"Stupid fucking thing..."
Wilson tapped on the glass front of the device, to no avail. He had been tinkering with the device for about an hour. He glanced down at the logo below the screen, a proud announcement that he was in possession of a 'PIP Boy 3000.' A disdainful thought along the lines of 'what have they got to be proud of' ran through his mind. In frustration, he bashed the glorified wristwatch on the dusty earth, in the vain hope that it might spark into life. Its dull black screen remained unresponsive however. 'That must be why he didn't make it' thought Wilson, as he recalled the image of the solitary vault dweller, sprawled out on the cracked soil, bullet wounds straight through his chest.
"You know, the bullets entered the body from his back. That means the poor sod was running from something."
Wilson turned his head sharply and watched Roscoe, his hired caravan guard, as he polished and cleaned his shotgun. Roscoe cocked his head up, and met Wilson's eye. 'Maybe it was his instincts,' thought Wilson. Roscoe had an uncanny knack for saying what Wilson was thinking. It was a fact that Wilson had got used to; on one hand it made him feel uneasy, as if his mind was not his own, but open to others, on the other hand it comforted him to know that there was another in the wasteland who thought like him, with whom he shared a bond.
"Yeah...probably. Probably raiders. Sadistic bastards."
"He paid the price for naivety. What do you expect from a vault kid with only a busted PIP Boy and a .32 to his name?"
"I suppose so..."
Roscoe put his shotgun down and focused on Wilson, his dark eyes intently scrutinising Wilson's attempts to hotwire the PIP Boy.
"Why are you still bothering with that?" It's not gonna keep you alive."
Wilson half ignored him, and pressed on in his efforts.
"It's interesting. Interesting to know what sort of gear the boffins at Vault-Tec gave those vault dwellers, and who knows what could be on this thing. This is what I do. I'm a scavenger. We're scavengers.
"I'm a killer. And the only thing that's on that is dust and pre-war techno babble. Come on, if you want to make it to the next trading stop, we have to go now."
Wilson signed resignedly, and tucked the PIP Boy inside one of the pockets on his brahmin's pack. Without a word, he whipped the brahmin's behind with a twig, and the ungainly beast stumbled on its way, the two men in tow.