Author's Note: So I recently (really recently) finished It's A Sin To Tell A Lie, and honestly, it got me back into the Fallout mood. I'd always intended to write a sequel, and after all that lovely Downloadable Content that came out last year, it's not as though I've been short of ideas … but I've been trying to hit on something that really … fits. I think I've found that something.
And here it is; I have no real idea where this will lead so I won't say anything on that front. I learned my lesson from It's A Sin, in that no matter how hard I try, there will always be those things I just can't control. So welcome! If you're read It's A Sin, you'll have some idea of what to expect – if you haven't, hi there! This story will most likely go to some dark places, maybe darker given that I've been indulging in a spot of transgressive fiction as of late. That said, I'd like to know what you make of this ... it probably won't be the most action packed ride, but it's a little something, and I'm getting back into the swing of things, now. I hope you enjoy!
Chapter One – The Empire
Her hands traced the marks, the two diagonal holes, pale pink and white, now, where they had once been dark red with her blood. When it had first happened, she had refused to let it get the better of her. When the seams of herself had started to come undone and her blood seeped through shirt after shirt, so that after a while, she silently promised only to wear dark colors, she had continued on as if it was nothing. As if recovering from gunshot wounds was nothing, even though she had endured so much worse before. These two bullet holes that had ripped through her light, firm flesh, were now becoming scars like the ones on her forehead that she kept hidden. Like the deep gouge in her left leg, made by a blind Deathclaw. Like the teeth marks left on the inside of her right thigh that she hadn't told anyone about. That Benny never asked her about. A secret that both of them kept to themselves.
Lola could map out every feature of herself just from her scars. In a line up, she could pick out her chest, her legs, her arms, even her back, just by looking at her scars. She wasn't cut out for anything much anymore, or at least, this was how it made her feel when she looked at herself in the mirror, the product of an incongruous life. Her mixing business with pleasure.
Along her forearms, too, were the faint marks where small holes had scabbed over, and the scabs had broken off, time and time again, causing the wounds to bleed, scab, repeat. These were the same marks, the same pattern, as girls and Gomorrah would display as they stripped. Where any man paying for a girl's services could look to one side of his head or the other and see her arms stretching up, rows and rows of these same, faint scars where she'd pushed the needle in deep and administered the Med-X. Only Lola didn't want to believe she did that for her own pleasure. She had only taken to using because the pain in her stomach had been so intense while she had been healing.
And now, here she was. Her scars mostly invisible, all of them covered by a dress that clung tightly to her figure, something she hadn't lost. Sleeves hiding away the small scars on her arms that she hoped would one day fade. Stuck on her mirror was a small photograph, small enough to fit in the palm of her hand, of a woman from years before. She didn't know the woman's name. The woman had light, platinum hair the same as Lola's, smiling a bright red lipstick smile. If nothing else, she could smile like that whenever she wanted to. It didn't matter how she was feeling.
"Now don't you look every inch the barn burner, doll," she had seen him creeping up, steady and suave, behind her reflection, but for a while, she had been ignoring him in favor of her own vanity, making sure she looked her absolute best for … her grand entrance. Putting on that red lipstick smile that she couldn't quite feel, Lola turned to face him.
"I'd say I'm just about ready for this, wouldn't you?" typical of her to seek approval when she couldn't make a decision for herself. She watched as his eyes played across her figure, her hips, her waist, admiring the dress or … something else. But she couldn't escape the idea that whatever had changed between them wasn't over with yet. Things weren't fixed. This was her own fault. But, for the most part, what she and Benny had had for so long had seemed like just sex anyway. Lust, desire and perhaps an intrinsic need, a dependency. But never love or affection, or anything much else.
"I'd say so, pussycat. You look ring-a-ding, baby," how many times had she heard him say that? Still, red lipstick mouth wide and smiling, she took a step towards him, her thighs bound together by the fabric covering her legs. A slinky number left untouched in some storage closet she'd happened upon. She could have been any pre-War actress or sex goddess, but she didn't much feel like one. "A real beetle."
"A what now?" she had heard him use a number of terms that she might have thought strange had she not grown so used to them. This was one she had never before heard.
"Nothing, honey baby. You look great," of course he was going to tell her that – it wasn't as though there was anything else he could say to her now they were both confined in the elevator together, about to do something that she had never really thought would happen. Sure, there had been weeks – months – of endless preparation, even when Arcade had told her that she needed to stay put. Rest. She needed to calm down, not seek revenge. They all knew what had happened last time she had done that. But for her, it was one or the other; she could either set off across the Mojave yet again, in search of whoever had shot her down this time, or stay and occupy herself inside the Lucky 38. But staying in bed and allowing herself to heal had never really been an option.
"So do you," fake, red lipstick smile. Whether he looked good or not, it was something she had to say in order to please him. She would have said it regardless of her true opinion. Maybe later, she could tell him the truth, but not while they had appearances to keep up. Not while they had to be happy for all the drinkers and gamblers and nomads just looking for a good time. Either he believed what she said, or he didn't. Lola didn't much care.
The rest of the journey passed in silence, and relatively quickly, considering the elevator was sliding down the entire length of the Luck 38. Once it ground to a halt, Lola found herself looking forward to the moment she could get out again.
Inside the casino was the kind of silence that hung about rooms filled with anticipation. In there, only bartenders and waiters, dealers and cashiers waited, and for some reason, Lola still couldn't bring herself to see them as people, she had spent too long apart from them, making no contact. Instead, she was forced to watch as Benny spoke to them, smooth as ever, a little flirtatious with the waitresses, even, because that always had been what he was good at. Talking. It didn't seem fair that they appeared to respect, and like, him that much more than they did her. It was her empire. This was her world, now. But she wasn't concerned with the lives of her staff because her own seemed to preoccupy her so much.
"You ready, doll?" she didn't respond, this time, just nodded. The two young wasters she had put in charge of the coat check room – not that anyone would be likely to bring a coat – were at the door, ready. She watched them as she climbed the stairs, Benny going back to what he had been doing, before looking back at her every so often for a sign, a signal, standing in front of the elevator doors. He wasn't their official greeter. But trust him to want some share of the limelight.
From her vantage point, she could see every kind of person step through the doors, with some being turned away due to lack of space or funds. She had forgotten what the official order had been. Booze would be extortionate. Games would be difficult, but not impossible to win. It was everything that made Vegas Vegas, but the Lucky 38 was that much more enthralling, because almost no-one had been able to set foot inside before.
So instead, they looked around in what appeared to be awe, all of them taking in the high ceiling, the vintage upholstery. All of them whispering to one another, not even speaking, smoothing out creases in their dresses and suits because they felt inadequate. She watched them examine every inch of the place, their eyes scanning and taking it all in, taking their time to process it. It was an ideal situation, really. Nobody was acting out of turn. They were led to where they needed to be and didn't question it.
"Welcome," she had wholly expected the crowd to be somewhat unruly, and yet as soon as they heard her voice calling out, even the whispers were silenced. Yet the closer she came to the stairs, the smaller the distance between herself and them, the more she began to wonder whether or not she should have gotten blind drunk before doing this. "To the Lucky Thirty-Eight, the finest casino in New Vegas," if only she could have seen Benny's face at that moment. She couldn't even allow the smirk to cross her face, she was meant to be every inch the actress. Platinum blonde and red and white. No visible scars or wounds. Here, she had to be exciting and glamorous and feminine. Easy. "Drink. Gamble. But most importantly, take pleasure in what has been built here for you." A smile. Applause that was in no way organic, but rather stiff and awkward. She bowed out and found her seat beside the bar, just waiting for Benny to join her, drink in hand, slipping his arm about her small waist, her silky gown, to mark his territory before anyone else could get close. There was a reason, after all, why they were in the VIP lounge.
The drinking started quickly. Vodka, she supposed. She had developed enough of a taste for it. Vodka, something strong, to tranquilize her just enough, a job that wine could not do. Unless she laced it with the Med-X she didn't have on her person, first. And sure enough, Benny slid in beside her swiftly, before anyone else could take the seat.
"Quite the turn out, huh?" she really wasn't directing her question at him.
"This joint is crazy, doll. Just crazy," she supposed it was.
"Mm," this was how most of their conversations tended to go. Just when he would start to show rare enthusiasm for something, she would lose all interest. Now, she was swilling the vodka around in her glass, watching it, listless.
"Just for tonight, pussycat," she could feel him leaning in closer, but wasn't too sure of what to do about it. "You can keep your paws off the gasoline, hey?" that was something she wouldn't be able to guarantee. His grip around her waist tightened, his hand inching slowly down her torso, which failed to excite her, but she started breathing heavily all the same, acting. She was too distracted to think about sex now. While carnality was something she maybe couldn't exist without, she had too many other things to think about in the mean time. She let out a breathy, false giggle. Leaned into Benny even more, just as men and women, the members, started to surround them.
"We'll see," she grinned, taking another quick swig of the vodka before turning towards her guests, mostly men and women a decade older than she was. She didn't think she'd be laying off the gasoline, as he called it, any time soon.
She took her time with the first glass of vodka. The second slid down her throat quickly, and it burned on the way down, but that didn't matter. The third, the fourth and the fifth had come to the table and gone quickly enough, and only then, when she was starting to feel the familiar relief that only drunkenness could bring, did she register that she had been drinking it without any mixers.
Some time after that, she was sure Benny must have talked to the bartender because he refused to serve her anything but water. Perhaps she told him 'screw you.' Or perhaps she told him 'I own this place, so serve me, now.' She wouldn't ever remember. Perhaps he gave in, because somehow, she became drunk enough to start up inappropriate conversations, revealing her conquests. Shady dealings she had been involved in. Revealing small aspects of her past that nobody needed to know about. She told her guests, none of them quite so refined themselves but trying desperately hard to be, about her time as a Legion captive.
"And then some bastard," the scene, late in the evening when enough gamblers were too drunk and tired to care, but more of them were in the lounge, must have been playing out in slow motion to anyone watching. "Three months ago, some complete bastard shot me," she was inclining her head towards Benny without even knowing it. "And you know what?" this was where people started to lean in, wanting to know some perverse secret, something private they didn't need to understand. Instead of being repelled, disgusted by her drunken behavior, now, they were invested in Lola and her story. "I thought it was him." It was only Lola that started roaring with laughter, the hem of her white dress coming down around her breasts at this point. Only Lola was thrown back in her seat, her head tipped up towards the ceiling, eyes closed, red lipstick mouth wide open, teeth red with greasy make-up that had smeared on them because she was barely able to control herself anymore.
It was as though everyone knew what was coming next. As if Benny wanted to stop it from happening but was powerless to do anything, because Lola had lost herself completely, and anything he did to try and drag her away would come across wrong. And Lola, blissfully and drunkenly unaware of it, now had a woman in her late thirties by the arm and was whispering frantically to her, signaling over to the man in the checkered coat every once in a while. Lost. Gone. Unable to act any part now she was drunk. It didn't occur to her just how much she had been doing it lately.
It was numbing as chems, but less addictive. And living in the Lucky 38 and all, she could get quick access to the stuff whenever she wanted it.
"And you know, a long time ago … I forget when," she noticed how she was being wrenched from her seat, but didn't know who was doing it. She stumbled on the hem of her gown, and one of her heels snapped and there she was, a spectacle in the middle of the floor, the VIP lounge, guests staring at her in shock and awe, Lola swimming, drowning in a pool of white satin. "He actually did shoot me."