Tranquility Lane is long gone, replaced shortly after she arrived (as an adult, with Old World skirts and perfect hair). How long ago that was, she can't be sure; time passes strangely in this place. Not that she really cares (what's a century or two in a place like this?). After all, the whole point of being here was to forget the outside world, and time is a concept that only applies out there.
Braun chooses new places at whim (whatever fits his mood at the time), but only when the current program bores him, when the people they've recreated from her time in the Wastes have all died in creative fashions and all they're left with is each other. He bores more easily as of late and their time in Tenpenny Tower (she can't think of it as the Federalist Hotel), is drawing to an end. It's too bad, she thinks, she likes this one.
For a while it was just them. Then a pair of Brotherhood soldiers stumbled upon this place and got caught in Braun's web. He delights in them, torturing, killing them. Ending their jointly-created holographic creations amuses Braun, like killing a bug might amuse a child, but the Brotherhood soliders bring out a gleeful sadist that she hasn't seen since her first visit to Tranquility Lane. She might feel sorry for them if she could manage any feelings these days aside from a quiet apathy.
She walks into what she recalls as the doctor's office, knowing that Braun is finishing up in there. She finds him at a table, back to her, suit coat tossed carelessly on the desk and shirts leaves rolled to his elbows. She stops a little ways from him, and watches. She is always be fascinated by the subtle reality of these simulations. If she slows her breathing, she can hear the rustle of the shirt fabric, the pull of it across his shoulders as his arms flex and the snick, snick of the blade as it slices through flesh.
He wants her to enjoy these games with him, share in his relish, and though he makes her play, he cannot make her enjoy. She almost wishes she could, just to feel something. She often thinks that the radiation damaged that part of her brain, and no matter how often Braun tells her she's the picture of health, she never truly believes him.
There's no sound from his 'patient', but she sees the soldiers legs thrashing and knows that at least, for now, the man is still alive. Braun probably tired of his screaming and made him silent.
"Join me?" Braun asks, hands stilling momentarily. He's gotten decidedly more hands-on as of late, as if pulling strings from a distance bores him now.
"No."
Though she doesn't care any longer what Braun does, she still hears her father's voice telling her participating in his games is wrong. Braun can compel her if he feels like it, but she won't do it of her own free will.
He shrugs and goes back to cutting, the thrashing gets weaker. "Perhaps next time, then," he says and she knows that what he means is, 'One day I'll break you. One day you'll be mine to shape, to do with as I please.'
She says nothing in response, just watches as thrashes become twitches, and then those too stop. She hears the clink of the blade as he places it on the table and turns to face her. Blood splatter covering his shirt and arms, bold against the whiteness of his shirt. A self satisfied smirk twists his lips.
"Where should we go now?" Braun asks, as he always asks before changing simulations.
"..Home," she says, it's the first time she's answered him since he started asking.
He quirks an eyebrow at her. "We already live in a Vault."
"My Vault," she says, more strongly, with something approaching feeling. "I want to spent time Vault 101."
"I...suppose," he replies, warming to the idea and steps closer. "Could be interesting. Think of all the fun we could have with daddy dearest," he says with a cruel smirk and traces the side of her face with pair of finger tips, leaving a trail cool, sticky blood.
Around them the simulation flickers and disappears. A blank space appearing around them as Braun loads the new simulation, taking data from her memories and his own archives. The blood on his hands and shirt are gone, as is the streak on her face, erased like chalk off a chalkboard.
No, she amends silently, whitewashed. Because the blood isn't gone, just painted over.