A/n: I hope everyone had an awesome Christmas. Thanks for reading :)
Vegas had been one of the wildest spots on earth before the Great War, and it continued to be so. People lined the streets of the Strip and Freeside, coming and going as they pleased, doing as they pleased.
Six stood at the top of the stairs that led to the Lucky 38 and watched as people stumbled around the streets, leaning on each other for support. A few NCR troopers joined in; they were glad to go home, and they would party their last week out before they had to pack up and leave. Most casinos offered discounted drinks and chems, adding fuel to the revelry around the city.
"They've been at it for three days," Six marveled.
"Yeah," Veronica nodded, "people have something to be happy about."
The Courier tried not to stare as a group of naked people walked by to make their way out to Freeside. The first night, people cheered her on, got drunk, and passed out. The next day, they woke up and did it all over again, while some never fell asleep. By the time the third day came, Six heard rumors of people lighting bonfires to keep warm and having sex in the streets. It had been a party of good feelings, the celebration becoming wilder with each passing second.
"Fox would have loved this," the scribe added, watching another group of streakers pass by.
Six shrugged, knowing that Vulpes wouldn't have approved of the reveling. But he had built a reputation as a man who partied hard; nobody would have guessed that he was a Legionary in disguise.
The Courier sighed. Yes Man was hibernating, leaving her with the responsibility of making sure the people didn't hurt themselves. She was beginning to get worried; the crowd was growing louder and many of them stopped laughing long ago.
A crash sounded out in Freeside and Six stood from her step. Shouts sounded above the Strip's music, making the Courier descend the stairs of the Lucky 38. A pair of securitrons followed her out into Freeside.
While the Strip was able to manage the party, it seemed as if Freeside hadn't been ready for the crowds. Flaming trash littered the ground, along with piles of clothes and empty containers of chems. The shouting increased in volume as Six walked deeper into Freeside.
As she rounded the corner to downtown, a group of rioters smashed the windows of the Atomic Wrangler and ran down the street to the other nearby shops. Six shouted to get their attention, but she was ignored.
She ran down the street, begging them not to destroy their own home, her pleas falling on deaf ears.
Six turned to the securitron next to her and told it to get the rioting to stop, with the stipulation that they weren't to fire on the crowd. The securitrons began to chase the looters, and it only fueled the anarchy.
"Not quite what I had in mind, baby," a voice sounded behind her.
Six turned to come face to face with Benny. He smiled at her and gave her a little wave, looking as impeccable as the day she had first seen him. A ghoul stood behind him, dressed in a mechanic's outfit. The ghoul looked around, shaking his head at the rioting and crossing his hand over his chest.
"You can't just wave your arms and ask them to stop nicely," Benny chuckled. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and gave her a quick squeeze.
"Tell those bots to fire a warning shot," he offered, "tell them to tell the people to disperse."
The Courier nodded and relayed the orders to the bots. Her heart fell when she realized that they weren't listening, even when the bots shot a few rounds into the air.
Six watched hopelessly as the crowd turned toward Mick and Ralph's store. They smashed in the windows and tried to loot the store, only to be gunned down by the owners within. This wasn't what Six wanted.
"Authorize lethal force," Benny frowned.
"That's overkill," Six protested.
The Chairman shrugged.
"Do you have tear gas?" he asked.
They didn't, and they were running on borrowed time. If she didn't act fast, Freeside would be destroyed within minutes.
Six gave the authorization, on the stipulation that the bots were to warn first, then injure, then kill only if necessary. Gunfire erupted and one of the rioters went down screaming and clutching his leg. The entire group stopped, staring at the bots in terror.
"Disperse," the securitrons ordered.
The rioters slunk off, taking the wounded man with them. Six was sure that the securitrons captured their faces and could identify them. She wasn't going to let them go, not when they destroyed peoples' shops and homes. The people that did this would clean up what their mess.
Six walked toward Mick and Ralph's, holding her hands up in case she spooked the shopkeepers. As she neared the store, she called out to let them know that she was there. A red-faced Mick poked his head out of the shop, his hands gripping his shotgun.
"The bots can identify who they were," she said, "and those people will be gotten tomorrow to clean up the messes they made. We can't have this happening."
"That's good," Mick frowned, "they can't get away with this."
Six nodded in agreement and left a few securitrons to guard the broken down shop while she issued orders that everyone was to go home.
The Courier exhaled; just three days in, and she already had her first major problem. And now that Benny was somehow alive, she had another problem.
In the back of his mind, Craig Boone knew that being able to drink half a bottle of scotch and still be good for the road meant that he had a serious issue. But as he trekked his way through the desert with the Happy Trails Caravan, he supposed he didn't care. He was making some money, and he was far, far away from New Vegas. They were even out of range of Radio New Vegas.
It took no convincing for Jed Masterson to let him join them; Boone showed up with his sniper rifle and beret, and they took him on without many questions. They knew he was First Recon, retired, and looking for a place to earn some caps. It was good enough for them; after all, a sharpshooter would be very useful on the trail.
Boone leaned back against a pack, listening to Jed as he told a story about the Burned Man.
"They say that even on the way down," The caravaner continued, "he didn't make a sound. There are rumors going around that say he's still alive out there."
He scoffed as the man said that Joshua Graham was still alive. There was no way that he could be; Caesar had him covered in pitch, lit on fire, and thrown into the Grand Canyon for his failure to take Hoover Dam. It was one hell of a court-martial, that was for sure. Still, it was one less Legionary alive in the world.
To his left, Ricky twitched, unable to sit still. The kid was wound up on psycho, and obviously addicted. It made Boone wonder if he was the only one to notice, but then again, it took one to know one.
"What do you think, Boone?" Jed asked, "Do you think he's alive?"
Boone snorted, leaned back, and gazed up at the stars.
"A man doesn't quit the Legion like that," he replied, "The Legion quits him. And being covered in pitch, lit on fire and thrown into the canyon is about as quit as you can get."
Stella, another member of their caravan, nodded and let out an 'mhm', tipping a bottle of moonshine against her lips. She was good cover for him; she drank a little just about every night and Boone was quite sure that the others hadn't caught on that he was a drunk. Besides, he had cut back some since he started this caravan adventure.
"I'm not so sure," Jed smiled, "he was a tough son of a bitch. And it doesn't matter who a man is; if the good Lord wants someone alive, they'll be alive, despite anything that happens."
His reply was little more than a grunt. Boone knew firsthand about that; he had drowned himself in scotch for years and still managed to be alive. The thought reminded him to drink more, and he did, taking a gigantic gulp of the bottle that sat faithfully by his side.
"The one people need to be afraid of is the one they call Butcher," Boone remarked, "because that Legate is very much alive, and is known to crucify people for looking at him the wrong way."
Jed nodded and searched behind him for the fire poker.
Boone frowned, realizing that he was too chatty. He didn't like this, didn't like forming attachments with these people, especially Jed and Stella. They were good people and they were getting mixed up in the bad karma that was coming for him.
"How long do you reckon we have to get there?" Stella asked.
Jed leaned in toward the fire and gave it a poke. A few sticks collapsed, sending embers flying upward with the smoke. The fire burned brighter, offering a bit of warmth in the desert's cold nighttime air.
"A few weeks," he replied, "it's hard to tell. The whole thing depends on which trails are still useful, which areas are accessible, and the like. There could be many things that make us have to retrace our steps."
Boone nodded in acceptance and laid back on his bedroll. He didn't care how lost they got, so long as he could have some scotch.
If it weren't for his pip-boy, he might have lost track of how long he traveled. Vulpes headed southeast, knowing that there was no way that the Sierra Madre lay to the east of the Legion. If it were East, his capture and transport would have taken days, which it hadn't. If it were north of Legion-held lands, then the maps on his pip-boy would activate as soon as he was within range of the Mojave. He highly doubted that the Sierra Madre was located in the remains of Mexico; it was an American-owned establishment, and nothing from the records of the casino itself indicated to the contrary.
Vulpes walked down the dusty remains of highway 93, his breath condensing on the bandana tied around his nose and mouth. Though the cloud thinned out, the wind was still strong, kicking up dust and sand with every step that he took. Before he left, he was able to find another jumpsuit, as well as a hat, canteen and various food items he would need to make his journey. The old jumpsuit was turned into a pack of sorts, the knot tied between the legs and arms of the garment making a decent strap. The gold bars in his makeshift pack rested snugly against his back, their weight reminding him of the gear he carried when he was a recruit.
He approached a nearby yucca plant and stood in its shade as he took a drink of water. Looking at his pip-boy, Vulpes saw that he was in range of Radio New Vegas. Eagerly, he turned it on in hopes of finding out what had transpired in his absence.
"We don't want a repeat of last night," the announcer said, "so for everyone's safety, securitrons have been sent to patrol Freeside and Westside, as well as their usual location at the Strip. With everyone's cooperation, we can make this a wonderful, happy New Vegas, free of the NCR and the Legion. And as always, Courier Six, Yes Man, and Mr. New Vegas love you all."
Vulpes' heart seized in dread as the radio began to play a song. What in the hell happened while he was gone?
He left his resting spot and walked down the road, his mind troubled. The radio mentioned a free New Vegas, and the thought worried him. Who was Yes Man, and what was he doing being mentioned in the same sentence as his woman?
The radio continued to play song after song, frustrating him by the second. As he walked, he began to see signs of civilization. Hoof prints trailed along behind a set of boot prints, the markings of a group of traders. Looking further up the road, Vulpes saw a series of rundown buildings and what appeared to be townspeople milling about.
He turned off the radio in favor of gathering his news from the town; it would be quicker, and it could possibly get a decent meal. On the outskirts of the town lay a small farm, a woman and her teenage daughter tending to the meager crops. Next, it was a sign that read, "Welcome to Caliente." In the next field over, a man worked. Vulpes opted to speak with the females, who had a higher likelihood of helping him. After all, he could charm anyone.
As soon as he caught their eye, he politely lowered his bandana away from his mouth and put on his best country manners.
"Afternoon, ma'am," he nodded, "I was wondering where a man could get some water around here."
The woman smiled and shook his hand, introducing herself as Betsy. She told him to wait just a minute and disappeared into the small farmhouse behind her. When she returned, she brought a bottle of purified water with her, as well as a pack of brahmin jerky.
"We get a lot of travelers around here," she said.
Vulpes nodded and thanked her for the food. He had been living off of potato crisps and insta-mash for a while, and the jerky was delicious.
"What's this I'm hearing on radio New Vegas?" he asked, "I just got in range of the signal and it sounds like a bunch of stuff happened while I was out."
"Apparently," the woman replied, "some courier gal came in with an army of securitrons and kicked the NCR and Legion clear off of that dam. Folks partied for a few days then got rowdy, and the riot was put down quickly. Don't really know how it's going to affect trade and the like; could be good, could be bad."
Vulpes didn't have to act too much to appear shocked.
"The Legion?" he questioned, "I've heard they're a tough lot."
The woman nodded sagely.
"Kicked 'em all clear back to where they came from," she said, "used a plane to bomb the dam, then completely destroyed Caesar's Fort. Imagine that."
He was imagining that, and with each passing second, his stomach twisted into knots.
Quickly, Vulpes said goodbye to the woman and thanked her again for the food. He walked through the town, if only to follow the road that led southeast. Since the Legion had been defeated and packed up, he needed to follow the highway to Flagstaff.
The Fort had been attacked, and if a plane did it like the woman indicated, then it was likely that Caesar was dead. If Caesar were dead, then Lucius would surely be dead. And since they had been defeated, one was to assume logically that Lanius had been killed as well. It didn't take much inference to realize that the Legion was without a Caesar, and given the line of succession dictated, he was next.
Vulpes was the next Caesar.
His stomach turned sour with the thought. He did not want it, and didn't feel like he was fit for the role of a man that sat on a throne, issuing orders. Vulpes was the doer, the one who made sure that things moved smoothly behind the scenes, not the one to be out in front as an example. How was he going to keep up the cult? He wasn't cut out to be worshiped as a god.
Vulpes swallowed thickly as he stared out at the road in front of him. It would have been Caesar's dying wish that his Legion endure, and he couldn't shrink from the task. Caesar saved him from the brink of death, uplifted him from his meaningless tribal folly, and seated him at his right hand. Vulpes was sure that he had missed his Lord's burial by fire, and he cursed himself for being gone. He would do what was right, not what was comfortable.
The unbidden thought came to mind that he ought to petition Six to unite their lands, making her the empress of the reborn Roman Empire. Quickly, he squashed the thought. It would never happen, not with her betrayal.
Their conversation at the Fort came back to him, instantly horrifying and angering him. He had told her to do the right thing, regardless of knowing her name. And the right thing certainly wasn't killing the one hope of civilization and the beacon of temperance that would set the Mojave on the right path. This was why he did the thinking for them; this was why he knew he shouldn't have left to go on this mission. Six lacked discipline.
Vulpes tightened his fist and remembered that he had a lock of her hair tucked away within his glove. It brought back memories of slow, delicious kisses, her body pressed tightly against his. A jolting thrill of arousal ran down his spine as he thought of their brief intimate moments on the Strip. Vulpes thought of her smile, her long, black hair, and her strange eyes. He remembered the moments he spent enjoying her innocence, telling her about life. He could have given her anything, but she ruined it all.
Each memory was painful and angering. Vulpes vowed to put Six out of his mind.
He remembered the waterlogged Legate coming to them after the battle, his golden armor glistening in the fading sunlight. Lanius had stood like a beacon of hope, calmly issuing orders and asking about the attack. And when he finished gathering his information, the new Caesar did not execute the praetorians who were off duty.
Crassius would not question. The voice of Mars had gone to Caesar Lanius, giving him the supernatural wisdom of his predecessor.
Still, more of a surprise was that it was agreed that the Legion sacrifice a bull in order to ask for the save return of Vulpes Inculta. It was among many humble requests in their prayer to Mars, including the strength of the Legion, and beseeching Mars for the full extent of his wisdom to be sent to the new Caesar.
The brahmin was brought before the unmasked Butcher, his face finally revealed to the Legion upon his ascension to the throne. Very few had seen his face, and Crassius found himself pleasantly surprised. This man wasn't the monster that rumors purported; he wasn't mangled beyond recognition, nor was his face scarred from a fight. He stood at the entrance to where the officers lived, his golden armor polished until it gleamed in the sun. He had long, golden hair to match, with small streaks of wizened silver in the front. A strong jaw led to a squared chin, both covered in a perplexing combination of muttonstache and goatee. He had a straight, pointed nose, and his slightly brow was drawn into a frown. The Butcher looked out his Legion, his eyes a strange light shade of blue-green.
Caesar Lanius was rather attractive. He was a human messenger, given the physical presence of a god.
The brahmin struggled against its restraints, bellowing in anger. Caesar's reply came in the form of a dagger at its right throat, causing the animal to kick and struggle as it bled out. When it knelt down and succumbed, the Butcher knelt down as well, the confused crowd scrambling to make themselves lower than Caesar.
Crassius knelt as well and cast his eyes down in reverence. This sacrifice wasn't a show like the Caesar before him, and the praetorian had an appreciation for his humble prayer. Lanius asked for the fullest wisdom of Mars to guide him, as well as asking for the strength of the Legion to be multiplied. The final moment of the prayer was a request for Vulpes to be returned safely, a thought that made Crassius nod. Even though he didn't like Vulpes, the Butcher requested his safety.
Vulpes was important to the Legion, and had been very important to the late Caesar. He couldn't be forgotten, lest they all anger Mars. Crassius was sure that the Son of Mars looked upon this from the afterlife in approval.
It took little more than a minute and the Butcher was on his feet again, ordering that the brahmin be consumed with fire. Crassius swallowed thickly and stared at the flames, remembering Caesar's burial by fire and the ascension of his spirit.
This wasn't the way things were supposed to turn out, and truthfully, he never believed that the Legion could be defeated, much less walk away from the conflict. New Vegas was to be the Legion's new capitol, the population purged of their sinful practices. From there, they would wage war on the Bear, the ultimate example of those who lacked morals.
But he wasn't Caesar, and he wasn't a legate. He was a guard, one that should have been executed for his failures.
Crassius wouldn't openly question, but he would think it.