War. It is the engine that drives and destroys humanity in equal measure. Since the beginning of what we understand to be civilization, conflict has stood beside it. Rocks became spears, spears became gunpowder, gunpowder the split atom. And so with the advent of the Great War, civilization itself risked total annihilation. Humanity, though, ever resilient, survived.
From the Vaults and wastes, civilization slowly returned to the world. In what had been once America, it took on disparate forms with different names. The New California Republic, Caesar's Legion, the Midwestern Confederacy, and most recently, the Mojave Nation, founded, or according to some stolen, by a Courier turned Governor.
The Mojave Nation's existence has been short yet bloody. It came into existence in the final days of the NCR-Legion War, driving out both combatants from the region. It would scarcely a year later affirm its right to exist in what would be known as the War of the Glorious Cause, turning back invaders from across the Pacific. In the years that followed, a new force would be developed by the Governor to protect his fledgling kingdom. Thus were formed the Judicial Marshals from the remains of the Desert Rangers to protect the nation and its people.
In the years that followed, a friendly if cool relationship between the NCR and Mojave Nation has slowly begun to develop, nominally as an alliance against Caesar's, now Lanius', Legion. Lanius' Legion has retreated deep into the east, a mysterious woman now among their leadership who seeks to alter this new empire to her whims. In their place, vast swaths of what had been Arizona and Utah have effectively been ceded the Mojave Nation, with the small country unable to effectively police their new territory. These Unclaimed Wastes are now home to many seeking their own brand of freedom, and will not hesitate to defend their visions from any who seek to subjugate them.
It has been twenty-one years since the defeat of Madame Zhang and the true birth of the Mojave Nation. A vicious pack of raiders has begun attacking the northern borders of the NCR, agents of the Midwestern Confederacy. Neither the NCR nor Vegas can withstand a sustained assault against this ambitious rising power of the wastes. Rallying their alliance, both Shady Sands and New Vegas have agreed to launch a desperate plan to seek out an ally to turn the tide. As California's contributions speed down the rail-line connecting it to the Mojave, another bloody chapter in the history of mankind is about to play out, this time at the hands of a new generation of peacekeepers and warlords. War is returning to the wasteland.
And War... war never changes.
Chapter 1: Documenting the Foundations of a New Era
Tim Frost snapped away at his typewriter as the rail-line pulled in to the third to last station. Too wordy, his boss barked in his mind's ear. There's no style, no pizazz, we need something that'll get asses in theaters. Malcolm Hamish was an old guard of the New California Republic Broadcasting Service, in the sense that the rising media entity wasn't less than a generation old. What had started as a radio station in the Hub had begun spreading out into the rest of the west coast, branching out into a newborn film industry. Public theaters were back in vogue, the lost arts of the past slowly resurfacing as the educated class in California could focus on things beyond immediate survival. Hamish was interested in money; Frost was interested in culture.
Reports from the NCR HQ stationed near Dayglow indicate that the three battalions sent forth to contain the encroaching threat of the Wild Khans have each suffered a casualty rate at the excess of 60% each. The equipment and tactics of the newfound war machines present a dilemma the NCR military has not seen on such a heightened scale before. General Pappas has stated that air superiority was called in to stifle the advances within NCR borders proper, but multiple reports indicate several pockets of resistance have been fortified to repel any NCR attempt to drive out the invasion. With toeholds secure, many in the military predict it will only be a matter of time until the "invasion proper" begins.
Frost took a moment to look over what he had written. Objective, factual to the best of his ability, but he could hear his boss screaming about dramatics. It wasn't some boxing match, people were dying. The Wild Khans, embittered by generations of historical grievances and emboldened by a supplier who provided them with "war-carts" (armored buggies that sat one driver in the front and one gunner behind) that allowed them to spearhead raids and eventually a full takeover of several towns in the northern NCR. After a disastrous battle between the Wild Khans and the NCR Army, a skirmish that was bafflingly chosen to take place on an open field, the NCR was gifted its worst defeat since the twilight years of the Mojave War.
Of course, while General Pappas and her commanders were preoccupied with the northern campaign, the NCR Senate, meanwhile, was more concerned with those who supplied the Wild Khans with the equipment and material. Thanks to the NCR Intelligence Bureau, various radio transmissions were intercepted between Urangal Khan, newly risen war chief of the Wild Khans, and an individual known as Jefferson. Future reports would reveal that Jefferson was an agent working for the Midwestern Confederacy, a former rogue Brotherhood of Steel chapter turned crusader state.
Apart from their sudden revelation during the event that would become colloquially known as "The War of the Glorious Cause" to some and "Zhang's Folly" to others, the Midwestern Brotherhood never made any serious attempts to open diplomatic channels with the NCR. The sudden move to arm California's most persistent menace marked a sudden escalation in hostility between the two nominal neighbors. If Frost was a man to share his suspicions, he would have offered that a possible alliance between the apparently growing East Coast Brotherhood of Steel might hold some of the responsibility for the Midwest's recent decisions. A risky gamble, if ever there was one.
Timothy Frost was taking a gamble as well. A Vault City native, having cut his teeth on the technical departments of the revitalized film industry, he decided he wanted to offer up his own alternative to the NCR's propaganda efforts, schlocky D-class films, and the… erotica arthouse genres that by far made up most of the NCR public's viewing habits. Tim wanted to offer up something different. He wanted to be different. He wanted to be a documentarian. His subject, the joint task force consisting of the NCR military contingents operating alongside the Mojave Nation's primer defense/law enforcement organization, the Judicial Marshals. This task force had been dubbed the Allied Expeditionary Group and was to be sent east into the Unclaimed Wastes to either deter or provoke the upcoming conflict. It was an opportunity too compelling to pass up.
The two Judicial Marshals stood impassively as the train pulled into the station by the NCR/Mojave border. The taller one held up a sign while his partner scanned the boarding ramps as the departees began to leave the cars. Military uniforms aside, it was a motley assortment of disparate units disembarking at the behest of their government to assist with the two's own. From the front came the red berets and the mohawked scalps of the 1st Reconnaissance Battalion and the 14th Volunteer Scout Brigade, respectively, the former being a relative mainstay in the NCR military for years while the other was an attempt by some in the government to integrate tribal citizens more effectively into the army proper.
"You think dad recognizes any of these people?" the tall marshal asked his partner.
"Anyone he could was probably smart enough to retire by now," the other answered.
"Then tell him that," the tall one stated as the next car opened up.
A collection of cleanly-pressed uniforms and near-pristine body armor filled out expertly. These were from the 32nd Guard Battalion, a highly professional unit that had protected NCR interests in northern Nevada against everything from the 80's raider gang to several ambitious splinter warlords from Caesar's Legion. It was also rumored that their CO took under the table contracts from brahmin barons and caravan companies, which would explain the heightened state of their equipment, the shorter marshal thought derisively to herself.
"COME ON, GET OFF THIS FUCKING SHITBOX ON THE DOUBLE! YOU AIN'T GETTING PAID TO SIT ON YOUR ASS, SO MOVE!"
A ghoul officer stormed off his carriage, barking orders at the rabble of molted soldiers grousing and welching as they exited their car. For soldiers, they were surprisingly insolent towards their commanding officer, cursing him out and snapping at him. The officer took every insult uttered towards him and somehow returned them with interest. Towards the back, a small pack of super mutants slowly squeezed through their exit, the largest one wearing an armband with three chevrons on it. This was the infamous 66th Assault Battalion, an all "mutant" regiment that specialized in hazardous environments, and a unit that carried a colorfully dark reputation if rumors were anything to go by.
Finally, in the back, the sliding door began to open, and technicians and workers both got to work unloading the suits of armor of the platoon of heavy troopers that had been tagged along at the last minute. The 5th Heavy Armor Battalion was supposed to be General Lee Oliver's crowning jewel and his most important contribution to the Mojave War. However, the late General's reputation had been thoroughly sullied and broken, to which the 5th also had to endure by proxy. Though well-supplied, the unit had been denied opportunities to redeem their name time after time. To the credit of all who came here, everyone wearing a suit of scavenged armor was a volunteer, so they were spared the usual snickering and backhanded comments. For the moment, at least.
"I'd thought there'd be rangers?" the first spoke as he held up his sign.
"They aren't repeating the same mistake they did twenty years ago," the two's commander said as she stood between them. "Took long enough to learn, but they sent their best troops north to stop the bleeding."
"So where is this dweeb?" the shorter one sighed behind her mask.
"Helmet off," the commander snapped.
"I'm just saying that this is a waste of time-" she tried to start.
"Now!" the commander barked.
Slowly, the marshal took off her helmet and pulled down her gasmask, her brown eyes downcast as her caramel face slowly bowed towards her superior. The officer in question snapped at the bridge of her nose with her finger, a soft crack causing the talented wunderkind to wince at the discipline.
"I apologize, ma'am," the ranger said as she looked up at her superior.
"I assigned this task to you two because I have more faith in you than most," the officer scolded. "Failing it will reflect poorly on me in more ways than one."
"Sorry, mom," the girl said as she reapplied her equipment.
Commissioner Natalie Boone sighed as she heard snickering behind her. Shooting a look back, her son was cowed back to his duty. "Good, now be good children and stay here until he shows up. In the meantime, I'm going to have a chat with Colonel Gorobets as soon as I find him."
"Wilco," junior marshals Tobey and Carla Boone announced as their mother/superior officer cut through the departing. "Finally get to see some real action and we're stuck guarding some pencil-neck," Carla groused the moment her mom was out of earshot.
"Hey, if keeping this dweeb safe nets us some political capital, I'm all for it," Tobey replied.
"And what are you going to do with "political capital," genius?" Carla shot back.
"Use it to get a gig that isn't some bullshit babysitting job, duh," Tobey answered.
Near the front of the train, a small figure slowly began heaving his heavy luggage from the train, piece by piece. The guy was young, mid-twenties at the lowest end with hair that looked like it was starting to grey far too prematurely. As he placed his terminal on top of his third suitcase, he took a breath as he leaned on his knees. Glancing up, he noticed the two marshals staring at him.
"You're my escort?" he asked, heaving in air as they glanced at one another.
"You with NCRBS?" Carla asked.
"That I am. My name is Timothy Frost, I'm something of a filmographic journalist. I believe your commissioner told you of my arrival and itinerary?" he asked.
"She did," Tobey replied, flatly.
"…OK," Frost nodded. "Now I just need to get this equipment to the hotel. We have a brahmin available, correct?"
"Yeah, about three-quarters of a mile down the road," Carla hiked her thumb.
"That would be excellent, now if you two would be so kind as to…" he paused as both marshals turned their backs to him and proceeded down the dirt road.
"We're bodyguards, not bellhops," Tobey called over his shoulder.
Frost took a moment to exhale, gathered his breath, and began to lug two suitcases by his side while another dragged behind him. It would take the better part of an hour, but before too long he reached the brahmin.
As he paused to stop himself from keeling over, he looked up to see the two marshals golf-clapping.
"A little help would have been appreciated," he wheezed out.
"Yeah, we thought so," Tobey shrugged.
"Since this is going to be a long stay, how about we get it out of the way now. What was that about?" Frost looked to the two.
The two traded a look with the other. "I guess we just don't appreciate tourists," Carla answered.
"Well, for future reference, please let it be known that I am here for work, not pleasure," Frost explained.
"The work of taking pictures of others doing the hard work, we are aware," Tobey replied as he slapped the flank of the brahmin.
"It's… a bit more than that," Frost tried to explain. "I'm looking to chronicle the expedition as it happens. This is a historic event and it deserves the documentation I intend to give it."
"Ah, so you aren't just another guy with a camera and a recorder trying to get another salacious headline out of the Governor?" Tobey asked.
"Please, I have class," Frost sniffed. "And nothing I can do can top Miss Kimball's little memoir."
Tobey let out a cackle while Carla muttered something under her breath. The former NCR president's daughter's vacation to New Vegas had been a memorable event. Intending to write a scathing rebuke of the Governor's policies and decisions, what Amy Kimball instead wrote was a collection of encounters in the Lucky 38 that often ended either underneath bedsheets or passed out to be discovered by the man's daughter. With many of the Mojave Nation's services rivaling that which the NCR could provide, she was left with little in the way of critique, and needed something with which to sell the book, was what she claimed.
"I doubt you could," Carla admitted. "We're burning moonlight. We have a reservation set up for you at the Tops. You should have enough time to get acclimated but not too comfortable, the AEG is almost ready to set out."
"The Tops? I had no idea such accommodations had been set aside for me," Frost exclaimed in disbelief.
"Why wouldn't it be, you damn tourist," Carla muttered under her breath.
"That is excellent news, you two. I can get so much work done! You know, I also covered some of the labor disputes in Maxson, you wouldn't believe how cheap Hamish was during that. I was basically given a tent. A TENT?! Can you believe that? With this equipment, I need a studio apartment at minimum, you can only imagine how strenuous that whole ordeal was. Additionally, I also covered that incident near Shi-Frisco, you know the one between the Van Graffs and the Salvatore Cartel? I was stuck there with nothing but a flashlight, some typewriting ribbons, and a recorder with no batteries! How I got out through that was a story among itself, what with-"
Somewhere past this point, both marshals made the decision to deafen their helmets, turning up the radio transmitter so they could listen to Heartache by the Number, and made a bet towards how long they'd have to wait until Johnny Guitar came back on. It was a long way to the lights, and judging from the plans that had been made, the last time they'd be there for a while.
As throngs of tourists made their way down through the streets of New Vegas, most made their way directly to the sights and sounds of the Main Strip. As the most secure part of the city, most were free to spend their caps without feeling like their literal lives were at risk. For those clientele who did in fact wish to seek out such a thrill, just off the street on the way to the main casinos was another establishment with laxer rules. This place was called the Atomic Wrangler.
Four rough-looking customers sat at a table, cards all before them. They looked at one another as the fifth member looked at her cards. She was young, barely into her twenties, and rather attractive, her loose t-shirt and jeans accentuating her figure without displaying anything, allowing their imaginations to actively work as she glanced over her cards. She had these idiots right where she wanted them.
"So, you guys here for business or pleasure?" she asked, coy and bubbly.
"Pleasure/Business," the crew said indecisively.
"Oh, sounds expensive," the girl narrowed her eyes. "I bet you guys got caps for days."
"Oh, yeah, once we UGH!" one of them was sharply hammered in the ribs by the bigger one. He threw glares at the other three, causing them to bite their tongues and avert their eyes. And I have found the leader.
"A secret?" she purred. "I love secrets," she giggled.
"Well, the boss don't," the lead lackey said.
"I'm sure he doesn't. Probably likes to keep things close to the chest. I know I do," she smiled. "And I doubt they'd see any reason to keep you four in further than you need to know. Weekend help tends to go that way," she said, absentmindedly.
"Lady, we ain't nobodies weekend help," the leader growled.
"Prove it," she asked as she looked over her cards.
"Ok, you know that cute little border patrol those goodie-goodie JM's set up in the north?" the leader grinned. "We found a gap."
"Where?" she asked, interested.
"Ah, that would be telling," the leader shook his head. "You'd have to make it worth my while, girly."
The girl placed her cards face down on the table, not breaking eye contact with the leader. Snaking her arms inside her shirt, she maneuvered her fingers to her back. A few moments later, a bra was dropped on top of the modest pile of caps. "I'm afraid I didn't bring much to this. I don't have much more than the clothes on my back," she explained.
"That so?" the leader grinned sleazily. "I think we can work out an arrangement. How about an hour of your time?"
"So far, all you've done is talk a big game," she turned her nose up at the four. "And only just barely."
"Girl, you seem like a swell lady, but our business requires discretion," the leader explained. "There could be a lot of ears listening in, and if the Judicial Marshals ever got wind of our business, that could complicate everything."
"You must be new here, then," the girl smiled. "Judicial Marshals have no jurisdiction within the city limits. The casinos all have their own rules and customs, and the Wrangler in particular offers discretion above all else."
"I… guess," the leader said. "But if this got back to the Governor…"
Something flashed across the girl's eyes. "…What's your name, buddy?"
"My boys call me T-Jack, little lady. You?"
"…I'm Rosa. Do you want to know something about me, T-Jack? I don't like the Judicial Marshals. I don't like being told what I can and can't do. And I really don't like the Governor."
"You served time?" T-Jack asked, incredulously.
"I've been a prisoner for so long, T-Jack. All I want is the freedom to do what I want and live as I please. And I want no one to get in my way," she explained, passion barely bubbling beneath the surface. "And what I want, T-Jack, is whatever your boys are involved in."
"…to top it all off with thirty cases of Jet from that rinky-dink trailer we got just south of where Carson used to be, we're looking at 200,000 caps a month," T-Jack grinned as Rosa poured him another glass.
"All with that Poseidon gas station serving as your relay point, clever. Just close enough to the city limits to avoid the Marshals and close enough to offload your merch to a bevy of locals and tourists," Rosa cooed as she stroked his face.
"You really do know your stuff, Rosa. How about you and I go upstairs so we can… finalize your role in our little organization?" T-Jack grinned.
"Oh, I'd love to, but the thing is…" Rosa explained as she returned to her seat. "I already won."
And just like that, she laid her cards on the table. A five, a six, a seven, eight, and nine. She had a straight flush since the game began. Grabbing her backpack, she began raking the chips in, stopping to pick up her bra and daintily toss it to the flabbergasted T-Jack. "A token to remember me by," she winked as she zipped up her bag.
"Not so fast!" one of the thugs immediately grabbed her wrist as she slung her backpack over her shoulder. "You cheated!"
"Probably," Rosa shrugged.
"So you ain't leaving until you make it right," T-Jack growled.
Rosa cast her gaze up to the balcony. A bouncer had been waiting with the rest of her things the moment she entered the casino, as per the deal with the owner. Drawing out a machete, the bouncer tossed it down to the waiting palm of the girl. In what seemed like the same instant it landed in her palm, the thug suddenly felt his arm go numb just above the elbow. He watched as his grip on her wrist went lax as it dropped to the floor, staring dumbfounded at the bleeding stump that remained. The moment his cognizance told him to scream, another strike cut his throat open, and he collapsed on the floor, gurgling.
Blood spattered on her face, she eyed the three survivors intently. To their credit, they all had decent poker faces, but the fact that no one was immediately trying to avenge their fallen comrade told her everything she needed to know. "…SECURITY!" she bellowed.
Almost immediately, a leather-clad super-mutant burst from behind the stage curtains. "What's up, Rosa?"
"These men attempted to dishonor me. You know how we feel about that," Rosa explained as she slid her machete into a leather sheath on her backpack.
"Huh-huh-huh," Francis grinned as the three were cowed into a corner. "This is the best part of my day."
As Rosa left the stage and headed to the bar, the owner of the casino stood by a wall as she passed him.
"Well?" he asked.
"As you suspected, Mordino muscle. This time they're using the gas station by Westside to move their stuff. Might want to have your boys swing by before they catch wind that someone blabbed," Rosa explained.
"Already done," Jimmy Bishop grinned, the young underboss smiling at the thought of cutting off another artery of the Mordinos' constant attempts at undermining his family's position as top dog of New Vegas.
"Great, I didn't so much as have to flash a tit this time," Rosa sighed as she shifted the weight of her backpack. It was about five hundred caps, a decent wage for an evening of work. Jimmy Bishop was effectively her oldest friend, going back years as he showed her the ropes of how to deal with people and earn the respect of those who mattered.
"By the way," Jimmy started, apologetically. "I got a message from your dad. He really wants to talk to you."
Rosa grimaced. "Of course he does," she gritted. "He only ever makes time for me when he wants something."
"I could tell him you're out, maybe back at Westside, y'know?" Jimmy shrugged.
"No, I… I may as well see what it is this time," she scoffed.
To the throng of tourists waiting outside the gates, many of them were annoyed to see a twenty-year-old Latina woman cut her way through the line. Where most of them were wearing suits and carrying briefcases, this one wore jeans, sneakers, and a loose red t-shirt in addition to the red bandana covering her forehead. Clearly, she came off as someone who belonged in Freeside with the rest of the hippies, were it not for the machete hanging from her backpack.
As she pushed her way to the front, the securitrons all trained their weapons towards her. "Identify!" the one in front barked. Rosa replied by extending her middle finger in front of its screen. "Analyzing… access approved. Welcome back," the sentry announced as the gate creaked open to welcome her to the bafflement of the tourists still waiting outside.
She returned to the too familiar sight of neon blotting out the stars and the desperate chasing dreams. Vegas was a shining beacon of joy to those who were impressed by bright lights and loud noises. She swallowed her contempt as she climbed the stairs to the Lucky 38. Reaching for the door, it already swung open as a pair of green eyes waited to greet her.
"Where were you?" the Governor asked.
"Out," Rosa explained.
The Governor grabbed her and pulled her inside. "And you have blood on your face," he said as he pulled out a handkerchief wipe it away. "Could you at least try to act presentably today?"
"If you want someone to parade in front of your friends, get a stripper from Gomorrah," Rosa snapped.
"None of that," the Governor hissed. "I see you're still doing that bounty hunting bullshit with Gav's kid."
"And I'm pretty good at it, too, Old Man," Rosa sneered. "See this?" she motioned to her backpack. "Five hundred for a little conversation."
"Is that chicken scratch supposed to impress me?" the Governor scoffed.
"It means I don't need to be under your thumb. I'm the only person in this town not stupid enough to gamble," Rosa snapped.
"The hell you are!" the Governor shot back derisively. "You think you're such a big girl because you've been wrapping small-time thugs around your finger? Well, guess what? I built your safety-net! I'm the reason you haven't been kidnapped and cut to pieces by the worst the wastes have to offer! All I want is to see you safe, and all you've done is despise me for it!"
"I just want you to give me the same freedom you gave mom!" she called out.
The Governor raised his hand. Rosa stood still, waiting for it. The two locked eyes and didn't flinch.
"…That was a low blow," the Governor growled, lowering his hand.
"So, what do you want, Old Man?" Rosa curled her lip.
The Governor closed his eyes to collect himself. He took a breath and looked her in the eyes once more. "You know what the AEG is here for?"
"What does that have to do with me?" Rosa scoffed.
"Yes or no?" the Governor snapped.
"…No, I guess," Rosa shrugged.
The Governor sighed. "You know what? That's fine, it's my fault. I should have talked to you sooner."
"No kidding," Rosa muttered under her breath.
"Oh, like you made it so damn easy!" the Governor snapped.
"Anyway!" Rosa called to get the conversation back on track. "What does a bunch of NCR rifle jockeys have to do with me?"
"…The Allied Expeditionary Group's primary mission is a show of unified force to give the Midwestern Confederacy something to think about, and to dissuade any attempts to take any territory in the Unclaimed Wastes, and to foster an alliance between the Mojave Nation and the NCR."
"Marching a bunch of toy soldiers into the desert, I got that part," Rosa sniffed.
"There is another reason that the public is unaware of," the Governor pressed.
Rosa started to listen intently now. There were a select few people who she trusted to be upfront with her, and for all his faults, the Governor was one of them. "The truth is, the goal of this expedition is to reach Imperial Texas."
"No way," Rosa laughed. "You can't be serious."
"We received a message from a city called Dallas. It spoke of the rising tensions between the Confederacy and the NCR, whom our alliance with makes it our problem. They haven't declared a side, but Barnaky has been making them offers. If this turns into a three-front war, California and Vegas are history. So far they've been staying out of it, but they've offered us a deal."
"What kind of deal?" Rosa asked, a pit forming in her stomach.
The Governor pulled out the parchment. "Oh, mighty Vanquisher of the City of Lights, the Confederacy of Steel has requested unto us aid with which to strike you down as you deserved in the twenty years prior. The Sons of Caesar have not broken, and upon His Grave, a mighty Empire has flourished. The Empire of Texas shall from this day forth prove to be a most worthy of adversaries, or perhaps the greatest of allies. Our great Deliverer, Caesar Lanius, has bestowed upon you an opportunity to save your existence from the coming wrath, and perhaps deny the Warmonger her conflict."
"Sure love the sound of their own voices, don't they," Rosa rolled her eyes.
"This opportunity is conditional. We wish to meet with your Blood. See if you have succeeded in passing down your worthiness and legacy unto a capable body of keen mind and noble bearing. We honor that who has vanquished us in the past, but only a suitable successor shall allow our respect to endure.
Cordially yours, Caesar Lanius."
Rosa looked to the Governor. "Did they say what I think they said?"
"Lanius wants to meet you before we can formalize any kind of alliance. Dipshit that he is, he still believes in crap like hereditary rule or something," he muttered to himself.
"He wants to meet me?" Rosa said, the words unfamiliar on her tongue. "You got my mom pregnant, so I have to go talk to the fucking Legion?!"
Lars Perez exasperatedly shrugged. "I couldn't make this shit up if I wanted to. I damn well don't."
Rosa collapsed ass first onto the floor. "Can't we… can't we just send someone else?" she started to breathe. "Just get a marshal and say she's me?"
"According to Natty, that's not going to work," Lars gritted, resenting every syllable.
"I'm not… I'm not cut out for this," Rosa began to hyperventilate. "What do they think I am, some kind of princess?!"
"…You are," Lars stated, sadly. "You're my princess."
Rosa collapsed her face in her hands, trying to steady her breathing. Her mind was awash with horror stories of the Legion, stories her father had told her to get her to behave as a young girl. Later as she got older, she learned the reality of what the Legion was, and how it was so much worse than anything her father had playfully threatened her with to eat her vegetables and clean her room. So much worse. And now her father expected her to go and talk to the worst of the worst?
"I don't want to go," Rosa breathed.
"I don't want you to," her father said as he sat down beside her. "But the reality is I don't think we can beat Barnaky's forces on our own, and I damn well know we can't fight this new Legion on top of it. Two fronts will push us to the brink. Three fronts will kill us."
Rosa clutched her knees to her chin.
"That's why I demanded the NCR give me the best of the best," her father's voice hardened. "I will do everything in my power to make sure that if the Legion even considers harming you, I will strike a blow against their little empire so hard that they will never forget it."
Rosa looked at her father as he sat next to her. "More than anything I want to go with you, but if I leave, Barnaky is going to know something is up. I learned that the hard way years ago, believe me."
"The Zhang thing, I remember," Rosa sniffed, wiping away a tear. "Not like anyone ever shuts up about it."
"See," Lars said as he pulled her close. "Now there is the Rosa I remember. If you give Lanius half the grief you give me, he'll sign whatever treaty it takes to never see you again. The guy's a creampuff."
"Really?" Rosa asked, incredulously.
"…Well, not really," Lars admitted. "But considering he ran from me, I can only imagine what you have in store for him, little Rosie."
"…How soon do I leave?" Rosa relented.
"Well, the big send-off is tomorrow, so taking into account NCR bureaucracy… three days?" Lars shrugged.
Rosa giggled. Lars had to chuckle too. For all the aggravation between the two, they did share a sense of humor.
"I'll go…" Rosa said. "On one condition."
Lars gulped. "…What?"
"My friends are coming with."
"Rosa, you already have a crack army of soldiers guarding you, how much more can…"
"The army is for you," Rosa interrupted. "This is for me."
"Well Carla and Tobey have already joined, so you're welcome there," Lars said.
"Oh, they did?" Rosa stated, surprised. "…Well, it's been months, so they've probably forgiven me by now."
"Forgi- what did you do?" Lars asked.
"Anyway," Rosa continued. "I'm also going to take Jimmy with me."
"Gavino isn't going to like that," Lars shook his head.
"Well I'm not leaving without my best friend," Rosa shot back. "And I'm going to swing by Northside too and talk to Joseph."
"Joseph?" Lars balked.
"Yeah. What?" Rosa asked.
"…How?" Lars asked, too stunned for words.
"He's blind, not helpless, dad. At least try to be forward-thinking," Rosa scoffed.
"Not what I meant, just…" Lars tried to find the right words.
"I didn't sleep with him if that's what you're getting at," Rosa said. "I mean, he's married and all."
"You know what," Lars said as he pulled her to her feet. "If they all agree, it's your call. Just be safe and come back to me, no matter what, you hear?"
"Crystal, Old Man," Rosa nodded.
Some of you who have read my previous two fics may be surprised to see that I have returned to the tab despite saying I'd never come back after finishing the last two fics. To keep it simple; I lied, or at least I was telling the truth at the time. However, the time has come to feel creatively validated, and this tab is the only one I can depend on to provide the interest and support I need to sustain a project. Please favorite, please follow, and please comment and review. And don't pretend you didn't miss me. I know when you're lying.
Special thanks to Iron-Tyrant for the idea of the lore synopsis at the beginning of the chapter. A quick refresher or just plain introduction would probably benefit a lot of readers. In addition, certain chapters will now have codexes, not unlike Lucky Dragon. So, if you are going forward for the first time or coming back for a read-through, a little extra incentive to explore the story once again!
