May, 2288
Dear Big Sister,
Thank you for your letter. I am glad things are business-as-usual in Diamond City. I suppose a few synths wandering around is small price to pay if they are keeping the peace and city security doesn't seem to mind them. It gives me hope that the emergence of the Institute as the new power in the Commonwealth can only be a good thing. Oh, how I hope, Luce. How I hope.
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| 'Looking northeast from my guard post.' |
I included a photograph of the view from my post. The sun was out and the wind from the ocean smelled like salt. It almost made me forget this place, Luce. Almost.
Since my last letter things have changed a bit here. We now have nine settlers in our little community. There are seven women and two men. Most of them I don't know very well yet. Everyone is still a little standoffish, and understandably so. Plus there's so much work to be done scavenging on the rocky cliffs and the peninsula, and tending the crops. I've gotten to know the twins, Eliza and Elise, our head gardeners. They are inseparable. They both wear these green rag hats that make it almost impossible to tell them apart. One of the men, Gerald, keeps to himself mostly but smiles and nods to me every morning before he starts work pruning the mutfruit plants. He seems nice, but has the same faraway eyes that everyone else does here.
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| The compound from the second storey of Croup Manor. Daphne's guard post can be seen on the left. |
The other change is, we all got new beds. Oh, the small pleasures! I couldn’t believe it. I was standing my post while the Wanderer tinkered and bashed about inside the old house. When I went inside later I saw the changes – he’d fixed the holes in the floors and roof, and installed brand new frame beds for us, with mattresses (we only had flimsy sleeping bags before). Though I am so grateful for the bed, it will sure make it hard to get up every morning!
There’s something I need to share. When the Wanderer was last here, dropping off the letters and building our new beds, I accidentally overheard him talking to Dogmeat. He fusses over that dog in a way that makes my heart ache. Anyway, he was putting a few new toys around the doghouse, and he stroked Dogmeat’s head and said something. I didn’t catch it clearly, but it was like ‘I don’t know if I did the right thing, boy,’ and he said it in… well in such a distant way. It’s probably nothing. All of us who have wandered the wastelands hold regrets in our hearts and in our souls. The occasional lonely musing over it all can be excused, I think. But there’s something else. He was about to give one of the other settlers a coat. A Railroad coat. But at the last minute he changed his mind, said he’d bring something better next time, and left in a hurry. There was something in his eyes. Something much deeper than regret. It’s the first time I’ve seen anything in those eyes beyond a pale, blank stare.
Don’t mind me... It’s late and it’s been a long day. We tuned in to Freedom Radio today. I’m very thankful for that radio. The Wanderer brought it for us. It helps to break the monotony. At first, for safety, we were going to only listen to it at night, volume down real low. But Miranda, bless her tough-as-nails soul, insisted we turn it up, loud, all day while we work the crops and guard this place. And since she got her way (Miranda always does) this place feels more like a home. The Wanderer was not too sure of it at first. He worried we wouldn’t be able to hear an attack coming. He looked right at me when he said it, and I am ashamed to admit I could not hold his stare. I don’t have your self-confidence, sis. Miranda stepped in and said we’d see an attack coming during the day, and hear it at night. It was hard to argue with her logic. The Wanderer just nodded and went about his business. I think he’s a little taken with her. She got a military cap and a laser rifle. All I got was some sunglasses. She keeps teasing him, every time he approaches her she says playfully ‘Hope you’re not here to cause trouble...' He never laughs at her jokes. I saw him smirk once. At any rate, Miranda is difficult to argue with.
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| Miranda at her post atop the west guard tower. |
Before I forget, the last time the Wanderer was here, I got to play with Dogmeat. I noticed something – he’s got little needle scars on his neck and haunches. He’s been stimpaked a few times. It’s amazing. In this world of such chaos and barbarity, such callous and reckless hate, a man could pause long enough during a fight to administer first aid to his dog. I like this Wanderer.
I couldn’t help myself – I had to ask. Before the Wanderer could call Dogmeat over I leaned down, touched one of the tiny scars, and asked him, ‘stimpaks?’
To this he remarked, after regarding me for just a moment, ‘Yeah. Super Mutant Suicider with a mini-nuke.’ He leaned down and stroked the dog’s fur. ‘He was a lucky boy that day.’
‘You’re good to have used a stim on him,’ I said.
He regarded me again in that distant way. ‘He’s been good to me,’ he said.
The way he said it, call me silly, but I felt sure he would have used that stimpak on Dogmeat even if it had been the last one he had.
‘Where did it happen?’ I asked.
‘Not far from here, Nahant Wharf,’ the Wanderer said. He seemed about to go on, but instead just stroked Dogmeat’s head again. ‘We’ve been through worse.’
He started towards the front gate, and I called after him, ‘Watch yourself out there, Wanderer.’
‘Call me Marius,’ he said.
Our ninth comrade showed up the other day. He's been wandering the wastes for a long time, and has some kind of terrible scars on his face that he covers with a skull bandanna. He arrived one day while Marius was here, and the two of them talked quietly by the front gate for a while, before our new friend was given a pipe rifle and sent to the guard post outside the walls, the one we call the Island because when you're standing there at night it feels so very far away. He hasn't told anyone his name, and he eats alone and doesn't talk to anyone. Each day he just checks his rifle with the care of a farmer tending the only crop he's ever grown, and heads out to the Island to keep watch on the road. I managed to take a photograph of him the other day. He just looked at me, nodded, and went back to watching the road.
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| Daphne's 'ninth comrade', the newcomer. |
It's late. I better get some sleep before the next guard shift. Write me back as soon as you can, the thought of your letters making their way to me in Marius' backpack fills me with hope each day.
With love, your little sister, Daph.
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