'The Vault's hell but one's existence in it is the fucking eternal damnation. When you turn ten years old you get a computer strapped to your wrist. Talk about insane; you can't even remove it without risk of blowin' your goddamn arm off. Other than being annoying, it's got a bunch of useless fuckin' features: Your physical fitness monitor for life in promised safety and security, an inventory list for all the shit rationed out to you, a map so you don't get lost in an underground box and a to-do list. Oh, and a clock and some memory drive, which are probably the only things worth a damn. There's a radio too, but if you didn't want to slit your own throat when you were down there, you didn't fuckin' use it. After six or so years of it all being a pointless waste, you get a job. After that, fuck it, you're supposed to die.'

04

"That was quite a scare last night but, as far as I can tell, you're a perfectly healthy teenage boy. So yes, you have to take the G.O.A.T."
James was expecting some refusal or rebuttal; something typical of a teenager being told to do a task they had clearly expressed no interest in doing. But there was nothing of the sort. The boy merely nodded, fidgeting in the seat within his father's office, dull green eyes wandering around the room. Seeing nothing further to be gained in keeping him, the nod was returned. The boy jumped up at the chance to leave. James couldn't help but sigh as he watched him go.
"Good luck, son."

Jonas had been waiting outside the door. The man smiled, catching the boy's arm as he tried to hurry by.
"Stopped by the clinic before class, huh sport? Today's the big G.O.A.T. day, isn't it?"
The young man made no move to wrestle away. He seemed riled yet clearly defeated, avoiding eye-contact at every turn. Both the male's expressions went flat.
"Listen. I didn't tell your dad, if that's what you're wondering."
"Thank you," the boy whispered, finally trying to tug away. The older man did not let go off his arm, grip tightening instead.
His voice was hardened and low, "You're lucky that I could treat that addiction, sport. Damn lucky. So, now you promise me that I won't have to do that ever again. For your father's sake?"
"I- I promise."
The man smiled again and released his arm. Giving him a firm pat on the shoulder, he chuckled warmly as if the boy had told him a joke.
"Well, that's good to hear. I wish you luck then!"

Fox struggled to restrain the urge to bolt toward the exit as quick as possible. No matter how fast his feet were going, his mind was traveling infinitely faster. Heading out into the hallway, he found an empty spot on the wall to duck against and try to calm the swarm in his head.

Jonas had known from the very beginning. To counteract James' pacifistic attitude toward parenting, the young assistant made it his duty to keep a careful eye on the boy when his father couldn't. Fox tried not to draw attention to himself, more attention than usual anyway. Thinking someone could control an addiction was the underestimation of the year, one that eventually called for desperate measures.

Jonas was the only person he could honestly turn to. The man knew someone had taken Med-X from the supply room, recognized the boy's symptoms, and made the obvious connection. Jonas was a professional, he knew what to do. He could help, he had to. What Fox couldn't figure out was why Jonas didn't tell James. Why didn't he mention that he'd spent the rest of the night and all the early morning hours relieving Fox of his withdrawals? The thought was maddening; no amount of doctor-patient confidentiality should have kept that information from slipping.

He'd seen the report though, the false excuse Jonas had punched in as warrant for the equipment and supplies he'd used. But Fox wanted to know why! Perhaps it was because his father wouldn't have taken such news about his only son well. Perhaps it was just because the consequences from the Overseer would've been too severe. Or perhaps it was because the young medical assistant was sympathetic, with secrets of his own to hide.

A million ideas swamped his brain; so many whispering and screaming tendrils that concentration was impossible. He attempted to get rid of them all, imagine each being ripped from his mind and disintegrating into the air around him. A burning in his chest seemed to materialize with every voice that left him until he realized it wasn't from his mental exercise. He had just forgotten to breathe.

The gasp of air settled everything around him, bringing with it a sense of relief as the fuzzy contours of the walls grew back into focus. Fox could think clearly again, hear agitated voices and catcalls that definitely were not coming from his own head. He straightened himself up, running a cold hand through the hair on the unshaven half of his head. The laughter was echoing from farther down the hall. Only a couple of strides and he could see what was going on.

The slight nasally, whiny quality to the voice made it instantly recognizable.
"Get out of my way, you stupid Tunnel Snakes!"
Amata must've been cornered by the gang on her way to class. Butch got comfortable against the wall next to her.
"I can show you a real tunnel snake, girl."
Paul and Wally backed up their leader with sinister chuckles. Amata's knees buckled inward when a wily smirk crept up onto Butch's face. She crossed her arms over her chest and pulled nervously at the fabric of her jumpsuit. In her body language, it was obvious she was scared, but her face showed the opposite, brow tightened and lips pursed in a sign of sheer annoyance. They just liked messing with the Overseer's little girl. Fox could never imagine them trying anything as serious as what they were implying.

Fox was finally noticed by the group after another round of laughter. The leader of the leather-clad punks eyed him over.
"Looks like you're having fun, Butch."
Amata shot him a quick, agitated glance.
"Oh, not as much as we're gonna have later. Isn't that right, A-ma-ta?"
Paul and Wally chuckled, and to the horror of the girl, gave each other high-fives. Their leader only winked and made a crude pelvic gesture at her. As much as Fox didn't want to get involved, he couldn't miss the chance.
"Y'know Butch, you're lookin' a bit off. Why don't you come by my room later and I'll show you how it's really done?"
Miss Almodovar's giggle probably meant she thought he was on her side, but it didn't matter to him anymore. It was great to see the gang and its leader so flustered again. Just like old times.
"You little-"
"What's he mean, boss?"
"Shut up you two! Just fuck off, pipsqueak."
Fox smiled triumphantly and did a quick about-face before the older male could start a fight over what he was going to say next.
"Whatever you want, sweetheart. I'll see you tonight."

Mr. Brotch was there to greet him as he came through the entrance of the classroom. Instead of exchanging pleasantries with his teacher, Fox dashed to a desk in the front and sat down. Butch was a few seconds behind him, he could hear the squeaking of boots as the greaser and his gang rounded the corner. They came to a dead stop in front of Mr. Brotch, where the man eyed them all, pointing at the other empty desks
"Welcome to the G.O.A.T., gentlemen. We will start as soon as everyone has found a seat."
Reluctantly, they all occupied a desk. Amata was soon to follow after she came strolling through the door. A pencil eraser prodding the back of his head was sure evidence that Butch had taken the chair behind him.
"I'll get you for that, nosebleed."
He laughed, "Looking forward to it, hotshot."
Mr. Brotch glared at the young men with a 'I saw that fight you two got into last night and so help me god, if you try that shit here' look. Butch put the pencil down and Fox sat up straight but neither could hold back a smile.

The Vault teacher took a deep breath and congratulated everyone for finding the classroom but now it was time to sit down, shut up, and take the G.O.A.T.. Once the exhilarating ego boost from earlier had died down, Fox finally realized the situation he was in. It was one he had dreaded since he first began to question his existence in Vault 101.
"Fuck this," he groaned, perhaps a little too loud.
Mr. Brotch perked up, told him to keep quiet and just answer the question. He hadn't even heard what was asked. Looking through the answers though, beating someone in the head with a pipe sounded like an entertaining option. At least he'd have a bit of fun with this test before finding out what torture he was going to be subjected to.

Fox zoned in and out, marking down the more gruesome of the options. When it got to a question about positions, he scribbled out the soccer option and wrote down another: Missionary. The rest of the test was forfeit; he went ahead and circled random answers, any amusement he was getting out of it was failing fast. Fox was beginning to remember why drug addiction seemed like a feasible alternative to life here. But, no, he promised Jonas he wouldn't go through that again. Whatever the hell that was worth.

A pencil eraser prodded him again, this time in the forehead. Fox was about to punch someone in the mouth but he looked up and saw Mr. Brotch standing in front of him.
"You seemed to be quite deep in thought. I didn't know whether to be surprised or concerned, actually. Have you finished the G.O.A.T.?"
Fox handed him his paper and watched as the man quickly eyed back and forth between it and his rusty old clipboard.
"Well, I've never heard of anyone getting this before. Tattoo artist? Wonder who'll be your very first customer. I promise it won't be me."
"Wait, did you say tattoo artist?"
"Yep. And that spark in your eyes scares me a bit, kiddo. Go ask your dad about it, you've got the rest of the day off."

Fox nodded and got up, noticing that his classmates had already left. How long had he been just sitting there? He quickly made his way out of the classroom. As he made his way down the hall, a hand to his chest came out from around a corner and stopped him. Butch was leaning there, his gang nowhere in sight.
"Fuck that test, took you long enough."
He brushed the hand away, "I said my room tonight. Or couldn't you wait that long?"
"I'd break your goddamn fucking nose right now if I didn't need you as a drinkin' partner first. Let's go."
The thought of alcohol made his stomach churn, "Y'know, the last experience I had didn't go so well."
"That's because you're a pussy. Just don't be so much of one this time."
"Yeah, fuck you. Where you gonna get booze anyway? I thought your mom already used up her ration cards for the week."
"I have my methods. And you still got that flask I gave you, right?"
"Of course," he grinned, "It's in my room though. So why don't you just come by tonight?"
Butch ignored the insinuation and grabbed him by the collar, dragging him along toward the apartment. Fox tried to pry his jumpsuit from Butch's hand but he was still too weak from his prior ordeal.
So he decided to just roll with it, "Why you in such a rush to get smashed anyway?"
"Because I just found out I'm gonna be a barber for the rest of my life. If you were me, wouldn't you wanna get fucked up and beat the shit out of some snot-nosed punk who talks way too much and asks way too many fucking questions?"
"Touché."