"Number Nine"
Ch. 29: Heaven or Las Vegas.
Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains mild graphic descriptions of sexual practices that not everyone may find comfortable reading, allusions to perversions and underaged sex, child prostitution, and what a prostitute's life would be in a place as dark as the Gomorrah.
If you're sensitive to these topics, either don't read or proceed with caution. Especially when reading the last scene, under Joana's POW.
"Reaching this itch in my soul,
is like any good playing card.
Must be why I'm thinking of Las Vegas,
why it's more brighter than the sun is to me."
- Cocteau Twins, "Heaven or Las Vegas"
"If you're smart, The Strip's all flash and noise. If not, luck's your dame, your hot date, until you find she's a cheap whore high on Jet."
Six wasn't sure who, out of the two of them, was the one getting more uncomfortable as time passed, and the half-watered, half-drunk ranting of Mr. Wayne was becoming more and more depressing by the minute.
Zorro, by her right, was becoming so tense that she could actually feel his stress radiating in waves from his unnatural, robotic posture.
"And then… there's the players, 'course… which are House, House, and House again. Everyone keeps clean around him, the Families, the barons - fuck, even the NCR." – the man, a pitiful half-starved, olive-skinned Hispanic (for half the Omertas' staff were Hispanics while the other half varied between different Mediterranean ethnicities mixed with Caucasian American, such as the big bosses… or so she had heard) laughed humorlessly, staring at the deep bottom of his cheap beer – "My recommendation?: get the fuck out of town while you can. It'll leave you hanging in the wind or, worse, add your body to a concrete wall. There's too much shit and despair at Gomorrah already." – shaking his head, he continued – "It may look like heaven at first… until you find that all the glitter is made of broken dreams and all the praise hides a knife pointing at your ribs."
Typical pondering coming out of someone so deep in the bottle and so short of luck and caps in Vegas that he was seriously debating whether to continue his aimless existence or finish it rather than endure another day out of paradise.
"As the pain sweeps through…"
Nevertheless, those deliriant, unfortunate ideas – or fortunate, depending on the case – usually didn't last longer than what a good hangover couldn't remedy, so the lost soul trapped within the constant loop of vice and regret could sleep a while, then drink some synthetic coconut water for the headache upon waking up… so they could rinse and repeat.
She often had wondered how was it possible that the post-Americans hadn't learned shit from their ancestors, whose medical studies on addiction, she was sure, had probably been carefully archived amidst the millions and millions of terabytes in data the Vault-Tec servers had had in their possession before the bombs.
"… Makes no sense for you."
The acclaimed Vault 15, due to its diverse, multicultural background, should have grown out of gambling and drugs long ago if the NCR's political agenda had remained consistent from the very days Aradesh had been at the head of Shady Sands.
"Every thrill is gone…"
But now, there were the Khans, former inhabitants of Vault 15 turned into raiding drug-runners; the Jackals, profoundly cannibalistic and with their golden age Era way past its prime; the Vipers, with a shamanistic, ritualistic identity strongly linked to all the pre-War cultural mashup they had distorted into a modern version of facts… and the NCR.
And, with the aforesaid nation's permissiveness, there was New Reno. And New Vegas.
And the Shi in San Francisco, prospering despite everything; language and customs alive throughout the centuries. No matter the role their ancestors had played in turning this country into a radioactive dump. Sharing in the same dark fate.
"… Wasn't too much fun at all."
The glitter this Carlitos Wayne was speaking about was almost three-hundred-year-old already, and the 'heaven' he had known before disillusion was but a pale ghost of what Las Vegas had been once.
After all, he was a tribal, a survivor rejected out of Vault-Tec's defective experiments. Neither he nor his parents had known a life of comfort before, so anything resembling not having to kill for survival and not going hungry a single day of their existence, no matter how hard it'll get, was the closest thing they had known to having a worthy life.
But then, there are the downs that come with civilization: with your life secured and plenty of time to plot, people start becoming greedy.
And that very same greed usually translated into stomping over the necks of other people they, under very different circumstances, would have called 'family' regardless of blood ties.
For it was true that, in misery and pain, human nature tended to flourish into the best version of itself.
Which, if you thought about it carefully, it was a very sad reality.
"But I'll be there for you…"
Why did she have to share with Sarah Weintraub, on a whim, her old songs to add to the limited variety Vault 21's musical thread had to offer to its clients? The stupid music was getting her sentimental again.
And overly emotional. To the point she wanted to start crying her eyes out, asking the waitress for a pack of paper tissues and a bucket of synthetic strawberry ice cream so she could rent a room all for herself and start with the due ration of immature wallowing in self-pitying. Like, something among the lines of her playing her favorite movie of all time in her Pip-Boy; forgetting about her stupid duties, her paranoid friends, and her silly crush on a guy so hot, he could choose whomever he wished out of the ample variety of pretty ladies in Vegas.
"… As the world falls down."
She had seen how that beautiful lady had eyed him, the body language between them.
No matter that he had been sweet enough not to play on his preferences out of respect, no doubt. Six was jealous, jealous, jealous as fuck, and too self-conscious about how she had reacted on the corridor when they had been… kissing and stuff.
It had taken her by surprise, and she had briefly panicked not just because somebody could see them but also because things were going too fast for her.
Not a week ago, she had been hopelessly crushing while refraining from acting on her impulses out of both fear and respect… and then, he had kissed her, and everything had gone to hell.
Why did he have to insist? They had been much better when they were just companions sorting out how to be friends in the first place. Why did he have to ruin their perfect harmony by giving her hopes of things that couldn't be?
She wasn't buying that he found her appealing. Because she knew she wasn't. Martina Groesbeck was hot. She wasn't.
Maybe he was just confused? Mixing stuff with all the mock-flirting thing along with understandable affection?
Perhaps in the Legion they didn't have beauty standards? (yeah, sure). Like, as long as she was a she at all, everything was game? (okay, that was Fiend-like level of disgustingness. Legionaries weren't horny, brainless junkies, after all… well, at least she knew the junkie part was true).
Wait… what if he just wanted a quick tumble? Or a 'friends with benefits' sort of arrangement?
What if this was… just something Sallow had told him to do? House had insinuated that much, and the Orwellian man, while not overly perceptive about how human emotions worked, usually was very precise in his predictions.
"Falling… falling… falling… falling in love…"
Shit, couldn't the damn song just kind of finish already? Thank you very much?
"We have a vested interest in untangling whatever troubles afflicts the inner workings at the Gomorrah, Mr. Wayne." – Zorro enunciated dispassionately, almost bored, as he eyed the defeated man in front of him with anticipation, clearly wanting to be done with the matter as soon as possible – "Answer a few questions for us. That is all we want from you."
"And I want a cute patron of this shit-hole to blow me over the pool table." – Wayne replied bitterly, eyeing Six with a very eloquent sneer – "But that ain't happening either, is it?" – the way he said that resembled a question more than a statement.
She almost freaked out when Zorro's long arm crossed the table space that separated them from Wayne at dizzying speed to grab him by the dirty collar of his pre-War parkstroller outfit.
"¡Zorro!" – she squeaked, her tone startled and warning in one.
"I am afraid I haven't expressed myself clearly on the matter." – the interpellated hissed, bored voice tone slowly mutating into a big Warning with the capital 'W' – "You have two available options, Mr. Wayne: either you behave by answering our questions civilly and allow Mr. House take care of matters in Vegas… or we will be forced to turn you in to your former Omerta colleagues, see if you can sort things out with Nero on your own account."
She was mortified to see the other man tremble in Zorro's grasp, raising near-skeletal hands slowly in an appeasing gesture. Couldn't he see that Wayne was a poor depressed sod, all bark and no bite? He barely could stand straight!
"Hey... I'm just worked up, okay?" – the aforesaid sod offered in apology, still trembling – "You're tough, right? You won't care about my stupid rambling then?" – he added nervously.
And then, Zorro, opened his long fingers in a slow, derisive fashion as if he were allowing the man to drop onto the floor like some leftover he had decided wasn't worth the effort of throwing into the trashcan.
She had never witnessed him being so dismissive with another person before. As if instead of dealing with a human being, he was dealing with a rabid, filthy animal; a sentiment he reaffirmed by wiping his fingers onto a paper tissue from the table dispenser he threw aside in disgust.
The amount of disdain contained within the action was horrific and demoralizing to even simply watch as Wayne composed himself and started talking almost robotically.
"Ask away, but don't know what good would come out of it." – he mumbled – "I'm just one more loser that got the evil-eye from Lady Luck. That's the deal with Vegas: sooner or later, you hit the bottom of the barrel… I just happened to fall harder than most, is all."
Straightening his posture, raising his chin with disgust, Zorro addressed him once more. It reminded Six so much of a dominating alpha wolf showing a weaker member of the pack its place, that she felt slightly nauseous.
"Let us start right away with the quid of the matter: what happened that a member of the Family, a Croupier no less, had to be expelled from Gomorrah under threat of death?"
Wayne shuddered.
"It was… Cachino." – he mumbled miserably.
Zorro's eyes squinted.
"Cachino." – he repeated – "One of Nero's lieutenants, and not even one of the most respectable ones."
"Respectable?" – Wayne echoed sardonically – "Buddy, there's nothing respectable about the Omertas, I can tell you right away. But Cachino… Cachino's a fucking viper."
"Care to elaborate, Mr. Wayne?"
"The fucking backstabbing piece of crap told Nero and Big Sal he caught me spring cleaning my tributes to the Family. My word as good as shit next to his – can't do nothing against that snake."
"And the real reason behind the scheme?"
Carlitos Wayne brought his thin hands upon his bony countenance, covering his features in shame. Nails bitten to the very root.
"He found we found." – he whispered under his hands.
"Who?" – the way Zorro uttered the word didn't sound like a question but more like a command – "And what?"
The emaciated man crumbled, and Six had to put a timid hand upon one of Zorro's so he would refrain from backhanding him. Disgust crystal clear on his features as he watched the other man cry.
Nevertheless, as they waited for the ex-Omerta to vent out, the Frumentarius took the hand she had resting on her lap with the one he had been maintaining a vice-like grip with the old padding of the diner's seatings, intertwining his deft fingers with hers out of sight.
That brought conflicted emotions to her as his dry thumb began caressing the obverse of her way-smaller hand, delineating the pointy slopes of her knuckles so delicately that she was having a hard time trying to convey the contradictory notions in where he could behave so brusquely and dismissively while, at the same time, being capable of such gentleness.
He was inhumanely tense, yet the feeling she was gathering out of their joined hands was of awkwardness, asking for some measure of solace.
She put her other hand over the one caressing the first, and soon, she found both her little hands within his grasp, as if fearing she would retire them.
All of this while maintaining his eyes set over Wayne's spine, digging holes.
"Jo… Joana." – the man said at last – "She... works at Gomorrah. But it's all my fault!" – he lamented – "I met her at The Atomic Wrangler years ago - beautiful doesn't even come close. I moved her into Gomorrah. I was in love, okay?"
Both Six and Wayne winced when Zorro let out a sharp, humorless laugh.
"How predictable." – he spat, showing his row of pointed teeth – "I don't know why animals like you bother to come up with the romantic tale when all you know is lust: you meet a whore, and a whore you keep her, so she's accessible and, why not, earns you a handful of caps while you glorify your union so she won't charge you, is it?" – then, he added sardonically – "Not that she would know best once you'll hook her on chems long enough so not even her own mother would recognize her."
It scandalized her not only his total lack of empathy at exposing something so horrible that plainly crude… but that she, deep inside, agreed with him as well.
Wayne's face was of utter mortification as more tears flowed from his faded eyes, denying violently with his head but unable to counter the accusations with words.
Six thought herself a cold bitch when she found that she felt nothing upon seeing a man so evidently tormented by his life choices wriggling like a maggot because of their presence. An ignorant, misguided man who hadn't been able to see past what his culture had taught him, what his tribe had instilled in him as good and right. She hated profoundly finding herself thinking that he was pathetic.
That he was weak. And his weakness had been the catalyst of his present anguish.
They were there, tormenting a man psychologically so he would spill the beans about his former Family's affairs.
What kind of people were they?
She squeezed both her hands in Zorro's, her brain already looking for a solution. A justification, an excuse good enough so she wouldn't feel so conflicted with her morals… or lack thereof.
"This Joana…" – she braved speaking up, even at the risk of upsetting Zorro – "Is she a willing… sexual worker at the Gomorrah?"
Morals. Morals were what separated her from people with zero scruples in obtaining what they were looking for.
What separated her from Burke.
Wayne stopped his nervous looping pattern and clutched at straws desperately.
"No… no, she isn't…" – he denied – "I mean… she was already working when I met her… but now… Cachino…"
"She has something on him." – she finished for him – "Something that may be the difference between you being dead or alive. He's blackmailing her using you as a guarantee." – upon observing Wayne nodding stupidly, as if he couldn't wrap his head around her being so observant, she added – "What did you two discover about Cachino that has him so worked up? And why hasn't he killed her already to get rid of the threat of her talking?"
"H-he…" – Carlitos hesitated, licking his dry lips while he kept checking their surroundings, lowering his voice considerably – "He's working against the Family's interests… somehow. He's been plotting to replace Nero by taking Salvatore out of the picture and the rest of the lieutenants that are loyal… some shit related with that sick fuck of Clanden and the weapon shipments they've been buying from Mick & Ralph's in the Freeside."
The sudden lax grip of Zorro's hand around hers informed Six that this was something she wasn't supposed to know. That shady alliance between the Legion and the Omertas, slowly but surely, started making a lot of sense.
"Why keep Joana alive if this information is so dangerous for Cachino?" – she insisted, deadly cold.
"Because he's obsessed with her!" – Wayne exclaimed deflatingly, hands upon his head once more – "We're not supposed to… fraternize with outsiders, even less if they're…"
"Merchandise." – she said gravely.
"… Yes. You can have some of the girls for free, of course… but Cachino ain't playing by the rules. Joana is their doll, their main star. You cannot hoard your best-selling girl all for yourself… less if you're into weird shit."
"No need for details." – she hurriedly replied, unwilling as she was to discuss sick matters with a man so used to living surrounded by depravity day in, day out – "Do you have any evidence against Cachino? Something we can work with should you want Mr. House looking into the matter."
"I don't have any physical evidence to convince you… but I know where you can find it." – he said – "Help me get Joana outta the Gomorrah, and I'll serve Cachino on a silver platter to you."
"And do you expect us to believe you just that easily, Mr. Wayne?" – Zorro asked dryly.
"You want a freebie to entice you?" – Wayne spat – "Go talk with Clanden or that Alan guy. They get the VIP treatment. I assure you there's something fishy about those two. One is an NCR mercenary, the other… I actually suspect he's Legion. And I know for a fact Alan's best buddies with Cachino now. It was him who got me restrained when the snake told me to fuck off lest I wanted to end up buried in the sands with just my head sticking out. Ants love that - a riot, know what I mean?"
And, effectively, all the pieces had finally fallen into place. She was right.
Inclining forwards, Zorro disentangled his hand from hers and put both elbows over the diner table, chin resting over crossed fingers.
"Best buddies with Cachino, you say." – he drew out slowly, measuring his words – "Tell me more about this Alan, Mr. Wayne."
The deal with entering the Gomorrah incognito had taken a great deal of scenic and psychological preparation.
Before taking matters into their own hands, Sullivan had deemed it prudent to inform the rest of her companions about the mission in progress should her paranoid sniper would start with the walkie-talkie issue again. They had been lucky that Vault 21 had been able to procure communication between them due to House's meddling with the intranet. But walking on the Omertas' turf with a talkie was asking for trouble from minute one.
"And what business, exactly, have you two at the Gomorrah?" – had been the first sentence the sniper had uttered upon crossing the elevator's gates once he was informed about the issue before they had even crossed glances. The mandatory hour had apparently passed while they had been on their way back to the Lucky.
"We aren't going to use the services offered there, if that's what you're asking." – the Courier had replied indignantly, giving Cassidy a warning look should the redhead woman would start making insinuations per usual – "This is actually some work we're doing in House's name."
Then, she had proceeded to inform them about Wayne. The Martina episode, luckily, was left unsaid.
"Legion working with the Omertas…" – Gannon had mused, nursing a cup of coffee with pastries at the kitchen table like some of those Lords from those pre-War books women – for some unfathomable reason – seemed to enjoy so much. The ones who could read, anyway – "Why it doesn't surprise me?" – he added sarcastically – "Well, at least they've got some historical sense, I'll give them that."
Vulpes could have used being allowed to strangle him. Just a little.
"The same they tried to work out an alliance with the Ultra-Luxe's cannibals." – the sniper had spat, nursing a beer on his own – "Fucking Reds have a knack for convincing tribes that they're gonna retain their tribal shit… to end up backstabbing them later. Wonder why there's still some retards out there willing to take chances."
Vulpes could have used some stabbing as well. At the sniper's eyes, particularly.
"The main question remains still." – Becky had interceded, having a warm brahmin bacon-and-cheese sandwich from the tray Vulpes had also helped himself with. The situation (and Lily's good craft) had made him incredibly hungry – "Why accept Legion collaboration if the Omertas are currently, financially speaking, the most privileged Family on The Strip?"
"Same shit as always: power." – Cassidy had laughed humorlessly, her lips already around the nozzle of her whiskey flask – "They're so fucking greedy they believe Cesar's going to share The Strip fifty-fifty with them. Maybe they're so delusional as to think their brothel business is gonna survive Legion rule IF the good ol' dictator manages to ram his dick in here. Maybe they think they're gonna become honored Empire citizens or some shit. Most fucking dumb philosophy ever."
On that point, he couldn't agree more with her. The Omertas had been as easy to convince to betray their Master as it had been to persuade Joseph Bernard Steyn to betray his customers for the irrisory amount of eight thousand caps. The very same amount the Followers of the Apocalypse charged for some of their most advanced cybernetic implants.
With Nero and his people, all it had taken had been some Legion coin (which, surprisingly, they coveted more than caps), a handful of well-crafted lies, and playing the part by feigning an approachable attitude by, primarily, drinking some of their booze. He had to give Tarquin (another of his most trusted Frumentarii from "Los Nuevos Nahuas" with a flair for the dramatic, a suave Latino-lover accent, and a deceivingly effeminate appearance that had given Vulpes the excuse he had been looking for to delegate some of the most… distasteful jobs here in The Strip to an adequate subordinate once he had risen to power) his due credit for making things go smoothly while the very Vulpes had been listening and giving instructions through a bug, making the foolish tribals believe that NCR propaganda on Legion not tolerating chems or alcohol being a slandering fallacy.
Hell, he had even given Tarquin a dispensation when Nero had offered the Hispanic Frumentarius some of the working girls for sampling as a gesture of goodwill.
For there's nothing more convincing for the ignorant than playing on their ignorance, making them believe that, deep inside, everybody holds the same principles and goals as them.
Which only an ignorant would believe, of course.
"Thing is… we need to make this as discreet as possible even though Nero and his people have a general idea about how Courier Six looks, how I look." – Sullivan had explained – "We need to make them believe I'm treading their territory for simple, predictable, ludic reasons and, for that, I need an accomplice. They wouldn't question anything if I make an appearance with… a date." – her words had been soft, deliberately slow, sinking beautifully when the sniper dog had caught her meaning and had immediately disagreed.
"Over my cold, dead corpse." – he had stammered – "This shit's been going on for too long."
To make things worse, Cassidy had begun cackling scandalously.
"Jesus fucking Christ on a fucking piece of toast…" - she had guffawed, shaking her head with a toothy smile, tears of laugh pearling her blue eyes – "I don't believe I've ever heard of a more convoluted plan to get lucky in Vegas…"
Vulpes had loudly facepalmed himself at that point, earning a sympathetic patting on his back from Raul, who, like always, merely watched the laughable scenes play within this group as one would do with a theatrical representation.
"Hey, if they buy it…" – Becky had shrugged playfully – "They'll never see the haymakers coming if you two play your cards right."
"Speaking of which: how do you intend to keep us informed on your progress?" – Gannon intervened once more – "Because, I don't want to sound like a paranoid alarmist… but I simply refuse to leave you two on your own in Omerta territory." – then, his green gaze had turned darker behind the spectacles – "Too many orchestrated executions at the Freeside by Omerta agents has taught me not to underestimate how long Nero's arm has grown over the years."
Fair point.
"I was thinking about a… collaborative work, if you catch my meaning." – Sullivan had explained – "I want Vero and Cass entering the Gomorrah half an hour or so later than Zorro and me… the undercover story details, I leave to your imagination."
Becky and Cassidy had then exchanged a knowing look that soon had evolved into brow-wiggling and flirtatious winking.
"Don't think I'll grow out of imaginative stories any time soon." – Cassidy had agreed, crossing her arms lazily, blowing a kiss to Becky that the brunette feigned to grab from the air and store in her pocket – "Can we get a handful of caps from the common fund for some idle spending? To blend in and shit."
"Sure."
"Nice!" – Becky had immediately jumped on the bandwagon, rubbing her hands in anticipation – "I'll wear that nice dress hanging longingly in the closet, calling for a coming-out." – if Vulpes hadn't been so used to the double entendres of Profligate jargon, he would have missed the joke. Not that he found it funny in the slightest – "Can we order some room service?"
"Why, having me by your side and you still want to order room service at the Gomorrah, Lil' Riding Punch?" – Cassidy replied with mock outrage, putting a hand over her bosom – "You break my heart."
"Aw, come here so I can kiss your boo-boo."
"My boo-ba, you mean."
By Mars and all of those gods people swore on that didn't exist… why should a simple mission be turned into this ridiculous exchange regarding sexual proclivities merely because they forcibly had to enter the biggest brothel in all Vegas? What were they? Five-year-olds?
Regardless of further awkward innuendoes and sexual jokes, Sullivan had managed to whip her team into shape by distributing precise instructions on how she wanted for them to communicate inside the casino without alarming any of the staff's gorillas of their shared affiliation.
Tactical hand signals. The ones the sniper dog had already taught them, such as one-to-ten counting, hostage situation, column formation, I/I don't understand… classic. With now a few extra additions such as 'contact established', 'following the plan', 'abort plan', or 'Plan B'.
The irony residing in it wasn't such a thing as a Plan B if something went off-script.
Which, knowing the Omertas, could happen at any moment.
To avoid the possibility of the sniper meddling should he suspect something going awry during their stay at the Gomorrah, Sullivan had given him the task of going to Freeside in Gannon's company to contact a pair of individuals Carlitos Wayne had personally recommended as 'good shots' during Joana's extraction given that they owed him 'big time'. They went by the aliases of Big Beard and Little Beard. Vulpes wouldn't question why, nor was he in the slightest bit interested in doing so.
Then, Raul and Rex would escort Wayne out of Vault 21 to the Freeside around midnight, where Lily would be waiting for them camouflaged.
Then, if everything went according to plan, they all would rendezvous at an agreed point, Southwest of The Strip's gates, at one in the morning.
Becky and Cassidy would act as 'reinforcements' if Vulpes and Sullivan needed someone to provide distraction should the Omertas start to get suspicious, or even feign to 'rent' Joana's services to provide her with an alibi.
Everybody had agreed – ones more reluctantly than others – and then, there was only left what this… Joana would think of the deal.
Vulpes had wanted to cut, one by one, the daring fingers of the bouncer that had patted down Sullivan when they had submitted their décor guns. Even more when the bastard had noticed the vitriol in his gaze and had given him a disgusting lopsided grin in return.
His mood hadn't improved in the slightest when they had aimed for the Brimstone Club to reach the back courtyard. Seeing so many males - ghoul and human - dressed in those glorified leather attires that didn't even serve to cover their unmentionables half of the time and did nothing but put the masculine figure to shame even more than they already did with the feminine one… it brought him a feeling so utterly visceral he almost retched when Sullivan put a simple cooled Nuka-Cola Victory in his hand before going to the courtyard.
He felt shame in admitting that he had grabbed her little hand as if his life had depended on it. Her caressing thumb did very little to calm him when they had accessed the dreaded courtyard.
Whenever he had been forced to mingle within Omerta walls, he always had procured to avoid the courtyard at any cost.
While being an open quadrangular space surrounded by small, individual huts and rooms where carefully groomed vegetation and a central pool served to add to the relaxing and even oasis-like ambiance, Vulpes profoundly detested the place.
For the area was a cheaper, more accessible version of what the subterranean suites already offered to their less scrupulous, unbashful clients.
Public sex was a common occurrence around the pool, where half-naked troopers were serviced by one prostitute – sometimes two, depending on the service - while another one would serve them a cocktail or give them a shoulder massage.
A salacious, ignorant mindset would think this would be a 'men's only' space where all the prostitutes were female and the NCR soldiers, ranchers, and barons would surreptitiously compete amidst themselves for stamina and the length of their respective manhoods in ridiculous and, ultimately, infantile macho contests they would never dare to put up in front of their wives and girlfriends back home.
But the sad reality worked among the lines of also having troopers, merchants, and ranchers of the fairer sex smoking Jet in colorful hookahs with a Martini on hand while being utterly massaged with perfumed oils and lubes the prostitutes would later apply to their distended orifices where either members or sex toys would be inserted lazily. The very concept of sexual pleasure turned into a quiet pastime where only the occasional drowsy moan or grunt would disrupt the subtle musical thread floating around mixed with a wide variety of distant songs coming from the upper apartment levels, where corners were coveted by groups of people sitting on cushions which slipped an NCR bill or two to the stripper's thong they would be watching – AND sampling – at the rhythm of Gerhard Trede's Slow Bounce or similar.
He could tell neither he nor Sullivan belonged in such a decadent picture with shared hands, sporting Nukas as their drink of choice, and with their eyes finding the grassy ground insistently as they navigated throughout that dissonant background they would be forced to endure for the next hours.
Their shared hands quickly evolved into clasping each other's waists to bring them closer so the surrounding sexual workers would refrain from offering them their services, and the rest of the clientele would refrain from making a drunken attempt at partner exchange.
It took almost half an hour avoiding propositions and public sex everywhere before finding themselves a quiet, discrete corner in where they drank their Nukas while exchanging whispers in the ear that, in truth, were mere decoys and instructions to follow as to where starting to search for this Joana woman.
For they had found that the directions Wayne had given to them to find her had been severely outdated.
"She's now at one of the second level apartments." – one of the available prostitutes, a sour one with very little loving disposition and a lot of antipathy to share for free, had told them dismissively once she had learned they weren't after her services – "Don't know which one, don't fucking care. That's Cachino's shit, and I prefer to keep clear from the likes of him."
So, it had been a task of observing, then discarding the number of doors they would have to knock on to find Joana.
They found what they had been looking for on their fourth attempt. And Vulpes wished they would have never found her.
"Well, what do we have here, huh? Let me guess. You two have heard about the mistress who makes all your dreams and fantasies come true."
More like the stuff of nightmares. His nightmares.
"A legionary who can't bed a Profligate whore... Pathetic would be a very kind term to apply in this situation, boy."
Fiery reddish auburn hair full of lacquered waves, sickly milky skin, full chapped pink lips… faded blue eyes, lost in the haze of drug addiction.
"So, you've followed the call of your desires... all the way to the arms of Joana, moi."
"Perhaps… it is time to make a man out of you."
Sugary intonation, sugary perfume. Fake wanton, childish disposition who would appeal to sick, older men who couldn't get the real deal legally unless they recurred to the underaged prostitutes at The Gray or the very Fiends, who occasionally had made a profit out of selling the services of their own children.
"Now that you've found me, I wonder, do you have what it takes?"
"Be grateful that I have hired a human girl and not a ghoul gigolo, cheaper as the latter are."
Underage as he had been by the Republic's rules, a man already by Legion standards.
But a boy he would be until he would turn twenty-one by nature's laws.
However, neither the Serpent, nor the whore he had paid to violate him had cared about said boy's feelings on the matter.
Which had been and still were only two: disgust and hate.
An unyielding, unforgiving crippled anger.
"Oh… oh, dear. You look terribly pale! Are you alright, hon?"
"Proceed. I shall correct your endeavors during the process."
The only things that had mattered had been caps and lessons.
Caps to sustain the addiction, lessons for a man with the power to show a boy how easily he could destroy him. How powerless he was in the face of a system that allowed corrupted men – NCR men. Defectors turned into officers of a new, alien regime – to wield power as a weapon and whip it into the backs of ignorant tribals that needed to be put in the place they were meant for.
Beasts of burden, animals to rake the fields where civilization was meant to sow its seeds. At any price.
Animals obey, their betters think and decide for them.
"¡Zorro! ¡ZORRO!"
"It's alright, hon, it's alright… Here, help me sit him on one of the sofas. Has he drunk too much? No? I have some purified water over here… Alright, that's more like it. Drink, hon, drink."
He wanted to escape… to escape to a plane of existence in which he was in control again, and the Serpent was bleeding like the Pig he had been over the warm sands of the desert… a plane of existence in which he wasn't filthy and this strumpet's carcass would be drying in the sun up on a cross.
A plane of existence in which he was strong, powerful, and intelligent again instead of a pansy piece of crap that got airsick by revisiting memories he had buried with the raw strength of willpower.
A plane of existence in which he was the one consoling Sullivan instead of having her, small as she was, rubbing his back in comforting circles as she made sure he drank the water in small gulps.
Once she was sure he wouldn't end up pathetically sprawled on the floor unconscious, she neared her lips to his ear and whispered.
"You okay?"
He nodded mindlessly, and after a few seconds, he received a kiss on the cheek.
"I'll talk with her, okay?"
He nodded again and allowed her to take over the situation, for he hadn't the stomach to do it himself.
"Is he feeling better?"
Funny, to a less seasoned listener, it would sound like the harlot truly cared about the wellbeing of any of the patrons that crossed her doorstep while, in truth, she must be cursing the moment she had opened her door.
"He probably caught sunstroke. He didn't bring his hat."
Nice save, Sullivan. He should probably start thinking about a convincing story to tell her later when she undoubtedly would ask about this.
"Oh, I see!" – how… he despised that fake dulcet voice tone… how he despised it… - "Anyway, if he feels like watching instead of participating, I can show you a good time, sweetie. Ladies are always a welcome change."
Disgusting.
"We didn't come here for your services, Joana. We came on Carlitos' behalf."
Boom.
"W-what? Carlitos is alive?" – there, the real voice behind all the sweet façade. No sultry little girl, but a jaded meretrix with a small, raspy voice who liked Med-X a tad too much – "Have you seen him? Have you talked to him?!" – the desperation was almost palpable. A whore in love with a pathetic, weak ex-gangster. How sweet.
"Calm down." – and then, Sullivan's calm voice of reason cleansing after the tart's vile speech, filling his soul with the salve necessary to patch a tiny part of what was irremediably soiled – "Carlitos is safe and very much determined to get you out of here. You only have to say 'Yes'."
"He… does?" – there again. Doubts. At least, despite being a filthy junkie, the hooker was still every bit of a survivor. She knew she couldn't trust her useless lover – "Wait, this changes everything. I can't leave my girls here… and, where would we go even if we escape?" – always the cowards are the quicker in making excuses – "No. It's too risky; we'll all end up dead."
"And do you prefer a life at the point of the syringe instead of fighting for the only chance you'll ever get to be free?" – so, she had noticed it too…? – "Med-X kills quickly, Joana. We can help you with that as well as with escaping. Wherever you go with Carlitos afterward is on you."
Vulpes winced when he felt the dead weight of the prostitute dropping at the opposite end of the sofa but controlled his murdering instincts when Sullivan sat between them and patted the other woman's joined hands when her shoulders began to tremble.
"I… I didn't think it showed." – she said with the same broken voice of someone you aren't really sure whether they're laughing or crying – "I guess that it's worse than I thought. I can't feel a goddamn thing anymore, empty and poisoned like the Wasteland." – she mumbled – "Ha… I look pathetic, huh? 'The Great Joana', and now…" – as an afterthought, she added – "I know that there's no escape at this point… If the Med-X doesn't kill me first, Cachino or another Omerta will. Carlitos was the only thing that kept me going on in this place."
"There's a chance to escape, Joana, I assure you. Don't think for a second we haven't come in here alone and unprepared."
The more his sight got clear again, the less he wanted to take his eyes in the slut's direction. Listening to her was hard enough already.
"I… appreciate your words… but I know for a fact that nobody helps you out unless they're after something, sweetie. Nobody's given me a free thing before" – the woman said tiredly – "What's it going to be for you, then: caps, sex, straps? What?"
"Information." – Sullivan replied, admirably composed given the circumstances – "On Cachino, in particular."
He could hear the suspicion already forming in the cadences of the whore's voice. Even before she'll process the feeling.
"He's a filthy monster." – she hissed – "I've been with perverted men before… but Cachino's done things... to me, that…" – shuddering, she forced herself to continue – "Even other Omertas would also want to kill him if they knew what he does. He's broken so many of their rules that I don't know how he still breathes."
"We're more after the political angle of his activities, if you catch my meaning."
Frowning, the woman eyed them dubitably.
"Is Carlitos alright with all of this?" – she inquired, suspicious.
"That's what we negotiated with him before agreeing to rescue you. He said you two discovered something that could compromise his position within the Family. Something that can be demonstrated through physical evidence."
Well played, clever girl. Stating the conditions before signing in.
"Why are you after that… freaky pervert?"
"We suspect he may be collaborating with the Legion against Mr. House's interests."
The woman assented absently.
"So, you two are Mr. House's agents…" – she pondered, gears already moving behind her eyes – "I'll do it. I'll gather evidence you can present to your boss to take Cachino out of the picture. I have a… scheduled meeting with him today during the Happy Hour in the evening. Cachino might be untouchable here, but House is the closest thing next to a god in Vegas." – now, finally, she was talking business – "One more thing: I also want to take two of my girls with me. They're also addicts and won't survive much longer in here."
"Very well. No problem with that." – Sullivan conceded – "We have a whole team who will ensure you and your friends get out of this dump safely, but you will need a disguise to pass through security. The fewer suspicions we draw, the better."
"Hour?"
"Around midnight, since this place is packed at that hour. It'll be more difficult to pinpoint your faces. We'll rendezvous with Carlitos and the rest of our team at an agreed point in the Freeside around one in the morning, so we'll have to make a swift exit."
"Okay…" – she nodded, calibrating the situation – "I'll talk with my girls, then gather that evidence against Cachino. We'll join you two at the lobby by midnight."
"Agreed." – Sullivan concluded, handing her what Vulpes identified to be a handful of Fixer pillboxes before getting up from the sofa, extending a hand he didn't hesitate to take – "We'll be around in the courtyard should you run in some issue you want to discuss before the operation."
"O-okay…" – the whore stuttered, still unsure – "See you at midnight, then."
"See you, Joana."
Once the apartment's door closed behind them, Vulpes' bloodstream circulation began working normally again. Thus, his brains.
"I don't know about you, but I don't wanna go down the pool to see more ass than I think I'd want to see in all my life." – she snorted, her serious, business-like demeanor entirely left behind along with that living nightmare with reddish auburn hair – "Say, how about finding ourselves a nice, quiet corner so we can pass the time playing some videogames and stuff?"
He felt how the unsurmountable knot in his stomach began to relax.
"Whatever it takes to avoid mingling with these… Degenerates." – he replied tersely, though his long fingers squeezed hers reassuringly.
Then, they began searching for one of those conveniently isolated, ventilated huts that were also distributed throughout the first and second apartment levels. Luckily for them, there were walls on both sides of those covered in velvet curtains they took good care to draw around their nest in where they submerged after having ventilated a bit the sheets and cushions.
There was a working radio over a nightstand next to the circular-shaped bed. Radio New Vegas on the dial.
"Me again, Mr. New Vegas, reminding you that you're nobody till somebody loves you. And that somebody is me. I love you." – the radioman crooned softly from the other end of the speaker – "And if you like news, you're gonna love our next segment: According to a new report, violent crime is on a sharp decline in New Vegas. The report credits the decline of the population of Fiends in the area coupled with the intervention of our own Mr. House in securing the southwestern perimeter in Outer Vegas with a brand-new batch of robotic security. It's a certainty that such a move would inevitably draw the interest of Cesar's Legion and the NCR, and repercussions would also not be unexpected."
"Oh, you bet, radioman." – Vulpes muttered under his breath as he helped Sullivan rearrange the bed – "You bet."
"On another note, tensions are brewing in Freeside between the ruling gang known as the Kings and the large number of NCR squatters seeking refuge there despite the recent official ending in hostilities with the NCR. An RNV reporter was on-hand to speak with the King who, having cataloged the resident NCR citizens in the past as, quote, 'the devil in disguise'; has seemingly had a recent, although reluctant, change of heart by calling both the eastern and western population in Freeside to a temporary truce so they may join forces against what they had cataloged as 'House Invasion'. You know I think all news, whether it's good or bad, brings us closer and stronger together. Don't you?"
Together in fear than when they thought they were in charge of things. Guess Profligate philosophy when it comes to survival, like war, never changes.
"Ladies and gentlemen, this next song goes out from me to you. For, no matter how tough the times are, there's always some space to save for love, Imma right?"
What was with the insistence upon love, Vulpes wondered, when you give decisive news that could brew a riot or not by calming the waters preaching about a vague sense of community and strength? One would say this Mr. New Vegas got paid by the very Robert Edwin House to temple down the news, so, no matter what, they would always be digested in his favor.
He noticed from the corner of his eye how Sullivan was eyeing him intently, and he kept fluffing cushions until the arrangements were up to his satisfaction. Meanwhile, a soft dramatic orchestra broke the brief silence to make way for a few very recognizable guitar chords.
How he hated this song.
"Play the guitar…"
Why did he have to suffer it every single damn time a radio was plugged on? Mr. New Vegas had seemingly an unhealthy fixation with it, given how many times throughout a day it would play over and over again.
"Play it again… my Johnny."
Johnny Guitar. The most representative song from West to East of this fucking desert thanks to Radio New Vegas, Mojave Music Radio, and Black Mountain Radio.
Overwhelming, repetitive, and inescapable, like the heat.
"Maybe you're cold…"
He was briefly startled when Sullivan jumped on the bed, and then, something both warm and downrightly frightening bloomed inside his chest when she cutely extended her arms with a smile, inviting him to join.
"… But you're so warm… inside."
Shaken as he still was due to the previous experience, he answered her silent call by sitting over the silky duvet slowly, extending his arms awkwardly to allow her to hug him.
"I was always a fool… for my Johnny."
They held each other for what felt like a long time, as close as their strength and the volume of their ribcages allowed, hearts beating through layers of cloth and skin in disarray until they, somehow, synchronized on their own. Her temple found a home in the crook of his neck, his cheek resting upon her soft, short hair, allowing him to drink in her scent, clean and warm. Of Old-World soap and Nuka-Cola.
"For the one they call… Johnny Guitar."
He hadn't been aware he had been so tense that all the energy that his muscles had required to maintain such an alert state was draining at a fast pace from his body.
He wanted to doze a little, and Sullivan's proximity somehow made him feel safe enough to indulge.
She seemed to intuit this somehow, and she helped him accommodate over the bed, taking his jacket off and allowing him to find solace between her arms once more, readjusting their positions like that time, inside a derelict plane. One of the few memories in which, after the talk, he had truly felt at peace.
"Play it again… Johnny G…"
Out of a sudden, the radio experienced an odd interference that seemingly mixed two stations until the new one won over the signal briefly.
"… On my shoulder… Your cheek… against mine…"
The voice of a woman as well, another of those starlets from the distant past.
"Where can we go…?"
However, this time, instead of proclaiming her love for a cruel but warm lover, the new singer was evidently crying. Beautifully and lyrically, of course, but crying nonetheless.
A lone piano, the only instrument accompanying her youthful, mournful cadence.
"When will we find that we know…"
It must be a pirate signal, for he had never heard this song before.
"… To let go?"
The atmosphere had suddenly gotten chiller than it should in April, five in the afternoon. Sullivan shuddered between his arms, and he held her tightly until the signal shifted again and Radio New Vegas won over once more for Johnny Guitar, regaling them with its blessedly last chords as well.
With the momentum gone, Sullivan slid from his embrace so quickly he was left momentarily stunned until he saw her reaching for the radio to plug it off.
When she returned to him, her countenance seemed so perturbed that his drowsiness immediately wore off to allow his disquiet mind to start with the due comes and goes. The good old stubborn, curious gray matter.
"I wonder where that other radio station came from." – he dropped casually, as if instead of asking her, he merely was voicing his thoughts out loud.
He wasn't sure if his strategy had been too obvious or not, but she answered nonetheless.
"… Has your life taken a turn? Do troubles beset you? Has fortune left you behind? If so, the Sierra Madre Casino, in all its glory, is inviting you to Begin Again." – she intoned softly, as if speaking from a radio station as well – "Come to a place where wealth, excitement, and intrigue await around every corner."
"The Sierra Madre?" – he asked in a soft voice as well, which felt kind of intimate, giving the name the correct Spanish pronunciation – "Wasn't that an invented fable about an Old-World casino location that still holds treasures remained untouched?"
However, he wasn't expecting the kind of reply he obtained in kind.
"Who said the Sierra Madre is a fable?"
If Vulpes thought she couldn't surprise him anymore, he had been sorely mistaken when she proceeded to give him a magistral class about that distant History she, sadly, was so attuned with.
"Amidst war propaganda, enlisting campaigns, and War Bonds; the TV, Internet, and the national radio channels usually went on with large advertisement tirades that could last almost half an hour between movies' or series' breaks." – wait… so, you could also watch movies on those screened boxes that many destroyed pre-War settlements displayed amidst their untouched debris? And Vulpes had always thought they had played a merely informative purpose, pretty much as the very radios… – "Never mind you're at war, could you fucking please buy a Mr. Handy too expensive for your shirt so you can delegate house chores on it so you can watch more TV? A car you don't need? A pair of branded sneakers to show off in front of your classmates, so they'll think your life is better and more interesting than theirs? A new mobile phone to substitute the one you bought last month because it's super trendy? A ridiculously expensive ticket to watch a bunch of guys hitting a ball with a bat?" – the more she kept talking, the more furious he noticed she became – "Forget we are at war with one of the First World most competitive powers in technology and military armament! Be superfluous and fucking stupid! Bread and circuses for everyone! Ignore the evidence, you moron! Go relax a whole weekend to perfumed saunas and gamble with an expensive cocktail in hand at the fucking Sierra Madre after its grand opening this October 2077, so you can enrich the very CEOs financing the very fucking system that is enlisting and giving fucking guns to fucking ten-year-olds because… why fucking not?!"
He had to gently shush her when her body began tensing the likes he had been a while ago, allowing her to vent out while holding her. Waiting until she was calmer to give his two cents.
"What do you miss from your society, Sullivan?" – he asked quietly.
She eyed him as if he were insane.
"The radioactivity contained within nuclear power plants instead of almost everywhere?" – she hissed indignantly – "Fucking mosquitoes and roaches that aren't the size of a dog?"
"I didn't ask you what do you miss from your old world." – he interrupted her, deadly serious – "I asked you about your society."
He carefully observed the amalgam of shifting and twitching her little face's muscles underwent in seconds. Incapable of answering.
"Do you miss consumerism? The systematic hebetude growing in popularity among the masses you describe acting as a weapon against their own real interests?"
"I miss technology…" – she countered weakly.
"The very same technology that didn't save the populace of America, nor did it make them more knowledgeable or wise despite having all the culture in the world within their reach?" – he pressed – "Look at Robert House or even the NCR's rule and tell me what do you see."
She shook her head stubbornly until he stopped her by putting his fingers around her flustered, angry face. Caressing her cheeks wet with tears.
"A moment ago, you've said, 'Ignore the evidence, you moron'." – he kissed her brow to relax the tormented lines forming there – "You aren't a moron, Sullivan."
He knew there was something profoundly wrong with him when he thought her doe-like eyes, reddened and filled with angry tears as they were, looked strangely enticing.
The way she blinked those tears stubbornly, sticking her long dark lashes in groups; the curve of her puckered swollen lip, big front teeth biting it; her peppered little nose pink and scrunched, reddened cheeks puffed.
If that wasn't the very definition of beautiful, he didn't know what it was.
He didn't know who had started it, but he didn't ponder much on it when they joined lips and time perception went to hell.
If he had to pinpoint something, that would be that she was a very adept learner, for her kissing technique had improved considerably over the course of these few days. And now, a little unsettled as she was, she kissed with a ferocity that turned all his switches on.
He wanted to touch her, to feel her.
They had shifted positions from being one lying beside the other to end up with him atop her, hands massaging her scalp until they dared go a little down to her lovely neck.
Then, the shoulders.
All slowly, inch by inch so she wouldn't freeze again, or she would skillfully slide from his arms like he knew she could and leave him there, on a bed and with his whole being tingling in frustration.
When he determined that she wouldn't jump like a scared radrabbit far away from him, he took the kissing to a slightly lower plane, tracing an arc with his lips from the corner of her mouth along her mandible to her neck.
She encouraged him by sliding her fingers through his hair since she seemed to like it so much.
Tacit consent was there, so he kept exploring.
She didn't complain when he massaged knots between her shoulder blades and even mewled when he nibbled her earlobe. A little.
However, she couldn't put her legs to rest – no wonder they were so fit -, so he brought a hand down and pinched just barely over one knee, where he knew she was ticklish.
He smirked upon listening to her bashful 'wehehehe', and the smile grew wolf-like when he risked a little neck-nibbling, and she mewled again.
The knee-teasing gave him control over her restless legs, which she relaxed enough for him to be able to enjoy their crannies and nooks, relishing in how firm they were. How his fingertips painted over defined, slender muscles. He loved her legs.
Kiss on the lips, little pecks on the shoulder down to her hand, and then, he was able to put his lips on a knee he was tickling.
Then, everything went too fast: one moment, he had managed to get access between the wiry, soft flesh of her legs as the skirt of her dress was getting more and more hiked, allowing him a privileged view of her pale thighs and the pre-War navy underwear she wore... and then, the next, those very pale thighs clamped around his waist and then, in a swift maneuver that took him by surprise, she inverted their positions leaving her sitting atop his hips, pinning him down on the duvet with both of her hands on his shoulders.
Under her weight, momentarily stunned, his body tensed on its own accord, and then, her hooded eyes became suddenly alert, frozen as well as she read in his body language carefully. Searching, decoding.
Both were breathing quickly through their noses, whereas his chest was going up and down visibl. Her cheeks, neck, and shoulders colored in a lively pink.
At that moment, he was glad her hair was so different from the auburn whore's, since, otherwise, the panic trying to fight its way to the surface would have been unbearable. To the point his building sexual excitation had but vanished in a matter of seconds.
Neither of them dared to move until she spoke again, licking her lips nervously.
"How about… we take this a little slower?" – she suggested timidly, her borderline shift in attitude strange and a little intimidating as she released his shoulders and started rubbing his forearms from elbow to knuckles, clearly trying to awkwardly comfort him – "I… like you and… stuff, but…" – she cleared her voice when she saw him frowning, anticipating what she would say and not liking it one bit – "This has been… you know, going on, like… not even a week, and…" – why wouldn't she struggle with matters more grave and then, she would hesitate right now? – "I-I mean… Can we… uh… postpone this for when we aren't in a place so fucking creepy?"
Oh. So that was the issue. Phew.
"Alright." – he nodded, willing his body to relax as she rubbed his arms.
Then, everything went back to normal when she smiled, gave him a quick peck on the lips, and got off him, sitting by his side.
"Wanna play chess?"
After unburying one of the aspects of the vital experience he wished he could just erase from his memory for good, chess sounded way too good.
That was until he asked what the 'Mature Filter' did to the virtual rendering of one of his favorite games.
Pre-War culture was, indeed, quite sordid.
Joana left Cachino's quarters around nine in the afternoon with her prize safely tucked away in her personal bag, a handful of new scratches that would leave a permanent mark on her skin, and a renewed conviction about the decision she still wasn't so sure to make.
Because she very well could still chicken out and live a miserable but, things as they were right now, blissfully short existence at the mercy of the Med-X that was lately taking all of her savings.
Sometimes she couldn't even afford a simple bar of soap. Or food.
Not that she had much, if any, appetite left after her sessions with Cachino, anyway.
She arrived at the Brimstone bowed, trying to pass as unnoticed as possible.
Which was easier said than done, especially when all you're wearing is an intricate harness made of black gecko leather that leaves very little up to the imagination and pre-War vinyl heels.
"Hey, hey, beautiful!" – she heard by her right, barely a few steps shy from her intended destination: the bar. She hadn't eaten anything since this morning when she had managed to get a coffee and a couple of pre-War biscuits from her first client of the day, an old NCR gentleman who only wanted company most of the time and a little chat. Of course, he was one in a thousand, the exception that proves the rule – "Wanna make a guy lucky tonight?"
She tried to put on her best smile. For you had to smile always, independently of your mood, your current hormonal cycle, or your physical health. A prostitute doesn't make much money by putting on a sour face, even less if one of the Family thugs witnesses you treating a client poorly. Last time she had 'dared' to deny a client certain… services, including practices so denigrating and, ultimately, scatological that she had been sure The Strip policies hadn't condoned, one of the bouncers had appeared out of nowhere, had grabbed her by the elbow and had dragged her sorry ass upstairs to face Big Sal's iron fist. After that and a formal apology to the aforesaid client in front of her coworkers, she had been forced to provide him with the demanded services… for free. Including some samples of flavored Jet she was instructed to offer to the client as a 'token of gratitude on the house'.
A punishment that served both as an exemplary lesson for the other girls and a way to hook a client on whatever the Gomorrah could offer.
The finest example of how the Family viewed both workers and customers: everyone was a pawn to the Omertas, playing and dying by their rules. They ran the place as a center for all their dirty scams and extortions. Gambling, sex, drugs, they'll use whatever works to exploit your weaknesses.
Weaknesses they, if possible, would create in the first place.
Such as hooking their hookers (no pun intended) on chems. Most prominently, Med-X. First, as part of their 'medical care', totally free of charge, they said. To help them with the cramps and bruises they occasionally received from abusive clients.
Until you turn out an addict. Then the 'medical care' vanishes out of the blue, and you have to start paying the dosages they, conveniently, inflate prices to until you are practically rendered a slave to them.
It was not much different from what those savage rapists on the other side of the river did to their women but somehow turned way worse by the drugs. At least the Reds banished those. Along with actual medication. Owch.
Back to the real world, she was trying very nicely to tell the inopportune asshole to scram so she could have some dinner in peace.
"Please, hon, understand: I need a little something before performing to my best." – sweet-talking these guys sometimes worked, especially if you promised them playing the good ole' Joana later – "You wouldn't want me passing out in the middle of things, would you?" - then, she pouted, essayed as she had her 'good girl gone bad' pantomime – "Let me have a bite and then, all my pampering and smooches will be yours."
"I can help you quench your hunger, baby." – the sleazy idiot kept at it, grabbing her ass – "You just have to open your mouth."
Didn't they get prostitutes were also human beings that needed to eat, rest, wash, and cry like just anybody else?! That they couldn't perform 24/7?! They weren't fucking sex machines you just put come coin in to function, damnit!
Nevertheless, the moron kept insisting, and she was already drawing too much attention, getting the evil eye from one of the bouncers, so she followed him to his suite, where she dodged his insistent pawing by pouring two glasses of wine from the available mini-fridge. One, perfectly safe, for her; the other for him… spiced to her convenience with the last two Med-X dosages she had left in her purse.
Not enough to kill him, but sufficiently powerful to get him snoring loudly after a short-lived blowjob.
Sure as she was that he wouldn't wake until the following morning, she permitted herself to take some liberties by robbing him blind.
Hey, her savings were non-existent, and she had to charge for the lost Med-X dosages, the service provided, and the motherfucking inconvenience.
She abandoned the poor idiot to his likely luck at getting banished from The Strip the next day until he managed to scrape together the due two thousand caps worth of passage through the main gates. He had already burned half of it, so Joana didn't feel terribly guilty.
Almost a thousand caps richer, she even treated herself to an Atomic Cocktail along with the most fulfilling dinner she had eaten in months.
It almost tasted like victory. Of that very freedom she had yet to earn.
From the corner of her eye, she noticed the kids with the Pip-Boys from earlier asking for some dinner and soft drinks at the bar. No alcohol, no chems. Just plain brahmin burgers with Nuka-Cola.
If she didn't know the truth already, she would question what a sweet pair of lovebirds like those were doing here. They belonged more to The Tops' ambiance.
Her sight rested a little longer on him until the lad, who had the eyes of a furtive coyote, noticed her and snarled quietly. Long fangs poked out terse thin lips in warning until the lass took his hand in hers, and they disappeared back to the courtyard with their lunches in hand.
She had been aware of his initial antipathy, but she hadn't realized how strong it actually was.
Albinos weren't that a rare sight despite the merciless glaring of the sun of the Mojave, so Joana was already trying to remember if she had seen him around before. She saw so many faces on a daily basis that, after a while, every single bloke looked the same to her. Races, genetic conditions, scars, prosthetics, and all.
Anyway, it hadn't escaped to her the exchange of looks and hand signals they had swapped with an apparently lesbian couple sitting a few tables away before leaving the Brimstone.
So, it was true. They had a team working in the background for this operation. That gave Joana some reassurance.
For it wasn't just her or Carlitos' life what was on the line. There were also Nicoletta and Yolanda (aka Honey Bunny). The only friends Joana had left in this hellscape.
When Carlitos had disappeared, they had been the only difference between enduring another day in Gomorrah and just cutting her wrists in the bathtub to end everything.
Carlitos… she would admit he hadn't looked like much when he had first set foot in The Atomic Wrangler, on the look for a different experience from what he got on his turf.
However, the more visits from him she would get, peppered with flowers and candy – the kind of Cheesy N' Classy courtship flavor not a single man had gifted to her throughout her young life, and she secretly loved to bits – the more she believed he could be different from all the lonely, depressed type she got at the Wrangler.
Then, he had offered her to get into the Gomorrah.
She should have said no, but… he was the only man that made her laugh, treated her like an actual human being, and he had promised he could protect her.
Then, after some time working under Nero's dark, flaming wings, Cachino had taken a peculiar interest in her.
Being Family, she had to comply with servicing some of the Omerta fat cats around… but the first time Cachino had brought in handcuffs and black candles to their sessions, her fears had proven even innocent in comparison with what had come later over the following months.
BDSM practices had been nothing new for Joana since many patrons at the Wrangler had been into that sort of thing… but always having previously discussed boundaries, agreeing to a safeword if things got out of control.
There weren't any preliminaries nor negotiations when it came to Cachino. He simply chained you up however he deemed fit, gagged you so your screams couldn't reach knowing ears, and went on venting out his frustrations, his insecurities, his inferiority complex, his sadness, his violence, his fetishes, and his perversions until he drew blood and tears out of you. For, not happy with the physical pain he inflicted, the torture, he also relished in humiliating you.
The things he had done to her could very well fill a horror novel and logs and logs of psychiatric therapy. But the things he had forced her to do… to him, to other people… they were… were…
And the worst part of it all? That the piece of shit, in the aftermath, when he had you nearly comatose, completely insensitive in areas of your body you didn't think they were capable of bleeding so much, he… he always cried.
Cried and begged for a forgiveness she would verbalize with empty eyes, but never honestly gave.
He then would proceed to patch you up, substitute the torn clothes with new ones, and fill you up with so much Med-X she had nearly O.D. a handful of times.
She had told Carlitos after half a year of suffering in silence, dismissing her growing scar tissue all over her back and legs as 'work being work'. He had been furious upon discovering it.
She knew Carlitos tended to talk bigger than he usually could permit himself to. Still, he must have said something really persuasive to Cachino, for the man had left her be for a while until, addiction being addiction, even if it was an addiction to the suffering of others, Cachino had rekindled his attentions by seeking her at the courtyard, not daring to call her to his quarters anymore.
Something had happened, and then Carlitos had received a wake-up call from Nero.
You rarely received warnings from Nero before he decided to claw out and send you out of Gomorrah in a bag, so Carlitos had been forced to lay low and keep his complaints on Cachino's behavior to himself.
With Cachino's torture sessions growing in size and prevalence over time, she and Carlitos had resorted to sticking their noses in his side shady deals to see if they could find something incriminating enough to get back in Nero's good graces.
And they had found way more than they could have possibly expected to chew.
Anyway, revisiting painful memories wouldn't do her any good, now even more that she had a chance to be free… despite how frightening that actually sounded.
After dinner, she did her best to mingle with the usual festive atmosphere the Gomorrah got late at night, when the music got louder and the patrons tended to quintuplicate both in numbers and disgustingness.
Even worse during weekends and NCR festivities, nights in Gomorrah were an ode to lawlessness, indulgences, and vice. 'Gomorrah, it'll be our secret', Radio New Vegas advertised.
She had to zigzag amidst drunken, horny troopers eager to spend their salary on her charms, waves of bodies reeking of sex and alcohol trapping her, testing her sanity when she had to wade through them to her apartment, closing her door with a fake smile and a little too much forcefulness when one of them attempted to follow her inside.
She was allowed a brief respite until they started banging her door violently, hooting, demanding, wallowing in their perception of a perfect night.
But, to her, this was the night. Upon bolting the door, for there were quite a handful of Republican soldiers skilled with a bobby pin, she turned around to face her two accomplices in this daredevil enterprise.
"You ready, girls?" – she asked.
Twenty minutes later, the three of them were dressed incognito, purses filled with the meager possessions they could call theirs, and on their way to the lobby.
She was relieved when she found the kids there waiting for them.
The gal approached her, arms open, and wrapped her in a seemingly affectionate hug while she kissed her cheek.
"Play the game." – she whispered in her ear, and Joana kissed her cheek in return. Her smile, for once in a too long time, was genuine.
They feigned a brief old friends' reencounter script before leaving the Gomorrah, waiting for the kids to recover their weapons. And they packed heavily.
Joana briefly wondered about the two women they had signaled before but didn't question anything when they sped up their steps, zigzagging amidst an amalgam of drunken troopers until they were in front of The Strip's gates.
"Come visit us again." – a securitron beeped upon crossing the gates.
Yeah, in your wildest dreams, you creepy pile of bolts. – she thought as she lighted her second cigarette since they had left the Gomorrah, wanting to calm down her nerves so she wouldn't draw any suspicious eyes upon her.
Joana, who hadn't left The Strip for the last two years of her life, basked in the sight the Freeside offered and immediately frowned upon noticing the unusual quietness, robots patrolling the streets as the wealthy visitors formed an orderly row to wait for their turn to enter The Strip. Yoli and Nikki clasping hands nervously.
Anyway, with robotic police around, more security, right?
The agreed point was half an hour's worth of walking, and Joana's heels were killing her.
She quickly forgot such a minor inconvenience when they crossed a particularly gloomy alley, and her eyes squinted in the dark to make out a familiar silhouette.
"Joana…"
She didn't allow him to keep talking when she launched into his arms and condensed in the kiss she gave him all the worries mixed with nerves, giddiness, and happiness that she felt upon having him between her arms again.
Solid, warm, alive… real.
"I love you." – she said. And it felt so, so good being able to say it out loud…
Carlitos' visage looked emaciated, terribly tired, but there was warmth in his baby hazel eyes.
She loved those puppy eyes of his.
"How fucking sweet…"
As if crashing upon the ugly reality once more, Joana turned around and shielded Carlitos with her body once a bunch of Nero's guys appeared out of nowhere from various directions, wielding SMGs.
Their alpha, a greasy piece of shit with a crooked nose and in a striped suit, dedicated them slow clapping as his cronies circled them.
They had them clocked right from the start!
"If it isn't our main star Joana and company…" – she already could tell why Nero would trust this one with his dirty affairs, cocky and oily in one as he sounded – "And… Carlitos, of all! Well, well, well, my dude, you're in a huge fucking mess now." – he grinned, his attention quickly diverting first to the vaquero ghoul and the… dog robot standing next to Carlitos, then to the kids who were eyeing them frighteningly calm. Sexist as practically all of the Omerta guys were, he chose to ignore the girl in favor of addressing the boy – "And you… I don't know who the fuck you think you are to arm an operation this big, champ, but hell if I fucking care. Nero doesn't forgive a transgression this fucking huge as in to rob him of his hookers. So, it's time to pay up for all of your pieces of shit's offenses." – spitting from a corner of his mouth, he added while raising his SMG – "Hope you know some prayers, 'cause those are the last fucking words you'll ever say."
Joana's blood froze. Not because of the certainty of death looming upon them, but because the lad opened his mouth, and then, she remembered.
She remembered his voice.
"You bore me."
Joana felt dizzy, and Carlitos' gentle hands were there to sustain her when the thug, evidently shocked by such a flippant attitude, replied irately.
"What the hell?!" – he exclaimed, outraged – "Listen, you freaky piece of…"
"No, YOU listen, motherfucker." – the gal addressed him this time, tougher than her little frame would suggest for her to be – "You better get that stupid, overcompensating gun along with those little men behind you and go back to your boss and tell him there's something nasty cooking at his back."
"And who the fuck asked for your opinion, bitch?!" – the Omerta responded angrily – "If there's something nasty cooking in here, that is you dumbasses thinking you can waltz in and out of Gomorrah taking our merchandise with you!"
"Your nest of snakes has a Nightstalker among them." – the girl said calmly – "And, you know what? This 'hooker', as you call her, has traded her, her friends', and Wayne's freedom in exchange for solid proof against said Nightstalker: Cachino." – extending a hand toward her, she asked in a gentler tone – "Joana, if you please."
Eager as she was to make out of this one alive, Joana's dizziness passed on a spell as she searched through her purse until she found her prize: a diary. Along with a smaller bundle of papers she had taken good care to put inside its cover.
The tension was palpable when the gal perused through Cachino's vile writing until she found an example of what she was looking for.
"This." – she sentenced – "Is a written testimony regarding not only the abusive, illegal treatment Cachino subjects Gomorrah's prostitutes to on a daily basis, thus Nero's property; but also a recounting on shady, uninformed side deals he's making at Nero's expenses regarding those armament shipments he's putting apart for reselling at your very door through an agent." – she summed up, showing the book to the thug – "Here are the bills of sale."
However, if efficient, Nero's lackeys had never shined in their ability to think rationally in decisive moments such as this one.
"You… you don't fucking know what're you getting into, bitch." – he hissed, not having taken a single glance to the diary since, probably, the poor sod could barely read – "You're playing big games you don't fucking know how to sort out…"
"Enough talking." – the boy intervened once again – "Grandma?"
Joana didn't think she could take any more surprises… but hell if the kids didn't have their sleeves full of those, for a subtle electrical shift behind him uncloaked… an honest-to-God supermutant wielding a sword the size of an adult man menacingly.
"Grandma's here, Jimmy." – the aforesaid supermutant boomed, making the thugs recoil.
What… the actual… fucking hell…?!
Soon, the rounding thugs were surrounded by a sniper, a tall man wielding a plasma pistol, the lesbian couple from earlier, and two more gunslingers. Every single one of them dressed in advanced tactical armor and armed to the teeth.
"And now that both parts speak the same language…" – the boy, this… Jimmy, began talking again as if making a speech instead of dealing with a negotiation – "… I would suggest you drop the pretense, confirm my suspicions on that you are an ignorant, illiterate simpleton that cannot handle this situation properly, and go back to your boss to inform him that his goose that lays golden eggs has been… sacrificed for a good cause. A cause he might or might not gain profit from, depending on how he plays his cards from now on."
"You think we fear you?!" – the thug spokesman spat – "You're fifteen, we're twenty-five. Odds are against you!"
Jimmy rolled his furtive, icy eyes.
"You still don't get it, do you?" – he asked before pointing his drawn 9mm to the nearest Omerta next to the spokesman and blowing off his head to, immediately and with a speed Joana thought was inhuman, point it to the mouthy thug's forehead – "Every single one of us has a purpose in this grand scheme." – taking a step toward the nervous thug, he invaded his living space to near his lips to the other's ear, so only him… and Joana's privileged ear, a product of the last months living in fear, could listen – "And yours… is to play the good, reliable messenger pigeon part to Nero. Hmmm?" – then, before the now trembling spokesman could retire, he added – "Tell him the Bull is watching."
The Bull? So, these guys were…?!
Eyeing the girl with shocked eyes as the gangsters retreated, Joana didn't read any signs of brainwashing, blind adoration, or such thing in her body language. Women could do strange things for the men they loved, after all.
Maybe she didn't know her boyfriend was a…
But then again, what did she care? This has been a deal, not a favor.
"A little extra." – she said instead, approaching the girl with a card key in her hand – "Zoara Club's key, in case you're planning to pay Nero a visit."
"Thank you, Joana." – the girl answered with a smile, accepting her present – "Take care, okay?"
It was a shame… such a sweet girl.
"We're ready when you are, Carlos." – one of the two gunslingers with a thick, glorious beard said, earning a nod from the interpellated.
"Let's go, Jo." – Carlitos whispered in her ear, kissing her temple and taking her hand.
She nodded absently, and, before the two groups started walking in opposite directions, her fingers squeezed Carlitos' briefly.
"I have something to do first." – she told him before jogging the best she could with her heels to the pale young man.
He reacted like she was radioactive, taking a step behind to get out of her living space, tensing as a coil immediately.
"Can we talk?" – Joana forced herself to say.
There was a curious reaction coming from every single member of his group, first eyeing him, then her like if she would do something to harm him, she would regret it dearly.
"I don't think that there's anything more to discuss, Miss." – he answered tersely, a little haughtily, like a petulant child.
"It'll only be a moment." – she forced herself again to say, even though she wasn't looking after this particular conversation in the slightest – "Please."
He followed her near-robotically, his posture so rigid he would undoubtedly have neck cramps when he went to sleep.
Just as he had been that time.
Far from prying ears, he waited impatiently, arms crossed, foot barely refraining from tapping, that she would say her piece to leave as soon as possible.
"Look…" – she began, not one bit confident in what she was about to say – "I know who you are."
His answer was squinting at her. It was unnerving.
"I wasn't sure at first… but now that I know…" – you can do it, Joana, you can do it – "I… wanted to say that… I'm sorry."
He still wasn't talking, his body language defensive, hermetic.
"It wasn't right… what he forced you to do." – now, he was baring teeth like an angry dog. Great… – "Yours is not the only case, though. That… man brought me and the girls at least three more of you. All boys. I think… he was into weird things, you know?"
"I find this conversation entirely pointless and extremely unnecessary, Miss." – he cut her, already turning to leave.
"I don't know how your culture works."
He turned back around, slowly this time. His blue eyes suddenly guarded, unblinking.
"I don't know if initiating boys into… things they're not prepared for is normal there. But what I know is what is punishable by your standards, even if Nero refuses to see it." – she already could see it, the murdering intention behind those frozen pupils, so she made haste in making her point – "You banish drugs and perversion… and what that man did to you and your pals was perversion."
The hesitation was there. He was deciding whether he disposed of her, dragging her sorry ass into a dark alley to silence her, or not.
"You don't have to live obeying the orders of a monster." – she tried again, trying to soothe his evident inner turmoil – "You don't have to be like me. You have people who can protect you. People who, clearly, love you." – inhaling, feeling better the more she talked, feeling like she was taking a heavy weight off her shoulders, she finally said – "I don't care if you end up helping or killing all of those Omertas sons of bitches… but I know what I would do if I were in your shoes: work for House. Maybe it isn't the best deal, maybe it isn't perfect, but… it's better than living under the boot of a monster. I know that."
She didn't add anything else and trotted her way back to Carlitos' side, giving the tall, pale boy a last look of remorse as he got back to his group. The sweet girl rubbed his lower back as they walked away.
"You okay, Jo?"
Joana looked to her boyfriend, bringing her forehead to his own briefly. Carlitos was the same height as her, and she loved it. At least on that, she had always felt she was his equal.
"Yeah." – she nodded – "Let's go, love."
A/N: and here we are again, not completing The Strip interlude due to complicating things a little too much. Not even the Mark of Caesar was given *Epic Author Facepalm*.
This has been a chapter really hard to write, so bear with me a little. Not much else to add other than my writing speaks for me. I've gotten carried away with the plot and now, there's another chapter to solve all the loose threads before starting with the Legion Arc.
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R: never played S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Maybe I should get myself a copy, I'm always looking for interesting games with interesting stories, the more if they're an open-world type of game, which allows you to explore (thus why I like The Elder Scrolls and Kenshi as well).
GloryToTheEmpire: I assume you left the other two Guest reviews, so let me THANK YOU for sharing your thoughts regarding this monstrous fic of mine! They were very encouraging and that's why I managed to finish this one before August ended. It made me very happy knowing someone is so invested with the main couple ❤ And, yes, both are missing crucial parts of each other... but Six is the one who's starting to see through.
On another note: I will ALWAYS try not to let my personal beliefs cloud my judgment when I develop a character. For example: I absolutely DESPISE Lanius, but that's no reason to not give him depth and dimension. The same a character with an ideology completely opposed to mine wouldn't be written off as merely monstrous and/or irrational. I will always try to be in their shoes when I write them, finding logic in why they do what they do.
And then... pre-War. My favorite topic in this fic. Yes, it is "mixed" and "reinvented" with actual Lore and many details I've researched on military dictatorial regimens (real and fictional, such as Oceania from Orwell's 1984), and it's pretty much intentional. Nothing in my story is unintentional, nothing, and the pre-War is one of the most deliberated things I've written so far. Its philosophy, its society, and its structure are a black mirror of our own. I want the readers to open their minds and think, and maybe that sounds presumptuous of me... but thinking is a precious gift that shouldn't go to waste.
Cheers! (and thank you so much for the earlier Favs and comments from past months, you guys are my salt and pepper ❤❤❤).
