"I trust you to complete the mission, Monty."

That's what Moldaver had said after getting him zipped up in that ridiculous Vault suit. She'd given him a smile, but the firmness in her hands could not be disregarded. He was essential to the cause. It was his work that would help them take Hank MacLean and get the cold fusion.

Those Vault brats would finally get what they deserve.

Vault 33 was pristine. No dust, no dried blood, no smell of chemicals and rot. Everyone smiling and drinking like nothing outside their little tin can mattered. They were fatter than Monty, healthier. Every time one of your friends asked why he was so slender he'd just laugh it off.

I'm just not a big eater, no worries.

They'd laugh back, oblivious to the fact that Monty had never eaten three times a day every day like they did. He'd never drank so much clean water before, the pure liquid almost making his stomach hurt. The blue-and-yellow Vault suit he wore was almost itchy.

You were the only one not in a Vault suit, wearing a plain wedding dress instead. This was probably the only time you'd ever been allowed to wear something other than the jumpsuit.

His head hurt from listening to the incessant chatter and music. He snuck up behind you and leaned into the conversation.

"Well, wife," he said smoothly, almost smiling. You friends all stopped talking, choosing instead to whisper enviously about how you got the "hot" breeder. "Take me to my new home?"