Goodsprings was generally a calm town. A small, tight-knit community of people that had just recently held up against an attack from some Powder Gangers. The bodies had been removed from the road just yesterday, in fact, which was a good thing, since the occupants didn't have to stare at splattered brain matter when they walked out of the small village's front door. Around them, the Mojave desert spread far and wide, its mountains an awe-inspiring sight in the distance and its main road a... Broken down wreck of its pre-war form.

Courier Six stared out from the top of the porch of the Prospector Saloon, right near the door, as a Caravan passed them, on its way east. He had barely been out of his headshot-induced death state for two days when he'd gotten around to helping everyone. He had to admit, it did come naturally to him, somehow, just wanting to help folks along. He saw the redhead guard of the town, Sunny, approach. She tossed him a bag, then said happily "A bit of a thanks for you helping us. Extra ammo for your varmint rifle and some food and water for the road, plus a few caps I and Trudy pooled together."

"Thanks. You didn't hafta, though." He nodded, slinging the bag over his back.

The Courier was an odd fella, even to himself. He was glad his former job was nice enough to hand him a handgun, a shotgun and some ammo for said stuff, but right now, he had taken one in the head and the package he was supposed to be delivering had been stolen. The checkered-suit-wearin' sonofabitch who did it would soon get a taste of his own medicine, administered in 10mm.

"Don't mention it. It's the least we could do." She put a hand on her hip. "Planning on going after the folks who shot you?"

"That's my aim, yeah." Responded the Courier, cocking back the hammer of his 10mm pistol. It had seen shit too, just like him. "So, you said I should hit up Novac next?"

"Closest bigger town nearby and the direction checkered suit guy was heading in." Sunny returned, smiling now. "You know, we could do with a visit every so often. People have warmed up to ya here."

He hummed, then said "I'll probably be paying visits every so often, but right now? I gotta head out if I hope to catch checkered boy." as he slung the pistol into its holster and tightened the straps of his backpack around his armor. Sunny smiled still, then offered a goodbye and left for her own post, letting the Courier step off toward Primm. Down the beaten, broken path that was one of the many pre-war roads, the young man with black hair and dark eyes marched forward, rifle in hand, pistol on his hip and bag on his back.

The road was basically a desolate mix of desert, desert plants and concrete, with the ever-so-rare barrier or billboard to remind him he was walking on what once had been one of America's weirdest civilized areas, one built on gambling and booze. He loved living in the Mojave and he loved hearing tales of Vegas's grandeur, but now that he was heading toward it, he just wanted to get this little petty revenge mission over with and get his package delivered.

The trek was a long one, up the winding road from Goodsprings all the way through some small irradiated critters and up to now. He paused his pace, noticing a soldier clad in a brown uniform and with a brimmed hat sitting by the way down to the Underpass. He motioned to the Courier to approach, his old service rifle in hand. The weapon was a Pre-War type, from the looks of it. An AR15 platform with a wooden stock and hand guard.

The young soldier watched Six approach, stopping him about five feet in front, then said "Passing through, or do you have business here?"

"I have some business in town, actually..." The Courier noted. "I'm a Courier."

"... Well, you're shit outta luck, Courier. This town was occupied by escaped convicts from the NCR Correctional Facility a ways up the road." The soldier noted.

"The fuck are Powder Gangers doing with a town? I just dealt with some of them down in Goodsprings. These ones can't be any tougher." He shrugged, checking his varmint rifle. The Soldier gave the man a simple shrug back.

"They took it over after their escape. If you wanna do something to help this town, you can go talk to Lieutenant Hayes over in his tent... Just stick to our side of the road so you don't get shot." The Trooper warned. The Courier hummed, side-stepping the infantryman and walking into the temporary camp set up by the NCR soldiers. He remembered reading about the NCR a while back. The New California Republic, those who wished to allow the spirit of the old USA to be reborn.

Six wasn't sure what kind of drugs they took when thinking that idea up, but he had to admit... It was oddly interesting. For him, at least.

He passed a squad of soldiers, two of which were set up on the second floor of a ruined building, overlooking the Overpass. There was another on a checkpoint near the Overpass, behind some sandbags, kneeling and peeking over the wall that acted as the only thing between him and a (possibly) untimely death at the hands of a Powder Ganger sharpshooter. Did those even exist?

The man took to approaching the tent guarded by one soldier. He pushed aside the tent flap that acted as a door, only to find a table, a few shelves and a small, dirty mattress meant to be the cot the man would sleep on. The officer of the NCR unit was sat at the table, looking over a map of the area. He wore a tattered, dark-green beret with the Two-Headed Bear of the NCR on its front and the dark-brown armor and uniform of the NCR

Idealists as they were, they seemed to be standardized in equipment and everything, like an old world military.

"Lieutenant Hayes?" Six asked, stepping up to the man.

"Yeah. We're kind of busy, wanderer. Primm is under occupation." The man spoke. His skin was tanned, dry from the sand and darkened by the Mojave sun. NCR Fellows didn't know much of how local life works in the Mojave, he figured, so there were no hats given to folks to protect them from the sun by their army suppliers. He scratched the back of his neck, nodding.

"So I've heard from one of your troopers, sir. I'm a Courier." The man offered.

Hayes gave Six a once-over, then said "Don't much look like one, but alright. What is it you're here for?"

"I needed to get to the Primm branch of the Mojave Express and ask its owner about the package I was supposed to deliver... And a 'friend'." He answered, the last word filled with venom. The Lieutenant furrowed his brows, unsure of how to respond to that. He shook his head.

He hummed, then crossed his arms and spoke "Alright... Well... I presume the Trooper also mentioned that these are escaped convicts from the NCRCF?"

"Yeah." Six looked over to his hip, at the 10mm pistol. He looked back up, he conveyed to the Lieutenant calmly "Can't your squad punch through and take them out?"

Hayes shook his head "Afraid not. There's too few of us. And we're stretched too thin trying to hold this little roadside we have here. Our best bet is to hold tight and wait until the folks upstairs decide to send us backup." And he hummed, murmuring to himself "Then there's that ghost story some of the troopers have been spreading around the bend..."

"You do know Primm's a town with people in it, right?" The Courier asked. Then he blinked "Wait... What Ghost story?"

Hayes raised a brow "Keen hearing... The soldiers keep mentioning something about seeing distortion in the air at night and insist it ain't the Mojave heat, since it's cold in deserts at night and whatnot... Sightings both around camp and in the city. Part of me is thinking that the stress of watching a con-ridden casino town's getting to them, but there's been evidence of it and, believe it or not, me, myself, seeing something stalking around the street leading into town at night... Plus one of the boys, probably the one you talked to, reported finding three convict corpses dumped just below the Overpass. Slit throat and snapped necks. We dumped the bodies somewhere else, though. Doesn't help any Caravan that still wants to pass through here to see ganger bodies lining the streets. They'll think we're savages."

"Huh... Alright." The young Courier hummed. "Mind if I stick around the camp 'till midnight? I wanna test out this little 'ghost story' for myself."

"Planning to go in alone?" The Lieutenant leaned back into his chair. Getting a nod from Six, he hummed, then said "Courier, you've got some guts."

"Thanks, but getting shot in the head probably did away with my self-preservation instinct." He joked, a small, deranged smile on his face as he recalled the asshole in the checkered suit popping him in the noggin while his escorts just watched. Hayes winced, noticing the suturing just above his right eye and wondering privately how the hell this unassuming guy survived a round to the brain. No point in wondering now, though...

He warned the Courier before the man managed to take the step out of the tent. "The 'Ghost Story' is corroborated by people farther back down the way you came. Caravaneers reported finding raider bodies with similar injuries by the roadside and some also reported seeing distortions in the air, so..."

"So, I should be careful not to piss this holy spirit off, eh? Alright, El-Tee. Thanks. I'll make sure to give it an offering of some sort so it knows I'm friendly." He quipped, then pushed the tent flap aside and stepped out. He approached the checkpoint manned by the hatless soldier, the one overlooking the broken overpass, and leaned against the sandbags, taking a cigarette out of a pack in his pocket, slipping it in his mouth and lighting a match.

He took a deep puff, feeling the warmth course through him as he gazed toward the town, waiting for night to fall.

After a few hours, the scorching Mojave Sun peeked for the last time today over the horizon, slowly being replaced by the darkness of the sky and the light of stars. Courier Six hummed, standing up straight and drawing his Varmint rifle. The trooper in the guard post looked to him, but didn't say anything as the Courier walked off, stepping onto the broken overpass. It was his funeral and the soldier wouldn't throw himself in there for some random-ass mailman.

Six, though. He knew better than to worry about the idiocy of some soldiers. If said Ghost did exist, he'd probably be dead already.

As the first two Convicts came into view, he was reminded that there were actual threats in the town. Shouldering his varmint rifle, he racked the bolt and fired. While the round went wide, it did manage to make the enemy duck behind his comrade. Six snapped off another shot after rechambering, this one nailing the guy's friend in the leg. Before he knew it, though, more of them came out from the big casino up ahead.

"Motherfucker!" swore the guy that got hit in the leg. "Who the fuck are you, you piece of shit! When I get my hands on you, you'll fucking wish you were dead!"

"Chill out, street smarts." Murmured the Courier, poking his rifle out from his cover-a tall concrete pillar that held up the 'roof' of the smaller Casino he was next to. Another crack of the rifle and the guy on the floor was dead, a bullet right between his eyes, while his pals charged the Courier. The guy threw his weapon on his back, drawing his 10mm pistol.

He started firing. Two took rounds in the stomach and shoulder respectively, but they kept coming, only staggered by the hits. The Courier went through the first 12-round mag of his pistol incredibly quickly. He tried to reload fast, fumbling with the weapon for a bit, before he saw one of the Powder Gangers approaching, a golf club raised above his head as he aimed for the young man.

A rifle cracked the air and a bullet punched through the charging lunatic's forehead. Six watched the corpse collapse beside him, then disregarded it and went back to shooting. His pistol thundered, his aim true this time. The same two guys he shot, he nailed in the chest this time. One of the others managed to nail the Courier in the shoulder with a 9mm pistol, but soon, his throat opened up. He collapsed, gargling blood, before two of his buddies wound up right next to him, one with his neck snapped and the other with his ribcage collapsed in on itself.

A shimmering image floated in Six's vision, blood staining an invisible blade and painting the centuries-old pavement below them as the unknown assailant made short work of the other bastards. Three managed to flee inside the same casino they ran out of, with a fourth taking a giant knife that just seemed to have materialized out of thin air into the calf. He fell to the floor as the shimmering cloud of apparent mist approached him.

The Courier wasn't blind. He'd been living on the road and was used to keeping his eyes open. The fact that the figure ahead of him looked as human as they came did not help the growing fear in his chest. The figure ahead of him, however, materialized and with its appearance, Six felt his heart physically stop pumping blood for a good second. The tall, menacing figure that appeared out of thin air wielded a bloody knife in one hand and had what looked like a rifle in the other. The armor it... Probably he, considering the form... Wore, resembled what you would see on a Pre-War tank and covered him from head to toe. It was a dirty white, touched and stained by specks of black and by the Mojave's golden sand.

There was a small blue slit on the soldier-looking fellow's angular helmet, at eye level. And as he turned to face the Courier, the two made eye contact just as the Mojave resident stuck a needle into his shoulder. The stimpak poured all of its contents inside the man's wounded arm, cleaning, patching and sealing the wound. He tossed aside the empty syringe, watching as the titanic man approached, sliding the knife back onto the leather holster on his chest and the rifle on his back, before extending a hand to the him.

A raise of a brow and confusion in his eyes, the man took his fellow's hand and was pulled to his feet.

"Huh... So, you're the ghost those NCR folks have been talking about." Murmured the Courier. The trooper nodded, then motioned toward the Casino on their left:the Vikki and Vance?

To their right was the Mojave Express building. He pointed to it, then said "I need to get there. Talk to the owner about something." And he got a shake of the head. A slight scowl crossed his face "The fuck you mean, no? I need to talk about the package I was supposed to deliver. And a certain asshole who may or may not have stolen it, case in which I think that damn thing's valuable."

The soldier showed him to follow and, with reluctance the Courier did, trailing behind the silent titan and eyeing both the larger Casino and the Mojave Express building. Approaching one of the side doors of the Vikki and Vance, as the front had been barricaded shut, the soldier propped open the door, then stepped inside first, followed by the Courier. The massive building's interior was the standard Casino you'd see on your way in or out of Vegas, smaller than the ones on the Strip, far as he knew. He had never been there, after all.

Lining the sides of the entrance were a dozens of slot machines and even some Pachinko ones here and there. The center of the place was an indentation in the floor, in the middle of which resided an exhibit 1940s-looking car and some other items of interest. There was another room on the right and the cashiers' counter on the left, but for now, most people seemed to be armed and waiting.

The soldier pointed toward a dark-skinned old man sat at one of the tables in the center. Courier Six immediately understood the sign. He hummed, then looked to the soldier and said "Thanks... Didn't figure all of Primm's people would dive and hide in the Casino here, but I guess when push comes to shove... I'm a Courier... Courier Six. What's your name?"

"... Noble Six. And that's not a name, Courier." The soldier spoke coldly, his voice rough.

Courier grinned "Neither's yours, Noble... Man of few words?"

Noble nodded, crossing his arms. "Yeah. If you're gonna want to clear out this town... Talk to Nash, first, then come to me."

"How long you been here if you know his name?" The Courier asked, raising a brow.

"Two days. Been busying myself thinking of a way to kick the door of the Bison Steve down... Trying to convince the folks to fight for their own as well, to no avail. Maybe you'll have better luck." The Noble noted, pulling a magazine and a few 7,62x39 rounds out of the same pocket on his armor's rigging. He started sliding in bullets, nodding to the Courier to go on and talk to Nash as he loaded rounds into the new mag.

The Courier nodded back, then stepped off toward Nash, watched by Noble Six with a quiet interest.

Noble Six was no stranger to weirdness. To weird people from this place. He'd been in the Wastelands of West America for almost a month now. He'd been keeping low, trying to figure out what the shit had happened to him that sent him from one desert hellhole to another and, more specifically, on some alternate-reality Earth. He'd helped Caravans of supplies with those two-headed cows(weird) by dealing with raider ambushes before they fell into them, with the folk being none the wiser about it. He'd fought mutants(weirder), tall as tanks and just as burly. But something, something about 'Courier Six' felt off to him. More so than usual...

... And with what he heard was a battle for the fate of the Mojave on the horizon, he would probably do best to figure it all out, including his stakes in all this...

At least before he got caught in the middle with no idea who to help...