A long time ago, she’d found posters of her, old pre-war films, heard a few of her songs, and decided Marilyn Monroe deserved to be showed one of the highest forms of flattery - imitation.
Though, not just her name - a little bit of her image, her personality, her identity - all to mixed together to create the perfect disguise to roam the Mojave. Marilyn isn’t sure how many people in the Mojave are aware of Marilyn Monroe’s existence - information on pre-war celebrities is spotty, depending on where you are, what pre-war remnants were salvaged, and how far the word spread.
In any case, she’s sure that there are only a few visible parallels. She isn’t blonde like the real Marilyn, her facial features aren’t as soft as hers either - they’re not too sharp, either. She isn’t gifted with a gorgeous singing voice. Or she doesn’t find it in her interests to even try out a tune. She’s too pale - of course, that could be easily altered, but she prefers her skin the way it is.
She isn’t fooling herself. She isn’t Marilyn Monroe.
She’s a courier. Number six.
The memory of being sent off is as fresh as it’ll ever be —
— her, hair pulled up into a loose ponytail instead of it’s current style, sitting with her legs uncrossed and a sarsaparilla pressed to her lips as she takes a sip. The small package is in her other hand, wrapped up in rough cloth and tied together with a thin piece of rope. She remembers fingering the fabric between her thumb and index, glancing up at the man who’s dispatching her with a curious expression.
“So. Urgent delivery to the New Vegas Strip to Mr. House?” she says, mind flipping through any files it has on someone named House - it pulls up a few blanks, except for the basic textbook stuff she’s heard about him in passing.
Another quick examination of the package and, “A poker chip. I’m delivering a poker chip?”
The man scowls slightly, arms crossing and she can hear him about to reprimand her for breaking protocol and opening it. Customer privacy is important, he’ll say.
“You aren’t allowed to open the packages, damn it—”
the lady from the mojave [2a/??]
A long time ago, she’d found posters of her, old pre-war films, heard a few of her songs, and decided Marilyn Monroe deserved to be showed one of the highest forms of flattery - imitation.
Though, not just her name - a little bit of her image, her personality, her identity - all to mixed together to create the perfect disguise to roam the Mojave. Marilyn isn’t sure how many people in the Mojave are aware of Marilyn Monroe’s existence - information on pre-war celebrities is spotty, depending on where you are, what pre-war remnants were salvaged, and how far the word spread.
In any case, she’s sure that there are only a few visible parallels. She isn’t blonde like the real Marilyn, her facial features aren’t as soft as hers either - they’re not too sharp, either. She isn’t gifted with a gorgeous singing voice. Or she doesn’t find it in her interests to even try out a tune. She’s too pale - of course, that could be easily altered, but she prefers her skin the way it is.
She isn’t fooling herself. She isn’t Marilyn Monroe.
She’s a courier. Number six.
The memory of being sent off is as fresh as it’ll ever be —
— her, hair pulled up into a loose ponytail instead of it’s current style, sitting with her legs uncrossed and a sarsaparilla pressed to her lips as she takes a sip. The small package is in her other hand, wrapped up in rough cloth and tied together with a thin piece of rope. She remembers fingering the fabric between her thumb and index, glancing up at the man who’s dispatching her with a curious expression.
“So. Urgent delivery to the New Vegas Strip to Mr. House?” she says, mind flipping through any files it has on someone named House - it pulls up a few blanks, except for the basic textbook stuff she’s heard about him in passing.
Another quick examination of the package and, “A poker chip. I’m delivering a poker chip?”
The man scowls slightly, arms crossing and she can hear him about to reprimand her for breaking protocol and opening it. Customer privacy is important, he’ll say.
“You aren’t allowed to open the packages, damn it—”
She smiles wryly as she interrupts, “I didn’t.”