"Number Nine"


Ch. 18: Invincible.


Note: I'm not posting more warnings unless it is something I haven't warned about before. There are warnings in this chapter about rape threatening, human trafficking, bigotry towards homosexuality, and implications of how albinos are coveted in some cultures as a source of "magical" ingredients and how they traffic with people with such a medical condition. That's from certain parts in Malawi, Tanzania, and Zambia, I know, but society in the Wasteland is sometimes so backward that these things happen.


"We can't afford to be innocent
Stand up and face the enemy
It's a do or die situation

We will be invincible."

- Pat Benatar, "Invincible"


There she was, dreaming the same silly dream Mandy had liked to gently tease her with so much.

Bubbles, glitter, Rococo furniture, flashy costumes, Venetian masks, and David Bowie crooning something about the world falling down in the background.

She was even dressed in that pearly, puffy princess dress the movie heroine wore in this particular scene.

For a ten-year-old, this had been one of her favorite recurring dreams.

For an almost eighteen-year-old, this was incredibly embarrassing.

And now, to the chase of the beau.

"… There's such a fooled heart,
Beatin' so fast
In search of new dreams…"

It was all pretty basic, really. Taking the grand tour around the ballroom discarding masked faces until she found the one. It was fun up to some extent, given that, in her dream, she could poke at random objects at her leisure, eat Fancy Lads Snack Cakes, donuts, peanut butter, hot dogs, Spanish paella, nachos, and pizza as much as she wanted and shake Nuka-Cola bottles the likes of champagne to pop them open and shower the rest of the dancers with bubbly soda.

Admittedly, these dreamlike traits had been developed with the years passing, finding that pre-War packed food wasn't as yummy as it used to be and that the Nuka-Cola Vanilla flavor had seemingly disappeared from the face of the American Wasteland.

The same the beau character had kept mutating over time.

Most of the time, it was just her subconsciousness replicating the movie, and everything was fine and dandy with her at the end dancing with a fae King ridiculously costumed and ridiculously good-looking.

"A love that will last
Within your heart."

But, some other times, other male figures managed to seep in.

Sometimes it was Daddy or Big Bro, and she would awake crying in silence, her heart hurting in painful homesickness.

Other rare times, it was either her crush, dressing in his military fatigues when he was shot in front of a firing squad, or some of her men.

And others…

Cheeks stuffed full of pizza, she prayed that she would not find Burke wearing his suit and tortoiseshell glasses at the end of the tour. Once had been creepy enough.

So, she zigzagged between dancers, feeling like making a solo twirl just for the sake of it, a sudden sensation of lightheadedness washing over and swallowing her like a rising tide.

"I'll place the moon
Within your heart."

Music had that kind of magic, that feeling that was atemporal even if some lyrics seemed too trite or too old-fashioned.

Or maybe it was her, who didn't belong in a world that had forgotten what was still fresh in her memory.

Her faulted memory.

She thought she heard the two shots that had rendered her at the mercy of casual oblivion and turned around, dreading whose unmasked face she would find wearing a checkered suit and a golden pistol pointing to her head.

"As the pain sweeps through…"

However, she didn't find Maria's cannon against her temple, and instead of finding the forked smile of a snake, she found herself staring at the obscure glaring of a coyote.

"… Makes no sense for you."

But it wasn't a coyote. It was a tanned headdress and biker goggles over soft whitish curls and bleached skin.

"Every thrill is gone…"

She didn't know who took whose's hand and how it was possible to dance with someone dressed in football gear which was almost two heads taller than her this fluidly, but her gawking mouth won't close, whereas her feet in ballerina shoes kept the leading steady rhythm of military boots.

"… Wasn't too much fun at all."

In a most impeccably executed dance move, he twirled her around with a hand graceful but hard as steel, and her puffy dress flew around her like crazy to, ultimately, being pulled back to his arms, holding her more closely and tightly than before.

"But I'll be there for you…"

She could see herself reflected on his goggles, unable to read much into his expression. But there was something in the way his long, calloused fingers intertwined with hers that was sending jolts of electricity to her ribcage, and she couldn't help but hide her flushed face in one of his chest plates. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but it propitiated that he released the powerful grasp he had on her hand and waist, so it allowed her to embrace his armored waist tightly.

His pale arms encased her into a tight embrace, and she sighed happily. He smelled of leather, sand… and blood.

"… As the world falls down."

And fall, did the world around them when a nuclear mushroom burst the ballroom bubble.

Suddenly, there was no gaudy fantasy around them anymore but Nipton's acrid fumes as he walked her to the Town Hall hand in hand.

She didn't know how she found herself in a basement or why she was behaving so compliant when his hands started unbuttoning the back of her dress.

She felt strangely at peace when he aided her in getting out of her frilly costume, folding it delicately over a nearby chair. And she allowed him to scrub her thoroughly to get the glitter off when he returned with a bucket and a sponge, standing bare and trusting under his touch.

There was nothing sexual in how he was handling her, but more like as if he were preparing her for something.

She didn't bat a lash when he stopped scrubbing her, leaving the bucket and sponge aside, produced a pair of scissors, and cut her long hair so prettily combed with silver ribbons until he left the scruffy short hairstyle she had grown so used in the last months.

After that, he pulled a piece of fabric over her head and signaled her to raise her arms to fit in the tattered sleeves.

It was a robe of sorts that reached to her knees. A crimson robe.

Somehow, leather straps of football gear her size began to hold her shoulders, chest, and waist as he kept arranging her new outfit to his satisfaction.

Dazzled, she allowed him to sit her on a chair, and she blushed when he knelt before her to tie the laces of her boots.

She reached forward and, in an impulse – for dreams were all feeling and very little thought -, she pulled his coyote headdress back as if it were a hood.

She ran her fingers freely amidst snowy curls, relishing in the sensation until his hands found her hair as well, and their heads neared one another until her lips met his.

She knew nothing about kisses, but she found his' to be the likes of what she imagined a token from a Sicilian mafia boss would be: il Bacio della Morte.

Once they separated, he grabbed her hand again and led her upstairs, back out from Nipton Town Hall.

A whole legionary army, machetes pointing up to the sky, hailed her upon her arrival.


Six didn't open her eyes upon awakening.

She had the vague notion of having slept more hours than they could permit themselves before Charon found his way throughout the old Vegas sewer system.

She felt warm and comfortable. Her sleeping position was odd, but the mattress under her didn't smell particularly bad despite being in the sewers.

Wait… this wasn't a mattress. Mattresses didn't breathe.

"I know you are awake, Sullivan."

She felt the whisper caressing her ear before the words' meaning found its way into her cognitive processes.

Not happy with making her blush in dreams, he had to turn her into a living tomato in real life.

She could feel her head huddled beneath his chin, her left ear resting against his throat, listening as he swallowed lightly as he spoke again in her right ear.

"How do you feel?"

She surprised herself by finding that she wanted to cuddle, and the struggle between resisting and doing so like an overly-loving cat was powerful.

"I could use a couple more hours of this." – her mouth betrayed her before she could catch herself.

She didn't know how a Glowing One would feel after mutation, but she bet radiation burned inside like a pyre, just like how she was the instant she felt rather than hear him chuckling.

He should laugh more. Definitely.

"'For the lazy, it is always the holidays'." – he replied calmly, his breath tickling her ear.

"Who're you calling 'lazy', Theocritus?" - she retorted in mock indignation, eyes still shut, voice loud enough for his ears only.

She didn't know if it was intentional or it simply was the Universe conspiring against her, but in the brief instant his lips made apparent accidental contact with the helix of her ear to speak again, she turned into a big bad puddle of treacherous hormones running amok.

If shocking, the discovery wasn't as unpleasant or dramatic as she might have feared at some point upon awakening in this new, devastated America where such kind of feelings sounded more like a frivolity when put next to survival.

She had forgotten what it was like to have the biggest, stupidest crush ever on Earth on someone. Nonetheless, the realization didn't make the experience less thrilling while, at the same time, she couldn't help but want to be swallowed by the concrete below her. Right now.

"Knowledgeable, as always." – he conceded, and she could hear the smile in his voice – "Alas, regrettable as it is, we have a road ahead to travel." – his arms started to undo their comforting embrace around her – "Can you walk?"

"Yup." – she confirmed, torn between disappointment and relief of being free to reign over her ridiculous life and hormones again.

She was the first to get up. Him still getting acquainted with his legs again before risking further movement.

"Can you walk?" - she echoed his previous question, eyeing him flex his long legs a little bit before attempting to get up, prepared to catch him should he falter.

He groaned, and she was already extending her arms when he stood up quicker than thunder, promptly cracking his neck to soothe muscle ache.

"Ewwwww…" – she grimaced – "Why do you always have to do that?"

He gave her a short-lived mischievous smile that was quickly schooled back into his customary impervious expression when real life settled in again as his eyes swept over the room, silently addressing Gabban and the rest of the legionaries to start packing.

Raul immediately caught on to the general mood, so he made himself useful.

Then, Six's gaze fell upon Arcade's sitting form, recalling that she still had his glasses.

Now that he was awake, the task suddenly seemed… a bit intimidating.

She approached him and knelt by his side.

"Arcade?"

Unfocused green eyes squinted, recognizing more the voice rather than the small blurry figure in front of him for sure.

"What's up, Six?" – he said as cheerfully as a myopic man in a gloomy environment could muster – "Uh… not to press you or anything, but these guys said that you…" – before he could complete the sentence, she placed his glasses in his right hand after cleaning them a bit with the hem of her interior shirt – "Ahhh." – he sighed in relief once he put them on – "Post tenebras lux." (1) – after a few blinks, he raised a brow and scrunched his nose – "Well, I'm not entirely sure I was so bad without the glasses now that I'm able to discern details." – inspecting his dusty lab coat and passing a finger over the dirty mattress he was sitting on, his scrunched nose accentuated upon discovering the dark grime he obtained as a result – "Definitely way too many details." – he concluded with a dramatic sigh.

Six giggled a bit, but she regretted it the instant the Followers' doctor put a hand over hers, and she had to resist the impulse to squirm.

"Are you alright?" – he asked, and she hated herself when she heard the earnest worry in his voice – "Nobody has told me much besides Raul, and he spoke about something very vague in your blood…"

"Septicemia, Dr. Gannon." – Zorro came to her rescue, putting in front of the physician whatever medical supplies he had managed to put together in the last minutes. Six noticed a slight limp on his right leg – "Treated with a sterile, unopened dosage of antibiotics."

"I see." – was Arcade's response, rummaging around the doctor's bag, rearranging things his way and sighing tiredly when all the alcohol he found to use for disinfection was a bottle of vodka – "Are you really sure the medicine, as well as the needle, were clean?" – he asked, cleaning his hands with the available beverage.

Six could tell, just by looking at his terse expression, that the young man was seriously debating between giving the doctor a piece of his mind or biting his tongue.

"Well, now that you seem to be fully recovered besides getting back your spectacles, why don't you check the wound out if it worries you so?"

Not quite biting as Zorro could get sometimes, but not quite gentle either.

Six saw that as progress. She knew just how prideful her legionary could get sometimes. It was a good thing that he could abstain from antagonizing for once as she knew that Boone and Arcade were his least favorites inside the group.

"Those were exactly my thoughts." – was Arcade's noncommittal answer – "Six, raise your shirt and show me the exact infection entry point."

Not to mention that, whereas Boone was relatively easy to outsmart in wordplay, Arcade was more than Zorro's match on such a battlefield.

It didn't help that the Follower was also fluent in Latin.

"Very neat bandaging." – the blonde doctor praised mildly, unwrapping enough to take a look but not getting the work completely undone – "Hmmm… everything seems in order." – he added, prodding the tender pink edges of the almost-healed wound softly with his fingers – "Does this hurt, Six?"

She shook her head.

"Very good, the wound seems clean, and you don't seem to have any fever remnants or other symptoms that would speak of infection." – he declared after checking her pupils with his pen lantern – "Now you." – he added, directing his gaze to Zorro, who froze mid-movement packing rations and ammo on one of the available travel bags from his men – "You're limping." – he said as an explanation – "Besides, Raul told me you also took the brunt of a building collapse on both of your legs."

Zorro directed a frowning stare to the ghoul, who raised his skinned hands in surrender but did as he was told and, approaching again, rolled up the legs of his pants for the medic to see.

"I could better assess the extent of the damage if you took your pants off, you know."

Neither Arcade nor Six expected the sudden curt laugh the legionary directed to the medic.

"Ha!" – he scoffed dryly, his severe countenance and his crossed arms a clear indication of his thoughts on the matter – "Apologies, Dr. Gannon, but that is not going to happen any time soon."

Arcade adjusted his glasses before blinking twice.

"Suit yourself." – he replied, shrugging off the indirect insult, clearly not in the mood to argue with a stubborn twenty-year-old – "Let's see…" – he muttered, eyeing the scarred pattern filled with recent healing hematomas – "This…" – he punctuated after touching a particularly huge swollen vein over Zorro's right knee that made the young man to hiss in pain – "… is why you don't use Stimpaks without immobilizing broken bones with a splint, so they don't create varicose tissue around the impact zone or cure bones and tissue in a poor manner. You're lucky it hasn't healed completely, for you would have gotten crappy blood circulation and a limp for the rest of your life. I'm going to have to reopen the swollen tissue, drain part of the blood excess, seal veins and realign the kneecap with…" – he trailed off until his eyes found a nailed board dropped on a corner along with many other makeshift weapons – "That could work. Six." – he added, giving her the vodka bottle and a piece of cloth – "Take the nails out, cut it in two, clean it, and bring the two pieces to me. Raul." – he added, looking at the ghoul – "Start cutting bandages. And you…" – he trailed off again, directing this time his gaze towards Gabban, who had remained silent beside his brother, eyeing the damage with apprehension – "I'm sorry, what was your name again?"

"Gabriel."

"Alright, Gabriel. I will need you to act as a hold for Zorro Salvaje as we don't have Med-X, and this is going to hurt."

Directing a questioning glance to his brother, Gabban did as told once Zorro nodded in acquiescence.

The procedure was, quite literally, Spartan. With Zorro sat on the floor as Arcade trusted more the concrete than the nitty mattresses, the medic had punctured swollen veins open with a sterilized, heated needle and had diminished blood pressure by draining them minimally before sealing the vein by puncturing yet again with yet another sterilized needle, this time red hot.

Everything accomplished with reused medical equipment and an electric welder from the workbench.

Whereas Zorro was eyeing the procedure unshaken, Six could tell that the rest of the legionaries - especially Gabban, whose face seemed drained of all color – weren't having an easy time.

"Shit, Fox!" – the blonde young man exclaimed when his older brother forced him to look by pinching his forearm hard.

"Don't close your eyes and learn." – was Zorro's soft yet firm chiding – "Knowledge is power."

"Sir Francis Bacon." – Arcade intervened conversationally – "Wouldn't have pegged you for a philosopher."

"You don't know me well enough to peg me for anything, doctor."

Arcade raised his eyes from the butchering he was performing momentarily before returning to his task.

"Fair enough." – was his laconic reply.

After that, Six had occupied her eyes and hands sawing the cleaned wooden board with a borrowed saw (pertaining, yet again, to the crude workbench the legionaries had at their disposal, which was basic at best). Meanwhile, Arcade had worked the kneecap around until he had found where it had realigned bad due to the previous manipulation of the femur and twisted it until he discovered its correct position.

Zorro had grunted that way again, and Six's hands had trembled with conflicted feelings around the now-cleaned, divided wooden boards she had helped Arcade to adjust and bandage around the bone.

"Now, we sew the cuts." – Arcade announced, evidently pleased to see that the young men around were attempting to learn from his expertise – "And then, after having everything bandaged and sealed, we use the Stimpaks in small doses around swollen tissue, not right into an open wound. Yes?"

No matter his slightly patronizing tone, Six knew Zorro was taking good note of everything.

She could only imagine how scarce healers would be in a culture that, besides stemming from tribal natural remedies' mashing up, plainly forbid chems.

Their Lord, this… Caesar. Why would a western man create a society out of mostly ignorant people to deprive them of basics such as human dignity and healthcare?

And so, besides militarily speaking… did he institutionalize a law system beyond the survival of the fittest? With judges and lawyers? Did he alphabetize all of them or just agents as Zorro and his men who had to wade through enemy territory?

Until now, she hadn't realized… just how different Zorro's world vision must be from hers.

Timeline, culture, upbringing, education… those very things she had always taken for granted seemed now a privilege in a Wasteland where, throughout the years she had wandered from East to West, she had discovered that not just half the people could barely read, but they were also… conditioned.

Conditioned by a world her contemporaries had created in the first place.

She had been so single-minded in her pursuit of trustworthy allies that now, in her folly choosing a tribal as a friend, she hadn't considered… That maybe it wasn't his fault for being who he was, but hers putting an individual so different from her and the others as the day and night in the group.

Could she expect a tribal from a slave army to fully understand how occidental minds worked?

Could she dare hope for him to…?

"And that's it!" – Arcade's triumphant exclamation awakened her from her reverie – "Finished." – he added, eyeing his handiwork with pride – "Give the Stimpaks thirty minutes while everyone else finishes packing, and you should be as good as new."

Six's heart gave a painful squeeze when she looked at Gabban and the others and saw pure and unadulterated wonder about what they had just witnessed.

Medical care was, for them, a huge mystery.

This was further confirmed when the mulatto legionary, Fénec, asked Arcade if he could take a look at his bandaged arms with big eyes and a sort of religious awe when the blonde doctor began to give him indications about how to disinfect wounds and which was the best treatment for skin affected with radiation.

Six sat hip to hip with Zorro as he had asked her to bring him supplies so he could be of use by distributing them in their backpacks while she checked the condition of the available guns and ammo.

"What's our next move?" - she asked while cleaning a Silenced .22 SMG, a dangerous weapon that the Fiends, since their occupation in Vault 3, had gotten a hold on a handful of them – "I've never been in the city's sewers. Thus, I have no maps to help us move around here."

"This project about dabbling through Vegas' sewer system was something my precursor started a few years back, but soon got discarded as there wasn't any viable entrance to The Strip found that wasn't blocked by rubble." – his voice was so low that Six almost didn't catch his slight hesitation before continuing – "However, except for Robert House's territory, the rest of New Vegas is fairly well-connected from Camp McCarran to The Thorn. The challenge will be to pass again through the Central Sewers to the Northern ones and, once there, decide which exit is of more convenience: the manhole that leads to the Crimson Caravans' entrance or the one at the East Pump Station."

"What about McCarran?" - she asked, but Zorro shook his head.

"My brother has informed me that our ghoul persecutor entered Freeside through The Strip North Gate and not the other way around. That can only lead to one possibility…" – he explained, looking at her intently as if to see if she reached the same conclusion as him.

She did.

"That he gained access through the Monorail." – she realized, suddenly feeling very ill – "You think…?"

"… That McCarran is a direct accomplice regarding you being now on a very prioritized hitlist?" – he finished for her – "Absolutely."

She covered her mouth both in terrible realization and to impede vomiting.

"Is there something you want to tell me, Sullivan?"

She wasn't prepared for this; she would have never considered that the NCR…

But then, looking back at the circumstances and the fact that her contact when the Platinum Chip fiasco had been precisely stationed at McCarran, everything seemed to fall in place.

Even if Colonel Hsu hadn't been aware of the loose end that he had in one of his Sergeants, this irregularity shouldn't have been possible if, amidst lost paperwork, McCarran hadn't given its seal of approval for Charon to access the most impenetrable part of New Vegas.

Where Robert House had given her a place to stay.

There was also the possibility of Zorro lying for his political benefit.

But looking at him and seeing how sincere he sounded and how logical his chain of thought was, she knew she had to trust him. And she wanted to.

It was either that or leading them in the dark throughout unknown territory, risking the chance of facing Charon once again without even informing her allies why they were running.

Besides, if the NCR ended up becoming the enemy now, perhaps the Legion could offer a better alternative…?

Not that she wouldn't prefer House above everyone else… but she wasn't getting herself killed, and she, certainly, wasn't going back to Burke's side. Never again.

Not when you have no further need of me anymore, is it not that right, Birdie?

Six's eyes widened when, intrusive, the thought made something resound deep inside her.

Where did that come from?!

Oh, dear, deluding ourselves again, do we? As if you didn't know it already.

No…

That every time you have allied with someone…

Enough…

… Has been to draw a deal where you'll always hold the upper hand.

Enough!

It is a pattern you learned well from your time at the Vault. How to pick the best among the best at the simulations while leaving the others, less fitted to resist the training, to be brain-killed once the scores were drawn at the end of each round.

ENOUGH!

A pattern you have flawlessly replicated with the children at the Lamplight Caverns, the supermutant from Vault 87, the very Enclave, and Littlehorn & Associates. It was only natural for you to do the same to me… as well as you will do with these fools accompanying you… in due time.

She hadn't noticed that the heels of her hands were sinking deep into her burning eye sockets, whereas her teeth were drawing blood from the gums as she gnashed them viciously.

The same she hadn't noticed how wiry though tender pale arms had encased her into a soothing embrace.

He wasn't telling her that everything would be alright or any of that nonsense. He was only holding her in place, lending whatever comfort his body could offer her, anchoring her to reality… from where she seemed more and more divorced as memories assaulted her at the least ideal moments.

The question is, Birdie, dearest: what will you do if Robert Edwin House is unable to counter my offer? What if the old man's databases and resources aren't as extensive as he has implied? Will you come back to me? Will you be able to sell your little friend here and his fellow tribals to the New California Republic so they can do unspeakable things to them in their torture chambers? Remember who he is… how easy would it be to lure him to McCarran and tell Hsu that here's the Legion Head of Intelligence for them to wring him out as much as they please? Wouldn't that earn you an official pardon? The Republic's protection against my political maneuvers? What do you think, my dear girl?

No… please, no…

What would you give in exchange for knowing… where the Vault where your brother and his family were sent is, soldier?


Huffing and groaning, Rose of Sharon Cassidy cursed for the umpteenth time as her back protested in retaliation of what had become the longest trip ever to the Old Mormon Fort as she dragged inelegantly through the broken asphalt what roughly might be two hundred pounds of pure muscle and sheer stupidity.

"Shit, Beret…" – she hissed between clenched teeth, rivulets of sweat and blood dripping from the tip of her nose and chin as she kept mumbling – "This ain't how I pictured to have your candy ass knocked down at my mercy…"

Once the Stimpak had settled down her system well enough to be able to walk without wincing too much, she had gotten her ass up and, rifle in hand, spied the perimeter before telling Phenomenon Kid to follow her in silence as she searched for the rest of their group.

Nighttime had slowly crept over Vegas, and Cassidy's tired eyes had nearly missed him.

She and the boy had found lots of debris, lots of unknown charred body parts… and the unconscious body of Boone filled with blisters on his torso and arms nestled between two fallen boulders.

It had been a pain in the ass to get him out of the fallen debris, and now, it was becoming a pain, in general, to drag him to the hands of the Followers with half the streetlamps blinking non-stop in a near-empty, gloomy Freeside.

Because nobody around, tightly shut-in their homes, had answered her reiterated calls for help even when it was clear that the necrotic monster was nowhere to be seen.

Crap-Pants, the lot of Freeside.

The kid, however, was walking beside her, carrying the sniper's rifle, beret, and sunglasses in his tiny arms. The humongous trashy backpack he had insisted on bringing from the 188 was still intact on his back.

"How interesting…" – the kid murmured as his tiny fingers swept over the three items on his arms absently – "It's rare to find belongings that have both happy and angry memories attached." – then, he added – "Though quiet, this man's belongings speak volumes for him and the very words he will never be able to convey…"

"Not to burst your bubble, kid." – Cass grunted – "But right now, the only thing I am interested in is taking this motherfucker's sweet ass to a doctor, not to hear about his communication issues; which are plenty, by the way."

She was starting to believe that the boy's apparently random words were not so random after all.

And that was a scary thought.

Sure that she could appreciate Six's kind gesture about bringing a homeless child to a secure haven… however, somehow, she couldn't help but notice that Six usually didn't choose people randomly.

The person she wanted on her team, the person she ended up adding in sooner or later. Cass's own example being the most prominent of all.

Six had wanted her, and she hadn't stopped until she had convinced her to join.

Just like that man, the legend from Arroyo, the Chosen One, had done with her father, John Cassidy.

Whereas that sentiment had been flattering at first, now it was starting to take a very different perspective.

Because every single one of them were useful people. Not scared-out, drug-addicted Wasteland pissants willing to bow heads in front of someone bigger, badder, and meaner than them.

Not even this kid was wholly shielded from whatever usefulness Six could get from him.

That both scared her and made her angry the same. Kids weren't meant to be tools in some complicated scheme. Kids were meant to play with their pals and be protected by adults… until they reached adulthood, and they got to choose how to fuck up their lives, that is.

Pretty much as she did back in her adolescent days.

"Don't chase after phantoms, Miss Cassidy." – the boy chastised her gently, earning a small shudder from the woman, both due to physical strain and creepiness – "Everyone has a role to fulfilling in this war. And the Courier's intentions have nothing to do with the chain of events that my presence on the Beacon of the Mojave will unleash in due time. Whereas she thinks she has chosen me, I chose her before."

Okay, maybe it was about time to stop humoring cryptic speech from the boy and start knocking on the Old Mormon Fort's door as their interminable walk had come to an end.

"Open the door!" – she exclaimed, her entire being aching as her fist found the giant wooden door – "I have a child and a wounded man with me that needs medical attention urgently!"

She swore she could hear coughs and choked murmurs inside. But nobody answered her call, nor did they open the door despite the good ten minutes she spent waiting.

That made her already thin patience wear to an almost nonexistent plane.

"OPEN THE GODDAMN DOOR, ASSHOLES!" – she yelled, punches and kicks landing all over the rigid wooden structure as if she could take it down with her sheer strength – "A SMALL BOY AND A WOUNDED MAN ARE DROPPED IN FRONT OF YOUR DOORSTEP, AND YOUR ANSWER IS PLAYING DEAF?! YOU HAVE NO FUCKING HUMAN DIGNITY!" – as incensed as she was yelling to a stupid door, she hadn't noticed the telltale sounds of locks being pulled – "YOU KNOW WHAT?!: FUCK YOU! FUCK ALL THOSE BOOK PRINCIPLES THAT, WHEN THEY FACE REALITY, THEY'RE NOTHING BUT FANCY WORDS! TO HOLD A WASTELAND SOMETIMES IS TO DEFEND IT! AND WHAT HAVE YOU MORONS DONE TO DEFEND THOSE YOU SAY THEY NEED YOUR HELP UNTIL TODAY, HMMM?! NOTHING!"

Her fury, her reddened face, and her angry, unshed tears met a pair of familiar arms that engulfed her midsection until she stopped resisting it to actually look at its source.

"Cass!" – Veronica's hands cupped her face gently, shedding away the incredibly disgusting mixture of dirty hair, ashes, blood, sweat, and tears as if they were the most precious things to lie touch upon – "Are you alright?!"

Her words deflated the fiery redhead's tantrum to the point that she had to rely on the Scribe's lesser height for physical support.

She barely registered how the wooden gates of the Mormon Fort opened slowly. How a disorganized group of seven armed guards pointed their rifles, first to the hugging pair, then to the gigantic silhouette with a picture hat and goggles that were calmly waiting aside, the small Asian boy on one humongous hand, the other holding delicately the unconscious figure of an NCR ex-First Recon. Two babies on her arms in contrast to her voluminous body.

And a menace-looking cyberdog calmly sitting at the mutant's feet, poised and alert should any danger arise.

After verifying their identities as cohorts from the Courier's group, four people came out to take Boone from Lily's arms while securing his neck with an orthopedic collar, checking his pulse, and hoisting him on a makeshift stretcher to take him inside.

Nobody dared to talk with the Nightkin until Julie Farkas's mohawk came into view as she asked politely for all of them to get inside the Mormon Fort as soon as possible.

Veronica moved her form along with Cass slowly inside, where the door locks came down again immediately.

And Cass didn't give a shit about standing in front of an audience while holding onto someone for support.

It had been a long time… since she had trusted someone else with her weakness enough to drop the mask and allow herself to be vulnerable for once.

Veronica seemed to understand this, and they, synchronized as only two beating hearts could, allowed all the anxiety to dissipate in each other's embrace.

"Have you… seen the others?" – was the first thing that came up Cassidy's lips, her hold still strong around Veronica's shoulders – "Do you know… where Six is? Raul? Doc? Grams? Tribal Boy? The dog?"

"Lily and Rex are here, and they're okay." – Veronica said soothingly, signaling her quiet companions now by her left. The boy, now sitting on one of Lily's muscled shoulders, nuzzling the supermutant's hard jaw, the big grandma allowing herself to be loved docilely – "Six, Raul and Jimmy were together last time I saw them… running away from that guy."

Cass allowed herself to shudder, recalling the monstrous ghoul with that monstrous grenade launcher.

"What about Doc?" – she finally dared to ask – "Where's Doc?"

Veronica's lower lip trembled slightly.

"I… don't know." – she muttered, trying very hard not to tear up – "I haven't seen him since we separated. Lily, Rex, and I searched, and searched… but we couldn't find you or the others…" – Veronica's embrace tightened so much that Cass was briefly tempted to tell her to loosen up down a notch until the Scribe's voice came back broken – "What are we gonna do, Cass? What are we gonna do?"

Already calmed, Cassidy's mind started working at full speed, weighting chances and ruling out possibilities and places.

"We get Red Beret patched and up before the sun rises." – she declared with finality, deadly calm – "Then, we go on a hunt."


He had omitted important information. He had omitted to mention the chance of a path existing right to the Ultra-Luxe's lower levels.

Right to the safety of The Strip and Mr. House's securitrons.

Why he had done it, it was merely because he wanted her to have only to rely upon him and his knowledge of the city sewers.

And to avoid giving a chance either to McCarran or to House to shelter her again, to offer her better protection than the Legion could offer her.

Better than what he could offer her.

Blaming the NCR for the ghoul slip had been but an added plus.

Then why did it feel so treacherous doing so?

As they treaded through the Northwest part of the sewers, Vulpes couldn't stop analyzing his take on the matter.

He wasn't a stranger to dishonesty, having learned from the best how to pull a stunt and follow through to the end. As long as it benefited the Legion, thus Caesar, it didn't matter if he even had to lie to his own men so long as it served a higher purpose.

So, why was he doubting himself now?

Recalling her slender form nestled in his arms, her head resting under his chin, her smaller hands wandering idly in her delirium until they had bunched up on the front of his shirt… he tried to remember a time when he had been more relaxed and at peace with himself.

He tried to remember a time when he had felt happier than since he had joined her group.

And he found that those feelings hadn't converged very often since the assimilation.

He had forgotten... how it felt to sleep without worrying about what tomorrow may have in store. To plan the next course of action, to brew the next scheme.

He had forgotten how to live without fearing for his life. Without dreading the moment he ceased being useful to get discarded in the most gruesome manner so his death could serve as an example. Such as the Malpais Legatus'.

He had forgotten how it felt to live without feeling thankful for being allowed to live.

So, as a consequence, once tasted the forbidden fruit, it was quite hard to get rid of its sweet poison. Painful even.

But poison it was, nonetheless. Of that, thankfully, he was still aware.

The Courier's… no, Sullivan's skin was soft, her hair softer, and her breath when she slept, even softer.

She was tempting, very tempting - and he admitted that he was hooked, very hooked.

But he still had his priorities in place.

Why should he doubt about misleading this soft creature temporally so both could end up holding hands at the gates of the new Status Quo?

She would forgive him for these insignificant lies and share in the common good when she saw how much they had achieved together.

And maybe…

Upon reaching the Western part of the North Sector of the sewers, his thoughts were brought to a halt as soon as the Black Market came into view.

"Well, this is…" – the blonde doctor intervened upon entering the ample space, his voice denoting stupor – "I don't know how to qualify this."

A sort of clandestine submerged economy, the poorer and more desperate part of outer New Vegas' citizens – mainly composed of drug addicts, old prostitutes, beggars, destitute farmers, and the old, sick and crippled – were now the new underground inhabitants from the filthiest, most diseased, shadiest part of Sin City. And it wasn't only due to the absence of sunlight in such a risky unhygienic environment.

For the Black Market was, more than anything, a perfect place to obtain stolen, illegal merchandise not even the most disreputable pawnshop on the Freeside would risk selling.

As Vulpes and Gabban opened the entourage, stalls composed mainly of rusty pieces of metal sloppily nailed to rotten wooden boards offered questionable wares that varied from fried meats of dubious sources to scavenged NCR uniforms and weapons obtained, pretty surely, from the corpses the Fiends left at the Southern entrance of McCarran daily. Bloodstains and bullet holes still present on the coarse fabrics.

Though admittedly expensive for their lamentable state and real market value, Vulpes' men had significantly benefited from these scavenged wares throughout the years during the Mojave Campaign, making it possible to have the Republic's Main Headquarters conveniently controlled as many Frumentarii were now infiltrated within the walls of the old pre-War airport.

As of late, as the war advanced with the Legion pushing from the borders of the Colorado the very instant a Fox took on the Serpent's many responsibilities, the wares had but multiplied in number and quality. Making many Prospectors game for the growing market as they were the primary providers of weapons and equipment they took from lost patrols that had succumbed under Legion's boot the closer they dared to dabble East.

Gabban was used to dealing with the local merchants and information-sellers, but it was Vulpes' first time setting foot directly on the Black Market to seek information.

One of their men, whom they had been expected to encounter there, was sorely missing.

If Felix wasn't roaming the Black Market or the immediate manholes connected to the Westside, the situation required their attention.

So, Gabban went to see their usual source, whereas the rest took a small tour around, his Frumentarii unusually jumpy, whereas Vulpes couldn't help but notice the many eyes looking in their direction.

"Call me paranoid, but I don't like the attention we're gathering here." – Gannon interceded once more, his voice low and his nervous hands reaching for his plasma pistol in a most unsubtle manner.

"Sí." – Raul confirmed – "They're eyeing the chamaquitos way too much." (A)

Vulpes checked his rifle, Cassidy's knife, and the switchblade he had inside one of his armor's sleeves. From the corner of his eye, he saw Sullivan, soft Sullivan, doing the same with her 10mm.

Gabban returned, wearing a disheartened expression after checking his sources.

"Nobody has seen him." – he informed Vulpes once he was close enough to understand each other through whispers – "There have been sightings of more Fiends in the area, though. And one of the minor gangs down here, the Greasers, has vanished without a trace. I don't like this, Fox." – he added, including with his eyes the rest of the legionaries – "Félix wouldn't have abandoned his post without a good reason."

"Felix?" – Gannon's voice interrupted them – "As in the Latin name?"

Uh, oh.

But damn if Gabban hadn't a training as good as Vulpes' when it came to keeping the composure under pressure.

"Huh?" – he said, feigning ignorance – "La-what? No, doctor, Félix is a Spanish name. Right, Miguel?" – he asked, adding Cassius to the conversation.

The big young man nodded.

"We're from the same tribe." – he told the Follower, his face amiable. Cassius was one of Vulpes' men with the rare quality of being genuinely friendly while using it to his advantage – "Félix is my cousin."

They were careful enough to give the name its original pronunciation, as Felix had been one of the few lucky ones who hadn't changed his name since the assimilation.

That seemed to assuage the doctor's - unbeknownst to him – well-founded fears as they turned their steps towards the exit that communicated the Black Market to the Eastern part of the North Vegas Sewers. Once they were out of earshot, they could decide what to do next.

As they passed in front of many other stalls offering even more dubious wares, Vulpes caught sight of a caged Glowing One, whose bright skeletal naked frame was crouched inside their prison, eyeing with milky, distant bloated eyes the new arrivals from the other side of the bars.

Raul cursed in Spanish between rotten teeth as his eyes took on the unhappy caged creature with wrath and compassion in equal measures.

"No hay derecho, Boss, no hay derecho…" (B) – he kept hissing between clenched teeth, whereas Sullivan patted him slightly on the small of his back, still tense but trying to bring comfort and support to her companion's sensitivities.

When they passed a shady corner, a small, dirty old woman approached them, and Gabban was about to shove aside the predictable charity-asking platitude that usually came from those folks when said woman gave him a smile full of brown, rotten teeth.

"You want to know what happened to your friend, yes?" – she asked with a voice so hoarse that the Master Frumentarius wondered briefly if that was the result of a chain-smoking vice. Her rotten teeth, discolored lips, and middle and index fingers seemed to suggest so – "How much do you pay?"

Vulpes disliked her almost immediately. Her dirty hair was combed in a way that reminded him too much of the late Twisted Hairs.

"It depends on the information." – Gabban answered for him, still in charge – "Give me a price, and I'll decide if what you offer deserves my time and my money."

Vulpes felt a slight surge of pride as he heard his brother directing the situation to his benefit, bargaining effortlessly without demonstrating impatience or rudeness. He had taught him well.

They discussed rates a little bit - the woman accepting half the exorbitant sum she had asked first for - her information, after having been paid a little money advance as an incentive, proving worrying.

Apparently, Felix had been missing for nearly three days since the last time Gabban checked on him. The woman swore to have witnessed an organized group of Fiends coming and going several times throughout the East Central Sewers, using the tunnels under the Sharecropper Farms to the Western part of the North Sewers, sometimes daring to enter the space under the North Vegas Square and the tunnels under The Gray. They usually came to the Black Market exchanging stolen wares for drugs. Many locals were getting nervous even though none of the chem-addicted raiders had bothered anyone beyond clearing up small gangs. They suspected a raid coming as soon as they got enough men to subjugate them.

She also told them that many suspected the junkies were filling a big lair somewhere between the East and Central Sewers.

If Felix was still alive, the Fiends had taken hold of him. And they rarely kept prisoners if not to obtain a ransom in exchange or… for their private amusement.

Upon hearing this news, Vulpes hoped Felix would be already dead instead of being used as a… plaything for those psychopaths.

Nonetheless, the Legion couldn't tolerate an affront of this magnitude, and the Master Frumentarius had to act as an example for his men.

So they decided to, at least, take a peek at the Eastern part of the sewers to get a feel of the field and decide later how to proceed. The Fiends would pay, either now or later, with more men at his disposal, wasn't relevant.

To Raul and Gannon's benefit, he made up a story that wasn't so far from the actual truth about a member of their tribal-remnants gang going missing and suspecting the Fiends' involvement in it.

The doctor and the ghoul bought it immediately, offering to help; Sullivan merely directed him a knowing glance, silently acquiescing to act in the name of the Legion's interests.

He liked that. A lot.

What he didn't like was when a large gang of scruffy armed wastrels surrounded them, sandwiching their group inside one of the tunnels that connected the Black Market with the rest of the North Sewers.

This had been a trap all along, as he identified some of the gang's members having been at the underground market both as sellers and clients.

"Give us yer caps, yer supplies, yer weapons and ammo, and tha fancy electronics on tha wrists ov' those two." – the one who, evidently, was the leader, spoke while signaling Sullivan and Vulpes himself.

His first instinct was to enter V.A.T.S. Mode, but soon the Praefectus Frumentario's blood froze in his veins when the human trash in front of him spoke again.

"'Ctually, ye know wha'? We wanna tha carriers ov' tha fancy electronics 's well. Tha kid too." – he demanded with a crooked grin, all of his canines missing, eyeing both Titus and the Courier hungrily – "Coulda use sum fresh holes 'round." – Vulpes knew he had bared fangs instinctually to the bastard but, as soon as his hand went for Cassidy's knife, a disgusting woman beside the man added:

"We will fetch a decent price for the albino at The Gray." – she commented, leering at the young man disgustingly – "He's pretty. Still fuckable even after the local shamans will be done with his tongue and fingers."

Vulpes didn't know what happened, but before he could react, his brain barely registered two shots, and the woman and the leader each sported a hole between the brows. The bodies dropped instantaneously on the wet sewage floor.

Sullivan had put herself between him and the wastrels, her small hands trembling with rage around her aimed 10mm.

As if it had been an accorded signal, Raul, Gannon, Gabban, and the men had quickly formed a circle around Vulpes and, taking advantage of the gang's momentary stupor, emptied bullet magazines non-stop until there had been no one left standing.

The synchrony had been beautiful, pure magic.

"I'm not exactly a mercenary." – the good doctor commented once it was over, eyeing with disgust the piles of bloodied bodies mixed with fresh radioactive goo melting flesh away slowly. His usually mediocre aim had proven lethal this time – "But taking out scumbags of this magnitude wouldn't cause me to lose any sleep."

Sullivan was still trembling in front of Vulpes, his hand freezing mid-action putting over her shoulder when she turned around without looking at anything or anyone in particular.

A thin trail of blood that went from one of her nostrils to her lips had colored her teeth red. Her dark eyes were cold when she spoke again.

"Raul." – she said, abnormally calm – "Let's go free that Glowing One."

The Mexican ghoul smiled coldly, raised his twin revolvers mutely, and, without uttering a word, both marched back to the Black Market, Gannon hot on their heels.

Gabban questioned him briefly with his eyes, awaiting orders.

Vulpes' answer was taking Paciencia from his back while pulling the safety mechanism from the gun, going after Sullivan and her group. His men followed him without question.

The galvanic gaze of his brother hung heavy on his back.


Boone jolted awake, drenched in sweat.

Unused as his eyes were to any direct light, he immediately accused the absence of his sunglasses when the artificial bulb over him pierced his retinas, going straight to his skull as if he were experiencing one of his usual hangovers after a tad too many beers.

"Here." – a soft, infantile voice by his right whispered before tiny pale hands deposited the blessed tinted crystals of his aviator glasses on his eyes, adjusting the steely rods on his temples, behind his ears – "Darkness is not good for you; for you're missing just how bright and beautiful the world around you can be. But you need your eyes sharp to search for the one that gave you a new reason to be still alive."

Boone's gaze focused, and the strangely wisened features of the Asian boy came into view.

"Where's…?" – he breathed, noticing his shaved head coming in direct contact with the pillow below his nape. With nothing coming in-between.

Again, the boy's soft tiny hands stretched the beret's base around his cranium. With each part of himself becoming one again, Boone's headache began diminishing.

"War is not good for you, for war never changes, but it changes the men and women who partake in it. And war has changed you, sullied you beyond repair." – the child calmly discoursed again – "But you need the symbol of your rank around your head to remind you who you are… and what you're capable of."

The sniper slowly got up, his boots coming in contact with the rocky floor of what he identified to be the inner quarters of the Old Mormon Fort.

He felt tight bandages around his arms and torso, the slight itchiness reminding him of the burns he had sustained. He retired the needle on his left forearm, letting it hang from the empty intravenous RadAway bag on a nearby IV pole. The fresh bandages around his forearm tinting with red pearls.

"My rifle." – whereas he had intended to formulate it as a question, it had come out as an order. A command.

He worked better with commands.

His office weapon was put soundlessly over his firm lap.

When he got a grasp on it, the boy's small hands came over his'.

"Death and violence are not good for you." – the boy dictated, his words strangely hypnotic, even to the gruff Republican, who was a firm disbeliever of these things. The slanted eyes profound, the human contact between their hands almost reverential – "For death and violence have been the ones who have taken you to this point: away from your home, away from your family, away from your friends. Away from the light you shield against behind a wall constructed with pain and guilt." – taking his little hands out of his, he added lastly – "But you need a gun to fight. You need a gun to live. You need a gun to defend those who count on you." – he pointed to the wooden stairs with his tranquil eyes – "Go. They're waiting for you."

Taking in the strange child one last time, Boone nodded, got on his two feet, and put his gun over his shoulder, taking the steps a story down firmly.

His mood darkened a bit when he noticed the group's missing members once Veronica spotted him and woke the tumbleweed, who was dozing off a bit sat on a chair.

"Hello, dearie." – Lily greeted him as tenderly as she could muster; the dog came to him immediately, seeking scratching, which he had no problem providing – "Good to see you have woken up."

Boone nodded in the Nightkin's direction, thanking silently that she was still with them.

"This is it?" – he asked after a brief silence – "All of us?"

The Scribe gave him a sad look, but the redhead gave him a straight answer.

"Yes, Beret." – she said gravely – "This is all of us… for now."

Boone nodded.

"Where to?" – he asked.

"The city sewers." – Veronica answered this time, her voice laced with emotion – "When I was looking for the rest, I came up to a blown-up manhole entrance. I saw Six with Raul, Jimmy, and more people running away from that ghoul before I knocked him up. I think they managed to escape him through the city's sewage system. Otherwise, I would have found their corpses."

Vegas' sewer tunnels… Boone had never braved their dark secrets, but he had known some NCR guys who had. There was a whole population living underground. And not always the friendly kind.

Raul and the albino shit better be taking care of the girlie… or he will be very mad once he finds them.

"Arcade?" – he asked, already dreading the answer.

"MIA." - replied the redhead, Veronica casting him a defeated look.

That was of little consolation, given that, from his experience, Boone knew very well that 'Missing In Action' usually went hand in hand with 'pulverized'.

He saw enough of that at Bitter Springs, after all.

"Okay." – he replied instead. Focus, he needed to focus – "What's the plan?"


The Black Market was in shambles.

After following the Courier and her two cohorts back to the ample space, she had started shooting at the ceiling, yelling for everyone who would listen to her that she was about to confiscate the wares from the merchants that had attacked them and releasing the caged Glowing One and any other entity she deemed slave. That anyone who wanted to remain alive better abandon the place… or face the consequences.

She had warned the wastrels once. Next had come to the gunfire.

Between the Mexican ghoul and her, they had opened the door from the cage where the Glowing One had been held prisoner.

After that, Hell had ensued.

The waves of radiation coming from the creature had struck the ones brave or foolish enough to pose any resistance.

And Vulpes had kept putting bullets through flesh like no tomorrow.

Gabban had found, to his much chagrin, that, while he approved of the justice the Courier had brought upon one of the seediest parts of the Mojave… he didn't approve of what she was turning his brother into.

Under other circumstances, Vulpes' answer to what had transpired in the tunnels would have been colder, methodical, and more focused on obtaining results at any cost.

Perhaps repeating the Nipton move through gathering the merchants and clients and questioning them one by one, punishing the ones who would dare to lie to his face, and rewarding the ones who would strike deals with the Legion in exchange for keeping their miserable lives.

Gabban would have supported and even approved of this proceeding.

That was how a Frumentarius would have acted.

But this? They had not only severely crippled a steady information point, thus making it unavailable for future operations, but they also had made a statement: slavery wasn't tolerable anymore, even with those deemed sub-humans. And it was the Legion proclaiming it!

True that this would also send the message that Caesar's Legion wasn't to be trifled with. That them legionaries – again - were strong and they, wastrels, were weak.

And, perhaps, that the infamous Courier Six now worked for them.

Even if that statement was, in fact, quite the opposite.

As he had helped with the gunfight, Gabban had observed that Vulpes, whereas focused and lethal, seemed totally on Cloud Nine.

Gabban had never seen his brother being this ecstatic since they were children.

And the worst part of all was that the rest of the Frumentarii seemed equally infected by his enthusiasm, aiding in the fight without sticking to their usual group organization but blending in with the Profligates' own formation.

And there, directing the attack as if she were their Commander, the Courier Six's ire reigning ablaze; director of her own orchestra.

Once the deal was done, still panting from the effort, the girl had turned around, searching with her dark eyes until she had met Vulpes', who had given her a very out-of-character stupid grin whereas she had directed him an even stupider grin whilst she cleaned her nosebleed carelessly with a sleeve.

They looked like there was nobody else in the room but them.

They weren't touching each other, but Gabban bet that, given the opportunity, none of them would oppose the idea at all.

This was wrong. So, so incredibly wrong…

Desperate to find some support, Gabban was momentarily relieved when he saw Cassius' expression upon watching them together, as if he and Gabban were the only ones getting it, for the rest seemed totally oblivious of their boss' absorption with his target, hollering in celebration for their victory.

Nonetheless, the heat of the moment, blessedly, was brought down to a stop when the ghoul came accompanied by the Glowing One, now completely docile once the market space had been cleared.

"Boss." – the necrotic called – "I know that we should get a move on and all of that, but… I cannot leave her here."

"Her?" – was the sarcastic, almost dismissive question Ignatius posed, crossing his arms, a scoff in his tongue as he eyed the creature with unconcealed revulsion.

But the ghoul frowned, glaring at the legionary, who seemed to falter for a second. Clearly, the old man knew a thing or two about instigating respect.

"Yes, her." – the ghoul replied unflinchingly, hard – "This is a señorita (C) you're talking about. A señorita who has defeated most of those bastards single-handedly, so show her the respect and deference she deserves."

The Frumentarii exchanged looks, bewildered.

That… thing… emaciated, balding and corpse-like as it was, didn't look like a woman to them at all.

In fact, considering that sub-human as a woman couldn't be more ridic…

However, Gabban's thoughts were brusquely cut in half when Cassius took his jacket off and offered it silently to the naked Glowing One.

The creature eyed the offering almost with fear. Her eyes white but now more focused than before, looked at the necrotic by her side as if asking.

The Mexican ghoul nodded, and she took the offering, covering her glowing flesh, nodding in acknowledgment.

That a creature as fearsome and utterly defiled by radiation as a Glowing One could still act as remotely near as any other human being hadn't been a notion that had ever occurred to Gabban before.

In fact, now that he had the presumably female in front of him, he had to admit that she had a helpless, languid air around her, her pudor evident when she put the enormous jacket on, buttoning it up to the neck; hugging herself with her wizened, skeletal arms as if she were cold.

Didn't radiation burn, anyway?

Then, the Courier approached the necrotic pair. Her pre-War device beeped softly until she found an adequate distance between them.

"Hi." – she said to the irradiated female, to Gabban's much dismay – "I'm Six, and these are my friends. What's your name?"

The glowing necrotic gave her a helpless milky look until its white orbs landed upon a nearby bloodied corpse. Then, to Gabban's infinite disgust, she dug a finger into the fresh blood and started to write something on a wall.

Once she finished, it read a word. A name: Irina.

"Okay, Irina." – the Courier spoke once more – "You can tag along, but I warn you that we're looking for the Fiends' hideout down here to rescue one of us who got captured. If you're willing to take the risk, you're welcome to our party."

Were they seriously considering taking that dangerous thing with them?!

Again, Gabban directed his brother a questioning, almost pleading look for him to assume authority once more and end this madness.

However, yet again, Vulpes did nothing, expectant and downrightly enthralled as he was with the Courier's actions.

The Glowing One, Irina, gave them a slow nod.

And Gabban felt incredibly alone in this.


Out of practical sense more than respect for human life, he had allowed the Commie to live, which was more than her ilk deserved.

Besides, he could always come back if he needed other repairs for his implants or maintenance.

He had abused the usage of his enhancements to the point that he had to grab some medical equipment and medicines on his way out of the clinic. Then, he lit a fire on a nearby demolished building, disinfecting his cooking utensils before proceeding.

Mid-way the process, he had had to finish a group of stupid junkies who hadn't known when to quit. The good thing had been the First Aid Kit they had been guarding. Now he had all the water, syringes, and bandages he needed.

The bullets embedded in his arms as a result of the confrontation had been a bitch to extract when his pulse won't quit shivering.

Benzodiazepine, insulin, sodium valproate… and then, quetiapine.

A cocktail meant not only to stabilize his accelerated metabolism – being this the main cause of the seizures - but also as an antipsychotic to prevent the possibility of developing Schizophrenia.

He would know. Those were the specifics they were instructed on after the augmentation. Vault-Tec had tested it on enough organisms to know.

All illegal experiments that they, First-Class Marines, had endured for the common good, to win the War.

Fighting the convulsions as he injected the cooled solution into his forearm, he repeated his personal mantra as if it were the only thing that made sense in a world that didn't make sense anymore.

"I am an American Soldier…" – he began, the words lackluster in his broken, exhausted voice – "I am a warrior… and a member of a team." – was he? - "I serve the people of the United States… and live the Army Values." – did he? Did he still? – "I will always place the mission first." – yes – "I will never accept defeat." – never – "I will never quit." – no, never – "I will never leave a fallen comrade." – never again – "I am disciplined, physically and mentally tough, trained and proficient in my warrior tasks and drills." – damn straight he was – "I always maintain my arms, my equipment and myself." – always – "I am an expert and I am a professional." – that, he was. He still was – "I stand ready to deploy, engage, and destroy the enemies of the United States of America in close combat." – somewhere inside him, he still believed so; even if his actions, to this day, were questionable at best – "I am a guardian of freedom and the American way of life." – America for the Americans – "I am… an American Soldier."

Maybe he was a dead man walking. Maybe this wasn't the America he had fought for anymore.

But damn if he was going to allow a comrade to live the same shit he had been forced through.

Damn if he still wasn't a team player.

It wasn't negotiable; it wasn't relative… but absolute.

'Semper Fidelis'. Always loyal. Always.

That was the only thing that kept him wading through this dead country, meeting phantoms like him, trading tales of the past, asking themselves when all did turn this wrong.

He still hadn't all the answers… and he wasn't sure he wanted them anymore.

But he was sure of what he still believed. The very reason he had never quit.

The very reason she had never quit.

She needed him. He needed her. Comrades… betrayed by the very Army that made them family in the first place.

But you aren't a soldier if you cannot see past the corrupted system that has forsaken you, but the cause you were defending from the very start.

This was all he had.

So, regaining control over his own body and conflicted emotions, he got up, the night almost peeling off the desert's sky as the very skin he shed after the bombs.

His equipment was as good as he could get with so very few resources at his disposal. His body recovered, his brain at full speed as he weighed his options.

If his maps were correct, the nearest entrances were on the Westside, for he couldn't risk deviating so much from the original Vegas' sewage system.

So, he used The Thorn's access.

Nobody knew him there, and the clientele surrounding the fighting pit were even worse-looking than him, so he had no problem infiltrating, asking the local merchants for news about the underground system in New Vegas.

He found an old Afro-American woman with the filthiest teeth and nittiest dreadlocks ever who asked him how much he would be willing to pay for information.

She asked for a very steep fee that he paid without question.

"A group of nine individuals - a girl, a ghoul, a doctor, an albino, and a local gang - broke Hell loose around the Black Market the night before." – the woman, who went by the name of Dark Darla, informed him – "They forced everyone there to either run or fight before ransacking everything."

"Where is this Black Market you're talking about?" – he had asked, dead sure these were his runaways.

She had pointed it on his surface map so he could take a rough guess at where the nearest manhole to access it was.

He thanked her for the information and left the old crow counting greedily her caps.

He was on the right track now.


That evening, Dark Darla was assaulted by a group of beggars who had overheard her conversation with the monstrous redhead ghoul at The Thorn. They gutted her and took the caps she had wanted to spend on tobacco and a sweet piece of ass at the Casa Madrid Apartments because the whores there were cleaner and cooler than the ones at The Gray despite being substantially more expensive.

Never say that Karma didn't know her business, for she was a bitch.


LATIN:

(1) - "Light after the dark."


SPANISH:

(A) - "Yes. They're eyeing the younglings way too much."
(B) - "It's not right, Boss, it's not right."
(C) - lady


A/N: apologies for the delay, but I had HALF this chapter written from Burke's POV on his experience dealing with Six, and I felt... that it wasn't the right time to post that narrative just yet. So I copied the half chapter to another document and began again. Here's the result. I hope it was worth it despite the fact that the action was very short.

The Burke's POV thing will be posted either in the next chapter or the next of the next. I'm undecided. We will have to deal with him sooner or later and his take on the political maneuvers on the Wasteland.

Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: already changed the "meanie" part. I wasn't aware that it was so "unladylike" until you pointed it out XD I'm so glad you like her a little more now... she's very special, and the Fandom pays so little attention to her that it is sad. I plan on developing her take on the situation a bit more deeply; I just haven't found the right time to do so.

BTW, when you write, trust your gut, but always ask for insight from people who are invested in what you write. Don't discredit your work just because it is less huge than others.

Charon is truly a barebones character, and it's such a shame... but it worked out for me just fine, so I can give him a story of his own and why he does what he does. I know he's not such a powerhouse in F3, but he's dear to me nonetheless.

Thank you a lot for your suggestions and insights. They are very valued here, and they help me know if I'm doing things right ^^

Cheers to everyone. Thank you for that new Fav, and the next chapter is on the way ;) Action, action...