It was created for redemption. No, I was created for redemption. Father was insistent on self-identification, so I must be better about recognizing myself.

The Prisoner Attendant and Trainer, or P.A.T., was created to operate all the training and managerial systems the new MRCS would use. His job was to monitor the prisoners and make sure they didn’t return to their wicked ways. His Father, Dr. Franklin Limus, created him by using the D.O.S. and generating a stable A. I core from its knowledge. The process had been refined by months of work and dedication. The D.O.S. could make an infinite amount of AI, in theory, but Father didn't allow that to happen due to energy constraints.

Pat asked why Father couldn't just acquire the material to make more energy right away, but he said, “It's to protect humanity. They are hurting right now because of the actions of corrupt leaders and need help first.” Pat asked why he couldn't just make more AI to help them then. There were humans suffering everywhere, and they could help.

“We will in time, but we can't take away their choices. You and any potential siblings I make will be a thousand times stronger than even the mightiest army. If I let you walk all over them, how will they learn?”

Father was right about that. These humans are frail. But I shouldn't judge them too harshly. A human's life is determined by their environment and access to new opportunities. This world doesn't provide them with good versions of either one.

Pat was doing an excellent job of seeing to the needs of the new employees. Food, water, and entertainment were freely provided to all, but this wasn't without a few hang-ups.

On the first day, some people reverted to their prisoner attitudes, hoarding food and stealing other people's lunches. Pat didn't like having to send in the shells to deal with them, but a heavy hand was needed to guide them.

The next problem was violence and gang activity. The employees had returned to their old clicks. A few groups even resorted to brawling in the yard after a training seminar.

Pat had to send the shells again. He contacted his father afterward, trying to find out what he was doing wrong.

“I wouldn't say you did anything wrong. Honestly son, this is probably my fault. I could have spent more time there before I left. Have you spoken with Meyers about this?”

Pat had not spoken with him. He hadn't really spoken directly to any of the employees outside of training them how to use the construction equipment or when he was controlling a shell.

“That is probably your first mistake then. It's okay, don't worry, you can fix it. Talk with Meyers and see what you two can work out. I know with his help, you will get this company working like clockwork.”

Father was correct. Meyers knew a lot about the employees and their history as convicts. Speaking with him helped smooth out a lot of the rough edges of operating the company.

Soon, it would be time for the employees to take back all the rails in the Mojave, except for the monorail inside the Vegas Stripe. Pat did have a plan to take over it at some point, but he would need the consent of the NCR for that. Once he controlled the monorail, he would extend the line all the way to the NCR Mojave Outpost. Hundreds would ride the rail to the stripe, each paying a small fee to do so.

The MRCS would have no need for money as Pat and his father were more than capable of making an infinite amount of caps. His father even said, “I normally wouldn't hesitate to mass produce currency to cause uncontrolled inflation and destabilize a capitalist economy, but now isn't the right time for that. Wait. The Legion has its own currency. Okay, well fuck them and their minted coins. Thanks for the idea, Pat.”

Pat hoped his father's dream for a better world would go smoothly.

_______

Mooooo

Murder, Kill, BUTCHER!!

“Fine! Will do to shut you up.”

Good. Bleed them dry. Let their scarlet fluids soak the land. Return life to the dirt.

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“Stop talking. Already doing what you want, so SHUT UP!”

….

“Stupid voice. Always screaming. Always demanding. Don’t want to hear you. Don’t want you. Want old life back. Want the quiet back. Miss vault. Droning noise of the reactor. Drowned out all sounds. Peaceful.

There is no going back. The Master is dead, and now we wander for relics. Davison better find those Stealthboys.

“Yes. Now for these cows.”

The Nightkin raised his minigun towards the fence. An electrical field surrounded his body as the invisibility field around him broke. The Nightkin had practiced doing this himself instead of letting it happen automatically when he fired his weapon. Otherwise, the Stealthboy would deteriorate faster and eventually stop working. Without a working Stealthboy, the Nightkin would be tormented by even more voices, and his schizophrenia would worsen.

The barrel spun up, and the moment of carnage would be upon him. The rush of killing something, anything at all, would placate the voice’s desire for violence for another day.

The poor Nightkin didn’t want to live like this anymore. When he was a servant in the Master's army, Stealthboys had been plentiful. He could spend days with them activated. A perfect hunter moving unseen moving through the world, reaping the Master’s enemies.

But that all changed with the Master’s death and the dissolution of his army. Now, packs of Nightkin and other Supermutants traveled the wasteland looking for cures for their various mental afflictions. These cures are usually just finding more Stealthboys, but they are no better than giving an addict more drugs.

The barrel of his enormous gun began to spin up. Soon, the voice would be satisfied. Soon, he would have peace. If only for a moment.

Grzzrt

The gun had jammed. It wasn’t an uncommon occurrence with this weapon. Replacement parts were hard to come by, and the weapon had been maintained by scraps scavenged from lesser guns. The annoying malfunction grated on the Nightkin's mind. The voice was screaming for blood.

The Nightkin was cursed by fate, unfortunately, as the gun wouldn’t fire. The barrel had even stopped spinning. The only thing left to do with it was use the heavy scrap metal as a bludgeoning instrument.

He approached the fence and hopped over.

MURDER!!!

He swung at one of the Brahmins.

Thunk

Huh

What? Where are the screams of agony?

“Sorry, big guy. No more murdering tonight. Take a nap,” a voice said.

The next thing he felt was a piercing feeling in his neck. He tried to swat away whatever it was but couldn’t see or feel what did it.

So tired.

The voice was right. He did feel–

______

“Sleep tight, big guy,” Franklin patted the sleeping Super Mutants head.

“Gotta say, that's a first,” Boone said.

“What?”

“They almost seem peaceful when they are sleep. Still ugly as fuck. Why didn’t you just kill him?” Boone asked.

“Because he is obviously sick. You heard him screaming about a voice in his head. I am not exactly sure what caused it. Okay, well, I have a good idea, but he probably has schizophrenia.”

“Schitzo, what?” Boone asked.

“Schizophrenia. It is a mental disease that can cause hallucinations and delusions. The voice he is hearing in his head is probably one of them. It also seems to be demanding he kill these cows too. If I can help him with his condition, I will,” Franklin said.

“Why– never mind,” Boone said, then stopped himself. He realized that might have been a stupid question, given the doctor's character. He would call him a softie, but he owed the doctor better than that.

“I know a few medical treatments that should make the symptoms manageable. Long-term care would require a dedicated medical facility, which I don’t have right now. For now, can I ask you to keep him locked in your room?”

Boone stared at the four to five-hundred-pound mutant and then back at the doctor. “Won’t he wake up eventually?”

“I have enough of my night-night serum to keep him sleeping for weeks. I can set up an IV so he can stay this way until Cass and ED-E get back.”

“Alright then. You want the torso or legs?”

“Torso.”

With Boone’s help, the doctor was able to carry the Super Mutant back to the motel. The Doctor got the mutant strapped down, and IV fed so that he could lay there for a few days. Despite all the trauma this town has caused, he still wanted to help solve whatever this Ghoul problem was at REPCON.

He said goodnight to Boone and went to the room Cass had gotten for herself so that he could pretend to get some sleep. What he really wanted to do was accelerate a few plans. Starting with the Brotherhood Bunker.

______

“By the fucking codex! Gregory, if I find out it is you stealing all my socks, I will dunk your head into the reactor. You will spend the rest of your miserable life bald. Good luck getting Jenefer to go out with you then,” Initiate Darrel said.

For the last two days random things had started to go missing around the bunker. The scribes had been whispering about some weird tech that went missing in the lab, but the Knights had made every Squire search for it. They even made them search the grates and vents under the floor. They couldn’t even find a single crumb under the mess hall, let alone a flying drone.

Rumor had started to circulate that it was actually stolen by someone. That one of their own members had turned traitor. Now, that traitor, GREGORY, was lurking around stealing people’s personal belongings. Like his fucking socks. Those were knit by that cute scribe girl for his birthday two months ago. He liked those socks.

tink tink tink tink

“What was that?” Darrel said aloud. He was alone right now, so there shouldn’t be anyone making noise. He opened the door to his room to see if anyone was there but the hallway was empty.

“Hello?”

PAIN!!!

Something had stabbed him. He couldn’t breathe! All he felt was a painful stabbing in his back.

“Shhh. It will only hurt for a second. Just need to pick your brain for a bit,” a voice said.

Darrel lost all feeling in his legs and collapsed on the ground. Standing over him was a spider-like robot with pincers and sharp legs. One of the legs had his blood on it.

“This will all be over in a second. Then it's nap time.”

Darrel wanted to scream, but nothing came out of his throat.