"Your face does the thinking - two to the skull, yet one gets up. Odds are against you... but they're just numbers after the two-to-one.
You're playing the hand you've been dealt, but you don't let it rest, you shuffle and stack, and a gamble... a gamble that may pay off? But how?"
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Angel looked out across the flattened battlefield-
Watching the morning's first rays touch New Vegas. First red and purple blanketed the hills to the east, off toward the Colorado, and then up to the tens of dozens of corpses surrounding her.
She liked the way the sun felt on her face. Even now. It helped distract her from what they just did, the smears of blood drying to the leather bound over her armor. Her inability to stop the drenched shortblade from trembling in her right hand.
It had become tiring; going from one fight to the next. Forgetting how many people you kill in a day. But thinking about giving up is when she remembers. What was tucked away in a carefully concealed pouch attached to her hip, underneath her binoculars.
The young woman glanced up to the sky, sharp hazel eyes catching something unseen. It has to be like this, she thought. In a world of compulsive destruction with the absence of nature, the chip had the ability to bring back the balance it needed.
Revolution.
A coup d'état that could fit in a pocket. It was no longer a question of semantics as much as it was simply what she had to do...
Courier Six; deliver the platinum chip. Although this time "delivery" would take on new meaning.
The sunlight grew to warm the desert, and a .308 popped off not too far away. Boone. Since all of the militia who chose to stay and fight either used knockoff NCR carbines or varmints it was enough to know he survived. The raiders were gone. She spotted his bluish silhouette on the edge of the west ridge, outline of a red beret sitting perfectly on his head.
In that familiar rush of relief she tapped a cigarette out of her silver-trimmed case and felt for her lighter. Inhaling the flavor of the old world, she starts her walk across the no-man's-land.
"Hardly any salvage," the ex-sniper said in his low monotone. Having regrouped with Angel in the middle of the aftermath they stood face to face while the surviving militiamen poked through bodies.
"I got a couple microfusion packs," her voice was like silk against the wind. "Two frags, some small arms to strip down, enough water to last a few days; what's to complain about?"
"Food. We don't have any."
"Oh, right..." she folded back the front of her slim leather overcoat, "I also got this."
"You've got to be kidding me.." Boone replied in disgust, addressing the can of pork 'n beans. She half-grinned knowing that was exactly what he'd say. "Nope. That's breakfast, unless you want to shell out all your caps to those villagers over there," she puts out the cigarette with the heel of her boot. "We should get moving before scavengers show up." Her hands hadn't stopped shaking yet, but they were overstaying their welcome.
"You realize how close we cut it, right?"
"Yeah."
"We'd be dead if they weren't on watch."
"I know," she didn't meet his momentary stare. He was probably just mad about eating three-hundred year old beans anyway. "We'll be careful on the way back."
By now most of the militia had dragged their dead back to the village and disappeared. No thanks or anything. The two were on their own again, travelling from one backwater to the next, headed southwest.
By the time the sun hung low on the horizon they had passed Ranger Station Charlie and were almost back on the main roads. Cutting through Scorpion territory had paid off. Now they just needed to avoid Nipton and reach the Mojave Outpost in one piece.
By nightfall.