Some say he tore through the Mojave, a revenant hellbent on destruction. Others claimed she burned with righteous glory, a beacon of justice scorching the unjust, and others still claim they were just a kleptomaniac out to have a good time. Hell, I’ve heard they fell through the earth and woke up in D.C., that their mere presence would make you feel like your brain would stop processing, that they could carry a thousand pounds and run faster than the devil. End of the day, the trivia of the how and when barely matter as much as the “who”.

A decade ago, a batch of couriers set out with cargo bound to New Vegas. The whole lot of them carried worthless trinkets across the sands, a batch of diversions and a single Platinum Chip. Five couriers made it to New Vegas unscathed. Lady Luck must have had it out for the last poor bastard; the only package that mattered was signed off with two shots to the head and a shallow grave. That should’ve been the end of it, another nameless body lost to wasteland, but be it by fate, fury or spite, the dead man walked. Wasn't even two days later that the thief in the checkered suit was gunned down, 9mm justice ringing red hot. Within a week, President Kimball lost his head, the Followers of the Apocalypse were a smoking crater, the Brotherhood of Steel suffered a fatal error, and Caesar himself fell to the knife's edge. Crazy son of a gun even took the Strip by siege, running some police state ops under the table. Or at least, that's how I've heard it told.

When all is said and done, the devil's in the details. The Courier was just as much a sinner as a saint, but anyone could tell you that. Hell, I'd go as far as to say the moment-to-moment minutia doesn't matter; who cares that she traveled with a former 1st Recon sniper, or a whisky-chugging cowpoke? Will anyone remember the ghoul mechanic, the robo-dog, the Enclave reject, or the schizophrenic Nightkin?

No, even as the figurehead of The Strip, no one can really pin down the story in a way everyone can agree on. You'll hear a thousand stories, and the only two consistent factors are that some poor delivery boy got his brains blown out, and that when the dust settled, the Mohave was never quite the same. But listen to me rattle on… you know all of this. After all, that's exactly how you wanted it, right?

When you picked that platinum chip off of Benny, riddled with holes, you knew what you were doing, didn't you? How could you not; it wasn't the first time you shot the boy down. Last time, it was a Ripper to the gut, this time his own gun to the back of the head. Did everyone every figure out how Maria was in your hand and in his back pocket? When the mighty Courier crushed the Great Khans beneath their heel, did you so much as flinch, or was this just another quest in your wild wasteland? Even with cannibals licking their lips with you in their eyes, you smiled, like this was an old joke reminding you of better times.

A decade ago, you woke up in Doc Mitchell's practice, head like a hole with a big iron on your hip. Now, you're back in Goodsprings. Everyone acts like this is new, fresh, like you haven't done this a thousand times over. I know this story, you know it even better. Still, it's hard to stop yourself from doing the same old song and dance, isn't it? For as much as patrolling the Mojave can make you wish for a nuclear winter, you keep coming back. It's not just war; nothing about the desert ever changes. But that's just how you like it, isn't it, Courier?

Vegas never changes. You never change.