“…I’m a bad, bad man and I’ve done some horrible things in my life. May God forgive me for all the men I’ve killed. They were good men….and in my greed…in my rage…I took their lives away…..Oh Lord…please….please….save them…from the evil in me.” ~Killgore Killgore didn’t have to be a seasoned veteran to realize he was being followed. He had realized there was somebody on his six for two days now. He was on his way back home to the Commonwealth and to the ruins of Old Boston. “First I had to way out of the way to find that man and then he put up one hell of a fight. Damn,” Killgore thought to himself as he cradled his ribs, That guy sure had plenty of fight in him but I think I’ll live through this.” His ribs were bruised and maybe broke but the pain wasn’t a problem for Killgore. He was used to all sorts of punishment. Like his uncle used to say, he was built to take a beating. With his particular skill set it was no surprise of what occupation he performed. Killgore was employed as what’s known as a Man Hunter, a specific type of Bounty Hunter who specialized in capturing and locating high-risk bounties. He had been doing the job for a while now and had taken in over 200 bounties alive, with twice that taken in dead. With things being the way they were back home, he had to take on more bounties from the people in charge of Old Boston; A philanthropically group known as The Institute. The Institute was formed by those with larger brains and intellects than Killgore or anyone he had ever had the chance to meet. The folks in charge had all sorts of technology that they recovered and even ones they had invented. The Institute, back up in Old Boston, had contracted him for such a dodgy job that he almost turned it down. They didn't give him much to go on just that he was going to go looking some tall slender bald guy who just so happened to be a damn expert sniper. Killgore preferred to do his business at a closer range. It…allowed him the luxury of stealth. For his size, he was surprisingly agile able to walk quietly enough to get the jump of plenty of his marks. In the end, however, he took the job because the pay was so great it was more caps than most people see in a life time. 1000 caps with 200 up front and 800 on delivery and the pay was so much that Killgore had to ask twice. He went out to the local Arms dealer in South Boston and picked himself up a good Remington 870 shotgun with just the basic ammunition. He had hoped that he would not have to use it. Unfortunately when Killgore finally tracked the mark down, he had to wage a one man war all the way through a dozen armed raiders. Killgore snuck through most of them and hacked the rest to bits with his faithful machete before encounter the mark. He found his mark and he was damn strong, stronger than a junkie on a psycho binge, the only thing he could compare that guy to was a super mutant. Killgore got thrown through the wooden floor boards and down two flights before he came to a stop. He had thought he was dead and in his shattered display he thought he might at last find solace. As he lay there on death’s door he couldn’t help but think of his dear brother Benjamin. His brother was a sore topic of discussion and he usually didn’t talk about him or even think about him. The guilt was too much for him. He lay there clinging to life and as if his brother was standing over him, bent down and reached for him. “Get up. Get up Thadeus. We need you. ..I need you,” whispered Ben. Killgore was probably hallucinating from a drunken stupor…. “Enough with the past, I just want to get home before something does kill me,” Killgore thought to himself. He was usually careful when it came to setting up camp for the night. He always took the long way around so he would stay out of sight but he took a chance and instead of heading north to the Catskills he decided to head through Old York. He had only been this way once and most of the area was still undiscovered. He had came through Old York about three years ago when he was a caravan guard. Killgore stood flatfooted a 6 foot even, weighing just under two hundred pounds and as strong and tough as nails. He was clad from head to toe in leather. He had seen a lot of combat in his 27 years out there in the wastes. He had made a name for himself as a mercenary for hire and often times a bounty hunter. He was very good at what he did. He knew the area somewhat from stories from his Father and his Uncle when he was just a boy. He had heard stories of a castle that had survived the war and how it was the safest place in the entire city. He had also heard of a place where all the bad people got sent to die, it was called a Prison. Killgore had looked through his bag and it was no shock to him that he was almost out of supplies. He had three Bottles of clean Drinking water, Two cans of Pork and Beans, 3 sticks of Molerat Jerky, a bottle of Whiskey, two rolls of duct tape, a small first aid kit, a can of pre-war energy soda known as Zing-Cola, and a tin of twenty Mentats. He had eaten all the fresh vegetables he had brought with him and even ate the five packs of noodles ha had brought with him on his mission five weeks ago. Killgore found a intact gas station that was surrounded with what he assumed were non-nuclear powered cars. Being the ever cautious and already knowing that he was being followed he decided to double back using a tactic he read out of a book he had found on an old Army Base. The sun was already setting and it was getting dark out and definitely not safe to be outside. The windows were boarded up on the gas station and the front door was barred shut. Killgore managed to open up the garage door enough to climb inside. It was dark inside and he couldn’t see his own hands in front of his face. But suddenly- -BAMMM! Killgore jumped in surprise. He could see through the dirty window on the door to the garage that there was something out there and whatever it was it wasn't alone. “ Just my luck!" shouted Killgore as he threw his body against the door trying to hold it down.