"Number Nine"


Ch. 30: Forest Theme.


Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains mentions of torture, rape, mistreatment, homophobic implications, psychological trauma, violence, and all the usual nasty stuff. Plus, we are discussing here serious Cognitive Dissonance. Yes, it is a real deal and an important matter to take into account. Not your thing, tread with caution :D


"Don't let the wolf into your bed,
he'll take your soul then eat your head.
Inside the honey hollow space,
licking his fingertips of cake,
he brings the whirling deep in your heart,
then sings as twirling demons of dark,
to take you down beneath the ridge,
to where is found his silent bridge."

- Jarboe & Kris Force, "Forest Theme"


When they reached Novac late in the evening, Six was too ready for a shower, a warm dinner, and the promise of a bed waiting for her.

Too many days spent either unconscious at the Old Mormon Fort or sleeping like a baby amidst clean, silken covers, and her body was already resenting the inaction.

All these years running around Nevada and the Republic's lands far West, the moment she had started getting used to all the luxuries the Lucky 38 had to offer, she had signed for endless frustration every time she had to tread the desert. Now, even more, in the middle of spring, when radioactive storms from the West hit Nevada with more frequency.

She didn't want to think what it would be like in August. This year had started hotter than the past two, and it wasn't showing any symptoms to slow down any time soon.

Not that a certain legionary wasn't entirely blameless when it came to making her sweat and utterly flustered when he decided to play his flirty game with her by twisting up meanings in the many innuendoes he freely threw at her.

It was surreal. And the worst part of it was that her hormones were trying systematically to switch off her inner voice of reason, roaring at her that she totally should go lick him as if he were made of candy.

All of him.

To this very day, honestly, she hadn't been aware that she had such a dirty, dirty mind.

Which also paralyzed her when confronting the issue at hand she had yet to face.

It was true she liked him, that she found him hot and all… and the moments they had been making out, her heart had picked up rollercoaster pace while her brains seemed to content themselves to simply switch off and allow sensations reign over.

And yet… she wasn't so sure about taking it to the next level.

For starters, it was clear he liked to be the dominating one, and she wasn't okay with that. Less even to relinquish control over her body, allowing another entity that wasn't herself to take the reins.

In literature, it was so hot when the beau was the one setting the pace and stuff, always doing everything right and the like, so the heroine would end up with her panties soaker than drunk NCR troopers when they took a dive at the fountain of the Ultra-Luxe… but, in real life, it was simply terrifying to even just broach the subject to your… uh… partenaire.

A partenaire that, no matter how sweet he could be, pertained to a culture where women's pleasure didn't seem to matter much.

I mean… he could literally hurt her without meaning to do so.

Plus, there was the total lack of experience issue on her part.

An issue consequence of her very unique circumstances since she had been awoken from cryostasis. Until today, she hadn't had any incentive to pursue the path of adolescence with post-Americans whose mentality differed significantly on the matter from hers. When you're working for one of the most influential, dangerous men of this new alien world, there's no time to waste fooling around when your very life depends on the results you bring to the table.

And now, having a brief respite from what had happened to Charon until Burke would deign himself to appear out of nowhere to scare the shit outta her, she still hesitated.

She was PRE War; he was POST War. Her values weren't his values, she was two hundred years outdated and, while she could manage the theoretics, she couldn't adapt theory into action that well.

Shit, why did he have to be Legion? She would be less freaked out if he had been a Vault dweller. Someone as confounded by this new world as her. Someone with reminiscences of pre-War society and popular culture.

Someone she could relate with… at least to some extent.

They had plenty of things in common, yet they couldn't be more different than they were. Him being less of a diplomatic agent and more of a legionary, and she wouldn't be able to put up with him.

And what about her? If she had been less of a diplomatic agent and more resembling what he would catalog as a Wasteland 'Degenerate', he would despise her.

People like them weren't meant to mingle.

A guy like him wasn't meant for pinching under her ribs playfully to elicit a tickle or two out of her, and she shouldn't indulge him in turning around to mock-scold him to end up both French-kissing at the very door of her flat, her keys dangling on her hand whereas Rex would yawn, hitting their legs with his wet nose until she would give up and turn around again to open the door, the hands of the hot legionary guy she had been kissing thirstily still on her hipbones.

The very same hot guy capable of being as sweet as a Fancy Lad while also capable of unnamable atrocities.

After the Joana episode and deeming it safe enough to wait until the next day, everybody had simply either taken a shower or had a nightly snack before going to sleep. Being the only one used to recurrent insomnia episodes, Boone had had the (fucking gall) presence of mind to remind Zorro and her that they couldn't sleep one immediately next to the other.

They had ended up circumventing his tiresome rules by putting Rex between them, lacing hands over the dog's fur when the lights had been off. End of story.

Then, first hour in the morning, there had been a commotion at the Lucky's main entrance with who Six had discovered to be Big Sal, Nero's Second-In-Command, backed by quite the long retinue of greasy-haired armed lackeys demanding to talk with 'Not-At-Home'.

His uncharming disposition had been met with at least three securitrons, one of them being Victor, telling him very politely to scram lest he wanted to be disposed of by Vegas' robotic security.

And then, Mr. House had called her to the Penthouse Level. Without giving her the chance to get some breakfast first.

"Care to explain Nero's sudden hostile attitude, Miss Sullivan?" – he had asked mildly irritatedly until she had told him about her incursion into Omerta territory last night, making him aware of the risky move she was about to pull by playing two sides.

"On one hand, if I help my Legion ally with his inner discrepancies with this rogue agent, he'll trust me enough to believe I'm willing to switch sides. And the Omertas, once we'll deal with this Cachino, will be so weakened and demoralized that you won't have to worry about them causing trouble anymore, Mr. House."

If the Orwellian man had harbored any doubts about her dubious procedure, he hadn't made her know so before sending her back down, allowing her to have her breakfast before informing her friends about the situation and dress for the occasion.

Because the God of New Vegas wasn't going to allow a sector of his employees to start a coup. Much less when his plan on infiltrating the Legion was about to bear fruit.

Clay had warned them before leaving the Lucky that they should act with extreme caution around the mobsters.

"Depending on the outcome, the Number of the Beast shall be printed on fire for a false prophet bearing a savior's mask to stomp over its ashes… or the Beast shall meet empty chambers. No friend, nor bitter foe to aid him when his spurned Empire shall pass to his natural opponent."

Sometimes, Clay's ancestry wasn't what caused Six's discomfort to grow a little more every time he deemed it necessary to prophesize stuff.

Anyway, after abandoning the somber structure of the Lucky with both Arcade and Veronica making awkward quips that were trying, rather unsuccessfully, to pass as humorous, clearly distilling nervousness about the child's strange faculties, Nero's thugs had detained them at the very lobby.

"Only the Courier can get in." – the greeter had declared, backed up not only by a rather menacing submachine gun but also the ones his cronies were wielding as well at the entrance as a provocation, regardless of how nervous they were making the clientele – "Nero's orders. He wants to talk only with her. In private."

The very instant all the violent negative exclamations and the due threats coming mostly from Boone had exploded abound, Six had inhaled a big, BIG mouthful of air before taking a step ahead.

This is your moment to shine, Birdie. Spread your wings.

How she hated politics.

"Tell your boss that I shall parley with him." – the ghost, the god, the man, the guru had spoken in her place – "Incidentally, inform him as well that, in case he is brewing something… let's say 'off the record', he'll have to pay with two of his fingers: one for his betrayal, the other for making me waste precious time."

Her threat, apparently, had caught both her group and the Omerta brutes off-guard. Its connotation not escaping any of them.

They want to play Sicilian Mafia on her? Then, she was going to repay the courtesy by raising the stakes. Fucking Yakuza level.

These assholes knew they were dealing with House. Perhaps their unsubtle businesses with the Legion had led them to believe that they were fucking untouchable.

Perhaps they needed a reminder about who they still owed loyalty to.

Or perhaps, this time had been as good as any to put Nero's god complex back to Earth. So he could rethink his life choices and whom he should lend his ear to and whom he shouldn't.

"Tell them you are not going in there unaccompanied." – Zorro had whispered in her ear, eyeing the bouncer with an apparent flippant, indifferent demeanor. If only she could lie as naturally as he… - "Force Nero to send out Big Sal again. They want you, Sullivan, and this pantomime is only a cheap excuse to press House. They aren't even bothering to mask their intentions."

The intentions of a group of morons already assessing dominance over a territory that, indistinctly if Caesar won at Hoover Dam this time around or not, wasn't meant to be theirs.

As Benny would have said, they were crying in the rain.

Their impatience would be their undoing.

"Neither am I." – she had replied – "And that's why you are going to bypass the security and open a breach in their defenses if there isn't a spokesman asking for your presence within ten minutes counting from the very instant they're taking me inside." – leaning on him, she had whispered in his ear – "House told me the lady in charge of the reception might be… receptive to some semblance of a bribe. Apparently, she's been a reliable informant in the past."

They had taken their sweet time pawing her up and down thoroughly in front of the silent, furious gazes of Boone, Cass, Raul, and, most prominently, Zorro, before allowing her entrance.

In order to remain distinctly calm throughout her exchange with Nero, she had programmed what she called 'Painkiller Mode' amidst the balances in her hormonal and time-response cycles the Pip-Boy could manipulate to a certain extent.

With this Mode on, pretty much the same whenever she went to deliver her reports to House, her fear and sweating responses other than natural physical strain would be effectively nullified. As well as pain.

If you combined these effects with V.A.T.S., you were basically immune to nervous and mental trauma. At least during short periods of time.

These settings and how to calibrate them, she had discovered throughout her stay in Vault 5 during isolation. When you could live inside your mind, free from the feelings that made you human in the first place, you could endure ANY form of torture.

Maybe that had been where that Yakuza vibe had come from.

Or maybe her inner Burke, her evil, reliable muse always there throughout the most distasteful moments of her post-War existence, did have truly possessed her.

A reasonable enough theory when she took into account what had come next.

The Gomorrah had looked especially sordid that day, the more if we consider that it had been a Saturday morning.

The two previous occasions she had visited Gomorrah had been accompanied, so she had felt distinctively unsettled by the sleazy ambiance, with dark gaudy wallpapers, firelight on the wall scones, and the giant cages in where half-naked dancers had undulated their tired bodies.

Out of a sudden, she had felt prey from those looks under faded brims of pre-War fedoras she had kept receiving when she had been led through V.I.P. territory, upstairs to the Zoara Club. An odd, detached feeling of mid-comfort washed over her knowing she had held the key card in her power, disguised with quite a few bobby pins on her nest of a hair, hidden by the pretty pink diadem Lily had combed and arranged her rebel short spikes with.

Passing through an open space filled with pool tables, they had opened the door of an office guarded by two brutes where three men in suits had been waiting for her inside.

"Take a seat on the couch over there. Nero and me want to have a little talk with you." – had been how the man she had immediately recognized as Big Sal, thanks to his very distinct raspy voice, had received her, his tan face slightly tense.

Are you going to allow for some lackey to speak to you in such a tone, Birdie dearest?

"I do hope that wasn't an order, Salvatore." – once more, her inner devil had spoken in her place, eyeing the present men one by one as if assessing a good cut of meat at the market instead of potential threats – "Tsk, tsk. That is not how diplomacy is supposed to work in Vegas, gentlemen. Very disappointing."

Maybe they had thought intimidating a 'little girl' was no costlier than a good mobster staging. They had been dearly wrong for sure.

"Then, let me reformulate my associate's words here, Courier." – the man she had assumed to be Nero - the only one who, besides being, ethnicity-wise, the whitest man in the room, also looked the most remotely clean and well-groomed out of the three of them - had spoken with an extremely thin layer of civility. His dark eyes astute, slightly feral – "Take a seat on the couch, please, so we can have a little talking time. If you'll be so kind."

From the moment he had opened his mouth, she had known that his manners had been but a frail façade that hid a calculating, backstabbing personality underneath.

He was cut by the same pattern as Benny, the only difference being that Nero didn't bother to deny what he was, much less hiding behind the cheery, sleazy pantomime the head of the Chairmen had put on in front of her.

These were the kind of men - men with power and a certain dangerous, obscure allure surrounding them like a halo – who usually had lots of women pursuing their attentions, willing to part ways with their very self-respect so long as these kings of beasts would share a slice of the pie. A flash of their tenebrous enticement, the thrill of toying with fire.

Those women, they didn't really care for beyond the use they could get out of their bodies. Thus, the subsequent scandalous absence of consideration or sympathies when it came to dealing with the fairer sex.

They saw them as tools, a means to an end.

And that had been a powerful motivation for her to see them humiliated. To watch their faces as they'll be forced to bend a knee in front of her.

Was it malicious intent on her part? Yes. Did she obtain a perverse satisfaction out of it? Fuck, yes.

Slither Kin, House had named the Omertas once. An enslaving gang of nomadic tribals whose viciousness had appealed to the God of New Vegas due to their apparent similarities to how some mobster gangs from the pre-War had acted throughout his reign as RobCo CEO in Las Vegas.

The Slither Kin, traditionally, hadn't been too fond of women. Or people from outside their Family in general. They had attracted other tribes, travelers, and prospectors into traps that, later, had turned their victims either into slaves or corpses, depending on their usefulness.

They procreated with their slaves, took the boys into the tribe, killed the girls to avoid attachments. Tale as old as time.

Now, a decade later, their customs had suffered small but crucial variations they hadn't taken in very kindly. They were a proud, greedy tribe, and their nomadic history had suffered throughout this decade waning in the shadow of House's autocracy.

Since slavery had been formally banned under the rule of their Master - the more with the NCR hounding around to open a breach in Vegas' inner policies - they had come up with quite the inventive ways to retain ownership upon what they still considered 'property'.

As a result, a good eighty percent of the sex workers at the Gomorrah were once-slaves of theirs. Indebted due to their flourishing addictions and the costs of their living arrangements, unable to escape as the debt grew over time.

Punctual cases like Joana were rare, and many of those 'ex-slaves' didn't have the drive to try their luck out in the desert. Like most of the population in Vegas, trying desperately to shield themselves from the harsh life out there. Terrified of the mutated creatures that were a handful of gunshots stronger than them.

Unfortunately, the very existence of men like Nero and his people was but a subproduct of the present social apathy. A logical outcome for the very same social injustice that seemed pervasive whenever Six went, further enabled by passive, jaded masses drowning their woes in pulque instead of Plato, as Arcade liked to complain from time to time.

And Six respected Arcade's opinion way too much to ignore the visceral abhorrence the Omertas awakened in her, even more than the duplicitous nature of the Chairmen, or the repressed cannibalism from the White Glove Society.

She had only to look into the eyes of their workers to hate them. To hate what Nero's rule represented.

Nero was a bird of prey, always ready to pick whatever juicy leftover the Mojave happened to toss at his feet to suck on the marrow of their bones. He was an eagle, screeching proudly behind the walls of his fortress.

Little did he know that eagles, along with crows and other post-Apocalyptic birds, were the predilect prey of Bloodbugs back East.

There's always something stronger and meaner than you out in the Wasteland.

Always.

"With pleasure." – being the Devil and not the girl the one in charge of diplomacy, she sat with a relaxed attitude that had been but smoke and shadows, with her personal feelings on the matter having been dulled by the grace of her Pip-Boy – "Now, I believe we have some grave matters to deal with, Mr. Nero."

The reptilian beast beneath those dark eyes had smiled unfriendly.

"That, we have, Courier." – he had conceded, crossing fingers under his chin – "One of my boys came the previous night back to me. Empty-handed." – the way he had syllabified that had been deliberate to a fault – "I wasn't happy. At all. I assume you already know the fate of those that make me unhappy. Right, Courier?"

"I have frequent contact with the Followers of the Apocalypse, so yes. I know all about your staged executions outside The Strip's walls." – she hadn't been in the mood to go along with the mystery they wanted to keep around their shady activities, their predictable tactics becoming bothersome somehow. If she hadn't been artificially-induced to not to give a shit, her irritation would have shown – "You killed your incompetent, illiterate subordinate." - brief pause – "Just the very same you are going to do with your also incompetent lieutenant, Cachino."

The man sitting by Nero's left - a balding, meaty brick wall of a man – had winced to recover almost immediately and start with the due defensive, macho front.

"What the fuck?! Who the hell do you think you are, you stupid cunt?!" – he had bellowed, almost instantaneously getting red in the face (and the bald spot on his head) – "You ain't coming here to say shit right to our faces! I don't give half a dick you're Not-At-Home's little sl…!"

A hand upon his knee, and the man had shut his filthy trap like the good puppet he had been, Nero giving him a warning look before being the one retaking the reins.

"My 'incompetent, illiterate subordinate' mentioned something about a book of sorts before being given The Big Adiós." – he stated, earning the automatic response of sweating like a pig out of his nervous lieutenant – "Care to share, Courier?"

"Of course." – she had confirmed, nodding in Big Sal's direction so the thug wouldn't make any use of his brass knuckles or his sawed-off shotgun as she had opened her bag and handed the infamous diary to Nero.

"Wait…! Boss, are you going to take the word of this outsider over mine?" - Cachino had attempted one last save for his sorry hide, futilely trying to distract Nero from his reading endeavor – "She has clearly forged it! Mick N' Ralph's at the Freeside do this kind of stuff for a price…"

"Shut. Up. Cachino." – snarling categorically, Nero's quiet fury had paralyzed the other man as his dark eyes had taken in the reading's details. A moment later, those very eyes had turned out cold as ice – "Cachino… we've been friends for a long time." – he had started to speak again, slowly, as if rehearsing what he had been about to say, line by line – "A real long time. But this one time… you really fucked up." – he had concluded somberly, slamming the diary close, getting up from his seat slowly – "You've been with the Family long enough to know how this goes."

If Six hadn't read the very diary herself, she would have pitied the trembling, meaty man drenching the collar of his shirt as the tonality of his skin had evolved from deep red to corpse-like in a matter of seconds.

"I know, boss, and I know it's going to be hard for you to trust me again…" – he had babbled, attempting to play a last card that wasn't available over the table anymore – "I'm sorry, boss, I'm so sorry... Sometimes I just can't control myself. I dunno what's wrong with me… but, I swear, I can turn this around. Just gimme another chance. Please…"

"No." – Nero had replied, turning around to face the other man – "I AM the one who's sorry that you had to fuck this up." – extending a hand that Big Sal had promptly filled with an automatic assault carbine that had been resting over the desk behind the sofa, Nero had adjusted his position and grip, pointing the nozzle of his weapon to Cachino's trembling stomach, adding – "Goodbye. You were a real benefit to the business."

After that, a bloody mess was what had been left of Cachino's lower anatomy. The man left in agony as Big Sal had fetched a chair for Nero to sit on, handing his gun back to his Second while putting himself deliberately uncomfortable close to her, ignoring the agonizing moans coming from the dying man a few feet ahead. Blood slowly tinted the cream-colored sofa in deep crimson.

"Now that we have that unpleasant matter solved… I'd like to extend my thanks to you, Courier." – the mob boss had expressed sibilantly, inclining dangerously close to her ear. His disdain for whom had been one of his most trusted men discarded like trash filling her muffled nervous system with violent emotions fighting to reach the surface.

She had wanted to strangle this bastard, to shove that assault carbine up his ass.

She had hated him because he had managed to remind her how Benny used to make her feel.

She recalled the odd, contradictory sensation about what her instinct had been screaming to her, whereas her brain had been artificially incapable of reacting in the most natural way: with fear.

That very fear she kept swallowing like the providential bitter pill. A paralyzing feeling that she couldn't afford to fall prey to.

A most perfect example of why human nature was fallible and they needed machines to temper their emotions. To bring order and cold calculus in the chaos their pride had unleashed two hundred years ago.

Her external nonchalance had not boded well with Nero, who had relished playing with his food before eating it.

And he had been way too used to having the pudding all by himself.

"A pleasure." – had been all she had delivered mechanically, still cool façade intact on the outside while her brains had been picking rollercoaster pace attempting to decipher what had been in for her now, and how to anticipate his next move.

For she had known, without a shadow of a doubt, that her transgression with Joana and her friends, Nero hadn't forgotten despite the service she had done to him.

Her instinct rarely failed.

"But now, I'd like to discuss the merchandise you and your group made us loss last night."

Bingo.

"Joana and Carlitos had their conditions for turning Cachino over." – her unfazed reply had undoubtedly spurred on Nero's already-wounded pride, for his following words, though civilized, had started to show his impatience.

"Though welcome, none of us asked for this service. And Carlitos was already a marked man. He had nothing to lose and a lot to gain should he have managed to prove his innocence. Through your intervention, he might have regained his place back into the Family…" – he had trailed off, ready to strike like the hungry cobra he was – "… However, instead of wanting to restore his honor, he opts for bargaining with the life of his predilect whore. One that happened to earn us a lot of caps."

"Retribution!" she had heard many legionaries screaming down the Highway 95, exchanging fire with NCR patrols, biting the dust at the hands of the Rangers near Clark Field, ambushed by Golden Geckos, taken down by the snipers within the mouth of a dinosaur from the neighbor Novac.

All of them fighting their way across hostile territory, never giving up, avenging their fallen comrades whenever they could seize an opportunity.

Those men in football gear had allowed her to cross territory near their encampments without attacking her or ED-E, only giving her warning hand signals as to not provoking them but leaving her be whenever they happened to bring down a hostile party, and she would sneak close to replenish her ammo supplies out of the spare cartridges of the corpses.

They never attacked without provocation unless their orders explicitly stated so, but took no shit from nobody.

Just as the same she had promised herself not to take any shit from a snake dressed in a pretentious suit claiming for that very same retribution he had not earned.

"Maybe he had his own reasons for not wanting to come back." – she had replied noncommittally, trying to convey in her tone how little his hidden threat had affected her. Apparently.

"Maybe so. Maybe so." – Nero had conceded – "Look, Courier, I could have overlooked this little operation of yours if Joana's been the only ass on the line… but you happened to rob us of another couple sources of profit here. OUR profit." – he had emphasized, getting up from his chair, looming over her small, sitting figure – "Maybe the lives of Carlitos and his whore are a fair trade for Cachino's… but the other two are an inexcusable bonus you took at your leisure. We cannot have that, can we?"

Unfailingly, he had been searching for a reaction that hadn't come, but more robotic words in a body that felt more of a machine than human, such power hormones held over feelings.

This snake had received the taking-no-shit treatment he had deserved. Just like another snake she knew named Benny.

"Please." – she had delivered impeccably, still on her best Burke interpretation – "And, if it had been only those two, you would have adduced that losing your 'main star' was an inexcusable bonus since Carlitos should have contented to keep his hide." – she had seen it then, the gnawing ire at not getting a chance at having her cornered and frightened, just as he probably liked the women who dared to laugh in his face – "You didn't call me here to discuss percentages or, at the very least, bargain the price of the prostitutes' debts. You simply called me here, alone, to obtain your sick satisfaction even if you are painfully aware of what a dangerous game you are playing by sequestering Mr. House's human agent, who also happens to share connections within the Legion. A Legion you have pending business with. You are a fool, Nero."

At that, a small tick had seized the man's left eye he soon had disguised with a barking, humorless laugh.

"A cunt? With the Legion?" – he had asked incredulously, shaking his head condescendingly – "Sorry to be the one bursting your bubble, princess, but I happen to share REAL connections with Legion fat cats." – he had proclaimed proudly – "One of them being casually here, as my honor guest." – so, Zorro's worries hadn't been unfounded. The Frumentarii had a rogue agent on the works – "And he hadn't said shit about the Courier being on their side, but rather warning us about the danger you pose as House's main pawn." – a rogue agent acting against his Commander's interests, it seemed – "Anything else to add on the matter, little girl?"

She had known she wouldn't be offered a chance to clarify the situation with the unsubordinated cockroach, so she had chosen provocation.

"Yes: that you are more of an ignoramus cretin than I had anticipated, Nero." – she had said, unfolding a slow, repellent smile – "I hate to be the bringer of bad news, but your presumed Legion 'fat cat' is nothing more than a field agent that, apparently, is acting way out of his scope. And how do I know this, you'll ask?" – the brief moment she had watched the seeds of doubt starting growing in the mobster's dark eyes, she had perceived something akin to joy lazily blooming in the back of her head; a powerful, visceral feeling already fighting its way amidst the waves of artificial calmness – "Because the real deal is waiting outside, disguised as one of my followers, waiting for a call that you aren't going to make, for you know very well what the price is for fucking it up in the Legion." - then, she had leaned on him, daringly arrogant – "Poor Nero, what a disappointment you have turned out to be in the eyes of Caesar."

The blow she had received right on her left cheek, powerful enough to split skin and bleed like a fountain, hadn't shaken her in the slightest, prepared as she had been for it entering V.A.T.S. before assuming the impact.

"ZIP THAT WHORE TRAP, YOU STUPID BITCH!" – he had bellowed to, after a pause to assess how little his punch had done to her impervious expression, his dark eyes had widened, incredulous – "What the…?! Fucking arrogant brat. If playing hard's your kink, we shall provide." – turning to Big Sal, he had ordered – "Tell Button to go fetch Clanden. We've got another tasty treat for him."

Burke's golden rule had always been that losing control makes people miscalculate and, often, end up making stupid mistakes. Just as allowing a potential threat to leave a heavily-guarded office alive to be put at the mercy of one lone man.

One lone man that, despite being a sadistic, deviated piece of crap, physically couldn't have bested a trained dog if he didn't have his prey conveniently tied.

Oh, she had ended up bound, of course. And in nothing but her undies since the lack of clothing coverage was usually associated with vulnerability for the victim and sexual arousal for the offender. Of that, the Button thug had made sure, following the man named Clanden's indications.

The Pip-Boy, luckily, they hadn't touched. Why, she wasn't really sure (maybe plain stupidity or maybe ignorance, given that a Pip-Boy, in the right hands, was a powerful resource that very well could turn into a weapon?), but it had been better that way. A man alone and armed with a blade, she could take. An armed, muscled thug plus the rachitic weasel would have been a pain in the ass to deal with without her 10mm.

Then, they had been left alone in his 'filming study': a dirty, medium-sized room equipped with a working stereo TV, studio-like spotlights, and quite a few hooks hanging from the ceiling hovering over a bloodied kitchen countertop that had had also resting over its dented surface a camera and a closed briefcase she had only guessed what might have hosted inside.

She had been positioned with her hands tied hanging from one of the hooks, the countertop displaced aside to have her bound feet dangling awkwardly while this Clanden had eyed her from head to toe hungrily, rubbing his hands in anticipation.

"Okay little lady… okay…" – he had said, licking his lips, taking in all of her after having his recording equipment ready for the session, spotlights flashing a bright radiance around, turning the furniture's edges and shadows far more intense, burning her exposed skin and giving her a mild headache – "Let's get started."

"Get started for what, Clanden?" – she had asked with fake innocence, batting her lashes in an affected, mocking fashion despite her physical discomfort – "I'd have you know that you'll have to buy me dinner first. Etiquette rules, you see."

The man had blinked, disconcerted. He clearly hadn't been used for his victims to chit-chat him. Less in a calm, civilized tone.

After that, he had harrumphed as if to pick up the thread back to his elaborated fantasy.

"Little girls like you are chatty, aren't you?" – he had asked, eyes shining – "So full of life… so full of energy… But so tender still. I'll have to be cautious so as not to break you too soon. That will ruin our fun, won't it? After all, my little Red Riding Hood, your wolf is nothing but well-mannered when dealing with tender flesh."

Evidently, his questions had meant to be rhetorical, not to be nonchalantly answered by a placid, insolent prey that wasn't begging for her life already.

"Oh, but I thought the fun would come later, wolfie, once you've gotten your snuff tape and you can watch… as you recreate yourself in the images of a weak, pitiful man spurting out his boring essayed speeches while wielding a kitchen knife in melodramatic slashes to cut a bound girl who, otherwise, would have laughed at his poorly crafted attempts to make her notice him."

Time had stopped in Clanden's bloodstream, for his face couldn't bring itself to decide whether to redden in anger or pale in affront.

The final product had turned out an ugly mismatch of sickly pale background peppered with red, uneven splotches, red-rimmed eyes shining with violence as the nose had started watering on its own account, like a chastised child.

"Shut up."

Ring-a-ding, baby. Now I know how your filthy mind works.

These types of individuals were almost too easy to read. Their vices plain to the sight, given that they rarely bothered to hide them when they thought they were the ones in control.

Eulogy Jones had been such a type of character. The ones that enjoy delivering humiliation before sating their twisted base needs… but cannot stand others do the same to them.

Fragile egos break easily under pressure. Burke had been a master at that.

And she had learned from the very best.

"It's so sad that the only way you can express your desires for the opposite sex has to be this destructive..." – she had kept goading.

"Shut up, whore!"

"… However, since you wanna be a musky husky, all covered in blood and all that cheap dirty shit you're so used to reading…"

"SHUT YOUR FUCKING MOUTH!"

So close… so close…

"… In the loneliness of your stinky mongrel lair…"

"I SAID SHUT UP!"

Come here, wolfie, wolfie… gotta surprise for ya.

"… Licking the sticky fingertips of your most faithful companion: your right hand."

However, the closer his wrath got him, providential knife raised in a trembling, furious hand; a sudden, brief commotion had occurred parallelly outside, with the guarding thug as a protagonist.

"What the fuck you two think you're…?!"

Then, a violent slam and a crack against the closed door followed a thud onto the carpeted floor.

"Jimmy! Help me open that door!"

Momentum lost, Six's left wrist had prompted V.A.T.S. into her perception field and, with a fortuitous swing of the hook's chain bringing her body closer to her distracted assaulter, knees briefly hitting her chest to add strength into a most impeccable kick delivered right to his face.

And this time, unlike what had happened years ago in Tenpenny Tower with the old mechanist, she had allowed her heel to incrust the nose onto the cranium.

Bye, bye, Miss American Pie.

The body had fallen magnificently slack onto the floor, and then, the door had been brought down by two silhouettes.

Perfect timing for a perfect maneuver. Or so her artificially calm psyche had told her right at the moment.

Later, when she hadn't been under the effects of her Pip-Boy altered psyche, the looks of pure horror in Zorro's and Veronica's faces by simply looking at her bruised, stripped state had broken her heart.

Zorro had practically tripped over the fallen corpse in his haste to get her off the hook, while Vero's eyes had been brim-filled with angry tears.

And then, Six had found herself back on solid ground and safely tucked in the comfort and warmth of Zorro's jacket. Screw that it had been a little itchy.

"Where is that sick piece of shit?!" – the furious Scribe had bellowed – "I'LL KILL HIM!"

One of the things she had recalled out of the surreal situation had been how little she had cared that two of the people she had loved the most in this godforsaken desert had been as traumatized as she had felt later, when she had stopped the Painkiller Mode, and her normal self had kicked back into her system.

She had ignored their hugs, their worried hands roaming around the swollen side of her face, their hasty questions.

She had felt nothing.

"Too late, I'm afraid." – she had replied, nodding in the fallen body's general direction.

It had felt good not feeling anything for either of them.

Not care, nor worry over their wellbeing, risking their own hides to get her out of that hellish casino.

It had been frightening that it had felt so good.

It had been unnatural, disgusting.

"We've to get back to Nero." – she had instructed with what one sane person would have described as bone-chilling composure, totally inadequate given the circumstances – "The key to the Zoara Club is in my diadem."

Then, long, familiar fingers had tucked at her eyelids, electric blue eyes searching hers.

"What are you doing?" – she had asked.

"Trying to discern what those human excrements have injected you with." – he had replied.

Funny. He could be so funny sometimes.

Shame her puffed lips had prevented her from smiling.

"It's my Pip-Boy. I've programmed it to keep my hormones and pain responses drowsy."

Elegant digits had fumbled with her device. She hadn't liked that. She hadn't given him permission to touch her Pip-Boy.

Her Pip-Boy was hers.

Her thoughts, her history. Her memories.

"We don't have time." – she had tried to explain, pulling her forearm from his grasp – "There will be more thugs here soon if we don't move. Thugs with SMGs."

"Take it out." – he had ordered while Vero had busied herself with unbinding her.

Why did he have to be so stubborn?

"No."

"Take it out." – he had repeated, his long fingers twitching, going again for her device – "Now."

She had stopped his hand.

"The moment I'm taking this programming out, I'm breaking into hysterics." – she had explained then, slightly annoyed that he won't accept her choices without an explanation to back them – "We don't need hysteric me until we have solved our pending business with Nero."

Her reasoning, if not the one he probably had wanted, had sufficed when her hand had ended up in his, and the three of them had run around the maze-like subterranean compound of the suites' level.

Vero's punch of steel and Zorro's sneakiness had sufficed whenever an Omerta bouncer had posed an obstacle to keep advancing through doors since the Zoara Club keycard, apparently, was a skeleton key for practically all the "Only staff allowed" marked entrances.

Not once they had been forced to cross a single public space until they had gotten back to the familiar open space with pool tables Six had seen prior to her misunderstanding with the mafia boss.

"That one." – she had whispered to her two companions, signaling the office she had been led to, no signs of guards whatsoever.

Inside, a vulnerable, unprepared Nero with his pants down his ankles while being orally serviced by a prostitute had met their ireful looks with a dull, shocked expression Vero had soon wiped out from his very skull… for good.

"Whoops." – the Scribe had stated with a voice inflection that communicated she hadn't been sorry in the very slightest, shaking her Power Fist to get most of the blood out. Its shape imprinted on the gory mass staining the wall where Nero's head had been resting on.

It had been… anticlimactic. But satisfying the same. Six would have preferred to make him eat the two promised fingers before killing him in the slowest, most gruesome fashion she could have come up with… but pragmatism should prevail in business.

Because, after all, this has been nothing but pure business.

She hated politics so much.

"Go fetch Big Sal for us, if you please." – Zorro had told the paralyzed prostitute, eyeing them half high, half dead-scared from the floor she had been kneeling on moments ago, lips gleaming and hair dripping blood – "We will be waiting for him here."

Turns out Big Sal had been but paces away from his own office, next to Nero's, luckily for them coming in alone in a hurry. Sawed-off shotgun hailing to them before they had quickly reduced him.

"Say, Salvatore." – she had told the restrained man once Vero had gotten him on his knees after enduring a long tirade of obscenities. To say she had enjoyed herself watching a man of Big Sal's size kneeling before her, a 'little girl', would be falling short – "Would you like to be part of a… let's say, change in management?" – once she had seized the man's attention, she had added – "Though, I warn you: cross me like your late boss did, and your skull will end up another frameless gory picture adding onto your office's decoration." – crouching to his level, deeming he was a threat no more once profit had come in command of the conversation, she had asked – "Now, where's Alan?"

Her flow of memories was brusquely (though not unpleasantly) interrupted by the current, very real arms draped around her, even when she was trying to get rid of the worst of her tactical armor, his lips finding her throat insistently, and she, rather than discouraging this behavior, was making more room for his face so he could plaster it on the crook of her neck.

This was pleasant. He was pleasant.

If only she could let go of the doubts and nasty suspicions poisoning what, otherwise, could be a beautiful synergy between the two of them…

A beautiful synthesis.

All of this time out in the desert alone with him, whenever she had looked at him, admiring his tall silhouette cutting against the sun, she had wondered if she was capable of giving out something beyond friendship and attraction.

Something that, maybe, he wished. And she wasn't too sure or even felt remotely ready to give.

Or maybe, when she would end up giving it, she would discover that it had been something fleeting, a punctual shared momentum later turned into ashes.

Or worse: with him not desiring anything she could give other than political collaboration and, perhaps, sharing an uncompromising good time together.

Could she really blame him, knowing he had a family inside that immense tribal army the NCR insisted on painting as a whole, an evil alien entity when, in truth, every single army was composed of individuals, each with dreams and fears of their own?

Weren't soldiers bound to obey the orders they were given, the more if said soldiers were slaves as well?

As a fantasy, it was nice to fancy herself a breaker of chains, making slaves turn coats in her favor by merely being reasonable, nice, and understanding of their situation, offering them a place where to belong and be safe from the dictator that held the leash of their collars.

But what if they were just fine with the life they led?

What if the one who was sorely mistaken about how Legion society worked was her? After all, what did she know about them, past slanted information?

Maybe the main reason she was both unsure, although looking after this reunion with the western dictator at the same time, was to understand. To understand if there was still a hope, even the tiniest one, to keep this situation in the middle ground. To keep the farce going on a little more.

To see if there was still a chance for her to convince Zorro that… she would take care of him. Should he want it, of course.

He didn't even have to fight by her side when the time would come.

He just simply had to stick around and not get in her way. Inaction being perfectly plausible and excusable.

She could work with that.

She was used to being the one making the hard choices in the end anyway.

She was used to being alone when war was at her doorstep. She could deal with being alone in war times… but she couldn't stand the idea of being alone during peace times.

Even if she had never truly experienced what was living under any other way than the law of the gun.

Anyway, legionary or not, dangerous or not, right or wrong, moral or immoral, good or bad, she wanted him by her side. She needed him by her side.

Even if she still didn't dare to explore what he awakened in her.

Though there were other kinds of exploration she wasn't so against. As long as she was in control.

Which… was proving to be quite challenging, for she couldn't help but notice how deftly he was turning her around and how enthusiastically she was allowing it, how adept he was at dancing with her eager clumsy feet, convincing her and her body to undulate with his' once he had the backs of her knees against the mattress.

She tried to maneuver him, which only served to end up with both falling onto the bed as one. Discarding boots, half-pulled helmets, heavy dusters, and bulletproof vests during the process.

He was attempting to find the gist on her tactical belt when she found a ticklish spot between his abdominals and pelvic tissue (when he had taken his shirt off…?), and she felt him jump slightly.

Oh, yes, this was Sulli's Revenge Time for sure.

Grabbing the reins once again, she turned their previous amorousness into a childish encounter, with him vocalizing "No, no, no, no, no" repeatedly as she pursued his weak spot, going as far as attempting to immobilize him without success, she on her haunches over the sheets with a Cheshire grin stamped on her face while he rolled aside, warning her with a raised finger and a serious expression, half-joking, half actually terrified that she had found a way to make him briefly lose control.

They rounded the whole room with her giggling maliciously, relishing in being the one chasing him until she tackled his form perhaps a little too brusquely against the pre-War dresser that creaked loudly under their combined pressure.

In all honesty, she could understand that he wouldn't be used to her odd games, for his face was quite the poem when she took both his hands in her own and began doing little hops around him.

Or maybe, being eighteen, she shouldn't behave like she was eight.

Maybe he thought her a little crazy. She wouldn't be surprised. She sometimes admitted to herself that she must be crazy, treating someone as dangerous as he was like a playmate.

Or maybe she knew shit about flirting, and this was an overcompensation. The human mind was funny like that.

After all, she had asked for a friend, not a lover.

"Gotcha." – she sing-sung to end up squealing when he picked her up as if she weighed nothing from under her armpits, giving her a matter-of-factly arched brow.

He was a sore loser, that was for sure.

"I need a bath." – she announced, raising her index finger between them – "So do you." – she added when she saw his frown – "Not sleeping in my own sweat if I can avoid it."

Perhaps deeming her reasoning legit, he put her back on solid ground. Expression pensive, eyes reading.

Oh, no. They weren't bathing together, if that's what he was looking for.

She believed she made her point clear when she gathered a clean, comfy change of clothes full speed and shut the bathroom door practically in his nose.

Once inside, besides noticing what a thorough cleaning this place needed (once again, urgh… guess sand particles get inside no matter the preventive window boards for sandstorms), she leaned on the bathroom door both hoping he wouldn't pursue opening it and also seeking something solid to keep her grounded.

Well… half an hour was time enough to concoct a handful of reasonable-sounding excuses to tell a guy when you don't feel like to… you know… with him, right?

Oh, how she wished for a life-saving migraine right now…


It shouldn't be that difficult.

He was giving all the signals, showing interest.

He had even taken his shirt off, a big deal of effort on his part, given that he rarely felt comfortable enough to show just how damaged his skin was. Even around his siblings.

However, since she already had seen him half-naked and hadn't freaked out, he had simply assumed she had liked what she had seen.

But he was starting to believe that she hadn't even been paying attention in the first place.

He already knew she was hyperactive up to some degree. It showed. That, coupled with her brain damage, surely had done something to her attention span. She had even a programmed alarm on her Pip-Boy to remind herself to hydrate every half an hour out in the desert.

However, if he didn't know better, he would swear that she was avoiding him.

It had never happened before.

Not that he felt very proud of it, but the times he had approached a female target during a mission, all he had to do had been a little mechanic flirting over there and there, perhaps having some drinks on his wallet account, then a couple of suggestions about where they could take their private conversation… et voilà. Mission accomplished.

Hell, half the time, he didn't even have to approach them, only to insinuate a little interest on his part. Awkward, stiff interest that, surprisingly, most of the time came off as charming. Unless they weren't after some fun or didn't fancy men in the first place, they usually were the ones striking a conversation with him, not the other way around.

He never had to ask for this, and now, he was dreading to put words into what he wanted.

Because, frankly, it sounded awful.

"Sullivan, I want sex." See? Sounded vulgar and desperate. Libertine. Profligate.

Almost obscene.

Maybe he could reformulate it? Something among the lines of 'making love' – which, to his knowledge, was a literary euphemism for 'having sex' that many women seemed to like better - making it sound more like asking for permission than making a petition?

Part of him still hoped she would emerge from the bathroom, barely covered in a short towel he would gladly help get rid of it.

But that was just his imagination. And his imagination, he had learned as of late, had very little to do with reality.

Whereas inside his dirty mind, he had an eager, thirsty lover asking for it, like, every five minutes… the reality worked more along the lines of him being stuck with a childish, disquiet girl more concerned with tickling him than getting in his pants.

And he really, REALLY could use the distraction.

Two days after they had sorted out the monumental mess Alerio had made out of their alliance with the Omertas.

Two days barely getting a wink inside that Ivory Tower, feeling like every eye was trained on him no matter where he went or what he did.

Two days going through every single detail during their unfortunate stay at the Gomorrah, looking desperately for clues that would tell him that he should have seen it coming.

The secret filming room had been already a nasty blow to his psyche, with Sullivan hanging from a hook like some… slaughtered brahmin meat, half her face swollen and purplish… and she acting like it was nothing out of the ordinary. Hurrying them even.

Unfeeling, unresponsive.

She later had told them that the sick piece of crap was a mere collaborator whose vice – enabled by the deal he had with the Omertas – had been to rape, torture, and butcher bound prostitutes he filmed to get himself off later.

A collaborator that had been the mastermind behind the chlorine bombs the Omertas had deemed it reasonable they could drop upon The Strip's residents once the Legion would enter Vegas.

A plan he himself had devised in all detail with bombs of tear gas, not chlorine.

Whereas he had devised for The Strip's Profligates – NCR in their majority – to be temporally incapacitated for easy pickings so they could later make either exemplary lessons for their fellow countrymen to avoid future revolts, new slaves, or war trophies for some of the Legion officers involved in the Mojave Campaign… Alerio, apparently, had deemed it best to simply kill them all and let's be done with it.

Let's make the Frumentarii Order even more odious and untrustworthy than it already was to the public eye. Let's deprive hard-working legionaries of their well-earned victory.

Let's lower the soldiery morale. Let's forfeit future valuable assets in the form of healthy slaves of fertile age. Let's give Lanius more political artillery to question the Frumentarii's place within the Legion.

Let's hand over Caesar a deserted, empty Capital.

Exactly ten minutes, not a second more, since Sullivan had followed that Omerta thug into their den of vice and iniquity, and he had begun with the due Plan B.

While the sniper had started a consistently looping, unilateral tug-of-war with the greeter thug that had worked more among the lines of empty threatening, Vulpes had taken advantage of the distraction the idiot had predictably provided and had approached the female receptionist.

"Hello, and welcome to Gomorrah." – essayed greeting, fake amenable attitude, cautious eyes. A former prostitute promoted higher in the chain, a slave still – "I apologize beforehand, but we don't have any available hotel rooms right now. Feel free to gamble or help yourself to our other services, though."

Still amiable, insinuating a tacit consent at them being allowed inside, though not open for further assistance. She must have been instructed not to allow any Courier-related people to nose around while Nero was in a meeting in a way convincing enough as not to start a war with House.

Vulpes had played the diplomat card, pressing into clientele compliance ground.

For, if there was something he was good at, that was twisting the rules to his favor.

"Would you be so kind as to point me to where I can find the management around here, Miss?" – the cascading, smooth voice and the suggestive body language hadn't worked on this one, to his much disappointment.

"To file complaints or requests for missing valuables, I'd advise you to head onto the Police Headquarters, across from the NCR Embassy at the southeast end of The Strip. I'm sure they'll help you there."

"Let's say I'd want to speak with Nero, or meet with him at the very least." – he had pressed, inclining over the counter, showing her a generous slice of NCR currency, the only one you can carry without making your pants go all jingle-jangle – "What would it take?"

He had seen the gears swift behind her eyes, tongue moisturizing lips very slightly.

"I'd… rather keep my job here, sorry. Loose lips sink ships."

Growing frustrated by the second, weighing whether to threaten her into compliance or not by insinuating her former affiliation as Robert House's informant, Vulpes had jumped startlingly when Becky had intervened, sliding in from behind him, silent as a shadow.

"Beautiful, I would love to help you loosen those lips of yours." – she had practically purred, eyeing the receptionist dreamily, head between daintily arranged hands, tapping fingertips slightly, provokingly, at both her temples.

A subtle pink shade had covered the woman's cheeks immediately after following the innuendo. A Sapphic, then. No wonder his initial approach had gotten him nowhere.

"I-I… well, since you ask so nicely… and I'm not sure I could resist those pretty eyes." – she had stammered, blushing.

Why would someone, a former prostitute no less, be swayed over a few, pretty uncompromising words coming from a woman she would likely never see again?

Guess her former line of work didn't provide her with the kind of clients she might have hoped for.

Or perhaps solitude, at the very end of the day, wasn't too an appealing prospect for social animals as humans were. Even if the company was short-lived.

Anyway, her lips had gotten loose, and she had taken their money in exchange for a free pass inside fully armed and a keycard that, at the very least, had worked on the high-roller lower suites' level. Plenty of field available if they managed to catch either Nero or Big Sal going back to their respective suites.

No such luck, but the keycard had come in handy when they had put an ear around the seemingly excited staff, something about a courier and a dude called Clanden "having double the fun today".

Clanden's suite had been disappointingly empty but also full of unsettling evidence of recent violent struggle: carpeted floors obscured with dried blood and trailing signs, the kitchen area had been a mess, and the finding of a cattle prod hadn't done any wonders to keep the hairs on his forearm from standing up.

Following the trailing signs of struggle throughout the corridors, there had been more dried blood stains pointing in one direction. The destination: a closed door with a faded red handprint smeared on the frame.

At that moment, negotiations had been beside the point, so Becky had taken matters into her very own hands when she had punched the brute guarding the aforesaid door. No key whatsoever was found on his unconscious person.

So, it had taken the two of them to get the door out of the way.

The harsh reality sealed much later with Nero's cranium turned out wall paint and Salvatore promising them the moon so long as he was allowed to keep his sorry ass.

"You wanna that smug Legion piece of crap on a proverbial cross? You dunno what you're playing at, but have it your way." – the man had spat, straightening his tie once he had been allowed to get up from his kneeling position – "After all, if he's actually a fucking nobody, then we'll have to wait if the real deal happens once you're done with him." – he had added, eyeing Sullivan with a cautious, sly look.

The game had become suddenly dangerous with Becky sticking around, but Vulpes had trusted Sullivan could keep Salvatore conveniently silent while he had taken his steps back to the suites level to have a word with Alerio. A word Vulpes had intended to punctuate, maybe aided by his switchblade.

However, he had found quite a handful of dispatched Omerta thugs bleeding out on the corridor, while the suite's door had apparent symptoms of forced trespass.

Inside the two-storied room, a nervous Gannon and a pissed-off Cassidy had been guarding the entrance while loud hammering had echoed throughout the lounge from the upper level.

"What are you two doing in here?" – he had asked.

"Same as you: finding out where the hell they've taken Six." – had been Cassidy's answer, a tad too snappy even for her standards – "Got to admit, Red Beret has a damn fine nose to pick up a trail, even amidst a dump like this one." – she had added with a scissor-like grin, signaling the stairs with her eyes – "He can smell a rat a mile away."

He hadn't waited for Gannon to distract him with explanations he hadn't needed at the moment, so Vulpes had hopped the steps by two until he had gotten in front of a closed bathroom door. And a frenzied sniper banging at it violently, hinges already giving in.

Remnants of blood pearling the carpets.

"Chavo." – Raul had greeted in his usual no-nonsense manner, milky eyes purposely avoiding the deal, as if strangely appalled by the situation – "¿Alguna novedad? ¿Encontraron ya a la Jefecita?" (1)

"Sí, Raúl." – Vulpes nodded, out of breath – "Sullivan se encuentra con Becky en el Club Zoara, escaleras arriba. A salvo. Hemos renegociado un acuerdo con Big Sal." (2)

The ghoul then had left out a long sigh of relief the precise moment the mistreated door had slammed onto the tiled floor.

"Hijo de la chingada…" (3) – the old man had hissed after the enraged sniper had unleashed a brief primal roar of indignation at the gaping ventilation grill, revealing the escape route for an empty bathroom.

"Raúl, contén a este energúmeno." – Vulpes had instructed to the old man, already preparing himself to squeeze in the cavity – "Yo voy detrás del legionario." (4)

The necrotic's bony fingers closing around his shoulder had been an unexpected surprise. Raul never touched him without making sure that he was okay with it.

"Chavo." – he had warned in a low voice, shaking his head as Vulpes had turned around slowly to face him – "Déjalo." (5)

If he had been less angry and more focused, he might have given the old man's words some thought.

But he hadn't wanted to use his brain when he could use the adrenaline rush coursing through his veins, giving his nervous system the right push to chase after a prey.

For Alerio, in his book, had ceased to be one of his men to become a mere prey.

Long he had suffered the other man's subtle insubordination, the disrespect toward Vulpes' station. That hatred had fueled his purpose.

But, then again, all the wayward chickens running off their pens eventually ended up between the Fox's maws.

It had worked in Vulpes' favor that the architectural structure of the Gomorrah had been subterranean, for the ventilation system could only work upwards, meaning that the exits Alerio might have taken out had been drastically limited, the more if he had wanted to avoid leaving the casino publicly on broad daylight.

It hadn't taken a genius to predict that the runaway Frumentarius would use one of the back ventilation hoods to escape. Even less if there's a fresh trail of blood marking his escapade.

In his haste, Alerio had been consistently making all the rookie mistakes about not leaving a trail or, at the very least, confounding a possible persecutor with false clues. The sniper must have done a quick work either in a flank or in one of his arms, for the red droplets shining under the Mojave sun on the asphalt had been consistent, though not overly abundant, meaning he was wounded but could still move well enough.

If he didn't have any healing chems on him, the quickest fix he could work with was asking around the Westside slums, for making a quick trip to the Old Mormon Fort, with House's security running the place tight, had been a detour he couldn't risk with – to his knowledge – Courier's agents hot on his heels.

Westside had always been a predilect part of Vegas for Caesar's Intelligence operations.

Barely holding together by a rickety militia constantly threatened by local gangs such as the Scorpions, frequent street assaults from small groups of junkies, and periodic plagues of giant sewer rats and radroaches, the Westside was a schism territory composed of two main ruling factions: the local delinquents and the Cooperative.

Whereas the Westside Cooperative paid the salaries of the militia and the farmhands - being these people a good forty percent of the local population - their hard work through growing crops and maintaining a stable economy by selling the surplus to passing caravans was permanently challenged by the gangs and the drug peddlers working either for Fiends or Khans, thus attracting a good number of outlaws inside Westside's junk walls, thinking they could make easy money via selling stolen goods at the sewers' Black Market up until recently.

An endless cycle of good intentions and hard work facing constant threat due to the indifference of neutral, wealthier factions that denied them protection but cashed in their impoverished pockets.

And yes, Vulpes had always despised Red Lucy's little circus at The Thorn. Yet another Vegas entertainment for those who fancied blood over gambling and whoring.

A queen of the slums, Red Lucy had remained all these years an enigmatic, obscure figure who bent no knee for no master other than her Darwinist philosophy about the survival of the fittest.

During Callidus Anguis' rule, many Frumentarii agents had attempted to contact the elusive woman without success thus far. More than one spy even ending up rendered a gladiator fighting her creatures at The Thorn's pit to eventually end up eviscerated in a futile attempt to gain her trust.

Vulpes had never considered The Thorn a point of interest before… until his chase had put him amidst the hollering masses underground. Alerio's last desperate attempt at masking his track among the odors of unwashed humanity, cheap booze, and deep-fried food to accompany the gruesome entertainment.

The Thorn had been filled to the brim, and Vulpes had to literally swim through waves and waves of bodies. Later, he would discover that his wallet had disappeared along with his Strip passport.

Amidst masses of prospectors, caravanners, a few off-duty militiamen, grimy gangers, and addicts dressed in rags, Alerio and Vulpes had stuck out like sore thumbs. The metallic catwalks and makeshift platforms had creaked under roaring spectators as the two men had zigzagged, exchanging looks to measure distances, the Fox knowing that his hen wouldn't wander much further without being caught in the empty tracts from the outer corridors that led to the exit.

When he had managed to put his 9mm under Alerio's armpit, both men had been sweating profusely, both out of effort and the concentrated human heat inside the gigantic chamber.

"Move, unless you want to die here and now." – Vulpes had hissed in the other's ear – "You and I have a pending conversation about work's orthodoxy, don't we… Alan?"

Arrogantly, he had expected to be obeyed on the spot instead of being elbowed on the face hard enough to destabilize him and shoot blindly. Miraculously, he knew he had managed to hit Alerio somewhere when a cry of pain followed by the most painful knee onto his stomach had ensued immediately after.

Fortunately, his last lunch had been long overdue, and only itching bile had suppurated off his nostrils.

The brief commotion they created had worsened when several sets of hands had attempted to seize Vulpes, who, both out of rage at the offending kick and the fear that had rooted within his psyche at being pawed by uninvited strangers, had let out a deafening roar before tackling Alerio blindly who, having been leaning on a metallic railing while clutching his bleeding side, had fallen backward with the impulse, taking his aggressor with him down.

And down they had fallen.

Whereas his dazed brain had barely registered the impact despite what a sore shoulder might have argued hours later, Vulpes DID register the monstrous, swollen stinger that had fortuitously landed between his' and Alerio's tangled bodies without piercing either.

The match on the pit had been one giant radscorpion versus five Nightstalkers.

And the fight had but just barely begun.

Entering V.A.T.S., Vulpes had rolled aside as the hammering stinger had deemed him the most imperative to bring down out of the two of them, bent on chasing a hole in one of his legs.

He had dodged the venom, but not the pincer snapping close to his middle section like a slap on the face, but way, WAY painful.

He knew he could count himself lucky it hadn't seized an arm, for he would have lost it for sure. However, when pain's enough it makes your whole being reel; lucky isn't the first adjective that comes to mind.

And this, with a bulletproof vest under his useless suit. Thank Sullivan and her insistence upon always donning tactical equipment no matter what, the issue had been later a split nipple and a vast hematoma surrounding his ribcage.

With the 9mm he still had in hand, he had shot at the giant arthropod's numerous eyes.

After that, frenzied, the creature had started hammering its stinger wildly around, randomly hitting one of the smaller Nighstalkers, which had neared too close, allowing Vulpes to deliver a few more shots before another Nightstalker had jumped upon the radscorpion's thorax to bite the tail at the very root.

One might argue that creatures half the size – make it a third for good measure – of a vicious, radioactive arthropod covered in a hard shell would make short game in a matter of minutes.

Not with Nightstalkers.

While their venom was as potent as any radscorpion's, their bite was just as vicious.

And they counted with the speed advantage.

While the daring one took good care of the tail, another two synchronized to deprive it of its pincers, rendering the creature a useless body with twitching legs, signaling its impending collapse when it began to walk off in disorientation.

Vulpes had had only two more shots and three abominations to contend with as he had powerlessly witnessed how Alerio had dragged his sorry ass out of the arena through one of the opened barred gates from where the creatures had come from, taking down the fifth abomination that had been too fixated on his dripping blood to prevent the heel that had incrusted onto its spine from above.

Crouching to improve his aim, knowing he likely would have to use V.A.T.S. with the last one as his body was still recovering from prior usage, he had lined the head of the likely alpha, a monstrous hybrid the size of a bighorner calf.

However, instead of attacking, the creature had simply sniffed the air around him from a safe distance, bifid tongue still undulating but the scaly rattlesnake tail oddly lowered, silent.

As if it didn't perceive him neither as an immediate menace nor as prey, despite Vulpes knowing he had been trembling like a newborn.

"Lizardfolk!" – one of the lowlifes above had screamed, grimy index finger pointing accusingly at him, which only had served to get the three remaining abominations to raise their tails and bare their curved fangs, bristling at the daring one.

After that, an increasingly angry chorus of hollering where the words 'demon' and 'chindi' had been the most prevalent had ensued, followed by several individuals unholstering guns.

Nevertheless, the deafening shot from a hunting shotgun aiming at the ceiling had put the masses to silence.

"I will not permit a shooting contest within the walls of The Thorn!" – the throaty, very distinctive voice of none other than Red Lucy had resounded throughout the subterranean chamber, commanding attention – "While many of you come here daily for mere entertainment, I have yet to see any of the present pay The Thorn the respect it demands!" – she had declared – "Have you forgotten, perhaps?: our land is harsh, and hostile. Our lives are cheap and fragile. Death is our assured fate, striking when least we expect it. The Thorn awakens us to the truth. Here, we escape from our bonds and choose the moment of death against the will of destiny!" – like a mad prophetess, she had had her audience enraptured, and so it had become apparent to Vulpes that his life had been on the line for this woman to dispose of it in the way she had deemed best. And so, he had started to inch closer to the gate Alerio had chosen to make an exit, the three abominations in front of him swaying tongues, following with their mismatched eyes as if sensing his urgency – "And so, if you want the blood of this man, you'll have to take it from him with your bare hands fairly, down in the arena, where strength and cunning will decide who deserves to live another day!"

Sentence over and with the enthusiasm of feverish zealots, the braver ones out of the public had begun discarding weapons while dropping from the catwalks above, descending onto the pit to claim what this delirious show had demanded out of their bloodthirsty instincts.

Like Fiends riding through Psycho.

Even at the risk of angering the three Nightstalkers, Vulpes had broken on a sprint toward the gate, using one of his two bullets to get a murdering Wastrel out of the way, hoping the blood would drive the creatures onto predatory behavior to act as a temporary hindrance while he escaped.

He hadn't paid any mind to the screams and outraged roars he had left behind, with the abominations facing bloodthirsty spectators turned into combatants. He simply had run, passing cells filled with creatures that had begun rattling the bars of their prisons, hissing, demanding the prize of a life he wasn't likely going to throw out the window just to sate the baser needs of a bunch of ignorant, superstitious Profligates.

Up at some point on the cells' lower level, he had discovered a typical pre-War metallic blast door he had gotten lockpicked in a matter of seconds. Quite the feat, considering the incoming company of crazed people wanting to make a coat out of his inner fox's fur, thus, in consequence, making his hands sweat rivers.

He had slammed the door close just in time before one of those crazed hunters had attempted to feed him a machete. Yes. A fucking machete. To him, a legionary.

The universe never ceased to amaze him with its incessant demonstrations of irony. The bad-taste kind.

To his initial disappointment, it hadn't been an exit, but a chamber reconditioned as a bedroom of sorts. Red Lucy's propriety, no doubt.

Despite knowing he had been running out of time and that door wouldn't last much more if someone decided to bring in some dynamite – even at the risk of angering the leading lady because… really, who the hell cares about the opinion of one individual when there's the mass hysteria coming along with the mob -, his curiosity had gotten the best of him when he had spied a working terminal over a naked table. A terminal he had hacked.

A terminal he had discovered, to his endless delight, to host the control over the creatures' cell doors.

His conscience hadn't suffered one little bit when he, gleefully, had released the caged creatures onto The Thorn. After all, he was against caging fully-grown Cazadores and Deathclaws when they very well could rid him of his persecutors.

Fuck Red Lucy, fuck The Thorn, and fuck these Profligates. Thank you very much.

He even admitted he had experienced the most unique, searing wave of Schadenfreude when the initial screams had turned into bloodcurdling wailings as the freed creatures had met their human adversaries. Survival of the fittest at its best served. The Grand Finale this den of vice had deserved.

He had waited a prudential amount of time hidden in the bedroom, the door still tightly locked, before braving outside, looking for likely exits that Alerio might have used since picking a blood trail amidst so much carnage had been beside the point.

Besides turning into a literal shadow as to not alerting the enhanced senses of Deathclaws, he had had to dodge a couple of regular geckos and a Cazador hatchling he had brought down with his switchblade before finding a hatch that had given way to a ladder that had descended onto a deeper level of the sewers.

The blood trail from Alerio's wounds still fresh upon the metallic steps.

Though, that very same freshness, after a while through semi-flooded levels, had gotten finally confounded with the 'environment'. For lack of a better term.

Shaking his legs in disgust at the thick crust of grime and other unnameables his trousers had kept acquiring throughout his journey, he had navigated the still confusing menus of his Pip-Boy until he had gotten – somehow, don't ask – the built-in radar for real-time location working.

The good thing about this gadget was that its OS worked full speed storing the new data it created, rendering a go-by local map of sorts that would expand and update the more he explored. And the range radius was fairly decent.

Turned out that the most immediate exits to the surface were either The Gray or the Westside Pawn Shop.

He had gone for the latter.

He hadn't erred.

From the front of the pawnshop, he had picked back the blood trail beyond Klamath Bob's Liquor Store, Northeast.

At that point, he had felt pretty much depleted, and Westside wasn't going to grow any smaller. Almost half an hour later, one of the drug peddlers at the rundown apartments close to the North Cistern had chanted when he had shaken them badly enough: a man dressed like a Vegas hot stuff but filthier than a sewer rat had stopped by asking for healing chems.

No such luck down in the Westside slums, so he had walked away with a couple of Med-X syringes in hand. The lowlife said he had gotten inside one of the deserted buildings, the old Wolf's Bakery.

At that point, Vulpes hadn't expected much coming out of this last encounter, given the blood volume Alerio had likely lost throughout this peculiar journey.

He had found the older Frumentarius leaning on a glassy, mostly intact counter, the trail of dust his body had swept down when he had collapsed noticeable over the ancient surface.

Alerio had been barely responsive, the two empty needles of Med-X discarded by his left, so Vulpes had resorted to gifting him with a most satisfying slap that had made the other snap and open his eyes to give him a hateful look.

"Do you believe in poetic justice or what the Dissolute culture simply chooses to denominate as 'karma', Alerio?" – he had asked in a low voice, kneeling in front of the man – "Because, from my perspective, if this situation isn't quite poetic, certainly the gods have quite the sense of humor on them, won't you agree?"

Weak as he had been, Alerio had managed a bloodied spit that had landed at Vulpes' feet.

"Please, Inculta." – he had barely muttered, voice thin as a wool thread – "You have never… believed that mythology crap Sallow has been… systematically feeding us since assimilation."

Vulpes had never heard another legionary address their Lord by his given birth name, and the shock must have been visible upon his face, for Alerio had given him a bloodied smile full of teeth.

"You didn't think… the Serpent didn't call him as such behind closed doors?" – his body had trembled slightly, and it had taken too long for Vulpes to notice that Alerio had been laughing – "You didn't last long enough by his side to be private… on how he regarded Legion's teachings no more… than an instrument for men like him to thrive… at the expense of the servitude of the meek and ignorant." – coughing, he continued, his glassy sight lost to some point ahead of him – "And that's why… Caesar allowed you to challenge… your Master's authority without being punished for doing so. Because… out of the two of you… you were younger, stronger, and dutiful… but lacked the drive of ambition Anguis was so renowned for." – at that, he had eyed Vulpes with a criticizing, resented glare – "You were a perfect replacement… for you lacked the emotional attachment that would have prevented you from killing him… the kind he tended to create with his… younger lovers after breaking them through training."

The revelation had left him nauseated, enough to make him seek support on a nearby column he had ended up sitting against, over the ashen ground.

"Oh, yes… he was a twisted, fucked up piece of shit… but lovable the same." – Alerio had smiled – "Your training wasn't complete, so you didn't reap the… gratification he had in for you once you would be ready. You have no idea… of the things I've made in his, and not Caesar's, name… and how rewarding it was… how special my work made me feel under his surveillance." – another cough, this one rendering blood – "But, then again, you cannot possibly know… for you hated him."

The unbearable amount of violence and disgust these confessions had awakened in him had rendered his usually sharp wit into pap. The odious memories of filthiness and something obscure he was still trying to comprehend rebelling, awaking in him a need to scream and scream until everything was over.

Until his traitorous mind would cease recalling things that couldn't be helped anymore.

"You killed him…" – a part of him had wanted to strangle Alerio to drown his voice… but another part of him, more insidious, had wanted to hear everything, to find a meaning, no matter how ugly it could be, in his senseless suffering – "… You killed him and, with his death, my will to keep going on with this farce despite everything was over… only resentment has remained as of today." – he hadn't understood and still refused to understand where the tears in Alerio's eyes had come from – "It was short-sighted of me… believing I could sabotage your operation when the only way… to get back at you has been all of this time to simply tell you the truth." – disturbed as he had been, Vulpes hadn't noticed the blood pooling under Alerio's body, draining both his wounded side and the shoulder the Master Frumentarius had fortuitously shot – "And you know what that truth is, Inculta?"

He must have looked pathetic, head sinking between hands, long fingers raking angry trails on his scalp like some lunatic.

"That you are a puppet." – Alerio had spat with all that hatred he must have been harboring for him these three last years – "A convenient pawn that fits the bill… of the new order." – he had remained quiet for a while, dozing in and out of this world and the next, willing himself to stay awake to say what he had meant to say before departing – "… The two first years of Legion history… saw the birth of the Frumentarii Order… with William Calhoun at its head. When Calhoun left Sallow's side… more western men came in to fill in positions of command within the flourishing new nation… seeking a chance to become more beyond the measly jobs they had had at their homeland… the one recruiting these individuals none other than… Joshua Graham."

The throaty, broken laugh that had followed had echoed throughout the derelict space.

"Magnum Chasma… yes, you're starting to see it, don't you?" – he had asked the younger man, relishing in his horror – "The Great Abyss… where Graham was thrown after fucking it up the first time… There's a pattern that followed from there, you see… With the Legatus Legionis' vacant position, a brutish tribal came to fill in… and then, heads started to fly, positions of power out of a sudden filled by loyal tribals… First was Cornelius, which Lucius substituted… and many, many Legati, Tribunii, Vexillarii, Decurios, and Centurions soon followed as well… replaced, silenced out of their western origins… and then, as the end of a Magnum Opus, all the pieces falling into place… the Fox overcame the Serpent!" – at that point, his speech had become barely intelligible, choked, deliriant – "The NCR and the Followers… they're our fathers, Inculta. The fathers that created the Legion, the fathers we killed… And there's nothing you can do to unlearn this now… for it is the truth. Our truth… with you fulfilling the role of the obedient toy soldier you are… as Sallow intended."

Vulpes had remained inside that abandoned building for a long time, looking at the empty, dusty space ahead. The remaining bullet in his 9mm's antechamber unfired. Alerio's words rolling over and over in his brain until the meaning of words had started to sound like pure gibberish.

Until English had lost all of its purpose for communication, and he had switched back to Spanish. Then, to Latin, gazing into the Magnum Chasma as it had gazed back into him.

He had taken the Mark of Caesar from Alerio's pocket despite how easily he could have come up with another one and had dragged his sorry hide back to The Strip.

That very same Mark had become his passport, shoving it in front of the monitor of the securitron greeter for House to see.

For all of the obedient Profligates surrounded by patrolling machines behind him to see.

It was all now crystal clear to him. They had had to leave Vegas. Sullivan and him.

They had to leave its robotic sentinels, its drones, and its control behind.

Sullivan had to get rid of House the very same he had to serve what he saw now as a new Legion. One free of the taint of the West.

There wasn't a Synthesis to occur, for it had already happened.

Caesar had already learned what the Republic had to offer and had chosen to shape the Wasteland anew, denying the very roots that had sowed both civilization and corruption as the Legion had kept growing, giving it shape.

And then, when the flaws had started surpassing the benefits, Caesar had taken the providential rotten apples out of the basket to save what was pure and still redeemable.

There was nothing more to learn from the men of the West. It was time to transcend the inherent flaws of their society.

It was time to evolve.

And, to evolve, Vulpes had needed to open his eyes to reality. A reality where there wasn't a warm blanket waiting for them at the end of the West Coast but rather a battlefield on which to conquer the sins of their fathers.

More than ever, they needed unity. They needed strength.

Suppressing a shudder at the dark tinge his thoughts were adopting, he neared the boarded window in the present time, taking a seat at its embrasure, spying the closing darkness outside from between the slits of the nailed wooden planks.

A red flicker distracted his eye, and he took his Riot helmet to put it in briefly, adapting his sight to the night-vision it provided.

There you are.

Putting the helmet back over the nightstand, he turned the signal wheel on his Pip-Boy until it detected a transmission.

Radio New Vegas on the dial.


Six had lifted the latch of the bathroom's door with no small amount of apprehension.

She had found the apartment shrouded in darkness, with only the soft lull of a radio chanting, quite inopportunely, 'Love Me As Though There Were No Tomorrow'.

She almost tripped over Rex's lying form in the dark, to which the canine had simply responded by lapping at her naked ankles lazily. His cybernetic body shone slightly under a thin ray of moonlight coming from between the window's boards.

"Come here, Sullivan." – she heard him whispering from the window.

Once again, she hadn't been sure if that'd been an order or not.

To say she had been shivering when her hands had met his' would be an understatement, but his arms had been warm when they had cradled her, aiding her to sit on his lap over the window's embrasure, meeting his lips in a kiss that had been surprisingly chaste from what she had been expecting.

"Wha…" – she barely had the time to utter when his thumbs had caressed her short hair behind her ears, and the familiar heaviness of a helmet had landed around her head.

"Look over there." – he instructed, pointing with his elegant index finger to a general direction out in the night.

It had taken some time before she had gotten a grasp at the night-vision and had seen what he had meant for her to see.

"Wait…" – she whispered, holding the too-big helmet in place, momentarily bewildered – "Is that…?"

"Your sniper." – he confirmed, sliding the helmet off her head – "He has been following us since we abandoned Vegas."

She let out a sigh of utter frustration.

"Radio's forecasting a dust storm coming from The Divide tomorrow." – he announced while turning off the music on his Pip-Boy, and she tried her best not to squirm – "We might yet have an opportunity to sidetrack him once it starts."

"Isn't it dangerous to wade through a rad-littered dust storm?" – she questioned, trying to drive the words 'The Divide' out of her mind while she spoke.

She had received a kiss upon a temple, and she immediately melted.

"As enticing as spending a whole day trapped here with you sounds, I'm afraid we are in dire need to make haste." – he answered, rubbing her shoulders lightly – "Caesar awaits."

She leaned on him trustingly, allowing her head and back to rest on his chest, his heart beating a lulling, steady drum through her mild drowsiness as his long legs encased her form.

"Zorro?"

"Hmm?"

"What happens if Gabban isn't at the safehouse?"

There was a silence before he finally answered.

"He will be there." – was his unconvincing reply.

"Okay, but what if he isn't?" – she pressed, a selfish, guilty desire for that to be true so she could have the perfect excuse to call this excursion off… and, then, magically, all of her problems would be solved, and he could be hers forever.

Another silence.

"I'd… rather not think about it right now, Sullivan."

Fair enough.

"Okay." – she conceded. Then, a pause – "You hungry?"

"No." - she loved when he spoke this quietly. It made her feel warm somehow. Safe and nostalgic at the same time – "You?"

"Nuh-uh." – and she meant it, her nerves getting the best of her, filling her stomach per usual.

"Do you want to sleep now?"

The warm, fuzzy feeling increased.

"Can we stay like this a little more?" – she asked before she could bite her traitorous tongue down.

But then, he kissed the top of her head.

"Of course."

She discovered that the blue glow of the moonlight over their joined hands was all she had ever needed for the next hour.


There had been a reverential silence following the last details, the instructions to redistribute power throughout the structure already tackled, a whole team waiting for the agreed signal to synchronize.

A single command later, and then all the systems were powered on.

From darkness to light and, against all the initial prognostics Rothchild had bombarded them with prior, there hadn't been a further need for waiting.

He had held his breath for a few crucial seconds until science had sparred with the most fundamental laws of gravity and, finally, had won this battle. Engines roared most magnificently while the elevating structure shone in the sunlight with promises of fulfilled triumph.

Years of preparations and careful planning had taken him to this very moment.

This was his triumph. A triumph he didn't mind sharing with the Brotherhood of Steel and the great minds that it hosted, making this historical moment possible.

The pride of their career here out in the far East. His pride.

Rising and shining in all its glory, the Prydwen was ready to sail through the skies, for all the initial tests had returned a most impeccable 99'89 % of green lights through the computerized analysis. Coming to the rescue of humankind, the dawn of a new Era in the American post-Apocalypse had just been born.

The first aircraft carrier to cross American soil in the last two centuries. And this was just the beginning.

Perhaps a couple of decades more, and these could become a common sight in the Wasteland skies. If it even remained a Wasteland up to that point. He felt optimistic.

He observed the Elder admiring, taking in the fruits of their hard work finally coming to life, and then he thought he saw tears in the young man's eyes.

The future, the REAL future was here now. And he intended for its progress to keep flowing.

No cost high enough to make this wonder undeserving of all the sacrifices made in its name.

No slaving morality to sway him from the good this would do for a country that desperately needed law and order.

Law and order Mr. Burke intended to bring them, no matter what.

Ladies and gentlemen, the dawn of civilization… was finally here.


(1) - "Lad. Any news? Did you find Boss yet?"
(2) - "Yes, Raul. Sullivan is with Becky at the Zoara Club, upstairs. Safe. We have renegotiated an agreement with Big Sal."
(3) - "Son of a bitch..."
(4) - "Raul, contain this madman. I'm going after the legionary."
(5) - "Lad. Let it be."


A/N: Okay, I officially hate this chapter. I've done everything in my power to address all the issues it had, which were many.

With this chapter, the Legion Arc begins. I will explain what happened after the whole ordeal with the Omertas as the present events also unfold, so don't worry about that. We have yet quite a few things to explore among the characters' dynamics plus, per usual, more worldbuilding.

This... was a mentally challenging, exhausting, and incredibly DIFFICULT chapter to write, for I wasn't sure how I wanted to broach certain subjects and/or tackle thematics. Then, again, I've been reading trashy Philosophy as of late (I hate Nietzsche so much. When I think I'm done with him, here he comes again, turning upside down my thoughts and expectations), so that might have affected how things had ultimately turned out here.

GloryToTheEmpire/Guest: thank you, seriously, for all the appreciation in your comments. It feels validating that someone acknowledges the effort put into this, encouraging me to keep at it.
Regarding our protagonists... they have a long journey ahead. Even if innocent love is the cutest thing on Earth, love also means maturity, acceptance, and strength. They need to work for it, but their troubles will be worth it in the end. After all, personal growth through struggle is a favorite among literature thematics, right? ;) (and thank you for almost liking Boone. The first time I played F:NV, I couldn't stand him, but he has grown dear to me over time once I've started to understand him).
About Vulpes' thoughts on Joana... I'll be touching these eventually for, now, he has a lot on his plate to think straight.

Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R: despite how tempting (for it IS tempting, no use in denying) your idea about trolling Boone is (for he deserves it), his dynamic with Lily needs to work on a more serious tone, now more than ever. In fact, it was thanks to your comment that my attention has turned to Lily and the role she has yet to play - which I'm still trying to define, to be perfectly honest -. She will act against Boone's direct interests, yes... but maybe it's time for some Character Development... hmmm...
Agent Sly Fox will be featuring a little more in the future. The long quest with his Frumentarii you suggested a while back is still a work in progress in my head, but I think I can make it work. It will take a while until we get to that point, though.
And THANK YOU so much for pointing out the grammar mistakes and typos. I need it, and I could never resent a reader helping me out with something so vital. It is very appreciated, and I will always correct them if you pinpoint them to me.

Anyway, I've revised this fucking monstrosity three times already, taking out unnecessary info and dense narrative (yes, as unbelievable as it sounds, given the final product), and now... it is the way it is. Hope's still entertaining and a good read for amazing minds out there (yours, to be precise).

Bear in mind the warnings. The thematics are for real. Cheers!

PD: thanks to Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R., I've corrected a plot hole about the utter NONSENSE on Sulli's part by entering the Gomorrah without a backup plan. Now's in line with the narrative I've intended.