PROLOGUE

War. War never changes.

When atomic fire consumed the earth, those who survived did so in great, underground vaults. When they opened, their inhabitants set out across ruins of the old world to build new societies, establish new villages, form new tribes.

As decades passed, what had been the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic, dedicated to old-world values of democracy and the rule of law. As the Republic grew, so did its needs. Scouts spread east, seeking territory and wealth, in the dry and merciless expanse of the Mojave Desert. They returned with tales of a city untouched by the warheads that had scorched the rest of the world, and a great wall spanning the Colorado River.

The NCR mobilized its army and set it east to occupy the Hoover Dam, and restore it to working condition. But across the Colorado, another society had arisen under a different flag. A vast army of slaves, forged in the conquest of 86 tribes: Caesar's Legion.

Four years have passed since the Republic held the Dam - just barely - against the Legion's onslaught. The Legion did not retreat. Across the river, they gathered strength. Campfires burned, training drums beat.

Through it all, the New Vegas Strip has stayed open for business under the control of its mysterious overseer, Mr. House, and his army of rehabilitated Tribals and police robots.

You are a courier, hired by the Mojave Express, to deliver a package to the New Vegas Strip. What seemed like a simple delivery job has taken a turn…for the worse.

– Ron the Narrator, Fallout: New Vegas intro

There is only darkness.

A burlap sack covers my face and ropes bind my arms and legs. My ankles and wrists have been sore for longer than I care to think about, burns from the rope digging into the flesh from my attempts to loosen them. But it's no use. Whoever tied these knots knew what they were doing. I might have appreciated the skill if I weren't the one tied up at the moment.

It was supposed to be a simple delivery. From California to New Vegas, just a single poker chip. That's a long way to travel for a bit of shine, but I've had worse deliveries. At least this one paid. I should have known, though. Anybody willing to pay as many caps as I was getting was up to no good. Instincts are wearing thin, old man. Thirty, pushing thirty one. I used to wonder how many years I had left in this game. Being a courier wears on you, if you can survive it. Most don't.

The Wasteland is a fucking pool of lowlifes, thieves, and murderers. People will shoot you for the clothes on your back, so you better believe me when I tell you they'll gut you for a package that might be worth a few caps. I told myself it was a temporary gig at first, just a means to an end. Save up a few caps, go settle down somewhere. Just one more delivery, I kept telling myself. Just enough to get on your feet.

Almost nine years I've been doing this. When I stop to think about it now, I guess a part of always knew I never meant to give it up. Travel the world, all expenses paid, like some pre-War contest brochure. There's a kind of glory to it, the thrill of survival and living off the land. The caps certainly didn't hurt either.

Just one more delivery. Looks like I was right this time. I hear a lighter sparking and I wonder if that's how I'll be done in, lit on fire and left to burn. Painful, but effective. No evidence. Not that anybody would come looking for me and whoever the package belonged to wouldn't know where to start. Five hundred miles of sand and rocks, anything could have happened. Anything is happening.

I was knocked out cold when I stopped to take a piss break. Been awake long enough now to know that I'm dealing with more than one person. Long enough to hear the grave being dug. I hear voices and I lay still, hoping they'll leave if I haven't seen their faces. Maybe it's just thieves. A man can pray, can't he?

"You got what you were after, so pay up." Sounds like a mercenary. Deep voice, impatient. Maybe I'll luck out yet. Mercs don't kill unless they're paid to.

"You're cryin' in the rain, pally," comes the response. When the other voice doesn't speak up, I assume this is the guy in charge. I tug at my restraints as they talk, thinking they're too preoccupied to notice.

"Guess who's waking up over here?" A third voice calls out from the same direction I'd just heard a shovel hit the ground. Shit. The sac is pulled from my face and I can see my kidnappers clearly now. Three of them, two dressed almost like Fiends and another in a strange, checkered suit, smoking a cigarette. So at least I'm not being set on fire. Silver linings.

"Time to cash out." The second voice I'd heard, coming from the checkered suit.

"Would you get it over with already?" First voice, coming from a dark skinned man.

"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"

Khans, as in Great Khans? There goes my hope. I don't know much about 'em, but what I do know is enough to stay clear of them. Checkered Suit drops the smoke and puts it out with his foot, walking towards me. I think I see pity in his eyes, which is strange. I've seen all sorts, but the ones who tie you up, steal from you, the ones who want to kill you, they don't generally care. Nine times out of ten, greed compels them to do what they do. Pity is a luxury. He pulls out the shiny chip, the one that's heavier than any casino chip I've handled and that shines with a metallic gleam, and flashes it in front of my face.

"You've made your last delivery, kid." He slides the chip back into the pocket of his coat, pulling out something else in its place that I can't quite see. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."

Jesus, but does he like to hear himself talk. In spite of that, I can tell he means it. When he says sorry, I believe him. Then I see the gun in his hand, a 9mm with a custom grip, and I stop giving a shit about his apologies. For the first time in a long time, I feel fear. A cold, piercing grip around my heart that freezes me solid. So this is it, I think. After everything, it ends like this. Well fuck you too.

"From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck." I tell myself to run, but I remember the ropes around my ankles. I can't move. Could crawl, but what's the point? Die with dignity. Dignity, right. I'll just ignore the stain on the crotch of my pants. "Truth is... game was rigged from the start."

I hear the explosion of the barrel as he pulls the trigger, muzzle flashing inches from my eyes and blinding me. There's no pain, just the burst of light and then... nothing.