"Number Nine"


Ch. 02: Psychobabble.


"Take me for a fool if you feel that's right
Well I'm never on my own but there's nobody in sight

I don't know why I'm scared of the lightning

Trying to reach me
I can't turn to the left or the right
I'm too scared to run and I'm too weak to fight
But I don't care it's all psychobabble rap to me."

- The Alan Parsons Project, "Psychobabble"


She had been dreaming with her again. With her bestie, back when both of them had been little girls.

Odd that she couldn't recall her name for the life of her, but it hadn't mattered much. No one bothers about such tiny details when there's pistachio ice cream, sour cream and onion chips you could dip in nachos' salsa, barbecue pizza with extra cheese, and fucking Nuka-Cola Vanilla.

Her best friend wore glasses, and she was chubby and sweet. Her hair was the color of that Swedish milky chocolate that the two of them were allowed to eat from time to time.

That evening they had been watching 'Labyrinth' on their respective Pip-Boys (they both had wanted to paint their devices pink and rename them 'Pink-Girls'. They had already developed a feminized interface that showed a curvaceous, long-haired caricature of the iconic Pip Boy cartoon doing the same stuff as the original. Her bestie had a knack for arts and design, and she had a knack for programming, so…) and, while they had kept shoving trash down their throats as the world fell down in a bubbled ballroom in front of their fascinated eyes, they both had sighed like the two stupid, hormonal eleven-year-olds they had been at that moment.

Both had been a pair of geeks, so they had supported each other when the rest of the kids in their section made fun of them, calling them 'nerds'.

They had cared very little about what others could think about them the moment they had met each other three years before that thrice-blessed greasy trashy banquet. And they had become fast friends. Both liked the same movies and shows, both could quote Morpheus' character from the Matrix trilogy to a fault, both liked videogames, both thought that Grognak comics weren't just for boys, both were studying together Latin and French just for fun…

Both were unattractive, geeky, boyfriend-less kids who still liked those old animation princesses that wore beautiful dresses, had pretty long hairs… and impossibly narrow waists that no healthy girl should sport while being over eight years old.

And more importantly: both had loved Nuka-Cola Vanilla.

It had been so perfect… so good and right… and they were having so much fun…

Until said trash food had gotten the wrong way down to her stomach, and she had gotten sick.

The oppressing sensation traveling from her tummy up her throat had snowballed painful and fast until she had managed to roll to her left side, and she had started to evacuate the contents of her stomach violently.

"Whoa, easy there. Easy." – she heard a voice speaking as a steady hand secured her thorax to prevent that she fell to the floorboards face down on her own vomit – "Here. You been out cold a couple of days now."

It hadn't been a couple of days but more of a whole week of unconscious dreaming of old times filled with young wishes.

Filthy walls, filthy rusty ceiling fan, flakes of dust impregnating the air… and the perennial sticky heat gnawing at every inch of her sweaty skin. Bodily odor and greasy sweat smeared all over the yellowed plastic covering of the squeaky hospital stretcher.

She had hated that place so much. She still hated it.

The burning sensation filling her nostrils had informed her that the vomit had also gotten out of her nose. Disgusting.

Old tanned hands had begun cleaning the mess out of her face along with tears and a shaming snot trail that had already gotten to her collarbone with a handkerchief. She hadn't cared. Given how much her head had hurt at that moment, she would have allowed a group of junkies to put her over a radscorpion's back to play pony.

Once she managed to calm herself from the post-puke shakings, her eyes focused as she was finally able to get a good look at her benefactor: a bald old man, that was for sure. Around his sixties, she would venture. Hoary big mustache, but no purple sash.

After all, this wasn't fucking Mexico, and they weren't on a honky-tonk, thank god.

The old guy had looked like a friggin' impersonation of an Old West cowboy with boiled leather boots and high pants with suspenders, dark leather gloves, the fucking due scarf to avoid swallowing dust out in the desert, old jaded checkered shir…

Wait a minute. She NOW recalled the bastard on a checkered suit that had robbed her up the graveyard hill aided by his goons.

"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"

He had looked so self-assured, so impossibly clean amidst so much dust. His shiny, perfectly styled hair gleaming in the moonlight, as well as the metallic casino chip he had flashed to her before pocketing it again.

"You've made your last delivery, kid."

Her package, the one she was supposed to…

"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."

No, he HADN'T been sorry. Just the same way she WASN'T going to be sorry the moment she got to kick his balls. She hoped she ended up emasculating him in the process.

"From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck."

Then the gun, silver and gold and pretty, Virgin Mary weeping from the pristine handle the instant he had pointed its barrel towards her.

Hail Maria.

"Truth is... the game was rigged from the start."

And her world had fallen down, hard and unforgiving. No amount of songs was going to wipe that from her, ever.

She had gripped her aching head with both her hands.

"Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings." – the old man had kept talking, his voice soft and understanding – "Let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name, kiddo?"

The moment she had opened her mouth to answer, her world had just come to a halt when she realized she couldn't remember it.

But the thing that had spooked her the most had been getting her hands out of her skull and finding the left one smeared in dried blood.

"W… whadda happen'd wuth ma he'd?" – the moment she had slurred those very words out of her tongue, she had realized just how dry her throat had been at that moment, and just how high on Med-X they had left her so her tissues could heal without pain.

"I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out." – the kind old man had explained – "I just don't get it. A stiff breeze'd tear you in two, but a couple of bullets and you're right as rain. With luck like yours, I'm surprised them bullets didn't just turn right around and climb back into the gun, though."

"Bull'ts?"

"Two, to be precise. I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of…"

She hadn't allowed the man to continue as she had launched her frail limbs out of the gurney and had gotten on knees and elbows on the floor a good foot far away from the presumed doctor and, after scratching the floorboards violently to get her ridiculous height on two feet, not waiting for the man's help, she had sprinted around the unknown house until she had gotten sight of the broken mirror in the bathroom.

Her hair… her beautiful dark long hair only occupied half her head as the left side had been shaved flush to the chalky cranium skin.

She had looked like a fucking raider instead of a princess… like those of her animated movies stored on the memory of her Pip-B…

"Whoa, kiddo!" – the old man had managed to catch her a few seconds later – "Not to burst your bubble, but your noggin's still tender. Take it slow now. It ain't a race."

As she had been still in shock, watching herself ugly, looking like shit, and smelling awful, she hadn't noticed the man's hands coming for her right forearm, taking out the needle from the surgical tube of saline out of her slightly bleeding artery.

She had allowed him to proceed so far until her dispersed mind had caught with reality's speed.

"Ma hair…"

"Sorry, kiddo, gotta shave the spot to perform surgery. One of them pretty hairs of yours gets inside while stitching things back together, and you can count on an ugly swollen infection afterward."

She had known that that had sounded logical and couldn't argue medical stuff with a doctor.

She had to report about this, about what had happened and the lost package. He wasn't going to be happy about this. Not at all.

"Wh… wher's ma Pip-Boy, doc?"

However, as her question had abandoned her lips, the old man had given her an inquisitive look.

"What Pip-Boy, kiddo?"

Tears had streamed out of her eyes before she could process the situation entirely.

She had puked again. And, while she forcibly had vomited yellow bile, she had cried; and, while she cried, she screamed. Doc hadn't known what to do with her, trying to calm her wobbling form by saying that perhaps her Pip-Boy was still where the Victor securitron fella had dug her out after being shot. He had to restrain her by the arms to prevent her from running out barefoot, clad only in her undies right up that cursed hill.

It had taken every ounce of patience and goodwill on the old man's part to put up with her stubbornness and hysterical cries, not willing to let her go until she got a shower, got appropriately dressed, ate something, and spoke with someone called S… Sonrisas? Sonrisas Solares? Sonrisas Como El Sol? (+) It had something to do with the sun and laughing… or maybe not. She could recall the woman and her dog… and the geckos that had almost killed her when she aided said woman in hunting them. But nothing beyond that.

She had taken the food, the borrowed clothes, and a new, formatted Pip-Boy ruefully from the doctor's generosity, but the shower had done her some good.

He had told her his name at some point… but since her awakening, her memory sometimes would find these funny gaps where it would arbitrarily throw random pieces of information, especially names and places, if she wasn't constantly reminded of them.

After that, she had asked the good doctor to lend her a pair of scissors, a razor, and some shaving foam.

"What are you gonna do with that, kiddo?" – the old man had asked cautiously after her previous display.

"Taking this shit out." – had been her hard answer, pointing at her half unshaved cranium – "No need for the stupid long hair anymore. I'd rather look like a baldie than a motherfucking raider."

He hadn't argued at that, and she had ended up in front of the quartered mirror again crying, singing fragments of a song she couldn't recall the title of, and butchering what was left of her once-glorious raven mane.

"… Those razors hurt, I can't feel fine my love here tonight, tonight…
Bye-bye to this, I can't feel fine my love here tonight, tonight… "

Later, she would confirm, tears still overflowing her red-rimmed eyes, that her original Pip-Boy, along with her package and many memories, had gone for good.

However, in their place had come a new feeling and a purpose from that very moment on: revenge.


The moment she regained consciousness, her fingertips aimed to feel where she was currently laying… and only found softness.

In fact, she felt this really comfortable like she hadn't felt since Novac, when she had been forced to rent a motel room at the outrageous price of one hundred caps. The sweet side of the deal had been to get a working shower, a working fridge, a working electric cooking stove (damn good gecko chowder she had prepared after getting herself acquainted with the home appliance), and a goddamned gorgeous queen-sized bed. No matter the thick layer of dust covering every inch of the place.

The sweeter side of the deal, after uncovering Jeannie May Crawford's illegal deals with the Legion by aiding Boone on his quest about finding the motherfucker who had sold his wife and unborn child to the wannabe Roman slavers… had been to keep the room's key for herself indefinitely. After what had transpired and with Jeannie's brains splattering the ground in front of the green dinosaur still fresh, Briscoe had been left in charge of both the motel and the gift shop agreeing that she should consider herself now a Novac settler, so, logically, she should have a decent house to rest by anytime she wanted.

After that, Boone had joined her and ED-E on their journey to Boulder City. Despite the ill circumstances that had gotten them together, he had felt like he owed her, and he wouldn't allow a 'wisp of a girlie her size to wander alone in the Wasteland with just that floating pile of circuitry to answer for her life' — his own words.

Even with all the pain no man should be forced to endure, and even less being just twenty-six years old, Boone was a good pal. Since she had known him, he hadn't let her down even once.

And so the rest of them were good pals since they had bothered to get her in such a comfortable bed, mmm…

But wait a minute: why was she bedridden in the first place?

The last thing she recalled was going with Vero to the women's bathroom and…

"Urgh…" – she mumbled, a slow heaviness sitting over her head as the words passed through her lips – "Did I blackout…?"

Though soft and pleasant, the bed had this odd shape that she couldn't quite put her finger on just by touching it, so she started to get up painfully slow to test her feet.

And just when she thought she had figured out the rounded nest-like shape of the bed, she heard soft footsteps getting near.

Raising her head to greet, most likely, a frowning mother-hen Arcade, her mind went on a halt for a few seconds as her eyes processed the person in front of her: wearing this dapper brown suit that, instead of complimenting his figure, was like a sore eye in contrast with the odd pallor of his skin, stood a very tall, kinda scrawny boy with the prettiest sad magnetic blue eyes she had ever seen.

He looked way too confident the more steps he took towards her, wet handkerchief in hand, as she finished sitting up by the rounded bedside. His body language was way too calm, too measured for a stranger.

"Do… do I know you?" – she asked then, unsure and searching unconsciously for the correct word to address his odd skin tone and white hair. It was written and pronounced the same way (more or less) both in English and Spanish, she believed.

He held her gaze for a moment.

"Yes." – he finally answered, calm and composed despite the evident weariness marring his posture – "Yes, I believe so… Courier Six."

After these very words had abandoned his lips, her brain got back several months and found herself dumbstruck, noticing how easy it was to identify not just the cadence of the voice itself but also the way of pronouncing certain consonants.

Then, the image of two rows of crucified guys at each side of the road and the smell of burning tires returned briefly to her so vividly that she momentarily feared she was there again.

Smooth moves, detached attitude, and twisted life philosophy, all wrapped in a speech full of colorful, pretty words and frightening intentions. He had wanted a witness, and she had obliged.

His actions and his apparent lack of concern at the monstrosity he had orchestrated on that small town full of dark secrets had spoken volumes about the vicious kind he pertained to, and yet… he also had shown her the smallest of kindness.

That weird young man with the cold voice, tinted biker goggles, and a coyote's head obscuring his features, all of him draped in Legion colors, had been the first person after Goodsprings who had shown a shred of genuine interest and concern for her even if the situation had been wrong and impossibly dangerous.

She had kept recalling this twisted, philosophical, and soft-spoken stranger while wandering the Mojave. She had found many who had pertained to his faction and profession, but none of them had been like him. Nobody spoke like him; nobody cared in his twisted, utterly wrong way.

Nobody would defend the eradication of an entire town in cold blood with arguments and thorough reasoning like him. Nobody would feel personally insulted at being called 'cruel' for his deeds. Nobody would try to make her feel better amidst carnage and misery. Nobody would offer a semblance of hope in this bitter land.

Nobody… but him.

"Y… you…" – she stuttered after regaining her voice again, watching him fold his wet handkerchief and pocket it on his trousers too serenely, suspiciously natural, and at ease for the realization both knew she had just come with.

"Me." – he simply stated.

Blinking a couple of times, trying to localize something within her memories as the mental image she previously had of him overlapped with the one her eyes were processing right now. She couldn't place his chin or his high cheekbones, but somehow his nose and lips seemed to agree with her dulled reminiscence.

"You are that guy…" – she tried once more, finally finding the right words – "In Nipton, with the lessons and the crucifixions. Vul…" – she frowned, as her tongue couldn't quite pronounce the words despite having basic Latin knowledge – "Vultur… no…"

The young man's blue eyes squinted a bit, whereas his whole body kept that casual still posture while his lips twitched slightly, signaling he wished to speak. However, as the current mental effort was no small thing on her part, she ignored him while stumbling inside her head with words and languages.

"Vul… urgh!" – she groaned in frustration, hitting several times the left side of her skull with a tiny hand as if her brains were an old faulty machine; trying, to no avail, to coerce it to load its contents faster than its processing unit truly could – "Zorro Salvaje."

Raising a pale eyebrow as he took on the familiar yet distant name and language, Vulpes Inculta couldn't help but notice the particular way she had just translated his name to Spanish. She could have chosen 'Zorro Inculto' instead, which meant just exactly the original intentions behind the way he had been renamed when he had been eleven and the Senior Instructor had made fun of him for not knowing how to spell his original name correctly.

'Savage Fox' sounded far more impressive than 'Uncultured Fox', and he was thankful that the girl had chosen to call him so.

"Knowledgeable, aren't we?" – he delivered instead. Calm, collected, and cold, the way he liked most – "I would not expect less from the one who has managed to steal the attention of half the Mojave, Courier. You have left quite an impression on this deserted land during the short time of your whereabouts chasing after the leader of the Chairmen."

Frowning slightly, the girl blinked just once as if deep in thought until she released a soft sigh.

"Guess words travel fast here in the desert." – she guessed – "I shouldn't be so surprised, though. After all, it's your job to be well-informed through your intel. You're one of the Legion Commanders." – watching him frown as well, she added quickly – "The NCR has posters of you and that golden-masked man all over their camps. They know quite a bit about your inner structure… or at least who gives the orders among your people."

Ah, the infamous 'When you steal NCR equipment, tools, and personal property… You are his bitch!' propaganda. He had a handful of those back on his Flagstaff house - current Capital of Caesar's empire until New Vegas would bend knee - since many of his colleagues kept the tradition of leaving them folded at the feet of the door of the de facto leader of the Frumentarii (but they DIDN'T have the guts to leave the OTHER poster at the feet of the Legate's door, the bunch of chickens). The poster didn't even depict him but his former superior and mentor, Callidus Anguis. A snake of a man who, truly paying homage to his name and despite how much venom he had liked to spill amidst his men to keep them controlled, had ended up outwitted by the cleverest animal of the pack.

Two years later since he had claimed his position by force in fair combat, and Vulpes didn't regret that bittersweet moment when Caesar had given Anguis the thumbs down… and he had torn open his gullet to let him bleed on the arena like a pig. The man had taught him well… too well.

"You know… you're different from what I devised the first time we spoke." – she said casually, out of the blue and with a voice that suggested they were some sort of old comrades instead of mere ill-timed acquaintances – "I thought you were thirty-something by the way you expressed yourself, but with the coyote head off you look like my age or so. I'm eighteen… almost. In two months or so, I will be anyway. How old are you?"

Taken aback both by her words and the strange, hopeful look she was giving him, Vulpes' cold eyes squinted again, considering her. So, he had been right all the way: this was no Wasteland hero but a child.

Not even a young woman.

Ignoring her question, he turned to the wooden chair sitting next to the wall a few paces away, took it with one hand, and placed it in front of her, sitting with the girl almost knee to knee.

"What are we going to do with you, Courier?" – he asked softly, crossing his fingers under his chin while laying onwards on his elbows resting over his quadriceps – "You chase a man all over the Mojave to the very gates of Robert House while, unbeknownstly, managing to leave a trail both of glorified fame and an infamous streak for trouble… the Van Graffs should have seen it coming. I wasn't pleased to discover that, with Gloria and Jean-Baptiste Cutting reduced to ashes as soon as they asked for one particular caravanner's head to the wrong person, our dealings with them had met an abrupt ending."

Ah, yes. After playing guard a few nights for the Van Graffs and dealing with some petty jobs Gloria had come up with, one day, Jean-Baptiste had opened that trap of his to express this worrisome desire (thus, it had to be interpreted as an order) about having a meeting with the previous owner of Cassidy Caravans.

Six already knew enough about the Van Graffs to understand how they operated with the competition, so she had arranged that Boone would be stationed on top of the building in front of the Silver Rush's door to have a good shot angle, Cass, Raul, and Arcade armed with their best energy guns behind while she, Rex, ED-E, and Vero entered the local after Lily had dealt with Simon and his companion at the door. She had been carrying a loaded Mercenary's Grenade Rifle over her hip… and the outcome, besides the projectile gun's recoil throwing her backward, had been incredibly messy: Gloria's guards had flown on bloody pieces while that beast of Jean-Baptiste, if injured by one crippled leg, had managed to roast ED-E's circuitry, bruise Rexie and break Vero's Power Fist until Lily had beaten both his and his half-sibling's craniums down to a pulp.

She regretted nothing.

"They wanted a friend of mine dead." – she answered carefully instead, knowing she was treading water with this soft-spoken boy who talked like a thirty-year-old diplomat but disposed of his enemies like a butchering mad prophet – "I don't know about the Legion, but I value friendship and loyalty. And not enough caps and threats are going to change my ways."

That particular last sentence had sat immensely well with him. She had learned from Nipton what the Legion would not tolerate, and she was shamelessly using it to appeal to his good graces. Whether she was being honest or not didn't really matter; she had listened to him, she had learned the lesson he had taught there.

Clever, clever girl.

"Your interference, however, was balanced by the fact that you framed the Crimson Caravans' manager, Alice McLafferty, for her dealings with the Van Graffs and, thus, their complot to assassinate that friend of yours." – he explained as if this information was nothing to him, a free treat given for such a good behavior on her part – "Now, with McLafferty demoted and with Don Hostetler as the Head Manager of their business here, in the Mojave, we can keep better control over their dealings with the NCR." – he stated, searching her face for signs that this information somehow troubled her. He had to be sure that she, at least, wasn't an unspoken enemy of the Legion – "That pleased me. And, by pleasing me, you appeal to Caesar's goodwill."

Dropping her head to a side as if trying to decipher something about what he had just told her, the girl looked at him intently, searching his face the same way he had done with hers.

He was being sized, scrutinized under the big lens.

And her eyes told him that he wasn't being regarded unkindly. Just carefully.

"Why are you telling me all of this?" – she questioned – "Why would you bother to contact me a second time? Is this about this morning, when the Lucky 38 opened its doors for me?"

Ah, so she was able to read in-between lines. Interesting.

"Among other things." – he conceded – "But mostly for the sake of learning what your posture towards the Legion is."

"Why do you care?" – the girl asked.

"Because, my dear Courier, by stepping into the Lucky 38, you have just sat at a table with bigger players whose motivations you can't even begin to fathom." – he explained quietly, voice smooth and even as his eyes buried further into hers – "Believe it or not, this is not just about a man who shoots a girl in the head, robs her, and leaves her for dead until circumstances prove him wrong. Not anymore. Robert House has opened his door to you, and I would like to know why."

"He's my employer. He hired the Mojave Express' services to deliver him six parcels, and mine was the only one that did not reach its destination."

She wasn't lying, for he had already learned this much from his spy couriers.

"And what, pray tell, did that parcel of yours contain?"

Weighing her chances briefly, after a quick glance at his inquisitive blue eyes, Six concluded that lying to him wouldn't do her any good. It was clear as the water (the non-irradiated stuff anyway) that he had a sharp mind as well as a sharp tongue. If he realized that she was being dishonest with him, perhaps she would discover just how sharp his hand could strike as well. His handiwork in Nipton wasn't something to treat lightly.

In fact, she had this feeling that, despite having a perfectly civil conversation between the two of them right now and him having been nothing but polite with her, that demeanor could quickly shift into something unpleasant if she dared to underestimate him.

It wasn't that she feared him, not really, not the way a sensible person in her situation should, but he had to be dealt with with the utmost care if she wanted to remain on his good side.

And she wanted to remain on his good side. Not because he was Legion, ergo dangerous and, possibly, brainwashed and fanatic… but just because he was one of the few people she knew close to her age.

It was an absurd notion, she realized, but this Zorro Salvaje guy was the only currently available option of someone understanding what it was like to be a brat amidst this stupid desert full of old cynic, disenchanted farts.

She had already tried with others: Jerry the Punk, ex-wannabe Great Khan, was way more interested in composing emo poetry to express his insecurities and appeal to the Followers' good hearts than being pals with her.

Alice Hostetler, daughter of the new Crimson Caravans' Head Manager, had been more preoccupied with bitching about her parents while entertaining questionable companies than wanting to do anything to be friends with her.

Melissa Watkins, Brotherhood of Steel Apprentice, was a bitch. Simple and plain. She treated Vero so smugly that Six had disliked her at first sight. And that had been all. Nobody looked Vero over their shoulder, no-fucking-body.

And let's not start with the Fiends. Sure thing, the ninety percent of them were in-between the ages of thirteen and twenty-something… but they were so fucked up by their drug-abusing routines that it was impossible to make friends among them. Not that she could get near any of the kids without having to deal with their cries of needing so bad their next dose, but also having to pay attention to dress like a Great Khan while speaking with their leaders: Motor-Runner, who didn't look on kindly to a Khan who hadn't business with them; Driver Nephi, who since she had brought up the topic of his ex-friend Bert Gunnarsson didn't want to speak with her anymore; Violet, who was so high on Psycho sometimes one had to pay attention not to lose a limb around her and her dogs… and Cook-Cook, motherfucking rapist and also a child molester that every time he saw her he wanted to 'speak' in private. Like hell she would, bitch.

So… that only left her with this weird albino (that was the word. She had recalled it correctly, yay!) Legion boy.

Hopefully, he wouldn't entertain the notion of crucifying her while attempting to be friends with him… oh well, risky world, risky choices.

Going back to reality and recalling that he expected an answer, she complied.

"A Platinum Chip." – he made a gesture to her to elaborate – "I don't really know what it does exactly, but microchips are usually divided into three types: analog, digital and mixed-signal." – watching him frown as if unaccustomed to hearing such terminology, she added – "The digital type, due to the small size of their circuitry, allows high speed, low power dissipation, and reduced manufacturing cost, so my guess is that this Platinum Chip wasn't one of those. From what I've gathered, it was anything but cheap to make."

Fascinating. Vulpes wasn't familiarized with tech terminology, but he was a fast and a very willing learner when it came to practical knowledge. And this would be categorized as such. He had always wanted to know more about machines and their inner structure despite what the Legion had taught him about rejecting technology and how the machines had orchestrated the current irradiated, post-apocalyptic landscape.

But, if anything, Vulpes had always been a restless mind who enjoyed finding answers to questions.

And this girl seemed happy to provide.

"What functions does a digital type of microchip have?" – he asked.

Momentarily disoriented by his sudden question, her quick big toothy grin told him he had hit a topic she would love to discuss.

This wouldn't be a dull, down-to-the-point conversation after all.

"It uses Boolean algebra, so they can process 'one' and 'zero' signals, which is basically machine language." – she explained, rather excited that the words could come in a row to her, her blessed knowledge still intact despite everything – "Digital circuits are far better than analog ones when they deal with signal reading, thus, processing information. Digital are logic, analog are linear, you see? For example: those signals, if transmitted as continuous audio with a sequence of 1s and 0s, can be reconstructed with a digital system without error, providing that the noise picked up in transmission is not enough to prevent identification of the 1s and 0s. It's easier to handle by the chip's physical part by just adding more circuitry to deal with a larger amount of binary digits should you wish for a more precise representation of a signal, resulting in an easily scalable system. Or, in the case of computing-controlled digital systems, you can even just revise the software without changing the hardware at all. However, pure analog chips in information processing have been mostly replaced with digital chips, so they tend to be only power supplies, and… does any of this make sense to you?"

Vulpes actually blinked.

"Does that mean that analog microchips are an older but more complex type of microchip now meant only for supplying power to machines while the digital are the standard ones to deal with logic systems like the ones on RobCo terminals?" – he ventured, not entirely sure of where this conversation was going right now.

Her grin amplified.

"Yes!" – she exclaimed; a tad too exultant for his taste – "You're fast! Not many would have got what I was getting at!"

Pride and arrogance weren't among Legion values at all… but damn if he didn't feel proud and arrogant right now.

"What about the third microchip type?" – he asked while efficiently masking his frivolous emotions to her. No need to look like a vain silly child right now – "The mixed-signal one?"

"Ah, yes, those microchips are sub-categorized as data acquisition and clock/timing ICs."

"ICs?"

"Sorry, acronym for 'Integrated Circuits'."

"I see."

She went on to explain that an analog-mixed-signal system-on-a-chip could be a combination of analog circuits, digital circuits, intrinsic mixed-signal circuits, and embedded software. She explained that those microchips were common in portable technologies, such as her Pip-Boy.

Next, she explained what software and hardware were, having, again, her Pip-Boy as an example. Windows, Linux, Android, and Macintosh with RobCo Operative Systems hybridizations came next.

"You know, one of these would come in handy in your line of work, wouldn't it?" – she had said to him while pointing at her pre-War toy, still encircling her bony left forearm.

"Indeed." – he had agreed, looking at her device with barely-masked avid eyes.

"Would you like to have one?"

His attention had been diverted so much from his original question about the Platinum Chip that this new bait had been hard to resist.

In fact, he hadn't resisted it at all.

"Do you have a spare one?" – greed and curiosity had spoken for him.

And she had given him one mysterious smile. One mysterious smile that had intrigued him a great deal.

"Tell you what: help me recover both the Platinum Chip and my old Pip-Boy from Benny, and you can have this one along with all the non-personal data I have on the Mojave. Posts, villages, Vaults, landmarks, routes… private information on many of its inhabitants…"

Like his namesaking animal, his ears had perked at hearing the words 'private information'.

Should he have been an actual fox, he would have licked his whiskers.

Up to that moment, as their conversation had kept on, she had been leaning forward to end up mimicking his posture: elbows over quadriceps, head resting on top of her crossed fingers. Eyes lit with something akin to childish excitement.

They were so close that they could have understood each other by simply whispering.

"Go on." – he encouraged her, his blue eyes, unbeknownst to him, an identical mirror of her dark, gleaming ones – "I'm listening."


"Let's rehearse this all over one more time." – Vulpes monotone voice didn't betray the nervousness he felt about prying on the enemy's territory with just one asset to have his back. An asset that wasn't one of his men. An asset that wasn't Legion. An asset he wasn't really sure that could follow his orders to the letter - "Before they ask you, surrender your weapons to the security staff with a smile. Always with a smile, yes?" – he pressed, ensuring that she would follow his instructions no matter what. No omissions, no failures – "You are a girl, and girls are expected to smile and beam for almost any interaction they happen to exchange with men."

She hadn't looked thrilled as his explanation had gone on the first time. Nor was she any happier now with this quick review.

"That's so sexist I can puke, right here, right now." – she replied in exchange, scrunching her nose in disgust – "I can't believe society has evolved so little in the last two centuries. Like… people never learn."

Vulpes armed himself with patience.

"Quite true, indeed, that people never learn." – he conceded – "However, the moment you aim to outwit others, you have to learn their weak spots, thus willing to swallow your pride to obtain what you seek."

And he knew a thing or two about swallowing oneself pride. A bitter pill that didn't get any easier to shove down your throat time after time despite years passing and experience blooming, true, but a necessary one. One doesn't get very far in the Legion by being prideful, that was for sure.

"It's not about pride. It's about self-respect." - she objected.

"Do you need others' approval to know your worth?"

"No, but I would like to be treated with the basics of decorum and respect. I think I'm not asking too much."

From The Strip? Her expectations about human decency here weren't too much. They were, to put it simply, completely ludicrous.

"Think about it this way: isn't it a great advantage, even if it is insulting to your gender and your ego, to know this much about how men perceive women and how you can use that information to your benefit?" – he reasoned – "Advantages like these are weaknesses that can be used through letting others think, based on your appearance and their prejudices, that you are a bumbling foolish doll while, in truth, you are anything but." - she wasn't stupid, that much he knew or she wouldn't have been able to deceive him with such elegance. Given that, he hoped his subliminal acknowledgment did not rub her the wrong way – "Let them underestimate you, let them attempt to manipulate you and, in turn, exploit their weaknesses. That is the difference between an agent and a good agent."

She frowned with those bushy eyebrows of hers. Now that they were a bit trimmed, the change gave her a more sophisticated air that could at least pass for remotely feminine despite the heavy combat boots she still wore.

He had tried to help make her look like a tasty morsel because, if he knew something about the Chairmen, that was that they were a bunch of guys well into their thirties with money enough to hook up with girls half their ages. And the Courier Six, while not overly feminine, still possessed that childlike innocence that many perverts found so alluring about teenagers.

He had never felt as embarrassed as when he had suggested to the girl to put on some makeup to make her look prettier and older (not that he had given her a slice of his thoughts, though), and she had replied… that she had never put on makeup before.

Ten minutes later, both had been struggling to figure out how women's makeup worked in the first place. Even in the Gomorrah, all hotels on The Strip usually had in each of their rented rooms the standard services and toiletries meant for making the client's experience as comfortable as possible: spared nighties and pajamas for both men and women, towels, soaps, shampoo, a small freezer full of alcoholic beverages and… shaving razors for men as well as pre-War cosmetics for women.

They had started to sort up what they had at their disposal and which articles were meant for each part of the face: she had quickly identified a lipstick while he had spent more time than he had deemed comfortable sniffing colored powders and creams, trying to elucidate if they would turn her into a beauty or into a ghoul given the amount of dust and, he suspected, radiation said cosmetics probably contained after two hundred years.

First, she had washed her face and hair thoroughly; next, when Vulpes had figured out whose colors wouldn't make her look like a cheap whore, he had asked for a handful of hairpins she had swiftly procured.

He had been no stylist, and she had such short and unruly hair that it was a miracle how the handful of hairpins still stood in their assigned places. The more she wore, the larger amount of them they would have at their disposal should there be any closed doors or safes to crack open.

Next had been the brows.

She had started getting a feel of the tweezers, and… after the second pulled hair that had left a pearl of red after the missing root, she had exclaimed that she wasn't going to continue with this anymore.

So, he had given the tweezers a try as well on her. And it had been a miracle he had managed to get them more or less symmetric given how much she had squirmed and twisted under his hands, wailing this 'Owowowowowowowowowow!' thing that had nearly gotten on his nerves.

Then, the dreadful moment of the makeup came up.

She had tried, he had to concede her that, and had done an excellent job on her cheeks… but she couldn't for the life of her accentuate her lips or her eyes in a way that the resulting product didn't look like a tearful granny after a tad too many vermouths.

This way, he, with ears burning with shame and discomfort, had given a try aided by his long dexterous fingers and a piece of toilet paper to erase and define edges.

And the final result hadn't gone too bad, if he would say so himself.

She looked… intriguing and almost cute. Almost.

Not bad for a pair of rookies in these… embellishment thingy affairs.

"So…" – he heard her talking again – "… I gotta be Miss Smiling McSmiles, act a bit stupid… and what? Just to wait for this Swank dude to make his grand entrance or what?"

That had been the riskier part of his plan to ensure they could operate on Chairmen territory with carte blanche if everything went accordingly.

"I already told you that this Swank person is Benny's right-hand man. His cooperation can prove invaluable to make our little tour inside The Tops far more pleasant and immensely quieter than in regular circumstances… providing that you manage to seize his attention and then put him up-to-date with the news that his boss is a rat. Depending on whose wrath the man fears the most, he would side either with Benny or Mr. House… and I am willing to put both of my hands on the fire that the balance will ultimately be inclined in favor of the true mind behind the Chairmen's creation in the first place." – he repeated patiently – "I only ask a little faith on my sources; that's why I told you to wait until nighttime in order to localize him at the main counter, which is where he usually is on daily days."

"And what makes you so sure he would notice me?" – she questioned.

"Unfortunately, my dear Courier, Swank's work on the counter allows him to control the kind of people who come and go daily at their casino, thus… having plenty of opportunities to capture whatever solitary prey that manages to catch his attention."

The girl's eyes got so big they looked like they would roll out of her cranium sockets.

"The creep is a pervert?" – she asked, incredulous – "Ewwwww, gross."

Her reaction didn't make any sense to him, especially when her original plan back at the Gomorrah with her companions had been to 'try her luck' with Benny to get him alone and vulnerable. Not that she had mentioned that tiny little bit to him, though. Interesting.

"Indeed." – he intoned dispassionately instead.

"I don't want to get pawed by a pervert." – she declared.

"You won't have to."

"Are you going to be there while I try to appeal to this guy so he doesn't get any ideas? If he sees me with a company, he's not gonna be interested; you already said that much."

"I will wait until the opportunity rises, and, once you have stricken up a conversation with him, I will reveal myself to back you up."

Then, the girl fixed him with a solemn look.

"You promise?" – she asked, uncertainty tinting her sudden small voice.

He had just bored a tiny vulnerability gap in her without being aware of it.

However, her vulnerability had backfired for him as well, for she had asked not only for his commitment to this cause… but also for his word.

And he wasn't the kind of guy who, if being directly asked, made promises based on empty foundations. He could evade or dance around questions, true, but something told him that such a little trick wasn't going to work with her.

She wasn't one of his conquests, they barely knew each other, and he had nothing on her to try seducing her, emotionally blackmail her, or threaten to slap her on a collar… by Mars, where did all of that had come from? Was it so overwhelming to assure a girl that she would only play the bait part and nothing more? Was it so damn difficult to promise her that she would be safe from the hands of some pervert?

"I do." – he finally answered after a long silence, his electric blue eyes fixing her as well, telling her how much trust he was placing on a stranger like her the same as she was – "I promise."

He hadn't wanted to promise anything. Promises were burdens. Promises were contracts meant to be held to one's honor.

And his word was one of the few things he truly could claim as entirely his and nobody else's.

For her own sake, he hoped she knew just what she had asked from him. For he intended to charge such a boon should she end up not being the asset Caesar needed. His favors and so, by extension, Caesar's favors didn't come without a price.

However, despite his inner turmoil breeding dark thoughts coiling around his brain like venomous snakes, Vulpes experienced, confused, a slightly odd, endearing satisfaction the very moment he saw her smiling in thanks, her bony shoulders relaxing a little bit after the sudden tension she had built in such a short amount of time. In fact, the moment she turned around to face The Tops' entrance, there was a new bounce in her step that hadn't been present until now.

He followed her shortly after she had gotten into the casino and subjected himself to the usual search, handing out a common six-shooter he always had as a gun on display while he had, carefully tucked under his otherwise bit wider-than-necessary jacket, two inches below his nape, a tiny M&A 9mm pistol. That, plus the thin razor he had tucked inside his right shoe, was more than enough for him to operate on safe ground.

"Hey, hey, baby doll!" – he heard one of the security men say – "Welcome to The Tops Hotel and Casino! I'm going to have to ask you to hand over any… weapons you might be carrying."

His voice had carried a suggestive undertone that made Vulpes, if briefly, roll his eyes. These guys… hitting on a girl who could very well be their daughter. Pathetic.

Luckily, in the Legion, these cases of dirty old men pursuing young girls were incredibly rare… but that could be due to the fact that ninety percent of the average legionary wouldn't turn up their thirties. As much as the NCR propaganda wanted to sell it otherwise, mortality in the Legion was much higher on the men's side than on the women's.

True that many women died at childbirth or prey to the occasional flu, but the men were subject to battlefield life and its many derived consequences: blood loss, concussions, infections, rad poisoning… and many of the traditional remedies tribal women cooked were primarily ineffective against severe cases of poisoning and helped next to nothing with the pain.

Painkillers, under Caesar's rule, were strictly forbidden.

Vulpes understood the truth behind such an austere measure: the sooner Humankind stopped being dependent on pre-War drugs, the lesser the damage would turn out once said drugs could not be found anymore.

But that didn't prevent him from recalling how lucky he had been for not catching an infection on his back years ago when…

"Pervert!" – he heard the girl squeal indignantly as she slapped the security's hand in a corny, overly-dramatic way – "Don't get so touchy-touchy, daddykins! This sugar ain't made for ya!"

To his credit, the Chairman looked truly embarrassed as she kept on about what a big complaint sheet she was about to fill detailing just how indecently handsy The Tops personnel was getting as of late.

All of this topped with a shrilly, high-pitch voice that was coupling wonderfully with hysteric-like fussing movements. Clever girl, putting on a show, so the brute didn't reach where her 9mm was secured inside one of her thighs with adhesive plaster; Vulpes work coupled with the First Aid Kit metal box in his room's bathroom. Easy to break when the need would arise, easy to conceal, keeping it in its place.

Then, as if on a cue, the background music shifted on a track rarely heard in this part of Nevada.

"Each morning a missionary advertise with neon sign
He tells the native population that civilization is fine
And three educated savages holler from a bamboo tree…"

Vulpes found himself following the lyrics unconsciously while the casino muscle searched him down his legs after handing over his revolver. He loved when the music wasn't that 'Johnny Guitar' ballad that everyone seemed to like so much.

"Whoa, whoa whoa!" – the voice of another man irrupted into the scene, wearing a disarming smile as well as an indecently perfect Pompadour hairstyle that spoke of liters of solidified jelly combed by hands too used on idle things – "Quit fussing around, Dale, and pass over the baton with the little lady here, dig?" – he said while casually landing his big hand over one of the aforesaid little lady's shoulder – "I'm takin' the lead here, pal." – he added, winking to the other man meanwhile he was already guiding the Courier to the right, towards the restaurant zone – "Apologies for how that played out, doll. I'm sure my pal there didn't mean any offense, but security's tight for a reason. Big Man over the 38's orders."

"And that's the excuse you give to all girls so you can get a feel to their panties?" – the Courier replied coolly.

She was still playing the offended customer but also the slightly charmed young thing the man thought she was.

"I see how people who are civilized bang you with automobiles…" – Danny Kaye kept singing all over the musical thread.

"Security, baby." – he quipped amicably, his arm now rounding both her shoulders – "Can't make the bread if the bakers are full of lead, you dig it? Don't worry, you're safe as houses in here. This here's my joint."

"And who, may I ask, is making me shining promises of safety and warm blankets here, handsome?"

By Mars, she was good.

"(You know you can get hurt that way Daniel?)" – crooned one of the Andrews Sisters to Danny Keye's observations.

The man was, literally, beaming at her compliment.

"Baby, I'm the best thing that ever happened to you. Name's Swank." – he introduced himself – "But you can call me whatever your little heart's content."

Vulpes followed the pair to the restaurant and got himself a Nuka-Cherry at the bar. The more the sugar, the better.

Shame that they didn't have Quantum. "Twice the calories, twice the carbohydrates, twice the caffeine, and twice the taste", said the front label. At least he would have had a little laugh when going to the bathroom next time.

"Nice place you've got here, Swank." – the Courier said while she and her companion sat at a table, feigning a timid approach that almost made Vulpes laugh. She was proving to be immensely entertaining, especially how she was single-handedly playing the Chairmen like fiddles – "But I thought it was Benny who ruled this place."

"Benny oversees the business, sure, but I run The Tops day to day." – the man assured, clearly trying to impress the young thing he thought he almost had on his lap – "I'm his right-hand guy, you dig?"

"I'd rather 'dig' a bit of time here, you know what I mean?" – she replied, her dark eyes wandering around nervously as if searching for something – "A girl's not always able to treat herself with such views. Luck has been a bitch to me lately."

There, their signaled word. Vulpes made a calm approach as 'Civilization' lyrics kept rolling on their famous line.

"So, bongo, bongo, bongo…"

Swank's teeth flashed out like a wolf with the rabbit between sharpened maws.

"Doll, Lady Luck's on your side this evening, I assure you." – he leaned in conspiratorially as he took one of her little hands between his' – "You stick with me, you won't have to work a day in your life. Don't fret about caps; you just sit there and look pretty for me."

"… he don't wanna leave the Congo… "

As Six's cheeks started to paint with an angry shade of pink while her back got drenched in a cold sweat as the situation was escalating dangerously out of control, a pair of long pale hands landed on her shoulders as an also pale chin got on top of her hairdo.

"Oh no, no, no, no, no." – a calming, smooth voice sang along with the background lyrics – "Just when I was starting to get myself worried." – he pressed the half-filled Nuka-Cherry cold glass bottle against her flushed skin to help her calm down. He still could feel a bit of a tremor running on her naked bony shoulders – "May I tempt you with cherry flavor, Six?"

Grateful to have an excuse to pull her hand out of Swank's reach, she accepted the soft drink with an enthusiastic – and somewhat relieved – 'thank you!'

Clearly annoyed by this sudden interruption but eyeing the now quiet girl nursing her drink while leaning on the tall blonde fella behind her with suspicion, Swank gave him a cold stare.

"Can I help you, pal?" – he asked while wanting to be anything but polite with this unwanted intruder.

However, Swank's demeanor visibly changed after a silver engraved lighter was firmly put in front of him over the table.

He would recognize that lighter anywhere.

"How…?" – he tried to start to be promptly interrupted by Vulpes' soft and icy voice.

"I am afraid that this little lady here has a tale to tell about your boss and a certain Platinum Chip, Robert House's property, that he seems to have… 'misplaced'."

"What?!" – Swank's voice cracked as the blonde… no, fucking white-haired stranger got a chair and sat beside a now very serious brunette.

"Six." – Vulpes intoned dispassionately while, deep inside, enjoying himself a tad too much with this guy's astonishment and discomfort. Served him well, the pervert – "Do enlighten the gentleman here about digging from an early grave and two shots on the head by the hand of a man in a checkered suit."

Swank's skin got as pale as the albino stranger when she tucked out two hairpins and pulled up her short hair to reveal the two-bullet scarring on her scalp.

"Ring-a-ding now, baby?" – she asked gravely.


Inhaling a most satisfying drag of his already-dying cigarette deeply, Benny's thoughts returned to the lame lighter he was forced to use now since that fucker Jessup and his pals got a grab on it. Idiotic finks, he hoped the NCR would blow their sorry arses down to dust. Not that they had, as Great Khans (though he failed to see, knowing what was left of them, why they chose to still name themselves 'great' after Bitter Springs almost four years ago), much to call their own but miles of red dust deep in the Red Canyon. Stupid fuckers.

He didn't want to end up like them, to retrace the Chairmen's steps and become shameful Boot Riders again, chased down by the NCR and Caesar's Legion if they didn't die at muties' hands from Black Mountain or Fiends' first. To return to the tribal lifestyle so full of dirt and grime, the dust of the road sticking to the very core of your soul, embarrassing songs about honor and glory long-time forgotten, empty-bellied cramps, blister-filled feet, sunburned nose, arms and shoulders, scorching heat by the day, chilling lip-cutting wind by night.

And without sex-starved broads ready to service you the moment you're flexing out your wallet a little bit.

Really, what was the appeal, in all honesty?

With their silly and romanticized memories from their old days as Boot Riders, many of his brothers were placing him in the difficult position to dispose of them one by one. Just like it had happened with their old singer, just like it had happened with Bingo.

Like it would soon happen to Swank if he kept saying that their ways were disgraceful. He couldn't have those ideas spreading like gunpowder among his men. Not in his territory, not while he was in charge.

He had no qualms about how many corpses would be paving his road to power. He hadn't cared when he had killed in fair combat Bingo to usurp his position, he hadn't cared when he had poisoned the singer to quieten his treacherous voice, he hadn't cared when he had overdosed that Great Khan junkie that had almost gotten them killed on their way to Goodsprings, he hadn't cared when he had shot the other one the moment they had realized they weren't gonna get paid.

And he, most importantly, hadn't cared when those dark eyes pertaining to a little girl had been pleading him not to pull the trigger.

So, ultimately, he wouldn't care in the slightest the very moment Maria would be pointing at Robert House's egg to silence his asshole dramatic grandiosity. Pretentious jerk, he would teach him who's boss here, whose's cunning would prevail.

The very moment he would confront the Big Man, he would enumerate the complete list of his crimes, a list that contained an innocent raven-haired little girl he had to shoot in the face to get to this point.

Those were House's crimes, not his.

And soon, soon…

Sighing while taking the last drag from his cigar, he carelessly threw the butt on the carpet floor, not giving a shit about what Swank would say about leaving marks, stinking up the place, and other blah blah blahs he didn't give a molerat's ass about. The business was his, dig? So, what if he stank up the place? He had plenty of caps to pay for some cleaning ladies or even a new set of carpets. Whatever.

He consulted the hour on his brand-new Pip-Boy, stirred on the chair he was sitting on and put on one of the wireless earplugs tucked inside one tiny compartment embedded in the device. The signal read they were fully charged.

Reaching for the apparent gigantic database (a hundred Teras of capacity on the SD alone. These pre-War things were amazing) the previous owner had collected over the years, he got to the tree file system and tinkered a bit until he found the Movie Database.

The previous owner had had a fantastic way of distributing the films by sorting them either by alphabetical order (all the titles were correctly, capital letters and all, spelled off), year of release, genre, and even common actors and actresses, all dead people Benny didn't have a clue who they were but, somehow, had made sense to the other person.

He had had almost four months to rummage through the archives this device had in storage and had found a gold mine in maps and tons of audiovisual culture that was thought long lost. Hell, he had discovered that music went much further than the pathetic set of twenty-something tracks Radio New Vegas drilled the Mojave with all the day.

He had even discovered new languages besides English, Spanish, and French that had been common in music in the pre-War era. Dead languages he couldn't name or even understand, but beautiful, exotic, and intriguing to the ear nonetheless.

And books. Lots of digitized books in various archive extensions that the Pip-Boy, mostly, could read.

And images. Images of such impressive pieces of art that had rendered him more than once speechless. Acquiring such a device with all this eye-opener collection had been almost a religious experience to him. He hadn't thought himself a sensitive man until he had seen Velazquez, Dali, Turner, Gentileschi, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and many others' paintings and had felt so touched and amazed that he still mourned over how much had been lost to the War two hundred years prior.

He had chosen not to erase anything until Yes Man sorted out the value of such an enormous amount of data and how to release it safely to the public... IF he ever thought about sharing such a fountain of knowledge. Bet the NCR would pay their good caps for getting a handful of these files alone.

Finding a sudden peace by indulging himself in watching a bit of this 'The Man with the Golden Arm' movie, strangely starred by the known singer Frank Sinatra ("Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone… Without a dream in my heart…"), that depicted the singer portraying a junkie (though not like the Fiends, but much more sophisticated, which Benny enjoyed a lot, thinking that, even deep in shit, this Frankie Machine character knew exactly how to swing till the last consequences) who gets clean while in prison, but struggles to stay that way in the outside world. Hard story for a hard world, painfully realistic, easy to relate with. Benny could watch it a million times again.

However, he got interrupted barely a handful of minutes after the show had started by some distant laughing.

Benny tried to ignore it until it was too much, and he, irritated, switched the video player off and got his earplug inside the embedded compartment again so he wouldn't lose it. He got yet another smoke from his pack and lit it.

While he had his cigar in his mouth, giving languorous drags from time to time, he rummaged aimlessly through the many images the Pip-Boy had in storage until the laughs came again with force.

Frowning, he raised his eyes from the device screen to take a look at the noisy sources of his discomfort.

There was this couple, a girl and a boy. She was so small, and he was so tall that his collarbone started where her hair spikes ended.

Blonde him, brunette her, they were giggling like mad cats, arms intertwined, when she decided to take a jump and get her hand over her boyfriend's head to remove his fedora from his head. Once she succeeded, she put on the brown(ish) hat that got a little too big on her head. Cute.

Benny caught himself smiling fondly at the apparent young love he was witnessing until the two lovebirds inched closer.

And he got thunderstruck the very moment they sat playfully at his table; him leaning over the wooden surface on his elbows like a vulture, piercing blue eyes gashing through waving locks of short nuclear white hair; she smoothing the skirt of her pretty flowery dress before sitting, combat boots swinging below the table, her face obscured by the too-big-for-her fedora.

Raising a dark eyebrow, Benny didn't know what to make of these two, clearly too intoxicated to discern between clients, workers, and the boss.

"Whassup, kiddies?" – he asked, clearly amused – "Well in your cups, the two of you, eh? Too much swinging in one night, I bet."

"Oh, but the night has just begun." – said the girl, taking the oversized fedora out of her head, directing a very big-eyed black look to the leader of the Chairmen, who watched in horror and disbelief how his most dreaded nightmare came to life before his eyes – "Hi, Benny. I believe we need to talk."


(+) - Sunny Smiles in the Spanish release was re-named "Sonrisas" and I thought it would be cool if Six sometimes stumbles over words and languages given her knowledge of them but also the mental chaos she has to deal with since the bullets.


A/N: Yeeep, here we go, lots of information and lots of Canon and Non-Canon references.

First of all: when I refer to some of Benny's victims before the Courier, I am taking them out of the official comic release "Fallout: New Vegas - All Roads". Take a peek and you'll see where all the references came from. You can find it in readcomiconline . com

Yes, I love Vanilla Coca-Cola (it's tasty, come on...) and I thought it would be fun to add such a flavor to the Nuka-Cola Company ^^ Though in all the Fallout franchise it is NEVER mentioned such a flavor. I know, I'm not 100% true to the original game. Sorry, creator's license ;)

Yes, my Six had a Pip-Boy prior to her "accident". Yes, fucking Benny took it, the bastard.

I know that, perhaps, I got Vulpes a bit Out Of Character, but that's due to two important factors here:

A) He's 20, so he's allowed to have twenty-year-old thoughts and behavior sometimes.

B) His presence in Fallout: New Vegas it's so scarce that you cannot REALLY form a solid opinion on his character other than he appears to be stoic most of the time (except when Caesar dies or you use Terrifying Presence Perk on him), he and Lanius share a mutual dislike, many of his colleagues seem to respect him and he has a VERY dangerous destructive streak towards populations he deems unfit for Legion's standards. Nothing more. Many of Vulpes' headcanons had been originated here, in the fanfiction fandom, so I would venture that I am not diverging from the original character as much as it seems. It's true that I want him not to be purposefully toxic or destructive towards Six, but that doesn't mean that he's an angel. Because he isn't, you'll see ;)

Also, the Vulpes we get In-Game is physically different than how I depict him here. That's due to how he was portrayed in the Collector's Edition Caravan Deck, with pale curly hair and stark blue eyes. I have the deck, so I know. Sounds albino to me, so I go for it.

Again: what do you think? Your opinion is gold to me, promise :)