Disclaimer: I don't own anything pertaining to Fallout, NBK or Bonnie and Clyde. Just the story itself and original characters I developed.
Confessions Written in Blood – Killing for a Living
My name is – I'm not going to tell you my name. All you need to know it that I hated the Wasteland since I first saw it. It was a desolate and cruel place; it was derived entirely from human nature. Human nature dropped the bombs, human nature found a way to survive and human nature used that survival not to fix and better the world but to continue causing pain towards its fellow man. Growing up in the Vault I learned of human history and thought that maybe there was a chance that humanity would grow from this. I thought that perhaps they would say "enough" and cease all of this insanity, but of course like every war that never happens. No matter the amount of suffering it will never stop. Why you ask? Well, that's just human nature and that's just what I became. Let me explain.
I quickly experienced the harshness of the Wasteland and I learned to adapt to it. This changed me. I was a real nice guy but I became somewhat of a bastard, you could say.
I needed to be a bastard. Everyone and everything I came across either wanted me dead or didn't care or was just there for business. I decided to cash in on the business aspect of the Wastes. "Business" meant two things to me: both trading and selling goods of some sort, or a darker type of entrepreneurship. I learned that I could thrive in the shady underworld of business that the Wastes had to offer. Shady could mean a number of things.
I sold any hard drugs, extra weapons and escaped slaves I found to one of my contacts, who ran a drug/slave/weapons trafficking business. Needless to say, he was doing pretty well for himself and I made good money out of that. That guy is part of what we call the "Tenpenny Circle", and I met him through a guy named Burke. Him and I became business partners after he paid me an awfully generous sum of caps to blow a shanty place called "Megaton" to shit. The place was homely in a way, and the people were okay, but the money was worth more to me than weak sentimentality of any sort.
Money helped me eat, sleep, bathe and cope. It was my reward for staying alive through the constant abuse the Wastes would thrust upon me, all of the bullshit life flung at me. It was my source of pride, strength and motivation. What's more, in the Circle I got paid to do the things I enjoyed. I got used to the killing, I actually had started to like it, and I had always been fascinated by War and violence. Tenpenny needed a competitor eliminated? I was sent in to assassinate. Were Zombies hindering Tenpenny's profit? I was sent on a Search and Destroy mission and didn't come back until they were all dead. Some of them would beg, some of them wouldn't. Some of them were women and kids and others were old. None of it made any difference to me. Have you ever seen a Ghoul run? You wouldn't think it, but those rotting Zombie legs could carry them far.
None are faster than bullets however.
Ghouls are all useless, bound to turn Feral because of all the worms that slowly start feasting on their brain. They are parasites themselves, and I'm just making the Wasteland a safer place. Anyway, Tenpenny isn't as much a stiff upper lip businessman as he would like the public to think (what's left of the public). He needs people like me to do his dirty work. How do you think he makes money? It isn't through legal business methods, that won't get you far where I live. Besides, in the Capital Wasteland there is no real law.
I realized I needed to protect my identity after Regulators started coming after me, so I started to go by the name "Geist", meaning "ghost" or "spirit" in German. Now, I'm Hispanic, far from German but I fell in love with the language and felt it was fitting name for a new life. I made a vow to never go by my real name. Soon enough, I developed a reputation in the Wastes as a sort of "Grim Reaper" or "Wasteland Boogeyman"; it was actually kind of fun. People thought that I was always a hard-nosed killer so I used that to my advantage and developed a personality out of it. I couldn't let anyone find out that there were times I cried, or felt lonely at night or desired love or affection of any sort. Too weak, too useless, it would ruin me. I needed to stay as the black clad armored soldier, not some emotional wreck.
I had recently accomplished one of my missions, given to me by Burke. Some druggy slime bag in Rivet City stopped paying one of our associates their due. I was to approach him in secret, and get him to pay. He tells me he had an especially rough fight with his wife one night and that he blew the money on booze at the local tavern.
To make a long and drawn out story short, he didn't have the money.
This was unacceptable, so I shot him, took his stuff, waited for his wife to come home and put a gun to her temple. I told her to shut the hell up and meet me outside the city in five minutes or I would track her down and kill her. The slut was smart, she must have known who I was so she did as she was told and I put a slave collar on her and sent her on her merry way. That covered the expenses. It's a shame how life works, lady married the wrong guy and because her husband was a deadbeat drug addict, she'll probably be sucking off slavers for the rest of her miserable existence. Another reason why not to do drugs: there's no respect in it.
Anyhow, Mr. Tenpenny doesn't like being fucked with, and neither do I.
The evening I started to head back was especially windy in particular, and I was grateful for the armor I was wearing. The beginnings of a sandstorm was on the horizon but thanks to the combat armor I had taken off of some Talon bastards that attacked me, I was well protected. I had found some balaclava and an undershirt from the remains of a Chinese Special Ops soldier a while back and that had paid off immensely. I was tentative about wearing any of it at first, but after washing both things a few times they proved to be great assets against the environment. Coupled with the sunglasses/goggles I bought off of some trader, the sandstorm didn't slow me down until about half an hour later when it became too thick to see through.
Since I could hear gunshots, growls and screams in the distance I thought it best to stop for the night. I looked to my right and saw what looked to be a beat up supermarket in the distance, so I made my way there. As I drew close I could see the sign, it read "Super-Duper Mart".
I gave a raspy chuckle, as my throat was uncomfortably dry from the arid climate. "Super-Duper Mart huh? That's a fuckin' queer name, isn't it Sofia?" Sofia was my modified Chinese assault rifle, as I had named her. Sofia was the only thing I loved. I gave her a sexy black finish and I had a scope and suppressor for her. I also bought her a bayonet, which I called my "wedding ring" to her. Ha, she never takes it off. I could have sworn to you she was my everything. I survived countless struggles, battles and hardships with Sofia. Derived from Russian AK series, she never once jammed on me, was as tough as I was (she never bitches unlike some women) and I hardly ever had to maintain her (although I did my best to keep her spotless).
Besides Sofia I had my sidearm: a (also modified) "Blackhawk" .44 Magnum revolver. I didn't treasure it as much as my dear Sofia, but it had saved my ass a number of times. I also couldn't forget my ballistic knife, had some real laughs with that.
Yeah, I named my gun. Yes I called her a "she".
No, I wasn't crazy – I just felt alone sometimes. I had been alone since I started my journey months ago. Or was it a year? I didn't know anymore, time blended together. My sonofabitch father had caused some ruckus back at the Vault I grew up in and I was forced to leave or die when I was 18. I grew to dislike that place too; it was a giant cultish prison camp. I didn't mind leaving, thought the circumstances could've been better, though. I didn't much care for my father, we stopped having a good relationship as I got older, let's just say we clashed often, so I set out to try and make a life and name for myself here. Now 19 and well established within my own "community", things were still crap but they were better.
That is to say, at least I wasn't dead.