The man with no name.
Disclaimer: Fallout: New Vegas owned by Bethesda studios + Obsidian. Kuroinu is made by Liquid, OAV by Magin.
Synopsis: How will Eostia handle the man with no name? The man with no name but the eponymous title of 'Courier six'?
What about those who seek him?
Note: Again, not entirely following Wimblegurk Brigade 'to the letter'... so, take of that what you will.
Laden out upon a wooden table were captures of a foreign world. Slumped up and unzipped, a backpack full of items.
Chloe, brimming with curiosity, took it upon herself to examine the man's belongings.
She took stock of all that was contained within this backpack.
Seven curious devices, little squares of an unknown material, coloured a faded yellow, with a marking on the edge written in a foreign language that she could not decipher.
There was a tin container filled with a clay-like substance, malleable by hand, with strange straw-like, colourful, bendable objects that contained copper wires at each end.
Many brass objects of assorted sizes, held within a curious bag made from an exotic, transparent material, like a solid fabric with no weave, yet entirely flexible.
Two objects with handles fit for the palm of a hand, with a barrel protruding outwards, a strange weapon perhaps?
There was a third object with a stock, and seemingly like a crossbow without the bow.
There was a knife with a clipped tip, and another weapon much like a falchion.
There were two shaped copper discs, perhaps an item of ornamentation?
One-hundred and seven or so small discs of metal, with a folded bent edge, so very strange.
Two black cylinders, one with a hole going through the middle and another which had magnifying lenses, much like a telescope.
Two box-like metal containers, filled with similar brass objects like those in the weaveless fabric.
There was also a book, but she could not glean anything insightful from it, not knowing the language that it was written in.
Perhaps Olga could be persuaded to aid it this endeavour, with a little magical assistance to pry the man's language from his head, and put it to good use.
As if reading her mind, Olga just happened to enter the room, opening her mouth as soon as she saw Chloe. "I've given it another thought… I think I will let that… thing live."
Chloe turned around to face her saviour. "Oh… I think he might be useful, as an asset."
Olga smiled. "I thought the same thing." Pausing for a moment, Olga pointed to an object which she held within her left palm. "I need you to place this collar around his neck."
Chapter 1: Life is strange.
Life is a strange thing, it can shift and turn… it can send you many strange places. You can live for many years, or only a few moments. It can be ended quickly, or slowly…
Plugging a steel pin into position, the courier attached his scope to his Ak-112. It was a task made quick through honed, repetitive action out in the wastes.
The lowest setting, 4x magnification was not adequate, for his target was roughly five-hundred yards away, by estimation, and so he adjusted the scope to it's highest setting, four tiny clicks to reach to the 10x magnification.
Now that his target was in clear focus, he aimed the reticle to rest just over the back of his target, and then raised it slightly higher, to around the neckline, to compensate for bullet drop.
As he focused in on his target… a flashback struck at his mind, images of the past, memories, the courier could remember seeing a dear friend long-since gone in a past life, being shot from a long distance, his face full of shock, he murmured aloud for two minutes or so as others tried to staunch the bleeding. He died painfully about a day later.
With a quick exhale of breath, the courier drew aside the memory and took his shot. That distinctive crack of rifle-fire resounded throughout the land, but the courier hardly took notice.
He was near-fused to his scope, focused on his target. That man would never know that his life would be cut short… he would never hear the gunshot as the courier's bullet, supersonic as it was, would kill him quicker than he could hear the sound of his firearm.
That man took a 5mm round through the back, he was certainly dead as he fell to the ground like a bag of weights being dropped from a pedestal.
Death can come as simply as that, a bang and a whimper, never knowing that you could be down the reticle of someone's scope...
Snipers are hated for that reason and more, but loved by those they work for.
There was no time to think on the moral right or wrong of his situation, however… he was shifting his aim upwards, towards a palisade tower… by the time this had happened, his opponents had heard his gunshot and saw as their companion was killed.
One man ducked behind cover, thinking himself safe behind the wooden beams. The courier knew better, knew what a high-velocity rifle round could do to that kind of cover… so he aimed toward where he thought the centre mass was and fired three shoots in half-second intervals
Even if the rounds might not penetrate through with full power, depending on the thickness of the wood, a keyholing bullet is a scary projectile regardless.
And so the courier scanned through the horizon, finding his enemies, striking them down with near-impunity, like a vengeful god. By his reckoning, he had taken out eight or nine… and the orcs and ogres, Olga's band of men took the initiative.
Behind the now unguarded palisade wall lay a village with around two-hundred or so occupants… but as Olga's orcs came streaming through, slaughtering the men... enslaving women and children, the population was now only around seventy or eighty… This conduct of warfare reminded him of the Legion, but also of the unsanctioned actions of the cattle-barons out california-way, and of other unscrupulous men who called themselves NCR 'men'. The cattle-barons initiated skirmishes and promoted for the enforced removal of tribal entities under NCR supervision, stealing the land from tribals, leaving them destitute and living on welfare within the hub and Shady sands, the unscrupulous fed on their pain and misery, their misfortune.
He could object, raise his voice to the orcs, tell them to stop… but it was not like he could change anything. No, change is not so easily brought about by words, as it is brought about through the barrel of a gun. The gun can speak a universal language that weighs heavier than mere words.
And, having your hypothetical balls being caught in a vice… Well, that is something else as well.
His words could not cool the hatred that lay in men and women's hearts, born of anger, rage, egotism… hatred born of watching ones you love being massacred or raped, the feeling so heavy that it weighs down on you like an anvil in your stomach, a hate so fiery that no matter the force of logic, hatred will almost always prevail.
For all that the humans had done to the elves, the elves were doing to man. The courier saw life as a cyclical cycle… always repeating, with no way to change it. What could he say then, to halt Olga from her path? Nothing.
The courier knew that those who he was serving were immoral, but it was not as though he hadn't helped immoral men or immoral governments before.
No, life is just this… a cycle, an endless cycle. We never change, people never change… war never changes.
The courier used this explanation to justify what was happening, about the actions of those he now 'worked' for. It was not like he could change anything, so why bother...
Besides, it was not his world. This was a feudal world, full of life, plants, trees, fields of grain as far as the eye can see, whereas his own world was stock-full of suffering, a planet where life is hard, life is fast, where life is a mere leaf blowing in the wind of time.
How is it that amongst a green, bountiful world, people can still resort to vile acts of barbarism?
'I might as well be back home.' The courier mused sarcastically in his mind as he sat on the top of the palisade wall, looking out at the forest that lay just forty metres away.
There was something calming about looking into the forest, that could make him forget about what was happening behind him in the village. Abounding with life and full of vivid green leaves, something so very different to what the Courier was used to. He was used to rough hardship, an arid landscape beaten by heated sands blown in by powerful winds, water a rare resource… a life-saving commodity.
But a peaceful forest was a nice change of scenery.
The courier shifted his hand around his neck, which was now adorned with a metallic collar...
He knew but one thing, that he was, as he had always been back on earth... a 'thrall' in the game of things, a mere pawn, a player shifted about by more 'important' people, then discarded.
Feeling over the gunshot wound on his head… he knew that much. Just a pawn, used then thrown away.
With a wistful sigh, the courier thought back on how it all began, how he met the person who now enslaved him.
It was quiet inside the cell, foreboding outside of it, for through the iron-wrought bars and mortared stonework, the 'window' through which he could see… all that greeted him was a blackened, obsidian-esque horizon for as long as the eye could see, enriched by the appearance of a red-hazed sky, which made the obsidian gleam a red-hellish hue.
He had awoken maybe an hour or so ago, to find himself nearly naked… with a strange collar around his neck, inside an enclosed cell with bars of iron blocking off one end.
Looking out at the landscape, he could not help but reflect on the hellishness of it, that aesthetic quality… so familiar, yet so different from the hellish wasteland that he was familiar with, the Mojave wasteland. But, hadn't he also been to the Californian wasteland too, hadn't he once seen the boneyards of adytum, the Shi of San Francisco… or were those the mere ramblings and dreams of a man since dead?
He knew deep down that there was something that was wrong with his head, besides a gunshot wound and scrambled brains. He could remember a past life in flashbacks, but everything was jumbled and confusing. He could remember everything after being shot, but not much of anything before.
Whilst looking on the hellish wasteland he saw a bolt of thunder strike against an obsidian pillar, that gunfire-like sound running through the land, he shook for a moment, senses flaring, his breathing heavy. An understandable reaction to one so used to the dangers of life in a post-apocalyptic wasteland.
Seemingly caught up, he was caught unaware by two figures. One had white hair, and this was the one who opened the cell with a key, he or she stood maybe six feet tall.
The other figure was taller and more imposing. She waved her hand once, twice.
The courier blinked once, then twice, taking the time to gaze upon the figures before him.
They were both female, donned in garments that left little to the imagination, but strangest of all were the sharpened, elongated ears that adorned both figures.
"Can you understand me, pig?"
The courier frowned upon the insult, and replied likewise with a fire of his own.
"Oink." Was his laconic snark, a singular wisp spoken with grimace.
The central figure smiled, but the smile on her face made it seem more like she was more manic than truly happy.
"I have a proposal of sorts..."
The courier quickly assumed that the female before her was making a life-changing proposition…
"Actually, I don't. If you do not work for me, I will kill you."
The courier grasped both hands to his collar. Upon doing this, the woman nodded her head once in affirmation. He should have expected this. It was not as though he could raise an objection, for he was near-useless without a weapon, nor did he wish to die.
"I shall take your silence as a sign of complicity."
The second lady, the one with blonde hair came forwards with a bowl, wafts of steam emerging from the wooden container.
The courier, lacking all decorum, ate like a dog, to the enthusiasm of his captors.
The courier stood up, a question spoken from his mind. "I will need some information."
Of course, the courier asked this in his regular, brusque fashion.
The dark lady pointed a finger towards the blonde haired woman. "Chloe, my second, will assist you in thi..."
The courier quickly interjected. "Am I to kill someone?"
The dark lady had a wry smile. "Of course I expect you to kill, I expect you to kill my enemies, I expect you to extinguish the life from Celestine Lucullus."
"He doesn't talk much." The courier overheard, listening out from atop the palisade.
The courier didn't know how he had an understanding for the orc language, but he did. Apparently, as Olga explained, it was magic.
"The dark queen has that collar on him… He's her bitch, now."
The courier sighed to himself, before uttering a single retort. "Hmmppff."
The offending orc flexed his muscles before gesturing to his axe. "Hah, he admits it, He's the queen's bitch?"
The courier gathered up the saliva within his mouth and spat it downwards toward the direction of the orc's.
The boisterous orc made to grasp his axe in an offensive posture. "I don't know how you became our leader… You are weak… puny. You don't even fuck a bitch."
The courier scratched his neck, assuming a face much like one who was completely and utterly bored and was barely paying attention. After a moment, the courier sighed. "I may seem weak… puny to you, but I have a gun and you do not."
"What is a gun? Did you call me weak?." The Orc retorted with anger.
The courier looked the orc directly in the eyes, ignoring his question. "Until the 'Bitch queen' says otherwise, I am your leader… raise your voice again, I will end you."
The boisterous orc backed down, so the courier continued with his sentence. "Next time, I suggest not being near your leader when you call him a bitch behind his back, you got that? Because If you didn't, I'm going to make your life fucking miserable."
"Yes boss, we understand!" Was the reply from the second orc, who restrained the boisterous orc and pulled him back. The courier didn't like that, boss was too polite and formal to his ears. Turning around to face the second orc, he raised his objection.
"Call me six." The courier said at first, but upon observing the confused reaction of the more peaceable orc, the courier explained. "Six is my name."
"Yes… six."
The courier sighed. With a potential power-struggle brought to a head, he walked into the forest with the intent of throwing away time, spending it doing something that he wanted to do, explore, rather than sit up and listen to people having their livelihoods ruined by orcs.
Of course, fate, the habitual soul-crusher of all our lives, interceded… stopping Six from actually doing any meaningful exploration.
Fate interceded in the form of a band of knights, squires, retinues and feudal-lances, men armed and armoured in a motley assortment of varying qualities and degrees, with the knights and men-at-arms being better equipped than the squires, and squires being better equipped than those below them and so forth. In all, the band was composed of around fifty men, but all were riding on horses, for having seemingly heard of an attack, knew that only mounted men would be fast enough to respond.
This band rode through the palisade whilst Six was meandering. He was only alerted when he heard screaming and thus he hastily responded.
It was not as though the courier could do much to stop the medieval men from slaughtering the orcs as they were generally individualistic fighters who refrained from formational fighting, which combined with their lust for violence, gold and partying frivolously… ensured that they were highly ineffective against their pursuers.
Besides, even though the courier was armed with several 'modern' firearms, fifty assailants that were mounted on horses was not entirely easy. Even should the courier hit every man once, his magazine only had a capacity of twenty-four rounds. With no other magazine, he would have to manually load individual rounds into his empty...
In short, there was no way he could combat the band via a firefight alone. But, the courier knew this, expected this. He was already reaching into his backpack, retrieving two items of importance.
Silently he crawled towards the gate of the palisade and dug a small pothole into the dirt-path. His weapon was a tin can with iron nails and ballbearings placed within two-thirds of the tin can, the rest being filled up with a small portion of c-4 with a detonating element inside.
This improvised explosive device was then buried, waiting to be detonated by the remote detonator which the courier kept inside a pouch on the side of his backpack.
Then, the courier made a footpath, purposely being bashful about it as he aimed to lead any pursuers towards further traps.
Locating a place optimally suited to this purpose, a location between two trees where foliage and grass would disguise a tripwire, the courier reached for some fishing line, tying it towards a branch that he broke off and thrust deep into the soil. To finish off his trap, he tied the fishing line securely around the pin of a fragmentation grenade.
Then, being very careful, he made a path towards the opposite side whilst trying not to leave any tracks that would lead the enemy towards his new position, which was near the apex of a forested hill where he could oversee everything, whilst being camouflaged himself.
Halfway towards reaching this position, he fired his revolver into the air, to hopefully draw some of the band outwards… rustling was heard overhead as birds flew away with the commotion.
His plan was to save his improvised explosive for later. For now, he continued to walk towards his chosen position.
Sitting down prone upon reaching his position, the courier kept his remote detonator securely within his left hand whilst he observed the horizon with his binoculars.
Within a few moments the sound of an explosion alerted the courier. It seems that his grenade trap had worked. It might not have been a grenade-bouquet of multiple grenades… but a fragmentation grenade with a kill radius of around 10 meters was sufficient.
Not long afterwards, the courier was faced with the dilemma of choosing the optimum time to detonate his secondary bomb. It was a bit nerve-wracking when he allowed seven or eight men to walk through the path unopposed, but when six or seven mounted men rode outwards in a tight mass, barely a meter or so apart from one another, the courier seized upon the opportunity.
-click-
Nothing happened…
-click-
The courier paled slightly... fear was beginning to course through his veins. He could feel that instinctive, flighty feeling of adrenaline creeping in.
-click-
The mounted soldiers were now passing the improvised bomb… their mounts rushing forwards at near a gallops pace. If it didn't detonate soon… he'd only cause a minimal amount of damage… or none at all.
-click-
-Bang-
That one, tell-tale sound of an explosion, like a thunderstorm… this fourth press of the detonator did the trick, relief poured back into the courier, but he knew he had to keep alert. You must always be alert and never too relieved that you became 'slack' or careless.
The courier bore witness to the devastation of which an explosive device can strew about… literally in that sense of the word… 'strewn about'. Several horses were flown what might have been two or three meters into the air, their bodies saturated with fragments and shrapnel, nail-bits and tin-can shards. Medieval armour afforded little in the way of protection for the men atop the horses… for though some shrapnel might be turned aside, not all of it could be protected against, and for the explosive pressure there was no defense that any gambeson could save them from. Five men were killed outright whilst two survived… their struggles and movements confirming this much… four horses were killed, one was made lame as a front leg had been torn off and sent flying. Two horses were left neighing loudly, blood pouring profusely from their skin as they lay down on the ground.
Unfortunately, observing this brought back a flashback… fortunately, however, the courier punched himself several times in the forehead to break away from it. The courier hated them, they were not merely an inconvenience, they could be very dangerous when these recollections were brought whilst he was in a dangerous situation. He could not allow himself to be wracked up in ancient memories, nor allow for any guilt or remorse to cloud his actions.
Taking out his Ak-112 from the left strap of his backpack, the courier uncapped his scope and adjusted the magnification to x8, then with two flicks, one to take off the safety and the other to semi-automatic mode, his weapon was ready.
"Okay..." The courier said to himself. "Go on, kill."
Outside Nipton.
"Listen, bitch… hand that shit over. I don't need you overdosin'."
"Go fuck yourself." Buzzkill retorted. There was no way in hell she was going to give anyone her stash of drugs, especially not that power-armoured fuckhead. "Seriously, go stick a deathclaw's cock right up your asshole!" Buzzkill added for emphasis.
Buzzkill really hated living, sometimes. When a guy in a T-51b suit was suddenly holding you up by the neck… shit was getting real.
"Give me one good reason not to kill you, bitch."
"Nghhh." was her only reply. It wasn't like she could do anything else while she was being choked.
The power-armoured man dropped her down into the sand. "Try me again. Hand it over, now."
Buzzkill threw her canvas rucksack down to the sand, pouting with rage as she did so. Opening up the backpack, the power-armoured man threw the contents down to the ground.
After a moment, the man retrieved all of her drugs… then he hefted up a firearm, one that he knew as a 'grease-gun'. "This is for the trouble." He said, pilfering the weapon "Don't see too many original, .45 chambered ones of these nowadays." He then turned and started to move off, to leave Buzzkill to her lonesome.
"Fuck you." Buzzkill replied. She never was original with her outbursts of anger, always resorting to those two words.
The power-armoured man turned suddenly and rushed forwards towards her, again holding her up by her neck. "I just might if you keep that up, bitch." His left hand started to dart downwards, tracing near her right breast.
Bop grunted aloud at that, moving close to Buzzkill.
The power-armoured man dropped Buzzkill down to the sand. "Watch your mouth, next time… or this will happen again, and he won't stop me from fucking your inbred raider ass."
Once the power-armoured man had left, Buzzkill spat out in protestation. "I'm going to cut off his balls and his cock… gonna shove 'em right up his asshole."
Bop grunted in affirmation. He reached down and started grabbing some of Buzzkill's things.
"Hey guys… I found something in these ruins, come look!" One of the powder gangers shouted.
As soon as those words were uttered… everything became white.
Celestine Lucullus heard a voice coming from the clouds.
"I shall restore the balance... I invite to you this band from another world, to wage war against your mortal foe."
Then, from nowhere a large band of men had seemingly dropped into her courtyard, as well as several strange, bovine-esque creatures.
"Hello, I am Celestine Lucullus, I bid you welcome to Eostia."
Buzzkill giggled as soon as she saw the person who spoke… then she formed a fake smile, strolling out in front of the boss in T-51b armour… she was the first to speak, mocking her host.
"Look at me... I'm Celestine Lucullus, a bull-fucker legionite bitch... I bid you welcome~" Buzzkill mocked, gesturing out with her two hands to form large, watermelon sized breasts. "I also bid you pull out your mighty cocks… and stroketh upon them vigorously, and raineth down upon my face with your superior, non-legionary jizz!"
Celestine looked appalled and shocked by the conduct.
Buzzkill looked Celestine right in the eyes, rage in them. "What the fuck kinda people speak like that… and what the fuck are'ya trying to pull around here, Look at your clothes, even a whore would be embarrassed to wear that shit, Legion bitch."
One of the mercenaries, the joker of the group retorted back to Buzzkill. "Hey, your one to talk whilst in that leather, spikey shit that tries to show off your tiny tits… except it makes you look like a man. Me, I'd fuck that lady more than I would you!"
Buzzkill was about to laugh before offering her own retort, but was stopped.
The boss gripped Buzzkill by the neck again and threw her harshly into the ground. "Shut the fuck up or I will murder you."
The boss then spoke, putting his right foot over Buzzkill's belly to keep her down on the ground. "I don't know who the fuck you are… Celestine, But I'll listen to whatever it is you have to say."
Thank you for reading.
Let me know what you thought.