"Number Nine"
Ch. 15: Numb.
Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to rape, references to torture, political controversy, ideological controversy, and Legion bigotry towards homosexuality. You know the drill: it hurts/offends you, tread at your own risk :D
"I'm tired of being what you want me to be
Feeling so faithless, lost under the surface
Don't know what you're expecting of me
Put under the pressure of walking in your shoes
Every step that I take is another mistake to you."
- Linkin Park, "Numb"
Arcade felt more and more strained as hours passed, checking on Veronica's progress through the poisoning.
Not that he hadn't any faith in his medical training left, because this 'accident' had been sort of his daily bread back at the Old Mormon Fort when junkies and locals had been the least of his problems every time caravans dropped by with a guard or two at the brink of a comma after an unfortunate encounter with the desert's wildlife.
After leaving Navarro for good in search of a life of his own, Arcade had traveled a great deal with the Followers back in his day: zigzagging radiation near The Glow, facing reject at Gecko, passing by Junktown, minding his tongue at The Boneyard, helping the Water Merchants at The Hub, meeting the wonders and the history of Arroyo, saving doomed people at the Golgotha graveyard – the first crude impression he had gotten on how basic crucifixions worked, treating inbreeding-derived afflictions at Modoc, pushing his luck against the Hubologists' doctrines in San Francisco, fighting against rats propagating diseases like gunpowder in Klamath… Hell, even he had thought he had seen it all when he had been stationed in New Reno, dealing with misery and the daily victims of Van Graffs, Wrights, and Bishops' ambitions; namely prostitutes, chem addicts, debtors, and fallen-from-grace pornstars while, simultaneously, attempting to not becoming yet another victim of the Families as well there.
But then, Julie Farkas had asked for volunteers to go to the Mojave Desert.
Tom and Ignacio had been enthusiastic at the prospect, April had looked hopeful, Gunnarson had packed before anyone else, Usanagi had simply shrugged and signed up, whereas Emily had jumped on the bandwagon and asked when they were departing.
And Thomas Hildern had rubbed his hands with delusions of grandeur.
That had been almost nine years ago.
And then, problems started escalating as soon as they had set foot outside the NCR Mojave Outpost.
Whereas the New California Republic territory had hosted all manner of horrid creatures due to the multiple accounts of pre-War nuclear warheads that had fallen on its land, thus giving birth to all manner of wildlife mutations, Arcade had only really feared the almost-extinct Wanamingos, which were subterranean. Plus, the Floaters and Centaurs, which tended to hunt in packs together near highly irradiated zones, thus easily avoidable.
And the Deathclaws? Arcade had thought those also extinct. Witches' tales to make disobedient children behave and eat their veggies.
Oh, how wrong he had been.
Upon reaching the Old Mormon Fort in the Freeside - always under Robert House's scrutiny, of course - Arcade had already grown to fear threats far more tangible, whose appearances were frighteningly more usual than the critters in California: Cazadores, Nightstalkers, Lakelurks, Giant Radscorpions, Evolved Centaurs… and Deathclaws, Deathclaws everywhere.
Deathclaws nests had been so common that the famous Wasteland Omelettes had been a Mojave specialty much earlier than when the first Californian Squatters had set foot on Freeside. And people here were crazy or desperate enough to go egg-hunting regularly at the behest of the White Glove Society's culinary high standards.
However, by 2277, a creature far worse than all of the above combined had reared its ugly head from the far East: Caesar's Legion.
Upon beginning hostilities with the strange pseudo-tribal faction, an inner joke amidst NCR soldiers had been to refer to them as 'those cosplaying Roman dudes with skirts and funny gibberish'. They had thought them to be no more threatening than a bunch of rabid coyotes. They had thought them to be no better than raiders, and the NCR Government had sported deaf ears when the Followers had attempted to pass onto the population information about the leader of those tribals without compromising their Organization's interests further.
Edward Sallow. Former Follower of the Apocalypse. A genuinely brilliant mind who had graduated from the Angel's Boneyard University in New California to be a fully anthropologist and linguist at only twenty years of age.
Sent on a mission with another Follower, a physician by the name of Bill Calhoun, both of them were expected to meet with a Mormon missionary, Joshua Graham, at the East of the Grand Canyon. This, to teach the tribes there about medicine and midwifery while studying their evolution throughout the last 200 years since the bombs fell.
A year later, Bill Calhoun had been the only one coming back from that mission to a perplexed group of Followers, speaking in the name of this Caesar, bearing a warning message that the newly-christened dictator should not be interfered with. Joshua Graham had remained by his side, becoming his first Commander.
Through the next thirty years, lots of news from the East had been consistently arriving in the form of a growing threat the NCR Council had kept rejecting and minimizing in favor of an expansion campaign that eventually led them to the Mojave Desert.
And then, they had bumped into Robert House, his Families, and his securitrons.
A peace treaty later, and half the NCR population who couldn't stomach the practices at New Reno by the reigning local mafias had taken a pilgrimage to New Vegas, dilapidating caps over the same vices like a radioactive downpour.
Whereas House got richer by the day at their expense, the Republic was led to a state of impoverishment so great due to their previous war with the Brotherhood of Steel and the costly Mojave Campaign that, by now, food prices had doubled while taxes had almost multiplied by four. The Mojave Campaign was highly unpopular, and Kimball's presidency was severely threatened now that Elections were near.
Arcade knew all of the above, and still, he had stayed true to the Followers' cause whilst many of his colleagues had fled, resigned, or became Hildern's lackeys until the NCR's Office of Science and Industry had been created. With him at the head of the Mojave branch.
In the short span of a decade, Arcade had seen how a flourishing young nation had become a pantomime, a sad reflection of its pre-War counterpart: chained to indebt, slave to private CEOs like House, hands full with senseless war, brains filled with shitty propaganda, bureaucracy even to ask for goddamn toilet paper, a politics-centered Government, filled with corruption and crimes like of that back on Bitter Springs that nobody wanted to talk about.
It was as if Humankind had learned NOTHING since that fateful October the 23rd, almost two-hundred and five years later.
Lifting the canvas entrance of the Ranger tent slightly, Arcade's eyes washed over the encampment until they landed upon the small, disquiet figure of Six. A burlap sack rested over her tiny shoulders while she methodically cleansed the area from litter – most prominently, the numerous empty scotch crystal bottles the Rangers had left scattered after themselves.
Watching her doing that simple community service warmed his heart. Truly, a daughter of her time if the few Vault Dwellers that Arcade had met were any measuring to go by. He often wondered how those who had been, since their tender childhood, presented with the views of a world that no longer existed could stand it.
How had she been able to cope and adapt to an environment so hostile and different since she had been… so brusquely awakened from her long sleep?
How long had she been sleeping? What had those terrible experiments at Vault 5 done on her psyche to warrant that unyielding mixture of fear and hatred for the Enclave?
"Henry, I want to know everything, so don't spare me the details, as inconsequential or gruesome as they may be. I want to know the truth."
Henry had been… incredibly hesitant, to say the least.
"You don't know what you are asking for. Your father, Mark, didn't know what he was asking for, and, when he finally got the answers he sought, he never remained the same man after that."
He had been afraid. Arcade had never seen someone as remote and misanthropic as Henry being so scared of something before.
"Regardless of what you may all think, I am not my father. I will never be, and I am not so sure I want to. What I know is that sweet girl outside making a giant snowman matters to me, and I deserve to know the truth about the extent of her damage."
Not that he blamed him.
"A 'sweet' girl that almost blew your brains off just for speaking out of turn. Wouldn't be surprised if you and I go to sleep one night and never awake to see a new sunrise."
Not anymore.
"For Christ's sake, Henry! She's not a goddamned assassin, damnit!"
Not since he had watched those tapes.
"Are you certain about that?"
Henry had allowed him access to his laboratory terminal, then he had unearthed a dusty case full of holotapes he had left near the computer, saying he didn't want to be present. That he couldn't stomach that again. That those tapes had haunted him for more years than he could count and that he only kept them so those records would serve as reminders of what men were capable of. He had said that he didn't want to add to the list of crimes perpetrated by the Enclave by leaving those reminders to rot for History to forget.
Once he had been alone, Arcade's fingers had ghosted over the tapes, noticing that a handful of them had tags with faded handwritten dates.
And that group had dates that were even before October 2077.
He had decided to play them chronologically.
He had to stop halfway through the first one.
A lesser man would have pretended that what he had seen didn't affect him and would have put on a stoic face while he endured the ride.
But Arcade was no lesser man, nor was he a desensitized NCR General to deny that he had cried. A lot.
"See that fucking chink face, soldier? Yes, that's what you are going to face on the battlefield. What would you do if I tell you that these motherfuckers are not only attempting to take your country from you, but that, if given the opportunity, they will blow your dadda's head, take your momma and your little sister so they can torture and rape them, cut both their legs and later feed them to them mutually, preferably if they watch one another doing it?"
The answer had been pulling the trigger. And not one, but several times until the gun's cartridge had been empty.
The one speaking had been a five-star U.S.A. officer wearing his regalia proudly as if flaunting his status. The victim had been a trembling old man of Chinese ancestry with silent tears cascading down his eyes as he had been so terrified that he hadn't been able to speak.
The one pulling the trigger had been a Caucasic ten-year-old with more hatred in his eyes than Arcade had ever seen in a child.
But the worst hadn't been the footage per se, but the ending advertisement as the camera had focused upon the boy's face as he smiled a beatific smile, almost cherubic with supple pink cheeks, soft blue eyes going as quickly from dead-cold to encouraging-warm, and short golden curls atop his head, dressed in a mini camo uniform with the stars and stripes flag sewn on his right shoulder.
The advertisement read: "Uncle Sam needs YOU TOO. Fight shoulder to shoulder with your older brothers and sisters against the Commies! ENLIST TODAY!"
Arcade had been on the brink of vomit when he had read the small letter at the bottom of the advertisement that said something along the lines of 'educative purposes' while citing the sponsors' names behind the campaign.
Many surnames, he recognized to be shared among many Enclave families he had met when he was a child. Descendants of those very sponsors.
Eckhart, Richardson, Bird, Sanders, Pickard, Dornan, Bracks, Smith, Brandice, Murray, Curling, Schreber, Meyers, Harper, Swafford, Santiago, Ragnarsdottir, Grey, Whitley, Williams, Black, Tuckman, Richter, Scott, Grant, Holt, Burke, Autumn… Johnson, Moreno, Whitman, Kreger… and Gannon.
Arcade then had understood Henry's decision to never give out his own surname once he had abandoned Navarro. He was ashamed of it.
It wasn't easy to live with yourself knowing your great-great-grandfather had co-funded such a monstrosity.
However, as the rest of the holotapes had kept playing on the computer, vomit had become a reality when he had gotten to the research diary entries from Vaults 65, 74, 75, 100, 113, 121… and 5.
::: Welcome to ROBCO Industries [TM] Termlink :::
Thank you for choosing Vault-Tec!
[Press Release]·
[Enrollment Policy]
[Special Admission Protocols]
[Admission Records]
Almost every last of these Vaults' terminal entries compilations started more or less in the same fashion. An apparent innocuous menu, everything very formal and carefully planned.
All tidily wrapped up in a nice envelope to sell a clean image to the public through the Press, lying to thousands of parents that thought their children would be safe in the hands of Vault-Tec.
::: Press Release :::
For immediate Release:
Vault-Tec to Subsidize Enrollment for Malden Families
Washington DC - In response to growing national concern for the safety of our children in the event of a nuclear attack, Vault-Tec officials have cooperated with local government in Malden, Massachusetts to provide subsidized enrollment fees for any families wishing to sign up for residency in Vault 75. The newly-opened Vault is attached directly to Malden's Elementary School, ensuring a swift evacuation should an attack come during class time.
"Safeguarding the future has always been our priority.", said a Vault-Tec Spokesperson, "The opening of Vault 75 gives us all extra peace of mind, knowing that the children of Malden will be safe, even if the worst comes to pass."
All lies. Vault 75 had been a fine example of what had happened to the children of unaware civilians that had signed for – presumably - their kids' future to ensure their survival.
Arcade had uncoiled the complicated roundabout hidden file system, unearthing bloodcurdling truths in the guise of instructions.
::: Annual Turnover Protocol :::
Beginning one year after initial containment, children over the age of 18 must be removed from the general population. This will be done annually, on a date specified by the Overseer and Chief Scientist.
It is recommended that this "graduation" be treated as an important tradition inside Vault 75. Appropriate ceremonies should be conceived of and performed by Overseer staff, with outgoing subjects being removed one-by-one from the main living area.
Once separated from the general; population, subjects with aggregate ratings of EXCELLENT and SUPERIOR are to be escorted to the genomics laboratory for processing. Subjects with EXCELLENT and SUPERIOR intellect ratings (but not aggregate) will be offered positions as Overseer of Research staff, per discretion of the Overseer and Chief Scientist.
All other subjects should be disposed of as outlined in the confidential operations packet.
Disposed. As one would speak of waste, trash.
For these glorified 'scientists', the children hadn't even been human beings.
The more Arcade had deepened into the records, the more disgusted he had become.
The Enclave had known all of this. After several generations, all of the original founders and sponsors already gone, the experiments had kept going… And the Enclave had known all along.
And they had done NOTHING.
The purpose of Vault 75 had been basically the refinement of human genetics based on the subjects' physical traits. Those who showed genetic promise were preserved for genome harvesting and reintegration.
Through half-cooked truths, they had misled the growing Vault population under the impression that they were meant to be superheroes for an agonizing America. They were led to believe that they were training to become the saviors of Humankind.
The real objective had aimed to make superhumans, the ideal survivor for an irradiated Wasteland that didn't forgive weakness.
The perfect soldier.
This had gone on for several generations until the offspring product of these 'genome harvestings', though physically superb, on the mental side had developed several cases of mania, Schizophrenia, and paranoia with violent episodes mostly product of not being able to endure high levels of stress during the torture sessions they regularly underwent under the guise of training.
Eventually, and despite the many tranquilizers they were administered through the food supply, the violent residents had revolted against the Overseer's authority. And then, the databases stopped updating, and the records had come to a halt.
Ironically, Arcade had found this to be an unsettling way of poetic justice and had thought that even Friedrich Nietzsche himself would have turned in his grave had he been able to predict this outcome. So much for his infallible Übermensch.
All of this done with civilian children. Vault 5 had taken it a step further.
Getting back to the real world, Arcade muffled down a snicker when Boone approached Six and, while taking the trash bag from her, he instructed her to "Go fetch that fool on the hill so everybody can start discussing strategy roles, girlie."
Six had a good laugh at the sniper's indirect allusion to one of her favorite songs that she had played quite a few times when they had been inside the Lucky 38, waiting for this elusive new addition to their group that persisted in making himself as difficult as possible.
Arcade supposed it was the age. While Six herself sometimes wouldn't make any sense, acting childish at the least ideal situations, her chat buddy was all sphinx countenance and serious business… until you dropped him into a situation he wasn't in complete control of, and he would short-circuit, acting so incredibly random that not even Veronica, who was the most humane of them all, had yet managed to decipher how his train of thought really worked.
And speaking of Veronica…
Arcade almost jumped when he felt tickling fingers prying down both sides of his ribcage.
Upon turning around, he watched with a slight frown how his patient had gotten up her sleeping bag and was eyeing him with an impish smile all over her cracked lips.
"Very funny." – he deadpanned, secretly relieved that she seemed miles ahead better than yesterday. Though petite, the Scribe was sturdier than she looked – "How are you feeling?" – he asked, his hand automatically reaching for her forehead to check her temperature.
"Hungry." – she rasped, her voice still not so recovered from the whole ordeal.
"That's a good sign, then." – Arcade acquiesced once he was sure her motor functions were fully operative after a quick checking – "Luckily for you, we are having a sort of council meeting over lunch in an hour or so."
"About?" – she asked.
"Strategy." – he replied – "Apparently, Boone's giving us a briefing about group tactics and that sort of stuff." – however, upon watching her face going from questioning to crystal clear shame, he quickly added – "Hey." – his hands found her slumping shoulders – "What happened the other day wasn't your or anybody's fault, alright?" – he assured her, meaning every word. No matter what the lad might say, Veronica's heart was in the right place – "Six asked him to. She's worried for you, nothing more."
Nonetheless, Veronica's eyes lowered.
"I know that I've screwed it up…" – she muttered – "Wouldn't want to be a hindrance…"
But her eyes got up when Arcade's hands squeezed, giving her a significant look.
"Veronica." – he said, his tone dead serious, his green eyes behind glasses intent – "If there's anyone in this group who less deserves the title of 'being a hindrance', that is definitely you."
And he really meant it. Every single damn word.
"See that disgrace of a Profligate face, recruit? Yes, that's what you are going to face on the battlefield. What would you do if I tell you that these sorry excuses of human beings are not only attempting to rebel against the will of our Lord Caesar... but that, if given the opportunity, they will take you into one of their interrogation chambers and fuck with your head until either they break you or convince you to act against the Son of Mars' interests - your very family's interests - so you can rat out your brothers and live in dishonor and disloyalty?"
The old discourse any Centurion worth their salt would give to the rookies. A discourse he had dared not to question even once since he had turned fifteen, and he had tasted blood for a second time since that hellish Dimidio.
His answer the first time had been chopping the head of the unfortunate off his shoulders. Without question.
"Do tell me, boy… what have you learned about our troops' darkest secrets today?"
But then, with a sore spine, he had been placed between the poisonous fangs of a Serpent… And all the teachings that had been taking root since he was eleven had gone to the gutter.
Don't rat out your brothers to the Profligates… but rat them out instead to the Master Frumentarius.
Held in the highest esteem Legion teachings regarding honor, virtue, and truth… but mock honor, discard virtue, and twist truth whenever you don a disguise.
Don't break your oaths to the gods… but disregard their authority when it comes to blending in with an alien culture that pays respects to no gods.
Regard women as mothers and wives, vessels strong enough to bear children but unfit for the war… but court war allegiances with a girl if Caesar commands you so.
Whenever the opportunity presents, kiss said girl and fuck her senseless if Caesar deems it an effective way to get into said girl's good graces… but, privately, don't entertain any notions regarding personal attachment.
Because, ultimately, your absolute loyalty belongs only to Caesar… as long as he holds his end of the bargain regarding your little brother.
"Hi!"
Anguis had destroyed him in so many ways…
"We need you downstairs to start discussing those group dynamics you told me about. I thought it was better to tell you in person than through the chat."
First tribal, then legionary… now, a faithless agent wading bloodied waters.
"Hey?"
How much of the small boy that loved his family remained? How much of the loyal legionary stuck?
How far was the rat willing to go up the sewer pipe to seize its prize?
"You napping?"
How easy would it be to simply reach out and… break her neck?
Opening his eyes, Vulpes lifted his chin from its comfortable place between his collarbones and cracked his vertebrae until the dull neckache faded.
"Ewwwww… I hate it when you do that stuff."
The more reason to keep doing it.
Directing an impassive look to the girl eyeing him expectantly, Vulpes raised an inquisitive brow.
"I am not educating your friends regarding military tactics." – he warned her, his blue stare incisive – "Until I elucidate if you are or are not a threat to the Legion, my counsel in warfare will remain neutral."
She rolled her eyes.
"Aaaaalrighty, Rommel. Whatever you say." – incidentally, he already knew who Rommel was, and it made his eyes turn into thin slits of suspicion – "Just kidding! Man, did you wake up pissy today." – she quickly added, raising her hands in a surrender gesture – "Boone's gonna be the one defining individual roles and assigning positions should a threat arise, so don't worry. We will operate under the Republic Army's standards as a small unit, not as a contubernium."
The slight joke didn't amuse him.
"Hardly." – he replied drily – "Even if we are eight people, we still lack a Decanus, and there would be the matter of designing an Optio." (A)
"Optio, that is entirely optional, given that the Centurions are the ones choosing those." – she replied, unfazed by his grave countenance and her own bad pun – "Wanna test my knowledge on the original Roman military structure? Let's see: Frumentarii, originally collectors of wheat – frumentum - who also acted as the secret service of the Roman Empire in the 2nd and 3rd centuries." – clicking her tongue, she continued – "Taking this as a guide for what period your American Legion is based on, I'd say every centuria is divided into nine contubernia, thus making it with ninety legionaries each, nine Decani – one of them being the Centurion's assistant of sorts if not an already designated Optio – and a Vexillarius, (B) I assume." – she shrugged – "One Legio is ten cohorts or ten centuriaes plus… a hundred twenty cavalry escorts? Maybe? Plus, if the Legatus in charge has Tribunii (C) by his side…"
Vulpes raised his brows, impressed. If the NCR managed to enlist this girl to their cause, they would get a very accurate schematic of how the Legion's military structure worked.
Frighteningly accurate.
He really should either enlist her or break her neck, the second being the safest option despite what Caesar might wish.
"Remember, boy: the sacred duty of our Order is to serve Caesar in all ways, even if it angers him, even if he cannot understand a necessity, even if he cannot bear to look into the truth."
Despite the acidic venom constantly dripping from his fangs, the Serpent had always been wiser beyond his station. Too wise.
And too proud, given how he had been unable to see the backstabbing little monster that he had kept feeding on heresy and treachery until it had grown too strong for him to stand a chance against.
'American Legion'… this girl spoke the likes of a heretic too.
His people, his loyalties. His rank, his duty. His mission, his responsibility.
His failure, his fall.
A doe-eyed heretic with the warmest toothy smile and softest hands ever as his fingers interlaced with hers once they had descended upon the encampment again.
The Imperator, the voice of wisdom and reason.
The sniper gave him a disapproving frown when he caught sight of them but didn't comment.
The Courier Sullivan… the voice of omens and knowledge.
"Jimmy!"
Winds of change blowing through the Bull's banners, singing a melody of war and torches. Birds of prey feasting on the remains of a battlefield.
His fingers slid from hers the very instant breath was knocked off his lungs when a pair of strong arms encircled his protruding ribcage in an unexpected embrace.
His frame tensed inhumanly in response.
However, upon lowering his sight down to his neck, he found Becky's brown eyes staring at him with a dearness to which he wasn't sure how to respond.
He almost panicked when she lifted him several inches from the ground, noticing just how strong the young woman was for the first time.
"Aw." – she said when she put him back on solid ground, noticing just how red his ears had gotten despite his rigid neutral expression – "I've missed so much that cute poker-face of yours, Jimmy, seriously." – she teased, still not getting any sort of emotional response from him, blissfully ignorant of the tense air around them as the rest observed the scene, dreading possible violent outcomes – "And what's up with these sweaty armpits?" – she smiled sweetly, her raspy tone mischievous – "Is up time for a change of clothes, huh?"
Vulpes regarded her unamused, his bodily tension slowly relaxing.
"Perhaps that peculiar mind of yours is unable to comprehend the environmental attributes of a desert, does it now, Becky, dear?" – he retorted drily.
But she laughed a raspy laugh, happy to be able to joke with him, exultant for having crossed the barrier so bluntly and, instead of refusal, she was receiving a sort of tacit consent through dry sarcasm.
"I'm glad you're okay, Jimmy." – she said suddenly, hugging him more tightly as she recalled the dangerous episode they had starred in two days ago – "Honest."
A few seconds passed, and she was almost driven to the brink of tears when one of his long hands patted her awkwardly a few times on the shoulder. Around them, the ambient relaxed visibly.
Veronica almost pitied letting him go, but she relished the precious exchange she had gotten from someone so unaccustomed to human contact.
Sometimes, being the patient has its perks.
They abandoned Ranger Station Foxtrot the next day, Kudlow already sending Six to Camp Forlorn Hope on the banks of the Colorado River, South of Hoover Dam, with a report of certain importance for Sergeant Reyes.
Vulpes knew very well where Forlorn Hope was stationed, as its precarious setting coupled with the eradication of Searchlight and the conquer of Nelson will already have left Major Polatli and his men alone and compromised with them being almost the last remaining NCR bastion securing the shores of the Colorado. He hadn't chosen Dead Sea idly when he had given him control over the mission, knowing very well Caesar would want to have him garrisoned at Nelson. Dead Sea had quite a reputation for being bloodthirsty… if highly disciplined, and it wouldn't be any surprise if he would turn out to be promoted to Centurion one day. He was already an Optio ad spem ordinis, the Primus Decano of his centuria, and Caesar held particular regard for him.
Having been raised Legion through and through since he was a baby, Dead Sea was blindly loyal to his Lord, having known nothing better and blood being the only currency he dealt on. Just as many others.
A zealot had his uses, after all.
It would do Vulpes some good to recognize the terrain first before deciding who should be sent to deal with Major Polatli, thus securing the Southern shore of the Colorado banks, leaving Camp Golf vulnerable by the time Lanius would get back from his campaign on the East. Caesar's orders to present his victories before the Imperator had already been sent.
Once he got his backpack over his shoulder, Vulpes expanded the Map interface of his Pip-Boy, the landmark of Ranger Station Foxtrot already there for future reference.
He hesitated, giving a last look to the encampment, his index digit hanging above the tactile screen, his mouth set on a hard line.
He thought about consequences, about useless bloodshed. He thought about the countless women who had perished under the Bull's hooves.
He thought about his mother, a perfectly healthy, educated woman in her early thirties when their tribe had been conquered.
"The men in red arrived at our ranch when I had just turned out eighteen." – she explained to him once after he had asked her why they were the only ones in the entire tribe speaking this English language nobody else did – "I was fortunate, for I had been sent to the communal Vault to trade fertilizer for a portion of their labs' last batch of apples and carrots. When I returned, I could already see the smoke rising in the sky. The first red banner that I spotted was clue enough to know that I wouldn't survive if I but dared to tempt my fortune further, so I retraced my steps and asked for shelter from the Vault's inhabitants."
If he now knew something about Vaults and pre-War technologies, strictly forbidden and avoided for the majority of the local tribes of Utah, it had been thanks to his mother.
She had been so different from the other women of the tribe…
"Did they accept you, mom?" – he had asked, still too young to understand all the horrible implications of her tale. For him, it had been just that, a tale, a little adventure his mother had to undergo before becoming one with La Jauría.
Although he had to concede… that the pale distant woman with liver-colored hair and sad blue eyes had never been really part of their tribe. The Wise Women had dubbed her 'La Vulpeja Forastera', which translated roughly into 'The Outsider Vixen'. They said she had come to them in the dark, the night a mantle for her many scars, her frame skeletal, bearing the eyes of a wild predator.
Her feral appearance had been a good omen, a sign that she belonged among them, for the desert had tested her strength, and she had emerged victorious.
"For a time, yes." – she had responded to his innocent question – "I lived among them a whole year, working in the hydroponics lab as an assistant." – at this, she had smiled, a rare occurrence for her – "I met someone there. Someone special."
Again, he had been too small to grasp the tone in which she had narrated that particular event. Not that she had given him a name… or a gender at all.
For all he knew, his mother might have perfectly been in love with another woman. She had been a Profligate, influenced by the licentious culture of the pre-War.
"What happened then?" – had been his next question – "Why did you leave?"
Again, that tired shadow over her features had made her look older beyond her years. And wiser. Frighteningly so.
She had been a Profligate, yes… but she had known a better life than the other tribal women. She had been a vessel of knowledge. And he had loved her dearly.
"The men in red happened, darling."
She had never elaborated on what had happened inside that Vault. Only that the men in red had gotten in there by an alternative entrance, the very same she had used to escape when the opportunity had arisen aided by a Stealth Boy, something he had never seen before until Anguis, a heretic to the core, had produced a box full of them in the chill of his tent to teach his pupil how to use forbidden technology under Caesar's very nose.
"I roamed the desert for months, traveling to the West, always to the West." – she had explained to him, her voice a mere whisper inside that tent house she barely left – "The tribe's hunters found me eating the raw carcass of a gecko at the verge of rotting, for I was no hunter, I had no wood to start a fire and my lighter had but given up a few nights ago." – he hadn't known what a lighter was, but her tale had had him completely enraptured – "Some of them spoke Spanglish and I had some vague notions about how Spanish worked, so they brought me to the encampment after telling them that I was hungry. The Wise Women studied me and determined that I was apt to join. Because I was already older than many wives, they told me that I had to choose a husband."
"And you chose padre?" (1)
"No, darling. It worked the other way around."
She hadn't loved him, but she had been a survivor, so she had accepted his protection. Whereas all the people around her had perished, she had lived to tell.
She had spent all her adult life running away from the men in red. From the Legion he now pertained to.
It was fortunate that the birth of Lupus had killed her before she could suffer the same fate she had been consistently avoiding all those years. Or so the Priestesses had told him.
He hadn't thought about her in a while, and the memories were equally as fond as unwelcome. They served no purpose, just as his hesitation.
Shutting down the amber glow of the device, resisting useless, undignifying mercy for his enemies, feelings entirely uncalled for by someone of his status, Vulpes departed with the rest Southeast. A chorus of croaking from the sky bidding their farewell.
He never looked back.
The journey across Fiend territory around the old Sunset Sarsaparilla Headquarters went surprisingly less painful than Vulpes might have expected once everybody donned Great Khans' disguise in the form of very revealing motorists' outfits.
Revealing enough that he had to put an extra effort into not redirecting his prying eyes back to the naked legs of the group's females. Most prominently, Sullivan's fit legs kept taunting him as she was marching, quite literally, in front of him.
Curse the Great Khans' outfits, but the shorts the women wore were incredibly distracting.
The girl said that the outfits 'had some serious Mad Max vibes, but nothing like how the raiders dressed', and almost everyone had treated her comment just like she had said nothing until Raul and Lily had actually laughed, clearly getting the strange, humorous side of the situation. The supermutant had said that she preferred 'Fury Road' with the pretty wives and their stories, whereas Raul declared himself 'on the classic side', saying that the best Mad Max movie was 'Thunderdome'.
After that, Veronica had started pestering Sullivan, asking if she, perchance, had those movies stored in her Pip-Boy's memory, and Vulpes couldn't help but notice just how many untold stories pre-War audiovisual archives had in store. No wonder those decrepit drive-ins had been so popular, for they peppered the landscape as reminders of what once had been a common attraction available for the basic civilian, or so Sullivan had told him that night once he had asked her through the Pip-Boy chat before going to sleep.
The American people had been living a life of leisure prior to the nuclear Armageddon that had destroyed everything, and the idea felt incredibly alien for the Master Frumentarius.
As he had been the only one without a proper Great Khan disguise, they had improvised something out of a spare pair of jeans from the Followers doctor and scavenged pieces of raider light armor that Sullivan insisted on having at hand for patching purposes. The entire outfit - minus the jeans - had consisted of sturdy leather, and it had been surprisingly clean, another 'particularity' of Sullivan's fastidiousness with hygiene. Not that any present company complained about it despite that, in the desert, no matter how freshly showered you are, you are bound to stink in the next half an hour of sweat, halitosis, and even crotch rot if you weren't careful enough.
Cassidy was a very fine example of having been used to other human beings' general dirtiness and disgusting unhygienic habits for so long that she had replied rather flippantly to the sniper's commands about keeping distance between companions to get a sense of tactical formation that she didn't care if he had 'ripped one'.
Since he had been officially assigned the role of their 'tactical commander', the sniper seemed more focused, feeling at home in his own element, taking his duty with seriousness and confidence. Vulpes had noticed that the man, though still passive-aggressively hostile towards him, since he had assigned him a tactical role and Vulpes was performing without question and to the letter, he seemed less inclined to utter empty threats at him every time the young man got too close to their teenage leader - and her very distracting legs.
Under the sniper's guidance, Vulpes had learned how NCR leapfrogging and basic drills worked, such as the Contact drill, Immediate Ambush drill, and Counter Ambush drill.
Though not one for many words, the man had expressed himself in a very clean vocabulary when he had explained the basics during their briefing at Foxtrot.
During that time, not even Cassidy had dared to mock his overly-formal instruction once, not after the Cazador incident.
Vulpes could tell that this new setup sat immensely better with the sniper now that the group had acquired some sense of discipline. Even he himself was starting to appreciate the familiar rigidness of marching, having missed the orderly Legion formations dearly.
However, a mile or so from their night stop, their march had taken a violent halt when a patrolling group of Fiends with Driver Nephi at the head surrounded them.
"What's this?" – the Fiend leader had asked, eyeing Sullivan with utter disgust as soon as he had recognized her – "Told you to get fucked, kid! Jesus fucking Christ…"
"We're just passin' by." – she replied, matching her tone with Nephi's. Casual and not overly polite. Rex by her side baring fangs silently to the drug addicts in front of her – "Gettin' a big raidin' party at the El Rey Motel. Maybe we'll pay a visit to the Scorpions at the Monte Carlo Suites later since you bunch'o pussies haven't kicked the shit out 'em outta there."
Vulpes maintained his face neutral, cringing internally not just because of her atrocious butchering of the English tongue while faking a loosen-up accent but even more when she called one of the leaders of the Fiends 'pussy' right in his face.
Did the girl have a suicidal wish or what?
"Only pussy I see here is yours." – Nephi retorted, his eyes bloody, his dirty gums and teeth bloodier, signaling him as a regular Jet consumer – "Bet that Cook-Cook motherfucker wouldn't mind stretching it up a little bit, huh?"
That comment made almost everyone in the group tense as one big communal coiled spring. The sniper, the very definition of taut restraint as Vulpes could hear his knuckles cracking inside his balled-up fists and his teeth gnashing viciously behind a tight-lipped snarl.
However, to her credit, Sullivan remained unfazed.
"Sorry, not into that daddy crap." – she replied petulantly – "I prefer my johnnies younger, cleaner and saner. Maybe you'll do a fine replacement. Figures you bein' more like his type, Nephi."
The girl had been playing a hazardous game. This group, no matter Nephi's ill fame with a stupid golf club when they had Lily and her badass Vertibird blade, would be a child's play to vaporize… Bad news would come later, with Motor-Runner and his cronies storming upon El Rey Motel by night as soon as they got sight of Nephi's corpse. The Fiends could be mediocre fighters and very slow when it came to rubbing their two neurons together to do something more complicated than getting high… but they were fast at reacting when one of them is found inexplicably slain and a group of 'Great Khans' happens to be nesting up near the area. And there were hundreds of them.
And their patrols were constant. Even if they aborted the plan of spending the night at the abandoned motel, they would end up surrounded by Violet's dogs and Cook-Cook's gang in less than twenty minutes before they could get out of their territory.
Nephi knew all of the above, thus the unabashed cocky attitude when he cackled at her bravado.
"Cook-Cook doesn't have a type, kid." – he replied, an angulous smile full of very bloodied, very crooked teeth set upon his dirty face – "You got a hole, there goes Cook-Cook's dick. Be it your cunt, your ass, or your skull basin isn't relevant."
"Are we goin' keep talkin' in circles 'bout Cook-Cook's junk, or do we have your blessin' to pass through your turf as we damn fuckin' please, Nephi?" – she countered, Vulpes already detecting micro-expressions getting out of control on her facial muscles, signaling she was getting nervous.
Driver Nephi twisted his features into an ugly grimace, but he caved with a slight nod.
"Tell your Papa Khan not to get his fat ass too comfortable in sending his goons around here as if he owned the place." – he warned – "Might start charging a toll next time if there isn't a bag full of stuff for delivering."
"Then you will get no more junk to fry whatever's left of your grey matter off." – she retorted, mordacious – "Ingredients for cookin' your shit ain't growin' in Red Canyon anytime soon, you know. But I'll give Papa Khan your regards, nonetheless. See what Motor-Runner has to say 'bout that."
"Careful with those games you play, kid." – the junkie leader said as he and his group allowed them to pass – "Politics have no place in the Wasteland when there's a tribe larger than yours ready to feed your men their own entrails and your womenfolk our cocks if you don't honor our trade agreement."
Once they were out of earshot, the whole group breathed relief.
"Shit, I hate those motherfuckers." – Cassidy, ever the voice for the majority of the unvoiced thoughts of the group, spoke up – "Can't we just fill their Vault's perimeter with mines and traps while feeding them mini-nukes from a distance? Please?"
"Wait, do we actually have such an assortment of weaponry at our disposal?" – was Vulpes' immediate question, eyeing the redhead woman with incredulity.
But she threw her face back, laughing her ass off.
"Hell, yeah." – she confirmed – "Believe it or not, Tribal Boy, you just happened to join the Unlimited Scavenging Resources Club of the entire Mojave a few weeks ago. Here, you comb any lootable area until it gets more polished than your spear on a lucky day." – there, again: sexual humor. Vulpes really wished she wouldn't keep doing that at the minimum opportunity – "Condensers, electronic waste, work tools, nails, fission batteries, motorcycle gas tanks, lawnmower blades, motherfucking leaf blowers… hell, even a rusty, old broken gun is fine for spare parts as long as we have Raul's magical hands here to transform trash into weapons and ammo." – she added, pointing at the ghoul behind her with her thumb.
Raul just shrugged when the Master Frumentarius looked at him as if he were seeing him for the first time.
"No es lo que más me guste hacer." (2) – he explained – "But it pays off in the long run. Too many surprise Demented Deathclaws and Random Raiders out there to keep going just on tiny pistols and rifles."
"Big bad children are best dealt with toys like this, Jimmy." – Lily added, fumbling a bit into her monstrous backpack until she produced a canyon-like frame of sorts… or more like a catapult, if one studied it up close; too big to be handled single-handed – "You see, munchkin?"
Vulpes stared at the odd weapon, trying to decipher what kind of ammunition it would use.
"What is that?" – he asked – "How does one use such an unmanageable weapon?"
Suddenly, he became the center of unwanted attention when everyone stared at him.
"You're kidding, right?" – Becky asked cautiously, studying his blank expression – "Jimmy… don't tell me you had never seen a Fat Man until today."
"A what?" – he had never heard the term. And it looked like a handmade botched job of a weapon some raider had managed to put together rather than a standardized, reliable heavy gun.
"Chavo." – Raul intervened – "Do you know what a bazooka is? Or even a portable missile launcher?"
"Does that thing launch rockets or missiles too? Isn't the tube a tad too precarious for that?"
"Not… exactly, chavo. You'll see…"
And then, as the Courier, the dog, and the sniper led the march in utter silence, the presence of the man slowly neared hers until she was basking in his shadow, ever the fervent protector, as they waded amidst rows of black birds of prey staring in quiet wait at the passing group; the informative course Vulpes had totally asked for had begun.
However, the grave silence in which the Followers' doctor shielded himself was another entirely different thing.
03:03 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: Wanna hear a joke, Sulli? :D
Near five hours, and she hadn't managed to get any sleep at all.
03:05 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: Shoot.
So, of course, Yes Man had gone to the rescue.
03:06 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: How many ghouls does it take to change a light bulb? ^^
She was spending her much-needed rest time chatting with an AI.
03:08 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: How many?
:D YES MAN D: None. They hang around a Glowing One XD
Courier VI: XD
An AI that, sometimes, replicated Mandy's rather peculiar brand of humor so precisely that she wanted to cry.
03:11 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: Did you like it? Was it funny?
She often thought about her bestie… how it would have been should she have gone through cryostasis too.
03:12 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: It was very funny, Yes Man. You're getting better at this.
Would they have stayed together, running away from Burke's Talon mercs, just the two of them against the post-Apocalyptic Commonwealth, friends forever and everything?
Maybe they would have become a famous duo, just like that sweet old man at Tenpenny Tower and his late ghoul servant. Or Tabitha and Rhonda. Or Cass' dad and that dude many people called 'The Chosen One'.
03:13 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: Awww, thank you!
Or would Mandy have awakened just as crazed as the rest of her old unit, forcing her to proceed in the same manner she had done with the rest?
03:16 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: Yes Man, I'm gonna get some fresh air, you mind?
Burke had lied with the numbers he had given to Tenpenny. The same he had lied about their true purpose.
03:17 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: Not at all! Though I'm happy you're asking me if I do!
Twenty-nine had been the number of teens and pre-teens he and his mercs had managed to reanimate successfully.
03:18 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: And why is that?
But they, without fully understanding how the Post-Cryonic Syndrome worked in long-term exposed organisms, had botched up many previous reanimations, subsequently killing dozens of them before programming the cryo-chambers adequately.
03:19 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: Because… that means you have consideration for me. To me, it's the equivalent of being treated as a human.
Before Burke, there had been… a hundred of them.
03:22 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: Do you wish to be treated as a human, Yes Man?
All carefully selected. Nine units of nine individuals: eight soldiers and a captain.
Pretty much like nine contubernia.
03:23 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: Not that I know what I'm talking about, but… were I able to wish for something, that would be to be treated as an equal, not as a servant, as is my coding intent.
The Number One being their Commander. Their Centurion.
03:24 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: Do you want someone to love you, Yes Man? To worry and care about you? To be your friend?
A centuria of soldiers. She had been designated Number Nine on their rating scores, primarily due to her high IQ rather than her combat prowess, taking the role of the eighth captain.
Big Bro had been a captain as well.
03:25 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: … Yes… Even if I don't really know what it is, I want it so much, Sulli. Just to know.
A captain surrounded by soldiers as none of the other captains, nor their Commander, had survived.
Her people, her loyalties. Her rank, her duty. Her mission, her responsibility.
Her failure, her fall.
03:26 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: To know what, Yes Man?
It hadn't been supposed to end like this. Out of a hundred people for her to end up becoming the sole survivor.
Keeping her sanity had cost her too much.
03:26 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
:D YES MAN D: To know what it's like to be a Free Man instead of a Yes Man.
She shouldn't be alive at all.
03:28 AM Thursday, March 09, 2282
Courier VI: Me too, Yes Man. Me too.
Yes Man had never been the one closing their chat interactions, but now, the AI figured offline. The first autonomous action she had witnessed for it to take.
She was glad the exchange had ended, though. Talking with Yes Man stirred many conflictive feelings she had been systematically repressing since Burke had announced his ownership over her life.
After all these years, it felt odd to wander the Wastes without a master holding her leash…
Getting up from her sleeping bag as she had allowed Vero and Cass to have the bed for once, she took Boone's bomber jacket and sneaked out of the apartment like a thief, closing the door carefully after her. Rex barely acknowledged her as he remained napping on the floor.
The only two usable rooms with doors that hadn't been blocked by rubble had been filled with chem addicts that, once they had gotten sight of the heavily armed group seeking shelter for the night, hadn't had to think twice before abandoning the building, not after they had seen Lily.
And, speaking of Lily…
Grabbing the metallic railing of the two-story motel with both hands while inclining her body forwards until she was almost upside down to check the lower level, Six caught sight of the Nightkin snoring placidly on her four zipped-up sleeping bags under the shelter of the upper level as the tiny rooms' entrances had proven insufficiently big for her to fit in.
Before she could produce a small smile, a sudden click by her right took her by surprise, and both hands slid forward the railing.
A brief sense of disorientation and then panic filled her once gravity started to kick in as her head collected an inhuman amount of blood as she precipitated herself head-down to the ground.
But before her legs turned 180 degrees upside, a pair of steady hands grabbed her by the waist of her short jeans, pulling her whole weight from the balustrade brusquely.
She landed painfully on her butt. However, she didn't get any time to produce a groan when those hands that had saved her from a breakneck fall fell flat at each side of her sitting form while short nuclear white waves tickled her nose as the face of a very pissed-off Zorro almost bumped into hers.
"What do you think you're doing?!" – he hissed, his voice a mere whisper in the still of the night – "Are you crazy?!"
She had him so close she could almost feel the tip of his nose touching hers, warm irradiating from him like a heater.
And heat did she feel when her entire face burned under his annoyed blue stare.
"… Owch?" – she breathed stupidly, repressing the sudden impulse to twirl one of his locks around her finger. He had such pretty hair.
Her statement did nothing but make his frown deeper.
"Amusing, truly." – he said drily, his flat tone laced with sarcasm – "Care to explain what are you doing out here in the open?"
She was getting increasingly flustered due to his nearness, the heat reaching her ears, shoulders, and breastbone. With any luck, the lack of light would hide from him that she was blushing like a tomato.
"… Cannot sleep…" – she said once she was sure her voice would be steady enough.
If possible, he frowned even more but retired from her proximity – to her much relief – and stood up, extending his hand to her.
Fearing that the blush might have even reached the tips of her fingers, she gently refused his help and got up clumsily, her entire body trembling and her butt pulsating painfully.
While he mutely closed the apartment door where he had been sleeping beside the other guys, she reclined against the cracked wall, rubbing her hurting backside. He joined her after a while.
Neither of them spoke. Both resting against the wall, him arm-crossed while looking at nothing in particular, and she, at that moment, finding her own bare toes the most exciting thing in the world.
"Cannot sleep too?" – she asked shyly after a while, her sight not rising from the floor.
He made a noncommittal grunt.
They remained silent longer than she dared to acknowledge.
"Two days to reach Camp Forlorn Hope." – he announced out of the blue, his soft whisper almost making her jump – "Have you already reached a decision regarding the Followers doctor?"
Her toes curled awkwardly against the cold floor.
"Nope." – she answered weakly, flinching so slightly when he turned his head to her, his eyes bearing an incredulous, scolding look.
"Do you have any idea how valuable a medic's aid and expertise are around these parts?" – he asked briskly – "Your inaction may prove the group's undoing if you are incapable of dealing with internal issues like this." – his piercing gaze hardened – "As a soldier, you should know it already."
That was a low blow, and she was sure he was very aware of it.
"I do." – she replied weakly.
"Of course you do." – he retorted, still scolding, but his voice a tad softer – "What I still do not understand is this nonsensical stubbornness of yours when it comes to emotional conflict."
"You are stubborn too, in case you hadn't noticed." – she huffed childishly.
He rolled his eyes dramatically.
"Are we going to turn this into a competition regarding who's the most obstinate here, Sullivan?"
"Try me."
"I'd rather not, thank you very much."
"Ha! So you admit defeat."
"I've never implied anything of the sort."
"Laaame."
"I am not playing this game with you, so cease this foolishness."
"Dummy."
"Likewise."
They had left it there, slowly sliding through the wall one towards the other while their banter had gone on as if there were magnets in their pockets nudging their bodies to seek closeness.
Somehow, eventually, they had ended up sitting on the floor holding knees, sharing companionable silence as they watched the sun rise again over the Mojave.
The supermutant below them was mutely sharing in their contentment, happy to know for the boy she had assigned the role of her missing grandson to have the cute little girl as a friend. Them kids needed one.
She couldn't say the same for the poor young sad military man that had been spying on them from the other side of the door, his fears blinding him, acting on his name, speaking words of hatred with his voice, rendering him incapable of healing.
She would know a thing or two about healing after the Master was killed so many years ago, and her role as a spy for an army full of pain had finally met its end. If she hadn't healed, she wouldn't still carry the recording of her grandkids with her, reminding her that she, once, had been Lillian Marie Bowen of Vault 17 instead of Leo, assassin under the Unity's unmerciful claw.
Arcade didn't quite know how he had let himself be talked into this.
"Ahh... look who it is. I didn't expect to see you here."
But Veronica could be pretty persuasive when she wanted to.
"And you brought delightful company as well! I'm always a sucker for a pretty face, and two are most welcome."
Didn't it just get a little bit hotter in here? 'Cause Arcade was positively perspiring.
He couldn't say the same about Zorro Salvaje, whose indignant cerulean glare was digging angry holes into Alex Richards' skull as the physician kept talking, switching flirty looks between the two fair-haired present male company in his medical tent as if they were edible.
Six didn't know where to put her eyes, whereas Raul coughed awkwardly as Veronica and Cass were repressing hysterical giggling. Boone being Boone merely stayed by their teenage leader's side, with Rex sitting tight by his left. And Lily had to be left waiting outside.
"So, what can I do for you, my fine dear?" – Richards added, his eyes and smile entirely directed to Arcade now despite his initial salutation having been – theoretically - intended for the Courier Six.
The aforesaid girl scratched her scalp nervously.
"Errr… Major Polatli says you need some assistance with your patients… again?" – she ventured, her eyes searching over the doctor's shoulder, attempting to discern the state in which the medical tent was since every single bed looked occupied.
Her words diverted Richards' attention back to her, smiling at the offer. Though his smile seemed a bit strained, tired.
"Considering I'm the only person with medical experience in the entire camp, I'm always in need of assistance." – he confirmed, a tired, humorless laugh following almost immediately – "If I was a mortician, business would be booming. As a doctor, business is hard. Too many injuries that I can't do anything about. The Legion has been hitting us pretty hard lately since Searchlight fell. Lots of casualties from many attacked posts, not many people I can save."
Six shifted nervously from one foot to the other, almost jumping, when Boone's voice filled the silence.
"Wait, Searchlight has fallen?" – he asked briskly as if doing a double-check, not sure if he had heard it right – "When did that happen?"
Richards studied the granite man in front of him, taking into account his red beret.
"First Recon, huh?" – he asked rather passively – "By now, Hsu at McCarran and Chief Hanlon at Camp Golf should have their desks full with reports on the last attacks. Three weeks ago, Searchlight was filled by radiation when some Legion unit in disguise blew the whole fire station whereas one of those captains of theirs, a Decanus by the name of Dead Sea, is now garrisoned at Nelson." – he explained gravelly – "The bastards left intentional witnesses. Many traumatized civilians that we don't really know where to put or send to, that escaped slavery. And soldiers… some intact… some not so, I'm afraid."
Boone's knuckles cracked under the pressure of his tight-balled fists while Arcade simply cringed. This was bad news; the Legion was advancing fairly quickly, considering that the taking of Cottonwood Cove and the Nipton massacre had had a whole year of spacing between one another. Whoever was behind the recent attacks wasn't a common field Centurion but a master tactician. A dangerous one.
"Anyway." – the doctor spoke again, his tone adopting a less grim tint – "Getting back on track to your generous offer, I could use a skillful hand for medical support, of course." – he added, directing to Arcade the umpteenth smoldering stare, making the Follower adjust his glasses nervously – "May I have the assist of your handsome doctor there once more?"
Six bit her lower lip, unsure if she should answer for a person she was currently not talking to.
Arcade understood.
"Of course." – he answered for her, adjusting his glasses in a way he hoped seemed professional enough. Despite the overly-flirting character of Dr. Richards and his undeniable attraction towards the man, Arcade wanted to be clear about the nature of his presence there – "But let cooler minds prevail, shall we? After all, when it comes to the ill, non nobis solum nati sumus." (D)
In return, Richards' smile didn't waver an inch.
"Indeed." – he acquiesced – "However, since we are also dealing with Cicero, I ought to add that you should vivere memento (E) a little bit from time to time as well."
That had been equally as unexpected as unbelievably hot that Arcade was very conscious of the cool of the metallic rim of his glasses against the sudden heat of his skin, blushing like a schoolboy on his first date.
He also felt the judgmental glare of Zorro throwing daggers at his back as soon as Six and the rest abandoned the tent, taking the indignant young man with them, leaving him to deal with this walking temptation in the shape of a tall, dark and handsome colleague whose pale eyes were as peppered with laughter as his shirt was with blood.
And then, he was attracted with irresistible polar magnetism as soon as Richards' hand fell smoothly over his shoulder, burning a hole through his clothing and skin when the other man gently guided him to the nearest patient.
Despite the tent being full to a fault, improvised cots occupied every other available space since the beds had proved insufficient at this point.
"I'd offer you a seat, but, as you can see, there's very little room for anything other than medical instruments and good intentions, buttercup." – the doctor said, his burning hand sliding deliciously slow up and down Arcade's spine. Soothing, gentle. He could get used to this very quickly – "Still, I'm sure this is not the worst date a man like you has had, isn't it?"
Jesus Christ, he kept talking like that, and Arcade might actually entertain the notion of him being serious and all.
"I can work with that." – was all he replied.
And it turned out to be not the worst date he had had. Not at all.
Vulpes was literally fuming when they got out of that den of vice and sodomy disguised as a medical tent.
How dare they?! Using Latin to hook up, of all things! Right in his face!
He should have suspected the Followers' medic right from the start: too polite, too well-behaved, too clean, almost spruced up given the standards a scorching desert can allow on a human body.
But the worst of the pair was that NCR scumbag, perverted enough to announce to the winds his disgusting inclinations! The vice in his eyes when he had given him that vile smile, just like those worms at the casinos that thought they could buy his interest with a handful of caps like he was some cheap whore!
"You saw his face?" – he heard Cassidy giggling amidst the roar of his inner turmoil – "He was positively glowing pink when Richards flexed out his own dosage of funny gibberish! Bet that, under that medical coat, he was turning out a little puddle of 'Yas!'"
Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption, and filth everywhere.
"I know, right?" – Becky answered with a dreamy sigh – "It was simply too cute! Those two are so very shippable. I knew a second meet would work things out a little smoother than the last time!"
'Cute', they said… Those… those… inverted pieces of…
He was so angry, submerged in his very personal vortex of bile and all manner of destructive feelings, that he didn't feel when his right hand was taken but instead acknowledged it when his arm experienced a soft pull.
"Let's take a walk." – the Courier, Sullivan, said in a mild tone while clicking her tongue twice to catch the attention of their canine company – "C'mon, Rexie! Walkies time!"
The cyberdog answered immediately by barking happily as he got a few paces ahead of the youngsters.
If still livid enough to ponder slapping her hand off his' in an ultimately petty refusal, Vulpes wasn't so delusional to think such a stupid, infantile reaction wouldn't bring him more ill than actual satisfaction and complied wordlessly. Besides, the sniper didn't seem too happy to let them go along with the dog when Raul subtly asked him out to play a hand of Caravan at the camp's mess hall.
Deal with it, Profligate. – he thought smugly as he sneaked a peek over his shoulder, meeting the deep sunglassed frown from the other man, who had done exactly the same.
Sullivan guided them calmly around the encampment in complete silence, allowing Vulpes a full view of the setting: despite having been established since 2274, much earlier than when the first Legion scout had reported the existence of the Dam, Camp Forlorn Hope didn't boast good planning when it came to defenses and patrols, the assembling haste evident in the mixture of tents, tin shacks, rubble, and sandbags scattered around the Forlorn Hope Spring water source with minimal logistics in mind.
Despite the more significant number of soldiers garrisoned here than the ones who had been in Nelson, along with many harmless civilians that had posed no challenge against trained legionaries, Camp Forlorn Hope might prove a child's play in his sister's hands, and, most prominently, Dead Sea's.
Vulpes was already – figuratively – licking his inner fox's whiskers, thinking how easy it would be to take this encampment with only those two contubernia and a handful of his Frumentarii. They didn't need Lanius to secure the western shore of the river.
Just a bit more time allowing Dead Sea terrorizing NCR patrols until he could present the idea to Caesar and…
"I'm sorry for what happened inside the medical tent." – he heard Sullivan saying – "The idea was to allow Arcade to have a bit of quality time with Richards but…" – she sighed tiredly, feeling his fingers becoming rigid between hers – "Look, Richards is a big flirt, but he doesn't mean anything by it, okay? Vero says he's totally into Arcade, so you don't have to…"
"I don't need to hear the details of a homosexual affair that I am not in the slightest interested in." – he cut her tersely, his eyes disdainful when she shot him a doe-eyed look from her smaller stature – "Alas, this explanation of yours is entirely unnecessary." – again, he felt that petty impulse of prying his hand out of hers when her fingers squeezed his' soothingly.
He didn't need coddling. He could perfectly deal with the immense disgust that piece of human trash had invoked in…
"It's okay if you're angry because his advances upset you." – she spoke again calmly, soothing, her thumb drawing circling patterns on the back of his hand, eliciting a conflicting combination of both violent repulse and a strange warmness that wanted more of it – "He's almost twice your age. It's not okay for an educated doctor to hit on whomever he deems yummy enough this carelessly as if it is nothing and everything is cool and stuff. He should act more responsibly."
Despite that a tiny part of his brains acknowledged that she, somehow, had called him 'yummy'; and that her words were operating an odd balmy sensation around him, he resisted the unexpected comfort a bit.
"I am not a child." – as he said that, he couldn't help but feel a bit infantile at having to state evidence – "Not in their culture, less even in mine." – he wanted for it to be clear. In the Legion, you were already a man when you turned up fifteen… despite them being, most of the time, big hormonal kids armed with big deadly machetes – "You, on the other hand, at least by their standards, are underage. You should be more concerned about yourself and any unwanted attention you might attract."
He knew his attempt at diverting the conversation far from him had not worked when she snorted.
"It depends on who you compare with." – she replied – "You said that, by your standards, I'm not a kid, right?" – he wasn't sure where she wanted to go with this conversation, but before he could open his mouth, she continued – "Now, indistinctly of cultural acceptance or not… compare me with the rest of the group."
He gave her a questioning stare when she made a gesture with her free hand like saying, "There you are".
"See what I mean?" – she asked – "Now, compare yourself with Richards, and there we go: next to him, you're a kid the same you're an adult next to a five-year-old." – he almost felt indignant again until she added – "That's why I'm so happy you're here. You know what's this stuff about, being young and all, so you get me… most of the time, and that's cool."
Wait, what?
His head was spinning so fast that he almost didn't notice that they had gotten on the outskirts of the large encampment, walking near the spring's upper ravine, the watch posts already out of earshot. Rex having the time of his life splashing in and out of the water.
"I wanted to ask you something…"
With the many new perspectives still wrapping around his head, Vulpes answered almost automatically.
"Yes?"
The way she bit her lower lip, as if considering her next choice of words, distracted him. They stopped at the foot of the small waterfall, and she took her sweet time before getting back on track, her boots and socks neatly put by her side as she plunged her naked feet into the water, watching absently Rex play. He had joined her after a brief hesitation.
"Did you… hum… know about the Searchlight incident?"
For the first time since he had officially joined this strange ragtag group, her words paralyzed him.
He didn't take her for an idiot. She clearly had done the math considering the timeline that NCR pervert gave them in the medical tent, and she was asking if he had something to do with, at least, Searchlight.
With his brains at full speed, he considered his options cautiously: he could attempt to feed her a lie she likely wasn't going to buy; he could tell her a half-lie about him knowing everything about the operations but not being directly implicated with their development… or he could tell her the truth.
Nonetheless, they weren't in a fully controlled environment, and he wasn't likely going to risk his cover while surrounded by NCR troops just because of a tongue slip.
So, putting on a smile that distilled a confidence he didn't feel in the slightest, he inclined over her, invading her personal space, and grabbed her chin lightly, tipping her face up. The adorable pink tint spreading from the very tips of his fingers up her face and down her neck, as if he had just dropped red ink in water, coloring the entire surface, gave him some leverage.
"Oh, Sullivan, Sullivan…" – he murmured, his voice a caress in its entirety, carefully molded for distraction, chanting her surname delicately, aiding on increasing her blushing – "You really shouldn't ask questions whose answers are bound to, perhaps, disappoint you."
Despite her evident nervousness, he had to concede that she managed to hold herself together well enough when her eyes didn't abandon his' in favor of acknowledging just how close their lips were to one another.
"I… see." – she said, the tiny point of her pinkish tongue moistening her lips briefly, awakening in him a brief impulse of wanting to bite them – "So…"
"So?" – he pressed gently.
He watched how her slender throat undulated so slightly as she swallowed, another impulse of biting coming over him and leaving as soon as it came.
"I guess… eleven days gives room for a lot of things besides getting Hydra-poisoned and asking your uncle for permission to travel at your leisure." – she replied, much to his dismay, effectively summing up his whereabouts during that time.
Nonetheless, he pressed her a little more. Just to see.
"The Hydra incident wasn't… scheduled." – he admitted, his smile becoming wolfish, his voice lowering whereas his thumb traced her small jaw up to her ear, allocating a short lock of pitch-black hair behind it with deliberate slowness – "Other than that, I would have returned much sooner… for there are quite a lot of things one can do with very little time on their hands."
The words had been deliberate to a fault, an open invitation to a world of possibilities. No further questions on her part, the more she had to gain.
Like the song said, a little less conversation.
"Y-yeah…" – and her brains still worked to weave more dialogue out of those lips of hers – "I've… already surmised that much…"
Damn it, but the girl was resilient. Vulpes wasn't quite sure what wasn't working here, but he didn't get the chance to ponder further on it when the speedy weight of Rex threw them both backward, right into the water.
As the pond wasn't as nearly deep as to reach one's knees, nobody got hurt nor drowned when the canine pinned them both down and started lapping at the girl's face as if he recognized her for the first time since the intervention.
"Whoahahahahaha!" – she squealed, delighted to see the cyberdog as affectionate as he had been before, hugging its cybernetic body lovingly – "Rexie! Is that you at last?!" – more enthusiastic lapping was the only answer she got – "Gimmie kissies, gimmie all the kissies you want, puppy."
The animal barked happily and continued doing so.
Vulpes emerged from the pond soaked, white curls sticking to his eyes and nose, unamused and slightly resenting the dog for achieving effortlessly what he cannot.
He didn't get it: she was, to some extent, physically attracted to him, whereas he didn't find her awful, and he was willing.
So, what? Wasn't that enough? He had worked with much less, and without finding the women he had been forced to engage as nearly as… well… Nice? Distracting? As she was.
Observing her laughing with the dog still splashing around her, sitting up to pet the animal and receiving more drooling love in exchange, the Master Frumentarius found that his work would be infinitely easier if she just… kind of submitted to seduction so he would be able to conduct her exploits to his convenience.
Whenever a hard decision has to be made? Kiss her until she agrees to do as he asks.
Whatever difficult questions not meant to be answered arise? Kiss her until she forgets what the question was in the first place.
Whenever comes up the opportunity to ask her to work for Caesar? Kiss her until she says 'yes' to everything.
That was the formula. Those were his orders. He wasn't a stranger to obtaining a woman's collaboration through these means.
Plus, he wouldn't mind. That would make the issue less awkward and more authentic, right? Right. He was flexible. He could incorporate it into his performance. It could endure the test of time as long as his Lord required it.
What wasn't working, then? What did she want from him?
She would coo his issues with perverts and walk with him hand in hand… but she wasn't after anything else? That made no sense.
She wanted something. What that something was, he hadn't the faintest clue… but she wanted something. Hell, he wanted something.
Everybody always wants something in exchange. Those were the rules.
It applied to every single human being, Profligates or not.
Even Caesar himself always wanted something. You did your job well; he rewarded you. You botched up a job, the punishment would vary between ten or twenty lashes, Decimatio, crucifixion or… what happened with the Malpais Legatus, cursed be his name.
Simple. Easy. Clear.
He hadn't noticed how circular and basic his logic had become in his distress and frustration until she spoke again.
"I will speak with Arcade once he's done with Richards." – she announced, eyeing him as serious as a wet person with a rolling cyberdog around could be – "I… have reached a decision."
SPANISH:
(1) - Father
(2) - "It is not what I like to do the most."
LATIN:
(A) - An Optio is a position in a Centuria (century) similar to that of an executive officer.
(B) - A Vexillarius is a standard-bearer that carries the vexillum, a military standard (flag or banner) displaying the emblem of the Legion.
(C) - Military Tribunii (tribunes) commands portions of the Legion army, subordinate to higher magistrates, such as the Praetors and Legati.
(D) - "We are not born for ourselves alone."
(E) - "Remember to live."
A/N: Apologies it took me so long to update, but I was preparing for my C1 English exams so I can get the official certificate.
Don't hate him yet, as Vulpes has to evolve throughout the story just as Six.
I was kind of nervous making their exchange so up close, given that none of them have figured out what they want with the other just yet. You know? That kind of fooling around without really taking it to a point, peppered with excuses and the sort. I hope it came out respectably T_T
Other than that, thank you a thousand times to those people reviewing, following, and reading my story! Hopefully, soon, action will be coming up together and I will be able to write more characters outside the main group.
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: Yes Man, I intend on developing its (his?) character much further than being simply an AI that solves all your problems. Maybe even learning to discern who it can trust and who it cannot ;) Thanks to your reviews, I'm giving the rest of the companions more dialogue and relevance, the story getting complicated by the chapter xD And yes, Archive is a pain in the ass with the searching motor it has; its filtering never quite working right, but hey, it gets more visited now than FF, so...
Guest: erm... I have planned a scene with Autumn where I put some relevance into his way of thinking regarding the total annihilation Eden had planned for the entire American Wasteland, but him becoming a companion in this story... it doesn't really make much sense. The Enclave is sort of finished by now despite that their crimes are still pretty much alive, and Autumn would be by now 60 years old... but I will give it a thought. He (maybe) can become an interesting addition to the Enclave Remnants without really being one of them and he shares history with ED-E, so... I'm not promising anything, but I will look into how can I add him to be pivotal to some extent to the story, okay? Your petition is interesting enough to give it further consideration.
Cheers! :D
