War, war never changes.
Well, that's a lie
War does change, as humanity's ill fate to walk forever in the cycle of change. Goals change, weapons change, and even the numbers of the dead change. The only unchanging part of war is in its own identity of conflict and bloodshed, of the victor and the vanquished, and of the living and the dead.
Another day of hellish heat in Mojave wasteland, and yet another day of life for the courier, as he walked across the dead land. His black metal helmet, even though had saved him numerous times from bullets and blades, could only offer a little protection from the heat. He took a sip from his trusted canteen. "Water's shit, but at least no rad in it", he thought, as he put away the metal flask and donned his usual black gas mask. Sandy wind swept across him and his long black coat danced with the billow behind him. He returned to tread the cracked soil and the sandy ground of the wasteland. He's back on his journey….
From the birth of the existence and to the face of the apocalypse, each and every organism has struggled by ending lives of the others. In the course of such bloody history, reason for war has shifted for too many times. For riches, for honor, for justice, for the glory of God, and many more. Yet, all of them share the same endgame conclusion: In war, everyone wants to live….
He trod on the dying ground of the wasteland with a steady pace. Hot dust and dry sand blew against him. Still he kept on striding without slowing down. He didn't sprint, and yet he didn't drag. His belongings were many, but they didn't encumber him. His vigor was at maximum, and he had no wish to squander it in a futile sprinting. His experience in the wasteland had taught him a good lesson, that overexerting stamina in the middle of the desert will kill you.
To live. It's the very reason for men and beasts to fight, to evolve and to kill one another, be it the highest of the kings to the lowest of the beasts. Caesar, House, Kimball…they all sugarcoated the ugly truth with freedom, order and independence; Yet, in the end, they are all clinging hopelessly to their fleeting lives as equals before the reaper.
The cracked soil finally met the rocky terrain. The courier stopped at his track as he looked over the mountainous ground before him. He checked his destination on his pip-boy. He was close to the area for his quest as the distance between him and the said place had been decreasing progressively. Currently, he was 5 miles in the east from the Primm. He continued to walk, as his pip boy was bleeping furiously, indicating him that he was closing in to the target area.
Caesar, in his deathbed, clutching futilely to his life, as his ailment slowly claimed him…
The bleeping died and in its place, a green light shone ceaselessly, as the courier reached his destination. He raised his head to look upon his target, and what appeared before him through the crimson lenses of the gas mask, startled him.
"A vault!"
House, in his cybernetic coffin, helpless as contaminants claimed whatever left of him….
The courier switched the destination tracker into silent mode on his pip-boy. He unholstered his choice weapon, a ranger sequoia; a gift from a retired but noble ranger, Chief Hanlon. "Hope you're doing alright, old man.", the courier muttered in his mind, as he inspected the rare hunting revolver. A large black revolver, with quality redwood adorns its handle. Its body and chamber are decorated with golden-colored flowery engravings. Its trigger, safety pin and iron sight are golden colored as well. Its barrel is etched with words in golden; "For Honorable Service" on its right, and "Against All Tyrants" on its left. On its redwood handle is an etching of a golden bear and silver star; an emblem of the proud NCR rangers. He could only be amazed by the work of art in his palm, with his gloved-fingers greedily tighten on its handle. In the hand of a veteran ranger, this is indeed an extension of the reaper's scythe.
Kimball, lungs and spine punctured from a single .50 MG armor piercing bullet, haplessly gasping for air as death claimed him…
"Good, no defect, rust or whatsoever." He hated a jammed weapon, especially when it happened in the heat of a hard battle. He recalled a rather unpleasant memories of using a half repaired laser pistol against a family of deathclaws in the quarry. It was not pretty for him, even though he survived the battle.
Legate, Eddie, Motor-Runner, Papa Khan…slaves of conflict, slaves of want, slaves of death, and the reaper claimed them all…..
He checked its bullet chamber. All five chambers were fully loaded with .45-70 Govt. standards. He checked again for some spare ammunition in his rucksack. He was delighted. The ammunitions, .45-70 Govt. hollow points, hand loads and standards, were plenty. No worry of running out of ammos in the gunfight. He holstered the gun and checked for his secondary weapon.
Benny, unwarranted hero, all-time traitor and failing villain, lost in ambition and cross claimed him…..
The courier pulled out a combat knife from its sheath, strapped on his thigh. Patches of Dry blood adorns its blade. Its handle is covered with worn-out animal skin. Though the blade seems to be old and rusted, its jagged edge and side are still as sharp as it was in its glory days. It was retrieved from a lone grave in the outland during the courier's quest on finding his unsuccessful killer.
Chance, a khan, haunted by his past, and past claimed him alone in the vastness of the wasteland….
The courier sheathed back the combat knife. He made last-round preparations. When he finished, the sun had set. Good, now he was in his element. Taking out his ranger sequoia, he entered the metallic cold tomb from the time past.
A religious teaching of the past once affirmed that those who vainly seek to preserve their lives shall lose them and those who selflessly sacrifice their own for the sake of many shall receive eternal ones. In Mojave, they all die the same death regardless of their noble ideals or unscrupulous intentions; dead, forgotten and rotten beneath the irradiated soil. Indeed, war has changed. Yet, its thirst for blood and its hunger for the dead are still the same. Men, abominations and beasts struggle to appease such thirst and hunger with the lives of others. But, in the end, sooner or later, death will still claim every life, mine included.
But not today.
Today is not my time. Today is the day I still keep breathing and the day my enemies lose theirs. Today is the day my enemies die.
And so starts the prelude of another tale of bloody conflict; a story of dead rulers and fallen heroes, of deceit and betrayal, and with me, the courier, in the midst of the chaos and confusion. My name is John Grimm, courier number 6 of the Mojave Express, and this is my story.