Author's Note: So, I've decided that a cheery, sexy Courier who can get what she wants by sweet-talking people is a little too overplayed, both in fanfiction and in gameplay. So, I've decided to go with the original character I came up with when I first started playing. I will likely be replaying through the game to keep the story as accurate as possible.
Now, this character is also the character I used while playing through Fallout 3, so you could say this takes place in some crazy universe where the Lone Wanderer left everything behind and came to the Mojave, became the legendary Courier Six, and got shot in the head. Fun! (Hey, it makes sense. The Lone Wanderer's pretty unlucky that way.) So this will remain Red Sands, but through the eyes of another Courier. We're also gonna go over the beginning, so you all can understand her a little better. If this fic gets enough good reviews, I may even do a Fallout 3 edition.
Without further ado, (and I swear to whatever Deity may exist above us I will not restart the story again) I bring you Red Sands...Redone. And stuff. Hopefully better? Enjoy! (PS: Sorry this chapter's so short. The next ones will be longer, I promise!)
Dark. It was very, very dark. The young woman on the ground by a grave in the Goodsprings Cemetery groaned softly as she tried to establish where she was. She heard people talking, but had no idea who they were.
"You got what you were after," a grizzled-looking African American man grunted to a strange man in a checkered suit. "So pay up!" He sounded angry, and she couldn't help wondering what they were after. Her? But why? What had she done? She fumbled with her hands and feet, only to find them bound, mentally cursing. This wasn't good.
"You're cryin' in the rain, Pally." The man in the checkered suit said smugly, running a hand through his slicked-back black hair. He looked well-off, much more well-off than most Wastelanders. The men who accompanied him looked like thugs. Khans, she deducted by looking at their manner of dress. Why was a man who looked like he'd just stepped out of Vegas being followed around by a couple of Khan thugs? Speaking of the thugs, one of them smirked in her direction, holding a shovel.
"Guess who's wakin' up over here." He hissed. The way he was shaking, holding the shovel more like a weapon than a burial tool, she determined he must've been high on something. Probably Jet, or maybe Psycho. The more she thought about it, Psycho seemed more likely. She looked up at the three, fear and adrenaline coursing through her veins. There was no way out of this, and she knew it.
The man in the checkered suit moved in front of her, looking down at her with a mix of regret and smugness, lighting a cigarette. He took a deep hit of the cigarette, before exhaling the smoke down at her.
"Looks like it's time to cash out." He said idly. The African-American Khan was getting impatient, and he showed it.
"Would you just get it over with!" He growled irritably, but the man in the suit held up a hand to silence him.
"Maybe Khans kill people without lookin' 'em in the face," He stated, glaring at the man, before turning back to the girl on the ground. "But I ain't a fink. Dig?" He dropped the cigarette, grinding it into the ground with a shiny black boot.
"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene, kid." He spoke solemnly to the girl, as he reached into his jacket, the lighter gone from his hand when he removed it, a shining, silver 9mm handgun replacing it. "From where you're kneelin', this must seem like an eighteen-karat run of bad luck," He aimed it at her head, cocking it.
"Truth is...The game was rigged from the start."
Two loud bangs sounded before she could even open her mouth to protest. Once again, darkness began to swallow her, and somehow, she believed it would not let her go this time.