Butcher of Zero
Chapter One: Turnabout Carnage
Disclaimer: Fallout: New Vegas is owned by Bethesda and Obsidian, I claim no ownership to Fallout: New Vegas or any of its properties.
Familiar of Zero is published by Media Factory and Seven Seas Entertainment, I claim no ownership to Familiar of Zero or any of its properties
The sun was bright and beating down hard on the sands and crags of the Mojave, the giant fire breathing ants were tunneling, the deathclaws were... Being deathclaws, and the legion was getting ground up in a turbine at the Hoover Dam, all in all a not so shabby day for the now legendary courier six who was busy getting ready to shove his power-fist directly up a certain Legates rectum with a manic grin on his face. "You ready you giant assclown? I'm about to make you a sock puppet, in the name of freedom!"
The courier, who was now busy shoving a giant glorified pneumatic piston up an armored giants rectum sideways, was surprisingly handsome considering the environment he lived in, which was honestly not saying much. He was very well muscled standing at a slightly above average six-foot-four and was missing several yellowed teeth, his hair was cropped short and a ruddy blonde, and was wearing bastardized Enclave power armor with several grisly trophies tied to it, Ceasars bloodied badge of office was the most prominent among them, with several other little things he tore off the corpses of those he killed hanging limply off his belt.
The Legate squirmed and shuddered once more as blood dripped from his mouth and laid limp and lifeless on the hot Mojave stone, the camp was now abandoned, only the dead and the new arrivals, the NCR rangers filling the now desolate and frankly contaminated hellhole. The stink of piss, blood, and fecal matter was secondary to the scent of the burning plastic and flesh of the burning legion bodies. The man responsible now sat on the freshest corpse and sighed.
Courier Six, Mojave Butcher, and recently Hero of the NCR. This man had many names, and for the life of him he couldn't remember his birth name, he remembered the end of his old life, and that was it, a smarmy looking man in a tacky suit with an ugly 9mm pistol pointed at his head, a shallow grave and the bang he expected to be the last in his relatively long life of 30 years in the cruel and wild south-western wasteland. This man was now staring at the sky while cleaning the ruptured organs out of the nooks and crannies of his favorite power-fist with a bottle of vodka and a skirt he yanked off a dead man in sports equipment.
The sound of a vertibird helicopter broke the silence, inside a well dressed man in a military uniform straightened his tie as the vertibird repositioned itself for landing. "Eyes sharp, uniform clean, cap straight, maybe I can get this asshole to just leave the Mojave to us, he's too dangerous." General Lee Oliver was one of the most average men one could imagine, cursed with incompetence and thirst for glory, he was certainly not the most perfect fit for a general, but he did one thing right, he looked and sounded the part. And he was hoping he could command the respect of this "Hero", at least enough so to send him on a suicide mission to get him out of their hair and give him a bullshit title to flaunt and make him seem important in the eyes of the common folks. He wiped the sweat building up on his brow as they touched down, the side door making a hissing sound as the hydraulic cylinder pushed the door open, letting the hot air in the previously air conditioned vertibird. General Oliver stepped out and strode purposefully towards the legend sitting on top of a deadman on a hill with a rag in his hand.
General Oliver stopped a few meters short of the man and cleared his throat, that was a cue for several NCR rangers to stand by his side while he started to speak to the man. "Courier, on behalf of the NCR I am to congratulate and thank you from the bottom of our hearts for helping us defend the lifeblood of the Mojave, you really saved our asses out there, and we don't even have to fight those brotherhood of steel nutjobs any more, we could use a hundred of you, scatter you all over the east and give those plumed fucks what for." The courier barely paid any heed to the general as he used his mouth to pull a particularly thick chunk of flesh from in between his powerfists finger coverings and spat it out next to the Generals boot. "Sounds like fun, but hell you only need one of me to spread freedom like a goddamned super virus." The Courier laughed, and laughed hard, throwing his head back in hysterics.
General Oliver furrowed his brow slightly, a hint of nervousness showing after actually listening to this wackjob. "Yeah, that's what I'd like to do anyways, but the president himself wants to thank you, and give you something rather special, your very own medal with your face stamped on it. You feeling up for a vertibird ride and hopefully a goddamned bath? Can't meet Kimball while smelling like blood and shit." Oliver laughed and jerked his thumb backwards towards the vertibird. The courier raised one eyebrow and grunted. "You're fuckin' with me, aren't you, a fucking medal? I shoved my fist up a giant man with a bumper for a swords ass, blew the head off the only real outward threats to the NCR, crippled the legion for good, likely sending them into a frenzied infight to see who's the big boss, and all I get is a shitty medal and a thank you from two limp dicked and even worse, incompetent politicians? Fuck you and your shitty medal." The Courier grumbled as he spit then put his power-helmet back on.
He grunted and stretched as much as he could in the armor and shoved past the now shaking with anger general. "What the fuck did you say to me you inbred fuckstick? You're officially recognized as a citizen of the NCR, and you dare say to a general 'fuck you'?" The courier stopped, turned around and spread his arms. "Look at what I just did here, I burnt this place to the ground, stomped on the legions nuts and sliced their neck, you don't want to start shit with a man like me, now I'm being nice to you since I like the ideals of freedom for the people, I suggest you capitalise on this and get back in your flying box, I am a real free man, I don't belong to anyone." The courier put his left arm in front of him and shoved his middle finger in the air before beginning to walk off. "
General Oliver raised his hand and pointed at the walking courier. "Kill that asshole, I ain't letting him piss on me and the NCR like that!" The rangers looked at each other and shrugged before shouldering their rifles. The couriers eyes widened as he turned to see it, before they fire he charged behind a boulder and dropped his backpack, the hail of gunfire would have been deafening if not for his power-helmet, he quickly tore into his pack and flung things out of the way until he found what he was looking for, a home made grenade, with a sick smile he casually held on for two seconds and lobbed it over the boulder, smiling even more as he heard the loud bang and an end to the fire. He peeked out from behind the rock to view the carnage.
He didn't have long to enjoy the view before the vertibird took off and several dozen NCR rangers began to storm the encampment with their M1 Carbines. "Fuck." Was all he could say before he was forced to take cover again and dig around for a gun, he pulled a stubby little rifle with a box magazine from his pack and quickly pulled the charging handle, he then reached his hand up to his neck and cranked the volume knob on his voice speaker to max. "Now listen here you sons of bitches, you walk away now and I don't turn on the NCR and waste your sorry asses for turning on me! This is my one and only warning before I do to you what I did to the legion!" The voice carried far and a short silence followed, he turned the volume back down to normal and waited, it wasn't long before a frag grenade landed at his feet. "Oh fu-" The courier snatched up his backpack and jumped down a ledge at full sprint, right into the river, and a bright green light.
Two rangers turned the corner with riot shotguns to look at where the grenade went off, they sighed as they survayed the blast area and found nothing. Touching his neck microphone he sighed. "Ranger Squad 13 reporting to Hoover dam command center, target courier has escaped. General Oliver is dead, over." He shook his head as the radio bud in his ear crackled to life. "Report received, status on defense mission?" The ranger repeated the process. "We won, Corporal, we won." The ranger rubbed his temples with his right hand and turned to the mess that was once a general. "That bastard just made us a bad enemy.".
Authors Notes: I have written several other moderately well received fan fictions on this site, under a different name before suddenly stopping for a few years. I believe my writing style has had time to improve and I hope you enjoy what I believe will be a wild ride for you readers. Feel free to leave constructive criticism. I know I won't be able to catch all the grammatical errors and I would appreciate any attempts to point them out to me via private message preferably.
On another note, I realize that my description of the couriers firearm is vague, but I know that if I get started actually describing a firearm of any sort in depth I'll end up writing several hundred words describing just the damned basics. So just imagine an M60 with a 15 inch barrel and no bipod.