The air in the lab was a thick, humid miasma, heavy with the cloying sweetness of wet soil and something vaguely reminiscent of strawberries. Simply sitting at one of the scuffed tables in that cramped, worn-out NCR laboratory was enough to make you feel as if you were chewing on that very earth—a gritty, unpleasant sensation that clung to the back of your throat.

A couple of your colleagues were hunched over soil samples, extracted from near a Vault where traces of flora had been reported. One of them was a ghoul, a woman whose years undoubtedly outnumbered not only your own but likely those of your parents, and their parents before them. You found yourself slouched in your chair, watching their meticulous work, the mountain of requisition forms on your desk entirely forgotten. The methodical and ponderous process of scientific inquiry, as it painstakingly unraveled the Mojave's concealed toxicity, was both disturbing and compelling. It was a far cry from the sterile tedium of paperwork. But then, anything was, wasn't it?