My name is Dewrito. I am told that is a strange name. Some laugh. I’m not sure where it came from. I remember my father saying something about an old soda. It was no Nuka Cola. Nuka Cola survived the apocalypse, the bottle caps used as money. He said he didn’t want me to be born into a world where my head would be used as money. He’s a fucking idiotic lunatic, but his intentions were in the right place.
There are two things you should know about me. One, I hate raiders. Two, I love wearing this gas mask. Especially when killing raiders.
I was born on a farm. Working the farm has been my life. I looked forward to target shooting. I’m handy with a rifle. On nights when I got brave, bored, or both, I would sneak out of the farm, and explore the nearby buildings of Boston. I rarely got myself into trouble. The few times I ran into baddies, I’d remain undetected unless I knew I could kill without being seen.
The first time I killed a raider I was seventeen. When I was sixteen, my best friend was taken from me–stolen by a band of raiders. I still haven’t found her, and I hope I never will. I only hope she died quickly. Anyway, I felt like I had avenged her that first time I killed a raider. I dropped from the top of some raffling, sinking my combat knife through the top of his skull. He groaned once, eyes rolling to the back of his head, and he dropped. Cold.
I got my very own pistol from that corpse. It was pipe, but it would do. They asked where I got it from the next day, when I broke it out to brag. I didn’t tell them anything and I didn’t have to.
They already knew. I wear my emotions on my sleeve.
When working with the Minutemen, I was sent to this farm. Oberland Station. Two women worked there, tending to tato crops. It reminded me of my childhood, and when they told me about recent raider troubles, I knew I had to put a stop to it.
I went right over to Back Street Apparel and wiped them out. All of them. Couldn’t tell you what happened. How it happened. I was pissed, and I tend to forget the messy bits when I’m that pissed. All I know is that when I came to, there were plenty of corpses on the ground. It was beautiful.
I came back and let them know the good news. Delighted, they agreed to join the Minutemen. Great. I convinced them to let me stay for a while. I wanted to explore around the farm, and make sure it would be safe for me to leave. I didn’t tell them that. Just made up some shit about scouting the area for the Minutemen. It was only a half lie. I didn’t want them to know why I wanted to help them out so badly. The less people know about me, and my past, the better.
They said they would let me stay, but that there was no room. I fixed that.
Messy? Sure. But it’s a home away from home.
I like it. It’s cozy.
I also decided to add some turrets.
You know. For good luck.
I find a Brewery. Beantown Brewery. Took a look inside only to find a few raiders. They didn’t do so well against me.
I was able to take out that first one without being seen. Just like when I was younger, sneaking out of the family farm. Everything was reminding me of my childhood lately. It made my heart swell with happiness.
This guy had some friends. They came at me, but I had elevation. And a rifle. When I got to this guy I decided to have some fun. But he didn’t tell me anything. Raiders are good at that. It’s partly why they’re always on Psycho, or Jet.
Turns out he didn’t have to tell me anything. There were more camps of raiders around, and I found out by reading journal entries on a terminal. A pathetic war was waged by this small group, caused by lack of food.
One of the stories really stuck with me. They abducted someone’s sister as a bargaining chip. In on of the entries, Tower Tom talked about killing the hostage and dumping her into the brewing tank. They drank her, and the bastard said she tasted good.
After everyone was dead, I left this as a warning.