Number Nine

by Hija de la Tempestad

Vulpes Inculta is tasked with contacting Courier Six who, besides not being what the Legion might need in the upcoming battle for the Dam, is more interested in adding him to her ragtag group than playing politics. Vulpes thinks he has played this same old game countless times... until he finds that he might be enjoying what she offers. That's when shit starts hitting the fan.

39. White Rabbit

"Number Nine"

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Ch. 39: White Rabbit.

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Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to viral and human experimentation, torture, gaslighting, war wounds, self-medication, and subsequent mild drug addiction. Tread with caution.

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"When logic and proportion
have fallen sloppy dead,
and the White Knight is talking backwards,
and the Red Queen's off with her head.
Remember what the dormouse said,
Feed your head.
Feed your head."

- Jefferson Airplane, "White Rabbit"

---

"One pill makes you larger."

At first, they had injected a small batch of ten or fifteen with the megavirus through vein.

Not a single one of those kids had been seen again at any of the following VR sessions.

"And one pill makes you small."

Then, another batch had experienced exposure through airborne aerosol deployment.

Those kids had been present in two or three sessions in Battle Royale Mode, with their avatars severely modified, although nobody had seen them in the flesh since exposure, given that their pods were situated in another different area of the Vault.

After those sessions, the second batch had disappeared as well.

"And the ones that mother gives you,
don't do anything at all."

Then, they had turned back to injections. Small dosages. But this time in the pineal gland.

It had been a success.

"Go ask Alice,
when she's ten feet tall."

She had been among the fourth or fifth batch.

The incubation period only took two hours, with replication happening from minute one, and full infectiousness lasted until the third day when changes, although not apparent, began showing on the individual.

Internal organs developed a thicker layer of skin; cell regeneration turned out considerably accelerated, having near-instantaneous coagulation in some cases, healing tissue in half the usual time, and full bone repair in less than a week.

That's how she had survived through many VR sessions: with broken bones and several internal hemorrhages that the medical team took good care of monitoring to see how her body reacted to massive trauma.

Without anesthesia.

Just to test their pain threshold, resulting in discarding immediately those who would lose consciousness after a few minutes, leaving them to die in their cots.

If you wanted medical treatment, you had to endure at least half an hour of excruciating pain. Because, out on the battlefield, immediate medical care wouldn't be available for you. If you passed out after being injured, you risked being taken for a corpse by the field medics, so you had to be conscious to call for their attention.

At least… that had been the theoretics.

"C'mon, Captain, you have to follow the lyrics. Unless you don't know them, which would be a shame. After all, that's the foundation of a friendship, right?: finding common elements to spark interest."

And so, she had countered their fucked-up expectations by tinkering with her hormone and nervous responses by creating the Painkiller Mode.

"Ain't it funny? Three months ago, I would have been unable to come up with such conclusions, much less finding a book called 'The Interpretation of Dreams' by some old fart who's been dead for more than a century as fascinating as I used to find new Grognak comic issues."

However, such an anomaly was bound to be found by the programming team, who controlled ninety percent of the premises from their desks by merely typing a command.

Hacking into their Pip-Boys had been a child's play for them.

"Now I understand why those maggots downloaded us those databases and all. They wanna test if we can beat their seven-year College Doctor's Degree in less than a year or something. What a bunch of fucking clowns."

And soon, the head of the research team appeared one day at the foot of her bed, gliding towards her with singular purpose once he had noticed her awake.

"Ah, finally, I make your acquaintance. Allow me to introduce myself: I am Dr. Victor Presper, Chief Head of Academic and Research Logistics Operations and Virology here at Vault 5." – snowy white hair, aquiline nose, stark blue eyes, and a thin-lipped, cruel mouth framed by the extremely fragile complexion of a man well into his seventies, his appearance had been misleadingly inoffensive for a man who harbored such a filthy, dark soul – "And what may be your name, Number Nine?"

"I just want us to be friends, Captain. Don't listen to him. His interest is fake. He ain't your friend."

However, despite her intrinsical fear, she had eyed his spidery, almost noble profile with the strange, placid calmness that her unnatural state conferred her.

"'Remember that I am thy creature; I ought to be thy Adam; but I am rather the fallen angel, whom thou drivest from joy for no misdeed.'" – at that time, she had read 'Frankenstein' a week or two before their conversation had taken place, but she seemed to remember every word, every paragraph to heart even despite having read it just once. No matter her memory capabilities being able to flawlessly recreate everything that excited her imagination; never, before the injections, her cognitive processes had worked so fast, so unequivocal. With just one read, she had been capable of quoting the book as if she had read it thousands of times.

It had been deliciously, ironically appropriate, given the circumstances.

And those immensely cold, immensely blue eyes had then shone with the joy only a most wicked, twisted pride could ever conjure.

"So be it, my young Promethea." – the old man had acquiesced with a sophisticated, gentle nod, his cruel mouth curving into a wrinkled smile – "Surely you must be aware why I am here."

"He's playing on your interests. He thinks himself so fucking clever when, in truth, he cannot teach you nothing. He knows nothing about his creations."

And so, once more, Frankenstein's creature had come to mind, comparing his misery to the likes of Lucifer, though not a single word had abandoned her lips.

She had wanted to play smart, knowing already that she had been discovered, mustering up a last shred of courage before she was deprived of all the digital memorabilia of her family.

They taught you to suck it up and endure in the Army, after all.

Nevertheless, she had discovered just how dependent she had been on those very memories.

For, in memories, she had found the only sanity someone like her would likely find in a world that wasn't the one she had left behind anymore.

And the red-right-handed man with grey, demonic eyes looking down from above, surrounded by the vile inheritance of his Shadow Governmental faction.

But Victor Presper had been an evil of his own, a Josef Mengele of the 21st century. A privileged eminence from Pennsylvania whose part in the development of the first strain of the Forced Evolutionary Virus had been crucial and a financial boost for West-Tek's NBC Division.

To the point that, before the Chinese bombs had transformed the American landscape, not only Presper had secured himself a privileged seat at the head of one of Vault-Tec's most illegal human experimentation projects in cahoots with the Enclave, but he had also helped to develop at least three more variants of the FEV that he had ordered to test at remote premises, of which he had full access to all of their databases.

Thus, controlling several experiments while trapped within Vault 5.

And she had already seen the outcome of unrefined FEV strains in the East two hundred years later. Most prominently, Vault 87's in Washington DC, and Huntersville's in West Virginia.

His ambition had known no bounds, and his inability to see the human beings beyond their assigned numbers had been bone-chilling, so Presper's strange interest in her beyond her given 'Number Nine' had been beyond frightening.

"The body cannot live without the mind the same a mind goes eventually insane without the delicate hormonal balances that the body provides." – Presper had then spoken again pleasantly as if giving a magistral class, fingers primly crossed in front of his nose as he had sat by the edge of her bed – "Pain is but a natural response of the nervous system to warn the brain that the integrity of its precious envelope has been compromised." – leaning over her face, he had added – "Without pain, the body cannot learn what needs to be repaired."

"See? He just wants to test your limits. Keep pushing until you'll break. Like a fucking drill instructor."

His smile had been cold, tight-lipped. Condescending.

"By avoiding pain, you are stunting the natural learning of your body."

"He did the same to me, you know. Making me warm up to him, trust him… No matter. In the end, we are merely curiosities to him."

"However… I can appreciate inventiveness. For the absence of pain on a battlefield can buy you precious seconds, even minutes, to bring an enemy down before you bleed out."

"Captain?"

"Perhaps… there may still be so much that we can learn from you yet, my young Promethea."

"Don't listen to him! He just speaks lies! You're not that special, after all…"

"And I shall not spurn you but embrace your cheating nature." – as he had kept talking, another one of those imprecise 'doctors' had grabbed at her left arm, plugging her Pip-Boy with something she couldn't see – "For whose scientist in their right mind would disown their own creation, the more if such creation has surpassed every expectation?"

"I am special, though. Very special. And I want us to be friends. You see? You're not special, but you can become special… to me."

"How can I disown someone who represents our future?" – he said, as pain began flowing again into her system, making her eyes water in agony.

"You come from nothing. Even despite the virus living inside you, you're still nothing. Me? The virus has made me a god. Together, we can tear these facilities down, show them the extent of their arrogance. Do unto them what has been done to us."

"For you, my dear, are our second step after what Armstrong, Aldrin, and Collins achieved a century ago. You are the key to claiming the place we have earned as superior species."

"I TOLD YOU NOT TO LISTEN TO HIM!"

---

"Sullivan! Sullivan, wake up!"

The moment she opened her eyes, dreams and memories dissolved into reality.

This distorted reality where Americans had survived the atomic bombs to surface again… and tear open the throats of their neighbors.

A reality where the new Red Menace were Americans dressed alla Burning Man Festival, football pads and all, using mower blades as machetes, feigning to be Romans.

Even cute guys, just like the two she had in front of her, all blue eyes and long noses, played soldiers under the thumb of some Julius Caesar fanboy.

Her life was a joke.

"Is she awake now?" – the youngest of the two asked, little voice and pouty lips frowning in concern – "Was she having a nightmare?"

"Probably." – the eldest replied, directing an icy glare to his younger counterpart – "Why are you still here, Lupus?"

"I just…"

"Did I give you permission to stay? To come at all?"

Remember what they taught you. Inhale, exhale. Hide your emotions, flip the switch off. If you cannot control yourself, your comrades cannot count on you. You're fine; you're okay…

"No…"

"'No', what?"

"No, Master Inculta, sir."

Oh, for fuck's sake…

"Cut the earful." – she grumbled, getting up from the military mattress, the world spinning slightly around as she did so – "'S too early for that." – then, turning to the puppy-eyed child, she changed the dial by smiling widely, opening her arms in waiting – "Morning! C'mere, you sweet strawberry cheesecake."

The boy blushed and gave the young man beside him a timid look that the other replied by rolling his eyes, delivering an approving huff.

She had squeezed the child to her heart's content. The boy likely didn't get many hugs here, and she doubted she would ever see him again, so she might as well make the best of it.

It had been a nice way to wake up in a place as overwhelmingly creepy as this one. Tender enough to keep the memories at bay.

At least for a time.

"I came to bid vale to you and Master Inculta." – the boy had whispered in her ear – "May Abeona and Adeona watch over your journey until you get back safely. Virtute duce, comite Fortuna." (1) – he had said with a solemnity uncanny for a kid before briefly joining his forehead with hers and quickly scurrying away after getting a goodbye lapping from Rex.

Such sweetness had made her heart ache. She would have loved taking the kid with her. And Melody. And Alexus and his two dogs. And the Ranger slave.

And half of the Fortification Hill, to be perfectly honest. She wished she could tuck all of these people under warm blankets with a bowl of broth and a bottle of Sarsaparilla in their hands and tell them that everything would be okay. That Eddie Sallow was an asshole and that they didn't have to go along with his megalomaniac fantasies anymore.

Sadly, those kinds of things only happen in fairytales. And her life was far from being a fairytale.

In fact, unbeknownst to her, her life had been about to turn into a Fucking Nightmare. With capitals.

"For the last time: Cottonwood Cove has NOT given clearance." – the stiff idiot from the raft, exciting as a pile of rocks as the man was, droned once ordered to transport the leader of the Frumentarii and his team back to the western shore of the Colorado – "It has been impossible to establish connection since this early morning. The radio channel has gone on static for hours, Praefectus Frumentario, sir. I cannot guarantee your or your men's safety throughout the journey."

Zorro… or Vulpes, as these guys called him (or maybe it was the other way around with her calling him by a silly translation of his real name and him merely humoring her), had eyed the tall man as if he were a cockroach stuck on the sole of his boot.

"And I, for the last time, ORDER you to take my agents and me back to Cottonwood Cove, Cursor." – had been his reply, clearly containing himself from punching the fool so hard in the face that maybe the loose gears inside his head would get back to their original place – "I have work to do. Besides, if Centurion Aurelius of Phoenix hasn't made contact yet, then the situation must be addressed."

"Still…!" – the daring fool protested before being immediately surrounded by unsheathed machetes.

The Master Frumentarius had then approached the bosun in confident strides and grabbed his face with a single hand. Thumb, index, and middle fingers dug cheeks painfully until they pinched the row of molars beneath the flesh.

"Talk back to me again, and I shall rip that insolent tongue out of your mouth cavity." – Zorro said. His voice chillingly conversational and even pleasant for the threats coming off his lips – "Do not presume your role be indispensable among us, Cursor, because it is not. You are completely replaceable if I so much as decide that you are best suited to fulfilling the role of a mute slave this instant." – nearing his face uncomfortably close to the now trembling ferryman, he added – "Do we have an understanding?" – as soon as the man nodded, he purred a long 'Good' that got Six all weak in the knees for all the wrong reasons before releasing him as disdainfully as he could, eyeing him coldly as the bosun ran through the gate to prepare the raft.

As she followed the Frumentarii walking in two neat rows behind their Commander, Six thought that, whereas she did find Legion's methods to ensure obedience as despicable as those she had observed on regular slavers from the likes of Paradise Falls… she was way too biased and in too deep to find Zorro… Vulpes as scary and maybe kind of repellent as his actions would otherwise have already earned in her eyes.

Which never ceased to worry her, reawakening old doubts the more she kept adding situations where she had literally looked the other way in favor of fangirling all over him.

He definitely had a cruel streak. And he often turned this cruelty into a performance, a show he held your rapt attention until he finished impeccably by pulling the rabbit out of the hat.

It was fascinating to watch how someone as socially inept as him, who often copied mannerisms deemed civilized and even 'sophisticated' in certain circles to the point he came off as almost robotic or even frivolous sometimes, was as equally capable as to elicit applause from his unsuspected public.

Because you might not be into crucifixions at all - very few people actually did - but, with him… He could be saying in your face how he planned to end your life, and your involuntary response, ninety percent of the time, would be, 'All right, tell me more'.

Because he was a showman, and his pantomime happened to appeal to A LOT of people.

That or she was a horny bitch who would overlook a second nuclear Apocalypse brought by his hand as long as he kept whispering sweet nothings in her ear when he pressed the red button.

It was paralyzing to think how much power he held over her and how easily she probably would have bent to his wishes… had she not feared Burke's imminent arrival so much she often wished she could crawl back to her grave in Goodsprings.

It didn't help how incredibly sweet he could be without even trying, like how he helped her to get aboard the raft, pale eyes cutting through her skin behind tinted lens, extending his hand so she could take it and aid her with her balance until she sat down, with him by her side.

He didn't bother about having the same deference with his men, not even his brother.

That made her feel stupidly special, and every single time she tried to dismiss the notion, there he was, holding her hand in the enclosed space between their brushing legs so nobody could see a thing.

Making her wish she could bring that dry hand to her lips.

The fundamental issue here was… that a person who behaves this way could eventually shift their attention elsewhere and give you the cold shoulder, just as he did with pretty much everybody else.

Real life cannot be lived up to fantastical, narratively-appealing proportions. If he could threaten a guy to rip his tongue for the sake of making a point, he could very well do the same to her.

"He has a long-standing memory. And he's notorious for holding grudges for years until he has managed to bring down the offender in the worst possible way. He's not someone you'd want to have as an enemy, amica."

If he was capable of misleading a guy into catching up with a bomb about to explode, he could do the same to her if she'd as much as get in the middle.

However, despite these misgivings, maybe she couldn't bring herself to worry anymore because things were rigged not to work out in the end. Maybe she really wasn't in her right mind after the bullets.

Maybe she was trying to rationalize what couldn't be dealt with any semblance of reason.

After all, she could put up a pretty convincing adult act when, in fact, she was as childish as ever, having not changed one bit in the last seven years of her life.

Having not learned whatever lessons Megaton and Ashton had blown her way.

"Snipers at ten and two o'clock for the Intake Towers 04 and 02 respectively, Commander." – the Frumentarius she believed was called Licaón (too many names, she couldn't be expected to recall the Legion ones too) informed once they had entered the river after leaving Lake Mead behind – "Less than three thousand yards. We will be at a shooting range in ten minutes, sir."

"The Dam?" – Zorro asked, grabbing the binoculars to take a look himself through sunglasses – "Since when have they reinforced security around the bridges?"

"I don't like this… I don't like this one bit…" – the ferryman muttered between clenched teeth, eyes wandering the eastern shore. They had already passed Fortification Hill's security ring after rounding Lake Mead from Bonell Bay, Northeast, so they were on their own until they crossed the Dam's danger zone marked by floating buoy cords.

Regarding transporting troops between The Fort and Cottonwood Cove, the Legion preferred to risk their hides under the minimal vigilance at Hoover Dam's bridges before trying their luck through the Kingman Wash Access Road that got them too close if they wanted to take Highway 93 down Southeast far enough from the Dam's security ring.

In the past, they had tried to establish an encampment near the Black Mountains, Northeast of Cottonwood Cove, to no avail. Too unstable a terrain, and too many hidden Deathclaw nests inside the labyrinthic mountain tunnels.

So, ironically, the more viable transportation had ended up being maritime.

There was a decommissioned auxiliary tunnel flooded bad enough for the NCR to have given up on restoring it, opting instead to block any access on the inside.

They had passed through said tunnel on the outward journey to Fortification Hill, long enough to safely bypass the whole military base to the other end of the southern buoy cord without exposing themselves.

They received a couple of warning shots nearby the northern buoy cord before being literally accosted with way more than mere .308 caliber ammo.

"Fucking naval mines?!" – Gabban had yelled before grabbing one of the extra oars and starting to help the bosun go faster toward the auxiliary tunnel entrance, dodging the impact zones on the water, evidently remotely detonated – "What the fuck, man?!"

But soon, it was made apparent that those missing projectiles and the strategic placement of the floating mines had intended to guide them toward the tunnel from the very start.

"Oh, no, you won't!" – Zorro had exclaimed before grabbing Six and his brother by their waists and launching their combined weights back out of the tunnel into the water – "C-4s!"

Behind them, a deafening explosion had collapsed the tunnel, effectively blocking any way in or out.

Nobody got injured beyond their pride, mostly the ferryman's, who had been saved by Rex when the dog had grabbed him by the collar of his uniform and launched him face down into the muddy shore.

After that, they had dodged a fair share of faraway shooting while Gabban had kept hissing 'Shitshitshitshitshit!' non-stop as they had retraced their steps throughout the eastern shore, finding shelter inside one of the many natural semi-flooded caverns.

"I told you!" – the bosun had yelled, clearly frenzied as he made histrionic fanning with his long arms – "I warned you about braving the waters today! No reports whatsoever from the Cove, yet YOU had to prevail over common sense! Isn't that right, Master Spy?!" – he had added, pointing Zorro with his finger until the Commander Frumentarius had simply backhanded him. Hard.

"Be quiet, you imbecile." – was all Zorro dignified to say to him before starting to distribute orders while he asked Six to teach him how to use the Pip-Boy's radio to contact The Fort.

All this happening around her while she had felt like a mere observer. Even when she had been running for her life or droning out concise instructions to establish contact with The Fort's radio channel, she had felt wholly disconnected from the situation.

It was probably a long shot, but the NCR knew the odd, primarily pre-War brand of armor she usually wore.

Maybe that wasn't saying much, but very few people with her petite frame wore those kinds of vintage, extremely expensive equipment. And no matter her concealed face, she bet those snipers had seen something out of place while aiming at an apparent Legion transport.

And there was the deal with that ambush. It wasn't something they had half-assed, like pretty much everything they did around Nevada.

They had prepared high explosive charges not just to block Fortification Hill's communication with the western shores of the Colorado, but to catch a very specific target.

This welcoming had been orchestrated. In less than four days since she had set foot in Arizona.

Boone hadn't been the only one watching them from a distance.

She eyed the elongated Intake Towers somberly, then the concrete wall of the Dam projecting its giant shadow all over the river canyon.

"I have updated the situation to our spotters, so no more maritime transports abandon The Fort until further notice." – Zorro announced once everybody got their bearings and at least one man was guarding the cave's entrance – "Apparently, the NCR are searching for something, for they have detained one of our supplier caravans from The Hub at the road blockage."

"They've grown bold if they're willing to risk their precious commercial treaties with the State Governor just because of some routinary searching." – Gabban opined, shaking water from his messy hair with both hands.

"Something tells me they don't care at this point." – Zorro replied – "Nevertheless, aid will arrive within a couple of hours as long as our Speculatores manage to dodge their dogs throughout Highway 93."

"Forget it." – Six said out of a sudden, having had enough at this point – "We dodge the NCR before their search deployment blocks us from crossing the river this side."

She didn't allow Zorro to even reply to her likely out-of-turn speech when she threw him one of the two devices she had brought with her before braving Caesar's territory. Luckily, those were waterproof.

"A Stealth Boy?" – he asked, incredulous, as she unearthed the other from her bag.

"Two extra batteries for each." – she instructed, showing them the aforementioned cells – "With any luck, we can stretch power by distributing among us eight by going a batch of two first, then grabbing the rest via hauling them up with a rope. We manage to get atop the hills; they wouldn't be able to go after us." – looking at the outer Dam contemptibly, she added – "They wanna play a game; they're in for a surprise." – turning around to the quiet men, she finally asked – "The two best of you at climbing?"

There was a sudden awkward silence, the legionaries exchanging bewildered, even surprised looks as if they had been just addressed by an alien until Zorro redirected the conversation.

"Ignatius." – he said, gesturing to one of the other Frumentarii who had remained silent throughout the trip downriver, slender as a salamander – "You and me." – once the guy in question nodded, Zorro approached her as she fished a rope from her backpack – "May I ask why do you seem so well stocked with all the necessary means to run away?" – he asked in a voice so low she doubted anybody else could understand what they were talking about.

She had arched a brow, looking him in the eye intently.

"What do you think?" – she asked.

It didn't sit well with her the hurt look he gave her before taking the rope silently from her hands and he turned around to start with the preparations.

She hadn't meant to upset him, but what could she say? That she had felt safe and, above all, protected once they had set foot in Fortification Hill? She would have had an easier time trotting around that old nuclear test site filled to the brim with Glowing Ones than navigating a conversation with Edward Sallow. Anytime.

Nevertheless, once he and the other guy got ready, they turned on the invisibility fields and began climbing the river canyon.

Laughs and shit will come later when they would have to lift Rex up.

---

She ached for a smoke.

Since this stupid Campaign started nearly nine years ago, she had sworn to herself that she would quit. But she had never found the right time to do so.

Not even at the First Battle for the Dam, which had been a close call when a Legion machete gladius had incrusted in her right calf.

Nearly three months later, four surgeries, and her discharge papers from the Rangers in hand, she had been too ready to exchange smoking for the bottle until she had received an offer from Oliver himself.

It had been a one-time opportunity. With her injury, the Rangers wouldn't have her back, and desk job had never sat right with her. Bureaucracy could only get you that far, and she doubted her temper could stand initiating a political career like many lawmen, Barons, and ambitious vets did.

No, her place was on the field… even though 'the field' as it was now had been reduced to telling people what to do instead of doing it herself.

She didn't like it, but it was way more than she could have hoped for. No matter Hanlon's misgivings about her tendency of 'being better at making graves than making friends', if she had this position today was only thanks to all the effort she had put in throughout her career.

She knew what she wanted and took it whenever an opportunity presented. Never lose initiative. Never lose momentum.

At barely sixteen, she had signed for the military experience, knowing the prospects awaiting her back home hadn't been any better than of her mother's.

She had always known that she wasn't cut for the housewife life, and the mention of children gave her, literally, a fucking headache.

Nevertheless, she had ended up marrying. Twice. Neither of those marriages had survived her career's medals and official acknowledgments with male partners who, despite sharing occupation with her, had somehow expected her to give up everything she had worked for the best part of her life to settle down, get knocked up, and raise a baby or two.

The more when she had acquired a wound incapacitating enough to reconsider her life choices.

She hadn't. And now, she was a happily divorced commissioned officer in charge of the NCR Army forces stationed at Hoover Dam.

For Cassandra Moore hadn't made it to Colonel by just sitting tight and looking pretty.

That was Oliver's job anyway. General fucking Wait-and-see-Lee, Jesus Christ. For a man that she had personally seen charge into battle with a revolver in each hand, like some kind of deranged vigilante from a radio play, General Lee Oliver was unexpectedly reticent in other arenas.

His stupid one-sided feud with Hanlon to make himself a name in the next battle against the Reds blinded him to the point he failed to see more pressing fronts to tackle.

For, if Father Elijah and the local Brotherhood of Steel retook the power station, Cesar's boys would be the least of his concerns once trained zealots in Power Armor armed with plasma guns would pulverize them all. Legion and NCR.

Operation Sunburst's success hadn't happened without a price. Two of her closest friends, the kind you can count with only one hand, had died there.

Anyway, the man couldn't be bothered with it. He had his own compound and all at the Dam. Why, one would suspect Wait-and-see-Lee couldn't give a flying fuck about what happened to his boys as long as he was tucked down there, surrounded by bodyguards and Rangers, the hypocrite.

She marched even more briskly across the catwalks and her leg protested. The effect of the morning pill was starting to fade, and she had yet to swallow up another ten-minute walk before reaching her office.

She didn't like taking those in front of the men. It spelled 'weakness' and 'drug dependency', and she was neither weak nor a fucking junkie.

Besides, the doctor had been conveniently vague regarding the dosage of her prescription. He had told her that she could take two pills at once whenever she felt her damaged nerves protesting. Which she took only before going to sleep. The rest of the day was a single pill every eight or so hours. Two made her drowsy.

Still not perfect, but better than being half asleep all the time, drooling her brains out on deskwork she abhorred.

However, neither could she give her one-hundred-percent when she was feeling sore and cranky, thus why her next medical appointment for reevaluation had been delayed indefinitely.

The automatic door took longer than she would have liked to open, mainly because she was teeth-grinding, cooking an upcoming headache if she didn't get a fucking coffee and her meds soon.

Once inside, as she waited for the kettle to wheeze the anticipated bitter, though aromatic scent, Cassandra debated between giving in or not to the temptation contained inside the single pack of cigarettes she had tucked away in one of her drawers.

She almost jumped in her chair, making haste in pocketing her meds again, when the door activated again and a young Private saluted from the entrance.

She grumbled her approval, nodding irritatingly as she wanted this to be over already.

"What is it?" – she asked curtly, straight to the point.

The boy flinched at that. She knew she had that effect on newbies, so she let it slip this time. Jumpy soldiers weren't the stock who won battles.

"Colonel Moore, our snipers report a Legion maritime transport crossing the red line." – he informed, quickly recomposing himself – "The transport has been dealt with per your last orders regarding any intruder trying to cross the river, ma'am."

That caught her attention very slightly. She needed that fucking coffee now.

"Very well." – she replied, making a shooing gesture with her hand, wanting that coffee as badly as punching a wall if her medication was delayed a minute more – "Go tell your Captain to deploy a scouting party to search for survivors. Any Skirt asshole would do for interrogation. A bullet between the eyes for the rest, even the ones who look dead."

However, watching the boy shifting his weight from side to side as if not knowing what to do with himself, Cassandra huffed.

"You are dismissed, Private."

"M-Ma'am…"

"What now?!" – she almost barked, seething with impatience.

The boy seemed to hesitate.

"Per your orders as well…" – he began, making Cassandra even more impatient with every word spoken – "… You stressed the importance of being informed should our men get sight of either the Courier or her Legion accomplice, Vulpes Inculta, trying to cross the river back, ma'am."

Cassandra gripped the edge of her seat tightly, the dull ache in her leg forgotten, her whole visage tense and in full alert mode.

"And?" – she breathed in anticipation.

The boy handed her a nondescript file folder. When she opened it, the black n' white photocopies from images taken in haste through a sniper lens made her salivate. The likeness was uncanny.

"Sighting confirmed, ma'am."

The silence inside the Colonel's office was deafening until the soft whistling of the readied coffee cut through it like a knife.

"Deploy two more scouting parties. Bring those two pieces of shit to me. I don't care whether it is with a broken leg or missing teeth, but bring them to me ALIVE." – she declared, tension rising as her headache pulsated along with the kettle's high-pitched whistling – "Do whatever you wish with the others." – she added after some consideration – "As long as the men clean after themselves, I will not pursue legal actions against protocol breaking on war prisoners' treatment."

"Ma'am, yes, ma'am!" – the Private saluted briskly before abandoning her office at one gesture of her hand.

And so, as Colonel Cassandra Moore enjoyed her second coffee of the day, she grinned inwardly, already weighing her choices.

We are about to see, Courier, just how much political weight Mr. Burke can measure in the Army if he gets ahold of your sorry ass back.

Maybe that first silver Star was even closer than she could have ever anticipated.

---

Hoover Dam's response had made itself known almost immediately.

Vulpes wasn't sure whether this had been on Oliver's or Moore's account, but damn if the Republicans hadn't earned their bread for once.

If I had to put my money on it, I'd say this is most likely the Colonel's job. – he thought bitterly as he pressed onwards to the best of his abilities.

Which was saying quite something about someone who had never worn Power Armor before.

They had had to act very quickly, even rashly, to get a chance at crossing the Colorado without raising suspicion.

Which was easier said than done.

There was just not a chance in hell to hide from the NCR scouting teams since they were on their turf, and they had spared no manpower to locate them. There had been not enough Stealth Boys, and Rex, while being the most well-trained canine companion one could wish for, stood out too much and didn't have the same climbing abilities as a human being.

And Sullivan would sooner hand over herself than abandon the dog.

So, in the end, the quickest and most sensible option had been donning a disguise.

To carry on with such a perilous endeavor, they had to assault one of such Republican scouting groups.

The first one, they had dodged by a hair's breadth. But soon, a second party had found and corralled them, so the only way out of the situation had been fighting back.

The good news was that there had been seven of those curs dressed in uniforms more or less fitting to the different shapes and sizes of his men. Only one legionary had been left out to play the prisoner part to ensure that the doors of Hoover Dam would open for them.

The fun would start once they were on the inside and had to figure a way out.

The bad news? Well… where to start?

"Hey, HEY!" – he heard Gabban's breathless wheezing behind Sullivan and him – "Any of you two Power Armor wielders can lend a hand with this bastard?" – ah, yes, complaints. Complaints abound. As per usual – "He's heavy as fuck."

Vulpes bit his tongue to refrain from throwing back an answering bitchy complaint about his own difficulties wearing this techy appliance straight from hell.

He couldn't have helped him even if he had wanted to. Moving around in the mechanical suit was already taking up all the strength in his body, not a single muscle or joint at ease while pulling the stubborn apparatus onward, fighting even for the mere act of breathing.

But that had been the only way to infiltrate the Dam if they did want to pass through unnoticed. There had been two suits of Power Armor, and Sullivan had indisputably taken one.

That had left him as the only sensible candidate for accelerated Power Armor training, given that the Republic was already more or less acquainted with his features.

"I'm gonna teach you the basics, but we don't have time enough to go through muscle movement and strain reduction exercises." – she had said once she had demonstrated how to open one of such said suits and how to get inside it with the due protective gear on – "You learn the hard way."

If Vulpes would admit it, he had felt a little insulted by the lack of trust she had put in his muscular capabilities and stamina (because he had damn good stamina, and her ignorance about it was merely due to… untested waters he pretended to clear up once she would grow less squeamish toward their intimacy)… until he had started moving around inside the damn thing.

Due to intense physical strain, he was sweating rivers while simultaneously cooking on his own skin.

It was like doing morning drills running amidst the desert. It had been a long time since he had to put his anaerobic resistance to the test.

"First, it would be suspicious if the leading veteran wielding a flamethrower would oversee the safety of his unit to help carry an unconscious prisoner." – Sullivan came to his rescue, replying to Gabban's former plea sternly – "And second… even with a laser pointer, I'm not touching that asshole."

One of the guys snorted, and Gabban got even more pissed.

"Is she allowed to talk about a fellow legionary that way, Fox?" – he inquired venomously, evidently seeking beef with the girl, whose company he didn't appreciate in the least.

"You mean a lowly, disrespectful, insubordinate Cursor?" – Vulpes replied dryly – "As far as I'm concerned, a Caesar's Electa can pretty much say anything about nearly anyone in the Legion without further repercussions, brother."

In fact, as far as he was concerned, she could call the mouthy bosun whatever her heart's content… as long it wasn't something like 'darling'. Because he would emasculate the bastard and shove his testicles up his gullet.

"I remind you it was the Cursor's ability got us out of that minefield, Fox."

Weren't he Vulpes' brother, Gabban would have already earned a kick in the balls. And without getting out of the Power Armor first to do so.

"Yes, and I remind you that I am still your Commander, Frumentarius, and you will accept whatever I say without further questioning." – Vulpes snapped, cranky and fed up already with this level of insubordination in a single day – "Are we clear?"

Gabban's undistinguishable grumbling was answer enough.

Lucullus' presence was a problem in itself that Vulpes didn't know how to deal with yet.

He was no Frumentarius, so his acting skills were next to none, and his physique was way too exceptional not to stand out.

Plus, the imbecile had gotten himself wounded by a stray bullet.

Thus, why Olivian had to knock him out once he had been informed that he had to play the prisoner part. Thus, why the men had to carry him along with another two corpses they had switched uniforms with and Vulpes himself had roasted up to make their visages unrecognizable.

Two enemy corpses, a prisoner, and a tame cyberdog walking by their side were incentivization enough to let them pass through the gates.

Vulpes wasn't going to allow some retarded Cursor to put their maneuver at risk just because he might decide to behave irresponsibly.

He was going to cross that damnable Dam, no matter what.

Besides, the Republicans had put up a decent fight before obtaining their uniforms.

Like, he would have never suspected bringing down a Power-Armored enemy to be so goddamned difficult. No matter if they weren't equipped with laser or plasma guns like the Brotherhood of Steel, a flamethrower was hell to knock down from the hands of a foe whose armor lent him the strength of five men.

He could count himself lucky that his Frumentarii hadn't been carrying just machetes with them.

The First Battle for Hoover Dam five years ago had taught the Legion how fruitless confronting guns with steel could prove when the enemy's tactics rely heavily on attrition. And this squad hadn't been any different when the foot soldiers had used the uneven terrain to play hide and seek until their heavy infantry had fallen down with a lot of sweat and blood on the Frumentarii's part.

Same old NCR, but with more sophisticated technology this time. Power-Armored Heavy Troopers had been a recent addition showing up in Nevada since New Year's Eve.

Guess the mysterious Mr. Burke had extended yet another juicy banknote to his Kimball puppet.

Vulpes couldn't wait to face the man.

He wasn't like any other foe the Legion had previously engaged. For not even the Republic could boast infamy the likes of the Enclave.

Caesar was well-aware that the shady pre-War Governmental faction was still very much alive in the East, thus why he had never bothered about further expansion beyond the Texas Campaign.

Vulpes had asked him once why ignoring such a dangerous threat in favor of crushing down the Republic, and Caesar had merely replied:

"A Strategos must know when to strike… and when to retract his claws, Vulpes. If I were to pursue enmity with a foe not even the old legend from Arroyo was able to destroy in its entirety, I would lose countless men and gain nothing in return. There is a reason why people feared the sight of vertibirds in the sky decades ago."

Unlike Aaron Kimball, Lee Oliver, and the other washed-up, softened, bland politicians of the West, this Mr. Burke may yet prove how a man can be a businessman, a politician, AND a soldier in one.

If he could cast fear in the heart of someone as exceptional as Sullivan was, maybe he was worthy enough to get beheaded by the hand of the Commander of the Frumentarii.

For Vulpes wouldn't allow the Monster of the East to rob him of such a trophy. The brute can have Oliver, Moore, and even Hanlon, even if someone as Lanius didn't deserve to bring down someone as respectable as the Chief of the Rangers.

But Burke? He shall be killed by his hand.

Then, that way, Vulpes could reciprocate the honor Sullivan had bestowed upon him by gifting him the head of her executor, Benny.

With these thoughts in mind, he endured the incessant pull of the Power Armor, and then, once the doors of The Dam opened for them, he was the first to cross the threshold proudly, wielding his weapon in front of these idiotic Profligates, who got fooled as soon as they saw the uniforms and the prisoner in tow.

"What's with the mutt?" – a man who wore the double silver bars insignia of a Captain received them after giving the names written on their borrowed dog tags – "Is that the Courier's?"

Gabban, who had been left in charge of Rex, given that the animal seemed to favor him above the rest of the men, put on his most charming interpretation of a dog lover.

"He ain't gonna be any trouble." – he rose to say – "He followed us once those cowards got disbanded." – squatting to the animal's eye level, he put on his best version of a baby-talking voice – "Didn'cha, boy?"

Rex barked enthusiastically, then proceeded to give him a face wash immediately. And Gabban endured with his most candid smile, no doubt cursing his brother and his Courier lover inwardly.

The Captain rolled his eyes, fanning his hand dismissively, apparently accepting the animal's presence without further questioning.

That was a mistake on his part. Vulpes himself would have doubted a pet so apparently docile around enemies from the start.

"Just one?" – the man asked, taking good note of the corpses and the unconscious Lucullus - "And what about the Courier and Dog Head?"

Charming. The Republic and their unoriginal recycling of epithets for two men who couldn't have been more different wielding the same authority.

He bet Callidus Anguis was rolling over in his grave.

"We were lucky we managed to capture one alive and bring the rest down, sir." – Vulpes replied, one-hundred-percent focused on his new role as the leading Heavy Trooper Lieutenant, for Sullivan's voice was too suspicious even with the distortion the enclosed helmets provided – "Those two managed to weasel off when we were entertaining their minions. Stealth Boys." – he clarified, still recalling the aforementioned artifacts with a frown. That was something he, definitely, had yet to work out with Sullivan – "I doubt they are bold enough to remain in our radius until the batteries wear off. They probably have turned tail back to Fortification Hill already, sir."

The Captain's countenance turned pale.

"Shit." – he hissed – "Moore's gonna have our hides if she learns that the Courier just slipped through our fingers." – pinching his chin pensively, he sighed – "At least we got one of those motherfuckers alive; that should soften the blow considerably." – inhaling once, he ordered – "Very well. I'll cover for you and your squad, but lay low until I return. Get the bastard sedated and monitored, go to the infirmary, get that Power Armor revised, and wait for incoming orders." – giving them a tired look, he added – "I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but a single capture wouldn't dispense you from duty today. And we're still receiving worrisome news from the Cove."

Vulpes tensed upon hearing that, knowing the news he was about to receive wouldn't make him one bit happy.

"Are we, sir?" – he opted for subtle diplomacy, dreading the answer inwardly.

The Captain huffed.

"One would think liberating fucking nuclear waste onto a Legion camp would be enough to finish those bastards, but they are worse than radroaches." – shaking his head, he added – "That son of a bitch of Aurelius and his goons have retreated to Lakelurk territory, East of the Blue Paradise Vacation Rentals." – huffing again in displeasure, he said – "I'm eating my helmet if Colonel Moore isn't sending us there to try and capture the fucking plumed cannibal."

At each following word, Vulpes had felt like vomiting. And not just because the damnable Power Armor was making his body scream in all the sense of the word.

Cottonwood Cove, the first and most crucial headquarters for the Legion at the West of the Colorado… wiped out.

By radiation.

Say, how many times did he tell that brickhead of Aurelius to dispose of that radioactive truck hanging from the Overlook?

It had been too easy a target, no matter how covered he had believed to have the whole perimeter. No matter how synchronized he thought his patrols had been. Ultimately, they had gotten infiltrated, and this was the outcome.

This… this was a disaster. A disaster the utterly inept NCR had managed to orchestrate while he was at Fortification Hill, trying to make his Lord more amenable to his carefully laid plans.

He turned around just a second… and all the braindead fools in charge of his masterpieces always managed to screw things up.

Without Cottonwood Cove, Legion's presence on the Mojave had weakened substantially in a matter of hours.

He needed to assess the situation, and he needed to do it as soon as possible.

Thus, he accepted the wretched NCR dog's commands docilely and went ahead with Sullivan to the Armory garage, where they got to sit tight while unnamed engineers oiled and tested their armors' joints.

Mars be praised, they didn't have to take their helmets off or even talk while these people did their job but merely to follow their instructions whenever they asked to lift an arm or turn around this or that way.

And so, he committed to memory the Dam's insides, quickly calculating how many men they would need to take it. The place was, in a word, gargantuan and challenging to navigate to a fault. Without the navigation poster signs, it was easy to get through the wrong door and end up in one of the Power Plants.

Scanning his surroundings with the advanced OS from his helmet, he almost jumped when a small window popped up to open a chat.

09:58 AM Monday, April 24, 2282

Courier VI: How are you feeling?

Wait. How did that message pop on the helmet's interface…?

09:58 AM Monday, April 24, 2282

Courier VI: I'm using the console connected inside the left gauntlet. The one I linked your Pip-Boy with.

True. Even if Pip-Boys were a rarity nowadays, the U.S.A. Army had used those just like any other weapon. A Pip-Boy, in the pre-War, had been an integral part of a soldier that they had had to care after the same they had to care after their rifles. They always wore them, and they never separated from them.

It took a while until his untrained fingers got the gist, typing blindly.

10:03 AM Monday, April 24, 2282

Fox: Why do you ask?
Courier VI: Wearing a Power Armor for the first time is taxing, you know.
Fox: Though I appreciate your concern, I am perfectly fine, thank you.
Courier VI: You sure? You've been wearing it for an hour. You must be drenched in your own sweat by now.
Fox: Oh, I am. However, rest assured, I am perfectly capable of enduring it.
Courier VI: Okay, Rambo, keep up the macho veneer. We'll see if you're singing the same tune within an hour or so. You should get a Nuka from one of the vending machines while you still can. Sugar will help you later with muscle aches.
Fox: And when will I be able to take off the helmet to drink it, hmmm?
Courier VI: … You can drink liquids and MREs while wearing your helmet.
Fox: How?
Courier VI: There must be a straw-like implement within your mask. You only have to insert the recipient under your helmet's chin and connect the straw thingy with an opening on the aforesaid recipient.
Fox: The MREs too?
Courier VI: Power-Armor-adapted MREs are all liquid. Kind of. More like a fluid pap that usually tastes like cold chicken and porridge and shit.
Fox: Disgusting.
Courier VI: Yeah, tell me about it.

They were doing it again, making small talk amidst a situation that couldn't get any tenser.

Sullivan had this ability to put him at ease by distracting his mind with interesting information, always close even if they couldn't even look at each other in the eye, calling him silly names she got from her extensive knowledge about useless, funny cultural references.

It occurred to him that she must have felt unbelievably alone, even amidst her group, pulling at strings for stuff people didn't get half of the time and didn't bother to learn about.

Her whole identity had been constructed around a culture that was, nowadays, as dead as desertic was the Wasteland.

In that regard, he had been able to relate with her immediately. In the Legion, being a Shakespeare lover and a converted instead of a born-in was the equivalent of speaking another entirely different language that not even his siblings could or were interested in partaking in.

Perhaps that was why he and Sullivan got along so well and found one another so fascinating. No matter if she had Gannon and he had Caesar. Their connection went on a vastly superior level to that of a mentor or a friend.

Thus, why he couldn't just stop thinking about her mistrust when they had traveled to The Fort.

Was it something he had said or done that had detonated such insecurity? They had even fought about perceived manipulation on his part regarding their relationship, and she had ended up crying.

He couldn't erase it from his mind. Not when they had ventured inside House's bunker, and he had failed in protecting her; not when she had fought Benny, and the only thing he had been able to do was tweak their confrontation very slightly in her favor.

He knew that his actions spoke by themselves, and that didn't help his cause: Caesar and Lucius had treated him like a child in front of her repeatedly, diminishing his authority among the Inner Circle, thus, making him not only powerless but vulnerable when it came to protecting her around legionaries.

He had felt utterly impotent throughout their whole stay at The Fort, knowing he had been walking a fine line putting so much stock on someone so apparently insignificant, vouching for a girl whose collaboration was – presumably – founded on seeking protection within the arms of the big bad Legion.

Even if Caesar himself had borne witness to her capability as an agent and a fighter, his perception of Sullivan hadn't changed so much to consider her more than an Old-World phenomenon whose skillset could prove useful but wasn't powerful enough to challenge a man of the Enclave.

To the Imperator, Sullivan was still a woman. A means to an end. A prize he could choose whether Vulpes was or wasn't worthy of.

So, in the end, this was yet another test for him. For his abilities and resolution.

The Son of Mars had decided to give Vulpes a chance to prove that, besides Lanius, he too could bring meat to the table.

This was the chance he had been waiting for to demonstrate that brute force wasn't everything a legionary should aspire to. If he proved himself, he could kick Lanius out of his golden podium, and then more suitable candidates could pour in to replace Caesar once the Son of Mars abandoned this world. Being it now or in ten more years was irrelevant.

And Vulpes could only do so with the Courier's aid.

He needed to explain all of this to Sullivan, and he wished he could do so now instead of staying put until they were sent to the other side of the river.

Which also brought that fundamental issue he still had to deal with: Lucullus.

They couldn't dress him as a soldier, and their squad, whether they were sent to Cottonwood Cove or not, was composed of seven men. No more, no less.

He prayed that Gabban and the rest would keep him under watch until Vulpes came up with a better solution to the problem.

However, Fortuna seemed to be in a peculiar mood today, for not ten minutes had passed since they had set foot in the garage when everyone around tensed, then rose from their positions to salute the solitary figure that had descended from the upper catwalk platforms.

Vulpes hadn't needed to look at Sullivan to perceive how rigid her posture was once she saluted the stern visage of none other than Colonel Cassandra Moore, who approached them without losing a beat.

After a long, uncomfortable silence that the woman spent eyeing them both from head to toe, she finally spoke.

"So, I've been told it was your squad the one that came in contact with Vulpes Inculta and his betraying minion, the Courier."

Vulpes' teeth gnashed unconsciously. They knew it. They knew about Sullivan's alliance with the Legion.

And they knew his name too, which only could mean that McCarran's investigation around Picus and the rest of the agents, lamentably, had yielded fruit.

This also meant that James Hsu was behind all of this, and not even Vegas' surroundings were safe anymore.

The quadrant where they had thought they could operate was drastically shrinking by the minute.

"That is right, Colonel, ma'am." – he replied coldly, already picturing how satisfactory it would be to erase the arrogant sneer out of the face of this Republican bitch with a riding crop.

Cassandra Moore was a baleful woman well in her forties whose presence distilled a distinctive antagonistic aura that didn't abandon her as she eyed him again pensively.

"Your name, soldier?" – she asked, and Vulpes shivered while thinking how a predator follows a blood trail the same this woman was getting at something with her circumvent ways. As if she were playing a game he had just arrived at.

"Lieutenant Liam T. Kowalksi. 7th Batallion, 5th Company, ma'am." – Vulpes recited dispassionately the information he had read just once on his assigned dog tags.

The woman in front of him squinted as if trying to discern something. Her dry lips drawn in a hard line.

"Take your helmet off, Lieutenant." – she finally ordered – "I want to see your face."

He entered V.A.T.S. almost on instinct.

---

"Let's see… Stretch your hand a bit. See how it feels without the brace."

Exercising his numb fingers until the first prickling sensation began spreading from tip to knuckle, Burke eyed the product of the medical team's work with guarded, albeit impressed eyes. Not a scar, not a bone misaligned, nothing.

Hell, he could even open and close his hand without as much as feeling soreness due to scar tissue making his skin tight and uncomfortable until it adapted back to day-to-day movement.

The technology required for bone and cartilage reconstruction on such a crucial area so full of joints as a hand is, was worth, alone, more than his caravans could make in a month.

Which only served to increase the knowing smirk tugging at the corners of Burke's mouth.

Erasing something as purely aesthetic as scars had been a bonus he hadn't been aware many ladies in the Brotherhood, especially the soldier type, had coveted desperately until he had introduced the due blueprints to the engineering team led first by Head Scribe Reginald Rothchild at DC, now, aboard the Prydwen, by Proctor Alice Ingram.

Funny enough, four years ago, these ranks, such as 'Proctor', 'Archivist', or even the whole 'Lancer' branch, were nonexistent. Even at the West Coast Division.

This was an entirely new model launched by none other than Arthur Maxson, who, pretty much like his ancestor, sought to reform the Brotherhood while still being scrupulously adherent to his precious Codex.

Thus, half of these newly-promoted officers were either bookworms or soldier brutes who had their Tactics' Manual drilled to the marrow of their very bones.

"Looks fine to me. You have nothing to worry about."

Knight-Captain Cade? Well, the man had his studies in medicine, alright.

But perhaps that was due to him being a tad too soft when it came to dealing with wounded, distraught people out on the battlefield. He had chosen his vocation wrong right from the beginning; thus, now he was a bookworm with the body and manners of a brute.

The man tended to forget that soldiers do get injured on a daily basis when the enemy is some mutated monstrosity that the radiation has turned crazed and feral.

"Just take these once a day and check back with me in a week." – he said, planting an Ibuprofen pill bottle in front of his patient. Plain anti-inflammatories – "Take them with a full stomach, though."

As if Burke wasn't already familiar with meds and their due compositions and prescriptions. In the Enclave, the REAL Enclave, there was nobody there holding your hand whenever you caught the flu, developed Agoraphobia, or a mutated aberration ripped half your face off. You just took your meds, stitched up your own wounds, or simply allowed the medical team to do their work and substitute any lost limb for a robotic prosthetic, any burnt tissue for cloned hair and skin, and any scar to be taken away by laser.

In the Enclave, you were supposed to meet certain standards if you wanted the respect of your peers. Otherwise, you were defective. Disposable.

If any baby born inside the Navarro, then Raven Rock facilities had come to this world bearing any detectable defect, they were euthanized on spot.

Otherwise, allowing a defective population to procreate among only themselves would have rendered their genetic pool useless throughout the first century of isolation. This way, if a child wasn't healthy and strong enough to survive on their own, what's the point of allowing them to live?

"Would you like me to take a look at that bruise on your jaw?" – the man offered with a smile – "You were damn lucky she didn't burst a molar or two with that steely palm of hers."

Burke's gut churned in disgust while the aforementioned bruise itched at the memory. Kind people, he detested them. They were way too easy to take advantage of, and the worst part was that they would accept it just like that, without asking anything in return, believing their actions sufficing for their own contentment.

Those were the kinds of people one couldn't entice or negotiate with.

People like Owyn Lyons and his daughter, Sarah.

People who, no matter the circumstances, would not budge an inch if that entailed deviating from their precious principles.

Fortunately, mother nature is wise and tended to wipe those out fairly quickly, for there wasn't anything valuable in principles when they could get you killed.

There's nothing respectable in someone willing to die in the name of people who would eventually forget about him.

The Lyons had been like that. The Adams Air Force Base had demonstrated that much once Sarah fell to Augustus Autumn's hands for good.

And now? Who would bother remembering them, father and daughter, an obscure, embarrassing chapter in the Brotherhood's history, when they had a Maxson at the head of an operation that could make the whole Organization reborn from its ashes?

Passivity, complacency, and, ultimately, kindness had been what had almost killed them in the first place.

"No need for that, Knight-Captain." – Burke replied icily – "I am sure these would suffice." – he said, getting up and picking up the pill bottle before the other man could add a single more word, abandoning the Clinic with a soft murmur of linen pants and Derby shoes.

Burke crossed the main deck languorously, still taking in his surroundings despite the novelty having worn off after a few days of living inside the gigantic flying structure.

The Prydwen, indeed, was quite the engineering work, sporting three distinctive exterior areas and another three interior ones.

The main deck, for example, was one of such interior areas, having three levels and a network of catwalks patrolled by sentries, thus sporting the bulk of walkable safe territory if one suffered from mild vertigo as Burke, regrettably, did.

Contained within the vessel's airbag, with the hydrogen inside several canisters around the outer hull, the main deck's access from the command deck was on the middle level, which featured from South to North Elder Maxson's quarters, Burke's own quarters facing the West, then Lancer-Captain Kells' quarters to the East.

The western side of the corridors had the Clinic, while the quarters of Proctor Quinlan, head of the Archives and R&D Division, were on the eastern side.

Moving forward was the Mess Hall, where off-duty men and women often relaxed around a beer or two and some card games in-between breakfast, lunch, and dinner hours.

Burke rarely mingled with them unless he asked for a coffee, which he perfectly could prepare in his own quarters with his own Espresso machine, just to pick a solitary table and feign to read a book on his Pip-Boy while lending a discreet ear to the local gossiping.

Because, Brotherhood or not, people tend to get loud and bold when cohabitating in such close quarters.

However, Burke wasn't in the mood to listen to the same rehash bawling today as his silent passing met suspicious stares that died as quickly as he crossed to the next zone.

Proctor Ingram's Power Armor Bay and Proctor Teagan's Armory conducted their daily schedules in close quarters without bothering each other… while the same couldn't be said about the Gymnasium.

Barely a corner near Bay 4 on the main deck's western side, the Gymnasium was a smelly, boisterous place where physical demonstrations of primate prowess took place almost 24/7.

While Burke wasn't too fond of the emplacement, he had known she would be there.

"C'mon, man, c'mon! You can't let her win!"

And there she was.

Even despite not being taller than 5'7 feet and weighing no more than perhaps 130 lbs, Laura's frame was as impressive as the 6'7 feet tall, muscled brute she was wrestling down to an embarrassing defeat.

While the man could easily have double the wingspan of her shoulders and weigh 80 more pounds than her, she was subduing him just that easy, trapping his wide, bulgy neck and face between the iron grip of her thighs and calves in a perfect head scissors lock while her left hand kept punching his trashing arms and legs whenever he tried to turn her around or kick her out.

"Do something, man!"

The man's face and neck were near scarlet due to strain, and Burke knew positively that he would run out of air before Laura budged. If he didn't palm the floor in defeat, he would lose consciousness instead.

And so, to Burke's much delight, the man showed more common sense than the average soldier type by signaling his defeat once he could take it no more.

The disappointment was palpable once she released him and got on her two feet with no problem while her opponent was helped by two of his comrades to get up.

"Shit. You almost got her, dude…" – Burke heard one of the men saying while supporting the huge man's build with difficulty, likely taking the loser to the Clinic as they passed by his side.

"Told you not to get tangled up in her games." – the other opined, perhaps more level-headed than his counterpart – "No matter you're the first of our promotion, Danse. There are some battles a man better not choose at all."

"Cut it with the crap, Cutler. If there's someone who can best that wildcat, that's our star Senior Initiate."

"I'd rather keep my friend in one piece, Rhys. Thank you very much."

"Damn it, I still cannot believe she got him that easily. That woman's not fully human, I'm telling you. She cannot be. She has to be enhanced somehow."

"Yeah, Rhys, yeah. Whatever rows your boat…"

And so, as the loser abandoned the improvised ring, currency and cigarettes were begrudgingly handed over to the silent winner as her stern, green eyes finally rested on Burke's silhouette.

She put one of the many smokes she had gathered in her victory on her lips and fished a lighter from one of the multiple pockets of her khaki combat pants, hitting the spark wheel with no luck thus far.

Burke stepped on and offered her fire with his silver engraved one, and she took the gallantry silently, inhaling a few drags before releasing sweet, cloudy poison through her teeth and nostrils.

He observed her smoking, unconsciously taking in her revealing undershirt and moistened skin, glistening with sweat under the vessel's artificial lighting. Golden threads that had come loose from her tight ponytail stuck to her magnificent, long neck tantalizingly while the delicate, bluish veins crossing her temples got slightly engorged with what Burke believed to be strain and annoyance.

Burke crossed his arms as the Gymnasium emptied, and only they remained; a tense silence stretched between the two until the businessman in him decided to tackle the issue by speaking first.

"How long do you plan to keep ignoring me, songbird?"

It enervated him a little that she would look him in the eye with such insolence, blowing smoke in his face as he grabbed her wrist brusquely when she was about to bring the cigarette again to her lips.

Laura had never been, by any means, an easygoing woman you just could talk things over with.

There had been a reason why he had preferred her over the leisurely quiet, docile type of women that inhabited the Tower, too immersed in their pre-War fantasy of decaying splendor to snap out of it when the situation required it.

Laura was a reminder of what fire and war could achieve if one wishes to strive for civilization. A REAL civilization composed of strong-minded, proactive, genetically unblemished individuals who wouldn't budge but thrive amidst hardness and conflict instead of growing lazy and complacent, such as their pre-War ancestors once were.

Vaults were designed with peculiar results in mind. And Laura's Vault, the 101, had been rotting on the inside for too long before James Alden had arrived from the outside world twenty-four years ago, thus why she had been able to go this far.

Unlike her fellow Vault dwellers, who were alcoholic slackers at best, agoraphobic isolationists at worst.

She was everything Burke had been waiting for… while, at the same time, driving him bloody crazy at the barest opportunity she got.

She was pure nerve, pure passion… and it was that very passion what made her so alluring, yet so impossibly difficult to reason with.

In that regard, she was as implacable as he himself was.

"Why?" – she asked cheekily, putting on a feral, insincere smile that was all teeth as she kept challenging him with those devilish eyes of hers – "Do you miss me? It didn't look like the case when you left me rotting in that golden cage, surrounded by hungry wolves eager to grab a bite in your absence."

He wasn't going to fall for that again. One thing was to apologize for a lapse in judgment, and another entirely different thing was to let his actions be guided by emotional blackmail.

"I am at a loss here, my dear." – he replied instead, voice smooth and posture proud, just how he was taught to talk with your equals. Never give even a hint of anxiety slip on your intonation – "Even though I have expressed my deepest regret and I have apologized profusely on behalf of your anger, you still come up with the same defensiveness. May I ask what else do you intend to obtain from playing this tiresome game of cat and mouse?"

What else she wanted, indeed? Hadn't the humiliating slap she had gifted him in front of the whole Brotherhood - with Cross and Artemis snickering under their breath at the sight – been enough?

Even despite her evident annoyance, Laura had gotten better at hiding her impatience, for she kept her perfect, statuesque features stoic as she answered with that velvety voice of hers:

"Perhaps I am still unsatisfied." – also, she had gotten better at keeping her anger in check in the long term, for Burke bet she would have already snatched her wrist from his iron grip, testing the waters with someone who might not be as young and full of vitality as she was, but could be as unyielding and rabid the same – "Perhaps I am still waiting for a sincere apology with just the right amount of genuine concern over my wellbeing… even though, deep inside, I know I am asking too much when it comes to you."

Burke gave her an impenetrable stare.

"Are you, love-bird of mine?" – even despite her cold glare, he was well aware how endearing epithets still got through her, ever the avid seductress who enjoyed thoroughly being seduced as well – "I ignored you have grown fond of such… domesticity. Perhaps the Tower has softened you around the edges after all."

"Is it too much to expect a reaction at all besides that frigid, businesslike crap you like so much to dress your words with?" – she spat back venomously – "I see I'm wasting my precious time here, talking to a wall again." – she added, brusquely pulling her wrist from his grip, ready to make her dramatic exit.

However, this time, he didn't allow for that elegant, creamy hand to slip from between his fingers as he closed his own around the soft flesh of her forearm just tight enough. Meanwhile, his other hand went for her golden crown, earning a breathless gasp as he pulled the ponytail loose, allowing her magnificent mane to cascade over her shoulders as he pushed her weight with his own to a darkened corner. The smooth, cool wall that met her back and his hand's obverse made her shiver.

"Allow me then to speak plainly, dearest." – he breathed, closing the distance between their faces, stopping but a hair's breadth from hers, stabbing his pupils into hers as the green of her irises disappeared – "I will tell you what I think." – he said, deliberately slow as his lips ghosted over hers, then traveled her jaw until they reached her ear, where he knew she was quite sensitive – "I think, you, my precious, do not want an apology at all." – he smiled, relishing the sight of goose pimples already blooming on her lovely neck – "But rather… a demonstration." – he added, rubbing the minimal stubble of his good cheek against hers briefly, earning yet another delicious shiver – "And, if I have to take a guess, I might even pass with honors the standards of your delectable, although ultimately convoluted imagination." – he resisted the impulse of kissing that tempting throat of hers, which keep swallowing, making skin and veins undulate, calling him like a siren's chant – "Starting, perhaps, with one or two well-placed, florid declarations of undying devotion…" – even despite her sweaty state, she still smelled so impossibly sweet that he was starting to salivate, having her this close for him to reach out and grab what undoubtedly was his – "… To continue through less rhetorical pathways I am sure you are dying to hear about with undue antici..." – oh, yes. He had her. He already knew it as he drew out the word languorously – "… pation."

He retired from her proximity to admire the effect his words had operated on her.

And her dazed, dilated eyes were testimony enough to inform him that his strategy had been a success.

"Truly, a shame we have to depart without sorting out this appalling state of affairs." – he commented, giving her a sly smile that put her on guard again, eyeing him indignantly at being played so masterfully – "Nonetheless… you know where to find me. My door will always be open for you, songbird."

And so, turning heel proudly, he departed, indeed. Back to his quarters.

Let that sink in. Eventually, she would grow tired of sleeping in the living quarters' common area and come up to knock on his door.

Eventually, she always did so.

---

First Sergeant Astor, formerly stationed at Camp Searchlight, later playing warning sign for everyone willing to listen to him about the radiation permeating the place since those Legion sons of bitches got the upper hand with them… now was currently following the lead of a man whose sanity he wouldn't give two bucks about.

For, besides being plain unsettling, the guy was the quiet type. The kind who acknowledges your speaking via grunts and answers questions through monosyllables.

Besides, there were the goddamned sunglasses.

The man didn't even take them off at night. He would know, given that he had seen him in action with them on in the middle of the desert dark. If Astor would, by any chance, discover that they were merged with the flesh around his eyes, he wouldn't be one bit surprised.

Nevertheless, no matter the first impressions, it was thanks to this creep that Aurelius and his lapdogs had bitten the dust at Cottonwood Cove.

For nearly a year, the Rangers at Echo had kept an eye on that place. Everybody at this point had known about that whoreson of Aurelius of Phoenix or whatever pompous shit the Reds called themselves once they killed enough people to beat their chests like retarded gorillas.

They had run a slave-trading operation, and the place had been one of the primary crossing points for Legion raiding parties coming and going up and down the river without a soul knowing how.

Their watchpoints had been operative 24/7, and their patrols had covered a radio perimeter big enough to basically make them untouchable.

That, until the sniper man.

He had arrived by night to the Searchlight patchwork encampment that Astor and seven of his remaining men had managed to put together to maintain the position for months until reinforcements that never arrived came.

Dark and kind of broody, he had barged in without a warning or even introducing himself to demand, of all things, that they 'stopped loitering around and do something fucking productive for once'.

Had he been just another big-mouthed Wastelander, Astor and his boys would have taught him some manners… but the red beret on his shaved head had given them some pause.

Besides, the man had been armed to the teeth and dressed to kill with tactical equipment good enough to give the matter some consideration.

Astor then had made a trade with the stranger: he killed the dispersed ghoulified feral soldiers roaming Searchlight's vicinity, and he and his men would follow him.

The bastard had merely taken a position not far from their encampment and had pulled the trigger.

Through his trusty binoculars, the First Sergeant had borne witness to the man's lethality as none of his bullets went to waste even once. Whenever he rested his telescopic sight, a bullet followed. He never missed.

He had wiped out nearly the equivalent of a whole platoon when Astor had told him that he had held his end of the bargain and, now, he would do the same.

Never in a million years would he have imagined that the madman would ask to back him as he proceeded to infiltrate Cottonwood Cove. Like a fucking ninja.

Astor and his boys hadn't done much besides watching his movements closely, relishing a perverse instant of Schadenfreude the moment he had managed to open the back of the blessed hanging radioactive truck, and getting a couple of Reds out of his back as he had sprinted on a mad dash outta the fuck of the encampment before the radioactive cloud engulfed him too.

And so, since then, he had been leading their small company up North through Route 95.

Not that Astor had much to complain about. Beating up the Reds at Cottonwood Cove had been a so satisfying eye-for-an-eye deal that it felt almost poetic.

They had been the ones filling Searchlight up with radioactive shit; now, their headquarters were drowned in radioactive shit. If that wasn't Karma sticking out her middle finger like a motherfucking queen, he didn't know what it was.

"Yo, sniper guy!" – one of the guys asked amidst the tense silence – "Where are we going?"

The man had an unlit smoke hanging lazily from his lips that he promptly lit up just to, Astor bet, evade answering in any capacity. He'd rather smoke the rancid crap he had found in an abandoned prospector camp where they had spent the rest of the night after the Legion skirmish than engage in some harmless conversation.

Ironically, they found the answer a couple of miles up North at a small NCR checkpoint, where a laughable handful of troopers commanded by a Ranger demanded they stopped.

"Sorry, but this area is locked down until we can dislodge some Legion snakes from Nelson." – he had said as a presentation card, giving the new arrivals a critical eye, evaluating possibilities – "We could use the extra hands, though."

Throwing his cigarette aside, the man with the sunglasses opened his mouth to form a whole sentence for the second time since Astor and the rest had known him.

"This is Sergeant Craig J. Boone." – he replied, to the astonishment of all the present company – "And now, unless you want to join us in wiping those motherfuckers off from the face of the earth, move aside. You're blocking my sight."

---

LATIN:

(1) - "With virtue as leader, with Fortune as companion."

---

A/N: ... It's been a while, huh?

Currently, I'm in a hurry after correcting this chapter, so I'll be brief: I'm getting a new job since the current one demands a lot of time flexibility my ADHD mind cannot cope with (yes, I have ADHD, and too many variations on a routine make me unproductive, unstable, and unhappy as hell), so I will start to work on remote in two weeks, so expect more delay until I get used to my new workflow. Sorry for that and sorry for the short notice and the hurried note.

Hope this chapter meets the quality standards of being interesting and entertaining. Gimme a month and a half or two months at maximum to deliver the next chapter.

See ya all and thank you for your continuous support!