Stay on the bomb run, boys! I'm gonna get them doors open if it harelips ever'body on Bear Creek! Major T.J. "King" Kong
All right, I'm back. I must say its good to be back too. I'm gonna jump back into this and see what happens. I was influenced to create some of these OCs by a very important movie to me. If you can tell me what movie I won't have to nuke your house. Kidding. Ok, here we go.
The Courier, a man shaped by the trauma and hardship he had suffered during his 39 years. One didn't get to be that old in the Wasteland by being lazy, or stupid. Known to most as Charlie Two-Shirts, he was a half-Caucasian, half-Apache, born in the desolate Wastes of Texas. His father had moved them to Arizona, then to the Mojave as the Legion began its swallowing of tribes. Charlie became a Courier for the Mojave Express, getting into more than his share of fights. His father, also a Courier, had been killed while making a run in Legion lands. Charlie developed an intense hatred for the Legion, vowing to kill Caesar himself. After being shot in the head by Benny, Charlie only knew who he was because of the battered, ancient dog tags he wore around his neck. His great-great grandfather had been a soldier in the U.S. Army, and the dog tags had passed from father to son ever since. These were the thoughts that whirled in the mind of the Courier as he and his companion, Craig Boone, headed towards the NCR base at Camp McCarran.
Charlie was a man of average height, and a bit bulky from hand-to-hand combat. His skin was a mix of white, and the famous red of his native ancestors, his hair was red, inherited from his mother. He had a five o'clock shadow from not having shaved in a few days. He was protected from most harmful things in the Wastes by a long leather trench coat, not unlike those worn by NCR Veteran Rangers. The sleeves had been cut away though, exposing his powerful arms to the Mojave sun. Fingerless gloves protected his hands, allowing him to be quick on the draw with his ancient Colt .45 revolver. A battered, wide brimmed cowboy had covered his head, and an ancient pair of sunglasses, found in a ruined police station, covered his eyes. An ancient bulletproof vest from the same place covered his torso, and a pair of tough jeans and cowboy boots protected his lower body. A battered rifle, an M1 Garand, was strapped on his back, its killing power earning it a place so far from its own time. A hand made tomahawk was hanging from Charlie's hip, a handle made from the partly melted down armor of a Legion Centurion, and the blade from the bone of a Deathclaw.
Charlie's companion looked just as deadly, if less exotic. He wore a slightly yellowed white t-shirt, tucked into a pair of OD combat pants. Ancient combat boots protected his feet, and sunglasses protected his keen eyes. A red beret sat on his head, a patch on it showing him to have been part of the 1st Recon Sniper Battalion. A scoped hunting rifle, chambered for .308 rounds, was strapped to his back. In the distance, they could see ruined buildings, and the concrete wall surrounding Camp McCarran. The continued, neither saying anything as they neared their destination. Small figures could be soon be made out, although it was impossible to see who they were.
"Boone, use your scope to see who those are."
"Sure." Boone unlimbered his rifle, sighting down it through the scope. The figures resovled themselves into thin humans, dressed in an assortment of rags and leather. They clutched a variety of weapons, ranging from ancient pool cues to Laser Rifles.
"What do you see?"
"Raiders, probably Fiends, about ten of 'em, unless some are hiding." Charlie consulted the map on his Pip-Boy 3000, a gift from Doc Mitchell in Goodsprings. That was the most direct way to the NCR base, and from the looks of things the Raiders might have been about to cause trouble for some of the NCR guards around the walls.
"Let's see if we can thin them out." Boone nodded, following Charlie as he stealthily made his way towards the group of drug crazy humans. The group seemed to be centered on three of the Raiders, most likely the leaders. On was an African American woman holding a hunting rifle, a small pack of dogs surrounding her. One was leaning on a strangely pristine golf club, watching a couple of minor Raiders squabble over a few chems. The last was a rather large man in metal armor, a welding mask covered his head. He had a flamer tank on his back, and held the firing mechanism rather loosely in his right hand. The one with the golf club finally had enough of the squabbling Raiders, striking one in the kneecap with the club, causing him to go down, the other he struck across the chest, eliciting a holw of pain.
"Shut the fuck up, dipshit! Do you want the goddamned NCR on our fucking heads?" This seemed rather funny, since he was the one that made the man scream in the first place.
"That's funny, Nephi. You made the bastard scream when you hit him."
"Shut up, bitch! Go back to fuckin' your mangy dogs." The one with the mask finally spoke up.
"Are we doing this shit or not? I got stuff to burn!" The arguing pair couldn't argue with that logic, and turned to face the other Raiders. Charlie choose that moment to roll a frag grenade towards the group. It rolled across the pitted pavement, but barely reached the edge of the group before it detonated. The shrapnel began embedding itself in whatever it hit, mostly flesh. Screams pierced the air as Raiders screamed in pain, or pleasure as they took shrapnel or stims. Charlie rose from his hiding spot, his tomahawk in hand. He wove through the Raiders, slicing with precision, and power. He easily sliced through the thin, or non-existant armor the Raiders wore. He had killed at least four before he heard a loud "WHOOSH" to his left, the sound of a flamer about to fire. Charlie waited for the intense heat, the scent of burning flesh, but it never came. A loud "BOOM" sounded, and suddenly the tank on the man's back was spewing flames, mostly on the man himself. Charlie nodded in Boone's direction before turning to face the Raiders again.
"Who the fuck are you?" It was the one with the golf club.
"Charlie Two-Shirts. Who the hell are you?"
"Driver Nephi, one of the most wanted fuckers in the Wasteland. The NCR even put a bounty on my head." He seemed proud of the fact.
"Is that so?" With a speed almost unreal, the Colt was drawn, and two shots were in the chest of the Raider before he even knew what hit him. The other Raiders were running, being picked off by Boone one-by-one. Charlie approached the body of Nephi, holstering his Colt, and steadying his tomahawk. With a brutal chop he severed the head of the Fiend lieutenant. He walked over to the partly blown up corpse of the one with the flamer. Obviously this one, and the woman with the dogs had been major players too. Maybe there was a bounty on their heads as well. Soon, the heads were bundled up in the shirt of a dead Raider, tied to Charlie's pack. Many of the better quality weapons had also been bundled together, to sell for extra caps. The guard stopped them at the gate.
"Who are you, and what is your business here?" Boone stepped forward.
"I'm former Corporal Craig Boone, 1st Recon. We're here to see Major Dhatri."
"Ok, but you will be watched. This IS a military base." Charlie and Boone nodded, and walked through the gate. Many tents were set up in what was once a parking lot for airline customers. A few rusted down truck and trailer combos sat here and there, as well as some rusted down military troop trucks. The duo walked towards the entance to the main building, thinking the Major would be inside. They actually found him leaving the building, walking towards the 1st Recon tents.
"Major Dhatri?" The man looked up, a surprised grin spreading across his face as he recognized Boone.
"Boone! What brings you here?"
"Business." It was Charlie who answered.
"Who's your friend Boone?"
"Charlie Two-Shirts. He was a Courier that got double crossed. I'm just helping him out."
"Okay, so, what kind of business?" Charlie set his pack on the ground, untying the bundle.
"Is there a bounty on these guys?" Major Dhatri looked in the bloody sack.
"Well, I'll be a son of a bitch. Driver Nephi, Violet, and Cook-Cook. You do damn good work. I'll give you five hundread caps for the lot." Charlie nodded, waiting patiently while Dhatri counted out the money. As he was, a young soldier came running up too him.
"Sir, our runner just came back. Lieutenant Monore and his men are dead, they were killed by Great Khans, and apparently the Brotherhood of Steel was involved as well. They also attacked the 188 Trading Post, killing several of our men, and wounding some others. The wounded described the leader as a young man, wearing what looked like a pre-War military uniform."
"Goddamn it! Of all the times for this to happen." He looked up at Charlie.
"You wouldn't be willing to help us again would you? I hate to ask, but we're short on man power at the moment."
"I will, I just gotta take care of some business in Vegas first. Can I use your monorail?" The Major looked deep in thought before he looked back at Charlie.
"Sure, just don't do anything on the Strip that would compromise the NCR."
"Of course, come on Boone." They shook hands with the Major, before entering the main building of the airport-turned-base. They walked up an escalator that had not worked in centuries, rounding a corner to find a few old soda machines and two guards.
"Who goes there?"
"We have permission from Major Dhatri to use the monrail, ma'am."
"You do? Well, go aboard, but we're watchin' you." Charlie and Boone walked through the door leading to the Pre-War monorail, exiting back out into the Mojave heat. The climbed up into the only car of the monorail, waiting for it to start. An electric sparking was heard as the monorail powered up and began to glide along its rail. Charlie and Boone sat back, enjoying the cool air as it whipped by them.