Fear in a Handful of Dust

by Theninjew

Join Aurelia Carlisle, an awkward but innovative young girl, as she is thrust from the safety and security of Vault 101, along with her brother Morgan, to find the father who left them without a word of goodbye. Will she overcome or succumb to the dangers and vices of this new world in which she finds herself, and what trials will place themselves before her on this journey?

1. Chapter 1

Disclaimer: I do not own the rights to Fallout 3 or any of its DLC, but I do own the rights to my ideas, obviously. Feel free to post this wherever, but give credit to me, the legal owner of this intellectual property. Enjoy!

Author's note (skip if you don't give two shits): This is my second attempt at a fanfiction, and my first for the Fallout series. I got inspired to do this after I read The Legend of the Wandering Pair from Vault 101, and thought, "what a hideous title." But, seriously, after reading the first few chapters and realizing what a goody-two shoes the protagonist was, I had to make (what, in my mind, is) a much more realistic and dynamic protagonist. Also, there is a serious lack of present-tense first person fanfics in general, so I'm filling in the gap. Also, I'm not blatantly giving background most of the time, and I'm using my creative license as much as possible and I will try my damndest to not borrow directly from original game dialogue (which was my problem in my Mass Effect fanfic). Anyway, didn't mean to rip on a fellow artist's work, but I did anyway. Sorry. Anyhow, I hope you enjoy the style and content of my story. Expect irregular updates; I'm a senior in high school dammit, and I got shit to do. By the way, if you want to skip to the action, wait for Chapter Three.

Chapter I: Safe and Secure

"Life is either a daring adventure or nothing. Security does not exist in nature, nor do the children of men as a whole experience it. Avoiding danger in the long run is no safer than exposure." – Helen Keller

"Is this what you wanted, honey?" my father asks, his arms laden with recording equipment.

"Yeah, that's great dad, thanks," I reply. "I'm gonna need help setting it up, though."

"Of course."

Dad deposits the items on my desk, and starts connecting wires and turning dials faster than I can follow. I guess physicians receive a bit of technical training at some point during the journey to M.D.

"So, tell me again," he turns his head to me, "why you need all this? School project? Recording a sonnet for Freddie?" He smiles wryly.

I blush redly. "It's just something, alright?"

He picks up on my hostility. "Well, it's none of my business anyway," he aptly concludes. "I'll leave you to your devices. Just finish before your brother comes home." With the canon swish of his head he turns and is out of my room. He engages the door control on his way out, and the 300 pound steel bulkhead descends from the top of the doorframe, with a faint hiss from the hydraulic system and a sharp click from the lock.

The doors make us safe and secure. Just like everything else about the Vault. The thousand feet of rock above us kept us safe from apocalypse, the uniform jumpsuits we're forced to wear keep us safe from division, the roaming security officers keep us safe from each other, and our all-powerful Overseer keeps us safe from ourselves. Thank God the last three don't work 100% well, or things would be interminably dull instead of nearly insufferably boring.

I lift my mattress and grab my journal from under it. I flip to the 33rd page, and read the contents once in my head, then once more aloud, to get a feel for the words. I turn to the electronic mess on my desk and fumble with the holotape, trying to figure out which slot it goes in. Steeling my nerves, I hit record.

"Umm… hi. I'm Aurelia Carlisle, and this is a – no, no, no."

I stop recording, rewind the tape, and try again.

"My name is Aurelia Catherine Carlisle, and I would like to share with… you, a poem I wrote entitled Dream out of Vault 101.

'Familiar eyes stare into my soul.

The hues from blooming lilacs have they stole.

With mine own eyes I gaze at mine own self.

From the glass portrait up atop my shelf.

Hair of gold doth adorn my head.

Light skin two shades darker than dead.

My mind of immense quantity,

Covered by face of quality,

Doth ever contemplate

The deplorable state

Of its situation,

And feels indignation

At its prison.

A dream risen

From fantasy

And fallacy,

That I

Could fly

To where

The air,

So fresh, surrounds and fills my lungs with bliss.

To breathe; to feel the kind and gentle kiss

Of the world outside this steel cage of mine.

To be free, I think, would suit me just fine.'"

More or less satisfied, I terminate the recording, dim the lights, and replace my journal. I move to my bed, whose sheets are wholly unnecessary with the Vault's static temperature of 70.8 degrees. As I lay, my mind wanders to the wonders that must lie outside this dreary, gray world of mine. It's been almost two hundred years since the war, after all. There's no telling what could be out there, paradise or hell.

I'm just unable to shake this nagging feeling that I'm cut out for a life outside these walls, that it's where I belong, danger be damned. Regardless, it's just a pipe dream, a far-off fantasy. It will never be actualized, no matter how much I wish it were so. Oh, well. A girl's allowed to dream, isn't she?

-break-

My Pip-Boy alarm goes off, and I sluggishly slap the device on my arm until it is mute. I sit up and stare at the time display. 5:45. That's before the cock even crows. Well, Vault 101 doesn't have a cock, nor do any of the so-called men in it.

As my thoughts drift away from the male anatomy, I notice the distinct lack of snoring coming from the bed next to mine. I guess my brother never made it home from work. Then I remember why I woke up so early in the first place: Mr. Brotch needs help cleaning his room after Paul Bannon "accidentally" left a sealed solution of ferrous oxide on the Bunsen burner too long.

I'm kind of sad I ditched class that day, and not just because it got me stuck with this job. My best friend Amata's normally blue jumpsuit was speckled a bright shade of orange when we met up at the diner later that day. Nerd that she is, she cursed the Fe3+. Nerd that I am, I laughed.

I don't bother to change or shower; I just grab my brown leather book bag and leave my family's little three-room dorm (most families our size have four rooms) and make for Mr. Brotch's classroom. Navigating the massive maze of corridors and stairs has practically become second nature to me; I do it with ease, never referencing my Pip-Boy map. When I arrive at the classroom, the door is locked, and I tap my foot impatiently for about five minutes before the teacher arrives.

"Ah, Ms. Carlisle!" Mr. Brotch exclaims as he uses his card on the door. "We missed you in Chemistry yesterday. Feeling better?"

"Yes, sir," I reported.

"Great! I'm going to need you in top shape if you're going to finish before eight."

Before I can object to my solitary consignment, he ushers me inside the classroom. The first thing I notice is the ancient flag of America: the grand ol' red, orange, n' blue. The chalkboard, floors, walls, desks, and ceiling were all victims of the orange explosion. After watching Mr. Brotch walk by, I spot that the salt in his hair had been replaced with a more vibrant spice (paprika and pepper?).

Wasting not a moment longer on rumination, I grab the Washo soaked mop from a bucket by the door and start cleaning. While I mop, Mr. Brotch furrows his brow in the corner as he grades history papers. Judging by the names he insults under his breath, I gather the tests are from the second level class. We work in silence for about fifteen minutes, and I manage to clean the board, two walls, and most of the floor.

I hear the sharp clack of the teacher's pen falling against the desk, and I know he's finished. When the fierce ruffling of papers that will commence stop, he will initiate a conversation.

Three, two, one…

"How do you feel about the G.O.A.T., Aurelia?"

I know Mr. Brotch too well. I should get out more often.

"Well," I shrug. "I'm a bit nervous about it, but it worked out okay for my brother."

"How's Morgan doing, by the way? He got his badge yet?"

"Yeah," I replied. "Three days ago." My brother is the newest officer of Vault Security. "He's got his gun and everything."

I turn the mop upside down and begin doing the ceiling. A few droplets of soapy water fall on my head. I ignore them.

"I tell you, those things scare me."

"What, guns?"

"No," he replies. "The people who have them."

"How do you mean?" I ask. "Would you rather security not have guns?"

"First of all, it's 'what do you mean?'" he corrects. "Second, it's not that they shouldn't have guns. It's that they shouldn't be the only ones with guns."

My thoughts drift to the BB gun dad gave me for my tenth birthday that no one knows about.

"Well, if everyone had a gun," I say, "then why would we need security?"

"It's not about that, girl. I know you pay attention during class, so you must've learned something during history. The Overseer –"

Suddenly, the intercom by the teacher's desk turns on, giving Mr. Brotch a bit of a jolt.

The voice of the Overseer, Alphonse Almodovar, announces in its pushy, authoritative tone, "Mr. Brotch, please see me in my office immediately."

Speak of the devil.

Mr. Brotch pushes the talk button and responds with a trite, "yes sir, right away, sir". Turning to me, he says, "Listen, Aurelia, I've got to run. If this is about what I think it's about, I might not be back for a while. Do you think, now this will sound weird, but do you think you could sub for my first levels?"

"Umm… sure?" Shocked, and confused, I blurt out, "Wait! What should I do?"

Mr. Brotch is practically dancing out the door when he replies, "Just play a video or something!"

"O-okay!" I stammer. I pan the room nervously. "But which one do I-" He's gone.

Well, shit.

-break-

"Well, would you lookey what we've got here," a punkish voice sounds behind me.

I stop mopping. With a foreboding sense in my gut, I turn on my heel to face the sneering greaser leaning against the doorframe. He presently dons his leather jacket with the green snake woven on the back, setting him and his gang apart from the rest of the vault citizens who simply have 101 stitched on our jumpsuits.

"Wow, you've made janitor!" he exclaims. "What's the matter, smartmouth, couldn't wait for tomorrow to take the G.O.A.T.?"

"Well, Butch" I say placidly, "I'm sure if you had a goat, you'd take it whenever you could."

I lock eyes with the slick-haired bully while his teeny brain tries to wrap itself around that insult. When the gears come to a halt, his spine snaps straight, and his sneer deepens.

"I wouldn't talk, bitch, unless you want to make a day visit to your daddy." He cracks his knuckles menacingly.

I shift my weight to the mop. "It's just as well that you don't fuck it, though. It would just say how ba-a-ad you are in the sack."

"Want to find out? Just keep talking."

"As enticing as that sounds, Butch, I've got a date later with a rusty pipe. I'd rather get tetanus than retard."

Butch is about ready to explode, like an egg in a nuclear reactor (I wonder what real eggs taste like). Before he could retaliate with violence, the rest of Butch's little gang called their leader over to start mischief somewhere else. Before he ran off to join Paul and Wally Mack, he gave me his contemptuous "I'll squeeze your neck later" stare. In the distance, I could hear the trio shout their battle cry, "Tunnel Snakes rule!"

Immature assholes. I mean, for the love of God, we're sixteen and about to enter the next stage of our lives, and these Tunnel Snake shmoes still act like they're in the last one. Except now they have hormones. And muscle mass. The future doesn't look too bright to me with regard to our species.

-break-

Nervously, I glance at my Pip-Boy. It's almost time for class to start. I barely finished cleaning, so I now have a mere 480 seconds to set up a class for thirteen six to nine year olds. Joy.

I pull open Mr. Brotch's desk drawers like a woman possessed, frantically searching for those videos. Finally, I find them, not in his desk, but rather in the cart the projector is mounted on. I thumb through them, looking for one that was not one of those crappy pre-war History Channel tapes about World War Two or the liberation of Alaska from the Chinese. After two minutes or so, I find a holotape on the very right of the shelf I didn't recognize. The blue label reads in handwritten ink, "Fallout, by Ron Perlman".

I scratch my head, wondering where I heard that name before. Realizing that I had never seen this tape, it strikes me how untouched the thing looked; the edges are dusty, but it doesn't bear the dents and aged look the other tapes bear after two hundred years of use. Needless to say, it piques my interest, so I opt to play it.

I look up from it just in time to see five round-faced children enter the room. They look slightly confused; some stare at me, others at the ceiling, which still has water dripping from it.

The tallest one, a copper-haired girl, steps forward and asks, "Where's the teacher?"

I clear my throat, and respond, "Well, Mr. Brotch is kinda busy, so he asked me to substitute for him. I'm going to be showing you kids a video, probably one you haven't seen before." I'm surprised I didn't stutter.

The children's lack of enthusiasm doesn't surprise me. I wouldn't be too enthralled either.

"Anyway, just take your seats, and I'll take roll."

The rest of the class finds the classroom fairly quickly, save one Andy Sanders, whose brother came in to deliver a note excusing him due to a tooth extraction. It takes quite a bit of effort to get the twelve little boys and girls to quiet down enough that I may start the video. After a lot of ineffectual shushing and a bit of voice-raising, they calm to acceptable levels. In those few minutes alone, I realize how bad being Mr. Brotch sucked.

"Please, no whispering or throwing of stationery aerial vehicles during the film." I almost drop the tape as I slide it in to the projector. After the Indian-head test pattern, the production begins. The off-the-bat dark visuals give it an eerie and sinister start. A few seconds go by before a deep, rolling voice starts to narrate.

War. War never changes.

Since the very dawn of humankind, blood has been spilled for everything, from wealth, to power, to God, to senseless rage. As wars grew larger and bloodier, everybody knew that man would be the architect of his own destruction. How and when he signaled his demise remained unknown, like everything else, until it happened.

October 23rd, 2077, a date that shall live in infamy, more so than 1941 or 2066. Mankind, in his quest for the few remaining resources on his Earth, brought spears of nuclear hellfire upon himself. Every civilization was laid to ruin in only a few hours. But, the nuclear holocaust was not, as some thought, the end of the world. Rather, the apocalypse was merely the prologue of another surely bloody chapter of human history. For man had succeeded in destroying the world, but war? War never changes.

You here in Vault 101 were spared the horrors and devastation of the world above to rebuild society. Do not be so naïve as to think that this time it must be different. The future is bleak and certain; the Vault will destroy itself unless future generations learn from history, as this one has not. This is why I'm leaving for the wasteland man delivered himself, and I shall meet whatever fate holds me in its snare. I will not stay and watch my society crumble. These are my final words, repeat them to all who come after you, or you will die.

That's right; Ron Perlman was the name of the first Overseer. Guess that's why they don't talk about him very much.

The film featured an entourage composed entirely of gloomy, violent, and awesome scenes: the Trojan War, an atom bomb exploding, and the door of Vault 101 sliding closed, never to reopen. Because I was so engaged in the monologue, I failed to notice that none of the kids had paid attention to it. They had been silently goofing off behind my back, as evidenced by the twenty or so balls of paper that littered the classroom floor. I suppose it's better this way.

I eject the tape and place it in my bag. Somehow, I have the feeling no one was supposed to see that. Thank God I'm the only one who did. I resolve to show Amata over some food.

"Okay, class, any questions?"

One dark haired Hispanic boy in the back raises his hand. "Where do babies come from?" he asks.

That one catches me off guard, and makes me more than a little uncomfortable. See, my dad never gave me a dumbed down version of childbirth; he told me the unabridged, uncensored reality when I was eleven. But I can't exactly tell that to this group. Or can I?

"How many of you really want to know?" I ask.

Seven hands shoot up.

"It's really gross, I'm warning you now."

Five more hands raise.

"Well, okay then. Let's take a, um… sojourn into the fascinating world of human reproduction. I'm looking around the room and I see both boys and girls. Now, children, boys and girls are very different, you see. A boy has…"

I proceed to lecture them for the remainder of the two hour class on the ins and outs (literally) of human reproduction. The class ends with nine kids scared senseless, three laughing like mad, and a huge mess on the floor. Smiling, I clean the room for the second time.

-break-

On my way to lunch, the Overseer comes on the PA and announces that second and third level classes are cancelled today. He further urges that all third levels aged sixteen prepare themselves for the G.O.A.T. exam tomorrow.

As I walk into the third floor diner, I hear my father's voice call out, "Sit over here, honey!"

I pan the diner. It's barely half full since it's not yet an official mealtime, so I spot Dad very quickly. Along with my brother, he's sitting in the corner booth with Anne Palmer and her son Jonas. They're all wearing their work clothes; my brother and Mrs. Palmer have their body armor on, while my father and Jonas wear their lab coats. Jonas's has a little blood near the lapel, most likely from the kid who got his molar yanked.

Jonas and I go way back. Even though Jonas is a lot older than me (he turned thirty two days ago), he's my best friend besides Amata. I'm more open with him than any other adult in the Vault, including my father. That makes it all the worse that I forgot to get him a birthday present on time, so I put something together for him yesterday. What luck that I run into him right now.

I grab some chow and a Nuka-Cola from the counter and slide in next to Dad, so I'm directly across from Jonas.

"How you doing, Auri?" my brother greets.

"Well enough," I reply. "I missed you this morning, Morgan. They have you pulling the graveyard shift already?"

"If by 'they,' you mean Christine Kendall, then yes." Morgan puts on a foolish grin, not the least bit of shame shown.

Jonas and I simultaneously give a slow clap, whilst both of the older people simultaneously fold their arms and put on stern faces.

"Nice going, sport!" Jonas applauds.

"Not how a responsible officer should behave…" Palmer mutters under her breath.

My father just rolls his steely-gray eyes in exasperation, opting not to chide my brother verbally. His words would serve only to excite the air.

"Anyway, Jonas," I divert, "happy late birthday! I made you something I think you'll like." I hope he likes it.

I dig around in my pockets and hand Jonas a small silk pouch. He opens it, and smiles as he pulls out a purple beaded friendship bracelet. I see a twinkle in the corner of his eye, but he blinks and the tear vanishes. Guys have weird tear ducts.

"Bit girly, don't you think?" Morgan quips before being hushed by dad.

"Thanks, Aurelia." Jonas slips the bracelet on his right wrist, since his left is occupied by his giant A-Series Pip-Boy (like mine). The lavender really pops out against his dark skin. "It's really great," he compliments. "Makes me feel ten again, though I can't remember ever getting one of these when I was little."

I pull up my sleeve to show Jonas the two that I wear. One of them is identical to his, the other one is a red/pink twist with a little tail going down from it. Guess who gave the other one to me.

We continue to talk until Jonas and my father leave for the clinic and the two officers resume their patrols. I had told them all about my hectic day, sans the video, and we all had a nice laugh when Mrs. Palmer told us about having to rescue her mother from the toilet again.

Moments later, as I am about to leave, Amata walks in, so I sit right back down and wave her over. Her black hair is in a neat bun today, and when she sits I get a whiff of eggs and that special shampoo she uses.

She sniffs the air as well. "Smells like your brother's cologne over here," she observes.

"He just left," I say.

"Well, that explains why he just hit on me in the hallway." She scoffs. "You need to tell him to lay off. I'm the only girl in our class he hasn't slept with, for God's sake. It's a miracle he doesn't have Susie's syphilis!"

"He only flirts with you because he knows he can't touch you," I say.

Though a two year difference between partners is well within the Societal Standards for Teenagers (So StaTe), it would be especially unwise for an officer of the law to sleep with Amata, considering she's the Overseer's daughter.

It's a miracle she and I became friends between our fathers' shouting matches; my dad and the Overseer don't hold many fuzzy feelings for each other. The only thing the two of us had in common right off the bat was that we both lost our mothers at an early age, she at two years, me at two minutes. Kind of a macabre thing to start a relationship over, but it worked, and still works.

"Yeah…" Amata looks a tad downtrodden. "Sometimes I wish I weren't his daughter. I mean, the only guys who pay any attention to me are those stupid Tunnel Snakes, and I could do without it."

"Hey, no one pays attention to me, either."

"That's because you're an introvert, Auri."

"Well, you're an introvert, plus a geek," I reply.

Amata raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Touché, jackass," She gets a peevish twinkle in her eye. "Heard you sat in for Brotch's class today."

I nod.

"Well?" she presses loudly. "How'd it go?"

I take a swig of my drink. "Actually wanted to talk with you about that."

"Oh?" She leans forward.

"Yeah. See, I showed them this video that the first Overseer made."

Amata's eyes grow wide. "My father says the first Overseer went insane. That they had to install someone else and give him 'special care'. What was the video?"

"It was just him talking, he's got a sexy voice, by the way, about how we here in the Vault have to learn from humanity's past so as not to repeat it and stuff, and that Vault 101 at the time was in shambles."

Amata puts down her fork. "That's weird. That doesn't really sound too crazy to me. More like a PSA than anything."

"There's more," I say. "He also said that he was leaving the Vault."

She snaps her fingers. "That's why they restrained him! He wouldn't have been allowed to leave the Vault; that'd put it in danger! But why'd –"

"Keep your voice down, Amata," I interrupt. "This is only between us, okay? Nobody else knows or can ever know."

"Okay." She takes a deep breath. Lowering her voice to a near whisper, "But why'd Mr. Brotch never bring it out? I know my father wouldn't want him to, but Brotch doesn't like him very much."

"He'd probably get in trouble," I reason. "Plus, it was pretty hidden away. Perhaps Brotch just forgot about it."

She nods her head. After a moment of thought, Amata starts in alarming realization. "Wait! What about –"

"Shh"

"– the kids who saw it?"

"None of them were paying attention."

"That's good. ADD's finally working out for us." She rubs her chin contemplatively. "Think I can get my hands on that tape?"

I reach into my bag and procure it. Amata has a baffled look on her face as I offer it to her.

Turning the tape over in her hands, she says, "Looks new. This isn't a prank is it?"

I shake my head. "How will you play it without anyone knowing?" I ask.

She looks at me weirdly and points to her Pip-Boy.

I grab my head and bury it between my fingers. I know that Series B Pip-Boys, which are slimmer and lighter than 3000s like mine, could play videos, but I forgot. This is what we call an Auri Moment.

My heart is pounding. I check my Pip-Boy's vitals display and find my stats. I have 111 bpm and 163/112, all due to minor embarrassment. Sometimes, I wish I didn't have my mom's crappy heart. I'm kind of afraid to have kids thanks to her stellar example delivering me.

My ruminations are cut short by Amata's alarm going off, as are her own. She wolfs down the rest of her artificial poultry, stuffs the tape down her suit, says, "Piano practice," and half-runs out the door.

-break-

I spend the rest of the day studying algebra and writing my fancomic of Grognak the Barbarian. In my story, Grognak and his lover/hater Femme-Ra join forces to defeat the evil love spider Tentactula, and end up getting in a bit of a… sticky situation. Let's just say it involves a lot of web, and there are panels in it which Dad would not approve of, even though he's a doctor.

Around nine, I was putting on the finishing touches. Morgan naturally chooses now to enter the room without knocking. Unfortunately, he sees me try to stuff my book between vectors and logarithmic functions.

"What do you have there?" he asks with that demonic grin of his.

"Nothing, asshole."

"Whoa, why so pissy? I just want to see what my beautiful baby sister's brain has come up with today."

Flattery isn't going to work. "You need to stop hitting on Amata," I declare, trying to shift the subject.

"Fine, if you show it to me."

"No."

"Why not?"

"It's privates. Uh, private."

"You know I can just take it if I wanted to."

True. He's a whole half-foot taller than me at 5'10", and despite the fact that I do work out periodically, he now does it for a living. "What are you, five, Morgan?"

"Now, now, Auri…"

"Fine." I grab my book and thrust it forward assertively. "Here you go."

He grabs it deftly. He reads it awhile, and I look at him the entire time. After many snickers and several aroused eyebrows, Morgan hands it back to me. "Five stars," he smiles. "Better than all twenty-six Grognaks combined."

He actually means it, too. No cynical remarks or witticisms this time. On some level, I'm kind of disappointed

"Well, I'm going to turn in for the night; gotta get up at five tomorrow for work. Maybe you should get rested up for the G.O.A.T."

Oh, yeah, the G.O.A.T.'s tomorrow. The more my mind fixates on it, the more apprehension takes hold of me. Finally, a wave of panic hits me, as I realize that the rest of my life will be dictated by that test. Fifty years in fifteen minutes. I could become anything from a doctor to Stanley's newest grease-monkey. Am I ready for this? I hit the bed immediately, but fall asleep half an hour later, heart pounding, and a lot more nervous than I think I should be.

I dream that the Overseer's neat, white moustache turns into a sharp goatee. Then, his fingers start fusing into hooves, little horns grow from his temples, fur starts sprouting from his pores, his jumpsuit dissolves, and he lands on all fours. In a matter of seconds, I am looking at a human-sized goat, its tail raised in excitement. It walks over to me, and I pet it gingerly. Its slit-pupil eyes then turn dark yellow, its fur becomes crimson, and its horns grow devilishly large and pointy. I back away from it as it undergoes this second metamorphosis, and gaze upon the demonic barnyard animal with awe and horror. When it's finished, it hooves the ground in front of it, snorts a spout of flame, and charges me, one of its foot-long horns aimed at my heart.