Fair Warning, mentions of Rape and graphic descriptions of violence.

I own nothing.

A man was running at full tilt through a vast expanse of desert, stumbling over unseen rocks as a vicious sandstorm raged around him. He turns, drawing a peculiar revolver and fires behind him, still back peddling all the while. The shots are hard to make out over the loud growls and pure animal exclamations of feral hunger, not even mentioning the whipping wind.

The man's unseen assailants make their presence known not necessarily through physical injury to the man, instead their dogged persistence causes insidious exhaustion, making the man stumble and slow.

Three more shots, more yelps of pain. Arcing lightning in the sandstorm illuminating the darkness of night, showing more of the man than just the glowing red eyes he sports on a heavily armored gas mask. High quality Riot gear sits under a duster, two rifles framing the design of a black spade with the gold numbers 21 inside. The flapping of the wind reveals more weaponry hidden on the man, a sawed off shotgun and two shoulder holstered pistols.

A slash from the sandy darkness opens the man's gasmask with a puff of filtered air as he tumbles to the ground. He quickly spins around, gripping the shotgun at his hip with his left hand, he draws with lightning fast speed, blasting two Big Booms at the vicious animal just about to land on top of him after a pounce, sending the black and white beast flying backwards.

He rolls to his feet, limping thanks to a twisted ankle and continues his retreat. A fluid motion reloads his shotgun, but the sand in his mask makes it hard to breathe. He coughs, but cannot remove his mask to wrap his face with something else.

He stumbles for another mile, before collapsing in the sand. He lays there, waiting for the storm to pass and hoping beyond hope that the creatures that harried him wouldn't find him. He prayed, for the first time he could remember. Not even a Burned man could get him to pray. But now that true fear gripped him like a course, wet blanket, he prayed.

He didn't pray for salvation, nor did he repent for his sins, he merely spoke an introduction, and offered thanks for his life. For he felt he deserved nothing more than what he had.

He wasn't afraid to die, he was afraid to die uselessly.

He lay still in the sand, letting it pile on top of him inch by inch, until eventually the wind calmed and the heat of the sun returned to the desert. He shook himself free of the sand, standing as the course particles fell away from him like a rock waterfall.

His guns would need cleaning.

He marched his way onto the top of a dune, trying to prevent himself from sliding down the precarious piece of landscape. After some struggle, he reached the top, gazing out across the horizon as the sun rose behind him.

Something catches his eye as he squints, before he brings out a pair of battered binoculars from a pocket inside his duster. A town, or whatever this ramshackle village could be called. What seemed to be permanent living spaces were built out of scavenged sheets of metal and rotted wood. Folks darted through the maze of alleys and gravel paths, trying to remain unseen as they went about their business.

A high scavenged wall of ruined vehicles and more sheets of metal ringed the town, one gate served as the only way in, and the only out. Both sanctuary and prison.

Activity on the wall, men and women in strange desert garb began scurrying about atop the rickety guard towers and walkways, yelling at one another as if they had seen something awful. And that awful sight was quickly made clear as a convoy of desert scuffed vehicles quickly sped towards the town, before breaking off into two groups in order to encircle the town. Words were spoken between the townsfolk and the vehicle men, but they were lost in the wind before they could reach the slowly approaching drifter.

While he was still merely a speck in the distance, the townsfolk eventually acceded to the demands of the vehicle men, opening the gate and letting a number drive inside. From the sounds of shouting and things breaking, it was unknown to the drifter whether or not it was the correct choice to let them in.

Regardless, he trudged onwards towards the town. His canteen was empty, he had exhausted his food, and he needed to repair his gear. Necessity didn't necessarily mean he would be going in unprepared however, quickly drawing his revolver and shotgun in order to make sure they were still operable. After re-holstering the two weapons, and a quick adjustment of his duster and armor, his only visible weapons were the two rifles on his back.

A long walk later, and the man was outside the loose ring of vehicles. On closer inspection, they were all of peculiar design, nothing like the bombed out husks the man had seen in his travels. They were newer, obviously designed for the terrain, and didn't show any signs of having been scavenged and repaired from the brink of destruction.

It piqued the Drifters interest.

Manned gun turrets and flamethrowers were mounted on the backs of trucks, and an intricate and artistic design of a cactus was emblazoned in faded white paint on the doors and hoods of the vehicles. It was all very disconcerting, but the Drifter was as prepared as he could be.

Eventually he was spotted, as was inevitable.

"Hey! Stop right there!" Was shouted out from one of the gunmen on the turrets, swiveling around to point menacingly at the Drifter. "What's your business here, stranger?" The gunmen continued, seemingly wary of outright robbing the well-armed and armored man.

The drifter, who's only features the man could discern was his left eye, courtesy of a gouged claw mark and a shattered lens, replied in a parched, slightly gravelly voice. "Looking to rest. Need to purchase some supplies as well." He leaned around the man's vehicle, taking a look towards the town. "I've got good caps, and I'm not picky with who I'm trading with, if you catch my meaning."

The gunner squinted at the man's strange terminology, but didn't question it. "Go right on in then, and try not to cause any trouble." The gunner said sleazily, unable to keep his intentions off of his face. It was obvious that the Drifter was walking into a trap, or at least he was walking into the middle of a group of very dangerous and desperate men. That didn't really matter to him much however, as he had been in worse situations.

While he might have left the town to their own fate in another time, he wouldn't last long in the desert without any water, so it was vital to secure regardless of the risk.

The sandy gravel paths were deserted as he slowly marched his way through the walls. Without turning to look, the Drifter knew the raiders were arguing over which piece of gear they would be getting off of him.

His guns jingled and jangled against his armor, the sound amplified by the silence around him. He was on high alert, head on a swivel. Hopefully this could go down without any fighting, but he wasn't about to make the mistake of believing in these raiders pacifism.

A minutes' walk through and he was approaching what would serve as the town square; voices carried through the surrounding area, often loud and gleefully malicious.

He rounded a corner, making sure to stay out of sight. Though what he saw made his so called 'hackles' raise. A man was watching, as a woman he obviously cared for was violated in front of him. He didn't move, didn't try to help or stop the raiders despite the fact that he was unrestrained. A crowd was just behind him, villagers all of them. This must have been a regular occurrence, as the women looked ashen and resigned, and the men did nothing but close their eyes and wait. Some even watched the vile act with grossly perverted gazes. They vastly outnumbered the raiders, yet did nothing.

The sight sent his thoughts spiraling to other atrocities burned into his mind.

"What lessons did you teach here?" The Drifter said, voice shaky as he carefully watched the surrounding, faceless legionaries and the mongrel dogs that surrounded him.

"Where to begin? That they are weak, and we are strong? This much was known already." A fox headed, soft voiced man said. "But the depths of their moral sickness, their dissolution? Nipton serves as the perfect object lesson"

"What exactly happened here?" The Drifter asked again.

"Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt. It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself – the people here didn't care. It was a town of whores. For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap. Only when I sprang it did they realise they were caught inside it, too." The fox headed man – Vulpes Inculta – finished.

"You captured everyone?" The Drifter said, still shaky.

"Yes, and herded them to the center of town. I told them their sins, the foremost being disloyalty. I told them that when Legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch. And I announced the lottery."

"Each clutched his ticket, hoping it would set him free. Each did nothing, even when 'loved ones' were dragged away to be killed." Vulpes continued.

"You slaughtered innocent civilians?" The Drifter asked, anger coating his tone.

"Hah! Innocent? Hardly. Cowardly though. They outnumbered us, yet not once did they try to resist. They stood and watched as their fellows were butchered, crucified, and burned. One by one. They stood and hoped their turn would not come. Each cared only for himself." Vulpes finished with quiet derision.

The Drifters nose curled up in disgust at the memory, the smells, sights and sounds all hitting him as if he was there in that very moment. He was taught moral calibre and controlled cruelty by Caesar and his Legion, not aspects one would ever attribute to the barbaric horde. He hated Vulpes Inculta for his actions in Nipton, but seeing the moral bankruptcy of the citizens of this town put into perspective what he must have felt when he burned the town to the ground. It was better to die fighting for your life than to let it be controlled by someone else.

But these raiders weren't here for a purpose, at least not one beyond animal satisfaction. They weren't here to send a message, or spread their ways. They weren't here because they thought they were better than anyone else. They were the exact Profligates Vulpes crucified and burned, the exact men the Drifter shot with extreme prejudice.

When the Think Tank repaired the Drifters memories, it really put into perspective the Legion itself. He was raised in Flagstaff, the capital of the Legion. And as such, enamored by the hyper glorified propaganda of the Legion's exploits. He was conscripted as a boy, not yet even ten years old, though he felt good about it. He would be serving mighty Caesar after all.

He was given training, meagre as it was. And was largely relegated to peacekeeping forces that roamed Arizona and the rest of the Legion's territory. That was his way of life for much of his life, not seeing much of any, if at all, combat thanks to the Legions internal stability. That was of course until he was forced into the role of Courier, and sent to walk the west as a spy for the Legion.

He had never seen the Legions purported cruelty first hand, dismissing most stories as falsifications of jealous and blind enemies. But Nipton opened his eyes and taught him lessons he wouldn't soon forget.

The Drifter – The Courier – might have overlooked these raiders had they had some semblance of humanity. But such was obviously not the case. More women were being extracted from the crowd, as a large man made himself known to the crowd from the balcony of the only two story building in the town. He began speaking, but the Courier wasn't listening.

The Courier pulled All American off of his back and quickly shook it, trusting the gun to fire despite the copious amount of sand falling out of it. He took seven steps down an alley and began setting up shots on the raiders. He wasn't too concerned with hitting the townsfolk, so he didn't bother being overly cautious.

Six rapid shots and the two men violating the first woman in the street fell over dead. Everyone stopped what they were doing, shock coating the crowd as well as the raiders. In that time, the Courier sighted another raider. Three more shots and the man fell over like his comrades in the street; the Courier took off into the maze of alleys and side streets in a sprint, hoping to reposition himself without being spotted.

From the sounds of it, the crowd was dispersing in a panic. Screams were filling the air and shouts of angered raiders were drowned out by the fear gripping the mob.

"Where did those shots come from?!"

"I don't know!"

"Johnny?! Where are you?"

"Mama!"

"Where are you motherfucker I'll gut you like a pig!"

Everything was drowned out as the Courier focused on watching for the Raiders. Some turned down the alley he was just firing from, wielding nasty looking blades and screaming wildly. Meanwhile, The Courier exited the alleys and ran back towards the crowd, using it as living cover since the raiders hadn't begun cutting the mod down. Yet.

In the midst of the crowd, now spread out over the entire town square as opposed to being compressed into one section of the open space, the violated woman was viciously stabbing another raider in the throat repeatedly. Viscously mangling the man's neck until his head simply fell off. Paying no mind to her almost entire indecency, she stood up with a feral look in her eye as she scanned the crowd, much like the Courier.

The Courier, having reached cover that wasn't another living being, popped out and began firing at the raiders who chased him into the alleys. Three fell immediately, the indiscriminate hailstorm of led catching the lead man in the chest, penetrating him and colliding with the woman behind him, he fell, and the trend repeated until the third raider fell and the All American went click.

A lightning fast quick draw on That Gun, sitting on his left hip,as well as some well-placed shots, downed the remaining four raiders in the alleyway. While The Couriers attention was focused on the alley, he was struck in the side with the power of a Deathclaw. Making him drop All American.

A wicked looking mace struck against his Elite Riot Armor. Sending the not inconsiderably sized Courier hurtling through the air only for him to collide with a scrap wall in a heap. He groaned, barely forcing himself up and back into the fight. A quick glance back where he came from indicated he was being pursued by a very upset Raider, specifically the Raider who had been supposedly leading the group of rapists, seeing as he was the one who was speaking to the crowd prior to the Couriers intervention.

The Leader was not a small man by any means, but then, neither was the Courier. As the Leader charged the Courier, the Courier drew Big Boomer from his right hip, waited until the Leader was about to swing and then blasted him twice, sending the Leader careening backwards.

Satisfied that he had killed the man, the Courier searched for a stimpack amongst his many pockets. Only interrupted by the Leader getting back up, looking no worse for were, and a strange field crackling around him.

The Courier would have been surprised at the man's resilience, or his supposed supernatural powers. But he had faced down Legate Lanius and won, and no one compared to the Monster of the East.

Calmly reloading, The Courier fired again as he began to backpedal, one shot missing and scattering into a building behind the Leader. The other, colliding with the Leaders forehead. By all rights, the man's face should have at least been unrecognisable. However the feral look in the man's eye and the lack of even a bruise on him made the Courier a little angry.

"You've gotta' be fucking kidding me." The Courier said, muttering to himself as he turned and sprinted the opposite direction. Narrowly avoiding the swinging mace. "Fucking radiation, one time you give someone supernatural bullshit and you give it to some asshole with a club. Real nice."

He wasn't about to go hand to hand against a man who could take a shotgun blast to the face, and while the Leader was obviously no Legate Lanius, he seemed to have the same resilience.

A quick glance behind him showed the Leader in hot pursuit, seemingly gaining on the Courier. Until, the feral and naked woman from the street, comically collided with the Leader, bringing down the much larger man to the dirt. She began hacking away at him, using her rusted knife to try and break through that strange force field around the Raider.

The Courier, having now identified the biggest threat, holstered the Big Boomer and retrieved the Medicine Stick from the other holster on his back. He took careful aim while the woman hacked away, kneeling for better stability until finally, the Leader seemed to have had enough and bodily threw the woman away and off of him.

A mistake, one the Leader would quite literally not get up from. The Courier fired the full eight shots of the Medicine Stick, each bullet colliding with the man's right knee, the sixth shot finally penetrating whatever barrier the raider had, blowing apart the knee. The last two shots were sent into the left knee the second blood could be seen in the right.

Everything seemed to stop at that moment. As the lead Raider wailed in pain in the dirt, everyone seemed to turn to look at the Courier. The remaining Raiders dropping their weapons in fear of the man who had taken down their boss.

Not questioning his good fortune, the Courier quickly bound the lead Raiders arms together, and after that, cautiously made his way to the other remaining six Raiders, doing the same to them. He wasn't about to kill these people after they had surrendered, but he wasn't going to make the mistake in letting them go.

The townsfolk watched in cautious awe, surprised to see that the town wasn't burned down or destroyed by the vehicles outside the walls. A young man, no older than fourteen, clutched All American in his dirty hands, cautiously approaching the Courier before holding out the weapon to him.

The Courier, glanced down at the boy and accepted his rifle with an appreciative nod. He reloaded his weaponry, and holstered each gun. Before finally turning his full attention to the townsfolk.

The woman from the street, still have naked, was barely restraining herself from attacking the Raiders, instead waiting like the rest of the townsfolk to see what the Courier would do.

He looked at her, then down at the still moaning lead Raider, and backed away slowly. Effectively giving his permission for her to do what she wished. She leapt on the man, repeatedly stabbing him as the town watched. It took the Raider two minutes to die.

Cautiously, the Courier moved the remaining six Raiders to the center of the town square. The crowd parted for him, many looking a mix between ashamed and angry. They weren't angry at the Courier, however. Instead upset with themselves.

"Who leads this town?" The Courier spoke, and while he didn't raise his voice, everyone heard him.

The crowd looked to the man the Courier had first seen. The man who stood by while a woman was raped. A man who had enough people to easily overwhelm the Raiders. A coward.

The Courier didn't show any emotion, an effort only helped by his gasmask. But inside he was cooking up a righteous fury. Vulpes Inculta's words echoed in his mind once again, the soft voiced bastard whispering in his ear that this kind of moral degeneracy and cowardice should be punished.

"Name." Was all the Courier said.

"Ray Richter." The man said, his voice thin and reedy. He seemed to quake in his one size too small boots as he stood in front of the Courier.

The Courier, pointedly turned his head to the woman still hysterically mangling the corpse of the Leader, before turning his gaze back on Richter. "You let this happen, this is as much your fault as it is these degenerates." The Courier said, kicking one of the Raiders unapologetically.

Richter opened his mouth to reply, to try and defend himself. But no words came out, no matter how hard he tried he couldn't form the right words to make this seem better than it was.

"How long has this been happening?" The Courier asked, his voice deadly quiet.

"W-we were forced! They-" Richter tried to get out.

"How long, have you been letting this happen?" The Courier interrupted calmly. The surrounding townsfolk were backing away now, shooting steadily angrier glares at Richter.

"T-t-two years. T-they came once a month." Richter said, in a tiny voice. He looked down at the ground like a scolded child, only to meet the eyes of a dead body.

The faces of the crowd showed the Courier that Richter was telling the truth. Each one of them looking ashamed and frustrated.

"Why didn't you fight back?" The Courier asked, trying to salvage some kind of respect for the townsfolk.

"We are a peaceful town! Cassandra was supposed to protect us!" Richter finally worked up enough backbone to return the anger the Courier was feeling, as he gestured to the woman just now getting up and off of the body of the lead Raider, bloodied and looking devastated.

She looked to be in shock, not surprisingly. Halfway between sobbing uncontrollably and screaming angrily.

"And why couldn't you protect yourselves?" The Courier asked, hand drifting unconsciously towards That Gun on his hip.

"As I said! We are a peaceful town! We didn't come out here to fight. And I refuse to participate in fighting! I'm a pacifist! I-" Richter was cut off by a gunshot that sent him tumbling to the ground, wailing in pain not unlike the Raider that had tormented the town so much. The crowd jumped, clutching each other in fear of the new man, though some were more than in agreement with him.

"And look where that got you. Your so called protector violated while you watched and did nothing." He paused, realising he was pacing back and forth. He glanced over the crowd, not paying the blubbering Richter any mind until his eyes landed on a particularly large man looking disapprovingly at the injured pacifist.

"You, go get something that can help this woman cover up." The Courier said, gesturing to the large man and then to the woman.

The man nodded, and briskly walked into a nearby building. Returning with a blanket, which he gingerly wrapped around the shoulders of the woman.

Turning his attention back to the captured Raiders, each now scared out of their minds, looking for a way to escape. He glanced back towards the crowd, before speaking again. "Who have these Raiders wronged?" A few hands slowly raised in the crowd, at least one for each Raider.

The Courier gestured for them to come forward, drawing Chances Knife from its place on his shoulder. "You are each going to take this knife and determine for me what happens with these Raiders. Whether they live or die is up to you. They have done me no personal harm, so I can't pass judgment for you." He finished, flipping the knife so that he was holding the blade, allowing one of the townsfolk to take the hilt.

No one moved for almost a minute. The Raiders squirmed in anticipation and the townsfolk looked at one another, wondering who would go first. Finally, the fourteen year old who had given the Courier All American stepped forward and grabbed the knife. Walking right up to the largest Raider in the group, who smiled cruelly down at him.

"You aint' gonna' do nothin' with that kid, so let's just save everyone some time and you can cut me lose." He said, his teeth a rotten mess that made everyone curl their nose.

"You hurt my mom." The kid said simply, before driving the knife through the man's heart in a forceful jab. The dying Raider just looked shocked, before he fell over.

The Courier retrieved the now bloodied knife and repeated the process with four others, until at last, there was only one Raider left. Five others had been killed, none set free. The last person to take the knife was a poor looking woman, though she held her head up high as she gazed down at the Raider.

The Raider, for her part, began blubbering apologies to the woman, not that they seemed to be heard.

The poor woman took the knife and in one swift motion cut the ropes binding the Raider. "Do better Sister, Mama wouldn't have wanted this for us."

Obviously full of emotion, the Raider fled without a word. While the Courier was critical of the woman's mercy, he didn't say anything as the last remaining Raider left to hopefully change their life. He retrieved his knife and wiped off the copious amount of blood with a dirty rag, before sheathing it back on his shoulder.

Silence reigned over the town, until finally someone asked the question on everyone's mind.

"What now?"

Everyone looked to the Courier, who was wondering the same thing. He was no stranger to helping out towns, but he intended to move on quickly. Thankfully, or perhaps, unfortunately, he never had to answer the question.

A flying machine made its presence known as it crested the dunes in the distance, loudly denying gravity its due. It sped towards the town, whipping up the wind and with it the dust and dirt. A door opened in its side, much like a Vertibird, and it produced a pair of well-armed folks. One man, and one woman. They both pointed weapons at the Courier, though he couldn't discern what kind of weapons they were.

He didn't raise his hands.

He watched as their eyes widened at the sight of the dead bodies and bloodied villagers. Saw as their gaze flitted over to the openly sobbing woman, being comforted by the large man who brought her a blanket.

One of the pair, the woman, screeched out "Cass!" Before disregarding the Courier and sprinting over to her friend.

The name made the Couriers heart twinge.

The remaining man looked distraught at his friends, but kept his weapon trained on the Courier. "You! What happened here?!" He barked out.

The Courier, looked down at the dead bodies, absently nudging one's arm with his cowboy boot as he spoke. "Raiders. Caught em' having their way with your friend, so I stepped in." The Courier paused, glancing towards the townsfolk. "Had them pass judgment on the few who surrendered."

The other man's face was a mix of anger and confusion. However, before he could ask anything else, great a black and white maw emerged from the ground beneath the flying machine, swallowing it whole all the while spewing forth similar black and white beasts.

Familiar screams filled the air, seeming to only insight the beasts to fight harder. The Courier of course, leapt into action. Running in the opposite direction as the sudden threat. Once he was confident he was clear of any immediate threat, he turned and began unloading his weapons on the veritable horde currently massacring the town.

Despite his efforts, he hardly put a dent in the number of beasts. He watched as each person he just saved was mangled and chewed and slashed beyond recognition. The folks from the flying machine were the first to go, surprised and unable to react in time before they were swarmed.

The woman, Cassandra, merely looked on, defeated. All fight having left her. The Courier didn't see what happened to her.

Richter fell into the maw.

The kid who gave him back his rifle was impaled on a tusk, still stuck on it as the beast rampaged throughout the town.

The town began to look more and more like Nipton. Men and women impaled on debris, fires raged from broken lanterns and at the middle of it all, the damnable beasts responsible for it.

So the Courier ran. He didn't look back. He ducked and dived snapping jaws and slashing claws in an eerily familiar set of actions. He made it into the desert once again, the vehicles ringing the town having been destroyed, presumably by the beasts currently chasing the Courier.

He ran at full tilt through a vast expanse of desert, stumbling over unseen rocks, cursing the lack of cover a sandstorm could have provided for him.

He spun in a familiar motion, drawing his peculiar revolver and fired, still back peddling all the while. The shots rang out across the expanse, hardly drowned out by the swarm of easily seen beasts chasing him. Their dogged persistence making their presence known not through exhaustion, but physical injury. A slash drags itself across his armor, gouging it.

Three more shots and his assailant falls dead. Only for more to take its place. Another slash cuts through the black spade and gold 21, making the Courier fall to the ground, too slow to grip his sawed off shotgun as he was pounced on by a wolf beast.

Before it could bite him, he pulled Chances Knife out of its sheath and stabbed the beast repeatedly in the neck. Shoving it off of him and rolling to his feet. Limping, thanks to a twisted ankle. His fear makes it hard to breathe, he coughs, before he is finally swarmed by the beasts and everything goes black.

Alright everyone, It's me again.

So this is just a little something I've been cooking up, and there is no guarantee it will go any further than this.

Really, this is a way for me to address some complaints I've got with both Fallout and RWBY. Should this go any further, it will be brutal. The world of Remnant to me should have been brutal, so, seeing as this is going to be a crossover with Fallout, now is the best time to portray what I think the world should look like if we go off its tagline. A world of bloody evolution.

Review if you'd like this to go further, as reviews are surprisingly motivating.

And if anyone cares, my other two stories aren't abandoned, just need to get back in the headspace to write them.