The courier awoke to a pounding headache. To the sound of voices—a few men conversing—and someone... shoveling dirt? The air stunk of cigarette smoke and dust, and it wasn't helping his nausea. As disoriented as he already was, he took a moment just to listen, for his headache would not permit him to open his eyes.
He heard a scoff. "What, that thing silver or something? Waving ya caps around?"
"You're not getting paid to run your mouth. So shut it." Another voice jabbed.
"So far, you ain't paid us nothin'!" The other whined.
A sigh. "You'll get your caps when the job's done."
Despite not being fully conscious, the courier's heart skipped a beat at the sudden sound of ripping paper. Someone unwrapping.
The package.
"Whoa." The voice dipped in awe, before it paused. "This thing... is bananas."
The courier's eyes flew open, but still he couldn't see. They darted around the blackness of what was over his eyes, and he jerked a hand over to reach it, while the conversation went on with another reply. "Just looks like a giant poker chip. But it's— is it glowing?"
"It is, isn't it? Yeah, looks like one, paly, but it feels different, dig? It's buzzing with power."
The courier tugged and twisted his hands against their bonds. That is when he realized that whatever was going on, it wasn't going to end well.
The voice dismissed the other. "Whatever man. You got what you were after, so pay up."
The courier worked his way into a sitting position, managing to prop himself up and sit on his heels.
He began to fidget with trying to get himself onto his feet, but froze in place as a voice acknowledged him at last. "This deep enough? Guess who's wakin' up over there."
"Alright, take that thing off." Then, someone pulled away the blackness. He found, standing over him, a pair of Great Khans, illuminated soley by a small lantern at their feet. The light casted ominous shadows across one's cold expression, and the other's devious grin. Neither of which were particularly welcoming to look upon. Between them in the back was a man in a tacky, checkered suit. He turned to face the courier, pulling a cigarette butt from his thin lips and tossing it to the dirt before him. He proceeded to smear it under his polished shoe. "Time to cash out."
With that, one of the Khans dealt a blow to the courier's face, and his gaze spun before falling upon the hole in the ground beside him.
A man sized hole.
It was like a reflection of what he'd done to so many in an attempt to rid the healing wasteland of corrupt control and turmoil. All the deaths and social discord staring back at him surely wasn't karma. He was doing good in the world. The Order always taught that.
Maybe it was just bad luck.
He looked up at the man in the checkered suit, who seemed to be the one running the show.
"Sorry, kid. You've made your last deliver. Bet you don't even know why you're here. But hey, if it makes you feel any better, it's nothing personal, really." But his words brought no peace to the courier's mind. All they did was cement the thoughts that he may not be alive by morning. "This," He watched him slip what must've been in the package from inside his coat. It looked to be an oversized poker chip; metallic, with an odd glimmer about it. He held it with pride, like he earned it. "Is mine now."
Wait, was it? The courier blinked.
It was the chip.
But the courier couldn't just tell him outright. Reveal how terribly important it was for him to have it. It had to remain secret. This man had no idea what the hell he was dealing with. The courier had to play it off.
He spoke for the first time that night since he was attacked. "It's just a fucking poker chip! What reason could you possibly need it?" He tried to reason, spitting out a bit of blood with his words.
The man in the suit slipped out a condescending chuckle. "This, is no ordinary poker chip, my friend. It holds more power than you could ever dream of possessing. Real shame you got twisted up in this scene."
Shit. He knew the power it held? This was bad and the courier knew it. This meant that he'd failed.
The man dipped a hand into his coat to safely replace the chip, and it emerged with a large, silver-finished Browning, crushing the last lingering bit of hope the courier had of slipping out of this predicament. "From where your kneeling must seem like an 18 karat run of bad luck. But the truth is, the game was rigged from the start."
He raised his aim to the skull of the courier, who braced for what was to come, hoping that someone better would clean up the mess he'd made. That's when his vision cut to black.