Arcade set aside another roll of bandages, wiping sweat from his palms. His medical kit seemed woefully understocked for this.
This building had been a school once; its infirmary was much too tiny for the gang's wounded, and any supplies it might have contained had been scavenged years ago. One of the dormitories had been converted to a temporary ward instead, and that was where one of the Kings had led him, thanking him profusely all the while.
Arcade wished he hadn't, not before he'd done something worth the gratitude. The expectations laid upon him were already heavy, and he didn't want to be the one responsible for providing hope and then dashing it. That feeling had only set deeper once he saw the state of his to-be patients.
Some of the injured Kings were in better shape than others, and he'd been forced to prioritize. Who did you help first – the ones likeliest to survive if treated quickly, or the ones likeliest to die if not?
So help him, but he hoped he'd made the right decision.
His current patient was one of the simpler cases thus far. Abrasions on the leg, shallow slice between two ribs. He'd checked the ribs for damage and the wound for infection, and finding none, used the last of a roll of bandages to wrap it. Covering a mostly-undamaged midsection for one knife wound felt uncomfortably like a waste at this point, but closing it with a Stimpak would have been an even worse allocation of resources. And it was worse still that he was thinking about vital treatment this way, as something to be parceled out as sparingly as possible.
Because in normal circumstances, he'd have bandaged the leg, too. It looked like the man had been dragged sideways across gravel, and the skin was scraped raw in places. Infection could easily set in if this was left exposed. But he was running low on gauze already, and he counted five more patients he had yet to tend to – five more patients who also needed those bandages, when wrapping the entire leg would have used nearly all of them. This wasn't the Fort; his travel kit was meant for personal injury. Not treating an entire sick bay.
He cleaned the leg as best he could, but leaving the man's bedside without doing more felt terribly like a job unfinished.
If he still had gauze left once he'd finished making the rounds, he'd return. Otherwise… as long as the man made an effort to keep it clean for the next few days, it should be fine. Should be.
Once more, he hoped he'd made the right decision.
It was a strange mix of emotions, this. Having so many people relying on him and him alone was a terrifying thing. The pressure was palpable. There were no other doctors here – no experienced opinions to reference, no second set of eyes to catch anything he might have missed. These lives rested in his hands alone, and no amount of training could stop that from being utterly nerve-wracking. Maybe experience would have, but his tenure had involved far more research than it had caregiving.
But, and perhaps this was selfish of him – this was important. In the grand scheme of things, it was minor… but he could make a difference here. He'd arrived at the right place at the right time with the right company, and the right place and time happened to be a horrible combination of events, but while the rest of his travelling band worked to right the situation, he could at least help the people it had left in its wake – a job no one else present was capable of.
He could cradle that feeling all he liked, but this was a bad time to let ego get to his head.
The next King in line had suffered a run-in with either an incinerator or a plasma weapon. The Van Graffs' involvement, perhaps? He sincerely hoped not. The burns across his chest were incidental, and looked much nastier than they actually were, but the ones on his left arm ran deep. He licked his lips, mouth suddenly very dry. This was also a bad time to let nerves get to him.
He forced himself past it. There was no time for doubt. He could waffle all he liked on his lonesome, but here, it wasn't his time he was wasting with indecision.
The torso burns might have been mitigated by a jacket or other article of clothing. They'd scar, but they would heal. He had some aloe salve to both speed up the process and ease the pain, and applying that was simple enough.
The arm, though… He was no expect on burn treatment, but he was fairly sure no amount of time or aloe would restore that flesh. The man's hands looked fine, but he'd sustained a terrible burn right above his elbow, the kind that blackened more than just skin. There wasn't going to be much circulation beyond that point... and that meant everything below it was a loss.
Arcade really did not want to perform an amputation. Oh, he'd seen several, even participated as a pair of extra hands passing along supplies. But actually doing the job? Barring the fact that he was grossly unqualified, it was a messy, risky, brutal, and dangerous affair that called for much more than a single part-time doctor to pull off. And if he made the wrong call…
He wished he had Julie's confidence. Or Cain's, though it was less applicable here. Even Alex's predatory focus would have been an improvement. He had the knowledge to assess the situation, but also the knowledge to spot the pitfalls in every option available to him. If he left the arm alone, gangrene could set in and slowly kill his patient that way. The man's hand didn't look infected yet, but appearances weren't always telling. If he tried amputating on his own, there was a very high chance he'd botch it, which meant even more amputation became necessary… assuming the patient survived that long. And what if it turned out the arm didn't need an amputation? The burn might not go all the way through. If there was still enough surviving tissue…
"Can you move your hand?" he asked the man. He tried to be gentle, reassuring, the way all the other Followers always seemed to manage on default, but even he could hear his own anxiety.
"Mnngh…" The King's face scrunched up. "Hurts to."
"You can still feel it?" This was important. If he could, then maybe…
"Yeah." With a grunt of exertion, the man's fingers gave a weak twitch.
Arcade tried and failed to restrain a sigh of relief. There was still living connective tissue. He wouldn't have to resort to… that.
The burned tissue wasn't going to recover naturally, but Pre-War science had at least left some shortcuts. He turned the man's arm over as gently as he could, searching for a salvageable spot beneath the burn. Once located, he took three Stimpaks from his kit and injected them at different points. They'd provide a foundation. Given time, the flesh there might regrow on its own. For now, at least he wouldn't have a hole in his arm, and circulation to the lower half wouldn't be quite so perilous.
He should probably be rationing his supplies at this point, but he doubted anything less than this would be enough. It was better to provide adequate care to some than to save no one at all… surely?
But then what had he done, leaving the one man's leg unprotected?
He grit his teeth. There was no time for second guessing. The next King had taken a bullet to the shoulder. Removal would have been simple if somebody hadn't closed the wound with a Stimpak; the bullet was still inside, and the regrown flesh around it was blotchy and swollen. Possibly irritation. Possibly infection.
He couldn't chance the latter. He swabbed the area with anesthetic, wrapped the surrounding area with a tourniquet, and carefully reopened the wound. It was strange, seeing blood on his normally pristine gloves like this, but… the old adage probably didn't apply here. Scalpel out, calipers in; as long as he focused on the methodology and not the misery around him, the task didn't seem so daunting. He had to dig a bit, but the bullet came out quickly enough, along with some cloth fibers that had been trapped beneath. He cleansed the hole with disinfectant as best he could. Judging by the color of the swab when it came out, he'd made the right call. He gave it a second swab, just to be sure, and used a Stimpak to close the wound.
He was going to need more of those; he was running low. Hopefully Cain would share some of hers, because he was loathe to take from the Fort's supplies at a time like this.
The King shuddered in discomfort throughout, but weakly thanked him all the same. He'd also asked to keep the bullet, which was a strange but harmless request he saw no problem with obliging.
The next patient was… bad. The likes of which he never should have been assigned to. This was a case best left to the professionals. This King's eyes were closed, possibly asleep. He looked very young. Arcade doubted he was even twenty. Just a kid. A casualty of a pointless war.
He might never reach that milestone, either, because his right foot was a twisted mess of necrotic tissue. The gangrene reached above his ankle, and that was only what was visible. Both legs were heavily bandaged, though he immediately discerned they hadn't been changed in a while. Peering underneath, he found partially-healed shrapnel wounds littering each. Not lethal in their own right, but on the right leg, the further down they went…
The question wasn't whether an amputation was necessary. It was how much he could save. Erring on the side of caution meant taking healthy tissue, and unnecessary amputation was a terrible thing. Erring on the side of generosity, on the other hand, was potentially lethal.
If he could amputate beneath the knee, the man would have a far easier time walking once healed. A full-leg prosthetic wouldn't allow for much movement at all, and what if he ended up inflicting that on somebody who hadn't needed to suffer it? But if he was wrong, and the infection reached higher than it appeared...
Oh, god, he was seriously considering this. Would Julie be proud of his initiative, he wondered, or would she yell at him for reckless endangerment?
Okay. Okay. Amputation. Yes, he was really doing this, so if he could get down to the supplies, that would be fantastic. Tourniquets. He had those. Anesthetic. General would have been ideal, but he only had a local one. He hoped this wouldn't be too traumatic. Bonesaw? Ha, ha, no. He wasn't crazy enough to carry one of those around. After all, it wasn't like he'd ever need to perform an amputation on the road. Jesus Christ. There had to be something around here he could use.
He almost wished Mercer were here. It was a terribly morbid thought, but he'd never seen anything cut through bone so easily. The thought of doing it himself was not filling him with enthusiasm. Or anything other than dread, really.
But it was him or nobody at all. The power to change things. That was what he'd wanted, right? One leg at a time. Ha, ha.
Could he put this one off and wait until Alex got back from whatever he was doing? The claws aside, an extra hand would be very useful. But how much could gangrene spread, in the span of a few hours? And was that even smart to begin with? Alex wasn't traditionally contagious, somehow, but letting a walking virus hang around a plethora of exposed wounds just sounded like a terrible idea on principle.
No… he could do this himself. If the rest of the Followers could manage, so could he.
It wasn't the only tool he was missing. His tiny, half-empty bottle of disinfectant wasn't going to be enough for this. Bandages, too, because he was going to need to change these dressings. Frequently.
There were two more patients after this. Should he… check them first? He glanced at the sick man's face, only to find that he was awake and watching him. His gaze was bleary and pained, but lucid. What would he think, if his doctor simply walked off on him? If not even life-saving personnel had any hope for his survival?
Disgust welled up within him. He wasn't going to write off anyone, damn it. No. He just had to get creative. He was no stranger to jury-rigged medical supplies. With any luck, the Kings wouldn't have exhausted their supply of materials.
He turned around and raised an arm, flagging over the King that stood watch over the door. The man looked confused, but heeded his summons anyway. "What's up, pal?"
"This foot isn't salvageable." He swallowed. Putting it into words wasn't making the situation any easier. "I'm going to have to amputate."
The King nodded gravely. "If you can do anything for Dom, that's better n' anything we got. Grenade landed next to him; he didn't run fast enough. Was the first night. Nobody really knew what was goin' on... poor guy. Whaddya need?"
"First, I'm going to need a hacksaw. Or a very strong, serrated knife." He thought back to Cain's attempts at cutting the Fiend leaders' necks, and tried not to wince. He hoped he could get a hacksaw. "And I'm low on disinfectant and bandages."
"I'm sure we got somethin' for cutting in the back, but we ain't got squat for medical supplies. I'm sorry, man, but we ran outta those real fast."
"I'd guessed." Last night, he'd thrown caution to the winds and embarked on a drunken bender. Now he was going to use alcohol properly. "I'm asking you to improvise. I can use alcohol as a sterilizer. Preferably high proof. And if you can cut a blanket into strips, preferably three inches wide, and soak those in liquor, they should be ready by the time I'll need them. Oh, and please, wash it as thoroughly as possible before you start."
It wasn't going to be as good as his own supplies. There were risks. Pure alcohol was as good a disinfectant as they came, but the sugars here complicated things. And Freeside's infrastructure was nothing like the Strip's; any water they could get was brackish and metallic from dilapidated pipes, and mildly irradiated to boot. And that was ignoring the fact that he was about to perform an operation he'd only read about and observed before, by himself. There were so many things that could go wrong here.
But it was all he had, and there was no time for doubt. He had patients to save.
0o0o0
Cain sighed internally for the sixteenth time as she entered the ambassador's office. She'd really wished she wouldn't have to come here; the invitation had nearly slipped her mind. Its absence had been a pleasant thing.
But things had changed, in a shooty, bloody, awful kind of way, and here she was. The NCR embassy was set up in a run-down, nondescript building squatting at the end of the Strip. It was a much more typical sight for the Wasteland proper than it was New Vegas, a single floor of rust and peeling paint. Perhaps House had given them this particular location as a show of his distaste. If so, it was kind of funny.
The ambassador had made the best of the location, though Cain could still spot chipped paint and mold behind wood-framed pictures and regional maps. As for the ambassador himself, she guessed she was looking at him. A dark-skinned man in a tan suit sat at a cluttered desk, a broad forehead magnified by his receding hairline. Dark brown eyes inspected her with mild surprise.
He cleared his throat. "Threnody Cain, unless I'm greatly mistaken. I've been expecting your arrival for some time now." So her absence hadn't gone unnoticed beneath the usual mounds of paperwork. Fantastic. "I'm Dennis Crocker, ambassador to the New Vegas Strip. On behalf of the New California Republic, I greet you. It's a pleasure to meet the scourge of the Fiends in person."
"Likewise," she lied. Dammit; this made it harder to bring out that particular trump card. He'd believe her, of course, but it was already accounted for. You couldn't impress people with facts they already knew.
"So. Should I take your presence here to mean you've received my invitation?"
Hmm… how to play this. "I have, but the reason for my visit is a more pressing matter."
The Ambassador's lips thinned, but he displayed no other reaction. "I see. That is unfortunate. May I ask what business you came for, if not to answer our summons?"
Here went Freeside. "I'm here to negotiate a ceasefire to recent conflict between the Kings and the NCR."
"Unacceptable," Cocker said immediately. "The Kings have proven they're unwilling to accept a military presence in a particularly vital location, and they've displayed active hostility towards our civilians. We have a duty to our people to remove threats from their vicinity."
Yes, because you're so good at doing that. "Taking out the Kings isn't going to make Freeside any safer for your settlers. The Kings are the closest thing to law that exists there. Wipe them out and the local gangs will take over the place in weeks – and it's going to be much harder to take those out than it will the Kings."
Crocker's eyes narrowed. At least she'd gotten his attention. "Unorganized thugs would be far easier to deal with than the current situation."
"In theory," Cain allowed. "But even assuming you have enough available manpower to station an occupying force in Freeside indefinitely," which she was quite sure they didn't, "the locals are going to hate you for removing a very popular group. You know your settlers only form a fraction of the population; they'll be fine with the change in leadership, but the rest will see you as an invading force. Don't expect a warm reception when you set up your new law and order. Worst case scenario, you get open rebellion. At the very least, anti-NCR sentiment will spread, and the Strip is next door."
"Which makes it an easier location to hold. Troops can be moved from the Strip as necessary."
"And I'm sure double shifts policing a populace that hates them will be great for morale," Cain countered. "Ambassador, this just isn't worth it in the long run. It's an unnecessary division of resources that looks terrible for the NCR's image as peacekeepers. You can't afford to divert your troops, and Freeside won't need an occupation unless you do this. And that's exactly what it's going to end up being, because the locals aren't going to cooperate with you once you move in. You'll be trading one enemy for another."
"The NCR is… aware that this is not an advantageous situation," Crocker admitted. "Understand, though, that we had little choice in the matter. The Kings have been putting pressure on NCR citizens for months, singling them out in ways that made their lives needlessly difficult. Requests to end this behavior have been ignored, repeatedly. Openly defied, even. We were willing to allow them a certain amount of leeway to avoid agitating the local elements, but once they began attacking our personnel, this was no longer an option. You ask for a ceasefire, yet this implies the Kings actually desire one. They were the ones that incited this insurrection, if you'll recall."
She did not, in fact, recall that. But she was not surprised to find that both sides claimed the other shot first. It meant that one was misinformed, and that someone had lied along the way – and in spite of her usual biases, she had a feeling that Crocker was the correct one here, not the King. Or, more accurately, not Pacer.
"What happened?" she asked neutrally. "I've heard conflicting accounts."
Crocker frowned. "Several weeks ago, an NCR envoy was sent to coordinate a relief effort with the King for Freeside's citizens. He returned badly beaten, citing Kings as the perpetrators. As he'd never achieved an audience with their leader, and the matter did not escalate further, we were cautiously willing to assume this happened out of his jurisdiction. Thus we sent a second envoy three days ago, this time with armed guards." Crocker's eyes narrowed. "He was lured away from his escorts by a group of Kings, who proceeded to assault him and eventually beat him to death. They were discovered at the scene of the crime, and our troops responded accordingly."
Eesh. Okay, Pacer was lying his ass off. Mercer had better have something for her when she got back, because this was worse than she'd thought.
"That's…" She swallowed. "I'm positive the King didn't condone that. I've already spoken with him today. I know the fighting didn't break out on his orders; last I'd heard, he'd instructed the Kings to be more accommodating to your settlers. Things are touchy now, and I might have to twist his arm a bit, but to answer your question, I believe he'd be amenable to a truce."
"If he can't control his underlings, there's little point to negotiations." The ambassador looked bored.
"At the risk of sounding blunt, Ambassador, there's always going to be that one guy." Cain sighed. "The King makes a point of allowing his people autonomy. It's their way of life; they're a tribe, not soldiers. But they respect him. If he speaks, they'll listen." That was slightly bullshit, but still. "And they know what the alternative is, here. They were poking a Yao Guai they thought would stay asleep, and now they've seen what happens when it wakes up. Everyone knows they're outmatched. Given the choice between dying and not dying, I think they'll choose the latter. Provided your people don't go out of their way to antagonize them, I'm guessing they're more likely to listen to you now than they were before." Also bullshit, but she could think of one particular nugget of information that could get the Kings to settle down and play nice. For a time.
"Perhaps you're right." Crocker's lips thinned. "However, I'm afraid you've come to the wrong place. I don't have the authority to declare a ceasefire. This is a military matter, not a civilian one. I have some purview here, as my position deals with diplomatic relationships, but it's not my call to make. I can send your proposition to the appropriate channels, but that's the extent of my ability. Though I do believe Colonel Hsu is currently on break. I may be able to reach him now, if that's what you're asking me to do, but I can't guarantee his response."
Cain had become very worried there, for a second. "Please, do."
"Then if you'll excuse me, I need to pass this along." He reached for his radio. "Please wait for a minute."
Listening to Crocker's one-sided communication quickly made Cain antsy. Past a brusque and altogether too-sparse presentation of her case, it was all 'yes', 'no', and 'I understand' – platitudes that told her little. Her name came up a few times, which could have meant a lot of things. She wished she could negotiate with the higher-ups directly. She'd heard of Colonel Hsu before – he had a reputation of being less hawkish than some of his compatriots, which gave her a measure of hope. Even Boone had spoken well of him. (It had been two words, but in Boone-speak, that was a speech.) But using a questionably interested middleman to speak with him left her anxious. Not that anxiety did her any good here, but she loathed having things removed from her control.
At last, Crocker gave a final 'Understood' and clicked the radio off. She drew in a deep breath and awaited his verdict.
"The brass is… not opposed to your proposal," he began. Not time to start celebrating yet, then – there was a catch in here. "However, there are caveats attached. To consider a ceasefire, we're going to require two things." Crocker tapped his fingers against the desk. "If the King is truly remorseful about the situation, then he'll have little problem turning the perpetrator of this incident over to our justice system. The Kings that prompted the first assault – if any are surviving, they will be punished according to our laws, with no interference from their gang."
Cain winced. That was going to be a tough sell. Especially if her hunch about the suspect was correct. "I have somebody looking into the matter, but he hasn't gotten back to me."
"See to it that he does. Without the perpetrators, we have no interest in talks. If none can be found, the King himself will need to stand trial for the crimes of his organization."
"That won't create a lasting peace," Cain warned. Even if the King did agree to those terms, which he might be noble enough to do, his people wouldn't take it lying down – and that was assuming the Kings didn't just fall apart in his absence. They were already struggling.
"No, it will not, which is why you should hope it doesn't come to that." Crocker sighed. "The second item is, perhaps… something to sweeten the pot. Your arguments have merit, but the colonel is not so easily convinced. I'm sure you understand that the NCR cannot afford to look weak at this juncture. Backing down from this conflict implies we couldn't easily win it, which is a dangerous message to broadcast. It makes our enemies… bold. Therefore, if you want to sell this idea, we're going to require a show of strength elsewhere."
Her eyes narrowed. "What do you have in mind?" she asked warily.
"Are you aware of the situation at Quarry Junction?"
She squinted. She'd been expecting something to do with the Legion. This wasn't worse, exactly, but she wasn't going to say it was better, either. "Are we talking the same Quarry Junction that's overrun by Deathclaws?"
There was a reason Benny – and by extension, herself – had taken the long road back to Vegas, travelling south, east, and then north again from her would-be grave at Goodsprings. That reason was that the quicker route, the old highway I-15, had a giant fucking nest of Deathclaws smack dab in the middle of it.
"Yes. As you know, operations at the quarry have been halted ever since a Deathclaw matriarch settled there a few weeks back. Her brood has since begun to spread, rendering one of our primary supply lines too dangerous to use. The alternate route we've been using to circumvent it adds an average of three days to the travel time and passes through Viper territory, who conduct regular raids on any unprotected shipments. Given how many troops and supplies we move through the area, and the amount of provisions each caravan goes through in a day, I'm sure you can understand what a logistical nightmare it's been. The overhead is adding up fast, it's delaying all of our operations, and even after hiring armed guards for non-military convoys, we're losing roughly a twentieth of our caravans entirely. Another five percent arrive with significant losses."
"So, in short, if you want us to allow the Kings their continued hold on Freeside, we're requiring you to clear that nest."
…Was the NCR trying to get her killed? Because that was a job that would get anyone killed. Herself included, no question. She was capable, and proud of that fact, but she wasn't cocky. A nest of Deathclaws? Maybe she could snipe two or three with especially good riflework before the rest clawed their way up to her position and tore her to shreds. Arcade didn't stand a chance. It would have gotten Boone killed, for all his lethal skill in dealing death from a distance.
Alex, on the other hand… he'd probably think it was fun.
Which flipped things on their head and made this job surprisingly doable, but she had to wonder just what the NCR's motivations were in handing it to her. Were they hoping she'd fail, so they could turn around and claim they'd made an attempt at peace with the Kings, and it wasn't their fault that the Kings' negotiator hadn't delivered? They couldn't possibly know she had an invincible murder machine in her employ. Could they? Or did they just think her success decapitating the local Fiend leadership meant she was some unstoppable badass? She was flattered, but there were miles of distance between drugged-up psychos and the biggest, nastiest predators to stalk the Wasteland. …That weren't Alex.
Fiends could go down to a well-placed shot like any other man. Deathclaws, on the other hand, were covered head to foot in a rugged natural armor. Unless you managed to hit the eyes, they could power through anything short of a .50 round. It took a lot of bullets to put one out of commission; even grenades only seemed to annoy them. They were fast, they were brutal, and they had a nasty-keen sense of smell; they were all but impossible to get the drop on. And if you tried to attack them from a height, thinking a cliff or bluff would save you… it turned out those claws were great for climbing.
One was a fearsome opponent. Two meant, unless you had some distance, advantageous ground, and maybe a half-dozen mines on hand, you were probably going to die. An entire nest of them, all in one place? This was a suicide run. Would Alex really have such an easy time with these? She wanted to say yes, after everything she'd seen, but even she couldn't be sure. Deathclaws were Deathclaws. The name said a lot.
But she suspected that even if it was dangerous for him, he'd still want to try. This was the guy that got excited over a coming war.
If the NCR was hoping to take her out, they were in for a nasty surprise. If they had that much faith in her abilities, they were going to get a pleasant one. But first.
"I'm willing to take the job, but given the nature of what you're asking… it's not something I can guarantee immediately. I'll get it done if you stop attacking the Kings in the meantime. What you're asking me to do is going to take time, and I can't allow this situation to continue in the interim."
"That's going to be difficult to sell. How can we be guaranteed you'll make good on your end of the bargain?"
"You have my word." The means, she wasn't keen on disclosing. Not that her word was the most solid of guarantees, historically… but she did mean it, this time. "But that's my condition for agreeing to this."
"Bold, for you to dictate terms." Ambassador Crocker squinted at her. "I trust that you will try. Whether you'll succeed is a different matter altogether."
"These are negotiations, Ambassador, are they not? The situation with the Fiend leaders should speak for my reliability. If your superiors have their doubts, remind them of that."
"Your recent exploits are well-known to them. I'm given to understand that's why this job was passed to you." He sighed. "I'll give you a week to clear the quarry. I'm willing to order a temporary truce while you do that. If the King truly wishes to talk, have him send someone to discuss terms. It goes without saying that we have demands to make of them as well. I'll have the soldiers allow them passage."
Finally. Cain stood and stretched. "I'll pass that along. Thank you for your cooperation, Ambassador. We'll speak again when I've completed my end of the bargain."
…Wow. She'd just convinced the NCR to back down from a military operation. More than that, a military operation they could conventionally win with little effort. That was something to put on her resume. Now all she needed to do was clear out a massive nest of highly pissed-off Deathclaws and convince the King to turn over his childhood friend as a patsy to the NCR's tender mercies.
Why did she always get the fun jobs?
0o0o0
Clad in another man's skin and the anonymity of a group, Alex Mercer watched his quarry.
His hoodie was gone, his undershirt thicker, and his black leather jacket bore a grey crown on the back instead of a twisting burgundy insignia, but this disguise wasn't much different from the clothes he usually wore. It was almost familiar, though the face of a twenty-six year old Manhattan drug dealer was considerably less so. He'd needed to adjust the hair on top of everything else, as he had with the last three bodies he'd worn – there were some basic requirements to blending in with a gang of Elvis impersonators. (And that had been a strange realization.)
He'd gotten a few searching looks from other Kings, but that was something he'd observed about gangs long ago; when one had enough members, people just assumed you were someone new.
And that opened up a very simple strategy. For humans, following somebody without being noticed was a difficult task – especially for an interior like this, where distance wasn't an option. Facial recognition would eventually kick in, and once the same bystander became a pattern, the target turned suspicious. But for a creature like him, who could switch between several faces at will, not presenting a recognizable front was trivial. Pacer wasn't going to notice one King trailing after him. At best, he was going to notice there was at least one person in every room he entered.
If people hadn't wised up to his tricks back when rumors abounded of a shapeshifting, man-eating monster, they sure as hell weren't going to now. And he liked that. Even if there wasn't a kill at the end of it, there was something to be said for the act of hunting. It made him feel alive.
He preferred the more visceral variant, of course, but infiltration was a thrill in its own right. It was a cooler, more amused game, a rush to be drawn out and savored, and not burned through in a flurry of violence and rage.
Pacer was talking with another King. He focused, listening closely while pretending to be interested in someone walking outside. Pacer was talking with another King about a game of darts later tonight. He tuned out.
He liked infiltration, but usually it was a matter of getting a target in isolation, not waiting for them to act. This was the fourth conversation he'd overheard so far, and it was as banal as the rest. The closest he got was a proclamation of disgust for the NCR, enthusiastically shared by the other two guys he'd been talking to, and that wasn't proof of anything.
He could always consume Pacer, of course. He'd be lying if he claimed the thought hadn't crossed his mind. Any culpability the man had in this situation would quickly become apparent, and staging a confession would be simple, as would bearing any vigilante justice upon his person afterwards. He'd rather hold onto his surplus of biomass than squander it, but right now, it would take a lot to kill him. And even if Pacer wasn't guilty, the confession angle still worked, and Cain would get what she wanted out of this exercise.
But Pacer wouldn't be guilty. As loath as he was to admit it, she had been right, yesterday. Mortimer had deserved death in the end, and he'd relished cornering him and bringing him down to size, but that kill had been all the sweeter for knowing precisely what the man had been guilty of when he'd dealt it. If he'd attacked prematurely, and he'd been wrong… Cain could probably wiggle her way out of trouble, but distancing himself from his own mistakes was a tougher prospect when they cried in the back of his skull for all eternity.
He had plenty of those. People who'd looked like targets in his web of intrigue, or people his previous victims suspected were involved with Gentek. Usually he'd gotten it right. Not always. Those accidents had driven him to tighten his standards, to narrow the scope of what he considered an acceptable target. For a being with his abilities, getting that extra confirmation was never difficult. Time-consuming, but he'd never been one to shy away from a challenge. But that had gone out of practice once he'd chewed his way through the conspiracy, and turned to pettier evils to sate his hunger.
Pacer was not a pleasant individual, but if that deserved death, then he really needed to rethink his continued existence.
Across the room, a time for the game was finally agreed upon, and Pacer headed off, this time towards the stairs. Alex lingered for half a minute longer, then left in a different direction.
Time to switch his face again. He gave his surroundings a cursory check, and shifted into a slightly older man's body. This one had been an armed robber, unfortunate enough to target one of their many safehouses as he and Dana moved across Manhattan. There'd been a lot of that sort of opportunistic criminal in the months following the Outbreak – after that night, there'd been one less. The idiot had thought their apartment was vacant, but it hadn't stopped him from pulling a gun on his sister. Fatal mistake.
Dana… had not liked getting a front-row seat to what he did when he killed people, but it looked like Ryan Sanchez would finally serve a purpose. It was a different King that passed through the lounging group and headed for the second floor. Certainly not somebody following their second-in-command.
The ancient stairs creaked loudly underfoot. No matter how he distributed his weight, he wasn't going to prevent that. He considered himself lucky they didn't give way after three centuries of abuse and plunge him through; from experience, collapsing structures were not stealthy.
He found Pacer alone in some kind of storeroom. The man eyed him balefully from the crate he leaned against, a cigarette to his lips. "What are you lookin' at?" he growled.
Damn… without having consumed a King, pretending to be one could be difficult. He knew enough of their situation to fake it on a broad level, but member names and group history were beyond him. Lack of convincing familiarity was not usually a problem when he infiltrated a group.
But he had to say something, and while he was locked into that, maybe he could use this to fish. "Looking fer a little something 'fore I go back outside," he said. "Got a smoke?"
He'd hoped the dig at the NCR might have opened him up somewhat, but Pacer just clutched his pack of cigarettes tighter. "Get your own. And fuck off."
He bristled at the dismissal, but revenge was limited to a middle finger and a slammed door, as opposed to a more satisfying claw through the sternum. Not that he had any desire to obey this asshole, but hanging around wouldn't work here; there was no group anonymity in an empty room, and this guy didn't want to talk. He could always try again, but two unrecognizable Kings barging in on him one after another was pushing his luck. Pacer wouldn't know what was going on, but he could guess something was.
This was getting him nowhere. He was starting to think that Cain was wasting his time with this. Pacer was an asshole, but if he was guilty of jump-starting this conflict, he wasn't quite dumb enough to show it freely.
This required a different approach.
He had no idea where Pacer lived, and he wasn't going to consume a King to find out, but he'd been following him long enough to know what he smelled like. It was a simple matter of strengthening his olfactory organs and wandering through the building until he found a room where his target spent time in. This kind of trick never would have worked in Manhattan; there were just too many people around to single out a particular trail. But the post-apocalyptic future's population was considerably sparser, and the Kings had been thinned out by current events.
Pacer apparently lingered outside the King's audience chamber pretty often, but that wasn't what he was looking for. A mess hall and a lounge turned up similar results. He finally found what he sought on the building's third floor. He'd passed two dormitory rooms already, and the third door smelled promising.
He tested the handle. Locked. A slim tendril in the mechanism and a quick twist, and that was no longer the case. He slipped inside and locked the door behind him. No need for unexpected guests.
Yeah. Definitely a bedroom, and if it wasn't Pacer's, then he sure spent a lot of time in that bed. Alex hesitated for a moment, then dropped his disguise. Nobody was going to see him in here, and even if they did, a disguise wasn't going to help matters. He was trespassing now – not that that particularly bothered him, but it didn't matter who he looked like at this point.
He took a look around. It wasn't very promising at first glance; the room was sparsely furnished, and there was very little to note. Couch, bed, wardrobe, end table, and wastebin – if Pacer believed in any more necessities than those, he was out of luck.
It was also in terrible shape. If those walls were any more dilapidated, he'd be able to squeeze through them… without causing any additional damage.
Still, less to search. The bed was first, because it seemed a consistent pattern in human thought to hide things there. Pacer was no different, judging by the stash of bottlecaps beneath his pillow, but Alex didn't care about those, currency or not. The wardrobe was empty; he found a pile of clothes beneath the couch instead.
And beneath those clothes, a little more digging revealed, was a considerably sized stash of drugs. Jet, the various thugs in him supplied. One of the more common drugs in the Mojave, and also one of the more addictive ones. Certainly there was too much here for Pacer to be a casual user. Most of these inhalers were empty, but a few still held the aerosol.
Pacer having a drug addiction was information, but he didn't see how it was useful. If there was a link between it and Freeside's current turf war, he wasn't seeing it.
Nothing underneath the cushions, either, and these walls were too thin to hold a hidden safe. Which just left the trash can. The Monster of Manhattan, reduced to rummaging through some asshole's garbage. Oh, the sacrifices he made for this woman.
The bin was filled with a liberal amount of empty Jet inhalers, but beneath the clear plastic, he caught a glimpse of yellowed paper. He dug through, tossing the inhalers across the room, until he'd dug out his prize.
It was a note – or more accurately, what remained of one. Someone had torn it into three pieces and crumpled up what was left, but piecing them back together was simple. And once it was reassembled…
Pacer
We know what you're planning. Don't. You fuck with the NCR, you fuck with our business.
-GVG
Now this was interesting.
GVG... His knowledge of Freeside was only a piecemeal web of thugs cross-referenced with a week's worth of observation and the occasional fact gleaned from Cain, but if those were initials, the name Gloria Van Graff immediately came to mind. He wracked his memories. Head of the Van Graff family. Local weapons dealers, specializing in his least favorite things to get hit with. Operated out of a store called the Silver Rush. A couple of the thugs he'd eaten had purchased their wares; he'd tasted one firsthand, and had no desire to repeat the experience.
Stolen rumors told him they were notoriously vicious in their dealings, and that they were dangerous to cross, often fatally. 'Dangerous' took on very different connotations where he was involved, but he wasn't fond of plasma weapons. Dealing with the fragile individuals behind the guns was easy, but long-range combat had never been his specialty.
Because he might just need to pay the Silver Rush a visit, now. The note was frustratingly vague on details, but Pacer had been planning something against the NCR, and this Gloria Van Graff knew what.
He took the scraps. Cain would be very interested to see these. The King, too.
The Silver Rush wasn't far from here. Still, Alex wondered if he should investigate for himself, or wait for Cain to get back. This was proof enough that Pacer was up to something, and she was better at dealing with people than he was. He had three methods of gathering information; observation, eating people, and death threats. The first was useless here, and the third had a way of turning into the second with belligerent targets. It wasn't that he needed Van Graff alive… but he didn't have a reason to want her dead, either.
That, and it would be a bitch to explain.
He abruptly stiffened when he heard a sound from the door; a second's worth of scrabbling, followed by a creak as the handle turned. How had someone gotten inside? He'd locked it, hadn't he?
Right. Keys. And who owned the key to Pacer's room but the man himself?
A slow smile split his face. His King disguise, already half-up, settled back to his normal form. The game was over. Cain had made it clear she didn't want him to confront his target. How very sad, then, that the decision had been taken out of his hands.
The door swung open, revealing the man he was expecting. Pacer's posture was loose, relaxed. That didn't last long once he realized he wasn't alone in his room. He went ramrod straight, hands balling into fists. "The fuck are you doing in here? This is private property, you asshole!"
Perhaps Pacer expected him to recoil, to flounder at the accusations. He didn't. His grin widened as he stalked forward. "Some pretty interesting stuff in here," he commented, voice light and genial. "Wouldn't you agree?"
"I don't know what the hell you're on about, but-" Pacer choked up when he saw what Alex had clutched in his hand. "The fuck did you find those?"
Alex ignored him. "It's weird. The Van Graffs might sell weapons to the NCR, and they might know the Kings don't get along with their business partners… but why would they write to you? Last I heard, the King was in charge here, not you… unless you're doing some business on the side?"
If Alex had any lingering doubts, they evaporated when Pacer pulled a pistol on him, training it square between his eyes. He eyed it with mild interest as he mulled over his options. Restraining this guy for however long it took for Cain to get back was off the table, and he sure as hell wasn't letting him get away. Which meant there wasn't time to check out the Van Graffs. But was that even necessary? The note wasn't the full picture… but it was incriminating enough.
"Put those down," Pacer said, voice low, "and get your back against the wall. Now."
Yeah, it was time to go all in.
He dove forward, funneling biomass to his legs for a burst of speed. The pistol went off, but he was quicker, and a single shot was all Pacer had time to fire before he wrenched the gun from his grip, crushed it, and tossed the hunk of twisted metal aside.
"What the f-hrrk!" Pacer took a swing at his face. He casually grabbed his arm mid-blow and snapped his wrist. "Fuck!"
"I don't recommend that. But if you want to give me excuses, then please, keep going."
He wasn't disappointed. Pacer tried to knee him in the groin this time, his unbroken hand clawing at the papers out of reach. Alex seized him by the neck and lifted him with one hand, watching him dangle and splutter. If only this idiot knew how quickly he could end him, just how little effort it would take to crush or rend or split any number of those vital organs keeping him alive. He could feel the man's pulse racing beneath his fingers. Just one flick, and that artery would tear open. One squeeze, and he'd suffocate. One twist, and his spine would sever.
But he was doing this as a favor, and there were other ways to end a person.
Cain wanted Pacer alive. Fine. He could do diplomacy. But he was doing it his way.
He dragged Pacer outside, ignoring the man's struggles and enraged cussing. He could tighten his grip to shut him up, but the last thing he needed was to choke him to death by accident, after all the trouble he was going through to leave him alive. And if he wasn't particularly gentle about it, that was Pacer's problem, not his. It was hardly his fault if the man wouldn't stop flailing… and besides, listening to him hit every stair behind him was cathartic.
His cargo's ranting couldn't mask footsteps; a second later, a King popped around the hallway's bend, breathing hard.
"Thought I heard guns-" He boggled at the sight before him. "Shit, man, what're you doing?"
"Out of my way," Mercer growled, shoving the obstacle aside with his free hand. He didn't have time for this.
"The hell is going on-"
He kept going, quickening his stride. The onlooker trailed after him, calling for help. Not smart. They were lucky he was playing nice today.
Somebody tried to tackle him from the side. He wasn't as gentle this time. They careened into a wall with an audible splintering of wood. There was a shout, and another person tried to jump on him from behind. A switchblade bit into his back. He jabbed his elbow into their gut, and they fell back, choking.
"Back off," he snarled. His body writhed with the desire to lash out, meet violence with violence. He held it in check. Not yet.
The rest had enough brains to take the hint, though they still lingered at what they thought was a safe distance. By the time he reached the King's room, he'd amassed a small following. He had no desire for an audience, but he supposed it wasn't actually a negative; more Kings just meant more witnesses to Pacer's treachery. He stalked into the chamber, still dragging Pacer along.
The reaction was immediate. The King had been seated, listening to a report from one of his subordinates, but Pacer's furious tirade was hard not to hear. The King's dog, the one with the prosthetic legs and the strange brain-in-a-vat, started growling. Not a threat. The five armed guards protecting the room, two of which carried plasma weapons? Threat.
"What in the-"
Five weapons were levelled at him, and Alex had to crush down the urge to lash out with his free arm and neutralize them on the spot with a quick Whipfist strike. He could taste the tension; it buzzed in his every nerve. But he was doing this for Cain. She wouldn't appreciate his methods here… and if she was going to trust him, even knowing what he was, he owed it to her not to fuck things up.
So he hefted Pacer by his neck, pulling him closer. They tried to shoot him, they'd shoot their lieutenant first. When he was done with this, they'd want to. "Your friend here has something he wants to say to you."
Pacer struggled in his grip, but he was human. His efforts were negligible. "Fuck you," he spat.
"Put him down," the King said. The casual charm from earlier had left his voice.
"No." He wasn't letting go of his prey. Not when the other Kings would let him run. If they didn't like that, they were just going to have to deal. "He's not getting away. Not until he tells you about this note I found."
There was a long, tense silence. Fingers hovered over triggers, held back only by the loosest of discipline. He could tell they were unnerved… as they should have been. But nobody fired, yet.
"Cain put you up to this, didn't she." The King's eyes were narrowed. His voice radiated disapproval. Tough.
"She wanted me to find out who started your little turf war. I did." He gave his hostage a shake. "He's right here."
The assembled Kings began to mutter, low exchanges laden with disbelief and rage. He ignored them. The only things he cared about here were the weapons they still aimed at him, and their leader's verdict. The King, for his part, was keeping an impressively neutral face given the situation.
"Is this true?" he asked, deceptively calm.
"Of course not," his captive snarled. "This is a load of piss. You're really going to listen to this asshole, saying whatever shit he wants about me? He fuckin' broke my hand! This ain't gonna stand. When you let go of me, I'm gonna-"
Alex tightened his grip, cutting off Pacer's spiel with a choked curse when his fingers dug deep into his arms. Lying bastard. He opened his mouth to refute this idiot, digging the note scraps from his pocket, but perhaps he didn't need to. The King was frowning at him, not just in puzzlement but with genuine sorrow. An old, tired sorrow.
"Pacer," he repeated, voice low. "Is this true?"
"The hell would you think it is? I-"
"Pacer, stop," the King snapped, and immediately, his captive went limp. The pair watched each other in silence for several seconds. "Tell me. Is this true?"
And Pacer snapped.
"So what if it is?" he spat. "Yeah, me an' Killroy an' Jack fuckin' beat the shit outta their spy and sent him running home, so what? Fucker had it coming, skulkin' around our turf, an' he couldn't even take a hint – so we put a bullet in his skull when he came crawling back. Woulda gotten away with it too if his escorts didn't show up, an' what was I supposed to do then, let 'em kill us? They got Killroy, an' Jack's half-fucking-dead already. Like hell I was gonna take it lying down!"
"Pacer…" The King's voice was soft and pained. "Why would you do that to us?"
"To us? I did it for us!" He twisted helplessly in Mercer's grip. "They've been walkin' all over us for months now. Fucking months! Their people keep comin' in like radroaches, they're runnin' the place over. Someone had to do something before they drove us out, and I didn't see you linin' up for the job."
Damn. Pacer was doing all of the work for him. He wasn't even going to need the letter, at this rate.
"Look around you." The King gestured to the boarded-up windows. The distant moans of the wounded only served to illustrate his point. "D'you really believe that this is better?"
"Better to die on your feet than on your knees. We were fucked either way – this way, we get to spit in their faces before the end."
The King sighed and closed his eyes, shaking his head mutely. When he opened them, they were on Alex. He stared back, refusing to be cowed. Surely he couldn't protest his actions now, not after Pacer had made his sins so blatantly clear.
But that wasn't what the man wanted. "You said somethin' about a note."
"Yeah." Alex stepped forward, very aware of the uneasy stir of weaponry around him, and offered up the scraps of paper with his free hand. Pacer snarled helplessly. "Found this in his room."
The King took them, frowning as he pieced them together. "The Van Graffs? Them too? Good god. You got Gloria involved?"
"What about her?" Pacer scoffed. "Fucker needs to keep her eyes to herself. She forgets who runs this place. She an' her brother, what were they gonna do about it?"
"What were they gonna do? They've been armin' the NCR. You can't tell me you haven't noticed all the plasma weapons on the street, Pacer. I thought it was a coincidence. Jesus Christ. You know they've been lookin' for an excuse to take you out – do you even know what I've had to do to keep them off your back, all these years? Why would you bring them down on all of us?"
"We ain't runnin' scared of them. We coulda taught them a lesson whenever we felt like it."
"Like now?" The King shook his head. "I can't keep making excuses for you, Pacer. Not this time."
And for the first time, Pacer seemed genuinely frightened. "Wait – hold on, man. You can't do this to me. Not after…"
The King sighed. "Pacer, I value our friendship more than you know." He looked away. "But stabbing a man in the back, that's not much of a friend thing to do."
And despite himself, Alex sympathized, just a shred. The King had a piss-poor choice in friends, anyone could have told him that… but he was no stranger to the taste of betrayal, either. Of cooperation abused, as trust being used as a weapon.
Pacer wasn't his to kill. That privilege rested with the ones he'd wronged.
He was jostled from his thoughts by sudden movement behind him. Still gripping Pacer, he craned his neck around. The crowd of Kings behind him were shifting, talking among themselves. Gearing up for another attack? On him, or on their ex-lieutenant? But no, they were looking in the wrong direction. Away from him, not towards.
The reason quickly became clear, as a slim figure pushed her way through to the King's audience chamber and took stock of the scene before her.
"What," said Cain.
0o0o0
"What."
It was not her most articulate entrance. But in her defense, there really wasn't much else to say when you returned from badgering the NCR and found a veritable wall of Kings watching a homicidal virus monster dangling their leader's second-in-command-slash-childhood-friend by the throat, while said leader watched.
She surmised that Alex had found dirt on Pacer. That much was clear. What was not clear was what the hell he was doing. Fuck's sake, she'd implored him not to confront Pacer directly, and he'd agreed, hadn't he? Because this? This looked a hell of a lot like a confrontation.
"Ah. It's you." The King didn't look particularly amused. Though he didn't exactly look angry, either. It was more… disappointment. Well, that was encouraging. "Was wondering when you'd swing back."
In any other circumstance, she'd have considered brushing off the King to be a terrible insult, but there were more pressing matters to attend to. Such as even greater insults to authority. "Alex. Drop him. Now."
She half-expected resistance, but Mercer wordlessly complied – though he took the phrase literally, instead of setting him down like any sane person would have inferred. He opened his hand, and Pacer hit the floor with a thud, cursing softly as he rubbed a clearly bruised throat. Alex stepped back neatly, though he continued to glower at the man before him, ready to restrain him again at the slightest provocation.
And knowing what she did of Pacer, that would have been a real worry… but his demeanor was strange. The man was usually angry with at least three different things at a time, but right now, after just having been manhandled and probably copiously threatened by a raging asshole, he just looked lost. And now that the two were separated, she could see that the scattered Kings – well, some of them were glaring at Alex, and there were more than a few firearms pointed in his general direction. But most of it – both the ire and the weaponry – was focused on the man he'd been holding.
Yeah, her first question had waited long enough. Just had to subtract all the swearing, and it was ready to go. "Just… what on earth is going on here?"
The King gave her a wry look. "Your guy marched Pacer in here by the scruff of his neck and started throwin' accusations. Wish the hell they weren't true… but they were."
Oh god. She pressed a hand to her forehead and squeezed. Alex Mercer was a walking diplomatic incident. Him not having started a fight with the twenty or so Kings crowded behind her was nothing short of divine intervention. Or very careful use of human shields.
But whatever he'd pulled, it had worked, if the King wasn't even protesting his close friend's innocence at this point. Either Pacer had cracked under pressure, or Alex had found something really damning. Or… she really hoped Alex hadn't coerced him into a false confession. It didn't seem like his style, but neither did this entire mess.
She inhaled deeply. Okay. How to work with this. "I am so sorry about that. Mercer means well, but he's, uh, maybe a teensy bit too fond of Buffout. He wasn't this high when I sent him off today. We're going to have a talk about this later, I swear."
Alex shot her a disbelieving glare, which she pointedly ignored. He didn't want to get called an addict, he could stop acting like one. Though Psycho was a better match for his particular brand of what the fuck.
The King sighed. "If you sent him to figure out who caused this, he did get your job done… though I'm thinkin' you and I need to have a talk first." He raised his voice. "It's gettin' a bit too crowded in here, if you know what I'm saying. Jack, Clancy, keep an eye on Pacer. Don't let him leave. The rest of you, give us some space."
Pacer didn't struggle as he was led away, two pistols on his back – just stared ahead with an utterly forlorn expression, even as his former tribe members jeered at his passing. Cain wondered just what the hell she'd missed. The rest of the Kings quickly followed suit, leaving her alone with Alex, the King, two of his guards, and a still-whining Rex.
She wasn't complaining about that. An audience could be useful, but for the things she needed to talk about, they would be a distraction. She was well aware that the King's tendency towards pacifism was only loosely shared by his members, and it was that lack of bloodthirst she needed to work with.
But first, sorting out this mess. A part of her wanted to lay into Alex right now, and get an apology for nearly adding a heart attack to her current list of malaises, but she wanted to maintain at least a pretense of authority in present company. The idea that he'd misinterpreted orders was a lot safer than the truth of the matter, which was that Mercer had a distressing tendency to do whatever the fuck he wanted when there was nobody around to tell him off.
Better to stick to the facts. "I get the feeling I missed out on something big. What did Pacer do?"
Alex answered that for her. "Assaulted an NCR agent twice. Chased him off the first time, killed him the next. Got caught by his guards; pretty sure that's what started the shootout."
She nodded. That fit the picture. "It must have been the envoy Crocker was telling me about. How did you find this out?"
"He had a note," the King said. He was frowning at her, one hand on Rex's neck. "But this is the first I'm hearing 'bout any envoy."
A note? Stupid of Pacer to leave a trail, but it at least assuaged her burgeoning concerns about how Mercer might have arranged this. Unless he'd forged that, too, but that was leaving the realm of probability – and Pacer would have protested a lie. Easier to believe that Mercer had found what he was looking for, and that Pacer was exactly as dumb as he acted. "The NCR sent someone to meet with you a few weeks back about bringing aid to Freeside's people. I'm guessing he never made it here."
"No. Damn it, Pacer. Why'd you have to…?" He swore softly, then sighed. "I'd have been happy to speak with them then. Now… I gotta admit, it's tough. Though there's good odds they don't wanna talk at all. I haven't forgotten where you just came from. What's the news?"
Cain swallowed, suddenly dour. On the whole, it was good news… but treachery or not, he wasn't going to like this. "The NCR's willing to discuss terms for a ceasefire at their office. The ambassador promised safe passage for anyone you send. But they do have one demand to start… they want the perpetrators of this fight turned over to their justice system."
The King gripped the edge of his seat, his knuckles bone-white. "No. Not a chance."
Dammit. She knew this was going to be a hard sell, but the response didn't exactly fill her with confidence. She needed the King to let go of his friendship and look at the situation logically, and that was easier said than done. "Pacer is directly at fault for everyone that's died over the past three days. You can't just let him walk free."
"Wasn't planning on it." The King scowled. "It was us he wronged; it's us he's gotta pay dues to. Not those NCR folks."
There was a grunt of assent from the King's guards, made worse when Alex threw in his lot with them. "I agree. After all the shit he pulled, it's their right."
Not helping. She shot Alex a glare; he frowned back, unrepentant. Of course he'd think that; revenge was one of his favorite words. Manhattan told a very clear story – when he got wronged, he took his price in blood, and tore his way through anything that stood between him and his target. Giving up on vengeance was unacceptable. And compromising – who would he ever compromise with?
…Besides her. And she was painfully aware that she only had as much power over him as he allowed her.
But people who actually died when they got shot had to play by different rules. "He wronged the NCR too. Look, I understand you're not really in the mood to extend them much consideration right now. I don't care much for them either, but they've got the high ground when it comes to bargaining, and they've lost people too. In their eyes, it was the Kings that started this… and they're not exactly wrong. Right now, they're willing to talk because I convinced them this didn't happen with your blessing. If you insist on protecting the guy who caused this, it looks like you do support what he did."
The King's face twisted, but he said nothing. She understood his frustration. He wanted to deal with Pacer, but just because he thought any given punishment was just didn't mean he'd be okay seeing the NCR mete it out. Odds were, if he handed Pacer over, he'd get to watch his dear friend waste away in an enemy's prison. Betrayal stung, but with a friendship that old – you didn't stop caring about someone at the drop of a hat.
But this had to happen. "The last few times they tried to make overtures to you, they got shot down by your people. I hate to say it, but you're the one that needs to make the gesture of good faith. This is what they asked for." She hesitated. "And it's not an unreasonable request."
"To them." She would have missed it if she hadn't caught the Kings' lips move.
"I'm not asking you to forgive them, but this needs to stop. The NCR's enormous, and you're right between McCarran and the Strip. If they go ahead with bringing in reinforcements, it's all over. This isn't a fight you can win. You know that."
"I do," he said heavily. "I really do. We've lost too many good boys already. It just… it don't feel right, lettin' them walk free after what they did. And Pacer threw us to the coyotes, but that don't make it right when we do the same."
"Pacer nearly got everyone here killed. You didn't get a choice the first time, but now – I'm sorry, but is he really worth dying over?"
"No." The King's voice was soft. "No… he's not. But after what's happened, I don't know what kind of peace we can get out of this. I know the soldier boys didn't start this, but it's still awful hard to shake their hands. Most won't want to."
The King wasn't stupid; he'd come to the same conclusion she had. As much as he could endure the situation, he couldn't guarantee his people would be on board with it. There was too much resentment between the groups now; as long as the NCR and the Kings coexisted in the same city, violence would break out sooner or later. And her answer for that lay with her trump card.
She opened her mouth, then closed it, eyeing the two armed guards behind him. What she was about to share was tough enough to entrust the King with, and he was both discrete and very much in her debt. His underlings did not need to hear this.
It was an audacious request, but a necessary one. "Uh… I hate to ask this, but you mind sending them out for a bit?" She gestured to the King's guards. "There's something you need to know, but it's a your-ears-only kind of thing."
The guards bristled. Were she in their shoes, she wouldn't want to leave her leader alone with Alex either. She considered sending him off as a peace offering, but leaving Alex with a bunch of Kings just sounded like a terrible idea right now. After the stunt he'd pulled, she'd much rather keep him where she could see him.
Luckily for her, the King waved them off. "It's fine. Go on, make sure no one comes in here."
She waited for them to leave, then sighed harshly. Here went nothing. "Look. You didn't hear this from me, okay? In fact, you didn't hear this from anyone. Keep this to yourself… but the NCR might not be around these parts that much longer. Give it a year. Half, even. Until then, you need to grin and bear it."
The King's eyes narrowed, but he leaned forward all the same. She had his interest. "That's a pretty bold statement to make. Far-fetched, even."
"I can't really give you the details." Cain hesitated. "I'm sorry. Just trust me that this info is good. Whatever they ask of you – if it's not too unreasonable, just go along with it. If your guys really need an incentive to play nice, slip in a few hints. Say what you need to, that the NCR can't hold the region, that the Legion's going to trounce them too hard to do anything but slither back home. I don't care what you say, as long as you keep my name off the rumors."
"Is that the truth, then?"
"Not really," she admitted, "but it's not too far off."
"You're asking for a lot of faith." The King leaned back, face set in a pensive frown. "But after what you just pulled off, maybe I can give you some."
"I appreciate it." Even this, she worried about – had she given too much? If this somehow left the King's confidences… House's plan involved routing the NCR, so that particular betrayal was safe. But if the NCR caught wind of this, they could become a very dangerous enemy – not for military power, but for how much influence they had. It would just take one drunk King bragging around the wrong ears to make her life horribly difficult.
But the King was about as staunch an ally as she would get, at this point. She had to trust that he was as invested in success here as she was. And the Kings needed a reason to calm down, otherwise this entire mess was going to start all over again. This same trick wasn't going to work a second time.
"I think it's me who should be saying that, not you. I'll be frank with you, Cain – I didn't think you could do it. Once those shots were fired…" He closed his eyes, and she didn't miss the flash of grief across his face. "I thought we were goners. The NCR's never been a friend to anyone here; they were lookin' for an excuse just as much as Pacer was. They weren't gonna step down once they found one. I don't know what you did to make 'em listen, but you got us a chance, and I'll do what I have to to take it."
He looked resigned above all else, but the gratitude was real enough. "We owe you our skins. If there's ever anything we can do to help a gal out… the Kings won't forget what you've done for them."
"I'll keep that in mind." She did have a favor in mind, and it was a big one. But after this, the King would be in her court for just about anything… and especially for matters that involved pushing the NCR out for good. Provided he could get his people to play nice with them for the next few months, Freeside was just about covered. "Good luck sorting this out. I'd stay, but the NCR has some business they want done for this, and they're not too patient."
The King nodded, though a sour note crossed his features. "I won't ask."
"Probably better that way," she agreed. Explaining this one wouldn't be easy. She'd already hinted at enough of her secrets today. "Just – remember what I said, okay? It's not something I can talk about, but the less the NCR knows of it, the better."
"Clear as crystal." He saluted her. "And good luck to you too."
She smiled, thanked him, and waited until she was out of earshot to lay into her loose cannon.
"Alex, what the actual fuck."
He glared. "I was going to say the same. Buffout? Really?"
"Come on, Alex, how the fuck else was I supposed to explain you holding up Pacer like a fucking backpack? I don't know if you've realized, but most of us can't do that." She exhaled slowly. "If you don't want people to know you're a superhuman asshole, you need to stop acting like a superhuman asshole. Just be a regular asshole. And seriously, what were you doing? I thought I told you not to confront him."
"I didn't. He confronted me." Alex did not look particularly regretful about this, it needed to be said.
"God." She massaged her forehead. The worst part was that Alex had tried not to kill anyone. She couldn't even really be pissed with him, even though she was plenty frustrated. He'd disobeyed her orders in spirit, but not in letter, and unlike when she chose to creatively interpret instructions, she didn't think he'd actually meant to screw her over. Because he'd definitely gone out of his way to do this, and not his usual and vastly preferred method of leaving no survivors. From Alex, this was a genuine effort to solve a problem without violence. It just so happened that his idea of a nonviolent solution was still a needlessly violent solution. "Just… leave the diplomacy to me next time, okay?"
Mercer shrugged. "Fine by me."
There was something strange about the movement. When he turned away, moving towards the exit, the reason why became apparent.
"…Alex?"
"What is it now?"
"Why is there a switchblade sticking out of your back?"
"Oh." He craned his neck over his shoulder, looking mildly annoyed. Twisting his arm at an angle that was definitely not humanly possible, he reached back, plucked the knife out, and tossed it aside with a clink. His jacket squiggled, and just like that, there was no evidence of a wound ever having existed. Didn't bleed or anything.
"Dare I ask how that got there?"
He shrugged again. "A few Kings jumped me."
"What." Cain stared at him, horrified. Mercer hadn't just treated Pacer like a piece of luggage; he'd gotten into a mosh with some other Kings as well? She'd just started to think she was in the clear today. How many bodies were there? What was the King going to do when he realized what she'd left behind?
"I didn't hurt them," he protested. "Just shook them off. Broken bones at worst."
Oh. …And Mercer saw absolutely no problem with that. "Alex, just…" She sighed again and shook her head. There was no point. She'd take what she could get. "Never mind. Come on. Let's find Arcade."
She had to fish the doctor from their sick bay. It had been a… surprising sight, to see the normally pristine doctor up to his elbows in blood, but he had an air of determination she rarely saw from him, and the Kings present certainly seemed to appreciate his efforts. Still, he wasn't going anywhere until he had somewhere to wash off, a decision she heartily agreed with.
But she could finally put the matter of Freeside's turf wars behind her. Her hangover was just about gone at this point, and the afternoon sun was pleasantly warm. She didn't spot any more skirmishes as she followed the boulevard south. It wasn't over until the Kings met for peace talks, and it wasn't over over until she killed a fuck-ton of Deathclaws for the NCR, but for now, Freeside could use the moment's respite to catch its breath.
Now to pass the memo down to her companions. Probably with mixed results.
"So, uh, Alex. I may have indirectly volunteered your services to the NCR in order to guarantee they'd do the ceasefire."
He stared at her, eyes narrowed, and she could tell he was not pleased. "Let me finish, okay? I'm not loaning you out, but I agreed to a job that I'm kinda gonna definitely one-hundred-percent need you for if I don't want to die horribly. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think you're going to like this one. The NCR themselves aren't personally involved, so you don't have to, you know, hold back. And the job boils down to 'go to this location and kill a bunch of things,' so… pretty much your idea of a good day."
His brow relaxed slightly. "I'm listening."
Arcade squinted. "And now I'm worried. Where exactly are we going and what exactly are we killing?"
Yeah, Alex was going to like this about as much as Arcade wasn't. "Uh, doc, so… you ever heard of Quarry Junction?"
Arcade boggled. "You're fucking insane."
"Arcade! Did you just swear?"
He had the decency to look abashed. "Yes, and I consider you a terrible influence. But honestly, you can't tell me the terminology isn't merited here. Quarry Junction? We're going there?"
"It's not! I mean, it is, but we have Alex. You really think he can't out-murder those things?"
"Cain, that place is a deathtrap! And I mean that in the most literal manner possible!"
Alex tapped his foot. Or maybe 'stomped' was a better word, from the very sharp, abrupt sound it made. "I'm starting to think this needs an explanation."
Arcade tried to speak, but she cut him off. "So, okay, Quarry Junction's a stoneworks a little ways south of here, and it's kind of overrun with a fuckload of Deathclaws. I've told you about those, right? Nastiest predator the Wasteland has to offer. Pack hunters. Your average one stands maybe eight, nine feet tall. They're fast, tough, and have claws just as nasty as yours."
He scoffed. "I doubt that."
"You wanna see for yourself, then?"
"Definitely." A slight smirk appeared beneath his hood. "Sounds like it could be fun."
"I told you you'd like it. The NCR wants that nest cleared so they can access the I-15 again, and they don't particularly care how I accomplish that. It's either you or enough high explosives to build a twenty-foot statue of myself with, and you cost way less."
"Insane." Arcade shook his head. "You're both insane."
"I'm not asking you to take potshots here, doc. I'll provide cover fire if he wants it, but I'm thinking Alex has this one in the bag. You and I, we're in way over our heads."
"I can handle this," Mercer agreed. "It's better if you stay out of my way. I can fight more effectively when I don't have to worry about killing you. If we're talking several enemies in close quarters, I've got some tricks for that. You don't want to be near me when I use them."
She absolutely did not, but she couldn't deny she was curious. Precious little seemed impossible where Mercer was concerned, but some of the powers he'd alluded to were things she'd need to see to believe. Hopefully she wouldn't regret that.
"If you want to go it alone, there's a camp for the workers that we can wait at while you do your thing. But you might want to reconsider the cover fire. I know you're the baddest fucker around, but Deathclaws are pretty serious trouble. You're going to be dealing with a lot at once. I don't want you to get hurt on my behalf."
"Heh." He smirked. "I'm more worried about you stealing my kills. If it worries you that much – unless your Deathclaws can move over a hundred miles an hour, they won't outrun me. And I can't withdraw if it'd leave you open to attack."
"You have a point," she admitted. He was mobile enough to evade anything else alive, but she didn't fancy getting left behind with a bunch of Deathclaws.
It still didn't sit right with her, sending anyone into a nest alone. Even less so that she wouldn't be able to see how he was doing. Or how he was doing it.
But she could figure that out later. The matter here, at least, was settled. It was an uneasy peace that she'd left Freeside to drift in, but it was peace all the same. If the Kings and NCR could stop shooting at each other for as long as it took for the Legion to make their march and the NCR to meet them, then that was a problem solved and another tribe's support to bank on.
She fixed her gaze south. Now to fulfill her end of the bargain.
Quarry Junction wasn't going to know what hit it.
[Achievement Unlocked! Procrastination Kills (5pts) – With great power comes the responsibility to do quests when you get them.]