As you wander the Mojave, the sun beats down and the dry earth crunches underfoot. A sense of worry grows as you notice Raiders and Kahns eyeing you, while fiends laugh beside a makeshift shack. With your big iron ready, you keep walking, anticipating trouble.

Then the click of a hammer and the laugh of a Kahn he walks behind you with quick thinking you point your holster and shoot him in the gut. With little to no options you run for the hills, feeling a graze on your side you keep running feeling the blood trickle down your leg and the squish of the horrible noise in your boots with each step.

They stop, fear evident as they yell at you while you run into an old military bunker. Hunkering down, you feel the wound burn and spot a first aid kit in the distance, relief washing over you. But a sense of dread lingers—why did they run?

“WHO’S THERE!”

A loud, rough and booming voice is heard deep with in the bunker… and the glent of the golden lining of a vault suit…