21 Neither repented they of their murders, nor of their sorceries, nor of their fornication, nor of their thefts. [Book of Revelation]
The streets of Freeside seemed a little busier than usual, the Courier noted as he passed through, his eyes wandering over his surroundings on the way to the New Vegas Strip. Children screamed as they ran past chasing one another with guns too heavy for their small hands and vagrants swore and mumbled, slumped in broken doorways as they were tended to by Dixon, Freeside's primary chem pusher. The female crier for the Atomic Wrangler winked at him as he walked past and he averted his eyes, his gaze falling upon a King who leant in the doorway of the King's School of Impersonation, his face hollowed out by the neon lights. He smiled at the Courier before tossing his cigarette away and heading indoors.
The lower-ranks of the Kings still retained their respect for the Courier who'd done so much for Freeside and the Followers in the past few months but he knew that the King's favour which had originally been given was rapidly being revoked. There had been a time when he'd walked the streets of Freeside and a King would run up and hand him a stimpak with thanks from the King.
That time had since passed.
He flashed his passport into the Strip at the securitron at the gate who moved aside to let him through, clambering over the dead body of a vagrant who'd thought to try and outrun Mr. House's security guards. As though such a thing were possible.
The Courier made his way towards the Gomorrah, the casino owned by the Omerta family and arguably the most seedy on the New Vegas Strip. Each of the major casinos had their own 'feel' – the Tops was a place for the men of the Mojave to kick back and have a good time, the Ultra Luxe was a place for the gamblers who wanted to pretend they were owed the finer things in life, the Lucky-38 was pre-war simple gambling and the Gomorrah was a pantomime of all of the things which could drag a man to perdition. In their own way, the Courier judged them all to be as corrupt as one another but there was a special kind of hatred he had reserved for the patrons and the owners of the Gomorrah.
It was a house of whores, even by the Strip's standards.
Vulpes Inculta was sat at the bar in Brimstone, his pale fingers clasped around a cold tumbler of whiskey; the ice cubes beginning to melt into the amber in the heat of the room. His expression was one of apathetic distaste as he watched a chained prostitute dancing on the table opposite, sweat shining on her body. He looked away.
"Vodka," the Courier said quietly to the serving ghoul who smiled her approval.
"I'll bet you will," she said, her eyes heavily lidded, her lips pouting, "Can I get you anything else?"
The Courier was unsure if her whorish attitude was genuine or just demanded of her by the owners of the casino. Regardless, he shook his head, collapsing down into the seat next to the head of the Frumentarii as the server slid him his alcohol.
"You have news?" Vulpes asked, not turning to face the Courier as he watched the gamblers across the way. His voice was eerily cool despite the heat of the bar and slippery like silk. The Courier had always expected to see the flash of a silver tongue whenever he spoke.
"Yes," the Courier said, swilling the alcohol about the bottom of the glass, "There is work for a resistance in Freeside, formed through an alliance between the Kings, the locals and funded by the Van Graffs. The Followers also have given aid."
"Who leads the movement?" Vulpes asked calmly.
"The King," the Courier tapped his glass on the wood of the table, "Julie Farkas seemed to know a lot about it, so her for the Followers. Jean-Baptiste is giving weapons and there will be underground safe rooms and an escape route through the basement of the King's School of Impersonation."
The Legion man turned his head to look at the Courier, his eyes piercing the young man, the pale blue lit up by the glistening lights of the casino. "I will deal with the Kings and the Van Graffs and see the passage is found. You will deal with the Farkas whore." He raised the glass to his thin lips, "Caesar will not be happy. His feelings towards the Followers are… strange. He is fond of them."
"He will have to deal with their loss," the Courier said, dumping his untouched vodka into the Frumentarii's glass and standing.
Vulpe caught him by the arm as he made to leave, the man's fingers digging into the Courier's lean muscles like a vice. He seemed to consider him for a moment.
"You would have made a fine Frumentarii," he said eventually, "If that is what you had wanted from the Legion."
The Courier jerked his arm free and left the degenerate cesspit without another word.
Arcade spritzed his hands with medical alcohol, hoping to wash the blood and pain from his fingertips after an unfamiliar day of working as a doctor. He'd since decided he preferred to be hidden away in the background, working the stems off banana yucca plants in the hopes of creating new stimpaks instead of actually binding wounds, his hands slippery with crimson blood. Had blood always been so red?
The tribal youth had been a huge help though, undoubtedly. He'd stayed at the Old Mormon Fort for the rest of the day, at Arcade's side and whenever he laid his roughened hands on a victim's chest they seemed to quieten, like a wounded pack Brahmin quivering in the hands of an old Merc. Arcade realised he'd appreciated the boy's help and wondered where the tribal had gotten to.
"Julie," he called away from the young medic she was speaking to, "Have you seen Adam at all?"
"I think he said he had to meet someone," she checked her watch, "At nine, so about half an hour ago. You might still catch him, he's just outside. Tell him thanks for all the help he gave if you see him, would you?"
"Of course," Arcade nodded, heaving the heavy wooden gate open and slipping out into Freeside.
Darkness hadn't yet fallen properly across the town and never would as long as the lights of Vegas fell over the slums and broken buildings. A neon sign hanging across the way which spelled out FREESIDE in dancing colours gave as much light as rows of streetlamps ever would and Arcade glanced about, before noticing the youth sitting on a pile of concrete, his back to the walls of the Old Mormon Fort.
"Adam," he said in surprise, "I- Julie would like to thank you for all the work you did with the Followers today." He paused, "Why are you sitting out here?"
"I am waiting for a friend," Follows-Chalk replied. He seemed tetchy, "He was supposed to be here at twenty-one. He isn't here."
Arcade took a seat behind him in the dust, "Who are you waiting for?"
"A friend," Follows-Chalk said stiffly, "His name is David."
"David," Arcade nodded, "Is he," he gestured, "From your tribe? In Utah?"
Follows-Chalk frowned, "No. He was with us for a while, but he never really was part of the tribe. He was always from the Mojave, really."
"I see," Arcade nodded, even though he didn't, "And you were supposed to meet him outside the Fort?"
"Yeah," Follows-Chalk said, "He has never been late before. But nothing could have happened to stop him. He wouldn't be stopped," his frown deepened, "I don't understand."
"The Mojave's an interesting place," Arcade said, "It's possible he was waylaid, probable even." He took a breath, "You are aware of the problems that Freeside is facing, aren't you? You must've heard it today."
Follows-Chalk nodded, unsure of what Arcade was getting at.
"Well, if your friend doesn't turn up," he said, "The Followers are taking on untrained people and turning them into medics for the war. You could look into that, you know."
Follows-Chalk nodded, "Thank you for your kindness, but I think he will come. He needs me," even as he said the words he knew they weren't true. Joshua didn't need anyone, but Follows-Chalk did. He needed a people, a tribe. He'd thought Joshua could have been his tribe, out here in the heat of the Mojave but as he rested his back against the solidness of the Fort behind him, he realised he could have been wrong. The Followers were a tribe, in their own way, he thought.
"He'll come," he said.
"Then it would be my pleasure to wait with you," Arcade settled down, shifting himself about as he brought a silver hip flask from his coat pocket, "I have actually brought a bottle of Dixon's finest for occasions such as this," he sniffed at the flask and winced, "Nasty stuff. Would you like some?"
"Dixon's finest?" Follows-Chalk took the flask and sniffed it also. "Oh! Alcohol!" his face broke into a smile, "Sometimes I'd find some in boxes over the valley and I would keep it safe at the old ranger post because I knew the others wouldn't go there." He smiled as he stared into the darkness at the opening of the flask, "I was going to drink it all one day and watch the sun set over the valley."
"Well, I'll bet that whatever you were drinking was better than this stuff," Arcade took it from him and touched it to his lips, squinting as the alcohol burned his throat, "Ah! Dixon certainly makes a potent cocktail!"
Follows-Chalk was confused, "If you don't like it, why do you drink it?"
Arcade shrugged, "The end is nigh and I shall die. Carpe nocteum, carpe vinum." He lifted the silver flask to his lips again and shuddered, smacking them together before passing it across to Follows-Chalk, who didn't hesitate this time, raising it to his own mouth as he gazed upwards at the stars over Freeside.