A cold, gentle wind blew around the tower. From the brightly lit inside, it was nearly silent, except for the gentle creaking of metal. It was a blazing needle of light, even among the other buildings of New Vegas, piercing the fog that had settled around the strip. New Vegas itself was the seed of humanity's future, a phoenix rising from the ashes of the world.
A medium-height, thickly built figure stood in the checkered suit of a deceased huckster, looking out the window of the cocktail lounge. He had dark tan skin and wavy brown hair, and his face was lined, despite him only being 34 years old. The last two years had aged him. Worse than the scars on his skin were those in his mind. He felt flush with accomplishment and hope for the future, but at the same time, his memories were a minefield of searing depression and regret.
Part of it was the terrible things that his once-friends had said to him when they learned of the power-play. But most of it was recalling everything he had done in the name of progress. He had to constantly convince himself that his actions had been worth it, that a few innocent deaths, and a large number of less innocent ones, were worth it. After all, there was no viable alternative.
The Courier looked down at the street to the north, in the poorer areas of Freeside. It was darker, with fewer lights and neon signs. Two skinny young children, with pale skin and short, dark hair, were kicking around a bundle of rags, using it as a soccer ball. The streets were cracked and dirty.
On the opposite side, on the Strip, men and women in abraxo-scrubbed suits walked along freshly-paved roads, confidently, if a little nervously. The area was emptier than normal. Following the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, the NCR quickly retreated from the region, taking with it half of the Strip's normal clientele. Wealthy NCR civilians still came and went, many of them relieved by the lack of rowdy troopers, despite efforts by Kimball and Oliver's constituents to paint the new Mojave Protectorate as a traitorous enemy.
The Courier opened an ancient bottle of scotch, poured it into a small glass, and then downed most of it in two rapid gulps. It made him feel easy, taking his attention away from his problems. Every once in a while, he would see an empty whiskey bottle or a single cigarette and think of his companions, those people who had risked their lives to get him where he was now. But they were just stepping stones, tools of people with greater ambition. If they didn't agree with him or his new allegiance, then they were shortsighted fools, and their absence-whether due to death or neglect-should have been welcomed.
It was a month after the battle, the legendary conflict that had been a gambit for so many. Freeside and the Hoover Dam were secured, and although resistance elsewhere would be fierce, it would also be brittle and over quickly.
Following the power vacuum of the retreating NCR, there was a brief and intense period of anarchy around the Mojave. Warlords arose, as they will, and consolidated power over the towns and regions of the desert. Many individuals took revenge on the oppressive armies of the Bear and the Bull, striking at them at every opportunity and knowing that they were too exhausted and depleted from the years of fighting to punish them.
When the Securitrons' control was extended from the Strip and Dam to the rest of the Mojave, new dreams-advances unheard of to nearly everyone born after the bombs dropped-could be realized. Robert House had boasted of his plan to refurbish an old Corvega factory, to build cars for both sale to wealthy people on the Strip and for transportation of supplies and his own personnel. He'd also planned hydroponic farms to create a food surplus, and to manufacture TVs, radios, and personal computers for the people of the Protectorate. The Courier was never sure of how much of it was true. The eccentric industrialist surely kept a lot of things to himself. Among them was just how he was still alive-even after completing the man's century-long gambit, and tying up odds and ends all over the place, he still couldn't know. He was starting to think that House was actually an AI.
And of course, there was the plan to get the McCarran-Strip train to run on time, which was pretty much a summation of House's personality. Most of what the monorail did now was ferry Securitrons to McCarran for maintenance, and then bring back fresh robots, along with spare batteries and supplies.
The Courier usually traveled with two former Enclave soldiers, "Cannibal" Johnson and Judah Kreger, preferring to avoid keeping a robot entourage with him. The Securitrons, although very capable, were still seen as authoritative and oppressive by many people. The Courier didn't want others to think that his fiery independent spirit was extinguished. House had chafed under the idea that he keep former Enclave personnel around, but accepted them on his certainty that the Enclave was destroyed as an organized force and unlikely to ever recover. Occasionally, older folks would see the distinctive bulbous eyes and reptilian snout of their armor and tense up, even though it was painted green and sandy-white to evoke a sense of protection.
The Enclave remnants had little opposition to the Courier working for House. This made sense-he was similarly committed to making the world like it was before the war. The remnants, having supported the genocidal President Richardson 40 years ago, were hardly fazed by anything that House had done to solidify his position, before or after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. The Courier wasn't sure if House was aware of the Enclave's history; at any rate, he decided not to bring it up.