Greg “Two-Shot” Reynolds was a former member of the Brotherhood of Steel, he has already made it as far as the commonwealth in his exile. Everything in his body hurt and he was mildly irradiated, luckily for him a mutation in his body made radiation heal him. Two-Shot whimpered like a kicked dog, his body pushed out a bullet from some jackass raider that shot him in the side.
“Fuck me.” He cursed as the rolling cloud of irradiated death was approaching from the horizon. Rad Storms was what the natives called it and while his body healed from radiation, the risk of becoming a Ghoul was in the back of his mind. His pip-boy started to crackle as the cloud was close enough he could feel the warmth of radiation.
Two-Shot climbed into a window of a house, a few bloatflies tried to disagree with this action and received the last of Two-Shot’s ammunition. The house was empty except for a few bottles of wonderglue and a can of cram. Two-Shot moved to the attic and hunkered down, spreading out his weapons and cleaning them. There was a certain zen that came from using a whetstone to sharpen a machete, the cloud rolled in as the incredibly warm rain splattered against the building. Two-Shot tried to lose himself in the sound of sharpening. Scrape, scrape, scrape, scrape, thump?