Better To Reign In Heaven

by Straight_jacketed

Summary:

There is a monster lurking under the Capital Wasteland, a beast of nightmares, a dragon of the Old World. This is the story of that monster, of his days in the sunlight, of his reign of terror beneath the earth, of his encounter with the Lone Wanderer, and what happened after. Brace yourself for the worst, for this is the story of Dr Stanislaus Braun.

Notes:

So here we are: my story of Stanislaus Braun, my interpretation of his character, and how imagine his story might begin, end... and continue.

Be warned, for extremely disturbing things lurk within. Take heart, though: there will be no rape in this story. We can establish this as a ground rule right off the bat. After all, Braun's violations are of a different kind.

Also, I wrote this before the Fallout TV series, unfortunately, so no Goosey and Coop. There is, however, rampant crossover madness and insanity towards the end of the story, so brace yourselves...

Anyway, without further ado, the story. Read, review, and above all, enjoy!

Chapter 1: One More World To Conquer

He wasn't sure when he first started thinking of retirement.

It seemed nonsensical under the circumstances, especially given the current socio-political tensions that were slowly bringing the planet to a boil, but nonetheless, that was the thought that kept springing to mind. The idea of finally attaining a reward that would make all his hard work worthwhile seemed to possess him at odd hours of the day, leaving him doodling in the margins of his notebook and dreaming of the impossible prize on the horizon.

The more he thought about it, the more ridiculous the concept seemed.

After all, he had everything a man of his inclinations could possibly want. He had a high-paying job in the upper echelons of one of the most powerful and prestigious companies in the United States. He had a private fortune that was rapidly hurtling towards a nine-digit total, thanks to his many patents and commissions, and his salary only accelerated its ascent. His position commanded respect all over America, granting him access to a network of friends in high places that he could call upon for help at any time, the better to defend himself from the suspicions he might one day attract. Best of all, his work afforded him all the intellectual and emotional stimulation he needed to keep himself entertained.

Here and now, in these dying months of 2068, he was powerful, happy and unopposed. Why should he want more? Why should he even consider retiring, when all he would gain would be an end to the fun?

Retirement, assuming he could find it in this decomposing world, would bore him rigid, and his means of seeking entertainment in civilian life would probably end up with him being arrested. He was under no illusions: he knew that his idea of fun was considered illegal by mainstream society.

So, why did he dream of one day resting on his laurels and settling down?

In the end, the only answer he could divine was this: he was getting old.

As frustrating as it was to admit it, there was no denying that age was beginning to catch up with him. At over seventy years of age, it was impossible to ignore the growing frailty of his body, the pain of arthritis in his hands, his escalating weariness, the increasingly serious visits to his doctor, and most annoyingly of all, the longer breaks between private amusements.

For a time, he'd contented himself with the thought that he might find be able to find some pathway to restoring his youth, or if he was too busy, that one of the other brilliant minds in Vault-Tec's employ might do the same, but in the end, it was nothing more than a pipe dream. He wouldn't have time for experiments of that nature on the company budget, and even his personal resources couldn't secure the needed facilities and test subjects for such a project. After all, Vault-Tec wasn't in the business of preserving individuals, but humanity itself.

Granted, it was a very specific vision of the species minus a few unfortunate test subjects here and there, but that was just splitting hairs when you got right down to it.

And so it was that Dr Stanislaus Braun, senior Vault-Tec executive and Director of the company's Societal Preservation Program, found himself desiring more – though he already had everything.

He gloomily looked down at the reports on his desk, each one detailing the enthralling possibilities secretly playing out across Vault-Tec's growing underground empire: California, Virginia, Maryland, Nevada, Massachusetts... all of them were due to play host to experiments that nobody outside Vault-Tec would ever hear of.

Project Safehouse, once a simple plan to protect humanity from the perils of nuclear war, now paved the way for a scientific leap forward that could only end with the ruined Earth being reclaimed as American property and mankind's ascension to the stars (depending on which executive was asked about it). So many of the experiments taking place within the Vaults had been of his design, but he'd never see any of them in action. Indeed, if all went according to plan, Braun would probably be dead long before they bore fruit, either of old age, or… other causes.

Turning back to the colossal windows that dominated his office, he looked out at the glittering cityscape that still buzzed with activity even at this hour of the night: Washington D.C. never slept, especially with the current political dramas simmering away.

By now, everyone with a working brain knew that the conflict in Alaska would not remain in check for long, not with retaliatory efforts already in progress: it had only been two years since the Chinese had invaded Alaska, and while media outlets were doing their best to encourage calm, already the possibility of nuclear deterrents had been whispered of among the general populace. Though public displays of patriotic bombast were still all the rage, and nobody dared speak of how hopeless the socioeconomic situation had become, everyone in America was secretly asking themselves the same question: when will it end?

As always, that was where Vault-Tec came in: candidates to populate the newly completed Vaults were already being selected from among the many civilian petitioners, both for the common breed of shelter where the experiments would take place and for the Vaults that would house the control groups.

Elsewhere, more discreet selection processes were underway for a small number of custom-made shelters where those truly worthy of repopulating the world would reside.

Braun had already earned a place in one of the real shelters, as a reward for his many years of service. As far as Vault-Tec and its close associates in the US Government were concerned, that was the only retirement he needed. Assuming he lived long enough to see the inevitable nuclear cataclysm rain down on American soil, he would be guaranteed salvation, probably somewhere under the Rockies if they were really being serious about keeping him safe. There were more prestigious sites reserved for only the absolute cream of the nation's governmental, military and corporate crop, but unless someone felt like having a tug-of-war with Vault-Tec over vital personnel allocation, he wouldn't see any of these maximum-security bunkers up close. Of course, even if old age didn't completely overtake him before the day of his interment within a shelter, there was one major drawback to Braun's current retirement plan:

Surviving a nuclear war might just be the most boring thing that could possibly happen to him.

Most people wouldn't think of such things, being more concerned with saving themselves and their loved ones before imagining possibilities for entertainment.

But Stanislaus Braun wasn't "most people," and he knew life in a government shelter would offer little joy to him. There would be no radical experiments to keep him occupied, no expendable test subjects to amuse him, no official programs that would allow him to find stimulation, except perhaps on a few white mice, which hadn't interested him since he was about ten years old.

True fallout shelters, especially ones reserved for high-ranking government officials and the intellectual elite of Vault-Tec, were meant to be safe havens for all inside their walls. Pursuing his idea of contentment among the indispensable populations would probably end with him either exiled or executed.

So, what was left to him? Should he simply wait for the bombs to fall and allow the flames to consume him as casually as they would everyone else? Was death by nuclear apocalypse preferable to death by boredom?

Braun rarely found himself troubled by the thought of dying. Somehow, the idea had never filled him with the same kind of dread it had his colleagues and test subjects. As always, he was under no illusions. He knew that he was just as mortal as any living being on the planet, and he understood the concept of death and dying just as well as he would any principle of science, but only in terms of risk vs reward. At an early age, he had learned that risking death would a mean a permanent end to his fun, so he had avoided it in much the same way that he had avoided police attention: coldly, clinically and without any real emotional connection to the matter.

Hell or eternal punishment held even less fear for him, if that were possible: after all, if there really was some unknowable, all-loving, all-despising, self-contradicting force of nature ready to swat him into perdition at the very moment his heart stopped beating, then there wasn't much point worrying about it, was there? Above all else, Braun had been trained as a realist, and there wasn't much he could do if pitted against beings that damned as arbitrarily as they saved.

No, it wasn't fear of death or fear of divine retribution that kept him from actively seeking destruction. Instead, it was once again the simple calculus of risk vs reward: if there was no reward to be gained from remaining alive, then acceptable risks would indeed encompass death. But what if he'd missed something in his calculations, some missing element that would make his retirement worth living?

What if there was a reward out there that was better than death?

---

There was a knock on the door. Normally, his secretary would have notified him of any visitors, but right now his secretary was at home along with most of the building's staff. Tonight, only the janitors and the most resilient of his fellow researchers remained at work.

"Who is it?" he asked.

"Higgins, sir. Just the latest word from the Board, sir."

Braun barely suppressed a sigh. More memos from people incapable of doing without his advice. Didn't they have wives and mistresses they could be attending to at this hour of the night? Perhaps drug habits, or other unsavoury addictions, anything that could keep that parade of mediocrities out of what remained of his hair.

"Very good," he said, outwardly phlegmatic. "Come in."

Instantly, a Vault-Tec aide swept into the room, blond, besuited and boring as every other middle-management toady haunting the corridors of the building. To Braun's fantasy-clouded eyes, he looked as if he'd escaped from the window of a high-end clothing store and was desperately hoping for one last grab at humanity before he turned back into a mannequin at the stroke of midnight.

Judging by the cut of the suit, this one was obviously angling for a more ambitious position than mouthpiece for the Board of Directors.

Also, he was all but bowing his head in supplication.

The man's reverence was unsurprising, though Braun would have found it hard to call it ungratifying. He was, after all, Vault-Tec's guiding genius, their patron saint, their paragon. After all, was he not beloved by the cameras, lavished with praise by his superiors, and revered in both the scientific community and the world at large for his technological brilliance? Oh yes, there was no questioning that last bit: to the former, he was the one horizon they would never reach, the one pinnacle they could never scale, the final proof that there would always be someone better than they; to the latter, he was a saviour, the man who would shelter the people of the United States from the nuclear holocaust to come… no matter how little mercy they deserved.

He'd collected his fair share of newspaper clippings over the years, and they'd all filled him with well-deserved pride, especially the nickname the press had given him: "Vault-Tec's Sorcerer-Scientist." The scientist in him would have rolled his eyes at the moniker, but there was no denying that the name suited his genius down to the ground.

(Besides, he knew full well that he looked the part by now. Years of exposure to the harsh lights and chemically treated air of the labs had aged him even further than his considerable years. His face had long since cast off any semblance of youth, and now resembled an ancient, long-parched riverbed, baked in the sun and dotted with a hundred thousand cracks and crevasses, the lines on his forehead standing out like canyons in the antediluvian desert of his skull. His body, slim even in his youth, had withered away to the proportions of some primeval mummy: spindly arms and stick-thin legs graced a sunken torso eroded by time and missed meals, surmounted by a crooked, hunched back propping up a head that seemed far too large for his jutting shoulders and vulture-like neck. All he needed now was some flowing robes and a long white beard, and he really would be a sorcerer right out of Grimm's Fairy Tales.)

Of course, he kept such opinions on the alias to himself: people tended to respond badly when he provided honest self-assessments. They called it "bragging," "arrogance," and "narcissism," which were terms that could only be applied to lesser men. By now, Braun felt he'd more than established himself as greater than any other man this planet could offer up.

"What do the Board wish of me this evening?" he asked aloud, his voice perfectly measured and appropriately accented.

Of course, this was not his real accent: once he'd become a celebrity in America, he'd learned to soften his voice into a more stereotypically German accent to make him more palatable to the fragile palates of his adopted countrymen, eliminating any aspects they might find difficult to comprehend, smoothing out the distinctive Bavarian elements until his voice became just a step removed from a Hollywood cliché. This was another mask he wore, and so far, it had proved to be one of the most successful, for the more recognizable he was to American ears and the more palatable he appeared to the xenophobic sensibilities of the general public, the less threatening he seemed.

Certainly, Higgins didn't seem especially frightened. Awed, certainly, but not truly frightened.

"They seem to be under the impression that you're not happy with your current post-conflict housing package," he explained.

Braun thought for a moment, trying to remember if he'd voiced anything especially negative about the idea at the last meeting of Vault-Tec's Board of Directors. He couldn't recall. At the time, he'd been preoccupied with planning the latest experiments for the Vaults, so maybe he'd seemed a bit less exuberant than he should of have been. He hadn't protested, however: he'd learned very early in life that causing too much trouble in too short a space of time tended to attract unwanted attention. So, he'd kept quiet, stayed mostly agreeable, and stayed polite… but his silence had obviously been regarded with suspicion.

"And?" he asked. "Forgive me if I sound brusque, young man, but I have important matters to consider for the Societal Preservation Program and the Chinese will not wait forever, so please be brief."

Higgins frantically shuffled through his papers for a moment. "Er, well, they had some alternate ideas for housing packages. Um… if Cheyenne or the Rockies don't interest you, at least one or two Board members suggested an arrangement with the Big Mountain Research and Development Centre. From the sounds of things, they thought you'd like that, sir."

This gave Braun pause. He'd worked with the researchers at Big Mountain before, and even he couldn't help but admire them: for a private think tank, they were an impressive wellspring of liberated creativity. More importantly, he knew from experience that they might have the resources and the ruthlessness to cater for his tastes during a nuclear war, especially with an entire mountain complex of ingenious new toys to work with. But alas, he knew that he had no chance of finding a place among the legendary Think Tank: they'd happily collaborate with Vault-Tec, just as they had with Frederick Sinclair, the US military, and dozens of others... but they would not permit outsiders to claim space in their stronghold.

"Tempting, but they'll never be able to come to an agreement," he said at last.

"Okay, um… there was also the possibility of giving you the position of Overseer at one of the experimental Vaults. That way you'd be able to conduct experiments more to your liking on the populace."

Braun hesitated. Was this a veiled threat of some kind? Were they thinking of disposing him in one of his own experiments?

"Which ones were they thinking of?" he asked, barely able to hide his suspicion.

"Only the safest ones, of course."

"Which ones?"

"Uh, Vault 13 for a start. Or perhaps 101."

Inwardly, Braun groaned. They weren't trying to kill him, but they were evidently trying to fob him off with whatever they could find: Vault 13 was safe, but excruciatingly dull. If he'd get any entertainment out of this retirement package, it'd have to be in secret and at the risk of garnering a lynch mob. The same went for 101.

"No to both, thank you."

"Vault 11?"

Ah, now that did have some potential. Back in the conceptual stage, Vault 11 had been based on one of Braun's ideas; in truth, he'd suggested it mainly to brighten up what had otherwise been a very boring meeting, but his superiors had liked the concept as a potential study of how human beings could respond to authority and convention. Alas, as interesting as it'd be to study the fear of the residents up close, once again, it still put him too close to the firing line.

"Thank you, but no."

"Vault 21?"

Gambling? Pah!

"Mein Gott, no."

"Vault 22?"

If anything, this was even worse. If Braun had been the slightly soppy kind of old man who grew roses, masturbated into damp holes in the ground and lived in daily terror of his sexually frustrated wife cutting the brake lines on his car, Vault 22 might have been vaguely amusing. As it was, diddling around with agricultural technologies was probably the most stultifying thing Vault-Tec had to offer so far.

"I think not."

"Vault 75?"

"No."

Again, too many possibilities for rebellion.

"Vault 87?"

"Nein."

After all this time, there were only so many ways a singular line of experimentation could occupy him.

"92? 95? 106?"

Braun shook his head. Again, the risk of rebellion was high on all three. Plus, they were all a little homogenous for his tastes: these days, he preferred more diverse thrills than weapons tests and drug-fuelled frenzies. None of the three had much in the way of real scientific value as far as he could see, but they'd been fun to concoct during the planning stage. Truth be told, he'd been deliberately posing ridiculous ideas by that point, trying to see just how much he could get away with before someone realized he wasn't taking the matter seriously anymore. But then, Vault-Tec had given the green light to these experiments, so maybe someone believed that there might be some value in torturing musicians and drug addicts.

"Vault 112?"

Again, he could only shake his head in disappointment. Cryogenics experiments! He might as well take up gardening.

And yet… the idea stirred something in him; there was the germ of a new possibility, there, something rich and fascinating. Perhaps there was a new experiment to perform, something based on a similar principle. Not long ago, he'd caught wind of some new research and development being performed at RobCo at the behest of Robert House himself; Braun's sources hadn't unveiled any precise details or motivations, but they all pointed towards the creation of a highly-sophisticated life support machine, powerful enough to preserve a human body for decades – perhaps even centuries.

RobCo was hardly the first company to invest in such an invention, and Vault-Tec had its own variations on the theme, though they were nowhere near as powerful… but maybe with a bit of modification, there might be something interesting here. Question was, how could he apply this to a Vault experiment? And more importantly, how could he construct a working retirement plan from it? He couldn't just sit around hooked up to life support for the rest of his days, not with so little to occupy his mind.

Braun ground his fingernails into his palms. He needed time to think of what to do with this concept, and he couldn't focus on the matter with the dogsbody currently hovering at his shoulder.

"I think we've established that the Board has nothing among the Vaults to offer me," he sighed. "So, was there anything else?"

Higgins floundered helplessly. "Er… the Board was wondering if you had any more Vault concepts to contribute; we still have a few digits left on the random number generator to-"

"None. Next."

"There was one other item: General Chase has been asking around about the virtual reality devices developed by FutureTec-"

"Young man, if this is about virtual reality training simulations, the General can take it up with Virtual Strategic Solutions. As I understand it, they are the military's partners in that regard."

"It's not a matter of training programs, sir, he's asking about the technical limitations of the VR pods themselves: he wants to know if there are any real limitations to what can be simulated with the FutureTec model."

"Tell the General that with sufficient effort and imagination, the simulators can do almost anything. If he wants to storm Olympus, it can be accomplished. If he wants to build Heaven on Earth, it can be accomplished. All I ask is that he leave it to the programmers."

"But there were concerns about the pod life support function in converting the civilian model to a military…"

As the little toady continued bleating, Braun silently debated whether to offer the socially acceptable response or to tell Higgins that Chase could ram his concerns up his four-starred rectum… and then froze as a brainstorm swept over him.

Eureka.

It was a thunderbolt, a searing blast of inspiration piercing his skull and erupting across his brain, an explosion of possibilities flooding his psyche from all angles. It had been years since he'd felt a surge of this intensity; oh, he'd made wonders for the army and for Vault-Tec through old-fashioned hard work and the efforts of his own brilliance, but he'd never experienced such a surge of immediate, near-supernatural inspiration since he'd conceived of the GECK. Now, a new idea was forming, one that made all his previous works seem middling and pedestrian.

How had he not seen it? His division had developed the machine – he himself had designed the neural interface – but only now had the possibilities truly dawned on him. How could he have ignored the potential for so many years? How had he let such a treasure slip past him when he and his army of researchers had fashioned it in the first place?

And to think, he'd almost completely overlooked the best possible concept for retirement yet!

He cleared his throat. Instantly, Higgins fell silent, dutifully awaiting instructions.

"I did actually have one more Vault concept in mind," Braun whispered. "Tell the Board I wish to explore the potential of long term virtual-reality habitation and preservation. I will be sending them detailed specifications within the next few days, and I expect close attention be paid to all particulars."

"Very good, sir."

"And tell them that when this Vault is completed to my designs, I'd like to be appointed Overseer. Make sure they understand that I will accept no other substitutes for a retirement package."

"Of course, of course. Er, the Board also requested that you provide an up-front estimate as to the duration of this experiment, sir."

Braun offered him a thin-lipped smile. "Indefinitely," he said, savouring every syllable of the word.

Higgins paused. The man obviously wasn't a scientist, but even he was clearly wondering what kind of experiment could go on forever without anyone getting a whiff of those oh-so-precious results.

Braun could almost see the beginnings of an objection forming, only to be aborted at the last minute.

There was now a uniquely contemplative look in the emissary's darting, rabbit-like eyes. He'd seen that look on the faces of thousands of underlings over the years, and it always meant that they were putting aside their own personal reservations in favour of assuming the perspective of Vault-Tec as a whole, allowing the company to think for them instead of the reverse. Braun could tell that Higgins had been appointed to negotiate on behalf of the Board as well as speak for them, and they had no doubt entrusted him to come to a mutually beneficial agreement; if he arrived with a result they wouldn't like, his career might be endangered. So now he was wondering if his superiors would agree to this specification – and if it was worth risking his job to deliver potentially bad news.

Once again, Braun was under no illusions: he knew that some unfortunately perceptive co-workers found him difficult to deal with at times, that his supposed ego occasionally overwhelmed anything he could accomplish through good manners and a few carefully delivered pats on the head. More importantly, he knew that the Board of Directors didn't want him making a nuisance of himself in the most pivotal stages of the program. No, they'd want him contented and out of the way so that they could get on with things. They wouldn't protest this retirement plan of his or the duration of this "experiment", not if they had any sense or gratitude.

They owed him everything.

Eventually, the look fell away from Higgins' face, and he returned to full consciousness with a little less individuality in place. "I'm sure they will be more than happy to accommodate your request, sir," he said – and as far as Braun was concerned, the Board had already said yes.

"Then that will be all, Higgins. Enjoy your evening."

"Very well, sir. Good night, Dr Braun."

As the aide scurried away, Stanislaus Braun sat down behind his desk and grinned to himself, gripped by the first inklings of euphoria. The germ of an idea was sprouting, growing into a vast and mighty tree within his head: he knew what virtual reality was capable of, and he knew how simple it would be to repurpose it for entertainment… and yet, he never would have imagined a long-finished project forming the basis of a Vault experiment, let alone his final reward.

He'd long ago heard the story of Alexander the Great, and how the boy general had once wept at the thought of there being infinite worlds beyond his reach and he still had not yet conquered one. Other authors had later claimed that he had wept for there were no more worlds to conquer. Somehow, it seemed Braun had found himself in a position that this reinterpreted Alexander might have envied:

Tonight, with his private world of experimentation and stimulation conquered and with nothing else to do but wait for the end, he had seen the mists before him part… and witnessed a new world waiting for him just beyond the threshold.

All he had to do now was reach out and take it.

Chapter 2: The Foundations Of Patience

Summary:

Braun reflects on his monstrous past as he waits for his dream of the future to come true...

On November 18th, 2068, Stanislaus Braun clambered from the back seat of the limousine to stand before the humble building that now camouflaged the excavation that would become his greatest triumph.

Vault 112.

All things considered, it wasn't often that Vault-Tec had ever needed to conceal a Vault from anyone other than the Chinese: after all, the test subjects due to inhabit these shelters were meant to make their own way to the Vaults, so it usually helped if they were within driving or even walking distance. Over in Massachusetts, Vault 111 was just uphill from suburbia, and some of the Vaults in Washington had been built inside caves well-known to locals. Even Vault 106, barely a stone's throw from the current construction site, was plainly visible to anyone who cared to peek over the fence – though the guards prevented any uninvited guests, of course.

Braun, however, had insisted on total security for his project: Vault 112 was to be kept hidden from everyone except Vault-Tec personnel and the chosen residents, all of whom were bound by law from revealing its official location. For good measure, the bureaucrats in charge of selection were planning on drawing their population from failed petitioners to other local Vaults, just to make sure they would be grateful enough to keep their mouths shut.

Of course, he hadn't had to explain himself to the Board. He hadn't needed to tell them that he didn't want his fun disturbed by gawking thrillseekers, nor did he want any surviving remnants of the human race to stumble upon his private domain in the centuries to come, as he predicted might be the case. He'd proved himself invaluable to them by now, and it was in their best interests to remain in his good graces. But just to sweeten the deal, he'd provided a very generous donation to the company and paid for some of the more extravagant elements out of his own pocket. So, they gave him whatever he needed, beginning with the camouflage.

In this respect, with so much of Braun's own money invested in what was supposedly a company project, Vault 112 was not so much a laboratory as an exclusive domain, rather like those isolated bunkers now being secretly constructed exclusively for the richest and most powerful members of the non-governmental elite. These wealthy, reclusive and thoroughly paranoid few had arranged for their private shelters to be outfitted with the best defences, luxuries, servants and provisions that money could buy, many of them intending to remain there from the moment their bunkers were finished and run their business entirely by intermediary. But how many such men could claim to have secured the kind of luxuries that Braun would enjoy? Few would have had the forethought to invest in such an unassuming disguise for their underground dominions…

Smith Casey's Garage, it was called.

Fortunately, there was already an extant Smith Casey to provide cover, an odious little blob of a man who looked like a spirited attempt at sculpting a human being entirely out of old cooking fat; a day-drinker, a chain smoker, and a crushing bore with monumentally inconsequential ambitions, he was largely unremarkable except for the weapons-grade stench that constantly billowed up from his swampy armpits. Had it not been for matters of convenience, nobody would have had good cause to do business with him… but as it happened, he owned the one plot of land that would be perfect for Vault 112.

Furthermore, the ugly little concrete building they'd bought from him really was a functional automotive service garage… or at least, it would have been if Casey had been able to get the new permits to operate in the area by the time he was ready to actually open the place. A virtual next-door neighbour to Fort Bannister and the factory complex of Evergreen Mills, the garage was regarded as a potential security risk by both the factory owners and the military, and probably would have been torn down long ago if Braun hadn't stepped in.

With his dream of running his own business stalled, the grungy little mechanic had been most obliging when Vault-Tec had offered to pay him an impressive stipend in exchange for the use of his building. So long as he kept up appearances, told his neighbours that he was still "renovating" the business, and didn't ask too many questions, he would enjoy a prosperity that few small-business starters ever achieved. Granted, he'd likely end up being incinerated by a nuclear holocaust long before he could ever enjoy his prosperity in the long term, but then again, it wasn't as if anyone apart from Braun was going to get a happy ending out of this situation.

Inside the building, in a garage that would never be put to any real use, the construction workers were already preparing the underground tunnel that would pave the way for his greatest triumph yet.

And yet, Braun couldn't focus on the glories to come; he couldn't dream of what fun he might had when the modified simulators were finally complete; he couldn't even think about the bitter chill of the morning air, or the drifts of snow blocking the roads (courtesy of Washington D.C.'s increasingly brutal winter).

All he could think of was the time that was being wasted.

---

Waiting had always been a problem for Braun.

By now, he knew himself well enough to admit that he had a powerful need for stimulation and had great difficulty coping with boredom no matter how fleeting. Fortunately, he'd learned how to keep his appetites under control: losing control meant drawing attention to himself, drawing attention to himself meant investigation, and investigation would mean an end to his fun.

Through rigorous mental discipline taught by the horde of therapists his parents had hired under one pretext or another, he had learned how to withhold his own satisfactions in order to succeed, how to focus his attention on work at the cost of his own desires… but those desires, those needs couldn't be denied forever.

Sooner or later, he would indulge himself gloriously and gluttonously, like a starving man finding himself alone at a banquet, gorging himself until at last, he was sated. He'd learned how to hide his grand repasts, though: he'd been taught to mask his true nature, not by any therapist hired by his parents, but by one of the rare few who even came close to his level.

Under the guidance of his secret teacher, he'd learned the rules of disguise, how best to conceal the bloodstains and the bodies, so that when the time came to return to serious pursuits, he could slip back behind the mask and go back to being a respectable member of society.

But always, there was a distinct sense of disappointment for every indulgence he allowed himself: as soon as the pleasure faded and the rush of endorphins finally subsided, he couldn't help but wish that it had lasted for just a little longer, that he'd been able to take in all the little sensations before they'd disappeared. No matter how long he was able to extend his time of enjoyment, he always returned to work feeling ever-so-subtly unfulfilled. At times, he would try to get around this by snacking on whatever morsels he could steal without being caught, a humiliated colleague here, a frightened underling there, but it was never enough. He needed to indulge monstrously, or not at all.

Over the course of his life, Braun had never fully conquered his appetites, nor did he want to. After all, they gave his existence meaning beyond any of the usual self-justifications conceived of by society. Indeed, as the decades had dragged on, his appetites had only grown greater, more complex, more grandiose, and he had revelled in every single moment he'd been able to exercise them.

As a child, his needs had been simple: for every hour of uninterrupted study he performed, he would catch a mouse from under the floorboards and slowly crush it under his heel.

His secret tutor occasionally provided dogs and other treats to be butchered, but mice had been the most common means of satiating his appetites. Later, there were rabbits in the fields outside of town, easily herded into snares and slowly flayed, a reward to himself for good behaviour at school. Later still, when he was old enough to join his brawnier cousins in the annual hunt, there were deer.

His uncle, a giant of a man who always seemed incomplete without a beer stein in his hand, would boom with laughter and ruffle Braun's hair at the sight of his successes, calling him "little huntsman," "the boy gamekeeper," and other endearments.

"It's such a shame he's going away to boarding school," he would chuckle. "He'd bring home the grand prize every year."

Of course, Uncle Albrecht didn't know just how long Braun had stalked the quarry before finally taking his shot, or how many hours he'd prolonged the deer's suffering before the kill. Nor did he imagine the company Braun secretly kept on such expeditions, or the mentor who'd taught him how to hunt.

Nor did he know about the missing pets, the broken streetlights, the burst tyres, the severed brake lines, and finally, the vanished hikers.

Nor was Braun ever suspected of these crimes: he'd learned to make himself admirable, to smile and shake hands, to compliment and seduce, to offer his arm to little old ladies as they crossed the road, to volunteer for charitable work, and make himself the darling of his community. The only people who might have suspected him were his own parents, but they remained firmly in denial for the rest of their lives. After all, they didn't want to imagine that all the money they'd spent on therapists for their "darling little 'Laus" might have gone to waste.

Once he'd left Kronach to attend university in Berlin, there'd been more entertainment to be found: his hometown had been too small and too quaint to satisfy his desires, its fairytale cottages and medieval fortress offering no potential for great amusement beyond teenage delinquency. But Berlin had opportunities beyond counting: it was in Berlin's alleys and sewers that he learned to delay the final brutalization, to appreciate the subtleties of inflicting terror, humiliation, pain, despair, and death.

Most importantly, it was in Berlin that he'd truly discovered his love of science, its complexities, its potential for change… and much more, if you found the right professors. He'd learned that science was not merely the study of how the world truly worked, but a pathway to bigger and better things: in this new world of technological triumphs and machines that would have been called magic in another era, such knowledge granted entry into the halls of government, into organizations that knew they would have to advance quicker than their enemies and were prepared to pay any price to progress.

In this modern age, science was not a means of bettering humanity.

Science was currency.

Science was carte blanche.

Science was power.

And young Braun took to science like the proverbial duck to water, enraptured beyond words by every discovery, every illuminating new development, and every dead test subject. In much the same way that he experimented with the limits of human pain and endurance, so too did he test the boundaries of what was possible through biology, physics, chemistry and technology.

His teachers called him a renaissance man; his fellow pupils called him a mad genius; prospective employers called him "an invaluable source of liberated intellect."

By those days, the long-antiquated worship of scientific ethics was already beginning to fade, and the practise of human experimentation was undergoing a global renaissance. It was in that burgeoning field of truly merciless research that Braun made his first American contacts, and there that he realized that the United States would offer him the greatest possibility for advancement, intellectual challenges, and entertainment. From there, it had been a short jump from partnership to citizenship.

His collaboration with the military had resulted in many years of triumph, as had his other classified partnerships, but it was his work with Vault-Tec that had truly given him the most joy. After all, they'd spoiled him rotten. As an institution vital for the long-term survival of the human race and American culture, the company had been given all the test subjects they needed, even if those initial tests had only been steppingstones on the way to the Vaults and the grander experiments that would take place within them. For the last few years, Braun had been provided with as many convicts as he'd needed to satisfy his urges; by now, he suspected that his employers knew of his hobbies, and excused them because he had provided them with so much.

After all, he and he alone had given them the Garden of Eden Creation Kit – both the "vanilla" edition and the hyper-advanced terraforming module that had made him a legend in the scientific community. Through Future-Tec, through the Societal Preservation Program, he'd provided his superiors with so much more. They wouldn't reveal his activities to the police or the public, not when doing so would pull back the curtain on their own dirty little secrets.

But no matter how many experiments he'd ran, no matter how many expendable test subjects he'd been provided with, he'd longed for more: his holy grail had always been a moment of satisfaction that never had to end, a perpetual time of indulgence uninterrupted by the tedium of public life or the myriad disappointments of the real world.

Braun thought such a thing would be impossible… up until the concept of Vault 112 had occurred to him.

---

Now, a small army of engineers were now combining Future-Tech's virtual reality pods with the most sophisticated blueprints for indefinite life support (provided by him, of course); a thousand programmers were at work on the software, the design tools, the avatar editors, the simulations, the myriad sensations that were the cornerstone of this project; bureaucrats were sweeping through old rejection notices for citizens suitable to populate the new Vault, unaware of what would become of the selected inductees when they'd finally arrived; hundreds of specially-contracted workers were covertly tunnelling under Smith Casey's Garage, laying the foundations for the Vault where his masterpiece would be built.

There was geothermal energy to be tapped, radiation shielding to prepare, power networks to establish, waterproofing to install, security systems to devise, and most importantly, there were Braun's personal touches to implement: the memory chips, the auxiliary terminal, the administrator privileges...

Deep beneath America's shining capital, his dream was slowly taking shape.

But to attain it… he would have to wait.

Braun had already spoken with his doctors, and they'd agreed that he was in excellent health for his age, but they'd also advised him not to overexert himself. In a way, they were almost as bad as the waiting, for every time they advised him to get more sleep, to attend less meetings, to let his underlings handle things for him, he'd wanted to throttle the wheedling idiots with their own stethoscopes.

It wasn't exertion that was the problem, it was self-denial!

They'd given him another ten to fifteen years of life at the least, and he knew from experience that the construction of these Vaults took upwards of four years to complete… and in the case of the equipment needed for Vault 112, it would take even longer. All the while, he was getting older, and tensions between China and America were only getting worse. The thought of dying of natural causes – or nuclear conflagration – before seeing his dream accomplished filled him with such frustration that it was a marvel that he could get through a day without killing something.

And so it was that Braun allowed his newest assistant to lead him into the depths of the construction site for his first tour of the nascent Vault.

Right now, a tour wasn't necessary: reports had already been provided and photographs had already been taken of the work in progress. But he had to see this in person; he had to know his dream was coming to fruition. And he knew that this was only going to be the first visit of many.

Waiting was going to kill him quicker than his own body.

Notes:

Feel free to comment and let me know what you think! Is it too silly, too serious, too comical, too monstrous? Tell me! Your opinions, good and bad, give me the will to continue!

Chapter 3: Into The Dream

Summary:

The new Overseer claims his throne...

Notes:

Anyway, in this chapter, I'm going to be expanding a little on the layout of the Vault, making it a little deeper and more expansive. I don't like to use the term "more realistic," given that realism is a deeply overrated element in fiction. See, it wasn't Bethesda's fault that they weren't able to include enough space for the ninety-five residents that the Vault was designed to hold, because the same goes for all the Vaults in the games; you just can't include the full scope of these settings without breaking the game: it's the same reason you can cross Washington DC on foot in barely an hour (minus monster encounters), why towns like Megaton seem like they've barely got enough residents to fill Moriarty's bar, why the legendary Tampico Theatre looks more like a nightclub than an exclusive amphitheatre for the crustiest of the upper crust, and why New Vegas looks like it's currently operating under lockdown laws. So, I've done my best to provide an even blend of what we see in the game and the official stats provided; I hope it works out - but as always, you'll have to be the judge.

The months passed.

Somehow, Braun resisted the temptation to micromanage every stage of the development. Instead, he'd contented himself with designing the operating system and the life-support functions. Somehow, he managed to keep himself from visiting the construction site more than once a year, maintaining sanity with the reports of positive developments. Somehow, he even managed to make one or two more appearances on television at Vault-Tec's behest, just so he could smile for the cameras and offer his personal assurances that the Vaults would shelter the people of America.

Granted, it took a few sacrifices here and there to keep his temper from boiling over, but it wasn't as if any of them would be missed.

At the end of that excruciating, interminable span of time, he found himself once again standing in front of Smith Casey's Garage, older and more haggard by far, but finally ready to receive the majesty.

The construction was complete, having taken a little over five years to run its course.

Five years.

Five years of planning, designing, programming, building and participating in the whole mess against the advice of his doctors. Five years of justifying additional expenses to accountants, five years of explaining the scientific validity of the "experiment" to people who didn't care anymore, five years of correcting, debugging, rewiring, rebuilding, restoring to factory settings and other frustrations too numerous to name.

Also, thirty Chinese political prisoners, twenty mundane convicts, twelve homeless people, and one nosy assistant.

Funnelling that idiot into the latest round of tests had been more of a chore than Braun had expected. Normally, he'd have been on the edge of his seat, watching every second of the gas permeating the snooping bastard's flesh, barely stifling his laughter as the screaming test subject dissolved into a bubbling mass of luminous green goop, and replaying the collapse of his cellular structure over and over again on every possible level of magnification. But on that day, he hadn't been able to think of the joy of seeing something new in action, or the ecstasy of witnessing a worthless life being snuffed out. All he'd been able to think of was the paperwork he'd have to fill in at the end of it, and the hours it would take to scrub the assistant's liquid remains off the testing range.

And worse still, he hadn't even been able to take the slightest bit of delight in scientific discovery.

In the past, he'd revelled in the intricacies of research and study, of witnessing atoms spin and cells blossom into new configurations, of seeing his ideas being manifested in physical form as weapons, as engines, as miracles… and proving his ability to influence the world through his intellect. In the process, not only did he often produce the means of inflicting pain on thousands of unwitting human beings, but he proved his superiority a thousand times over. Like his need for stimulation, that was another aspect of his being that was integral to his being, and though it didn't anywhere near as much feeding as his desire for entertainment, it still deserved its due of fear and praise.

But now that he'd caught that first inkling of the glorious future that awaited him, science held less and less joy for him. The thrill of exploration was gone, as was the high of the adulation that was his due. Even mundane tortures held progressively less power to move him, even though he'd enacted things upon his "reserved stock" that would have made him convulse with ecstatic frenzy in his earlier years.

Watching his mechanized system pour sulphuric acid into the open mouths of helpless captives, listening as the screams dwindled away into weak, bubbling gurgles and the hiss of disintegrating flesh… it just couldn't excite him as it once had. Nor did the automated process of tearing out teeth and nails with pliers, or even an old favourite of his, the hungry pigs and the hobbled victim. All of it paled in comparison to the promise of what his magnum opus offered.

He was becoming jaded.

And all the little irritations in construction hadn't helped.

There'd been a hurricane of trouble concerning an apparent security breach at various points in construction: several workers had claimed to have seen an intruder trespassing on the construction site, easily recognized by his distinctive trench coat and hat, though none of them had ever managed to get a look at his face. Security cameras had never picked up a single trace of the man, whoever he was, so the sightings were largely dismissed as nonsense up until technicians and fellow Vault-Tec officials had begun noticing him as well. For a time, there'd been concerns of a suspected communist spy infiltrating the half-finished Vault, but eventually, the sightings had tapered off and were chalked up to stress-induced hallucinations on the part of the staff.

Braun might have believed it… except he'd seen the same mysterious stranger standing on the edge of the property one day as he'd concluded his annual inspection. The man hadn't said a word, nor had Braun been able to get a good look under the shadows of his hat; all he'd done was offer a friendly wave, step behind a wall and vanish.

Most annoyingly of all (at least to Braun), there'd been a palaver from the US military concerning some secret project they'd wanted to poach him for, and it had taken all of Braun's authority to keep himself occupied with Vault 112 and out of Constantine Chase's pocket.

He didn't care how fascinating this "Liberty Prime" was; he wasn't going to sacrifice his dream for any of General Chase's masturbatory wonder-weapons. The effort of remaining free had nearly driven him to the brink of insanity; more than half of the human resources he'd expended over the course of his experiments and personal amusements had been used during this time. By the end of it, he was certain that everyone was writing him off as an obsessive.

But it had all been worth it in the end, for it was now June 13th 2074, and at last, Vault 112 was complete.

Everything was in place, right down to the tiniest rivet. The workers had long since been packed away with their bonuses and non-disclosure agreements, the newly dubbed Tranquillity Loungers were in place, and everything was ready for the final tour.

Unlike the other inspections that had occurred so far across America, Braun was the only Vault-Tec representative present. All the other experts who'd visited today were surveyors concerned exclusively with practical matters of quality control. They'd already swept the area and given their approval: by their standards, the Vault was ready to last a virtual eternity. Braun, however, would have the final say.

Of course, he wasn't just here for the inspection… but that could wait until later.

As he hobbled towards the garage, a suitably anonymous-looking Vault-Tec aide in a mechanic's overalls swung the door open for him and ushered him quickly inside. Braun almost asked the underling if he was stupid enough to think that his brand-new overalls made him look convincing when paired with his hundred-dollar haircut and gold-rimmed glasses, but decided not to at the last minutes: arguments wouldn't get him to the Vault any quicker, even with an executive-in-training as young and stupid as this oaf.

All he could do was allow the blundering dogsbody to guide him by the hand through a doorway he'd walked through independently on every previous visit… and resist the urge to tell the man that his current cosmetics regime made him look as if he'd just flayed the Vault Boy alive and carelessly draped the unlucky mascot's dripping face over his own skull.

Inside the garage, beyond the prop motorcycles and dissected cars that would never see roadworthiness, the trapdoor had already been opened for him: below, the passage leading to the Vault door stretched away into the darkness – like the mouth of hell, more fearful souls might have claimed. But then, fear was one of the many things that didn't bother the new Overseer.

Behind them, Casey was tinkering with something predictably futile on one of the workbenches, marking time until he could wander off for his lunchbreak and his sixth beer of the day. Braun had little love for the man but tolerated his presence if only because it made the underling at his side uncomfortable: already, he could sense the little turd beginning to cringe at the approach of Casey's paint-stripping body odour. No doubt when he'd discovered that he'd have to deal with an actual member of the working class, the overdressed brat had probably imagined something conjured up by Hollywood, a handsomely rugged manly man ready to help Build The Future.

By contrast, Casey looked like a scrotum that had learned to walk upright and binge-drink.

He glanced up as Braun shambled towards the staircase, and grunted, "Come on in, if you really gotta. Waste of money, if you ask me: everybody knows the Chinese ain't gonna bomb us. All them Vault drills are just for show. This place ain't never gonna be used."

Braun smiled pleasantly at this, permitting himself a soothing vision of the mechanic's ugly wife and idiot children being melted into putrescent slag in a nuclear firestorm, allowing Casey to die a slow and agonizing death of radiation exposure with his eyes scorched out of their sockets and his testicles pincushioned with broken glass.

"Wonderful to see you too, Mr Casey," he said. "Do give my warmest regards to your wife and children."

Casey gave him a look suggesting that Braun had taken a shit in his shoes.

For one glorious, devil-may-care moment, he wanted to say something else. He wanted to provoke the fat fuck, to say something nasty enough to make the dim-witted mechanic lash out, just so Vault-Tec would be forced to retaliate. It would be worth the pain and the broken bones, just knowing that Smith Casey would be spending the rest of his short life in prison, his hopes and dreams ground down to powder, his family either doomed to poverty as they waited for him to lurch to freedom or forced to move on to more enterprising breadwinners.

But of course, Braun had long since learned to smother these little urges until he was ready to indulge the bigger ones.

Instead, he thought of vivisection, allowing the gentle waves of endorphins to ripple across his body, mentally painting every shudder of skinless muscle and every whimpering gasp with a level of detail that would have made Hieronymus Bosch weep. He fantasized until he was too enraptured to indulge in his primal desires, and the urge to insult and provoke finally passed him by.

"Try to smile more, Mr Casey," he said kindly. "This is a glorious day."

"Yeah, people keep tellin' me that. Ain't seen no reason to throw a party."

"Well, I'll have a bottle of something expensive sent to your apartment just the same; I'm sure your wife won't mind how quickly you finish it."

Still smiling, he allowed the dogsbody to help him down the stairs. As frustrating as it was to concede to another bout of medical mollycoddling, he recognized the necessity of helping him descend well enough: after all, it wouldn't do him any good to break his neck on the way to claiming the grand prize.

Given the necessity of keeping as far away from the surface as possible without jeopardising the project via a power-guzzling, difficult-to-maintain elevator, the stairs took up most of the upper complex: in total, there was one just under the trapdoor, another just a few yards from that, and another past the bunker door. A combination of anti-radiation measures and the need for security necessitated that this last staircase was the longest and by far the most annoying, but it was all worth it for the sake of keeping his masterpiece safe.

Then at last, the Vault door crept into view, already yawning open to revealing the gleaming control room beyond. By now, Braun was more than familiar with the gigantic gear-shaped doors, having seen them rumbling open more times in the last few years than cared to remember and having witnessed this one being installed… but all the same, he couldn't help but feel a tiny shiver of anticipation run up his spine whenever he saw the gates awaiting him.

Incredible things were going to happen behind these doors, things that would have set Braun's nerves alight if only he were there to see them all. But behind this door was something that made all the other Vaults pale into insignificance.

Not too far from the control room, a robobrain was there to welcome them, tubular arms waving in gentle arcs as it trundled over.

"Greetings, Overseer," it droned pleasantly. "Your Tranquillity Lounger has been prepared and is waiting for you in your quarters, along with your Vault 112 jumpsuit."

Braun nodded. "Excellent. And what is the status of the other robobrains?"

"All Vault 112 robobrains are active and prepared for duty, Overseer. We stand ready to perform whatever services are needed. Would you like me to escort you to your room?"

"Thank you, but no: I'd like to check the layout of the building first, if you don't mind."

"As you wish, Overseer. And your assistant…"

"He's just visiting."

"Understood."

The robobrains were a necessity for the Vault, as Braun himself had explained to the Board: the fact that the Vault's residents were going to be spending the rest of eternity in suspended animation meant that hiring human guards and technicians would have been impossible without some kind of breeding program in place, and having his digital paradise defended by an inbred brood of halfwits was hardly an ideal solution.

So, a specially designed army of robobrains had been built for the task: programmed for both repairs and security, they would maintain the Vault's internal mechanisms, protect against aggressive intrusion, and ensure that the Tranquillity Loungers remained fully functional. They were even built to repair themselves and each other, having been equipped with a vast storehouse of spare parts to that end. Thus armed, they could keep Vault 112 running for centuries.

The dogsbody by his side coughed nervously. "Are they safe, doctor?"

"I beg your pardon?"

"The robobrains, sir. Is their programming stable?"

"Well, you haven't been classified as an intruder, so I think you're in the clear for the time being."

"For the time being?" echoed the man, unable to disguise his fear.

It took all of Braun's considerable willpower not to laugh. Once again, he was tempted to fuck with him: he wanted to gravely inform him that there was a set time limit allowed for non-Vault personnel, and unless the tests were done in the next five minutes, they'd drag him down to the infirmary, carve his brain out with an ice-cream scoop, and jam his grey matter into a vacant robobrain chassis. But that wouldn't have been a very practical option, considering that this young idiot was here to keep him from falling to his death on the way down the next flight of stairs.

"As long as you're here on official business, you're perfectly safe. Unless, of course, you have any plans to return in the dead of night and steal prototype machinery, in which case I'd doubt you'd escape the building with a full complement of limbs."

The attendant did not look reassured.

"Don't they freak you out, though?" he asked. "I mean, just seeing those… those-"

"Brains?"

"Yes, the brain. I mean, doesn't that get you nervous, sir? I mean, the Assaultrons and Mr Gutsys and Sentry bots can get a little creepy at times, but at least you know that they're all just machines. These things, though, they… a few of them might have been monkeys, sure, but some of these things are human brains. I mean, what if I knew these people?"

"Do you have many friends in prison?" Braun asked.

Already, he'd determined that this mouthy little turd was every bit as soft-hearted as he was soft-headed, and once again, he couldn't quite resist looking for a wound to rub salt into.

"I… uh…"

"Well, I wouldn't worry about it: having visited several penitentiaries while scouting for test subjects over the years, I can confirm that being selected for use as a brain donor would be a welcome reprieve from the constant onslaught of terror and boredom."

"Terror and… boredom?"

"Quite a contrast, no? Apparently, one grows used to being surrounded by paranoid guards on the lookout for communist activities and fellow inmates eager to lash out at anything that could provide an outlet for their misery; the initial dread gives way to a long procession of stultifying routines interrupted by brief moments of heartrending torment. Some of the lifers I met there were so numb to their ceaseless lifestyle of confinement that they'd even resorted to primitive body modification in a desperate attempt to stave off the tedium. Of course, tattooing with biros gradually pales after a while, so dermal implants are the inevitable next step. Penile ones are very popular."

"…what."

"Oh yes. I'm reliably informed that after a few years in prison, you will in fact do literally anything to ease the monotony, including making incisions to your flesh and inserting tiny slivers of dice into the open wound. Of course, drugs and disinfectants are almost impossible to find in such environments unless the inmates are willing to raid the infirmary, but they go through with the process anyway. The infections are quite fascinating, too. Things suppurate so very quickly down there…"

"Urgh…"

"I remember one visit, perhaps eleven years ago, when the body modification enthusiasts were the only test subjects I could legally acquire. You see, once the inmates realized that there was a doctor on the premises in search of test subjects, the prison infirmary emptied rather rapidly; anyone sick or wounded took their chances with the 'cell-doctors,' as they're called. It wasn't until some poor soul with gangrene of the genitals collapsed in the lunch line that I finally got hold of my first subject on that visit. He had quite a story to tell that day once he was finished screaming. I had to clean him up, of course, just so he'd survive long enough to become an experiment; I gave him a very brisk course of antibiotics and maybe a bit of well-applied iodine just to be certain. It was the iodine that proved that he wasn't too far gone to be rescued for experimentation: you see, he still had feeling below the waist."

The dogsbody appeared to be struggling not to vomit. To Braun's eyes, he looked amusingly similar to a toad with the business end of a bicycle pump forced into its rectum, a concept he'd tested many times as a child. Chances were that the gormless little puppet would probably ruin his clothes before the day was out.

"Can I go now?" the young man squeaked at last.

"Certainly not. We still have much more ground to cover."

"I feel like I'm going to puke, sir."

"Well, young man, if my answers disgust you, then I recommend not asking questions that might tread upon sensitive ground. And if all else fails, don't speak at all: 'Even a fool, when he holdeth his peace, is counted wise, and he that shutteth his lips is esteemed a man of understanding.'"

"What?"

"Proverbs, 17:28. Now, onwards: mach schnell!"

Proceeding down the corridor, Braun surveyed the halls. He'd envisioned this place from the moment of its first blueprint and seen it under construction for months on end… but it was one thing to imagine his future home and another to see it in the flesh. On the face of things, this facility didn't appear much different from the standard Vault design used across America: like all the others, it was a gleaming, air-conditioned realm of polished steel, sandblasted concrete, and dazzling lights. Unlike, say, Vault 111, it didn't possess any outward features that might draw attention from casual observers, up until the lack of sleeping quarters and rudimentary medical facilities became apparent, followed closely by the contents of the atrium.

Likewise, this place wouldn't remain the brilliantly-lit utopia of Vault-Tec fantasy for long: as soon as the door had been sealed and the residents interred in permanent rest, the lights would be dimmed, air conditioning would be reduced to the bare minimum, and all other non-essential systems would be deactivated so that power could be directed exclusively to the computer and life-support functions. Of course, by then, Braun wouldn't even notice this procedure, nor would any of his subjects; the only witnesses to Vault 112's transformation into a mausoleum for a bygone generation would be the robobrains.

Eventually, Braun made his way to the upper-story walkway and peered down at the chamber that was to be the centrepiece of this Vault: it had been adapted from the atrium used in most of the designs they used so far, but unlike the others, this one wasn't meant to be a place for official gatherings (not the sort that the Vault architects had intended, anyway).

Here, around the hub of the magnificent Think Machine 3600r, were gathered the first twelve Tranquillity Loungers: gleaming ovoids of steel and glass, they were equipped with all the accoutrements of the simulators used by the military - except with programs that no training sim would ever have access to, and life support systems that would keep the users alive for as long as the machines functioned.

Yes, the modified life support design had been one of his greatest triumphs, even if it had been inspired by Robert House's secret project. Once activated, each Lounger would maintain cardiovascular and circulatory function, supply intravenous nutrition, drain away waste, insulate against extreme temperature variants, shield against radiation, and even consistently prevent heart attacks and strokes. Granted, it had taken a few deliberately induced cardiac arrests among the research staff before the engineers were sure it worked, but those were perfectly acceptable casualties as far as Braun was concerned. However, the real genius lay in providing a state of suspended animation independent of cryogenics, halting the aging process while allowing the mind to go on thinking and dreaming.

And yes, there might be one or two unpleasant side-effects over the centuries, but those would only become apparent if anyone tried to leave their Loungers after a few years of interment, hence why none of the other executives and officials were considering this particular retirement package: after all, they still had ambitions they wanted to pursue in the outside world.

Braun, though, was more than content with remaining entombed within Vault 112 for the rest of eternity.

As for the other residents… well, their decisions on the matter wouldn't signify.

This floor only housed twelve Loungers (thirteen, if you counted the one in Braun's private quarters), but there were more below: one flight of stairs away, another thirty-two Loungers sat, clustered around a set of terminals connected to the computer upstairs. Below that, another forty waited, not far from the geothermal plant that powered this place and the self-sustaining nutrient farm which supplied intravenous nourishment to the residents. In total, there was enough space for eighty-five people in this Vault, and the pen-pushers were already sifting through a long list of petitioners from the local region to occupy that space (most of them previous rejects).

Of course, how many of those candidates would be in attendance when the missiles finally flew was anyone's guess: as much as Braun hated to give someone as dim-witted as Smith Casey credit for serving as a societal barometer, the emergency drills that the government had instituted were beginning to encourage apathy among the population, further evidenced by the slowly declining numbers of citizens attending them. People were still afraid, but apathy had an astonishing tendency to make people overlook their fear if it inconvenienced them for very long, and Vault-Tec was now having to work double-time to make sure that everyone understood the necessity of these shelters. However, given that the garage wasn't far from civilian housing, Braun knew he would probably see at least a few of the Loungers filled on the day the bombs finally fell.

Enough to play with, at least.

Of course, there was always the possibility that Vault-Tec would one day grow tired of waiting for the Chinese to launch their missiles and simply begin ushering as many eligible citizens into the Vaults as possible "as a precaution", perhaps even faking an air attack to keep them inside.... assuming the company didn't take the commendably daring choice to detonate a nuclear device to begin the war in earnest. Either way, Braun would have more than enough toys to do with as he pleased.

From here on the atrium balcony, the Loungers almost looked like eggs in a nest, the central computer looming over them like a mother bird; by now, Braun had heard the workers making the comparison several times, not knowing what they were really installing in the bowels of the Vault. They didn't know that these eggs would never hatch. They didn't know that the little birds that came to incubate here would never leave. It was an interesting bit of symbolism when he thought about it – a return to infinite simplicity, a descent into prenatal dreamtime – but philosophical contemplation could wait until later.

For perhaps forty-five minutes, he surveyed the Vault, checking all three floors and examining their contents, pretending to pay attention even though he already knew that everything was fully functional. It was all formality, as cheap as the Vault's medical facilities and just as meaningless. Then, abandoning all pretence, he made a beeline for his quarters.

Past the password-locked door, the place was every bit as spartan as he expected: no bed, no toilet, no sink; the few items of furniture had been squeezed into the far end of the room, and consisted only of a wall safe, a couch, a locker, and desk, on which sat a coffee mug he'd never use, and his Vault 112 jumpsuit.

Presumably, the furniture was only here in case he needed to sit down while visiting, another age-related concern that Vault-Tec had taken, and the storage units were probably to store his belongings when he finally settled. A pointless measure: it wasn't as if he was going to be retrieving any of the damn things, was it? He might as well toss them into a furnace.

Maybe we can store the residents' possessions here, he reflected absently. Maybe it'll make them more pliable if they believe they might one day leave the Vault.

The centrepiece of his quarters was, of course, the Tranquillity Lounger squatting in the middle of the room.

Some smartass had decided to leave a welcome mat in front of it.

Apart from that, it was outwardly indistinguishable from the other capsule in the facility. Inwardly, though, this one came equipped with additional hardware and software, executive upgrades that gave it a significant advantage over the other Loungers. Nobody outside the highest echelons of Vault-Tec would ever know what these administrator privileges could be used for… until, of course, it was too late.

Stepping behind the Lounger, he began changing into his Vault suit, absently folding his clothes as he undressed. It was a small gesture, and quite worthless considering what he was going to do once this final test was complete, but small gestures had been vital to maintaining his place in society, so he allowed himself this final moment of neatness.

By the time he was finished, the underling had already opened the lounger and was standing by the ladder with an expectant look on his face.

"Ready when you are, Dr Braun," he whispered, as if afraid to raise his voice in the unearthly silence of the Vault.

"You know your part in this final test?"

"Yes, Dr Braun: I'm to head downstairs and plug myself into a Lounger as soon as you're interfaced."

"Good, good…"

He awkwardly scaled the ladder into the Lounger, allowing the lackey to assist him where necessary. In the end, Braun had barely a few seconds to make himself comfortable before the domed roof of the Lounger slid down over his head, sealing him inside. He felt the rustle of mechanical components sliding into place, gliding through apertures in his jumpsuit and interfacing with his body as the pod prepared him for suspended animation; then, the monitor slid down in front of his face, neutral interfaces sliding in around his skull from behind.

For a few seconds, he saw only a blank white void on the screen, the first indicator of what program the computer had selected.

Then…

---

Suddenly, Braun was no longer sitting in an airtight pod several hundred feet below Washington D.C., with an idiot mechanic waiting for them up on the surface and a parade of apathetic fools waiting for his report.

He was standing in the middle of a vast white void, without dimensions and without borders of any kind. It stretched on unto infinity, encompassing all possible universes and surrounding all possible worlds; it was a place that could only have been found in the highest realms of pure mathematics… or, if one felt like being accurate, the world of virtual reality.

This was the base program, the simulation from which all others were derived; written by Braun himself, the computer would automatically revert to this program when not being used for anything else. For all intents and purposes, this was the welcome mat on the door to imagination: from here, anything was possible.

As he looked around, Braun became aware of several things at once: first, his body had been perfectly replicated within the simulation, right down to the fissures of wrinkles on his hands and face. Even the pattern on his Vault-Tec-issued boots had been copied in exacting detail.

Secondly, the other elements of today's test were creeping into view: as Overseer, he had access to an auxiliary terminal with functions no other user would have access to, from communication with the outside world to the most basic operational parameters of the other Loungers. Unlike the other virtual terminals that controlled functions like the avatar editor and control over the memory chips, this one was to be visible to everyone in the simulation when in use – a safety measure to ensure that it could still be used if the Overseer were ever incapacitated. Already, he could see the tiny computer screen hovering out of the void towards him, a series of illuminated commands waiting patiently for his input.

Thirdly, the underling had just arrived and was looking around in utter bewilderment. Clearly, this was his first time in virtual reality, or else he probably would have had the decency to appear professional, or at the very least finish zipping up his jumpsuit. Right now, this young man looked as though his last brain cell had died of loneliness.

Fourth and finally… Braun felt very unusual.

It wasn't until he found himself experimentally clenching his fists that he realized what had happened: his arthritis was gone. From head to toe, his joints now moved just as smoothly as they had in his youth, without pain or even mild discomfort. Also absent was the nagging ache in his old bones, the throb of failing muscles in his arms and legs, and the vague weariness that had accompanied him ever since his fifty-seventh birthday.

Braun had known that the simulation wouldn't allow him to feel pain or even mild discomfort unless he wanted it to. Indeed, all forms of negative stimuli were off limits to any of the users unless Braun altered the program to that end. But it was one thing to know it on a purely academic level and to experience it in person: after so many decades, he'd accepted little things like arthritis and fatigue as just another part of his daily life, and to suddenly be without them filled him with a sense of wonder beyond all rational description.

The Lounger had already made him immortal; now, it returned to him all the glories of youth. He felt like he could run a marathon… and that was only the beginning of the things the program would allow him to do.

Meanwhile, the lackey was coughing for attention, clearly afraid to hear something disgusting again. "Uh, Dr Braun? Do you think we could begin the test now?"

Braun nodded, rejoicing in the simple fact that his neck no longer creaked in pain as he did so.

For the next few minutes, they sorted through a clipboard's worth of tests, slowly determining how the simulation responded to his gestures and mental commands: first, they checked the basic things – access to the auxiliary terminal, his ability to relocate and dismiss it, and what he could access with it. Then they went to work on the primary functions of the simulation: they tested the email application, they checked the hourly reports from the robobrains in the Vault, they reviewed the long, long list of available scenarios, from Arabian Nights to Planet X, and they even checked Braun's control over the other Loungers, from memory chips to life support ("Though I'm sure you'll never have to use those," the underling simpered).

They even loaded up one of the simpler scenarios and watched as the white void gave way to the perfectly replicated streets of Washington DC, the gleaming monuments and sculpted gardens of the National Mall rippling into existence around them. For a time, Braun could only marvel at the attention to detail in the program, the brush of the wind on his face and the feel of the grass against his hands. But eventually, he had to test his ability to alter those details, to alter the weather, the time, the layout of the buildings and even the laws of physics if necessary.

Finally, they sorted through the design programs. Because the residents were dependent on the simulation for entertainment, it was only fair that Braun had the power to issue them with whatever they needed if it wasn't included in the scenario, either drawing on templates or designing them himself: along with over a hundred million books, films, television programs and radio serials included in the computer's copious databases, he could provide them with food, alcohol, board games, sports equipment, pornography, varying weather patterns, and even computerized replications of real people.

He could even make new simulations entirely – not that he'd need to for a good long while, thanks to the generous supply of entertaining scenarios he'd commissioned. Best of all, thanks to administrator privileges, Braun could use most of these design functions at will without ever having to access the terminal.

The same went for the avatar editor, the fast travel function, the background music, the video capture/replay systems, and anything else that the residents felt like entertaining themselves with. If they wanted to use it, it was entirely possible for Overseer to temporarily transfer the use of these functions to them… but only at his discretion.

"All good, then," the underling concluded, as the conjured objects began fading away. "I think that's the last of the functions we needed to test. Do you want me to leave the simulation first, Dr Braun? By the time your Lounger opens, I'll be there to help you out."

Braun smirked.

"That won't be necessary, young man," he said smoothly. "My Lounger won't be opening for you, or anyone else."

The underling blinked in confusion. "Sir?"

"I won't be leaving this simulation," Braun explained – slowly, just in case the man was even stupider than he looked. "Effective immediately, I will be taking on the role of Overseer and preparing this simulation for the residents."

This was the part of the inspection he'd really been looking forward to. He'd never had any intention of leaving the Lounger once he'd sat down: out there, a heart attack or a stroke could have cut his life short well before he ever had the pleasure of seeing residents arrive at the Vault; out there, a traffic jam, a long journey or sheer bad luck could keep him from reaching sanctuary before the bombs fell. But here, over a hundred feet beneath the earth, he was guaranteed safety in the protective embrace of indefinite life support, and with a few virtual entertainment tools at his disposal, he could wait for as long as it took for the missiles to fly.

Besides, the thought of presiding over any more stultifying experiments in the real world filled him with such apathy that he probably wouldn't have been able to make it through another week of everyday life without getting himself fired. When you got right down to it, this was just a sensible preventative measure, an early retirement of sorts, and one that he was well within his rights to seize after all these years of loyal service to the company.

He'd no doubt that some observers would probably assume that this unexpected exit was a symptom of senile dementia or even insanity. However, if anyone were to check his office back at Vault-Tec headquarters, they'd find that he'd already put his affairs in order, completed all remaining work, checked to make sure that no regulations existed to remove him from the Vault, sent a few suitably generous "goodbye presents" up the chain of command, and left a farewell message citing health concerns.

Nobody would oppose this.

Well, nobody worth knowing, at any rate.

The underling was staring at him with a look of dawning bewilderment on his face. Obviously, he wasn't intelligent enough to wonder at Braun's true reasons for doing this.

"Uh… well, Dr Braun," he stammered, "Vault-Tec regulations state that official Overseer duties do not actually commence until the Vaults are populated."

"Then it needn't be official. Good day."

"Er, Dr Braun-"

"Young man – what is your name, by the way?"

"Forecastle, sir."

"Mr Forecastle, do you understand the reason why I have been provided with this position? Not the official one, mind you: the reason understood by anyone knowledgeable enough to be included at this stage of the project. As my assistant for the day, I would assume you would be kept informed, ja?"

"Oh, yes, yes, sir, absolutely. The Board informed me that you were to be provided this station as post-conflict housing-"

"I was given command of this Vault as a reward for my contributions to the Societal Preservation Program, Mr Forecastle," Braun snapped. "Given that I am the only reason the program progressed as far as it did, I think I've more than earned this little severance package… along with the freedom from usual regulations that I have been afforded. The Board understand this, and indeed made it abundantly clear that my executive decisions within the Vault would not be challenged before or after commencement date. Said executive decisions include when I begin my tenure here."

"Sir-"

"And if you really want to be pedantic about this, young man, I'd consider the fact that Vault-Tec regulations don't forbid me from living in the Vault prior to duty commencement. Having written a good deal of the rulebook, the boundaries of company law are well known to me – but, as we've just discussed, the rulebook doesn't apply to me anyway, so I fail to see what the problem is."

"Well, Dr Braun, the Board of Directors… er, they had matters that needed your attention. Very important matters, by the sounds of things."

"The simulation has an external email address, remember? If they have questions, they can send them to me via the mail."

But Forecastle still looked uncertain, so Braun added, "Let put it this way: if the Board seems overly troubled, ask them if they would prefer me spending my time at Vault-Tec headquarters, where I'd have nothing to do but sit around and be nuisance in between consultations, or here, where I am well and truly out of their collective hair."

Finally, the familiar expression of individuality being relinquished rippled across the underling's face. "Um… Alright," he mumbled. "I will tell them that, sir. Uh… I'm free to leave, though, right?"

For a moment, Braun seriously considered sealing Forecastle in.

After all, it would have been easy to send the chairman of the Board an email claiming that the toadying little dummkopf had volunteered for a place among Vault 112's residents. Perhaps, as the first of his new toys, he could have all the time in the world to demonstrate the fine art of DIY dermal implants on Forecastle's virtual groin.

In the end, though, he thought better of it: it wouldn't do him any good to start garnering unwanted attention too early.

"Of course, Mr Forecastle," he said at last. "You're free to go."

A glowing portal materialized between the two of them – the digital representation of the Lounger's exit program.

"Thank you, sir," the man stammered. "I'll take care of the belongings you've left behind."

"If you feel you must. Farewell, Mr Forecastle."

"Er, it's been an honour working with you, sir."

"Give my warmest regards to the Board when you next see them. Do enjoy the rest of your day, young man. Be sure to make the most of your time in this world," he added, as Forecastle began vanishing through the exit. "After all, it's not as if there's enough space in the Vaults for everyone, is it?"

A horror-stricken look flickered across the underling's face. Then, he was gone, vanished back to reality.

The minutes ticked by.

Then, when no further interruptions were registered, Braun finally smiled.

He had won.

At last, he had his prize.

At last, he had claimed the kingdom of dreams as his own.

All he needed now was subjects… and given the way tensions between China and America were heating up, it would only be matter of time before the bombs rained down on Washington, and all the cowering masses flooded to the Vaults in search of shelter. Already, the lists were being arranged: the candidates for entombment alongside him were already being selected, eighty-five oblivious, red-blooded Washington locals condemned to spend an eternity in his company.

In the meantime, he had all the time in the world to relax, stretch his virtual muscles and learn exactly how his new paradise worked – so that when the residents finally arrived, he would be ready for them.

Soon, he would have all the playthings he would need.

All he needed to do was wait.

---

Time passed, and Braun slowly adjusted to the new pace of his existence.

Gone were the long meetings, the constant memos, the daily processions of experiments, the late-night musing over what to do next. Now, he did whatever he pleased, whenever he desired it: his life became like Dali's The Persistence Of Memory, a procession of events where time itself had no meaning – a sensation only exaggerated by the fact that the simulations had no weather unless he willed it so.

He had no way of measuring time except through the auxiliary terminal, something he soon became loath to use unless he wanted to change day was virtually identical to any other, distinguished only by the hedonism he indulged in.

He could wander the scenarios at length, exploring every simulated nook and cranny, from the highest mountaintops to the deepest pits of virtual Hell; he could gorge himself on gargantuan repasts that would have made the sybarites of 18th century France look ascetic; he could inhale entire deserts of cocaine, drown his liver in oceans of whiskey, replace every drop of blood in his body with heroin and convulse in rapture without ever fearing overdose. He could even alter the laws that bound his personal avatar and imbue himself with all manner of impossible powers – from flight to telekinesis. In fact, the only thing he didn't indulge himself in was sex, even though he could fuck anyone from Cleopatra to Vera Keyes in acts of sexual depravity he hadn't been capable of in years; frankly, sex had never really interested him.

Best of all, he could kill.

Calling upon his access to the design tools, he could summon up simulations of living people to speak with, to insult, to brutalize, to torture, and finally kill in as brutal a manner as possible.

Sadly, it wasn't as satisfying as Braun had hoped: there was a curiously unrealistic feel to it, like stabbing a piece of plastic. At first, he thought it was due to the simulated nature of the death. But as he reviewed the evidence, he eventually realized that this couldn't be the case, not with all the footage he'd supplied the sensory programmers with.

No, the problem didn't lie in the death itself, but in the victim: the people conjured within the simulation were simulations in and of themselves, lacking real personalities beyond those that the computer could mimic. They screamed and cried and begged for mercy, but they never had any real lives of their own to take away, no sense of existential terror as he closed in on them, no unpredictability in response. He never had any sense that he was watching anything other than a variant on the same performance repeated over and over again, and no matter how well he refined the character program, there was no sense that killing computer sprites would never be as fun as killing a real human with a real personality.

Fortunately, they were good for a few minutes' laugh – enough to tide him over for a day. It was a bit like squeezing rats in a vice after a lifetime of torturing humans, but it'd keep him occupied until he had company. And if all else failed and nothing else could satisfy him, he could simply lie down wherever he pleased and initiate the simulation's sleep function for a few hours.

After several months of hazy time, he found himself wondering if, one day, he might become just as bored with real people as he would with simulations. It seemed impossible to believe that the one thing that gave his life meaning – apart from science – would cease to interest him, but he'd been in the business of preparing America for the future, so if nothing else, he would have to consider the impossible merely probable. And if that day ever came, well, he could always open the Lounger and allow his long-atrophied body to fall apart if all else failed.

Of course, it was hardly the quickest means of committing suicide, so Braun made a few discreet emails to General Constantine Chase for a live-fire program that could bypass the safeties on his simulator…

It took a while to get a reply – probably because the self-righteous boor was still digitally felating himself over the reclamation of Anchorage – but it was worth it when the data chip containing the program finally arrived at the garage. As soon as the robo-brains had finished installing it, Braun checked to make sure it was functional, programmed it with an auto-backup function to make sure that it would never be lost, and then did his best to never look at it again…

…but even so, it took all his willpower not to use it on the spot – not out of any desire for suicide, but just for a chance for stimulation, a bit of genuine risk. It took almost seventeen virtual skydives and a combine harvester massacre before he was sated enough to ignore it entirely.

After that, Braun began amusing himself by checking the news, as emailed to him via his remaining colleagues at Vault-Tec. Back when he'd first started receiving these messages, he'd only bothered reading in order to check on the deteriorating global situation, just so he'd have some idea how long it'd take before the missiles flew and residents would arrive in the Vault.

Eventually, though, he found himself checking the emails out of sheer amusement at the carnage rippling across the world, for even away from the international headlines, there was still a never-ending parade of murders, rapes, and scandals all but dripping from the digital pages: the deeds of the notorious Eddie Winter, the gossip surrounding Frederick Sinclair's half-finished casino, controversy over Suffolk County charter school's new food program, the disappearance of Robert House, a mysterious rash of suicides among protesting scientific experts… oh yes, and the Pint-Sized Slasher.

The tales of the Pint-Sized Slasher were a source of great delight for him, especially the artist's impression of the junior serial killer's mask. It was almost a shame Braun had needed to be so careful as a young man – he'd have enjoyed wearing such costume during his childish flights of fancy.

Sadly, this seemed to be the only suburban butcher that the media was taking any notice of: in this time of war and looming nuclear annihilation, serial killers just didn't garner much in the way of attention unless they had some truly sensational gimmick. Nor was this limited to America, for despite perusing the few foreign broadsheets emailed to him, there was no sign of any independent hedonists pursuing covert thrills, nor was there any word on those who'd been captured and were awaiting trial. These days, the only arrest reports that made it to print were those of "communist sympathizers," "socialist quislings" and suspected enemy agents; even his old mentor had long since been forgotten by the press.

Nobody remembered the Witch of Kronach.

As for the bigger picture, that was only getting bloodier: last year alone, the United States had annexed Canada, resulting in a slew of massacres among anyone daring to protest this move in public. An ocean away, US troops outfitted with the newly-completed T-51b Power Armour were marching across China, carving their way through one barrier after the next.

In the past few months, riots over shortages had broken out in cities across America, forcing the President to declare a state of emergency – and then martial law; terrorist attacks were cropping up all over the country; military desertion rates were through the roof; Colorado was experiencing catastrophic outbreaks of plague… there were even rumours that the President had left the White House and had retreated to an unknown shelter with a covert group of hard-line supporters (a few of Braun's carefully-cultivated "friends" among said group helpfully confirmed this rumour for him – and frankly, the only mystery was why the stupid bastard hadn't fled sooner).

Of course, the original intent of reading these digitalized newspapers hadn't been forgotten, and Braun had learned everything he needed to know: any way you looked at it, the world was drawing steadily closer to cataclysm, and with diplomatic options either exhausted or ignored, the current crisis could only end in a conflagration that would leave the world a glowing cinder in the void of space… hopefully not too long from now, if his estimates were correct.

Something told him October was going to be the best Halloween America had ever enjoyed…

Chapter 4: Out Of The Frying Pan

Summary:

It's the end of the world as we know it and nobody's feeling fine.

Please. Let there still be time. Let it not be too late. Just a few more minutes.

Looking back, Tessa recalled that it hadn't been the air-raid sirens that sent her fleeing from the house; as much as she'd prided herself on being intelligent, even she couldn't help but allow the tiniest bit of apathy to creep into her soul after the last few months of false alarms, even if they had been evacuation drills.

Plus, she'd had a bad night.

Too many bottles of wine left around the house and too much accumulated disappointment had sent her to bed in a much wobblier mood than usual, and she'd woken up with a massive hangover.

Truth be told, the sense of self-reproach hurt worse than the headache: for the last five months of unemployment, she'd managed to stay relatively sober except for a few glasses of scotch on Friday nights and maybe a large glass of wine on bad days. Somehow, she'd even succeeded in keeping her house in relatively good order, despite the fact that she didn't have anyone to share it with anymore.

And then her latest rejection letter had arrived, the one with that sentence: "any benefit provided by your undeniable qualifications, experience, and skills would unfortunately be outweighed by your proven record for disruptiveness."

(Why, oh why, had she gotten into that stupid argument in the first place? It wasn't as if the product was guaranteed to kill people if sold on the open market, so why had she complained? Why couldn't she have let her professional standards slip, just for once?)

That morning, surrounded by empty bottles and smashed furniture, with a puddle of vomit left a little too far from the toilet, Tessa had looked in the mirror and found a stranger staring back at her.

It wasn't just that she was just starting to show her age, or that she'd gotten into the habit of forgetting to eat, or even that sleep had become almost impossible for her. It was the weary, almost despairing look of resignation on her face, alien to her even on her worst days. Seeing that face looking back at her, Tessa could only groan like a freshly unearthed zombie and wonder what the hell had gone wrong with her life.

Less than a year ago, she'd been working as a chemist at Lee Rapid Pharmaceuticals' R&D division, in a role that paid well, put her brain to good use, and offered her at least some measure of self-respect. She'd even had something close to a meaningful relationship with Marcie the receptionist, having gone from discreet trysts in her apartment to week-long stays at Tessa's house in less than five months.

Now, though… now she had nothing left but drink and the dwindling remains of her nest egg.

Tessa Dithers, on her ass at the tender age of fifty.

Frankly, she could have lived with it – the humiliation, the loss of prospects, the rapidly-emptying coffers, the lies that had been told about her, all of it – if only Marcie hadn't been transferred to another branch.

But then, that was the way things were when you pissed off the boss.

After splashing water in her face in the vain hope that the world would look a little brighter, her path through the house had eventually led her on a stumbling voyage to the kitchen, and from there, the living room. Eventually, she'd found herself propped up in front of the TV, tipping a raw egg into a glass of vinegar and wondering if she should just surrender what was left of her dignity by signing on with Hallucinogen Inc.

And then the first air raid siren had sounded.

Her first thought had been Oh god, not another drill, not while I'm this fucking hung-over. 

She didn't even stir from her reverie when the siren had continued for much longer than usual, or even when the sounds of panic had begun to echo from next-door.

Perhaps she might have stayed there for the rest of her life, cringing at the noise, not realizing that she was waiting to die. But then she'd looked up at the TV and seen the terrified expression on the face of the news anchor, heard the frantic shouts from offscreen, the sounds of running feet from somewhere nearby, and witnessed the camera being knocked over.

Very slowly, it had begun to dawn on Tessa that this was not a drill.

Then, the phone had begun to ring, and suddenly there was no doubt: she wasn't exactly the most social woman in her district, not since she'd left most of her friendships back at work, and prospective employers didn't even bother telephoning her these days, not when they could just send her rude letters instead.

A call at this hour of the morning could only mean one thing.

A split-second later, Tessa was in motion, her mind all but blank except for one all-consuming thought:

Let it not be too late. Let there still be time.

Now she was outside, sprinting down the road as fast as her feet could carry her, weaving through the oblivious early-morning traffic and hoping to god that she could make it to safety in time.

She was still dressed in the clothes she'd fallen asleep in, she had no luggage with her (there'd been no time to lock up the house, much less pack) and she hadn't even bothered to take her keys, not when she knew that her car would be less-than useless in DC traffic, even on a Saturday.

All she had was the letter.

Some time ago, Tessa had gone through the usual channels and petitioned for a place in Vault 106, believing that Vaults were her best shot at surviving if the war ever turned nuclear, as had many of her friends and neighbours. In the end, Vault-Tec turned her down. And because she didn't have the funds to just buy a spot in a Vault even with her job, she'd tried again and petitioned Vault 87, trying to use her credentials as a chemist to sweeten the deal, as if she was applying for yet another job instead of taking measures that could have meant the difference between life and death. By the time that rejection notice had arrived, she'd already lost her job at Lee Rapid, and after so many days spent listening to the droning procession of air-raid sirens that preceded every single drill, she'd barely had any energy left to give half a damn.

Then, a few months back, she'd received a package from Vault-Tec. According to the letter attached, her petition for Vault residency had been reviewed, and she'd been accepted into a new and exclusive Vault being built just outside her neighbourhood. This time, though, there were to be no drills, no orientation seminar, no vetting of personal belongings: just a Vault suit tailored to her measurements, and a list of instructions on what to do when the time came for the Vault to be activated: air-raid sirens would sound to alert the neighbourhood, and Tessa would receive an automated phone-call just so she'd know it was meant for her Vault.

And unlike the other Vaults her neighbours had spoken of, Vault 112 was to have no grand opening, no unveiling ceremony for the public benefit. Alongside her instructions, she'd only been given an address – Smith Casey's Garage –, a tiny snapshot of a street map with the location helpfully pinpointed on it, and a strict warning not to share this information with anyone. 

" Failure to comply with these instructions will be met with summary incarceration and removal from the Vault populace."

At the time, it had seemed meaningless, another useless piece of junk cluttering up her already disordered life, just like the house she'd been living in, a worthless old suburban place inherited from her mother, only kept around in the hope that she and some prospective lover might be able to start a life together in it.

So, Tessa had left the letter on the kitchen table minutes after opening it and never looked at it again, allowing work-related detritus to pile up around it like skyscrapers looming over a public park; by sheer luck, she'd never thought of throwing it out or even sorting it into a pile of its own, if only because it would have taken too much effort to do away with something she cared so little for.

Now, though… that long-neglected letter had become the only thing standing between her and a horrible death.

A little more time, that's all I ask. Give me that much, please…

Muttering a bilious procession of decidedly unladylike expletives, Tessa sidestepped a passing car, darted back onto the sidewalk and thundered down the path as fast as her aching feet could carry her, wishing she'd had time to put on a pair of shoes before leaving the house.

Not for the first time, she also wished she'd at least tried taking the car; perhaps she'd have been able to make it, if she'd been willing to break a few laws and drive on the sidewalk, but what if she'd crashed? What if the police had tried to stop her? And if the electromagnetic pulse from an aerial detonation hit before she could reach the Vault, she'd be left stranded along with every other driver in Washington.

Please, just a little more time.

A surge of adrenaline pouring through her veins had bought her a few minutes – at most. The garage was almost within walking distance, but how much time had she wasted by ignoring the earliest of the warning signs?

And how much of the population had also realized the danger? Judging by all the sedate-looking drivers on the road, most of the commuters en route to leisure or government work that morning, they were none the wiser: like her, they assumed the sirens were part of another drill. Maybe some of them might have been given residency at a Vault, but the emergency calls were usually meant for home phone numbers, so none of them would have had a clue that their one chance for survival was passing them by.

Tessa was dimly aware that she must look like a madwoman, running barefoot and bedraggled down the lane as she was. People were probably already calling the police to report a crazy black woman running through suburbia and wondering why the lines were suddenly engaged. For all she knew, someone might be about to try and stop her before she disturbed the peace any further.

But fear had overridden all sense of shame, and the terrible sense of isolation had sealed the deal.

By the time she'd made it about halfway, she could see a few people here and there sprinting between the cars, fleeing in the direction of various Vaults… and as time seemed to stretch onwards, a few abandoned cars could be seen littering the road, so she obviously wasn't alone. But that wasn't much comfort: if they couldn't make it to the Vaults in time, they'd at least be spared the misery of dying alone, but that wasn't much comfort considering that Tessa had actually seen what a nuclear blast wave could do to human flesh.

More time. For them. For me. For everyone. This can't be happening. God, it can't end like this – I never even had a chance to say goodbye to her…

And then, just as she was starting to think she'd left too late, just when she was starting to believe that the last thing she'd ever hear would be the rush of the blast wave racing towards her, she finally saw it: the distinctive scarlet cone of a Red Rocket filling station.

And next to that, a squat bunker-like building sat on the side of the road, the words "SMITH CASEY'S GARAGE" etched above the roller doors.

All in all, it wasn't the most prepossessing place to hide one of Vault-Tec's legendary fallout shelters, but right now, Tessa would take whatever she could get.

Heart leaping inside her chest, she put on an extra burst of speed.

As Tessa hurried closer, she saw that she obviously hadn't been the only resident to arrive in time: a large RobCo-branded truck was already parked in front of the closed doors, and judging by the scorched tyre tracks and chunks of broken fences it had left in its wake, it had only just arrived, as had the car now sitting next to it. Two more cars had been parked on the other side of the building, so obviously the other residents hadn't had the same traffic blocking their path to the garage. Either that, or they hadn't been as concerned about getting stopped by the cops as she'd been.

And was that her imagination, or could she see more figures hurrying down the road towards the building?

Smith Casey's Garage loomed ahead of her; already, a side-door had been opened, and a harried-looking figure in a red baseball cap was peering out of it, anxiously looking for survivors.

Eyes alighting on her, the man immediately shouted, "If you're here for Vault 112, hurry! Get in here while you still can!"

For once in her life, Tessa didn't need to be told twice. Vaulting over the wrecked fence, she sprinted across the barren asphalt driveway, rasping her bare feet raw in the process.

Moments later, she heard the man shout, "You three! In here quickly, before it's too late! I'm not staying out another second for this!"

Turning, she saw that another group of survivors was hurrying down the road towards them. They looked to be a family of three: two late-middle-aged parents and an adult son, all three of them dressed in whatever clothes they'd had time to throw on over their pyjamas. The mother of the family still had her hair in curlers.

Like Tessa, most of them were carrying nothing except their acceptance letters, except for the youngest of them, a lanky twenty-something in a white shirt and unbuttoned jeans, who was lugging a suitcase that looked as though an entire household had been stuffed into it.

As they hurried across the driveway towards the open door, the young man tripped over the edge of the fallen fence and landed flat on his face with a thud. At once Tessa saw that his parents were too preoccupied to notice that their son was lying face-down in the dirt, too frightened to have even glanced over their shoulders, much less noticed that one of their number was missing.

If their baseball cap-wearing rescuer bugged out now, the kid would be left right out in the open when the nukes finally hit, and if the door was locked behind them…

Once again, the decision to move was almost entirely instinctual. Tessa didn't even think of dying or of being left behind or the agony that she'd feel in her last few moments: all she could think of was getting him inside before it was too late.

Charging over with an athleticism heretofore unknown to her, she grabbed the young man's hand and all but hauled him upright, barely noticing her spine yowling in protest as she did so.

Then, as one they hurried off towards the entrance, this time carrying the suitcase between them, the kid babbling profuse thanks every step of the way.

Tessa had just enough time to see the garage side door opening wide to admit them, the frightened faces of the young man's parents, the anxious face of the baseball cap-wearing rescuer, and then the garage's front counter, right before the two of them slammed into it at high speed, prompting shouts of "Tim!" from the older couple.

"There we go!" said their rescuer, as Tessa and the young man slumped over the counter. "I'm not keeping this door open another goddamn second: we've got to get under cover right damn now. If anyone else stops by, we just gotta hope they can find the door before it's too late."

He slammed the side door shut. "Right, the four of you follow me, quickly."

"What do you mean 'find the door?'" the young man panted. "Where's this Vault we're supposed to be heading to?"

"We can't just leave the other residents to fend for themselves out there!" the mother of the family protested. "That's as good as murdering them!"

The father sighed deeply, his balding head agleam with perspiration. "Pat, dear, we can't possibly wait for all of them. I mean, you saw that traffic out there: barely half the people out there even knew something was wrong-"

"No, George, I can't accept that! We have a responsibility to every other Vault to-"

"Dad, why can't we just-"

"Not now, PLEASE!" the man in the baseball cap roared.

In the silence that followed, he seemed to sag with exhaustion, and for the first time since she'd met him, Tessa realized just how old he really was: a good ten or fifteen years her senior, the skin on his hands was like worn leather, his face a cloistered bundle of creases and worry lines, and what little hair she could see under his cap was stark white. Behind his glasses, his eyes were wide with fear and clouded with fatigue, and under the circumstances, Tessa couldn't blame him one bit.

"I can't answer any of these questions, okay?" he sighed. "I don't even work here. I'm a resident just like you. The fella who runs this garage, he unlocked everything for me, showed me how to get into the Vault, and then he ran off to get his wife and kids. I stayed up here just in case anyone else came over: we've had two ladies and a young couple, and that's about it. I don't know if anyone else is coming along, but I know for a fact I don't wanna find out what being hit by a nuclear bomb feels like, and I bet you don't either. So, let's just get the hell underground and hope the others know how to get to us. Okay?"

The four of them nodded.

"Good. Okay, let's go."

As one, they silently followed their rescuer behind the counter and into the depths of the building, scarcely daring to speak in case it delayed them any longer. Beyond the door, amidst the usual species of garage detritus, a ten-foot strip of metal floor panelling had swung open to reveal a hidden flight of stairs leading sharply downwards into a gloomy underground passage.

Too afraid to ask questions, the five of them descended into what looked at first like the basement of any other common-or-garden auto-repair facility, complete with shelves, boilers, generators, and a whole array of electrical devices that looked uncannily as if they'd never been used. Indeed, as their rescuer shut the trap door behind them, Tessa was almost tempted to ask if this was it.

But then they found another flight of stairs leading downwards after that, and at the foot of the final staircase, a heavy reinforced steel door.

Swinging it open with some effort, the man in the baseball cap led them into the gloomy subterranean passage that lay beyond it, absently wincing at the thud of the door closing behind them.

"Right," he muttered. "If anyone wants to stop and take a breath, feel free: we should be safe at this depth. Well, that's what Casey said."

"What we do next?" George asked.

"I think we just go straight ahead. Casey didn't tell me what to do after this."

So, on they went.

---

As they reached the bottom of the next flight of stairs, it finally happened.

From somewhere overhead, far off in the distance, there was a sound like thunder.

But unlike thunder, it didn't fade away: as the seconds ticked by, the distant rumble grew to a roar, a howl, a scream, until all they could hear was a solid wall of eardrum-hammering noise crashing down on them from all angles. As the cacophony washed over them, Tessa was dimly aware of other sounds just barely audible over the bellow of sound: the crash of brick and concrete being ripped apart; the nails-on-a-chalkboard screech of metal twisting and tearing out of shape; the distant wail of car alarms going off all at once; the muffled screech of thousands of tires, silenced within seconds… and in the distance, the faint hubbub of human screams.

Without warning, the ground shook so violently that several of the new Vault residents were sent toppling onto their hands and knees, or else left struggling to remain upright as the tremor washed over them. Shaken off her feet, Tessa crashed into the older couple and only Tim's hand on her shoulder kept her from tumbling helplessly to the floor; she tried to thank him, but she couldn't hear herself speaking over the roar of the world above them, let alone tell if Tim could hear her.

For the next fifteen to thirty seconds, they tumbled helplessly in place as world around them rippled back and forth with such ferocity that Tessa swore that she could feel her internal organs vibrating out of position inside her body.

She absently wondered if she'd have to worry about a concussion, her mind grasping at distant ideas in the hopes of tearing her focus away from the terrible sounds above them. Then, she realized a new sound had joined the mix: a sound of screams, of five people howling in terror… and Tessa was so disoriented that it took almost five seconds before she realized that the voices belonged to her and her fellow survivors – all of them shrieking in fear and confusion at the top of their lungs.

Eventually, though, the tremors subsided, allowing them to awkwardly clamber to their feet as the noise finally died away.

In its place, an oppressive silence blossomed in the dark passageway, broken only by the grunts and groans of the survivors as they hauled themselves upright.

For the time being, the chaos was over.

Unfortunately, that left the five of them with nothing to do except lean against the walls and stare incredulously up at the ceiling: from the shell-shocked looks on their faces, it was clear that nobody had any idea what to say – for how could you bring voice to the concept that a nuclear ICBM had just hit Washington DC?

Tessa had the distinct impression that everyone was asking themselves the same questions, though: how hard had the city been hit? Were there any survivors? Could it be that the blast wasn't as bad as it sounded – and that they might all be able to go home soon? Or perhaps it hadn't been a nuclear blast at all; perhaps the alarm had been a technical glitch in some error-prone computer, and the blast had just been a mundane explosion somewhere close by.

Surely that could be the case, couldn't it?

Of course, she was fully aware that the questions were pointless: after all, she'd have no way of learning the answer without risking a quick look aboveground. And yes, she was aware that hoping for miracles like glitches and lucky escapes was nothing short of insanity at this point, but it was better than imagining what might have happened to Washington and everyone she knew there.

Time passed.

Gradually, the five of them finally began getting their breath back. For most of them, it hurt: the couple, George and Pat, looked as though they were about four steps removed from coronaries; their son, Tim, appeared to be struggling with a stich in his chest, plus the bumps and bruises he'd sustained in his fall; and as for Tessa, her muscles were screaming in pain from the marathon she'd just run to get this far, her feet were blistered and bloody after the last few minutes of shoeless sprinting across rough ground, her stomach was bruised from the impact with the counter, her shoulders were smarting from being bounced against the walls during the tremors, and her back was currently sending out urgent memos not to lift anything as heavy as young Tim anytime soon.

Plus, her hangover was back with a vengeance.

Message duly received. Time to start acting my age. Might as well, now that I'm going to be spending the rest of my life in an underground fallout shelter with about five to eight people for company.

"Is everyone okay?" the man in the baseball cap asked at last.

There was a muffled series of yesses from the others, Tessa chiming in last.

"Great. I think we should probably head deeper in, now, before the others start getting worried."

Nobody was talking about what had just happened, Tessa noticed. Nobody wanted to face the awful reality.

"I'm Bill Foster, by the way," said the man in the baseball cap. "Call me Bill."

There was an awkward exchange of handshakes, during which everyone did their best not to notice the sweaty palms and the nervous tremors everyone seemed to be sporting.

Eventually, young Tim managed to work up the nerve to speak. "You said you didn't work here, but why the jumpsuit? You gotta admit you look like a mechanic."

Bill laughed mirthlessly. "I'm no mechanic, young fella: I've been a technician at the RobCo factory for the last thirty years, and I've no damn intention of spending my days with my hand up a tractor's asshole. Besides, nobody's worked at this garage since it was built, and I sure as hell didn't get this jumpsuit from here."

"RobCo?" Tessa echoed. "Was that truck out the front yours?"

"Er… technically."

"Technically?"

"Well, when I heard the sirens going off and realized what was going on, I, uh… kinda borrowed it."

"You stole it?"

"Hey, I needed a vehicle that'd get me through all the traffic, and it did. Not many people wanna hang around when there's a big damn RobCo truck bearin' down on 'em. Besides, I don't have a car, and I couldn't take the train here, so…" He shrugged. "Them's the breaks."

Tessa barely managed to suppress a snort of laughter. Right now, the Chinese were raining nuclear bombs over the United States, Washington DC was probably burning to the ground, and the two of them were quibbling over legal distinctions. God almighty, how much more demented could this morning get? But then she found herself thinking of the ranks of motionless cars stuck in traffic and the sounds of muted terror from her next-door neighbours, and suddenly the situation didn't seem quite so laughable anymore.

With precious else to do, the five of them carried on down the gloomy passageway, creeping down the stairs at the proverbial snail's pace.

For most of that hushed descent down the flight of stairs, there was silence, broken only by the faint echo of their shoes on the bare concrete steps. Nobody seemed to be in the mood for conversation, not when the world was ending less than a hundred feet above their heads. The fact that Vault-Tec had chosen to skimp on lightbulbs this deep underground didn't exactly do wonders for their confidence, either. By the time they reached the first corner, not even Bill was in the mood to talk.

Eventually, they began falling into formation behind the old technician, with George taking second position, Pat settling into third in line; Tim and Tessa, being the most bruised of the group, found themselves hovering at the rear of the group, trailing behind the procession as the stairs led them ever deeper into the bowels of the earth – deeper into darkness.

Eventually, Tessa became aware of a faint snuffling sound echoing up from somewhere nearby. After a few seconds of searching, she realized that the source of the noise was Tim shivering to himself.

"Are you okay?" she whispered.

The young man almost jumped out of his skin, whirling around so fast he almost lost his balance on the stairs.

"Fine!" he squeaked. "Just fine. I…" He swallowed, clearly ashamed of himself. "I don't like enclosed spaces. I mean, I can cope with them, but… enclosed spaces, darkness and not being able to get out, and everything that just happened, I-I-I j-just can't… I really don't like it down here."

"There's nothing to be afraid of."

"I know, I'm pathetic." He sighed furiously to himself, unable to meet her eyes. "I shouldn't have said anything, I'm sorry."

Maybe it was just the fact that she hadn't spoken to anyone on a social basis for weeks on end, or maybe it was just the aftermath of the stress she'd just been under, but Tessa found her heart going out to the nervous young man at her side. Despite knowing full well that they should be focussing on the journey ahead, she reached out and patted Tim reassuringly on the shoulder.

"Hey, you've got nothing to apologise for," she soothed. "Nobody in the world would blame you for being scared: we just outran a nuclear missile strike – I'm still pretty spooked, and I'm thirty years older than you. But everything's going to be fine, now: we survived the blast, we're protected from the radiation at this depth, and once we're inside the Vault, we'll have everything we need to go on with our lives in safety."

Tim looked up at her with dawning hope in his watery blue eyes. "You really think so?"

"Absolutely. You'll do fine down here."

In spite of himself, the young man smiled. "Thanks," he whispered.

He took a deep breath, and then extended a trembling hand. "Timothy Neusbaum," the young man introduced himself.

"Tessa Dithers," she replied, shaking the offered hand.

Then without warning, the gloomy staircase abruptly ground to a halt as the five of them finally reached the bottom. From there, they shuffled forward for another twenty feet, turned a corner, and…

After several years of uninterrupted government advertising on the subject, all of them were familiar with the distinctive shape of a Vault door: barely a week had gone by when the gate of one Vault or another hadn't appeared on TV or in the newspapers. But in the end, it was one thing to see a Vault door in the media, and another to see it up close: here, with that colossal steel gear towering over them in the darkness, it seemed oddly… totemic.

Tessa had heard rumours that Vault-Tec had consulted experts in psychological warfare for advice on how to ensure long-term defence of each Vault in case future generations of humanity ever grew too primitive to understand the power of 21st century technology. Looking at the door, she could certainly imagine that the rumour was true. Here in the dark, where the eyes could so easily play tricks on you, it almost looked like the idol of some long-forgotten chthonic god.

The door itself was already open, casting a pale fluorescent glow upon the darkened corridor beyond, and peering around the corner, Tessa could just about recognize the gleaming metal surfaces and squat control booths of the Vault's gatehouse.

Again, she'd seen this before on TV, and she'd even visited a recreation of it at the Washington Museum of Technology, but here in the apocalyptic gloom, there was something far more unearthly about it. In fact, the more she looked at it, the more it felt like the magical cave from One Thousand And One Nights, enchanted to open only at the right words of power.

Even more unsettling was the fact that, unlike the photos, exhibits and films promising that the control booths would be bustling with people, the entrance was completely deserted. No guards, no technicians, no Vault-Tec personnel waiting to greet them, no Overseer presiding over the new intakes: apart from the other four arrivals, they were alone.

Gathered in front of the door were a quartet of strangers, each of them almost as disarrayed as the rest of the group. Tessa might have asked why they hadn't gone in ahead of them, but judging from those terrified expressions on their faces, they were too scared to enter without reinforcements.

As they staggered to a halt, one of the huddled figures – a bearded man of about thirty – looked up with something close to anger on his face. "What was that racket?" he demanded.

Bill rolled his eyes. "What do you think it was, man? They dropped the bomb."

The man shook his head incredulously. "Can't be possible," he muttered. "Just can't be possible."

"You don't like it? Go upstairs and check. I'm not heading back up there now: these are the only neighbours we'll be having for a long damn time. Took a little while for them to get in, but it was worth the wait."

The man looked them up and down with a dubious look on his face. "This is all of them?"

"That's all I'm gonna stay out for."

"But there's only nine of us!" said another survivor, this one a slender brunette clinging to the first speaker's arm. "We're supposed to eventually rebuild human civilization! How are we supposed to do that with just nine people?!"

"I can think of a few ideas," said the bearded man, a wry grin brightening his face.

"Not the time, Roger."

"Sorry."

"Maybe we should just go in," said a third figure – another woman, blonde and rather glamorous-looking despite the tatty bathrobe and sleep-mussed hair. "The Vault staff should know what to do, right?"

The brunette shook her head. "I've had friends who were signed up for other Vaults, and they said that the first thing they were told at the orientation seminars was to line up at the entrance, where it was safe, and wait for instructions from the Overseer."

An idea struck Tessa, and she found herself voicing it almost without thinking: "How come we didn't get an orientation seminar? Shouldn't it have been important to figure out what we're supposed to do in advance?"

"Who cares? The newspapers said all the Vaults are supposed to be essentially the same: if that's the case, all we've got to do is sit here and wait for someone to find us, and we'll be okay."

"And maybe the Overseer's already dead," Bill retorted. "He could have gotten stuck in traffic on the way to the Vault or held up at the office, or whatever. For all we know, we're on our own down here. Best thing we can do is make the most of it."

"But if that's the case, then how are we going to work out what to do with all this machinery?" said the fourth and final member of the huddle.

Perhaps forty years old, slightly plump and more than a little bit on the matriarchal side, she had the kind of face that was normally suited for big, friendly smiles – the kind of face that honestly didn't belong down here in the gloom.

"I mean, from what I've heard, these places are filled with high-tech devices that need constant repairs. How are the nine of us supposed to deal with all this stuff?"

Tessa sighed deeply. "Look, the door isn't going to stay open forever, you know," she pointed out. "Sooner or later, this thing is supposed to seal shut to keep out radiation, and while we're sitting here talking about it, we're wasting time we could be better spent actually surviving. So, in all fairness, I think we should put this discussion to one side and get indoors before it's too late. All those in favour, say aye."

There was a muffled chorus of ayes. A moment later, the nine of them were in motion once again, lumbering over the threshold and into the Vault itself; to their immense relief, the door didn't seal shut as they crossed, nor did they hear the sound of it closing behind them. If nothing else, they at least had the illusion of safety, the notion that they could still escape, even if doing so would have been completely pointless.

And then, just as Tessa was beginning to wonder if the unearthly silence and the unnecessary gloom was going to strangle all their attempts at speech again, Bill opened a door ahead of them-

-and all nine of them let out strangled cries of alarm as a figure suddenly glided out of the shadows towards them.

"Welcome to Vault 112, residents," it said pleasantly.

Tessa breathed a sigh of relief. Just a robobrain, she told herself, trying to slow her racing heartbeat. Just a robobrain. 

Thanks to her position at Lee Rapid, she'd managed to briefly glimpse a few classified documents concerning the development of these new cyborg creatures, so it wasn't entirely unfamiliar to her; apparently, the company had been in the running to produce the biomedical gel in which the brain would sit, though Tessa had never learned if they'd managed to win the contract.

Still, it was one thing to sneak a split-second peek at photographs and schematics heaped on a drunken executive's desk late one Thursday evening, and another to see the finished machine up close. From its tread-mounted cylindrical body to its serpentine arms, it was by far one of the ugliest things that she'd ever seen outside of a chemical burns unit, not helped by the way those arms waved back and forth in slow, methodical arcs, the pincers constantly opening and shutting with every move. But the worst thing about it was the brain sitting in that tiny dome atop the massive body, little more than a misshapen lump of grey matter floating in bio-gel and marred with surgical scarring. Tessa had never learned where the brains for these things came from, and for a moment, she couldn't help but wonder if the ragged cortex in front of her had once belonged to a chimpanzee… or to a political prisoner.

A quick glance around her revealed that the rest of the party was slowly recovering, having accepted the figure as just another brand of robot, though it looked as though the Neusbaum family were having difficulty extracting themselves from the terrified huddle they'd fallen into, much to Tim's exasperation.

"I have been officially assigned to welcome you to your new home for the foreseeable future," the robobrain continued. "Please take a moment to register your names and then dress in your Vault-Tec-issued Vault suits before continuing. If you have misplaced your Vault suits, I am authorized to provide new ones."

Just as well, really, Tessa thought, sheepishly remembering the Vault suit she'd left folded on her dresser at home.

As it turned out, the residents had been in such a hurry to get to the Vault that almost none of them had found the time to bring their Vault suits either. Only the Neusbaums had brought the zipper-studded blue jumpsuits with them, all of them contained in Tim's cavernous suitcase.

One by one, each resident accepted a vacuum-packed Vault suit from a slot in the robobrain's tank-shaped torso, and hastily dressed, each of them supplying their full names as they did so. The robobrain was even able to supply bandages and regenerative ointments for Tessa's battered feet, which certainly made the process of putting on the standard-issue boots a good deal less onerous.

By the end of the registration, Tessa had put names to most of the remaining unfamiliar faces here in the Vault: the glamourous blonde was identified as Martha Simpson, the motherly woman with the slightly Rubenesque figure introduced as Mabel Henderson, and the brunette and her husband were registered as Janet and Roger Rockwell.

On the downside, everyone in the group now knew that Tessa's real name was Theresa.

Ever since she was a little girl, she'd been embarrassed by it. Having the surname "Dithers" was bad enough on its own, but the addition of "Theresa" just made her sound bewilderingly ridiculous. The moment she'd been able to get away with using a diminutive, she'd introduced herself almost exclusively as Tessa; she'd have gladly had her name officially changed to it, but her mom had kicked up such a fuss that she'd agreed to leave it unaltered. Now, at the age of fifty, she found her birth name even more irksome; it made her sound like some ancient hag who lived alone except for a horde of fleabitten cats and a burgeoning case of toxoplasmosis. But here and now, it couldn't be helped.

Meanwhile, as the last of the residents zipped themselves into their Vault suits, Roger asked, "What are we going to do now? Like my wife said, we're supposed to be preparing for the future, but there's only nine of us left in the entire Vault. I mean, aren't there any human guards or staff members here?"

"Under the regulations established during this facility's design phase, Vault 112 cannot accommodate organic attendants," said the robobrain. "Hence, Vault 112 is the first of its kind to be staffed entirely by robobrains."

"So… we're the only humans in the entire building?" Janet whispered.

There was a stunned pause, and suddenly, everyone was talking at once.

"What are we even supposed to do down here?"

"Can we communicate with the other Vaults?"

"How are we going to be fed?"

"Can we see if anyone else is showing up?"

"Is it safe here?"

The robobrain raised its tubular arms for silence. "All questions will be answered by Dr Stanislaus Braun once preliminary operations have been concluded. As Overseer, he has all the information that will be required to ensure your stay here is both comfortable and purposeful."

Tim's eyebrows crashed into his hairline. "Dr Braun?" he whispered privately to Tessa. "As in the Sorcerer-Scientist guy? Jeez, I should've worn a suit."

He idly smoothed back a few disorderly black locks and tried to make himself look as presentable as possible, without much success: after all, there was only so much you could do with a blue jumpsuit and bed-hair.

"If there are no further questions, please follow me to the atrium for preliminary assessment," the robobrain droned. Then without another word, it turned and began rolling down the corridor, back into the depths of the Vault.

Seeing no other options, the nine of them reluctantly followed, most of them carrying their discarded clothes in their hands (except for the Neusbaums, who'd packed all their surface gear into Tim's suitcase, only adding to its considerable weight).

However, it seemed that Roger wasn't done just yet: "But what about the explosion we heard?" he asked. "I mean, it sounded pretty big, but it can't have been actually…"

He hesitated, clearly grappling with denial or worse.

"How big was the blast?" he continued hesitantly.

"Instruments indicate that Washington DC has been struck by a large-scale nuclear attack featuring multiple ICBMS," the robobrain replied, its synthesized voice incongruously mellow. "External sensors detect extreme heat variances, mild seismic disruption, and dangerous radioactive emissions. We do not have an exact estimate on the precise megatonnage deployed against the city, but due to the number of impact tremors and the area's political, economic and strategic value, it can be presumed that Washington DC has been rendered uninhabitable for the foreseeable future."

There was a horror-stricken pause.

The terrible questions everyone had been asking themselves had been answered: now there were no more wishful thoughts that could protect them from the awful truth, and no way of escaping the reality of the situation.

As silence blossomed across the Vault once again, the residents looked to be on the verge of a breakdown. Several of them were crying or trying valiantly to hide it; among them, Tim, shaking and trembling and frantically hugging himself, was clearly doing his best to fight back tears, and Mabel Henderson was openly sobbing into the sleeve of her Vault suit. The others just looked lost and shell-shocked: in particular, George Neusbaum looked as though he was seriously reconsidering his decision to apply for a place here, and Janet Rockwell's expression seemed downright haunted. However, the robobrain refused to stop, so the traumatized residents had no choice but to continue following, struggling to bottle up their emotions as they did so.

For a time, Tessa almost managed to remain completely impervious to the shock, until she found herself reflecting on the terrifying statistics of the day.

Unless they'd been at home, awake and alert enough to heed the warnings when heard, a huge chunk of the chosen Vault populace across DC had just been vaporized. And the same went for everyone else in the city: unless they'd stopped at a subway, unless they had a deep enough basement or a Pulowksi Preservation shelter in the neighbourhood, they were dead. And from what she'd seen of the Pulowskis, those alloyed coffins might as well have been death sentences in and of themselves.

For a moment, the realization of just how many people were going to die today very nearly stopped Tessa dead in her tracks; the horror of it nearly bent her double with nausea. More than half of Washington D.C. would be dead before the day was out; so would all her friends at work; her neighbours – from the kids next-door who'd always waved to her when she'd left for work, to the grouchy old man across the road – were as good as dead too.

Marcie was dead.

Briefly, denial overcame her. This couldn't be happening. It simply didn't compute that anyone, American or Chinese, could possibly want something like this to happen. Death on this scale wasn't just undesirable, it was unthinkable, insane!

But then logic caught up with her; after all, her experiences at Lee Rapid had taught her more than once that "unthinkable" didn't mean impossible.

Tessa had to keep moving down the corridor, had to keep up with the robobrain. She had to carry on, if only so she could help what few residents had arrived at Vault 112; she had to make this mean something. And besides, there was still some hope: Springvale was close enough to Vault 101 for people to make the distance at a brisk jog, and from what little she'd learned of 92 and 108, there'd been settlements within running distance of them too. Plus, there was always the chance that some of the future residents of 106 and 87 had come to their senses and arrived before it was too late.

(But Marcie had been transferred to a different branch of Lee Rapid with no forwarding address, and no easy hope of salvation; unless she'd somehow found herself applying and winning a place in a Vault, she was as dead as the rest of D.C.)

For now, though, Tessa had to rein in her compassion.

She had to think about Tim and his parents. She had to think about Martha, Mabel, Bill, the Rockwells, her only companions in this strange new world she'd found herself in. And, as selfish as it sounded, she had to think about herself: she would be no good to her fellow survivors if she broke down in tears over the loss of life, and she'd be no good to anyone or launched herself into the flaming wreckage outside in some mad quest to rescue Casey. For the sake of everyone here, she had to be strong… and right now, that meant being callous.

That's what you'll tell yourself so you can sleep at night, sneered a horrible voice at the back of her head. That's what you'll tell yourself to justify the fact that one unemployed, unmarried, fifty-year-old harridan with a drinking problem somehow made it to safety ahead of productive members of society, ahead of families, ahead of children. And this time, you won't have the luxury of alcohol to numb your miseries, will you? Welcome to hell, you stupid bitch.

Biting down hard on her lip, Tessa promised herself that she would somehow make her survival mean something, that she would give everything she could to help the population of Vault 112, that she would somehow benefit the entire human race… if she could just keep moving.

So, on she went.

---

Eventually, the corridor abruptly opened up into a vast balcony overlooking the atrium, a colossal assembly hall that looked large enough to comfortably accommodate at least a few hundred people… or it would have been if the atrium hadn't been occupied by twelve egg-shaped machines gathered around a colossal central column.

Up until now, the corridors had been brightly lit with fluorescent globes, but out in this vast room, the atrium was illuminated only by tiny bar-shaped lamps set into the walls and floor. Looking around, Tessa couldn't help but feel that the all-encompassing gloom gave the place an unsettlingly sepulchral air, a feeling only amplified by the curiously sarcophagus-like aspect to the machines… and the pulsating red lights on the column and the haunting glow of the monitors at its base only made the place seem even more unsettling.

Unsurprisingly, the robobrain's path eventually led them down a flight of stairs, past an oddly sparse-looking medical bay, and onto the atrium's main floor, where several other robobrains were hastily assessing the machines. And as they drew closer, they realized that those mysterious steel-and-glass pods were opening, revealing cushioned seats and monitors within.

"What the hell are those?" George Neusbaum asked warily.

"These are Tranquillity Loungers; Dr Braun has authorized me to explain that these machines are used to assess your mind and body for a role within the Vault hierarchy. The Overseer is performing important work in the Vault and requires your assistance in order to ensure that his efforts are a success."

"Oh."

"Each of you have been assigned a Lounger for the duration of this initial assessment period. Please take a moment to find your selected Lounger, as indicated by the name on the monitor directly across from it." The robobrain extended a tubular arm, gesturing in the direction of the monitor-studded column with a pincered hand. "Then, take a seat inside and allow us to begin the orientation process."

There was a distinctly hesitant pause, and then the group slowly began dispersing across the atrium in search of their assigned Loungers, marvelling on the technology on display as they did so. Only Tessa and Tim remained behind – the latter because he was still weighed down by the increasingly cumbersome suitcase, the former because she was still feeling just the tiniest bit uneasy about this place.

It seemed ridiculous to worry now, especially given that they'd just managed to escape a thermonuclear blast; they'd all survived the deadliest thing life could possibly throw at them, and no matter what kind of tests they'd have to go through down here, it wasn't as if Vault-Tec could do much worse than the last few minutes of atomic bombardment had done.

All the same, she couldn't help but nurture a tiny kernel of doubt, for no matter how many times she tried to excuse away all the strange things about Vault 112, questions still dogged her: why was this Vault so different from the others she'd seen on display? Where were the sleeping quarters? Why the robobrains? If the Vault was supposed to be staffed by machines, why wasn't there a Mr Handy on duty in the medical bay? Why hadn't Braun met them in person? Why had this place been hidden under an auto-repair shop? Why had Vault-Tec insisted on keeping the location of this place a secret?

Meanwhile, the robobrain was eyeing the suitcase Tim was still lugging around, inasmuch as it could eye anything. "Please leave your luggage with us," it droned. "It will be delivered to your room upon completion of the assessment."

Tim sighed in relief as he handed over the suitcase. "About time," he muttered. "Damn thing was ripping my arm out of its socket."

As the other residents began dumping their old clothes in piles for the other robobrains to tidy up, there was a loud whistle from the other end of the atrium. "Timmy!" Pat called out. "I think I've found your Lounger over here!"

"I'll be right over, Ma!"

Tim barely managed to suppress a cringe of embarrassment as he glanced back at Tessa. "I've told her not to call me that a thousand times," he grumbled. "I keep telling her, 'just call me Tim, okay? I'm not a kid anymore, remember?' But she keeps at it."

"You don't have to tell me how annoying it is," said Tessa. "I remember how my mom would always go into conniptions when I went around calling myself Tessa." She twisted her voice into a fair approximation of her mother's croaking baritone, and rasped out, "'Girl, your name is Theresa, and if that name was good enough for your grandmother when she was your age, god rest her soul, then it's good enough for you!'"

Tim actually managed a snort of laughter. "Truth be told, it wouldn't have been as much of a pain in the ass if I hadn't had to move back in with my folks last year." He smiled bemusedly. "Guess it's too late to get away now, huh?"

There was an awkward pause, as the two of them belatedly realized that most of the residents had already taken their seats, and the now unoccupied robobrains were looking over at Tessa and Tim with an almost expectant look on their faceless domes.

"I don't mind telling you," Tim whispered. "I'm pretty freaked out about all this."

"Why?"

"Oh, you know – new life, new job, new responsibilities… or maybe the fact that everyone I ever know up top just died, there's only nine of us down here and we're probably gonna be spending the rest of our lives underground, or however long it takes for the radiation to drop to safe levels. I mean, we're never going to see the sun ever again. How the hell are we supposed to deal with that?"

She gave him a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder. "We'll find a way. Don't ask me how, but we will: maybe Vault-Tec are planning on having the Vaults work in tandem. For all I know, we'll be helping to dig underground tunnels between each Vault, and we'll have plenty of company sooner or later. Besides, no matter how you look at it, the worst is already over. How could it possibly get worse?"

Tim sighed. "I guess you're right… but it's gonna take a while before I'm ready to believe it. We'd best get going for now: Ma's giving me the hairy eyeball, and I don't think we should get in the robobrains' bad books on our first day."

"Fair enough. Good luck with your assessment."

"You too."

As he hurried away, Tessa hastily found her Tranquillity Lounger and clambered inside, quickly taking a seat as the robobrains buzzed impatiently for attention.

"You are now prepared for permanent residence within Vault 112," they intoned in perfect unison. "Dr Stanislaus Braun will see you now. Thank you for choosing Vault-Tec."

On cue, the Loungers closed, sealing all nine of them inside the capsules. As they did so, a monitor slid down front of Tessa's face, revealing a beautiful technicolour view of Washington DC – even as other, stranger machines began moving into position around her head.

She had just enough time to catch a split-second near-subliminal glimpse of an old, old face staring back at her from the monitor, right before something cold and metallic slid across her scalp.

And then Tessa Dithers parted ways with reality.

Chapter 5: Welcome To Hell

Summary:

The Sorcerer-Scientist ushers his new friends into their new home and their new routine...

The sense of disorientation was beyond words.

One minute, Tessa was sitting in the Tranquillity Lounger and wondering what she'd just seen; the next, she was hovering in an endless white void, perpetually floating through the radiant nothingness.

For perhaps twenty seconds, she tumbled aimlessly through infinity without knowing when or where she'd land, somehow unafraid despite the distinct sense of vertigo; there was a sense of dreamlike unreality to the whole experience, a vague impression that nothing was really happening, and for a time, she could comfort herself with that, despite her confusion.

And then, without warning, she found herself flickering back into reality on the edge of a vast stretch of water, surrounded by lush green trees and elegantly manicured lawns; beyond those trees, row after row of stately buildings loomed over her, and the distant shapes of colossal monuments crowned the horizon with tines of sculpted marble and granite. It took Tessa a little while to recognize where she was, for this place simply couldn't exist anymore, and if it did, it didn't look like this at the moment.

Somehow, she'd found herself standing by the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool, staring up at the Washington Monument.

More importantly, she wasn't alone, either. All around her, the other Vault 112 residents were popping into existence, most of them looking just as confused as she was.

There was a pause, as the nine of them slowly took in their surroundings, awestruck stares etched across their faces.

Then, Bill asked, "Is this what I think it is?"

"How could it be?" demanded Martha. "Washington just got nuked, so how can this be real?"

Tim knelt and dipped a finger into the waters of the Reflecting Pool. "It feels real enough," he said hesitantly. "Maybe it's a virtual reality scenario. I mean, we all saw those monitors coming down in front of us, right? So maybe those Tranquillity Loungers were VR simulators, like the one they had on display over at Nellis Air Force base in that documentary. I mean, they looked pretty similar, right? This is all just a simulation."

Overheard, the distant cry of passing birds echoed over the Reflecting Pool.

"A very realistic simulation," Tim amended.

George looked sceptical. "So, this is what was going on inside those training machines they showed on the news? This is the sort of thing our soldiers were preparing for war in?" He shook his head disapprovingly. "Jeez, whatever happened to drill instructors and obstacle courses? No wonder we got nuked."

"George!"

"Sorry, Pat."

Tessa coughed for attention. "I think there might be something a bit more important at stake: why are we here? The robobrains said we were only being placed in the Tranquillity Loungers for orientation, but if that's all that those things were for, why bother? VR equipment like this should cost millions of dollars, so why would Vault-Tec bother taking up so much space with twelve of these simulators for nothing more than a few hours of briefing? What else are these Loungers being used for?"

"A very astute question, madam," said a voice. "I do believe explanations are in order…"

The sound instantly drew their attention, and for the next few seconds, everyone frantically scanned the surrounding area for its source without success; the voice seemed to issue from everywhere at once, simultaneously echoing from across the Reflecting Pool, calling down from the heavens, and whispering directly into the ears of all nine of them at once.

Under normal circumstances, it would have sounded almost pleasant to Tessa's ears: there was a soothing quality to it, a mellow note to the German-accented voice that put her in mind of long afternoons in college lecture halls and seminars given by aging professors. It was the voice of a man of learning and refinement, the voice of a man who could command immediate trust from those around him, as it had in countless press conferences and talk shows across the years. And yet, hearing those finely-aged tones rippling out across the Reflecting Pool, Tessa couldn't help but shudder: for all the courteousness of the speaker, there was no warmth to it, no real affability, only perfectly calculated syllables.

"Allow me to introduce myself," it said. "I am Dr Stanislaus Braun, the Overseer of this Vault, Administrator of this simulation and Director of the Societal Preservation Program... though the last part hardly matters now, does it?"

The voice chuckled in a curiously mechanical way.

"Welcome to Vault 112, my friends. Make yourselves at home: you and I will be sharing it for a very long time. A very long time indeed…"

Suddenly, the voice changed in direction, going from omnipresent to merely present. As one, all heads turned in the direction of the Washington Monument, following the source of the voice… and then they saw him: at first, he was only a silhouette marching across the horizon, but as he drew closer, they saw the lab coat over his Vault suit, the hunched back, the wizened face, the faint smirk, the curiously vital stride carrying him alongside the Reflecting Pool.

Even Tessa, who'd spent the last few weeks pointedly ignoring the news, knew that this could only be Dr Braun himself, the legendary Sorcerer-Scientist of Vault-Tec.

And then Tessa realized that Braun wasn't walking alongside the pool at all, but upon it, his feet carrying him smoothly across the waters with only a faint series of ripples left in his wake. The residents could only point in astonishment at the sight, even as Braun strode calmly onwards across the Reflecting Pool, as if this were the most normal thing in the world for him. Eventually, he came to a stop perhaps five feet away from the residents and stood there, floating atop the surface of the water as if gravity simply no longer applied to him.

"Too much?" he asked, grinning wolfishly. "You must forgive me: I've been preparing for your arrival for almost two years now, and I felt a grand entrance was only fitting for the occasion."

Once again, Tessa shivered. She'd seen Braun appear on TV a few times before, and he'd never worn that teeth-baring grin in any of them – and with good reason: this was the kind of smile that could frighten small children and send dogs sprinting for cover with their tails between their legs.

For a moment, the nine of them could only gawp as Braun stepped out of the pool and stood before them, smiling wider than ever. Then, Roger Rockwell, his mouth flapping helplessly like a landed trout, sat down hard on the edge of the pool and blurted out, "What the fuck is going on here?!"

"As I said, Mr Rockwell-"

"How do you know my name?!"

"You've been registered in the system. You gave your names to the robobrains, they entered them into the computer, and as a result, we've been freed from the burden of all those tedious introductions. But in the meantime…"

He glanced in Tessa's direction. "You, Ms Dithers, wanted to know why so much space was spared for twelve Tranquillity Loungers. As it happens, there are currently eighty-five Loungers in Vault 112, taking up approximately two thirds of the complex." A frown briefly marred Braun's ancient visage. "Alas, it seems the Vault will not be filled anywhere near to capacity, but I believe the nine of you will suffice for my purposes."

He smiled again, his grin seeming just a little too wide for his face. "You see, my friends, in Vault 112 the nine of you will not be toiling to preserve and rebuild civilization when radiation levels on the surface finally return to normal. You will not be forced to deal with vitamin D deficiency and other maladies of subterranean life. You will not be encouraged to breed or clone yourselves in order to build an effective population. You will not be preoccupied with meaningless errands or mediocre entertainment to keep you from unrest. You will have no sick bay, no living quarters, no rations, nor any need of them."

Braun spread his arms wide. "This simulation is your new home. The systems inside your Loungers will sustain you for as long as they have the power to do so, and the scenarios projected into your minds will keep you occupied longer than any work or amusement could in the real world. And so, allow me to welcome you to Vault-Tec's last official product and my greatest triumph: paradise on earth."

A stunned silence followed this little speech.

Then, after perhaps ten seconds of dead air, George nervously held up a hand for attention. "Um, Dr Braun? If all that's the case… what are we supposed do here? I mean, from the way you put it, we can pretty much do anything we like. So how are supposed to spend our time?"

"I'm glad you asked me that, Mr Neusbaum," said the good doctor with a smirk. "It so happens that I had a very particular idea of how to occupy your time in our newfound heaven. It's admittedly quite unorthodox, but I'm sure you won't mind unconventional thinking."

He cleared his throat and stretched languidly like a cat on the prowl. "Before then, I must confess the need to let off a little steam: after all, I have been alone in this simulation for the better part of two years, and I feel it is only fair that I indulge myself before we move on to more complicated pastimes. I'm sure you understand the necessity for venting, so I won't burden any of you with any condescending explanations. So, if you would bear with me for just a minute…"

He raised a gnarled hand into the air and closed his eyes in concentration for a moment.

A split-second later, Braun was holding a 45-calibre revolver and levelling it squarely in George's direction.

The bullet caught George right in the middle of his bald dome, digging a tangerine-sized hole in the centre of his forehead, tearing the back of his skull open, spraying brains across the immaculate lawn and splattering Tim and Pat with his blood.

Suddenly, everything seemed to happen at once: Pat let out a piercing scream and fell to her knees, trying to gather George's falling corpse into her arms with trembling, blood-soaked hands; Tim froze in place, eyes frantically darting from Braun to his dead father, mouth flapping in mute terror; Roger leapt to his feet and yelled something in Janet's direction, before charging headlong towards Braun; Mabel, Bill and Martha fled in all directions, vanishing into the trees bordering the Reflecting Pool… and Tessa could only stand there, once again not comprehending how or why this could have happened, her mind overrun with all the myriad reasons why this simply couldn't be.

Then Braun shot Pat Neusbaum in the throat, sending her hurtling backwards onto the paving stones, choking her last breaths through a bloody hole in her neck. Ignoring the fleeing residents, completely dismissing the oncoming figure of Roger Rockwell, Braun took aim at Tim.

The sight alone seemed to send an electric shock rippling through Tessa's body. Galvanized into action, she threw herself at Braun, trying to tackle him to the ground, to knock the gun out his hands, to draw his fire, anything to stop him from killing Tim.

But no sooner had she gotten within arm's reach of the Overseer, he spun around, grabbed her by the collar of her Vault suit and flung her across the Reflecting Pool.

Tumbling helplessly through the air, Tessa flew for what had to be several hundred feet before finally splashing to a halt in the middle of the pool. Unfortunately, even at its deepest point, the Lincoln Memorial Reflecting Pool was only thirty inches from surface to bottom and didn't give her much in the way of insulation: a split-second after splashing down, she felt her left arm crack violently beneath her as she hit the ground, sending a white-hot lance of pain shooting from elbow to shoulder. Tessa rose awkwardly, spitting water and trying desperately not to cry out in horror at the sight of the length of jagged bone jutting out of her arm.

Shaking water out of her eyes, she saw that Roger had finally reached Braun and was now pummelling him furiously with as many punches as he could possibly throw, while Tim and Janet had finally come to their senses and started running for their lives.

Unfortunately, Braun didn't even seem mildly fazed by the pummelling. He was just standing there, idly checking a non-existent watch as the punches rained down on his face, waiting patiently until Roger finally ran out of energy.

Then, dropping his gun, he reached out, grabbed Roger's left fist and began to squeeze. Within the first three seconds, Roger was screaming; within the first five, his screams were slowly drowned out by the crunch and pop of splintering bones, and the disgusting squish of fractured bones being pulverized into semi-liquefied goo.

Staggering to her feet, Tessa took to her heels and began floundering awkwardly towards the two combatants, staggering through the shallow water in a frantic attempt to reach Braun, but too late: Braun's other hand shot out and wrapped itself around Roger's neck, talonlike fingers tearing open his throat and snapping his spine like a twig.

Somehow, she made it to the edge of the pool without tripping, staggering just close enough to snatch up the fallen revolver with her unwounded hand and point it squarely at the back of Braun's head.

Her first shot skimmed harmlessly over Braun's shoulder, but the second hit him square in the back of the skull… with no effect whatsoever.

Braun very slowly turned to face his newest attacker, smirking gleefully. Then, he threw Roger's lifeless body aside and began to advance on Tessa, once again striding calmly across the water without even getting his feet wet.

"Overseer's privileges, Ms Dithers," he said smugly. "You can't kill me. You can't even hurt me if I don't want you to. But I can do whatever I want to you. Because here, you're just a pawn in my game, and I… well, if this is heaven, I am so close to godhood that any basis for comparison between the two of us becomes purely academic."

His smile turned wider and sharper than ever. "Now kneel before your god."

Suddenly, he was right on top of her, pushing her face-down into the water, smashing her head against the bottom of the pool. At this end, it couldn't be much more than eighteen inches deep, but with Braun slowly forcing her face beneath the waterline, that didn't make much of a difference: water poured into her open mouth, into her nostrils, down her throat, into her lungs, and no matter how hard she tried to force Braun's arms away, how hard she kicked out at him in a desperate attempt to dislodge his grip, Tessa couldn't do a thing to stop him.

At some point, Braun grabbed her by the hair and hauled her back above water, allowing her to vomit up what felt like half a gallon of putrid water.

"Why!?" she gasped, in between coughs. "I don't understand! What do you get out of this? Why are you doing this to us?!"

Braun smiled again, and this one seemed the worst of all: in Tessa's career as a scientist, she'd seen plenty of sadistic bastards, enough to recognize the demented grins and self-satisfied smirks that Braun had displayed in the last couple of minutes. But now there was no real cruelty in his expression, no hatred, no vindictiveness, none of the sick, near-coital pleasure that the workplace psychopaths had displayed in their ugliest moments. Here and now, the expression on Braun's face was one of relief; he looked like a man finally at ease with the world around him, as if he'd spent years on end stuffed into some ill-fitting, uncomfortable suit and had just been allowed to walk free in his own skin at long last.

"Isn't it obvious?" he purred. "I do it, Ms Dithers, because I enjoy it."

Then he drove her face down into the water once again, headfirst into the stone floor.

There was a thud, a crunch, a sharp ripple of pain across Tessa's skull, and then everything went black.

---

Braun sighed and sat back on the edge of the Reflecting Pool as fresh waves of ecstasy washed over him, setting his nerves alight from one end of his body to the next.

Yes, it had been too long since he'd last indulged himself upon a real victim, but even back in the real world, he'd never had the chance to enjoy himself on an unofficial basis with so many victims at once, not even when he'd been in the prime of his health and youth. In his off-hours, it simply hadn't been practical to keep such a large stable of playthings, not when the odds of retaliation or discovery escalated with every new prisoner. And at work, he'd needed to engage his scientific interests first and foremost, and though there were generous lashings of schadenfreude to be milked from the test subjects granted to him, professionalism forbade him from the deeper indulgences inherent to his off hours.

Only now was the full scope of his true potential beginning to dawn on him: guns, knives, even bombs were superfluous instruments compared to the full range of powers his status as administrator afforded him. Oh, but why restrict himself? He'd have all the time in the world to test out the effects of all the weapons and abilities at his disposal, and more than enough time to decide which ones he preferred.

In the meantime, he considered his newest playthings, such as they were. From everything that had been relayed to him by the surveillance systems, he appeared to have been gifted an overeducated harridan with a diseased liver, two cringing suburbanite mice, their spineless pampered brat, a pygmy whale masquerading as a woman, a young couple who'd probably been five months removed from divorce or a murder-suicide, some whining blonde with no applicable skills or independent worth, and an elderly mechanic that appeared to be made entirely of elbow skin and failure. It was a little sad that there weren't more of the whimpering pawns, but experience had taught him to work with what he'd had… and back then, he hadn't had the advantage of playthings that could live forever.

At present, four of the residents remained unaccounted for and were probably fleeing across the Mall by now; true, none of them had the power to oppose him – after all, they wouldn't be able to find the auxiliary terminal, not after he'd gone to such trouble to disguise his method of summoning – but it wouldn't be much fun if they found a place to hide. By habit, he much preferred hunting to fishing, even if there weren't any police to stop him this time around.

So, should he get after them now, with all the speed his virtual body could afford him, or should he enact the next step of this first and most glorious indulgence?

He looked down at the broken bodies of his victims: George Neusbaum with the giant crater in his skull, Patricia Neusbaum slumped beside him with her throat blasted open, Roger Rockwell torn open from chin to collar, and Theresa Dithers floating in the shallow waters of the Reflecting Pool with her head cracked like an egg.

In the real world, this would have meant the end of his fun, a sign that he would have to give up his amusements and return to another day of dreary respectability. In the virtual world, though…

Braun smirked and reset their programs.

Suddenly, Dithers, Rockwell and the two Neusbaums were no longer lying dead before him, but standing on their feet, alive and unharmed. For a moment they could only blink in confusion as they frantically patted their bodies in search of bullet wounds or broken bones. Finding none, they looked up at Braun in dawning shock.

"W-we were dead," Pat Neusbaum stammered. "We… you killed us!"

"Correct," said Braun.

George gawped in astonishment, absently patting the back of his head in search of the exit wound. "But… but how are we-?"

"Virtual reality, remember? Your real bodies remain unharmed in the real world: killing you merely reverts your current condition to total unconsciousness. For all intents and purposes, I put you to sleep. All I have to do to awaken you from that sleep is to reset the system, or at least certain portions of it."

"So, you can't kill us," said Roger slowly, a look of dawning rebelliousness in his eyes. "Not permanently. And that means-"

Braun sighed, summoned the pistol back into his hand and shot Roger in the left kneecap.

"It means," he said, raising his voice over Mr Rockwell's agonized howling, "That I can inflict as much pain as I please without ever having to worry about killing you."

By now, the four survivors were looking decidedly terrified... except, of course, for Roger, who was staring at the pulped remains of his knee in shock.

"Please," Pat Neusbaum whimpered. "Just let us go. We'll leave the Vault. We won't tell anyone about this place, I promise. We'll take our chances outside. Just open the Loungers and let us go."

Ms Dithers sighed. "You're wasting your breath," she said softly. "He's not going to let any of us go, not now that we're the only nine people in the Vault. We're his only entertainment."

"Astute as ever, Ms Dithers," Braun giggled. "I can see I'm going to have to keep an eye on you. For now, it's time we were on our way: five of my little flock have fled across virtual Washington, and I do believe they'd be more inclined to come running if their dearest friends and relatives were around to serve as bait. And before any of you think of trying to defy me in any way, I have it in my power to inflict pain on you at any time I desire in any fashion that amuses me. Frankly, you'd be amazed at the things a simulated human body can live through at my discretion. So, unless any of you would like to find out… move!"

As they staggered off, Mrs Neusbaum was sobbing openly. "How long to we have to do this?" she cried, as George helped lead her away.

"For as long as I please," said Braun smugly. "As long as the Loungers and the Vault's facilities have the power to maintain your life support, you will be my treasured guests, my dearest friends… my favourite toys."

He allowed himself a soft chuckle. "As I said, Mrs Neusbaum, you and I are going to be sharing this simulation for a long time indeed…"

Chapter 6: Campfires And Masquerades

Summary:

The residents strive against the odds and Braun tries on new faces...

Notes:

And we're back in crazytown!

In case you're wondering, don't worry: this is not going to be one in-game year per chapter - I'm not going to be covering literally every single one of the two hundred years between now and the Lone Wanderer's arrival. I'm going to be fleshing out things a little, but not to the point of ludicrous excess.

Anyway, it's time for the next chapter - feel free to supply me with critiques and criticism, especially for those typos that sneak in at 4 in the morning :)

Without further ado, the latest chapter: read, review and above all, enjoy!

"Tessa?"

"Yes, Tim?"

"What's the time?"

"… Three AM. I can't tell if my watch is right or not. I could take a look aboveground, but… too dangerous right now…"

"And what day is it?"

"…Sunday, I think. It's been so long since I last looked at a calendar, but… I think if I've got the timing right, it must be November 22nd."

"Is it the still the same year we arrived? Oh god…"

"What? What's wrong?"

"I was just thinking of Christmas. God, that's all we need: Braun's take on Christmas. I mean, we've already seen how that guy celebrates Halloween. Do we really want to imagine what this guy's going to do when December finally rolls around? Shit, we won't have to imagine anything! We'll be right there, suffering through every minute of it – just like we have been for the last thirty days! Oh fuck, has it even been thirty days? What if it's been longer than that?!"

"Shhhh…"

"No, no, no, we can't stay here any longer – we have to find that control panel he keeps using! We have to we have to before it gets any worse-"

Tim was on his feet by now, his voice rising to a scream. Tessa pressed her hands down on his shoulders, doing her best to soothe him before the tirade got out of control, and slowly but surely, she was able to ease him back down into a sitting position, massaging his shoulders until the ranting had finally subsided. However, nothing could stop the compulsive shivering that constantly wracked Tim's spindly frame, not even the crude fire they'd built in the middle of the subway concourse.

"You can't keep on like this forever, Tim," grumbled Bill. "The sooner we get our bearings and accept the truth, we'll be in a better position to cope with this nightmare."

"Cope? Cope?! We're in hell, Bill! We're going insane here – I mean, just look at yourself!"

Bill very slowly lowered the moulded wire glove puppet he'd been holding in the air for the last few seconds. "What's that supposed to mean?" he demanded. Under his breath, he added, "He wasn't talking to you, Jim-Bob, relax."

"You see?"

"Look, this is just a coping strategy, kiddo. There's nothing crazy about it." Sotto voice: "You know that, right, Jim-Bob?"

"Guys," Mabel groaned, "Could we please not get into another argument? I know we're all wearing a little thin, but we don't need to take it out on each other." She picked absently at a non-existent wound on her shoulder.

"I'm not starting fights, Mabel, I'm just making a point: you can cope with almost anything given enough time. Take it from a very old man with far too big a mouth, you can adjust to everything under the goddamn sun. If we can just keep everything under control and not let Braun get to us, we'll eventually be okay." Sotto voice: "And make sure Agnes, Jonathan, Aluizio and McGee know it too, okay Jim-Bob?"

"So… you're saying that if we just pretend it doesn't matter, we'll eventually build up the mental equivalent of scar tissue until we're too calloused to react to anything Braun does to us?"

"Pretty much. Uh, speaking of scar tissue, Mabes, you might wanna leave that alone."

Mabel scratched determinedly at her arm, digging a broken nail into the already-bruised flesh just above her elbow. "I have to clean it before I can properly bandage it," she muttered absently. "It hasn't stopped bleeding since Braun killed me the last time."

"But there isn't-"

Janet hushed him, and patted Mabel's shoulder in the most reassuring way she could manage, no easy task, considering that she was clearly just as anxious as everyone else in the room. "We've been over this before, Mabel," she said, gently. "There's no wound on your-"

"I don't care what you say," she snapped. "It's there. I can see it, just like I see all my other injuries."

But of course, she didn't have any other injuries, or injuries of any kind apart from the one that she was already inflicting on herself. Those of them who'd been killed and resurrected thus far had always returned minus any injuries they'd suffered prior to their virtual deaths, so unless Braun had secretly devised some new trick to the process… well, insanity was another thing that none of them wanted to consider very deeply, but it might just be unavoidable at this juncture.

"Could you… could you keep it down, please?" Pat cringed. "You're upsetting Timmy."

Timmy, who was still lying in Tessa's arms, let out a muffled whimper and started crying again.

All of them had been on edge of late, thanks to the parade of torment and death they endured on a near-daily basis: by now, the atmosphere was so thick with tension that it was a marvel that any of them could breathe, but Tim was taking it worse than most. Having had a chance to talk to him before they'd gone under, Tessa had the distinct impression that he usually needed a moment to catch his breath and centre himself before he could cope with adversity… and right now, Braun wasn't giving Tim any chance to adjust.

Oh, he gave them opportunities to recover. That was a key part of Braun's tortures, for he gave them everything they needed to recuperate from their torment, within reason.

He never permitted them to enter the homes and buildings within the scenario, keeping every single door and window sealed shut unless he wanted to carry out some special torture inside; he never allowed them to use anything electrical in nature; he never provided them with weapons. And with his captives reduced to skulking in deserted subways like rats, Braun laughingly bestowed the bare minimum of what they would need to survive and recuperate from the previous evening before he began the torture once again: he gave them a few paltry scraps of food, the odd bottle of water, and maybe just enough matches and wastepaper to start a fire. And he gave them just enough time for them to rest, to at least partly forget the agonies that had been inflicted on them, so that when the time came to drag them back into his sadistic little games, the suffering would be almost as fresh as it had been the first time.

Of course, he hadn't actually explained that to them. After all, even Braun wasn't that arrogant.

Instead, it had been George Neusbaum who'd explained things to them: "That's what they used to tell us in the army," he'd muttered anxiously, shivering as he huddled close to the fire. "If you're ever captured by the enemy, they'll interrogate you… but it'll take time. They'll give you little rests every now and again, just so you don't get too used to it. They'll make sure you never know when it's going to start again, so the uncertainty breaks you long before they do. They'll give you time to stew before they get back to work: they'll make it so bad for you back in your cell that you'll tell them everything they want to know. That's what they told me back in boot camp."

There'd been a pause as they'd considered this, and then Tim had asked, "Uh, dad, did they say anything about what happens if you're captured by someone who doesn't want answers at all?"

"Not really… but I left the army long before we got into any of this business with China. God only knows what would've happened if we'd started hearing the stuff I heard the commies were doing up in Alaska - POWs being funnelled into research programs or used for underground blood sports. Christ knows what I'd have done if I'd seen that kind of action."

He later admitted that he'd gotten spectacularly lucky during his time in the army all those decades ago, somehow managing to avoid getting within arm's reach of the enemy. To him, the ill-defined enemy of that long-forgotten internal conflict had been (in order of appearance) a number of screaming blobs firing antiquated rifles at him from several thousand yards away, incandescent spots on the horizon, and then tiny piles of glowing dust. In those days, the biggest nuisance had been his squad leader's uncontrollable flatulence; oh, George had heard of fellow soldiers being tortured for information by whatever rebel militia they were up against that week, and the prospect of being captured alive had naturally terrified him… but the threat had somehow never touched him. Nor had anything else: in all his years of military service, George Neusbaum had never received a wound more serious than a broken leg, nor had he ever met an opponent he hadn't beaten to the punch when push came to shove. Bullets had seemed to pass him by, and on the rare occasions when the insurgents had gotten hold of some serious ordinance, rockets and grenades somehow failed to detonate around him. His fellow soldiers had called him "Lucky," refused all his efforts to transfer, and even tried to paint a four-leaf clover on his helmet despite George's protests.

"Why didn't you let them, though?" Tim asked, genuinely curious. "That would've been cool!"

"Because they were about five times over the limit, Tim. I mean, would you let a drunk friend give you a tattoo? Same principle: if I gave them the helmet, they'd probably give it back with a shamrock painted on it, and I didn't want to go through the rest of my tour of duty with a name like 'Jewish Leprechaun' or some such crap."

"And that was the worst thing that happened to you when you were in the army?"

"Apart from the busted leg, yeah." George sighed. "Well, I guess I'm paying for all the good luck now, aren't I?"

Pat had smiled in spite of herself, and gently patted his hand. That had been one of the few moments of levity the two had achieved in the last five days, and all things considered, they were positively buoyant by current standards.

Since they'd entered the simulation, Braun had managed to kill every single one of them at least thirty times. Each death was unique in its own torturous way, incorporating everything from lonely stabbings in dark alleyways to white phosphorous bombardment; nothing was too mundane or too extraordinary, too subtle or too extravagant for the depraved Sorcerer-Scientist to try. There'd been moments when he'd been happy to shoot one of them in the belly and leave them to slowly bleed out; there'd been times when he had used his powers to torture them in ways that would have been impossible in the real world, like casually flying off with one of them and stranding them in the upper atmosphere of the virtual world, just to watch them suffocate. There'd even been occasions when Braun had cemented a victim's feet to the ground, then lashed them to the back of a pickup truck and driven off at high speed, hoping to see whether the cement or the victim's body broke first.

The experiences had weighed heavily on them and still did: right now, sitting around this paltry campfire was the only thing they could do apart from pass around the few cans of beans they'd been provided with; they simply didn't have the energy to do anything else, and probably wouldn't have been able to think of anything to do anyway.

Everyone knew that they had to keep on trying to find a way of stopping Braun, and once they had recovered enough of their strength, they might very well have the willpower to begin their search again. Unfortunately, Braun probably wouldn't give them the chance… and even if he did, there was no telling if such a thing were even possible.

---

By now, they'd tried everything they could to stop Braun.

Not all of them had been present when the sadistic old bastard had revealed the full extent of his control over the simulation: the few who'd managed to escape the initial massacre had tried to kill him, not realizing that his administrator-level privileges made him effectively unkillable.

Bill had hotwired a truck and tried to run him over with it, only to find out the hard way that Braun's invincibility made him as immovable as a concrete pillar; the truck's cab had crumpled inwards on impact, crushing Bill half to death and leaving him ripe for torture.

Martha and Mabel had stolen some baseball bats from a sports shop and, after bringing down a shelf on top of Braun, had made a spirited attempt to beat him to death. Braun had only smiled, shrugged himself free of the fallen shelf, and brought the entire building crashing down on their heads with a single stomp of his foot, burying them alive in the rubble.

Janet had jumped him in a desperate attempt to rescue Roger, stabbing the Overseer five times in the back with a carving knife: all five blows had failed to leave a single wound no matter how deeply the knife pierced his flesh, and the sixth strike had electrocuted her.

To everyone's surprise, after fleeing for a good five or six miles, Tim had somehow managed to find a working rifle somewhere in the scenario and take a few pot-shots, even managing to nail Braun once or twice in the head. Braun had simply waded through every single shot until Tim was too scared to aim straight, then snatched the rifle off him, tore it to pieces and force-fed it to him once piece at a time until he'd choked to death on the rifle-butt.

Of course, Braun had been toying with them, seeing what they'd do if given the opportunity to hurt him, giving them a chance to realize the terrible futility of trying to resist him. As soon as those first deaths had been over with, he'd made his adjustments to the simulation and tilted the game in his favour. After that, there'd been no such obvious advantages left out for them: the doors were sealed shut, the guns vanished, the cars were transformed into useless props, and every last mundane amenity left in the scenario was deactivated. From then on, they'd been reduced to hiding in subways, lighting campfires in trash cans, and surviving on what little canned food had been scattered across the area (and the occasional rat).

But still they fought on after a fashion.

Each of them had proved surprisingly resourceful in improvising ways to inconvenience Braun, even if none of the methods actually worked: upon realizing that Braun liked to keep the streetlights on after dark for the sake of atmosphere, Bill had put his technical skills to work in rigging up an electrocution trap from a fallen lamppost and successfully set Braun's lab coat ablaze; Roger had cut the brakes on the otherwise-useless cars and sent an avalanche of them hurtling downhill at Braun; Janet had somehow managed to sabotage a gas main in an attempt to incinerate him, though it had resulted in her burning alive in the ensuing fireball; Mabel and Martha had assembled a mass of heavy scaffolding around the door to their refuge, specifically designed to collapse on top of Braun the moment he tried to walk through it; George, Pat and Tim had stolen barbed wire and fencing from around the scenario to make snares, though the triggers were still a bit on the experimental side.

Tessa herself was quite proud of the chemical bomb she'd managed to cobble together, though she'd been hacked to death with an axe scant minutes after detonating it.

The nine of them all had their own reasons for carrying on with their resistance, even though they knew it to be futile by now: a few of them entertained mad designs of finding something that could kill Braun and give them control of the simulation; others believed that Braun was hiding some means of escaping the Tranquillity Loungers, and that if they just kept resisting, they might be able to find the way out; a few had no hope of winning or escaping, but had joined anyway for want of anything better to do with their now-infinite lives.

And as for Tessa… well, she'd started off bouncing back and forth between the first and second camps, but as time went on, the likelihood of foiling the Overseer's virtual godhood seemed to plunge lower and lower with every passing day – until Tessa had almost abandoned the search in favour of uncovering some means of spoiling Braun's fun. She didn't know if it was possible to break free of the simulation, or if there was anything to escape to.

But still, she still played along with the resistance, if only for the dim hope of seeing that hateful smirk wiped off Braun's face, if only because she didn't want to give Braun the satisfaction of enjoying his victory. If the loathsome old bastard was intent on savouring every morsel of sadistic pleasure one bite at a time, then Tessa would hopefully make every one as bitter and indigestible as possible, enough to make him choke, if that was what it took.

She knew the chances of accomplishing this were even lower than finding a way out of the simulation, but she kept it up anyway out of sheer bloody-minded habit: ever since her days in grade school, she hadn't been able to resist returning fire at bullies, even when it would have been better to give up and ignore them. As an adult, the same habit had gotten her fired when she'd refused to back down in the face of an official warning… and it looked to be locking her into an unwinnable battle with a godlike psychopath in a universe entirely under his control.

But by now, she was beyond caring: the growing wellspring of spite towards Braun and the awkward sense of camaraderie between her and the other survivors were all that could motivate her by now.

Unfortunately, Tessa could tell that the others were starting to lose hope as well. They'd discussed the matter at length around the fire, and one point that kept being brought up was the futility of defeating their Overseer: even if Braun could somehow be killed, even if they could somehow escape the simulation, what would they do next?

Vault 112 didn't have any sleeping quarters or supplies stockpiled, and from what little Braun had told them, sustenance, sanitation, and healthcare were all meant to be provided by the Loungers, so unless they really could find a way of seizing control of the simulation, they'd only be emerging into a concrete tomb infested with robots loyal to Braun. They'd probably be forced right back into VR, assuming the robobrains didn't just kill them in the spot.

And if they were desperate enough to leave the Vault… well, they'd be walking out into an irradiated wasteland with little hope of finding food, drinkable water, or shelter of any kind. Assuming there were survivors out there, there was no guarantee that they'd be any more hospitable than Braun. Even if they weren't all territorial psychopaths with a hunger for well-stewed human flesh, they probably wouldn't be enthusiastic about sharing what little they had with strangers. There'd be violence between tribes of survivors, rape or sexual extortion, wars over dwindling resources, maybe even slavery; there'd be disease, starvation, the looming spectre of radiation sickness, and God only knew what else waiting for them out there.

Several times, the nine of them had even discussed the possibility of finding another Vault to shelter in, and on every single occasion, they'd rejected the idea outright: Braun hadn't said much about what was going on in the other Vaults, but he'd made it clear that the people staying there were only marginally better off.

"Come now," he'd chuckled. "Do you honestly think the Vaults were actually meant to save anyone? They're our laboratories, nothing more! You've just had the good fortune to find one with immortality on offer."

It had occurred to them that he might be lying… but really, what reason would he have to lie about this sort of thing when they were already trapped in Braun's hell?

With the possibility of even worse things waiting for them in other Vaults, the idea of sheltering in one was permanently shelved. But even if they could escape and survive everything the outside world could throw at them long enough to find something that could shield them from the elements, would life even be worth living now everything they'd known and treasured was gone? They'd lost homes, possessions, and probably even the most basic applications of their skills; there'd probably be no call for professional chemists and office drones in the wake of the apocalypse, not while people were killing each other with pointy sticks for the last stockpile of tinned peaches.

Worst of all, they'd lost loved ones.

More than once, Tessa had heard Martha wondering if her big sister had survived the destruction of New York; more than once, she'd heard the Neusbaums crying over Tim's lost grandparents, now almost certainly dead; once, she'd even heard Mabel lurch out of her sleeping bag, gasp that she had to let 'Johnny' into the Vault before the bombs landed – only to realize that it had all been just a dream.

And though she knew it would only bring her grief, Tessa found her thoughts drifting back to Marcie.

Even now, she could still remember the smell of her perfume, the first glimpse of her face appearing behind the front desk in the morning, the sound of her voice whispering in her ear as they tiptoed past one another in the corridor at midday, the smell of the mint chocolates she loved so much. And before long, the other memories began trickling back as well: the first impulsive kiss in the supply closet at work, and the stunned pause that had followed before Marcie had returned it; their first proper date, a visit to the movies; the trashy pulp detective novels she loved to read, and the endless disputes over Tessa's preferred choice of literature (historical fiction and harder-than-hard Sci-Fi); the long nights spent watching film noire epics on TV before dozing off in each other's arms; the smell of fresh coffee and frying eggs wafting through the house at dawn on Saturdays, the prelude to a morning in bed; the evenings she'd arrived home from work, exhausted and bleary-eyed, only to suddenly discover that Marcie was already there and had somehow found the perfect way of keeping her awake for just a little longer… and the nights when she awoke with a start and found to her intense relief that she was not alone, that Marcie was still asleep beside her, still sleepily clinging to her.

Most of all, she remembered having to say goodbye.

Could Marcie still be alive out there? Tessa had no way of knowing how long it had been since the bombs had fell, even with the occasional glimpse of a calendar; time had a funny way of slipping through your fingers in the simulation, and little could be done to stop it. They could have been trapped in Vault 112 for only a month or so – or they could have been down here for over a year without realizing it. But could Marcie have survived all that time in whatever city she'd been transferred to? Had she found a Vault of her own, or was she hiding in some long-abandoned subway? Was she healthy… or was she suffering a slow, agonizing death of radiation sickness? Or had she died in the bombardment, and if so, had it been quick? Had the blast wave painlessly atomized her, or had she slowly burned alive in the firestorm that had followed?

Tessa tried not to let the others see her crying. In all honesty, she wasn't sure why: after being stripped naked and flayed alive by Braun several times over, it wasn't as if any of them had much in the way of dignity left. But she kept her tears hidden nonetheless. But then, she had a sneaking suspicion that everyone knew why she crept away from the campfire at odd hours of the night, even as the others wept openly into the flames and slowly lost their grip on reality.

By now, most of them periodically wrestled with madness:

George and Pat spent the aftermaths of each death near catatonic with despair, and only came alive after at least an hour of staring into the flames.

After the massacres, Roger would often swing wildly between extremes of anger and vulnerability, furiously struggling out of his wife's embrace one minute and sobbing into her shoulder the next.

Bill spent his off-hours cobbling together ridiculously elaborate sculptures and puppets out of scavenged rubbish and conversing with them at length, though he always insisted to the others that he knew that his "friends" weren't real.

Mabel obsessed over the wounds Braun had left on her, scratching at invisible scars even though a system reset had long since erased them, even bandaging non-existent cuts and gashes with strips of cloth torn from her jumpsuit.

Ironically, despite being the least composed of them, Tim was still the most adamant about fighting on despite his burgeoning neuroses: even as his parents had sunk steadily deeper into despair, he'd clung to hope like a drowning sailor clung to a life preserver.

"We can't give up," he muttered, over and over again. "We can't give up."

Usually, this prompted Pat to start obsessively mothering him, either because she thought he was on the verge of a breakdown, or because she was. Sometimes, she would hug him so tightly that Tim would have trouble breathing; more often, she would call him Timmy and treat him as if he was about five years old. Tessa had no idea how Pat squared this idea with the fact that her son was clearly an adult, but somehow, she did, promising her little boy that "the bad man" wouldn't get them and assuring them that they'd all be safe so long as they followed "the rules" (whatever they were).

Once, driven to the brink of a meltdown by stress and aggressive mothering, Tim had begun ranting: "There has to be a way of stopping the old bastard," he'd gibbered madly, right leg juddering frantically up and down as if it wanted to be somewhere else. "He's got a control panel somewhere: it's his connection to the Vault computer. If we can find it, we can put a spanner in the works, maybe force him to let us go, maybe even kill him. I've seen him using it. He calls it his failsafe terminal. All we've got to do is find a way of distracting him while we get at the damn thing."

But nobody had ever seen Braun use this mysterious terminal: if it even existed, it was only used when his subjects were dead or in hiding… and as the days lurched onwards, Tessa found herself increasingly convinced that Tim had imagined the terminal out of sheer desperation.

---

Unsurprisingly, Braun gave them no entertainment. After all, entertainment might have offered them some relief after the latest torture, and Christ only knew that the miserable old sadist would never give them that much help in recovering.

So, with no books, films, games or anything else that might have kept their minds occupied in the lulls between massacres, the nine of them were forced to improvise. Nobody was in the mood for singing; tacky around-the-campfire games like I Spy would likely have prompted mass suicide; and though telling tall tales might have helped, even the storytellers found their imaginations running dry after a few weeks of being tortured.

With nothing else to do, people fell back on the only stories they had left: their own.

It started small – a few murmurings about past experiences, an anecdote here and there, maybe even a mention of a long-forgotten hometown. Then as the torture grew worse, the monologues got longer, the stories grew deeper, and the interruptions grew scarcer. At that early point, everyone thought they'd lose interest in hearing each other's life stories after a week or so, but the surprise of everyone involved, the audience remained completely engrossed. Before long, they got into habit of giving one of them the floor for an entire night, just so they could tell their life story, air their grievances and rhapsodise about everything they'd enjoyed about the world before the war.

George told them all about his childhood in New York, how he was totally adrift in the world before he joined the army; he told them of his days as the luckiest man in his unit; he told them of how he left the military for a quieter life, first in studying for a qualification, then in making a career for himself as a chartered accountant. He told them of his marriage to Pat, and how they'd eventually moved to Washington to start a family… and, of course, he'd told them of how they'd signed up for a place in a Vault, never expecting to need it.

By contrast, Pat's life had been quiet from the very beginning: with strictly conservative parents and no taste for the bad boys at school, she'd been content with a boring, steady job at the family bookshop until George had quite literally bumped into her while browsing some of the grittier war novels. With the business in need of an accountant and Pat practically swept off her feet by the "dashing young corporal," it was a match made in heaven (a recollection that always made George's ears turn pink). The move to Washington and her transition into the role of a stay-at-home mom hadn't troubled her too much: she'd liked DC, she'd liked her neighbours, and she'd thought it was the perfect place to raise "Little Timmy," maybe even start a career as an author using George's war stories as inspiration. ("We would both have written a chapter," she'd explained, "just to see where the narrative went.") Granted, she hadn't expected to be spending the rest of eternity in Washington…

By contrast, the Rockwells had been born in Washington, had been childhood sweethearts, and had never even dreamed of leaving the city for anything other than vacation: their lives were typical, boring, bland and unprepossessing, exactly as they preferred it. With Roger barely thirty and Janet scarcely a day older than twenty-eight, their careers hadn't been the most ambitious: Roger had tried his hand at everything from pumping gas to office work and had briefly considered joining the army before Janet had talked him out of it, eventually helping him track down a halfway decent job at a warehouse. Janet herself had been a nurse at Our Lady Of Hope for a couple of years, but had changed jobs five months ago in an attempt to seek out a slightly less exhausting career in marketing – though the war had very firmly stamped on that aspiration.

Roger, his mood perfectly stable for a change, had chuckled a bit at this. "She's already found her true calling, anyway."

"And what's that?"

"Busting my chops and kicking my ass."

Janet actually laughed at this, playfully slugging her husband in the shoulder, and for a time the subway camp had seemed a brighter, less forbidding place.

Martha was another local girl. She had grown up wallowing in the shadows of her more successful siblings, and once she'd managed to find a modicum of success in a few school plays, she soon found herself anxious for more. For a time, she'd had ambitions of becoming a model – even an actress – but jobs in the field had always managed to elude her grasp, so she'd been forced to find work as a secretary. Always, she'd hoped to find a job that might offer a steppingstone to bigger and better things, but the promised reference was always out of reach. For a while, she'd been so desperate to find work that she'd moved all the way down to Nevada, where she'd very briefly worked as a secretary at H&H Tools; her time there lasted a grand total of two months before she resigned as quickly as was legally possible. Between the restrictions on use of the breakrooms, the random DNA tests, the gun turrets, monitored e-mails, the sealed-off bathrooms, and Anthony House's gibbering fits over anyone who made the mistake of making eye-contact with him, Martha had been glad to get out of there alive. She'd only been back in Washington for a year when the air raid sirens had sounded, and by then, she'd given up on finding the promised steppingstone in favour of any job that could pay the rent.

Also, she seemed to have a bit of a chip on her shoulder about being called stupid. From the sounds of things, her older brothers and sisters had been in the habit of calling her a "dumb blonde" when she was little, and once they'd started using it on her at school, the nickname had followed her around for the rest of her career. So far, nobody had any occasion to use the dreaded epithet… but with tensions rising daily, Tessa had a sinking feeling that somebody might be inclined to use it over the course of an argument.

Mabel had insisted that her life had been mostly uninteresting: she'd been born, raised, educated and rendered thoroughly bored in a relatively unassuming part of Washington, before getting married, staring a family, getting divorced, losing the kids and moving to DC in the dim hope of one day opening her own restaurant. The only thing she thought was worth talking about were her experiences as a professional chef… and frankly, everyone was in full agreement: after weeks on end spent eating rats and cans of cold beans, her recipes were now regarded with the same kind of open-mouthed lust exhibited by sailors after seven months on the open ocean.

Bill, when he wasn't mangling another length of wire out of shape, regaled them with horror stories of growing up in Detroit, of his summer job at his uncle's junkyard, his secret "education" in hotwiring cars, and under-the-table deals with local chop shops. He told them of his hastily-patched-up scholastic career, his night classes in basic engineering and electronics, his acceptance at RobCo, and his posting to the plant in Washington DC, where he'd stayed for the better part of thirty long years. If nothing else, the tales of mechanical mishaps brightened up the gloomy evening, almost enough to bring a smile to their faces.

Timothy was the most reluctant to tell his tale, and continuously downplayed his story in favour of a few shy mumbles: his life had been perfectly normal – he'd been born in Washington, he'd been raised in a loving family, he'd done well in school, he'd been to college, majored in software design (with a minor in literature), graduated close to the top of his class, and he'd headed west to seek his fortune among the technological giants of the corporate world… before a collapsed employer and a dearth of jobs had forced him to return to Washington and move back in with his parents. As far as he was concerned, that was the beginning and end of it… though, if pressed, he would occasionally embark on an occasional digression on the merits of Hubris Comics.

But while his parents were away from the campfire on scavenging missions deep in the virtual subways, he finally opened up to the rest of the group, admitting that he'd been miserable ever since he'd been forced to move back in with his parents: the collapse of his career out west still gnawed at him, and though his parents were nothing but understanding, that only made things worse. Pat was all too happy to have her little boy back in her life, and babied him incessantly: cleaning his room, preparing his meals, giving him lifts, lending him money that he didn't need, even trying to find jobs for him, no matter how many times he'd pleaded for her to treat him like an adult. For good measure, she'd started calling him "Timmy," a name he'd outgrown the day he'd turned fourteen.

"And they're always going on about me finding a girlfriend and getting married," he'd sighed. "I don't want to tell them I'm not even interested in that. Girls just... don't do it for me. I mean, nobody does. Don't get me wrong, I have friends-" A spasm of pain flitted across his face. "Had friends," he amended. "I've got people I care about, sure, but… well, I don't get hooked on them the way most people do. I guess I'm just not wired that way."

The audience, who was long past holding any sort of judgements over sexual preference, nodded understandingly.

Eventually, the time came for Tessa to tell her story… and even with several years of profitable work as a chemist under her belt, it was hard not to feel a little bit underwhelming. After all, she'd always been an academic goody-two shoes apart for her occasional habit of mouthing off: she'd been brought up by a very strict mother and a mildly strict father with a burgeoning alcoholic streak, both of whom had insisted that she study hard, keep her head down and find a good job. To that end, she'd lived a rather dull, friendless youth, diligently studying her way through grade school, high school and college before emerging, blinded by the sunshine, onto the job market. University had taught her a little confidence and helped her make some friends, but she hadn't experienced any of the adventures, successes, marriages or divorces that anyone else in this little group had. In a long and professionally satisfying career, the most eventful thing that had happened to her was the day she'd been fired – and effectively blacklisted. Credit where credit was due, everyone applauded diligently, either because they approved of her standing up to her employers or because they were so bored that even the dullest story seemed wildly thrilling.

(She didn't tell anyone about Marcie; she hadn't found the time to mourn her, and the pain was still as raw and searing as the day the bombs fell: she couldn't bring herself to rip the wounds open again. Only later, when she was alone with Tim, did she finally admit that she'd once been in love; only then did she finally cry.)

But no matter how much relief they found in these anecdotes, there always one terrible question haunting them throughout the conversations:

What would happen if – or when – they finally ran out of stories?

What would become of them when they had nothing left to say except "When will it end?"

---

Unlike some of his erstwhile colleagues at Vault-Tec, with their toupees and facelifts and endless attempts to regain a younger physique, Braun had little in the way of vanity regarding his looks.

He'd hardly been ugly in his youth, but he hadn't stood out in a crowd, being handsome in a forgettable kind of way. On the occasions when he'd joined the carousers at university or work for the sake of appearances, girls hadn't rejected his advances but neither had they showed much enthusiasm – which was fine by him, truth be told: he'd found a form of gratification far more pleasurable than anything he could have found at the bars and clubs his colleagues had frequented.

So, when old age had started leaving its mark, he hadn't been too bothered; after all, his vanity lay in his intellect, which had remained as luminous in old age as it had in his youth. Unlike some of his fellow researchers, who fell back on dandified fashions, expensive cars and the kind of sexual dalliances that would have been impossible without chemical assistance, he felt no need to compensate outwardly, even with the wealth his position had afforded him.

Where other aging executives arrived at work in tailored suits that cost more than the buildings they lived in and travelled almost exclusively by limousine, Braun wore the same plain grey suit he'd worn for the last fifteen years and refused to drive anything other than a nondescript Corvega Blitz. Even at parties, he rarely indulged in anything stronger than coffee, and barely glanced in the direction of the so-called "executive groupies" unless they addressed him first. Some of his more hedonistic colleagues had thought this behaviour ridiculously ascetic, especially given that they usually spent their off-hours inhaling martinis by the dozen whilst draped in as many women as their tired old cocks could handle. But then, most of them hadn't known of the things he preferred to indulge in, the missing vagrant populations, the weighted plastic bags dumped in the Potomac at the end of every month…

For decades on end, Braun had accepted old age as a given and never once imagined that he would ever change beyond the patterns set by his balding scalp and wrinkling features – until he died and began decomposing into nonexistence, of course. As far as his physical appearance was concerned, nature had the final say on what would happen.

Then, of course, he'd found his paradise in virtual reality, and a new vista of possibilities had unfolded before him.

Braun had known all about the avatar editing software, of course, but he'd never felt any overwhelming need to make use of it. After all, why bother making himself look younger when he already felt younger? What was the point of pursuing youth when all the aches and pains of old age had already been banished? And as for strength and endurance, he could make himself as powerful as he wanted here, so there was no meaning in seeking it out in a mimicry of his younger days. If anything, continuing his usual pattern of murders had been even more rewarding in his natural appearance: those who actually had the gall to fight back invariably ended up being bested with comical ease, and died in the humiliating knowledge that they'd been beaten by a man who was clearly pushing eighty.

However, as he settled into the new routine of killing the residents and bringing them back to life, Braun began looking for new ways to spice up the experience, to enhance the physical pleasure of each death. It took several months of puzzling over new concepts, perhaps even years – for he'd long since lost interest in checking the chronometer on the auxiliary command terminal – but eventually he found himself editing his avatar for the first time.

First, he wound back the clock on his own appearance, restoring himself to his late thirties; back in those days, he'd been in the prime of his life, blazing a trail across modern science and merrily dissolving the bodies of lost vagrants in vats of hydrochloric acid.

It had been gratifying to see his old self again, especially when he'd used the heretofore unseen face to surprise his captives: all of them had been confused, not understanding why there was suddenly a new player in the scenario; some of them had even asked for help, for by then, they were so desperate for an escape from their prison, they were willing to seek aid from complete strangers. Roger Rockwell and Theresa Dithers had almost recognized him – no surprise, given that they'd been close enough to see his eyes when he'd murdered them the first time, but it mattered little in the long run. One by one, he'd killed them, nice and slow: pulped bones, torn lungs, gored stomachs, intestines pouring out from their ruptured bellies like grotesque strings of sausages, and the rapturous blood fountaining all around him.

All in all, the only real disappointment had been the moment when he'd changed. Having read his fair share of speculative fiction in between experiments, Braun had always imagined that the act of transformation would be so much more than simply closing his eyes in one body and opening them in another. For one thing, it seemed so anticlimactic for the new body to just appear, spontaneously and without any real physical shift from one form to another: it would be much more rewarding to see the way the musculature warped and twisted as he metamorphosed, especially if he were to take on a more monstrous appearance. It would certainly come in handy for intimidating the captives if they ever grew inured to being hunted down by an ordinary human being.

On a similar note, there was no sensory input from the moment of transition, nor did anything about his new body feel particularly different. Thanks to the measures forbidding him from feeling pain unless he desired it, his elderly form had been just as responsive as the younger one, and the moment when he'd shifted from one body to the next had been about as eventful as a dreamless sleep. On the rare days when he'd wondered if shapeshifting might ever be made possible through technological means, Braun had imagined the feel of flesh oozing and flowing like tallow, the pressure of bones contracting or stretching, the itching tension of skin crawling in all manner of enthralling ways, another unexplored sensory pathway to explore – so it was a little disappointing to find no sensations in the shift from one form to another.

All that could change with a little effort, though: the technicians had spent a great deal of time acquiring as much sensory data as they could in order to make the simulation as detailed as possible, and they'd provided him with a vast archive of files to make use of alongside the virtual design tools. There was the warmth of sunlight on skin, the taste of vinegar, the scrape of nails on a chalkboard, the stabbing pain of a corkscrew through the hand, the rippling pleasure of a freshly-dosed heroin addict… if the human body had been able to feel it, and there'd been any doubt that the simulation might not have been able to mimic it, they'd captured it and inputted it into the computer. Armed with this library of sense-data, it might very well be possible to change the moment of transition, imbue it with sensory shifts and twists that would enrapture even the most jaded soul. And as for the visual element, a little bit of creative coding could easily make that a reality…

For the moment, though, he focussed on expanding his repertoire of possible shapes.

Once he tried out his younger form, he moved on to mimicking the other captives, starting with Roger Rockwell. By itself, there was no sensory benefit to this body, and his face wasn't exactly the most interesting one he could have worn, given that Roger could be charitably described as a skinned weasel with a shitty beard and a personality to match. As a disguise, though, the disagreeable young fool was nothing short of priceless.

After separating the real Roger from the group and burying his flayed corpse in a shallow grave under the White House rose garden, Braun took his place among the residents, eventually claiming that he'd found a place in the simulation where "that Kraut bastard" couldn't find them. Once he'd led them to the promised "safe haven" in yet another one of Washington's underground train stations, he kept up the ruse for almost twelve hours, lulling the others into a false sense of security; he even tweaked some of the aboveground maps to make it look as though he'd left tracks, ensuring that the prints always led as far away from the station as possible. And then, when they were all feeling cosy and secure in their sleeping bags, each of them tucked away in their own little enclosures across the platform, he struck.

Janet Rockwell was his first target on that glorious little hunt. Jittery little vixen that she was, she was reluctant to let her guard down, always sneaking glances at the stairwell, and when she'd finally relaxed, she relaxed all the way: crying, sobbing, weeping with repressed fear, she'd collapsed into Braun's arms, almost pathetically relieved to have found a reprieve from the torture.

She was full of fantasies in that moment, inventing all manner of possibilities for a new life beneath the hunting grounds: she imagined having children down there in the gloom of the subway, learning how to undermine Braun's control of the simulation, even escaping back to the real world. Sad, silly bitch didn't realize that reproducing inside the simulation was impossible except with the express permission of the administrator, and even then, the only thing she'd give birth to would be a dull, predictable computer sprite.

Braun considered this proposition more amusing than anything else. Even if she hadn't been grimy, half-starved and disgusting after weeks on end spent lurking in the subways, even if she hadn't been the most annoying thing he'd encountered since his last secretary, it wouldn't have been one he'd accepted.

Even as a young man, Braun had often found sexual conquest stultifyingly boring, a benumbing procession of thrusts and fondles and other trite moves rewarded with barely enough pleasure to lodge in his memory. True, he'd experimented a little with sadomasochism back when he'd been willing to entertain lovers for the sake of appearances; alas, hurting people who were actively pleading for it was nowhere near as fun as torturing unwilling participants. In the end, sexual pleasure was just a clumsy biological incentive to reward procreation, a crude sensory bribe to encourage the act of contributing to the human gene pool, and further proof of how inefficient the evolutionary process had been in the formation of sapient life. Even the blunt induction of domination and power by sexual means bored him rigid, partly because it meant leaving witnesses but mostly because it was so tedious. To Braun, the sensual dance of emotional torment, physical torture, and brutal murder was far more appealing, and generally required less mood music.

Besides, he'd enjoyed real love exactly once in his life: as fleeting as it had been, even he could recognize how the already-limited appeal of fleeting dalliances paled before the presence of a soul mate.

So, he kept the encounter between him and Janet strictly platonic. He stroked her hair, he soothed her, he offered all the usual meaningless placations exchanged by loved ones in extremis, until complacency set in. Then, at the very moment when Janet was closest to happiness and almost beginning to fall asleep in his arms, Braun finally let the mask slip.

He gave her about five seconds to realize that she was no longer being embraced by her loving husband, before pouncing: she didn't even have time to scream before her head bounced off the subway wall. While she lay there, dazed and reeling from the impact, Braun gagged her with his jacket, then with a single precise twist, severed her spine just above her shoulders; for good measure, he also went out of his way to crush her vocal cords beyond repair. Paralysed, Janet could only lie helplessly in the dark, unable to move or scream even when the gag was removed, and in the glorious silence that followed, Braun took his time.

The surviving residents found Janet's face nailed to the wall of their sanctuary the following morning. Her body, sans head, was lying on the railroad tracks, still wrapped up in a gory embrace with the real Roger (brought all the way from the rose garden for this very prank). For almost an hour, the seven of them argued over whether they should remain where they were or flee to another subway station, giving Braun ample time to decide on the next possible disguise.

One by one, he murdered his way through the survivors, using familiar faces to separate them from the group and into the most entertaining venue. Against expectations, however, the residents soon began to demonstrate an impressive degree of resourcefulness: maybe they still hadn't grasped the fact that Braun couldn't be killed, or maybe they were just determined to make as much of a nuisance of themselves as possible.

Whatever the case, George Neusbaum mounted a surprisingly effective watch, almost managing to spot one of the flaws in Braun's disguise in the process, and when the time came for him to be eliminated, the balding old fart actually managed to put up a fight, not that it made much of a difference in the end. Martha Simpson, Bill Foster and Mabel Henderson booby-trapped some of the subway exits with a startling degree of creativity, even if it had been driven mainly by futile desperation; they even borrowed from Dithers' collection of hazardous chemicals in an attempt to rig a bomb in a passageway. And when all else failed, Theresa Dithers and Timothy Neusbaum demonstrated a surprising gift for concealing themselves in odd corners of the map… up until Dithers succumbed to her fatigue and tumbled out of her little hidey-hole.

As always, he left the Neusbaum boy for last: little Timothy was a shy young man, timid and sensitive despite his adulthood – just the type that Braun had enjoyed humiliating at work in between murders. He'd thought it'd be interesting to see what it would be like to just kill one for a change; now he had an opportunity to do so in any way he pleased, for all eternity.

As expected, once Dithers had vanished into the shadows and never returned, the Neusbaum boy had gone to pieces: with no remaining allies and no way of telling where the next attack was coming from, he'd been reduced to a sobbing, dribbling, stumbling, wheezing mess, sprinting across virtual Washington in a blind panic, tripping over his feet as he fled for a sanctuary he would never find.

This time, though, Braun tried something different: he hadn't let him see how Dithers had met her death, nor had Neusbaum learned of the gimmick he'd chosen for this particular hunt, so it didn't take much effort to lure him in. By now, Braun knew that Dithers and Timothy had developed a rudimentary friendship, presumably because she was the only resident who could tolerate his infantile bleating and treat him like an adult at the same time; so, all he'd had to do was take on Dither's form, look suitably injured, and the brat's simpering concern had done the rest.

With nobody around to interfere with his fun and no chance of his screams being heard, Braun strung out the torture for days on end, disinfecting wounds, staunching bloodflow and maintaining the subject's consciousness where necessary. Bones had been exquisitely shattered, eyeballs plucked and peeled so elegantly that Timothy didn't even realized he was blind until the pain struck, and the winding entrails had been unspooled from the body with finesse and grandiosity befitting an artist.

And once Timothy's agonized body finally gave up the ghost, Braun sat back in the blood-soaked wreckage of the Oval Office and allowed the flow of endorphins to wash over him like all the turbulent waters of the Atlantic.

There were still so many experiences to be squeezed from this new facet of the program, no many marvels to enjoy and inflict: once he'd finished modifying the moment of transformation, he had a whole new range of forms to sample and enjoy – and he wasn't restricted to human shapes either. Oh yes, the animal kingdom was open to him, as was a plethora of imaginary beasts plucked from the darkest nightmares of humanity. Perhaps he would be a lion next time. Perhaps then, with the threat of a wild animal pursuing them across Washington, he'd learn which of them could be truly brave.

But then again, he didn't need to hurry the matter.

He had eternity, after all…

Chapter 7: Baptized In Lethe

Summary:

Our friends say goodbye to their minds...

Tessa couldn't remember the exact point when she'd stopped getting up. Not that it mattered.

Her fellow survivors wouldn't have been able to give her an answer if she asked, and not just because they were all too tired to speak.

By now, they were all in the same boat as her, slumped in the exact spots where they'd respawned, unwilling to move or even rise, and in all probability, none of them had any idea how long it had been since they'd given up on trying either. Nor did they know how many years they'd been trapped in the simulation, how many times Braun had killed them, how long it had been since they'd last been revived, or even if they'd been killed again at some point and hadn't even noticed it.

And even if they did know, what would be the point in asking?

Frankly, it didn't really matter anymore: all the minutiae of their confused little half-lives in Braun's simulation escaped her now, and as the name implied, all of them were trivial and utterly meaningless anyway. Even if it hadn't all been artificial, there was no point in learning the truth because nothing of their predicament would ever change even if they did have some idea of the time.

They would still be trapped, they would still be made to suffer, and they would still be horribly murdered and brought back to life just so they could suffer and die all over again… and as long as Vault 112 remained powered and functional, they'd be doing so for hundreds if not thousands of years. In the face of this information, all the little questions seemed to fade away.

All Tessa knew was that, at some point after being forced to crawl on her naked belly across an eight-hundred-yard stretch of broken glass, she'd stopped caring.

So, when Braun had brought her back, she hadn't bothered running, fighting, or even ducking for cover in readiness for the next attack. Instead, she'd just let her legs buckle beneath her and collapsed to the dirt, burying her face in the soil, as far from the nightmare as she could possibly get without digging a grave. She knew there would be a punishment in store for refusing to provide her master with entertainment, but this was another thing Tessa had long since ceased to care about.

After all, what was the point in getting up if Braun was only going to kill her again?

What was the point in doing anything now that the world had ended, now that they were doomed to a virtual eternity of servitude as the centrepiece of a lunatic's sick, twisted fantasies?

It wasn't as if she was under any illusions, though: she knew Braun would never kill them permanently. Sooner or later, he'd probably find some way of motivating them back into action, but for now, they were all too tired to give a damn. So, until he thought of something even more torturous, they simply lay there, too beaten down to rise again and too benumbed by ennui to imagine anything better for themselves.

Lying there, hugging the ground, staring vacantly into the grass, Tessa found herself thinking of parkland, of real parks in the real world, and how she'd never really bothered to visit any of them for all the years she'd lived in Washington. She'd always had some excuse, some reason she couldn't take a few hours off work and enjoy the sunshine. Now the parks of Washington were either all gone or had changed so much that any attempt to compare them to their simulated counterparts would be meaningless: they were irradiated deserts with only the occasional charred tree-stump to mark the spot where a park had once been… and that was assuming they weren't still on fire. There was no way of telling how long they'd been in the simulation: it could have been days, or it could have been years, for sooner or later, time within the virtual reality blurred into a meaningless patchwork of torture and murder.

But it was time that ended up forming the only real question she had left in her mind, the one thing that could still engage her curiosity after all the suffering, all the exhaustion, all the soul-rending ennui that was slowly consuming them all.

The only thing Tessa had left to wonder was, when will it end?

There were a multitude of things that might somehow cut the nightmare short: maybe Braun could lose interest in keeping them alive; perhaps he might find someone new to replace them, some poor, hopelessly irradiated refugee lured underground and into a Lounger. Or perhaps the Loungers themselves could malfunction too quickly for the robobrains to do anything; the simulation could crash and let them escape, or their life support could break down and kill them all. And that was assuming the robobrains wouldn't go haywire after a few decades, or the power wouldn't eventually fail. Maybe an earthquake could crack the entire Vault open like an egg, or maybe the weight of centuries would eventually bring the roof crashing down on the Loungers. In the most optimistic visions of the future, some hypothetical civilization might become technologically advanced enough to find this place and rescue them; maybe the government-in-exile would swoop in and seize control of the place; or perhaps something of Vault-Tec had survived the war and would be back to reclaim its assets. So, with all those wild, desperate possibilities on the horizon, how much longer would they have to suffer for?

But for all her desperate brainstorming, Tessa already knew the answer: the torture would as last for as long as Braun pleased. Wishful thinking wouldn't change anything, nor would it make time pass any faster. For all intents and purposes, Braun was God. In here, there was nothing they could do to stop him and no way of bringing about any of the innumerable things that could go wrong for the demented sorcerer-scientist. And given how well the rotten bastard's luck had held out, none of those wild possibilities that Tessa had fantasized about would ever come to pass.

How much longer would this go on for?

Forever... or as near to forever as entropy would allow.

And yet, she continued wondering. If nothing else, it gave her something to do. After all, they couldn't sleep in here unless Braun felt like letting them do so, and right now, the latest stage of the torture obviously involved simulated insomnia.

Beside her, Tim whimpered a little and almost unconsciously drew himself into a foetal ball. Of the nine of them, he was the only one of them who looked as though he might be recovering, for despite his trauma, Tessa had seen occasional glimpses of defiance on his face. Somehow, his spirit remained unbroken despite everything thrown at him. Either he was a lot more determined to cling to hope than the rest of them, or Braun was doing his best not to destroy him too quickly, delaying the moment when Tim's spirit finally shattered like glass.

Then again, it wasn't as if this was anything new.

Back in the early days of their captivity and torture, the nine of them had noticed that Braun had taken a horrible sort of liking to Tim. Maybe he'd seen that microscopic trace of stubborn hope in the young man's innocent, guileless nature and decided he wanted to squash it; maybe he took a perverse thrill in seeing just how far he could twist Tim's nature until it was warped beyond all recognition; maybe he was one of those resentfully sadistic old bastards who delighted in punishing the young for the crime of being young.

Or perhaps Braun was simply a predator at heart: in much the same way that predators zeroed in on the sick, the old, the very young and the struggling, their host had spotted Timothy Neusbaum's multiplying anxieties right off the bat and done his level best to make him suffer more than any of them from then on. But where lions and wolves picked off weaker members of the herd before daring to attack healthier beasts, Braun always went for the rest of the group first.

Whenever he went about picking them off one by one, he left Tim for last, savouring every moment of fear and pain as he hunted him down; when he rounded them up and systematically tortured them to death, Tim was the last in the chair and longest to suffer; when the time came for them to be sent on obstacle courses through simulated traffic or across busy train tracks, Tim would always be given the worst odds.

Pat and George had done their best to shield him, to try and divert Braun's attention whenever they could, and Tessa had joined in, even though all three of them had known that it was completely pointless. For a time, they'd even been able to persuade the others into helping them defend him, if only because it was the only way they could possibly resist him at that point.

But Braun had put a stop to that. He'd disposed of them quickly and viciously, then turned his attention to Tim again. Time and again, they'd tried to delay and inconvenience their captor in whatever way they could, and time and again, he'd shut them down in the blink of an eye. In the end, most of them were forced to admit defeat, and the rest were simply tortured out of the habit. After all, it was difficult to put up any kind of resistance against someone who could lock them inside a superheated iron maiden with a snap of his fingers.

But then again, maybe that was the whole point: maybe torturing Tim had just been another steppingstone on the road to breaking all of them. After all, that moment of failure might very well have been the exact point when it had all started going downhill for them, though Tessa was hard-pressed to remember when they'd finally given up.

One way or another, here they lay.

---

It was at that point, just as Tessa was starting to wonder how long they could lie here before Braun conjured a downpour to get them moving again, there was a distant roar from overhead.

Despite her exhaustion, she found herself looking up just in time to see something huge and bat-winged thundering through the skies towards them: roughly the size of a 747, it was covered in glittering black scales, a crown of jagged scarlet horns, a long whiplike tail tipped with a razor-sharp scythe, and a gaping maw that could have swallowed the dome of the Capitol building whole.

Well, Tessa thought. We have dragons now. That's new, I guess.

Spreading its wings for a landing, the dragon swooped down on them, landing on the White House lawn with an earth-shaking thud, its tail shredding through the windows behind it like a wrecking ball. For almost ten seconds, it roared at the nine of them, belching gouts of searing flame all around them, slamming its clawed feet down scant inches from where they lay.

Then, the dragon's outline seemed to blur and shift before their eyes, random trails of pixelization crawling across its body as it began to change. Before their eyes, the winged behemoth shrank and withered away, casting off ton after ton of muscle and bone mass until it was just big enough to stand before the nine of them without crushing any of them. In a matter of seconds, it was human-shaped, and its colossal wings and scaly hide were sculpting themselves into the lab coat and Vault suit of Dr Stanislaus Braun.

There was a pause, as the last of Braun's draconic features slowly receded from his face, leaving him as old and haggard as he'd been back when they'd first met him. Then he sighed, and idly brushed a few errant scales from his avatar.

"Still not the most artful transition," he mused aloud. "Too much pixel blur and not enough true metamorphosis. I'll need to refine that…"

Then, he looked down at the nine figures lying slumped at his feet and smiled – once again looking like the proverbial cat who'd caught the canary.

"Now, my friends," he chuckled. "What seems to be the trouble? Are we all worn out? Tired of playing? Tired of life? I can fix that, as I'm sure you know by now. Believe me, nine disembowelments and a system reset does wonders for melancholia."

None of them answered. By now, they'd come to an agreement: none of them were to respond to him in any way, no matter what he said or did to them – partly out of passive resistance but mostly because they were simply too tired to give a shit about any of this.

But if Braun looked in any way disappointed by their silence, he didn't show it.

"I've no doubt you were hoping that I'd be angered by your current state of torpor, but it so happens that I've actually been waiting for this moment," he said. "You see, I anticipated something of this nature happening back when Vault 112 was still being constructed. Ever since the 1940s, intelligence agencies around the world have been conducting studies regarding the long-term viability of torture, and all have eventually met with the same conclusion: sooner or later, the subject acclimatizes. In much the same way that the body develops chemical tolerances towards drugs, the mind develops tolerances to repeated trauma, and the subject gradually accepts what is being done to them.

"It's a form of psychological conditioning visible in veteran soldiers, inhabitants of war-torn regions, repeated victims of natural disasters… the list goes on and on. So long as the trauma continues without end and shows no sign of ever abating, it can no longer provoke the victim to the same extremes of emotion it once did. True, there will always be pain, the human nervous system cannot be denied unless it is first destroyed, but the torment no longer has such a devastating impact. If this state of affairs is allowed to continue for long enough and in strong enough doses, the subject grows totally inured to suffering, and eventually becomes apathetic even in the face of the most horrific agonies: it ceases to react to anything at all, and simply allows the punishment to wash over it without speaking, feeling or even thinking. For all intents and broken, the subject is broken. All well and good if that was what you wanted, but quite useless if you actually intended for the fun to go on."

Braun chuckled to himself, as if amused by some private joke. "For a long time, our friends in the CIA believed that this was proof that enhanced interrogation techniques were of no use in enforcing control over a population… but I and certain like-minded individuals proved that this was not the case. Often, all a subject truly needs is a rest period: give them enough time to grow accustomed to the care and concern of a modern hospital, and then drag them screaming back to the chair. You see, it is hope that prevents a subject's wounds from scarring over and growing inured to the pain, hope, recuperation, and time. Without it, even the sight of a loved one being tortured can barely inspire anything other than despairing silence. Unfortunately for the nine of you, I decided a long time ago that I would have no need of rest breaks, not after two years of abstinence… but fortunately for me, I have a workaround."

For several seconds, there was silence on the lawn as the nine of them waited patiently for their punishment.

"Mr Rockwell," Braun announced. "Do you recall how I killed you the first time?"

Roger blinked. "I… what?"

"What method did I use to kill you during our first little game? Do you remember?"

Once again, there was silence. Peering over the row of prone bodies, Tessa saw that Roger's brow was knitted with concentration, his eyes narrowed with the effort of recalling his first death. Surely he couldn't be forgetting this early, could he? By now, that initial encounter with Braun was etched on the inside of their skulls, and in the few moments of peace they'd been able to share together, all of them had found enough time to discuss them at length: Tessa couldn't forget the moment Braun had cracked her skull beneath the waters of the Reflecting Pool any more than George could forget the passage of the bullet through his skull… and yet Roger, who'd arguably suffered the worst out of all of them in that first confrontation, couldn't remember having his throat ripped out.

Eventually, he shook his head.

"He crushed your hand and ripped your throat open," said Janet helpfully.

"Is that what happened? I can't remember. Did anyone else see-"

There was a pause; for a split-second, Roger's gaze seemed fixed on the horizon. "No, wait," he said at last. "Braun shot me."

"What?"

"I remember it very clearly now: Braun shot me in the gut and let me bleed out."

"What are you talking about, Roger, I-"

Janet paused in mid-sentence. "Yes," she said suddenly. "That was what happened. Braun shot you."

Martha Simpson gave the couple an odd look. "Are the two of you alright?" she asked. "I'm pretty sure I… remember…" She blinked. "…I heard the gunshot," she concluded. "That's right, he shot you."

"And why are you lying on the lawn, I wonder?" said Braun loudly. "Would anyone care to tell me that?"

Tessa opened her mouth to shoot off a smart-ass remark in the sorcerer-scientist's direction, only to find herself confronted by a sudden gap in her mind: why had they been lying on the lawn when they should have been finding ways to escape the simulation? At the very least, they should have found somewhere to hide from Braun by now. After all the times he'd warned them not to bore him, the sadistic bastard would make them suffer for depriving him of his fun, that much was clear. So why would they have been stupid enough to just lie down where he could find them?

A quick glance across the lawn revealed that the others looked just as perplexed as she did… except, perhaps for Tim, who was looking back and forth at the people surrounding him with an expression of dawning fear.

Something is wrong with our memories, she thought. Or rather… Braun is doing something to our memories.

"Mrs Neusbaum," Braun murmured. "Do you remember your mother, by any chance?"

"Of course I do," said Pat, indignantly.

"Do you? Do you really?"

"What the hell kind of question is…" Pat blinked. "Of course I do," she replied, slightly dreamily.

"And were you happy with her?"

"Yes," said Pat, a dreamy, almost mesmerized look etched upon her face. "Very happy. But… she died in a car crash when I was six years old…"

"As I thought. Miss Simpson, would you kindly stand up and recite the alphabet for me?"

Martha's brow wrinkled. "What?"

"Just indulge me."

There was a distinctly exasperated pause as Martha Simpson wearily got to her feet and began reciting in the most bored tone of voice she could possibly manage: "A, B, C, D, E, F…"

But no sooner had she begun, Martha blinked rapidly and fell silent, the recitation slowly trailing off as her train of thought derailed. She opened her mouth to continue, but suddenly it seemed as though she had no idea what to say next: eyes widening in mingled confusion and alarm, she could only stammer helplessly at first as she struggled to concentrate on the task at hand, and eventually managed to blurt out a few random guesses:

"R? 7? Anthropophagus? Beach?"

"And I'm told that dumb blondes are a myth," said Braun with a smirk.

Martha blushed, her expression caught between anger, bewilderment, and pure humiliation.

"You needn't give me that look, madam. If you wish, I'll make this challenge easier for you: just repeat the alphabet so far in reverse, and you'll never have to embarrass yourself in public ever again."

Once again, Martha opened her mouth to begin, only to yet again find herself with nothing to say. "I can't remember," she said, in a very small voice.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I can't remember."

"You'll have to forgive me: my ears aren't what they used to be. So, would you be so kind as to repeat yourself so everyone can hear? And be sure to be specific, if you please."

"I can't remember the alphabet," said Martha loudly, her tone utterly wretched.

"Dear me. Well, I suppose we'll just have to find something else for you to do. Let's try numbers: count to ten."

"I… I… er..."

"You can't remember how to count to ten either?"

Martha nodded helplessly, unable to meet Braun's eyes.

"Well then, what do you remember? Perhaps something about your mother, then. Tell us all about your mother, your childhood. Come on now, I'm sure I'll be able to help you if all else fails. After all, I've heard enough of your past whispered back and forth around the campfire when you think I'm not there. So, let's hear about your family."

But this time, Martha could only stare wretchedly at Braun, her eyes full of tears. "I'm forgetting," she whimpered.

"Oh well," Braun sighed. "I suppose it was bound to happen sooner or later: not enough mental exercise and the brain simply atrophies to nothing behind that pretty little face of yours. You really are just taking up space, aren't you? I mean, of all the people who could have been saved from a nuclear holocaust, you ended up getting to the Vault ahead of someone of actual value. To think of how many families burned alive while you flounced your way into a cosy little seat in Vault 112, how many children were scorched out of existence even as you waltzed merrily to safety without a care in the world. What did you do for a living just before the war, my dear? Were you an assistant? A receptionist? A secretary? No, that'd probably require the ability to read and write. I doubt you'd be worth anything in an office environment… unless they'd run out of paperweights and needed something pretty and bone-idle to pin down important documents. I suppose all your fellow students were right about you, weren't they? In the end, you're just an empty-headed idiot with no place in this world, of no earthly use to anyone. Perhaps you'll forget how to speak next, or how to walk upright. Perhaps you'll forget you were ever a human being and stumble off to eat grass with the rest of the cows…"

Martha was crying softly to herself now, sobbing in mingled fear, shame, and despair, looking for all the world like a child humiliated on the playground.

Tessa knew there was no point fighting back. Braun was effectively invincible here, and any attempt to retaliate could only be rewarded with pain, suffering, misery, and yet another agonizing death. There was no point in doing anything. And yet, listening to Martha's weeping and watching the sick, exhilarated grin creeping across Braun's face, Tessa felt her blood begin to boil.

He'd been listening in on their stories around the campfire, and now he was taking aim at every single insecurity Martha had admitted to, dredging up everything he could use to hurt her; for good measure, he'd evidently left her the memories of childhood humiliations, just so he'd have a means of taking aim at her self-esteem.

"And you, Mr Rockwell," Braun purred. "Do you think your wife would ever forgive you?"

Roger looked up in confusion. "Forgive me for what?"

"Can't you remember? I mean, you might think you've been able to keep your unpleasant habit a secret from your wife, your neighbours, and the local police, but I doubt you'll be able to keep it hidden forever. And when your dirty little secret comes creeping into the light… do you think that Janet would forgive you for the awful, awful things you've done?"

Roger was on his feet now, glaring at Braun with mingled anger and bewilderment in his eyes. "I haven't done anything!" he snarled.

"Oh really? Look back on your memories for just a moment, and I'm sure it'll come to you…"

There was a pause, and then the colour very slowly drained from Roger's face; for almost fifteen seconds, he could only stand there, mouth flapping open and shut as he struggled to get to grips with whatever he had "remembered." Then, he tried to speak – the key word being "tried," for no coherent speech escaped his mouth, only gasped, whimpered fragments of words tumbling aimlessly into the air. For a moment, it almost sounded as if he was crying. If those were tears trickling down his ashen face, perhaps he was.

Then without warning, Roger Rockwell collapsed to his knees and threw up, retching and coughing and spluttering all over the lawn as the effects of whatever Braun had done to him rippled across his body. For a moment, he could only kneel there, gasping for breath and sobbing helplessly as the storm passed.

Then, he all but screamed "That didn't happen! I… it… he… It couldn't have happened! That couldn't have been me! I'd never do that!"

"Hmm. Perhaps I wasn't being thorough enough, made the memory too superficial. Oh well, this procedure is more art than science, and I am still learning the finer points. I suppose I'll need to insinuate the moment a little further into your long-term recollections… and while I'm about it, perhaps it's time to see how long this little habit of yours has lasted. A month? A year? Two years? Oh, I know! Let's make it… your entire life."

This time, Roger could only stare in horror as Braun's alterations became apparent. Then, his expression changed: suddenly, he was no longer gripped by disbelief and self-loathing; now, the look on his face was one of fear and paranoia, stripped entirely of any real guilt. This was the look on the face of a remorseless criminal, only afraid of being caught.

And so, even after all the punishment she'd endured in the last few months, all the brain-numbing ennui and all the promises she'd made to herself never to take part in Braun's sick games, Tessa still found herself staggering to her feet.

"Leave them alone!" she screamed.

If anything, Braun looked even more delighted. "Ah, Miss Dithers," he purred smugly. "I was wondering when you'd join us. Tell me, do you feel like telling us all about the girlfriend you left behind in the irradiated wastelands? I'm sure I heard you mumbling her name in your sleep more than once. What was it again? Misty? Missy? Oh, that's right: Marcie. Tell me a little about her… or better still, the life you were planning to build for yourselves in Washington? Those sly kisses exchanged just outside the labs, those "coincidental" carpools to and from work, the long, steamy evenings spent indoors with the curtains drawn…. Believe me, I've heard more than enough of your wistful midnight fantasies on the subject. Let's hear all the grisly details."

Tessa was just about to tell Braun to get fucked, only to find herself stopping at the last minute and wondering why. Suddenly, the sequence of events that had let to this point no longer seemed clear: she remembered Pat having her past rewritten, Martha losing her memories and Roger having new memories inserted into his brain, but she couldn't remember what Braun had said to her after that.

"What were we talking about?" she asked hesitantly.

"Nothing. Because you don't have anyone, do you? You're not married, you're not in a relationship… you haven't even been kissed by anyone outside your immediate family, have you? Marcie was dream, of course. Just a wistful dream in the head of an unemployable, unlikeable chemist with no friends, no prospects, and no future. That must have been the truth of the matter… because to be brutally honest, who would ever want to commit themselves to a serious relationship with someone like you? You're a self-important, self-righteous know-it-all with no life outside of your studies and no means of connecting to anyone outside of work. Even your parents only cared for you out of familial obligation, and that must have been quite the trial once they realized how little they had in common with you. Do you think they ever wondered what their lives would be like if they'd aborted you? Do you think they'd have been happier if you'd never have existed at all?" Braun smirked. "There's an idea… but maybe later. For now, let's just think on just how worthless your life has been until now…"

Tessa swallowed hard and tried to concentrate on her memories, but it proved almost impossible: vast swathes of recollections were fading out of focus even as she tried to remember, moment after moment slipping through her fingers like so much dust. All that remained were the memories of her time alone in the house, drinking heavily and wondering what the hell had happened to her life, watching silently as the walls closed in a little tighter around her. Just as Braun had said, she'd had nobody in her life apart from her parents, and the more she looked back on her life, the emptier it seemed.

And Marcie, whoever she was…

Tessa blinked rapidly. Somehow, breathing seemed very difficult in that moment.

Was she crying?

Why was she crying?

"Stop it!" exclaimed Tim. "You're hurting her!"

Braun gave him a smile that would have made a shark flee in terror.

"I'm not doing anything," he said pleasantly. "I'm just reminding her of how pointless her life's been up until now."

"Oh, bullshit you are! I'm not deaf! If you're going to torture us, just torture us; at least leave us our memories! And another thing, if you'd really wanted to rewrite our minds, you should have done us all at once."

"Think of it as an experiment; I need to know of the precise effect on individuals before I study the effect on a group. In fact, I'm already learning a great deal of how to alter memories on the fly: even as we speak, I'm editing the memories of this conversation out of the minds of your fellow captives. They don't remember the explanation I just gave you, or the realization you just had, or even my current sentence. Impressive, ja?"

Hazy… everything was so vague and indistinct, now, like stumbling blindly through mist; someone had said something important a moment ago, but Tessa couldn't remember what…

"Then why aren't you wiping my brain as well?" Tim demanded.

"Sometimes, I need a proper audience… or at the very least, I need something left on the side of my plate for later. Believe me, I was tempted to move on to making your parents forget that you were ever their son, but it's nowhere near as fun now that you've spotted the trick… and wiping your memory of it would just spoil the flow of the experiment. So, it's time I brought this latest meal to an end and moved onto dessert."

He clapped his hands briskly.

"Meine Damen und Herren," Braun announced. "I've restored your memories for just a moment so you can appreciate the full gravity of what I am about to say, so please attend carefully."

He offered a condescending smile, as everyone who'd been crying, cowering in terror, or just standing shell-shocked suddenly blinked and found themselves back to normal. Tessa reeled backwards, suddenly remembering Marcie, and almost sobbed with relief as she realized she hadn't been alone after all; she would have laughed… but then she noticed the horrifying smirk growing on Braun's wizened face and realized that there was nothing at all worth laughing about.

"As I said, I had a solution for your malaise long before you ever succumbed to apathy," Braun proclaimed smugly. "My workaround is very special kind of computer chip installed in each Tranquillity Lounger, designed to interface directly with the hippocampus and other areas of the human brain concerned with memory storage. These chips can be encoded with new events, new memories with which to furnish your minds, even to the point of rewriting your personal history if I provide a detailed enough narrative. Encoded a different way, they can prevent your access to memories you've already formed, leave you a blank palimpsest on which new epics can be inscribed… and then erased again… and again… and again!"

Right then and there, Tessa would have gladly told Braun that he was completely insane. Unfortunately, it seemed he'd anticipated this: no sooner had she opened her mouth to spew invective, she found her lips were suddenly and quite literally sealed, replaced with a flat expanse of featureless flesh. Behind the mouthless mask of skin, she could sense that her teeth had fused together, and the muscles of her jaw had frozen solid… and judging by that curiously choked feel to her mouth, there was no longer a connection between it and her throat. A quick glance around the room revealed that the same went for the rest of the group.

Clearly amused at having silenced any potential hecklers, Braun laughed contentedly to himself. "I held off on using the memory chips as long as possible: I wanted to indulge myself, of course, but also to study the dynamics of this little group and how you functioned under stress. Alas, now I see I've well and truly exhausted the fun I can have with you as you are, and it's time to start scrubbing away the bloodstains. Rest assured, you won't remember this conversation, and you won't remember anything I've done to you over the course of the last few years. You will also forget anything I do to you in the future, just so I can ensure that your pain and suffering remains as virginial as it was on the day we first met. And in time, if your personalities cease to amuse me, you will forget them as well and embrace the ones that I provide you with. For the rest of your lives, you will be whatever I want you to be, remembering only what I allow you to remember, and only enjoying the lives I have provided you with."

His smirk grew. "And on that note, I feel it's time we put all this unpleasantness behind us…"

And as one, Tessa and the others collapsed to the ground once more, their memories flying apart like flocks of started doves. The last thing she saw before her mind went blank and she lapsed into unconsciousness was the sight of Braun advancing on the still-conscious Tim, knife in hand.

"If you want to blame someone for leaving you for last, young man," he was saying, "Blame the others for protecting you so courageously. If they'd just ignored your pathetic bleating and let you stand on your own, I would gladly have put you down early, let you forget like all the others. But unfortunately, they doted on you… and if there's one thing I simply cannot stand, it's coddling. Spare the rod, spoil the child, as they say…"

Chapter 8: A Patchwork Of Worlds And Disappointment

Summary:

Braun discovers the first of his mistakes...

In the featureless white void of the base program, Braun clapped his hands in delight as he reviewed the list of scenarios on offer, feeling like a child on Christmas morning as his eyes hungrily swept across his private terminal.

The first chapter of his time in heaven was over.

Washington had been consigned to oblivion; now that its entertainment value had been exhausted, he no longer needed a simulation of that dreary old town to keep him amused, not when he had the length and breadth of the human imagination to play in.

His playthings were now under the sway of the memory chips, their old lives forgotten, their minds erased and ready to be programmed with whatever history they would need for the next game. They could be anything: warriors, civilians, princes, peasants, monsters, maidens... anything he desired, they would become. But above all else, they would be his victims from now until the end of time.

A universe of possibilities awaited him. All he had to do was select a title…

And he was there.

---

"All hail our glorious Emperor! All hail his Imperial Majesty!"

Braun sat back and let the simulated cheering wash over him.

Across the seats of the impossibly vast arena, a crowd of seven hundred million people applauded him, shrieking his name in ecstatic worship and begging to be favoured with a glance in their direction.

Not that he'd ever deign to do so: all of them were virtual, every man, woman and child in the crowd a sprite conjured up by the computer, and as he'd discovered long ago, all of them were so very tiresomely predictable. The same went for the inhabitants of Arabian Nights, Murderer's Alley and all the other simulations he'd run over the last few years.

Still, it occasionally did him good to enjoy a little pomp and ceremony, if only to give his subjects time to do something different. After all, he was taking a break from conducting the murders in person. So, indulging the crowd with a benevolent wave, he sat back, and enjoyed the show.

Here and now, he was young and handsome, his body muscled in ways that he never could have achieved in the real world, his face angelic beyond reality, his hair shining like molten gold. As befitting his role as emperor, he was clad in robes of the softest silk, his brow agleam with the golden laurels of the Imperial diadem.

Here and now, he was sitting in the Imperial Box of a colosseum far vaster and far grander than any arena Rome had ever seen in its heyday: well over a hundred thousand feet across, the sand-filled oval beneath him looked like the Sahara Desert in miniature, and the tiered stands all around it stretched skyward in a dazzling mass of gleaming marble cliff-faces, each one decorated with delicately-sculpted columns thicker than tree trunks and statues that would have overshadowed the giants of mythology.

Far above the carnage of the ring, artificial lighting set into the enclosed ceiling mimicked sunlight perfectly; an impossibly vast array of speakers carried his voice and the voices of those doomed to die to the waiting ears of the audience; deliberately anachronistic video screens dotted the arena, giving enticingly detailed glimpses of the action playing out in the heart of the circus, right down to the subtlest paper cut, every wound and act of violence immediately greeted by a roar of approval that sounded more like a hurricane than anything human.

In the real world, a structure like this would have been unfeasible: the cost alone would have destroyed the economy a million times over, while the scale and expense would have distended construction into decades. Given the enclosed roof, the scale of the place would have guaranteed freak weather patterns as well. But here in the simulation, reality had no sway over what he could build or how he could kill. All Braun had to do was make a few adjustments to the physics of this simulation and watch as the virtual world bowed to his whim.

Below, Bill Foster and Martha Simpson were still beating the shit out of each other.

They'd started out with the standard-issue flamethrowers, rocket launchers and miniguns, along with a supporting cast of ten thousand gladiators each and the rest of their comrades in supporting roles. Now, with all their comrades dead and their weaponry destroyed, they were reduced to battering at one another with shields of scrap-metal salvaged from the wreckage of their armour, stabbing desperately over the rims of their shield with blades of broken glass.

At this point, it was anyone's guess as to which of them would win: he'd made sure they were evenly matched and had given them personalities motivated enough to kill for their freedom, which they'd proved by now; after all, they'd already murdered Roger Rockwell, Timothy Neusbaum and all the other participants in today's games. Judging from those savage grins, Foster and Simpson had enjoyed themselves immensely… at least on the surface of things.

Braun was taking as many breaks as possible from the memory wipe, just to see how the new personalities would change over time and how they incorporated new experiences into their simulated worldview. In a way, it was an experiment regarding the entertainment value of his control over memory: would it be more satisfying to create a fully-formed personality from scratch for the purposes of the latest game, or would there be more enjoyment found in plunging a comparative blank slate into trauma and bloodshed so they could be gradually shaped into a more entertaining plaything?

Essentially, the digital equivalent of nature versus nurture.

All his charges were participants in this test: half had been given the personalities of brutal dyed-in-the-wool killers, and half had been programmed as soft-skinned recruits – to be sent to gladiator school and brutally shaped into murderers. So far, the results weren't looking especially conclusive, for though it was quicker and easier just to program in a new personality specifically for the game he had planned for the day, traumatizing a blank slate into something more interesting over time was every bit as amusing as the game itself.

Perhaps he'd use this mixed approach again. With the brutal effectiveness of the pre-programmed stoking his bloodlust in the arena and the simpering terror of the blank states fuelling his hunger for cruelty and debasement in gladiator school, it'd been a most gratifying stay in this simulation.

However, as entertaining as this violent little spectacle and the experiment he'd staged alongside it were, the carnage of the arena was of only moderate interest by now: gladiatorial combat, staged warfare and blood sports satisfied his appetites well enough, but they lacked the sense of in-depth fulfillment that his previous murders had provided him with.

At first, he thought this was due to the fact that he was only a spectator and not an active participant, but he quickly discounted this hypothesis; back in the real world, he'd once sat back and watched a paralysed vagrant being devoured alive by rats, feeling the same thrill of near-coital satisfaction as always, so it obviously wasn't the fact that he was the audience rather than the actor.

In the end, he could only conclude that the problem lay in the scale of the bloodshed: it lacked the intimacy of his earlier murders, the singular touch that had made them so special to him. Oh, the Hollywood approach to slaughter was good enough for a shallow indulgence, but not for a true feast. What kept him watching this popcorn-fest of brutality, however, was the vital signs of his captives… or rather, what they were really feeling beneath their simulated personas.

He wasn't sure when he'd noticed this, perhaps his seventh simulation, or perhaps his eighth, but even though he'd programmed or conditioned his charges to believe themselves hardened gladiators, their bodies in the real world continued to act as they would under such circumstances: the heart rate, blood pressure, body temperature, respiration, and even brainwave activity all reacted realistically to stress, even under circumstances when the subject should have been calmed by years of experience. Of course, none of them could ever consciously notice such a thing, as their simulated avatars were so far removed from their real bodies that they might as well be on different planets, but the conclusion was all too obvious: you could fool the mind, but you couldn't fool the body.

This was all that kept him interested in this scenario. And even so, his mind began to drift back to that forbidden entry in his auxiliary control terminal: the failsafe was still in storage, just waiting to be used. But that could wait until another day.

By now, Bill Foster had been beaten to death with his own shield, while Martha now lay in an expanding puddle of blood. In the simulation, they were as dead as the rest of the virtual gladiators, but in the real world, their hearts ticked onwards under the guidance of the life support systems even as their minds remained in the purgatorial non-existence of simulated death.

Braun thought for a moment, reviewing the aftermath of the carnage. It had been an impressive scene, an epic battle royale to rival anything that Hollywood had ever conceived of… and yet, it seemed uncannily similar to the last few he'd staged here.

It didn't have the same flare of the naval battle he'd arranged not long ago, but then nothing could really top the thrill of ship-to-ship combat, especially once he'd released the hippos and crocodiles into the turgid waters of the arena. How many gladiators had drowned? How many had been devoured by the animals? How many had died the traditional way, cut down by their fellow gladiators in single combat? He hadn't kept count, but the waters had run red with blood one way or the other. He had a particularly vivid memory of one real gladiator (probably the Neusbaum boy) being dragged under the water by a crocodile and messily shredded into bloody strips of meat.

Still, the conclusion was obvious: this simulation no longer held any amusement for him. The power of being emperor, the vicarious thrill of waging war, the spectacle of the arena, the degradations at play within the orgies… it had been worth a year or five, but it just wasn't fun anymore.

Time for a change of scenery.

---

The castle was always warm, humid as a greenhouse and every bit as vivid.

Braun knew real castles weren't like this: he'd visited a fair few back in Germany, and they'd always been dank and draughty without the aid of a roaring fire in a hearth or two. But once again, reality had been left by the wayside in favour of sheer, unmitigated comfort.

Outwardly, this place was quite clearly modelled on Neuschwanstein Castle, right down to the gleaming white façade and the lush surrounding forests. Ludwig II would have died to have spent a minute in its fairy-tale interior, for while he had been limited by economic realities like bankruptcy, the designer of this scenario was limited only by imagination: the throne room was made of solid gold and encrusted with an extravagance of gemstones; the "hall of singers" was silver and mirror, creating a dizzying kaleidoscope of reflections, each one more beautifully distorted than the last; the bedrooms were serviced by living statues, beautiful gargoyles that did their work better than any butler, maid, or whore.

This scenario was titled only as "Fantasy Kingdom," and it more than lived to its name, what with its many strange and wonderous inhabitants: witches, fairies, ogres, unicorns, giants, dragons, warlocks, minotaurs, trolls, centaurs, griffins, basilisks, and a whole host of other beings and beasts could be found here, along with more than enough magic to fill a dozen Grimm's fairy tales. You could bump into a man sculpted from living fire in the corridor one day, play chess with a naiad, duel a warlock in a contest of magic, joust upon the backs of winged horses, and drink a toast to the visiting fairy queen. And, because no true fairy tale would be complete without a sordid underbelly, there were always monsters, always waiting to murder, torture, and grind the bones down to make bread – but only if he allowed it.

And he always allowed it.

Braun's ability to change his appearance had fitted in well here, for many of the characters were shapeshifters themselves, and he took plenty of inspiration from the unearthly animations used in their transition from one form to the next.

It had been fun to shed his skin and become a dragon soaring high above the castle, to watch his muscles bulge as he swelled into an ogre cutting throats in the cellars, or even to melt away into water and terrorize the corridors as a living flood. He'd even worked on the sensations front a little, gradually working in the satisfying ripple of skin and the tingle of protean flesh; he still hadn't completed the sense of vertigo accompanying the loss of height or the realistic effects on clothing, but he was making progress.

In truth, he had been more intrigued with the main attraction of this scenario – or at least what he considered the main attraction. The pleasures of the Fantasy Kingdom were not unfamiliar to him: he could slay dragons, he could joust, he could fight in wars, he could set out on a quest for some inexplicably vital McGuffin… realistically speaking, he could do most of the things he'd been able to do in other scenarios. And in truth, he probably would have abandoned this little game a long time ago if it hadn't been for the additional fun offered by courtly intrigue.

Here, he did not play the king or emperor; he'd had enough of that the last five or six scenarios. Instead of the laurel wreath or golden crown, he wore the sumptuous robes and heraldry of a lord, serving as the power behind the throne: sly, dark-haired, alabaster-skinned and almost serpentine in build, Braun was always whispering in the ear of the good king, always directing him to whatever goal suited him that month.

And when he wasn't encouraging war between nations or a new tax against the peasants, he was pitting the nobles against one another, serving as mediator in disagreements and twisting their words to stoke their tempers, driving them to conflict with their husbands and wives through extravagant accusations, encouraging them to fear invisible enemies... the list went on and on. As always, he gave his charges a starring role in each game he played, always completely dismantling their simulated lives before he cornered and killed them in a suitably agonizing fashion, in a suitably fantastical form.

But that wasn't quite the best part, though. The best part could once again be found in the emotional subtleties: regardless of what role he would have them play captives could still feel revulsion and shame on a subconscious level, visible on the vital signs monitor, and Braun liked to watch as their bodies reacted ahead of their minds. Bit by bit, he would disable the programming, allowing them to slowly recall who they were, and oh, the sweet horror when they finally remembered everything, when they realized what they were doing!

How many times had he made them disgrace themselves in ways too foul to describe?

More than enough, he reflected with a smirk.

One day, in some far-off scenario, he would make his subjects remember everything, everything that they had witnessed, endured and inflicted during their decades of captivity here. He would restore not only their true memories, but also the memories of everything that had happened since their first erasure, all diligently recorded by the computer. And he would be ready and waiting to drink in their torments and savour every last drop.

Of course, it was inevitable that he'd get tired of this scenario first. But Braun could live with that: there'd always be another amusement on the horizon.

---

Across the years, Braun flitted from world to world.

In the glittering ballroom of a luxury liner, he danced as carefree as a child, laughing like a madman as the guests spun and twirled around him in agonized, limb-shattering frenzy. Beneath him, the Neusbaum boy and Dithers gurgled their last as the ship's cargo hold slipped underwater, slowly drowning them.

In deepest Atlantis, he stalked the sunken depths, hounding the fleeing survivors at every turn as they fled across the ruins. An oily silhouette on the other end of a sniper scope, he picked away at them, forcing them to cross shark-infested moats and tiptoe across narrow ledges a thousand feet above the ancient roads just so they could avoid him. They never imagined that the living shadow could climb walls or walk on water… and they certainly didn't realize he could control the booby traps that littered Atlantis, until it was too late.

Upon the surface of a planet as black and glistening as obsidian, he sat at the heart of a vast nest, his new body a giant spider sitting in the centre of a web clustered with the corpses of his playthings. Beneath him, Roger Rockwell juddered and writhed in pain as the necrotoxins coursed through him, dissolving his skeleton and reducing his internal organs to slurry.

In the sweltering jungles of the Amazon, he was a living mass of hungry creepers oozing across the ground, snatching the unsuspecting explorers away at night and pulping them into compost. He let them see him once, but only once - a bipedal shape of winding vines lunging towards them out of the night, a human face briefly visible amidst the flora. One by one, he picked them off, allowing the survivor access to the temple city beyond the mountain... and become the favoured sacrifice of the ancient civilization that worshipped the vine.

And not once in all those decades could he ever imagine that the impossible might come to pass.

He never imagined that he might one day be bored.

---

Braun breathed a sigh of relief as the godawful honky-tonk piano finally ground to a halt.

He'd no idea what he'd been thinking when he'd decided to start this scenario. Maybe he'd had a craving for violence of an earthier kind; maybe he'd thought that the sun and endless deserts would be a welcome change from polar ice palace and the dark grandeur of Atlantis; or maybe he'd just been struck by the need for something he'd never even thought of before, something outside his usual tastes.

And yes, maybe he was feeling the first stirrings of ennui and his usual fun wasn't scratching his itch anymore. But even that couldn't possibly explain why he'd picked the Gunslinger's Paradise scenario, of all things.

He'd been here for barely a day and he was already fed up with every aspect of this place: the setting was boring, the weather wasn't lethal enough to be immediately entertaining, the personas and background characters were duller than dishwater, and frankly, he'd had more fun stealing dynamite from the crazy prospector's cart in the hopes of blowing the wretched little township to kingdom come.

Now he stood amidst the empty saloon, watching as the last of his playthings slowly bled out in a haze of gunsmoke. Even watching them die wasn't that much fun, in part because the causes of death around here were so infuriatingly monotonous: guns were the overwhelming majority in the paradise, from six-shooters to shotguns, and both were too quick and easy for Braun's taste. Every now and again, there was a hanging, but it was always over too soon.

Meanwhile, deaths like bludgeoning, disembowelment, flaying, mauling, starvation, trampling, dehydration, and all the other joyous experiences that should have been accessible in this scenario were restricted to outside the town: if Braun wanted to scalp someone, he'd have to lure them out into the wilderness and do it there. Even this was fraught with annoyances, for even after going to all the trouble of tricking Timothy Neusbaum into following him into the desert, then burying him up to his neck and leaving him to the mercy of scorpions and snakes, the scenario still proved too bland. It took the use of administrator privileges to get the animals anywhere near him, for they had only been programmed to serve as background elements, not threats; in the end, Braun had lost patience, transformed into a vulture and pecked out Timothy's eyeballs in a frenzy of rage.

As far as Braun could see from the file summary, the designer of this game had been thinking of the setting first and player enjoyment second when he'd built this skidmark of a scenario. Whoever he was, he'd been so aggressively nostalgic for the cowboy movies of his youth that he'd effectively hamstrung his own scenario by tying it to the clichés of a Western: there were to be gunfights on the street, barfights in the saloon, the occasional appearance of a bandit gang on the edges of town, and not a single challenging event visible anywhere. It was a theme park, and like a theme park, nothing ever strayed outside the boundaries; you couldn't expect a flash-flood to drown everyone in their beds, or a rampaging horde of bison to bulldoze the town, or even for a dose of cholera to litter the streets with corpses. No, everything had to be nice, wholesome and cliched.

Even the choice of avatars had been dull: the pitch-black outlaw's duster and Lee Van Cleef sneer he'd worn at the beginning of this ridiculous game had nearly driven him to apoplexy up until Braun had replaced the ensemble with something a little more interesting.

In short, if Braun wanted to innovate, he'd have to either choose another scenario or embark on a spectacular rewrite of the scenario's operating parameters… and frankly, it didn't sound worth it to him.

At least the game had allowed him to massacre the saloon patrons and the Vault 112 residents along with them; there wasn't much pleasure to be found in casually shooting a bunch of idiots in ten-gallon hats, but with this scenario currently clogging his attention, he'd have to take what he could get. Frankly, the only thing that would have made the saloon massacre vaguely enjoyable would have been the presence of this scenario's designer, and the possibility of torturing the cowboy-obsessed bastard for all eternity – as close to eternity as the principles of entropy would allow.

But alas, the programmers assigned to the virtual reality project hadn't been assigned housing amongst Vault-Tec's elite, and even if the chimpanzee who'd fumbled this abortion of a scenario into existence had somehow managed to earn placement in one of the safer vaults… well, he was almost certainly dead by now. Braun didn't often consult the simulation's chronometers, but the last time he'd checked, he'd been playing for over sixty years; unless the programmer had found himself in 111 by some miracle, old age would have likely claimed him long ago.

In the end, Braun could only comfort himself with the possibility that the programmer had been barbecued out of existence in the nuclear firestorm that had swept the United States clean, and had he survived the conflagration, radiation would have guaranteed him a slow and miserable death – likely surrounded by the detritus of whatever worthless friends and family he'd accumulated in life.

He sighed and turned to leave; as he stomped down the steps of the saloon and into the desert, a stray tumbleweed bobbed across his path – just as it had fifty-nine minutes ago, and fifty-nine minutes before that, and before that, and before that…

Oh yes, Braun was deleting this cliched embarrassment once he was done with it.

He was flinging it into oblivion along with all the other simulated realities that no longer amused him, and then he would return to searching for another scenario to keep him entertained. He still had plenty in reserve, even after all the fun and games he'd enjoyed, and if he ever ran out, the failsafe was still ready and waiting to be used…

---

Stars bloomed and burst in orange flares around him, attack ships colliding and exploding in wild, desperate bombing runs on vast lumbering star cruisers. Planets burned in space, beams of energy searing their surfaces barren and boiling their oceans to vapour, while salvos of missiles shattered them into meteor storms. Space-blimps and star-rockets were torn apart by the hail or veered off course in their attempts to avoid it and ploughed straight into the depths of the burning planets, while astronaut troopers deployed by both sides were cut to bloody ribbons by tiny comets of shrapnel tearing across the void. Huge tentacled aliens descended from the depths of space to feast upon the shredded flesh, ripping apart anyone who dared stand in their way.

And through it all, Braun floated across space in his new lantern-jawed, musclebound All-American Astronaut guise, resplendent in his gilded hero's spacesuit and bored beyond words.

Over and over again, the Interstellar War had killed his subjects in all manner of morbidly entertaining ways, and Braun couldn't enjoy a minute of it: it was all over too quickly, too impersonally; there was no sense that he was doing something worthwhile by killing one of his playthings out here, for all the preamble to the death itself was instantly lost. Even explosive decompression offered few thrills. There was no… foreplay.

There was no chance to torture anyone out here, and frankly, why would there be? This was a scenario meant exclusively for action-adventure, for science-fiction amusement and wartime exhilaration; for someone used to the soothing rhythms of tenderizing, terrifying, traumatizing, torturing and finally murdering, it was anathema, an insult to Braun's sophisticated tastes. He'd been here expecting filet mignon and had been given nothing but stale popcorn.

Looking on at it all, he couldn't help but feel despair.

Had he really been reduced to this avalanche of boredom so soon? He'd only been in the simulation for seventy-eight years, and already he was succumbing to ennui! It was utterly inconceivable that this should have happened now, when his auxiliary terminal reported that Vault 112's machinery was still functioning perfectly, the robobrains were still running, and his subjects were all still alive and healthy. This was the sort of thing that shouldn't have happened until the Vault had begun to collapse around his ears, hundreds of years from today… but somehow it was happening right now, in what should have been his glory years.

And in spite of himself, Braun found his attention once again drifting towards the failsafe option. He could use it at any time; if it ever proved too arduous in here, he could instantly end his life and the lives of all those dependent on him, snuff out his irritation and plunge his subjects into one last terrifying experience before their real deaths.

The thought alone excited him almost enough to rouse him from his bored stupor.

Maybe…

Just maybe it was time.

Or maybe not – it was hard to say. Was there still some enjoyment to be squeezed from the simulation? Was he overlooking something?

Absently, he reviewed the "Chinese Invasion" program in his auxiliary terminal, wondering what it would be like to see and feel his failsafe in action. Out of curiosity, he selected it for a bench-test, surveying the intricate coding behind the program that would end his boredom forever; this was the one thing he'd avoided doing when he'd first received the simulation, for the temptation to use it right then and there would have been too great… but now his curiosity was greater.

He had to see.

He had to know.

He ran the projections, watching as the computer calculated the precise outcome of the fatal training simulation. One by one, the results clicked into place before his eyes: every single inhabitant of Braun's little kingdom was guaranteed to die as a result of the programmed invasion; with the safeties overridden, being killed in virtual reality would result in a surge of feedback powerful enough to trigger a cascade of fatal cerebral haemorrhages, too devastating for even the Lounger life-support systems to prevent.

Within a minute of activation, everyone in Vault 112 would be dead.

And then, just as Braun was happily nodding over the results, there was another click from his auxiliary terminal as the final result arrived on the screen:

OVERSEER S. BRAUN= 0% CHANCE OF DEATH. UNABLE TO OVERRIDE SAFETIES.

There was a pause.

And then, even though the scenario was currently set in a vacuum, the length and breadth of the simulation echoed with the sound of Braun's screams.

---

There was no official date of this battle: it could have been 1917, or it could have been 1943; it could have even been the Reclamation of Anchorage.

There was no set time to this new scenario, only a series of muddy, snow-dusted trenches haunted by the roar of artillery and the rattle of gunfire, smothered in the cloying scents of toxic gas, blood and death.

The Neusbaums had gone over the top first, and Braun had made sure that the bullets that struck them would not deal fatal injuries. The family would live for a time, but with their crippled bodies beyond the reach of the stretcher-bearers, they were condemned to remain in No-Man's Land. Now, it was a race to see what would kill them first: infection, starvation, enemy activity, or the omnipresent rats that fed upon the rotting corpses that were now the Neusbaums' bedfellows.

Soon after, the Rockwells followed them over the top and into the firing line: the machine gun nest cut Roger down in less than five seconds flat, and Janet's attempt to avoid it took her right through the minefield. As chunks of shredded flesh rained down on the allied trenches, Bill Foster made a valiant effort to pick off a few enemy troops from the sniper's parapet, only for a stray mortar shell to land square on top of him, leaving him a charred and crumpled mess under the wreckage of the parapet. Dithers paused in her charge to try and help Timmy Neusbaum, only to be caught in a billowing cloud of gas sweeping in from the west, leaving her to choke on her own frothing blood as it tore through her lungs. With the bellows of their commander echoing in their ears, Martha Simpson and Mabel Henderson charged onwards through the carnage in the hope of reaching the enemy lines; neither of them made it, the two of them ending their brief journey in an agonized tangle amidst the barbed wire.

In less than ten minutes, every real participant of the battle was dead, leaving behind only simulated extras and the Overseer. For a time, the familiar environmental ambience continued to play out, with the simulated choruses of gunfire and screams rippling up and down the trenches as the Nameless War lurched onwards.

Then Braun, resplendent in his peaked hat, monocle, and medal-studded trenchcoat, reset the system and brought his charges back from the dead once more.

Ten minutes later, his playthings died again.

With another inputted command, Braun brought them back again.

Another ten-minute charge across No-Man's Land, and his playthings were once again dead to the last man.

The next time, Braun didn't even bother sending them on another charge: once his playthings were back from the dead, he simply lined them up in a row on the parade ground and slit the throats of everyone in line. And once he was finished kicking the last stubborn victim the rest of the way into expiration, Braun brought them back to life all over again, just so he could test the durability of human kneecaps.

He'd been doing this for three straight days, an endless cycle of agony, death, rebirth and more agony repeating endlessly unto infinity, and it would continue until Braun's anger was finally spent. Strange as it seemed, he'd never felt this angry before in his entire life, nor had he ever had the opportunity to vent it in such a spectacular fashion… but even if he could alter the program to allow him to inflict a million different tortures at once, it still wouldn't have been enough to calm his rage.

And it was all because the failsafe program – his lifeline, his salvation, his emergency standby set aside for the day when the virtual paradise finally grew too boring to tolerate – didn't work.

Correction: it worked… just not as intended.

The "Chinese Invasion" training simulation was just about compatible with the simulator, and all two hundred and eighty-seven bench tests confirmed that it would work almost exactly to Braun's specifications; with the system keyed to deactivate the tranquillity loungers' safety protocols the moment the failsafe was enacted, it would kill everyone connected to the system.

All except him.

As Vault Overseer, his administrator privileges shielded him even from this, protecting his lounger with additional security protocols; everyone else would die, but he would live on, alone, with only the paltry replicas of real people to amuse him. His quick and easy suicide pill had become a one-way ticket to virtual hell, and there was nothing he could do to change it: the additional safety protocols were essentially baked into both the software and the hardware of the loungers, and nothing could erase them short of a complete overhaul. If the boredom of his utopia grew too much for him, there would be no escape from it.

And the hell of it was that he'd known about the additional safety protocols from the very beginning.

As an executive of Vault-Tec, he'd been privy to the knowledge that all company personnel employed at 112 would be given secondary safeties; he'd been there when his lounger had been upgraded, had instructed the technicians on how to optimise the new hardware!

He'd wanted to be safer than anyone else in the Vault, all so he could enjoy the digital paradise for eternity, or as close to eternity as human invention could allow. He'd known he would be protected… but he hadn't realized that the protocols would apply to Chase's lethal training simulation as well.

It simply hadn't occurred to him.

When he'd discovered this, scant days ago, Braun frantically studied his terminal for any means of overriding the protocols, any hardware loopholes that could allow him to extinguish his life. But infuriatingly enough, Vault-Tec had been uncharacteristically thorough in ensuring his safety: the robobrains could not be commanded to attack him; he couldn't trigger an overload in the Vault reactor; he couldn't crash the program, certainly not violently enough to induce a cerebral haemorrhage.

Even opening the lounger and allowing his body to succumb to the elements without the protection of the life support systems didn't sound probable. Given how attentive the loungers were in neutralizing potential heart attacks and strokes, there was a good chance it wouldn't even permit him to open the lid.

With all options exhausted, Braun had nothing to do but give vent to his spleen.

He'd kicked and screamed and summoned up volcanoes and tore the scenario asunder with earthquakes; he'd killed his playthings so many times without erasing their memories that every last one of them had been left cowering the foetal position by the end of his tantrum. He'd transformed into a million different shapes and rampaged across the battlefield, killing anything in his path, sapient or computer-controlled, and eating the corpses.

Between massacres, he cursed General Constantine Chase a thousand times over, blundering egomaniacal drug-peddling popinjay that he was, cursed his ridiculous haircut, his mid-life crisis goatee, and his ludicrously overcompensatory cigars. He'd been so angry that he'd actually gone to the trouble of rendering a computer-controlled character with the general's face just so he could run the annoying little bastard over with a steamroller and shit on the pulped mess left behind. But of course, because it was computer generated, it hadn't brought him any joy whatsoever. After a while, the only thing that could give him the slightest bit of reassurance was the knowledge that Chase was already dead in the real world, either incinerated in a nuclear holocaust, eaten alive by radiation sickness, or sodomised to death in some squalid little Chinese prison camp.

Of course, the sense of comfort didn't last for long and he had to resort to more practical means of assuaging his frustration. And now here was, setting the stage for yet another massacre, with no idea what he was going to do with himself when the rage finally faded away.

But one thing was certain: he would not let this overcome him.

He was Dr Stanislaus Braun.

He was the Overseer.

He was the Sorcerer-Scientist of Vault-Tec.

He was God.

And he would find a way to make this place his paradise again.

Chapter 9: Finding Tranquillity

Summary:

Braun finds a new home, and Harkness is born.

"Please…"

Braun tore his eyes away from the horizon and glared down at the figure clawing at the leg of his deckchair.

It was Mabel Henderson, a skeletal husk of her usual plump self, her mouth a trough of blood and loose teeth, her clothes salt-stiffened rags. By now, the scurvy had left her almost crippled, and months of starvation had withered her to the point that she couldn't even reach for Braun himself. Considering she usually looked like something out of a pig's worst nightmare, it was a marked improvement.

"Please… food… please, do you have food…?"

By way of a reply, Braun produced an apple from nowhere and took an extravagant bite out of it.

"I… you…"

He handed her the apple. Too shocked to question the unexpected act of compassion, she opened her mouth to take a bite out of it, only for the apple to dissolve into a writhing ball of maggots before she could even begin eating.

Had Henderson been able to scream, she would probably have let all her rage and horror and disgust out in one almighty wail; by then, though, scurvy had left her too weak to speak in anything other than a whispered croak.

Finally, withered by months of poor nutrition, salt water and all the other things that Braun had cursed her with over the last few weeks, she finally slumped facefirst into the sand, unconscious or dead.

Braun stubbed his cigarette out on her shoulder, not caring if she woke or not, and went back to studying the horizon.

Barring the odd glitch here and there, Toucan Lagoon was proving to be one of the best experiences he'd enjoyed so far.

It had been over ten years since he'd uncovered that infuriating revelation, and since then, everything he'd done had been a concerted effort to smother his disappointment in as many pleasures as he could conjure. It had been uphill work, for even with all the blood and gore of at least two dozen virtual battlefields, he still hadn't been able to recapture the sense of godlike satisfaction.

If anything, playing along with the carnage of these virtual wargames had only made him feel like a pawn in someone else's game, following the rules set down by some long-dead programmer. No matter how many tortures old and new he inflicted on his playthings, the sense of novelty never quite returned: like dry bread and water, it was enough to sustain him, but it was never enough to thrill him.

After many failures and many massacres, he'd eventually realized that the true thrill lay not in scenarios in which his natural proclivities would be accepted, but in scenarios where his amusements were neither expected nor tolerated. Battlefields, slaughterhouses, arenas, the bloodier kinds of adventure game... the pleasures they offered were brief and shallow because places such as these offered blood and pain in abundance already, and made the kill feel mundane, even boring.

What truly brought home the familiar rush of endorphins summoned by violence, humiliation, torture, and murder was the sense of transgression, even if the only thing he could transgress against were the familiar rhythms of a place.

Plus, as much as he hated to admit it, warzones and battlegrounds were a little short on creature comforts: after all, in previous scenarios, he'd had the luxury of Washington, Imperial Rome, and the Fantasy Kingdom to indulge himself in when the slaughter had come to a stop.

So, from then on, he had chosen scenarios offering joy, serenity, and more acceptable forms of pleasure. He had chosen luxurious hotels, amusement parks, casinos, parks, circuses, and lately, a tropical island to rival even the most decadent resorts of the real world, all to give his playthings a taste of happiness… before he snatched it away from them, using his editing program to twist the scenarios out of shape.

Each one gave Braun an opportunity to toy with his subjects in a new and unique way: the hotel scenario had been a suspenseful murder-mystery thriller set in the warm confines of an isolated mountaintop hotel, where Braun could butcher a guest every night and savour every last drop of fear and confusion as the survivors tried to work out who the killer was before it was too late. The amusement park had been a slasher movie plot in which he'd pursued his playthings across every ride and attraction the scenario had to offer, from the hall of mirrors to the roller coaster, either following them inside or sabotaging the controls just so he could watch the grisly results. The casino was a torture chamber in which the stakes of every game were measured in liberal doses of pain and suffering, where the Rockwells had been forced to gamble away their limbs on losing hands of baccarat, where every round on the slot machines had slowly poisoned Timothy Neusbaum, and Bill Foster's failures at craps had slowly crushed him down into the dice for the next game.

And as for this tropical island (Toucan Lagoon, as the programmer had whimsically referred to it) was a doomed survival experience, a summer vacation plagued with all the worst things that innocent human beings could suffer.

Sitting here atop the highest of the sand dunes, relaxing in the shade of his beach umbrella, dressed in tanned muscles and a screaming Hawaiian shirt, Braun had a perfect view of everything that had befallen his subjects across the island:

Not too far away, Timothy Neusbaum had been desperate enough to swim across the lagoon in his efforts to find food, and now the warm waters were stained lurid crimson, courtesy of the mako shark Braun had admitted into the lagoon; on the shore, the boy's parents wept in horror and tried to wade in after him, but the bevvy of tropical diseases that had infected them in the last few days had left them too weak to swim very far.

Soon, the mako would have another feast, if not necessarily an appetising one.

Down along the hidden rocks and shoals to the west, Bill Foster was roasting chunks of meat on an open fire, muttering deliriously to himself as he waited for it to cook; nearby, Roger Rockwell's freshly butchered corpse lay in a ditch, almost completely stripped of flesh. The two had been looking for shellfish not long ago, only for their brittle camaraderie to shattered by the discovery of a dead seal washed up on the rocks; during the argument over whether or not they should share the meat with the others, the tide had swept the corpse back out to sea, and in their frustration, the squabble had turned into a duel to the death that had ended with Roger's brains being smashed out against a boulder.

Far to the east, Janet Rockwell and Martha Simpson were hobbling uphill as fast as their mangled legs could carry them, a hungry Komodo dragon in hot pursuit. It had already taken a couple of sizable bites out of their calf-muscles in the last few minutes, and though the dragon wasn't the best at scaling the steep hillside at speed, Rockwell and Simpson were leaving a very obvious trail. Soon, the two fleeing women would succumb to their wounds.

To the south, Dithers was convulsing her last in the greenery, courtesy of the spider-bite she'd acquired while traversing the nearby rainforest. Her throat had swollen to the size of a small melon, and a small plume of bloody froth was pouring through her clenched teeth. Braun estimated she had roughly ten minutes before her heart stopped, though her lungs would probably begin to fill with fluid long before she reached the six-minute mark. One way or the other, it was going to be a gloriously painful death. Chuckling to himself, Braun readied his binoculars for a show worthy of his attention.

Sitting up here in his deck chair, with an ice-cold pina colada by his side and the entire universe at his beck and call, Braun was content: the roar of the waves lulled him into an almost intoxicating sense of peace, while the distant sobs and screams enthralled, enthused and aroused him beyond words. This scenario and countless others had all done their part in restoring his sense of godhood: it was one thing to know that he could inflict any conceivable torment upon his subjects at will, but another to know that it was within his power to turn the entire world against them, to subvert every moment of happiness and smother every last atom of joy.

After all, only a few short days beforehand, the residents of this island had been enjoying a luxurious vacation on this very beach; then, Braun had brought the typhoons, the hunger, the diseases, the predators and the parasites, and sent the happy little families screaming into the depths of the hell he had conjured.

And that was truly where the sense of godlike power lay, not merely in the pre-programmed ability to control the simulation, but in his ability to transgress, to subvert the norm, to destroy the sense of safety his victims once enjoyed and drag them into a world where he could inflict pain with impunity. As he'd once known in the real world, you didn't need computer-generated omnipotence to obtain such a thing: all you needed was chloroform, a soundproofed basement and a knife. It had taken almost a century to relearn that lesson, but at last, he had attained the wisdom he had lost to excess.

All in all, Braun was almost perfectly happy... the key word being "almost."

For one thing, there was still a tiny note of disconnection within the minds of his subjects: somehow, they never felt as though they'd be here to stay; no matter how luxurious or hellish the situation seemed, someone always seemed to believe (at least on some level) that they would have to leave sooner or later.

For another, Braun knew that he would have to move on from this scenario one day: sooner or later, as with all things, this place would lose its lustre, his interest would wane, and he would have to find a new digital paradise to occupy his time. And he was running out of scenarios, too. He'd deleted more than three quarters of his initial collection, and only a handful remained to him; after they were gone, he'd have to actually put his long-neglected programming skills to work and build another one for himself.

Perhaps one day, he would find a world that perfectly suited him, one where the fun would never fade, and he would never have to leave.

But until then, the games would continue.

---

"I love to go a-wandering along the mountain track…"

Slalom Chalet rang with the sound of joyous singing, underscored by a subtle chorus of screams and sobs. It had been far too long since Braun had been capable of making use of a ski slope, and by god, he was determined to enjoy his simulated vitality as much as possible.

"And as I go, I love to sing…"

This could have been any mountaintop playground: it could have been in Chamonix, or it could have been in Davos, or even Aspen Mountain; it recycled elements from skiing resorts all over the world, creating a generic but enjoyable vision of wintertime beauty. From the luxurious mountaintop chalet from which the scenario drew its name to the breathtaking alpine vistas beyond it, this was the perfect retreat for anyone missing the fun of a skiing vacation.

The last time Braun had been on a skiing holiday, it had been part of a special treat from the US government, a holiday package for the best a brightest of Vault-Tec's upper crust. Back then, he'd been a spritely fifty-one years of age, and though he'd enjoyed the opportunity to prove his superiority before the awestruck eyes of his colleagues once more, it had been a bit of a disappointment in the long run. After all, for all the sumptuous luxuries and mundane thrills available at the lodge that weekend, it hadn't allowed him to really treat himself... not unless he felt like causing an avalanche at any rate.

"My knapsack on my back…"

Now, in the utopia that his simulation offered, he could indulge his darkest desires in any way that took his fancy. Just as Toucan Lagoon had featured a host of glorious dangers concealed in the sunblessed beaches and lush rainforests, so too did Slalom Chalet's beautiful mountains conceal a whole host of deadly threats just waiting to be unleashed.

But in the end, none of them were as dangerous as Braun himself. Hence why, after five years of watching the Rockwells wither away from frostbite and gleefully observing the Neusbaums eating each other one limb at a time, he'd decided to spice things up by taking the newly-recovered playthings on a brisk constitutional of the chalet's grounds.

Of course, he'd had to tie them up and lash them to his waist by a length of sturdy rope, but thanks to administrator privileges, skiing with an entire train of captives attached to him was easier than breathing. To his current level of strength, the nine people trailing behind him were no heavier than balloons and every bit as puncturable: rocketing down the side of a mountain at close to a hundred miles an hour, the train of prisoners swung wildly back and forth, bouncing up and down the snowdrifts and punctuating every stanza of the song with a series of agonized howls.

"Valderi…"

Grinning, Braun swerved to avoid a tree jutting from the snow; behind him, the train of playthings crashed sidelong into it with a muffled crunch of splintering bones.

"Valdera…"

The captives dangled in its branches for a split-second before the rope went taut, yanking them out of the tree and back onto the trail, rolling painfully onwards down the mountainside in a shower of pine needles.

"Valderi…"

Ahead, the snow briefly gave way to a procession of jagged rocks, passable only through a narrow corridor of snow winding through the boulders. Gleefully, Braun made straight for it, making sure that the captives approached from the side.

"Valdera-ha-ha-ha-ha-ha-haaaaaaa…"

And with every laugh, his subjects bounced and spun across the rocks, lacerating their bodies, splintering bones, tenderizing vital organs and pulverizing several nonessential ones. This time, the screams were almost beyond description.

As the mountainside cleared and his song continued onwards, Braun's thoughts began to drift ever-so-slightly.

By now, he'd deleted all but one other scenario in his collection: after that, it would time to begin designing his own playgrounds… and frankly, he might skip to that step right away, if only because Braun had a sneaking suspicion that the remaining scenario would probably bore him to tears: as much as he liked subverting the nature of these comfortable little worlds, American suburbia repelled him, and the description brought to mind countless hateful television programs from the antiquity of the medium. The programmer had clearly been doing his level best to memorialize these outdated sitcoms, and the more detail he'd lavished on the synopsis, the more Braun hoped the bastard had died screaming.

So, up next would no doubt be the first test of his abilities as an internal programmer, building a world from within instead of without. Though he was looking forward to this opportunity, he had to admit a certain degree of trepidation at the thought. After all, he'd had plenty of experience in designing programs, creating virtual character and editing scenarios to his own designs, but he'd never created one from scratch before.

What would he even make it about? What would be the ideal subject matter? What, after all this time, could enthral him as the early days of virtual existence had?

Perhaps he could fall back on classic literature, an adaptation of The Masque of the Red Death in which his subjects could enjoy the sickening luxury of the Prince Prospero's revels before suffering the fatal agonies of the plague.

Or maybe he should try a historical re-enactment of sorts: he could bring back the decadence and horror of pre-revolutionary France, giving his captives a place among the privileged nobility and giving them ample time to enjoy it, then snatching away their joy by unleashing the anger of the poor and downtrodden upon them.

Or maybe something even more outlandish was called for: a science-fiction paradise, Eden regained in planetary form; here, he could give his playthings all the time in the world to find peace… then he could usher in all the horrors of infinite space upon them to despoil their heaven and drag them screaming into the depths of their own nightmare, a plague, perhaps, or an invasion of alien monsters, or maybe even a parasitoid infestation! Yes, yes…

But why worry about it now?

This scenario still had years on end to thrill him. After all, he'd been here for well over a decade, and even after all that time, there was no end in sight for his amusement.

Braun's voice rose to a triumphant roar as the final clifftop loomed on the horizon.

"OH MAY I GO A WANDERING UNTIL THE DAY I DIE…"

Behind him, the captives' screams attained new intensity as they realized where the ride was taking them… or at the very least, those of them still capable of speech screamed. Those of them who'd suffered too many head injuries over the last few minutes could only gurgle helplessly as the cliff drew closer and closer by the minute.

"OH MAY I ALWAYS LAUGH AND SING, BENEATH GOD'S CLEAR BLUE SKY!"

And as he laughed his way through the final chorus of the song, Braun skidded to a stop on the edge of the cliff, then let the momentum of his captives send them hurtling past him, over the lip of the gorge and into the chasm below. With the swiftness of a striking snake, his hand tore clean through the rope tethering him to the prisoners, releasing them from their bonds, and allowing them perhaps a millisecond of freedom before gravity took hold and flung them into the abyss.

As they fell, Braun belatedly realized that he'd been remiss in the final chorus, and in the split second before his captives hit the ground, he let out his own special conclusion to the song.

"…BENEATH MY CLEAR BLUE SKY!" he bellowed happily.

---

It wasn't often that Braun changed his mind.

Ever since he'd been old enough to recognize the fact that he was cleverer than the rest of his family, he'd been so secure in his grasp of the facts that he'd felt almost no need to alter his opinion on any given matter unless he recognized the possibility in advance. And in his experience, he was so often right that there'd never be any occasion to adjust this perspective on reality.

However, looking down at his private terminal, he realized that perhaps he'd been a little overhasty in his initial decision to begin work on programming a new scenario from scratch.

Braun had been in Slalom Chalet for twenty-three years, as he'd noted in his diary, and the excitement had finally worn off. By now, it was clear that it was time for him to move on… but he couldn't bring himself to start work on the new scenario. Quite apart from the fact that it would require him to take time off having fun in order to design and build this new playground, he now found himself gripped by insatiable curiosity: what would the remaining scenario really be like? What if it was actually better than the initial synopsis?

And there was another desire at work in his mind, an unaccountable longing for something he hadn't encountered in years. There was a vague sense of wistfulness about it, but it took him a while before he could recognize what it meant: he wanted something simpler, something quieter than before. He'd glutted himself on excitement, on games and pageantry beyond imagining, and even the occasions when he'd found serenity were all too grand. Casinos, tropical islands, amusement parks, skiing resorts… he'd been on vacation for well over a century by now, and now he wanted something new.

He wanted something smaller.

He wanted domesticity.

He wanted home.

And even though his designer program would have allowed him to replicate Kronach in the simulation, his thoughts drifted time and time again to the last scenario in his collection. Once, he'd looked upon that lone file and felt nothing but contempt. Now, looking at those uniform rooftops and monochrome skies, he felt a pang of something almost like nostalgia.

He doubted he would ever be able to truly reclaim the innocent joy that he'd felt in his earliest forays into bloodshed, or even the sense of fulfilment he'd experienced in the company of his lone friend and mentor, but still the longing for a smaller, suburban realm was impossible to quench. Besides, with a calmer playground, he could always take his time, maybe even work on his first homebrew scenario in between games.

So, pausing only to make sure that his subjects were dead to the last man, he banished Slalom Chalet for the last time, reverting the simulation to the stark white void of base programming. Then, he loaded the final scenario, manifesting it as a simple doorway hovering amidst the nothingness.

Then, pausing only to take a deep breath, he opened the door and stepped into Tranquillity Lane.

---

To the eyes of other human beings, Tranquillity Lane would have seemed uncanny, even unnatural.

Here, there was no colour: the world was rendered entirely in monochrome, with all traces of hue, shade and tone beyond black and white nowhere to be found.

Here, there was no time: the cycles of day or night only existed if the Overseer willed it so, leaving the strange neighbourhood languishing in eternal daytime.

Here, there was no illusion of escape: the scenario had been built as a closed circle, a cul-de-sac with no departing road and no hint of how anyone would have gotten in or out.

Here, there were only perfectly manicured lawns, perfect weather, perfectly paved roads, and perfect harmony. If the citizens had seen the place for what it truly was, Tranquillity Lane would have been unusual at best and nightmarish at worst.

To Stanislaus Braun, it was the promised land.

As strange as it seemed, the place reminded him so much of Kronach that for a time he'd felt almost as if he were reliving his childhood. True, it was quite astonishingly American in its format, not to mention its slavish adherence to early American sitcoms, but the sense of peace and childish innocence it summoned up was undeniable. When he was young, once he'd come to terms with his desires, he'd felt the same atmosphere of guileless naiveté surrounding Kronach, though perhaps that had just been his own somewhat naïve perspective on the world.

The place had seemed like nothing more than a town made entirely for life-sized toys, toys that he could break at his leisure. Little Stanislaus Braun needed no credentials, no corporate protection, no private cache of wealth and genius to defend him from the eyes of the law: in his fantastical hometown, all he'd needed was a smile, a kindly word and a virtuous deed to remain above suspicion. It was that same sense of innocence just waiting to be abused that now saturated Tranquillity Lane, arousing and exciting him beyond all measure.

But the scenario's desirability was based on more than just a sense of fairytale innocence. Up until now, there'd always been a curious sense of distance experienced by his subjects across the simulation: they always seemed gripped by the idea that they would have to go home one day. No matter how happy he allowed his playthings to become or how idyllic the scenario appeared, he could never quite erase the belief that their stay would not be permanent; nor could he simply alter their memories to that effect, for their initially happiness was partly dependent on the novelty of the situation, and without it, the fun of tearing down the façade was lost.

Up until now, Braun had been at a loss to explain what might have caused this curious psychological phenomenon or how to cure it, especially given that they'd never experienced this problem in the parade of battlefields and slaughterhouses he'd forced them through. So, he'd tolerated it, rationalizing that it didn't spoil his fun all that much.

Now, at last, he understood.

In his efforts to make them happy before he'd snatched it all away, he'd taken them to places of temporary enjoyment: hotels, amusement parks, island resorts, casinos, skiing lodges and the like. His subjects believed they would eventually go home because they believed, on a level deeper than any mental programming he could institute, that they were enjoying a brief vacation. Even if he'd managed to capture the richest and most overprivileged of America's 1%, they still would have felt on some level that they'd have to leave one day, if only so they could pretend to work.

But on Tranquillity Lane…

His subjects unconsciously recognized their suburban dwellings, felt at home among them; they felt relaxed, calm, and, for lack of a better word, tranquil. Here, with only the bare minimum of memory-adjustment, they could settle in and be at home, continuing with the pattern of their lives as if the war had never happened. It didn't matter that the world was black and white, that the sun never set, or that there was no escape from the neighbourhood: nobody noticed unless he wanted them to.

Here, they were happy by default, with no thought of ever leaving the confines of their new home, making it that much more enjoyable when Braun spoiled it for them.

For days on end, he would prowl the neighbourhood in his unassuming three-piece suit, smiling jubilantly and tipping his hat to everyone he met, all while planning the next brutal murder. He was everyone's favourite neighbour, the loveable old man who lived down the street and always had a compliment on hand: old Mr Brown, they called him, shook his hand and hugged him warmly. They chatted about the weather, invited him around for dinner, played games of cribbage with him, even asked his advice on trifling matters around the house.

He'd lull them deeper and deeper into complacency, sometimes over the course of months if need be. And when the time came for Braun to turn on them at last, the horror they felt thrilled him more than any bloody battlefield or perverted amusement park could: the cries of "wait, it's me!" "what did I do?" and "stop, we're friends!" whipped him into a frenzy of ecstatic brutality, leaving him almost blind with lust as he slashed and stabbed and gutted and flayed his way across his playground, never stopping until the last screams had petered out and all his living toys were dead.

Only then, soaked to the skin in blood and shredded flesh, did he finally sink into a chair and wallow in the afterglow, happier than he'd been in any scenario he'd enjoyed up until now... no, more than happy: contented beyond words.

And this was only the beginning of the carnage that he could enact while he was here: there were expansions to the scenario he could make, outbreaks of plague and natural disasters and descents into poverty and a thousand other sumptuous tragedies… and none of them would have had anywhere near the same impact if they'd taken place in another scenario. Only here, in this bastion of perfect safety, did his massacres truly transgress upon the precious safety of his toys and shatter all notions of hope and sanctity.

He'd been wrong about the designers of the scenario: they hadn't been unimaginative plodders obsessed with long-outdated sitcoms from the dark age of television; to his astonishment, they'd been members of the Think Tank and (as the developer notes revealed) Tranquillity Lane had been partly based on their group residence at Big Mountain, a self-contained neighbourhood known as Higgs Village.

This scenario had been part of another experiment, a test to see if a virtual resident of the program could accept the uncanny elements of Tranquillity Lane without being forced to do, and what symptoms would occur if acceptance was impossible: they'd tried with both oblivious Chinese prisoners and computer-generated entities, and the results had been nothing short of fascinating.

The Think Tank's work had proved more valuable than anything in this world, for with their help, he'd found his paradise: it had been a journey of close to a hundred and fifty years, but at last he had uncovered his perfect world, the place where the wounds and disappointments and dissatisfactions of the past would finally be healed. He could stay here for as long as he desired, playing with his toys or advancing his experiments in worldbuilding, and when the time finally came for him to leave the scenario (perhaps a century from now, if not longer) he would meet the challenges of his future with a satisfied mind.

But first, it was time to enjoy himself.

Oh yes, he was going to be staying here for a very, very long time…

---

Time rolled on, as inexorable as an avalanche and every bit as devastating to anyone in its path. Braun was only peripherally aware of it, being too engrossed in his games to pay much attention to the world beyond Vault 112's walls… and yet, he did occasionally pay the occasional modicum of attention to the spluttering of the facility's radio receiver.

Originally intended as a safety measure in the event that Vault-Tec's email network went offline or the board tried to cut him out of the loop, it had been quite powerful in its time, enough to pick up on hostile radio chatter from hundreds of miles away. In their initial test, they'd been able to pick up on a huge range of signals in New York, and that had only been at half strength.

Of course, that had been before a nuclear bombardment had hammered Washington DC into rubble, and in the years since then, Braun had rapidly lost interest in keeping an ear open for signs of life in the ruined world. After all, it wasn't as if there'd be anyone around worth listening to, even if they were in possession of working radio equipment.

With the robobrains forbidden from venturing aboveground to repair the concealed antenna, the equipment had been left semi-functional, leaving Braun with only hazy snippets of music and the occasional procession of static-clogged whispers to listen to in his rare moments of curiosity, all strictly local. Some were calls for help, some were warnings from warlords citing domain, some were conversations between isolated radio posts, and some later broadcasters were nothing more than wannabe DJs trying to imitate the styles of a bygone era on whatever technology they'd been able to salvage.

But as vague and banal as they often were, these whispers had a lot to say about the state of the world, and as the years went by, Braun managed to document quite a few interesting facts in between massacres, delivered, as always, in snippets:

"…goddamned Brotherhood of Steel got at the tech before we could get anywhere near it. Thieving bastards think they're so high and mighty; they wouldn't be shit without their power amour…"

"Yeah, I know what you mean: the Commonwealth sounded as if it might be somethin' real special, but the moment anyone tries to get their act together, it all falls to pieces. You ask me, nobody wants to take charge: they just keep delegating to the next sucker with more balls than brains…"

"The Super-Mutants? They started out way out west, that's what I hear. Big carnivorous bastards with big guns and even bigger appetites. Their boss wanted to take over the world. That's the story, yeah…"

"Man, I tell you, there's something weird going on out in the Mohave. Every other day, someone's bringin' back news of another ghost site: first there's the Green Vault; then there's the Sierra Madre and the City of the Dead; and now all this shit about some place called the Big Empty that nobody ever returns from…"

"You heard of the New California Republic? It started out as just another settlement. Now it's a nation, wants to bring democracy back to America, so I hear…"

"The Enclave? Fuck, who cares? They said they're what's left of the government, like from back before the war, so that gave 'em the right to try and stomp us flat. Doesn't matter now: they're all dead, along with everyone else on that oil rig they had. It's not as if some new radio station will mean anything different…"

"…and then blam! The merc's head pops before he can pull the trigger. Wasn't me, though; I couldn't even get my gun outta my belt. Didn't see who did it at first, but then I see this guy a few yards away lowerin' a gun. Real outta place, too: nice hat, clean trench coat, even had polished shoes if you can believe it. Couldn't see his face, though. Doesn't stick around to answer questions, whoever he is, just tips his hat and he's gone."

"Matter of fact, I think I've heard of him too…"

"Oh yeah, the Mysterious Stranger…"

And though it all, Braun listened, but with only half an ear.

After all, it wasn't as if he'd ever see any of these places or faces with his own eyes… but even if he could leave his Tranquillity Lounger, he wouldn't have bothered.

After all, he had the paradise of his own imagination.

What could possibly compare?

---

Now that his mind was finally at peace, Braun could experiment once again, not with trifling psychological matters of personal satisfaction or the tolerances of his playthings, but with the mechanics of the simulation.

In much the same way as he'd toyed with untested scientific concepts back in the real world, he envisaged new uses for long-neglected functions of the programs at his disposal: having long since mastered the art of editing his avatar, he'd felt no need to experiment further with it beyond picking a new body to fit in or a terrifying form to wear during a massacre.

He'd already learned how to accommodate the godlike feeling of growing to the size of a titan or the vertigo of shrinking down smaller than a flea; he'd even mastered the art of making clothing move realistically in the event of transformation, tearing when he grew or gradually sliding off his body as he shrank (at least, if he desired it so).

But he'd been so caught up in trying to conquer his own boredom and dissatisfaction, he'd failed to realize that he could have put his newfound knowledge to good use in torture and entertainment.

Over the course of the last century and a half, he'd killed his victims in thousands upon thousands of different ways, from the mundane to the fantastical. He'd even transformed himself to that end, killing his playthings as monsters that had never existed outside the boundaries of fiction… but in all that time, he'd never once considered transforming someone else.

After all, wouldn't his pathetic captives be so much more amusing in different forms? Wouldn't George "Boredom Incarnate" Neusbaum be improved if he didn't look like a combover that had sprouted legs and sought work as a chartered accountant? Wouldn't Dithers be infinitely more interesting if you couldn't tell she was a terminal case of self-pitying dipsomania wrapped in a mid-life crisis? Wouldn't Bill Foster be more amusing if he couldn't be mistaken for a human-shaped lump of old leather stuffed into a worthless life and a dead-end job? Wouldn't Timothy Neusbaum be a more entertaining victim if he didn't give every impression of having been a victim ever since his rancid sow of a mother had shat him into existence?

More to the point, Braun had never transfigured a man to death.

Well, now it was time to address that mistake. But in the interests of rationing the excitement, he paced himself, beginning his work as simply as possible and merely exaggerating what the real world had to offer.

He'd long ago dismissed the idea of cancer ever being an interesting method of execution, too slow and too languid even for his tastes. After all, a victim could linger for years on end before finally succumbing to the inevitable, delivering the promised suffering in such minute portions that it was barely worth paying attention to. But with a little bit of fantasy, he could make cancer very entertaining indeed.

All he needed to do was plant a seed in Roger Rockwell's stomach, a special program designed to distort his virtual avatar in a very special way. In the real world, a carcinogen this potent and this fast-acting would have been physically impossible, but in the simulation, the laws of physics, mass and biological growth barely qualified as guidelines. Once the seed was carefully sewed in the wall of his stomach, uncontrollable cell growth followed, growths and tumours swiftly colonizing his body from the inside out, strangling his bowels, clogging his arteries, crawling up the ladder of his spine to smother his brain.

By the time Roger noticed that anything was wrong, he was in agonizing pain and barely able to move. Once the emergency numbers proved useless, Janet was forced to carry him out of the house in search of a doctor, but with the world limited to the closed cul-de-sac, there was no doctor's office to be found anywhere. In the end, she could only drag her to Martha's home and beg for help from her best friend while her husband convulsed in agony, hoping against hope that she would know what to do; with little she could do, Martha dumped him on her couch and fled across the neighbourhood in search of help, help that she wouldn't find in time, thanks to Braun's influence. As she futilely knocked on doors, and Janet knelt by Roger's beside and prayed for a god who wasn't listening, Roger's tumour-ridden bodily finally gave up the ghost in a series of shuddering, gurgling, gasping spasms. But the fun wasn't over yet.

While Janet Rockwell was busy weeping over her husband's bloated corpse, she didn't notice another digital seed creeping free of the ruptured veins, crawling up her arm and oozing through her pores.

In despair, she staggered back to her house without waiting for Martha to return, not knowing what to do. Emotional exhaustion drove her into a trembling, tearful sleep. When she awoke, it was to agony, for the seed had already taken root, sprouted and was now throttling her from the inside. Paralysed by the growth around her spine and incapable of screaming, she died alone.

Martha eventually arrived back at her house with George Neusbaum in tow, only to find Roger's horribly mangled corpse lying on the couch, his face almost lost amidst fleshy bouquets of tumours erupting from every orifice in his body. With his body swollen beyond recognition by hideous cauliflower-like growths of tumorous meat and anchored to the chair by disgusting roots of metastasizing tissue, it was almost impossible to believe that he'd even been human; even George didn't know what to make of the hideous shape on the couch until he noticed that the fruiting growth was wearing Roger's wedding ring.

Unfortunately for George, he made the mistake of touching Roger's hand in the process, and in the space of a few terrible seconds, a tiny seed had sprouted from the dead man's wrist, permeated George Neusbaum's hand and began crawling through his body, before finally earthing itself in his lungs. Oblivious, he brought it home to his family, who shared his fate when the cancerous seed finally blossomed.

Meanwhile, Martha had long since discovered what little remained of Janet Rockwell and sought out the company of her friends, Mabel and Bill, so when she collapsed and began to burst into glorious, visceral bloom, the seed was there to spread to them as well.

Before long, Tranquillity Lane was silent... except, of course, for the oozingly wet sounds of cancerous flesh slowly colonizing the inside of buildings.

For a while, Braun basked in the afterglow of the carnage: he slept in the empty beds of his victims, poked and prodded at their bodies, even tasted their blood to see if their afflictions made any different to the usual varieties of gore he'd tasted over the decades. Eventually, he even allowed the tendrils of metastasis to creep over him, tickling his skin as the rampant cancer tried impotently to claim his avatar.

Then he reset the simulation.

With the dullest of transformative games over, he soon moved on to more imaginative endings. By now, Braun had been considering possible sources of inspiration, and had plumbed the depths of simulator's digital library for lurid science-fiction pulp novellas and dark fantasy epics in search of the very best in morbidity. In the end, he'd even looked back on his earliest memories in search of new ideas, drawing upon Grimm's fairy tales, the works of Hans Christen Anderson and other childhood favourites.

Then, he went to work.

One morning, George Neusbaum was idly trimming the rosebushes in the front garden when he found that his shirt and pants appeared to have grown by a size or two without him noticing. Under the impression that he'd lost a little weight, he continued gardening… right up until he found his sleeves beginning to creep over his hands and suddenly realized he could no longer grip the trimmers.

Curious, he yanked the sleeves back, only to be greeted by an impossible sight: the skin on his hands was changing colour, a vivid blush of green inching up his fingertips and along his wrists. Before his stunned eyes, his fingers were beginning to shrink back into his palms, even as the rest of his hands expanded ridiculously, bloating and swelling like balloons until all that remained of his hands were a pair of crude green suction cups. Then his arms began to change as well, bloating with fat and blushing deep green; even as they swelled, however, they shrank, swiftly withdrawing back up his sleeves until they'd been sucked into his chest.

With a strangled yelp of horror, he turned to flee in search of help, only to trip over his now-gigantic shoes and tumble helplessly to the dirt. By then, his legs were already shrinking back into his torso, making running impossible; he could only ooze along the grass on his surprisingly manoeuvrable stumps. Before long, more stumps had begun to sprout across his body, and he was at least making decent progress in reaching the front door; unfortunately, he hadn't stopped shrinking: before long, his shirt had been reduced to a gigantic, tarpaulin-sized mass of cloth too heavy for him to lift at his current height, so he'd simply crawled out through the neck and into the garden.

He couldn't be much more than an inch across by now, and though he couldn't see much of his body, he could tell that was green from head to toe (not that he had toes). He tried to call for help, to make himself heard over the din of buzzing bees and the shriek of birds, but even if he had, it wouldn't have made much difference. His vocal cords had long since vanished and taken his gift of speech with them.

For George Neusbaum had become a caterpillar, and as a rule, caterpillars weren't known for being exceptional conversationalists.

For several hours, the despairing ex-human had crawled around, absently chewing on leaves and hoping that somebody might find him if they looked closely enough. Then, just as he'd been enjoying the taste of one of the freshest leaves by the living room window, a large wasp had swooped in out of nowhere, jammed its ovipositor in his side without so much as "by your leave" and few off, cackling at the top of its voice.

Poor old George didn't realize the significance of this until much later, and by then, the wasp larvae that had been incubating within him for the last few days had already begun the process of tearing their way out of his paralysed body.

Not too far away, Braun the wasp sat on a neighbouring leaf to watch as the carnage played out, treasuring every minute of the caterpillar's amusingly humanlike death throes.

George was only the first of many invertebrate-related transformations carried out that day, and every one of Braun's playthings had died hilariously as a result: Bill Foster the cockroach had been crushed half to death under Braun's shoe and flung down the toilet; Dithers the grasshopper had made a spirited attempt to find help at the Henderson house, only to end up on the receiving end of a flyswatter; Timothy the fruitfly had been unable to deal with his new wings and had flown right into Braun's web, where he'd been messily devoured; and as for Martha the butterfly, that first blast of bug spray to the face had quickly ended any ambitions to fly free.

Braun's favourite had been Mabel: he'd turned her into a slug.

That alone had been a thing of beauty beyond compare. He'd recorded the moment when she'd felt her body beginning to sag and droop as her skeleton slowly dissolved inside her body, sending all of her worthless flab oozing to the floor in blubbery, mucous-dripping folds, her belly tearing through her dress and cascading down her front like some ghastly adipose-ridden waterfall. She would have run for help, but alas, her feet had already begun to merge, leaving only a wobbling tail with which to run.

Oozing across the floor at a glacial pace, she tried to call for help in a voice that was slowly clogging with slime, slowly growing deeper as her body bloated with invertebrate blubber; by the time she reached the door, her hands were too slippery to grasp the handle and had no bones to offer any pressure. So, with no escape and no help coming, she'd simply sat in place and bawled pathetically as her hair withered into her scalp, her arms began to melt away, and her body shrank down into the tattered remains of her clothes.

But that hadn't been the best moment of the transformation.

The best, unquestionably, had been when Braun had plucked the tiny slug from the depths of Mabel's clothes, carried her back to the kitchen, and stuffed her into the saltshaker.

For good measure, he restored her voice for the occasion, just to hear her scream.

And this was only the beginning.

The next day, with the simulation reset, Braun invited the Neusbaums over to his house for dinner.

For appetisers, they were served a wide variety of cheeses, potato chips, cured meats, and spreads; for main course, they received a rather unique update to their digital avatars, not that they knew it at the time. It took several minutes for them to notice the changes they were undergoing, and by then, it was already too late.

As part of his newest experiment, Braun had also made a few distinct tweaks to their memory chips. He'd given his playthings many different roles over the years, but all of them had been sapient for the most part; this time, he wanted to see what would happen if he adjusted their memories to imbue them with the personalities of animals.

Would they slide unresistingly into the mindset of unintelligent beasts, or would they resist the programming and retain some vestige of human thought? Perhaps, in the case of the former, untold vistas torture would be possible.

The adjustments were not designed to make the Neusbaums totally mindless; after all, this was only a preliminary test with the subtlest variation on the theme. More to the point, the chips weren't programmed to complete the process immediately: they would simply erode human behaviour, subtly at first but growing more obvious with every passing second.

At first, the Neusbaums merely seemed unusually hungry, ravenously wolfing down their appetisers as if someone were about to snatch them away; then, their table manners began to desert them, sending showers of crumbs pouring down on the carpet and littering bits of half-eaten hors d'oeuvre all over the coffee table; then, behavioural modifications began inducing animalist fear impulses, leaving them nervously eyeing the shadows around them, jumping in alarm at even the slightest sound. By the end of the personality adjustments, they had given up on cutting slices of cheese and had started eating entire rinds with their bare hands, gnawing on them with a gluttonous abandon that would have shocked their neighbours.

Braun hadn't intended for them to begin transforming while they were helping themselves to the cheddar, but that was the way things had gone nonetheless, and he couldn't have been more thankful for it.

First, their ears began to change shape, creeping up the sides of their skulls and puffing outwards into curling, shell-like masses of flesh; then, their noses shifted, merging with their upper lips as they subtly extended outwards into snouts, revealing a set of growing buck teeth in the process.

Then the shrinking began: by that time, the Neusbaums were too ravenous to pay much attention to the fact that their shoes didn't fit anymore, or that Braun was now somehow taller than George… but even they couldn't help noticing once sleeves began swallowing hands and trousers started feeling uncomfortably loose. Pat even found herself driven to put her cheese down and ask if there was anything wrong, but all that had emerged was a squeak.

Before long, they'd noticed the fur sprouting on their arms and legs, and the tails that had begun to emerge from their bodies soon made sitting down too uncomfortable; either in fear or discomfort, they stood up… and as shoes, socks and pants began falling off, they quickly realized how much they'd shrunk in the last few seconds.

The alterations Braun had made to their brains had been comparatively limited, but they were just advanced enough to undermine rational thought: so, the moment they realized something was wrong, they panicked and scattered in all directions, growing steadily smaller by the second.

By the time he'd escaped the living room, George was barely four feet tall and dragging along the gigantic remains of his shirt like a smock, while Pat merely scampered out from under the collapsing circus tent of her dress and crawled for the kitchen in nothing but her fur; Tim fled upstairs, losing the last vestiges of his height at the landing, scampering out through the collar of his jacket and hurrying for the safety of the bedroom.

Had they been in full possession of their wits, the mice would have gone for the front door, or perhaps even realized that it was pointless trying to flee. But of course, they couldn't think past their own fear with the memory chips warping their personalities beyond recognition.

So, with nothing keeping him from enjoying the hunt that was to follow, Braun altered his own avatar, transforming into a large housecat.

Ten minutes later, as he licked the last of Timothy Neusbaum's blood from his whiskers, Braun couldn't help but sigh in rapture and wonder what he could do to top this latest pleasure.

A week later, he repeated the stunt with the entire neighbourhood, except this time, instead of transforming them into mice, he simply shrank them down to the size of ants and let them flee in terror across his house.

Then, he donned his wolf spider avatar and began hunting them down.

Though they didn't scatter and panic in the same animalistic fashion as the Neusbaum mice, this time he had the benefit of seeing their death throes conveyed in the full range of human expression: pain, fear, humiliation and shame, all played out in exquisite detail. The fact that most of them were naked and struggling to cover themselves up when he found them only made the sense of mortification all the more entertaining.

He would never forget the sight of Roger struggling to clamber out through the leg of his now-gigantic trousers, only for Braun to land in front of him, ready to strike, nor the look of terror and agony stamped on every feature of Roger's face as the fangs sank into his flesh.

He'd even arranged a number of obstacle courses for the shrunken playthings, each one positioned between them and the best hiding places or escape routes. There was a forest of pins on the kitchen floor, packed so tightly together that the fleeing victims could only weave through it, unaware that the floor sloped upwards to precipice overlook a moat stuffed with flypaper. Tiny rivers gushed from the sink and poured across the bathroom floor through the spaces between tiles, only navigable by scaling the cliff-face of the bathtub or risking a hazardous swim through a river that could send them pouring through a floor grating to their deaths. Exposed wires studded the living room, cutting off access to the open window, and the sill was lined with superglue anyway. Anyone attempting to crawl under the front door would find themselves blundering directly into Braun's web.

He'd even created a shortcut to the window in the bedroom in the form of an elaborate set of model train tracks, complete with an engine ready to carry the playthings to safety; anyone stupid enough to actually board it would find the tracks collapsing less than a foot from the window, tipping the passengers into a glass tank containing a nest of fire ants.

The spectacle was long and glorious, and concluded with Martha crawling out of the ant farm, her skin a blistered, purulent mess, just in time for Braun to pounce on her.

But for all the memorable pleasure of the day, he knew that this time the happiness would not end, and revelled, as he devoured the paralysed bodies one by one, in the fact that this was only the beginning of the joys that he could experience.

The next few years were a blur of hedonistic delights, each moment standing out in his memory like snapshots in a sideshow:

He'd transformed roughly half of his playthings into pigs, watching with undisguised amusement as their swelling bulks and protruding snouts became obvious, listening as the terrified chorus of squeals grew louder until it could be heard in almost every household on Tranquillity Lane. Then he turned the remaining playthings into wolves, reverted them to animal intelligence, amplified their hunger by a factor of ten, then opened all the doors and waited for the massacre to start…

On a similar note, he'd gradually edited Martha Simpson's knowledge until even the most basic problem-solving skills had been drilled out of her, then set her loose in a neighbourhood full of ravenous monsters, and repeated this exercise as often as possible, just so he could find a new way Martha could end up killing herself through sheer stupidity.

He'd infected the entire neighbourhood with a transmogrifying disease that made their limbs slowly wither away to nothingness, leaving them wiggling across the ground like ghastly humanoid maggots. It had been quite a spectacle to observe as they panicked over their arms and legs growing thinner and weaker until they were finally absorbed by their bodies… but the real fun had started once they found themselves trapped, either indoors or outdoors. The outdoor ones soon found themselves at the mercy of Braun's control over the weather, baked in the sun, drowned in the rain and finally frozen to death overnight. With no means of feeding themselves or escaping, the indoor victims had slowly starved to death, but not before those of them in company had been forced to resort to cannibalism.

He'd made Tessa Dithers' blood quite literally boil, her veins slowly heating up until she began to fry from the inside, her blood vessels finally spilling open and engulfing the screaming woman in clouds of scalding steam. And as she died, the grass beneath her caught fire, enveloping Tranquillity Lane in a quickly-spreading inferno that left no survivors among the playthings.

He'd made an entire arsenal of firearms sprout from Bill Foster's body, perforating him from within as a mass of gun barrels erupted through his flesh: shotguns jutted from his thighs, rifles burst through his arms, silenced pistols tore through his palms and dislodged his fingers, derringers pierced his eyeballs, and an Uzi mounted itself in his gaping jaws. And as he stood there, propped up by the armoury and slowly dying from an agonizing cascade of organ failure, newly sprouted mechanisms forced his body to move independently of his brain. At a torturous speed, the arsenal dragged him through the neighbourhood, shooting anyone in range; it took half an hour for Bill to finally expire, and by then, everyone in Tranquillity Lane was dead or dying.

He'd transfigured Timothy Neusbaum's bones into cockroaches and watched as the weeping little shit collapsed into a writhing heap of flesh and organs, struggling to scream as the insects cascaded out of his mouth.

He'd erased Janet Rockwell's features one by one, leaving her first mute, then deaf, then blind, finally leaving her stumbling helplessly through the neighbourhood in literal blind panic, unable to see Braun darting towards her with the knife until it was too late.

He'd made Mabel Henderson expand to monstrous proportions, watching her swell until her gut tore through her clothing in a wobbling, jiggling mass, sending her gargantuan belly rippling across her house and crashing through the wall in a solid wave of fat. One by one, the houses of Tranquillity Lane had been engulfed in its wake, and though Mabel's neighbours managed to outrun the tsunami of blubber, another quick alteration resulted in her belly suddenly sprouting a hydra-like bouquet of lamprey-like mouths that quickly tore the fleeing playthings to shreds. Then, once she was alone and weeping for her lost friends, Braun had reached down from the sky in his giant form, plucked the blob from the ruins of her house and ate her in a single bite.

He'd altered Roger Rockwell's avatar and mind, gradually incorporating more and more plantlike elements into both, until he finally staggered out of his house with his skin blushing green with chlorophyll and petals bursting from his scalp, making a beeline for the garden at the centre of the cul-de-sac. There, shrinking out of his clothes, he'd sunk his roots deep into the soil and planted himself, now a perfect flower basking in the sun, contented, unafraid and at peace with the world…

…and then Braun had run him over with a riding mower.

But arguably the best had been Chaos Day, when he set the avatar editor programs on random, did the same for memory chip control and sat back to watch the results.

For the next twenty-four hours, Tranquillity Lane was a scene from a Salvador Dali painting: a lurching parade of rubber-limbed nightmares stalking about like octopi that had learned to walk upright, of puddles of liquefied human flesh oozing along the sidewalks with their giant eyes floating at the top of each living quagmire, of grotesque giants stiltwalking around the neighbourhood on limbs so long and spindly that the slightest breeze might send them tumbling away like origami figures, of people who walked on their heads with the feet kicking helplessly in the air, of headless monsters with wide staring eyes and lipless mouths hovering in mid-air beneath levitating toupees.

Most hadn't been able to even speak coherently, but only moan in slow-motion or giggle idiotically like chipmunks dosed with helium, but thanks to the memory chip randomization, some of them had even enjoyed it. Theresa Dithers hadn't been able to stop herself from laughing ecstatically, even with her limbs, neck and breasts stretching in random directions like elastic, and had spent most of the day wrapped around Martha like a snake, planting frenzied kisses all over her truck-tire face and spidery body; for her part, Martha only chortled stupidly in the deep basso voice of a cartoon simpleton and licked at her own extremities with a tongue like a chameleon.

In the end, they contorted themselves to death, stretching and squishing their bodies out of shape until the randomization program came to an end, allowing real-world physics to reassert themselves just long enough for the process to turn fatal.

And then Braun began again…

It was hard to say how long this went on for, as Braun had long since lost the inclination to check his terminal clock, or indeed any of the functions not concerned with the simulation itself. As far as he was concerned, as long as the robobrains were all working and still reporting functional equipment, he didn't need to give a damn about whatever might be happening in the real world… unless of course it concerned his games directly.

Eventually, though, Braun realized that there was another avenue of torture that he'd overlooked:

He'd used the memory chips as an accessory to the torture many times, but what if he could induce pain and suffering entirely through memory? He had proof of how easily it could work, having tried it on his captives just before wiping their memories for the first time, but he'd been sidetracked by nearly two centuries of murder and butchery, too enraptured with the simplistic patterns of his old life to explore the subtleties of purely neuroscientific torture.

He'd already rewritten entire life stories with the aid of the memory chips. He already knew he could provide memories of tragedy, horror, even rage if he so desired it, but in the past, he'd done so only to give his toys motivation to play along with his carefully choreographed nightmares.

Now, he could try more elaborate flourishes. With as little interference as possible, he could whip the inhabitants of Tranquillity Lane into a frenzy of lust, plunge them into the murky depths of depression, or just set them at each other's throats with memories of revenge. He could theoretically drive his victims to madness if he implanted the right memories - or the wrong ones. Best of all, his terminal would show him all the myriad ways his victims suffered without even knowing it, their bodies recoiling in horror at the things he made them do. He hadn't gotten bored of transformations yet; on the contrary, there were thousands of ideas he hadn't tried yet, but the idea of memory torture was so beguiling that he just had to give it a try.

Braun's first experiment in this respect would involve rewriting Tessa Dithers' memory from the very beginning, just to see what would happen when she found herself with a body that didn't match her past and a home that didn't connect with her history.

He'd already worked out the basics: Dithers' new memories would offer as many contradictions as possible for maximum confusion value, featuring her new self as white, male, young, and more than a little bit on the rough side. A combat veteran with a long and storied history across the ruins of America, he was designed to be a direct contrast to the lesbian chemist who'd been interred in the Vaults all those decades ago; hopefully, it would be enough to provoke a suitably calamitous reaction.

He even briefly activated Vault 112's long-neglected radio receiver in the hopes of learning a little more about the world beyond his kingdom, if only so he could put a bit more meat on the new persona's bones. Most of it was little more than static, but he managed to pick up a few interesting sounding details here and there, just enough to flesh out the backstory.

Once the new biography was uploaded to the memory chip, he allowed himself a moment to admire his handiwork before he activated the chip. For added drama, he allowed time in Tranquillity Lane to change, fast-forwarding the perpetual midday of the simulation into darkest night, sending the people marching obediently off to bed; once his playthings were tucked up in bed and fast asleep, he commenced the upload.

At this very moment, Dithers slumbered peacefully.

When she woke, she would rise to greet the dawn as Harkness.

Chapter 10: The Follies Of Old Age

Summary:

Introducing Old Lady Dithers...

Notes:

Sorry for the delay in posting - been beset with anxiety and overwork.

With a thunderous groan of ancient mechanisms in motion, Vault 112's door rolled open for the first time in two hundred years.

Standing in its mammoth shadow, Horace Pinkerton could only grin like the Cheshire cat, waiting impatiently as the gear-shaped door rumbled aside, clearing the way into the bowels of his own personal Aladdin's cave.

2276, he thought to himself. Helluva year to make history!

He'd spent almost a month tracking this place down: the trail had led him from the rusty bowels of Rivet City to the deepest archives of Vault-Tec headquarters, through Super-Mutant country and the very heart of Slaver territory. Pinkerton wouldn't have been the first to acknowledge his age or his own frailties, but even he had to admit that he was getting too old for this sort of thing; as tough as the Mirelurks back home had been, they weren't exactly good practice for dealing with Super Mutants, and he'd been forced to sneak past as many of them as he could.

On the upside, he had more than enough explosives to deal with any of them if they happened to sniff him out.

Oh, but it had been such a merry chase getting this far! Violence, excitement, and intellectual thrills… it had been just like the good old days, really. By far the biggest challenge had been just finding the place. The coordinates of this Vault had been redacted, censored, or just omitted in just about every source he'd accessed; even Vault-Tec headquarters had only enough information to point him in the general direction, and most of that had been kept on a separate database to the rest of the Vault coordinates.

Thankfully, the computer system had burnt out the moment he'd finished using it, sparing him the trouble of having to cover his tracks. The last thing he wanted was competitors on this expedition. Now the only other possible sources for information on Vault 112's whereabouts would be the other Vaults, and the chances of surviving and finding a working computer console anywhere in those ruins would be nothing short of astronomical.

Getting from Vernon Square all the way to Fort Bannister had been an adventure in itself, and with only a few vague directions to guide him, he might never have found the Vault if he hadn't decided to seek shelter in an abandoned garage not far from Evergreen Mills – and accidentally stumbled upon a secret trapdoor.

To his surprise, the Vault door hidden under the building had not only been left shut but was still locked. Quite a contrast to many of the other abandoned Vaults across the Capitol Wasteland, most of which were left with the doors left ominously ajar. It had taken perhaps an hour of rewiring and hacking to trigger the opening sequence, and by then it was abundantly clear that the Vault wasn't abandoned at all: none of the facilities he'd set foot in had featured this much working technology, let alone polished floors.

Something very odd was afoot. If 112 was somehow still active and occupied, it wouldn't do to go blundering in, especially given the pricelessness of the components he needed from this place. Once again, he'd have to keep his head down… or risk finding himself on the bad side of whatever lay beyond the door. Granted, stealing from an active Vault was an even greater risk than any of the ruined ones he'd helped loot before – but well worth it, considering what was on offer.

So, pausing only to stifle his shivers of excitement, Pinkerton took a deep breath, activated his Stealth Boy, and stepped into the Vault.

Less than fifteen seconds later, he found the first of the robobrains trundling down the corridor towards him, and hastily ducked out of the way before it bumped into him. Judging from the inquisitive noises issuing from its dilapidated voicebox, it was only here to investigate the open Vault door; it didn't notice the faint wavering shape in the corner of the hallway as it trundled into the control room to check the lock, nor did it hear him tiptoeing away.

Pinkerton kept his shotgun at the ready. Robobrains weren't necessarily the most awe-inspiring threat he'd encountered in the Capitol Wastelands, but that didn't mean they couldn't be dangerous. Out in the wastes, they rarely cropped up in large numbers and could easily be dealt with from a distance; in the tight corridors of a Vault, there was no room to manoeuvre and a much higher chance of getting seriously wounded or killed before he could draw a bead on any of them. Worse still, Pinkerton could already hear the distant whir of robobrain treads echoing up and down the passageways, so the sentry he'd just passed probably wasn't the only one on duty. Assuming these tin cans had been assigned to help maintain the Vault, there were probably even more of them somewhere around the corner... and at close quarters with only minimal armour on his side, their laser weaponry was nothing to laugh about.

But where was everyone else?

As Pinkerton proceeded deeper into the Vault, he caught glimpses of several other robobrains trundling back and forth across the floor, but no sign of a fellow human being. Everything that moved down here was mechanical, and every voice he heard quite clearly emerged from a robotic vocal synthesizer; a quick peek down the nearest stairwell revealed more of the same: more mechanical figures trundling through the half-light, more buzzing voices in the distance.

And then there was the eerie cleanliness of the place: he'd travelled the wastes for quite a while by now, every Vault he'd visited in the past had been littered with hundreds of subtle indicators of human activity, featuring everything from old boots to broken windows. This one, by contrast, looked completely untouched: the only indications Pinkerton could see here related to how many times the floors had been cleaned and polished over the centuries. Either the signs of habitation had all been laboriously scrubbed away by the robobrains… or there'd never been anything for them to erase.

The thought of an active Vault without residents only prompted further questions: just what the hell had been going on here? In his years of gathering data, he'd heard tell of the hidden purposes behind the Vaults - experiments, social engineering and God only knew what else – but what could possibly have been going in 112 that required so many robobrains and so few people?

Either way, this had to be what he'd been searching for. A Vault untouched by the outside world and maintained by robots meant that he was currently on a goldmine of pre-War technology just waiting to be snapped up. Plus, so long as he didn't disturb any of the robobrains, they would continue to maintain this place long after he left: he could return any time he liked and poach as many parts as he could get away with, knowing that security would keep out any other prospective treasure hunters in the meantime.

Tiptoeing past a robobrain at work on one of the lights at the end of the corridor, Pinkerton stepped through an open doorway and into what could only be the Vault's atrium. But no atrium in any of the Vaults he'd seen or heard of in the past had ever been outfitted like this: no atrium had ever been equipped with computer cores, and certainly not of this calibre… and though he knew that these strange metal ovoids arranged around it were virtual reality simulators, but these were nothing like the ones he'd seen during his brief visit to the Virtual Strategic Solutions building.

And he'd certainly never seen such simulators occupied before.

He crept down through the nearby stairwell and began examining the pods up close; all at once, he realized that the occupants of these simulators had been here for a very long time: the figures on the other side of the glass canopies were little more than emaciated husks, reduced to dried-out shells of human beings by the sealed environments within the simulators… and yet, they still breathed.

Somehow, these derelict carcasses were still alive, and if the terminals were accurate, still fully conscious.

A quick inspection of the other floors of the Vault revealed more simulators, but all of them were unoccupied. The nine people currently slumbering on the top floor were only human residents in the entire Vault… and given that this place had remained untouched since the door was first locked, Pinkerton could only assume that they'd been boxed up in the simulators from the moment the Vault was sealed. Certainly, the desiccation of the bodies would seem to bear that out, but the sheer technological wizardry that had made that possible was almost beyond belief.

Pinkerton could barely keep the smile off his face as he crept back upstairs to the occupied pods: the parts he could loot from just one of them could keep him busy for decades on end!

But in spite of his glee, he couldn't help wondering what kind of simulation could possibly have kept the men and women here occupied for two centuries on end. Was it too perfect for anyone to want to leave… or was there something keeping them in there? Perhaps this was another one of Vault-Tec's experiments: certainly, he'd seen and heard of some pretty damn bizarre ones over the years, featuring everything from societies built around gambling to men imprisoned alone except for boxes of puppets, so maybe this was just another test. Christ only knew what they'd hoped to learn from it though…

Making sure that his Stealth-Boy was still operating with a replacement at the ready, Pinkerton dug through as many of the Vault's computers as he could access without alerting the robobrains to his presence, but even this didn't offer any revelations: there was no record of any experimentation here, no personal files, no personnel files, and no hint of anything scientific taking place within the simulators.

In fact, the most informative thing he could find was a series of schematics used by the robobrains to repair any of the "Tranquillity Loungers" and other vital machinery – which he downloaded – and a register of the current inhabitants.

To his astonishment, the last name on the list was a Doctor Stanislaus Braun, the current Overseer. The fact that Vault-Tec's legendary golden boy had been stationed here was almost enough to send Pinkerton into conniptions of excitement, but all indications were that he was boxed up in a Tranquillity Lounger of his own somewhere upstairs. Again, incredible news and a good indication of the spectacular tech he could gather from this place, but what Vault-Tec employee would delve this deeply into their own experiments? Was life in a simulation really so wonderful? The question was so infuriating that Pinkerton was almost tempted to climb inside one of the pods and see for himself, but in the end, self-preservation instincts won out over curiosity.

Instead, he made for the nearest occupied simulator and hunted around the bulk of machinery at its base until he found an access panel. It wasn't easy to prize it open without sounding an alarm, but somehow, he managed to get the cover off without making too much noise, allowing him his first good look at the innards of the Tranquillity Lounger.

It took a bit of digging around, but he finally found what he was looking for: a memory chip, built and designed specifically to carry the memories of an entire lifetime if need be.

For good measure, the chip's current indicator lights suggested it had already been encoded with a set of memories, which at least spared Pinkerton the trouble of having to code the damn things himself.

Any questions as to what this chip had been doing in the Lounger were answered as soon as he took a look at the schematics and found a tiny advisory note hidden away in a corner of the memory chip page: updated neural implants to override memory access for individual users – authorized by User S. Braun.

Ergo, the Overseer was keeping them from remembering.

A quick glance at the monitors surrounding the central computer revealed that all nine inhabitants were in an advanced state of stress: heart rates, blood pressure, perspiration, body temperature, all of them indicated that something was terrifying the Vault residents beyond imagination.

In fact, if it hadn't been for the life-support systems keeping things in check, Pinkerton wagered that these poor bastards would probably have died of chronic stress years ago. Even T. Dithers, the inhabitant of the pod he'd been investigating, looked to be suffering from an elevated state of tension, an impressive feat considering she was fast asleep (according to her monitor).

The one exception to this lay in a monitor on the other side of the atrium, next to a locked door marked "Overseer's Office": the resident that this terminal connected to was not only registering ordinary vital signs but was also exhibiting massive surges in endorphins. From his long years of medical experience, Pinkerton knew that humans didn't normally experience these kind of highs unless they were doped up to the eyeballs or in the midst of a powerful orgasm… but somehow, in the midst of whatever horrors were occurring within the simulation, this guy was officially the happiest little fucker on the planet.

In other words, whatever the hell Braun was doing to these people, regardless of whether he was the instigator or not, he was getting off on it.

But even if he was wrong and the Overseer's pleasure had nothing to do with the suffering of the residents, he was still personally responsible for the loss of their memories.

A thrill of nausea rippled through Pinkerton's body. He'd seen a great many ugly things in his time wandering the wastelands and had learned to regard them with a certain degree of dispassion, but this was something else entirely. Death, torture, and mutilation he could handle, but this… this was the violation of the human mind on a level that even the slavers hadn't been able to manage. This was robbing people of their souls, and Braun was getting aroused by it.

Frankly, Pinkerton didn't need to see any more after this: he could clearly recognize that whatever was happening in this simulation was quite clearly fucked up beyond repair, and his imagination filled in more than enough of the blank spaces to overwhelm him with dread and disgust.

He would gladly have ripped the entire Vault to pieces if only he'd had the time and the equipment, but unfortunately his backup Stealth-Boy was already nearing the end of its tether, and he didn't have the ammo to deal with everything that might come crawling out of the woodwork if he started disassembling the place from top to bottom. After all, Braun might be completely wrapped up in the simulation, but his security sure as hell wasn't, and there was no way of knowing just how many robobrains were on duty down here.

So, instead, he simply crept back to Dithers' pod, donned his insulating gloves, and plucked the memory chip from the Tranquillity Lounger. Then, before any of the robobrains could arrive to investigate, he closed the access panel, slipped the chip into a pocket of his coat, and slunk away as quickly and quietly as he could.

He'd no idea how badly this theft would spoil Braun's fun, if at all… but then again, that wasn't the point of this little mission. He had work to do and obligations to fulfil: if he cleared his calendar, maybe he'd return one day to see if he could spoil the ancient bastard's fun for good, strip the entire Vault bare and reduce every last inch of his little fiefdom to specimens for Pinkerton's own research… or maybe he'd die of old age before all the projects he'd committed himself to were over and done with. One way or the other, he'd just have to be satisfied with leaving this minor nuisance in Braun's lap.

Pausing only to close the Vault door behind him, Pinkerton hurried up the stairs two at a time, his excitement finally overwhelming his disgust. At long last, the component he'd searched the length and breadth of the Capitol Wasteland for was his: a priceless memory chip encoded with a past, just waiting to be used, along with more than enough schematics to keep him busy for the next decade.

Granted, he wouldn't know what kind of memories the chip had been programmed with until he installed it, but then again, it wasn't as if the client wanted anything specific.

One way or another, the new project could begin now... and with any luck, the synth waiting for him back at Rivet City could find a better use for this memory chip than Braun ever could…

---

Tessa was dimly aware that something was wrong long before she opened her eyes.

Groggy and reluctant to rise from her bed as she was, it took her a while to realize what was bothering her, for the cause of her concerns seemed unfathomably distant. The last time she'd felt like this had been in the weeks following her last exam, when leftover nerves had all but catapulted her out of bed in the belief that she was late for a test or that she'd failed to hand in her thesis or something similar. Of course, her college days had been over for more than twenty years, so she was at a loss as to what was causing this sense of unease.

Then she opened her eyes and forgot all about her baseless apprehensions, for now she knew something was wrong: the room around her was rendered entirely in varying shades of black and white; a quick glance at the window confirmed that this wasn't limited to her immediate surroundings, for even the light streaming in from outside was stark grey.

Where was colour? 

Had she somehow gone completely colour-blind in her sleep?

And was that music she could hear in the background? Whatever it was, it sounded like a nightmarish fusion of advertising jingle and sitcom theme tune. But where was it coming from? And why did it appear to be following her around? She wasn't wearing headphones or anything like that, so why did it seem to be playing directly into her ears?

Come to think of it, where the hell was she?

Slipping out of bed and donning a dressing gown, she immediately began searching the building for anything vaguely familiar. A thorough exploration revealed that the house she'd awoken in appeared to be a relatively ordinary suburban two-story: one bedroom, an upstairs bathroom, a downstairs bathroom, a living room directly behind the front door, and a kitchen out back. Nothing about it seemed especially unusual, but Tessa couldn't remember setting foot in it at any point in her life… and there was something immediately unnerving banal about the place, something sinisterly normal about it.

The lack of colour didn't help.

Parting the curtains, Tessa looked out at the neighbourhood in the hope that she'd recognize wherever she'd ended up. Immediately, she despaired; this suburban cul-de-sac could have been anywhere in America. More annoyingly, almost everything about it was frustratingly generic: the houses all looked the same, the white picket fences were exactly the same height and width, the gardens had all been arranged the same way, and even the trees bordering the back fences seemed to be identical to one another. About the only thing that stood out in this perfectly ordered insanity was the garden at the centre of the cul-de-sac, which at least had a few varying trees and plants growing about the place.

It wasn't until she'd finally plucked up the nerve to leave her house and examine the outdoors up close that she noticed something even more bewildering: the road separating the houses from the garden lead in a single unbroken circle around the neighbourhood, never once offering an exit from the cul-de-sac except into the driveways. And beyond the back fence bordering the neighbourhood was nothing more than an endless forest of perfectly identical trees. Wherever she'd ended up, however she'd gotten here, she was trapped.

More annoyingly, the jaunty sitcom music had abruptly stopped and restarted, setting her teeth even further on edge.

And then, just as Tessa was starting to wonder if she'd gone insane at some point in the not-too-distant past, she finally remembered what had happened. And with memory came realization: as everything came rushing back in one awful, horribly belated wave of recollections, she understood why she'd found this place so unnerving.

None of this was real.

She was still in the simulation.

Heart hammering, she lowered herself to the grass and sat down heavily, trying to get a grip on everything that had just happened. Already, more questions were arriving: how long had it been since Braun had erased her memory? The last thing she recalled was lying exhausted on the grass in the Washington D.C. mock-up; to her mind, it felt like it had happened only yesterday… but with Braun's ability to warp her memories, it could have been years – centuries, even, and she'd never know it.

What had he been doing to her since then?

And why had he decided to restore her memories now of all times?

She took a deep breath, and surveyed the area: by now, it looked as if the residents had finally woken up and were leaving their homes in almost perfect unison; to her immense relief, all eight of her fellow captives were among them: Tim, Pat, George, Roger, Janet, Mabel, Bill, Martha – all her friends and fellow sufferers were still alive and well in the simulation.

To Tessa's growing confusion, none of them looked in any way disturbed by their blatantly unnatural surroundings: assuming the greyscale world and the perpetual background music wasn't entirely in Tessa's head, they didn't seem to notice it, nor did they notice the fact that the neighbourhood was inescapable loop. In fact, several of them walked obliviously along the looping road without even becoming aware that they were actually travelling in a perfect circle: from what little she could work out from the conversations, these people – most commonly George Neusbaum and Roger Rockwell – were under the impression that they were going to work, or going to the grocery store, or maybe even going on vacation. Whatever the case, they were totally oblivious to the fact that they were merely walking aimlessly along the infinite street, and anyone who was in a position to see them performing this endless procession along the road didn't appear to observe anything of it. A few of them even waved to Tessa as they wandered past, commenting loudly on what a wonderful day it was.

Unless they'd grown so used to this strange place that they no longer questioned its inexplicable physics, Braun was toying with their minds again… but why was Tessa being excluded from all this? Was this some new torture he'd arranged just for her? It certainly seemed plausible: if she was the only resident who could recognize the strange and off-putting nature of this scenario, there was no chance of her ever finding solace in the company of others, and the constant music, lack of colour and impossibility of escape would probably drive her completely mad.

But what if-

"Nice to see you up and about, Mr Harkness," purred a voice from behind her.

The voice was significantly younger than she'd been expecting, and the German accent was gone, but as she spun around, Tessa already knew who it would be. After all, she'd already seen the others out and about, and Stanislaus Braun was the only missing face so far.

Standing on the lawn behind her was a man she'd never seen before until today; tall, slender and dressed in a nondescript black suit, he looked to be somewhere in the vicinity of forty years old, his pleasant face embossed with an amiable smile. Credit where credit was due, Braun's disguise and performance was near-perfect… but he couldn't quite hide the fact that he was obviously hoping to see something horrible in action, and the eerily fixed quality to his stare gave him away almost instantly.

"Is anything the matter?" he asked, his smile growing. "You seem confused."

Tessa hastily mulled over everything she'd just seen and heard. He'd called her "Mr Harkness," so unless he'd finally gone completely batshit in the last few years, he'd probably meant to change her memories and give her a brand-new identity… but for some reason, it hadn't worked. Unless, of course, this was part of the game and he just wanted to see what she'd do if he convinced her that she was meant to be playing a part. Or maybe there was some other, even more obscure motive behind this that she hadn't yet seen.

Christ almighty, I'm already losing my mind from paranoia. He'll be expecting an answer soon and if the first assumption was right, he won't be happy if it turns out I don't think whatever Harkness would be thinking. No helping that now: I'll just have to take a gamble and try to learn as I go…

"What happened?" she blurted, trying desperately to sound like a man who'd woken up in a woman's body. "Where am I? Who are you?"

"You're the newest resident of Tranquillity Lane, Mr Harkness. Do you like it? Your friends do."

He gestured extravagantly at the people aimlessly circling the neighbourhood.

Tessa did her best to look as clueless as possible, which admittedly didn't take much effort. Hopefully, Braun would reveal most of the elements she needed to know until she could fake being Harkness full time; then, she might have an opportunity to undermine his control. Maybe, if the return of her memories had been unintended, it could be possible to trigger it in the other residents: maybe this was a new bug in the system she could exploit and spread to the others. Granted, she didn't know what she'd do if she ever succeeded in waking the others up, for Braun was still the administrator and effectively God in the simulation, and there was still the concern that he knew what was going on and was just messing with her again… but she had to try.

"You shouldn't dally, you know," said Braun. "You've got work today, and everyone's already on their way to the city. Now might be a good time to follow them. Oh, and you might want to head inside and get on something decent before you go: your red dress would look ravishing today."

"How am I supposed to tell what colour it is?" Tessa retorted.

The smile vanished from Braun's face. "I beg your pardon?"

Tessa froze.

Too late, she realized that she'd said too much: her first assumption had been correct all along, and he hadn't planned on her slipping the leash; more to the point, she'd played too dumb and drawn attention to one of the many things that nobody else was supposed to notice.

"What do you mean 'what colour it is?'" Braun demanded, his jovial tone vanishing; suddenly his German accent was back with a vengeance and his voice sounded at least four decades older than the rest of his body. "How do you know that? What happened?!"

For a moment, Tessa almost froze in fear and resignation: the jig was officially up, and any minute, Braun would realize that she wasn't Harkness either and there'd be hell to pay. But then she realized that while her captor was still trying to work out what had happened, she had an opportunity to act. So, turning her back on Braun, she took to her heels and ran straight for the nearest passer-by.

By sheer luck, it was Tim, striding happily past in his collared shirt and jeans as if he weren't actually roaming aimlessly through digital hell. Oddly enough, he looked a little more muscular than his usual bony self, but there was no mistaking the cast of his chin and jaw.

Hurrying up, Tessa grabbed him by the shoulder and almost screamed "Tim! Do you know what's going on here?"

Startled, he looked up, blinking in confusion but seemingly unwilling to drop his smile. "Well, it's a nice day outside and I'm ready for work, Ms Dithers!"

"No, no, no! This isn't real, Tim – this a simulation: we're trapped in a virtual reality scenario!In the real world, we're locked up in pods underground somewhere under Washington."

"Are you feeling alright, Ms Dithers? You look a little feverish."

"Listen to what I'm saying, please! Look at the roads! The roads don't go anywhere, there's no colour, and that music keeps playing! This isn't taking place in the real world. You have to remember, Tim: you have to wake up!"

A faintly troubled look crept across his smiling face. "Maybe you should take a day off, ma'am: you're clearly not well."

In despair, Tessa let go of his shoulder and ran to the next figure within view – this one Janet Rockwell – and began bombarding her with all the information she was now aware of. Once again, though, Janet remained completely oblivious to the true nature of the world, neither remembering she was in a simulation nor noticing the lack of outward-bound roads. The same went for Roger, George, Pat, Martha, Bill, and Mabel; none of them could be awakened from the spell cast on their perceptions, so whatever had happened to Tessa, it obviously couldn't be replicated.

She was about to move onto doing something more drastic, when a furious-looking Braun suddenly appeared right in front of her: he'd been silently observing her at work across the neighbourhood for the last few minutes, but now he'd evidently seen more than enough for his tastes.

With a single infuriated gesture, every single resident of Tranquillity Lane vanished from the street, instantly returned to their houses – leaving Tessa facing down the enraged Overseer alone.

"Well," he grumbled, "It seems your new memories didn't take. Probably a bug in the system. I'll deal with that later, preferably once I've arranged for some substitute games to make up for this debacle. In the meantime, I hope you enjoyed these precious minutes of psychological freedom, Dithers, because you'll never get to enjoy them ever again."

And with that, he snapped his fingers – presumably his new gesture for activating the memory wipe – and Tessa froze in horror, futilely bracing herself for the moment when her memories of reality would begin to melt away once more.

But nothing happened.

Braun must have noticed that the startled expression on her face had yet to fade, because he muttered a Teutonic expletive and then snapped his fingers again.

Once again, nothing happened.

Confused, Braun whistled a strange, piercing seven-note melody: instantly, a glowing green-and-black computer screen materialized before him in a shower of static, and Tessa's heart leapt as she realized that this could only be Braun's failsafe terminal; Tim had mentioned this years ago, had tried to encourage them to look for wherever he might be keeping it – but they'd never found a trace of the damn thing anywhere in the simulation. Now it was hovering right before her eyes, every option and coded command laid out in perfectly legible text.

With Braun temporarily distracted, Tessa took the opportunity to quickly sidle out of view; moving as quietly as she could while barefoot on a cold sidewalk, she crept up behind Braun, trying to get a good look at the screen while he was still using it. It wasn't easy, because he was scrolling through the menus so quickly that it was hard to get a bead on the headings, but eventually she caught sight of a tiny line of text sitting on the terminal's main menu; it was only a fleeting glimpse, but Tessa was just close enough to make out the words "Chinese Invasion Failsafe."

It was hard to tell what the hell the Chinese Invasion Failsafe was supposed to do, but unless Tessa was deeply mistaken, Braun had pushed it to the very back of the menu screen and was going out of the way to keep his roving hands as far away from it as possible; presumably, it was either very important… or very dangerous.

Question was, could she use the failsafe? Was the terminal designed to respond only to Braun's commands, or could anyone operate the control panel? Was he the only one who could summon the failsafe terminal, or could anyone mimic that weird whistling code he'd just uttered?

Meanwhile, Braun was frowning deeply. "This is… most out of the ordinary," he growled. "What have those damnable robobrains been doing all these years? I'm noticing errors in their programming, but nothing that could possibly explain this: the door controls have been sabotaged, one of the loungers has been tampered with, and we're missing a memory chip! We've been burgled!"

Tessa almost smiled at this, briefly delighting in Braun's impotent rage: for once it seemed as if their all-powerful master might be having problems, maybe even enough to undermine his control over the entire simulation. But then reality caught up with her again, and with it, the terrible implications. Someone had broken into Vault 112 and stolen a memory chip, yes – but whoever it was who'd done the deed had left all nine of them imprisoned. Either they hadn't cared enough to free them… or it literally couldn't be done. Either they'd found themselves in a future where nobody cared enough save them from this place, or where nobody could save them. Neither possibility sounded especially attractive at this juncture.

"Argh! I should've kept a closer eye on those security feeds. First priority of business, getting that door fixed. Then finding a replacement memory chip… if we have one. Oh, but we weren't supposed to need replacements! Those chips were meant to last for millennia if need be… and-"

He blinked, suddenly realizing that Tessa was still looking over his shoulder. Banishing the failsafe terminal with an angry snarl, he shoved her to the ground so violently that her ribs audibly crunched on impact with the sidewalk.

"And I'm going to have to get back into the habit of not talking to myself," he fumed. "I'm also going to have to do something about internal security as well as long as you're lurking about with all your faculties intact. Rest assured, this will not mean a respite for you, Miss Dithers: I might not be able to erase your memory anymore, but believe me, I can still make you suffer for every minute you remain alive."

In spite of herself, Tessa laughed – and immediately cringed in pain as her broken ribs shifted beneath her. "But I'll get used to it," she wheezed. "I'll get desensitized eventually, and then you'll have no more fun torturing me. And that's the one thing you can't stand, isn't it? Not being able to get your fun. Not being able to get a reaction."

For a moment it almost looked as if Braun was going to lose his temper again. But then the wrinkles on his brow suddenly smoothed over, and a horrible smile crept across his face.

"You'd be surprised at what can constitute torture, Miss Dithers," he purred. "You've been absent from your own mind for a little over two hundred years, and in that time, I've moved beyond the dull, blunt methods of realistic physical torture. And besides, even if I don't decide to turn you inside out or transform your internal organs into piranhas, there's a whole host of subtler things I could do to you."

But Tessa wasn't paying attention anymore: her mind had abruptly stopped absorbing information around the time the words "a little over two hundred years" had been heard.

Two hundred years, she thought. We've been trapped in Vault 112 for two centuries, and in all that time, there's only been one chance for rescue – and whoever it was, they only stole a memory chip. What's it like out there? Has someone tried to rebuild society? Is there a government? Is there someone who might find us and be able to save our lives eventually? Oh god…

"In the meantime," said Braun, "I can't have you running around spoiling my fun: I can erase the memories of the others quite easily, but it won't stop you from making a nuisance of yourself around them, will it? No, and I can't very well keep you under house arrest for all eternity. No fun in that, to be sure. No, no, no, torture is often best enjoyed communally. I think I'm going to have to take special steps to keep you out of trouble."

He waved a hand, sending Tessa lurching upright; the moment her feet touched the ground, her fractured ribs instantly refused, painfully healing themselves at Braun's behest.

"What should I turn you into?" he wondered aloud. "What would work best, I wonder?"

He thought for a moment, but Tessa could already tell that he was doing this mainly for the sake of intimidation. She'd dealt with more than her fair share of office psychopaths back in the real world, and while Braun was undoubtedly more grandiose, more sadistic and more unpleasant than all of them put together, his use of this tactic was no different: he'd already decided what to do with her, and this grand show of trying to make up his mind was just there to draw out the tension, just to marinade her in dread for his continued amusement.

"Perhaps a maggot? No, I'd lose track of you too easily. A slug? No, I've had more than enough fun with slugs. A mouse in a cage? Tempting, but I'd lose so much of those precious emotional subtleties once the transformation's complete; mice just aren't as entertaining as humans when it comes to torture. Maybe I've dallied with animal transformations for too long; perhaps it's time I tried something different, something a little more… sedate."

Braun's lips peeled backwards into a hideous grin, too large for his face and too small to convey the sheer, unremitting malice behind it. "Yes," he chortled. "I know what to do with you…"

He waved a hand and then Tessa felt a colossal weight descending on her from above, draping itself over her shoulders like a vast cloak of woven lead, bending her back into a permanent hunch and pressing her down towards the ground. She would have fallen if she hadn't managed to brace herself against the nearest fencepost, and the merest effort of that sent a red-hot lance of pain shooting up the length of her arm. Beneath her, legs that had previously stood firm now wobbled dangerously as they struggled to maintain balance, and as she tried to steady herself against the post, she could almost hear her bones groaning in protest.

As she struggled to keep herself from toppling over, she happened to glance down at her hands as they still fought for a grip on the picket fence and realized with horror that she'd aged dramatically in the last few seconds: her hands were wrinkled, weathered, liver-spotted things with long, badly-cracked nails, every knuckle hopelessly gnarled and swollen by arthritis. Looking down at herself, she could see that her body had shrunken in on itself, withered by decades of unadulterated time; admittedly, she hadn't been especially proud of her appearance in the real world, but it was still horrifying to see her belly and breasts sagging so dramatically inside her dressing gown, to see her ankles bloated and her knees shaking with the effort of holding her body upright.

There was nothing reflective in range, so Tessa could only pat her skull anxiously in the hopes of working out how things had changed: her face was a dusty mass of wrinkles, wizened and desiccated like a mummy; her mouth was nothing more than worn gums and a tongue like well-trodden bootheel; but on the upside, she still had her hair, grey and withered though it was.

Tessa hadn't been young for quite a while: back when she'd first been interred within the Vault, she'd been fifty years of age, still spry but not exactly the picture of health thanks to the drinking habit. She couldn't imagine what her body was like in the real world, given that it had aged to two hundred and fifty years of age without her knowledge, and she'd no idea how many years Braun had forced onto her digital avatar, but it could have been anywhere between twenty to forty… unless she'd been made even older than that. Perhaps she was over a hundred years old. Right now, there was no way of telling for sure.

Could Braun make even older than this? How far could he push her virtual age until her avatar broke down and had to be reset?

Fortunately, Tessa could still see and hear clearly enough, so she had that much to be thankful for, until Braun felt like showing her something truly horrific, of course. And with a bit of effort (and perhaps a cane) she might be able to get herself mobile again; hopefully, Braun had at least had the common decency to give her functioning bowels, otherwise this was going to be even more excruciating than first anticipated.

"There you are!" Braun cackled. "Now you can tell as many people as you like, and none of them will ever be troubled by it!"

Tessa rounded on him furiously, but the moment she tried to speak, she could only wheeze for breath as her lungs struggled with the formerly simple act of breathing, her heart hammering out of control.

"Enjoying the physical sensations? You wouldn't believe just how effort my programmers had to make just to capture the little collage of pain and discomfort playing out across your senses right now."

She coughed and tried again. "You did thish," she gasped, "Jusht to make shure nobody believed in me?"

"Oh, belief isn't the problem, Ms Dithers: none of them would believe you with the alterations I've made to their personalities, but as a functioning adult, you trouble them. As an old crone, of course, you trouble no-one: you can say anything you like, and nobody will care in the slightest. You'll be much less disruptive this way. I've taken the liberty of providing you with false teeth back in your house – and a cane, of course."

"You bashtard. You fucking, fucking bashtard."

"Now, now, there's no need for that sort of language is there? You need to set a good example for the younger generations… when I provide them, of course. I'm sure you'll enjoy everything I've got in store for you: it's just that you probably won't be able to run away from it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have very important work to do. Enjoy your day… Theresa."

And with that, he vanished, leaving Tessa alone on the sidewalk, forever damned with her hated first name.

Sighing, bones aching, lungs wheezing in protest, mind stinging with humiliation, she reached out for the next fencepost in line and began slowly hobbling home…

Chapter 11: Love And Inspiration

Summary:

Introducing Betty and Timmy.

Notes:

WARNING: THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS EXTREMELY FUCKED-UP SHIT.

You have been warned.

While Dithers slowly adjusted to her newfound senescence, Braun made several sweeping changes to the program.

First, he tweaked the memories of the residents ever-so-slightly, just so they remembered that Theresa Dithers had always been old, decrepit and probably senile. The latter was all-important: the crazier they thought she was, the less disruptive she'd be to their continued serenity.

Secondly, he set the robobrains to work on repairing the lock on the Vault door, ensuring that enterprising treasure hunters wouldn't be able to just walk in through the now-unlocked gate, and arranged for measures that would prevent stealthy intruders from making it to the Loungers without being detected. He knew that determined intruders might be able to hotwire the lock, given time and expertise, but he could at least ensure that they'd be dealt with immediately.

Then, he relocated the auxiliary terminal: now that Dithers had seen how he'd summoned the terminal, he couldn't allow her any more opportunities to learn how to do it herself or to access its functions while he was using it.

So, he sent the terminal into the depths of his own little house on Tranquillity Lane, carefully camouflaging it so that Dithers would never figure out where it was or how to activate it. Even the means of entering the password was disguised.

For good measure, he altered the house to make as unsettling as possible. Having no need to sleep, eat, or shit, he barely used the building for anything apart from the occasional venue for a killing spree, so he was free to modify it as radically as he needed without compromising his own comfort: he boarded up the windows from the inside, he layered the doorways with cobwebs, he tore up the carpet, he peeled back the wallpaper, he smashed the lightbulbs, he left the furniture ruined, and imbued every corner of the house with a spectacular array of unnerving noises. For good measure, he'd programmed the noises to grow louder and more aggressive the deeper an intruder got, creating the subtle impression that there was something worth keeping secret on the uppermost floor – and encouraging the few determined explorers to follow the trail all the way to the bedroom in search of the terminal. In reality, the terminal was actually hidden in the front room on the ground floor, and the keypad was disguised as several pieces of ruined furniture, largely indistinguishable among the mess.

In a final touch, he made the front the door as heavy as possible and locked it just to be on the safe side. As a final insult, he also scattered plenty of overturned furniture right inside the doorway, making sure that Dithers would immediately trip on it the moment she tried to enter. Thanks to his modifications, she'd be too busy reeling in agony from a broken hip to do any searching, and the terminal would be out of reach anyway.

He knew it would have been simpler and easier to just seal the entire building shut. After all, with enough effort, the old hag would be able to pick the lock, force the door open and even brave broken bones in pursuit of the terminal – not that she'd be able to figure out the password or how to enter it, of course.

But sealing off the house would have bored him senseless.

Braun's hunger for stimulation and entertainment had been with him all his life, and in the centuries since he'd entered virtual reality, it had only grown simultaneously more ravenous and infinitely subtler. He knew Dithers wouldn't stop until her spirit was well and truly broken, and in his experience, the best way to do that was to give her the impression that she could succeed.

So, he would bait her onwards, luring her ahead with promises of freedom and victory, baiting her deeper into desperation until she finally gave in and accepted the inevitable. She'd be no fun to torture after that, but it'd be interesting to see how her psychology might develop.

Watching her from the window, he chuckled to himself as Dithers hobbled aimlessly across the neighbourhood, trying in vain to reveal the truth to anyone in earshot. Obviously, that skin-searing case of the shingles had proved too much for her to sit still, and now she was back to encouraging revolution. It would have been easy to strike her down with a lightning bolt and leave her "dead" for the next few years, he allowed her to carry on haranguing the passers-by: quite apart from the fact that nobody would ever believe her and none of them would be able to remember it even if they did, he was already having too much fun making her miserable.

Besides, he'd given her a nasty case of osteoporosis, so the longer she tottered around out here, her odds of toppling over and breaking something rose exponentially.

As annoying as it had been to lose control of the bitch's memories, this offered an unexpected opportunity for a kind of fun he hadn't had in decades. He'd missed breaking his captives permanently: the memory chip had spoiled him rotten, given him unlimited opportunities to freshen the experience and disconnected him from the joy of irrevocably shattering a human spirit. But now he had a chance to begin anew, to see how long it would take to annihilate Dithers' will and render her down as far as she could possibly go – a weeping failure, a listless slave, or perhaps just a drooling vegetable – while still having the others around to indulge himself upon without long-term consequences.

This was going to be so much fun…

Once Braun was certain that the terminal was secure, his work was done, and he could return to his amusements. And yet, even as he descended the creaking stairs, he found that he couldn't leave the house just yet: there was still something nagging at him, something that needed to be done – but couldn't quite be defined. What had he missed? What hadn't he done yet?

It wasn't until he found himself peering absently into the mirror in the upstairs bathroom that he realized what the problem was. The familiar itch for something new was making its way up and down his spine. Once again, his need for a very particular style of stimulation was at work. In his childhood, he'd learned to suppress his boredom and embrace routines, but it was impossible to completely crush his yearning for variety: sooner or later, he needed to slip free of the suffocating bonds of the familiar and do something new, something that would leaven the bland mundanity of daily work – a crushed lab rat, a harsh remark, a suitably gory experiment, anything.

And now that he was perfectly satisfied with Tranquillity Lane as it was, his longing could only be applied to one thing: himself.

He was getting bored with his current body again.

His comfortable, nondescript older gentleman avatar was wearing thin at long last, the collar and cuffs threadbare, the colours trite and faded, all the comfort gone… and the fact that he'd shapeshifted so many times for fun in here only made it all the more stultifying. And the more he thought about it, the more it seemed like it had never been the right shape to take here on Tranquillity Lane.

He needed to take on a new default form.

But what form could he take? What would work best in this suburban paradise? More importantly, what hadn't he tried before? No matter how long he stood in front of the mirror, trying out new forms, he just couldn't find anything entertaining about them, apart from the sight of the female avatars clowning around in his male clothing. That familiar spark of mischief refused to shine in the darkness.

It was during his aimless pondering that he happened to glance out the window, at the rooftops of Tranquillity Lane glistening in the colourless noonday sun… and all of a sudden, he couldn't help but think of his birthplace, of Kronach, of that picture-book vision of fairy-tale beauty and childhood innocence.

And then, inspiration struck like the proverbial thunderbolt.

It took him a while to design the appropriate avatar for the job, but fortunately, his memory had always been exemplary regardless of his age: the recollections of his own face – in mirrors, in family photographs, in the horrified eyes of others – never left him, and he used that to craft his newest guise with ease.

When he was finally done, he mentally selected his new avatar without hesitation, shivering with glee as he initiated the new program… and instantly felt himself begin to shrink. It wasn't the immediate downward plunge that had accompanied his transformation into a cat or a wasp, but rather a relaxed, leisurely descent towards the floor – almost like riding an extremely slow elevator, really. If anything, it felt less like he was getting smaller and more like the world around him was getting bigger and infinitely more interesting. And thanks to the alterations he'd made to the program over the years, he could feel his body itself changing in dozens of subtly distinctive ways: the proportions shifted, the limbs contracted inwards, the muscles withered into childish scrawniness, the cheeks plumped ever-so-slightly, the hair and eye colour took on new tones altogether. His clothing changed too: as administrator, he alone now had access to the dignity-protecting failsafes that had once been afforded to all residents, and now he could see and feel his usual attire oozing like molten candlewax across his dwindling body as it shifted from his adult work clothes into a child's t-shirt and shorts.

When his transformation was done, he found himself just barely able to see over the edge of the basin, but with the aid of a chair borrowed from the bedroom, he was able to get a good look at himself.

By all appearances, he was now a perfect replica of himself as he had been at perhaps nine or ten years of age; chestnut-haired, skinny, his bright blue eyes wide and guileless, he was a cherubic innocent once again, little Stannislaus Braun ready for play. It felt comfortable enough, lacking the boring, adult elements that had so repelled him from his "neighbourhood gentleman" avatar. He could even openly laugh and somersault around in glee without feeling as if he was disrupting the ordered atmosphere of Tranquillity Lane.

And yet… there was still a tiny note of imperfection here.

Reliving his childhood wasn't precisely what he had wanted, even if it would be with all the powers of a god; darling little 'Laus had enjoyed too much fun to be allowed out of the toybox after all this time, not if he wanted a truly fresh experience.

No, there was one more thing necessary for the perfect suburban avatar, something borrowed from his personal experiences... or rather, someone…

---

Contrary to popular belief, Braun had been in love once before.

True, for him, love wasn't the mystical, dreamy experience it was for most people: it was a largely chemical response, a narcotic haze used to reward the urge to bond, a crude means of encouraging species propagation, and only the efforts of a devoted few made it anything more than the meaningless exaggeration of lust that ended in so many joyless marriages. But no matter how primitive or fleeting it was, he'd felt true love – or something so close to it as to make distinction meaningless – and he'd felt it for the only kindred spirit he'd ever met in his entire life.

Braun had been perhaps five years of age when he'd first felt that emotion light up his brain.

He'd been a bright little boy, but distinctly isolated, uninterested in the usual games that children his age enjoyed and in the children themselves. He'd known even then that he was different: he was cleverer than most of his peers, yes, but that was obvious to anyone who cared to pay the slightest bit of attention; the true difference was in how he perceived the world. He'd shared books and played chess with the other bright boys and girls at his school, but none of them had grabbed his attention, and their interests had always seemed terribly sterile for his tastes. They could think on his level, but they couldn't comprehend on his level, nor did they have his urges.

Back then, he hadn't been terribly ambitious: nobody had minded the swatted flies and impaled spiders that seemed to accumulate wherever he went; in fact, what they minded were the angry outbursts, the crying classmates, the stolen lunches, the missing belongings, but nobody managed to make the connection between his "bad behaviour" and the rare days where he hadn't been able to find any spiders. He'd seen a behavioural therapist already at his parents' insistence, but he'd given nothing of his real self away, claiming that he'd just been upset because his mama and papa were never around. Mama and papa had cooed obligingly, patted his head, given him a few presents, and gone right back to leaving him unsupervised.

Eventually, little Stanislaus had decided to try and take his amusements to the next level by squishing mice underfoot whenever he could get the chance, but people reacted badly to the sight of blood on his shoes, so he only did it when he was sure nobody was watching and was always careful to polish afterwards.

So, in November of that year, he'd caught a mouse in the floorboards of the family home: waiting until his parents were away on one of their many, many daily appointments, he took the rodent to the kitchen, pinned it to a corkboard by all four of its little paws and went to work on dissecting it. He had only one of his Aunt Liesl's biology textbooks and a steak knife to work with, but he'd enjoyed himself nonetheless: the dying mouse's squeaks and failing had been nothing short of hilarious.

Thinking to himself just how much more fun it had been than any pinioned spider, he'd taken the mouse outside to bury it…

...Only to realize that someone was watching him from behind the shed.

Paralysed with shock, he could only stand there with the bloody remains of the mouse splattered across his hands and t-shirt, watching as the figure crept into view.

Four years his senior, the girl had been a head taller than him, and her bearing had only made her seem taller. Her hair had been a beautiful shade of auburn cut at shoulder length, her sharp eyes a haunting shade of turquoise, her build slim and athletic, a sure sign that she belonged to one of the sportier cliques at the local school, hence why he'd never met her up until today. She was dressed in a muddy brown set of overalls and boots, making her look more like a gardener than anything else; her only concession to style was the green ribbon in her hair.

All these features would have been ignored, left secondary compared to the fact that had hijacked little 'Laus's brain in that moment: she had seen him with blood on his hands, caught him literally red-handed.

But then she smiled.

It was indescribable. There'd been so much mischief, amusement, and delight in that wicked little smirk that Braun could only stand there in astonishment, head cocked like a dachshund as the stranger approached. He'd known that normal people got upset when they found that he'd been killing animals, so the fact that someone was now striding up to him with a smile on their face was almost beyond comprehension.

"Have fun?" she'd asked.

He'd nodded mutely.

"First time you killed vermin?"

He shook his head.

"Let me see it."

Without saying a word, he'd handed the dissected remains of the mouse up for her inspection, watching mesmerized as the disembowelled carcass steamed in the chilly autumn air. He hadn't known why he'd dared to do such a thing, but something about this girl's calm demeanour seemed to put him at ease.

For a moment, she'd inspected his handiwork, her gleeful smile growing ever-wider. Then she looked him up and down, disapprovingly eyeing the blood-spattered shirt he wore.

"You can't leave that around to be washed," she'd told him. "And you can't do this at home, not if you're going to do anything better than squishing them. It's good you waited until your mama and papa were out, but you can't be sure if they'd come home or not. You need somewhere special."

She'd crept close to him and whispered in his ear: "There's a place outside of town we can go, a place where you can do secret things – as long as you bring raincoats or clothes you don't mind getting rid of."

She paused, and her smile widened. "I've got something special there," she said with a wink. "You can have some too if you want to share. You want to share?"

He'd nodded.

And just like that, she'd plucked the mouse from his hands, whisked a plastic bag from her pocket and stuffed the mouse inside. Then, pausing only to jam the bagged-up mouse in her pocket and drape a jacket over his shoulders, she took Braun by the hand and yanked him off the porch.

For some reason, he hadn't protested this; perhaps his curiosity had simply gotten the best of him, or perhaps on some instinctual level he understood that this girl was like him in many ways. One way or another, the girl led him on a winding journey through the streets of Kronach, always taking the loneliest routes so nobody would notice the blood on his shirt.

Eventually, they left the town behind entirely, sprinting out across the rolling green hills and into the depths of the forest.

Stanislaus had read more than his fair share of fairy tales (classic or otherwise) and knew all the stories of little boys ill-advisedly wandering into the woods, and more importantly, he knew most of them ended with the little boy either being scared into behaving himself or being messily eaten. Furthermore, he had been warned many times that the Franconian natural park had become a dark and unwelcoming place in recent years, one not to be entered unless you were accompanied by a grown-up; but even if he hadn't read the stories or heard the warnings, the deep shadows beyond the mouth of the forest would have unsettled all but the bravest of children into retreating immediately.

Braun wasn't brave, not really. He just didn't experience fear on the same level as most people, either feeling only vague warnings of imminent danger or remaining completely insensitive in the face of a threat to his life. So, when he'd seen the Franconian's gaping maw opening ahead of him, he'd felt nothing but exhilaration, even as the strange girl led him down its winding throat and into a clearing deep in its capacious gullet.

There, tied up under a tree, was a foxhound pup.

In hindsight, it was obvious that the girl had been testing him: she wanted to know just far he was prepared to go in pursuit of amusement, to see if there was anything he might balk at. After all, most children liked dogs, especially puppies. Had he been the girl's inferior, he might have refused, cried, left in disgust, or maybe try to let the animal free… but even at that early age, his hunger for stimulation had been untempered by little things like conscience, nerves or a weak stomach. And back then, he'd been too enthused by the sight of a captive victim to wonder why anyone would willingly give him his prey; all he wanted was to get down to business and have some fun.

So, when the girl had handed him the knives, he'd set to work right away. As with the mouse, he'd splayed it out across the ground with a blade through each paw, before slitting it open with the butcher's knife… except the pup lasted much longer. This time, the torture was prolonged, allowing him to take in every pained whimper that escaped the dying animal's jaws before it finally expired.

By the end of it, he was soaked in blood. It was on his face, on his shirt, on his shorts, even slimed all the way up to his elbows.

And the girl was smiling even wider than ever.

To his surprise, she'd hugged him – actually flung her arms around him and embraced him so tightly that most of the blood had ended up on her overalls.

"Yes," she'd purred, stroking his hair. "You're perfect. You're the little brother I always wanted; you're my little brother now."

She'd giggled and kissed him, whispering her name in his ear as she did so.

Stanislaus had not protested this show of affection, oddly enough: such manhandling from relatives and family friends meant nothing to him; it stirred no emotional response, save perhaps irritation at having his personal space invaded. Frankly, being hugged by his mother was more like being slobbered on by a stray dog and about half as sanitary. But from this strange girl, he'd felt something different: for the first time in his life, he felt as though he'd met someone who could think and comprehend on his level, someone who was as real as he was.

Her name was Elizabeta.

And, as she had laughingly disassembled the corpse into bloody mulch, Braun had known with a thrill of joy that his instincts were not mistaken, that she was just like him. 

And so, he told her his name (assuming she didn't know it already).

As it turned out, she'd been well-prepared for this little outing: a grave had already been dug for the puppy on the other side of the tree, and a small stockpile of replacement clothes had been hidden under its roots, a blue dress for Elizabeta, a shirt and a pair of shorts for Stanislaus. She must have been spying on him for quite a while to get his measurements right, though Elizabeta claimed that his new clothes had once belonged to her brother, who'd supposedly been about Stanislaus' age when he'd drowned in the bath.

(More than once, it had occurred to Stanislaus that the death of Elizabeta's brother hadn't been an accident: perhaps she'd been disappointed with having a sibling that was so unlike her, or maybe she'd just spotted an opportunity to have a bit of fun without consequences. It had also occurred to him that Elizabeta might one day repeat the act of fratricide if Stanislaus ever happened to disappoint her. But that mattered little to him: it added an element of excitement to their relationship that other personal attachments lacked.)

She'd even supplied some water and a washcloth to clean themselves where the blood had soaked all the way through their clothes. Once they were clean and dressed, they drifted back into town: neither of them said a word on the journey home, but frankly, neither of them needed to; as always, actions spoke louder than words, and their actions had said everything that needed to be said.

Once they were back in the Braun household's garden, she'd kissed him goodbye and whispered in his ear, "Now you know the trick: always secret places, so you never get caught. Anytime you want to have some fun with someone who knows what fun is… you know where to find me."

Then, with an impish little wink, she was gone, vanishing over the fence and into the deepening shadows beyond the garden.

And just like that, Stanislaus Braun was in love.

They met together many times afterwards: both had their own amusements, their own private thrills to pursue, but they always found a few days a year in which they could meet and bond over shared amusement. Along the way, Braun learned more and more about her in much the same way that Elizabeta no doubt learned about him. Most intriguing of all were the tiny differences between them: notably, they were both of similar intelligence, but their specialties lay in different directions, for where Braun was a scientist and regarded many of his amusements as experiments in personal pleasure, Elizabeta was an artist and treated her little games accordingly, grisly little still-lives littering the forest wherever she went.

She was also more intimate than Braun: she had a habit of patting the heads of her victims, playfully shushing and cooing over them like pets; when she was around Braun, she liked cuddling him, kissing him and treating him as if he really were her brother - quite the contrast to her quiet, reserved "sibling." In time, he realized that these were calculated moves designed to provoke specific responses, for her real affection (if she truly had such a thing) was much subtler than it first appeared. Thanks to these deliberate mannerisms, adults were fooled into thinking she was sweet-natured and "cute", not realizing that she was deliberately transgressing boundaries, upsetting people by invading their personal space; children were left unsettled by the smothering aggression in those hugs, but never in a way they could put into words; and as for her victims, they were openly terrified, never knowing if she was just hugging them or if she was about to start torturing them again.

(Ironically, her camouflage was less about creating a laudable public image and more about being beneath notice, hence why she wore nondescript old clothes while seeking pleasure and why she wore baby-blue dresses when she needed to look innocent; she left helping little old ladies across the road to Braun.)

Furthermore, Elizabeta developed quicker than Braun, and not just in the sense of growing taller and more athletic than he ever could be. While he was learning the ropes with flayed rabbits, she was sprinkling broken glass in back yards, just waiting for the moment when someone happened to go for a barefoot stroll. While he was setting traps for stray kittens, she was arranging "accidents" on the road, a burst tyre here, a severed brake line there. While he was becoming known as an amateur hunter and inflicting his amusements upon deer, she was extending her tastes to hikers.

When Braun was sixteen, he'd ventured into the forest for their annual meeting and found that Elizabeta had a trussed-up backpacker waiting for him under a tree; in a frenzy of joy, the two of them had carved the whimpering wretch into mincemeat.

Braun's first human kill had been followed closely by his first sexual encounter: the two of them had been so excited that they'd barely had time to shove the dead backpacker's corpse into the open grave before they started ripping each other's clothes off. Normally, Braun didn't have any strong feelings about sex, finding it dull at best and crushingly boring at worst… but the right combination of violence, sadism and Elizabeta had made it perfect.

Eventually, as all friends did, they parted ways: Braun had university to attend, and Elizabeta's art projects required her own special kind of dedication. After that, they'd been in contact briefly, and even held a reunion party back in Kronach… but of course, all things had to come to an end sooner or later.

He'd no way of knowing if she'd lived long enough to witness the day the world burned… but he always hoped that she'd created a legacy – if only because he found it gratifying to think that somewhere in the post-apocalyptic ruins of Bavaria, Elizabeta's family of killers might still be poaching victims.

But in the meantime, Braun had a different way of commemorating the only human being he'd ever loved…

It didn't take long for him to sketch out all the relevant details in the avatar designer: as always, he had an excellent memory, and he'd never forget a face like Elizabeta's – at any stage in their relationship. He set her age at about nine years old, the better to fit in with this scenario's theme of suburban innocence, and he'd sliced her height down by an inch or two. Other than that, his new avatar was exactly the same girl he'd fallen in love with all those decades ago.

When he was done, he stood in front of his new floor-length mirror and watched as his old appearance melted away, feeling his digital flesh oozing and warping as he slowly adopted the familiar face of the only kindred spirit he'd ever known.

For a time, he flounced back and forth in front of the mirror, trying out his walk and his talk in a dozen different ways. Did it seem strange to become a nine-year-old girl?

Not really.

It didn't feel any different than his usual childhood body apart from the odd additions and absences, and at first, it didn't seem especially distinct from the standard "juvenile female" template available in the design program. With his expression neutral, he didn't even look like Elizabeta at first…

…but then he smiled.

And suddenly, his friend and mentor was back from the grave.

"Hello, Elizabeta," he said, and tittered with delight at the sound of his new voice: he'd replicated it perfectly, and from memory alone, too!

"So good to see you again. But Elizabeta's a little too foreign for this little suburb, isn't it? We need a new name, something that'll fit in here on Tranquillity Lane. Perhaps… Elizabeth? No, too formal. Liz? Nah. Lizzie? Hrmm, still doesn't quite capture who we are. Oh, I know: Betty! We're Betty Brown now, the happiest girl in the neighbourhood!"

For nearly five minutes, he shrieked with laughter, his childish avatar allowing him new breadth of expression that an adult body could never have granted.

At long last, his new self was perfect.

Now all he needed was someone his own age he could play with…

---

"Comfortable, Mrs D?"

"Aaargh. I'm fine, thanks, Tim."

"You let me know if you need anything else, okay? I'll be in the kitchen; lunch will be along in about half an hour."

"Sure, Tim. Aaaargghhh…"

Tessa sank back in her chair and groaned quietly, trying in vain to get comfortable in spite of the myriad aches and pains rippling across her ancient body.

To the best of her knowledge, aging her up to a hundred years of age was by far the single most miserable experience Braun had inflicted on her so far: at least the tortures he'd enacted before had ended at some point; at least she'd been allowed time to get her breath back, recover a bit of much-needed dignity and live without pain for a little while. But at a hundred, there was no end to the torment, for Braun had inflicted all the painful, humiliating physical ailments a woman her age could suffer without actually dying: shingles, arthritis, osteoporosis, heart palpitations, and Christ only knew what else was now her lot in life.

Fortunately, she wasn't completely incontinent, but that only meant that Braun could make her lose control of her bowels whenever he felt like it, adding a sense of paralysing uncertainty to the embarrassment.

In the weeks since Braun had forced her into this new body, Tessa's daily routine had been nothing less than a neverending collage of pain and humiliation: eating was a trial thanks to the arthritis, her skin was on fire with rickets, bronchitis left her lungs a wheezing mass of inflammation, her heart thundered out of control at the slightest movement, getting to the bathroom on time required more speed than her body was capable of, and using staircases was an open invitation to fall over and fracture something.

Plus, thanks to the practical jokes Braun had scattered around the neighbourhood, she'd already broken her hip, leaving her in agonizing pain when in motion and teeth-grinding discomfort even while she was sitting down.

Or at least it would have been teeth-grinding discomfort if she'd still had teeth: right now, she was lugging around an oversized set of dentures that sat in her mouth with all the ease and luxury of a two-ton block of cement.

Also, she was pretty sure Braun was in the habit of stealing them whenever she actually had a meal worth eating.

And then there were the other symptoms, the ones she couldn't explain: ever since Tessa had awakened from the memory haze, she'd never been able to sleep for longer than an hour or so, and sometimes not even that. Was this because of the endless noontime, which only shifted into night when Braun felt like it, or was it because she could sense just how unreal this place was? And what about her skin? When she wasn't gripped with shingles, her skin had begun to feel inexplicably wrong, as if someone had wrapped a mass of clingfilm over her bare muscles.

And just lately, at the very apex of her insomnia, she had started hearing voices – strange, disembodied whispers that had seemed to follow her around the house, hissing in her ears, giggling in the darkness, and leaving her a terrified, gibbering mess. She'd no idea if she'd simply started hallucinating from sleep deprivation or if Braun was actually following her around the house and whispering in her ears; all she knew was that her captor didn't need a memory chip to wreak havoc on her brain. For it was in those terrifying, lonely moments when she was alone in the house, when the whispers sounded louder than ever, when the light seemed to fade until she was left sitting in a tiny circle of rapidly-dimming light in a sea of shadows, she had been reduced to cowering in the centre of it and weeping like a child, begging for it to stop.

Oh, and just so she could never feel safe about anything at any point, Braun himself had been conspicuously absent in the last few days. Ever since he'd aged her into an old woman, he'd been a no-show. Tessa didn't know if he was waiting for the right moment to shock them all with some new torture, or if he'd decided to be completely invisible from now on; frankly, she didn't know which was worse.

But the worst thing about her current condition, the biggest dose of pain and embarrassment and fear in her ordeal lay in the simple fact that nobody really gave a damn about what she said. She could rant as long as she liked about Braun, the simulation, the real world and all the horrible things that had probably been done to them over the last two hundred years or so, and nobody would pay the slightest bit of attention. Everyone in the neighbourhood had already dismissed her as a delusional old woman. They just didn't care anymore. Whenever she hobbled outdoors and tried to get through to them, they just smiled, nodded, and turned away, shaking their heads at the sight of a demented senior citizen making a fool of herself in public.

Still, at least Tim was here to look after her.

Tim, out of all the residents of Tranquillity Lane, still cared. True, he didn't believe her, either; and yes, he'd been changed from the sweet young man she'd once known to a musclebound boy-next-door type thanks to Braun's alterations… but he was all she had left.

He still bothered to stop by every day and help her: he cleaned, he cooked her meals, he helped her move around the house, he provided her with medicine, and he kept her company. At first, Tessa was convinced that this had to be some new ploy of Braun's, that Tim had been brainwashed into being cruel, or provided with poisonous medicine, or some other such act of sabotage… but after two days of uninterrupted care and comforting, nothing happened, and Tessa had to admit that Tim was doing this entirely of his own free will.

It was a little humiliating to have to be assisted with virtually every single task, including the formerly simple act of going to the bathroom, and the conversations were predictably dull thanks to the personality alteration… but Tessa was glad for the company nonetheless. It felt strange to say this, given how neurotic and broken Tim had become during the Washington D.C. simulation all those years ago, but he was the only thing keeping her sane now.

He'd even provided her with some medication for her arthritis; it wasn't much, but when it finally began to numb the pain in her swollen knuckles, Tessa was able to hold a pencil steadily enough to draw. She hadn't been much of an artist in life, but with time, practice, and plenty of medication, she was improving bit by bit: every day, her sketches were a little more detailed, a little more lifelike – a vital detail, for she was sketching reality as she had once known it.

She sketched her parents, her colleagues, her workplace, her home, her neighbourhood, even Tim's true form; if it had existed in the real world, she sketched it out in exhaustive detail, practicing until it conveyed the form of the thing down to the last blade of grass. True, there were still a few elements that she couldn't replicate, but at this point, she was just happy to have gotten it half-right.

Most of all, she sketched Marcie: she drew her as she was when Marcie first saw her in the morning, at work, behind her desk, at the gym after work, at dinner, in bed… she laboriously sketched out every curve and blemish until Marcie's naked body seemed more real than the confines of Tranquillity Lane (give or take a few blunders). And with every drawing, Tim would congratulate her on doing such good work, never once realizing that she was depicting real people.

Was this how they were going to spend the rest of eternity?

Was she going to live out the eons as an old woman with only the company of one compassionate young man to stop her from spiralling into insanity? And what about the tortures Braun would inflict on them in the meantime? Would it ever end? Was this literally going to last forever?

Come on, an absurdly optimistic part of Tessa's mind chided. Nothing lasts forever, not without a good supply of replacement parts and power. It might take centuries for the whole shebang to break down, but it'll happen eventually. And sure, Braun will torture you and the others in the meantime, but he's already left you a humiliated ruin of your old self. After all the tortures he's inflicted, what is there left to do? How could this situation possibly get any worse?

The moment she thought these words, Tessa wanted to scrub them out of her brain with steel wool and lye: what a stupid thing to think! Of course it could be worse! The simple act of thinking about the matter was guaranteed to make things worse; had she learned nothing? Braun was probably going to reduce her to a lump of screaming protoplasm on a barbecue or something equally horrific. And that raised an even more worrying matter: what if the neural interface with the simulation computer might actually allow Braun to read minds?

Tessa took a deep breath and did her best to steady her heartrate, lungs burning in protest as she did so: paranoia wasn't going to help her now. True, Braun could be anywhere, be anyone and do literally anything to her, but it wasn't going to help. She just had to sit tight, stay calm, and hope that the warranty on the Tranquillity Loungers ran out after two hundred years.

There was a muffled clatter of plates from the kitchen. In spite of herself, a smile crept back to Tessa's face: lunch was clearly almost ready, and while her simulated age meant that meals weren't as palatable as they'd been in the real world, anything was better than the things she'd had to survive on back in the D.C. scenario. A nice, home-cooked meal was a welcome change, especially when it was in the company of a friend.

So, it was something of an unpleasant surprise when Tim staggered out of the kitchen empty-handed, his forehead glazed with sweat and a sickly expression stamped on his pallid face.

"What's wrong?" she asked.

"I… I don't know… I feel really light-headed all of a sudden."

Blinking rapidly, he leaned out to brace himself against the wall; as he did so, his arm appeared to shift and change, the muscles on his long, brawny arms seeming to contract inwards, giving his limbs a strangely gawkish look. Before long, his fingers were going the same way, burrowing inwards into his palms, which in turn began to contract inwards.

He was shrinking, his body casting off one inch after another before Tessa's very eyes, his shoulders melting away like an ice-sculpture under the heat of a blowtorch, his clothes slowly swallowing him up as he shrank. In fact, it happened so slowly that it took a little while for Tessa to notice the subtle shift in his facial features and belatedly recognized that she'd been wrong: Timothy Neusbaum wasn't shrinking at all.

He was getting younger.

In a matter of seconds, he'd gone from his twenties to his late teenage years, dwindling steadily downwards into adolescence. As his musculature continued to shrivel into the scrawny physique of a bookish high-schooler and his height plunged ever lower, his skeletal structure shifted as well, his head seeming to bulge out of shape as he grew steadily closer to his childhood years. Before long, it was like watching a balloon being slowly and methodically deflated, every breath of air another year being drained out of him.

At first, Tim could only stare uncomprehendingly down at himself as he shrank from sixteen to fourteen, his clothes becoming baggier and baggier with every passing second; then he looked up with terror in his rapidly shifting eyes, his face going white with shock even as the very structure of his skull began to warp and melt.

"What's happening?" he squeaked, his voice cracking audibly as he re-entered puberty in reverse. "What's happening to me?!"

Tessa opened her mouth to admit that she didn't know, but quickly realized that this wasn't going to help Tim at all. Instead, she did her best to look calm, hoping it would be enough to keep him from panicking. "Just hang on a second," she told him. "Don't move, and it'll be okay."

She glanced across the room, waiting for a glimpse of the inevitable smirking face from around the corner.

"Okay, Braun," she called out. "You've had your fun: stop whatever you're doing and talk to me."

No response.

If anything, Tim appeared to regress even faster, losing another two years in the space of barely five seconds. "No, no, no!" he wailed, voice rising higher with every word. "This is wrong, this is all wrong! I only just got away from this! I'm supposed to be a grown-up now!"

As if in response, his pants – which had been getting looser and looser over the past minute – finally slipped free of his waist and flopped to the ground. Blushing a rich shade of garnet, Tim bent down to pick them up, the cuffs of his shirt dangling over his increasingly stubby fingers as he did so. By now, his clothes were enormous on his twelve-year-old frame, his shirt hanging off him like a smock, his ridiculously baggy pants sagging heavily over his boat-like shoes. More than anything else, he looked like a kid caught playing dress-up in his father's work clothes.

"Help me," he whimpered in the voice of a child. "Please, I'll do anything, anything at all – just stop this. I only just got away! I had a house of my own, a job, everything! It was bad enough going back to be with them, because I love my mother and everything but I can't stand the smothering! She never leaves me alone, and now it's going to be even worse! I don't want to be a kid, Miss Dithers! Please, help me!"

And with a thrill of horror, Tessa realized that Braun had allowed a tiny bit of Timothy Neusbaum's real memories to return, just so he could experience the full extent of the humiliation he was being subjected to – just so he'd understand exactly why this experience was so torturous.

Then, as if the experience couldn't have gotten any more excruciating, there was a knock at the door, and in walked George and Pat Neusbaum, neither of them at all concerned at the fact that their son was rapidly descending into his childhood years.

"Timmy!" exclaimed Pat. "There you are. Sorry to barge in on you like this, Miss Dithers, but this boy of ours really needs to keep an eye on the clock. It's time to come home for dinner, Timmy."

"And no leaving your meal half-finished this time," added George. "You're a growing boy, don't forget."

"I'm twenty-five!" Tim wailed.

"That's right, dear. You're a very twenty-five-ish nine years old. Now come along, Timmy, let's not bother the nice old lady a moment longer…"

"Would you please stop calling me that?! My name is Tim, not Timmy!"

"Not another word out of you, young man…"

For another thirty seconds, Tim grew steadily younger, pleading desperately for help that Tessa couldn't provide, trying to get his parents to understand that he was an adult, his voice growing higher and more panicked until he was finally sobbing in desperation. By the time his regression finally stopped, he couldn't be a day older than nine years of age: if he'd looked scrawny as an adult in the real world, now he looked downright waifish except for the subtle hint of baby fat to his tear-streaked cheeks, whilst his pants had finally crashed to the floor in a heap around his ankles, his shirt now dangling over his knees like a coat.

And then, just as it looked as if he was going to carry on arguing, Tim's face went slack.

The expression of fear and horror instantly disappeared, his tears drying in a matter of seconds without leaving so much as a single trace. Then his clothes began to change, every stitch of adult clothing suddenly oozing and flowing like molten wax, a solid mass of liquid fabric pouring itself up the length of his shrunken body to form new clothes in new colours: in a matter of seconds, his ludicrously oversized button-up shirt and pants had transformed into a child-sized t-shirt and shorts.

"What were we talking about?" he asked nobody in particular.

Then he blinked in surprise, as if finally regaining awareness of his surroundings, and smiled. "Oh, right," he blurted, a child in mind as well as body at last. "Sorry, Miss Dithers, but I gotta go. I'll be back again next week; see ya later!"

And then the three of them were gone, striding out the door and back into the depths of Tranquillity Lane, completely oblivious to the fact that anything had been different…

…leaving Tessa alone.

Presently, she rose from her chair...

...and promptly found herself face-to-face with something out of a nightmare.

If there was one cliché in fiction that Tessa couldn't stand, it was the Creepy Kid, not just because it was annoying and overdone, but because it genuinely scared the hell out of her… and now there seemed to be an example of it standing right in front of her, all monochrome pigtails and gleaming bright eyes and a smile that looked as if it was ready to rip out her throat.

In the end, Tessa was so startled that she could only gasp in horror, gibbering, "Who… who are you?"

"Don't you recognize me, Miss Dithers?" the child giggled. "I thought you'd be used to this little game by now. I'm almost insulted you wouldn't know me through simple process of elimination: we're a small, exclusive club, and as you've seen all of them, there's only one member I could be."

There was a deathly pause, as Tessa finally realized who was standing before her, her heart hammering so violently she thought it might explode inside her chest.

"You're him," she whispered, horror-stricken.

"That's right," Braun purred, now in his own voice, ancient, hoarse, and incongruous emerging from the little girl's mouth. "I hope you enjoyed your time alone… because now the fun begins anew…"

Chapter 12: A Game Of Temptation And Torment

Summary:

The carrot and the stick are employed...

"Did you enjoy your spider, Timmy?"

"Ughgbllbbb."

"What was that? Finish eating it first, Timmy, and don't talk with your mouth full, that's rude."

"Ulp. Yes, Betty."

"No complaints, then?"

"None, Betty."

"And you're not going to answer back again, are you?"

"No, Betty."

"And what are you going to tell your mommy about that nose of yours?"

"… I fell?"

"Good, good! Glad you were listening. Now run along and get some rest: we'll have a lot more games tomorrow morning!"

---

Once again, Tessa heard the sound of Timmy crying long before she saw him.

She already knew where he'd be, even before she hauled herself out of her armchair and made the long, knee-pummelling journey all the way to the front door: he'd be cowering in the bushes, sobbing helplessly and trying to hide himself from Betty – for even though she was done with him by now, he couldn't escape the fear that she'd soon follow him out of the park and begin tormenting him all over again.

Pushing the door open as gently as she could, Tessa found everything as expected.

As always, she invited Timmy inside, just so he'd have a chance to vent, to calm his nerves and catch his breath; and even though he knew her only as the neighbourhood lunatic, Timmy always accepted her offer, because spending the afternoon hidden away in crazy Old Lady Dithers' house was better than being out in the open. As Timmy had explained, his parents wouldn't allow him to hide indoors all day; no, they insisted that he spend plenty of time outdoors in the fresh air (not realizing that "outdoors" was a meaningless concept in the simulation and "fresh air" totally unattainable). Worse still, they didn't believe him when he told them about how mean Betty was: their personalities had been altered, and now sported a colossal blind spot – at least as far as the creepy little girl without parents or family was concerned.

And so, with no-one else to turn to, Timothy Neusbaum came here. And Tessa was always there to help him, to hug him, to dry his eyes and lyingly assure him that everything was going to be alright. On occasion, she even revealed a little of the truth to him, one afternoon revealing that he'd once been a grown-up, on another that Tranquillity Lane was nothing but a dream. She knew that he wouldn't believe her and Braun would soon erase all memory of the conversation anyway, but she didn't care: if it kept his mind off being bullied, she'd tell him anything.

Besides, even if their conversations were totally fruitless, Tessa was grateful for the company.

But as she cradled Timothy in her withered arms, hugging him close as he bawled and screamed and pleaded to know why Betty was so mean to him, Tessa's mind always drifted back to the question - the same dreadful question that had lurked in the back of her head ever since her imprisonment had begun:

When will it end?

---

Braun looked out upon the gleaming monochrome paradise of Tranquillity Lane, and sighed in contentment as he surveyed his handiwork.

He'd never thought it would have been even vaguely probable to find so much joy in a single scenario, but to his delight, he'd proved himself wrong. As Betty, with all the nostalgia of Elizabeta and all the consequence-free pleasures of his own youth at his command, he was happier than he could have possibly imagined.

After all, nobody suspected anything of him, not even when little Timmy stumbled home with a bloody nose and soiled underwear: who could imagine that a sweet little girl could inflict such atrocities on a daily basis? He barely had to erase memories anymore – unless of course he needed to kill everyone off, and by now, he'd restrained himself to no more than a single massacre per month.

And astonishingly enough, he'd managed to find new ways to milk even more enjoyment out of the program!

In the last few months, he'd tweaked things in the simulation ever so slightly, adjusting the physical aspect of his captives to make them more idealized while altering their personalities in uniquely unsavoury ways. In much the same way that he'd made Timothy a good-hearted dunce before rendering him down into Betty's favourite punching bag, he'd given everyone a makeover.

He'd made George and Pat Neusbaum younger, the better to coincide with Timmy's new age, though he'd kept George's bald patch. George was now a caricature of a sitcom father, a good-hearted, flawless authority figure, totally oblivious to how powerless he was. Pat was a sweet-natured non-entity, an ephemeral mockery of her former self, clucking like a mother hen over her beloved son without ever really helping him and smothering him whenever he cried for help. The two talked, but never about anything meaningful, and when they argued, it was only for the sake of enacting another one of Braun's funny ideas. From time to time, their true personalities rioted in a panic of unconscious emotions, horrified at being so grotesquely distorted, but their conscious minds only perceived this as a vague sense of disquiet; they knew that something was wrong, but couldn't say what.

He'd prettied up Roger and Janet Rockwell, smoothed out their rough edges, trimmed Roger's straggly beard and added some curves to Janet's bony frame. By way of compensation, he'd taken their playfully argumentative marriage and transformed it into a living hell: under the influence of the memories he'd given them, the two were always at each other's throats, one always accusing the other of marital infidelity. In one iteration, he'd convinced Roger that Janet had been carrying on an affair with both George Neusbaum and Bill Foster, and watched as Mr Rockwell's impotent rage slowly drove him to madness; in another iteration, he'd invented a past relationship between Roger and Martha, and hinted to Janet that Roger was in the process of rekindling it – just so he could watch as Janet's suspicions gradually swallowed her life whole. Either way, their subconsciousness screamed in protest at the distortion, a banquet of unconscious terror that Braun glutted himself on at every opportunity. The moves changed, but the game remained the same.

As for Martha, he'd taken a simple approach for a simple mind: he'd made her even prettier, to be sure, upgraded her appearance to make her look more like a classic movie star – Marylin Munroe, Rita Hayworth, and Marlene Dietrich all rolled into one glorious hybrid, at once sensual and perfectly wholesome. He'd also made her more passive, so she'd never be able to reason with those who loved and despised her; in the process, he'd made her an object for Roger to lust over and a target for Janet to despise – even though her new biography told her that she and Janet had once been friends. She didn't panic often, but when she did, the delights of her subconscious torment were subtler and far more delicate by far, best savoured slowly, the better to take in her growing confusion.

For the sake of making Tranquillity Lane as picturesque as possible, he'd quite literally trimmed the fat and given Mabel a sleeker character model. He'd erased all memory of her independence, her career as a proper chef, her hidden anxieties and doubts, and made her a happy resident of the virtual neighbourhood as only he could. She was now a jolly-hearted busybody, a gossip, a sneak, a thoughtless rabblerouser obliviously stirring discontent among the playthings at Braun's direction; for good measure, he'd also made her a classic suburban cook, the winner of the "Tranquillity Lane's Finest Meat Pie" award three times running (nevermind the fact that no such award existed and no institution existed to give it to her anyway). How she whimpered in bewilderment deep inside her unconsciousness, her waking mind unable to fathom why she was so nervous!

Bill Foster was now everyone's favourite patriotic handyman, always whistling some familiar American ditty: "Hail Columbia," "Stars And Stripes," "The Washington Post", "The Battle Hymn of the Republic," "The Star Spangled Banner…" If the sun was in the sky, he was whistling as he worked – or singing, usually one of the more recent odes to America's greatness in the face of Armageddon. His confidence was so unshakable, he didn't even notice that Braun hadn't given him a place to live: Foster had no house on Tranquillity Lane, and therefore his home address didn't really exist. When the time came for his work in the neighbourhood to leave, he would disappear into the mythical realm of "a few blocks away" until the next morning. It wasn't often that Bill's unconsciousness took note of such incongruities, but Braun always kept half an eye on him, just to make sure that he could take in the full amusing spectacle of his hindbrain lighting up like a Christmas tree soaked in gasoline.

In the meantime, he had Timmy. And Timmy was always afraid, always guilty, always nervous, always overflowing with a rich blend of self-doubt and misery. He was Braun's favourite toy, now, and in the guise of Betty, he was always careful to vary his approach – one moment soft and deceptively calm, the next minute howling at the top of his lungs and exploding with indiscriminate violence – just to make sure that Timmy never had a chance to feel safe when the two of them were alone together. And when the time finally came to slaughter the population of Tranquillity Lane… once again, he left Timmy for last.

Now, though, Braun was interested in trying something new. He wanted to test the limits of participation; he wanted to see if it was possible to make his playthings join his revels of their own accord, to become as he was of their own free will with full knowledge of the simulation and no restrictions on their personalities. And as luck would have it, he had the perfect candidate.

After all, Dithers had done so little in the last few weeks: she'd spent so many days stumbling haplessly around the neighbourhood, looking for the failsafe terminal and trying vainly to alert the rest of the population to the simulated nature of their lives (only making herself look even crazier in the process). It wouldn't be easy to persuade her to join his revels… but perhaps, if he could borrow a bit from her sketches, it might be possible. And if it didn't work, and Dithers refused to accept his offer no matter how hard he pushed her, he'd be generously compensated by driving her a little closer to drooling insanity.

Either way, it'd be fun.

---

"Tessa?"

Somewhere under a chrysalis of blankets, Tessa Dithers groaned and rolled over, eyes remaining steadfastly shut. Even barely half-awake as she was, she still knew that she rarely got enough sleep to stay coherent throughout the day, and she couldn't afford to waste any of it at this time of night. Right now, she didn't care if Braun would punish her for not waking up promptly enough; she was too exhausted to give much of a damn anymore.

"Tessa, are you alright? You were crying in your sleep."

She was aware of warm arms gently encircling her body, cradling her with an intimacy that she hadn't felt in years. Soft lips kissed her left ear, whispering sweet nothings that threatened to draw Tessa ever-closer to full consciousness; there was something oddly familiar about that voice, she realized, something recognizable and yet alien to her mind.

And why didn't her hip hurt anymore? Why didn't her back ache? Why didn't her wrinkled old skin itch when the phantom hands touched them? Why did she feel perfectly comfortable in this bed, when it usually took half the night for the pain in her arthritis-ridden joints to fade just enough for her to get some sleep?

"Come on, Tess," the voice wheedled. "You can't lie there and pretend you're not upset all night; let's sit up and talk about it. You know you can tell Marcie anything…"

Suddenly, Tessa was wide awake, and as her eyes took in the world around her, several dozen realizations hit her at once:

First, she was no longer in the bedroom of her house on Tranquillity Lane; instead, she was lying amidst a mass of silk sheets and plush velvet pillows in what could only be a five-star hotel bedchamber.

Secondly, she was no longer an ancient, centennial crone with screaming joints, a crooked back and skin ablaze with shingles. No, she was a sprightly fifty, and though Tessa wouldn't have called herself drop-dead gorgeous per se, the sight of her rejuvenated face in the mirror across from the bed was a more-than-welcome sight.

Thirdly, a familiar figure was lying in bed next to her, naked except for the bedsheets. Her face was still in shadow, but there was no mistaking her profile even in this gloom: the defiant jut of the chin, the button nose, the welcoming smile… and there was certainly no mistaking the way that Tessa's heart skipped a beat at the sight of her.

"Marcie?" she whispered. "Is it really you?"

"Who else would it be? Don't you remember last night? You'd better, or else I'm cutting the wine rations…"

Good god, she even had Marcie's teasing sense of humour. But could this really be her? How could this have happened?

Perhaps Tessa had died, and this was her heaven, the chance to live forever with the woman she'd loved and lost over two hundred years ago. Maybe her mind had finally cracked under the sheer weight of all the horrors that Braun had inflicted on her, and this place existed only in her fevered imagination. Maybe this was some new torture Braun had cooked up, just so he could plunge her back into hell just when she was in reach of everything she'd ever wanted… but if that was the case, how would he have brought Marcie here? Braun had never met her, and unless the simulator could extract memories directly from her brain, he'd have no way of recreating her.

But could it be possible that she'd been dreaming all along? Had the last few centuries – her dismissal, her breakup with Marcie, the end of the world, the descent into Vault 112 and her eternal damnation in Braun's virtual hell – had it all been nothing more than a nightmare? She'd spent so long wishing that she could just wake up; had she finally escaped into reality?

"Marcie," she whispered, "What day is it?"

A playful giggle issued from the shadows. "October 25th, 2070, silly. Are you really telling me you're forgetting all the work we've done on this year's Halloween party?"

For some reason, Tessa couldn't suppress a distinctive pang of unease at the sound of her voice, for once again it seemed perfectly familiar and yet completely alien; in some ways, it was an exact replica of the voice that Tessa had known and loved for every day of their relationship, but in others, it was the voice of a complete stranger.

And for every word of it she heard, Tessa felt even worse: she wanted this to be real, and she wanted the woman lying naked next to her to be the real Marcie, but after so long spent being toyed with by Braun, she couldn't bring herself to trust in what might just be another illusion. She couldn't bring herself to hope that it had all been an illusion.

"How did we get here?" she whispered, not wanting to hear the truth.

"We fell in love. How else? And if this is about how we ended up in this hotel room, well… don't you remember what happened two days ago?"

Now there could be no doubt: this wasn't Marcie's voice at all. Fear flooding her, Tessa reached for lamp on the bedside table, groped for the switch and hastily flicked it on – bathing the room in a harsh yellowish glow, and finally granting her an uninterrupted look at her bedmate.

In some ways, the woman lying beside her was very similar to Marcie: she had the same nose, the same jawline, the same cast to her face, the same build, the same breasts… and yet here and there, some features didn't seem to fit: the hands looked as if they'd been borrowed from a shop-window mannequin; there were no freckles on her cheeks; her hair was the wrong colour, the lips too full and luscious; her eyes were too dark, too languid, her gaze a half-lidded come-hither stare that the real Marcie had never worn in all the days they'd been together. Frankly, she'd been too exuberant to bother with seeming seductive. If anything, this looked like a mock-up, a replica based on a half-forgotten description, with all the missing elements filled in with generic elements like an identikit facial composite.

Finally, Tessa realized what was wrong: this imposter's appearance had been modelled off the sketches she'd drawn back in Tranquillity Lane, and though she had improved significantly since her early attempts, they still couldn't quite convey all the details of a real, living person. In much the same way, the voice and mannerisms could have only been based on the days when Tessa had been bored and lonely enough to talk to herself; while she could mimic Marcie's voice and personality, she couldn't recreate it exactly, hence why this replica sounded so familiar and yet so alien.

And from there, it didn't take the intellect of a genius to realize who this really was.

Braun grinned smugly, the expression horribly out of place on Marcie's pleasant features. "It took you long enough, didn't it?" he chortled. "My, my, if you could only see your face."

"Get out," Tessa hissed.

She was well aware that she should be terrified, and more importantly, that she should be minding her manners; after all, she was now sharing a bed with one of single most repugnant individuals in human history, and he had the power to inflict any form of pain imaginable on her at a moment's notice… and yet, the sight of Braun disguised so crudely as the woman she'd loved filled her with such rage that she couldn't bring herself to stay silent.

"Afraid I might try something untoward, naked as I am? Don't worry: you're not that desirable, not in that way at any rate. If I can be brutally honest with you, I've never really been interested in sex. No, what matters to me is that you're interested…"

"Get. Out. NOW."

"Oh, have I struck a nerve? Is this disguise beyond the pale, even by my usual standards? After two hundred years of torture, have I finally found the one thing that you can't stomach? Come on, Theresa. Thanks to the Vault computers, I have an up-to-date readout of all your vital signs: heartrate, blood pressure, body temperature, stress levels, brain activity… and because of that, I can tell exactly how you feel. You want this."

He ran a hand down Marcie's naked body, doll-like fingers weaving between her breasts and down her belly.

"You still want this, even though you know it's really me."

And though it hurt to acknowledge it even if it was only in the privacy of her own mind, Braun was right: ever since they'd been forced to part, ever since she'd been locked away in this virtual hellscape, Tessa's thoughts had always drifted back to Marcie sooner or later. Exhaustion, torture and despair had driven so many of these thoughts out of her head, but they couldn't quite erase that image, hovering forever in her memories like a ghost. Nor could she forget the days they'd spent together, and she certainly couldn't forget the moments of intimacy they'd shared. And now that this version of Marcie was here before her, even though she was just a poorly-rendered disguise for Braun to strut around in...

It's just the loneliness, she told herself. It's just loneliness, depression and grief. The brain's an imperfect machine with so many different chemical elements that can become unbalanced; you know this, damnit. Remember your training. You're a responsible adult and a qualified chemist, not the protagonist of an off-the-rack romance novel. You're not feeling this way because you actually want her, because she isn't Marcie, and you will not disgrace the real Marcie's memory by falling for this bullshit.

"What do you want?" she demanded.

"You know what I want. The same thing I've always wanted: entertainment. And it occurs to me that you could be of great help to me in my many games. After all, I can't erase your memory anymore, and for all intents and purposes, that puts us on a level footing. So why not take advantage? Why not see if we can… collaborate?"

Tessa's face contorted in disbelief. "Are you saying you want to become friends – after everything you've done to me?"

"Hardly. I'm simply proposing a mutually beneficial arrangement: if you play along with my games and follow my directions, then I'm prepared to reward you with certain… benefits. For a start, you'd be exempt from torture from now on, and you can remain in your own body: no more old age, no more physical distortion, no more pain. Continue to perform well, and I can alter your body in any way you desire: you be as young, beautiful and strong as you desire – or you can make a monster of yourself, if that's what you want. I can even make you just like Betty, should a second childhood sound especially interesting."

Braun's smile grew. "And for every game you complete, I'll give you an hour with Marcie to do with as you will. It doesn't even have to be me in disguise, either: I can perfectly replicate her as an independent program, and together, we can sculpt her behavioural patterns until she's exactly as you remember her."

And to her horror, Tessa actually found herself considering Braun's proposal; as much as she hated to admit it, the prospect of a life without pain was terrifyingly attractive, and the chance to be with a perfect recreation of Marcie filled her with such longing that she thought her heart might burst. It didn't even matter that the real Marcie was dead and had been so for centuries on end, as much as it hurt her to admit it; by now, Tessa just wanted someone to fill the loneliness, someone who she could be safe and loved with. Did it matter if she was just a computer program? After years of torture suffered under full awareness and decades more unremembered, hadn't Tessa earned a little solace in her misery? Didn't she deserve just a few minutes of happiness?

But she couldn't bring herself to answer. Even after all this time and all the despair she'd suffered, some semblance of shame still held her back: Braun had already rendered her down into a plaything for him to amuse himself with; she wouldn't lower herself any further by making herself his accomplice.

"It'll be light duties, too," Braun cajoled. "Nothing too disgusting, I promise you, nothing your conscience won't be able to forgive. For a start, all you have to do is make Timmy Neusbaum cry-"

"No."

"Oh, come now, it's not asking much-"

"Even if I was interested in accepting your offer – which I'm not, by the way – Tim's been through enough already!"

"But he hasn't, not really. All the tortures you think he's endured have never happened; they hold no presence in his memory, and if he can't remember them, they might as well have never happened at all. You forget how this works, Tessa: all I have to do is wave my hand, snap my fingers, and every moment of pain and suffering he experienced will have never been. So if you think about it, you're not going to be tormenting a child at all; you'll just be drawing lines in the sand, waiting for the tide to sweep it all away."

"And that's supposed to make me feel better? You think that's going to somehow going to make me okay with torturing the only friend I have left in this world?"

Braun rolled his eyes. "He's not your friend, Tessa. The version of him you met all those years ago is gone forever… but then, even before your previous history became redundant, who was he? Just some silly twenty-something you happened to meet in the middle of an international crisis; the only thing that brought you together was the war, and the only thing that made you comrades was the torture you suffered. You'd have nothing in common otherwise." His voice deepened suddenly, aging dramatically into Braun's real voice as he leaned over-so-slightly closer to her: "Besides, I can be a better friend to you than he ever could…"

Tessa wasn't sure what made her lose her temper: maybe it was the belittling of the relationship, or maybe it was the obscene sound of Marcie speaking with Braun's ancient sneer. All she knew was that she immediately recoiled, shoving him away with an enraged howl of "OUT!"

"You haven't heard my full proposal yet."

"GET OUT!"

The next shove sent Braun sliding off the edge of the mattress, Marcie's naked body tumbling into the shadows that still masked the floor with a muffled thud. Immediately, Tessa realized she'd just made a terrible mistake: if there was one thing that bullies hated, it was being made to look foolish – even if only their intended victim witnessed it – and tyrants seldom enjoyed shows of defiance. Braun was going to make her pay for her resistance, and with near-infinite methods at his disposal, she could only imagine just how long and how terribly he would make her suffer.

A moment later, Braun reappeared at the foot of the bed, now in Betty's childish form – fully clothed and smirking like a crescent moon.

"If you'd rather suffer, I have no objections," he purred. "You'll change your mind eventually: you might think it's easy to play the martyr for the sake of your only friend, but unfortunately, I have the advantage of time. Up until now, I've been astonishingly lenient with you, Tessa: I've only killed you once a month, left the real torture to the multitude of frailties inherent to your decrepit form. Now, though… I think it's time I gave you and the others a taste of the last two centuries, just so you know how bad it can get. Maybe then, once you've realized just how much better things could be if you cooperated, you'll be prepared to listen."

He turned to leave, but at the last minute, he added, "Oh, and since you don't appreciate being young again…"

Tessa instantly felt her body wither and gnarl with old age once again, her skin wrinkling and sagging as youthful elasticity faded away, her hair turning white, her joints bulging with arthritic swellings, her bones turning brittle, her teeth falling out one by one.

Then, just as the first hints of the old pain began to return as well, Braun strode over and calmly shoved the now-centennial Tessa off the bed, just violently enough for her to crash into the wall on her way down.

"Have a good evening!" he jeered, voice raised slightly over Tessa's screams.

And then he was gone, leaving her alone with her many broken bones.

---

The next day, things somehow got even worse.

Braun conducted his first massacre in nearly a month, and he made it last for the better part of eighty-seven hours: herding them into the basement of the Rockwell residence, he enhanced local gravity until it seemed to close in around them like a fist, slowly compressing the bodies of his playthings until they were finally rendered down into heaps of liquefied bone and meat. Worse still, he didn't kill them all at once; no, he merely applied enough gravity to leave all of them immobilized and in great pain, then singled out one victim out at a time – keeping them alive for hours on end, even keeping most of their blood vessels intact until their pulverized hearts finally gave up the ghost.

He even layered the walls with mirrors, just so the victims themselves would be able to see their faces crumpling into featureless gore.

And this time, Braun left Tessa for last, so she could watch him slowly pulping him down into slurry. He didn't say anything, not that he could have made himself heard over the sound of her bones imploding, but then he didn't need to. He'd made his message clear in no uncertain fashion:

Whatever you do to Timmy will be much better than what I'll do to him.

When it was all over and Braun had reset the scenario, Tessa found herself lurching back to reality on a bench on the side of Tranquillity Lane's only road, once again feeling as if she'd just been roused from a nightmare.

Braun was sitting next to her, smiling wider than ever.

"Changed your mind yet?" he asked, pleasantly. "Or are you going to be stubborn?"

Tessa didn't even dignify his response with a reply.

"That's fine," Braun purred. "I'll ask again tomorrow. Perhaps you'll be more amenable then..."

---

The next day, they awoke to spiders.

Spiders raining down from the sky, crawling out of the plugholes and faucets, gouting from the manholes, creeping under doors and windows, a black tide of hundreds upon thousands of spiders oozing into the houses and pouring themselves over the inhabitants. The first bite merely paralysed, leaving the playthings helpless as they were dragged into the spiders' gigantic webs and bound in cocoons of gossamer silk; the next liquefied their internal organs, reducing them to soup that the spiders greedily devoured.

Once again, Tessa was left for last so she could witness Timmy's agony. And this time, when the simulation reset and left her sitting on the bench with Braun by her side, Timmy ran screaming out of the Neusbaum house, bawling at the top of his lungs about spiders.

"I thought I'd let him keep his memories for once," Braun remarked. "Just so he'd appreciate the latest experience. Of course, if you were in charge of tormenting him, he wouldn't have to suffer such things. He'd go on living his happy childhood as if nothing had happened."

But he's not living a happy childhood, is he? He's only happy because you've brainwashed him into acting the part. And even that's just a hiatus between torture sessions, isn't it?

Of course, Tessa couldn't bring herself to say any of this out loud, but the anger must have shown on her face nonetheless, for Braun remarked, "I don't know why you're acting like I'm the one at fault here, Tess: you're the one who won't give him a lighter sentence. Making your little friend cry would be all I'd ask of you when it comes to Timmy. He'd be your favourite, exempt from all other forms of torture except for the odd quick jab at his emotions, and in return, you double your efforts with every other resident."

"My favourite?" echoed Tessa.

"Yes. Your pet, if you like – something to hug and cradle before you go to bed, something to substitute for a real child. If you like, I can make him even younger, just so you and Marcie can raise him as your own. After all, I've no doubt that you and your lover hoped to spend your lives together, even produce offspring together: if I program Marcie well enough, she'll be a wife to you in every way that matters, and a perfect mother to your adopted son."

"And what's supposed to happen to George and Pat once you've taken their son away from them?"

"Simple: I'll erase all memory of him, and it'll be as if they never had a child in the first place. I can easily grant them a substitute, programmed just well enough to act and respond as any child will, but you'll have a real child to raise – with all the personality inherent to a real, human psyche."

I honestly thought I'd already heard the worst from you, but somehow you still surprise me, Tessa thought.

"So, do you want to spend the rest of eternity being subjected to the most elaborate forms of execution that I can dream up, or as my part-time assistant, with the woman you love by your side and a family in the making?"

Tessa knew she shouldn't respond: Braun would replay even the slightest bit of backtalk by enhancing the torture a thousandfold… but right now, she was at her wit's end. Even if she secretly lived for the few moments of peace she had away from Braun's torture and the all-consuming chintz of Tranquillity Lane, she knew there'd be no point in trying to preserve them, not when Braun would gladly change the tempo of the torture on a whim. Right now, she'd bottled up too much anger to hold at bay.

"You don't understand love, Braun," she snapped, "so don't bother offering it to me even by proxy."

For the first time since they'd met in this form, Braun actually looked somewhat offended. "Oh, how little you know, Dithers," he sneered. "You had a brief affair with a receptionist, pined over her memory for every day of these last two hundred years, and somehow you think you understand the nature of love. That's not love, Dithers, that's just a childish obsession. I know what love is: I've experienced it firsthand."

"Let me guess: you stalked some unlucky girl for eight months, then cornered her in an underpass and stabbed her to death, then jacked off in her blood. I imagine that's your idea of a long-term relationship."

"Certainly not. We were together for the better part of twenty years: we grew up together, we hunted together, and we killed together. She taught me the ways of the world – how not to get caught, how to find joy without showing my true face, how to clean up when I was finished. We were intellectual equals, Theresa; can you say the same for a chemist and a receptionist? Believe me, Elizabeta and I enjoyed a deeper, purer love than any mild fling you've enjoyed."

"So you were a budding serial killer from an early age, and the only friend you could make was fellow psychopath."

"If you like. 'Psychopath' is an often-misused term, anyway, a buzzword used to draw the attention of the shallow and unintelligent: Elizabeta and I were liberated hedonists, pursuing delights that the plodding majority couldn't even imagine. Later, I parlayed the same drives and desires into a career as a liberated intellect, eventually leading me to the United States, a partnership with the US military, a position at Vault-Tec, stewardship of Vault 112, and the creation of this very simulation in which we now reside." He chuckled in the voice of a child. "So in many ways, if it hadn't been for sweet Elizabeta's loving tutelage, you and I might never have met."

Tessa didn't want to know more, not really, but her curiosity would never allow her to leave this question unanswered.

"And what became of this Elizabeta? Did you kill her, or…."

"No. You see, we knew each other's tricks off by heart at that stage, so it wouldn't have been anywhere near as fun as hunting a stranger. No, we were forced to part ways due to renewed police attention. By that stage, people knew there was a serial killer in Kronach; the authorities wouldn't be satisfied until they had someone collared, and with the resources they now had at their disposal, it was only a matter of time until one of us was caught. So we decided to play one final game: which of us could frame the other one first."

"…you're joking."

"I never joke when it comes to love. We agreed that if one of us could arrange enough damning evidence to have the other arrested for the murders, that would be the perfect end to our relationship. In the end, I was quicker than her: I found one of her old murder weapons and planted it in her kitchen, dumped a few severed fingers in her garden, then made an anonymous call to the police. Thus ends the tale of the Witch of Kronach. Last I saw her, she'd fully adjusted to prison life; she was even in the habit of sending me the odd Christmas Card for a while, before communications between Germany and the United States became unreliable. You see, Tessa, that's what true love is: the ability to accept the threat of capture or death for the sake of a relationship, and the willingness to sacrifice the other so that one might go free, to preserve what our friendship stood for."

And here it is, Tessa thought. Final and clinching proof that you are completely and totally insane. 

"And you want me to be like her, is that it?" she demanded out loud.

"Mein Gott, no! You're cursed with the same frailty of spirit as the rest of the world: you don't have the heart or the will or the stomach for my brand of amusement, Dithers. No, I'm only offering you a chance to be my servant instead of my prey. I'll reward you with freedom from my games, but I will not consider you an equal. In time, perhaps, you might develop the tastes and habits needed to approach my level… though I sincerely doubt it."

He smirked. "But that's another matter for another day. We'll have plenty of time to see how your character can change over the next few months – whether you take my offer or not."

---

Tessa spent the next twenty-four hours all but paralysed with terror, waiting for Braun to ambush her with the next round of torture, jumping at shadows and flinching at the slightest sound. Embarrassingly enough, it took her nearly double that length of time for her to realize that she was already being tortured, except that Braun's latest game involved an infinitely subtler form of torture commonly known as "diddly-squat."

More importantly, he'd done this many times back in virtual Washington, stringing them along with the constant fear of the next session for days on end until they were almost begging for the pain to begin anew. But as humiliating as it was to be fooled by the oldest trick in the book, she realized that an unprecedented opportunity had just landed squarely in her lap: in the past, Braun kept all of them together and under close watch. Now that they'd all been separated into houses of their own, it was logically impossible for him to watch them all at once.

A quick glance out the window confirmed that Betty was busy setting a trap for Tim outside the Neusbaum house, rigging the gardens with pitfalls and snares; he'd probably be busy for a little while, and as much as Tessa hated to see Timmy hurt all over again, it might just give her a chance to get some valuable work done.

Ever since she'd seen Braun use the failsafe terminal, she'd kept half an eye on him, praying that he'd have another occasion to use it in the dim hope she could distract him just long enough to sabotage the simulation. After a month, Tessa had seen neither head nor tail of the failsafe terminal… and yet, she had noticed Braun's periodic absences from the neighbourhood and after a little more observation, she'd seen where he went.

By now, everyone knew not to visit the old dark house north of the see-saw; home only to spiders and shadows, it had acquired an ominous reputation among the residents of Tranquillity Lane, most of whom didn't even want to cross the threshold of its tumbledown picket fence. Nobody even mentioned it if they could help it, and few people could even stand to look at it for longer than a split-second before averting their eyes in fear. Some couldn't even bring themselves to stand in its shadow when the sun was in the right position. And as for the prospect of going inside to investigate, none dared. As far as Tessa could recall, it had been Braun's home before he'd taken on the persona of Betty; now, common knowledge insisted it was abandoned and had been so for many years… and yet Tessa had seen Braun sneaking into the building more than once. As far as she could tell, the others simply couldn't perceive "Betty's" comings and goings, in much the same way that they couldn't notice the fact that she didn't have parents or a home of her own to return to.

Tessa didn't much fancy stepping into the lion's den, especially given the risk of Braun returning in mid-investigation, but if the Failsafe Terminal was hidden anywhere in Tranquillity Lane, it had to be in there.

As expected, the front door was locked. Fortunately, Tessa was nothing if not determined to make the best of the bobby pins in her possession: once she was certain that Braun was completely preoccupied with the business of making Tim suffer, she set to work on the lock, twisting and twiddling her bobby pins until the mechanism finally clicked open, allowing her to open the door and step inside – but not before she'd nearly thrown her back out while struggling with the sheer weight of the door itself.

Inside, the house was predictably filthy, dark and decorated with as many ominous touches to make it as uninviting as possible – stopping just short of typical fairground ghost-train trappings. In fact, it was so dark and disarrayed that she nearly tripped and fell on the assortment of garbage littering the floor, and she had to brace herself against the wall for every step of the journey through the house. However, judging by the way that the weird creaking floorboards and groaning timbers echoing across the house gradually increased in volume as she progressed towards the top of the stairs, she had to assume she was on the right track.

Unfortunately, after nearly twenty minutes of searching the upstairs bedrooms and bathrooms, Tessa found absolutely nothing that could even suggested the presence of a terminal. She even went as far as to crawl around on the floor in search of hidden switches, before finally admitting defeat. Either she'd been mistaken and Braun hadn't stored the terminal anywhere in the house, or she'd been tricked into looking in the wrong part of the building.

So, steadying herself for an awkward, stumbling journey down the stairs, she made her way back down to the front room, ready to begin searching again… only to be brought up by a familiar face looming out of the darkness.

Braun was sitting on the couch, half-hidden in the shadow, his impish little face alive with glee and hatred. He smiled up at her, an obscene grin that looked horribly out-of-place on a child, his perfect white teeth gleaming in the darkness, and without saying a word, mockingly tapped his wrist.

Tessa didn't wait to see what he'd do next: she simply ran for the exit as fast as her ancient, creaking legs could carry her. Somehow, she managed to weave her way around the obstacles littering the floor without tripping over any of them, swung the door open with another muscle-tearing wrench that all but dislocated her shoulder, and all but leapt out onto the front steps.

Unfortunately, she'd forgotten how quickly the door shut.

No sooner had she tottered to a stop, the front door swung closed, catching her square in the back and sending her tumbling facefirst to the ground. She caught a brief glimpse of the front path rushing up to meet her and had just enough time to raise her hands to shield herself before she crashed headlong into the concrete flagstones with a bone-splintering crunch.

Her hands immediately erupted in pain as the impact rippled down her arms and along her spine, the skin tearing, the bones of her fingers shattering, her wrists fracturing and crumpling beneath her. But that was nothing compared to the sledgehammer blow to the chest or the nerve-jangling chop to the kneecaps she suffered as local gravity gave an almighty lurch that sent her toppling down the garden path at an impossible angle. She later learned that she'd broken most of her ribs, along with her arms, her kneecaps, her ankles, and both her hips… but for the time being, all she knew was that she was in agony.

For nearly an hour, Tessa lay on the front path in a puddle of blood and piss, unable to move and unable to scream. Eventually, Braun allowed the others to notice her and she was awkwardly hauled back home to her bed, where she was to remain until such time as her bones healed – or Braun reset the simulation.

Then, just as she thought the situation couldn't possibly get any worse, it started to rain. And directly above her head, a leak formed in the roof, and began disgorging a slow but steady flow of water onto Tessa's undefended head – one drip at a time. But of course, she couldn't move out of the way or cover her face, not without her shattered bones erupting in pain all over again.

And at every window and every door stood Marcie's grinning digital image, now polished and perfected until she was almost indistinguishable from the genuine article. Unlike Braun's crude attempt at seduction, these replicas were fully clothed, most of them dressed in the same outfits that the real Marcie had preferred at home and at work. But worst of all was the fact that every single one of them was backdropped by a wall of rippling flame, the searing heat of a nuclear blast roaring across the windows and down the corridor: one by one, each image of Marcie was devoured by the flames, their hair and clothes burning away, their skin crisped to a brittle black shell, their eyes oozing out of their sockets like egg yolks, their flesh reduced to so much charred meat, until at last they were nothing more than blackened skeletons wreathed in the fire that had killed them… and somehow they were still talking.

"Don't you want to be happy, Tessa?" they whispered. "Don't you want to be with us?"

Tessa couldn't bring herself to answer. All she could do was lie there in agony – with the never-ending drip raining down on her head and the visions of the woman she'd once loved burning alive in every corner of the room – and try valiantly not to scream, if only because she didn't want to give Braun the satisfaction.

But of course, she didn't succeed.

She never succeeded.

---

Months went by and the massacres went on.

Tessa healed, was wounded once more, healed again, was killed outright and brought back to life – and so the dreary cycle went on. Every time it happened, she found her grip on her composure slip a little further, until by now it was all she could do to walk down the street without screaming. Sleep was not possible these days: the sensation of unreality had grown so great that she simply couldn't relax, and the nerve-grating music didn't help. All too often, she slept wherever she fell, a terror-stricken, dreamless slumber that always ended with Braun kicking her awake.

Timothy no longer came to her for comfort: Pat now refused to allow Tess anywhere near her darling boy, having declared her "a bad influence". Now there was no escape for Tessa from the isolation unless Braun came to torment her personally, and no respite for Timmy in his growing anxieties – except for his father's boisterous entreaties to "man up" and his mother's cloying embraces.

Bereft of anything better to do, Tessa had tried many times to find the failsafe terminal, and on every single occasion, she'd come up empty, in part because she was too scared to explore for long in case Braun caught her in the act again. She could only to investigate for about a minute at a time before hastily ducking out the door, and on every visit, she couldn't shake the feeling that Braun was rearranging the furniture just so finding the terminal would be just a tiny bit harder. In desperation, she'd searched every other corner of the neighbourhood for any sign of the terminal, but nothing that might have been a control panel or a key panel presented itself anywhere.

In her off-hours, Braun would taunt her in any way he could. Tessa was certain that he'd lost interest in hiring her weeks ago, and was only needling her in the hope that she'd give in and accept his offer, just so he could turn her down.

"Why are you still looking, Dithers?" he would whisper in her ears as she struggled to sleep. "By now, there's no chance you'll ever be able to escape even if you figure out how to use the terminal: your body has been sustained and preserved by your Tranquillity Lounger for decades of uninterrupted physical dependency; without those life-support systems in place, you'll die the moment you try to step outside the Lounger. So really, what do you intend to achieve?"

Tessa never had an answer for this. She couldn't bring herself to answer back anymore, much less reply. But nonetheless, she went on walking and searching, even though she knew she might never find anything, even though she knew that finding the failsafe might be completely pointless.

She had to keep searching – or else she would collapse, weeping, into insanity.

But it was on her latest journey across her neighbourhood, with her eyes to the ground and her slippered feet shuffling along at less than half a mile an hour, that she happened to noticed Braun standing alone in the central garden, staring up at the sky.

"I've just received an automated alert from the Vault's computer," he remarked absently. "One of the unoccupied Tranquillity Loungers has just been activated."

A wicked grin spread across his childish face. "It seems we have an uninvited guest…"

Chapter 13: An Uninvited Guest

Summary:

A stranger walks the streets of Tranquility Lane...

James couldn't believe his luck.

Good fortune of this calibre was a rare thing out in the Capital Wasteland, especially for a man travelling alone, and James had little reason to suspect that his endeavours were blessed in any way.

Besides, Catherine had been the true believer of the marriage, the one who'd read the Bible and accepted it as truth; to her, there was no question of there being a loving, benevolent God, but merely of how best to do His work on Earth. For his part, James had been ambivalent, neither devout nor apostate in his approach toward his wife's beliefs; even Catherine's untimely death had done little to sway him in either direction, for even in his grief, he'd been a realist: he'd known that the Wasteland was a hard, cruel, and horribly unfair place, and if God was real, the sorrows of the world were beyond His power.

But after five strokes of astronomical good luck in a single day, James couldn't help but wonder if someone on high might just be smiling on his work.

Not only had he made it to the west of Evergreen Mills without being ambushed by a single gang of raiders, not only had Smith Casey's Garage still been standing and untouched, but he'd actually managed to uncover the entrance to the Vault and unlock the gate.

And that had only been the beginning of his good fortune.

When he'd first heard of Vault 112, he'd heard nothing specific of its layout, operating schedule, population, or why it had never opened, so he'd no idea what to expect of it. In fact, when he'd discovered that the gate was still locked and the Vault had been left undisturbed for over two hundred years, James had initially expected to find nothing but devastation – tunnels flooded by groundwater, radiation oozing through every hallway, electrics devoured by burrowing vermin, computers collapsed into inert junk after years left unattended, and the populace reduced to a few scattered bones. After all, if Vault 112 had remained undiscovered after all these years and no inhabitants had ever emerged from it to join the Wasteland population, it'd be perfectly reasonable to assume that the shelter had fallen.

And yet, somehow the Vault was not only completely intact, but still operational after two centuries! Somehow, functional robobrains still patrolled the corridors; machinery still hummed and purred throughout the complex. Even the lights were still on, for godsakes.

To his continued astonishment, there were people still alive within the Vault, not merely the descendants of those who first interred themselves within the bowels of the earth all those years ago, but the original inhabitants. Somehow, this Vault had successfully preserved its inhabitants in suspended animation, and – after studying some of the computer terminals at work around the slumbering residents' pods – he'd found that their minds were still active and interconnected via the Vault's computer!

It was then that the fifth and greatest stroke of luck occurred: checking the register of the inhabitants, he'd found none other than Stanislaus Braun himself, still preserved in a pod in the Overseer's office.

All this time, James had expected to find nothing more than a few dusty old holotapes, journals, schematics, official memoranda, maybe even a few experiment logs if he was really lucky; the thought that he might actually find Braun himself, alive and well, simply hadn't occurred to him. The sheer odds against such a thing happening transcended the astronomical range and entered the cosmic: in his time scouring the depths of pre-war bunkers and laboratories, James had uncovered countless records of prospective residents who'd never made it to the Vaults that had accepted them, either because they'd failed to heed the alarms or simply due to being stuck in traffic. By all rights, Braun would have died without ever reaching Vault 112, to say nothing of the innumerable possibilities of malfunctions, break-ins, structural collapses and equipment failures. But somehow, Braun had survived the past two centuries, and his genius was within reach!

James wouldn't need to go digging through old records in search of the information he required: all he needed to do was interface with the computer and ask Braun in person! The secrets of the Garden of Eden Creation Kit were just a few simple questions away, and that was only the beginning: so many secrets of the Pre-War world could be illuminated now, maybe even enough to successfully replicate some of the great technological wonders of the 21st century. Braun's knowledge could bring about a renaissance great enough to restore humanity to its former glory, and all James needed to do was secure an interview with him.

Best of all, the overly-patient robobrains had already offered him a Vault 112 jumpsuit and extended him a place in one of the "Tranquillity Loungers," presumably the computer interface.

True, they'd mistaken him for a Vault resident that had somehow arrived a couple of centuries late, so enough time had elapsed for minor faults to emerge in their logic processers, but James wasn't about to look a gift horse in the mouth.

So, as soon as he'd finished changing into the specially designed jumpsuit, he took a seat inside the nearest empty lounger and made himself comfortable, his mind buzzing with all the possibilities of what meeting the greatest genius of the pre-War era might be like.

As the canopy began to close over him, however, a faint nagging doubt crept from the back of his mind and began joggling for attention… and as soon as James began to think about it, more questions began occurring to him: what had Braun been doing here? Why hadn't any of the residents left? If the computer was advanced as he suspected it was, it should have been able to notify the residents when it was safe for them to return to the surface, so why were Braun and his compatriots still here?

James gave himself a little shake as the monitor unfolded in front of him. Why was he worried now of all times? He'd restarted Project Purity without getting murdered by Super-Mutants; he'd outfoxed the raiders at Evergreen Mills; he'd even uncovered this very Vault. The worst was over, and any questions that nagged on him would be answered in a matter of minutes – if not seconds.

He was about to meet one of the greatest visionaries in human history. What the hell did he have to worry about besides embarrassing himself?

And then the needles slithered into his brain, and he worried no more.

---

A visitor.

After two hundred years of undisturbed runtime and one brief intrusion by a burglar, Vault 112 had its first proper visitor, a true uninvited guest on Tranquillity Lane.

Braun had no idea what this interloper hoped to achieve by interfacing with the simulation, but until such time as he knew what they intended, he would remain hidden. For now, the fact that the robobrains hadn't reduced the intruder to smouldering embers was a good enough sign that he wasn't intending to plunder the Vault; plus, according to his terminal, all the robobrains were still online, so the visitor presumably hadn't come with violent intentions.

Yes, he would watch, wait, and ask questions where necessary.

Perhaps this newest development would bring further entertainment to Tranquillity Lane; after all, if Dithers wouldn't participate in his games, maybe the intruder would. And maybe, just maybe there'd be something more promising about this one, something he'd been missing…

Of course, the last thing he wanted was for his favourite nuisance to contaminate the new arrival's experience with unwanted bias, so almost as an afterthought, he casually teleported Dithers back to her house and sealed every single door and window shut.

Only once he had finished soundproofing the walls and shuttering the windows did he finally relax, sit down on one of the swings, and wait eagerly to watch the show unfold…

---

The first thing James knew was an all-pervading shade of grey.

It was as if he was awakening from a long sleep, bleary-eyed, dazzled by the sun and unable to distinguish the world around him from his own closed eyelids. But eventually, the grey began to resolve into individual shapes – vehicles, buildings, trees, even people – until an entire landscape had materialized before him. But oddly enough, the grey itself never faded; no matter how he tried to force his eyes to adjust to the bewildering light, the picture before him stubbornly refused to take on the usual range of colours. Then…

James blinked in confusion. This was not what he'd expected.

For the next few seconds, he could only stare poleaxed at the world around him, trying valiantly to make sense of what he was seeing. At first, things made a moderate amount of sense: he was sitting on a wooden bench before a stretch of road… but the moment he took in the rest of the scenery, everything became completely unrecognizable. The neighbourhood around him simply wasn't possible in the world he'd known: the houses were intact, without a single broken window to be seen; the lawns lush and well-mown; the trees stood tall, their branches thick with leaves; the cars were brand-new and buffed to a gleaming finish. There was even a garden in the middle of the roundabout, a garden complete with a seesaw, a slide, and a swing set! And there were people wandering the neighbourhood, too...

In fact, the sight alone was so baffling that it took James a little while to notice the strange music that seemed to be emanating from everywhere at once. He'd heard plenty of 21st-century music courtesy of Galaxy News Radio and a multitude of other radio stations across the American Wastes in his time, but never in all his years had he heard anything like this jaunty, wordless tune. And that was hardly the only strange thing about this place: the lack of colour, the fact that the load stretch of road lead in a complete circle, the lack of any exit from the cul-de-sac – all adding up to a profoundly unusual neighbourhood.

Eventually, the sound of birdsong startled him out of his stupor, and he forced himself to take stock of things: this was obviously virtual reality, but why would anyone bother simulating this place?

When he'd seen the pods connected to the Vault computer via neural links, he'd imagined the legendary sorcerer-scientist to be exploring the realms of pure intellect, conducting purely theoretical experiments made real through digital simulations; he hadn't expected Stanislaus Braun to be wasting time replicating 21st-century suburban neighbourhoods. But then, maybe he'd expected too much from someone who'd been in suspended animation for the past two centuries. All the same, he couldn't deny that the sheer detail and resolution on display was incredible, though he doubted its current usage was entirely valid.

Sighing, he got to his feet and decided to take a look around the neighbourhood. As far as he could tell, the simulator had replicated his Vault suit, Pip Boy, and other gear perfectly, so he didn't feel in any danger – but then, even if he hadn't been armed, what was there to fear? None of this was real, after all.

So, he set off down the street, trying not to feel out-of-place as the residents seemed to notice him for the first time.

To his confusion, the immediate response to him wasn't curiosity, surprise, or even anger at being disturbed, but one of profound indifference: as soon as he got within arm's reach, they would mutter a few noncommittal hellos, ignore his handshakes, and refuse to answer any of his questions. They didn't even respond when he explained that he was from the real world and the surface was safe to traverse (more or less). This ambivalence seemed uniform across all eight of the residents he encountered, as if they'd been trained to respond that way; even the little boy at the lemonade stand only eyed him strangely.

Come to think of it, that was another strange element: why was there a child in this simulation? From what James had seen of the residents, they'd all been adults.

And why had he only seen eight residents in this simulation? He'd counted nine occupied pods, plus one in the Overseer's quarters. Which of them was Braun? Was he and the other missing resident hidden away in one of the houses, unwilling to greet the new arrival? And why was everyone so blasé about a visitor to this simulation? Surely this would be an earth-shattering occurrence, given that these people hadn't seen any new faces for over two centuries.

James pondered this as he wandered aimlessly across the cul-de-sac, drifting towards the park at its centre. Maybe this was some psychological effect of being immersed in virtual reality for so long, or perhaps a reaction to being trapped in a closed community; after all, he had witnessed the way that highly insular societies refused to allow even the vaguest interaction with the outside world. Perhaps Vault 112 had become as cloistered as Vault 101… or perhaps they'd gone even further and descended into solipsism, refusing to acknowledge that there was a world outside this simulation. Or maybe-

"Are you lost?"

James froze in mid-step and turned to follow the source of the voice. The speaker was a small girl, somewhere in the range of nine to ten years old from the looks of things, her skinny face stamped with a look of deepest curiosity… and beneath that, a faint hint of suspicion.

Once again, James could only wonder at why there were children in the simulation when all the Vault residents in the real world had adults; perhaps there were more of them hidden away on the lower floors, where he hadn't explored yet. That might explain it… but if this girl had been a child when the bombs had fallen, then why did she still manifest herself as a child within this simulation? If this place had been equipped to accommodate human beings of all ages, surely there must have been some means of virtual aging, just to allow the poor children at least a substitute for a normal life.

Belatedly realizing that the child was waiting for a reply, he gave himself a little shake and answered, "No, no, I'm just exploring. It's a little hard to get lost in a place like this."

"You look lost."

"Excuse me?"

"You might not be lost in the neighbourhood, but you look lost in your own head. You look as if you don't know where you're going and what you're doing. But you shouldn't be lost in your thoughts: you're on Tranquillity Lane, and like you said, Mister, it's hard to get lost here."

She smiled, an oddly rehearsed-looking smile that seemed distinctly reminiscent of animated children in old cartoons.

"Everyone's found on Tranquillity Lane."

"Is that what you call this place?"

She nodded.

"How long have you been here?"

The child blinked innocently. "As long as everyone else."

"And you've never wanted to leave in all that time? Not even to explore?"

"Nope. Nothing out there worth exploring, not when we've got everything we need here."

She drew a stick of gum from her pocket and began chewing. "My name's Betty," she said at last. "What's yours?"

James offered a reassuring smile, hoping that he'd found someone who might be willing to answer his own questions.

"I'm James," he replied, extending his hand for a shake.

The girl ignored it, instead busying herself with inflating a bubble roughly the size of her head.

Inwardly, James sighed. And here I was, thinking I knew how to talk to kids. Well, I knew how to talk to one – not so much the other Vault kids. God only knows that Matty would be shaking his head in disappointment right now, but-

No, don't think about that, he reminded himself furiously. Thinking about Matthias will only make you feel worse. You can't go back, now: you've got your work to think of, and you've got the welfare of the entire population to think of. More to the point, Matty doesn't need you; he's a grown man, and besides, he's still in Vault 101. He's perfectly safe, so just focus on the mission at hand.

As he sheepishly withdrew his hand, Betty glared imperiously at him and asked, "What brings you to Tranquillity Lane, James?"

Was it his imagination, or was there a subtle hint of mockery in Betty's voice?

"Well, I'm looking for someone. Perhaps you've seen him around town, or maybe parents have heard of him: he goes by the name of Dr Stanislaus Braun."

Betty nodded. "I've seen the good doctor around. Keeps to himself, mostly. Sometimes he plays games, but he doesn't like to talk to the grown-ups unless he has to. Doesn't talk to the kids either. He's busy thinking up new games and doesn't like being disturbed."

"Could you help me find him?"

The girl shrugged. "Maybe. What do you want from him?"

"I was hoping to ask him some questions. In point of fact, I hoped he might be able to help me with something very important."

"And what's that?"

James took a minute to weigh his words, trying to assess what this strange child was capable of understanding; if she'd matured to adulthood without aging within the simulation, she might not be able to comprehend what he was talking about, assuming, of course, that his initial hypothesis was correct. In the end, he decided on utter transparency.

"It's called a GECK," he explained, "a Garden of Eden Creation Kit."

The girl eyed him curiously. James was certain she knew what he was talking about: he wasn't certain if she understood the full meaning of the term, but unless he was horribly wrong, she'd heard of the GECK before.

So, he continued: "I've been all over DC in the last month or so, everywhere from Vault 101 to Evergreen Mills and haven't seen it or anything like it, not even in the ruins of the Pentagon… but from what little I've learned, kits were sent to certain Vaults just before the start of the Great War, probably so they could terraform the outside world into something more liveable than irradiated deserts. I don't know if one was sent here, but that's not the point right now: the point is that I need to know just how powerful the GECK is, and Dr Braun might be the only expert left alive who could explain things to me."

"But what do you need the GECK for?" Betty demanded. "Why take so many risks just to ask how it works when you haven't found one and might never anyway?"

Of course, she had him there. He'd been taking extraordinary risks in the last few days: escaping from Vault 101, rambling from one end of the Capital Wastelands to the next, evading everything from raiders to Super-Mutants, and even risking electrocution whilst trying to wrangle the Jefferson Memorial's long-neglected electrical systems. Plus, he'd had to leave his only son behind for his own safety. But in the end, when faced with a mission as important as this, he was prepared to sacrifice a lot more for Project Purity.

"Because I'm trying to purify the Potomac River," he said at last. "Right now, the Capital Wasteland is barren and barely liveable; travellers die of thirst every day while journeying between villages, and countless settlers are poisoned by trying to drink tainted water from the ponds and streams. Radiation, cholera, and dysentery all make it an uphill struggle for new settlements to find footing out here, and even if someone can find a pure source of water or build a functional purifier, it's not long before slavers take it by force, then sell it back piecemeal for five hundred caps a bottle. But if I could combine the GECK with my rudimentary attempts at a purifier, I could cleanse the Potomac River itself: in a single stroke, I could provide drinking water for everyone in the Capital Wasteland, take the power away from the opportunists and profiteers, and make the area safe for future generations. And who knows? This could only be the first region in America to benefit from the process!"

Betty nodded thoughtfully. "Nice," she said. "Very nice. But what I don't understand is why you think Dr Braun would be interested in any of that."

This briefly threw James for a loop. "Well, from what I've learned, he's one of the greatest minds in pre-War America, if not the world. I mean, he's responsible for the creation of the very Vault you're living in at the moment, to say nothing of all the other technological innovations that have been credited to him. I would think that a visionary mind such as his would naturally consider the task of rebuilding the world to be worthy of his-"

The rest of James' words were lost in a long, drawn-out explosion of giggling. Without warning, Betty had simply doubled over with laughter, roaring and shrieking with such mirth that she looked to be in danger of crashing facefirst to the ground – and might very well have done so if she hadn't managed to brace herself against the swingset.

This was strange enough on its own, but as James looked on in confusion, he heard something in Betty's voice begin to change, and for the next ten seconds he could only stare in bewilderment as the little girl's laughter deepened to the ancient, cracked chuckling of an old man.

And when Betty finally stopped laughing enough to speak, she did so in a different voice: low, rasping, elderly, tinged with a distinctly German accent, it sounded terribly incongruous emerging from the lips of a girl no more than ten years of age, almost obscene to James' ears. And there was something else in that strange voice, a faint note of condescension and… menace?

"My, my," the little girl purred in her old man's voice. "Do the scientists of this era all take such a rose-tinted view of the past?"

James could only boggle in confusion, his jaw mutely flapping open and shut.

"But perhaps you've only read the company materials on the subject. As I recall, Vault-Tec published and released a special biography on me in the final weeks before the war; I never got to read it, given I was interred here by then, but I'm led to understand they made it quite a glowing tribute. Not a word of the complaints from staffers over the years… and certainly no word on my interests. It's a little sad to see the researchers of the future so dependent on a single biased source for information, but perhaps inevitable given the state of libraries in this era."

After perhaps thirteen seconds of gaping like a stunned halibut, James finally found his voice. "You're… you're him?"

"Correct," said the little girl, a maniacal-looking grin etched across her face. "Dr Stanislaus Braun, at your service."

And as if this situation wasn't surreal enough, she curtseyed – actually bent her knees and curtseyed.

"But why-"

"Do I look like this? Why not? I've been living in this simulation for a little over twenty decades, and in all that time, I've learned to embrace novelties."

She eyed him sharply, her guileless eyes suddenly betraying a hint of something jagged and vicious. "Novelties like your presence in my Vault, I might add. So… why should I help you?"

As the seconds ticked by in anxious silence, James' mind raced, struggling to find an answer that might satisfy Braun, but it wasn't easy: his thoughts kept tripping over all the bewildering things he'd encountered so far, and the more he tripped and stumbled and blundered, the more it seemed like those previous details he'd noticed were red flags. Finding that one of the greatest minds of the twenty-first century roleplaying a child had been baffling enough, but to hear that Braun wasn't interested in the problems outside this simulated dreamworld was nothing short of shocking.

And for the first time, James realized the full extent of the gaps in his knowledge.

After all, coherent information on the pre-War eras was still comparatively limited, even after decades of scavenging. James had considered himself a well-educated man, and given his association with the Brotherhood of Steel, he'd believed himself privy to information unknown to even the better-informed Wastelanders; once or twice, he'd flattered himself with the thought that he'd uncovered knowledge that even the Brotherhood hadn't known. To realize just how little he knew about the legendary sorcerer-scientist was a humbling discovery to say the least. The documents on Braun had told him of the man's technological genius, of the fame he'd held throughout America, of the role he'd played in the Societal Preservation Program, even of the experiments he'd performed in the earlier decades of his career… but they hadn't told him what kind of a man he actually was.

Still, he might be able to convince Braun to help, assuming he was really as mercenary as he appeared at this moment. After all, he'd managed it before: he'd charmed the Brotherhood of Steel into assisting with Project Purity, he'd wrangled Colin Moriarty into letting him and Matthias stay at his saloon, and he'd even accomplished the near-impossible task of talking his way into Vault 101. True, it had been nearly twenty years since he'd had to put the old silver tongue to any serious work, but it had to be worth a try.

"If you're really not interested in helping the people of the Capital Wastelands out of the goodness of your heart," he began, "then consider this: anyone who manages to purify the Potomac will earn the everlasting goodwill of the entire region, and in the long run, that can add up to a lot of support. Some of those people you claim not to care about are quite rich, and you'll need funds if you ever hope to begin your experiments again: that kind of goodwill can buy labs, equipment, even private security if you need it."

Braun eyed him strangely.

Thinking he might have piqued the old scientist's curiosity, James pressed on: "Also, Project Purity managed to acquire assistance from the Brotherhood of Steel. I know the name probably won't mean anything to you, but they have access to more pre-War technology than any other faction in the Wastes. If you want anything of remotely pre-War standard, you'll need their assistance. There is a world of profitable possibilities out there, Stanislaus Braun, and if you want to partake of it, all you have to do is step outside and help me."

But the little girl was already shaking her head. "James, has it occurred to you that if I wanted to leave my Tranquillity Lounger and continue my work, I'd have done so within decades of the War, not centuries? More importantly, has it occurred to you that it might be too late for me to leave at all by now?"

"What do you mean?"

"I've been sitting in the same chair for more than two hundred years; my body is sustained entirely by the life-support functions of my Tranquillity Lounger, and without them, I would almost certainly die within minutes of being unplugged. In fact, I'm probably so desiccated by now that, were I to open the canopy and stand up, I would probably collapse into dust."

"Well, that doesn't mean you can't help. You can serve as a consultant, you can provide me with advice, technical data, even locations of possible GECKs… and in time, maybe the Brotherhood might be able to help you live outside the Lounger. I've heard instances of human minds being uploaded to mechanical bodies, and yes, that might sound a little farfetched, but it's a possibility worth pursuing."

Braun chuckled. "You never give up, do you? Alas, you weren't listening to the first half of my previous statement… and as sad as it is to crush too many of your illusions at once, I'm afraid I must be perfectly honest with you: I'm not interested in leaving this simulation, nor have I ever been. I built this place as my private utopia, James, and as the culmination of an entire career spent baking the building blocks of someone else's paradise, I think I've more than earned the right to stay here – preferably without being disturbed by empty-handed idealists."

And with that, Braun turned on his heel and began a swift march across the road towards the nearest house.

At this, James could only flounder: this was turning out to be even worse than he could have expected; it would have been one thing to find that this paragon of the sciences was nothing but a heartless mercenary, but to find out that he was just a solipsistic escapist… well, this was a new level of disappointment.

"But there must be something that you want!" he exploded.

Braun paused in mid-step, then turned, a poisonous smirk on his little girl's face. "Perhaps," he whispered, as he crept back through the park. "But perhaps the more pertinent question, mein herr, is this: just what would you be prepared to do in exchange for the knowledge you require?"

"Anything," said James, automatically.

"Then allow me to give you an appetiser: the GECK is every bit as powerful as you've suspected. It could indeed be used to purify the waters of the river, perhaps instantaneously if given the correct focus. But first you need to find a working model. I can provide you with a list of possible locations for the exact whereabouts of a GECK, along with any other technical data you may need, in exchange for a few… services on your part."

"Very well. What is it that you want?"

Braun's smirk grew, and he beckoned James closer until the two of them were practically ear to ear. James soon found himself kneeling in the grass, just so he could hear the old man whisper as he pointed across the street towards the distant figures of the residents still milling around in their front yards.

"Do you see little Timmy Neusbaum playing in that garden over there?"

James nodded patiently. "Yes, I see."

Braun smirked wider than ever, and in Betty's childish voice, whispered "I want you to make him cry."

"…what."

"Make him cry. Shove him over, kick him in the balls, spit in his eyes, break his legs; I don't care how you do it. Just make little Timmy cry and I'll be prepared to offer you the whereabouts of a GECK in the DC area."

For nearly twenty seconds, James could only look from Braun to Timmy in growing incredulity, unable to make the slightest bit of sense from this request.

In the end, all he could do was throw up his hands and say, "Why?!"

"Because it will bring me great joy and stimulation," said Braun, once again in his normal voice. "Besides, I've made him suffer more than enough on my own over the last few decades, much like everyone else on Tranquillity Lane: it's time someone else took part in the festivities… and who better than you, James? I like to get a measure of my partners in arrangements such as these."

James opened his mouth to offer a reasoned discussion on the subject, hoping against hope that he could talk Braun out of this, only for his jaw to click shut a split-second later: he now knew that he had absolutely nothing worth discussing. Besides, he had everything that he needed from Braun except for the GECK itself, but he could probably track it down on his own; it was time to leave, now.

"No," he said firmly. "I'm not doing this. I don't care what you're offering me, but I'm not going to play along with this sick game. I'm leaving."

"So soon? It's very rude to back out of a perfectly reasonable arrangement, especially after I've shown you such hospitality thus far."

"I don't care. I'm not putting up with another minute of this nonsense. You don't have anything I want, Dr Braun, and I doubt you'd be able to deliver it rationally even if you did."

"And why's that?"

"Because you're insane! That's the only logical reason for anything you've done since I've arrived here: at some point in the last two centuries, you lost your grip on reality. No sane human being would casually admit to torturing sentient beings for their own amusement for decades on end, and I refuse to accept that anyone – least of all Vault-Tec's best and brightest – would ever have acted as you have without first being completely mad!"

Braun sighed. "There's that rose-tinted view of the past again, James. Has it occurred to you that I might have been like this all along, that what you refer to insanity might simply be my natural state of mind?"

"That's another thing I can't accept. I know of the true purpose of the Vaults and the questionable experiments performed in them, but even that was committed in the name of one day allowing humanity to eventually build a better world; as horrific as their methods were, the men who arranged those experiments were at least rational human beings! You can't have been this insane all along-"

Braun laughed hysterically, his voice shifting wildly from a child's high-pitch giggle to the rasping, hateful guffaw of his true age.

"Oh, how little you know, James. Can you guess what I, rational human being par excellence, was intending to test in this Vault? I'll give you a hint: absolutely nothing. From the very beginning, immortality in this Vault was my retirement present, and the unlucky fools who joined me here were the only fitting severance package I could receive after years of dedicated work for Vault-Tec. And in those years, I had more than enough chances to apply my tastes to the development of the Vaults: 34, 43, 69, 77, 92, 95, 106 – all of these experiments were proposed and enacted simply because I wanted to see what I could get away with. So, you see, Vault-Tec were not the noble anti-villains you seem to think they were. They were my enablers."

The look of horror and disillusionment must have shown on James' face, because Braun's smirk now threatened to decapitate him. "As I said, it's a sad thing to see your illusions being crushed so thoroughly, but I've no doubt you probably would have learned the truth eventually. Nature seldom tolerates innocence, and naiveté even less so. Now, I believe you were going to make Timmy Neusbaum cry…"

"No," snapped James. "I'm not tolerating another second of this; I'm getting out of here and I'm going to find a GECK without your help… and once I'm finished, I'm going to come back with all the troops the Brotherhood can spare, and I'm going to have your retirement present dismantled piece by piece."

He had already stormed halfway across the neighbourhood when Braun's voice rang out across the cul-de-sac: "And how are you planning on leaving, James?"

There was an awkward pause, as James belatedly realized that he had no way of disconnecting himself from the simulation. From what little information survived on the subject, virtual reality simulators were easy to exit, requiring only a mental command, but no matter how many times he tried it issue one, James remained trapped.

"That's right," said Braun, smugly. "You don't get to leave unless you have my permission. And that's another condition I'd like to add to this little bargain of ours: you can leave with the information once you've suitably entertained me. Now, I believe it's your cue to make a little boy cry-"

At this, James turned and reached for his holster. Even in this simulation, he still had all his gear, and at this range, it would have been hard to miss the target even with the kick from the 45, and now that he knew that the smirking figure wasn't really a child, he didn't have to worry about his conscience. So, drawing the revolver, he dropped into a firing stance, took careful aim and…

…found he couldn't move.

Braun was now tut-tutting in open disapproval, his voice that of a child once more. "Oh, James," he purred. "Did you really think that would work? Do you honestly think that gun would have worked on me, even if I'd let you fire? When you're in my world, you do as I say… but since you don't feel like being a good boy, maybe it's time you learned how to behave."

There was an eye-searing flash of light: the next thing James knew, a white-hot lance of pain tore clean through his spine and began spreading quickly across his body, ripping and tearing its way through his bones as it went, accompanied by a deafening procession of thick, meaty crunching sounds. Looking down at himself in disbelief, he realized at once that his skeleton was changing, restructuring itself before his very eyes: his hands were crumpling inwards, his fingers melting away into clumsy, truncated paws; his arms were bending and stiffening, orienting themselves directly in front of him; inside his trousers, his legs were withering away, his knees dissolving into nothingness, his feet shrinking down into paws that could no longer fit his suddenly-gigantic shoes. Ahead of him, his nose shot out like some ghastly Pinocchio, slowly dragging his jaws with it, his tongue lolling idiotically outwards as his face was painfully remoulded into a muzzle. He tried to scream, to beg for mercy, to tell Braun to fuck himself, but all that emerged was a moaning semi-canine howl.

By the time fur had started to erupt across his disfigured body, he was already starting to lose articles of clothing: tottering clumsily around on his newfound paws, he simply stepped out of his boots and onto the grass. Then, as his body changed, his pants loosened suddenly and began to sag inexorably around his vanishing knees; before long, the upper half of his jumpsuit was a bulging, shapeless mass as his body struggled to remain upright.

Then he was falling, his jumpsuit bursting open as he fell, his body toppling helplessly out onto the grass. When James rose again, it was as a dog; granted, he was undoubtedly a big dog, a German Shepherd judging by the shadow he cast, but in the end, just a dog.

"There," said Braun. "Isn't that better?"

James muttered a few well-chosen expletives, but all that emerged were canine snarls.

"Temper, temper. I'm going to have to do something about that brain of yours, James – not enough to completely destroy your identity, but just enough to leave you a dog in mind and body. From now on, you're James, the faithful neighbour mutt… but then, "James" is the wrong name for a good dog. And you're a good dog, aren't you? Aren't you?"

James grumbled a little, but it was hard to focus on what he was angry about: his grip on what was going on was fading, his understanding of events drippling through his fingers, whatever fingers were. Whole swathes of information were bleeding away: words, numbers, the alphabet, the Wastelands, Project Purity, his own name, everything. And as he forgot, he forgot that he'd ever known such things, and so the downward plunge continued.

"I know the perfect name for a good dog," the little girl cooed. "How about 'Doc?' After all, it suits your nature: you're just such a good dog, aren't you? Aren't you?"

Doc barked obediently, not sure what was being asked: all he knew was that he was a good dog, and good dogs agreed with whatever their masters said. But maybe he wasn't such a good dog after all.

Two names kept creeping back to him, no matter how many times he forgot: Catherine and Matthias.

Betty patted him on the head. "Good boy," she said, stroking him between the ears. "Good boy."

But though Doc smiled at this and his tail wagged happily, his mind was somewhere else and focussing on two people he'd never met.

Catherine and Matthias, Doc thought, not understanding why.

Catherine and Matthias.

Catherine and Matthias.

Catherine and...

Chapter 14: Loners And Lone Wanderers

Summary:

An impasse is reached, and a new hero steps into the spotlight.

Days went by, and eventually Tessa was allowed out of her home, twitching with nerves and even more frazzled than ever.

It was bad enough that she'd been trapped alone with the ceaseless whispering in the emptiness of her house and the now-painfully unrealistic feel of her own skin, but once Braun had shrouded the windows in perpetual darkness, she'd soon found herself effectively in solitary confinement.

After nearly forty-eight hours alone, the gloom from outside had seemed to seep in throw the closed windows and ooze across the house, dimming the lights one by one until they simply winked out altogether. By the end, it had formed its own kind of special sensory deprivation, forcing Tessa to wander helplessly around the pitch-black house, banging her shins on every piece of furniture in her path and risking a fall with every step.

Once, she'd tripped over a stray lump of carpet on the first-story landing and nearly plunged to her death, and only the banister directly in front of her had saved her from a broken neck at the bottom of the staircase.

More than once, she hadn't been able to find the bathroom in time and had been forced to limp back to her room in shame, looking for a fresh set of clothes; more than once, she'd gotten so lost in the darkness that she hadn't been able to find the kitchen for nearly a day and a half, and the fear of starvation had dogged her every step since then. Worse still, she didn't know if the house merely seemed bigger thanks to her fear, or if Braun had literally expanded its layout; either one was possible.

But that wasn't the worst part of the whole ordeal.

No, the worst was split between two horrible realizations: the first was that the darkness itself might not have been real, and that she'd simply been hallucinating after too many days spent alone; the second was that Braun hadn't even been intending to torture her here, nor had he even been intending to keep her imprisoned this long. Like any spoiled child, he was careless with his toys and easily distracted by novelties, especially when it came to new arrivals to his private kingdom.

He'd probably forgotten that she was even there.

After five days trapped in her house, Braun had finally released her from captivity without so much as a word of explanation.

The world hadn't changed that much in her absence: as expected, the new arrival hadn't done anything to save them, and indeed, there was no sign that anyone had ever visited.

Admittedly, there was now a large dog wandering around the park, but Tessa couldn't be sure if this was all that remained of the visitor or if it was just a digital construct cooked up by Braun. Then again, it wasn't as if he'd be able to tell her; even if he was a real human being transfigured into a dog, he probably still had a memory chip attached to his Lounger, and no doubt believed that he really was a dog.

So, with nothing new to witness, she wearily performed one circuit of the neighbourhood, carefully avoiding Braun's gaze: she checked the abandoned house for any sign of the failsafe terminal, though she had nothing to pick the lock with; she said hello to most of the residents, half-heartedly reminding them that they were living in a simulation along the way; she tried to stop by the Neusbaum's house, just so she could check on Timmy and see how he was holding up, only for Pat to turn her away once again.

No bad influences on my little boy, Miss Dithers. No mad old ladies in my house. Womp womp.

With nothing else to do, she returned to her house, tried to find something to do with her infinite supply of time, and failed: there was nothing on her TV except for test pattern, the radio blared atonal gibberish, and the books on the shelves consisted of a long and decidedly execrable selection of Vault-Tec propaganda pamphlets, along with several romance novels that even Marcie wouldn't have touched.

In the end, Tessa staggered outside, sat down in the bushes behind her house and started to cry.

The hell of it was that, in the end, she didn't even know why she was crying: it could have been out of frustration, boredom, loneliness or some combination of the three; it could have been the crawling sense of horror still coiled at the pit of her stomach from the last few days of isolation; it could have been her longing for Marcie briefly overflowing. It could have been any one of a million different sorrows that had haunted her for every day she'd been trapped in this nightmare – and a few that had been with her beforehand – but in the end, the only reason that made sense to her ragged old brain was pure exhaustion. She was tired beyond all rationality, wearied in mind and body. She didn't think of escaping or killing Braun any longer, and in point of fact, she didn't even imagine finding a moment to actually sleep. She just wanted it to be over.

All she wanted was for everything to stop for just a little while.

Presently, the dog trotted over and proceeded to lick her face, obliviously lapping up her tears. Tessa would have laughed at this; she would have howled, roared and bellowed with helpless guffaws of relief. Of course, she couldn't take the chance in case Braun happened to be listening, and so she merely hugged the dog and shook with repressed laughter until she thought she might explode. More than once, it occurred to her that she might be going mad – or that she might have gone mad decades ago and simply hadn't noticed.

Once her composure was at least partly restored, she got to her feet and staggered indoors, twitching and shivering every step of the way.

Braun was waiting for her in the front room, grinning like broken glass.

Seemingly oblivious to the look of terror now stamped on Tessa's face, he said, "You know, it occurs to me that you haven't really been properly motivated since you've been reintroduced to independent thought. I've offered you physical comfort, companionship, and even freedom from torture. But there's one thing I haven't offered. You know what that is?"

Tessa said nothing. By now, she'd learned her lesson.

"Normality," Braun continued. "How could you possibly aim for happiness when you don't even have a semblance of a normal life to return to? So… I've decided to grant you a boon, just to serve as concrete proof of my generosity."

He got to his feet and strode through the open door to the rear end of the house, inviting Tessa to follow in no uncertain fashion. Warily, Tessa hobbled after him into the kitchen, through a passageway that hadn't been there when she'd left the house, and down into a basement she was certain hadn't existed until a few minutes ago.

For perhaps thirty seconds, the basement was shrouded in darkness, and Tessa instinctively braced herself for the inevitable torture that would no doubt take place down here.

But then Braun flicked a switch, and suddenly Tessa found herself staring down at one of the most enticing chemical laboratories she'd seen since she'd parted ways with reality: every single benchtop was clustered with equipment, from the stereotypical beakers and volumetric flasks connected by intricate networks of tubing to the gleaming white centrifuges and electrical scales. This was a laboratory right out of a sci-fi horror movie, a veritable Aladdin's cave of scientific gadgetry, and all of it was concerned in some way with chemistry.

Some of this stuff she hadn't seen since her days at university; others had been familiar sights at work, used almost every day at Lee Rapid. Just looking at it, Tessa couldn't help but feel that same twinge of fascination and wonder that had led her to study science in the first place all those years ago. It had been years since she'd felt that thrill rushing down her spine; initially, she'd felt it every day in her earliest research jobs, dutifully working away at methods for optimising drug delivery and enhancing the chemical efficiency of mechanical fluid components… but in time, the demands of working for corporate laboratories had gradually worn her down, and the drudgery of wearisome routine had eroded what little enthusiasm she had left. By the end, she was barely expecting to find anything interesting, much less produce anything worthwhile apart from the usual over-advertised pap that made up most over-the-counter medicine. Her days spent toiling away in the bowels of Lee Rapid Pharmaceuticals ultimately reduced chemistry to the role of "just another job," which was probably why she'd ended up dating Marcie and getting into the argument that had gotten her fired in the first place.

But now, looking down at this glittering wonderland of equipment, she felt the long-forgotten sense of yearning that she'd felt back in her high school days, the need to know how everything worked, the need to formulate and synthesize, to witness the magic of creation and transformation up close. And along with all those serious urges, she found herself gripped by a silly, almost childish desire to blow something up.

One of her earliest jobs – back in the days when she'd been really desperate for money, before reputable laboratories had started paying her any real attention – had been with a firework manufacturer, working alongside blacklisted military explosives experts and overqualified pranksters to create a better bottle rocket. She'd had more fun than she'd expected, too: there'd been a great deal of friendly competition between every member of the development team, each of them trying to engineer the most garish, elaborate, and grandiose explosions possible without endangering the lives of the spectators.

The knowledge of explosives had never left her, even after she'd abandoned it for more "respectable" work in the pharmaceutical industry; come to think of it, she could actually make a bomb with the materials on display here, couldn't she?

"Nice, isn't it?" Braun purred. "A semblance of your old life to ground you: if you so desired it, you could be a chemist again, perform experiments that would have been impossible in the real world, or just busy yourself with whatever exercises you need to anchor yourself in the moment. And once you have stable footing in the world, you'll find it easier to accept how much better your life could be if only you'd reach out and take those other offers within reach. With this lab, Dithers, you have the start of something better in this life."

But after all this time, Tessa knew better than to expect Braun to provide something for nothing. True, he hadn't attached a price to this lab yet, but she knew he'd make his terms clear eventually, once Tessa had been given enough time to appreciate his "generosity". Once again, he'd want her to serve him in exchange for this boon, to make Tim cry and to torture everyone on Tranquillity Lane for as many times as he pleased. And if she didn't comply, he'd take away the lab… and probably apply a little extra suffering, just for her.

And yet, it might be possible to make a bomb with the materials left here.

She didn't doubt that Braun was fully aware of the things that anyone with a basic degree in chemistry – industrial or bio – could formulate with this lab and its contents. This wasn't carelessness she was seeing: this was gloating. Braun was effectively invincible within the simulation, and he wanted her to know that anything she could build here would be totally ineffectual against him, be it a nitro-glycerine bomb going off in his face or a jet of mustard gas erupting under his nose. And knowing him, it probably wouldn't help her find the failsafe any easier, even if she blasted an entire wall off the abandoned house. Toying around with the chemicals provided would be entertaining, but practically useless: he'd essentially just sold her the laboratory equivalent of a medicine cabinet filled to the brim with Valium and told her to have at it.

"I'll let you get reacquainted with the materials," Braun continued. "I have a few things to work on – just in case we have any more uninvited guests. Have fun!"

Bread and circuses, Tessa thought despairingly, as he strode away. I'm being bribed with bread and circuses.

And God help me, it's working. It's all I've got and if I don't agree with this, he'll take it away. And he'll enjoy watching me suffer over that, just as much as he'd enjoy me making Tim cry. Christ, is there no way to even inconvenience the rotten old bastard?

A mad thought entered her brain, and Tessa found herself voicing it almost without thinking:

"Why are you still trying to convince me, Stanislaus?" she asked, her voice low and hoarse. "Do you really want to be entertained, or are you just angry?"

For a moment, she was certain that she'd just shot herself in the foot.

She knew that Braun wouldn't tolerate insubordination of that calibre – she'd experienced the backlash firsthand – and knew that retribution would be swift: any minute now, Braun would take away the lab and plunge her into the boiling depths of whatever hell he could imagine that day.

But to her surprise, Braun eyed her with amused contempt. "And what would be angry about, Theresa?" he sneered. "Why would I be angry when I have everything I want?"

That should have been the exact point to shut up and let her punishment stand as it was… but something inside her refused to be silent. Even after all this time, there was still a tiny ember of defiance burning low but unceasingly in the pit of her stomach, and somehow, it was pressing override switches: it was the same impulse that had led her to stand her ground and be fired; it was the same mad whim that had led her to insult Braun directly to his face… and now, before she could stop herself, before she could reach out and force her jaws shut, Tessa found herself doing it all over again:

"Because you don't have everything you want," she replied wearily. "Because you were hoping the stranger would be like you. Because now that you've done almost everything else in the simulation, a partner in crime might be the one way you could spice things up… but the stranger couldn't give you that. All you got was another plaything, and given how well you've hidden the Vault, he might be the last visitor you ever see, so it's not even that much of a triumph. And anyway, you aren't going to find a partner because you haven't met anyone on your level since you handed Elizabeta over to the police. And that's why you're angry, Stanislaus: you've gotten so bored that you've achieved the impossible; you've actually made yourself lonely."

There was a deathly silence, as Tessa waited for the hammer to fall.

But instead, Braun's childish face suddenly assumed an expression she'd never seen him wear before, a look of deepest puzzlement. In fact, he looked - to her eyes, at least - like a school bully finding himself the butt of the joke for the first time: stunned, bewildered, and maybe even a little afraid.

Then, without another word, he turned on his heel and stormed off back upstairs.

In the deafening silence that followed, Tessa sat down on the stairs and took the deepest breath that she'd ever taken in her entire life, expecting retribution to swoop down upon her at any minute. But after an hour of sitting around in mute terror with nothing happening, she eventually accepted that no punishment was about to descend on her – and if it was, Braun was probably withholding it until the next day.

So, with nothing else to do, she got to her feet, tottered over to the nearest workbench, and began mixing the chemicals for her first scientific exercise in two hundred years…

---

Upstairs, Braun fumed silently to himself, unable to decide if Dithers had been right or wrong.

Was he really lonely?

He didn't feel lonely, but he'd never experienced loneliness before; he'd felt superior to everyone around him, certainly, and he'd felt as if his colleagues and test subjects were less than human, but that hardly counted as loneliness.

Did he really want to be entertained, or was he looking for an equal? Hard to say; nobody could ever replace Elizabeta, but it would have been nice to encounter someone who could serve as his intellectual and moral equal. More to the point, it would have been entertaining to find someone who could serve as a partner – or as an opponent – because no matter how contented he was with Tranquillity Lane, the fear of exhausting its potential for amusement had never really left him.

The only other solution to the problem would be fresh meat to add variety to his games, but as Dithers had pointed out, nobody would find Vault 112 unless they knew what they were looking for. And so, he was once again getting bored… and yes, maybe even just a tiny bit isolated.

But that was a matter he could deal with later, preferably once he'd given Dithers a front-row seat to the best recordings of the torture she'd undergone over the years. In the meantime, he had a new pet to amuse him…

As the first horrified gasps began echoing upstairs, Braun drifted outside and zeroed in on the distant from of the dog rooting mindlessly around in the weeds of the park, conjuring a branding iron as he drew closer.

"Oh Doc?" he called, his voice a childish sing-song trill. "Time for walkies…"

---

"Hey everybody, this is Three Dog, your friendly neighbourhood disc jockey. What's a "disc"? Hell if I know. But I'm gonna keep talkin' anyway! Seems we've got a bit of news concernin' everyone's favourite kid from Vault 101, the Lone Wanderer! Now, I know what you're thinkin' – "last I heard, the Lone Wanderer was fightin' off ant-controlling supervillains in Canterbury Commons! What the hell could that crazy Vault-dweller possibly do to top that?" Well, folks, this is where it gets really incredible…"

Not for the first time that week, Matthias wished that he could skip Three Dog's news reports, or at the very least find some way of getting him to stop talking about his latest exploits.

But of course, there was nothing that could be done about it out here in the middle of nowhere; all he could do was walk onwards, wait for the music to start up again, and hope that nobody would see his ears glowing cherry-red in the early-evening gloom.

More than once, he'd considered paying another visit to the Galaxy News Radio building to make a few discreet requests, maybe even call in a favour for fixing Three Dog's antenna relay. But then, he knew the DJ wouldn't budge; he wasn't in this for money, but out of idealistic devotion to "The Good Fight" (whatever the fuck that was) and if the exasperating bastard genuinely believed that reporting on the latest news of "The Lone Wanderer" would somehow make the world a better place, Matty might as well try arguing semantics with a Super-Mutant.

Frankly, the commentary was getting embarrassing.

The reports had been tolerable in the early days of the journey: back then, he'd liked those little bulletins for the simple fact that they'd often been his only company out in the wilderness, unless he happened to run into yet another gang of raiders or his friend in the trench coat. He hadn't even minded when Three Dog had started talking about how he'd defused the bomb or helped Moira with the Wasteland Survival Guide; after spending most of his life so far thanklessly mucking out Vault 101's Pip-Boys, it had been nice to receive a little recognition for his hard work.

But that had been before Matty had left Megaton behind and started gaining serious attention.

Gradually, the warm glow of accomplishment had faded, replaced by a growing sense of unease and self-consciousness.

It was hard to say why: perhaps growing up in the Vault had conditioned him into keeping his head down at all costs, because the more he heard about himself, the more ridiculous and narcissistic he felt. And the more Three Dog talked about him, the more uncomfortable he felt – not helped by the fact that Matty just couldn't stop himself from blundering into every minor conflict in the Capital Wastelands.

Matty didn't know what the hell was wrong with him: maybe it was the Vault 101 upbringing again, maybe it was the loneliness, or maybe it was some baked-in genetic predisposition towards cringing servility, but whatever the case, he couldn't bring himself to say "no" to anyone.

If someone desperately needed help, he always found himself lending a hand; if there was a dangerous expedition requiring participants, he was there to offer his services; and if someone wanted a totally irrelevant errand done in record time, he was there, saying "I bet I can get it done sooner." It didn't matter that he had no idea what he was doing, or that the pain outweighed the reward offered, or that he ended up making enemies, or even that he usually had something more important to do. Somehow, he always found himself saying yes.

He'd battled giant fire-breathing ants, met vampires living in an abandoned subway, spoken to a living tree with a death wish, retrieved a Stradivarius violin from Vault 92, ended the careers of two warring superheroes, fought slavers beyond counting… and sooner or later, Three Dog reported on just about all of it.

Worse still, Galaxy News Radio's resident DJ and quite a few of his listeners seemed to think he was becoming some kind of protector to the innocent people of the Capital Wasteland, even a crusader for righteousness.

Matty certainly didn't feel like a paragon of virtue. True, he was hardly a monster, but he'd certainly done more than his fair share of questionable deeds. If you were in a charitable mood, you might be able to justify them as "what needed to be done," but whenever he tried, he just found himself wishing he was living a comfortably boring life in the Vault, programming Pip-Boys and never having to face the tough choices.

First, there'd been the dirty jobs he'd done for Colin Moriarty, debt-collecting in the dim hope of learning where Dad had gone.

Then there'd been the moment where he'd shot Mr Burke in the back – and again in the head, even as he lay on the floor in a spreading pool of blood; the first time around, Burke had been about to shoot Lucas Sims, but the second time, Matty had fired on instinct, not knowing if Burke was reaching for a weapon or begging for mercy.

Then there'd been all the little moments where he had stolen weapons, provisions, or even valuables, and not just from the dead or from slavers, but from ordinary men and women, people that Matty had burgled out of a desperate need for caps (though he'd never robbed anyone in Megaton, for if nothing else, he at least had the sense not to shit where he lived).

Also, he was reasonably certain that paragons of virtue didn't enjoy fighting as much as he did.

Now that'd gotten used to the confusion of battle and overcome the initial guilt, he could ride the wave of adrenaline so smoothly that fighting barely bothered him unless he was up against something serious. More than once, he'd gotten so carried away in the heat of the moment that he'd shot fleeing raiders in the back.

And then there'd been his exploits in Oasis, in which he'd decided that the most sensible course of action would be to refuse Harold's request for a quick death, condemning him to an eternity of paralysed misery as the hub of an ever-expanding forest. And why? Because one gang of delusional cultists had done a better job of convincing him than the other gang of delusional cultists – or Harold, for that matter.

Matty had spent the next few days telling himself that he'd done the right thing and that the Capital Wastelands would benefit from this, but that hadn't helped him sleep any easier; nor had the look of mounting despair in Harold's eyes in their last meeting, nor the nightmares that had haunted Matty for weeks afterwards.

And every time he heard the latest glowing review from Three Dog, he wanted to throw up his hands and scream, "I'm just trying to find my dad, okay? I didn't want to deal with this high morality shit, and I'm not equipped for any of it! For Christ's sake, talk about something else!"

As if in response to this imagined outburst, Three Dog's monologue finally ground to a halt and the music roared to life again – Happy Times by Bob Crosby.

Sighing in relief, Matty sat down on the hood of a derelict car to survey the scene and check his Pip-Boy map.

Right now, he was just on the border of the Fordham Flash Memorial Field; from here, his destination was practically a straight line to the south-west. Hopefully, the journey wouldn't take much more than a few hours and he wouldn't run into too many hostiles along the way… but in the Capital Wasteland, it didn't hurt to bet on things not going to plan. And now that it was getting dark, it was probably best to have dinner right now before any further complications cropped up; so, doffing his crumpled backpack, he dug around in the contents for a moment, shoving aside his growing collection of firearms until he finally found his provisions.

Inside his astonishingly capacious backpack, he had one bottle of Nuka-Cola, three cans of Cram, two packets of of Salisbury Steak, a pack of Instamash, one hipflask of vodka… and most importantly of all, two large plastic bottles of purified water, looted from the corpses of a slaving band. Having suffered through the agonies of radiation sickness and all the other things that could be found in the Capital Wastelands' water, Matty was determined to make both bottles last for as long as possible.

Of course, it was always better to be safe than sorry, so he also toted a generous stockpile of stimpacks, Med-X, Radaway, Buffout, Mentats, Jet, and Psycho – the latter four only for emergency use.

And last but certainly not least, a battered cutlery set that had seen at least intermittent cleaning in the last few weeks; Matty had sunken to many depths following his departure from Vault 101, but he drew the line at eating with his hands, especially given the things his bare hands touched on a daily basis.

It really is amazing how much stuff I can fit in this damn thing, Matty mused, as he selected his meal for the night. Not quite as amazing as the fact that all these packaged foods are still edible after two centuries. Of course, it'd be even more amazing if any of them were actually palatable, but you can't have everything in life…

For the next few minutes, he sat there, spooning down mouthfuls of Cram and washing them down with sips of water as he reflected on the events of the last few weeks. This time, his thoughts didn't linger on the errands that had made him famous, but on the very reason he was out here in the first place.

He'd first set out from Vault 101 trying to find his father. It was such a simple goal, but even before it had been delayed for the umpteenth time, his motivation for the quest kept changing.

In the earliest days, back when he'd been forced to flee the comparative safety of the Vault, Matty had just been hoping to reunite as a family – and achieve safety in numbers, for in those early days, he'd been terrified of everything; even the trenchcoated stranger who'd occasionally arrived to bail him out had left him hugging the ground in fear.

Then, as he'd grown a little more confident in his skills, he'd found himself gripped by a mad, irrational fantasy of finding Dad, completing whatever mission he'd set for himself, and then returning to Vault 101 with whatever they'd need to convince Overseer Almodovar to readmit them. Visions being welcomed back into the Vault like a conquering hero had haunted his dreams for nights uncounted, and he'd longed for the chance to make them a reality.

It was an impossible dream, of course; after all, how could he pledge his allegiance to the Overseer after what had happened to Jonas? How would anyone look at Matty the same way after he'd killed his way to freedom? But still, Matty had let this daydream fuel his journey for a while, if only because it was better than dealing with the awful realization that he'd never see home and friends ever again.

(Why hadn't he tried to talk Amata into coming with him? Why had he ventured out alone? What was wrong with him?)

Once Dad's secrets began creeping into the light, though, the nature of the quest changed again: bit by bit, Matty's dream of a victorious homecoming had faded, replaced by a growing need to learn what Dad had been up to. First there'd been Moriarty revealing that Matty hadn't been born in Vault 101 after all, that he and Dad had been outsiders; then there'd been Three Dog's mention of Dad's past as a scientist; finally, a visit to Li herself in Rivet City and an expedition to the long-neglected Project Purity had unveiled all but a bare handful of Dad's secrets.

And if secrets had been the only thing he'd really wanted, Matty could have easily given up right then and there.

After all, Dad had his mission, and was probably doing perfectly well without his nineteen-year-old son chasing after him. After all, he hadn't gotten bogged down by every odd job in Rivet City; he hadn't wandered into the wrong Vault and gotten stoned on hallucinogenic gas; he was ahead of Matty by a few miles and probably safe and sound by now.

Hopefully.

But now, Matty was in search of a different kind of knowledge, one that wouldn't be found in any of the documents and recordings he'd uncovered in his search so far: why had Dad left him behind in Vault 101?

Why hadn't he told him the truth, at least by the time he'd been old enough to keep secrets? Why had he been so naïve to assume that the Overseer wouldn't look for scapegoats after his escape from the Vault, and in the process, inadvertently condemned Jonas to a horrible death? Why had he believed that Matty would be safe in the Vault with a paranoid dictator in charge? Why was he still chasing the dream of Project Purity when all hope had long since been lost?

And most importantly, Matty needed to know what, if anything, he was supposed to do with his life in the outside world. Perhaps due to the ever-annoying Vault 101 upbringing, he'd come to thrive on having a duty to apply himself to… and now his one-consistent goal was coming to an end. He had no idea what he would do once this last leg of the journey was over; Matty could only hope he could find some new goal to pursue once he'd tracked down Dad, because after this, he was officially out of ideas.

Somewhere to the southwest, Vault 112 was waiting for him, hidden under the ruins of a garage of all places.

According to the last of the audio logs he'd found under the Jefferson Memorial, Dad had hoped to find some trace of Dr Stanislaus Braun's legendary work, enough to finally get Project Purity up and running. With Matty's luck, Dad had probably already found what he was looking for and was already on his way back to the Jefferson by now, leaving Matty to discover nothing but deserted ruins. But all the same, he had to try to find him, if only for the sake of his own sanity…

…and maybe for Dad's safety as well.

Because in the end, Matty still cared, in spite of himself.

Despite all the chaos that had ensued from the old man's foolhardy quest, despite everything that Matty had lost because of it, despite the lies and heartbreak and God only knew what else he'd uncovered, he still missed Dad.

And as shameful as it was to admit it, considering just how many friends he'd made in Megaton, he was lonely. He'd spent too many weeks roaming the wilderness with only the radio for company, his only friend the mystery man with the 44-calibre revolver. Right now, he needed a fellow wanderer, preferably someone who was a bit more talkative than Charon or Dogmeat (both of whom were currently enjoying some much-needed R&R back at his house in Megaton); he needed the company of someone who understood the life he'd lived in Vault 101, someone who'd seen the best and the worst that the Capital Wastelands had to offer.

Truth be told, he'd settle for anyone with something interesting to talk about, or at the very least be willing to stick around long enough to chat: every time Matty tried to strike up a conversation with his friend in the trench coat, the guy vanished without so much as a goodbye, leaving only a dramatic guitar sting in his wake.

Grumbling, Matty finished his meal, tossed aside the empty packets and bottles, and set off once again. By now, the magic hour had long since passed and night had fallen upon the Capital Wasteland – not exactly a safe time to be out in the open, even for seasoned Wastelanders, so once he'd switched on his Pip-Boy Light, he set off down the road at a brisk march with the Repeater at the ready.

By now, he had a few weapons that were much more devastating than the old Lincoln, but despite the comparative scarcity of its ammo, he still favoured the antique rifle above the others: as entertaining as it was to reduce his opponents to glowing dust with the Protectron's Gaze or pelt them with garbage from the Rock-It Launcher, there was a directness and practicality that made the rare lever-action rifle more than worth hanging onto.

Meanwhile, his Pip-Boy radio was still tootling merrily along, interspersed as always with Three-Dog's musings on Oasis and the Enclave. Common sense dictated that Matty should switch it off immediately, given that anyone within a radius of about twenty yards could hear it, but he kept it on: unless he knew for a fact that he was travelling through hostile territory or unexplored ruins, he let the radio blare as loudly as possible. He couldn't stand the silence of the Wastelands, even on the rare occasions when he teamed up with someone; something about the howling emptiness of those blasted cityscapes seemed to gnaw at him, refusing to stop until the music drowned it out.

Unfortunately, the next song in line happened to be Way Back Home, another Bob Crosby classic, and Matty hastily changed the channel with a shudder, exchanging the slow-paced celebration of the rustiest gates and crustiest pies for the thunderous bombast of Stars And Stripes. He didn't much care for Enclave Radio, but the music was usually loud enough to drown out his own unwanted thoughts, so he didn't mind it so long as he could ignore Eden's rambling and drive away the unwanted thoughts that Bob Crosby had stirred.

Way too close to home, he silently mused, struggling to erase the lyrics from his brain.

He was already in a gloomy mood, and the last thing he needed right now was an unexpected dose of melancholy: he didn't want to think about how Vault 101 was closed to him forever, or how strange his shack in Megaton still felt despite all his efforts to make it a bit more welcoming, or that whenever he went to sleep – even if it was in a sleeping bag under the stars or on a rotten mattress in a derelict hut – he couldn't help wishing that he'd wake up back in his apartment deep in the bowels of the Vault.

But think of it he did, unfortunately. It seemed that even the relatively inoffensive Enclave Radio wasn't enough to keep the black dog at bay this evening.

Agatha, you're my only goddamn hope, he thought feverishly, and changed the channel again. To his immense relief, the lively strains of Johann Sebastian Bach's Partita No.3 filled the air, sharp and brisk, too fast for the blues to catch up with.

Normally, Agatha's violin wasn't what he needed for times like this. The purr of the Soil Stradivarius was for when he was alone in his shack with only a bottle of wine and the radio for company, for sleepless nights when insomnia forced him out of bed and into his battered reading chair.

Normally, what he needed for travel was something merry and explosive with energy – Butcher Pete, for choice, or Let's Go Sunning. But he couldn't return to Galaxy News Radio just yet, not with Way Back Home still fresh in his memory; one day, maybe he'd be able to listen to that song without his mind rebelling, but until then, he turned up the volume and let the violin come to his aid.

Quickening his pace, he hurried along at a merry jog, smiling madly despite the deepening gloom; the music filled his brain, swept away the sorrows and flung them to the four winds, pouring through his nervous system and lighting up his brain. Finally, he was making progress, leaving his anxieties far behind him as he sprinted, a gangly, goggle-eyed madman in a reinforced Vault-suit and an antique top hat bounding merrily across the desolation of the Capitol Wastelands.

Nothing's killing my good mood, he thought, his mind alight with an enthusiasm that bordered on real insanity. Nothing. I'm going to reach Vault 112, I'm going to find Dad, I'm going to find something to do with my life, and nothing in the world is gonna stop me or spoil my good mood.

There was a bloodcurdling shout from somewhere to his left, and three raiders leapt out from behind a pile of fossilized garbage, one toting a sledgehammer, the other two armed with a combat shotgun and a submachine gun, respectively.

From the looks of things, the raiders were upping their game; back when he'd first stepped out of the Vault, they'd had been armed with 32-calibre hunting rifles and pool cues. Perhaps the Brotherhood of Steel was forcing them to toughen up or risk death.

Unfortunately for them, they'd vastly underestimated their target: men like this were used to tackling greenhorn travellers, and in a haze of chems, they'd decided that the kid in a silly hat was easy pickings.

Once upon a time, he would have hesitated, maybe even hoped that his mysterious friend in the trench coat might show up, just to even the odds a little bit. But times had changed, and Matty's confidence had grown; these days, fighting was one of the few things that didn't fill him with uncertainty.

These days, fighting made the world an infinitely more reassuring place.

Without missing a beat, Matty swung the repeater around, took careful aim and fired a well-placed shot squarely through the Mohawked dome of the shotgunner.

As clumps of skull and brain tissue rained down on the survivors, Matty fired a second shot at the remaining gunman, catching the submachinegun-toting raider in the shoulder – a little north of where he'd been intending, but more than enough to throw the bastard's aim off. Yowling in pain, the raider clumsily fired, spraying the surrounding wastelands with bullets but hitting nothing; Matty's riposte caught him in the throat, tearing a massive hole through his neck. Gurgling helplessly, he sank to his knees and collapsed facefirst into the dirt, twitching his last.

Matty then turned his attention to the last of the trio, but by then, the man with the sledgehammer had managed to close the distance between them; the surviving raider swung the hammer around in a deadly arc, too close for Matty to take aim, forcing him to duck out of the way. Thankfully, the weight of the sledge slowed the berserker down just enough for Matty to switch the rifle into his non-dominant hand and draw a sidearm for a counterattack.

Chem-addled as he was, the raider obviously wasn't stupid: as soon as he saw his opponent zeroing in on him, he quickly dropped the hammer and reached for the machete dangling at his belt.

He was fast… but Matty's combat knife was faster.

A swift jab to the belly, a twist of the blade, a slash across the throat, and it was all over.

The raider's unused machete slipped free from his fingers and clattered to the ground, followed closely by its owner.

Nothing in the world, pal, Matty thought, grinning despite the blood on his hands. Nothing.

Chapter 15: The Nightmare Beckons

Summary:

The end of the trail...

Some hours later, a shape loomed out of the darkness ahead, too irregular to be a hill or a mountain.

Amplifying his Pip-Boy lamp to its highest possible setting, Matty was greeted by a squat one-story building, an ugly mass of discoloured concrete jutting out of the cracked earth like a stone tumour. A handful of cars and trucks flanked it on several sides, most of them so decomposed that Matty doubted that they would even be able to explode by now; a Corvega billboard sat atop the roof, still advertising a car that was no longer being manufactured anywhere in America; finally, a distinctive Red Rocket sign sat in the front yard, towering over the building high enough to be mistaken for a mountain peak.

And above the corroded roller doors, a sign marked the building in bold, imposing letters, and though centuries of neglect had softened their outline slightly, they were still readable after a fashion: "SMITH CASEY'S", they proclaimed.

Not long after he'd learned of Dad's most recent port of call, Matty had made a few inquiries back in Rivet City just to make sure he was heading in the right direction, and a few travellers had mentioned seeing a garage of this name in the location that Dad had mentioned; a few had even slept there overnight, though they'd never stayed longer than twenty-four hours.

Apart from the threat of wild animals, something about the abandoned building seemed to discourage residents, with past visitors claiming everything from weird noises in the night to outright hauntings.

In hindsight, it wasn't as if he'd needed the directions: as he'd discovered, this was the only garage to be found in the vicinity and the only one close to the long-abandoned military checkpoint; in hindsight, it would've been hard to miss. None of the travellers had found any sign of a Vault in the area, not even the ones who'd slept in the disused building, so 112 was presumably hidden under it – assuming it existed at all.

The door was unlocked, and no sign of booby traps could be found around it, but still, Matty couldn't help but hesitate before entering. After all, he had no idea what might be waiting for him inside the Vault, and experience had taught him that it was usually something hell-bent on his demise; by now, he'd visited quite a few Vaults in the Capital Wasteland, and on every single occasion, he'd had to fight his way back out of them once he'd finished exploring: he'd braved the Mirelurk-infested corridors of Vault 92, he'd grappled with hallucinations in Vault 106, he'd had to fight his way through an army of clones in Vault 108, and he'd even had to fight his way out of Vault 101 after close to nineteen years of residence, and that had been the friendly exception to the rule!

By now, he knew that the Vaults hadn't been meant to save anybody, and that few harboured anything other than monsters after all this time, and as determined as he was to keep the black dog at bay, he knew it would probably be best to prepare for the worst.

Still, he thought, it can't be much worse than the Dunwich building…

So, flicking off the radio, he slid his rifle into his improbably spacious backpack and armed himself with a laser pistol, the better to deal with tight corridors and close-quarters combat.

Then, pausing only to help himself to a gulp of vodka from his hipflask, he took a deep breath and stepped inside.

---

If Matty had happened to turn around at that very moment, he would have seen a familiar figure looming on the horizon less than thirty feet from where he'd been standing. At that distance, with the gloom of night still almost impenetrable, it would have been only a shadow in the moonlight – but Matty would have recognized it immediately: even in the dark, there'd have been no mistaking the sharp-brimmed hat.

His friend in the trench coat, the man the people of the Wastelands knew only as the Mysterious Stranger, had called again.

However, he might have thought that his frequent rescuer looked a tad unusual in the dark, for up until now he'd only seen the man in the daylight.

Now, beneath the brim of his fedora, the Mysterious Stranger's eyes seemed to glow a strange purple-green colour, bright enough to be seen as tiny luminous pinholes even from where Matty had stood. And as the Stranger's swarthy face contorted into a grin, Matty would have seen radiant white teeth gleam in the darkness; anyone looking would have definitely thought it unusual, for the teeth of the average Wastelander were either blacked with decay, gone, or replaced. Even the ex-Vault Dweller's teeth looked a little bit on the yellowed side by now.

And there was another figure standing next to him, a stunted-looking child dressed in the tattered remains of a finely tailored suit. A walking mass of scar tissue and bruises, his hair had been reduced to a few vague blond tufts, and though one eye had been swollen shut, the other still glowed an unearthly blue. And perhaps, if the light cast by the Stranger's eyes was bright enough, Matty might have even been able to recognize the look of undisguised terror on the boy's face.

But of course, Matty didn't turn around, and so the Mysterious Stranger and his equally-mysterious companion went unnoticed as the Lone Wanderer stepped inside the garage without so much as a backward glance.

The two figures exchanged glances.

"At last," said the Stranger, his voice low and deep, his accent impossible to trace. "The two most influential minds of their generations are due to finally meet."

"Should we help him?" the child whispered anxiously.

"No. I'm afraid this is something our young friend will have to handle on his own. This will the ultimate test of his ability to handle a crisis; I don't expect him to succeed, but even a failure will be part of the evaluation process."

"Provided it doesn't kill him."

"I doubt it. His opponent's dangerous, yes, but it's not within his power to destroy our most promising candidate yet. Whatever happens, we'll be there to greet the victor and to ensure that the tests continue."

The little boy sighed deeply. "How long does this have to go on for, Rand?" he asked wearily. "There's been so many duds in the last few years. I mean, first there was that weird girl in down in Chamberlain, then Ug-Qualtoth, then that crazy Horrigan guy-"

"Those were rejects, my boy. Unsuitable for our needs. Besides, we still have plenty of candidates to choose from, and we only need four, after all."

"But when does it end? When can we… when can I be done with this?"

"Soon, Billy. Soon…"

---

At first, the garage looked perfectly normal as far as pre-war garages went: rotten benchtops cluttered with hopelessly-rusted tools, filthy concrete floors littered with dust, garbage, illegible papers and the occasional long-dead cooking fire, a fine selection of wrecked cars and motorbikes stacked against the walls, a generator-powered set of floodlights arranged by previous visitors, and a bug-infested mattress sitting behind the counter, complete with the skeleton of an unlucky traveller.

There was even a small population of radroaches and molerats, all of which Matty shot in short order. In fact, the only thing of interest was the safe lurking next to the mattress, and that had already been opened – likely decades ago.

But still, there was something unusual about the place, something that didn't become apparent until Matty switched on the floodlights: the dust had been broken by multiple sets of animal tracks, likely from the aforementioned 'rats and 'roaches, but only one pair of human footprints could be found in the dunes layering the floor… and it just so happened that the prints had clearly been made by a standard-issue pair of Vault-Tec boots.

Even more intriguingly, one corner of the garage was almost completely free of dust, as if someone had gone to the trouble of sweeping the floor clean in the last few days. Humming absently to himself, Matty checked the nearest wall for any signs of pipes or cables attached to that section of floor, and eventually traced one back to a corroded set of shelves nearby.

Behind ranks of mouldering crates and rust-browned toolboxes, a switch had been hidden.

One press, and the clean section of floor swung open, revealing a hidden staircase plunging into the stygian depths below.

Peering down the incline, Matty could just about discern the reinforced concrete walls stretching down, down into the bowels of the Earth; he almost reached for the hipflask again, but he knew he needed to keep his wits sharp for the time being. So, making sure his pistol was ready, he stepped through the trapdoor and began the long, slow descent into darkness.

For the first minute or so, Matty continued onwards in total silence, practically tiptoeing down the stairs at a glacial pace. It wasn't until he'd left the gantry behind and reached the concrete floor that he realized that it was because he was expecting to run into somebody. He hadn't even seen the Vault itself yet, but the staircase leading looked far too intact compared to the other complexes he'd visited, and though he told himself that this was once again because raiders and scavengers hadn't stayed long enough to find the trap door, he couldn't shake the feeling that someone had been maintaining this passageway over the centuries, dutifully sweeping the stairs, and keeping the gantries free of rust. Perhaps that had been what the visitors had heard?

At the end of the first landing, he found a reinforced door – thankfully unlocked – leading to yet another flight of stairs. If it had been gloomy upstairs, here it was like swimming in a lake of ink. There were light fixtures here, but they'd either burned out or been switched off in this part of the complex for decades; with the light from upstairs now cut off by the door, Matty had only his Pip-Boy light to guide him.

It provided more than enough illumination, but unfortunately, it also meant that Matty had to keep his left arm extended or risk losing his footing and plummeting headfirst down the stairs. It took minutes of awkward stumbling to finally reach the bottom and make it through the last few yards of corridor, but eventually he turned a corner – and found the door towering over him.

He'd seen that familiar gear-shaped Vault door looming out of the darkness no less than three times since he'd turned nineteen, and every time he saw it, he couldn't quite suppress a shudder of fear. It didn't matter if it was open, closed or in motion; whenever he saw that door, a shiver ran up the length of his spine. After three expeditions, he'd learned his lesson: there was nothing but danger behind those doors, and even if he was fully equipped, fully motivated, and ready for anything, there was no escaping that first instinctive surge of fear.

Fortunately, as was the case with most of the Vaults he'd visited, the control panel had been tampered with at some point in the past, so it wasn't too hard to get it open.

With a low rumble of ancient machinery in motion, the locking mechanisms slowly rolled the giant gear to one side, revealing the familiar control room beyond… but unlike every other Vault he'd visited so far, the lights in this control room were still on, pale and phantasmal, but most definitely active.

Nor was the room littered with the skeletons of previous explorers or swarming with vermin; there was no rust, no exposed wiring; the antique machinery wasn't silent and blackened by corrosion but purring with life.

In fact, Matty was tempted to say it looked better-maintained than the control room in Vault 101.

The only thing that remained consistent with the other three Vaults he'd visited so far – and the only thing that really worried him about this place – was the near-silence of the place. Back home, the sounds of Vault life had been dimly audible even from the control room, including the angry shouts of the guards as they'd tried to catch up with him. Here, the only sound was the gentle hum of machinery… and from somewhere beyond the control room, the whir of a small engine drawing steadily closer and closer.

Matty readied his laser pistol and tiptoed towards the source of the noise. He didn't want to get within arm's reach of whatever was making that sound, but unfortunately, it was now between him and the rest of the Vault. Unless he could find a secret door around here, he'd just have to face whatever was approaching and hope that he could outfight it.

Swinging open the control room door, he stepped out into a wide corridor stacked with crates; from the looks of things, most of them contained nothing but spare parts for the control room. Even after all this time, the crates were still only half-empty, so whoever was maintaining this Vault was doing so on a very thrifty basis. Then again, nobody had needed to open the door for centuries: the residents could presumably afford to skimp on replacement fixtures in this part of the Vault.

Beyond the crates lay another door; and beyond that-

Matty jumped backwards, nearly dropping his gun as a hideous shape lurched gracelessly into the half-light.

"Shiiiii!"

"Welcome to Vault 112, resident," purred a synthetic voicebox. "According to sensors, you have arrived 202.3 years behind schedule."

There was a pause, as Matty belatedly realized that the robobrain wasn't about to attack him.

Frankly, this was a first: in his travels across the Capital Wastelands, most of the robobrains he'd met were either guarding restricted areas or had gone so pants-on-head crazy that they didn't care where they went or who they killed anymore. Tentatively, he lowered his pistol, hoping that the trundling cyborg was sane enough not to turn on him; he knew he'd probably be able to disable it very quickly, but he had a sneaking suspicion that it wasn't alone in the Vault. After all, one robobrain would have struggled to keep this entire place in good condition; there had to be an entire workforce of the damn things lurking somewhere around the corner.

Then he realized what it had said: somehow, this clattering heap of canned meat had mistaken him for a resident.

Maybe its mind had decayed to the point that it no longer recognized that such a thing would be impossible, or maybe it just didn't know that humans didn't generally live for two hundred and two years. Either way, Matty wasn't going to disagree with it if the cyborg's mistake might get him into the Vault.

Meanwhile, the robobrain was looking him up and down as if surveying him for suitability, its sensors briefly lingering on his battered Vault 101 jumpsuit, antique top hat, and biker goggles.

"Please redress in your Vault-Tec-issued Vault suit before proceeding," it instructed. "If you have misplaced your suit, I am authorized to distribute a new one. Once dressed, please proceed down the stairs to the atrium, where you will find your assigned Tranquillity Lounger. Make yourself comfortable and enjoy your stay."

And without so much as waiting for Matty to reply, it immediately dispensed a brand-new Vault suit from a slot in its midsection, neatly folded and vacuum-packed for easy storage. The sheer sight of it made his head spin: had this robobrain been carrying around replacement suits like this for every year of the past two centuries just in case a lost resident happened to stop by? How many times in all those years had it and its brothers patrolled these hallways, cleaning, organizing, repairing, maintaining, waiting for someone to stop by and join the Vault population?

But did this mean that the Vault was empty except for the robobrains? Matty doubted it, but he'd have to wait and see.

Meanwhile, the robobrain was clearly waiting for him to respond accordingly, and he doubted it would let him intrude without following its instructions, so he hastily stripped out of Moira's modified gear and slipped into his brand-new Vault 112 jumpsuit.

Immediately, the smell and the feel of the suit almost overwhelmed him: back in Vault 101, the jumpsuit extruders often broke down, and until they were repaired, the few available replacement suits in reserve invariably went to the most "deserving" inhabitants, starting with the Overseer and ending with those he personally favoured. Everyone else had to repair their suits until they were literally unwearable, then inherit replacements from relatives and neighbours until replacements were available. Consequently, most of Matty's jumpsuits had been patched in about a dozen places, itched in every crevice, and smelled prominently of former users; he'd been lucky enough to get a fresh suit for his nineteenth birthday, and even that had carried the faint chemical whiff of faulty extruder. Even Moira's comfortably reinforced suit carried its own share of strange odours, thanks in part to the many attempts to clean the blood off it.

This little number smelled of vinyl packaging and sat so comfortably on his lanky frame that Matty honestly didn't know what to make of it at first. Was this what Pre-War clothing had been like? Had it all been this smooth, clean, and comfortable?

Sighing, he stuffed his old gear into his backpack and set off down the corridor at a brisk march, heading slowly but surely towards the Vault atrium. After seeing the corroded nightmares that Vaults 92, 106, and 108, he scarcely dared to imagine what would greet him in the central chamber of this unearthly place. But onwards he went, occasionally drifting past another robobrain on patrol, but otherwise remaining completely undisturbed as he descended deeper and deeper into the innards of Vault 112.

Once again, the cleanliness of the place caught Matty off-guard: every single corridor had been thoroughly cleaned and polished, every metal surface buffed to a gleaming finish.

Even Vault 101 hadn't been this clean: it had been supporting several hundred residents and a burgeoning populace of radroaches; things had been kept reasonably tidy, but there was no escaping the tarnish, the dinginess, the occasional spot of rust, or the smells – an almost reassuring aroma of two-hundred-year-old furniture, mixed with the pungency of old body odour and brand-new flatulence.

Here, the only thing he could smell was the whiff of industrial cleaning products.

And everywhere he looked, the lights were on… but unlike Vault 101, there was no reassuring warmth to the light, no comfortable dimming of the aging fixtures. The lights here were perfectly functional, but from the looks of things, they'd likely been turned down to preserve strain on the local power network. As a result, the lights were pale, ghostly, and somehow concealed more than they illuminated, with long stretches of corridor left effectively unlit except for the tiny circles of light marking the path down the hall.

But however ominous the corridors had been, they were nothing compared to the sight of the atrium: stepping out onto an upper gantry overlooking the Vault's main hall, Matty found that the wide expanse of space usually found here was now occupied by a huge, rumbling computer core, surrounded by a cluster of strange metal-and-glass ovoids.

This in itself was already an unsettling sight in the deepening gloom, especially since the computer's central column glowed an ominous red in the darkness; what truly made Matty's hair stand on end was the sight of what lay within those strange shapes below: even from up here, with the lights dimmed and the shadows thicker than quicksand, there was no mistaking the fact that there were people inside those strange capsules.

Behind him, a robobrain coughed politely. "A Tranquillity Lounger is available for you," it said helpfully, indicating one of the pods below. "Please take a seat."

Trembling, Matt descended to the ground floor and began examining each of the so-called Loungers one by one, scarcely daring to hope that he might recognize one of the occupants. In total, there were twelve pods in the atrium, though a marked stairwell doorway in the corner indicated that there were more below; of the twelve, ten were occupied, the jumpsuited figures within motionless and unresponsive, their eyes closed despite the monitors at work directly in front of them. Peering through the canopy of each lounger, he could see that the occupants were still breathing, but almost imperceptibly, the gentle rise and fall of the chest practically invisible unless you were to press your face right against the glass.

Despite these signs of life, however, the residents of this Vault were anything but healthy: many of them looked to have lost a great deal of weight during their stay here, their once-trim suits hanging loosely off their emaciated frames, their papery skin pulled taught across their jutting bones; their flesh was deathly pale, their lips and fingers tinged a faint shade of blue at the edges; most of them had lost a great deal of hair, leaving only withered scalps in their wake.

As a result, it was difficult to tell the residents apart: secondary sexual characteristics had gone out the window thanks to the desiccation of the bodies, and the same went for distinct facial features; the loss of skin tone made the residents uniformly pale and sickly (doubly so thanks to the dim light), and everyone was almost bald by now. They no longer resembled living human beings, but animate corpses without identity, breathing husks of meat, each with the same dead face.

Most disturbingly of all, though the bodies of these unfortunate residents remained motionless except for the subtle motions of breathing, their eyes flickered wildly behind their closed eyelids – as if in REM sleep.

Were these people dreaming? And how long had they been like this? Could they have been preserved here since the beginning of the war? It might certainly explain why he hadn't seen any organic residents up and about… but why had they been connected to the Vault computer? What was going on inside their heads? And why did the monitors in front of them show a view of a black-and-white Pre-War suburban neighbourhood?

Finding no answers to any of his questions, Matty continued his survey. However, it wasn't until Matty reached his ninth and final Lounger that he recognized the figure sitting above him.

"Dad?" he whispered.

The occupant of the pod was clearly much younger and healthier than any of the other residents, and as Matty clambered up the pod's ladder, he clearly recognized Dad's greying hair and beard. No blue lips or fingers, nor any hair loss, but he was just as unconscious as the others.

"Dad, can you hear me?"

Matty knocked experimentally on the side of the Lounger. Nothing happened. A closer look revealed an array of electrodes and needles had been plugged directly into various points in his body, including the back of his skull; either Dad couldn't hear him, couldn't respond, or both. Either way, bad news.

He attempted to open the canopy, hoping that he might be able to disengage the needles manually, but the lid refused to budge; external and internal locking mechanisms kept the Lounger completely sealed. Explosives might be enough to crack the glass… but if Matty misjudged the level of force needed to break in, he might end up killing Dad anyway, and even if he didn't, he'd likely piss off the robobrains. Once again, he could easily take on two or three at a time, but any more than that, and he'd be overwhelmed: he didn't know how many of the damn things were down here, but if there were even more Loungers downstairs, there had to be an army of robobrains needed to keep the Vault functioning.

Surveying the area, he saw the leads connecting the Loungers to the central computer, and briefly considered cutting the cables to Dad's Lounger; that might disconnect him from whatever influence was keeping him unconscious… or, Matty realized with a thrill of horror, it might end up killing him anyway. After all, there had to be some kind of life support function keeping these people from dying of thirst or starvation; unplugging Dad from it could be instantly fatal.

He couldn't take chances just yet: he needed more information on this place.

Clambering down from the Lounger, he began examining the terminals on the computer's central column. Very quickly, he found names to attach to the various residents, but no sign of any information that could help him disconnect any of them from the Loungers. However, as he progressed from screen to screen, he couldn't help noticing some unusual details.

Matty liked to think of himself as a jack-of-all trades, but then, that was a necessity among Wastelanders: narrow specialists worked well as part of a team but didn't fare too well on their own in the wilderness, and since he'd left the Vault for the first time, he had expanded considerably on his assigned career skills. Over the weeks, he'd learned just enough about the fine arts of explosives, repair, stealth, wasteland survival, and lockpicking to remain comfortably versatile in the face of the many varied challenges found in the Capital Wasteland… but at heart, he was his father's son: when he hadn't been programming Pip-Boys, he'd been helping Dad out in the clinic, where he'd learned enough medicine to understand the data assembled here.

The computer had not only registered many of the residents as suffering from extreme stress, but the blood pressure and heartrate readouts indicated that it had been happening for years, perhaps decades on end. If there was a life support system at work in these Loungers, it had to be on overtime, because any ordinary human being under this amount of stress for this long would probably be either deathly ill or dead a thousand times over.

Something very bad was happening here…

So why had Dad decided to plug himself into this? He had to have known that something was amiss the moment he'd seen these terminals – unless he hadn't examined them as closely as he should have. What could have made him so reckless?

Maybe there was some way of releasing Dad and the other residents up in the Overseer's office, or at the very least some indication of what the hell was really going on here. As expected, the door was locked, and the only terminal within reach refused to allow him access for anything other than entering the correct password – no opportunities for hacking. However, if there was one skill in the world that Matty had mastered, it was the delicate art of hunting around for miscellaneous junk: after scouring the rooms of the first floor for nearly fifteen minutes, he finally tracked down a long-abandoned passkey sitting in the desolate medical bay and toted it back upstairs to the office.

But instead of the familiar desk and private quarters expected of an Overseer, he found only a sterile room, empty except for a few lockers, a bench, an antique suitcase stuffed with long-forgotten Pre-War clothing... and a single Tranquillity Lounger.

If the residents back downstairs had looked dead, the Overseer seated inside this Lounger looked mummified: a shrivelled, ancient husk in the dusty remains of an oversized Vault suit, a corpse in all but name. This man had obviously been old when he'd first taken his seat, for nothing else could possibly explain why the decomposition seemed to have affected him so much more than the others; if the subtle rise and fall of his chest hadn't been noticeable, Matty would have no doubt believed the figure dead. And yet, despite the horrific state of this withered creature, Matty could already tell who he was long before the automated welcome on the terminal behind him crept into view.

"Welcome, Dr Braun."

Stanislaus Braun.

The end goal of his father's desperate quest sat still and silent in the coffinlike serenity of his Lounger, a faint smirk etched upon his slumbering features. His vital signs were strong, his stress levels registered normal, and not even the slightest error message disturbed the computer logs; somehow, the oldest and most decrepit of all the residents was somehow still clinging to peace and perfect health even as the other residents laboured under constant stress.

But whatever was going on, there was no sign of a release switch for the Loungers anywhere in the room, not even at the terminal. He'd hoped there'd at least be some paperwork up here that could point him in the right direction, maybe even an instruction manual on how to evacuate residents from damaged Loungers if their canopies failed to open… but if there was anything like that, it was known only to the robobrains. Grinding his teeth down a little further, Matty briefly considered continuing his search through the Vault, checking every single floor until he'd found whatever emergency override button that could release Dad from his Lounger. But then logic caught up with him: if he couldn't find a means of unlocking the Loungers from the Overseer's office – the traditional seat of power for the entire Vault – then he wasn't likely to find it anywhere in the complex.

And with a sinking heart, he gradually realized that the only option left was to take a seat in a Lounger of his own. Hopefully, there'd be some way of breaking Dad out of the Lounger from inside whatever program he'd been connected to, but frankly, Matty didn't hold out much hope.

Sighing, Matty turned to leave – and let out a strangled yelp at the sight of a robobrain standing in the doorway. These robobrains didn't seem to be capable of suspicion and were probably too buggy to regard him as anything other than a resident unless he committed an act of violence, but that didn't stop Matty's heart from doing somersaults in his chest as the robobrain's faceless gaze swept across him.

"Your assigned Lounger can be found downstairs, resident," it said pleasantly. "If you are lost, then I will be more than happy to accompany you to it."

It trundled backwards slightly and extended an arm towards the corridor as if to say, "after you," a gesture so human that it looked unfathomably wrong.

Barely able to suppress a shudder of fear, Matty obligingly marched back out into the corridor and descended to the atrium with the robobrain hot on his heels. He knew that he technically wasn't being forced into this course of action: he'd been planning on taking a seat, after all, if only because no other options were available to him… but all the same, he couldn't shake the feeling that he was being escorted to his execution.

The robobrain eventually brought them to a halt in front of an empty Tranquillity Lounger just across from the stairs. Appropriately enough, it was right next to Dad's Lounger. As the robobrain began prepping the capsule for its newest occupant, it advised him that weapons, hats, and luggage were not permitted inside the Lounger, so Matty reluctantly bagged his laser pistol, doffed his top hat, and slipped out of his backpack. Both the hat and the pack were hastily placed on the floor next to the Lounger; hopefully, they'd still be there when he got out.

If I get out, he thought grimly.

Overhead, the Lounger's canopy swung open, revealing a well-vacuumed seat adorned with a set of withered synthetic leather cushions. It looked comfortable, at least compared to some of the rotten sofas and hastily repaired couches that Matty had slept on over the last few weeks… but he could already see the needles ready to be deployed. Now terribly nervous, Matty spared a quick glance around the room, and realized with a thrill of horror that there was now a robobrain in every single corner of the room, blocking the doorways and cutting off any potential means of escape. By nature, robobrains had no faces and certainly nothing that a human being would recognize as eyes, but there was no mistaking the fact that all five of the cyborg guards were watching him very closely.

And then, just as quickly as it had appeared, the terror flooding his brain faded away – replaced by a sudden paradoxical surge of defiance, of the kind that only emerged when he was facing the worst possible odds. 

Screw it, he thought. I said I was gonna find Dad and that nothing was going to spoil my good mood; I might not be able to manage one goal, but I know for a fact that I'm going to accomplish the first. I'm getting Dad out of here, and nothing's going to stop me.

Squaring his shoulders, he took a deep breath, climbed the short ladder into the Lounger, and took a seat. A moment later, the canopy swung down and sealed with a muffled hiss, sealing him inside the pod – and if the glass had been difficult to see through on the outside, here it looked almost opaque: it was like being sealed inside a giant glass-and-steel egg. But then the monitor swung down from the canopy, and Matty's attention was occupied entirely by the images flickering across it.

At first, he saw only the PLEASE STAND BY message, pretty standard for any Wastelander who'd ever managed to get a TV set working. But then the message vanished, replaced by-

Matty's eyes widened.

He saw a strange village rendered all in black and white.

He saw a road, too smooth and orderly to have ever spanned the Capital Wastelands.

He saw trees, the first healthy, flourishing plantlife he'd seen since Oasis.

He saw a playground, not rusted and collapsing into scrap, but brand new.

And for a split-second, he saw a child's face staring back at him, the mouth twisted into a malicious-looking smirk, the eyes glittering with a wicked, mischievous intelligence.

Then the needles slid gently into his head, and he saw nothing at all.

Chapter 16: Let The Games Begin

Summary:

The Lone Wanderer settles in on Tranquility Lane...

Once the initial haze of grey had faded, Matty knew at once that something was horribly wrong.

First of all, he was sitting on a wooden bench at the side of a perfectly asphalted road, and all around him, lush trees stretched high into the sky, shading him from the dazzling glow of the sun.

In the Capital Wasteland, wooden benches were either rare collector's items, building materials, or firewood; the roads were always potholed, bumpy, cratered by centuries of warfare, and littered with wrecked cars, often sheltering raider strongholds too if you were really unlucky. And as for trees, the most common breed in the Wastelands were stunted, withered things, dead or barely clinging to life; Oasis had been the exception to the rule, and there the forest had grown so dense that it was almost impossible to move.

This place, whatever it was, was much more spacious. Beyond these trees, houses stood in stately ranks – Pre-War houses, but without any of the decay or damage usually seen in houses of this kind. No empty windowsills, no kicked-in doors, no dead gardens, no portable turrets and booby traps set up by new residents with home defence in mind, nor any sign that the Great War had ever happened; nothing but gleaming white facades, perfectly tiled rooves, and neat, even picket fences. There were even intact Corvega V8s in the driveways, perfectly waxed and polished to a gleaming finish.

And there were people here – not filthy, rag-wearing, bug-ridden, dead-eyed Wastelanders with calloused hands, rotten teeth, and desperation written plainly on their faces, but clean, healthy folk in freshly-laundered Pre-War clothing. Even the residents of Vault 101 hadn't looked this good and certainly not this friendly: some of the locals actually waved to him as they walked by, favouring him with wide, friendly smiles that most Wastelanders would have usually reserved for long-term friends and neighbours. Matty had needed to save the Sheriff's life and disarm a nuclear bomb before anyone in Megaton had given him that warm a welcome. What was this place?

And why did most of the locals seemed to be doing nothing more than aimlessly circling the neighbourhood?

But as weird and surreal as this appeared to Matty's jaded eyes, this was nothing compared with the baseline troubles with reality: the world itself was entirely black and white, as colourless as the image that he'd seen on the monitor a few seconds ago. The road that he'd been marvelling at didn't go anywhere: it merely travelled around the neighbourhood in a complete circle, bordered on the inside by a small park at the centre of the neighbourhood; though the road was connected to each house via the driveways, there was nowhere for the cars to go except in a loop. Nor were there any roads leading out of this place, only high fences and well-manicured lawns. Strangest of all, there was music flowing through the air, a strange, jauntily exuberant little ditty vaguely reminiscent of GNR's The Adventures of Herbert 'Daring' Dashwood theme – but a thousand times more twee. These were comparatively minor aspects, but all of them added up to one inescapable conclusion: something was very, very wrong.

Okay, Matty thought. Get a grip. Focus: the Tranquillity Lounger's obviously connected your brain to the central computer, and your consciousness has been transmitted into some kind of simulated reality. You've read about this sort of thing many times before. All you've got to do is find dad and figure out a way of inputting an exit command. Easy. Piece o' cake. Slice of gateau.

He took a deep breath and got to his feet – only to realize with a jolt of shock that he was now a lot shorter than the other residents.

Marching past the bench was a leathery old man in a faded pair of overalls and a baseball cap; from his sitting position, Matty would have said that the man was about six feet tall, about more or less the same height as him… but now that he was standing up, he saw that he was barely at eye level with the guy's navel.

Somehow, Matty had shrunk.

Bewildered, he looked down at himself, and quickly discovered that the situation was even worse than initially expected: he hadn't merely diminished in size, but in age as well. His adult body was gone, replaced by the scrawny frame of a ten-year-old child; his wiry musculature, lanky physique, and frequently scuffed knuckles had vanished, and in their place, he now wore the same slim, stunted, unimposing shape he'd possessed in the photo that dad had taken all those years ago. Christ only knew he hadn't had hands this smooth in years, not since he'd been put to work in the Vault and started working with serious machinery.

Worse still, there was no sign of the sidearms he'd brought in along with him, for he was no longer wearing his Vault-Suit: he was now wearing a Pre-War-style t-shirt and shorts, with no sign of guns, knives, or anything else that might have been useful in his current predicament.

Reaching up, he instinctively ran a hand across his head, hoping that he might find something that contradicted this fever dream. But no, his face was undoubtedly that of a child: his hair was back to the same disorderly mop he'd possessed throughout his youth, up until he'd gotten out of the Vault and started trimming it as close to the scalp as possible for practicality's sake. The three days' worth of stubble on his face was gone, along with the lean, angular cheeks of a hungry Wastelander; now he had the smooth, slightly chubby cheeks of a young boy.

Once again acting largely on reflex, he raised his left arm to check on his Pip-Boy, hoping it might have some information on what had just happened. To his horror, however, the Pip-Boy was nowhere in sight.

In its place, a child's Vault-Tec wristwatch sat, the arms of the Vault Boy mascot at the centre of the watch-face now marking the time at exactly 2:55. However, despite keeping an eye on the ridiculous watch for the better part of a minute, the hands refused to budge. Either the watch was broken…

…or time had no meaning in this simulated reality.

Matty took a very deep breath and did his best to suppress his growing panic as he took stock of the situation. Unfortunately, the situation didn't look especially positive: he was trapped in a monochrome virtual neighbourhood with no exits and no sense of time, he was now younger than most of the inhabitants, his best means of monitoring his health was gone, his weapons had been confiscated, and all the skills and improbable talents he'd worked so hard to gain out in the Wasteland were now presumably useless in his child form. In short, as long as he was here, he was powerless.

Still, he had to make the most of the circumstances: he had to find dad, preferably before either of them ended up as mummified as the other residents were back in the real world. So, he set off down the road, ready to begin knocking on doors and asking questions. But no sooner had he begun trotting awkwardly down the sidewalk, a voice called out, "Hey there, sport!"

Turning the follow the source of the voice, he found himself staring up at an apparition that could have only existed in virtual reality: tall, balding, broad-smiled and broad-shouldered, dressed in a sweater vest, a crisp white shirt, and slacks, this man looked as if he could have stepped out of an advertisement in a magazine (apart from the combover).

"Beautiful day, isn't it?" the apparition boomed, his face alive with saccharine good cheer.

Not sure how to respond, Matty nodded mutely.

"Yep, sure is a good day to be outdoors and having fun!"

Matty took a deep breath and mulled the situation over: was this one of the programs native to the simulation, or was he an actual resident? Being nothing more than a simulated extra operating on a programmed subroutine might explain why he appeared so dull and caricatured, but then, Matty didn't know how the residents behaved in this strange world. For all he knew, this was a real person who'd gone insane after spending two hundred years trapped in here. Still, he had to query the locals before jumping to conclusions.

"You… you do know that this is all just a virtual reality simulation, right?" he asked

The man chuckled warmly. "You've been reading too many comic books, kiddo. Say, you should go talk to Betty! She's waiting for you over on the playground."

He pointed towards the park at the centre of the neighbourhood; it was hard to tell from here with all the greenery in the way, but there was definitely someone moving around there.

"Who's Betty?" Matty asked.

The man's face shifted ever-so-subtly: his smile remained fixed in place, but his eyes began to flit anxiously from left to right, and when he finally replied, there was a note of uncertainty in his voice – as if he'd just been asked a question he didn't quite understand.

"Betty? Well... She's Betty. You know…"

He trailed off, seemingly too nervous to finish his sentence.

"You really shouldn't keep her waiting," he said at last, and then hurried off without another word.

In his wake, Matty was left standing alone on the sidewalk, staring in bewilderment at the retreating figure.

Okay, that happened, he thought. I now have questions: who is Betty, why would Mr Male Pattern Baldness feel the need to send me her way, and if she wants to talk to me then why wouldn't she just meet me in person? The neighbourhood is not that big. And lastly, who the hell actually uses the word 'say' as an exclamation?"

But as exasperating as the situation was, it was Matty's only lead thus far. Perhaps this "Betty" might be able to help him.

So, muttering a few expletives under his breath, he took to his heels and made the short walk across the road, towards the park. With the slippery dip and swingset in the way, he couldn't see anyone there so far, but not too far ahead of him, he could hear the distinctive sound of someone whistling…

---

Braun smirked as his newest visitor drew closer.

All in all, he was quite proud of the traps he'd set, though by now such things were a necessity in keeping the Vault protected from uninvited guests.

The first intruder had progressed too far without being detected or stopped, and the robobrains' laxness had allowed him to steal the priceless memory chip without opposition; had he designs on anything else in the complex, he'd have been able to claim it or destroy it easily.

Ever since then, Braun had made sure that any further interlopers would not be allowed to roam free: any activity at the Vault's door would send an automated alert to the robobrains, who would block the path ahead; even visitors armed with Stealth Boys would be unable to progress further without tripping the cyborgs' sensors. From there, they would funnel potential inductees into the Tranquillity Lounger, or – if the visitors proved hostile – eliminate them immediately.

As for those who entered the simulation, the first true visitor to Tranquillity Lane had demonstrated that subtler methods were necessary: James had been granted too many liberties, allowed to feel too secure in possession of his useless weapons and equipment, even been permitted the illusion of control. He'd upset the residents, disrupted their suburban illusion in the least interesting ways possible, and worst of all, he'd refused to entertain Braun.

From now on, all new arrivals to Tranquillity Lane would be transformed to better fit their environment: a simple data extrapolation program would immediately regress their digital age to approximately ten years old, while information dissemination protocols would effectively incorporate them into the neighbourhood; his playthings would not regard them as potentially threatening outsiders but welcome them to the community with open arms. All these measures and more would ensure that any intruders would greet him with full knowledge of their own powerlessness and ignorance.

And he could already tell this newest arrival was practically overflowing with uncertainty; the Lounger's sensors indicated that whoever he was, he couldn't be much older than nineteen, and already he'd just had all his adult strength snatched away from him. Perhaps he'd be more amenable to Braun's requests now that he'd had his illusions of independence squashed, or maybe not.

Either way, this was going to be interesting.

Doc barked happily at the sight of the newcomer stumbling through the grass and immediately trotted over, nudging the boy's hand for a pat. The boy offered a nervous laugh and awkwardly patted the dog on the head – totally oblivious to the fact that the dog he was petting had once been a human being.

While he was distracted by Doc, Braun set aside his watering can and sidled up to the visitor quietly as a mouse, and at the very moment he was most preoccupied with the overly affectionate German Shepherd, let out an ear-splitting shriek of delight. Immediately, Doc yelped and hurriedly loped away, while the intruder was left flailing around in surprise, both caught completely off-guard.

"Someone new to play with!" Braun shrieked, in Betty's voice, clapping his hands in excitement. "What good luck I have lately – I was just starting to get bored! We're going to have so much fun! My name's Betty! What's yours?!"

This was basic social manipulation, a simple matter of keeping his targets too confused and off-balance to respond sensibly, a technique that Braun had first learned from Elizabeta during their earliest sessions together, and Braun was delighted to see that it was working even better than usual.

Eventually, the stunned intruder held out a shaking hand and mumbled, "My name's M-Matthias." He blushed self-consciously, and added, "Call me Matty."

"Pleased to meet you, Matty! Wanna play a game?"

"Er…" Matty looked around in confusion. "This is going to sound really stupid, but what is this place?"

"This is Tranquillity Lane, silly! We all live here, and now so do you."

If anything, the boy looked even more befuddled. "I… I'm pretty sure I don't live here."

"You do now." Braun allowed him a moment to process this, before adding, "You live here until I say you don't."

Matty blinked, clearly trying to decide if this was meant to be taken as a joke, a boast, an objective statement of fact, or an open threat. "Is this some kind of game?" he asked hesitantly.

"Exactly! It's a game: everything's a game here on Tranquillity Lane. If you like, we can play a game inside a game: it'll be a fun game, I promise."

"Look, kid…"

The boy cringed, no doubt still coming to terms that he was in no longer in a position to call anyone 'kid.'

"Look, Betty," he amended, "I'm kinda busy right now: I'm looking for my dad, and I think he might be somewhere in this neighbourhood. You haven't seen him, have you?"

"Gee, I don't know. What does your daddy look like?"

"Well, he's about fifty-ish, tall, has a beard, bit of an accent. He would have probably asked a lot of weird questions, and probably would've asked about Dr Braun."

Sometimes, Braun's performance as Betty was no act at all. Like many virtual avatars he'd worn in the past, the form of a child gave him freedoms that his own simulated representation couldn't possibly have allowed him, allowing Braun to lose himself in a role. As Betty, he had the freedom to say and do things that would have been socially unacceptable for an adult; adults didn't see him as an equal or a threat, but only as a harmless child; he could indulge in the kind of exuberance that nobody over the age of eighteen could ever replicate honestly… and best of all, he no longer had to labour under the perspectives of a mature killer: in Betty's form, he could openly enjoy the guileless cruelty of a child without having to hide his true nature as carefully as he had as an adult. Before long, the joys of playing the part of Betty became so intoxicating that he no longer needed to perform at all, but simply to be. The once-calculated gestures – the pouting, the infantile taunting, the childish chattering, the excited clapping of the hands, the playing on the swings and the see-saws – were now second nature, as if he really had become a child again.

So, when he recognized the description of Matty's father, the giggling that erupted out of him wasn't an affectation, but genuine laughter. He now knew that this was no mere intruder, but the son of the previous visitor! This was James' offspring, a fellow traveller of the post-apocalyptic hellscape beyond the Vault, travelling so far and risking so much just to be reunited with his precious parent.

And best of all, Matty hadn't even realized that the holy grail of his little quest had been within arm's reach and been ignored: had he looked around the neighbourhood, he might have realized that there were only ten people in the simulation when there'd been eleven people in the Tranquillity Loungers back in the real world, information that might have allowed him to figure out where his father was… but no: he'd casually strolled right to the middle of the neighbourhood without realizing that the overly-friendly dog was none other than James himself!

"That was him?" Braun cackled. "HIM? Oh, this is too good, this is perfect! We are gonna have so much fun: this is going to be the best game ever!"

Matty groaned. "Could we not do this, please? I just wanna find my dad and get out of here, okay? I don't want to play any games and I don't want to waste any more time than I already have. So could you please just tell me where dad is?"

He'd obviously meant to sound assertive, but at his current age, he just sounded like any other kid pleading for ice cream on a hot day.

"That's not very nice, Matty," Braun pouted. "But maybe we can make a game out of that, too: you want to find your dad, then I'll help you look for him; if you've got questions about this place, then I'll answer them; I might even be able to find you a way out of this place if you really don't want to say here with us… but you'll have to do something for me first. Besides, it'll be fun – promise!"

For a moment, Matty silently mulled this over. "Alright," he said at last. "I'll play along if it means seeing dad again. What's the game?"

"Easy: just make Timmy Neusbaum cry!"

"…nnnnnot what I was expecting. Who's Timmy Neusbaum?"

Braun pointed across the road at the tiny lemonade stand sitting just outside the Neusbaum house: as always, little Timmy was hard at work peddling simulated beverages to the people of Tranquillity Lane, no doubt driven entirely by his mother's offhand remark of "when life gives you lemons, make lemonade." Braun had fantasized about poisoning said lemonade, just so Timmy would have to endure the horror of watching one of his customers slowly puke themselves to death before his eyes… but for now, he was content with baby steps.

Matty's brow wrinkled in confusion. "And why exactly do you want me to make him cry?"

"Why not? It'll be funny! Do whatever you need to do to get him to start bawling. It shouldn't be too hard; he's a great big crybaby."

For a moment, the boy looked as if he was about to say no. But then, after a few seconds of his mouth hanging open in mid-refusal, he sighed deeply and threw up his hands in exasperation. "What the hell," he grumbled. "Wouldn't have been the weirdest thing I've been asked to do in recent memory. At least this time, it's relatively harmless…

"That's the spirit. Now get to it! I'll be watching; come back when you're done, and we'll talk about your dad…"

---

God-fucking-damn it, Matty thought furiously, eyeing the brochure in his hands. I've done it again: I've made my life a million times harder by not being able to say 'no.' I mean, how hard is it to stand up to one mouthy brat? All I had to say was 'no, Betty, you're going to tell me where my dad is, and then maybe I'll consider playing along with whatever weird game you've got lined up.' Why does this keep happening to me?

Then again, there were a lot of veiled threats in that little chat: how much does Betty really know about this place, and how much control does she have over the simulation? That line about everything here being a game could be a tip-off, or maybe she's just being deliberately weird; that line about me not leaving without her permission could be an honest statement of fact, or Betty might just be trying to mess with my head. Either way, I'm officially beholden to the whims of a creepy little girl right out of some Pre-War sci-fi anthology show, and I've got to make a little boy cry for the sake of answers to my questions.

Still, this could be worse: she could have asked me to kill this poor kid's parents.

Matty shook his head, trying to clear it of all unwanted thoughts: he needed to focus on what he was doing if he wanted to get this right; he'd no doubt that Betty would refuse to cooperate if he screwed up this little errand, and the last thing he wanted was to end up performing even more tasks just to appease her.

He looked up from the crumpled pamphlet in his hands at the distant figure of Timothy Neusbaum.

He was roughly Matty's age and height, though his complexion tended towards freckles rather than Matty's troglodytic pallor, and his hair was neater thanks to a military father and an inordinately fussy mother; he was a tiny bit chubbier as well – courtesy of baby fat and a pampered life in VR.

For the next few seconds, Matty reviewed everything he'd learned about Timmy in the past few minutes: he'd asked around among the residents who were still roaming aimlessly about the neighbourhood, and the main consensus was that Timmy was a sweet kid, but a bit of a delicate flower, a "momma's boy" as Bill Foster had put it. Several had remarked that he needed to grow up a bit and learn to experience life instead of running for cover every time something scared him; the balding man from before – who turned out to be none other than George Neusbaum, Timmy's father – actually claimed that he needed to be sent off to some kind of military academy to be "toughened up," insisting that "it didn't do me any harm."

(More depressingly, the residents hadn't been able to tell him where dad was, where Dr Braun might be found, or what was up with Betty. Furthermore, none of them could acknowledge the fact that they were in a computer simulation or even remember their lives before Tranquillity Lane, regarding Matty's attempts to reveal the truth as either a joke or just childish imagination.)

Once, he'd even overheard George and Pat Neusbaum arguing about the academy… and that had been how he'd found the brochure. It had been sitting on the kitchen counter right in the middle of the Neusbaum residence, and by rights, it should have been out of reach, but as it turned out, the people of this simulated world were much less security-conscious than anyone in the Capital Wastelands. No locks on the doors, no tripwire-triggered shotguns, no grenade bouquets dangling from the room, no landmines, no turrets, not even a Protectron on patrol. Had this been anywhere but virtual reality, Matty would have considered the residents laughably naïve – and probably in desperate need of some charitable security volunteers. All he'd needed to do was tiptoe through the back door, snatch the little booklet off the counter and leave before Mr and Mrs Neusbaum happened to notice him.

The Hoffman Training Academy, the brochure proclaimed grandly. Turning The Delinquents Of Today Into The Leaders Of Tomorrow.

And just like that, Matty had a trump card on his side.

He knew that there were other ways of making Timmy cry: he could have beaten him up, kicked over his little lemonade stand, squeezed lemon juice in his eyes, or worse; hell, if the luckless kid was as fragile as everyone claimed, a few well-placed insults would probably do the trick. But frankly, beating up a child would have been too much for him, even if this was all a simulation and he couldn't actually hurt Timmy in any real fashion.

Somewhere in the darker corners of his mind, Matty's conscience pointedly reminded him that he'd already condemned Harold to an eternity as the hub of Oasis and was now blithely agreeing to inflict emotional trauma on a child for the sake of answers; he was in no position to claim the moral high ground by not just kicking the shit out of the poor kid. Matty did his best to ignore his conscience: he had to focus on rescuing dad and getting out of here alive before he could start kicking himself over lesser evils.

Besides, it wasn't as if this was real, was it?

Sighing, he marched up to Timmy, a big smile plastered over his childish features. At the sound of his approach, the boy looked up and returned the smile, but Matty could tell at once that there was absolutely nothing sincere about it: his hands were trembling as he reached for the jug of lemonade, and a faint sheen of sweat had erupted across his forehead, even though the temperature couldn't have been much higher than seventy degrees Fahrenheit. Furthermore, Timmy couldn't seem to make eye contact, for his gaze drifted compulsively to the left and right, as if he was looking for the nearest escape route.

"Hi!" he said pleasantly, a slight quaver of nervousness in his voice. "Do you want a glass of lemonade? Only five cents a cup!" He indicated the sign, his left leg jiggling as he did so, almost as if he wanted to be somewhere else.

Matty briefly considered buying a cup, if only to assuage his curiosity: he'd heard of lemonade many times before, but it had never been available in Vault 101, nor had he found any bottles of it in any of the ruined shopping malls around the Capital Wastelands; lemons couldn't grow in the polluted soil of Washington D.C., so the opportunity to try a home-made beverage featuring real Pre-War fruit was almost too enticing to ignore. But of course, Matty didn't have any money in this new form – and even if he'd managed to bring his backpack and money pouch with him, Timmy probably wouldn't have taken Caps as legal tender.

Instead, he held out the brochure. "I was hoping you could tell me about this," he said, keeping his voice as level and nonchalant as possible.

Timmy took the brochure almost without thinking; then, his eyes bulged in shock as he took in the title.

"I… I don't understand," he mumbled. "Why did you-"

"I found it outside your house," Matty lied. "The wind just swept it out the door and into the garden, but I think I might've heard your parents talking about it. Do you know anything about this?"

"N-no. I mean, dad's talked a bit about school and I heard him and mom arguing about what kind they wanna send me to, but they never talked about this place. They wouldn't send me there. They… they couldn't…"

"Well, from what I heard, your mom and dad have already paid for your enrolment, so-"

"No! They can't! Why'd they do this? I've been good, haven't I? I promised I'd tag along when dad went hunting and play outside more often! This isn't fair!"

In desperation, Timmy flipped through the glossy booklet for a moment, clearly looking for some upside to the situation but only growing more and more upset with every page he read. "It says I'd have to leave Tranquillity Lane!" he shrieked. "It won't let me come home until the end of the year! I'll have to be away from mom for a whole year!"

He was on the verge of hysterics by now, visibly blinking away tears, his breathing hoarse and ragged; Matty knew that Timmy just needed a tiny push before he finally broke down, and though his conscience was once again sounding alarm bells, he did his best to ignore them. He had to get this right, or else Betty wouldn't be satisfied with the results, and without her help, he might never find where dad was hidden.

So, once again, he decided to bend the truth just a tiny bit: "That's just how things are," he said grimly. "From the way I've heard them talking, you've embarrassed them too many times: your dad thinks you're a mama's boy who needs toughening up, and your mom's sick and tired of having to look after you. They're ashamed of you, Timmy. With the way you've been behaving, I'm surprised this didn't happen sooner."

Timmy let out a choked sob. "I… I've been good," he whimpered. "I promised I wouldn't wet the bed again. I… I said I'd be braver. I said I'd… I'd…"

"You'd what?"

"I… I said I'd be a better son! I said they'd be proud of me soon! I just need one more chance!"

"I'm sorry, Timmy, but you aren't going to get any more chances: your dad says the academy's sent a car to pick you up."

Matty paused for effect, and then added, "It'll be here in one hour."

Timmy made a low, keening whine at the back of his throat and burst into tears. A few of the residents glanced in his direction at the sound, but otherwise paid the wailing child very little attention, carrying on with their business as if nothing had happened.

And as he cast an anxious eye across the neighbourhood, trying desperately to ignore the reproach of his own conscience, Matty couldn't help noticing the familiar figure of Betty standing on the edge of the park, grinning triumphantly and clapping her hands in undisguised delight. As promised, she'd been watching every minute of the show… and as much as it irked Matty's conscience, he'd finally managed to appease her.

There was a clatter from behind him, and Matty turned back to see that Timmy was now sprinting back to the Neusbaum house in a flood of tears, bawling at the top of his lungs.

Matty's fuming conscience kicked an override switch, and against his better judgment, Matty found himself following the sobbing child across the lawn. He didn't know what he was doing – after all, it was too late to make amends now and way past the point of claiming it had all been just a joke – but he couldn't just leave the poor kid to suffer alone. Even if the trauma hadn't been real, he couldn't bring himself to remain callous. Hopefully, now that he'd met the terms of Betty's deal, she might at least be inclined to overlook any attempts to undermine his own work.

He found Timmy crying among the bushes flanking the house, half-hidden in the shadow of an oak tree. He was trying to speak, but by then, the poor kid was so overwrought with emotion that it was just about impossible to make sense of a single word: the most Matty could recognize was the word "mom" or "mommy" repeated gasped between sobs.

Eventually, the boy's tears subsided just enough for him to croak out, "I don't wanna go. I don't wanna go, even if I'm scared to go to the park 'cause of Betty. I like it here. But nobody listens when I try to tell them what happened, and Betty just hits me harder when she finds out I told someone. I wanna stay… so why can't they just let me?"

Matty's conscience twisted the knife a little at this. "Timmy, it's okay-"

"I don't wanna be scared all the time!" Timmy bawled. "I just get scared and Betty never leaves me alone and I'm sorry, okay?! I'm sorry for being a sissy!"

"Tim, you're not-"

But Timmy was once again beginning to lapse into incoherence, his sentences dissolving into long strings of sobbed entreaties and teary-eyed, near-unintelligible explanations of how hard he'd tried to be brave, interspersed with bouts of anguished wailing that crossed the line into total incoherence. By the end, he was once again crying for his mother.

And it was at that moment that, just as Matty was reaching out to put a soothing hand on the boy's shoulder, that Timmy's body underwent a sudden change.

The top of his head began to taper and thin to a point, his skull and scalp turning conical; his skin became as glossy and rigid as plastic, until his sobbing features began to resemble those of a doll; his chin seemed to be bristling, warping out of shape in a hideous growth of sprouting matter, as if there was an inorganic fungus erupting from his lower jaw and dangling steadily lower. And as he changed, he began to shrink, his body withering away inside his clothes until his gigantic t-shirt and shorts threatened to drag him to the ground.

It took Timmy a little while to notice this transformation, but even as emotional as he was, it would have been impossible to ignore the sudden loss of height for very long. Realizing that he was now at least two inches shorter than Matty and getting steadily lower, he looked down at himself in disbelief, watching as his body warped and bulged under his oversized clothes.

"What's happening to me?" he wailed, and his voice was changing now, too, rising higher and higher as if he'd just swallowed a lungful of helium.

For his part, Matty didn't know what to say or how he could help him: all he could do was stare in disbelief as Timmy's ghastly transformation entered its final phase.

Now plunging below three feet high, Timmy's body was slowly contorting itself into a bewildering pose; his shorts and shoes had slipped off him, leaving only a gigantic shirt covering his body like a smock. The growth on his chin was hidden by the collar of his shirt, but from what little Matty could see of it, the damn thing had to be merging with his chest… and his skin seemed to be changing colours (if such a thing were possible here).

In a final surge of effort, Timmy wrenched his jaws apart, and in a voice that was growing higher and higher with every passing second, shrilled out, "I want my moooooooooooommmmmmyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyyy-"

And then he was falling, vanishing into the depths of his clothes as his final squeaking word trailed off into silence.

Timmy was gone.

Amidst the remnants of his clothes, a garden gnome now stood.

It was possessed of all the usual regalia – pointed hat, long beard, jacket, pants, boots and fishing rod… but unless Matty was deeply mistaken, this gnome's painted-on eyes appeared to be moving, albeit so subtly that nobody would have noticed unless they'd looked very closely.

Matty took a deep breath, knelt down, and whispered "Timmy? Can you hear me?"

But of course, the gnome couldn't respond, for its mouth was purely ornamental: it couldn't even scream.

Trembling, Matty turned around, not sure what he was going to do next.

Betty was standing on the other side of the picket fence, smirking like a cat with a mouthful of canary. She giggled playfully and put a silencing finger to her lips; then, she turned and skipped back across the road towards the park, whistling all the way.

In the end, all Matty could do was stumble after her, trying not to let his fear get the best of him, trying to convince himself that nothing mattered here, that nothing was real. But that would have been a lie.

After all, just because it wasn't real didn't mean it was harmless.

Chapter 17: Reluctantly On Rails

Summary:

Carrot and stick, temptation and sin...

By the time Matty caught up with her, Betty had taken a seat on one of the swings, and was gently drifting back and forth, a lazy, contented smile etched across her face.

Maybe it was the smirk, or maybe it was just his fear-crazed imagination, but she looked more like a queen on her throne than anything else.

Her eyes, which had seemed merely impish and mischievous beforehand, were now contorted in an expression of undisguised malice, their colourless depths aglitter with wicked delight. He'd seen that same look in the eyes of Mr Burke as he'd courted Matty to detonate the bomb in Megaton, in the eyes of slavers with a fresh harvest of produce ready to collar, in the eyes of the cannibals in Andale as they'd sized up their newest prey.

By now, Matty understood the fact that nothing in this place was real and that anyone he happened to meet here would look vastly different from their true selves in the real world, but now he knew for a fact that the little girl in front of him was most definitely not a child: in his experience, children usually hurt people without really understanding the significance of what they did, and even the rare few that actually had a taste for blood didn't tend to attach much thought to their sick little games.

Whoever Betty really was, she understood what she was doing.

She possessed an adult's comprehension of violence, and if she'd been the one who'd transformed Timmy before Matty could calm him down, she also had at least some measure of control over the virtual world – a very dangerous combination.

She regarded him with undisguised amusement. "I told you it would be fun," she said at last. "You're a lot better at this than I thought you'd be."

And then, just as Matty was starting to wonder if the girl's cadence and delivery sounded just a tiny bit too adult to be believable, Betty's voice suddenly shifted: in the space between sentences, it went from the piping voice of a little girl to the deep growl of an old man. What now emerged from Betty's lips was an ancient, sneering baritone, withered by time but invigorated by arrogance and cruelty, marked with a peculiar accent that Matty had only heard in old films shown back in Vault 101.

"Yes," she rasped, "you certainly made good use of the tools I left for you, and you even managed to add your own touches to make it seem more believable. Resourcefulness, improvisation, deceit… yes, I think you have all the making of exemplary player. Consider the game won – and for that, you win a prize: one question, which I will answer to the best of my considerable ability."

She smirked, as if daring Matty to ask a question she didn't know the answer to.

Matty took a very deep breath and tried to smother his anxiety. He knew from experience that he was being toyed with, that whoever Betty really was, she had the power and the temperament to make his life a living hell at a moment's notice. If she was giving him this kind of lifeline, it was so she could hang him with it. Besides, he was overflowing with questions and only allowed to ask one, a fact that Betty would probably use to trick him into wasting his opportunity… and yet, some questions might not be necessary.

"I had some questions," he said hesitantly. "But I think I might know the answers to a few of them already."

Betty giggled mirthlessly, her voice suddenly that of a child again.

"Did you?" she sneered contemptuously, almost as if insulted. "Don't hold back, then, Matty: tell me what you think you know, and I'll tell you what you don't know."

Matty hesitated, almost phrasing his next remark as a question before realizing his mistake.

"None of this is real," he said at last. "This is all just some kind of computer simulation taking place in Vault 112. More importantly, you're just using one of the programs to make yourself look and sound like a little girl – Christ knows why, but that's obviously what you're doing."

"Good," purred Betty in her old man's voice, at once impressed and disdainful. "And my name?"

After everything Matty had seen, there was only one possible answer to this question.

"You're Dr Stanislaus Braun."

"Well done. What gave it away?"

"A lot of things, really; from what I've learned so far, you were supposed to be the Overseer of Vault 112, and everything I've seen about this place suggests that you're running the show. The residents follow your orders without being told; you're the only character here who doesn't have a role or personality that the others can recognize – most of them can't even talk about you without getting vague; you're a lot more aware than any of the others; and if you were responsible for what happened to Timmy-"

"Which I am," said Braun, smugly.

"-then it probably means you have administrator-level control over this simulation, the kind of privilege that'd only be available to the Vault Overseer."

"And you base this assumption on what, exactly?"

"Personal experience: I grew up in Vault 101, and I've seen firsthand the level of authority granted to Overseers. True, we didn't have virtual reality simulators, but Overseer Almodovar was already granted total executive control over everything in the Vault. I imagine you'd be granted much more as Vault-Tec's 'sorcerer-scientist.'"

Braun's smirk grew. "A simple but effective breed of logic. You are correct: as designer of this system and Overseer, I am in command of every aspect of its function; Vault 112 was my last and greatest work before I retired, and it's only fair that I received executive control of it as a reward for years of exemplary work for the company. And you're from Vault 101? Fascinating. I must say, I never imagined I would get to meet an inhabitant of one of my past masterpieces, but here you are. Tell me, how has society degenerated after so many generations of unbridled dictatorship? Is there a caste system in place? Is the population inbred and moronic? Are there rampant system errors, mechanical faults, even power failure? Has there been famine and cannibalism?"

He chuckled maniacally. "No, no need to tell me just yet: I'm sure we'll have all the time in the world to discuss it later. In the meantime, you've yet to decide on what question you'd like to ask me."

Matty considered this for a moment. For now, there was only one question he could ask: "Where's my father? You promised you'd help me find him back before I started playing along. So where is he?"

"In my care, of course," said Braun smugly. "You see, he refused to cooperate as you did, so I took measures to ensure he wouldn't disrupt things any further. He's safe for the time being, but I doubt you'll recognize him even if you could find him."

"But couldn't you-"

Braun wagged a finger disapprovingly. "Ah-ah-ah!" he chided, now in Betty's voice. "I said you'd get one question and you've used it. But if you want to know if I could be persuaded to let dear James go… well, I'd be more than happy to reunite you with your father – provided you play along a little longer."

"Listen, you b-"

"Now, now, I wouldn't get aggressive if I were you, Matty." Braun's voice now issued from Betty's lips once more. "As you said, I'm in complete control of everything in the simulation – and by extension, the Tranquillity Loungers. As it is, I'm only keeping you from finding your father and preventing you from leaving this simulation; I'm not even remotely unhappy with you right now. Why, if I were displeased, I could transform you into almost anything, inflict pain upon you in any one of a million different ways, destroy every last vestige of your identity… or I could just interface with your Lounger's life support system and trigger a fatal aneurism. So, I suppose it's my turn to ask a question of you: are you going to be a good little boy and do as you're told?"

There was a pause, as Matty hastily considered his options. To put it mildly, the odds were not in his favour: he'd been stripped of his weapons, he'd been regressed to childhood, all the skills and abilities he'd worked so hard to develop were effectively useless within the simulation, and right now, he only had the strength to outfight another ten-year-old… and here and now, he was up against a virtual deity.

"…I really don't have a choice in the matter, do I?" he said at last

"Of course you have a choice; there are always choices in life, Matthias. In this, you have a choice of how you agree to my terms. My advice? Do it smiling."

Matty groaned. He was well and truly roped in now: once again, he'd been suckered into doing someone else's dirty work, and this time, it was for even more dubious reasons than usual. Still, there was at least some comfort in knowing that he honestly didn't have a choice in the matter.

"Alright," he said at last, smiling half-heartedly. "I'll continue playing along if it means seeing dad again."

"Excellent! Now, making Timmy cry was the easiest task I had in mind for you, and therefore the least interesting. I desire some real entertainment now, and for that I'm going to need more complex social engineering on your part. This time, I'd like you to focus on Roger and Janet Rockwell."

He pointed to one of the many identical houses, this one next-door to the Neusbaum residence.

"The Rockwells are the picture of a happy marriage, at least outwardly. I'd like you to change that, preferably concluding with their divorce. You can use any method available to you so long as it destroys their marriage, but you may not kill either of them. Once you're finished, you may return here, and we can talk further about your father – or anything else you like."

"Just get them to divorce? That's all?"

"That's all," Braun repeated.

Matty all but sighed in relief: at least he wasn't actually being asked to kill someone. Still, engineering a divorce wasn't exactly the most upstanding thing he'd been asked to do in his history of odd jobs across the wastelands. And, now that he thought of it, there was a much more puzzling wrinkle to this bizarre affair.

"How long do you think this is going to take, Braun? If they're happily married, getting them to split up is going to take a lot more time and effort than before; it's certainly not going to be over in the space of an afternoon-"

"Outwardly," said Braun. "My exact words were 'outwardly.' The Rockwells are secretly teetering on the brink of total collapse; all they need to plunge into divorce is a gentle push in the right direction. I've made sure of it – a new backstory here, a memory of a past relationship there, a few adjustments to their personalities, and maybe even a little bit of deliberately misplaced lust – and now the two are fighting almost every evening. Now, you will complete the disintegration of their relation, and you'll do it entertainingly."

Once again, Matty took a moment to digest this. Based on everything he'd seen so far, this power to control memories and alter personalities had been in evidence several times already: after all, none of the other residents could understand that they were inhabiting a virtual reality scenario, and most of them didn't even seem to be able to process the fact when Matty tried revealing it to them. However, if Braun could actually do this, then would dad even recognize him when – or if – they finally saw each other again? And all this business of adjusting memories raised another, even more unsettling question – and Matty voiced it almost without thinking:

"If you can rewrite people's entire lives just to set the stage, then why do you need me?" he asked. "Why don't you just brainwash one of the other residents into playing my part and have them break up the Rockwells' marriage?"

"Because that would be boring," Braun replied icily. "I've had my fill of setting my test subjects at each other's throats via implanted memories; after decades on end with a limited stable of playthings, the experience grows tiresomely stale, and I've no interest in implanting anything in your mind – not while you still remain interesting to me," he added, a hint of a threat in his voice. "No, I want someone to amuse me of their own free will. I don't want a programmed response: I want excitement, drama, surprise, and above else, creativity. I want to see your approach to this task. Do this for me, and we can talk further. Now run along: I'll be watching…"

---

Braun swung contentedly back and forth on the swingset, whistling to himself as Matthias hurried away.

Already, he could see him scanning the Rockwell residence, looking for anything he could exploit on the inside or out. From the way his gaze flitted across the front lawns, it was plainly obvious that he had noticed the way Martha Simpson was making eyes at Roger from across the fence. He could practically hear the gears in the boy's head turning from here!

This was perfect; this was beyond anything he could have hoped for when the outsider had first blundered into the program: not only had he been given a new toy after months of mindless agony inflicted on Doc, but it seemed that his latest plaything was much cleverer and much more pliable than he could have ever hoped for.

By now it was abundantly clear that Matty was no James: he did not shy away from the petty tortures, nor did he try to divert Braun with appeals to his better nature. Once he had realized there was no way to escape the situation without inflicting harm, he simply established what needed to be done, and then did it – carefully, efficiently and without mercy.

And as for the readouts from Matty's Tranquillity Lounger, his stress levels were nothing short of incredible. James had been overwhelmed with shock and horror, his pulse, blood pressure, and adrenaline levels skyrocketing with every revelation that Braun had hit him with; his original test subjects had been crippled with fear on their first visits, and over the next few months of torture and failed rebellious, they'd been traumatized to the brink of near-catatonia. But even when trapped in an unfamiliar body and pitted against an opponent of godlike strength with no chance of resistance, Matty's stress levels remained in check: he was cautious, wary, maybe even a little nervous, but never as terror-stricken as those who had come before him. He'd experienced horror before, this one, and he knew how to deal with it.

Alas, though his connection to the Vault computer allowed him to restructure memories and personality, the simulators couldn't let Braun read the minds of his captives; even his ability to alter memories could operate only in the most general of terms – in lengths of time, typical moments in personal history, and other elements.

Braun had no idea what had shaped Matty's character, what genetic predispositions and environmental factors had sculpted him into the man he was today. Whatever it was, it must have been suitably nightmarish, no doubt involving repression and subservience under the Overseer of Vault 101, followed by a desperate struggle to survive in the irradiated hellscape that lay beyond the Vault door. However he'd managed it, though, he'd done so without losing his rational mind or collapsing into the kind of thuggish, idiotic violence that such repeated traumas typically produced.

Others might have struggled with finding a means to make Timmy Neusbaum cry, even with Braun's prepared instruments in place; others might have simply resorted to beating him to a bloody pulp or murdering his parents. But no, Matty had ignored the easy options, disregarded brute force in favour of a subtler, infinitely more enjoyable solution. Oh yes, that brochure had given him the means of making Timmy cry, but he hadn't expected the intruder to use it so artfully.

Now, Braun could only hope that his newest plaything would continue to impress in the tasks that lay ahead: he'd no doubt that Matty would excel in driving Roger and Janet into a divorce, but after that, the boy would need to remain as determined as ever when Braun upped the stakes to murder. He'd probably need to be kept away from Dithers as well, just in case she tried to fill his head with any mad notion of freeing them from captivity.

It was still possible that the new arrival would disappoint him just as surely as his father had, but then, he'd already seen how young Matthias capitulated when all his options were exhausted. Besides, James and his pathetic attitude couldn't be the norm out there: anyone who wandered the atomic Badlands for a living would almost certainly have to develop an appropriately open-minded attitude towards morality, crime and death if they wanted to survive.

And when it came to death, the next few stages of his game would involve generous helpings of that most precious commodity.

He wanted to see the full extent of what his visitor was capable of when pushed to his absolute limits, to see just how entertaining the newest resident of Tranquillity Lane could be when he put aside all the trappings of human moral concerns and descended into rampant slaughter. In preparing that final task, Braun had turned to the long-neglected contents of his archives for inspiration, drawing from centuries-old newspapers and other digitized broadsheets; thus, the Pint-Sized Slasher was to be reborn in the ever-complacent paradise of the virtual realm.

He'd built the mask very precisely, recreating it from artists' impression and eyewitness accounts, crafting it to fit the face Matty's avatar perfectly – just so he would look perfect when the time finally came for him to take up the mantle of the Pint-Sized Slasher.

And after that, when everyone on Tranquillity Lane was dead and it was time to reset the simulation… well, he hadn't made any promises to his new plaything. He'd never specifically promised to release Matty or his father once they were finished entertaining him, and frankly, why would he? In hindsight, his sole crop of test subjects had nearly exhausted their potential for entertainment, such as it was, and a biddable participant unbound by implanted memories would freshen even the dullest elements of his games, adding decades of amusement to the mixture.

Yes, if properly motivated, Matty would be the best of all his playthings. And if Braun was right about the kind of life his newest jester had lived, that motivation might be arriving very soon…

---

It took Matty a depressingly short span of time to force the Rockwells into a divorce.

As Braun had said, Roger and Janet had been pushed to the breaking point well in advance: their marriage was a passionless sham, eroded by countless petty arguments, inconsiderate acts, the total failure of the marriage to produce children, and growing paranoia over suspected marital infidelity. At their best, they were merely distant, occasionally regretful on very good days; at their worse, the two of them were looking for excuses to force their spouse out of their lives once and for all.

So, Matty simply gave Janet the excuse she'd secretly longed for.

Patient eavesdropping had reveal that Roger Rockwell had once been in a relationship with Martha Simpson, and Janet suspected her husband of continuing it behind her back. So, Matty waited until Martha was out on one of her many strolls around the neighbourhood, then crept into her house and made off with a lacy bra and a bottle of perfume – a very distinctive aroma that could only be found in Martha's collection; to the best of Matty's knowledge, nobody else in the neighbourhood used this scent.

Then, after making off with a bottle of Roger's atrocious cologne, he sprinkled the lingerie with both perfumes and deposited it in the Rockwells' basement, right next to an old mattress that the couple had long since given up on throwing out.

By now, Matty wasn't exactly unfamiliar with theft, petty or otherwise, but stealing underwear was a new low. Still, he had to continue if he was to ever see dad again and escape from this nightmare realm. All he could do was hope that this would be enough to appease Braun.

Actually getting Janet to see the scent-laced lingerie was a slightly trickier matter. Eventually, he'd kicked a hole through the tiny basement window, then claimed that the sound of breaking glass had been from a baseball game with Timmy Neusbaum, accompanying this outrageous lie with a shamefaced plea for the return of their ball. Timmy wasn't around to reveal that he was lying and Matty was a past master of the Bambi-eyed look of contrition, so Janet reluctantly escorted him inside to retrieve the ball… only to stumble upon Martha's lingerie.

It took exactly thirty seconds for Janet to put two and two together.

Now she was alone in the house, her eyes still wet with tears as she finished signing the necessary papers, then arranged for the last of Roger's possessions – the ones she hadn't thrown out the window – to be hauled away next morning.

Some distance away, Roger slumped in a folding chair next to his broken-down car and tried to explain to Bill Foster just how much of a bitch his wife was, though as Roger was on his eighth beer by then, the explanation remained entirely incoherent.

And, of course, Matty was left to slink back to the park in shame, already feeling sick with self-loathing as Braun's obnoxious whistling drew nearer and nearer. He could already tell that the hateful bastard was going to be practically buoyant with triumph at the sight of his latest exploits.

Sure enough, Braun was smirking wider than ever when Matty finally returned.

"Resourceful as ever, I see," he chuckled. "You're proving to be a very worthy investment of my attention, not to mention a lot more cooperative than your father. He found my games quite beneath his dignity, not that it did him any good. But enough about that! Once again, you've earned a reward for exemplary behaviour: an answer to one of your many questions. Think carefully, young man; in my experience, answers rarely come cheap."

Matty smothered a sigh of exasperation: Braun was still stringing him along, as expected. He didn't know what the demented old man hoped to gain from this, but unless he got some practical answers out of this session, then he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

So, thinking carefully, he asked the question he should have asked from the very beginning: "How can I get out of here?"

"Bored with Tranquillity Lane already, are we?"

"I'd just like to know how I can leave this simulation – preferably with Dad. What will it take to get the two of us back to reality?"

Braun's lips peeled backwards into a childish grin. "As I've said, I am in complete control of this virtual setting and everyone connected to it: one of my first acts as Overseer was to override the exit program function for other users, then disable the manual override option for the Tranquillity Loungers. As such, I am the only way you and your father will ever be able to escape this world… though I presume you'd like to know if I want something specific in exchange for your release. And what do you know?" he cackled in Betty's voice. "It's time for your next task!"

Matty hung his head in despair. He's going to keep me here forever, isn't he?

"Ah-ah-ah! Chin up: no frowns allowed in this neighbourhood – not without my permission." Braun chuckled again, now in his own voice. "I think it's time we upped the stakes a little: you've proved yourself a surprisingly adept psychological manipulator, but now you'll have to put your abilities to more practical ends: I want you to kill Mabel Henderson."

"What."

"In an entertaining way, you understand: simply beating her to death with a rolling pin or slicing her to ribbons with a carving knife will not be interesting enough for my tastes. I want to see you exercise some real creativity in ensuring her demise. Do this, and you'll be one step closer to being reunited with your father."

There was a pause, as Matty digested this.

"Why?" he asked at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why do you want this? I mean, you want me to kill one of the residents, yes?"

"Your grasp of the blindingly obvious is commendable."

"One of only ten residents in this entire Vault, including you? You don't have anyone in reserve, Braun: I checked the Vault computers before I took a seat, and you've only got the first floor of Loungers occupied. So what possible reason would you have for killing one of your irreplaceable test subjects?"

The poisonous-looking smirk on Braun's face could have soured milk at fifty paces.

"Because I've been doing it on and off for the past two centuries," he purred. "Remember, this isn't reality: death in the simulation isn't permanent. If I were to kill you, for example, your Tranquillity Lounger would simply render you unconscious. You would remain asleep for as long as I'd allow it, unharmed and dreamless until I'd reset the simulation – totally or partially – and bring you back from the dead. So you see, death has no domain here unless I permit it, however briefly."

"I don't care!" Matty snapped. "I'm nobody's hitman: yes, I've done some questionable things over the last few weeks, I've killed more people than I've had hot dinners since I've left the Vault, sometimes at the request of others, but I am not a hired killer."

"How very dramatic of you, but as I said, you wouldn't be killing Mabel: you'd simply be knocking her unconscious. The moment I want her back, I can simply reset the simulation and restore her to life."

"That doesn't matter! She'd still suffer, wouldn't she? You've replicated just about every single meaningful sensation in this virtual world, and I'm willing to bet that includes the pain of being brutally murdered: even if her death wouldn't be real, her suffering would be, and even if you could resurrect her with a wave of your hand, it still happened. She'd still end up suffering the aftereffects of whatever I do to her."

"Wrong again, I'm afraid: by now, it's become common practice for me to erase the memories of anyone I kill in the simulation. There won't be any aftereffects of whatever you do to Mabel because she won't remember what happened. For all intents and purposes, Matty, whatever you do at my command has already been undone: it never happened and never will, for it will leave no impression on history. You'll simply be leaving footprints on a sandy shore, watching the waves erase each mark one at a time."

The smile grew.

"So you see, there's no guilt attached to this little job, Matthias. You wouldn't be killing anyone; you'd simply be twisting the head off a doll, and I'd be screwing it back on later."

"And that's how you see this? A game?"

"Of course. What did you think I saw it as, Matty?"

"…I…"

Matty floundered briefly, suddenly find himself wilting in the spotlight of Braun's dissecting gaze.

"…I was thinking this was some kind of experiment. I don't know as much about the Vaults as dad does, but I've seen enough of the ones in the Capital Wastelands: there were experiments going on in each one I visited, so I thought there might be one going on in here as well. But…"

Matty shook his head in bewilderment as he assessed everything I've seen so far. "But what kind of experiment would require you to make a little boy cry?" he demanded. "What could you possibly hope to learn from anything you've had me do so far? Why are you still keeping these people here after all this time?"

"Because they continue to amuse me," said Braun, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "That is purpose enough for their lives, don't you think? You are serving the same purpose after all: I do so enjoy having someone new to play with…"

"So… you're a sadist and that's all? That's the only reason for any of this?"

"You at least accept it with more grace than your father did. He simply couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility that the guiding scientific genius of the 21st century might be entitled to a little fun and games after decades of hard work. He understood the true nature of Vault-Tec's secret plan, but not enough to realize just how little of it was to be devoted to the creation of a better world – or rather, his idea of a better world. Believe me, I've caught glimpses of the world my partners wished to create, and it had nothing in common with your father's vision." Braun chuckled. "The poor fool just couldn't help imposing his idealism on others!"

As much as Matty hated to admit it, Braun had some hateful semblance of a point: from everything he'd seen and read so far, Dad occasionally failed to grasp the fact that his point of view was not the norm, setting his plans in motion without taking into account the fact that people couldn't always be trusted to be sane or reasonable. Not too long ago, he'd assumed that Overseer Almodovar would accept his escape from Vault 101 with the bare minimum of fuss: this assumption had resulted in Jonas getting murdered, Amata brutalized, and Matty being forced to flee the Vault. Twice, he'd sought help from Colin Moriarty, either unaware that doing so could have left him in debt for the rest of his life or convinced that he could appeal to the man's better nature. And what about his goals of restarting Project Purity? He'd flung himself back into the work with almost heedless abandon, unwilling to accept that he might not be able to find the resources or the support needed to make his dream a reality – or that someone more intelligent than any raider or super mutant might stand in his way. By all appearances, what Braun had done to him was the inevitable conclusion.

And yet, as much as Matty found himself sighing in frustration over dad's mistakes, some part of him couldn't help but rally in defence of the old man's optimism. Perhaps it was just his own warped sense of idealism in play, but he couldn't bring himself to dismiss his father's approach, not when it had been so instrumental in his achievements so far. After all, hadn't it carried him this far almost unscathed?

Hadn't he managed to get the support of the Brotherhood of Steel for a project that most would have considered fanciful at best and insane at worst?

Hadn't he managed to charm Moriarty into helping him where others might have considered it impossible?

Hadn't he managed to talk the Overseer into letting him into Vault 101 in the first place?

Hadn't he plunged onwards into a project that everyone had given up on, and found answers where none would have expected them?

But now Braun was clearly waiting for an answer, and judging by the look on his face, he was done with the kid gloves approach. "If we've finished discussing my motives," he said, "Then I believe it's time you continued playing."

Matty opened his mouth to refuse, only for Braun to cut him off at the last moment: "If you do not wish to entertain me, we are at an impasse for now… but rest assured, it will mean never leaving Tranquillity Lane and never seeing your father ever again. And rest assured, I won't be the one to lose patience first: you'll find it difficult maintaining your resolve in the face of the unique stimuli at work in my domain – the playthings who've been made aware of them have great difficulty keeping their composure as time goes on."

In the background, the perpetual jingle was still playing, its relentlessly jaunty melody like acid raining down on Matty's eardrums. Was his imagination, or was it growing subtly louder as the conversation went on?

"And there's still the option of just killing you," Braun continue. "Permanently. Should you actually prove boring enough to be disposed of, your father's chances of ever being released from captivity will die with you; I doubt you care so little for him that you'd condemn dear James to an eternity in my care. But if you do, I may even restore his identity just so I can reveal what became of his poor son to him. As always, I leave the decision entirely up to you."

Not for the first time that day, Matty sighed and gave in. "Alright," he said at last. "I'll cooperate if it means getting dad out of here. And don't think I'm enjoying this," he added, a little more defensively than he'd have liked. "I'm not you, no matter how much you want me to be."

"Justify it to yourself any way you like, my friend. You'll do it nonetheless… and in time, you'll see just what kind of person you really are, regardless of your protestations. Now go: you have a murder to plan…"

---

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Matty to psyche himself up for this mission.

As much as he enjoyed the rush of battle and the thrill of victory, he'd never been comfortable with killing outside of combat, for even with god only knows how many raiders dead by his hand, he still instinctively shied away from assassination work unless he could be sure he was justified in doing so. Maybe it was another bit of idealism he'd learned from dad, or maybe he'd simply found his moral limit and couldn't trespass beyond it; whatever the case, he was a killer, but not a murderer. It was one of the many reasons why he'd chickened out of mercy-killing Harold, what with the Treeminders pleading so persuasively for him to do otherwise – not that his conscience had been especially salved by the prospect of leaving poor old Harold as a tree for the rest of eternity.

In this case, though, there wasn't a lot that could keep his conscience clear: not only was he going to be committing premeditated murder for hire at the behest of some twisted manchild, but he was about to make himself a knowing participant in the continued torture of innocent human beings. The fact that Mabel would be alive again soon and wouldn't remember any of this was only vaguely comforting to him… but he clung to it nonetheless: without it, the mission would be impossible.

First, Matty scouted the surrounding environment for anything that could be used for a suitably creative death.

Unfortunately, there were no manholes anywhere in the street, nor was there any traffic on Tranquillity Lane's one road; the trees looked too stable to be toppled, and there were no animals around apart from Doc – for though Matty could hear birdsong over the infuriatingly jaunty background music, he couldn't see any birds in the vicinity. So far, the only possibility that had occurred to him was sabotaging the brakes on her care and allowing it to roll over her when she left the house, but that probably wouldn't be dramatic enough for Braun's sick desires, and besides, the driveway's incline probably wouldn't be steep enough for the car to pick up speed.

Stymied for the time being, he tried indoors instead. However, unlike his previous targets, Mabel was at home, so rather than try to sneak in through an open window and risk getting caught, he simply marched up to the front door and rang the bell.

Then again, it might not have been necessary: as the door swung open to reveal Mabel Henderson's beaming, guileless face staring down at him, Matty realized at once that she had absolutely no suspicion to spare for the weird kid on the block, nor did she have any fear of break-ins. Maybe this was another example of Braun redesigning the residents for the sake of his games, maybe Mabel had always been this naïve and unsuspecting, or maybe the entire pre-War generation had been trusting to the point of obliviousness.

Whatever the case, Matty wasn't going to be opposed or even suspected.

And that's because Braun isn't sending you out on some grand hunt, a nasty little voice in the back of his head whispered. He's set you up with a cow for you to slaughter.

Doing his best to ignore the voice, Matty plastered on a slightly-anxious smile, instinctively following through on the now-useless plan. "Um, sorry to bother you, Mrs Henderson, but I've been looking for my dad," he said nervously. "Have you seen him?"

"What does he look like, dear?"

"A little taller than you, grey-haired, has a beard…" He deliberately trailed off; he knew that carrying on with the act was probably unnecessary, but force of habit drove him onwards.

"I can't say I've seen anyone like that around the neighbourhood, dear. Still," Mabel added, "I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. In the meantime, why don't you come in? You're welcome to stay until your father returns."

Totally guileless, Matty thought. Even Moira wasn't this trusting.

Smile still chiselled on, he stepped inside the Henderson residence and immediately began examining the place for any means of engineering a suitably entertaining death. As far as he could tell, the house was identical to all the others he'd visited so far, with every room and fixture replicated in exhaustive detail: no variation, no distinction, no personality… and yet, a few tiny elements stood out in this home.

For one thing, there was a Mr Handy cleaning the living room.

For another, someone had left a roller skate next to the staircase, courtesy of Mabel half-heartedly cleaning up after a visit from Timmy Neusbaum.

And for a third, a new chandelier had been hung within reach of the upper story landing.

Also, there was a faint smell of roasting meat somewhere nearby, but much more savoury than Matty was used to.

He considered his options as Mabel shut the door behind him: if Matty so chose, he could reprogram the Mr Handy; there was probably a terminal somewhere close by for easy programming access, and from there, it probably wouldn't be too hard to get it to kill Mabel, either by removing safe mode or expanding its pest control range.

Or, he could set her up to trip over the roller skate as she descended the stairs; it'd depend on her being too distracted to notice the steps in front of her, but if she fell from a great enough height, it'd be sufficient to kill her in what Braun would hopefully consider an entertaining way.

If all else failed, he could simply wait for the right moment and then drop the chandelier on her head.

But even with three perfectly decent options on his side, one question kept creeping back into Matty's brain: could he actually do this? Could he take part in the worst of the torture, even under duress?

Come on, he told himself, you've gone this far to rescue dad. You can't back out now.

"Do you want something to eat while you wait?" Mabel asked. "I've just finished baking a pie, and if I've timed it right – which I always do – it should be just cool enough to eat by now. Of course, this is only the first bake of the day: if you stay for long enough, you'll be the first to try out my newest recipes."

For a moment, Matty's brain remained entirely focussed on assassination possibilities: if Mabel was such an avid cook, it might be possible to sabotage her oven so that a leaking gas inlet would ignite the moment she tried to operate it. True, burning to death wasn't exactly quick or painless, but Braun had made it clear that he was in this for pure sadism; roasting Mabel Henderson alive might be the only outcome the miserable old bastard could possibly accept.

Then the word "pie" finally made its way through the morass of calculations and planted the flag in his mind; only then did Matty belated realize what had just been offered.

Back in the Vault, food had been nourishing but rather basic: Dad had always preferred to avoid spending ration coupons on luxuries if he could help it, so the standard fare had been limited to bland synthetic meat and hydroponically-farmed vegetables, while on the rare occasions when they'd decided to lash out on something sweet, they usually ended up with a well-preserved box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes – saccharine but not exactly satisfying. Genuine home-baked confection was insanely rare, with cake and sweetrolls jealously coveted by the guests at any birthday party.

The food situation hadn't improved once Matty had left the Vault, though: if anything, it was even worse. Out there, people subsisted on scavenged junk-food, Brahmin steaks, what little crops could be grown in the notoriously unhealthy soil, and whatever meat could be salvaged from the incredibly hostile wildlife... and in the beginning, Matty hadn't had the caps to pay for proper steak and potatoes, so he was stuck scraping a living out of ruined shopping malls and roasted dog carcasses. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn't died of scurvy.

Eventually, he'd earned enough money and goodwill in Megaton to avoid the threat of starvation – and then he'd met Dogmeat, so he generally avoided eating roast dog these days – but the mixed bag that Wasteland Cuisine represented still frustrated him.

But now he was being offered a home-cooked meal, a slice of real pie – not vacuum-sealed, not canned, not pickled, not salted, not smoked, not chemically-preserved through the best in Pre-War methods, but hot out of the oven. And though he told himself that none of this was real, that he'd find the pie about nourishing as a daydream, he couldn't stop thinking about it… and now that he was inside the house, away from the smell of freshly-mowed grass and flowering gardens, the smell of cooking was almost intoxicating.

"Pie?" he asked, stupefied.

"Yes, dear, pie. Believe me, it's the best you've ever tasted – won me the Tranquillity Lane's Finest Meat Pie award three years running!"

Somewhere in the back of his head, Matty's rational mind was insisting that he focus on the mission at hand: he had to save dad, he had to find a way out of this nightmare, and he had to find someone who'd be capable of dismantling Braun's little fiefdom, maybe even freeing the other residents if that were possible. And yes, it would mean killing Mabel, but it wasn't as if her death or her memory of it would be permanent, and besides, the alternative would mean being trapped here forever. Plus, the quality of Mabel Henderson's pie was immaterial, in no small part due to the fact that neither the pie nor the award it had won existed in any way, shape or form. It was just another one of Braun's inventions for this scenario, another means of keeping the people seamlessly woven into the illusion.

Matty heard every single word of this, but his stomach had hit an override switch.

His feet were already carrying his protesting brain over to the kitchen table, and for the next twenty minutes, all thoughts of assassination left his brain as he focussed entirely on eating.

He ate slowly, carefully, savouring every bite of the velvety crust and the rich, tender meat within. The taste was almost beyond description; the pastry was warm and firm to the touch, not flakey like the ancient fruit pies that occasionally circulated among scavengers; the meat filling wasn't Brahmin and didn't sport the odd tough bits that hadn't been properly tenderized, instead practically melting in his mouth. Matty ate every single bite of his slice and asked for seconds – which Mabel provided.

For a while afterwards, they talked.

He didn't know why; after all, Mabel was just as brainwashed as the other residents and Braun was probably getting impatient to see her dead, but he Matty talked nonetheless. Though he'd long since given up on ever getting anyone on Tranquillity Lane to believe him, he found himself casually revealing everything to Mabel, including why he'd sought out Vault 112; in fact, he told her almost everything of his adventure so far, going so far as to tell her about his life in Vault 101. As expected, she treated it as nothing more than the product of a child's over-active imagination, but she at least gave him her full attention, oohing and aahing at every grisly detail and marvelling at his creativity.

Mabel herself talked about her usual routine, detailing her day-to-day affairs with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never had to stab a bandit to death over a can of peas. Matty should have been bored senseless, but to his surprise, found himself listening raptly to every banal detail; for once, it was nice to hear about a life that wasn't gripped by constant hardship or built on the suffering of others.

But every now and again, Mabel would stop in mid-sentence, usually right before mentioning someone close to her – a husband, a child, a friend – and find herself unable to finish the topic, as if losing her train of thought. Either Mabel had somehow managed to recover a memory of her own, or Braun had deliberately returned it to her just so he could screw with her. Either way, Mabel always ended such moments by absently dabbing her eyes with her apron, but when asked, didn't appear to notice that she'd been crying.

Eventually, Matty retired to the living room couch, supposedly to wait for dad to arrive; in reality, he needed time to consider his next move… and enjoy the chocolate-chip cookies that Mabel had served up for dessert.

Sitting there in the climate-controlled living room, on a couch that wasn't moth-eaten or half-collapsed, surrounded by intact windows and wolfing down freshly-baked cookies, he couldn't help but feel a tiny stab of envy – maybe even resentment. He couldn't tell who or what had sparked this sense of jealousy: maybe it had been Mabel for living in such finery while thousands languished in squalor – though that was hardly her fault, considering what she'd been condemned to; maybe it had been Braun, who'd created this beautiful nightmare of a prison and masterminded the Vaults to begin with; in truth, maybe his loathing was aimed at the long-dead people of the Old World, those who'd possessed all this luxury and thrown it all away on a pointless war that had ended in defeat for both sides.

And for the briefest of moments, Matty wanted to stay.

Yes, the place was essentially a prison; yes, colour was unknown here, the roads didn't go anywhere and that infuriating theme music was still trundling on despite Matty's best efforts to tune it out; and yes, Braun amused himself by torturing the residents and had done so for centuries... but all the same, the luxury of the place was almost too tempting to resist.

After all, it wasn't as if he'd managed to find much in the way of creature comforts back in the real world. His home in Megaton was a dilapidated shack made from corrugated iron sheets and old machinery, complete with so many holes in the walls that when the gales swept in from the east, the place sounded like an entire woodwind section. Matty had done his best to make it a bit more comfortable when he wasn't out looking for Dad, of course: he'd plugged some of the holes, padded the sharp edges to spare himself tetanus, even bought some decent rugs and furniture from Moira. With a radio, a few precious pre-War books and comics on the shelves, a bit of halfway-decent Wasteland Cuisine from time to time and the occasional game of baseball with the neighbours, it was actually quite nice… but it still wasn't a patch on the simple luxury of a pristine middle-class suburban home.

This place had a working toilet, for god's sake – a working flush toilet with soft toilet paper. There were people in the Capital Wasteland who'd happily commit mass murder just to get their hands on such a rarity.

In spite of all Matty's reservations, a very ugly part of his mind wondered if he could talk Braun into letting Dad go free by offering to take his place; maybe, if he played nice and cooperated with every single one of Braun's mad whims, he could be allowed to retain his memories and enjoy the virtual life. Surely that wouldn't be outside the realms of possibility? Maybe if nobody remembered suffering, it wouldn't be so hard on his conscience: he could make children cry, break up a happy marriage here and there, even kill a few people; if it meant being here, always being safe, always being comfortable, he could do it smiling – and if the suffering was brief and easily forgotten, he could do it with a clear heart.

But then he remembered George Neusbaum's sudden agitation when asked about Betty, of the way Timmy had cowered in terror at his approach, the subconscious tears that Mabel had shed; most of all, he remembered what he'd seen of their vital signs back in reality.

All of them had been stressed on some level, even terrified, though most of them looked outwardly happy: on some level, they knew that something was wrong, subconsciously understanding that they were being tortured or that they were living a lie. They might not consciously remember suffering, but their bodies knew it without a shadow of a doubt. Besides, even if Matty was a merciful killer, Braun almost certainly wasn't… and if he had his way, he'd continue the torture until the very last machine in the Vault ceased to function and Tranquillity Lane vanished in a haze of systems errors.

As long as the simulation endured, the torture would continue unto infinity.

In the end, Matty couldn't do it.

He couldn't knowingly condemn these people to an eternity of suffering at the hands of Braun, not even for the promise of seeing Dad again. When he'd made the decision to spare Harold, he'd at least trusted that the growth of the Oasis would improve the lives of millions of people who might otherwise never understand the benefits the forest could offer; Harold had at least taken some comfort in the fact that he was important to the Treeminders, and that he could at least help others. Here, there was no upside to what Braun had done to these people; Braun had reduced them to the level of his toys and made them every bit as oblivious, save for that tiny spark of horrified awareness.

Matty couldn't kill Mabel… and in that moment, he knew he couldn't offer another moment of support for Braun's mad games, nor could he allow him to continue torturing these people. One way or another, the madness had to stop.

There was now only one acceptable means of escaping Tranquillity Lane, and that was through sabotage: he had to find some means of disrupting Braun's control over the simulation, maybe even killing the old bastard. Granted, Matty didn't know how he could accomplish this or even if it was possible: all he knew was that he had to try.

Rising from the couch, he crept through the house and out the back door while Mabel's back was turned, not stopping until he was safely hidden behind a tree in the garden. As far as he could tell, Braun hadn't noticed him leaving just yet; from what he could see from here, Vault 112's Overseer was merrily swinging back and forth on the swings, idly kicking Doc in the side every time her feet got within reach. Hopefully, that meant that Matty at least had some time to act before the old sadist started to wonder why the promised murder hadn't arrived yet.

But if he was to find some way of sabotaging the game, where was he supposed to begin? And how could-

"Psst! Hey, you!"

Freezing in terror, Matty turned around, half expecting to find himself face to face with Betty's smirking mask.

To his surprise and relief, the speaker was an old woman perched right on the edge of Mabel's property and – thank Christ – just out of Braun's eyeline. Whoever she was, Matty hadn't seen her around the neighbourhood before, for he would certainly have remembered a woman as old and infirm as this: bent, haggard and barely supported by two walking sticks, her dark-skinned face was a solid mass of wrinkles, and her joints were so swollen by arthritis it was a wonder that she could still walk. The haggard, wide-eyed look of fear only made her look even older, though in truth, he couldn't tell exactly how old she was; a rough estimate had her somewhere in the ballpark of ninety years of age, if not older.

For a moment, he briefly wondered if this was a new character that Braun had conjured up to manipulate him; then he remembered that there were meant to be nine people in the game, not counting Braun, Dad and himself, but he'd only seen eight other residents around. Perhaps this was the missing ninth member of the community?

But before he could consider what to do or say next, the old woman hissed, "Over here, quickly! Follow me before he sees you – w-w-we need to talk!"

And without another word, she turned and hobbled away, limping as quickly and stealthily as her old bones could manage.

With no other ideas on what to do next, Matty hurried after, hoping against hope that she knew more than he did…

Chapter 18: A Glimpse Of Salvation

Summary:

The Lone Wanderer finds an unexpected ally and is confronted with an impossible decision.

She'd almost given up hope.

Ever since she'd arrived in the Vault and been incorporated into Braun's demented fantasies, Tessa Dithers had been plunging steadily deeper into despair, somehow finding herself falling further even after she thought she'd finally hit the bottom. The events of this past year had driven her to the absolute nadir of human existence… but no sooner had she believed that it was impossible to be dragged down any lower, Braun had found some new torture to make things even worse.

For a while, she'd found solace in the laboratory she'd been given, trying – as she once had – to lose herself in the reassuring routine of chemistry. But as she'd moved away from the old formulas she'd worked upon at Lee Rapid all those centuries ago, gradually delving into more hazardous compositions, her nerves had gotten the best of her: what if Braun was still watching her? What if he was waiting for the moment when she finally created something explosive or caustic or poisonous, just so he could appear behind her and jam her face in it? Before long, she was right back to peering over her shoulder, unable to concentrate on work but unable to do anything else, and she knew that the moment Braun did appear, she'd be cowering in terror all over again. By the time she'd left the house for fresh air, she was just about ready to prostrate herself at the Overseer's feet and scream at him to get it over with.

Instead, as she'd staggered helplessly across the back gardens of Tranquillity Lane, Tessa had seen a new face in the neighbourhood.

Whoever it was, the newcomer obviously wasn't Braun: Betty was still amusing herself with the swings. Nor had it been any of her neighbours, for most of the residents were exactly where she'd expected at the time; true, Timmy was nowhere to be found at first, but once Tessa had noticed the horrified-looking garden gnome sitting behind the Neusbaum residence, all uncertainties were immediately resolved. The newcomer's movements were too unpredictable to be any of the computer sprites that Braun had conjured up.

So, the figure making his way out of the Henderson residence could only another uninvited guest, the first since the stranger's arrival.

He hadn't exactly been the most impressive sight: he couldn't be a day older than ten years of age, so either the wasteland children had decided to explore the ruins of Vault 112 for a change, or (more likely) Braun had been playing games with the visitor's digital manifestation. In any event, he was even skinnier than Timmy and only marginally taller, his narrow face and unsmiling features locked in an expression of growing anxiety – and who could blame him? However, there'd been something else in those eyes, something that looked just a tiny bit like determination… and as he'd carefully scanned the neighbourhood, Tessa had realized that he was doing something that no other resident had done up until now: he was searching for an exit.

This boy knew this wasn't the real world; Braun obviously hadn't wiped his memory – either because he couldn't or because he didn't consider it worth his time yet. Whatever the case, this boy still had his own mind… and if he'd been spared the destruction of his identity, he might just have a chance.

It had taken all of her self-control not to run. Even with two walking sticks, Tessa wasn't very steady on her feet, and trying to navigate the back yards of Tranquillity Lane at speed would have been an open invitation for her to topple over and break another limb. So, she'd simply hobbled as quickly and carefully as she could across the neighbourhood, hoping that the new arrival wouldn't creep into Braun's line of sight before she reached him. Eventually, she'd wound up right on the edge of the Henderson property, calling out to the new arrival as quietly as she could.

Then she'd ambled away before Braun could see either of them, hurrying back to her house, praying that the boy was following her, her heart hammering so violently that she briefly wondered if Braun might be setting her up for a cardiac arrest. After that, things had been nothing more than a blur of excitement: she dimly recalled slamming the back door behind her, hearing the pitter-patter of children's shoes following her through the house, thinking please let it not be Braun, please let it not be Braun, please let him not have noticed us…

And now…

…here they were, back Tessa's basement laboratory, staring at each other as if neither of them could be real. For nearly a minute, there was silence, as Tessa took a deep breath to steady herself and leaned heavily against one of the benches, hoping it'd support her weight better than her walking sticks.

"You," she panted, voice almost quivering out of control. "Y-you're not like the others. You're new, aren't you? You still know what's real, right? You know we're not really here and we're not really talking, that it's all made-up, make-believe? You know we're all sleeping, dreaming, yes, yes?"

Inwardly, Tessa winced at the sound of her own inane babble. Between the strain of living with old age before her time, Braun's constant torture and the impact of forced isolation, her speech was so disorganized she could barely string a recognizable sentence together. She probably sounded about five minutes removed from a psychotic episode right now… not that she had that much faith in her own sanity.

Fortunately, it seemed that the boy understood her. More to the point, he was now blinking in astonishment.

"I know this is all a simulation, yes," he said, tentatively. "But how do you know it? I thought Braun wiped everyone's memories."

So he knew about Braun. Not so surprising: judging by the diction, this kid had once been an adult before the Overseer had gotten his hooks into him, so he'd likely had a chance to learn a little about Tranquillity Lane prior to this meeting.

"I'm… I'm different," Tessa replied, struggling to remain coherent. "Something happened to my Lounger, maybe a year ago, and ever since then Braun can't make me forget anymore. I've remembered everything he's done. Everything. He's killed me so many times I've lost count, done everything he could to break me, but… I'm still me. I think."

She extended a trembling hand, cringing as her arthritic joints screamed in protest. "I'm Tessa Dithers."

The boy awkwardly returned the handshake. "I'm Matthias – call me Matty," he added, almost on reflex. "Um, not to sound rude or anything like that, but are we safe down here?"

"For a while, maybe. I don't think Braun saw us talking or saw you leaving Mabel's house, so he doesn't know you're down here; he's not omniscient – just likes to think he is. Bastard thinks just because he helped create this place, he's God here. But I know he still uses the Failsafe terminal. I know it," she added unnecessarily.

"The Failsafe terminal?"

Once again, Tessa took a deep breath, wishing her thundering heart would slow down long enough for her to get a word in edgewise. Between the roar of her blood in her ears and her frayed nerves, it was a marvel she could speak at all, but now she had to focus on explaining herself: Matty might just be their only chance of ending this madness.

"You know everything that's been happening here by now: if you've spoken to Braun, you've seen how the dream can become a nightmare. It has to end, it just has to. We don't have any say in it, not while Braun's in charge of this place. But there's another way: there's a secondary terminal, one that Braun uses if he wants to make serious changes to this dreamworld. You see, it's the only terminal to the outside; the only way to shut the whole thing down. You've got to find it."

"Brilliant! Where is it?"

"The abandoned house: it's right next-door, between my house and the Neusbaum house. You'll know it – looks like something out of a horror movie. Braun doesn't want us going in there – he's afraid we might find the terminal if we look. But he's hidden it somewhere inside, behind layers of tricks and nonsense, and I couldn't find it before I got caught. But you… you've still got a working body, and you're not fooled by his tricks, so you might just be able to find it, stop it all."

Matty hesitated. "What does the Failsafe terminal actually do, though? What can it do to stop Braun and get everyone out of here? I'm not doubting you for a minute, Tessa, because I wanna get out of here as much as you do, but I need to know what I'm gonna need to do first."

"There was one program I saw on it before Braun took it away: the Chinese Invasion Failsafe. I don't know what it does, but I know Braun doesn't want any of us getting our hands on it. And even if it doesn't do anything to actually stop him, there has to be something on that terminal that can end it all! There has to be something! There has to be…"

"Tessa, are you alright?"

She was trembling now, her body shivering compulsively now as her body began to fail her once again; her grip on the bench was beginning to slip, her heart was pounding so rapidly that she feared it might be about to explode, and her lungs could barely squeeze another puff of air out of her mouth.

"Don't know," she wheezed, struggling for breath. "Can't sleep sometimes... Hear voices... My own skin doesn't feel right. None of this is right. None of this is right. It has to end. It all has to end. It…"

And at that point, she fell forward – and might have landed flat on her face if Matty hadn't caught her on the last second. Groaning with the effort of supporting the weight of a grown woman, the boy who was not a boy hauled her upright with near-herculean effort until he was able to find a chair sitting in the corner of the lab and painstakingly lower her into it.

For the next minute and a half, Tessa sat there in exhausted silence as Matty began checking her vital signs.

"I think you're okay for now," he said at last. "I don't have any means of gauging your blood pressure, but I'm guessing it's not good. I wouldn't go pushing yourself in future if I were you."

"Or what?" Tessa chuckled mirthlessly. "That's not my real heartrate you're checking; if you could actually find a pressure cuff, you wouldn't be reading my real blood pressure. It's all made-up, make-believe, just another way Braun can torture me. Even if I had a coronary and dropped dead right in front of you, it wouldn't be real: Braun would just bring me back to life easier than blinking."

"So I hear. But, like you said, there's got to be some way of stopping him. Hopefully, this Chinese Invasion thing is the key to it all, and if not, hopefully it's somewhere else on the terminal. If not… we're shit out of luck."

Tessa only just managed to stop herself from laughing with real mirth: once again, Matty was speaking and acting as an adult might, not realizing just how unintentionally hilarious it'd look when combined with his new childish appearance. But as her heart finally began to slow to a much more reasonable crawl and her anxieties relaxed enough for her to speak coherently, she couldn't help but wonder a bit about the newest visitor to the Vault… and though she told herself that there were much more important matters at stake, her curiosity was already in the process of overriding her common sense.

What harm could it do? After all, Braun doesn't know where he is: as far as he can tell, Matty's still in Mabel Henderson's place. Even if he gets curious enough to hunt him down, he won't think to look here first, will he? So what's the harm in a few questions?

"What brought you here, Matty?" she asked. "I mean, how did you find Vault 112? Why did you take a seat in one of the Loungers in the first place?"

Matty looked ever-so-slightly abashed. "I was looking for my dad," he admitted. "Truth be told, I've been looking for him for… Christ, maybe a few months by now. I'm not sure anymore. I've lost track of how much time I've spent looking for him: it's not like back in the Vault, where there's guaranteed access to a calendar."

"Wait, you were in another Vault?"

Again, that slightly-sheepish look. "Vault 101, yeah. I used to think I was born there, but it turns out that I was actually born in some secret lab hidden under the Jefferson Memorial, and my mom died just a few minutes later and dad decided it'd be safer if he took me away from it all so he headed south for Vault 101 and he somehow managed to talk his way in even though the Overseer always told us that nobody ever enters and nobody ever leaves and I still don't know why dad lied to me and-"

Perhaps realizing that his voice had been involuntarily picking up speed, Matty paused for breath.

"I'm sorry," he said at last. "That's been weighing on me for a while now. Basically, I grew up in Vault 101 and I thought I'd be spending the rest of my life there. But then I turned nineteen and everything went crazy. Dad escaped the Vault, the Overseer thought I had something to do with it, and I had to fight my way out into the Capital Wasteland. So here I am, trying to find dad and following his trail all the way to Vault 112."

Tessa slowly digested this. "The Capital Wasteland?" she echoed. "You mean Washington DC? That's what it's called now?"

"I'm afraid so."

"What's it like out there?"

"…well, there's not much to tell, really. It's exactly what you'd expect with the name like 'The Capital Wasteland'-"

"Come on, Matty, I've been trapped down here for over two hundred damn years: at least give me some idea of what it's like on the surface. I'm not expecting to recognize everything and I'm not expecting you to know what it used to be like. Just give me something to go on… please?"

Matty sighed. "It's a mess: ruined buildings, old houses like skeletons, roads cracked right down the middle, overpasses left half-collapsed, memorials falling to bits… you can still find some houses that you can use as proper shelter, but I've only seen a few that are completely intact. The grass is gone, the soil's wrecked, the trees are all dead… except for Oasis, way up north," he added brightly. "Other than that, the only place you're likely to see healthy trees are in books or old films, just like I did. As for water, it's usually irradiated or worse. From what I've found, Dad was supposed to be working on a project to fix all that, but every time he's tried, it's never been able to get off the ground."

"What about people? Are there actually people living there, outside the Vaults?"

"Sure, thousands of people. There's settlements all over the place, some built on old overpasses, some in old caves or subway stations, some have reclaimed the odd pre-War suburb. There's one, Megaton, built around an unexploded nuclear bomb, if you can believe it; another, Rivet City, was built on an old aircraft carrier beached on the shores of the Potomac. Of course, it's not all great."

He laughed, but the pain on his face was all too obvious. "There's plenty of raider gangs around. Slavers, too. Ghouls who've lost their minds and gone feral. Super-Mutants looking for travellers to butcher for fun. And monsters – always monsters: radroaches, bloatflies, centaurs, radscorpions, Yao-Gui, Deathclaws…"

Tessa tried in vain to picture everything that the boy had just described. To her bemusement, it sounded oddly attractive compared to Tranquillity Lane: after all, even if there were monsters, radiation, and deprivation a-plenty, it at least sounded as if there was a slim chance of making a life out there. But then, the people of the Wasteland at least had the advantage of not being under the thumb of a monstrously sadistic deity intent on being amused at any given moment of the day.

"And you've been looking for your father through all that?" she asked.

"Yeah. I get lost easily, and I keep accepting jobs from just about everyone along the way, so it's been even longer than it should have been. God only knows how I'm still alive after all this time."

"And you think he's here?"

"I know he's here: I saw him asleep in one of the Tranquillity Loungers outside. But now I'm here, I don't know where he is or even who he is – I mean, I've seen what Braun did to Timmy: Dad could be just about anything here!"

Tessa briefly reflected on the stranger's arrival in the simulation, and the rather confused-looking German Shepherd that had been seen wandering around Tranquillity Lane soon after. In all likelihood, "Doc" was probably Matty's father… but with Braun's ability to erase memories, there'd be no way of being certain.

Meanwhile, Matty was starting to look even more downcast than usual. "And now I've got to wonder what the hell I'll even say to him if we can ever get out of this place. I don't know if I should ask him why he thought leaving me behind in the Vault was a good idea, or if I should be angry with him for lying to me. I don't even know if I'll be able to look him in the eye."

"Why's that?"

But for once, Matty's eagerness for conversation appeared to have dried up.

"Matty, you don't have to get shy now of all times: I'm over two hundred years old. I've been tortured in over a million different ways, and by now, I'm beyond being shocked. If you want to tell me, I won't judge. If you don't, then it doesn't matter. Just don't tiptoe around the issue."

And then, as if by magic, he told her everything:

He told her of how he'd shot his way out of Vault 101, killing any guard that stood between him and the exit, including one that might have been about to surrender, of how he'd only just stopped himself from gunning down Overseer Almodovar in cold blood. He told her of how he'd saved Megaton and its Sheriff, but only by gunning down a dying man. He told her of his forays into debt-collecting, of the things he'd done just so a tight-lipped bartender would point him in the direction of his father. He told her of how he was a thief, a burglar of struggling wastelanders and a hoarder of necessities. He told of her that he was a murderer, how he'd shot raiders who'd dropped their guns and fled, not trusting them to stick clear of him in future; he'd even shot a few who might very well have been surrendering, convinced that they might go for their guns if he let his guard down. Worse still, he'd enjoyed it. He'd even cooperated with the earliest of Braun's games, agreeing to make Timmy cry and break up the Rockwells' marriage in exchange for the chance to be reunited with his father.

But the strangest tale of all he left for last – the story of a man who'd been trapped in a tree, a man who'd begged for death… but at the cajoling of the tree-being's worshippers, Matty had refused him, and left him to linger on for all eternity in the hope that some good might come of it.

Matty was too upset to add explanations for the things he'd encountered, but Tessa didn't doubt he was telling the truth: he had clearly held onto these stories for too long for his own good to hold anything back… but for all that, she couldn't bring herself to judge little Matty as harshly as he had. Maybe it was because he was currently stuck in the form of a child, maybe it because he was only just holding back his tears, but she couldn't look on him with the same kind of fear and disgust this confession might have prompted.

"I can't pretend to understand everything that's happened to you," she said at last. "And I don't know if your dad would approve of what you've done; maybe the fact that you can at least admit your mistakes can somehow make this right. Who knows? Right now, it doesn't matter: what matters if that you have a chance to stop Braun once and for all… and you might be the only one of us who can pull it off."

For nearly half a minute, Matty looked as if he couldn't even muster the self-confidence to reply, much less react. Then, that tiny spark of determination flared in his eyes, and he looked up with newfound eagerness. "How?" he asked.

"You've played along with Braun's games so far: there's a chance he might let his guard down now, maybe enough for you to sneak into the house and find the failsafe terminal. Plus, from what you've told me, you've got way more experience with hacking computers and reprogramming machines than any of us here, so that's got to work in your favour at some point."

"But it can't be as simple as that: if the terminal's as vital as you think, then he's not going to let his guard down no matter how much he trusts me, and if there's no back door, the only way in will be right under his nose. Besides, he'll be investigating Mabel's house sooner or later, and once he realizes that I've chickened out of killing her, the jig's up. No, there'll have to be some way of distracting him, some way of keeping his eyes off the house while I sneak in."

And in that moment, Tessa smiled. In spite of everything she'd suffered, in spite of everything she'd lost, in spite of all the horrors that Braun had inflicted on her in the last two centuries, she found a genuine smile slowly creeping across her age-creased face.

"There is," she replied, gleefully. "Because there's only one other character in this sick game that he wants to serve him voluntarily. And that, as luck would have it, is me."

---

It took a little over a minute for the two of them to formulate a plan.

While Matty crept out through the back door and ducked into the undergrowth bordering the abandoned house, Tessa prepared to leave via the front entrance, headed straight for the road. For the time being, Matty would remain hunkered down in the long grass until Tessa got as far as the sidewalk, just out of view for everyone except her.

The plan was relatively simple: as soon as she saw Matty give the signal, Tessa would make a beeline for Braun, doing her level best to get his attention in the only way she could: she would claim to have accepted his offer and would serve him in any way he pleased, just as long as she was spared from any further isolation, torture or involuntary transformations.

There was no way of telling whether Braun would accept this or not. After all, he had a new toy to do his bidding, and given that Matty had proved to be much more willing to entertain the demented Overseer, he probably consider Tessa to be surplus to requirements. In all probability, he'd probably kick her right back into another round of torture just for wasting his time.

But of course, the goal of this exercise wasn't to get Braun to accept her surrender or even consider it, but to keep him occupied: as long as his attention was on her, he wouldn't be keeping an eye on the house. The distraction didn't have to be perfect, it didn't have to last very long, and in point of fact, it didn't even have to be all that convince: it just had to keep him busy long enough for Matty to pick the lock on the door and sneak in.

Fortunately, there were plenty of hairpins around Tessa's house.

What with Tessa's busted hip and arthritic joints, it took her a while to get out of her house and out onto the street, so Matty didn't see her amble into view for several minutes. To be fair, neither of them wanted her collapsing in the middle of the street where she couldn't be of any help to either of them, and she certainly didn't want Braun getting suspicious at the sight of her approaching at her nearest equivalent to running speed.

Whatever the case, as soon as he saw that distinctive white hair and moth-eaten dress creep into view, Matty waved his hand in a "go ahead" motion – and hoped that Braun couldn't see it from here. Nodding silently, Tessa hobbled towards the park and out of Matty's eyeline.

A moment later, Tessa's quavering voice rang out across Tranquillity Lane as loudly as humanly possible: "Betty! Betty! We need to talk about something – it's very important!"

In the distance, Braun could be heard replying to her in Betty's voice; Matty couldn't work out the specifics from this far away, but he could tell at once from the tone that Braun wasn't interested in anything that the old woman had to say.

"No, no, no, I came here because I've finally made up my mind. I've decided to accept your offer: whatever you want me to do, I'll do it. Just… just make me young again and give me somewhere reasonably comfortable to live, and… and I'll entertain you. Torture, maiming, murder, whatever you want – just give me a body that doesn't have this arthritis and I'll do anything you want."

There was a pause, and when the reply finally arrived, it was in Braun's own voice. Once again, the specifics were indecipherable from this distance, but he seemed to be amused, maybe even a little contemplative.

"Well, maybe you have found a replacement, but I'm betting that whoever it is, they don't know what you really want: you're trying to dupe them into working for you, and once they understand you, they're not going to cooperate. No, you want someone who already knows everything there is to know about you…"

At that point, Tessa's voice – which had already been growing steadily quieter as she presumably drew closer to Braun – abruptly slipped below audible levels. From then on, all that could be heard of them was incomprehensible murmuring, Tessa still cajoling for all her worth, Braun responding with a mixture of amusement and contempt.

Matty very carefully peered over the edge of the long grass, risking a peek just to make sure that the coast was clear. To his immediate relief, he could see at once that Tessa was shuffling purposefully around the park in a semicircle as she drew closer to Braun, drawing his gaze away from the abandoned house – until at last, he had his back to it.

With that, Matty hurried across the front lawn of the abandoned house as quickly and quietly as he could manage; he didn't want Braun to hear him crashing through the overgrown lawn, and he didn't want any of the neighbours to start asking where he was going in such a hurry… but at the same time, he didn't want to risk moving too slowly and getting caught in mid-slink.

But as he made his way down the front yard, he couldn't help but notice that there was one resident of the park that was still looking in his direction: Doc the dog had paused in his usual meandering patrol of the swings and the slide, and was now staring right at Matty, head cocked in canine puzzlement. For one horrible moment, Matty thought that the animal might bark, or worse still, hurry over for a pat and blow his cover, but instead Doc remained perfectly still, staring uncomprehendingly at him.

Not for the first time that day, Matty couldn't help but wonder a bit about Doc. Having spent several weeks in the company of a fairly amiable Wasteland Mongrel - and months on end being mauled by wild dogs - he at least understood dogs at least enough to guess at how they might act under predictable circumstances. But in Doc's case, the behavioural patterns seemed off somehow, and not just because it was a programmed computer sprite; programming would have made its behaviour rote and predictable, and definitely didn't explain why the dog seemed so friendly. After all, if Doc was Braun's pet, then surely he'd want an attack animal, or at the very least, something that would bark loudly and angrily enough to sound the alarm. Just having some big friendly dog on duty in the park just didn't make sense based on everything Matty knew of Braun's character, unless this was really another element of his camouflage as Betty.

Could it be possible that...

From the centre of the park, Tessa's voice briefly spiked in volume, a sure sign that she was struggling to keep Braun's attention from drifting away from her. Whispering a few well-chosen expletives, Matty put aside the conclusion and made for the abandoned house as quickly as possible. Against all probability, he managed to make it over the tumbledown fence and through the morass of waist-deep grass to the front door in less than fifteen seconds; now came the hard part.

As soon as the door was within reach, he went to work with his makeshift lockpicks, trying to find the sweet spot as fast as he could without snapping the pin. Not for the first time in his life, he was immensely relieved that he'd had plenty of experience with this particular skill, and even more grateful to find that the locks in Braun's fantasy world worked the same way as reality. Still, time stretched out more than could be considered comfortable. He briefly considered giving up and trying to jimmy open one of the windows around the back, but then he remembered the brief glimpses he'd gotten of the boards behind each pane of glass around the front side of the building: he hadn't gotten a good look at all the windows of Braun's house, but he was willing to bet that the creepy bastard wouldn't have left such an obvious gap in his security, not from what Tessa had told him so far. So, it was the front door or nothing.

Ten seconds, he thought frantically, as he tweaked and twisted the lockpicks. I have been standing here for ten… eleven… twelve… thirteen… fourteen… fifteen… oh god, please don't let him turn around now, I really don't want to die down here in digital hell, not after having travelled so far and done so much. Twenty, twenty-one, twenty-two, twenty-three, twenty-four, twenty-five, twenty-six, twenty-se-

Click.

For one second distended into what felt like a thousand, Matty could only stare in astonishment at the picked lock, unable to believe that he could be so lucky. Then, pausing only to glance over his shoulder just to make sure that Braun was still preoccupied, he swung the door open with a tortured squeak of old hinges that made his skin writhe in anxiety; to his ears, it sounded so loud that Braun had to have heard it… but no, he was still deep in conversation with Tessa.

Just an illusion, then, just a trick of overstressed nerves.

Sighing in relief, Matty scuttled across the doormat – nearly tripping over it in the process – and hurried inside the dusty house, quickly closing the door behind him as quietly as he could.

He immediately regretted it: with the door shut and the windows boarded up, the house was nearly pitch-black, and it took precious time for his eyes to adjust to the oppressive gloom. More ominously, the perpetual background music of Tranquillity Lane was instantly silenced the moment the door shut, plunging him into a terrifyingly natural kind of silence that seemed horribly out of place in this artificial reality.

Once he'd finally grown accustomed to the poor lighting, he saw the house exactly as Tessa had described to him: the sagging staircase, the cobweb-shrouded hall, the carpets layered by snowdrifts of dust, the front room clustered with rubbish, all of it. And of course, he heard the ominous sounds rippling down from somewhere upstairs, past the draperies of webs, past the rotten steps. Judging by the way the racket seemed to increase as he tiptoed towards the rotten steps, it would have been logical to assume that the failsafe terminal lay somewhere upstairs and that the noise was there to dissuade nosy neighbours from investigating further.

But Tessa had tried that already: from what she'd told him during their brief prep-work, she had searched almost every inch of the upper floor in the brief window of opportunity she'd taken. If this was true and she hadn't missed anything, it might not be unreasonable to assume that the noise was actually a lure to lead saboteurs off-track. What if the failsafe terminal lay somewhere much closer?

For a few seconds, he checked the ground floor, checking inside every cupboard and under every table he could find for anything that looked like an access switch. No luck, and the clock was still ticking: Tessa wouldn't be able to keep Braun preoccupied forever; sooner or later, he'd want to know what was taking him so long to murder Mabel Henderson, and why Tessa seemed intent on keeping his eyes away from the abandoned house.

In desperation, Matty delved into the pile of garbage littering the front roof and began lifting up every single piece of junk that looked big enough to hide an access switch: the bowling ball, the heap of mouldy paperbacks, the bowl of plastic fruit, the broken cuckoo clock, anything. For the first twenty to thirty seconds, he had no luck… but just as he was about to give up, his hand happened to brush past the battered remains of an old garden gnome – which suddenly let out a single trill of sound, almost like someone striking a note on a xylophone.

He tried picking it up, but it wouldn't budge, as if Braun had cemented it to the floor. Curious, he tapped it again and was once again rewarded with another trill of musical sound; then, with a leap of inspiration, he hastily rooted around the garbage for any items he hadn't touched yet, looking for any that made sound.

After a few seconds of hunting around, he eventually found six other items, each of them playing notes of their own: an empty Nuka-Cola bottle, a broken radio, a cinder block, and a glass pitcher. Matty hadn't been given much of an education in music beyond what he could learn from old books or hear on Agatha's radio broadcasts, but even he could recognize that there was the beginnings of a melody here: unless he was deeply mistaken, this was the keypad to some kind of musically-coded lock, and once he entered the notes in the correct order to form the complete song, the failsafe terminal would appear…

…but what could the song possibly be? There had to be some kind of a clue of some sort around here, a hint to make sure that Braun didn't forget his password in case he wanted to access the terminal – something just cryptic enough for him to leave it out in the open without anyone else making sense of it.

Matty wracked his brains for an answer, inputting any song he could possibly imagine into the disguised keypad: "Anything Goes," "Stars And Stripes," "Civilization," "America the Beautiful," "Into This Life," "The Star-Spangled Banner".

But it wasn't until he'd noticed the unusual echo to the music in the silence of the house that he finally realized the key: the song he was looking for was Tranquillity Lane's background music – more specifically, the same snippet of it that Braun had been whistling on and off for the last hour or so.

Of course the old bastard would want something easy to remember! Either he'd made it such an earworm that even he couldn't forget the infuriating tune, or he'd actually programmed his avatar to whistle it at regular intervals just so he'd never forget. He must have been counting on nobody understanding the significance of that inane melody he kept whistling to himself, and more importantly, on nobody finding the keypad in the first place or even having the time to search downstairs. Well, he hadn't counted on his playthings teaming up – or on anyone seeing through his tricks.

Quickly as he could, he played out the whistle variant of the Tranquillity Lane melody on the keypad, tapping out each note with painstaking care lest he flub the code and have to start all over again. Of course, he'd never learned the basics of musical notation, so all he could do was silently recite the items he touched in order of usage: radio, pitcher, garden gnome, pitcher, cinder block, garden gnome, empty bottle-

There was a muffled whirr from somewhere behind Matty as he entered the last note of the code, and he turned just in time to see the right-hand wall of the room simply dissolve into featureless static, eventually resolving itself into a polished steel bulkhead with a simple RobCo-issue monitor and keyboard set into it.

The failsafe terminal.

Heart hammering, Matty hurried over and logged in. To his immense relief, the terminal didn't feature any elaborate virtual flourishes: it was just a standard-issue RobCo terminal with the usual Unified Operating System, complete with the familiar menu. Most of the options available to him were hidden behind endless layers of menus within menus, a good indication of just how complex this simulation really was, but after a few moments of scrolling through the main menu page, he finally found what he was looking for: the Chinese Invasion Failsafe.

Inside the selected folder, he found a small array of text files alongside the "initiate program" heading. Anxious for anything that might give him some idea of what the failsafe actually did, he opened the second heading in line: program documentation. To his surprise, it contained a letter from one General Constantine Chase to Dr Braun, offering up a requested program with extreme reluctance.

…if you can run this program with the failsafes off as requested, it read, after several lines of grumbling, your real-world test subjects WILL die if killed in the simulation.

Well, that didn't sound too promising. On the one hand, it might be able to kill Braun… but on the other hand, it would also kill everyone else connected to the simulation, including Dad. Probably Matty, too, if he got caught in the middle. Sighing, he read onwards, hoping that something more optimistic might leap out of the program specs:

US MILITARY TRAINING PROGRAM 923-B: CHINESE INVASION, the program title blared.

Purpose: Simulate A Communist Incursion On US Soil.

DOCUMENTATION CULLED: NEW PROTOCOLS ENACTED

- DISABLE SAFETY PROTOCOLS 1-6

- OVERRIDE TARGET ACQUISITION

WARNING: TEST SUBJECTS WILL EXPERIENCE REAL-WORLD TERMINATION. PROCEED WITH EXTREME CAUTION!

ADDITIONAL: POTENTIAL SOFTWARE/HARDWARE COMPATABILITY ISSUES DETECTED. INITIATING THIS PROGRAM MAY CAUSE ERRORS IN REMOTE ACCESS, LOSS OF INSTITUTED OVERRIDES, AND PARTIAL OR TOTAL LOSS OF CONTROL FUNCTION IN YOUR SIMULATOR NECESSITATING A FULL SYSTEM RESET OR REINSTALLATION OF YOUR OPERATING SYSTEM. RECOMMENDED COURSE OF ACTION: DEACTIVATE RESPAWN PROTOCOL, DELETE PROGRAM, REQUEST COMPATIBLE REPLACEMENT FROM SOURCE.

If anything, this sounded even less promising: about the only thing that made it sound even slightly hopeful was that the system errors it would induce might just allow Matty and the other residents to break free of the simulation… provided the actual Chinese invaders didn't kill them all in the process.

Finally, there were Braun's personal notes on the subject. It took a little while for the longwinded sadist to get to the point, but eventually, Matty found something halfway useful:

It's true the Failsafe would scare the living hell out of every resident in Tranquillity Lane and lead to their brutal deaths, the notes read. But then what about me? I have no ability to disable my own safety from within the simulation. And any other avatars I could create would be driven by the simulation's A.I. routines – not actual living, thinking, human subjects. Where's the fun in tormenting a machine?

And so, the release of the real-world subjects is more than they deserve, more that I could bear. They'd be dead, and I'd be left here in Tranquillity Lane, alone and tragically bored for all eternity. I can think of nothing more unacceptable.

So what good was the failsafe? It wouldn't kill Braun, only his playthings. It might allow for a system crash that could set Matty free… but it would leave Tessa, Timmy, Mabel and everyone else in the simulation dead; unless they could stay out of range until the program ceased, they'd be killed... and the same went for Dad if he was actually here in the physical sense.

How would this help anyone?

But of course, Matty knew exactly what kind of solution the Chinese Invasion Failsafe offered: it was a mercy kill – nothing more and nothing less.

If Stanislaus Braun's victims couldn't be saved from captivity, then they could at least be spared any further torment and given the luxury of a quick death. Maybe there could even be some small measure of justice in Braun being stripped of both his human playthings and his control over the simulation… but it wouldn't change the fact that everyone here would still be dead.

And though his only option was clear, Matty found himself hesitating at the last minute.

There had to be another way, some other option that he and Tessa hadn't previously noticed: what if he could seize total control of the simulation from here, cut Braun out of his own paradise? Once he had enough time to focus on the problem, he could find some means of saving the residents of Vault 112 without getting innocents killed. Or what if he could use this terminal to unlock the Tranquillity Loungers, release everyone, and leave Braun impotent by forcing him into reality? Come to think of it, why did Braun seem to think that he would remain alone in Tranquillity Lane for all eternity? What was stopping him from leaving and trying to disable his own safeties from the outside?

All the possible solutions swirled around Matty's brain like a plague of locusts, and each one of them seemed a little less likely than the last. Maybe, if he had the time to find the necessary overrides within this terminal, he could make them work, but he didn't have the time: he'd been here for at least eight minutes, and Tessa couldn't keep the Overseer distracted forever. Any minute now, Braun would realize that he was being duped and appear on the scene to investigate. The Chinese Invasion Failsafe was the only thing that could be done… but at the same time, Matty knew that there had to be another way.

Because, after all, wasn't there always another way? When it really mattered, when it looked as if his options were limited to death and cruelty, there was another way.

There'd been another way in Megaton.

There'd been another way in Canterbury Commons.

There'd been another way in Oasis.

There had to be one here; there had to be some hidden third option that would spare these people, because after two hundred years, they deserved better. They deserved anything other than a quick, ignominious death.

What could he do?

What should he do?

Notes:

Feel free to comment on the strengths and weaknesses of the story so far; I live for your feedback and insights!