The Wasteland is a brutal place, only fit for the most courageous of people. Unfortunately, I was not one of those.
Vault 78 was a cozy place with lots of kids to play with, loving parents who took care of me, and plenty of food and drinks to go around. From my birth and through childhood, I never worried. If I was hungry, I was given food. If I was thirsty, I was given water. If I was cold, I could get a sweatshirt or blanket. Gardens prevented us from running out of food, and purifiers kept the water coming. Sewing classes were taught for those willing - and plenty were. It seemed like the perfect place.
My mother was an avid fencing master. She respected my disinterest, but also taught me a bit for self-defense. If a radroach ever entered my room at night, its disgusting wings fluttering for prey, I could take it down. On the rare occurrence that a mole rat entered, I could also defend myself.
My father was one of the employees working on the water purifier. He loved it, always talking about what parts he fixed, what conversations he had with his coworkers, and every once in a while, he'd bring me a treat home that his boss would give him. Nothing big, just a Nuka-Cola and a few Caps, but I always looked forward to it, saving my Caps for years on end.
School began when I was six. All twenty kids in my classroom were my best friends. The teacher was kind and taught me to read, write, and preform basic mathematical equations. Before long, I was progressing normally, even slightly above the other students. Friends moved in and out. On my thirteenth birthday, I was moved to the upper classes, where the reading grew longer, the writing became essays, and the math was no longer simple. I was plenty of acquaintances, but no close friends. It didn't seem to bug me, as I thought this was normal.
Somewhere around fifteen or sixteen, something in my emotions shifted. People would sometimes randomly tear up - even cry - or hyperventilate due to leaked in radiation. WWIII had occurred, after all, so my emotions didn't seem irrational. Soon, however, it became apparent that I was different. Struggling on homework made me panic. A nasty comment from a fellow student would make me cry for long periods of time. The Vault doctor diagnosed me with PWAS - Post-War Anxiety Syndrome. From then on, I always felt looked-down upon, no matter if it was my teachers or classmates. Even my parents seemed slightly disappointed. The doctor put me on medication, but nothing was ever the same.
During my eighteenth year of life, a new Overseer came into power. Mr. Cage was a charismatic leader that guided many to believe in his power. What they didn't foresee, however, was his intolerance for weakness.
"Everyone must be the strongest they can be!" he would often announce on his colorful posters. "Do not accept the weakness inside of you! Create your inner warrior!"
Many of the students I had grown up with adored his speeches and followed his advice to the letter. Instead of going to sewing classes, they swung swords. Rather than work in the gardens, they collected ammo for Mr. Cage. I was never like them.
Halfway through my eighteenth year, I was working with my father, purifying water. Normally an optimistic, outgoing man, he was unusually quiet. I tried to strike up a conversation with him many times, but to no avail. He nodded, or answered half-heartedly. Eventually, I dropped it.
A classmate of mine by the name of Joshua entered the room. "Aerora, Mr. Cage needs you."
In the corner of my eye, I saw my dad stop working for a brief moment. Joshua's complexion was slightly paler than normal.
"What's going on?" I tried to make my voice harsh, but it came out as a squeak.
"Come on."
Thousands of possibilities for what it could be ran through my mind, but the panic didn't settle on one explanation. I looked back at my dad, but he didn't stop working.
"Let's go." Joshua's voice had grown irritated.
...
"Ah, Aerora, my dear, have a seat!" Mr. Cage's booming, deep voice always made me nervous. He picked up a bobble-head, spun it, and set it down. Fidgety? Shoot. This was something bad. I couldn't even speak in anticipation.
"Have you read my posters?" The Overseer gestured to the many artworks around his office. I nodded shakily. "Good! Good. Then, uh, why haven't you been following them?"
I blinked. "I'm s-sorry, sir?"
Mr. Cage sighed. "Have you ever considered taking archery? Fencing? Visiting the armory?"
I shrugged. "My m-m-mom taught me t-to use a sword for emer-ergencies, sir."
"Ah, and are you any good at it?"
I shrugged again. PWAS never allowed to security or pride.
Mr. Cage blinked, then glanced at his guard. "Sandsworth, you know what to do."
I stood up suddenly. "What? Wh-at's going on?!"
The Overseer looked straight into my eyes as I felt his burning hatred in my soul. "You are weak, Aerora. We cannot settle for the weak here. I'm sorry, but it's time for you to go."
A wave of horrible panic rushed down my spine. Thoughts that I couldn't verbalize came as a mudslide.
What about Mom? Does she know? Dad obviously does. Why didn't he say anything? Did my doctor go against confidentiality and rat me out? Why was PWAS a sign of weakness? Wait, Sandsworth is leading me out. Mom! Dad! Somebody! Move your legs, Aerora! Can't you do anything?
"It is sad to see you go," Mr. Cage called after us. "Unfortunately, in this world, only the strongest will survive, and we simply do not have time for the weak. Goodbye, child. May you fair well in the wilderness."
My last glimpse of Vault 78 came shortly after Sandsworth injected some kind of liquid into my neck.