DISCLAIMER: Fallout New Vegas © Obsidian & Bethesda
A/N: Vignettes concerning Courier Six.
I got a letter this mornin, how do you reckon it read?
It said, "Hurry, hurry, yeah, your love is dead"
I got a letter this mornin, I say how do you reckon it read?
You know, it said, "Hurry, hurry, how come the gal you love is dead?"
Later, she would come to appreciate the irony of the ditch they dumped her in. Her dirt bed. The bone orchard. Her six-foot death trap. The dirt they shucked over her - Mojave soil. But see, the Mojave wanted her alive; skittering across its bone-bleached expanses with a message, a purpose to be delivered - dry and acidic as everything else across its blistering tides. Scorched. Peeling by day. Night was the Mojave's dirty trick. Dark settles across and the desert's black velvet, breaks out in orange blemishes; hot desperation. Nowhere for shade, nowhere for warmth. Nowhere except in the Valley of the Kings. Only under the blanket of the Mojave does the world invert. Dim and cool under the burning sun, soft and warm below a blue moon.
So when the girl went to bless the world with her heels in the Dark Valley, the Mojave wrapped its warm embrace around her and waited patiently for Vegas. For even a thousand miles away the night couldn't push back those lights; always watching. A city that never slept, even as its girl cashed out. Threw in her chips. Flat bust. But see, the Mojave wanted her alive, and the House always won. And when the warm Mojave was shucked half-ass across her shallow hole, it held its girl gently and waited for Vegas to come. Lights like a second sun, like how the war lit up the valley in a time before.
Later, the girl would come to appreciate the irony of the ditch they dumped her in. But right now, head a bloody hole to the world, cold decked, she folded.
And Vegas was still miles away.