City of lights and sin

by LollyFox

This is the story of New Vegas through a cracked lens. the courier actually DID die that fateful night, but woke up with a voice in his head and a lust for revenge. as the courier, Cullen, uncovers more of the supernatural truths behind the city of lights, he discovers why he was killed-and what the platinum chip really is. told from the point of view of an unknown party.

-Chapter one
A contract for revenge

"God does not only play with dice,
He rolls them in places we cannot see"
-Stephen Hawkings.

It is, indeed, very difficult to tell you when our story begins. You could argue that it all started 3 years, 5 days and 13 hours before the courier ever began to make his fateful delivery.

It was Friday. Poker night.

Three individuals, close friends since child hood, 2 men and 1 woman, and what a woman she was: Misty was impossibly beautiful: Tall, leggy, and platinum blonde, With a smooth face and a good figure. She was clad in a pink old-world dress. She was mute.

The aforementioned men, Steven and Nicholas, were both of a far more unremarkable appearance, and in fact looked quite similar, save that one had black hair and the other was a blazing red-head below his fedora. The 3 shook hands, and sat down around the table. Misty began to shuffle the cards-she was always the house. The night went by briskly-Steven and Nicholas went back and forth for a while before Nicholas began to win big, amassing massive columns of caps. Steven went all in without even looking at his cards, which Nicholas, of course, had to accept. The flop came; 2 spade, 8 clubs, 5 Hearts. The two men looked at each other for a long time, both unflinching. Misty could easily care less, and threw out the turn: 8 Spades. The silence and tension mingled in the Warm night air to form an almost unbreathable smoke that curled its tendrils around the three friends. Down the river comes a 5 diamond. The two throw out their cards. Steven brought triple 5's, but was beaten by Nicholas's triple 8's. Seeing his adversary grin as he raked in the caps and commenting on the short-lived quality of the night's game, he dug into his coat pocket and threw down a plastic bag, holding 3,000 caps. His emergency stash. He could not say why he decided to gamble with it, so he figured it was best to chalk this up to pride and see what happens.

"The night is still young."

He said, looking at the other two. Nicholas was slightly irked, but Misty simply nodded as she shuffled, and began to deal.

But I'm being ominous. This isn't the story you came to hear (But at the same time, it is) So I'll cut to the chase. Like all of these sorts of things, it happened under a huge, full moon.

Cullen came to, bound and gagged next to a fire. Oh shit. He thought. He had been in this position before, and it's almost never fun. He tried to right himself, so he stood on his knees. He became aware of the 2 Great khans eying him up. One had a rifle leveled at his forehead, and another was tapping the pipe he used to incapitate him against the palm of his hand. Behind them, standing where the ridge they were on ended, was a figure in a suit. He had his back to them, and was lighting a cigarette as he looked up at Luna.

"It really pains me to do this, kid. I thought you'd be older."

Oh, more of this shit. Cullen thought. He was older. Just because he couldn't grow a beard didn't mean he wasn't closer to thirty than twenty. The suited man took a drag off his smoke.

"But it's just business."

He said, flicking his zippo closed with an audible clap. With that, he turned to face Cullen, but was still obscured from his view by the moons light at his back. The man continued to talk.

"it may seem arbitrary, but that's the way life is. Or rather, the way death is. Whereas it takes planning to create life, death comes and goes as it pleases. It can happen at a moment's notice, or it can loom over you like a guitine for months. But if you really need an explanation, kid…"

The suited man stepped into the circle of firelight. Now Cullen could see what was obscured- A distinctive checkered coat, an incredibly satisfied expression cradled by heavily styled hair, and a gold-plated 9mm in his hand, trained directly on Cullen.

"The game was rigged from the start."

BANG! BANG!

An ending, and a beginning. Cullen closed his eyes as the bullets tore apart his cranium, splattering a fair chuck of brain matter on the rocks behind him. When he opened his eyes, he was no longer on a lonely desert hill top. He was inside of a much lonelier building, like some kind of military infirmary built inside a church, but not to any religion he knew of. In front of him stood a figure in a drab gray suit, complete with Darkened tortoise shell glasses and Ambiguous fedora.. He had no weapon, and upon closer inspection, his limbs were impossibly long, easily twice and a half the length of his torso. For a moment, it just stared at Cullen with empty, black-tinted glass eyes. Then Cullen realized he was no longer captive, and could stand up, which he did. The figure walked over to him with impeccable posture, and stopped less than a foot away from him. Looking down, the creature produced a folded up piece of paper and a pen from his jackets inner pocket. Cullen cautiously took the items, and unfolded the note. Seemed to be like some kind of contract. He skimmed it over, and it looked like no contract he'd ever seen since he'd been in the courier business.

I(The undersigned) Do agree to the binds of this contract, that I will (a) seek revenge against the bastard that shot me, not stopping even despite any negative relations, personal injury and/or risk, or acts of god to the contrary, (b) to serve the presenter of this contract until an undefined date, even in a capacity that would negatively influence my interests, in matters both concerning both the quick and the spiritual…

The text that caught his attention, was at the bottom.

…In return for my services rendered, and to be able to do so, the presenter agrees to grant me life.

Below that was a place Cullen was supposed to sign, and next to that was presumably that things signature-A curious oval with 3 dots in it. Without thinking, Cullen began to write his signature. He barely finished his n when a bright light erupted from the paper, blinding him-and as it subsided, he awoke in a different location, again. He was lying on an old couch, looking straight up at a ceiling fan that span lazily around, casting broad shadows on the roof. he began to sit up. Despite the two bullets to the noggin, he felt absolutely fine.

"Whoa, take it easy, there."

A voice from beside him cautioned. Cullen looked over at the voices owner- an thin, weather beaten old man sitting in a chair in front of the couch. Various medical supplies and chems were spread around the room.

"Can you tell me your name?"

Cullen actually couldn't for a few seconds, but it quickly came back to him.

"Cullen. Cullen Mackerricher"

The doctor nodded, and grabbed something from the table behind him, handing it over to Cullen. It was a Reflect-o-tron handheld cosmetic inspector.

"Not the name I would of picked for you. Anyways, take a look at yourself, make sure I put everything back in the right places."

So Cullen did, and, for the most part, he seemed…fine. No scar, nor even a patch of missing hair where the bullets entered or exited. Impressive needlework, or is there something else at work here? Cullen pondered. He set the apparatus down and nodded to the good doctor.

"Good job, Doc."

Cullen said, slowly. Mitchell nodded modestly.

"I'd like to think I got the important stuff right. Now if you want to get up and walk over to the machine at the far side of the room, we can see how much of your faculties you retained."

The doctor instructed, as Cullen rose effortlessly out of bed. He passed the physical tests, the psychological screenings, and told the doctor the only family history of medical problems he was aware of was a nasty tendency towards nearsightedness in his mother's side of the family, which thankfully seemed to skip his generation. It was as though he had never been shot at all.

"Alright, seems like you made a complete recovery in a miraculous amount of time, but I wouldn't push it. Your things are in the guest bedroom."

The doctor told him, taking vigorous mental notes-he had never seen anything like this in his entire career-a man gets shot in the head twice, regains consciousness, and simply ups and walks away in the course of less than 12 hours-truly miraculous. Cullen set about putting on his coarse, rough brahmin skin clothing and slung his backpack over his shoulder. It felt noticeably heavier. He looked inside, and found it much as he remembered. A couple lunchboxes full of food, bag of trail mix, assorted ammo he kept for trade, his pip-boy, which he reattached as soon as he found it, a book or two…and the gun. But the gun wasn't right. It was larger. Shinier. The rounds he kept in speed loaders were much, much larger than he remembered. He pulled the firearm out to inspect it, and saw that it was, in fact, not the familiar, rugged 357. He normally carried. Nay, it was much, much larger, more intimidating, and seemed like it could cause a hell of a lot more damage. Cullen could make out barely legible words on the barrel:

SW Model 500

Beware the boon of a god

At the very end of the barrel, there was a much less worn symbol-an oval with three dots forming a triangle inside of it. Everything that had happened while he recovered could've been a fever dream, but this…this was an unsettling coincidence at best, and earth shattering revelation at worse. It began to cross Cullen's mind that he had been, in fact, brought back from the dead.

He really, Really needed a drink.

He walked down the street at a brisk pace, propelling himself towards the bright neon lights of the prospector saloon as the sun beat down on him. He began to slow. His head began to ache, and ache, as he walked, until he came to a complete stop, grasping his head in his hands. When he looked up, things were…different. The street below him was stained with blood in various places, as were the desert sands beyond the road, and many of the buildings. Fires smoldered in one of the abandoned houses. He caught a glimpse of himself reflected off one of the windows from the general store-and nearly screamed. His head was fractured completely. Shatter-thick lines of emptiness that went clean through ran across his face, making his cranium seem held together by some unforeseen force. One of his eyes was missing. He couldn't see anyone else around, until he became aware of a dark, lone figure standing atop the cemetery hill, below the water tower-even from this distance, he could see he was oozing thick, coagulated blood from what could've been a stab wound. Them, quick as the nightmare came, it vanished, seeming to burn away like an aging film tape. He was standing right outside the prospector saloon now, and an old man in simple clothing and a cowboy hat looked at him knowingly.

"Looks like you need a drink, son. Let easy Pete set you straight."

The man said, and led him into the bar. Shaken, he silently consented, and Easy Pete sat him down in a both, and told the bartender, Trudy, to hit 'em with a bottle of brew each, nothing fancy.

"You've had a hell of a day, I can tell. Whole deals a little hard to come to terms with at first."

Cullen stopped listening mid-sentence. Sitting not but one booth over, staring daggers right at him, was the man from his dream. The man- no, the creature nodded silently. The worker who sat directly across the table from him was apparently unaware, and ate his squirrel stew calmly and casually.

"I'm just gonna give it to you straight. Your dead, kid or you should be. That 'suit your making wide-eyes at is the only thing keeping you kicking."

Cullen snapped out of his trance. Shaky, he said…

"You can see it to?"

Easy Pete chuckled as Trudy set down their beers and he put a few bottle caps on the table.

"Yeah. When you get better at this whole deal, you'll be able to see all kinds of shit like that. But that's another story. If it puts you more at ease, I've got one too, a sorry thing made of barbed-wires and car keys that jingles and jangles and keeps me up all goddamn night."

Easy Pete knocked back half the bottle in a solid gulp. Cullen had yet to touch his.

"What…what are these things?"

He asked.

"Geists. Ghosts, far as I can tell…but there's something more. Not just every ghost can up and make a corpse walk."

Easy Pete tried to explain it as gently as he could, hoping Cullen would get the inferred meaning, and skip a very obvious question.

That did not happen.

"What a second, hold on. Ghosts exist?"

Cullen inquired as he grabbed his drink, never taking his eyes off the gasmask, who was watching them passively. Easy Pete nodded.

"All that and more, kiddo. More than you could ever know. What's important is, that Geist is keeping you alive. It's the reason you were able to bounce back from a few neat round holes in your skull. In return, you have an agreement towards it. You know about the supernatural now, and guess what? That makes it your responsibility now. Some ghosts go around causing trouble and shit, refusing to pass on and interfering with the mortal world, or sometimes they just need…help, you know? Resolving matters from beyond the grave, as it were."

Easy Pete wasn't exactly talking a mile a minute, and this information took enough time to communicate that both men had finished their drinks.

"So…what's with the hallucination I just had?"

Cullen asked, still slightly disturbed by the, frankly, disturbing experience.

"That's called the sight. It's what happens when your near a ghost you don't know about, but should. It's how you perceive the "Shadow", but I'll let you get into that on your own."

Easy Pete explained. Cullen shook his head.

"So that man I saw…?"

"Was a ghost. Know him well. Thomas gray. Doctor, murdered before the war. Stubborn old bastard won't go until someone destroys the knife that killed him. Trouble is, they never discovered his murderer, and 200 years in between then and now means that particular knife could be goddamn anywhere. I've been trying with him for years, and every now and then an out-of-towner will stop by and try to reason with him to no avail. Your welcome to try, but I wouldn't recommend it. He isn't exactly a friendly Fellow."

So that's it. He wasn't dead, but wasn't alive. Ghosts exist. That creature sitting in front of him basically owned his ass.

"Excuse me, Trudy? I'm going to need about 5 bottles of whisky."

Cullen decided to play a game of pool to take the edge off, help him cope and what not. Which was hard, considering the thing-Which he had decided to refer to as the mysterious stranger- followed him into the room. He considered shooing it away, but thought it best to avoid screaming at thin air in front of people. He would go somewhere quiet and secluded after this, and have words with the creature. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Trudy arguing with a man in a blue coat. The man was threatening her, and while Trudy stood steadfast against his verbal assault, and seemed to have the whole thing under control, Cullen felt the need to intervene.

"Hey pal, you don't talk to women like that."

He said, not even looking up as he took a shot, sinking the striped 8, striped 11, and striped 2 in one deft motion. His opponent, a younger man barely out of his teens who smelled of Bighorner dung, grimaced as each ball found its home in one of the pockets.

"I talk however I damn want!"

The man exclaimed, taking his frustrated attention of off Trudy and placing it squarely on Cullen, who was standing in front of him, pool cue held low in both his hands.

"Not around me. You'll show some respect, hear?"

The offender could come up with no words sufficient for expressing his feelings about the situation, and he substituted a swift punch in the jaw in lieu of verbal communication over the matter. Cullen was surprised by how he himself reacted to such aggression.

Which is to say, not at all.

He had never taken a punch like that. It didn't even phase him-there was just a dull sensation that he had been hit, which left as soon as the man's fist left his face. There was no stumbling, or stepping back, or teeth being dramatically spit out on the hardwood floor. He simply chocked up his grip on the cue, and brought it down on the man's forehead.

"And don't come back!"

Cullen yelled, as the man-known as Joe Cobb-limped off into the night, cradling a broken knee cap with broken fingers. Cullen still held the cue, which know had a substantial amount of blood on it. He turned to look at Trudy, who stood in the doorway with hands on hips.

"Umm…is there something a rag or something I could clean this up with?"

He asked. Trudy just shook her head.

"I appreciate the intention, but you just brought a bunch of holy hell on this town, stranger."

"My names Cullen. Why was that guy bothering you, anyways?"

Cullen asked, putting down the cue.

"He's looking for someone. Apparently, those powder gangers attacked a caravan 'bout a week ago, and one of them escaped-fella named Ringo. He found his way here, and we decided to hide him up in the gas station at the edge of town, but Joe Cobb doesn't want to let him go. He knows Ringo's here somewhere near here, and he keeps coming by to poke around and interrogate us. Now that you've gone and busted him up, he's probably gonna go get a bunch of his friends to return the favor. That man's got a right vengeful streak, as you can see."

Cullen nodded as she talked. He'd never heard about these powder gangers before, but they sounded like trouble.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to cause trouble. I don't deal well with men threatening women."

Cullen admitted, although he was quite sure Trudy could've defended herself from the brute, judging by the shotgun invariably stashed under the bar, the multitude of drunken men that would've rushed to her aid, and her own kind of sturdiness that seemed exclusive to middle-aged women who refused to take shit.

"Is there any way I could talk with this Ringo guy, and try to reach a solution?"

Trudy looked at him sideways.

"sure, I can give you the key to where he's locked himself up, But the mans about as useless as dull barbwire for everything 'cept making trouble.

Cullen walked up to the gas-station, not really sure what he would say to Ringo. Obviously, it would be easiest for every one if he were just to leave, but, he had serious doubts that would take care of the problem he had caused-Joe Cobb would be out for him now, not Ringo. He unlocked the door and stepped inside. The only light in the room came from a rechargeable lantern on the store counter, and it dimly illuminated the desperate man pointing a gun in Cullen's face with shaking hands.

"Keep your hands up, I'm warning you!"

He challenged feebly.

"I'm not here on Joe Cobbs business. I just came up here to talk on behalf of the town."

Cullen said.

"They want to just throw me out, don't they?"

He asked, his voice wavering with uncertainty.

"No, no. I came here to talk about a solution."

"What sort of solution?"

"The only one that will work."

Ringo lowered his gun.

"Go on."

"Men like Joe Cobb and that gang aren't the types who'll leave this town alone, even if they get what they want. We need to send those powder gangers a message; 'Don't fuck with Goodsprings'"

"And how do you suppose we do that, between the two of us?"

"The town, of course. There should be roughly as much of us as there are of them."

Earlier, Cullen was sure that he had counted a total of 9 people in Goodsprings, including Chet (The trader), Easy Pete, Trudy, Doc Mitchell and Sunny Smiles (The local hunter).

"Well, you'd want to talk to sunny about that. She seems like the best shot in this town, and she don't like those powder gangers much. Don't know how much the rest of the town will help."

I nodded.

"I can be more persuasive than I look."

"Good. We'll need a few things if we're fighting powder gangers. Things like medicine and explosives and armor. I know you can talk to Doc Mitchell for a few stimpacks, but I don't know where you'd get the other stuff."

Cullen nodded along as he listed the necessary items.

"Nice talking to you, Ringo. I'll be in touch."

Cullen asked around. Talked to sunny first, got her help. Approached Trudy, who honestly wasn't very happy to see him, and asked her to rouse the townsfolk for me. At first, she balked, but I explained that they were going to attack the town sooner or later, and she agreed. He managed to bum a few sticks of dynamite from easy Pete, and Doc Mitchell sparred him a dozen stimpacks. He went to discuss outfitting the townsfolk with Chet, but he found that his store was locked tight, closed-despite that fact that it was but 5:00. As he pounded on his door, he heard the creaking of a dusty wheel behind him. He turned and laid his eyes on something he had only heard of before-a securitron. It was everything the old prospectors stories had said, and then some. It possessed a hulking figure, thick metal plating and two weapons; A 9mm machine gun and a laser in each arm. Instead of the cartoon police officer he heard they had for faces, its view screen bore the visage of an oddly familiar cowboy.

"Well Howdy there, partner. Might I say your lookin' fit as a fiddle."

He spoke in a heavy old-west accent, which was warped by the tinny, mechanical sound of a robotic voice box.

"Uhh…have we met before?"

Cullen asked. He'd never seen a securitron in person-he had assumed them all to be in New Vegas.

"Well of course we have! I'm the one who took you to the sawbones after that no good polecat did a number on your skull."

Cullen had a feeling that wasn't where the familiarity came from, but he directed the conversation towards more pressing matters.

"Did you see the men who attacked me?"

He asked, bluntly.

"As a matter of fact, I did. I was out on an evening stroll by the graveyard, when I saw what looked like a couple of bad seeds, so I laid low. Saw they was digging a grave for you, but I had a feeling you wasn't dead, so I stayed until they went off. Two of 'em were big tough guys, looked like members of a gang, all leather jackets and bandanas. The rattlesnake that looked like he was in charge was a tad stranger to see out here. Fella had a nice suit, in black and white checkers. Real distinctive. He just watched as the other two dug you a shallow grave."

Cullen was disappointed. He was hoping for a name, or something more than what he saw in the darkness that night.

"One last thing…you look like your pretty good in a fight. We might have some trouble with bandits in the next day or so. You up for some justice?"

Cullen endeavored to play to the robots cowboy sensibilities to gain his help. Victor immediately and enthusiastically agreed. They bade each other "Happy trails!" and went their separate ways-Victor to his tiny scrap shack on the edge of town, and Cullen to the graveyard on the opposite side. Night was swiftly approaching.

Searching the grave proved pointless. All he could find by the newly exhumed grave was a few cigarette butts and two spent 9mm casings-presumably the ones that killed him. For some reason he couldn't explain, he pocketed them on the spot. The moon cast ominous, pale light on the desert. He could see pretty far from this spot. The Graveyard was located at the top of one of the taller hills, and he could even see the towers and lights on the New Vegas skyline in the distance. For some reason he couldn't explain, he felt unavoidably drawn to it. The Geist was close to him, watching his activities from a few feet away. Crowding, constantly. Cullen tried to work up the gumption to talk to the strange creature, but couldn't. he stumbled off dejectedly, tired from the stressful day-and the soldier dogged his steps. It occurred to him that he hadn't found a place to sleep while he lay in wait for the Powder Gangers, so he tried to come up with a solution to his lodging problem; He heard from Sunny smiles earlier that there was an abandoned school house near victors shack, and he decided to bed down there. When he got there, he found the place already inhabited by a nest of mantis nymphs, who he quickly dispatched by stomping them to death with heavy booted feet. He stripped the bodies of whatever meager meat they had, and piled the empty carapaces in one corner of the single roomed building. H rearranged a few desks and shelves to create a little fort-just like when he was a kid-and curled up to conserve his almost nonexistent warmth. The Mojave was a bit of a bitch like that-hot as all hell during the day, and then freezing at night. He had difficulty sleeping, between the constant observance of the stranger and his own disturbing dreams.

"Wake up, drifter!"

Was the first thing he heard when he woke up. Being jolted out of a nightmare, he nearly jumped to his feet when he awoke, and indeed would have, if not for the terrible stiffness he felt from the previous night's sleeping arrangements. It was still dark outside, and his pip-boy said that it was 04:27 the individual who had woken him up was a farmer girl from town he never bothered to get to know. She had long, black hair and a set of laugh lines, despite being only 30-something.

"It's Joe Cobb. He's brought some of his boys, just like you said. There saying there gonna burn this town to the ground, an' everyone's just hiding in the saloon!"

She explained frantically. Cullen wasted no time grabbing his as-of-yet unused gun and rushing out the door, not even checking if it was loaded, urged on by the sounds of gunfire and yelling. And a fuse being lit. the Powder gangers were assaulting the Saloon, and Cullen saw one of the townsfolk-his former pool opponent-sprawled out in the sand next to a pool of blood. He exploded from behind a building, surprising the marauders. He saw one of them had a lit stick of dynamite in his hand, and shot at him-the gun kicked like a fucking M60, but the results were worth it. The shot connected with his torso, and passed clean through, the sheer kinetic force of the huge bullet sending him back at least 5 feet. The dynamite dropped out of his hands, near a few other Powder Gangers, who barely had the time to utter the obligatory "Oh, Shit!" that one utters in situations such as this. the remaining attackers-4 other men and Joe Cobb himself-turned to return fire. Cullen sprinted towards a boulder that could offer some cover, but not before a bullet struck his arm. He didn't dare look at the wound until he was well behind the rock, and immediately regretted it. The bullet had hit bone in his dominate arm, and there was no way he could control that huge gun with only one arm. He jammed a stimpack into his arm as the Powder Gangers approached, laughing menacingly at their cornered victim. It did nothing. the hole continued to bleed, and his arm remained useless. The men got closer, but then the crack of a gunshot-not from the powder gangers, but from farther away.

"I'm fucking through with you guys!"

Ringo yelled. He was on the front porch of the saloon know, gripping his smoking 9mm pistol in shaking hands, yet he had managed to nail one of the blue-jackets in the back of the head. Joe Cobb turned and shot him 3 times in the chest before he noticed something at his feet-Cullen had seized the opportunity to lob a stick of dynamite there way, and Joe Cobb and his men went up in smoke before his eyes. Cullen rushed over to Ringo, as Trudy and the others walked out of the bar with weapons ready, anxious as to whether or not the assault was really over. Cullen tried to apply pressure to his wounds, and used one of the stimpacks-which, thankfully, worked this time-to stabilize Ringo, and sent Sunny up to go get Doc Mitchell. With medical attention, Ringo would be fine. He looked over at the charred bodies of the Powder Gangers-and saw that one of them had survived a little better than the others. A squat, brutish guy with a piggish face. He had retreated to a collapsed building, trying to figure out a way out of his current predicament. Cullen got up from the wounded Ringo and went over to the man calmly. The Powder-Ganger tried to lash at him with a baseball bat as he approached, but he ducked out of its way and gut checked him. As the man sputtered to catch his breath, Cullen picked the swine up by his neck, jamming him against the exposed wooden frame.

"Now, listen up, scumbag. I'm going to give you a chance, here. You're going to go back to your little friends at whatever hellhole prison you crawled out of. You're going to tell them what happened here, what I did to you and your friends. Tell them that Goodsprings in under Cullen's protection now, and if I hear about any trouble-and I'll be keepin' my ear to the ground-I'm gonna be bloody pissed. And you aint even seen how I am when I'm pissed. Now did you understand all that, or do I have to carve it into your back? with a fucking bowie knife?"

The convict was scared shitless, and he ran off as soon as Cullen let him go-despite his youthful countenance, he could be a terrifying presence. He noticed that his arm didn't have any problems lifting the guy up, even though he was at least 190 pounds. He looked down, and the hole through his shoulder was gone-but he felt…drained, somehow. He chalked it up to another of the benefits of his new condition. He looked over at the stranger, who nodded knowingly. It had been his doing. At the saloon, people who had crowded around Ringo and the other wounded settler parted to allow Doc to check in on them. Ringo could be saved, but it was far too late for the young man, whose heart was punctured and died in seconds. Cullen decided his work was done, and began to follow the road out of Goodsprings heading south. The next town on the road was Primm. He hadn't been there for a while, but it was a nice enough place. The townsfolk knew him well as a courier, and they would be quite helpful in his quest to track down the checkered suit. Even better, that asshole might even be hiding there, but he doubted it. Primm was a hardscrabble community, like Goodsprings writ a little larger, and a dainty pretty-boy like him simply wouldn't survive there. He had to be a city boy and the nearest city he knew of…

He looked to the New Vegas skyline once more. The glow was gone with the rapidly advancing daylight, but the lucky 38's huge tower still loomed in the distance.

Silently, the two strangers walked down the road.

I followed at a safe distance. While he did look tasty (I had never had a Sin-Eater before!)I decided not to eat him for the time being. I could tell he would be interesting to watch, and would leave behind a bunch of meals for me as I followed, whether he knew it or not.