"Number Nine"
Ch. 16: Dead Souls.
Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to rape, torture, child's kidnapping and Cultural Deletion... Why are you still here if this is not your cup of tea? XD
"Where figures from the past stand tall
And mocking voices ring of blood
Imperialistic house of prayer
Conquistadors who took their share
They keep calling me
Keep on calling me."
- Nine Inch Nails, "Dead Souls"
Camp Forlorn Hope's graveyard held a heaviness that Arcade wasn't sure he could stomach much longer.
Not after tending moribund soldiers for the last two days non-stop, playing more the butcher role than the physician he was supposed to be.
Burials had been held. Short, undignified, demeaning ceremonies that ended in naked corpses being thrown in a dark hole - mainly for the sake that their military equipment could be reused for other soldiers - and ill-shaped wooden crosses sinking at the head of each earthy mound.
But the worst thing had been the many letters he and Alex had unearthed out of the duffle bags of the dead. Nine in total. All of them filled with love for their families, friends, and lovers, fears, and many regrets as well.
The Follower, up today, hadn't realized just how bad the situation was on this side of the river.
Nonetheless, he couldn't begin to fathom why Six had decided to guide him back here when she had presented this afternoon in the medical tent, asking to have a talk with him as soon as he got a moment. Her eyes never leaving the floor as if looking at him had been too much for her to bear.
So here he was, sweeping his eyes all over the recently stirred up earth, watching crows perching around, finding the setting disturbing to no end, feeling like one of those dusty cowboys from the few holodisks the Followers had managed to preserve about duels at gunpoint at dusk when Six's soft voice found his ears.
"Sorry I've cited you here, but there's next to none privacy at the camp." – turning around, he watched the small girl standing several paces in front of him, her face stubbornly down, brows furrowed – "I… I wouldn't want to…" – out of a sudden, she threw her head up violently, her eyes widening as she unholstered her 10mm – "DUCK!"
The man didn't know how he ended up crouched on the ground, but two shots later and slimy green liquid sliding the back of his medical coat down his boots gave him an approximate idea.
"S-sorry!" – he heard her squeak, using a balled handkerchief to take out the worst of it – "Ewwwww… gross."
Arcade couldn't help but agree with her as soon as he turned around to face the scattered remains of the most disgusting, hugest black bloatfly ever. Those were the worst as their eggs held a small amount of radioactive fluids, corroding the flesh much faster than their common cousins as soon as they came into contact with it.
"The smell of dead flesh must have attracted it." – the blonde doctor mused, stretching his hand idly to take the handkerchief from hers – "Don't worry, I can…" – but he soon fell silent when he watched her retiring her hand briskly out of pure reflex.
An awkward silence ensued.
Her hand trembled when she sighed, her lips pressed tightly.
"I… I cannot keep going on like this, Arcade. I can't…" – once again, there she was: a girl attempting to suppress tears as she fumbled with adult decisions. This very beacon of hope everybody followed in the hopes she could solve their problems when she couldn't even deal with her own insecurities herself – "I am… not doing a good job at keeping this group's cohesion wholesome so far and…" – she sobbed, and it broke his heart that he couldn't reach for her to offer comfort – "I'm… what I'm trying to say is…"
He understood.
As much as it pained him, he… understood.
"I see." – he muttered after a while, his voice soft despite all - "I know that I have no right asking you this given the circumstances, but… before I leave the group, I would like to ask for a last favor."
Her eyes saddened greatly as if her own decision weighed dearly on her, but she nodded.
"Anything." – she muttered.
Despite everything, Arcade found that she, at least, appreciated him enough to comply with his wishes.
That allowed him some measure of mental peace.
She wasn't the monster Henry had feared those experiments had made out of her but an innocent victim of human misdeeds.
"Please, take me back to the Old Mormon Fort." – upon seeing her confused face, he smiled sadly – "No attraction is so great to warrant my permanent stay here, Six. Even love itself sometimes is not enough." – they both would know it, as their friendship had ultimately demonstrated – "Nonetheless, for what it's worth, know that I will always consider you a friend, no matter how we depart. And I hope you will find the peace you're looking for, Six." – tears were now sliding down her pale countenance as she eyed him, for the first time since that chilling room in Jacobstown, with something vaguely akin to affection – "And, if it makes you feel better, I'm sorry. For my history having played such a grim part in yours."
She smiled sadly as well, nodding.
"Et in Arcadia ego, quoque." (1) – she said, retracing her steps back to the camp.
It wasn't until her silhouette disappeared amidst rusted hovels and tents that he allowed himself to cry as well.
When Stella woke up that morning, her first instinct upon watching this blonde bastard that said he was now her 'new Master' approaching her tied-up form was to deliver a violent kick on his chin as the women who attended her three times a day deemed that, for relieving issues, she should be allowed certain movements. But the son of a bitch was quicker than she had thought when he caught midair her ankle effortlessly.
"Rising and shining already, Stella?" – he asked half-humorously, his hand not letting go of her leg – "That's good. Very good, indeed." – he nodded, securing a thin metallic anklet around her now twisting ankle before letting it go – "That should ensure your cooperation well enough once I've freed you from those ropes." – Stella didn't lose any time and started kicking furiously, aiming to cripple, while her teeth lashed on a blind chase for weak spots. She wasn't letting this bastard have his way with her without a fight – "Very well, if this is how you wanna play, let's play then." – he said before trapping her legs between his in a vice grip, sitting on her buckling knees while one hand held her by the throat whereas the other undid the rope's knots.
Once freed from her ties, she threw a punch to his face he easily blocked… but she managed to fit a hit in-between his ribs that took the air off his lungs while his eyes widened to comical and very satisfying proportions.
She was able to get rid of his considerable weight with a fighting maneuver that rendered him at her mercy, hitting his nape hard against tamped earth.
She punched him at her leisure, pinning him to the ground out of sheer brute force while he kept defending his face and neck. Guess the vain piece of shit didn't want his pretty face wasted due to a crooked nose and fewer teeth.
She then sank with all her strength her hips down where she knew it hurt the most, but she only earned a mild grunt before the brute piece of crap headbutted her, effectively throwing her off him.
With her nose bleeding profusely, Stella made a desperate dash to the tent's aperture, trying to remember the gigantic camp's setting so she could attempt a last stand against her captors that would allow her the possibility of escaping.
Dead or alive wasn't really important.
Her adrenaline-induced brains did not process that, during her mad run, not a single legionnaire was attempting to stop her until the metallic anklet let out a loud beeping before the most searing pain she had ever experienced in all her life captured her whole right leg from toes to crotch, paralyzing her muscles at once and making her fall facing the muddy ground.
In-between waves of pain, tears, and bloody snot, she registered a chorus of male laughs surrounding her until she was lifted over someone's shoulder like a potato sack. Her right leg tender and burning.
"Alright, gentlemen, show's over." – the voice of the blonde bastard vibrated against her hip, where he had thrown her next to his throat and shoulder. Her head orientated downwards was making her feel dizzy until a hard smack on her rear made her cheeks burn in shame while the chorus of laughs reignited, followed by loud whistling as the motherfucker started walking away – "Did you think for a second that the ankle device was for nothing, Stella?" – he asked in a lower tone, clearly only intended for her to hear – "Collar bombs make an easy getaway for recalcitrant slaves, such as yourself, with suicidal tendencies; so I tend to prefer it better a shock anklet programmed with a radius of my choosing." – sinking his knuckles on a nerve that made her howl when she had made a last weak attempt to kick him again with her working leg, he added – "Walk away from me further more than sixty feet – a reasonable enough distance for now, if you ask me - and this will happen again. As simple as that." – he explained, his odious voice always so calm. Stella hated him for that – "C'mon, Ranger, I didn't take you for an idiot: did you really think that escaping from Caesar would be that easy? Lesson number one: learn your place and adapt to the circumstances… or suffer pain. Your choice entirely, really, as death is a precious commodity around these parts. The more if you are a woman."
Adjusting the rim of his sunglasses over his sweating nose, Boone treaded through the invisible waves of burning asphalt with the same angry steps with which he had retraced his shameful, inglorious march almost four years ago on Bitter Springs back to Vegas to drown his sorrows in alcohol.
Now, he wished they could get back to the tomb that the Lucky 38 was as soon as possible so he could empty the kitchen's fridge of beer. Maybe he would even entertain the tumbleweed's taste for whiskey if he felt like it.
And why the hell not? Maybe he would take it a bit further and get himself a seat at The Tops' bar and fantasize that the bartender, instead of being a balding Asian guy, was the most captivating, talkative, and joyous Hispanic girl he had ever seen.
He knew there would never be another Carla waiting for him at the other side of the bar, but alcohol – at least for him - tended to evoke fantasies the size he would only get in his dreams.
At least, regarding alcohol consumption, he always got that false sensation of control that his dreams lacked.
At least, when he was drunk, he didn't feel the impulse of strangling a certain albino shit disrupting the formation briefly to murmur something on the ear of the girlie.
His girlie.
He didn't know what the bastard had promised her, but Boone knew it couldn't be good or true since pretty words coming out of the mouth of such a big-timed charlatan were bound to sound nice despite that their hidden meaning might not be so.
Whereas everybody – apparently - saw a gangly, socially awkward boy with cherubic curly hair and puppy blue eyes, he saw through the guise better than anyone.
For what he saw was a smug bastard who took great pains to let him know just how wrapped he had the rest of the group around his pinky, most prominently, the girlie.
Boone got it: she was seventeen, she got hormones and stuff… and the prissy motherfucker was good with words.
Perhaps too good, since he had managed to extract from her effortlessly what neither of them had managed to this day: her true name.
Maybe it had happened randomly, and she didn't feel like telling the rest yet… but it pained Boone that she hadn't come first to him to say to him what her family name was and, instead, the albino shit was on – figuratively speaking – first-name terms with her.
Sullivan was her surname. Like a guy he had known during his instruction. Johnny Sullivan.
If it wasn't because said guy had died back on Bitter Springs, Boone would have considered introducing them should they end up being distant family or something.
Because, given the girlie's past, if far-fetched, it might have ended up being true and all.
Which reminded him of how they had gotten that particular piece of information: through the lips of the albino shit, who was now her confidante too.
It irked Boone to no end, knowing that the rat had the upper hand regarding her decisions when it came to the group, such as their new formations.
Boone was very conscious that this idea of asking him for counsel on military tactics had come from the albino shit despite that they barely could stand each other.
Plus, quite coincidentally, that since he had officially gotten inside, the group was falling apart: the tumbleweed had started drinking like no tomorrow again, Veronica looked upset and anxious, Lily was mentioning that creepy Leo fella she had on her head more often than strictly usual, and… Arcade was directly leaving.
Yet another decision the girlie hadn't informed the rest of the group, but the directly involved and, again, the tricky charlatan.
Everybody intuited it, but nobody spoke about it since Veronica was still attempting – and failing miserably – to mend the rift between the doctor and the girlie.
Boone knew it wasn't his turn to speak, but… he wished he could give the girlie a piece of his mind about all of this.
Which he wasn't going to do anyway, not with that piece of shit whispering not-so-sweet nothings into her ear, but it irked him the same.
"The GPS signal reads that the lost shipment is nearby." – the girlie announced, her little nose scrunching under sunglasses too big for her as she read radio signals on her device – "Um… maybe under that rock ledge over there. Seems a good place to take a break away from the sun."
And to suffer an ambush too. - Boone thought somberly, gripping his rifle a little bit more tightly.
This was yet another of those unpaid missions Polatli had decided to burden them with. Not happy enough with the odd radio reports for Sergeant Reyes, the medical assistance, and that investigation around a junkie Private stealing from the medical tent's supplies, now the man wanted Courier Six to play errand girl for the umpteenth time.
He hated to admit it, but, despite that Boone was all helping when it came to the NCR, his fellow countrymen weren't exactly very persuasive when it came to gaining allies if allowing their group to stay but not giving them any payment even under the guise of packed rations or paper money, as devalued as it was, didn't help their cause at all.
They found the metallic storage crates intact under the rock ledge… accompanied by several not-so-intact corpses of NCR troopers.
Corvids were already feasting on the rotten remains, signaling this had happened a while ago, so everybody immediately got tense. If they hadn't ransacked the corpses or their load already, this was a trap.
Boone felt them before he saw them.
Dressed in those damnable red rags and stupid football equipment, eight muscled brutes armed to the teeth with chainsaws, rifles, knives, and machetes quickly surrounded their group, ready to strike until their captain - one of those dudes they called a Decanus or something like that – held a hand in the air.
Boone's teeth gnashed virulently when he felt the girlie's hand over the nozzle of his own rifle as well.
Eyeing the components of their group one by one, the Decanus quickly ruled out the women and non-humans to give a critical look to the three men left, aiming for Arcade as he likely deemed Boone's red beret and the charlatan's Riot Gear too… NCR.
"You are not soldiers of the Republic." – he spoke as he unwrapped the scarf of his feathered helmet, his odious tone haughty and commanding, his accent strong – "At least… not all of you. This capture is ours. Leave in peace, and you shall not be crucified." – his stare hardened as he kept on his clearly essayed speech – "Attempt putting up any manner of hostility against us, and you shall be punished in the name of our Lord Caesar."
Arcade licked his lips nervously, unsure how to respond to the other man until the girlie took on her usual speaker role.
"We have come to retrieve the shipment and news regarding these troopers." - she explained, her voice calm – "Please, at least allow us to collect their tags so we…"
"I wasn't talking to you, woman!" – the Decanus barked, clearly displeased for having to deal with someone he, in the first place, clearly thought they should never be heard unless spoken to – "Learn your place and behave should you want to leave this spot with both of your legs intact!"
Boone wanted so, so bad to fill the teeth of this piece of shit with a good load of lead…
"Quite an… unbecoming behavior coming from a Legion officer of all." – out of a sudden, the usual monochord voice of the albino was unleashing a slippery, serpentine, chilling to the bone quality that put Boone's hairs on edge. Turning his sight to the source of the voice, he found the tricky bastard without his helmet with his inhumanly pale chin sitting atop the girlie's hair, his arms surrounding her tiny shoulders the likes of snakes, long hands covered in black gloves resembling tarantulas caressing her neck lightly. A big, taut scissor smile set upon his lips as he continued – "She was just explaining to you our business here very politely, even saying 'please'… and your answer is repaying courtesy and good manners with violent threats? Very disappointing."
Boone noticed how each one of them started exchanging silent, bewildered glances, not knowing exactly where this conversation was going. A gesture the eight brutes in red mirrored between them while their Decanus kept his sight nailed to the new spokesman, his eyes narrowing slightly.
"This capture is ours." – he insisted, his tone having gone immediately from haughty to cautious in a matter of seconds.
"Oh, no doubt about that." – the albino purred – "Alas, we're also in need of those supplies, and we do intend on taking them with us."
Boone watched the exchange closely, trying to decipher the expression of the Decanus, searching for connections.
"We aren't giving away our well-deserved prize." – Boone observed the man hesitating, biting down that fancy 'P' word the Reds liked to bestow upon those who weren't Legion – "Our orders." – he quickly added, as if trying to justify himself.
The ex-First Recon couldn't believe his eyes: this man feared the prissy bastard.
"Well now, if you feel strongly about it, attack us." – said bastard replied coldly, his creepy smile getting Cheshire proportions by the minute – "And soon you won't feel a thing." – if the situation hadn't been so perilous, Boone would have fed his boot to the audacious little shit when he nuzzled a bit the girlie's hair like an overly-affectionate coyote – "Lily?"
Ah, yes. Boone had forgotten that their big grandma was still camouflaged.
As soon as the mantle of the Stealth Boy she had been using so they wouldn't be shot upon reaching HELIOS One to ask for the lost shipment was cast down, Boone smiled as he watched the horror painted all over the faces of the nine Reds.
"Lily." – the albino continued lightly as if he were talking about the weather – "Please, do enlighten the gentlemen here about what you are going to do to them if they refuse to collaborate."
"LILY SMASH!" – the supermutant declared cheerfully, her booming voice making some of the legionnaires take a step back – "HAHA!"
Boone wasn't the only one enjoying himself a tad too much, as he could see from the corner of his eye the smug smiles the redhead and Veronica were exhibiting. The only ones that didn't find the situation amusing in the slightest were Raul, who probably knew better than any of them; Arcade, ever the brains of their little party; and the girlie, who was still eyeing the Decanus with a very serious look.
Boone had never witnessed a Red before behaving so reasonably when he nodded obediently in defeat.
"We will retire peacefully." – he acquiesced, directing an apologetic glance to the girlie as he inclined his head solemnly – "Vale, domina." (2) – he said before gesturing to his men, who followed him obediently.
Watching them walk off with their tails between their legs, the drunkard left out a long whistle.
"I'd never thought I would say this, but holy fuck, Tribal Boy." – she said – "Guess putting that finicky vocabulary to work from time to time can't do any ill. Best psycho interpretation ever."
Boone wasn't so sure it had been an interpretation at all… but hey, it had worked, did it not?
"I disapprove of ill manners." – was all the explanation the tumbleweed received; unsettling blue eyes still nailed up to the distant Reds' backs – "The more if they come from the head of a whole military unit without knowing what humility is in the first place."
Veronica snorted.
"Well, they're Legion, Jimmy. What did you expect?"
The interpellated said nothing, eyes still looking at the distant red dots, squinting in a hard stare until the girlie squeezed his hands to get his attention.
Boone's short-lived joy upon thinking she was going to call him out of his overly-handsy behavior with her went to the gutter as soon as his head inclined downwards and hers upwards, eyes meeting over the rim of her sunglasses despite their inverted positions, and she mouthed a 'thank you' to him.
Boone frowned when the answer she received was a gentle smile, cold blue eyes losing their usual frostiness when she smiled back.
Stella watched how the blonde scumbag finished bandaging her right ankle in complete silence with bitter eyes. The healing dust he had used to cover the burns around it felt itchy under the fresh bandages.
"Now, put your foot up there while the salve and the powder take effect." – he instructed, signaling a tower of three cushions he had put at the end of the sleeping bag she was lying on – "You will be out of your feet for today. Maybe a couple of days more if you insist on being a nuisance by not following my indications." – he added, a slight hint of annoyance patent on his voice, which made her hold up her chin in defiance – "But, as I've previously stated: your choice entirely."
Huffing, she finally caved and did as she was told. She wouldn't get very far if she could not use her legs properly.
Because she intended on finding out where this bastard had the detonator of her anklet hidden so she could slit his throat by night, steal from him, dress as one of them and get out of this hellhole as soon as possible.
However, she soon became bored concocting escape plans inside her head while looking at the tent's ceiling, so she turned her head to watch her captor's sitting, barefooted form frowning as he pushed on reading a book he didn't look like he was enjoying much.
He had small feet… for a man.
"I just don't get you." – she voiced after a while – "If you intend on fucking me, you don't need to pull all this charade up pretending to care about my wellbeing and shit." – she frowned when his eyes lifted from his reading – "If this is an attempt to brainwash me into believing you Skirt Boys are nice, forget about it."
He rolled his eyes.
"Contrary to common NCR belief, we do care for our slaves not becoming ill or hurt under our tutelage." – when she scoffed at his words, he added – "Anyway, it is I who doesn't get you at all with those comments about rape and the like."
"You lot are a bunch of savaging rapists." – she replied scathingly – "And don't try to deny it. I've talked with enough female survivors from your raids to know."
"Savaging, maybe." – he conceded – "Rapists… you'll find that not all of us are interested in taking advantage of unwilling women that would sooner fuck a horny supermutant rather than any of us."
Was he trying to be funny? Because his brand of humor was darker than a pit full of rancid shit.
"Says you." – she retorted defiantly.
"Says me." – he agreed – "Anyway, trust me on this one, Ranger: the only part of your body I'm interested in are your fists and how much damage they can inflict. In other words: you're not my type." - he added, rather flippantly – "Can't speak for the others, though."
"You gay or what?" – she mocked, a bit insulted by his statement about her not being his type but relieved that he wouldn't pose a problem in the near future regarding her sexual integrity.
He cocked up a sandy brow.
"Why should I feel cheerful upon discussing these things with you?" – he asked, confused.
"What? No, that wasn't… urgh." – she brought a hand to her brow, for her head was starting to hurt. She couldn't fucking believe she was having this conversation with a goddamned legionnaire of all – "I asked you if you are into guys or something."
"That's what you call the inverted?" – he asked incredulously – "'Gay'?"
"Gosh… you guys are such unbelievable big assholes."
"Says the woman accusing a man of being homosexual just because he isn't interested in bedding her."
"What?! Fuck you! You're playing on my words!"
"Facts, Stella, facts."
"Urgh… you're damn lucky I cannot walk over there and punch your stupid face down to a pulp."
She regretted saying that upon watching him giving her one of those creepy grins.
"Oh, I'm looking forward to it very much, Ranger. Very, very much."
"You're… weird."
"As my idiot of a brother often says."
She rolled her eyes and took them back to the tent ceiling, back to her plots of escaping and other fantastic improbabilities.
However, she found that, as hours kept passing and the more bizarre her schemes got, the less bloody they were starting to evolve towards her captor.
She wasn't sure if she should feel worried or not.
Six left the Forlorn Hope Spring encampment along with her group, literally fuming.
She wasn't returning any time soon, if ever.
"With the help you've given us, we're doing a little bit better, but we still have the Legion forces at Nelson to deal with."
Not only had they approved this weird contest a Private had held about collecting body parts – ears, to be precise. A custom that had brought unwanted memories about her years in partnership with Littlehorn & Associates - out of dead legionaries in exchange for caps to prove how many kills they got right… but Polatli had had the nerve to ask her to do their dirty work.
"If we can retake Nelson, that will be a huge help to our efforts in this area and give us an advantage at Hoover Dam. I was hoping someone as famous as you would have some time to spare to help us rid of those Legion bastards."
Zorro had tensed behind her. His hands over her shoulders becoming rigid and clammy inside the huge commanding tent.
Neither the others had looked too enthusiastic about engaging Legion thugs on a scale that big. Only Boone had seemed way too ready to start shooting 'Reds' like no tomorrow.
She had asked why they didn't do it themselves now that all the wounded had been stabilized and supplies had come to their rescue. They had enough men to do it.
"You are armed and have a small squad at your disposal, among them a First Recon and, above all, a freaking supermutant. That should make a big difference, I say."
Why did everybody tend to see Lily as a tool? Good enough to smash some heads but too dangerous to allow her to sleep inside one of their tents or share communal spaces like the mess hall.
Six hated how many people, especially the Republicans, saw a friendly mutant and immediately assumed that they didn't have two brain cells to answer for, so why in the first place would they ask for their opinion before starting ordering them around?
Peaceful supermutants only wanted to be re-inserted into human society and be respected just like any other… but humans, usually, were greedy, profiteering pieces of crap that always took advantage of either their FEV-affected intellects… or their mental illnesses.
Their feelings got hurt? They were supermutants; they didn't have feelings. They were like animals. They were unnatural aberrations. They were monsters. That was always the sorry excuse everybody put on when confronted about being assholes with the mutant community.
It was a small wonder why they didn't trust humans to begin with.
Lily trusted her, and Marcus had secretly entrusted her with Lily's custody. She wasn't going to use their sweet grandma as a war tool to stir more hatred between two opposing factions. Minus Boone and Cass, none of them were NCR, and they weren't working for them.
Besides… she wasn't betraying Zorro's trust. He had helped her out with those legionaries, and he was slowly opening up to her. Becoming one of the group. She wasn't repaying loyalty and kindness with a move so backstabbing as this one.
So, she had said no.
And, out of a sudden, the air inside the commanding tent had gotten down several degrees. Polatli hadn't been precisely ecstatic upon her refusal.
"Everybody has to pick a side at some point, kid." – he had told her with that severe, almost condescending paternalistic tone she despised so much coming from older people – "Be sure you are choosing the correct one."
And what do they know about correct or incorrect sides? They knew shit. That's what she thought.
Since then, they were crossing desert down Highway 95 before the nearing evening finished setting on. Hopefully, they would arrive at Novac by nightfall.
Boone had fallen into one of his tense silences. Those kinds of silences that spoke volumes by themselves, mostly screaming his displeasure to the winds.
Since he was the one guiding their formation, his furious stomping and the rigidness of his posture were visible to everybody.
And it was getting to them at a fast pace. Even to Zorro, who was grabbing his rifle with a bit more force than necessary.
Raul was the one breaking the ice, his soft, cracked tone a momentary balm for many of them.
"Don't worry, Boss. I'm sure the tension in the air is just... um… a thunderstorm?" – barely two seconds later, after those half-joking words had abandoned his peeled-off lips, the crack of thunder made every single one of them jump – "Okay, so maybe I should really shut my mouth right now before anything else happens."
Another thunder explosion and, the moment they got their eyes upon the blackening sky, blue lightning veins were already crossing between greying clouds.
"Oh, shit." – Cass complained – "I hate it when the desert weather decides to behave randomly. It usually precedes tough luck if you don't get a place to hide while it passes."
They accelerated their already brisk march, and by the time they caught sight of the enormous silhouette of Dinky the Dinosaur, a near-blinding downpour was already kicking in full along with the occasional radiation waves.
"The Geiger Counter is getting crazy!" – Six exclaimed amidst the rain's uproar, her Pip-Boy's green light the only beacon of light everybody was following through the dense water curtain – "Screw the usual procedure! We're all taking cover at the Dino Dee-lite Motel's front desk! I'm not abandoning Lily out in the open!" – no matter that supermutants were immune to radiation the same as ghouls. Nobody deserved to be left outside with this weather – "If we take it together, Briscoe won't say a damn thing! C'mon!"
If her memory served her well (which, she hoped, it was right this time around), the reception entrance hall should have more than enough room for all of them.
Rex was the first one to get inside, shaking water out his fur and cybernetic body energetically.
"Just fan-fucking-tastic." – Cass complained once more, taking her cowboy hat to shake it off the water the same she drained her already dripping long hair with the other – "I can't feel my titties as cold as they are, and my fucking twat's screaming the way my knickers got twisted inside these goddamned jeans. Not even a good shot of whiskey would help me much with the cold now… but, what the hell." – she huffed, taking her hip flask from her utility belt, giving it a good swing while directing her frowning stare to her most immediate neighbor – "You lucky bastard. Hope you're asphyxiating inside that tin can over your head."
Taking off his helmet, Zorro shook his dry white curls in dramatic flair.
"If it is of any consolation, Miss Cassidy, I'm freezing." – he deadpanned, though a slightly humorous tint slid through his flat intonation.
Cass snorted in response.
"Urgh… this cannot be good for my arthritic joints. At all." – Raul grumbled unhappily until a towel was cast over his bony shoulders, a pair of hands aiding on his drying gently – "Gracias, mi niña bonita." (A) - he murmured appreciatively to a smiling, soaked to the bone Vero.
Six heard Arcade sneeze a couple of times whereas she roamed around the big room.
"Hello?" – she asked, looking for the manager of the motel, opening the bathroom door and the small storage room behind the counter – "Well, it seems like we got lucky and Briscoe is nowhere to be seen, which means we've got booked for the night, guys."
"Awww, you're such a good girl, looking for a place to stay for grandma." – Lily chirped, putting a towel around her tiny shoulders as well.
Six smiled, allowing the Nightkin to dry her as if she were a little girl again. In the hands of the gigantic granny, Six sometimes felt like a baby. How easily she manipulated her, treating her weight as if it was nothing, making her feel special, tender, and protected.
She often wondered how it would have felt to hold her Big Bro's and Big Sis' newborn between her arms.
She often wondered if they had been a girl or a boy and with whom they had borne more resemblance. Her own nephew or niece.
She wondered how they had named the baby.
Now… she would never know.
"Well, we know your vitals are good, kiddo. But that don't mean them bullets didn't leave you nuttier than a Bighorner dropping."
If only…
"What do you say you take a seat on my couch and we go through a couple questions? See if your dogs are still barking."
The memories were chaotic, plentiful… but the more they insisted upon ordering themselves inside her faulty brain, the more the pain came to knock back at her door.
"All right. I'm gonna say a word. I want you to say the first thing that comes to mind."
Answers, answers… memories. Some recent, some distant, like a dream she always woke up from, finding herself staring at the schematics of the bomb detonator.
"Dog."
Dogmeat. Laura's dog. A good dog. A loving dog that used to give lots of humid kissies.
A dead dog.
"House."
Robert Edwin House. The Platinum Chip. Burke had wanted it. He always wanted things, like a whimsical big child. He never had enough.
He said the Chip held technology that had been out of the Enclave's reach even before the Great War. That the original House was still alive.
That he was immortal.
"Night."
The night she had walked in Goodsprings. She had planned to rent a room at the Saloon.
Then, a handsome man in an unpolluted checkered suit had sat by her left at the bar, invited her to a Nuka, and started making conversation, throwing odd compliments at her, scaring her off. His smile bearing the fangs of a snake.
"Bandit."
Powder Gangers. NCR ex-convicts.
She had walked into their old prison out of dumb chance, weaving her way inside with lies, lies she had been taught how to tell. Luckily for her, none of them had been interested in a girl so skeletal and emaciated as her, often taking her for a boy by mistake.
They had lived amidst trash, rusted tin cans, and countless empty bottles of liquor, so she had picked up their garbage, saying cleanliness would do them some good, whereas she would get good prices from Chet, selling him junk to make up for the caps she also had been robbed.
She also had taken as many Stimpaks as she had been able to snaffle from their infirmary… and their scattered landmines.
She had been taught how to disarm them. She had been taught how to make a profit out of stealing.
"Light."
The bomb detonation miles ahead. Her screams muffled by rotten hands. Her hands stained with the blood of prospering communities. Communities that had posed a conflict of interest for powerful people. Too powerful.
Megaton. Ashton. Ton… ton… tons of radiation.
Sins unseen, sins untold. Six the sinner.
"Mother."
Mommy. Mommy spoke Spanish as well. Her dad had been an immigrant from Spain, Madrid, beyond the seas, who had gotten on American soil shortly after their Second Civil War had burst after decades wallowing in one economic crisis to the next.
Mommy was dead. Daddy was dead. The war had taken them from her.
She didn't have the chance to say goodbye. Neither to Big Bro and his beautiful family.
She had never reached the other side.
"Hmm. Sometimes when you give tests like this, you learn more than you was hoping for, and I reckon that ain't always the best thing."
She had fed the old man lies. Random words. Either he had been lying, or he had been a better doctor than she had initially suspected.
She had been glad to be able to get out of his dusty house, a witness of her memory loss.
The only thing that made her still standing. For she only had memories, a past to explain why the girl of today had been made that way.
Why was she shielding herself behind seven people, a cyberdog, and an eyebot against invisible threats. Why wouldn't she pick a side in this war.
Why would she blush under the gaze of a legionary… and pale under the accusing glare of a Republican when the latter directed her a look so nasty, she immediately sought shelter between Lily's arms.
"What the fuck are we doing here, girlie?"
As if sensing the upcoming conflict, the Nightkin's big muscled arms sheltered her from Boone. At least visually.
For his voice kept speaking.
"What game are we playing?"
His words filled the space with sudden silence that only Cass dared to break.
"Not now, Red Beret." – she warned, her voice also dripping a dormant form of violence that threatened to surface should the man's train of thought want to pursue such a direction. Whiskey always flared Cass' temper.
But Boone wasn't paying attention, the only anger mattering to him being his'.
"And when, then?" – he replied to the red-headed woman defiantly – "When the Legion crosses the Colorado and starts stringing everyone up telephone poles?" – his fist found the wooden counter, and the sound of the impact made Veronica jump – "You heard what Richards said. They're already here. They first took Cottonwood Cove the last year, then Nipton, and now, in the short span of a month, there they go Nelson and Searchlight. Searchlight! Do you have the slightest idea how heavily guarded that camp was?!"
Six didn't turn around to watch Zorro's expression. She didn't want to know. She didn't want to acknowledge… to believe that he…
"And what do you suggest? That we just walk into Nelson and start delivering love in the form of bullets?"
"I didn't see you complaining when you suggested blowing the fucking Fiends off!"
"That's because the Fiends are a bunch of retarded junkies, you moron! They cannot even throw a punch without trampling over their own feet! On the other hand, the Legion Reds are trained, damnit! Trained to counter gunfire with motherfucking machetes!"
Six's forehead pressed against Lily's unyielding abs, warnings in the forms of increasingly painful stinging drilling on the left side of her skull. Rex had approached them and whined upon sensing her discomfort.
"Your contribution, Birdie dearest… it was a great thing. That place, those people... necessary sacrifices. You should be proud of your accomplishment. Here's to a better future. Here's to Tenpenny Tower!"
Here's to the greed of Old America. A toast for the countless unmarked graves the bombs left behind.
"Hey, it's a free Wasteland, so why don't we just kind of… vote who wants to launch an attack over Nelson and who doesn't?"
"Raul is right. Unlike what happens with my family in the Brotherhood, we can solve this democratically."
"I agree."
"Yeah, let's do it for the shit and giggles."
"Okay, raise your hand the ones who want to declare open war on Cesar's Legion."
Six didn't need to turn around to know that only Boone had raised his hand.
"Leo also agrees to chop those people." – Lily said – "No, Leo, that doesn't mean that I necessarily agree with you!"
"Okay, two votes." – Veronica continued – "Now, raise your hand the ones who prefer sticking to Six's plan playing neutral… for now."
Silence.
"Leo's getting more and more agitated, sweetie." – Lily whispered to Six – "I think he can smell the fight coming."
Despite her mental illness, Lily could sometimes be the most perceptive in their group.
"Why, Birdie, what do you think that was at stake besides doing the world a favor by removing that pestilent scab of a town off the map?"
"Five votes. One abstention." – Veronica declared – "Sorry, Boone, but that's democracy for you."
"If it was up to me, I would have voted for playing neutral indefinitely, but one cannot have everything in this life."
"Henceforth, maybe you should abstain indefinitely from voting, old man."
"Boone!"
"I assure you those 'innocents', as you put it, are worth ten times as much in death as they were in life."
"Watch your tongue, dog."
"Or what? Are you gonna talk me to death, albino? Just the same you did with those Red pansies?"
"Enough, Boone!"
"You petulant, ungrateful child. I don't see why I should explain myself to you regarding these matters."
"Can't you see it? Since he got inside, the group's getting shittier and shittier!"
"Jimmy's not to blame that our political ideologies don't align with yours, Boone! Even Cass, who's also NCR, doesn't want to get involved!"
"Yep. I'm not getting paid for playing the suicidal patriot part, you know. At least not while being this sober. Throw some whiskey in the mix, though… and maybe we'll talk."
"War is at our doorstep, and not a single one of you is worried?! What does it take for you to peel off the blindfold and see that the NCR is our only chance at giving those motherfuckers the thumbs down?! Do you really think that he will help any of you when Cesar stomps over The Strip and starts enslaving everyone?!"
"Not again with that, Red Beret…"
"Oh, yes, sniper, you have discovered me. I am a Legion spy who, besides getting intel from you, is the mastermind behind Cottonwood Cove, Nipton, Searchlight, and Nelson. Why, even the Deathclaw invasion at Quarry Junction was my idea."
"Oh, Sullivan, Sullivan… You really shouldn't ask questions whose answers are bound to, perhaps, disappoint you."
"This is getting ridiculous, Boone!"
"Is it ridiculous wanting to protect the people from a megalomaniac son of a bitch who fancies himself a motherfucking Roman dictator?!"
"Watch it, Beret, NCR's my country too, and I support it. Anyone who says otherwise, I'll feed them my knee. I know which side of the firing line I'm on in the Mojave, just so you know."
"So?!"
"I'm not some blind, flag-saluting do-as-they-will NCR lover. They're family, but let me tell you what family means." – Cass becoming serious was a rare sight, so everybody had shut their mouths, allowing her to continue – "You ever had a brother? Some dumbass younger brother, say, who knocked up the pastor's daughter, can't hold a job, and his home-away is a jail cell?: That's NCR. Their compass is spinning, all the time. They try to put their stake in everything they see, and nobody's dick's that long, not even Long Dick Johnson, and he had a fucking long dick. Thus, the name."
"… 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."
"Yeah, everybody got that part right, Miss Cassidy. Muchas gracias." (B)
"Anyway, as I was saying: the NCR, tries to hold on to everything. They can't, because it's too big for them to get their arms around. They can't guard the roads, they can't put a line of troops around the Mojave... it's just greed that makes the heads back West even try." – huffing, she added – "Do you know why some caravans deal with the Legion now?: because of the security. If towns could get the same protection? A lot more tempting than you'd think. A bunch of people would be willing to side with the Legion to not have to worry about Fiends and Boomers and Powder Ganger attacks."
"Miss Cassidy is right. Have you ever been to Arizona, Señor Boone? 'Cause, before the Legion, it was a nasty place, so thick with raiders you couldn't trade with a town two miles up the road."
"And what does all of this have to do with helping them? You basically agree with me!"
"Look, don't get me wrong, Beret. I wouldn't want the Brotherhood, the Followers, or the Vegas' Families running the Mojave. All of them are a different kind of fuck-up." – upon hearing unhappy growls coming from Arcade and Veronica, she added – "Sorry, guys, but that's just how things are. And you know I'm dead right on this one. NCR just has some shaping up to do. Maybe Cesar kicking them in the nuts is a nice wake-up call, is all I'm saying."
"Of course. I want something in return if I win this round."
"That's no excuse to forsake them!"
"Look, Beret, if you feel you should be out there making a difference, go ahead and re-enlist. See what good does that to you."
"I'm not leaving the girlie alone with that creepy son of a…"
"PUMPKIN!"
The pain was so great she hadn't noticed just how heavy her limbs felt when her knees gave up, and only Lily's strong arms were the difference between being lovingly cradled and falling onto the hard ground.
"BLOOD! GRANDMA'S LITTLE PUMPKIN IS BLEEDING!"
So, the coppery tang on her tongue wasn't a hallucination after all…
"Shit!"
Too… too many voices… too many different opinions… too much at stake…
"She's having a seizure! Arcade, DO SOMETHING!"
To pick a side again… to play war again…
To start all over… again…
A courier wielding a dead flag.
"What are we going to do with you, Courier?"
A small prick on her left arm, a cold, wet sensation over her forehead… strong arms around her. Calloused fingers taking each hand, one with the trigger finger as hard as a rock by her right, the other with long, hard palms used to wield knives by her left.
Then, the sweet nothingness only chems can bring into your system.
To dream… about that time when Big Bro and Big Sis had taken her to Sullivan's in South Boston to eat the best hot dogs ever on her tenth birthday. A family business. A distant cousin running the local that had given her all the candy she could carry in her tiny arms.
Months later, Big Bro had been sent to Alaska. Big Sis had been crying in secret every night for a whole month.
The radio and the TV had brought more enrolling campaigns and frivolous advertisements than actual news regarding the soldiers' fate on the front lines. Buy a Mister Handy from General Atomics; buy your family a future with Vault-Tec, 'The Vault of the Future'; 'Buy War Bonds'; buy a Corvega, with full analog system, Chryslus Motors.
"Enlist. Your country needs you."
Long live America.
His milk name, he didn't remember, for he had only acknowledged being called one way after undergoing the ritual of initiation every boy on his tribe must do before becoming a hunter.
But he hadn't turned out to be an ordinary hunter, for his first prey had been a man like himself that had pertained to an enemy tribe.
So they had named him Manhunter.
Manhunter had had only two passions in life: the blood of his enemies and Quill.
She had been their chief's oldest daughter, and she had been beautiful, constantly swaying her tantalizing hips while walking, shaking them furiously around their fires, when their war drums transformed celebrations into dancing and drinking contests, flames reflecting on the pale skin of her slender body, slightly muscled, flexible and proud.
Too proud.
Her first rejection in the form of a hard slap had burned on his cheek for the next couple of days, but its psychological impact had burned endlessly inside him, infuriating him to no end, chaining his soul to an obsession he had never gotten over with.
Many women in the tribe had found him attractive, a fine male specimen with way more brawn to answer for than the average warrior. They had sought him and his favors since he turned fourteen, but he had been secretly taken by Quill's beauty since they had been children. Shadowing her every move until his body had grown taller than her shadow, eager to embrace her gentle flesh once more as they used to when they had been small, innocent, and inseparable, for they had been born the same year in the same month on the same day.
If he had once believed in fate and soulmates, Quill had been the primary source of his inspiration.
No matter that, since he had become a man, she seemed to hate him and his hunts.
Every day, he would bring the heads of their enemies to the opening of her tent, and she would turn around in disgust, spitting at his feet as blood seemed to follow him everywhere. Or so she had told him.
While not understanding her temperament, he secretly knew that he had her father's blessing to court her, so he had tried changing tactics.
Since heads seemed to displease her so much, he had attempted bringing her less gruesome trophies like weapons, symbols of his victories.
She still didn't accept them.
Imitating his fellow hunters, he attempted to capture her attentions by bringing to her animal pelts, fangs, and meat.
Those, she had accepted, but her mien had been sour, vigilant. She hadn't trusted him or his intentions.
Unable to comprehend what he was doing wrong besides demonstrating to a woman what a capable husband he could be by providing her food and protection, he sought counsel from his closest friend, Black Dusk.
His only friend in truth. The rest of the tribesmen had respected him and his leadership… but they had feared him since he had appeared that very night when he had earned his name after bringing the head of the Sun Dogs chieftain's son before the hunting fire.
"To win a woman's favor isn't the same as winning a battle, my friend." – Black Dusk had told him – "They are but fierce yet delicate creatures who wish to be adored, cherished, and seduced, not conquered."
He had adored and cherished her deeply… but hadn't the slightest idea how seduction worked. Women always had been the ones seeking him, not the other way around.
Didn't his feelings suffice? Couldn't she see how much he desired her?
"To desire is not the same as loving." – Black Dusk had said solemnly – "And believe me, my friend: women can tell the difference."
Those words had left him pensive, reflecting upon his failures and the best way to approach this obstacle. He was an inborn tactician, his blood too prideful to accept defeat yet.
So, he had resorted to observing how his fellow tribesmen approached women, learning their tactics, their mannerisms, the words they whispered to their lovers in the still of the night.
For months, he studied and practiced in solitary what he had learned until he found a common pattern he could mimic and follow, the same he would do before engaging an enemy in battle.
And so, armed with this newly discovered skill, he had approached Quill once more.
The months in silence had seemingly cooled her temper and even intrigued her, so the reception he had obtained had been substantially better than any other previous one.
His words had met a raised eyebrow, mute incredulity painted all over her face as she had crossed her arms over her chest protectively.
But she had allowed him to keep coming to her tent, asking him to talk more, for she preferred his voice over his muscles. She said his voice carried the echoes of the desert, deep and haunting.
That discovery had given him enough advantage to wrap her inside complicated webs of words until she had allowed him to kiss her.
The rest had come eventually until she had become his, the tribe shaman being the one who had officed their binding ceremony as the chief by his right had smiled seeing the strongest warrior of the tribe turning out a new son for him, who had only sired daughters.
But that happiness was short-lived when a new threat had arisen from the East, wiping the neighboring tribes from the face of the desert like a boot would do to a bunch of moribund insects.
These warriors dressed in red were nothing like Manhunter or his men had seen before. They were strong, disciplined, and didn't fear death. They killed and conquered in the name of their chieftain, an old man wrapped in a Yao Guai pelt trimmed with gold.
His name was Caesar, and this large tribe of warriors was his Legion.
Then, the call of blood had been stronger than Quill's desperate pleas to move to the West, for her new husband was a proud man who wouldn't flee in dishonor without putting up a fight.
A whole year he and his hunters had chased down their patrols, relying on guerrilla strategy to dwindle their numbers.
But they seemed to keep coming endlessly, and the tribe was growing tired and weary.
Just as Quill's rekindled hatred for his bloodlust.
That night, he had returned from a solitary hunt where he had brought down twelve men in red, the covered head of the highest-ranked member brought back to the encampment as a trophy.
Body painted in the tribe's sacred protection spells and face black; he had saluted Black Dusk upon his return. The rest of the tribe lowering their heads at his passing.
At that time, he had thought it a symbol of respect for him, but it had been fear.
It had been weakness.
"Good hunting?" – Black Dusk had asked, signaling the severed head with his dark eyes.
"Always." – he had replied arrogantly.
"The Legion march on us." – his friend had informed him, a warning seeping into his otherwise calm voice – "The chieftain says they will be here in days."
"Good." – had been, once again, his arrogant answer – "Let them come."
When he had gotten inside his tent, where his wife and a friend of hers had been sewing, he had bid the other woman leave as the severed head had been dropped at Quill's feet.
Once they had been alone, she, dutiful wife, had cleaned his face from blood and grime, but when he had grabbed her to make her his once more, he had gone back in time when she had slapped him, cursed him in the tongue of her mother, a New Mexican tribal woman who spoke Navajo.
"Speak properly!" – he had demanded, earning yet another slap. He had had to contain the murderous instinct that had come over him to strangle her. He was her husband; she owed him respect!
"You stink of blood." – she had spitted, baring teeth in disgust.
That night, she had danced around the fire with the war drums, and he had ached for her touch, refusing inebriation at the hands of their distilled pulque, knowing very well how his wife detested when he arrived drunk at their tent.
Once the nightly feast had concluded, halfway to his tent, he had seen the chief's tepee seeping smoke, a symbol of important negotiations with other tribes.
The blood had frozen in his veins.
"Wait!" – Black Dusk had warned him upon seeing his expression – "This is the way it must be."
But he had heeded no reason and had burst inside the tepee to watch, livid with incredulity, how the shaman, the chief, and the elders were kneeling before a Legion emissary, not even Caesar himself!
The agent - a Frumentarius, he had learned later – had received him uptight and smug, looking down on him despite Manhunter being a good head taller than him.
He had ordered him to render unto Caesar and kiss the seal of their Lord to show his fealty.
Manhunter had beaten his skull down to a pulp.
And then…
Coming back from the darkest depths of his memories, the present hit him hard when a subordinate called for him, asking permission to enter his tent.
For he made a clear distinction between 'his subordinate' and 'one of his men'.
For he had men no more. Only men that followed his orders. But not his, not men he could call his brethren. Not anymore.
"Ave, Primus Legatus Lanius, sir. We have news regarding two female agents of the Great Whore infiltrating our encampment by night." – the legionary informed, terse and formal, evidently intimidated just by being in his presence – "Our explorers have spotted their nest up the mountains. Your orders?"
Lanius. That was how he was named after Manhunter had died that night at the hands of those he once had trusted. A new name for the same bloodlust.
Lanius the Butcher. Lanius, Terror of the East.
Lanius the Monster.
Not bothering to turn around to address the legionary, the monster of a man the Legion had turned him into, spoke.
"Send a contubernium to deal with them." – he replied, uninterested, his voice echoing inside the golden helmet that hid the sins and weakness of his late tribe: the Hidebarks. Sins weaved in the canvas of his flesh – "If possible, capture them alive and bring them to my tent." - women were of no concern to him. Women were weak creatures that only made easy prey of weaker men… but the Great Whore was a dangerous one, someone he'll do well not to underestimate – "If not, bring me their heads instead."
"Yes, sir. Vale." – the man nodded enthusiastically, leaving him alone once more with his thoughts.
After all, thoughts were the only thing his previous life had left him.
She was floating in the water. Deep blue, endless ocean near the shores of Boston, opening its salty embrace just for her, cradling her limp form in a comfortable cold caress, sirens weaving songs for her to hear from deep below.
But a distinct song stood out above the others, soft and smooth like silk.
"Are you happy now, sniper? Does this outcome sit well with your righteous ways, demanding retribution for the crime of not joining the NCR cause? Hmmm?"
It sounded nice… despite knowing that sirens were widely known for their deceiving ways, luring seamen to perdition with the power of their voices.
"I can still obtain my retribution by smashing my fist on your smug face, ratboy."
"You two! Cut the crap for once, okay?! I'm sick of listening to your endless bitching. It's giving me a fucking headache too, urgh."
"Cass' right. We'll solve nothing fighting among us, as this demonstrates."
Was she a too daring fisherwoman? Daring to swim with deceiving sirens, silent sharks, mythical Krakens, and the Biblical Leviathan?
"Okay, let's talk then about Arcade leaving the group and what a fucking coincidence that it had happened when the royal ass here decided to join."
She didn't know sea creatures could spit and cough. Less even laugh.
"Shit, Beret, warn me before dropping such bombs, or the whiskey will not last me very much at this pace. 'Royal ass', that was fucking golden."
"Well, thank you, Miss Cassidy. Truly."
"Look, Tribal Boy… I like you, but you can sometimes be a pain in the ass. No offense."
"None taken, since I suspect there's a cocktail of whiskey and monthly hormones doing the talk."
"Jimmy, please!"
She wished those quarreling creatures would stop baring fangs to each other and joined her to play instead.
"The reasons behind my… departure has nothing to do with Zorro Salvaje. I can assure you that much, Boone. You have no idea what the Enclave did to her."
Yet another voice… a beautiful pink dolphin that didn't belong on salty water, his environment to survive the Amazonian basin rivers, too far from Boston.
"Arcade…"
"No, let me say it, Veronica. This is not about some convoluted plan involving malicious advice, Boone; this is about what my great-great-grandfather helped to build, being one of the many sponsors behind atrocities committed by Vault-Tec but paid in blood by human greed. This is about a girl who was kidnapped, tortured, and experimented on along with many other children in the hopes of making a sort of cavalry that would aid the Enclave in their re-conquering of America after the bombs fell. This level of human sickness can only match the Concentration Camps during the Second World War. And believe me, those were already bad enough. The records are blood-curdling."
She found the creature intelligent, cute and huggable to no end… but she preferred to deal with sharks and sirens who would either bite or drown her. But she already knew that. She knew what to expect.
"They WHAT?!"
Knowledge was bitter, and the dolphin's skin wasn't as soft as she had expected.
"Now that you know… maybe you'll understand why I was hesitant about sharing things about me that went beyond my life as a Follower of the Apocalypse. I… knew some of the things they did, but after talking with Henry, I see why the Enclave was so hated among, practically, the rest of the Wasteland. We were told by our elders to never disclose our origins for a reason."
If only she could swim forever until she developed gills as well…
"But… she cannot possibly blame you for that, Arcade! You aren't your… ancestors!"
But she wasn't a sea creature.
"I think, despite everything, she doesn't. She's a good girl, Veronica, but even good girls cannot repress what they feel. It's human to have fear."
So, she had to swim back to the shore… where the colorful umbrellas, towels, and beach bars were now faded, broken memories of a two-hundred-year past.
"And I think this is for the better. Not for me, but for her."
So, the blue waters turned glowing, irradiated waves of dirtiness as the landscape changed along with its flora, its fauna, and its inhabitants.
But she hadn't changed, just like the war that had brought her here.
Six opened her eyes and stared at Lily's countenance as the supermutant was the one holding her.
"Pumpkin!" - the giant grandma exclaimed, hoisting her form from her lap to give her a careful embrace, delicate as she could sometimes be.
Six returned the embrace weakly, her nostrils feeling funny until she took one hand to them and discovered traces of congealed blood.
Nasal hemorrhage… she had never experienced something like that during one of her migraines…
"Hey! She's awake!"
Once Lily put her on a couch near the entrance, Six watched her companions gathering around her, feeling like a prophetess ready to share her visions, all of them bearing more or less the same worried expression.
At least they could agree on this one.
"We're departing to the 188 upon dawn." – she announced, noticing the artificial lights were still on – "We're picking Clay from there and heading back to New Vegas."
Nobody dared question a thing.
"You tell her."
Walking side by side, two dark-skinned, tall, muscled figures silhouetted against the dawn sky. Their armored hands were occupied with long spears, their covered hips full of knives, their sweaty backs carrying bows and arrows made of wood, their feminine breasts tightly bandaged so they wouldn't interfere with their aim.
"No, it's your turn. I was the one giving her the report from our previous mission."
Naked feet carried the sand of the desert on their hard soles, bronzed faces wore white warpaint shaped after their Lady's snakes, and strong jaws carried tension as they kept arguing over duties.
"Nuh-uh. Last time she was brought bad news, she almost tore off the head of the poor unlucky bastard."
Crafted out of the same mold, both women were nearly indistinguishable. Their bodies and cropped hairstyles, identical. Their voices matching, their strength uniform, their appetites equivalent.
They shared blood, weapons, supplies, rank, and lovers. Even their deepest pains. They had shared everything since they could even remember, so they – logically – had kept doing it under the care of their birth tribe, the Twin Mothers, and now following orders as their Lady's Amazons. Bighorners' riders, coyotes' tamers.
"But at that time, the messenger was male. You know how incredibly stupid men can be. He surely did something to displease her."
"… Right."
When they neared camp - a pre-War military facility where concrete walls were tall and menacing, twisted irons emerging from the highest point like teeth out of the gums of an abyssal creature - they were brought to a stop when the doorkeeper asked for their password.
"Some call her Juno, others Bellona of the Battles, and Her Daughters hail Her on the sacred name they were taught by the Dark Mother Herself." – the twins recited solemnly, earning entrance to their Main Headquarters, the Infinite City of Darkness and Light they, the Lady's sacred Daughters, revered in the name of Ouroboros, The Serpent That Hungers Endlessly.
Neatly divided into two very distinguishable sectors separating men and women, upon entrance, the twins hailed their Sisters on the right at the Daughters' Camp and directed salacious looks on the left at the Hounds' Camp.
They were mostly the same fucking material the twin sisters had quickly tired of throughout the years since the day they were named Amazons: male Vipers, free men under their Lady's rule, spouses' material should they so choose.
That was why the two of them tended to favor male slaves.
They were always plentiful, and every now and then, more were captured to add on the novelty flavor, thus more fucking material.
Fucking material sculpted under the Bull's regime: hard to break, hard to tame, and easy to dispose of should they prove recalcitrant and troublesome over time.
Perfect lovers for strong women unafraid of their threats and utterly immune to their insults. You don't need brute strength to subdue a man.
That was a skill their Lady had taught them well.
Upon reaching the plaza, the sisters paid their respects before continuing onwards, kneeling before the big stone pedestal that once had supported a pre-War memorial for the fallen, now redesigned into a monument made of crafted junk metal into the shape of three women surrounded by snakes, all of them representing their Lady: the Mistress of the Crossroads, Trimorphe.
"War… war never changes." – She had preached to Her Daughters once – "But women do, through the roads they walk. Through the roads that shape them. Mine was an unending road of loneliness, pain, and loss until Diana gave me purpose again, reminded me who I truly was and the role that the road had prepared me to fulfill: to ascend to godhood and claim the head of the faithless to myself, the same Perseus did with Medusa. And Caesar is my gorgon to conquer."
All escaped survivors from tribes wiped or assimilated under the Bull's hooves, the Lady and Her Daughters shared the same hatred for the western conqueror that had destroyed their homes and families. One by one, their Lady had found them, given them shelter, food, and protection, and they, in exchange, were molded into war machines whose pain fueled their strength against the Red Threat, their bitterness making them wiser, cleverer, crueler.
Her Daughters moved in the night – their element. Cloaked in darkness and deceit, they were experts at infiltration into legionaries' tents, stealing supplies and ruining their armors and weaponry with acid, stealing secrets from their drugged lips, stealing seed strong enough for them to give birth to stronger warriors that would surpass their fathers. Stealing blood and breath from those they deemed undeserving of life.
Succubi, they called them in whispers, too ashamed to inform their Caesar of these nightly transgressions, allowing women to dominate and mount them like beasts, a payback from those they had once possessed without consent. For their missing mothers, sisters, and daughters, those the men in red had kidnapped, raped, and murdered.
From one of such missions were the twins returning, exchanging nervous glances as their feet took them upstairs the staggered pyramid - the old military base reshaped into one out bits and pieces of dead combat aircraft – to inform their Lady of their recent discoveries.
Their Mistress resided at the top of the pyramid, inside a den of cold darkness, sitting atop her own throne made from the machetes of her fallen enemies, Queen of her own Underworld.
Upon reaching the top of the stairs, they presented themselves before the Herbs Witch Master, the one who provided the Daughters and Hounds with herbal remedies, purgatives, salves, and poisons. She was also their Lady's ear.
"Coming back so soon?" – the older woman asked, her eyes sunken, her nimble hands bearing discolorations due to her profession – "We weren't expecting you for another three nights."
The healer had this unnerving habit of disguising questions behind apparent normal chatting. The sisters knew this and frowned in unison.
"We were ambushed." – one of them finally said – "A full contubernium. We weren't able to take any prisoners, but the Decanus was a rookie, and his men were no more than boys freshly out of training. They were sent specifically to deal with us, but they made the mistake of underestimating our strength." – the last sentence was delivered with a hint of smugness that made the witch doctor squint her mismatched eyes, one light brown, the other emerald green.
"You said you got your hands on a full group of boys, and you weren't able to take any prisoners…" – she repeated, slowly – "She isn't going to be very pleased. Do you bring their ears at least?"
The other sister nodded, untying a cord from the utility backpack and showing the healer their pickings. Nine in total.
"Very well, I'll announce your presence here to Her. Wait." – and then, she disappeared inside the cold den, leaving two very nervous women outside for a few minutes that felt like hours until she emerged from inside and signaled them to go inside.
Once the door was closed behind them, an icy gloom enveloped their now shivering bodies. Several pairs of luminous eyes opened upon their entrance, soft hissing a prelude to their Lady's words.
"Do approach, my Daughters." – a feminine, chilling-to-the-bone voice found their ears as the ghost of a hand emerged from the dark to signal them to get closer, nails sharp as claws – "Scylla and Charybdis… my Witches whisper your names in funeral songs and visions of blood. They say tonight you killed sons, not fathers."
"My Lady!" – the twins exclaimed, kneeling in front of the woman they saw as a deity, arms crossed over their chests in penance and respect, Scylla being the one who kept talking – "We did. That, we did with great anguish in our hearts." – and then, Charybdis offered the cord with their offerings, ears for making the recognition easier for many mothers in search of their kidnapped sons. A measly consolation for years in the dark, an end to a tortuous search.
Those, every Daughter knew they couldn't bed, drug, or kill during their nightly infiltrations. Under the age of twenty-one, legionaries were sons, maybe lost children for aging mothers withering in hopeless wait.
If they captured them, they were brought onto re-insertion programs, kept tightly monitored, and asked women to recognize those boys if they were theirs. It was infrequent that a son was found, but each time had been an experience both beautiful and frightening for both parts, as Caesar's teachings were hard to erase from teenagers who one minute would wail in grief and denial… and become violent the next. Then, the mothers were too impatient and too blinded by their love to believe that their once sweet boys were very capable of strangling them in their sleep in the name of their Lord and honor. It had happened before, and the boys in question had killed themselves shortly after.
But there were others who had submitted to their Lady, joining the Hounds' ranks, honoring their mothers and sisters to their last breath.
Even in desperate times, there was still room for hope.
Taking the offering from Charybdis' hands, the self-proclaimed Goddess swept her clawed thumbs over the ears.
"Very well." – she acquiesced – "They will be passed onto the mothers, see if one of these is theirs." – after that, her right hand caressed something curled on her lap, her own brand of children. The scaly tail dangling by one of her throne's armrests rattled happily – "Now, onto more pressing matters: I have been informed that this group was expecting you, two of my best infiltrating agents. Is that true?"
Scylla and Charybdis exchanged a nervous glance, shadowy forms sliding and hissing at their feet.
"Apparently, yes." – Scylla replied – "They fought with fear in their eyes, unwilling to submit and unwilling to flee despite the many opportunities we gave them." – she paused and added in a lower voice – "We suspect that the punishment they would have faced if they returned empty-handed to their camp would have been worse than death."
The Goddess pinched her chin pensively. Her sharp features behind her unique war paint stern. Red, blue, and violet long dreadlocks covering her soft breasts, ribs protruding from emaciated, deadly pale skin. Eyes burning as cold fire as she spoke again.
"So, the Butcher is getting impatient." – she mused, bright yellow and lavender lips smiling with purple-tinted teeth – "That is good despite that he's proving less of a challenge than the Malpais would surely have been. Oh, well…" – shrugging, she added – "I am sending you two to Zion as it seems the Butcher's men have already a detailed description of your aspect and schedules. Your new mission will be to observe the moves the Burned Man plays there. Do not confront him or his men, just shadow him, nothing more." – she inhaled – "Also, try to negotiate an alliance with The Sorrows. Promise them whatever you deem best as long as they support us in the coming battle with the Legion. Their women have proven to be as strong and resilient as their men." – after that, she waved her hand, the bundle over her lap rearing its reptilian head to hiss at them – "Go, enjoy a few days of stay. Rest, wash the grime from your bodies, resupply yourselves and depart with my blessing."
Once the twins closed the door after themselves, the mortal Goddess retook the ear cord and stared at it reflectively.
She could feel it, the restlessness in her children, the very creatures that had always welcomed her in her direst hour when the desert had almost driven her to the brink of madness. Their dual nature – hot and cold-blooded – a product of lethal splicing, creatures of the night just like her.
They smell the battle in the air, the blood of nineteen tribes the Butcher had stomped over in the name of a madman. The last five years had been Hell on Earth repelling his ambushes while extracting slaves from his camps to swell the Hounds' and Daughters' numbers.
The man was a beast. Not a single woman brought to his tent remained alive, gruesomely disfigured after days of abuse and discarded like garbage once they died.
But nothing could compare to the atrocities the Malpais Legatus had brought upon the tribes in Arizona and Utah many years before.
She would know. She had witnessed it.
And, because of it, this Butcher didn't elicit the same reaction the others had awakened in her before. That very feeling that had been her sole companion throughout the years: the need for retribution.
The Malpais Legatus 'Scourge of Arizona', Praefectus Praetor Cornelius 'The Impaler', and Praefectus Frumentario Callidus Anguis 'Snaketongue'.
And Edward Sallow, self-proclaimed Caesar, Imperator of a Legion he had built out of the blood and tears of now eighty-six tribes.
He will pay. Oh, yes, he will pay, along with his trusted men, when she marches upon the embers of his dying Empire, bringing the night with her, exacting revenge for what they took from her.
And she will smile a triumphant smile when she would reveal herself to him, telling him exactly why as her hand would claw its way inside his ribcage, extracting his black heart for him to see.
He will know the unbridled fury of the woman now known as… Hecate.
The Eastern entrance to the Freeside saluted them at the brink of twilight the second day they had left Novac behind.
A tired air hung around the group as if defeat was their inescapable fate once those doors opened for them.
The only one whose face remained calm despite the general low spirits was the child they had picked up at the 188 Trading Post.
"I thought I'd be seeing you again, Courier Six." – the nine-year-old had announced solemnly when she had approached him. Curiously, his belongings had been carefully packaged as if he was moving. She had asked him this, and his response had flabbergasted her – "Oh, I knew about your arrival and the offer you carry with you for me. I also know that the place you intend to bring me to has lots of thoughts on it, reminiscences of its owner, who isn't dead but isn't completely alive. A man who has traveled through time, just like you."
She hadn't noticed the tears going down her cheeks until one of them had landed on her collarbone.
Upon seeing this, Clay had taken her hand between his'.
"It wasn't my intention to make you cry." – he had told her soothingly. A child consoling another child – "Just the same, it isn't your intention to flinch every time you look at me. For I remind you of those you were forced to shoot when you were abducted by the men with the Stars and Stripes."
Clay was of Chinese ancestry, the purest breed Six had ever seen in all these years awake in a world that wasn't hers. Chinese descendants were a rare sight in the American Wasteland.
The military had made sure those were the first being massacred during the Purge along with the Russians. Making even the American child soldiers participate in it.
It was either that or being branded as a traitor Communist.
"I don't need to take my medicine off to see how much this has weighed upon your soul all these years. There's loss in your eyes." – he had continued, his smaller hands making circular moves on hers, calming the screams she sometimes thought she could hear. Screams of her victims, screams of her dead companions, screams of her men, screams of Mandy when they had separated them. Screams from herself when they had shown them in the Vault the footage of the bombs falling – "And I don't need to make a forecast to know that there's healing and light waiting for you with those you love. Just the same they can heal by your side… if you let them in, that is. Trust is a thing that works both ways, never only one."
She had munched on those words over and over again while their steps were taking them closer to New Vegas.
Closer to the Old Mormon Fort to leave Arcade behind.
Was she, as Zorro had implied before, making a mistake?
Grinding teeth the instant the rusty gates opened for them, Six braved the first step. And the rest followed her.
But the moment they had gotten inside, an unusual silence had received them.
The children who usually played in front of Mick & Ralph's were nowhere to be seen, and the aforesaid establishment was closed. No sight of the drug dealer Dixon selling his junk in a corner or any of his unlucky 'clients'.
Even the ghoul beggar, who usually sold tips at the door of the destroyed building he used as a house, was absent.
"Awfully quiet, isn't it?" – Cass commented, her eyes sweeping empty streets nervously, her hands too ready to grab her rifle.
Not a single breeze but dying rays of the scorching sun seemed to illuminate the rundown buildings, intervals of red and violet playing from the sky over dirty surfaces, giving a false illusion of fantasy to the deserted environment.
Gulping down a bad feeling like the providential pill, Six pushed onwards, wishing for the child crier of Mick & Ralph's to be at the corner to welcome them or the two boys who pursued rats for food. Or even that angry bearded ghoul who was too self-conscious of his lazy eye for his own good.
However, she started to sweat cold as they reached The King's School of Impersonation and not even the gang bouncers were outside.
"I don't like this." – Boone said, reaching for his rifle – "Either some weird shit is going on, or this is a trap." – making a gesture with his right hand, he added – "Group formation. Now."
Six sent a discreet look to Zorro, who was equally tense as his electric eyes searched for possible traps or mines around the usual Freeside litter.
They reached the next corner near the Old Mormon Fort.
They said that time is supposed to heal you… two hundred and five years was what he got.
And the dreams just kept happening, reminiscences of an old life he hadn't let go of.
He simply couldn't. His contract bound to chase every moment he was awake.
She had arrived at the seedy bar that bastard of Ahzrukhal had chained him to for the last three decades. She had tried to talk with him, but he had none of it. She then had asked the corrupted bartender to cough up his contract for a handful of caps, and… that had been the last mistake Ahzrukhal had made.
Under the girl's employment, things were shining promising, her dad a moral compass for her to become the best version of herself.
But then, her dad had died, and she had started walking that dark path of going under he had known so well. Ahzrukhal had been corrupted from the start, but he had had other employers… good people turning out bad.
And the girl had turned out to be the worst nightmare the Capitol Wasteland could have asked for.
But her lover was even worse.
One of those secluded factions that still held some degree of technological advancements had given him birth. Educated enough to put up a false semblance of civility and impeccable good manners, that man was evil incarnate.
And the girl had been attracted to his embrace like a moth to the flame, willing to burn in hell as long as he would hold her and never let go.
And then, the other girl.
That one reminded him of his early days with the blonde teenager who had been all smiles and sunshine. Too innocent, too easily manipulated.
The evil bastard had turned her into a hollow case, attempting to force out of her that 'special training' her Vault records had promised. To awaken the dormant killer in her.
He had done it too well. The unexpected outcome of having an agent that could turn out a Wild Card any time soon had, finally, backfired him.
The Platinum Chip issue had been one of that man's greatest plans to gain even more leverage with the Republicans. His ambition knew no bounds.
But then, this small girl had decided to ignore her orders and had gone rogue.
The evil bastard wanted her alive.
But he wasn't going to give him that satisfaction.
True that his orders said that he ought to capture her… but he couldn't bring himself to sell that poor soul, a fellow countrywoman, back again to the hands of her cruel master.
He would free her… or she would free him.
And nothing else mattered anymore right now.
Up turning the Fort's corner, Six suddenly felt that her entire world had gone to a stop, pretty much when her brain was under the V.A.T.S. system's influence.
She saw him before the others. Even before Rex could smell him.
Crouched behind the Fort's wall, he had been waiting for her. He had even bothered to announce his presence by wiping any obstacle - human or not - from the streets.
Armed with a menacing grenade launcher, he stepped out of his hidden spot, walking calmly with the gun at his hip towards her, his milky gaze tired but deadly focused.
He had been the best of his promotion, a soldier under Constantine Chase's direct command in Alaska. One of the few able to beat the Virtual Simulator to the very last consequences.
And she knew all of this because he had told her once.
He was a killing machine, a soldier whose unique condition allowed him to ignore pain, sleep, fatigue, hunger, and thirst.
And he had been sent to terminate her.
She inhaled, hearing Zorro's voice in the background shouting something her brain didn't process.
She recalled his name. And she breathed it, ready to pay the ferryman her fee to transport her down the Styx.
"Charon."
And then, everything exploded around her.
LATIN:
(1) - "Even in Arcadia was I, too." (Arcadia was used in Peloponnese to symbolize Utopia).
(2) - "Goodbye, madam."
SPANISH:
(A) - "Thank you, my pretty little girl."
(B) - "Thank you very much."
A/N: [Insert here your Boss Battle Music of choice]
Looongest chapter ever. Finally, I've gotten our group where I wanted them. Cliffhanger?: yep. Some good ol' action in the next chapter?: definitely.
This has been a dramatic chapter above everything else. Van Buren Content knocking on our door for real, guys :D
And, for those curious as to why I have depicted Lanius so... human, go to YouTube and search "Lanius". There's an amazing short film about him that has inspired his part in this chapter (some things, I've written them practically to the letter xD).
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: didn't know what to make out of your comment, honestly. If there was something that offended you, I apologize. Bear in mind that I tend to narrate under the characters' impressions and ways of thinking, not necessarily sharing/partaking in what they think/do.
Thanks for the new Follow, hope you're enjoying the ride and blah, blah, blah. I've already written too much, so is up time to bid all of you Vale... until the next update ;)
