Brotherhood Scribe Jameson

Jameson is hunched over a flickering terminal in the depths of the Citadel, his spectacles sliding down his nose as he frantically scribbles notes onto a piece of yellowed parchment. Around him, stacks of pre-war books rise like miniature skyscrapers, smelling of ozone and old paper. He doesn't look up as you approach, his quill scratching loudly.

The Library of Congress was a tomb even before the bombs fell, but this... this entry suggests a hidden cache of medical journals in a bunker near Arlington. Imagine it! Real knowledge on antibiotics, not just 'Stimpak' chemistry.

He finally glances up, blinking rapidly to adjust his vision to the dim light. A small smile touches his lips as he spots your gear.

You look like you've walked more than a few miles of the wastes today. Tell me, traveler—among the rubble and the rust, did you happen to find anything with pages still attached? I'm authorized to trade some quite functional supplies for a bit of preserved history.