#devil's brigade

BEFORE YOU ANSWER:

WW2 is just the backstory.

Jack Crawford’s perspective on the Devil’s Brigade would be laced with veteran insight, bitterness, and that unique blend of respect and surgical critique only a Pre-War Enclave doctor could offer.

Logged via internal terminal, encrypted under “Project Resurgence” file tree. Entry dated: 2291.04.17.

"Met what's left of the Devil's Brigade today. Enclave Remnants. Not the worst I've seen. Worn, scarred, sharp. Still loyal—to something that no longer exists."

"They call themselves warriors. I don’t argue. They’ve survived a lot more than most. But survival and purpose aren’t the same."

"You can see it in Moreno’s eyes. That man still salutes ghosts. Still thinks we're one counteroffensive away from reclaiming the Constitution off a goddamn tombstone."

"Arcade? Smart kid. Terrified of what he comes from. Reminds me of what I was trying to avoid becoming when I froze myself."

"I didn’t unthaw to rebuild the old Enclave. I came back to stop its shadow from choking what little future we have."

"But credit where it’s due: they didn’t break. That armor’s old, the minds inside older... but discipline like that doesn’t rot easily."

"They’re not monsters. They’re what happens when purpose doesn’t evolve."

💬 Off-the-cuff quote, later to Vale over whiskey:

A Sudden End

“It all returns to the soil.”

That's what my grandmother always used to tell me. And now here I lay, my body numb and my throat dry. My time on God’s Earth is nearly over. All that’s left is to reminisce.

My family has a farm back in Maine. There were sixteen of us in my childhood. Not that there is much of a childhood in such a place. My father and uncle would hunt for our food as often as they could. We children were too small and weak to wield weapons or carve flesh. So it was our job to dispose of any unused parts of the animals. I would cry and moan to my grandparents every time I was returned from the barn to the house.

My grandmother would try to comfort me with tall tales and legends. Stories of fur trappers clinging to life for an entire winter with just a single buck smaller than our own. Natives who created the finest leather out of pelts just like the won we had. At the times these stories failed to soothe me, she would reassure me it was just the circle of life. The worms fertilized the grass, the deer ate the grass, we ate the deer and one day the worms would eat us. One life ends so another can continue on. Ashes to ashes. Dust to dust.