Howdy guys and ghouls, a few years ago I did a stab at writing fanfic. These stories are posted in my siggy and were fairly well received if I do say so myself. I took a detour in my fanfic preferences when I discovered Mass Effect. Having burned out my eezo reserves, I find myself drawn back to the post apocalyptic wasteland of the Falloutverse. Specifically to the universe of my first fanfic, Old World Blues. I started this a few months ago. this will be a bigger story, tackling many of the themes of Fallout. My work situation is different then when I wrote the original, not to mention this will be a bigger story, so I'm not sure how often I'll be able to publish coming chapters. Anyway, this is the first chapter in my new saga. Please tell me what you think. I suggest you read the original to refresh your memory and to get a context of the present universe.

New World Hope

History is the autobiography of a madman. -Alexander Hertzen.

War. War never changes.-Traditional.

Chapter 1

The crowds were howling with bloodlust like a thousand-strong pack of starving wolves. The arena was a reverberating cacophony of hands and feet banging on metal and steel. They looked below onto the ring with feverish anticipation. Hundreds of them, packed together like matchsticks. The air stank of sweat, blood, alcohol, chems. The mad throngs were crammed together except for one. One person stood apart, standing above the centre of the ring, sitting on a throne that had once belonged to Julius Caesar. Red Lucy sat on the throne, a glossy hunting shotgun resting in her lap, holding a smoldering cigarette in her hand. She inhaled deeply, the small butt flaming bright red as any scorching flame. Exhaling she flicked the flaming cigarette into the ring. The Thorn was having another sanguine, boisterous and profitable night.

There was one who watched who wasn't twinned with the mob's ferocity. She stood alone, at the back, leaning against the wall, pressing herself against the wall so hard one could imagine she was trying to merge with the dirty wall behind her. Her eyes fixed on the arena. Her eyes a mix of anxiety and anger. She was young, in her mid twenties, with long blonde hair tied into a pontytail. Her arms were tightly crossed, her hands clenched into fists. Trickles of blood and sweat slowly dripped from her closed hands.

The arena had changed over the years. Thick iron bars now lined the top, built into the walls. Behind a series of 3 barbed wire gates stood a small, figure. He wore ragged clothes but his short hair was finely cropped and there was little grime on his face. He paced about nervously, glancing at the ground, his hands buried deep in his pockets. A small brown satchel pack hung from his left arm, tucked tightly against his chest, the crest of the Followers of the Apocalypse sewn into it. Two guards armed with tranquilizer pistols stood near him, while they were there to guard him, their attention was focused on the ring.

"Is the Thorn ready to rumble?!" The MC shouted, even with the equipment and dozens of speakers he barely made himself heard over the roar of the crowd.

"Your last bout of the night. The one you've been waiting for! In the south corner we have Randy the Radscorpion. Randy's fully grown, 6 months old and tonight he's gonna bust his cherry. Will he survive a second fight? He'll be in tough, because in the north corner we have everyone's favourite ex-Enclave runt." The crowd's roar increased even more in volume.

"He fought for the old world and lost, but now he fights for you. A lifetime record of 139-45-33, standing at 6 foot 6, weighing in at 235 pounds. He used to have a name but who gives a [censored]! It's the Thorn's lifetime reigning champion: Snot Boogie!" The Thorn exploded with metal clattering and bestial howls of the crowd. The banging became less chaotic as the crowd banged metal floors and walls in a militaristic pattern, like hundreds of drum majors setting the frantic pace. They chanted relentlessly with no wavering in volume or pace. SNOT-BOOGIE! SNOT-BOOGIE! SNOT-BOOGIE!

Behind the bars of the south corner, a young Radscorpion paced around it's small cell. It's carapace was light blue, not yet fully ossified. Confused and scared by the noise and confined cell. It's claws grabbed the bars, trying to bite its way through them. It couldn't conceive the figure behind bars 50 feet to the south. The figure was human, abnormally muscled. His skin was white but littered with scars, bruises and barely healed wounds. His nose was misshaped and crooked, pointing to the left, mucus forming a steady river down to his mouth. His head was shaven clean and his deep-set brown eyes were almost recessed into his skull, as if they were trying to find a way to escape from the horror of existence. Though he stood tall his muscled legs trembled. In his right hand he held a hatchet. The hatchet's handle was dripping with sweat and Snot Boogie gripped it as tightly as he could. The boxing tape lining his hands stained brown and soaking wet. He was looking down on the ground, afraid to look up, afraid to see what was in store for him, though he knew all-too well.

There was the sharp tolling of a bell and a grinding sound as the bars of the cage lifted. The crowd roared but Snot Boogie didn't hear them. He placed the hatchet in front of him and paced forward. His peripheral vision blocked out everything except the creature in front of him. His mind had the same singular focus. Deep in his mind, he knew what would come later and the pain it would bring. Put he'd long learned to bury such things deep in his mind. But like weeds they kept rising to the surface. The roots pristine.

The scorpion paced forward a few feet and then stopped. It paced from side to side, confused and disoriented. The lights. The noises. Trying to escape and finding none. Then it saw the tall figure approaching. It's posture straightened, it's stinger rose and extended its claws menacingly. It flexed its mandibles. The man didn't back away but closed the distance to seven feet and paced to his right, slowly nearing the cage from which the creature had emerged. The two combatants circled another. The scorpion stuck out it's left claw in warning.

The scorpion lunged forward and brought it's stinger down. Though large and heavy Snot Boogie moved with blinding speed and agility. Almost too fast for the naked eye. Almost too fast for the young scorpion. Snot Boogie dodged to the left but he wasn't quick enough. The scorpion's claw reached for Snot Boogie's leg. He leapt backwards but wasn't quick enough. The pincer closed in on his ankle. Snot Boogie fell hard on his back. The only sound he heard that was louder than his back slamming against the floor was the sickening crunch of bone being crushed. He looked up to the stinger which came downward again. He moved to his right, his mobility impeded by the grip on his ankle and the scorching pain he felt. The stinger landed just inches from his head.

Snot Boogie leapt onto the Scorpion's head, using his trapped ankle as a pivot point. The hatchet swung quickly and violently, smashing into the scorpion's eyes, breaking through the carapace with unnatural ease and striking violence. A dozen strokes befell the creature, the hatchet tearing through the brain cavity like it was warm jelly. Gore and blood dripped onto the cold, dirty floor. The Scorpion slumped, it's legs buckled and it remained immobile. Snot Boogie crawled away, retrieving his bloodied ankle from the scorpion's now limp claw. The entire encounter lasted less than a dozen seconds.

The crowd erupted in joy, chanting his name. Snot Boogie looked above, through the cage he saw the crowd's celebratory faces. But he took no joy in victory, in their adulation. It was perverted. The cheers were not for him. But for the murderous acts he partook in him. The caps and chips they spent didn't come to him. They cared not for him. They'd cheered for others like him but were now dead and forgotten. The crowd had no memory of them. If he would die someone else would take his place.

The woman's body relaxed somewhat, though not fully. She bolted out of away from the crowd, her face wearing a familiar anger, like an old pair of shoes, mixed with some relief. The relief was tinged with the knowledge that it would be short lived, soon to be replaced with fear and anxiety. She walked briskly, her eyes not looking anywhere but straight ahead. A few men made passes at her but she ignored them. She climbed up the ladder and left the Thorn, sighing with relief when the cold air hit her face.

The cage doors from the side opened. Three men emerged. Two guards wearing combat armour and yielding tranquilizer guns. They aimed them directly at the wounded fighter, their eyes were cold and alert. The Follower's medic emerged from behind the guards. Snot Boogie frowned at them. He pivoted on his knees. Using his good foot he tried to raise himself. The medic appeared beside him, linking their arms he helped him up. He hobbled on his one good foot, leaning on the medic to hobble out of the ring. Away from the infernal cacophony of the crowd's rabid and temporarily satiated rage.

The guards followed a dozen feet behind them, their guns still levelled on him, as if he weren't wounded at all, as if he wasn't human. Just a dangerous animal who couldn't be let out of his cage for very long. The hallway was dank and dark. They passed by other cages. Some were filled with animals such as Nightstalkers, Radscorpions, one had a newborn deathclaw. Some were empty.

They came to the last cage, opened and they led Snot Boogie inside. The cell was dark, with only a small hole pointing to the outside world. The wall and bars were littered with scratch marks and dents. Old blood stains. The cell contained a toilet, soiled and dirty, it was almost as black as the floor. An old soiled mattress lay unceremoniously on the floor. Otherwise the cell was empty, it held no personal possessions.

Snot Boogie was lowered to the mattress. The guards closed the gate behind them. The medic opened his satchel bag. He retrieved a stimpak and jabbed it into Snot Boogie's left leg. Snot Boggie didn't react to the syringe penetrating his skin. It wasn't even a pinprick to him. The fighter's skin was a biblical tale of combats won and lost. Bruises, contusions, scars, calluses, a crooked nose, three missing teeth, his left arm was slightly shorter than his right, owing to an improperly healed broken forearm. His hair was kept shaven, there was the perennial trail of snot leading form his misshapen nose. No matter how often he inhaled through his nose, the salty ooze would resume its journey.

Snot Boogie groaned in discomfort. After the stimpak was drained of its fluid the medic placed the empty syringe back in his back. He retrieved a rag and a bottle of purified water. He doused the rag in the water and then cleaned Snot Boogie's wound. Once it was cleaned he wrapped it in a gauze bandage. The medic stood up wearily. Snot Boogie curled up on the mattress like a spurned, lonely child. The medic sighed as he turned around and nodded to the guards. He noted a third figure joined them. He couldn't see her owing to the darkness but he knew who it was. The guards cautiously opened the door. The medic rushed out and the gate slammed shut behind him with a deafening thud.

"What is Snot's condition?" Red Lucy asked.

"He has a name." The medic insisted.

"Snot Boogie is his name." Red Lucy replied. "He's not a man, but a beast. A beast that tried to take our Vegas from us. Have you forgotten so quickly?"

"How could I?" The medic answered. He'd lost more lives than he'd saved that day. One of those too few precious lives was this boy. Now he wished he hadn't.

"After everything that's happened, why can't you let him go?" The medic pleaded.

"Because this is the Thorn." Red Lucy replied flatly. She frowned at the medic, as if the question came from an entirely different universe of thought from our own. The medic sighed.

"The claw punctured through to the bone. With the implants it'll take a week to fully heal." He said clinically after finishing his examination.

"Well done, Tom. Here is your payment." Red Lucy reached into the pocket of her duster and retrieved ten inhalers of Ultrajet. Tom hurriedly reached for the drugs and stuffed them in his satchel. He then scurried away, like a roach frightened by the light. Red Lucy turned to look at her quarry. He was facing away from her, looking at the small aperture in his cell from which the sun would emerge. Soon. He hoped. He rubbed his hand to wipe the leaking mucus from his face.

She looked down at the Thorn's most profitable quarry. Nearly five years he'd been here. He was the last of the Enclave to survive. In the beginning she promised them freedom if they fought well. A promise she never had any intention of fulfilling. They'd come to deny her freedom and the freedom of all Westside, Vegas and the Mojave. Why should she grant them that? It was great sport, setting them against another, tearing another apart like rabid dogs. How quickly the bonds of comradeship were severed. How weak and pitiable he was, despite his immense physical strength and all the implants installed within him. He could bend the bars of his cell with enough effort, yet he lacked the will to do so. The constant fights had reduced him to a child's state. Years ago he'd come here wearing power armour, murdering her friends and neighbors with his plasma rifle. They considered wastelanders impure, subhuman. Looking down at him, it was clear who was impure and subhuman. This was justice.

The morning sun rose with tangible sloth over Hoover Dam. Like a lumbering beast reluctant to move on. The moon remained partially visible in the sky, as if it were reluctant to cede it's place to its celestial brother. The air was dry and still. Even the waters below seemed immobile. The spring had passed with nary a notice, and another scorching summer loomed. Approaching from the east, a large convoy approached. Fifty men and women, some children even. All wearing lopsided and overloaded rucksacks and duffle bags. Their cheap wasteland clothes all torn and worn. Some wore blood stained bandages. A few had arms in slings. Half a dozen pack brahmin, each packed well above what the animals could normally carry. The brahmins whined with each breath, as if they were slaves being driven to the death by the master's whip. Their approach was seen for miles.

There was no one else on the eastern road. The eastern road's concrete continued to rot away in the sun and the sand. Few travellers journeyed onto this road. The legends of Dog Town were heard far and away. The anarchic tribes were another reason. Once they'd been part of the Legion but even though it had been dead only a few short years, it's name long receded into the towering volume of forgotten history. But like all history, even long forgotten, its roots run deep and its branches could stretch out beyond infinity. With no cohesive identity, the tribes reverted to their former atavistic identities. Small towns and trading hubs that had prospered under the Legion's brutal tutelage become barren and empty, their populations scattered, [censored] or murdered. Few dared to walk the roads, fewer still the mountains where the tribes roamed. That made this large convoy even more remarkable.

The dam itself slowly stirred. It's underbelly whirring, generating electricity for New Vegas, the workers below diligently working to keep the ancient wonder alive. On the dam itself, dormant Securitrons stood a stationary vigil. Two for every hundred meters. The towers each hosted a spotter and sniper. A dozen soldiers manned the borders crossing. Two huts stood on the east side of the dam, only one of which was open, owing to the lights emanating from it, a maze of barbed wire herding any visitor to pass into the customs building and out the rear, onto the dam. Soldiers on patrol, nearing the end of their night shift, became alert again, watching intently the arriving party. A party this size couldn't traverse without being heavily armed and suffering heavy casualties.

The convoy stopped a dozen feet away from the building entrance. A man emerged from the throng and cautiously walked towards the customs building. The convoy stopped. Some sat on the cold ground, all groaning in relief at unloading their packs. Some drank water. Two guards eyed him and the party nervously. The soldiers wore desert camouflaged armour, dusters with reinforced padding and attachments for canteen, grenades and extra magazines. The soldiers' helmets were lying on a table next to the door. Thick combat helmets with goggles and facemask. Modelled on the Courier's favourite armour he'd found in the Divide. The shoulders were emblazoned with the flag of the Ace of Spades. Their kept their rifles ready, service rifles upgraded to hold 12.7mm rounds, based on one of the Courier's favourite weapons, found in the towering peaks of Zion.

The man eyed the soldiers with a strange mix of relief and caution. Though he was in truth in his early forties, he looked at least 15 years older. His face was withered and scarred, his hair prematurely grey and thin, his tired eyes dark brown, almost black. His skin was burnt red. His thick grey beard littered with sand, as if sand were part of his facial hair. He opened the door and went inside in a flurry, his eagerness to reach this point all too apparent. Inside was a large room with booths, only one was occupied. Standing behind it was a young soldier, her face was marked by old tribal tattoos and her arms by faint track marks and her tired eyes were curious. Her right hand hovered near her holstered sidearm. Her short brown hair was dishevelled, tucked away behind her was bedroll, her body's outline clearly visible.

"We don't see too many convoys coming from the east." She said, her voice not masking curiosity and a small bit of wonderment.

"We had to flee Colorado." The old man said, his voice was ragged and quiet, reflecting his parched state. The soldier reached underneath and retrieved a bottle of water and handed it to the old man. The old man feverishly grabbed it, ripping off the cap he shoved the bottle in his mouth, tipping his head back. His throat eagerly swallowed every drop. He squeezed the bottle, eager to squeeze every last drop, to increase the rate the sweet liquid poured into his throat. In seconds it was gone. The water was as sweet as wine. He nodded and smiled to her when he'd finished.

"Where you from?" The soldier asked.

"A town. We held our own against the tribals for a few years. But we couldn't keep fighting them off. So we fled. We heard about this place. A place where people can begin again. We lost a lot of people."

"So you wish to settle. What's the name of this village?" The soldier asked. Her tired eyes though sympathetic, thoroughly professional.

"We called it Butterfly. Don't know about the pre-war name. My name's Mason. David Mason." The old man answered, almost robotically. A rehearsed answer. It was a lie, but Mason knew the best lies held a kernel of truth.

"What kind of gear have you got packed?" The soldier asked.

"Food. Medicine. Clothes. Personal items."

"Weapons." The soldier said firmly. it wasn't a question. No one could come from the east unarmed. Outside soldiers arrived and began inspecting the packs of the visitors.

"Of course." The old man didn't deny it.

"What kind?" She asked.

"Energy weapons mostly." He answered. The soldier raised an eyebrow.

"Where did you get those from?" She asked pointedly.

"We inherited them. Our village was near an old military bunker." The man explained. He reached into his pocket and retrieved worn piece of paper.

He unfolded it and gave it to the soldier. "That's a full inventory."

The soldier arched her eyebrows. "We wish to settle. We have no hostile intentions."

The soldier nodded with a tinge of skepticism. "We'll have to confiscate most your weapons. One per person is the most we'll allow. There's still a lot of wildlife out there. If this list is accurate you can go on in. Any discrepancies and I won't be happy." Her tone reflected someone completely unafraid to show her displeasure and to inflict it upon others. The old man nodded and looked out the window, seeing his men and women's things being searched.

"You will find it accurate. One more thing." He said. "May I have some water, to distribute to my men and animals?"

The soldier nodded and walked away, disappearing behind a door. She soon emerged, carrying a wooden crate filled with a dozen water bottles. "Water from Lake Mead. You won't find a cleaner, fresher water for a hundred miles." She placed the crate on the station in front of her. Mason grabbed it and eagerly went outside.

When he came outside the sun was peaking over the mountains. He saw one of the brahmin lying on the ground, dead. It's burden being added to the survivors. An old wooden cart was being loaded with their weapons. Plasma Rifles. Laser Pistols. Gatling Lasers. The soldiers were unused to seeing such a high level cargo, they were used to finding standard hunting rifles and sidearms. This bounty was completely unexpected, the solders inspected the weapons, discerning each weapon's traits and compare it with a comrade's current possession. They joked amongst themselves. The old man gritted his teeth. They had no idea of the sacred history they were defacing with their casual handling of these weapons and their snide comments.

He saw an old Wattz 2000 Laser Rifle tossed onto the heap unceremoniously. The riffle's butt broke off on impact. No! He thought. He rushed towards the pile, dropping the container full of water bottles. The soldier who'd tossed it snapped to alertness, grabbing his rifle and pointing it at the old man. There was a click of the safety being turned off.

"Stop right there!" He shouted. The old man stopped in his tracks. The other soldiers stopped searching and looked towards the commotion, readying their rifles, backing away from the refugees.

"Please." The old man pleaded apologetically. "That rifle belonged to... it's been in my family for generations." The soldier was unimpressed, looking at both him and the old rifle with disdain. "You want to live in New Vegas?" He asked. The old man nodded. "You don't get to pick and choose. It's either you live in Vegas, or you take that rusted piece of [censored] and go [censored] off somewhere else. Comprende seinor?"

The old man nodded weakly and apologized. His hand squeezed a locket through his shirt that hung from his neck. After a few tense seconds the soldier clicked the safety back on and resumed the search. Mason picked up the cart and distributed the water to his grateful people. They drank eagerly but the water was bittersweet. A new beginning but seeing many of their precious weapons, many of them family heirlooms like Mason's, taken away was disheartening. Weapons that had served them and their ancestors well over the many long years since the War. Now, they were discarded, carted away like trash. They each had one weapon left, his pack had nothing left but an old laser pistol. His men were armed the same way. Enough to fend off a Gecko or some other animal, but not well armed enough to do real damage. But this was Vegas. Everyone talked of Vegas as a place to make new beginnings, to escape the past, to find a new way of life. And no doubt their anticipated meeting would compensate for this loss.

The soldier who'd trashed his laser rifle approached him. "The sarge says your list checks out. You're free to go. Welcome to New Vegas." He offered no apology for destroying his heirloom and his manner betrayed his ignorance of just how valuable Mason held that old rifle to be. Despite the grave insult, Mason could do nothing but meekly nod. Watching the cart being led away to some place unseen filled him with emasculating shame.

"Any places I should avoid?" He asked the soldier.

The soldier nodded. "Stick to the roads. Stay away from the mountains north of Lake Mead. Don't go to Jacobstown if you don't like Muties. There's a big Deathclaw nesting ground south of here on the eastern shore."

"Is there a place we can rest?" Mason asked.

The soldier nodded. "Boulder City has the Big Horn saloon and hotel. It's just up the road. You can follow the road signs. You can also pick up a map holotape at the other end of the dam. Your friend should be able to upload it to her pipboy."

He nodded to them, waving them forward, saying nothing further on the subject. Mason led his men and women, crossing the dam. Their packs and brahmin much lighter packed than before, now carrying only the barest essentials. They'd sacrificed a lot to come this far. Leaving home was the first sacrifice. Their dignity and identity another. The dozens of lives they'd lost since then another sacrifice. His own beloved wife among them. Few had any personal belongings left, nothing that couldn't fit in a rucksack or in your pocket. His hand tapped his left pant pocket like it hand hundreds of times before. His wife's silver locket still there. But they'd made it. That's what mattered, the worse was behind them.The sun behind them they walked along Hoover Dam, staring at the dormant Securitrons in wonder. Far superior to any old Sentry Bot or Mr. Gutsy they'd found. Robobrains made him deeply uncomfortable. They came to a plaque inscribed in bronze. Mason walked over and read it:

The Second Battle of Hover Dam was fought on December 30, 2281. The Courier and his companions fought along the NCR to evict the Legion from the Mojave. The Legion, rendered leaderless by the Courier's actions stood little chance against the combined forces of the NCR and New Vegas' allied armies. After eliminating the remainder of the Legion's leadership, the Courier's use for the NCR at an end, he declared New Vegas' independence and evicted the NCR army. In one swift stroke, the Courier tore off the shackles of the Legion and the NCR and established New Vegas as an independent state.

They walked, looking onto the pristine rivers of the river. The rising sun reflected beautifully off the fresh waters. They walked the length of the dam. Artillery cannons still stood in place. As much a memorial as a tool of defence. The visitor centre was now a fortified military position with sandbags, sentries both human and robotic. The doors to the visitor centre opened. Mason and a few of his companions gasped. From the doors emerged a super mutant, a super sledge strapped onto his back, behind him came a ghoul soldier. The mutant was wearing oversized, desert camouflage armour, a patch of the flag of the ace of spades. His companions stared at the mutant in bewilderment and fear. The mutant looked at the convoy as if they were a curiosity in a sundry store.

"Welcome to New Vegas." The mutant said in a booming but polite voice. Mason nodded politely, fighting hard to keep his unease in check. He knew mutants and ghouls weren't all mindless monsters, but he'd never encountered a friendly one before. Neither had any of his companions. He knew he could keep his prejudices largely in check but he doubted all of his companions could. He picked up a map holotape from a shelf outside the western customs house, the old visitor's centre. The bookshelf was filled with other printed pamphlets. Mason recognized these from pre-war vids. These were tourist brochures. One boasted of Primm, the new Bison Steve Hotel and Casino with its working rollercoaster. Another advertised the Courier's intended grave in Goodsprings. Another brochure promoted Novac, the hotel where the Courier had stayed.

"Can you believe that? They got tribals and muties and zombies in the army. [censored] degenerates. Just like the NCR." A familiar voice said. John Harper walked beside Mason. Harper was fit and tanned, in his early20s. An excellent marksman but was hotheaded and prone to letting his emotions get the better of him.

"Relax, Harper." Mason said. His voice quiet but authoritative. "We're in a new place now. We don't know how our brothers in Hidden Valley relate to the locals. New Vegas is about new beginnings. You should rethink your old prejudices."

Harper said nothing and gradually fell behind Mason. The roads on western side of the dam were the complete opposite of the eastern side. Fully paved, no pot holes or sandblasted cracks. This was how roads were like in the old world. Once filled with cars. Now they hosted walkers and brahmin. The roads were cleared of debris. Aside the roads were lined with power lines leading from the Dam. Mason and his group walked with a boost in their stride. The shadows over them brightened, but did not leave entirely. They followed the road, taking them to Boulder City. Now a fully fledged town. Houses fully restored, some new houses. The town was bursting with energy, the cement factory running at all hours of the day. He saw trading caravans using some kind of robotic cart to carry loads of cement.

Mason walked into the Saloon, had his people wait outside. Mason noted a few strange machines were placed in front of a couple of buildings. They almost looked like vending machines. He had Harper check it out. The saloon was filled with people, sitting at tables, eating, drinking. One table was hosting a game of poker. A radio was playing Frank Sinatra's New York. His arrival attracted no attention. He walked up to the bar. The bartender saw him and they nodded to another.

"Name's Ike. Welcome to the Big Horn. What can I get you?" The bartender said.

"I'd like a bottle of sarsaparilla." Mason said. He'd earned this small reward.

"Sure. Will you be paying in caps or chips?" Ike asked.

"Caps." Mason answered, reaching into his rucksack, fishing for his box of bottle caps. "What are chips?"

"That'll be five caps." Ike replied. He turned and knelt. Opening a fridge. Mason gasped at the light emanating from it. A working fridge out here in the wasteland? Ike retrieved a sarsaparilla bottle and placed it on the counter. He took the caps and placed them in a register. Mason grabbed the bottle, his scorched hands recoiled from the cold bottle, condensation covering the bottle like a protective sheath. His warm and worn hands cradled the cold bottle like a scared idol. He looked at the label curiously. This wasn't Sunset Sarsaparilla. The label was emblazoned with the tower of the Lucky 38 superimposed on a background of the ace of spades. New Vegas Sassy Sarsaparilla.

Ike retrieved a few golden chips from the register and showed it to his customer. Mason noted the chips had different denominations. "You're from out of town?" Mason nodded. "These are Vegas chips. You see those vending machines outside?" Mason nodded.

"You put enough of these chips in and the machine will produce anything you need. Food. Water. Drinks. Clothes. The food isn't as good as home cooked good, but it's won't melt your insides and it sure as [censored] beats pre-war food that's still lying around. Some of them will even produce ammo and chems but the codes for those are secret. Everyone who works here is paid in chips."

"How does it work?" Mason asked. Ike shrugged his shoulders. "Some kind of pre-war tech I think. The Courier found it in some [censored]hole somewhere and managed to get it to work here. Most of us don't care so long as they work. These chips are easier than hauling around tons of bottle caps around."

Mason couldn't hide his awe. Technology like this was inconceivable. Nothing he'd ever encountered could even approach this. A machine that could at will reproduce food, water, ammunition. Even one of these machines in their possession would grant them great power. If they had one of these back in Colorado, they would've never had to leave in exile. Mason grabbed the bottle and drank from it. It was cold, refreshing and delicious. He'd never tasted sarsaparilla so good, so sweet and refreshing.

"Taste better than the pre-war stuff doesn't it?" Ike said. Mason nodded eagerly, a small river of sarsaparilla running down his bearded face. It was fresh and bubbly. "It's made from all natural ingredients."

"My friends and I would like a place to stay." Mason said after swallowing half the bottle.

"How many are you?" Ike asked.

"We're fifty and five brahmins." Mason said.

"We got posts you can tie up your brahmin too. Right now I only got 30 rooms free. How long do you need them for?"

"Thirty will do. Until tomorrow. We're tired, we need to rest." Mason answered. Ike nodded.

"That'll be 1500 caps." Ike said. Mason fetched his cap container from his bag and counted out the necessary caps. Ike thanked him and bade him to enjoy his stay. He then shouted for one of his waitresses to help Mason's group to their hotel rooms. Mason finished his bottle, swallowing the last gulp with a satisfied sigh. They'd made it to New Vegas. Now was their chance to begin again.

The Courier stood out on the balcony of the Lucky 38, looking around at New Vegas, sipping a fresh cup of coffee, wearing his lucky leopard nightwear. The ugly highway overpasses were gone. The steel and concrete recycled for new roads, new homes, new buildings. Eastside was no longer a slum but a fully fledged neighborhood with shops and apartments, policed by the Kings, the Followers were still there, offering their usual services. The Atomic Wrangler, Mick and Ralphs we're as busy as ever. They had competition now. Blasto's had moved into the Van Graff's shop, operating out of the old Silver Rush building, restoring the casino equipment and selling energy weapons out of the same premises. Their profits must be quite impressive, given how substantial his 5% cut of their earnings was. The Courier had no doubt they were skimming some off the top, but he let it go. Everyone cheated a little, and it wasn't like he or Vegas was thirsting for money.

North Vegas and Westside were thriving as well. A slew of business operating as co-ops inspired by Miguel's store, not just stores but brothels, hotels. He'd repurposed Cerulean Robotics, building new robot designs. Improvements had been made to the vending machines from the Big Empty, but it couldn't handle large scale things, so factories were still important. The Think Tank were working on something inspired by pre-war tanks. New Vegas was more than a town for those looking to make a fortune, it produced things now. Steel, food, fresh water, concrete, electricity, weapons. It was thriving, but there were still problems.

He felt a warm hand on his back. "Good morning, delivery boy." A familiar female voice whispered in his ear with more than a hint of affectionate sarcasm. The Courier turned and embraced Rose of Sharon Cassidy. They kissed tenderly.

"Good morning." He said to her, stroking her fine hair. She was wearing nightwear, her father's gem still hanging below her neck. Despite her unkempt hair and half awake eyes, she looked absolutely ravishing They smiled lovingly at another.

"Tell me your name." Cass cooed playfully.

"Hugh Jerection." The Courier answered.

"That was your name last night." Cass answered with a happy giggle. They kissed another again.

"Sleep well?" he asked her. Cass nodded. "You?"

"I had this weird dream." The Courier began. "I was some kind of badass space marine. And I was saving the galaxy from giant squid."

Cass looked at him crossly. "That's pretty [censored]. You tripping?"

The Courier shook his head. "Not since you started crashing here."

Cass giggled. "That just makes your dream even more [censored]!"

The Courier chuckled and they kissed again. Their kisses and touches lingered. Blessing the morning sun with their love.

"Come on. Let's eat some breakies." Cass said, turning away and walking from the balcony to the suite. The Courier playfully slapped her bum as she walked back inside. Cass disappeared from his sight into the kitchen. Soon he could smell the sweet scent of brahmin bacon frying. The VIP suite had been vastly renovated. It was fully windowed and balconied. He'd installed large indoor pool and Jacuzzi, game room and armory with a workbench and ammo press, not to mention displays for his impressive collection of weapons. It was a far cry from both his and Cass' roots, but he'd earned the right to some luxury.

And he wasn't Mr. House, ignoring the plights of the residents of this fine city. He couldn't even if he tried, Cass was here with him. So long as she was alive and they were together, he'd never isolate himself, never forget where he came from. His chosen name was another reminder. He was just a courier, bringing messages and packages back and forth, until he started delivering his own message. He became more than an errand boy, but a head of state. While chance led to his situation, he'd earned everything. He'd been born to nothing in particular, no friends or family to open doors for him. He'd done it all himself, with help from his friends, and occasionally, his enemies too. He walked inside, swallowing the last of his first cup of coffee. He refilled his cup with a kettle resting on a nearby table. He turned to face the wall, a blank TV screen.

"So, Yes Man, anything interesting happen overnight?" He asked. In an instant Yes Man's cheerful face appeared.

"Early this morning on the Dam's eastern crossing we admitted a large party of 50 who wished to settle. They were all armed with energy weapons, most pre-war. They're spending the day in Boulder City."

"Keep an eye of them." The Courier said. Stray refugees from the east wasn't that noteworthy, but such a large, armed party most definitely was. Who were they? He was struck by curiosity, wanting to meet them. But he couldn't do everything. He had more important things to do and he couldn't greet every settler who immigrated here.

"Will do, boss." Yes Man answered. "In some good news for a change, absolutely no suspicious activity was reported around Helios One or the switching station north of Westside."

"Good. So, what's up for today?" The Courier asked, sipping more coffee and eating from his plate of brahmin bacon. Dreading the answer. At least nothing further had happened to those installations. A week ago they'd caught someone trying to break into Helios One. The perpetrator ran away but whoever he was left behind a satchel bag full of C-4 that would have destroyed Helios One and much of New Vegas' power supply with it. They had too many suspects and too little information to go on. Maybe that was an isolated incident. But even he wasn't that lucky, even when wearing his favourite pair of sunglasses.

"You got a busy day, boss." Yes Man began. Today was busy day. There were always busy days. He sighed as Yes Man went through the days agenda. He sat down at the kitchen table, sitting completely upright, and even the brahmin bacon and the fresh coffee couldn't lighten his mood. Cass saw him, the strain in his eyes, the tension in his posture. He slept little, often he woke up sweating, his mind racked by anxieties and fears. She walked over to him, moved behind him and rubbed his shoulders sympathetically. He reached up and tightly squeezed her hand.

"Jesus Christ," Cass whispered with more than a hint of concern and sadness, "I gave you a massage last night and already you're tenser than a virgin in a [censored]house. We need a vacation."

"We just had one." The Courier answered, remembering their trip to Zion and New Canaan. It had been nice to reconnect with the tribals and with Graham. New Canaan was prospering again though Graham's skin still burned, his soul no longer did. He'd talked a lot with Graham. Though their spiritual beliefs weren't aligned, he learned much wisdom from speaking with him. It had felt so lovely to relax, to be away from the worries of New Vegas. To hunt and swim and travel and make love in the wild with no worries.

"That was two years ago." Cass interjected with overtones of melancholy. The Courier turned and looked at her, his face uncomprehending. Was it really two years ago? How much time had passed, and yet how little it seemed. Cass looked at him sympathetically and with love, she kissed his neck and continued to massage him as Yes Man laid out his agenda for the day. Part of him wished he go back to Zion, leave everything behind. And not have to be the Courier, go back to being who he was before destiny threw him a hand he'd never expected drawing.

But then, who would want go back to being just another anonymous courier humping it out in the wastes? Having to worry about dehydration and mutated monstrosities? The life of mediocre anonymity was looking more and more appealing, but he could no more go back to that life, turn his back on Vegas and everything he'd worked for the past five years, anymore than a record could spin in reverse. The irreconcilable extremes manifested itself in the tension in his body, the lack of sleep, the appearance of stray grey hairs, the constant tightness of his muscles. He needed another vacation, but who would tend the shop while he was gone and just what would happen while he was away? Like every other question he'd asked himself these past few years, the answer left him where he was, in New Vegas.