Warning: Frequent use of strong language
Standard Issue Journal #102200
Issued to: Ralph Baker, First Recon
Dates of Service: 2280-2285
As a man long before my time once said: “I do not know with what weapons World War 3 will be fought with, but World War 4 will be fought with sticks and stones”. The Overseer was always fond of saying that; it kept us in order I suppose. The more I think on it, the more I find it to be true. We damn near annihilated ourselves once, and I've no doubt we’ll do it again. Only difference is, we won't have the vaults to save us.
While I have some free time I may as well write down my story. If anyone finds me dead with a Legion machete in my gullet, at least they’ll know who to send my body back to.
I was born in a vault, 21 to be exact. Life was good, all disputes where solved by gambling, and Lady Luck was practically a goddess to us. I grew an exceptional knack for blackjack, and used some earnings of mine to exchange ration cards for firearm training. Most people would’ve used it to buy some fancy odds-calculating bio-upgrade, but that wouldn't help in the Outside.
Oh, how I dreamed of the Outside. Somehow I imagined some kind of paradise, just like the vault but bigger, with lakes and forests and everything else we knew pre-war society had. I had no clue how fucking wrong I was.
I chose a sniper in training, learned to shoot it well. Went down there every day, paid a ration card for entry, and shot targets to my heart’s content. All that time I planned my escape out.
I, obviously, made it out when Robert House rolled up in one of his Securitons. Damn that man. The piece of junk was obviously rigged to calculate odds and read expressions so well that no bio-upgrade could hope to match it. He won a game of poker and with it, won the vault. He forced everyone to pack their bags and, in his words,“Get the hell out of my property”. I grabbed the rifle, some ammo, and a spare vault suit, shoving some rations I kept hidden under my bed in a pack.
The mystical Outside I envisioned vanished the minute we left the vault. Crumbling buildings on crumbling streets, baking under a scorching sun. People drank on the sidewalks, lights flickered and died. The Strip has since been cleaned up a bit, but that shit-hole was an awful disappointment.
I needed something to do, so I began wandering the strip, hoping to find work. The NCR didn't have the Railway to McCarran and back at the time, so I skipped town and entered Freeside.
That place was a real piece of work. Junkies, murderers, you name it, Freeside had it. I walked down the road and a real hopping joint caught my eye. “King’s School of Impersonation”. Some fella at the door was acting real cool, but he let me in.
Everyone in there had their hair the same, talked the same, dressed the same; it creeped me out, but I kept on walking.
Eventually some fella name Pacer asked if I was there to see the King, so I said sure. He wanted caps, which didn't know of and was confused by, but I traded him a bottle of clean water. That shit is hard to come by out here.
The King was the only one who was different in any way. Still talked the same, but his hair and clothes were different. Turned out he was looking for some extra muscle to keep the joint in order, and the chems out. I needed purpose, so I took the job. He explained the caps system after I explained about the vault, handed me a 10mm pistol, and sent me downstairs for the haircut and outfit. I ran with that crew for a while, learned more about the Mojave. Looking back on it, that was a real waste of time. I grew tired of the whole “King” act, jumped town again.
I wandered the roads a while, looking for a new place to set up shop. Eventually I got myself in a bad situation; I had a run in with Jet. That shit got me addicted right quick. I needed a steady supply as well as a place to use it, and I ended up back outside Freeside. Always a place for junkies amongst the Raiders. I did a lot of crap I wish I hadn't during those days. Attacked caravans, killed Brahmin, shot up NCR troops. It was real nasty.
Eventually some other chem addicts and I were aimlessly wandering the ruins of the West Side and got ambushed by some troopers on patrol. Landed me a one-way ticket to the NCRCF. Luckily for me, I was high as hell. Gave them a fake name, got entered as “Ron Schmidt”.
With no records of anyone with that name in the area and no real proof of my accused crimes, they gave me a reduced sentence. I got out even before that ended though.
One night some of the more rebellious inmates launched an escape attempt. Blew out the god damn walls. Killed the guards, took over nearby Primm, and shot the shit outta anyone who got in their way. Only good thing I remember about the whole thing was I left the prison an addiction free man.
Ah fuck, my CO is making his rounds. If he sees me writing this after lights out he’ll flip his shit. I'll catch this up to the present tomorrow.
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