Farmer's diary is a five-part book in Wasteland 2.
Background[ | ]
A simple notebook fashioned out of reams of blank Xerox paper lashed with twine.
Locations[ | ]
- Prison: Found in various locations across the area.
| Location | |
|---|---|
| Part 1 | On a dead body near the entrance to the location. |
| Part 2 | On Auwerter's farm (second area), locked in a crate to the northwest. |
| Part 3 | Locked in a crate near Red Baychowski's well. |
| Part 4 | Crate near the Militia blockade. |
| Part 5 | Found in a safe inside the RSM Prison (can only be accessed after Damonta). |
Transcript[ | ]
Part 1[ | ]
This appears to be the diary of a local farmer. It spans many years. Some of it is written in illegible scrawls, and some pages are missing or so smudged as to be unreadable, but flipping through it you find good readable chunks.
Fetched a great price for our corn today. The Rangers have been recruiting heavily, so no wonder they needed more food supplies than usual. It took a bit of haggling with that old stickler of a quartermaster but I got a good load of scrap and even some new tools.
Took a look at the new recruits. Not much to look at. Hope they can whip them into shape. I know some of their ""boring duties"" will include guarding our farms. Better do a good job.
...
Tabby and I celebrated five years in our new home. Still best decision I ever made. Ground here is tougher, and the beasties more dangerous, but I don't rightly think I ever appreciated what a difference peace makes. I can wake up with no worries of raiders appearing on our doorstep. Even five years in, that's an odd feeling.
This young gun assigned to us keeps insisting we refer to him by some silly-ass nickname. Wears me thin, but the wife's taken a shine to him. Treats him like just another one of the boys. And fair's fair. He even gives a hand around the farm when he has time.
...
Part 2[ | ]
This appears to be the diary of a local farmer. It spans many years. Some of it is written in illegible scrawls, and some pages are missing or so smudged as to be unreadable, but flipping through it you find good readable chunks.
Silly nickname aside, the boy's a crack shot. Some weird kinda coyote nearly took Bill's leg off with one bite, but the kid shot him right in the eyes from straight across the field.
Never seen nothing quite like this coyote. It was bigger than any I've ever seen, but more than that the fur was hard to touch, almost like steel.
Ranger Center sent a doc out to take care of Bill's leg. Odds are good he'll keep it, thank God.
...
The kid was called back to the Center. Something about sweeping patrols, clearing up the wastes. Word's trickling in things are getting pretty bad out west and north. Me and the missus pray daily that this war or whatever this is ends soon.
...
Things have been quiet for a few months now. A blessing, I suppose, though it doesn't feel like one. I was standing at the graves of the boys today. A year since I buried the last one, next to the two Rangers that fought for us. Not a day goes by still I don't visit them, or miss them.
Weird thing is, the damage those scorching machines did last year is actually helping us now. They burned our crops and nearly killed us all, but this year the ground seems refreshed. It's not much, but the missus says we should count every blessing, so I guess that'll have to do.
...
Part 3[ | ]
This appears to be the diary of a local farmer. It spans many years. Some of it is written in illegible scrawls, and some pages are missing or so smudged as to be unreadable, but flipping through it you find good readable chunks.
Sint came home with more rumors that the Rangers are leaving. Spent the evening talking it over with the entire household but despite it all, we know we can't leave even if worse comes to worst. Hope it's all just rumors.
...
Travelled down to the Center today to watch the Rangers' final supply carts leave. Heard some boos from unhappy farmers. Felt like joining them but I don't know. What do they owe us, really? And besides, how bad can things get now? Sure, the Rangers are gone, but so are most threats. The farms are unified under common goals. We'll keep an eye on the old Prison, band together against any raiders. There's too many of us for them to kick up any real trouble. I'm feeling good about the future.
...
The Prison still stands abandoned but for a few junkie squatters. I was talking to Farmer John's daughter just the other day. Fool girl didn't take kindly to me calling her dad a fool but she knows I'm right. He and all his doomsayings about the Prison being our doom, even talking about demolishing it. Demolish it?! With what?!
A few raiders been harassing Hamilton's farm out east. But the young folk got a posse together and caught every single last one of them and strung them up along the highway. That'll keep the bad news away for longer.
a significant part of the journal is missing after this entry, torn out roughly
...
Part 4[ | ]
This appears to be the diary of a local farmer. It spans many years. Some of it is written in illegible scrawls, and some pages are missing or so smudged as to be unreadable, but flipping through it you find good readable chunks.
Not many of us left now. Sint started ""keeping score"" as he calls it, a while ago. Makes me want to hurl looking at his map. Red markings on every farm lost to raiding parties. John's farm was burned down just last night, though I hear he and his daughter got out. I dearly hope so. I look at my own girls and I don't even know what to do. Would they be safer if I sent them away?
...
Raiders hit our farm again. We put up our guns after seeing their numbers, hid the girls, and thanks to that they let us live, but it was a close call. Don't know what I'd do if they'd found them.
They left with about half our harvest and almost all our tools. Going to melt them down for weapons I'd guess. ""Ploughshares to swords"" or whatever. I'm just glad we're alive. Don't know how we'll survive the winter, though, let alone next summer.
...
A miracle. That's what it is, a miracle. Some men showed up on our doorstep with our tools. Our own tools! The men looked like raiders to me, but they called themselves a militia. The Red Scorpions or something. I don't care if they call themselves the Upside-Down Frog Army, I couldn't stop thanking them, or smiling at their abashed looks as my wife kept hugging 'em.
They also gave us some foodstuffs to get over the winter, and let us know they'd kicked the old Chain Gang out of the Prison. What a relief that is. They didn't like it when I called them the ""new Rangers,"" though I meant it as compliment.
...
Part 5[ | ]
This appears to be the diary of a local farmer. It spans many years. Some of it is written in illegible scrawls, and some pages are missing or so smudged as to be unreadable, but flipping through it you find good readable chunks.
I've been here over a decade, but I finally had enough. This ""new world order"" from the Skorpions is the biggest crock of shit I've ever had to eat. At least when raiders robbed you they'd just say ""yup, we're robbing you, now give us your stuff"". The Scorpions make up fancy fucking excuses of ""unproductive farm"" and ""reorganization for the greater good"". Just an excuse to kick me off and take my lands.
Fuck this, I'm finally following the Rangers. Even if they're only half of what they used to be, as the Skorpions would have us believe, that's still a damn sight better than the bastards takin' over here. And I let this ""overseer"" character hear about it, believe me. Told him we'd be moving to the Rangers' territory and he could kiss my ass. He wasn't happy about it, but what's he going to do, shoot us?
No more entries appear after this one