Foreword: To all my readers, hello, and thank you for clicking a link to this story of mine: Nameless Grave. Before we begin our tale into the lives and conflicts of the Mojave Wasteland and the surrounding region I'd like to lay down a few bits and pieces to establish what's going to happen with this retelling:

Firstly, to say this is largely based upon Fallout: New Vegas is a drastic understatement. When I say retelling I mean I have actually gone through and tried to be as accurate as I can on directly quoting characters the courier speaks with. Naturally, it makes sense to mention of course that what I am therefore writing about is almost entirely the property of Bethesda and Obsidian, barring references to songs who belong to their respective owners, and most of the Courier's backstory, which I have personally tailored around the vague outline Obsidian has given me.

Second, before anyone asks, I will be covering the DLCs. I've tried to set them throughout the story far enough apart so as not to take too much away from the core action, which takes place in the Mojave itself as many of you will already know, while also setting good points for the Courier to take 'downtime' so to speak, where a lull in the main storylines can be engineered to justify leaving. As this is not a sandbox videogame, time will not stand still even as the dates trickle by while the Courier faffs about the Big Empty, and he will not be the sole catalyst that drives the story. Sometimes other people will take care of sidequests that the player is theoretically capable of completing three years after being shot in the head. I have no need to pander to a player character's freedom, and thus this won't be the case. So to pull this off I'll be adding a few original characters into the Wastes to take the role of additional 'player characters' so to speak. I've kept the number of originals to a minimum in an attempt to avoid disrupting the work too much, but I use them to help further portray the sense of time flowing onwards in the Mojave. If Six is busy doing a job in Novac, someone else might be killing Fiend leaders in Outer Vegas. Hopefully you'll find it adds to the narrative.

Third, as touched on in the first point, I have given this Courier a backstory. I could list many reasons, but the main point is that it's to make the story more interesting. This isn't your Courier Six, it's mine, you're not playing as him, you're reading about him. It's a different media, so its a different approach.

Fourth, a note before people wonder; nope, I'm not telling you which faction the Courier will support, and no, I'm not telling you which sidequests he'll complete along the way, that'd ruin the surprise. Yes, he'll complete some. Many quests I've streamlined for the sake of helping the story run smoothly. Often a quest will involve fetching random objects or running back and forth a few times to carry messages to people. This is fine in the game world where the road between Goodsprings and Primm is thirty seconds on the road, but the real Mojave is considerably larger in scope. How much larger? Truth be told I haven't a clue, so if you find the timestamps on how fast or slow the Courier travels off, just go with it. I'm not perfect, and I've never even touched American soil. Which leads us to our fifth and final point so we can hit the story.

I don't live in America. Never been there, never even gone north of the equator. As such, I've been brought up being taught how to spell real English, the kind with all the 'u's. I considered trying to keep with the alternative spellings, but ultimately I simply can't manage it. It's deeply programmed that I spell correctly (barring the occasional typo) and I simply can't bring myself to write in that... other way.

Hahaha, okay, I'll shut up with the foreword now. If anyone cares to ask me any questions somewhere other than , I'm an active member on the New Vegas boards of GameFAQs, both Xbox and Playstation, though the Xbox board is more crowded, so I'm usually found there. Without further ado:

Dead Man's Hand

Viva Las Vegas: 2025!

A tower lit up, framed beautifully against the night stars with the moon, enormous and blue hanging over its shoulder like a doting lover. Seated upon the spire, a wheel not unlike the sort seen in casinos for roulette. A picture celebrating glamour and ambition in a different time. Inside things had remained the same, but outside humanity had made no attempt at pause. Life had gone on... and ended.

The sign outside, lit up with neon and flashing lights, clearly christened the great tower as 'The Lucky 38'. A casino with a revolving cocktail lounge and a view of the surrounding lands for miles in all directions. Someone had kindly spray painted a 't' over the 'v' telling the owner what they thought of his idea of a nauseating upstairs eatery.

The streets of what had once been this world-renowned city were not quiet tonight either, nor had they been for some time. Alight with flame as always, the seductive signature of another casino cut itself out against the sky, this one far more the temptress than the Lucky 38's stark statement of size. 'Gomorrah' read the sign, flanked by the silhouettes of two seated ladies, a leg in the air each in invitation for any man (or woman) to saunter on through the door for more than just a game of blackjack.

A contingent of patrons stumbled down the street, one patriotically waving a flag above his head and not looking up at it lest the fluttering shape tug his stomach until it escaped through his mouth. Past the other casinos, hotels and more, the former southern entrance to the city, long walled off, still held onto its name, or at least its new one. The sign, standing tall and proud, reaching over the wall that separated it from the broken slums of the less wealthy beyond, was home to another kind of silhouette, this one with intentions far removed from the girls of Gomorrah.

It shifted, and a gloved hand rose to a small dial set in the temple of a helmet. Two panes of thick glass flashed red as the technology in them once again hummed to life, and the world through the viewer's eyes was suddenly represented through heat signatures. The duster flapped in the cold night air, and the gloved hand returned down, gripping the barrel of the rifle. Resting it on the sign's edge, he surveyed the streets where those without money prowled. It was home to more than those who lacked wealth though; those who lacked sanity, made worse by a lack of drugs prowled the south and west beyond the wall now. Aha, a warm body of red through the blue!

A single bang exploded, muffled inside the helmet but no doubt heard by both the drunken patrons in the decadent street and the parasites amongst the dilapidated buildings on the other side.

A bullet whizzed away from the sign, leaving behind what was once called 'Las Vegas' to go on its own journey through the skull of some drug addict down in the streets, clutching futilely to some rifle in dire need of repair who collapsed backwards, their last thoughts of just one more burst of some chemical through their body leaking out the newborn hole in the back of their head, alongside the brain matter that had long since ceased to function properly.

It bounced along the ground, its grand journey ending almost as soon as it began, the metal misshapen after its impact with the solid concrete of broken pavement. It came to rest in a ditch somewhere, another story in Vegas that ended with a bullet.

Further away, hidden in the darkness and kneeling over the hilltop, the glass eyes of binoculars shifted away from the keen eyes of an explorer. Thrust into the earth beside him a flag of his allegiance fluttered, a fellow contender for the desert's riches. His arm rose and he gestured to his east; there was nothing down there to see them from this far away. Their clandestine actions would go unnoticed tonight. Behind him his brothers darted across the ridge, boots crunching on the earth as they ran. It was their mission to learn, and learn they had. Now they would return, report their findings, strengthen the ranks with the power of knowledge.

The desert winds picked up again, blowing dust over the roads that spider-webbed throughout the region, most cracked and broken over years without maintenance.

All outside felt the chill. Some turned away from it, hiding behind jackets, coats, blankets, or just the defensive caress of a sheet of iron. Some stared into it, boldly declaring their strength to the night. Some moved with it, using its encouragement to bolster their travels.

Some ignored it, like the small party standing on the hilltop. They had more important things to attend to than which way the wind was blowing.

Like the unconscious body lying tied up only a few feet away from them, or the grave they were digging for it to occupy.

~O~

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 of 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 mobilised 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: 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 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 rehabilitated tribals and police robots.

Amidst it, a single courier, hired by the Mojave Express to deliver a package to the New Vegas Strip. What seemed like a simple delivery job though, took a turn for the worse...

~O~

"You got what you were after, so pay up."

"You're crying' in the rain, pally."

The words drifted through the air, vaguely drilling through the ringing in his ears. He was on the ground, cold dirt in his face. As vision returned, the first thing that became apparent were the gloves over his hands, far too big, so as to make him clumsy if he tried to escape. Roped around his wrists, keeping them secure over his digits was a tightly bound knot. He gave it a few experimental twists, straining against his bindings, seeing if he could find weakness anywhere along the ropey snakes that held his hands together. Nothing.

"Guess who's waking up over here?" came another voice. That made three separate people now, all men.

All right, they already had him hostage. Might as well see what he was dealing with.

He looked up, and one became immediately obvious, taking one last puff of a cigarette before tossing it to the ground and stamping it out. He wore the kind of shoes the businessmen of the Old World must have adored. They hadn't been worn long either, judging by how clean they were. His pale cream coloured pants made for a figure far from menacing, leading up to a checkered suit that did well in distinguishing the wearer from any other faceless wanderer across the desert. Underneath it, a plain white shirt and tie, another Old World vestment seen only on faded billboards and whatever was left of ragged photos. His hair was slicked back, an effect that could only have come from use of some kind of product, a rarity these days; most were more concerned with day-to-day survival than something like clean, good looking hair. The picture was enough to make a guess at this man's origins.

The other two flanking him were considerably less pretty. To Checkers' left was one who looked sure he was the life of the party; a spiked mohawk a jarring orange dominated an otherwise shaven head, darkened by the once again returning hair. Wrapped around his forehead, holding a few of the spikes down was a bandana, held up by the brows of excitable eyes. A thick line of facial hair ran along his jaw to frame his face, and his mouth hung open as he watched the cigarette's life stamped out on the dirt. A black sleeveless jacket kept the air off his torso, leaving his muscular arms exposed to the cold. His hands sought refuge in a pair of gloves, probably biker issue. He wore two separate pairs of lower body attire: a pair of flaring shorts that covered the top half of some nondescript pants, ending in large boots, the kind of someone who could have and likely will walk a long way through a variety of terrain. Rocking back and forth on his legs in anticipation, Mr. Excitable carried a shovel. Based on the hole in the ground, it wasn't just for knocking out couriers.

The man on the other side wore clothing identical to Excitable, but his skin was darker, as was his hair. A thick moustache concealed the space between his mouth and his nose, and his eyes, like granite, moved from the courier kneeling on the ground to the man in the checkered suit. The bandana on his head, green, knotted the same as Excitable's, sat out more boldly on his forehead against the features of an older man.

"Time to cash out," came the voice of Checkers. Suave, chummy, the sort of man who could easily buy you a drink, talk your ear off, and somehow get you to sign a contract without batting an eye or making you suspicious. The kind of voice heard only from the mouth of a man with a plan, and a tongue that shone silver.

Stache threw his arms wide, clearly eager to be done with things. "Will you get it over with?" he demanded, his voice marking him as the first one to be heard upon waking. Checkers' hand flicked up, a pointer finger speared in the air as he shushed him.

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

What the hell was this man talking about? Finks? Khans? Irrelevant now, one word seemed far more important as Checkers' spared a glance over at Stache. 'Kill'? That was a bit harsh, wasn't it?

Now Checkers' was rummaging in his suit pockets. He let out a sigh as he produced it; a small silver object, no bigger than a coin, exactly the same shape. A poker chip, platinum. He was being murdered over a poker chip?

"You've made your last delivery kid. Sorry you got twisted up in this scene," Checkers' said softly, in a tone that was almost a believable apology were it not immediately followed by a second rummage in his suit, this time producing something silver, and considerably more alarming than a poker chip: a handgun, slender and deadly.

"From where you're kneeling it must seem like an eighteen carat run of bad luck," Checkers' continued. Stache scratched his head, his conscience weighing in on the scene in a disapproving manner. Excitable just looked back and forth from the gun to the courier's face over and over, waiting for the moment he knew was coming.

The pistol pointed at his head, and for a moment the courier stared down the barrel as his life unwound before his eyes. There was so much left to do. So much more he could see. He still had to go home.

"Truth is the game was rigged from the start."

The flash that exploded from that gun must have been what people had seen years ago, moments before the bombs that annihilated the Old World had claimed their lives. Perhaps, from afar, it was how the universe had seemed when it first began, as his mother had described: an explosion, one that had been a beginning instead of an end.

He barely had time to process that though, before the bullet, propelled by the explosion of beginnings and the explosion of endings, tore into his skull and his existence winked out, taking a bow and retreating from the stage that called itself the Mojave, and a curtain of darkness descended, blotting out the stars, the moon, Checkers and his friends, and the lit up tower sitting in the distance.

That night, in the cemetery of Goodsprings, a package courier was felled in the name of a Platinum Chip.

~Dead Man's Hand: The dead man's hand is a two-pair poker hand, namely "aces and eights". This card combination gets its name from a legend that it was the five-card-draw hand held by Wild Bill Hickok, when he was murdered on August 2, 1876, in Saloon No. 10 at Deadwood, South Dakota.

~Nameless Grave~

"All roads wind down to the same spot. The Grave."

One

The Road of the Fool:

Dual Jokers