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Fallout New Vegas - Chapter 1

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Fallout: New Vegas

Disclaimer: I do NOT own Fallout 3 or Fallout New Vegas. Bethesda can handle that. YOU ROCK, BETHESDA! :D

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Overview – Hank "Ray" Masterson
Born in New Reno, Nevada on the year 2223, Hank "Ray" Masterson was an American of Mexican and Greek descent. He worked as a farm worker as a child. His strength and intelligence had provided him to get a job once he was twenty-three: a gun-smith. He earned enough money to move to Hopeville. He became a farmer for five years before he moved to Ashton. He then became an N.C.R veteran for ten years, earning a total of four awards for the first battle for the Hoover Dam against Caesar's Legion before he was honorably discharged due to his age. At the age of forty, he was diagnosed with P.T.S.D (Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder), causing him to become irritable and foul-mouthed. He also indulges in "pleasures of the flesh", which started in the Strip, as he is involved with numerous clubs, though he tries to find salvation. He became a mercenary, becoming hired by people for the next fifteen years. He then became a gun supplier for the Kings and the Chairmen.

He has connections with gang, clubs and factions like the Van-Graffs, the Gun-Runners, the Kings, the Chairmen, the Followers of the Apocalypse and the Omertas. Hank has an aggressive fighting style, usually quoting old Pre-War proverbs, sometimes even in Latin or Spanish, before and during gunfights, sometimes laced with profanity when angered. He uses an assortment of modern rifles, pistols, shotguns and automatic weapons.

Overview – Nicholas "Nick" Hunter
Born in a small village in New Canaan, Utah, on the year of 2258, Nicholas "Nick" Hunter was a former American courier, who had a short temper. He, much like Hank, was a farm worker as a child. His biological family, unfortunately, had been killed by the infamous gang known as the Great Khans. From this, he earned paranoia-schizophrenia, his thoughts "speaking" to him. He had to take various drugs to calm himself down before it had gotten out of hand, though, he rarely had episodes of psychotic rampages. He had learned how to shoot a gun from his adoptive father once they had moved from New Canaan to Ashton. He became a courier when he was twenty years old and moved to the New Vegas Strip.

Nicholas's fighting style is usually aggressive and even more deadly during his psychotic rampages. He usually sticks to his shotguns and pistols and, when really looking to do some damage, uses various melee weapons.

Prologue

(He was aware of many things. The voices, the gag in his mouth, the blindfold covering his eyes, the ropes digging into the skin on his wrists, everything. The first voice was crunching gravel; the voice of a cold killer, tough, unrelenting.)

VOICE #1
(Angrily) You got what you were after, so pay up!

(The second voice was smooth; Suave, chummy, the sort of voice could easily talk your ear off, and somehow get you to sign a contract without batting an eye or making you suspicious. The kind of voice heard only from the mouth of a man with a plan, and a tongue that shone silver.)

VOICE #2
You're cryin' in the rain, pally.

(The ropey snakes, engulfing pain into his wrists, were twisted experimentally for him to try and feel weak spots. Nothing. Someone takes the blindfold off of his eyes, finally allowing him to see. The first thing he saw was a man in a fancy checkered coat, the one with the smooth, suave voice. His hair was slicked back, clean, a rarity in these days.  He had a cigarette in his hand, as if he were smoking, taking one last puff before tossing it on the ground and stomping it out.

The other two flanking him were considerably less pretty. To Checkers' left was one who looked sure he was the life of the party; a spiked Mo-hawk, a jarring orange dominated an otherwise shaven head, darkened by the once again returning hair. Wrapped around his forehead, holding a few of the spikes down was a bandana, held up by the brows of excitable eyes. A thick line of facial hair ran along his jaw to frame his face, and his mouth hung open as he watched the cigarette's life stamped out on the dirt. A black sleeveless jacket kept the air off his torso, leaving his muscular arms exposed to the cold. His hands sought refuge in a pair of gloves, probably biker issue. He wore two separate pairs of lower body attire: a pair of flaring shorts that covered the top half of some nondescript pants, ending in large boots, the kind of someone who could have and likely will walk a long way through a variety of terrain. Rocking back and forth on his legs in anticipation, Mr. Excitable carried a shovel. Based on the hole in the ground, it wasn't just for knocking out couriers.

The man on the other side wore clothing identical to Excitable, but his skin was darker, as was his hair. A thick, chopper-like moustache concealed the space between his mouth and his nose, and his eyes, like granite, moved from the courier kneeling on the ground to the man in the checkered suit. The bandana on his head, green, knotted the same as Excitable's, sat out more boldly on his forehead against the features of an older man.)

CHECKERS
Guess who's awake here, boys.

(All turned to the man whose hands were bound. The smooth, suave man only grinned at him, a welcoming, kind grin it seemed.)

CHECKERS
Time to cash out.

(Chopper threw his arms wide, eager to get things done in an irritable fashion.)

CHOPPER
(Demanding) Can we get this over with?!

(Checkers responded by putting an index finger up, shushing him with a defiant look on his face.)

CHECKERS
Maybe Khans kill people without lookin' 'em in the eye, but I ain't a fink, dig?

(What in the world was this man talking about? Finks? Khans? Irrelevant now, one word seemed far more important as Checkers' spared a glance over at Stache. 'Kill'? That was a bit harsh, wasn't it?

Now Checkers' was rummaging in his suit pockets. He let out a sigh as he produced it; a small silver object, no bigger than a coin, exactly the same shape. A poker chip, platinum. He was being murdered over a poker chip? Checkers looks over at the bound man, an apologetic, mournful look upon his face.)

CHECKERS
(Mournful, somberly and apologetic) You've made your last delivery, kid. Sorry to get you twisted in this scene.

(Checker's words were followed by another rummaging through his suit pocket. This time, it was something more alarming than a platinum poker chip.

It was a handgun. Slender. Lethal. Deadly.)

CHECKERS
From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an eighteen carat run of bad luck.

(Choppers scratched his head, his conscience weighing in on the scene in a disapproving manner. Excitable just looked back and forth from the gun to the courier's face over and over, waiting for the moment he knew was coming.

The pistol pointed at his head, and for a moment the courier stared down the barrel as his life unwound before his eyes. There was so much left to do. So much more he could see. He still had to go home. He scowls severely, as a barrage of curses fly in his brain.)

CHECKERS
(Somberly) Truth is, the game was rigged from the start.

(The flash that exploded from that gun must have been what people had seen years ago, moments before the bombs that annihilated the Old World had claimed their lives. Perhaps, from afar, it was how the universe had seemed when it first began, as his mother had described: an explosion, one that had been a beginning instead of an end.

He barely had time to process that though, before the bullet, propelled by the explosion of beginnings and the explosion of endings, tore into his skull and his existence winked out, taking a bow and retreating from the stage that called itself the Mojave, and a curtain of darkness descended, blotting out the stars, the moon, Checkers and his friends, and the lit up tower sitting in the distance.

That night, in the cemetery of Goodsprings, a package courier was felled in the name of a Platinum Chip.)

Chapter 1 - Ain't That a Kick in the Head

(His eyes had first met light. A bright, white flash of light that momentarily blinded him before he was able to see anything out of his eyes. His vision was blurred, but amidst the confusion and pain the courier slowly opened his eyes. A ceiling fan, slowly rotating, came into view against the ceiling of an old house. The paint was cracked, flaking away to reveal the wood underneath, but it was certainly a roof over his head. A kindly voice alerted him to a presence other than his own. The voice was old, worn at by the winds of time, but no less a soothing soul for the journey.)

DOCTER
You're awake… how 'bout that.

(He shot up, defensive, fists ready, only to find that his enemy was only a wrinkled face holding a smile. The Doctor steadies him.)

DOCTER
(Warningly) Whoa, easy there, easy! You've been out cold for a couple o' days now. Why don't you just relax? Get your bearings.

(He could see his newfound friend clearly now. An old man, his hair long greyed and vanishing from the top of his head, leaving only a pale ring going from ear to ear in a 'u' shape. His moustache whittled down into points spearing towards his cheeks. Around his neck was a red bandanna with some design over it. He wore black overalls over a dark grey long-sleeved shirt, his lower body covered with the same kind of dark grey pants and his feet protected in simple brown shoes.

A humble picture, the courier mused, wondering whom this man was, before another blast of pain seared through his mind. He'd dreamed while he was asleep… dreamed of a few days ago, when he'd accepted a delivery order, and then… the evening at the cemetery came back to him. He growls in anger.)

DOCTOR
Let's see what the damage is.

(His jumbled, revenge-driven mind was slowly ticking. He could almost hear its figurative gears and cogs turning once more.)

DOCTOR
What's your name? …Can you tell me your name?

(He cast a hook back into his mind, searching for the vital piece of information that defined him. A name: everyone had a name, no? Nothing returned to him. He tries harder. He must have a name; he was, as far as he could see, a human. Parents tended to name their children at birth, or not long after. Parents? Oh no… another enigma. It dawned on him what had happened: that night at Goodsprings he'd been robbed of more than a platinum chip.

He tries once more, but finds nothing. His voice is a hoarse, crackly whisper.)

COURIER
(Raspy) …Six… let's go with that.

DOCTOR
I'm Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings. Not, I hope y'don't mind but I had t'go rootin' around in yer' noggin to pull all the bits of lead out. I take pride in my needle work, but you'd better tell me if I left anything outta place.

(His attention returned to the thing that the doctor was pushing into his hands, and the courier took it, letting his eyes refocus. It was a slab of metal, a square with rounded edges and two handles formed out of bumps on either side. A panel at the top read 'RobCo', the name of an Old World company that produced many of the artificial intelligences and robots around America. Many of them remained functioning, though corrupt patches of data were not uncommon, and many had to be forcibly deactivated.
A large circular screen dominated three quarters of the object, starting from the top left corner and rolling out over halfway. To the right the word 'Reflectron' identified it as some kind of high tech mirror, and underneath a secondary screen, this one touch activated, contained prompts for editing the figures appearance.

The image captured in the screen showed Six as Doctor Mitchell had put him back together, and though his memory was unclear, he could at least remember that this was close to how he had once looked.

His black hair consisted of a short buzz cut, darkened again by returning hair, a short Mo-hawk beginning to show. His skin was paler than he was used to, but the tinge of a Western, heritage from one of his parents remained evident in his tone. His jaw was wide, covered in a layer of thick and prickly stubble that to his amusement, spoke of a sort of rugged wanderer vibe. It wasn't always that thick, but he wasn't the sort of man to obsess over grooming when he could have his entire face ripped off for not paying attention to the roads. The Mojave wasn't the sort of place that beauty or handsomeness would win your battles for you: a quick trigger finger, a working knowledge of which things to shoot and at least two escape strategies would lend themselves to your continued survival far better.

He was pleased to see that his physique had remained, muscular and tall, sculpted out of a life of lonesome roads and situations where running fast and punching hard would ensure another hour's survival.

His eyes met themselves on the screen, a dark-green color that watched with some trouble at the world. The source of their strain was evident above. Two scars rested on his forehead, both circular, where bullets had impacted his head, yet somehow not killed him. They overlapped, like an eclipse. Death must have been furious, Six imagined.)

SIX
(Nodding approvingly) As long as I don't look like a Deathclaw, I'm fine.

DOC MITCHELL
(Laughs) Well, no sense in keepin' you in bed anymore. Why don't we see if we can git you on yer' feet.

(Six slowly gets up with the doctor's help.)

DOC MITCHELL
Good. Try and walk to that couch in my livin' room over there? We can go through a couple of questions there, see if yer' dogs are still barkin'.

(Six shrugs, trailing behind Doc Mitchell as he slowly walks toward the living room and onto the old doctor's couch, his legs having a new, almost alien feeling from not walking in so long.)

DOC MITCHELL
Lookin' good, lookin' good.

(The doctor retrieves numerous papers in his clammy, wrinkly hands. He sits down on a chair in front of the couch, facing Six.)

DOC MITCHELL
Okay, now I'm gonna say a word, and I want you to say the first thing that comes to you mind, okay?

(Six nods in agreement.)

DOC MITCHELL
Dog.

SIX
Train.

DOC MITCHELL
House.

SIX
Shelter.

DOC MITCHELL
Night.

SIX
Shroud.

DOC MITCHELL
Bandit.

(At the mention of a bandit, Six scowls, obviously angered, the dreadful memories of the bandits he had encountered before getting shot.)

SIX
(Scowling) Crush.

DOC MITCHELL
Light.

SIX
Inspiration.

DOC MITCHELL
Mother.

SIX
Caretaker.

DOC MITCHELL
Okay. Now, I got a few statements. I want you to tell me how much they sound like something you'd say. You can either agree or disagree. You ready?

(The doctor's eyes flicker from the papers to Six as he nods.)

DOC MITCHELL
First one. "Conflict just ain't in my nature."

SIX
Agree.

DOC MITCHELL
Second one. "I ain't given to rely on others for support."

SIX
Agree.

DOC MITCHELL
"I am always lookin' to be the center of attention."

SIX
Disagree.

DOC MITCHELL
"I'm slow to embrace new ideas."

SIX
Disagree.

DOC MITCHELL
"I charge in to deal with me problems head on."

SIX
Agree.

(Doc Mitchell sits the papers down, and picks up three papers with strange-looking pictures on it.)

DOC MITCHELL
Almost done here. What do ya' say that you look at this and tell me what it looks like to you.

(Doc Mitchell shows him the first picture.)

SIX
A chemical reaction.

(Doc Mitchell shows him the second picture.)

SIX
A ship at sea.

(Doc Mitchell shows him the last picture.)

DOC MITCHELL
Last one.

SIX
A light in darkness.

DOC MITCHELL
Well, that's all she wrote. Seems like you're ready an' fit to battle the Mojave. Now, before I turn ya' loose, I'll need one more thing from you. I got a form for you to fill out, so I can get a sense of your medical history. Just a formality. Ain't like I expect to find you got a family history of gettin' shot in the head.

(The doctor hands the form to Six. Six fills out the form quickly, passing it back to the doctor.)

DOC MITCHELL
Alright, I guess that about does it. Come with me, I'll see you out
.
(Doc Mitchell and Six go to the doctor's door, its exit beckoning him to the Mojave Wasteland from just the twisting of a knob. Doc Mitchell gives him a paper titled "Mojave Express Delivery Order", and 8 bobby pins, as the Great Khans raided from his body, his 9mm pistol, his 30 bottle caps, and four stimpaks.)

DOC MITCHELL
Here. These are yours. Was all that you had on ya' when you were dug up and brought in. Now, I hope you don't mind, but I gave that little note o' yours a look to find the next of kin. But it was just somethin' about a platinum chip. Well, if yer' plannin' on headin' back out there, you'd oughta have this.

(Doc Mitchell gives Hank a Pip-Boy 3000. It was a small rectangular machine with a rectangular screen, dominating three quarters of it, starting from the top left corner and draped across it. It had three buttons on its bottom. From the touch of a button, it was able to alert the wearer of its physical appearance, how many items it is holding, what its pulse rate is, and which limbs are unknowingly crippled.)

DOC MITCHELL
They call it a Pip-Boy. I grew up in one of them vaults they made before the war. We all got one. Ain't much use to me now, but you might want such a thing, after what you've been through. I know what it's like, havin' somethin' taken from ya'.

(Doc Mitchell also gives Six a Vault 21 suit.)

DOC MITCHELL
Oh, and here, put this on, too, so that the locals won't pick on ya' fer' lackin' modesty. Never was really much my style, anyway.

SIX
Thanks for patchin' me up, doc.

DOC MITCHELL
(Grinning) Don't mention it. It's what I do best.

SIX
What do I do now?

DOC MITCHELL
You should talk to Sunny Smiles before you leave town. She can help ya' learn to fend fer' 'yerself in the desert. She'll likely be at the saloon. I reckon some of the other folks at the saloon might be able to help ya', as well as that metal fella', Victor, who pulled you out of yer' grave. Anyway, if you get hurt out there, you can come right back. I'll fix you up. But, try not to get killed anymore.

(Doc Mitchell walks away, back to the living room. Six turns the door knob, revealing a flash of pure whiteness before exiting out into the deadly Mojave Wasteland, a trip that reveals traps along every road, every corner, and one road in which the-should-have-been-dead courier mistook, and made a deadly mistake.)
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(A/N: WHAZZAP, people?! So, yeah, this is my first story in Deviantart, so, if I am missing anything, you can message me. Feel free to comment and express your opinion.

Chloe out!
When a local Courier gets shot in the head, he and Hank, a 54-year-old former American gunslinger and NCR veteren, track the gunman down to New Vegas, who plans to usurp Mr. House's throne of New Vegas and crown himself King. However, that chance'll be gone before the gunman knows it... Viva Las Vegas, baby... such a fail intro, lol.
© 2012 - 2024 dragonborn424
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Nightcaster460's avatar
Dude you made this from the game I'm playing! Cool!! Plus what does I ain't given to rely others for support mean?