Author's note: See what I mean about irregular updates? I just wrote this in a day, but don't expect a new chapter every day. Please.
Chapter II: In Communist China, G.O.A.T. Takes You!
"In school, we learn the lessons before we take the test. In life, we take the test before we learn the lesson." – Anonymous
A bright light shines in my right eye, then my left. Something is partially inserted into my ear. A cold circle touches several points on my chest, stomach, and back, then something vibrating touches my wrist.
"Do you feel this?" my father asks.
"Yeth," I say.
My father places the tuning fork in his lab coat pocket and crosses his arms. "It's not good," he says "Judging by your normal temperature, nerve reception, and breathing patterns, your lack of gas buildup, and your elevated heart rate, I'd say we have a terminal case of PGSD, that's Pre-G.O.A.T. Stress Disorder. A terrible condition if there ever was one." He smiles.
I cough repeatedly. "But Dad, my throat hurtth and I feel dithy," I reply nasally. "I'm thick dad, really."
His brows arch downward. "No you're not, really. Come now, Aurelia, I've been in medicine for thirty two years. That's twice as long as you've been alive. I know how to spot a kid playing sick to get out of taking a test."
I sigh, defeated. Well, it was worth a try.
Dad places a reassuring hand on my shoulder. "Stop worrying. It's not as bad as you're making it out to be. Everyone in the Vault has to take it when they're sixteen. I did, your brother did, and now you have to."
At least he's not yelling at me for lying; I guess he understands my anxiety. I just hate the idea of a blanket aptitude test. Voice normalized, I ask, "Why do we have to take this test anyway? Why can't we just do what interests us?"
"'Cause then nobody would go into maintenance, and we'd all die of thirst. We have to operate together if we're to survive. You know, 'We're born in the Vault, we die in the Vault. Each is tested to determine their abilities, so that they may work for the betterment of all Vault residents.' Sound familiar?"
I roll my eyes. Sometimes I wish I could just get away from this Vault, its Overseer, and 'motivational' quotes of his like that one. I know Dad would, too.
"Dad," I begin, "do you ever think about what leaving the Vault would be like?"
My father's usual lightness disappears in a fraction of a second. "No," he says placidly, "and neither should you. We..." he struggles to explain, "don't know what's out there, but it's definitely a hell of a lot worse than being in here. I need you to listen to me now. The Vault isn't perfect, by any stretch, but it is your home. All your mother and I ever wanted was for you to be safe, and there's no safer place than here."
I notice how he said safe instead of happy. But he did bring up something that, despite my nonchalance, is near and dear to me. "Dad, do you think we could talk about, you know…" I scratch my neck, "mom?"
My father's eyes turn wistful like they always do when I ask about mom. He's probably going to say the same things he always does, but they're still comforting to hear. "Your mother… what can I say? She was the most beautiful woman I have ever known. There's so much those old pictures just don't show, like the passion she held. For life, for love. For you." My father strokes my hair, moving a lock behind my ear. "She had so wanted to meet you. But after you were born, I – we – lost her. So… here we are."
Tears begin to well in my eyes, which are, according to Dad, the only thing my mother gave me. I take a deep breath.
My father sighs. "Well," he says, "you've stalled long enough. It's time for you to go to class."
He directs me to the clinic's bathroom, where I quickly change back into my jumpsuit. When I hand Dad the clinic's gown, he gives me some parting words, "Please take these achievement tests seriously, honey. The last thing I need is your mother's ghost haunting me because her only daughter became a – a garbage burner or something."
I almost run into Jonas on my way out of Dad's office. We greet each other good morning, and he proceeds to check on Stanley, the chief Vault engineer/technician/janitor. It is 9:54, six minutes to class, so I run towards the G.O.A.T., towards my future.
-break-
Of course I run into Butch De goddamn Loria; it's only natural I encounter him in a nefarious setting before every major event. One carat better: the entire trio of troublemakers, that's him plus Wally Mack plus Paul, are here, and they're harassing Amata. Again. Not only that, but they have the audacity to do it a mere twenty meters down the hall from the classroom and Mr. Brotch.
"Leave me alone you fucking Tunnel Snakes!" Amata yells.
Butch leans towards Amata, putting his hand on the wall behind her. "I could show you a real Tunnel Snake Amata," he disgustingly suggests.
"Yeah, give it to her, Butch!" Wally shouts.
"Get the hell away from me!" Amata pushes Butch away from her and tries to flee, but Paul blocks her way. She's cornered.
After wondering why Mr. Brotch hasn't done anything by now, I realize the classroom door must be closed, and thus, the room more or less soundproofed. Looks like I'll have to contend with the gang personally.
"The hell do you think you are?" I demand from afar.
They wheel around simultaneously, like ballet dancers. Now there's a thought…
Butch looks at me with a contemptuous sneer. "We're only the baddest-ass gang in Vault 101, like you don't know, smartmouth. We rule these halls, baby, and what we say goes. 'Cause we're the Tunnel Snakes, and we rule!"
The other two gormless goons trumpet their mantra, "Tunnel Snakes rule!" God, that's annoying.
I sigh. "That's not what I – never mind. The point I'm trying to make is: leave her alone. Or else."
The lot of them break out laughing. "What is she now, your girlfriend?" Butch hollers.
"And what are you gonna do if we don't leave, spaz?" Wally snickeringly inquires.
"It's not what I'll do; it's what the Overseer will do." I approach them, my heart quivering inside my chest. I better be convincing, else it's a three vs. one brawl. And I doubt I can beat just one of them. "How long do you think he'll sit back and abide you abusing his daughter before he cracks down on your little gang, huh?"
I seem to have gotten through to Wally, who's proven himself to be the smartest one of the bunch (like that's any accomplishment). He speaks up. "She's right, Butch. Let's just do this another time." He heads toward the classroom. The other two grudgingly follow, since they (even Butch) follow Wally's instinct when he does something surprising, like backing off.
"I don't know how you talked them off, Aurelia" Amata says, "but thanks. I don't know why those assholes won't leave me alone. Just because my father's the Overseer, I guess." She sighs in exasperation.
"Come, Amata," I walk her to the room. "We can talk about it over brunch, but we're already late." Three minutes late.
When we walk in, we notice there are only eight desks in the room, one per student. The Tunnel Snakes seem really pissed, and the other three kids taking the test, Susie Mack, Christine Kendall, and Freddie (especially him), appear nervous. Brotch also looks a bit perturbed.
"About time you two found the classroom. We can finally get started."
I take my seat in the second to last row on the side away from the teacher's desk. Mr. Brotch starts handing out the test. When he reaches to my seat, he slips me an extra folded piece of paper. I unfold it to find a handwritten note. It reads:
I appreciate you covering for my class yesterday, but you forgot to lock the classroom. I think Butch and his friends came in and destroyed the test materials, so I had to stay up till four to draft new ones. We don't have a slideshow now.
Guess that's why Butch's guys look mad; they thought they stole their way out of the test.
"Don't turn your tests over yet," Mr. Brotch instructs, "I've got to tell you a couple of things." He begins reading off an instruction manual. "Congratulations, young men and women of the class of 2274, for making it to this crucial turning point in all of your lives. The results of the Generalized Occupational Aptitude Test administered to you will determine your lifelong career in the service of Vault 101 and its citizens. This test consists of ten multiple choice questions describing various scenarios, and the decisions you make shall decide your future position. You shall have five minutes to complete the test. Turn your paper over. Follow in your head as I read the questions out loud, and choose the answer that most reflects the choice you would realistically make in the proposed situation."
"Question one: Your best friend invites you to a panty raid on the Chief of Security's daughter. What do you do?"
What the fuck kind of question is that? Is this some kind of joke?
I look at the answers. They are a) Respectfully decline your friend's request, b) Report your friend to the Chief of Security, c) Join the panty raid, or d) Propose an underwear raid on the Chief of Security instead.
I can hardly contain my snickers as I answered d). Is this seriously what I was so afraid of?
Over the course of eight more questions, we are asked what we'd do in the event of total air filtration failure (stay and suffocate), what we'd do if a radroach threatened to kill our worst enemy (let it), what means we would employ to obtain the last Nuka-Cola on Earth (sway the owner with promises of eternal salvation), how to handle a bloodthirsty three-headed bull (put a red tarp over a fragmentation mine), how to prevent a mechanic from committing suicide (slice of his arms with his own buzz saw), how to get back at the bully who stole our favorite comic (steal his sister's virginity), our solution to cure a giant mutated hand coming out of our stomach (a bullet to the brain), and how we'd react if our grandmother asked us to kill someone with a revolver (ask for a minigun instead).
"Question ten:" Mr. Brotch reads this one as irritably as he can, "Who is, undeniably, the most important person in Vault 101, he who shelters us from the harshness of the unknown world above and to whom we owe everything we have including our lives?"
a) The Overseer, b) The Overseer, c) The Overseer, d) The Overseer.
Gee, this is a toughie. Maybe a? No, no, b. Definitely b.
"Pencils down people!" Mr. Brotch announces. "The infamous G.O.A.T.! I'm sure most of you did just fine, and others, well, I'm sure Stanley will appreciate the help. Don't forget to hand in your tests before you leave; you do not want to know what happens to people who fail the G.O.A.T. And you have the rest of the day off, to celebrate or weep, whichever the situation warrants."
A queue quickly forms in front of Brotch's desk, so I'm the last one in line apart from Freddie, who gets extra time thanks to his VDS; that's Vault Depression Syndrome, not Venereal Diseases (If the latter were the case, Susie would get extra time, too). His condition is not why I fell out of my crush with him, though; it's because he wants to be like Butch. And that is absolutely unacceptable.
As last in line, I get to hear everyone else's results. Amata gets selected for the supervisory track (no surprise there), Paul is going into engineering, Susie is going to be the next Vault general educational instructor (God help the kids of the future), and Christine will be the newest "waste disposal specialist" (a.k.a. garbage burner).
Next up is Butch. "Yo teach! I'm done!" He hands in his paper.
Mr. Brotch takes his test and smiles. "You have no idea how long I've waited for this moment, Mr. DeLoria. Allow me to savor it awhile." He takes a deep, drawn-out breath, then reviews the paper. "Wow, Butch, I didn't think you had it in you. Hairdresser! Who woulda thunk it?"
That set Butch off. "You're so full of shit!" he asserts. "I'm a barber, dammit, not some prissy hairdresser, you bastard!" He storms out of the room, his shoulders hunched.
Wally Mack simply turns his in and walks away.
"Wait!" Mr. Brotch calls out. "Wally, don't you want to know what you got?"
"Oh, don't worry, I'll report to the Stanley tomorrow morning. It doesn't take a genius to crack that joke of a test."
Mr. Brotch grades his test. "Well I'll be damned," he mutters, "that little so-and-so. Ah, Ms. Carlisle!" he addresses. "How do you feel about it?"
I shrug. "The test was pretty stupid, honestly. Oh, and I'm sorry for not locking up the room." I hand him my paper.
"Ah, I can't stay mad at my start student, now! Let's see what you got." He nods his head as he determines the results. "Looks like you're management material, Aurelia. You'll be trained as a shift supervisor beginning next week. How does that sound?"
"That sounds okay, I guess," I reply. "I just answered randomly. Is that how you got stuck teaching?"
"Ha! That's a lot closer to reality than you might think." He lowers his voice so Freddie won't hear. "I think you've figured out by now that the whole test is a joke. We really just pick arbitrary results for these answers, with a couple of students' positions already set in stone."
"I figured as much," I say.
"Well, I'm glad you don't mind the results too terribly. You definitely feel a lot better about them than I did."
"Thanks," I smile. "See you around, Mr. Brotch." I extend my hand. He accepts it and gives me two good shakes, and I leave the Vault classroom for the last time, signaling the start of the next chapter of my life. I sincerely hope it's a good read.
-break-
The next year of my life is spent learning the schedules of every single worker in Vault 101, so I work with just about everybody in the place to figure out who should work and when and for how long. This applies especially to security, and I become in charge of setting patrols and deciding who should get overtime, vacation days and raises. For this, I get 50 Vault credits per week, which is quite a lot. I quickly figure out, however, that the pay is not nearly enough for the hell on Earth the work is; the constant management, long hours, and dullness leaves me tired most every day, giving me virtually no time or energy to spend with family and friends on weekdays. Weekends are better, since only essential personnel work, but, in the end, a mere one year of training plus two years of labor is all it takes to completely drain me. On my nineteenth birthday, I'm unable to imagine spending nearly fifty more years doing this.
On the night of Thursday, August 16, 2277, days before my first week of vacation, I wonder if my life could possibly be any worse, any more stressful.
"No," I conclude aloud. "It can't."