Another day, another dust storm howling across the Capital Wasteland. The wind kicked up a nasty brew of irradiated sand and pre-war scrap, hurling it right at Big Town's gates. Like this hellhole needed more problems. Life here was hard enough without eating grit every time you drew breath. Each gust made the guards curse louder, their squinting eyes fixed on the shifting sands.

You were a newcomer, but a hundred times already you'd questioned every choice that led you to this miserable pile of scrap they called a settlement. Slumped by the entrance to your shack, you watched old Pappy—the town's so-called "handyman"—futilely battling a section of the perimeter fence. The thing was supposed to keep the worst of the debris out. Key word: supposed to.

Even from a distance, you could tell his repairs were about as solid as a Brahmin's promise. Hammering away at rusted sheet metal, the old timer muttered to himself. He was barely adequate, but in Big Town, "barely adequate" made you indispensable. For now, he was the only thing standing between us and being buried alive by the Wasteland's trash. A grim thought, as another wave of sand stung your face.