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.
"You got what you were after, so pay up!" The Courier regained consciousness. It took him an instant to gain his bearings. What the Hell happened? The Courier recalled his delivery. Something to do with the Strip, and a poker chip. He tugged at his bound wrists, attempting free himself.
"You're crying in the rain, pally." The Courier looked up. He saw three men. Two where rough and thuggish, wearing some sort of sleeveless leather armor. One had a huge Mohawk, the other a burly moustache. Khans the Courier thought. A once feared raider gang was now shadow of its former self, lost glory. Now all they do is cook chems up in Red Rock. Behind them was the blazing light of the New Vegas Strip, illuminating the darkness of bleak Mojave skyline.
The other man was different. Smoking a cigarette he wore a flamboyant checked suit that made him look like more of clown than a wastelander. His hair was slicked back, he had a suave appearance, which sort of reminded the Courier of a pre-war singer Dean Domino. This guy is from the Strip, no doubt.
"Guess who's waking up over here." The Khan with Mohawk said with a smug tone. The other two looked at the Courier. The man in the checked suit took one last drag on his cigarette, before dropping the butt and stepping it into the sand.
"Time to cash out." The guy in suit turned to the Courier, and looked him in the eye. Shit. The Courier knew enough about gambling understand what the man meant.
"Would you get it over with?" One of Khans said, obviously wanting to be done with the whole thing and get paid. Asshole isn't the one about to get his fucking brains blown out.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?" The Courier had to respect the man in the suit. The Courier has done his fair share of killing and at least this guy knew what it meant to truly take life. It wasn't something you took lightly.
"You've made your last delivery kid." The man in suit flashed a metallic, silver looking poker chip. The Courier studied it for a moment. That's my delivery! What would guy like that want with some half-rate casino trash?
"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene." The man said with sort of remorseful softness in his voice. He put the Chip back in his suit pocket a pulled out an ornate handgun, 9mm by the looks of it.
"From where you're kneeling it must seem like an 18-carat run of bad luck. But, truth is...the game was rigged from the start." The roar of gunfire filled the Courier's ear, just before it happened. He was engulfed with darkness.