Fallout Journal: Entry #4

3 Jan, 2152: I had decided to go south of my Vault, as most of the remains of civilized world was in that direction, according to the evidence I've gathered.

In short time, I stumbled upon an outpost of the Brotherhood of Steel in the middle of nowhere.
Now, the Brotherhood of Steel is a bunch of people who think they are better than everyone else, and call themselves paladins and do-gooders, and such. They also have amazing technology which is why anyone ever actually wants to become part of their troupe. I cannot say that my desires flow to the contrary.

I approached the guardsmen out front, and bluntly asked if I could join the BoS. I was also buntly told no. However, there was a catch. Apparently if I were to go to some landmark called "The Glow" and bring back a piece of technology from there, I'd gain instant acceptance.

Certainly this task would not be at all difficult, and would go exactly the way I want, right?


8 Jan, 2151: I had obtained direction to The Glow, and was told there were several towns in between the BoS outpost and The Glow. I figured it'd be worth seeing if there was any intelligent life left on the planet. Any oasis of humanity that might reprieve me from my terrible fate.

I first arrived at a town called Junktown. Of course it would have to be called Junktown, right?
Not Goodtown, not Educatedtown, not Candytown or Kittentown. No, not one of those. It's gotta be Junktown.

I spotted the only worthwhile place visiting, which was the market. It was much less of a market and more of a convenience store run by the mayor and chief of police of Junktown, Killian Darkwater.

Again, with no provocation, he began to lay down all the major problems he had in life at me, and wanted me to fix them. All I ask is for a few stimpacks, and I get emotional baggage. Is this really a side effect of the radiation on humans?

Turns out that in Junktown there's a bad bad man who runs a gambling parlor called Gizmo's, and it was run by Gizmo. Creative man, that one.

It seems Killian wanted me to get a verbal confession out of Gizmo about the attempts at Killian's life. Such a lively town, Junktown.

Having nothing better to do, and seeing possible reward, I accepted this request. I figure myself craftier than all others on this planet, so why not?

I made it to Gizmo's, which was but a mere 40 feet from Killian's store. You'd think that two men tryin'a off eachother would be just a tad farther apart, but I digress.

I made it inside Gizmo's palace, which is an overstatement, I found my way straight to his desk with no opposition. I guess the big bad mafia man is so cocksure about his safety he will let any man with a set of cojones walk right in. How fortunate for me.

Gizmo was an absurd piglike man. It seemed he was too large to even have the ability to remove himself from his desk.

I opened our conversation with a question: "So, about these hitmen you've been sending to kill Killian."

The conversation ended with me being contracted to kill Killian.
Of course, I wasn't going to kill him. It was all just so I could record Gizmo with this handy device that Killian taped to my stomach. I mean, I COULD kill him. It's definitely an option. I don't think I'd feel too bad about it, really.


4 Jan, 2152: Turns out I've got a heart of gold. I mean, according to my standards if you are that stupid and still alive, it's an incredible act of mercy on my part.

At any rate, I gave Killian the confession he wanted, and earned myself a nice christmas bonus, though I doubt anyone even celebrates the holiday up here. It was a suit of leather armor, that was actually in decent condition.

Turns out Killian had one more favor to ask of me though. He wanted me to kill Gizmo. Rather, he asked me to assist on the raid on Gizmo's gambling house, but I could tell I'd be the only one assaulting it.

I accepted this, because it would be a simple matter of killing a man who could not stand up to save his life, and shortly that statement would be quite literal.


5 Jan, 2152: I decided to rest last night in preparation for the murder of a man. If you'd have asked me when I was still living in the vault if I had what it took to take a life, I'd have answered no, but less than a month outside has made my moral fiber transgress into more of a murder quilt.

At any rate, I stayed at the local pub for the night. Before I hit the old dusty road for the night, there was one incident that fate had to push onto me. As I entered the bar, I saw a man harassing a waitress for sex. She declined, and he hit her. Just as I was about to issue some chivalrous justice, the bartender took out his shotgun and the thugs torso was blown into pieces, most of them hitting my front.

How... distinguished of you, world. Such high class could only be expected of a place named Junktown.