"Well… lookit that. First finger of the day."
The day after Tom's death—after Sandra's crew rested up inside the Vegas Machine and drove back to Randall & Associates—Sandra now sat across from Randall in his shack, her companions standing behind her chair as she handed over the finger of the dead Tom Quigly.
Randall examined it for a moment, then pulled a rusty metal box from beneath his desk, placing the finger inside. Sandra was able to catch a whiff of a horrid scent that escaped the box—as the box was likely where he kept all the decaying fingers of his targets. Afterward, Randall handed over the reward—two-hundred caps—which Sandra counted out and divided four ways for her companions. It wasn't much, but it was a start.
Once the money was divided, Sandra asked her friends to go to Primm and gather some food and supplies. Niner and Arcade agreed, both of them departing the shack and leaving Sandra and Vulpes alone with Randall. Vulpes sank into a chair that was propped against the wall, sighing and leaning back, Sandra propping up her feet and taking a moment to relax.
"How'd you get into this business, anyhow?" Sandra asked Randall curiously.
"Hellfire, kid… that's a long story," Randall chuckled, abandoning his typewriter and leaning on the corner of his desk to face her.
For a while, Randall told numerous tales of his earlier endeavors—Sandra smirking and commenting throughout the stories while Vulpes began to nod off to sleep in his chair. Once Randall finished his story about his first inspiration—a man named Marshall Cooper—Sandra inquired further.
"But where did you actually start?" she wondered. "What was the very first thing that got you down this road?"
Randall stared at her for a moment, his bandana crinkling in a way that made Sandra think he might've been carrying a deep grimace now. A slight tension seemed to infect the room as he took a deep breath and spoke on.
"That's a rougher story," he muttered grimly.
"Then tell it," Sandra requested. "I mean… if you want. I'm just interested."
Randall hesitated again, glimpsing over at Vulpes and Scar, who were both lost amidst a light nap near the far wall. He sighed again and continued.
"I never figured to be a violent man… way back when," Randall stated, leaning back in his chair and folding his arms. "Had a wife and kid, worked the land, lived a peaceful sorta way. My wife was pregnant, so she couldn't do quite as much around the house for a while. Then, one day, this stranger comes along asking for work… and he seemed sincere. We let him stay and help out around the house, but we kept an eye on him. Then, after some time passed… I made the dumbass mistake of lettin' my guard down."
Sandra felt her heart begin to sink, feeling certain this story wouldn't end with a miraculous victory like his previous ones had. She remained silent and listened intently.
"Woke up tied and gagged… and he made me watch," Randall murmured gravely. "Raped my wife… cut her open… butchered the baby right there."
"Jesus," Sandra breathed, her stomach turning.
"After that, he… carved off most of my face, left me for dead," Randall uttered, his dark goggles aimed thoughtfully up at his rickety ceiling. "Been lookin' for him for almost fifteen years… tracked him near this neck of the woods some time ago, but lost track of him again years back. He's… almost certainly dead by now. But still…"
"Who was he," Sandra said without thinking, hunching forward and giving him a serious stare. "What was his name?"
"His name," Randall sighed heavily. "Was Marko."
"Is that why…" Sandra mumbled, narrowing her eyes at him. "Is that why you ended up doing all this now?"
"It was… certainly the main driving force," Randall conceded. "But, it started becoming its own reward after a while. I'm still on the lookout for that bastard… but, to be honest, I can't imagine he's still alive. From what I heard, he started terrorizing other families more and more the further west he traveled. I figure he must've pissed off enough people to end up in a shallow grave by now."
Sandra surveyed him. "You really believe that?"
Randall returned her stare, pausing to think.
"I think it's a logical thing that mighta happened," he answered seconds later. "But… I also know what kinda reputation he's made for himself out there. Demon of the West, they call him. Some ignorant folks even think he's some immortal hand of Satan straight from hell… but he's just an evil crooked bastard, simple as that. Seems like every bad fucker on my list, every other bounty I get, higher up their food chain always leads back to Marko… or somebody tied to Marko. I think even Judge Richter mighta been involved with Marko at some point. Marko is the top of the bad guy food chain out there. With that in mind, maybe he is still alive… but there's really no tellin' right now."
Sandra nodded. "Okay. Um… who's Judge Richter?"
"Oh Lord," Randall scoffed, his accent seeming to thicken for a split second. "Crazy, fuckin', bastard. He's the head of Richter & Associates out here… my competition. And he's a fucking psycho. And a pederass."
"What's a pederass…?"
"A kid-fucker," Randall said bluntly.
Sandra made a face. "This guy has the same job as you, sending people out to kill bad guys… and he's a pedophile?"
"Ye'ap. 'Bout as crooked as business can get, ain't it?"
"What the fuck—how come there's no bounty on him?"
"Well, two reasons—he's got a lotta influence, and he controls which bounties get prioritized, since he's in the business," Randall explained. "He's made himself useful to a lotta powerful players out here in the Mojave. Most wouldn't even dream of takin' him down."
"Who's he got influence with? Your employers? NCR?"
"More like all the crooked elements of every faction you could think of. Hell, he's got people with the fiends, the jackals, them Great Khan misfits… and the syndicate, too."
"The syndicate…?"
Randall paused, inhaling deeply and looking away for a moment.
"They're a shady order… virtually unheard of out here," Randall stated. "Mostly, they operated out in the Reno area… but I've heard things these past couple years. Things that make me think the syndicate's started operating out here in the Mojave. And if that's true… that really ain't good."
"Why? Who are they…?"
"Well… think of 'em like the mob. Or… actually, think of 'em like the venom from a rattlesnake. They get into everyone's blood they can find, they spread all throughout every body they can, and they keep up that routine until they've poisoned you enough to kill you—until they've got enough pull to take over. I'd heard that a certain Omerta big-wig met up with one of the syndicate's big power-players out here, but I don't know if that's just a rumor or not. Best case scenario… it's all just conspiracy theories that've been over-exaggerated in my line of work. But, worst case scenario… they're probably already infecting the Omertas like poison, puttin' themselves in a position to take over before they move on to their next target."
Sandra fell deathly silent, gazing downward and feeling suddenly troubled. She hadn't told Randall of her involvement in Vegas—that she was Mr. House's heir, and that she would one day control the region the same way Mr. House had—but if this syndicate truly was operating in Vegas, they would certainly become problematic for her in the future, especially if they operated solely on manipulative secrecy. Not only would they become a large body of opposition—they would be a difficult one to find and snuff out for good.
Randall observed her. "Seems to be botherin' you a lot."
Sandra blinked, only just realizing that she'd fallen silent for nearly a whole minute. "Yeah, sorry… it's just… a problem for the future."
"Why, you live in Vegas?" Randall asked. "Syndicate shouldn't affect you none, unless you live near 'em… or you pissed 'em off."
"Both," Sandra exhaled. "And neither…"
Randall shot her an odd look behind his facial coverings. "O-kay…"
Just then, Sandra heard the door open behind her—Niner and Arcade had finished stocking the bus with necessities, and they strolled inside, stopping on either side of her chair. Sandra cleared her throat and straightened up.
"Okay, so anyway… who's our next target?" Sandra asked Randall.
"Ready already?" Randall laughed, examining his clipboard. "All right… y'all pay attention, now. Hey, Mr. Fox—you might wanna wake up for this."
Niner clapped his hands loudly above Vulpes's head, making him jump awake. Sandra laughed, but Vulpes instantly looked as if he wanted to choke the life from Niner's very being.
"Your next target is a vicious twat named Eileen—sickest fuckin' fiend I've ever heard of in here," Randall explained. "Her actions are detrimental to the morale of anyone unfortunate enough to cross her path… citizens, NCR, even fellow fiends. Eileen is what you'd call an extreme feminist of the apocalyptic age. She's taken a liking to castrating male victims and consuming their flesh."
Niner made a wincing sort of face, turning and shaking his head. "Aaah… ooo… ouch."
"Yeah… my thoughts exactly," Randall nodded at Niner. "Cap this sick bitch and come on back. But be careful—she's holed up in one of them encampments outside Vegas, past the NCR camps and barricades. She's in a fiend camp—which means she'll have a little manpower around her. Lemme put that location in your pipboy…"
"No problem," Sandra said, thinking of the Ferguson Rifle as Randall tinkered with her pipboy again. "We'll just pop 'em off from a distance. We got this."
"Good, then… goddammit, lookit the time," Randall swore, checking his watch and rolling back toward his typewriter. "Got me all distracted… I gotta get this shit done. Go get that crazy bitch's finger for me. I gotta get back to work."
"Hey, while we're on that… why do I have to bring back their fingers?" Sandra questioned. "Can't I bring back their heads or something?"
Randall—who had just started his typing again—suddenly stopped, his fingers hovering above the keys as he gave Sandra a long, strange stare.
"What are you… some kinda psychopath?" he asked with such sincerity, Niner let out a barking laugh at his reaction.
"No. Not… completely," Sandra uttered. "I was just wondering because the bounties at Camp McCarran required intact heads…"
"Look—we collect fingers because it's the simplest means of identification," Randall informed. "That's all. I ain't making some crazy finger necklace or anything."
"You could though," Sandra smirked. "We should do that. We should make a finger necklace."
Randall stared at her silently for several seconds—then shook his head, chuckling behind the cloth of his bandana.
"I don't know how in the hell you're in this business, kid," he mumbled humorously. "You act like a goddamn twelve-year-old sometimes…"
"Hey—you gotta keep life fun," Sandra told him, turning to the door and giving him a two-fingered salute. "That's how we stay sane out there."
"Okay, I reckon… different strokes," Randall replied, waving them off. "Y'all take care."
Sandra and her friends marched outside, heading down the hill where the bus was parked along the side of the narrow road. As she did, she smirked and nodded, feeling an odd sense of contentment now.
"Glad I made him laugh," she said.
Arcade perked an eyebrow at her. "What…?"
"I don't know, he just…" Sandra shrugged. "He's been through a lot of shit. It's good that he can still laugh, though."
They all boarded the bus, and the next hour was spent driving carefully along the broken and bumpy roads of the Mojave, careful to avoid the more dangerous routes toward fiend territory. Once they managed to park outside the Crimson Caravan, Sandra and her friends set off toward the dangerous region, spotting the crumbled buildings where the fiends resided and cautiously heading toward a steel plant that sat directly across the street from the fiend turf. Sandra moved around the building and found a rusty metal ladder on the back, and she and her companions climbed onto the roof one by one. Once they were on top, they all hunched down on the edge, lying flat on their stomachs and double-checking their firearms.
Sandra loaded the Ferguson Rifle, feeling a surge of confidence as she gazed down the scope—the crosshairs moved with a sensitive waver as her magnified gaze shifted swiftly over the fiends in the distance, some of them walking or talking, others sitting around their campfire.
"Once you start," Vulpes whispered from beside her. "Be prepared to finish. You'll have to be both fast and accurate. Don't give them a chance to locate and approach us."
Sandra nodded, tightening her grasp on the rifle and taking a deep, bracing breath.
Then, her eye landed on a peculiar figure beyond the crosshairs—a skinny, dirt-spotted woman who was walking around in the crowd of fiends, laughing loudly and madly, all her comrades seeming to focus on her. From the psychotic look of her to the attention her allies gave her—Sandra was almost certain this woman was her target.
So—she held her breath and pulled the trigger.
An echoing gunshot penetrated the air as Eileen's head exploded into blood and bone—the other fiends quickly scattering and glimpsing in all directions.
Sandra quickly fired again, killing the nearest armed fiend—and now, all her companions were firing as well, shooting from the rooftop as bullets whizzed across the street in a ruthless and rapid hellfire.
Amazingly—the fiends all seemed to fall before any of them could retaliate. After all the enemies had fallen, a solemn silence fell, and Sandra smirked, releasing a relieved cloud of breath.
"Damn, man…" Niner chuckled, standing upright and shaking his head. "That was a lot easier than the first one."
"Yeah." Sandra stood alongside her friends, nodding in agreement. "Having a sniper rifle really does make it ten times easier."
"Fair point… although I could use something with a little more range," Arcade remarked, shrugging and slipping his plasma defender into its holster. "But, we got the job done. That's a win."
Sandra and Vulpes traded eyes, and Sandra smiled again, feeling strangely comfortable and confident all the sudden. She never imagined she'd find such success at a job like this—and with all her companions, their brand new means of transportation, and all their various weapons and skillsets, it seemed the courier's gang had found a career that they might well excel in.
"You guys," she said definitively. "I think we found our calling out here."
For the weeks to follow—Sandra and her friends were quick to adjust to their new normal.
Each day consisted mostly of talking and traveling—Sandra making time to chat with Steven Randall, she and Niner driving all over the Mojave in pursuit of their targets, and the group preparing to take out their next bounty. For a while, the bounties were as simple as the Eileen job; their third job involved killing a Vegas murderer who was hiding out in the old tumbleweed ranch, and the next couple of jobs were similar, targeting vipers or jackals who had stepped just a bit too far out of line. Most times, Sandra was able to use the Ferguson Rifle to complete her bounties, which did—just as Vulpes said—make the job much easier and safer.
During this time—with Sandra enjoying her new life as a bounty hunter, and with Mr. Burke and his allies working to keep the city in order—the courier had no clue just how much her reputation had begun to inflate. From the buried alive story to the up-and-coming bounty hunter tales, Sandra and her friends truly were making a name for themselves among the bounty businesses and those connected to them, though none of them were aware of this as of now. As far as they knew, they were living simple lives of enacting justice and anonymous peace.
And now—nearly a month after meeting Randall and starting their new career—they were marching into Randall & Associates once more, Sandra smiling and tossing a nasty severed finger up and down as casually as playing with a baseball. She pitched the finger across the room, Randall removing one hand from the typewriter and catching it swiftly.
"I wish you'd quit throwing 'em at me," Randall griped, scoffing out a laugh.
"Hey—you gotta keep your reflexes up, old man," Sandra snarked. "I'm just helping."
"You watch it, now," Randall quipped in response, dropping the finger into the smelly metal box. "You keep on with that 'old man' shit and I'm liable to fire your ass."
"Yeah right," Sandra laughed, plopping down in her usual seat. "Would a restaurant fire their best chef? No? Didn't think so."
"Don't get cocky, now," Randall said, jabbing a finger at her and eyeballing her companions. "You got an advantage my other hunters don't have. Travelin' with a small army gives you a hellovan edge."
"Yeeeah… I know it does," Sandra admitted, smirking and glimpsing around at her friends. Vulpes sank into the chair against the wall, Scar curling up at his feet. Niner was digging through Randall's fridge, as he often did, and Arcade was fashioning a new stimpack overtop of Randall's hotplate.
"Whatcha got on the roster for us, Randall?" Niner asked, tossing up a cold Nuka before popping it open with his knife.
"Well… I got two things for y'all, and both of 'em ain't the usual 'find and kill' jobs," Randall informed, glimpsing at his clipboard before sliding an envelope out from inside it. "One of 'em involves a waylaid caravan up north, and the other one… well, the other one ain't got nothing to do with our bounties."
Sandra and her friends all eyed him with interest.
"You're even more well-known out there than you were before, kiddo," Randall told Sandra. "Everybody knew the little story of the courier risin' from the dead… but now, your rep's a bit harder. A bit more… intimidating. Like I told you, some folks might come around lookin' for payback… but others might start comin' to you when they really need a job done. People know you're a courier-turned-bounty hunter. And, I reckon… that's why this letter was sent here. Now, I ain't a postal service, but I thought I'd let you have a look at it before I tossed it in the trash, since it's addressed to you and all. Here."
Randall handed over the letter. Sandra took it, slowly peeling it open as Niner and Arcade hovered over her curiously, Vulpes sitting more firmly upright in his seat and observing her intently. When Sandra pulled out the contents, she found a worn piece of notebook paper with a sloppily-written paragraph inside. The letter read:
To Courier Six,
I am an old man who is short on time, and I have a very important job that only you are suited for. I need a package to be delivered to a man in Westside by the name of Bradley. You can find me in the Novac Motel, the first room on the lower floor. It seems obvious that you, as a growing killer of justice, may believe that you are now overqualified for this job—but I assure you, this courier job will entail far more than a simple delivery. I would be pleased to give you the details if you decide to come visit. Thank you very much for your time.
Sincerely,
-Joe Sellers.
Sandra read over it twice before handing it off to her friends, allowing all of them to skim over it as well. She and Randall shared a strange stare.
"Some old guy wants me to come to Novac for a courier job," Sandra explained with a shrug. "But it sounds like he expects it to be dangerous, somehow."
"Huh. Well, like I said… it ain't got nothing to do with our jobs here," Randall replied. "If you wanna take that job, that's all on you."
"First room on the bottom floor—hey Six, that's right below our room in Novac," Niner told her, passing the note off to Vulpes. "Remember?"
"Yeah… we could stop there and rest up for a day or so," Sandra figured. "And I can talk to this Sellers guy while we're there."
"Does that mean you wanna pass on this next bounty?" Randall wondered.
"Oh, no—give us the bounty anyway," Sandra replied quickly. "We're making a killing off this, and I love this job."
"All right. Well, this job is more of a 'detective' job than a 'shoot and kill' job," Randall explained. "This caravan was waylaid up north, attacked and destroyed, and nobody knows how it happened or who's the culprit. There was only one survivor, but by all accounts, he's a drunken ass. His name's Chesty, and you can usually find him bummin' drinks at the Boulder City Saloon. You're gonna have to talk to him to get some details on the attack, and you oughta go check out the attack sight, too. It might've just been fiends or wildlife—in fact, I reckon that's most likely the case, just a freak-chance stroke of bad luck in the wasteland—but nevertheless, our guy wants results. So, if you can find out who attacked the caravan, hunt 'em down, chop that finger, and come on back. You got it?"
Sandra nodded, reaching out and allowing Randall to mark the location on her pipboy.
"Okay… we're gonna head out now," Sandra decided, reaching her feet. "I wanna get a look at this caravan sight before nightfall."
"Alrighty then," Randall replied with a lazy salute.
Sandra and her friends regrouped and marched out of the shack. When they all climbed into the bus, Sandra revved the engine and drove steadily onward, she and her friends listening to the radio throughout the whole trip. Nobody spoke much during the drive, and Sandra mumbled along to her favorite songs until the bus began cruising toward the rubble-filled town of Boulder City. She parked just in front of the NCR monument, and she and her friends strolled into the saloon together.
Sandra stood at the door, her eyes scanning around the inside, surveying every person—then, her gaze landed on the drunkest customer in the building, someone who was hunching over a booth and bothering an old couple for spare change. Once the drunken Chesty was shooed away, Sandra approached him. Chesty failed to notice her, stumbling and bumping into her shoulder.
"What? Hmn…" Chesty blinked several times, his scraggly hair tenting over his unfocused eyes. "Can you… buy me a drink?"
"I have some questions for you," Sandra told him seriously.
"Just one drink," Chesty pleaded.
"Yeah—I'll buy you one," Sandra promised. "But only if you answer my questions."
Chesty nodded in agreement. He sat in a small booth nearby, Sandra and her companions looming next to his table. Then, Sandra leaned on the table and met his eyes severely.
"I need you to think really hard when I ask you this—because I know what it's like to be an alcoholic, and I know your memory's probably fuzzy as hell," Sandra stated. "Listen. I heard you were part of that caravan that got attacked further north. I need you to tell me everything you remember."
Chesty blinked and rolled his neck, leaning far back as if he was ready to fall asleep sitting upright. Then, he sighed loudly and ran a hand down his face.
"Well, there was this… big fucking explosion," Chesty recalled. "Buddies got blown apart… vaporized, like… into ash. Or goo. Or something…"
Sandra and Vulpes glared at him thoughtfully, Niner and Arcade exchanging glances.
"Brotherhood?" Niner whispered to the doctor.
Arcade shook his head. "They don't attack caravans unprovoked."
"You remember anything else?" Sandra inquired. "Like… what was your caravan transporting? Did you see the attackers at all?"
"Ehhh… it was… Van Graff's stuff," Chesty shrugged sleepily. "Crates of shitty energy weapons… and this… I think I saw this old guy in a weird uniform, but I don't know if he was the attacker or not… I kinda got knocked out…"
Sandra, Niner, and Vulpes maintained their looks of interest—and Arcade tried to do the same, though he felt a sinking sensation now, as a grim realization had suddenly come to him.
"Okay… thanks, man." Sandra dug out a handful of caps and slid them across the table, Chesty collecting them happily and sauntering off to buy more booze.
When Sandra and her friends climbed back into the bus, she sat in the driver's seat silently for a moment, leaning of the steering wheel with arms folded—and strangely, she felt a dark, looming dread slowly overcoming her now, though she hadn't the faintest idea of why. After all, her clues from Chesty barely led her closer to an answer—she had no clue who could've attacked the caravan—but whoever they were, they wanted to get their hands on energy weapons, and they were likely using an energy weapon during their attack as well. That information alone—for some unknown reason—put a sickened knot in the pit of her stomach.
Niner and Vulpes sat quietly on the benches, Vulpes drifting into a brief nap, Arcade in the passenger seat, observing Sandra somberly. Sandra was gazing downward with a distant stare, gently stroking the faint, crooked scar along her wrist as her frown seemed to deepen.
"Something's wrong," she murmured without knowing why.
Arcade stared into her with a dark visage strewn across his face—and yes, indeed, something was most assuredly wrong. He knew full well what it was, though he didn't dare speak on the matter. Ever since he first met Sandra, he'd been observing her strange memory loss and her brief flashbacks quite closely—and after all this time of studying her behavior, he knew one thing for certain.
Sandra undoubtedly had a horrific experience with the Enclave in the past.
It was a terrible, traumatic event that she couldn't remember in her waking life—but Arcade had managed to piece it all together over time, from her headaches at the mention of the Enclave to the obvious laser scar on her wrist. Sandra never seemed to like the law-and-order factions like the NCR, and Arcade believed her anti-authority attitude had spawned from a deep, burning resentment for the Enclave—a hatred she'd never lose even if she couldn't remember it was there.
And with this new evidence of the caravan attacker, Arcade had a pretty good idea of who attacked the caravan—an old Enclave remnant, a man seeking energy weapons for agendas unknown. Logically, it would be prudent to share this information with her—but Arcade knew Sandra detested the Enclave, and he didn't want to risk damaging her mind further.
Besides—he could only imagine how she'd react if she ever found out about Arcade's own ties to the Enclave.
So, inhaling deeply and wearing a regretful expression, Arcade forced himself to remain silent on the matter as Sandra started up the engine and drove off to the scene of the waylaid caravan.
Deep in the bunker of Richter & Associates, the man in charge sat quietly at his desk at the end of the dreary metallic office.
The Judge was a tall and stocky fellow, always wearing a suit and some manner of fancy hat, a favored hatchet on his desk at all times, an old beloved weapon of his. On either side of his desk were his bodyguards—men in combat armor wearing slave collars—and the rest of his human merchandise manned their usual stations throughout the bunker, a quiet and obedient bunch of slaves, just as he preferred.
On this day—just after learning that yet another bounty up for grabs had been taken by Randall's new protégé—he was scribbling away in his notes, thoroughly agitated at the recent shift in business. If something wasn't done about the courier and her group soon, he'd be lucky to break even between his jobs and business expenses.
An echoing set of footsteps caught his ear, and the Judge slowly looked up, spotting the young red-haired boy—Robbie—pitter-pattering into the room, his eyes wide and fearful, his hair askew, his collar clenched tightly around the base of his neck, making him gulp and swallow with painful repetition.
Judge smirked eerily at the boy. This boy was his latest toy, his current favorite—but the child hadn't yet warmed up to him. That part always took time.
"Robbie," Judge said in his usual low, ominous voice, attempting to lighten it in a friendly sort of way. "What have you got for me?"
Robbie gulped once more, taking a warier step toward the desk, as he always felt hesitant to approach the Judge. He shakily placed the envelope on the desk and slid it toward the suited pedophile.
"Th-the man came to see you," Robbie squeaked.
The Judge perked his brow. "Which man?"
"The… the nice one… with the black suit," Robbie stammered. "Zim… Zan… um…"
"Oh, Zimmer." The Judge nodded with understanding, swiftly tearing the letter open. "Our best friend in the syndicate. What did he have to say?"
"Um… he s… said he couldn't find much," Robbie muttered softly. "But he found dirt on one… one of them…"
"Just one?" the Judge murmured with disappointment. "Hm."
A silence fell over the spacious office as the Judge read over Zimmer's note. If anyone could find dirt on powerful players in the Mojave, it was Zimmer and his ever-illustrious syndicate. Almost two weeks had passed since the Judge requested that Zimmer find dirt on Randall's new bounty team, and it seemed the syndicate was only able to find useful information about one member of the courier's little group.
Inhaling deeply, the Judge bit his bottom lip as he read over Zimmer's note. It read:
Judge! Long time no chat. I do hope you've kicked your… bad habits. But, judging from the little redheads who keep meeting me at the door, I'd say you haven't. You're terrible, you know that? Just terrible.
Anyway, I've unfortunately been unable to find much useable dirt on your latest targets of interest. However, I do have a lot of interesting news about them. Our guy at Gomorrah had a lot to say about the courier in particular. Apparently, she and her little friends did away with the entire Omerta family. Like, the ENTIRE family. Imagine…
The courier is the heir to Mr. House. She's gonna have it made in Vegas if the whole Hoover Dam thing goes her way. Why she's wasting her time in the bounty business, I have no idea… but I digress. The courier is a power-player in Vegas as well as the bounty game. Most of your people—and the NCR—would be unlikely to pursue her if they knew what influence she has in the capital of the region.
However, her friends are another story.
We couldn't find anything on Vincent Fox. Like, seriously, there is NOTHING on him. The guy literally doesn't exist on paper.
Niner is a unique name, and we found one single file on him from California. Apparently he used to be in a gang on the streets, but there's nothing worthwhile in that file. Certainly not anything incriminating enough to put a bounty on his head.
But here's the kicker. Arcade Gannon—the Followers doctor—he wasn't always with the Followers. In fact, he wasn't always tied to the NCR, either. The guy's father was Enclave, and there's sufficient evidence that he's still got a couple of loose connections with all his father's old Enclave friends—which is damning enough for him to be considered an Enclave remnant by the crooked laws of the NCR. I've sealed what evidence I could find in the envelope. If you send it to the NCR with a formal request, I'm sure they'd be happy to nip him in the bud. You could use your own hunters to get him, but I would recommend using the NCR. They have a lot more manpower, and a LOT more discrimination against the Enclave. If they learn who he is, they WILL go after him, hands down. I know it's not much, but hey—the NCR won't distinguish between the one they're targeting and the ones who stand in their way. If they pursue Mr. Gannon, and if the courier's group tries to protect him with force, then they'll ALL get killed. Granted, that's the luckiest scenario, but it's a bright side nonetheless.
I hope this has been at least somewhat helpful. Please don't make the kids answer the door anymore. Every time I see their faces, I have to pop mentats and chase 'em with a rum & Nuka just to get through the day. I'm not a good person by anyone's standards, but that shit is still depressing. Get a hobby. A less disgusting one.
-Zimmer
The Judge stroked his chin thoughtfully as he read, a devilish smile crawling across his despicable visage. After surveying all the evidence enclosed in Zimmer's letter, his nasty smirk widened. He quickly jotted down a formal request to the NCR, explaining his discovery of the doctor's identity. He then folded up the letter, slipped it into a new envelope, and placed Zimmer's evidence inside with it.
"Here," Judge said, handing the new envelope off to his nearest guard. "Take this to Mr. Sugar, and tell him to send it with the next caravan. This is a top priority, and I want this to reach the NCR as soon as possible. Tell him that word-for-word from me."
The guard nodded, taking the envelope and shuffling off. Robbie watched him go, then repressed a shiver—as the Judge was now approaching him from behind, gingerly placing his hands on the child's small shoulders.
Robbie tried to remain calm, forcing down tears as his fists began to tremble. Judge's long, meaty fingers coasted lovingly through his messy ginger hairs.
The wicked Judge Richter led the boy to the back room, spending his afternoon enjoying his distasteful pleasures while the damning evidence against Arcade Gannon steadily made its way to the New California Republic.