Chapter 31

The Side Job

It was nearly four in the morning by the time Arcade and Vulpes reached their destination.

Arcade brought the bus to a slow stop down an isolated dirt hill, far north of Vegas and far from any form of society. Vulpes guided him here—and according to him, the Brotherhood safe house was just up the hill to their left.

Before either of them moved to leave the bus, Arcade let out a deep sigh, double-checking his plasma defender and looking to Vulpes.

"Do we have a plan, here?" Arcade asked.

"Oh yes," Vulpes nodded, flicking the Enclave hat over to him. The hat landed on his lap. "You'll have to do some talking, Mr. Enclave."

Arcade stared at him strangely.

"The same way we handled Mr. Quigly—only this time, you're gonna be the one to distract our target," Vulpes instructed.

Arcade's brows raised. "Me? Why me?"

"Because you speak his language. I don't," Vulpes stated. "I don't know anything about the Enclave—but you're another story. You can speak to him, make up a story, tell him you're on his side. And, while you're doing that… I'll be getting into position with the sniper rifle. Just keep him busy until I can line up a shot."

Arcade frowned. "I can't manipulate him like that…"

"Why not?" Vulpes asked genuinely. "This man is a target. A target who's been killing innocent people, need I remind you."

"Listen to me," Arcade said sternly. "The way you handled Tom Quigly—it was brilliant, don't get me wrong—but it was also cruel. You walked up to him and gave him hope right before we blew his brains out. That's a terrible thing to do."

"And according to the flimsy morality of your profligate world—killing innocent caravaners is also a terrible thing to do," Vulpes told him flatly. "And if you believe that, then you will do what's necessary to eliminate him from this world. Period."

Arcade let out a deep breath, staring down at the Enclave hat solemnly.

"And if that's not enough for you," Vulpes added. "Then simply remember why we're doing this. You wanted to keep your courier safe from this job for a reason. Did you not?"

Arcade nodded silently.

"There we are, then," Vulpes concluded, grasping the Ferguson Rifle. "Directly up the hill, there—just past that tree and those cactuses—the Brotherhood safe house is a bunker tucked into the side of the mountain. Walk up there, raise your hands, and present yourself to him as anything but a threat. Just approach him and keep him busy until I can line up a shot. You've got the easier job, here. Just get it done."

"Okay," Arcade mumbled. "But… what if he's not actually here?"

"He will be," Vulpes figured. "Lupis and I camped out here for three days before we gave up on breaching the bunker. I imagine anyone desperate enough to get their hands on the technology inside will linger around just as we did. But, if I'm wrong… if he's not here… then we just drive away and look for another lead on him. Simple as that."

Arcade hesitated, turning and giving him a troubled look.

"How do you… do this?" he murmured. "How do you just walk around and manipulate people like it's nothing to you…?"

Vulpes stared at him for a moment, pondering on this. Then, he simply sighed and shrugged.

"I've never had the luxury of choosing what I do," Vulpes disclosed. "In my old life, you do your job or you die. So… I simply did. Weighing the morality of it was never an option. Never something we were able to do."

Arcade nodded again, grimacing heavily. "I didn't think of it like that. I guess she… I guess Sandra was right."

Vulpes squinted at him. "Right about what?"

"About you," Arcade replied. "She said the Legion forced your hand. At the time, I thought she was just making excuses for you… but, considering the strict and merciless way the Legion operates… it makes sense. It wasn't all your fault. Well, not entirely, at least…"

Vulpes paused, glimpsing aside and gazing out the passenger window into the desert.

"Besides… you're making up for it now," Arcade smirked. "I hope you're being genuine with us, here. I really do."

Vulpes's eyes shot over to him. "Meaning?"

"Well… come on." Arcade made a sideways nod. "You know what I mean. You're a master manipulator, and I've been worried about that from day one. I still am, honestly… but you seem all right so far."

"Oh joy," Vulpes snarked. "I'm so delighted to be evaluated by you. How wonderful it is to be semi-approved of by you."

"Yeah, whatever." Arcade surveyed his plasma defender again, placing the Enclave hat atop his head. "I suppose we should get this done… but I need to change first. If I walk up to him in a Follower's overcoat, I think it might blow my cover."

At that, Arcade stood and maneuvered to the back of the bus, shedding his lightly-colored clothes and redressing in a dark t-shirt, a pair of black pants, and one of Sandra's larger leather jackets. Once he was done, he adjusted the hat, took a deep breath, and followed Vulpes out of the bus, both of them stepping onto the pavement under the night sky.

The bus was parked on the side of the road, Arcade and Vulpes hesitating as they gazed up the large hill before them.

"Do show caution," Vulpes advised.

"Yeah… I planned to," Arcade replied caustically.

"Not just for the Enclave remnant," Vulpes clarified. "We're near cazador territory, here."

"Oh… what I need," Arcade snarked. "A violent Enclave lunatic and a poison dart up my ass… oh, yes, what a wonderful day it'll be."

Vulpes scoffed out a noise that might've been a laugh.

They met eyes, nodded, and set off, stepping onto the dirt and slowly breaking off from one another—Arcade heading directly up the hill while Vulpes took the longer route, sneaking up the mountainside far in the darkened distance. Arcade stopped, giving Vulpes a few minutes to get closer to his position—and then, the doctor resumed his pace, his heart beginning to pound as he trekked farther up the hill.

It wasn't long before his destination came into view—a huge metal door tucked in the mountainside, a tarp hanging from two trees and fashioned into a tent, a sleeping bag beneath the tent's canopy, and a dead campfire of charred black wood. Arcade gulped heavily, observing the safe house and the campsite outside of it, his eyes scanning the environment warily as he searched for any hint of movement.

Seconds later—a man stepped out from behind the largest tree, an old gentleman with silvery hair and a mustache to match, wearing the brown-and-black uniform that marked him as an officer of the Enclave. The man stepped out and raised his plasma rifle, scowling at Arcade—and Arcade instantly raised his hands, his heart giving a jolt.

Then, a stroke of genius hit him—Arcade placed his hand to his forehead, giving the Enclave officer a salute. It was a unique and specific sort of salute, one he remembered his father and his friends giving to one another when he was a child—the salute of the Enclave.

The Enclave remnant stared at him, now hesitating, eyeing the salute and the hat on Arcade's head. Then, he slowly lowered his rifle, though he didn't loosen his grasp on it.

"General Onda of Camp Navarro," the man introduced himself. "Who are you?"

Arcade felt a pained tug in his chest at hearing the word Navarro.

"I'm the son of Mark Gannon of Camp Navarro—of the Devil's Brigade," Arcade stated.

The man named Onda stared at him for a moment, seeming both surprised and doubtful.

"The Devil's Brigade," Onda muttered. "Really…?"

Arcade nodded. "I'm just… one of the last ones left. But I never forgot my father's way. Never. And, I'm sure… you never forgot the old ways, either."

"Damn straight," Onda agreed. "How'd you know I was here?"

"Er…" Arcade quickly blurted a response without thinking. "Your partner told me."

Onda perked a silvery eyebrows at him. "Quantrill did? Before he died…?"

Arcade nodded—he had no clue who Quantrill was, but it hardly mattered.

Onda frowned deeply. "He shouldn't have died in that damn caravan incident. One of them fuckers got a lucky shot off at him… all these years, scavenging and preparing, and he just…"

"Preparing," Arcade uttered. "Preparing for what? If I might ask…"

"To begin again," Onda stated powerfully. "Reunite whoever's left—recruit some young blood—and bring America to glory again. The Colonial promised us."

Arcade's stomach began to turn uncomfortably. The idea of trying to restart the Enclave was bad—but it was also a blatant pipe dream, something this lonesome old man could never accomplish. Looking at this beaten old man now, Arcade felt more pity than he did dread. It seemed painfully obvious that Onda was living far in the past, desperate to chase a dream that could never come true.

Then—Arcade caught the faintest hint of a sparkle far up the hill behind Onda, presumably from the rifle Vulpes carried as he settled into position. Onda was preparing to turn around and face the hill, but Arcade hurriedly grasped his attention again.

"Look—I understand where you're coming from," Arcade assured. "But don't you think the Enclave is a little past repairing now?"

Onda glared at him as if he'd just been smacked across the face.

"How dare you," he growled, taking a wide step forward. "How dare you suggest to me that the American way is not worth the time and effort of trying to resurrect!"

"It's not that—it's not that it's not worth it," Arcade stammered, inching away. "It's just not possible at this point. I—"

"No." Onda stopped feet away, raising his rifle and aligning it with Arcade's head. "I will not give in to this new world. Never. And if you're not on my side—then you're my enemy."

"L-listen to me," Arcade stammered, trying to force himself calm as the cold steel of the rifle pressed lightly to his forehead. "This world is very American—there's a lot of freedom out here. Borderline anarchistic freedom in many cases. The American way hasn't died, it's just—"

"You're just blathering—carrying on with excuses!" Onda snarled. "The Enclave way is the only way, and your blessed father knew that! If you really are Mark's son—then he'd be ashamed of you right now!"

Arcade fell deathly silent, his frightened visage fading into a much darker one.

After a long, tense silence—Arcade suddenly acted without thinking. He smacked the rifle to the side—knocking it from Onda's hands and sending it flying down the hill. Arcade reached for his plasma defender—but Onda was rushing him now—whipping out a knife and—

BANG.

Arcade jumped and took in a sharp gasp—he stumbled back and quickly side-stepped, Onda's corpse fumbling past him and collapsing crookedly to the ground, blood oozing from the back of his skull.

A grim quietness overtook the atmosphere as Arcade stood stock still, feeling shaken and staring down at the body. He didn't move, even when he heard Vulpes sliding down the hill behind him, then his footsteps approaching.

For a moment, the two of them merely stared at the corpse, Vulpes sighing and returning the Ferguson Rifle to its sling, then folding his arms and giving a conclusive nod.

"It's done," Vulpes remarked. "Wasn't so difficult, now was it?"

Arcade frowned grimly at the Enclave officer's corpse, strangely feeling none of the regret he expected to feel.

"He deserved it," Arcade grumbled coldly, grabbing Onda's knife from the ground and jabbing the blade into Onda's hand angrily—lopping off his index finger in one single thrust.

Vulpes raised his brows interestingly. "Well, you've… changed your tone."

Arcade slipped the finger into his pocket and marched off without replying. Vulpes spared him a curious squint before following suit.

Sandra awoke to a late morning in her Novac motel, stirring in her bed just around the time Arcade managed to park the bus on the main road once more.

When she sat up and peered around, she saw that the room was empty, aside from Scar curled up on the blankets beside her. The other's must've been out trading or having lunch…

Sandra combed her hairs down and pondered for a moment. The man who sent her the letter—an old man named Sellers—was apparently living in the room just below hers. Visiting him was the only productive thing she could do as of now.

So, after redressing and eating a quick breakfast, Sandra left the room with Scar pitter-pattering along at her heels, strolling down the stairs as the late morning sun washed over the town of Novac. Once she reached the room below the balcony, she knocked on it thrice and waited for an answer.

"Come in," an old, muffled voice spoke from behind the door.

Sandra turned the knob and stepped inside—another room like hers, but dimmer, and the gentle beeping of a heart monitor echoed softly across the room rather than any songs from a radio. Directly across from her, at the small table, sat an old silver-haired man in a sweater vest, his face heavily care-worn and his tiny silver-black eyes attempting to fixate on her.

After gently closing the door, Sandra slowly approached the old man, her eyes wandering around—spotting the heart monitor against the wall, the IV just beside the old man's chair, and several chems and medications sitting on the table beside him. Old Man Sellers was clearly in bad shape, health-wise.

"You, there… come closer, please," Sellers said softly, expending a bit of strength as he waved her closer. "Closer, there, now… so I can see you clearly."

Sandra stopped a couple feet away from him, surveying him closely. "Mr. Sellers?"

"Yes… and you… Courier Six," Sellers murmured weakly. "You are… you are Courier Six, aren't you?"

"Yeah," Sandra nodded. "But my name's Sandra."

Sellers nodded and politely offered his hand, Sandra returning the handshake.

"Randall gave me your letter," Sandra informed. "You have a job for me?"

"Yes… a job… suited only for you," Sellers told her.

Sandra narrowed her eyes at him. "What do you mean, suited only for me?"

"All this time… the things you've done, and the people you've killed… you can't control that story anymore," Sellers explained in a slow, profound voice, seeming to use much of his energy just to speak. "Your story spreads like a wildfire. You're becoming the stuff of legend… whether you like it or not. You've made your choices, and paved this path… just as I did… long ago, in… another life…"

Sellers stared down at his lap for a moment, releasing a deep cloud of breath before meeting her gaze again. His hand easefully slid across the table, knocking over a bottle of painkillers as his fingers caressed an envelope, a shiny gold-plated key resting just on top of it.

"I want you to deliver this letter, and this key… to a man named Bradley in Westside," Sellers explained, fighting his arthritis to get a firm grasp on the envelope and key. "He's under the employ of the Westside Militia there…"

"Okay," Sandra agreed. "Consider it done."

"That… is the first part of the job," Sellers told her. "The rest… will be harder. It will be… similar… to your escapades with Randall & Associates. Only, this time… you will not be hunting people. You will be hunting keys."

Sandra gave him an odd look. "Keys…?"

Sellers nodded. "Two keys… in two separate locations.I implore you… and your team… to assist Bradley with the task he is about to receive. I will pay you five-hundred caps… and I am certain Bradley will share his findings with you as payment, too. Is the proposal satisfactory?"

"Um… sure," Sandra uttered. "But this is a weird job. I never got sent on a scavenger hunt when I was with the Mojave Express…"

"I understand… but this task, it's… it's very important to me," Sellers insisted, his tone quaking. "It's… I can't put it off any longer…"

Sandra read over the downtrodden expression on his face, feeling a pinch of empathy.

"Hey, I'm… I'm still gonna do the job," she assured. "I just need to know more about it. The whole thing's kinda weird, and I wanna know what I'm getting involved with."

Sellers paused, eyeing her closely and releasing another sigh.

"Oh… all right," he agreed. "I suppose you do deserve to know… it's… it's a stash, young lady. A rather large stash that requires three keys to open… and the keys have all been kept in separate locations for safekeeping."

Sandra nodded. "So I'm helping this Bradley guy reach a stash? Okay, I getcha. Will there be anything dangerous along the way?"

"That… I am unsure of," Sellers admitted. "But the coordinates to all the needed locations are in the envelope… and, with that device on your arm, you should be able to assist Bradley in tracking them down with no issue."

Sandra gently took the envelope and the key from him, giving him a reassuring smirk. Sellers collected a heavy bag of caps from the floor beside his chair, handing them off to her as well.

"Don't worry. It'll get done," she promised.

Sellers's wrinkled face seemed to manifest a smile. "Thank you…"

Sandra nodded and waved him off, taking the delivery and marching toward the door.

Then—a light went off in her head, and she stopped at the door, freezing just as she placed her hand around the knob.

Numerous keys, a locked-down stash, and an old man who seemed to have access to it all…?

You've made your choices, and paved this path… just as I did… long ago, in… another life.

Sandra's hand tightened around the door knob as her heart gave an angry jolt. The dark realization slowly overcame her like blackened clouds of an oncoming storm—and then, very slowly, she turned to face Old Man Sellers again, this time wearing a hardened grimace.

"You…" Sandra breathed. "You were Enclave, weren't you?"

An eternity of tense silence followed her grave question, and Sellers merely gazed across the room at her, frowning deeply and giving her a long, remorseful stare.

Sandra glared at him, her heart thumping with fury—but irritatingly enough, as much as she wanted to be angry, the annoying rhythm of the heart monitor seemed to be hindering her temper greatly.

Beep… beep… beep…

The longer she stared at the old man—and the longer the faint beeping of the heart monitor invaded her ears—the more her temper seemed to simmer.

Her violent flashbacks and terrible realizations regarding her mysterious past had nothing to do with this old man. In fact, even if they did—even if Sellers was directly responsible for whatever had happened to her five years ago—she could scantly imagine acting against him now. The old man was a broken soul, treading steadily near his deathbed already, and no matter how angry she was, she knew she'd never summon the nerve to attack such a man in cold blood.

In fact—the mere thought of it imprinted a regretful frown upon her visage.

How could she even consider such a thing…?

Especially with the expression of deep remorse strewn across Sellers's face now.

"It's… okay," Sandra assured, speaking more to herself than Mr. Sellers. "It's okay… I'll get it done. I swear."

Sellers attempted another smile, a much sadder one than before.

With a final smirk and nod, Sandra marched out of the room, making a slow journey up the stairs and gazing down at the envelope as she did. Sandra stopped at her own motel room, resting her head against the door and exhaling a stressed cloud of breath, reflecting upon her reaction and feeling strangely hateful toward herself…

She couldn't believe she'd nearly attacked an old man on a heart monitor.

This bizarre hatred toward the Enclave seemed to have far more control over her than she thought—it affected her to a dangerous degree, to an extent that almost made her shoot a dying old man who was riddled with health problems and already stewing in his own sea of regret.

"Fuck," Sandra sighed grimly. "I really need to get this shit in check…"

Just then, the door of her motel room opened—Sandra jumped and straightened out.

Niner froze in the doorway. "Oh—hey, Six. Our buds are back now."

Sandra stared at him. "Say what now…?"

"Foxxy and the doc—they went off on a field trip last night," Niner smirked, stepping aside and waving her in. "C'mon. They can tell you."

Sandra entered the room, seeing Arcade seated on the edge of the bed while Vulpes sat at the table, both of them glancing over at her.

Arcade flashed a whimsical half-smile, standing and tossing a severed finger toward her.

Sandra clasped her hands and barely caught it midair, eyeing it oddly before shooting him a questioning look.

"We got the guy," Arcade told her. "The guy who attacked the caravan—he was camped out at the Brotherhood safe house, evidently planning to try and steal more energy weapons. But we got 'im this morning. Job well done."

Sandra gaped at him for a moment.

"What… seriously?" she stuttered. "You really got the guy…?"

Arcade nodded, his smile widening. "Mr. Fox had a hunch about the safe house. Turns out he was right."

"Wait, wait…" Sandra swatted the air and shot each of them a skeptical expression. "You two?You two? You both worked together? Without killing each other…?"

"I'm just as surprised as you are," Arcade chuckled.

"As am I," Vulpes added tonelessly.

"Fuuuck yeah," Niner rejoiced, clasping his hands together. "Now we got a day off!"

"Well…" Sandra muttered, glancing down at the envelope and key, her new bag of caps hanging by her side. "Actually, um… I kinda just took on another job."

"What? Ah, Christ in a can, Six—when are we ever gonna get a break from—?" Niner stopped ranting instantly, spotting the hefty sack of caps and flashing another grin. "Oh, hell, lookit that. Never mind. I'm happy now."

"Yeah… and there's no rush, since we have the bus," Sandra shrugged. "We can still take a little time off today… just relax and buy a nice big dinner. After that, we'll drive out and give Randall the finger, we'll sleep in the bus, and we'll head off to do this side job tomorrow. Sound good?"

Everyone seemed to agree—and the remainder of the day was spent rather peacefully, from browsing around in Cliff's shop to eating a large meal of fresh and delicious Brahmin steaks they'd purchased from the local ranchers. Vulpes didn't talk much, as usual—but the other three traded conversation about their new side job, Niner and Sandra cracking jokes occasionally. By the end of their dinner, Arcade and Vulpes were extremely tired—as neither of them got more than an hour of sleep the previous night—and Niner was having fun swiping Arcade's silverware from him when he wasn't looking, snickering each time Arcade searched around for his spoons and forks fruitlessly.

Once sunset came around, they all left their room and locked the door, climbing into the bus as Sandra revved the engine. Arcade and Vulpes collapsed onto their small beds instantly, somehow managing to sleep through the bumpy ride back to Primm. Niner sat in the passenger seat as Sandra drove carefully through the night.

Throughout the drive, Niner glimpsed over at her a few times, wondering if he ought to bring up the topic that was on his mind. He was the only one who'd met Mr. Burke and the others—and he was the only one who knew the full extent of Sandra's history in the east. Arcade and Vulpes didn't know—and Sandra herself was in the dark about most of it. But Niner knew it all—he knew for certain that all the bizarre claims she made last night were totally and completely true. He wanted very much to talk about it, to tell her the whole truth and clear the air—but Mr. Burke had advised her not to.

So, regretfully, he simply sighed and remained silent.

"Hey, Niner," Sandra said moments later.

"Hm…?" Niner mumbled.

Sandra tapped on the steering wheel, wearing a thoughtful visage.

"Do you think…" she murmured. "Do you think… if I found someone who was Enclave… like, if it was a really old guy who was totally defenseless… if I found a guy like that, and if I killed him… do you think that'd make me an evil person?"

Niner stared at her gravely for a few seconds, and everything he'd heard from Mr. Burke, Sarah, and Bryan began rushing through his mind once more. Then, he released a cloud of breath and folded his arms.

"I wouldn't blame you, Six," he mumbled darkly. "Not after what they done to you…"

Sandra frowned at the windshield.

"I'd blame me," she sighed sadly.

Niner spared her another look, and the two of them fell silent.

Later, Sandra slowly drove up the narrow hill just in front of Randall & Associates, parking the bus in its usual spot, halfway on the road and halfway on the dirt. The others remained in the bus while Sandra ventured up the hill, delivering the finger to Randall and making small talk with him for a short while.

Night had fallen, and everyone in the bus was drifting to sleep while Sandra and Randall talked alone in the shack—and all the while, farther up the hill beside Primm, an NCR ranger was watching the bus from a distance, slowly lowering her binoculars and smirking devilishly.

"They're back," the woman—Ranger Dawson—grinned wickedly. "Won't be long now."

Dawson and her two followers—two men, also NCR rangers—remained perched on the hill far out of sight, watching the courier's bus vigilantly and waiting to see their target emerge from the vehicle.

After Sandra and Randall said their goodnights to one another, Randall stepped outside with her, locking up his shack before wandering around the building, where a smaller shack resided. It was a tinier shack that contained his mattress and a small bathroom.

Sandra waved him off before marching down the hill, approaching the bus and feeling a peculiar shudder slither down her spine. She slowed to a stop, glancing around and feeling suddenly anxious, though she didn't know why.

Dawson watched the redheaded courier from up high, smirking as she observed Sandra glancing around with caution.

"Good bounty hunter," Dawson mumbled in her usual low, stoic voice. "Almost like she can sense us up here."

"Nah," one of her partners replied. "They say she's paranoid. And this job makes it worse."

"Mentally unstable… that's good," Dawson remarked. "Might make it easier on us."

Sandra sighed, seeing nothing alarming in her environment. She marched on, opening the bus's side door and stepping inside, curling up in her hammock and quickly drifting to sleep.

During the next few hours to pass, while the courier's gang slept soundly in the bus, Dawson and her partners waited patiently from the hillside, watching the bus vigilantly as they did. After a while, Niner wandered out of the bus, yawning and marching around the vehicle. He unzipped his pants, peed on the side of the road, and meandered back into the bus to return to bed.

"I figured… see?" Dawson commented. "I figured there couldn't be a bathroom in that thing. Not a good one, anyway. Eventually… our guy might come out for a bathroom break. Then we spring."

"What about the rest?" the shorter of her partners asked her.

Dawson shrugged and returned to her binoculars. "What about them?"

The other two fell silent.

And—after another hour or so passed by—at last, the Followers doctor came clearly into view, stepping out of the bus and maneuvering around it to do his business.

Dawson grinned wickedly.

The moment Arcade vanished from eyeshot behind the bus—the three rangers hurried down the hillside, moving swiftly and silently. Two of them traveled around the back of the bus, Dawson approaching from the front.

Arcade just finished his business when two hands clamped around him from behind—his startled scream muffled by Dawson's palm. The other two rangers quickly restrained Arcade's limbs as he fought and struggled, holding both of his arms down and stomping on both of his feet, holding him firmly in place.

Then—Dawson jabbed an injector into his neck, Arcade feeling a panic as well as a stab of pain in the side of his throat.

"That is trank-x, my friend," Dawson sneered into his ear. "It's like med-x… only four times stronger. Get cozy, you little Enclave bastard… because you ain't going nowhere."

Arcade hollered something incomprehensible into her hand, continuing to jerk and yank around in their grasp—but moments later, his eyes began to drift shut, his body now refusing to cooperate with him, his head beginning to droop.

Once the drug was in full effect, the rangers lifted him up and carried him away, marching far down the road and vanishing from the scene in no time.