100

The residents of vault 100 smiled gently to one another as they entered the common room. Everything was ready; desks stocked with fresh paper, the robots with laden trays of snacks and drinks; pencils sharpened. And there, on the wall, the calendar.

It was time.

One by one, they seated themselves. Not all at once; some had arrived hours ago, others at the last minute.

When the countdown began, only some of the youngest panicked; picking up the pace, their legs twitching. But the old timers smiled. They knew their history.

April would come again.

The drabbles would be written.