Chapter 1: Second Worst Tuesday Ever

AN: The author does not own the rights to Fallout or RWBY, which are owned by Bethesda and Rooster Teeth, respectively. No profit is made from this story.

It is said that war...

War never changes. Men do change; always moving ahead, constantly adapting to survive. But like war, there comes a time, a circumstance from which there is no returning from.

And so man must continue to walk down the path he made for himself. A path of destruction, of failure, of regret. A path that can only be walked once in a lifetime.

The victory at the second Battle of Hoover Dam was not, as some had had come to imagine, the end of the war. The conflict rages on as the New California Republic continues to struggle in the wasteland. Wild animals, stubborn Legionnaires, even what some officials simply refer to as 'the Unknown'* all remained and were a threat to the Republic. It was the Courier's sworn duty to eliminate threats like these.

"-a bunch of assholes, making me do their legwork again. What did I ever do to deserve this? ...never mind, that one's pretty obvious."

Of course, 'ensuring the security of the frontier' proved itself to be a tiring, thankless job. As was the act of saving the Republic itself almost single-handedly.

"They don't want me near their towns, I get that. But really, aliens? Who the hell believes in that crap anyway? Everyone knows those sightings back west all those years ago were probably just some Jet trip gone wrong."

At this moment, 'the Unknown' was highest on the NCR's agenda.*** Well, not quite.****

While the first Battle of Hoover Dam in 2277 had been a heavy blow to both sides, the second ended more in the Republic's favor. At least, the conflict with the Legion did. The NCR was already struggling throughout the Mojave itself, so the plan was to redeploy most of the soldiers from these areas to fortify Hoover Dam. Many were left behind, nearly all killed, believing their deaths were helping their country. Meanwhile, most in the West Coast were oblivious to these losses. As a result of this misinformation, morale throughout the Republic was at an all time, as was the number of volunteering troopers. Unfortunately, an Old World warhead just so happened to hit the route between California and Nevada during one of Six's 'trips' out of the Mojave. As long as the front lines were waiting for these soldiers and supplies to find another route, there was little to be done besides attempting to reclaim the foothold it had lost from its risky strategy.

As 'bat-shit insane' as the Courier thought his current mission was, Ambassador Crocker was reluctant to ignore such consistent reports of a recurring phenomenon. The north western section of the Mojave wasteland was still largely unexplored by the NCR and only recently caught the attention of the higher-ups. While rumors were largely disregarded, especially when it likely to have originated in some back alley in Freeside, the same story was spreading through New Vegas like wildfire. No matter who the speaker was, the tale was always the same. It wasn't long before northern Vegas became a part of NCR patrols. During this time, four different squads, all comprised of troopers with (relatively) clean records had confirmed the rumors after coming back from patrol: green humanoids in shiny jumpsuits crowded around a large, metal structure. They looked unlike the super mutants and mutated flora that inhabited the area, and no ghouls had been seen so far north in the desert. Any remaining Fiends in the area prevented a more thorough investigation, however.

Courier Six didn't even get a chance to call 'BS' a second time before he was set loose. And so, with a few vodka bottles in hand (and plenty more littering the ground behind him) he trudged out of Freeside. As he made his way to the natural barrier north of Vegas, he reflected once again on how things had changed after just a few months. 'Lifeless, just like everywhere else I step. Not that there was much here to begin with, but even the Fiends were preferable to this.' Where one would hear a silent wasteland, Six heard the deafening screams of the lives he ended. And, over time, the silence seemed to spread throughout the wasteland. Always present. A constant reminder of what he couldn't take back. As if on cue, he found himself standing in front of the collapsed tunnel that led to what used to be Zion. Simply another failure of his, carved into the wasteland. Almost immediately, he turned his back on the rubble, just like he had done a dozen times before. Six instead chose to focus on his drinks once again as he made his way west.

As the distance between him and his destination decreased, so too did his alcohol, and, as a result, his attention span. The way he had been going, the Courier may as well have been walking through Powder Ganger territory with a blindfold, or worse yet the Boomers' artillery field. In fact, on hindsight, either would be preferable to his situation. Mainly because neither involved aliens. With all the vodka he had consumed, however, it was unlikely a blindfold would have any effect on him.

"Fuckin' great. Already almost out," he slurred. As the Courier tipped the final bottle back, however, all he tasted was ashes. Six could only watch as the gray dust fell through his gloved fingers. When he finally took notice of his company, it took mere moments for his barely sober mind to process.

'They shot my booze.' Disregarding the fact that he was being shot at by aliens, he simply scowled at them. To think that anyone in the Mojave would have the gall to shoot at him! Even the Freeside junkies had learned to stay away by now! 'They shot my booze.'

The three unlucky scouts were given a very poor first impression of Earth that day, for Hell hath no fury like a bitter man without his vodka.

The fight was over nearly instantaneously, the gunman's notoriously quick hand drawing before his enemies could think to fire again. Once all three of their heads burst, he proceeded to do what he did best: scavenge anything that wasn't nailed down.***** Unfortunately, these supposedly 'other-worldly beings' weren't carrying much in the way of alien technology. Even the jumpsuits ended up being fancy-looking aluminum foil from before the war. 'I suppose I could get a bit for the tri-beams, if I needed it. I'll probably just put 'em with the rest, though.' As he approached what was presumably the leader's body, though, something caught his eye. Brushing the wind-swept sand off of its smooth surface, Six yanked the nearly buried object from the ground. After observing the strange new pistol, he simply whistled.

"Guess this is where all my good luck's been going all these years. Not sure it was worth it, but I suppose I'll take what I can get. 'Cause Lord knows NCR isn't getting their hands on it," he finished with a hollow chuckle. The vodka was wearing off quick, and if he didn't fix that soon, he'd be spending the rest of the day lamenting over those 'less fortunate' incidents. "Better head back now, I guess."

Of course, any wastelander knew the Courier never had good fortune to begin with. Fate merely decided it would see just how cruel it could be, and seemed to be succeeding. After all, what better way to torment a man than let him think things were looking up?

The moment he pocketed the latest addition to his arsenal, a blue haze surrounded his form. Finally, Six was beginning to realize the gravity of the situation he was in. Ironic, considering he seemed to be defying gravity itself, and before he knew it, he was pulled skyward. 'Aliens,' he thought. 'There just had to be aliens. Wait 'til Crocker hears this one. Of course, he won't be hearing jack shit if I don't make it back.' Yes, 'the Unknown' was truly an enigma, not even understood by the host himself.

After a moment's consideration, the Mojave's resident badass uttered one final statement before disappearing into the blinding light that engulfed the sky.

"...I've dealt with worse Tuesdays than this."******

And the Wasteland never heard from him again.

Footnotes

* - While much of the Courier's life remains a mystery to those around him, most have come to a consensus: wherever he walked, one could find one of two things: a smoldering crater littered with fresh corpses, or what was probably (hopefully) a practical joke. Before his time in the Mojave, such occurrences were unheard of. Obviously no one had the balls to bad mouth Caesar's Legion in their own camp. No one had even seen those odd, religious** hand grenades in Searchlight until he stepped through the door. Because of the unpredictable nature of his presence alone, 'the Unknown' was always a listed threat whenever the Courier was present.

** - There were few occurrences where the two were not synonymous, both in the present and in the Old World. If one were to make a Bible for, say, a cult of ghouls, and the Courier's role in that cult, one may think to worship such a kind-hearted being. Someone who has been keeping up with current events in the Mojave would describe you as 'odd' for doing this. Anyone who had seen the Courier's work would report you to the Followers for fear of a mental instability.

*** - Many brilliant minds who looked back on this time period would say this was one of the Republic's wisest decisions during its conquest of the Midwest. After all, the Courier was the greatest threat to both friend and foe as long as he was in the same state.

**** - Those same minds also considered its focus on the Legion to be the Republic's worst mistake, for the same reason stated above.

***** - Thankfully, for whatever reason, the use of nails hadn't traveled far past the Divide, even after two centuries. Of course, trying to nail something down in the sand would only cost you some of those precious, exotic nails when your property is inevitably uprooted from its spot.

****** - Six found it pretty difficult to beat 'that one time he got shot in the head', after all.

AN: And so the begins the tale of a man, cold on the exterior (drunken rambling notwithstanding) but a tragic wreck within. Of course, you'd only know that if you were to continue reading and I stopped talking about it. So, without further delay, I shall humbly ask for feedback on my first story. For you are my audience, and I am nothing without you.