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The Vault-Tec Guide to Serialized Fiction

Entry A, Subsection B-19: G.O.A.T. – Oracle of Doom

Vault 101 Learning Annex

1142 Hours

"The what-now?"

She'd been skeptical of the test going in. She'd grown even more skeptical of it when it was revealed that the mythical "General Occupational Aptitude Test," or G.O.A.T. to the Vault's general populace, determined one's eventual career path and thus path of future existence by utilizing such insightful questions as "Oh no, you've just been exposed to ungodly amounts of radioactive waste and now have a third arm growing from your stomach. What do you do?"

And yet, even given this sudden burst of insight into the test's actual nature, she still found herself largely unprepared for what this supposed Oracle, as interpreted by her teacher, said lay in store for her.

Said teacher was one Mr. Brotch. He was an African-American man in his early 40s, clean shaven with short hair and a friendly expression, though that expression was currently laced with a healthy dose of skepticism and even amusement. He shrugged and smiled as he flipped through her test one more time and checked over the answers she'd selected. He compared those answers against the standard issue answer key thoughtfully provided by Vault-Tec and nodded slowly, trying to ignore the look of burgeoning horror on her face that was birthed by his nodding. "Yep. You heard right. According to the G.O.A.T., you're destined to become our next Vault chaplain." His smile widened, though he spoke the next words under his breath. "God help us all."

"You're damn right, God help us all. Look, Mr. Brotch, far be it from me to argue with the all knowing General Occupational Aptitude Test." Referring to the test by its full name seemed to give it, and by association, her words, a bit more weight, lending them a sense of "mysteriousness" and perhaps even "spooky reverence" that they otherwise might not have had. The way she waggled her fingers, however, that just made the whole production look bloody silly. "Heaven forefend I question the ever-present omniscience that has determined the fates of countless lives for hundreds of years, but… if I believed in that sort of thing, I'm pretty sure God would be smiting the guy who invented this test." She thumped her right fist into her left palm, deriving a twisted form of primal satisfaction at the hearty *Smack!* sound that accompanied the gesture. "Like… like a good, solid smiting. In places where people really ought not to be smitten."

Though privately amused, Brotch felt it best not to encourage the ranting of a sixteen year old girl. Especially not this particular sixteen year old girl. "Megan," he said, in as stern a tone as he could manage… which wasn't very, considering he was also trying quite hard not to laugh.

She took a slow, deep breath. In and out. Her hands at her sides clenched and unclenched, and her mouth set into a grim line. "Sorry. It's just… I know the red hair and the blue eyes and the freckles and everything scream 'Hey, I'm Irish, don'cha know? And really religious! Now quit tryin' ta steal me Lucky Sugar Bombs and me pot o' gold and go fetch me a bottle a' whiskey so's I can get good an' drunk 'afore I go beat me husband!'" She shook her head and snorted disdainfully. "But just because I -look- like a decent, hard working, God-fearing Mick doesn't mean I am one. I mean, that accent? Just now? Totally fake in case you couldn't tell."

"Megan."

The mild rebuke in his tone went completely unheeded as she continued ranting. As yet, no flecks of white foam had appeared at the corners of her mouth, but Brotch was fairly certain those could make a command appearance at any moment. He had just begun to debate the merits of approaching her father and asking James to administer a preventative battery of rabies vaccinations, when her voice reached a new level of shrill, snapping him out of his contemplative trance. "I mean, it's just ridiculous! This… this is -me.- I let Amata handle the diplomatic stuff. My idea of diplomacy is to tell someone they're an idiot and then go make fun of their haircut or something. Possibly while discharging unauthorized firearms in their general direction. And this stupid test expects me to be some kind of spiritual guide? A healer of minds and hearts? That's crazy. That's… that's ludicrous! That's… that's like a billion other synonyms for ludicrous that I can't think of right now because I'm far too upset and suffering one major vocabulary failure."

It was his belief that what actually brought her tirade to a conclusion was the severe hypoxia brought upon by excessive talking, but he chose not to share his theory with her. It would, after all, be very untoward to be given an object lesson in the phrase "savage pummeling" by a teenage girl. Instead, he merely held up both hands in a placating gesture. "I was just about to say that I think the test is full of crap, too."

Those simple words coupled with his calm tone stopped her dead in her tracks.

"Oh."

"One of these days you'll have to let me finish a sentence sometime," he replied with a smirk, looking up at her from where he was seated behind his desk.

She managed a sheepish grin. "Not bloody likely, teach."

He rolled his eyes and even chuckled ruefully. There were few things short of a five hundred pound slug of depleted uranium fired at Mach 3 that could stop Megan once she'd decided to start running her mouth. And running her mouth? That was a decision she made rather lightly. "I'm… starting to come to grips with that. Listen, I like your Dad. James is a good man… and despite the fact that I'm your teacher, and you all are a bunch of loud, unruly, horrible teenagers… heh… I like you, too. So I'll tell you what. You just... tell me how you want the test to turn out for you, and… I'll fudge the results a little."

A pair of soft blue eyes widened in surprise, but a small, very much amused smirk formed underneath it as Megan adopted an expression of utter nonchalance and folded her arms across her chest. "Wow. Blatant cheating. I'm impressed. I didn't realize you had it in you, Mr. Brotch."

"It's not really cheating," he replied with a half-shrug. "I mean, no one can really -fail- the G.O.A.T."

There was something about the young girl's chuckle – something that suggested an almost sinister sense of amusement. And if her chuckle suggested it, her smile took those vague hints and forever emblazoned them upon the night sky in hot pink neon lettering ten feet high and thrice as wide. She jerked a thumb over her shoulder to where a small cluster of three students wearing ill-fitting leather jackets over the standard-issue, blue Vault 101 jumpsuits, were standing in a corner of the room. The three were talking – actually, it was more appropriate to say two were standing around watching while the one with an idiotic pompadour haircut was waving his arms, gesticulating wildly, and raving like the rag-clad prophesiers of doom that had lined the streets of every major American city before the bombs had fallen. "I don't know about that, Mr. Brotch. Butch is destined to be a hairdresser. That's failure most epic right there."

"Your point is well taken."

-----

Vault 101 Cafeteria

1337 Hours

Being the only daughter of Vault 101's Overseer, Amata had been raised in a strict, one might even say unforgiving, environment. Her father had always been a harsh disciplinarian, but he had taught her the importance of such values as responsibility, loyalty, dedication, and perhaps most important of all, patience. Still, there was only so much the fragile psyche of a sixteen year old girl could take when she was forced to watch her best friend use a spork to push reconstituted mashed potatoes around on a plate for thirty minutes.

"Meg." Her friend's name came out with perhaps a bit more ire than was strictly necessary as she crumpled her napkin, dashed it to the table and pushed her plate away, then turned in her seat to glare accusingly at the redheaded girl seated next to her.

Megan, however, was lost in her own little world, entrusted with that gravest of duties: shepherding an entire technologically advanced civilization into existence from mounds of barren Instamash. She looked up to see Amata scowling at her and blinked in response. "Huh?"

"Are you still freaking out about this G.O.A.T. thing?"

"Chaplain, Amata. Chaplain!" In a perversely ironic parody of Butch's earlier fit of handwaving, Megan was waving her own hands in a spasmodic pattern that suggested that perhaps the G.O.A.T.'s results were not as full of equine refuse as she had previously believed; she was clearly having some manner of divine revelation… or perhaps merely an epileptic seizure. It was difficult to tell which as the two were often mistaken for each other, even by those who greatly venerated prophets predisposed towards having such revelations, and the far more scarce individuals who venerated those prone to epileptic seizures. "Jesus, Mary and Joseph in a tiny canoe, the little piece of paper that's supposed to tell me what I'm destined to do with the rest of my life is prophesying that I'm going to be a chaplain. I mean, my God. It might just as well have told me I was slated for a career in the Maintenance department, burning garbage."

At this, she sighed melodramatically – the gift for extensive melodrama being a trait hard-coded into the genome of teenage girls since time immemorial. She pushed her tray aside, then slumped forward, allowing her forehead to thump lightly against the table and rest against the cool, metallic surface. "My Dad's going to kill me, and then, when I get upstairs, my Mom's going to drop her harp, get off her cloud, and shank St. Peter in the back with a busted lab beaker so she can get a chance to kill me again."

"You're exaggerating."

"I do that a lot. For comedic effect."

Amata snorted and reached out to pat her friend on the shoulder. "What are you stressing so much for, anyway? Mr. Brotch said he'd… you know… take care of things."

Megan straightened up, completely ignoring the bemused looks her antics had drawn from the other Vault residents that had been making their way back and forth through the Vault's cafeteria. "Well, yeah, but your Dad's the Overseer, and you more than anyone ought to know how… um… how can I put this tactfully?"

" 'Tact is for people who aren't witty enough to be sarcastic.' I remember someone saying that. Someone named you," Amata pointed out with a wry smirk.

"Yes, well… um… the thrust of my argument here is that your Dad… he's very… thorough… and… I imagine he'd want to review all the G.O.A.T. results?" She refrained from saying "If only so he could spend a few hours stroking his ego to the answers to that last question." She refrained from -thinking- "If only so he could spend a few hours stroking his something-that-was-definitely-not-his-ego to the answers to that last question."

"And you're worried he might notice that Mr. Brotch… er… tampered with your results?"

"Well… yes." Megan shrugged. "Amata, your Dad and I will always be like two wet cats fighting in a sack-"

Much blinking ensued as the Overseer's daughter encountered extreme difficulty when attempting to process the mental image spawned from that phrase. "Where do you come up with these metaphors?"

"Technically that's a simile. Notice the use of the word 'like.'"

"Notice the waving of my fist."

Megan pretended to shy backwards and cower in fright. "Don't hit me. I bruise easy. Anyway, like I was saying, we'll never get along, him and me, but… he's not stupid, I'll give him that. If he looked hard enough he might find something… hinky… in the results. And I've definitely given him enough reasons to want to look -real- close at my G.O.A.T. scores."

"Maybe," the other girl acknowledged with a brief nod of her head. "But two things. One, I don't think Mr. Brotch would even have offered to tweak your numbers if he wasn't confident he could get away with it. And two, well…" Amata did a little negligent "pageant-wave" with her hand. "My father might actually be -happy- given what the G.O.A.T. says I'm going to be doing with my life. So, maybe he won't bother to look too hard at the rest of the class's results."

"I suppose you could be on to something. And it is nice to see the test got -something- right, at least." Megan pulled her tray back into position and resumed picking at her mashed potatoes. Thousands of potato people cried out in terror and were suddenly silenced as dams of solidified carbohydrates burst, sending rivers of reconstituted gravy roaring through their once peaceful villages. Those that survived the initial flooding, the mass hysteria that followed, not to mention the looting and riots that then came thereafter, cursed the fickleness of their heavenly creator. Her name, once joyously proclaimed from the capital city of Pomme de Terre to the majestic, skyward-reaching peaks of the Kartoffel Mountains, to the deep, lush Valley of the Horse-Bell Yam… Her name was now a curse, a lingering pestilence fit only for the ears of lepers.

"Oh, so when her own results come up as garbage, she thinks the test is crap, but when they confirm something she's been thinking all along, hey, all praise Vault-Tec."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, rein it in there, young lady. My mouth's plenty big enough as it is without you cramming some more words in there for me. I didn't say I thought the test was good for anything other than toilet paper, but you have to admit, it did get at least one person's future career path right. I mean, you're administrator material, no arguing about it. You've got the chops for it. Always have. I've known ever since my tenth birthday, when you helped my Dad put together that surprise party. Even if you -didn't- manage to swing getting me that date with Freddie Gomez."

"You don't even like boys." Amata threw her hands in the air in frustration, in clear appeal to the one Lord, one God for the strength of mind and body necessary to deal with this psychotic madwoman.

"Well, I didn't know that back -then.- I mean, how was I supposed to know at such a young age what manner of proclivities I would end up possessing?"

" 'Proclivities.' I'm pretty sure that's not an actual word, Meg."

"No, it is. I can bring up the dictionary function on my Pip Boy and show you if you don't believe me."

Amata raised a fork, upon whose tines had been impaled a sprig of her most hated of nemeses: broccoli. Like a sorceress casting spells of warding about her person, she waved the fork, dismissing Megan's desperate and pitiful attempts to prove her linguistic skills. "That's all right. I trust you."

"You trust me? Oh, Amata. So young, so naïve."

"I'm older than you."

"My youth belies my wisdom."

With a sigh of exasperation, and the makings of a migraine headache, the brunette started to get to her feet, her intent being to head for one of the cafeteria's Eat'o'tronic 5000's, for even the slimmest hope of escape from this nearby rift of teeming madness was welcome. "Ok, I'm going to get something to drink now because my brain is starting to hurt from talking to you."

Megan grinned, standing up herself and putting a hand on Amata's shoulder to gently nudge her back into her seat. "Sit. I'll go. What do you want, water?"

"Yeah."

"Heh. Figures. Booooring."

Amata fired back with a roll of the eyes that she had painstakingly researched, developed and then patented specifically for use on impudent Megans. "I suppose you're going to get a Nuka Cola for yourself?" She shook her head, sadly. "I swear, giving you more sugar is just flirting with disaster." A tiny shudder shot through her slender frame as the terrifying repercussions of her redheaded friend amped up on excessive amounts of artificial sweetener coursed through her brain like a stuttering nightmare.

Megan ignored the comment, instead smiling sweetly, one might say cherubically. "I'll be right back with your water."

"Why are you being so nice, anyway?" the other girl called after her, trying in vain to repress images of a fifty-foot tall Megan replete in her bright blue Vault 101 jumpsuit, stampeding through the Capital Wasteland, breathing gamma-radiation-laced death and spewing colorful invective… hurling both passenger buses and the occasional withering bon mot… casting down friend and foe alike with heavy-handed blows from her fists, after which she would cast aspersions upon their manhood. It was a most magnificent slaughter, stark and majestic, the likes of which the world had not seen since the terrifying specter of nuclear holocaust had threatened to extinguish the very flame of humanity as a species. Amata cringed in abject fear of it.

"Why are -you- being so suspicious?"

Her response came out deadpan flat, devoid of any form of emotion whatsoever. "Because it's either that or accept the fact that you're doing something nice. And then I'd have to deal with the Horsemen and the Rain of Fire and the End of Days."

That expertly polished gem of witty banter drew a laugh, and Megan went off to fulfill her oath of service, quickly procuring a bottle of water for her friend and a 20-ounce bottle of syrupy-sweet carbonated goodness for herself. She was just about to begin the long, arduous trek back to her table when three loud, unruly youths strode through the door of the cafeteria.

"Tunnel Snakes rule!

Oh, Lord, not this bullshit again.

Conveniently, most of the adults that had been in the Vault's cafeteria had cleared out, leaving the room mostly empty save for the other teenagers that had been dismissed from Brotch's class after finishing their G.O.A.T. exams. As expected, none of them were particularly interested in getting in the way of Butch DeLoria, Wally Mack, or Paul Hannon, the so-called Tunnel Snakes – Vault 101's very own gang of street toughs slash general-purpose hoodlums.

It was amazing. Even living underground in a gigantic steel bunker, after the surface of the planet had been blanketed by atomic radiation, some things simply refused to change. This time their target was Amata. Contrary to popular belief, her status as the daughter of the Vault's Overseer didn't make her immune to this kind of harassment, it made her a popular target.

The Overseer himself was inviolable, beyond reproach; Amata, however, was not, and that made her an exceptionally convenient scapegoat. Had your food ration for the week cut again? Blame the Overseer's kid. Spoiled brat probably complained about how you and your buddies had gotten just a touch too rowdy during last night's card game. Have to work an extra shift tomorrow night? Must be the Overseer's little princess not wanting to haul her own weight and getting Daddy Dearest to pull some strings. Uppity bitch needs to get hers.

Never mind that the exact opposite was true – that the girl's father went far out of his way to make certain that everything she had, she'd earned, and that there was absolutely no possibility any serious accusations of nepotism could ever stick. There would be no teachers "fixing" her grades, no extra security details around her to make sure she wasn't bothered on her way to class. She wasn't even entitled to an extra helping of dessert at dinner. She got exactly what every other citizen in the Vault did, no more, no less – not that it mattered to those who were out to get her. It was just far too easy to continue blaming her for things that weren't in any way her fault, and far too easy for misanthropes like Butch and Wally and Paul to give her trouble just because they enjoyed picking on people who couldn't easily fight back.

Speaking of which, Butch had taken the seat directly across from her and was casually stealing her potato chips, reaching into the bag and taking one at a time. He'd bring the chip to his mouth, pop it in and chew, loudly, savoring the crunch even as she deliberately avoided his eyes and tried not to cringe away in revulsion as he practically slavered over every bite.

Retreat wasn't an option, either, since Paul had taken up a position behind her seat. He wasn't doing anything overtly threatening, just standing behind her chair, arms folded, making sure to block her exit. As for Wally, he'd taken Megan's seat, nudging her tray aside and leaning back in the chair, propping his feet up on the table and trying to look cool and casual. He succeeded only in looking like a royal jackass, but in the young man's defense, there was a very fine line between looking cool and just looking like a horse's posterior. As yet, Wally had not learned where that distinction lay, but Megan was sure that several years confined to a maximum security prison, perhaps spent primarily in "humble supplication" and under the "expert tutelage" of a man much larger than himself, would grant him all the wisdom he would need.

But returning to more immediate concerns, over by the food dispensers, Megan considered her own options. This wasn't the first time the Tunnel Snakes had decided to mess with her friend. It wouldn't be the last. But just because Amata was used to dealing with this kind of abuse, didn't make it right, and it certainly didn't give Butch and his goons license to keep on doing what they were doing. That meant she'd have to get involved somehow. The question was simply what form her involvement would take.

Ok… there's three of them… and they're all way bigger than me. They'll take me apart if it comes down to a fight, and I can't count on Security coming in to break it up before Wally smacks the back of my nose up into my brain. And even if the cavalry does come to my 'rescue,' Dad's not going to be too happy with me if I have to spend -another- night in a holding cell. I told him cherry-bombing those toilets in the Section C Living Quarters was worth a week on half rations and two nights in the hoosegow, but I think he's losing his sense of humor. It's probably a side effect of the senility.

Anyway, point is… I need to think this one through. Shouldn't be too hard, I mean, I've got advantages they don't. Like… like they're supposed to be a gang, and Butch is supposed to be in charge, but everyone knows that Wally's the real leader of the bunch. Or he thinks he is, anyway. I mean, on the face of things, they all let Butch make the decisions, but if anyone in that group has any real power, it's Mack.

That's my in. That's how I'll drive a wedge into the group. I can do this, I can talk my way through this. I just have to talk to them, play them off each other a bit, get Paul and Wally to start questioning the wisdom of this whole thing… after all, it's probably Butch who decided to start things up with Amata. He's the one who's got the real grudge against her for some reason. If I can do that, I could probably split them up and-"

Butch crunched down on another chip, then swallowed. When he was done, he leaned forward towards Amata, planting both of his hands, palms flat on the table. The suggestive sneer on his face was nauseating. "What's the matter?" he began, his tone falsely polite. He was trying to sound commiserative, but nobody was buying it. Not that Butch particularly cared if anyone fell for the ruse, of course. "Feeling lonely? Daddy couldn't bribe someone to go on a date with you? I could make you feel better." That little sneer on his face grew wider as he twisted the conversational knife at the end.

Or, I could just beat the stuffing out of that arrogant, little twit right now. Better yet, how many knife stabs -does- it take to get to the center of a Butch De Loria? Let's find out. One… two… three… SCLORCH! Hmmm. Three…

No.

No, no, NO.

Try it, and they'll be picking your teeth out of the macaroni and cheese for the next week and a half. Then you'll have to get dentures, and before you know it, you'll be trading sweetroll recipes with Old Lady Palmer and playing Canasta with Grandma Taylor. No, like it or not, you're going to have to use your brain for this one. C'mon, the damned thing -should- work, your parents're both scientists, and unless modern genetics has turned out to be the biggest hoax since Duck & Cover was presented as a viable means of defense against nuclear attack, you should be able to think your way through this.

But while it was clear that Amata was not having an easy time of things, she certainly wasn't just about to sit back and await rescue like some fairy tale damsel, either. For one, she'd always claimed the glass slippers and such would make her feet hurt.

Putting on her best haughty smirk, she levered herself up out of her seat, nudging her chair backwards into Paul's ribs. "That's ok, Butch. For your information, I've actually got plans with Andy…" she said, referring to one of the Vault's ubiquitous Mr. Handy units – this particular robot being used for general engineering and maintenance duties. "He's more of a man than you'll ever be."

Megan smirked quietly to herself as little Miss Almodovar calmly retook her seat and Butch sputtered and turned red as a beet in response. Now was the time to make her move. Walking quickly back over to the table, she pulled up a chair next to Wally who promptly went about ignoring her until she deigned to speak to him. She turned, planting an elbow on the table and resting her temple on her closed fist. She smiled, trying to look friendly, though what she really wanted to do was give Wally a very comprehensive and up-close tour of the surface of the table.

"Good afternoon, Wallace." The fake cheer in her voice was so thick, one could cut it with a chainsaw.

"What do you want, McCulloch?" he grumbled in her general direction without even bothering to look at her.

"My, so formal. I just thought we should talk, is all."

"About what?"

"I was just curious as to how Butch managed to get you to go along with this. I mean, picking on the little kids? C'mon, right? Like you and Paul don't have better things to do with your time. I mean, I get that Butch calls the shots and he can get you guys to do whatever he wants, but-"

Wally dropped both feet to the floor and sat bolt upright in his chair; now, every ounce of his attention was on Megan, and he didn't look happy. Seething rage boiled behind his eyes, like a Yao Guai that had been fiercely accosted by a platoon of foes wielding pointed sticks. He glared at her, apparently trying to use his laser beam vision to set her aorta on fire. "What did you say?" His voice was a low, bass rumble from deep in his chest, the makings of a devastating seismic anomaly happening right before her very eyes. Oh, if only the Geo Sciences department could stop fiddling with their pocket protectors long enough to get some hard data on this.

"About you picking on little kids?"

"After that." Every word that came out of his mouth had to escape through a clenched jaw and gritted teeth, like ragged, emaciated prisoners crawling through hastily cut holes in a chain-link fence.

"About Butch getting you and Paul to do whatever he wants?"

Mack half-rose out of his seat and loomed over her, and for a second she wondered if this wasn't the worst idea she'd had since she'd decided it might be fun to loosen all the bolts on one of the toilets in the ladies' room in the eastern dormitories. He stabbed a finger right in between her breasts in an ancient, mystical martial arts technique widely known as the "Poke of Doom." Many had heard of it, for stories of its efficacy and frightfully deadly efficiency were plentiful, but few had seen it in action. Fewer still had lived to tell the tale. "That. Is. Bullshit. Butch doesn't tell Wally Mack what to do. Wally Mack is his own man."

She raised her hands meekly in surrender, though in the back of her mind she was wondering what book it was she'd read that mentioned referring to oneself in the third person was a sign of growing mental instability. "Hey, if you say so, Wally. Don't kill the messenger, ok? I'm just telling you what I heard. It's just… the word around the Vault is that you do everything Butch tells you to do."

And this was the risky part. Not that people hadn't been circulating these exact kinds of rumors, but truth or not, Wally might just choose to beat her up, anyway. She let out a little nervous chuckle. "And… I mean -everything.-"

His eyes widened and his cheeks turned red with fury. "What?! Who said-" His fists were clenched at his sides, but she was utterly convinced that, any moment now, he was going to start swinging, like a Tilt-a-Whirl that had come free from its moorings, and one of those fists was going to, somehow, "inexplicably" lodge itself in her eye socket.

Her father would most certainly not approve.

James was very much "old school," after all, and did not believe young boys should be sticking their appendages in his teenage daughter's orifices. Certainly not their hands in her ocular cavities. She would have to be very careful not to engender such an outcome.

"I don't know, I can't remember anyone in particular… it's just… you know how it is: people talk, people hear things. I mean, there you are, sitting in the cafeteria, eating your green eggs and Cram, and… well… you just hear things. Can't say as I know where or from whom I heard it, but… I heard it." She shrugged, playing the innocent to the best of her ability.

"This… this is bull. This is fucking bull," he grumbled. Then, with a decisive shake of his head, he slammed his open palm against the table. Amata jumped a little in her seat, and all across the cafeteria, heads turned to watch the sudden spectacle. "Yo, Tunnel Snakes! We're outta here!"

Butch looked over at him and blinked, his grudge with Amata temporarily forgotten. "What? Hey, we're not done here," he said, protesting feebly.

But Wally had gotten his gumption up, and in his fit of testosterone-fueled anger, coupled with a deep seated desire to prove that he was, indeed, the premier example of virility amongst the three Tunnel Snakes, he was not about to be gainsaid by a mere hairstylist wannabe as Butch. "Oh, we're done here."

"Uh… are you sure?" Butch still looked hesitant. A real leader would have exercised his power, possibly even challenged Wally for his impudence; chastised him. There would've been a fight, some hastily thrown punches, perhaps even a surprise knee assault upon the Mack family jewels. Some name-calling, insulting of mothers, or even the hurling of excrement. Instead, Butch was content to play the meeker: finding his shoes extremely interesting despite his having owned them for years. Apparently he'd just never had the opportunity to -look- at them before.

"Let's go, Paul!" Wally said, snapping his fingers and making for the door. He clearly expected his "minions" to fall in behind him.

"Um… all right… sure… let's go. Tunnel Snakes rule," Butch added, almost as an afterthought. "Er… don't think this is over, Daddy's Girl. And that goes for you too, twerp." He threw an arrogant sneer over in Megan's direction, but there was no heat to it; it was merely a parting jibe, a fleeting and desperate way to try and recover some of his lost manhood; what with Wally having absconded with most of it to begin with.

"Ah, Butch. He's such a charming lad," Megan said with a soft chuckle as the Tunnel Snakes departed, likely to purloin some lollipops from infants – a task more in keeping with their skills and general dispositions. "I dare say he'll make someone a good wife someday." With the three stooges safely gone, Megan resumed her previous seat and put an arm around her friend's shoulders, giving her a quick hug. "You ok?"

While she was grateful for her friend's assistance in ridding herself of the three accursed hooligans, the means by which Megan had done so tended to leave something to be desired. It was confrontational, inflammatory, and distinctly lacking in subtlety. But perhaps more importantly, the redhead's penchant for sticking her lightly freckled nose into places where it theoretically did not belong was bound to get her into all manner of trouble that she might very likely be hard pressed, if not completely unable, to extricate herself from. Simply put, Amata worried. "You really don't know how to keep your mouth shut, do you, Megan?" The Overseer's daughter punctuated the end of her question with a weary sigh.

"I do," Megan replied with an easy shrug before casually twisting off the top of her bottle of crisp, cold, refreshing and only mildly radioactive Nuka Cola – guaranteed to contain fewer than two hundred REM per bottle or receive a coupon for 5% off your next bone marrow transplant. "I do. It's just more fun not to." She smiled that devilishly charming smile of hers – a smile which was sure to break hearts the world over… or at least, the Vault over, seeing as how nobody ever left the Vault, if the propaganda was to be believed.

"I'm serious. One day, your mouth's gonna get you in a lot of trouble." Gone now were the jibes and the joking atmosphere, replaced with genuine concern for her friend's welfare. While Amata had grown accustomed to Megan's "unique" brand of humor, most people still found it patently infuriating. Worse still was what came out of the redhead's mouth when she was trying to be not funny, but deliberately antagonistic. Wars resulting in genocide had started over utterances less provocative than some of the sentiments she chose to give voice to.

"I'm sure. It's just, my mouth gets me out of more trouble than it gets me into."

"Oh. Ew. Wait a second. What does that even mean, anyway?"

Megan chuckled softly and gave Amata's shoulders another friendly squeeze. "You were the one who said 'Ewww.' This implies that you have some idea of what I was talking about. Doesn't it?"

"Not really. It's just, whenever you talk, I assume you're suggesting something dirty."

"Well, ok, that -is- a pretty safe bet."

"Ugh. See?" The brunette rolled her eyes and groaned.

"Amata, I'm starting to get the impression that you think I'm too abrasive…"