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, 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 a mysterious overseer, Mr. House and his army of rehabilitated Tribals and police robots. Two armies prepared to spill a massive tribute of blood on the shifting Mojave sands for their visions to be made history. But neither dreams were to pass.

A courier carrying a platinum chip, beneath the notice of the two great armies six weeks earlier, walked across the Hoover Dam to deliver a message from his employer to the bear and bull. Leave the Dam, leave New Vegas, or perish. Mr. House's Securitron army took control of Hoover Dam and The Strip, pushing both the Legion and the exhausted NCR out of New Vegas. Mr. House continued to run New Vegas his way, a despotic vision of pre-War glory. New Vegas continued to be the sole place in the wasteland where fortunes were won and lost in the blink of an eye. The streets were orderly, efficient, cold. New Vegas grew to become the largest and most prosperous city in post-war America, with over three million men and women coming from every stretch of land and walk of life to win the fortune they dreamed of. In such a city, control become more and more expensive to hold. Mr. House found even with his army of robots growing day by day, he could not have the control he once did over the larger city. Organized gangs and crime were stealing the vision of pre-war glory right out from under him. Crime was growing by leaps and bounds every year. The distant but always near autocrat called back his lieutenant from the waste to Vegas to deliver a message once more. There would be subordination, or there would be blood.

Because war, war never changes.

"Copy November five, this is Charlie sixer, how copy?" God, there was blood and bone everywhere. The human form doesn't have a right to look like that. The bodies were rotting and baking in the blistering Mojave heat. Flesh was sagged and sloughed off the bone by the all-seeing sun. A familiar smell, a familiar sight, never one he went without for long. Never pleasant.

"Ten four Charlie sixer, you are ten two, over."

Charlie Sixer sighed, and pressed the pad on the side of his helmet that served as the activation switch for his BMT encrypted tactical radio to transmit. "November five I have a ten fifty at my location, put a ten fifty-three on the west side of block g-four, over." This was the seventh time this week dead bodies were found in this part of Westside, and it was only Wednesday. Charlie Sixer took a respirator out of a pouch on the front of his thigh and tightened it around his face. The static only he could hear echoed in his skull.

"Copy Charlie sixer, orders are ten five. Ten eighteen?"

"Standby."

He walked closer and closer to the bodies. A crowd of civilians in sown-together yellowed molerat skins were staring, their attention divided between him and the wreck. He could see some frightened kids pulling on the pant legs of young women, and them whispering soothing words towards the children. The rest were staring slack-jawed at the crimson life splattered over the pockmarked sidewalk like the blood of those corpses were Picasso's paint, and the litter-covered pavement his canvas. He put two fingers on the neck of the victim. Cold. No pulse. And on to the next one. Cold. No pulse. And onto the third. Cold. No pulse. Charlie Six went to rub his temples, but halfway through he realized he couldn't do that through his helmet. He put his hand down and moved towards the blue-with-flaming-decals Highwayman. It looked a bit less glamourous than a normal one, now that the front of it was making a legion smoke signal jealous. Bricks and rubble were laying around the engine hood, displaced by the impact of crashing into a building at fifty miles an hour. After meticulously cleaning the rubble off the top of the car and bashing some of the brick off the wall from the left-hand side of the car, he opened up the door to see a pinstripe-suited man's head resting on the steering wheel. No blood, a good sign. Charlie put his finger on the driver's neck…

Cold. No pulse.

"November Five this is Charlie Sixer. Ten eighteen is a negative, repeat, ten eighteen is a negative. See if you can get a cleaner here. I'm going to see if I can get the ten twelves away from the ten-fifty until more units arrive on-site."

"Ten four Charlie Sixer."

Charlie Sixer pushed down on the latch by the seat. The trunk popped up in the back. Nothing but an old suitcase, a toolbox, and a yellow plastic barrel labeled aqua pura. He took a picture of the trunk's insides. The sound of shoes hitting the pavement jumped into action behind him. He sighed through the respirator, unholstered his 9mm browning hi-power standard, and turned around, firing a single shot. He shouted as loud as he could under the muffling mask.

"BY THE AUTHORITY OF THE NVPD, IF ANY OF YOU COME FURTHER YOU WILL BE SHOT."

The crowd stared at him, arm raised fiercely towards the air, gun smoking. "All of you, return to your homes. If any of you interfere or tamper with the crime scene, you're going to face six years of hard labor. If I let you live." "But that is our home. It's too smoky inside," a skinny red-haired boy hugging a green stuffed tyrannosaurus rex to his chest replied. Another boy scowled at him accusingly "You're part of it! I bet you set this whole thing up so you could turn my room into another stupid casino! You stupid bug-eyed meanie!" A blonde-haired man, probably the boy's father, clamped his hand over the boy's mouth, while chortling out obviously forced laughter. "Please officer, the little rascal doesn't know what he's talking about. We'll get out of your hair right away, sir! Isn't that right, Randy?" Some very angry words of Randy's were made unintelligible by the older man's hand as he angrily pulled his son away from the fire, smoke, and carnage. Charlie Sixer surveyed the crowd, and they surveyed him.

[Intimidating Presence] "You all have exactly ten seconds to get your ugly, yellow bellied keisters out of here before I pump you full of lead. One, two, TEN!" Charlie placed a few shots into a trash can behind the crowd, and they all scattered in different way, women screaming and men grabbing their children and running. Charlie sighed, and took some more pictures of the bodies and crime scene before shutting the trunk.

"Charlie Six this is November five, how copy?"

"Ten two November five, Charlie Six reads loud and clear."

"We got reports of a ten thirty-one happening half a klick north-east of your position, seems to be a break in. Suspect is black, mid-thirties, Elvis Presley-styled hair, last spotted wearing brown pants and a dark green jacket with skulls and serpents on the back."

"Copy November Five. Think it's that new gang again? What were they called, the ditch slitherers?"

"Tunnel snakes, Charlie Six. They call themselves tunnel snakes. Over."

"Copy that November Five, I think I'll call them butt biters, they're starting to be a real pain in my ass. Moving to the ten thirty-one, over."

Charlie Six sighed. This was going to be a long, long day.