Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may belong upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.
Exodus 20:12
The first week of August brought the sun like an unholy terror.
It shone on the crags of Black Mountain and the shores of Callville Bay, on the airplanes at McCarran and the brook at Forlorn Hope. It shone on the fields at HELIOS One, and the Strip burned like high noon at midnight. It shone on the bighorners in the canyons and the prickly pear in the flats - on the hot tin roofs of Nellis and the shadows on the crosses at Nipton.
And it shone on the tent of one Arcade Gannon, curling his broc flowers and withering his maize. His book and the patients called it "white heat" - and he hoped it would go as fast as it came.
The fan rattled above Francine Garret as she stared him down in disbelief.
"Water?"
"You heard me." Arcade settled onto a stool and heaved a dehydrated breath. "Julie's laying them two to a bed. We're going to start losing patients if they don't get clean water."
"You hear that, James?" Francine twisted the cap off a bottle. "Glasses here came in for water."
A barbershop quartet of chuckles.
"You cut Glasses a deal!" James spoke up over the laughter. "That still in the back needs fixing."
"You have fun asking a Follower to help you make stronger..."
Heat and sunlight poured in when the Wrangler door swung open. Francine turned her head to the source and shielded her eyes.
"... Shit."
A man too old for the Mojave stumbled in, nose red with liquor and arms scabbed from chems. He dragged the side of his foot over the floor as he cut a winding path to the bar.
"Frannie!" He croaked. "Frannie, sweetheart." His bony fingers folded over the ledge beside Arcade's stool. "You thought about our deal, right."
"Fourteen caps." Francine's answer landed like a boot stomp. "Twenty for calling me 'sweetheart.'"
"W-well now, let's..." the man leaned forward and hit Arcade in the face with his breath - "... let's agree on twelve."
Without another word Francine stepped away from the register. She planted a hand on her hip, stuck two fingers in her mouth, and blew a whistle to drive dogs mad.
"To-ny!"
The bar went silent. The card players hushed. The stairs creaked as they brought down half a brahmin's worth of muscle. He crossed the room with the casual sway of a boxer, cracking his knuckles and turning heads as he went.
The drunk shuffled backward in fright. Tony scooped him up by his collar and pitched him headfirst out the door.
"Asshole." Francine took her place as the talking resumed. "Comes in every day, tries to haggle the price of scotch. Thought with the boy around he'd leave us alone."
"Improbe Neptunum accusat, qui iterum naufragiam facit." Arcade seized the opportunity to quip. "You know how it is."
The heavy footsteps stopped.
"Uh." Francine paused. "No, actually, I don't."
The dead weight of a hand hit the wood of the bar.
"What'd you say?"
Arcade pushed up his glasses. "I said, 'improbe Neptunum -'"
"I mean that's Legion language, ain't it?" The young man turned and started toward him.
"Well, no, I mean." Arcade's palms went clammy. "They didn't invent it... they just appropriated it."
Tony gave him a strange, curious look.
"Could I see you a minute?"
"I hope you're not insinuating I'm with those crackpots!" Arcade babbled, helpless on his path to the storeroom. "Unless you are on their side, in which case, I..." he bowed his head out of habit as he passed under the doorway - "... well, they're not so bad, just grievously misinformed, and - "
The door slammed behind him. "Will you dry up?"
Arcade pulled his lips between his teeth. He could dry up. He could dry up for those knuckles.
"Now, listen," Tony began, squeaking over the floorboards. "I'm not gonna hurt you. But I need somethin' you got."
Arcade sidestepped a stained orange chair. "Then why are you being intimidating?"
Tony ignored the comment as he reached for his trousers. "You have a look at this and tell me -"
Arcade balked. "If you're gonna turn your head and cough -"
"- what this is for."
Tony fished in his pocket and produced a weathered cloak clasp. He held it out in his palm and beckoned for the doctor to take it. Seeing no other option, Arcade complied, lifting it with ginger fingers.
"They found that on me," Tony explained, in Arcade's peripheral hearing. "When I was a baby."
Arcade adjusted his glasses in accordance and peered closer. Bull motif... burnished brass.
"Well." It occurred to him to lower his voice. "It's Legion, all right. I can practically smell The Fort on it."
Tony crossed his arms and leaned on the table beside the sink. "Turn it over."
The doctor rolled it into his other hand. Po... potius mori... where had he seen that? Or heard, or...
The ten-year memory of a holotape lit the bulb in his head.
"'Death before dishonor.'" His fist closed around it. "That's what it says." He nodded to the token with a raised eyebrow. "Somewhere across the river is a man who wants this back."
Tony answered after he shifted his weight off the table.
"All right, Doc." He advanced. "I wanna make you a deal. Word is things are hot with the Kings and the NCR - and however that goes down, there's no way it won't get ugly."
Arcade trained suspicious sights on him.
"You and I clear out while we can - and you help me get to Caesar..." the need in Tony's voice became palpable - "... and I'll keep you safe while you do it."
"No offense," Arcade prefaced - "... but why should I go anywhere with you?"
"For nine years now I been searchin'." Tony extended his hand to the unknown. "And you're the only lead I got."