The Chip is being brought to the Strip by courier.
Until it isn't.
They separate, paths diverge, apart. One to the Strip and one to a shallow grave.
Of course, that's not where the story ends.
"... two to the skull, yet one gets up. Odds are against you, but they're just numbers..."
The courier is the Courier in short order, blinking in the brightest sun they've ever seen. Every day in the Mojave is its' own small war, survival v. the wasteland, and the Courier will survive. There is nothing to do but fight and listen to the radio.
This person, this other, this Courier who shifts sand as they walk, as they carry the desert in their eyes, the grave in their chest, survives.
"... playing the hand you've been dealt, but you don't let it rest, you shuffle and stack, and a gamble..."
Primm, Nipton, Novac, Jacobstown, Nelson, Nellis, Bitter Springs, Boulder City, Camp Searchlight, Ranger Stations, trading posts, the Courier sees it all.
And then, the Strip.
New Vegas in all her glory, beacon at the heart of the wastes, a couple layers of gossamer and neon hiding a rotting corpse.
The lights are too bright, here, and they blind the senses.
Finish the job, but there are choices now, and the Courier has to make them.
Could hide, could vanish. Freeside, North Vegas Square, they would give refuge to the losing, to the lost.
Won't hide though. There's nothing to do but fight and listen to the radio, so that's what the Courier does.
"... spinning on the wheel, more than two at the table. Placing bets. All lose..."
Can't hide, still runs. Just for a while.
The Madre, the tribes, the Big Empty.
Delaying choices or choosing them, who can say.
The Courier fights, endures, survives. Platinum Chip burning a hole in pocket, pack, soul.
And then, the Divide.
"... lives in you, hard to kill. Storm, bullets, sand and wind..."
The Divide screams, demands recollection. And then there's only one thing left to do.
One choice made from many.
NCR, House, Legion. Independence.
The Courier will fight and listen to the radio. The Courier will choose.
"... know what you follow..."
Chip in hand, bullets in head, power in choosing.
Platinum catches the light as the Courier flips it, like a coin.
Two paths converge, overlap, become.
The chip is with the Courier. The Courier survives.
"... supposed to be dead!
I got better."
