A/N: Aaaaaand it's time for the next stage of our progression through the original mission! Not going to waste time with an overlong preamble - let's just get on with the show.

Read, review, and above, enjoy!

Disclaimer: Fallout is still not mine.

By the time Matty caught up with her, Betty had taken a seat on one of the swings, and was gently drifting back and forth, a lazy, contented smile etched across her face. Maybe it was the smirk, or maybe it was just his fear-crazed imagination, but she looked more like a queen on her throne than anything else.

Her eyes, which had seemed merely impish and mischievous beforehand, were now contorted in an expression of undisguised malice, their colourless depths aglitter with wicked delight. He'd seen that same look in the eyes of Mr Burke as he'd courted Matty to detonate the bomb in Megaton, in the eyes of slavers with a fresh harvest of produce ready to collar, in the eyes of the cannibals in Andale as they'd sized up their newest prey.

By now, Matty understood the fact that nothing in this place was real and that anyone he happened to meet here would look vastly different from their true selves in the real world, but now he knew for a fact that the little girl in front of him was most definitely not a child: in his experience, children usually hurt people without really understanding the significance of what they did, and even the rare few that actually had a taste for blood didn't tend to attach much thought to their sick little games. Whoever Betty really was, she understood what she was doing; she possessed an adult's comprehension of violence, and if she'd been the one who'd transformed Timmy before Matty could calm him down, she also had at least some measure of control over the virtual world – a very dangerous combination.

She regarded him with undisguised amusement. "I told you it would be fun," she said at last. "You're a lot better at this than I thought you'd be."

And then, just as Matty was starting to wonder if the girl's cadence and delivery sounded just a tiny bit too adult to be believable, Betty's voice suddenly shifted: in the space between sentences, it went from the piping voice of a little girl to the deep growl of an old man. What now emerged from Betty's lips was an ancient, sneering baritone, withered by time but invigorated by arrogance and cruelty, marked with a peculiar accent that Matty had only heard in old films shown back in Vault 101.

"Yes," she rasped, "you certainly made good use of the tools I left for you, and you even managed to add your own touches to make it seem more believable. Resourcefulness, improvisation, deceit… yes, I think you have all the making of exemplary player. Consider the game won – and for that, you win a prize: one question, which I will answer to the best of my considerable ability."

She smirked, as if daring Matty to ask a question she didn't know the answer to.

Matty took a very deep breath and tried to smother his anxiety. He knew from experience that he was being toyed with, that whoever Betty really was, she had the power and the temperament to make his life a living hell at a moment's notice. If she was giving him this kind of lifeline, it was so she could hang him with it. Besides, he was overflowing with questions and only allowed to ask one, a fact that Betty would probably use to trick him into wasting his opportunity… and yet, some questions might not be necessary.

"I had some questions," he said hesitantly. "But I think I might know the answers to a few of them already."

Betty giggled mirthlessly, her voice suddenly that of a child again.

"Did you?" she sneered contemptuously, almost as if insulted. "Don't hold back, then, Matty: tell me what you think you know, and I'll tell you what you don't know."

Matty hesitated, almost phrasing his next remark as a question before realizing his mistake.

"None of this is real," he said at last. "This is all just some kind of computer simulation taking place in Vault 112. More importantly, you're just using one of the programs to make yourself look and sound like a little girl – Christ knows why, but that's obviously what you're doing."

"Good," purred Betty in her old man's voice, at once impressed and disdainful. "And my name?"

After everything Matty had seen, there was only one possible answer to this question. "You're Dr Stanislaus Braun."

"Well done. What gave it away?"

"A lot of things, really; from what I've learned so far, you were supposed to be the Overseer of Vault 112, and everything I've seen about this place suggests that you're running the show. The residents follow your orders without being told; you're the only character here who doesn't have a role or personality that the others can recognize – most of them can't even talk about you without getting vague; you're a lot more aware than any of the others; and if you were responsible for what happened to Timmy-"

"Which I am," said Braun, smugly.

"-then it probably means you have administrator-level control over this simulation, the kind of privilege that'd only be available to the Vault Overseer."

"And you base this assumption on what, exactly?"

"Personal experience: I grew up in Vault 101, and I've seen firsthand the level of authority granted to Overseers. True, we didn't have virtual reality simulators, but Overseer Almodovar was already granted total executive control over everything in the Vault. I imagine you'd be granted much more as Vault-Tec's 'sorcerer-scientist.'"

Braun's smirk grew. "A simple but effective breed of logic. You are correct: as designer of this system and Overseer, I am in command of every aspect of its function; Vault 112 was my last and greatest work before I retired, and it's only fair that I received executive control of it as a reward for years of exemplary work for the company. And you're from Vault 101? Fascinating. I must say, I never imagined I would get to meet an inhabitant of one of my past masterpieces, but here you are. Tell me, how has society degenerated after so many generations of unbridled dictatorship? Is there a caste system in place? Is the population inbred and moronic? Are there rampant system errors, mechanical faults, even power failure? Has there been famine and cannibalism?" He chuckled maniacally. "No, no need to tell me just yet: I'm sure we'll have all the time in the world to discuss it later. In the meantime, you've yet to decide on what question you'd like to ask me."

Matty considered this for a moment. For now, there was only one question he could ask: "Where's my father? You promised you'd help me find him back before I started playing along. So where is he?"

"In my care, of course," said Braun smugly. "You see, he refused to cooperate as you did, so I took measures to ensure he wouldn't disrupt things any further. He's safe for the time being, but I doubt you'll recognize him even if you could find him."

"But couldn't you-"

Braun wagged a finger disapprovingly. "Ah-ah-ah!" he chided, now in Betty's voice. "I said you'd get one question and you've used it. But if you want to know if I could be persuaded to let dear James go… well, I'd be more than happy to reunite you with your father – provided you play along a little longer."

"Listen, you b-"

"Now, now, I wouldn't get aggressive if I were you, Matty." Braun's voice now issued from Betty's lips once more. "As you said, I'm in complete control of everything in the simulation – and by extension, the Tranquillity Loungers. As it is, I'm only keeping you from finding your father and preventing you from leaving this simulation; I'm not even remotely unhappy with you right now. Why, if I were displeased, I could transform you into almost anything, inflict pain upon you in any one of a million different ways, destroy every last vestige of your identity… or I could just interface with your Lounger's life support system and trigger a fatal aneurism. So, I suppose it's my turn to ask a question of you: are you going to be a good little boy and do as you're told?"

There was a pause, as Matty hastily considered his options. To put it mildly, the odds were not in his favour: he'd been stripped of his weapons, he'd been regressed to childhood, all the skills and abilities he'd worked so hard to develop were effectively useless within the simulation, and right now, he only had the strength to outfight another ten-year-old… and here and now, he was up against a virtual deity.

"…I really don't have a choice in the matter, do I?" he said at last

"Of course you have a choice; there are always choices in life, Matthias. In this, you have a choice of how you agree to my terms. My advice? Do it smiling."

Matty groaned. He was well and truly roped in now: once again, he'd been suckered into doing someone else's dirty work, and this time, it was for even more dubious reasons than usual. Still, there was at least some comfort in knowing that he honestly didn't have a choice in the matter.

"Alright," he said at last, smiling half-heartedly. "I'll continue playing along if it means seeing dad again."

"Excellent! Now, making Timmy cry was the easiest task I had in mind for you, and therefore the least interesting. I desire some real entertainment now, and for that I'm going to need more complex social engineering on your part. This time, I'd like you to focus on Roger and Janet Rockwell." He pointed to one of the many identical houses, this one next-door to the Neusbaum residence. "The Rockwells are the picture of a happy marriage, at least outwardly. I'd like you to change that, preferably concluding with their divorce. You can use any method available to you so long as it destroys their marriage, but you may not kill either of them. Once you're finished, you may return here, and we can talk further about your father – or anything else you like."

"Just get them to divorce? That's all?"

"That's all," Braun repeated.

Matty all but sighed in relief: at least he wasn't actually being asked to kill someone. Still, engineering a divorce wasn't exactly the most upstanding thing he'd been asked to do in his history of odd jobs across the wastelands. And, now that he thought of it, there was a much more puzzling wrinkle to this bizarre affair.

"How long do you think this is going to take, Braun? If they're happily married, getting them to split up is going to take a lot more time and effort than before; it's certainly not going to be over in the space of an afternoon-"

"Outwardly," said Braun. "My exact words were 'outwardly.' The Rockwells are secretly teetering on the brink of total collapse; all they need to plunge into divorce is a gentle push in the right direction. I've made sure of it – a new backstory here, a memory of a past relationship there, a few adjustments to their personalities, and maybe even a little bit of deliberately misplaced lust – and now the two are fighting almost every evening. Now, you will complete the disintegration of their relation, and you'll do it entertainingly."

Once again, Matty took a moment to digest this. Based on everything he'd seen so far, this power to control memories and alter personalities had been in evidence several times already: after all, none of the other residents could understand that they were inhabiting a virtual reality scenario, and most of them didn't even seem to be able to process the fact when Matty tried revealing it to them. However, if Braun could actually do this, then would dad even recognize him when – or if – they finally saw each other again? And all this business of adjusting memories raised another, even more unsettling question – and Matty voiced it almost without thinking:

"If you can rewrite people's entire lives just to set the stage, then why do you need me?" he asked. "Why don't you just brainwash one of the other residents into playing my part and have them break up the Rockwells' marriage?"

"Because that would be boring," Braun replied icily. "I've had my fill of setting my test subjects at each other's throats via implanted memories; after decades on end with a limited stable of playthings, the experience grows tiresomely stale, and I've no interest in implanting anything in your mind – not while you still remain interesting to me," he added, a hint of a threat in his voice. "No, I want someone to amuse me of their own free will. I don't want a programmed response: I want excitement, drama, surprise, and above else, creativity. I want to see your approach to this task. Do this for me, and we can talk further. Now run along: I'll be watching…"

Braun swung contentedly back and forth on the swingset, whistling to himself as Matthias hurried away.

Already, he could see him scanning the Rockwell residence, looking for anything he could exploit on the inside or out. From the way his gaze flitted across the front lawns, it was plainly obvious that he had noticed the way Martha Simpson was making eyes at Roger from across the fence. He could practically hear the gears in the boy's head turning from here!

This was perfect; this was beyond anything he could have hoped for when the outsider had first blundered into the program: not only had he been given a new toy after months of mindless agony inflicted on Doc, but it seemed that his latest plaything was much cleverer and much more pliable than he could have ever hoped for.

By now it was abundantly clear that Matty was no James: he did not shy away from the petty tortures, nor did he try to divert him with appeals to his better nature. Once he had realized there was no way to escape the situation without inflicting harm, he simply established what needed to be done, and then did it – carefully, efficiently and without mercy. And as for the readouts from Matty's Tranquillity Lounger, his stress levels were nothing short of incredible. James had been overwhelmed with shock and horror, his pulse, blood pressure and adrenaline levels skyrocketing with every revelation that Braun had hit him with; his original test subjects had been crippled with fear on their first visits, and over the next few months of torture and failed rebellious, they'd been traumatized to the brink of near-catatonia. But even when trapped in an unfamiliar body and pitted against an opponent of godlike strength with no chance of resistance, Matty's stress levels remained in check: he was cautious, wary, maybe even a little nervous, but never as terror-stricken as those who had come before him. He'd experienced horror before, this one, and he knew how to deal with it.

Alas, though his connection to the Vault computer allowed him to restructure memories and personality, the simulators couldn't let Braun read the minds of his captives; even his ability to alter memories could operate only in the most general of terms – in lengths of time, typical moments in personal history, and other elements.

Braun had no idea what had shaped Matty's character, what genetic predispositions and environmental factors had sculpted him into the man he was today. Whatever it was, it must have been suitably horrific, no doubt involving repression and subservience under the Overseer of Vault 101, followed by a desperate struggle to survive in the irradiated hellscape that lay beyond the Vault door. However he'd managed it, though, he'd done so without losing his rational mind or collapsing into the kind of thuggish, idiotic violence that such repeated traumas could produce.

Others might have struggled with finding a means to make Timmy Neusbaum cry, even with Braun's prepared instruments in place; others might have simply resorted to beating him to a bloody pulp or murdering his parents. But no, Matty had ignored the easy options, disregarded brute force in favour of a subtler, infinitely more enjoyable solution. Oh yes, that brochure had given him the means of making Timmy cry, but he hadn't expected the intruder to use it so artfully.

Now, Braun could only hope that his newest plaything would continue to impress in the tasks that lay ahead: he'd no doubt that Matty would excel in driving Roger and Janet into a divorce, but after that, the boy would need to remain as determined as ever when Braun upped the stakes to murder. He'd probably need to be kept away from Dithers as well, just in case she tried to fill his head with any mad notion of freeing them from captivity.

It was still possible that the new arrival would disappoint him just as surely as his father had, but then, he'd already seen how little Matthias capitulated when all his options were exhausted. Besides, James and his pathetic attitude couldn't be the norm out there: anyone who wandered the atomic Badlands for a living would almost certainly have to develop an appropriately open-minded attitude towards morality, crime and death if they wanted to survive.

And when it came to death, the next few stages of his game would involve generous helpings of that most precious commodity. He wanted to see the full extent of what his visitor was capable of when pushed to his absolute limits, to see just how entertaining the newest resident of Tranquillity Lane could be when he put aside all the trappings of human moral concerns and descended into rampant slaughter. In preparing that final task, Braun had turned to the long-neglected contents of his archives for inspiration, drawing from centuries-old newspapers and other digitized broadsheets; thus, the Pint-Sized Slasher was to be reborn in the ever-complacent paradise of the virtual realm.

He'd built the mask very precisely, recreating it from artists' impression and eyewitness accounts, crafting it to fit the face Matty's avatar perfectly – just so he would look perfect when the time finally came for him to take up the mantle of the Pint-Sized Slasher.

And after that, when everyone on Tranquillity Lane was dead and it was time to reset the simulation… well, he hadn't made any promises to his new plaything. He'd never specifically promised to release Matty or his father once they were finished entertaining him, and frankly, why would he? In hindsight, his sole crop of test subjects had nearly exhausted their potential for entertainment, such as it was, and a biddable participant unbound by implanted memories would freshen even the dullest elements of his games, adding decades of amusement to the mixture.

Yes, if properly motivated, Matty would be the best of all his playthings. And if Braun was right about the kind of life his newest jester had lived, that motivation might be arriving very soon…

It took Matty a depressingly short span of time to force the Rockwells into a divorce.

As Braun had said, Roger and Janet had been pushed to the breaking point well in advance: their marriage was a passionless sham, eroded by countless petty arguments, inconsiderate acts, the total failure of the marriage to produce children, and growing paranoia over suspected marital infidelity. At their best, they were merely distant, occasionally regretful on very good days; at their worse, the two of them were looking for excuses to force their spouse out of their lives once and for all. So, Matty simply gave Janet the excuse she'd secretly longed for.

Patient eavesdropping had reveal that Roger Rockwell had once been in a relationship with Martha Simpson, and Janet suspected her husband of continuing it behind her back. So, Matty waited until Martha was out on one of her many strolls around the neighbourhood, then crept into her house and made off with a lacy bra and a bottle of perfume – a very distinctive aroma that could only be found in Martha's collection; to the best of Matty's knowledge, nobody else in the neighbourhood used this scent. Then, after making off with a bottle of Roger's atrocious cologne, he sprinkled the lingerie with both perfumes and deposited it in the Rockwells' basement, right next to an old mattress that the couple had long since given up on throwing out.

By now, Matty wasn't exactly unfamiliar with theft, petty or otherwise, but stealing underwear was a new low. Still, he had to continue if he was to ever see dad again and escape from this nightmare realm. All he could do was hope that this would be enough to appease Braun.

Actually getting Janet to see the scent-laced lingerie was a slightly trickier matter. Eventually, he'd kicked a hole through the tiny basement window, then claimed that the sound of breaking glass had been from a baseball game with Timmy Neusbaum, accompanying this outrageous lie with a shamefaced plea for the return of their ball. Timmy wasn't around to reveal that he was lying and Matty was a past master of the Bambi-eyed look of contrition, so Janet reluctantly escorted him inside to retrieve the ball… only to stumble upon Martha's lingerie.

It took exactly thirty seconds for Janet to put two and two together.

Now she was alone in the house, her eyes still wet with tears as she finished signing the necessary papers, then arranged for the last of Roger's possessions – the ones she hadn't thrown out the window – to be hauled away next morning.

Some distance away, Roger slumped in a folding chair next to his broken-down car and tried to explain to Bill Foster just how much of a bitch his wife was, though as Roger was on his eighth beer by then, the explanation remained entirely incoherent.

And, of course, Matty was left to slink back to the park in shame, already feeling sick with self-loathing as Braun's obnoxious whistling drew nearer and nearer. He could already tell that the hateful bastard was going to be practically buoyant with triumph at the sight of his latest exploits.

Sure enough, Braun was smirking wider than ever when Matty finally returned. "Resourceful as ever, I see," he chuckled. "You're proving to be a very worthy investment of my attention, not to mention a lot more cooperative than your father. He found my games quite beneath his dignity, not that it did him any good. But enough about that! Once again, you've earned a reward for exemplary behaviour: an answer to one of your many questions. Think carefully, young man – in my experience, answers rarely come cheap."

Matty smothered a sigh of exasperation: Braun was still stringing him along, as expected. He didn't know what the demented old man hoped to gain from this, but unless he got some practical answers out of this session, then he wasn't going anywhere anytime soon.

So, thinking carefully, he asked the question he should have asked from the very beginning: "How can I get out of here?"

"Bored with Tranquillity Lane already, are we?"

"I'd just like to know how I can leave this simulation – preferably with dad. What will it take to get me and dad back to reality?"

Braun's lips peeled backwards into a childish grin. "As I've said, I am in complete control of this virtual setting and everyone connected to it: one of my first acts as Overseer was to override the exit program function for other users, then disable the manual override option for the Tranquillity Loungers. As such, I am the only way you and your father will ever be able to escape this world… though I presume you'd like to know if I want something specific in exchange for your release. And what do you know?" he cackled in Betty's voice. "It's time for your next task!"

Matty hung his head in despair. He's going to keep me here forever, isn't he?

"Ah-ah-ah! Chin up: no frowns allowed in this neighbourhood – not without my permission." Braun chuckled again, now in his own voice. "I think it's time we upped the stakes a little: you've proved yourself a surprisingly adept psychological manipulator, but now you'll have to put your abilities to more practical ends: I want you to kill Mabel Henderson."

"What."

"In an entertaining way, you understand: simply beating her to death with a rolling pin or slicing her to ribbons with a carving knife will not be interesting enough for my tastes. I want to see you exercise some real creativity in ensuring her demise. Do this, and you'll be one step closer to being reunited with your father."

There was a pause, as Matty digested this.

"Why?" he asked at last.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Why do you want this? I mean, you want me to kill one of the residents, yes?"

"Your grasp of the blindingly obvious is commendable."

"One of only ten residents in this entire Vault, including you? You don't have anyone in reserve, Braun: I checked the Vault computers before I took a seat, and you've only got the first floor of Loungers occupied. So what possible reason would you have for killing one of your irreplaceable test subjects?"

The poisonous-looking smirk on Braun's face could have soured milk at fifty paces. "Because I've been doing it on and off for the past two centuries," he purred. "Remember, this isn't reality: death in the simulation isn't permanent. If I were to kill you, for example, your Tranquillity Lounger would simply render you unconscious. You would remain asleep for as long as I'd allow it, unharmed and dreamless until I'd reset the simulation – totally or partially – and bring you back from the dead. So you see, death has no domain here unless I permit it, however briefly."

"I don't care!" Matty snapped. "I'm nobody's hitman: yes, I've done some questionable things over the last few weeks, I've killed more people than I've had hot dinners since I've left the Vault, sometimes at the request of others, but I am not a hired killer."

"How very dramatic of you, but as I said, you wouldn't be killing Mabel: you'd simply be knocking her unconscious. The moment I want her back, I can simply reset the simulation and restore her to life."

"That doesn't matter! She'd still suffer, wouldn't she? You've replicated just about every single meaningful sensation in this virtual world, and I'm willing to bet that includes the pain of being brutally murdered: even if her death wouldn't be real, her suffering would be, and even if you could resurrect her with a wave of your hand, it still happened. She'd still end up suffering the aftereffects of whatever I do to her."

"Wrong again, I'm afraid: by now, it's become common practice for me to erase the memories of anyone I kill in the simulation. There won't be any aftereffects of whatever you do to Mabel because she won't remember what happened. For all intents and purposes, Matty, whatever you do at my command has already been undone: it never happened and never will, for it will leave no impression on history. You'll simply be leaving footprints on a sandy shore, watching the waves erase each mark one at a time." The smile grew. "So you see, there's no guilt attached to this little job, Matthias. You wouldn't be killing anyone; you'd simply be twisting the head off a doll, and I'd be screwing it back on later."

"And that's how you see this? A game?"

"Of course. What did you think I saw it as, Matty?"

"…I…" Matty floundered briefly, suddenly find himself wilting in the spotlight of Braun's dissecting gaze. "…I was thinking this was some kind of experiment. I don't know as much about the Vaults as dad does, but I've seen enough of the ones in the Capital Wastelands: there were experiments going on in each one I visited, so I thought there might be one going on in here as well. But…" Matty shook his head in bewilderment as he assessed everything I've seen so far. "But what kind of experiment would require you to make a little boy cry?" he demanded. "What could you possibly hope to learn from anything you've had me do so far? Why are you still keeping these people here after all this time?"

"Because they continue to amuse me," said Braun, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "That is purpose enough for their lives, don't you think? You are serving the same purpose after all: I do so enjoy having someone new to play with…"

"So… you're a sadist and that's all? That's the only reason for any of this?"

"You at least accept it with more grace than your father did. He simply couldn't bring himself to accept the possibility that the guiding scientific genius of the 21st century might be entitled to a little fun and games after decades of hard work. He understood the true nature of Vault-Tec's secret plan, but not enough to realize just how little of it was to be devoted to the creation of a better world – or rather, his idea of a better world. Believe me, I've caught glimpses of the world my partners wished to create, and it had nothing in common with your father's vision." Braun chuckled. "The poor fool just couldn't help imposing his idealism on others!"

As much as Matty hated to admit it, Braun had some hateful semblance of a point: from everything he'd seen and read so far, dad occasionally failed to grasp the fact that his point of view was not the norm, setting his plans in motion without taking into account the fact that people couldn't always be trusted to be sane or reasonable. Not too long ago, he'd assumed that Overseer Almodovar would accept his escape from Vault 101 with the bare minimum of fuss: this assumption had resulted in Jonas getting murdered, Amata brutalized, and Matty being forced to flee the Vault. Twice, he'd sought help from Colin Moriarty, either unaware that doing so could have left him in debt for the rest of his life or convinced that he could appeal to the man's better nature. And what about his goals of restarting Project Purity? He'd flung himself back into the work with almost heedless abandon, unwilling to accept that he might not be able to find the resources or the support needed to make his dream a reality – or that someone more intelligent than any raider or super mutant might stand in his way. By all appearances, what Braun had done to him was the inevitable conclusion.

And yet, as much as Matty found himself sighing in frustration over dad's mistakes, some part of him couldn't help but rally in defence of the old man's optimism. Perhaps it was just his own warped sense of idealism in play, but he couldn't bring himself to dismiss his father's approach, not when it had been so instrumental in his achievements so far. After all, hadn't it carried him this far almost unscathed? Hadn't he managed to get the support of the Brotherhood of Steel for a project that most would have considered fanciful at best and insane at worst? Hadn't he managed to charm Moriarty into helping him where others might have considered it impossible? Hadn't he managed to talk the Overseer into letting him into Vault 101 in the first place? Hadn't he plunged onwards into a project that everyone had given up on, and found answers where none would have expected them?

But now Braun was clearly waiting for an answer, and judging by the look on his face, he was done with the kid gloves approach. "If we've finished discussing my motives," he said, "Then I believe it's time you continued playing."

Matty opened his mouth to refuse, only for Braun to cut him off at the last moment: "If you do not wish to entertain me, we are at an impasse for now… but rest assured, it will mean never leaving Tranquillity Lane and never seeing your father ever again. And rest assured, I won't be the one to lose patience first: you'll find it difficult maintaining your resolve in the face of the unique stimuli at work in my domain – the playthings who've been made aware of them have great difficulty keeping their composure as time goes on."

In the background, the perpetual jingle was still playing, its relentlessly jaunty melody like acid raining down on Matty's eardrums. Was his imagination, or was it growing subtly louder as the conversation went on?

"And there's still the option of just killing you," Braun continue. "Permanently. Should you actually prove boring enough to be disposed of, your father's chances of ever being released from captivity will die with you; I doubt you care so little for him that you'd condemn dear James to an eternity in my care. But if you do, I may even restore his identity just so I can reveal what became of his poor son to him. As always, I leave the decision entirely up to you."

Not for the first time that day, Matty sighed and gave in. "Alright," he said at last. "I'll cooperate if it means getting dad out of here. And don't think I'm enjoying this," he added, a little more defensively than he'd have liked. "I'm not you, no matter how much you want me to be."

"Justify it to yourself any way you like, my friend. You'll do it nonetheless… and in time, you'll see just what kind of person you really are, regardless of your protestations. Now go: you have a murder to plan…"

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Matty to psyche himself up for this mission.

As much as he enjoyed the rush of battle and the thrill of victory, he'd never been comfortable with killing outside of combat, for even with god only knows how many raiders dead by his hand, he still instinctively shied away from assassination work unless he could be sure he was justified in doing so. Maybe it was another bit of idealism he'd learned from dad, or maybe he'd simply found his moral limit and couldn't trespass beyond it; whatever the case, he was a killer, but not a murderer. It was one of the many reasons why he'd chickened out of mercy-killing Harold, what with the Treeminders pleading so persuasively for him to do otherwise – not that his conscience had been especially salved by the prospect of leaving poor old Harold as a tree for the rest of eternity.

In this case, though, there wasn't a lot that could keep his conscience clear: not only was he going to be committing premeditated murder for hire at the behest of some twisted manchild, but he was about to make himself a knowing participant in the continued torture of innocent human beings. The fact that Mabel would be alive again soon and wouldn't remember any of this was only vaguely comforting to him… but he clung to it nonetheless: without it, the mission would be impossible.

First, Matty scouted the surrounding environment for anything that could be used for a suitably creative death. Unfortunately, there were no manholes anywhere in the street, nor was there any traffic on Tranquillity Lane's one road; the trees looked too stable to be toppled, and there were no animals around apart from Doc – for though Matty could hear birdsong over the infuriatingly jaunty background music, he couldn't see any birds in the vicinity. So far, the only possibility that had occurred to him was sabotaging the brakes on her care and allowing it to roll over her when she left the house, but that probably wouldn't be dramatic enough for Braun's sick desires, and besides, the driveway's incline probably wouldn't be steep enough for the car to pick up speed.

Stymied for the time being, he tried indoors instead. However, unlike his previous targets, Mabel was at home, so rather than try to sneak in through an open window and risk getting caught, he simply marched up to the front door and rang the bell.

Then again, it might not have been necessary: as the door swung open to reveal Mabel Henderson's beaming, guileless face staring down at him, Matty realized at once that she had absolutely no suspicion to spare for the weird kid on the block, nor did she have any fear of break-ins. Maybe this was another example of Braun redesigning the residents for the sake of his games, maybe Mabel had always been this naïve and unsuspecting, or maybe the entire pre-War generation had been trusting to the point of obliviousness. Whatever the case, Matty wasn't going to be opposed or even suspected.

And that's because Braun isn't sending you out on some grand hunt, a nasty little voice in the back of his head whispered. He's set you up with a cow for you to slaughter.

Doing his best to ignore the voice, Matty plastered on a slightly-anxious smile, instinctively following through on the now-useless plan. "Um, sorry to bother you, Mrs Henderson, but I've been looking for my dad," he said nervously. "Have you seen him?"

"What does he look like, dear?"

"A little taller than you, grey-haired, has a beard…" He deliberately trailed off; he knew that carrying on with the act was probably unnecessary, but force of habit drove him onwards.

"I can't say I've seen anyone like that around the neighbourhood, dear. Still," Mabel added, "I'm sure he'll turn up eventually. In the meantime, why don't you come in? You're welcome to stay until your father returns."

Totally guileless, Matty thought. Even Moira wasn't this trusting.

Smile still chiselled on, he stepped inside the Henderson residence and immediately began examining the place for any means of engineering a suitably entertaining death. As far as he could tell, the house was identical to all the others he'd visited so far, with every room and fixture replicated in exhaustive detail: no variation, no distinction, no personality… and yet, a few tiny elements stood out in this home.

For one thing, there was a Mr Handy cleaning the living room.

For another, someone had left a roller skate next to the staircase, courtesy of Mabel half-heartedly cleaning up after a visit from Timmy Neusbaum.

And for a third, a new chandelier had been hung within reach of the upper story landing.

Also, there was a faint smell of roasting meat somewhere nearby, but much more savoury than Matty was used to.

He considered his options as Mabel shut the door behind him: if Matty so chose, he could reprogram the Mr Handy; there was probably a terminal somewhere close by for easy programming access, and from there, it probably wouldn't be too hard to get it to kill Mabel – either by removing safe mode or expanding its pest control range.

Or, he could set her up to trip over the roller skate as she descended the stairs; it'd depend on her being too distracted to notice the steps in front of her, but if she fell from a great enough height, it'd be sufficient to kill her in what Braun would hopefully consider an entertaining way.

If all else failed, he could simply wait for the right moment and then drop the chandelier on her head.

But even with three perfectly decent options on his side, one question kept creeping back into Matty's brain: could he actually do this? Could he take part in the worst of the torture, even under duress?

Come on, he told himself, you've gone this far to rescue dad. You can't back out now.

"Do you want something to eat while you wait?" Mabel asked. "I've just finished baking a pie, and if I've timed it right – which I always do – it should be just cool enough to eat by now. Of course, this is only the first bake of the day: if you stay for long enough, you'll be the first to try out my newest recipes."

For a moment, Matty's brain remained entirely focussed on assassination possibilities: if Mabel was such an avid cook, it might be possible to sabotage her oven so that a leaking gas inlet would ignite the moment she tried to operate it. True, burning to death wasn't exactly quick or painless, but Braun had made it clear that he was in this for pure sadism; roasting Mabel Henderson alive might be the only outcome the miserable old bastard could possibly accept.

Then the word "pie" finally made its way through the morass of calculations and planted the flag in his mind; only then did Matty belated realize what had just been offered.

Back in the Vault, food had been nourishing but rather basic: dad had always preferred to avoid spending ration coupons on luxuries, so the standard fare had been limited to bland synthetic meat and hydroponically-farmed vegetables, while on the rare occasions when they'd decided to lash out on something sweet, they usually ended up with a well-preserved box of Fancy Lads Snack Cakes – saccharine but not exactly satisfying. Real home-baked confection was insanely rare, with cake and sweetrolls jealously coveted by the guests at any birthday party.

The food situation hadn't improved once Matty had left the Vault, though: if anything, it was even worse. Out there, people subsisted on scavenged junk-food, Brahmin steaks, what little crops could be grown in the notoriously unhealthy soil, and whatever meat could be salvaged from the incredibly hostile wildlife... and in the beginning, Matty hadn't had the caps to pay for proper steak and potatoes, so he was stuck scraping a living out of ruined shopping malls and roasted dog carcasses. Frankly, it was a miracle he hadn't died of scurvy.

Eventually, he'd earned enough money and goodwill in Megaton to avoid the threat of starvation – and met Dogmeat, so he generally avoided eating roast dog these days – but the mixed bag that Wasteland Cuisine represented still frustrated him.

But now he was being offered a home-cooked meal, a slice of real pie – not vacuum-sealed, not canned, not pickled, not salted, not chemically-preserved, but hot out of the oven. And though he told himself that none of this was real, that he'd find the pie about nourishing as a daydream, he couldn't stop thinking about it… and now that he was inside the house, away from the smell of freshly-mowed grass and flowering gardens, the smell of cooking was almost intoxicating.

"Pie?" he asked, stupefied.

"Yes, dear, pie. Believe me, it's the best you've ever tasted – won me the Tranquillity Lane's Finest Meat Pie award three years running!"

Somewhere in the back of his head, Matty's rational mind was insisting that he focus on the mission at hand: he had to save dad, he had to find a way out of this nightmare, and he had to find someone who'd be capable of dismantling Braun's little fiefdom, maybe even freeing the other residents if that were possible. And yes, it would mean killing Mabel, but it wasn't as if her death or her memory of it would be permanent, and besides, the alternative would mean being trapped here forever. Plus, the quality of Mabel Henderson's pie was immaterial, in no small part due to the fact that neither the pie nor the award it had won existed in any way, shape or form. It was just another one of Braun's inventions for this scenario, another means of keeping the people seamlessly woven into the illusion.

Matty heard every single word of this, but his stomach had hit an override switch. His feet were already carrying his protesting brain over to the kitchen table, and for the next twenty minutes, all thoughts of assassination left his brain as he focussed entirely on eating.

He ate slowly, carefully, savouring every bite of the velvety crust and the rich, tender meat within. The taste was almost beyond description; the pastry was warm and firm to the touch, not flakey like the ancient fruit pies that occasionally circulated among scavengers; the meat filling wasn't Brahmin and didn't sport the odd tough bits that hadn't been properly tenderized, instead practically melting in his mouth. Matty ate every single bite of his slice and asked for seconds – which Mabel provided.

For a while afterwards, they talked. He didn't know why; after all, Mabel was just as brainwashed as the other residents and Braun was probably getting impatient to see her dead, but he Matty talked nonetheless. Though he'd long since given up on ever getting anyone on Tranquillity Lane to believe him, he found himself casually revealing everything to Mabel, including why he'd sought out Vault 112; in fact, he told her almost everything of his adventure so far, going so far as to tell her about his life in Vault 101. As expected, she treated it as nothing more than the product of a child's over-active imagination, but she at least gave him her full attention, oohing and aahing at every grisly detail and marvelling at his creativity.

Mabel herself talked about her usual routine, detailing her day-to-day affairs with the enthusiasm of someone who'd never had to stab a bandit to death over a can of peas. Matty should have been bored senseless, but to his surprise, found himself listening raptly to every banal detail; for once, it was nice to hear about a life that wasn't gripped by constant hardship or built on the suffering of others.

But every now and again, Mabel would stop in mid-sentence, usually right before mentioning someone close to her – a husband, a child, a friend – and find herself unable to finish the topic, as if losing her train of thought. Either Mabel had somehow managed to recover a memory of her own, or Braun had deliberately returned it to her just so he could screw with her. Either way, Mabel always ended such moments by absently dabbing her eyes with her apron, but when asked, didn't appear to notice that she'd been crying.

Eventually, Matty retired to the living room couch, supposedly to wait for dad to arrive; in reality, he needed time to consider his next move… and enjoy the chocolate-chip cookies that Mabel had served up for dessert.

Sitting there in the climate-controlled living room, on a couch that wasn't moth-eaten or half-collapsed, surrounded by intact windows and wolfing down freshly-baked cookies, he couldn't help but feel a tiny stab of envy – maybe even resentment. He couldn't tell who or what had sparked this sense of jealousy: maybe it had been Mabel for living in such finery while thousands languished in squalor – though that was hardly her fault, considering what she'd been condemned to; maybe it had been Braun, who'd created this beautiful nightmare of a prison and masterminded the Vaults to begin with; in truth, maybe his loathing was aimed at the long-dead people of the Old World, those who'd possessed all this luxury and thrown it all away on a pointless war that had ended in defeat for both sides.

And for the briefest of moments, Matty wanted to stay.

Yes, the place was essentially a prison; yes, colour was unknown here, the roads didn't go anywhere and that infuriating theme music was still trundling on despite Matty's best efforts to tune it out; and yes, Braun amused himself by torturing the residents and had done so for centuries... but all the same, the luxury of the place was almost too tempting to resist.

After all, it wasn't as if he'd managed to find much in the way of creature comforts back in the real world. His home in Megaton was a dilapidated shack made from corrugated iron sheets and old machinery, complete with so many holes in the walls that when the gales swept in from the east, the place sounded like an entire woodwind section. Matty had done his best to make it a bit more comfortable when he wasn't out looking for Dad, of course: he'd plugged some of the holes, padded the sharp edges to spare himself tetanus, even bought some decent rugs and furniture from Moira. With a radio, a few precious pre-War books and comics on the shelves, a bit of halfway-decent Wasteland Cuisine from time to time and the occasional game of baseball with the neighbours, it was actually quite nice… but it still wasn't a patch on the simple luxury of a pristine middle-class suburban home.

This place had a working toilet, for god's sake – a working flush toilet with soft toilet paper. There were people in the Capital Wasteland who'd happily commit mass murder just to get their hands on such a rarity.

In spite of all Matty's reservations, a very ugly part of his mind wondered if he could talk Braun into letting dad go free by offering to take his place; maybe, if he played nice and cooperated with every single one of Braun's mad whims, he could be allowed to retain his memories and enjoy the virtual life. Surely that wouldn't be outside the realms of possibility? Maybe if nobody remembered suffering, it wouldn't be so hard on his conscience: he could make children cry, break up a happy marriage here and there, even kill a few people; if it meant being here, always being safe, always being comfortable, he could do it smiling – and if the suffering was brief and easily forgotten, he could do it with a clear heart.

But then he remembered George Neusbaum's sudden agitation when asked about Betty, of the way Timmy had cowered in terror at his approach, the subconscious tears that Mabel had shed; most of all, he remembered what he'd seen of their vital signs back in reality.

All of them had been stressed on some level, even terrified, though most of them looked outwardly happy: on some level, they knew that something was wrong, either that they were being tortured or that they were living a lie. They might not consciously remember suffering, but their bodies knew it without a shadow of a doubt. Besides, even if Matty was a merciful killer, Braun almost certainly wasn't… and if he had his way, he'd continue the torture until the very last machine in the Vault ceased to function and Tranquillity Lane vanished in a haze of systems errors. As long as the simulation endured, the torture would continue unto infinity.

In the end, Matty couldn't do it.

He couldn't knowingly condemn these people to an eternity of suffering at the hands of Braun, not even for the promise of seeing Dad again. When he'd made the decision to spare Harold, he'd at least trusted that the growth of the Oasis would improve the lives of millions of people who might otherwise never understand the benefits the forest could offer; Harold had at least taken some comfort in the fact that he was important to the Treeminders, and that he could at least help others. Here, there was no upside to what Braun had done to these people; Braun had reduced them to the level of his toys and made them every bit as oblivious, save for that tiny spark of horrified awareness.

Matty couldn't kill Mabel… and in that moment, he knew he couldn't offer another moment of support for Braun's mad games, nor could he allow him to continue torturing these people. One way or another, the madness had to stop.

There was now only one acceptable means of escaping Tranquillity Lane, and that was through sabotage: he had to find some means of disrupting Braun's control over the simulation, maybe even killing the old bastard. Granted, Matty didn't know how he could accomplish this or even if it was possible: all he knew was that he had to try.

Rising from the couch, he crept through the house and out the back door while Mabel's back was turned, not stopping until he was safely hidden behind a tree in the garden. As far as he could tell, Braun hadn't noticed him leaving just yet; from what he could see from here, Vault 112's Overseer was merrily swinging back and forth on the swings, idly kicking Doc in the side every time her feet got within reach. Hopefully, that meant that Matty at least had some time to act before the old sadist started to wonder why the promised murder hadn't arrived yet.

But if he was to find some way of sabotaging the game, where was he supposed to begin? And how could-

"Psst! Hey, you!"

Freezing in terror, Matty turned around, half expecting to find himself face to face with Betty's smirking mask. To his surprise and relief, the speaker was an old woman perched right on the edge of Mabel's property and – thank Christ – just out of Braun's eyeline. Whoever she was, Matty hadn't seen her around the neighbourhood before, for he would certainly have remembered a woman as old and infirm as this: bent, haggard and barely supported by two walking sticks, her dark-skinned face was a solid mass of wrinkles, and her joints were so swollen by arthritis it was a wonder that she could still walk. The haggard, wide-eyed look of fear only made her look even older, though in truth, he couldn't tell exactly how old she was; a rough estimate had her somewhere in the ballpark of ninety years of age, if not older.

For a moment, he briefly wondered if this was a new character that Braun had conjured up to manipulate him; then he remembered that there were meant to be nine people in the game, not counting Braun, dad and himself, but he'd only seen eight other residents around. Perhaps this was the missing ninth member of the community?

But before he could consider what to do or say next, the old woman hissed, "Over here, quickly! Follow me before he sees you – w-w-we need to talk!"

And without another word, she turned and hobbled away, limping as quickly and stealthily as her old bones could manage.

With no other ideas on what to do next, Matty hurried after, hoping against hope that she knew more than he did…

A/N: Up next... guess.