Thick, aromatic smoke from a cigar wafted and and billowed in the stagnant air, creating wisps of white that curled and dispersed with gentle breaths released into the air. Condensation rested on a small tumbler, the contents of it chilled whisky. The amber fluid was cool to the touch yet burned like fire when the man drank it down; an intense burning sensation through his throat. When it reached his stomach, it simmered down to a fierce tingle and he relaxed once more, his body conforming to the worn cushions. Lambent city lights pierced through the veil of risen dust and vapor and the flames of Gomorrah easily seen down the cracked and busted streets of the fragmented Las Vegas. The roulette wheel that no longer spun atop the reawakened city sat eerily quiet upon it's plinth, the spectral lights blinking and shining down upon The Strip.
Benny kept his dark, hazel eyes solid upon The Lucky 38. His rough, calloused hand supported his forehead on which small droplets sweat beaded on from drinking the whisky in his hand. He smelled of sweat and alcohol, the odor stagnating in the settled air, untouched by spoken word or movement. His breathing was steady but his thoughts moved over and over, toppling each other down, crashing into one another like a trainwreck. The monarch was hushed in his tomb, sleeping or calculating, waiting to make his next move.
Since the Legion fell in Arizona, The NCR had regained it's power they had previously had before their conflict with the autocratic slavers. Their Caesar went up in flames in his fortress of Legionnaires after a stunt pulled by an ex-NCR spotter and his partner, some woman from a tribe who had been assimilated long ago. It wasn't long until the Bear caught up with their actions and had them fighting their fires across southern Nevada. They had picked up another man, some unknown traveler, and nipped the Bull at it's bud- for an unspeakable price. The group was disbanded, the two men went into hiding and the woman was presumably dead. But since, the streets of New Vegas and the surrounding region was submerged in celebration. The NCR never mentioned the trio again and their memories, their information was locked up and the key was tossed into an ocean of thorns, unattainable.
House hadn't moved an inch, nor had his Courier, since the victory. It was assumed for a long time that maybe the old man had died; Benny knew better than that. Taking another drink of the whisky in his hand, he drained the cup and this time felt the burn of House taking back the Platinum Chip by force. Wiping away the sweat, he leaned forward in his seat, uncomfortable from the memory freshly dug up from the untilled dirt in his mind since he lost it all. His head throbbed and he let the glass drop to the carpeted floor. It rolled for a second and then sat still as the owner of The Tops sat, face in his hands, defeat on his shoulders.
How had he fallen from the top to an outcast of House's nirvana, the arcadia of sin; rampant lust, drinking, gambling? Maria sat poised, beckoning his touch, enticing his fingers to be wrapped around her trigger. If Benny thought hard enough, he had the raw taste of steel in his mouth, the metal algid against his lips and the piercing realization of the moment as he pulled the hammer back until it cocked. If he was that backed against a wall, Maria would be the rock, however pulling the trigger would be his salvation. His palm wiped across his face, which seemed to be carved from lead by the lack of emotion, save for the grim, white line that formed his lips, hinting at disgust with himself. His once well kept hair fell down in his face, a mess. Stains covered the undershirt of his infamous suit and his shoes were torn and had holes in them, the soles falling apart after walking to many miles to escape from House, from his master. Even his subconscious whispered the word coward over and over again.
The tumble from greatness to nothing had been haunting. He had left the Chairmen and his baby, his glory, The Tops in complete disarray. Swank disowned him but couldn't keep him out of his mind; that little happy memory of what supposedly his best bud in the whole world was the only thing that granted Benny access to The Strip and a trench to lay low in. But yet, Swank resented Benny. Smoking on his cigar, the little that was left was a hot, glowing ember that dropped from his hand onto the dirtied carpet. It started a small flame, burning bright orange and threatening to spread fast. Benny turned his head, popped his neck and stared at the flame growing. In that fire, he saw the success of House, how he twisted and turned everything in his favour. If any other man had a chance, they would snuff out House's illumination, remove the oxygen that House fed on; suffocate the fire. Stomping out the flame, Benny stood, moving over to the window which had been tainted by the dust of the many years. House wasn't the only man with a plan now; Benny had ideas that were starting to burn like the sun on the daybreak's horizon.

Tumbleweeds rolled over the rocky shelves of hills and tumbled into the dust and dirt below, moving across the land gracefully, picking up debris and whatever desert dust it touched. The rough sphere of thorny branches and dirt was carried by the soft breeze, taking the direction of the wind. If the tumbleweed could see the arid land ahead, it would see the many grave markers, the stone cairns and the dirt mounds of where decomposing bodies lay, withered by the eroding sand and sun. Dried mountain flowers lay on some of the graves, some gone and blown away from where they were set gently in remembrance of those who had seen the wrath of the Legion, the 87 assimilated tribes, and those enslaved by force.
In an odd way, it even gave remembrance of the Legion, and what their mark was on the land, their echo in the wind. In the sea of the dead, among the many graves that dotted the area of Phoenix, a laurel hung on a marker, a cross that towered above many others sleeping for an eternity. It was were Rene laid, eyes closed and arms crossed over her chest peacefully, dreaming; dreaming of a world where there was no hunger, no war, pestilence.

No sickness.

There was not a plaque to mark her name, or her achievements, but the tribes who were returning around the area knew that she was sleeping there, held in her dreaming state deep below the Earth. Nothing was set upon her grave and it was as barren as the cracked, dry ground around it, as no one dared disturb her resting soul. The members of the tribes who returned to Arizona only came to pay their respects in a war, long and hard fought by many people. Elijah Graham was the only one to set foot between the graves, and he had disappeared long ago, leaving only a small letter written to Rene. The worn paper with gently scrolling letters had long since blown away, in a time that seemed like eons ago.
Craig Boone had disappeared into the wastes, changed by the wars, changed by love and eventually, inevitable death. Somewhere in the wastes, his soul ached, longing for an answer, wanting to know many things and dying a little inside each day over seeing Rene and Elijah strung up on crosses. That should have been him, he told himself over and over, his voice a record on repeat. With the Legion gone, his mind was at ease but yet he was ever vigilant.. if he were to be found alive. No true physical proof of Rene remained, her story was a legend that people shared amongst a crackling fire and full, bright moon, with only the midnight's wind whispering back and the stars twinkling in response, listening to the profound stories in the hands of weary travellers and soldiers alike.
The smell of desert sage was pungent in the air. The dust that formed the solid ground beneath the people of the world's feet had gotten stuck to a pair of old, worn leather boots as they approached the mass burial site, the person's eyes wide open and mind aware of the area. A rifle laid heavily upon the back and shoulders of The Courier, the rifle that he had been using for ages. He didn't draw his gun, and instead stood in silence and wonderment of the many graves scattered through the large plot of land. House had talked about how all this action was caused by one person, how one idea spread like wildfire.

"With every action, there is an equal or opposite reaction," House had also said to The Courier, who listened like a child would to such grandiose stories at bedtime, right before their minds were plunged into a world of imagination, images and sounds conjured by the amazing power of the mind. However, The Courier had not dreamed in years; his imagination was as hollow as a cavern, dried up long ago. He was not a
As The Courier stood in the silence amongst the bodies, he could almost hear the wind whispering to him, feel the spirits crowd around his presence in awe, their curiosity guiding them to his strong, well formed body that stood out in dark clothing against the light sand. His tanned skin began to itch at the touch of people long gone, the thought of apparitions walking past him silently. Brushing away those ghosts, he approached the cross which prominently stood out of the ground, where the dried laurel hung above a mound of dirt. There was a picture worn by the sun sticking partially out of dirt, it's exact details faded and the colour long gone from it. The Courier picked it up, gently ran his fingers over it and brushed away the dirt.

"Have you found it yet?" House asked, the man's pipboy latched to his arm crackling with static and causing him to jump. The Courier took a moment, recovered, and held the picture with a couple fingers as he replied, his mirror-finished glasses reflecting the light of the sun.

"Yes, I have. But why do you need me to visit this place? All I found are bodies of the dead… and a picture," he answered, his voice strong and gruff, yet surprisingly pleasant. It had slight, but nice western twang to it, adding to the charming ring of how he spoke cv

"What's this picture of?" House inquired again, the tone of interest occupying his elegant, perspicacious voice.

The Courier went silent for a moment, studying the picture. It was a woman, early twenties or so. Dark hair, dark eyes, soft amiable smile that lit up the picture. Her hair was rather long, which noted that it hadn't been cut for quite some time. Her nose was strong, a nice, prominent size, and her eyes had a light to them, even though the picture had faded.

"It's a picture of a gal, somewhere around her late teens or so. Maybe 20, give or take. Dark hair that's long. It's just a picture of her face so I don't-"

"Thank you, Courier. I think you have found exactly what I was looking for. However, is there any other evidence present at the site?"

The man looked perplexed for a moment, and knitted his brows together, eyes skimming over the sand around the area. It seemed that this place had been untouched for quite some time. He knew that House had some strange and profound interest in a conflict that had happened here, but he wasn't for sure why, exactly.

"No, sir. Save for the laurel hanging upon the cross that marks the grave site."

"A laurel…." House murmured. "Very well. Return to me with the picture when you're ready."

~

The evening sunlight filtered in the dusty windows of the Lucky 38, high above all other casinos around it. The day was composing itself into a beautiful, ambient silence and all energy settled down and was released into the air, where it seemed to depart. Tensions melted away and as the untarnished perfection of the Earth's diurnal course began to wane into nighttime, the resplendent aubade gave way to the seductive twilight that settled over New Vegas like a black dress misted with stars. The moon began her mellow, delicate waltz across the heavens as the night was still blossoming into something exquisite and alluring, as all New Vegas nights did.

On The Strip, it was a party every night. Gorgeous, classy men and women held freshly stirred martinis in crystal glasses in their hand under the swathe of gilded opulence down the street at the Ultra Luxe. People looking to unwind and avoiding to incur wallet-draining expenses went to The Tops, and those who were looking for a little provocative, sensual fun departed for Gomorrah, it's red, racy flames and ardent atmosphere deluging it's customers in a state of euphoric bliss. And for those who weren't swooned by the arousing dances that the women gave in and out of the casino itself, they offered a collection of 'party favours'; cheap drugs, cheap alcohol- things to get you intoxicated but small chance of escaping without an addiction.

House observed his kingdom from the comfort of his dwelling. Young, wistful lovers walked down the streets hand in hand, tired (or drunk) soldiers found lively entertainment around every corner and their overworked, underpaid commanding officers watched them like hawks, ready to strike at any moment's notice. It reminded him of the days when his city was strong and abundant, in better time despite hostilities on the horizon before the Great War. Thinking back, he almost wished he would have bought out the Sierra Madre from Sinclair, but it was better to have remained on The Strip. However, even if he had truly considered buying it, he doubted that Frederick would have given it up. He became completely obsessed with it.. and that easily forgotten starlet, no matter how haunting her songs were on the radio.
His courier would not return for a few a days with the small piece of evidence he had obtained from the Phoenix Burial Site. House wished he could have seen it for himself, to witness how many were lost in that brutal conflict that lasted only hours. He assumed the aftermath looked like Arlington Cemetery, though not quite as massive and very crude, as the whole cemetery was set up by tribals, instructed to do so by one man.. that man, whoever he was, made sure the memory of the Legion was never forgotten, made sure that those who had lost their lives to the atrocities caused by Caesar were remembered, and that the woman who started it all had a place to rest easy.
What other significance did she carry, other than doing unpaid work for the government of the Bear? Did she have relations to those in the NCR, to those who held high stature within the government? There were a lot of questions unanswered that puzzled the darkest spots of House's mind. However, there were other fires to fight. Turning his attention to other things that begged for attention, he sighed in an exasperated state. It seemed that with the Legion's disappearance, there were other factions, other groups of people coming from the woodwork.

Activity in the East had been quiet since the end of 2077, whereas in the West the battle of Hoover Dam tempestuously between the Legion and the NCR. In the Capital around that time, there had been rumours of fresh water flowing freely in the Potomac River, yet there had been a large conflict between the Enclave and an unknown group over the ordeal. It seemed that even though there was an ominous silence coming in from the opposite end of the war torn country, it was just a cover for the Enclave to carry out espionage and slip in some of their most prestigious agents. House had his own group at work, though- with a new addition. Ignatio de Leon was not a generous man and didn't like to provide help to others, but had nowhere else to go due to his exile from the NCR.
The bitter man was of Spanish origins- from his looks, to his name, to the bite of his seething temper. He wasn't imposingly tall but his dark, coal black hair and eyes to match reminded House of charred material after a fire's burn; the man's name was fitting indeed. He kept a hawk as a pet, for an odd, obscure reason. House didn't mind the hawk as long as Leon did what he was told. He kept the ex-ranger bound by contract but even then House knew that if he truly wanted to leave, he would have left long ago. For his first official mission under his employment, House sent Leon to track down one of the five agents sent to the Mojave.

The darkness of the back alley was foreboding and smelled of equal parts piss and liquor. Decrepit brick walls cornered in at the end of the small pathway that led to the homes of the homeless, the dwelling of muggers, wannabe murderers, drug addicts; the scum of the earth breathed there. Puddles of unknown liquid pooled around dumpsters and reflected the little light given off by casinos not too far off in the distance. The cool metal of a trigger warmed underneath the cautious finger of a shadow lurking through the filth of a city. Fierce blue eyes scanned through the rapid shift of light level from the Vegas streets to the somber alleyway, looking for a specific target. Raven black hair streaked with small but numerous streaks of grey and gold were gently pushed away from well built shoulders and neck as the woman proceeded on her way.

Her shoes grew uncomfortable as the walk became long, but she wasn't supposed to be comfortable. She was meant to pursue her mission, the target that hid away in the night. The NCR wasn't as slippery as she was, and she reassured herself of that as the coal-black Fletcher .45 was in her hand, silencer painted to match was pressed against her dress neatly, discreetly. It was her little secret.
The eyes of the dregs of society flickered up slowly to see her face, but her powerful aura of authority sent a silent message to them, and so they left her alone. It was much like parting a sea at will, commanding a crowd, manipulating them to her will- the power fueled her, but she didn't let it all go to her head at once. The shadow of a bird passed overhead, but she thought nothing of it. Her ETA was less than a few minutes, and she could almost taste the gunpowder, the adrenaline of the moment rushing through her like white lightning, fueling her slight avaricious tendencies, giving her the pleasure of power. The thrill of killing was sweet on the tip of her tongue and she could feel the electricity of the moment in her veins, pounding through her heart and spreading through her fingers.

"Spare change?", a man said, dressed in torn clothes meant for an old skeleton buried in a grave.

This was it.

Amaranth stopped in her tracks, and looked down, a sweet grin upon the hairpin curvature that made her lips. Another shadow from above passed over her, and alarmed her as she caught a glimpse of a large hawk passing over swiftly. Her bloodflow turned frigid and viscous and her heartbeat slowed down as she stood and turned.

"Maybe another time," she murmured.

Turning to move, Amaranth walked further down the dark corridor. Now it seemed that time had frozen and the transit from street to street by alleyway was infinite. A shadow now hid around every corner and as she stumbled back, she found herself pinned against a wall, the smoky, bittersweet and harsh smell of coyote tobacco moving through her nostrils as she took in struggled breaths. It came so unexpected. Or had it? That hawk of his…
"Hello to you too," Amaranth managed in a struggled, yet hushed voice. Her voice was rather smoky, seductive but gravely, creamy… a mixture of many things come together to create perfect inflections, a twang of femininity. Her lucid eyes contrasted against the dark, almost tar-black pupils of the ex-ranger who had her in a state of shock, yet she kept her cool.

"You've been a royal pain in my ass," he growled, hands roughly placed upon her shoulders. A distinct, apprehensible voice rang out from the pip-boy latched upon his arm like a metal ball attached to a prisoner's leg, save that the chain had been immensely shortened.

"Have you gotten the intel target yet?", House asked, his voice serene under the tension that weighed down the air between ex-ranger and... who was this, this woman?

"Right here," she muttered angrily, glaring against the pressure that the man put on her shoulders. She didn't want to make any quick movements, and her gun had already clattered to the ground causing a round to go off and bury itself in the concrete walls of a building across the street. It was no more than a little pop and the echo of the sound quickly dissipated and was forgotten by the two locked against each other.

"Good" the voice said promptly, a little tint of excited emotion leaking through. "Leon, don't let your guard-"

As soon as House had warned the Halcon de Muerte, Amaranth had stepped up her game and pushed him off roughly, her strength unaccounted for in the moment. Leon should not have assumed that because she was using a gun meant she had no muscle. House had went on about the Enclave's training regiment, but he was expecting a soldier to interrogate, not some woman… who was she?
There was no time to contemplate as a swift punch was aimed directly between the eyes of Leon, who grabbed the woman's small, yet potent fist. He yanked it down, but didn't expect her to quickly recover and sweep his legs from him. Leon fell with a crash, angered to the point of bursting. But this was unexpected, he had to let her live. He needed to get that information. Chasing after her down the alley, Leon finally caught up with her, but was pushed back by a hard-landing kick to the gut, one that he could almost feel through his armor. It caused the assailant to stumble back, but she was relentless. She was a flurry of well placed punches and kicks, jabs, anything to get her away from him. It seemed that Leon had met his match, even if he was not as well trained.
Finally putting a hard grab on something, Leon felt the delicate chain of a locket but didn't think twice before ripping it from her neck. It seemed that the thrashing woman hadn't noticed one bit. Putting her back against a wall, Leon kept a tighter grip on her, almost being able to feel her shoulders trying to give way beneath his hands. His fingers dug deep within the muscles and she groaned in pain, breathing in, trying to control herself. Amaranth finally spit in his face, to which Leon angrily wiped off. Some got in his eye and stung, which meant she had drank liquor recently. She had been to one of the casinos… for what? It would have to be figured out later.

"Let me go," she growled angrily. Leon shoved her hard against the wall to keep her subdued.

The locket was still in his hand as he loosened his grip, but only slightly. It was still warm from her wearing it during the evening. Knowing the Enclave, they had tricks up every sleeve, hidden away in every pocket. Using a free hand, he shoved it into his coat pocket. Amaranth did indeed have tricks, and lots of them. Barely being able to cock back the hammer of her Fletcher, she finally managed to do so and placed the end of the barrel on his leg lightly, right over his femoral artery.

"You're not so slippery as you think," Leon grumbled, feeling the gun pressed against him. "But you have guts to play that game with me."

"Let's play then," she smirked, her sweet simper coming back. But it was laced with a lethal poison. Her eyes had an ethereal glow to them, a spark that went off whenever she had the upper hand. She was delirious when it came to having power, all of it went to her head. But Leon liked to think he had more common sense than to mess with a woman who seemed subtly insane behind those devastating eyes.

"Who are you?" was the first question that came from the man's mouth. The din of the casino drowned out their conversation. The woman sat across him, surprisingly relaxed, arms folded neatly over her chest.

"I know my name is no concern to you, Halcon de Muerte. What you want is information," she said softly, fingers moving to rub out the throbbing pain in her shoulders. Her look was a neutral expression, an arched eyebrow raised at Leon and his questions. Leon saw she was well groomed, better than the rest of the folk of the wasteland. Her nails were recently manicured, but one had chipped off in their altercation.

The darkness of Gomorrah was intimate and inviting, the smell of cheap lilac perfume, cheap liquor, but old, expensive cigars. The taint of smoke wrapped around the two as they were engaged in their conversation, a table separating them from ripping each other's throats out. Slow, jazzy music played through the tinny speakers as the dancers on stage failed to attract attention that night. Their slow movements were sumptuous and tempting and flowed together with the tunes playing throughout the casino. Amaranth took a deep breath in, and reached up to her neck to play with her locket- but found it wasn't there. Her heart hammered in her chest as she felt it was gone. Leon could sense her surprise but said nothing of it, as he could also tell the woman was trying to keep her emotions hidden away from him.
Leon felt the slight tinge of fear emanating from her, and locked his eyes in with her. House hadn't inquired once about the woman, but the ex-ranger felt he was watching from his world in the Lucky 38. The Ghost King was always watching over his kingdom, his desert jewel. The woman sitting before him was striking; a strong nose, soft, yet well carved jawline. Her face looked like it was carved by a man who had worked with stone for years and years, perfecting the craft. If she were indeed a statue, she'd be worth millions.

But her lethality, her killer's instinct drew more blood than people.

"You obviously know me," Leon said, his glare fiery and piercing.

Amaranth breathed again, letting go of the tenseness that surrounded her.
"I didn't know you at first, but then I was discreetly introduced to you, fed your information like medicine until I finally remembered every little quirk about you, the details of your face, to the scars on your soul," she answered, finally shifting forwards towards him, neatly folding her hands on the table. Her neck craned towards him slightly, her eyes scrutinizing him. Amaranth turned her head away for a moment, seemingly in thought. The agent focused upon him once more, her thoughts indeterminable.

"But what more do you want from me, besides my name? Do you want a kiss on the scars from being strung up on a Legion cross?" she said calmly once more.

"I'm assured that you're not deaf, but I'm not going to repeat myself," Leon said, seething with anger. She was master at manipulating people, contorting their emotions to unrealistic proportions.

"Information, information…" Amaranth tutted. Putting a finger over her lips in thought, she sighed.

"I haven't got all night."

"You spent a good couple of months tracking me," she pointed out. "Or someone has been keeping you in the dark about who you were after, however it doesn't matter to me. You haven't even told me what you want information about."

"You, your mission, why you are here."

Amaranth tensed up again at the absence of her locket, wanting to feel the metal warm against her chest, the chain hanging delicately around her neck and the gentle, reassuring feeling of the intricately carved designs in the metal against her fingertips every now and then.

"We need somewhere else to talk about this" she murmured as she stood slowly.

"We're not going anywhere. Sit down," Leon ordered, his voice just below a bark.

Amaranth glared and stood, then smoothed out the wrinkles from her black satin dress. She looked annoyed but breathed calmly, trying to keep her temper in check.

"I can play these games too, senorita," Leon commented, fingers drumming against the table. "Now, let's get to know each other a little better."

Amaranth rolled her eyes but kept a firm stare on him. Maybe she could escape. If it ever came to drastic measures, she was ready to pop a cyanide pill between her teeth or expel a bullet through her right temple. Death didn't scare her, but she wasn't noble.

"I'm not telling you anything."

"Then you won't leave the Mojave alive," he commented sharply.

"It wasn't my intent to," she said, voice lacquered with a dark seriousness.

"You see, Ignatio," Amaranth said, addressing him by first name with a dry and lackluster voice, "You and I, we're the same. We're soldiers, the chess piece of big shot government officials. We're nothing more than playing pieces, and even though you've since left the NCR, you've allowed yourself to be molded into your new employer's needs."

Leon had a steely look upon his face. The words simmered in his heart and throughout his soul, popping and fizzing wildly. But yet he listened despite the reality burning in front of him.

"Tell me something I don't know," he retorted.

"You and I, Ignatio… we were born to die."