Chapter Text
You sit at the edge of the crater, the scent of stagnant water thick in the dry air, laced with something metallic, clinging to the back of your throat like a sickness that hasn’t set in yet. The undetonated bomb looms before you, a silent relic.
A silent god, if the crazed man on the opposite side is to be believed.
You glance at your Pip-Boy. Your pack sits beside you, half-emptied. Some caps. A handful of stimpaks. The 10mm pistol, still untouched since you’d fumbled it empty into Mack’s chest. It rests at the bottom of your bag like a lead weight, and the thought of loading another magazine makes your stomach turn. You’ve spent the past two hours organizing the contents of your backpack and adding every item to the Pip-Boy’s note system, along with transcribing what you could.
Though that’s increasingly difficult with your left arm certainly broken along the forearm, leaving you stuck wearing a splint and sling to keep it in place. It’ll take months to heal properly on its own, and paired with the dread of searching an entire section of a world that suddenly feels far too big, it’s an overwhelmingly oppressive weight on your chest.
One thing you noticed quickly: almost everyone in the city has a weapon of some kind at all times. Even the children of Megaton carry small knives and blades within reach. An uneasy feeling settled in your stomach at first, every sound heavy with the possibility of attack.
However, Sheriff Simms made it clear that Megaton is safe. He even helped you get your bearings and pointed you toward both the general store and bar if you needed supplies or food, respectively. He assured you that the nuclear bomb currently casting its shadow over you isn’t going to detonate anytime soon—since it hasn’t already.
The oddest thing of all this wasn’t your situation, but the currency used by people outside of the Vault. Caps. Bottlecaps from Nuka-Cola and the like. Not that the concept itself was strange—it was the fact that your father had known this, if the safe full of them in the Vault was any indication.
That brought you to two conclusions.
Either the Vault had traded with outsiders before, and the doors had been open for a time.
Or your father wasn’t born in the Vault, like he’d told you all your life.
Another lie added to the pile.
It was frustrating to no end. You wanted to trust the lessons he’d instilled in you, to believe that he had a plan when he lied, that it was for a reason you simply hadn’t been privy to. But you won’t know until you find him—and for that to happen, you needed caps.
Which is why you’re sitting with your boots submerged in irradiated water, watching as your rad counter slowly ticks upward, the metallic taste in your mouth spreading from the back of your throat.
Moira Brown.
The kindest person you’ve met in recent memory—or ever, for that matter, outside of maybe Andy or Officer Gomez. She gave you the gist of the Wasteland, a quick rundown you decided was worth listening to, given the Vault suit she had on display just behind her counter.
That conversation led her to conscript you for a Wasteland Survival Guide, as she called it.
Now, with a set of three tasks for the first chapter, only one felt even remotely reasonable. The other two left you with an even more pronounced sense of dread. Well—none of them are exactly ideal, when given the choice between:
Going to a nearby Super-Duper Mart—which you checked out briefly, only to lose what little lunch you had after seeing desecrated bodies hanging from the front of the store. That was enough to convince you not to stick around.
Traversing a minefield far to the north—far enough that you weren’t confident venturing that far from Megaton or the Vault yet.
So now you sit in an irradiated pool, slowly poisoning your body to help Moira get a “full understanding” of the effects of radiation for a book you’re not even sure people will be able to read.
Moira promised not only caps, but supplies. Even the armored Vault suit if you went the extra mile with completing the tasks. You're pulled from your thoughts as the Pip-Boy finally ticks over to red, and you climb to your feet, a wave of fatigue hitting you almost immediately as you do.
Fatigue was expected. The way everything seems to blur together was expected, even from behind your glasses.
Slowly, you make your way up toward Craterside Supply, every step becoming harder than the last, but regardless of that fact, you push forward, having no desire to die two days after you stepped out of the Vault.
You pause for a moment to cough out your lungs bending at the waist and gaining a signal of discontent from your broken arm in the form of stabbing pain, an uncomfortable icy-hot sweat breaking out as your Pip-Boy incessantly reminds you of the very real danger that is currently attempting to claim you. It only adds to your minor panic when you can focus enough to see the splattering of blood you’ve just coughed out.
You wipe your mouth with the back of your sleeve, smearing red across the faded blue of your Vault jumpsuit. The world tilts slightly when you try to stand straight again, your legs wobbling beneath you like they’re trying to remember how to hold your weight.
The bell above Craterside Supply’s door jingles as you shove it open, the sound sharp and bright against the pounding in your skull.
Moira’s face appears from behind a cluttered shelf, her grin practically splitting her face in two. “Oh hey, you’re back already!” she chirps, completely unfazed by the fact that you’re stumbling through her doorway like a corpse learning how to walk. “Wow, that was fast! You must’ve really thrown yourself into the experiment—oh, is that blood? That’s definitely blood.”
You collapse into the nearest chair, the world spinning in lazy, nauseating circles.
Moira is by your side in an instant, crouching down with a look of fascination rather than concern. She inspects you the way someone might inspect an interesting bug—curious, delighted, not even a little disturbed.
“Ooooh, look at you! Classic symptoms of acute radiation poisoning: fatigue, disorientation, lovely bit of hemoptysis—that’s coughing up blood, by the way. Textbook case!” She beams like she’s just won an award. “You’ve done great! I mean—not great great, obviously, you’re clearly dying, but scientifically? Fantastic!”
You glare at her, or at least try to. It probably comes off more like a squint.
She claps her hands together, startling you slightly. “Alright! Let’s get you fixed up. I’ve been working on an experimental radiation detoxification procedure—totally safe! Probably. Well, mostly safe. Okay, so it hasn’t been tested yet, but that’s why you’re perfect for this!”
You don’t have the strength to argue.
Moira helps you out of the chair and onto a makeshift cot, strapping your good arm down with an efficiency that’s almost concerning. Your Pip-Boy continues its steady ticking, though it’s quieter now, like even it’s losing energy.
Humming to herself, she preps a syringe filled with something thick and cloudy—definitely not standard-issue RadAway.
“This might tingle. Or burn. Maybe both. But don’t worry, you’re in good hands!” She pauses, considering her words. “I mean, probably.”
The needle slides into your arm.
Then the world disappears.
---
The low hum of aging terminals filled the war room, mingling with the occasional shuffle of armored boots against cold metal floors. A faint scent of oil and dust lingered, ever-present in the depths of the Citadel. Maps of D.C.'s fragmented landscape stretched across a large holo-table, flickering with faint blue light, marked with red indicators—each one a report of Super Mutant activity, raider ambushes, or places where Brotherhood patrols had simply stopped reporting.
Sentinel Sarah Lyons sat at the edge of the holo-table, helmet resting beside a growing stack of mission reports. Her eyes scanned the faded pages, fingers absently tracing the creases of worn paper. The dim lighting cast long shadows, the flickering screens reflecting faintly in her gaze. She preferred action to paperwork, but leadership carried its burdens—no matter how much she wanted to ignore them.
Paladin Vargas stood nearby, arms crossed, his attention shifting between Sarah and a separate file containing evaluations of potential initiates.
“Initiate Reddin,” Vargas muttered, glancing over the dossier. “Eager, driven, decent field scores. But a bit too gung-ho for my taste. That kind of attitude gets you killed if it’s not reined in.”
Sarah nodded slightly, flipping through another report. “She’ll get her fill of reality soon enough. The field does that better than we ever could.”
Vargas gave a quiet grunt of agreement, moving on to the next file. “Jennings. More cautious. Follows orders well, solid marks in tactical drills. Might lack initiative, though. Needs to prove he can make decisions under pressure.”
As they continued reviewing the candidates, the background noise of casual conversation drifted in from nearby. The two on guard duty just outside the door spoke in hushed tones, their voices carrying just enough to be heard.
“Did you hear about Vault 101?” one of them said. “Opened twice in a week before sealing up again. Radio chatter was strange. Like they didn’t expect it either.”
The other scoffed softly. “Vaults don’t just open. Must’ve been a glitch or some internal issue. Probably nothing.”
Sarah didn’t react outwardly, her focus seemingly unbroken as she continued to flip through reports. But the mention lodged itself in her thoughts, an odd detail tugging at the edge of her memory. Vault 101 had been sealed for as long as she could remember, nothing more than a footnote in old Brotherhood records.
Star Paladin Cross escorted a man and a baby there once, she recalled distantly. She vaguely remembered seeing the man holding the bundle while she carried out her duties as a squire. She’d been around seven or eight at the time.
The memory flickered and faded just as quickly. She set the report aside, her fingers drumming lightly on the table before reaching for the next file, burying the thought beneath the weight of more immediate concerns.
Though she couldn’t help but wonder what happened to them both.
---
Darkness gives way to blurry shapes and a dull, persistent ache nestled somewhere deep in your skull. Your eyes blink open slowly, the harsh fluorescent lights above casting sharp lines across the cracked ceiling of Craterside Supply. For a moment, you don’t remember where you are.
Then it hits you—the radiation, the sickness, Moira’s too-cheerful face leaning over you with that damn syringe. The memory flickers, fuzzy at the edges, like a dream half-forgotten.
You shift slightly on the makeshift cot, and that’s when you notice it. The absence.
Your arm.
The one that was broken. Splintered. The constant throb you’d grown used to, like background noise you could never quite drown out—gone. Or at least, mostly gone.
You sit up too fast, your vision tunneling for a second before settling. Your left arm moves with you, smooth and fluid, no splint, no sling. You flex your fingers. Rotate your wrist. No sharp pain. No stiffness. But there’s a dull, persistent ache, like an old injury that never quite healed right—a phantom reminder of what should still be broken.
What the hell?
Your heart hammers against your ribs, adrenaline washing away the lingering fatigue. It should hurt. It should be swollen, bruised—broken. But it’s not. It feels like it never happened, except for that faint ache nestled deep in the bone, like a shadow you can’t shake.
Moira's voice snaps you out of it.
“Oh hey! You’re awake!” she chirps from across the room, surrounded by cluttered shelves and scattered notes. She bounces over, impossibly chipper. “I was starting to wonder if you’d sleep through the whole day. How do you feel? Well, aside from the obvious radiation sickness, but don’t worry, that should pass soon!”
You open your mouth, but the words don’t come. Your mind is still stuck on your arm. You glance down again, as if expecting the damage to suddenly reappear. It doesn’t.
Moira follows your gaze and brightens even more, if that’s possible. “Oh! Right! I almost forgot!” She hands you a small container of RadAway and a couple of chems. “My little way of saying, ‘I’m sorry I twisted your DNA like a kitten with a ball of yarn.’”
You stare at her.
Twisted my DNA?
The words echo in your head, but you don’t respond. Not yet. Because deep down, you already know something’s wrong. Something has changed.
“W-What did… My arm, it should still… It should still be broken for another few months. How…”
Moira blinks, tilting her head like you just asked her why the sky is blue. “Oh! That! Well, technically, the radiation combined with my experimental detox formula may have... accelerated your body's natural regenerative processes.” She waves a hand dismissively, as if this were the most normal thing in the world. “Honestly, I wasn’t expecting that result, but science is all about happy little surprises, right?”
You swallow hard, staring at your arm again. The ache pulses softly beneath the skin, a reminder that something is working differently inside you now.
“Regenerative…?” Your voice is quieter than you intended.
Moira beams. “Yup! Like a lizard regrowing a tail. Only, you know, with bones and stuff. Isn’t that fascinating? Though it did slow down after the last bit of radiation left your system, so maybe it only works efficiently when you’re heavily irradiated! Like your body needs that extra boost to kickstart the process in a helpful way!”
You don’t answer. Because it’s not fascinating.
It’s terrifying.
Moira, ever oblivious to your internal spiral, claps her hands together. “Well, since you’re up and about, I’ve got something for you!” She digs around beneath the counter, producing a worn, armored Vault 101 suit. “Consider this a thank-you for all your help with the Survival Guide!”
You take it mechanically, the weight of the reinforced fabric grounding you for a moment. She doesn’t stop there, though. Moira rummages again, producing a laser pistol, its sleek design contrasting with the rusted chaos of her shop.
“Figured you might need something with a little zap for those raiders at the Super-Duper Mart,” she says cheerfully, like she’s offering a cookie instead of a deadly weapon.
You nod, slipping the pistol into your pack alongside the supplies she hands over—RadAway, stimpaks, the usual. The weight of the gear feels unfamiliar, heavier than it should, though you know it's not the equipment that's changed.
Moira gives you a final, overly cheerful wave as you head for the door. The creak of the hinges echoes louder than it should, and as the door swings open, a burst of warm, dusty air rushes in, stinging your face. You pause for a moment on the threshold, fingers brushing the edge of the armored suit, grounding yourself in the small comfort of its tangible reality.
Then you step outside, into the blinding light of Megaton, the sun casting long shadows across the jagged scrap walls and makeshift homes. The ache in your arm remains constant, but you force it to the back of your mind as you wander through the settlement, trying to piece together a sense of normalcy.
Walter, the grizzled old man who maintains Megaton's water purification system, waves you down near the rusted pipes that line the central plaza. “Hey, Vault kid. You look like you’ve got steady hands. Think you can help me patch up these leaks? Damn pipes are older than I am, and twice as stubborn.”
Grateful for the distraction, you agree. The work is simple enough—tightening valves, replacing worn seals, sealing cracks with scraps of metal and whatever adhesive Walter hands you. The physical labor keeps your mind occupied, the repetitive motion a small comfort against the gnawing discomfort inside you.
Afterward, Walter hands you a few caps, his gratitude gruff but genuine. “Not bad for someone fresh out of the Vault. Maybe you ain’t as soft as you look.”
You pocket the caps, offering a faint nod in return before making your way toward Moriarty's Saloon.
The bar is dimly lit, filled with the low hum of voices and the sharp scent of stale booze. Your gaze drifts across the room, landing on the barkeep, Moriarty himself, with a grin too sharp to be friendly. Behind the counter, a...man... that looked more like a burn victim than a person.
His skin is mottled and peeling, stretched taut over exposed muscle, eyes sunken but sharp with life. You freeze for a moment, unnerved, though you mask it with polite curiosity. You’ve never seen anything like him before.
Moriarty notices your lingering gaze and chuckles darkly. “Ah, new to the Wasteland, I see. Don’t mind Gob there. He won’t bite… unless you ask nicely.”
The ghoul—Gob, apparently—rolls his eyes but says nothing, wiping down the bar with slow, practiced movements.
You clear your throat, forcing yourself to look back at Moriarty. “I… I’m looking for someone. My father. He might have passed through here.”
Moriarty leans in, his grin widening. “Information isn’t free, sweetheart. But maybe we can come to an arrangement.”
You tense slightly, but nod. “What kind of arrangement?”
“Simple,” he replies smoothly. “There’s a woman named Silver. She owes me caps. You find her, collect what she owes, and we’ll talk.”
You hesitate, trying to find another way around it. "Isn't there anything else I could do? I… I just need to know if you've seen him. Please."
Moriarty's grin doesn't falter. If anything, it sharpens. "Information's like water in the Wasteland, sweetheart. Precious. Costs something. Silver owes me, and until that's settled, your daddy's whereabouts stay tucked right here." He taps his temple with a crooked finger.
You swallow the lump in your throat, fingers tightening slightly around the strap of your pack. "What did she do to owe you?"
"Does it matter? She took the caps, promised to work it off, then decided to skip town like that'd wipe the slate clean. Life doesn't work that way out here."
Your gaze drops for a moment, the weight of your desperation pressing down. "Fine," you whisper, it leaves a bitter taste on your tongue but no worse then the radiation from earlier in the day.
"Grand, Glad to see you've a go get'em attitude just like your paw, darlin'. As a show of good faith and that I'm not just dragging you about by your toes. How about I tell you how I know your father?"
That causes you to pause, your teeth grinding in your jaw yet he was able to read your easily enough if they wolfish grin on his face was anything to go by as he cleared his throat.
"Well, It all comes to the fact that you and your pa came through here-"
That was not right. It couldn't be.
"I was born in the vault. We both were."
You hate the way there was almost a desperate hope in those words. Your blood boiled at the way his eyes crinkled as he found himself in the middle of giggles as he shook his head in disbelief.
"Is that what your father told you? That you were born in that hole? That HE was born there as well?" You could feel how your throat heated up, a mix of embarrassment at being laughed at so open like this. It was different from when Butch and his lackeys did it. You were all dumb kids then, there was no malic, no actual joy in it other than passing amusement for him. But this man... it was clear he was enjoying every single moment of this.
"Oh, the lies we tell to those we love. Your father brought you to the Vault right after you were born. To keep you safe, you see. I remember it well—you stayed in my saloon, after all."
Your breath catches, the words sinking deeper than you expect. That’s not right. It can’t be.
"Not just him, though," Moriarty continues, leaning forward, his grin dripping with smug satisfaction. "He wasn’t alone. Had a Brotherhood Paladin with him, one of those tin-can types. Woman by the name of Cross. She wasn’t a Star Paladin back then—just another soldier with more honor than sense—escorting your dear old dad and his precious little dove straight to Vault 101."
A Brotherhood Paladin? The words mean nothing to you, just titles strung together. But the way Moriarty says them, like they should mean something, like you should know—
It’s the certainty in his voice that burrows under your skin.
Your mind spirals, grasping for something solid. He wouldn’t lie to me. Not about this. But doubt seeps in like cold water through cracked glass. Would he?
No.
You force the thoughts down, clenching your jaw until it aches. Maybe Moriarty’s just trying to get under your skin. Maybe he’s lying. You cling to that thought like it’s the only thing keeping you upright.
Without meeting his smug gaze, you mumble, “I’ll be back with the caps shortly,” turning on your heel before he can say anything else. Once outside you take a moment to breath, your hands grasping at the heated metal railing just outside as you took in gulp of air after gulp of air.
Simms had warned you that Moriarty was a liar from the start, how you ended up falling so far into that lie was beyond you. Regardless of that fact, you had a job to do now and completing it would get you closer to finding your father.
You stepped out of the gate with a quiet apprehension settling over your shoulders. Wasteland as far as the eye could see, broken up by dead trees, rocks and stones. You start your trek back down toward Springvale where Silver had supposedly claimed one of the houses abandoned there.
You fiddled with your Pip-Boy as you walked. At first, you thought the static on Galaxy News Network was an issue on your end, but it seems to be the signal itself—likely the result of poor transmission methods, given how the world looks now.
Your Pip-Boy had always been a temperamental beast, only made worse by how often you modified and personalized it. What felt questionable at the time now seems crucial.
The Vault-Tec Assisted Targeting System—V.A.T.S. All Pip-Boys in your vault had it, but from what you managed to glean from your father’s terminal—back when boredom was your biggest enemy—only a handful of people born in the Vault could truly make use of it.
It’s a complex system, tied directly to the biometric lock that binds the Pip-Boy to your wrist and yours alone. Stealing one is nearly impossible without an intricate understanding of its systems. Even then, upon death, most Pip-Boys scuttle their software unless you know how to abort the process—a detail you doubt anyone out here knows.
V.A.T.S. piggybacks on that biometric system, sending pulses along your nerves to enhance aiming and optimize firing patterns. It’s only truly effective for people wired to process large amounts of information instinctively—consciously or not.
It never sat well with you, knowing a function designed specifically for killing was hard-coded into your Pip-Boy. You even tried to remove it once, nearly bricking the device in the process. Looking back now, though, you’re glad you failed.
Though you hope that you don't have to use it at all if you can avoid it, however unlikely that may be. But as Mr. Lewis was fond of saying, where there's a will there's a wa-
Your thought process was disrupted by a loud pop and the distinct sound of metal bouncing off of metal, dinging off a rusted rail guard beside you and immediately your heart was in your throat as you focused in on the two men jogging your direction, one held a scopeless hunting rifle in your direction and was currently racking a bullet while the other was grinning wide with a mouth full of yellow.
You were almost three minutes from megaton, you could run back there and hope the Protectron and the sniper at the gate could deal with it, but you'd just get shot in the back if you turned. "Wait! Please! We don't-"
Your words were cut off by the sharp pain of flesh being torn as your shoulder splits open from a graze. You bite back a curse as you fumble for the unloaded 10mm just as the jogging man picks up speed now sprinting at full tilt toward you.
Your fingers tremble as they fumble with the pistol, the cool metal slick against the sudden sweat on your palms. No time. No time. You barely manage to load it before the man's on you, a rusted tire iron raised high, his grin twisted and eager. "Come'ere, you little bitch!"
Instinct takes over. You duck—barely—feeling the rush of air as the weapon swings past your head, slamming into the dirt with a dull thud. You stumble, your shoulder screaming in protest, but adrenaline drowns it out. You fall onto your back behind a rock just out of view of the raider wielding a rifle. You raise the pistol and pull the trigger only to be met with a click. You forgot to turn the safety off.
In that second of loss time, the man lunged at you, grabbing a handful of your hair and raising the pipe again, ready to crack your skull open like an egg. Your mind forcibly conjures up the moment you had almost died in a similar position just a few days ago when Mack had his hands around your throat. Fear, Panic and Adrenaline pulsed through your blood, but it was quickly replaced by something hot and caustic.
You manage to flick the safety off and raise the pistol pressing it just beneath his jaw as he brought the pipe down, forcing your head to the side at the same time you pull the trigger, splattering your face with the sticky-slick viscera from within the man's now sky-opened skull.
Immediately you move to push him off and switch to a crouched position remaining behind cover. "Dickwad? You get killed by that meat?" The man called out, he didn't sound like he was getting closer and his...friend was unresponsive at the moment, leaving you to issue a response in his stead.
Taking a deep breath and flicking the switch on the side of your Pip-boy, you stand your hand stretching out with the pistol gripped firmly, the shaking battled off by the sudden influx of nerve pulses countering every shake and twitch. It felt like the world slowed as the man's face went from annoyance to surprise as you slowly released the breath as you pulled the trigger.
Micro adjustments after every pull. One bullet smashes into his throat, a spray of blood exits the back of it. The second hits him in the chest right between the sixth and seventh ribs on his right side, punching a hole through the lung and rewarded with another spray of blood. The last smashes through his left eye, killing him as the 10mm round destroys his head in a horrific mess of gore.
You stand there, the pistol in your hand smoking. Your heart working triple time in your chest, yet the want to vomit from days ago was nowhere to be found, even with your face uncomfortably hot from the blood now coating it, even when you look down at the body of the man beside you.
He had a life at one point. Perhaps a mother, a father. Did they love him? Was he ever a father himself? Why had he been so violent? Why wouldn't they listen to reason? In the end, it didn't matter. They had chosen their path and you had chosen your's. You hate violence. You hate the act of harming others, it made- makes- you sick. Yet you aren't naive, despite what everyone you've met so far believes.
Evil after all, is a consequence of freewill. A trade off. With no laws, governing body or system of punishment above ground, people like these men have been allowed to fester and become the norm. The alternative to this situation was them killing you. Or worse.
You did what anyone else above ground would have done, you defended yourself. You killed them. You pause. For a long minute you just stand there and peered at the body as blood slowly soaked the brown-grey colored ground beneath him. You're justifying murder. That's enough to shake the last of the adrenaline off as you bring a shaking hand up to run it through your hair.
Just last week you had planned to see if Amata wanted to have a movie night and now you're justifying murdering two men, even if in self defense it's...
---
Transcript Log: Pip-Boy Model 3000, Unit ID: [REDACTED]
Automatic Voice Recognition Active
Registered User: Catherine Elizabeth Crane
Recording Start—[Timestamp: 14:32:09]
[Audio Begins: Wind distortion. Distant ambient noise. Rapid breathing—uneven.]
Unidentified Female 1: [Muttering, shaky voice.] "…even if in self-defense, it’s…" [Pause. Slow exhale.] "God." [Faint sound of shifting fabric.]
[Silence—00:12 seconds. Light breeze, faint rustle of debris.]
Unidentified Female 1: "Okay. Okay. Just… breathe." [Inhale. Exhale.] "Not… not the worst thing. Just—" [Cut off by a shaky laugh.] "No, no, pretty bad. Yeah."
Unidentified Female 1: "Blood’s sticky." [Sniff. Wipe sound—likely hand across face.] "Why’s it always warm in the stories? It’s not. It’s cold. Feels cold."
Unidentified Female 1: "I didn’t even think. Just—" [Finger snap sound.] "Pulled the trigger. Didn’t freeze. That’s good, right?" [Voice drops, softer.] "That’s good."
[Pause—00:09 seconds. Background: faint buzzing, distant metallic creak.]
Unidentified Female 1: "I should’ve said something. Something cool. Like in the movies." [Mimics in a flat, exaggerated voice.] ‘Not today, Commie.’ [Pause. Sighs.] "God, that’s dumb."
[Rustling—digging through pockets, metal clinking softly.]
Unidentified Female 1: "Caps. Some ammo. Knife. A hunting rifle. Twelve bullets. It's like shooting a bb gun. I hope." [Sharp inhale.] "Photo. Huh." [Longer pause—breathing slows slightly.] "Looks like… his kid? Or sister. Maybe... or someone else's more likely."
[Silence—00:15 seconds. Background: faint wind.]
Unidentified Female 1: [Murmuring.] "I don’t feel bad." [Longer pause.] "Shouldn’t I feel bad? I feel like this is the start of some horror holofilm."
[Recording auto-paused due to inactivity—[Timestamp: 14:38:56]]