- JOKER -

It's quiet in here.

Stale air tastes of dust and cold, old couch feels like concrete.

I'm sitting inside the Lucky 38, tackiest casino formerly on the Las and currently on the New Vegas Strip. Didn't like it before the war, sure as hell don't like it now, knowing who's in here.

Inside's not so tacky, just... sad. Cleaner than the other fine establishments around, but empty. Still. Dead. A roulette-themed mausoleum, where no mortal dared to tread. Only things I hear are the faint buzz of the AC systems, my own breathing, and the three-and-a-half-centuries-old Italian song playing on my Pip-Boy.

Fischia il vento e infuria la bufera
Scarpe rotte, eppur bisogna andar
A conquistare la rossa primavera
Dove sorge il sol dell'avvenir...

"Say, pardner, wouldja mind puttin' on somethin' more lively?"

"Yeah." I growl without raising my eyes from my forearm. To do what, see the barred exit doors to my right, the sealed elevator to my left, the stupid cowboy face drawn on the screen of the only Securitron around here? "Yeah I would, Victor. It's 'Fischia il vento', calms me down. I sorta need it since, y'know, three of your friends knocked on my door, kindly asked me to follow 'em and dragged me all the way here about twelve hours ago." I waggle my thumb, index and middle finger to drive my point across. "Now my APC's in an underground garage, my guns in an underground depot, and I'm stuck in a hall with no exits and no cover." My ring finger joins in. "And I count four turrets on the roof."

"A'ight compadre, just askin', doncha get all riled up." The tin can replies in his... no, its Wild West drawl. It was funny the first two times, now it's gotten on my nerves. "It'd be mighty fine, havin' some Marty Robbins on. Y'know what I'm sayin'?"

I pinch the bridge of my nose – only part of it left – and sigh. "Listen, I appreciate the fact you dug me outta that grave in Goodsprings and brought me to Doc Mitchell – believe me, I do. However, I also don't appreciate how you've been shadowin' me ever since, how you've been programmed to talk like a goddamn cowboy, and how you don't like 'Fischia il vento'. So please, Victor, shut up."

At least the damn thing has enough sense to shut up this time.

Yeah, that's right. I've been here for the better part of half a day. Maybe more. Couldn't have been ten or eleven at night when House's Securitrons started making noise right out of my house, and now it's almost noon.

Over twelve hours of sitting on a hard, red-and-black striped sofa and going through my emergency supply of musical OSD's. Never gotten to 'World War Two Italian partisan chants' level before. The situation is dire indeed.

People outside must be going in and out of the Strip, having fun, getting shitfaced, contemplating suicide for all the money they've lost... and here I am, locked inside a casino nobody's set foot in for centuries, waiting for House to 'be ready to receive me'.

I call bullshit.

He's just having me wait for hours on end because I didn't play by his rules and I've never gone to see him, even though Victor showing up at every corner and telling me to go meet his boss was supposed to be some sort of clue. Figured it out a bit too late.

Maybe House hopes to get me tired, maybe he wants me nice and exhausted before meeting him. A weaker prey he can toy with, like a cat.

No such luck. I'm two hundred and thirty-eight. I sleep six hours a week anyway.

Perhaps, genius of the Old World though he may be, he's just a petty son of a bitch and this is a way for him to exact revenge on me.

Yeah, that's probably it.

I shouldn't be here, not right now. I have those two to look after, the... what do I call them? Aliens? They aren't from Earth, that technically makes them aliens. True for the cat, Darey... Daroo... whatever her name is, got that one right the first time. Felix, though? Kid's a human, more human than I've been in decades. Can't call him an alien.

Since I can't come up with anything non-ominous, 'Kids' will have to do - with a capital 'K'. Fits them better than 'Outsiders' or 'Extradimentionals', anyway.

Still, if they aren't from Earth, how come they've got accents? She sounds Mexican, he sounds British. That's weird. Could be those necklaces. Figured they'd start speaking in a voice-actor-ish English, or maybe with a bit of a Southern accent since we're in Nevada. Definitely not those two.

Anyway, accents or not, it doesn't sit right with me, not being there for them. I've saved their lives, helping them's the least I can do. They must have a million questions. They're in a rotten man's house, far from home, on a world that's nuked itself back to the stone age. Only three adjectives I can use to describe someone in their situation are 'homesick', 'terrified' and 'shocked'.

I hope they're still sleeping, promised them I'd be back in the morning. I'm too late for that now. Not the best start, a broken promise.

Ding.

That sounds like the big elevator in the middle of the hall.

"Well, guess the boss is ready to meetcha."

I stand corrected: that is the big elevator in the middle of the hall.

I'm nowhere near as relieved as I thought I'd be. In fact, I have to suppress a groan.

Victor's wheel and arms make a squeaky, grating noise as he moves. The robot's nimble, I've gotta give him that. Even manages to roll up the four steps leading to the elevator without a hiccup.

How can Securitrons never fall over? They're the least stable thing I've ever seen, those bastard sons of a unicycle and a fridge. At least a couple must have fallen over in these two-hundred-something years.

Fischia il vento e infuria la bufera
Scarpe rotte, eppur bisogna andar
A conquistare la rossa primavera
Dove sorge il sol dell'avvenir...

When the last chord sounds, I tap the PLAY/PAUSE button on my Pip-Boy and hop to my feet. Trying not to crack my back as I make my way there, I get into the elevator with Victor. It's big enough for eight people, by the looks of it.

Securitron's so broad it takes up the space and weight of six or seven of those people.

"Headin' on up!" Victor chirps, punching one of the several buttons on the panel in front of him. He's got big claws, surprised he didn't crush it.

The doors slide closed.

A moment and a whoosh later, I feel heavier.

I won't have long to think, this is the calm before the storm. I'm gonna be too focused on what House's gonna say afterwards, on how little choice I'm gonna have in the matter, on the threats he's gonna make. No better moment than now.

And right now, there's only one thing that's gotta be dealt with.

The Kids.

Why did I bring them home in the first place? To anyone else I'd have... I don't know, given directions, a ride wherever they needed, maybe some water. Didn't happen this time. How come? It wasn't Rattles, that's for damn sure. The idea that a chat with a nightstalker could change my mind is beyond ridiculous.

Besides, she's only convincing when I'm already reconsidering.

So... why? Could it be 'cause they're from somewhere else entirely, because they aren't used to the metric shitload of horrors the Wasteland can throw at you? Might be. At least local children know what they're up against, these two don't. They'd be dead in a second, eaten by deathclaws, enslaved by the Legion or torn to shreds by raiders. Wouldn't stand a single chance against guns.

Fireballs and lightning bolts are all fine and dandy until the guy in front of you shoots you dead before you can wiggle your fingers or say the magic words. Or if you plain can't see the guy you want to turn into a frog, like a sniper, or an MG nest. There ain't much you can do when a bullet's splattered your brains all over the asphalt, or when a volley of fifty cal's ripped you in half.

Felix'd be smoked in an instant, they'd take the armor and the sword off of him, sell them for caps.

The cat... all too easy to imagine what they'd do to her, dead, alive or dying.

Maybe that's the reason. Might be because they're different. Chances are good they aren't mistrusting, calculating, fucked in the head or straight up evil from the get-go. Maybe they've got some values that aren't the sole biological imperative of survival. Might not be innocent, but they've gotta be fairly close to it when compared to the folks from here. There's been no nuclear war back where they're from. What I've seen in these two hundred and four years, and even before that... I hate to be an optimist, but maybe there's some hope with those two.

What about the other two? What were they, an Orc and an Elf? I forgot about them, didn't look for 'em. Big mistake on my part. What if they're just as scared as the Kids?

Alright, in all fairness, maybe that's a bit far-fetched. We're talking an Orc and an Elf here. If they're anywhere near what the Eleventh Edition's Player's Handbook makes them out to be, they can handle themselves just fine.

Scared or no, I've still gotta find them and complete that delivery. Pay's good, ten times what House oughta pay me for the Chip, not gonna-

I blink.

The Chip. The Platinum Chip.

Can't slap my forehead right now, might give myself away.

I've got it on me, don't I?

Can't pat the pouches and pockets on my vest and belt, either. That would give me away, no question.

Safe to assume that I acted like the old man I am and forgot it somewhere back home.

Ding.

Goddammit.

Victor's screen beeps and flutters as the doors slide open. "Penthouse floor!"

Well, that's the end of my worries for the time being. Gotta bluff and talk business with very little leverage now.

All expression and emotion drain away from my melted features. I fill my lungs with chill, recycled air, and off I go.

First strides out onto the bone-white moquette, soft as a cloud, and I realize just how big this penthouse is. There's a staircase on either side of me, with black marble steps, ebony railings, and not a speck of dust to be seen. Counting the two half-floors, the walls have gotta be at least twenty or thirty feet high. Wallpaper's striped blood red and midnight black, carrying on with the casino's roulette wheel theme. Roof's the exact shade of creamy white as the carpet, maybe a bit brighter, what with the lit crystal chandeliers hanging off of it.

Downstairs is about the same, only broader and with expensive baroque furniture, all following the red-black-white color scheme, with a bit of green from the plastic plants thrown into the mix. I see a couple of doorways to the left and right, must lead to other rooms. There's no wall on the far end, just curved windows opening up on miles of sun-scorched ruins, burning sand and palpable misery.

All in all, it's the grandest, most opulent, and outright tackiest shit I've seen my whole life. Mr. House has got to be the least tasteful person alive on planet Earth.

Although, the platoon of Securitrons might be what's rubbing me the wrong way.

Fucking tin cans are everywhere. One on either side of the elevator, two at every door, three at the windows, more by the stairs... that sure makes for a nice welcoming committee, and nobody's been here in centuries.

Am I that much of a threat to House? Me, an unarmed old ghoul? Or is he trying to scare me into compliance, flexing his muscles by having all these robots in the same place at once, ready to back up his every syllable?

Victor's joints creak as he rolls up to me and points down. "A'ight pardner, ya go downstairs, past the door on the left, and the boss'll be right there. I'll wait fer ya here, by the elevator. See ya when it's all done." A pause. "Good luck. Ye'r gonna need it."

Despite the instinctive mistrust and annoyance Victor's existence stirs up in me, I nod my thanks and begin my descent. Every step I take with care, gripping the fancy wooden railing, listening to my own boots squeak in the deadly silence.

Leaves me with more time to think.

The kind of thinking that, once every couple of decades, lands me with a question I can't answer.

Why?

I see all that I'm seeing right now, the silk, the ebony, the marble, and I can't help but ask myself that question.

Why?

Why is it that this whole floor, bigger than a mansion – maybe bigger than the Old Mormon Fort – is inhabited by a single man, hidden away from the rest of the world, and all the fuckers like me got the short end of the stick?

Why is it that the only thing I've known for most of my life is pain, centuries of pain and suffering and death, of survival of the fittest, of strife, of ignorance?

Why is this bastard, this self-styled CEO of Vegas, same guy who's secured the Strip and the casinos for himself and kicked out anyone who didn't fit in his plans, drowning in luxury?

Why has he got an army of robots at his beck and call to enforce his will, and yet does absolutely nothing to defend the territories outside of his own Strip, where his precious casinos are?

Why is he living in his own bubble, far away from what I've had to deal with for two centuries, while day after day my hair and my skin and my hopes fell, while year after year I outlived everyone I have ever known, while I slowly became an immortal in a world I didn't choose?

Why?

I don't know. Doubt I ever will.

Stop asking, Dave. Nobody listens, you learned that a long time ago.

Don't even bother.

Once I'm out of steps to walk down, I aim for the door on the left.

The two Securitrons there raise their gatling lasers to block the entrance, like royal guards raising their halberds. They're probably scanning me.

This is it. I'm the first man to see Mr. House in person since the twenty-third of October of two-thousand-seventy-seven, first guy to meet him ever since the day the world ended. This is, by all accounts, a historical moment.

Why?

Because of a fucking delivery.

Is he going to apologize to me for the inconvenience of getting two nine millimeter bullets lodged into my skull?

Of course not.

I'm nothing more than a puppet in his play, a pawn on his chessboard, a tool in his hands. All because he's the one with the money and the brains, and my dignity as a human being comes much later to one like House.

If he even sees anyone other than himself as a person, that is.

The royal guards must be satisfied with the results, given how their arms fall back down their sides. They turn around, push the broad ebony doors open, and roll back to their posts.

Let's not forget the bit that irks me the most at the moment: because of this self-entitled prick, I was forced to leave the two Kids I have saved from the dangers of the wasteland alone – to leave two people who've got no clue how they've ended up into the waking nightmare that is post-nuclear Earth and want to go back to their own homes alone. I've gotta be there for them, to give them answers, to teach them how to survive, to keep them alive even though I haven't got the faintest idea who the fuck they are or why I took them in.

I shouldn't be here just because House is throwing a fit.

Walking through the doorway, I shrug to myself.

I grit my teeth and think and get mad, and then what happens?

Nothing.

Thinking doesn't help in these situations. I don't have the power to change shit, best I can do is do as I'm told. Be the puppet, the pawn, the tool.

Because the world sucks, there is no God, forty-two ain't the answer, and I'm rambling again.

Focus, Dave.

Focus.

The hall beyond is pretty much identical to the one I've just come out of, minus the stairs and plus a gigantic terminal on an upraised dais.

That thing's huge, no way around it. First thing I notice is the massive screen in the middle of it all, opaque, black as night. Then I squint at the four smaller displays on the sides, at the colored buttons, at the countless keys, at the chattering dials, at the blinking lights, at the number-spewing counters, at the buzzing wires.

What do you know, it's flanked by a couple of Securitrons. Although... these ones do look a bit different. They're polished to a sheen and I can't really spot an inch of rust on them. Not to mention, their screens aren't displaying the usual cartoony cop face.

These two are the only Securitrons I've ever seen with women's faces.

In fact, the closer I get, the surer I am I've seen those faces somewhere. A brunette and a blonde... famous actresses, maybe?

"Say, Jane, is that the Courier House was planning on meeting today?" The Securitron on the right, the blonde, asks the other one as though I'm not even there. "Why, with all the trouble he's caused, I thought he'd be more handsome. Look at him, he's... he's a zombie!"

"That sure is him, Marilyn." The brunette confirms, making a stiff bow that I take to be a nod. "And don't be fooled by his looks, sugar. Ugly or not, this one's dangerous – you know what he's capable of."

As though I haven't been through enough for today, now I've gotta deal with passive-aggressive Securitrons. With incredibly high-pitched and incredibly annoying voices, no less.

I ignore them, stand in the middle of the room, and take a look around. It's clear that these two impossibly unattractive sexbots aren't House, even though I have a feeling they know him better than anyone. Still, I hadn't been invited here to make use of their services, nor do I have any intention to. In the end, it all boils down to one thing.

I was told that I'd have a meeting with House, and he's not here.

What a surprise.

"Excuse me, ladies, could you please stop talkin' shit while I'm still in earshot and lend me a moment of your time?" I call out to the two tin cans with my best smile. "I was told your boss would be here. Now, unless these eyes o'mine have rotten some more without me noticin', I can't see him. The fuck's he at?"

"First, you ought to learn some manners, darling." The blonde somehow manages to harrumph, despite the evident lack of lungs.

"And second, he's not here, obviously." The brunette completes with what I assume to be a flick of a wrist. Hard to tell with a tubular arm ending in three claws, no hand to speak of and no wrist. "He'll be with you shortly."

I keep on smiling, put my hands in my pockets, and think of just how much strength would be required of me to kick these two out the window. More than I possess, most likely. "Well then, looks like I'll just have to wait until His Majesty decides to show up, huh?"

"That won't be necessary. Marilyn, Jane, if you will?"

The two Securitrons file out of the room without a 'sugar' or a 'darling'.

My smile falters when I hear that voice. A voice I'd heard long ago, but never in person. Only through news reports on TV. Calm, composed, commanding. The voice of a rich and powerful man, richer and more powerful than I've ever been and I ever will be. Mid-Atlantic accent helps with the impression.

Of course, House is nowhere to be seen – but something did happen. The terminal's largest screen is now displaying the glowing green portrait of that very same middle-aged man I'd seen on TV, and in impressive detail. The impeccable hairline, the deep lines on the forehead, the wrinkles sprinkled all over the stern face; the cocked eyebrow, the aristocratic mustache, the oh-so-subtle smile on his lips.

Robert Edwin House, in the flesh.

Or in the glass, as it were.

Truth be told, I was sort of expecting this to happen. Aside from the fact he's among the most important people left in the world and he runs the show both on the Strip and in what's left of Nevada, and that alone is more than enough for him to never appear in person to anyone for obvious reasons, old Bobby here is some twenty years older than me. Not hard to figure out why he isn't here.

No matter what's kept him alive this long, he's gotta be in worse shape than me. Either he's a ghoul (although that's a bit unlikely considering he disappeared inside the Lucky 38 a while before the times of ending) or he's got his brain floating around in a jar.

That, or maybe his whole body's hidden away in some secret facility, guarded by scores of superhuman warriors and preserved through technology so advanced it's nothing short of magic. A golden throne, where tech-worshiping adepts keeping him alive even though the secrets of its functioning are lost to them.

I mean, I wouldn't put it past him, knowing the guy's ego.

In any case, smart move on his side. I'd probably break his neck in a heartbeat, army of Securitrons or not.

Since that would be a bad idea for a hundred and seven different reasons, however, I have to swallow my pride, rage and hatred.

Doesn't mean I can't fuck with him.

So I tip my helmet, curl my mouth into a smirk, and proceed hook my thumbs into my belt. "Mister House! I've gotta say, if the one in the picture really is you, you haven't changed one bit." I make a vague gesture towards my face. "Some cream you're using?"

I haven't the faintest idea how that terminal works or where House is transmitting from, but the system is advanced and natural enough that I can hear him let out a sigh. "Mister Di Carlo, let me skip the pleasantries and be very clear with you: I have always taken business negotiations very seriously. I advise you do the same."

"Oh, so it's just business negotiations?" I ask him, raising my eyebrows and holding a hand to my heart in a theatrical display of relief. I wonder how long it's gonna take him to snap. "Whew, that's nice to hear! Sorry if I'm a little surprised, it's just... the way your bots told me they could smoke me out and the way I had to wait twelve hours in your casino, it felt more like a mob execution than anything." I clack my tongue and stare at the ceiling. "But I mean, I'm sorta used to executions at this point. You see, couple of weeks ago-"

"I will not apologize for your treatment, Di Carlo." House goes on, unfazed. His tone's still fairly arrogant and superior but, most importantly, calm. "And don't expect me to fall for your tricks, I know far more about you than you can imagine. You are no fool, even though the unjustified delay in the Chip's delivery and the wanton massacre you wrought upon The Tops casino may lead anyone to think otherwise."

So he's been keeping an eye on me, as I thought.

In any case, I raise my hand and purse my bone-dry, almost non-existent lips. "'Scuse me, sir, but I've gotta correct you on that one. A massacre's generally carried out against defenseless victims and is always seen as an atrocious and unacceptable act. Now, without mentionin' their less-than-stellar track record as a tribe and the shady dealings they've got goin' on to this day, the Chairmen back at The Tops outgunned and outnumbered me." I shrug noncommittally. "I'd call it a shootout."

"Semantics will hardly change the outcome, Di Carlo." House retorts. His voice is definitely flatter and curter that it was before. We're getting there. "You charged through The Tops' entrance with your APC, fired a few warning shots into the ceiling to let the civilians escape, and then proceeded to brutally gun down every single member of the Chairmen within the premises. I possess footage of you opening fire with a light machine gun, an automatic carbine, a pump-action shotgun, a high-caliber revolver, a grenade launcher and... what I can only assume to be a BB gun."

I start chuckling like an idiot. He's got great cameras around the Strip and the casinos, gotta give him that – even caught the BB gun. "Had to try it, I always wanted an Abilene Kid Limited Edition."

"Satisfied with the results, you climbed back onto your APC, reversed out of the casino, and drove away." House drones on, relentless. It's almost as if he both loves and hates listing everything I got wrong. "You have murdered a great many of my employees and undermined the structural integrity of the building itself. You have effectively destroyed one of my main sources of income on the Strip, Di Carlo."

"That's a shame." I hum out, scratching a patch of bone on my chin. I would pick my nose if that sole action could convey how little I cared, but doing that without a nose means putting my fingers inside my skull, and that plain freaks me out. "Problem is, they kinda had it comin'. Couldn't trust anyone in there. Their boss tried to kill me, and he had help."

"Which brings us to the most important matter: Benny." House picks up and continues. Don't know if he can, and don't know if it makes sense for me to think this, but it sounds like he's frowning. "His body was found inside a large vase, and in a rather poor state. I'll spare you the details, since you were the one to execute him in the first place, but one thing in particular was brought to my attention."

A pause.

Tone implies I should go on, so I do. "He had his precious handgun shoved so far down his throat that I had to cut his tongue out and break his jaw off to make it fit?"

House makes a noise halfway between a scoff and a politely disgusted cough. "The Chip was missing. The Platinum Chip. The very same item he stole from you and which, had you not been blinded by your quest for vengeance, would have been your first priority - it was not on him."

Another pause.

I raise a brow and flick my wrist in an 'elaborate' kind of gesture. "So...?"

In the way of a reply, a tiny slot pops out from under the screen. It's got a palm-sized empty space on it. Oh, he's foregone fancy words and diplomacy for a simple and direct action. "I'm willing to turn a blind eye on all of this, expensive though it may be. In fact, give me the Platinum Chip now, and I will consider paying you ten percent of the original offer, as a token of good faith."

"You got yourself a deal!" I exclaim, my least credible smile plastered across my ruined face.

I start patting down on the pockets on my vest. My smile vanishes, to be replaced by a frown. I check my pants next, front and back, and draw in a short, dismayed breath. Finally, I take off one of my boots, turn it upside down and shake it for good measure.

Once the charade is over, I spread my arms, spit on the ground, and slap my thigh. "Ah, shoot, must'a left it somewhere."

No answer.

Pretty sure that counts as him snapping.

If I laugh and walk away now, I lose the follow-up, and that ain't happening. So I wait, patient, still and, most important of all, biting the inside of my cheeks.

I mean, don't get me wrong, he did make some good points, like the whole 'you destroyed my business' thing, as well as the 'you failed to deliver something on time and I'm gonna go out on a leg and guess you stole it' bit.

But paying me only ten percent? That's a hundred caps. I do the groceries with a hundred caps.

Finally, after a whole minute of silence, I hear a very, very long sigh over the speakers. "What is it that you have inside your brain, Di Carlo? Howler monkeys?"

"More of an ape kind of guy, to be honest." I tell him with a shrug. This is, quite possibly, the most sincere answer I have given him all day. "But I don't mind orangutans, or lemurs, or-"

"Go and get it." House hisses into whatever microphone he's using, articulating every letter. "Now."

"Ah, you see, that's the problem." I tut-tut him, calm as can be, and jab a thumb to my right. "You want the Chip, I can tell, but if I do go and get it then this little accident here is gonna cost me my last ten percent, and I don't like doin' things for free." I draw a circle with my index and point it to the left. "What's more, you can't kill me, 'cause you've got no clue where I left the Chip, and I'm willin' to bet you ain't gonna risk another couple of years lookin' for it." I fold my arms across my chest. "With that in mind, and without resortin' to obvious arguments or high rhetoric, convince me to bring you your Platinum Chip today."

Once again, House doesn't make a sound. He's probably muted the comms feed while he curses my name, heart and soul.

I'm having way too much fun with this.

This time, I hear the speakers click. House waits a few more seconds, then he snorts. "Since neither the future of humanity nor the very concept of property are familiar to you, and you require a payment no matter how destructive your performance, let's try with this." He snorts again, amused. "My delivery doesn't interest you? Very well. Does your other delivery, the four amulets for the 'assorted team of professionals' in Vault 24, interest you more?"

I roll my eyes in disappointment and shake my head. "House, I know you've been spyin' on me, you said it yourself. Pretty sure even the Fiends knows about that – guy hired me right on my doorstep, hard not to notice."

"Of course, of course." House concedes. There's something I don't like about his tone, he's too... smug. "Tell me, do the Fiends also know that the recipients you were told to rendezvous with are not of this world, but instead hail from a planet named Nirn? Or that only one of them is a human male, while the others are a High Elf female, an Orc male, and a female of a feline race known as Khajiit? Or their names? The look on your face tells me they don't. Bring me the Platinum Chip, and I will tell you more. Why they are here, or who summoned them, for example."