A throaty hum alongside blazing fire filled an old industrial building of Vegas. Crouching by a gutted pre-war furnace, a walking, rotting yet living human cleaned its parts. The handiwork wasn't pleasant due to the burning heat in the air but living on was far more discomforting. His work's purpose soothed much of his pain however.

"If I don't do this, someone else probably would… a century or two down the line maybe." He shook his head. "No, probably sooner than that, but it's been two hundred years and this place is still a semi-functioning steel mill. Someone has to take care of it now that boss offed the service bots."

The humming stopped as he recalled the Courier.

He was young: far too young to be as cold and ruthless as he was. And the young man was odd with how he was supportive and dismissive of him as well as every other companion of his he met. Some part of him stopped being human a long time ago, probably around the same time he developed his inhuman strength.

Raul Tejada, the walking corpse, rolled his eyes as gunfire cracked through the building's walls.

Either the Fiends were still being purged by the Legion or some locals were resisting in vain against them. He understood why a person would fight back, but there was little future in the outcome where they somehow succeeded: anarchism in this post-apocalyptic world left the weak helpless and strong all-powerful. The Legion, despite being ruled by the strong, protected the weak, contrary to what many in the west believed.

Tejada rose and sighed.

If only Caesar and his legions had come before he lost his Rafaela. Both of them could've been made slaves, but they would have lived. Hopefully, the NCR would collapse to their infighting before the Legion marched. Enough people in the world had died in ideological conflicts and there wasn't a single part of him that wanted the America that used to be to return in all its dystopia.

A laugh left the old-school ghoul's lips.

So many who never lived back then had a saccharine view of the old world. Most ghouls were fine with the new one but resentful of their current state as living corpses. Pre-war America, if anything, was a paradise for a lucky few.

Creaking hinges made Raul draw the .44 from his gun belt before the sight of polished metal plate stowed it.

"Oh great, another of these things." A man in rustier armor scoffed, raising his rifle at the ghoul.

The legionary seeming to be the commanding officer held up his hand. "State, it's aware and…cleaning the ancient device's insides."

"Decanus, give the order and I will kill it."

"Can I say something?" Raul asked.

"What is the purpose of this building, and can you get it operational?"

"It's a steel refinery. Everything seems in place but needs a little oiling to get operational again.

The Decanus hummed. "If what you say is true…could you repair it if it were damaged?"

"Depends on the damage." Tejada tilted his head from side to side. "Some components just can't be replaced… Why are you asking?"

"You may be of some use to our Legion and to Caesar. Come with us by your own will; refuse, and you will be made a slave."

A sigh seeped from rotting lips. "Alright, since you asked so nicely."

"I did not ask."

"That's the joke, boss."

The commanding officer shared a look with his subordinate before they left the refinery with their new companion.


Veronica bellowed.

Many hours passed since her visit to the Prospector's Saloon, and she was already regretting that she followed Sunny's advice. If she took the time to think for a minute, she could've traded some energy weapons for all the caps she'd ever need, but that fortune was resting with the rest of her family in tons of bunker rubble thanks to her. Babysitting naïve farmhands with little life experience was her punishment for shortsightedness.

"I'm telling you, 5.56 is the ultimate bullet round! Pistols, rifles, machineguns, it's perfect!"

"Bighorner shit! 10mm is one of the best rounds ever! The pistols are more powerful, the rifles are lever action, and the submachine guns kick the ass of whatever auto you think can match it!"

"The added power just means more recoil! Submachine gun recoil is already insane when it's 9mm, imagine it as ten! Lever-action has always been shit and impractical too! "

The asphalt beneath Veronica's feet fractured as she stomped her power-armored boots against it. "Enough with your arguing! All cartridges serve a purpose and suck in comparison to scientifically-proven superior energy weapons!" She turned around to the handful of settlers behind her, grunting through her helmet.

Both of the field-hands scoffed.

"Well, you of all people would say that."

"Yeah, you worship technology and science so much you keep all of it to yourself."

"I'm not the entire Brotherhoo— I don't do that!"

"Really?"

"Do you expect us to believe that?"

"Guys, I think you should turn around." One of the other former Goodsprings dwellers said.

"Look, they might've worshipped tech, but just because I'm wearing power armor doesn't mean I do!"

"But you are one of them, aren't you?"

Another member of the would-be refugee party gulped. "Can you please stop arguing and turn around?"

"I was but I'm not! All of them that lived here are dead! Almost everyone I ever loved and cared about is dead!"

"AWW, NOT EVERYONE, DEARIE."

Veronica nodded. "Yeah, Sato-bro is still alive and I'm gonna…" The woman in power armor turned around to face a hulking, blue-skinned super mutant wearing a hat and goggles on the mountain surrounded road. "Lily?"

"YES DEAR, IT'S GRANDMA LILY. HOW ARE YOU, DEARIE?"

"…Okay. I'm heading to Jacobstown with this lot of brats who want to settle. Where are you going?"

"VAULT…UH, SEVENTEEN?" The nightkin shook her head. "MY MEMORY IS FUZZY. GRANDMA NEEDS TO RETURN HOME. IT'S BEEN TOO LONG AND SHE DOESN'T KNOW IF SHE CAN KEEP GOING LIKE THIS."

Veronica hummed. "Leo being loud, huh?"

"LEO? WHO'S LEO?"

"…Leo, you know? Leo smash? Leo gut with vertibird blade? Angry old in-your-mind Leo?"

"OH, YOU'RE TALKING ABOUT GRANDMA'S SCHIZOPHRENIA. DEARIE CALAMITY AND DEARIE HENRY CURED THAT AND ALL THE OTHER NIGHTKIN'S SCHIZOPHRENIA."

"Really!?"

"YES, NO MORE VOICES AND NO MORE SKIN BURNING FROM PEOPLE STARING."

Veronica turned back to her frightened and confused entourage. "Good news, scaredy cats! Jacobstown will be a paradise for you losers after all! …Maybe."

"…Hooooray." Another Goodsprings settler rolled their eyes.

"That's the spirit!"

"AWW, YOU DEARIES ARE SO CUTE WHEN YOU'RE THINKING POSITIVELY. YOU SHOULD THINK POSITIVELY MORE OFTEN; IT'S GOOD FOR THE MIND."

"Yeah!" Twisting back to face the mutant, Veronica blinked beneath her helmet. "Speaking of which, you do know where the vault you want to go is, right?"

"WEST, IN CALIFORNIA."

"So you're going down the long fifteen?"

"THINKING OF GOING THROUGH THE WEST SOUTH OF DEATH VALLEY. "

"You're talking about the Divide. Lily, there's nothing there but death storms and an abyss only a crazy mailman says he's been too. Go down the long fifteen. Be careful around the NCR troops though: they're retreating from the Legion."

"THANK YOU, DEARIE! I'll SEE YOU AND YOUR DEARIES AGAIN SOMETIME!" Lily smiled before continuing down the ruined road leading to Jacobstown, passing by the dumbfounded Goodspring settlers.

"…What the fuck was that?"

Veronica continued up the mountain lodge's road. "A taste of what's likely to be the rest of your bizarre, cowardly lives."

The party sighed, groaned, and shook their heads before following the lonely girl's lead again.


Smiling, 'Rex Praedator' strolled past the crucified degenerates of Freeside. Only his wife-to-be noticed his joy. The residents of the slums were either too in shock, too in pain, or too busy running away to notice the hunter's schadenfreude.

The Courier wanted to purge Freeside and the rest of Vegas since he first entered through the east gate. It wasn't a cluster of earnest settlements like Goodsprings, Novac, or Primm: it was a sickly representation of all humanity's weakness. How fitting it rested around a city dedicated to mankind's degeneracy.

Cazador, his beast-mistress, and their entourage of legionaries passed the School of Impersonation, home to many now-crucified would-be 'Kings,' before turning left and walking to the north and only Strip gate.

"These… things," Aelius the centurion spat, "welcomed us at the gates when we took this hovel. For whatever reason, they greeted us with our words and assisted us in exterminating and enslaving the profligates here. "

'Rex' glanced with boredom in his eyes at the nearest securitron. "A great mystery to unravel."

"Indeed, amicus."

Lucy shot her man a knowing look, a look returned in kind by him in his current manner.

The gates opened for them and closed behind them.

Cazador's smile inched upward at numerous crucified Omertas decorating the Strip.

Out of all the people that populated Vegas and its ruins, the Omertas deserved the cross most. Gomorrah was a junkie den of whores, disloyal vermin, and an obvious sign House wasn't the genius or beacon of mankind's future he touted himself as. A tribe famed for drugging, robbing, killing, and enslaving people were not fit for trust without breaking. He would've killed them down to the last child to rid their taint.

"These profligates cleansed the Strip for us before we began cleansing them. All one had to do was look outside their den of whores and addicts to see their degeneracy."

Cazador nodded behind the centurion.

They walked up the steps of the towering Lucky 38, through the securitron and cautious legionary guarded interior, and into the only elevator in the building.

Several minutes filled with pre-war torture music passed until the elevator opened to the penthouse floor populated by praetorians.

Walking down the penthouse's steps, they saw Caesar looking out the large glass windows.

"Look at it: the land that will be our Rome." He turned around and raised an eyebrow at the odd party stopping some ways behind him. "There you are. I've got several questions you need to answer. Foremost, why did you install that silly-faced AI into the central computer controlling the Strip?"

"Yes Man was installed to minimize Legion losses when taking Freeside and help secure the Strip if the Omertas and White Gloves couldn't. They wouldn't have been able to if they upheld House's protocol of defending the Strip."

"A reasonable answer. Now, why did you activate the securitrons beneath the Fort?"

The eyes of the legionaries narrowed at their supposed friend.

"I would've had to battle a small army of them to get to House. By activating them and upgrading the securitrons on the Strip, I secured his trust enough for him to let his guard down."

"Yet you still disobeyed my orders."

Cazador remained as calm as he always was. "I did, thinking it would be in your best interest; forgive my insolence. We can still destroy them now if that's what you wish." He pointed a thumb towards Yes Man's location. "Just give the word to him."

"…If I were anyone else, I'd suspect you had ideas of using that army to take Vegas for yourself."

"I would've sooner burned this entire land to dust than rule over its whores, degenerates, and wastes of space."

"Exactly!" Caesar smiled. "You are not of my Legion yet so much like them. How did you emerge from the NCR?"

"I'm not from the NCR."

The aging dictator parted his lips and paused at the rest of the group. "Aelius." He tilted his head at Lucy. "Woman, explain to me why you are in my presence."

"Forgive me, Caesar." The Centurion stepped forward and kneeled. "I have secured the western slums of Vegas and the tunnels below it as you ordered. Rex Praedator assisted in the conquest of the surface and ensured our victory with minimal bloodshed. In a complex below, I encountered this woman with Rex." He took a deep breath. "…She is a beast-tamer that surpasses all our hound masters. Lizards that breathe fire, scorpions, mantises, cazadors, and even deathclaws bow to her will."

Furrowing his brow, Caesar turned to a nodding Cazador and to Lucy. "How?"

"Dominance, care-taking, and some love: the same elements of hound-rearing but with far dire consequences if not enough of any is displayed."

"I find that hard to believe, but I've been finding many impossible things to be true as of late." He shifted his gaze back to Cazador. "Most of them are centered around this man, who you seem to be acquainted with."

Lucy smiled and held out her ringed hand. "I am his bride-to-be."

Caesar raised an eyebrow at his omnicompetent agent. "I didn't take you for the loving type."

"Neither did I, but a man has to love to be a man."

"I suppose you have a lot to keep a blond vault dweller on the side." Caesar turned to Lucy again, smiling. "Did you know of the existence of a Sarah Weintraub in your husband-to-be's life?"

"Yes, she is his concubine in this den of decadence, the purest woman he could find here he could tolerate accepting his seed."

A hum thrummed in Caesar's throat. "Not a lot of women from the west are open to their husbands sleeping with other women."

"My love is a great hunter, quite possibly the greatest to ever grace the land: who am I to stop him from spreading his seed as he is meant to?

"…What is that you want? Your groom-to-be and my centurion said you have the ability to tame the most savage beasts of the wastes. Only one would want to show you off as a trophy, so you must be here for something."

Lucy bowed. "I wish to offer you my services in return for my freedom and the preservation of The Thorn."

"The Thorn?" The warlord raised an eyebrow.

"It is an underground complex connected to the sewers that is a sacred temple to me and my beliefs. There, I tame the beasts of the wastes and pit them against each other as a sacrifice. Bets can or were made on the outcome of the matches, which supplied me with the funds to support The Thorn and its hunters."

"What do you believe in that The Thorn is a temple to?"

"Survival against death, the supremacy of the land, and dominance of superior creatures."

"Everything with the exception of the land's supremacy and betting is in line with the Legion's ideals. Either adapt your beliefs or abandon them. The ceasing of bets goes without saying: you're better off taming beasts for my Legion in return for funds and supplies.

"As you wish, Caesar."

The man in question nodded. "Good." He smiled. "I expect you to begin training my hound masters in some time, which will leave you without much to spend with your beloved."

"That's fine: we're used to being apart."

"…Right." Caesar looked to Cazador. "My frumentarii informed me Camp Golf was eradicated and hewn with the corpses of NCR rangers and troopers. With the change in location, I have instructed my men to move the boons usually given to you directly to your suite. I will have the reward for your task delivered to the new supply footlocker by the entrance to your bedroom.

'Rex' pursed his lips. "The eyebot and cyberdog are unharmed, I trust?"

"Of course, I wouldn't have a prized tool of one of my greatest allies destroyed or harm one of my old pets. Neither would I harm one of your concubines when transporting them to the proper place of your bed."

"…Good. My wife and I will be heading down to it and her, if we're done here."

"We are; enjoy yourself."

"I will." Grabbing his wife's hand, Cazador led her back up the stairs and into the elevator set for the presidential suite.

Caesar blinked and sighed.

There was no point getting under that man's skin: beyond being his most competent instrument, nothing on this earth fazed him. He died and came back from two bullets shot point blank into his head. Whether or not that was just another day in his life or the end of his fear didn't matter when compared to what he did after.

Shaking his head, Edward Sallow looked out again at the wasteland that was now his and thought of the future.


One squad of misfits, several wounded troopers, and one armless ranger shuffled through the Mojave Desert. There were more of them the day before, but they deserted in the night. None remaining could blame them: their mighty army was destroyed, their president and officials were assassinated, their comrades-in-arms had been slaughtered by a single man, and the squad leading the retreat were trained into proper soldiers by that killing machine.

"Fucking hell," a mohawk-headed member of the squad cursed, "how long is it going to take for us to get back into friendly territory?"

The leading trooper shrugged. "A few more days if we follow the road to Mojave Outpost. A week if the Legion's taken Westside by this point or calls the Khans to join them in Vegas."

"I don't see how we're making it out of this alive if either happens."

"Come on, pals," The gentle giant of the group spoke. "Let's think positively here. We've got plenty of supplies, accurate guns, and an experienced ranger to give us orders if the match hits the hay. I think we'll be just fine."

"While not exactly correct, O'Hanrahan has a point: we're more capable than Fiends and Khans. The Legion, of course, is another story depending entirely on their numbers and weaponry. It's best we picture ourselves winning than concede to defeat before the battle has begun."

A withered grunt churned out one of the wounded troopers. "It already did and we lost. Not to an army, but a single fucking man."

"Yeah, the bastard that trained you idiots," another one spat.

"Settle down, boys." Cody Yu said, speaking for the first time since the battle. "I may be new to this desert, but even I know that courier had us all fooled before he up and killed Crocker."

"Didn't he actually kill someone else?" One of the other wounded troopers asked.

"It was some spook who bit it first or something." The troop closest to the questioner shrugged. "Crocker got his brains splattered over Kimball before whoever that traitor was splattered his and Moore's."

"Think it was the same guy?"

"With that rare, elite pre-war riot gear? No."

Yu cleared his throat. "Yeah, only two dozen or so like 'em among us vets. I heard a few went missing south of Death Valley, but it would be impossible to get them if any of the rumors of what happened are true."

"Didn't we just get our collective asses handed to us by a single fucking man wearing bulletproof leather?"

"Come on," Yu drawled. "It's too much of a coincidence."

"…Actually, I don't think it's that far-fetched." The acting commander in retreat spoke up to raised eyebrows and questioning looks aimed at her back. "I mean, he didn't even really try when he took all of us on."

"He wasn't even trying back when he trained us, right Mags?" O'Hanrahan said.

The thuggish one of the squad scoffed. "Bastard didn't even break a sweat when he threw your ass to the ground over and over again, big guy."

"Indeed, his strength and skill are beyond the capabilities of a normal human being."

"Please don't suck his dick too hard." One of the wounded troopers groaned.

"Yeah," another said, "he's just a man."

"A man that went through us like a chainsaw and brought us down to a single ranger out of the two dozen we had before."

The group fell to silence, their marching boots thumping against the old road beneath them.

No matter what happened, there was nothing they could do to ignore the reality of their failure. It was a significant encounter the likes of the first battle for Hoover Dam only with the Legion winning against the overwhelming force. They'd all likely be remembered as failures and cowards who either limped back home or deserted all because of that single legend in the flesh.

"…Seriously, how the fuck do people like that exist?"

"I dunno man," The thuggish misfit said. "Some people are just born absolute beasts. Hell, they say that giant crater south of the Boneyard was The Master's lair. The Vault Dweller went into that shithole with, I shit you not, the Followers of the Apocalypse when they were first starting out, apparently they weren't giant pussies back then."

Mags laughed. "And what, Razz? Did he tear through all the super mutants and detonate a nuclear warhead that created the crater?"

"Yeah, you've heard the story before?"

"…No, I just thought you were being ridiculous for once."

"Wish I was. Although, the Vault Dweller had power armor and a minigun in the story while the guy who kicked our asses did us in with leather, a shotgun, a rifle, and some grenades."

"Bulletproof leather, a revolver, and plasma, possibly napalm, and fragmentation grenades," Ranger Yu corrected.

"How do you make bulletproof leather?" A wounded trooper asked.

Another shrugged. "Probably from deathclaw skin. Didn't he clear up Sloan of an entire pack of them?"

"Alpha male deathclaws and brood mothers have black skin," the sole surviving ranger answered. "It explains the black leather."

"How did he peel the skin off them? It's hard enough to take a 5.56 round like it was nothing."

The only misfit with glasses adjusted them. "With a knife, obviously. Discussing how the Courier obtained his weapons and equipment is a waste of time, our focus should be put on getting to Mojave outpost alive and intact."

"…I think that's too late for a few of us here, Pointdexter."

"Dude," a wounded trooper said, "the fuck?"

"What? I'm missing a few fingers myself, man."

"Still, too soon."

"Are we done gossiping like a bunch of bitches that have time to spare?" Mags asked. "Come on, we've got an entire army to outrun, raiders to sneak by, and a bunch of assholes to kill if either gets near us."

The troopers nodded and shut their lips.

It would be a hard journey, but it was one they had to make. Desertion crossed their minds as it would in any group of sane people and died as fast it came. They were fine with the other survivors deserting because of the drastic, traumatizing loss. Within the beating of their hearts, the will to fight and avenge their fallen comrades lived on.


Beneath the burning Mojave sun, Boone lay prone against a ridge over a dozen miles away from the Strip. His rifle lay beside him, preventing the glint of its scope from giving away his position. Vegas fell like a stack of cards as he thought it would without the NCR.

A sigh huffed from his lips.

It looked as if the NCR troopers posted at McCarran fled rather than face the advancing legionaries. While he understood the futility of further defending Vegas, the troopers could've lent the fleeing refugees some support. Bankrupt and destitute NCR citizens stranded in Freeside were now slaves for the Legion along with every other poor soul that inhabited the slums surrounding Vegas. The Legion, the invading faction of slavers and rapists, of all people let the Followers of the Apocalypse flee unharmed with all the supplies they could need. Either Caesar spared them out of respect or planned to use them as a Trojan horse against the Mojave Outpost.

Boone shook his head.

None of that mattered: if he could do what he wanted to, losing the Mojave would be nothing for the NCR, not that he cared much anymore. Avenging his wife took precedence above all else. Caesar and Lanius weren't there, but they were partly responsible no matter how indirect. Killing one of them would make this all worth it while both their deaths would make him one happy man.

The former 1st Recon sniper crawled back, rifle in hand, and stood up when he was certain no Legionary would spot him.

Sometime before he parted ways with Cazador and his growing crew, they went into a safehouse a short distance from him now. Colonel Hsu gave the Courier a key in honor of all he did for the NCR since his time in the Mojave. He seemed to forget it not long after. With any luck, he could contact the maintenance ranger assigned to it or her and some rangers that managed to escape from Camp Golf.

Boone grit his teeth.

If only he realized his so-called friend wasn't playing mercenary but frumentarius before he did the unthinkable.

He took off to the safehouse without another thought, arriving there half an hour later. The lock to the entrance was well-made but still opened by some slight-of-hand the Courier had taught him. A familiar lit cavern greeted him inside.

Gripping his rifle, Boone crept to the cavernous shelter and eased open the bunker door. He hugged the wall to his right, sliding against the rough wood towards the dining/gear room doorway. When he entered the chamber, he noticed the room was nearly the same as it was when he first came: motley and stashing valuable equipment.

Spine-chilling steel pressed against the back of the 1st recon sniper's head.

"Drop it."

"Easy," Boone said in his usual dull voice, "I'm NCR, same as you."

The woman in black ranger patroller armor looked her hostage up and down. "1st Recon… All of you stationed in the Mojave fell with Forlorn Hope."

"Former 1st Recon: I didn't reenlist after my first tour."

"Native Mojave, I take it?" The ranger lowered her rifle.

"Yeah." Boone shifted his rifle behind his back as he turned around. "We've met before; Gomez, right? I was with that courier, remember?"

Ranger Gomez lifted her rifle back up to the veteran's head. "That's why you're back, huh?"

"I'm here to kill him if I can. If not him, then the legate. I'd go for Caesar, but the chances of him peaking his head out that tower on the Strip are slim."

"…You're serious, aren't you?"

Boone nodded. "It's going to take some time for any of Caesar's circle to leave the Strip, much less Vegas. May as well help with the retreat while I'm here. Have any rangers came by or is it just you?"

"It's just me." Gomez sighed, lowering her rifle once again. "Either Camp Golf got slaughtered to the last man or retreated up north for some godforsaken reason."

"They were slaughtered then: either by the Courier or a century led by him."

"You can't seriously believe a century, much less a single man, could take Camp Golf."

"I've seen the man break a fully grown deathclaw's neck with his bare hands, ambush a legion raiding party with no firearms, snipe a platoon of Fiends in pitch black night from a mile off with no scope, and withstand barrages of gunshots, lasers, and plasma just to show off while he proved a point. The rumors circulating about him are understatements or not that far from the truth. Bullets to the head don't have a good track record for killing him, but I'm gonna try even if it's the last thing I do."

"…Right. Well, I'll leave that business to you and just keep guard here." The ranger turned, shook her head, and walked away.

Boone paid the dismissive woman no mind, seating himself on the nearest chair to rest.

There was a more than decent chance he'd die if the Courier entered his crosshairs: the man knew how he operated and far exceeded him in sniping ability, not that he enjoyed being capable of that outside of trying to make him feel inferior. Close quarters with his preferred area of expertise, being a giant made of flesh and bone. Long range combat was overall more efficient than close-quarters, in thanks to the existence of firearms, but efficiency was irrelevant to that man.

Laying his rifle on the table, the former 1st Recon sniper sighed.

Cazador had given him purpose again. It wasn't what he thought it would be when they first set out but, it was purpose. Even if he was tired of being alive again, he had to settle things. He'd wait for the inevitable once more if he somehow survived him.

Boone shut his eyes to the world, welcoming a taste of the eternal rest awaiting everything.