"You're awake. How bout' that." The doc said kindly.
"Whoa, easy there. Easy. You been out cold a couple of days now. Why don't you just, relax a second? Get your bearings." Doc said, before sighing. "Let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name?"
The Courier shook his head, trying to clear a thin veneer of fuzz from his thoughts. Ended up being a horrible decision, as the sudden movement brought on a splitting headache, making him wince.
He grunted with pain, barely biting out "Jericho. I-I can only remember Jericho."
"Huh. Can't say it's what I'd have picked for you. But if that's your name, that's your name." The Doc said, still kind even though he was obviously a little worried.
"I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings."
"Wake up."
The Courier jolted, eyes snapping open at the voice, though no one became immediately apparent. It was dark, but light was present. The room was lit by torches and lanterns, bouncing off of black stone and red windows giving off a strange contrast.
The bed he lay on was comfortable. The most comfortable thing he had ever touched. It accommodated his size and weight without creaking, and he hated it. It wasn't normal.
He glanced around, vaguely catching the sight of something circling the bed, always at the edge of his vision. He squinted, absently rubbing his eyes free of whatever nightmare he had just had, or was having.
He paused. He was unbound? Maybe this person wasn't going to kill him, hell maybe they had even saved his life.
Slowly, the Courier – Jericho – raised himself up into a sitting position on the bed. His head was on a swivel, though the being that immediately grabbed his attention was the deathly pale woman with unhealthy looking black lines crawling up her features standing at the end of the bed.
The woman smirked, a sultry look that seemed to come all too easily to her. With a start, Jericho realised he was stripped down to nothing but his underwear and an undershirt. It was an uncomfortably familiar situation the he had no wish to repeat, despite how it was not forced on him yet again.
Neither seemed to want to begin the conversation, only when the white woman's smirk dropped did she begin to speak.
"You aren't from here. Though I'm not sure you know that." She said, her hauntingly attractive features keeping the young man on the bed transfixed despite his best efforts. There was obviously something wrong with the situation, but his thoughts felt fuzzy. A familiar and panic inducing feeling which kept him focused on her.
"What do you mean?" The Courier asked, trying to peel his eyes away from the black and red counterparts in the white woman.
The smirk returned, and the last vestiges of sleep left Jericho. "Come find me when you are able, you were in quite the scuffle." She said almost haughtily, as if she knew more than she was letting on.
Which she did.
With that, she left. She practically glided across the floor, he dress never seeming to move as she walked. A hitherto unseen dark brown door opened and closed with a slam, shaking the frame and the room with its weight.
Jericho stayed still for a moment, before getting off the bed and collapsing to the floor. His left leg was bandaged and set with a makeshift splint. He was no stranger to crippled limbs, and so just clenched his teeth and stood up, trying to keep the pressure off his injured leg.
The room was appointed as one would expect from a guest room, though obviously luxurious. A dresser, with colours in keeping with the theme of the room, had a perfectly clear mirror attached to its top. The Courier's array of weaponry was laid out neatly on top of the dresser, with both All American and the Medicine Stick along with Old Glory resting opposite one another, making a box for the rest of his smaller arms.
Maria, Big Boomer, Love and Hate, Chances Knife, That Gun, and A Light Shining in Darkness all ringed his folded Elite Riot Armor with its attached Courier Duster. The Elite Riot Helmet repaired and resting atop the bullet resistant fabric.
A sense of elation rose from the Couriers chest, before he lumbered over to the dresser. He hadn't meant to look at himself in the mirror, but once he had reached his gear his eyes were inevitably drawn to the nineteen year old face staring back at him.
He couldn't remember the last time he had really looked at himself, but he didn't remember looking like that. He looked older than he was, his messy black hair was cut short, and his rough beard made him look far more weathered than he was. His normally sun tanned skin was pale, and his eyes were bloodshot.
More than that, he was gaunt. His cheeks were drawn in and his eyes were hollow and ringed with tiredness. A short lifetime of soldiering, survival and questionable decisions stared back at him. Voices echoed in his ears, men and women often exclaiming what would end up being their finals words to him.
"Why have you… done this? Centuries of preparation… so much good, undone…"
"I'm gonna' make you my bitch!"
"Your words have done nothing but delay the inevitable. Now, see what my hounds and my blade will bring to you."
"I would sooner spit on the grave of my dead mother than let some courier-walk-the-wasteland-fuck talk to me like that."
"Help!"
"You son of a bitch!"
"You think you've outsmarted me?! You can't get away! You're the one on a leash. You always were."
They were infuriating. With a sneer Jericho tore his eyes away from the mirror and angrily began collecting his gear. Everything was in order, even being in better condition than when he had last used them. The cut through the golden 21 was mended and the holes in the riot armor were repaired.
First came the tan jeans and armored combat boots which took a few moments to adjust thanks to the numerous laces, followed by the actual armored chest plate. Several straps and belts wrapped around the armor, carrying items ranging from bullets to his now suddenly full canteen. The reinforced duster came next. The coat being adapted from the original armored piece and the first and only gift anyone had ever given him. The blackjack Courier duster replaced the other jacket after the Courier himself transferred the extra armor on the shoulders and the sleeves themselves onto his personal duster. And finally, completing the intimidating ensemble, was the helmet, which he decided to hold instead of wear at the moment.
He took a sip from his trusty vault 13 canteen, relishing in the cold water as he glared at the door, trying to will the answer to his problems to walk through. He took a step, forgetting his injured leg for a moment, and once again stumbled. With a growl, he fished out a stimpack from one of the pouches on his chest, and jabbed it into the offending limb. A few seconds later, and he was fully mobile.
He began marching across the room, intending to face his problem sooner rather than later, his boots landing in a satisfyingly deep rhythm. He was confident he wouldn't need his weapons, but kept them easily accessible just in case.
The building was a veritable castle, the black stone and torchlight giving off the ambience of suppressed rage. There always seemed to be something flitting about at the corner of his vision, keeping him paranoid and on guard. When he finally found windows, they were stained red and were semi-frosted, making it difficult to make out any details from the outside.
The Courier growled in frustration, but otherwise didn't alter his stride. He didn't know where he was going, but that had never stopped his exploration before. If the white woman didn't appear to him soon he was more than likely to start looting. It was lucky then, when he stumbled on an open door to a balcony, which the white woman was waiting on.
She didn't turn around, merely gesturing him to join her outside. He obliged, seeing no reason to refuse, and stepped up next to her, placing his anxious hands on the white balcony railing. The horizon was blood red, and the ground was a black sand one would expect from a rocket blast. Things meandered around aimlessly, seemingly nonplussed by the giant structure Jericho stood in.
"Am I dead?" The Courier asked, not fearfully, instead with resignation.
The woman had the gall to laugh slightly. "No, I'm afraid not." She paused for a moment, letting the Courier absorb the information. "You are however not where you should be. I don't know how it is you came here, but you are from another world separate from ours." She said, with what was obviously unused wonder.
The Courier, simply scoffed. How could that be possible? Not even the Think Tank could achieve that, and he had asked! The white woman for her part, just gestured towards the sky.
Reluctantly Jericho looked up, and sighed. The moon was broken. He looked back down, hurriedly averting his gaze from the stellar phenomena he didn't want to believe. Though he already knew. A pit in his stomach opened up, wider than The Divide. He wasn't going back home, and he had fucked everything up.
The Desert would fall apart without him, and he was never going to be able to fix his mistakes. He wouldn't even try, because he didn't know where to start.
Another sigh, and he pushed those feelings down where he pushed all of his guilt and fear and anger. "Who are you then?" He said in frustration.
"Salem. I saved you when you were under attack by the Grimm." She gestured towards the various abominations milling about below the castle.
"Why?" Jericho said, in frustration.
Salem gave an almost motherly smile, one which made the Courier's eyes water with unexpected emotion. "I thought you deserved to be saved."
The Courier tensed, not expecting that answer. He certainly didn't feel the same considering he had abandoned the Mojave, despite however involuntary that action was. Hell no one had ever thought that of him. No one. He was always a tool or a means to an end.
Salem continued, either not noticing the Courier's sudden tension or disregarding it for the moment. "I don't think you deserved to die, so I saved you. I couldn't save the town, despite my efforts, but you had survived, somehow. So I brought you here. I the only reason I knew you were from another world was your strange armor and your collection of notes." She finished, answering the most obvious question before it needed to asked.
Jericho was beginning to relax. But there was that niggling feeling of paranoia he often ignored that told him she was say exactly the right things to make him relax. "Thank you, then." He said in what sounded to him like a tiny, weak voice.
The motherly smile returned, a far cry from the look she gave him when he had first woken up. She nodded wordlessly, accepting his thanks.
"What now?" Jericho asked, vaguely aware of how pathetic he sounded. Something was keeping him focused on Salem, something he couldn't understand. All he knew, was that he wanted to pay her back. Though, that same niggling paranoia practically screamed at him that he had felt this way for someone else before, and House had ended up with buckshot through his shrivelled up carcass.
But that was a long time ago, certainly things could be different this time.
Right?
Jericho cleared his throat and looked down at his gloved hands. "I owe you, whatever you need me to do, I'll do it." He said, wholly meaning it. If he said he would do something, he did it.
Salem didn't give any outward reaction to his words beyond an almost pitying smile and a light shake of her head. "For now you should focus on getting adjusted to this place and the world. After that… we'll see."
The Courier nodded, and Salem lead him on a tour of her castle all the while explaining to him the basics of the world he now found himself in. Dust, Aura, Semblance, Grimm and the Kingdoms were outlined neatly in brief overviews. Giving enough information to understand the basics of the concept, and places to start off in research.
Much of the technology wasn't unfamiliar to the Courier, in fact he felt he could adapt pretty well to the supposed conveniences that were available in the world of Remnant. He practically threw himself into absorbing everything he could of practical tech and other related fields, using the castles vast library as an effective distraction from his current situation.
The advances in computers, while fascinating, went over his head. He was always more mechanically inclined, a necessity when maintaining some of the gear he had used over the years. He had even toyed with the idea of repairing a vehicle to make his job easier and faster, but despite quickly grasping the concepts, never got around to getting the right parts together.
Despite the odd feeling of safety that Salem seemed to evoke in him, the castle itself was ominous and foreboding. The black stone and red windows kept the Courier constantly looking over his shoulder for things creeping around in the shadows of the hall and rooms.
He was sat at a table, having spent several hours reading different historical texts when that sixth sense that had kept him alive for so long started itching at the back of his neck. Carefully, Jericho slid his right hand across his chest, while holding his book with his left so as to not look suspicious. His hand gently rested against the image of Our Lady of Guadalupe, on the grip of the intricately styled silver handgun Maria.
Several moments passed and nothing happened. It took a full minute for the Courier to think that maybe he was just imagining things and just barely move his hand from his gun. In that instant, he was struck in the side with a painfully familiar sting.
He was moving and shooting in an instant, aiming low to try and hit the perceived rad scorpion that had chittered up beside him. Problem was it wasn't a rad scorpion, it was a man with an eerily familiar look on his face. Jericho didn't take much notice of that in moment however, instead barely registering the swaying scorpion tail as the man cartwheeled around the room like a maniac.
The Courier loosed more shots, emptying the clip of Maria, reloading before drawing Big Boomer which he kept at his side should the man get too close. He ignored the painful throbbing of the wound in his side, which seemed to have punctured clean through his armor. He too ignored the painful spreading of an all too familiar feeling of poison in his veins. He was stung enough by Scorpions, Snakes, Spiders, or even Cazadores that he figured he should be good without Anti-venom for a good long while.
The man seemed to want to start monologuing, but the Courier gave him no chance. The Scorpion man had leapt up on top of a bookshelf and took a position as if he was without a care in the world. He opened his too wide mouth to speak while the Courier was reloading, only to receive several bullets straight to the teeth.
His head didn't explode into bloody bits, much to the Courier's chagrin. Instead the bullets bounced and pinged away, much like they had with the lead Raider in the village. His head did snap back in surprise however, not used to being caught off guard. With a growl and a yelp, the man leapt towards Jericho, extending two wrist blades on each arm.
It was good then, that the Courier had his trusty shotgun on hand.
At the last second before the scorpion man came into contact with him, he blasted both barrels at the man. No matter what country you're from, or what magical voodoo bullshit powers you might possess, you can't fight physics.
Because the bullets have nowhere to go but forward, they try to penetrate the man's strange forcefield, or his so called 'aura.' But they can't. So their kinetic energy must be transferred to something. The scorpion man went hurtling backwards, knocking over a series of bookshelves as the Courier calmly reloaded his shotgun, and took the opportunity to pull a small flask from one of his chest pouches and down its viscous contents. Immediately, he could feel the poison in his body begin to thin and dissipate.
The scorpion man, evidently not satisfied with his own performance, leapt forward once again, only to meet the same fate he had just recovered from.
The Courier was beginning to enjoy this.
Another reload, and his sudden levity dropped back down to the ground. He was out of extra shells after these next two shots, so he had to make them count to keep the man away. He needed a way to incapacitate him quickly, but he seemed nowhere near slowing down. It was almost like fighting a Deathclaw except it had poisoned claws.
He resumed the steady fire of Maria, hoping that it would keep him at bay until he could figure out a plan. The scorpion man, was presumably doing the same thing, considering he was keeping his distance, merely evading the Courier's fire.
It was times like these that Jericho bemoaned his lack of explosive preparation. Always forgetting at the last second that he has them at all. He could have avoided much of his injuries if he just took time to plan and prepare.
He had been standing still, hardly strafing as he was under the impression that the Scorpion only had melee capabilities. That impression was rudely changed when, in an errant flip, his wrist blades began shooting at him.
Fuck this place and their useful as all hell 'mechashift weapons.'
The first two shots landed right in the knee of his still tender left leg, dropping him to the floor with a cry of pain. More shots rang out, and the Courier half crawled half limped his way over to a large dark brown wood table that went down the middle of the library, heaving with all his strength to tip the immense mass of wood.
With a crash, the table tilted onto its side. He sidled up to keep his back to the table, holstering Maria so that he could inject another stimpack into his leg. The scorpion took advantage, vaulting over the table to land right over top of the Courier, who just fired Big Boomer for the last time, sending him careening into another bookshelf with a cry of frustration.
With a start, the Courier realised he couldn't fight him here. He needed to get to a place where he could dictate the rules. Intending to emulate what he had done in the past with feral ghouls, the Courier vaulted over the makeshift cover of the table and sprinted towards the door and out into one of the labyrinthian halls.
He beat feat until he was out on the balcony he had originally met Salem on, where he stopped and frantically looked around for anything he could use that he didn't already have. With a panicked "Motherfucker!" he found nothing beyond a few end tables.
So he stood, having cornered himself in a dangerous area and hoped he could improvise a way out of this. Soon enough, the scorpion man game sprinting fast towards him, having found the object of his hunt.
He was thankfully, coming down a straight hallway that provided little cover. That didn't seem to help much however when the man started bouncing off the walls in order to avoid getting shot by the hailstorm of lead coming down at him from the Couriers considerable arsenal.
It was hard to tell what hit, and what didn't. All that Jericho knew, was that the scorpion man didn't even slow down. There was a maniacal grin on his face that matched his incessant cackling, and then finally it clicked in the Courier's head, just as he was about to be pounced on yet again. That look in his eye, looked exactly like Cook-Cook. Assuming that is, if that murderous son of a bitch ever looked sober.
Finally out of options, the Courier ripped the cloth holding Old Glory in place inside his duster and swung the mostly ornamental weapon at the lunging bug man. He struck, but that didn't stop his momentum. Finally, the Courier knew he was beat. He waited for the final blow to come, not having enough time for any regrets at the moment, but the strike never came.
With a start, he realised he had closed his eyes. He opened them curiously, only to find himself uncomfortably close to the scorpion man. He could feel and smell his breath as he was held down. The man merely looked at him hungrily, with wide eyes and a sickening smile.
He had forgotten his helmet in the library, and he regretted that mistake.
"Welcome-" the scorpion began, cackling all the while. The Courier ignored whatever came next, instead trying to figure out how to get the crazy man off of him. His legs weren't held down, as his chest was being straddled as the bug man held down his arms. Try as he might, he simply wasn't as strong as the man creepily gesticulating with equally creepy expressions.
So, out of options, the Courier just grimaced and head-butted him right in the chin. The bug man's head snapped back, and while the actual strike may have hurt the Courier more considering he was now bleeding from the nose, from the impotent growling and the spray of pink mist that came out of the bugs mouth probably indicated that he had bitten his tongue.
That was satisfying.
And it provided the perfect distraction for him to wriggle free, as the scorpion man's hands flew up to his mouth. With a twist, the Courier was now on top. Wrapping his legs around the Scorpions own while reaching for Chances Knife. He began bringing it down repeatedly, but the damn shield around him just wouldn't break.
The Courier stopped, suddenly feeling an appraising gaze on his back. That momentary distraction was all it took for the bug to reverse their position once again, this time however he effectively pinned Jericho down in an arm bar.
The threat of having his arm broken in such a way that stimpacks couldn't fix easily, stilled the Courier. Once again subject to the bug's creepy mannerisms.
"Oh, I like him! He'll be fun…" the bug spluttered through the blood in his mouth, still laughing all the while.
"That's enough Tyrian. You can go now." Salem spoke from the doorway, a pleased tone in her voice that made the so called Tyrian shudder with unrestrained glee.
"I'm sure I'll be seeing you again real soon!" The bug said, drawing out his words in almost orgasmic bliss, before finally releasing Jericho.
The Courier just spat in his face.
Tyrian screamed, finally angry. But a quick word from Salem had him slinking off down the hall, looking back over at the Courier with an evil glint in his eye. The Courier got up off the ground, and began angrily collecting his weapons.
"What was that?" Jericho said angrily, not making eye contact with the woman who had supposedly saved his life.
"Tyrian is an… agent, of mine. I was unaware he had returned. He must have assumed you were an intruder, and so set out to incapacitate you." She said, kindly. That same feeling of maternal care returned to the Courier, relaxing him and making him not notice the true meaning to her words.
"There is something good that came of this however. It is now clear to me that you can handle yourself in this world, so I've made the decision to send you the Vale." Salem said, her tone becoming more businesslike.
The Courier, knowing that the time for anger had passed, was more than willing to get to work on a job he could focus on. Something that would distract him from thoughts of his own world and the Mojave. So he nodded, and turned to face Salem fully while he absently reloaded and fixed his guns. A skill he had picked up from the Burned Man.
"What do you need me to do?" He asked.
"Nothing. For now anyways, I just want you to get used to the world. You'll be meeting up with another one of my contacts, who will help you get situated in Vale." Salem said, pleased with the Courier's quick compliance.
"Who is this person and how will you contact me?" Jericho said, glaring angrily at the numerous wastefully expended magazines that arrayed his chest and the insides of his duster.
"She is called Cinder Fall, and I will contact you through her. So I suggest you listen to her, as she will be helping you 'adjust.'" Salem replied matter of factly. "For tonight however, you may rest here. I'll have you brought to Vale tomorrow."
The Courier nodded, finding himself without any more questions. And a good rest did sound particularly enticing to him. Salem left without another word, signalling that the conversation was over.
The Courier needed to restock on ammo, but was unfortunately unwilling to ask for any more favors from his host. So he relegated himself to waiting until he was at the so called city of Vale. Once he had returned to his room however, that didn't stop him from making it as secure as possible.
The Castle unnerved him, and the Grimm roaming the outside made that feeling even worse. But worst of all was the knowledge that Tyrian was in the same building as him. Just the thought made his skin crawl. He hated the feeling of helplessness that Tyrian had induced in him; that knowledge that no matter what Jericho did, he couldn't bring the bug down. He had unloaded his entire arsenal into the jumped up scorpion and it hardly slowed him down, and that evoked memories he would rather not remember.
He HATED it.
So, the room became a fortress. The dresser that previous held his gear was pushed in front of the heavy door, and with some extreme jury rigging, contained enough explosives to make it one hell of a frag grenade, should someone enter the room unannounced thanks to a wire setup that was connected to the floor should the dresser move.
Next came the guns, which were setup around the room and well hidden from sight. The hope was to get some lucky shots of to kill anyone coming in the room.
Never once did the thought that he was maybe going a little overboard cross his mind as he tipped the rest of the furniture in the room into a cover square that he could shoot out of. Not when he gripped Chances Knife in his left hand, and A Light Shining in Darkness in the other. And not when he lay down with his helmet and armor on in the middle of the square, on the floor and facing the only way in or out of the room.
Alright everyone, it's me again.
So, before anyone starts saying that Salem is out of character, I've got some explanation for that, which I have tried to subtly introduce throughout the chapter.
When I had said that this would be brutal, I just want people to know I don't mean unnecessarily brutal. Just more violent than the show makes itself out to be. The Courier will not be some overpowered killing machine, because as cool as he is, he doesn't have the powers of Anime bullshit *YET,* he is effectively the peak of a regular man, who has then been pushed to the limit to survive. So for now, essentially everyone could kick his ass. Maybe not Jaune, but most could kick his ass.
And Tyrian would utterly destroy him if he was actually fighting.
And there is no relation to Jericho in Fallout 3, in case you were wondering. I just liked the name.
So yeah, this will hopefully be a more realistic and more mature story than what you would normally get out of RWBY or Fallout.
As for the reviews, thanks gang, ya'll rock.
So Bullets in Fallout may very well be more powerful than those in RWBY, but for the purposes of this story, the opposite will be true. RWBY will have the more powerful stuff, simply by virtue of Dust.