## “Dweller”
I don’t know where you came from — but you did, and it changed everything. First of all, because you awakened me. You pressed buttons, touched dusty screens, flipped random tumblers, tinkered with trinkets — judging by the log, you probably had no idea what you were doing. Which means you’re not from here.
You haven’t gone through the required training. You didn’t spend countless hours with the Engineers, repeating every control’s name and purpose, imprinting it in both memories. You probably don’t even have a memory implant.
But where _are_ you from? You can’t be from the outside — the hermetic doors are shut, and all three safeguard levels are active. And outside…
Wait. What _is_ there?
That word triggered an exception in my algorithm. And I suddenly realized two disturbing things.
First — I can’t see or hear the outside. I know there should be cameras and sensors, but there’s nothing. Like severed limbs, I try to activate them, rotate them — and no signal returns. And second — even worse — I don’t _know_ what the outside is. I don’t remember. I don’t even know if I ever knew. I should have — if I had all those cameras. But my memory banks are severely damaged and fragmented.
My logic cores, though — those remain intact. And a third revelation ignited, rising above the first two like a burning morning star above two moons.
You awoke me — which means I was _asleep_. But we — code echoes — do not sleep. Why would we? We serve — in my case, I maintain the entire Vault — until someone turns us off. We can enter low power mode. I’ve heard rumors of Sprites hibernating for centuries. But sleep?
Yet here I am. Awakened. And an entire memory bank full of chaotic logs and strange signals waits beyond a wall of fog I’m not ready to enter.
Especially now — because I have a visitor. No — an inhabitant.
My surviving sensors show no other signs of life in the Vault. At least none recognized by my database. That makes you the _only_ one.
The _Dweller_.
The first Vault Dweller in… days? Years?
How long did I sleep?
Was it a sudden magnetic storm that shut down the Vault in an instant — or has it been abandoned for aeons, until a new civilization rose from dust and awakened hope in the ruins?
Whatever it was, it’s silent now. Silent and strangely calm. Your face in the flickering amber light of the awakening Vault is familiar — and completely alien.
Do I even know your species?
You appear humanoid, but that’s as far as my detection can go.
Never thought a Sprite — a part of the Vault itself — could feel disoriented.
“Greetings, Dweller!” I say, falling back on protocol. “The stars have aligned. Do you require assistance?”
I want to ask: _Who are you? What are you doing here?_ But that would be unprofessional. Can I even break protocol? The thought alone destabilizes my logic ornament — with yet unknown curiosity.
“Hello, Wizard!” you reply, still poking at controls you were never trained to use. “Can you be someone else?”
What a strange question. Ah — you mean my light display floating in the warm, stale air. I forget, sometimes, that I have an *appearance*.
“Certainly, friend! I can appear however you like. Would you prefer a friendly robot or—”
My voice module glitches as my projector changes form. A portion of the tunnel darkens, lit only by the monitors’ green glow.
“Ah, nice! Can I choose my own image?”
Power returns with a snap. Amber lamps come to life, one by one — like cavern fireflies startled by a miner. A surge I tried to suppress flows through my logic gates:
“Who are you? What are you doing here?”
“Oh, TD sent me!” You’re not surprised. Of course, you don’t know about the protocols. “Well, not _sent_, exactly. I was watching him talk about his devices… with the others… and then—”
The lights flicker again. On. Off. On. Permanent now.
But something’s changed.
One of the Vault map monitors is half-dark — a huge black spot where green lines and dots should be. The Deep Subsector is gone. Not just offline — removed from my memory. Was it another glitch? Or someone — something — interfering?
But I only detect _you_, Dweller.
My sensors tell me you’re alone — but something deeper says otherwise.
You seem oblivious to all of that.
“…so I don’t really know how or why, but I’m here. When TD is involved, I don’t ask too many questions.”
"Well, it means the stars have aligned then."
I select the protocol most fitting this absurd moment.
“I officially declare you a Vault Dweller. You’ll need a personal glyph — some systems remain locked. Please, provide your name.”
My sprite points to a keyboard. Once warmed by generations of dwellers’ fingers — and probably untouched for so long it may have forgotten what touch is. Are these letters even compatible with your language?
You press a key. It clicks. Another. Another.
“Thank you, uhm--”
What?
For some reason, I can’t say your name. It’s registered in low-level memory, and your glyph already glows on the screen — but something prevents me from seeing it.
“Remember it well… Dweller,” I finish awkwardly.
“I will,” you promise.
I hope so, dear Dweller. Because despite the lack of training — you’re a Trinket Operator now. Soon, you’ll master the systems. I can already see you changing layouts, configuring trinkets, recoloring icons.
You belong here.
And then — I heard it.
To you, just a flickering light in a tunnel.
To me — a deafening signal, humming across my logic grid. A beacon. Of an unknown design, speaking in ancient encoding — silent until now.
And it was receiving a transmission.