"Number Nine"


Ch. 28: I wouldn't mind.


"I'm not afraid anymore,
I'm not afraid.
Forever is a long time,
but I wouldn't mind spending it by your side."

- He Is We, "I wouldn't mind"


The last days had passed swifter and busier than a Deathclaw bent on a chase after a biker gang full to the brim of chems and oil to last to the very East Coast, Mad Max's style.

To the point that Six's brain was still trying to catch up with every single event.

If it hadn't been for her Pip-Boy and her recorded notes, she literally might have gotten a massive headache trying to remember it all.

First and foremost, among the damn vortex of events stood out that Gabban and the other five Frumentarii had left for good while she had been still unconscious, recovering from the whole ordeal with the Powder Gangers.

Zorro had informed her via nightly Pip-Boy chat that they had two weeks to present themselves at the Legion safehouse that he said was closest to the old Nuclear Test Site, South of Wolfhorn Ranch – which was yet another Legion safehouse, Southeast of the Walking Box Cavern as well.

Once there, they'll be informed whether Caesar still approved of her visit to Fortification Hill or not… primarily by finding Gabban there or not finding him at all.

Six had bitten her nails furiously after being informed of this, primarily because of what would happen should Gabban didn't make it.

For that would imply LOTS of collateral complications that she wasn't sure she'll be able to correct later.

Amongst them, mainly not being able to access the bunker without a high-risk operation consisting of infiltrating The Fort via Stealth Boy with LOTS of charged spare batteries. That, without even being entirely sure that she could get out at all once the Weather Station guards would detect that something out of place was happening.

And she wasn't really too eager to discover how well she could tackle a trained, muscled, well-fed Arizonan before he turned her into a brochette. Lest to say several of them. Legion sandwich with Courier lettuce between muscled-guys-in-red-tunics' bread didn't sound too fun either amidst the available dishes on the menu. Neither Caesar's Salad before he ordered for her to become a Profligate kebab up a telephone pole as punishment.

Never mind that not all the Legion bouquets sounded awful as of late. But we'll get to that later.

Hey, she was hungry as fuck, so the food comparisons didn't sound so insulting and/or ridiculous in her head when she was so set on the lunch she had ordered a while ago at Vault 21's cafeteria.

But, then again, that was food for thought for later. First things first.

Amongst many other demands and mild compliments for her hard labor at destroying both the Fiends and the Powder Gangers, her employer was bent on sending her to Legion territory even if Benny was still MIA and, with him, the key the Platinum Chip was meant to act in unison with the bunker's door.

"With this invitation that your spy has bestowed upon you, Miss Sullivan, the next step will be infiltrating Caesar's camp at Fortification Hill, naturally."

Yeah, 'naturally', as if the plan didn't sound half as dangerous as it could really get should Edward Sallow would be able to see through her diplomatic façade. Zorro might have faith that she would do a great addition to their ranks… but Six wasn't so sure about his Lord.

After all, we were talking about a guy who had managed to lead thousands of tribals astray for more than three decades by making them believe that he was a god of sorts. It takes patience, cunning, and a certain finesse at reading people so he could lie right to their faces about his supposed divinity, and nobody would dare to question otherwise. Least uneducated people.

Nevertheless, this very mentality of establishing a culture so alien to the post-American one had been an intelligent move on his part. Because nothing instills more fear, doubts, and, ultimately, obedience than the uncertainty of the unknown.

"But, with what purpose, past diplomacy?" – she had asked, not entirely convinced of doing this despite agreeing to accompany Zorro – "Without the Chip…"

"Oh, Benny's intended destination when he fled The Strip is hardly a mystery, Miss Sullivan." – the Orwellian man had assured with a detached calmness she herself hadn't felt in the slightest. Her hyperactive brain already weighing countless possibilities about what could go wrong should Benny didn't even make it to The Fort in the first place, for whole nests of Lakelurks also populated the banks of the Colorado – "It is a near certainty that he has made his way to Fortification Hill. It is one of just two places on Earth that have the hardware necessary to read the Platinum Chip - the Lucky 38 is the other, of course."

But she still harbored her doubts even up to this very day. Part of her couldn't believe the man could be so stupid as to attempt to infiltrate Caesar's forces without an endorsement under the guise of a Legion member vouching for you, such as Zorro. Sallow wasn't precisely famous for being lenient to what he would perceive as an invasion.

And nobody who had mustered up the gall to challenge the ex-Follower's authority to this day had escaped his fury. One way or another.

That was part of why Six's anxiety had escalated since she had awakened to a still pissed-off Yes Man and… well, stuff that had definitely gotten out of hand from that point on.

"Your mission, once you arrive there, will be to track the whereabouts of Benny. I am sure if he hasn't been arrested by now, Caesar would be extremely cooperative about the arrest of a non-Legion citizen thinking he can infiltrate his camp without being punished for doing so." – House had explained patiently with the very same voice inflection one would employ with a slow child, as if telling her all of that were an absolute boresome task – "Nevertheless, if Benny has been already captured, I expect that if he doesn't have the Chip, Caesar will make sure you get it."

"Caesar will make sure I get it…" – she had repeated, slowly – "What if he already has used it with the hardware you've told me about?"

Never mind mentioning that, should Caesar manage to get access to the securitron tech House had stored in there, he could very well hack the inner code of the program, rendering the guardians of New Vegas totally useless. He only needed a computer geek like her to do so… or simply use a virus via pen drive or a laptop with a wireless connection to corrupt the data.

And, no matter how backward Legion society may be, its leader was a western, instructed man. Six bet he could be resourceful enough to do it himself or simply tell his men to kidnap an NCR programmer to do the dirty work. It didn't require a privileged mind to reason this.

But the Orwellian man on the screen had scoffed slightly disdainfully at that.

"Unlikely." – he had replied, true to his snotty, self-sufficient line of thought; relying more on his numbers than what her gut might argue – "Think, Miss Sullivan, about what a golden opportunity to earn the Courier's collaboration by putting her abilities and loyalties to test this situation entails for Caesar. A man like him, too proud to acknowledge a woman taking his Mark as the ultimate grace sounding suspicious from the start, wouldn't allow a valuable asset like you to lose interest so soon. And he will keep you interested. By all means necessary."

She had been unable to hide the furious blush those words had elicited in her, quick on the take of the double entendre within the sentence. Both a warning and a reminder of where her loyalties should remain in case she decided to… let's say, stop using her gray matter to pay attention to other needs that had nothing to do with reason.

Just like now.

"You are unusually quiet today, Sullivan."

To a casual observer, they probably looked like two young people sitting at a Vault diner waiting for their order to be served. She looking slightly distracted, him inclining minimally over the table – a solitary elbow propped on the surface, chin and lips resting over relaxed knuckles, whereas his voice betrayed no impatience nor restlessness when he addressed her for her apparent lack of attention.

Little that hypothetical observer would suspect of the long fingers under the table running rivers of goose pimples all over the flesh of her right calf and knee from the leg she had very gingerly put on his lap just because she had felt like it. Just because she couldn't sit tight for more than a whole minute without going full Restless Legs Syndrome or messing around with the plastic straws, the paper napkins, or the synthetic gravy selection already available on the table.

Just because it wasn't proper to sit amidst a cafeteria on that very lap and steal some sweet, sweet facetime until the food arrived.

But then again, we'll get to that later. Or, more precisely, they'll get to that later. Hopefully.

"I'm hungry." – she offered in reply, her eyes dissecting every subtle shift on his features, enjoying the slight playful arch of his white brow upon hearing that – "So hungry, I could eat an elephant."

Slight pupil contraction, the barest of frowns, and an upper puckered – kissable to no end - lip. She sometimes forgot herself, talking about things her post-American legionary had likely never seen or heard of.

It was so easy to forget herself around him. To forget… how different their backgrounds really were.

"It was an animal from before the bombs." – she explained, relishing the undivided attention she always managed to get out of him when she talked about that wondrous world he still couldn't wrap his head around – "A quadruped ruminant. A big one, bigger than a standard supermutant but smaller than a behemoth. Not autochthonous. They usually dwelled either in protected areas for endangered species in Africa or Asia… or they were brought to other parts of the globe to live in zoos." – shrugging, she added – "By the time Jingwei's forces had landed on Alaska, the Government had already deemed American nature reserves and zoos a matter of tertiary necessity, thus, unnecessary in the event of an invasion while diverting the public taxes to military tech and infrastructures." – she left a soft huff through her nose – "I just happen to know what a zoo is… was because my brother told me about them when he went with his dad when he was a child, but I've never actually visited one."

She could tell by how sharp his blue eyes turned that he wanted to ask more, but he refrained from doing so by deviating the current talk to something more actual regarding the reality both shared.

A reality where the country they lived in had turned in its eighty percent into an irradiated desert.

"What is that name you mentioned before?" – he asked out of the blue, leaving her absolutely flummoxed – "The biblical one?"

She blinked. Twice. Not only because she didn't understand the question at all but because she hadn't been aware that he would be knowledgeable on Bible stuff.

"Behemoth, you mean?" – she asked, confused – "What about it?"

"What's a behemoth?" - he pressed – "A creature from the East Coast?"

Her mouth gaped so much she believed a basketball could have fit inside.

"Wait… don't tell me your people have never faced a supermutant behemoth before during territory cleansing."

Turns out the Legion had rarely confronted supermutants outside the intersection conformed by the eastern part of New Mexico, the Southeast part of Colorado, the western part of Kansas, Oklahoma, and the small part of the northwestern border of Texas that their troops were currently defending from skirmishes due to guerrilla with local lawmen.

Apparently, the supermutants, both from East and West, tended to migrate quite often between territories, especially if those territories became occupied by large, organized forces that, years later, evolved into nations of their own.

In Texas, they had allied with the local forces to keep the Legion at bay, much to Caesar's displeasure.

And let's not start with that huge problem at the Frontier. Whereas the old State of Idaho had proven to be a relatively safe passage for both Legion explorers and Frumentarii – never mind the radioactive sandstorms near Idavada or the mutated critters that came from the northern mountains – to reach Oregon borders since the path from New California through the 5 Line up North from Redding was cut at Medford… Well, there was the abrupt climate shift at Portland, where the post-Apocalypse desert had turned into a tundra. A tundra filled with nightmarish mutations where, to add salt to the wound, the Brotherhood of Steel and the New California Republic were also warring to claim the pre-War military cache stockpiles sitting there.

The Legion branch there, while not weak, was subtler than they may have wished, too recent, and wasn't in its peak moment, having resorted to enlisting merc-style local tribal forces as foot legionaries, unable to train them properly (with the due years of preparation from childhood) and unable to fully convert them to their ideals.

"Which are…?" – she asked pleasantly, lacing her fingers with his under the table – "Up to this point, you haven't told me about your goals and philosophy as a society. I've only gotten what the NCR decides to feed to the public and what I've observed thus far."

He must trust her quite a deal, which added to her sense of culpability, for he did not shy from elaborating on the topic as he inclined over her to whisper in her ear, redoubling her guilt as well as the wonderful sensations his voice awoke in her.

"Our ideals, you ask?: the Legion is civilization reborn, dear Sullivan." – he whispered softly, as if sharing a secret only a lover would trust his beloved with – "Our culture is based on virtues such as martial excellence, loyalty, and justice." - it felt oddly enticing, the way he enunciated his discourses. Carefully studied, yet presented with the exact emphasis, the exact vocabulary to convince a listener of his veracity, the rationality in which his words were apparently wrapped. Six found herself wanting to be persuaded, yearning to be thoroughly seduced as he kept talking – "Our Lord Caesar, in his wisdom, has subverted, repurposed, and shaped 86 tribes composed of aimless, savaged, misguided human beings whose future and hopes of survival in the long term had been dim at best into a strong, resilient nation." – she briefly wondered if he believed everything he preached or just only partially given that, whereas his voice sounded sincere, she couldn't shake off her head the words of warning from Picus and that Silus piece of shit at McCarran. Men as different as the day and the night, yet sharing in their doubts regarding their Lord's rule – "Whereas civil populations under our rule become the peasantry of the Legion, enslavement occurs exclusively either to war prisoners or to tribals, who are bestowed the honor and responsibility of becoming our support, clergy, manpower, and military forces. The only path of betterment any native from backward cultures or debauched Dissolute can aspire to travel… if wishing to contribute to the common good, of course."

That last statement prompted her to squeeze his hand briefly before separating from him to allow the waitress to put their respective lunches on the table.

'Betterment', 'backward', 'debauched', 'aspire'… words carefully crafted to strip a vulnerable collective of their identity, saying they weren't good enough and should be ashamed of their roots and the ideals they were fighting for.

That they should correct the Original Sin of their very existence through servitude to the idea of a Welfare State.

That they should fight to the death for the idea of such a Welfare State.

That they should thank this western dictator that they were still alive by obeying him.

That him, and only him, held the ultimate truth.

"America! We were cold, tired, and we wanted our goddamned oil back! Eleven years of occupation have witnessed the deaths of many heroes who fought tooth and nail for a dream. A dream our ancestors wished upon their children when they braved the Atlantic, seeking a better life. For they dreamed of freedom, of a home to call theirs. Now, centuries later, that very dream has been preserved. Thanks to our boys' sacrifices today at the frontlines, Anchorage has been liberated. Communism won't soil our ideals or beloved land again, for Little America is ours once more! God bless America. In God we trust!"

Sound familiar?

She prodded her crispy fries idly with the fork, suddenly not hungry at all.

"Eat." – she heard him saying, electric blue eyes reading, cutting through her skin – "Don't you like what they've brought you? Shall we order any other available dish on the menu?"

She realized her claims of hunger minutes ago felt contradictory, given her display, so she shook her head.

"It's okay." – she assured, sinking the fork in a bunch of fries to stuff them in her mouth, earning yet another arched eyebrow. After brief mastication, she realized she was still hungry as fuck and busied herself to attack her plate with a vengeance – "Oh, god… these are so, so good." – she moaned in delight amidst munching until she caught sight of him watching her intently, making her blush furiously in self-consciousness – "W-what?" – one minute she was her standard self, the next she was a giant ball of nerves. Just that easy.

So much for totally-not-having a date in Vegas with a hot guy she could just eat up.

Because… he was just so hot, and she got incredibly flustered by staring at his lips now that she knew what they were capable of.

Sinful, sinful lips twisting into a roguish half-smile that was giving her the shivers. The jellying-bone kind.

But he merely shook his head and kept eating at his own pace, leaving her with the intrigue.

For Vulpes secretly wanted to intrigue her, to keep her interested. After all, he had worked hard to make the elusive, incredibly shy Courier pay him the kind of attention he had so desperately been wanting for himself and that now he was thoroughly enjoying with its due perks.

Because those kisses at the Old Mormon Fort hadn't been enough to persuade her at all. At least, at first.

Once she had gotten dressed and out of that room, Sullivan had become Courier Six once again when her companions had assaulted her with questions, first regarding her wellbeing (with all the due scolding, hugging, fussing, and all that useless drama he was getting so used to around these crazy people), then what their next move should be.

Because the King and Major Kieran had presented themselves at the Old Mormon Fort to get some answers from the very person that acted as Robert House's representative throughout the Mojave.

"I wouldn't want to start with insinuations…" – Elizabeth Kieran, a woman of gentle words uttered in an even gentler voice, had been the one attempting to seize Sullivan's attention first – "We all are very grateful for your continuous support around here and how much good you have done by dealing with the Fiends, but…"

Nevertheless, Pacer, the King's bigmouthed Second-In-Command, had seized the opportunity to deliberately interrupt the Republican woman.

"Big heroine big time don't need no mixing with the NCR, much less with Vegas' rabble now that she's working for the fattest cat around." – he had spat disdainfully, big pupils while slurring in a fashion that had told Vulpes he was a Jet addict, fresh out of a fix – "Go ahead, princess, tell us what's next on your employer's list. Assimilating and fusing the Westside and the Freeside into one with The Strip so he can start taxing everyone around? Tell him he can shove his 'gifts' up wherever he decides; I don't fucking care. Freeside's still free!"

Moronic discourse for an even more moronic man. Guess that pompous Pompadour hairstyle all of them wore was the only reason they used their heads for.

It was fortunate that Gabban and the rest had already departed to Fortification Hill to deliver Caesar news regarding the current situation, for things were already complicated enough with House having shown his cards for Vulpes having to deal with more warnings than his brother had already given to him as a farewell.

"I hope you know what you're doing, Fox." – the blonde Frumentarius had told him, still doubtful. So doubtful that, if they hadn't been brothers, his duty to Caesar would have forced Gabban to report his Commander should he suspect he was being sidetracked from his original purpose regarding their alliance with the Courier. A reasonable doubt, given the circumstances – "You know that I've got your back on this… but, please, tell your girl to behave herself around The Fort, and don't bring anybody else from her companions. They cannot be trusted around us."

On that point, Vulpes couldn't agree more: they needed to depart without any of her guardians. The anthropomorphic ones, at least. Rex was alright.

After all, he had promised Lupus to try bringing the cybernetic pet along with its current owner.

If they could repaint the old, faded Bull insignia on his side into something more inconspicuous, it would pose no recognition troubles from the First Battle veterans familiar with Caesar's old dog.

After all, Rex will eventually return to his original master when Sullivan would render unto Caesar. The animal didn't need to be separated from the girl at all.

Besides, Vulpes could use Rex's extra protection for Sullivan around The Fort should any of the new arrivals from Flagstaff get the wrong idea about her despite her distinctive clothing and manners next to the female slaves. Not that he didn't plan on putting a Frumentarius at her disposal every single time she would need to leave his tent. His duties, no doubt, would prevent him from accompanying her as he would like.

"Radio check." – both heard out of a sudden amidst the pleasant ruckus in the cafeteria, prompting Sullivan to get all red in the face and Vulpes to frown in displeasure – "This is Sergeant Boone, girlie. Update your situation. Over."

Eyeing him nervously, Sullivan unholstered the old walkie-talkie from her tactical belt – one of the many accessories that didn't match her clothing of choice for this particular event – and answered, bringing the speaker near her lips.

"We're in Vault 21's cafeteria." – she replied automatically before frowning – "Damnit, Boone, we're just having a nice lunch, for fuck's sake!"

Indeed.

"We agreed you've to inform of your whereabouts while you're out there with that charlatan every hour, girlie." – the smooth, unyielding voice of the Republican dog at the other end replied inflexibly – "You won't call; I will. Simple as that."

"Can't we just leave it at every two hours?" – she pleaded cutely, clearly attempting to play on the sniper's weakness for her – "Pretty please?"

"No." – the other answered categorically – "We agreed on a check every hour, no leaving The Strip, and no getting back home later than 09:30 PM. Those are the rules."

"But…"

"Girlie, this isn't negotiable. Check every hour, and that's my last word. Out."

Sighing heavily, she holstered the talkie back in place before giving him a timid look.

"Sorry." – she mumbled apologetically before gulping down another bite of brahmin's filet mignon, whereas he tried his steaming gecko pie and Desert Salad with less appetite than moments ago.

One of the main downs of being – sort of – taking the Courier out on a date was how paranoid and overprotective her cohorts were. The sniper dog being the worst of all by difference.

Thinking about that gave Vulpes a headache.

When Sullivan had managed to sort out a little the political mess brewing at the Freeside by calming down the involved parts and assuring Kieran and the King that she would speak with her employer to investigate what this invasion was all about, given that she hadn't been informed about it in the first place and couldn't update them on the take, she had looked for that kid they had brought with them from the 188 and had helped him pack again, so he'll be accompanying them back to the Lucky.

Then, between the tensions from the Freeside and the new gambling House was playing with the Republic, she hadn't paid Vulpes any attention until everybody had gone to sleep and she had remained awake, turning around under the sheets until she had given up and had gone, first to the bathroom, then to the kitchen to fix herself a warm milk-with-honey cup.

Vulpes had waited patiently, biding his time hidden in the dark, until he had caught her in the corridor when she was returning to the common bedroom.

They hadn't had a virtual chat that night, and she looked evasive and timid around the issue, not daring to meet his eyes and not knowing how to react when he had shown up in the corridor and had wordlessly corralled her against gaudy wallpaper to get a kiss out of her, since he had been thirsting so much from the last time.

His fears about her having second thoughts had been put to rest when she had reciprocated rather passionately. Little hands growing deliciously daring around his torso the deeper he had claimed her mouth, wishing they could be alone so he could expand on his loving disposition.

He had had to content himself with a small bite he had stolen from her lovely soft neck, her tiny whimpers and her rosy flush maddening him, putting his willpower to test by leaving it at that when they had gotten back to the bedroom hand in hand to sleep in each other's embrace.

He had thanked the dark at that time, given that the raging erection he had gotten out of the experience had been difficult to talk down when he had laid next to her, not wishing to alarm or embarrass her. After all, he wasn't sure just how exactly experienced she was. She kissed with a lot of enthusiasm but a little awkwardly, as if she weren't sure how to put her lips over his.

Besides, she was just too damn shy. Next time, he'll have to coax these interactions in a gentler fashion so she would feel comfortable. He didn't want to scare her off just because he had been too ready for too long.

But that hadn't been even half as bad as things could get by pursuing the Courier's affections.

Because he hadn't counted on how the sniper would react upon discovering them.

Vulpes realized he had been too eager, too high on whatever natural rush of endorphins his body happened to produce every time he managed to secretly steal a kiss between breaks when, the next day, everybody had been up for another movie marathon. Even more since the new guest – Clay, the nine-year-old from the 188 – happened to meet every single piece of pre-War furniture, appliances, decoration, and, most importantly, artistic representations in the form of paintings, pictures, books, music, and (what else?) movies that 'told him their own stories' with plenty of observations that didn't quite match the developing mind of someone so young.

"People's thoughts abound around here." – he had said upon entering the Lucky, turning around like a spinning top in the dusty gloom as if seeing things that weren't really there – "People had to think a lot to create this structure and everything that's in it. Many, many minds stuck here inside."

If Vulpes had believed that the kid had been weird the first time, he now knew for a certainty that he must suffer from hallucinations, giving him a sort of shamanistic flair many of Vulpes' own tribesmen would mistakenly take for an 'illuminated' soul.

Maybe an irresponsible drug-addicted mother having undergone gestation while still hooked on chems. That would explain the final product that now was a child. A shame, truly.

Nevertheless, it had been thanks to this bizarre child that Vulpes had decided to risk a move with Sullivan.

Back at the Old Mormon Fort, he had kept evading the rest of the group's sudden questions regarding his occupation prior to his joining systematically, his mind sailing within an entirely different dimension when he had thought about the possibility of Sullivan not waking up from her post-operatory. It could happen. No surgical intervention of this caliber was exempt from a small percentage of possible hazards, after all. He had read so in a pre-War book.

He had thought about how easily she, one day, could be by his side for, the next day, to turn out forever lost to him.

The Wasteland worked this way since he could barely remember, always. In the Legion, whereas they encouraged you to bond with your fellow legionaries, they didn't say you should pursue deeper relationships beyond easy, healthy camaraderie, given how short a lifespan an average recruit could boast if they even managed to survive past their apprenticeship years.

Either you bottled up your feelings and sucked it up when it hurt… or you remained safely detached, where nothing could give you no pain.

Vulpes had procured to remain out of reach for so long that he hadn't been aware of how much he had needed some company and how much it hurt when said company may not be available anymore.

Life was short, and he would have regretted dearly not having been allowed to express… what he felt for her.

"Local, local, the here and now…" – he had heard by his left when he had been staring at the old door of her post-operatory room, terribly undecided, scared at the prospect of finding a corpse at the other side – "Lots of conflicting interests… Bull and Bear over the Dam, at each other's throats but present everywhere... while the light from Vegas turns into lightning. Flags from the New and Old World dancing in the wind, old battle turned new… a man seeking answers awaiting his match at the Armageddon? Unforgiving and forsaken, yet not forgotten. His battle postponed… Ball spinning on the wheel, more than two at the table, placing bets. Two men in the High Castle, the Eye in the Sky, the Wrecking Ball, and the tired God of War, the players. Their troops, their pawns; Prometheus and Lucifer, their prophets." – even if Vulpes had been aware that the kid may be just repeating a fantastical version of what he had heard on the radio, he hadn't been able to shake off the feeling that he was being prophesied in a way – "Six sad lessons from six sad people living in six different planets to one Little Prince… ss? A rose that won't show her love, hiding behind vapid words and a drowning glass; a silent pilot drawing sheep in crates, still mourning his loss. And then, a ninth untamed fox desiring something special and unique, not ordinary." – the more cryptic the speech, the more enthralled Vulpes had become by listening to him. Later, when his ideas had been less chaotic, he had resented such a fascination, bitterly marking it as residual memories from his tribal background – "Forecast: Cloudy, with a chance at reciprocity." – blinking slowly, as if awakening from a dream, the boy had put back on his odd-looking artifact over his head – a rusty crown of sorts made out of metal scrap – while patting Vulpes' hand and adding – "Don't be greedy and everything will be okay."

And then, just like that, he had walked away, leaving a very puzzled Vulpes trying to sort out what he had just heard.

It may have been the ramblings of an infantile, very imaginative mind, but he had taken the advice to heart at first and, instead of obtaining satisfaction out of a useless scold, he had chosen to show her what he truly meant to say… even if no words had come along.

And then, from the very moment he had tasted her sweet lips, the boy's advice had been entirely forgotten, and now the Savage Fox was becoming increasingly greedy.

Thus, why the sniper had discovered them in the first place.

He didn't necessarily remember what the new movies had been about, given that he had been more preoccupied with the breaks. And one of such breaks had been cooking lunch and rearranging the guest dorm into something more accommodating to the event.

Switching between paying attention to Lily's instructions on how to make the dough of her delicious pastries and on the hunt for gaps in which he could find Sullivan alone – you name it: the corridor, the bathroom, the recreational area… -, Vulpes' attention hadn't been at its best, to be perfectly honest.

He had found her gathering more cushions from the recreational room where she had been playing with Rex, testing who got the upper hand with a satin pillow.

She had dropped the object of the struggle when he had covered her eyes playfully, relishing in the cute squeak she had released.

A little peck over there and there, and soon both had ended up – to his much delight – making out on the sofa near the pool table.

He hadn't been monitoring the time they were spending, not when there had been a flustered Courier with amazing naked legs sitting astride on your lap, nibbling softly the throat of an extremely pliant version of yourself you weren't aware you had in you.

And then, everything goes to a halt as soon as your ears detect the distinctive click a safety mechanism from a gun does a few paces ahead of your position.

He thanked his blessed reflexes and agility when he had dodged the first bullet meant for his head.

He didn't remember how he had managed to roll out of the sofa without taking Sullivan with him, but sure as hell, the available furniture had proven crucial in dodging the next bullet. And the next.

Probably alarmed by the noise, everyone had gathered around the scene where he had entrenched himself in between the pool table, the sofa, and another table he had turned up to act as a shield against a livid armed sniper dog while Sullivan had eyed the scene silently in shock holding a cushion, mouth agape.

"Boone, Boone, BOONE!" – Becky had exclaimed, wholly horrified, as she had struggled with the aforesaid, attempting to take his rifle in unison with Raul and Cassidy without success until Lily had intervened by separating them with one hand and confiscating the weapon with the other – "Have you gone mad, damnit?!"

Oh, boy, and MAD he had been, the accursed lunatic.

"I'M GONNA KILL HIM!" – he had heard the enraged man bellowing - "MOTHERFUCKING PERVERT PIECE OF SHIT!"

However, he had been enraged as well. Not only because he had attempted to kill him (which, fair being fair, Vulpes somehow felt that he deserved to some extent), but because he had had the gall to call him a pervert of all things!

She was eighteen, and he was fucking twenty, by Mars' balls!

"SHE'S LEGAL, YOU BRICK-HEADED DEMENTED FOOL!" – he had shouted back from behind the sofa, out of his mind enough to raise a hand over the piece of furniture to give him a very eloquent middle finger.

After that, there had been a brief struggle he hadn't witnessed – cowering like a thrice-damned radrabbit as he had been, not the proudest moment of his life – that had been immediately interrupted by Gannon, who had asked the most unnecessary question ever.

"It may be just me, but… can someone explain what's happening here? What have I missed?"

The groans of exasperation had been unanimous.

"Really, Doc?" – Cassidy had asked in her usual cheeky manner – "Do I have to draw you a picture or something?: the kids were getting some, and Red Beret caught them red-handed. End of story."

"We weren't getting some!" – Sullivan had squeaked indignantly, snapping out of her shock.

"Oh, yeah? And just why are your pajama pants dramatically discarded over there?"

"Rex tore accidentally at them when we were playing!"

"Ho, ho! That's cute. Now they call scoring some booty 'playing', of course…"

"I wasn't scoring some booty!"

"Not just any booty, ma girl, HIS booty." – sniggering, the brazen woman had added – "Don't be ashamed. He's…" – she had trailed off as if measuring her words carefully around him, something he wouldn't have expected coming from Cassidy, who wasn't one to mince with words regarding human sexual behavior – "… cute enough, I suppose. I started getting into trouble with boys when I was even younger than you…"

"Cass." – Becky had interjected as a warning, the urgency in her voice falling on deaf ears when the other had kept talking.

"Besides, there isn't a written rule in the group about not fucking each other or something…"

"I don't think this is a good time to talk about those things, Cass." – Becky had practically syllabified in desperation, eyeing the sniper dog nervously as his murdering glare behind those ridiculous sunglasses had intensified by the minute.

Why had they been discussing this in front of everyone, anyway?

"By the way, you know he has to put on a glove before getting a dicking, right Six?"

"Caaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaass!" – Sullivan had whined miserably, unwilling to take it anymore.

And then, from that point on, now everybody had something to say about the matter and what they could or couldn't do together. As if their intimacy was something open for debate.

His ears still felt on fire, not just due to the medical counsel coming from Gannon they hadn't asked for but also the ridiculous rules the sniper had imposed while everybody would share the same living space.

Which included not sleeping too close to one another, no fooling around where he could see them… and no sex.

This, with them standing there like dummies without uttering a single word about the deal, allowing others to decide what was *cough* 'best' for them as if they were eleven instead of grown adults.

"¡Ya dejen en paz a los chamaquitos vivir!" – at least Raul, being as old as he was, had seen the folly in the whole situation. Pity he had chosen to express it in Spanish, for not even Gannon could follow his quick rant beyond two or three words – "Se están comportando todos como bebés." (1)

He was glad that they had obtained permission (him, at his age and being the leader of the Frumentarii, having had to ask crazy people for fucking permission to live his life however he damn pleased) to go out during the daytime when Vegas' Strip was less interesting but safer.

For he intended to take advantage of the situation. Both on a political and a personal level.

Vulpes admitted he wanted to get lucky today… but also wanted to use this little escapade to give her the Mark of Caesar so she would show it to the rest of the group before they decided to depart.

For something told him that convincing them to remain behind would… take some time to persuade them into.

And they couldn't permit themselves to waste a single day. Caesar awaited.

Nevertheless, at this very moment, they weren't Courier and Master Frumentarius but two people having lunch. The normalcy almost a cruel joke given the lives both led, but a comfort nonetheless, the chance of daring to hope.

To hope the war would finally meet its end by the end of summer and soldiers would become civilians again. At least for a while.

At least until Vegas would be renamed Neo Rome, and then Caesar would choose whether to deal with the Burned Man and hunt the Hounds of Hecate till the last one down Utah… or to travel onwards West, to San Francisco and the Boneyard, where he'll drop the Torch of Knowledge to pass it onto fellow men of letters, not warlords.

But, then again, the chance at peace would give Vulpes three, maybe four years of hard-earned rest while reshaping the Capital of vice and sin into a proud city. If he could lead a worthy life during that short time span with Sullivan before he'll be sent to Vault City or Shady Sands to weave his way amidst NCR politics… he'll die a happy legionary.

He'll die knowing he'd fought for something worth dying for. Something beyond ideals, nations, or the imprecise notion of 'common good'.

Something tangible, something he could talk with, laugh with, play with, kiss, tickle, hold, and cherish.

Something he could call his. Something he was deprived of so many years ago.

Something Sullivan was also looking for, and he could give her… should she want it.

The mere thought of it brought a rare impulse on Vulpes' mood that he didn't resist at all when he brought a hand forward and tucked a tuft of wild hair behind the girl's ear, who immediately blushed and gave him a timid look with those big eyes of hers, a forkful of filet mignon halfway between the plate and her lips.

"Your hair has grown quite a bit." – he observed idly.

"So has yours." – she replied as well.

Bringing the hand to his own head unconsciously, he frowned.

"Yes. That is a minor inconvenience I shall remedy soon enough."

"Wha- no!" – arching a brow at her brief outburst, she elaborated further, blushing again – "I mean… if it bothers you so, I understand, but…" – swallowing, she continued – "It'll be a real shame if you'll go for a buzz cut… You have pretty hair."

That was… unexpected. And strange for a girl to compliment something as frivolous as his hairstyle when he should be the one giving her that sort of praise focused on beauty.

Maybe in the pre-War it had been customary for a girl to compliment the aesthetic attributes of a man? From what little he had gathered on how Old-World society had worked, their views hadn't differed so much from what he had observed in interactions between Republicans.

You could easily discern a Californian from local folk just by paying attention to their reactions to how open NCR women were when they expressed themselves around men, whereas tribal womenfolk – exceptions as the Khans or any other sort of raider tribe aside – were usually more… cautious.

Vulpes wasn't sure if that was either a fault or a virtue, for expressing oneself freely could solve as many misunderstandings as bringing more trouble than it was worth in the end.

Not that he would have liked Sullivan starting acting demure around him. If there was something he really valued about her, that was how easily she talked about things not many people would feel comfortable acknowledging, much less voicing them out loud.

It was the firmness of her posture and the straightforwardness of her questions what, precisely, had made him mistake her for a boy the first time they had met. Demureness would have earned her a collar.

And they wouldn't be where they were today.

Maybe her pre-War mannerisms could be hard to understand and even re-educate to fit into the society he came from… but he was sure she would learn a thing or two regarding 'etiquette' from her trip to Fortification Hill. If she managed to put up with the military aspect of Legion society, the rest would be a child's play for her. A life amidst soldiers wasn't the same as civilian life on pacified soil.

And Vulpes had faith that Caesar would offer her a deal good enough for her to accept their protection in exchange for her loyalty and lending her face to the Mojave Campaign, displacing Lanius as the image the Profligates should dread when they thought of Caesar's Legion.

What will undoubtedly be quite challenging would be to spare her the tedium of having to listen to the less… educated soldiers regarding their beliefs about women and western society in generic terms. He'll have to keep her entertained and surrounded by Frumentarii 24/7 around The Fort, so some of the less illuminated minds over there – most prominently, the Arena Master – couldn't tarnish the image Vulpes wanted for her to acquire throughout her visit. The image of hard-working, disciplined, organized, strong soldiers professing devotion to the Causa they were fighting for.

For a good legionary is one who does not voice his opinions unless asked. The less she talked with the common soldiery, the better.

Regarding the slaves… he didn't plan on allowing her near them. Too many new captures from the last year, still adapting, still recalcitrant – still with a mouth too big for their own good. With also minimal knowledge of Latin and too eager to speak in English again.

The only one he knew he could trust around Sullivan was the head of the healers… and even he couldn't predict what a woman might or not trust another woman with information she wasn't allowed to divulge, but she would, out of misplaced worry.

Siri had never characterized herself as being overly obedient despite her situation. Or perhaps it was due to that very same situation she, although not openly disrespectful, had no qualms about smuggling a Stimpak or two from the Profligate traders among trusted Frumentarii just because Vulpes would ask her to.

Nonetheless, Siri may be trusted with some matters, but she ultimately owed her loyalty to her fellow slaves. She wouldn't gloss over the treatment women received at The Fort if she saw Sullivan walking around.

It wasn't as if Vulpes liked lying to his Courier, but he knew just how precarious her trust in the Legion was right now. If she saw the cruder aspects of Caesar's Empire, she wouldn't want to collaborate.

After all, even if everything turned out the way Vulpes wished, she didn't necessarily have to see through his 'sugar-coating'. Ever.

Many Legion wives and civilian women weren't aware of the true nature of military camps, just as many NCR women didn't see beyond the uniforms their sons and husbands wore at ceremonial acts.

They didn't know what a man was capable of when a situation pushed to the limit, and there were no witnesses around to tell otherwise.

A woman doesn't need to know all about a man to share her life with him. She only needed to trust him, nothing more.

If the man in question was honorable, strong, and dependable, he'd provide for everything.

At least in theory.

"By all the booze in Vegas, if it isn't cute little Number Six." – the Master Frumentarius' thoughts were brusquely interrupted when a gruff feminine voice reached their ears, followed by several sets of footwear; military for the guys, shoes for the women – "You're one tough bitch, my girl. Never seen someone recovering so quickly from a headshot."

Vulpes schooled his expression into his default bored nonchalance as Sullivan's countenance brightened upon saluting Corporal Betsy and what was left of the First Recon – 10 of Spades and Bitter-Root -, plus the unknown woman they had found at the NCRCF.

"Guess I've got a nut too hard for cracking after all." – she replied amicably, smiling at the small group – "How're you lot? Got a leave after the NCRCF deal? You've cleaned up pretty nice." – she added, admiring the two-piece coffee-brown suit Betsy wore, butch style, while her feminine companion wore a plain blue dress with a ribbon at her waist and a vintage turban to make up for the lack of hair, all of the bruises she had worn at the time of her rescue gone. The other two looking every bit the soldier part since they hadn't changed uniforms.

Betsy laughed.

"Fucking flatterer." – she replied in good spirits – "Careful now, or you might make your man here jealous." – she added with a wink, prompting Sullivan to blush again.

Unbeknownstly, the sniper woman wasn't so far-fetched from the actual truth, given that, since Sullivan and he had kissed at the Old Mormon Fort, Vulpes had become increasingly defensive and paranoid about how certain types of individuals socialized with her.

Like the Khan piece of shit who had been all the time around their group during their stay with the Followers. Like some pathetic lovesick puppy.

He had had the nerve to ask Sullivan, once she was awake and she had dealt with the problem with Kieran and the Kings, to listen to some poetry he had written for her.

"Her hair stands tall,
like the spiky bits on a Deathclaw.
Her eyes are bright as radioactive mire,
glowing in the face of dire.
But when I talk to her, she laughs and ignores me,
wrapped in mystery.
Oh, why do nice girls hate me?"

He had wanted to strangle the presumptuous little worm, digging holes into his half-shaven skull while the laughable display had taken place, but couldn't contain himself when the aforesaid worm had grown bolder when he had received polite praise from her.

"I was, um, wondering…" – he had stuttered minimally to immediately put on a display of false self-confidence – "Uh… how about you and I go out sometime? There's this place in Freeside… If… if you're feeling okay, I mean…"

Sullivan hadn't gotten a chance to answer when Vulpes had stood behind her menacingly, putting his long pale hands over her shoulders while glaring down at the insolent flea, whose eyes had almost popped out their skull sockets when the tall legionary had growled categorically:

"How about NO?"

And now, with the lesbian Corporal mockingly flirting with her, Vulpes wanted to use the fork he had in his hand to stab the soldier woman in the eye.

Just for the sake of making a point.

Anyway, he wasn't prepared when Betsy addressed him, occupied as he had been with his looping thoughts.

"How's your pal… Phillis was his name?"

By Mars… couldn't this damn woman leave the matter be?

"Félix." – he corrected, tone neutral – "And he's perfectly fine, thank you."

He was expecting the frown she gave him. After all, the nosy Corporal had been the one pushing boundaries at bringing up psychiatric treatment when Sullivan had been bidding her farewells to the 1st Recon Team once the odd Asian child had packed his stuff and the group had prepared to depart to the Lucky 38.

"You know, Gorobets was alright… for a man. Not gonna be the same without him." – Betsy had told Sullivan at the Old Mormon Fort's gates, eyes tired behind her shades – "We're not at our best since we also lost Sterling to the Fiends… not that I'm blaming you or something." – she had quickly clarified when she noticed the girl wincing – "But that makes you think. Maybe the Lieutenant wasn't all that wrong wanting to send me to Usanagi… and, since she's here…" – she had trailed off, clearly uncomfortable at bringing up the topic – "Dunno if there's actually something worth fixing… but I'm gonna give it a chance. For Gorobets, for Sterling."

"That's something very brave to do, Betsy." – Sullivan had said.

"Pffft… brave?" – the woman had scoffed, only half-joking, actually unsure – "What being brave has to do with sitting with a doctor, talking about shit that's old news already?"

"It has to do with everything. If there's something more frightening than confronting an enemy, that's confronting what you see in the mirror every day."

The phrase, somehow, had twisted up Vulpes' gut. And he still wasn't sure if he liked the sensation.

Nonetheless, as if echoing the sentiment, the Corporal had squirmed uncomfortably.

"Annie, the woman we found at the NCRCF, also needs help. Hell, I don't even know if little 10 needs it too." – rubbing her face in frustration, she had forced herself to keep talking – "I'm not good at this shit. See, Gorobets was the one acting as a bridge between the rest of the team, so we could understand each other. Now that he's gone, I don't know how to sort out this fucking mess…" – and then, she had addressed Vulpes – "Your pal, the Hispanic with the mohawk… maybe he needs Usanagi too."

"I doubt it." – he had replied serenely, his tone conveying how uninteresting he found the topic.

However, he had greatly underestimated the Corporal's strong feelings on the matter.

"Oh, you fucking doubt it?" – she had replied irately – "Are you a goddamned head doctor now to make that assumption?"

"I don't see how this is related to Félix."

"Then you're blinder than a molerat in a sewer, pretty boy." – she had sneered derisively – "Your pal… he's hurting. Dunno why, dunno how, but he could use the help. You should call him back here so he can get treatment."

"Says you, Corporal."

"What's your fucking problem?! Someone tells you your friend isn't feeling okay, and your answer is just shrugging it off as if it doesn't affect you?!"

"You'll find that we tribals have a very different approach regarding healing. The more if we are talking about something that meds and chems can't fix."

However, true to her western mentality, the woman couldn't leave it be.

"Who are you to make that decision for him?!" – she had reproached.

That had been the straw that broke the brahmin's back.

"And who are you to make assumptions on your own, thinking your values on how trauma works apply the same for everyone?!" – he had spat, raising his voice as well – "Don't believe for a second that you can get a grasp on our mentality merely because maybe your ancestors happened to be reconditioned tribals and you fancy yourself an open-minded individual, for you know NOTHING about our culture or our customs." – pointing an index finger to her, he had declared – "To you, we are a bunch of superstitious, illiterate, funny-looking barbarians who paint their faces, dress in pelts, worship ridiculous idols, and dance around bonfires. A bunch of cavemen who, besides that they totally should kiss the ground Mormon missionaries and Followers of the Apocalypse walk throughout their charity campaigns; they are also in dire need of western civilization to thrive when, in truth, we have survived out of our defective Vaults at least a century more than the Californians. So, please, spare me your Freudian views regarding how a man should heal his soul." – grabbing his backpack from the ground, where he had put it to argue with the intrusive woman, he had turned heel, leaving her cut mid-sentence – "Bear your cross and leave us bear ours, Corporal."

He had meant every word, and he still meant it.

Even more: since his little discourse, some of the people from Sullivan's group now treated him… slightly differently.

Not Becky, Raul, or Lily, since he had his own story with those three, and they knew how to behave around him the same way he knew how to be around them.

No. The ones who had, apparently, a shift in attitude were Gannon and Cassidy.

Somehow, his words had made Gannon rethink his skittish attitude when Vulpes was around, and now the good doctor deemed it necessary to make small conversation with him whenever the group would find a break from daily activities, and they would simply share a coffee after lunch or some such thing. Whenever the sniper would make a quick escapade to have a smoke at one of the terraces or Cassidy would make her alcoholic mixes at the Cocktail Lounge with Raul at night, and Becky would try to cheat at cards to fail miserably, there was Gannon explaining Vulpes how to realign bones, make ferrules and splints out of apparent trash, or even create a powerful disinfectant mixing clean boiled water, vinegar, vodka, and ground Coyote tobacco leaves.

It wasn't that he enjoyed the company of an inverted such as Gannon… but Vulpes could appreciate conversation from someone as educated as the Follower was.

Besides, despite his… condition, Vulpes also admitted that the man had never attempted to make a come-on to him in all this time the Master Frumentarius had spent with Sullivan's group. Not once. A relief in clear contrast with… that Degenerate at Camp Forlorn Hope whom he shared… whatever it was the relationship those two had…

A clear contrast with Cassidy and her unwelcome sexual humor… if one could call that 'humor' at all.

And, speaking of Cassidy: her attitude had improved substantially since his public argument with Betsy, clearly biting down her tongue whenever the opportunity for a crass joke at his expense came up.

Everything had happened within the span of three days they had spent at the Lucky 38, which wasn't a lot of time to speak about, but it was a start. Vulpes could appreciate that.

Regarding the sniper… he was simply a lost cause. Vulpes doubted they would ever meet eye to eye, and that didn't rob him of any sleep. After all, he wasn't looking forward to being friends with the Republican mongrel.

Just the same he wasn't looking forward to prolonging this unnecessary conversation with a Republican woman he couldn't care less about. Becky was the one and only lesbian okay in his book, and that's all about it.

"Okay, okay." – the woman finally caved in, giving him a weird look behind the stupid sunglasses all of these idiots seemed so fond of – "Just came to say hi to the mailgirl. We were just leaving for The Tops. Have a drink, burn some cash… the usual stuff." – she explained as if he were interested in the very slightest about the plans of these Profligates – "Hey, girl." – she added, addressing Sullivan, taking one of her little hands in hers – "Have fun and don't do anything I wouldn't do, 'kay?"

Sullivan smiled and nodded absently to the rest of the Republicans as they took their leave.

"Corporal Betsy."

The woman turned her head.

"If you, for some reason, end up feeling that the sniper life doesn't suit you anymore… There's always plenty of space at the Lucky."

Wait, what?

The woman finished turning around, walked silently to their table, bowed to Sullivan's height, and planted a soft kiss on her cheek.

"You're a sweet girl." – she said way softer than she usually spoke – "Too sweet to deal with all this shit on your own. But that's what your team is for. And me… I already have a team to root for, you understand?"

Looking at the other woman in the eyes, Sullivan nodded silently, and then both shared a short embrace that tasted of farewell.

Once they were alone again, neither she nor Vulpes exchanged a single word during what was left of their meal.

He could tell the exchange had left her unsettled in a way, and he accompanied her to the bathroom wing – the last thing he wanted or/and needed was another agent from the NCR or even the very Alerio pulling the drug trick he had played on her the first time in Vegas – so she could refresh herself a little.

When she emerged with wet hair and face, Vulpes noticed the sadness in her eyes.

"Why the sniper woman?" – he asked with a conversational tone when, in truth, he was dying to know what was happening inside that head of hers.

As if waking from a spell, she blinked a few times before answering.

"Because I like her." – she simply replied.

"And that is the primary requisite to get inside your little band?"

She frowned.

"She's also very competent."

That gave Vulpes some pause.

"So, you have to like them, and they have to be competent." – he summarized, genuinely curious – "What else?"

"That's all."

"Oh?" – and then, playing the card he now knew she wouldn't resist at all, he nudged her against a wall of a solitary corridor, enjoying the warmth of her body against his and enjoying, even more, her shy tacit consent when she stood on tiptoes, eyeing him expectantly – "And you deduced that I would fit the bill just by that conversation we had prior entering The Tops… or did such a conviction come later? Hmmm?" – he shouldn't be enjoying himself so much ghosting his lips around her face, teasing her with his proximity, yet maintaining the touch subtle, like the wings of a butterfly upon her little nose – "Tell me." – he breathed in a whisper, eyes traveling in the goose pimples blooming in the flesh of her neck with unconcealed hunger – "Enlighten me."

Her only answer was closing her eyes, giving in when he kissed her and her dainty hands came to rest on the front of his waistcoat.

A Vault corridor wasn't the most… adequate place for this state of affairs, but damn if it didn't cross his mind how many things one could do in ten minutes before somebody came around the bathrooms.

Nevertheless, she froze when his hand braved perhaps a little too further up the hem of her dress, and then, immediately before the situation could turn out awkward for the two of them, they heard the voices, muffled by several concrete layers but clear enough to make out what they were saying.

"I've told you! I know nothing!"

Vulpes recognized the voice.

"You should have thought twice before nosing around our turf. Nobody spies on the Family and lives to tell the tale, lady."

"Please, please! I swear! I don't know anything!"

"Well now, maybe you should try to convince us you're telling the truth. Whaddya say, guys?"

As Vulpes had taken his index finger to his lips, Sullivan had nodded, and both of them had neared the most immediate door near the bathroom corridor and had activated the opening mechanism.

On the other side, a group of three armed thugs in suits had an Afro-American woman corralled inside her dorm's bathroom, nearing her with barely-concealed disgusting body language that had informed the Courier and the Master Frumentarius the fate she would have likely suffered if they hadn't intervened in time.

"What's going on here?" – Sullivan demanded as Vulpes noticed how she was angling her left arm with the Pip-Boy, prepared to enter V.A.T.S. should things escalate too fast in too short a time.

Clever, clever girl.

One of the thugs turned around, initially giving the way-smaller girl a sidelong grin, then frowning the instant he saw the tall, pale fella standing next to her. Combed back greasy hair, reeking a mixture between sweat and cheap men's cologne. These men, as Vulpes had anticipated, were Omertas.

"This ain't any of your business." – the thug said, putting on the usual Omerta flair, with the silly mafia boss accent and the pimp daddy attitude – "Walk off and forget you two saw anything."

"Oh, and if this isn't any of our business, whose business are we exactly discussing here?" – the Courier challenged, deadly calm.

From the corner of his eye, the legionary saw the woman giving him a relieved look, whereas the thug speaking with them was losing his patience quickly.

"Omerta business." – he emphasized, raising his submachine 10mm – "Now, fuck off… or else."

"You realize you're acting way, way out of your scope starting a firefight outside of any Families' territory, right?" – Sullivan said – "How would Mr. House like that if he found out?"

"And who the fuck you think you are?" – the thug sneered – "You think Not-At-Home would pay any attention to wild ramblings coming outta mouths of two washed-up NCR brats? He doesn't give a shit."

"Do you really believe your Family won't be economically sanctioned the same that happened with the Chairmen and the White Glove Society if House discovers Nero is pissing far out of his pot, huh?"

"Well, maybe we oughta silence you two as well. How about that?"

Even if he was enjoying himself way too much watching his Mercuria spar with words, Vulpes stepped in before she could continue with negotiations that weren't going anywhere.

"How interesting…" – he purred, earning immediate flinching from the thug spokesman when the Fox interposed himself between the Courier and the man, violating the latter's vital space as if the SMG in his hand was nothing – "Now Big Sal's lackeys think they can act in Nero's name by compromising his alliance with the Legion by taking one of their agents out of the picture."

His assumption proved correct when he saw the tan countenance of the man acquire a deathly pallor.

"W-what?!" – the sod stuttered – "Shit… L-look, we're just following orders, alright?"

"Orders that come in direct conflict with the interests of the Legion, thus, your boss', Nero. How disappointing if, by some chance, this would reach his ears through tertiary means."

"Uh…" – the man grumbled, clearly subdued – "We… uh… we need to take this up with the boss then…"

"Good." – Vulpes nodded, smiling in that way he knew would unnerve these poor ignorants who, besides not being very familiar with the act of thinking, they were every bit as superstitious as the rest of Vegas' local tribes regarding albinos – "Don't let me keep you."

The three brutes abandoned the room quicker than thunder as Sullivan's gaze rested heavily over Vulpes' shoulders when he called the woman hiding behind the bathroom door.

"You can come out, Martina."

She didn't immediately show up, but then, after exchanging a knowing look with Sullivan, the familiar tapping of well-kept stilettos and the rustling of skirts called for his attention.

"Well, hello there, Fox. You're a godsend." – the woman breathed, making Vulpes immediately tense – "They were going to kill me!"

"I assumed that much." – was his terse reply – "You have become sloppy, Martina. I might not be around next time the Omertas would decide to pay you a visit."

"There won't be a next time. I hope." – she said, batting her lashes, already smiling, already with the flirty attitude – "That Legion story surely has scared them off well enough so they won't open their traps with their boss just in case he'll send them to sleep with the Lakelurks." – she added, giggling in that sugary way women around Vegas thought it sounded coquettish.

Whereas Martina Groesbeck, an ordinary NCR woman with an even more ordinary aspiration at making a living off 'professionally gambling' (if you could make a career out of vice, that is), was, for Vulpes' standards, what one would call 'his type'… Such an attraction, exclusively on the physical side, had been the primary reason he had never allowed himself to entertain her games throughout the one-year partnership he had managed to acquire out of her by making the woman believe she was collaborating with the NCR by monitoring the Omertas' moves.

And now, even more, with Sullivan standing next to them.

So, taking a step back to put some comfortable distance between them, the Master Frumentarius cleared his throat in the hopes of dissuading her from pursuing what could not be.

"It would be prudent of you to lay low for a while." – he instructed dispassionately, crossing his arms – "And keep feeding our mutual friend whatever you have managed to gather thus far. At least until the waters calm down."

Pouting at his refusal, she then eyed the petite brunette beside him as if she saw her for the first time, eyes tinted with curiosity.

"That may prove challenging as of late." – she replied – "Yesterday, I asked Sarah for a leave in the afternoon, so I could make a quick trip to McCarran. Once there, when I asked for…" – still eyeing Sullivan, she hesitated – "You know… They made me wait for two damn hours at the Terminal until a minor officer arrived and told me that, regrettably, our mutual friend was indisposed. Two hours, Fox! Do you have an idea of how much can be done in two hours around the hotel? The night parties here at the recreational area leave the place worse than a pigsty!"

Exchanging a meaningful glance with Sullivan, Vulpes experienced brief nausea. Picus would have never refused to receive the reports of their unwitting informant, no matter the hour.

"I see." – he forced himself to say – "Then you shall pass the information unto me so I can send it directly to the Colonel. These circumstances are very irregular."

Martina flinched briefly at his mention of a rank.

"Are you too with… you know?" – she dared to ask Sullivan, eyeing her again dubitatively.

The girl just blinked.

"I'm the Courier." – she simply replied.

The woman's mouth went agape.

"Wait… not a courier but the Courier? As in House's middlewoman, the first person to ever enter the Lucky 38?"

"Uh-huh."

"Holy… mother of a Cazador!" – Martina exclaimed, first eyeing her incredulously, then looking at Vulpes, whose discomfort hadn't diminished one bit, eager as he was to end with this incredibly inopportune situation by obtaining the information and getting a move on. Date or not totally ruined at this point. Sometimes, he hated his work with a passion – "Had I suspected that the most renowned celebrity of New Vegas would enter my room, I would have cleaned it up a bit or something!" – she exclaimed, amazed, to quickly compose herself and address Vulpes once more – "Now House is collaborating with the NCR, Fox?"

Before he could answer, Sullivan spoke.

"Due to the mutual support contemplated in the Treaty, Mr. House's duty falls on being always available to lend a hand to the Republic with local affairs within the walls of Vegas, and this is no exception, Miss…?"

"Groesbeck. Martina Groesbeck. I'm so happy to make your acquaintance!" – the woman exclaimed happily, giving a hearty shake to Sullivan's hand.

And then, a handful of awkward fangirl squealing and more unnecessary handshakes later, Vulpes finally was conceded a break in the guise of getting the thrice-damned information at once.

"It's hardly a secret at this point, but there's an inner problem going on with one of the Omertas' fat cats and a Croupier that goes by the name of Carlitos Wayne." – Martina told him, still looking at Sullivan, amazed. The same look one would give to a rare, exotic bird – "Apparently, he was 'invited' to leave the Family before his Blackjack turned into a permanent blackout. The details obscure, as per usual with everything within Gomorrah's walls; and now this Carlitos is a working resident here, just like me. He helps with the cleaning and generic handyman stuff around, and Sarah gives him lodging. I have tried to chat the man a couple of times, but no luck whatsoever. Clammed up tighter than a Deathclaw egg." – shrugging, she had added – "Might be worth working your magic on this one, Fox… if you can afford to get your sensibilities shaken by the gangsta macho attitude, atrocious vocabulary, and cheap sarcasm."

Vulpes had barely blinked at the last sentence but had reacted a tad too viscerally when Martina had grabbed him by the wrist before he could abandon her quarters after bidding her farewell and Sullivan had already disappeared through the door to go search for this Carlitos guy.

"Don't." – he had warned with a pointed look, wrist laying rigidly over his heart.

Not without my permission.

The woman had frozen, empty hand stopped midair until she had slowly retired it, her demeanor cautious.

"I didn't want to discuss it in front of the Courier, but…" – she swallowed, unsure as to how to put it – "I was hoping… since Curtis isn't available… I'll need to pay a debt soon and…"

Before she could finish, Vulpes counted and slammed a modest wad of NCR currency over the room's bedside table before disappearing through the door.

Mercenary Profligate, he hoped she choked on those flimsy papers she was so attached to.

The echo of his steps reverberated throughout polished corridors. A tall young man in an unflattering brown suit inwardly cursing his luck, utterly disgusted at how quickly The Strip had lost its short-lived splendor to become, once again, the den of vice and iniquity he had been forced to mingle around for so long he couldn't tell the difference from beauty to decay, from ally to mercenary… or from past to present.

Meanwhile, a few paces ahead, alone and guilt-trapped in a vortex of fear, doubts, and insecurities, walked a target, a friend, a fellow soldier.

A lover. A beloved.

A stranger who, like him, inhabited a world that wasn't hers.


Inhaling the last puff of warm filth, McCready eyed the large structure of the Citadel with, for the first time in years, something akin to peace.

Peace with what he had become inside these walls and what he would never will himself come to be.

Peace with what he was about to embrace and what he was about to leave behind.

There had been many joys and regrets along the way. Joys at having been able to partake in something important. Something beyond him and his petty wishes.

And no, he wasn't talking about the Brotherhood or the giant imprint they had left upon the Capitol and its most immediate neighbors.

"RJ!"

Ditching the spent cigar butt aside, McCready forced a smile upon his features and allowed the not-so-little bundle of hyperactivity and bony limbs to crash upon his legs and stomach before being squeezed into the biggest, most constricting hug ever.

"Bumble! How many times do I have to repeat to you that tackling people isn't the best way to show that you care for them?" – a feminine, suffocated voice came from behind, its owner clearly out of breath at having to keep up with the vivacious child.

"Hey, hey, hey, cut it with the goddamn earful already, Penny." – McCready said, raising up both hands in a surrender gesture to appease the frowning teenager Scribe Apprentice who was already opening her mouth to reply something about manners and all that boring stuff he had never bothered to learn in class – "She ain't doing anything I wouldn't allow. Right, sweetface?" – he added, putting his gloved hands this time over the tiny shoulders of the hyped eleven-year-old girl testing the endurance of the laughable muscle mass he had managed, in all these years under the Brotherhood's wings, to build around his waist.

Whereas said girl gave him an adoring, doe-eyed glance, the Afro teenager scrunched her nose.

"Watch your language, McCready." – she reprimanded – "At least in front of the kid. You know how the brass hates that."

"Well, luckily for them, I'm not gonna stick around long enough to wound their delicate sensibilities."

A sudden awkward silence ensued.

Despite their vastly different schedules, all of the Lamplighters had gathered to say goodbye to him.

Little Bumble, Penny, Knick Knack, Knock Knock, Biwwy, Eclair, Zip, Stacey, Sammy, Squirrel… even good ol' Joseph and motherfucking Princess Angela were there.

Just like five years ago, the way it was meant to be.

He often thought about the others too… the ones who never left the Lamplight tunnels like Caps, and the ones who did, like Sticky, Kimba, Pappy, Red, Shorty, Timebomb, Flash, Dusty… even that mungo-dungo face of Bittercup.

He had often wondered if Big Town would still be out there. If his old mates had survived the Wasteland at all.

If they had married, if they had children already. A life they could call their own.

It's a wild Wasteland, and he knew Sarah Lyons had been good on her word about checking every month if some of the adults from Big Town had left babies for the Lamplighters to take care of without being aware the place was empty.

But still…

"Why do you have to leave, RJ?" - the sweet, innocent voice of little Bumble woke him from his reverie.

He only allowed Bumble to call him that. He had a reputation to maintain, after all.

Smiling, McCready put down his duffle bag so he could squat to the girl's visual height.

"'Cause, the same you're a lil' bundle of joy, I'm a big bad bundle of trouble." – he replied softly. Like he wouldn't speak to any other human being but this child who had been, for all intents and purposes, the closest thing he had ever had to a younger sibling since she had lost Timebomb to the inevitable process of growing older and getting expelled from Little Lamplight – "Trouble neither the Brotherhood, nor you guys need."

"Cut the crap already." – Angela growled, evidently displeased – "You're leaving because you want to."

McCready gave her a sidelong smirk.

"What?" – he challenged, tone teasing – "Don't tell me you're gonna miss little ol' me, Princess."

"Fuck you."

"You would like that, wouldn'cha?"

"In your wildest dreams, McCready."

"Dreams can get pretty wild out there, redhead. And nights in the Capitol are cold as hell."

"Then shake hands with your willy friend a couple of times. If that don't keep you warm, you can shoot him down with a laser too."

"Yeah, love you too, Iron Maiden." – even if he wouldn't admit it for the life of him, McCready would miss exchanging barbs with her. Too many evenings sharing guard duty at the gates, making bets about who'd shoot down more critters. That had been one of the main reasons he had gotten so good at shooting. He sometimes hadn't even needed the night-vision from the Power Armor helmets to detect a target in the dark.

Joseph, ever the old-timer and the most mature of them all by a difference – and the main reason, besides his love for books and all that Old-World stuff, he was Rothchild's Scribe Assistant as of today -, stepped forward and extended his hand.

"We're all going to miss you, man." – he simply said – "This will not be the same without you."

McCready shook his hand without thinking twice.

And then, one by one, his old mates bid him farewell until the fragile arms of Bumble were again pressed around him. This time, his shirt got wet as she trembled in silence.

"Hey." - he whispered, kneeling again so he could gently cup her little face with his hands, sweeping her tears with his hard thumbs – "You gonna get one big-ass headache if you keep at that."

"I d-don't w-wanna you t-to leave!" – she hiccupped, giving him that puppy look she knew he would need every ounce of willpower to resist.

He sighed. He had known it was bound to be hard for the kid… but he hadn't anticipated how hard it would turn out to be for him as well.

"Listen, sweetface." – he willed himself to say. After all, he had to act the mature part out of the two – "Sometimes… we've to make hard decisions both for ourselves and the rest. Decisions ain't made on a whim, nor they're a mood you just kick in and go for it. No. Decisions are choices you've to meditate on before making. A long time. And I promise you I've thought about this a great deal."

"But w-why?" – she insisted.

Was there an easy way to explain how politics worked to an innocent mind such as hers without sullying that very innocence? She still had a couple of years or so before she started messing around with boys or girls or both, and then, the whole mungo deal would crash upon her like a damn life sentence.

Adult life sucked. A lot.

"Because…" – he hesitated, looking at Penny for some input but getting a lost, saddened look instead – "The Brotherhood of Steel has some… ideas I disagree with. Ideas I cannot ignore nor avoid. And I've ideas of my own the Brotherhood isn't too fond of, Bumble." – why did putting words to sentiment becomes so utterly difficult and unbearable all of a sudden? – "Ideas that have put me in a bad spot with the Elder. And the Brotherhood needs a strong Elder now."

"Arthur kicked you out?" – Bumble asked, scandalized and hurt. Big baby blue eyes the size of the whole fucking globe.

"No, sweetface." – McCready replied, shaking his head lightly – "But he may be forced to if I stay true to my ideas. Even if he doesn't necessarily want to. So, before people start questioning whether I should stay or not, I'm leaving. Before this creates a breach so huge, I wouldn't be able to fix it later. That way, Arthur won't need to kick me out, and you guys wouldn't be forced to choose." – he sighed again, aware Bumble wasn't grasping the whole picture, still a kid with a clean conscience, a clean soul, and a clean mind – "Do you know why I once self-appointed myself as Lamplight Mayor?"

"To kick Angela out of position?" – she asked innocently.

McCready wasn't the only one who smiled at that.

"No, sweetface. I wanted to be a Mayor, so I could protect you. All of you." – cocooning her wiry frame between his arms, he added – "I failed at protecting you from Burke once. Now, I'm trying to protect you again. Let me be your ol' Mayor-Mac one last time, ey?"

Sniffing, she nodded in silence, earning one of the rare instances in which McCready gave her a kiss on the brow. He really wasn't the kissing or hugging type, so that actually counted for something.

She returned the kiss on his temple as well.

"I love you, Mayor-RJ."

McCready didn't consider himself to be a soft mushy kind of guy… but it took a lot of strength not to start crying his eyes out like a big baby in front of everybody when he picked back his duffle bag from the ground and gave the Lamplighters the last wave goodbye with his right hand.

He gave the Citadel a last look before crossing its gates forever and facing the reality of the Wasteland. No matter the patrols or the turret-protected populations, it was a big, wild Wasteland.

And he had outlived his stay in Neverland.

"Robert."

Turning around, McCready thought he must be dreaming (or maybe tanking up on some of the strong-as-shit whiskey Quartermaster Durga sometimes smuggled in the Citadel for special events) when he took in one of the most beautiful sights he thought he would never get a hold again: wearing one of those tight sets of leather armor that looked so impossibly fetching on her, was Lucía. Or Lucy, their former Lamplight doctor, now turned into a qualified physician acting as the human complement for Sawbones, the Citadel's Mister Gutsy field doctor.

She had been the only one who hadn't been present at McCready's farewell.

Initially, he had thought her too busy with her numerous patients or even too uninterested (which, of course, he had kept denying himself that it had hurt like a bitch in the slightest) in saying goodbye. Lucy had never been good at these things, not once showing weakness every time a teen had been forced to abandon Little Lamplight when they had turned sixteen… but McCready knew how much she had cried when she had thought she had been alone inside her office at night.

"Wha…" – suddenly, McCready's tongue chose that moment to start acting weird, the very same it had consistently kept happening since both had turned out fourteen, and he had allowed admitting to himself that he had harbored the biggest, baddest crush on her for so long he couldn't pretend to be blind anymore. Fucking brilliant… – "Whaddya doin'… I mean… uh… you know, here, Lucy?"

Not even half-respectable, the way that'd come out. He was a fucking mess.

"I'm coming with you." – was her firm, eerily calm reply while pointing out her own duffle bag over her shoulder. A menace-looking AER9 laser rifle also rested on her back, while several spare Microfusion Cells rested strapped around her tactical belt.

Wait, what in the goddamn…?!

"Huh?" – stop gawking, you asshole! Say something! – "You… uh… you don't have to do that. I… can take care of myself." – no, no, no, you dumb shit! That's not what you're supposed to say!

However, contrary to expectations, she actually smiled.

"I know." – she spoke again, so unbelievably calm still – "But I want to come with you anyway."

Was this even real? Had he crossed the desert already and was so thirsty that he was hallucinating stuff?

Weird… wonderful stuff. If so, he'll gladly die a thirsty, happiest jerk throughout the Capitol.

"Why?" – he asked the wonderful hallucination softly.

And then, dream or not, Lucy's lips felt surreally real (if that makes sense) when she stepped forward, grabbed the lapels of his duster – movie heroine of the pre-War style (YAS!) –, and crashed them upon his eager, very welcoming ones.

Time stopped and then, out of a sudden, life made sense again.

His arms were around her when they separated, and she was smiling coyly, actually a bit disheveled and flustered, the opposite of the collected, pristine image she had always projected to the exterior, being the tough, protective, dependable doctor everyone around Lamplight had needed.

The mother neither of them had ever known.

Only McCready had always seen her differently.

And he loved even more seeing her under this new light. Close, warm, human.

"That good an answer for you, Robert?"

His.

"Y-yeah." – he replied timidly, something he hadn't known he had in him. Nor had he been aware he could blush so damn much that even his neck felt on fire.

It seemed his new life out in the adult world didn't suck as much as he had initially thought.

Maybe there were new frontiers out there to explore, after all. New people to meet being just a man instead of a soldier.

With Lucía, the possibilities felt infinite. Besides, instead of being a liability, McCready knew her for damn sure that he could have never asked for a better companion in his travels.

However…

"What… what about the rest?" – he finally dared to ask – "The clinic? The Lamplighters?"

"They're all grown up already." – she said confidently.

"And Bumble?"

Her eyes shifted to the Citadel, the same peace he had felt before crystal-clear in the depths of her green eyes.

"She's in good hands." – nodding, she added as an afterthought – "I would have wanted to wait a little more… help her with the basic stuff. But what's done is done."

"Wait… you're saying that you already had planned on abandoning the Brotherhood?" – he questioned, truly baffled.

"Are you kidding, Robert? Can you seriously picture me handing over my whole life to a paramilitary organization that thrives on Martial Law, forced assimilation, and a Codex that hasn't seen a single revision from its very first writing almost two centuries ago?"

Well, when you put it like that…

"Guess not." – he laughed. God, but he wanted to laugh, and laugh, and laugh till the sun set – "So…"

"So… have you already thought about what'll be our next stop?"

"Erm…"

"So, you hadn't planned a travel itinerary. Not even a route."

"Guess not?"

"You're a mess, Robert."

"Guess you already knew that."

"You bet. I know what I'm buying."

"Suggestions?"

"Would you mind if we drop by Big Town? I want to see the others… to know if they're still there."

He found that… he wouldn't mind.

As long as she would be by his side, he wouldn't mind. At all.


On the other side of the Citadel's gates, from an elevated position, hidden behind the crystal reflection of a window, Arthur Maxson had observed the lengthy exchange pensively, hands tightly clasped on his back.

"Are you going to leave him be just like that, Arthur?"

He detested profoundly both the words and the voice that had uttered them.

"We do not force people to remain with us if it isn't in their wish to do so." – he replied evenly, deceivably serene – "It is also encouraged and advisable to persuade rebel soldiers to leave before resorting to… more drastic measures."

He didn't miss the polite scoff disguised as a cough that came almost immediately.

"You lead by example, Arthur. You would know what is best for your organization." – the odious voice spoke again before the sound of an opening metallic door echoed softly throughout the chamber – "Alas, it might not be in the best of the Brotherhood's interests to allow deserters - trained, educated deserters - to roam outside the scope of control of the East Coast. Just a thought." – the slight sound of a lighter and then, the pungent smell of tobacco mixed with that cologne no sane, good man would dare to wear out in the Wasteland at the risk of being detected by wildlife – "And, speaking of thoughts: Rothchild claims to have everything ready. You should consider checking with him to give your blessing with the due preparations… but then again: just a thought."

After that, the door closed, leaving the faint scents of politics behind. The sounds of silence being the only friends keeping company to the young Elder, who allowed himself a brief moment of weakness by sinking his head between his arms.

He would never admit to anybody that there had been angry, impotent tears in his eyes he wouldn't, for the life of him, allow falling.

Tears at realizing that, standing at the cusp of civilization, he was all alone.


SPANISH:

(1) - "Let the kids live in peace! You're all behaving like babies."


A/N: I know, I know, I'm a mushy-gushy piece of crap. Bear with me xD

Sooooo... I actually have an excuse for having delayed an update a little more than expected: vaccinations. Vaccinations, my friends. First dosage, all right, the second one... urgh, I don't wish the experience upon anybody.

Eruch: your review made me ridiculously happy. I love to hear that you find so many good moments within this story that you can't cover them all. The quests I'm adapting, I want for them to make sense into the narrative, to have a reason for being there or/and consequences (you kill the Fiends, House takes over the territory. You kill the Powder Gangers; there's an NCR investigation going on, and war crimes nobody wants to be public, pretty much like what happened at Bitter Springs. Slave work isn't exclusive from the Legion, and the game EXPLICITLY states that). Maybe it's too much introspection and world-building... but if you're enjoying it, everything's alright then ;)

Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R: nope, they hadn't gone through the DLCs. That's for after the Second Battle for Hoover Dam. However, there has been a fair share of mentions dealing with DLC content, so maybe that's what confused you.
The name you're looking for is KL-E-0 (most hilarious psychotic Assaultron vendor ever). I agree, they aren't very developed as personalities, and she's the only one who shows one. Here, House's Assaultrons are pretty basic, so no weird personalities, sorry D:
And... your commentary about how interesting you find the Frumentarii has given me an idea. Long Quest? Long Quest it is :D Just you wait.

Anyway, I'm writing this as I correct the chapter's orthography, so... see ya soon? Hope you've liked my mushiness? ❤❤❤

PD: Antoine de Saint-Exupéry's "Little Prince" references galore!