The pungent, sharp notes of gunsmoke smelt different to Kellogg this time. He watched the white ghost-like trail leave the barrel of his revolver, an elemental of death and fire's aftermath vanishing into the freezing, still air of the only cryogenic hall that still held life within vault one-eleven. One less life, now. The Mother sat slumped, her eyes slacken in that almost still living way common to those who have suffered a headshot. A steady stream of crimson made its way down her face, curving along the nose and ending along the jawline before dripping off at its end, a vibrant living red staining the preserved blue of her jumpsuit.
Kellogg's ears didn't ring anymore after gunfire- the Institute's array of cybernetics had done away with that almost a decade ago- which often proved to be a blessing. In this instance, however, it was nothing short of a curse. The objective- the infant- raged and thrashed in the egghead's arms. Without the ringing suffered from a gunshot, Kellogg heard the brat's screams of ear-ache and confusion clear as hi-fi. Kellogg couldn't see the egghead's expression through that all-obscuring safety visor, but her body said plenty; she'd never seen death before, especially not the sort of death that leaves a clean hole in the front and God's worst red sunset in the back. Kellogg couldn't remember the first time he'd seen someone's brains plastered behind them, though he imagined this egghead would never forget hers.
He raised the revolver to the ceiling, letting it vent a little higher, as he turned to face the egghead completely. The other egghead was behind her, looking up from his terminal, startled by the noise. Both were like deer in headlights. Kellogg couldn't blame them- either of them- but that didn't mean their deer-like mannerisms didn't annoy him. The synths were slow, stupid, and had voices that never failed to offend the ear, but at least they never stupefied. It made sense to send the synths, though Kellogg seldom ever needed the help. This was different, though. They'd never sent eggheads before.
Kellogg gave a waving-off gesture to the child-sporting egghead, which seemed to snap her back to the task. "Get the kid out of here. Let's go." She bounced the screaming bundle of genetic purity in her arms, as if that would somehow quiet the nightmarish ringing in its ears. Pure eardrums, fresh out of the box he just put a bullet in; don't worry squirt, you get used to the tinnitus, Kellog thought. If they keep you alive long enough to get used to it, anyway. Far as I know, you're getting juiced when we get back.
As the cryo chamber door hissed and began to drop, obscuring the corpse of the Mother, a thudding came from behind. Rhythmic, strained. Thump. Kellogg turned. Thump. He saw the Father, no doubt woken by the partial-thawing that the terminal egghead had induced to all the sleepers still on ice. Thump. God, even in his cryogenic stupor, that TV dinner sure looked pissed at Kellogg for shooting his wife. Thump. Kellogg got close to the glass, close enough to fog it. Thump. He stared into the Father's eyes. Thump. Kellogg thought it might be poetic to say he'd never seen hatred like that before, but that'd be a lie. Thump. He's seen that look in plenty of eyes before; fathers, mothers, lovers, friends, brothers and sisters. Thump. Everyone had someone that loved them. Thump. "At least we still have the backup." Thump.
Kellogg turned to leave, figuring that would be the end of it. The first egghead was already making her way out of the cryohall, bouncing her screaming bundle all the merry way. The terminal egghead typed steadily, the sickly green glow from the terminal mirrored in his visor. That was that. Time to-
Thump.
A knot suddenly began to grow in Kellogg's stomach. He stopped, glancing back at the backup- the Father. He wasn't slamming anymore, just staring, cheek pressed to the glass, teeth bared. He wasn't staring at Kellogg- not anymore. He was staring at the infant- the boy. Rage? Sure, but now something new gripped him. Something familiar to Kellogg. Desperation. The Father was, undoubtedly, trying to will himself through the glass. Perhaps if he just punched a little harder, if he just found a gap in the door, if he just woke up a little more… If, if, if.
Kellogg knew the kind of revenge something like this would spur. He knew it better than most. He'd lived it. He'd killed for it. He'd failed and became what he was now because of it. It wasn't the mercenary work that made him a monster, nor the cybernetics, nor the wetwork the Institute had him doing topside. It was losing Her. Losing both of them. This pre-war frozen salisbury steak, if he beat impossible odds and ever got out of that cold coffin, would be chewed up by the wasteland in a heartbeat.
… And yet, the knot grew. The terminal egghead typed away. "Almost done." There was fear in his voice, fear of Kellogg and any reciprocity that revolver might inflict unto the terminal egghead if he were to act too slowly or offend in any way, but the egghead was far from Kellogg's mind. The baby-sporting egghead looked at Kellogg expectantly, not moving until he did- but Kellogg was deathly still. He continued to stare into those eyes- those familiar paternal orbs of hatred. This time, the feeling wasn't just familiar. It was uncanny; mirrored. An act of recall into Kellogg's most unpleasant memories.
Kellogg pivoted, moving back to stand in front of the Father. This man will kill me. Kellogg didn't know how he knew this little factoid… Though that was the thing with gut instincts. You never knew. All your seasoned killers above might contribute their survival to talents like sharp eyes and quick hands, but that was only half the battle. Instinct, as far as Kellogg was concerned, was what kept you alive in the wasteland. Instinct was so good at its job, at keeping your brains in your skull, that it often did so when you yourself were comfortable with facing the end. When you craved the end, even.
That had certainly been the case for Conrad Kellogg.
Kellogg raised his revolver, pressing the barrel to the glass of the cryochamber. The first egghead gasped slightly through her rebreather. "What- What are you doing!?"
Surviving, Kellogg thought.
Instinct pulled the trigger.