FALLOUT: NEW VEGAS
CHAPTER ONE: WAR NEVER CHANGES
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 the ruins of the old world to build new societies, establishing villages, forming tribes.
As decades passed, what had been the American southwest united beneath the flag of the New California Republic. Dedicated to Old-World values and democracy, and the rule of law. As the republic grew, so did its needs. Scouts set 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 sent it east, to occupy 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 from the conquest of eighty-six tribes.
Caesars Legion.
Four years have past since the Republic held the Dam - just barely – against the Legion's onslaught. But the Legion did not retreat. Across the River, it gathers strength. Campfires burn, 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 re-habilitated tribals and police robots.
Chloe is 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.
/
First, blackness. Blackness and a repetitive scrapping sound. Always there. Scrape, scrape, scrape. This sound was annoying, yet somehow soothing. I always liked repetition.
After a short while, (or what seems like it) the scraping awakens me. The first things I feel are my hands and feet bound, while I'm on my knees. The first thing I smell is cigarette smoke, lingering in the air. The first thing I taste is blood. Slightly coppery, nothing new. The first thing I see assures the first thing I felt.
But the first thing I hear is what truly wakes me up.
It's a rough voice. Most voices are rough, the Mojave does that to you, but this voice sounded…menacing. Like a mercenary. Or maybe…
"We got what you were after, so pay up!" the voice yelled, though I doubt it was towards me. "You're cryin' in the rain, palie." Another voice responded. This voice was…different. Lighter. Softer. More arrogant.
Fully realizing my situation, I tried to unbound my hands. Obviously, I failed. I groaned in a mixture of frustration and panic, and this drew attention to me.
"Look's like someone's wakin' up over here," a third voice said. This was another rough voice. In that short time, still looking at my hands, I figured the arrogant one was not one of the rough-sounding ones. The voices were too different, not just in sound and tone, but…it's hard to explain. We'll just call it a sixth sense, alright?
At this point, I decide to look at whoever was, presumably, about to kill me. My eyes rose to meet three figures, two dressed in black leather outfits. They were obviously the thug types, though I couldn't place which group they were from. They seemed to tough to be Vipers, to stable to be Jackals, and they hadn't killed me or worse, so they weren't Fiends. One was unarmed, the other had a shovel. Realization struck me. Scraping, shovel, me tied up…they were going to kill me, and bury me.
The two men in black leather seemed to be eager to get it over with, and if I'd heard correctly, get paid. Who pays to kill a Courier? I studied the tree for a little more. The men in leather, average thugs. But the man in the middle…I had never seen a man like him…
He wore a black and white checkered suit, and his short black hair had far too much hair gel in it. Far too much. I mean, there had to be at least a whole bathtub of it in there. He was smoking (smoke in the air earlier) a very rare brand of cigarette. Even in the dark, I could tell. I never smoked, but I've delivered enough cigarettes to know which are valuable.
This man in his checkered coat threw his fifty cap cigarette on the ground, and stood on it to put it out, smoke still billowing from his mouth. He looked at me, and I looked at his eyes. You can tell a lot about a man by his eyes. And his eyes…were cold.
"Time to cash out." The checkered man said darkly, as he walked towards me. He looked patient. The thugs, however, did not. "Will you get it over with?" the one on the left asked. The checkered man, a look of minor annoyance passing over his face for a mere second, without turning, raised his index finger to silence the thug. He opened his mouth to speak.
"Maybe Khans kill people without lookin' them in the face," the checkered coat man said, "but I ain't a fink." He looked back at the thug. "Dig?" He turned back to me. He then reached into his coat pocket. That particular gesture indicates 'I have a gun' and so, accordingly, I began to move around, trying to undo my bonds, again with no success.
But instead, he pulls out something sliver and shiny. My delivery item. A poker chip made entirely out of platinum. The checkered coat man stared at me coldly. "You've made your last delivery, kid." He said. So that's what this was about, I thought.
He put the Platinum Chip back in his coat pocket. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene," he said, and this time, he really did pull out a gun. A nine millimeter, like the one I carried. But his was shiny silver.
He looked at the gun, and then me again, while the thugs (Khans?) shifted around, seemingly wanting to leave. "From where you're kneelin'," he said to me "it must seem like an eighteen carat run of bad luck." He looked me in the eye, and smirked. "But the truth is," he said, pointing the gun at my head. Oh, God, this is it, I thought. He cocked it, and the thugs took on expressions of delight.
"The game was rigged from the start."
A loud BANG, a bright flash, slight pain…
Silence.
/
Well, this is going to be my telling of Fallout: New Vegas (duh!). I hope you liked it so far. I'll try to update when I can. Like, subscribe, yadda yadda yadda.
The game was made by Bethesda, not me. If I'd made it, it wouldn't be half as good and Cazadors would cease to exist.
I HATE CAZADORS!
Chris The Cat