Wild Card's Rule Chapter 1: No Gods, No Masters, a fallout fanfic

Fallout: Wild Card's Rule

Written By Username: Seprith Li Castia

Attention: Warning: I make no claim to any of the rights and responsibilities for the characters, creations, or other such things featured in this story. I humbly recognize and accept that all forms of ownership for this series and its character, places and things belong to their owner(s). I am merely presenting a non-profit form of entertainment based on their original content. I implore any and all readers of this fan made material to purchase the works in which this is based on to not only support the rights owners but to avoid spoilers caused from this work. I thank you.

Author's Note: For all its build up of choices, we do not really know much about what happens after Hoover Dam. Here is my guess at it using the Wild Card (Independent) ending.

"Destiny; destiny is an interesting thing. Whether you believe in it or not doesn't really matter. It all ends the same either way."

- Solomon Abel, the Courier -

Chapter One: No Gods, No Masters

The wind; it was, perhaps, the only sound drifting through the air.

Of course there was also the sound of the alarm that had first begun blaring from who knows where after Solomon Abel - better known simply as "the Courier" - had first opened the door leading to the antechamber of the Lucky 38's "penthouse" suite.

However, here on the walk-way that would lead to what was undoubtedly his "destiny" - whether he believed in fate or not was moot at this point - the only thing he could hear was the wind.

'Strange,'he idly thought. 'That the wind is all I hear.'

He could not explain it; by all rights the alarm should be the loudest sound to reach his ears, but here, for whatever reason, only the wind echoes.

Taking a step off the elevator black shoes connected with the steel flooring sending a reverberating echo of metal through-out the walk-way. Stepping off the well-maintained Lucky 38 elevator was a relatively young man – around his mid-twenties - with chestnut colored hair that framed his lightly tanned Caucasian skin. Calm contemplating eyes the color of ice gazed forward all the while checking his peripheral vision for any signs of threats.

He wore a faded black business suit with a pale red tie that still looked oddly clean for the wasteland; as if all the dirt had recently been brushed off.

'Which it had,' the Courier thought. He had first chosen to wear it when he had been invited to visit Mr. House in the infamous Lucky 38 casino building just four days ago as it had been the finest clothing he owned at the time and it felt appropriate. Regardless of the nature of his business with the great Mr. House the man had earned the right for all his guests to be well dressed. Or, at least, that was Solomon Abel's opinion on the matter.

It may sound strange, but the Courier had seen fit to "dress up" for his current meeting, too. While his previous conversation with the esteemed Mister Robert Edwin House had not gone well - having been attacked by his Securitron guards after refusing to hand over the Platinum Chip - the truth of the matter was Solomon Able respected the great Mr. House for all he has accomplished, both past and present.

The last piece of notable attire adorned by the Courier was a small, unmodified 10mm pistol holstered on his right hip, but this "accessory" caused a sour look to grace his normally neutral countenance. He knew what it would soon be used for.

If he was being entirely honest with himself then he would admit that four days ago, when Mr. House had first invited him into the Lucky 38, he had intended to apologize for losing his package - the all-important Platinum Chip. Three days ago he had intended to see the ever-allusive "Benny of the Chairmen" and settle a personnel issue in direct relation to two bullet holes - one of which was still currently imbedded in Solomon's head somewhere - before bringing the Platinum Chip to Mr. House; thus completing the most adventurous delivery of his life.

However, after having dealt with Benny - the thought that the fool had believed he could talk his way out of the well-deserved death he was now left with was enough to return the apathetic mask he more commonly wore - and recovering the Platinum Chip, a quick search of the now deceased Benny's apartment had led to... interesting options in the form of a helpful robot who just could not say no, ever.

Now, back in the present, all he heard was the wind. It felt oddly... fitting. For as the Courier walked in calm, casual strides leading towards the faint glow of what was likely a stasis tube of some sort, he could not stop the unbidden thoughts that this was the wrong decision.

Doubts and "what ifs" have always been a part of humanity. Each action taken in their lives is, at one point or another, reflected upon and that brings the questions: "If I had done this, not that," or "Went there, not here," and any number of other little choices. The late Benny likely had a similar thought about aiming just a "little to the left" in a cemetery just outside of Goodsprings.

So in ten or twenty years - assuming he was still alive, of course - the Courier wondered how he would view this day. The day he made his choice.

As the sound of echoing metal drifted through the air, as the wind lightly shifted brown locks of hair, and as introspective thoughts drifted around a questioning mind, Solomon Abel came to a stop. Turning his eyes slightly from the left to right, he took note of his surroundings.

The walk-way on which he stood was suspended over an abyss of dust and rust, so thick his eyes failed to see the bottom. Idly, Solomon noted its oddity, having been built as such within a pre-war casino. However any criticism directed at the pre-war designers was quickly lost as he gazed forward once again.

Positioned just ahead of him, at the very end of the metal walk-way where he stood, was his target; his goal. In the center of a group of machines was a lone stasis chamber with a darkened window covering the front. Within he could see a form that initially brought back thoughts of non-feral Ghouls before shifting to images he had seen in text books of a place called "Egypt" and its "mummies".

He was not positive he knew what a "mummy" was, but the thought came to mind nonetheless.

Solomon Abel considered himself a sensible person so he was not entirely surprised to see the stasis chamber before him, with a form sealed within he could only assume was the famous (notorious?) Robert Edwin House.

Here was the man who really ruled New Vegas. Not the striking face on a television screen, not the army of police-faced machines roaming about the Strip, the Three Families, the New California Republic or Caesar's Legion, and not even the people of the Mojave Wasteland.

This was thee Robert Edwin House, in all his glory. The most feared and respected man in the post-war Mojave. The "father" of New Vegas. The man who controlled the Securitrons and turned New Vegas into the fortress it was now… But as the Courier gazed into the stasis chamber ahead of him and bore witness to his true form, he could only idly muse how unimpressed he was with the man's defenses.

Mr. House could have demanded that the Courier handed over the Platinum Chip at the front gate to the Strip or the door just outside the Lucky 38, had Victor taken it or used another Securitron to project House's image of his pre-war self on its screen and avoided all of this. But no, he had invited a perfect stranger, whom he knew nothing about and was recovering from two bullets fired into his brain, into his sanctuary. Into his personnel office to converse and all the while under the guard of less than ten of his Securitron defenders.

Perhaps, at this very moment, Mr. House himself was thinking "what if".

Not that it matters; not anymore, anyway

Finally tearing his eyes from the stasis chamber before him, ice-like blue eyes moved to focus on a single terminal mounted onto a console with cords leading towards the pod which sealed the great Mr. House.

Turning the monitor of the terminal up to face him, Solomon pulled down the key-board and watched as the green screen came alive with white letters:

-Server A-

/Welcome, Mr. House-

A small, rueful smile graced the Courier's lips as he thought, 'There wasn't even a password required.'

Turning his ice-blue eyes towards the stasis chamber, he asked, aloud, "Did you really believe no-one would ever get this far?" No answer came, even though he was vaguely expecting one. When only the wind and the faint sound of the alarm met his ears, the Courier simply shook his head before muttering, "Apparently not."

With disappointment directed at the arrogance of the "brilliant" Mr. House, Solomon turned his gaze back towards the terminal.

Unseal L.S. Chamber.

It was the only option displayed on the screen. It was also, fittingly, the only option the Courier really had at this point.

After quickly pressing a few buttons, confirming his choice, the white text changed once again.

/ Warning! Microbial Infection Risk. Proceed?

Below that there were two choices.

Yes.

Or.

No.

As calm ice-blue eyes read and re-read the line over and over again, Solomon found the entire thing unfitting. Such a short warning, with such few options in response, and a great man would die.

Solomon could not claim to like Mr. House, nor even claim to know him all that well. However, he, as well as everyone else in New Vegas and the Mojave Wasteland, knows what he is responsible for. He should be respected for it even if you loathe him for doing so.

" 'Yes,' " read Solomon aloud. "or 'No'." Shaking his head at the simplicity of it all; the callousness with which it, essentially, meant the death. Solomon was by no means a stranger to killing - Benny being the most recent example of that - but he did not believe in wasting life needlessly. Useful people, such as Mr. House, especially.

'At least,' the Courier thought. 'There is some type of warning.' A small consolation, but it was something.

Quickly pressing a few more keys on the terminal, the "Yes" was highlighted with a green rectangle spanning the length of the screen.

As a single, solitary finger moved over towards the button that would end the life of Robert Edwin House, the Courier found himself faltering.

There were options he knew.

In the left-breast pocket of the very suit he now wore rested three items that would decide his path. His right index finger hovered above another such defining object in his life.

Stuffed behind all the others was a letter of invite to visit the New California Republic's ambassador to the Mojave Wasteland, Dennis Crocker. He could go there, pledge his services and live as a citizen of the "glorious republic."

Tucked just in front of that very letter - in the very same pocket, ironically enough - was the amulet given to him by Vulpes Inculta, a man with wickedly charming charisma and a demented if not oddly poetic but undeniably intelligent mind. The "exceptional gift of his [Caesar's] Mark". He could serve Caesar and his Legion, vow to destroy all "profligates" and "degenerates," possibly reenacting what he witnessed in Nipton even.

Then there was the button beneath his finger and the innocent little poker chip at the forefront of his breast pocket; the damnable Platinum Chip that started all of this.

However, as he gazed down at the terminal, he knew he only really had three choices. Mr. House, even if he turned around right now and gave him the Platinum Chip, would never trust him and would only have him killed once he exited the Lucky 38. Whether he respected the man or otherwise, he was not about to die just so he could live.

With that thought he only really had three choices.

The New California Republic.

Caesar's Legion.

And a little poker chip; the Platinum Chip.

For the second time in the last hour, a rueful smile graced the Courier's lips. "There really isn't much of a choice there."

Shaking his head, Solomon released a breath he had not realized he was holding as his finger came down; his path decided.

Within seconds, the stasis chamber came alive. The whistling sound of smoking exiting a confined location hissed through the air as cover of the stasis pod slow opened. As the clasps released, the single window on the pod fogged up for but a moment. As the air all rushed out, the pod opened up as Solomon stepped around the computer console.

Bad move.

As the pod opened up, a cloud of... something blocked his view of the pod. Dust and decayed skin follicles appeared to be the most prominent contents of the cloud. However, that was quickly passed from Solomon's mind as he inhaled, breathing in some of the cloud.

Instantly he released a sharp cough as his nostrils were assaulted by a... wretched, terrible scent; most of which he could not even hope to name, much less describe.

All thoughts of smells were quickly cast aside as the... insides of the pod lifted up. Even through the cloud of dissipating - thanks to the wind - dust, Solomon could see a small and very thin arm reaching up.

As the internal slab of the stasis pod lifted up even further, it tilted, forcing its lone inhabitant to be angled in such a manner that, were he not held by various tubes and straps, he would surely have slide off.

As the slab moved around to face the metal walk-way, Solomon took an instinctual step back as the former inhabitant of the stasis pod was shown to him; Robert Edwin House, after over two-hundred years of confinement.

The years had... not been well for him. Had there been any rotting flesh clinging to his bones, Solomon would swear he would have passed for a Ghoul, but he was not a Ghoul. Indeed, laying before him was a frighteningly malnourished human; skin so tight and thin every one of his bones was easily visible on his brownish discolored skin.

As it turns out, the "straps" keeping him in place were actually tubes and various monitoring devices connected all over his body. Undoubtedly the one around his pelvis was for his bodily functions, the one over his heart to monitor his heart rate and the tube leading straight into his stomach was for protean injections.

Atop his wrinkled and discolored head rested a crown-like head piece. Blinking lights and the tube running from it towards the back of the stasis pod implied it was the up-link system for the Lucky 38's mainframe. Making a mental note of that, Solomon continued with his observations.

In terms of hair, House had almost none. A small, albeit fairly long, cropping of thin, white hair extended from his chin, but that was all. His breathing was clearly labored as wheezes for every rise and fall of his chest echoed and reverberated around them.

"Why have you... done this?" The sheer suddenness of the voice startled the Courier. The voice was raspy and it clearly pained the "man" once known as Robert House to speak. Nevertheless, he continued. "Centuries of preparations... so much good, undone."

Even with a raspy and weak voice, the hint of sadness in those words seeped through. Ice-blue eyes looked at the form before them with a pained expression, but the voice that emitted from their owner was calm, neutral. "It's just business."

The words themselves were not the ones the Courier would have personally preferred, but they only seemed fitting considering who the being before him was.

At that response what might have been comparable to a groan passed the decrepit Mr. House's lips. "If personnel gain... what you sought... should've done... as asked."

Quickly shaking his head, the Courier focused his ice-blue eyes on the form before him, the previous signs of pained empathy gone now. The voice that followed was calm, neutral, but stern. "No," said Solomon, tone perfectly even. "Not personnel business." Extending his right hand out in manner more fitting someone facing an audience. "The business of... politics." Solomon finished, as if speaking of a profound thought House was not privy too. In a way, he was.

The wheeze that came in reply was long and deep. The raspy voice retaining a hint of mockery, "What do you know... of politics... courier?"

A weak smile graced the "courier's" lips before he replied, tone one of light admonishment, "Not much, I admit. But, I must say, neither do you."

Mr. House groaned in response, his pale lips moving to responded, but they were interrupted.

"In your previous life," Solomon pre-empted. "You created a technological empire (Robco Industries) and led it well. However, looking outside today, you know little of actual politics." As he shook his head, the Courier shrugged his shoulders in what would have been a sign of defeat had it not been for his slight smile. "You... reeducated the Three Families, yes. You fortified the Strip, yes. You kept tourism coming to the Mojave, yes. However, you failed everywhere else."

Dropping his shoulders, Solomon released a sigh before focusing his cold eyes on the form of Robert House. "You allowed the Brotherhood of Steel to enter the region, take over important instillation, construct two bunkers, and then fortify their positions. Not long after the N.C.R. came and forced you to hand over the Hoover Dam in exchange for more time as independent." The slight smile dropped as ice-blue eyes took on a more judgmental glaze. "Ever since then the Mojave has fallen apart. The N.C.R.'s ever expanding influence, the Legion's looming presence and more internal problems that I can even name off the top of my head."

A slight quirk of the lips was the only visual change as his tone adopted a more lilting quality. "The Bear and the Bull fight over the dam, dyeing the Colorado red with blood," he sing-songed. "The Three Families drain the livelihood of all those of the Mojave and pay tribute to a "not-at-home" Mr. House who does nothing but protect his own fortune."

Suddenly, a light came to ice-blue orbs as a small smile crossed his lips. Quickly digging his right hand into his left-breast pocket, the Courier pulled out the Platinum Chip, holding it between his thumb and index finger. The deep wheezing emanating from Mr. House showed he recognized the chip as well.

Calming his features to one of utter neutrality, Solomon said, tone once again even, "Your whole plan for the future relied on this. My source says you have spent over eight-hundred-thousand caps to find this thing in the past year alone. Tisk-tisk, Mr. House, haven't you learned to never rely too much on a single plan? Had you not found this what would you have done about the dam? A Legion victory means the takeover of the Mojave. An N.C.R. victory means the annexation of the Mojave in the next few years. 'He who holds the dam, holds the Mojave,' is the prevailing thought nowadays, yet you let the N.C.R. have it."

Quickly tucking the chip back into his pocket, the Courier sighed once again before saying, "I respect you, Mr. House, believe that. You have done great work, surviving over two-hundred years being proof of that. However, you are stale, stagnate. You don't change. You copied 'New' Vegas off of Las Vegas. No originality. What could have been a powerful nation that thrived in the post-war world contented itself as a tourist attraction - living off its past glory, never moving forward." Throwing his right-hand up in the air at the utter ridiculousness of it all, Solomon sighed.

"You..." Mr. House wheezed. "fool... know nothing."

Releasing a sigh, Solomon pinched the bridge of his nose as he muttered, "I expected more from you, Mr. House. I'm disappointed." Dropping his arms to his side, Solomon's right hand gripped his holstered 10mm Pistol as he said, "It's time to die, Mr. House."

House wheezed and groaned all at once. In a barely audible voice, he was so weak, Mr. House rasped, "May there be... a hell... for you... A Tartarus... bleak, unending."

Calm, neutral ice-blue eyes focused on Mr. House with no emotion of any kind. Blank, empty, cold - no emotion. Nothing. Slowly pulling his pistol free, Solomon quoted, " 'Unending,' fitting last word." House focused his eyes on the gun aimed directly at his head before shifting his attention to its wielder. "Know this:" began Solomon. "The name Robert Edwin House has not lost its value. Martyrdom, as the 'founder' of this grand city, will be your epitaph and legacy. Be content as you depart this world. Your death, like your life, served a greater purpose." A small, stiff smile crossed his lips as he concluded: "If only we were all so lucky."

A single trigger was pulled...

A single shot was fired...

Robert Edwin House was dead...

And the "courier" was no more.

The sky was clouded and overcast. Dusk had come and a gentle breezing drifted in from the west.

Looking up into the sky, Solomon Abel, a former courier for the Mojave Express, could only smile.

He had won.

Caesar died of a tumor before the battle. Legate Lanius was felled by the ex-courier's own hand in a one-on-one duel the fool had accepted. His Praetorian guards soon followed; just as so many of the Legion's finest had in the hours prior.

The Great Khans had done just as they said they would; fought foolishly and to their end.

The Boomers had held to their word, 'raining death on the savages' and proving their value in the days to come.

Even the Enclave Remnants, whom he had initially wondered how much use they would really be, had proven themselves.

Most of all Yes Man had proven to be invaluable.

And the best part was to come. Now.

Solomon Abel stood resolute, unflinching. His T-51b Power Armor - a gift from Elder McNamara for his new honorary Paladin - was dented in numerous places but still held strong. With his rifle holstered on his back, Solomon waited for what was to come.

The former courier knew he would come here, to the frontlines, after the Legion offensive - and defensive, for that matter; it was their "Legate Camp" after all - to claim the glory for the New California Republic. That thought only forced a smile to begin creeping on Solomon's lips.

Now, standing just inside the Legate Camp, Solomon was not surprised in the least when the main gate leading into the camp was blown open - unnecessary as it was because it was not even locked. Nor was he surprised when four veteran N.C.R. Rangers rushed in, their composite black combat armor blending well with the descending night.

The four Rangers stopped just ahead of the lone living individual within the camp. Two on each side. A trifle compared to what he knew was following behind them. Not that they seemed to know.

Then he appeared.

Solomon had only spoken with the man a few times previously and had not been impressed.

Coming towards him, wearing a brown officer's uniform of the New California Republic Army with a green tie, four stars lining his lapel with a brown officer's hat, the symbol of the N.C.R. - a dual-headed bear with a single star - stood center as stars lined the edges.

The man, General "wait-and-see" Lee Oliver, walked forward with an undeserved sense of pride. Even from a distance, Solomon could see the wide grin on the other man's face. Had Oliver been able to see pass the mask provided to the former courier with his power armor helmet he would see ice-blue eyes, hardened with resolve, forced into a glare.

"Caesar on the cross!" General Oliver bellowed, strutting forward with another N.C.R. Ranger elite at his flank. "Been a long time since I've seen the kind of work you've laid down today... a damn long time." The inept general ceased his stride to stand at the center of his five Ranger guards and just a few feet away from the former courier.

His tone, as he spoke, was one that could only be described as barely contained glee. "And the screams of those Legion bastards as they kicked dirt running East, like a choir of angels to my ears."

Here, the General developed a contemplative look. "Speaking of - that crazy lightshow over the Fort, what the fuck was that, some thumb from God you called down? Amazing, fucking amazing."

Let it be a testament to the former courier's iron-will that not even a snicker was audible. However, the repeated lifting and lowering of his lip as he fought down the vicious grin that threatened to break across his face made Solomon greatly pleased he was still wearing his helmet. Solomon knew what that "lightshow" was and Oliver still had no idea. He soon would though, all of the Mojave would.

"Could use a hundred of you," General Oliver continued, unknowing of the thoughts of the man before him. "Just scatter you across the East like jacks, give those plumed-fucks the what-for."

That was the end of it. The ex-courier's composure finally slipped. A soft snicker, barely audible, passed his lips. Quickly taking both hands to his helmet, Solomon slipped the protective armor off. "Hold that thought, general," said Solomon, resting his helmet against his hip and noticing with amusement how Oliver seemed immediately uneasy as ice-blue eyes focused solely on him. "I wanted to introduce you to some friends."

As the former courier gestured a hand towards Oliver's back, the confused N.C.R. general turned his head. The thick smoke that had been kicked up by the destruction of the Legion gate had already faded, leaving everything outside visible. Even if they were covered by their helmets, Solomon knew that six pairs of N.C.R. eyes widened upon the sight that greeted them.

PDQ-88bSecuritrons. Dozens of Securitrons. Dozens of the advanced, Mark II Securitrons.

The large robots - standing taller than any human - lined the way leading back to Hoover Dam. Their titanium armor glinting, even in the moon light. The faint glow from their screens - each bearing the face of a clichéd grizzled soldier smoking a cigar; well, all but one, anyway - shined making the group seem like a sea of light. Perhaps it was because he understood what they signified, but the once-upon-a-time-courier thought it was a poetically beautiful sight.

Apparently, even the inept Lee Oliver could sense something was about, but the poetic beauty was lost upon him. "And... uh... well." Shifting his back towards Solomon, Oliver asked, "These, uh... these boys with you?" Oliver cast a worried look back towards the group of Securitrons, taking a reflexive step back as four of the machines began rolling forward - one with a helpful face. "Hello, there, smiley," Oliver nervously stammered.

Quickly turning back around, Oliver took a few fast and guarded steps forward, standing closer to the former courier. "Guess it ain't no secret how you, ah..." Turning his eyes back towards the Securitrons, Solomon noted with approval that each of the robots had their weapons trained on one of the N.C.R. personnel. Oliver stammered once again, panic reaching into his tone. "I say, can you ask them to put their weapons down? I was just reaching into my coat to give you a cigar."

Solomon Abel, for his part, paid no heed to Oliver's distressed state. Focusing the same eerily calm ice-blue eyes that had gazed upon Robert House three months ago, Solomon spoke, his tone even but forceful, "General Oliver, Hoover Dam is ours." The fact the courier was the only human fully representing this side - thus, "mine" may have been more fitting - was irrelevant. "Leave at once." It was a command, not a request. Oliver saw it for what it was.

"I would sooner spit on the grave of my dead mother than let some courier-walk-the-wasteland-fuck talk to me like that." Oliver instantly retorted, his face shifting from one of fear to anger. "Who do you think you are? Looking to cash you chips to the sound of N.C.R. bullets, eh? I can oblige." Despite his words, fear and doubt still held firm in his eyes.

Seeing that General Oliver of the New California Republic was more open to discussion than the now deceased Legate Lanius of Caesar's Legion, Solomon decided to be more amiably to the man's plight. "I don't want any more violence; there's been enough of that today."

"Look," Oliver cautiously replied as his eyes narrowed. "I know you're riding high now, but let me tell you: You ain't pissing on me right now, you're pissing on the Bear. You've been far enough West, I'm guessing, to know just how far that claw stretches. Fuck with the Bear, and..."

Oliver left the exact details off - best to allow imaginations run rampant. However, Oliver was only saying what the former courier knew already. The New California Republic would not take this lightly. Their President, Aaron Kimball, should be on his private Vertibird back to Shady Sands by now, followed soon by the news of the Legion and N.C.R. defeat at Hoover Dam.

The former courier knew, by Mr. House's own projections and his own, that President Kimball would be held accountable for the loss of N.C.R. power in the Mojave. If General Oliver were to also return unharmed after handing over the dam without a fight? Both men would be on the figurative "chopping block" of N.C.R. politics. When - not if, Solomon knew - the N.C.R. returned, they would be ready. All the Mojave needed was time.

As Solomon Abel thought of all this, he roamed his ice-blue gaze from Lee Oliver to each of the five Rangers. All six men of the Bear were nervous. However, their commander, Lee Oliver, was nervous and prideful.

The former courier knew how to deal with pride.

Turning his gaze back onto the stubborn N.C.R. general, Solomon spoke in his cold and neutral tone, but with a stern edge to it that could cut steel. "General," he began, as if he were talking down a petulant child. "The Republic has overstayed its welcome - this land is mine."

Normally Solomon would be generally against such overtly despotic rhetoric as that - calling a country "mine" - but here it had its place. Oliver would write a report and he would remember who had defeated him; the former courier, Solomon Abel.

"You want me to make tracks out of here, head back West, tail between my legs?" Oliver questioned incredulously. "No, I came for a fight today, and if you're looking to make me budge you better have a damn good left hook or I'm not going anywhere."

Resisting the urge to remark about his "left hook" being an army of advanced robots with lasers and missiles, the one-time-courier simply smiled a small smile before asking, "Really, because you're talking and not attacking?"

"Yeah..." Oliver admitted, toning becoming docile. "But I wasn't expecting a fight when I came up here. And now that we're talking, I don't like the sound of things." Quickly shaking his head, Oliver asked, disbelief evident in his voice, "Do you know what you're doing? Making a nation, like you think you're doing, ain't like chowing down on a pile of Fancy Lad Snake Cakes. Think you got the guts to carve out a frontier? Build towns, protect the roads, run supplies, train troops?"

Despite the calm and controlled countenance, Solomon Abel felt this whole line of questioning was rather strange for a defeated general. Deciding to humor the defeated man, he replied, "I guarantee I've put more thought into the future of the Mojave than you or anyone in the N.C.R.."

Releasing what could only be called an exhausted sigh, General Lee Oliver only shook his head. "Hell... Can't believe we got suckered by some road jockey. Should've been watching the flank while Caesar's best was making all that noise." Shaking his head again, Oliver focused his defeated and docile brown eyes, meeting ice-blue ones weakly. "I know what those robots of yours can do on a bad day, and I'm not eager to toss lives at them just to make a point."

"But," Oliver continued. "If you're taking this place, you better hope you can hold it. I'll give my superiors my opinion, but I don't think they're going to listen. So if the N.C.R. comes at you, and it will, pray you're ready. I promise you, out situations reversed, I'd see you hang."

Unbidden, the idle thought of having Yes Man throw the N.C.R. general off of Hoover Dam came to mind before quickly being squashed. Kimball and Oliver need to play their parts - the defeated leaders of the N.C.R. in the Mojave. Deciding against provoking the N.C.R. unnecessarily - it also would not do for Oliver to become a martyr for anti-Mojave sentiments - the former courier only smiled kindly and said, "Is that all? Because I've got work to do, and N.C.R. words don't mean much around here."

Oliver scoffed, his face forming in a contemptuous sneer. "Fine. Come on, men, let's go."

Apparently deciding against walking through the army of Securitrons behind him, Oliver and the five Rangers began heading towards the back of the Legion camp - intent on using another exit.

As the defeated General Lee Oliver walked past him, the former courier noted that he and the Rangers were being careful of stepping to close. When the N.C.R. general finally passed him, Solomon noted out of his peripheral vision the smiling face of Yes Man rolling towards him.

About to turn and speak with his "go-to" robot, a smirk appeared on the one-time-courier's face before his held his hand up, stopping the rolling Securitron in his tracks. Shifting slightly to turn his ice-blue eyes back onto the retreating group of N.C.R. Rangers and their solitary general, before speaking, "General Lee Oliver of the New California Republic..."

The man in question immediately stopped in his tracks as ever nerve in his body tensed; the Rangers were likewise cautious of the next words to leave the former courier's lips. And, even though none of the six had their eyes directed at him, Solomon knew he had their undivided attention. "The Mojave," Solomon began in a faux-casual tone. "Is a burgeoning power in the wasteland. Former N.C.R. soldiers of your talent, general, are greatly required. If the 'strength of the Bear' ever wanes, make sure to remember us. We could always use the help."

Turning his back towards the group of now thoroughly confused N.C.R. soldiers, the former courier focused his eyes forward, on his Securitrons, and reigned in a grin that threatened to split his face. Taking a step forward, Solomon suddenly stopped before turning back towards the N.C.R. soldiers who were all gawking at him save for General Oliver himself. "Of course," Solomon continued. "The offer extends to you of the Rangers as well. I've heard good things. Chief Hanlon spoke highly of you all." Quickly shaking his head, Solomon turned back towards the army of Securitron as he muttered, "Never mind. Enjoy your trip back West, gentlemen."

With the N.C.R. soldiers finally out of earshot, Solomon motioned for Yes Man to come over. With a rolling swagger that could almost convey the robot's giddiness - which may have simply been an effect of the perpetually smiling image on his screen - the tall machine stood before the former courier.

"You did a super job wrapping things up! And I'm not just saying that because I have too!" Yes Man excitedly announced.

Solomon only smiled at the large machine. Yes Man had proven his value as unquestionable. Only the former courier himself could claim more responsibility for a Mojave victory today.

"I didn't want to make a big deal about this until after we won, but, well..." Solomon actually quirked one of his eyebrows at Yes Man's tone-of-voice. The helpful robot had never really been reluctant to say anything before. "I found some code snippets in one of Mr. House's databanks that will let me, um, reprogram my personality!"

Now this was a surprise. And, apparently, it showed on his face. "To be a little more assertive, basically!"

An assertive Yes Man. The very thought sent a unbidden chill down the former courier's spine. Yes Man was tied directly into the Lucky 38's mainframe and was in complete control of the Securitron network. As things were now with the death of Mr. House, it was safe to say: he who controlled Yes Man also controlled New Vegas, Hoover Dam and, in turn, the Mojave Wasteland.

"So that's what I'm going to be doing, and it's going to take me a while, so it'll seem as if I'm offline. But don't worry, everything is going to be okay!" Yes Man continued, unknowing of Solomon's thoughts. "I've updated the Securitron's targeting parameters, so they know what to do! Vegas will be protected!"

Even more worrisome thoughts. The key-stone to the Securitron army would be inactive during these pivotal moments. Unacceptable.

"So that's where I'll be, off making a few changes, and I... I guess I'll see you around!" Yes Man went excitedly. "We accomplished a lot together! It was fun! Take care!"

However, just as the screen of the Securitron began to flicker out and the machine turned to join the ranks of its kind, a single, human, voice punctured the air. "No." Solomon announced, tone resolute and finite. His calm ice-blue eyes narrowed fractionally on the solitary machine before him. "Entirely reprogramming yourself is unnecessary."

The flickering of Yes Man's monitor stopped and the smiling face Solomon had come to associate with the helpful robot remained. "And why is that!?" Yes Man questioned just as excitedly.

Steeling himself, Solomon relaxed his narrowed eyes into one of intelligence and thought before replying, "Simple. I've been able to predict almost every action up to this point. The Legion attempt to assassinate Aaron Kimball, General Oliver's reaction to a robot army at Hoover Dam. I am also responsible for allying the Boomers, the Three Families as well as the Kings and the Followers of the Apocalypse with an independent New Vegas. Then there is my manipulation of the Great Khans to fight to their deaths against the Legion and convincing the Enclave Remnants to fight here today. I was right about it all."

"Well, you do have a point there!" Yes Man agreed, not that he could do otherwise, anyway - so long as he was not assertive. "But I don't get it. Why is it unnecessary for me to be more assertive!?"

"Because you don't have to be," was Solomon's faux-flippant reply. "I was right about everything else so I know what to do from here on. I even know what programs you do need to edit. So you being assertive serves no purpose."

"Wow!" Yes Man exclaimed. "I hadn't thought of that! You're really smart! But I guess that's why you're the boss and I'm not, right?"

"Naturally," Solomon casually replied. "Now, about this 'assertive' program of yours?"

"Yes, I know, I wasn't really thinking!" Yes Man said cheerfully. "With you here, I don't really need to be assertive! You've got all the answers!"

The former courier nodded his head. One potential crisis averted. However...

"Yes Man," Solomon began. "I have some system changes I want to make."

"Yes, boss?" Yes Man beamed as a flicker crossed his screen. "What would you like to change?"

"I want you too off load this 'assertive' program onto a data storage device and have it delivered to me when I arrive in New Vegas." Solomon began. He had a plan now. "I'll handle the program from there. For now, escort General Oliver and his personnel from Hoover Dam and secure the instillation. There is also the matter of the Securitron bunker on Fortification Hill. Send a team up there to clear it of any straggling Legion soldiers and secure that position."

"Right-o!" Yes Man exclaimed. "Anything else?"

" 'Anything else?' " Solomon parroted, shaking his head in bemusement. "Yes Man, this is only the beginning. Driving the Legion and the N.C.R. out was only the first step. This," Solomon waved an outstretched hand towards the burning Legion camp and back towards the dam. "Was just the start, you see? This is where it all begins."

TO BE CONTINUED...

Author's Notes: Future chapters will show what follows, but I thought it was important to establish the character of this Courier early on. If you enjoyed this, make sure to check back next week for chapter two.