Wendy

My hand itches.

Weird, since it's NOT FUCKING THERE.

I've started smoking more, drinking the hard stuff. I have to. I can't…deal with anything anymore without them. Better living through chemistry, and all that.

How did everything become so different? It's been a month. Maybe a little more. And I'm someone I don't recognize.

I had a barber cut my hair short, about two inches long. I saw the pain in Charon's eyes – he likes long hair – but practicality won out. It's hard taking care of hair out in the wasteland, even if you have two hands. I don't want to have him take care of it. Plus, I don't have to worry about it looking like shit when I haven't washed it for a week.

Oh, I've started swearing, too. I remind myself of Mal. I love her – her strength, her tenacity – but I don't want to BE her.

Who the fuck am I anymore?

Virgil

"Take me home." I say. Williams smiles. "Impossible, I'm afraid."

"You mean – I'm your prisoner?"

"Oh, no – nothing like that. I'm under orders. Until your father says to release you, I can do nothing."

I frown.

"I'd like to meet him." It's been more than a week. I'm dressed in one of the jumpsuits that support personnel wear in the bunker. Since I'm not a soldier, and I'm not exactly a prisoner, they had to make a compromise in the dress code. Nothing really covered a situation like this.

"I'll be sure to tell him that. He wanted you to go through all the tests beforehand."

I've been poked, prodded, and inspected, going from doctor to doctor, scientist to scientist, for over a week. I'm tired of this, and it's about time I finally saw him. The suspense is killing me. What does he look like? What's his personality? Do I take after him or my mother? Guiltily, I think of mom and dad – the ones who raised me.

She's gone, forever. And if I know dad, he's packed up Wendy and come after me. I don't know how far Raven Rock is away from the Texas Commonwealth, but it'll probably take them a lot longer on foot than it did for me in a vertibird.

Williams leads me to an expansive room, deep within the compound. A glass coffee table with a vase of fake flowers is in the center of the room. There are two pristine pre-war chairs. A middle-aged man sits in one of them. As I enter, he rises, stiffly. I can tell by his bearing that although he's not in uniform, he's a lifelong military man.

It takes my breath away. He looks exactly like me. Brown hair, brown eyes, square jaw – going a little soft in the middle but still, you can tell he'd been athletic most of his life. Gray dusts his temples, deep frown lines on his face.

"Hello, Thomas. I've missed you."

"My name is Virgil."

He starts, surprised. "But they've told you about where you came from."

"You think I'm going to just throw away everything I've known for the past eighteen years?" It's my name. Mine.

He frowns. Clearly, he wasn't expecting this. "Son, I – "

"Don't call me 'son.' You didn't raise me." You can cut the tension in here with a knife.

"I think we started off on the wrong foot. My name is Joseph. My – OUR – family has been preserved here, in this bunker, since the Great War."

Confused, I ask, "Then, why did my mom…"

"Your mother. Yes. She was unstable. She took you, and left. I've been looking for you for a long time, Virgil."

Unstable. Hmm.

"Your mother and I, we were matched."

Okay, I'm confused. "Matched?"

"Yes, genetically compatible. With a limited gene pool in an underground bunker, arranged pairings are inevitable."

I stand, still uncomprehending.

"We grew to love each other, Virgil."

"What was she like?"

His eyes soften. "Sweet. Naïve. Then again, I was naïve too." He pauses. "I can give you a picture of her, if you want."

"Yes, please."

He meets my eyes. "She loved you very much, Virgil. She thought she was doing the right thing when she left."

I smile. "I think I turned out fine."

"On that note, I have something to give to you."

I frown, as he hands me a manila folder, marked 'Lilith Kirk.'

Oh, my God.

My mother – Mal – was a monster.

These records…a list of every slave she'd ever put a collar on. Megaton. Pictures of a raider, of an Enclave officer, cut to ribbons. Dad told me about this stuff, but hearing about it and flipping through 8X10 glossies documenting Mom's past cruelties…that's another thing entirely.

The mother I knew couldn't have done this.

Or, could she?