Dust. Muttering. Ropes. Bound wrists. Talking.
"You got whatchu were after, so pay up."
"You're crying in the rain, paley."
I blink slowly. Blood in my face. Blow to the head. Everything hurts. I glance around with my eyes, trying not to move my head. Leather boots, a shovel, a shallow grave.
A shallow grave?
"Guess who's waking up over here?" says one of the voices. One that I didn't hear before. I figure there's no point in staying on the ground; slowly I rose my head and looked at the three looking over what was apparently my burial. Two tribal looking men in dirty leather jackets, and one man in a clean checkered suit, with styled, slick black hair. Looks to be straight out of the pre-war films.
He reaches into his suit. "Time to cash out." He says.
"Would you get it over with?" says one of the tribals. Obviously getting antsy.
The checkered suit man raises his hand. "Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"
Slowly he pulls out what he was reaching for; a poker chip, made from a precious metal. The Platinum Chip. My Platinum Chip. My delivery.
"You've made your last delivery kid." He says, flashing the chip in front of me almost mockingly. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."
He puts the chip back in his suit and reaches for something else. "From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck."
He pulls out a pistol. Engraved, decorated, obviously unique. 9 millimeter. Enough to easily kill a man.
"But, truth is..." he mutters, pointing the gun at my face.
"The game was rigged from the start."
A blast. Everything goes white. Silence.
So that's how I got here. That's the beginning of it all, anyway. Like so many other caravaneers, couriers, or anyone else carrying valuables through the Mojave, I get shot down mere hours before hitting New Vegas. So close, yet so far.
Only difference is, I made it out alive. How, I have no clue. Unreal luck, a bad shot, divine intervention. No matter what the cause, I lived. Barely, but I'm here now. Not many people with gunshot wounds to the head get to say that.
This story, my story, starts in the town of Goodsprings. It's a stone's throw from the cemetery where I got shot; maybe that's why I was lucky enough to be found. Like all towns out in the wastes, there ain't shit around. Barely enough water, and food tastes like radroach ass. In other words, it's a huge improvement over most of the communities out there. The best part about it is the beacon of hope in the distance. New Vegas casts a light upon the sky, as if a beacon calling all those who wish to escape from daily hellish realities of their lives. Even for just a night, a man can feel like a king, bathing in the glories of the Old World. Of course these ventures always end with less money in the pockets than before, but the journey's the important thing, right?
New Vegas, the last bastion of the splendor of the Old World. A place for dreamers and schemers, thrill-seekers and killers, and men and women throughout the Mojave. Where fortunes are gained and lost within minutes, and a surprise waits around just about every corner. It's almost enough to make someone forget the death, distress, and the gamma radiation.
What can I say? It's my kind of town. But as I said, that's not where all of this begins. It begins in the house of 'Doc' Mitchell, the resident doctor of Goodsprings. The second of the two people who saved my life from that unfortunate night in the cemetery.
My name is Frost. I'm a courier; the best damn one to ever walk the desert. And I come from beyond the grave.