November 29th, 2281, 1:09 PM 5 Years Before The Fall
Today was the day General Oliver made history.
He had read through the great history books of the old world, of the great generals who, through nothing more than sheer brilliance, curb stomped their opponent while in a desperate bid for survival. It was his hero, Eisenhower, who helped organize the great invasion of Normandy - D-Day. This would begin the destruction of the Germans.
But Oliver wasn't protecting the status quo of republicanism. No, no no. He was doing something much more important than that - he was establishing it. God, he could see his name in the books now - General Lee Oliver, bringer of Democracy, Freedom, and Hope to the Mojave Wasteland. Maybe something snappier. Either way, he'd be there forever. Maybe even longer than his heroes.
Of course, he couldn't take all the credit - no, far from it.
The Courier had to take some of the credit. He had loyally served the Republic, gaining the trust of almost every single faction in the Mojave. Helping troopers retake the NCR correctional facility, stopping further violence in Freeside from the Kings, setting up an alliance between the Brotherhood of Steel and the NCR, massacring the Khans, stopping the Omertas from creating an alliance with the Legion - so many things that he had willingly done, risking life and limb just to serve the People of the Republic. He was, how one man said, a man possessed. Shit, there were even talks of giving him the Golden Branch after this was all done. And a few - just a few, possibly jokingly - suggested he run for Governor of the Strip when this was done.
But that would be later. Now. Now was all that mattered.
He walked across the Dam, surrounded by NCR Rangers - men and women of the Republic who'd gladly die for him - towards the Legion's stronghold. The Courier was already over there, taking out any dangers. The bodies of troopers and Brotherhood Paladins littered the pathway.
Everything seemed to be going right.
And yet, there was something wrong going on here.
Occasionally, out of the corner of his eyes, Oliver could see those things.
Securitrons.
Sometimes alone, sometimes in bunches. Sometimes destroyed, sometimes fully intact. But they were there. There and visible.
And they all seemed to trail The Courier, wherever he went.
No matter, Oliver thought. He probably reprogrammed them to follow his lead - those little bastards could take a helluva punch, and with their improved fire-power, they could take out Legionaries by the dozen.
Oliver stopped, placing his boots squarely in front of the legionary gates. He nodded towards his fellow Rangers, and stepped back as they placed the C4 charges around. Of course, part of him realized that such an action was probably unwarranted, but, come on, he wanted to make a good entrance, didn't he?
It took less than thirty seconds for the charges to be placed and set off, the explosion creating a small ringing in his ears. But that was okay, Oliver thought. It would all be over soon.
By the time the smoke and schrapel disappeared, the only thing Oliver could see was The Courier, his Riot Gear helmet being covered in scarring and damage from centuries of abuse, and yet always keeping itself together. He knew what he actually looked like beneath that mask - blue eyes, brown hair, and a smooth voice that made all the ladies swoon, a fact that Oliver was slightly uncomfortable about.
He had just cocked his hunting shotgun, the shell hitting the ground, a light steam evaporating. Dozens of legionary corpses littered the ground, and behind The Courier lay the Monster of the East himself, his helmet shattered into a thousand tiny pieces.
Fucker got what was coming to him.
"Caesar on the cross," he said, a big dumb smile etched across his face, "been a long time since I've seen the kind of work you've laid down today."
He walked closer to The Courier, his Rangers moving inside, encircling both him and The Courier.
"A damn long time."
Oliver could imagine it now - the books written about him, his tactics and brilliant strategies being the mainstay of any and all NCR military training courses, his name on coinage. Shit, maybe he'd even get a couple folk songs written about him - Ol' General Lee , Ol' General Lee, He Who Castrated The Bull! It was just out of his reach, but there. It would take many years, maybe long after he was dead, but he'd be there. In the books. A big goddamn hero. What was it his mother always told him? Son, yuh gonnuh become a big ol' hero! Biggur than yur ol' man!
That's what she'd always say to him, anyway. When she wasn't drunk or belligerent, at any rate. Thank God he lost the brahmin accent when he got this job. The last thing he needed was people poking him behind his back. If it wasn't against the law, he'd have those bastards hung and quartered.
"And the screams of those Legion bastards as they kicked dirt running East," he continued, trying to shake the (admittedly entertaining) thought of extra-judicial bully hunting, "like a choir of angels to my ears. Could use a hundred of you, just scatter you over the East like jacks, give those plumed fucks the what-for."
Oliver tried to stifle a laugh at that. The thought of a personal army of Couriers was something he couldn't pass up. He'd probably ask some of the egg-heads in the Boneyard to try something like that. Jokingly, of course.
The Courier also let out a laugh, his voice much deeper, more leathery than Oliver's own. But there was something darker there. Like there was something that Oliver didn't know. The laugh of someone that has already put you in check before you even made your first move.
"Think that's great?" he began, taking off his helmet, revealing his short but scruffy brown hair. "You won't believe what happens next."
Oliver felt something within himself drop. Drop like a chain ball around his ankle in the middle of Lake Mead. Something within him was screaming, screaming for him to get out of there, or attack or, fuck, do something.
And yet, he did nothing as the Securitrons appeared from behind The Courier.
And behind him, he heard the small squeaking of wheels turning.
"Uh, well," he began, feeling slightly off his balance, but maintaining a good facade nonetheless - he was used to dealing with the petty threats of politicians and traders and brahmin barons and everything and anything in between - but something about this just felt different. Felt wrong. "These, uh, these boys with you?"
From behind him, the sound of dozens of tires on dirt and the vrrring of powered up energy weapons could be heard, his Ranger's heads quickly turning, guns raised before realizing they were surrounded - The Courier in front, dozens of Securitrons in the back. Which one was more dangerous, they didn't know.
In the middle of this, Oliver felt something. Something he hadn't felt in over five years.
Fear.
Well, maybe that wasn't exactly right. That was a fear of loss. Fear of death. Fear that he was going to be lashed and crucified and enslaved and everything awful in-between for losing from the Legion storming the Dam. But now, this fear wasn't primal. It wasn't even based on fear of death, although Oliver certainly felt that.
It was the death of a legacy.
The death of a dream.
"Guess it ain't no secret how you, uh," he began, trying to think of a way around this situation - he knew he had dozens of the NCR First Recon around the ridges of this place in case The Courier couldn't defeat Lanius, either as suppressing fire for the Courier or to eliminate what few Legionaries remained. In the rear, past him, there were at least a couple hundred standard NCR troopers, two dozen heavy troopers, another dozen Rangers, and even past that the whole might of the Mojave NCR Army. And yet, despite that all, he didn't feel confident about his chances here. "Can you ask them to put their weapons down? I was just reaching in my coat to give you a cigar."
He tried to laugh, but it was dry and humorless.
The Courier laughed, a smirk developing on his face.
Oliver felt an anger develop from within him.
"General Oliver," The Courier began, taking a step forward as he placed both his hands behind his back, trying to look sophisticated and yet coming across as even more smug than Kimbal on his worst day. "I suggest you leave before my, well, 'boys' make you."
You. You motherfucking
"I would sooner spit on the grave of my dead mother than let some courier-walk-the-wasteland-fuck talk to me like that. Who the hell do you think you are? Looking to cash your chips to the sound of bullets, eh? I can do that - I can fucking do that."
"You sure that'd be wise, Oly?"
Oly.
Oliver bit his tongue, trying to keep his anger under control. If he had his way, he'd hang and quarter - no, no, fuck that, he'd be publicly castrated in the streets of Vegas, and then raped to death by the love child of deathclaws, cazadores, nightstalkers and the Master until his body was unrecognizable as human. Then he'd take a drill and skull fuck the corpse, over and over again.
"You think this is funny? You think it's funny to piss over all our work, all our sacrifices, all our blood and sweat and tears into defending this land and water and electricity? To piss on all the deaths of our men and women, of our civilians and armed soldiers, of our workers and managers, from the bottom to the top, all for some fucking ego trip? "
"Yes, actually, Oly."
"If that's the case, Courier, you better hope you brought enough ammo -"
"If I wanted you all dead, I would have done it already."
"Then what the fuck do you want?"
"I want you, Oly, to remove your troops from my territory. Unless, you know, you'd rather fight both me and the Legion. But you wouldn't do that, now would you, Mr. Oliver?"
"What makes you think that, you two-bit fucking Courier?"
"Cause you're General Wait-and-See, right?"
Seven words.
Seven words were all that it took.
Seven words were all that it took for The Courier's plans for an empire dashed.
Seven words were all that it took for the damnation of an entire region.
Seven words were all that it took to change the great flow of time, the outcome of which would destroy any chance of human civilization rebuilding itself in the Mojave.
Seven words were all that it took before Oliver took his .44 out and to blow a large hole in The Courier's right cheek.
The Unofficial Third Battle of Hoover Dam (or, as future historians would call it, The Vegas War) began less than an hour after the Second, resulting in the deaths of over two thousand NCR soldiers at the Dam.
The exact details of the Battle are unknown, but what is known - at least among those thousand people collectively across the Mojave - is that The Courier lost. Whether it be to incompetence, the overwhelming numbers of he NCR, miscommunication on the part of Yes Man, or just bad luck, The Courier (saved only by a timely stimpack) was unable to hold the line against the NCR troops.
By the end of the first phase of the battle, over three thousand deaths had occurred over the Mojave - mostly on the part of the NCR, with Vegas Loyalists making up a small percentage of the deaths.
The Courier retreated, with most of his Securitron force at the Fort destroyed. To where, no one could tell - except for maybe Yes Man.
Yes Man was surprised at the outcome of the Battle. Something within - probably the statistical matrix, or something else along those lines - told him it should have been a sheer fire path to victory.
Was there something wrong about him?
Something defective?
Or maybe his matrix didn't take something into account - like a faction, or new weaponry, or something or other. Maybe he didn't adequately upgrade and modify the combat parameters of the Securitrons or something. He'd have to check it later, when he and The Courier made it out of the Battle Alive.
They were running along the edge of The Fort - it was abandoned now, for the most part, except from the occasional slave or Legion Mongrel nuzzling up to the body of a dead Legionary. They needed to leave the place now, or else they'd have the full front of the NCR on their ass.
Where could they go?
"Hey! Where we going?"
The Courier couldn't respond, as he was too busy running - running somewhere, far, far away from the Dam.
But Yes Man knew they were running North. Far north.
"Hey! We going to Nellis? I always wanted to visi-"
"Shut up, I'm fucking thinking!"
Yes Man felt a little hurt at that - something he would never have admitted to The Courier, but something he felt nonetheless - but remained quiet.
The Courier stopped running, nearly running off the cliff into Lake Mead.
"Shit!"
He turned around, off into the distance, hoping to have lost those NCR bastards - God, The Courier thought, how could he have fucking lost? He did everything he could have, right? Fuck, fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK!
"Yes Man?"
"Yes?!"
"What's the likelihood of us surviving a jump down there?" The Courier asked, taking out his hunting shotgun again, loading it with the few bullets he had left. He wasted a good five hundred shells down there, at minimum.
"Hmm," Yes Man began, moving closer to the cliff and down into the lake. It was a good hundred foot fall - probably farther, if his depth perceptors were in any way damaged. His internal matrixes crunched various mathematical formulas, turning the various modules within him on and off, to arrive to a very logical conclusion.
"Not much!"
Yes Man didn't need to look at The Courier's face to know that he was panicking. Yes Man didn't like seeing him panicky, so he did something strange. Something that he knew neither Benny or The Courier programmed in him.
Self sacrifice.
"But! If you use my body as a cushion, it would make your survival much more likely, while my chances are non-existent!"
"Really!?"
"Yes!"
"No bad side?!"
"None at all!"
"Okay, okay -wait, where should we reconvenue?"
"Wherever you want! Although, I'd suggest Nellis - the Boomers Artillery will protect you!"
"Okay, okay," began The Courier, as he edged himself closer to the cliff, looking down onto the water. "So, I'll get on your back, and we'll just jump."
"Yes sir!"
The Courier stepped back, letting Yes Man get in front of him. The Courier got closer, grabbing hold of Yes Man's shoulders, but something stopped him from fully pulling himself onto the back of Yes Man.
The gun shots.
Or, the lack thereof.
No gunshots. No gunshots means no enemies.
"Y-Yes man?"
"Yes?"
"How many Securitrons are active near the Dam?"
"Um, well, define 'active'-"
"TELL ME!"
"Zero!"
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck FUCK FUCK!
The Courier pulled himself on the back of Yes Man, gripping as hard as possible onto the body and chassis and everything else of the Securitron.
"Ready?"
"YES YES JUST GO-"
Yes Man didn't need much more of an incentive before going forward off the cliff, moving so fast it 'felt' (if it could even be call that) like his wheels were on fire.
Yes Man began angling himself, allowing himself to fall face first into the water, smashing and cracking the metal and glass and everything else. Water seeped inside the circuitry, destroying what little remained of Yes Man's personality in the Securitron.
The world went dark for a bit. If Yes Man had to theorize what this darkness was, it was probably death. A death he would be in for, sooner or later.
Of course, there was something that Yes Man didn't tell The Courier. While yes, theoretically, Yes Man could just plop himself into the body of another Securitron (in fact, that's what he did, with the closest functioning one that wasn't in a fire fight), there was a tiny problem regarding that.
Assuming that the NCR would allow Securitrons to exist anymore would have been stupid - so stupid he was surprised that The Courier didn't question his assertion that nothing would go wrong. There was no guarantee that he would make it to Nellis Air Force Base.
Something within Yes Man told him that this was wrong to do. That it was wrong to lie to his master. But, something else within him felt satisfied. His master was (presumably) safe, and besides, as long as he stayed in the Lucky 38, he'd be fine. They wouldn't dare go inside, now what they?
For now, he would hold down the fort in Vegas while sending whatever securitrons were left to Nellis.
Now, looking over-
Oh.
Oh no.
That's not very good.
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 8:00 AM
ACTIVE SECURITRONS
STRIP: 1221
FORT: 2103
FREESIDE: 497
OTHER: 985
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 9:00 AM
STRIP: 1219
FORT: 1982
FREESIDE: 495
OTHER: 972
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 10:00 AM
STRIP: 1210
FORT: 1980
FREESIDE: 495
OTHER: 932
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 12:00 PM
STRIP: 1210
FORT: 1972
FREESIDE: 495
OTHER: 892
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 1:00 PM
STRIP: 1210
FORT: 1970
FREESIDE: 495
OTHER: 404
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 1:30 PM
STRIP: 1209
FORT: 1443
FREESIDE: 492
OTHER: 302
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 2:00 PM
STRIP: 1208
FORT: 931
FREESIDE: 492
OTHER: 032
SECURITRON REPORT: 11/29/2281, 2:30 PM
STRIP: 1208
FORT: 549
FREESIDE: 492
OTHER: 000
November 29th, 2281, 4:14 PM
The Courier pulled himself ashore, breathing heavily, trying his best to not pass out.
He sprawled himself out on the sandy beach. The sand clung to his armor, making him itch in all the wrong places.
Something within The Courier made him want to curl up into a ball. Curl up and die. Everything he worked so hard for. Gone. Gone and dead. The NCR killed his hopes and dreams.
He sighed, thinking about Boone. What was it that Boone said? The world has a way of making you pay? Something stupid like that.
Maybe this was the world's way of making him pay. Yeah, he did some bad things here and there. But it was like Benny was said - this game was bigger than anyone one person. So what, he had to step on a couple toes. Step over a couple bodies. In the end, Vegas was more important than morality or rights or wrongs.
The Courier groaned, pulling himself off the sand, pushing and popping his back out, turning his head to the tune of a satisfying crack.
He wandered northward, taking the road to Nellis.
November 29th, 2281, 4:28 PM
Oliver paced back and forth in the room, taking another long drag of his cigarette. He had already gone through two packs, and he was sure he developed a minor case of lung cancer, but that could be dealt with later.
He was nervous. He wouldn't have admitted it to a group filled with Hub Reporters, but he was.
He was waiting for the status report in the rest of the Mojave. Thankfully, his troops were able to deal with the Securitrons well enough, but this was the Dam, and they had the best of the best with them. The rest? Not so much.
He knew he shouldn't have ordered the other bases to shoot the Securitrons on sight. It was stupid. But it was in the heat of the moment. It was straight after the fight with The Courier, and he didn't think about it. Now, he was waiting for a status report, with no guarantee that it would come.
Colonel Moore was sitting at her chair, tapping her foot lightly, loading and reloading her Ranger Sequoia - the only thing she had to remind herself of the old life she so desperately craved for.
"Nervous, General?"
Normally, Oliver would have punished an inferior for speaking out of turn, but this was different. Partly the circumstances, partly the fact that Colonel Moore was a different breed than the others. There was something in her eyes, the glisten of hatred flaring up whenever some recruit pissed her off. Something inside her made Oliver uncomfortable - nay, afraid of her. Something about her loyalty to the republic made her dangerous. Unstable.
Oliver remembered the first time he met her. He had just arrived back from California in Bear Force, and he was stepping off the platform. Everyone was crowding around the courtyard. In the middle was a blindfolded man on his hands and knees, blabbering incoherent nonsense. Everyone was facing him. Or, rather, Moore, a Sequia in hand, pressed against the back head of the man.
He stepped off, asking what was going on. "We found a deserter," she said, her voice distant, cold. As if she wasn't even fully there.
"Well," Oliver said, "do you have proof?" As much a Oliver hated procedure, he knew that he couldn't just shoot some guy who didn't do anything wrong. It wasn't something a good general would do. He had to lead by example, as all good generals would.
"I found this," she said, still not fully there, throwing a crumpled up piece of paper at Oliver. Oliver caught it, uncrumpled it. It took him a moment to read it, as the handwriting was all over the place, and barely comprehensible.
"mommy I miss you I miss you so much I want to see you again Im sorri that I couldint right to you earlyer but More wouldint let me I miss you so much mommi I want to go home I want to go home so much please please let me go home please Im sorry I said I wanted to run away I miss you mommy please help me get out of hear love brandy"
"What is this?"
"An incitement of desertion to an NCR citizen," replied Moore, fingering the hammer, still not fully there. Occasionally, her fingers would twitch, and the rest of the men would recoil ever so slightly.
"This is an kid missing home, Moore. Nothing more."
"Under New California Law, this is an incitement to desertion to the New California Republic Armed Forces," she said, mechnically, "and under those laws, I, Colonel Moore, am allowed to execute said incitor, and deserter of the Republic."
Oliver began thinking of a response, but before he could, Moore pulled down on the hammer, and fired down on the trigger, a loud bang followed by the sound of ripping flesh, and a body lightly thumping against the ground.
The rest of the soldiers recoiled. Some shivered and shook. Others remained still.
Moore pocketed the Sequoia, and looked at the men.
"As you were, soldiers."
Oliver tried his best to remain on Moore's side ever since then.
"Yes, I am, Colonel. But I'm sure that our soldiers in McCarren are doing well, along with our presence on the Strip."
He lied.
"Well," Moore began, before being cut off by the sound of the ham radio buzzing.
The General quickly picked it off the hook, and pushed the side.
"Hello? This is General Lee Oliver, where is this coming from and who is broadcasting, over. "
Nothing.
"Hello?! I repeat, this is General Lee Oliver, where is this coming from and who is broadcasting, over!"
A response.
"Sir! This is Colonel Hsu of McCarren Air Force Base, we have repelled the Securitron force, but we have sustained serious casualties, over. "
"Do you think you could take the Strip? Over."
"No sir, we lost over a hundred soldiers to them - and I'm sure that wasn't even most of the forces, over."
Shit.
"What about the other bases? Any information on them? Over."
"We've had word from the Strip that most of the NCR officers were either pushed out or killed, over."
"And what of NCR officials? Over."
"Dead, missing, or in custody by the Strip, over."
"Thanks Colonel Hsu - hold down McCarren, over."
"I'll try, General, but we wasted nearly all our ammo hold them back. Ammo and soldiers are what we need now, General, and if we could have more of that it would be very much appreciated it, over."
"Don't worry Colonel Hsu, I'll be sending in Rangers now, along with whatever non-essential troops we have, over."
"Thank you, General. Over."
"Over."
General Oliver sat into the chair next to the ham radio, burying his face into his hands.
"Moore?"
"Yes, General?" she responded, looking up from her Sequoia, barely having paid attention to Oliver's conversation.
"Want to lead a group of Rangers?"
November 29th, 2281, 4:35 PM
Cass and Boone looked down over the Strip from the bar of the Lucky 38. Lily and Veronica were in the Suite, while ED-E and Rex were playing around somewhere on the Casino floor.
Despite the relatively quick burst of violence, most of the NCR troopers were pushed off the Strip, with minimal casualties on both sides.
"You think he won?" asked Cass, taking a swig of her bottle of whiskey. Her cheeks were starting to turn slightly red now. A common occurrence for her bloodline.
"I don't know," responded Boone, cleaning his modified hunting rifle. He was taking the cartridge out, and cleaning the internal workings. He was taught by 1st Recon to respect the rifle as much as you respect your superior officer.
"Things feel quiet," Cass said to no one in particular.
"Too quiet."
"Think we should go after him?"
Cass shrugged, taking another swig, walking away from the windows and crashing on the couch.
"If he was in trouble, he would have that robot thingy call us or something. He hasn't, so he's probably okay."
"Hmm."
Boone looked back down, staring at the Securitrons on the Strip.
Something felt wrong.
Something felt awfully, awfully wrong.
November 29th, 2281, 7:32 PM
Colonel (temporarily Ranger) Moore stepped over the metal body of the destroyed Securitron, walking into the open gates of McCarren, accompanied by fifteen Ranger Veterans.
She was surprised that she still fit inside the Ranger outfit. God, she felt so good inside it. It curved around her body like water - it was like it was meant for her. Maybe that's because it was. She knew she was meant for the life of a Ranger. That stupid injury may have gotten her kicked out, and she may still be out due to it, but God was she going to make every goddamn second count.
Behind the sandbag was an NCR soldier with a rocket launched, obviously shaking and on edge.
That was okay.
"You!" She said, pointing at the trooper, "where is Colonel James Hsu?"
"He's inside the main building ma'am - thank God you're here!"
She missed those words.
"Rangers, follow me."
She walked into the McCarran building.
November 29th, 2281, 7:46 PM
Lily walked into the Penthouse (at least, that's what she heard her grandchildren call it) and to the big green monitor with the rest of her grandchildren, and looked at the pretty cartoon face.
"Hi!" said the cartoon face, happy as can be, "I have a very important announcement to make today!"
"What is it?" replied Jimmy, his red beret unmistakably Jimmy's.
"Yeah, where's 6?" replied Becky, her pants made with Lily's own bighorner skin.
"I was just about to talk with about him!" replied the cartoon face, "You see, during our Battle for Hoover Dam, there was a bit of a complication."
"Complication?" replied the other Becky.
"Did I say complication? Sorry, I'm stupid like that sometimes, what I meant to say was, presumably, an accident on my part! You see, due to me being kinda stupid, I made an error, and we lost the battle of Hoover Dam, with me and The Courier running away. Thankfully, he's alive and well, but I lost contact with him!"
The room went silent. Lily tried her best to understand why, but Leo kept interrupting her thought process. Something about a Dam?
"S-So," began Becky, shaking, "h-he lost?"
"Lost is a not very nice word. I prefer setback. Setback implies future success!"
"Where is he?" replied Jimmy.
"He's at Nellis, with the Boomers! Don't worry, I'm trying to establish contact with him as soon as possible."
"Why are you telling us?" said other Becky, lightly rubbing against her power glove.
"Oh yeah! I just thought I'd tell you so you can go to him."
"So we can go to the Courier?!" Lily screamed, finally realizing what was going on.
"Yes, indeed!"
"But what about you?" replied Becky.
"I'll hold down the Fort, I can promise that. I tried to send my securitrons, but the NCR are on the prowl! Freeside should be free of NCR for the most part. Just avoid the farms and NCR bases and you should be fine."
A silence descended upon the room.
They all left one by one.
November 29th, 2281, 10:49 PM
The Courier laid down on the makeshift bed in the Boomer's hideout. He held his hunting shotgun close, trying to avoid thinking about the events of the Dam.
He waited outside for a long time, waiting for any sign of Yes Man or Securitron. He even specially told Mother Pearl to not fire on one, as he could vouch for their loyalty. He even told her about his other friends, just in case he couldn't send any, as he knew Yes Man would tell them where he is.
Right?
He tried to not think about that.
He stood out there for hours and hours, trying his best to remain optimistic.
But with each passing hour, the chances got slimmer and slimmer. He remained out there until Mother Pearl convinced him to turn in for the night, and that a guard would keep watch.
The Courier wished he could fall asleep.
November 29th, 2281, 10:50 PM
Ranger Moore looked at the soldiers in front of her. There were around one hundred soldiers. She was expected to have more by tomorrow, this time with the full brunt of the forces at the Dam, Golf, and Forlorn Hope. There were even rumors that she'd get some coming down the Long 15.
But that would come later. She had to focus on the now.
She stepped onto the truck, and cleared her throat. Rangers surrounded the crowd, making sure none would run away. She dealt with that problem once, and she was damn sure she wasn't going to go through that again.
The crowd of soldiers murmured and whispered.
"Attention! Soldiers of the republic!"
They stopped.
"Today, you and your comrades fought admirably for the republic! But today is just the beginning of the battle for Vegas! Tomorrow, Vegas will know what happens when you piss off the Bear! Tomorrow, we will take the fight to Vegas itself! Tomorrow, we will ensure that the Mojave is made safe for democracy! Tomorrow, we will ensure that the Mojave never forgets what the claws of the Bear can do! Tomorrow, we will make the Battle of Hoover Dam look like child's play in comparison!
"Tomorrow, we will fight! Tomorrow, we will win!"
The crowd cheered.
November 30th, 2281, 6:32 AM
It was a calming morning in New Vegas.
Despite the blood shed yesterday, the Strip was peaceful. Quiet. Orderly, even.
Freeside, too, was peaceful. None of the traditional gangs and thugs were bustling about, and the usual shouters on the street corners were not there today.
In Westside, North Vegas Square, and other places around Vegas, there was a quiet calm. Even the fiends of Vault 3 were quiet.
The Casinos closed shop that day. The customers stayed in their rooms, while the employees stayed at their stations. The way they always prepared for this.
The Lucky 38, previously filled with the friends and comrades of The Courier, was, once again, empty of all human (and non-human) life.
For three hours, there was nothing. As if the world had just stopped moving. The usual sounds of bullets and gunfire replaced by blowing wind. The streets of New Vegas as whole were empty, except for the occasional giant rat or radroach that skittered across the ground.
If one didn't know any better (and many didn't), they would think it was a religious or secular holiday. But there was no such thing as religious holidays in Vegas, and the idea of secular days of rest were laughable to the Casino bosses.
No. It was a calm.
A calm before the storm.
At 9:21 AM, five hundred NCR troopers entered Freeside. They encountered little resistance.
At 9:28 AM, NCR troopers encountered the gate guards. With the help of the 1st Recon division, they were able to eliminate them before they could incur heavy losses.
At 9:34 AM, NCR troopers entered the gates of New Vegas.
At 9:46 AM, the first wave of NCR troops (encompassing basic NCR recruits) were wiped out, with over one hundred securitrons destroyed.
At 9:49 AM, the second wave of NCR troops, compassing this time of Rangers and armored troopers, were sent in.
At 10:32 AM, the second wave of the NCR troops were able to clear a third of New Vegas, including the Lucky 38, although they could not access the roof for unknown reasons. The Tops fell easily, as the new chairman refused to put his customers in danger.
At 10:35 AM, the second wave was reinforced by the third wave, a total force of 900 NCR troops. This company included Rangers, shock troops, 1st Recon, and many veteran outfits from California.
At 10:39 AM, the rest of New Vegas was beginning to be cleared out.
At 2:19 PM, 90% of the Securitron forces were destroyed. Most of These forces were cornered, but, somehow, they were able to escape. At the same time, the elevator to the upper floors of the Lucky 38 opened.
At 2:58 PM, with over 1500 dead, the NCR declares the New Vegas strip - and all of New Vegas - to be under NCR jurisdiction.
At 4:21 PM, General Oliver signs - in the place of Kimball - a deal with all Three Vegas families, ensuring their independence and autonomy from the NCR.
At 7:37 PM, the Strip is officially annexed by the New California Republic federal government, with approval from both legislatures and Presidency.
At 7:38 PM, the Bear flag is flown above the Lucky 38, signifying the end of the Battle of the Mojave.