judgment, and more like concession. Stepping into the wider admissions lobby, where the smell of waxed floors and polished metal hung heavy, faintly sweetened by the scent of institutional coffee. House got an alert from his system, followed by a sweet dopamine inducing chime followed by rewards of a successful mission. letting him know that his first quest was complete.
QUEST COMPLETED — Arrival
OBJECTIVE: Arrive at the Commonwealth Institute of Technology before semester begins.
STATUS: SUCCESS
MISSION DETAILS:
- Navigated from Boston International Airport to CIT campus.
- Acquire Clothing suited to the standards of CIT.
- Secure your place in the scholarship program
- Pick your course for the semester
- Completed registration with front-desk staff.
- Completed preliminary campus orientation.
REWARDS:
EXPERIENCE POINTS AWARDED: 500 XP
PERKS UNLOCKED:
Prime Positioning
"The early student catches the mentorship."
Arrive before the first day of classes to secure optimal positioning in every academic and social interaction. Faculty and staff take note of your initiative, and peers respect your foresight. Your early presence allows for prime seating, early lab access, and networking advantages that compound over time.
Effects:
Faculty and staff remember you positively, improving chances for mentorships, recommendations, possible contacts, and priority project selection.
Early registration and campus orientation grant +20% efficiency in securing resources, lab equipment, and workspace access.
Initial social interactions with peers gain +10 reputation points, reflecting perceived competence and preparedness.
Subtle networking advantages persist throughout first semester, increasing the probability of being selected for elite study groups or research opportunities.
Impeccable Presence"
"Dress like you own the classroom before the semester even starts."
First impressions matter. By attending your initial sessions in stylish, polished attire, you establish authority, confidence, and competence. Peers gravitate toward you, and professors view your composure favorably. Presentation enhances both social and professional perception, unlocking subtle advantages that affect group dynamics, collaboration, and recognition.
Effects:
Immediate +15 reputation with faculty and staff.
Students are more likely to follow your lead or defer to your judgment in collaborative environments.
Social standing in group projects and study sessions receives +20% modifier for first semester interactions.
Boosts confidence, composure, and presence, reducing miscommunication penalties in group settings.
Neglecting appearance can reduce social and networking effectiveness for several weeks (-10 social modifier).
Seeing his perks, Robert immediately checkout his reputation, he only had two reputations of note.
REPUTATION UPDATED — Commonwealth Institute of Technology
Status: Positive Standing — Accepted
You have successfully completed the Arrival process by arriving early, securing your scholarship while demonstrating preparedness and professionalism. Your actions have earned you an Accepted reputation with the student body, faculty, and administrative staff of the Commonwealth Institute of Technology.
Reputation Title:Accepted Standing with CIT: Good‑natured and respected by students, faculty, and staff.
Reputation Effects:
Students are more likely to interact cordially and respond positively to your initiatives.
Faculty view you as competent and organized — enhancing chances for mentorship and recommendation.
Administrative staff expedite routine processes and often provide assistance without prodding.
REPUTATION UPDATED — Velvet Knuckle Casino
Status: Negative Standing — Vilified
You have made a thoroughly negative impression on the Velvet Knuckle Casino. Your early actions, reputation for meticulousness, and refusal to play along with the casino's social hierarchy have earned you the ire of both staff and patrons alike.
Reputation Title:Vilified Standing with Velvet Knuckle Casino: Hostile — you are actively despised by management, employees, and most regular patrons.
Reputation Effects:
Casino staff will openly insult, obstruct, or ignore you.
Security is likely to monitor your movements and may confront or forcibly remove you if you linger too long.
Patrons will avoid you, refuse to cooperate in games, or even sabotage your attempts at negotiation or social interaction.
Opportunities for employment, collaboration, or gambling privileges are denied outright.
Random hostile encounters with minor casino enforcers or guards increase in frequency.
Warning: Mob connections have been contracted to deal with someone matching your appearance.
Well House was not planning to return to Renno any time soon... not until he was allowed to carry weapons and heavy power armor and clear out that nest of scoundrels. Reaching the front desk, House found Dorothy Hayes, who looked up from a stack of forms, glasses sliding down her nose slightly as she studied him.
"You made it," she said, a hint of relief threading through the otherwise calm warmth of her tone. "Professor Gorllewin can be… intense. Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," House replied evenly. His voice was measured, betraying none of the annoyance he had suppressed moments before. "The scholarship is confirmed."
"Well. It's official now. You're one of ours." Dorothy smiled faintly, tapping a pen against her desk. She leaned slightly closer. "First thing we need to do is assign your dorm room. Have you… any preferences?"
House considered briefly. "Proximity to labs. Minimal foot traffic. A quiet environment."
"Perfect," she said, rifling through a small stack of room assignment sheets. "Room 214, East Wing. Single occupancy. You'll have a good view of the practice fields, and it's a short walk to the engineering labs. Here. This gets you into the dorm, the library, and most labs. Hold onto it. Losing it could make life… complicated."
She slid a small keycard across the counter. House pocketed the card with a nod. "Understood."
Dorothy gestured toward the main hallway. "Before you settle in, I can give you a quick tour. It's not much, but it'll help you get your bearings."
He followed her, noting the sharp contrast between the dorm corridors and the lecture halls—polished wood floors, low light filtered through high windows, a quiet hum of students moving with purpose.
"The East Wing is mostly first-years, library is through here," she said, pausing before a door lined with windows that revealed shelves stacked high with volumes. "Labs are down that corridor. Cafeteria's open from seven am to eight pm, and the gym is over on the north end—access controlled, of course. Everything else is straightforward."
House nodded, taking it all in without a word. Dorothy's explanation was functional, efficient. That was all he needed. "Thank you. This will suffice."
"You're welcome," she said, giving him a small, approving smile. "Most students take a week to get their bearings. I suspect you'll do it faster."
House allowed a faint curve to his lips, barely noticeable. "Likely."
By the time they reached the dorm, House had already begun cataloging routes, times, and opportunities, his mind already a step ahead of the campus itself. House dropped of his new clothing, his duffle bag, and Reno winnings inside room 214, a shanty sized place that he would have to share half of it with one other individual for $2083 a month. Soon after Robert returned to a waiting Dorothy who seemed interested in talking further.
The two walked together across the quad, yellow stone paths worn smooth by generations of ambition. Dorothy talked as they moved, of club actives involving a crazy Russian professor with more awe than good sense running a robot fighting ring. From the way Dorothy put it the robots were less like the ones found in fallout post apocalypse time period but more of the box shaped robots that the Robert's original America used. The Roomba shaped disappointments that crashed into one another with a lawnmower attached to their front chassis. House was greatly displeased by this revelation while Dorothy seemed amazed by it, talking endlessly about it. Robert listened, asking questions about the club, engaged with the idea of joining and showing these primitive 40 in their science skills the true might of robotics.
Occasionally Robert's gaze lingered on familiar scenes he recognized from Fallout 4, specifically the spot that Liberty prime would use laser beams and football nukes to open access to the future Institute secret underground base. He pondered if there was possibly something already being built under that spot.
"Robotics building's over there," Dorothy said, nodding toward a newer structure of glass and reinforced concrete. "It's… well, it's promising. Funding's been tight, but everyone says we're on the edge of something big."
Robert's smile sharpened by a fraction. "Edges are where breakthroughs happen."
And I will be the one breaking and remaking those borders. Look upon my works, Ye Mighty, and Despair! The Future of Mankind is mine!