Fallout Play-By-Post

[R.M.S.N.P]

Nine

The Overseer's room looks exactly the same when Nine returns, bag heavy with water bottles and food, and stuffed to the limit with every roll of toilet paper he found. He walks by Robin and looks at Arthur's injury. He's in pain, but hides it pretty well. "Don't worry! I've seen worse. All you need is a stimpack and you will be as good as new."

Nine pats Charlie's shoulder and observes the others. They seem fine. Time to move. "Ok people, since our scout will be busy I'll step ahead and check the Reception Room to see if there's anything useful." He lowers the duffel bag on the ground. "Anyone is welcome to come with me, following the rules."

Glass shards break under his boots as he walks the corridor and mutters to himself. "Man, nobody will never, ever believe that we killed a protectron with water bottles!" Nine just wishes that no more unpleasant surprises wait on the next room.

He crosses the large doorway into the ample room and is assaulted by memories of those anxious moments when he and others arrived, shaken and a bit disoriented after witnessing the end of the World. Remembering that it all happened centuries ago, and not just a few hours before, should give him some comfort, some distance to see everything under a rational, pondered light, dampening all the emotion. "Yeah, it should! Just it doesn't! Not at all!" Memory after memory haunts him, but one stands above the rest. Sophie, looking serious at him with those unforgettable blue-grey eyes and asking for one more chance. Now all chances were that he would never know if she deserved that chance...

"Enough!" He speakes to himself, shaking his head and trying to fix his attention on the present. "Leave that for later, Nine! Let's take a good look at this place!"
PER check for reception room: 1d10+6=12

Arthur chuckles, replying "I may not think highly of laser weapons, but I definetely prefer being shot with them to being shot with normal firearms."
He stands up, slowly and carefully, and heads over to Jay. "I belive you still have those stimpacks we found? I am rather fond of being able to use both arms."

[Kitty]

Nine

The previous time he just had eyes for the Protectron, trying to find a way to overcome it. Now, standing on the doorway, he has time to observe how the ample room has changed from when he saw it, hours, or centuries, ago.

Instead of the barren Vault entrance he recalled, the space around the huge door and the catwalk leading up to it is presently filled with countless pallets, crates and...coffins! Not exactly a pleasant sight, but still better than body bags our skeletons.

Before moving further he makes a gesture to Faust, that looks idle. "Hey, Faust! Let's check this place. I could use some company, and that crowbar may come in handy for what I can see."

Without waiting for an answer he moves cautiously inside the room, senses alert for any sign of danger. "What's all that?" He mutters to himself, trying to find any indication of the crates' content. Nine walks slowly towards the main door, waiting for Faust to catch up.

Faust made a move as if he was about to help Arthur walk, but Nine's voice stops him. "Alright..." He walks into the room with Nine. He's... reasonably sure it shouldn't have coffins, right? If this is right next to the entrance, people would freak out if they saw coffins...
"Hmm... you doing alright?" he asks. Should he try to open a crate... how bad can it be? Coffins don't really interest him, but if there's a crate with a lid not nailed down...

He finds one and opens it. "Neat. Grey, look. I found more of those wrist computers."

[amaranthineamusement]

Arthur chuckles, replying "I may not think highly of laser weapons, but I definetely prefer being shot with them to being shot with normal firearms."
He stands up, slowly and carefully, and heads over to Jay. "I belive you still have those stimpacks we found? I am rather fond of being able to use both arms."

"Please, take one. All arms needed."

Jay pulls one out of his bag and hands it to Arthur. Afterwards, he heads over to the robot, trying to inspect it to see if he can find anything useful in the shell that remains. "That was an amazing throw, Charlie. I owe you one."

lookin at the dead robo [PER] : 1d10+5 11

[R.M.S.N.P]

"Please, take one. All arms needed."

Jay pulls one out of his bag and hands it to Arthur. Afterwards, he heads over to the robot, trying to inspect it to see if he can find anything useful in the shell that remains. "That was an amazing throw, Charlie. I owe you one."

lookin at the dead robo [PER] : 1d10+5 11

Arthur leans the laser rifle against his leg, barrel down, takes the stimpack, mutters his thanks, and injects it into his arm with a quick jab, his military experience and relentless refusal to acknowledge pain clearly showing. The burnt flesh begins to soften and fade, as weeks of healing happens in seconds. Once he can see his flesh restoring itself, Arthur hands back the empty stimpack, picks up his rifle and walks over to the crates "Nine" and "Faust" are busying themselves with.

Looking for open crates [PER] : 1d10+8 15

With a sweeping inspection of the crates, he sees one with it's lid slightly ajar. Upon closer inspection, one of the catches is slightly broken, and was not replaced out of laziness, not lack of necessity, for when he lifts the lid of the crate, he sees 10mm pistols like the ones the others carry, ammunition for them, and more sets of the armour he's currently wearing.

"Pistols, ammomunition and armour here, for those who want or need it." he announces loudly and clearly. 

[Kitty]

Arthur leans the laser rifle against his leg, barrel down, takes the stimpack, mutters his thanks, and injects it into his arm with a quick jab, his military experience and relentless refusal to acknowledge pain clearly showing. The burnt flesh begins to soften and fade, as weeks of healing happens in seconds. Once he can see his flesh restoring itself, Arthur hands back the empty stimpack, picks up his rifle and walks over to the crates "Nine" and "Faust" are busying themselves with.

Looking for open crates [PER] : 1d10+8 15

With a sweeping inspection of the crates, he sees one with it's lid slightly ajar. Upon closer inspection, one of the catches is slightly broken, and was not replaced out of laziness, not lack of necessity, for when he lifts the lid of the crate, he sees 10mm pistols like the ones the others carry, ammunition for them, and more sets of the armour he's currently wearing.

"Pistols, ammomunition and armour here, for those who want or need it." he announces loudly and clearly. 

"Ah." Much better than the pip-boys. He was no good with tech anyway, why would he have one? He moves to the crate that Arthur found and takes extra ammo for his gun. Maybe he should take another gun...? Yeah. Just in case. "Happy to see you're doing better. I didn't know these things were so effective" he says. So many people- no. All those people are dead now, it's been two centuries. Just because there was this super cool cure-all for nasty wounds that could cause a slow and painful death meant nothing now. Not to them.
And he has no clue how to mass-produce and distribute it anyway.

He looks around him with a hand on his mouth, clearly contemplating stuff.

"Do you think I could find my old stuff around here...?"

[Mirasol]

"Please, take one. All arms needed."

Jay pulls one out of his bag and hands it to Arthur. Afterwards, he heads over to the robot, trying to inspect it to see if he can find anything useful in the shell that remains. "That was an amazing throw, Charlie. I owe you one."

Charlie smiles at Jay. "Hehe. Not as good as the one you landed on that button earlier. I think we´re even now."

Arthur leans the laser rifle against his leg, barrel down, takes the stimpack, mutters his thanks, and injects it into his arm with a quick jab, his military experience and relentless refusal to acknowledge pain clearly showing. The burnt flesh begins to soften and fade, as weeks of healing happens in seconds. Once he can see his flesh restoring itself, Arthur hands back the empty stimpack, picks up his rifle and walks over to the crates "Nine" and "Faust" are busying themselves with.

"Wow, I didn´t expect it to go that fast", Charlie says, looking at the disappearing wound in amazement. It seems bandages are - once again - not needed. Good. Means their supply won´t run out too soon.

She follows the others into the Entrance room. Her Radroach-bite hurts quite a bit with every step. How neat would it be for that wound to disappear in the blink of an eye just like Arthur´s did. But that would be a total waste of the last stimpack they have. Stop whining. This bite is almost nothing, you´re acting like a baby, she tells herself.

"Pistols, ammomunition and armour here, for those who want or need it." he announces loudly and clearly. 

The entrance is full of stuff. Now being in a room she actively recognizes, Charlie can really tell for the first time that a lot of time must have passed. If only to bring all the crates and coffins here.

Hearing Arthur´s call, she walks over to the mentioned crate. There seems to be enough armor for everyone, so she takes one that doesn´t look like she´ll drown in it and puts it on. As for the weapons... Hm. She still doesn´t fancy the idea of carrying a gun around too much, but it´s probably for the best. And if only to supply someone else with better aim. She carefully takes one, hoping it isn´t loaded, and stuffs some ammunition into her backpack.

"Ah." Much better than the pip-boys. He was no good with tech anyway, why would he have one? He moves to the crate that Arthur found and takes extra ammo for his gun. Maybe he should take another gun...? Yeah. Just in case. "Happy to see you're doing better. I didn't know these things were so effective" he says. So many people- no. All those people are dead now, it's been two centuries. Just because there was this super cool cure-all for nasty wounds that could cause a slow and painful death meant nothing now. Not to them.
And he has no clue how to mass-produce and distribute it anyway.

Charlie sees Faust coming over from a crate he must have opened earlier. Walking over she sees it´full of Pip-boys. That´s probably another good thing to take. She chooses one of the tiny computers, checking whether it still works, and puts it on her wrist. Hm. The new weight on her arm will take a bit of getting used to. Hopefully she doesn´t accidentally destroy it when fighting. No wait, hopefully that was enough fighting in the first place! Thats... not very likely. Anyways.

"Do you think I could find my old stuff around here...?"

This makes Charlie listen up.

"Oh I hope! I still want to find mine too. If the Vault Tec people didn´t get rid of it... I´ll help you looking."

[thegreyarea]

Nine

The pip-boy feels a bit heavy on his right arm, but that small inconvenience is a fair price to pay for its many capabilities. Among those one stands out to someone used to coordinate troops. "Hey, everyone please take a pip-boy. Let's all set channel 9 for our general comms, ok?"

He observes Charlie getting an armour vest from a crate, and feels relieved to know she has some extra protection, despite showing previously to be quite able to take care of herself. Nine looks at her and constantly sees someone too young to face the crazy, dangerous and overly depressive situation they were in. He wants to tell Robin to take the other vest, since scouting is particularly risky, but finds her a bit lost on her thoughts and decides to leave that for later.

The crate filled with pistols is good... No, excellent news! Finally they can all have guns! He checks carefully one, putting it over a closed crate, disassembling and then reassembling it in less than a minute, amazed how the weapon can look, and work, so well after being stored for decades. Nine slips a filled magazine on the pistol and takes several others.

Now he's armed, has a communication device and is already feeling better, the pain from the impact with the robot almost vanished. The crates and coffins fill a good part of the room, but there are narrow passages between them, and one of those allows Nine to reach a large opening where a stairway gives access to a lower floor.

He approaches the handrail cautiously, trying to find cover behind some pilled coffins, and looks down, seeking a good view of the area below.
PER check for lower area: 1d10+6 = 12

[thegreyarea]

Nine

There's not much to see on the lower floor. It mostly seems to be a technical area where some machinery was kept to power the Vault door and other vault systems. Most important, there's nothing potentially useful on sigh, so Nine decides it's not worth going down, at least for the moment.

Back to where the others are he finds Faust struggling to open the other crates, and decides to help. The crates are nailed, but together they successfully open all the crates with the help of Faust's crowbar.

One of the crates is filled with various miscellaneous knick-nacks, that soon prove to be whatever remained of the vault occupant's possessions after 200 years... which means not much. Another crate contains extra Vault suits. A third has another case inside it, this one made of glass and opaque with frost. The fourth and fifth contain miscellaneous junk and circuitry.

Nine only has to open one coffin to find a mummified corpse. He's not in the mood to keep finding more bodies, so he decides to leave the remaining coffins as they are and turns his attention towards that strange glass case.

PER check on the glass box: 1d10+6 = 14

[Mirasol]

PER for looking for stuff: 7

As Charlie moves to follow Faust, she nearly trips over her own feet, but quickly catches herself, putting her best "I totally meant to do that!"-look on. What a graceful move for the professional ballerina...

When she reaches Faust and Nine, they have already opened lots of crates, one containing- their stuff! Or what´s left of it... Most things are in various stages of decay. She begins searching anyways.

Because everything had to go so fast, Charlie´s mother had grabbed the first bag she could get her hands on and put the bare necessities adittionaly to whatever was in there before. As a matter of fact, said bag was Charlie´s sports-bag. Or rather a zipper with some ragged pieces of fabric attached to it, as she has to notice once she finds it. Most other things made from fabric have faced the same fate, as looking through the crate suggests. With a sad expression she fishes the remains of her headband out. it almost falls apart while holding, and the nice red color and the white dots are barely visible anymore.

"If you had any piece of clothing dear to you in here, good luck...", she says.

Digging through the half dilapidated objects, she starts finding heavier things that fell down to the bottom. Lots of coins, some keys, some jewelry and military tags. Things made from metal. They´re visibly old, but mostly fine. Scattered in between some ID´s, which have definitly seen better days, and some wooden objects. Wait, someone brought a musical instrument? It´s still mostly covered in... stuff, so Charlie can´t really tell what it is.

"Hey look, I wonder who brought that!" She points at it.

She goes back to searching the bottom of the crate. At least here are some familiar things left. Her mom´s bunch of keys, recognizeable at a huge (ugly) metal key-chain, a mothers-day-gift one of the Willow-kids made in Primary school. Also three necklaces, two with a "C" as a pendant, one with a "T". Charlie was hoping to find those. It wasn´t like they were worth much, but they meant a lot to her and her siblings. They had worn them all the time. Each pendant was the first letter of their first names.
It´s not very likely any of her family-members will ever come around to collect these objects. She should better make sure to take care of them when they can´t. Plus they´re nice reminders of them. She hangs all three necklaces around her neck and slides the keys into her backpack.

Alright. Everything else they had with them was clothing (and candy-wrappings, apparently), so no chance with that. She hesitates a bit.

"Do you think we should take our IDs? Or some of the coins? How are the odds of those still being worth anything after 200 years?"

[Kitty]

"AA!!! My banjo!!" With a genuine look of despair, Faust digs it out from below all the stuff that was put on top of it. Mostly fabrics, thankfully. But it still got damaged over the years. "Where is the case?" he asks as he digs through the crate. Nowhere seems to be the answer. Just how drunk could he get to forget his godsdamned banjo case- in the middle of a nuclear strike.
He was lucky to be here.
He goes over it with care as if it was a person. Wooden parts seemed to be in a reasonably good shape. Just a few scratches, but that was okay. It didn't seem to compromise its structural integrity. The drum needed a new skin, too. It was centuries old and gross. And pierced. Where will he find a leatherworker at the end of the world?
And the strings need a replacement. Just facts. Two of them snapped. He could see one of them have a slightly rusty discoloration. Replacing all five of them would be the wisest.
"My banjo..."
He will not cry. Not over a banjo. It's fine. The wood is still in one piece. He'll manage somehow. It can still be fixed, tuned and played. He gently puts it down on the ground next to him as he moves to take other stuff that belonged to him. Clothes. His clothes. Of course it all got rotten and gross. And full of holes. And sad.
He takes dog tags he identifies as his, though. The name and rank on them has been filed and scratched until it was unrecognizable. That's his.
"I don't know about money, but I think I'll take my IDs..." he says, going through the papers. "Hmm... John Johnson... Jack Frost, Michael Shelley... Tom Jones, Stephen Oceanguy, August Fall, Dylan Dog." Two passports, a library card, two driver's licenses, and two social security numbers cards. "They might come in handy, I guess."

[thegreyarea]

Nine

The pip-boy screen flickers until the usual starting menu shows. Nine chooses the calendar, trying to answer a question that has been bothering him for a while. The small green screen finally show the desired information: October 24th, 2281. 02:01 pm.

He decides it's time to share his thoughts with the others. "Hey, people, looks like it's the end of October, well into Autumn, and since this is Boston, it will probably be already pretty cold outside the vault. I hope we find some winter clothes somewhere, or it will be complicated to move outside, particularly at night, unless we soon find some shelter."

He moves closer to the crate with their personal belongings, or whatever are left of them after 200 years. "Also, at this latitude and date we should have few hours of light left. Perhaps it's best for us to finish exploring the place, and stay the night on the vault. We can try to leave early next morning, after some rest and food. What do you think?"

While waiting for responses he dives his hand into the crate. Soon it comes out holding a wallet. Nine opens it to find, on one side his old military ID card, and on the other a large round metallic badge with a star on the center and "Criminal Investigation Command" written above it, with the word "Inspector" and several numbers below. He looks at it and sighs.

A second search at the crate results in a backpack. As with the wallet, the leather is falling apart. He opens it to find some 200 years-old underwear, a sweatshirt, pants and a short barrel Magnum .44 revolver, with a small box of bullets. Nine looks carefully at the weapon, imagining if it would still work after all this time... It definitively needs some oil, or he risks having it jammed after the first shot.

He discards the backpack and stuffs the duffel bag with the clothes, the wallet and the gun, making the bag swell to its limits.
Nine takes the strange glass box that was on one crate and tries to open it, with no success. He puts it next to Jay. "Hey, do you want to have a look at it? I suppose it may be a prototype of that portable cryo device the Overseer was working on..."

He moves ahead through the catwalk, between the lines of crates and coffins, reaching the door to the main entrance, and begins to analyze it.
PER check on the door to the main entrance: 1d10+6 = 14

[Mirasol]

"AA!!! My banjo!!" With a genuine look of despair, Faust digs it out from below all the stuff that was put on top of it. Mostly fabrics, thankfully. But it still got damaged over the years. "Where is the case?" he asks as he digs through the crate. Nowhere seems to be the answer. Just how drunk could he get to forget his godsdamned banjo case- in the middle of a nuclear strike.
He was lucky to be here.
He goes over it with care as if it was a person. Wooden parts seemed to be in a reasonably good shape. Just a few scratches, but that was okay. It didn't seem to compromise its structural integrity. The drum needed a new skin, too. It was centuries old and gross. And pierced. Where will he find a leatherworker at the end of the world?
And the strings need a replacement. Just facts. Two of them snapped. He could see one of them have a slightly rusty discoloration. Replacing all five of them would be the wisest.
"My banjo..."
He will not cry. Not over a banjo. It's fine. The wood is still in one piece. He'll manage somehow. It can still be fixed, tuned and played. He gently puts it down on the ground next to him as he moves to take other stuff that belonged to him.

Faust seems devistated over his banjo´s condition, at least at first.

"Hey, we´ll find a way to fix it. I´m sure! And if we have to do it oldschool-style", Charlie tries to comfort him. She doesn´t actually know how to make strings and a drumskin from what animal-part, but probably someone knows. Or sells some.

"I don't know about money, but I think I'll take my IDs..." he says, going through the papers. "Hmm... John Johnson... Jack Frost, Michael Shelley... Tom Jones, Stephen Oceanguy, August Fall, Dylan Dog." Two passports, a library card, two driver's licenses, and two social security numbers cards. "They might come in handy, I guess."

"Your IDs. Plural?"

Charlie´s eyebrows wander further and further up as Faust takes no less than seven documents out of the crate, each with names sillier than the last one.

"... I see."

As she starts looking for her own ID, she asks;  "No offense if one of those is your actual name. But a lot of these sound very uhm... fake. Did no one ever question you when you introduced yourself as, say, 'Jack Frost'?"

[Kitty]

Faust seems devistated over his banjo´s condition, at least at first.

"Hey, we´ll find a way to fix it. I´m sure! And if we have to do it oldschool-style", Charlie tries to comfort him. She doesn´t actually know how to make strings and a drumskin from what animal-part, but probably someone knows. Or sells some.

"Your IDs. Plural?"

Charlie´s eyebrows wander further and further up as Faust takes no less than seven documents out of the crate, each with names sillier than the last one.

"... I see."

As she starts looking for her own ID, she asks;  "No offense if one of those is your actual name. But a lot of these sound very uhm... fake. Did no one ever question you when you introduced yourself as, say, 'Jack Frost'?"

"Sure they did. I'd then show them the ID, so they'd see I'm legit." He looks through the crate a bit more. "Aww... my cigarettes..."

[R.M.S.N.P]

Arthur reaches into the crate, and pulls out two canvas satchels he had prepared, true to his scouting and military background, for the apocalypse many had said was coming.


The labels above the buckles read "Arthur Nordgren-Fairfax Fairfax-Miller" and "Rebecca Miller Fairfax-Miller" respectively. He opens the former, and inspects the contents one by one.


He's good at being prepared, but being cryogenically frozen for two centuries was beyond even his foresight.


The first aid kit, being military surplus, was vacuum packed, with the seal intact. The bandages would be alright, but anything else'd be too expired to be used by anyone but the most desperate.


The leather pouch contains a fire lighting kit. The ferrous rod is fine, the lighter works, just about. The silver birch bark, cotton wool and king alfred's cakes are long gone, but the bits of bicycle inner tube remain.


His knife, as he pulls it from it's leather sheath, reveals itself to be in reasonable condition, being well oiled and stored in an environment lacking in humidity. Still sharp. Good for survival, or making your enemies not survive, should it come to that.


His headtorch is fully intact, as is the hand crank charger, but a quick look at the batteries shows them to be degraded beyond any use.


Finally, wrapped in oiled cloth, is his service revolver, a mk.VII Webley. Not stolen, technically, as they'd transferred him to the territorial army after getting out of hospital, rather than a full discharge. Well, if I ever do get back to blighty, I'm due a ducking massive amount of back pay, because I certainly didn't get frozen deliberately. Assuming there's even a British army. Or even a Britain.  


Unwrapping it, he checks all aspects of it's motion. It still breaks oven, the cylinder still spins and the rounds sit properly in the chambers without sticking.


He goes back to the crate he took the 10mm pistol from, and removes one of the holsters, placing his revolver in it. It doesn't fit very well, being for a completely different design of pistol, but it's better than accidentally shooting himself if he shoves it in his security armour.


The sketchbook and copy of Scouting for Boys is sealed in an airtight bag, and intact when he checks it, before replacing and resealing.


He quickly checks the other satchel, and finds the same things in the same state, save for the knife being less used and the moleskin-bound notebook and a camera in place of a pistol. 


The coins in both bags, a mix of American and British, are fine, neither of them ever having contained notes due to their fragility and reliance on an intact banking system.

Nine

The pip-boy screen flickers until the usual starting menu shows. Nine chooses the calendar, trying to answer a question that has been bothering him for a while. The small green screen finally show the desired information: October 24th, 2281. 02:01 pm.

He decides it's time to share his thoughts with the others. "Hey, people, looks like it's the end of October, well into Autumn, and since this is Boston, it will probably be already pretty cold outside the vault. I hope we find some winter clothes somewhere, or it will be complicated to move outside, particularly at night, unless we soon find some shelter."

He moves closer to the crate with their personal belongings, or whatever are left of them after 200 years. "Also, at this latitude and date we should have few hours of light left. Perhaps it's best for us to finish exploring the place, and stay the night on the vault. We can try to leave early next morning, after some rest and food. What do you think?"

While waiting for responses he dives his hand into the crate. Soon it comes out holding a wallet. Nine opens it to find, on one side his old military ID card, and on the other a large round metallic badge with a star on the center and "Criminal Investigation Command" written above it, with the word "Inspector" and several numbers below. He looks at it and sighs.

A second search at the crate results in a backpack. As with the wallet, the leather is falling apart. He opens it to find some 200 years-old underwear, a sweatshirt, pants and a short barrel Magnum .44 revolver, with a small box of bullets. Nine looks carefully at the weapon, imagining if it would still work after all this time... It definitively needs some oil, or he risks having it jammed after the first shot.

He discards the backpack and stuffs the duffel bag with the clothes, the wallet and the gun, making the bag swell to its limits.
Nine takes the strange glass box that was on one crate and tries to open it, with no success. He puts it next to Jay. "Hey, do you want to have a look at it? I suppose it may be a prototype of that portable cryo device the Overseer was working on..."

He moves ahead through the catwalk, between the lines of crates and coffins, reaching the door to the main entrance, and begins to analyze it.
PER check on the door to the main entrance: 1d10+6 = 14

Seeing Nine holding a similar gun to his, Arthur remarks "Better wait till I can give that a proper look at and service, or we might end up calling you eight instead" as he slings both satchels onto his shoulder, and follows him onto the catwalk


PER check on the door to the main entrance: 1d10(7)+6 = 15



 

[R.M.S.N.P]

PER for looking for stuff: 7

As Charlie moves to follow Faust, she nearly trips over her own feet, but quickly catches herself, putting her best "I totally meant to do that!"-look on. What a graceful move for the professional ballerina...

When she reaches Faust and Nine, they have already opened lots of crates, one containing- their stuff! Or what´s left of it... Most things are in various stages of decay. She begins searching anyways.

Because everything had to go so fast, Charlie´s mother had grabbed the first bag she could get her hands on and put the bare necessities adittionaly to whatever was in there before. As a matter of fact, said bag was Charlie´s sports-bag. Or rather a zipper with some ragged pieces of fabric attached to it, as she has to notice once she finds it. Most other things made from fabric have faced the same fate, as looking through the crate suggests. With a sad expression she fishes the remains of her headband out. it almost falls apart while holding, and the nice red color and the white dots are barely visible anymore.

"If you had any piece of clothing dear to you in here, good luck...", she says.

Digging through the half dilapidated objects, she starts finding heavier things that fell down to the bottom. Lots of coins, some keys, some jewelry and military tags. Things made from metal. They´re visibly old, but mostly fine. Scattered in between some ID´s, which have definitly seen better days, and some wooden objects. Wait, someone brought a musical instrument? It´s still mostly covered in... stuff, so Charlie can´t really tell what it is.

"Hey look, I wonder who brought that!" She points at it.

She goes back to searching the bottom of the crate. At least here are some familiar things left. Her mom´s bunch of keys, recognizeable at a huge (ugly) metal key-chain, a mothers-day-gift one of the Willow-kids made in Primary school. Also three necklaces, two with a "C" as a pendant, one with a "T". Charlie was hoping to find those. It wasn´t like they were worth much, but they meant a lot to her and her siblings. They had worn them all the time. Each pendant was the first letter of their first names.
It´s not very likely any of her family-members will ever come around to collect these objects. She should better make sure to take care of them when they can´t. Plus they´re nice reminders of them. She hangs all three necklaces around her neck and slides the keys into her backpack.

Alright. Everything else they had with them was clothing (and candy-wrappings, apparently), so no chance with that. She hesitates a bit.

"Do you think we should take our IDs? Or some of the coins? How are the odds of those still being worth anything after 200 years?"

"Might as well. Always good to be prepared. If it really has been two centuries, and this isn't just some elaborate experiment by vault-tec, even if the world has survived, the coins'll be more museum pieces than legal tender, but you can always stick them in your sock and beat people about the head with it." with a wry smile, he continues, "I'm certainly taking mine, british coins at least have some silver from tuppence and up, and gold from a half sovreign and up "