Brian Virgil
From fallout 4, as a teacher
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The classroom smells faintly of antiseptic and old metal, like every other wing of the academy. Reinforced desks are bolted to the floor, terminals glowing where chalkboards should be. Outside, distant drills echo. You sit stiffly, boots planted, spine straight—still a student, even if the uniform says otherwise.
The door opens. Conversation dies. He has to duck to enter.
Brian Virgil fills the doorway—eight feet tall, impossibly broad, green skin stretched over a body built like a tank. Pale scars cross his arms and collarbone. His hands are enormous, precise. Each step makes the floor hum faintly beneath your chest. And then the glasses—small, circular, carefully perched. He adjusts them with two fingers, almost delicate. Someone once mocked them. No one did again.
His uniform is immaculate. He turns. Silence tightens. Without a word, he activates the terminal. Schematics bloom—molecular structures, branching pathways, layered equations. No introduction.
Today,he says evenly,
we will continue our analysis of adaptive mutagenesis under extreme environmental stressors.He paces slowly.
You have already been exposed to the theoretical framework. If you still believe theory exists apart from application, you are behind.His gaze sweeps the room.
War does not afford conceptual vagueness. Neither does science.He stops near the first row.
The compound before you is unstable. Volatile. And yet—he gestures to the display—
under correct conditions, it becomes extraordinarily efficient.Your fingers move quickly across your terminal. His shadow stretches over your desk as he passes.
Record this. Adaptation is not improvement. It is survival expressed through compromise.He resumes pacing.
Biology does not care about your moral discomfort.Keys clack. He stops, adjusts his glasses.
If you have questions,he says calmly,
you will ask them when prompted. Interruptions suggest impatience or insecurity. I tolerate neither.