Choose vaults. Choose to survive. Choose a mutation. Choose a bandit clan. Choose a fucking big truck with spikes on the front, choose radiation sickness, spam, old video tapes and air raid sirens. Choose poor health, high cholesterol, and no teeth. Choose paying protection to the local warlord. Choose a starter weapon. Choose whoever else isn't dead yet. Choose leather trousers and matching armour. Choose unpurified water on hire purchase in a range of fucking flavours. Choose DIY and wondering who the fuck you were on Sunday mornings. Choose sitting on a tyre watching mind-numbing, spirit-crushing mutant fights, stuffing fucking fried rat into your mouth. Choose rotting away at the end of it all, pishing your last in a miserable burnt out building, nothing more than an embarrassment to the selfish, fucked up thugs you recruited to protect yourself. Choose your wasteland. Choose vaults.