Work Text:
A tape whirrs, and a voice speaks:
“Silvia’s log. May 18th, 2280.
There is a man who sells tumbleweeds. He claims to farm them. When I first saw a tumbleweed, upon arriving in Nevada, I too believed them to be some form of beast.
I was wrong, of course. As is he, but I do believe that it would simply be cruel to tell him.
A tumbleweed is nothing more than a, rather sharp, I must admit, dried out plant. According to my colleagues, any tumbleweed is most likely to be the invasive species, known as the Russian Thistle.
I had a rather unfortunate experience when I first arrived here. I do believe that it does feature in one of my entries from my arrival in the West, but I am unaware.
I saw a tumbleweed tumbling, and believing it to be a form of mole rat or other previously unforeseen, by me, beast, I raised my sword. The electricity crackled, and I struck at the tumbleweed, spiky flakes of plant throwing themselves at my power armour. Very bizarre.”
The pipboy buzzed, and Silvia lightly tapped the dial, causing the sound to fade.
But, to the man who sells tumbleweeds. He simply refers to himself as the Tumbleweed Farmer. He is a nightkin, which is a form of super mutant, however they are purple, and tend to develop schizophrenia or related disorders. I believe that it is due to the stealth boys that they use? It seems to be a side effect.
The nightkin were created by ‘the Master’, a monsterous man who was defeated by a long ago Grandfather of mine. He kept a diary also, however his was written.”
She paused, listening to the hum of the tape.
“It is curious how my family came to be. I must make way to the town- tribe- from which my Father and Grandmother came. At some point I must also head to the land of Appalachia” she stumbled lightly over the word, “in order to track down the heritage I have through my Mother.”
She hummed.
“Well, that is the end for today’s entry.”
The device clicked off.