RACHEL JOURNALS FALLOUT 4

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AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Or, "Boston Quest: Making A Fox Cry".

The Fallout franchise is what sold me on the post-apocalyptic genre. I'd been on the fence about replaying Fallout 4 of my own accord, but I'd recently been tilted off that fence. I'm not the hugest roleplayer for open-world games but I do like to do some aspects of RP in those kinds of games.

So I want to conduct this experiment in my upcoming save file: journal important or notable chunks of gameplay from the perspective of my character. With my version of Nora the Sole Survivor based around Dana -- a post-apoc character of mine -- I'm hoping I can provide an interesting point of view for the base game.

If I get far enough, am hoping I can play Nuka-World as the DLC adventure interests me the most out of the other bits of DLC. That said, not going out of my way to get the other DLC. I'm playing the game straight: no console commands, no mods to tweak the vanilla game outside of bug fixes (never mind ;3). I'm also not challenging myself more than I need to: no "iron man" play, nor even Survival Mode.

Feel free to comment and ask questions if it suits your fancy. I'm tempted to give some insight to Dana's build if desired, as I like to plan characters in advance for games like these. After a certain point I'll be playing blind; the last bits I recall were *just* getting to Diamond City. Will do what I can to skip quests that feel irrelevant (looking at you, Preston Garvey).

Notes From The Editor
Mods I'm Using
Where To Go Next?

Journal Entries
- Season One -
Chapter Zero: An Apocalyptic Prologue
Chapter One: Good Morning America, And Goodbye
Chapter Two: Don't They Know, It's The End Of The World
Chapter Three: A Fateful Afternoon
Chapter Four: A Brush With Death By Dinnertime
Chapter Five: Sympathy For A Devil
Chapter Six: One Reason To Fight To-Go, Please
Chapter Seven: Super-Duper March
Chapter Eight: Mischief Day Spooks
Chapter Nine: Farmsteads and Farewells

- Season Two -
Chapter Ten: Robots and Rangers
Chapter Eleven: That Was Then, This Is Now
Chapter Twelve: Thereby, Become A Monster
Chapter Thirteen: In progress...
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Zero: An Apocalyptic Prologue

October 21st, 2077: Evening
Man, never thought I'd ever keep a journal again. Used to have a diary or two back when I was a kid, but I stopped caring by the time I hit my early teens. Then again, never thought I'd get married! Nor did I expect I'd take the advice of my dad's girlfriend and get into law school.

Life has funny ways of making you take unexpected twists and turns. Instead of munching the occasional box, a gear in the works of a RobCo think-tank, I'm instead the wife of mister Nate Howard... and the mother of our son. Shaun sure wasn't the name I picked for him, but I compromised. Besides, I got his middle name, after the grandfather he'd never know in this life. Shaun Horatio Howard. Not a bad ring to it.

I've dropped two names already, so what about my own? Dana Marie Howard, formerly D-Cooper. That's how I signed my doodles and sheet music in school, anyway. Your average all-American spoiled prodigy, one who barely made it through law school without the help of Mentats. I can still feel the chalky texture of that garbage to this day. My only drug of choice is a nice cold Nuka, and I'd rather need my caffeine fix than aggravate my ASPD.

But as I said, life changes you in ways you never thought you would. I was sweet on Nate here and there growing up. If you asked me about it ten years ago, I'd never imagine I'd end up with him. I took the loss of my father hard; I'm damn sure it triggered my antisocial issues. When Nate went off to fight in the country's oil war, I was sure I'd never see him again. So I made an oath, forced him to swear to Sekhmet with me (yes, I'm a pagan): if he survived his tour of duty, we were getting hitched. And well, he upheld this oath with flying colors.

Don't take that "oil war" bit the wrong way. That's how I saw it back then, and I still wish we'd pull our star-spangled dicks out of the war. I care about my country, and not just because I live here. I'd rat out one some of the commie art-scene twats here in Sanctuary Hills, but getting shot at by MPs would be hazardous to their health. They've already got people from the government looking over the Vault, so the punks' days might be numbered anyway. Gods, the riots of last year were a nightmare to read about.

Nate wants me to get my hair done up tonight. Going to the salon and all with a girl's night out. It'll be swell to hang out with Britt and Jude for once; just hope he and the robot can take care of my boy while I'm gone. If he can vaporize insurgents with his laser rifle in Alaska, he can surely handle a gross diaper or two.

Speaking of, I think I want that Wattz 1000 laser pistol that I got to shoot at the range. Nice civvy model, and the lockdown sequence will be important once Shaun gets older. From everything I learned with dad, I might even be able to jury-rig it to zap through things easier. Useful if the aforementioned anarchists in town decide to stir up shit. This egghead'll sure learn 'em if that happens!

I'm getting ahead of myself. Better to sort these thoughts out on paper, I guess? I need to take my meds before the girls show up. Where did I leave that Nuka?
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Heyyyy. Took like two years, but guess what I have now? Fallout 4, and a computer that can run it properly. Not sure how this will interact with my Gaming Journal '21 entries. Still! I just might resurrect this thread. ;3
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter One: Good Morning America, And Goodbye

October 23rd, 2077: Early Morning
Halloween's coming up in like a week, and I'm excited as all get out. Got my hair did well with Britt and Jude up in Concord after all. The hairdo's even got a cute little bun in the back too. Real easy to maintain, and Nate loves it. I'm not the type to get dolled up, but hey. My hair grew out long enough to do something fancy with it, so why not?

I would say that things are looking up, but that ain't true. You know it, I know it. There's a reason I didn't record a holotape last night. Y'see, as a pagan, I can't help but venerate the deceased. Thought a lot about dad yesterday, which only made things worse later. Last night, I got a bad case of PTSD. Some asshole mutt next door that the neighbor didn't keep on a leash. Must be a new mutt, because the thing took one whiff and was off, running toward and barking at me. I screamed, hit the ground, and could only block my face and jab at it before the missus got her husband to help.

Now I say whiff 'cause well, I'm a fox. Eggheads in the European Commonwealth called my kind a "Vulpine". Some real eugenics shit, and of course the good old US of A had to get on that to fight the commies. Why they decided to make a generic chimera instead of super-soldiers is beyond me, but here I am. Never got the full story, but daddy dearest probably knew more than he let on in his lifetime. I guess a lot of my kind are meant for military service.

I didn't fully explain my past. See, I was going to join up with the National Guard. Not that the feds gave me a choice. Problem is, losing my father to that accident triggered something in me. I'd already had ASPD, so I had trouble following orders with the drill sergeant. I get it's to get recruits to follow orders and handle emotional duress when shit really hits the fan. But when I was too scrawny to get through basic training, let alone too emotionally crippled? They cut me loose.

After the neighbors' goddamned dog got too damned curious, of-fucking-course Jim got pissed at me for punching his Dobie. Who wouldn't? One word slipped from his mouth, and I swear I would've clawed his throat out if Nate didn't stop me. Motherfucker called me a furry, the same words used to describe a Vulpine who'd become a whore. The same word used to describe fictional animal-people, usually for porn, and those who've fetishized me my whole life. A fucking slur.

The rest of the night was me trying to deal with my emotions. So no, I didn't plug a tape into the fuckin' recorder and...

*sighs*

...I'm sorry. Today is a new day. We were going to do costumes. I can't wait to piece together the costume for my little pumpkin. That's what I told Nate. That was... that was my surrogate father's nickname for... me. A-and of course. Halloween is also Samhain. I'm, I'm glad Nate doesn't mind me being a filthy heathen. Even if his god probably hates me for it.

Deep breaths, Dana. It's still early. Nate isn't even up yet.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Two: Don't They Know, It's The End of the World

October 23rd, 2287: Noonish
*white noise of a breeze for a few seconds*

...he's dead. Everyone I know is dead... and I saw him die.

The world is gone. Everyone got nuked. Thank the gods that door-to-door dipsh... th-that the guy from Vault-Tec stopped by again. I don't think it was 10-o'-clock before the warning was broadcast on the telly. NY and Pennsylvania got hit first. Kathy... my dad's ex, I don't know if she got fried or died another way.

Nate's dead. W-we got into the vault. I'm still wearing this jumpsuit they put on us all. Said we were gonna decontaminate, but they lied. It was too damn cold. Someone in a hazmat suit and this... that cunt in the leather opened--

*Dana begins to sob something awful*

HE FUCKING SHOT HIM! That motherfucker put Nate down because the hazmat fucker tried to take Shaun! Big fuck-off revolver and everything! I... the Mad Max prick said something and stared at me, watching my tears crystallize into my fur.

...and I was out again. Next thing I know, I fall out of whatever cryogenic ice-cube tray they shoved us all into. The people who made it to the vault? Fucking popsicles. The quacks from Vault-Tec who kept us there? Scattered skeletons, long-since eaten by roaches the size of bobcats. Records on the computer said there was a mutiny.

Good. Fuck them.

..and I'm standing here. Right outside of the old Red Rocket 'tween here and Concord. Sanctuary Hills is in ruins. Somehow Codsworth, our robot butler, survived. I'm not the only one who'd become fucked in the head after two-hundred years. He said there's survivors in Concord.

Maybe, when I replay this recording, there'll a dog panting in the background. That's... well, I don't know who. If the world's gotten turned upside-down, of course I'd have a dog helping me out. But just hearing him bark, I nearly capped him. Turns out he's a friendly thing, and not even being Vulpine made him go after me. Somehow, a dog after the end of the world is more well-behaved than whatever the fuck the neighbors had.

My holotape recorder's fried. Luckily I found the spare tapes from the old home, and they held up. I'm recording this on a wrist device one of the Vault-Tec eggheads wore. A Pip-Boy. I remember the Vault Boy survival skits from high school. That smiling cartoon jackass greeted me when I fired the thing up. So lucky me. I get to record the descent into insanity as I survive the apocalypse. Alone. With my baby boy gone. The genetics witchcraft they did to get Nate's sperm into my egg, and for me to house a human baby--

No! NO! Shut the fuck up, Dana! You don't get to explain away the loss of your son. The loss of your husband. You don't get to rationalize it all away. You don't. You... you...

*more sobbing from Dana; the dog whines on the other side*

...l-leave me alone, mutt. I don't... I don't want...

*hushed crying*

If I ever find out who took them from me... they're dead. If they're already dead, I'll burn their remains and piss on the ashes. I swear it. Sekhmet, Lugh, Ishtar, Athena, Satan, whoever fucking hears me. Whoever fucking cares! I'll fucking murder them if I have to!

*sniffle*

...e-end transmission.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Three: A Fateful Afternoon

October 24th, 2287: Midnight
What a day. What a goddamned day. No. Scratch that. Whoever or whatever heard my vow of vengeance must've obliged me. Here's hoping it wasn't Old Scratch. Where to begin? Well, I made it to Concord with the dog. A sheppie. Turns out he's good in a fight, because we ran into more leather-wearing skinheads like the guy who... who...fuck. Moving on.

Thankfully for me, there was a big-ass handgun or two in the vault. And a telescoping baton, but that'd be bringing a stick to a gunfight. A ten-mil. I hadn't handled anything that big since basic training. I'd only shot nine-mils at the range with Nate. Never figured I'd need anything that had recoil. I don't even know if any Wattz anything is left, let alone their laspistols.

What I did find was one of those punks getting zapped with a laser and burning to ashes. Some wacko dressed in colonial garb was defending the old museum in Concord from those psychopaths. Remember that? Old elementary field trip. "No taxation without representation" and stuff. No really, they still had the recordings for that cheesy display and everything. Between killers in leather and that dude, Preston, I'm glad I sided with the minuteman. Seems he was guarding some less-violent survivors against those... I guess he called them raiders. And uh.

I'm still shook up over everything. A lot of killing. I knew how to shoot a gun. I made threats about frying those college-kid commies. I still have that holotape as proof. In the heat of things, I was too busy pulling the trigger, ignoring the tinnitus and the kickback of the ten-millimeter pistol in my hands. When the gunsmoke cleared and my ears stopped ringing? I was the only one left standing. Well. Preston and his people too.

And killing actual people was too easy.

I always thought ending someone else's life would've, you know, had more weight to it. But... well, I'm still awake, aren't I? Old mattress, old bedroom, broken bedframe. The innocent people that Preston was guarding are alive thanks to me. But those guys trying to shoot them? Dead. All dead. Bodies to rot in the Museum of Freedom, where I'd once had a field trip as a kid. Some are torn up by minigun fire outside.

Okay. I'll let myself explain this away. Old vertibird had crashed into the building. Rusted-up power armor suit up-top. Tore the minigun off. Huge-ass monster came out of the sewers. If not for those Stimpaks I'd found, I'd be a goner. In the heat of things, going into shock from bullets fired from the raiders' zip guns, I didn't mind the sting of jabbing the needle into my side and shooting up. I've never been really scared of needles. A lot of misplaced vaccine pokes as a kid, 'cause the docs had to move fur aside.

And I'm avoiding the subject. Because it didn't register when I pounded my finger against the trigger, and punched rounds big enough for a SMG into those post-nuclear bandits. But I saw their bodies convulse and bleed. I heard their death throes, their screams and groans, as I fought for my life. Their last words didn't reach my mind until after, and I barely heard them over the gunfire.

*Dana is silent for a few seconds*

I hope to the gods there's a psych in this Diamond City place. This won't be the last time I have to kill someone. Or something. I can't tell if I'm sick from the Stims or my nerves. They sure gave me the runs, but that could be my nerves anyway. Maybe both. Probably both. But I'm alive. And they're alive. I should've died back there. I should've died in that space-age meat freezer. The radroaches as they call 'em should've killed me and eaten me.

But I'm alive.

I lived through all of that. I lived to march that wearable tank back to Sanctuary Hills. I lived to help the refugees find beds. I lived to retch at the metally taste of well-water from a spigot someone cobbled together between now and 2077. And I lived to cram some centuries-old Cram down my gullet, and managed to keep it down.

The gods willed it. There's no other way. I've never been big on fate. I've never been big on divine intervention. I've never cared about the afterlife -- the Field of Reeds, Valhalla, reincarnation, Heaven, Nirvana, whatever. Between Christians and atheists, I've never really fit in. But for every New Age "pinko" or "hippie" god Kathy taught me about, and that I'd called out to in my years of being a pagan, at least they actually listened.

This is no coincidence. If I can believe that, then I can believe that maybe, just maybe Shaun is still alive somewhere. If the man who murdered my husband was decked out like those raiders, then I must've partly thawed long after the nukes. And I don't know how I'll face that... that monster. That murderer. But I bet I'll get jaded by then, and I'll have to be.

When I finally pass out and get back up, I'll be there to help them straighten up the mess that used to be Sanctuary Hills. Codsworth said he'll help out, let alone that greaser Sturges. Power armor will totally help with all the heavy lifting, which is good for a vix who could hardly handle an economy bag of kitty litter.

And I'm sitting here, watching that candle I lit for Sekhmet. And in a few days, I'll light candles for everyone I lost to the bombs. And in front of an old portrait, I'll pop in a special holotape that Codsworth kept safe. I'll light a candle and listen to it. And I'll cry one more time. Come Halloween, come Samhain, I will venerate my husband. I will avenge his death if I can. But I will honor him that night, in the time where the spirits come forth.

I miss you, Nate. I-I love you.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Notes From The Editor: Mods I'm Using
(Updated: 3/9/21)

As one call tell from a screenshot in Gaming Journal '21? I am modding this game. I know, I said I wasn't gonna mod it in the two-year-old OP. Well as it seems...



...so here are the mods I'm using, organized by the Vortex app from Nexus Mods. Compared to having to scrub a crummy Monk mod from Skyrim, I'm glad that nothing broke while deactivating some wonky mods from Fallout 4.

Caliente's Beautiful Bodies Enhancer (NSFW)
Needed to use the Vulpine Mod. I think I went with the Slim preset, and also used NeverNude to permanently paste underwear onto an unarmored, unclothed Dana. I really don't care for smut in these kinds of games (usually), and Dana being skinny compared to the vanilla female bodies seems about right. I may uh, experiment with a less-than-SFW mod on my own time though, probably on a copied save file.

Fallout 4 Load Accelerator
Getting this game to run at first was a pain. My selections on the title screen were wigging out with my controller. Some troubleshooting, and I found I needed to cap the FPS. Using my Nvidia's settings, I set it to the Bethesda-advised 60 FPS. Unfortunately, the game's loading screens chugged along when I entered new areas. Thus, this mod comes in to boost the FPS only when loading.

Glock 86 Plasma Pistol
I'd referenced the Wattz 1k laspistol from the classic Fallout games in the intro chapter, before the events of the game proper. Turns out a mod exists for my favorite classic blaster. This thing looks cool as all get out, and it's got some nice mods and special variants. I hope it's balanced well. It doesn't replace vanilla plasma weapons, but it is based off the laser pistol's model and functions (clicking the safety off when drawing it, the fact it uses Fusion Cells instead of Plasma Cartridges, etc). I may or may not use xList later to mod the modded gun, changing it to using carts, if I feel it makes lasers irrelevant.

Gorgeous Glowing Plasma Weapons and Prismatic - Laser Colors
I like the red lasers. I like the light blue Institute lasers. I like plasma being veridian instead of lime green. These mods are primarily to fit the lore of Dana's original setting, Apocalypse Fox. Lasers are now dark blue, and plasma is now purple. Apparently, real-life energy weapon fire would resemble the color of ionized air. Considering it's either electric blue or purple in Earth's atmosphere, I went with these picks. Besides, plasma in The Terminator and Wasteland 2 / 3 is also purple. |3

Vulpine Race
How else could I play Dana the Apocalypse Fox? This mod has no right to look this good, but I appreciate that it does. By proxy, I'm also using a spinoff mod that removes her tail when wearing power armor. Due to how this mod works, Nate wound up being furry too. Insofar as journal canon though, he's still human. I may use console commands to change his race back to a human model, if I need a screenshot of his corpse. No promises.

Fun fact. Dana was discharged from basic training for two reasons. First, I alluded to the lore from the New Vegas version of the Vulpine Race mod. The creator rationalized it with their own lore. The British Commonwealth trying their own FEV genetic splicing; the US took up their own variant to have a super-soldier unit against the Chinese. Hence, Dana was intended to be forced into military service, and was adopted by her RobCo father to raise her until then. Second, seems there was cut content that Nora was supposed to be a veteran too, not just Nate. Given the base canon for Dana in my WIP prose, it seemed natural to give FO4 Dana this background.

Wasteland Fashion - Bandanas and Blindfolds
Dana wouldn't be the same without a neck scarf! I don't know if this mod is broken, or if it clashed with a modular clothing mod I tried out, because they didn't appear on Dana's model when I found one of them. Either way, looking forward to the green bandana that the rough-looking dude wears in a screenshot for the mod. Also using an optional file from the page, which lets you wear bandanas over armor.

Jet Redux
Small mod being added. Don't wanna make a habit of adding more and more mods. This one changes Jet and Jet-adjacent items (Addictol, etc) and gives them unique-colored models, as well as a taped-on label. It's weird that some items have different labels, but others don't. If something like this exists for other chems (Mentats, Psycho, etc) I may use those too?

Mentats Redux
Applied after I wrote about Jet Redux. Found out the Mentats texture is the same for its various fruity flavors in the vanilla same, shortly after. Welp.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Four: A Brush With Death By Dinnertime

October 25th: Morning
The refugees I helped saved with that Minutemen dude are getting situated in my old suburb. Maybe I'll hate them a lot less than my old neighbors. Y'know. Before I became a TV dinner. Poor Jun is still shook up. Marcy's still a bitch. Mama Murphy though... man, I wonder if she's right about that Sight stuff. When you're involved in heathen shit as much as I've been, you begin to wonder how much of life is truly coincidental. Somehow, she managed to predict that the creature that came outta the sewers -- they called it a Deathclaw -- got pissed by the chaos of the raiders and me stomping around in a T-45.

That Preston dude seems the altruistic type, though. Wasn't fond of Murphy finding God through illicit substances, and in her old age I can't blame him. Already I have no idea how she lived long enough to get old and gray in this fucked-up future. Maybe I'll bug Mama Murphy about her voodoo later. Right now, I guess there's a settlement he wanted me to help out. I'm all for helping out more people that are sane, relatively speaking. I just have a feeling this won't be the only time he asks me to run violent errands for the greater good.

Catching my breath en route to Lexington. Had a miniature heart attack when this big-ass robot vaporized an oversized mosquito. Apparently it's the guardian of this little girl merchant, and she calls him Gus. Kat can't be more than ten, but if that military warmech has kept her safe this long? Hey, all the more power to her. Decent wares too. Seems people use Nuka caps as currency now, though barter also seems effective. The pop caps can be used to cover the difference of a trade, and I'd bet some swag could be bought outright.

Guess I'm not the only one in for a scare this morning. The folk huddling around their farm-shack pulled pipe guns on me when I came forth. My kind weren't common even before the bombs fell. I may be the only Vulpine they'd ever heard of and hell, I may be the only one left. They weren't fond of the Minutemen, and because of something called the Quincy Massacre, I guess P-Garvey's lawgivers are also on the endangered species list. Oh joy, more raiders to cap.

En route, one more incident. Also the reason why I stopped to rest. Strolled by this landfill, and these huge-ass naked mole rats were attacking this woman there. Seemed she owned the joint, but I couldn't let her fend them off alone. I'd encountered some before when I happened upon Dogmeat, up at the Red Rocket. Surprisingly freaky little fuckers, bursting out of the ground like dangerous bitey potatoes. Me and the scavenger survived, and I'm binding my wounds from the impromptu extermination.

October 25th: Afternoon
*Dana pants for a few before speaking, and her voice is frantic when she does*

Holy fuck. If anyone finds these tapes and a dead fox-woman, at least know how I went down fighting. I now know what the fuck a feral ghoul is. They're fuckin' zombies, man. Yeah, whatever, I bet you know that already. I didn't. Lexington is swarming with raiders, but these bastards...!

*A moment of deep, labored breathing; voice is calmer but still upset*

Goddammit. I'm hurt bad. I don't know how I'm still alive, wounded and at 400 rems of radiation. Is everyone in Boston this immune to rads because I sure ain't! Given that normal animals are surprisingly resilient, this may be the only reason I'm not in more agony than I am. Even-fucking-so! I'm exhausted, my bowels feel molten, my bones are aching. If memory serves, I'm a fucking goner. This is a lethal dose for maybe half of humanity.

I got some kind of signal on this Pip-Boy, but I don't care. I'm dying. These stims won't save me when my body falls apart. But... fuck me. I'm going down fighting. I'll... *hurk*... *gulp* ...I'll see you in the hereafter, Nate. Save me a seat. At... at least I'll be-- OHGOD!

*She retches, her boots clomping a couple shaky steps before she vomits*

F-fuck! I don't wanna die in this fuckin' spandex! Not like this! I hope I live long enough to steal the clothes off one of those asshole raiders! I'm not meeting them in Hell with barf-spattered fabric. I'm not... I won't...

*deeply breathing once more; her voice is now wistful*

It's weirdly peaceful on this rooftop. I retreated after a big battle on this maze of scaffolding. Never occurred to me how big the old Corvega plant was, even as a kid. If I get to choose how I die? Not going down in a hail of gunfire? I wanna limp, or drag my bloodied body, or whatever. I want to see the sky one last time. The nature growing all around. Not the broken bits of what used to be. Much as I love technology, I adore nature too.

Yeah. This is how I'll meet the gods. This is how I'll die.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Five: Sympathy For A Devil

October 26th: 1:14 AM
I will live.

I have no idea how I made it. Between bullet wounds and rad sickness, I walked out of Corvega's alive. I even marched all the way back to Tenpines Bluff, was rewarded, and made it back to my old home. Finding a bag of this stuff labeled RadAway among the raiders' scattered stashes, IV drip attachments and all, absolutely helped. I took a chance. The pouch seemed legit, even if the medical sticker was blank and the name was written with permanent marker. Having the worse case of the runs of my life from that fluid is nothing compared to the horrific death I was condemned to. At least shitting my brains out also meant I purged myself in more ways than one.

Preston wanted to get the gist, but I shrugged him off. It's past midnight. He might be doing a late-night watch. I had to continue the recording from last time on the same holotape, so if I survive longer, I'll have to bring more of them. I can't sleep though. I keep thinking about the whole damn encounter.

The assembly plant was huge, and swimming in raiders. Here I thought the patrol outside the joint was bad. There were even a couple of feral ghouls who managed to make their way inside. I couldn't tell their gender. Either they had baby doll anatomy, or I was too busy trying not to get eaten alive. At least it made killing them easier than killing the raiders.

I guess those killers culled the herd of ghouls and took up Corvega as their base, but didn't or couldn't finish the job. Those assholes were after the Quincy survivors. Turns out one of 'em kept a journal on an old terminal. This prick named Jared had met Mama Murphy in his youth. Apparently, she knew he was gonna be taken by raiders, and would turn into an asshole just like them. Some cycle of violence shit right there. And he's tried drugging folks out of their minds, trying to replicate her clairvoyance. Somehow he found out that the same woman he met as a kid was still alive, and traveling in a caravan.

I shudder to think of what he would've done with her. Is it any wonder why I don't believe in coincidence? He sends his best dude Gristle after the caravan, I waltz right into his standoff at the museum, and wouldn't you know it? Jared's gray matter is spattered all over the wall of the office, just like Gristle's guts on the pavement in Concord. I sniped the prick with one of his buddies' pipe guns. Never saw it coming.

It wasn't just anyone who killed the motherfuckers and their gang. It was me. It was someone who was meant to die multiple times, and probably should have, but one whom fate seems to root for. I punched their ticket straight to hell, and protected someone who sees more than the linear string of apparent cosmic RNG. Hell, I'm someone who wants to believe this wasn't just the gods playing dice.

I think I'm giving Murphy some drugs. It's how she uses the Sight. She's had a craving for something called Jet. Alongside a pack of Mentats -- another thing I'm fated to encounter, I guess -- some kind of steroid pills and this weird inhaler? One of these has to be the stuff. There's also this syringe of something, and I swear the chem looks familiar. It's in an injector pen with pleather straps, and two small bottles of stuff that are attached to the pen by thin tubes. Very distinct. Either way, one of the two drugs I can't ID has to be Jet.

It's still hard to sleep. Part of me wishes I didn't find that computer. They were awful, but they were still people. It's hard for me to rationalize who Jared and his raiders were, or the life Jared must've lived to become who he was. Y'never really get to see the full story. If it's one thing that will help me get jaded, it's this. The world is better off without someone like him. Faceless or not, those bastards have hurt way more people than I could ever imagine. And I bet they never gave a damn about anyone else but their own.

So what makes me so different?
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Six: One Reason To Fight To-Go, Please

October 27: Evening
Spent the whole of today fixing up Sanctuary Hill. There must have been people passing through the ruins here and there, because there's plenty of spots to piece goods together. As suspected, hauling fallen trees and scrap metal from broken streets and homes? Piece of cake with the T-45. Seems I remembered how to disassemble and reassemble a 10mm pistol from boot camp. Preston helped me build a more durable receiver, too. Makes sense to me. The man jury-rigged his own laser musket, after all. The more you winch the thing, the deadlier the beam. No wonder he burned one of those raiders to ashes with one shot when we met.

Between the hints dropped by Mr. Garvey and the new townies, the mention by those farmsteaders near Lexington, and Jared's journal? I had to know what happened at Quincy, and why Preston acts like he's the only Minuteman left. Seems calling him the last of the Minutemen wasn't far off either. There's these mercenaries called the Gunners that caused the trouble. Way I heard it, they're no better than raiders; just better-equipped and trained. The Minutemen didn't help Quincy by the time the Gunners strode up. When they did try, after those death-dealers' guns were warmed and sated with blood? It was a pyrrhic... hell, I couldn't call it a victory. Not the way Preston told it.

So here's where he dropped this crazy idea. He doesn't feel right to lead a return of the Minutemen. I can't blame him. But because of my altruism to help him and the settlers? He thinks I can be some new General for his troops. Sounded as stupid to me as it does when I say it out loud, so I can't be the only one who thinks he's crazy.

*Dana pauses for a few*

...and you know what? I've got the sneaking suspicion I'm already crazy. Crazy like a fox. I think I'm gonna say "yes" to his idea. No promises of course. I have to live that long. But he believes in me, and I'll trust his judgment for now. Hell, ain't just Preston that thinks I'm alright. Jun confided in me today. That poor bastard. He lost his son in the attack on Quincy. It reminds me of how shook-up I was after... after... damn. After Nate was killed. There. I said it. And you know what I told him after?

Well. I told him that he's not alone. He's not the only one to lose someone to some violent asshole. I didn't word it like that, but the message was clear. From what he told me after, I know he's trying to deal with his loss and won't give up. I don't know if I avenged his son -- Kyle I mean, I don't want to forget his name. But I risked getting shot up, and got filled with lead and bashed and slashed, for a reason. I couldn't let those bastards... no. It's more than vengeance. It's justice. Or compassion. Something better than bloodshed for the sake of bloodshed. I didn't walk away, I didn't fold, and I refused to become another victim. And through it all, Sanctuary Hills is being repopulated again by the people I'd saved.

Like the old song goes. When there's nothing left inside, there's still a reason to fight.

Yeah. Tomorrow, I've got to know what Mama Murphy can tell me. Any hint her Sight can offer. Besides that, I need to agree to Preston's desires for the scattered folks of the Boston Commonwealth: to come together and forge a future. This is more commitment than I'd had in two-hundred years. I guess if I can handle a gross diaper or two from my son, I can handle resurrecting the Minutemen.

Gods help me.

October 28th: Morning
Preston Garvey knows my hangups, but in spite of them all, I agreed to be his General for the Minutemen. Without real proof, this field promotion feels empty. I did offer Murphy her Jet. Seems it was the inhaler shit after all. And I say "shit" because that's what the fumes smelt like. I'm not kidding. This isn't just colorful vulgarity.

From what she told me, there's some secret chained up within the hearts of Diamond City. Despite the darkness in those chained-up hearts, there's a bright heart in a bright alley. So in proper fucking English, I guess I snoop about the big city. Though I'm sure it can't be that big. This is the apocalypse, after all.

Turns out there's a radio function on my Pip-Boy after all. Before I tell you that story, I need to tell you this story. There's a reason why I came up to 400 rads days ago. See, I went to this long-flooded quarry. Some dude there was trying to find some good resources, and needed to drain the quarry to get to them. But the pressure for the valves was off. The pipelines had burst quite a while ago, and I needed to turn off pressure to them. Trouble is, they were submerged in a veritable lake of highly-irradiated water.

In my defense, I had no idea if the Pip-Boy 3k Mark IV was waterproof. I unhinged the thing from my wrist, rubbed said wrist from the imprint it left, set it aside, and took a dive. Multiple times. It'd been a while since I had a good dip, and I'm no stranger to diving and deep-water swimming. I think I've held my breath in that murky water longer than I'd ever done. But by the time I was finished, and after repelling some crab-monsters whose shells could shrug off 10-mil slugs?

Uhhhh. Sliiiight meltdown when I heard the Pip-Boy click like a Geiger counter when I put it back on. Bigger meltdown when its Rads meter arrow pointed close to the four-hundred mark. The scavenger told me I could find chems to purge it, or that doctors in these parts knew how. And I figured that if I was well enough to not feel any problems, that I'd have a fighting chance. That is until I got to Lexington, fended off ghouls and raiders, and started seeing my life flash before my eyes. The combination of wounds and rad sickness kicking in forced my retreat. Hell, I swear that getting scratched up by the ghouls added to the radiation too. Cue the part where I freaked out on the Oct-25th tape.

En route to Diamond City, or wherever I can signal boost the Minutemen and offer my aid, I ought to keep on the look out for more RadAway. I know they had pills called Rad-X back when, and one of the neighbors stockpiled 'em before the end. Must've been picked clean, 'cause I didn't find any in the houses. I was skeptical of them back when, advertised as a way to stave off rems for hours with each dose. Still, they may be my best chance at a preventative.

Let's get a move on, Dana. End transmission.

October 28th: Around Lunchtime
Right. Forgot about the story to tell. But first! I'm having lunch at this old diner a mom and her teenage boy took up. Seems the boy's addicted to Jet, and this dealer outside demanded money with a hired gun. The drug-running fucker turned him into a junkie. I turned the supplier and his merc into worm food. Shooting someone in cold blood gets easier when you've killed in the heat of it all. Good to know. Doesn't mean I'm looking forward to it. I'll keep telling myself that it would've gotten bloody if the diner chick didn't pay anyway. It'll help me sleep at night.

Hell's bells. Anyway. I think I'm running out of space on this holotape. Onto the story.

So, Diamond City has its own radio station. The DJ is awkward as fuck, but they've been playing older songs. I can get behind some classic hits. Decided to head toward Oberland Station, where Preston clued me in to start reaching out. The music kept me company. Some sappy song with "tomorrow" in the chorus was my first jam I picked up. I did remember "He's a Demon, He's A Devil, He's a Doll" though! That was my grandpa's favorite. As I passed the church next door to the museum at Concord, there... there was a song that gave me pause.

...y'know, like now. A song about a breakup, and how the singer sung that it was the end of the world. Sure, it was pretty goddamn on-the-nose. I rolled my eyes at those lyrics, and I kept my fingers on the dial to turn off the tune. But I couldn't. Sounded nice enough, even if the words reminded me of some boy band crap from back when.

And you know something? I felt it. The more I listened, the more I remembered an old ex. Paige. Cutest little thing, but kind of a dumb kitty as I called her. It just didn't work out between us, but I still wanted to be her friend. Another person I'll never see again. But then this follow-up to the second chorus came up. I'll... uh--

*The recording ends and restarts abruptly; her voice is more quiet now*

Right. Check one-two. That verse goes, *ahem*...

♪ "I wake up in the morning and I wonderrrr, why everything's the same as it was..."♪
♪ "I caaaaan't understand, no I caaaaan't understaaaaand, how life goes on the way it dooooo-ooooes..."♪
♪ "Why, does my heart, keep on beating? ...why, do these eyes of mine cry?" ♪
♪ "Doooon't theyyyy know, it's the eeeeend of the worrrrld, it ended when you said, gooodbyeeeee..." ♪

Yeah. I'm a real karaoke hero. So I'm told.

I miss Nate. *sniffle* I miss my husband.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Seven: Super-Duper March

October 28th: Afternoon
Huh. Guess the Super-Duper Mart is still around and even more surprisingly, there's still some stuff to salvage from it. But I can see why people avoided this place like it's radioactive. It may've been at one point, 'cause the joint is still crawling with ghouls. Some of those fuckers were even playing possum, waiting in the cafe to ambush me after I mulched their buddies in the aisles. I'm told these are just the "ferals", but I've yet to encounter a ghoul that isn't trying to rip me apart.

Doesn't mean I'll only find these rotten-headed monsters among their kind, though. Come to think of it. It's freakin' weird that people could survive the sheer rads from the nukes, and wound up surviving two-hundred-something years. One problem of immortality, as I'd researched, is the fact that the human brain isn't built to house more memories than the average lifespan. If not our bodies crapping out after eighty years, give or take, then those organic CPUs we call brains would fall apart. In theory, that's likely why ghouls go feral? Their gray matter literally rots away, even if the rest of their bodies are caught in undead-lookin' stasis.

Right. My fox head is doing that defense mechanism it does. Getting all egghead to cope with shit. I mean, it works. Downed some liquid courage I found among the remaining groceries -- a Gwinnett lager -- shortly after I swung doors and stepped inside. First off, kind of a shame the meals in the Eat-O-Tronic were all moldy. Second off, seems some old-school blasters did survive. What I know as a Glock 86 plasma pistol was in the store. In a girl's toy box. In the shell of a kid's toy. Labeled as the "Magic Gun of Friendship", with a fusion cell included.

For once, batteries were included in this fucked-up toy. Thank the gods it doesn't work though. Sure wore down the energy cells when I pulled the cheap-feeling plastic trigger, but didn't shoot plasma. Maybe I'll get over it and turn it into a proper blaster. Take it back to the workbench back at Sanctuary, try not to break anything by unscrewing it, and see how "baby's first raygun" ticks.

Third off. I ran into one of the Minutemen in the garage. She's long dead, and had a holotape. Sounded like she might've been a straggler from Quincy. I didn't see any dog-tags or other ID. Picked up her short-cut laser musket, and I have her name off the tape. *deep breath* Emma, I'm sorry it ended like this. Rest in peace, girl.

October 28th: Evening
Yeah, spent the day poking around the ruins. See what there was to see. All that jazz. Tuned back into Diamond City Radio again. I'm getting over the awkwardness of the DJ, Travis. He's kinda cute like that. Sounds like a puppy dog who got kicked too many times, but still loyal to a fault.

Speaking of loyal dogs. Ran into some raiders en route back home. Assholes didn't gimme a count of three to drop my pack before they opened fire. Those pieces of shit had... *gulp* they had an attack dog too. I did well enough at zeroing in and popping hollow-point slugs into them, up until I realized "holy shit, this bulky mutt is barking and is trying to tear out my ovaries. And intestines. Holy fuck, I'm having PTSD paralysis and I'm gonna die."

Damn. Never told why I have a phobia of dogs, did I? Obviously I survived the encounter. Kept my groin and guts safe with a free arm -- thank fuck for that leather brace I was wearing -- and blew the mongrel's head off. When I got over the near-death experience, jolted back to action by the dirt spritz of a near-miss .38 round? Well. Made giving those bandits a dirt nap a whole lot easier.

So yeah. Phobia part. First off, natural instincts. Never grew up with a dog either. We only ever had Kathy's cats. I dunno if they took the genes from a domesticated fox to make me, the walking freak of weird science, or if it'd make a difference. But I'd gotten chased and attacked by a dog as a kid. Back then I still lived in New York. Small town. Maybe it was missed by the bombs, now that I think of it. To be fair, it was more trespassing than my hick neighbor was comfy with. I'm just glad he didn't take his 12-gauge to my ass, and that his mutt found me before he did.

Yeah, there's a reason I've still got it with the whole "pick locks with bobby pins" thing. Was kind of an asshole growing up. Impish as a younger girl, refined to being a truant and a troublemaker in my teens by bullying and... shit, wouldja call it racism? Hell if I know. If it does count as racism, then it's a bigger reason to show some respect to non-feral ghouls. Not that I'm gonna infantilize them but, you know.

Oh yeah. One more thing. Stuff in the weird syringe? Combat drug. First heard that shit be called "Psycho" during basic training, but nothing Sarge mentioned. Seems it got first used in Anchorage. Nate mentioned it was given to some specialists in -- get this -- a part of his division, Fox Company. 108th Infantry Regiment, originally a part of the National Guard before they got promoted to deal with the Chinese in Alaska.

Scary shit, that Psycho. Ran into more of those crab monsters -- "Mirelurks" -- and found my bullets were still being deflected by their damned shells. Far as I assessed, their face was the only spot I could deal with. Did a backpedal, feeling about the pouches on a bandolier I filched off a raider's fresh corpse, and shot up what I thought was a Stimpak. It was not a Stimpak.

Last thing I really remember was screaming profanities, grabbing my combat knife and... well, it gets hazy. Came to with one of those automatic pipe pistols I took from a raider clutched in my hand. Same guy who had the bandolier too. Had more wounds, but ones I barely felt. And dead Mirelurks. And the eggs of their babies smashed and squished into the mud. The eggs were the size of ostrich eggs, and hard-shelled like a bird. Fuck me, bigger and harder than ostrich eggs too.

Funny thing. I'm damn sure I heal easier than proper humans. Always been that way. I can get shit-stomped sure, but given the proper R&R I don't stay down-and-out long. But dammit, I need to crash. Maybe I'll spend tomorrow gettin' some of that R&R in. I fainted for... fuck me, I don't know how long. Happened once the Psycho wore off. Lemme tell ya, I've been shot and bludgeoned and bit and torn up since I crawled my ass outta Vault One-fuckin'-Eleven. I've got a bad feeling my injuries will catch up to me in the worst ways, and that I won't walk away the next time I'm bloodied up.

Right. G'night. Pleasant dreams, I hope.
Backwards_Cowboy
owned a Vita and WiiU. I know failure
1737
I love it. I remember back before online play and sharing became the standard how people would chronicle their own character in games. The PRIMA GAMES strategy guide for Animal Crossing on the GameCube had a whole section written in this format. I think it adds something that is missing from a lot of newer games, including Fallout 4 since it railroaded you into being a distraught parent story-wise. A bygone-era when you weren't running from cut-scene to dialog sequence, and could enjoy things at your own pace.

Keep it up!
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Cowboy, thank you dearly. I'm glad this fanfiction reminds you of older gaming stuff from the days of the internet past.

I couldn't have considered this without Marrend's text-based LPs, let alone stuff like Prequel (hence the knock-off subtitle for my journal). Even with the locked-in character lore of Fallout 4, it's been fun to breathe a unique life into my rendition of Nora. Reading your comment made my day, and you've given me a reason to keep writing.
InfectionFiles
the world ends in whatever my makerscore currently is
4622
Having fun reading these! You're a great writer and it really keeps me reading. I just started Fallout 4 again since release and have been using mods for the first time. Fun stuff! I'm really enjoying Survival mode too with mods.

Gonna backtrack and read all these. Keep it up!
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
I don't like double-posting normally, so I shall roll this into this new entry. Infection, goodness me. Thank you. If it's one thing I know I can do well, doubts be damned? It's being a writer. I'm grateful for both you and Cowboy letting me know you like the journal. Makes me confident that this is worthwhile to more people than myself. Heck, especially for my self-doubting myself.

I'm glad you're giving the game a shot with mods for the first time, too! Prior to this journal's run, I'd only played FO4 on a PS4, and without their mods. I'd considered Survival mode for this run too but... ehhhh, still not brave enough. Not brave enough for Hardcore in New Vegas either.



Chapter Eight: Mischief Day Spooks

October 30th: Afternoon
Marcy, markedly less bitchy today, reminded me that it was the day before Halloween. Travis mentioned it on the radio himself, so seems those in Diamond City have a means to tell the date. He knew they called evenings on the 30th Mischief Night. Good to know, once I get to that place at long last.

In her words though, seems I am indeed "feeling scared yet". I couldn't stay on the mend more than a day before I got stir crazy. Being sick in bed is always a sucky time. Being sick with "lead" poisoning, let alone rad poisoning, also counts. By now I'm damned sure that freakish critters like Mirelurks have been given me rads each time they've hit me. It's weird. I've survived rad levels that would cook the skin off most people, but I'm as susceptible to getting them as a regular person.

And if I had to wager, I think the people left built up rad resistance over time. Don't ask me how. Reminds me of a story how a mama cat survived a rattlesnake bite, and her kittens built up snake venom resistance in utero. It's like the flip side of babies born with health issues from chain-smoker moms. In this case, generations of moms since the end must've passed off the resilience.

I bring up rads because I had to deal with more of them. Thank the gods Carla -- this trader who's been stopping by -- sold me some RadAway. Though I was already nauseated, I'd forced myself to evacuate my bowels of radiation and mole rat meat alike. I guess I'll stay down tonight, at least. Still exhausted from it all. If I'm crawling off the mattress, I'm grabbing a Nuka-Cherry I frisked from the mart. Spike the blood sugar and all.

I had to get out of bed. I'm regretting it now, but still! Kept close to places I knew were cleared out, and they stayed clear. But I saw a fire in the Jalbert Bros junkyard and just had to check. Guess what I found? Tripwire pistol trap -- how the hell'd they figure that out? -- mole rats, and barrels of goddamn nuclear waste. Realllly fuckin' irradiated. From everything I'd accumulated there, I'm a bit over 200 rems. Wounds from the ratties didn't heal easy. Coughed up blood. Lost my lunch. Dry-heaved because I had nothing left to cough up.

It gets weirder. All these dead people about. Recent corpses too, not even the mole rats got to them. I'd reckon they were the ones who rigged up the ten-mil to shoot intruders, though you could just hop the fence. It looked like they were living in the place. Their clothes were just as bizarre, and I swear. Their rags looked intentionally humble. Trust me, I've seen raiders wearing duct-taped shirts. Those deceased wackos had no signs of struggle, no recent damage to their dyed but dirtied clothes to indicate violence against them.

Worse yet? Some of the Jon and Jane Does carried weird grenades. I say grenades because I'd seen a plasma grenade. Looked similar enough, with white enamel and a radiation hazard symbol stamped on the side. I don't trust those things, but I grabbed one anyway. I've got it stored in a metal garage we constructed, far from where anyone sleeps. Threw it in a metal tool chest I dragged from the Red Rocket too. It wasn't leaking but if raiders ever attack us, I want at least two layers of metal between it and a bullet.

If I didn't know any better, those dead folks wanted to be there. They were lodged there. I haven't asked anyone how long it takes for radiation to kill any of them. Didn't seem right. However long it took, the glowing waste must've done them in. If they were trying to stay safe from the ferals and Jared's crew in Lex, then they'd chosen a bad port in the storm.

Ugh. I need sleep.

October 30th: Late Evening
Still tuckered out. Or groggy. Hard to tell right now. I'm up because I had a shit dream. Hmph. Yeah, it was a bad dream. Back when dad died, I used to wake up screaming. Guess how I popped out of bed?

Fuckin' A. Bet you can guess why. Yeah, I know why. I'll save that for later. Pip-Boy says it's quarter-to-11. I'll deal with my emotions tomorrow. But it dawns on me that I won't have meds to deal with them. Unless someone's reverse-engineered antidepressants, which I doubt.

*silence for a few seconds*

I didn't tell what happened before the junkyard. I'd snooped around Concord first, breaking into the back of the Speakeasy. Wasn't a literal one, mind you. Jazzy bar that I'd gone to with the girls. Found what's left of the karaoke machine and everything, and it's a shame it got gutted of parts long ago. If I wasn't scared of that joint, I'd haul the carcass back.

You heard me. Scared. There was this weird device in a safe I cracked upstairs -- don't ask me how I pulled that off -- and damn. I kid you not. Department store mannequins set up around a filled up tub, someone's skeleton laying inside, and machetes duct-taped to their hands. Would've grabbed one of those blades if they didn't feel cursed. Someone's bones in bed with another mannequin upstairs, and two weird inhalers in bed with them. By this time I was getting paranoid, drew a jury-rigged six-shooter and kept looking around.

Also pocketed a plastic jar of preppie drugs that sat in the sink. Day Tripper: nothing better to trip out on. I might need them.

I thought spinning the cylinder would calm me down. Make me feel badass. It did the opposite. A stray mannequin near me fell over the moment I spun it. I yelped, nearly had a heart attack, and put a slug into the dummy's head. It didn't budge. I bet you're thinking "it's a dummy, dumbass, of course it didn't". You weren't there. Like every other bit of paranormal shit I'd encountered, you had to be there.

Another story for another day, I guess. Maybe I'm losing it at long last. Jun, you've got dibs on this Pip-Boy. Sturges is next in line, gods forbid anything happen to ya.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Chapter Nine: Farmsteads and Farewells

October 31st: Afternoon
Today's the day. What a day it's been.

I slept awful. Again. Dozed off, only to leap back up in cold sweat. So for me? The fluff around my ears was sticky and clammy, as were the pads on my hands and feet, and I spent a few minutes panting to try and keep myself cool. Also, panting out of the spiked heart rate of a bad dream.

I think it was like 4 AM when I rose up. Threw on not my vault suit, nor the leathers I collected and cobbled into measly armor, but a white t-shirt and khaki slacks that I'd found. Aside from my modded pistol and a combat knife, I didn't bother with much else. As you can hear, I did bring the Pip-Boy. I had second thoughts, but figured it was for the best.

This time, I didn't put my boots on from the vault suit. It had been about two-hundred years since I walked barefoot in a suburban sprawl, or even what's left of it. Had a habit of it growing up, and having rugged enough pads on my feet helped. I know the expression is "barefoot and pregnant" for expectations of my fairer sex, but I sure wasn't when Shaun was the bun in my oven. It was an oddly calming thing to trot like the fox I am across the broken asphalt, toe-claws clicking on the pavement like a dog.

So what better company to keep than my own dog? I've been keeping Dogmeat around town, even moved and touched up a neighbor's old doghouse. But this time, I trusted the friendly mutt to come with me. Only way I can get over my phobia is through controlled exposure, especially with no drugs, medical or otherwise, to regulate my emotions. That's what pets are for, right? So I'm told.

And we just kept walking. I didn't pay attention to much. Other from the occasional woof when Dogmeat spotted something interesting to him, we kept quiet. For maybe the first half-hour, it was like I was entranced. Silent as the grave, even internally till I got to Concord.

After I arrived once more, all sorts of thoughts flitted about my mind. Things I told no one but myself, and hadn't told myself in a week. Things I'm not sure if I should mention over this recording. I came across an oddity to match a vix and her dog. This self-sufficient greenhouse garden, run by the Mister Handies of a long-deceased engineer. The three in charge, painted to reflect their stations (let alone names), all had personalities inspired by the scientist's favorite TV programs. The name of the inventor clicked after one of them, a robo-miss named Supervisor White, spoke about him. Ed Gray. I'd read about him in the news back when.

But I kept walking. White mentioned some issue about bad water from a plant in the area. I couldn't care less. For a while, I crashed near a spot called Oberland Station -- now a small farm for a tomato-potato hybrid called "tato". And I awoke to gunfire. Raiders sprouting up not far from where Fenway-Kenmore used to be. The two farmers, armed with shotguns, just called that spot The Fens.

I wasn't armored, nor did I have a stim to help. Not like the leather I wore could stop a bullet anyway. Didn't mean I'd let those cocksuckers have their way with the farmers or their crops. Let's just say that Dogmeat can maul more than mutant mole rats, lemme tell ya. If I didn't make liberal use of cover or stick to blindsiding the raiders, I might've locked up from seeing my friendly neighborhood attack dog rip a raider's groin open. Y'know, let alone their femoral artery.

With my well-aimed potshots and Dogmeat's ferocity backing up the farmers, the punks giving them trouble fell dead. Had to give a shameless shoutout to the Minutemen. Preston will be pleased to hear this. Though one of them took a .38 to the shoulder in the shootout, they had enough backup cloth for me to make her a tourniquet. She told me they had enough herbal know-how to concoct a remedy for the wound. Also helps one of those asshat raiders had some spare Buffout in an old plastic baggie. If she rations those 'roids, they should help her power through the pain.

October 31st: Late Evening
No kids among us to do trick-or-treating for. A shame too, I had some spare gum drops I scrounged up from the mart. I did pass them out to the villagers here in Sanctuary, and for a special occasion.

We held a candlelight vigil for those we'd lost.

I didn't tell them my beliefs, and they still have no idea I'm a pagan. Not that I think it matters, none of them seem the religious type. But if it's one thing we all have in common? It's the loss of loved ones, recent or in the past. I now know why Marcy's so nasty to everyone.

Kyle was Marcy's son as well as Jun's. Up till then, I never knew they were married. Then again, I didn't ask. She kept quiet, but she's still running from her emotions: letting anger control her, trying to hide any signs of weakness. The red oni to Jun's melancholy blue. Not sure if that's racist to say, because I don't mean it to be. Also not sure if better or worse to instead call Marcy the yin to-- fuck it. I don't like where I'm going with this. Moving on.

Grief does funny things to you, is what I'm trying to say. When I staggered my way off of that vault's elevator, I was as heartbroken as Jun. When my killer instinct overtook me in the museum against those raiders, rage drove me like Marcy. In the face of something we can't change, something that haunts us to our very core, we either crumple in despair or burn up with wrath.

..but that doesn't matter now. We offered our memories of those we'd lost. We lit candles for them and painful as it was, I was the first to offer stories of the man who gave his life to keep our son safe. One who would fall but in the end, the one who got my boy to the vault in the first place. Who fought for our freedom. Who charmed me like Johnny from that old Irish drinking song. Hell, it's an anti-war song at that. His smile. His gentle nature balanced with his fervor. A fierce compassion worthy of Sekhmet, and one who I pray will watch over me from his god's kingdom.

...I heard stories about Kyle in turn, who idolized the Minutemen and wanted to join their ranks. Of the Minutemen themselves that Preston served alongside from his late teens onward. Of Sturge's old man, teaching him the valuable versatility of duct tape and his old buddies, the Atom Cats.

*Long pause, with the sounds of Dana opening a tape recorder popping open in the backdrop*

Seems I'd outfoxed you. Maybe I lied to myself in desperation. But turns out the old tape recorder I had wasn't completely shot. Even if the karaoke machine is still totaled for now? It had bits and bobs left to repair the recorder. Which, of course, is also a holotape player.

Codsworth came with me to the speakeasy. If the place was haunted as I feared, maybe a robot would be immune to whatever soul-sucking horror lingered there in the shadows. He gave his personal damage report on the karaoke machine, and helped me haul its carcass back. Not only does he have parts to repair it in mind, stored in his memory banks, but he did the same for my old hardware.

*Another pause; moments later, Dana pops in an holotape and closes the tray*

I can't avoid this any longer. Like I told you the other day. It's time to honor my husband.

...time to cry, Dana.


(Note From The Editor: The actual recording of the "Hi Honey!" tape begins at about 18 seconds in)

*Dana's breathing is labored when the tape ends, and she's starting to sniffle*

G-goodbye honey.

*As Dana begins to break down, she cuts the recording abruptly*
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Notes From The Editor: Where To Go Next?

Between Cowboy and Infection, I am grateful that the both of you had taken interest in this experiment. This praise is also for any anonymous readers, because this wouldn't have nearly 700 views without them.

It had been a while since the last entry, and part of me wonders if I should've excluded a certain joke or two I included? Regardless, there's a couple things I wanted to ask for opinions about.

First off. I feel the first ten chapters so far (1 thru 9 and the prologue) make for a good "first season". Truth be told, I haven't touched Fallout 4 for a while. The reason I had some chapters as placeholders is because I had the notes for those sessions, but I also wasn't keen on continuing so soon. Playing the game felt like a chore, and I didn't like how extensive I did the notes. Basically I would keep a notepad near me during play, jot down things of interest, and immediately turn the notes into a chapter right after.

I guess what I'm asking is this. Would it be fine if I played the game, recorded notes, and stockpiled notes to turn into chapters later on? Also, I'm thinking of skipping (or vaguely mentioning) bits of play that aren't too amazing for writing a story, I guess?

Secondly. I'm thinking of mirroring these entries in my writing blog as well. I don't think anyone would be adverse to that, but I had considered it. Maybe with some fine-tuning to tone down more melodramatic parts, let alone other bits I'm not 100% sure about myself. Including some inconsistencies in the story, looking back. Then again, I also know that I am hard on myself for things I consider "cringy" in my... well, in any artwork I create, really.

Lemme know what's up, okay? I still have my notes for chapters ten and eleven (Danse, synths, the water treatment plant, etc). Whether my old format of playing and writing is fine and something I should just deal with, I'm not sure right now. Any constructive criticism in general would be appreciated.

Regardless! I'm still keeping at it. More tears from Dana to be shed in the coming days. ;)
Backwards_Cowboy
owned a Vita and WiiU. I know failure
1737
author=AtiyaTheSeeker
Playing the game felt like a chore, and I didn't like how extensive I did the notes. Basically I would keep a notepad near me during play, jot down things of interest, and immediately turn the notes into a chapter right after.

I guess what I'm asking is this. Would it be fine if I played the game, recorded notes, and stockpiled notes to turn into chapters later on? Also, I'm thinking of skipping (or vaguely mentioning) bits of play that aren't too amazing for writing a story, I guess?


If playing the game feels like a chore and the writing prep is getting tedious, I would stop. The whole thing was a kind-of-relaxing creative writing exercise for you, right? No reason to turn it into a part-time journalism job. Find your flow and do what works for you; that's why I only put out one RPG Maker project every several years. If you have to force yourself to put time into a hobby, it's time for a new hobby. If you choose to keep going and write more, we'll keep reading, if not then you at least have the nine chapters of a personal character-focused narrative.
AtiyaTheSeeker
In all fairness, bird shrapnel isn't as deadly as wood shrapnel
5424
Season Two starts now.
Let's crawl back out to the fallout, folks. I've been itching to continue. As long as I keep this as a hobby, I ought to be fine. It also means that I shouldn't force it either.

So much as a week feels like an eternity to me, let alone a day where my mood tanks. And this year, my mood's been tanking a lot. Said it before and I'll say it again -- if it's one thing I know I can do, it's write. Maybe not great right now, and definitely without an editor. But I love to tell stories.

Without further ado, let's step back into the shoes (and sometimes lack thereof) of Nora. Or rather, Dana playing the role of Nora. ;)


Chapter Ten: Robots and Rangers

November 2nd: Afternoon
So. Seems technology did survive the end of the world. More than I realized it did.

Do I even need to tell you why I didn't record anything yesterday? Aside from dealing with raw emotions, I've got bad news. I may have to ration my holotapes going forward. Unless I can find more, I may have to keep these journals brief. Or steal and install a computer terminal. Or transcribe them some other way.

I decided I'd help out the Handies at Graygarden after all. At least, that was the original intention. As it turns out, I found where that weird radio signal came from. Happened upon an old police station and to my surprise, a dude in power armor was fending off ferals with a military-grade laser. The dude's name is Danse, and says he's from something called the Brotherhood of Steel. Well, he did eventually. Mostly he played twenty questions after the last ghoul bit the dust, especially since he knew what a Vulpine was.

And it also seems like the Brotherhood aren't the only ones collecting old tech, either. Because of this, he seemed on-edge about something he wanted to salvage: some transmitter thing for his faction's satellite relay. Figured I'd pitch in. I already solve everyone's problems anyway, and this guy seemed sane enough for me. Seems they've got a dispute with a boogeyman of the area, too. I'd heard vaguely about them on Diamond City Radio, but nothing too huge. Some place called the Institute, I guess?

Actually, I don't guess. I know. Because Danse walked me to a raid against a boatload of robots he called synths, all made by this Institute according to him. Uncanny valley shit -- this coming from a fox-woman, but hey -- they were robots that looked a lot like people. Pale white plastic plating and faces and echhhh. Reminded me of those damned mannequins from the Speakeasy, but at least those fucking things weren't carrying lasers. What's more, the bots' beamers weren't anything I'd seen before either. Not a Wattz, not an AER9 like the one Danse carried. They were too clean, firing off-white beams from white plastic gun frames.

Luckily what those machines had in numbers, they lacked in firepower. Somehow my leathers managed to be ablative against them, but not before burning off some layers. Oops. Along with others who swarmed with shock batons, both Danse and I scrapped them all. Also, I nearly incinerated Danse with a shuttle ignition. In my defense, we were getting swarmed at the ArcJet facility where he thought the transmitter was. Not my fault he didn't back off when I hollered "FALL THE FUCK BACK, SPACE RANGER" at him. Thank the gods for his walking tank armor.

And... we made it. We got the transmitter. He yapped something about civil duty to my country and his crew. I don't give a damn. Allegedly the BoS is based on the old US Armed Forces but again, don't care. Already failed to make basic training once. I don't know how the nukes fell, but I don't think there's enough America intact to try and repair our old government.

The way I see it? Loyalty to country always, but government when deserved. Some violent uprising wouldn't have stopped the nukes, but neither did the politicians. Of course I didn't bring up any of that to Danse, because religion and politics used to be something no one would mention without starting a fight. Against my pipe revolver and leathers, he had quite the leg up with lasers and... actually, what was the armor model he mentioned when we talked shop? An X-01? Never heard of it.

Speaking of talking shop. Seems he was impressed by my know-how with energy weapons. As a reward, he... he entrusted me with the blaster he used. Called his piece the Righteous Authority. According to him, he fine-tuned it to make well-placed shots all the more gruesome. Don't ask me how that works. But I finally have a laser gun! I'm thrilled as all hell, dude! It's a laser rifle, but I might be able to cobble together a pistol grip if I really want one.

He also let me keep some of the loot I snatched from the synths: two of their laser guns, most of the fusion cells, and even a couple shock batons. I'm putting one of those batons in my office drawer. If I have to defend Sanctuary in a rude awakening, I'll at least have something to deploy if they break into my home.

All-in-all, a pretty good day. I might be getting jaded after all.
*THERE WAS ABSOLUTELY NO REASON TO QUOTE THE ENTIRE OP FOR THIS COMMENT*
Thinking about running a *SPAM, PROBABLY* that’s Wasteland themed. All the elements are there for it, I could probably make that work
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