May 27, 2282

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Another night hidin' in the alleyway while acts of cruelty went on in the streets of Goodneighbor. I smoked a cigarette, the red hot cherry being the only illumination in the blackness surrounding me. All the while, the screams of a man bein' beaten to death on the sidewalk some feet away from my location echoed off the buildings until it finally subsided into silence.

I wasn't the only one takin' refuge in the alley. A few other unlucky drifters sat there with their backs against the walls, some with fear in their eyes, others with empty, unfeelin' stares. When was the nightmare going to end? We all waited for the cries to die down in the streets before we even thought about walkin' out into the open.

Vic's boys were on a roll lately. One beatin' after another, they slowly got cockier. Good reason, too. We were all afraid of 'em. Their laughs echoed through Goodneighbor's streets. No one wanted to bear witness to another victim of our 'beloved mayor,' so, naturally, people with homes ran inside and locked their doors. Us drifters were the real victims nine times outta ten.

I dropped the butt of my cigarette on the ground and snuffed it out with my shoe. I shoved my hands into my jeans pockets and leaned against the wall with a huff. It had gotten pretty quiet in the streets, but we knew. We knew that Vic's boys were still out there. So we waited in silence until we knew they were done lookin' for victims. We thanked God — or whatever powers that be — that they didn't look in our alley to snatch one of us up, only to turn around and curse Him for not doing a damn thing about this sick madness.

Every time I let the fear grip me and wonder if I should just return to Diamond City while I could, I'd just push it all down and plant my feet firmer. I reminded myself that the only reason I felt that way was because I spent ten years on my ass in a house of my own. Sure, it was Heaven compared to this Hell, but as bad as it was, Goodneighbor was my home now. The drifters were my family. This is what I deserved. It was the life I chose.

I glanced down at my ripped white t-shirt and dusted the loose ashes from it, then returned my hand to my pocket. My fingers met the handle of an inhaler — Jet. I moved my fingers around the familiar piece of plastic, itching for another hit, but now wasn't the time nor the place. Instead, I slid down the wall and sat there on the two-hundred-year-old asphalt by my fellow drifters and waited out the terror of another sleepless night.

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