Rust Diaries: Day Two – The Ten Year Old War

My second day fared far better than the first, I started a war and dealt with the consequences of such.

My second day fared far better than the first, I started a war and dealt with the consequences of such.
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Disclaimer: The events in this tale did in fact happen to me in-game. I took some liberties with the events in order to tell it from the first-person viewpoint of my in-game character.

I awake from a long slumber, the previous night’s activities lingered in my mind. I found a bandit group that didn’t shun me immediately, we massacred numerous homes in search of supplies with hatchets, and a lone gunman wielding a high-powered shotgun subsequently attacked us.

I foolishly went toe-to-toe with this man, aiming to prove myself to my newfound friends. It didn’t turn out well.

The world around me is darkened; the sun is just beginning to rise in the distance, cresting the mountaintop to the east. I scoop up a loose rock from the ground, back to where I started, I guess. At least it’s a weapon, something to defend myself with and gather supplies.

I begin walking, gathering supplies and searching for better gear once again. Everything I had was gone.

The days passed by; I slept alone in a tiny hovel I crafted from numerous pieces of wood. I finally get a stone hatchet and use it to get myself a pig. I’m living quite well, I’ve even managed to garner some successful trade traffic, friendly survivors passing by looking for some supplies in exchange for others. Through these people I hear rumors from all over the island.

One of these rumors helped ignite a war.

I learned of a valley, completely occupied by new survivors, all banded together protecting each other with their hatchets and rocks. Forts had begun to pop up within the valley, but nothing significant. Mostly hovels like mine are what you would find in the grassy plain. Within each were players trying to survive, gathering their own supplies to horde.

I began going to work. I spread the word that people should meet up at one of the radiated towns dotting the landscape. We were going to clear that valley and rid the island of those young miscreants once and for all.

Squeakers be damned.

Armed with hatchets, pistols, assault rifles, and shotguns, a hefty group of survivors has gathered in unison. It is the first time I’ve seen this number of people working together towards a common goal since arriving in this god-forsaken land. We want these people gone and will work together to achieve that outcome.

We move forward as one mass of angry vengeance.

We can hear the people in the valley shouting to each other, calling for reinforcements as they see the enemy bearing down upon them from the crest of the hill. Guns go off from the valley; pistols and an assault rifle or two fire off from the cover of wooden barricades. We thought they only had hatches, but it was no matter, we were already set on our course.

Many die on both sides, their bodies looted as quickly as they fall to the ground. Ammo is expended and hatches are brought down upon idle heads. Homes are broken apart and looted for whatever goods are hidden within.

There are far too many of these foes, however. We are pushed back and broken; those who did not die rush back up the hill and into the forest beyond the radiated town, away from the battle we had created.

We have lost the Ten Year Old War.

Someone within our group can’t handle the loss; he turns his assault rifle on a few people in our remaining group and opens fire. He killed two instantly; the rest either run or turn their own weapons on him and others. It is chaos as we divert to our old ways, no longer working together. All for one and one for all indeed.

About the author

Brandon Morgan

Plasmid Addict. Zombie Survivalist. XCOM Operative. Vault Dweller. Writer. Editor.