[center][color=tan][h3]Courier 6[/h3][/color]
[b]Level 3[/b] - (7/30) EXP
[b]Location:[/b] Scrapyard - Start
[b]Word Count:[/b] 675[/center]


Everything about Michael rubbed 6 the wrong way, from his use of a reckless weapon endangering allies to the delusions that winners couldn’t fuck up in the process. Not to mention his indignant tone when talking to the Courier, the sort of smarmy “I know better than you” attitude that ultimately led to 6 killing Robert House to liberate New Vegas. He had half a mind to shoot Michael in the back then and there and remove the problem from the future, but then something off in the distance caught his eye.

[url=http://cdn.shopify.com/s/files/1/0558/2081/files/Winters_Predator_FINAL_SM_1024x1024.jpg?v=1514933691]A figure[/url] stood alone among the scrap wreckage, surrounded by the floating spirits of rabbid and robot alike. A muscular bipedal humanoid figure in armor, with a helmet completely obscuring its face. It seemed to be staring the Courier directly in the eye from a distance of about 200 meters away. Upon closer inspection, that piece of metal it was standing on… Looked a lot newer than the rest of the scrapyard by comparison. Nobody else happened to be looking in that direction at the time, so the Courier spoke up.

[color=tan]”What do you reckon his deal is?”[/color] 6 asked, gesturing to the lone figure. Just then, with a rippling  of air distortion, the person vanished completely from sight as the spirits also timed out, leaving no trace as to his presence. The Courier never looked away, but just as any of his companions ceased paying attention to the area, the large hunk of metal began to rise up, then take off through the air. [i][color=tan]A spaceship![/color][/i] He thought intensely. Damn aliens! How many times were they going to plague the Courier in his lifetime?!

[color=tan]”Damn, it’s gone,”[/color] he muttered. That’s when the Courier turned back to Michael, though his intense anger had severely deflated from the strange encounter. [color=tan]”We would’ve won with allies if you hadn’t fucked up. An army stands a better chance than a ragtag posse for this sort of mission, mole rat breath. And unless your world somehow doesn’t have the concept of [i]air sheer[/i] your .50 cal anti-material rifle poses way more fucking risk than the benefits it gives when you’re shooting at people engaged in battle. If you want to wreck an oncoming army then that’s one thing, but it’s a god damn miracle you didn’t kill Kirby, or any of the rest of us, with those risky shots. I’d reconsider how you use it in the future, or you’ll find out why I’m sometimes called the Ghost of the Mojave.”[/color]

The Courier holstered his magnum, as well as strapped the pickaxe to his back, then turned away from Michael. He took two steps before stopping to give him one last piece of advice, back to the sniper’s face. [color=tan]”And if you try to take me out first, just a warning. Bullets don’t work.”[/color] Yeah, that was suitably badass enough. Hell yeah! He kept up his walk, a large giddy smile spreading across his face. That definitely had to sound cool! Not too fast, don’t skip, can’t let him know that you’re happy. Ok, ok, breathe, calm down, yeeeeah. Let him stew on that for a bit.

The Courier came face to face with the Master of Masters, or as he only knew the guy, “black hooded weirdo,” seeing as he was not present for the Master’s introduction or explanation of various uses for the spirits. With a shrug and a noncommitted gesture, the Courier turned to catch up with King Bowser and the rest, while attempting to strike up a conversation. [color=tan]”So, you’re an odd one. Kirby didn’t save you like he saved the rest of us, unless something happened I wasn’t aware of at your little camp site. What’s your story, and why aren’t you all crazed as a cazadore like everyone else we’ve seen so far?”[/color]