Vault-TecOS v.86
[c]2076 Vault-Tec
User log:
Administrator (Vault-Tec ID 887-001)
Open_file: JOURNAL_1
Opening File . . .
Success!
Date Recorded: 8/11/2282
" It's so depressing … this place? Why would Motor-runner make us live here … safety? Safety is a dream thought up by some pre-war dirt bag. What I would give to leave this disgusting vault, I would do anyone, give anything- except just one hydra, just to get me on my way. Motor-Runner uses this hole like a prison … except instead of hard steel bars, he uses chems and deceit. He makes those who can fight, kill. Everyone else- myself included- are nothing but slaves to Motor-Runner's lieutenants. Cook-cook uses me a lot … almost every time we line up, he points at me with a grin only an insane man could conjure. I try to put my mind somewhere else, but he tells me to struggle. If I don't, he burns me with his cigarette until I try and stop him. Cook-cook's scarred hands grab me; his body feels like that of a super mutant, and his touch is no less painful than a bark scorpions' sting. Once he's caught me, once he's … using me … I grab the time-hardened cloth sweatshirt I've worn since adolescence; my hands creep up over my chest. I probe around for the warm metal of my necklace, eyes shut tightly. I grasp the small silver pendant in my palms, and remember when I was just a little girl living out in Primm. That was back when my things were my own, my life was my own. I remember playing on the old roller coaster behind the Bison Steve Hotel. On some days, I'd make it all the way to the top. From there, I could see New Vegas. How I longed to go there … I would talk to all the travelers who would pass through on their way down the Long 15, hoping to find one who would take me with them. An innocent girl would do no good on the road, and I knew it. It didn't stop me from asking though.
It is the memories of those long, warm days back in Primm with my father and brother that get me through the misery of my life. My father passed away the week before I left for New Vegas, but it is my brother who I think about when the chems run dry. Alec was his name, and he was always looking out for what was right. Every morning, Alec was the first one up helping dad fix broken tech. And when raiders would wander too close to town, Alec was always ready to fight, or die to protect us- me, in particular. If only he could save me from this horrible place and take me back home … if only he didn't join the goddamn Mojave Express. That fool boy, he knew the life of a courier was no life of luxury. But then again … he must be doing better than this- this wretched squalor. My life now is nothing but a shame; I ran out of pity for even myself, and now all I care about is drugs and distant memories. Sometimes I think that even if Alec were dead, I'd envy him. My life is a living hell, and yet I'm too much of a coward to end it all. Self-pity never helped anyone, so I suppose I should just get on with it.
After my father died, and once my brother left … I had no reason to stay in Primm. I thought, through some twisted fantasy gone wrong, that everything was better in New Vegas. The nights I spent sitting on the peak of the roller coaster hill were some of the best of my life. I would look out at the New Vegas skyline, and dream that I was one of the chic mistresses of the fancy, high-class businessmen who make their living on the strip, be it through entertainment, organized crime, or well, anything else. I thought money, looks, and class were all that mattered. I would dream of who my latest boyfriend would be, what kind of big deals he would be running, what kind of fancy liqueur's we'd be drinking … all shallow and lifeless things that travelers slipped into my mind over the years. Their poison words turned my thoughts sour … those cocky, charming merchants had no idea what they were doing to me … that once innocent girl, now stashed away underground with nothing to look forward to but a dirty needle filled with the euphoric venom I care more about than life itself.
I hear Cook-cook coming … and I know what he wants. I can't say no to him. Hell, if I did? It wouldn't matter … he'd probably like it. I may as well be a good little whore, and give that disgusting pile of shit in metal armor no reason to burn me. Not that it will make a difference … atleast I'll get some hydra. Just listen to me … I deserve this. I hoped for a high-class man with big business under his arm, and got a worthless excuse for a man with a flamer in each hand. I deserve this. –Sandra, Vault 3."
Would you like to close file? [y]/[n]
Closing file …
Administrator(Hidden Terminal)
Opening_File: MESSAGE FROM THE AUTHOR
Opening file …
Success!
Date Recorded: 12/16/2010
"Hey fellow writers! If you love the Fallout series as much as I do, then you'll notice that this is a journal entry from one of Fallout: New Vegas's Fiends. I hope the whole 'command prompt' aspect to the writing helped 'pull you in'. I've spent hours searching for every last hidden terminal all over the fallout universe, looking for everything from hilarious stories to interesting plot references. I figured that there would be no better way to deliver my own tale! As a newer writer, I'm definitely looking for input on how my writing can be improved. I will reference your reviews before writing new material, and hopefully your comments will make me a better writer. Also, I would like to know what the community thinks about my particular style. After talking to some friends, there are mixed opinions. I figured asking a community of skilled writers would be a bit more appropriate than asking a few science fiction fans. Looking forward to your comments! –The Hidden Terminal"