The East coast was so, so very different from the West.
Raiders, gunslingers, hell, even unsettled Super Mutants, it was like everything here was locked in a perpetual time warp of just after the bombs fell. It was ridiculous. He'd been through so much shit, seen so many people trying to rebuild society in the throes of Old World Blues, and here? Fuck, from the stories his granddad told of his granddad, it was just like after the bombs fell. Ruins and raiders, as far at the eye can see.
The Courier looked down at the satchel, bearing the old world emblem of a winged eagle with USPS stenciled above it. One last package, is what he'd promised. Here he was, hero of Hoover Dam, goddamn savior of the NCR slogging through the Divide, and the stipulation of his retirement package (A sizable share in the Mojave express and numerous caravans that depended on it) was to deliver a package across the continental United States?
Why, that seemed easier than talking down a mountain of a man with endless legionaries backing him. And so he'd taken the job, his last in the contract, with the promise of a mountain of caps and more coming in terms of stakes in caravans...
And he was stupid. It was pretty clear this was meant to be an impossible job to get him bumped off, an honorary, yet small, footnote in the history of the New Vegas Annexation. But hell, he'd shrugged off a bullet to the head already. What was a cross continental journey?
Boredom. Lots and lots of boredom. As it turned out, word traveled faster than the rail lines or the newly erected telegraph systems. Whatever caravan the Courier would link up heading east would have a clear route a mile wide, not even the most chem addled raider wanted to touch it. So the Courier sighed, drummed on what passed for a wagon, and made his way east.
That all stopped around Pennsylvania.
The caravan was stopped by some oh so stupid raiders, doing the typical shakedown among st some craggy ruins. Money or your life, all guns on the ground, blah blah blah. Well, the Courier had had about enough of their boast about what grisly things they had planned for the caravan if they didn't surrender their goods, and dropped into the dirt from one of the carts, and plain up stared down whoever stood as the raid boss.
All sides were quiet for minutes, an achingly long pause, before the raid boss waved to his men with a "Yeah, let 'em through."
With a curtious nod, the Courier led the caravan through, stopped them a mile out, and quietly circled back, politely ensuring the any caravans coming through wouldn't have to deal with them ever again.
And with that, the trail boss quietly added a percentage of caps to be sent to each man, under the tab of "Extraneous supplies gathered".
And finally, Boston. They reached it in time to see an airship fall by screaming mortar fire, and with a shrug of this shit happens every day, they made their way into the city.
The Trail Boss met with a bland, yet good natured somebody in an overcoat, and the Courier politely waited until the transaction was done to get his cut.
Less than five thousand caps.
He could've gotten better work being a crier for Gomorrah.
But still, the Courier though as he picked his way through the ruined suburbs, the true payment was that hefty retirement package, the caps to settle down out west, raise a farm, maybe shoo-, er, talk down some brahmin rustlers. Whatever tickled his fancy, honestly.
That daydream walked him right into a spiked bat. He felt his nose crunch as he was forced to the ground, a dirty, rotten toothed face inches from his own.
"Gimme yer goods!" The raider shrieked through mushy teeth. Specks of spittle flung into the Couriers face.
He thought for a split second.
"OH. OH SHIT. BIG ASS THING!" The Courier screamed, forcefully widening his eyes. The raider turned for a split second, a split second too long – the Courier drew his revolver from it's holster and fired a round straight through the filthy raider on top of him, then shoved the now limp body aside and stood up, revolver at the ready.
"NEXT!" He bellowed at the top of his lungs. Whatever raiders there were in the ruins didn't accept the challenge, the faint trickle of loose debris on concrete was enough of an answer. With a sigh, the Courier checked his bag, and there was the package, all fancificated and wrapped, not a single bit of tape unbroken.
With a sigh, he slowly let the hammer go and holstered the revolver. Here he was, Boston, and from what he could tell, not nuked flat, and raiders had held him up ? It was inconceivable, there had to be some kind of government here.
He wandered through the ruined country side, every now and then finding sparse settlements, far too small to sustain beyond a few years.
And then he was jumped. Again.
These raiders were at least smarter than the others, one guy didn't immediately demand his goods, and he'd managed to bluff one of the others into believing the old "This package is booby trapped" trick.
So they stuffed him in a cage. Which sucked.
The cage wasn't empty by longshot, other prisoners – settlers, traders, anyone the raiders could get their hands on realistically – huddled in the shadows, cautiously eyeing the newcomer with his dust covered garments and, yes, his bag.
The Courier made a shushing noise and scuttled closer to them.
"So here's the deal, I make a distraction..." He pried a rock from the floor of then pen and bounced it in his palm. "And you run straight out. They'll be too busy trying to put me down, trust me."
The Courier instantly regretted those words, it meant his life was on the line again for people he never knew, that he'd have to shoot or sneak his way out again – which always left a sour taste in his mouth. Why shoot when you can talk?
With a nod to the captives, he hefted the rock in his hand and mimicked the sound of a grenade spoon popping. With a grunt, it chucked close to the guards at the gate, sending them diving for cover.
The captives took the initiative and charged the gate, easily breaking thin link of chain holding it shut. The raiders guarding them were puzzled.
Where was the explosion? Why am I not dead? Why is this prisoner beating my face in?
By the time anyone in the camp realized the prisoners were gone, they had scattered, save the Courier. He'd hunted down his revolver – a unique Ranger Sequoia - and now stood in the center of their camp and waited. The raiders converged.
"So we're all good now, y'hear?" He proclaimed, eyeing each gun that turned on him. "I'm all free, you're all alive. Well, c'ept that dick guarding us, but that's why he was there, right?"
The Courier gulped as several guns cocked a round into the chamber. He counted at least four looking at him.
"So, we go on our way, you're not dead, I'm not dead, we all live peaceably and- aw fuck it."
The Courier drew his Sequoia and fired, three rounds, three heads popping like a melon, leaving a single raider looking left to right at the mess his comrades had made.
"So, I got one round left," The Courier flicked the chamber out and pressed and thumb over the unfired round, the empty brass casings rained to the ground. "You can let me go, or you can get reaaaallly friendly with this bullet here. What do you say?"
The raider was quite literally shivering in their boots and gave the Courier a slight nod, as to which the Courier took as a sign to get out.
The streets of downtown Boston stretched before him, and the PipBoy could only do so much in terms of local directions.
Fenway Park? How the hell do I get there?
AN: So I kinda slotted what I think the (gender aside) canon Courier would be here. Heavy Charisma and max Luck, with Terrifying Presence as a perk (You tell me someone you shoot in the head who proceeds to tear their way across the Mojave to get to you isn't the goddamn scariest thing you can think of)
ANx2: So I might write more, I was just bored and saw a bunch of things comparing the Courier and the Sole Survivor