Summary: The sun is bright, the children are smiling and everyone is comfortable living on Tranquility Lane… Except that's not exactly true. The Lone Wanderer finds James much more easily than anticipated, but she quickly learns that there is something terribly wrong with everyone. Sorta AU.
AN:/ So, I've changed the limitation of the simulation to fit my agenda. Dr. Braun can conjure up people based on the residents' memories. He can make people see whatever he wants; he has ultimate control. Tranquility Lane is also considerably bigger, more people, more places. It's more like the Lone Wanderer is stuck in a pre-war, paradise, Alternate Universe while having knowledge of the canon one.Thoughts in italics, "italics are emphasis in speech"
Also apologies in advance, gave my F!Lone Wanderer a name: Eva, Evie. Nickname pronounced "eve-EE", ya dig?
In that moment a strange sensation shot up her spine, numbing and paralyzing. The feeling automatically makes her nauseous as she does her best to steady herself. A cloud of white light hazes her vision as she struggles to move but her body does nothing. She is completely still yet she feels as if her person is swaying back and forth.
It's like a boat, she decides, even though she has never experienced tides or the sea. The push and pull warps her reality until she sees nothing but the darkness. Her green eyes dart around, pleading to see some sort of light in the void but she is unable to. Once the panic begins to die out, she focuses on her breathing. The inflating sensation doesn't bring her as much peace as she would of hoped but unconsciousness borders in her mind nonetheless. It was much easier to forget her location in Vault 112 than she had anticipated but she never lost sight of her goal. Find Dad. She wants to mutter in the darkness but she cannot command her lips to move. As sleep sets in, she repeats the statement in her head until she reaches a state of unconscious.
Find Dad.
Find Dad.
Find Dad.
Eva wasn't sure why but she dreamt of the Vault again. She hadn't thought about it for quite a few months so it was a surprise to her. The thing about it that most struck her was who she dreamt of. Out of all the people she cared about, it was a memory of someone she'd rather forget. The memory played through her sleep-ridden mind like a tape reel. All of the details of the moment crisp, as if someone had been picking her brain. It felt fresh even though it occurred several years ago.
Jonas and her father had stepped out of the clinic earlier than usual and gave their young doctor-in-training the rest of the day off. Most days in the clinic were slow and this one was no exception. A lot of her job consists of cleaning instruments, sterilizing equipment and organizing data. Occasionally, she got to assist her father in surgery but those moments were rare. She did a lot of waiting around and waiting for instruction from her father. As a result, she got her fair share of reading done everyday.
However her concentration on her comic book is broken when she hears someone shuffling around in the hallway. The body leans itself on the doorframe, clutching its abdomen. She recognizes the vault dweller immediately and pales. He's huffing, nearly falling over.
Butch hisses, forcing himself to be smug despite his heavy breath and the burning pain in his side. His voice retains a commanding tone despite the unfortunate state he's in.
"Hey nosebleed, your Pop here?" He rudely snarls at her, as if she were the bane of his existence.
She immediately drops the comic and rushes over to him, noticing the dark stain that was spreading under his blue jumpsuit. Her face screws up in minor revulsion.
"Oh god, what happened?" Despite the injury, there is no compassion in the sentiment. Her tone is more irritated and surprised rather than concerned like most people would. She finds it difficult to make herself care about the pain Butch DeLoria had found himself in. Actually, it shocks her how completely indifferent she is to her neighbor's possible demise.
"None of your business, pukesack. Just fix me up will ya'?"
She gestures to remove his leather jacket and he smacks her hands away, extremely offended. "Who said you could touch my jacket?"
Her nose scrunches up in aggravation and she hisses. "How else am I going to look at it?"
He sighs dramatically, grumbling about the minor annoyance, removing the jacket himself. Face twisting up in pain, he forces himself to keep a calm exterior.
In his injured state, he's a lot easier to drag over to the table but he still whines in protest as she forces him to sit down.
"Watch it!"
"I am! God! Just hold still."
His eyes grow wide when she pulls out the stimpak from the first-aid kit. He begins to squirm at the thought, dodging her as she tries to administer the shot.
"What do ya' think your doin'? Get that thing away from me!"
"Oh please, you got stabbed and you're afraid of needles?"
He growls at her. "I'm not afraid! I just don't like 'em!"
"Geez, you're bleeding all over the table. Just stay still."
Despite his injury, he's still able to capture her wrists, effectively preventing her from administering the stimpak. This ultimately angers her; she'd rather he'd not touch her.
"Let go!"
"No way!"
She pauses and overtly points behind him. "What's that?"
Without thinking, he rotates his whole body to see that she isn't actually pointing at anything. She takes the opportunity while he's distracted to jam the shot into upper thigh and he sucks in a rough breath.
"Damn it! I said-" He stops short as the stimpak begins to take affect and he lets out a breath of relief. "Oh…"
Evie rolls her eyes, arms crossed. A frustrated sigh leaves her lips, her voice stern. "Alright. On your back."
He snorts and rolls his eyes at how serious she sounds. "Yeesh, you're not gonna take me out first?"
Her upper lip curls in disgust at the thought. She feels a sense of violation run up her spine and forcefully positions him despite his childlike whining. His eyes widen when she unceremoniously unzips his vault suit all the way past the wound. She probably should have gone a little further but she didn't care if she was doing doctor stuff, she'd let him bleed out before she would get that close to his crotch. His confused blue eyes dart back and forth as she pulls his arms out of the sleeves to get ample access to his side.
She selects a pair of scissors out of the pan and quickly cuts up his undershirt all the way up his chest.
He gazes at her, surprised at her urgency. When she glances up at him from cleaning around the wound and notices the worry in his eyes, she mumbles, unsure if she should attempt to be comforting. "It's just a graze but you're going to need stitches…"
He nods a little bit to acknowledge the statement and lays his head back on the cool metal table, eyes fixed to the ceiling. Even with the medication it still feels like his abdomen is on fire but he's thankful that the pain is much more bearable now.
The supplies in the tray clink around as she gathers the materials. The silence makes him uncomfortable so he breaks it. "…Wally caught me."
She was so focused on threading the needle that she hadn't processed the statement. "Hm?"
"He caught me and Susie together so he got sorta' frosted. I figured he'd try somethin' but I wasn't ready for it."
Her intense concentration is unwavering as she replies offhandedly.
"Shame."
"Yeah."
He takes a sharp breath she starts stitching the wound. Trying to keep the excitement from his voice he asks much more smoothly than he thought he could manage. "Do ya' think it'll scar?"
"Possibly." The pain keeps him from smiling but he couldn't help but feel proud of his first battle scar even if the story behind it wasn't too noble. Naively, he thought that his small time scuffle with his fellow gang member meant that he was bad shit now. It's almost like an initiation right of sorts.
He hisses through gritted teeth trying his best to look unbothered by it. He'd rather die than let a doe eyed, goodie-two-shoes, nerd like Evie Catherine Grant see him cry.
"Don't be such a baby." She teases with contempt, noticing his struggle.
"Oh yeah, I liked to see a spaz like you in my place."
She frowns. "I've gotten stitches before."
Sarcasm dripping from his voice, he smirks at her. "Sure ya' did."
She wasn't going to bring up the time he popped her in the eye when they were 15. His sharp rings cut her up pretty bad but she wasn't about to admit it. It didn't leave a noticeable scar but there was a sliver missing from her left eyebrow that just wouldn't grow back. It wasn't too bad but it looked more noticeable because of her dark hair. She could recall her father being furious about the incident, exclaiming that their confrontations were getting far too violent. He threatened to go to the Overseer before realizing that would hurt his daughter more than her perpetrator.
Butch squirms in protest when she spitefully pulls the string too tight for comfort. His eyes fly open and he growls at her to be more careful.
Flippantly disregarding the hostility, she purses her lips. "Oops."
He lets out a tremendously dramatic sigh, callously dropping his head back on the cool metal of the table again.
"How long do ya' think it'll take Wally to cool off?"
"I don't know. He's your friend."
Butch can't stand the awkward silence but he's running out of things to talk about. He starts sifting through topics in his head like files, picking out an offhanded observation.
"So, haven't seen you and your little girlfriend around too much lately. Get into a fight or somethin'?" A mocking smiles spreads across his pained face.
He meant it as a joke but the way she visibly tenses at the question, straightening her posture is intriguing. He's clearly hit on something sensitive but he can't tell what. It makes him wonder about the nature of their relationship.
She tries to keep up her calm exterior but a shaky exhale gives her anxiety away. "Could you be quiet? I'm trying to concentrate."
He generously decides to leave it alone even though he had a lot of questions to interrogate her with. In his injured state, he didn't think he could extort the information he was looking for out of the girl. Evie had grown a resistance to his taunting over the years and that deeply aggravated him. She had taken up ignoring a lot of the abuse simply to avoid getting in trouble. She had mastered a perfect blank expression so that it was often difficult to tell what she was thinking and planning. Her voice was often monotonous and unpleasant but she had an abundance of undeserving patience for his nasty remarks. His classmate had become less and less interested in active fighting and more into passive resistance to please the compassionate philosophies of her idealistic father. Butch couldn't help but notice Dr. Grant regarding him in a very similar manner, although he was much more skilled in pretending to care and exchanging pleasantries.
She's snipping the ends of the thread by the time he realizes how long he was brooding over the loss of his childhood rival. He blinks in surprise, gazing up at her noticing the odd demeanor. She's fidgeting with the ends of the extra floss between her gloved fingertips.
Letting out a frustrated sigh, he runs a hand through his hair that has fallen out of place. "What are ya' starin' at four eyes?"
She's quiet for a time, debating whether or not to comment that she hasn't worn glasses since they were little.
"Do you ever think about what it's like?" It's a very cautious statement, calculating and testing.
"What?"
"Outside the Vault."
"No." The way he scoffs surprises her.
"Not ever?"
His face scrunches up in confusion. "No, why would I?"
He thoughts he could see the hope die behind her eyes in that exact moment. She sighs softly and leans against the table, head down, staring at her clean boots. It's quiet for a moment and she shyly brushes a strand of hair behind her ear.
Butch groans internally, unsure if the pressure in his stomach is his injury, pity or indigestion.
"You do?"
The way she looks up at him creates a curious feeling blossom in his chest. She hasn't spoken frankly with him in years and often tries to hide her lack of self-confidence in his presence. She frequently rises up to meet his ridicule with a tough expression and witty banter. To see her so vulnerable makes him feel sick. And then anger for making him feel so unlike himself.
She sniffs and looks up at him through her dark eyelashes, shifting nervously in place. Arms crossed over her chest, her voice is soft. "Sometimes."
It's quiet between the two of them as they listen to the soft humming of the flickering lamp at her father's desk.
"I thought that you might," she starts tentatively but stops, "actually never mind. It doesn't matter anyway."
His face screws up mild irritation, upper lip curling. "You're the one who brought it up."
She pushes herself up from her leaning position and begins to walk away, flippantly dismissing the subject. "I know…" She mutters softly, straightening her spine and lifting her head up high. Her normally icy demeanor returns once again. The standoffish exterior reinitiates as she pulls something from the first-aid kit.
Her tone is very academic, as if she were speaking to stranger. "Take these for the pain and try not to rip your stitches." It's hard to believe he's looking at the same young girl he was speaking with a few minutes prior. At first he mistakes her clipped sentences for irritation but now he thinks the emotion would be better described as disappointment. He's never been the best at reading people but he feels stuck nonetheless.
"You gonna write up a report?"
"I hadn't planned on it."
"Why?"
She just sounds tired when she replies. "Don't worry about it."
"I don't need any favors." He doesn't like to be pitied, it's worse than an insult in his eyes.
"Now why would I ever do you a favor, Butch?"
He doesn't respond, his face just scrunches up in offence. He wants to ask her what she meant by that but he already knows. He didn't think he treated her too bad, it was only teasing. She knew that, right? Maybe he got carried away sometimes but it was only just foolin' around.
"How bout' I owe you a soda?"
"I don't want anything from you."
He glares at her. "I'm not good enough for you or somethin'?"
She shakes her head, trying to reassure him. "I just don't want anything."
"Of course ya' don't. You're such a goodie two shoes."
"It's not that."
"I don't need your charity."
"It's not charity."
"Then I owe ya' one."
"No."
"Yeah."
He doesn't notice the assertiveness edging into her voice. "No."
He wasn't prepared to let it go. "Yeah."
They continued to bicker back and forth childishly until Evie becomes fed up. The way she raises her voice surprises him. In her outburst she hits up against the table behind her, rattling the contents of the pan. "Could you just leave me alone already?"
There is a storm brewing behind her intense green eyes.
"I just want to be left alone." It's a very cold statement. There is no pleading or emotion in it. Her voice is deathly serious, it cracks on the last syllable and Butch is unsure how to respond. He settles on giving her an uncomfortable head nod.
"Alright, fine…" He starts, sounding as understanding as could manage. "Whatever ya' want, Grant."
…
She thought she heard a voice calling her name but the old bed she occupied was just too comfortable to leave. Pulling the covers further over her head, her hands briefly glide over her matted hair. The dust that normally clung to the dirty tips was absent. This mattress isn't as lumpy as she remembers either. When she shifts with her dirty backpack in her arms, the contents don't shuffle around like they normally did. She couldn't feel the pressure from the knife in her boot; it felt like it had become apart of her. Rays of bright light from the large windows obnoxiously shone in to dance on her face. Her vision is momentarily blurry when she lifts herself up from the mattress. A soft sizzling rouses her from her nap and she reaches around for her pistol but comes up empty handed.
In a complete state of alarm, her eyes dart around the clean room. The bright plush carpet is gentle on her bare feet. The slight breeze from the window caresses the shear curtains, billowing and wandering like clouds on a calm summer's day. A beautiful large mahogany dresser stood up against the pristine floral printed wall. There was an assortment of stuffed animals arranged in stack next to the closet. Quite a few of them were teddy bears but they were all of different shapes and sizes. An assortment of shaded ribbons, bows and charms tied around their necks. A record player sat silent on the table next to the queen-sized bed she sprung up from in distress.
In the corner of her eye, a shadow looms over on the other side of the bed. Her peripheral vision spots another person standing deathly still across the room. She feels a bizarre rush of relief but confusion when she realizes that she was mistaken, it's only a vanity.
When she catches a glance in the mirror she nearly jumps out of her skin. Upon closer inspection, she realizes that the person reflected in the mirror was in fact her. Despite the glaring differences in appearance, it was in fact her body she was staring with wide eyes at. Standing in the front of the mirror is practically surreal. She runs a hand through long dark curly hair, noting how soft it feels. Her new body is much more frightening. The scars from scrapping around the Capital Wasteland have vanished, along with all the dirt and grime. Her armor has been replaced with a silky white night gown that feels warm to the touch. She rubs the long sleeves, watching the person in the mirror mimics her movements. Her new appearance reminds her of pre-war days, particularly the teenage girl in Vault Tec advertisements they had watched in school.
When she hears her name, she whips her dark hair to the side, frantically looking for a weapon to grab a hold of. The voice sounded awfully familiar but in her confusion she wasn't going to risk it. She arms herself with the baseball bat conveniently leaning up against the bedroom door. Turning over the club in her hands gently, she notices he callouses she had built up in the last few months wear gone. The wood is also considerably heavier than she remembers. She was extremely ill prepared for a battle, the only thing she could hope for was an easy escape if necessary.
Slowly creeping down the stairs, the sizzling noise becomes less muffled. The staircase is full and complete, pictures hanging in ornate frames on the walls. There are no stains, rips or holes anywhere in sight. For a moment, her shoulder softly glides against the minimally stripped wallpaper of the hallway.
A shrouded figure stands in front of the stove, the grain of the gray sweater vest shifting with small movements. The sound of metal scraping against metal is unpleasant and makes her feel uneasy. When he turns to face her, she's almost certain she has stopped breathing. The man turns to her and flashes a bright smile that reaches his eyes.
"Hello sweetheart, how are you feeling?"
Her heart skips a beat; all thoughts leave her. An intense mixture of confusion, disbelief and happiness washes over her. Suddenly, she finds it hard to stand on her own two feet. In her emotional daze, her knees nearly fail to support her weight. The weapon slips out of her fingers and makes a loud sound when it clatters on the floor.
"Dad?" The word gets stuck in her throat, barely passing her lips.
James scrapes at the contents of the frying pan with a metal spatula and shuffles the bacon on a glass plate.
The bright smile fades when he sees the tears welling in her eyes and he swiftly turns off the gas on the burner before walking up to her.
"Evie, honey, what's wrong?" He brushes the mess of hair from her face.
Choking back a sob, she buries her face into his sweater vest unintelligibly mumbling. She told herself she wasn't going to cry, be strong, but she couldn't do it. It feels strange to cry after such a long time but the forceful sobbing was still cathartic for her.
He soothingly rubs circles into her back, whispering words of encouragement.
"You can tell me anything, pumpkin. It's going to be alright."
She wraps her arms more tightly around him.
"I don't understand."
"Understand?"
"Where are we?" She rasps.
His gray speckled eyebrows furrow in confusion. "What do mean, sweetie? We're home."
Her words come out in a rush of breath, almost bordering on hysterical. "But the Vault, 112, I went there to look for you. Dr. Li suggested you'd be there. How did we get here? Where is here?"
"Slow down, honey. I'm not following."
"Dad, it was horrible. The Overseer went crazy after you left. Things, bad things, happened…" Evie starts to slow her sentences, taking in the look of bewilderment on her father's face. "…I, um, Dad? Why are staring at me?"
James gives her a concerned look, placing a brief kiss on her forehead checking for fever. "I'm sorry, sweetheart, I don't understand. What is this vault business? Are you still feeling ill?"
Evie's flushed face pales in shock. "You don't remember?"
James shakes his head, worry etched into his features. "I don't know what you're talking about."
She desperately grabs onto the front of his sweater, her knuckles almost turning white from the pressure. A hiccup rises in her throat as she tries her best to explain but she could feel her father's patient gaze turn more sympathetic but worried with every word that left her ranting lips. When he pries himself away from her, she realizes that there was no possible way to convince him with rhetoric alone.
She stood there pathetically, wiping her nose with the back of her hand. She sniffs, both heartbroken and anxious. Evie wasn't sure what she was going to do, so many questions buzzing around in her head.
For a moment she thinks about asking him why he left her. She thought to ask how he could just stand there with a blissful smile on his face when there were so many innocent people dying in the wasteland. She thought to ask about project purity. She wanted to ask about her mother and the way she was able to inspire him so greatly that he thought it's be better to leave his only family behind for a dream. Was this unrealistic goal really more important than her? She thought to ask what he had expected her to do without him to guide her. Despite the flurry of emotions behind her bleary eyes, she thought better of it and came up with a subpar excuse.
"I'm sorry…"
Wiping her puffy eyes with the collar of her modest nightgown, she takes a deep breath.
"I… I just had a really bad dream."
James looks skeptical but gives her a sympathetic smile. "Well, the nightmare's over now. I'm here."
He had absolutely no idea how much that resonated with her. The duel meaning makes her eyes start to water once again but she blinks them back successfully. She smiles through her sorrow, nodding in agreement.
He sighs, patting her on the shoulder before reaching for the glass plate behind him, offering the contents up to her. She shyly takes a strip of the bacon before nibbling on the end tentatively.
"Good?" He asks.
She nods happily, enjoying being in the presence of her father once again.
"I'm glad." He pulls out the wooden chair at the table, motioning for her to sit.
When she hesitates, he encourages her. "Come on. You should eat."
She wasn't used to being waited on and his attentiveness perplexes her. Fidgeting on the cushion of the wooden chair, she found the situation uncomfortable. When she tries to think of the last time her father cooked her breakfast, she fails to recall the memory, assuming it was probably at least 7 years ago.
He places a crystal glass down, pouring juice from the carton into the glass. When he gives her a gentle smile, she forces herself to return it despite her discomfort. Staring at the large plate he sets in front of her, she figured there is no harm in asking. "Is this for me?"
He chuckles. "Of course. I know I tease you a little sometimes, but I'm not that bad am I?" He pulls out another chair for himself, posture straight, folding his hands together neatly on the tablecloth.
Poking at the yolk of her fried egg, most of the food on her plate was foreign to her. Hoping to avoid embarrassment, she slowly takes a few bites of her pancakes.
Hesitating, she glances up at her father staring at her from across the kitchen table. "Are you going to eat?"
Shaking his head, he waves it off. "I already did."
"Oh…" She averts her gaze back to the food on her plate, using the side of her fork to cut up smaller pieces. It's quiet for a time, and the only thing that can be heard between them is the slight scraping of the metal utensils against the ceramic plate.
He sighs, absently knocking his knuckles against the wood of the table. "Would you like to talk about your nightmare?"
She thinks carefully, debating about how to word her sentences. She uses the food in her mouth as an excuse to plan out the information. Humming softly, she's minimal in her response. "You left, basically… I was all alone."
He sighs thoughtfully. "I am not going anywhere, you know that right?"
She nods even though there is a nagging skeptical voice in the back of her mind. Wanting to believe him, she pushes the doubt away. She stares at the remainder of what was left on her plate.
"You don't have to eat it all. I know you're still not feeling well."
"Are you sure?" She mutters, not wanting to take advantage of the special treatment.
"I'm just happy you're getting an appetite again."
He returns a smile before turning to the stove, placing a couple dirty dishes and utensils in the sink. He rolls up his sleeves before running the water.
Evie observes the surroundings in the kitchen, noticing a fairly modern looking clock hanging on the wall above the refrigerator. A full host of assorted appliances lined the counter next to the stove, all neatly arranged. A couple of decorative plates hung from their concealed hooks on the wall and a particularly shiny looking teapot gleamed in the sunlight. She slides out of her chair and looks under the hood of the breadbox.
Her father breaks the silence, wiping the side of his face against the higher part of his sleeve when a few drops of the soapy water jumps up and gets him. "You know, I thought you were going to be up for going back to school today but now I'm not so sure…"
Evie blinks, the thought rolling over in her head. She wasn't sure what that entailed but if she wanted to get to the bottom of this, she was going to have to investigate. If she ever wanted to convince her father, she was going to have to formulate a plan.
"I'll be okay." She raises her voice over the sound of running water.
Worry scrunches his brow once again. "Are you sure? I don't mind you staying home another day. I'll just tell the school you're still running a fever."
She smiles a genuine one this time. "Yeah, I'll be fine."
"Okay", he starts, sounding incredulous, before wiping his hands off on the dishrag "but you might want to get dressed. Amata will be here soon."
"Amata?" She asks, confused.
He maneuvers around the fridge to catch a glance at the clock. "Yeah, it's around that time isn't it?"
AN:/ I don't expect many if any to read this but I'll pretend:expect another chapter really soon. I chopped this one in half so I could post it sooner. The second half needs some revision.