-I'll try and take it further...
"Look, I can understand that you feel a bit shaken...but you've gotta listen to me when I say that this place is probably littered with more mutants thriving for a firefight and a story for mommy mutant. If there is one thing I can tell you about the wasteland, it's that you have to keep on your feet...never stay in the same place for longer than you have to, you're welcome to follow us back, but that's your choice. I'd just rather not see you get turned into mincemeat, like every other wanderer I come across." A brotherhood officer tells you before they cautiously fall out of the hot zone.
Reeling to your senses, you walk around the fallen beast with the hole in its chest, and you walk for around an hour down nameless streets of the city. Upon turning onto a certain street, a barricade of rusted cars and junk blocks your entrance. With Dogmeat patiently sitting by your side, you search the barricade up and down for a sign of some sort, and you find what you are looking for: "Welcome to Derry, where everyday is Bloody Sunday!" A cruel joke, you think, but not made by mutants. They haven't got the knowledge to compose a sentence of such structure. Soon after seeing the sign, you see the kicker to the crude joke, a large pile of the bodies of citizens, horridly mutilated. Some charred, scorched, burned. Others have important limbs missing; some seem to have melted skin and melted clothes, while more often than not you just see sun bathed skeletons with ragged bits of clothing strewn about. The mound of bodies stands tall, and you gag for a moment, keeping the last thing you ate down in your stomach. Another sign jumps out at you, painted in blood: "Innocence is not welcome, but prosttutes are!" You wonder how the wasteland got to be as f**ked up as it is now. While you ponder on various things, your intense thought is interrupted by the low basstone growl of your companion, there is something behind you...
You spin around to see what Dogmeat is protecting you from, and you get the deep feeling of a sunken heart. The nerve sets in. You wonder if everyday is like this in the wasteland, if killing or being killed is a necessity to everyday life. None of that matters to you anymore, all that matters now is getting out of this place alive, out of this situation.
The raider snickers, "Howdy do, tough guy! Heh..." He pushes his stance upward, exiting the lean on the barricade and slowly strutting his way towards you calmly. He wears various pieces of armor, made from the junk of the wasteland, as well as a pair of aviator sunglasses shielding his eyes and a black and white bandana covering his mouth, which emits a raspy deep voice. As we walks, he spins a .357 Magnum on his index finger, the chrome tip of the barrel shimmering in the setting sun.
You panic, a nervous breakdown. Without a clue of what to do, you fall to your knees, dizzied by the numerous hours exposed in the sun. You slip into unconciousness...
You can hear the faint speaking of the raider, but fail to interpret it: "Wow, sun poisoning, what a f**king pu**y. Hope Copperjaw doesn't make it too painful for him...Oh wait a second, yes I do...Heh Heh..." You hear the whimper of Dogmeat, and feel the ground sliding beneath you...You are being dragged down the street, into the core of Derry...
--Whoops, just realized Bloody Sunday hadn't occurred before the war, pretend it did, though
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