Story One : Home on the Range

Disclaimer : Just a little idea I had, hope it evolves into something more over time. I don't own Fallout: New Vegas, nor do I intend to monetize this story now or ever.

The man's eye-lids slowly opened, sliding over his dark-blue orbs. He instinctively closed them, blinded by the harsh sunlight that penetrated his weatherbeaten sun cover. The El Dorado Gas & Service Station was not exactly his ideal haunt, but it served its purpose better than he had hoped. The previous night had been a rough one; he had fended off a fire ant attack on his way down the road towards Boulder City.

He quite liked the little gas station - not because of the service box, with its indoor rest area, but because of the atmosphere the station provided. The Courier was a frontiersman, of sorts. He had slept under the station covering, staring up at the stars through the worn holes in the metal. There was something oddly comforting about sleeping in a sleeping bag on the range. It gave him a warm feeling.

The Courier held up his arm lazily above his head, blocking the stray sunbeams from his eyes. His Pip-Boy 3000 activated, its motion and facial recognition sensors detecting the Courier's face. After a brief scan, the Courier was shown his vital signs - He felt good, very good, if a bit thirsty, and a tad bit on the famished side. The pipboy displayed a full health bar, and a few ticks past mild dehydration and mild starvation on his food and water bars.

The Courier drank a bottle of purified water while gnawing on the fire ant meat he had harvested earlier, squatting in an undignified manner next to his sleeping bag. He slowly drew his revolver from his holster.

It was a .357 Magnum revolver - the Courier had stolen it from Trudy's Prospector Saloon after he had woken up in Goodsprings - and it was a thing of beauty. He had bought modifiers from Chet's store after helping the townspeople fend off the powder ganger attack, and it was now sporting an 8" long barrel and a heavy duty cylinder. He spun the cylinder around, marveling at how the dust swirled in a unmappable pattern. It was well-worn, but it was his revolver, and he loved it dearly.

The Courier took out a cloth, and spit on it. He then rubbed the cloth on the tarnished steel of the revolver, wiping many days-worth of grime away with one swipe. The revolver was restored. What once was a dusty piece of junk was now a well-groomed killing machine.

The Courier checked his pack. He had 24 shots of regular .357 ammunition, and 7 hollow-point rounds. He sighed. He couldn't remember if he'd fired 2, or 3 shots last night in his brief conflict with the giant fire ant. Flipping open the cylinder, he spun it, slowly checking for missing bullets. There were 2 missing.

"I hate it when they don't add to a full clip," the Courier grumbled to nobody.

Sighing once again, the Courier stood up, and dusted off his legs. The sand, whipped up by the harsh Mohave winds, whipped around his shins, curling off of his armored form. Without warning, the Courier pointed his gun in the air, rapidly fanning 4 shots.

"I hate it when they don't add up to a full clip," the Courier grumbled again. The wind whistled. The Courier glared into the wind. It was laughing at him, and yet he could do nothing to hurt it.

At least he now had even rounds, the Courier mused to himself. Except for the hollow-points. But those are different; to fire those off would just be wasting useful ammo, not to mention pointlessly damaging his gun.

The Courier sat back down. He mumbled to himself quietly as he reloaded his revolver.

1 bullet.

"Should have picked up Boone at Novac, at least he would have been good company."

2 bullets.

"At least with him and his sniper skills taking care of those damn ferals over at REPCONN would have been a breeze."

3 bullets.

"Why did he have to be such a fuckin' snot though?"

4 bullets.

"We get it, your wife died and now you have to be all dark and broody. Boo hoo!"

5 bullets.

"Okay, so maybe I shouldn't have said that. But honestly, there's nobody around to tell me otherwise, so who the hell cares?"

6 bullets.

"Finally, now that that's over with, I can take off."

After a quick look in his duffle sack (he now had 18 bullets in storage with his 7 hollow-points), he stood up, looped his sack over his shoulders, and began his trek down the misshapen highway, the scorching sun beating down onto his weathered leather back.

The Courier squinted. Off in the distance he could see some of those damn ants again. They were flaming some poor… poor… he couldn't tell. Whatever it was, he would hate to be them. The Courier kept walking.

But, what if there were valuables?

The Courier wasn't quite a kleptomaniac, but rather more of a neophiliac. He didn't care much for stealing, although occasionally he would partake in it; it was a distasteful action in his mind, but he truly couldn't resist items of interest. That there might be an object of some worth in or around whatever poor victim the ants were after was simply too much.

The Courier flipped the clip open on his holster, and in a single smooth motion un-holstered his revolver. Taking aim at the closest of the two ants roasting the no unidentifiable corpse, he squeezed off a single shot.

"Aimed Shot! Eyes! Crit. Hit!" The Courier's Pip-Boy 3000 beeped excitably.

The ant fell over dead, a bullet wound through its leftmost eye. The Courier was somewhat grossed out by the hole that suddenly appeared among the catacombed orb, but shook himself out of it. Feeling the vibrations in the air from the bullet, the second ant turned to the Courier. Walking towards it, the Courier began to rapidly fan his revolver, catching it once in the head, in the foremost legs twice, its rightmost antenna, and one of the ant's mandibles. The fire ant fell forwards, felled.

The Courier walked onwards, waving away the smoke to reveal a burnt and slightly devoured pack brahmin corpse. He wrinkled his nose at the stench; the brahmin's ribs and intestines were exposed. Further investigation of the giant fire ant corpses showed that the ants had been carrying away parts of the brahmin. But for what reason?

The Courier heard chittering. Turning around, he was greeted by the sight of no less than 15 giant fire ants, accompanied by two giant soldier fire ants.

His hand immediately went to his gun.

He pointed it, and it clicked. Pulling the trigger faster now, he was greeted by more clicks. It was unloaded - he had used up his bullets on the second ant.

He remembered how many bullets he had left. 18 regulars, and 7 hollow-points.

It was going to be a long night, and it wasn't even 0900 hours.

The Courier had two words to describe his situation.

"Oh SHIT!"


The Courier plopped down in front of the campfire in front of a Sunset Sarsaparilla billboard. He was exhausted, broken, and to no small extent, burnt. He set up his sleeping bag, and lay on top of it.

The man he was sharing the fire with was sitting on a weathered log, slowly strumming his acoustic guitar. The man was wearing a sort of weathered duster, with a blackened desperado cowboy hat. His handlebar mustache gave him a sort of thuggish look, but his softer facial features demonstrated a different sort of sophistication.

"What's your story, stranger?" The Courier asked.

"My story's a long one, friend, and I can't say it's all that interesting," the man replied. He had quite the charismatic voice, the Courier noted. It was an interesting contrast with his ruggish get-up, but certainly fit with the guitar. He decided that it would be a nice thing, to fall asleep to the man's voice. It would be best to get him started talking.

"Nevertheless, I'm interested."

"Well, I was born in a little town out Montana way. Me and Ma didn't have…"

The Courier felt himself drift off, his eyes shutting as the man rambled on, blissfully unaware. It was the end to another day, another day of chasing Benny, another day of suffering, another day of living. It was just another day home. Another day, home on the range.