Way Back Home:

Notes: This chapter has some graphic depictions of violence/torture. Please be forewarned if that's a trigger for you. It's all canon-typical but came out pretty explicit.


"I thought you were kidding."

"Why would I make up something like this?" Honey looked at him with one dark brow arched as if she couldn't believe what he's saying. A cigarette hung from her lips, the smoke tracing the outline of her jaw in the moonlight.

Before them, a man - John thought it was a man, anyway, although it's hard to tell under all the grime and malnutrition - hung from a cross. He couldn't tell if the guy was breathing, but if he was he wouldn't be for long. Honey had her pistol - a little thing, white-handled, with some sort of rounded symbol on the side - in one hand, and before he could register what was happening, the shot cracked out. The crucified man's head rocked back; a small hole was left in his forehead. Blood dripped from the entry wound in sluggish dark rivulets down his face. Through the whole thing, he never made a sound.

John still couldn't wrap his head around it - actual people hung on crosses. He had a thousand questions but somehow none of them seemed to be able to make their way out of his mouth. Instead he asked the only one he already knew the answer to.

"Why did you do that?"

Honey looked at the body of the man hung before them, took another calm drag of her cigarette. The corpse's hands were scarred and scabbed where the posts had been driven through them. His body, ravaged under the tattered rags he wore, told a story of whippings and beatings. Long, half-healed scars competed with dark purple and green bruises for John's attention, and he wanted to look away. But he didn't; this was the Legion. He needed to understand what they were up against.

"It was a mercy," he said, finally looking away from the tragedy hanging before them. Honey's eyes were clear, but he wondered if it was because of the Med-X or simply because she'd seen too many things like this. She nodded, tossed her cigarette butt to the pavement, then turned and walked down the road to the camp they'd seen from the sniper's nest. His feet were tired and it was hard to see anything around them in the dark, despite the almost-full moon above, and he scrambled to catch up with her. Damn woman could walk forever, he thought.

He'd barely caught up with her when a sentry stopped them. The guy wore some crazy get-up - was that a skirt? - but he carried the spear in his hand with a dignity that told John that he was dangerous. There was a large mutt on the guy's heels, but this was no friendly pup; he could see the sharpness of the creature's teeth, and John thought he'd never be able to outrun that thing if he needed to. For the first time, he began to wonder what exactly Honey's plan was. While he didn't mind a spot of violence, he didn't think the two of them could take down the whole camp.

The hairs on his arms started to stand up, but he stood still next to the boss as she explained their presence. Instead of watching her - she could watch herself - he looked around the camp, taking in the orderly tents, the small bathrooms, the pen filled with people that they'd seen from atop the hill. The stiff posture of the soldiers around him made him nervous and he'd never wanted a cigarette so badly as he did that moment. He followed her rules though and kept them tucked away in his pack.

A pen full of people. Like these assholes were super mutants or something, or the people in there were brahmin. He felt yellow bile, the sour stuff, rising in his throat and swallowed harshly.

"Let's go," Honey gestured to him, and they were led to a small tent.

"You may stay here for the evening. Join Cursor Lucullus to take the boat at first light. Caesar has been waiting," the sentry told them. They were shuttled inside, the flap closing behind them in a whiff of oiled leather. Inside were two bedrolls and a lantern. Honey dropped onto one of the bedrolls as if she was too tired to stand, and for a moment, John thought he could see what this was costing her. She pulled her hat off, tossed it aside, and ran a hand through her sweat-damp hair.

John settled across from her on the other bedroll, suddenly shy. For all that he'd spent the last two days with her he realized he didn't know the first thing about this woman. She didn't look at him; her fingers were fiddling with the Pip-Boy on her left wrist. After a moment, music came out, loudly at first, and then she turned the volume down. Some weepy number about a guy named Guitar-something or something-guitar; John wasn't listening that closely because he was looking at her, at the dark fall of her hair and the studious expression on her face, trying to figure her out.

The song ended and John found he was grateful for the silence. He only had it for a moment before the announcer came on, cheerfully saying something about putting on a "newsman fedora." He wondered if this guy always sounded like this, and where he got his chems.

"Refugees at Bitter Springs are giving startling accounts of the Legate, known as Lanius, who is said to be Caesar's top field commander," the Pip-Boy chirped. "One refugee told us that "The Legate took over an "under-performing" squad of troops by beating its commander to death in full view of everyone." The Legate then ordered a tenth of his own troops to be killed by the other nine-tenths. And you-"

Honey abruptly turned the radio off. When he turned to look at her, her skin had noticeably paled, and her eyes were very dark. She was looking right at him. He was still trying to understand what he'd just heard, trying to understand what it meant.

"The Legate - Lanius - he's some big-wig with these Legion guys?"

Honey nodded.

"Do you know if that story was true?" Easily half the shit Piper printed was bull, so maybe there was good reason to believe this was all made up. He just couldn't think why a military commander would want a tenth of his troops killed.

Actually - scratch that. He could. And it was fucking terrifying.

Across the tent, she shrugged. He stared at her blankly and finally she said, "Tal vez. Maybe, it wouldn't surprise me. Guy like him -" she shrugged. "He's done worse."

Outside the tent, John could hear laughter across the camp. What had sounded like some young guys having fun just a few moments ago now sounded sinister. Maybe trying to sleep here was a mistake. Maybe they should've stayed at the sniper's nest.

"When I first woke up after -" she gestured at the scar on her forehead, at her shrunken temple and crooked eyebrow, "I went to the town of Nipton, kind of to the west of here."

"And?" He was surprised she was volunteering anything; she hardly ever spoke this much to him. Probably didn't trust him; given the bit she knew about him - possible thief, definite chem-abuser - it made sense. Still, it gave him a thrill deep in his guts to realize she was opening up just a little.

"It was - destroyed, completely fucked. Half the two hung on crosses, some of them burned. They - " She paused and, fuck, was she shaking? "They had a lotería -"

"A what?"

"A, uh, a lotería? Where you draw tickets and then they pick a winner?"

"Do I want to know what they won?" No, he thought to himself, he certainly did not. Probably got eaten by dogs or something.

"The winner - he got off scot-free. I think he was a little loco, though, after all that. Second place -" Here he thought he saw her shaking again. "He was beaten too badly to walk. By the time I found him, I don't think any doctor alive could have helped him. I gave him some Med-X."

John thought he knew what that meant. Lesson learned: she was merciful. But mercy sometimes isn't always a happy ending.

"The townspeople -" she stopped again. Her eyes had drifted from him to look at the floor of the tent, as if it was too painful to look him in the eye as she recalled it all. "They planned it with the Legion. Thought they would be spared, that it was some deal they were getting. They were all slaughtered." John thought he'd never heard a tone so bitter.

"So - you ask me if the stories of Lanius are true. Probably," she looked back up, her eyes meeting his again. "I hope not. But they probably are."

He felt like he was going to be sick. Burning people alive, crucifying half a town, having a lottery - he didn't know which part of it was most horrifying. Could it be all of it? Could it just be the part that he'd walked into their camp knowing none of it? For a moment he felt a hot flash of anger at her, for letting him come here with her, for not telling him all this up front.

Then his own voice, brave in its ignorance, floated back to him: People need help, we help 'em.

Well, wasn't that just great.

He knew - of course he knew - that there was something she still hadn't told him. Probably a lot of somethings, and they were all probably awful. That legate from the radio, he was probably her ex-boyfriend or something, or Caesar was her uncle, or whatever. This was personal to her, he could see it in the way she'd set her chin when she saw the slaves in the pen. And he had a right to know it if he was gonna risk his life here.

"So what's your connection with these, uh, people?"

Honey looked at him, and for a moment he regretted asking, even if he did have good reasons to want to know. Her face closed off entirely, blue eyes cold. She stared at him for one minute, two, three. The silence stretched thin, almost long enough for him to speak again, and then:

"I'll you. Another time, when we're not...here," she gestured at the tent, at the camp surrounding them. At this, she lay down, still in her armor and boots, and with her back to him, seemed to drop off completely.


First light came irritatingly early; he was woken by a crunching noise across the tent. Left to his own devices, John would rather stay in bed another few hours until it was high in the sky, but then he remembered where he was. In a camp occupied by jerk-offs that crucified people in the middle of the fucking desert. If he stayed here he'd either be killed by the assholes or roasted by the sun before lunchtime. He cracked an eye open, saw Honey snacking on a can of potato chips.

She offered them to him with no preamble, and he took a few. After what he'd seen the night before he didn't know how well he'd keep food down, and when he tried to swallow he found he'd been right; they didn't want to go. They spent a few minutes gathering their things, and then he found her pressing a syringe into his hand. Med-X.

"These cabróns - they don't like chems. If you need to - well, today isn't a good day for you to go through withdrawal. So if you need a hit to get straight -" There was something cute about the way she offered the chems to him, the way she couldn't seem to say exactly what she meant.

Obviously not a habitual user before her injury, he thought. If she were, she'd be shameless about it.

John took the hint and wasted no time. Her pupils were pinpricks in her vivid blue irises, and he wondered if it was from the darkness of the tent or if she'd dosed herself before he woke up. He'd seen her rubbing her head enough to know she got headaches, probably related to whatever happened to her. The look on her face when he'd administered the chem to her the night before lingered behind his eyes - the way she'd looked both annoyed at him and, as the drug made its way through her system, relieved. She wasn't just a recreational user - this was the only thing keeping her going.

Something about that made him indescribably sad.

"So what's the plan, boss?" He packed away his empty syringe, his bottle of scotch, his rubber strap. Moved his elbow a couple times to relieve the small pain the needle made, and felt his feet grow cold.

A small smile from Honey as she pulled her sunglasses on. She rifled around in her bag and offered him another pair; he took the hint and slid them on. Snazzy.

"I need to talk to a man about some slaves. Then we're gonna take a boat ride up the river."

"And when we get where we're going?"

"I guess we'll see."

John followed her out of the tent.


The three people in the slave pen looked like a family. Stupid him, he was stunned to see them wearing collars. After the crucifixion and the radio report the night before, he didn't know what he expected, but somehow - well, it wasn't fucking collars on fucking people.

Honey barely looked at them, instead walking to a tall soldier in Legion red who stood near the cage, watching the river. The man turned, giving her a confused look, and then nodded when he saw the necklace she wore; a large silver disc on a plain leather strap.

"Ave, true to Caesar," the legionary said as his face worked into a frown. "You really shouldn't keep Caesar waiting, Courier."

The smile Honey gave him looked as easy as it was heartbreaking, and John tried not to gape; it didn't seem possible that the dazzling creature standing before him was the same tired-looking woman from just a few moments ago. This gal - well, she'd turn some heads, giant fucking scar or no.

"I'm just here about captures," she said, her voice drifting up an octave. Although he couldn't see her eyes, John could imagine the way she was looking up at the legionary under her lashes. The legionary turned towards her a bit, his posture relaxing a hair.

"Turning this one in?" The slave-trader gestured behind her to where John stood and for a moment he felt his heart jump. No fucking way was he going to end up in that cage. She's playing him, John thought. Or she's been playing me. No. That couldn't be - could it? But the doubt was sown and now he didn't know what to think.

"No, this one's not for sale," she laughed - no, giggled. It was almost flirtatious.

No, not almost. It was flirtatious - the way she turned her body towards his, the tilt of her head and the tone of her voice, as if she thought he was so clever. What kind of game was she playing?

He opened his mouth to say something then snapped it shut. Best to play along. He was glad they weren't paying attention to him.

"I'm actually looking to buy." Her voice was a purr now, and John thought he might throw up in his mouth a little, even as it all began to come together. Smart little kitten, this one. He probably would've just charged in here and started cracking skulls, gotten himself shot in the process.

The legionary looked at her, then past her to the pen. He studied the family in the cage, assessing their value so plainly John could practically see him doing counting the caps. "I could let 'em go for three hundred caps."

Honey laughed again, lightly, as if this was funny, as if they weren't talking about the price of human beings. John found he couldn't look away from her; he wasn't sure if it was because of how drastically she'd changed or if it was because it was too depressing to see the resigned expressions the captures wore.

"You've got to be joking," she said. "Anyone could see that girl's got all the symptoms of Pustular Hypomyalgia. I know someone who can fix her up but if you leave her in there, the disease'll spread to any other captures you lock in with her."

The legionary took another step back from the cage. "That doesn't sound good," he said doubtfully. John could practically see the rocks he called brains turning around in his skull.

Honey shook her head; she wasn't wearing her hat, and John could see the legionary watching the way her long hair slipped over her shoulder. It was the same look Vic had when he'd first seen Nicole. It was ugly lust; not desire as he knew it, but the crushing compulsion to conquer. It made John's skin crawl; moments ago he'd sworn Honey knew what she was doing, but now -

"I'll give you one-fifty for the lot," Honey said, back to business. The legionary looked at the pen again, then back at her, and nodded. "Great. Have them ready for me when we return from our meeting with Caesar." She said the leader's name the same way the legionary had, with a hard-C and sharp two-syllable sound.

The legionary agreed, looking for all the world like he wanted nothing to do with the three people in the pen. Honey handed him a small sack of caps and they both watched the slaver count them out, one stack of ten after another until he reached fifteen. She turned back to John and snapped her fingers. He had a moment of annoyance at her - who the fuck did she think she was - before he realized he was supposed to be her slave. When she turned and headed to the boat, he followed, trying to keep the amusement from his face - she'd known how much she would offer for the three, and she'd known what the guy would take.

What the hell have I gotten myself into?


Walking through the camp with her was a surreal experience. He'd been surprised by how willingly she gave up her weapons, motioning for him to do the same, though he managed to retain a few small knives that he kept stashed inside his chest piece. The legionary guarding the gate of the Fort seemed loath to inspect him that closely, and John found himself weirdly pleased - it had been quite some time since he'd bathed. He couldn't smell himself anymore, but no doubt the young guy with the mohawk wasn't impressed by his stink; all the Legion guys seemed excessively clean and stiff.

Squares. He wondered what they'd do if he shot himself up with Med-X in the middle of the camp. The thought was almost tempting enough to try it.

Despite the appalling things he'd seen on the way here, John hadn't been prepared for the desolation - the desperation - inside the walls of the fort. Legionaries roamed around in their skirts and pauldrons, speaking whatever the hell language they were always spouting. Three of them laughed as a woman dressed in rags collapsed under her heavy pack partway up the hill; one of them grabbed her arm roughly, pulling her to her feet, and kicked her hard as she started back up. The other two chuckled again, and John seethed.

Breathe in. Breathe out. If you try to pick a fight here with this many of them around, you'll be cut down where you stand.

She knows what she's doing. I hope.

As they passed, the legionaries would stop whatever they were doing to stare at Honey, at the subtle curves of her figure under her armor, at the way her hips swung when she walked. Had they always done that? John couldn't remember. He'd noticed before the effect a pretty woman had on men - even him, he was only human after all - but the way they looked at her made him want to grab her hand and pull her out of there. Whatever she was doing here wasn't worth the risk she was taking just being there, he thought. These men would grab her and fuck her until she bled; they'd consume her, devour her, and they'd laugh while they did it. They'd - they'd take turns.

Vic and Finn and Ogre danced behind his eyes, but he kept putting one foot after another, following her up that insane hill, through another gate, and to the big tent at the center of the camp.

Run away, his brain screamed silently at her. Run away, run away. Your dad is a fucking crazy person sending a babe like you into this pit. Run away.

Through it all, Honey was as calm as if she were knitting a sweater on a sun-drenched porch somewhere. She didn't even seem to be sweating, despite the fact that it was already as hot as the sun out here and every legionary who passed blatantly stared at her like a cut of meat, like a green girl. He couldn't leave her, no matter how badly he wanted to run, and so John trudged after her to the tent at the top of the hill.

The guard at the tent stopped them. "You must enter Caesar's tent alone," he told her, and John almost winced when she laughed again. It was the same laugh she used on the slaver, but this time the guard didn't budge - at least, not at first. But somehow she turned whatever it was about her brighter, and leaned in towards him, just as she had with the slave trader. Her hips rocked close to his, and her chest got closer to his, and then she was murmuring something and pointing at John and he turned away, stared at the sky, tried to look innocuous.

Finally, the guard nodded, a faint smile on his face. "Fine. But he must stand to the back and not speak."

John thought he could live with that, and so when Honey blew the guard a kiss and slipped under the tent flap and into the inner sanctum, he followed suit. Blew the guard a kiss and everything, and don't think he didn't notice that tightly-wound bastard's eyes widen at the thought of it.

That was the whole point.


The first thing John noticed as they walked into Caesar's tent was the way Honey changed, again assuming a different posture. This time, instead of the bubble-headed coquette, her posture stiffened and something in the way she moved triggered memories of a centuries-old picture he'd found at the library, one of soldiers heading off to war. Her walk shifted - she hadn't always swung her hips so, he'd been right! - and her hands hung at her sides. She walked through one tent into an open enclosure, into the blazing sun, and stood before a man sitting on a - well, there was no other word for it. It was a goddamn throne.

He stepped up close enough to whisper: "Is that guy the fuckin' King?"

"No," she murmured back. "You'll meet him later. This is Caesar." She made a small gesture to him with one hand, and he took several steps back, leaning against a tent pole to her right. There were several guards standing around old Grandpa Armchair, and without any weapons he didn't see how they could possibly get out of here alive if things went sour.

He glanced around, trying to see if there was anything around them he could use as a weapon if she needed him to. The tent poles maybe, if he could get one free. There were some books - those might hurt a little if thrown but weren't going to knock anyone out or anything. Not much else - the guards didn't look like they had firearms, but John's hand-to-hand wasn't exactly his strong suit.

So yeah - he really hoped things would go smooth here. And fuck if he wouldn't kill for a cigarette right now.

"You're the courier who's caused so much trouble for my Legion and yet you dare come before me," the old man started. John found he already didn't like the guy himself, just for that tone. Superior, as if the guy had so much to be superior about. But Honey just stood there as the man began listing things she'd done to piss him off.

"The garrison I established at Nelson has been wiped out. The Kings of Freeside are cooperating with the NCR now, which frees up soldiers to defend the dam. And worst of all - years of meticulous scheming to place a mole at Camp McCarran - wasted. But you - of all people! - dare to come here and stand before me, the mighty Caesar. What were you thinking?" He really did sound surprised. Not for the first time, John wondered again just what the fuck was going on, even as the insane security began to add up for him. Of course no weapons, of course they wanted him to stay outside the tent. Caesar was afraid of an assassin.

When it was clear the man was ready for her to answer, Honey gave a small shrug. A shrug? John goggled. This guy looked ready to cook and eat her. He had to give it to her - he didn't know what the fuck was going on but it was clearly not good and she looked almost...bored. Impressive broad, that one.

"You guaranteed my safety. I figured that was as good a time to meet you as any." Flippant. Her tone was flippant.

"And you fell for that? Really?" Because I'm going to have you killed now." Caesar's tone matched hers - bored, disinterested. As if he ordered executions every day.

Actually, he probably did.

John looked again at the tent poles behind Caesar, tried to figure out if he might be able to kick them out at the base to create a distraction so they could run. Or so he could run, anyway. No way in hell was she getting out of this alive. Between his employer and the megalomaniac, the silence stretched thin.

Honey was the first one to crack, but as usual, she didn't do what John expected. She didn't do what John would have done - she didn't create a diversion, kick some guy in the balls, and run off. Nor did she turn on the charm like she had with the door guards, or begin begging for mercy. No - the crazy dame laughed.

It wasn't a pretty laugh. It didn't bubble; it barked out of her. It was genuine, almost - light.

And then - this stumped him even more - Caesar began to chuckle as well. For the fifth - sixth, seventh? He couldn't keep track anymore - time that day, John wondered just what the fuck was happening.

"Yeah, I'm just fucking with you," Caesar said, leaning back in his seat with a barely-suppressed groan. "You do know why I wanted to meet you, right?"

Honey shifted her posture, and for a moment John swore she glanced at him. He froze, his veins suddenly icy. He saw Caesar's eyes flit towards him as well, and then he realized - they weren't looking at him. He turned, and for the first time noticed a man on the ground behind him; a man as different from the rest of them as a deathclaw from a radstag. This one wore a checkered coat, filthy white pants, hair in a destroyed duck's ass curl. John couldn't see much of his skin, but he sported one black eye and a trickle of dried blood under his nose; his hands were cuffed and he was kneeling in the hard-packed dirt.

"A man nearly kills you," Caesar took his eyes from the man in the fancy coat and dragged them back to Honey. "So you track him across the breadth of the Mojave?" A small nod from Honey. "You arrive on the Strip and waltz into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat?" His voice rose, incredulous, and she nodded again - and was that a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth?

"You visited the Tops," Caesar continued, "and next thing you know, the head of the Chairmen is fleeing the Strip like a whimpering little pup?"

"I did not whimper," came an annoyed shout from behind John. There was the sound of something hard connecting with flesh and bone, and then came an actual whimper - and did Honey actually giggle when she heard it?

"When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that." Caesar sighed. "The question is...are you ready to get started?"

"Maybe," Honey said, dragging the word out as she turned to look at the man in the checkered coat again. John stepped back, out of the direct line of sight. He saw Caesar's eyes light on him for a moment, and there was a distinct tightening around his eyes, but then Grandpa Fancy-armor looked past him, too.

"But I get to decide what happens to Benny."

A smile from Caesar. "I assume you mean how he dies." Honey said nothing, but a familiar smile worked its way across her face. It made him think of that day months ago in Diamond City, of Marvin and the ghouls and the hungry way he'd watched them flee. It made John's mouth dry out, and he took another step back, deeper into the corner where the tents came together.

"I accept," she said.

"Let me tell you what I need, then."