Sunset.
Shades of reds, oranges and pinks painted the Mojave sky. The wind speckled a young woman's hair with sand, like glittering gold suspended in wine under the warm light. She was walking in a hazy dream, a multitude of colors surrounding her as she walked down the blistering road. Not long after, the moon showed up in the night sky, her radiant glow illuminating the Mojave. In another life, perhaps if she didn't choose to work as a courier, the girl would have taken out a camera and immortalized the spectacular view. It took the young courier some time getting accustomed to the ever-changing skies of the Mojave. She still remembers her first time setting foot outside quite vividly, and after the events that transpired within the week, she held on to the memory more than ever.
Lost in her thoughts, she was brought back to reality when the putrid smell of burning rubber, rotting flesh and charred bodies invaded her nostrils. The smell was so overwhelming; her eyes started to water behind her biker goggles. She was a few steps away from the town of Nipton. Aside from passing through the town to reach Novac, Ranger Ghost asked her to check up on the town, and she was damn right to ask her to do so. A chill ran up the courier's spine upon seeing what became of the town; she stood rigidly in her spot, trying to process what she was seeing. Ransacked houses, burning tires and corpses; things no human should ever see. And yet, here she was, mortified; the sight is too familiar for her.
A raving lunatic of a Powder Ganger ran up to her screaming and raving about a lottery, catching off her guard and almost prompting her to shoot him in fear. From a distance, she thought Powder Gangers hit the town due to the smoke, just as Ranger Ghost had suspected. She didn't expect to see the Gangers strung up on poles. Crucified bodies lined up in the streets, welcoming her to a nightmare. The sound of fire crackling and the cries of the crucified melded into a singular cacophonous noise. Pillars of smoke rose from the burning corpses and tires. The entire town smelled of smoke and death; it made her sweat and her skin crawl in horror.
Treading the streets of Nipton all by herself, save for the dying Gangers and her robotic companion floating by, she took hesitant steps towards the town hall. Adrenaline was pumping through her veins when the courier thought of what Ranger Ghost had told her: she needed eyes and ears, not her life. She should just run. Run back to the outpost and tell Ranger Ghost what happened to the town. She glanced over her shoulder and the Powder Ganger was no longer in sight. The billowing smoke invaded her lungs, making her cough and heave. Her knees were shaking and her head was spinning. Moments later, she found herself lurching forward and throwing up at the roadside. The smell of burning corpses and tires were too much for her to stomach, and her fear too much for her to contain. Death and decay loomed over her.
The courier wiped the vomit from her lips and chased down the burning sensation in her chest with a bottle of water, washing down the sour bile. She removed her biker goggles, allowing them to dangle at her neck, and wiped the sweat from her brow. Her stomach is in knots and almost emptied. Swallowing thickly, she pressed forward, putting her goggles back in place to protect her eyes from getting irritated by the smoke. The doors of the town hall swung open and men in distinct red uniforms emerged.
Taking out her 10 mm pistol from her holster as a precautionary measure, she approached. Her heart was hammering in her chest so hard she thought her ribcage was going to burst. A tall man wearing a dog's head emerged last. His skin is as pale as the moon that had shown up in the night sky. Any other day and it would have been a breathtaking transition from a warm sunset to nightfall, but the sight of the town's destruction, the man coolly striding towards her, his wolfish appearance, and the moon ominously hanging above them drowned out the beauty of the night and replaced it with pure terror.
The wolf man stopped briefly, eyeing her from head to toe behind his dark goggles. He made her feel uneasy, as if she was easy prey, ready to be taken and devoured. She aimed at the man, hands trembling ever so slightly, as he approached her with an air of power and dominance. The courier tried not to show her fear. For some reason, a line from a pre-war nature documentary she once watched echoed in her head. Most canine predators such as foxes and wolves have a highly developed sense of smell. They can smell prey, even when they are far away. She let out a sharp exhale as they continued to inch closer towards each other. Maintaining eye contact beneath their goggles, their bodies are only a few feet away from each other when he finally spoke.
"Don't worry, I won't have you lashed on to a cross like the rest of these degenerates," he said. The wolf man's voice sent a delicious chill down her spine. "It's useful that you happened by."
Run. That was the only word in her head as the man described in detail the atrocities he and his legionaries had committed. The courier thought she must be going crazy, because as he described how morally dissolute the inhabitants of Nipton were, she found herself thinking that they deserved it. She berated herself for this way of thinking. No, no, no one deserves this inhumanity. Even the darkest of souls can be redeemed… right? She knew she had better morals than that, but the moment she opened her mouth to speak, all she could ever say, perhaps out of fear, is that she admires the purity of the Legion's justice.
Fucking weak, you're so fucking weak, she thought to herself. You can't even stand for what you believe in just because you're being intimidated by this murdering, shit-eating dogfuck.
"It has a stark beauty, doesn't it? I'm glad you can appreciate it." He towered over her and gazed upon her, his eyes fixated on her. Her eyes scanned him, and closer inspection reveals thin, delicate lips, a well-formed nose, sharp, chiseled cheekbones that looked like they were sculpted by ancient Roman artists, and icy blue orbs that can undress her with one look beneath those dark goggles. This smug shitfuck looks like a saint yet his actions were far from saintly; how could the universe allow such a dissonance? It's unfair. The wolf man knew she was observing his features and he couldn't help but wonder what was running in that little red head of hers. Smirking, he pressed himself towards her, gauging her reaction. The courier stood firm, her chest pressed against his stomach, made aware of the fact that he towered her by around a foot. She did her best to look defiant despite her forced agreement with his twisted sense of morals.
"Now go, and teach them what you learned here. There will be more lessons in the days ahead."
And just like that, he was back to being ice. As soon as the wolf man was out of sight, she ran. She ran as fast as she could until her lungs were burning. The courier ran so swiftly even ED-E has trouble catching up. Muscles aching and lungs almost giving out, she reached the Mojave Outpost, clinging to the gates to support her failing legs. She scanned her surroundings, and saw Sergeant Kilborn patrolling the premises. Hurriedly, she hobbled over to him. "Easy there, you look like you've walked a ways," he said, a tinge of concern in his voice. "Legion's attacked Nipton, burned and killed everyone," she managed to croak out, distress obvious in her voice, and still panting from her run. There was a look of shock in the sergeant's face.
"What… There's no way…" he finally spoke after a few seconds of stunned silence. Her ears were still ringing from the adrenaline so the rest of what the sergeant said were blurry, but he said something about the Dam and being not able to stop the Legion. "We're doomed… Thanks for bringing the word. Even if the news is bad, I'll let the men know." The courier silently nodded before forcing herself to climb up the planks and relay the intel to Ranger Ghost. There was liberal cursing.
"Fuckin' Mojave is going to hell and all I can do is sit here and watch."
Ranger Ghost's words echoed in her head as she cleaned herself up in the barracks' latrine. As she washed away the grit and sand from her hair, her mind brought her back to Nipton. She had seen enough violence and this world for someone her age. Then again, the Wasteland isn't kind. The courier knew there were people who are less fortunate than she is; she had seen them suffer. Trying to think of anything else, her mind wandered to the wolf man. She could still feel his penetrating gaze that made her feel vulnerable and… soft. Cursing to herself, she shook the thoughts off and rinsed off. The courier traced the bullet scar on her right temple that Doc Mitchell had stitched up. Doc took pride in his needlework, and it's only proper that he did. It was admirable that he managed to put her face back together after being shot in the head.
Lacey sold her some food and drinks and she quietly ate her meal. The woman was nice, and offered to play Caravan. It was a good thing Lacey wasn't good at it and the courier hopped off the barstool with her pockets a little heavier with caps. Despite the events earlier, she is thankful the NCR allowed her to sleep in the barracks. Having a place to sleep in the wasteland was a luxury, and she learned that the hard way. As she lay on the battered mattress of the bunk bed she occupied, she toyed with the Pip-Boy Doc Mitchell gave her. It showed her inventory, a map, and her current status. The Pip-Boy says she's really tired, a fact that she knew of, and that she was slightly irradiated. With a few more pushes of buttons, she smiled. "Ooh, radio," she quietly exclaimed to herself as she discovered this function. She set the station to Radio New Vegas. Her eyelids were sunken and heavy as she listened to the news, ED-E floating near the bed. "ED-E, come here," she murmured, and the eyebot descended beside her. The courier turned to her side and patted the cold metal of her robot companion. "Good night ED-E."
That night, her usual nightmares didn't come. The courier didn't dream of her old home or splattered blood from wailing children on the walls of the hallway. The courier didn't dream of blood-curdling cries for help and standing there unable to do anything, smoke and maniacal laughter dancing in the air. The courier didn't dream of the man in the checkered suit shooting her in the head as she knelt before him. The courier didn't dream of screaming for help in a shallow grave, maggots eating her alive. There was only smoke, fire, and icy blue eyes.