"Number Nine"


Ch. 17: Loco.


Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains sexual references that may not agree with everybody, strong racial hatred, strong ideology hatred, the use of radioactivity as a weapon, violence, the use of Politics as a war weapon, mentions of genocide, and war-related PTSD.

Not trying to indoctrinate/incite hatred between ethnic groups, ideologies, and/or Governments. This story is a tough cookie to eat, yes, but it is FICTION. Read it for what it is and nothing more.


"Lock down the generator on
Man screw down use the system
Use the main plan
Full power up to
The point man

Don't fuck with me."

- Coal Chamber, "Loco"


Ears beeping, heart thrumming wildly in her throat, Six barely registered the dust and rubble raining over her head as her small fists clung for dear life onto the medic overalls pertaining to the person who had tackled her small form out the trajectory of the grenade.

She was trembling. Arcade was trembling. One of his arms was around her, attempting to nestle her smaller form protectively onto his larger one.

The other wielded his plasma pistol in front of him as the cloud of dust dissipated, and Charon's gigantic form emerged from it.

The corroded asphalt around the impact area signaled the ammunition of his grenade launcher to be the most lethal possible: 40mm plasma-based.

Arcade shot. The hole he embedded onto the metal armor did nothing to slow the giant necrotic.

Arcade shot again, his steps taking his and Six's form backward. He hit target again.

The stench of charred flesh was pungent, and the small wave of smoke coming from the hole was real… but the nightmarish ghoul kept walking as if it was nothing, loaded his gun, and shot again, forcing Arcade to push his' and Six's forms aside again.

Rolling onto searing asphalt, the ground trembled beneath them, and a wave of heat washed over them, rendering trails of small blisters on the exposed parts of their skin when a booming battle cry cut through the air as Lily's bulking form charged against the armored ghoul, who was almost as tall as her.

The deafening clash of metal against metal met amidst a rain of luminous sparks, and Six braced herself when the supermutant made a sound of incredulity before being violently thrown against a nearby wall from one of the rundown buildings that quickly collapsed over her.

Six bit the inner walls of her mouth, preventing herself from screaming but unable to contain the stream of salty tears that came in response.

She recalled how Laura used to boast about her bodyguard's uncanny ability to hunt mutants out in the Wastes. Together, they had wiped out entire encampments.

"GIRLIE!"

Six had never heard Boone's voice convey so much anguish in a single word.

Two shots to the head later, a small trail of blood, corroded tissue already knitting itself under battered rotting skin.

The giant turned around, loaded a second time, and fired in the voice's general direction.

BOOM.

The Geiger Counter started detecting the first radiation waves, the temperature rising several degrees. Invisible ripples undulating in the violet air ascending from the ground to blinding skies, giving Six a faux sensation of blurry vision.

And the silence… the earth trembling beneath Arcade and her. Sweaty palms seeking each other, drenched foreheads crevicing, thinking full-speed for a desperate plan to form.

"¡Chavo! ¡CHAVO!" – she heard Raul's heartbreaking plea in the distance, his voice shaking the same his skeletal arms did around the fallen form of his savior, who had interposed his body between the old necrotic and the plasma explosion. The helmet of his Riot Gear discarded aside along his backpack, white nuclear waves of hair dirtied with rubble and blood – "Dios mío… ¡Oh, Dios, DIOS!" – the ghoul wailed – "¡Despierta, chavo, DESPIERTA!" (1)

Six had to bite her lip with such force to impede screaming that she drew blood.

Arcade's trembling hands dragged her back on her two feet, his otherwise gentle hands now clawing at her flesh beneath military fatigues, pushing her to the shadows between buildings, seeking cover.

Six embraced Arcade's form the same the medic's arms engulfed hers. An indeterminate time passed with more gunfire and explosions coming from everywhere until both saw the gigantic silhouette casting a long shadow near them, and Arcade used his body to shield her from another blast that threw a pile of bricks over them.

"ARCADE!" – she cried when she felt his weight crashing over hers, his eyes closed mere inches over hers, a trail of blood sliding from the back of his head, pooling over one of his spectacles' lenses.


Upon reaching the Freeside, Vulpes hadn't been sure what to expect.

One of those teary, incredibly awkward, and unnecessary farewells that would likely have met resistance coming from some of the group members – Becky most prominently – and a bit of bitching from the sniper? Sure.

Or maybe a last-minute change of heart with Sullivan and the doctor making up and hugging and all that sappy stuff that, to the Master Frumentarius, was equally as awkward and unnecessary as the former option.

Maybe the two combined? Perhaps. After all, these people were crazy, so he wasn't ruling out possible outcomes. He had earphones and music to evade himself until they reached the Lucky 38, and Franz Liszt now was an infinitely more desirable option rather than dealing with drama that had nothing to do with him. Doctor or not, Vulpes was stuck with Sullivan and her motley crew until he figured out how to… let's say, put her on the right track.

Maybe, once the doctor issue would be over - and providing it ended up as bad as he had anticipated it would - she would feel a bit distraught. And maybe she could use a bit of distraction.

He could work out something. She liked games. Maybe inviting her over to that Recreational establishment on the Freeside would be a good idea, nudging her gently to lose the sniper and the rest so they wouldn't 'bother her with their disagreements'.

Bringing the dog along would also be a good idea, using it as an excuse for protection so they wouldn't be followed. Plus, the animal didn't talk, but it could add to the 'comforting act' that he was already planning to put very subtly on her. If he managed to get her where he wanted, she would end up spilling the beans about everything, from her deepest insecurities to that mysterious man from the Capitol that seemed to terrify her so much.

He would play his cards carefully: first, the unassuming friend move; then, the psychoanalyst play… and, finally, the knight in shining armor coming to the rescue, offering her a better alternative than playing errand girl for – most likely – a two-hundred-year-old ghoul behind a computer screen seeking nothing but perpetuate Old-World vices through gambling and whoring, having learned nothing from how the world had gone to hell perpetuating the society of Capitalism.

From that point on, maybe he could sell his Lord's cause as the only viable alternative, feeding her on the idea of the Synthesis coming out of the Legion fusing with the NCR.

And there's no better seller than the one who believes in the product he sells.

For Vulpes believed in what he was going to confide to her. His Lord's vision.

He felt confident in his abilities and trusted Sullivan to be intelligent enough to reason all of this. She'll see what he saw. He was sure of that.

And then, maybe they could…

"Awfully quiet, isn't it?"

His bubble had burst violently when he acknowledged the state in which the streets were.

Not a soul, not a sound… and the light, strange and chameleonic, an ideal setting for something nasty about to happen.

Freeside, no matter the hour, was NEVER this quiet, even at late night. Too many people resided here. It was virtually impossible to have it this deserted by dusk, where The Atomic Wrangler usually bustled with an endless chain of clients of all varieties.

Vulpes had spied several pairs of eyes in-between closed blinds and the cover the rundown buildings offered for illicit activities.

They had been observed, and everybody had been locked inside their homes.

They had feared something.

And that very something he had learned very soon when, ex umbra in solem, indeed, a twisted, rotten version of Lanius had stepped out armed with forbidden technology, bearing allegiance to no gods, tainted by the flames of the Apocalypse. No Lord to sustain his own lie anymore, no Master to hold his leash any longer.

No fealty to contain his madness.

This Lanius of the Old World had shot his challenge, leaving corroding radiation behind.

Vulpes had tackled the first immediate body he had had near; the hit had been merciless.

In the end, the Butcher had finally come to collect his rat's hide.

"¡CHAVO!"

Grappling onto the hands those gods he didn't believe in offered him, he forced his consciousness to return back to the surface.

And he felt like vomiting.

Sight unfocused, a coppery tang on his mouth, and the worst headache he had had in ages, Vulpes grasped Raul's bony shoulders, breathing for dear life.

"Rifle…" – he demanded as the ghoul forced his near-limp form to sit. And he demanded it in Spanish.

Raul didn't waste any time putting the gun between his arms, both relying on the other for support as they aimed for the towering giant paces ahead, Vulpes with Paciencia, Raul with his twin revolvers.

"Aguanta vara, chavo." – the ghoul said – "A la de tres. Una… dos…" (2)

"¡TRES!" – they exclaimed in unison, shooting the menace in the arms, aiming to cripple his marksmanship.

Blood poured from the holes their shots created on monstrous biceps, but the redhead menace merely loaded again and aimed at them.

"Hijo de la chingada…" (3) – Raul breathed before Vulpes rounded his waist with one arm and rolled their combined weights aside. The impact radius sent a wave of heat that made parts of their skin boil.

And then, the Fox howled; the only warcry his dead tribe had taught to all of their pups.

Warriors. Survivors.

And his call was answered.


Gabban wasn't having a good day. At all.

Besides the permanent ban on The Strip over most of their agents, forcing them to wait outside for orders to arrive, living in the Freeside wasn't any picnic these days.

Apparently, the NCR had much to answer for, for they had been the ones allowing that monster freedom of movement throughout New Vegas.

The first time he had seen the individual had been getting out the big door like he owned the place, dressed like a merc and being a ghoul commanding attention for someone getting out of The Strip for the first time, his type very unlikely to be allowed inside a den of vice where you gotta be a soldier protected by the Republic's treaty, a friend of The King or a very wealthy motherfucker.

And this monster of a ghoul was none of the above.

The Frumentarii's web of spies had no records on him. Nobody had seen him on the Westside or the Freeside prior to his entrance into The Strip.

So, forcefully, he had to have used the Monorail to get inside.

The very instant he had appeared by the big door a few days ago, the streets had been, gradually, losing transient activity.

First, the pickpockets, robbers, and all manner of petty criminals had been completely erased from every dark corner of Fremont Street.

Then, as if he were a sort of bearer of a deathly plague, he had extended his influence to the rest of Freeside.

Gabban had sent one of his agents to shadow his movements. They had found him the next day hanging upside down by the ankles from a lamppost, next to Dixon's – the local drug dealer - dead body.

Knowing that attacking him in retaliation would do no good, Gabban instead had sought the source of information that ghoul vagabond, Rotface, provided for a small fee.

"Can't say I know much about the guy." – the beggar had said after being paid a hefty sum for loosing up his rotten lips – "He came over the other day, asked a few questions he paid handsomely about the local layout and the rumors concerning Courier Six." – shrugging, he had added – "I wouldn't mess with him if I were you. He's polite enough, but he also got that look. You know? The kind you find in fellas that have nothing left to lose. Those are the ones you should watch yourself around."

Gabban had witnessed this to be true the next coming days when a large group of Kings had been found dead near the old Cerulean Robotics edifice. And the NCR – those the Locals called 'squatters' – was a no-show.

Emboldened by the predictable absence of the rest of the Kings, the only semblance of law around these parts, minor gangs had started to rear their heads to be promptly cut before they started blooming.

Then the beggars. Then the homeless people around the bonfires by night.

Stores started to close earlier than usual, mothers wouldn't allow their children to set foot outside their homes, and, soon, Freeside had found itself submerged in a state of alarm in less than a week.

And all of it owed to the work and grace of one single man.

It was frightening, even for them, who were Legion.

And now, this: the very instant that monster had detected the presence of the Courier's group entering through the Eastern Gate, hell had unleashed.

And Vulpes was among those people.

After watching in horror how the towering ghoul had bested the supermutant that accompanied the Courier with little effort, Gabban had known with pristine clarity that none of them would survive this fight.

His training as a Second-In-Command prevented him from putting his men's lives at unnecessary risk, but the blood in his veins had frozen the very instant his brother, a solitary fox by nature, had howled in the way of their people.

A desperate call for help.

So, contravening training and common sense, Gabban's voice had been dead steady when he had sent Cassius to ensure the Courier's safety while he had taken Ignatius, Olivian, and Titus to secure Vulpes.

Then, the moment they saw the Master Frumentarius rolling aside with the other ghoul in his arms, they waited until the pair sought cover behind a wall to counter the monster's plasma grenades with gunfire and seized the opportunity by immobilizing them, dragging the stinky kicking ghoul and the snarling young man to a safer spot upstairs. Amidst the struggle, Gabban received a head-spinning punch on his jaw that turned the world around him into a blur. And he and Olivian were the strongest out of the four of them.

"Shit, Fox!" – he hissed in the lowest voice he could manage, briefly tempted to return the favor if that would make his brother more collaborative – "Would you stop that?!"

Vulpes had cast a confused, then flabbergasted, then downright furious look at him.

"What do you think you lot are doing here?!" – the Praefectus Frumentario hissed, taking in the familiar faces of his agents. All young men under his orders that had once belonged either to La Jauría or to Los Nuevos Nahuas.

For better or worse, they all were family there.

"Long story." – Gabban replied, rubbing the sore spot where he knew he would sport a dark bump in a matter of minutes – "We need to get you out of here before that thing makes a meatloaf out of you."

"¿Amigos tuyos, chavo?" (4) – the now calm stinky ghoul inquired in a Mexican accent, earning a scandalized look from each one of the present Frumentarii there.

Did that necrotic have just called their boss… 'lad'?

"Sí, Raúl." – Vulpes replied to the ghoul, his breath coming in heavy panting, the blood pouring from the top of his head in-between his eyes onto his long nose, dripping reddish droplets from the point as he spoke – "Amigos… amigos impertinentes." (5) – he hissed venomously, looking again to Gabban, who couldn't believe his ears. It had been so long since he heard Vulpes speaking Spanish outside their reduced circle… - "Isn't that right? For, if my memory serves me well, last time I checked, you were not the one giving me orders, brother." – Vulpes snarled with that self-sufficient flair Gabban disliked so much, his prideful nature quickly overcoming his earlier distressed call for help – "Besides, I am not getting out of here without Sullivan."

Gabban blinked.

"Who?" – he asked, watching with utter impotence how his pigheaded brother shoved Olivian aside, checked his rifle and got up, tripped as if he were drunk until he found a spot to rest the barrel of his gun to gain steadiness, targeted and shot the unstoppable killing machine two stories below on the streets.

The answer he received was yet another plasma grenade that charred one of the metallic shoulder pads from his armor and formed a gap on the floor. Ignatius being the one who had pushed him aside before the radioactive explosion turned the Fox into a puddle of green goo, receiving a charred jacket and two arms full of blisters as repayment.

But Vulpes - still fixated on his fight - got up again, intent on repeating the move.

"Stop that!" – Gabban exclaimed, tackling him to the ground where the two of them wrestled, nearly rolling into the floor hole – "STOP!" – he bellowed, hands balled into each other's shirt fronts. Despite having a concussion, Vulpes was still tough as nails to subdue – "Look at you! You're uncoordinated! Can't even stand on your two feet, less shooting straight!"

"The Courier, you idiot!" – the other barked, making the younger man flinch. His brother rarely lost his composure this bad in front of others, less he threw around insults so carelessly – "That animal is here for her!"

"ARCADE!"

Upon hearing her voice, the Courier's voice, the old ghoul stomped by the window, an unpinned frag grenade in his hand while Vulpes broke free from Gabban's grip, aimed, and shot again.

While he didn't hit target, his distraction maneuver served the Mexican ghoul well when his grenade fell at the killing machine's feet and exploded.

But, after the dust and rubble cleared out, the monster was still on his two feet in one piece… and gifted them with yet another plasma shot that vaporized the piece of wall between them.

"RETREAT!" – Vulpes yelled, grabbing the Mexican ghoul as if he were a potato sack over his shoulder while jumping into the hole on the ground as Gabban and the rest sought protection on the stairwell connecting floors, bracing themselves for a second immediate explosion that knocked down the back wall, making part of the already rundown building collapse around them.


With only one eye sane after that second explosion had sent his body up the air to land painfully onto unyielding asphalt, Boone's perception felt a bit distorted. Then, he got his gun, like Johnny had done that sunny afternoon, and immediately crouched behind a fallen piece of concrete that had pertained to the edifice where the grenade of that damnable monster had landed.

He was surrounded by dust, rubble, and… what he grimly detected as body parts that had belonged to very different people.

But none he could identify, thank God.

When his Battalion hit Bitter Springs, there had been so many bodies – both belonging to Khans as well as his comrades – that he had felt sick.

He recalled the orders, how Gilles had radioed that command nobody had dared to question.

Blood had painted the earth before he had the chance to recharge the round magazine of his rifle. Johnny had been by his left. Manny had been at Camp Golf, so he hadn't witnessed the carnage.

Months later, despite how much Manny had attempted for him to talk with him, Boone had been having none of it.

Children, women, elders… Manny's people reduced to piles of inert flesh.

And then, the Khans who had been armed had started returning gunfire.

Johnny's head had exploded next to Boone. He had felt the sticky goo splashing his face for the next year, by night, when darkness would engulf his sins, washing them away in alcohol.

Then, after the worst ten minutes of everybody else's life, Dhatri had issued the order to stop the fire.

But the damage had been done already.

After that, he had started drinking.

What he wouldn't give for a beer now…

Focus. – he scolded himself – You need to wear this bastard down and find the girlie.

For he wasn't so sure he could kill that thing. Not after watching how two bullets had gone right through his rotted head, and he hadn't even flinched.

Being a ghoul, Boone could safely say he wasn't human, but the incredible resilience he had witnessed from the other was, in a word, monstrous.

Nobody survived a shot to the head aimed by a 1st Recon. Not even the girlie.

They were facing something far more dangerous than a mere agent sent from the further East of Old America to deal with the girlie. This, Boone had never seen in all his years of service.

Now he understood many things. Way too many things. There was a much bigger threat hiding behind the smoke curtain Legion banners were providing without even being aware of it. A dragon roaring its challenge from the other side of the desert, a more vicious Wasteland awaiting ahead before the Republic's expansion campaign hit its inevitable end, just as the tumbleweed had said.

The girlie had escaped from Hell, and its gatekeeper was here to retrieve her.

Boone wasn't going to allow it. Even at the cost of his own life.

He wasn't allowing another Sullivan to die under his watch.

So, he aimed again at the head and pulled the trigger.

Dead, milky blue eyes were the last thing he saw through the lens of his rifle before another explosion landed by his left, and a wave of corroding radiation washed over him.


Six watched the nearby structure on the other side of the street collapse from her position, fear grappling every inch of her body like an iron claw.

She could barely move, trapped between Arcade's weight and the burning asphalt under them. Her left arm was insensitive due to pressure, while her right hand strived to find her gun holster by her hip.

She heard distant gunfire - two rifles – meanwhile, a stream of angry cussing echoed throughout the boulevard.

"I'M GONNA KNOCK YOU OFF YOUR FUCKING AXLES, YOU UGLY SON OF A BITCH!"

Cass.

Then, violent barking.

Rex.

Another load, another firing.

BOOM.

The air was so thick with radiated heat and the acrid smoke of corroded asphalt that Six felt increasingly dizzy, her stomach protesting in retaliation.

Her fingers found the grip of her gun in time to point it at the hand that attempted to pull her weight from under Arcade's body.

She was quickly disarmed with what she felt was an instinctive maneuver.

"Courier Six?" – an unfamiliar, very human voice asked in whispers – "Ave, Frumentarius Cassius at your service."

She grabbed onto Arcade's unconscious form, meeting the visage of her might-be savior: a Hispanic young man that, despite being crouched, she could tell he was as tall as Zorro and triple his width.

Odd, since Hispanic people were usually small. Raul being a good example of it.

"Who sent you?" – she whispered back, one eye watching out for Charon's impending return.

"Gabban, Vulpes Inculta's Second-In-Command." – the young man answered patiently despite knowing they didn't have much time – "Allow me to get you out of there so we can reunite with the rest."

"I'm not leaving my friend here." – she replied defiantly, holding Arcade with even more force – "Help me get him out, and I will come with you."

Lady Luck was on her side as this particular legionary, despite his impressive brawn, didn't seem too keen on confrontations. For he did as he was told, carrying Arcade's weight effortlessly on one shoulder, guiding her in between buildings, zigzagging smoothly and silently to the adjacent street, where giant boulders of concrete rubble piling against the city garbage walls offered more visual covering. At least for now.

"My gun, if you please." – Six asked the legionary, who, surprising her yet again, did as asked without further questioning, extending her 10mm to her open palm. No sexist or patronizing comments, no nasty stares, no nothing.

"We need to find the nearest manhole." – the Frumentarius informed her, his voice still low, his eyes vigilant – "My orders are to take you to our hideout on the sewers and, from there, ideate a strategy either to counteract the enemy's attack or to find a way out of the city."

She let out a shaky, miserable laugh.

"You cannot stop him." – she muttered grimly, flexing the still numb fingers of her left hand – "You cannot kill him."

More gunfire. This time coming dangerously close to their location. A few explosions from 40mm plasma and ordinary frag grenades demolished parts of inhabited edifices, drawing screams from their interiors.

A rusty carcass of a car blew off at the other end of the street, unleashing a chain reaction from the other vehicles neatly set as barricades near Ground Zero; two beepings coming from two very different Pip-Boys met irradiated air. Six muted her device, but the other beeping grew closer and closer.

She futilely prayed that the other device was Zorro's… but the moment an impossibly tall, muscled silhouette emerged amidst flames and smoke, the grenade launcher still intact by his hip as the device attached to his left wrist kept beeping, she knew her luck had finally run out when her eyes met the hollow, impassive milky gaze of the Ferryman.

Taking out the safe mechanism of her 10mm, she aimed. The Frumentarius by her side left his burden resting against a concrete boulder, unholstering a six-shooter.

The Gates of Hell awaited her, but she wouldn't cross the threshold without a fight.


Raul coughed, sneezed, and spat a great deal of dust that had mixed with what was left of his taste buds quite disgustingly.

"Pendejo…" – he cursed in Spanish, his blood boiling with each word leaving his rotted lips as his voice raised in volume, getting angrier and angrier – "Pinche perro." – he snarled, his mother would turn in her own grave if the poor woman could hear him now, most likely she would have slapped his filthy mouth with one of her chanclas (6)"¡Chinga tu madre!" – he yelled, unable to contain his fury as he emerged from the pile of debris that had buried him minutes ago – "¡ME CAGASTE, DESGRACIADO, ME CAGASTE PERO BIEN!" (7) – he punctuated with a thin fist hitting rubble around.

A pained moan by his right cut short his tirade while a gloved hand reached for him.

"Viejo…" – the voice of the chavo emerged under piles and piles of bricks the same his hand did – "Deja de decir palabras malsonantes y ayúdame a salir de aquí…" (8)

It took a ridiculous amount of time and effort to get half the boy's lanky body out - enough to allow him to deal with the rest by hand anyway - primarily due to the both of them being sore and unbelievably bruised from their little adventure jumping a floor down.

"Ay… ay… ay…" – Raul complained, searching for his vaquero hat as the laughable tuft of hair left on his head was undignified for a man his age – "Too old for this, chavo, too damn old…"

"Old, yes." – the boy confirmed, huffing like a brahmin, picking bricks above his buried legs achingly slow – "Mouth as filthy as a sewer, most definitely." – at that, Raul felt like blushing, his temper always getting the worst of him when it raged like an inferno – "But still tenacious and unyielding, I'd say."

The ghoul didn't know why, but that almost brought tears to his old eyes. Almost.

A weak howling gave them some pause.

"FOX!" – the voice of the other lad, the one the chavo had called 'brother', emerged distant, cushioned behind rubble – "Are you still alive?!"

"Yes!" – the boy shouted back – "Are all of you still alive as well?!"

What an odd family, Raul thought. Weirdest way to express concern over each other's wellbeing ever.

"Yeah!" – came the response, this time closer – "Hold on there, we're coming!" - a few seconds passed, and then a path was cleared from the other side, several pairs of hands taking out debris, dust, and bricks until they reached them – "What the fuck, man?!" – the blonde young man exclaimed upon seeing his brother's half-buried form, attempting to pull him out without success – "Shit! You're stuck!"

"Would everybody just stop yelling obscenities the likes of a P…" – Raul noticed the chavo hesitated minimally before resuming talk as if nothing had happened – "… the likes of a pimp announcing the cheapest rate, and help digging me out of here?"

As soon as those words had abandoned his lips, his brother and the other three young men started doing so, pulling him out by his arms.

Once they managed to get him out and Raul had found his hat, the necrotic noticed how vastly different they all were, statures, races, build and all… but every single one of them was muscular under those Vegas suits they wore.

Tribals, dressed as gamblers roaming around Freeside while a dangerous armed motherfucker had the place under his boot?

Were they a gang or what? After all, when Boss had found the chavo at The Strip, he had been dressed as a gambler as well…

"I cannot walk." – chavo announced calmly once everybody had gathered their breaths – "One of you is going to have to carry me on piggyback and follow the instructions I will give him." – then, his blue eyes gazed over the group to stop on his brother, the bulkiest out of the four of them.

The aforesaid gave him a long-suffering groan.

"Goddamnit, Fox!"


Rose of Sharon Cassidy found, to her much dismay, that her whiskey hip flask was empty.

Even this small mercy was denied to her, huddled behind a half-knocked-down wall and with her right arm, hip, and leg burning after that plasma explosion had gotten the best of her when the motherfucking pile of cars she had been hiding in had exploded.

Crash! Boom! Bang! And now, her butt hurt like hell. Just like when that one-timed asshole at the Mojave Outpost several months before thought he could try her asshole without throwing any lube on the mix.

It had been a fun, drunken-to-puke night, but the following day she had found out that going to the privy had become quite the challenging task.

She had busted off two of the bastard's molars and spent three days on the other side of the bars from the prison barracks.

But, hey, after that, they had shared yet another bottle, and everything had been okay.

But that had been then, not now, when she couldn't apply the same principle. Not in this situation.

And so, her jeans were ruined, and she didn't want to check on the burns because, let's face it, the moment she would see them, she would be very pissed off.

And when she was pissed off, she tended to do things. Stupid things, to be precise.

And she wasn't currently at her top-notch. She had needled herself a Stimpak she had gotten on her backpack, but the thing would take a while before its effect started showing.

And if she didn't start moving soon, Six…

She almost jumped at the sudden contact of a very cold, very small hand closing around her good wrist.

She had almost forgotten she was playing the nanny part as well.

"Calm down." – that kid, the one wearing a funny collar dog of sorts around his forehead, the one Six had insisted on bringing along with them, was giving her that spooky look again – "The Courier is alright, and the others will be in need of your strength soon. You cannot beat evil, but you can help to find what is going to be lost." – after that, his tiny hand took a wild strand of hair and put it gently behind her ear – "You are failing nobody. You are not your father."

Had he been seven years older, she would have knocked off his teeth with a well-directed punch.

But, instead, here she was, listening to a creepy child helping her nurse her own shit.

At least she had managed to protect him. Something she wasn't very good at with the people she cared about.

"You will be a great mom, Miss Cassidy."

At that, Cass simply snorted. This conversation was getting more and more bizarre by the minute, but the weird kiddo was helping her to cool off her anger despite herself.

So, reclining her head against the rundown wall, she permitted herself to relax enough so the chem could take effect as soon as possible.

She would be of help to nobody if she couldn't aim properly.


She had been unbelievably lucky that the Frumentarius had been the first one to shoot, so she had gotten a few seconds of advantage to run sideways and take Charon's attention away from the spot where Arcade was lying down, so the subsequent impact of plasma grenade would be as far away from the blonde medic as possible.

The adrenaline kick allowed her to hear the launching mechanism of the gun with a difference of time enough inside her brain to predict more or less where it would land.

She fled through a very much solid window, sending crystals away before the plasma corroded the asphalt and part of the wall that sustained that very window.

She fell on her hands and knees, minor bleeding cuts prickling her palms and a dull ache burning the right side of her ribs when she dashed upstairs the building, knowing altitude would offer a small advantage over the ghoul. If he wanted to pursue her jumping roof after roof, she would give him the run of his life.

She managed to climb her way to the edifice's rooftop before watching how the redhead necrotic seized the Frumentarius by the neck and hoisted him up with just one hand while the young man was futilely clawing his hand, already bruised and bleeding.

She shot the ghoul's legs.

"HEY, CHARON!" – she yelled, shooting again – "OVER HERE!"

Fortunately, the giant lost interest in his prey when he dropped the spy, loaded his gun, and shot her. She accomplished dodging the area of impact by mere inches.

Then, he dashed after her.

Good.

"Yes Man!" – she exclaimed, sizing up the distance between structures, taking several steps back to gain impulse – "Calibrate V.A.T.S. by increasing electrical pulsations on a 2% through ulnar and median nerves and a 4% increase for the radial nerve! Redirect a 0,9% blood irrigation to the lower side of my body, heart, and a 0,5% to the brain for the next ten seconds!"

This time, Yes Man complied without questioning. What she had asked for was risky but reasonable enough to get a longer kick of adrenaline as well as more strength in her heart rate and legs.

She was going to need it.

Running with all her might, she sprinted towards the end of the rooftop, and she felt like Neo connected to the Matrix, defying gravity when her short flight took her to the other side, falling gracelessly on the neighboring rooftop, rolling to soften the impact her ankles, knees, and spine got upon landing.

"Shitshitshitshitshit…" – she wailed, her right wrist sending waves of pain as soon as the adrenaline lowered and she had to roll aside again when Charon shot yet another plasma grenade to her rooftop, his intention clearly aiming to disintegrate her, not crippling.

She exploited the freshly-baked hole by rolling into it, luckily for her to fall over an old mattress that looked like it had pertained to a beggar once, the interior looking dirty and abandoned. She couldn't stomach destroying more inhabited buildings, so she was thankful that she had chosen an unoccupied one.

She felt rather than hear Charon landing on what remained of the rooftop.

Then, shooting.

"SULLIVAN!" – she heard outside, and she ran to look out of the nearest window between the gap of the next edifice to see a very bruised Zorro being carried by a blonde young man whose eyes looked as blue as his own – "Jump! JUMP!" – he said, extending his arms as if to catch her.

She questioned nothing – not even the alarmed look the blonde carrier directed to his problematic rider – when Charon fell through the roof gap, and she fell into Zorro's arms, sending him and his carrier to the ground.

She held him tight the same he did with her when his scream traveled through the boulevard.

"NOW!"

The carrier, Zorro, and she rolled as a sole being through a small hole on the sidewall of the next building when several synchronized explosions sent the one from where she had jumped down to its very foundations.

A surge of debris and dust washed over the hole as parts of the demolished building fell onto the upper part of the one they were in, collapsing the upper stories.

Her arms released Zorro once the walls around them started cracking under the weight.

"Fuck you, Fox!" – the blonde carrier exclaimed, getting up with the white-haired young man over his shoulders aided by her, his angry tirade going on and on as they run for the exit – "Fuck fuckity fuck fuck fuck you!"

They came to a close call and nearly didn't make it when a ton of bricks followed their way out of the crumbling structure, unknown hands setting them aside to roll onto searing asphalt once again.

When she opened her eyes, disoriented and slightly nauseous, her form was cradled between the arms of a wiry Afro-American boy not old enough to be dressed as a Vegas gambler as he was, watching the aftermath of such a risky maneuver with eyes big as casino roulettes.

"Mars above…" – he whispered, thunderstruck.

A legionary.

His arms were still around her.

"Um… hi?" – she probed.

Big dark eyes moved from the collapsed ruin onto hers. His cheeks reddened instantly as his arms released her.

"H-hi." – he replied nervously.

He was way taller than her and as muscular as a thin teenager could get, but his boyish, almost childlike face told Six that he was even younger than her.

Child soldiers… just like her.

She heard Zorro sneezing from a short distance.

"I hate you, Fox." – the blonde carrier was still bitching, his straw-colored hair bleached with debris – "I fucking hate you so much."

The interpellated sneezed again in response, his wavy hair as dirty with dust as the rest of them.

Another Afro-American young man, older and broader than the one Six had by her side, helped them to get up again, the carrier still swearing in a low voice as Zorro was accommodated again on his back. Then, another pair of silhouettes arrived to help out: a mulatto lad with his gambler suit ruined by the arms, a trail of angry blisters covering every inch of naked skin from knuckles to shoulders; and then, to Six's greatest joy, Raul, who looked bruised but in one piece.

"Oh, shit!" – her young companion exclaimed, his big eyes watching in horror what froze Six on her spot.

For a body was emerging amidst dust and rubble, the green light of his Pip-Boy shining menacingly behind the curtain of dirt.

"Why. Won't. You. DIE?!" – Zorro barked, his hands quicker than thought now wielding his rifle, sending uncoordinated shots to the rising figure, Raul and the rest promptly imitating him with their own guns.

However, as soon as Six got up, she yelled:

"Stop!" – she said, reaching to grab Zorro's shaking hand – "He's augmented! Regular shooting won't do him any harm!"

She felt relieved that none of them dismissed her warning when everybody started to run in the opposite direction of their common enemy, her hand tightly grasped by Zorro's as the young man seemed to want to be sure she was in his sight all the time.

"So, Boss..." – Raul said, strangely conversational despite the extreme situation all of them were in, his words coming in ragged panting while he ran – "What are we fighting… exactly?"

"A cyborg!" – she replied shakily, turning her head to see that Charon had gotten free from the debris and he was already gaining ground, his monstrous body achieving greater speed behind them. Thank God, his grenade launcher was nowhere to be seen – "He's got… subdermal implants that shield and regenerate tissue constantly despite ghoulification! Plus, the muscular enhancements that make him faster and stronger than any regular man!"

"What?!" – she could hear incredulity in Zorro's voice, his long fingers squeezing hers tighter.

"He was trained and constructed to kill!" – she replied – "You cannot best him!"

"No man is that invulnerable! He has to have a weakness we can exploit!"

A scream pierced the air and, as if materializing from thin air, Veronica and her Power Fist landed a phenomenal blow to Charon's head. A blow that might have killed a regular man but simply tackled down the monstrous necrotic to the ground.

"Run, Six!" – she shouted, delivering the ghoul yet another blow after the next – "RUN!"

Neither of them did stop, but she and Zorro shared their mutual anguish through their joined hands when they turned their heads and saw Charon grabbing the Brotherhood Scribe by the neck and throwing her over his head like a ragdoll, banging her against a garbage wall that had been minimum thirty feet away.

"Manhole!" – one of the young legionaries exclaimed, skidding through asphalt to open the heavy metallic cover leading to the city sewer system.

"Everybody inside!" – Zorro ordered – "QUICKLY!"

Six almost banged her teeth against the steps of the metallic ladder when she was literally shoved underground. Her wrist resented the fall when she landed on her hands and feet.

And she almost screamed in pain when said wrist was grabbed violently by Zorro's long fingers again. Behind her, Raul and the rest were dropping mines and homemade powder charges.

"NOW, RAUL!" – Zorro barked.

Then, as soon as the old ghoul unpinned an unerring grenade, everybody got to the next section behind one of those reinforced pre-War doors that shut tight after Raul got inside with them.

The explosion was deafening, and Six hit her head twice against grimy walls when the ground shook and she lost balance.

Once the seism was over, the reinforced door presented a convex form like an inedible can of Pork N' Beans.

Nobody wanted to test the limits of the door's functionality as everyone got up and ran Northwest, then South.

They spent nearly an hour cleaning the path from radroaches, giant rats, and the occasional feral ghoul until they reached a tunnel that got them several levels underground to the Legion's unofficial hideout in Vegas.

"Ay, mis rodillas… Ay… ay… ay… mis pobres rodillas…" (9) – Raul moaned upon entering the place, rubbing his sore knees with one hand while he fanned his face with his hat.

Formerly a sort of a maintenance quarter with an actual working terminal, several lockers, a working hot plate, and two workbenches, the legionaries had reformed it into a fully operational hideout with packaged supplies, bottled water, and several mattresses neatly distributed as far from the door as possible, where a rigged shotgun trap awaited the intruder.

If nothing, these guys were incredibly well-organized and kept their spaces neat and minimal.

But what brought tears to the girl's eyes was to find Arcade and that Hispanic Frumentarius already there.

She literally threw herself to the medic's still unconscious form, occupying one of the mattresses.

"Arcade!" – she exclaimed, cradling the blonde man's head lovingly against her chest, earning a delirious groan – "Is he okay? Are you okay?" – she asked full-speed to the still bruised but other than that perfectly healthy Frumentarius, who offered her a bottle of water and a nod in response – "Thank you, thank you so much!" – she said, breathless, gulping nearly half the bottle in one sitting, kneeling next to her friend and attempting to make him drink despite how bad her right wrist hurt – "Um… sorry, I'm not good with names and my memory is kinda tricky these days. What was your name again?"

The bulky young man didn't answer immediately but directed her a guarded stare. Then, he eyed Zorro, waiting for confirmation.

"That's Miguelito." – the young man blushed when the Master Frumentarius referred to him as such. Six understood that they couldn't give her their Legion names in front of Raul, so maybe, for once, she was getting their true birthnames instead – "He's from a neighboring tribe we used to trade with. The rest are Fénec." – he said, pointing to the mulatto boy with blisters in his arms that he was now cleaning with water and bandaging – "Licaón." – the older Afro-American met her eyes with a nod – "And Pequeño Chacal." (10)

The last one, being the teenager that had saved her earlier, started grumbling that 'he wasn't so pequeño anymore', earning a stern glance from their leader.

Six then looked at the blonde carrier, who grasped on her expression and rolled his eyes, pointing at his troublesome load, earning a small giggle from her.

"Yes, well." – he grunted – "I'm Coyote, by the way. But trust English speakers to nail Spanish pronunciation, and they will fail miserably, so everybody here calls me Gabriel."

This surely was that… Gabban person that Miguelito had told her about earlier. She doubted any of the others would dare speak to Zorro the way this blonde lad did.

"Do we have chems?" – she heard Zorro asking.

"Yup." – Gabban answered – "Quite a few, actually, even the unusable ones. We had to fight to get this place the way you see it now and safe enough to set camp. Fiends." – he explained, carrying Zorro around, searching for a good place to drop him – "That's where we got the explosives too. This room was riddled with mines, grenade clusters, and vomit since those drug addicts didn't know what cleaning was. Took us our good time reconditioning it to suit our needs."

"Fiends?" – Zorro repeated – "What business those human disgraces may have had by dwelling here so far from their headquarters?"

"No idea." – Gabban replied, squatting carefully to put the other resting against a wall – "Getting high without sharing and/or informing Motor-Runner? It wasn't worth the bother of keeping and interrogating any of them. Burn them, I say."

Six almost flinched at that declaration, recalling Nipton.

"Indeed." – Zorro assented, already rolling up the legs of his pants to get a good view of the damage. Six hissed upon seeing the hematomas, swollen knees, and, likely, broken bones. How he could be so nonchalant about it was beyond her – "Hmmm…" – he mused, looking at his wounds with a clinical eye – "How many Stimpaks do we have?"

Gabban put a whole wooden Sarsaparilla box before him.

"Take your pick." – he replied – "We have also cooked Hydra and healing powder, should you want some."

"Did you cook the Hydra?"

"Yep."

"A bottle, if you please." – Zorro requested; his tone pleasantly placid – "You yourself should munch some powder. That bump is getting black."

"Gee, thanks, Fox. I hadn't noticed." – was the irritated reply he got, making Six suspect that the source of Gabban's injuries had something to do with Zorro.

Apparently, many things had taken place in the short time the group had gotten separated.

That thought alone dampened her spirits, praying to a God she didn't believe in that the others were okay or, at least, alive. She didn't count on having blown up Charon in that tunnel explosion. Laura's bodyguard was nearly indestructible.

That thought depressed her too. Burke's last message had implied that he had sent Charon – through Laura, of course, as the ghoul would NEVER answer to Burke's orders if the man wasn't the one in possession of his contract - to deal with her, maybe crippling her down to a 'repairable' extent, but returning with her alive.

If Charon was so intent on killing her, he has either gone rogue or had, somehow, circumvented Laura's orders, given that he only answered to the one who held his contract.

That meant that this was a duel to the death.

And she was the one holding the short straw of the deal.

"Sullivan."

Raising her eyes, she met Zorro's very blue gaze looking at her intently.

"Come here."

Even if his voice was soft and his words could be interpreted innocuously enough, she couldn't help but notice that he had issued those two words more like a command than a request. He hadn't said 'please'.

She complied, though, taking Arcade's glasses with her so they wouldn't hurt him while he rested.

She knew they were in a Legion hideout, surrounded by five legionaries – six if she counted Zorro too – that could either help them the same way they could turn hostile if she didn't play by their rules. Zorro was, evidently, the highest-ranked member here, and these men – while from the same tribe more or less and incredibly young – looked up to him to lead them.

Maybe part of the act included assuming the leadership while relegating her to the 'subordinate' category the same he had been playing contingent while traveling with her.

She didn't consider herself a prideful person, nor her reluctant 'leadership' in their group was something she deemed to be entitled to… but this new arrangement, with her following orders instead of giving them while more often attempting to get a consensus out of all the members of their group… didn't quite sit well with her.

It reminded her of the time before she was shot, when Burke had been the one calling the shots for the last five years of her life.

The moment she stood before him, Zorro gestured her to kneel by his eye height.

"Let me see that wrist."

Still commanding, still soft. She felt like blushing when she extended the swollen joint to him. This was wrong, she shouldn't bitch about him internally, but she also shouldn't overlook this new attitude. This entire situation was new, and she didn't like it one bit.

His long fingers closed around her wrist delicately, and she winced when he touched a particularly sore spot.

"Hold still." – he commanded once more, raising a Stimpak syringe to her forearm.

She shut her eyes tight. Even when she was the one applying the chem to herself, she couldn't bear looking at the needle entering her flesh.

In Vault 5, there had been injections for a whole lifetime.

A small prick, then the usual itchiness Stimpaks left behind until all the broken tissue was completely sealed. It would take some time.

Then, before she could retire her arm, a fresh, drenched cloth was put around her entire hand.

"Hold it up for fifteen minutes until the inflammation wears off." – he instructed – "I will need your pulse to reassemble the bones on my right leg."

Wait, what?

The shock must have been shown on her face because Zorro kept talking.

"The medic would be off for the next couple of hours and, besides my brother here present, none of the others have the faintest idea regarding something more complicated than First Aid." – he explained, his face dead serious, whereas Gabban directed him yet another irritated look as he munched up a mouthful of healing powder – "Besides, they will probably aid on the disjointing rather than help, if we are completely honest."

Without uttering the insult, he had just called his men 'brutes'. Very Zorro-like.

Brother… glancing again at Gabban, Six could pick out the similitudes: same eye color, same tense jaw, and same ears. However, other than a faint lookalike regarding the facial bone structure and some common tics and gestures that had more of a learning than a genetic component, nobody would say they were brothers.

Gabban had bigger eyes, a smaller nose, and a face more rounded, more open. And his hair was thicker and straighter. His voice was deeper and a bit roughened, but that could be due to fatigue product of the obscene amount of time he had carried his brother around today.

He was bulkier than Zorro, but shorter in stature. He wasn't handsome, but he had an attractiveness of his own, his open face inviting sympathies and his expressive nature making one trust him almost immediately as if he were a childhood friend you hadn't seen in a long time.

Six was sure that if the circumstances had brought her the two brothers at the same time when she had decided to risk life and limb befriending a legionary, she would have chosen Gabban over Zorro without a second thought.

But circumstances had given her a difficult, intense, extremely distrustful, hell of a complicated twenty-year-old boy.

And now, deep inside her, choice wasn't even a possibility anymore. Time had brought her closer to the Fox rather than the Coyote. And she was fine with that.

Foxes were cuter, anyway. The same Zorro's features, in contrast to his brother's, were more delicate but sharp at the same time. His face was gaunt, with pronounced temples and high cheekbones, hollow eyes, and a long, very elegant nose that stood proudly above thin lips he kept, most of the time, tightly closed in an indifferent, though sometimes a bit despondent grimace. His hair was thin, curly, and soft.

His voice was, in a word, smooth. So smooth that, despite his alien appearance and how little did his terse countenance invite trust, he could very well convince the sanest man to throw himself out of a window, if he did so choose.

He was wiry yet compact. His body language changed depending on the situation, for he could be graceful and lithe one minute the same he could turn out gangly and a bit chaotic the next.

Six didn't know if he could be called handsome… but he possessed an allure that turned downright overwhelming when he decided to combine his voice with eye contact and that feline attitude he liked to exhibit from time to time as if he were playing with a mouse he had just caught.

Sometimes, he awakened impulses in her she didn't feel comfortable acknowledging. It felt incredibly wrong whenever he decided to put on that playful attitude, and she would find herself feeling like running in a panic when everything was just that, a silly game.

That demonstrated just how incredibly inept she was at social exchanges, clumsy when even joking.

What a mess she was.

Between this and that, fifteen minutes passed pretty quickly, and the nearly healed wrist she found under the now dry rag was her cue to brace herself for what was coming next.

She had never realigned bones before, and the skin around had turned out different tonal grades going from purplish to black.

She felt like vomiting with anxiety, but she followed the instructions given by Zorro, who simply braced himself using Gabban as a support when she pulled bloated flesh to get the femur back in its place.

Without any Med-X to dull the pain.

She would have screamed, Zorro limited to grunt in a very vocal fashion.

So vocal, she knew her face was positively glowing red when the issue was over.

As soon as Stimpaks started pouring in around the legs, she had turned to Raul to help him cover the bruised spots he couldn't reach by himself with dampened healing powder, her hands shaking so badly she had immensely thanked the ghoul's near-infinite patience.

"N-need help?" – she had asked Miguelito once she was done with the necrotic.

The young man had seemed surprised by her offer, but he had shaken his head.

"It's alright." – he had replied – "I've already had three healing powder dosages."

Nodding, she had turned to seek what more she could do, so her growing nervousness would diminish a bit when one of the young man's hands found hers.

"I didn't thank you properly." – he said, his hand leaving hers as soon as he caught the somber stare Zorro was giving them from a distance – "For your assistance earlier. You saved my life."

She ventured a small smile and nodded, getting in response another nod. The weight of Zorro's stare never gave up its incisiveness.

"Yes, Birdie, dearest. I want you right here by my side so I can supervise your… movements around this facility. We wouldn't want to put at risk your wellbeing when there is so much at stake, do we?"

She didn't know why, but she got the impression that the air felt heavier down here, all of them hiding like hares wary of the wolf outside, setting a mute war amidst them, defining new roles, baring incisors to each other.

"Oh, don't misinterpret my words: apathy is a condition of the present blight, and it is bound to be exploited by those swift enough to adapt to rapidly changing conditions, such as our friend the Colonel."

When she felt that she couldn't take the tension anymore, she asked for a metallic bucket Gabban proportioned to her to, immediately, vomiting on it, earning quite the alarming looks from nearly everyone in the room.

But the emptier her stomach got, the better she started feeling after a while.

For the last five years, vomiting had been the only way to cope with her many panic attacks, and now it wasn't any different.

Once she was done, the air in the room felt less tense but more guarded.

"You okay, Boss?" - Raul's hand was hesitant upon her bony shoulder, but its weight provided her the desired sedative effect she wanted so much.

"Now, I am." – she confirmed, squeezing the old man's fingers briefly – "Thanks, Raul."

The necrotic stayed a bit with her until he was sure she wasn't forcing her stomach again. Raul had been the only one who had caught her vomiting enough times to ask if she saw herself fat or something.

While his intentions had been born out of pure and straightforward concern, Six had been unable to explain to him what was exactly wrong with her, and, despite that nearly everybody in the group was aware of her past, she still couldn't put words to it.

It still hurt too much.

Every single day felt like chaining a trigger after the next, unable to control what her damaged brain wanted to serve her for lunch, feeding on the worst part of her memories, linking past with the present, exchanging faces and names and dates until everything felt indistinguishable.

Charon… he clearly had the best intentions in mind too… but those very intentions were proving to be lethal for her.

Why did conflict seem to follow her wherever she went?

"You see, my dear girl: these times are the crucible for a glorious future. One shouldn't be overly concerned with who gets burned in the process as long as it isn't yourself, wouldn't you agree?"

"Sullivan?"

Her mind went to a stop, and the real world engulfed her again the same as a long hand engulfed her right shoulder.

How she had walked from one corner of the room to the other, she couldn't remember.

"You can let go of the bucket."

She was holding the metallic bucket full of vomit against her chest. She was sweating, and her whole face felt like it was on fire.

She was shaking.

"Boss?" – in front of her, Raul's ghoulish features distorted, his mustache turning out into once bleached skin, a mat of reddish hair surging from his head the same his bodily structure got bigger, menacing.

When the monstrous hands of this newly mutated being attempted to take the bucket from her hands, she held it more tightly.

"Sullivan."

"Birdie."

Nononononononononononononononononono…

"Let go of the bucket."

"Where is the vial?"

Suddenly, she was there again: the irradiated chamber, Laura barking instructions to her minions, mercs guarding the entrance, Enclave soldiers lying dead at their feet.

A civil war amidst comrades, Augustus Autumn's supporters, and then those who had followed Burke's command, pushing forward for the so-called Neo-American Dream.

Project Purity being but Burke's vision of a clean, mutation-absent Wasteland that would ensure safer commercial routes between him and that Western America Daniel Littlehorn spoke so much about. The one Burke himself had come from before the Navarro Oil Rig incident when he had been a child. And Laura had served him the chance on a silver plate. Her father's dream distorted until it had been unrecognizable, plain greed under the guise of a common good.

Both had agreed that 'it was for the best'.

But they hadn't asked the ghoul and mutant populations about their opinion on the matter.

The will of the ZAX computer had been about to fulfill itself. Just the same James Alden's tainted legacy had been about to reshape the world they had known.

However, Autumn had held the last ace on his sleeve.

Laura had shot him. But he had been far from actually dead.

"Is he dead?" – Burke had asked, his tall, broad-shouldered form approaching with his palm extended - "Birdie, where is the vial?"

Autumn's fingers had slid into hers. With a wrestling maneuver she could have countered should she had really wanted, the Colonel had immobilized both her arms, holding them by her back as an AEP7 laser pistol cannon was put against her temple.

"Don't you move, or this child will not be counting it for long."

Burke had laughed coldly. Nonetheless, his voice hadn't been as smooth and steady as it usually was.

"Foolish old man. Do you really think whether she lives or dies holds that much significance to me?"

She had known right from the start that Burke had never considered her anything beyond a pet project that he had entertained for some time as long as he would be obtaining benefit from allowing her to live.

But hearing it from the very man himself hadn't been any less painful.

"Your father was a psychopath through and through, and I see you are but his spitting image, William." – Autumn had replied, unfazed by the angry glare he had obtained from Burke, who had been livid upon having his first name divulged in such a manner – "Nevertheless, what should be of real concern to you isn't whether she lives or dies, but that Eden wants her alive."

For the first time since she had awakened to this post-Apocalyptic nightmare, she had felt important. Even with her life at stake, for the first time, she had felt that she was worth something.

Something that had forced two of the most powerful men in the Capitol Wasteland to stop the fire and start negotiations.

"I see we have reached an impasse, then."had been his reply"What do you propose, Augustus?"

"Sullivan, look at me."

She fought to will her eyes to see what she was meant to see.

But, instead of blue, she was seeing grey.

Behind tortoiseshell glasses, the eyes of the Devil were grey.

"Propose? To you? You're deluding yourself if you think I am making any pact with the likes of you, William. You are a snake, and I lived to tell the same about your sire; so, no, thank you very much, but the girl and I are leaving." – directing a wary look to Laura, who had bared her teeth with barely-restrained hatred, he had added – "And you would do well in restraining that Deathclaw you brought along, lest you want the whole building collapsing around. I've planted enough C-4 plastic explosives all over the whole place to ensure this edifice is used for a good cause or none at all." – in his now freed hand, the detonator had been a very real threat. He had just to push the device's button, and then, the lot of them would have gone boom"If I see you or any of your henchmen getting out this room while I make my escape, I'm pushing the button."

Her right side was burning when long gentle fingers pried under her bruised ribs.

"I didn't take you for a man who would pull a bluff of this magnitude, Augustus."

"Try me, if you will, and deal with the consequences."

"Damn it!"

She had never heard Zorro curse before.

She didn't resist the hands taking the upper part of her armor off the same she hadn't resisted when Autumn had guided her out the Jefferson Memorial's rotunda at gunpoint.

"You and I are having a little talk now that we are alone, girl."

Then, an excruciating pain bolted through her ribs.

She wailed in pain while strong arms held her in place as she thrashed wildly.

"There it is. A shard of glass. What should we do about the infection, Fox?"

"Penicillin… I think. She's showing all the common symptoms of blood poisoning: cool limbs, fever, rapid heart rate, confusion… Do we have a First Aid Kit somewhere?"

"One of those NCR fancy kits. The Fiends probably stole it."

"Then bring it to me."

"Are you sure you know what you are doing? She could die if you happen to inject her with the wrong treatment."

"I am no medic, alright?! And the only one we have is currently of no use, so pass the meds and shut your mouth already, will you?!"

Syringes always found their way back into her. Just the same memories were returning, like the providential unwanted guest.

"I'm afraid I have nothing to discuss with a man of your stature, Colonel."

"Oh, but I think we have, indeed, much to discuss. For, if I know a little about how the thought processes of our dear President work, you are meant to return from your mission here alone to report your success to him. Am I right, girl?"

"Even if that were the case, what is in it for you?"

"Despite what you might think about us, the Enclave once was a proud, idealist comprise out of the best men and women this country had."

"Your Enclave was an institution composed of members of the U.S.A. shadow government and high-ranked military officers – all white, rich people who thought that they were entitled to extend their mandate, no matter the Martial Law established by General Chase, the war, or the lives they forsook to survive the bombs. So, save me the patriotic crap, Colonel, for I know very well just how much they paid Vault-Tec to keep their mouths shut about the illegal experiments conducted inside those Vaults. I am living proof of that."

"So, it was true… You are from the original batch of Sleepers… you are, more than anybody else alive to this day, a true Daughter of America. Eden is programmed to acknowledge it and act in consequence. You are one of our agents. And Burke knows it."

But she had been no agent. No glorious war hero who had returned from cryostasis to help her old Government to make America great again.

She had returned with a thirst for revenge she had shown Autumn in its most raw, gruesome glory when she was brought back again in front of the ZAX computer, and she, finally, had managed to circumvent its logic.

She had avenged America. She had avenged her men.

She had avenged Mandy. She had avenged their crush and all of the other countless innocents their own country had betrayed.

But she still hadn't found any trace of the motherfucker who had bombarded the Commonwealth, the one who had crushed down her only chance at reuniting with her family.

For, even if the U.S.A. Government had paid for their crimes, the Chinese Government had not.


Groaning when she deemed safe dropping the dead act, Veronica got up from her lying position excruciatingly slow.

She was fortunate the Brotherhood had developed and refined, many years before their clash with the NCR, the technology with which her robes were designed.

An apparent burlap made-up scavenger costume who had earned her first time she had encountered Cass the epithet 'Potato Sack Queen' to, later, evolve into the pet name 'Lil' Riding Punch'; her robes were made of a special synthetic fiber that not only could repel gunshots – Cazador stings, apparently, not so good - the same as good-condition metal armor, but it also helped with other kinds of impacts, such as the one she had gotten herself after being wrestled by that ghoul monster.

Because, had she been wearing actual standard robes, she would have ended up with a broken spine.

She ached everywhere, but she counted herself fortunate to have gotten this small portion of the action as the plasma grenades that giant had been dropping around had been an ugly sight.

Cass, Clay, Rex, and her had been separated from the rest when she had tackled the redhead and the child far away from the first explosion.

After that, it had been dodging grenades non-stop.

Being the only one who only relied on close-quarters combat, Veronica had found herself unable to counter the ghoul's gunfire and had primarily acted as a barrier for Clay until she had lost Cass and him.

From that point on, aided by Rex, she had attempted to advance several times towards where she had heard Six's voice the last time, but that grenade launcher had been pretty persuasive until that building had crumbled around the motherfucker.

He had survived; the grenade launcher hadn't, so she had launched an attack to buy Six, Raul, and Jimmy time enough to lose the dangerous ghoul.

She wanted to believe that the monster hadn't managed to get a hold of them.

She had played dead because she knew a cyborg when she saw one, and those were difficult to bring down without plasma lasers and Power Armor.

Rex found her after she had managed to get on her two feet.

"Hey, boy, hey…" – she said to the enthusiastic canine once he had started licking her hands lovingly – "We need Grandma. Search for Grandma!"

Lily and the Fat Man she brought along in her backpack could be the last chance they got to defeat that bastard.

Doing a small happy twirl, Rex sprinted towards a very particular big mound of rubble that Veronica started to dig.

"Granny?!" – she shouted, finding her hands infuriatingly slow, taking off the most significant pieces of debris – "GRANNY! WHERE ARE YOU?!"

As if she had uttered the magical words, a big, bluish hand surged from under piled-up broken concrete.

"Is that you, Becky, dear?" – were the first words she heard before Lily's gigantic form rose before her, almost making Veronica fall back on her butt – "Grandma had been so worried for her little pumpkin!"

Veronica launched herself between the Nightkin's arms, hugging her with all her might.

Until today, the Scribe hadn't noticed… just how important everyone in this group was to her.

She had always thought that there would never be family beyond the Brotherhood… but these months traveling with Six had rekindled in her that very feeling she had been missing so much since her unofficial banishment. Acceptance no matter what, affection beyond blood and personal disagreements, protection, and care for one another.

In a word: love.

For the first time in years since Elijah had decided to abandon them, Veronica felt loved and cherished.

She had found a family outside the restrictive walls of the bunker, and she wasn't sorry about that.

She vowed to protect her new family at any cost the very instant she felt Lily's arms around her in return.

"Granny, I don't know what happened to the others!" – she exclaimed – "We need to find them before the big ghoul does!"

Picking her up from the ground, the supermutant sat Veronica over one of her muscular, broad shoulders.

"Don't you worry dearie." – Lily replied, her booming tone confident – "We will find the other children, and then, we will give a good paddling to that bully. Right, Rexie?"

The cyberdog barked enthusiastically, following the gigantic old woman's lead without losing a beat.

Veronica agreed with Lily. They will find them and, together, face this new threat the same they had been doing since Six had picked them one by one.

She wouldn't be losing them. Not again.


Checking on the wounds of the unconscious Followers' doctor Cassius had brought to their hideout – yet another Courier-related thing they now had to deal with – Gabban applied wettened healing powder onto the man's contusions while he stole a peek at his brother and the Courier.

Vulpes had always been the practical kind of person whose judgment one could trust no matter what… if one could overlook his rare bursts of mania when things didn't go as he had meticulously planned in advance, that is.

But this… this was entirely new.

Despite that both he and the girl had needed to lie down and rest to aid in a quicker recovery, he hadn't allowed himself to be transported to one of their mattresses, alleging that he wasn't touching 'one of those lice-riddled things', insisting upon being allowed to rest sitting against the wall.

But he also hadn't allowed for the girl to be separated from him.

Feverish and unconscious, her upper body was currently nestled between Vulpes' arms, whereas her legs rested between his. His chin had found a home over the top of her head, whereas an idle hand was combing fingers amidst her chaos of a short hair lazily.

Gabban had never seen Vulpes behave in an affectionate manner to nearly any human being or creature outside their family. And the worst part of it was that he didn't seem to realize it, his long fingers tracing delicate patterns over the girl's head while he nuzzled her hair distractingly from time to time.

This wasn't the 'gathering intel and, if possible, recruit' job Vulpes had told Gabban about before joining the Courier's group. Something fundamental had changed, and Gabban wasn't so sure of his brother's capability to emit neutral judgment about this particular girl anymore.

Whether it was sexual attraction, genuine affection, or a mix of the two, Vulpes couldn't have chosen worse: she was a Person Of Interest to Caesar, a prospect of an ally to the Legion, and, even if the Master Frumentarius was allowed to use any means at his disposal to obtain her collaboration, that didn't include him getting attached to his target.

It would violate the very fundamental principle of their Order: lovers were lovers, and targets were targets. You could use the same means you employ to the former on the latter… but feeling shall never linger.

It saddened Gabban that his brother, his always perfectionist brother, was not just failing his duty this miserably, but that he would do so because of a Profligate girl who wasn't nearly as hot as he could aspire to. Unfitting even for becoming a Legion wife as her skeletal figure wasn't any ideal vessel to hold life for nine months, not to add on her soldier tendencies, forbidden as they were for women in the Legion.

Gabban hoped that time would give Vulpes some perspective so he would end up noticing these problematic traits and just forget about her.

They didn't act as lovers would, so there was still hope.

With that thought soothing his worries, Gabban continued working on the Profligate doctor.

He'll better be worth all the trouble… or else.


The path to the sewers was destroyed.

It did bother him that he had lost his target, but he could use the break.

He had managed to subdue half the city in less than a week, but these people had managed to almost subdue him in less than thirty minutes.

The girl had gotten herself powerful allies.

This would be interesting.

The tensors of his right hand weren't working too well, and he knew that the sniper had blown off one of his subdermal chips, the one implanted at the base of his cranium that enhanced his senses.

He had heard rumors about that strange clinic on the Westside run by those Followers of the Apocalypse selling cybernetic enhancements.

And he needed the 'repairs' done as soon as possible so he could decipher how the city sewage web worked.

So, he had broken into a sprint to save the enormous distance between the Freeside and the Westside.

Upon his entering, a few Locals had been waiting their turn for the doctor inside to attend them.

He had disposed of those quickly.

The doctor in question had displeased him greatly. Her surname could have been Usanagi, a Japanese descendant… but all of them were the same to him.

Communists, yellows with those thrice-damned oblique eyes.

The ones who had rendered him what he was today: a dead man walking.

He had grabbed the woman by the throat, demanding that she attend to the state of his hand and replace the chip he had lost.

"Do you really expect me to… intervene you while you are unconscious instead of… turning you to the securitrons?" – she had gurgled, horrified upon discovering the corpses of her patients, but still brave enough to put up a fight.

He had to admit, the Commie had some guts.

"No." – he had answered dryly – "For you are going to intervene me without any anesthesia."

He had enjoyed the look of pure, unfiltered horror the woman had given him.

"You… you want me to do what?!" – she gasped – "You will die!"

"I can endure it." – he had replied – "Besides, if you end up really killing me, you will be doing the world a favor, won't you?"

He had kept a pistol trained on her the whole procedure.


SPANISH:

(1) - "Lad! LAD! My God... Oh, my God! Wake up, lad! WAKE UP!"
(2) - "Hold your breath, lad. To the count of three. One... two... THREE!"
(3) - "Son of a bitch..."
(4) - "Friends of yours, lad?"
(5) - "Yes, Raul. Friends... impertinent friends."
(6) - slippers
(7) - "Motherfucker... Disgraceful dog. Go fuck yourself! YOU FUCKED ME, YOU WRETCH, YOU FUCKED ME REAL GOOD!"
(8) - "Old man... Quit saying such foul words and help me get out of here..."
(9) - "Ow, my knees... Ow... ow... ow... my poor knees..."
(10) - Fennec. Lycaon. Little Jackal. (Yep, all canine-derived names. It's Vulpes' tribe, what did you expect? XD)


A/N: action! Yes, about time, huh? I know I'm touching controversial themes again and that some characters' perceptions are... pretty offensive, to say the least.

When I write, I tend to get into the characters' minds, and the way I have developed Charon is "justifiable" his hatred towards those he fought against during the Great War (even if the current Wastelanders are just their descendants and they, in truth, have nothing to do with what happened). Bear in mind that he was brainwashed, and he had to endure ghoulification plus two hundred years roaming a destroyed country. That would fuck up anybody's humanity, right?

I feel that the Fallout Franchise hasn't touched much on the theme of non-feral ghoul survivors of the Great War, and it's a shame. Many changed names and professions during the years, yes, but their traumas had never been fully explored. I mean... they seem TOO sane for how much they may have suffered. With Raul's backstory, we get some insight into personal trauma, but he's Mexican, thus more disconnected from American affairs than actual American citizens.

Imagine a society where you have been taught that Communist people are monsters, the more reason if you have been a soldier and you have fought against them in Alaska. Up to some point, with the bombs falling, your ideals crumble, and your training is the only thing sustaining you in this new hostile environment. Just saying.

Anyway, hope this chapter was more agile to read and that the good feelings between characters were greater and better than the bad ones.

Please, if you have something to say about my story, don't keep it a secret and let me know! :D

Cheers!