November 25, 2287 – Do you hear that sound? That’s the sound of two or three Deathclaws up above me. They’ve been patrolling for the last hour or so, trying to sniff me out. I’m hiding in a church, inside the Glowing Sea, below ground level. It had been covered up to the bottom of its belltower with dirt, and I stepped on the rotting roof next to it and fell inside. As I was trying to climb out, I heard that unmistakable snort.
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November 16, 2287 – There’s a chill coming through the window of the house where I’m staying in this little settlement called Covenant. I don’t know why they leave the windows open. It’s mid-November. The other people here don’t seem to mind, but sometimes there’s two of them in a bed, so maybe they’re keeping each other warm. They tell me a few days have gone by since they brought me here. The only time I seem to wake up and be somewhat aware of what’s going on is when that damned breeze comes in, usually in the middle of the night. There’s the constant drone of generators, or turrets – maybe a mix of the two. And a tree just outside my window that makes an eerie creaking sound every time that coldness drifts through the window.
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November 13, 2287 – Goodneighbor had the illusion of being a tucked away protected area in the middle of the city. It was walled off on all sides, only accessible by the main entrance off what was now an alleyway eventually leading to the Common. But even as I tried to sleep, there were constant sounds of Vertiberds overhead, firefights in the distance, and explosions. Hancock might have controlled what was going on inside the borders of this town, but outside, there was a still a war, apparently now between the Brotherhood and the various rogue forces that were competing for resources and political control. Even the Minutemen, stuck in the northwest corner of the Commonwealth, were involved in that battle, as Preston and his crew tried to eke out their version of freedom for the expanding array of settlements that allied themselves with the faction. At first, it seemed to be good guys vs. the bad guys. But it was getting increasingly difficult to tell who was who anymore. I had a feeling if I got to someone representing the Institute at some point, they’d probably think they had a good reason for doing what they were doing as well. Maybe they would feel they were trying to protect mankind somehow, or maybe they’d feel mankind wasn’t worth protecting.
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November 13, 2287 – As Nick and I headed to the lower level of the Memory Den, where Dr. Amari set people up in egg-shaped pods where they could live out parts of other people’s lives, I asked him a question I had been wondering about for quite a while, especially in light of my conversation with Hancock. With so many in the Commonwealth openly hostile toward the Institute, and synths in general, how was it that he was on such good terms with so many people? He said it hadn’t always been this way. He had never hidden who he was, and in a time when the real terror of synths came from them inhabiting friends and family, he had always just been Nick. That transparency – which was mostly forced by his facial appearance – had been vital in getting people to trust him.
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