It began as a low, gentle tone repeated slowly, almost caring in its softness. But as time marched on, the soft tone became a buzzing note, agitated at being ignored. Several seconds passed by, and the agitated buzz became a high-pitched squeal. It thundered around the small space, intending to raise a cacophony to shake the high heavens.

At that point a hand slammed down on the alarm clock, silencing the peals of impatience. The form that huddled under the blankets began to shift around, revealing itself after throwing away the covers. The young man swung his legs over the side of the bed and yawned, running a hand through his bed-headed shock of black hair. He looked down at the alarm, and it showed him exactly what he thought he'd see; 9:31am, February 11, 2290. Grumbling, he got up, stretched, and shuffled over to the shower closet. The door hissed open as he divested himself of his boxers and tank top, and sealed shut behind him when he stepped through the portal into the tall box.

"Good morning, Mr. Welles! What setting would you like today?" The gratingly cheerful robotic voice made him wince as it blurted out its daily greeting.

"Gentle, please," he mumbled, adding to himself, "I'd like to keep my skin."

"Very good, sir!"

A moment later, he was blasted with two stinging jets of hot soapy water. As they worked their way over his body, the voice piped up again.

"Arms up, please!"

The young man obliged without comment, knowing that saying anything would have earned him a mouthful of soapy water. He could only be grateful that his Pip-Boy, a metal sleeve with an integrated computer, was waterproofed.

The shower box finished soaping him down, so the spindly metal arms folded out of the walls. Brushes on the arms scrubbed him down, making sure he was the epitome of clean. Once they finished, he was rinsed off with blasts of cold water and dried off with blasts of hot air. The whole ordeal took no more than half a minute, but to him it felt like half an hour.

He stepped out of the box, followed by a cheery "Have a nice day!" The door hissed shut, and he rummaged around in his drawer for a fresh pair of boxers. Hopping over to the mirror as he pulled them on, he took stock of what he was looking at. A young man, five feet ten inches, semi-muscular build (courtesy of the Workout Room), messy black hair, which seemed to stay messy no matter how much he combed it, and fine black stubble on his chin and neck.

And I still don't feel much older than I did yesterday.

He tried to comb his hair anyway, and shaved off the stubble. No sense in walking out looking like a barbarian, even though Grognak was pretty cool. After putting on a fresh pair of socks and a clean tank top, the young man walked over to the suit extruder, a long silver box set into the wall, and pressed the button. A wide slit opened up along the bottom, and the machine began synthesizing a brand new Vault 47 jumpsuit. The leathery suit slid out of the machine as it usually did, until the machine made a metallic grinding noise, and the production came to a halt.

Nothing happened for several seconds, and the young man became frustrated. The machine then flashed a message on its viewscreen.

"Error: synthesizer jammed. Please contact your nearest Vault-Tec technician."

He let out an enraged howl. "I am the nearest technician, you stupid son of a… GAH!" He stomped over to his bed and pulled his toolbox out from under it. A couple of undone screws and blue streak later, the cover came off and the inner mechanisms were laid bare. The young man yanked at the wires until he could get a look at the synthesizer, which looked incredibly like the insider of a printer. Stuck in between the layering nozzle and the cloth loom, in the gears of the track, was a small chunk of wiring torn from one of the nearby clusters. He swore under his breath. Wiring was getting harder and harder to come by these days. He'd have to spend a week's worth of work credits to get the needed replacement, and those were credits he needed for food.

The young man let out a frustrated sigh. There was nothing he could do about it now, so he headed over to the dresser and pulled open the bottom drawer. He pulled out a pair of cargo pants and an old white T-shirt, covered in stains from oil, grease, and other mechanical juices. He preferred to wear these over the Vault jumpsuits anyway. Leather, even the synthesized kind, wasn't very breathable. He took the toolbelt from its place on his bedside table and belted it on as he entered the living quarters.

Looking around, his mother was nowhere in sight, but that was to be expected. More and more often, she was in the science lab, trying to come up with solutions to impossible problems. There was a note on the table, so he read it, even though he knew what it would say.

Happy Birthday, Markie!

Sorry I can't be here this morning, we're so close to a breakthrough. Renewable air filters won't be something for those jerks on the Community Board to scoff at much longer. I got you some Sugar Bombs for breakfast. There's only a half of a box, but it should be enough. Love you, sweetie! See you tonight in the dining hall.

Mom

Mark smiled. He knew he had the best mom in the Vault, but he hadn't expected her to sacrifice such a hefty amount of work credits just so he could have a nice breakfast on his birthday. Sugar Bombs were a rarity in the Vault these days, so he knew that she had to pay quite a lot to get even half a box.

Such was life in Vault 47. Even though its residents didn't know it, their Vault had lasted much longer than the Enclave scientists could have possibly predicted. Vault 47 was one of the Vault-Tec vaults selected by the US government's Enclave scientists in 2054 to be a social experiment. When it was completed in 2075, a selection of 375 convicts and ex-cons were designated citizens of Vault 47, along with 125 other non-criminal citizens. The convicts and citizens were ushered into the Vault on October 23, 2077, as the first bombs were launched. For the first few weeks after the nuclear firestorm tensions were high. But then the Overseer, with some political maneuvering, reminded the new Vault dwellers of their predicament, and explained to them the situation. The directives he received said that this was to be their new home, as the outside was now certainly toxic with radiation. This was to be one of the last bastions of human civilization, for the outside world was no longer inhabitable. They would live their lives underground, able to survive indefinitely with the latest technology. Perhaps in a thousand years the ground would be not as soaked with radiation and they would be able to tunnel some connections to the other Vaults. But as it was, they would have to survive until that day came. The Vault was built to hold 2000 people or 4000 if hot-bunking was brought into effect.

Immediately, the non-convicts scrabbled to take the higher up positions, trying to keep their lives out of the hands of criminals, while the convicts received the more dangerous or menial tasks. The convicts laughed at first and took their work assignments with a grain of salt. They would have to live with these people for hundreds of years, even if they didn't like it.

For the first ten years, life went on peacefully enough. The few incidents involved were mainly because of kleptomaniacs who couldn't keep their hands to themselves. But then, in 2088, a convict applied for an open position in the Vault's Medical Facility. He was immediately turned down due to "conflicts of interest."

This simple act of paranoia sparked a fire of indignation and anger in the convicts, and protests and demonstrations escalated until violence and an all-out war broke out in 2091. The conflict lasted many years, with many casualties on both sides. Finally the war ended in 2099 when the daughter of the Overseer and the convict faction leader's son fell in love. They were able to bring fighting to a stop on both sides, and began acting as intermediaries. The two factions were able to work out most of their differences, and came to a peaceable agreement by the turn of the century.

Now, in 2290, the descendant of the two who stopped a civil war sits eating a sweetened breakfast cereal in his home in the Den of Rogues, unaware of the events that will change his life forever.