January 1, 2078.
It was just over three months since the bombs fell. Background radiation remained lethal above ground, with little to no reduction in the levels till then. Even with the discovery that 'goblin silver' - a strange magical alloy that the goblins alone knew how to forge - was highly resistant to radiation, Amanda refused to authorise any of her daughters to go and explore the surface. After all, even when the suits of power armour were lead-lined on the inside and had a thin plating of goblin silver on the outermost layer of the ceramic composite armour plates, it was difficult to guarantee that the operator would remain completely unharmed.
And as a geneticist, she knew all too well the dangers of a small gene pool. Allowing radiation to sterilise any of the people under her care was not an option. Even now, she had to worry about potential inbreeding in a few generations' time. True, it was possible for her to hand-craft genomes to create new genetic material; after all, that was mostly how she had created her daughters. But that time she had the assistance of nearly one hundred other highly-trained scientists across England, along with thousands of computers and databanks all working in concert. The time when she had that kind of resources available was long gone.
No, creating new genomes was not an option. She glanced over to the tanks to the right of the main console in her cloning facility. The tiny vials of off-white fluid sitting in their injection ports were still mostly full. Given how little of it she had used to create her three daughters, she supposed that there was enough genetic material remaining to clone at least another five hundred of them. But that would simply aggravate the problem that she would have; the lack of genetic diversity to prevent all manner of problems later on.
Sighing exasperatedly, she cradled her head in her hands. There was no other solution to the extremely limited gene pool other than to seek out survivors and hope that they were still viable. And to do that, she needed to send somebody out to search for survivors in the tunnels beneath London. That somebody would likely be one or two of her daughters.
How much simpler that decision would have been fourteen years ago. Back then, she saw her daughters as little more than experimental results. X-1, X-2, X-3. Impersonal, clinical identifiers, without the least trace of humanity to cloud her judgement. Then her partner-wife , she reminded herself, after Ragnok married the two of them under the auspices of the Deep Ones - just had to go and name their children after they were remanded into her custody.
That made them unique. Different. And she could no longer see them as simply disposable samples any longer. If that were still the case, she would have no problems even sending them out to their deaths if it meant that she got the results she needed. She could always clone more, as long as she had enough genetic material available. However, seeing the way that Orianna allowed Tracey to snuggle up to her at dinnertimes; how Zoe whispered conspiratorially with Harry and Neville; or how Aveline treated injured goblins and humans beside Lucille - these observations only reinforced the fact that they were as human as she was.
Human, Homo Sapiens. Or were they meta-humans, crafted of a superior genetic base than other humans born by random chance? Homo Sapiens Superior? Whatever her daughters' true classification, she was certain of three things.
They were not machines. They were not disposable tools.
They were living, breathing humans, capable of independent thought and emotion.
And most of all, they were her genetic offspring. Her children.
Her thoughts then drifted to how she had been granted custody over them as a gift by Headquarters. A gift given in exchange for the plans and specifications of a gigantic vault designed to crank out tens of thousands of supersoldiers every month, from various other genetic bases. A facility of that scale would likely have the resources to create a truly astounding amount of people. Perhaps more than sufficient to repopulate the centre of London, given a few decades. Yet much to her frustration, Headquarters never saw fit to provide her with information about its whereabouts. Something about her 'already knowing too much' about it already.
The scientist's reflections were brought to a sudden halt by a burst of static from her wrist computer. "Mother. Requesting entry to the vault," she heard Orianna's calm and collected voice speak through her Pip-Boy. "Identification code epsilon-charlie-zero-one,"
"Access granted," she replied, tapping a few keys on the lab console in front of her. It had been so much easier to open and close the vault door once she had worked out how to grant overseer rights to this particular console.
The telltale clank and hiss of the vault doors opening told her of her daughter's return. Likely with another shipment of various mushrooms and metal wares from Gringotts, in exchange for water. A loud sigh escaped her lips as she recalled the other major problem that was plaguing the vault; that of an increasingly strained and overworked water purification system. Designed for only a staff of up to twelve people, the water purifier simply could not cope with the load required to produce water for nearly a hundred goblins and humans.
"Well, I should not keep the goblins waiting," said Amanda, standing up and sealing the lab behind her as she left.
June 14, 2078.
It had been nearly nine months since the bombs fell. Nine months of total radio silence, and of constantly sending out her daughters on search and rescue missions. Nine months of finding absolutely nothing but the horribly irradiated mutated humans that Zoe and Orianna had dubbed 'ghouls'. That, and the skeletal remains of civilians who had died of either hunger or thirst in the train tunnels beneath London. Neither were in short supply, considering that the routine Gringotts food caravans had to be escorted by no more than a dozen highly trained goblin warriors to ensure that they did not lose a single crate to the feral creatures, and Vault M-3's matter-recyclers were kept busy breaking down the bones and flesh of the dead.
Lucille had expressed quite a bit of worry regarding the mental state of their daughters. Orianna remained as quiet and stoic as she ever was, apparently taking the role of the strong eldest sister to heart. However, if Tracey's admissions to Lucille were true, Orianna had difficulty sleeping every night. The young Davis had claimed that Orianna tossed and turned constantly, seemingly wracked by guilt from killing hundreds of ghoulified humans over the past months. No matter how reassuring Lucille tried to be with her eldest daughter, she refused to answer with more than terse one-word answers, or with simple nods or shakes of her head.
Zoe was coping even less well than her eldest sister. When not out on a mission with Orianna, the once-boisterous Zoe seemed almost subdued as she moped about in the dining hall. Her eyes were dull, like many of those soldiers who had returned from the front lines of the Middle East. No longer did she try to prank others around her for fun. No, she spent what time she had inside the vault in the armoury, repeatedly cleaning the goblin silver axe that she wielded on her excursions. Even when the axe was gleaming and spotless, so polished that one could use it as a mirror, she would insist on polishing it again. And again. And again. All while muttering about how 'unclean' it was.
It was good, then, that at least her youngest daughter had no inclination for fighting at all. Rather, Aveline had expressed a rather keen interest in being a physician. Just like Lucille herself. Well, a 'healer' was the exact word that she had used, but the point still remained the same. And Lucille was happy enough to teach her little bits about treating injuries, letting her observe as she treated wounded goblins that came in after patrols on the so-called Gringotts-Surrey Highway. Her great strength often came in handy, especially when Nurse Handies were not available in Vault M-3's inventory. God only knows how Lucille would have lifted the injured onto the operating table without her daughter around.
Still, all things considered, Lucille thought that she should consider herself blessed. Even when those blessings were but small mercies in the face of the terrible reality that had fallen upon them all. Like how they had food in their bellies and water to cool their parched throats. Like how they had a vault to shield them from the radiation above ground. Like how they had beds to sleep on, no matter how rough they were. Like how they were alive, and not skeletons like the thousands that they had found in the sewers and subways.
July 31, 2078.
Amanda felt a profound sense of shame and regret as she presented her three daughters with a single shared cupcake as their birthday cake. Yet with her latest calculations regarding the state of the world, that was as much as she could give. Their supplies, even when supplemented by Gringotts' subterranean farms, could only last another five years. Maybe six, with strict rationing. The goblins were expanding the hydroponics facilities in Vault M-3's sublevels, but even those could not possibly produce anything without more water.
The Davises had thankfully begun conducting research on how to generate clean water with magic. While it was possible for wizards and witches to conjure water from their wands, many had thought that they were simply transforming air into water. Which, as they had found by the end of the first month in the vault, had become unusable for drinking or bathing. The water that they could conjure was a sickly yellow-green colour, thoroughly tainted by radioactive compounds. It was true that they could simply pass it through the vault's water purifier, but Amanda was uncertain if it was even capable of withstanding so much use.
Even now, the water purification systems only held together by a prayer and liberal use of repairing charms. She had put the Davises in charge of maintaining them, and even they mentioned that some of the older rubber seals were crumbling beyond the ability of magic to repair. Something about radiation seemed to affect the efficiency of magical spells, it seemed.
December 25, 2081.
Four years.
Four years, two months and two days, if one wanted to be exact.
Four years of wandering up and down the ruins of London, searching for survivors and intact scraps of the old world. In sewers that reeked of decaying flesh, refuse and other unmentionable things that had been washed into it from the burned world above. Not that Orianna could point out anything wrong with the smell any more. After all, she had gotten so used to terrible smells wafting off everyone's bodies after water had to be rationed to the point of only a three-minute shower for each person, twice a month. True, magic could be used to wash themselves; but after an incident where Zoe emerged from the showers looking like a huge wad of dense white bubbles that simply wouldn't pop for an entire day, it seemed that Scourgify had never been intended to clean anything more than dishes or cutlery.
And so Orianna wondered why Tracey had asked her to wash up today. No - asked would have been the wrong word for it. Insisted would have been closer to the mark. As she stepped into the shower and touched the little lump of soap that sat in its metal caddy, she raised an eyebrow when her fingers came away wet. Even before she had switched on the shower.
"Hm. I wonder who might have been showering," she mused as she turned the shower on. Zoe had taken hers earlier that week. Her mothers preferred to use the decontamination ones in the cloning laboratories, as did Aveline. And she was absolutely certain that Daphne had exhausted her allowance within the first week of the month.
That left only Tracey and her parents. And since she had seen both Mr. and Mrs. Davis in overalls down in the utilities section of the vault, that ruled them out.
So it had to be Tracey.
Her musings were cut short when the alarm above the showerhead beeped once. Hurriedly, she lathered herself with a bit of soap and scrubbed herself as best she could before the water would shut off automatically. A bit of lemon-scented shampoo took care of the grease and grime that stuck to her hair. Once she was clean - or as clean as was possible, given the meagre trickle that was the shower - Orianna stepped out and dried herself with a fluffy white towel, exhaling a deep sigh as she felt the chill of the vault start to seep back into her skin once again.
At least there were still some nice things in the vault. Straightening herself up, Orianna looked into the floor-length mirror on the wall of the bathroom to give herself a once-over.
She had grown quite a bit taller over the past few years, to the point where she was nearly half a head taller than her genetic mother. And Amanda was by no means a short woman; she still towered over both Hermione and Mrs. Davis. Her hair, the colour of burnished copper, was once kept in a shoulder length ponytail before the bombs fell. It now tumbled in loose sheets down to her mid-back, framing her fair heart-shaped face. Perhaps due to her genetics - or her daily hikes that took her all over London on foot - or both, her body was lean and lithe. Fit to take on a shambling zombie, with or without armour, with blade, gun, fist or magic.
"Hmph. Appearances. What a foolish concept," snorted Orianna, turning away from the mirror. A wave of her wand had her hair instantly dried it with a blast of hot air, and another wave brushed it down straight before rolling itself up into a loose, messy bun. Practical and efficient. Just as she liked it.
Clad in a puffskein-wool robe that seemed to be the only article of clothing that Gringotts could produce - aside from the garishly impractical cloth-of-gold ones that King Ragnok VII wore - Orianna made her way back to her room on the second floor of the vault. What she saw - and smelled - once she threw open the door, however, was definitely not what she had been expecting at all.
The pleasant smell of vanilla and jasmine filled the air inside. Her room, once a huge mess of scattered weapons, armour parts and half-eaten boxes of rations, had been cleaned up during the day. Her rifles and pistols were neatly secured to the weapon rack on the wall; her goblin silver sabre hanging from its provided hook to their side, its edge shined to a mirror finish. Gone were the unfinished rations and wrappers, replaced by liberal amounts of white flower petals. Flower petals that covered most of the floor - and trailed all the way across the room, and up her bed. A bed that had seemingly been magically enlarged to almost thrice its original size.
And on the middle of her bed, in the middle of a halo of petals, Tracey reclined, smiling coyly. A hand outstretched, beckoning for her to come.
She was wearing-
Orianna's mind ground to a halt as she felt an intense heat rush to her cheeks - and elsewhere that she didn't even want to think about. What on earth was that brunette girl wearing? Her breasts threatened to spill out of the ridiculously small bra that was on her, and she could hardly count that black string-and-lace contraption that covered her nethers as underwear.
"Come on, Ori," she purred.
What happened next seemed an indistinct blur to Orianna. She recalled being led to her bed by Tracey. Her robes were somewhere, she knew not where, and her boots had been discarded into some remote corner of the room. Likely under her bed, but that did not matter at that moment. Not with herself lying face-down on the bed, Tracey straddling her waist on her back, a bottle of clear scented liquid in hand. She could feel the heat of Tracey's skin on hers. How smooth it was. How supple it was.
Her daze was only barely lifted when she felt the touch of a cool, slippery liquid trickle onto her back.
"Tracey. Would you care to explain what this is about?" she murmured, trying her hardest not to sigh in pleasure as she felt the half-blood witch's fingers kneading her back.
"Shh. Just be quiet and enjoy it for a bit. I'll tell you later. Promise,"
"We-e-ell-ooh, that felt wonderful," she groaned, feeling a thumb gently ease a knot in her back.
"Shh. Just enjoy it,"
And enjoy it Orianna did. Countless days of training with goblins, marching from place to place and salvaging from ruins had taken its toll on her body. While Lucille was certainly a most competent physician, she simply didn't have the training to treat her aching muscles. For that, one needed to see a physio-physiologist? She wasn't entirely sure of the name, as the men and women at Alexander Barracks often just called them masseurs and masseuses. Yet somehow, Tracey was manipulating her with as much skill as the supposed experts did. The knots in her back, her shoulders - and even the stubborn ones in her arms and legs - had all mostly vanished in short order. Where did she learn how to do this so effectively?
"Thanks, Ori. Good to know that I'm doing okay with this," giggled Tracey.
"I said that out loud, didn't I?"
"Yep! You definitely did,"
"Well, I suppose the cat is out of the bag on that one. You are doing...very well, Tracey. Could I ask where you learned to do this? I do not think that wizarding families would teach their daughters to...well, massage another witch,"
The thumbs working her neck stopped moving. Orianna heard an exaggerated humming from the witch straddling her back before they resumed their motions. "How much do you want to know, Ori?"
"Everything?"
"Oh my, you're a bit forward, aren't you. That's a bit much to ask," she heard her say playfully. She could almost hear the grin on the brunette minx's face. "Well, I'll just say that your mum - Lucille, I mean - gave me a book. A really, really useful book. A lot of fun to read, too,"
"Do I really want to know what sort of book my mum gave you? I hardly think you would be one to call a textbook or manual a 'fun' read,"
"But you do want to know, Ori. You're already asking~" she chanted in a sing-song voice. "After all, Lucille already told me that your other mum really appreciated what she learned from this book. Especially what she could do for her...on a bed,"
"I really, really don't want to know about how my mothers met each other, Tracey. Or what they get up to in...nocturnal activities,"
To her surprise, Tracey simply burst into giggles - and then full blown laughter. She felt the soft and warm orbs of her-God damn it, Orianna, get your mind out of the gutter!-her friend's breasts pressing against her back, just behind her shoulders. It didn't help her that Tracey was shivering in fits of laughter as well, making her efforts to ignore the sensation much more difficult.
"Maybe you don't want to know about what they get up to. Say, Ori, could you turn over? I'd like to get your front as well,"
Deciding that perhaps it would be much less awkward if she were able to speak to Tracey face-to-face, Orianna obliged her by shifting so that she were lying flat on her back. Tracey resumed her ministrations, gently rubbing down every part of the redhead that was still tense and stiff. "Alright, all done!" she chirped, sealing the bottle of liquid with a loud click.
"Thank you, Tracey. But I would like to know what is the occasion," murmured Orianna, nodding appreciatively for what her friend had done for her.
"It's Yule. And I haven't gotten you anything for it. Soooo...I thought this might make a fine gift," replied Tracey. She shifted off Orianna's stomach and plopped down onto the side of the bed, allowing her to sit up. There was a strange look in Tracey's eyes that the eldest Flynn sister could not quite place. "I mean, you're going to be leaving for...what's that place called? Kew?"
Orianna nodded slowly. "That would be correct. I have scouted the pumphouse there on mother's orders. The radiation levels are surprisingly low there. With a bit of effort, the goblins and my mother believe that it would be possible to construct a settlement underground,"
She raised an eyebrow when she felt an arm snake around her own left arm. Tracey was clinging off her arm, resting her head on her shoulder. "So it's true. You're leaving us?" she murmured.
"Not forever. Mother mentioned that I should only be needed there for six months while we restore the pumphouse and fit it with your parents' Purging Pillars,"
"That's six months too long,"
Orianna blinked. "I'm sorry, what?" she blurted out. She didn't quite understand the issue; Kew, after all, was only an eight-hour walk from Vault M-3, and only a slight detour from the goblins' caravan route that existed between the Vault and Gringotts.
"Oh, for Merlin's sake, you can be soooo clueless sometimes, Ori," sighed Tracey. She stood up from the bed and put a finger under her chin, a crooked smirk growing on her lips. "How can I put this...oh, I know,"
Nothing could have prepared her for the brunette tackling her into the bed. Or for the sensation of soft, warm lips upon her own, a slick, deft tongue trying to snake its way into her mouth. A gentle suck, a tiny nibble, and a sensuous lick - and she found herself unable to protest the brunette's actions. Not did she remotely want to, enjoying the inviting taste of strawberries that lingered from where Tracey had kissed her.
"Wow. Am I good, or am I good?" snickered the shorter girl, who pulled away breathless. "Do you get it now, Ori?"
Orianna, stunned, slowly lifted a hand to touch her lips where Tracey had kissed her. Her fingers came away with a smear of reddish-orange. The other girl's intent was rather clear, though her reasons were not. "Tracey," she murmured, looking at the brunette curiously. "I...why? Why me? Surely Zoe would be a better ma-"
"Don't you even think of finishing that, Orianna Flynn," Tracey said sharply. She fixed Orianna with a piercing gaze that Daphne often used. One that she thought the affable brunette was incapable of. Still, her gaze softened as she continued, tracing a finger along Orianna's jawline. "Merlin, you're so dense about this. You still don't get it, do you? I. Want. You. And not one of your sisters. If you really want a reason, how about this one? Who kicked Malfoy in the family jewels whenever he threatened me?"
"He always insulted me at the same time. That does not count," countered Orianna. "You may have one parent of pure magical lineage, Tracey, but neither of mine are. His insults were always more directed at myself, not you,"
"Fine. How about every morning at Hogwarts? Who drags us out, rain, hail or shine, to make us run and exercise, so we wouldn't be soft and weak?"
"That...yes, that would be myself. But I do recall you cursing my name every session,"
"Details, details. I might have been a little sleepy. And a little cranky for being woken up before the sun was even up. But it still got me to be a lot healthier, you know? It feels good to be able to poke fun at Millie or Pansy and then get away with it because they can't run very far or very fast. But...if you really still aren't convinced...how about that time, at the end of third year? When Nott finally realised he could get his willy up and how he felt the need to-"
"You do not need to remind me of that particular incident. I remember it...all too well," growled Orianna, clenching her fists.
She had beaten Nott nearly to a pulp that one evening in June, to the point where the boy was pleading for someone to just kill him to put him out of misery.
That evening, after returning from the Hogwarts kitchens for a drink of orange juice, she heard a commotion coming from the direction of one of the disused classrooms on the ground floor. Two figures were inside the darkened classroom, seemingly locked in a struggle. One of them - the smaller figure - was whimpering while bent over a table, while the taller and larger one seemed to be pinning it down with quite a lot of effort. When she cast a quick Lumos, however, caused her to fly into a rage.
There, bent over one of the tables, was Tracey. Her robes were torn, and so was the shirt she wore underneath. Her skirt lay on the ground, crumpled and soiled by shoes and boots in an evidence of a long and hard struggle. Theodore Nott, the infamous son of a suspected Death Eater, was the one pinning her down against the table. The fact that his robes were askew and his trousers were down were evidence enough of what he was attempting to do.
Orianna saw red at that moment. She knew not why she had lost control of her temper, considering that she had been taught to remain calm in all situations in the Flynn sisters' annual training camp, but that night she did. One moment, Nott was staring in astonishment as she let loose an almost inhuman scream of rage - and the next, he had been punched so hard into the wall on the opposite side of the classroom that the stonework actually cracked. And even after that, she launched herself at him to rain down blows on the boy.
Left. Right. Left. Right. A kick to the gut. A stomp on his groin.
And a knee to his jaw, just for good measure.
It was only after Professor Sprout came to investigate the source of the commotion that she had been finally restrained. By chains of steel from an overpowered Incarcerous by the shocked Head of Hufflepuff, no less. At that point, Nott's face had been beaten to an almost unrecognisable mess; though the same could be said of his body, given the way that his legs and arms were all bending the wrong way. The Python of Slytherin had done her work so thoroughly that by mid-afternoon the following day, all of Hogwarts knew that Nott looked more like an Egyptian mummy than a human being.
And supposedly a Mudblood had been the one to do it.
"You didn't have to risk yourself, but you did. You nearly got expelled for me, and who knows what Nott would have done if he actually cast a spell," Tracey murmured, nuzzling into the crook of Orianna's neck. "Truth is, Ori, you've always looked out for me. From the day you joined Slytherin until...well...now, I guess. Damn it, Tracey - you're messing this up. Get it together, girl!"
Orianna suppressed a snort, but continued listening regardless. "I mean, what I was trying to say is...well...I like you, Ori. You've always stood by me when nobody else would stand up for a 'filthy half-blood'. I want to...well...I want to know you as more than just a friend. Orianna Flynn, would you be my girlfriend?"
The redhead's jaw dropped. She opened and closed her mouth, but no words came. So shocked was she by the sudden proposition, that all her thoughts were muddled into one unrecognisable mess. The only things that she recognised at that very moment was the fact that her cheeks were probably burning a bright scarlet; that there was a rather uncomfortable heat building up in her nethers; and that there was a rather affectionate and touchy brunette clinging to her side. One that had more or less bared her own feelings towards her.
"Yes," she managed to choke out after what felt like an eternity. Who was she to deny the affections of another? Especially one who she had known for seven years now. Vivid green eyes locked with misty grey ones, exchanging unspoken promises as they intertwined their fingers.
Tracey giggled happily and snuggled closer to Orianna, wrapping her arms around the taller girl before planting a kiss on her lips. One that Orianna reciprocated, albeit very clumsily. "Ooh, we'll have to work on that, I think," Tracey remarked playfully. "Thankfully, we have all night. You're up for it, aren't you?"
Somehow, Orianna had a feeling that no matter how she answered, she would not get a wink of sleep.
A/N:
Timeskip chapter is done. It seems that no matter how 'prepared for the future' one can be, there is no escaping the 'future imperfect'. 'Ain't that a kick in the head?'
...Okay, I'll stop it with the Fallout questnames.
So the vault's resources are overtaxed. Harsh rationing is in place, and mental trauma is creeping in for those that are suddenly thrown into a virtually dead world. Yet even in all this, there can be little bits of light that shine through and make living that much more bearable.
Next up: The waters of life. Who needs a GECK anyway, when you have magic?