PROLOGUE: Snake Eyes

War...War never changes...From civilization's humble beginnings all the way to its fiery end, war has always been an ever constant evil, the grim shadow cast by man's insatiable thirst for knowledge. October 23rd, 2077. The Long Night, when the globe erupted in a cleansing fire that purged most of humanity from the Earth's surface. Even two-hundred years after the world was bathed in nuclear fire there are battle lines being drawn...The New California Republic maintains its tenous hold on the Hoover Dam and the areas surrounding the New Vegas Strip, as Caesar and his Legion lick their wounds and prepare to finish what they started four years ago, all the while the mysterious mastermind and architecht of New Vegas Mr. House watches silently from his ivory tower. Waiting. Plotting. But even the man who stood defiant as the world around him evaporated in a nuclear cloud now finds himself powerless, forced to entrust his future and the futures of all who call New Vegas home to one man, a wild card in a loaded deck. It is his destiny, his rotten luck, to tip the scales in the power struggle for all of New Vegas. He alone will decide the fate of all. All the players have arrived at the table, Mr. House, The Legion and the NCR, each side pushing all their chips into the middle as the cards are dealt. With too much to lose and everything to gain, they wait, cards held in a death grip, eyes primed for the wild card that will bring them the victory they crave...or take them out of the game once and for all. The chips are down, the battlelines drawn and the players in their positions, the game begins and the hands are dealt. And when in a place like New Vegas, where the odds are always unclear, only one thing is certain...

Pain...That was the first thing to flash through the mind of the man now awakening in the dirt and sand where he had been discarded just over an hour ago. His head felt as though it were attempting to split itself open, his throat was as dry and parched as the desert he had crossed to reach this point and the rest of his body was weary and beaten. He licked his dry, bloodied lips and fought for clarity. Puffy, swollen eyes opened to reveal his hands, bound tightly before him. He flexed and strained against his bonds, searching for even the most minute slack or weakness. There was none. Twilight hung in deep pools of darkness, the moon hung suspended in a clear night sky, leering down at the grisly scene below. A weak battery lamp cast its dim light upon three men standing before their captive. Two of them were garbed in rough leathers, worn and coated with dust from the desert with a helmet wearing skull leering out from their backs. Great Khans...I thought the NCR took care of these clowns at Bitter Springs... Suddenly, a tall man with dark skin and a handle bar moustache edged his way into the light, speaking in short, frustrated breaths.

"You got what you were after, now pay up!" Another figure moved forward out of the shadows and into the weak light cast by the lamp, this one wearing a checkered suit and slacks, pristine despite what had to be a long trek through the Mojave. From the edge of his vision, the prisoner could just make out another of his captors moving about, slinging something over his shoulder. As he did so, the man moved into the light and the prisoner realized that he was digging a hole, roughly six feet by three.. Blinking, he realized that it was a grave. His grave. Panicking, the prisoner frantically peered about his surroundings. It was barren, an open patch of dirt and with what little moonlight penetrated the clouds the prisoner could make out battered wooden crosses over mounds of dirt. They were in a graveyard.

"You're grindin' the reigns, pally." Said the man in the checkered suit angrily. He spoke in a sharp, lilting tone. This guy sounds different than his thugs...New Vegas, maybe?

"Guess whos' wakin' up over here?" One of them called, a tall man wearing a head band below long spikes of orange hair running the length of his scalp. Groaning, the prisoner struggled against his bonds once again before looking up to see that the three men had gathered before him. The one in the checkered suit stepped forward, the weak light finally revealing a handsome, sun and wind burnt face with an eleagant coif and black, hard eyes. Shooting his prisoner an even look, he took a long drag off of a cigarette before tossing it to the ground and grinding it out with his heel.

"Time to cash out." Checkered Suit said, stepping towards his captive. Handlebar Stache scowled and rolled his eyes.

"Will you get it over with?" Said the Khan, eyes darting from their prisoner to Checkered Suit and back before the other man snapped up a hand.

"Maybe you Khans kill without looking people in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?" Said Checkered Suit, before turning to face his captive, free hand digging removing what appeared to be a large, silver colored poker chip.

Wait...Thats the package I was supposed to deliver! But why are they gonna fuckin' bury me over a fake casino chip?! Checkered Suit held the chip up and turned it over in his hand for a moment in the weak light, his eyes hungry and satisfied before turning back to his captive.

"You've made your last delivery kid. I'm sorry you got twisted up in this scene." He said, his voice sympathetic and heavy. The hand holding the chip slid back into his lapel before returning once more, this time holding a gaudy nine-millimeter pistol with silver and gold in-lays. He held it at waist level for a moment, the barrel pointed at the ground.

So this is it huh? Dunno what I was expecting but this...maybe its all I deserve, but I wanted to make it right somehow...The bank I got from this last job would've been enough...Not enough to make up for what happened but maybe a start...

"From where your kneeling, this must seem like an eighteen-karat run 'a bad luck. Truth is..." He said, raising the gun and extending his arm. The gun's barrel shone menacingly in the wane moonlight in as it rose level with the prisoner's head.

"This game was rigged from the start." The moment froze, suspended in time. Checkered suit blinked. Orange mohawk jittered about, his mouth agape while handle bar stache crossed his arms and watched with grim acceptance. The prisoner squeezed his eyes shut, his mouth working to speak in anything just over a hoarse whisper.

"Do it then..." Checkered Suit blinked before cocking back the hammer...and pulling the trigger. The gun muzzle flashed and the prisoner slumped to the ground. Checkered Suit slid the pistol back into it's holster beneath his jacket's lapel before turning to gaze once more at the Platinum Chip held tightly now in his free hand. He glanced at the body. The Courier's death was unfortunate, but he couldn't have the man going and running his mouth somewhere, tipping off New Vegas' omnipotent founder and guardian to his plans. No, he thought as the Khans hefted up the body, the Old Man won't see whats coming until its too late. As the Khans tossed the body into the grave and began the grim task of filling the empty plot, the man in the checkered suit gazed towards the distant lights of the Strip shining in the darkness, a glittering oasis of pleasure in the otherwise lethal and barren desert. And soon, it would be his. The only loose end was at the bottom of a hole being filled by the Khans.

He barked an order at the Khans and after a moment, they snuffed out the light and left. Off in the distance, something stirred. It glided over the rough and uneven desert terrain with ease, bouncing along on one wheel slowly moving quietly so as to keep its presence undetected. Once it was sure that the men were gone on their way, full operating measures came online. Slowly, lights danced about the bulky metal frame to reveal the word Securitron emblazoned on the chest of a large, man shaped robot, standing roughly 6 feet tall with a monitor set in the upper torso, large metallic arms ending in strong titanium grip-claws and ending with a large, off-road wheel set at its base. The monitor flickered once or twice before the image of a smiling cowboy smoking a cigarette appeared. The robot puttered along the trail that lead from the desert up into the graveyard on the hill, sensors prepped and searching for any sign that the men were coming back. There were none. Slowly, the robot entered the graveyard and set about searching for the fresh grave that had just been filled.

As it searched, its internal arithmatic unit had set about calculating the odds of survival for the man who had just moments ago been cut down. They weren't looking good. Suddenly, something set off the Securitron's heat sensor, a slightly higher than average reading from beneath a nearby grave. The robot moved with little urgency, rolling slowly until coming to the edge of the dirt mound where the prisoner had been buried not an thirty minutes ago. It stood motionless for a moment, compiling data before sending it away in a docket. To where, and why never occured to the machine. Although ruled by a processor and capable of making decisions for itself, the Securitron pondered on the curious 'urges' it experienced until an incoming transmission took precedence. After several micro-seconds, the data docket had been neatly downloaded, analyzed and saved before closing the connection. The robot suddenly dipped down and gripped a fistful of dirt in its massive claw. For reasons unbeknownst to it, the robot was now feeling a compelling urge to dig. Then, to carry to a place not far away, and then to deposit one of the many bags of caps in his possession. For what and when would become clear, but for now, it had its urges and although they didn't make much sense, the Securitron knew nothing else than to follow it's impulses. In a lilting mechanical voice tinged with a western-esque accent, the Securitron spoke.

"Now you just hold on fella, your 'ol pal Victor is a'gonna get you to some help!" Miles away, from the towering fortress that was the Lucky 38, Mr. House watched the feed of his Securitron beginning its work with moderated frustration. It had been so close! Another day, and the chip would have been in hand and then the final phases of his plans would've fallen into place. But no, in one fell swoop, the man in the Checkered Suit had spoiled two centuries of planning, of waiting. He couldn't possibly know what the chip was for, could he? This thought gave Mr. House pause, and as he considered this he switched to a feed of one of the cameras mounted on his casino's roof and looked down upon the New Vegas Strip. His creation. His Paradise. He was too close now to let it all slip through his fingers. He still had a few aces up his sleeve... One: that Benny was under the impression that no one knew of his treachery, least of all the man pulling the strings back home, and two: that the man he had just put in the earth was going to stay there...Mr. House thought for a moment.

Perhaps this Courier could be of use; life had taught the Casino mogul that revenge was an excellent motivator and now that Benny had proved himself untrustworthy he would be needing an agent in the world, someone he could entrust delicate tasks to. Such as retrieving the Platinum Chip. Mr. House smiled as the possibilities clicked together, his plans not derailed, but merely delayed. As he gazed out into the barren stretch of desert that surrounded the Las Vegas Strip, he thought of the change that he would bring to this ravaged world, the beginning of a new era. His era...

In a squat, single story house off the main road an elderly man was setting himself in with a cup of tea on the battered sofa in his living room. Sleep was long in coming for him these days and more often than not he would find himself awakening in the small hours of the morning, unable to drift back off. Running a hand over his bald head, he sat back into the couch and sipped deeply from his tea cup. Outside, the wind howled against the weathered walls of his house, banging the shutters about and whistling through the cracks in the boards. Adding his sigh to that of his home's, he took another gulp of his tea. Acrid, tasteless stuff brewed from the rough leaves of some tough desert plant, but it beat hot water or what passed for coffee in Goodsprings. Staring out the window, into the unbroken expanse of darkness that was the Mojave in twilight, he found his thoughts drifting as they were wont to do when there was no pressing business to be attended to. Granted, his life as a frontier Doctor and Goodspring's only physician left him little time for absent thought and wonderings. Perhaps that was why he would find himself waking at this ungodly hour, his mind rousing the body so it could run free and unchecked before the coming day's trials could force away his wild flights of fancy. Closing his eyes, he could still almost hear his wife calling after him.

"Mitch? Where'd you go? Its three o'clock in the mornin, what in God's name are you doing up? We're not kids anymore, runnin' all over God's creation, a woman my age needs her rest so quit complaining and come back to bed so I can get some sleep!" Doc Mitchell laughed and grinned to himself despite the sparse tears that began welling at the bottom of his eyes. He had made his peace with her passing long ago, but fond memories and old habits seemed to creep into his thoughts whenever they could. In better times he would awaken in the grey hours just before dawn to see that she had risen some time before. He always knew where she would be, though; she loved to sit and watch from the porch as the sun climbed over the horizon. She said it gave her hope, the fact that no matter what, there would always be another tomorrow, always be another sunrise. With a grimace, he downed the rest of his tea and set the chipped mug down on the table in the room's center.

The Doctor sighed and stared outside, into the unbroken twilight. He wasn't sure how many more sunrises his old heart could take. Or wanted to, for that matter. He had lived the life he wanted before coming to his retirement in Goodsprings, and now, in his winter years, he knew that there were no more adventures waiting for him. He had fought to give pulse to a dying world, loved with a passion and did what good he could for those within reach. It was for the young and brash to decide the future now, he thought, eyes staring out the battered window. He could see a faint trace of movement on the path leading to his home from the road. Rising, he hefted an old break-action shotgun and snapped it open. It was loaded. Odds were that it was just a gecko looking for food, but he wasn't taking any chances. Creeping to the door, Doc Mitchell thumbed the shotgun's safety off and pressed his ear to the door. He could hear movement outside, but something was off about the sound, like rather than walking whatever it was was dragging itself along. Or rolling. Suddenly, the porch stairs creaked with use causing the aged doctor to back hurriedly away from the door and snap the shotgun up to his shoulder, both hammers cocked and ready to turn whatever stepped through the door into a fine, red mist. Several tense seconds passed in thunderous silence as Doc Mitchell faced down the door, palms sweating and heart pounding when a familiar voice called out and shattered the tension.

" Hey Doc! You in?!" Came Victor's artificial cowboy voice. The Doctor was stunned.

"Victor?! Is that you? What is it that it can't wait 'till-" With a splitting crack the aged door shattered off it's hinges and fell in chunks on the floor as Victor rolled hurriedly inside, canvas wrapped 'package' hefted easily by its right arm. Startled, the good doctor only narrowly fought down the urge to empty both barrels into the robot

The blank cowboy face just stared back as the securitron puttered inside, past the shaken man before turning down a corridor and vanishing into a darkened room. The doctor followed close after the robot, switching on the overhead lighting as he entered. The operating room sprang into illumination as the Securitron lay its grisly package out on the steel table at the room's center. The elderly man propped his weapon up against a desk in the room's far corner before tugging a pair of latex gloves on and approaching the operating table.

"Before I start, you gonna tell me what this is all 'bout,Victor?" The Doctor said, delicately unraveling the burlap the body was wrapped in. What he saw once it fell away was stomach churning, but nothing life as a wasteland physician hadn't shown him already; there was a single bullet hole in the victim's forehead with an exit wound reflected on the back of the head. The caliber of the gun that had shot him had to have been relatively small, probably a nine millimeter judging by the wound, and by the placement of the entry and exit wounds made it clear to the Doctor that the shot had been fired at a downward angle, as though the man now laying before had been forced to his knees then killed. Execution style. A quick glance at the 'patient's' wrists showed ligature marks, clear, raw and still bloodied. The Doctor thought, hands gently and skillfully probing and searching the body before him. He turned to face the robot which had edged up along-side the Doctor while he rendered his diagnosis, grinning cowboy face flickering several times before solidifying and coming into clarity. So Doc, what'cha think? Can you sav'im?" The robot drawled, its instruments suddenly coming to life in a blur of motion and blinking lights. The Doctor blinked and glanced back at the man on the slab.

"I dunno Victor, he's in pretty rough shape. The bullet did some pretty serious damage on the way through, nothin' that can't be fixed but damned if it didn't do some pretty serious damage! And another thing Vic; who is this guy? This wasn't the Fiends or some Raider gang, someone wanted this guy dead for more than just what was in his pockets. So tell me Vic, who is this?" The Robot went silent, the cowboy face once more flickering before vanishing and being replaced by large, blocky words that read; 'Signal Input'. After several seconds, the robot began to speak, but rather than the lilting, friendly drawl of Victor, the speakers instead blurted out a more...human voice, this one sharp and direct, filled with power and expectation.

"Doctor Mitchell, who this man is will become evident enough in due time, but for now I suggest you see to your patient. This," The Robot said, digging a hooked claw into one of it's compartments, "Ought to cover your fee." The Securitron hauled a bag filled with several large rows of caps and tossed it almost haphazardly atop the Doctor's desk before puttering towards the door. Doctor Mitchell huffed and blew out his moustache, glancing from the money atop his desk, to the dying man on the slab and finally to the Robot slowly making its way out of his home. For a brief moment, he considered stopping the Securitron and demanding the truth but thought better of it and returned to his new patient.

Gazing at the comatose form before him, he muttered beneath his breath.

"Who wanted you dead bad'nuff to go through all the trouble of tyin' y'up, draggin' you through the desert and droppin' ya in a hole?"

The man beneath the sheet bleeding from the hole in his head said nothing. Doc Mitchell sighed and cast a glance at the securitron as it trundled out of the threshold and back out into the desert. Doc Mitchell frowned as he slipped a sterile face-mask about his features before activating the Auto-Doc at the surgical table's side. As the doctor leaned in to begin working, he couldn't help but glance up and out the broken door one more time. Darkness still hung heavy over the Mojave, but at the edge of sight, just creeping over the horizon was the pale light of the coming day, herald of the plucky orange ball just that would in a few hours time crest the horizon, starting a new day despite everything that had happened, today, last night, a hundred years ago, it would still rise. Sharpening his eyes, the doctor took a scalpel in hand, threw back the bloody sheet lain over the man and set to work...

War...It never changes...