You push a button, turn a dial

Your work is done for miles and miles,

When it hits, it's bound to shake

Because it feels just like an earthquake

That's the drink that you don't pour

When you take one sip, you won't need anymore

You're small as a beetle, or big as a whale

Boom! Atomic Cocktail.

- "Atomic Cocktail", by Slim Gaillard

It's safe to say that every human has that one moment, that seems to last a lifetime. Their vision becomes tinted around the edges, much like a vignette, or a silent film that's paused on a single frame. Everything slows, a rather interesting concept considering time slows for no one. It's the only consistently impartial force in the universe, where all else fails to live up to that expectation, time will prove to be the truest. And because of this infamous impartiality, it's usually the last and most precious thing humans tend to when all other avenues are exhausted. It's always the only thing left.

Her breath had quickened, but everything else felt like it had slowed down. Her vision felt like a tunnel, her pupils probably the size of saucers, and at this rate, she'd have adrenal fatigue.

It has to be done.

A week had passed since she finally struck up the courage to steal the keycards from McNamara and Taggart. Hardin was currently tied to his bed with a piece of cloth shoved down his mouth. If she didn't do it now, she'd die. It was them, or her, and that reptilian part of her mind that reared its head only once in a blue moon, demanded that it be her – a complicated problem for someone like her, that almost never weighed her own self-worth, didn't even think about it, really. It was just another detail of her preconscious trying to deceive her.

Looking around at the room, she sent her first apology, maybe her first sincere apology that was ever uttered since the Incident, and entered the password to begin the self-destruct sequence.

Confirming…

Sirens began almost immediately, louder than the bunker had been at the Fort. Her senses, which had decided to actually make themselves known for once, told her to run, but she didn't run. Eris wasn't a runner. She walked nonchalantly out to the hallway, and began making her way to the entrance as quickly as possible, without running and making herself a target.

It was difficult, especially when they started waking up and arming themselves. She cut corners frantically, trying to lose them while keeping track of the timeframe in which she would be able to leave here alive. She took out her .22, the piece that she kept strapped to her thigh at all times, and searched around corners, watching the backs of tall, armored frames getting prepared for an invasion. Most of the poor bastards probably didn't know what the self-destruct sequence sounded like, and in a few minutes, she'd be the only person alive who remembered it. Hopefully. Not everything was certain, and that made this worth it. Maybe she really was a gambler, as House often claimed.

A bullet skirted past her shoulder as she finally reached the first floor. Eris didn't bother looking behind her, and began moving erratically, unpredictably, and quickly, toward the exit. So much for Brotherhood protocol – they were like 'sitting ducks', that prewar saying whose meaning she couldn't really divine. She'd never seen a duck, but she was watching hundreds of people maneuver themselves, shouting orders and calling for Hardin, who evidently hadn't untied himself yet.

From behind, a voice called her name. Shit. It was Veronica.

"Scarlet! Scarlet!" She called, passion steeped in her voice. Eris never understood passion really, had never believed in something so ardently that her voice quivered with conviction.

Eris avoided her, sweat beading down her forehead in tiny increments, probably unperceived under the low light. A hand pulled at her arm, finally catching her and turning her around.

"What the hell have you done? Did you activate the self-destruct sequence?" Eris continued to move forward, but Veronica held on tightly, and one gaze backward showed her how broken the woman seemingly was.

She looked the other woman up and down, sneering at the show of sentiment in the face of death. Sure, Eris could wax philosophical at the most severe of times, but this? This was ridiculous.

"Fucking answer me! It's on me that you've condemned hundreds of good people to their death!" It actually hurt her ears, to have all of this sensory overload running all around her.

From out of the corner of her eye, Eris saw Veronica unsheathe her weapon, and before she could get it out, Eris whirled around erratically and shot her, not even paying attention to where she'd hit, only certain that she had hit, and the hand on her arm was weakening, allowing her to surge forward and out of the bunker.

The air was cool, and all around her was silence, in stark contrast to the absolute chaos going on in the bunker, a scene that would've impressed Nero, or some of the other greats who had a thing for pyromania and mass killing. Eris kept running, and tripped down the hill for a few feet before falling to the ground, looking at the entrance of the bunker, vainly hoping that someone, anyone, might come out and escape the fate she'd subjected them to, but none did.

Confusion knitted at her light brows, outrage that they were willing to die for something so… trivial. She supposed she shouldn't judge, her self-preservation was, well, after today, mostly non-existent. Her flight from the bunker had taught her that maybe she doesn't really want to die, or maybe she doesn't want to die for any of them, especially not for their retribution.

Her eyes were glued to the bunker, a low hum emanating from it that must've been its end. It was like… watching a vertibird fall from the sky. Watching it wasn't a crime, because there was nothing one could do anyhow, and the least one could do is what the last few, precious moments of life before it was snuffed out. Gradually, the low hum gave way to a deafening, mechanical sound that begged her to cover her ears, but she couldn't. This was, by all laws known to her, her creation, her responsibility. Eris wasn't a fan of poetry, had always preferred the drier sections of academia to the fanciful arts and kept a respectful distance from it, but if any moment was poetic, it was this one.

A wave of emotion rushed her as she watched the entrance implode on itself and in the blink of an eye, melt into something else. If anything, she felt utterly disgusted, revolted really, and shocked that she'd done this, had pulled a gun on Veronica when Veronica had approached her with the very human emotion of betrayal. Eris watched on in a dumb hypnosis of the matter at hand, and was stuck to the ground, in awe of the devastation she'd witnessed. Truly, it had been over in the blink of an eye, but it might as well have been playing over and over, and again, the silent movie analogy snaked its way back into the wretched landscape of her mind. It was like one frame by one frame, every frame radically different from the last.

Eris extracted herself from the patchy earthen floor, looking much of the part of 'robot'. Natural, human movements became mechanical, and after the initial repugnance, was replaced by a void. She deduced that this must have been dissociation, though she was sure she'd experienced it before now. Now, she's not so sure. What she does know, is that this is the natural, human reaction to danger. Every neurosis she's studied in psychology books' past, and in the 38's library, suggested that it was a common denominator for them all.

The walk down the valley felt unreal. For a moment, she forgot who she was, and concluded that indeed, she was Eris, but she proceeded to ask if she really was. It proceeded like that until she was outside of Hidden Valley, and looked behind her once more, to see smoke rising in the horizon. Surely, it was from the smoldering ruin of a bunker. She refused to think about what she'd done, compartmentalized it along with every other questionable thing she'd done in the past few months. It was sitting pretty right between Benny's death and the murder of that hobo in Freeside.

By habit more than anything else, she lit a cigarette and inhaled it hard enough to cause a whirl of nausea to spring up from the bottom of her stomach. It distracted her from the moral dilemma she was quickly finding herself going into, headfirst. She was suddenly reminded of Atlas, and his unfathomable punishment from the Gods of Olympus. It felt like the Earth was on her shoulders, and she'd never been good at heavy lifting.

Something red flashed in her peripheral. Red, much like the color of her shirt which she'd temporarily forgotten she'd named herself after – to the people in the bunker. Scarlet. Instinct again screamed at her to get moving, but she remained rooted in place, hitting her cigarette like she's never hit it before. Vomit was making its way up her throat, but she ignored that, too. Another nervous glance at the red in her peripheral had her blank face turn, if at all possible, even stonier.

Legion.

There were a few of them, too, and they were coming toward her. If she looked hard enough, and squinted simultaneously, she could imagine that the one leading the contubernium was Vulpes. Vulpes was terminally in Vegas though, and she thought it was possible that she was having a desert mirage like it so often happened to fictional characters who wound up in dry places. Or, perhaps she'd finally succumbed to being nic sick.

Was she supposed to be armed right now?

Vulpes had warned her months ago, what would happen if she kept spurning them at every corner, hadn't he? This wasn't a desert mirage, then, and frankly, she had filled her daily murder quota. More like, genocide quota, because that was what it really was, wasn't it? She had this automatic urge to crack a joke about it, maybe compare herself to Nero, once again, or maybe Atlas – but she wasn't that full of herself. Atlas was a hero compared to whatever she was right now.

The men kept creeping closer, and she lit another cigarette just in case this was her last one. They were close enough now that she could see that it was indeed Vulpes, and he looked like he'd finally come to collect. Wit was returning to her upon seeing a familiar face, even if it was the cold mask of the fox boy, whose personality suited a machine better than it did flesh. Really, she could say much the same for her in this very moment.

She felt incredibly light-headed, intoxicated really, and upon looking down at her arm, she saw that yes, in fact, a bullet had actually hit her, but it apparently hadn't hit its mark. Running down her arm were rivulets of blood, not life-threatening, but potent enough to spell a problem with consciousness in the coming moments, most likely. Thanks to her approach to nearly everything, she'd not packed any stimpaks, nor anything else that came close to them, she wondered if, maybe at a subconscious level, she hadn't prepared to conduct a genocide, but had instead prepared for her own death – leaving her with very little utilities. Such idiocy could be claimed by none other, and so possessive of it was she that she actually concluded that this was the case.

What gives?

It was still mostly dark right then, unsurprising given that it was the end of spring (not that this fact mattered in the Mojave), and coyotes howled far in the distance, still skulking about. She hadn't bothered to look and see what time it was, and she was a poor judge of its passing anyhow. A cool, desert breeze caught the straight strands of her blonde hair, blocking her vision of the advancing group of legionaries, so she blankly turned to face them, one quizzical brow raised in some kind of automatic gesture of nonchalance, an instinct by now, if there ever was one. She had to hand it to House – he cut a mean figure with his brow permanently raised, not that she could ever replicate that level of derision, because she didn't see others as her inferiors.

Ah, so it was Vulpes. He made rather a handsome face to see after so trying an event, but she's never cared for looks much. Before today, she may as well have not had eyes at all, because Lord knows she doesn't use them very well.

He left his men behind to approach her, and they stood watching the undoubtedly queer sight of their leader showing propriety to a profligate. She was far past being dissolute, she's proud to say. There is little else to claim now, anyways. Vulpes, to his credit, showed manners and a small dose of courtesy, deeply inclining his head toward her. Gone were the well-tailored suits he could usually be found wearing on the Strip – he looked much like he had in the Fort. Those cheekbones could cut glass, she'd once thought to herself, and they were unmistakable even hidden behind his relatively infamous headpiece.

"Come here often?" It was hollow, something she said under the obligation to be both kitschy and approachable. It held none of the mock charm it might have a few nights ago, when she'd spoken with a Brotherhood scribe in their mess hall. How odd it was to imagine that the boy was now dead, made even odder by the fact that she would never be able to see him to confirm it. She only knew. That must've been how the Americans had felt every time they turned a country into ground zero.

"This is my first time here, profligate." He said icily, looking between her and the sky behind her, which was still hosting a ravenous spray of smoke and other related substances. "It grieves me to be here under present circumstances, for I thought we would make fast friends when first we met, and you showed approval, though minimal, for the Legion's methods. One thing, is it, to deny Caesar out of ignorance, but it is another thing entirely to deny him willfully."

"So, we're back to 'profligate', are we?" She chose to stick with that part of his speech, the only one she could comment on without giving herself away. And really, what else was there to give away? He was listing her crimes against the Legion, which were all true, relative to the Legion's law.

For most of her time since the Incident, she'd approached anything Legion with a strict neutrality, born of understanding and a need to understand – mostly because different people had different needs, and this concept, alien to others, was received well by her.

"Do you deny your crimes against the Legion, even after warnings that further disruption of our activities would result in punishment? It matters not if you deny them, either way. Caesar is wise, and his gaze can perceive clearly the crimes done against him, even from his throne in Fortification Hill." So, what did that mean for her? Her gaze fell from his, to the ground then to the sky, searching for some kind of clever answer but there was none. She had been warned.

Plus, she was unsure of just about everything at the moment. One thing she was sure of, was that night before she and Veronica had reached the farmhouses, it was frumentarii that had been following her, and pulling at the little blonde hairs on the back of her neck with their watch. She should've known, but she's got a high tolerance for being proven wrong.

"No, I don't deny it, Vulpes. Do what you will." Did she want to be imprisoned or possibly executed by the Legion? Absolutely not. Did she deserve to be? It depended on who was asked, and she's sure there's only one or two people who would stand to her defense.

While no good fighter, she was clever, and not even an ocean of irredeemable qualities could change that. She wasn't bad looking either, but in the context of Legion boys, that wouldn't serve her very well. If she were a soldier with an inkling of pragmatic thought, she might try and outrun this group of legionaries, or otherwise fight to her death rather than surrender. But she wasn't made of that sturdy stuff, and logic demanded that she rely on the most, if not only redeeming trait she had, and that was her reason. Reason demanded that she allow Vulpes to do what he will, because these things never ended very well for her specimen – women, the kind of human she was, which she almost never considered except in the most dire of circumstances.

Somehow, she doesn't think Vulpes would take liberties.

"That's smart of you, for a profligate. I imagine it was you who caused the ground to shake only an hour ago?" She nodded noncommittally, "This one was destroyed, I hope. With the Brotherhood of Steel out of the way, our victory here will be met with less resistance. It isn't customary for us to thank our prisoners, but you've saved the mighty Caesar from having to waste time sending frumentarii."

"Will I be a slave?" She asked curiously, voice devoid of any emotion. It betrayed nothing, because she wasn't sure what she felt in that moment. Did she ever feel anything, anyways, besides spontaneous bursts of energy followed by laziness?

"That depends on your behavior." Vulpes answered her, rather merciful for someone as ice-cold as he was. "It is not for me to say. Obey Caesar's ordinance, and you will be treated fairly, under the laws of the Legion." That last part was spoken as if he knew the laws of his people weren't received well by most. Fox always was the sharpest of the bunch, from her few exposures to him and his kind.

Eris groaned at the pain that was licking at her arm. It was a tiny nick, as the bullet must have only danced past her skin, but it was deep.

"You're of no use to us if you're injured. Let me see the puncture." He offered, and she wasn't sure if the propaganda against the Legion was mostly untrue, or if this one was just an exception to the rule of collectivized and rehabilitated, former blood-drinking tribals.

"Before you do, let me smoke one last time. It might be… awhile, depending on how you do at Hoover Dam."

"Indeed."

It had been months since Eris has felt this kind of bone-deep fatigue. She recalled that one stretch of three sleepless days following her first waking, coincidentally when she'd met Vulpes for the first time in Nipton. An unexpected pattern was forming. They were getting close to Cottonwood Cove. She remembered this stretch of land, and could hear the busy, Colorado River now.

This might've been the longest day she's ever had in living memory. Much like a motion picture, it was as though every jaw-dropping, climactic moment could be condensed within the span of a couple of hours on screen, except this one had been going on for over twelve hours.

Twelve hours without resting, without one single smoke, with only one water break. Shockingly, nicotine withdrawal was the last thing on her mind, so that meant reason hadn't left her entirely underneath the scorching, Mojave sun. Suffice to say, she's beginning to feel more sympathy for Icarus now, and she's so drained that the possibilities of her fate in Cottonwood Cove were temporarily forgotten. She's thirstier than she's fearful.

So, she resigns to staring listlessly at the back of Vulpes' figure. It was a lean figure, seemingly cut from marble, and it was completely unreasonable for any tribal to look that clean. His men looked at her like the dinner bell had been rung, but they seemed to be content with staring for the meantime. Her hands were bound behind her back – a truly privileged position that the divinities would surely be proud of. Not for the first time today, she wonders if they're showing discipline because the principled frumentarius is leading their party.

How'd they find her? Well, she knew it to be factual that she wasn't that hard to find, with her general shenanigans. And again, Vulpes was sharp, a disgrace considering he'd never eclipse his collective's approved standards of smarts. Though neither Veronica or herself had seen any indication that a Legion raiding party was tailing them, a true testament to the skill of the one who led it. What, had she thought his show of ruthlessness in Nipton could never be applied to her? If so, she was being markedly inconsistent with her standards for people – they shouldn't be low, but altogether non-existent.

Living comfortably in Vegas had done nothing good for her in that department. Having been surrounded by debauchery and vice, standards for people had been built gradually, unbeknownst to her, and she'd forgotten what it was like out here. Life was difficult for the lower crust, and that's why institutions like the Legion were so successful. Institutions like the Brotherhood of Steel, too, which had implemented a system not dissimilar from the Legion to remain a relevant force that could brave the elements of the post-apocalyptic world.

A legionary spoke to Vulpes in Latin, addressing him with a deep, respectful incline of his head, not daring to meet his eyes. They were nearing the Cove by now, probably not thirty minutes away. Though she wasn't a premier judge on these things.

Vulpes looked her over, and she tried not to ask what he was looking for, plainly or otherwise. Her wit had dried along with her throat it seemed, and so she did the only thing that came naturally to her, and she cocked her head to the side in a show of acerbic and insincere interest, light brows quirked and frowning in the middle. A muscle twitched behind her back, trying to move reflexively to cross her arms or plant her hands on her hips.

A minute later, Vulpes replied to the legionary, but Eris could only understand a negligible amount of what was said, and that was only because she'd read an inordinate amount of humanities from the nineteenth century and earlier, and they so loved to write in Latin as a companion to profound things they said in the sentence last. She wondered how many of his associates he could call 'friend', how many he could impress with his sharp mind within the boundaries of what was accepted by his peers. There were other things she should think about, certainly, but that wasn't a good idea when she'd have to hold her own against the destination they were within sight of.

Every stone, every cavity in the earthen wall, was accounted for, and her tired gaze clung to every surface that could be climbed or hidden in. Soon, maybe she'd try to escape, but now? She needed a drink of water, and beyond that.. she wasn't sure if she wanted or needed anything else. The Brotherhood had wanted to survive in those last few moments, but had they needed to? Surely not, or they would've left the bunker as she had. It irked her, how their desperation to fulfill their duty overrode their desperation to live. She didn't understand it, couldn't possibly understand it, really. And for a blink, she stared at the space ahead of her, transfixed with something she couldn't pick apart and scrutinize through aggressive coercion. A lock, as it were, whose key she was denied access to.

Why could she not fathom their willingness to go down with the bunker? It was a piece of metal, granted a highly advanced and tuned piece of metal, but metal nonetheless. What totem could it possibly uphold in their psyche that they were willing to die for, and why couldn't she understand why they chose it over the air in their lungs? She's vaguely aware of Cottonwood Cove's shanty buildings ahead of her, vaguely aware that there is a strong arm pushing her forward none too kindly – she must have stopped walking. Unfortunately, they'd probably misinterpret it as hesitation, or worse, fear. For once, she didn't bother correcting them, and just took a deep, dramatic breath at the sight before her.

It wasn't the sight of it that sent shivers down her spine, but the smell. The smell that somehow always lingered anywhere the Legion encamped. It wasn't as pungent as the Fort, where she'd spent a few miserable days at several months prior, for entirely different ends. It hadn't been as hostile then, it had been pure speculation on an alien society's way of life and functioning. Even the smell of burnt flesh, or decaying organs on crucifixes had been menial back then – just background. But now, she notices the hostility, perhaps she's just now noticing the gravity holding her to earth too, despite knowing the function of gravity. It is one thing to acknowledge, but another thing to witness.

There are groups of Legion boys watching her, hollowed eyes of slaves too, and she doesn't have the Mark of Caesar this time around. This time, they wouldn't make an exception for her, wouldn't tolerate her purely scholarly curiosity towards their way of life. That was long gone. Some of them recognized her, she saw, and once they noticed the binds holding her hands behind her back, and the legionary holding her by the shoulders, their posture changed. She was prey, but even more so, she was one of them.

Or, so she thought. She didn't fully understand how the Legion worked. Were slaves and prisoners synonymous? She was aware that there was no difference between slave and legionary – only semantic differences.

Vulpes didn't handle her – he was the highest authority here, so why would he? She understood that much about the Legion hierarchy, so why did she naively hope that it would be someone she knew, at least, putting her away in a cage, and telling her the gist of what will happen?

A crowd of prisoners to the cage next to the one she would call home, watched her ravenously, maybe hoping for news of the outside world they'd been stolen from. One of them had both eyes blackened, and he was the only one with an explosive collar. She wondered what his offense had been – had he tried to escape? If so, how had he done it?

"No explosive collar?" She asked her keeper. His name was Canyon Runner, that much she'd learned from his conversation with Vulpes.

He was of average height, lean but not brawny like the more experienced legionaries in the camp. From her time doing… what she did, she could tell he was young, though looking young in the Legion was a rarity. Like Chop had been in the Ultra-Luxe, he was the baby of the bunch. She's sure she'll have plenty more time to get a read on him, probably nothing but time in the coming days.

"Next time you address a legionary, you address them as 'master'. There will be no need for a collar unless you prove that you need one, profligate. I advise you not to necessitate its use, unless you want to end up like Weathers over there." He pointed menacingly to the man, or boy, with the blackened eyes, who watched their exchange with no small amount of subdued derision.

For her part, Eris was cooperative, she wasn't so stupid as to resist them in their own territory. In fact, up until now, she'd approached anything Legion with neutrality, or even approval, at rare times. Though what gives? She's been either incredibly lucky or incredibly unlucky, and luck was not a stud from the Strip tonight, not something that she could charm over to her side. Luck instead was a five-foot-something with a cattle prod and excellent knot-tying skills.

"You're great with a rope, you know?" She commented, as he diligently tied her wrists to one of the metal poles in the moderately sized cage, where she would be held alone. "Was that a skill of your tribe before they were conquered by Caesar?"

"That's not any of your concern, profligate." He said automatically, and her eyes lit up with opportunity as he continued tightening or loosening the rope, before apparently deciding on a middle ground between either.

She could untie the rope eventually, she knew she could, but instead she stared blankly ahead, flitting between a thousand miles ahead and the generic features of Canyon Runner. He didn't meet her gaze. After her rope was secured, she shrugged her shoulders in a gesture of surrender, wishing vainly she had a cigarette, or a conversation partner. Logically, she knew that should be the last thing on her mind, but she couldn't shake it. Already, she missed Vegas, and she knew the nightmare hadn't even truly begun. It still felt too surreal, after what had happened in Hidden Valley in the early hours of the morning.

Again, that motion picture effect. How much could be condensed into one, single day? Eris, who liked having the opportunity to contemplate an innumerable amount of things at once, couldn't keep up with the whiplash. It was like she was still living in that moment after she'd escaped the bunker, and couldn't stop watching as it imploded on itself. Truth be told, it felt like time had not passed at all. But that was a pipe dream – time had passed, as it's known to do despite the wishes of those who live by its grace.