This post can also be found on ArchiveofOurOwn under the same title. As this story will include very explicit violence and sex at some points; on this platform it will be edited slightly, and the full version will be available on A03 under the Explicit heading.
The Mojave was unforgiving; they told Dahlia that when she was planning to leave the Capital behind.
"It'll make you wish for a nuclear winter."
"Hellscape."
"Full of mutants and animals, and that's just what's on two legs"
Of course, they were right.
She staggered over the broken bodies of the bark scorpion hive she'd disturbed and checked her Pip-Boy. This was the quickest way to New Vegas if you didn't take the I-15, but things had started to go south round about the time she hit NCRCF; running errands for Cons might pay well, but if the NCR was planning to hit that shit-hole she'd sell Eddie for a front row seat and some Sarsaparilla. So Primm, then, after the Strip. The chain link fence waved in a sudden wind, and sand whipped into Dahlia's eyes before she could push her glasses up the bridge of her nose,
"Shit," she said, mouth twisting as the Mojave conspired to sand-blast what was left of her complexion. Squat bunker entrances loomed from the gloom, but she pushed on; according to her map she was on the right track. Of course even the scorpions were hunkering down in this shit-storm. Dahlia pulled her scarf up to cover her mouth and forged on, head bowed against the whipping winds, and then, as suddenly as they came, they were gone.
Shaking the sand from her hair, Dahlia looked back; it was too localised to be natural, but what was natural here? Curiosity reared its head, but she kicked it back down and turned to the north. In the gathering twilight a murky orange glow was beginning to creep into the sky. New Vegas, she assumed, in all its seedy glory…
Worth trekking through the night? She hefted the hand-me-down Varmint Rifle and took off at a jog, pack rustling with each step, head pounding with each footfall, each ripple of flesh and muscle. The man in the chequered coat would be on the Strip; that much she knew. She could feel it in her gut, and she was going to rain hellfire and vengeance on him when they met again. The raw scar on the side of her head throbbed, the world narrowed, and Dahlia jogged on until the train tracks began to clog with rusted carriages and shacks crowded their edges. Somewhere in the distance meat was cooking; the rich, salty smell flooded her mouth with spit and made her stomach quiver. Dahlia stopped to sip from her flask before creeping by a camp.
NCR, it looked like, but there was no sense in taking chances.
When the gate appeared it was a technicolour splatter, garish and alluring, against the mostly brown sky. Drunk men swayed by it's rusted hinges, dead-eyed prostitutes assessed, and then dismissed, Dahlia with a practised flick of their eyes. Only one smiled,
"Welcome to Freeside." She said, split lip cracking to bleed again when she bared surprisingly straight, white teeth. Dahlia nodded and slunk by her. A dog was barking in the distance somewhere as the gate closed behind her, and the smell of shit was only marginally more overpowering than the stench of sweat and bathtub brew that seemed to follow every citizen. The first burst of freshness, a herby, earthy scent, turned her head.
A group of men, well dressed, well-coiffed, and well-fed, lurked in nearby shadows. Dressed to kill, matching in most aspects, and smiling easily. Dahlia blinked owlishly at them; gang members, of some kind, but not any she recognised. Her eyes tracked their progress, and without other leads to consider, she followed them at a distance. The uniform, because it was a uniform, seemed to garner respect; as they passed the first interior gate others stepped aside. On the other side they were everywhere, and her eyes flicked inescapably to the flickering neon sign.
The King's School of Impersonation.
"Who's in charge here?" She murmured to the first passerby,
"In Freeside?" The bum grunted, "Van Graffs would say them, so would Garrets, but I guess The King has the numbers." He hovered expectantly, not looking, not looking, but still looking at her.
Dahlia pressed five caps into his hand and walked into the "school" like she had been invited by The King himself. A haughty attitude and a long-stride went far, but only so far. A broad hand hit her shoulder,
"Woah, easy there sugar. You're in the wrong place." He smelled better than he looked, but he didn't look bad. Looked like he thought he looked better than he did, though.
"I need to see the King," she said, and the doorman grinned,
"You and every other groupie."
"What?" She frowned, rolling the word in her mind with distaste,
"Oh… sorry, doll." He looked her up and down, "Well, he ain't seeing anyone."
"I have something he'll want to hear." She said, eyes flicking to the door. What the fuck was she going to do when she got through? What if it was him?
"I'm sure you do. Look," doorman wrapped an arm around her shoulder. Dahlia tensed, muscles like coiled whips, "I know you're legit, doll, but I got told he ain't seeing no-one."
Trying to be the good guy. Dahlia grinned,
"I get it." She stepped away, "You're just the doorman. Not your place. I'll come back tomorrow."
"Woah, wait there dollface – I ain't a doorman. I'm Pacer." He said it as if it explained everything. It might have if she were anyone else. He searched her face for recognition, "I'm his second."
"Sure, but orders are orders. Right?" She pressed the button for all it was worth, and watched his face crease. He needed to impress, wanted to be liked. Dahlia could smell the rubber burning, see the cogs turning in his mind as he weighed the, in his mind high, possibility of a fuck with his boss's potential wrath. Dahlia pressed her luck just one more time, and snorted, turning away.
"I… well, shit." He laughed, "You got me there. Maybe you do need to see the King." He took a key from his pocket and unlocked the door. Dahlia grinned and winked at him, stomach heaving when he grinned back, "Remember who gave you a leg up, eh doll?"
"Sure, just as long as you don't expect a leg over." She whispered as she passed him by, hearing the hissing intake of breath.
It was clear from the get go that The King was the guy they were all trying to be. The guy they were impersonating. He had brass balls and a healthy measure of self-love to go with his pretty face, that much she would have guessed, but when he stood to pull out her chair and called for fresh water before even asking why she was at his table Dahlia realised that he was nice. Captial N nice, as opposed to good. There was a hell of a difference, of course, but nice she could live with. Nice wanted to be liked. Nice wanted to play the white hat. Nice would probably offer her help for the chance of hero worship.
Nice would settle for lip-service, if she was lucky,
"Huh, you're a sight," he said in a strange, slurred way. As if he was drunk already, but his hands were steady and he was drinking clear, clean water. "You had a hard road."
"You could say that." She said,
"Well, what can the King do for you?" He said, and she smiled,
"You always refer to yourself in third?" She asked before she could stop herself. The King looked shocked and then grinned,
"I guess I do." He said, "What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for work," she said, "and a man."
"I can provide both." He said with a grin that should have melted her bones. Dahlia suppressed a frustrated sigh,
"A specific man. Short, dark hair. Wears a chequered coat. Black and white." Dahlia swallowed, "Had some Khans in tow last I saw."
The King frowned,
"He leave you behind?"
"He shot me in the head and stole something of mine. Something I was holding for someone else," she looked him firmly in the eye, "I'm no damsel." He looked her up and down coolly,
"I can see that," he said with a smile, "well, I ain't seen a man like that, but I'll ask around… about work, though. I need you to hire a merc, man named Otis. You probably seen the guns for hire through Freeside…" he raised his perfect brows, and she nodded, "well he's one of them, and he's doing well. Too well." Dahlia made a face, "My boys don't want an unfair advantage, you understand, just a level playing field," he said and pushed a small pouch of caps across the stained table top, "hire Otis and see what it is he's up to."
"That's all?" She asked, and he spread his hands,
"That's all."
Dahlia weighed the caps,
"Those are to hire Otis with," he added, "come back with information and you get a reward."
"What kind?" She pressed, eyes narrowing, and he looked her up and down,
"Warm bed, hot bath, full meal, ammo for that gun of yours and a stimpak or two." He said; he had her over a barrel. She wanted caps, but those were all things she needed. In the case of the bath, things caps couldn't always buy.
"Fine." Dahlia said, stalking back towards the North gate.
Otis was crooked as a ghouls grin; Dahlia had known that from the minute he demanded full fee upfront. You couldn't kid a kidder, as Peter had said, and she knew a dangerous motherfucker when she saw one. Not the fighting kind, though; Otis was the sneaky, poison in the wine kind of bastard. She stooped to check the pulse of one of his "victims" and felt the corpse twitch in surprise. Dahlia cleared her throat,
"Funny, the blood looks dried."
Otis sighed, licking his lips,
"Couldn't leave it alone… did the Van Graff's send you?" He said, and the "corpse" below her gripped her wrist tight,
"No," she said, grinding her teeth, and, in her defence, it was the truth. He sighed,
"No matter," he levelled the gun at her head, "I guess it's a shame. Pretty thing like you having such a terrible accident. My reputation will suffer… but not too bad…" Dahlia gripped the squatter in panic, rolling backwards as Otis discharged the first few shots. The corpses friends scrambled to their feet, crying out as blood soaked her chest and chin. Dahlia threw the body to the side, his light, addicts frame breaking on the concrete, and tore her gun from its holster. The confusion served its purpose well enough; two of his shills fell under Otis' bullets before he could get a lock on her, and by then Dahlia was ready for him.
A shot grazed her shoulder and blood flew in a smooth arc until it spattered against a nearby wall. Dahlia leapt to the side, rolling as she hit the ground, and ran out into the main thoroughfare as a second shot punched through her hip, sending waves of agony to every extremity.
Never should have left Goodsprings…
She screamed as she hit the ground, but pushed herself over onto her back and grasped the rickety 9mm pistol firmly. As if it could protect her from the killing blow, as if she could aim straight when her body was slowly becoming numb. When the gunshots came there was no pain, well no more pain. Dahlia gasped like a landed fish, waiting for the sudden agony that never came. Two Kings came into view, and hoisted her between them, dragging her back towards the school,
"Pacer, it's her." One called,
"Shit. Ok, you found dirt on Otis, huh?" He slid into view. Dahlia nodded weakly,
"He ran when we opened fire," the Kings member said, "it was him, though."
"Reckon he knows we're on to him." The second said,
"Leave her with me. You two get that no good snake before he clears the city. Put out the word." Pacer said, and took her from the Kings, "Come on babydoll," he said, breath hot and unsavoury in her ear, "let's get you back."
The mercy of men was a funny thing; sometimes it was sweet as sugar and soft as a cloud, and other times it turned sinister. Thankfully Pacer seemed to be a sweetie at heart. He didn't quite drop her into The King's lap, but it was close enough and from there she was shuttled from back room to bedroom, attended at first by Pacer, then by The King, then by a woman with gravity defying hair. Somewhere around about the time snot and tears were mingling on her face as Julie, the spiky haired one, dragged shrapnel from her hip Dahlia realised she had an expiry date.
Petty job after petty job, hand to mouth, pay packet to pay packet; she'd been living like that since she escaped out West. She was winding down to another grave, but the chances of another mechanical Good Samaritan were slim. The man in the chequered coat was out there still, and now Caesar was on the prowl in the Mojave… the smell of blood and sweat and leather followed her everywhere; she'd never be free of it. The grim caked into every pore.
Nothing changed. Nothing but the roughened skin around her neck and the healed maze of raised and mulched skin on her back.
They put her in a bath, and sent a pretty thing in pink, lacy material to wait with her. The grim seeped out, but she still felt dirty. Twice they changed the water, throwing the black muck out into the street. The frilly girl brushed her wet hair until her scalp stung, rubbed her body with a rough towel, and then smoothed her skin down with a thick, creamy lotion, and then dragged her to bed with the help of an almost identically dressed older woman. For the first time in years she slept naked, and she found that, in the night, she couldn't find peace in it.
She dragged herself from bed to scour the bare room for something to wear. Frilly garments such as those worn by the bathroom women, and the rough, large clothes of the gang members… Dahlia dragged a pair of skimpy, pink pants over her wounds, hissing as she did so, and then slowly wriggled into a plain white t-shirt before she returned to bed, wrapping herself in the coarse blankets to ward off the blistering chill of midnight.
And she slept. And she dreamt.
She dreamt of an area of blood and sand, and on its borders the greenest grasses, chilled by mountain rains and summer snows. She dreamt of the hum of war drums, and the softest singing, and somewhere in the middle of it all there was a smell. The smell of cooking meat that watered her tongue and offended her nose. Meat crackling in the pan, and fat running from the cracked, blackened skin of crucified men.
Dahlia sat upright with a pained howl, leg spasming,
"Easy," Julie said, reaching for her as if she was a dangerous animal, "you've had a hard month, I'd guess."
You have no idea,
"Where am I?" Dahlia licked her lips, but as the words left her she began to remember, "I was shot."
"Twice," Julie said, pouring water into a mug, "they were quite clean, but you reacted badly. Malnutrition and fatigue, I'd say." She pursed her full, pink lips, "You're in Freeside, in the Kings School of Impersonation." Her mouth twisted,
"What?"
"The Kings, in Freeside. You've been sleeping for three days." Julie said, "Only stirred to use the chamber pot, and only with help." Dahlia felt her neck redden, but it was a small humiliation for the loose energy in her muscles and the sight of a slab of Mojave bread with fresh Brahmin milk on the bedside table,
"Thank you." She said, and sipped the water. Julie tracked her eyes and grinned,
"Finish the water first," she said, and leaned back, "The King seems to like you… so does Rex. Despite your hat. He slept beside you last night." Dahlia frowned, brows drawing together,
"The King, or the Dog?" She asked, and Julie threw back her head, showing small, perfectly white teeth,
"The Dog. Though the King would come if you called, I have no doubt." She said slyly, and Dahlia wrinkled her nose, "Speaking of, he wanted to see you when you woke." Julie took the empty mug and passed her the plate before she left. There was a slice of finely cut Brahmin meat beside the corn bread. Dahlia swallowed the spit that flooded her mouth and curled her toes, biting firmly into the meat, savouring the taste explosion as she chewed slowly.
Then The King appeared, meek as you like, and sat by her bedside,
"We caught Otis fleeing Freeside," he said after some time, "I… I'm real sorry you got hurt working for me." She blinked,
"I shouldn't have gotten smart," she said, "I let him know that I was on to him. The fault is mine." And just like that there was no debt between them. He gaped, and the Dog, Rex, clambered onto the bed with her, "Where are my clothes?"
"I… uh, they were filthy. Torn. We threw them away, but there's new here." He motioned to a bag by the bed, "From Mick and Ralphs, just take what you need." Dahlia bit savagely into the bread, mourning her ratty fatigues even as the milk coated her stomach and her skin stung from lack of grim and sweat layers to hold the world at bay. She nodded,
"Thank you."
"Your payment is in there to… we, uh, I added something extra." He said and frowned at the dog by her legs, "Rexie boy, he likes you."
"He's a mutt." She muttered, but the hound only wagged its tail and licked her hand. She smiled despite herself. The King nodded, blue eyes trained on her face as if he could read there something new. Something more. She returned his crystalline gaze with her own muddy stare and set her jaw,
"Did you find him?" She asked, and he floundered for a few second,
"The man who shot you?" He ventured eventually, Dahlia nodded, "He's a Chairman. Big roller at the Tops, it seems, name of Benny."
"The Tops?"
"A casino," he said, "on the Strip."
"I need to get there," she pushed his guilt and goodwill for all she was worth; he seemed the type to stew over small things. To worry. The way he hovered too close for comfort, but too far for presumption told her that.
"We can get you a passport," he said, "but the casino's don't allow weapons."
"I'll figure it out." She said and pushed the covers away, "Thank you." With the air of someone unused to being dismissed, The King left.
She should have chosen something practical, she knew, but vanity overtook her and she chose a bright, buttery yellow top, clingy and silky soft, and pale denim crop jeans. A wide, floppy sun hat, and ankle-cute beetle-crusher shoes. She would replace it all when she left the strip, but for once it might pay to look feminine. Pacer handed over her passport without a word, but she thought she saw a glimmer of admiration in his eyes.
Or perhaps it was disgust; so hard to tell.
The eyes that tracked her on the Strip were the same. Guarded, but open. Intense, but inscrutable. They followed her to the Tops, and then, inside, were replaced by a new set. By then, however, Dahlia didn't care; she saw him the minute she stepped into the casino, heard a laugh and turned her head to see the Grim Reaper wrap his arms around a doped-up dolly girl. The coat, the stance, the shining, gleaming – the Gun. It was him, alright, and for the first time since she felt that unnaturally cold sand under sandaled feet Dahlia's courage failed her.
"-weapons?"
She turned to stare at the boy they had working the door,
"What?"
"You need to give up all weapons, pussycat, you got any on you?" He asked with a smug grin, motioning to her rifle. A gift from The King.
"Nevermind," she said and turned on her heel. She ran to the Freeside gate, and under the burning Mojave sun, emptied her stomach of everything The King had given her. One man could not cure the ills caused by another, it seemed. Rex whined and licked her fingers. He had followed her out into the street, and then The King made a bargain. She was to take him with her until she could find the doctor Julie Farkas had spoken of. After dealing with Benny, of course. She snorted and shook her head, pride withering on the vine with each passing moment.
Dahlia looked out at the mountains in the distance, felt the small weight of her near empty pack, and shook in the pitiless gaze of the wasteland.
"What do you think?" She croaked, "Which way?" Rex whined and circled her nervously before something caught his attention and he took off at a loping jog. Dahlia nodded and followed after. Another day, another job.
Nothing ever changed.