It was his vendetta, he had never been a fighter, but after his near death experience, he felt awoken, his mind emancipated from the slavery of peace that it had been forced to endure, there was no peace, there had never been any, and he had been a fool to think such. War, war never changed, only men did, and he, therefore would have to change, for war, with all its cruelty, was coming to the Wasteland.
The light was blinding, and he had to raise a shielding hand to cover his eyes, there was not a cloud in sight, and the air was hotter then he remembered, his boots were planted squarely in the red dust of the Mojave, and, slowly, he took his first step on a long road of adventures.
He had heard of Goodsprings from other Couriers, but despite how small it was, he was impressed that any town could've risen in this merciless expanse, for it was barren, and rarely did the irradiated rain fall that would've given birth to crops.
He rummaged through his pocket as he walked, more steadily now than before, his feet moving toward the tavern as he'd been instructed to by Doc Mitchels, his number 21 lighter raised to lips as he ignited the tip of the cigarette, and took a long drag on it, exhaling the white smoke that followed and mildly coughed.
The Courier stopped and looked forward, staring at the hastily built tavern made from salvage of all sorts, long broken neon signs hung on the door and the porch, and an elderly man sat on a rocking chair, moving it back and forth. The Courier ascended the brief staircase up onto the splintered porch, tipping his hat at the old man. In turn he spat a large glob of chew into a nearby spit can and nodded back.
Slowly, his hands found the front of the door and pushed it open, stepping through cautiously, taking off his sunglasses and folding them inside his pocket. The tavern had few patrons, all minding their own business as they drank a range of alcohol and even some dirty or purified water. But only one thing stood out in this drinking house.
A dark skinned man began to raise his voice at the girl behind the counter, few people noticed, but some heads were turned, giving the man strange aggravated looks.
"Where the fuck is he?!" The man finally shouted at her, at this time, more people turned their heads at the conversation.
"Get the fuck out of my bar asshole!" She yelled back, pulling up a two barrel shotgun, sawed to the half to decrease the weight.
He moved back slowly, his eyes as wide as saucer plates, his backside knocking down glasses and plates along with other things, his hand pointed at the bartender. "Me and my boys are gonna raise this damned town to the ground." His finally left through door and he could hear the hurried footsteps of him as he ran.
The Courier frowned then sat on one of the several stools and looked at the bartender, she was old, in her forties, but showed signs of beauty when she was younger, he quietly studied her as she strode toward him, and from his pockets he produced 7 bottle caps and sat them on the table counter. "Water, purified, I'll know if you give me the dirty type."
She nodded, sighing, clearly stressed as she poured his water into a dirtied glass. "So what was that all about miss?"
"Damn powder gangers are trying to find and cut off a loose end." He put the cup to his lips and took a small swig from it, powder gangers, one of his least favorite types of raiders; they had experience at raiding, and had the explosives and weapons to do so.
"Maybe I can help before I move onto the next town, where's the loose end at? And what's his name?" The Courier asked, casually as he took a swig.
"Really? Well it's your death wish truthfully, me, Doc Mitchels, Ole Pete, and Sunny might help, but don't expect help from any of the other folks round here. He's at the ole gas station, names Ringo. Get everything arranged with him and we'll help out best we can, just be warned, we're not fighters. We're farmers." The Courier nodded and finished his glass, setting it down and departed the decaying tavern without another word.
The gas station was in equally bad shape, its metal frame covered in rust and only hints of green paint pointed out that it had once been a colorful place, filled with people and cars. He held his 10 mm pistol in his left hand and steadied it on the wrist of his parallel arm.
Slowly, he opened the door and stepped inside, only to be shot at by the distinct sound of a 9 mm pistol, it hit the door frame only inches from him, holstering his pistol he raised his arms hastily and cried out. "Friendly fire!"
He heard the clicking sound and saw the light of a small candle, then a man emerging from behind the counter, he wore a basic caravan garb and held a small firearm. "Sorry about that."
The Courier shook frowned and shook his head. "I'm here to help you with your powder ganger problem." He said blatantly, not caring for any small talk or brief conversations.
Ringo looked aghast at this not sure what to say in this dimly lit make shift home. "I don't even know your name for God's sake, let alone would I follow you into a fight!"
The Courier saw the look of distrust in his eyes, narrowing his own. "Call me Courier, I'll save your ass for 150 caps. Deal or no deal?"
Ringo saw the look of seriousness on his face, the face of a killer, one who could be kind, but one who could also be of seriousness and death. "Fi-"
There was a rapid knock on the door, and it burst open, it was the bartender, the so called mother of Goodsprings. "They're coming."
From his waist he pulled out his pistol and cocked it and stepped outside, back unto the Wastes, they were gathered around him, Pete, Doc Mitchels, Trudy, Sunny, him, and ringo.
"The Powder gangers will come from the north, it is the easiest route into the town, they won't be well equipped, but neither are we. Doc, Pete, keep the right flank, Trudy, ringo, left flank, I and Sunny will hit the front. Keep in close formation and don't fall behind." They gathered round him in his desired way, and as they moved forward, weapons at the ready, and armor equipped, some shook, some were scared, but despite this being the Couriers first real battle, he was certain of himself, and as ready as he could be.
The Powder gangers arrived in a group of ten, nearly unequipped men with cleavers and small firearms, calling out cries of battle as they neared their prey. Joe Cobb, their dark skinned leader was in the front and called out to them. "Hand over the piece of shit and we'll let yall li-." A single shot rang out across the town as The Couriers bullet, flying true and fast, pierced the head of their leader, exploding his head in a red pulp.
"Spare none." The Courier said in the lightest of voice, and the militia began to pop of their weapons, falling one after another, as the shock of the first blood wore off, the powder gangers fought back, but bullet after bullet fell on them, their ranks now devastated as the militia and The Courier attacked.
The smoke cleared after a few minutes, Sunny had fallen and most had wounds, all the Power Gangers were on the ground, and The Courier finished off the screaming survivors, no expression on his face, not a single look of sympathy.
Some of the Militia stood wide eyed at what they had done, some had cried, but as soon as The Courier received his pavement, he left, going onto the road, and the legend was born.