//------------------------------//
// Prologue: Horror, Craziness, or Boredom? 
// Story: Crossroads 
// by GammaG3 
//------------------------------//

War…War never changes.

On the fateful day of October 23rd, 2077, the Great War began and ended.  All of humanity’s hatred was released in just a few short moments.  The entire world was scorched with fire, and poisoned by radiation, killing all that came in contact.  Humanity's demon for destruction was satisfied, but took all life on Earth as a price.


But not all life was lost as it was thought to have been.  Thousands took shelter in Vaults that shielded them from the horrors of the war that incinerated and poisoned the world above.  


One such Vault, Vault 101, housed the Lone Wanderer, who set foot into the Capital Wasteland, and forever changed it.  Starting out as a naive vault dweller searching for his lost father, the treacherous and sinful wastels could only treat him to vice.  But the Lone Wanderer refused to surrender to the vices that have already claimed so many.


Helping his fellow survivors, he set himself a new purpose.  Activating Project Purity and defeating the Enclave, he has shown to those around him, and continues to do so, that there is still hope.


But not all of the world was completely hopeless as the Capital Wasteland.


Many miles away on the West Coast, it appeared that humanity has found it’s salvation.


In the Mojave desert, the luxurious city of New Vegas stood tall and untouched by the War that forever scarred the world around.  With Hoover Dam still operational, and Lake Mead full of clean water,  the inhabitants the areas around already had hope, and began building communities, forming tribes that would reform into civilizations.


The Courier, who simply delivered parcels, suddenly found himself being the center of the war that fought over New Vegas and the fate of the Mojave desert.


The second battle for Hoover Dam erupted.  The Courier, not preferring the perks of the NCR nor the savagery the Legion brought, decided to fight under the third flag.  Backed up by an army of securitrons, the Courier flew the flag of New Vegas over the great dam, and the Mojave was forever changed.


But even through these hopeful, new days, people will be killed and blood will be spilled.  The two legends on the opposite coasts still persevered valiantly against the forces that wished to drag them down.  The wastes continued to be plagued with hate and sin, because war...war never changes.


Each man walks their own road.  Each is shaped by the journeys they go through.  Sometimes men find the end of their roads, but at the same time, a new one is set out for them.  The two figures’ roads are about to end, and a new one will open up to them, a road to a destination that nobody has ever seen before.



***







***



A mysterious figure walked through the dry Capital Wasteland.  The man wore thick power armor that looked more advanced and professional than the usual model.  It shined and protected him from head to toe, but the man showed no trouble in hauling the massive weight around.  Every part of his body was obscured by steel, even the visor that he could see out of was of a thick black.  By the right of his chest, a “101” was printed with a different, contrasting shade of gray.

On his right, wide shoulder plate, a dirty gray emblem was etched on.  The emblem was of a circle of olive branches with wings sprouting from under.  Three turning gears marked the radius.  In front, sword stood strong and tall, acting as a shield for the sigil.

On the man’s back was a large battery with a backpack piggyback riding it.  A strange, box-like rifle stuck out of his bag as it hopped around whenever he jumped from a height.  The strange jingles of tin and steel was heard every time the bag danced.  Around his waist was several packets and holsters that contained pistols and ammunition.    

His heavy legs crunched on the dry earth that was once full of moisture.  The earth, the buildings, and even the skies were all sickly and dead.  He descended from a hill, which appeared to be the same as everything else: dead, black and dry.

In the middle of his timeless, lonely trek, he stopped dead in his tracks  He froze himself completely, and brought up a strange device that was hooked onto his left arm.  On the left side of was carved text that read “Pip-Boy: Model 3000”.

The hydraulics of the helmet shut down, the man slowly and uncomfortably, removed the helmet.  He dangled it with his hand beside his waist.

The face of a young man was revealed to the dead world.  His face was a clean vanilla while the short hair on top of his cranium was a dirty brunette.  While he was still young, the horrors and experiences of the wasteland gave him more of a grizzled and older look.  He held a calm expression, before his eyes widened and his mouth pried itself open.

He clutched his helmet while blinking deeply.  He brought his Pip-boy in front of himself again, switching status screen to status screen until he found the map.

His eyes shifted their attention from the map screen to what was in front of himself.  His jaw shook in awe and sweat began to precipitate.

“No way….it can’t be...” he said in awe.

His mind was still wrapping around upon seeing the large, crashed disk that displayed itself like an opening act.  The large saucer had more intricate designs, light material, and fins that made it aerodynamic.  Wire and batteries were exposed and decayed from inside the broken hulls.  A large, ball-like cockpit faced the man in armor, while its complex systems inside were ruined.  Not too far from the shattered glass, a little green man laid himself out.  

“It was an alien…”  He murmured.  "An actual....alien."

It’s jet-black eyes that stared into the sick sky.  It’s fingers were long and nimble and delicate.  It wore a gray space suit that reflected the light like a metal.

The Lone Wanderer frantically switched back to his device, going through several menus before picking a radio station.  He switched it on.  Very clear babbling noises emitted from the device and he listened to it with great attention.  The Lone Wanderer once turned it on before to hear faint signals of something that resembled a conversation.  Now it was at it’s clearest, but no less understandable.

He approached the crashed saucer and first examined the green alien.  Dead he thought.  He spotted a child's toy that laid next to the alien's hand.  He picked up the toy, which appeared to be some sort of cosmic pistol.  He then collected strange tubes scattered around that actually fitted in a chamber of the pistol.
          
Before he could try to peek in the cockpit, he suddenly felt light.  The gravity around his shoulders lost more and more strength.  He cocked his head around and turned his eyes, noticing that small pebbles and gusts of dirt were rising into the air.  Before he knew it, he stood in the center of a column of rising, bright light, with most of it being absorbed into the dead soil.  While his mind said so, his muscles refused to move as if he was in an anesthetic state. 

He could only stand still when his arms and legs defied gravity and his will.  Even his neck was not responsive, sending him floating upwards into the unknown.  “What the hell…”


***


Loud music that consisted of strums of an acoustic guitar and flute was echoed throughout a scientific decorated-like suite that drowned out the mumbles of conversations.  The personalities’ attitude within mirrored the same lazy tone that was given off by the instrumental.

“Juke Jeff!”  A man called out from the stainless, steel bedroom.  “Destroyed Earth to deaf jukebox!  Turn it down!  It’s starting to get annoying!”

The man on the bed threw his True Police Stories magazine onto the floor and stood up, stretching his back until he heard some cracks.  

His skin was a light tan while his coal, moderately-long hair was barely long enough to curtain his ears.  He wore leather pants and boots of black.  Small patches of dark brown and flexible steel protected his legs.  He wore no shirt, showing his lean but fit upper body.  

He wore a rather large, black device on his left arm.  Several buttons and dials were scattered all around it.  The interface on the main screen was an amber color.

He wobbled to the doorway which lead to a circular room with a holographic, circular table in the center.  Just as his body went right through the doorway, he crooked his head to the right and rested his elbow on the jukebox that was directly right.

“If you can hear me, can you turn that down?”  The shirtless man asked.  

“Ehhhh sorry there man!”  A clear masculine, but mechanical voice emerged from the jukebox.  “I’m just too busy enjoying these tunes!  Damn it’s nice to be back...for real this time!”

The laid-back man gave a few thumps to the old jukebox.  “Yeah, don’t understand why Dr. Mobius would just remove the music drives, kinda defeats the purpose,” he said before slouching his way around the central table.  “But then again, Mobius isn't living in spring-clean bio-gel.”

“Eeeeyy, don’t talk about Ol’ Mobius like that!”  The jukebox slowly retorted.  “Mobius ain’t always a fan of the Blues, but he was a fan of how I soothed his calibrations.”  The man gave a small nod as he went into the room from across the jukebox.

“Mug!  Mug!  Give me the fucking mug!!”  A small voice screeched from the room that the man was about to enter.  “I had that mug!  You stole it!  You bitch!”  

“You?  Put your rusty, filthy and rough little robotic arms on this cupware?  Preposterous!” A snobby, female voice jeered from the same room.  “All cookware and silverware must be scrubbed and cleaned professionally!”

“That’s my fucking joooooob!”

The man slowly wobbled inside and lazily looked to his right.  A little monowheel robot was reaching and hopping up towards a stomach-high sink that was currently purging it's faucet.  

His lazy expression remained unchanged and he went up to the long table on the left side of the room.  It had a big, stainless console on it with a small, static monitor and keyboard in front.  To the side of this computer was several large, rusty trays filled with rich soil.  Several thin stalks of plant life emerged and the man slowly went and picked a maize from amongst them.

“Really Sink?”  The man said while munching on his corn-like produce.  “You stole one of Muggy’s mugs again?”  He raised an eyebrow.  “I thought we already established that ‘mug-cleaning’ was his duty?”  

“And dishes too!”  The little robot promptly added while turning towards him, revealing a little screen in front, displaying a smiling coffee cup.

“Yes I-I know b-but…” The Sink stammered.  “But to let HIM clean?  To let a dirty automata like him wash this cup clean?!  Such tomfoolery shall never happen!  And that is when I shall step in and set things of this matter correctly!”  

The man only sighed before reaching in the sink to pull out a wet mug, much against the Sink’s protests.

He handed it back to the tiny robot, who snatched it up and zipped out of the room, laughing maniacally.  A minute later, the robot stopped fondling the coffee cup and held it in front of him, asking himself quietly, “What the fuck do I do now?” 

The little robot sulked even lower.  “I hate my life…”

The shirtless man finished swallowing his previous mouthful of maize.  “You know Sink, how the hell do you manage to get this stuff?”  He asked while stuffing the half-eaten vegetable into the fridge.  “You have like no arms, so how do things somehow manage to enter you grasp?”   (Truly, it was one of the biggest mysteries of Big MT, well with the bigger mystery being how many toes did 8 used to have.  All the personalities in the Sink were baffled by the strange movements of objects that ended up in the kitchen appliance.  Even the Think Tank have no clue on the causes of this phenomenon.)

“Don’t put your unfinished food into the fridge with the clean produce, that’s unsanitary!”  The Sink scolded.  “And…” She paused.  “Where do you think you’re going?!  Courier?!”

The Courier wobbled back into the main room and went through the doorway that lead to the balcony, giving a view of the Big MT and it’s barren, shale-colored, landscape.

“Ahhhh yes, sweet relief,” he sighed with a smile.

Big MT used to be a research facility that was hidden in the mountain, until an accident at the Y-0 Facility caused the whole top of the mountain to be blown off (Something about Dr. Klein forgetting basic math, the number two, and a rubber chicken).  

Now the pre-war facility is a very circular crater that is miles wide, with buildings scattered around, each with a different purpose.  All of these sub-facilities were connected by pipes and walkways that sourced from the large dome in the center, to which the Courier was staying in the high up, built-in apartment.

A stream of crystalline, yellow liquid flowed from the top railings.  It arched down until it splattered across the white dome, giving it a (in terms of the Sink) filthy stain.  The Courier’s head was cocked up.  His eyelids rested, and he held a big smile on his face.  The stream of mysterious liquid stopped flowing, and the Courier fidgeted with his nether region and returned back inside.

“That is….absolutely unhygienic!!”  The Sink said mortified.  “I have never seen so much disregard for basic hygiene!  You need a scrubbing!”

“What?!  There aren’t any bathrooms!”  The Courier retorted from inside the main room.  “If it’s someone to blame, it’s Mobius!  He forgot to install bathrooms!  I can’t remember SEEING a toilet in all of Big MT!”  

He then crossed his arms and gave a stubborn grunt.  “I’m just doing nature’s business, Biology stuff.  Dala would’ve been proud.”

“You know, you could always just ask,” said a suave, masculine voice from the Sink’s room.  “I mean, I can plant seeds and grow them good and all.  But it doesn’t help to have a little bit of...‘nature’s assistance’.”

The Courier shook his pointed finger to the large modem resting on the table.  “No,” he stated.  “You already tried to seed Toaster, Muggy and Sink.  I ain’t letting you get THAT close to me!”  

A small cough came from behind the Courier.  “If I may interrupt Sir’s quarrels?”  A politely, british-fainted accent asked.  The Courier’s attention was shifted towards the circular, holographic table, for which he rested his two hands on.

“What is it, CIU?”  The Courier asked.

“I’d like to begin by apologizing to Sir for interrupting Sir’s previous conversations,” the table explained.  “But I have just received a message from the Think Tank addressed directly to Sir.  They request Sir’s presence as they have something they wish to show Sir.  They have not given any details of what they wish to show Sir, but I guarantee Sir that it is not a show-and-tell of a Cazadore spliced with a Radscorpion this time.”

“Then it’s probably a yao guai crossed with a bloatfly…”  The Courier muttered.

The Courier hung his head low and stumbled himself quickly to his room.  He went to a locker and pulled out several articles of clothing.  He then later emerged from the room readied, and tired at the same time.

Instead of bare skin, he wore very faint, olive combat armor that was once military-grade riot gear.  His bare arms and chest were now covered with thick plates and leather sleeves that extended up to the wrists.  He had two bandoliers covering atop of the worn-out thick plates: one with a line of ammunition with the other being lined with several small pouches.  

Hanging from his shoulders was a dirty black duster that covered his olive armor and drooped down to the tops of his boots.  His arms stretched out of the sleeveless holes, and the back of the duster separated by the inner vertex of his two legs.  The revealing gap on his chest displayed the truth of how armored he really was.  

The picture on the back of his longcoat was painting of a blue circle with 12 silver stars encircling a larger 13th centered star.  Below was several red and blue streaks that drooped down.  

By the collar of the duster, white letters were stitched on, labeling “Old World Justice.”   

Hanging on his back was a dark, rust-colored plasma rifle that was larger than usual models.  It had a larger back chamber and more stabilization frames.  The interface on his Pip-Boy named it “Q-35 Matter Modulator,” a prototype of a newer plasma rifle model.  He walked over to the two elevators at the end while adjusting his clothing.

“What do those wackos want this time?”  He asked to himself irritably.  Those wackos are more fucked up than me!  God please help me if another deathclaw was captured.  He stopped himself and thought for a moment.

A grin grew on his face.  Or if they have another tank for me, he finished. 

If that’s case, I take all that back.

He ended up in a rather large, dark but shiny room.  On the opposite wall were so many computers and buttons that it was a miracle the Think Tank still remember which is which.  A small staircase rose up, linking the ground floor to the catwalk that attached to the opposite wall barely seven feet high.  All around, five floating pods with brains minded their own businesses.  Each had their own color and three flat screen monitors protruding from the chassis: one mouth and two eyes.      

The Courier walked up and stood in front of the blue Think Tank that awaited directly up the center stairs.  

“You guys wanted to see me?  Please tell me it’s another tank,”  The Courier asked while clapping his hands in prayer.

The floating brain-bot turns to face the awaiting Courier, showing him their brains suspended in biogel and their facial monitors’ slight static.

“THE LOBOTOMITE ANSWERS THE SUMMONS!  THE LOBOTOMITE WHO SAVED US!  AND IT COMES USING IT’S...LEGS!”  The blue brain-bot said in a loud, unchanging tone.  The Courier could not help but cringe at Dr. Klein’s tone.  It was as if his ‘caps lock’ key was broken and now he was forced to yell like this for the rest of his days, which was a likely story.

“Why the hell do you keep calling me a lobotomite?  If anyone here is closest to being one, it’s you,” the Courier pointed with his bottle.  But the loud Doctor only ignored his statement and went on about his own reasons.

“I…” The blue bot stopped and turned himself around until he caught the glances of the light blue Think Tank that was looking back at him.  “...WE HAVE BEEN MAKING SOME BREAKTHROUGH TECHNOLOGIES!  NEW TELEPORTATION TECHNOLOGY THAT NO LONGER NEEDS LODESTONES!  AS WELL AS PREPARATIONS FOR MOON TRAVEL AND EXPERIMENTS!  AND THIS IS WHY WE NEED THE LOBOTOMITE AND HIS PENIS-HANDS’  HELP!  FOR THE SAKE...OF SCIENCE!”

The Courier held his fingers in front of his face.  He gazed and studied each finger and moved it accordingly.  

“Does this look like a penis to you?”  The Courier asked with a moderate expression.  He stuck out his right hand towards Dr. Klein, with all of his fingers contracted, except for his middle finger and thumb.  The doctor simply ignored his question and gesture, and continued to ramble about his academic success.

While the rusty gears in his mind turned, his eyes and mouth shot right open.  His mind was placing the pieces of the mad doctor’s statements together and a large smile began to take shape.

Let’s see here.  New teleportation tech, and….Moon…Travel?!

“Are you saying I’m going to the Moon?!”  The Courier shouted while shaking his hands.  A humongous smile grew in his face as he screeched his inner excitement.

“THE LOBOTOMITE HAS FIGURED OUT MY SAYING IN LESS THAN TWO MINUTES!  DOES THE LOBOTOMITE OBJECT SCIENTIFIC PROGRESS?!”

“Hell naw!”  The Courier shook his head viciously.  “Well what are we waiting for?!  Let’s go to the fucking Moon!  The Moon!  Anytime now!”  He said while moving around rapidly.

“THE LOBOTOMITE ACCEPTS!”  Dr. Klein announced.  “THE TESTING WILL BE CARRIED OUT IN A FEW HOURS!”

The excited Courier cocked his head after ceasing his constant cheers.  “So wait, how am I going to get there, and what’s the plan?”

“Why jet propulsion of course, my silly teddy bear,” answered a strange feminine-like voice.  The ‘to-be moonman’ looked to his left to see pink and light cyan brain-bots similar to Klein’s design.  

“We have a uh, space shuttle that we have been working on for a little bit now,” Dr. 0 explained.  “We built it out of some nuts and bolts that were laying around.  Didn’t exactly get to test it, but I am just as certain as how much I hate Mr. House that our scrap metal project will ascend more than 20 feet in the air.”  

The duster-wearing Courier’s attention was drawn to the large monitor on the side that suddenly flickered from lines of code to a picture of the Think Tank Dome.  Behind the dome was a large, white space shuttle with a black visor and nose, that was more than twice the height of the Dome itself.  It simply stood up without any observations as in why.  

The Courier scratched the back of his head.  “How long has that thing been there?” 

“About like a week maybe?”  Dr. 0 answered with uncertainty in his voice.

“Ahh okay,” he nodded.

“AND I SAID WE SHOULD JUST TELEPORT TO THE MOON BUT NOOOOO!  ‘WE DON’T HAVE ENOUGH DATA’ SAYS THE LOSERS THAT CAN’T PREDICT QUANTUM-SPACE COORDINATES!  ‘WE GOTTA USE ROCKETS!’”  Dr. Klein scorned.

“Why do you have to criticize rocket science Klein?!”  Dr. 0 complained.  “We don’t know how far away the Moon, or your heart is!  There’s nothing wrong with blasting things into the sky!  Every basic scientist knows the basic arithmetics of rocket sciences….unless YOU don’t know!”

“HOW DARE YOU INSULT MY INTELLIGENCE!  MY INTELLIGENCE IS DEFINITELY LARGER THAN HOW MUCH YOUR CORRODED BRAIN CAN STORE IN YOUR PLASTIC TOY YOU CALL A CHASSIS TANK!  WHILE YOU LOT WERE DAWDLING WITH YOUR….HAND PENISES, I WAS MAKING ACTUAL, SCIENTIFIC PROGRESS!  YOU HAVE NO RIGHT TO COMPLAIN!  YOU ARE OVERRULED!  CASE CLOSED!”

“Really?  Is that what YOU think?  I thought we already went over this, and you just trampled on my heart!  That YOU did NOTHING!  You always take on all the credit!  You never actually bothered to thank us!  Well let me tell you this, you-!”

“Guys!  Shut up!”  

The Courier shook his hand between the ancient bickerers.  Right now, he did something he never thought he could do here before, break up their argument.  The consequences of having pre-war brains control whatever tech is left in your body from previous experiments (and he learned that the hard way when one of the brains pushed the ‘shiny red button’) is quite dire.  All the Think Tank in the room stared at the Courier in shock and curiosity.  

While the Courier jigged with a cheesy smile, he noticed that Dala’s eye monitors were unusually close, scanning his chest in greater detail.  His eyes narrowed but remained relaxed, and he calmly placed his hand on the monitors, slowing shoving them away while she gave out disturbing groans of pleasure that caused him to shudder.   

“Lets try...to stop...the observations....while we're talking.”

The Courier turned back to the majority of the Think Tank.  “Alright, so can you guys just tell me the plan?”

“Oh yes, um the plan!”  Dr. 0 remarked while his eye monitors briefly scanned the room around.  “Well you already know the first part; launching the lobotomite into low Earth orbit.  Now here comes the fun part!”  The calm mailman crossed his arms.

“While you, the lobotomite, is just floating around without that grubby MR. HOUSE taking the glory of the technology, the teleporter module will have to be automat...err, manually activated by the pilot.  It’s stored in the big nose-thingy of the shuttle for, uh, for maximum...efficiency?  From there, instead of teleporting to Big Mountain, you will be teleported a distance away from your initial position!  Easy, right?  I know!  I know!”  

The only standing man gave a shrug and shirked his facial muscles.  “Alright then, that’s the plan?”  

The Courier them openly applauded with his hands before the Think Tank could answer.  “Great!  Let’s get started then!  I don’t know what we are waiting for, but time's a wastin’!  Let’s go to the god damned moon!”  He announced playfully while making a ridiculous pose and scampering off like a child.  Mid-way through, he stopped and ran in place before jogging to a Think Tank with a pale, green chassis.

“Sup 8?”  He greeted while giving a small wave.

“!#@%^#$@@@@#$%@$%@#?”  Random, ambiguous noises came from the speaker box as the Think Tank faced the Courier

“Everything is fine….” The Courier answered.  “....Except I’m going to the Moon!”  He added while spreading his arms out, pointing upwards with his index finger.

“!@#%@@!@@@$^&*&%$%%$#^*@”

“Heh, yeah 8.  It’s not everyday when you get offered a chance to go to the Moon!”  He said.

Out of all the Think Tank who were plagued with crazy and psychosis, The Courier found Dr. 8 the most sane and tolerable, and in fact, a friend.  Unfortunately, Dr. 8’s voice module was damaged prior to an unexpected meeting with a Brotherhood Elder, so now all he can say are random code.  Somehow, the Courier understands him through the combined knowledge of Robco Terminal coding and keen perception.

The Courier tilted his head.  “Say 8, do you know how this teleportation stuff actually works?” He asked before drinking the last drops of his sarsparilla.  “Because I don’t know shit!”  He then broke out a large laugh, which then prompted him to... *Braaaaaaap!*

“!#@$^&^*%^&%%^#@@#%#@@$%$”

“Better hurry up before another one comes.”  He warned while grinning.

“!##@$#^#$&#@@#@@@#)^&~!#$@”

“Woah woah woah, slow down dude,” The Courier shook his hands in front of 8.  “I just want the general idea, alright?  Try to explain it simply, without equations and that other scientist mumbo jumbo.  Like try to explain it to an average post-apocalyptic american who suffered severe brain damage.”

“@!#!@#$@#%@$@@#@^&.  !@@#@$%@!#%@#!$_+!$#@”

“Huh huh,” The Courier nodded.

“@!#@!$#@%$%#!@##%^#”

“Hmm.”

“@!#$@%#$@@%@$%@@%@%$”

“Yeah, I think I have a good idea on THAT theory.”

“@!#$@%@@!$@#%$@$%.  @$#$#@%%#$%!#^*)%”

“Okay…”

“!#@%%$@%#$@^#^#%$@@%”

“MmmmHmmm.”

“!@#@#$@#$$$%@%@@!$^#@!”

“Alright.”

“@#!$#@%@%@%#@#$%@^%”

“Oh…”

“!#!@$#%@%$@!$!#%!%!”

“Ohhhh….!”

“#$!%@$%@^@%$%@$%@!@#$!”

“Ohh!  I get it!”  He exclaimed while clapping his hands together.

“!@##$!$!%$%^&^$@$!@!#^^#&#*”

“Yeah, that actually makes some sense!”  He remarked with an enlightened smile.  "Why can't anyone be as smart as you?  All everyone else does is say words that they expect me to understand on the spot!"

“!@#!@$%@$^@$&#$%?”

“Nice seein' ya, 8.  Thanks for actually making sense!” He said as he walked back to the elevators.  “And don’t worry, I’ll take your Sonic Transmitter with me to space, just like you asked.”  

He paused before spazzing his hands out.  “The chips too!”

“#!#$^@@$%@%$?”

“No problemo!” He finished off before heading back to the Sink.  

Right!  Now, he rubbed his chin.  What  should I bring…?


====







===


“Alright, got my dufflebag-o-goodies and I am ready to go,” The Courier smiled before closing up the bag he hung over his shoulder.  The Courier stepped out of the front entrance of the Think Tank Dome, and is now ready to board the Space Shuttle (“Whatever the hell THAT was” in his mind).  He popped out a bottle of vodka and slurped the strong drink into his stomach.

Barely even stepping 100 feet after leaving the dome, he was approached by a strange man wearing a brown jumpsuit.  The man wore a strange mask and mouthpiece that made it impossible to see his expressions (not like anyone really wanted to).  His head was shaved completely and the skin on his cranium had long scars streaking across the flesh.

He slowly approached the Courier in a primitive manner, holding a glowing hatchet with a tight grip with the head facing the ground.  He growled in some inaudible language that reminded the Courier of Groknak.  The Courier finished the last drops of his drink before lazily discarding it behind himself, leaving a crash of glass that sounded from the concrete.

The Courier rolled his eyes  “Fucking lobotomites…”

He reached into his dufflebag and pulled out a strange cylinder.  The cylinder was no more than a foot high, both ends protruded out with other small cylinders.  One end had a metal cage-like frame around the circumference, while the other end had metal handles protruding out.   

“You guys are worse than those Legion assassins!”    

He gripped the front handle and the rim of a more, protruding layer on the back and began to pull out.  The strange cylinder grew to be at least a meter long, revealing the true identity of it.  The Courier held the device onto shoulder, allowing the lobotomites to gaze into the barrel.  The overall orange device was covered with blinking lights, steel screws, and loose wire that seemed to be of no hindrance to the shooter

This was one of the Courier’s favorite tools, The Tesla-Beaton Prototype, a Tesla Cannon that could fire four shots per cell instead of the typical one.  He discovered it in a near-broken condition by a crashed VB-02 Vertibird (And could not fix to this day, much to his own dismay and frustration).  Using the knowledge and technology at Big MT, he was able to modify it so it could compact.

The Courier gave a smile as he aimed the cannon towards the oblivious, creeping man.

“Zappity-zap-zap!”

With a small pull of a trigger, a huge bolt of pure electricity zipped out of the chamber.  The area around was illuminated in a bright light.  A large *ZAP* sound roared from the cannon.  The lightning struck the pacing lobotomite, giving him a massive jolts of electricity.  The rag-doll body launched back while knives of electricity stabbed across his corpse before dissipating on the ground.

Absent-minded, the Courier reached into his pocked with his left hand and pulled out a piece of bubblegum.  He plopped the dry pastry into his mouth and chewed and suckled on it, while his eyes held a bored look.  His ears perked when he heard multiple footsteps, approaching from behind his back.  He turned and faced several more lobotomites wielding pipes and proton axes.  “Jeez you guys grow like weeds!”

He rolled his eyes as a thin, pink balloon of sugar inflated from his mouth.  It popped shortly after, giving the Courier a little jump, and pulled it back into his mouth.

“Look, if you wanna fight, we can do it when I get home.  I gotta moon to visit,” he said while pushing his gum to the sides of his mouth.

The savagely lobotomites showed no response to the Courier’s words, and pulled their weapons back while clenching their muscles.  A quick check on his radar showed him that several more lobotomites were arriving to the scene.  

The cannon-wielding mailman cocked his head, cracking his neck while gaining a small smile.  

“Alright then, might as well go out with a bang first,” he said before discharging another massive beam of energy.


***







***


The sun shined overhead in the magical land of Equestria.  The Pegasi weather team was taking a vacation, so the sky was clear as it could ever be.  The denizens of the natural world chirped and creeped with instinctive activity.  This would be called the “Perfect Day” while it’s inhabitants simply called it a normal day.

In the busy town of Ponyville, three fillies traveled around town, hoping for anything, really.  An earth pony and unicorn filly sat in the back of a little red wagon while they were pulled by a pegasus filly on a scooter.  All three had blank flanks.

“What exactly are we looking for Scootaloo?”  The little unicorn asked.  The unicorn had a faint silver coat with a puffy mane of light pink and faded indigo.  Her emerald eyes stared curiously at the orange filly with tiny wings, pulling them with a scooter with her miniscule wings.

The little pegasus in front took a quick glance back towards her friends.  Her light purple mane was hidden underneath her helmet as she gazed back with her cerise eyes as the fillies’ manes were waving in the wind.

“We’re looking for something super surprising and exciting!”  She emphasized with a smile.  She quickly turned back around and prompted herself to speed up, giving the two fillies in the back a small whiplash to the acceleration.  

“Besides, you remember Rainbow Dash’s, Twilight’s and all the others’ stories?  They got their cutie marks from Rainbow’s Sonic Rainboom, so we just gotta be surprised with something super cool, and we get our cutie marks!”

The two fillies in the back exchanged unconvinced looks.  “Well ‘ah think that nothings gonna happen, so can we just try something else?”  The faint-yellow coated filly asked in a dixie accent.  “So let’s try somethin’ else to get our cutie marks.”

The orange filly in front groaned while rolling her eyes. “Alright then.  So Apple Bloom, what do you think we should do?”  She asked expectantly.

The pale yellow filly in the back rubbed her hoof onto her chin as she thought deeply.  The other fillies looked at her, waiting for an answer.  Then far along their right side, a rather large tree began to take detail.  Windows, balconies and telescopes were incorporated into it, along with a little wooden banner with a book on it.

Apple Bloom’s expression then jumped up.  “Hey ‘Ah know!  We can check out thuh’ library,” she snapped while an imaginary lightbulb lit up over her head.  “Twilight says that there are tons of things in books.”

“Well that actually might be a good idea,” the faint-silver filly agreed with a smile.  “Maybe we can find a book on cutie marks!  Or even one that can tell us on how to get them!”

“Yeah!  That’s a great idea!”

The orange filly remained largely unconvinced.  “How about we all try rocket-rope-swing as our cutie marks instead?”  The filly suggested, speeding up her pace as the large oak approached.  The two fillies seemed to notice her gesture and they both shook their heads, to which they then stopped and quickly introduced themselves into the large tree-building.

The oak inside was mainly hollowed out, with the walls being built-in bookshelves filled with the obvious.  Without even a greeting, the fillies ran right past the purple unicorn and little dragon that gave puzzled looks.  Two of the three began frantically scanning the spines of the books, ignoring the first call of a purple unicorn.  

While the orange filly finally began skimming the titles, the unicorn asked them a second time.  ”My little ponies!  What is it that you’re looking for?”  Instead of simply ignoring her, their attentions were shifted to the librarian.

“Well Twilight, we’re looking for books on cutie marks.”  Apple Bloom waved over.  “So we’re hopin’ that we can figure out how exactly we get them or what kinds there are.”  

The purple unicorn gave a small chuckle.  “Well there isn’t a lot we actually know about cutie marks,” Twilight Sparkle elaborated.  “The keys of getting a cutie mark isn’t something that is written in paper.  Well, not yet at least.”

The little dragon patiently picked up discarded book after book, and returned them to their initial locations.  But after discovering pile after pile of inconsiderate care of tomes, he too, followed through with their example.  

“I’ll be taking a nap Twilight, so wake me when things settle,” he grumbled while keeping a stiff profile up the stairs.

Twilight took a quick glance towards Scootaloo, who was boredly waving her hoof in the air.  She rested on her back, foreleg behind her head, legs crossed, on a large, rectangular prism.  A quick inspection shown that it was simply divided and constructed using various books around.  Twilight scoffed to herself slightly before taking a few steps towards Scootaloo.

“Hey Twilight, where could we find ghosts?”  Apple Bloom asked, causing Twilight Sparkle to stop in her tracks.  She looked back to the little filly who then bit into a book onto the shelf and climbed down from the ladder.

“N-”

Scootaloo’s dull expression suddenly shot up.  “Hey!  Maybe we can get Ghost-Hunter cutie marks!”  She suggested while standing on all fours.

Twilight rolled her eyes with a half amused and pitiful smirk.  “I’m afraid that there really aren’t any ghosts,” Twilight pointed out, causing the raised ears and faces of the fillies’ to lose energy.  But a quick scanning of a plentiful book caused Scootaloo’s expression to turn right around.

“Ooo!  Ooo!  How about aliens?  Do aliens exist?”  She asked.  Twilight cocked her head in a moment of thought.

“The answer for that question,” she answered with.  “We have no idea!”

“Huh?”  Was elicited from all three of the fillies.

Twilight nodded her head.  “That’s right, we have no clue if aliens are real or not.  Maybe somewhere far away, they could be some sentient life.  They would probably have to resembled us, or otherwise how else would they be able to survive and think?  But in the end, the whole universe is endless, filled with endless possibilities!”

“But it won’t be until a very, very long time that we actually encounter extra-terrestrial life.”

Listening to Twilight’s answers, Sweetie Belle and Apple Bloom lightly nodded at each sentence, keeping their attentions and small smiles.  Scootaloo drooped her eyelids low, leaving a distraught moan before flopping herself back onto the book-bed.

Why is this soooo boooring?


***







***


The Wanderer’s eyes pained at the contact with the intense light.  His eyelids trembled at the first sights of a surgery light.  His head, arms and legs all felt sleepy and worn.  He laid on a cold, metallic table.  When he attempted to move his arms, he found that his limbs were bound to the very same platform he rested on.

His eyes gradually adapted to the brightness, but still remained blurred.  With his pupils contracting, he was able to see more than a false heaven.  He saw that the ceiling was a smoothed, turquoise steel that seemed to reflect the more intense parts of the light.  Facing directly over his legs was a circular, lamp with three, bright bulbs that tried to blind him.  

To his sides, were green, humanoid figures turned to him as soon as he let out a groan of confusion.  His ears rang wildly, but was barely able to make out the babbles that were exchanged between the two.  After one of them threw his arms into the air, a strange, auto-doc arm came down, unveiling its series of surgical tools.

A sharp needle risen from the cluster of scientific instruments.

“Wh-!”

Before the Lone Wanderer could speak, the needle swiftly jabbed into his neck, causing his elevated head to thump into the cold operation table.  His eyes and mouth clamped themselves shut as the robotic arm retracted it’s needle and brought saws and scalpels out, to which the figures conversed normally.