Chapter Text
Sole was nervous, which immediately sent a warning chill up their spine, because they didn’t get nervous anymore. There was something about their assignment that had them back to their college freshmen mindset, that shaky giddiness that sent them bouncing on the balls of their feet. They didn’t need to see the side-eye the cashier was giving them to know what she was thinking– ‘Do you even need coffee?’
Yes, Sole needed the coffee. Absolutely. There wasn’t enough coffee in the world to prepare Sole for interacting with one of Chicago’s finest– and according to his reputation, Chicago’s sternest.
Sole wasn’t exactly one to advocate for getting buddy-buddy with any member of the police department, but this was an exception. They were smart enough to acknowledge that Detective Valentine was skilled, regardless of his affiliations, and there was just something so rich about how their partnership was arranged. He needed their help. Ha!
The first time Sole had caught wind of the Boston PD setting up this little arrangement, they had laughed. And laughed. And apologized to the poor receptionist who had to make the call, and then laughed some more. After they’d remembered themself they got some more details on the situation. Apparently, Valentine had been chasing a serial killer for quite some time–a case that Sole had become intimately familiar with due to their own occupations–and the BPD had grown frustrated with his lack of progress within the time they had given him. Tensions were high from the activity of Eddie Winter, and Sole assumed they were just desperate for any sort of progress and taking it out on Valentine.
Regardless, Sole wasn’t a detective, or any sort of law enforcement at all. They were an independent investigator–they resented the term PI, too heavily affiliated with sleazy scam artists–and a crime journalist. The way they saw it, there was too much on the line for the public’s safety to not be transparent with them. Of course, they weren’t stupid enough to endanger their progress on a case by giving too many details away, but once everything had been wrapped up, they were more than willing to be far more transparent than the BPD appreciated.
This made Sole’s relationship with the BPD… tricky. But whether or not they appreciated Sole’s journalistic tendencies, they couldn’t deny that they were helpful when they wanted to be. Sole, neither, could deny that it would be incredibly valuable to shadow Detective Valentine; he had made quite the name for himself, and Sole was relatively new to the independent investigative scene. Sure, they had a knack for it due to their journalism, but they were still learning the ropes. Besides, insight on how the BPD and Detective Valentine functioned would only help their critiques of them in the future.
Finally, their order number was called out and they were forced to stop shifting where they stood in the corner of the coffee shop. The cashier seemed relieved to get rid of their nervous energy as they gathered the two disposable cups and rushed their way out the door; she was still polite enough to call a generic goodbye after them. The door had slammed shut by the time she got half of her sentence out.
Detective Valentine had agreed to meet Sole downtown, a couple blocks away from the first interview they had on their list. Correction: Valentine’s secretary had agreed to arrange this meeting by putting the time and location in his calendar. They themself hadn’t actually spoken to Valentine before, which was making them all the more anxious. Perhaps it showed in the way their knee was practically vibrating up and down as they sat on one of the decorative rock walls while they waited.
The interview list was Sole’s own doing. They had demanded the pair start from the beginning again. There was too much that could be lost in the summaries of other people’s experiences on a case. Sole wanted to start completely fresh. Besides, that was an opportunity to really get a feel for the way Valentine worked before things got even more stressful. Sure, they weren’t about to worship the ground he walked on, but they really did want the case to work out. There was much to learn. And the pay was pretty decent, too.
Valentine had been exactly on time, that much Sole remembered, though the scene was beginning to blur. The trees on the edges of their vision were starting to grow hazy, choppy, like some of the pieces had gone missing. Something uneasy grew in Sole, sending prickles up their spine. The air had a sudden, unexplainable chill to it; sure it was the start of autumn, but the day had been tingeing on uncomfortably warm before. They tried to brush it off as Valentine approached.
They recognized him from their research and articles they’d read over the years. It was hard not to keep up with his career; he’d broken handfuls of BPD records for his case-solving, and other statistics Sole hadn’t bothered to memorize. Besides, he had distinct features that were hard to forget.
His cheekbones were angular– sharp, almost gaunt looking. He had a striking, hooked nose, hooded eyes, and lips that were thin, though Sole couldn’t tell if that was genetics or the fact that they seemed to be permanently pressed together in an expression of mild displeasure. Sole pretended not to notice him right away; like approaching a stand-offish dog, they’d allow him to assess them first, then approach and exchange pleasantries.
It only took about a minute, one within which Sole grew increasingly colder. They clung to the cup pressed between their palms, seeking any sort of warmth, but it somehow seemed so far away. Finally, Valentine broke their concentration on their discomfort. “You’re the PI, I gather?” His voice was low and rough; they already knew he had a nasty cigarette habit.
Sole’s attention snapped upward once again and they couldn’t help the curl to their lip. “Independent investigator. And crime journalist–”
“I’ve done my research.”
“Right.”
Sole should’ve known better; pleasantries were a waste of police time. Regardless, they stood and offered up the other cup of coffee. “Dark roast. No cream, two sugars.” Valentine looked wary, like he was about to call up his home security and ask them to double whatever precautions they were taking. “You’re not the only one who’s done their research.”
“I don’t discuss my coffee habits with the press.”
“Oh, I have my sources, Detective Valentine.”
They had asked his secretary approximately half an hour beforehand when they passed the coffee shop and had a lightbulb moment. Valentine stared at them for a moment, but his expression remained guarded. “Right. Well, I suppose we should head to the first witness’s house, then?”
“Lead the way.”
Without another comment, Valentine started taking large strides past them. Sole moved to follow, but suddenly realized their legs were frozen stiff. In fact, they couldn’t move at all. As Valentine continued walking, he grew fuzzier and the background faded out of focus with him. And then the scene was no more.
Reawakening was like swallowing a snowstorm, a shock to the system that stole the air out of Sole’s lungs as fast as they inhaled. That biting cold clung to every slow movement they made; there was frost coating their fingertips and gluing their eyelashes together. Blindly, eyes sealed shut, they banged their fists against the glass of their frozen prison.
Admittedly, it was a pathetic effort. Being frozen for however long had done a number on them. Distantly, they could hear a foggy robotic voice making announcement they were deaf to. Eventually, their fist met air and the momentum from their swing sent them tumbling out of the tube they had been tricked into eons ago. They fell for forever and for only a few seconds, and then they met the floor with an equally loud and wet sounding smack.
Somehow, the impact of their fall didn’t come close to breaking through the pain of defrosting. They barely registered the impact outside of coming to a jarring stop. Fighting against the cryo-pod had already exhausted them.
Sole groaned as they shifted on the hard floor. Whenever the Vaults had been constructed they certainly hadn’t accounted for the potential to end up on the floor in the cryo-lab when considering comfort. Instinctually, they opened their eyes and immediately regretted it. The icicles that had clung to their lashes had melted, yes, but the residual water was still freezing cold and had now bled into their eyes.
Considering this was a once-in-a-lifetime misery–at least they could hope–Sole allowed themself to groan with the weight of their agony. Maybe one of the staff would hear them lamenting their frozen eyeballs and frozen everything and come by with a blanket or an industrial hair dryer or anything that would make the sting of thawing hurt a little less.
No such luck.
Eventually, Sole began to shift and their muscles screamed in protest. There was a soreness to them they never could’ve fathomed before, a tenseness from cryo that had invaded their body on a cellular level. Their arms shook from the effort as they rolled over onto their side and pressed their palms to the floor, but their huffing breath seemed to be bringing some warmth back to their lungs.
The first push that was supposed to get them to their feet only resulted in what had to be more than a few bruises. Sole’s legs hadn’t quite gotten the memo that they were done resting and it was time to move and their knees gave out. They nearly slammed their head against the empty cryo-pod across from their own; some poor bastard of a neighbor of theirs that hadn’t been so unlucky as they had to survive.
After a series of movements to wedge, pull, and levy themself, Sole finally got to their feet and looked around. Fog still trailed out of their ajar cryo-pod, but the one they were leaning against appeared long-defrosted. The rest remained undisturbed, though considering the various warning messages the overhead speaker was playing, it seemed they were better off left that way. Sole was standing in a graveyard.
As they stumbled through the halls of the Vault, a pathing that was based purely on instinct rather than active recall, glimpses of their moments just before the freeze flashed through their mind. The knock at their door just an hour before. The shockwave ricocheting over the Vault’s shaft. The flat smile from the Vault Tech staff that had gestured them through those very halls and the furious scribbling of the doctor that had helped them into the pod in the name of decontamination. Sole squinted, willing the shapes of scattered furniture and objects to sharpen into something real. They weren’t supposed to be alone. Where was everyone?
The Vault was in disarray when they finally managed to blink their eyes closer to a semblance of focus. Papers scattered, chairs knocked over, tools left abandoned next to rusted pipes. There was a notable layer of dust over everything that had Sole sneezing. It was such an odd thing, to sneeze into your hand and feel freezing cold air come out. Very little seemed to make sense, though, as Sole took their stumbling steps, braced against the Vault walls.
There was a distinct sort of apathy Sole felt as they reached the front desk and saw a skeleton sprawled out beside it. One of the staff, inevitably. It wasn’t as if Sole had been some sort of dead body connoisseur before the freeze, but something about it felt so unreal to them. It felt as if the Vault staff had planned some sort of shitty prank for them once they had woken up. At any moment, the staff would yell “Surprise!” with all of the audacity of strangers who had decided to torment someone who’d spent the last however-long bonding with ice cubes.
No such luck.
Their hands trembled with an aggression that had all but evaporated their fine-motor-skills. The neon-green shapes of letters appeared in wobbly rows when Sole awoke the reception terminal with a clumsy slap of their hand, the keys seeming to escape them as they tried to click through the options. Data entries. Messages from Vault Tech. All they cared about was getting the fuck out. Finally, by some miracle, the door opened with a resounding screech of ancient metal that hadn’t been cared for in quite some time.
More hallways. The numbness was intensifying a little and mixing with an excruciating pain that was starting in the tips of Sole’s fingers and toes. Their choppy stumble had turned into a blackout-drunk sway as they pushed themself to continue down the halls and to the mouth of the Vault. Exit needs a Pip-Boy. Is this how I die? Skeleton. Staff. Staff had Pip-Boy. Plug. Walkway. Is this how I die? Their vision was cutting in and out as they threw themself into the elevator and slumped against one of the walls.
The shaky rise of the elevator felt like the world’s worst rocking bassinet. The machinery was protesting every movement, and Sole felt inclined to agree. But suddenly, the rise stopped, and the mouth opened, and Sole was above ground once again.
Oh, God, it was warm. It was excruciating. The light was too bright and Sole couldn’t open their eyes, but it was warm. It was burning. They were alive. They were so cold. They were dying.
No such luck.
The sun was so bright it blotted out most of the landscape in front of them, and for that Sole was grateful. The soil in front of them was crumbly and dry, like the nutrients and moisture and hope had been sucked out of it and spat back out. The fence that had once prevented Vault 111 workers from tumbling down the sheer hill into the nearby neighborhood was torn and covered in sickly brambles.
Their neighborhood. Sole’s vantage point from the cliff that Vault 111 had been built into provided the perfect view of the crumbling place Sole once called home. Buildings that were once bright blue were dulled and peeling like a rotted fruit. The roofs were mostly caved in, the cars in the driveways mere shells of what they had been.
Sole’s breath was coming in shaking gasps that rattled in their chest and burned every part of them on their way. Their lips were trembling as they moved to press their hands against the metal beneath them and get to their feet once again. All they wanted was to go home, and it was within grasp.
The path down was muddled by various tumbled chunks of rock and fallen branches and those same brambles they had seen earlier that seemed to be infecting every inch of the ground they could take root in. Maybe nothing else survived here, Sole supposed. How long had it been? Was there anyone else, were they the only one left? They figured it impossible. They hoped it was impossible.
Maybe they were swaying with every stride, or maybe the Earth was just turning far faster than they were used to. They supposed that was within the realm of reason, considering what they were seeing now. Maybe the Earth was trying to shake them free, the lone survivor of catastrophe that had blemished the face of the planet. They had seen the bomb go off, just before the platform descended into the cold crevice of Sanctuary Hill. Maybe there was still a crater, depending on how long after the bomb dropped it had been. And if there wasn’t one on the planet anymore, there was certainly one in their stomach.
Sole’s vision was hazy, filled with static that looked like snow or ash or the crumbling burning of the world they had known. Maybe it looked like flecks of blue paint. They braced a shoulder against one of the ruined houses, absentmindedly trying to shake one of their feet loose from a bramble that had gotten hold of them. They were almost home; they could crawl into their bed and fall asleep and everything would be alright again. They would wake up and the world wouldn’t be over. They’d been waiting on a guest when they had to evacuate, after all. The world had to be alright, so their guest could arrive. So they could apologize.
The streets could hardly be considered streets anymore. It seemed they had crumbled under the unbearable heat of the sun overhead; Sole was roasting alive as they stumbled past their neighbor’s house. They were almost home. It would be okay. They’d get cool again, not too cool and not too warm, and they’d take a nap and the world would right itself and stop spinning so quickly.
Sole’s hands shook so hard it looked like they were being rattled by a ghost. For a good few minutes, they fumbled with the rusted doorknob of their crumbling home, but eventually pushed the door open and stepped inside.
They nearly tripped on a piece of rubble, a section of roof that had fallen inward it appeared. The blur of their vision cast a haunted filter on their surroundings. Their kitchen table had split itself in half during their absence. Sole couldn’t imagine the comments their guest would make when they saw that– they’d take a nap and then get a new table.
Boots. There were boots on their floor, ones that distinctly didn’t belong to them. They looked old, like late 1700s old and even through the numbness of their face they could feel their forehead wrinkle in confusion. Slowly, their eyes trailed upward, and suddenly there was a very blurry man attached to those boots. He wasn’t the only one there. Behind him, there was a small crowd of people, and they all seemed to be staring at Sole. They stared back. “What are you doing in my house?”
And then the world went black once again.