Norm still felt like throwing up hours after it happened.

He knew those Vault 32 members were acting off at the wedding. And now he knew why. The actual inhabitants of Vault 32 were dead, and raiders had disguised themselves in their old vault suits. Their leader Moldaver had taken his father somewhere in the wasteland, one of them had nearly killed Lucy. Dozens of vault members he'd known since birth had been left in piles, insides out.

And Norm had hid.

No one was blaming him, they all just consoled him about his father and reminded him that "You never really know what to do in scary situations!" but Norm was in no mood for their toxic positivity. And now the Council was discussing rehabilitating the captured raiders and making them vault members.

"They're murderers," he protested icily.

"Now Norm," the speaker said, his voice sugary sweet, as if talking to a child, "they are merely the product of the disgusting, war-torn wastelands. Why not provide a second chance? We even picked you to work with one of them."

Norm's footsteps were heavier than normal as he approached the room you were kept in. Your stolen Vault 32 suit was ripped in some places and stained with blood. The blood of innocents that deserved a second chance far more than you did. At least in his opinion.

You were mute, that was the leading theory. No one had heard a single noise from you since this whole mess began. Disabilities were not common in the vaults, so no one was quite sure how to rehabilitate someone who couldn't speak. And being from the wasteland meant you likely couldn't read or write, either.

But they thought Norm was the guy for the job. And like all his jobs, he came in with a notable lack of enthusiasm.