I AM BACK! Finally... it's been maybe two months since I'd last submitted a chapter, and I know that some people are at least a little annoyed. :)

Because it's been so long, I made this chapter twice as long as the usual ones. To make up for lost time, I guess. But, now that I've had time to think about the story, I've decided that the readers should be aware of a few things in the story:

1) There is no way that with all the advancement in robotics and mechanics that the people of Fallout Pre-War Earth couldn't make better computers than their dinky terminals. They had AI robots and convincing androids by this time, but couldn't get beyond the black screen box? I'm not gonna change it drastically, but the computers will be a little bit more advanced - Say, late 80s computers instead of early 70s.

2) I will be throwing in little pieces of modern culture into the mix, such as politics and worldly concerns of our own 21st century. There will be wars, and different points of views, but I'll be sure to go beyond the usual American Democrat vs. Republican, liberal vs. conservative crap.

3) There'll be things that happened after the 1950s that actually happened in our world. For instance, I will include the first election of a colored president in the year 2008, but his name won't be Barack Obama. Or, there'll have been a tremendous British comedy group during the seventies that poked fun at religion and history, but they won't be called Monty Python. Although this may not fit with the entire Fallout timeline, I see no mention of any president's names or races on any websites, nor any popular entertainment groups, so I feel it's okay to add them.

4) Lastly, to better understand my view of the Fallout world, I'll be including little "Author's Notes" at the ends that explain some inside jokes and references to today. They should help everyone understand what's going on if you don't catch what I'm trying to get at while you're reading.

But, that's it. So, I hope you like the next chapter. It can get a little slow, but it's mostly to envelop the reader in the world before Danny takes off on some exciting journey or whatnot. Enjoy!

Disclaimer - I do not own the story of Fallout or any related indica to the game. Nor do I own any of the products, publications, or groups mentioned in this story, even in part. Should these companies sue me, they'll be getting the college savings of high school student, and they'll look incredibly bad. Thank you.

May 16, 2284 – 6:15 am

BRRRRRRRIIIIIIIINNNGGGG!!!

The alarm makes me burst from the bed and land hard on the floor. Rubbing my head, my eyes search for the source while my brain is still asleep. It didn't take long to figure out that it was my Pip-Boy, set to wake me up at least an hour before I usually do on a Saturday morning. Turning it off, I groan and pick myself off of the floor. Suddenly, the little device makes another noise.

DING!

On the screen is a little note marked "For Dan," flashing on and off until I press it. Immediately, the file opens:

This is the time I get up everyday, Dan. You got five or so more days of this, so you better get used to it. I'm doing some errands and will be selling my wares throughout the city all day. You can just sit back, relax, go sightseeing or something. It IS your first trip – enjoy it as much as the wasteland will allow it. Kooza should be back on his feet by tonight, and we'll wait for him as long as possible. At 7:00 tonight, meet at the harbor with some other traders by a boat named the "Queen Mary 5." I'll be waiting with Kooza and the stuff. Have a nice day.

Harri

"Well, that's just great," I told myself. My host is selling stuff without me (though she could probably protect herself well) and I'm stuck in a seedy motel with no money and a little gun.

A little bag I never saw before sat on the side table, and when I opened it, it was filled with caps and another note.

50 caps, just in case you need some lunch.

Harri was a pretty awesome person.

But I was still tired as hell, and fell back onto the bed, trying to go back to sleep. When my brain wouldn't shut back down, I just turned the radio back on and lay there. A recording of Matty's voice broke the silence.

"…the one place in all the wasteland, at least that I know of, that actually has trees. New Eden, off in the distance on West Suffield mountain, is the single best vacation spot in the world, as told by a multitude of tourists. The road between there and Stony Knoll isn't tough, the water is some of the purest around, and the forest is filled with all sorts of animals and plants that should be extinct right now. So please, when they tell you not to do something to the wildlife, you better shut up and listen. It's the last place anyone wants to be destroyed. This is a recording. Now, here's a little music.

"Edelweiss" started playing and I took the Pip-Boy off, setting it on the table. It felt good to let my arm breathe, since you're not actually supposed to keep it on overnight. In my backpack sat the little book that I'd been dying to delve into for some time. Now that I was actually out in the wasteland, it seemed proper to read a little about it.

The handbook was heavy, with a great big skull on the front cover. Turning it to the table of contents, I scanned each chapter for what I was looking for. There were three parts, Survive, Thrive, and Revive. Under each part was a plethora of different chapters, and under these, some subchapters. The particular subchapter I wanted was underneath the Thrive section, chapter Creatures. Flipping the pages to that area, I was immediately greeted by a grotesque sight.

A professional sketch of a deathclaw stared up at me from the paper, its milky eyes devoid of emotion and its face pulled into an evil sneer. It raised its arm next to its head, the claws dripping with red blood. Despite the realism, this artist's interpretation was nowhere close to as scary as the real thing. The entry read:

DEATHCLAW

Danger level – ***** (5)

This enormous creature is by far one of the most frightening animals to roam the face of the earth. Their amazing agility and strength working together, along with their vicious teeth and absolutely horrifying claws, make for a beast known to most people as a legend. It stands a rough ten feet tall, much taller than an average human, and can usually see you before you see it. If you do happen to notice its presence before it notices yours, your best bet is to turn around and take an alternate route to where you're going. Should you come into combat with one of these creatures, you better hope you have plenty of grenades, or at least a missile launcher. The Deathclaw can run at approximately 15 feet per second, so it can converge on its prey very quickly, ripping it to shreds with no more than two swipes of its claws, brining even the toughest heavily-armed wasteland crusaders to an untimely death.

The history of the Deathclaw is a cloudy one, as is their behavior patterns. But, thanks to one of my many aides in the Capitol Wasteland, the writer was able to easily interrogate a former Enclave officer, whose pervious employers had frequently used radio-controlled Deathclaws in military operations.

What are they?

Little-known to most wasteland inhabitants is that there are several different types of Deathclaw. The Northeastern Deathclaw and the Californian Deathclaw are much of the same, with distinct reptilian features and the infamous five-fingered claws. Of these two varieties, the male Deathclaw has a slightly longer tail and forward-facing horns, while the female has a shorter tail, backward-facing horns, and more scale protection.

A third variety, the Midwestern Deathclaw, is a more hairy type than its other brethren, perhaps to adapt to the region's reportedly colder climate. They have less conspicuous back-horns that curl around their heads, and a large "rhino horn" growing from their nasal bridge. It is speculated that this Deathclaw is actually not related to the others, but simply a greatly mutated mammalian creature from Pre-War times. This would not explain their higher intelligence, however; them having learned to cooperate with the Brotherhood of Steel on numerous occasions.

The origins of these creatures are, as written before, foggy. However, it is said that the United States Military had genetically created the first Deathclaw to be used in dangerous "search and destroy" missions, so they could lessen the loss of American casualties. Why they chose this highly risky alternative rather than using robots is a good question. According to the Enclave officer, they were called "Jackson's Chameleons," and were intertwined with the DNA of several different species.

Are they intelligent?

It is hard to determine an actual intelligence average for such a controversial creature. Enclave records show that their trained Deathclaws could understand many complex orders from their masters, and that the radio controls were simply used to keep them from becoming a hazard. As noted before, Midwestern Deathclaws have been known to cooperate and even communicate slightly with the Brotherhood, but because their relationship with the average Deathclaw is rather conjectural, their intelligence cannot be officially added to any research list.

Californian and Northeastern Deathclaws have an apparent matriarchal society, each pack being led by a pack mother, and a second-in-command alpha male. The females are already stronger and deadlier, but they are also the gatherers, much like in the situation of birds. The fathers watch the eggs and keep the nest safe while the mothers seek food out in the open, beyond their "sanctuaries." Should one enter one of these sanctuaries, it is likely that one would…

I groaned loudly, closed the book, and set it back on the table. Though I really wanted to learn more about such an intriguing creature, textbooks had always been boring for me. I got what I wanted from it. Deathclaws are military experiments gone wrong, they're feminist in nature, and if I ran into one, I should be prepared to blow it up. Basically.

The sun was just rising outside, and I knew that I wouldn't be able to sleep that much anymore. I was awake now, and would be for some time. The radio kept playing old songs and old messages, the city was just waking up, and all that amused me right then was a very large inchworm crawling on the ceiling. I hoped it was harmless; but to be on the safe side, I picked up my Pip-Boy and gun, and looped the bag of caps to my belt before heading out the door.

May 16, 2284 - 6:36 am

A surprisingly refreshing blast of morning air hit my face as the hotel's door opened into the street. On the way down the stairs, I passed by an old beggar with no lower jaw, so the fresh air welcomed me into the day quite cheerfully. I do hope you noticed the sarcasm in that.

I was also happy to see that there were quite a few people out here. A restaurant across the way had opened, selling what could pass as gourmet food, and a few workers made their way to the northern end, where the commotion of labor echoed. I heard the workings of several unique tools, as well as a strange humming noise, and my curiosity got the best of me. Only now, as I made my way down, did I realize the poverty level in the city. I noticed an entire family sleeping in what must have been a sofa before it was burned out, leaving only the metal frame and a little cloth. I tried not to pay attention, keeping my eyes off of them as if their stares would give me the plague, but their sad faces burned in the darkness of my eyelids.

Luckily, the construction site ahead distracts me, and provides my mind with something new to focus on. As I round the corner, the number of workers around me increases. All are dressed in white uniforms with big yellow hard hats, like they were real Pre-War engineers working on something big.

I guess you could count their project as "something big."

At first, it seemed as if they were converting another plane into a usable building. They were reinforcing the walls, firing pieces of metal together, and taking the plane's old chairs out. But there was one small difference: they had a working engine.

The whining sound I'd heard earlier was now very loud, almost deafening as I walked closer. Engineers stood around it to the sides, clipboards in hand, taking notes on how the engine was running. Some guys in jumpsuits stood on top of the machine, working together to flip a humongous switch when they were given the order; almost instantly, the engine began to shut down, and the engineers walked away.

I was, to put it simply, intrigued by the whole display. I'd never seen an engine so big before, much less a working one. At least I knew what it was – I'd seen plenty of photographs of airplanes in the Vault. But I'd never imagined that I'd see a huge one actually operating. Well… operating as much as this one was, at least. My eyes followed the engineers, whom were circling around the fuselage to check on something else. I walked along the flimsy fence that separated me from them, attempting to see which gigantic mechanism they were going to analyze next. But they walked out of my view when I slammed my head into a metal pole.

It wasn't hard enough to cause any permanent damage, of course. If that were the case, I probably wouldn't be telling you this story now. Nevertheless, I fell back on my ass for the second time that morning, and instinctively looked up to see what had caused me so much pain.

ACADEMY OF SPRINGFIELD

PROJECT NO. 815

UNDER CATEGORY 23:

REBUILDING AND REMODELING

OF PRE-WAR TRANSPORTATION DEVICES

APPROXIMATE DATE OF COMPLETION:

WINTER 2284

"REBUILDING OUR WORLD, NO MATTER THE COST."

That's what the sign said, at least. My head told me, "Damn! Who puts a sign in the middle of the road?!"

Standing up and brushing myself off, I read the sign again. "Rebuilding and Remodeling of Pre-War Transportation Devices." So… what? They were rebuilding the plane? Do they think that they could fly it again? I took one look at what used to be a Boeing 787-900 and stifled a laugh. That piece of crap looked like it would fall apart if any more engineers got into it.

I walked away while the scientists tested the engine a second time, the annoying whine echoing in my ears. I pulled out my Pip-Boy's earphones, stuck them in, and turned on the radio. While I could hear it, no one else would know at that moment that Matt's recorded voice was telling everyone how to reduce the static in their home radios. I had to question that recording's significance, since they probably wouldn't be able to hear his instructions if the radio was staticky anyways.

The sleepy city opened in front of me; it's sights, it's smells, even it's sounds because I turned the radio's volume down enough to hear things. My boots trod heavily in the muddy road as I questioned what I would do that day.

May 16, 2284 - 9:12 am

"Hey, everybody! Sorry for the ten-minute delay - even guys who sleep in radio stations have lives too! Anyways, away from that, and on to the schedule for today: It is now 9:14, according to my handy dandy wristwatch, and we have some exciting things this Saturday morning."

I didn't know that it was Saturday. No one probably did, for that matter.

"From now until 10 in the AM, it's gonna be a whole lot of music and daily tips from yours truly. Then, once that's over, you get to be introduced to Agawam's newest musical sensation, The Survivors. They're young, they're lyrics are deep, they're music is catchy, you're gonna love 'em. Let's leave it at that until we talk. And that lasts about an hour, followed by an update of the ongoing conflict in Long Ghetto. Let me sum it up for you: It's a load of shit. I dunno why Frank and Fran don't just come in, guns blazing, and finally take that place. I had an aunt in Crestview.

But that won't take long, and the music and tips will be continued until… Special Lunch! As always, the topics of our two-hour show are extremely current, and we'll be having a few guests from the Academy with us to talk about what be goin' on in deep, dark Springfield. 3 o'clock: We have Trade Hour, to discuss all that's going on with the wasteland's businesses and how any situations today could affect yours. And after that, there's really nothing until 7, when Rush Hannity and Harry Olbermann battle it out in the field of politics… believe me folks, you don't need to keep your radio on during that hour. Once you've heard them a hundred times, even the bloodthirsty roar of a Behemoth sounds melodic. Then, we close at 9 after the End-Day News. So, in other words, be prepared… haha."

I sat on the cold metal barstool in the corner of an unnamed pub. Apparently, there had been a sign on the roof until recently, but the owner was too lazy to make a new one. Plus, no one remembered what it was called. At least they served good and cheap toast. No jam, but the homemade butter was just fine. Of course, it only made me wistfully remember what cinnamon tasted like on toast.

That's nine caps down from my fifty, I thought. Still, forty-one is a lot of money these days. Maybe I should get a drink.

"Hey!" I called to the barman, a greasy bearded guy missing most of his fingers. "Could I get some, uh, milk to wash this down, please?" The guy nodded gruffly and walked towards the working refrigerator in the back.

He called back, "Do you care if it's irradiated or not?"

I hesitated while he came back with a pitcher. Confirmed by my silence, he proceeded to pour my glass with a "Good, got nothing but rad-milk right now anyways," and pushed it towards me. Once I flipped him a couple of caps, he walked away to another customer.

39 caps now, I told myself, downing the dairy in one real big gulp. I'd never had spicy milk before…

The sounds of the radio echoed from my arm, and I realized that the whole bar could hear it. I was surprised that no one had attempted to barter it off of me, but I activated the headphone again, pulling them from their container on the side of the Pip-Boy.

Matt was just talking about the many uses of Super Mutant skin, if you could remove it from the body. Apparently it makes good enough armor to stop a 10mm round. It also could be used as an effective rain poncho or makeshift roof. Maybe even a long-lasting chew toy for your dog. All I though of was that I had never actually seen a Super Mutant, much less how tough their skin was. I had heard everyone talking about them. 'They say a mutant got close enough to the walls to have to blow its head off,' or 'Billy managed to down an uglie last week – even kept the head as a trophy,' and 'I can't believe the muties are so close to The Factory nowadays, they can't run guns and ammo as much as they used to.'

The Super Mutants were a pivotal part of these people's lives. The creature's actions changed trade routes, moved villages, and re-wrote the maps. Killing one without help was a sign of honor and bravery, especially depending on the weapon you used. It was a monster to be feared, hunted down, and whispered in the ears of children to scare them. And I had not even seen anything more than an artist's depiction.

It was getting late in the morning, and my hunger was satisfied for now, so I picked myself up from the stool and walked out the door-less doorway. Outside, it was starting to get busier, as travelers entered through the big metal doors freely. I wondered if any of the other Vault Security kids had reached the city yet, which was probably so. They all left at six-hour intervals, and it had been more than a day.

Immediately, I began scanning the crowd for someone I knew. Any of the guys; or that girl, maybe. A single Vault jumpsuit was all that I needed to feel a little less alone. But all I saw was the same brown and grey that covered everybody. No blue, no yellow, no big "123" on anyone's backs.

I should find Harri, I told myself. But it was such a huge city, there was really nowhere to look, with any confidence. There had to have been a hundred traders coming through the door alone that morning, mixed in with the tourists, mercs, and refugees. Once again, I saw a huge caged wagon with a load of people tied to the inside. Their faces looked so sad, defeated and naked as they rolled down the street, passing free people. I saw an old man with a tattoo of an elaborate crucifix across his back, two teenagers hugging each other for warmth, and a lone mother holding a chained baby in her arms. It had to be the worst display of human cruelty I had personally seen. But like the rest of those on the other side of the cage, I turned away – and saw a jumpsuit.

The distinct bluish tint of what I thought was a Vault-Tec jumpsuit protruded from the crowd for an instant, before disappearing. It was so sudden, and kind of unexpected, that I instinctively ran after it through the throng of people. I had to dive in and out, over and under, each time spotting a little flash of blue before it vanished once again. I didn't know why, but I couldn't lose it; not even for a few seconds. Deep in the back of my mind, I needed to catch it.

Suddenly, I burst out of the crowd into an alleyway. I was so surprised to stop being resisted by everybody that I just kept going – into a trash can. The smell was absolutely awful, and I wasn't even quite sure where I was at first. Once I'd pulled myself from the garbage, and pulled more than one piece of rotten food from my hair, I tried to get my bearings.

An old vagrant laughed hysterically from his seat on the side of the alley, eventually devolving to a coughing fit before continuing to giggle. His voice was incredibly rough, like he smoked too much, and I really couldn't see his face. Thinking that now was the time to take control of everything, I spoke up to the rude tramp.

"What the hell are you laughing at, old man?" I tried to sound assertive, but puberty ruined all that with a crack of my voice. The man just kept laughing before holding up a dirty hand, pointing to me.

"You… you are not even old enough to hold a gun," he chuckled. Against my better judgment, I drew my sidearm and pointed at him.

"Wanna bet?" He looked at me through his veil of a hood, and just chuckled again.

"You be from one of 'dem Vaults, huh?"

"Who's asking?"

Laughing a fifth time (and it was the most annoying laugh on earth – I wouldn't have minded shooting him) he pulled out his other arm from inside his coat. At first, I assumed that he had a gun, so I cocked my weapon. But instead, resting over his hand, was a puppet. A little smiling, blue and yellow-clothed hand puppet. Now I realized what I had been chasing through the crowd. The vagrant spoke up.

"Do you recognize this?" he asked, in all seriousness. Now, I knew that it was obviously the "Vault Guy," Vault-Tec's ever-smiling mascot. He starred in our textbooks, on our breakfast cereals, and glowed happily on my Pip-Boy whenever I was awake. How did this hobo get a puppet that looked so brand new, it had to have been sealed inside of a Vault? What was it doing here in the first place? I didn't even know they had made Vault Guy puppets. Are there any others around? It's kinda cute. I want one…

I dropped my gun before I realized that I was drooling. I didn't see the man pick up the gun until after my mind registered that it had even left my hand, and I only realized that because he stowed the puppet away, out of my eye contact.

He was laughing again, though different this time. It was almost sinister. But my mind was still fuzzy, and all that I was thinking was what's so funny, Vault Guy? Did someone tell a joke? It seemed to take forever for my mind to clear up, and when I finally could make out my surroundings, the man was talking.

"He… he came. I told you he would, there was no hiding it. Your de… our deeds finally caught up to us. Reverend Hound sent a hit man to come and get the truth out of us; to end it all. I told you it would happen, but you wouldn't listen. Regicide isn't something that anyone can get away with for long. But he won't get anything out of me, don't you worry buddy. When I'm gone, save yourself."

His words made no sense, and they weren't directed at me, but I could grasp the basics of what he was trying to say to his puppet pal. Before I could do anything, he wrenched the Vault Guy from his arm, yelping as he did so as if it actually pained him, and threw it right at me. I told my body to dodge, but it just stayed put until the little toy smacked me in the face. It covered my eyes and mouth, and appeared to stick to me in some sort of death grip. Nothing I did succeeded in removing it from my face, which only furthered my suspicions that ghosts and monsters under your bed existed.

"Oh my God," I heard a gravelly voice say, almost in realization. They were the vagrant's last words, after he cocked the gun and fired.

Almost immediately, the puppet's pressure on me released, and it simply dropped to the ground, limp as a cloth toy should be. In front of where I was standing, the vagrant lay on the ground, blood pooling around a nearly skinless face. His teeth were rotted and his hair was all gone, but his eyes were as colorful and vibrant as if he were a child. Within seconds, even that disappeared with the remainder of his life.

Some people stopped and stared at the crime scene, but most barely glanced at us as they walked by. They were used to it; it happened all the time. The blood flooded to my shoes, so I stepped around it to the man and took back my gun, short a single bullet. Wordless and probably expressionless, I made my way back up the street, feeling the sting of a thousand imaginary eyes on me, shouting without sound "Murderer!" No one even noticed that the puppet had vanished.

May 16, 2284 – 2:56 pm

My backpack now on my shoulders, and the hotel room confirmed vacated, I decided to go and visit Kooza, just to see how he was doing. Once again, I had to walk to the center of the city, where several big planes made a circle around an even bigger plane. One of them was, of course, the hospital – that extra large jet with stacks of medical equipment outside. Even though this building was huge, it paled in comparison to the extra-extra large jet that made up the governor's home in the center. It had guards posted at every corner, and electronic turrets placed above the front door. I could only imagine the inside of the two-story airplane, belonging to one family only. It was pretty much Port Bradley's White House.

I kept my eye on the place while my feet took me up the hospital's stairs. Instantly, that sterile smell you find in every hospital bombarded my senses, making me gag slightly. I never liked hospitals, but felt that I needed to go see Kooza. I'd known him for a day, and already he made an impact on me. Plus, he probably needed someone to talk to besides a doctor.

The plane's cockpit was hollowed out to be an office, while the flight attendant's station was used as a sort of lobby. Here, a nurse sat at a tiny desk with a computer terminal on top, which could very well have fallen on the woman at any second. When I entered, she forced herself to look up from the screen, and gave me that official smile that she was trained to give to all visitors. She did it well. At the time, I probably didn't tell that she was faking it.

"Hello. Welcome to the Port Bradley Medical Clinic and Surgeon's Office. Are you here for visiting or treatment?"

"Uh, v-visiting," I stammered, taken aback by her abnormal cheeriness. I did realize that her smile faltered for a moment.

"Very well. We are currently treating nineteen long-term patients and four short-term patients. What is the name of the patient, and your affiliation to him or her?"

I didn't know Kooza's last name, if he even had one. But I had to give her the information soon, or it'd be awkward.

"Kooza, he's got the Deathclaw wound, I'm traveling with him in a caravan."

"Ah yes," the girl confirmed. "Sir Screams-A-Lot, despite loads of morphine." She struggled to get out from behind her desk, managing to fall forward and hit her head on the wall before straightening back up with a "Right this way, sir."

The passenger area of the fuselage was reserved for standing patients while the emergency room was built in the rear. Below us, in the cargo hold, was perhaps two year's-worth of medical equipment. While the nurse led me down the hallway of cots, I caught a glimpse of the other patients between their translucent foldable walls. One man's face was completely covered in a cast, with several tubes attached to an oxygen tank, and another one leading to a plastic bag of some brown pasty liquid. Another patient, a woman, was missing an arm and tried to scratch it, only to remember that it no longer existed. There was even a little boy lying on his bed moaning – perhaps due to what looked like the biggest warts on earth all over his body. In the Wasteland, things could get freaky, and it wasn't an unusual thing.

Kooza was one of the last, near to the end. His leg was in a small cast and elevated, while the rest of him looked just as he did the day I met him, asleep. Except for the suddenly grey hair, of course. The man couldn't have been more than thirty, but his hair was already turning because of a single mishap on the job. I couldn't imagine what is was like for him to see his life flash before his eyes, and to witness the monster who would kill him suddenly blow up in his face. It mustn't have been pretty.

"We surgically removed the claw from his leg last night, and patched him up pretty good. Nothing serious was destroyed, but the wound was infected pretty quickly, so it'll be a few days before he can actually run again. I wouldn't suggest anything requiring heavy breathing."

After that professional report of Kooza's condition, the nurse very unprofessionally biffed him upside the head in order to wake him up. He actually tried to flail and hit whoever woke him, but it wasn't until now that I'd noticed he was strapped down. As quickly as possible, the nurse unstrapped him and shoved a small glass of water into his hands, which he took trembling and without a word. Finally, she walked up to me and said "I'll be in the lobby if you need me, and don't give him anything irradiated," then walked off.

I wasn't sure what to say to this Kooza who was staring off into space, so I just sat in the chair next to the bed and stared at him. When, after a few minutes, he continued to be still and silent, I lost patience and spoke up.

"You should drink your water. Don't want to be dehydrated, do you?"

Without so much as a flickered eye, he brought the cup to his lips and drank the whole thing before bringing his arms back down to the exact spot they were before. He resumed his silence.

"Kooza," I began, but he suddenly cut me off.

"Don't say that, my name is Cosme Bessette, and I am not crazy."

"I didn't say you were," was my retort, but he finally looked me in the eye and frowned.

"Everyone calls me Kooza. 'Kooza, shoot that. Kooza, protect this. Kooza, are you still sane?' I am sane, and je ne suis pas kooza!"

"Koo… Cosme," I tried to say. "What are you talking about?"

"I don't want to be Kooza anymore! Je nes suis pas kooza! Vous ne voyez pas? Je ne veux pas être kooza!"

"Cosme, I can't understand you!" But Kooza didn't listen, he sat up and started to pull at the strap around his leg. He screamed, he swore, and he looked unusually angry. Glancing down the hall, I saw the nurse and a doctor rushing towards us, so I took matter into my own hands…

I smacked him across the face so hard, he was thrown back into the bed.

He looked stunned, but realization crept across his face, and when he turned to face me, the sanity was back in his eyes. He tried to speak, but nothing came out, and the nurse was there with the doctor in no time.

"What's going on?!" the doctor, a gray-haired old man, asked me urgently. I stumbled for an excusable answer, but when I looked back at Kooza, I knew that he was okay now – and didn't want help. So I lied.

"I just informed your patient of his dear father, Lieutenant Bessette's death. He was fighting in… Crestview, and was killed there. Of course, he took it kind of hard."

Almost immediately, Kooza put on a saddened face, and even managed to make a tear fall to his cheek. If I didn't know any better, he'd just been told that his father had died in Crestview. The doctor was still unsure, though.

"Nothing medically problematic?"

"Not unless you count heartbreak as a treatable medical condition."

He looked around confused, at me, at Kooza, and at the nurse, who just shrugged. Finally, he just sighed and walked off grumbling something about being too old for his job, his employee on his heel. When they were gone, I sat back in the chair and turned to Kooza.

"You're an incredible liar," he told me. "My father's been dead since I was a young boy."

I wasn't sure if being a good liar was a compliment, but I acted like it was. "I don't know how I came up with that so quick. I was really thinking on the spot."

Kooza smiled, "Do you even know where Crestview is?"

"No idea, I heard it mentioned on the radio." He laughed, quietly so that the doctor wouldn't hear us, but heartily. I laughed too.

AUTHOR'S NOTES:

- The Queen Mary 5, as I'm sure you know, is named after the famous Cunard Queen Mary cruise ships. By the time of the Great War, Cunard could possibly have made a Queen Mary 3 and 4, so why not a fifth one two-hundred years later? The Queen Mary ships are known for being some of the biggest and best for their time, and you'll see why the ship was named that way.

- Port Bradley is, of course, built on the remains of Bradley International Airport in Windsor, Connecticut. The airport itself was detonated by a single bomb, but the tarmac and nearby hotels were left relatively untouched. The nearby Connecticut River, however, has flooded and poured through the craters of the bombs over the neighborhood of Palisado, actually making the airport a brand new seaport.

- You will be introduced to The Academy later in the story, but their work in Port Bradley includes trying to fix a 787-900 (which hasn't been made yet) and attempting to fly it, much similar to Pinkerton's team's goal of getting Rivet City to float on the ocean again.

- Matt the Radioman mentions many things unique to the culture of Fallout Connecticut and Massachusetts. He tries to maintain a show that fits everyone's needs, including political debates and trade market overviews (yes, trade market overviews). Long Ghetto is what has become of the town of Longmeadow, Mass. Some of it's younger residents today actually call the town Long Ghetto, but most of those kids are in gangs, so whatever. Crestview is also an actual location, a town opposite Longmeadow, but pretty small. It makes continuous cameos throughout the story.

- Rush Hannity and Harry Olbermann are obvious hybrids of four of America's highest-acclaimed radicals on both sides of politics. Rush Limbaugh and Sean Hannity make a conservative point of view in Fallout Connecticut, carrying on capitalistic ideals from Pre-War America; while Harry Reid and Keith Olbermann turn to liberal points, introducing a socialistic side that would have been totally run out of town by the America at war with Communist China.

- Some people who are engrossed in the world of the game may remember happening upon the Puppet Man of Vault 77 - a man left alone in an entire vault with nothing but essentials and a box of puppets. He eventually goes crazy, leaves the vault with his Vault Boy puppet (whom he imagines is a psychotic killer) and manages to murder an entire slaver camp out of dementia. No one knows what happens to him, but now you do.... kinda. :P