James' child was happy, healthy. He smiled and laughed and played well with the other children, outgoing and spirited. Only the normal sort of youthful curiosity about how things were put together and came apart.

There wasn't a hint of deformity about him. Walking, speaking, then reading, running, it all came along as it should have, right on schedule. In fact, he ran a little faster, jumped a little higher. Took to reading better than math, but it would come along. James knew that consistent availability of non-irradiated food in the vault was sure to aid in mental and physical development.

Tate would be safe here. He'd made the right choice, a good choice.

On his 10th birthday, Tate was a little reluctant to put on the Pip-boy. He eyed the device suspiciously, then looked over to Alphonse inquisitively.

Hopefully this wouldn't end in a tantrum. The tantrums were becoming more and more frequent. As far as James could tell, Tate wasn't displaying symptoms of vault depressive syndrome, at least not as it read in the medical textbooks. But, then again, James had not been trained in psychology or psychiatry. All he had for reference were books and notes left by the last physician. Telling from the literature, Tate's behavior could be chalked up to mere youth, for certain.

But he was a doctor. He could see quite well that the boy was gaining pounds and growing inches at an acceptable rate. Still exhibited excellent athleticism; he was a bit always a bit faster than the other boys in his age group and had excellent reflexes.

When he was with Amata, Tate looked happiest. They held hands and laughed and smiled. His eyes looked absolutely bright. When they were older, they would be a good match.

When he looked at Alphonse, Tate scowled.

Otherwise, he seemed stable. The tantrums must have been perfectly normal. James just didn't know enough. He'd look for the reference later.

Tate put on the Pip-boy and winced when it sealed. James hadn't remembered the bioseal causing any discomfort. Didn't cause any of the children discomfort. Tate was just being obstinate, nothing was wrong.

Amata asked him what he wanted for his birthday.

"A date with Butch DeLoria."

It was normal enough to not want to take the G.O.A.T. The exam was stressful for many teens and, to be perfectly honest, sixteen was a bit young to have your whole future inside the vault decided on the basis of a dozen or so questions. But Tate had to try and fit in. They both did. So, James hurried his child along to the exam and wished him luck. Whatever result he received, James would be proud of him.

Well, that wasn't entirely true, but Tate was smart. Smarter than he let on, really. He may have tussled with the other boys on occasion, maybe he snuck a few beers here and there, but that was just youthful, mildly rebellious behavior. Tate was just testing his boundaries. In time, he'd settle down into a comfortable career in medicine or maybe teaching. There were lots of jobs at which he'd excel. This would be fine.

James spent the rest of the morning looking over patient reports. Freddie Gomez was showing sure signs of VDS. The anxiousness, becoming easily exhausted, searching for meaning in life. It was all quite clearly rendered in front of him from the list of symptoms. Checked all the boxes. He'd have to talk to the boy's father and get him treatment as soon as possible.

Among the bottles of pills and already filled syringes, James located the correct prescription and printed out a label with "F. Gomez: Once a day with a meal," rendered in uniform, legible type.

Tate stormed back into the clinic, rushing to the back room, unconcerned that there was a patient recovering in one of the beds. Kicking the empty cot, he screamed behind the glass. His face turned red but his breathing eventually slowed down. Everything would be all right. He just had to let off some steam.

When he returned to the office, Tate looked much better, calmer.

"What did you get, son?"

Tate shrugged his shoulders and brushed his dark hair out of his eyes. The jumpsuit he was wearing was looking a bit small, he'd have to go up another size.

"Chaplain. I dunno what that is, though."

"Oh, that's wonderful, Tate. That means you'll get to help others when they've lost direction with their lives, you'll perform wedding services, and mitigate disputes. It's a covetable position." It may have not been a medicine or science position, but James was happy, all the same.

Tate eyed his father suspiciously. "That doesn't sound like me."

"Give it time, son. You'll see."

All the groundwork had been laid. James sent a note to Jonas to meet him after dinner to make some final preparations before tomorrow morning. Only a few loose ends left.

There was a dull ache in his chest, but Tate was a man now, he didn't need him anymore to watch over him. If anything, his continued presence was a determent to Tate's maturation. James could quite clearly see what effect never being separated, really separated, from their parents did to vault children. Yes, he was leaving to continue the work he abandoned nearly two decades ago, but, this way, he could also give Tate the best of all possible worlds. The safety of the vault and the space to become the man James knew he could be.

Tate entered the clinic just a few minutes after his scheduled appointment time. This was another loose end to deal with. As the vault physician, it was in Tate's best interest to have one last exam, especially after last week.

James had found a naked Butch DeLoria in his son's bed, much to the horror of everyone involved. Tate screamed at him to get out and Butch looked like he was about to melt into the floor from embarrassment. At the time, as a father, he had shut the door and beat a hasty retreat. Tate was 19 now and if he wanted to engage in sexual activity, that was his prerogative. The only thing was, why did it have to be the DeLoria boy?

Today he had the opportunity to hide his embarrassment about the whole episode under the doctor's coat and professional formality. What he couldn't say as Tate's father, he could say as his physician. It had to be said by someone, because, as far as James could discern, he was the only source of sexual education in the vault.

Some months ago, Tate started bleaching his hair a dirty, yellowish-blond. He still wore it a little too long over his eyes.

"Ready for your checkup, Tate?" Don't call him son. Not now.

"I guess," he shrugged. "Only been seven months though."

Still, he obediently sat on the examination table while James took his blood pressure and heart rate and drew a bit of blood. First thing he'd run the bloodwork: cholesterol, communicative diseases, sugar, anything else he had the equipment for. If there was anything amiss, he could leave the requisite prescription with Jonas.

Told Tate to stand, height and weight. Still a little shorter than than the average vault male, but that was the nature of averages. Otherwise, seemed to be in excellent health.

"Do you ever feel sad or lonely unexpectedly?"

Tate shrugged, then shook his head no.

"Do you ever have thoughts of hurting yourself."

"Nah."

"Do you ever have thoughts of hurting others?"

Shake of the head. All these questions had been part of the exam seven months ago. Tate's grip on the edge of the examination table tightened until his knuckles turned white. James sped through the questions where he was already quite certain of the answer.

"Smoking?"

"No."

"Drug use?"

Head shake.

"Have you been sexually active in he he last 12 months?"

"Is that what this is about, dad?" He turned his face away, looking off to the side, past the big glass window. Didn't seem to be anything in particular on the other side. His fingers tapped along the underside of the table.

"I'm asking you as your doctor, not as your father."

"But you know the answer."

"Tate." He was stern, maybe too paternal, but doctors were paternal too, even when they were fathers. Even when they were women, too. It was just part of the territory.

"Yeah."

"With women?"

As the patient answered, James clicked the correct boxes on the report.

"Naw, dad, you know. You've always known, just didn't want to believe it."

"No I don't. With men?"

"Yeah." Now he was watching the very uninteresting ceiling. "I guess, sort of." In his nervousness, Tate was just sort of babbling.

"We should talk about how to protect yourself."

Clinically, James explained condom usage and safe sex practices to his patient. Following the standard outline, he converted contraception methods as well. Tate looked like he wanted to be anywhere at all but there, flushing red and playing with the longish strands of hair behind his ears. When they were done, Tate turned the little foil packet around in his hands and commented that it had an expiry date 198 years prior to the current one. James sighed and told his patient that it was an unfortunate side effect of the war above, but that didn't mean they couldn't do their best to be as safe and secure below.

Tate didn't really acknowledge the statement but slipped down from the table and silently made his way out of the clinic. He didn't even wait until he was out of James' line of sight before tossing the condom in the trash.

James didn't have a chance to say goodbye. The message and prescription bottles he left with Jonas would have to do.

The next time he saw Tate was coming out of the stasis pod in vault 112. He'd never expected to see his boy again. But out Tate stumbled, breathing heavily and a thin line of blood trickling out his left nostril. He looked dirty and tired and worn down, even though the 112 vault suit he wore was cleanly pressed and still smelled starchy. A half-inch of black roots stuck out from his scalp. Inside the pod he had been wearing sunglasses.

James wanted to hold his boy and cry for being so stupid as to follow him. "I told you to stay in the vault."

"Tell that to the Overseer, he tried to off me, pop." He wiped his nose with his sleeve a couple times, but all that did was move the blood around. Reaching forward, James rubbed it away with his own fingers. Tate had recoiled at the contact, but let him finish.

"I know there's a lot going on right now. This is all very sudden…." James began, not knowing quite how to handle the unexpected reunion. Inside the simulation, Tate had carried out some questionable actions. Perhaps necessary, but questionable none the less.

Tate in a tiny body, a child's body, hacking away at the digital avatars of real people. He cut them to ribbons until his arms got tired and then cried himself to sleep in the grass. But the task wasn't done.
Woke up. Disappeared into old lady Dithers' and then returned with a new sense of purpose. After the failsafe was thrown, Tate seemed almost content. But he slashed half a dozen of the simulated soldiers as well in a wild rage that terrified James to the core. Exhaustion and stress, though, that was all it could be. A meal and some sleep would help; this world must have been terrifying for Tate.

"I just want you to know that I'm here if you want to talk. You seem troubled, like there's a cloud hanging over you."

Tate just turned his head away and gestured towards an absolutely giant ghoul standing quietly against the wall. "That's Charon."

James narrowed his eyes and offered his hand. Far be it for him to not be polite. "James."

Charon took the offered hand and shook firmly. He continued on smoking his cigarette and didn't offer up any additional conversation.

There were fading purple bruises around Tate's neck. James had failed to notice them inside the dimly lit vault. In the Wasteland sun, they were obvious.

Halfway to Rivet City, James felt compelled, as a father, to ask.

"You and Charon?"

Tate snickered in the dying light of the campfire.

"Don't worry, I was wrecked long before him."

There weren't enough rooms at the Weatherly Hotel. Tate offered to sleep down in the common room, but James thought that was ridiculous. Upon their arrival at the boat, Charon disappeared and James really wasn't responsible for the ghoul, but he was for Tate.

In the middle of the night, Tate slipped out of bed. When he returned, he smelled like grain alcohol and sex.

"Pop?"

"Yes, son?" James was bent over a box of equipment that had been stored hastily away when the purifier had been abandoned.

"Do you hate me?"

"Why would I?' James looked up from his task. Tate looked clean, but stressed out. His eyes were red-rimmed and his blond hair a mess. If James didn't know better, he could have sworn he was twelve years old again and crying over his first real fight with the DeLoria boy.

Tate pulled at the collar of his leather jacket, as if trying to bury himself in it. "I ain't smart enough for this science shit...aw hell." He started over. "I've done some really bad things since leaving the vault..."

James wanted to pull him close, hug him, and tell Tate he would always love him. "No, I've heard about the great things you've done. And you are absolutely smart enough. Just you don't have the experience. Some of the other scientists were talking. It was you that took out the slavers at Paradise Falls some weeks back, wasn't it?"

In response Tate shrugged. "You don't know how it went down." He pulled at the jacket again. "About that, Pop...did I have a sister? You know, before the vault?"

"What? No, you were our first, and only."

Instead of replying, Tate just sort of wandered off down the hall.

There was no other choice. They simply couldn't send one of the scientists. Tate wasn't in great shape, but he had managed to survive in the Wasteland despite being no more than a child. Besides, he would take Charon with him. Charon had proven exceedingly loyal and excellent in combat. James had seen him at work first hand on the trip from 112 to Rivet City. Very skilled with weapons. A good friend to have.

Besides, Tate wasn't one for being cooped up. He could tell as much now. Better for him to blow off some steam out in the wastes rather than interrupt the scientists at work on the purifier with his careless antics, buzzing around like a caffeinated bloatfly.

When James talked to his son about the mission, Tate resolutely stated he would retrieve the GECK. He would be useful. He'd make it so 'his pop' didn't hate him anymore. On reflex alone, he reminded Tate that he could never hate him.

On their way out, Tate laughed and called Charon a bigot and a zombie. The ghoul called him a commie twink.

James didn't really know what to make of that.

It was a strange, painful death.

Tate on the other side of the glass, screaming, pounding the wall, and cursing. Blood ran down his nose from both nostrils. James' whole world narrowed to his son's shuddering body, like he was absorbing the radiation too, though, that couldn't be possible.

He thought back to the vault, and Tate taking his anger out on the limited supply of medical-grade cots.

Other memories of disassembling his toys and then trying to stick the tiny parts into the mouths of other children.

Of the time he spent crying over Amata for seemingly no reason in particular.

To the way he slashed the phony soldiers while they cut through artificial bodies.

Strange questions of a sister he never had.

Tate screaming in his sleep on the second night of the trip from 112 to Rivet City. Screamed so loud that James was up in an instant. Charon was covering Tate's mouth with his arm to muffle the cries. Shrugging it off and stating quite plainly that sometimes this happened. All the ghoul could do was try and keep things quiet enough it didn't pose a danger.

A prescription bottle that he never received because he had found Jonas' dead body and ran. But that didn't matter, because now James knew that it had been the wrong diagnosis all along

James wasn't a psychiatrist, or a psychologist; that didn't matter. But he was a father. Maybe that had been his mistake.