Author's Note: All thanks goes to the enormous generosity of MykalWuzHere for allowing a re-write based on their story of the same name. I hope I can do it justice with my smattering of artistic liberties.
Amidst the carnage and death of the most glorious battle the Mojave Wasteland hasn't seen in decades, the Courier slowly makes his way across Hoover Dam past the punctured and mutilated corpses of hundreds of defeated Legion soldiers. He stops only to watch the bright orange sun setting in the west, not daring to think of anything than his shared victory for the time being. When his piece of mind makes him restless for something more, he shuffles along the concrete Pre-War attraction, the soles of his worn boots scuff along the broken asphalt, his feet disturbing as just many bullet casings. They decorate the ground like hot, metal confetti from a horrid parade of destruction. He drags himself toward the old guest center of the dam, ignoring the clinking of his footsteps along the way.
The Courier opens the door to the building finding two Rangers sitting at the farther benches tending to their wounds. They stop for a brief moment and look up. Even through their weary frowns and curt nods, he sees in their eyes that they're grateful. He had aided the New California Republic, as a whole, in the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. He had lead them to a decisive overthrow of the dictator Caesar and his society of slavery. And yes, they were grateful to him, but as he's heard so many times before, what is the cost of their winning, and how long would it take them to become a force unable to be reasoned with?
He pushes those little bits of blasphemy to the side, leaning against the semi-circular counter, a carefully folded note in hand.
The soldier tending the large desk greets him in a snappy fashion. "It's an honor, Sir."
"Give this to whom it may concern," he says, sliding the note in his direction. With the young soldier's silent acknowledgment, he makes his way out to the familiar wastes, cutting through the aftermath of the "little war". Even as he traverses over and across the slopes and boulders toward the setting sun, the smells of still burning gunpowder and disemboweled bodies overwhelms his senses. The Courier presses a rag to his face, suppressing a series of dry heaves.
As was his way before, he walks the lonely broken roads to the remnants of Boulder City. "Odd," he mumbles to himself. "Still hardly anybody here." Shrugging, he lightly steps over the hunks of brick and glass, finding just the right place to think in the absolute quiet. Upon the rubble of a former two story shop, he sits, turning over both the piece of dusty brick in his hands as well as his surfacing thoughts from earlier.
Even during the battle, something small and niggling never settled right in his bones. Was it every layman's opinion about the NCR swimming about his exhausted nogging, or was it him over-thinking things again?
"But the battle's already won. I've made my mark in history, I left the great city of New Vegas in a burgeoning government's capable hands." He now addresses the brick in his dirty hands. "What more is there for me, then?" With a sigh, the young man tosses the debris off to the side. "I can still aid people. They'll, at least, still need me for a time to come." The hero stands, clapping the dust off his hands. "I know what must be done." Resigning to the only obvious alternative left to him, he reaches into his inventory satchel, pulling out the Transportalponder device.
In an instant of blinding blue light, he teleports onto the balcony of the SINK. The view, whether it be through eyes well-rested, or dangerously drooping, always gives him a sense of awe. He runs his fingers over the familiar blue force field, the static dancing around his fingertips. The feeling, however, subsides under a tidal wave of mounting tensing mixed in with his tiredness. "Here goes nothing."
Resolute in his new convictions, the Courier turns on his heel and on through the metal door, where he's bombarded by the voices of the various artificial personalities.
Always the first to greet him is the SINK's Central Intelligence Unit. "A most rapturous good morrow on your return to your domicile, Sir. I trust you shall find things in order and the riffraff contained."
He makes a bee line for the axillary bedroom, disposing of the usual pleasantries.
"Will Sir be staying long," the Unit asks.
"Yes, but..." He thinks on his words a touch longer, finding the hidden spark of inspiration while unlatching the various plates of his Elite Riot Gear. "I think I will rebuild. Not only to better myself, but the world as we know it."
"Very good, Sir."
He places them in the middle locker, removing his found scientist scrubs to change. "If I can rebuild, I can help," the weary man mumbles to himself tugging at his coat sleeves.
The agonizing tension he had been so keen to hide envelopes him. The Courier plops on the edge of his unmade bed cupping his shaking hands over his face. To ignore his spreading migraine he concentrates on something trivial. "My hands," he mentally notes. "Still shaking from the battle." The young man clenches his eyes tightly, willing away the pain. He drops his hands away from his face, feeling the tension die down as fast as it came up.
To curb his urge to sleep, he pops a couple of Mentats from the disposable tin, willing his strength into his legs to carry him across to where the Sink sits in quiet dismay. He splashes cool water onto his face, washing away the dirt and blood of Hoover Dam and it's invaders. "Eww, the blood! The dirt! Why must you be so...disgusting," the Sink exclaims in horror.
Ignoring its cries of utter distress, the Courier notices, even after being away for a spell, his little self-sustaining garden is living up to its namesake.
"That's not really what I want to accomplish," he amends. "I want...something more. Something worthy of remembrance for centuries to come."
He paces in between the planter boxes, reacquainting himself with the various plants still blooming healthily in their fertilized soils.
"Wanna make some sweet, sweet green, baby," the Biological Research Station chimes to the room full of edible blooms.
The Courier shakes his head, removing a bottle of purified water from the refrigerator. He presses the chilled bottle to his aching forehead in an attempt to keep his aches at bay.
It was then his second epiphany hits him like a Pre-War train. "Don't just rebuild, rebuild Big Mt."
He barrels his way into the central room, directing the Auto-Doc to give him a thorough exam. Once his ailments have been dealt with, he scoops up one of the many clipboards not yet processed by the Book Chute, and makes a large-lettered note at the top of the front sheet: CONTACT ARCADE AND BOONE.
"I won't sit helpless from the sidelines and watch as another war comes to me, I will create the new technologies to become the next super power of the Wastes."