The first I knew was that it was bright, and it was cold. As I grew, I learned that it wasn't always all that bright, but you should still be able to see where you were. The lights never completely shut down. That was, until the brownouts. Complete, sudden, darkness. Everything stopped. The air no longer moved past, the lights flickered out. The distant hum of the reactor, the tremble in the floor from the massive turbines, it all stopped. The first event lasted all of thirteen seconds. Those were the longest thirteen seconds of most of our lives. Those thirteen seconds killed Old lady Palmer. The lights went out, and she started gasping. None of us knew what was happening. Despite being the medic's kid, I didn't know what was happening. She was alive before the darkness came, she wasn't after. Father told me it was a heart attack; that the shock from something she had lived her whole life with suddenly ceasing to exist was too much for her. In the chaos, Beatrice went hysterical about the apocalypse and was shot. I wasn't actually supposed to know this, but I saw her body when I visited my dad, it was hard to miss the hole in her head. The Overseer stepped in and restored balance, while Stanley and Andy looked for the problem. We thought it was over.

We were wrong. The next brownout was recorded by the sensors, but nobody noticed. It was longer, a whopping minute 34 seconds, during the dead of night, after my tenth birthday. I slept soundly, dreaming of being declared queen Radroach slayer. I didn't notice. Nobody noticed this one. The one after; we were all aware of.

The third event was the first real disaster. First, the lights go dark. We hear a subtle, whoosh, whoosh, like water sloshing in a bucket. Then, there's water everywhere. It's pressing against you, pushing at your feet. It racing past, getting higher and higher. You can barely stand when it starts, when it reaches your waist, it pulls you under. You're struggling under, the current dragging you along. Things are floating in the current with you, computers, pencils, cups, all sorts of debris. You can't reach the surface, can't breathe. Lungs are burning; you are frantic, pulling at the stuff, trying desperately to reach the surface. Suddenly, a hand grabs yours and pulls you out. You're gasping, but you see something strange, the lights are still out, but there's flashing coming from down the corridor. The hall leads to a door that you've never seen open. You're curious enough to creep down the hall. Through the door, you see a grim overseer with his hand on a panel. The flashing comes from a giant steel cog, that's halted part of the way into opening. It's the vault door! The water is running out, past the door. Your dad is checking your vitals, but all you can see is the overseer, looking forlornly at the stream rushing down the steps. As the flow weakens, Stanley and Andy volunteer to check and see what failed. Everyone is gathered on the upper atrium walkways, since the main levels are still partially flooded.

Hours later, Andy returns. His diagnostic scans show that a major water main had cracked and burst, slowly overflowing the lower levels. The sealed doors had held it back for quite some time, but they weren't enough. He showed footage of the dive down; the doors were embedded in the walls. Stanley had climbed into the burst pipe to see if he could reroute the flow, try to stop the flood before it cycled again from the purification system, but he was seconds too slow. He had just hit the switch, just connected the pipes when the flow started. Hundreds, thousands of gallons of water had rushed through. Andy had no choice but to enact the switch. The last image of Stanley was his hand holding onto the pipe edge, the torrent yanking him down. We never found his body. Some of the younger kids say the lower levels are haunted now, and that you can find puddles in the corridors sometimes. Amata tries to shush them whenever she hears it. It isn't the kind of thing to joke or tease about. That kind of trauma, the hopelessness of one person versus a flood, it had her on edge. Hell, we were all on edge after that. Mrs. Deloria went for drinks every day, and the bartender couldn't bear to turn her down, not even after her rations ran out.

It stayed lit for a while after that. We thought that the water pipe had been the source. We thought we were safe. Now, it feels like whoever was in control was just lulling us into false security. The fourth brownout came slower than the others. First, the drafts eased off. Next, the lights dimmed, flickered, and died, row by row. Finally, the steady hum, the vibration of the generators ground to a halt. Full, complete, blackout. We were all quiet for Mr. Brotch that class. Luckily, we were discussing flammability and flammable substances. He used more than he was supposed to, but we all appreciated the flickering candle light. His soft words kept us calm. He taught for four straight hours, until those lights flickered back on, and the air flow blew out all of those candles. Nobody went up and thanked him. We all kind of staggered out of the classroom, numbly finding our ways home or whispering with our friends. Amata gave me a look that told me she had to find her father, to ask what was going on. I knew better. My feet walked me to the reactor room, the crude sign, wrinkled and waterlogged, proudly proclaiming it the improvised range. Jonas wasn't inside, and neither was dad, which meant I wasn't allowed to be there. I ignored the rules however. Instead, when I saw one of those nasty bugs skittering around, I hit the cycler on my experiment.

Honestly, I was lucky that Jonas or Dad never looked too close at what I was doing. I was equally lucky I was based in the reactor room, where the electricity usage isn't measured. Or at least, spikes in the usage aren't noticed. Not with the amount I was using. My contraption was surprisingly simple for what it did. Using focusing arrays, a few electromagnets, and photo conductive paint, I built a home laser. It wasn't effective, wasn't practical, and by god wasn't safe. I had had trouble getting the arrays all lined up, the fields just right. Somehow, that day my mind just clicked. Suddenly, all the math made sense, all the calculations added up. I tweaked my machine, and flipped open the relay. Immediately, faster than I could see, the bug lit on fire. More than that, it incinerated. A thin beam trailed from my relays to the back of its carapace, and it melted. I was ecstatic. Then, I smelled disaster. To my shock, the floor too was on fire. The steel plates were boiling near the focus of the beam, and smoke was curling up from the intersection. I closed the switch on my device and let out a quiet 'Damn.' My machine worked. It worked a bit too well.

Then arms were around my shoulders. Jonas spun me around and started chiding me, telling me about how he and dad had been searching all over for me when I didn't run home. He noticed the disruption in the floor, but failed to connect it to my machine. He led me back to dad, who launched into another lecture. A few technicians checked out the floor, but since it wasn't near any of the conduits, they wrote it off as 'thermal bleeding from reactor malfunction.' Since the cause of that brownout was never discovered, I suppose my machine's damage was filed as the official reasoning, despite the evidence otherwise. That probably confused the hell out of whoever read the reports when they took over after the lead was made charcoal- I mean,' retired.'

The day had arrived. It was time. It was earlier than it should have been. "Due to the recent degeneration of the vault facilities, and the mysterious lack of identifiable cause as to the blackouts, the GOAT testing has been moved up a year, due to popular vote." In overseer speak, it meant that since something is destroying our vault, we are making you productive members sooner, hoping you will either stop the descent, or accelerate it to where we all die quickly in an explosion. This has been done by popular vote, mine.

"On another note, the disasters that have been occurring have also lead to the temporary phase out of most educational and civic occupations. After the crisis has been identified and fixed, you will be free to return to your chosen occupation." Also, were making you all science and maintenance people, because that's where the problem is. I don't care if you failed algebra, much less calculus Freddie, I'm putting you in charge of the reactor. Idiot.

So, by decree of the lord and master of the vault, at the ripe age of fifteen, I am subjected to the classic GOATitis, a disease caused by a crippling fear of a changing future, particularly associated with aptitude tests that determine who you are going to be and what you will do until the day you die, or starting a revolution. Somehow, my father doesn't believe my prognosis, and demands I get a second opinion, his. He finds nothing wrong with me, of course, and thus sends me on my way. Jonas comments on how much I'm like my old man, and how I have nothing to worry about with how often I'm experimenting and helping in the clinic. I thank him, but insist I am still sick with GOATitis. He chuckles at my pain, gently pushing me towards the door. I grumble at him, but smile as I leave. I do like Jonas after all. He's like an Uncle to me. A slightly crazy, and majorly obsessed with explosives one.

I climb the stairwell to the classroom slowly, making sure very step is firm. Truthfully, I'm stalling, by way of excessive safety. Perhaps I should do a gravity check, make sure that it's still working. I'm tempted, but rationalize that my dad will only make me take the stupid test broken limb or not. Instead, I hear something much more important; a muffled scuffle. Deciding that almost anything is better than the test; I walk past the door quickly, dodging Mr. Brotch's sight. Down the corridor and around the corner, I arrive at a maintenance closet. The sounds are coming from within. I test the door- locked of course. Grumbling, I pull a bobby pin out of my hair, letting the strands fall down. I blow a clump out of my eyes as I twist the pin in the slot, listening for the click. The combatants on the other side of the door don't make it easy, but eventually I hear it click and get the damn door open. I tuck my hair back up with the slightly mangled pin, turning back to face the closet.

At first glance, I feel I should pull the door back closed and relock it. Butch and Paul both have their pants undone, and are looking at me dumbly. I almost pull the door closed when I see something much more important. There's a third occupant to this closet. Well, fourth since I'm in it, but semantics. Amata lies on the ground, hands bound to a pipe emerging from the wall, jumpsuit torn and ripped. The zipper is jammed part of the way down, and torn for a few more inches. Her belt is undone, but the pants are intact for now. My body suddenly goes cold. I knew that the tunnel snakes were trouble, but I had underestimated them. Amata looks scared on the ground, eyes wide with terror. She got a few slashes in the arms of her jumpsuit, and one such slice on her face. Butch is frozen for a moment. He grips his switchblade in his hand, his other hooked into the band of his tighty-whiteys. Paul looks almost as scared as Amata, but he too is half undressed.

"Boys, if you wanted an audience to watch you screw each other so badly, all you had to do was ask. I would be glad to do research on my theory that prolonged immersal in a stagnant population leads to reductions in physical endowment." I say, opening the door back up.

Paul gives a confused "Uh?", while Butch raises his switchblade.

"Bitch, I don't know what you said, but beat it and we won't do the same to you. We're the tunnel snakes, nobody messes with us." He postures, waving his blade.

"You misunderstand," I say, "I'm telling you that you can do the deed as much as you want with each other, but leave Amata out of this."

"You- What- No! We're- I'm not-" Paul's brain finally comprehends what I've been saying, but he doesn't seem to know how to react.

"This is your last warning, you dumb slut, get out or I'll take her and Paul can have you. Ooh, I bet you scream." Butch's piggy pupils dilate in my pipboy light.

"Leave Amata alone, or else." I growl, stepping forward.

"Or else? I believe that's my line, dumbass." Butch says.

"Or else, when your mother comes in for alcohol poisoning, again, I'll replace her treatment line with vodka. Poor overdose she had. We did our best, but she didn't make it." I say sweetly. Butch visibly bristles.

"Get her!" He shouts. Paul lunges forwards. Quickly I leap back, out of his reach. He tries to tackle me again, but I slam the door on his face. Something crunches. I reopen the door to see that his nose is looked flatter, and worse, his fingers are protruding from the skin. He looks pale, and is shaking. 'Disgusting'

"You'd better run for the clinic before those get infected." I advise. He sprints past me, forgetting that he's still half dressed. He trips and slides into the open classroom doorway.

"Mr. Hannon!" Mr. Brotch shouts. I smirk at Butch.

"What now? Your game's over. You're alone, in the dark, with me. Mr. Brotch is alerted, and worse, you've gotten the son of the head of security injured. Plus, you're going to be caught trying to rape the overseer's daughter. Tell me, do you think they'll kill you outright, or castrate you first? Not that it's much to lose…" Butch doesn't reply for a moment. I can see the consequences of his actions running through his head. Suddenly, he shakes it and laughs.

"You haven't won. No, I win. They'll find me in here with her, my switch buried in you. I'll tell them that you kidnapped her, that you tried to take her for your own. I've seen how you look at her, they'll believe me. You kidnapped her, when the brave Paul hears her struggles. He picks the lock you set and rushes in, you brutally attack him. I follow, and I fight you. Sadly, in the dark I mistake your neck for your arm. They find me, Amata's rescuer. You're dead, branded a rebel and dissident. I win." He reeks of overconfidence. Minus the slight reputation disadvantage, and the obvious assumption that he would actually kill me, it's actually not that bad of a plan. Almost too good for Butch. I scoff, and start to turn away. "As if, Deloria." As I predicted, he went for stabbing me in the back. My foot snapped up, the leg flew out, and the knee flexed. His knife went flying onto the corner, his thrust countered.

"Don't be a fool, Butch. You can't win." I say, returning my foot to the ground. This time he scoffs, quickly lunging and shoving something into my stomach.

"Snakes have two fangs, dumbass." He whispers in my ear, twisting the knife. I let out a bloodcurdling scream. Butch stumbles back, hands clutched over his ears. My eyes are tearing up; my side feels like it's on fire, and it 'hurts-hurts-hurts.' I start to pull it out, but remember that the worst thing you can do is pull a puncture out of the wound. I stumble to the door, holding onto the frame. I'm sobbing, the knife in my side hurts so much, it's like nothing I had encountered. Far worse than shooting yourself with a bb in the foot. Worse even than having a laser fry across your arm, melting your jumpsuit. I'm no stranger to pain, but it hurts. Butch recovers, climbing off of Amata. One look and I can tell he's serious about his plan. He fully intends to kill me here in this closet. Momentarily, I regret not walking into class today. The GOAT can't be as bad as this.

Butch is suddenly on me, hands clawing at the knife in my side, which I'm curled protectively around. I try to bat his prying fingers away but he's too strong. He grips the knife with one hand, the other reaching for my neck. I scream again as he twists the knife. He grimaces, but carries on. His hand finds my neck and suddenly it's quiet again. I can't breathe, I can't gasp, and the knife is pushing at my organs, the point slicing across my kidney. The pain is nearly overwhelming. The lights start to dim, but I don't think this is a blackout. At least, not one that affects anyone but me. I'm yanking at his hands, pulling at my throat. It's getting darker and darker. The room starts to shrink, the walls closing in. Suddenly, there's air. I'm, on the ground gasping for breath. The knife is still in me, but feels strangely dulled. Butch is getting off of the ground, dodging Amata's flailing feet. She must have kicked his ankle out from under him. He pushes past her weak kicks and punches her face. Her head collides with the wall with a sickening crack and she slumps over. He stands, looming over me.

"See what you made me do!" He yells, "Now I have to kill you!" He lunges at me, but I squirm away, he grasps at me but I pull an Amata and kick his hands away, he grabs my ankle and he's pulling me and I'm scrabbling for a handhold, a pipe, something to grab, my fingers close on something small and cold, and as he grabs my hip I twist and push and I'm screaming and he's screaming and there's lights and it all goes quiet, it all goes dark.

I wake up later, in the infirmary. Butch is on the cot next to me, a sheet over most of his body. His switchblade protrudes from just above his collar bone. He's pale- too pale. He isn't breathing. Jonas pulls the sheet up. On the other side is Paul. He looks confused. His nose is splinted, and his fingers are back in place, wrapped in gauze and a cast. Wally sits next to Paul, head in his hands. Their tunnel snake jackets are piled in the corner, next to a few bloody rags. My dad clears his throat. I try to look, but my side won't move. Jonas pushes something, and the cot inclines. I gasp and cough as it moves my side, but I settle down as it comes to a halt. Dad is resting on his operating stool next to my cot. His mask is pulled down, the white stained with crimson flecks. His apron is also red with blood. The tray next to him is clear of everything- meaning that they're soaking in bleach. Tonight was my night to clean the tools. It was my job. Obviously, I hadn't done it. He or Jonas had. My dad let out a shuddering breath.

"You have no clue how worried I was. I heard shouts, then Mr. Brotch came over the intercom, said that I needed to come to the classroom to treat an injury. I thought it was Freddie having a panic attack, or maybe, for a moment at least, believed that you were not wrong about GOATitis and that you were dying. I get up there, and Paul is unconscious by the door, half undressed. His nose is broken and hand shattered. I start to treat him, but Wally pushes me away- tells me that I need to start with Butch. I follow the stunned people to a closet, where security stands barring the doorway. The overseer himself is hugging Amata, wrapped in a blanket. She looks half used, but I press on. Security lets me in, and I see the scene for myself. Amata's hair tie is cut, part still knotted on the pipe. Butch lays where he fell, draped on a crate or two, his own blade embedded in his chest. I feel for a pulse, but there is none. He's dead. I start to leave, but my boot is sticky. I look down to see you on the floor. Your neck is bruised, and you've got a bloody knife sticking out of your gut. You have a pulse, and I rush you back to the infirmary, yelling for Jonas to apply pressure. Security tries to stop me, but I yell, "I've got to try and save one of them!" They let me pass. Jonas and I are down here, I'm frantically scrubbing up while he holds pressure. I pull the knife out, clamp the artery, look at the damage. You're very, very lucky it didn't do more. It punctured your skin and your kidney, but nothing else. I sewed up your kidney, then your side. You're still passed out. Jonas tells me to treat Mr. Hannon, so I turn to him. Jonas must have fixed the nose already; all that's left is his hands. Somehow my gloves are changed, and I start on Paul's fingers. Mid way through, he stares at the door. I look up; security is bringing in Butch's body. A nervous and tearful Wally follows; settling on a chair on Paul's other side. I finished tucking his fingers back into place and wrapping them with gauze. I warn him not to move and set to making the plaster for his gauze. I come back, and his and Wally's jackets are in the corner. I fix his fingers again, can't follow simple commands, and then apply the molding. I finish and he falls asleep, finally succumbing to the exhaustion. Wally doesn't look like trouble, looks too shocked to do anything. I leave him be. Best he has a calm environment to adjust in. You're still out. I settle in the chair, I wait. You nearly scared me to death, sweetheart. You nearly killed off the family name." he's exhausted, wasted on coffee and adrenaline. He grips my hand, holds it tight. "Promise me, you won't do that again. Promise me, that you'll be safe from here on out." The door slides open. Mr. Overseer walks himself walks in.

"Can I have a word?" He asks, looking not at my father, but at me. My father looks belligerent for a moment, but sighs and stands.

"You have three minutes before the medication kicks in and she's down again. Don't mess anything up."

The overseer takes the stool my dad vacated. We're both silent for a moment.

"Amata told me what happened. That was very brave, and very loyal of you. However, it raised cautions. You must realize, I cannot have any… complication to the vaults population growth." He starts.

Translation: You did well saving her, but you cannot date her. You must bear children for our survival. Regardless of your personal feelings.

"That's not a problem, Mr. Overseer. Different… feelings. Friends." I manage to wheeze out.

"That's a relief." He looks more at ease. It would be awkward, having to tell your daughter's rescuer that they now need to go their separate ways. Conflict of Personal and Business life. "You'll need to talk to her about this as well. She may not know that you're only friends. She expressed… concerns to me." There's silence again. "Your GOAT results came in." He says abruptly.

"Didn't take… test?" I wheeze questioningly.

"There were enough similarities in your conflict in that closet that we were able to replicate your response. Congratulations, Vault Security Engineer. You should enjoy the job." He pats your knee and stands up. You blink, but it's hard to keep looking. You blink again, but it's slower, much slower. You open your eye one more time…