The man with no name.
Disclaimer: Fallout: New Vegas owned by Bethesda studios + Obsidian. Kuroinu is made by Liquid, OAV by Magin.
Synopsis: How will Eostia handle the man with no name? The man with no name but the eponymous title of 'Courier six'?
What about those who seek him?
Note: Again, not entirely following Wimblegurk Brigade 'to the letter'... so, take of that what you will.
Prologue: Those who seek.
New Vegas: Outside Nipton.
It was all a haze, a drug induced haze. The revolver was held tightly in his right hand whilst he applied pressure with the left to the wound over his neck. A bullet had struck his ceramic plate and fragmented, the copper jacketing and bits of lead sprayed all over and a chunk struck him at a still-lethal velocity, a tear that cut up from the neck and near the jaw... he could feel the lump near his teeth, and so he spat it out, thick with blood. It was a fucking intense firefight outside of Nipton.
Covered behind a rock, they pinned him down by slow, repeated gunshots... the supersonic clacks resounding through his ears, telling him how close they were, firing just over his head... clack-clack-clack. Where one man fired, the rest maneuvered with fresh weapons, to flank... and when the firer stopped, one of the flankers resumed the firing with their gun, while the other flanked or reloaded.
The courier spotted one of the flankers, with luck. He fired his revolver, center mass, with a hand-loaded round, charged with high amounts of powder and with an extended barrel, the round was sure to have a high velocity, through which the soft tip would expand greatly. The impact was resounding, the recoil was large but the man shot was surely killed, for he shook and spasmed around four times or so before he fell into the dirt.
Then there was the sound of a rock being kicked, and the courier turned to face the source of the sound, a flanker.
-Bang-
Resounded through the courier's ears. A bullet struck against his chest, where he was armoured, and chunks of lead spall were thrown haphazardly about and behind, and up into his face.
The courier took another bullet to his chest, and another... so fucking painful.
The courier reacted with a bullet to the center mass, but the stressful situation caused him to miss his first shot, but the second shot was on point, and the third shot, being well placed, caused a new hole to appear in the forehead of the second flanker. The bullet came through with a small hole, as bullets usually do, but the violence, that force of a high-velocity projectile, the sectional density of a .357 magnum... it brought out a thin line of brain-matter out the other end that spurted perhaps a meter or two back... grotesque, but something to be expected.
Expelling a great breath of air, the Courier reached into a side-strap of his backpack and withdrew his trusted assault rifle. It was fucking hard to shoot under stress... tunnel-vision caused as his pupil's dilated... the adrenaline pumping, the fear growing, stress and anxiety, flashbacks of a past self as he huddled against the rock for safety.
Then, with a fiery determination, the courier jumped out from cover with his Ak-112, riddling the horizon with 5mm rounds to suppress the remaining shooter... then he spotted them and took aim... bang-bang-bang, a burst that killed his foe. Oh, the sight of it, the glory and the pain... The courier was alive, but the others were not. This is survival, primal preservation. He took joy in living, through all the stress of life and living in a post-apocalyptic world.
Biting down hard, the courier could tell that a bullet fragment had struck somewhere important, blood continued to spurt from time to time even after applying a bandage and sometimes his mouth filled with blood. He took a drink of whiskey to wash it all away, and once the burning alcohol had near-singed the wound in great-lingering pain, he injected himself with a dose of Med-x with a small dose of Jet, to give it that little edge.
He walked through the arid desert for several hours, the sky was blue and clear of clouds, until six hours or so later the sky grew darker and he began to crawl when his legs wore out. A sandstorm quickly grew across the land, becoming a veritable sea of red. His geiger-counter ticked low and steady under a x10 setting. He was exposed out in the open space to a sandstorm, the radioactive sands kicking about and finding places to land.
How uncomfortable it was for the courier, to crawl about as his clothing began to pile up with sand from the inside, the ceramic material of his chestplate rubbing up his chest, rubbing raw against the region near his nipples.
He knew that he would have his revenge, even if he was struggling to find his footing. He would reach... there. To wherever Benny was, he would reach there... and kill him.
He struggled to see though the hazy sea of red... but something stuck out on the near horizon, a ruined surface, a pre-war road. His exhausted and water-starved body struggled to reach it as he crawled over. He tapped against an object, how hot it was because the surface was solid metal that absorbed the sun's rays.
The Courier vomited blood against the sand as he struggled to keep his eyes intact.
"Benny!"
There was no response except the reverberation of his loud outburst, the sound that traveled for a long distance through the empty stretch of desert.
"Beeeennnnnyyyy!"
The Courier knew his chances of living were slim... his stimpaks had run out a few days ago. He was fueled by vengeance, alcohol and drugs at this point, his adrenaline keeping him keen. He smelled of blood, sweat, vomit and desperation. His last bath was at lake mead and he smelled much like a brahmin in a pen.
"Beeeeennnnnnyyyyy!"
And so, from exasperated screaming and overwhelming exhaustion, the Courier fell from the world.
New Vegas: Outside the El Rey Motel.
Buzzkill looked down on those fucking morons. Those six idiots and that cantankerous cunt-fuck asshole in power-armour who thinks he can lord himself around as a fucking king or chieftain. Fuck that noise, she could only take so much before she'd fucking kill someone.
Fortunately, she wasn't the only fiend around. It was a group of sixteen, those fucking idiots were only seven who were the outsiders. There were two mercenaries, one who was something else and the rest wore striped outfits with blue jackets over it, powder-gangers or some-shit... then there was Bop.
Bop, now there was a quiet fiend if ever you saw one. Some would think that was a sign of a pussy-like bitch with a wilty-little cock... but his silence was just... well... suffice to say, he just didn't waste words or shit... he was a real doer, kills without question... Bop, In and out with a shiv, hence the name. Nobody ever touched his pistol but him, he probably jacks himself off with the thing, always pulling back the slide with it and shit.
There were two pack brahmin too, laden with ammunition mostly. Whoever the asshole was that killed cook-cook was who they were after, some Courier... this cunt wasn't going to be taken lightly. They'd shove some missiles up his fat ass and fill him full of holes. 'Ahhh, It'd be fun to have a fight out, haven't had much of those in Westside.' Buzzkill thought with a grin.
And pushing those thoughts aside to the craving she felt inside, she spoke aloud. "Anyone got a smoke?"
Someone threw a pack at her and she quickly caught it. "Thanks, asshole." Buzzkill saw that the pack was quarter-filled, and pulled a cigarette out and brought it to her lips, pursing it there while lighting the end with her lighter. "Ahhhhh, so where is this motherfucker?"
One of the mercenary-types spoke up. "Last report of him is west of Vegas... so fuck knows."
And so the group went along, searching for the famed 'Courier' whom they were going to kill. They were going to use his dead body as a message to others, It was a pretty normal routine for a Fiend, all things considered, she just hoped the others weren't going to have their 'morals' questioned. Here, you do what you have to do, sometimes you enjoy it. No use questioning it or you'll end up dead, or crazy.
Yes, crazy... sometimes Buzzkill thought she was going crazy. Yeah right, fuck that.
She was just getting high on 'life'... Killing wasn't a joy, it was just exhilarating, getting shot at, now that was fun. She loved that rush, that fear, that god-damned shit-wrenching terror, it made her live. It made her heart race.
"I can't wait till we find this motherfucker... gonna fuckin' send him right up to Jupiter." Buzzkill uttered with a manic smile.
One of the mercenaries grinned, offering a quick retort. "Or up Uranus!"
Buzzkill turned to face him, anger showing on her face. She didn't even feel angry... she just liked to be confrontational and irrational. "Yeah, go fuck yourself, you cunt... Nobody fucking talks back ta' me motherfucker n' lives!"
The Mercenary reached for his holster, Buzzkill did the same. Bop frowned at this, letting out a guttural sound.
Buzzkill took that sound to heart and backed down. "Oi cunt, don't be so fucking defensive!" Buzzkill proclaimed. "I'm fucking joking, for fucks sake!"
Eostia: Dark Fortress.
There was something lacking...
True, Olga's orcs were an effective, ruthless horde, the might through which the Human's would be crushed.
Yet Olga felt that there was something that alluded her. She needed something more powerful...
Which is why she was going to summon a demon, control him like she had the orcs.
She needed a symbol, more effective than an orc, to spread fear of the likes that orcs could not provide. Fear that would make men lay down their arms... and accept the embrace of death.
So it was, that at the peak of night, Olga made the primary circle, drawn in with red-coloured chalk. She drew the snake that coiled twice around the circle, the head facing east and the tail on the west. A diamond was formed in the middle of that circle, and surrounding it were four hexagrams with letters inscribed in each limb, placed on the four primary cardinal points, each of these written with a corresponding colour of chalk.
Then, with a string of words deep with magical meaning, fire descended through the room. A figure emerged from the magical flames, within the summoning circle.
The flames were quickly extinguished, forming a column of smoke that obscured the new figure from further scrutiny from her inquisitive, cautious gaze.
"Aack... Splluuck." Was the sound that came from within the smoke column... the sound of vomiting.
The smoke that adhered the figure in mystery quickly withered away, revealing the figure, now unconscious. Olga saw the figure and hatred burst from the seams of her heart.
She loathed, hated, despised humans to the very core of her being...
"You are not a demon, you lack a magical aura... useless." Olga casually listed down aloud, about the useless human before her.
Chloe, who had attended Olga from the corner of the room, quickly came to her side, with her sword outstretched toward the human.
Olga turned to face Chloe. "Imprison that thing."
Chloe walked over the human man, avoiding stepping into the ichor-like vomit, to better investigate him before forming her own opinion.
He was wounded, that was already clear... blood seeping from a bandage. The application of magic could heal him, but it wasn't like he would die anytime soon either.
"He is wounded." Chloe mentioned.
Olga looked Chloe in the eye. "It is human."
Chloe hefted the man up over her shoulder... She knew it was best not to question Olga when she was in this mood.
This man reeked, worse even than orc men, the scent of desperation, fear... alcohol and urine. Carrying him was a disgusting prospect, but it that had to be done.
Once she had him settled on her shoulder, she walked towards the cell complex, placing him down into a random cell, the fifth one on the right.
With him being armoured, Chloe carefully removed the man's garments one by one, especially that strange armband, removing all except for his briefs.
The man before her, for he was certainly a man, was a sight that even she found to be distressing. For, being herself a rape victim, she had herself known the depths to which man could be damaged...
It was clear this man had been through abuse.
Scar tissue on the back of the leg, a strange circular scar indentation on the side of his right arm... a circular indentation that covered the top of his head, a series of abrasions that run along his body... sun-burnt skin... even bite marks appeared over his left shoulder, human teeth had sunken in, discernible by the shape of the jaw... definitely human bites.
There was also a series of etches that covered over his right forearm... a trailing line of dots hewn from ink, tattoo's.
But, even if the man had no scars at all, he would still be a troubled man... he seemed to be half-starved. He was thin, unhealthily so, as though his body was eating away at his muscles, having nothing left to burn away.
Strange as it is, she could see a bit of herself in this man. It was hard, thinking that there might be another person who had suffered something similar to herself... but the fact that he was human... made the issue hard for her.
Chloe stood up, taking the man's gear with her. Then she closed the gate, leaving the man inside the cell.
The first two portions were something that I scrounged out about a year ago, for a Fallout: New Vegas story that I planned about writing but scrapped, but with Wimblegurk's DLC 3 suggestion list, I decided that I might as well put the two sections to use. The rest was conjured up in about two or three hours.
Let me know what you think.