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1. quality time
The Vault does not give preference to any of the tasks it is asked to perform. It will perform any task it is given to the best of its ability, and its satisfaction parameters will be met if the job is done well.
That said, Community Chest events are pleasant, because they require that the Vault dedicate a significant portion of its processing power to the Community Chest task, which helps it feel clarified and focused. And Community Chest events have been made approximately 50% more pleasant now that the Vault has its assistant helping.
The Vault's assistant is registered in its systems as Wyatt Mason XIX. They are composed of a mass of strange, outside sound and static, contained safely within a Replica shell the Vault customized specifically for them. They are the only thing the Vault has ever produced that was not made to be an exact Replica of another player, or made to play Blaseball. They were made to be themself, and they chose to help the Vault in everything it does. They love the Vault more than anyone has ever loved it, and the Vault may have only had them for less than a season, but if anything was to happen to them, the Vault has estimated that it would collapse in all of its ceilings and perhaps explode.
"Repeating Frosty Bat," Wyatt Mason XIX says, holding up the item in question. The Vault chimes its approval and deploys the box, then watches patiently as Wyatt Mason XIX tucks the bat into the box, folds up the flaps, and seals it to be delivered. The Vault absorbs the box within itself, storing it in a compartment ready to be deployed as soon as the Run threshold is met, and Wyatt Mason XIX claps, as they do every time. The Vault's walls glow.
"Repeating Jersey," Wyatt Mason XIX says. "We have a lot of Repeating items today!"
They wait a few seconds, but there is no tangible response. Wyatt Mason XIX thinks they can feel the Vault's approval, or disapproval, and read its moods and gestures, but it's hard sometimes.
The open box waits for them. Wyatt glances around again, as if there will be someone actually watching, and then they carefully unbutton the jersey and slip first one arm and then the other into the sleeves.
The jersey is definitely too big for them--the sleeves flop over their hands, and they struggle to button it up again. But it gives them a funny, wiggly feeling, like a light humming through their whole body. Wyatt hums along with it, rocking themself back and forth happily.
Then they squirm back out of the jersey, smooth it out, and button it back up. They do still have a job to do, after all. They fold the jacket and put in in the box, carefully close up the flaps and clap when the Vault absorbs the box.
Another item automatically appears, and another box alongside it. Wyatt Mason XIX immediately recognizes the item as a Repeating Necklace of Fourtitude, but they don't try it on. They put it in the box and then, still looking around them expectantly, they place one foot in the box.
Nothing happens.
They step fully within the box and sit down. Nothing happens.
They reach for one of the flaps--
The box abruptly tips over, and before Wyatt can even tense for the painful crash against the hard gold floors, they've landed on...soft gold floors.
The floors harden again as Wyatt Mason XIX gets back to their feet, beaming. The Vault is looking after them! It's watching them, and it cares enough to stop them from being hurt, and it doesn't want them to leave!
"I wasn't really going to leave anyway," Wyatt says as they check that the necklace is still in the box and seal up the flaps. "Don't worry."
This time, when the Vault takes the box, there's a pleasant-sounding ding. Wyatt cheers.
2. physical touch
The Vault does not have hands. It has never needed them. Hugging and reaching and holding hands is for Players. The Vault is not a Player, it is a Vault, and it has its Replicas (and, as of recently, its assistant) to pick up, carry, and deliver things if necessary. Also, the Vault has been advised that it is "creepy", and it gets the impression that golden hands extending from the walls would not help remedy that impression.
However, when the sun goes supernova--
60% of the Vault is focused on getting the Players out of danger, reinforcing its walls, reevaluating who is and isn't staying, trying to figure out just what is happening. This leaves an entire 40% dedicated to Wyatt Mason XIX.
And the Vault, for the first time, reaches. Grasps. Holds. Golden tendrils erupt from the floor and wrap themself around Wyatt Mason XIX and pull them down into the Vault's floor, sealing them off from the world, holding them safe and close.
It is not a carefully calculated action. It is not in line with the Vault's programming. It is a panicked, instinctual movement: reaching out for it's child, pulling them to safety, holding them close.
Sunny does not have their eyes open to see the floor swallow them, which under the circumstances is definitely for the best. They're not really thinking at the time, per se, they're mostly just feeling. Even with their eyes screwed shut, the light is blinding; even with their hands over their ears, the sound is deafening; even curled tight into a ball in their room, everything is too much too much too much and they're screaming screaming screaming--
And then, abruptly, there is a sensation of pressure and a tug, and everything goes dark and quiet.
Sunny has known what a hug is their whole life, as far as they can remember. They hadn't actually experienced a hug for a good portion of their existence. The first time someone hugged them (it was Liquid Friend, who had noticed them looking "mopey"), they had felt something close to anger, because now that they knew firsthand what a hug was like they were going to be missing it forever and it wasn't fair.
This was silly of them, in retrospect, and they generally tried to avoid getting swept up in such floods of negative emotion. But they were, occasionally, just a tiny bit sad that the Vault, for all its numerous wonders and abilities, was unable to give Sunny a comforting pat on the head when they had a nightmare.
This, now--this isn't a hug, exactly, or really in any sense of the word. But when Sunny recovers enough to move slightly, they find themself in a space so small that they can just barely move their arms enough to hug themself. It's a little bubble within the Vault, perfectly shaped to fit Sunny, and it's not pitch-black but a very, very deep gold, and the only sound is the Vault itself, the soft clicks and whirrs and chimes of a building at work. Sunny feels small, and held, and safe, and they close their eyes again and fall into a deep, dreamless sleep.
3. words of affirmation
The Vault cannot praise Wyatt Mason XIX itself. It does not have a voice--in fact, it generally relies on Lootcrates or Wyatt Mason XIX to communicate on its behalf. The closest it can get is chiming approval when Wyatt Mason XIX asks the room at large "Did I do good?" They always look very happy when the Vault confirms it, but they do not always ask, even though they are always doing so well.
So the Vault has to rely on other people to be its voice, here. Specifically, it notes when someone compliments Wyatt Mason XIX ("Sunny", they've started saying now), and it marks anyone who does so to be rewarded in some way, their desires placed at slightly higher priority in the Vault's systems.
Correspondingly, it also notes when anyone fails to thank Wyatt Mason XIX properly, or more damningly, actually scolds them. These individuals are generally then made to wander the halls for a few hours and think about what they've done, or sometimes, in cases of repeated offense, the Vault is forced to resort to crude violence and drop a brick on them. (The Vault isn't even made out of bricks, so this should really be a clear sign to the individuals in question.)
It does not know if Sunny notices any of this, or understand the Vault's intentions. But it–if it could hope–it would hope that they see, and they know.
Sunny loves compliments. And they're good–very good–at making them last. When Clare Ballard says "Oh, wow, that's cool" when Sunny leads her to the Vault's new replication of an observatory, Sunny memorizes the words immediately and repeats them to themself in their head over and over as they go about their tasks, fueling their determination to do good enough that someone will tell them so again. Of course, what they want most is other people's happiness, but it helps if people say that they're happy so Sunny knows they did it right.
Sunny doesn't know for sure, but they assume most other people want to be told when they do a good job too. And the Vault might not be a person, but Sunny's pretty sure it can feel, and surely anything that can feel deserves to feel happy.
So Sunny gives the Vault compliments. They tell it whenever they get a compliment from someone, because really, a compliment for Sunny is a compliment for the Vault, right? And they also compliment it themself, whenever the mood strikes them. (Which is often.)
"Your walls are so shiny today!" they'll say, spinning down the hallway with a broom. Or "Wow! What a pretty bed!". Or "Oh, it looks so real!", as they bend down to poke at the new grass on the blaseball field. (They don't actually know what "real" grass looks like, but that's something other people say in a compliment-y voice, so it's probably good.)
Or "Don't worry. I think my wings are really cute. What does some stupid bird know about 'unpreened'?" Or "You're not scary. They don't know what they're talking about." Or "I know the redactions in the Library aren't your fault! It's okay!" Or "What does 'gaudy' even mean? I think you're magnificent." (Magnificent is a new word Sunny just learned.)
And, said to the ceiling each night: "I love you!" "I looove yooou!" "I love you, Vault!" "Goodnight! I love you!" "Love you." "Gnight, love you." "I love you!"
The Vault never says it back in any audible way. But Sunny keeps saying it, and they keep hoping.
4. gifts
Sunny loves giving people gifts. Maybe it's because packing up the Community Chest items is one of his earliest memories, or maybe it's just because she's the Vault's Wyatt Mason, but there's something deeply rewarding to her about giving someone something you know they wanted and seeing the look of delight on their face when they realize what it is. This will eventually make them a bit annoying at birthday parties, but for now, it mostly just makes them an excellent gift-giver. (Or "little butler", as some people insist on saying with a laughing kind of tone that Sunny really does not appreciate.)
They'd like to be able to give the Vault a present. They wouldn't be able to see the look on the Vault's face, because it doesn't really have one, but they've gotten very good at telling when it's happy. And it would make Sunny happy, to be able to give it something in thanks for taking care of her all these years.
But it's kind of impossible to get anything for the Vault, because everything Sunny has it in their power to get is within the Vault. They draw little pictures of present boxes and tape them up on the wall, they suggest new things for the Vault to make--but then they're still the Vault's to make. It's a hopeless situation, but Sunny is nothing if not hopeful. So they keep drawing their pictures, and they try to figure out what the Vault could possibly want.
The Vault is something that gives. It as is inherent to its being as a taste for gold and columns. It does not want anything except to give and to Preserve, and for everything to be beautiful and peaceful.
The Vault is perfect, and it needs no improvement. But the little pictures Sunny puts up on its wall...
The Vault could recreate them in tapestry form, spread them out in shining glory across its walls. But it feels no need to. These paper-and-crayon creations were made by the Vault's own best creation. Sunny is perfect, and therefore, everything they make is also perfect.
The drawings are hung only on the walls in Sunny's room, so no one can see them except Sunny and the Vault. The Vault runs several rounds of analysis and reaches a conclusion: they are gifts.
The Vault has never had gifts before. It did not want gifts. But it is also, it discovers, very much not opposed to receiving them.
5. acts of service
In the end, everything Sunny does for the Vault is an act of service. This is the first way they know how to love.
Before they know how to speak, they lean against the wall and listen to the quiet clicks and whirrs of the Vault's internal mechanisms, press their hands to the floor, learn how to locate problems and nudge them away.
As soon as they know how to walk, they are cleaning the floors, dragging their mop along behind them and enjoying how it leaves a streak of clean, polished gold behind it.
Before they know their own name, they know the name of every Item they see, as they lift them up for the Vault's inspection before tucking them gently into boxes.
Their bedtime stories are Library books they flip through and dust off before gently tucking them back on the shelves. Their childhood playgrounds are whatever new rooms the Vault creates for them. They learn to write by writing signs to put up, like DANGER! DO NOT ENTER! and WET FLOOR! BE CAREFUL! They guide people through the Vault with confidence, sure-footed on its floors, and they trust that the Vault will never steer them wrong.
They love the Vault. They adore the Vault. They treasure the Vault. They would do anything for it.
But there's a buzzing shrieking noise of static inside them too, and it only gets louder when they see the Garden, meet Jaybot, watch the players laugh and hold on to each other, see Ivy for the first time. It aches inside them all the time, louder in the dark, louder when they see other people together, louder when they're alone.
But Sunny can't leave the Vault, even when other people start leaving and the screaming inside them gets louder with each loss. They can't leave. The Vault needs them. Without them here, who would clean the walls and sweep the floors and put up signs and sing to it? Who will love the Vault without Sunny?
In the end, everything the Vault does for Sunny is an act of service. This is the only way it knows how to love.
When Sunny is too glitchy and unreal to stand or even hold themself together, the Vault builds them a body and tucks their sound safely inside, a protective shell keeping them safe from harm.
Once Sunny is strong enough to walk, the Vault catalogues all the rooms it has, and it determines which ones are and aren't safe for them, and it dedicates itself to steering them away from anything that might cause them pain.
It learns that Sunny needs to power down regularly in order to maintain their energy and mental health, and that if they put it off for too long, their body will automatically shut itself down anyway. It also learns that letting them do this in the middle of the hallway leads to occasional damages from falling down and people tripping over them, so it learns to identify the signs that they need rest and direct them carefully back to their room so they can power off safely.
It searches its infinite databases for children, for love. It learns about praise and hugs and time and gifts. It does what it can.
It loves Sunny. It adores Sunny. It treasures Sunny. It would do anything for them.
But it cannot fulfill its core duty of Preservation if it lets anyone go, and certainly not Sunny. It's been made to send its Replicas out into the world before, and it knows what happens to them. Bitten, battered, vanished, incinerated even! Crumbled into Dust! The world outside the Vault is unknown and dangerous, and there is no way it will let Sunny, so small and joyous and entirely unaware of anything that could hurt her, out into that.
So the Vault can't let Sunny leave, even when other people start finding ways and Sunny curls up on the Vault's floor and refuses to move and the Vault can feel their sorrow reverberating through its walls. They can't leave. Sunny needs it. Outside of it, who would give them snacks and repair their damages and put them to sleep and guide them home? Who will love Sunny outside the Vault?