"Number Nine"


Ch. 31: Two worlds.


"Put your faith in what you most believe in.
Two worlds, one family.
Trust your heart,
let fate decide
to guide these lives we see."

- Phil Collins, "Two worlds"


Boone was glad the girlie, since he had known her, had this roaring Diogenes (yes, thank you, Gannon, for all the nerd references now he couldn't escape from) for almost literally every single shit she did came across that could work out as supplies.

He admitted pre-War field MRE rations weren't something he'd choose to eat if there were alternatives… but they were high protein and a fairly light and easy to carry. The hydration problem, he could easily solve through isotonic water reserves and by squeezing cacti fruits along the road.

Then, there was his survival armor that, coupled with a freshly modded rifle and LOTS of ammo reserves, was the equipment he just needed to survive out in the desert for weeks.

He didn't intend for the issue to take that long, but one never could be one hundred percent sure of what would be happening within Legion territory.

He was still seething over the whole damn issue.

"Sorry, but… you cannot accompany me, Boone. Cannot trust you'll stay your trigger finger around Caesar's boys. You understand, right?"

No, he didn't understand. He didn't understand shit.

Hadn't he proven he could behave civilly on diplomatic missions? He could as well turn into stone if she simply said so. He knew how much was at stake to allow… his personal feelings to get in the middle. When one stupid mistake could bring down the possibility of a landslide victory over the Reds at the nearing battle that was yet to decide if House and the NCR still get to hold the Dam.

Months ago, when he had issued the stupid threat, he hadn't known it could get back at him to bite his ass, much less with something so critical.

"Let's get one thing straight. I see any Crimson, I'm taking the shot. You don't like that, you're on your own."

He hadn't even meant it (the part of her being on her own, anyway). He had just been angry. And afraid.

Afraid of the growing attachment that he had developed for the little girl who had made it possible to avenge the memory of Carla and the baby.

Almost a whole year living with only his dark thoughts as company had really done a number on him. Unable as he had been… and still was… to express his feelings, to confront how certain situations made him clamp down and substitute pain, sadness, or fear with hatred… and that simmering anger that always remained there, under the surface, ready to feed on his psyche like a monster. A hungry, insatiable monster.

The same monster that made his scar tissue throughout his left side itch as if to constantly remind him of its existence.

Time around Gannon, Veronica, and the tumbleweed had helped him recognize patterns when one of them evaded tricky, deeply personal questions.

Gannon liked to play the fool, dipping into his seemingly limitless knowledge in geeky stuff to confound his interlocutor. At first, Boone had found this behavior suspicious, even more so when the poor nerd had started sputtering Latin around to deviate attention onto what later had turned out a reasonable enough secret to zip up about.

Veronica liked to play goofy. She always had a sassy, humorous quip at the tip of her tongue when one dared to go deeper into her abandonment issues, awakening the insecurities her 'family' had sowed deep inside of her for asking the wrong questions and entertaining the wrong companies. Boone had been in the Army, and he knew how military pyramidal social structures worked, so he couldn't say it surprised him one bit despite knowing that Veronica was just plain curious - maybe a little nosy… and sometimes even annoying, but meant no harm for nobody.

The tumbleweed liked to play rude, coming up with scandalizing enough vocabulary and manners, so nobody paid further attention to what she was really saying. She was the easiest to read out of the three, the more when she was piss-drunk, for she simply told what she felt was the truth. Plain and simple. One just had to listen carefully among the waves of sass, irony, cussing, and crass humor.

However, Boone would have never taken these patterns into account if Raul hadn't pointed them out for him.

"All of us got our workarounds, Señor Boone. Boss has this thing for recruiting weird, troubled people into her little club. From Big Abuelita, who's plain nuts, to the Doctor, who's the sanest out of us all and yet sticks around because, next to 'normal' people, he's still too nerdy for his own good. We're here because we all have something to hide or compensate for. We want something out of this association. And the funniest part of it is that we, somehow, make it work together."

Boone hadn't asked to be surrounded by people. The girlie and her pets were enough for him.

Enough to worry about. He was already bad news on his own.

Knowing he was part of a club for outcasts of sorts hadn't been a thrilling discovery at all… but had helped him sort out what he'd been hiding from and what he truly wanted out of this.

At first, he thought his problems could be eventually solved if he just re-enlisted again to kill Reds… along with the guilt that still ate at him by night. His experience at McCarran had taught him otherwise.

He had learned that there was something he still hadn't solved with himself, and that very something wasn't to merely take the shot whenever a legionnaire popped out.

He still had a debt to pay. A debt to the people of Bitter Springs.

A debt about following orders and the people turning out dead because of those very orders.

Like what had almost happened at McCarran's Monorail.

Him, he could go in peace knowing he just died out there, even if his death would be meaningless. He was living on borrowed time anyway.

But the girlie? He could never forgive himself. It had almost happened more times than he'll bother to count, and he wasn't taking any more chances.

Whether she liked it or not, he was going after her to Cottonwood Cove. He knew the place well.

Unfortunately so.

He had set up a nest West of the Cove, up the canyon ridge in the past. He knew the layout well and had a Ranger Station half an hour up North in case he needed to make an emergency call from there. Given the political situation with the girlie, he was sure he'll be permitted to make a radio transmission to the rest of the crew.

Only Raul knew about his plan, and Boone had deemed it best to leave it at that. Veronica would have wanted to come along, and Boone preferred to work alone.

Besides, he still felt jumpy about who she had chosen to accompany her.

The reasoning behind the choice had been solid enough… yet he still couldn't shake off the itch that she had been either hiding something from them... or being plainly sidetracked by the charlatan's charms.

He knew his type. Smooth talkers who were used to getting what they were after, no matter the dirty tricks they had to pull out their sleeves to obtain it.

He caught on that the girlie had the hots for him, innocent as she was, and all he had to do had been to play on that attraction.

Boone didn't trust him. There was something he was hiding, and it showed. Boone knew a liar when he had one in front of him. Almost a whole year surrounded by averted eyes and evasive answers to uncomfortable questions had refined his senses in that sense.

Picked up like a stray cat, the first days the charlatan had spent in their company inside the Lucky 38 before departing suspiciously to solve whatever pending business he'd had with his tribesmen had been… tense.

He would observe all of them as if he were sizing them, measuring their reactions, studying them. The relationship with his benefactress – the girlie – ambivalent, not quite predatory yet not quite innocent. No interest whatsoever besides what he could obtain out of their alliance – the girlie's old Pip-Boy, for example - until he had come back, and then, dynamics had done a one-hundred-eighty twirl with him putting on puppy eyes with the girlie and the rest going all 'Aw'.

Neither the girlie nor the charlatan himself had been too sure he would come back… and, when he had presented with the dog's brain, suddenly everyone had been systematically cutting him slack, repeatedly. No matter his openly hostile, asocial, and suspicious attitude.

Boone himself was asocial, and for good reasons, but he didn't turn hostile unless justifiably provoked.

Gannon, with his Latin crap, was a justifiable provocation. Once they had cleared up that misunderstanding, Boone had been okay with him. Ex-Enclave or not, a man with ill intention doesn't spend nearly a decade trying to help with local health problems without expecting anything in return.

Raul and the tumbleweed defending certain aspects of the Legion had been a justifiable provocation. Once he had realized Raul, being a necrotic, didn't gain anything from defending the Reds and the cowgirl simply liked to provoke with her harsh speech, Boone had been okay with them.

Veronica being Brotherhood had been, at first, a justifiable provocation. The girlie had meddled in that, and then everything had been alright once everybody had realized neither was a threat to the other.

But this albino…

Boone was born NCR, but he had been raised a good chunk of his childhood and all of his adult life here, in the Mojave. His mother having been a caravan guard.

When she had died, Manny's family had taken him in. A big family, that one, with lots of cousins. Manny and some of them had started hanging out with the Khans when they had been teenagers. Bad seeds, yes, but family nonetheless.

Both the Khans and the Mojave locals were a superstitious bunch, with lots of entertaining stories stemming from their Hispanic, primarily Mexican roots about supernatural stuff.

Boone had half snorted, half barely paid attention to their wild tales. You know, the plague-bearer Chupacabra, the feline Dzulúm, the bird king Atotolin, the vampiric Tlahuelpuchi… that sort of thing.

But there was something out of those tales that had gotten engraved in his memory due to how frighteningly close it hit home in real life.

As a Republican soldier, Craig Boone had fought his fair share of hostile raiders, tribals, and creatures throughout his serving years.

And the creatures that had distinctive albinism among their species, usually, were the ones that were the hardest to kill as well as the most sanguinary ones.

From weak molerats to full-grown Deathclaws, the albino variants were always the most lethal. No matter if they lost a limb during a confrontation, a rabid, berserk impulse always drove those to keep hacking and slashing with tooth and nail until they finally bled out.

And if they were also irradiated? Better turn heel unless you had a goddamn missile launcher in hand.

Locals called these 'angry spirits'. Chindi. The ghost that is left behind after a person dies. And also everything bad about that person; a 'residue that man has been unable to bring into universal harmony', or so Manny's grandma used to say.

They believed they possessed either animals or the bodies of certain newborns and turned them into a murderous husk they controlled for their devious purposes.

The ones who turned out human, the most insidious of all.

That was why, before NCR law had rooted itself in Vegas, most of the albinos that had the bad call of stepping into the Mojave had ended up lynched by a mob sooner than later. And the kids born that way were usually abandoned by their parents if they didn't want to suffer the ostracism of their communities.

Many parts of their bodies were sold as magical ingredients and lucky charms amongst the more shamanistic tribes. Newborns and infants weren't worth much… but the adults could very well reach thousands of caps in the right markets.

All these things during his serving time, Boone had learned the hardest, most horrifying way anytime one of their patrols managed to rescue from raiders a family with a child or a teenager of these characteristics. The older they were, the fewer fingers or even whole limbs they were allowed to keep… if they were still alive, that is.

Boone wasn't, by any means, a superstitious fool who believed in witches' tales… but maybe nature, after the bombs, had done something to the genetics of some species, humans as well, to make these… phenomena so aggressive and unkillable.

Whereas the others may see a difficult young man, he saw a potential threat that could go nuts anytime if he got pressured enough. Persecution wasn't any game when your life's at stake. It was a wonder their crusade with the Fiends hadn't yielded a speck of that tribalist crap onto their unlikely companion.

And said companion wasn't, by any means, shy of combat.

His continuous hostility proving Boone right over and over again that he was dangerous and untrustworthy.

Besides, leaving the charlatan's genetic condition aside, they didn't know shit about him.

They didn't know why he had been on The Strip, and the rest of his tribe hadn't. Why he had to leave before he had returned with a dog's brain picked from somewhere else, and he wouldn't explain shit about it.

They didn't know what had been his occupation before his joining. Hell, they didn't even know his political stance in the Mojave Conflict.

He had joined just because he had seen profit in it. Or maybe… he had been spying on them all of this time.

He had overheard Gannon and Veronica stipulating that he might have pertained to a gang of information brokers. Spies that sold data to the highest bidder.

And that very bidder could very well turn out to be Cesar.

The more he thought about it, his paranoia grew.

He had barely contained himself since the sun had come up on the horizon, already berating himself for not going to check if the girlie was alright. If that albino freak had hurt her…

He had almost thrown up in relief when he had seen the two of them and the dog getting out of the flat, with the girlie yawning and the canine swaying his tail dandy as candy.

Okay, so he hadn't been stupid as to try any nasty trick. Good.

Seven in the morning, the skies had been a little denser than regular. A suffocating heat made Boone sweat profusely under his tactical armor.

An hour later, a windy, warm day had replaced all that heat. He had downed a whole isotonic bottle once he had been sure he wouldn't sweat it away wastefully.

Half-past eight in the morning, the winds coming from the West had whipped up into a storm.

Eleven o'clock, nearing midday, the first specks of radioactive glow had started coating the atmosphere along with the thin dust film permeating the air. He had sunk his beret further onto his head, just in case.

By midday, he could barely see a couple of feet ahead of his nose amidst the dust storm. He had already substituted his sunglasses and beret with a gas mask, and he had his wrists, neck, and ankles wrapped in tight bindings to not allow the dust to enter his uniform, or he could kiss his mission goodbye once radiation sickness would start peeling off his skin, blur his sight, and fill his lungs with all manner of unpleasantness.

He had seen what those tiny irradiated particles did with unprepared troopers. It wasn't pretty, and if they survived, they had ahead of them a long recovery that would eventually render sequels.

At First Recon, you had to count on being out in the open in the same position for hours. They prepared you to endure the worst that climate had had for you.

They taught you to keep moving during a sandstorm… but there was no fight to win when said storm came from The Divide.

He had spotted them around ten, fifteen minutes ago at maximum. Their uniforms a better choice to counter this weather than his, the more if one of them was equipped with night-vision.

He was glad they hadn't taken Highway 95 and had gone through the southern railway instead. Less exposure than walking near Clark Field.

From his current position, he didn't know of any cover beyond the Broc Flower Cave in miles around or the Walking Box, and the latter was a Nightstalker nest.

He decided to take his chances at the Broc Flower Cave.

Halfway, however, he had happened upon a Legion raid camp undergoing last-minute adjustments, with legionnaires lowering their tent canvas to the level of the freshly-dug bunker holes to preserve equipment and supplies.

It had been a damn long time since he had grinned so widely that his jaw had felt like dislodging when he found himself a spot behind a rock and started checking his rifle's barrel chamber.


If there was something good about living inside Vegas' walls – indistinctly that they were made of junk and asphalt debris – that was the coverage they provided against the wind and sand that came out of the dust storms from The Divide.

But what was inescapable, no matter what, save a few honorable exceptions in remarkably well-preserved architecture such as the Kings' School of Impersonation or The Atomic Wrangler, that was the irradiated air that everybody in Freeside was forced to breathe.

This had been a common occurrence for two consecutive years throughout the spring and a good part of the summer.

These instances were usually good news for the Garrets, who enjoyed hours of uninterrupted waves of new clientele that came inside their establishment to escape the storm. Knowing many of their temporary 'refugees' wouldn't likely spend any money if they didn't press the issue, the cunning twins had come up with the idea of an uninterrupted Happy Hour until the storm cleared. Cheaper alcohol meant a good percentage of the clientele would buy a round or two to pass the time, while Hadrian or Old Ben would entertain them with creative narratives.

On the other hand, these storms were bad, bad news for the Followers of the Apocalypse, who also suffered waves of incoming locals and squatters that sought to escape the weather or were already showing radiation sickness symptoms.

As the regional administrator of the Followers branch on the Mojave, Julie Farkas felt too saturated most days to dedicate a little time to herself.

Since they arrived at the Mojave nearly a decade ago, she had passed from being a robust young woman who had once weighed 155 lbs into a wisp of a jaded thirty-ish lady who now barely got close to 114 lbs.

And now, since the Courier's meddling in Vegas' politics, Julie's trademark mohawk – a little innocent pleasure of hers to remind herself that she still had her vanity – had turned into a weird ponytail, mainly to save time whenever a new wave of trouble came knocking at her door.

Trouble that, one way or another, the Courier was involved in, somehow.

Trouble that ended up changing, for good or bad, the lives she had dedicated a good portion of her own to care for.

Trouble she cannot contain or even prevent.

Julie rounded the western corner and took good note on the dwindling crates of medical supplies and how the rest of her peers were faring under pressure.

Graduated goggles, breathing masks, and a variety of adaptations and/or modified radiation suits had turned out the standard uniform for the last hours inside the walls of the Old Mormon Fort, even for guards. There were some patients they couldn't simply move inside, so they were dealt with constant changes to their RadAway IV bags along with their prescribed treatments, the tents in which they were hosted were covered with reused radiation suit fabric while doctors and specialists worked on them.

They had distributed breathing masks she was sure half the users wouldn't return at the end of the day, and their Rad-X reserves were tethering at the brink of depletion.

There were shifts between the guards every half an hour so the human ones could detox inside the Mormon Fort, and the gravest among the infirm that could be moved were also inside the building, stacked like old clothes.

There wasn't an inch that the medical stretchers, chairs, and even sleeping bags hadn't occupied inside the structure.

And Julie had to make sure everyone got what they needed, that their workers were properly coordinated, and their stocks were administered the best way possible… while every five minutes, yet another Freeside resident along with their kin in tow dropped by, and she had to make sure they got, minimum, a place within their walls.

She could say with certainty that, slowly but surely, it was becoming a reality that she was on the verge of a nervous breakdown.

And her damn laboratory was fucking occupied.

By none other than Arcade, his odd lady friend with the weird hoodie costume, and that psychic child making bizarre comments about the project they had in their hands.

Yesterday, first hour in the morning, they had interrupted her early break with a very excited Arcade spurting nonsense about a miracle finding to synthesize a stable substitute for pre-War Stimpaks. A tribal recipe derived from the standard healing powder. They had asked if they could borrow Jacob Hoff, the local chemist, to help.

They had occupied her laboratory until sunset. And the daily check Jacob was supposed to do at The Atomic Wrangler's distillery had been forgotten along the way. Francine Garret had made Julie know that via Beatrix Russell, demanding compensation, threatening to call their precarious deal off.

Today, first hour in the morning again, decommissioned eyebot on hand and that psychic kid in tow, they had presented on her doorstep yet again asking if they could borrow April Martimer and Emily Ortal to make the thing work.

They had ruined her breakfast by sitting at her table, downing her coffee, talking excitedly nonstop about the possibility of extracting valuable data from the bot.

True, April had told her later during a lunch break that the aforesaid data they had managed to dig out of the eyebot would prove invaluable given that it was none other than Enclave technology.

True that Emily had been ecstatic about prodding the damn thing, seeing how it worked, taking notes on its design, reprogramming its memory to see what could be saved and how well it could work with a new AI. Julie thought she would have never seen Emily so enthusiastic ever again since her petition to the Courier to spy on her employer's – House - data transmissions (for purely academic, nonprofit, philanthropic reasons, of course) had fallen on deaf ears.

True that Arcade's finding on the Stimpak substitute, apparently, worked. Like, really worked. The only downs being a less immediate and powerful healing process and temporary side effects like nausea, disorientation, blurry sight, and even muscular cramps and weakness. Not perfect, but still a worthy finding that could save millions of lives. In exchange for only a sterilized syringe and a cooking process of fifty-fifty percent on Broc flower and Xander root that could be refined with time, motivation, and the proper instruments.

Motivation Arcade, as their head researcher, seemingly wanted to focus instead on, apparently, more pressing matters than helping the people of Freeside.

Julie could only tolerate so much bullshit and intrusion coming from somebody who, out of the blue, had left hanging his important research work months ago so he could join a political figure that had completely eradicated two factions at the behest of her employer.

Someone who was now using their facilities as a sort of testing base only God knows what for.

Because she didn't know.

Because Arcade wouldn't confide in her.

Not anymore.

While Julie considered herself a grown woman that should be above all of these petty feelings regarding trust-breaking and abandonment… she couldn't help but feel that way despite herself.

She and Arcade had been inseparable all these years. Both knew the (nonexistent) personal/sentimental life of the other, their favorite color, food, music of choice, and movies or books that had inspired them at some point in their career.

They had spent many evenings through coffee breaks helping the other stay awake during a particularly bad streak, like the annual flu or local epidemics that always had something to do with the food or water quality in the people's meals. Or lack thereof, for good measure.

Arcade had always been available for small talk for mostly venting out her frustrations about not making any progress with either the NCR or the Kings, the more when the Followers were on good terms with one, and the other would take personal offense for it.

And she, in turn, would always listen to Arcade's endless philosophical tirades about basics like proper education and hygiene being severely neglected around the populace from Vegas, making any suitable prospect of a friendship or a date dull almost immediately they voiced out loud their take on the Republic's occupation, House's indifference, or the threat growing bigger every day at the other side of the river.

Most of the people he had constantly been dealing with for the last decade had been local rednecks, junkies, vagabonds, callous mercenaries, hopeless compulsive gamblers, caravanners, and the same faces around the Followers.

Julie got that he may have been blown off by meeting someone as instructed, lively, and engaging as the Courier girl. Someone who also happened to get almost ALL of the literary and cinematic references he always forgot not everyone might be knowledgeable and/or interested in.

She really got it.

She could even understand his willingness to go out on a trip or two with her to expand the Followers' influence and get some fresh air for a change.

But what had left Julie completely flummoxed and, later, devastated had been his utter disappearance. As if he had simply dissolved into thin air.

Suddenly, his agenda didn't align with the Followers'. His Hippocratic Oath taken to The Strip and the NCR military encampments, his medical services free at the Courier's disposal as she deemed best.

His friends here at the Old Mormon Fort swapped for the Courier's odd group. Loyalties forged throughout years with time, patience, and shared experiences… forsaken for the opportunity of playing big out there, making choices about how the Courier should tackle this or that problem… such as the missing people from Westside, the water problem there as well, then the distribution of electricity through HELIOS One's power plant… until the apparent philanthropy had started to turn political when they had also dwelled into the shady policies from the Crimson Caravans.

From that point on, Julie had barely seen Arcade.

In her desperation, she had spoken with Usanagi, who, after the attack her clinic had suffered at the hands of one monstrous agent rumors whispered having been associated with the Courier once, had returned to the providential flock.

The news the woman had delivered to Julie had been forthright: Arcade had transformed his search for positive change and social justice into a personal crusade where the wellbeing of the Courier was vital.

And maybe that was what hurt her the most, that one little girl had managed to inspire in Arcade what Julie, throughout all these years, couldn't: the will to fight for something.

Something beyond him or his desires. Something beyond a career he had chosen in consonance with his personal ideals.

The Courier had managed to inspire devotion to Arcade. Devotion for her and her cause.

While Julie had simply watched Arcade becoming more and more self-deprecating, bitter, and asocial as time passed and nothing changed for the better, his research hitting a block point, his good intentions being slowly substituted by tired resignation... here comes one lone girl to match his cultural level, to share in his personal goals and ideals.

He may have yet nudged the Courier in the right direction in becoming a better version of what she could have turned out for the Mojave and its inhabitants.

But the Courier, in turn, had transformed his usually sarcastic, unthreatening veneer into a force to be reckoned with. His idealism into a vocation, his philosophy into devotion.

His righteous anger in the face of injustice into a weapon.

Julie had seen the new modifications in his plasma caster, the equipment he now donned, the martial straightness in his posture, the strange sharp gleam in his eye.

The Courier had turned Arcade, Julie's friend, into a soldier.

Just the very same as that silent man with the red beret that always accompanied the Courier. The NCR veteran.

Just the same as the redhead caravanner, who still tried to resist the Courier's influence through alcohol.

Just the same as the vaquero ghoul, the supermutant lady, or the pale, tall young man that had been adding to the group. The eyebot and the King's dog, Rex, too.

Even the amiable young lady with the odd costume and the Power Fist.

All of them were soldiers.

And the Courier was their Commander.

And Julie Farkas just wanted to take her friend under her arm and put distance between him and the girl's nefarious influence.

She would be the death of him. Of all her little pack.

And the worst part of it was that they'd handed their lives to her without question.

Pinching her brow with two gloved fingers, hiking up her protective goggles a little, Julie contained a shaky intake of breath. She was so… so very tired…

Her already dampened mood worsened when she heard the umpteenth bashing on the main door.

Signaling the guards to lift the heavy latch yet again, Julie frowned when she found a King spokesman standing with their distinctive greaser, black-coiffed façade, plus the protective goggles and mask their leader had paid for a while ago when the supply line the Followers had with the Hub merchants had rendered a whole shipment of those, fresh from Vault City's manufacturers, who still relied on their pre-War Vault facilities to craft those.

"Heya, lady." – the spokesman greeted, handing her what she found out to be a folded note – "The King sends his regards."

Unimpressed so far, Julie opened the note.

Julie,

I don't know if there's any chance you might take this as it is intended instead of a political move or something given how's the panorama these days, but I still want to extend the offer: bring to the School all of the storm refugees you cannot host at the Mormon Fort. Don't even care if they're squatters. Just send them in. We've mats, shawls, and coffee for everyone.
Don't ask why and simply take it as a friend lending you a hand. You've already enough on your plate.

The King.

Finished reading, an odd, strange warmth crept up Julie's throat to end up in her eyes. Bless the goggles so the man in front of her couldn't see her get emotional over a note. She had already cultivated a fame among the Kings for solving problems by 'sending people hug someone or somethin''.

"Tell your boss that I accept his offer." – she declared, pocketing the note – "He should be expecting the first group within thirty-forty minutes at maximum."

Nodding, the spokesman turned heel and disappeared down the street as Julie nodded to the guards to close the gate, signaling some of them to brief them on the welcome news.

Maybe, after all, she wasn't all by herself as she had initially thought.


Today was Philo's turn to hit the stoves… yet again.

It had been his turn to cook all fucking week since he had been assigned patrol duty with Florin, Quintus, Chases-Bugs, and Barnabas.

Their Decanus, Cletus, had deemed it good to send them on their own throughout the Nevada State Route 164, East to West from Cottonwood Cove to the very Nipton Road Rest Stop… which they had found infested by radscorpions.

Florin had gotten wounded and poisoned, whereas Barnabas had gotten pissed off when Chases-Bugs had launched himself upon the fucking giant insects… critters… whatever, to get a fucking nice hole in the leg as a souvenir. No poisoning, though. Chases-Bugs' pater, (1) apparently, had once taught him a trick or two from their original tribe about resisting poisons or some such shit… although Philo suspected that same resistance was built through injecting oneself with small dosages of venom throughout time until the body was able to sweat it off as if it was nothing.

They said the Frumentarii did that sort of shit during training.

He wouldn't be surprised. The Frumentarii were kind of, like, a dark legend among Caesar's forces. The kind you don't want to find rummaging through your stuff when you've acquired through dubious means one of those dog-eared pre-War erotic magazines half your tent has already read (or more like looked at the pictures), and you're still commenting on the size of those titties four months later.

He wished those pretty women were still alive. The slaves at The Fort were always so thin and ugly… they never smiled like those pre-War women, didn't have their lush manes, their red lips… and those nice curves you could bounce a Sestertius on.

"Are we getting some grub or what, man?" – Quintus interrupted his sweet fantasies, still boarding the windows with the hammer in that annoying puncturing tempo – "This whole storm deal while making sure that malus nequamque (2) doesn't die makes me hungry as futuo." (3) – he added, signaling a feverish, though out of danger Florin over the only available bed.

"You're always hungry, you crassus (4) slab of meat." – Barnabas grumbled, unhappy as he had been from the very moment Decanus Cletus had put him in charge of the rest of them, saying every death will count as an extra whiplash out of the ten he'll get if they didn't come back loaded with supplies from the Rest Stop – "They give you a whole bighorner herd and the animals will be turning into roasted carcasses by the end of the week. Bet you would even make sliders out of dead bloatflies and futui (5) cacti if given a chance."

"Hey, that actually doesn't sound half bad! I might yet take up that recipe suggestion. With a little bit of jalapeño sauce, maybe."

"Yeah, bloatflies are tasty." – Chases-Bugs interjected, licking his lips with pleasure – "Chases-Bugs thinks Barnabas should've permitted him collect radscorpions' meat to make yummy barbecue..." – Chases-Bugs always spoke in the third person, no matter how many punishments he had gotten during instruction. The Magistri leaving him for impossible – "With honey mesquite gravy and tatos…"

"Urgh… Mars, da patientiam…" (6) – Barnabas grumbled again, disgusted.

Barnabas was the oldest of them all and, by far, the most serious. Serious as turnips.

He suspected that Decanus Cletus had sent them on patrol because they were a shitty batch of Milites and wanted to get them out of his sight, thus why none of the other halves of their contubernium had accompanied them.

However… that couldn't be true. After all, Philo knew for a fact that every single Miles was under their assigned Decanus' responsibility. If they died, he'd have to answer for that, right?

Barnabas was just bitching a little because he had had to leave his scout dog at the Cove. He had been training for that. But he couldn't be a Scultator if he had to fulfill Cletus' orders, right?

"Careful, dude!" – Quintus yelled at him again, lifting the hammer menacingly, eyeing the cooking pan with an accusatory glare – "You're gonna scorch our futui lunch!"

Hissing in displeasure, Philo turned around these… Salisbury Steaks with the palette.

This was Profligate food. Pre-War stuff they had gathered from the Rest Stop. It didn't behave like regular meat and smelled kind of weird. Not bad, but weird.

The little box in which they were packaged came with a sort of a jelly gravy he had tossed into the pan, unsure how to make this weird meat work. The box was red and had what looked like some instructions written on it… but Philo could barely read, so he had basically followed the pictures.

Pre-War stuff was always this odd, but most of the time, cool nonetheless. There wasn't anything like what the people before the bombs did. Long-lasting, elaborated, and mysterious.

Once he deemed the meal ready to serve, everybody – minus Florin, of course - gathered around to fill their plates.

"Tastes funny." – Chases-Bugs opined, munching pensively as he used his hands to take the food – "Chases-Bugs is not sure what animal it is."

"You sure this is meat, as in real meat?" – Quintus questioned, licking his greasy fingers, sniffing his plate from time to time as he swallowed.

"And what could it be if not real meat, you big stultus?" (7) – Philo snapped, tasting the damn thing with a bit of apprehension – "Derideo te." (8)

It was so funny to insult someone with the Latin they had learned at the Temple of Mars. Insults had been Philo's favorite topic when one of the priestesses got angry at one of the boys' nasty pranks and spurted a tirade of cussing that of course everybody would be saying out loud the next day during breakfast.

Most of the time, you got the meaning by context.

He missed being seven.

"Vescere bracis meis." (9)

"Your mater." (10)

But before the discussion could go any further, Barnabas categorically hit the table with an open palm.

"Eat. In. Silence." – he barked, glaring at them until everybody lowered their eyes in shame – "If you'd rather go on with an empty stomach, I'm not stopping you. Don't like it, don't eat it."

They ate in silence – as far as 'silence' in Chases-Bugs' company went, with his incessant slurping – and some of them actually had seconds. They began cleaning up the mess when the door's entrance popped open with a violent whipping.

All of the present legionaries froze in place. There were two silhouettes dressed in advanced tactical Profligate equipment, one of them looking like a Ranger.

They were carrying a dog between the two which they promptly allowed to jump onto the wooden floor of the safehouse so it could shake the radioactive sand off his… erm… did a mechanical frame count as fur?

Quintus was the first one to put himself together before shouting, machete in hand risen:

"Give me cause, Profligates!"

It had sounded impressive, at least to Philo's ears.

But the two human figures didn't even flinch. The dog… thing sneezed a handful of times, shaking his mighty head, making his… oookay… brain gleam inside its glass container.

The tall one, the Ranger, sighed heavily.

"Ave." – he saluted, to the present young men's infinite astonishment, with a fist upon the heart, then the due arm's stretch – "Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar's Frumentarii. Who is in charge here?"

Philo tensed. A Frumentarius. Here. With them.

Had he secured the magazine?

He noticed Barnabas tensed as well as he returned the salutation, inclining his head in deference. A Frumentarius was above any foot legionary, after all.

"Ave, sir." – he said – "Miles Scultator (11) Barnabas, Nonus Contubernium, Tertia Centuria, Secunda Legio, sir." (12)

The not-a-Ranger took his helmet off. What the… this bloke was only a couple or three years older than they were! You can become a Frumentarius that early?!

"Cottonwood Cove?" – he asked then, voice smooth and oddly delicate for a legionary. Hair longer, too – "Are you a scouting group? What is the name of your Decanus, Scultator?"

Why were they answering his questions? He could do that, like, asking whatever he wanted?

"Cletus." – Barnabas replied without missing a beat – "Decanus Cletus, sir. He sent us on a scouting mission to gather supplies from the western Nipton Rest Stop, sir."

The answer, apparently, didn't sit well with the Frumentarius, for he scrunched his nose. Philo felt entranced. It was like talking to a ghost, so pale, so eerie.

"Has Aurelius of Phoenix authorized this expedition?" – he pressed.

"I-I suppose so, sir."

The Frumentarius seemed to deliberate his next choice of words.

"Anybody else within the farm's perimeter?" – he asked, clearly trying to get at something – "A sniper, perhaps?"

"Not to my knowledge, sir." – said Barnabas, lifting a brow in question.

Nevertheless, the Frumentarius didn't answer and took a good look at the inside of the rancher house.

Barnabas had decreed this morning that they would spend the rest of the day at the Wolfhorn Ranch, mid-way, because he could smell a storm forming within a mile. Turns out he had been right all along.

The ranch was okay, equipped with a farming facility with a water valve plugged into the well that provided the rest of the small setting with irrigation enough to help cacti fruits, banana yucca, and mesquite trees grow relatively fine for the legionaries coming and going taking care of the land while having a stable supply source.

They had been instructed to drop part of their supply load into the ranch fridge, so more legionaries could access food in case they couldn't harvest what the farm produced yet.

After a radstorm, many fruits from the crops tended to grow inedible amounts of radiation, so a little extra stock in the pantry never hurts.

"Very well." – the spy announced, walking unafraid to them, breaking their tense line to get near the occupied bed – "Me and my companion need to stay until the storm has passed. In the meantime…" – he trailed off, examining Florin from close – "Poisoning." – he concluded, opening one of the legionary's eyes with his long fingers – "Radscorpions?" – he asked, noticing the cataplasms.

Watching him assess their comrade as one would do with… well, not another human being was unnerving.

"Yes, sir."

"Have you disinfected the entry wounds?"

"I beg your pardon, sir?"

The Frumentarius rolled his eyes.

"Of course you didn't." – he muttered dismissively – "Sullivan, could you please bring me our First Aid Kit?"

"Coming!" – the way smaller companion sang song in a somewhat disconcerting manner as they approached the bed with a white metallic box they had unearthed from their backpack. Voice weirdly high-pitched, even with the helmet on.

Only when the smaller person sat on the bed by the spy's side, and they took their helmet off Philo could swear he wasn't the only one who gasped in surprise.

"Wait, a woman?" – Quintus asked before Barnabas whacked him in the back of his head the very instant the Frumentarius' head turned around slowly, giving them a very, very nasty look that got all of them looking at the floorboards.

She must be his mistress, then. A free citizen of the Empire. Those gals were fucking mythical among the troops (along with those hot, hot NCR female soldiers all the guys fantasized with); everyone wanted to marry one instead of having to buy a wife from the Officium ab Famulatiis. (13)

Lucky guy.

The atmosphere grew slightly less tense than minutes ago as the spy basically played the healer part with Florin, cleaning the leg and shoulder wounds and dressing them with clean bandages he instructed Barnabas to be changed every three hours and wrap the same way he taught him how to as well.

While Barnabas seemed to find the process fascinating, the rest of them, Philo included, stopped paying attention around the fifth or sixth sentence full of complicated instructions.

First Aid, back in their boot camp, had always been something Philo had found boresome to no end.

"Have you hidden the magazine in a safe place, man?" – Quintus whispered in his ear, followed by Chases-Bugs' energetic nodding.

Philo assented enthusiastically. He doubted the Frumentarius would take a peek under the bed's mattress.

Their porn was safe.


Arcade was having a fine enough day.

They couldn't venture outside until the storm receded, but he was having fun. Sort of.

Emily, who's been examining ED-E's frame, had kept smiling at Veronica, and Arcade couldn't help but enjoy the way the Scribe was blushing while having fun as well. They were the robotic experts, after all.

In his usual weird, quiet manner, Clay had kept making eerie observations about the bot that, surprisingly, had rendered better results for both April and Emily when they had dealt with the data they had unearthed or the repairs the machine needed. The kid insisted that the robot's 'memories' had left an imprint before 'flying away'.

They were lucky this child knew how to take care of himself, for Arcade had forgotten entirely about preparing him breakfast - the only ones truly looking after him being Lily and Six, to be perfectly honest. He also hadn't managed to refuse when the kid had decided that very morning he was accompanying them.

Raul hadn't come, saying someone had to 'guard the post' in Six's absence. And Cass right now should be inside one of The Strip's casinos, abusing her V.I.P. bar tab probably either at Swank's or even the very Big Sal's expenses. Science and philanthropy weren't among her interests if there wasn't the promise of whiskey at the end of the tunnel.

Boone would've covered for Raul instead… if it hadn't been because the man had just vanished.

Not that anybody wasn't expecting it. Arcade couldn't blame him.

In fact, he begrudgingly admitted that he felt much better knowing that Six would likely have a hidden sniper taking care of her… at least until she abandoned Cottonwood Cove, that is.

If she truly managed to cross the river.

Arcade was sure Boone would wreak havoc if he found 'his girlie' was either enslaved at the Cove, or she failed to emerge from Fortification Hill within a span of four, maybe five days. If those gentlemen and their jerk of a leader if but dared to play dirty, there'll be hell to pay. And not just on Boone's end, that's for damn sure.

"I can only go with Zorro and Rex. I don't think Caesar will be throwing me a party upon my arrival. He might be interested in contacting me… but my actions here in The Strip may not sit too well with him once he finds out. I may have only one chance to gain his trust… and arriving with a small menagerie at my back isn't going to win me any points, especially considering that almost ALL of you can be considered either a menace or a bravado on my part."

Arcade sometimes wished Six would be less intelligent and more the hormonal teenager she was supposed to be. With all the casual idiocy that such a temporal condition entailed. At least not intelligent enough to refute his arguments with solid reasoning.

"Do you want the most immediate examples?: Lily and Raul. The Legion usually leave ghouls and mutants be… but that doesn't mean they like them or that they even recognize them as citizens. You haven't been to Colorado or Utah. I have. And let me tell you that their settlements, military or not, are exclusively inhabited by humans, healthy humans. They don't look very kindly upon infirm, disabled people either."

Kudos for the utter assholery on Caesar's end on that one. That totally didn't make Arcade's stomach churn at the very prospect of allowing Six, of all people, to go to the lion's den almost on her own.

Not that he doubted Zorro Salvaje or Rex's abilities to protect her… but even a trained pre-War cyberdog and a particularly savage tribal that had some notions on strategy had their limits.

"Then, there's the rest of you: Boone being Boone and you being you, Arcade. Cass and Veronica?: women. It's bad enough I am a woman as well, so let's not tease the Bull more than the strictly necessary, shall we?"

His objections about 'him being him' had also met disarming rationalization.

"Would you rather play Virgil to my Dante, Arcade? Do you want to test Legion's tolerance on how you choose to live your romantic life? Don't underestimate the intel they likely have on the rest of you and me. Their spies are nothing but efficient. If they weren't, that agent wouldn't have asked for me to, preferably, go alone."

It hadn't helped that she had been right, despite Veronica's constant teasing regarding Legion's homoerotic vibe.

A vibe, sadly, born out of NCR propaganda.

"They know we can bring down whole factions, guys; they know they can lose their precious posts at Nelson and Cottonwood Cove if I so choose. Caesar isn't going to forfeit the chance of wooing me, given what I bring to the table. And this Mark of his guarantees my safe passage through their lands… at least in theory."

That was the problem. Theory versus Real Life.

The same Arcade had tried to convince Six to take him (after all, despite not liking the idea of tiptoeing into the mouth of hell any time soon, he also admitted he had been curious… for exclusively academic purposes, of course), Boone had also grunted his good share of reasoning – as far as reasoning counted in Boone's book, namely a few unsavory insinuations related to Zorro Salvaje that had almost gotten the two of them into the umpteenth catfight – to end up snarling a handful of threatening that had gotten him nowhere, thus reinforcing Six's point about not trusting his trigger finger around legionaries.

Veronica's pleas had fallen on deaf ears as well. Cass had raised the whiskey she had been nursing and mock-cheered the two lovebirds on 'their honeymoon'.

"Careful though." – she had teased – "A bunch of fit guys wearing red and showing their legs… don't know about you, Tribal Boy, but I would worry about not getting Six too heated up, you know?"

At that, the two alluded youngsters had eyed her as if she would have sprouted wings.

"What?!" – they had exclaimed in unison.

"You know…" – Veronica had jumped onto the chance to lighten the mood by playing on Cass' tasteless humor – "Maybe, after all, we'll solve the mystery of the Sexy Legion."

Zorro Salvaje had spat back the glass of water he had refilled at the sink.

"S-Sexy Legion?!" – he had coughed, scandalized.

If he had been able to get a glimpse at Arcade's mind at that precise moment, his scandalized demeanor might have been even more justified.

"C'mon, don't tell me you've never heard about Team Boxers and Team Commando." – Cass had guffawed, enjoying the paralyzed expression of the young man, who had looked utterly mortified, shifting eyes from her to Veronica and back – "Everyone stipulates whether Cesar's boys wear underwear under those kilts or they like their junk properly ventilated." – she had explained, wiggling eyebrows.

"Actually, there's a third Team who thinks they wear lacy thongs." – Veronica had added, giggling – "Arcade begs to differ, though."

"And with clinical evidence in hand." – he himself had interceded, barely masking his amusement – "Male genitalia needs support after a while. It would be impractical and painful for them to run around in such a manner."

"Aw, c'mon, but lacy thongs?"

"Impractical as well, especially in this sandy environment. Please, don't make me describe the symptoms of an infection in… nether regions."

Oddly enough, Six hadn't laughed but turned out redder than a tomato, whereas her sweetheart – if possible – had paled so much he had turned out ashen.

Guess them being the ones who had to confront the Legion didn't find it so funny.

Now that he thought about it, Raul – along with an understandingly livid Boone, who had been still fuming over the whole deal - had been dead-serious, his silence oddly accusatory at their silly revelry.

Lily, per usual, hadn't even gotten the joke as she had kept baking cookies, eyeing them disoriented while Clay – the damn child sometimes could literally fuse with the furniture so much you barely noticed he was there. Weirdest kid ever – softly nudged her so she would mix the dough ingredients right. After all, he'll be the first one to have a taste of those cookies.

Okay, maybe Cass, Veronica, and he had behaved a bit like assholes. The situation had been too grave to make a mockery out of it.

They simply had been too nervous to process appropriately the thought of allowing Six to go on her own to fulfill a mission for House.

Because, behind this scheme about meeting Caesar, there had been an order from House.

Whereas the plan had sounded vague enough dealing with results, the instructions were clear: Six needed to gain the trust of Caesar in order to access a bunker located underground of a weather station facility the Legion, unfortunately, had in their power.

In fact, said weather station was at the very heart of Fortification Hill.

And the bunker in question had some hardware House needed her to check.

Arcade prayed that the legendary foresight of Robert Edwin House ended up being an actual thing and not just another pre-War legend. After all, seventy-seven Chinese atomic warheads were launched at Las Vegas and surrounding areas that fatal 23rd of October in 2077… and only nine had managed to pass through House's security. None of them touching Vegas.

That should count for something, right?

Or maybe he was starting to suspect Six's parallel play with the NCR, and he simply wanted to get rid of her. With his growing robotic forces, he didn't really need her.

That was what scared him the most.

Now they weren't that indispensable.

Thus, why Arcade was here in the first place.

ED-E's reprogramming had been due to Six's petition… but the tribal medicine Zorro Salvaje had gifted them with was Arcade's bargain coin to prove to Mr. House that not just them but also the Followers of the Apocalypse still had some uses in his city.

House was watching all the time, anywhere they went.

He had proven he could fortify and defend New Vegas from inner crime and the growing possibility of an invasion. Now it was their turn to prove to him that they could deal with their own.

If only they could count on the Cooperative in Westside in order to maintain crops in the face of a possible siege…

After all, they had to count that losing the city WAS also a possibility. They needed a plan to endure a siege. The city must be self-sufficient. In all aspects.

"And here we go." – Emily Ortal declared happily, screwing the eyebot's frame back in place – "Nothing to worry about since we have managed to get all the data mostly intact."

"Define 'mostly'." – said Veronica.

"For what I have managed to unearth from the data banks, there's a handful of entries that have been… transferred."

Arcade directed a pensive look at Clay, who was keeping himself busy petting the immobile eyebot as though consoling it. Creepy, definitely creepy.

"Transferred…"

"The logs on the transmission, sadly, are hardcoded. We might never know what was in those archives or where they have been sent since we'll likely need a specialist to hack through those. Does the date January 29th, 2282 ring any bell?"

Arcade and Veronica exchanged a significant glance.

"The day ED-E was shot." – Veronica concluded – "Does that mean the personality subroutine has simply transferred, and that's why we haven't managed to bring him back to life?" – she mused – "That means there must be a nearby facility advanced enough that could act as a bridge between ED-E's duraframe and a data bank receptor. I doubt ED-E can transfer that data load to the old Navarro facilities."

"I can assure you it can't." – Emily replied – "The radius of the transmissions of this particular model works around a hundred miles. There must be, indeed, a hidden Enclave facility here, in Nevada, that has been able to host your eyebot's AI before its Operative System collapsed."

Arcade tried very hard not to flinch at the possibility already forming in his mind. Maybe it was about time to make good on his long-overdue visit to Novac and begin asking Daisy a lot of questions.

The damn creepy little machine was proving to be more trouble than it was worth.

"Have you managed to transfer and install the archives I gave you to it?" – he asked Emily a tad too briskly, eyeing Veronica from the corner of his eye with a silent warning look.

"Transferred, yes." – Emily replied, frowning pensively – "Installed, though…" – she trailed off – "We'll have to wait to see what happens." – she indicated, pointing with her eyes to the "Loading…" interface that had flashed into the eyebot's side screen as soon as she had unplugged it from her terminal, a black and white screen that was a small slice no bigger than the width of a finger.

It didn't take much until the long 'whisker' antennae began twitching, and the robotic sphere began hovering in midair slowly, as if calibrating mobility.

A sudden burst of static made the three present people instinctively cover their ears as the radio signal stabilized.

"Oh, hi there!" – the bot chirped excitedly – "Good to finally be properly introduced to you, Arcade Gannon, Veronica Santangelo, and little Clay!" – at that, it rotated to 'face' Emily this time – "Hi to you too, lady! It's quite nice being able to see my creator again after such a long time!"

"What?" – the flabbergasted woman asked, first eyeing the talking eyebot, then squinting at Veronica and Arcade's faces – "What is the meaning of this?"

"Oh, I'll answer right away if… you give me your name first!" – it exclaimed, an odd proud tone seeping into its synthetic voice – "After all, it would be kind of awkward calling you 'mother', don't you think?"

"I…" – Emily hesitated, licking her lips absently as she eyed the floating duraframe hovering around like a curious little bird – "I don't understand…"

"Are you Yes Man?" – Arcade asked the eyebot, crossing his arms with ill-dissimulated apprehension. After all, he hadn't been ED-E's biggest fan when the robot had still been beeping around Six, displaying all the standard behavior of a pet.

Emily's eyes grew so comically huge that Arcade had to suppress the inappropriate impulse to snicker. He immediately berated himself inwardly.

"Aw, you have spoiled the surprise!" – the eyebot exclaimed in an impossibly pouty way. Too expressive, too… human – "But, to answer your question: yes, I am!" - it replied happily – "Sulli left instructions on me classifying you as a sort of Commander in her absence! Yay!"

Now Arcade understood all the secrecy surrounding this 'program' Six had left him written about before leaving. The notes with the instructions he wasn't supposed to read out loud and outside the Lucky 38 so House's cameras couldn't get a grasp on what was going on.

For how long she had been hiding this? And how come that Emily, for some capricious chance, was involved in the creation of this… this Artificial Intelligence?

It had called her 'mother', after all.

And now, he was the one taking responsibility after it. As if he hadn't enough already on his mind to babysit an apparently mouthy AI.

"How do you feel in there?" – he asked politely, his own words ludicrous to his very ears as Arcade forced himself to adapt his mindset to the present circumstances. Six had left written that this 'Yes Man' needed positive reinforcement in the guise of treating it as if it were… a person.

The eyebot did a small twirl in the air before answering.

"I like it here a lot!" – the robot… AI said enthusiastically – "Not as good as Sulli's Pip-Boy… but beats being inside a securitron for sure!"

The Pip-Boy, then. Now Arcade felt slightly envious that the one getting her spare one had been Zorro Salvaje.

"You are happy she has given you the freedom you asked for." – Clay interceded, addressing Yes Man calmly, treating the machine 'like a person' more naturally than anybody else – "Now you'll have to behave in consequence. The Courier never does things idly."

"Oh, I know my instructions alright!" – the cheerful demeanor, Arcade didn't know why, but it sounded less enthusiastic.

"I'm sure you do." – Clay conceded – "However, living in a human world means that, sometimes, one does not receive the reward they aim for. Promises are not commands; thus, even if they are meant to be fulfilled, it doesn't always happen. Therein lies the uncertainty."

"I… I don't understand…"

"You live in a world where variables are meant to minimize the chance of failure… whereas variables, in the human world, are precisely what increases that chance of failure exponentially." – Clay reasoned gravelly – "Until you learn that you cannot control how others act around you, you are destined to repeat the failures of the very humankind that conceived you… for you are based on how they perceive perfection, not what perfection truly is."

Arcade wondered when a simple reprogramming had turned out into a philosophical debate about humanity and variables… however, as fascinating as it sounded, he had more pressing matters needing to be solved.

"Yes Man." – he said, trying to infuse his voice with the authority his responsibility over this machine demanded – "We need you to try to establish contact with Six's Pip-Boy. She'll be updating us on her trek to the Ninth Circle of Hell in case something goes awry." – pausing, he added – "In case you don't manage to contact her, switch to Zorro Salvaje's Pip-Boy IP address."

That seemed to devolve Yes Man's helpful nature back in place, for it exclaimed.

"Right away!" – and then, its lateral mini-screen switched to "Connecting…".

A sharp tug to the sleeve of his lab coat made Arcade turn his head back to Emily.

"I don't know what's happening, Arcade." – she said – "And I don't know if I'm doing the right thing, but… count me in on whatever project you're undergoing for the Courier's sake. And maybe I'll not be able to get those data transmissions from House any time soon… but there's still the chance I can make a difference out there like you. Nobody knows the workarounds and functionalities of Yes Man better than me; I can guarantee you that."

Arcade wasn't sure he had the authority to make this decision, but he made it nonetheless.

"Welcome aboard our little ragtag group, then, Emily." – he decided after receiving a nod from Veronica. That should count for something; he was deciding upon a more or less democratic approval – "You are in one hell of a ride from this point on forward."


Six was having a hard time trying to refrain from giggling.

When they had entered through that door, the little retinue of legionaries that had received them had intimidated her at first… but now, an hour later and with the storm still going on outside, she was starting to find them… kind of awkwardly cute, kind of hilarious at the same time.

Most of them were younger than her, and it showed. Reedy voices, pimples everywhere… and a pungent bodily odor of testosterone, sweaty armpits, and dirty socks that, at first, upon taking out her helmet, had made her significantly queasy.

It had reminded her of the military academy so much. So, so much.

The first half an hour they had spent inside the ranch with Zorro attending the unconscious one and instructing the oldest of them how to properly clean, stitch, and bandage radscorpion's sting wounds, the other three hadn't taken their eyes off her.

At first, it had felt kind of creepy… until she had realized that their staring was born out of curiosity and awe rather than leery behavior.

Later, when they had taken seats either in chairs or on the very floor, they had begun to… show off, for lack of a better term.

She was sure none of them held themselves so stiffly in private, and she had already caught the biggest of them, a redhead, inhaling to hold his stomach.

Then, the manly show: tough frowning, muscle-flexing, puffing out chests… if it wasn't because she knew they wouldn't understand or appreciate it in the slightest, she would tease them a little with a joke or something to break the ice.

Something that had caught her attention had been that all of them – unlike Zorro's men - were very tall and, minus their leader, an Afro-American, the rest were all Caucasian and fair-skinned.

So fair-skinned, the suntan lines were evident between the rest of their bodies and their arms and legs, which oscillated between pinkish and crab-red.

These weren't the kilted monsters with barbed cocks the NCR liked so much to depict; not even the intimidating, command-barking tribal soldiers she had seen at Nipton or throughout Route 95, but a bunch of big kids dressed in football gear, playing tough in front of their superiors.

Somehow, they reminded her of the Lamplight children, dressed in garments too big for them, using guns too heavy for their skinny arms that they had to compensate for, acting in a sort of endearing, annoying attitude midway between assholery and bravery.

All because they hadn't any responsible, loving adults around protecting them from the harsh world outside.

These were children of the guns and bullets, of the dirty game that didn't admit any jokes. Children of human cynicism… that knew how to kill.

Threats didn't go with them, for they knew how to pull a trigger first. They would kill you within an instant… and it will still be all a game for them. They were all love, all passion.

If they survive to adulthood, something will always be missing. Something vital.

Before the bombs, old people tended to berate younger generations for being so 'carefree' and 'childish', more fixated on diversions like the TV, videogames, holidays on the beach, baseball matches, the Internet, media gossiping, and the last trends than involving in political debates and social changes. Thus, leaving the real decisions to privileged, greedy old farts feeding on their 'childishness' by putting a blindfold over their eyes while they discussed petroleum and profits.

However… robbing their kids of childhood had been a better answer to the problem?

None of her old comrades had lived beyond the age of sixteen. She was the only one who had reached adult age recently.

And, in all honesty: she didn't feel adult one bit.

She, too, was still divided between the Lost Boys and Hook's pirates.

Thinking all of this, out of a sudden, made her very sad. So, she didn't ask Zorro if he deemed it adequate or not to turn on the radio dial. She simply acted on an impulse, wanting to empty her head from these torturous thoughts. Nothing good could come out of wallowing in memories of the pre-War.

She had almost fallen off her chair when the legionaries had also jumped from their respective seats when the first chords of 'Big Iron' had filled the ranch structure.

"To the town of Agua Fría rode a stranger one fine day…"

"What in the holy futuo…" – one of them sputtered, fascinated and a bit apprehensive as he eyed the device on her wrist carefully, pretty much as if it were about to explode.

Didn't these guys have ever seen a radio before?

"Hardly spoke to folks around him, didn't have too much to say…"

Zorro directed the daring one an icy glare. Six actually found it funny he would reprimand someone for cussing in a language she, theoretically, didn't necessarily have to know.

She knew he fussed a bit too much over manners.

"No one dared to ask his business, no one dared to make a slip…"

"Chases-Bugs remembers something, back in Arizona: there was this merchant that arrived at the Capital with a box that emitted music and voices." – one of the youngest ventured, pointing to her device with a finger – "A radio, he called it."

"For the stranger there among them had a big iron on his hip…"

"You asinus!" (14) – the big redhead exclaimed – "Radios are only for sending and delivering orders, like letters!"

Okay, these guys definitely had never listened to Radio New Vegas before. She didn't know why it surprised her, to begin with.

"Big iron on his hip…"

These discrepancies brought up a short-lived insult-trading when the Afro (Bar… something. Let's call him Barney, okay?) ordered them to shut up, for he wanted to 'listen to what that war song was saying'.

From the corner of her eye, Six spied how Zorro covered his face with both of his hands as he shook his head in denial. Well, at least she wasn't the only one embarrassed by the situation.

Said situation got even more bizarre once the boys grasped on the rhythm and two of them chorused every time the phrase "Big iron on his hip" came up. Rex also joined in, howling.

She already could see Zorro's ears, poking from between his fingers, were literally burning.

Once the song finished, she was about to switch the damn dial off when Mr. New Vegas' voice came up.

"Don't turn it off, domina!" (15) – the redhead blurted out to, immediately, bowing head down once he caught yet another icy glare from Zorro – "Please."

He earned an exasperated grunt.

"And we're back. This is Mr. New Vegas, and I feel something magic in the air tonight. And I'm not just talking about the gamma radiation." – the placid newsman's voice crooned. Some of the boys snickered at the joke.

"See, see? Chases-Bugs was right!" – the one who, apparently, talked in the third person exclaimed happily – "That's a radio!"

Six thought just how easy her life would be if everybody started talking in the third person. That way, she wouldn't forget their names.

The other boys shushed him loudly.

"Cesar's Legion continues to fortify its position in Nelson, where it remains a constant concern for Camp Forlorn Hope and the nearby town of Novac…"

"Hey, that's us!"

"We are on the radio?"

"That dude didn't pronounce Caesar's name right. He must be a Profligate!"

"A Profligate talks about us? Can he do that?"

"Maybe that's an enemy line! We have to inform the Cove!"

"And how do you exactly plan to do so without a ham radio, you fatuus?" (16)

Again with the discrepancies, again with the gratuitous trade of insults in Latin with Barney unable to reign over his insubordinate men until Zorro, in his usual quiet fashion, exploded.

"Enough." - he rasped – "Stop fussing about a public radio channel proclaiming news around the territory. News everybody knows at this point."

Barney and Bug Boy had the decency of remaining quiet. The mouthy redhead had other ideas, though.

"A public radio channel?" – he repeated – "Does that mean the Profligate population also listens over these radio transmissions? That doesn't make any sense."

Zorro huffed.

"It does make sense if said radio channel is for merely entertainment purposes." – he answered with a voice that warned Six that he was losing his patience fairly quickly.

"Entertainment? But…" – finally, yet another whack on the back of his head, this time coming from the other boy, the quieter of the group minus the poisoned one, made Redhead finally shut up.

They were definitely cute in their own brutish way. It came as a surprise and a relief as well. If the majority of these guys were like Barney and his group, Six could deal with them alright.

Or maybe they didn't come off as threatening because Zorro was with her. After all, their strict hierarchy was pretty much the main thing that held so many tribal backgrounds together. You couldn't make an army mainly composed of ex-raiders efficient if the foot soldiers weren't kept in line by older, wiser, nastier officers.

Fumbling with her device as Mr. New Vegas finished giving his report to give way to 'Sit and Dream', she noticed a chat notification in the upper left corner of her Pip-Boy.

"Who are you talking with?" – Zorro whispered to her right ear, having sneaked his way to her as she had started to type a response back.

She didn't like that he was peeking over her shoulder, clearly trying to make out what the conversation was about.

As if he didn't trust her.

She also hadn't liked one bit how he had phrased his question. Like a command.

"Yes Man." – she replied, trying to sound casual – "Arcade has managed to get him installed in ED-E's duraframe."

"I still don't understand why you have decided to prescind the AI's services by transferring it into another device." – he observed astutely – "One that we don't happen to have in close range."

"His data was proving too much for my Pip-Boy's inner memory." – she half-lied, hating herself profoundly for having to be dishonest with him, who had been nothing but open and trusting with her. She hated herself so much – "Besides, he still can help me as long as we don't enter a signal-proof area, such as a Vault. And I need him to track ED-E's signal, since my suspicions about data transference had proven to be true in the end."

When you need your lies to sound convincing, you need good reasoning behind them.

The more if such reasoning came with a mix of truth.

Not even the very Yes Man knew the true purpose of his (she surmised the AI identified itself as masculine, so be it) transference.

She crossed her fingers that she could pull out such a stunt safely.

Once Zorro was satisfied with her explanation and returned to his respective chair, Barney's boys asked her to play 'Big Iron' again.

She complied as she had the song in her Music Database.

After a while, another notification popped.

Unknown IP this time, private channel that erased the conversation after a minute.

14:25 PM Wednesday, April 19, 2282

9131:8ho1:52u51:8205:4239:1s4e:8151:1195: I trust everything is still in order, Miss Sullivan?

Six sighed. She was glad he hadn't asked her to put an SD of his creation into her device. The last thing she needed was to have her private files hacked.

It was bad enough he had such intelligent programming he could read her Pip-Boy's metrics through wireless connection and use her device as a sort of hotspot for data transmissions through satellite connection. RobCo's manufacture at its finest.

He truly was a genius.

14:26 PM Wednesday, April 19, 2282

Courier VI: Of course, Mr. House. I established contact with the Legion around an hour ago. The plan's still in motion.

She was playing with fire.


The radstorm had cleared up around nine in the evening.

Veronica was still hungry after the measly ranch the Followers of the Apocalypse had served around midday, and even she understood that they had overstayed their hospitality. She also suspected that Julie Farkas woman had been actually glad they were leaving.

Arcade had fallen into one of his silent moods, and Emily, their new acquisition, was yawning loudly after confessing she had doubled shift the night before, so she was basically sleepwalking while she accompanied them back to the Lucky 38.

The only one who looked fresh as a rose was Clay, who was currently playing with Yes Man, grabbing at the eyebot's sides as it hoisted him in the air in little hops.

One of the good things the kooky old man's robotic sentinels had brought upon Freeside had been how safely one could tread its streets without facing the occasional famished thug with a switchblade. Even children dared to play outside at this hour, knowing those metallic golems were a guarantee that no slaver, no pervert would chase them down.

It was a nice change. She could see the wisdom in it. Even the very locals will end up appreciating real security in their lives.

The day had rendered good results, just like yesterday. They were having a winning streak, and she was actually enjoying the scholar side of the experience.

She was even thinking about asking Arcade if she could join the Followers.

Just for the sake of helping people. It made her feel good.

Also, the more tech she would happen to unearth during her future travels with Six, she could also share it with both the Followers and the Brotherhood.

That way, McNamara might finally see the futility of holing themselves up until some improbable rescue group would answer their distress calls.

There had been years since the West Brotherhood had turned the page with the Mojave Branch. No new orders, no help whatsoever.

Only endless static.

Too preoccupied with their warring with the NCR at Portland for the sovereignty over the military caches there, holding position at the Alaska HQ, or hiding throughout Nebraska and Iowa territory, hoping to learn intel on the old Enclave facilities in Chicago.

She didn't count Lyons' boys from the East Coast. For how Six had painted things there, they were better off holding position indefinitely. The Brotherhood of Steel couldn't count on the help of renegades and traitors either.

The Mojave guys, her guys, were on their own in this.

And she desperately wanted to do something… but what?

What they haven't tried at this point?: helping out with the Ranger trouble nearby the bunker, dealing with the database terminals' virus, retrieving that stupid missing laser pistol for Quartermaster Torres, gathering scouts' reports for McNamara, fixing the air filtration system with scavenged parts they had obtained at the Gibson Scrap Yard and several Vaults she didn't want to recall having ever set foot in…

At this point, she wasn't sure why Six hadn't told her just to get a grip and forget about them. Why would she accomplish missions that will take them nowhere.

Why would she try to help the very people who wanted her out of their hair.

Six had witnessed first-hand how some of the bunker members treated her, and she had gotten pissed off a handful of times… but when Veronica would try to make up excuses for, otherwise, those who had been her family since she could remember, Six had simply shushed her, saying she understood. That if she did all of the above, it was only for her.

"I love you, Vero." – she had told her once, hugging her close – "I don't want you to leave. If that means helping your family out, it'll be alright as long as you're with me."

She hadn't felt so loved in nearly a decade. To discover that someone actually wanted you by their side instead of being asked to hit the road for being annoying does things to your perspective.

It makes you believe in people again, rediscover loyalty, unity.

She then recalled when Six had announced the agent Boone had chased down had actually wanted to invite her over Cesar's territory.

It had hurt Veronica that she wouldn't want to take her on a hike to Cottonwood Cove… but she had understood her reasons.

Six had wanted to protect her. To protect all of them.

After almost having been raped and tortured by that psycho at the Gomorrah.

When Veronica had taken her back to the Lucky once their situation with the Omertas had been made clear, Six had allowed Arcade to tend to her swollen face, then she had switched off that… whatever programming she had put on her Pip-Boy.

The 'hysteric' part had been a mild way to put it.

Veronica had been the only one allowed inside the bathroom when Six had done with the vomiting, the crying, and the screaming.

She had found her, still dressed, under the shower. Taking it ice cold.

No amount of gentle nudging, caressing, and soothing words had helped in the very slightest. By the time Jimmy had returned from his likely distasteful adventure chasing after the Legion spy, Six had been still inside the freezing bath, with Veronica holding her hand, unsure what to do.

Jimmy had known what to do.

He had arrived covered in blood and grime, face ashen, bearing the necklace that spy had instructed him to deliver to the Courier. Arcade and Cass behind him, bearing grave faces.

He had gotten inside the bathtub, dressed as well, to hold Six tight.

The girl's lost, glassy eyes had closed then, and she had allowed him to cradle her until he had asked softly if she wanted to get out of the tub.

She had allowed him to take care of her meekly. A handful of towels, a fresh pajama, and a fluffy comforter later, and she had ended up on a bed cocooned burrito-style with Rex providing warmth and humid love by her side.

The situation had been so grave that nobody had objected a damn, not even Boone.

She had spent a whole day in bed until Lily's cookies, which could revive the dead, had made her crawl to the kitchen, asking for a handful of those and a glass of warm milk.

Veronica would have wished she'd have been granted more time to recover… but neither House, nor Cesar were patient over human necessities.

Six's choice to take Jimmy and Rex with her had been, perhaps, the most adequate. They could provide the protection and comfort she probably needed.

At the time to say goodbye, Six had hugged everyone… except for Boone, who had chosen not to come down the Lucky, still playing irrational and offended when Six had least needed it. Perched on his balcony, observing them from his telescopic sight.

He was a basket case. A basket case who loved her too much to allow her to go, in his mind, 'on her own'.

Meanwhile, as the young couple with the cyberdog had bid their goodbyes… Veronica had observed Jimmy shaking hands with Raul and allowing tersely for Lily to give him a hug.

Hell, he hadn't even snapped out when he had given to Arcade, as a sort of awkward thanks, the written recipe for the Stimpaks, and the man, upon asking if it was for real and him nodding in reply, had given the boy an enthusiastic hug.

Veronica had witnessed Jimmy's eyes literally popping out of his skull, completely paralyzed like the rabbit in front of the wolf but enduring until Arcade had realized his mistake and had released him, babbling awkward apologies but still excited upon such an amazing discovery.

Veronica hadn't expected any sort of affectionate farewell from him.

She had been proven, once more, wrong when she had extended her hand to shake his and he had taken it… to pull and enclose her into the biggest hug ever.

She admitted she had been about to cry when he had kissed her brow and had bid her farewell.

It had been the most beautiful, amazing, cutest thing ever. Coming from someone who feared human closeness so much, Veronica realized he had come a long way to be so demonstrative with her.

That had made her happy.

And so, her heart ached upon entering the Lucky and taking the elevator to the Presidential Suite level.

Without Six, Jimmy, Boone, and Rex, the place felt like a tomb.

"Where's Cass, Raul?" – she asked once she had indicated to Emily where the bathroom and the beds were.

"Passed out at the recreational area." – the ghoul replied, shaking his head – "Had to put her on a sofa and cover her. She arrived loaded with one too many fuertecitos, (A) taking her clothes off in the corridor."

Veronica pinched the bridge of her nose tiredly. Speaking of basket cases…

Since they had been introduced to one another, Cass had held this powerful grasp over Veronica.

The Scribe admitted that her crass humor, though starting as insulting, had eventually won her over. And their sarcastic personalities, instead of posing an obstacle, complemented each other in a wonderful, special way.

Cass… Cass was beautiful, on the outside as well as on the inside. A truly, beautiful person who valued honesty above all. No matter her rough, cussing veneer, she was the most authentic person Veronica had ever met.

So authentic, she didn't bother to mask her intermittent depression every time a relapse would throw her amidst the golden waves of whiskey.

Cass had endured a harsh life filled with too many lovers while simultaneously being always utterly alone.

She was so used to dealing with her problems by drowning them in alcohol that now, at this point, she would have needed rehab therapy besides going cold turkey to ditch a vice as resilient as alcoholism.

Veronica had seen the tremors she got when she didn't wet her lips with the slightest of gulps from her flask. She knew Cass had tried, and most days, she could go fine without it… but any time a crisis threatened their group's stability, she relapsed again.

Cass never cried. Drowning herself in whiskey was the closest thing she did to actually crying. To mourn. To endure.

Struggle, endure, contend. Her only weapons to face the void.

She was strong and weak at the same time… and Veronica loved her for that.

She knew Cass didn't reciprocate, not in the way Veronica would have liked. Cass' sexuality was still a mystery to her to this very day, as well as how she defined 'love'.

Maybe Cass was too deep in the bottle and the depression at the end of the tunnel to harbor any romantic feelings for anyone… but Veronica still loved her.

Loved her painfully, almost with the same dizzying intensity as she had loved Christine.

Christine, the one Veronica had thought once to be her one and true love, she now realized, had had a lot in common with Cass.

Both were stubborn, honest, transparent… and their loyalty was as fierce as their passions. Both were flames she, humble moth, had struggled not to feel attracted to. Always with the same result.

Those were the women she liked. Women that made her struggle. Women she admired. Women she wanted to take care of and protect.

Women she, in the end, could never attain.

"Grandma?" – she asked to the air, suddenly aware of the absence of Lily's heavy breathing around – "Raul… where's Lily?"

The old necrotic directed her a very tired, sad milky glance.

"Se fue, mi niña bonita." – was all he said – "Ella… también se fue." (B)


Vulpes had thought before he hated 'Johnny Guitar' with a passion.

Now, he hated 'Big Iron' with a passion. Because he was a rather passionate fellow in his hatred. And because these simpletons that, unfortunately, had offered themselves to escort Sullivan and him to safety, were now starting to make variations of the whole 'big iron on his hip' deal.

In a matter of half an hour since the storm had cleared off and the night had posed a good enough coverage should the annoying sniper manage to find Wolfhorn Ranch amidst this godsforsaken desert, the idiots minus the Scultator – who was the only one Vulpes could barely tolerate – had started with the usual sexual jokes.

'Big iron on his thigh', 'big iron in his ass', 'Texas got ironed in the big Red', 'is that a big iron or are you just happy to see me?' Mars' motherfucking brahminshit balls… what must be Sullivan thinking of the Legion now?

That, apparently, they were a bunch of clowns in costume. She was holding her laugh. He had caught her doing so. Twice.

Even if the mere thought rang kind of heretic in his mind, he was starting to share the sentiment himself.

He found a small reprieve from his fellow legionaries' stupidity the moment a small group of Jackals had the bad call of antagonizing them down the Nevada State Route 164, less than a mile from the safehouse up the hill.

Night-vision worked particularly well the moment he saw the landmines under the discolored traffic cones. He shot at them, and two Jackals fled high and mighty in pieces, pouring blood all over their comrades, all of them showing their sharpened teeth like animals, one of those disgusting tribal-identity sacrileges under the guise of corporal modifications.

Whereas Sullivan had to grab Rex by his cybernetic scruff before the dog began gnawing at a solitary arm from the exploded corpses, Vulpes enjoyed the looks of fear the boys directed at him while searching the bodies for something worth of value.

He admitted he had put on a good show between the Ranger armor and the little theatrics he had pulled out of his sleeve when he had made the Jackal leader eat the butt of his rifle until no teeth, not even a proper face, had been all that had remained of him.

Big iron on his skull. - he had thought sardonically.

The Magistri don't teach you to fight dirty in the boot camps. You have to learn it once you find that not giving a damn about honor in battle can ACTUALLY save your hide.

That was a lesson the majority of them, that savage of Lanius included, never learned.

These thoughts he entertained as they ascended the hill, his manner growing darker the more his eyes perceived that no lights were plugged on inside.

Also, the wooden quadrangle in which they ate what they cooked in the bonfire in front of the house looked fairly untouched. Vulpes swept a boot over the dense coat of sand from the storm that had covered the modest space.

It didn't smell of recent usage.

With an unbearable tension growing between his shoulder blades, Vulpes Inculta didn't wait for the slow Milites to produce a spare key when he simply kicked the door open.

He knew his violent outburst had likely shaken the fools, but he couldn't care less. There wasn't any trace of Gabban either in the upper or the lower rooms, respectively.

The place was empty.

He walked back up the stairs with the Riot helmet under his arm, face contorted in his default mask of disdainful indifference.

He felt physically ill. He wanted to vomit.

He wanted to break something. He wanted to kill something.

He wanted his brother back.

There was still time, though. Tomorrow, the time limit of two weeks will be complete. Gabban still got one day to get to the safehouse.

There was still time.

He hadn't noticed he had sat on the only available couch, helmet over his lap, staring at the empty space as the recruits worked on the broken door and fixed some dinner for everyone.

Rex had come at some point to lie his head on one of Vulpes' knees, whining softly for some scratching.

He thought absently how perceptive animals could sometimes be, especially dogs.

He didn't have any dinner, no matter how much Sullivan insisted, a bowl full of corn and pinto beans in hand, trying to make him snap out of his trance.

Uneasy around him, the recruits distributed the watch shifts outside, and the rest went to sleep in the beds on the lower level.

After a while, Sullivan went downstairs to reappear with two semi-automatic sniper rifles in hand. Probably from the raiding camps stationed around the Colorado banks. Those guns were NCR through and through, built-in night-vision and all. An assassin's weapon.

"I'm gonna take some shots outside." – she informed Vulpes, handing the second rifle to him – "Wanna join?"

He eyed her, then the gun.

He took it.

The girl's plan, apparently, was to use the safehouse's roof to lie on as support for any likely target within the rifles' shooting radius.

They started with the occasional Jackal still combing the road's perimeter.

Then, the glowing necrotics haunting the old nuclear test site at the other end of the hill, down South. Those, more than once, had endured quite a handful of bullets. Enough to chase after the source of the shooting, spotting them in the dark.

Four or five times, the necrotics had almost reached the safehouse with horrified recruits watching how the greenish Glowing Ones came near, their speed making them look like a blur against the gloomy background, howling inhumanly before either Sullivan or Vulpes himself finished them in the head.

When they had exhausted the numbers of the glowing ferals, they had then started to bring down nearby herds of bighorners.

By the time the sun broke through the horizon, Vulpes' violence had diminished considerably, and he felt depleted. Physically and emotionally.

He allowed Sullivan to guide him inside, downstairs, where the rest of the still drowsy legionaries left them alone as soon as she made him sit on a bed and began undoing the laces of his boots.

He was hungry, but he was even more tired. He allowed her to take off his armor and put him in the bed. And so, when he noticed that she was going for the bed next to his, he grabbed her by the elbow and tugged her under the covers with him.

She didn't resist, and both fell asleep within minutes.

He wasn't sure how he could have slept so much, but the moment he woke up, he found himself alone and in semidarkness.

Apparently, the sun was setting outside. He had slept through the whole day.

Hungry, he went upstairs, where precarious bulbs shone thanks to the makeshift power generator outside. None of the boys were inside, likely cooking something at the bonfire. Sullivan was reading something on her Pip-Boy, smiling to him as he passed, Rex perking his ears without lifting his head from the floor, napping as he was.

There was someone sitting at the ham radio table, trying to establish contact.

Someone new.

As the other turned around, Vulpes froze in place upon recognizing the newcomer.

"You're awake already, Fox? About fucking time."

Vulpes likely didn't put much thought into the action when his arms encased the familiar form of Gabban, who grunted, then reciprocated even though the older Frumentarius hoisted him off the ground, happy and relieved to have him back.


LATIN:

(1) - father
(2) - "no-good jerk"
(3) - fuck
(4) - fat
(5) - fucking
(6) - "Mars, give me patience…"
(7) - fool
(8) - "I laugh at you."
(9) - "Eat my shorts."
(10) - mother
(11) - Recruit Scout
(12) - "Ninth Contubernium, Third Centuria, Second Legion"
(13) - "Office of Households"
(14) - jackass
(15) - madam
(16) - idiot


SPANISH:

(A) - literally "strongies". A way to call beverages stronger than beer in Mexico.
(B) - "She left, my pretty little girl. She... left as well."


A/N: credit goes for Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R for beta-reading and making this fic more legible, grammatically correct, and less idiomatic-awkward-wise. THANKS!

I know, I know, Out Of Character Vulpes. For hugging and kissing Veronica. Character Development Time, buddies.

Also, if you would question him about his affections, he would deny it. Most likely saying that they're temporal allies.

Cognitive Dissonance: "I would give my life for them, so I love them. They aren't blood family, so they're nothing to me. And they are Profligates. But I still love them. Conclusion?: I hugged and kissed the Profligate lesbian to... convince them that I'm inoffensive. I'm just acting. I'm such a good actor."

Vulnerability is served when there are conflicting interests.

And no, I'm not "sugar-coating" the Legion. There are nasty surprises coming. But these are the "bulk" of their forces: kids. Kids who cannot imagine being the monsters the NCR depicts them to be. They just want to mess around, show off, and mingle with the opposite sex (or the same, or both). They want praise and acceptance.

NCR recruits?: pretty much the same. They enlist at 16.

I have a lot of things that need polishing so they fit in Fallout Universe, I'm re-reading the whole story to adapt little things into what the Wiki says and what is of my invention. The albino deal?: Bethesda Fallout insists upon bringing those as mini-bosses, so I comply. It's a serious genetic condition, but maybe the radiation had done some "improvements" to their survival. Boone's past?: Manny says In-Game that he used to run with the Khans, so maybe Boone and he are from the Mojave or lived the best part of their lives there, not in the NCR.

Why is House so controlling?: why even not? He's betting on someone that's not him, plus here, that very someone is a teenage girl. I would do so if I were in his shoes, just to ensure she won't betray me. House needs more action, I'm not buying he's so passive when he was the one who, practically, saved the Mojave from the bombs.

Hope you've enjoyed moooore worldbuilding and feelings here. I've noticed more people are reading this, so thank you a lot, guys! Ain't no sunshine when you're gone.

PD: I know, I know, Julie Farkas may have sounded too bitchy, but she's human as well.