"Sir, I have just received a new report."
The man behind the desk, smoking, looked up at the messenger and sighed.
"Lay it on me." he said.
"It appears Camp Forlorn Hope has been destroyed. Our surveyors counted 24 bodies - 14 NCR, 8 canine. No survivors as of yet."
"Shit. It's him, isn't it?"
"It.. it would appear so, Sir. The conditions match the other confirmed sites. Every body had the eyes, tongue and ears cut off, this includes the dogs, by the way, Sir, before being dragged into a pile at the centre of the camp."
"Christ."

Dennis Crocker put out his cigarette, immediately lit another.
"What is this, the sixth time?" he asked.
"Seventh, actually, if you count the ranger station-"
"Fuck it, it doesn't matter. Look, just send out a team to bring the bodies back so we can ID them and bury them. The quicker this is over the better."
"Yessir."

The messenger left Crocker's office, leaving it's now sole occupant thinking.
He thought on what was happening. How everything, all the little alliances he'd set up, favours he'd obliged, battles he'd sent men to fought, was being brought down by one pissant little courier who wouldn't stay down and die.
It had started only a few months ago - July, or August, depending on your calendar.
The courier had brought the NCR victory. House had been assassinated, Caesar and his Legate personally beheaded and the Legion as a whole was sent packing.
There had been a short time of tranquillity. People stopped being afraid to leave their house, NCR civvies were actually coming over to help populate the area... and now this.
No-one knew why he'd done it. All Crocker knew, anyone know was that the Courier had one day entered the McCarran airport at 5:60 AM and did not leave until 6:40 PM. The next time a supply caravan entered the base, he saw horror: blood on every wall, bodies on every floor. The corpses were piled into a mass grave near Black Mountain and the base was officially closed, never to be re-entered.

They'd thought it a Legion atrocity at first. It was only when the other bases started to fall did they see the connection.
Camp Golf, Camp Guardian, Camp Searchlight, Ranger Station Alpha, Primm and thr Mojave Outpost.
All in the same way, too: he would use a modified hunting rifle and just walk in the front door, shooting at whatever moved.
It seemed like he was invincible; bullets would fly off the power armour he was wearing. The only time he was known to have been hurt was when a brave man snuck up behind him with a live grenade. The courier was knocked out for a few minutes, giving the rest of the camp time to escape.

Crocker was looking at a map on his desk, making plans. It was of the Mojave and outlying areas.
Every base he had been to had a red cross through it. The for-now untouched NCR bases had a green circle.
His plan was this: pile every single troop into McCarran and wait for the courier to arrive.
Now, the ambassador wasn't stupid; he had no reason to beleive more men with more guns could stop the courier. The real gemstone in his plane was this: he was going to be getting help from the boomers.

After Hoover Dam, NCR had sent a single representative to meet the Boomer leaders and set up a relationship. It was a resounding success: the NCR needed firepower and could give supplies, the Boomers needed supplies and could give firepower. The leader, Pear, had been in the Embassy only yesterday, talking things over with Crocker. She fully supported the courier's death - she had grown to quite like the NCR lifestyle.

Yes, thought Crocker, that should do it. Let's see the bastard survive that.

It was the twenty-ninth of Whatever-Month-This-Was and the sun was shining. A beautiful day.
The base was alert, tension was in the air.
Every five feet of ground had at least one fully armed combatant.
Men smoked cigarettes and told nervous jokes. Quick hands of card games were played in the kitchens and guns were polished.
Boomers with every type of explosive ordinance under the sun stood on the walls, intent.
Then they saw him.

He came from the south. He was in power armour. He was not, however, holding a modified hunting rifle.
In his hand was a... small blue toy gun? It sure looked like a toy, at least. It took everyone by surprise. The watchers on the walls weren't sure wether to laugh, if he was joking with them (he wasn't).
No-one moved as he aimed and held the trigger.
No-one moved when they saw the three red lines coming down from the heavens.
They all moved when they heard it coming.

They never had a chance, really.
The first blast killed, say thirty men, and many more in the resulting confusion.
He barely had to fire any shots, but did anyway, for the fun of it.
He took up a missile launcher from a dead Boomer at one point, speeding everything up.
It took about an hour, in total for the courier to kill just under 300 men and utterly destroy not one, but to major factions of the Mojave.

Crocker started running as soon as he heard the news. Everyone did.
They could outrun him for a while, he hoped, long enough for the boys back home to send over a helicopter to get them the fuck out of here.
He was wrong. He found them halfway to Hoover Dam and killed everyone last one, except Crocker.
He cut off Crocker's ears and sent him packing, after giving him one message to tell the NCR: Stay away from my home.