"Number Nine"


Original Summary:

"Courier Six of the Mojave Express is declared "The Last, Best Hope of Humanity"... although some might beg to disagree.

Vulpes thinks she's trouble. And he needs the work done without unnecessary obstacles in his way.

The Courier thinks Vulpes is weird... but she needs a friend closer to her age than the overprotective grumpies she hangs out with.

Vulpes is definitely NOT volunteering... but that doesn't seem to deter her. In fact, she's so geeky that she's contagious... and Vulpes has always been a curious soul.

However, as the line between duty and genuine interest starts blurring, the Frumentarius' ideals and loyalties will be put to the test when the Courier's group embraces him as the ninth companion.

Meanwhile, Caesar awaits... as well as the rest of the Mojave."


This is a story that contains Politics, Philosophy, World Building, Cultural References, Character Development, and Lore. It explores many unanswered questions in the Fallout Universe that, for me, are important to get into the context of the characters I'm writing about.

This story mixes Fallout: New Vegas and Fallout 3 events without incurring in obviating Canon Timeline. So, purists out there, don't worry. I also mention things that happened in Fallout 1, 2, and what may 4 have in store.

It's a choral work, so expect it to be long-winded and with lots of points of view from very different characters and ideologies. This work isn't taking a particular side on the Mojave Conflict, but fleshing out factions with their due pros and cons.

You can agree or disagree with the characters' views but bear in mind that this is a work of fiction. Nothing more.

Is it a F:NV novelization? Kind of. I am going to cover the Main Quest, the Companions' side quests, and the DLCs... with variations.

Also, the main relationship is a Slow Burn, and it starts sexless. This story is about two people from very different worlds meeting halfway, not about a torrid romance spiced with lots of sex scenes, okay? It's young and somewhat innocent love.

If this is your cup of tea, go ahead ;)


Ch. 01: Libertango.


"Strange, I've seen that face before
Seen him hanging round my door
Like a hawk stealing for the prey
Like the night waiting for the day.

Strange, he shadows me back home
Footsteps echo on the stone."

- Grace Jones, "Libertango"


'Viva Las Vegas 2025!' Cropped against a background of nightly darkness purposefully bad Photoshopped in a copypaste vintage style that reminded of the first moon-landing propaganda back in 1969, when the United States of America had shared all over the world their (alleged) triumph over the soviets along with their famous catch-phrase that, later, became a motto: 'That's one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind'; the now bicentenary structure of the Lucky 38 ruled above the rest of the buildings in all its splendor, surrounded by the classical neon lights that defined the hedonistic spirit that permeated and defined lifestyle on New Vegas.

Once the biggest city of the now-deceased State of Nevada, now the only beacon of light amidst a sea of scorching sands of a Wasteland after the post-nuclear 'incident' back on October 23rd of 2077, when Humankind had failed itself, New Vegas somehow had primarily remained intact with its spirit unswayed… along with its old vices.

The Gomorrah and The Tops, immediate neighbors of the shining yet silent Lucky 38, were the ruling business in there if one doesn't count the refined and outrageously expensive decrepitude of the Ultra-Luxe for the most demanding clientele… or the consolation prize meant only for the less fortunate gambler with very few caps to his name that was The Atomic Wrangler on the Freeside, beyond the tight robotic security of The Strip and its reserved yet almost omnipresent owner: Mr. House.

New Vegas, Babylon made flesh after re-emerging from its ashes, flapping wings made of fire like the providential phoenix; the old and the new City of Sin was always way noisier after sunset.

Cross-armed, scanning the surroundings with a bored expression that the faded brown(ish) fedora hid magnificently playing with the shadows of the boisterous, greasy, and ill-perfumed night; a shady owner of piercing, magnetic blue eyes maintained his apparently lazy pose reclined on one of the many shabby advertisement posts that sow in asphalt soil like a bad weed. However, in truth, he felt anything but lazy.

He felt like a predator crouching behind tall grass, eyes fixated on the next prey to fall between his claws.

But he also felt like a tamed bird out of his gilded cage. So alien in an element that fascinated and disgusted him to the core simultaneously that it made both of his wrists itch.

His scheduled date was already late. And if there was something in this world that irritated him greatly, besides ignorance, stupidity, and corruption constantly surrounding his person like a sea of excrements… that was unpunctuality.

Repressing with cold efficiency the burning temptation of systematically starting to scratch his wrists, a compulsive mania that he usually disguised under boiled shirt cuffs or leather wristbands, according to the circumstances of his cover, long pale fingers pertaining to a condition of partial melanin absence twitched slightly inside the worn-out pockets of his jacket.

Given the (currently, improbable) case that this contact would prove fruitless… he would have, with great pleasure, skinned alive the damned cockroach that, with their cursed unpunctuality, was leaving him at the mercy of all the disgusting pimps and their nitty whores scanning the night in search of objectives to 'alleviate' their pockets of a handful of caps.

In the ten extra minutes he had been waiting, he had already counted, minimum, seven prostitutes giving him the business showing shamelessly their shaggy, dehydrated, beaten up bodies riddled with countless venereal and who knows what else. He was already fed up with the countless crazed, panties-lacking women dancing and screaming obscenities with absent eyes, high on Med-X, tripping on their worn high heels while making a disgrace of themselves.

Young, abused, and malnourished; old, toothless with disgusting bare hanging breasts… It didn't matter when it came to raffling customers, announcing the cheapest rate for a blowjob in a dark corner.

But it didn't end there, the Horror Circus of this Neo Babylon, oh no… for the catalog of available holes in where to stick manhoods and what else was anything but lacking.

It was simply frightening.

He was getting a stomach ache already thinking of the many suave men with fake Spanish accents that had come to him, wiggling their tiny, cringy mustaches while trying to persuade him to drop some caps in exchange for whatever his mind could come up with… and the rotting ghoul prostitutes with cheap blonde wigs showing their infected… corroded… eroded flesh while attempting to look seductive… and the sexbots… and the farmers selling out their dog's rears… or their brahmin's…

Not to count the WC stalls with dickholes on their walls… or the multiple rates the arranged gangbangs charged, of course…

Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption, and filth everywhere. – he thought, suppressing a grimace.

The world was sick. Sick and utterly rotten.

The same rotten world ruled by the same rotten society that still hung on the Old-World ideals. Ideals that had gotten them to this point of no return.

Profligates… Degenerates… all of them.

They belonged on a cross, blood drenching barren irradiated lands, with flesh and bones drying out in the scorching sun while he would watch in silence as their world would crumble once again amidst fire and ashes. He would make sure of it.

And he never failed to deliver.

However, the very instant he brusquely turned his head, wielding a fierce warning scowl at the next cocksucker begging for the attention of his wallet, his eyes flickered to an approaching figure a few paces behind the whore.

Generous shapely legs trapped inside unbearable high heels and lycra stockings ascended to voluminous hips, narrow waist, and tender bust to end in a freckled, doe-eyed Afro-American face.

This was his contact. A woman.

Impassive as he stood tall and disgruntled before this tainted beauty, thinking briefly again about the increasing need he had to scratch his wrists like a mangy dog until he would draw blood, he immediately changed his mental record to match the vocabulary and language of the Profligates.

"You are late.""Hey, are you sure you don't want to sit down for a little?"

"I'm fine…"

"No, you are not. You have been running in and out the Freeside all day doing chores and helping random people with their ridiculous issues, and I still have to see you gather your breath and drink some water."

"I'm not thirsty…"

"You are dehydrated. Your pupils and your skin speak for themselves."

"He's a doctor. You should heed his advice."

"Yeah, 'n I've just whut ye need: a pretty lil' bottle of whiskey dat has yer name 'n mine painted all over it, kid."

"Uh… I don't think doctor Gannon meant that Boss should hydrate herself by such means, Miss Cassidy…"

"Raul is right. Besides, alcohol suppresses your body's antidiuretic hormone that sends fluid back into your body while simultaneously acting as a diuretic, causing water to be flushed out of your system much more rapidly than normal."

"'N English, Doc."

"Very well, let's put it simply: alcohol has water, yes, but given its composition makes you sweat more often and… substantially increases your need to go to the bathroom. Which also is a sure recipe for further dehydration. In the long run, it would do more harm than good."

"And you're just not giving her alcohol. Not in front of me. She's a fucking child, for fuck's sake!"

"N'body was askin' yer opinion, Red Beret Man."

"You're slurring again, redhead. Wouldn't seek advice from you right now for the life of me. Go ahead and drown yourself in fucking whiskey. That's the only thing you damn right know how to do, isn't it?"

"Don't get yer panties in a twist, f'cker. 'M still very capable of makin' ye eat me boot… or rather me knickers for all I care. Might make ye loose dat stick-up-yer-ass attitude."

"I think we all should lower our voices. I believe she has a headache."

"Agreed, Veronica. But why won't she sit down for a while and drink some water?"

"Awww, you poor dearie. Rexie here is not feeling much better, are you, cutie?"

"Arooo?"

"Between an ill cyberdog, a damaged eyebot, and a stubborn, trouble-picking teenager, I already feel that I have signed for parenting instead of companionship work. Get your canteen. Now. We are not moving an inch from here until you drink something."

"My canteen is empty…"

"And why didn't you say something before?!"

"Owww… don't yell at me, please… The water lasted until this afternoon… and we're running low on caps, so…"

"So, you deemed it more feasible to push your luck in the middle of the Freeside where there is not a single place in the night hour where they sell water?! You could have told me! We are returning to the Old Mormon Fort, and I am injecting you with saline so you can recover properly! We can enter The Strip tomorrow!"

A sudden stomp over the destroyed concrete that paved the last steps of the Freeside before entering the golden prize of The Strip resounded as if it had been a gunshot. And six silhouettes took on a halt, each one of them fairly taller and apparently older than the one who had caused such a sudden turmoil. Not to count the two non-anthropomorphic, cybernetic ones carried by the broadest and tallest of all between her bluish muscled arms as if she were carrying two sleeping babies.

"I'm not letting that bastard get away with this…" – the more petite silhouette with the high-pitched, steadiest voice of all replied, her words overwhelmed with feeling, passion… and bile. Her right hand going back to that spot hidden amidst her short, disheveled black hair – "I have gone too far to stand before this entrance to chicken out now…"

The second tallest of the other silhouettes, a man well into his thirties, adjusted his glasses before attempting reason with a measured voice.

"It has nothing to do with chicken out." – he said while putting both of his hands over the trembling shoulders of the small girl – "This is not a whim out of nowhere but your health we are talking about. Heading into the wolf's den weakened is not proof of courage but quite the contrary. Don't you see that you are acting again without using your head, but rather that heart of yours that has gotten you into trouble more than once?"

"Gotta agree with Doc 'n dis one, kid." – if reeking of booze, one of the oldest of the eight companions, a redhead woman who looked like the most faithful image of a cowgirl out of the not-so-far West, spoke with sudden clear mind despite her toxic habits – "Ye've got nothin' to prove, not to me at least. 'N ye will enjoy shootin' dat bastard's face off feelin' well 'n rested, not like dis."

"Dearie, you need to take your medicine and rest a little to feel better." – the massive Nightkin behind sunglasses and a dainty picture hat advised sweetly… or, at least, as sweetly as the growling baritone voice of a supermutant could muster – "You have played all day with the other children, now it's bedtime."

"Or, you can keep this charade up, Boss, until you start throwing up to the point you fall unconscious again like that time when you got that rad poisoning back on Black Mountain and didn't inform anyone until the supermutante loca with the wig and her pet robot got far away enough." – the sarcastic reply from the only ghoul in the group was met with knowing nods – "Then, you don't worry, the decrepit old man here can keep dealing with not just your body weight, but also all the junk you carry with you by a thousand miles more. Really."

Feeling the weight of the gazes of the four seniors (and not necessarily the wisest) of her companions, she bit down her lip in frustration until she, the moment her eyes were burning with hot tears, lost consistency on her leg's muscles and gave up.

"Easy now." – kneeling down at her sight height, the soft voice of the oddest Brotherhood of Steel Scribe ever spoke in soothing tones – "You're going to be fine, okay?" – and then, she turned to the silent man with the red beret who wore dark glasses even at night – "Lily has her hands full with Rex and ED-E, so… Boone, if you would be so kind…"

Not giving her a chance to finish the sentence, the man knelt silently before the small girl and waited until she gave up and accepted being carried on piggyback, both arms circling his muscled neck and her face buried behind his shaved nape.

She trusted him. All of them in truth. Since the more or less three years that she had been wandering the Wasteland delivering packages, she had felt… always alone. They may not have been friends quite yet… but they were the closest thing she had gotten so far. Age differences and all.

Age differences that made her feel like a child every time they chose to play big bros, grandpa, and granny on her and her stubbornness. And she didn't need a brother; she already had one… or used to have one a long time ago.

So long ago…

Funny, she could recall his face in all detail but not his or even her own name. Thanks to a bastard who not only stole her life from her damaged brain through two bullets aimed at the center of her memory, but who had also stolen the only memento she had managed to still retain from him. That'd been an issue she pretended to fix soon…

But not right now, feeling like crap, wobbling limbs, throat dry and raspy as sandpaper, and eyes playing funny to even stay focused.

This way, both went ahead, Boone and her, back to the Old Mormon Fort, without issuing a word while the other five, cyberdog and eyebot comfily resting on the supermutant's safe arms, followed suit.

It had been a long day. For all of them.


A couple of days had passed without much novelty besides plucking out several Degenerates' pockets on the Poker table.

He usually was quite efficient at guessing bluffs and counting down cards, it only took what in the first place he was pretty good at: patience, strategy, a bit of math, and paying great attention to detail.

He didn't pride himself in excelling at gambling against a bunch of Profligates filled with pitiful addictions, willing to throw themselves into poverty and disgrace for the thrill of relative monetary earnings they, otherwise, would later waste on alcohol and hookers… but it still felt satisfactory to wear them under the providential table, unable as he currently was to release pent-up frustration the way he liked most: lashing them to a cross.

It was nearly sundown, and he still had to hear from Alerio the new reports on the NCR Embassy and Military Police Headquarters present on The Strip or, as the hypocrites would call it, the 'Free Economic Zone of New Vegas', the main reason why he was still trapped in this horrid cesspool polluted with vice and sin.

The main reason why, instead of acting on his instincts by means of biting down the fingers, one by one, of the daring manicured hands that were caressing his shoulders, he had plastered a fake smug smile, feigning showing off in front of the rest of the gamblers. As if the way this Profligate whore behind his back getting all affectionate and sluttish with him just because he was winning was a sort of pride. A privilege he had to announce to the winds.

After all, that was the way of the Profligates. The more disgustingly you behaved, the more respected you became.

However, oh, how he hated when Degenerate females felt free to touch him without his previous consent because they thought that was the right way to get his attention. It was the Profligates' way nonetheless: a woman approaches, touches you casually while getting closer and closer as the inane conversation she strikes on you goes on, and you have to act like you're interested, flattered even.

The game usually involved buying a nice meal or, at least, a few rounds of alcohol to said woman… if she proved - during his undercover interrogation disguised as idle, incredibly charming chatter - to be a valuable asset regarding information on the NCR or the Three Families.

And if that wasn't enough to get the lady's lips loose… he usually resorted to seduction. Women tended to talk way too much after intercourse with a kind stranger. The more if said stranger feigned to be interested in their whereabouts, making them feel, if momentarily, that he really cared about them like a devoted lover… or a boyfriend would. That was the experience they were after in the end; thus, why male escorts were so common in Vegas. It wasn't that difficult to make a woman feel cherished given the kind of men, Profligates or not, they were used to dealing with daily.

And a smooth-talking, pale, blue-eyed, fair-haired young man like him was a far too tempting treat to resist.

To his great shame, he had learned that much from observing and chatting with the male prostitutes at the Gomorrah. Disgraceful and pitiful as they were, being often even younger than him, they usually tended to open up more to other men than the female strippers.

From them, he had learned that older women were usually chattier and blind to the fact that a man as young as him wouldn't have the slightest interest in their wasted bodies or their pitiful sexual displays if it wasn't to obtain something in exchange.

"Even if they are paying for it, they still think that they're this gorgeous broad they used to be thirty years ago." - one of the manwhores had told him once – "Good money in it if they take a fancy on you." - he had added, probably thinking that the inquisitive young fair-haired man was weighing his chances at getting a job on their field. And their advice on such matters had proven to be correct.

The old lusty crows always left his rented room sated and flattered, undulating their disgusting Degenerate carcass of a body in front of him as they bid their goodbye through his door. Too full of themselves to even notice the intense stare of disdain he would sport after the issue was over, wishing looks alone would kill, adding them to his extensive list of futures belong-in-a-cross.

Then, there were the men.

Oh, it hadn't been any news to him that his short wavy hair and his blessed twenty-year-old features and tall, slender body tended to capture more than he would care to admit the lechery from many old men.

Sometimes he had used that advantage over them as well by leading them, flashing charming smiles and seemingly shy glances, playing the candid ephebe part, but making himself unattainable enough so they won't get the wrong idea. One thing was dealing with disgusting Profligate women and their baser needs… that, he could palate to a certain extent… and another entirely different thing was to allow some vomitive animal of a man to get his paws on him.

It was already bad enough when they slipped their sweaty hands under the table so they could grab a handful of his thigh, and he had to contain the murderous instincts that came with the contact, screaming in his mind to cut them in half and feed them on their own entrails.

And here, in New Vegas, the apparent lack of respect for any personal space tended to get people to new levels of disinhibition and lechery worse than anything he had experienced in the other territories he had stayed undercover in all his short life. Here people didn't care.

Like many others he had found throughout the Mojave Desert, this one was a town of whores. One that begged for a lesson to be taught.

Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption, and filth everywhere. – he thought somberly as the Degenerate wannabe-temptress harlot behind him whispered sickly sweet promises in his ear, leaning on his shoulders, flashing bits of skin, leaving him nauseously conscious of the cheap perfume she wore in excessive quantities all over her person.

She belonged on a cross, her and her cheap perfume. Like the rest of them. Like anybody who dared to touch him without his permission.

Effectively masking his intense hatred and disgust towards his surroundings, feeling powerful by harboring such violence on his soul while being able to deceive the world around, master in the art of masking emotions and extreme control over his body language, his eyes didn't abandon the game the very moment various sets of footgear, accompanied by also various sets of vastly different voice tones, claimed the entrance of the Gomorrah casino.

First, there was this cultured, soft voice of a man asking for a table for five people.

Then, immediately after his polite petition, the slurred voice of a woman in her thirties asked something about whiskey while a gruff young man argued a bit with the receptionist about the handing-over-weapons policy.

While keeping his concentration on the game and tuning out the insistent sexual innuendos from the woman behind his back, the elegant young gambler risked a brief glance from under his brown fedora towards the new arrivals.

And the first thing that drew his attention hadn't been the obvious red beret and NCR uniform the gruff young man wore or the Followers of the Apocalypse's doctor overall that the polite blonde man donned like it was the most normal thing in the world, but the small girl in a surprisingly well-preserved white and pink pre-War flowery dress and military combat boots that accompanied them.

Surrounded by full adults way taller than her, she looked even more vulnerable and doe-eyed when another young woman in the group who had remained silent since they had entered put her right arm around her shoulders in a friendly although very protective way while she guided her with a smile to the assigned table for all of them, both sliding in a soft murmur of dresses amidst the general ruckus.

The cunning fair-haired gambler used his ears rather than his eyes to follow them among the noisy establishment full of music, laughter, wolf-whistling at the strippers on the scenario, and distant sounds from the slot machines.

For he wasn't going to move from his table… at least until his current game was over.

They ordered an assortment of drinks and some light meal: roasted brahmin bits with jalapeño sauce and gecko egg omelet all wrapped up in maize tortillas for all, plus whiskey for the cowgirl-lookalike woman, beer for the NCR man, wine for the blonde doctor and the quiet young woman… and, to the gambler's infinite surprise, agave fruit juice for the small girl in the flowery dress.

Not many patrons from any of the three available casinos on The Strip would order a juice without any alcoholic addition in it. She must be pretty young and unused to getting her liver in the compromising position of intoxication.

He immediately liked that. Clean Profligates with clean organisms. He also wondered vaguely if she smoked, for the white teeth he had briefly spotted from a distance in her mouth, all full and even, seemed to suggest otherwise.

"Now, we need to get a plan before making our grand entrance there." – said the voice of the polite blonde man, the unofficial spokesman for the entire group, it seemed – "We wouldn't like half the entire Tops' staff pointing their guns to us as soon as he recognizes her, do we?"

Sharpening his ear at a potential interesting affair inside one of the Three Families, the spying gambler flashed a rather insolent Broadway Straight over the table, earning immediate grunts of exasperation and impotence from the rest of the players. End of the game.

"How about…?" – very timidly, the youthful voice of the small girl hesitated, as if considering her following choice words – "I've already told Vero and…"

"And I've already explained to you that such a plan doesn't sit well with me, Six." – the other young woman, presumably the 'Vero' one, interrupted her – "You are not doing such a thing."

"What plan are you two talking about?" – asked the polite blonde man.

As he calmly collected his earnings translated into casino chips that he would later turn into caps as well, the spying gambler turned elegantly on his heel, chasing away the harlot's unwanted attentions with a cold blue stare while walking straight to the dinner tables.

That way, he caught the furious blushing spreading down the neck and shoulders of the small girl, the aforesaid 'Six', as she gave her companions an edgy look.

Rolling up her eyes, the 'Vero' woman sighed.

"She wants to try her luck by… let's say 'dissuading' the guy into getting with her all private."

The spying gambler didn't have to cast them another glance to know how their faces would look like now if the unanimous choir of gasps was of any indication.

"Are you fucking nuts there, girlie?!" – the NCR dog grunted rather than exclaimed – "You are NOT doing that!"

"Hell yeah, gurl!" – laughed the slurry voice from the cowgirl-lookalike woman – "Dat's not even a half-bad plan t'ere. Let tha bastard's pants slide down 'is ankles… 'n then, shove a bullet right in 'is balls! Ha, ha!"

"I'm not planning to let him get his pants down!" – Six protested, mortification and embarrassment all over her voice as she got it lower – "He will get a bullet first if he fucking dares…"

"I fail to see what's actually the scariest of the two situations here: Cass encouraging and even laughing at something that it's not funny at all… or you actually considering getting a little tête à tête with the man who almost blew your brains out, Six." – the Followers of the Apocalypse man scolded sternly – "And this, providing you can sneak up a weapon bigger and deadlier than a knife between your skirts if you get lucky enough with the security staff."

"I was planning to hide a tiny Police pistol in my panties… They don't seem to search you that thoroughly…"

As he took a seat barely a table far from them and made the customary gesture to order something, the spying gambler scoffed inwardly. Only an amateur would attempt to smuggle a gun with such a big handle inside their undies into one of The Strip's casinos. No matter how frilly or puffy the dress doing the hiding trick, old elastic bands from Old World's underwear were not exactly made to deal with such an inconvenient and extra heavy package. Not to mention the awkward way to keep the walk balanced between not looking suspicious and not letting the pistol drop on the ground.

More likely, she would end up getting the gun along with her undies all over The Tops floorboards.

And it wasn't an amusing or even an enticing mental image at all.

It was a rather pathetic image, even for a Profligate like her.

However, as they were served their order and he got the chance of asking the barmaid for an ice-cold Nuka-Cola, the group shifted their interest to the filled tortillas and drinks and forgot momentarily about their predicament while they devoured their meal hungrily.

He had all the time in the world once he got his soft drink and palated the sweet coolness of caffeine going straight to his brains. He liked to indulge himself from time to time with this pre-War Dissolute drink that would help him endure many hours of deprived sleep and help him focus on his task. It wasn't deadly addictive (though he suspected that it couldn't be healthy at all even with the rads taken out by the freezers' RadAway coated ice. Caffeine was still caffeine), and it wasn't a luxury he could have very often where he came from.

Not that he had better things to do while he awaited Alerio's report, so…

Sipping on his Nuka-Cola while schooling a carefully constructed mask of idle indifference, he took note of each member of the strange ragtag group while resting his eyes way longer on the small girl in the white and pink dress and military boots.

She was nothing out of the ordinary: short, bony, big black eyes matching short unkempt black hair, bushy black eyebrows, and big white front teeth.

But she had this odd electronic device attached to a gauntlet that she was wearing on her left hand, a Pip-Boy he recalled it was called. One of those military pre-War toys that almost every Vault dweller had in their power. The most immediate example?: the owner of the Vault 21 Gift Shop and manager of said Vault lodging, Sarah Weintraub.

He had engaged the blonde woman once or twice in conversation. It had taken minimal prodding on his part for her to start spilling the beans regarding the inner working web with mails and videogames between users' terminals (not that he knew much, besides the basics, about computers), about her brother living in the other non-accessible part of Vault 21, about her fear of getting outside the Vault and, most interestingly, about her open dislike towards Mr. House and his 'everything on The Strip belongs to me' policy.

He would admit, if only to himself, that he felt a bit envious of the girl and her pretty bauble. If the thing was anything like Weintraub's, given how much use the Vault woman gave to it, it would prove… an interesting, valuable item for his field job. He had heard that those things had maps saved on their internal memory that could be updated as soon as you walked into a distinguishable pre-War location such as other Vaults. Very interesting.

Now that he thought about it, besides Vault dwellers, this 'Six' girl wasn't the first person he had seen flashing one of those devices out in the open.

And just when he began recalling the other particular individual he had seen with the toy in question, a barmaid brought him another Nuka-Cola he hadn't asked for that had a folded note glued at its bottom.

Getting his temper under control as he visualized Alerio's face and how pleasurable would it be to stomp a boot on it squarely for blatantly disobeying his orders regarding how they ought to communicate in Profligate territory while undercover, he unstuck the note wordlessly while he opened the soft drink, pocketed the cap and gave it a long gulp.

He almost choked on the bubbly dark soda the moment his blue eyes scanned over the few lines written on it.

You are a non-caring rat for what I see. It seems that there's nothing new under the sun after all.
Incidentally, and speaking of pretty girls you are eyeing with no shame, rumor says that the brunette with the short hair has entered and left half an hour later the Lucky 38 this morning.
Maybe you should consider checking your goggles. Just saying.

Enjoy the drink.

Blinking a couple of times, first staring stupidly at the dumb encrypted message about nothing new to report on the NCR (Non-Caring Rat, really?) and, thus, on their infiltrated agents there… the fair-haired gambler folded the note and proceeded to pocket it as if it was nothing while taking another good peek at the small girl with the short black hair blushing profusely at some crude remark the redhead drunkard cowgirl-lookalike woman had just made in between laughs.

It couldn't be… she did look like a girl, no mistake on that… Could it be possible that he had…?

His memory then went back almost three months earlier, when everything had been way simpler.

At least simpler than these days with New Vegas Radio proclaiming to anyone willing to tune on the dial about a mysterious fourth force wedging in-between the New California Republic pushing their rifles and their endless politics on the Mojave against the resistance that offered Robert House and the Three Families while, at the other side of the Dam, Caesar's Legion was perched like a gigantic bird of prey, awaiting its next opportunity to seize New Vegas, this post-Apocalyptic New Babylon, from the hands of the meek and unworthy.

The Courier from the Mojave Express, leader of a small, although growing, group of adherents who were warlords in some places as well as peacemakers in others.

That made him recall Nipton, the debased vices deeply rooted in that cesspool of a city being cleansed through blood and fire by his hand.

Every inhabitant had been a twisted mockery to Humankind itself. Every house a den of debauchery and perversion, every single cry echoing inside their walls a testament of cowardice… and every minute of the eerie silence of the desert against the acrid smell of burned tires and broken flesh, a triumph of purity over corruption and filth.

The lottery had been a success… despite that idiot who had earned his chance to leave with both of his legs intact so he would spread the word about them running in circles until he had almost bumped into a lone traveler who had doubted a while before entering Nipton.

He remembered being thinking about what a waste of a winning prize for such an imbecile… until the newcomer had gotten in his field of view.

This one. This one looked focused and sane enough if wearing their head low was any indication that what they were witnessing was, at least to some degree, horrific to watch.

And he could tell that much by just observing the way the walking figure was purposefully avoiding any eye contact with the agonizing crucified men displayed at both sides in neat rows towards the city's Main Hall, where he and his men surrounded by a pack of trained Legion mongrels had waited patiently as the stranger had approached.

Baggy dirty repairman overalls, combat boots, one faded camo glove on the right hand, a full gauntlet holding a Pip-Boy on the whole left forearm, a rusty chestplate tightly strapped at their midsection, shreds of what once should have been a green scarf holding tightly around the chin and mouth, baseball cap and aviator sunglasses… The newcomer had had the look of a scavenger who didn't know yet how to strike a look to appear impressive.

Black crew cut, a weathered 10mm old pistol, and an automatic switchblade at their hip plus a floating mechanical orb buzzing over their head, the stranger had looked to not be more than five feet or so tall.

Again, not impressive at all, which had suited him just fine. The last thing he had needed at that moment had been a brute with too many chems on their system to know which battles to pick and which not. Better a frightened scavenger kid - for the stranger had looked like a kid in their early teens - than yet another Powder Ganger or a raider to deal with.

"Don't worry." – he had assured the kid with a soft yet very cold intonation – "I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these Degenerates. It's useful that you happened by."

The last thing he had wanted was a teenager to start crying or pleading for their life. His and his men's uniforms were a giveaway of who they were, what interests they represented, and what their business with the town had been.

The kid had raised their head a bit, and he would have sworn with his hand over the fire that he had been speaking to a boy. He had looked like a boy, no soft curves evident under the oversized clothes, and his posture had been a boy's posture. Wary but not shy like a girl would have presented herself.

Or, at least, how he had pictured a girl would have reacted to a group of legionaries.

In fact, it was due to him thinking the stranger a boy that he had started talking. If he had suspected the stranger to be a girl, he would have merely slapped her on a collar to redirect her steps to Cottonwood Cove.

The younger they captured them, the easier it was for them to be assimilated into their society.

It wasn't personal; the more women of fertile age they managed to adhere to their cause, the earlier their population would substantially increase. Even the filthy female prostitutes from that cesspool of a town who hadn't been too old or too sick were valuable assets he had not included in the lottery. They had been put on slave collars and sent promptly to Cottonwood Cove with the first group commanded by one of his most trusted men.

Those had been his orders. Again, nothing personal.

"I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton." – he had continued after a brief inspection on what he had thought to be a boy, freckled nose and full cheeks insinuating behind the ragged scarf, concluding that such a little person, despite the robotic device floating by his side, wouldn't give him or his men any trouble – "To memorize every detail." – he had added, giving the other a grandiloquent gesture with his right arm as if encompassing the area surrounding them, his left occupied with the weight of the chainsaw he had had resting against his hip – "And then, when you move on?" – after a few seconds allowing a heavy silence to envelop his words, he sentenced – "I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar's Legion taught here…" – then, he had raised his voice an octave, bringing emphasis where he knew it would claim its due effect – "Especially any NCR troops you happen to run across."

Wrinkling his nose slightly, the boy had coughed a bit as if still not being used to the stench of smoke from burning tires mixed with charred flesh and spilled blood that had surrounded them like black fog against the sunset's red sky.

"Why?" – he had asked, his voice a mere raspy whisper muffled by the scarf, slightly high-pitched. The reedy voice of probably a thirteen/fourteen-year-old – "Why doing this to an entire population? Why the hurry in letting the NCR know? What do you intend to achieve?"

'Intend to achieve'. That was not a phrasing he would have suspected to come from the lips of a scavenger, for they rarely could string a complete sentence without swearing, repeating, inventing, or mixing words to palliate their limited knowledge on vocabulary.

That alone had informed the legionary that he wasn't dealing with a common simpleton.

He had felt pleased. Pleased for the evident curiosity behind those questions, pleased for finding a young boy educated enough to follow his conversation and the meaning behind his actions.

Pleased at getting, for once, genuine interest instead of outright rebuff coming from a non-Legion member.

If he hadn't suspected that the good-for-nothing of a lottery winner wasn't a safe bet that would provide the NCR the message he had intended to deliver them, he would have offered this lad a place within the Legion. Educated people were a rare sight.

"Where to begin?" – he had smiled, absolutely comfortable with a topic he felt strongly about – "That we intend to let them know that they are weak, and we are strong? This much was known already." – however, recalling the events that had led to the city's demise… recalling how that slug of a man they had had for a Mayor had kept looking at him in that disgusting leering manner as he had offered the pig money in exchange for his absolute cooperation, he couldn't help but put on a grimace of utter disgust – "But the depths of their moral sickness, their… dissolution?" – he had almost spat the word – "Nipton serves as the perfect object lesson."

"What lesson does a dead city have to learn?" – the boy had inquired, oddly profound both in his words and intonation; odd yet pleasant enough to compel an answer – "What did they do to deserve such a punishment?"

Clever, clever little boy.

"Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt." – he had explained, revulsion and affront threatening to spill from his very tongue as he had spoken. The bleary, bulging eyes of Mayor Steyn, bald and greasy, roaming his body shamelessly still too fresh in his memory – "It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself… the people here didn't care." – he had concluded with an even tone, bitterness and venom still deep hidden beneath the surface – "It was a town of whores."

Under his oversized aviator sunglasses, the boy had frowned.

"For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap." – he had continued explaining calmly, knowing he had managed to hit a nerve when the boy's mouth had opened in shock, his big front teeth biting into the scarf's green shreds – "Only when I sprang it, did they realize they were caught inside it too."

After a short silence, the boy had spoken again.

"So, they… they…"

"Yes?"

Inhaling slowly as if steadying himself, the boy's response had caught him off-guard.

"They deserved it." – he had muttered with defeat – "That's the message you want to send: that their betrayal was their undoing even if you were the hand behind the deed. That their greed blinded them. Even the very customers deserved it for, following your logic, they were shaming and betraying themselves and the factions they represent." – sighing again, he had raised his head, aviator sunglasses facing tinted biker goggles – "Your reasoning is hard to refute, yes… but your lessons are cruel… very, very cruel…"

Raising pale brows behind his goggles, the legionary had considered the boy in front of him yet again. He hadn't liked the implications of his response, but he wouldn't accept such a misleading conclusion coming from someone as intelligent as this one. He simply wouldn't.

"Is it cruel to let them know their flaws?" – he had asked, cold yet unusually incensed – "To force them to acknowledge that their egotism, ergo their individualism, ultimately proved to be their doom?" – leaning a bit over the small lad from his tall height like a parent gently chiding their child, he had continued – "I daresay that this warning shouldn't be interpreted as mere cruelty at all, but a small mercy our Lord Caesar deems fit to bestow upon the careless and unfaithful." – however, diminishing his almost passionate outburst, his voice had relaxed again, regaining the perennial pleasant tone he always used, his most lethal weapon – "It has nothing to do with logic or points of view, but the truth, as terrible as it is."

"I… see." – the boy had murmured while extending his left hand idly towards the mutts that had been slowly approaching the both of them as they had kept talking.

One of the beasts had sniffed his small fingers briefly and had started to lick them gently, the rest of the pack following immediately, swaying tails and drooling panting.

Seeing him surrounded by the dogs, unafraid and at total ease despite the circumstances, the legionary had thought that he liked the boy. Intelligent and polite enough, given enough time, he may prove a fine addition to Caesar's Frumentarii… providing he would survive training, that is.

It had felt disappointing and a shame to let him go that easily, but he had needed someone sober enough to send his message as he hadn't trusted the impaired judgment of the bumbling fool that had won the lottery.

"I'll do it." – the boy had declared without looking at him – "I will deliver your message to the Mojave Outpost. The Rangers sent me here in the first place to assess the extent of the damage."

That… had been a dangerous declaration to make in front of a whole group of armed legionaries. Whether the lad was incredibly brave or incredibly foolish, he was still very fortunate that all of the present men had been Frumentarii and not ordinary foot soldiers.

Ad spectare, ad colligere, ad nuntiare… et ut rursus redire. Observe, gather, report… and strike back. Never in a different order. Not for Caesar's Frumentarii.

"Now the New California Republic uses their young ones to do scout work? Pathetic." – he had spat contemptibly, briefly tempted to show the boy just how much disgust he felt by carving it in his flesh.

"I'm not one of them." – the boy had replied immediately as if the notion had been, somehow, insulting to him – "For what I've heard and seen so far, they can't make things progress with so much written nonsense and bureaucracy they could choke on their forms… but they have beds, warm covers, cool water, and nice packed rations. Good enough payment in exchange for taking a peek, I guess."

Immediately, the sudden violence of his thoughts had gone as quickly as it had come.

A vagrant hungry child then, shamelessly used by the NCR to do their dirty work.

Taking him by the shoulders on an impulse, the boy had not even flinched at the contact.

"Then, should our paths cross again, I will make you an offer. An offer I do hope you will take into consideration given the current circumstances." – he had said in all earnest, giving a gentle squeeze and letting go the bony shoulders under his hard fingertips – "For now, I bid you vale… until we meet again."

Perhaps they would never see each other again ever… but he had felt obliged to extend the invitation to this one. A glimpse of hope for such a hopeless situation for a lone child striving for survival. He, too, had been a child once.

However, as he had given his men the signal while the dogs had followed suit after he had clicked his tongue twice, he had stopped in his tracks when the boy addressed him again.

"Wait…" – he had said, uncertainty tinting his raspy voice – "Should I want to accept any offer you would extend… Who should I ask for?"

Turning his head, he had given the other a brief glance over his shoulder.

"Ask for Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar's Frumentarii."

After that, with a quick nod, the child had scurried away, followed by his odd floating toy beeping behind him.

"What do you think?" – he had asked Gabban casually as both had carried on forward at the front of the men, miles and miles of reddened sands ahead of them.

Nevertheless, Gabban had simply shrugged. Bushy sandy brows arched, nose dirty and scrunched. Despite his wide gait and robust structure, he still got his nose dirty like an eight-year-old scoundrel. Nineteen years don't make a man yet. Nor twenty. You stop growing when you turn twenty-one.

Many of them were still just boys. Boys playing war and politics, just like the one they had left behind.

"Smart kid, wrong allegiances." – he had simply answered.

And that had been all. He had reported back to his Lord, and that should have been the end of the story… until it had proven to be a much more extended and intricate tale than he had anticipated at first.

Because, in the following months, Mr. New Vegas, the self-proclaimed radioman that got surprisingly fast new information on the Mojave's affairs, had kept proclaiming the whereabouts, achievements, and many virtues of an anonymous Courier that had half the former State of Nevada painted with the signs of revolution.

The newsman and the many people who had dealt with this Courier never gave the same description (or a description at all) of the person above, not even a name… but this Courier was becoming a celebrity at a fast pace, the thing escalating high enough for Mr. New Vegas keep calling this person 'The Last, Best Hope of Humanity' at the minimum opportunity.

This singular person, in a very singular way, was cutting through the Mojave's issues like a knife cuts through butter, and nobody seemed to be particularly alerted that such greatness couldn't be played single-handedly by just one person at all.

Vulpes had a web of spies all over the Mojave Desert, and he had gotten confused and a bit irritated that his men couldn't even get two reports agreeing with one another.

First, there was Picus at Camp McCarran, not being able to provide a physical description of the Courier, not even a name, but insisting that said Courier had been helping the NCR with small local issues that had granted this person a permanent place to rest, wash and eat should the Courier or their companions would be in the area, totally free of charge; permission to purchase any kind of medical supplies with a generous discount… and a sort of an invitation to prove their loyalty to the NCR through entering their ranks.

The NCR wanted to recruit this Courier to their cause, and they had already made arrangements to make them feel at home.

Then, Gladius, the intermediary agent that dealt with Caesar's dealings with the Van Graffs and their possible trading agreement on armament regards. He had actually seen this Courier. Or, at least, a good portion of the Courier's companions. Once. And in the middle of the night. And he hadn't known that it had been the Courier at the moment when they had arrived at the agreed place.

There had been three people. And a cyberdog. And a ghoul. And a supermutant. And some odd floating device buzzing over their heads.

That one last detail had made Vulpes start to suspect that this Courier could very well be his intellectual little boy with the aviator glasses, even if it had been a long shot… even if Gladius had insisted that the three humans had been, being his impressions correct, all women. One hooded and the other two, a redhead and a brunette, respectively. And he hadn't spoken with either of them but had, instead, to deal with the ghoul who, emboldened by the supermutant's threatening stance, besides sassing and making fun of him with a brand of humor as dry as the desert and a Spanish accent as strong as a sandstorm, had kept poking him with odd questions regarding this trading agreement until Gladius had lost his patience and had demanded respect in the name of 'a cause greater than what their feeble Degenerated minds could possibly comprehend'.

That statement had made the ghoul and the three women exchange a few glances between them, but they had said nothing.

The ghoul had managed to get some caps out of him speaking of a non-informed negotiated small fee for the sampling drop. And Gladius had been actually glad (no pun intended) that their business had concluded despite suspecting that he had been scammed somehow.

Said report had told Vulpes one thing: this Courier was aware of the Legion's presence all over the territory and was cautious enough to get surrounded with, or even send, a group of cohorts to confound people, just in case someone would start to suspect who or what this person was.

Unable to extract any valuable information out of these reports, Vulpes Inculta, leader of the Frumentarii, had clutched at straws and had presumed that, given the nature of the floating device, a commodity which, if the records from their undercover agents disguised as couriers of the Mojave Express were accurate, had been an exclusivity to the fallen Enclave faction from the Capitol almost five years prior… situated the device either a possession from an Enclave survivor, his little boy with the baseball cap… or either a person said boy had chosen to sell his electronic pet to.

Either way, he had been adamant with his men when he had ordered them to keep searching for a small, well-spoken Caucasian boy in his teens wearing a Pip-Boy.

Then, Karl's report on the Great Khans, even if filled with exhaustingly dull details about how he found their leader, Papa Khan, and his cohorts to be 'scarcely a match for a Legion recruit' and how 'loathsome their barbaric customs were', et cetera, et cetera… Vulpes had dig quite the interesting fragment out of the long, rambling, and repetitive report about a certain stranger accompanied by a man, two women, and a floating electronic sphere going straight into Red Canyon, Great Khans' territory, that, after getting acquainted with some initiate called Jerry the Punk and exchanging 'some gallantries' with the local drug dealers, had parted and returned several times, always sending their respects to Papa Khan through other members of the Great Khans… until this stranger had petitioned a private audience with him through Regis, Papa Khan's Second-In-Command.

Apparently, they had figured out a deal with the Powder Gangers occupying Vault 19: the Great Khans would accept Samuel Cooke and his boys in their tribe in exchange for supplying explosives and undergoing the due ritual of initiation every Great Khan would have to endure to become a fully active member of the community, a brother.

Both parties had accepted these terms, and the stranger, whom Karl had never actually seen in person, had disappeared from sight.

Again, the presence of the floating appliance amidst the extraordinary achievements of a helpful stranger gaining a community's trust and respect. Never a name, always lots of rumors about said stranger asking for a man in a checkered suit with a golden pistol.

It had to be the same person, without any doubt. This Courier everyone seemed to know something about and yet nothing useful.

That was… until one of his undercover agents posing as couriers for the Mojave Express had come with a copy of an incomplete datasheet saying the following:

ID: Z-006M
Position: Courier.
Type of Contract: Permanent.
Contract Start Date: November 5th, 2278.
Name: _
Gender: _
Age: _
Birthplace: _
Residence: Tenpenny Tower, Capitol Wasteland.
Languages: English (Native), Spanish (Native), French (Basic), Latin (Basic), Chinese (Very Basic).
Can Read: Yes.
Can Write: Yes.
Academic Formation: Python, Java, JavaScript, ASL, PHP, HTML, XML, XSD, MS-DOS. Basic Elementary School Generic Knowledge.
Known Medical Conditions: _
Health Insurance: Yes (Fully Covered).
Emergency Contact: W.J. Burke (Tenpenny Tower, Capitol Wasteland).
Recommendations: W.J. Burke.
Side Notes: Reliable, responsible, can be trusted with delicate shipments. Polite, diplomatic, non-belligerent. Basic First Aid training. Operating Pip-Boy.

Without knowing who this Courier was, Vulpes already had an approximated idea of what this person could do.

And there was the floating mechanical sphere (Enclave device, Capitol address… it had to be) plus the Pip-Boy thing.

Too many coincidences. Too a convenient data absence.

This Burke person… might be worth sending an agent to investigate. It would take some time, though. The Capitol Wasteland, the Old Washington DC, wasn't exactly close to the Mojave.

What possibly could have been so important to deliver for this Courier to navigate through the whole North America from the East coast to the West end? What routes did this person take? Did somebody recognize or even remember such a person?

It had to be. The boy, the scavenger with the aviator sunglasses. It was his best lead. He had to try.

So, he had written his report and had gotten the approval from Caesar himself: should they localized the person known solely as 'The Courier', presumably an educated young boy with a knack for electronic devices and computers, Vulpes himself had to contact him and extend an offer of safe passage through Legion controlled territory to Cottonwood Cove. Once there, the men at the camp had specific orders not to attack and/or enslave the Courier or any of his companions (though a word of warning against bringing the ghoul or the supermutant along ought to be communicated to this person before sending them to Cottonwood Cove) and to transport them safely to Fortification Hill on the other side of the Dam.

Once there, the Courier and his companions would be treated as honor guests.

Also, the Praetorian Guard had specific orders to only allow the Courier alone to enter Caesar's tent in order to discuss a possible allegiance for the incoming second battle for Hoover Dam.

Considering everything mentioned above… plans had taken a dangerous turn now that the Courier had been confirmed as a woman.

Vulpes didn't know what to make of the situation at the moment: on the one hand, he had a girl; an awkwardly young girl who would pose not only a direct challenge to what many men of the Legion would view as a mere inferior creature being given a position of 'undeserved privilege' by just being able to speak directly with Caesar himself… but also a proof of Vulpes' incompetence for letting slip such an important detail about a possible Legion allegiance.

In truth, it was just politics regarding the soldiers' views and how their society treated women in general. But politics or not, Caesar would not be pleased in the least to learn that his head of Intelligence had been fooled enough that he couldn't tell the difference between a boy and a girl despite having engaged in a long conversation with said girl.

However, on the other hand… he had to be sure. Sure that this wasn't Alerio's mistake and this girl wasn't yet another of the Courier's companions who had been casually the one sent by him to deal with the mysterious opening of the Lucky 38.

He had to be sure that this girl was indeed the Courier… sure that this wasn't yet another disguise, and, even if Alerio ended up being correct about the identity issue, that the Courier was a she at all.

From what he knew, it could perfectly be a transvestite trick to confound people. Coming from someone as elusive as this infamous Courier persona, he would expect that much.

And his opportunity came with the two brunette girls, arms intertwined, ruffling skirts, and two sets of noisy footwear going straight to the main level bathrooms.

He had sipped his soft drink with delectation, calmly, smoothly. And, with that same calm smoothness, he had gotten up his seat, hands sheathed inside his pockets, and had made his way to the bathrooms.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Six!" – he heard the 'Vero' woman hissing nervously as the sound of water running came next once he approached the bathrooms silently – "You okay?!" – small nervous heels met dresses ruffling amidst choked panting – "Are you going to throw up?" – then, small whimpering noises, like a tiny wounded animal, vibrating in a soft echo amidst the muffled silence of the bathrooms; music and disorder beating outside that precarious bubble – "It is it again, right? Your head." – two Mississippis passed – "Okay, stay put. I'm gonna fetch Arcade. Keep that wet rag on your forehead, 'kay? I'm coming back in a minute."

And, just that easy, the clicking heels getting farther left a singular silence after them, only broken with the occasional dripping coming from a faucet badly closed.

He had gotten inside the yellowed room, minding himself around the cracked tiles until his dusty leather shoes and brown pants had gotten in front of a small figure shrunken on the floor.

She had both hands over her ears as if wanting to block any possible harmful sounds while she managed to maintain attached a wet yellowish rag against her forehead, greasy water drops sliding down her face, dripping from her chin to the neckline of her dainty dress. Closed eyes and reddened face.

She was in pain, totally oblivious of her surroundings and the man standing in front of her.

Quickly assessing the situation, he produced a linen handkerchief from his jacket's front pocket and a small bottle of Chloroform he always had in hand from one of the side pockets.

The next thing he knew was that getting an unconscious girl whose boots weigh far more than her legs scoped on his arms while arranging her posture as if she were drunk instead of unconscious was a tricky task. He had the previsory thought of wrapping her in his jacket while trying to balance both of her arms around his neck.

That had been the way he had presented himself in front of the casino muscle, feigning the doting boyfriend act carrying the drunken girlfriend to their shared room, earning more than one sympathizing look. He was young; she was young. Nothing suspicious at all.

This way, he had carried her to the lower lobby, then inside of a small yet comfy room he had rented only for himself while he supervised from the shadows that the Omertas were keeping their end of the deal with Caesar, and had put her gently over the rounded bed while thinking about his next course of action.

It had been obscenely easy to get her alone and weak enough to put his drugging trick out of his sleeve. He even hadn't to persuade or intimidate her into accompanying him.

It felt somehow… disappointing.

And the disappointment took on higher levels the moment he had examined her face up close and, while switching hands over her facial features, trying to remember how the little boy in Nipton had looked like with eyes covered with aviator sunglasses and mouth and chin partially covered by a ragged scarf, he had reached the conclusion that, whether he liked it or not, this was the very same person he had engaged in a conversation three months ago.

Then, as his fingers pried further into her scalp, he felt the uneven scarring two bullets had left over her left ear, deep hidden amidst short black hair on her temple.

No doubt, this was also the infamous Courier from the Mojave Express if his informants from Goodsprings had delivered the news about the local 'miraculous resurrection' correctly. The scars spoke volumes by themselves alone.

Also, to his splitting growing headache, this person was female. He had assumed that much while he had carried her, and had felt no evidence of male genitalia against his arm.

A girl, a transvestite, a courier, and a very influential person that Caesar sought to enlist to his cause. All condensed into only one person.

This could end up incredibly bad under circumstances that were already available on the platter. He could tell by just looking at her.

She was a child. Not young enough to be considered a schoolgirl, not old enough even to look passable feminine. With her peppered nose and her (very) slightly tanned complexion full of skin and bones, she wasn't anything close to a whole woman if the absence of hips and breasts was of any indication.

This was a disaster. A big bad disaster.

Pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, Vulpes' headache got even worse the very moment he got his back to the unconscious girl and heard her stirring. He needed more time… time enough to focus and uncoil this huge mess before making a decision.

It was almost an automatic move when he reached again for his linen handkerchief and Chloroform bottle. He needed her under control, he needed…

"Urgh…" – he heard her groaning – "Did I blackout…?"

Quickly hiding the drug bottle and, instead, taking a slow approach to her with a seemingly innocent wet handkerchief to treat her headache, he directed his steps calmly towards her lying form.

Controlled and measured body language. That was the key to ensuring somebody's unconscious trust.

However, she squinted her dark eyes and scanned him from head to toe, taking in his white wavy hair and partial melanin absence condition.

"Do… do I know you?" – she asked, unsure, getting slowly up to sit on the rounded bedside.

He didn't blink even once.

"Yes." – he answered, earning a big doe-eyed expression immediately from her, his voice sounding… immensely tired even to his own ears – "Yes, I believe so… Courier Six."


SPANISH:

(1) - "crazy supermutant" (feminine form)


A/N: this story is very detailed in my head and has its due arc and ending... but its writing wasn't planned.

In fact, I should be paying more attention to my other fics, but Vulpes and Six insisted me A LOT to tell their story, so I had to comply.

This is NOT going to be a soft story or a lighthearted one. In fact, I believe you can tell that this is going to be pretty dramatic if the tone in which I have started is of any indication. New Vegas is full of vices, the NCR is full of bureaucratic idiocy, the Legion is full of child soldiers, and Robert House is full of shit. Nothing is salvageable in such an environment except good feelings between broken people. Be this a warning of what is coming ahead.

Yes, Vulpes is 20 here. Why? Because the Garden of Eden Creation Kit (G.E.C.K.) says so. Don't believe me? Go ahead and take a look by yourself. It fucking broke my heart.

Yes, yes, I know the G.E.C.K. is not a reliable source in ages regard, for it depicts Arcade and Cass almost ten years younger than they are supposed to be and Boone is fucking fifteen, so shut up. I already know this fact and it still broke my heart that Vulpes is ONLY twenty years old.

I mean... he's a fucking child! And, if we dwell on the Lore enough... we get that the older people on the Legion are actually Caesar himself and his Praetorian Guards, Lucius the oldest by far. Even fucking Lanius is supposed to be a young man! This is a child army!

I'm not saying that I sympathize with the Legion, because I do NOT... but I can sympathize with the plight of many men-children being robbed from their cradles or from their mothers' arms. They are immature, hormonal, brutalized, brain-washed young dudes who think women are both dollies to play with and mothers to serve them. It's so fucking sad and stupid and unnecessary that it hurts. A lot.

So, this is why Vulpes is so young. And why my Courier is also a kid herself. No oversexualized attraction, no power-play, no mistreatment, no invincible individuals, no rapist Vulpes, no cunning bitch Courier. Just two kids needing a friend and playing war at the same time.

What do you think?

[EDITED - 11/06/2022]: ... hum, more corrections? Maybe? I'm literally obsessed about making this fic legible, so I've started from Chapter 1 yet again, fixing mistakes while re-reading the whole damn thing again (thus, getting significantly slower updates). Still using Grammarly for suggestions and less complicated ways to deliver sentences. Hope it shows. CHAPTERS FULLY REVISED 1-28.