"Number Nine"


Ch. 10: Mama, I'm coming home.


Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains children's murder and mistreatment. You know the drill: if you're sensitive to these topics, either don't read or proceed with caution.


"I've seen your face a hundred times
Everyday we've been apart
I don't care about the sunshine, yeah
'Cause mama, mama, I'm coming home."

- Ozzy Osbourne, "Mama, I'm coming home"


The stale air that permeated the scrapyard office had been the first thing she had noticed upon entering.

A dusty sepia tone coming from the four office desks at both sides of the structure - each illuminated by actual working desk lamps - had given the casual onlooker a false calming sensation.

But she hadn't felt calm at all.

The burning sensation of a hard palm behind her squalid nape and the barest of pushes had her two feet walking to the least illuminated zone ahead. A desk far more prominent than the others. The rumbling typing from the four young employees at both sides like the tapping of fireants' legs, devouring her and her tongue.

For she couldn't speak.

"Ah, Mr. Burke." – the voice of an old man coming from the gloom had greeted them – "Back again so soon? Excellent. Oh, how we do love enthusiasm in our employees!" – after that, darkened blue eyes from the face of a heavily wrinkled, bald man had studied her with interest – "And who's this? Another prospect of an employee for our firm?"

"Indeed." – the man without a name had answered, giving a light squeeze to both her shoulders as he had positioned behind her, impossibly tall and impossibly strong for a fourteen-year-old – "With great pleasure, I bring with me a protégée of mine who shows great promise." - leaning over her like a vulture over carrion, he had added - "Birdie, dearest, say hello to Mr. Daniel Littlehorn, the owner of the firm that may provide you with the information you seek."

"A pleasure to meet your acquaintance, Mr. Littlehorn." – she had answered in the way he had trained her to. Polite and measured. Lifeless and automatic as a robot.

The old man had smiled. And his smile could have rivaled the likes of an ancient, primordial snake. Behind him, darkened and slightly faded by time and a nuclear Armageddon, a copy of William Bouguereau's 'Dante and Virgil in Hell' hung from the wooden wall. Twisted limbs of two naked men wrestling as one bit down the other's throat like a rabid, hungry dog. That picture had given her nightmares for the next couple of weeks ahead.

"Information, you say?" – the old man had questioned, his lips, thin and cruel, still smiling – "Oh, my. I am afraid that any provided services have a cost." – leaning over his desk, he had punctuated – "My dear girl, are you sure that you are willing to pay the price?"

"This is a hitman business." – she had answered, the fingers over her shoulder digging on her flesh a touch painfully as she had kept talking – "You give me a target, I deal with them. I bring you proof that they are dead; you pay me with information."

After a brief pause, Littlehorn had laughed in earnest while Burke's gravelly voice had addressed her in his deceitfully gentle, warning way.

"Now, now." – he had said like a father would chide a mouthy daughter – "What have we spoken about manners, Birdie?"

She had briefly felt ashamed, then a petty sense of childish pride as she knew she had managed to bother him had washed over her.

Even if what she had desired most had been to have his approval. Such twisted, symbiotic was their relationship.

"Oh, do not chastise the girl for being frank, Mr. Burke." – the old man had said, still laughing – "At least, she brought a smile to this old man's lips." – joining the tips of his wrinkled hands under his flaccid jowl, Littlehorn had continued – "Tell you what, little Miss: at the moment, we do not need yet another… 'hitman', as you've put it, in our business." – watching the crestfallen expression of the youngster, he had added - "However, we are in dire need of an agent in the West."

"What for?" – she had asked, curious.

"Gathering information, mostly." – the man had explained – "A report for another report, words in exchange for words, if you will. Besides, you will be earning some caps along the way, as your cover would be a courier job." – she had seen malice in those cold eyes, but she had been desperate – "Interested?"

She had looked up to meet Burke's steely gaze, searching for permission.

However, his expression had informed her that he already had known that the mention of such a job would eventually come up. He had set everything for her at his convenience.

He wanted her on the far West, learning intel about the new flourishing civilizations rising there. Undoubtedly, the possibility of a business opportunity.

So, she had said yes, and, a week later, Littlehorn & Associates had sent her to California through the trading caravans that crossed the Dixie Republic, then the Sequoyan Confederation until they had reached Legion territory, where water, food supplies, and construction materials were the most quotable selling goods besides gold.

She would speak very little with everybody and deliver letters and parcels.

While Burke would hold her leash from a distance contacting her with an agenda of his own through the Pip-Boy, Littlehorn & Associates would contact her through couriers scattered across the territory. Her reports would be met with reports of what the old man would unearth, a sealed letter for another sealed letter. None the wiser except her.

Her rewards translated into answers had started pouring, and her old unit sold as slaves would meet their merciful ends by her hand. A soldier honoring her comrades and their pledge to the One True Banner.

She would be Burke's captive and agent, but she still had her orders.

You have your orders, soldier.

And then, a year later, when Aaron Kimball had signed his contract with the Devil in exchange for funds, she had delivered a package in the name of the NCR to a place called Ashton.

That way, she had borne witness, for the third time in her life, how right her Big Bro had been when he always used to say that war never changes.


When she opened her eyes again, her Pip-Boy signaled 09:52 PM.

And her head hurt like hell. She could feel bandages around it.

She had been out for more than five hours. Not bad, considering her little shock-induced 'trip'. And she could even string two consecutive thoughts together. Nice.

Let's see if she could move an arm.

"Hey!" – she heard Vero's voice to her right – "She's awake!"

What a pair of sweethearts, Cass and her, they have put her on such a nice, comfy bed…

"Gotta tell the bitch." – Cass' voice was more distant… and angrier – "Let's see if she keeps her pretty shit-eating, snotty attitude when she learns this from Six's very fucking lips."

Vero sighed when the room's door slammed with more force than was truly necessary.

One of the Scribe's rough, warm hands went to grab the more petite girl's when she tried to move.

"You big drama queen." – she said, her voice soft and fond as she stroked Six's knuckles – "You'll give us a heart attack one of these days if you keep doing stuff like that."

The girl's fingers squeezed lightly Veronica's. The Scribe's waist had been bandaged and wasn't even blood-stained.

She was glad Vero was okay.

"Where… are we…?" – she mumbled, taking in the unfamiliar surroundings.

"Marjorie has lent us one of the hotel's suites for you to recover." – the Scribe replied – "She caught us midway carrying you to Gunderson's Penthouse Suite and asked what had happened. Cass then proceeded to call her names I didn't even know someone could come up with."

Six managed a weak laugh. That was the Cass she knew and loved.

"Then, after threatening her to expose her shit to the public, the woman has been nothing but agreeable." – continued Veronica, a tired smile across her features – "She has even extended to you an official White Glove Society membership." – leaning over her, she winked – "All the expenses on the house."

Six scrunched her button nose as if she had smelled something awful.

"Don't order… any brahmin steak or… any other 'meaty' thing, m'kay?" – she managed, unbelievably tired even despite having been asleep for so many hours.

"Nah, don't worry. It has been nothing more than Desert Salads and all the available cocktails on the menu." – the Scribe replied, animated to see her communication abilities and motor synchrony hadn't gotten scrambled so far – "You hungry?"

"A Nuka… please."

When Veronica returned from her swift trip to the small fridge over an elegant small auxiliary cart with wheels (an apparent recent implement to the other than ordered to a fault suite), she helped Six to sit as she gave the girl small sips of the soft drink until she was sure that she could sustain it with both hands by herself.

Cass didn't tarry when, not ten minutes after storming off the suite, she had returned, yanking Marjorie by the woman's left wrist with her.

"No need to be so impolite!" – the older woman protested, pulling her abused wrist against her chest while rubbing it. Her face looked paler and gaunter than usual.

"Fuck off." – was Cass' eloquent answer – "And be glad I've not kicked your sorry ass till now." – the redhead squinted – "You talk to her and, depending on your answers, I'll decide if I should restrain myself or not."

When the official founder of the White Glove Society brought herself in front of Six, the girl could tell there was uncertainty and mortification in her tired eyes. Good. That would make her collaborative enough to accept any kind of deal Six would demand out of her.

"Two disappearances… five corpses, two of them blatantly assassinated… two gunfights… and an injured customer who happens to work for Robert House…" - Six puffed and panted but got all that she wanted to say in the exact tone that she wanted to say it – "I don't know about you, Miss Marjorie… but I'd say that your excuses, finally, have run thin to the point… that nobody believes them anymore." – she was angry, angry for not having been able to uncoil this mess sooner; talking things down, the way it should have been from the very start. At the moment, she knew she had motivation enough to hate the Three Families of The Strip so much: the Chairmen for obvious reasons, the Omertas for ensnaring their workers with drugs… and these guys for being an adamantly unapproachable lot of prevaricators – "Mortimer sing-sang this afternoon like a nightingale… and his culinary tastes differ greatly to the spotless image you are trying to sell to your customers…" – she took a deep gulp of air, willing herself not to be so out of breath – "Also, it evidences that he's not alone in this… return to your tribal roots." – fixing the older woman with a stare, she pressed – "Which leaves us with a question: what are you going to do about it?"

As soon as she had finished her discourse, she saw the awed expressions of her two companions, the even more mortified expression of Marjorie… and she felt utterly disgusted with herself.

Those words and even the way she had expressed herself… everything was a result of Burke's influence.

The Nuka-Cola she was drinking, suddenly, seemed less appetizing.

Then Marjorie went on sputtering a litany of apologies, of half-hearted possible explanations - each one of them, Six countered as soon as they had abandoned the woman's mouth – of excuses and more excuses.

In the middle of it, at some point, Six's attention had diverted from Marjorie to her Pip-Boy, where a message alert she hadn't noticed before was blinking furiously.

An unknown IPv6 address.

08:59 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282

fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e: This is Sergeant Craig J. Boone to Six. Asking for status confirmation. Waiting for a response.

And many more.

09:05 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282

fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e: I repeat: this is Sergeant Craig J. Boone to Six. Asking for status confirmation. Waiting for a response.

09:05 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282

fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e: Damn it, girl. Please, answer.

Boone…

09:15 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282

fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e: Sergeant Craig J. Boone to Six. Do you receive me?

The poor man was so worried… because of her.

09:30 PM Sunday, February 12, 2282

fe80::2a3:aeff:fe53:743e: I'm coming for you, girlie. Hold on.

"S-shit!" – she gasped, interrupting Marjorie's tirade – "Boone… Boone is coming!" – she extended her arms to Veronica and Cassidy – "Quickly! Help me get up!"

The two women did as she asked.

"Where?" – the redhead asked.

"To the lobby!" – Six gasped.

And so, the three women left the suite with Marjorie in tow, still muttering excuses between her teeth.

She had been unbelievably lucky at reading the messages just in time… Because, when they reached the lobby, the man who had confiscated their weapons at the entrance was being pinned by the throat to the wall by Boone's muscled forearm. Meanwhile, Arcade was attempting to talk down the enclosing security staff armed with ornate canes as Lily unsheathed her Vertibird Blade, ready to jump forward and make a mess out of the elegant casino. Rex bared his fangs.

"I'm asking just one more time." – Six heard Boone saying – "Two women and a girl entered this building around one in the afternoon. A redhead and two brunettes. The girl has a Pip-Boy strapped to her left forearm." – his muscle extensors dug deeper into the other man's gullet, asphyxiating him – "Where. Are. They?"

"H… how f… frightfully uncouth…" – the greeter gurgled – "I… I'm af… afraid I m… must insis…"

"Try me again, asshole…" – Boone hissed – "… And this motherfucking Red Beret would be the last thing you never…"

"Boone!" – Six exclaimed from the other side of the room.

As if a spell had been broken, Boone blinked behind his sunglasses, let the poor sod fall to the floor, and made his way across the guards with his rifle and Rex in front of him. Lily following behind with Arcade sputtering apologies abound.

Once he got to Six, she told Cass and Vero to let her go, and she went straight into the ex-sniper's arms.

"What have they done to you, girlie?" – he asked after seeing the bandages and feeling how much weight she was putting onto him as if she couldn't sustain her own body.

"Long story." – she replied, immensely happy to have Boone there with her, feeling his reassuring strength cocooning her like a warm blanket – "And we have very little time until midnight." – sustaining herself with the man's help, she turned to Marjorie – "We need a discreet, out of earshot place to discuss how to proceed tonight. Far from Mortimer's action radius, if possible."

Marjorie pressed her lips together; her already grated nerves were now on the edge of a colossal breakdown. This scandal… people disappearing and dying, a ruined bedroom, an NCR soldier threatening her staff, a filthy animal drooling all over her floors… and a supermutant had gotten inside her hotel!

This would be her ruin.

However, if anything, Marjorie was still a true lady and a gracious host.

"If you please, do graciously accompany me." – she said, tone even, courteous as every member of the White Glove Society ought to be… even in the very face of distress.

To her much relief, everyone did as requested while her staff returned orderly to their assigned places after a few unvoiced indications.

Mortimer would pay for this, the scoundrel. And very dearly.


Three painted marks across the face, howls crossing the valley, spears in hand, silent footsteps on the cold sand under the moon.

That night, he had convinced Dingo and the twins to accompany him on a walk to the lake so they could swim and play.

He used to swim a lot when the sun was down. Sometimes, he would even graze a fish; its slimy scales funny to the touch.

That night, he had been tasked to take care of Perro as his mother would attend the birth of the little fox's new sibling.

The wise women said it would be a boy. The small white fox would finally have a full blood-related sibling.

Not that he didn't love his other half-siblings, but to have a brother of your own…

"Con cuidado." – he gently warned Perro as he taught the four-year-old how to swim, his tiny hands holding the infant by the waist – "Patalea para propulsarte." – he would do so as an example – "Así, ¿ves?" (1)

Perro would howl softly, imitating how the tribe's warriors communicated between them and did as asked.

Perro had been born with a blemish… of a sort. Not having developed the ability to communicate with words, his eyes had always been distant, an alien pattern on his features. Too many smiles, too much drooling.

His mother was the chief's Primera Esposa, the mother of his older brother and Dingo. The little fox's mom was Segunda Esposa, and the twins' deceased mother had been Tercera Esposa.

One father, three wives. Seven siblings, six boys and a girl. One heir.

And one child who had been named after the shame he had brought onto the chief's bloodline. A Dog for a pack of wild animals, tamed and sweet, a disappointment that would never be anything more than a liability.

But he was a brother, nonetheless, and the little fox had loved him the same he had loved the rest.

That night, they had arrived late at the encampment expecting a reprimand from their parents. Lately, their father and the tribe's warriors had been tense, the wise women whispering omens inside their tents filled with charms. They spoke about another tribe, larger than any of the adults had ever seen, stronger than a pack of rabid Yao Guais.

Their nightly excursion had been off-limits… but he and his brothers had loved to swim so… and Perro had been half-asleep in his arms, peaceful and innocent. Not enough reprimands could have robbed him of the peace his vulnerable sibling had given him when he had been this trusting and happy resting between his tiny arms.

However, when they arrived, silence had welcomed them.

The tribe's three diagonal marks had been substituted by large red tapestries hanging from poles ominously. The tents had been sprayed with dark, liquid red. The soil had been irrigated with red.

And the corpses… so many corpses covered in red.

Charred, maimed, disfigured… some of them lying with empty eyes on the ground, some impaled on their own spears… the rest nailed to tall trees that sported only three branches: one vertical, two horizontals.

The air had been heavy and had made his sensitive blue eyes sting.

But he hadn't cried.

Perro had cried for him. And that had been how the men had heard them.

Dressed in red armors, some with their faces or eyes covered in extravagant gear. Feathers, black and red.

And the language… foreign, harsh, commanding… the likes of which he had never heard before.

They had exchanged a few sentences between them, and one of the faceless men whose features the children had not distinguished from under a closed helmet had approached them.

He had examined them one by one, pinching with curiosity the little fox's tiny arms and pulling a bit of his wavy hair, laughing like thunder when he had discovered that the pale discoloration wasn't any sort of painting.

Then, he had rested his sight over Perro.

Wordlessly, he had taken him from the small fox's arms and, before neither child could react, had crushed the tender skull under his boot.

But the little fox hadn't cried. He simply had remained there, paralyzed, unable to understand what had just happened. Unable to react.

Dingo had howled loudly with grief. The scariest sound any of his present siblings had ever heard. With only eight years to his name, he had launched to the covered red man's face, taking out his helmet, biting him on his nose, and clawing his eyes.

More laughing and barking had come from the other men. The exposed red man had put Dingo to the ground and had kicked him until the kid had stopped moving.

But the little fox hadn't cried. Still unable to react.

The twins, however, had been at the brink of tears, so he had put a hand to each of their mouths so they wouldn't make a sound.

At that very instant, he had grown ten years in ten seconds.

"Haced lo que yo haga." – he had instructed them in a whisper – "Hiena, no se te ocurra abrir la boca." (2) – he had warned, knowing very well just how hot-headed his sister could turn at the wrong moments.

The red men had taken them by their small wrists and had conducted them to an esplanade. The remnants of their tribe had been there, women and girls apart. Boys and young men in two rows, facing each other.

Out of pure dumb chance, they had mistaken Hiena for a boy and had put her, her twin, and the small fox facing their respective opponents.

The little fox's opponent had been taller and older than him. He wouldn't raise his head to meet the other's eyes.

"En el día de hoy, se os concede la oportunidad de vivir para servir a Caesar y a su Legión, pues somos muchos y nuestra tribu requiere de hombres capaces con la entereza necesaria para soportar las vicisitudes que, día tras día, traen gloria, prosperidad y seguridad a nuestro augusto Imperio." – a man, a man that, unlike the others, hadn't been dressed in red had spoken. He had looked almost as how the wise women depicted the Bomb People from Back When. His Spanish had been perfect. Scaringly so – "No obstante, si vuestra mano dudara, vuestros golpes fallaran o vuestra voluntad flaqueara cuando os enfrentéis a aquellos a los que una vez llamasteis 'hermanos'… caeréis en el vacío del olvido ya que pagaréis vuestra debilidad con sangre. Pues el olvido no es sino el destino que le aguarda al nombre de vuestra tribu, a vuestra ignorancia, a vuestras barbáricas costumbres. La elección es solo vuestra." – after that, he had raised a hand and had put his thumb looking downwards – "Que dé comienzo el Dimidio." (3)

None of them had moved and, soon, one of the women had been dragged by her long mane and, in front of the children, the Bomb Man had opened her throat like one would do to a gecko when you wanted to drain it out so the blood could be used for cooking.

After that and the promise of many more senseless deaths if they refused to collaborate, the boys had taken their positions and launched toward one another.

They would remember that day. They would never forget.

He would never forget that, since that very day, he had found himself incapable of crying anymore.

He would never forget the instant he had taken a stone from the dusty ground and had blindly hit several times with it.

Broken tissue had become splintered bone, and, under his bloodied tiny hands, he had discovered the face of his older brother looking at him with dead eyes.

And the Fox had become a Wolf, the leader of the pack.


Riding through Hydra was always shitty.

This, Vulpes had known very well… but he had never experienced such an incredibly gut-wrenching hangover afterward.

He would kill one of his men. He still didn't know which one in particular… but, as soon as he got word about who had been the last dick-for-brains brahminshit asshole who had restocked the medicine stash…

Whenever he was in a shitty mood, the usually polite and well-spoken Head of Caesar's Intelligence would curse a lot inside his head.

He sometimes came up with quite inventive and utterly gross swearwords that would have put any Freeside junkie prostitute to shame.

He would never say them out loud… but when it came to thinking, he was free to conjure inside his mind whatever he fucking damn pleased.

And now, his shitty mood was setting new scores when he realized, firstly, that he wasn't alone anymore inside the ranch when he caught sight of a profoundly asleep dark-skinned legionary over a chair… and secondly, as he peeked at the hour on his Pip-Boy he discovered… that he had been out three days. Or so the digital clock and calendar said.

Three days… three days lost. Three days he could have used to retrace his steps to Freeside, talk with his brother about the next course of action at Nelson… and then rejoin the Courier and her ragtag crew, bearing with him a brand-new brain for Rex.

Three days being tended by a safehouse keeper - most likely because the guy wasn't one of his men -, for Vulpes could have died if the sticky sweat forming a rim all around his body on the dirty mattress was warning enough itself. Fever and dehydration, and he could have perfectly turned out corpse before the third day. He would kill the dimwit who had restocked the medicine stash.

Three whole days of delay on his work's progress. That very work he believed so much in… although his faith in the Legion left plenty of room for speculation at the moment.

The Imperator was sick, or so Lucius had told him. But the man who had given him the thumbs up for his undercover mission had been the same man whose moods Vulpes had grown to get acquainted with in the last two years… and to fear all the same.

The same man who enjoyed toying with his subordinates' minds.

"Vulpes ad portas." (A) – the man had laughed once when he had watched the most recent addition to his chain of command enter his tent. Vulpes would later learn that Caesar was as fond of Latin quotations as Anguis had been – "Citius, Altius, Fortius. Et certissime astuti." (B)

"Meus Domine…?" – the young man had but dared to ask, unsure how to take those compliments.

"Come closer, so I can take a good look at you." – when he had complied, Caesar's brown, hard eyes had lingered on him – "Hmmm. You wear your new uniform well… although I suspect you wore better and more willingly the blood of your revenge at the arena." – the man had known. How, Vulpes would never dare to ask. His work had always been the work of an observer, never the one asking questions. But Caesar hadn't asked, so he had given away nothing – "What do you think, Lucius?"

The Praefectus Praetor had given the young man an indecipherable stare.

"Faster, yes. Higher, yes. Stronger, perhaps." – crossing his arms, he had added – "Underweight, most definitely."

Caesar had roared with laughter at this, and Vulpes hadn't known how to react. Was this some sort of test? That, he could understand.

What he didn't understand at all was the next question the Imperator had posed.

"We shall remedy that in due time." – he had given him a nod – "Humor me, Praefectus Frumentario: given the opportunity… what would be the last meal you would rather eat before dying?"

Vulpes hadn't understood the question or its implications, but his training had answered for him.

"I would rather starve a full day than wasting limited time I could use to serve the Legion and resources another legionary with more time ahead could use instead of me."

Caesar had produced an angulous smile. One that didn't quite reach his eyes.

"You're a true piece of work, aren't you, Vulpes?" – that had been what the Imperator had simply commented – "Cold calculus to a fault." – up to that, he had laughed humorlessly – "Truly, a worthy successor after the cold hide of the snake."

Good answer? Bad answer? The young man could never be entirely sure, but if two years under Caesar's inscrutable sight had taught him something, that had been to keep his answers and his body language as neutral as possible, even more than when Anguis had been around.

Because, from Anguis, ten lashes he could have expected… however, from Caesar, there were worse fates than death inside his circle of trusted birds of prey. Lanius, the biggest and most gluttonous of all.

Not that it had been much better when the Malpais Legatus had been in his place.

With that, forcing his mind to work again, wading confusing memories while physical feeling came back slowly to his body, he managed to slide off the dirty mattress as silently as possible, and he reached for his clothes and Riot Gear, proceeding to prepare himself for his delayed traveling.

The safehouse keeper stirred when Vulpes had been revising supplies he would take with him.

"Ave." – had saluted the man, stirring up in his chair, clearly nursing neck aches derived from sleeping in a bad posture – "Up and dressed already, huh? Guess you have recovered fairly well from your earlier poisoning, Master Frumentarius."

Vulpes' shoulders had twitched slightly, still organizing supplies. The man was addressing him with too much familiarity for his liking.

"Atticus, isn't it?" – wild guess. There were actually two safehouse keepers with the same name in the Mojave Legion-controlled territory – "You have proved me of great service these three days." – he paused, not wanting to give much more than it was really necessary – "Well done."

The man looked pleased to be recognized. This was a veteran, a nobody amidst hundreds of faces who had been put in charge of one of the most tedious jobs the Legion had to offer.

An old, not exceptionally bright soldier who hadn't advanced in rank quickly enough, just like Lucullus.

A leftover.

"Honored to serve our Head of Intelligence." – the leftover replied, saluting him – "If there's anything else I can be of service, just say the word."

"Very appreciated, Custos." – the albino replied, taking the Riot helmet to put it over his head – "But there's nothing I require from a soldier of your rank right now."

"Not even information about one of your men bribing us so we can have an eye on you, Master Frumentarius?"

That gave Vulpes some pause. The helmet, still midair, descended again slowly so he could turn his head and give the safehouse keeper a stern, questioning glance.

"Those are grave charges that can evolve into a very dangerous accusation, Custos." – he warned, voice controlled and measured – "Do you have any evidence that would suffice to back your words? If so, lay it before me immediately." – he took a mild-threatening step towards the man to make a point – "Otherwise, I would advise caution with your next choice words."

However, Atticus seemed unfaced.

"Besides the gold I was paid to follow you?" – this man's attitude was starting to annoy Vulpes. Didn't he know that such words could put him on a cross faster than he thought? – "Would the name Alerio suffice to give you some thoughts to chew on?"

Vulpes' fingers twitched over the helmet's smooth dark surface.

"I will humor you for a couple of questions more." – he said, drawing words out – "Depending on your answers, I will decide if I should punish your audacity or not." – he had asked for it. Nobody, and even less a low-ranked legionary, had the privilege to accuse a Frumentarius of treason without any proof and leave unscathed – "This being said, do tell me why I should believe the word of a safehouse keeper over the word of a Frumentarius."

"I've been tracking you since you left Freeside." – Atticus replied – "Followed you down the 95 to our Raid Camp. Waited for your return at Cottonwood Cove while I entertained Centurion Aurelius of Phoenix playing chess and a hand or two of Caravan with him. You will also want to hear what the man is hiding inside that fridge of his at the lonely sack all of his men keep an eye on."

"Enough." – Vulpes hissed, annoyed and extremely conscious of what Atticus was insinuating. Centurion Aurelius of Phoenix was well into his forties, and his tribe, the Kaibabs, had been famous for their cannibalistic inclinations. Given this, the Centurion had been absorbed when he had been practically a teenager… and old customs and vices were hard to erase from receptacles old enough – "That only proves that you have been following me, thus making you guilty of espionage against our very forces." – he continued, annoyed at having been utterly oblivious that one lowly safehouse keeper had been following him through the Mojave. Should the two of them have been in front of Caesar, the Imperator would have laughed and, immediately, sent the two of them to be whipped, Atticus for his accusations, Vulpes for his outright incompetence – "Now, do answer this: with what purpose did you take such risks? What do you intend to achieve?"

Once again, the Courier came to his mind, echoing her question back at Nipton, when his position as Caesar's greatest Frumentarius had been indisputable and his many thoughts, along with his painful past memories, had been firmly sealed.

The girl… since he had met her, he had been behaving erratically, overthinking things that hadn't been meant for a second pass… questioning twice every decision he had been making throughout all these years.

And she hadn't questioned him about his loyalties even once.

What was wrong with him?

"I was paid to follow and observe you." – Atticus replied, shrugging – "The intention behind it was reporting any given failure, anything that could be used against you so the interested, Alerio, would formally appeal to bureaucracy to attempt demoting you from your position so he can step in." – he crossed his arms - "Not that I was going to follow his game for much longer. I know which battles I should pick and which I shouldn't."

"If so, why did you accept the money?" – Vulpes insisted, utterly aware that his two rounds of questions had become three.

"I was in no position to refuse at the moment." – the other man replied, aware of the same fact – "Such a secret is meant to be kept, not outrightly turned down. Should I have refused to accept Alerio's money, he would eventually have found a way to silence me. You Frumentarii are good at that." – he added, dark eyes fixed upon electric blue – "However, if it's the mercenary fact that bothers you, I'm willing to turn over the centum denarii he gave me." – feeling for his belt, he untied his pouch, handing it to Vulpes – "Here."

The Fox took the offering and weighed it. A hundred denarii was way too much money for a lowly Custos to bear inside his purse in one go. Their monthly stipends weren't that good, and their mercantile profits were usually translated in caps, not denarii.

Too much money together, too many implications.

"Very well." – Vulpes said, nodding – "I will expropriate this money so the Frumentarii arks can benefit from it. Regarding you…" – he punctuated – "I am enlisting you as my private observer when it comes to Alerio's alleged treason. You will not be paid for your services, but you can keep whatever money you shall, allegedly, receive from him." - it was essential to highlight the word 'alleged' so the Custos wouldn't hold any delusions – "From now on, you are under test. Serve me well, and there's no telling how far my gratitude can go." – with this, Vulpes' eyes darkened – "Betray me, and your punishment will greatly exceed whatever petty revenge Alerio, allegedly, could have come with."

Atticus nodded, slightly disappointed that rewards wouldn't come easy, but, in retrospect, he had to admit that his plan had been a bit flawed. He hadn't expected that the Master Frumentarius would give one of his most bitter competitors the benefit of the doubt.

Well, anything for the prospect of that future wife.

"How should I contact you should I gather further evidence or learn more about Alerio's plan against you?" – he asked.

"You will not contact me directly." – Vulpes replied coldly – "In the coming weeks, I will leave an agent on the Freeside who you will answer to. Within fourteen days, search for Gabban at The Atomic Wrangler after making your rounds and, allegedly, reporting to Alerio." – then, switching to the nearest table, he took paper and a pencil, writing down a quick note – "However, before you do that, you are returning to Cottonwood Cove and giving this to Cursor Lucullus on the dock." – Atticus took the neatly folded note that simply read 'To Praefectus Praetor Lucius' – "Neither you nor he is allowed to read the contents of this note. Am I being completely clear on this?"

Atticus nodded, suddenly aware of the small trust vote the Master Frumentarius was giving him with this apparently insignificant mission. And making Lucullus the one to deliver the note to its true receiver instead of him told Atticus that this wasn't a trap.

The Master Frumentarius wasn't an unjust man after all.

Both bid their mutual vales and, while Atticus' steps took him East, Vulpes took the railroad track from Highway 164 to reach Novac before it got dark.

He traveled fairly pissed off, and every single damn creature that had the bad luck to interpose in his way had ended up filled with bullet holes.

He hadn't reached Novac when a small sandstorm had caught on him when he had passed a Ranger post barely ten minutes ago.

Deciding that it wasn't worth it risking his life with Novac away to another two good hours more walking and not a single cavern in sight, he retraced his steps and had ended up crouching inside one of the many metallic trailers that acted both as barricades and watch posts for the Ranger Station.

He hadn't done a single thing to bother the Rangers there, just wanting to shelter from the storm and nothing more… but he had ended up, somehow, with five rifles pointing at his helmet when the sandstorm had cleaned out, and the Rangers had gotten outside their main building.

"McCarran doesn't like it when civilians wander into military outposts." – had been the dry warning he had received from a red-headed man that was holding his rifle a tad too close for Vulpes' liking – "Be quick and state your business. Otherwise, hit the road."

"I was only seeking shelter from the storm, officer." – he said very carefully. Not for nothing, NCR Rangers had been the most brutal soldiers many good legionaries had come to confront on the battlefield… and too many had lost their lives at their hands. It wasn't a wise move to piss off a single Ranger, less an armed group of them – "I didn't intend to cause any trouble."

"Says the guy with a Riot Gear and helmet he may or not have stolen covering up his entire face." – the man replied, dryly again – "I don't know you, and I don't want you here; so here's how we're going to solve this: me and my team here are gonna give you to the count of ten, to get your ugly, yella, no-good keister off our territory, before I pump your guts full of lead!"

At the count of 'five', Vulpes had already gotten outside the post, running like no tomorrow as the Mojave night embraced him.

He would remember this encounter, and he marked the place on the map of his Pip-Boy, adding a small note.

'Ranger Station Charlie: exemplary lesson, full wiping.'


"So, let's see if I got this straight." – Arcade's small pen-lantern oscillated in front of Six's dilated pupils as the man's free hand was gently feeling her cranium, making her wince when he caught on the small bump – "You re-programmed a pre-War military device that feeds on your nervous system so it would accelerate your response time and reflexes to target a guy less than two feet away armed with a submachine gun that had gotten you three corralled inside a steam room." – when she winced again, attempting to escape pain, Boone's arms and legs affianced their gentle although firm grasp around her as he was sitting with the small girl before him between his legs – "I wish I could say that I am surprised, but it would be a lie. Because I am not, Six." – sighing, he turned off the small lantern and proceeded to fumble around inside a First Aid Kit that Marjorie had graciously lent them – "How many times do I have to stress out the importance of not putting your life at risk unnecessarily to you? Do tell me so I can start right now with the repetitions until I reach the desired cipher that, for once, will insert basic common sense inside that stubborn head of yours."

Despite how restrictive his posture was around hers, Boone's warmth was now a great consolation under Arcade's hard stare. It wasn't that the Follower was using a harsh voice tone… but every time she got a reprimand out of him, she felt like she was eight again and her Big Bro had just caught her red-handed doodling over one of the Cadet Academy's walls with a piece of chalk.

"Vero had been hit…" – she mumbled awkwardly, closing an eye when she felt liquid iodine and sticky bandages being applied to her bump – "The guy seemingly had ammo to last to the next day…"

Arcade huffed with exasperation.

"And you decided that the wisest course of action would be risking the correct functioning of both your nervous and blood systems so you could get an opportunity to shoot back." – he replied, his voice dripping with sarcasm – "Everybody, please, let's applaud again the wisdom of our underage leader here."

"That's enough, Arcade." – interjected Veronica while standing behind the working doctor – "I think she has had enough for today."

"No, I will decide when she has had enough." – the blonde medic replied acidly – "Do you think you have had enough, Six? I will tell you what I think about having enough: either you end up with a severe concussion that would render you vegetative at best… or that, one day, a bullet finishes what that first-class scumbag started at Goodsprings. One of those options would definitely do wonders to stop you from attempting further nonsense, don't you think?"

"Arcade!"

Closing her eyes tightly, Six snuggled up against the firm granite that now had become Boone's arms encircling protectively around her while the frowning ex-sniper gave the doctor a pointedly glacial stare from behind his sunglasses. Rex whined by their side.

Arcade sighed tiredly. Boone's worries and paranoia had gotten the best of him in the last two hours since they had run to the Old Mormon Fort, attempted contact, and had gotten back to The Strip. Running yet again to be confronted by a situation that none of them could have predicted that very afternoon, when their group's three human female components had taken an apparently innocuous trip to the Ultra-Luxe.

Guess trouble followed Six wherever she went like a lost puppy.

"Okay, I shouldn't have said that." – he admitted, raising a tentative hand to the girl's short hair to set aside some pointy strands that had gotten in her eyes, his gaze first asking permission to her guardian, whose darkened gaze was becoming frighteningly murderous by the second – "I'm being an asshole, this situation is becoming increasingly difficult, and the last thing we need is old crap-sputtering me adding more wood to the fire. I'm truly sorry, Six."

The girl opened her eyes slowly and directed him, speaking of the Devil, the most heartbreaking kicked puppy look the good doctor had ever seen.

How, in the first place, this small girl with a ridiculous stature and eyes the size of casino roulettes was leading a group of idealistic losers to greatness was beyond his comprehension.

But he, even begrudgingly, believed in Six. Arcade, disenchanted with his fruitless research with the Followers and life in general, had needed desperately something to believe in, and the closest answer he had gotten had been this tiny girl helping and distributing medicines and painkillers for free to the poor and needy. Her sweetness when it came to dealing with troubled, shitty souls like his was, if anything, commendable.

She deserved better from him.

So, he allowed her to squeeze his ribcage in a forgiving embrace that he returned awkwardly, though relieved.

Meanwhile, Marjorie, a mute witness to the general craziness around the group, stayed when they started to devise a plan regarding how they would infiltrate the lower levels at the Ultra-Luxe. She provided them with White Gloves' clothing, canes for self-defense, and masks so none of her associates could discern between them and the rest. She also provided them with several copies of a master key meant for the Members Only area as they defined two groups: the first, with Courier Six at the head, would descend to the kitchens and, somehow, extract the presumably kidnapped Ted Gunderson before he became the main course at dinner.

The other, blessedly with the supermutant in it, would station at the various exits, so Mortimer, the brains behind this unpleasant situation, couldn't find a suitable path to escape if they managed to expose him publicly.

Marjorie breathed a bit more easily when the troublemaking motley crew, once disguised as members of the White Glove Society, abandoned the hotel's infirmary with the supermutant - luckily for her - becoming as invisible as a speck of dust.

Once alone with the happy panting from the cyberdog that had remained behind in favor of subterfuge, Marjorie frowned when she spotted the small pool of drool on the floor that had formed under the canine's snout.

"Now, what are we going to do with you, hmmm?" – she asked, slightly chiding and immensely tired after the events that had unfolded throughout this day. Her head building an imminent headache when she thought about the mess that the strange group would surely leave behind when everything was over.

The animal's answer had been an energetic bark.


Eleven days later, the Fox had crossed the Eastern Gate of the Freeside when lunchtime had been starting to weigh on his empty stomach.

He recalled Lily's tender pancakes hungrily and pressed forward amongst waves of people and the occasional pickpocket begging to break their phalange bones as soon as they got a hold of other people's purses. At the same time, merchants hollered prices for their merchandise, mainly consisting of stolen wares, stinky fourth or fifth-handed clothing, repairman services, and an assorted variety of homely-distilled liquors and meats of dubious sources.

The pungent mixed odors pertaining to rancid sweating, fried foods, stagnant waters, and a general unhygienic atmosphere that seemed to claw at his skin, even covered by his Riot Gear as he was, getting Vulpes' stomach in knots within the hour, making him regret that he had taken off his claustrophobic helmet in the first place.

Besides the overpopulation and unhygienic conditions, the Freeside drawback was how immense it actually was.

Divided into two sectors distributed from Las Vegas Boulevard and Fremont Street's intersection, the Freeside took almost three hours on foot to cross from one end to the other. Plus, if you didn't count on the dispersed street thug gangs, chem-addicts, and swarming masses slowing down your progress, that is.

Vulpes had always wondered how such an over-populated slum like this still kept roughly thousands of mouths regularly fed without counting the Followers' and the Kings' respective aids, but he already had developed his own theories based on how the economy was distributed.

For the Freeside owed its economy primarily to housing rents nobody knew where they went, but everyone with a half-decent job paid religiously every month. Flourishing businesses like The Atomic Wrangler and the deceased ransacked Silver Rush plus Mick & Ralph's second-handed wares and many 'unofficial' small businesses as bodyguard services at the two entrances, drug dealing, and street prostitution at every corner also sustained the poor and destitute.

To Vulpes, the Freeside was the unpolished version of New Vegas' Strip, much like Nipton had been before his arrival.

Its – slightly – wealthier counterpart, the Westside, wasn't much better, with almost the same terrain extension peppered with the prominent wagering business at The Thorn, The Cooperative, and a nitty pawnshop. Then, there were more remarkable drug dealings and violent assaulting of any kind the closer one got to the Southern Gate… and the perennial prostitution-oriented business at Casa Madrid Apartments, where venereal diseases, lice, and scabies were, if possible, much more frequent than in The Atomic Wrangler.

The entire city was a gigantic putrescent cancer feeding on the blood of the Mojave's very inhabitants.

"Hey, pal."

If given the opportunity, Vulpes needed nothing more than a handful of trusted men, a few cans full of oil-based fuel, and a box of matches to operate the change and cauterize the already pus-seeping wounded region from this… disease under the guise of civilization.

"Ma friend here's talkin' to ye, pretty boy."

For disease often tended to be a very rich breeding soil for worms if not appropriately cared for.

"Hey, asshole!"

Worms that lurked within the most humid darkened spots of an already gangrenous limb.

"I'm fuckin' talkin' to y…!"

The very instant an uninvited hand lay upon his shoulder from behind to sink its dirty fingers on dark fabric like radscorpion pincers, Vulpes used the rotation of his own body to pull the thug's weight to him and stamp a powerful punch square into his face.

The pleasant crunch both broken nose and teeth made was enough to stir the unsated bloodlust he had been holding off since Ranger Station Charlie.

The armor and helmet protected him from bullet and white weapon penetration during the mugging. Still, he knew his body would be covered in hematomas at the end of the day, given how many baseball bat swings he had endured without even bothering to dodge while he had raged onto one thug at a time, shoving their pitiful knives down their throats and stomping over their ugly, dirty faces until bloody pulps were all that his steps had left behind.

But that was alright. Pain sat well with him. It proved he was still alive. It proved that he pertained to a finer, evolved branch of the human species.

The dominant one.

They had been five. They had thought they could overpower an armored six-feet tall albino weirdo.

He had proved them wrong.

'Pretty boy' his ass.

Once he got inside one of the abandoned houses near The Atomic Wrangler, he switched gear to his itchy, ugly brown dapper suit and wrapped the armor and helmet inside his travel backpack, wishing to have his gigantic duffle bag back as soon as possible.

Midday had brought many vagabonds out in the streets so they could take the mandatory nap that, later at night, with the chill, they wouldn't be able to enjoy; thus, why had it been so easy to change with total privacy.

Vulpes entered the Wrangler catching the attention of one of the Garret Twins, the female this time, so he could have a Nuka and the only available thing that wasn't pre-War trash food and/or didn't include any sort of questionable meat in its preparation: noodles.

Once he got his order and rejected, per usual, the woman's unsubtle suggestions to rent the services of an escort, Vulpes transferred his meal to one of the many deserted round tables in front of the small stage where a rotting ghoul with a dirty pre-War suit was rehearsing punchlines so bad Vulpes picked his Pip-Boy's earphones and put on some music so he wouldn't have to suffer this poor attempt at humor.

That way had been how he had gotten totally unguarded when a light tapping on his shoulder had made him bristle.

However, the instant he saw the face pertaining to the daring hand, he contained the mercurial mood that had nearly made him grab at those fingers and twist them out of their bone sockets.

"Took you long enough." – the new arrival said, a dark fedora obscuring his features the same Vulpes' brown hat did with him – "What the…?! What happened to you? You look like shit!"

It must have been the split lip, the black eye, or the cut cheekbone. Maybe a combination of the three, or so Vulpes mused.

"Right now, I sorely pity the absence of soap…" – he replied after gulping a mouthful of noodles he had been absently chewing on – "… so I could clean that filthy mouth of yours with it, dear brother." – he added with severity, earning a grimace out of the other.

"Geez, touchy, aren't we?" – the newcomer replied while taking a seat alongside his brother – "Mind if I borrow you some?" – he asked, pointing avidly at the steaming bowl of noodles – "I've been fasting all day, and the street food stands make me retch."

"Have it all." – Vulpes said, handing the sticks to him. He still felt hungry… but he couldn't say no to Gabban – "Do your dietary standards have lowered significantly to ponder on eating cheap, most likely poisoned, trash food from the street stands… or has your economy diminished to the point you cannot afford decent food?" – when he saw that Gabban almost choked on his mouthful of noodles, Vulpes' eyes narrowed – "Is it, brother?"

"Look…" – the younger man replied nervously – "Is not what you think..."

Vulpes sighed with exasperation. He recalled the first time he had brought Gabban to New Vegas with him two years ago so his brother would get a feel on the field. They had bought a fake passport that had increased Gabban's age by one year so the underage issue wouldn't come later to bite them in the ass.

Vulpes had done the same back in his day under Anguis' tutelage. His passport said he was twenty-two at present.

The thing had been… that Gabban had never seen such an amount of bare flesh of females that did look men in the eye and contorted sultrily while wearing high heels and black corsets in the middle of the street, red lips inviting, siren-like voices calling for them.

While Vulpes had always been the exception that confirmed the rule regarding his impassivity towards carnal desire, his younger brother had been as impressionable and hormonal as any other lad his age.

To make long story short: the next day, when he had localized him, Vulpes had been the one dragging his brother to the New Vegas Medical Clinic so the exotic Followers' female doctor there would rid him of the… itchy rash that had been extending from his crotch to the rest of the surrounding skin areas.

Many of the caps destined for spy work had evaporated that night, and Vulpes had decided that he'd preferred his brother working as his Second-In-Command on more… tactical-oriented operations.

"I swear!" – the aforesaid Second-In-Command exclaimed, raising both hands in a surrender gesture – "No funny business this time!" – he was laughing nervously, not entirely sure why. He could appreciate annoying his brother from time to time since the Fox had next to zero sense of humor… but, when it was about that first time on The Strip, it was better to keep his mouth shut. He had never suffered lashing under his brother's rule, but Gabban didn't think that punishment was above him, even with his own blood - "However, during your absence, your short-haired dalliance and her merry band have been occupying their spare time meddling with the Three Families' businesses, and this has triggered… consequences."

The gulp of Nuka he had been tasting got sour inside Vulpes' mouth. He should have seen it coming; if the Courier now worked for House, which was likely since the man was allowing her and her people to live inside his fortress for free, he would have started telling her to cleanse the rancid atmosphere surrounding his immediate neighbors.

And each one of the Families had something to hide.

"How many Families had been affected?" – he asked cautiously.

"Two. The Chairmen and the White Glove Society."

Oh, good. She hadn't dismounted their operation with the Omertas yet. That was good news indeed.

"Regarding the latter… you really should come with me. Because I don't have the slightest clue of what we should do next."

Intrigued, Vulpes bought another Nuka and a big package of fries he and Gabban shared during the three-hour-long trip to the Westside, fighting their way, first amidst the multitude, later quite literally against small groups of desperate chem addicts the more they went South, right to the Casa Madrid Apartments.


After the longest half an hour of his entire life holding a metal bucket with his left hand while his right had been supporting Caesar's weight as the man had started throwing up after one of his headaches that, this time, had come with a seizure; Lucius retired inside his tent sporting black circles around his eyes while feeling that any appetite he might have built throughout the afternoon had abandoned him.

His already deflated mood didn't get any better as he noticed the folded note over his desk addressed to him in the Head of Intelligence's neat handwriting.

Unfolding it, already dreading its contents, the single line he found inside glued his ass momentarily to the chair he was sitting on.

"Sighting and immediate disposing of a group of three Hounds of Hecate half an hour near Wolfhorn Ranch, date the 12th Sunday, February, 2282."

The Praefectus Praetor pinched his nose bridge tiredly as his hand balled up around the offending piece of paper. He wished he could be at Flagstaff with his family right now and not here, waking every day with a dry throat, dust in his boots, and a belly full of maize gruel day in and day out.

Almost five years later, he was so done with the Mojave Campaign that he would have already packed his belongings and left everything behind if it wasn't because he still respected Caesar.

But this, Frumentarii paperwork? He wished he could wipe his ass with it.

"By Mars' balls, Vulpes…" – he groaned – "I hate you so, so much."


The time had been perfect. Usually, the services at The Gourmand would continue until 11:00 PM, when the restaurant would close its doors and Philippe would dedicate his skilled hands to elaborate the exquisite communal delicatessen meant only for White Glove Society members.

The Brahmin Wellington had been the first (and remains the most popular until today) delicacy that had been given birth inside his kitchen.

But lately, he had been working on something more… adequate for the most demanding palate.

Sweet Veal, his last creation, was a close enough imitation… but nothing could compare to the real thing.

Mortimer's palate, out of sheer willpower and discipline, had remained untouched throughout the years despite how low their gastronomy standards had gotten since Marjorie's 'face-wash' to their family had brought new rules that had pushed their early tribal roots near extinction.

Mortimer wasn't a young man. Marjorie wasn't a young woman either, and most of their community members mainly consisted of thirty up to fifty-year-old individuals whose most relevant physical trait had been a permanent sickly paleness, applied even with dark-skinned members such as that uncouth Chauncey rat.

But how the foolish boy could have been so misguided had been only an unfortunate side effect due to Marjorie's rule. And the youngsters didn't remember as clearly as the elders.

They didn't remember the tunnels they used to carve to communicate the caverns. They didn't remember the night hunts, the Nightstalker blood they used to drink to be more silent, to get used to their venom.

Then, those creatures had started to emerge from the Earth's entrails.

They had been quick; they had been strong… and barely human. Just enough to learn from their mistakes.

Their hunts had started to become scarce, and their shelters had become unsafe. The rundown building had been hard to seize, but the victory had ultimately been theirs.

Maybe their tactics hadn't been honorable at all, but decades of survival, hand in hand with subterfuge and betrayal, had kept them alive. Alive to reach ripe age beyond their sixties.

And the prize under the guise of countless corpses had been sweeter when they had discovered that the subterranean fridge was still usable.

House and his securitrons had come like the providential bucket of cold water to pour over their heads and clean their hands and teeth of blood.

But the memories… the occasional tremors, the sandpapery dryness all over the tongue every morning… Mortimer had been unable to forget.

Many of them had been unable to forget. He had talked to each one of them, and his thirst had found a company in their thirst. His hunger had called for their hunger.

And their common desperation had transformed into purpose.

Philippe had been the first one to join in despite his non-tribal roots. And he had done it in his usual fashion: yelling and cursing at every step. Mortimer would have disposed of him long ago if it wasn't because, to give him due credit, the man had truly invented edible food.

Many had followed suit… and the rest would soon see the wisdom in this course of action when they would remember… when their bodies and tongues would awake from that stupor this unnaturally imposed refinement had brought upon them.

Or so he had thought.

Cold starters of salads, small toasts of maize bread smeared with a thin layer of brahmin foie gras, pinyon nuts, and some cheese cream.

Pinot Noir and Cava had been the beverages.

For seconds, Lakelurk soup, roasted imported Mirelurk legs previously marinated in several spices, and Wasteland Omelet, BlamCo Mac & Cheese substituted by brahmin cheese during its preparation. Simply exquisite.

And then, the main dish: meat pie with a garnish of peas and carrots.

"I know I'm not the scheduled speaker, but I have a few words, if I may." – he had started to say, raising but an octave of his calm voice, watching his people lick their lips as they savored their pies with delectation. The full masks having been removed in favor of just eye-covering masks to keep the allure and mystery – "There was a time not so long ago when we were bound together not as members but as family. As a clan. And when Mr. House came to us with his proposal, we accepted, knowing we stood to gain much." – then, his voice had darkened – "Little did we know how much we'd lose in the process." – fear, contempt, despair, hunger, hope… so many feelings conveyed in so little words – "As a society, we've endeavored to sample the finest food and drink the world has to offer. But we are living a lie." – up to that point, his gaze had lingered briefly over Marjorie, her eyes also darkened with a pang of hunger they both had known for years. Despite her best attempts, Marjorie had shared in their penance as well – "There is a meat sweeter than the most cornfed livestock. Most of you have tasted it. All of you have coveted it." – he salivated at the thought, his meat pie all but evaporated from his platter – "Among us, it is a crime to discuss a return to the old ways that unified our people. Tonight, that all changes. The taboo ends." – with her eyes dripping hunger, Marjorie had risen from her seat, her hungry mouth about to fill with lies – "Let me finish, Marjorie." – he had asked, raising a hand – "You don't know it yet, but you are all now guilty of a greater crime. One that ordinarily bears the harshest of punishments." – dramatic pause – "Surely that you are all guilty warrants not only universal amnesty but also a renewed discussion. For our society to be truly elite, we must dine on the most delicious, the most exclusive food known to us. And tonight, for the first time as a society, you are sampling that very dish, the meat we are forbidden to taste, the way it was meant to be eaten!" – it had felt like an epiphany; laughter and fulfillment threatening to build inside his throat, such happiness was to speak the words, to partake in the sin, to feel inside a community he felt true again as many fearful, though curious eyes regarded him, masticating the meat pie with something akin to reverence – "Fellow members of the White Glove Society, bon appetit!"

However, amidst the glow and shine of his victory, a small dark stain had bled in front of him as one of the ladies had risen from her seat and, undoing her fake high-up hairstyle to reveal short black wild hair, she had taken off her mask dramatically.

The brat. The brat who, accompanied by the other two barbaric women, had sought to ruin his plans. The brat who had dared to compare her lowly culinary tastes with theirs.

The thrice-damned brat was there! Eating the most delicate dish of all! Inconceivable!

"Too bad your words have brought your crime to the light, Mortimer." – she had spoken. Calm, collected, aloof, and cold as a statue. An unnatural seriousness and well-chosen wording had given her an air more mature than her actual age – "For none of the present are swallowing in dehumanized pieces the human boy you kidnapped yesterday."

Anger had gotten upside his throat, and he had vomited the bile in vocals and consonants.

"Kidnapped?!" – he had bellowed, indignation coloring his voice as well as his face – "Ludicrous!"

"Then you admit having attempted to use Heck Gunderson's boy as the main dish for this dinner. You admit seeking to feast on an unwilling, alive prey."

Scoffing, Mortimer had pinned her with a disdainful stare.

"And the victory now is mine, fool!" – he had cackled – "For I have tasted the pie, and my palate doesn't lie!"

"It does because I have been the cook behind its creation." – no smiling, no self-assuring gloat. For this girl, the entire ordeal had been nothing but business – "Your chef's secret recipes had been nothing but enlightening about the kind of flavor his 'Sweet Veal' dish attempted to imitate."

Suddenly, Mortimer's world had gotten a violent turndown, first eyeing his empty platter, then licking his lips with a lost expression, trying to remember how the pie had tasted. In his rush to give the grand discourse, he had swallowed too fast. In his hunger, he had forgotten to savor, to palate the course with the finesse it required.

In his avarice, he had become a glutton instead of the sybarite he had known himself to be.

"No!" – he had exclaimed, still in denial – "These are lies! I never kidnapped anyone. And even if I did, there's no harm done. He's alive, after all, isn't he… Courier Six?" – he had spat with all the contempt he could muster.

Still not smiling. Mortimer could respect a vicious opponent. One who would gloat over victory as he would, but not this… this dispassionate child agent bearing Robert House's business signature all over herself.

A mercenary, a hitman. Driven by a contract paid in caps. Worse than any other barbaric specimen positioned at the top of the evolutionary chain.

She was an aberration of nature, an ambulatory copycat of her Master.

A Vault Dweller, pitiful remains from a forbidden, distant past. An embodiment of everything that was wrong with human nature.

"Too late, Mortimer, for his safety will not undo the ill to many other lives your vices have brought upon." – she had replied, men and women by her side getting up from their respective chairs, taking up their masks, and showing different facets of the same treacherous coin – "You all heard his confession." – she stated, strapping her horrendous electronic device back to her left wrist – "Following your own inner rules, the punishment for cannibalism is death, and I intend to bring the law among your herd as you cannot fight with your own urges. Any man or woman who would side with him will be deemed guilty and shall face the same punishment." – with that, cane in hand, she had adopted a combat posture, her cohorts immediately following suit – "Lily!" – she had shouted – "Don't let anybody out of this room!"

After that and the sudden monstrous appearance of a supermutant out of thin air, chaos had ensued.

Some of his Brothers and Sisters had jumped to his aid, but many others had shut their treacherous mouths and had attacked.

It had ended up in a bloodbath, and Mortimer had managed to escape barely alive, two bullets firmly embedded in his right arm, when he had taken his steps towards the kitchen area, blocking the door behind him and finding his way first to the subterranean tunnels. Next, to the sewers.

Luckily for him, the ancient sewage system under the ruins of the deceased Las Vegas had connected to other parts of the city, ending up with Mortimer fighting against small groups of Fiends living underground and bartending for his life with the few caps he had managed to subtract before his escape, and his expensive cane, mask, and tuxedo.

He had ended up dressed in rags, smelling of rat, and safely conducted to the surface of the Westside.

Out of sheer fortune, he had bumped into a legionnaire in disguise who had bought him a few days of stay in the filthiest apartment at the Casa Madrid and had promised to inform about his precarious situation to the Head of Intelligence so the man in question would decide what to do next.

However, the promised 'Head of Intelligence' was but a boy paler than even the less exposed member of Mortimer's old clan to the Mojave sun; his blue eyes cold, hard, and electric like a pre-War device scanning him up and down as he listened to his tale in silence.

The boy had long, elegant fingers he had crossed under his chin. His alien features firmly set on an unnatural neutral expression, giving away nothing even when Mortimer's tale had been occasionally interrupted by muffled moans, wall-hitting, and the screeching of old mattresses under the straining of prostitutes and clients conducting Casa Madrid's usual business.

Mortimer hadn't known exactly what he had found so unsettling about the young man - besides his striking skin discoloration - until his eyes landed upon the electronic device strapped to his left forearm.

Another Pip-Boy.

Mortimer had started to sweat profusely the very instant the pale young man had opened his mouth for the first time since he and the other agent had entered the apartment. Because his voice had the same dispassionate intonation that the Courier had used to address him during his last supper.

"Your report has been taken into consideration." – he had stated, his split upper lip and cut cheekbone did not make him look battered, but bestowing a feral air around him – "And I, in the name of my Lord Caesar, consider that a prospect of an alliance between our factions is no longer possible."

"But…" – Mortimer had argued – "I still have connections on the inside. I still could convince many members who haven't pronounced themselves… I even know of others outside our circle that share our ideals! Just give me some time and resources and…"

The young man had started to laugh. A thin, humorless, frightening laugh.

"Ideals, you say." – he emphasized, correct pronunciation to a fault, oily quality on each syllable – "Beyond indulging in depraved gluttony, I cannot fathom what else a group of old, weak, and pampered Degenerates, willing enough to sell their Master in exchange for the freedom to conduct their immoral rituals, would share as beliefs worth enough to fight for."

Those words had wounded Mortimer where it hurt the most: his pride, the only thing he had left.

A pre-War American proverb said that pride is said to be the last vice the good man gets clear of.

Mortimer was, by no means, a good man, and his sins had been aplenty during his dilated existence. Besides using it to taste the flesh of his enemies, his most sharpened weapon had been and still was his tongue.

So, he allowed his wounded pride to mix with cold wrath and desire to watch this scoundrel brat wither under his venomous words.

"What would a rabid dog, slave to a tribe bigger and greater enough to swallow the one that had given him birth, possibly know about ideals and beliefs when the ones he so blindly follows are but orders given by the Master who holds his leash?"

The transformation that had unleashed before Mortimer's very eyes had been so violent that he would have congratulated his sharp wit… if he hadn't been pinned to the dirt of the ground under a strong pair of chalky hands, long as tarantulas.

"Don't a filthy cannibal like you dare…" – the discolored lips hissed, eyes storming above a wolf-like snarl showing a row of slightly pointed teeth – "… spit over my people's resilience and sacrifice!" – he bellowed, his voice instantaneously reverting to a pleasant, neutral tone that held as much bile as his previous outburst – "However, given your comparison to dogs, I ought to inform you that our hounds demonstrate greater loyalty to each other every day than the wretched inhabitants of this town." – the snarl morphed into a smile. A smile that still showed those pearly, pointy teeth – "You and your clan being the most prominent example of all, since the ones who jumped to defend you were also betrayed by your cowardice, leaving them behind instead of facing punishment with valor and honor."

Gurgling under the hands of this pale monster, Mortimer attempted to kick it out of him, but he was quickly restrained by the second man, whose also electric blue eyes shone with cold violence.

Looking at each one at a time, Mortimer soon noticed the small similarities, bones and sinew drawing a common pattern under different skins.

And he immediately knew he had made a mistake. The last he would make.

"Do you know how we punish disloyalty in the Legion?" – the pale monster kept talking, its hard claws sinking deep in Mortimer's tender skin – "When legionaries are disloyal, some are punished, the others made to watch." – its hissing became more inhuman, much like the Vault Dweller who had brought his clan to disgrace – "Since we sought an alliance with your people and such an accomplishment is no longer possible, I will concede to you alone the privilege of becoming part of the Legion… to face immediate punishment for your disloyalty."

"Punishment that we, as our duty demands out of us, will enforce with immediate effect." – the other young man added, directing the same lupine smile to his fellow legionary – "Isn't that true, dear brother?"

The pale monster's grimace distorted, its smile becoming twisted and hungry.

"Very much so… dearest brother."


It was nearly dusk, signaling the end of the eleventh day since Zorro left.

He had said a week, perhaps a bit more if he wasn't immediately received upon his arrival.

Six pondered all this with her pockets filled with cookies she was eating absently while observing New Vegas from the great view the Cocktail Lounge offered with its tall glass panels pouring warm light into the big round room.

Designed as an architectural imitation of a casino roulette, the central pillar dressed in stone housed the elevators while the bar drew a circle around it, which was also rounded by stools put over a platform with a balustrade that descended a few steps into yet another circle composed of tables and chairs.

All of this was also rounded by more coffee tables and sofas near the glass panels, achieving a pleasant effect for comfort and relaxation.

Despite its name, this had been oriented more on the cafeteria side than a bar. Six could see how many businessmen, friends, and lovers would have ended up here either to enjoy a healthy, filling breakfast or to share an intimate dinner after a day or a night full of gambling and shows.

She was standing barefooted over one of the sofas, jumping a little to help her focus and burn off her hyperactivity. Cass and Raul were at the bar mixing cocktails with way more whiskey than the recipes they had found suggested; Boone was taking a nap on the nearer sofa with Rex curled at his feet; and Vero, Arcade, and Lily were having a fun time playing cards.

They had offered her to join them earlier, but she had shaken her head, jumping over the sofa, saying that she needed to think.

"How are the cookies, sweetheart?" – Lily's voice addressed her after winning for a second time.

Six had produced a cute delighted sound of contentment.

"Yummy, Granny!" – she replied, her cheeks adorably full – "Best cookies ever, always."

"Oh, pumpkin, you make grandma so happy!" – the Nightkin boomed in delight.

It was easy to make Lily happy.

It was easy to keep all of them happy… as long as nobody would bring up the White Glove Society.

To call their experience in the poshest hotel and casino on the entire Strip 'unpleasant' would be an understatement. Nobody had left the place without feeling the urgent need to bathe as soon as possible.

And that, without counting the psychological strain when they had to deal with the unstable chef and the bloodthirsty cannibals who had disregarded Marjorie's rule and had jumped to literally bite them off. Arcade had taken his time when he had to disinfect his', Cass', Boone's, Lily's, and Veronica's bite marks, fearing that some of those… maneaters would have suffered from rabies.

And Six had left relatively unscathed just because they had formed a human wall around her, thus taking most of the damage.

But that hadn't impeded that she wore quite a few band-aids all over her face, arms, and knees. She had insisted that they should save their Stimpaks for more severe damage than superficial scratches.

Not even all the caps they had gotten from Heck Gunderson after returning his air-headed boy safe and sound to him, and the rest coming from House's compliments wouldn't erase such a jarring experience from their minds.

She wished Zorro had been there with them. While the others wanted to forget the terrible experience by keeping it quiet, Six was sure Zorro would have exchanged impressions with her, making her feel better that she wasn't the only one wanting to talk about it and clean the air a bit. He didn't look like the type who would shy from talking about bad things. He had done it previously, in Nipton, and the situation hadn't been so bad for her because they had talked.

True, he had been the hand behind the deed, but his rationalization over such a massacre had helped her not to lose sleep the night after.

She wished she could talk with him now.

She stopped her idle jumping and, after chewing on her lower lip, pondering an idea, she turned on her Pip-Boy.

She had thought about it a lot these past days and, while she wasn't sure how he would react, her need to know if he was okay, to know if he wanted to talk… to know if he was going to come back, had won over her insecurities. Right now.

Or maybe it was the sugar, getting too fast to her brain from the jumping.

Still chewing on her lower lip, she opened the chat, ignoring Yes Man's idle questions, and introduced the ID.

Then, she started to type.

08:33 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Courier VI: Hi?


The thing he hated the most at this hour was how overcrowded was the North Gate of The Strip.

An endless line of people ahead of him were patiently waiting to pass the securitrons' check so they could enter Sin City to waste their money and energy on useless, expensive leisure time that would render them poorer and more miserable than they already were.

Vulpes had never understood the allure. But he understood that people preferred New Vegas at night, so their sins and indulgences would be disguised in the dark rather than out in plain sight under the sun.

He had changed back to his Riot Gear, and he was receiving quite the interesting looks from people, more prominently the brute behind him who was itching to elbow him but was refraining just because the armor looked menacing.

Vulpes liked to look menacing.

With nothing better to do as he waited for his turn, he put on the earphones – again – so he could ignore the multitude, and aimed for some Wagner quality time when a tiny alert popped up from the interface's upper right corner.

It read: 'You have a new message.'

With his index finger paralyzed inches above the tactile screen, suddenly nervous and taking a quick discrete look around him in case he was being observed, he opened the unfamiliar menu of something that looked like a private channel an unidentified ID had opened between his device and theirs.

08:33 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: Hi?

Blinking twice, as if to be sure he was reading well, he wrote back after a lengthy hesitation.

08:41 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Fox: Who's there?


Six blinked. She hadn't expected him to be online or even be able to use his Pip-Boy right now.

Suddenly, she didn't feel so brave. She was expected to write an answer but didn't know where to begin.

Her cheeks and nose burned furiously as she typed back lamely.

08:44 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Courier VI: It's me.


Vulpes raised one eyebrow. That wasn't the answer he had expected.

Intrigued, he typed back.

08:46 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Fox: "Me" who?


Okay, that was to be expected. She was a dork for not saying it from minute one.

08:47 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Courier VI: Six.

She waited impatiently.

08:48 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c: Six what?

Was he playing dumb?

08:49 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Courier VI: It's Courier Six, you dummy.
2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c: How did you contact me?
Courier VI: I know your device's ID. It was mine before, remember?
2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c: How can I be sure you are who you say you are?

Wait, what?

08:53 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Courier VI: You're kidding, right?
2001:db8:3b4c:114:a00:20ff:fe72:668c: Oh, I assure you that I am, in no way, one to partake in jesting. However, should you persist in this nonsense, I will have to block you and check with an experienced Programmer what I need to do to change my ID so you wouldn't get the chance to contact me again.
Courier VI: Wait! I'll send you an audio file.


The file in question took a bit to fully download.

Unsure if he should play an audio file that, maybe, had been done with ill intention to demoralize him, Vulpes ended up listening to it after a while out of pure boredom waiting in the line. After all, it lasted only ten seconds.

"I salute you, o Suspicious One!" – then, giggling – "Believe me now, silly?"

That… was actually the Courier's voice. But they could have recorded it anytime, anywhere.

And NCR spies worked with computers.

09:13 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Fox: Very well, that is, indeed, the Courier's voice.
2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: So, now you believe me?
Fox: No.
2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: Whyyyyy? :(
Fox: It takes more than an audio track you might have recorded at some point from her to convince me.
2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: Oooookay… How about a pic?

When the file was downloaded, Vulpes had to put his hand over his mouth to prevent bringing attention to his person should he allow himself to laugh as hard as he wanted right now.

The picture was a front of the Courier's face… cross-eyed and sticking out her tongue.

09:18 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: You liked it, don'cha? ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)
Fox: Playful, aren't we?
2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: Alwayssssss.
Fox: Still not proof enough to convince me.
2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: Awww, U mean! T_T
Fox: That picture could have been taken from her any other time.
2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: Both the audio file and the pic have the dates and hours they were taken written on their titles! It's a default mechanism of the OS.
Fox: You could have modified those as well.
2003:db8:15fa:25:a00:20ff:fe9b:a1c3: What can I do to convince you, then? :(

He stopped answering the new messages when the woman in front of him shuffled off through the gates. Now was his turn.

The nearest securitron rolled over and scanned his pupils.

Beeping and a static noise after, the machine grunted its approval.

"Welcome back, Mr. Fox."

With that, he was finally free to roam Sin City, the gates opening at him as the familiar despicable sights of shimmering neons, wannabe comedians, drunk NCR troops, street licensed vendors, and half-naked whores swaggering on the streets welcomed him.

But he was aiming for an entirely different direction this time.


More than ten minutes, and still no answer. Had he grown tired of talking to her?

Or maybe he still thought she might be an NCR spy or whatever he could come up with…

Emotionally deflated, she watched her chat as if her last questions would give any meaning to why he wasn't answering. Has she been too annoying? Too forward? Too enthusiastic?

She closed the chat sadly and put the earphones on. She was going to jump while listening to music to brighten up a bit.

However, before she could search for an adequate track, the chat came to life again.

09:38 PM Saturday, February 18, 2282

Fox: Very well, if you are who you claim you are… look down.

Not getting it at first, she looked at herself, but then, she walked by the closest sofa's armrest by the windows and, looking down, her eyes watered and her ears got red as a loud happy squeal emerged from her throat: at the entrance, Zorro was lifting the portable capsule with Rexie's future brain inside.


SPANISH:

(1) - "Careful. Kick to propel yourself. This way, see?"
(2) - "Do what I do. Hiena, don't you dare open your mouth."
(3) - "Today, you are given the opportunity to live, to serve Caesar and his Legion, for we are many and our tribe requires capable men with the necessary integrity to endure the vicissitudes that, day after day, bring glory, prosperity, and security to our august Empire. However, should your hand would hesitate, your blows would fail or your will would falter when you face those whom you once called 'brothers'… you will fall into the void of oblivion as you will pay for your weakness with blood. For oblivion is but the fate that awaits for the name of your tribe, for your ignorance, for your barbaric customs. The choice is yours alone. Let the Dimidio begin."


LATIN:

(A) - "Vulpes at the gates." - It comes from "Hannibal ad portas" (Roman alert when Hannibal was approaching to Rome, around 217 BC). Yes, Caesar is a fanboy through and through.
(B) - "Faster Higher Stronger. And certainly clever."


A/N: Extra-long chapter is extra long... but I wanted it to end cute, so cute it is! :D

It probably shows a lot many of F:NV fics I've been reading as of late because some ideas I will freely admit that I am taking from them. When an idea is good, is good. I hope this doesn't pose a problem. Thank you so much to the people reviewing. I hope this story, long as it is, is making you enjoy its reading. And now even more with the Coronavirus thing out there.

Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: yes, I've always wondered about the many tribes the game mentions, so I intend to be thorough with them, especially Vulpes' :) And yes, Lore Legion is definitely way more interesting than In-Game canon Legion.

Centurión Marcus: Van Buren me llama, y las Hijas de Hécate saldrán, saldrán... jejejeje

The next chapter is already on the go! Cheers!

PD: yep, "Home Alone" reference. Fucking Rangers. Kill me again.