"The great danger facing us today is not so much the atomic bomb that was created by physical science. Not so much that atomic bomb that you can put in an aeroplane and drop on the heads of hundreds and thousands of people as dangerous as that is. But the real danger confronting civilization today is that atomic bomb which lies in the hearts and souls of men, capable of exploding into the vilest of hate and into the most damaging selfishness—that's the atomic bomb that we've got to fear today. Problem is with the men. Within the heart and the souls of men. That is the real basis of our problem." Martin Luther King Jr

It had been said that those who lived through the Atomic Bomb had been the true victims, for the agony they endured was far, far worse than the relatively swift death that had come from the explosions of "Fat Man" and "Little Boy". THOSE "lucky dogs" had been almost instantly obliterated, maybe briefly aware of their fate for a nanosecond before unholy fire ripped through their skin and bones and muscle, their tendons shattering into meaty chunks as even these were dissolved by the intense, unending flame. Those that survived had been endured far worse, blood poisoning that ate them up from within as they vomited out what little remained of their cooked insides. Their hair fell out, their skin flaking off, endless bleeding that didn't seem to stop, and worse still...diarrhea.

It was agony. Absolute. Pure. Agony.

And now Nicholas Michael Grey flopped onto the ground, screaming himself beyond hoarseness. A moment ago, he had been facing down certain death. Lost in nuclear fire, aware he was going to die a horrific, terrible death, all in the name of ensuring his comrades didn't suffer. Nick knew it was going to hurt.

He hadn't cared. He hadn't cared because he was expendable. When you could die over and over, blessed and cursed with the ability to constantly come back, you could not help but somewhat take it for granted, and to exploit it however you could. It had been wonderful at first. A realization that nothing could keep him down. That nobody could beat him. That he could do what others could, save lives by sacrificing himself again and again, and because he could come back...what did he have to lose? Why should others endure the unendurable when he could do it for them, and then some!

Why should others die when you could do it for them? Again and again and again. And it could even be fun. He'd actually made a few decent bucks off Russian Roulette. It had almost become a game! And going from world to world, reality to reality, he'd felt blessed beyond belief. He could do what so many others couldn't. He felt like he was making a difference, almost every day had felt like Christmas. What kid WOULDN'T want to hang with Mario and Link? Who WOULDN'T want to ride in a spaceship through the Mass Effect universe? Who WOULDN'T be overjoyed to see their favorite Disney characters? It'd been a dream come true!

But there was another gift he had. A gift that he loved...and despised. It seemed to be a double-edged sword to remind him of the heavy crown that weighed him down. He could turn the music he heard and sung into fantastic abilities, and it had helped him save lives again and again. He had loved it so much, at first. It had been beautiful to cause fires to swell up singing a bit of Elvis. To fly through the sky with the right country tune. And to make beautiful sights with a good love song. It had been wonderful.

Until he realized he couldn't turn it off. Until he realized...he had to be very, very careful about what he listened to and sang. He didn't dare listen to any of the old Ozzy Osbourne tracks he'd used to like. He had become of what would happen if he started singing Christmas songs even when it was Christmas, not wanting to engulf everything around him in ice and snow. And if he slipped and started singing R.E.M's famous little track with Mr. Bernstein-

At one point, music had been an escape from the issues of the world around him. A way to get away from everything, to just lose himself in happiness, or the good kind of sadness that would make you cry, but be glad you were crying, for it was like saying goodbye to an old toy you used to love playing with, an old book you'd loved reading. It hurt, but...it was a good hurt that made you think of happy times and old dreams, and the smile would come to your face even as some tears sprang in your eyes. Sometimes the music could get him pumped and excited, sometimes it was simply nice white noise to play as he went through his day, acting like the truest rhythm of his heart.

Music had been at the heart of his soul. A constant reminder of something wonderful and amazing that humanity had made. A better creation than the wheel or the fire. Something Heavenly and Divine.

Now what had been his sword and shield for pangs and arrows of outrageous fortune of the world around him had turned into the sword of Damocles hanging over his head. And he grit his teeth, looking around, clutching at his sides. He didn't recognize where he was. It was some kind of gigantic, dusty desert. Normally he'd be grateful the wind was blowing, he loved the wind, the coolness of it on his face and skin. But here? It was burning against his ravaged, reddened, skinned flesh. He was sure that he was dying from radiation poisoning, the aftereffects of the bomb were kicking in, and kicking in hard.

"OH GOD-BLAAAAAAAAAAUGH!" He flopped onto his knees, letting out another agonized wail, vomiting onto the desert sand below him, panting and heaving, trying to rise back up to his feet, shaking madly, quivering and shaking as he looked nervously around. Safety. Shelter. Somewhere, anywhere, where the-

Then he saw it. A small little settlement off in the distance, what looked like an abandoned shack made of metal panels and the like. It was as if someone had tried to put together a home out of junkyard scraps, and it wasn't too far off. Even though his legs felt as though they were now just on fire, but needles of acid had been jammed into them, he willed himself to move forward, further...further. He grunted, cringing, and slammed himself into the door. "Any...anybody...home?!"

He was amazed at how hoarse and ravaged his voice was. It sounded like he'd drunken glass. His vocal chords were probably near-shredded...and he vomited on his shoes again, cringing in disgust as he managed to wipe his mouth. Silence echoed through the air and Nick finally decided to take action.

THA-THWAM. He shoved himself through the door. "Hello!? Look, I'm really sorry but I'm super sick and...and…"

He almost vomited again. A man was dead off to the side, clearly having committed suicide. Nick turned pale, his hazel green eyes wide, his normally rosy cheeks going even paler than usual. The man's head had been blown slightly open, a pistol in his palm, a journal flopped to the side of a table. Making his way over to the man, Nick knelt by the bearded figure, a look of regret creeping onto his features as he reached out and gently closed the man's eyes.

Then he reached for the diary, and looked it over, his expression becoming even sadder.

"I can't take it anymore. I've run clean out of food and the Deathclaws have their nest so close. Why the hell did they have to settle down there? They've cut off my way to town and my stupid little pistol couldn't make a damn dent in them. Only one way. Forgive me, mom."

Nick read it again and again and again, slowly closing his eyes before opening them again, and closing the diary...noticing something on the floor. A few other books with…

...a trademark he recognized. A trademark that made his body go cold as his mouth opened wide. "Oh...craaaaaaaaaap." He whispered.

Vault-Tec.

VAULT-TEC. He knew that name! He knew that company! It wasn't real, it was just a game, a well-known game but one he knew almost nothing about! But that smiling little blonde-haired little black-eyed boy on the cover of that "Vaults are Your Friends" book that laid next to a comic book of "La Fantome" was impossible to forget. He knew about that stupid little smiling mockery.

He knew where he was now.

The Fallout Universe was a world ravaged by nuclear war. People lived in vaults deep underground, he remembered that as well! But…

"Crap, crap, crap, crap!" Nick cried out, tugging at his brown hair, biting his lip, now flopping onto the bed nearby as it squeaked, the flimsy blankets crumbling underneath his frame. "I never played the games! I can't even remember any of the characters except that stupid Vault Boy! I'm dead, I'm dead, I'm dead!" He whimpered before slapping himself with his hand. He ignored the pain that shot through him and grit his teeth. "Get a grip on yourself. So you don't know anything about Fallout. You can learn. First thing's first. Medicine. Some...some painkillers, ANYTHING…" He murmured as he glanced around the room.

Ah-ha. A big, white medicine box on the table where the journal had fallen off! He pulled it open, and a big IV esque bag was there, full of some strange liquid, with a radiation symbol on the front and a label that read "RadAway". Looking over the instructions on the back, Nick's eyes widened. "Oh. A cure for radiation! Thank you Jesus!" He proclaimed in delight, ripping the top of the bag open and slurping down the contents.

About half an hour later, he was regretting this. Because he was now behind the shack he'd taken shelter in, cringing in aggravation, having spent every ten minutes since he'd drunk up the Rad-Away peeing. "They ought friggin' tell you the stupid thing's a diuretic!" He moaned as he laid against the back of the shack, thanking God that nobody could see him doing this from this angle and looking at the deflated "RadAway" bag. "Why the hell isn't there a warning label!? Don't tell me the FDA woulda just shrugged their shoulders at a big design flaw in a RADIATION CURE!"

Or maybe they would in this universe. Nick knew also that the Fallout universe had screwed up priorities. He'd heard from his friends who'd talked so much about it that the games had a history that diverged sometime after World War II and that the USA had been obsessed and afraid with not Russia, but China. A fear of the "yellow menace". As huge a history buff as he was, he had been loathe to learn more.

He had a bad feeling it involved finding out the number one song in the country was probably still "We're Gonna Have to Slap the Dirty Little Jap"!

Then he heard a horrible, heart-wrenching scream. He gasped, and quickly shoved his pants back on as swiftly as he could, and raced to the hill that overlooked the only real way out, for the only other pathways in any direction were blocked by rocky mountains of impassable ledges...and the endless expanse of desert he'd come from. He scrambled high up, up to the top of the hill, keeping himself flat to the dusty ground, cringing a bit from the taste of sand and mud and dirt that wafted into his mouth.

There was a glasses-wearing, well-cut, nice enough little African American young man who appeared to be college age, Nick guessed. One of the lenses in his glasses was cracked horribly...as had one of his arms. He was struggling to get to his feet, the ruined arm dangling uselessly in a bloody mess as it dripped-dripped-dripped onto the sandy ground below. A foul wind blew through the air, and Nick could smell the foul salty-iron scent of the poor black young lad's wound. He was wearing faintly faded pants, with a tattered, ripped-open white shirt that had some claw marks stretched across it, though the wounds on that weren't nearly as bad as his ravaged arm, and his backpack had flopped to the ground, bulging and too far away for him to make use of.

There were horned demons inching ever closer, clearly eager for a kill.

Nick could think of no better way to describe them. They were hunchbacked, faintly reptilian THINGS with huge, curving horns, long, humanoid arms and had foot-long razor sharp claws on each digit of their hands. They had equally sharp talons on their paw-like feet, with slightly curved-back legs. Nick faintly thought the legs were almost kangaroo-like, designed to make these...demons...leap tall distances in a single bound! They had piggy eyes and snouts, and spines running down their rather unnaturally long neck, and they looked hungry...and smelled fouller than they looked. Indeed, their smell reminded Nick of dead snakes that had been run over, their head crushed, guts and blood spilling out onto the road, left to bake in the heat of a hot summer day, pervading your nostrils.

The young man was going to die unless he did something, and fast. And he did the only thing he could think of. He stood up, and pointed upward dramatically, and sang, as loudly and proudly as he could…

"And your kisses lift me higher! Like the sweet song of a choir! And you light my morning sky! With burning love!"

The demonic things all stopped at once, and stared. Stared at Nick, slightly gaping, looking positively astounded and confused, as if they had never, ever heard anything make that kind of noise, say those words. The African American young man looked astounded too.

Neither party, however...looked as shocked as Nick did right now. Because nothing had happened.

Nothing.

No burst of flame. No surging fire to shoot forth at these demonic monsters. Not so much as a spark.

His powers had failed him, and he did the only thing he could now think of.

"RUN AWAY!" He cried out, barreling down the hill, actually right past the demonic things as they just stared, still shocked, and he raced off in the direction of some other hills nearby, the only other location he could see that wasn't all mountains or desert. "Run away, run away!" He yelled. "And you! Mister Black Guy! Get in the house over the hill I just came from!" He screamed back, tearing for the hills.

Not caring that he'd been called "Mr. Black Guy", the African American young man got to his feet as the monsters tore after the young man who'd just barreled past them, and he took his backpack, racing up the hill the vest-wearing young man had come from. Nick tore across the hills, but the things were gaining on him, his green shirt flopping about as he cringed and panted, feeling a stitch rise up in his chest, knowing he was dead, there was no way in HELL he could get away from these things-

Then he saw what he'd read about in that journal. The nest. There were some eggs and little, tiny miniature demons all slumbering around the eggs in a ring of stones that blocked a natural pathway. A pathway that, if you followed it...you could faintly see, about five or so miles away, Nick guessed...a faintly run down city. So these things were the "Deathclaws", huh? And this was their nest.

An awful, nasty idea popped into his head. Desperation seized him.

He did not want to die like this. But he couldn't think of anything else. He bounded forward, dived into the nest, sliding on his green shirt and blue vest and forcibly yanked the two sleeping baby Deathclaws up by their necks. He ignored their squirming, their cries, making sure he kept their arms pinned to their sides as he whipped around, and held them out for the obvious parents to see.

The Deathclaws had been only about twenty feet away. Now they stopped, and he saw their eyes bulge. He knew. He KNEW they were afraid for their young.

"Don't suppose you understand me?" He asked.

They just looked from him to their still-squealing, hissing young. Okay. They didn't understand WHAT he said. But they would understand HOW he said it, and he tightened his grip on the baby Deathclaws, their flesh feeling like a faintly bumpy lizard, almost like a chameleon.

"You keep away or I'll rip their goddamn heads off!" Nick roared out. "I'll bite their heads off! You get me?! I'll bite their heads off! Try anything and I'll bite!" With that, he snapped his teeth and the Deathclaws visibly shuddered, and moved back, their faces alight with fear.

He felt powerful. He felt like he was looking down on them from a thousand feet high and he smirked with pride as he slooowly made his way around the side, tightening his grip more, inching back...back in the direction he'd come. One of the Deathclaws tried to take a step forward…

He held his open mouth over one of the baby's heads and it halted in place, and stepped back, not wanting him to bite its child. He gestured with his head for them to head to the nest, and they shuffled over to it as he walked backwards more and more, up the hills, down the hills. The cries of the baby Deathclaws meant nothing.

Nothing.

He was soon back at the hill he'd been at earlier, when he'd first gotten their attention. They remained in the nest some distance away, eyes still wide.

Nick tightened his grip some more, looking down at the little baby Deathclaws and then their cries and hisses and screams became...something else. A yell.

A familiar, sickening, disgustingly horrific yell as he pressed a bit too hard into the area of their body where their lungs clearly were, and Nick went pale from how high-pitched and...HUMAN-like the cry was.

Nick had, at one point, loved catching frogs and toads. Adored it. He thought they were just so cute! He loved picking them up and feeling them and holding little peepers in his hands, watching their tiny little bodies softly breathing in his grip, and faintly feeling their tiny hearts pounding. They'd just been so cute and vulnerable and adorably squishy. He'd loved holding them and catching them every chance he got!

Until one summer camp experience when he'd caught one in a butterfly net as a camp counselor, as a C.I.T, and was playing with some of the kids. And the frog he'd caught…

SCREAMED.

It had been such a human sound, such a completely out-there, unusual cry that Nick had stared at it, looking as though he'd exploded the thing, not just caught it in a harmless 8 dollar butterfly net. Pure guilt had flooded through him and he'd immediately released the frog.

Now, hearing this baby deathclaw's cry, he thought back to that summer, and to the frog and he found himself dropping the baby deathclaw, reeling back, feeling sick to his stomach, all that power and smugness, the momentary rush of lording it over these things that had tried to kill him had gone. Replaced with disgust, and guilt, and revulsion. He raced down the hill, back into the shack he'd been in before, and slammed the door tightly shut behind him, sliding down the door and burying his face in his hands as he flopped onto his behind.

He felt petty and small and disgusting. He felt sick.

"Don't be an ass, you had to get out of there! That was the only way!" His mind was yelling.

"You were enjoying making them squirm. You were the bully." His heart was quietly retaliating.

"...you alright?"

Nick was snapped slightly out of his disgust over what he'd done by the realization the young man he'd saved before was staring at him. He wiped his eyes on his arm and rose up. "S-Sorry, I...I've just been through a lot. I'm completely lost. I don't even know your name though, let's start there. I'm Nick. Nick Grey, and you?" He asked, holding his hands out.

"Black Guy." said the African American young man with a bit of a mischievous grin.

"S-Sorry about that." Nick said, deeply blushing, the other man laughing uproariously.

"Couldn't resist a little dig! I'm just kiddin', I'm kiddin'. My name's Darren Robinson."

There was also something odd about Darren. His arm was now in a sling, having used the med-kit on the table like Nick had but the sling wasn't what made Nick inwardly feel a sense of unease. Darren's eyes had a strange sort of defeated and depressed look that was faintly lingering in his features.

"I'd been on my way back to town to stay in a hotel, find a good spot to keep reading all these books!" He remarked, trying to remain chipper, holding up his backpack, Nick looking amazed. There was some food in there, sure, and a few bottled sodas, but mostly...it was packed to the brim with various books, some hardcover, some paperback. And he recognized one immediately, taking it out and holding it in his hand.

"The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe." He whispered, his hazel green eyes widening as his tone got quiet. "I used to love reading this. It was my second favorite behind the Silver Chair."

"You've read the others?" Darren asked, and he now looked surprised, and a little bit envious and impressed, and the faintly defeated look seemed to be wiped away as the scales fell from his eyes, a soft, childlike wonder beginning to glimmer in his eyes. "The library I got this from only had up to the Silver Chair, unfortunately the rest got ripped apart, couldn't be put back together." He said, his deep brown eyes looking at the book Nick now held in his soft hands. "Can you tell me what happens after "Silver Chair"?"

"Can you gimme one of those cokes?" Nick asked nervously. "I am just soooooo thirsty, and my mouth tastes like mud and RadAway.I didn't know drinking the whole bag would make me pee half my body weight away!"

Darren chuckled some more. "They really oughta put a warning label on them."

"I know, you'd think it'd be a blatant violation of FDA rules!" Nick grumbled as Darren handed him a "Nuka-Cola" and he popped the top open and began to slurp it down, finding the taste sweet and succulent to his taste buds. "I mean, who was running things up in Washington?! Is it all corporatists or something who think "laissez faire" is the greatest thing since sliced bread? Or Ayn Randian assholes? I would have thought president Clinton or the like would have-"

Then he saw Darren's stunned and confused expression. "What?"

"...who's Clinton?"

"...who was president after Reagan?"

"President Cain."

"...okay, I think you and I gotta have a bit of a long talk." Nick admitted quietly. "I'm just glad to see a friendly face I can get some answers from…"

"Ditto." said Darren quietly. "Because NOBODY outside of the library I was in knows who Ayn Rand is."

Nick suddenly realized he'd said something that, perhaps, he shouldn't have. Darren must have seen it in his face for he went on, "The library, Hypatia, was sealed away before the bombs fell, JUST before they fell. The only things that would know about Ayn Rand are in there, none of her books survived after she criticized Ronald Reagan! Nobody but nobody out here in the Wasteland would know about her unless they'd been to the library before or...or were from a Vault?" He inquired, raising a thin eyebrow. "So what is it? Have you been inside Hypatia or are you from a vault? I've heard tales of people who got sealed away just before the bombs fell, waking up decades later! Where are you from?"

Nick hesitated, then decided to go for honesty. Or at least, as much as he could. "New England. Connecticut." He remarked. "We're kinda "WASPY" up there, admittedly…"

"Oh, so you could afford to go into a nice vault, huh?" Darren grumbled. Nick decided it wouldn't be a good idea to correct him. Without the ability to manifest his magical power, Darren sure as hell wouldn't believe him. "So when did you go in?"

"...2006." Nick remarked.

"Oh, your family must have worked for West Tek, then!" Darren said. "You missed a lot."

"I'd love to know what I missed, but…" Nick looked down at the book in his hands. He could hear it calling to him. He wanted to lose himself in childhood memories and old, happier times.

He wanted to go to Narnia.

"Why don't I tell you about the Horse and his Boy?" He started with a little smile.