Note: The story takes place five months after the second battle of Hoover Dam, with the NCR emerging victorious thanks to the help of the courier. I didn't intend on getting the courier too involved in this story but I'm leaning towards reconsidering that. If he or she does make an appearance at some point, it'll be way way later but at the very least, the courier's status will be alluded to here and there.

Note 2: Everything has been fully corrected. I'm just glad to be done with that. I haven't had any time to add more chapters to this because it's taken a while to finally get it on Fanfiction. Now I can just . . . relax and write. Hope you all enjoy.

The Wastelandic Dream [ Rated: M ]

Chapter 1: A lonely day in the sands and sun.

The post war world was so different. Cities like Los Angeles, which had once been grand, were reduced to ruins of a civilization that seemed so long past to the new generation that thrived there, all comparable to the ruins of the Aztec or Incan civilizations during the pre war years. Other places, like the Mojave desert, weren't any better. Broken cement or asphalt roads and a rare bush here or there, dying of course, accompanied by dirt. Lots and lots of dirt. Most importantly, however, there was a glaring sense of loneliness, which was one of the wasteland's definite and most grueling staples besides the raiders, the slavers, and the creatures that had mutated in the radioactive wake of the explosions.

There were certain places, however, that were relatively populated. Some places had even become so populated that they had created functioning communities, like Megaton near the Washington DC ruins or the New Vegas strip in Nevada, but it was a simple and undeniable truth that most of the entire world was barren and deceased. Places like these included the Mojave Desert, which was seldom populated even before the war. The Mojave Desert was an enormous expanse of dirt and weeds with small, insignificant blips of pre war establishments still standing, barely. This was where loneliness could manifest into a tangible apparition and swallow a man alive, chew him up, and spit out chunks of flesh and bone. And that's also where the protagonist of the scene found himself.

The dirt felt a certain way under his boots. Each step brought along a harsh crunching noise, like he was walking on snow, and the sun beating down on the naked expanse of the desert didn't make for traveling conditions that he was fond of. At the time, he only had one thing going for him. To every side, there were mounds of sand protruding from the level ground, which created the kind of cover that he liked to have from anyone or anything that might be looking for a victim. At the same time, these mounds provided vantage points from which he could hunt.

It was a relief, though, when he came about his current establishment. A broken down house sat in the distance, waiting for him, and when he reached it, he walked around it first. Once he had concluded that there were no tracks, and that it didn't look like anything had been tampered with since he left, he reached out and used a key to open the front door. Inside, the place was old, dirty, and made of wood that in a few of years, would likely be too aged to continue hanging on the walls.

Once he was inside, he removed his cowboy hat and placed it on the coat rack. To remove his duster, which was a brown trench coat, he placed his trail carbine in the other hand while he removed that side of the coat and returned it to the one previously holding it to remove that side as well. Then, he hung it on the rack beside the hat. He released a breath and moved to the window, where he used the tip of the trail carbine to tug the curtain aside. While the sunlight glazed his light face with a soft shine, a pair of mellow blue eyes cast a meek but perceptive glance on the immediate surroundings. Nothing. With that, he began moving inside. When he reached a stool, he sat on it and set the trail carbine flatly on a wodden table before he reached out and turned on the radio.

A very familiar melody manifested. Sad, really, but beautiful in its own right.

"Play the guitar, play it again, my Johnny."

In response to Peggy Lee's melodic voice, which resonated within the walls with a seriatim of eerie vibrations, he poured a glass of whiskey and began indulging.

"I was always a fool for my Johnny. For the one they call . . . Johnny Guitar."

Rem was thirty one years old now, had been born in a small town a few miles from Hollywood, CA called Santa Clarita, and carried a lot of lessons and customs along with him. In other words, like the modern American in the 1950's, he was the modern wastelander, fully accustomed and integrated to the law of the wasteland. Except those customs were different. There wasn't a Wastelandic dream to compose for himself in the future where he could have a steady, well paying job that offers medical benefits for he and his family. The only insurance he had was his ability to scavenge to make caps and his ability to be the winner of all the fights he would surely encounter in the future. Fortunately for him, he was real damn good at all of that.

"What if you go? What if you stay? I love you. What if you're cold? You can be kind, I know."

After a couple of drinks, he stopped. He placed the bottle of whiskey down beside the trail carbine and simply enjoyed the warm feeling that the alcohol left lingering in his chest. Then he stood up. Rem was tall, about six feet three inches, and was skinny. It could be seen in his knuckles because the skin hugged them tightly enough to make them look like they protruded more than they should. He was also vascular because of it, with long veins trailing the distance of his arms. So regardless of how skinny he was, he appeared rugged. Looked like a rock that had been beaten against other rocks for all the years he had been alive, but instead of coming out with just chips and pieces broken off, he came out shaped like a ball that instead of smashing and rubbing against the road ahead, would simply roll.

"There was never a man like my Johnny. Like the one they call, Johnny Guitar."

Every once in a while, he'd look out towards the windows. There were only two of them that weren't boarded up to the point no light shone through, and each of them was beside the front door to the house. It was safe to say that he didn't look enough times to catch absolutely everything that might shadow over on the window, but if that bit of insurance didn't work, his ears would. He was familiar with the sounds of the house by then, music included. And if there was a sap badass enough to try and sneak into his house, he'd be hard pressed to believe the guy was going to get in there without a few holes to show for it.

While the song continued to play, he made his way to the kitchen, where there was a refrigerator, a sink, and a stove. The refrigerator was running on a power source that had been improvised out of two fission batteries and the sink still had running water. Would have been nice if the bathroom had been in tact, even if he did end up showering with irradiated water, but it wasn't hard to accept that a wastelander can't expect to get everything he wants. Rem opened the refrigerator and picked a bottle of purified water out. Inside, there were four more bottles, enough to last him a couple of days, and some cooked gecko steaks that'd be tasty if he heated them up in a campfire.

When he was walking back out to the living room, he saw a shadow just when the song ended. Lazy day blues came on, which was a pretty big turn around from Johnny Guitar's somber tune. Seemed like lazy, yet relaxing in an upbeat way, convenience store music. It was the perfect type of song to make a raider feel like everything was coming along smoothly, and that the idiot inside would never see it coming. Rem walked casually to the table and grabbed the trail carbine, which was a lever action rifle that fired 44. magnum rounds. After that, he changed the radio, and another song came on. He was changing the radio channel, so he obviously had no idea someone was creeping around his home. But he did.

Then he heard something unexpected. There was a knock on the front door. A million thoughts crossed his mind just then. If it was the raider, the bastard had probably gotten off the chems and had built a bit of creativity because of it. Or maybe it was another simple and honest wastelander looking for shelter, "Me and my rifle don't take kindly to raiders, slavers, or Legionaries!" Rem declared.

"What about traveling merchants you agreed to create routes with?" Immediately, he recognized the voice. It sure was a merchant, and it was his voice that reminded him that he had, in fact, agreed to create a route stop at his home just in case he needed extra supplies. Rem looked out each of the windows just to make sure the visitor wasn't being held hostage and he finally opened the door. A couple of feet away, a brahmin, packed damn close to the tail, sauntered towards them. When he looked straight ahead and at the merchant, he nodded, "Twenty rounds for my friend here," he gestured for the trail carbine by placing the barrel over his right shoulder. "And did you get the parts I asked for?"

The merchant nodded, "Sure did. I even got you a little something extra that should appeal to you." He unpacked the brahmin and set his wares out to see. There were spare parts for his trail carbine, which he'd probably need in the near future, and a scope specified for the weapon. Rem looked at it with disdain, "No thanks," he picked up the parts, "With a gun like this, I prefer the iron sight. Less intrusive up close." The merchant looked surprised, and then he shrugged, "Guess you know what you want. Will that be all?"

Rem gave him the caps, shook hands, and went back inside.