Firstly, huge thanks to Shadow Ocelot for being my beta-fish! Hearts and cupcakes and sexy ghouls for her. Secondly... phew. I have so many ideas for this story and I just want to write and write and write but when I sit down, I get overwhelmed by it and I don't even know where to start. I hope I did an okay job keeping things realistic and not melodramatic (Teufelszeug, I completely share your thoughts, and I hope you find this chapter in balance) and one quick note before you read: I'm altering some details of Fallout 3's story line, nothing major, yet at least, so if you find discretions between the game and my fic that you don't like or disagree with, send me a message. I'll be happy to either explain them or look at it and be like, "Hells bells, you're right!" and edit it. There's also the chance that I just fudged a detail because I'm retarded that way, but hopefully my super awesome beta fish lady will catch those boo-boos.

PS. ERROR TWO CAN KISS MY SWEET ASS.

Of all the silly things to find comfort in, I chose Butch's leather jacket.

If you knew who Butch was, you'd understand the irony of my choice. I hated Butch, and I hated his friends. They were driven purely by the Y chromosome, with nothing better to do than hound what they seemed to think were the only two young women of Vault 101 – Amata and myself. It still shocks me to this day that I aided Butch DeLoria in his hour of need; mainly because that same hour was my emergency, too. Somehow in the time span of only thirty minutes, I was both a hero and a villain all at once. My crime was simply being my father's child. My act of selflessness had saved a woman who would soon succumb to liver failure days later. Does any of it make sense to you?

I'd love to tell you my escape from the vault was a glorious thing, but it wasn't. I ascended from one hell to another. None of the numerous books I'd read could have prepared me for my first steps topside. After nearly twenty years of the cool, sterile vault lights my first real exposure to UV rays temporarily blinded me. Until then I had never even seen the sun, but it was like I was walking right into it; because of my pigment condition I am extremely photosensitive. I stumbled over the rocks and dirt like a newborn deathclaw, helpless and completely unaware of how lethal I might one day become." In a way, my ejection from the vault was very similar to my birth. Defenseless and unprepared, I was spat out of a safe-haven, the womb, and expected to die. This time, however, there was nothing to asphyxiate me but my own racking sobs. I must have spent a good deal of time curled up in the dust, crying, until my vision came back to me in grainy black spots.

How I got from point A to point B, I'm not entirely sure. It was surreal and dream-like from what I remember. I floated towards Megaton with the wind, like a seed leaf riding the breeze, swept away from my roots and deposited at random where I would plant myself and grow.

In reality, I was dragged to the nearest civilization by my own stubborn will and a traveling merchant's mercy. I remember very little before waking up in the clinic. I believe, however, it went something like this:

"Welcome to Megaton!"

"..."

"The quiet type, eh?"

"..."

"Oh, god. I hope you aren't one of those psychotic quiet types..."

And then I must have passed out, because the rest is dim.

When I rejoined the land of the living, I was instantly aware of a fire tearing apart the skin of my face. I went to claw at it and the pain grew tenfold. I screamed and a dark-skinned man – a different one, with no hat – ran inside the room immediately, brandishing a stimpak. I was relieved to recognize something in the nightmare I'd entered, but I still felt vulnerable and frightened. The man wore a lab coat, similar to my father's, and I relaxed in small increments as he explained to me I'd been terribly sunburnt and dehydrated, but he'd seen worse and I was fine. I certainly didn't feel fine. I guess he must have seen the terror in my eyes because he softened and smoothed back my long white hair, administering painkiller into my bloodstream.

Through the haze of delirium, I thought to ask the question that plunged and burst in my eardrums along with the beating of my heart. My voice sounded awkward in my parched throat, which was unused to vocalizing anything more than simple grunts.

"Where did my father go?"

The doctor didn't have an answer. He gave me a look of pity and informed me my clothes were folded on the counter beside my bed if I wanted to get dressed. I stared after him as he left the room, fighting the panic that swelled in my gut.

And that is how I came to worship the smelly Tunnel Snakes jacket I'd been bestowed with by my (then) arch enemy. I sat in my lonely hospital cot, surrounded by comatose patients, hugging it tightly to my frail body and inhaling its smoky, acrid scent. It reminded me of home, even if the memories it invoked were unpleasant. At least it made me think of pointless teenage bickering and not the battered, bloodied corpse of my father's friend, Jonas. That image would haunt my nights for many weeks after.

I ventured out of the clinic mid-evening, finally ready to accept the reality of my situation. I could see clearly again, though my vision's never been stellar – unfortunately, I'd forgotten to grab my reading glasses – and what I saw startled me.

Imagine a palace, with towers varying in height and shapes. Victorian, perhaps, but not quite as Gothic. That was my first impression of Megaton. Slabs of decrepit, rusty metal were pieced together, skeletons of vehicles and things I didn't recognize were arranged to create an environment that could shelter and inhabit a community of people. It amazed me to see people milling around in the filth when I'd been so spoiled by the organization and cleanliness of Vault Tech society. The town was domed by slates of steel and other metals, but they were nothing like the thick, guarded walls of the vault. My mind ran off calculating the incomprehensible human effort it must have taken to build this place. So awestruck I didn't notice Megaton's sheriff approaching me until he cleared his throat and I almost fell off the railing I'd been leaning against.

"Looks like you're feeling better. How are you doing?"

I hesitated before replying, trying to formulate the minimal amount of words needed to answer his question.

"Fine." Just one, easy word. It occurred to me belatedly that Simms probably still considered me a potential sociopath killer, so I followed my curt response with the same query I'd passed by Doc Church, though spun differently.

"I'm looking for my father. Has a scientist come through here?"

No, apparently the sheriff was far too busy to keep tabs of visitors. That struck me as odd, but I took his advice and navigated up the creaky planks to Moriarty's Saloon for more helpful information. There I learned more than I thought I would – that humans could survive chronic exposure to radioactivity, that beer tasted terrible, and that Colin Moriarty was ten kinds of an asshole.

One thing at a time, though. My first exposure to ghouls is definitely worth noting and I shall spend more time talking about Gob than Moriarty or his awful tap.

If I was prone to shrieking, which I am most decidedly not, I probably would have blown the top of my skull off. But I'd already exceeded my quota for screaming that day, so instead I stood frozen, blinking rapidly at the creature – man – behind the bar counter. We watched each other, and honestly I think we were both afraid. I didn't know what he was and he didn't know who I was. He spoke first, with a gritty voice that echoed in my bones.

"Can I get you anything, smoothskin?"

Smoothskin. Well, I understood why I'd get a nickname like that, since he looked like a living model out of my father's anatomy textbooks. I could name each of the muscles in his forearms that flexed when he moved to scrub a glass mug, completely visible to the naked eye. It was disconcerting to me, but my scientific training took over and before I realized what I was doing, I had settled on a stool and started throwing a barrage of questions at him. What did he call his condition? Were there many out there like him? Did it hurt? Were there any perks? I talked more with Gob than I'd said in the entire past week. Locating my father still held the highest priority in my mind, but the ghoul was a welcome distraction. He even let me sip some alcohol, which I sprayed onto the counter and grimaced at. (Later I would discover that, rumor had it, Moriarity urinated in his still.)

My youth and genuine distress seemed to endear me to half the saloon. It wasn't long before Colin Moriarty, the saloon's very namesake, sat down beside me and introduced himself as Megaton's "real" authority. Skeptical, but not one to miss an opportunity, I asked him – I'm sure you know by now, – if he'd seen my father.

Coincidence is something I've encountered now and again; usually I can explain away how two seemingly unrelated things connect. But I cannot, for the life of me, wrap my mind around the idea that not only had Moriarity interacted directly with my father, they'd met before. Outside the vault.

From a young age we are told this: Born in the vault, die in the vault. The knowledge of being lied to by my own father sank heavily in my stomach. It was easier to brand Colin the liar, but it made too much sense. There were hints, all along, that we didn't belong there – only now could I string them together and weave an answer.

The information overwhelmed me in a negative way – my epilepsy is mild, highly manageable and usually, if I have a seizure, it lasts just seconds. This fit lasted ten minutes and consisted of me, out cold, occasionally twitching "like I took Jet," or so I'm told. Afterward, Gob confided to me he thought Moriarity had done something to me and almost ran to get the sheriff. I told him he still ought to grab Simms and charge the Irishman with extortion. One hundred caps to tell me where my father went? Unbelievable. We used bottle caps in the vault, too, so I knew their value. Colin wanted an absurd sum that I didn't have.

That is when I observed a sense of guilt in my new friend. Years of fading into the background and watching, rather than doing, has developed a remarkably perceptive trait in me. I read people well. I saw not just guilt in Gob, but fear – was he still afraid of me? He'd pleaded earlier to not be struck, which bemused me. I came to the conclusion he must be abused... by Moriarity, probably.

"Gob," I started, wincing when he flinched away, as if he knew what I would ask. "Do you know anything about my father?"

The ghoul scanned the room for any eavesdroppers, namely the saloon's manager, and lowered his raspy voice to a whisper.

"Moriarity might kill me if I tell you what I know," he admitted. Unfortunately, that was the truth, and I knew it. From what I'd gleaned about Moriarity through Gob, he beat the everloving crap out of anybody who defied him and would never win a popularity contest if Megaton hosted one. If I'd been any less selfish at that point in my life I would have patted Gob's arm and told him not to worry about it. But I was young, afraid, and lost. I was used to receiving special attention and exemptions because of my disabilities. I made most of my biggest mistakes in Megaton due to simple, utter naivety.

"Please." It was all I needed to say. Gob looked at me through those sad, tired eyes and found the compassion in his heart that I couldn't find in mine. He relayed to me what he'd overheard of the conversation between Moriarity and my father, and I programmed each morsel of information into my PipBoy, unaware that for each tap of my fingers, Gob would be hit twice more. I never gave it any thought. I was too focused on the next step; preparing myself, pursuing the only family I had left. So concerned with my welfare, I never considered his.

That was the first regret.