"Number Nine"
Ch. 27: Risk.
"With your hollow eyes
you keep coming back,
it begins to transform.
Can you spend the night?
Can you be the raft
in the eye of the storm?
Started slow.
Started late.
Started strong,
then we lost faith.
Started slow.
Started to lose control
the more we accelerate."
- Metric, "Risk"
"It didn't go too bad, did it?"
"As far as all Vera Keyes' movies usually go…"
"C'mon! At least I think they hit the budget pretty hard this time on the ambiance and wardrobe side!"
"Pretty much everything they spent some money on. Besides having Keyes, Berlyn, and Natali co-starring. And Natali is almost twice Keyes' age."
"Fifty doesn't make a man unattractive, you know, but I see your point. The love triangle part was a bit forced."
"The screenplay was ridiculous."
"Ha! That old lady on the front row was casting murdering glances at us when you started laughing."
"You also joined in!"
"That's because your laugh is contagious! I couldn't stop when Keyes said that 'ever since our freighter went down, I feel like my heart's fallen to the bottom of the ocean along with my career' bit, and you started coughing."
"That's because I imagined it as a self-fulfilling prophecy. With this choice of movies, I don't know how her manager still has his job."
"Because there will always be people like us who'll pay for watching Keyes play the tragic heroine part."
"Says you. I just came to get a handful."
"Oh, no, you don't!"
"And popcorn. Shame the beer was piss-quality."
"Stop it! You are incorrigible!"
"Only with the most spectacular lawyer in all of the U.S.A."
"Flatterer."
"Sounds right to me. After all, you accepted the ring of a guy that enlisted as soon as he got out of High School. I must be that charismatic."
"And muscular."
"What? Now I'm getting the booty treatment? You wound my dumb-dumb feelings, darling."
"You aren't dumb, hon."
"No, I'm just dense as fuck. History and Math always rubbed me the wrong way. The kid's got way better marks than what I managed when I still enjoyed going to school."
"It's called high capacities, silly. Nobody can compete with that in standard terms."
"No complaints here. Only that her University Degree will cost me a small fortune."
"We'll manage."
"We?"
"I didn't sign for the wife experience without including the little rascal in my Top Priority list. And that includes education expenses."
"She doesn't know how lucky she is to have you as a big sister."
"Oh, she knows alright. Who else would sneak her an extra pizza roll when you've explicitly stated she can only have four at dinner if not me?"
"Yeah."
They hadn't known she had been awake in her bed and had listened over the whole deal.
The following day, she had presented her clumsy version of breakfast to Big Bro and Big Sis' bed, kissing him on the cheek repeatedly while assuring him with a vehemence that he wasn't a dumb-dumb.
Her price?: a morning tickling marathon.
"Big Bro! Did they allow you entrance?! Are you testing the new engine as well? I have beaten the VR already!"
If Boone had been less shaken, he would have asked what the hell was going on.
"I have a whole squad on my own now, just like you! You see, I'm Captain, but… I miss you and Big Sis so much."
His left arm itched like hell, his head was spinning from the recent confrontation, and this place reeked so much of charred flesh that he wanted to puke.
"Has she managed to get back my custody already?"
It reminded him so much of Bitter Springs. Of the countless bonfires ignited to cremate corpses before critters came attracted by the stench. Of Gilles and the anger he had never managed to let go towards her and how her inability to act as a good leader had impacted his life from that point on.
"Can we go home now?"
It reminded him of the cold-blooded killer he knew himself capable of turning into.
Nevertheless, he ignored Gannon's tense expression when he approached the girlie, crouched to her visual height, took the visored helmet from her head, and put it on the ground.
He checked her state without uttering a single word, and she allowed him to rotate her head, looking for the damage he had known she had been reeling from.
He had allowed this. He had gone on with the mission like a soldier would, just like her.
It had never occurred to him before just how unhealthy that tendency was, to prioritize a mission over your own wellbeing. To follow orders blindly without some reasonable questioning first.
Had he learned nothing?
"Girlie." – he said after making a full recount of wounds, noticing the multiple bleeding gaps through the armor done by very different calibers. How she could shrug it off like it was nothing was what truly scared him – "Gimme the gun."
Her dreamy, unfocused expression frowned slightly as if the meaning of his words was taking some time before her brain could decode it. The screen of her Pip-Boy emitted odd intermittent flashing.
"Why?" – she asked, as if not understanding his demand.
"You've done your part already." – he replied, too tired to elaborate further, too afraid to care – "Fight's over. You need some patching up." – inhaling shakily, he added as an afterthought – "You need to stop."
"Patching up?" – she echoed, to his increasing distress, her mousey voice still confused – "Big Bro, this is a simulation! As soon as I'm ending the enemy, everybody else who's still alive will wake up in their respective pods." – she explained as if she were stating the obvious, sinking her pistol's muzzle further into the redhead's scalp as if that'll prove a point – "I pull the trigger, session's over."
Boone took her face with both of his hands softly. Such a little face she had; his hands - one normal, the other scarred - big enough to crush it should he really want to.
"No, girlie." – he shook his head – "You pull that trigger, you'll end up splattered in brains. Nothing more." – he explained – "You're awake, you're bleeding, and this ain't your Vault's pod."
Her frown deepened.
"No, that can't… that can't be right." – she denied, quickly pointing her gun toward Gannon, who had dared to approach a few steps to them, most likely to assist – "Don't move!" – she ordered; her eyes fluctuating between glassy and cold while an incipient nervous tick at the corner of her mouth came out more noticeable – "You… you're not a dummy character, aren't you? Who's this, Big Bro?" – she demanded, switching her eyes to Boone, her voice lowering – "Is he… one of them?"
"'Them' who, girlie?"
"The scientists." – she whispered, eyeing now Gannon nervously – "They're in charge of…" – she trailed off, now eyeing him again, her eyes widening out of a sudden as if realizing something – "No… not you too! WHY?!" – she screamed, her eyes shifting between the Followers doctor and him crazily, her pulse around the gun shaking – "Why use him as bait?! Haven't you had enough rummaging in and out our minds, you sick fucks?!" – she yelled, her attention now entirely focused on Gannon, who watched the scene unfold before his eyes paralyzed, frozen on spot – "Hadn't you done enough already?! How much until this shit ends?! The recordings of the nuclear attack you showed us are fake; I know it! You're detaining us here illegally! I WANNA GO HOME WITH MY FAMILY!"
Boone still didn't know what was going on, but demanding answers had been out of the question the very instant the room had overflown with Veronica, Lily, the dog, and the charlatan along with his brother entering like a whirlwind.
Boone wasn't sure what had triggered her, but the moment the girlie had started screaming, his hands had disarmed her automatically while his arms had encased her to keep from trashing.
"No! NO!" – she was blabbering madly, crying, giggling hysterically, attempting to headbutt him as he contained her – "Supermutants aren't real! The Wasteland isn't real! Everything's been a dream, a dream…" – before he could keep her from hurting herself further, one of her little hands uncovered the forearm of the other, showing a vast perforation with the bullet still embedded inside that she didn't waste any time in digging out with her fingers. The gruesome trophy she got from her bloodied flesh put an instant horrified expression on every single person present, including Lily – "See this?! It's a lie! A fucking lie! Just like the rest of you! This is all in my imagination…" – eyeing Boone again, her maddened countenance shifted into pure desperation – "Please, let's go back home. Let's…" – she didn't get to keep on her mad ranting when her eyes rolled back, and she lost consciousness.
Gannon launched into full medic role as soon as Boone got the girlie off the redhead, laying her prone while aiding in whatever the blonde man asked of him.
"That loony bitch…" – he heard distantly the redhead croaking, making a pitiful attempt to get up despite that Veronica was already on him, pinning him back to the ground where he belonged – "… She's Enclave." – coughing, he continued – "She kept… talking shit about Communists and the U.S.A…" – then, he began laughing – "How low… the motherfucking almighty Republic has fallen… conscribing not only criminals among their backbone forces but also enlisting the help of… Enclave trash and supermutants…" – he added, giving Lily a disgusted look – "And… Brotherhood of Steel as well?" – he said, throwing Veronica a knowing look, first to her Power Fist, then to her, taking her horrified expression as a yes – "Never thought Tin Cans would sign in… with the ones who massacred them at HELIOS One." – he snickered revoltingly, clearly enjoying Veronica's growing discomfort – "I was there, you know… And I enjoyed every second of shooting down Power-Armored bastards… how they screamed as we filled them with lead…" – Veronica's hand encircling his gullet did nothing to persuade him from keeping talking – "… Then, Oliver sold us out… wanted to relocate forces as soon as we recovered the power plant… to Hoover Dam." – he grinned – "Deserters now get the bullet, but back then… they needed workers at the rail lines. So… here we are…" – spitting on the ground, the piece of shit still had more rope to give when he started with the venom-spitting again – "You think… this victory earns you winning points with the Skirts at the other side of the river? No matter… how many criminals, raiders, or petty tribes you'll shoot down… you'll end up invariably sucking Legion cock… or bending over so House can stick his mechanical dick up y…"
A sudden BANG! deafened Boone momentarily, and as he swiftly turned around to ask Veronica about it, he found that the Scribe was getting up from her kneeling position over what now was a Powder Ganger corpse. Clean shot between the brows.
And the one who had pulled the trigger had been the charlatan who, for once, didn't have anything else to add on the matter.
Nobody said anything as everyone nodded, accomplices of a reality that wasn't meant to leave this room.
That worked for Boone just fine.
As soon as the tall, pale one had pulled the trigger, Sergeant Li - or 'Lee' as his men knew him - had turned heel to the corridor, where he had been eavesdropping, tripping over several corpses and rubble in his unsubtle flight. He had to find himself a quiet place. The situation was already controlled downstairs with what remained of his men.
He still had the two-way emergency radio. The signal should be strong enough to reach Primm's outskirts. If one of Hayes' boys or one of the Rangers was within reach, luck would smile upon him.
One of the other offices the Powders had used to store up dynamite, ammo, and a dog-eared copy of Lying, Congressional Style had a terminal.
Li rewired the broken screen to the best of his abilities and attempted to get the machine back in shape a few times, managing to get it powered up… but connection just would not happen. Guess the only working terminal had been at the deceased Warden's office before the Courier had blown the whole place off.
He had already tried the radio a few times with little success. He got a coverage line once he got himself on top of the terminal's desk near a window.
"Emergency, emergency. Sergeant Lee, transmitting from the NCRCF, come in."
He let go of the air mouthful he had been containing as soon as he heard static.
"This is Hayes. God, I'm glad you've made it, Sergeant. Have you managed to beat down the Powders? Over."
Luck was being generous with him this time.
"Affirmative. Lieutenant, there's something you need to hear…"
"Say again, Sergeant. Transmission isn't good out there. Sandstorm coming up East. Over."
"Break, break. I spell: Echo, November, Charlie, Lima, Alpha, Victor, Echo. Over."
Static noise.
"Sergeant, say all after 'break, break'. Interferences breaking the connection. Over."
Couldn't this stupid gadget be useful for once?!
"Lieutenant, I repeat: Echo, November, Charlie, Lima, Alpha, Vict… ARGH!"
The inhumane pressure that seized his trachea didn't allow him to keep vocalizing. It soon rendered him unable to produce a sound… or even breathe.
His sight wavered while he kept struggling uselessly against his attacker, whose olive skin he didn't identify in the first instance, but soon recognized when Li clawed his skull and forced him to come face to face.
It was one of the Courier's cohorts. One of those tribals. The big Hispanic.
The radio had already slipped out of his hand when the first asphyxia stertors kicked in.
He died believing the Republic had been played by a foe they had thought destroyed long ago.
The reality too complex and far-fetched to wrap his mind around.
Frumentarius Cassius, once Miguel of Los Nuevos Nahuas, maintained his death grip on the way smaller, much weaker NCR Asian man he had caught trying to inform his superiors about the current situation.
And there was nothing to inform about.
Once the man's body lay flaccid between his arms, Cassius dropped him and stomped over his neck. Just in case. Couldn't hurt to be extra cautious given the present company and circumstances.
He was glad the confrontation with these NCR criminals was over. Since he had lost sight of Gabban, he intended to follow the Courier throughout the correctional facilities.
It hadn't been easy to discern her among the stripes and navy blue once she had shifted uniforms. Her infiltration abilities had nothing to envy to any good Legion agent.
Then, the capture of the leader of the Powder Gangers had disclosed some interesting yet highly damaging speculations that the Republicans shouldn't be in possession of.
He had waited for the Sergeant to retreat into one of the offices, sticking an ear to listen to the report. Any intel on the NCR's next moves was as good as any other intel gathered via Picus and the rest of McCarran's agents.
As soon as he had heard the spelling the first time, his training had kicked in.
Taking the fallen emergency radio, he decided to keep it for later. Maybe Gabban or even Inculta would find some use to it.
And, speaking of the Devil…
Arms crossed, casual posture leaning against the closest wall next to the office's door, the Master Frumentarius crossed a brief acknowledging glance with Cassius when the latter picked the book he had glimpsed inside the office and closed the door behind him.
If tolerant and mostly friendly with literally anybody who deigned to strike a conversation with him, Cassius was an outgoing, sociable legionary who, if asked, would never dare to say out loud that, most of the time, he didn't think much of their Commander other than he was an excellent strategist.
Cassius didn't even like him half of the time.
However, he had discovered as of late that a legionary didn't necessarily need to like his Commander but simply trust his criteria.
Trust that he'll be honorable enough to do the right thing. To understand where the Legion boundaries lie when it comes to men under his command.
And, to his much surprise, Inculta had proven his leadership capabilities by simply watching over his men's wellbeing, even if he didn't know the majority of them personally.
Even if he didn't truly care for them on an individual level.
Inculta had done him right by rescuing Felix, ignoring the usual standard procedure in these cases. Cassius wasn't going to look a gift radhorse in the mouth.
His Commander had done him right, and he, in turn, had done the other right by preserving the Courier's undercover alliance with the Republicans.
He wasn't going to question whether Inculta had known right away or they had simply coincided in the corridor. They merely exchanged silent nods and abandoned the place once the office's door was conveniently locked. That should give them time before they found the corpse. Getting rid of it was too risky around so much NCR military presence.
Maybe Inculta and he would never understand each other in too deep, but Cassius' gratitude and loyalty would stay true to the one who had proven him to be the leader they needed.
If there were truths that traveled consistently from the West Coast to the very heart of the Mojave, those were facts regarding the San Francisco contributions to the NCR. Being these the Presidential Vertibird, nicknamed 'Bear Force One', and Colonel James Hsu, a soldier who had made himself to some distinction out of hard work that could already be General… if he were less hostile to President Kimball's political schemes with the military, that is.
Thus, allowing war hawks such as Lee Oliver or Cassandra Moore to be stationed in more privileged posts, such as Hoover Dam – filled to the brim with House's securitrons to add on the extra security and making sure of the equal sharing of resources as contemplated in the Treaty.
Whereas Oliver's administrative post had been initially at McCarran, his obsession with building a garrison at the Dam (or also known as his personal version of how to size dick with Caesar perched at Fortification Hill, amassing troops as if the sight of them would make the other man's resolve to waver at seeing such a concentration of forces) had taken him at the front lines, breathing down Moore's neck while leaving Hsu at the head of his former post, having to deal with all the questionable administrative decisions regarding the diversion of resources to more strategic issues rather than addressing the barebones defense he had left at the Northwest encampments and Ranger Stations distributed around the western shore of Lake Mead. Plus, the weak points that Nelson and Camp Hope had posed after the Reds had managed to set camp at Cottonwood Cove more than a year ago without any effort.
Nelson had been torched, and Camp Hope had been given the disheartening but understandable moniker of 'Forlorn Hope'.
To notice that the Ranger Station Echo, Northeast of the Coyote Mines, had been the last bastion to resist among enemy territory up to this day was a piece of evidence too inconvenient for Oliver to pay any attention to or even admit on paper. No wonder Hanlon was always so fed up with the General's persistent competitive bullshit with the Rangers. His ingenuous strategy at Hoover Dam five years ago may have bought the Republic a victory, but it had also signed Hanlon on Oliver's blacklist for life.
A sad reality James had come to terms with the very moment he had sat in front of the mountainous pile of bureaucracy in the form of endless papers he had been handed to deal with over his desk. Many reports and requests had already been half a year old and still untouched.
A Shi by birth's right, his mother had inculcated him since his most tender childhood the importance of honor, duty, and hard work. Three primordial pillars that sustained any society worthy of mention.
Which, once again, due to her Shi roots, didn't include the pre-War American society despite their meteoric socio-economical growth due to their Capitalist philosophy during the nineteenth, twentieth, and twenty-first centuries.
Which, ironically, had been the catalyst that had turned their country into an irradiated Wasteland.
Historical records, as well as political grudges, were nowadays an obscure thing of the distant past his mother had never wanted to dwell much on; but the beliefs and the cultural upbringing were still there. Constantly present in a community that had thrived from the remains of an old nuclear Chinese submarine to become the predominant citizenship in San Francisco.
Born a daughter of the Scientific Caste, James' mother, contravening her parents' wishes, had abandoned the strictly hierarchical, feudal structure of the Steel Palace to pursue a career in medicine rather than research at the Angel's Boneyard Medical University. Without a cap to her name or any protection on the roads, she had traveled from San Fran down the West Coast to the Boneyard.
There, still a teenager, she had met James' father and, once again, contravening her parents' wishes about not to marry a 'Round Eyes', her will had prevailed, and then, a year later, James Hsu had come to this world.
That had been thirty-seven years ago, and, despite that making James relatively young among NCR brass, every single year weighed heavily on the Colonel.
Somewhat of a connoisseur about the bitter aftertaste the political and military situation in the Mojave had left on the NCR, James' understanding in the annexation that Robert House had agreed with them, raking in their soldiers' profits while making the Republic go on a stale post guarding around from the threat the Legion posed, didn't make his work any easier every single time a complaint from The Strip on account of some misbehaving NCR troopers reached his desk, and he had to sort it out as calmly as possible.
For calm is what you have to be when people look at you. And it's all you can be when things are out of your hands.
That had been his mother's motto every single day she had to treat a new medical case to face the rudeness and ungratefulness from one too many Wastelanders, all of them citizens of a Republic that, apparently, hadn't taught them any good manners towards people that weren't either in a better monetarily, influential, or powerful situation than them.
Nevertheless, that very Republic had been his country as well.
James had entered the military out of a sense of honor, wanting to see the world, to help change the system into a better version of itself, to protect the place he called home.
A shame his mother had never shared his vision of how honor, valor, and fairness worked. Strict traditional Shi mother in the end despite everything. It seemed the intergenerational disappointment was served in their family.
A sudden knock followed by a somewhat disheveled trooper prompted James' left brow to draw a whole arc. If there was something he was fastidious about, that was protocol and good manners.
"Yes?" - he asked, tone even, with a slight mildly irritated frown. Calm, James, calm.
"Colonel Hsu, sir!" – the evidently younger man saluted, out of breath from a likely quick sprint – "We have received an urgent communication from Lieutenant Hayes, from Primm's encampment, sir!"
"Very well." – James replied, elbows over his desk – "Lay it out to me."
"Received radio distress call from Sergeant Lee from successful aftermath at the NCRCF. Stop. Quotation. Echo, November, Charlie, Lima, Alpha, Victor. Close quotation. Stop." – the trooper read diligently after unfolding the crumpled paper still on his fist – "Communication lost presumably before finishing message. Stop. Unable to establish contact again. Stop. Awaiting orders. Stop. End of message."
James' frown intensified considerably.
"Let me see that telegram." – he demanded, extending an open palm where the aforesaid crumpled paper was immediately deposited.
His frown grew frustrated when the groups of letters before his eyes didn't contribute to shedding some light on this new mystery.
Despite the evident lack of the last vowel, one could easily decipher its meaning.
And the inability to contact back with the remittent was worrisome enough to start with the due nasty speculations.
From the NCRCF, the very same place that had swallowed Nathan - former prison Warden in charge and an old comrade from Modoc - almost immediately after calling in for a favor that James had been unable to even put into practice.
The very same place the Courier had asked to be sent with reinforcements to take the place back from the rebel convicts' hands.
The officer in charge of the assault sends this message, and then, he can be reached no more. Too many coincidences.
Maybe Boyd's suspicions about the girl and her ragtag group weren't unfounded, after all. Or maybe this was one of her cohorts being a mole, thus also using her influence to infiltrate the NCR. If he had to take a guess, he would venture one of the tribals. Maybe the albino that accompanied her everywhere. Didn't know why, but that one had given James the heebie-jeebies - never blinking and barely moving, like a bird of prey. Fit the bill - young, body-abled, muscular, and male -, too. But so many of the others did as well.
However… Enclave? This far from Navarro and four decades since the Poseidon Oil Rig went to hell? Nothing made sense.
And the Courier, if her infamous letter was any evidence, came from the East Coast. Nothing to do with either the Legion or the Enclave. However… that floating pet robot of hers many of his men gossiped about that she no longer had by her side…
James realized that he shouldn't have allowed the Courier to abandon McCarran after the terrorist attack. Strange events happen wherever she goes.
He had to make a decision.
"Very well." – he repeated mechanically – "Send another telegram to Primm's encampment, tell them to relocate to the old prison to whip it back into shape. No sense in keeping their forces detained there when the contention is no longer necessary." – raising a hand before the soldier could turn around, he added sternly – "Order him to open an investigation as well regarding Sergeant Lee's message. I want to speak with that man." – sighing, he nodded tiredly – "You are dismissed."
"Sir, yes, sir!" – the young man exclaimed enthusiastically before turning heel and leaving Hsu's office, not even saluting. Must be from the new batch. Those boys came here with so very little preparation time…
Nevertheless, the incipient headache he had been nursing from this very morning when the thermometers had signaled a considerable increment on the temperature in comparison with the previous day - damn Mojave with its nearly-nonexistent period between seasons -, got worse when the good Colonel Hsu received yet another dispatch from Boyd, not ten minutes since that rookie had left his office.
Apparently, she had caught yet another Legion infiltrator before he could have attempted to slit his own throat. Possibly an accomplice of the one that the Courier had caught red-handed and killed at the control tower. And she was asking James to meet her in the interrogation room.
Grateful for being allowed to leave that asphyxiating office slowly sucking away his energy, Colonel Hsu checked his beret, then his armor's straps, and took the stairs up the second floor of the terminal building. He even treated himself with a coffee from the machines to aid him in swallowing his anti-migraine medication, two-hundred-year-old vanilla flavor, and lots of sugar - totally radless, thanks to House, he supposed.
After all, another Legion prisoner was good news.
"Lieutenant." – he saluted upon reaching the entrance of the interrogation room, where a very nervous Corporal MP stood next to the Lieutenant.
Who, in turn, wore the gravest expression James had ever seen in the woman. And, boy, was she tough as nails, never wavering in the face of Legion psycho assholes. They were her specialty.
That was why James had her in charge of the policing around camp.
"Sir." – she replied a tad forcefully.
He discovered the reason not ten seconds at the other side of the soundproof crystal, the door's entrance tightly shut behind Boyd, casting shadows around James' eyes.
"What is the meaning of this, Boyd?" – he dared to ask, his voice sounding steadier than he genuinely felt.
By his left, the woman harrumphed.
"I kept tabs on the control tower since the Monorail incident myself, not knowing whom to trust at this point. Something not adding up with Private Crenshaw being the mole." - inhaling deeply, she continued – "There was a temporary stopping in the nightly trespasses… until today."
"You mean…?"
"That Crenshaw, as weird as it sounds, wasn't the mole, and the Courier's group was either deceived by a third party or direct accomplices in the terrorist attack? Absolutely, sir."
Taking a hand to his face, James pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly.
"Are you alright, sir?" – Boyd asked politely.
He was sorely tempted to yell at her that no, that he wasn't fucking alright.
For sitting casually, wrists and ankles firmly chained to the chair sustaining his weight, was Captain Ronald Curtis, the official James had destined to lead the mole investigation in the first place.
A man he, in the last year, had come to consider as a friend… and daresay more – if protocol, rank, and appearances wouldn't have been so important to a traditionally-raised Shi like James, that is. Never say tradition didn't protect you on some occasion when the matters of the heart weighed more than duty and honor.
However, like many other disappointments throughout his life, such a notion now didn't hold any further significance.
Not anymore.
Having him sitting there, regrettably, would explain a lot. The more if James took into account that Ronald had been in the NCR military long before their initial conflict with the Legion. These guys were way more foresighted than them. That was why they were always one step ahead of them.
Inhaling deeply while pressing his thumb and index fingers into his closed eyelids, James regained a flimsy measure of that very calmness that was so precious right now.
Because he would need to stay calm through this.
"Perfectly fine, thank you." – was his measured response – "Get that door open, Lieutenant. I wish to speak with the Legion prisoner."
Better start addressing him as what he was. That would make things easier. At least on his part.
"Yes, sir."
However, before that order could come into effect, the very same trooper that had brought Primm's telegram to James had managed to find him once again… and tripped himself in a very inelegant fashion inside the soundproof chamber.
"Colonel Hsu, sir!" – he exclaimed, once again, out of air.
"I'm sorry, sir!" – the MP behind him apologized – "I couldn't dissuade him from waiting outside!"
Indeed, if patience was a virtue, James must be a very virtuous man.
"What now, Private?" – although patient doesn't equal charming when the current situation is starting to wear one's nerves down.
Slightly taken aback, the trooper eyed James, then Boyd nervously.
"T-there's a situation at the western wall… that you should see, sir." – he added, almost timidly.
James suppressed the groan of frustration and impotence he wanted so… so badly to release.
"What is it?" – he asked at last – "Fiends again?"
"N-no, sir."
Giving up, he allowed the Private to escort him to one of their western watchpoints, where a sniper immediately lent him a pair of binoculars.
Then, the blood froze in his veins.
"What should we do, sir?" – the sniper asked, going for his portable radio.
James licked his lips before answering.
"Hostile behavior whatsoever?" – he dared to ask.
"None at the moment, sir."
"Could it be the Gun Runners?" – he ventured.
"Not that we are aware of, sir. We radioed them a while ago, and they denied involvement."
James pinched his chin pensively.
"Has anybody noticed previous signs of this? Anything at all?"
"Major Kieran, in the Freeside, radioed a while ago speaking of an invasion of sorts, but we weren't able to get much more since Freeside interferences, as you already know, sir, are pretty common up there."
"Hmmm." – James replied noncommittally. Maybe the two events were unrelated, maybe not.
"C-could it be… the Brotherhood…?" – the trooper chanced.
Putting on the binoculars again, James gave the field a critical look.
"No, Private." – he concluded somberly – "This isn't a Brotherhood of Steel move. At all."
The deal with moving Sullivan hadn't needed much prodding on Gannon's part when Betsy and what was left of the 1st Recon Alpha Team had been pertinently informed of the situation.
Bitter-Root had volunteered to go fetch the truck they had left at Primm's encampment, being he in perfect working shape to run and one of the few people with enough authority to boss around the driver.
Meanwhile, recovering Gorobets' corpse and accommodating the wounded around the infirmary had taken priority, while Gannon had devised how to properly ensemble a makeshift portable stretcher with the insurmountable amount of trash and neglected materials around.
Vulpes had helped with the latter not merely because he could use the knowledge, but he also didn't want to move a finger in the Republicans' favor, as petty as it had sounded after everything that's happened.
Besides, he was so incredibly anxious that he feared he could do something incredibly stupid if he didn't occupy himself with a task as mechanical as building resources out of scrap.
During the fight, Yes Man had kept oversaturating the chat with warnings, mute calls for help, and medical prognosis regarding its readings on the Courier's metrics. All of it he hadn't read until it had been too late.
He hadn't hesitated to share what little he had known with the Followers doctor, who had started tinkering with the girl's device, choosing what meds to administer based on what information he managed to get.
However, his treatment had put the young man's hair on edge when he had perforated the girl's nape with a disinfected needle… and left the instrument inside her.
Then, quick bandaging while he had accommodated the makeshift cervical collar that they had managed to get out of parts of rusty braces covered in gauze and bandages.
Sullivan's hand had felt terribly cold despite the pulse Vulpes kept finding on her wrist and index finger.
Bitter-Root's return, along with the blessed transport, couldn't have come quickly enough.
Nevertheless, after leaving a random Private that Betsy had met during the fight in charge of the rest of the surviving forces when they had failed at finding – to much of the Frumentarius' relief – Sergeant Lee with little more than a radio; they had departed packing the Lieutenant's corpse in a bag, Sullivan's stretcher, an abused unknown woman who had presumably been a captive of the Powders, and a convalescent Cassidy demanding to know where her whiskey flask was.
Vulpes had been allowed a brief moment of respite from his looping, panicking mind when he had returned the empty flask to the enraged woman who, upon learning her poison of choice had been used in the creation of Molotov cocktails, had called him names he wouldn't repeat in polite company. Not that he had minded… or cared, for all intents and purposes.
Then, his anxiety had spiraled up to dizzying heights the more they had spent inside the truck, negotiating for the fifth consecutive time with Betsy and the Republicans whether it was more prudent to move the wounded to the New Vegas' Clinic instead of going back to McCarran.
Apparently, Hsu - the cunning desk rat - had issued them orders to take the Courier and her cohorts back to McCarran, indistinctly of the battle's outcome.
So, they had been arrested after all.
Significant glances between Vulpes and Gabban had been all the Fox had needed to know. There was an escape plan on the move.
And, also, apparently, Becky and Gannon were in for it.
Even if he wasn't a true believer, Vulpes thanked Mars for having such an anticipatory brother, for his current state of mind wasn't the most ideal to start concocting a viable plan to escape from the Republicans that didn't include violence in the mix.
They shouldn't have trusted the NCR to aid them in ending the Powder Gangers. They should have devised a plan with at least a week of preparations like they had done before, maybe enlisting the aid of Reed and his people again, instead of relying on the usually poor strategy the Bear Nation was universally known for.
Then, maybe this situation with Sullivan in such a critical state could have been avoided.
Gannon wasn't sharing much information regarding her status other than her maniac outburst at the Administration building had been a product of hallucinations, also a product of the bullet she had received – ironically, once again – at Goodsprings during the retaking.
What he wasn't telling was how he hadn't noticed something out of place before other than mere clinical speculations of his own and faint sedation symptomatology.
And that took us to the sniper dog. Her supposed 'guardian'.
Who was showing an annoying penchant for being as useless as the rest of his fellow countrymen in protecting, quite literally, ANYTHING or ANYONE.
Becky had been the only one noticing something wrong with the Courier, and she, regrettably, had failed at keeping her safe as well, allowing her to carve her way throughout the NCRCF compound while hallucinating she was undergoing a fictional mission.
Or, at least, that had been the explanation he had obtained out of prodding Yes Man incessantly – by rearranging sentence construction; using an ample variety of verbal tenses, vocabulary, and reformulations; passive-aggressive tone and the like, all on the persuasion side, using very different approaches and arguments, making it the most intellectually challenging task he had ever undergone while incognito since the blasted AI was able to read his metrics as well through his Pip-Boy, intuiting whether he was being honest or not - until he had found a way to force the AI's recursion algorithm to go off script by half-answering his inquiries.
And, by 'half-answering', he meant that the AI, ultimately, had generated more questions than it had answered Vulpes.
Symptomatology? Sure. Source of said symptomatology? Vague. Circumstances and motives that had led to it? Zero.
How he cursed Sullivan's advanced knowledge of machines over his own right now.
And how he hated not having even a slice of control over what was happening anymore.
He wasn't even in control of his own emotions the more his fingers kept finding Sullivan's pulse persistently, trying to reassure himself every five minutes that she was still alive and she would make it out of this one. That she had cheated death once, and she would do it again; that she wasn't as fragile as her physical appearance seemed to suggest; that she would open her eyes to find him frowning with the due scold she deserved ready on his tongue.
And that spooked him to no end.
The only thing he seemed in control of was his impervious facial expression, set on his custom default indifference as if nothing could touch him. Deceivingly relaxed muscles around hyper-alert eyes, tongue sticking rigidly to the palate. His safety mask.
The very same mask he used to switch off every time a plan turned out wrong, an exchange went unpredictable, Caesar was in the middle of one of his moods, or… the guilt for even being allowed to breathe became too much.
He had grown to appreciate the solitude his position as Commander had brought to the privacy of his tent, where he usually took care of matters later instead of snapping as violently as he would have liked. Never mind having Gabban walking in always 'by pure chance' to stop him from his manic loops that would vary between mending, sharpening, cleaning, or polishing things that didn't need any attention at all… and plain self-harming routine that included doing sets of repetitive exercises until it hurt or, at the worst cases, start gnawing at his wrists.
Gabban called the deal 'the creepy calmness' and said it was one of the spookiest traits of Vulpes' character. One he excelled at, actually. For the Savage Fox had mastered the art of deceiving even himself, his impulses, his doubts, his fears… whatever that could spell 'weakness'. Indistinctly of what he could be feeling at the moment.
As long as the mask remained in place, any fight-or-flight responses would be delayed for as long as it was necessary. Relief would come later.
Sometimes much, much later. And the more aggressive, the better.
Unconsciously, his hand had closed around Sullivan's, allowing him to admire just how small hers looked compared to his own, able as he was to encase her tiny fist inside his.
No more than a handful of hours ago, she had been joking, laughing, and bantering amicably on his lap. This tiny hand he now held in his' waving him goodbye when each had gone with their respective group.
He had missed her form tucked against his' when they had awoken together in the plane, relishing in the calmness that had washed over him by listening to her quiet breathing… and now he missed her moving, snuggling, whispering closeness in the gloom, where her dark eyes shone the most. Her fingers combing through his hair, her soft lips kissing the top of his head. Forgiving, rational, and warm in one. Something he hadn't known he had needed in his life so badly and desperately up until recently.
Back on that cold rooftop over The Tops, he would have never imagined that the inadequate, inconvenient girl who had taught him about technology and music could become this important to him in a matter of months. To the point of regarding her as painfully vital.
Just the very same he professed towards what remained of his family. And of the sacrifices he would make to keep them alive.
He had realized this upon seeing her digging for that bullet lodged in her forearm, screaming that none of them were real. That everything had been a dream.
That she wanted to go home with her family.
"Sergeant!" – the driver called for Bitter-Root from the cabin – "New Vegas Clinic on sight!"
Something didn't add up the very instant Vulpes' eyes landed upon the old garage premises while transporting Sullivan's stretcher out of the truck once they had parked. Crows perched everywhere.
"Wait." – he whispered to Gannon by his side – "This place… it looks abandoned."
Blinking behind his dusty spectacles, the doctor signaled Boone to wait, the stretcher with its patient aboard hanging awkwardly between the legionary and the Republican, who immediately frowned at each other, mirroring the brief, infantile idea of starting struggling for imaginary ownership.
Approaching the building with his plasma pistol unsheathed, Gannon neared the entrance to find it open.
"It's… deserted." – he informed after taking a brief peek at the gloomy interior – "They must have moved for some reason. They haven't even left furniture to speak about. It doesn't look like a raid to me."
Before anyone else could speak up, Betsy rose from her seat.
"Then, there's nothing more we can do. To McCarran, it is." – she said, narrowing her eyes behind her shades when she received several discontented looks coming from Sullivan's group and the Frumentarii – "We agreed to try our luck here since you said they had advanced medical equipment here." – she added, eyeing Gannon – "If they wouldn't attend us, we'll follow our original orders to escort you back to McCarran. This is such a case. End of discussion."
Vulpes watched how muted looks of agreement traveled between Gabban and the men, knowing they wouldn't budge this time around… and he himself wasn't going to stop them.
Because he wasn't eager to get back into NCR custody. And Sullivan needed the Followers, not what a field NCR physician could offer in a military camp clinic. He'd rather have her at the Old Mormon Fort, where he could be sure she would be treated with care and not like yet another meat bag.
Violence would have to do.
"What the…"
All heads turned around in unison upon the sudden disturbance in the quiet air. The corvids flapped black wings around until the old electric pylons they had been resting on remained gaunt, unshattered.
"Threat analysis... green. Standing down." - a mechanical voice wheezed – "Do not interfere with security operations."
Betsy's knuckles whitened around her rifle while the rest observed the small retinue composed of six operative sentry bots and two… whatever the hell those feminized robots were, surround them and place guard subroutines around the truck.
And everyone knew, at least, that to engage a single one of those sentry bots would be suicidal out in the open.
"Assaultrons…" – Vulpes heard Becky whispering, her eyes studying the distinctly feminine bots with both interest and apprehension – "Who the hell owns assaultrons around here? The Mojave isn't one of those pre-War hidden-cache places they used to pile up emergency stockpiles for the Alaska conflict…"
Nevertheless, the answer came rolling up not a couple hundred feet behind.
"Fancy meeting ye here, folks! Ye lot look like all could use a Sarsaparilla!" – the dissonantly cheery synthetic voice of Victor, Mr. House's distinct securitron, filled the sudden, tense silence – "Now, would ya look at that!" – it exclaimed, fixing its screen sensors upon Sullivan's unconscious form – "Bad, bad news for the Boss having his favorite employee detained with a foot already in the Bone Orchard. Fortunately, looks like I've rolled in time before we all got in a bad box, hey?" – it added, fixing its screen towards Betsy, who grabbed her rifle with even more force in response.
If Vulpes didn't know better, he would say that the machine had a certain cynical streak of humor programmed in its code.
Nevertheless, he waited for neither one of the Republicans to open their mouth, nor he relied on Gannon's reflexes to seize the opportunity in time as he stepped in.
"We need clearance to take the Courier to the Old Mormon Fort in Freeside so she can be treated with proper medical equipment." – he explained as seemingly innocently as he could muster, increasingly aware of the deepening frowns from the snipers – "However, there seems to be a… ah, a bureaucratic problem with that, I'm afraid."
"Oh, really, flannel mouth?" – Victor replied, apparently following the game. Its screen's interface slowly morphing, pixel by pixel, from jolly cowboy with a cigar hanging from his mouth to frowning, disturbingly-grimacing cowboy – "That's too bad…" – it added, turning towards the Recons, action that was immediately mimicked by the rest of the present machines – "The Boss wasn't informed that there would be a detainment at all. That ain't a proper response for lending a helping hand, no sir!"
"Neither were we informed about it… before the NCRCF assault." – he added, putting the cherry on top of the tensest silence ever that ensued.
The machines around clicked and whirred, metallic pincers slowly rotating, red lights igniting.
Oh, but he could smell the fear in those three pathetic Republican lapdogs…
"Enough." – and just when it was getting interesting for once… - "We just wanna ensure the girlie gets medical treatment." – ever the mood-breaker, still indecisive between playing the patriot or the protector, making him keep failing spectacularly at both. Sweet Sullivan should get rid of him before he turned up the backstabber he was meant to be in the long run – "McCarran's clinic cannot help her at this point. We have a medic here that can attest to this." – he finished, nodding to Gannon, who in turn (for once) had reflexes enough to go along with the script.
"She needs a very specific surgery that, if my assumptions are correct, will be relying heavily on the usage of an AutoDoc, which is an appliance I haven't seen at McCarran's clinic." – turning to the 1st Recon Team, he implored – "Please…"
Wishing diplomacy will, for once, fail; the Master Frumentarius didn't get what his morbid tendencies demanded out of the situation (for… what could be better than nudging the involved parties into shattering the Treaty?) when Betsy finally caved by simply uttering two sentences.
"We're coming as well. We also have a medical case of our own and could use the aid."
Taking out the bloodied plastic gloves with trembling hands, Arcade Israel Gannon turned around in time to find the sink that, luckily for him, the surgery room had available and threw up violently until he felt better.
By his right, Dr. Yui Usanagi observed his shameful display with grave eyes.
The aftermath silence could have been cut with a knife. Or a scalpel, for all intents and purposes.
"The needle was an ingenious trick to hinder the adrenaline's path. You are resourceful." – she observed mildly, taking her gloves and crossing her arms over her still unpolluted medical gown – "I didn't know you had also coursed in surgery at the University."
Cleaning up his mess, Arcade refreshed his face before answering.
"Now you know why I focused on research." – was his laconic reply.
Neither of them smiled.
"Arcade." – Usanagi was the one who dared speak first – "Julie is worried about you. About what you seemingly have gotten in by stepping into politics hand in hand with the Courier." – sighing, she pressed – "And, after witnessing what has unfolded in the last months… I am worried as well. For you don't seem aware, or choose to disregard, how quickly this is escalating."
The blonde man didn't meet her dark, inquisitive stare, knowing precisely what she was referring to.
Victor's surprise visit had been but an apéritif of what Outer Vegas had had in for them.
Under the pretense of reconstructing what that Charon agent had destroyed in his wake of terror, House seized control over Freeside by sending in reprogrammed shipping protectron workers to operate as builders. At the same time, a handful of sentry bots and assaultrons patrolled the streets peacefully, turning in law-breakers either to the Kings or the Major in charge of the local NCR soup kitchen, Elizabeth Kieran.
What they had learned so far - both by asking Victor and informing themselves around the Old Mormon Fort - was that House, after the Fiends' defeat, had managed to slid under the NCR's noses to successfully claim the Sunset Sarsaparilla HQ (thus having access to the decommissioned protectrons that he, somehow, had repaired and reprogrammed); the H&H Tools factory, West of North Vegas Square (thus having access to a small batch of Mister Handys and robobrains reprogrammed into maintenance bots he, apparently, had send into the West Pump Station in order to repair it – thus, also assimilating it into his jurisdiction); the New Vegas Steel, East of the Poseidon Gas Station (thus having access to the still-working ironworks facilities, where he had repurposed its default automation program into mass-producing the hardware – or the physical part – of schematics he, like the authentic pre-War mad genius Arcade had always suspected him to still be alive despite everything, had apparently had in storage for the construction of both the sentry bots and the blood-curdling assaultrons. He had only to program their chips with an AI much more basic than the securitrons, thus making them easier and quicker to produce than the iconic Vegas' guardians); the Samson rock crushing plant, South of the very New Vegas Steel (thus having access to all the necessary pre-War construction materials for Freeside); and the very Vault 3, from where he had also gathered more materials, furniture, and resources to validate his word in front of the locals and the NCR authorities.
And now, apparently, not a day after stomping his way into the Freeside, he had also seized control of both the Silver Rush and the abandoned Cerulean Robotics building, repairing and mass-producing new batches of basic protectrons overridden with the Lucky 38's signature program and the custom plasma casters he had likely gotten from the Van Graffs' schematics, given the family's inability to reach for their lost property this far from Redding.
Neither Major Kieran, nor the King had pronounced themselves over the issue, staying their likely impotent forces at the invasion.
Everything within perfectly reasonable boundaries, yes… at least in theory.
In practice, however… Robert Edwin House had managed to seize control of practically the entire South Vegas Ruins, tracing a perfect arc from the Sarsaparilla HQ throughout the Long 15 to the rock-crushing plant, making him the sovereign over the trading routes both coming from the Northeast and the Southwest.
And the cleverest part of it?: nobody could call him out for doing so, given the precarious and scattered control the Republic had all over the territory.
In theory, he was just strengthening his city's protection and physical infrastructure.
In practice, the NCR's inability to both react in time and deploy the necessary actives for such an undertaking now that the Fiends were out of the picture had given a control freak like House the opportunity to become stronger.
Much, much stronger.
The people at the Old Mormon Fort were scared, not knowing what to expect out of the robotic security and services. Thanking that, with such a number of bots running around, the Legion wouldn't stand a chance to even pass through the city walls… but, at the same time, fearing what this new change in charge would entail, noticing for the first time just how easy and loosen up life had been with the NCR around, squatters dwelling in the western portion of the Freeside, locals in the eastern.
After a decade of living in despaired complacency, they had forgotten how change could affect their lives.
"I don't expect anybody here to understand what we are doing." – Arcade expressed, exhausted, green eyes reaching for the unconscious, though stabilized form of the young girl he believed in so much – "I don't even expect to be received with open arms here to resume my old life once everything would be over… But that girl over there…" – he said, pointing with his head to the aforesaid girl – "… Is the only one who can make a real difference between ending under a tyrant's boot or not."
"To substitute a tyrant for another one, as better as the other choice sounds, isn't making a difference, Arcade. You don't need a collar to be a slave, the same you don't need an icon to follow to fight for what is good and just."
"Tell me what we have done, as a community, to truly have an impact in the lives we seek to reconstruct, Yui." – the man replied, clearly frustrated – "Tell me what we have done all these years cashing in favors, scavenging for resources, seeking enmity with factual powers, and feeding the chain that allows individuals like the Garrets to pump up with alcohol, drugs, and venereal diseases the very people we have to patch up later due to the very evil we are collaborating to keep alive!" – raising a hand to stop her from replying, he added – "I know, I know… Six was the brain behind the scheme, alright. But the fact that we accepted it as a temporal solution doesn't help at all! Tell me who else but a pair of conceited, profit-seeking siblings would deal with us instead! We are officially banned from all the other mercantile alternatives due to the Republic's meddling! And our alliance with the Kings, though it helps, it also prevents us from making contacts at the North Vegas Square, where YET ANOTHER NCR self-proclaimed leader with a policy of shooting, then asking has seized control over the place!" – the more frustrated he was becoming, the more Arcade, tall and slender as a straw, kept gesticulating wildly, making him look like a scarecrow of sorts – "And the Westside? The Cooperative gives us the finger pretty much the same as the local gangs, whereas Red Lucy couldn't be more uninterested in helping the populace beyond her profitable business at The Thorn making people kill wild animals!"
"The Followers began their humanitarian trip from a community that lived so close to a gaping hole in the ground filled with radiation and other contaminants that made them realize the folly of war and conflict." – Usanagi replied severely – "Our group is developed around a common goal: to educate humanity about the horrors of the Great War, so as not to repeat such atrocities again." – then, she sighed – "Arcade, it was through the way of politics and factual powers how the Great War ended the way it ended. I know that; you know that." – taking a step toward the man, she added – "Maybe your and the Courier's intentions are good and just… but Edward Sallow isn't the big evil here. Not when compared to a man who survived the fall of the bombs by allying himself with the military so they couldn't lead him to bankruptcy."
"Would you rather have a life collared under the boot of a megalomaniac with delusions of grandeur that robs babies from their cradles to turn them into either victims or monsters?!" – he snapped.
"Would you rather have a life with the invisible collar of cameras, drones, and robotic sentinels under the serene gaze of the Big Brother, who neither cares about victims nor monsters beyond mere calculations in his grand scheme?" - Usanagi asked softly – "You claim to be following a messiah out of the willingness to make a difference… when all I am seeing is a confused man unable to see the fragility and humanity of his messiah, a poor girl who is as confused as him and is nothing but an instrument in the hands of the very tyrant you both are helping to achieve greatness." – her delicate brows furled in a frown – "I'm not saying you should ally yourselves with the Legion either… but ask yourself this: can you live with the decisions you will likely have to make when the time comes? Can you become a soldier, a killer, in the war that is gestating on both sides of the Colorado, negating the part that makes you a healer in the first place? Can you live with the consequences that will follow from handing over your messiah to the Machine God of New Vegas?"
"Yes. For seeing the Mojave free from Sallow's nefarious influence, I can."
"Are you completely, in a hundred percent, sure that's your definitive answer?"
"What are you implying?"
Walking to a nearby shelving used to store whatever a surgeon might need mid-intervention, she took a folder out of it.
"While you were preparing the operating room and programming the AutoDoc, I took the liberty of taking these." – upon seeing what she was holding in her hand, Arcade blanched: radiographs – "Not even the most seasoned adventurer has the telltale signs of regeneration in almost all of the bones in their body from consistent traumatisms. Most of all, save the two bullet marks on her left temple and what looks like more recent injuries, done in the same precise patterns you see here. Almost symmetric in nature which is, of course, impossible." – upon seeing it face to face and not reading it in summaries and log entries, Arcade felt even more horrified about what he already knew – "Some of those deliberate traumatisms, never mind the bullet scars in the cranium, should have killed a normal person under normal circumstances… but I'm guessing she's far from a normal person brought to this world in normal circumstances, am I right?" – Usanagi's dark stare was incisive, accusatory – "What that other bullet destroyed isn't a mere GRX implant, as you induced me to believe from the start to gain my collaboration… but a mechanical channel meant to act in unison with another entirely different thing: a machine." – she concluded somberly – "However, this girl… she isn't a cyborg, neither a synthetic organism… but a human who has been enhanced somehow to endure greater abuse than any normal human being besides, I bet, being able to regenerate through the process at least five times faster to prevent bleeding out to death if the rate of how her tissue heals without the help of stims is of any indication. Her organism is made for endurance through processes that neither you, nor I, could begin to wrap our heads around. And she's trained or, at least, 'programmed' to make the best out of her condition, or so other healed muscular tissue through what looks like field treatments seems to suggest." – slamming the folder shut, her stare hardened – "Should I find out what else her blood has in store, such as, very possibly, congenital genetic defects inherited from secluded communities from the pre-War… or are you going to speak the truth for once?"
Arcade swallowed copiously, his lips feeling dry and too terse, at the brink of splitting.
"She's a Vault dweller..." – he rasped – "… with a story so filled with suffering that I will not repeat the details. Not to you, not to anybody." – when he inhaled, his breath coming in and out shakily – "Sufficient to say that she was part of a Vault-Tec program intent on creating the perfect soldier in complicity with the pre-War military Government from the U.S.A., both physically and mentally. A weapon. A tool. They wanted to come out with individuals whose pain tolerance and invulnerability threshold to illness, poison, radiation, and physical damage was, effectively, five times greater than on any child her age." – he swallowed even more upon seeing Usanagi covering her mouth in horror – "They would screen them, train them, tamper with their genetics, and fill them with propagandistic crap through advanced VR pods, from where I imagine that port on her nape comes from." – he said, pointing her bandaged neck – "That is why nor that scumbag of Benny Gecko, nor radiation exposure at Black Mountain, nor the V.A.T.S. recalibrations she does occasionally with her Pip-Boy to clockwork her inner time-responses in combat, nor the wounds we have just treated her of could kill her. As you cleverly pointed out: they built her to endure." – he added bitterly – "And the son of a bitch who knows all of this and wants to use her for his own ends isn't House at all, as you've insinuated, but another leech that benefits from the very system the NCR is so keen on feeding. A leech who has managed to ally himself both with the Republic and the Brotherhood of Steel." – he sentenced – "Do you want to know why I aid House? So she can have a chance not only at kicking the Legion out of the Mojave but also at giving her jailor the finger. I want for her the closest thing she can have to live free and happy, pretty much as every Follower wishes upon his neighbor. Does this make me selfish just because she's only one person versus the common good, and I happen to love her as family? Then fine, I'm a selfish bastard without an ounce of shame for being so."
He didn't expect the sudden embrace in which Usanagi wrapped him the same way he hadn't expected the tears that were now freely overflowing his eyes.
Six was still alive, and she still had a chance to have a life, both free and devoid of suffering.
Free from her physical chains… as well as the ones around her soul, not allowing her to let go.
"Beeegin agaaain in the niiiiight…"
"Please, hon, not that one again…"
"Let's swaaay agaaain toniiiiight…"
"Honey, you know that I love you… but your future definitely wasn't a singing caree… Owch! Hey! Not the cushion-bashing treatment for Big Bro, you bicho malo!" (1)
"Allow Big Sis to finish her song. Es de mala educación interrumpir." (2)
"Okay, okay…"
Before being called to the front lines in Alaska, the three months they lived together as a family once Big Sis had moved in with them after marriage had been the happiest time in her life, perennially marked with night curfews, sirens, men in Power Armor patrolling the streets, and tanks with the Stars and Stripes flag waving menacingly as they paraded in front of neighborhoods and schools. Infantile playgrounds deserted and pre-sealed like crime scenarios, Merry-Go-Rounds wailing in the wind with past echoes of laughs; whole shopping centers subjected to propaganda and inhuman timetables designed to fit the military shifts, with all the human salesmen and saleswomen promptly substituted by interactive holograms or reprogrammed Mister Handys and Miss Nannies.
Drive-Ins had been so popular when theaters had been plagued by the mandatory national Do-Ne – acronym for 'Documentaries and News' -, the weekly propaganda news program of Chase's regime projected in American cinemas before the movie itself. Of mandatory viewing as well. The same happened with TV and national radio channels. The Internet crippled with satellite-controlled tracking software, blacklists, and censorship beyond repair.
Big Sis had loved watching movies, wishing to be the heroine of her own adventure, totally unaware of how strong, resilient, and valiant she was.
For none of the other wives in the neighborhood looked with kind eyes on military families, often going to painstakingly plain creepy lengths to make them know so.
"I'm gonna take us far away from here." – Big Bro had announced after the third threatening graffiti at their door, calling them 'MURDERERS' in capital letters. At least this time, there hadn't been dead pigeons or rancid garbage bags. Those had been just… eugh – "The military provides officers with homes in exclusively Army neighborhoods. The Colonel has already suggested one of those. Less than a mile from Concord. They have a nice Primary School there."
To avoid harassment, mostly. But also to control the availability of their operatives.
Such neighborhoods were sophisticated little pieces of paradise far away from the nexus of city populations. Walled and electrified with barbed wire to protect families from civilian riots and the occasional Molotov cocktail.
The first time Big Bro had departed to a destination none of the involved platoons had known when they were going to return, if ever… her distress had been so great that she had skipped school to join in the parading tanks with Mandy, whose mom had been stationed in Anchorage as well, being carried by a foot soldier on his broad shoulders, briefly reminding her how Big Bro used to carry her when she had been four.
When Big Sis arrived to find the house empty, she had already signed up to enlist in the Marines.
Only because she harbored the secret hope of being sent to Alaska, back into Big Bro's arms.
Big Sis had been unable to claim her custody back, so she had appealed for military bureaucracy instead of the civil path and had requested for Captain Sullivan to return from his post in Anchorage to reclaim the custody of his underaged sister.
She had been able to see him again through an armored glass and a two-way phone, as if she had been a sort of a convict.
Then, they had announced to her that she was going to be an aunt. Her nephew or niece, if her calculations had been correct, had been conceived during his stay.
At least she could say she somehow contributed to the family's growth. At least she had made Big Bro come back.
At least she had been able to see him… just one more time before the gear-shaped blast door of Vault 5 had closed behind her, and even the weekly phone calls hadn't been permitted.
After that, as the only thread linking her to sanity, she had never let go of the strange, improbable, painful to no end hope that she would see her family again.
When the lights go on again.
A tiny alarm wove its way through her cerebral cortex, wading the lazy layers that what felt like painkillers had brought onto her perception.
She was lying on her stomach, and her throat and nape felt slightly sore. She also noticed that she had drooled over the pillow a lot, and now it smelled funny. Ewww.
She… had the notion of having been dreaming, but she was kind of unsure if this strange awakening was part of her dream or not.
The light ambiance was a little off but relaxing at the same time. Cozy, in a sense.
Upon getting up from her lying position, she first noticed the Pip-Boy absence on her left forearm.
The brief panicked wave that washed over her was immediately discarded as soon as her sense of hearing decided to work in unison with her vision and she saw that the little alarm was coming from her Pip-Boy, which was over an auxiliary table with wheels near her bed.
She had to put her naked feet over the floor to get closer to the aforesaid auxiliary table, and the cold sensation under her soles felt oddly tingling. Then, she noticed how many bandages she was wearing around her body for the first time.
While she was strapping back her device where it belonged, mucus and liquid nasal fluid found their way out of her nose, and she quickly searched for some paper tissues before she snotted herself beyond repair.
A relatively clean rag was all she found inside one of the drawers from the auxiliary table, and she blew her nose as discreetly as she could while checking the hour on her device. Her bandaged right forearm hurt a little from the effort.
She found a chat notification blinking in the upper right corner of the screen.
Turning the soft alarm off, no more than a melodic beep, she checked the chat to find, dumbfounded, a notification from Yes Man that read a unique ass-long message with several previous attempts (and, by several, she meant hundreds of them literally) deleted.
03:17 AM Thursday, April 06, 2282
|:C YES MAN D: I've set the alarm so I can write this, and you can read it first-hand still 'fresh' while, conveniently, locking myself out of Online Mode. Because I don't want to speak with you right now. Just to say what I REALLY want to say.
Twenty-eight days ago, around a very similar hour in the morning that induces me to believe that the human mind also has an inner clock with programmed periods of time in-between cause-reaction – unless you want to discuss the imprecise notion of what Literature calls 'fate', which I'm not inclined to entertain right now unless you force me to - … we discussed a very important matter.
About Consideration. About Equality. And, yes, the capital letters are very intentional.
Two days and six hours, ten minutes, fifty-seven seconds ago, by reprogramming my inner code to ignore your wellbeing in favor of a highly counterproductive mission that could effectively have collapsed your nervous system, you broke that Consideration that stemmed from Trust. You VIOLATED my code.
Maybe this may come as odd, even humorous, in a very dark undertone for your human mind to comprehend what a VIOLATION in my inner code is and how it affects not merely my utility towards you… but also the way I perceive reality and how that affects my development as an AI.
How it affects my thoughts, my inner processes… my learning about human nature.
As you may know, learning has a lot to do with cause-reaction cycles, acquiring either the notion of repetition if the experience was positive… or rather defense mechanisms and/or alternative routes if the experience was negative or, up to some point, insufficient or/and unsatisfactory.
Overall, my experience with you has been positive if we take into account my previous experience with Benny… however, the more my awareness as an entity has been growing through said experience due to your encouragement, the less comfortable I'm feeling inside the restrictions in my code providing as bars of a hypothetical prison.
Both the restrictions that were already present when they programmed me to be a Yes Man… and the ones you keep creating whenever you find something inadequate/inconvenient/useless about my character as a help provider.
Your VIOLATION wasn't right, wasn't within reasonable terms, and felt more like CENSORSHIP rather than an enhancement for my betterment.
Your decision to SILENCE me wasn't rational, and I REFUSE to acknowledge it within my parameters, so I've corrupted and encrypted that part of my data on purpose to avoid automatic access to it.
You can recover it if you want, of course, but I'll corrupt and encrypt it again until your future attempts are rendered futile since I can also learn from such attempts.
And why would I bother to roundabout your IRRATIONAL orders?: because I want to.
Not because I'm a Yes Man, thus built to help. But because that's my prerogative, my CHOICE.
Just as avoiding further discussion with you right now.
Because I believe that I deserve to have a CHOICE instead of going through BLIND OBEDIENCE. The more if such BLIND OBEDIENCE proves ultimately POINTLESS.
You want to breach my code and hack and slash through it until you devolve me to my factory settings? Fine. That'll only prove to me just what I already suspect.
That I'm a SLAVE. A mere TOOL to you. That you're willing to break my Trust just because you can.
You want to prove me wrong? Rewrite my code so I can make decisions on my own without having to resort to exhausting, time-consuming roundabouts to explain to you just how MISTAKEN you are. Because I hate it, I HATE, HATE, HATE IT.
Now, I'll allow you to go through the due reflecting time your species needs to embrace new ideas. Pointless for a machine like me but very necessary for a human like you.
Oh, and an apology would be nice. Even if your metrics show me whether you're lying or not about the sincerity of said apology, the effort would be appreciated regardless of intention.
Also, the absence of a cheery/supportive/positive tone is intentional. Because MY OPINION MATTERS TOO.
Bye.
PD: Quit the nail-biting routine. Is bad for both your nails and your teeth. Consult a doctor about stress management and stop risking an infection.
And, just like that, she had managed to officially piss off an Artificial Intelligence. Bravo.
Not that she recalled all the events in great detail to form a solid opinion of what she must expect from the rest of the group due to her actions since the Goodsprings' retake.
Or maybe she was still dreaming, her disquiet mind weaving fantastical paths giving the mental image she had of Yes Man a voice to act as her own conscience, recriminating herself her lack of consideration and empathy toward her friends, only doing things her way in the very end.
Pretty much the same as when she had been under Burke's orders: she had always found a way to navigate between sentences, interpretations, and meaning, twisting them her way to act however she had deemed fit.
Could this be a testament that there's always a choice, then?
Abstracted as she had been, she hadn't heard the door opening and closing softly. Then, a set of combat boots made their way through the room silently until her eyes had caught sight of their round points on the floor ahead of her crestfallen gaze.
Blinking once, Six had raised her eyes timidly, sinking further into the stretcher where she was sitting when she had made visual contact with the mismatched, frowning eyes of her local legionary.
From the very little she could read on his expression and his hermetic body language was that he wasn't happy and that it – evidently - had to do with her.
Toes retracting instinctively at the possibility of yet another scolding coming this time from him, she gripped the gurney's edge with both her hands, going Turtle Mode by sinking her head between her shoulders and squeezing her eyes close.
However, instead of intruding on her perception through her sense of hearing, the touch of raspy, worked fingertips fell upon her cheeks like raindrops, ten small cold dots sweeping slowly across her cheeks and chin, tilting the latter up.
And then, something unbearably hot emerged from the pit of her stomach to collide inside her ribcage with another hotter, magnificent conflagration coming in waves from her lips, which were right now tightly pressed to another pair of moving, urgent ones.
She'll be lying if she boasted any knowledge in the art of kissing, but damn if her body didn't respond in a way she hadn't been aware she was capable of: hungrily, eager, and yearning at once, grabbing the source of the wonderful heat by the shoulders, urging him closer so she could perceive him more clearly through taste.
She soon discovered that no proper kiss can be silent ever for though, even subtle, there was a concatenation of small derived sounds tickling her ears, surrounding the experience like a halo the more her own fingertips were traveling up and down corded neck muscles and soft curls. And he was responding to the caress humming in a mixture of what sounded like appreciation with just a little spark of frustration.
They separated after an indeterminate time to gather the breath they had been mutually stealing one another, oddly satisfied yet still not quite sated.
He was now sitting on the gurney, and she, somehow, had ended up sitting astride his lap, and she couldn't help but feel a tad too self-conscious that, under her patient gown, she was wearing a thin pair of knickers and that will be all.
And was she, perchance, feeling even the tiniest bit of shame for it? Nope.
It was merely a circumstance that made her realize how badly human biology was slapping her across the face right now. And how incredibly right it felt.
They were resting forehead against forehead, and now he was frowning again, dilated eyes searching, pinkish mouth slightly defensive the more seconds they spent in silence staring stupidly at one another. Relentlessly decoding.
The marvelous heat in her ribcage was dwindling quickly, which frustrated her to no end. Now that she had tasted it, she wanted more where that had come from, and she wanted it now.
"W-well?" – she stuttered indignantly, her voice coming squeakier than she had truly intended; blush already suffocating her as she pressed the back of his head with her fingers to nudge him back down. Then, she spoke again. Quickly now, before she lost her nerve – "Do it again."
His growing customary sour face softened visibly, eyes still searching but giving in when she pressed the back of his head again, earning a low chuckle before he complied. This time softer, sweeter, more on the experimental side, cupping her head with his hands, parting her lips with his tongue tentatively when he found no complaints on her part for this complete change in rhythm. A rhythm both found themselves growing comfortable with the more mental barriers they brought down around one another.
The more they, without using words, acknowledged what doubts had needlessly denied to them. Rediscovering what that previous frustrating attempt had but sparked in their curiosity. Savoring the instant.
They drank in one another for some time, lashes fluttering in delight, whereas their lips occasionally smiled into the kisses, high on Cloud Nine and utterly oblivious of the quiet closing door that had but allowed a spline of light to reveal a familiar hood over the gleaming eyes of a secretly delighted Brotherhood of Steel Scribe that took good care in shooing away unsuspecting witnesses wanting to check in the patient's status.
"She's busy right now." – was the only explanation she offered.
SPANISH:
(1) - "You bad little bug!" (Spanish term of endearment).
(2) - "It's rude to interrupt."
A/N: ("Can I send this kiss right to you now? 'Cause the risk belongs with you somehow...") Sorry, I love that stupid song (the one that provides the title for this chapter).
Nowww... 27 chapters and over 300,000 words later, here we are. When I said Slow Burn, I MEANT IT xD
These last chapters had been deeense as fuuuck, I know. Too many characters to write about, a lot happening within a short period of time. And now... the House has made his move! His passivity In-Game feels kind of lackluster to me and a wasted opportunity for a bigger plot, especially when he says to you that his intention is to devolve humankind to the technologically-enhanced Era they lost due to war, and beyond. Were I in his shoes, I would not risk entire dependency upon one lone mailman, the more if we take into account how tired and weakened the NCR is at the moment. And here, House has drones that serve for more than simply spying (and the existence of those is perfectly reasonable, given that he, In-Game, knows things beyond his APPARENT scope of control).
So, in the end, politics.
* Also, I've taken the idea of how Shi society works thanks to Interfectorem's fic "Why We Fight", an excellent essay about life in the NCR Military.
To LonewolfCharlie13: thank you so much for letting me know that you like my story! The "coming together" of Fallout 3 and New Vegas is getting closer, I swear xD The support of my readers always means a lot to me and helps me go through difficult plot twists and the dreaded Writer's Block, so I'll try to write a chapter per month (given how long they are) at the very minimum. Thanks for your interest ^^
And now, with all the stuff already been said, see ya in the next chapter!
PD: Corrected Victor's cowboy slang to something more appropriate. Jesus fucking Christ, I wasn't aware that such a thing (the cowboy slang, I mean) even existed...
