In the shadow of the New Vegas skyline, Marcus stood solemnly, a weathered shovel in hand, as the sun dipped below the horizon. The desert wind carried whispers of past deeds and battles fought, a fitting requiem for the one they were about to lay to rest.
The Chosen One, a legend of the Wasteland, now lay in a simple wooden casket, adorned with trinkets and mementos of a life spent wandering the irradiated earth. Marcus gently placed a Vault 13 canteen atop the casket, a silent nod to the legacy that connected them.
As the first shovel of dirt hit the casket, a group of onlookers, each from different factions once swayed by his actions, stood in respectful silence. Their faces were etched with the scars of war, yet in this moment, they shared a common grief.
As the grave filled, the sky turned a deep indigo, and the first stars began to pierce the twilight. Marcus knew that the Mojave would remember the Chosen One, just as it would remember his deeds for better or worse.
The onlookers dispersed, leaving Marcus alone with the silent stars and the whispers of the desert. Marcus turned away from the grave, their silhouette merging with the darkness as they walked back towards the peaceful solitude of Jacobstown
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