Wilfred Minett

## **Wilfred "Freddy" Minett**

**Born February 27, 2048**

**Occupation:** Mercenary, bodyguard

**SPECIAL:** 7, 5, 8, 5, 5, 7, 4 (stats and perks here)

**Base appearance:** Tall and very broad. No hair, red sclera and milky blue irises and pupils. Exposed muscles on the left side of his face. Radiation scars on his face have left him with a permanent glower and frown. He looks very unhappy, all the time.

### **Equipment**

* Clothing: Cares about his clothes and maintains them well. Wears jeans, button-ups, and suspenders (button-ups left untucked). On the field, he wears military fatigues and body armor.
* Guns: This man is an arsenal, mostly because he's big and he can carry weapons for everyone else, too,so he's generally got way more guns on him than he could conceivably use by himself. The 10mm pistol, laser rifle, and combat shotgun are his, though, and he's had plenty of time to learn how to use it all. Next to Dorris, he was the best at using the minigun that used to be mounted on Geraldine's bus (rest its poor bus soul in heaven, amen).
* Personal affects: He sold everything sentimental from before the war, but lately he's been getting presents from people and he doesn't seem to know what to do with things like that anymore. He got a watch from Geraldine and usually keeps it in his pocket so it doesn't get damaged.

## **History**

### **Pre-war**

Freddy was a jazz musician, and a damn good one, too, born and raised on the poor side of Boston. Weapon of choice those days was a saxophone, but the man had talent and by the time the bombs fell, learned his way around every wind instrument a jazz ensemble could need. Always wanted to sing, but his voice was too smooth for the real gravely, sexy sound that he envied in some of the singers he used to work with. He sure does have it now, though.

And this man, oh, how he loved to be in love! He had more scandalous relations than anyone bothered trying to keep track of, and was the man-on-the-side in many more affairs than he'd ever own up to now. He just loved falling for people, and did so often and easily. "All part of the musician lifestyle!" he used to say. But damn, if he didn't just love that sweet fall into infatuation!

He was investigated once for murder. Open and shut case, really only because the cops knew he'd caused strife in a lot of marriages so his act of self-defense in a home invasion scenario had been looked into just to make sure it wasn't a scorned lover. Good ol' Detective Valentine was a patron at one of Freddy's regular clubs, and knew the man didn't have it in him to murder. Easy as that, he was let off the hook.

### **Early Post-War**

There wasn't much to do. He spent a while hiding, screaming, crying. Somehow, he survived, but when he crawled from the wreckage of his apartment, he wished he hadn't.

The instruments he could find in the rubble, he sold.

This world had no art left in it. There could be no love here. There could be no music. The world ended, everything had gone to shit, and Wilfred realized hard and fast that he wouldn't survive if he stayed being that romantic musician.

The world went to hell, and if he was going to last, he had to go with it. He worked himself up to a persona that would fit the times. He stopped flirting, stopped holding any illusions that he could be loved anymore, or that he could dare love again. He would be as fierce on the inside as his scars made him look on the outside.

And the next 200 years would be dark, indeed. He had all the time in the world to learn how to shoot and how to fight, and boy, did he. He got jobs and slowly, very slowly, inched his way further and further west. Most of his work put him working security for caravans, which suited him just fine. Being on the move kept him from thinking too hard about the past.

### **Recent History**

He saw Dorris first.

It was in Center; his last job brought him to the small settlement and left him there. Work never came easy for ghoul, certainly not for one looking like him, so being stranded in an isolated town in the middle of a long road through wilderness meant growling stomachs and cold nights.

Dorris had a job, a steady one, considering that she was the last caravan guard left alive. Her boss was some weasel of a trader named Mayhew. After a raider attack on the way to Center left the rest of his entourage rotting on the road south, boss Mayhew needed to get Dorris some new backup.

Mayhew didn’t pay well, but few caps with work sounded better than no caps and no work. Didn’t matter that Wilfred looked like something out of a pre-war horror movie, because all Mayhew cared about was if he was armed and prepared to kill.

Now, no one was as ready to kill as Dorris, but Dorris was different. Because Dorris was the first person in a long, long time that gave a shit. And when Wilfred realized that she wasn't just his coworker, but was watching his back and genuinely gave a fuck, it reminded Wilfred of what it felt like when... well, when life was worth living.

Thus marked the start of a beautiful friendship, the first friendship Freddy had since the bombs fell and his face melted. Mayhew taking Freddy out of Center was one of the best things that ever happened to him.

Another event on that list of bests came the next town north.

Mayhew wanted nothing to do with the woman from the moment she approached them, but his eyes saw the world in a spectrum of caps and boy, was the picture she painted for that bastard merchant vibrant. Sure, that vault suit she wore spoke of terrible things. Everyone knew what the particular number on her back meant, and the horrible rumors that came with it. But there was no denying that if he was the only trader ballsy enough to go up to that god-forsaken city, if he claimed that town on his trade route and monopolized their market, the financial gain would (probably) outweigh the damage to his reputation.

And that’s how Geraldine redirected the entire caravan. It wouldn’t be the last time that she whispered in Mayhew’s ear, turned him around, pulled the strings. Wilfred honestly couldn’t pinpoint the moment he stopped working for Mayhew and became Geraldine’s.

Poor bastard, Mayhew always thought he was the one in control. Wilfred used to feel bad for him.

The rarely-traveled road felt long, but Freddy felt at home with Dorris on his right and Geraldine on his left. They made quite the team. Sometimes, Dorris said something sharp, sarcastic, and only he and Geraldine saw the joke for what it was. They could go on for hours, and no one around would get that they were playing. Intimate bonding, in plain sight, and no one else felt it.

Inside jokes. They had inside jokes, like normal, happy friends. Freddy felt like a person again.

When they made it to her vault, Geraldine introduced the caravan as her "pack." The folks inside knew that term. It meant something to them. And, in the same breath, she introduced Freddy and Dorris separately. She called them her family.

Wilfred doesn't talk about what happened to Mayhew after that.

If Geraldine ever felt guilty about what happened to Mayhew, she never said so. The ultimate betrayal stung Freddy worst. He and Dorris made the decision, after all. They made the choice. Geraldine just watched, straight-faced but he felt the relieved smile behind her eyes.

Dorris, she only held her head up higher. “Never was gonna choose him,” she said after the fact. “Bastard should know better than tell a woman choose.”

That was the last Dorris ever spoke of Mayhew, because right then she nudged Freddy in the ribs. “Looks like I get to go recruit us some more guns. You stay with the boss. Come up with a business plan, and make it a good one if this is gonna work.”

### **Present**

Freddy goes where the pack goes. Geraldine always gets them work, and out of all the bosses he had in the two hundred years since the war, she's the best. Between her and Dorris, Wilfred can almost imagine what it's like to be happy again. Almost.

Geraldine had an old bus, rigged up pretty nice thanks to her connections with NCR. It lasted them a while, and got their crew from city to city to follow where the work was. Always going east, that's where their leads kept pulling them. They made it all the way to the south end of the Columbia Commonwealth before that beautiful beast of a machine gave out. They worked north from there. Word of war, and all kinds of shit hitting fans compelled Geraldine to go to the New England Commonwealth, following the continued promise of steady jobs.

And here they are.

They mostly clear out hostiles and help protect local settlements. The Minutemen are cutting into business a bit, but not much -- there's plenty of bloodshed and danger to go around.