Chapter Text
War. War never changes.
When atomic fire consumed the earth, those who survived did so in great, underground vaults. When they opened, their inhabitants set out across ruins of the old world to build new societies, establish new villages, forming tribes.
As decades passed, what had been the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic, dedicated to old-world values of democracy and the rule of law. As the Republic grew, so did its needs. Scouts spread east, seeking territory and wealth, in the dry and merciless expanse of the Mojave Desert. They returned with tales of a city untouched by the warheads that had scorched the rest of the world, and a great wall spanning the Colorado River.
The NCR mobilized its army and set it east to occupy the Hoover Dam, and restore it to working condition. But across the Colorado, another society had arisen under a different flag. A vast army of slaves, forged in the conquest of 86 tribes: Ceaser's Legion.
Four years have passed since the Republic held the Dam - just barely - against the Legion's onslaught. The Legion did not retreat. Across the river, they gathered strength. Campfires burned, training drums beat.
Through it all, the New Vegas Strip has stayed open for business under the control of its mysterious overseer, Mr. House, and his army of rehabilitated Tribals and police robots.
"You are a courier, hired by the Mojave Express, to deliver a package to the New Vegas Strip. What seemed like a simple delivery job has taken a turn… for the worse.*
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"You got what you were after, so pay up."
"You're crying in the rain, pally."
The voices barely come in through the sharp ringing in her ears. The first attempt to open her eyes is just blinding and she tries to lift a hand to cover her face only to pull her other arm with it. She tries again and this time her eyes are able to focus on gloved hands tied tight with twine. The restraints aren't particularly strong but they are plenty efficient. It's dark out now, stars are glittering across the dark bruise blue of the sky and the full moon is dazzling. She had been out on delivery, walking the I-15 toward Sloan. The sky was burning orange and ruddy red casting the Mojave into sharp shadows, distant shots echoed from the direction of the river. Now she had no idea where she was, dust blanketed her face and blood sat heavy on her tongue.
"Guess who's waking up over here?" The closeness of the voice was startling. She whipped her head around blinking furiously to get the picture back in focus. A young man was looking at her nervously, the bright arch of his mohawk almost orange in the spotlights. He's jittery with a shovel in his hands and looks to another man in matching black for guidance but what really catches her attention is the suit of what looks like the ringleader. Even in the dark the black and white checkers are striking. He takes a drag then drops his cigarette, grinding it out under his heel.
"Time to cash out."
"Would you get it over with" The other man in black, Khan armor she finally recognizes through the fuzz in her head, hisses at checkered suit. He's nervous, maybe more than her since she is still just trying to grasp the situation, and though his moustache covers his mouth she can hear him frowning.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink," Checkered suit pauses and turns to raise a brow at the complainer, "Dig?" In the awkward silence she struggles at her bonds again and manages to pull herself into a somewhat sitting position, panting when the sharp throbbing in her head returns beneath her temples. Her long auburn hair is half loose and hanging in her face when she looks with wild eyes back up to the men around her. The suit has turned back to face her and pulls a large poker chip from his jacket. It's polished to a gleam and catches the moonlight, flashing it down at her. His face remains all business even when recognition sparks across her face.
"You've made your last delivery, kid." The Khan with the moustache tosses his hands in the air. The other, the young kid with the fan of hair, starts bouncing on his heels and tightens his grip on the shovel. He slides the platinum poker chip back into his suit jacket, hand lingering as he takes hold of something else. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."
When the little silver pistol comes out of the checkered suit she knows. This is it, this is where everything stops. She's delivered guns, letters with sensitive information, but here sitting in a hole in the ground she is going to be killed over a poker chip. A fucking poker chip that some big shot on the strip had ordered special. The fear in her gut was expected but not the anger, anger that made her hiss and cry with it's heat. She watches the young Khan bouncing on his feet and glares with crazed green eyes when he starts to smile.
"From where you're kneeling it must seem like an eighteen carat run of bad luck." The suit tilts his head and shrugs a little, "Truth is...the game was rigged from the start."
"I'll get you-" She spits out just as he pulls the trigger and two shots ring out into the night. The young Khan nearly jumps out of his skin when her neck snaps back with the force of the hits, blood streaking out over the pile of dirt by her makeshift grave. At his side Benny just chuckles while lighting another cigarette.
"I'd love to see you try, doll."
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