So - I'm sorry that I disappeared. But believe me, it wasn't in the plan originally. Full disclosure, I was kind of involved with a married woman. She left her husband...things got heavy. She went back to him. Things got heavier. Yeah...but those games are done, so now I can get back to focusing on what matters. My readers (and my education, and my job, and my video games...she distracted me from a lot). It was fun though. Don't think I'm just a bad guy that runs around wrecking homes, though. She and I had a connection - and he'd been cheating on her for a long time. Good times, right?

Originally this chapter was supposed to cover everything up until they escaped the vault. But I split it into two chapters, because it was going to be close to ten thousand words otherwise. Which, I know - is fine for a lot of you. But I tend to try to stay between three and five thousand words. It makes it more convenient for me.

Without further ado:

That was the Ink Spots with, "Maybe"…

Welcome back boys and girls.

Three Dog here. Jockey of discs and teller of truths. Lord and master over the finest radio station to grace the Wastes, Galaxy News Radio.

But you all know who I am. You've tuned back in to GNR to hear more of the story of the Lone Wanderer, haven't you?

Yeah, that's what I thought.

Now…if you're just tuning in, you're probably wondering who the hell that is and why you should care. Well, for starters…it could save your life.

It's important to know that the Lone Wanderer didn't start out that way. No, no. Quite the contrary boys and girls. That vault kid was the Wanderer first…traveling the wastes with his ragtag clan of do-gooders. Well...

Mostly.

But this world has a way of getting under your skin and wiping the smile from your face. Makes you bitter.

Makes you lose sight of what you love. And what loves you.

Now, Three Dog has seen it all, right? People killed for food; children wandering the wastes; slavers, supermutants, raiders, cannibals. Everyone wants a slice of pie…and they'll do whatever it takes to get it.

The first time I saw the Wanderer…I could see in his eyes. Something behind his eyes. Something that screamed "I'm the one that can get shit done."

And believe you me, kiddos. That kid had a gift. A foresight. Something that kept him alive when the world around him fell apart.

Maybe he was psychic. Maybe some higher power was looking over him. Maybe he was just smart. Or maybe it was just luck.

But hey, hey. One thing at a time, right?

Where did we last leave off?

That's right. Vault 101. See James had just made his way back…and in a big way. The Overseer's wife had contracted…some virus. And this wasn't some garden variety case of radiation sickness. It was something worse…much worse.

What it was, exactly…I don't know. I'm a disc jockey, not a doctor. But whatever it was, James promised to take care of old Alphonse's wife. And take care of her he did…for two years he kept her alive. But barely.

Then, in the spring of 2060…disaster struck. And she couldn't hold on anymore.

As you might imagine, Alphonse wasn't very pleased with this…James was treading on thin ice.

So now you're wondering what happened right? Well you asked…and Three Dog shall provide.

James let out a heavy sigh. Two bottles sat on the bedside table at his side. One in a warmer the other on ice.

He looked at the bundle laid out on the bed before him. Kicking its legs and grinning widely.

Flailing its tiny arms…and at the ends of those tiny arms, tiny fists. Clenching and extending tiny fingers.

With a grimace, he folded and carefully molded the cloth to the creature's pelvis.

He was so tired of changing diapers. Tired of waking up at three a.m. to screaming.

This…this thing…

He didn't know what it wanted.

He didn't know why it screamed.

It was a goddamn guessing game…and he hated every minute of it.

He didn't want to be back in this god forsaken vault. He didn't want to be with these people…

What killed him most was that, now…amidst all the screaming and chaos…he could only think of her.

He loved Catherine. And he always would.

He missed her. He hated being in a place that reminded him of her. Walking down these narrow corridors and sitting in that disgusting mess hall. Watching the snot nosed brats of his fellow vault dwellers devour their sweets. The spoiled miscreants of condescending fathers and unconcerned mothers.

These people didn't know worry. They didn't understand loss or pain or hardship.

Being around them sickened him. And every last one of them reminded him of Catherine.

But that wasn't the worst of it. The worst of it? His mind wasn't on Catherine. It was on her. On Madison Li. He felt guilty…for a lot of reasons. She should be the furthest thing from his mind right now. He should be thinking of his son…of the promise he made to his wife.

Instead, he lifted the bottle from its warmer and tilted it up. He sprayed the liquid out on to his forearm; it was warm to the touch. Slightly warmer than body temperature…

That'll do.

Then he lifted the child and paced with zombie-like ambivalence across the room and sat the child in its playpen. "…I know you don't like it when I leave you alone. But just play in your pen. Daddy has to run to his office…I'll be back in a bit." He said the words with the most soothing voice he could conjure. Yet, they were hollow. Void of all traces of compassion, empathy, or understanding.

The child let out a soft coo. At barely a year, little Albert had already begun to walk. He seemed to look at his father with depth and understanding. Many times, James had caught his boy staring quietly into the pages of his book – a gift from Madison – You're Special!

It was almost frightening to see little Albert peering at those pages. Many times, it was as if he somehow had an unnatural understanding of its contents.

James wondered if it had to do with his condition…his ailment.

The readout had been clear. Technology could be a scary thing. It could read, very well, the genetic makeup of the zygote as it grew in Catherine's stomach. Long before the child would grow into a man, James knew how he would look. Knew how tall he would be. The machines, for what they were, were surprisingly accurate. They could predict hair color, eye color…and even more variable things, such as weight, and intelligence. More impressive, it could predict behavioral disorders based on genetic makeup.

Of course, these were only predictions. How the child would develop under normal circumstances. Whatever those circumstances were.

In a world where food was limited, where stresses – internal and external – were abundant…the predictions couldn't be entirely accurate. How could they be? How could you proportionately gain weight if you were malnourished? Even if your body's genetic makeup allowed – or, even worse, was predisposed for it…if you didn't have the machines expected nutrient intake, you would end up smaller than it predicted. In both weight and height…although, given Albert would grow up in this vault instead of the outside world, James was fairly confident the machine had made the correct assumptions.

And…what that machine had predicted.

James cold see, watching his son, it wasn't incorrect. Something looked off…it felt off.

Albert was a quiet boy. He had given no effort towards speech. He would smile widely at anyone who wandered into his path. When the other vault dwellers would comment on how well behaved he was, James would smile and nod.

They didn't understand.

They would make jokes with Albert – they would play peek-a-boo and sing him songs. Especially that strange woman, Beatrice. She seemed to marvel at how "quickly he's grown!"

And, of course, Albert's wide, genuine smile would melt their hearts. But, if they'd paid attention…they'd have seen it. They would have known. Something was off. Something wasn't quite right. He wasn't quite right.

He would smile, but he wouldn't laugh.

His eyes would tear up, but he would not cry. In fact, the only time he screamed was in the early mornings…when James wanted nothing more than to sleep in.

He would line his toys up in long, uniform lines. He rarely blinked. He rarely interacted with the other children in the vault…with one exception. The overseer's daughter, Amata. The two, from very early on, often seemed attached at the hip. Amata had not yet begun to walk, but she would crawl at Albert's feet as he stumbled from room to room with his awkward gait.

Looking down at the boy now, James felt somehow detached. So he turned and made for the door – stopping briefly at his bedside and lifting the other bottle. As he walked across the cold, smooth surface of the vault floor – he glanced over his shoulder once. Albert was already toying with the gate's lock. It would only be a matter of time before he opened it.

But even if he did, he wouldn't be able to open the pneumatic steel door of their vault lodging. And he'd be safe enough in here.

Bottle in hand, James found his way down the hall; letting the hiss of the pneumatic door comfort him as it slid shut – sealing the source of all his grief behind it. He winded through the corridors, pausing leisurely every few steps to take a swig from the bottle in hand. By the time he found his office, the warmth of the alcohol had long settled in. The light above the door flickered, drawing his attention to it: Clinic. The sign pulsated and crooned – the electronic buzzing the only audible sound, save James' breathing. He lifted the bottle to his face again and tilted his head back…but nothing would come out.

Empty.

He peered into the bottle for a lingering moment – one eye pressed to its mouth. The room sign's tent changed from a fluorescent blue to a dull red.

"You're up late."

James turned from the bottle and looked in the direction of the voice.

That kid – Jonas. This kid that had been suggested by Alphonse…to be his assistant. He didn't need an assistant.

Excuse me, James thought. Suggested by his majesty, the Overseer.

He felt a sudden burst of air attempt to escape his lungs – his chest convulsed, but no sound emerged.

"You feeling okay Dr. H?" Jonas asked, meekly.

A trail of vomit was his answer. The putrid liquid catapulted from the darkest innards of James's entrails – a seemingly endless bounty of stomach bile, partially digested food, and alcohol.

James took a step back – examining his masterpiece…then attempted to answer again. "I'm fi…" was all he was able to choke out before another eruption bellowed up from below.

Christ…Jonas thought. This was the great man that the Overseer was so reliant on. The one that had garnered so much praise. "Let's get you into the office, Dr. H." He cupped the small of James's back and pulled one arm over his shoulder. "I'll come back and get this cleaned up…before the Overseer sees it."

"Too late…" James laughed, pointing to a shadowy figure watching from the recesses of the dark hall.

Ahead of them, Jonas could just make out the figure standing in darkness – watching silently. The halls were once lit up twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week. But Alphonse had decided to implement a curfew within the vault. "These damned lights drain too much power – use too many resources," he had complained.

Now the faint emergency lighting was the only thing between them and the radroaches. Vile creatures that thrived in darkness.

"James, we need to talk," Alphonse said flatly. "Jonas…get this…" he motioned to the pool of vomit across the vault floor. "…cleaned up."

Jonas escorted the two men into the clinic. He rummaged through one of the many medical cabinets along the wall and withdrew a small box of tablets – Fixer. He dropped the tablets into a small plastic cup and poured a glass of coffee. He passed the glass and the tablets to James – then placed his hands on either side of James's face. "This should take care of you, Doc."

He briefly turned to the Overseer – who's eyes said what his mouth did not. Run along. So he did – retrieving the mop and a bucket on the way out.

When the room had cleared of undesirable ears, Alphonse spoke. "We had an agreement."

"We still do," James spoke weakly. His head pounded and his stomach twisted in knots. The Fixer was already hard at work, removing the numb euphoria that his whiskey provided.

"So you keep assuring me…yet, here you are, at peace with the floor. While my wife lays in bed, having difficulties breathing…let alone moving."

"I'm doing everything I can," again, James spoke quietly.

The truth was, she was beyond help. James knew it – he just couldn't say anything. If Alphonse knew his wife's condition, that she was untreatable…he'd cast James, and his son, back out into the wastes without hesitation. So James kept up the façade. He kept her comfortable, all the while pretending to be attempting to save her life.

What was more heartbreaking was that she knew it. He could see it in her eyes every morning – every night. She looked at him with such sorrow: begging for a release. His instincts were to give her just that – euthanize her and be done with it. But he couldn't – he had to keep her alive long enough to give Alphonse the illusion that he had done all he could.

Her symptoms were plain for anyone to see – frequent lung infections; coughing and shortness of breath; bowel obstruction; sinus inflammation…

It hadn't taken him long to diagnose Mrs. Almodovar with Cystic Fibrosis – a chronic illness affecting mainly the digestive and respiratory tracts. The degenerative disease had begun to take a heavy toll on her in her early thirties. If the vault doctor had been an actual doctor instead of a goddamn modified Mr. Handy, the outlook might not have been so dire. A diagnosis of Cystic Fibrosis in the twentieth century had been a death sentence. With autodocs and the advancements of the twenty-first century, all that had changed. Unfortunately, Vault 101 hadn't been equipped with any autodocs. And, bar one that he had seen once at the citadel many years ago, he hadn't seen any throughout his travels in the capital wasteland.

James had never seen Cystic Fibrosis in person. He had read about it – heard second and third hand tales. But he'd never seen the disease. Neither had the vault. James suspected this was due to the fact that only a small percentage of the population carried the genetic affliction. Two hundred years in that vault and no one had ever been diagnosed with it – ever developed it.

Mrs. Almodovar had a difficult childhood – filled with chronic infections, clotting difficulties…but life in the vault was easy. And these problems the Mr. Handy could handle relatively well. It never looked beyond the surface.

It didn't understand.

Alphonse blamed her condition on a contracted illness – something carried in by the scavengers that had left the vault all those years ago. James, at first, had been inclined to agree with him. He had ruled out a good deal of other conditions – severe asthma, lung cancer, edema…to name a few. For the most part, he explored other options out of desperation. Ruling them out one by one in the hopes that he would stumble upon something less grim.

But life wasn't a fairytale…and it was all too often grim.

So – he kept her comfortable. In a medically induced state of euphoria. Pumped full of Med-X, Buffout, and a steady supply of stimpacks. More than the vault could afford, really.

But her end was near. Of that much he was certain.

James wasn't sure how much he had missed when Alphonse gripped the collar of his vault jumpsuit.

"…are you even listening to me? I let you in because you promised me you could help her. You had better make good on that promise…or I swear to you now, you'll find yourself back out in the wastes fending off raiders and God knows what else."

James sighed. "I'll do everything I can, Alphonse. I'm trying. I really am."

Alphonse released the collar of his jumpsuit and sighed. "Try harder."

She died a little over a year later. She held on long enough to see her daughter turn two – a daughter that, in all reality, she probably never should have been able to have.

She held on long enough to give Alphonse the assurance he needed that James was trying.

And that was that – James and little Albert were residents of Vault 101.

Thirteen found himself fast asleep – visions of the past pulsing through his mind.

He was ten years old again.

It felt like such a long time ago now.

"Surprise!"

It was impossibly bright – his eyes adjusted slowly. It was…

It was his birthday.

Everyone was there. Well, everyone that mattered.

"Happy birthday!" – "Happy birthday!"

The residents of Vault 101 chimed in one after another.

"Can you believe it?" One of them whispered. "He's growing up so fast!"

"They all are!" Another voice answered. "Pretty soon, they'll have children of their own to contend with!"

Laughter.

"I'm so proud of you son!" His father chimed.

I'm dreaming. He realized. Nineteen years on this planet and not once had his father ever said those words.

And then, her. "Happy birthday!" Amata practically sang. "We really surprised you huh?"

He didn't answer. Everything seemed so…surreal. So clear. As if it were all happening right there in front of him, in the present.

"…your dad was afraid you were on to us, but I told him not to worry about it. You're so easy to fool!"

She was so proud of herself…Thirteen didn't have the heart to tell her that he had known about the surprise birthday party for weeks.

"Can you guess what I got you?"

Amata smiled from ear to ear…oh, that smile.

"Go on, guess!" She exclaimed.

He didn't need to guess. He knew. He always knew.

"Umm…." Thirteen lied. "A date with Christine Kendall?"

Amata's face fell flat. "Eww….no. I got you this!" She swiftly pulled her hands from behind her back and held the comic out before her for Thirteen to see. Grognak the Barbarian, Issue #14.

The comic was in near pristine condition – the pages were barely even worn. A thin plastic case separated it from the outside world. A vault of its own.

His tenth birthday party was not one of particular note – despite the fact that in the vault it marked a "new era" of responsibility. At ten, the vault residents took on new roles and new responsibilities. They began to train in different areas – prepping themselves for their future duties.

The idea behind the training was to give them samples of responsibilities. They would try a hand in water purification, engineering and maintenance, food preparation, human resources and healthcare, and even more mundane or aesthetic positions – like the hair dressers. This was all preparation for graduation and that final exam that was always on the tip of everyone's tongue. The GOAT – Generalized Occupational Aptitude Test.

Everyone in the vault – with the exception of his father – saw this as the be all, end all examination to determine one's fate in their underground world.

His father, in drunken clarity, often spoke of standardized testing with blatant dissatisfaction. "Standardized tests don't value creativity!"; "They ignore diversity!"; "They're full of biases!"

Thirteen wasn't sure about all of that – but he admired his father's passion. Though, to be honest, at ten, he didn't really much expect or care what position he'd end up with. He often felt like – regardless of what position he'd be awarded – there was more out there to this world. More to see – to explore. To do.

He awoke with a shutter. He checked his pipboy – 5:57 a.m. He always seemed to wake up just before his alarm.

He sat up in his bed and stretched…time to start the daily routine.

His father had already long departed from their quarters. He spent most of his time in his office – observing patient records and reading old documents.

Today was the big day – the day he'd take the GOAT. Thirteen felt a wave of excitement and trepidation creep over him. He imagined that he'd follow in the footsteps of his father, or maybe find himself sitting in the Overseer's chair in his distant future.

But part of him knew what how he'd score. What he'd get. He had always been a problem solver – he had always been one that people came to, to discuss their fears, troubles, and tribulations. He could see himself in a therapeutic setting.

After a short shower, he slipped on his vault suit and headed to the clinic. It was custom for him to stop to see his father before class. A ritual that had started when he was very young – and a habit that he had never quite broken.

He found his father in the vault Clinic – sitting in his office, lightly tapping the Vault Boy bobblehead on his desk.

"You have a GOAT today, don't you?" James asked the question, but didn't seem particularly interested. "I can write you a note, if you'd like. I'm sure Brotch will fill it out for you. He knows as well as I do that they're irrelevant."

"I think I can handle it."

Of that, James had no doubt. Thirteen was, in spite of his affliction, one of the brightest in the vault. Speaking of affliction…

James rummaged through his drawer; he withdrew a yellow-orange bottle with a white cap labeled "clozapine".

"Your medication," James said flatly – tossing the bottle to Thirteen. "It's a six month supply, this time."

Thirteen sighed. He didn't like his medication – though he'd long ago accepted it as a necessary evil. "Why a six month supply?" He asked.

"Because we've been using it month to month now for years. I think it's safe to say that this medication has had the least severe side-effects and the greatest success in treating your condition."

Condition. Thirteen frowned.

"You'll be fine," With a sigh, his father adopted a reassuring tone. He knew that Thirteen hated that word. He hated that he was different. He didn't understand his condition – not fully. Hell, honestly – not even James understood it fully. "You sure you don't want a note?"

Thirteen shook his head. "You had to take it. Mom had to take it. Sure…" Thirteen shrugged. "It's bullshit. But that's the way it is. So – enough stalling, right?"

His father found a smile on his face. "That's right…Go on now, you have a GOAT to take."

As Thirteen exited his father's office, Jonas was making his way into the room – Thirteen had always liked Jonas. Jonas was intelligent and kind. He was, honestly, one of the few people – save Amata – that talked to Thirteen like he was a normal person.

Normal…

"Hey champ. Come to see your pops before the GOAT?"

"Yeah, thought I'd stop by and check in on him."

Jonas smiled. "Don't worry about the GOAT – everyone has to take it, and most get through it unscathed. You'll do great. I expect I'll be training you soon."

Thirteen smiled and Jonas gave him a brief pat on the arm.

"Amata's waiting for you in the hall. Don't keep her waiting, yeah?" He winked at Thirteen and shut the door to the office. "Dr. H – I've got the results on that test…"

Thirteen almost wanted to stay and listen – but he found his mind wandering to Amata. He casually made his way towards the clinic door…that's when he heard them.

"C'mon Amata…let me show you a real Tunnel Snake."

The Tunnel Snakes – Thirteen rolled his eyes. Could they have picked a name any more childish? The name was chalk full of sexual innuendo. Which was funny – considering Butch had never so much as even kissed. Oh, he talked a big game to his gang – a band of ragtag hooligans that buckled to his every whim. But Thirteen could see the lies written all over his face – plain as day.

"Jesus, Butch. Don't you have anything better to do?"

"What's a'mata," Butch laughed. "Daddy's girl going to cry?"

"Leave her alone, Butch."

Thirteen's voice was flat – Butch leveled his eyes on him. "The fuck did you say to me freak?"

"I said leave her alone."

"Oh, tough guy…why don't you make like a monkey and beat it. I don't have time for your fancy talk right now."

"I'm not going to ask you again."

Thirteen definitely didn't consider himself to be a tough guy…but something he had learned in his years in dealing with Butch is that Butch was more talk than action. Thirteen could remember spitting in a cupcake at his birthday party and tossing it to Butch. He talked a lot, but he didn't do anything.

"You keep talkin' like that…and we'll send you back to your daddy with a few broken bones," Butch promised.

A lie – Thirteen could see it written all over his face…but Wally Mack, on the other hand.

Thirteen felt the presence behind him. Wally Mack was a brute…and not just a brute. He was smart too. As smart as – or potentially smarter than – Thirteen.

But…he was predictable; and right now, he was about to swing that baseball bat he liked to tote around towards Thirteen's back. And, judging from Amata's face…he was winding up.

Thirteen timed it perfectly – sidestepping at the last moment. The bat met it's mark in Butch's stomach, knocking the wind out of him. Wally immediately dropped it.

"Oh shit! Butch!"

"God damnit," Butch was doubled over, holding his gut – struggling to breath. "What the fuck Wally? Get him!"

Wally and Butch's other crony, a fickle kid by the name of Paul immediately grabbed hold of Thirteen from either side.

"You're going to get it now, you punk a…"

"Is there a problem here?"

Butch looked towards the voice – Mr. Brotch.

"No…no," Butch turned back towards Thirteen. He reached out one hand and straightened Thirteen's collar and gently dusted off his vault soon. "We're just helping spruce Einstein up a little, is all."

"How considerate…you're all right on time for the GOAT…please, come in and take a seat."

My internship and classes are getting ready to start, but I'm going to try to work on this more. I don't know how often I'll be able to pour chapters out - but I'm going to go for at least a couple a month (for each story). I have a chapter for A Courier's Tale almost complete - you can expect it to be published before the weekend is out.

As always, if you find any errors let me know. A few times I caught myself almost accidentally calling Thirteen "Six". Yikes. Be sure to point out any typos or errors you find and leave me some reviews. Encouragement and feedback (even constructive criticism) always motivates me to work faster - true story. Also - leave predictions for Thirteen's ailments. Bonus points if you don't google the medication he's taking. Until next time.