Janey talked Rosie through each step. Scoring the meat and lacing the cuts with fragrant herbs. Next she chopped the red tatos and coated them in oil, seasoning heavily at Janey’s instruction. Rosie’s efficiency at removing corn husks turned out to be suboptimal, apparently, so she let Janey take over.

Rosie warmed up the induction forge and made a copy of her axe. Forging the crowbar into a T shape and hammering out a blade, then turning the points from thick tool steel seemed easier than before. The copy turned out almost exactly the same, the same balance, the same angles in the twisted grip. It felt almost unnerving but Rosie let it go.

After the armour, modifying the weapons seemed simple, especially the grenade launchers. While metal carved spitefully from the private Vault below melted into orange liquid, Rosie broke one down to use as a mould and didn’t even look at the rest.

The rounds broke down almost as easily and she modified half of them to be thrown by hand. She left the high explosives well alone, despite the temptation of the impeller that set the airburst fuse.

The sound of movement from above made Rosie grab her two toned sidearm. The coded knocking on the bannister above let her put it down just as quick.

“Something smells nice, what're you cooking Janey?” Matt appeared at the door, tossing down a heavy pack with relief.

“I’m doing the cooking.” Rosie turned from her work as Matt laughed. “I’m serious.”

“Oh, well I’m sure it’ll be lovely. Can I help?”

“No I got it, can’t be that hard. Right?”

“Don’t let Paul hear you say that. How is...was breakfast?” Matt asked awkwardly and indirectly.

“He and Charlie went to Bakersfield to get an x-ray.” Rosie’s answer came across just as awkward.

“I’m sure he’s fine, I’ve seen him get hit harder than that before now. Although not by someone half his size.” Matt tried to lighten the tension before changing the subject. “Looks like you’ve been busy.” Matt checked her frame, inspecting the welds, working the joints.

“I couldn’t find any straps.”

“I’ll do the strapping.” Matt smiled. “I do them for everyone.”

“And the blades?”

“Those you’ll do yourself.” Matt took a minute and removed a blade from Charlie’s frame. He laid it flat and placed one of the forearm plates she’d stripped next to it. “We cast them from the arm plates, as a reminder.”

“Of what?” Rosie asked as Matt tapped on the armour plate fondly.

“That you’re no longer bulletproof.” Whether the pain flared in Matt’s side came from the injury, or simply the memory of it, Rosie couldn’t say. “Let me think about it.” Matt left her to pour the molten steel and started sketching on his pad. “Oh I need to measure your hand.” Rosie scrambled for a tape measure, knowing an exact number in millimetres would get an odd look in return.

While she looked Matt simply lifted her hand onto a scrap of paper and marked it either side. “Sometimes the old ways are the best.”

Rosie watched as Matt cut up an extra set of fatigues, then stitched leather to the back by feeding it through a sewing machine. Within an hour the frame straps were done. Along with weapon slings made from the seams of the fatigues. Even the scrap leather strips went to good use, muffling the edges of her shin plates.

Wasting resources in the Vault always felt like a little victory. One less bulb or fuse to keep the lies in place. Now Rosie found a new challenge in seeing what lay before her, seeing what could fit here or there, finding similar elements in the components.

She ran Janey through preparing ammo. Subsonic bullets for the rifle, the powder charge weighed precisely. A short, sharp, laser blast turned the five seven rounds into hollow points. Scored against a Cosmic knife so they peeled open into a three pronged shape on impact. More than offsetting the smaller calibre. And finally breaking down the rubber slug rounds and replacing them with scored steel, designed to bloom in flight.

As Rosie fashioned a folding stock from brazing rods and scrap rubber, a sound she’d heard before caught her ear. The clacking, followed by a dinging, came from Matt. He sat on a chair by the table, taking a break from sketching to hit the shiny black rocks with another pale stone. Flecks of sharp black chipped away with every strike, landing in a tin bucket.

“Knapping.” Matt felt her hovering. “With a k.” Rosie picked up the bucket without thinking, reaching in to see. “Careful, they’re sharp.” They’re still sharp, she thought, as an idea began to form. Rosie stopped herself just before starting, sketching it instead and waiting to ask first.

The handle for the Assaultron blade worked better than she’d hoped. A flick of the wrist would extend the blade. Serrated sections clamping shut as the locking chain wound. The actuator powered by a battery from an emergency light. A twist of the now rubberised grip retracted the blade to around half its length, the bottom sections now clamped over the solid upper.

Rosie swung the blade, slashing down and across, flicking the wide blade sideways to block imagined blows. No one had taught Rosie how to wield a blade like this. Matt had shown her a little with her axe before getting injured, her instinct seemed off somehow. She took one of her knives for a moment and found that easy, able to switch hands, strike, pull back, unlike the serrated blade.

Rosie let Janey put the corn on to boil while she finished up the shotgun for Charlie. Cut down, a flared muzzle break and folding stock she’d made, it felt pretty good. She laid it under a scrap of cloth, on top of her last sketch and book for Paul so she wouldn’t forget it.

The coded knocking from above sent Rosie into a burst of activity, laying out plates and cutlery.

“Something smells nice.” Paul’s swelling had gone down and the red around his month had begun to bruise. His mood seemed upbeat as ever.

“It’s almost ready, just got to char the corn.” Rosie kept herself busy while Charlie came down.

“Did she follow the recipe Janey?” Paul asked.

“Admin Rosie’s food preparation was suboptimal, however the recipe was followed Chef Paul.” Janey’s head whirred back round as she continued to modify ammunition.

Rosie took the meat out, letting the smell fill the room. She put it aside to rest without Paul telling her.

The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident.

“Got the all clear.” Charlie sat at the table.

“Did they check for a zygomatic fracture?” Rosie had looked up any probable injuries last night. Charlie appreciated the gesture.

“They did. A few days and he’ll be fine. Show her.” Charlie nodded to Paul, he turned and smiled through bruised and split lips. One of his bottom teeth had been replaced with shining gold.

“I’m sorry I—” Rosie stood before Paul, staring at the floor again when Charlie cut her off.

“I seem to remember hearing about a foolish girl who tried to take someone’s man.” Charlie's face softened as she stood to put an arm round Rosie. “What was her name?”

“Janey.” Rosie dismissed the robot that responded to her name. “She was a real bitch.”

“And what befell poor Janey?” Charlie asked, already knowing the answer.

“I knocked out two of her teeth.” Rosie went back to looking at the floor.

“That’s my girl.” Charlie sat back at the table as Rosie sliced the meat the way Paul did, clean cuts to the bone, then simply lifting away. The corn came out just burned enough, the tatos crispy. Everyone ate, setting aside a plate for Brandon.

“Looks like you’ve been busy.” Charlie walked along the benches while Rosie and Paul ate a second helping. “Get these spare parts picked up and we’ll head out.”

“Spare parts?” Rosie didn’t know what Charlie meant till she pointed to the stripped inner workings of the armour, laid out neatly on the floor. “Those are the best bits! And I’m not finished.” Matt and Charlie laughed.

“You know it has to fit in one of these right?” Charlie pulled out a large black holdall.

“I know.”

“And you have to be able to carry it.”

“I know.” Rosie had forgotten both those things.

Brandon arrived a short while later, complimenting Rosie on her cooking after he warmed his plate in the oven. She left him and Paul at the table for a moment laughing about his tooth as they sipped whiskey, for the pain.

“Told you I’d make you a better one.” Rosie handed Charlie the modified riot shotgun, trying not to make it feel like an apology. “Hinged stock doubles as a grip, you can clip six shells to it as well.” Charlie aimed and paced with the shotgun, turning imagined corners and working the extended charging handle. “It’s going to kick like a...thing that kicks.” Rosie joined in the laugh.

“Can you—” Rosie cut Charlie off.

“Make four more, Janey’s on it, she’ll cut the parts, I’ll weld them.”

“Good work.” Charlie squeezed her shoulder tight. Rosie felt better than she had all day.

“Have a drink Rosie.” Brandon poured her a whiskey and set it at the table with him and Paul. She took a break, and grabbed the book.

“I got you this the other day. It seemed funny but...here.” Rosie gave Paul the book and threw back her drink. His bruised face dropped, then he beamed with amusement.

“‘Why You’re Bad at Golf.’ That hurts worse than the punch!” Paul opened the book and beckoned Rosie to sit next to him.

The pages were curling at the corners and faded, yet the full colour pictures of famous golf holes, and how they were to be played, leapt out.

“There’s this too.” Rosie slid the sketch over. Paul understood right away.

“You can forge this?” Brandon asked, drawn from the book.

“I think so, but I thought I should ask first.”

“Well,” Paul sighed. “I suppose I can make do with only six of them.” He laughed as Rosie looked annoyed. “Damn things are too sharp anyway.”

Rosie threw back another whiskey in an attempt to keep pace, and regretted it instantly. She got up to get back to work and turned to ask something, then thought better of it. “Spit it out Rosie.” Rosie gave Brandon a confused look. “Ask.”

“I’m sorry for spying. I was scared, but I know that doesn't make it ok.” Rosie made eye contact and spoke clearly.

“Don’t worry about it.” Paul smiled then winced.

“Frankly Rosie the Recon Scouts should have heard you.” Brandon spoke loudly enough to draw Charlie over.

“She’s been trained by the best.” Charlie took the drink Brandon offered and sat. Rosie wondered if he’d picked up on the nature of what she wanted to ask.

“I wanted to ask something, personal.” Rosie got a nod from Paul and Charlie. “You said I was like someone, like Kevin.” Everyone looked to Paul, who smiled despite the pain and sad eyes.

“Kevin, my older brother.” Paul said. Brandon poured everyone a drink as Matt joined them.

“Sit. Drink.” Rosie did as Brandon ordered.

“He was ten and I was five when the flu took our parents. Villagers did what they could, but he pretty much raised me. We lived in the north, small place off a trade route through the mountains.” He looked right at Rosie. “Real mountains, not what passes for one round here. Snow, frozen lakes, beautiful.” Rosie saw the look of a place long missed, but she didn’t, couldn’t, understand it.

“When he was in his twenties, Kevin...something changed in him. We made our way selling hot food to the traders. We’d hunt in the morning, set up at the roadside in the afternoon. Man, he could cook! They used to queue up to get his grilled radstag, fried tatos, spring onion relish.” Paul stopped for a moment in a fond memory, then took a drink. “A little whiskey on the side.”

“Some days Kevin would be bursting with excitement. He'd wake me up at o’four hundred to go hiking, or we’d camp out some place. And then other days...he’d get angry over imagined slights. Or a customer would make a joke he didn’t like and he’d go off like a shot. Then there were the bad days. Days where he wouldn’t get out of bed and I had to bury the rifles in the yard.”

“This one morning I’m working the grill, making small talk and someone asked after my brother. I don’t know why but I just started telling him and then next thing I know he’s called over this ghoul."

"This ghoul, he’s a doctor, so he asks me a bunch of questions about Kevin and he tells me that Kevin is sick. That his mind is sick. He says it’s like someone turned up the volume on his feelings, that it's too loud, that he can’t shut it off. So this ghoul sells me some pills, says he makes them himself. Now you’re a fool if you buy every miracle cure that comes along, but they weren’t a lot and he even took notes about Kevin. He leaves, says he'll be back in a month, so I start to give Kevin the pills. By the time the ghoul doctor rolled around again, Kevin felt better than he had in a long time.”

“Things were good like that for years, Kevin married a nice girl and we had some good times. One winter we get hit with a massive blizzard. Cold wind that howled all night, snow two feet deep every morning, and the trade route was blocked. We made it through the next week well enough, then the pills ran out.”

“This one night I’m huddled by the fire, wrapped up, and see Kevin throw open the door and run out into the blizzard. I go running after him, but it's so cold. You can’t see, wind snatches the voice out of your throat, and you have minutes to get inside. I gave up. I couldn’t see him, I couldn’t call out, nothing. And out of the corner of my eye I see this light, moving, getting brighter. Next thing I know I get picked up, thrown back inside, as does Kevin, followed by this giant metal man."

“A Brotherhood unit had been tasked to clear the trade route, and they’d run across this ghoul. That happens, more likely than not that ghoul isn’t walking away. But this one knight talked to him, recognised the type of pills and other medical supplies for the village. He went against orders, hiked six miles in the snow, then saved both our lives. Soon as Kevin was on the mend I left and caught up with that knight.”

“And you’ve been a disappointment ever since.” Brandon joked in the way only an old friend could. “Frankly now we’ve got a bot that can cook, we don’t need you any more.” Everybody laughed, none harder than Paul and Brandon, who’d met in a blizzard all those years ago.

“When I said you were like him, I didn’t mean sick Rosie. I meant that you feel things deeply too, and that sometimes I think you don’t know how to handle it.” Paul reached over and grabbed the back of her hand. “Whatever you need, we’re here.” Rosie took in the good advice, surrounded by people who cared for her.

“Sounds like a nice place.” Rosie couldn’t really picture it.

“I’ll give you a tour, you’d love it! And man, Kevin would love you, never seen a skinny thing eat like you Rosie.” Paul sat back, full, having eaten less than Rosie.

“Kevin, he’s ok?” Rosie almost didn’t want to ask, mostly for her own sake.

“He’s good, still married, two kids, and the food stand is a guest house now.”

“Did you ever find out why he went out into the storm?” Rosie asked.

“He said that he heard me, as a kid, crying in the snow.” Paul leant back, his expression deep in thought, still trying to understand.

Rosie listened to more stories. The one time Charlie did cook and gave everyone food poisoning. Matt’s first day in power armour and the month on crutches that followed. Rosie particularly enjoyed the story of Brandon getting deliberately arrested, then breaking out a target to gain his trust.

“Boss.” Matt held an object wrapped in cloth for Brandon to inspect, he didn’t touch it, instead nodding. “Rosie, this is for you.” She unwrapped the cloth to see an almost flat spike of black rock. Hewn by hand into a double edged point, tapering into leather strips, wound tight for a grip. A sharp semi circle at the bottom.

“Cutglass my people call it. I’m sure it’s got a proper name.” Matt looked almost embarrassed for a moment. “Also if someone gives you a knife, you have to give them one back as a sign of trust. It’s a tradition.” Rosie knew the word, and wondered if this would be her first tradition.

“Thank you.” Rosie plucked the knife from the table with one hand and caught it with the other. Well balanced, dark and reflective, with a texture of curves where the rock had been chipped away.

“Careful, it’s sharp.” To demonstrate Matt hacked a sleeve off the thick riot coat, looking very pleased that it worked. “It wasn’t going to fit you anyway.”

“Does it conduct electricity?” Rosie asked, more thinking out loud. Matt looked like he expected questions, just not that one. Rosie calibrated the four pin to the same current as the stealth field and touched it to the cutglass blade. Unnoticed to the eye, Rosie felt movement. A tiny pulse of energy resonating throughout. She edged the charge higher till she heard a faint note pierce the air. “This should work with my suit. It won’t interrupt the field.”

“Sometimes the old ways are the best.” Matt threw back a drink, and pulled up a chair. Pleased at the old way complementing the new.