The Lone Wanderer once overheard a conversation between the erstwhile Laboratory Imbroglio Protege Jonas and his Dead Father wherein they discussed the Project Purity conductors and amplifiers.

'I AM THE NIGGERFAGGOT,' said Jonas loudly.

'As is Eulogy Jones,' said the Wanderer's Sire, calming the younger man. 'Once we have rectified the Aqua-Basal Cross-Molecular Destabilization Effect, we will know that the Wasteland's water is clean.'

'There's still much to be done, and with only two of us... It's not entirely clear how the trisomies will handle the-'

No one knew anything about this, but the Overseer, from what the Wanderer gleaned from Amata, harbored suspicions. The Overseer began conducting experiments of his own, privately, hidden from and the others. He and several hand-picked confreres scoured the surrounding Waste in tactical gear taken from the Vault's Armory. They risked capturing several Super Mutants in raids, as well as a Centaur, which gave Overseer an idea.

There, in the Stygian depths of Vault 101, the Overseer's vigilance extended to a program. Where captive female Raiders and Wastelanders were altered in ways difficult to describe: bulbous, slug-like, writhing with fused arms or legs, ulcers and growths upon them; skin weeping mucoid slime or pus from emergent craters; several mouths or none at all (thus fed with intravenous therapy) and wild desperate eyes; scalp hair brittle and greatly reduced, and practically nonexisteent on the rest of the body; and as Officer Mack coined the term Pocketballs for these chimeras.

Apart from keeping the Pocketballs as pets, it was considered that they were compatible with Super Mutants, who were thought sterile.

Anyhow, Amata was in love with the Lone Wanderer, and it wasn't hard to see. The Wanderer, for his part, retujrned the fuliginous-haired girl's affections, just as the Sire predicted. With all the rampant skulduggery and petty pertinaciousness, this passion was consummated but once, on the eve of the Wanderer's departure form Vault 101.

Look I've been a Creed fan for quite a whike. I've heard some of the most absurd criticisms of the band, and I'm prepared to say they were one of the finest groups of their time. Every member of the band was talented, nto least of which Mark Tremonti. Scott Stapp, a marvelous singer, inflicted Bipolar Contumely on his bandmates and made their Lives Difficult. Think of their heyday for a moment: the conclusion is that they had a wonderful run of it.

The Ened.