I OWN NONE OF THE RIGHTS TO ANYTHING FALLOUT RELATED, THIS IS JUST A HOBBY OF MINE, I MAKE NO MONEY FROM THIS... AND I'M JUST A NERDY COLLEGE STUDENT SO IF YOU WERE TO ACTUALLY SUE ME, I DOUBT YOU'D GET MUCH OTHER THAN A LOSS OF YOUR OWN LIMITED TIME ON THIS EARTH.

So yeah, thanks for taking the time to read my fan fiction. I have put a lot into it. I mean, while I'm writing it I tab out to the Fallout Wiki every 10 seconds, so I do actually put effort into making it true to the Fallout universe and all. Now this stuff (that I again thank you for reading) will probably be re-written because what you're seeing here is actually my second or third attempts at this story, whilst I usually rewrite everything way more. As a result of this, don't expect what you read to be that great. After all, Fan Fictions are really just the result of people nerding out SO hard that they go insane and in order to escape their own mental ramblings about someone else's fictional universe they write about it... often poorly, as demonstrated here.

Leaving me a review telling me how bad it is REALLY helps me to improve so thanks in advance if you do that. Favouring this also really helps, so thanks a bunch if you do that too.

Prologue – 'The Proposal'
Lucky 38, 'New' New Vegas

2297, 16 years since the Second Battle for Hoover Dam.
Once just another hand for the Mojave Express, no one in all of the Wastes expected the notorious Courier to single-handedly take down Mr. House, defeat The Legion with his army of hacked Securitrons, push the NCR back out of the Mojave and spend the remainder of his very wealthy days held up in the Lucky 38.

Though he may have been good at screwing with other people's business, he sure wasn't good at handling his own. Without the persuasive charm and menacing authority previously imposed by Mr. House, New Vegas fell apart into a chaotic shootout between the various factions.

The Omertas, easily the most ruthless and powerful of the Vegas tribes, quickly slaughtered the residents as well as the White Glove Society, gaining dominance over the entirety of The Strip, which became a battle ground for the remaining Tribesman and the Courier's Securitrons. The Chairmen of the Tops managed to escape into Freeside and subsequently combined their relatively damaged efforts with The Kings. Now even further from its Pre-Great War days, Vegas was now collectively (and rather jokingly) known as 'New' New Vegas.

Though the Omertas had used all of the dynamite they could, even they could not infiltrate the giant doors of The Lucky 38. Many in and out of the Mojave became just as perplexed over the Courier as they had been with Mr. House. Unlike the previous King in the Ivory tower though, it seems the new one wasn't shy of making one final offer.

Early on a Thursday morning, this message was broadcast over Radio New Vegas.

"Well hey there folks, this here is Mr. New Vegas and I'm sorry but we're going to have to cut the music for a little while. Now, now, we're not going anywhere, it's only to listen to a brief message from the head of The Lucky 38. Stay beautiful New Vegas, we'll be back shortly."

"Always loved that AI's voice. The Deathclaws loved it too.
Good morning ladies and gents, monsters and mutants, robots and radscorpians. This is The Courier. As you all are probably well aware by now, Vegas is fucked… or should I say 'New' New Vegas? I will not take credit for that simply genius title, I assure you. 'New' New Vegas is so fucked that I can't even leave those big iron doors of The Lucky 38. If I did I'd be blown into a million little pieces by those Omerta fucks down on The Strip. And I remember back when they actually had a little class.

16 years ago I took over this place. All I wanted was the fortune. That asshole Mr. House thought he could put a leash on me, well I showed that old bastard. I smashed his skull in with a 9 Iron and thought it'd be smooth sailing from then on. Well it hasn't been. My Securitrons are getting pretty old now and its turns out I'm not very good at commanding a police force.

I've been hold up here in my living quarters for ages now and every day I wake up and do the exact same thing: I get out of bed, I eat breakfast, I look out the top floor windows, watch The Strip's hidden camera feed for a bit, send out the odd laser air strike now and again- It's horrible! I'm going fucking insane from this shit. I was never cut out to run this place, I ask myself every day how that old bastard got a hold of it all! I remember how easy it was when I was just killing folks for money, or helping ghouls fly rockets, or killing some Deathclaws to screw some crazy bitch.

I realise now, because of the state of Vegas and my national reputation, I can never go back to doing the things I loved. So I'm giving my position away. That's right, you heard correct. My right hand robot Yes Man can't do anything for himself, so one of you unlucky fools can win The Lucky 38, 'New' New Vegas and the untold riches that come with. To win, all you have to do is come see me in person. That's means getting into my Ivory Tower. Good luck.

You have 80 days before I blow my brains out."

And with that, the race was on. People all over the Mojave were packing their things and loading their guns on a road trip for riches. Many suspected fakery and that the Courier would never give up his wealth, or that he had died a long time ago and the voice was a fraud. Others saw the impossibility of getting into that tower, and why blame them? The Omertas had been trying for a decade and a half.

Nevertheless, the next couple of months would be eventful for a lot of people.