[u][b]New Vegas, 2290[/b][/u]

[b][i]“The King” - Lucky 38[/i][/b]

[i]War Never Changes… [/i] If it was truly unable to change, then the world it lived in would simply have to adapt. The King took a deep breath before shakily reaching for his martini and smothering his cigarette on an ashtray. From his balcony, mid-way up the impossibly lush architecture of the Lucky 38, he could see all of it – the entire sprawling landscape of New Vegas. Years removed from the Treaty of Goodsprings, the splendor of Robert House’s fingerprint was no longer confined within the Strip. The blinding illuminations had spread throughout New Vegas like an airborne parasite. The entire city had become an amalgamation of powerful neon lights, and The King could never quite get adjusted to seeing it this way.

He could somewhat discern Freeside from this spot, too; almost every time The King took the time to gaze upon his old home, he failed to recognize it. In the years following Mr. House’s brilliant-yet-highly-suspect powerplay, the Mojave unified under a collective lust for a carefree, consumerist existence. With that came House’s stake and signature; everywhere he touched became filled to the brim with power and wealth, Freeside especially. The buildings had been restored, the vagrants had been given dangerous jobs in Quarry Junction or forced out, roads had been re-paved, and above all else, The Kings were drowned in House’s wealth. Everything that had given New Vegas its identity had been lost – everything about the shining jewel of the Mojave was now coated with a meticulous and ornate finish. The King had not yet been able to decide whether this was a welcome or regretful change. 

However, despite his newfound power, The King was powerless against the tidal wave of the old world. This was all there was; he could choose to become part of it or be thrown into irrelevance. It was an easy choice to make. Now, nine years removed from the simultaneous defeat of the Legion and NCR, he had become Robert House's right-hand-man. He didn't much care for the digs, but it was, above all things, his vehicle to leave a legacy. 

The King watched as the delegates finally started to sift in. They weren’t difficult to spot; a great many of them arrived with gigantic traveling parties. A few had flown the whole way there, landed in McCarran Airfield—restored to its former use—and arrived via monorail. Mr. House had arranged for many securitrons to standby inside the gate and next to McCarran station, each outfitted with a different hand-crafted personality to suit the timbre of each faction. 

Finally, The King let his martini breach his lips and cleared his throat. It was time. The delegates would be led by their respective secuitrons to The Gourmand inside the Ultra-Luxe, where a massive table had been set up in the middle, and a dozen masked waiters stood at the ready. Each faction would be granted an exquisite penthouse suite on the top two floors on the hotel and issued a welcome-bag from the front desk, each equipped with a time-schedule, a bottle of scotch, a hundred universal casino chips, and a holotape labeled “The Future”. 

The King finished his martini, stood from his plush armchair, and ignited another cigarette. This was it. Mr. House would be watching. It was time to change the world.