Mojave Express Courier Service

[mohave-express]

Fallout Secret Santa

I never wanted this.

I was born on a farm in California. My mom left when I was young, so it was just my dad and I. The farm was a lot of work, but we got by alright. We had a radio, and we had each other, and that was enough. When I was 15, a group of cattle rustlers stole all our brahmin, and burned our farm to ash. They killed my father right in front of me. When I woke in the ruins of the farmhouse the next day, my face stained with tears, and dust, my entire life burned to nothing around me, all I knew was that I had to find the men who had done this.

From then on I traveled the wasteland, tracking high and low for the yellow bellied scum who had ruined my life. I got very good at killing. I've outdrawn men on both sides of the law all the way from New Reno, to the Hub, to the LA Boneyard. Turns out that talent is something people will pay good money for. My work made it so I’d never want again, and I had the opportunity to settle down time and time again. But through it all, I stayed true to the flame that burned bright in my belly. I would avenge my father.

I tracked the bandits all the way into the Mojave Desert, to the city of New Vegas, the shining beacon of the old world. And now, after seven years of hunting and fighting my way through the most unforgiving place on Earth, I’d finally made it. The leader of the outlaw gang was kneeled in front of me. My life’s goal, sitting on a silver platter. And I couldn't do it.

I realized my father never would've wanted this. He always hated the violence that infested the wasteland, and he always told me that those who killed were worse than any mutated freak of nature that the old world could cook up in it’s atomic lab. But revenge has a way of getting to you, clouding your judgement so that everything seems like the right and honorable thing through the haze of hate. That fire in my gut, that intense desire to find revenge on the men who had ruined my life had been the motivation that carried me through every gunfight, every hungry, sleepless night, every step on the road that led here, to this room, this moment with a pitiful man bowing his head below the barrel of my snub nose revolver. I was about to extinguish the flame in my gut that I'd tended through my entire adult life and had, without me realizing it, burned away everything that I’d been when my father and my farm had been taken from me. This quest of false honor had eaten me alive.

I knew it was useless to hate myself.

“What’s done is done,” I thought, “Better to finish the job and move on. There’s nowhere to go but up.”

But those awful, horribly moral feelings seeped in. I knew I had been wrong. I knew this would be wrong. I knew that if I pulled the trigger now, I would have to live the rest of my life knowing that the man I thought I was honoring would hate the things I had done. He’d think me a monster. I’d think me a monster. And I didn't want that.

But I also knew that the things I had done were already terrible enough. Already today I had shot five people dead. Five people who had it coming, I’m sure, but five different people. What was one more on the pile?

So I stopped thinking, gave my fire one last stoke, and did it. I shot him. There was no going back now. But at the same time, it was far too late to go back anyway. He slumped over like any other victim, hitting the concrete ground with a rough thump. I holstered my gun. 

I never wanted this.

I only wish I'd realized it sooner.

Merry New Year! Sorry this was late, but I've had a busy few weeks. Couldn't get to my computer to type. Sorry! Hope you liked this. It was pretty heavy, which is not something I'd intended. I dunno. Well, anyway, hope your holidays went well, and I hope 2015 is awesome!

Thanks for reading!

~Peter "Peat" Moss

(Also, please credit me on this if you share it anywhere else. Thanks!)