All the kings are dead, so long live the Queen of New Vegas.
A Dynasty found in lights is decapitated by the very hands of the damned; Death fancies vintage wines and lavish living, she is so much more than royal. A child to a Raider father and a farmhand mother; luxury is a rarity to her, but she lusted after the best and the expensive – desperately destroying those she hated in the process to obtain material possessions. It helped she had a pretty face and a lovely voice, because men and women of authority are easily swayed by false smiles and silver-tongues.
And, like all good thieves, Courier Six still remains a mystery.
The Legate meets her again under her law, under her rule and gaudy display of lights and neon sin; in the middle of the city where she belonged to by name. She's rolling sevens, cashing chips and seducing patrons to rally by her side. She's smothered in the aroma of sweet perfume and burning ammunition, veiled by a cloud of thick smoke that burned away at the end of her Lucky Strike. A quiet storm is harbored in those vexing gray eyes, and when she sees him from across the gambling hall posed as another gambler, she signals him over to her table; she's the only girl in her all-boys club.
"Mr. Pinstripes," Six mocks his New Vegas disguise of pinstripe pants, black necktie, suspenders, and an overcoat thrown over, blowing away smoke that obscured her vision; the men around her chewed on their bitter cigars, finishing whiskey off by shots. She knows who he is – could recognize his evil ways beyond the Chairmen and gamblers that swarmed the joint. She couldn't misplace those cold-blue eyes. "I was expectin' the Fox, not the Legion Dog. Trust me, Darlin', New Vegas looks good on you." She flashes him that notorious hollow-point smile, gesturing for him to sit down at her table; the Chairmen around her all stood in attention, funneling out by her silent demand for privacy – except for the second-in-command who hesitated by her side.
"Baby, you sure you can handle this? My boys will be watching. Don't you dare forget 'bout that." When the high-roller voiced his worry and discomfort, she waved him off with a soft chuckle; she's a careless creature.
"Swank. Honey, have some confidence in your boss. Mr. Pinstripes here ain't gonna give me any grief, we're meetin' as friends." The man looked perplexed, but he finally stood and motioned for the rest of his men to clear out and observe their rowdy patrons, counting cards and dealing drinks to lucky winners.
Once Swank left, Six's gaze fell on him from across the table, "Never liked a shy fella; sit down, you're makin' me nervous. I got your boss's love letter; from what I've read, your boss ain't too pleased with me killin' y'alls little club members. He's considerin' it downright rude," the Legate did sit with her invitation, easing into the red leather of the chair, locking conversation with the woman adjacent from him; he's inscrutable, and she couldn't drop her maddening smile – not even if it was her life that was on the line. Her little 'bot hovered near, buzzing close and low by her height; he acted as her vigilant little body guard; it bleeped and she oddly replied to it, reassuring the pre-war junk that she's all right in this close proximity; she reached out to touch his paneling, running delicate fingers over the chilling metal.
"You walk a dangerous path, Courier. You're making enemies with those that you shouldn't. I'm only serving as a warning," there's not a lot of colored expression found in the Legate's voice, but she's able to hear him from across the table and over the brass band that played swing; she offers him a pour from her wine bottle, but he declines.
"What," Six feigned innocence, pulling the slim from between her lips and flicked the embers off the end, "What's baldy gonna do? Slap my hand?" She laughs, taking this whole conference as a huge joke. "I like your spectator shoes; they're awfully clean. Too clean to be roughin' it through the Wastes. Are you a gamblin' man, Legate?" She attempts to sway conversation without prevail.
"Execution. Lay siege on your precious city," the Legate responded, coldly; Six always found it hard to pull expression out of the man, but she enjoyed challenges. "You forget who controls the Dam. Your people will die under your influence. Step down. Save face. And, perhaps, my Caesar will show mercy."
"I love it when you Legion types talk murder," Six shivered, grinning a little harder with the Legate's heavy threat on war with New Vegas; he can see the dull ink of the number: 13 etched into her trigger finger, and he mildly wonders the story behind that tattoo-souvenir and the one over her breast. The Courier is wrapped in enigma, she ran postal and somehow managed to scrounge her way to the top – digging her heels into the lesser to climb her latter to power. "Back down, eh? And that's all, sweetheart? Roll over and let your Legion dogs nail my people to the cross? Either way: we're dead. Let me give ya a little lesson from the ole world. A time y'all consider the root to all evil; a quote I hold dear to my heart: "They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety deserve neither liberty, nor safety." Evil has always been around. Those who oppose evil has been around just as long. Now, I ain't tryin' to play hero. Never wanted to be hero. But I'll be damned to let your Legion dogs waltz into my city and dismantle all the work I put up. Give up? You're talkin' goddamn crazy, Legate. You're lucky I ain't pickin' up my shotgun, and givin' my Chairmen a brand new paint job for their goddamn casino."
"You're tying your own noose, Courier. And it's only getting tighter and tighter. You're going to find yourself unable to breathe with all the harm you've done. You thought no one would notice the skirmishes you set upon my men? You thought House's silence would go unnoticed? You have a lot to say for a women who stands by a flag that's already been taken down long ago. Five years too late." The Legate could see through her haunting smile, knowing that struck something deep within her. She has a lot of nerve going against his banner. A lot of nerve to be caught in this profligate establishment, wearing just her red heels and tight black dress. Though, he never doubted her; she never learned the words: no, or fear.
"Guess the Mojave needs a gal like me to keep it up then, huh?" Six inhales a long drag from her cigarette before snuffing out the remains into the table's given ashtray. "Now, if that's all you wanted to tell me, then I'm goin' to have to ask that you kindly leave. I'll only ask this once." She stands, rounding the table and offering the Legate her hand; he obliges the young girl, shaking her hand once, stilling once her free hand snatched at his necktie and jerked him down to her level, twisting her fingers dangerously around the fabric; he catches her eye, watching the amused little quirk at her brow. "Leave, and let the Wastes devour you, because if I see you – I'll kill you, Legion dog." Her 'bot gravitated close, ominous clicking, pointing that little turret in his direction, magnifying her vendetta against him.
"Then I offer you the same respects, Courier."
"Then that's all good, sweetheart," The hand at his tie loosened; both of her hands reach up to flatten the labels neatly on his overcoat, "Glad you like a little competition."
However, he did not kill her.
He couldn't kill her.
But she's not hesitant to drawl her weapon on him.
When he sees her again, off in the distance, perched high on a hill that overlooked the glow of burning crosses; he's not looking at that little lady with pearl-kissed smiles, bright red heels, and soft garter belts. He's staring at Death, and she is a vengeful spirit against the backdrop of irradiated skies and blooming ash clouds that churned in sorrow. That inexpressive black mask and the glowing tint in the lens is the only thing he could see. The only thing to give Malpais Legate any pause.
She slowly ascends her holy caliber, rust dully glistening under all this ultraviolent light; like cranking the blade to the guillotine, she moves with implausible grace; she was that ghost who killed. Her sniping is cruel and unmerciful; she aims for the legs, and her targets would cry out for help to their comrades, and when rescuers skimmed over the sands – only did she make new targets, and those who lay crippled, bled out in the Mojave sands, watching their friends die miserably by her hand.
She's consumed by the minuscule debris and burning embers that flutter off the smoking crosses, which faded into the darkness and voided galaxies that swallowed the skies every night. She quietly mourns for those strung up on the cross, holding quiet vigil by the base – praying to an entity who's denied them for over two hundred years.
It wasn't God who makes people in this world do terrible things. It's man.
She took full responsibility over her lawless actions to satisfy that burning need for revenge; she took the first shot at him and caught him on her burning bullet – lodged in the bone of his kneecap. She's standing at the edge of the world and looked ready to jump, watching him struggle across the great big scar on the earth that the bombs left behind; that was her sadism.
It's his turn to bleed out in the Mojave, clawing forward and sinking his fingers into the shifting warm sands; stale blood clinging to grime. His return aim isn't as sharp as hers, wielding that .45, dishonoring his own father who gave him the gun and hoped he'd make the world a better place.
Not this.
Never this.
But the Legate is a hard man to kill; NCR marked him down five times in elimination. With his body littered with shrapnel, he refused to die.
The Legate's time finally comes when he captures his sharp-witted courier; it's her turn to grovel at his boots when his men rip the helmet off her head, and she's staring up at him with unaware, angry tears mapping down her face – chuckling dully at herself over the whole damn situation - about how heroes are the ones to meet their tragic end, while the devils of the world continue to consume and spread their horrible gullies.
God is a comedian, and humans are his audience who are all too afraid to laugh over folly – expect Six. She always had a reason to joylessly laugh – even while the joke wasn't all that funny.
That's when he knew he had to have her; he originally planned to kill her under the stars, in front of his hounding men who crowed with victory over the woman who sought to bring rapture upon them. But he couldn't. There's too much spirit in her, too much to completely kill. And, in his own sick ways, he had to destroy it – had to obtain it by force and brute strength.
The Wastes can change men. That shy young man who was excited over his first missionary trip was now a bitter older man wanting to watch the world burn from under him; that boy died long ago, and the man who stood in his place was ready to follow.
But not his Courier.
Never his Courier.
-x-
If it's stupid but works, it isn't stupid.
And neither was Six – for that matter; clever is getting out alive. Clever is gaining trust out of the man who wronged you in every way. If he wanted to fuck her - there will be recomposition, and she'll be the one arranging it all out for him. She's done it to Benny, and now it was the Legate's turn.
Men can be easy to sway, easy to manipulate with reasonable promises; while under her Legate's watchful eye, she still played her hand close to the heart – close on her prize at extracting any bit of information out of the older man. She spins her yarn of compliments. Subtle, nothing too extravagant to cause suspicion, but endearing enough to arouse a certain chuckle out of the man who usually bore down on her. If he chuckled, then she knew she caught him in a good mood. He, however, is a tough client to please.
"When I first started runnin' courier with the NCR they paired me off with this scrawny little fella; he was 'bout my height, weighed a little less than me, and he didn't like talkin' – had a bad hand with Blackjack even while he was downright addicted to it. I was around eighteen when I started workin' with the ol' Bear of California. This guy was thirty; said his Pa had him workin' the field real young, but he wanted to see the Wastes outside his little backwater farm. He thought workin' under the bear would fill that desire." Six sat on the only single bench that preoccupied the showerhead lineup in the Priestesses tent, letting the lukewarm water drizzle over her, while the Legate took up the space. She ignored her current state of dress, and the forced conditions of having to share a bath with her captor. "You'd think an' older fella would have a little more experience than a girl who just left her dad, but I ended up havin' to drag him across the Wastes. His name was – Petey! That's his name."
"I ain't tryin' to talk bad on the man, he was nice in his own way; sorta creepy, though. I swear, he was into some odd stuff. Not the typical fella you'd leave your kid alone with, but he never did anything wrong by me," when Six spoke, the Legate listened; he always listened to whatever she had to say, but he could be cynical over her youthful ways at how she viewed the world. Still, he usually saved comments at the end of her stories, staring her down while he washed, erasing the smell of burning wood and stale blood. "Well, we'd hit the local dives in major settlements while delivering packages between point A to point B; he told me he was into men, but he didn't know how to talk to 'em. He asked me if I could talk 'em up into approachin' him. I was eighteen, I didn't talk to a lot of men either, 'sides livin' with my ol' man. I didn't have any experience, but I agreed and walked up on the first fella at the bar; he had a machine gun, and you know anyone looks pretty damn imitating with a machine gun. He was big – bigger than Petey, but I assumed Petey may be into men like that."
The Legate signaled Six to stand so they could switch positions in the shower; he sat in front of her on the small bench, while she scrubbed away the stress and depression of constantly being held in the Legate's tent; it's been a month now, and with no one else to talk to – the Legate was her only choice and source of company.
"The guy with the machine gun – his name was Joey, I think; I remember he told me he's from Arizona; had to be in his forties. He had a hard way of speakin', I remember; talked like he smoked a mile-long of cigarettes. He downright dismissed me when I approached him, told me he wasn't into little girls, he also told me to find some other man to buy my drinks. I sat next to him anyways, and I had to quickly explain myself. I told him 'bout Petey, and that he was lookin' for someone to relate to. I painted Petey up, got the guy interested. So, Joey agrees. He finished what was left in his shot glass and followed me to the table where Petey was occupyin'," Six sighed, bringing her arms down to her sides, enjoying the typical lukewarm water on her sore bones and how it countered the Mojave heat. The Legate usually badgered her for sex while in the Priestesses' tent, she knew it probably wouldn't last long after her story.
"So I leave the two after introductions – decided to try my own hand at gettin' a fella to buy me a drink. I didn't have much success; like I've said: I was inexperienced. The only men I ever talked to was this farmhand who was nice enough to help my dad – and my dad. So I turn in for the night, and I only assumed the same for Joey and Petey. I wake the next mornin', and I go huntin' for Petey in one of the motel rooms. When I opened the door to his room – there's blood everywhere," Six cringed, feeling the Legate's fingers brush over her hip, coaxing her to sit on his knee; she obliged, not all enthusiastic, but she followed for the sake of false trust. That was usually the deal with Priestesses' tents: it was a place where higher-up slaves would bathe with or without their masters, or for the prostitution of brainwashed priestesses who served as glorified whores under Legion law; they usually worked as teachers to young legionary boys.
Each showerhead was barricaded with curtains, keeping privacy between neighbors.
"The man killed your friend," the Legate asked, feeling rather smug over the disgruntled look on Six's face; he kept her secured on his thigh by pressing his fingers into the lower dip of her spine, rolling his fingertips over the flesh. He bounced his knee once, finding humor in the Courier's face when she thought she'd lost balance.
"You'd think, but no. Petey is standin' over Joey's body, tellin' me that he was startin' to have second thoughts 'bout his one-night-stand with a stranger; he claimed when he told Joey this – he tried forcin' himself on him. Petey slid his switchblade from his sleeve and proceeded to stab the poor sonofabitch. Petey is covered in blood and he was shakin'. So I'm standin' there, tryin' to calm Petey, tellin' him it'll be all right – that he needs to wash up and we'll move the body to the tub when he's done. I'm sure the attendants who owned the motel were use to seein' dead bodies in the tub; it usually hosted Raiders and mercenaries," Six shrugged, apathetic over the event. "After Petey cleans up, we proceeded to movin' Joey's large body to the tub. I took his arms, and Petey lugged the man's legs. When I picked up my half, I begin to notice these – bite marks on his neck. Deep marks. Joey's neck lopped over awkwardly, and I could see the muscle. I didn't say anything, wasn't plannin' on sayin' anything. Petey looked like he went through hell. Last thing he needed was my snoopin'."
Six is not surprised when the Legate reached out to grab her by the wrist, pulling her hand down and forcing her to cup his groin with an open palm. "You can talk while doing this, I only have so long before I need to leave. Go on," his fingers curl in over her hand, encouraging her to wrap her fingers around his girth. Six frowned, but remembered women could build up Empires – and dismantle them with the right type of kindness and the right type of touch. "Don't look at me like that. I could be using your mouth for something else other than what you're doing now." He let out a sigh with Six's languid stoke. And, even after the vulgar comment, she still continued to frown, not pleased with his deadpan advance; not at all fearful under his mild threat.
Water didn't make a good lubricant, but the Legate kept his hand over hers, guiding her touch, clamping her fingers down to appropriate the right type of pressure on his shaft. She only hoped he was charitable enough not to ask her to use her mouth for real.
"As I was sayin': After we left the motel, not much happens. It's quiet, and we decide to make camp outside. Petey looks haunted. Almost guilty. But not enough for me to accuse him for somethin' bein' off. We hit another settlement after that night, takin' a swing at another sleazy bar, and I'm damned surprised when Petey asks me to talk to another guy for him." The Legate's hand moves away from hers once he built up the right motion for her; she gave him a twist, her thumb barely brushing under the tip; she ignored his breathy voice, softly telling her to continue that certain stroke and for her to lift up off his lap a smidge so he could return the favor.
"I tell him it wasn't a good idea considerin' Joey from the night before, but he talked me into it. Pulled that guilt trip on me, tellin' me that he's fine and that this time it'll be different. He's ready. This one takes me longer. Tougher crowd. Most of the men in the bar were farmers with spouses, or they weren't too interested in the same sex. I find this twenty year old who's interested. Weird name: Lizard. He's a scruffy guy, real easy on the eyes, real fun to talk to. I talk him into givin' Petey a shot." Six wanted to close her thighs once she felt the Legate working his fingers into her, tilting her back a tad by running his two fingers up her folds, switching his fingers out to roll his thumb over her clit; he curls one finger into her, a second finger follows once he stretched her out enough; she begins to wonder if he was still listening to her with all his whispering, complimenting her for being tight around his long fingers.
Six regarded him, tensing with his forward motion of curling in on her and pressing his face against the side of her throat, pressing his mouth just above the explosives collar. "Keep going," the Legate muttered, "I'm listening." She cringed with his reassurance, keeping steady pace at jerking him. He let out a troubled sigh once her thumb rolled over the head of his cock; she gave him a squeeze, fingers narrowing in on him, extracting that small bead of pre-cum that she then ran a fingertip over.
"He -," the Legate inclined his gaze, moving back up to capture her groan by pressing his mouth against hers, swallowing her words before she had the chance to utter them. Six can barely breathe under the smothered warmth; his touch is rough, abusive to her inner muscles when he tried to yank a sound out of her - painfully pressing down on her clit to get a rise out of her. "Oh, Legate – there." She's disgusted with herself by encouraging him; she, however, needed to gain that ounce of trust; her peaking and prying through his personal belongings while he's away wouldn't cut it. She used womanly graces, and while still reluctant, she rolled over on her back and agreed to accept him.
Killing him later will bring a perverse gratification once her time comes.
"Here," the Legate mouthed against her lips and she dully nodded, unceremoniously kissing him back, bringing forth long and ragged breathing. The hand she was stroking him with faltered, trying to grip that forthcoming end he was ushering out of her. Six reached up, garnishing the man's shoulders with her arms, fingers tangling in his short dark hair, wordlessly begging him to continue; his freehand moved to curl in on her hip, keeping her steady on his thigh. He's pleased by this development, free to explore her by the simple spreading of her thighs, burying his fingers deep within her. And, like a stressed spring, she snaps with her thighs clamping down on his hand, crying her appreciation against his skin, pressing her bare breast against his chest.
The Legate removed his fingers, wanting to replace them with something more sustainable; he patted her hip, signaling for her to drawl up on his lap and face him. Silently, she slid off his lap, idly rubbing her sore muscles with the water that still poured in from the spout within the makeshift shower. He touched her thigh again, beguiling her to invade his space; she followed by awkwardly crawling up his thighs, spreading herself over him, baring weight on her knees once they touched the wooden surface of the shower bench.
"Should I go on with my story?"
"I never said you had to stop."
The Legate reached between them with one hand; he scooted her closer, curling his fingers around his shaft and giving himself a few pumps before aligning himself under her. Her fingers brushed over his shoulders, mindlessly tracing over a scar-souvenir etched into his flesh; she waited, feeling the tip of him brush against her entrance.
Six sank down on him in one fluid thrust, sheathing him in her willing warmth; she gasped once his hand pulled out from under her, curling his fingers into the side of her thigh. Buried between the apex of her thighs, the Legate watched the frown on her lips, the concentration at her jawline, and the schooled emotion in her eyes; she still hated him – that was apparent. He didn't just steal her armor, her weapons, her Pip-Boy, and her eyebot. He stole her pride.
Six swallowed, adjusting to the stretch, rolling her hips to encourage him to move. "Ready?"
"Go ahead," the Legate pulled her in closer, leaning her forward on her knees to create a space for him to thrust up in; her chin rested over his shoulder, while her arms coiled around him. She pressed heavily against him, and he supported her; she breathed against his neck, languidly dragging her mouth against the curve of his throat, nipping at the hollow under his jaw. He's thick and hard, and she gasps with the intrusion, getting a feel for the first spiked thrust that he made on his own.
"I was able to talk this Lizard-guy into seein' Petey. Course we rented a room together, but I found myself without a bed at the end of the night. I wasn't planning on bein' a third-wheel to their little party. And I wasn't all too keen payin' for another room 'cause my partner wanted to bone a stranger. Oh, God -, Six cried, withering against his cooled flesh. Her knees pressed in close on his sides, trying to compose herself and continue telling her story. "W-well, this bartender who was servin' us was a swell gal, she offered me a cot in the back office. I stayed a bit and talked to the lady who ran the bar, while Petey ran off with his new friend. I had myself a couple drinks, and was ready to call it quits. I told the bartender I'd be back, I had to run up to my room I originally rented and retrieve the clothes I liked sleepin' in. Before I knock on that Motel door hopin' I wouldn't see anything, I noticed that the door was ajar and the doorknob was saturated with somethin' wet. I was downright disgusted, but it was too dark to tell what I was touchin'. So I opened the door, and flipped the switch on to the room I was expectin' to see two fellas in. Well, I wasn't wrong, but it was more like – one fella and a half. Petey was eatin' the poor bastard!"
"That'd explain the teeth marks on the first man," the Legate noted, halfheartedly; it wasn't the first time he's heard a story like this. Unaffected, it didn't damper his mood. He was more interested with the tight squeeze of her walls doing a number on him and the warmth of her breath that ghosted over his flesh with every sudden connection he forced up into her. "Here, lift up on your knees a little for me. Yes. Like that."
Six obliged him, and he pulled back to move the two of them close to the edge of the bench; he motioned for her to put her hands back on his shoulders, wanting her to ride him for a change; he leaned back as best he could, resting his hand back over her thigh. He enjoyed the willingness of her heat around him, and the intoxicated sight of seeing his enemy bounce slowly on his cock; he ducked his head, watching himself disappear into her; the water that poured overhead from the spout pooled between their joining.
"So, what happens next," he was baiting her into talking, wanting to hear that desperation come out of her with each penetrating thrust she made.
"I -," Six panted, breaking on a sob, feeling so full and warm and vulnerable; she hated him so much, but she enjoyed the laziness in his voice; those smoothing undertones he used every time he fucked her. The drag of her fingers fell between them, and she gave him another pleasing visual; she touched herself, ungracefully swiping her fingers over herself with each sinking thrust. "It scared the hell out of me, truthfully. I've never seen anything like this. Petey – fuck, you're so good. You're so goddamn close."
"Petey? That's not my name," The Legate pulled one of his rare smiles, pushing her hand away to replace its job; he dragged out the worse vulgarities, and she had to take him a little harder – a little faster.
"Well, the dog never wanted to give me his name," Six deadpanned, huffing out an irritated sigh by the slow drag of his knuckle against her; she slipped him down to the hilt, rolling her hips in small and hurried circles, wanting to reclaim that friction.
That pulled silence out of the Legate and he looked oddly human with the discomfort of familiarizing himself with her. He hummed, satisfied by her eager movements, agreeing to open up a little about himself, while she was forced to give up her own identity on day one.
"My name -," the Legate hesitated, something so uncanny to his character – something so unlike the Malpais Legate to the Legion. "My name is Joshua." When he told her, she caught him with her forceful and foolhardy nature; she kissed him, hard. Her teeth clicked against his, smothering the life out of the older man under her. He accepted his momentarily submission, sliding his tongue over hers, taking pride with her finding pleasure in his lap while the bench from under them creaked with age and weight.
"The dog does have a name. Somethin' so normal, and I like it. C'mon, Joshua. Come for me. I want it -," she breathes against his mouth, kissing him in-between hushed words. "God, I need it." She put him in his place this time, moving her hands up to dangerously thread her fingers through his short dark hair, forcing him to watch her, and only her. She was unforgiving, riding him hard, playing him the pawn in her wicked game, dropping herself fully onto his lap. She jerked his head back by his hair, and she glared down at him - claiming her authority, reclaiming that lost ego he stole a month ago. She clamped down on him hard, milking him for whatever he's worth, showing him that lost hollow-point grin she often wore in casinos.
The Legate broke with that, shoving himself completely into her heat; she felt the familiar warmth of his orgasm between her thighs. Wordlessly, she pulled back from his lap, and left him to find his own personal death while she cleaned his mess off from between her thighs with the running water.
And, as if nothing happened, Six finished off with her story, letting him know that she won. "Petey looked to me with fear. He tried tellin' me that somethin' like that was normal – that he couldn't help himself. He wanted me to join him. I ended up killin' him in that motel room; never did care much 'bout travelin' with others after that – 'sides my ED-E, of course."
Where he originally wanted to own her, she ended up dominating him.
He knows he'll regret opening up to her like this someday - even if he only gave her his name.