It was the Wasteland, a tireless, never ending, Wasteland, no trees grew within it, no men tried to tame it, only lived on it. A slight breeze filled it, and a burning sun beamed down upon those unfortunate enough to be caught out of cover. Rarely did rain fall on the red dust that made up the ground, but when it did, it was polluted, toxic and it burned those who tried to drink it. And as The Courier, the man of legend throughout these great red wastes, surveyed it, a stale cigarette in his mouth, a pair of sunglasses protecting his eyes, a hat on his long dark hair, and his tight leather armor that had been made from the hide of a collection of animal skins, he had no expression. Not the slightest hint of emotion, he might as well have been just another stone in the desert, for his face held nothing, no emotion, no care, and no anger.

Long had he traversed this place, and long had he forgotten the emotion he had kept when he was young, there was no use for this emotion, it slowed you down, and only just weakened you, it was a weight on your shoulders you could never let go of. And so, after he had been shot, he found that no matter how much kindness you gave a person, or how much hate you poured into a person, all human beings had one thing in common.

The need to survive and the willingness to do anything and everything to do so. He would not abstain himself from this basic feeling, it was the thing he had based his personality on, the thing he had worked his hardest to do, and when he went down in history as a legend, a man who changed the face of this Wasteland, no one would never understand, he had never done anything to further mankind, had never done anything to kill his fellow humans.

People will never remember as they sit around the fire, telling their children the story of his deeds as if preaching to them a religion, that he did not want this fame, he was a Courier, and a Courier was all he would ever be.