Chapter 18

Back on Track

A month and a half after the fight in Quarry Junction, Sandra finally made her return.

During the time after their battle, Arcade, Niner, Melody, and ED-E waited patiently in Sloan for Sandra to arrive—and after two and a half days, they decided to fan out and search for her. When they found no sign of her, they reluctantly resolved to return to the Lucky 38, hoping she would return sometime soon.

Meanwhile—as Sarah and Bryan worked alongside Veronica, marching out of Hidden Valley regularly and acting on Elder McNamara's orders—and while Mr. Burke comfortably enjoyed his new job as Swank's manager in the Tops Casino—Vulpes spent his time wandering the Mojave.

As days passed, Vulpes visited various profligate locations, trading his Legion coins for the local currency of bottle caps and simply observing the profligates in their day to day lives. The longer he wandered by himself, the more certain he became that he couldn't return to the Legion—and not just because of his doubts. He'd been gone from the Legion for a long while now, and if he returned to the Fort, he'd have to explain his absence to Lucius. Vulpes had no explanation for his sudden disappearance—which meant he'd likely be severely punished if he returned now. That wasn't a fate he would go looking for.

So, during this long lull in excitement across the Mojave—when every radio station broadcasted frequently about the death of Caesar and the rumors of Legate Lanius traveling west—Arcade spent much of his time in the penthouse of the Lucky 38, speaking to Mr. House on Sandra's behalf. Beyond that, he wasn't sure what to do next, and he was hesitant to act without her present.

Unbeknown to them all, Sandra spent the past month and a half soul-searching, meeting new faces beyond the Mojave, and learning more than she ever thought possible. The day she marched back into the Mojave, she felt stronger than before—empowered, rushed with the same passion that overtook her the moment she decided to assassinate Caesar. That passion seemed to have abandoned her in Quarry Junction—but now, it was back with a vengeance, and Sandra strolled coolly across the sand, tortoise shell sunglasses sparkling against the sun, Joshua Graham's silver 45 holstered at her hip, and a sleeveless duster decorated with the 21 spade symbol hanging off her body, shifting in the dusty breeze as she strode across her homeland once more.

Images of all the bizarre places she visited were still fresh on her mind—the peculiar robots in Big Mountain, the dreary and almost haunted atmosphere of the Sierra Madre, the beautiful scenery of Zion in Utah, and—of course—the devastated Divide, a fallout-riddled crevice she walked until meeting the other Courier Six. She had no clue why she felt the need to wander off alone for so long, but she knew that it was somehow necessary—because now, after all she'd been through in the past six-or-so weeks, she felt reassured that she could take on her original task of securing an independent Vegas without a doubt.

Perhaps she simply needed to find that resolve again.

Sandra smirked, glimpsing over at her companion and smiling confidently.

The baby deathclaw had grown up to her knees now, his little horns beginning to expand, his scaly skin starting to darken just the slightest bit. The creature peered up at her, and she nodded, pulling a roasted squirrel from her duster pocket and tossing it to him. He caught it midair and chomped on it loudly.

"C'mon, Scar," Sandra said, heading off toward New Vegas. "Time to go home."

Scar the deathclaw gnawed and made a barking noise as he hit all fours and scurried after her.

Sandra grinned again as the brilliant sight of Vegas stood before her. It felt as if she'd been gone for years, and her friends were likely cross with her by now—but it hardly mattered. She got everything she needed, and by now, the Legion assassins should've given up on tracking her and her friends. Things had aligned just right for her to move forward now—it was time to get back on track.

The music on the Strip was blaring a classical rock ambiance when she strolled in through the gates, the neon lights dancing about welcomingly against the early evening sky.

"Ooo-oh, we're halfway the-ere! Ooo, oh! Livin' on a pra-ayer!"

"Partner!" Victor exclaimed, rolling up to her. "Ain't you a sight for sore eyes! Where've you been? The boss man's been worried!"

"Yeah right," Sandra scoffed with a laugh. "He just needs me because he can't walk. I'm his courier for bitch work."

"Heh. I like you, friend. Have I mentioned that?" Victor replied, his cartoony cowboy face now smiling. "You might wanna head upstairs and talk to the boss man. Let 'im know you're still kickin' out here."

"I will. My friends are here, right?"

"Ye'ap. They've been runnin' things for you while you been gone, partner."

"Good. I figured. Seeya around, Victor."

"Later, partner."

Sandra began to walk past him, then slowed to a stop and faced him again.

"One more thing," she said. "Nobody else has come around asking for me, have they?"

"Like who?" Victor asked.

"I don't know, like… a guy in a suit, short black hair, blue eyes," Sandra suggested. "Anyone like that come around?"

"Can't say they have, partner," Victor replied. "We got a visit from an NCR messenger, deliverin' a letter from Ambassador Crocker… but that's all."

"Okay," Sandra nodded, turning on her heel and marching up the flashing elegant walkway of the Lucky 38.

Once she was inside, she took the elevator straight to the penthouse. She knew there was a longwinded reunion around the corner, and she was looking forward to seeing her friends again—but first, there was something she needed to take care of, a power-grab she'd spent the past month-and-a-half running away from.

It was time.

Sandra adjusted her stylish reflective sunglasses and sauntered out of the elevator, venturing down the rounded stairway and strolling right past the gigantic screen displaying Mr. House. She ignored his attempts to grasp her attention, approaching the terminal on the far side of the room and tinkering with it for a moment.

After unlocking the sealed-off room, Mr. House shouted at her, his voice trembling from the speakers as the nearest securitron rounded on her.

Sandra pulled the silvery new 45 from her side and popped off a couple rounds, making the robot jerk and flail before hitting the ground hard. She meandered into the isolated room, approaching the hidden elevator inside and not minding the wailing alarm system that was now echoing throughout the entire building.

The alarm passed by nobody's notice; inside the presidential suite, Melody perked up, hugging her teddy bear as she sat cross-legged in front of the TV. Arcade and Niner both froze inside the kitchen, abandoning their dinner and eyeing one another urgently. ED-E twittered from the hallway, tapping its metal shell on the elevator and frantically trying to leave the suite.

Arcade and Niner joined ED-E in the hall, stepping into the elevator and riding up to the penthouse with haste.

"N-now hold on," Mr. House's voice echoed from behind her as she walked. "We can work something out, here…"

Sandra shot the securitrons in the off-limits room swiftly, strolling past and marching into the elevator to the control room. Once she reached the darkened area, she ventured down the catwalk, punching into the computer briefly before Mr. House's cryogenic pod began to open.

Arcade, Niner, and ED-E entered the penthouse and overlooked the aftermath, broken securitrons strewn about and the off-limits area open across the room. Arcade broke into a run and entered the elevator with Niner and ED-E following hastily.

In the control room, Sandra stood before the machine, gazing into the wrinkled, two-hundred-something-year-old body of Mr. House, sputtering and gaping at her in horrified awe.

"Why… have you… done this?" Mr. House rasped. "So much work… undone…"

"Sorry," Sandra replied emotionlessly, tightening her grasp on the shotgun. "It's just necessary. I need to be in control to make our plan work out. Now, tell me… do you wanna live, or should I just kill you?"

Mr. House didn't indulge her with an answer.

Sandra nodded, raised her gun, and opened fire just when Arcade and the others entered the room across the catwalk.

BANG.

Mr. House's old skull erupted in blood and bone, and Arcade drew his plasma defender, approaching her from behind.

"Hey!" Arcade hollered.

Sandra took a deep, conclusive breath, turning to her friends and lowering her firearm.

Once Arcade spotted her face, he let out a sigh of relief and holstered his own weapon. A brief silence fell over them all, her companions eyeing the now dead Mr. House for a moment.

Then, Arcade marched forward and surveyed Sandra intently.

Sandra sighed. "Well… I'm home."

"Right. I can see that," Arcade replied, sparing a glimpse at the wrinkled corpse. "Hell of a welcome-home party you just started here."

"Six—where've you been?" Niner demanded, shooting her a look. "You just up and disappeared outta nowhere. Hell—we thought the deathclaws ate your ass alive. Melody cried for like a week straight."

ED-E let out an agitated twitter in agreement.

Scar the deathclaw slowly emerged from behind Sandra's leg, peering up at ED-E strangely. Arcade and Niner gave the young deathclaw a series of wild stares before turning their attention back to Sandra.

"Let's go," Sandra mumbled, nodding at the exit. "We have a lot to talk about."

In the following hours to pass—while the securitrons up and down the strip printed off the preplanned obituary of the now deceased Mr. House—Sandra sat in the presidential suite, she and her friends all seated around the elongated kitchen table. Sandra told her friends the entire story of her endeavors during her absence. Melody was delighted to see her again, nestling on Sandra's lap and embracing her during the entire conversation. Once Sandra was done updating her companions on the situation, there was a pause, and they all exchanged thoughtful visages.

"Well… I'm not gonna lie," Arcade eventually spoke up, adjusting his glasses. "I'm rather surprised you managed to survive all that—especially the Divide."

"Nah… the Sierra Madre was way worse," Sandra chuckled, patting Melody on the head. "But it doesn't matter. Everything's back on track now."

"You coulda told us," Niner griped irritably. "You just disappeared without saying anything."

"I know… sorry," Sandra muttered. "After that whole thing with Foxxy, I just… needed to take a walk and clear my head…"

"And speaking of Fox… of Vulpes," Arcade said, his eyes narrowing at Sandra. "What do you expect to happen with him now?"

"No idea," Sandra replied honestly. "I gave him a choice, and he'll choose whatever he wants. He might go back to the Legion, or he might help us out later down the road. Just depends on what he wants, I guess."

"He attacked us," Arcade reminded her. "Do you really think he's gonna have a miraculous change of heart?"

"I don't know… but I do know he wasn't in his right mind when he showed up at Quarry Junction," Sandra informed. "He was shook up and pissed off. He probably needed to clear his head just as much as I did."

"So… basically… there's no telling if he's gonna be our enemy or not," Niner surmised.

"Yeah, but I had to give him a shot," Sandra shrugged, combing Melody's hairs back. "Felt like the right thing to do."

"M'kay," Niner mumbled uncertainly. "So, ah… what now?"

"We get started for real," Sandra smirked with an excited twinkle in her eye. "We've gotta get acquainted with every faction in the Mojave… and we might as well start right here and now."

The abandoned campsite bordering the NCR camp south of Novac sat empty and desolate now—except for the lone frumentarius hunched cross-legged at the campfire.

It was the very same campsite used months ago after the burning of Nipton and the transportation of new slaved from the profligate town, the same place where Vulpes and Lupis did much of Lupis's initiation training. Though now, no crimson-clad warriors sat around the fire telling war stories, feeding their dogs scraps and offering Lupis advice for success. Now, only Vulpes sat here, looking like an entirely different person compared to his last visit to the campsite—no coyote headdress, no armor, no magnificent melee weapons and no proud bloodstains nor herd of captives in his wake. He sat alone in his suit and fedora, pounding down materials against a rock until a fresh supply of healing powder sat readily atop the stone.

His deathclaw wounds were no longer sore, and he wore his clothes from a stash just outside of Sloan, which he'd scavenged over a month ago. During all this time, he'd simply been wandering—observing profligate lifestyles and pondering on what drastic changes must've been overtaking the Legion right now. He knew for certain he'd be punished if he returned to them now, after all this time missing in action—and with nowhere else to go, he merely sat contemplating on whatever might come next and mulling over the past as well. He wondered what ever came of Lupis's training, and if Lucius was still in power—as Lucius was next in line for the throne until the arrival of Legate Lanius. From all the gossip he'd heard from profligates passersby, he knew the Legion was still presenting itself as a threat to the trading routes of the caravans and NCR soldiers—which meant that the Legion had all but fallen. The king had perished, but the clan still remained, and God only knew what might unfold now.

Vulpes sighed and blinked, glancing up and eyeing the corner of the nearest mountainside.

For a brief second, he could've sworn he'd seen a glimmer of light. After nearly a full minute of glaring, Vulpes turned away from the mountainside, collected his satchel bag, and marched out of the campsite, deciding it best to head for Novac.

As he marched up the railroad, his pensive eyes narrowed at the mountains in passing, his heart thumping anxiously, almost as if the mountains were staring back at him somehow.

Vulpes grimaced, leering up at the mountains and gritting his teeth. He'd trained numerous scouts and frumentarii in the art of tracking, and he knew all their tricks—as he'd invented many of them himself. Now, he couldn't help but feel as if his lessons were working against him. But, then again, he'd been alone for nearly two months, and he hadn't seen hide nor hair of any Legionaries. Perhaps he was simply being paranoid. He'd been alone for longer than he ever had before, after all…

Vulpes marched into Novac with a brisk stride, stopping off and trading many of the healing powders he'd made for a quick meal at the Dino shop. Afterward, he stopped in the road, considering sleeping in town and then deciding against it. If someone was following him, they knew the routes of Novac already—as the Legion had at least one exchange here before—and they'd likely attack him in his sleep, just as he'd trained them to do whenever the opportunity arose.

So, Vulpes took a swig of water from his vault 13 canteen, stuffed it in his bag, and marched on, strolling past the dinosaur and heading toward the open desert. He wasn't sure where to go—but he knew for certain he couldn't stay still.

Then, on the twilight horizon, his eyes fixated on the tower in the distance.

After walking off the road, Vulpes slowed to a stop in the middle of the desert, gazing into Vegas afar and suddenly remembering the offer he'd gotten from the courier.

Quite honestly, he hadn't really considered it before; it seemed a ridiculous idea at first. But now, after spending so much time away from the Legion—and practically making himself into an enemy of theirs in desertion—maybe it wasn't a far-fetched idea anymore. For the first time, his loyalties didn't seem to dictate his movements—only his logic. And now, logic told him there was only one safe place to go.

Vulpes let out a deep sigh, rolling his neck and preparing to march on.

He then stopped—freezing on the spot and inhaling sharply, his instincts suddenly kicking into high gear.

Vulpes glanced around, surrounded by a large boulder and a collection of cacti—and from behind them, the crimson-clad soldiers emerged.

Five Legionaries slowly strode into view, encircling around him and brandishing a collection of shiny melee weapons—and to Vulpes's surprise, a familiar figure approached from the head of the pack, flashing a coyote headdress and a long, glistening machete gladius.

Lupis glared into Vulpes with a vacant visage, Vulpes returning his cold stare in full.

And in the near distance—far above the scene, from the mouth of the dinosaur—a man named Craig Boone was sitting in his lawn chair during the first hour of his shift, squinting downward and lifting his sunglasses, as he spotted a hint of movement in the desert, though he couldn't quite believe his eyes. He frowned, raised his sniper rifle, and stared down his scope to get a better look—and sure enough, there stood five Legionaries surrounding a stranger in a sleek black suit.

Lupis cocked his head, cracking his neck and taking a brave step forward.

Vulpes shot him a severe look. "Don't even try, boy."

"Don't you dare talk to me," Lupis spat in a toxic voice that hardly sounded like his own. "Filthy… treacherous… deserter."

Lupis's four followers nodded in agreement, Vulpes grimacing as he read every inch of Lupis's serious expression, seeing no hint of the boy he once knew. His heart sank, and he felt an icy realization begin to sweep over him—he'd never seen it from the outside before. But now, it was undeniable; the beliefs of the Legion and the faith of Mars was the only thing that dictated the Legion's every move, not the loyalty that bound friends and allies together.

The courier called it brainwashing—and at the time, Vulpes didn't understand it at all.

But now—gazing into Lupis's hateful visage—he understood it more clearly than he ever could have before.

"You, the once great Vulpes Inculta… stand before me in the garments of the profligates," Lupis snarled, slowly raising his war-worn machete. "You failed to eliminate the wicked soul who killed Lord Caesar… and you assimilated into this… this revolting culture. How could you?"

Vulpes stared emptily at him. "How could you possibly know the courier survived?"

"She was seen, Vulpes," Lupis growled. "She was spotted returning to the Mojave from the decimated grounds of the other disgraced frumentarius—the home of the once great Ulysses. It seems she's taken a liking to you disgusting deserters."

"Lupis," Vulpes uttered warningly. "Don't think for one moment that you're capable of challenging me—regardless of however many little toy soldiers you drag along at your disposal."

One of the Legionaries jutted his arm outright, holding a sword dangerously close to Vulpes.

"Watch your tongue," the man fumed.

Vulpes smirked at him, releasing a few breathless laughs. "Oh, that is precious…"

As the standoff intensified—Boone continued to watch from above, his expression hardening and his heart pounding with anger. He fixed his crosshairs onto the largest Legionary, the one holding a sword outright.

"You did this," Lupis rumbled, daring to draw nearer. "You did this, Vulpes. Remember that during your final moment, when you're fading from this life."

Vulpes let out a mad, cackling laugh, spreading his arms and nodding at him. "Go ahead then, boy—I'm right here."

It happened—Lupis lunged forward and the large Legionary began to swing his sword—

BANG.

A gunshot echoed across the desert—the large Legionary's head erupting in a horrid mass of blood and brain matter. Vulpes didn't notice; he and Lupis were locked in war, Lupis slashing at him while Vulpes doubled back and whipped out the machete gladius tucked in the back of his suit—their blades shot sparks as they fought ruthlessly, the remaining three Legionaries advancing on their target.

Boone pulled the lever back and fired off another shot—killing a second Legionary instantly.

Vulpes slashed Lupis's thigh open, making him stagger back—and just then, another Legionary tackled Vulpes to the ground, raising his blade and preparing to strike—

BANG.

Boone fired again—and the Legionary fumbled awkwardly to the side, falling off of Vulpes and crumbling to the ground.

Vulpes took in a sharp breath, suddenly shocked, but he quickly shook it off—rolling over and springing to his feet. The last Legion follower barreled at him alongside Lupis—Vulpes's adrenaline pumping as a blade met his arm—

BANG.

Lupis's final follower fell dead to the dirt—and Vulpes and Lupis fought alone beneath the darkening Nevada sky, hearts thrashing and faces twisted up in rage.

Lupis hoisted Vulpes's collar and smashed him backward—slamming his head into the boulder and making his vision explode into stars. Vulpes's focus abandoned him—his hand moving on its own—reaching out with one final thrust.

"Agh…"

Lupis suddenly froze board stiff, his mouth falling open as he slowly looked downward, Vulpes's machete penetrating his stomach so deeply, the blade was no longer visible.

Vulpes released a faint, hissing chuckle, yanking his blade out with a sick suctioning noise. A splatter of blood followed, staining the side of the boulder as Lupis's stomach poured blood profusely. The young frumentarius fell to his knees, glaring up at Vulpes with a bizarre mixture of hate and regret, hot tears streaming down his face just before he slumped forward, hitting the ground face-first and falling entirely still.

For seconds that seemed to last for hours, Vulpes stood leaning against the rock, pained and bleeding from several places, catching his breath and glaring down at the dead boy lying at his feet.

"Fool," Vulpes exhaled, wiping his bloodied lip, his pulsating head beginning to spin.

His arm had been cut in one place and mildly stabbed in another, the sleeve of his suit now thick and heavy with crimson stains. He panted for a moment, glancing around at the bodies and wondering where the shooter was, though his thoughts began to trail off once the blood loss began to take its toll.

Boone lowered his rifle, narrowing his eyes downward and thinking the suited stranger must've been injured. Sighing, he strapped his rifle on, adjusted his beret, and marched out of his sniper's nest, strolling down the stairs and leaving the Dino-De-Lite shop.

By the time Boone found himself walking across the darkened desert, Vulpes Inculta lay unconscious beside the bloody boulder, numerous Legion corpses strewn about all around him. Boone paused briefly to survey the scene, then sank to one knee, leaning over Vulpes and giving him a light smack.

"Hey," Boone grunted loudly, slapping his face back and forth. "Hey, buddy—wake up."

Vulpes made a faint groaning noise, trying to gaze up at the shadowy stranger, though his eyes wouldn't cooperate.

"Oh, hell…" Boone grumbled, spotting the blood-soaked sleeve.

After peeling off his shirt and using it to tie off the wounds, Boone found himself marching off with the unconscious Vulpes slumped over his shoulder.

"Ring-a-ding, baby—that's what I'm talkin' about!"

Swank grinned as he stood behind the front counter of the Tops, reading off all the new business cards and giving Mr. Burke an approving nod.

"I presume I've done well?" Mr. Burke smirked.

"Hell yeah, you have," Swank agreed. "We're gonna be raking in caps before the week's over with all the new entertainment you brought us. I swear, man—Benny never tried this hard to keep the business afloat. He seemed like he was always out for number one. But you, you're a company man. Best damn manager we've ever had."

"Oh, well… I try," Mr. Burke replied.

"You succeed, my man," Swank praised. "In fact, I think you earned yourself a promotion. How'd you like to be co-owner of the Tops Hotel & Casino?"

Mr. Burke blinked behind his sunglasses. "Are you certain?"

"Of fuckin' course I'm certain—Mr. House just died today, and without him around, I'm gonna need all the leadership and management I can get here," Swank explained. "Not to mention, when you go to discuss business with the Omertas, I know they're gonna take you more seriously if you're on rank with Benny. You're not just a manager—you gotta be the new boss man, you dig?"

"Absolutely," Mr. Burke agreed, feeling a spark of excitement at the idea. "Thank you."

"Thank you," Swank said, slapping him on the shoulder. "Oh, one more thing—you got some mail today. Came from a caravan from the 188."

"Oh?" Mr. Burke perked his brow.

"Yeah—here." Swank dug into his suit, pulling out a wrinkled envelope and handing it over. "It's addressed to Mr. Burke. Apparently, all the other casinos got the same letter. Your friends out there have no idea which casino you're in, do they?"

"No… I'm afraid I didn't get the chance to tell them," Mr. Burke replied, opening the letter carefully. "But Sarah knows me well enough to know where I'd go. Vegas was certainly my first choice of a destination…"

"Vegas is everybody's destination, baby," Swank smirked with a wink, sauntering away to carry on with his business.

Mr. Burke marched off, sitting beside a slot machine and unfolding the letter. He held it upright and read over it intently. The letter read:

To Mr. Burke,

Where ever you are, we need to talk. If this letter reaches you, send one back to the 188, and for God's sake, tell us where you are. Michael at the Slop N Stop said he saw you walking off toward Vegas.

Anyway, me and Bryan are doing well. Veronica's become a damn good friend of ours, and so far, we've been running errands for the Brotherhood, collecting tags from fallen soldiers and scouting locations of rumored technology, etc. Veronica's talking about convincing Elder McNamara to let outsiders in, and I think that's a good idea, especially for this chapter. The Nevada Brotherhood are pretty wounded and isolated out here.

Maybe if I introduce you to the elder, we can show him that outsiders can be good allies.

Anyway, you better write us back, you creepy bastard. We miss ya.

Sincerely,

Sarah Lyons.

Mr. Burke read over the letter twice, sighing and folding it up before slipping it into his pocket. He took a moment to process everything he'd read, thinking well of Sarah and Bryan. He knew they'd do well in the Brotherhood, but quite honestly, he almost expected them never to resurface in his life. The two of them found a place where they belonged, after all. It seemed unnecessary for them to spare Mr. Burke any thought now.

Nevertheless, he smirked, knowing full well why they still bothered to contact him. It was a strange little bond, a bizarre sort of connection shared by all the misfits who once came together for Project Purity, a weird family of strangers.

In fact, the more he pondered on them, the more he found himself missing their faces—Bryan's passionate youngster attitude, Sarah's charming smile and silky blonde hair…

Mr. Burke ran a hand down his face, sighing again and reaching his feet. He needed to write them back—but beforehand, there was another matter of business he was scheduled to attend to.

He left the casino and strolled under the brilliant flashing lights of the strip at nighttime, smirking all around as he approached Gomorrah. As usual, he gave the greeter a nod and a wave, walking through the casino until he reached the door in the corner of the far room, across from the stage and the crowd. This door led up to Cachino's office, and it was always guarded by an Omerta grunt, just as it was now.

"I have a meeting with Cachino, my good man," Mr. Burke said politely.

The grunt recognized him, nodding and unlocking the door. He escorted Mr. Burke upstairs, both of them entering Cachino's office—and to Mr. Burke's surprise, the room contained more people than he expected, at least three others, all of them important members of the Omerta family, though he couldn't remember all their names off the top of his head. They all stood around the room, and Cachino was seated firmly behind his desk, his sausage-like fingers intertwined and his beady eyes staring up at Mr. Burke fixedly.

Mr. Burke gave him a nod and sank into the chair across from him. "I believe we're meant to discuss an increase in the distribution of grain alcohol from your stills in exchange for a greater supply of—"

"Nah, nah—forget all that," Cachino interrupted, swatting a hand and leaning forward. "I got a message for your boss, Burky Burke."

Mr. Burke's eyes narrowed. "I am the boss now, Cachino."

Cachino's thin brows raised. "Reeeally, now? Ain't that the cat's ass. You got promoted."

Mr. Burke flashed a whimsical smirk in response.

"Well, in that case… the message is for you," Cachino corrected, his tone taking on a note of severity. "We got a little problem, here. Clanden—shut the door."

One of the younger Omertas—Clanden—closed and locked the door. Mr. Burke took in a deep breath, feeling a touch of anxiety, though he showed no reaction.

"You listen to me real closely, Burky Burke—because you're only gonna get one warning," Cachino muttered grimly, his eyes locked with Mr. Burke's. "What I'm about to say does not leave this room—and if I find out it did leave this room, I'm gonna make damn sure you can't ever squeal again. You hear?"

"I hear," Mr. Burke replied tonelessly.

Cachino glared into him for a moment, then sighed, his shoulders relaxing. He grabbed a piece of paper and held it up. "You know what this is?"

Mr. Burke blinked. "Paper?"

"The securitrons started spitting these out a few hours ago—it's an obituary for the big man," Cachino explained. "Which presents a problem for us."

"I'm sure we can all continue to conduct business on our own," Mr. Burke figured.

"Yes… we can continue, but we can't move forward," Cachino grumbled. "Y'see, I had plans… we all had plans. We've been meticulously planning the biggest heist in the history of New Vegas, and we were gonna pull it on the big man himself."

"But we've been working with Mr. House since we got here… we know how he plans, how he thinks, and how he operates," Clanden said.

"Big Sal had it all mapped out for us," another Omerta—Nero—added on. "But, now that Mr. House is gone… it fucks up the plan completely. We can't plan around Mr. House's backup plans anymore, because Mr. House ain't the one in charge anymore."

"The person who killed Mr. House is in charge now," Cachino stated. "And the only people who've been allowed into the Lucky 38 are a courier and a few of her friends. So, I think we all know who's to blame here. They are."

"I see," Mr. Burke murmured, slowly nodding. "Well, what do you plan to do now?"

Cachino, Clanden, and Nero exchanged cold smirks with one another.

"Well… once the new leader gets cozy in the ivory tower, we're gonna invite her here," Cachino informed. "Big complimentary dinner for our new business partner. Horay for her. She and her little friends can eat 'till their heart's content, but none of 'em are gonna leave here alive. They die here, we clean up the mess quietly, and we move in on the 38 before sunrise. End of story."

"And, we'd like to extend the opportunity to the Tops—if you're willing to spare a little manpower to oversee the whole operation here," Clanden elaborated. "The Tops and Gomorrah will run a co-owned Lucky 38, and a co-owned Mojave."

"Yeah… we know this little courier is more than she seems," Cachino determined. "Hiring extra people of power to remove her is undoubtedly our best chance of success. So… Burky Burke… what say you, eh?"

Mr. Burke easefully intertwined his fingers, gnawing his lip as he stared down in thought. He knew himself well enough to know he could succeed in such an endeavor—in fact, manipulative struggles of power were something of a specialty to him—but now, as he pondered on the idea of killing a perfect stranger for money and power, his stomach gave a nauseated churn, and he resolved that he didn't like the idea one bit.

Still, he couldn't outwardly deny the opportunity. The Omertas wouldn't take kindly to that. In fact, they probably wouldn't let him leave this room alive.

Mr. Burke released a heavy sigh. "Well… it certainly is a lucrative opportunity. Who is this courier, anyway? Why all the fuss about her?"

"I'unno… she carried something important of Mr. House's, and she just got wrapped up in all this by chance," Cachino shrugged. "Just a lucky roll of the dice. But her luck's about to run out, you ask me."

"So… we wait for her to announce herself as the new owner of the Lucky 38, we invite her here to celebrate, and we do away with her quietly?"

"Her and her friends, yeah. She's got some junkie with her, and a Followers doctor… but Sandra's the main target."

"I see. And we…"

Then, Mr. Burke trailed off, the name sinking into his mind, a sense of disbelief washing over him all at once. As he sat across from Cachino in the cool leathery chair, he felt as if he was slowly becoming submerged in water, goosebumps crawling up and down him as he gave the man a long, skeptical stare.

"What did you say?" Mr. Burke exhaled.

"Sandra's the main target," Cachino repeated. "Sandra. Y'know… Courier Six."

Mr. Burke gulped painfully, trying his damnedest to show no visible reaction as he took in a slow, nervous breath. Suddenly, he felt as if he was living in a dream, as if an impossible series of coincidences were in the works, as if some divine being had orchestrated the greatest freak-chance reunion he'd ever know. Yes, now it made sense—the courier he'd heard so much about, the redheaded vagabond who visited the Lucky 38, the crimson-haired girl he saw in passing at the 188 all those weeks ago—it was simply too uncanny to be.

And yet, it was.

The Capital's lone wanderer had become the Mojave's mysterious courier.

And beyond the deep shock and bizarre coincidences of it all—now, the Omertas planned to target and assassinate her inside their own casino, and Mr. Burke was expected to go along with the plan without argument.

"Er… all right," Mr. Burke said, quickly straightening out and flashing his old devilish half-smile. "I concede, your impeccable eye for opportunity is too grand to turn down. I'm in."

Cachino grinned nastily. "There's a good man. But, for the time being… don't tell your buddies at the Tops just yet. We gotta have some time to spread some bad rumors about her, y'know… get the people on our side, make everyone want her gone. That way, hiring the Tops to help out will be much easier."

"An excellent idea. I love it," Mr. Burke lied. "No need to rush things."

"Exactly," Cachino affirmed. "Now, you can go… and remember. Not a word to anybody. Not a single word."

"Of course." Mr. Burke gave a conclusive nod and a final convincing smile, standing and marching out of the room.

He maintained his disposition of nonchalance as he marched downstairs, strolling across the casino as his heart and mind both raced in unison. Sandra, the lone wanderer—the courier—not only was she here, but she was about to be targeted by the most dangerous crime outfit in New Vegas, and he had no way of warning her.

He couldn't simply march across the street to the Lucky 38. He wouldn't be allowed inside—and if the Omertas saw him approach the 38, they would know that he intended to betray them.

So, Mr. Burke stepped out of the casino with his hands coiled into fists, feeling thoroughly frustrated and conflicted. He spared the Lucky 38 a glimpse before marching off down the strip, heading toward the Tops and wondering what on Earth he could do.

As he made his way back to his home casino, he began planning out his letter to Sarah in his head. He would write her back immediately, explaining the entire situation to her and pleading for her help. Truthfully, he knew Sarah probably couldn't help very much—but Mr. Burke was at an absolute loss. He hadn't the faintest idea of what to do now, and Sarah was the only person in the world who would drop everything to rush to his aid.

"Oh, God, I need you here…" he breathed, massaging his temples and shaking his head.

Then, Mr. Burke slowed to a stop, spotting something peculiar just outside the door of the Tops.

A securitron stood idly by, as if on standby. Unlike the others, this one had no militaristic face on its screen, and it wasn't patrolling the area alongside its robotic counterparts. This securitron had a cartoony happy face on its screen, and it seemed to be watching the Lucky 38 closely from a distance.

Mr. Burke stared at it, glancing cautiously over his shoulder before daring to approach the large robot. He glimpsed between the securitron and the 38, then gave the bot a tap on the arm.

"Beg pardon," Mr. Burke said, hushing his tone. "But, by any chance… do you happen to know Courier Six?"

Yes Man turned to him. "I'm sorry. My upgraded programming dictates I am not to answer any questions for anyone except for Sandra and her companions."

"I'll take that as a yes," Mr. Burke murmured thoughtfully. "Very well, my good man. I don't need any questions answered—I only want you to deliver a message to her. Do you understand?"

Yes Man stared at him, saying nothing.

"Right, you… you can't answer… okay," Mr. Burke uttered. "Just tell them this. An anonymous source from the casino's higher-ups happens to know about a big heist being planned against the Lucky 38. The Omertas plan to remove her and her friends from power. Now, make sure—make absolutely sure they get the message."

Yes Man didn't reply, but he raised one of his elongated arms, giving Mr. Burke a salute.

Mr. Burke responded with a smirk and a nod. "Good man."

Feeling somewhat reassured, he marched into the casino with haste, isolating himself in his suite and excitedly preparing to write his letter to Sarah at last.