Friday, March 23, 2012

//Log Date: 2281-11-07 07:21//

<<UserID:Webb>> --not all that bad.
*Sounds of chewing, along with a crackling fire.*
Not bad at all. PIP-Boy says it’s damn healthy eating, too, with almost no rads. What did you say these critters are called?
<<UserID:Boone>> Lakelurks. Guys used to report sightings of them around Camp Golf.
<<Unidentified Female>> “Lakelurks”? Who comes up with these names? That sounds like a body of water that’s about to sneak up on you.
<<UserID:Webb>> Heh. Well, it certainly tried sneaking, at any rate. Nice shooting, Boone.
<<UserID:Boone>> Hmmph. Stupid thing was coming right at us. Hell of a way to start the morning.
<<UserID:Webb>> Still, good eating or no, I wonder what the hell it is.
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010100110111010101100010011010100110010101100011
<<Unidentified Female>> That explains the taste.
<<UserID:Boone>> What?
<<UserID:Webb>> Wait, what?
<<Unidentified Female>> Just wondering if it was mutated from some sort of fish. Tastes like fish. Or, you know, what I’d imagine fish to taste like. Hey, do you think we could catch a real fish, rather than a fish-man?
<<UserID:Webb>> No, did you just understand ED-E?

<<Unidentified Female>> You mean the eyebot? No, of course not. Absolutely not. No way. Maybe.
<<UserID:Webb>> ...How?
<<UserID:Boone>> She’s lying. It’s just beeps.
<<Unidentified Female>> Right, absolutely. There’s no possible way a Brotherhood Scribe could listen to so many binary-encoded transmissions that they start to make sense without a decoder.
<<UserID:Webb>> ...Holy <i>*Expletive Deleted*</i>.
<<Unidentified Female>> Jeez, Doc, watch my virgin ears.
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010000110111001001100101011000010111010001101111
<i>*More silence.*</i>
<<UserID:Webb>> Well?
<<Unidentified Female>> Well what?
<<UserID:Webb>> Did you understand that one?
<<Unidentified Female>> Nope. He DEFINITELY didn’t say you have fishman bits in your beard, either.
<<UserID:Boone>> Heh. You do.
<<UserID:Webb>> ...Goddamn it. Where’s my handkerchief?
//Recording Ends//

Sunday, March 18, 2012

//Log Date: 2281-11-06 20:06//

<<UserID:Webb>> *Singing quietly* Twinkle, twinkle, little star. How I wonder...
*A long sigh, then silence.*
Let’s be honest, Webb. You’ve got more than enough firewood at this point.
There’s another reason you’re taking your sweet time going back to that campsite.
*Another sigh.*
Why did I even tell her she could come along? Lord knows I’d sleep better without one of them around, even if she doesn’t seem cut from the same cloth... or clipped from the same sheet metal.
Still... “cloudy with a chance of friendship”? This is what you get for listening to little lunatics. Just because this particular lunatic was a kid with funny headgear who looked like he needed a good meal doesn’t mean he had anything more useful to say than the shaggy fellows panhandling in the streets of New Reno.
What did he call himself? The Forecaster? Poor little fella. He apparently lives at the trading post we passed through today, after we said our goodbyes to our guitar-playing friend and kept heading north on Route 95. 
An hour or so along the way, we overtook a few traveling merchants also going north, leading a brahmin train loaded with salvage and supplies. They’d been hit once by raiders -- Jackals, from the sound of it -- and had fought them off, but they’d lost a guard in the skirmish and one of the merchants had taken a round to the shoulder. 
They were cautious at first, but when we didn’t try to shoot or eat them, they relaxed a bit, and I patched up the wounded woman -- the bullet had gone straight through, thankfully -- and rigged her up with a sling in exchange for some food, fresh water, and a pocketful of .357 rounds.
We traveled the rest of the morning together -- safety in numbers, after all, and word was there were more raiders the closer you got to New Vegas, at least on the southern and western sides -- and they filled us in on the road ahead.
Turns out there’s a fairly well-established trading post at the junction of Route 95 and 93, which some mathematically-minded locals have dubbed the 188, in what apparently passes for rapier wit around here. 
When we finally arrived an hour or so past midday, I was pleasantly surprised. It certainly wasn’t a town, but they’ve got some shacks and buildings set up, along with old buses and trailers that serve as walls and flophouses for people passing through. Several other caravans were stopped there as well, and the comforting babble of hawking and haggling filled the place. Plenty of NCR milling around the place, too, keeping things orderly, but they mostly kept to themselves.
From the upper level, situated on a hill and an overpass, you could even see Vegas off to the west, walled and glittering in the afternoon sun, with that oval-topped tower looming over everything.
I wished our traveling companions good luck with their trading, and Boone and I set out to see what was on offer. 
Our first stop was the Forecaster, a boy who couldn’t have been older than ten wearing an odd piece of headgear. Apparently an orphan, he lives at the 188 and earns his keep selling his “thoughts” -- sort of like one of those fortune tellers you occasionally get with traveling shows or fairs back west.
I rummaged through my packs and gave him one of my warmer blankets and some cans of food -- he looked cold, and far too thin -- and he insisted on giving me a few thoughts in exchange. At first, I declined, but he looked so miserable and determined that I caved in and listened to what he had to say.
Most of it was political gossip related to the NCR/Legion conflict draped in symbolism -- the Bull and the Bear clashing in the east, with a light shining out from Vegas -- but one comment was more immediate in import. He said there was a girl here named Veronica, with her heart wrapped up and carried with her. And like an old weather broadcast, he forecast that it was “cloudy, with a chance of friendship.”
Goddamn kids. I should know better than to listen to them any more.
We left him wrapped in the blanket and digging into some canned beans, and I did my best to unload the remainder of my bulky salvage from REPCONN and Nipton on the other traders in exchange for caps, chems, and ammunition for Boone and me. Made out pretty well, too, and my back thanks me for the reduced load. 
The best find was a rude son of a *Expletive Deleted* named Alexander, who turned out to be with that Gun Runners organization the Cassidy woman had mentioned back at the Mojave Outpost. Usually, his stock was just for the local NCR reps and supply sergeants, but I talked gun maintenance with him for a bit and showed him some of my more unusual salvage and ammunition, and he eventually opened up his stock, laying out some useful calibers and a few replacement parts for my revolver, including a cylinder in pristine shape.
Boone and I eventually made our way to the little shack that passes for a tavern, which had some decent kebabs and even better whiskey on offer. Not the pre-war stuff, of course, but not rad-laden rotgut, either. I bought some for Boone and myself, as well as a round for an arms trader sharing the bar who had apparently gotten drummed out of the NCR for refusing to flog deserters.
While we were eating, I chatted with the owners, a father and daughter named Samuel and Michelle Kerr who had left Primm for brighter pastures before things had gotten especially bad down there. They confirmed that business had been pretty good recently, thanks to the problems on the Long 15 funneling more traffic to Route 95, but they mentioned concerns about Legion activity to the east, especially around a town called Nelson. Boone got very quiet at that -- more so than usual, even.
I asked the Kerrs, and anyone else who seemed in a talkative mood, about Checkers or his Khan goons, but no one had seen anyone like that come through. Maybe they’d stayed off the main roads -- Boulder City still seems like the best bet. With any luck, we should reach it, and them, tomorrow, and see an end to this whole sorry business.
As we were finishing up, a young woman, probably in her mid-twenties and wearing a hooded robe, slid onto the bench beside me and said she’d overhead me talking about heading towards Boulder City. I allowed that was the case, and she introduced herself as Veronica Santangelo -- the “Veronica” mentioned by the Forecaster, I suppose -- and started in with a barrage of questions, peppering them with information about herself.
While asking about my time in the Mojave -- my answers were truthful but spare, I suppose I’d say in retrospect -- she also shared the fact that she hailed from a bunker or a vault, calling it a “hole in the ground”, but she’d had some sort of falling out with her family. That probably should have gotten my hackles up right there, but she had a good sense of humor and was just so damned cheerful that I must have put my cautions aside.
It may just be that I’ve spent so long on my own -- or with Boone and the eyeball, and they barely count, conversationally -- that it was something of a shock to have someone actively engaged in intelligent conversation with me.
And whatever else she may be, she IS intelligent. Most of her questions focused on the problems facing folks living in the Mojave, how they find clean food and water, how they protect themselves, and so on. When she found out I had medical training, she immediately pounced on that, asking detailed and informed questions about the injuries and diseases I’d seen and how the isolated towns made provisions to deal with them -- if they dealt with them at all.
I got rather caught up in the discussion, I’ll admit. ED-E bobbed nearby, apparently listening as well, but Boone soon wandered off and began custom-packing ammunition for his .307 rifle at a workbench behind the Kerrs’ booth.
Eventually, Santangelo steered the conversation towards the other issues facing the wasters in the Mojave, and she asked if I was familiar with the Brotherhood of Steel at all.
I stared at her for a moment, then allowed that I’d heard they’d been raiding some caravans locally, taking anything shiny. I figured there wasn’t any sense digging up the past with this poor girl. 
Maybe if I had, I’d be sleeping soundly back in camp right now, rather than poking around in the dark for firewood that we don’t need.
She nodded, paused a moment -- the first hesitation I’d seen from her since she sat down and started talking a mile a minute -- then blurted out that she’d like to come along with us, to Boulder City and wherever we went next. She claimed she wanted to see more of the Mojave and learn about day-to-day life there first hand, and it was certainly safer to travel about with company these days.
Most of all, she said she wanted to lend a hand where she could, and she figured traveling with a doctor would be a good way to do that.
Might be that I neglected to underline the fact that I was currently hunting down someone for what basically amounts to bloody-minded revenge. Ah well. 
To be fair, she also mentioned that she wanted to find a dress.
I couldn’t imagine Boone would object -- “hmmph” doesn’t count as a real objection, does it? -- and ED-E seems to enjoy additional targets for his smug beeping, so I said she was welcome to tag along, at least for a while, but I did have to ask if she could handle herself when things inevitably got rough.
She gave me a look that spoke volumes -- most of them probably titled something like “Get Over Yourself, Grandpa” -- and pulled aside her robe enough to reveal a Colt 6520 in a low-slung crossdraw holster, as well as something that gave me chills: an armored glove with a pneumatic ram over the knuckles, something known colloquially as a “power fist”.
That’s serious hardware, not something I expected to see on a kid on walkabout in the Mojave, even if she did come from a hole in the ground.
I looked at her, and she must have seen the unspoken question in my face. She smiled, looking almost embarrassed, and said that she was happy I’d agreed to let her come along, but there was one other thing she had to tell me first.
That “hole in the ground” she’d grown up in? That family she’d mentioned?
They were the Brotherhood of Steel.
Of course. Of *Lengthy String of Expletives Deleted* course. 
It caught me by surprise -- hell, it almost literally knocked me on my ass. It MUST have been the surprise, or maybe it was the whiskey from lunch, or maybe me remembering what the Forecaster had said, or maybe I just like the feeling of someone twisting that knife deeper into my gut, but before I could stop myself, I said “welcome aboard” and told her to get her things.
She beamed brighter than the goddamn sun and went scurrying off to collect her kit. I sat there for another moment, still stunned, then pushed a fistful of caps onto the bar to pay for lunch and the drinks and went to let Boone know we were leaving.
I think that may be the last thing I’ve said today, at least until I told everyone I was going out to get firewood.
We set out east on Route 93, and Santangelo spent the whole afternoon talking away, telling stories, jokes, and asking about settlements we’d already seen. When she realized she wasn’t getting much in the way of replies, she switched her focus to ED-E without any sign of disappointment, examining him with great interest, discussing other robots she’d seen and how he wasn’t quite like any of them.
I mostly tuned it out. For the remaining hours of daylight as we walked, my thoughts were back in Modoc, with my girls and the day I’d come home to find them and everything else burnt to ashes.
Just as the sun hit the western mountains, we came around a curve in the road and spotted Lake Mead. Even with my head in the past, it was a beautiful thing, with the light from behind us dancing across the surface. The whole thing is full of cool, clear water, almost completely radiation-free. I’ve never seen anything quite like it. 
This wouldn’t be a bad place to settle down, honestly, if a body had a mind to.
We stopped for the night at an old pre-war campsite just up the hill from the shore. We spotted a few creatures -- not sure what kind -- moving around near the shore and out in the water as we were making camp at sunset, but thus far they’ve stayed where they were, and I have no desire to go investigate further now that it’s gotten dark.
After kicking together a fire with some mesquite and driftwood that was strewn about the campsite, I left Boone and Santangelo with the food supplies to get started on supper, telling them I was going to get more wood. 
And that’s where I am now. I’ve been wandering around aimlessly uphill from the campsite for at least half an hour, gathering limbs and talking to myself. I’m just not sure what I’m going to do about this Veronica Santangelo.
Why did I tell her she could come along? WAS it just surprise? Was I actually putting faith in the predictions of a malnourished orphan? Or am I subconsciously trying to make myself look this issue in the face?
Come on, Webb, you know you could barely get through those psychology textbooks without falling asleep. Don’t try to self-diagnose. But the fact remains, now that I know where she’s from, I can’t look at her without thinking of Jess and Callie. 
It’s not what she looks like. It’s what she is. What she represents.
Even so, I just can’t shake the feeling that she’s not a bad kid, plain a simple. But if that’s the case...
...what the hell is she doing with a den of vipers like the Brotherhood?
*Another sigh.*
Enough of this. Long past time you got this wood back to the camp and got some shut-eye. You can always tell her to get lost tomorrow.
*Footsteps resume, along with quiet, slow singing.*
Up above the world so high, like a diamond in the sky...
//Recording Ends//

Friday, January 6, 2012

//Log Date: 2281-11-05 21:06//

*Sounds of a crackling fire and a guitar being played softly.*
<<UserID:Webb>> That’s nice. I haven’t heard a guitar played that well in years.
<<Unidentified Male>> Awful kind of ya to say.
<<UserID:Webb>> You’ve got a real talent, kid. You ever give up on trying to find that dad of yours, you oughta join a band.
<<Unidentified Male>> You find one lookin’ fer a six-string player, you be sure to point ‘em my way. Yer pal there don’t seem too taken with it.
<<UserID:Webb>> Who, Boone? Nah, that’s just a serviceman’s habit -- you get your sleep as soon as you can get it, whenever you can get it.
<<Unidentified Male>> Didn’t he say you used to be one of them bear soldiers too?
*Sound of a finger tapping against a tin cup.*
<<UserID:Webb>> I’m also a doctor. I prescribe myself a sizable dosage of caffeine. Chases off the dreams.
Still, it can only do so much. Been a hell of a day.
<<Unidentified Male>> Sounded like it.
<<UserID:Webb>> ‘Preciate your not shooting us when we came up on you.
<<Unidentified Male>> Likewise. Figured I didn’t have much chance of taking out two fellers loaded fer bear plus a robot anyhow. ‘Sides, nice ta have company. I weren’t gonna finish that whole bighorner roast anyway.
If’n ya want ta pay me back, tell me more about them ghouls you was talkin’ about before.
<<UserID:Webb>> Heh. You really ARE bored, aren’t you?
Fine. Never seen anything quite like it anyway.
We told you about what they were up to, yeah? With the rockets?
<<Unidentified Male>> Yep.
<<UserID:Webb>> Well, the parts we brought back did the trick. Their technician -- fellow named Haversam, pretty handy with a wrench and a soldering iron -- fixed up their controls and talked the ghouls through the installation. 
The whole launch area was glowing with radiation, so non-ghouls like us and Haversam couldn’t get anywhere near it safely, but he called out instructions and so forth all night until things were fixed up and ready to go by dawn.
At that point, Haversam came and got us. The ghouls were in the process of herding the last of their pet ferals into the rockets and shutting the doors behind them. From the cockpit of the center rocket, I could see Bright, wearing one of those ridiculous fishbowl space helmets and giving us a thumbs-up. He and Haversam had exchanged some parting words before the final loading -- I’m not sure what was said, exactly, but Haversam seemed at peace with the whole situation now. Maybe it had just been “thank you”.
We went back up through the building, which had previously been crawling with ferals and was now blissfully empty, and followed Haversam through the flock’s former base of operations, out onto a platform overlooking the bowl-shaped valley. Across from us sat the dome-topped hill I’d seen when we’d first arrived at the test site. Haversam hit a few switches on a console there, and the dome rumbled to life, sliding back into itself like a giant metal eyelid opening over an empty socket.
After a few minutes of deafening clanking and rattling, the platform with the rockets appeared from up the chute that had been covered by the dome, and I realized that the subterranean area on which the ghouls had been fixing their ships was actually part of an enormous elevator. I pulled out my binoculars and glassed the rockets; within, I could see the ghouls suited up and waiting patiently, occasionally turning to settle the ferals writhing in the lower sections of the rockets. Bright, at the head seat in the central rocket, gave us a regal wave and a small bow of thanks.
<<Unidentified Male>> Wouldn’t like ta be trapped in one o’ them tin cans with those zombies rollin’ around under my ass, I can tell ya that.
<<UserID:Webb>> You and me both, kid. Still, those ferals seem meek as brahmin calves when the other ghouls are around them. Calming influence, I guess.
Anyway, I looked over what Haversam was setting up on the command console, and he and I played around with the launch coordinates a bit, skimming off some of the fat and, hopefully, giving the ghouls a smoother, safer ride on their “grand journey”. I thought ED-E might be of some help, too, but the eyeball seemed a bit preoccupied after being so chatty the night before.
<<Unidentified Male>> Yeah, you mentioned somethin’ about that. 
<<UserID:Webb>> I’ll fill you in on it in a bit. Let me finish up this part about the ghouls first.
<<Unidentified Male>> It don’t make me no never mind, Doc. I got all night.
<<UserID:Webb>> YOU might, but I’m getting tired. I’ll try to wrap it up.
When the calculations and pre-launch prep was done, the only thing left to do was throw the final switch. Haversam heaved a deep sigh, then gave the final launch command. The rocket engines growled to life, echoing back and forth across the valley and spitting huge clouds of smoke. At last, they leapt skyward, but the rightmost rocket clipped the edge of the dome as it launched. 
I’m not sure if the dome hadn’t opened all the way, or if the rocket had just been misplaced on the platform, but, either way, it bucked out of control, fishtailing directly for our platform. Boone and I tossed ourselves to the floor, and ED-E bobbed far back into the cover of the facility, but Haversam just stood there, mouth gaping. I grabbed him and pulled him down, too -- as if lying prone was going to do us any good if a rocket full of explosive radioactive fuel crashed into us.
Still, the rocket managed to right itself, shooting straight up into the air about three yards from the side of the building and blackening the walls around us with its billowing smoke. I rolled over to peer after it and was just in time to see it angling back onto its programmed path, trailing slightly after its two siblings.
We stood up, brushing ourselves off, and Boone and I pretended not to notice Haversam wiping the tears out of his eyes as he stared at the empty launch platform.
Since we still had the travois we’d used to haul the fuel, we made use of it one last time and loaded up on every single bit of useful salvage left in the facility before heading back to Novac, taking our time and letting the overloaded ED-E set the pace back down the hills. Haversam was quiet, so I spent the time filling him in on the inhabitants of the town.
By the time we were back in sight of the dinosaur, he was in a slightly more talkative mood. Once we reached Briscoe’s shop and started offloading our cargo, he was already discussing what bits of salvage could be used to perk up the town’s well and sewage pipes, and what sort of wiring he’d need to optimize their generator. 
Cliff Briscoe, the fellow who owns the store there -- and the motel now too, I suppose, after the... disappearance of the former owner -- bought almost everything we’d brought down, paying mostly in ammunition, primer powder, casings, and caps, along with some more preserved foodstuffs and the remainder of his medical supplies. The Strauss woman still had enough of a stock to see to the needs of the town -- provided she didn’t make anything worse while attempting to treat it -- but I promised Briscoe I’d stop back through again whenever I could to see if there were any ills she couldn’t handle.
When we’d finished our transaction, Briscoe headed over to the motel to help Haversam pick out a room for himself, and the two of them were animatedly discussing whether the town’s generator would have enough juice, after being fixed up, to run some perimeter lights to help with night-time guard duty. 
Next, I paid a call on Manny Vargas, told him the good news about the ghouls, and let him know that payment was past due.
<<Unidentified Male>> This the feller who’d seen the man who shot ya?
<<UserID:Webb>> That’s the one. Boone made a point to be absent, instead stopping at the hotel to refill our water jugs and then heading to the gas station’s workshop to repack ammo casings.
Vargas looked relieved that the ghouls were gone, and he finally shared the information he’d been holding onto so stingily. Checkers and the Khans had come through the town about a week back, staying for a night and then heading out the next day for Boulder City.
I pushed him further, and he eventually admitted that he’d been a Great Khan himself, years back, but it didn’t last. Still, he had some lingering loyalty, and he’d let the Khans stay in his room, chatting with them a bit. Checkers apparently hadn’t slept, instead pacing restlessly outside all night. The Khans had said he’d been nervous ever since he’d stolen that package from his boss. Call me crazy, but I don’t think he was talking about me or Victor.
<<Unidentified Male>> Who?
<<UserID:Webb>> The... person who hired me originally. But, from what I can tell, he was working for Mr. House.
<<Unidentified Male>> Heard of HIM, sure enough. This Checkers has got some balls on him, messing with House.
<<UserID:Webb>> Won’t make much difference after I catch the little weasel and cut them off.
Also, I learned his name: Benny.
<<Unidentified Male>> “Benny”?
<<UserID:Webb>> Yeah. Little anticlimactic, isn’t it? At least it ought to help track him down, though. Might be able to catch him alone, too -- Vargas said Boulder City was where the Khans were supposed to get their payoff for the job, so they’d probably be parting ways there.
Anyway, with a name and a destination in hand, I gathered up Boone and we got back on the road, heading north up Route 95.
After a few hours, we spotted the odd, dish-shaped tower of the HELIOS One solar power station and the sea of mirrors that surround it.
<<Unidentified Male>> I seen that. Place looked like a military base.
<<UserID:Webb>> Yeah, it’s occupied by NCR troops. Probably worth a look at some point, but I’m already at least a week behind the fellow that shot me, and I didn’t fancy losing any more time to NCR red tape. As we walked past, I could see the mirrors slowly moving back and forth, trying to catch the sun, but they were all out of sync, whirling around aimlessly while troopers and guard dogs patrolled between them. The whole place looks to be a highly regimented mess -- just what you’d expect when the NCR is in charge.
<<Unidentified Male>> I ain’t had that much to do with them so far. 
<<UserID:Webb>> Do yourself a favor and keep it that way.
Continuing north, we spotted what looked like an old windfarm off to the east, but ED-E’s sensors picked up a lot of movement, way too fast to be human, so we steered clear. 
Farther on, there was a big dry lake right beside the road, but it was pockmarked with holes, and we spotted some of those huge ants like the ones near the Mojave Outpost, so we stuck to the road and gave them a wide birth too. Not enough eating on them to make them worth the hassle.
Not long after passing the dry lake, it was getting dark, and we spotted your campfire. There was only one of you, and I’ve never know many raiders to play guitar, so we came over to say howdy. That just about brings us up to speed.
<<Unidentified Male>> Well, much obliged for sharin’ your tale. Makes the night go by faster, that’s for sure. What about that robot of yours?
<<UserID:Webb>> Still something of a conundrum. Last night, something about hearing me describe HELIOS One triggered a playback from the person who had built him. Some engineer at a military base out on the west coast, near some city called Deesea.
<<Unidentified Male>> Military base? Couldn’t be NCR out that far east, could it?
<<UserID:Webb>> No, that’s the weirdest part. From what I could piece together from the limited playback, it sounded like he was talking about an Enclave base.
<<Unidentified Male>> Enclave?
<<UserID:Webb>> Before your time. Before mine, really. When I was just a kid, not even ten, there were stories about men in black power armor wiping out whole villages, either killing everyone or carting them off across the water to some base off the coast. I heard they called themselves the Enclave, some sort of holdover from before the war. 
Supposedly, a tribal blew up their whole operation.

<<Unidentified Male>> A TRIBAL?
<<UserID:Webb>> I know. Must have been one hell of a spear throw, eh?
Must have been some truth to some parts of the story, though, because the NCR did recover quite a bit of tech from a training facility on shore, all stamped with a big “E”. That’s where they got most of their working vertibirds. I thought that had been the end of them, though -- hadn’t heard a whisper about them in forty years, not until that recording from ED-E, and the datestamp on that was only four years old.
<<Unidentified Male>> They must have had more than one base, maybe spread out over the country like them vaults?
<<UserID:Webb>> Must have. Supposedly he’d been sent across country to some place called Navarro. Not sure how he wound up in Primm -- the recording cut off before I could get any more out of it. I tried half the night last night to get him to play another part, but no luck. Seems he’s keeping his secrets to himself, for now. 
Not sure how I feel about having Enclave tech floating around after me, really. Still... he’s a good little eyeball. Never gave me reason to mistrust him, and he’s certainly more than pulled his weight.
<<Unidentified Male>> Not afraid he’s gonna carry you off in the night?
<<UserID:Webb>> He’s had more than enough opportunity to do it up ‘til now, if he was going to. Besides, ever since that recording, he’s seemed so...
<<Unidentified Male>> Quiet?
<<UserID:Webb>> Yeah. And sad, somehow. Can’t just kick the little guy out when he’s feeling low. What about you, eyeball? You want to stick around with this old coot a little longer?
<<UserID:ED-E>> 011110010110010101110011
<<Unidentified Male>> What’d it say?
<<UserID:Webb>> I don’t know. I never know.
Still, it’s good to have him around, Enclave or no.
<<UserID:ED-E>> 010101000110100001100001011011100110101100100000
<<UserID:Webb>> Well, I’m beat. Thanks again for the fire, the food, and the company, kid. You gonna get some sleep?
<<Unidentified Male>> Might be I’ll stay up and play for a bit, yet.
<<UserID:Webb>> Knock yourself out. Hope my snoring doesn’t throw off your rhythm.
//Recording Ends//