Mercy's logs is a holotape in the Fallout 4 Creation Club creation Capital Wasteland Mercenaries.
Location
- On Mercy, in Galaxy News Radio near Phil Goodman's office.
Transcript
Good Fighters
When word got out GNR was up for grabs, people thought it'd be a free for all. But it hasn't been that way. These Good Fighters took over the place like cockroaches inheriting the Earth.
I guess people always assumed the Brotherhood would take it back, but shit changed when the Prydwen left Adams. Now everyone wants a piece, including my employers.
Over the past few days, I've gotten in good with the crew. Supposedly they like to take in orphans and head cases, so the phony memory loss shtick worked well enough. Not sure what to make of this band of misfits just yet, but they obviously won't be able to hold the place when push comes to shove.
Not like I give a fuck what happens to them. I'm just here for the DJ.
The DJ
My employers knew what they were doing when they hired me.
Sure, I'm good at what I do. You don't survive as a slave for 13 years without learning how to smile away your rage. And while some people might be scared to take on a job like this, when you come up from the the mud, nothing fazes you.
But that doesn't mean I'm not bitter about the past. Ever since I got rid of the collar, I've wanted one thing and one thing only: to kill that zombie son of a bitch who sold me.
I didn't give a fuck about the station. That was just part of the deal. But the ghoul, the ghoul is mine.
Losing My Nerve
Every time I'm alone with this zombie fuck, I lose my nerve. Why am I hesitating? Why can't I kill him?
I haven't forgiven him, so it's not that. He did what he did and he can't take it back. But killing him feels off. None of this is how I pictured it.
Whatever. I still have a job to do. Once I get the station blueprints and a head count to my employers, it won't be long before they move in.
Why Am I Staying?
I don't know anymore. I don't know why the fuck I'm still here. I should be riding shotgun with the Talon Company mercs, or just plain getting the fuck out.
Yet here I am, holding a gun, ready to fight this good fucking fight. What the hell is wrong with me?
