Notes:
"I looked, and there before me was a pale horse! Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth."
- Revelation 6:8
Courier Six lives deep in symmetry, dabbling with flawless anonymity. She cuts competition with zealous duress, and while her punishment may not be just, she kills with finesse.
Six is still a child in the vexing eyes of men who play cutthroat games; she spins her yarn of humble lies, ushering in patrons with siren lullabies that all seem too haunting, too whimsical to be considered natural in the very heart of Sin City. Her hollow-point smile wins favors, tempting chips and rolling caps, throwing down lucky hands – holding full houses with delicate pride.
Courier Six is dubbed Death of the Mojave, and perhaps in some respect, that may be true; Death comes like a charming woman, and when Gentlewoman Death comes calling she's not looking for an escort to the bar - she's taking you to a place where mortal bodies cannot go, escorting those to a place of judgement; she demands blooded revenge.
She has a taste for Lucky Strikes, velvet smoke pouring from pearl-kissed lips, scarlet smiles promising unique outcomes; gray eyes hide behind her veil of smoke; she can do no wrong. Death is her calling card to illusion: dressed in black, breathing deeply through her jagged respirator, and wielding God's holy caliber.
The Legate, however, is a greedy beast – caging Death with unnerving possession; he has fallen prey to her ensnarement. An erudite older man who found fancy in a young woman who he declared a threat to all his beliefs; it was the thrill of the chase that engulfed him, tracking her down the sands and claiming her for his own.
He can recall the moment he fell for Death; he wouldn't deem it as love; it was possession. A mortal man engrossed with the nature of the woman who wrought devastation down on his division of troops.
His men feared her, but they marched to their folly at perusing her; it was dumb luck at catching her. He used Death's kind heart against her and her longing for solitude.
Courier Six lays in her bed of retribution, chasing down a daisy-suit casino owner who reckoned it equitable to shoot her and run – escaping with the infamous Platinum Chip in his grasp; in the fiasco for counter-play, it is detailed by tight-lipped whispers that the Courier Six called to the casino owner like a lost lover, fucked him without emotion, and woke come morn to find he had ran off on her again. And, like a woman scorned, she continued her chase upon the deserts of the Mojave – reaping kill count in Legion death, rewarded with redemption by Caesar's mark. An odd token, for it was the Legate who found the casino owner snooping around the Fort.
Courier Six approached the Fort with caution; she's stripped from her weaponry at the gate, bearing that haunting mask that illuminates against the air of dark. While his men still talked, they stood their ground – parting like the Red Sea, giving her pass to Caesar's tent; still, the whispers ofhaving a go at her stained the lips of his men – whispers ceased by the Legate's pointed glance, inclining harsh gazes to Praetorian guard.
The Courier demanded for her Platinum Chip; her voice distorted by the gasmask, stance small and meek, but willing to drawl a fight with limited resources. She plays off her illusion, mounting respect in the very hearts of the men around her; she could kill – kill in droves - and that was something to fearfully respect. But she could easily be outnumbered now, and all it took was Caesar's blessings.
Caesar willingly gives her the chip, passing his approval and hurrying her off into the belly of the secret bunker underground; she returns with news on destruction in the very bowels of the bunker, but something tells the Legate that she's lying, playing vocal chords like a damn song. And, when the Legate glanced in Vuples' wake, the first out of any of them who met her on the grounds of burning Nipton, he had the same gut-wrenching look that foretold that this woman walks a path of deceit. But neither spoke up, they watch and study, listening to their Caesar dictate his means to kill the Chairman, Benny.
The conversation between the Courier and the Chairman are not held in private, bittersweet jousting was in-store. The Courier, who stormed the trenches to catch the man who shot her twice, is decent enough to remove her helmet with an ominous hiss, shaking unruly red hair from the tight confines of the mask; her voice is softer without the dark barrier, kinder, had a high-roller pride tagged to her accent.
"Baby -," The Chairman ignites his parting words, "Missed ya, I was thinkin' about you, ya know? That warm body of yours from last week really kept me going." A man on his knees, bound to the ground, is only dumb enough to lewdly compliment his executioner; but the Courier softly chuckles – kneeling down to meet the man on his level.
"Sorry, Benny-boy, didn't make much of an impression." Courier Six tilts her head, an enduring quirk of hers. The Legate couldn't see her face, but he could tell she was sadly smiling at the man on death row; he could hear it in her broken-china voice. "Ya know, If you were wise enough, you'd stuck around – I wouldn't have to come hunting for you down in the ass-end of nowhere."
"Impression," the Chairman inquired, amused. "Oh I made an impression all right. The dent in that mattress is permanent." The Courier laughed, and it had the whole tent reeling on the oddity of the conversation; it was awkward, and with something unknown, it made the Legate clench his jaw. But he kept quiet, staying close to his leader's side, baring protection if the Courier decided not to execute the Chairman and turn on all of them. "But listen, pussycat, I know what ya gotta do. Baldy is spellin' it out. You've done me proud so far, now it's your time to really make New Vegas swing. Build it up. Continue to make me proud."
With solemn goodbyes, the Courier placed her own burning brand of bullet into the Chairman's skull; the only difference is: that Benny won't be getting back up like she did.
Six stood among odd men, taking a step back from the corpse, and turning her bewitching gaze on her silent audience; Caesar smiled, and handed her the chip like he had promised.
The Legate doesn't see her for a month, finding her again on the rooftop of an NCR outpost, while he's running patrols and drills; staking out on high grounds, watching every poised movement NCR officials made. The Legate was planning sudden raid, but catches a glance of the Courier sunbathing nude with another strange woman; her notorious pre-war eyebot hovers with vigilance, beeping out coy tones; the two women drink vintage white wine under blushing light, laughing over their travels and the people they've encountered under all this heat; in unpopular gatherings, they tried to live it up in the lap of luxury – even if that meant putting themselves at harm's way with negligence and lack of self-regard.
The Courier, however, had the decency to keep her body holsters clicked on – ready to wield heavy ammunition at the expense of standing her ground naked. Peering through old binoculars, the Legate can see it all: a weathered ink tattoo of an old world compass over her upper right breast, the cocky grin of a woman who won a debate against her friend, and the only piece of fabric that covered some form of dignity. The girls stare heavenward, watching the great expanse of blue fade indigo and blush into a silent night.
They treated the sands of the Mojave like gold, passing conversation, indulging with the quiet, then starting again with topic; after an hour, the girls finally redress and hunker in for the night, it's only after Courier Six and her friend leave the next morning does the Legate pillage a weakly defensed NCR outpost.
It's an odd feeling – allured with horrid characteristics of lying and thieving and surviving does the Legate find enticing about the woman in black; she slandered his military, slaughtered his troops for target practice with an ex-NCR solider, and made a mockery out of him when they both stood on the edge of the world – looking down the barrels of each other's guns.
She ruefully smiled at him, and he carefully studied her.
Hell, the damn woman attempted to cripple him out on the field; he had impaired rationality.
The Legate feels a foreign sense of guilt when he thinks on his position; he's a fifty year old man, lusting after a twenty-three year old girl who's still rearing into this world. He believes it's her strong will and confidence that weaves him into her web of folly; her profligate ways that sung to him on abominable levels. While he looked to her like some sort of wealth ripe for the taking, she found discord in him; that unshakable sense of dread when she fled him throughout the Wastes, never catching his wandering eye.
The chase between Courier and Legate was infamous out on the Wastes; there was no reason to romanticize their jagged encounter.
With her wayward outlook and his malicious ways, beauty has a price that's paid by greed.
-x-
He bent his knees, angling himself behind her. She felt him push in from behind, sliding between her thighs with heavy and hard interest. Even after a week of experience with this man, she still closed her eyes when he pinned her down to the writing desk; whatever dignity she has left evaporated with the commanding, evil nature of humans. But, under the scrutiny of pale-blue eyes, Six desperately clung to her malicious spirit, reeling with impending revenge on her mind; her fingers grip the edge of the writing desk, listening to him bite off on a satisfied sigh with his stilling.
She feels full, enduring the stretching with a strangled grunt, ignoring the languid drag of the Legate's calloused fingertips roll down the spine of her back; war is fought with manipulation and with the invasion of multiple persons. War can be retaliated against with determination and a balanced mind, but mostly with smoking guns and hollow-point bullets. Six is merely waiting him out, refusing to break under his troubled words and vile touching; her bone-pale fist curls in front of her; nails nipping into her flesh when he decided to move.
"Oh -," an auditable sigh escapes her, squeezing her eyes painfully shut once he built momentum; he leans forward, using his height advantage against her, leaving bruising kisses at the nape of her neck and across the lining of her shoulder. She feels crushed under his abominable weight, knees ready to buckle under her, catching her footing that kept her upright and steadfast. And, like teething remarks, his caresses just about cripple her. A haunting gasp escapes the barrier between her teeth, hips jerking violently by an impaling thrust and the pressure of teeth that scraped the curve of her neck; she finds small death while pinned to the edge of the desk.
"Stop. Get up. I can't breathe," Six says, exasperated and burdened under the weight of the world and the monster who held her captive; while her body fell under siege, she was never afraid to speak her mind and lash out at his misgivings, finding no sense of enjoyment in his company, the brash roll of his hips, nor his thick cock buried in her folds. Her palms flatten on the surface of the table, pushing up and against the tension on her back; she's gracious that the Legate moved with her posture.
Six's thighs coiled and tensed, ready to give under the abuse, pressing them together when a particular rough stroke pinches a groan out of her; she wanted to block him out and keep him far away. With the lift, the Legate catches her arm, forcing her body in an upward curve that has her fiercely recoiling away.
The Legate momentarily ducked his head, watching his cock shove inside of her and slide out; he slows his steady thrust just to watch the obscene motion, slick with her forced arousal. Still, he continues to pull her up by the arm and away from the surface of his writing desk, angling his hips and spiking up inside her warmth; aggressive in his handling, gaining friction. His free hand reaches up, touching the underside of her clenched jawline; his fingers curl in, just under her jaw and around the slim of her throat; he didn't squeeze, but he kept her shelved with discipline, seated on his pelvis. Slowly, he tilts her head his way, leaning over her shoulder to press his thin lips against hers.
Six figured, in her own right, the Legate's a handsome man; she found the ashen hair by his temples endearing, contrasting the rest of his dark hair; ominous pale-blue eyes always staring, always watching and studying; a warmed voice, hollow with wisdom and by the sway of the Wasteland. However, his wordless, brutal nature makes him unappealing; he's an intense older man that never took strategy in consideration. She wonders how he was able to win the raging war on Hoover Dam and abolish NCR standing in the Mojave.
Six wonders how she could be foolish enough to get caught.
The Legate's a godless man.
Six's thighs rub together, uncomfortable to the bend in her spine with this upright position; her hand that wasn't captured by a vice, latches onto the Legate's wrist, desperately trying to pry his fingers away from her throat. The collusion of his lips against hers is suffocating, and he's persistent to smother the life out of her; she can hear the drag of his breath across her lips, heated and needy for his goal to finish. She helplessly moans with that, tears stinging at the corners of her eyes in grim defeat. Her hand falls away from his wrist, and with some morbid and repulsive feeling, she enjoyed the girth of him ramming into her; she breathes deeply when his hand withdrawals from her throat, but ends up choking when his hand drops between her thighs to help her along finish with him.
She's tight around him, and the Legate can't help the foreign, hollow groan that escaped deep from his throat with her compliance; he whispers heated vulgarities against the shell of her ear, reminding her who she belonged to and how good she felt around his cock. She constricted him lovingly every time he pulled back from her heat, quickly hilting himself again, longing to be wrapped by velvet walls; he's surprised to feel her push back against him, and knows she's playing that typical game to hurry him along to his release.
The Legate kisses her again, and Six reacts this time, supplying the same amount attention; his finger briefly brushes over her clit; when she gasps he advances on her, swallowing down her bated breath, sliding his tongue across hers, which impairs her rationality. She catches him on a convulsion, body rigid on a forced orgasm that has her reaching up behind herself and desperately curling her fingers into the fabric of his shirt, tugging him along to continue as her muscles clenched around him, milking him for whatever he's worth; he pushed through her tight walls, finding his own ungraceful finish in jagged thrusts, spilling into her.
She's slick and aggravatingly warm. When he slowly disconnected from her, she feels his excess come drip down the insides of her thighs. She stumbles forward, bracing the writing desk that she was originally pressed flat against, gaining renewed perception to the world around her; her shoulders shake, lamenting over her own situation and the outcome in her bleak life.
Six listens out for the Legate's adjustment; he's quick to redress, zipping the front of his trousers and tucking his shirt down.
"Look at me," the Legate demanded, softly. She obeys without hesitance, turning on the edge of the writing desk; she's weak, painfully raw between her thighs, but her eyes narrow with that air of defiance, letting him know that just because he continues to steal from her, she'll continue to live on her own. She can feel a difference in his touch when one of his hands curl around to press into the lower dip of her back, gravitating her closer in his space; she cringes with the stiff fabric of his shirt rubbing her bare breast.
"You don't have to look at me like that," the Legate says, apathetic in tone; he continues to dominate her space and tower over her. He walks her back, pushing her against the edge of the writing desk, coaxing her to sit on the edge; she painfully obliged him, uncomfortable with the wetness between her thighs, finding momentary relief by pressing against a surface. "You've done well by me, Aries." Six sneered with the usage of her birth name; he only said it when he was pleased with her, calling her Courier with the opposite effect.
The Legate casually spreads her legs, stepping in-between them; there's a sense of sickening pride once he glances down between her thighs, knowing that he caused the discomfort. His hand meets her hip, rolling gentle fingertips into her flesh; she's exposed to the element, adamant with his intimidation tactic.
"Sure," Six bit off, annoyed. There's not much Six could do in her position: an explosives collar strapped around her neck and an alarming amount of legionary soldiers just outside this tent; the odds are not in her favor. In her off time, while the Legate was not screwing her, or he was out of range, Six would rummage his belongings; he's neat, too organized, and it absolutely aggravated her; confinement was driving her up the wall; she read through his books and ledgers, hoping to find a key to his locked safe by the foot of the bed that held his personal weapons.
She only found documentation to estimated slaves; numbers aligned with names, tribes marked with dates. And another book lined with versus that contradicted others lines, also marked with numbers; the pages are yellowed with age and travel, and she briefly wondered the tied history to the book.
Now, well, she was waiting for him to leave her again – give her a chance to mourn and clean in peace, while he wasn't in hearing range to hear the slow destruction on her mindset.
"Malpais Legate," Six inquired, feeling vulnerable in her position, keeping her spiteful words at bay. "Let me ask you somethin'." There's mild interest hidden deep in his eyes, pleased to finally have his Courier talking to him after a week of deceit and capture; she fought him the first night, but as the days waned, she stopped fighting against his invasion to her privacy, but she became less vocal – and, truthfully, that bothered the corrupt man. He figured this was her version to protest; she didn't have much to fight against him with in this tent, silent protest seemed like the most logical solution; she's a helluva different woman compared to the gal running business with the man, Swank, from the Tops.
A different illusion compared to Death of the Mojave who marauded the Wastes, reaping the very best from his numbers; he knew she understood the value of war, one of them are bound to die. However, the Legate didn't want to waste that spirit of hers.
"You have my permission," the Legate replies, unnerving curiosity, ghosting his fingers over her hip.
"Why," Six simply asked him, finding that strain of courage after her first week of torment and violation under Legion law; she only inquired now, because he seemed to be in a good mood, found it reasonable enough to get the damn question off her chest. Her voice strained, "Why didn't you kill me? Could've given me a soldier's death, but you continued to take and take. You've already taken plenty out on the people in the Mojave."
"There is still more to take, Courier," the Legate address her by title now, and that oddly comforts her. His patient hands take a turn for the worse, reaching up to grab equal sides on her arms, leaning her back on the desk to pose her submissive. She looks him in the eye, deafening silence haunted the space between them.
Six tried to push him back, desperately gaining ground in her position. "Your Legion strives on the destruction of technology, y'all ain't so different from 'em fellas in the Great War," she challenged him, forgetting her vulnerable situation. "Those who desire war sought to burn everything around 'em. And, once they figured that they had nothin' else to burn, the only thing left they could set aflame were themselves. You're no different, Legate. One day those fires you set to crosses will burn you. So answer me: "Why?""
Her vehement personality humored him. She's still that colorful little lady he saw on the rooftop of the NCR outpost; she is the voided silence right before the bomb drops: ominous, haunting and captivating. In all his years of missionary work to Legion official, he never met a woman quiet like her. His Courier makes him think back on his youth; if he known her then – he would have never mustered the courage to talk to her. He lived a sheltered life, practicing dialogue, spreading his Lord's humble prayer. He was honest and good and soft-spoken.
Now, he's older and aware to the evils of the world; her demanding nature attracts him; she lived by valid principles to never compromise. Not even in the face of Armageddon.
He kissed her, forcing her flat to the writing desk, knocking the breath out of her, holding her shoulders down with his full weight; he had to consume her, had to tame and mount her ghostly pride. And, she struggled. God – she struggled; her nails dig into his shoulders, and he swallows every blasphemous word she had towards the Legion, and to him.
He didn't need to hear her say that she hated him.
He already knew.
The Legate pulls back, whispering terrible words against her flesh, "You ask me why, Aries: I need it. I craved to see you squirm under me. You've wrought devastation on my division, you've struck fear into the hearts of my men – they marched in your direction, ensnared by your damning rides a pale horse, and Hell is following you every step of the way, woman. But here you lay, under me and only me. Man claimed you, and you can do nothing about it."
"You're no man," Six murmured, "You're a goddamn monster." This earned her a graveled chuckle and a mile-long, hideous smile; he drags her close to the edge of the desk, handling her hips with renewed aggression. He pressed into her, and she could feel the beginning of his arousal straining against the rough fabric of his trousers.
The sound of fabric drawling up averts their attention to the entrance of the tent; and, while Six lay bare under the Legate, in a compromising position, she found no shame staring down Vulpes when he entered the tent; she sneered at him, harshly pushing against the Legate to get off of her; without fuss, the Legate did move, standing to the side of the writing desk, crossing his arms over his chest in an objective stance; he nodded to his frumentarii. Six sat up from the desk, closing her legs to hide the evidence to their earlier exploit, covering her breast by the slide of her arm.
"I'm not interrupting anything, am I?" Vulpes fabricates innocence, gesturing out his hands to show he comes in peace. "Courier Six." The younger man tips his head in Six's direction, amused. He meant to shame her for her new role under Legion command: a whore.
"Mister Fox," Six deadpanned, forbidding the notion that he could ever make her squirm.
"What do you want, Vulpes?" The Legate's powering voice moves the frumentarii's attention back to him; the Legate is not a patient man.
The smile on Vuples face quickly fell, showing full-pledged respect to his better; his boots clicked, and his posture straightened so he could talk without mistake. The report he gave had Six smiling, and the Legate humming in disdain.
"It seems your Centurion, Silus, failed your direct orders. A skirmish of NCR soldiers barricaded his centuria. They all perished outside HELIOS One by sniper fire."
Six thought of Boone and Cass: they were holding down the fort in HELIOS. Abandoning her modesty, Six let out a sharp laugh, tickled that her two former companions were able to best Silus; she's only spoken to the man once, and he only served to taunt her and ask if he could tighten the collar around her throat for the Legate. She didn't care if the Legate stood before her; she'd laugh at any form of Legion failure.
The two men in the tent ignored Six's brash outburst.
"What of Silus? Did he also die with his men?"
"Negative. He was the last standing man on the field; he refused suicide and allowed enemy capture. He shamed his rank, he's shamed Caesar; he deserves to die."
Six only drew conclusion to the news with a maddening laugh, sliding off the surface of the writing desk, walking nude pass the two men. "Your goddamn Legion dog is goin' to spill all your fuckin' secrets." She hardly cared on her unbecoming appearance, or that Legate's come still dripped from between her thighs, because he hasn't given her time to clean up. She's given up caring about the frailty on her own life, but she needed to escape to protect the others.
She promised her father she'd return to him.
Malpais Legate glared a warning in Six's way, but she disregarded his pointed look, sitting on the edge of the bed, wanting to watch foreign expression shade his face; she could tell he was livid by her insubordination and the fact that one of his own was captured by the NCR forces – possibly giving away Legion tactics and secret bases.
"That's eighty men who died under his watch," the Legate commented, reaching up to run his fingers through his short dark hair.
"I'm aware, Malpais." Vulpes remained planted in place, waiting on his Legate's next orders.
"Could've been more," Six sighed, dreamingly. "Not that your men could really amount to anythin', Malpais, Honey. Of course, I'm sure you and your Caesar appointed Silus to his position. Wouldn't expect anythin' good to come from your leadership, Legate. Go ahead, take your failure."
"Courier," the Legate called to her, threatening her; she's sure to face punishment. Honestly, she didn't care. She countered her title with an abstract smile, crossing one knee over the other. "What does that say about your capture?"
"You picked up an ex-NCR courier who hadn't pulled any affiliation with 'em for a long time, Darlin'. Naw, you might want intel, but you wanted a bitch to stroke your cock more, right? Not just any bitch. Oh, no. You wanted Courier Six who has no idea what those gun-totin' soldiers are up to," Six replied drolly, falling back on her earlier question to why? Six doesn't belong here, and she was going to remind him every step of the way.
"It is you who sets things in motion," the Legate says, coldly. "To think, you won't be there when my men kill your own. Let's not forget about your pre-war junk -,"
"-I'll never fuckin' forgive you if you touch ED-E," Six cuts him off, leaving Vulpes in the middle of their spat; purposed harm on her little 'bot always struck the right nerve for her. "Hear that, dog? You may be fuckin' me with ease, but if you touch ED-E...I really don't have anythin' else to lose now, do I?"
"There are other men in the Fort who have shown interest in you. I'm sure they'll be grateful if I hand down my leftovers," the Legate challenged.
"Fuckin' let 'em. Better lay than you, I'm sure. But ya wouldn't let any 'em near me, anyways. You're all about control." Like a misbehaved pet, the Legate held up his hand to silence her; she seethed with unadulterated hatred. He ignored her again in favor of Vulpes' report.
"Inform Picus; Silus will pay for any transgressions against the Legion. I will not stand for failure. Let our spy stage his punishment." The Legate dismissed Vulpes, and the younger man responded by throwing a fist over his heart and saluting out of the tent.
Six couldn't breathe once the Legate advanced her after Vulpes' departure. He pins her to the mattress of the bed; his hand painfully wrapped around her throat, while the other worked on the zipper on his pants. Even posed submissive under him, Six still couldn't help the hollow-point smile she flashed up at him, muttering, "Honey? Sweetheart? Did I upset you?"
He answered her by spreading her legs.
It hurts to walk for two days after their small argument, but she felt like it was worth it.
No. Six knew it was worth it.
