A husk of a man crosses the hot sands. What does he seek? Respite? Redemption? Revenge?
None of these things seem to suffice for the man. He lost his heart, his faith and his hope.
All the courage that remained, had turned into a bitter desire for chaos, for blood. For carnage.
In the night he managed to fall asleep, passing out on the road, he dreamed of only one thing.
Not his wife and child, not their murderer… but the mangled body he raised himself from, bloodied and dirty.
Slowly, his mind adapts to it. No longer a nightmare, but an infatuation.
A desire to recreate what had become imprinted as an art form.
And as the day continued after, he found himself softly laughing.
His mind was blank, instructing his legs to carry him forward, inch by inch. Almost like a zombie.
And when a bullet flew past his head, he almost responded as one.
But instead, he dropped to his knees. Was this his destiny? To die a monster's death after suffering the purgatory of the sun?
A second shot never came.
A posture closed in on him, muttering "Ain' never seen a Ghoul do that... sir, can you hear me?" the voice called out.
As the distance was closed, it would turn out to be a Ranger.
Fabled warriors allied with the NCR, renowned for their skill and precision… despite missing now by only a hair.
But Richard looked like a mere shadow of his former self, looking like a heap of bones covered with a flesh colored bag and some ripped clothing.
He seemed like no threat, so the Ranger came closer, pulling out a bottle of water.
Kneeling down, he offered it.
Richard turned his head in response, observing the man briefly. Then he slowly crawled closer.
In an apparent attempt to lean on the man, his hand leaned on the Ranger's impressive chestpiece.
Truly this armor was befitting the legends they protect.
Slowly, his other hand grasped the bottle. Shaking fiercely, he risked spilling most of the drink.
But the Ranger quickly added his hand to stabilize the shaking man.
"...You're welcome" said the ranger with a soft chuckle.
And then a cough. It seemed like something splatted on the inside of the helmet.
He looked down, and saw a knife embedded in this stomach. Right into an exposed crevice of the armor.
"I'll be taking that armor now." Richard said, no longer shaken nor weak.
Despite his fragile appearance, he somehow managed to conjure the vitality to press the knife even deeper.
Hell, he picked the heavy armored man from the ground, punting him straight down on his back. Pushing the knife as deep as it would go.
"W-why" sounded the Ranger's last words. But Richard didn't answer.
He just pulled out the knife, and quickly embedded it into the poor man's now exposed throat.
It was time, he felt. Time to change.
To become an icon of chaos and fear. A visage none will forget.
He needed something. Something that stood apart.
The Ranger armor was a start, but it wasn't until he found a traveling trader that he found what he needed.
A trader in strange and uncommon curiosities. In layman's terms, that means a junk trader.
A scavenger picking up everything he can hold, and selling it off for dirt cheap, as long as there's actual caps involved.
The trader looked strangely toward Richard.
Rare it is to see the face of one in a Ranger outfit, devoid of a helmet.
But it seemed he was the lucky exception?
Sunglasses. Sure those would help in that baking sun. But it wasn't until a very specific curiosity that his interest was truly peaked.
A powdered wig. Grey and dusty. Picked from a ruin around Washington, it passed many traders before finding it's way in the Mojave.
And a trade was made. Some weapons and a grenade in exchange for the items and some supplies.
But before both men went on their way, Richard said "Oh hold on, you forgot this" and showed a ring on his finger.
Upon closer inspection, it would appear to be a pin. The very pin of the grenade he had traded.
And that is the beginning of the Mojave Bomber. He began with humble grenades, and worked his way up through caravans to procure a Missile Launcher.
Some even say they've seen him carry a Grenade Machinegun. Cackling out loud as bits of brahmin and man fly about.
Many in the NCR deny his existence, mainly to preserve the legendary status of the NCR Rangers.
But some say that he will appear at night, armed to the teeth with explosives.
Colonies have fallen to his sheer senseless barrage and his lack of self-preservation.
Some witnesses claim that he has taken ten mags of assault rifle shots to his chest, and barely stumbled before his assailants too would meet their end.
The man is a nightmare.
And soon, he will have to be stopped.