"Number Nine"
Ch. 32: Undertow.
Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains racism, sexism, discriminatory opinions toward vulnerable collectives, and references to cannibalism.
I do NOT support racism, sexism, or shit-talking about disabled people, nor do I find cannibalism reasonable/charming in the very slightest. I'm adhering to Lore with the cannibalism and the sexism (the character who is the most relevant example here was coded to be that way, so I've played with what Van Buren left for us to decipher).
About the racism, read the Author's Note at the end.
"I'm so tired
I must get up for air
But I can't find it
What's up or what's down out here
I'm caught in your undertow."
- Ane Brun, "Undertow"
Morning broke through the earth's crust from the East, shining over the quiet waters of the Colorado River like countless crystals, blinding momentarily the unsuspecting man lying prone on his back, carefully tucked beneath a disguised sleeping bag behind a rock tall enough no Legion scout around the perimeter could detect his presence.
From the Cove to Nelson, the Ireteba Peaks were nowadays Reds' territory, so Boone had to act extra cautious.
Meaning no bonfires, no smoking, no drinking, and no littering around. He had to take care of his business?: same spot, making sure it ended up covered so as not to attract any wildlife. If any coyote or a nosy gecko picked up the scent, he was royally screwed. A corpse would eventually attract more predators, thus drawing unwanted attention to his hiding spot.
With barely three hours as a whole between sleeping pauses of twenty minutes each, Boone rolled over to position himself behind the scope and still didn't detect anything out of the ordinary going on. No signs of the girlie, the dog, or the charlatan anywhere. The ferryman at the docks was already in position as if waiting for something.
Where were those two plus the mutt?
They should have reached their intended destination already… unless…
A nipper played the fiddle by his three o'clock. He slapped the damn bug flat against his temple; remnants of blood mixed with sweat pearled the heel of his hand. It was the eighth already. Lots of those around spring. Bad news after a radstorm, their bites could get you a nice infection.
Throughout the day, he slapped another good ten or twelve. The tobacco leaves were starting to get at his taste buds, making swallowing the MRE rations even worse. He had to take a piss twice, and he sweated off the cactus water, making his soaked underclothes smell odd.
Legionnaires went and came throughout the endless hours, the occasional whiff of their scouting mutts in his direction putting Boone's nerves on edge.
They had a problem of some sort with a nearby bunker, and the Lakelurk nest South of the Blue Paradise Vacation Rentals tempted him. A couple of strategic shots and the abominations would be all over the Reds.
Then, again, there was the red truck half-hanging off the cliff at the Cottonwood Overlook over the Legion camp. With the discolored radioactivity hazard sign blatantly stamped upon the derelict vehicle. He had already filed that up for later.
As for their hidden supply cache up one of the rock ledges Southwest of his position, he planned on taking a peek once he'll be sure that the girlie had crossed the river without wearing a collar.
That reminded him that maybe the trio had found themselves a cozy hideout the day before to avoid the worst of the storm and now were making a detour around Searchlight.
Could be. Could be not. He didn't plan on waiting beyond this night. Couldn't sit on his hands when the girlie could be in danger out there.
Maybe the Rangers at Station Echo had seen them.
After laying the Legion raid camp to waste (which mainly had consisted of taking potshots with a suppressor, best job in his career ever), he had used their ham radio inside the supply tent to pass the good news to the Echo Rangers, encouraging them for easy pickings.
He had taken a good share of those, even a brand-new pre-War Gobi Campaign automatic sniper rifle. Pre-equipped with desert camo, an extended magazine, a slightly shorter barrel, a suppressor, and a maintenance kit stored in the stock. All carbon fiber.
The magnification scope was enough on its own to get a hard-on for. These Reds hadn't known they had had a treasure collecting dust in the back of their supply tent. Boone didn't regret the chop-chop party one bit.
True, it may draw some attention, but that was why he had called the Rangers in the first place. Common guerrilla, nothing to tarnish the girlie's reputation with the fucking Reds.
He was being cautious. He was behaving himself.
For he could do worse. A LOT worse than a handful of unprepared recruits amidst a radstorm.
Around sunset, yet another nipper had bitten the dust, and the tobacco leaves reserves had vanished. By midnight, Boone was already mentally reviewing inventory, preparing to take his leave.
He would give the issue one more hour before he started packing up.
Boone got up to work out neck cramps and to take a piss.
By the moment he had returned, a new retinue of legionnaires had arrived at the Cove.
There were a cyberdog and two silhouettes dressed in tactical equipment among them. One being a Riot Gear.
Why did they arrive accompanied by six Reds, of all things? Did they meet them on the road?
Odd, the formation looked more like they were escorting them instead of leading on.
Boone observed how the charlatan behaved around those guys, wishing he would hail them in the Legion fashion.
That way, Boone could pierce his skull fine and dandy with a single bullet, something he had been itching to do since their departure.
However, to his great disappointment, it was the short one talking with the scout greeter, holding up that damnable pendant. The scout nodded, saluted, and also joined the escorting retinue.
There was one in particular that stuck out of the rest, walking close to the charlatan, wearing one of those coyote hoods Boone knew only the flag-bearers wore.
Or that could be…?
No way. No. Fucking. Way.
If the Head of the Spies was among them, either the girlie had unparalleled luck, or there was something definitely fishy going on.
Boone decided he'll be watching them. The ferryman wouldn't move until sunrise; he had already entered one of the tents after having dinner. There wasn't anyone else who could substitute him.
A weakness. If the ferryman, out of a sudden, would be… let's say, indisposed.
The thought was tempting. As tempting as wreaking havoc upon the encampment, scooping the girlie out, and telling House to fuck off.
Tempting, indeed.
'Walk of Shame' would be an understatement for what Ivory had been experiencing for weeks now. In an inescapable, looping replay.
For all he could feel now was diluted in the wake of his new situation. Whether it was pain, frustration, anger, or shame. The latter, something he hadn't memory experiencing since he got out of the training camp at fifteen.
As a legionary, you were supposed to take pride in your profession, to bear the scars you acquired in battle proudly, to let the world around you know just how vital your work was and what a glorious death you aspired to in battle.
Ivory had never swallowed that crap, and he wasn't ashamed of it.
Fresh out of training grounds, Vexillarius Terrence had taken him under his wing yet again, and Ivory had effectively dodged the mandatory five years of service under the orders of a Decanus as cannon fodder before obtaining the privilege to be trained in gunmanship to become Slavemaster apprentice.
Still, no shame at all for circumventing the very system that fed and clothed him.
That was the daily bread once a high-ranking officer took a shine on you. If anything, it was a source of pride to be chosen that early in your career.
Problem is, the moment that very high-ranking officer falls in battle and there's a Blackfoot-descendant rascal set up the very same path as you, he ends up getting the comfortable position at Denver, pacified territory, despite your training and your methods being renowned for their efficiency among the slaves.
And then, you are sent ahead with the troops down Arizona, then onto Nevada, cursing every day the unyielding sun over your head becomes more and more intolerable.
The Burned Man fucks up, the war goes on to a temporary stalemate, and captures become less and less frequent with the threat of the Rangers on the other side of the Colorado. Your work is deemed useless there, so you gotta contribute the soldier way.
Lanius emerges from the desert as if he had always been the Legatus Legionis, and Caesar decides to tie up loose ends back in the Utah. Pacification campaign served. Again.
You get reassigned under a veteran to basically supervise the new blood coming in waves from Flagstaff… and end up hating every single day of your fucking life.
Nevertheless, still no shame. With twenty-six, you're as good as an old man next to the big-eyed teenagers that come to you greener than early honey mesquite pods and with less than two neurons to put together to question you whenever you feel like ordering them around to pull up a round of gratuitous extra push-ups or giving them an underserved whipping with a riding crop to release pent-up frustration at their persistent moronicness, wishing for a retirement that will never come.
Ten more years, give or take it, and you're legally a veteran, though. With a nice pay for taking up menial jobs such as messengers, guard duty in the pacified territories, or administrative work if you hadn't thrived in the military and have some brains. Saving up Sestertius by Sestertius until you can afford a wife twenty years younger than you. Older and from the slave pens, if you are a miser who doesn't mind second-hand property and you're not into gals that could be your daughter in the most literal sense of the word. Then, when she starts popping out babies, you've already gotten yourself another pain in the ass to deal with, knowing you're going to raise either legionaries or breeding stock until you die rather pathetically in your bed amidst painful recurrent gout attacks at forty-five. Fifty if you are extremely resilient. Finis.
Shitty life for a shitty situation fighting off three fronts with Hecate here, the muties at Texas, and the Republicans all over Nevada rubbing their collective noses in the fact that, perhaps, the almighty Legion isn't as powerful as you were induced to believe while basically charging against half-naked retarded tribals armed with sticks and stones. Still, no shame, considering that sniper rifles, frag mines, and Power Fists are way harder to counter with stupid machetes made out of ridiculous pre-War lawn mower blades. If you still managed - with all of your limbs intact or, at least, not permanently disabled - you were the motherfucking boss.
But then, Lanius being Lanius with all the benefits of being a behemoth of a man with some tactical sense turned out Primus Legatus without having to suck it up in the training grounds or even bothering with minor issues as learning how to fucking read; you find that your luck has run dry long ago.
Then, as if being freed from crucifixion with the help of a feeble, blind slave woman hadn't been humiliating enough, now he was seething at recalling how he had been led by Hecate's rabid fangirls like cattle to the slaughterhouse.
His life was a fucking joke. Definitely.
He was ashamed of even existing. His training, his career, everything since his assimilation… had been for nothing. His servitude to Caesar had meant nothing.
Spreading the beliefs under the Bull's banner had been pointless. He had never been a citizen in the first place but disposable muscle in the big machinery. He was taught things such as honesty, honor, and worth or, in the silly nerdy language no-fucking-body but a handful of brainies truly dominated, honestas, gloria, excellentia as virtues; whereas slaves were taught, in addition, the virtues of honesty, industry, and prudence. Honestas, industria, prudentia.
He had never paused to consider that legionaries held a common virtue with slaves: honesty.
Legionaries, the same as slaves, were expected to be easily readable, plain, and forward. Without secrets. Without thoughts or dreams of their own but contributing to the 'common good'.
And how a 'common good' consisting basically of hard-working people sacrificing everything for a society is even 'good' in the first place? Was it worth a life where you were nothing beyond your contributions – may that be through serving in the military or simply getting a slave pregnant before you kicked the bucket – to a society in which you were chewed and spit once you had nothing else to offer?
Was it worth surviving at all?
"You!" – one of the taskmasters at the slave grounds bellowed at him – "Who has told you that you can take a break, slave?!" – the aforesaid taskmaster, to his great surprise since the first day, being a man of all things in a society where women had the last word in everything. Another surprise among countless little details that had informed Ivory why neither the Burned Man nor Lanius had been capable of crushing Hecate under their boot yet. They didn't know their enemy, at all – "If you're out of water, refill your waterskin at the pumps; if you're in pain or need something for your skin, ask for permission, and we'll bring one of the Witches to take a look at you. Otherwise…" - the taskmaster man added, invading Ivory's personal space with a deep frown on his tan face – "Keep. Working. NOW."
They didn't know their enemy, the one they called a 'madwoman', had the good policy of ordering regular medical checks on her slaves as well as maintaining them clean, well-fed, rested, and just comfortable enough to think twice before escaping. For not even the Legion treated fugitive captures this good even if such fugitives could bring them valuable information on the enemy.
Much even less when said capture was also a disgraced, fugitive ex-legionary who had escaped crucifixion by a hair's breadth and had next to no options of surviving the desert on his own.
Crucifixion was a serious matter that - he hadn't been aware until now - leaves bodily sequels even with the best medical treatment available.
The shaman Indian lady with bi-colored eyes said he could recover a good ninety percent of his hands' mobility if he kept working and exercising them the way she had taught him to despite the continuous aches and tingling… but the limp on his right foot, the one that had been more exposed to the nail's end, might never disappear. And he was fortunate he could still walk, she said.
For the pain: herbal cataplasms before going to sleep, a daily shot of anti-inflammatory pre-War medicines, and… Med-X.
At least until she saw some progress in the nerve tissue regeneration department, unwilling as she was to administer him more Stimpaks until the body figured out a way to 'rewire' its own tissue. Stitching and laser surgery could only do as much.
The woman who had been sharing his cross, Khadija, had been substantially more fortunate than him not only, evidently, in the hand department… but also her feet, for some technical reason he hadn't understood very well when the shaman lady had explained it to him, had been nailed in a way her nerves had barely suffered.
Even if Ivory was a resented, envious piece of shit, deep inside, he thought it only fair… given how much she had had to endure in Lanius' tent before her crucifixion.
She was now under the care of that Viper woman with the tattoo on her neck at the Deathclaw pen. Teaching her with the help of the beasts – which, due to a recessive gene in their breeding pool, were almost all of them blind - how to make the best of her condition.
Because, in Ouroboros, no matter how badly crippled you might be due to war, accident, or even since birth: you always could do something to contribute.
From warrior women with advanced military robotic prosthetics to children born with deformities due to radiation exposure while still in the womb. As long as they could move, they were meant to help Hecate's society grow.
For Hecate, despite giving the outside world the image of being a madwoman fashioning herself after a goddess who painted her face and dressed her soldiers as pseudo-tribals, instead of banishing Old-World knowledge and artifacts, she scavenged and applied pre-War technology whenever it was feasible to strengthen her society.
The most immediate example was the rows of automated Mark III turrets placed every two feet on the city walls.
At any other time, in another life, Ivory would have dismissed and even scoffed at those people like some kind of 'horror circus', the Great Whore's big army of Old-World cripples… but now that he, in a way, shared in their fate, his sour manner had humbled considerably.
You didn't know what it was like living in a body that doesn't work at its hundred percent capacity until you found yourself balls deep in a similar situation.
He now had recurrent dreams of just running across the lakeside of the Cherry Creek Reservoir, back in Denver. When he had been a Moonchild and not a freak cripple who had to wear tinted goggles, expired pre-War sunscreen lotion, a gnawed baseball cap, and biker gloves and toeless socks filled to the brim with creams and herbs he had to change every hour so he could function to the best of his abilities during the daytime.
Fan-fucking-tastic.
It wasn't like he was complaining… much, but he had imagined he would be having it three times worse than when the shaman lady had announced to him, after a few days of post-operatory resting, that he'll be assuming his new duties the next day.
His 'new duties' consisting, as his body recovered, of sweeping and cleaning the slave grounds and the Sons' and Daughters' respective public spaces dragging an old garbage cart with him that would help him in his endeavors and, to his great chagrin, to sustain his weight should he grew tired.
Lately, it was like fighting with himself to get out of bed every morning, wash at the common showers in the old pre-War gym premises, go to the canteen to grab some grub, and start his daily routine. No matter how peak his muscular condition, his nervous system seemed fixated on making his existence difficult the more he fought against it.
However, he appreciated having something to do instead of being allowed to wallow in his misery. For he knew he was two steps shy from getting deep into that dark pit called 'depression'.
Something he knew his good-for-nothing of a biological father had been prone to experience, day in and day out, when he would lay awake in the bed he shared with Ivory's mother, refraining from touching alcohol and other shitty vices his fellow scum raiders drowned in themselves every single time they would come back from their pathetic escapades robbing farmers and lonely prospectors.
Half of the time, he would spend whole days doing nothing while his mother would take her bow and quiver and go hunting for coyotes, mantises, and molerats that Ivory and she would later skin, cut up, and cook, selling half of the hunting meat down the street market. The only good thing coming from having a husband from a raider gang had been being absolutely exempt from paying a tribute out of the sales.
When the Legion had arrived at Denver, his father had been in bed, per usual, while Ivory had been playing with a toy car with half its wheels missing. A gift from his mother.
The moment he had heard the screams and the street riots, he had found himself a hiding spot inside one of the laundry baskets from where he had witnessed how a pair of legionaries had entered their house, breaking all the furniture in their wake, to laugh in the lamentable face of Ivory's father when the man had stood before them wielding a pitiful kitchen knife.
They had killed him by simply kicking him to death, still laughing at him. Not a gun, not even a machete. Unworthy as that little, sickly, pathetic white man had been of a dignified, quick death. For all whites in Denver had been weak. They had allowed the Legion to stomp over their ruin of a city and steal their children, after all.
His mother had arrived when the pathetic man had been but a bloodied, swollen amalgam of flesh; an arrow already on her bow when she had pierced the throat of one of the legionaries. The reaction of the second instinctive and swift when he, in turn, had sliced her left hand in one clean, brutal cut with his machete.
After that… the offender had taken his mother by her long dreadlocks and had wiped the floor with her head.
Up to this very day, he had considered his mother's death valiant and worthy, defending her home like a warrior. Defending her family like whites couldn't, for she had been black.
She had pertained to a stronger race, a race better suited for the Wasteland, for its unyielding sun, for its dangerous creatures.
Hecate seemed to be aware of this, given that a good chunk of her high-rank officers were black women, and half of the City Guard and her Vipers were either Afro, Indian, or Hispanic people.
Caesar had always surrounded himself with white men no matter the ethnicity of the tribes he conquered. He was a white man, after all.
It was a thought that had never occurred to Ivory before, struggling daily to refrain from killing some of the dumber recruits, but maybe that had been the real motive behind why he had never felt entirely at home in the Legion. It had had nothing to do with him being an albino but him not being white. With all the cruel irony that it entailed.
Afros, Hispanics, Asians, Indians, and the occasional Arab rarely got the Centurion rank, and not a single minor Legate or Praetorian, to Ivory's knowledge, had been otherwise than white men.
And then, the generations of Commanders that had passed in front of Caesar's desk had always been white as well. Not a Master Frumentarius, not a Primus Legatus turned out even Asian, since those had lighter skin. None.
Even in pacified territory, all the administrative positions were for whites.
Hell, now that he thought about it, amidst the veteran forces of the Red Okies, their Commanders were always white. Always.
It was true Caucasians were the most prevalent population throughout the Wasteland, yes… but damn if the evidence didn't sound a little fishy to Ivory.
And maybe that had been the reason as well why the recruits that have pissed him off the most had usually been white.
Nevertheless, he admitted he would have put up a fight, a child at that time, if the man who had discovered him hiding in the laundry basket hadn't been a black man.
"Eburneus!" he had exclaimed when he had seized the tiny child from inside the basket like a newborn, a big smile upon his friendly features as if he had discovered some sort of treasure. Years later, he had explained to his protégée the meaning of such a word.
Eburnean, white as ivory.
Maybe that was why he liked remembering Vexillarius Terrence in place of the father he felt so ashamed of. Terrence had been a proud, strong man who had taught Ivory everything he knew about surviving… unlike that pitiful memory of a man that, if it had taught him something, that had been to NEVER let depression creep its venomous paws up to his brain.
No matter how much he had wanted to explode sometimes, to drown himself - or rather someone - in a river, or how long he had wished for an excuse to whip a useless recruit down to a pulp until all his anger would subside.
It was a fucking miracle he was still sane and managed to remain calm most of the time despite how creative his murdering instincts had gotten over time, wishing he had never had to depart from Denver. Wishing he still could teach slaves instead of having to teach all these last years to moronic recruits how to make themselves worthy and useful.
At least slaves usually knew better than the pieces of shit he had trained to serve as cannon fodder.
He hadn't realized he had been grabbing the sweeping broom so tightly that his hands had started bleeding again.
"Stop that." – he almost jumped upon hearing that voice he wished he could erase from his brain; his head turning stubbornly to the ground like the dog he was now, his frowning eyes behind the goggles counting the grains of sand around his fucking useless feet – "The High Witch has told you not to force your hands beyond their limits." – please, go away, go away – "I don't know what your deal is behaving like this, but you better stop undoing her job lest you want to be denied further medical help." – shut up, shut up - "And if you are doing this to make yourself noticeable, you're doing one fucking neat job, son."
He wasn't looking at the robotic prosthetic. He wasn't fucking looking at the robotic prosthetic at all.
"Shit, Dennis, could you please look at me when I'm talking to you for a change?"
Why did she have to call him that? It was a pansy name worthy of the child from the seed of a pansy white man. 'Follower of Dionysius', a motherfucking god from a Roman copycat culture of the stupid past! The motherfucking NCR Ambassador of New Vegas had the same motherfucking name, for fuck's sake!
Bet the piece of shit was white! Just like Kimball, Hanlon, Oliver, and that stupid Moore whore!
"At least don't disdain the help you have been lent so far!"
Who had asked for help?! He needed no help from a bunch of Old-World-infected bitches!
"Do you realize how extremely lucky you are? You have been crucified, Dennis!" – oh, yeah? He hadn't fucking noticed, Mrs. Obvious – "You have been crucified, and you have survived to, for some fateful chance, end up in MY custody! Do you realize that you're not regarded as a 'Son' by Hecate's standards anymore?! That you'll be regarded as little more than a prostitute if I hadn't claimed you?!"
Fuck Hecate. She was another fucking white bitch. Why were they always the ones making decisions, making the rules, governing upon the rest like they owned everything?!
They were fucking weak!
And, when they weren't weak, they were monsters! Like the Maneater! Like the Burned Man! Like Lanius!
Like his father's gang of murderers! Like the two pieces of shit entering their home, destroying everything!
"I know you have been Legion for the last nineteen years of your life, but you aren't a teenager that cannot see the reality of his situation! You are an adult that can reason and conclude that you are way better here than fighting for a man who has been the catalyst that has thrown both of us in this situation, Dennis!"
Fed up as he was with her insistence upon calling him a name that he didn't feel like his' anymore, Ivory confronted the tall, slender visage of the muscled Afro woman that had deemed it necessary to scold him in the middle of the street, attracting unwanted attention from people he didn't want anything to do with.
He was better off alone. Just as he had been since Terrence had fallen in battle.
"Save your breath trying to call me a name from a boy that's already dead." – he spat, disgusted – "Pretty much the same I will refrain from calling you with the name of a woman that exists no more… Commander Artemis."
Her stony expression had hurt much more the first time he had had her in front of him, a ghost from that past he had thought buried since he was seven.
Years had acted both to her benefit and detriment as well, for she was stronger than ever, having relinquished her bow for her fists, one of those being an advanced robotic hand she could use in conjunction with a Power Fist.
The second woman Caesar, thus, his Legion hated and feared the most: the Moonchild Huntress. Hecate's Second-In-Command.
But then again, her condition had also worsened the older she became.
For, when Ivory had been a child, only punctual patches of skin had turned out as white as her son's. Patches a mixture of makeup and clay powder she had applied to her youthful face and shoulders every time she had gone to the market.
Now, there were quite a handful of wrinkles around her mouth and eyes, which were also uncovered by the lack of makeup, creating a new porcelain mask that had extended even to her very hair, whiter than his own.
Ivory had always thought that particular defect was a punishment for mixing her proud blood with a filthy Caucasian's, creating the red-eyed halfbreed whose life the Legion had decided to spare… but that had never forgotten what his condition had entailed for more primitive cultures. The ones who saw him as a demon.
And, then again, was he ashamed of her? Of him being the son of the second most hated woman throughout the Utah?
No. He was ashamed of who he was and what he had always been: a worthless piece of shit that always had to be rescued by others, even if his life had never been worthy beyond his uncanny ability for survival no matter the cost. Seeking to live no matter how many other souls had to be sacrificed in his place.
And that also counted every single one of the inhabitants of this accursed city.
"Muuuuum!"
Or… perhaps not everybody, after all.
He had seen the child before when the Huntress had entered Ouroboros with her entourage of warriors and captures. A little girl, not even six years old, sprinting to her mother's muscled legs. Black pigtails, obsidian skin.
Untainted by a weaker ethnicity, he had learned later upon discovering the woman he had once called 'mother' had married again, this time to a worthy man that had procured her worthy offspring.
While envy had been one of the main features of Ivory's personality throughout all these years, he hadn't felt in such a way contemplating this small, perfect creature that shared part of his blood.
He had always wanted to have a sibling when he was a little boy. A perfect sibling who would see beyond his condition. His taint.
Pretty much as this child did when, after hugging her mother's legs tightly, she went to hug Ivory's carefully so she wouldn't stomp over his useless feet.
Neither the disgraced legionary nor the Huntress sought to continue their bitter argument in front of the little girl as she began to talk full speed about the things she had learned in school today.
She always sought him, the quiet, embittered street-sweeper who would allow her to ride on his wheeled cart, listening to her never-ending infantile chat. The only moment throughout the day that he wasn't reminded of how low he had fallen in the chain hierarchy.
Of course, he would be observed and monitored around the child, but he didn't mind. At least it showed their social awareness regarding the safety of children, unlike what had happened in Denver, in the very Legion itself where eight-year-old boys had been deported to Fortification Hill to bear witness to 'Caesar's glory' and, should the need arise, serve as little meat shields given that the Republic usually hesitated with children around.
Yet another thing he had always despised: to give instructions to half-starved, trembling Dissolute children they occasionally found after some of their raids. If the child in question was either a girl or a sickly-looking boy, there we go promising them food and lodging if they acted in Caesar's name to prove their loyalty. From unpinning grenades they left at the feet of the Rangers of the Republic before darting to a safer point… to be handed a package of disguised C-4 plastic explosives they were tasked to pass to the nearest Profligate encampment.
They usually knew better than contradicting the Legion, but that didn't make the act any less monstrous.
It was a practice some of the ex-tribal officers still used, the more if they had had a raiding, drug-addicted past. They saw children as little more than resources.
Maybe it was fortunate this talkative little girl had been born two decades later than him, for Ivory didn't want to imagine what it would have been like to have a sister in the Legion. An already adult sister he wouldn't have been able to protect from being used as a piece of meat day in and day out.
"Mrs. Gonzalez has told me that the High Witch says…" – the little girl chirped, already frowning when trying to remember what Ivory immediately found to be orders – "… that the Goddess wants to speak with Bubba." – she finished, looking proud of herself despite the not-so-subtle flinching Ivory made at being called in such a fashion. Found family wasn't as ideal as it sounded, and he didn't feel ready by any stretch to develop attachment just yet. It was too soon, and his ego still hurt. Too many things still hurt – "She told me to tell you, mum."
Ivory dared peek at the tall Amazon, noticing how grave her mien had turned in a matter of seconds.
"Then, if our Lady wishes so, Her will is our command." – she replied to her daughter, although her words were entirely meant for him. For the stranger that might have been her flesh and blood once.
Ivory knew what was being demanded from him, and he knew without a doubt that he would comply.
After all, what was a slave, if not someone without the authority to decide upon his own fate? He had already lived under the same premises for the better part of his existence.
What was another order taken under another Master if not a command he, disciplined servant, will invariably obey?
Hecate awaits.
He hoped the trick had worked.
It was all an absurd coincidence. Really, when it had been the last time that there weren't any available helmets at the safehouse?
His coyote headdress, along with his goggles, had been where he had left it last time.
So, due to the sniper situation, there hadn't been a chance in hell Gabban was accompanying them without covering his face.
Now, he had to wear it until they departed the following day in Cursor Lucullus' raft.
Maybe the insufferable NCR dog fancied himself so clever, using the decommissioned sniper nest up the hills, but Vulpes could predict his behavioral pattern after these months of coexisting with the cur. He had a way too rigid way of thinking to do it otherwise. No creativity at all, just plain martial training.
He wanted to blame it on Gabban's tardiness, for they could have already crossed the river before the sniper could have caught up with them. However, Vulpes was far too grateful about having his brother back with him.
The night before had been Hell on Earth, his thoughts spiraling a decade back, reliving his and his siblings' assimilation on a loop.
He hadn't felt so afraid of losing them since Anguis had turned him into his pet project.
Thinking about the Serpent now gave him a wave of nausea.
"Centurion Aurelius, sir!" – the Scultator (1) who had escorted their group into the Cove called for his superior after knocking on the door twice respectfully, sleeping as he probably was at this hour inside his office at the upper level of the two-storied concrete building that acted as the Cove's HQ – "The guest we were waiting for has just arrived, sir!"
Vulpes could swear he heard the other man curse in Latin several times before turning the key and opening his door.
If disheveled and, evidently, out of his bulky armor, Aurelius of Phoenix was still an impressive man to behold. Taller even than the very Vulpes and broad like any good Praetorian, Aurelius could prove, in due time, to be an excellent specimen to add to Caesar's elite guards… if he could as much as abstain from relapsing into certain tribal vices Vulpes knew from reliable sources he still hadn't quite purged himself from.
Nothing really serious to worry about, given that those vices had only to do with the occasional raider that couldn't be enslaved or the poor substitute that the Lakelurks South of the Blue Paradise Vacation Rentals represented.
He still hadn't touched the captures… yet.
Vulpes believed cannibalism had more to do with psychosomatic impulses rather than a real involution of the human species. It was a sickness of the mind, pretty much as the gambling pathological inclination he had observed in many Profligates at The Strip.
To his knowledge, human flesh didn't have an addictive component like chems. The tremors were the only real consequences derived from its consumption, particularly the brainial tissue.
Cannibalistic tribes like the Kaibabs, to which Aurelius of Phoenix had once pertained, usually dwelled in sterile, unwelcoming territories deep in the desert that helped to create the unavoidable necessity for cannibalism in the first place.
Caesar was well-aware of this licentiousness happening to some of his officers. Yet, he didn't punish the unnatural behavior as long as the 'dishes' weren't composed of Legion citizenship, fellow legionaries, or captures and that they weren't shared publicly with another individual or taught to the offspring.
After all, it would be a waste of resources crucifying law-abiding men who still could serve in the military.
Nevertheless, while understanding the reasons, Vulpes parted ways with his Lord regarding such… untowardness. A cannibal was still a cannibal. An addict. The Legion couldn't thrive counting with sick men among their forces.
However, for some, the same could be said about his own genetic disorder, and yet, here he was.
And Vulpes wasn't here to discuss politics but rather to carry out his orders.
"A Profligate bearing the Mark of Caesar." – the Centurion deadpanned, voice hoarse from sleep, aquiline nose slightly scrunched in distaste, eyes roaming the way-smaller form of Sullivan up and down with what Vulpes believed was jealousy. After all, Aurelius of Phoenix had made himself a name on the premises of not tolerating being eclipsed by anyone – "You may enter Cottonwood Cove, but let's be perfectly clear here: don't try my patience. A nod of my chin, and you'll be decorating a cross before you can bat a lash."
"Oh, you won't be hearing any complaints on my account, Centurion." – Sullivan replied as she took off her helmet, bearing the loveliest of smiles – "Profligate promise."
Or maybe it was Vulpes' attraction doing the talk here since the Centurion's sour expression didn't diminish one bit. She was sorely mistaken if she had thought a speck of humor would ease the man.
"And… a woman." – he deadpanned again – "Mouthy too. You'd better be worth all the trouble Caesar is investing in you or…"
"… Or maybe we can have this conversation in the morning once everyone has gotten their well-deserved rest and certain characters have washed their faces." – Vulpes interjected, taking off his helmet as well. Better cut the threatening tirade by the root before Sullivan would start harboring second thoughts about coming here – "Won't you agree, Centurion?"
Upon processing what he had in front of him, Aurelius of Phoenix's demeanor shifted radically, putting aside the macho veneer to roll his eyes dramatically.
"Ugh…" – he grumbled – "Of course the Fox had to peek out of the most unsuspecting burrows…" – squinting eyes, he added – "Next time, why won't you don a securitron disguise, Inculta? That way, perhaps I might be persuaded to buy into your theatrics."
"Oh, but with such an unparalleled perception, I cannot aspire to fool a man of your talents, Centurion." – he replied as disgustingly sugary as he could muster, knowing very well the man's capabilities to endure verbal sparring were pretty much scarce.
He was proven right when Aurelius of Phoenix turned around, flapping his hand in a shooing gesture.
"Fuck this, it's too late in the hour for this crap." – he huffed – "Go show the woman her lodging accommodations and let me sleep. I want you two gone first hour in the morning. Cursor Lucullus will be waiting with the barge at the docks."
And with that and an unbecoming slam of his door followed by the due turn of key, they were officially received by the night shift.
The Miles Scultator's group was eager to get to their tent, and, once they did, there were a handful of irritated growls from inside when, apparently, one of them took his boots off.
Typical recruits.
He'll have to inform about their Decanus' irresponsible behavior by sending boys that green so close to the Mojave Outpost, though. Stupidity mixed with adolescence wasn't an excuse to sacrifice them that blatantly.
It seemed that anytime he turned his back, there was another recently-promoted asshole to misuse the authority he was conceded. People were responsibilities. Lots of responsibilities.
Was it so hard to understand? Power didn't mean doing whatever you wished, but taking responsibility for whatever fuck-ups people under your command happen to do.
To be in charge was, in fact, a lot of burdens to bear. And there weren't many individuals who dealt with it correctly.
Being in charge meant a lot of stress, frustration, and a great amount of repressed violence. You weren't a good leader if you simply dealt with stupid/incompetent subordinates by crucifying them.
You had to discipline them. Teach them. Crucifixion had to be the last measure.
Soldiers were valuable resources. Trained, loyal resources. Those were hard and time-consuming to come by.
Anyway, leaving aside Vulpes' bitter take on logistics, Gabban, Sullivan, Rex, and he were guided by the greeter to one of the reconditioned fishing booths near the pre-War toilets at the riverbank. It wasn't the most comfortable thing in the world, but at least they got bunk beds instead of sleeping bags.
Vulpes found it secretly funny when Rex decided he would sleep with Gabban and the blessed one gave him a helpless look. Dogs would always seek Gabban despite being the one who least liked animals out of the three older siblings.
After the lights had turned off, Vulpes was aware that Sullivan wasn't feeling any bit sleepy due to their earlier 'long nap'.
He could listen to the tiny rustling movements she did over the old mattress of the upper bunk bed, watching mesmerized how one small foot probed the wooden ladder, then began descending along with its equally small counterpart. Slender legs came along the tattered endings of a spare tunic he had lent to her. Even if the piece of clothing hid her knees effectively, Vulpes still found it indecently short for her.
He half-closed his eyelids, feigning being asleep, spying her silent movements around the cabin, noticing she was wearing a pair of goggles on her hair and her tactical belt, gun and all, around her waist.
Intrigued, he allowed her to get out of the fishing booth, following in close, equally barefoot as he slid through the night. The moonlight reflecting on the wet riverbank sand, gleaming a lining of silver.
If initially worried she might try something inconvenient, knowing she had a penchant for trouble, his concerns were quickly put to rest when he noticed that she was walking to the South, away from the camp.
Intuiting her motivations, he decided to approach her when he saw her testing the waters with a foot near one of the sunken beach houses of the Blue Paradise Vacation Rentals, a section of the Cove the Legion hadn't bothered with, since the layout was mostly unusable due to the risen river's flood plain.
"A bit late for exploring, don't you think?" – he questioned, meeting a mischievous visage as she turned around to meet him. So, she had known he was following her.
"Can't sleep." – was her unconcerned reply, clasping her hands behind her back – "I might not get another chance to go through these chalets before someone grows wise and sends a scouting party to search the place." – she added, pointing to the sunken roofs of the houses with her eyes.
He cocked a brow. Truly, Cassidy hadn't been lying when she said Sullivan encouraged scavenging down to near-ridiculous extremes.
"And you plan on doing that by…?" – he made a vague gesture with his hand, encompassing her silhouette.
"By swimming, you silly!" – she exclaimed happily, pulling the tattered tunic over her head to take it off and, subsequently, sending a searing wave of something indescribable up his neck, his cheeks, and ears.
He knew he was staring like a complete moron when she had to repeat her following words.
"Yes?" – he asked stupidly, spellbound as he took on the navy bra and briefs barely covering a body that, despite being perhaps too thin even for Wasteland standards, was equally fit and lovely nonetheless.
There was nothing to grab at, but he'll die happy if he managed to get a bite or two out of those legs and collarbone.
She huffed cutely. At least, to him, it sounded cute.
"You coming or what?" – she asked impatiently, lowering the goggles to her eyes, adjusting them – "Otherwise, I'm going for a swim. Bye."
Either she had said that too quickly, or his brains weren't functioning at their regular speed, for Vulpes remained a few seconds eyeing her form while she disappeared amidst the dark, gleaming waters.
He snapped back to reality once he finally processed the invitation. To join a half-naked, soaked Courier on swimming. Alone. Hell, yes.
Fuck, yes.
Turning his head quickly to both sides to ensure nobody would see them, he got rid of his t-shirt and cargo pants and launched himself onto the cold waters, cursing under his breath when his boxers formed the due air bag after submerging before sticking back normally to the shape of his anatomy.
He found her working on the lock of the first chalet, the one less affected by the water. He recalled that time at McCarran, and he wanted to embrace her from behind, seeking to distract her like that time.
No such luck when she cracked the lock open with his fingers barely inches away from her exposed skin.
"Done and done." – she intoned proudly, turning around to meet his intense, concentrated visage – "You gonna catch an infection in your eyes." – she chided, frowning, as her little hands went for his face, thumbs sweeping gently over half-lidden, wet eyelids, taking the worst of the water away. The way she touched him, it felt so nice… – "Wait."
He hadn't noticed she had been wearing a second pair of goggles on her hair that she was now taking off, doing some readjustments to the strap before putting it over his own, carefully adjusting the seam around the bridge of his nose.
So, the cunning vixen had been leading the fox all of this time.
Clever, clever girl.
Enchanted, he leaned for a kiss, but she opened the door behind her, leading him to chase after her once more.
While well-kept despite the mild flooding, the space inside didn't look too relevant for him.
But maybe he owed that to his current interest being more fixated upon Sullivan's hips, slightly-freckled shoulders, and gentle spine than searching the house.
She was evidently teasing him, going through drawers and cabinets while he stared at her, foolishly mesmerized and enjoying every second of it.
She was like one of those sprites he had seen in the few issues of Grognak the Barbarian that he secretly owned in his private footlocker: lovely, wispy, gracile… and kind of impish.
Both danced around the house interior for a while. She recovering preserved, packaged pre-War food, a BB gun, and some more knick-knacks she would throw into a duffle bag she had brought with her as well; him chasing after her, growing as excited as equally frustrated as she evaded him again and again, giggling whenever his fingertips happened to brush over a rib or a hipbone.
He promptly solved the issue by grabbing her by the waist, turning her around as she squeaked, and using the water's liquid volume to hoist her up to make her seat over one of the cambered kitchen countertops.
"Naaaaaughty!" – she breathed, batting her dark lashes just that way.
He planted both hands at each side of her legs, caressing their flesh with his thumbs, accommodating his slender hips between them. Vulpes leaned in her ear, caressing its shell with his upper lip.
"You like it when I'm naughty." – he purred, emphasizing the last word just so. The way he knew she would squirm and blush.
She didn't disappoint.
Neither he disappointed when he leaned over to get that elusive kiss out of her.
They began making out a little, and he coaxed her legs very slowly to end up wrapped around his hips, taking her whole weight with him, making her hum in surprise a little while they kissed.
Not that, under normal circumstances, he couldn't deal with her minimal weight, but the water certainly aided in the rocking, almost-waltzing pace he set with her. He could tell she was enjoying it, for she was making small noises of approval through their joined lips.
Experience had taught him, much to his disappointment, that water usually wasn't an ideal element for… things to run as smoothly as one would desire… but there were still a handful of tricks and whatnots one could still put into practice instead of the classical outcome of two people sexually arousing one another through foreplay.
Because… this was foreplay, right?
At some point, the goggles, tactical belt, and duffle bag had been left over the kitchen countertop, and they were feeling A LOT of skin under theirs, respectively, pressed to one another as they were.
Underwear didn't quite work like swimwear, and he was… well, let's say he had let her know how that felt for him a while ago, and, despite the initial gasp that had drawn out of her once she had felt it, she hadn't recoiled as he may have feared she would.
She had also allowed him to slip a couple of fingers underneath her bra despite how tomato-red that had turned her face, neck, and shoulders. Her hands were also roaming the plains of his back, her dainty fingers painting familiar lines up and down his spine.
That had also startled him a little, but he had forced himself to get a grip and had allowed her to explore. Everybody was a big fan of scars, and his' were simply too large to ignore.
However, the precise instant one of his fingers brushed over a nipple, hers brushed over a particular part of his column – between the twelfth thoracic and the first lumbar vertebrae – that drew a gasp out of both, paralyzing them.
There was this incredibly, terribly vulnerable instant in which they had broken the kiss to put ear to ear, chins over opposite shoulders to end up facing whatever each had in front of them, breathing quickly. Hands having stopped their respective exploration altogether to grab shoulders instead as if holding onto one another while they were drowning.
He felt disgusted with himself at noticing how his building excitation had wholly vanished. Again.
He heard rather than saw her licking her lips before speaking up.
"Does it feel uncomfortable when I touch your scars?"
Not the question he had expected. Also, not one he wished to answer in great detail.
"A little." – he confessed.
"Is it painful?"
"Not anymore."
"Was it punishment?"
Of course she would ask that.
"Yes."
"Why?"
Of course she would ask that as well.
"For disobeying orders."
That seemingly took her by surprise. He didn't know if he should feel honored or insulted for it.
Either way, it meant she thought him a bad soldier or harbored the idea of him being a mindless drone, incapable of defying orders and thinking for himself.
"Isn't crucifixion a befitting punishment for compromising a field maneuver?"
Ever the soldier.
Too perceptive, too clever.
"My Centurion wanted me dead anyway. That is why he used a bullwhip instead of a standard one."
The immediately horrified gasp that followed made him berate himself inwardly. Why did he have to say that? Now, precisely when Sullivan's trust in the Legion was but a fragile idea he had barely sketched out for her?
What did he gain from spurting out the truth that way about things that couldn't be helped anymore?
Her hands caressing his scalp and her lips kissing his cheek softly made a muscle in his jaw twitch.
"I don't want your pity."
Did he just come up with the most stupid, trite statement every average Joe proclaimed to advertise that they had balls of steel?
Couldn't he just shut up? Or bit his tongue for good measure?
Why was he so upset, anyway?
"It's not pity, you big dummy." – she replied instead. It bothered him that she would always try to resort to empathizing instead of lashing out, like any normal person would – "I'm apologizing for asking. I want you to feel good."
Oh, he knew a couple of things that could make him feel good.
However, when a solitary hand caressed her spine down, she tensed.
His turn to ask.
"You are avoiding this, aren't you?" – he sighed, trying to sound genuinely curious instead of slightly accusatory, which worked more along the lines of his convoluted thoughts since that forced conversation he had to endure with that… redhead prostitute.
Somehow, his mind had come up with this idea of him being filthy. Filthy as in with the kind of filth you cannot wash out with water and soap. A filthiness of the soul that made him unworthy. Undeserving.
And maybe Sullivan intuited that too and didn't want anything to do with him.
"It's not you." – she sighed as well – "It's me."
Trite, worn-out sentence to call off a meaningless, bothersome, perhaps even turbulent liaison.
He would be angry if he didn't feel so suddenly deflated.
"I've never done this before."
Wait, what?
"Oh." – he said stupidly, and she flinched, lowering her head.
He had to tilt her chin up with a finger, for she avoided looking at him at all costs.
Today wasn't his most lucid, tactful day, but he tried nonetheless.
He tried because he actually cared.
"That is something you should have told me before." – Vulpes said carefully, actually thinking before speaking. He really wanted her, but on her own terms. She was the first person to respect his boundaries. She deserved the same deference – "Things would have played out differently."
Lowering her lashes that way, even if he was aware that it wasn't the most appropriate thought to have, made her irresistible.
"I know." – she muttered, turning her eyes away again – "I know it's disappointing."
How could such a clever girl say something so utterly ludicrous?
"I didn't say that, Sullivan."
Her eyes returned.
"You aren't disappointed?" – she questioned as if she hadn't heard it right the first time, searching his face.
"No."
"Why?"
"Why should I?"
Good answer, given how quickly tension abandoned her body. She leaned in for a hug, and he complied.
Perhaps they really should take this slower. Not just a little, but way, way slower than he had anticipated.
It was alright for him, though, now that he knew the real reason behind her evasiveness.
She hadn't wanted to disappoint him the same way he didn't want to disappoint her.
This mutual respect, this understanding they had, this… synergy running between them was something good, something greater and better than attraction or sympathy. Something Vulpes wanted to keep for himself, so nobody could have a piece of the cake.
What they had - whatever it was - was a gift; a gift not many men in this world were conceded even once. And he would procure to honor it.
He would make sure he deserved it.
Tension gone, but plenty of time ahead and two more houses to explore, they put back on the goggles, took Sullivan's findings, and went for more.
"You can swim, right?" – she had asked, to his great amusement.
"The real question is, can YOU swim?" – he had returned teasingly – "I'll have you know that the Strawberry Reservoir Lake is an excellent teaching tool once you have managed not to drown the first four or five times."
"And I'll have you know that my training contemplated as well swimming classes in Olympic pools." – she replied, sticking out her tongue childishly – "Besides, my brother put me in extracurricular swimming classes when I was little, so I would be so tired by the end of the day that he could have a respite from me, basically to keep me from attempting to hack his laptop when he wasn't looking."
Vulpes bet she had been quite the rascal when she was little.
They swam, alright, but soon it turned into a competition to see who knew more tricks underwater. At some point, Sullivan had turned the light of her Pip-Boy iridescent, so the default green of her lantern would evolve into blue, then violet, then red, amber, yellow, and white to go default green again and so on.
She said it was something she had programmed with the base OS, a functionality to check chromatic availability. And Vulpes had to admit that, whereas he didn't believe in magic, the effects of the lights underwater did look magical.
He couldn't remember the last time he had swum just for fun.
Or maybe he did, and the memory was so painful that it was better to build new ones in its place.
Underwater, they admired each other floating amidst relatively clean liquid, like the trout some of the tribesmen hunters used to fish from time to time, scales shining along with the slimy, undulating bodies wading the waters.
He had tried to grab one once. No such luck.
Maybe now, older and bigger as he was, he would get luckier trying to catch a merrow.
The merrow in question was teasing him again, having left her treasures at the riverside along with their clothes and guns in favor of swimming more freely, thus being able to pinch him from time to time and get away in time before he could retaliate.
Besides, what were guns good for while swimming, right?
True, regular guns usually didn't fare well with water filling the ammunition's chamber… but he was sure he wouldn't have felt the dread he experienced when, suddenly, a huge, muscular, obscure silhouette swam between them full speed.
Hoping it would be Gabban this time, having gone there to chastise them for their little escapade, Vulpes knew there was no such luck when he discerned fins amidst the interloper's anatomy.
There was a moment of intense panic in which both acted on an impulse and grabbed each other's hand by the wrist to escape the silhouette.
Once their feet touched the ground, they ran sloppily to the riverside, splashing messily, searching for their guns desperately.
The creature was much faster, emerging from the dark waters with a bald, scaly head, eyes glowing in the dark as it opened its maw to let out a frightening roar. A deaf exhalation, almost a hissing, made with no vocal cords.
The kind of sound you would expect from a monster.
And then, along with the monstrous roar, a wave of something hit the air and threw Vulpes forwards, face right to the sand.
The next wave he felt was nausea as it rapidly crept up his throat, making him throw up violently a burning mixture between bile, mucus, and blood. Ears ringing painfully.
A Lakelurk alpha.
The sonic waves they delivered were bad already, but their claws and the uncanny strength inherent in their species were also something to take into account.
These… whatever mutation out of probably former regular animals the abominations was, were territorial, extremely aggressive, and a pain in the ass to bring down once they located you. The easiest way to get rid of them was from a distance, with a sniper rifle or any other firearm with enough scope to put several feet of distance between you and them.
However, the very moment the abomination was preparing yet another sonic roar, - neck distending from the juncture between its scaly shoulders as if it were flexible enough to launch a bite before retracting it again under folds of thick yellowish skin – the not-so-divine punishment descended from the heavens and pierced the creature's skull in a clean shot between the eyes.
The moment the heavy body fell backward into the water, tinting the already dark surface even darker with blood, Vulpes thought that, if he didn't despise the insolent sniper dog so much, he could just kiss him.
Or… maybe not. Hopefully, they will never have to get to that. Yuck.
"You okay?!" – out of nowhere, ten cold fingers were cradling his face, thumbs sweeping the thin trail of blood flooding from his nostrils as her soft breath caressed his face – "Did it hurt you?!"
Vulpes knew he'll be making her worry unnecessarily by not answering her immediately… but he was rather enjoying having her undivided attention as her little hands brushed along his face.
Besides, she was practically straddling him to get a better view, and he was also getting his good share of view with the sports bra sticking to her small breasts hovering mere inches under his nose.
Hey, maybe they were taking this slow, but that didn't mean he didn't have eyes to see.
"That was an alpha." – he announced calmly, having recovered from the brief rush of adrenaline from minutes ago – "Alphas are nests guardians, which also means there must be at least one close." – taking out the goggles, he squinted in the dark – "Actually, too close to the encampment. And spring means mating season, which also makes them even more aggressive."
"They may pose a problem in the near future, then." – she replied, cocking her head to the side as if asking.
She was still sitting astride on his lap, and he fought the impulse of grabbing at those legs. They were so pinchable.
"Suggestions?" – he asked, deciding instead to rub circles over her knees, which awoke gooseflesh on them. He gave her an impish smirk.
She also smiled in return.
"Wanna find out who gets more of them?" – she asked in an innocent tone, which didn't match her belligerent proposition – "Who knows? Maybe you'll get more Lakelurk points this time than the Glowing Ones I had to bring down in your place."
Oh, so she wanted to play feisty, huh?
"Back to the booth then?" – he half-suggested, curious how she would decide to tackle this.
"Nuh-uh." – she shook her head – "That'll wake your brother, and I'm not in the mood for sharing." – she gave him a shy look – "This is compensation for that… uh… failed date at The Strip."
Vulpes arched a brow, amused.
"You call a hunt a date?" – he questioned, smiling wider – "Interesting how you establish parallelisms."
"Shut up. Hunting mutated turtles is fun."
"Turtles?"
"Snapping turtles, to be precise. That's what Arcade says the Lakelurks descend from."
"The turtles I have seen so far aren't even anthropomorphic, much less that big, Sullivan."
"Radiation is just that funny."
"Enough to make a quadruped look like a human?"
"Oh, if only you could see the Mirelurk kings from the East Coast. Crustacean descendants, yet anthropomorphic. Nothing to do with the females. Very creepy."
"Now that I think about it, I have never seen the female equivalent of a Lakelurk. Only alphas, drones, and the occasional king."
"Maybe we'll get lucky tonight. Perhaps it is a giant mutant turtle that spits acid and eggs about to hatch."
"That's how Mirelurk females look like?"
"Worse."
"Huh."
"You're in, then?"
Oh, yes. He was.
"Did you doubt it perchance, dear Sullivan?"
"Then, we'll need guns. Good ones. Like those sniper rifles we brought from the safehouse."
"Oh, I'm sure the storage room from the Cove would suffice. You never know what our scouting parties may have brought in as of late."
"Wouldn't that piss off that grumpy Centurion?"
He laughed in earnest at that one. Calling Aurelius of Phoenix "grumpy Centurion" was an understatement for sure. The man never EVER smiled.
"We'll get those weapons alright. I'll deal with Aurelius later." – he assured.
She beamed at that, and he felt absurdly proud of it.
"Deal!" – she exclaimed excitedly – "Let's get a move on!"
Let's.
Amelia Dubrovhsky took a long, deep drag of the cigarette she was smoking and allowed the fume to come out of her lips once her taste buds got slightly numb and her lungs simply gave up.
It would be the only smoke she would entertain until the next day. After all, she couldn't afford to become an addict just that easily given the insurmountable amount of work she had waiting for her on her desk.
For, if anything, Amelia had always been an organized woman.
She kept a schedule diary in which she annotated every single task she had to go through, and she would only give the check once it was done. From important decisions regarding logistics to brushing her teeth three times a day.
It had always been like that since she could remember. Her mother hadn't known where to start about raising a child of her characteristics, but her father had been another entirely different story.
Whereas charming, Mingan Dubrovhsky had been a rigid man of even more rigid daily routines. For him, everything had had a predetermined order in which things had to be done and actions had to be undertaken. That had helped his child a great deal once she had started showing signs of wanting but not knowing how to work her autonomy.
For improvisation wasn't among Amelia's strong features. That, she left to others more competent on the matter than her.
However, in great contrast with the previous hindrance, she was an excellent strategist once given a field to develop planning. And she excelled in damage control even before any damage had been even done yet, for planning ahead had been her forte before everything would crumble around her.
That, she had also learned throughout the ten years she had been fighting the hordes of black and red commanded by Edward Sallow and spurred by his tin soldiers, the most prominent of them all, Joshua Graham.
Throughout those ten years, she had learned from how to throw a spear correctly to run in Power Armor.
From firing small pistols to laser and plasma rifles, from cooking healing powder to synthesizing Psycho for a fighting boost.
Reading and writing? She had known how to prior to her first encounter with the Legion decades ago. There's no telling the amount of useful information one can find in Old-World books.
And she was good with information. Damn good.
In fact, it was thanks to her privileged, near-photographic memory that she had managed to find – and leave alive in one piece - the eight Vaults to which she owed some of the best technological enhancements that her society had benefited from.
The outdated, severely lacking databases at the Nursery, most of them related to Vault-Tec thanks to the shadow-Governmental society known as 'The Enclave' from before the Great War, had provided little more than approximations. Their satellites, dependent on RobCo Industries' brand software, were either out of reach or unavailable most of the time due to a constant flow of data traffic she bet was being used to monitor a good chunk of the desert in Nevada, most prominently: Las Vegas.
Sallow might have chosen the Mojave due to the electricity that Hoover Dam provided for the Old-World city. However… the moment he'll manage to access Robert House's data on his old deals with Poseidon Energy, he might have yet to adapt his survivalist philosophy to match the titanic responsibility he'll be bestowed upon once he would unravel the gigantic web of schemes their common ancestors had planned before disappearing either underground or amidst the waves of radioactive oblivion.
The shadow of the Old World still hovered over the Wasteland even after two hundred years. In many ways, the societies that had developed after the bombs had been, one way or another, a consequence either product of inherited pre-War structures… or an answer to the environment.
The Legion had been the latter, coming from a man raised in the ways of the former.
A man that, likely, wouldn't treat Old-World tech with the reverence and caution it deserved.
Amelia had had little contact with the civilizations of the West despite her blood ties, having only books and her father's words to fill in the gaps that such contradictory Governments had to say for themselves.
Her father had known Tandi in her old days, and Amelia could tell how the man had despised what her successors had done with the country she once helped to grow powerful and strong. Now, a shadow of its former ideals and pragmatism quickly turned into imperialistic expansion, sacrificing principles and moral high ground in the process while stretching far beyond what their troops and resources could encompass.
Thus, why Sallow might yet stand a chance against them.
Thus, why certain squads of Vipers had been sent to the West to assess the terrain so Amelia could plan ahead of Legion movements.
She didn't care about the NCR as long as they let her people be… however, should the Republic be in dire need of a helping hand to crush down legionaries…
A low hiss by her left hip drew her attention momentarily while a scaly, hard nose bumped into her open palm.
"Shadis… my most loyal friend." – Amelia whispered, allowing the female creature to rub around her like a cat, marking her with its scent – "You feel it too, don't you? The proximity of conflict. Once the Flesh Maiden arrives at Ouroboros, we can begin with the due preparations."
Madwoman, she had been called. By the tribes that had isolated her and denied their help when she had pleaded for it, by the false prophet wielding the law of his God like a whip on the backs of the people he had helped to oppress and murder.
By her savior and mentor, who had deemed her ties with the snakes an unnatural mutation product of forced evolution through radiation sickness.
Babylon the Great Whore, Mother of Prostitutes and Abominations of the Earth. The Mystery Woman, born out of the ashes of the desert, marked by the Legion like a dog since her most tender youth, cursed and spurned by superstition and ignorance, bringer of death whenever she went.
Consumed by anger and hatred, not even the very Wasteland had wished to claim her bones, spitting her out every single time she would exchange nods with the Grim Reaper in salutation.
The snakes had come to her aid when not even Diana would take her back in, scared of what her protégée had become once the Old-World knowledge had found a home within the pages of her flawless memory.
Capable of raising an army and even a civilization of her own but incapable of looking after herself, the four-legged snakes had provided for her when she had been hungry or cold, and now they provided her with counsel.
Madwoman, they had called her, the one who talked with snakes.
The Wise Women from the Twin Mothers had cursed her, whispering omens in their cryptic philosophy, turning their backs on her and her taint. Gentle people turn hostile when they see the imprint of the Old World upon one individual, seeking revenge for everything she had been deprived of, no matter the means. Eye for an eye, flesh and blood for flesh and blood a hundred, thousand times.
First, they had given her a bed to sleep her fatigue, food to fill her empty stomach, and Bitter Drink to cure the wounds of her flesh.
Ah, but the wounds of the soul… they had attempted to reconduct her loss into a lesson, her destructive tendencies into a beast she had to tame should she want to heal.
Respect nature and life in all its forms. Let the Goddess, the moon, and her consort, the sun, go on with their courtship of death and resurrection every new cycle.
Her? She had wanted to reawaken the fire and steel of the Great War to reap red until the cold fire burning endlessly within her would be drowned. Until the tears of the woman wailing alone in the desert would be dried.
She had wanted to be the Goddess instead of worshiping empty idols. Selene, the moon, mother of all creatures of the night.
No need for a consort or a man for protection. Not anymore. Men were fallible, weak.
Men were children. Children who fathered other children before throwing themselves into war, being born and dying in violence.
Even the very act of creation, they could turn into violence.
And she, the madwoman, too old and barren to create life anymore, now had turned into a man. A violent king of beasts leading victims into war.
Victims turned into aggressors, civilians donning the soldier mantle. Women learning how to be a man.
And the men who served her? Children. Always children. Sons and fathers.
Her slaves? Atonement. For their many sins under the banner of the Bull. For their ignorance. For their meek, infantile, unquestioning servitude.
The rest? Edward Sallow and his repugnant system.
The butt of the cigarette burned her fingers, and she dropped it to the ground. Shadis' forked tongue searched her hands, seeking to appease her pain.
If it hadn't been for her children, her pack, her kin, she would have killed herself out of self-neglect. Her father was there for her no more to tell her to wash her face, brush her teeth, and take her meals.
Her current goals too absorbing to think about washing, about eating, about sleeping. Her children were there to remind those things to her, so she wouldn't die.
So she could pierce Edward Sallow's heart with a spear while wearing Power Armor.
A congregation of her children was now circling her, bumping their reptilian heads into her bony legs, waking her from her looping thoughts to warn her of the presence of the High Witch. The very same woman who, following in the steps of the one who later became her Lady, had escaped Legion imprisonment after countless torture and degradations.
This one, though not a warrior, was stronger than most. Spirits of superstition and false religion marking her as an illuminated soul due to her mismatched eyes.
Amelia's father had also sported partial heterochromia. And now, due to an early cataract, she also had different eyes.
For you had to sacrifice part of your vision in order to see beyond the veil between this world and the next. Or so her father used to say.
"Artemis' claimed son is here." – the woman informed her with a monochord tone while remaining at the threshold, unwilling to mingle with the Goddess' children – "Shall I make him enter, my Lady?"
"Let the man-child approach the night." – she replied in answer – "For he doesn't know this yet, but he has always been living under the wrong light."
And so, Amelia Dubrovhsky donned her divine mantle once more and became Hecate.
Aurelius of Phoenix wasn't a morning person.
In fact, the men under his command would say that he wasn't either a day person, but that's another entirely different matter.
That particular morning, he woke up with a dry mouth tasting of shit, and his first thought went to the half-filled bottle of beer he had in the fridge.
He downed what was left of it in one swing.
During breakfast, mainly consisting of cold 'meat' pie and some 'iguana' bits from yesterday, he smoked two cigarettes in a row alone in his office while receiving the last reports from The Fort through his radio, and his mood improved very slightly.
Since he wasn't a particularly hygienic man, he didn't think much of the sweaty stains plaguing the three undershirts he owned and put on one randomly.
The rest of his armor, however, he took care of to nearly obsessive extremes.
After all, it was a rare sight to behold him, a Centurion, donning his armor unspattered by the blood of his inferiors. An armor made out of parts of other armors of worthy adversaries he had crushed under the heel of his boot.
Producing a yawn fitting of a Yao Guai, he turned the key of his office to hail another searing day under the sun of the Mojave.
The first thing he observed that got him immediately frowning was an odd commotion.
There wasn't a single legionary on patrol, training, or even sleeping inside the tents if they pertained to the night shift.
All of them were bunched up together, facing the river either with consternated countenances or signing themselves in the way of the Legion, a loud murmur of gasps, prayers, and horrified commentaries buzzing in and out of them until Aurelius barked:
"What in the holy fuck are you bunch of assholes doing?!"
He located Severus, his Primus Decano and Armicustos, (2) among the waves of retarded faces and directed his furious yelling at him.
"Severus! You've got ten seconds to explain to me what the bloody hell is going on! Why are all of these dickheads concentrated in one spot instead of guarding their positions?! The patrols aren't just for show, damnit!"
And Severus, being the only competent man under his command he knew besides the Slavemaster, didn't miss a beat before answering straight:
"The river, sir!" – he exclaimed, pointing with his muscled, brown arm to his left – "The river carries blood!"
Unimpressed so far, Aurelius turned his face to his right…
… And he almost went back to his office to check the alcoholic graduation of that beer.
To say that the river carried blood would be an understatement, given that ALL of the water had turned reddish. Along with the occasional unidentified chunk of… whatever that was floating up North with the flow of the current.
Taking the steps of the outer metallic stairs down in two, Aurelius of Phoenix descended from his elevated position to cut straight to the water. The men cleared out of his path like the Red Sea before Moses.
He knelt, dug two fingers onto the current, and tested its texture.
He then took the two fingers to his mouth and gave them a lick.
It was blood, no mistake on that.
He eyed Severus, and then he saw something he couldn't quite place flicker in the eyes of the man.
"Around three in the morning, Vulpes Inculta and his guest knocked on my door." – Severus informed nervously. Quite the feat, given how gruff the Decanus was by default – "They demanded to take a look at the last shipments from our raiding parties Northwest. They took NCR tactical equipment, hand grenades, automatic rifles, a cowboy repeater, and ammo to bring down a whole Centuria, sir."
Mars' fucking balls on a motherfucking piece of toast.
He knew yelling at Severus wouldn't solve shit, but damn if Aurelius wasn't tempted to just do so.
Then, as if summoned by the strength of his murderous instincts alone, Aurelius' eyes squinted when he caught on two distant silhouettes walking toward the encampment from the South.
If he didn't know that alleging that the NCR disguise the two donned had misled him into believing them to be enemies wouldn't save him from a cross, Aurelius would simply gun them down right here, right now.
His indignation took to the next level when he noticed that the infernal device on the gal's left forearm was emitting music, and she was singing along something about dancing with tears in her eyes.
The Centurion knew he wasn't the only one staring, watching every move drawing those two closer to the encampment as if he were hypnotized. The situation too surreal, too bizarre to even consider snapping out of it.
Once they were within his range radius, the girl turned off the scandalous, nonsensical music while Inculta directed Aurelius a condescending, tight-lipped smile.
"Good morning, Centurion." – he greeted as if nothing was out of the ordinary – "The hours of uninterrupted sleep have lifted up your spirits, I hope?"
This brat son of a bitch, he got balls the size of his head, the fucker. He couldn't just arrive with the gal and leave at sunrise, couldn't he? He had to fucking go through his fucking storage, bother his fucking Quartermaster, and turn the fucking river red for sport. Just because he could.
Maybe the rumors were true after all, and he was some sort of an unnatural, bloodthirsty freak that Caesar had bound on a tight leash with a hex of sorts. Or maybe the will of Mars alone could conquer the power of angry spirits.
Or maybe people were just ignorant assholes who liked talking too much instead of assuming that there were folks out there crazier than a bag of cats, and Inculta just happened to be one of them.
Anyway, nuts or not, he had to get the hell out of Aurelius' camp. The sooner, the better.
"The Cursor is up already." – Aurelius deadpanned, crossing his arms – "Isn't that right, Lucullus?" – he finished, emphasizing the name of the interpellated, who emerged from the waves of idiots and, with a brisk salutation, he stuttered something about getting the barge ready before scurrying away to the docks.
"Oh, but we haven't had breakfast yet." – Inculta said cheekily – "And it would be a shame to let our hunting meat get wasted."
The fucker was trying his patience.
"Hunting." – Aurelius drew out slowly. Stating, not asking – "In the middle of the night."
"Fancy an egg, Centurion?" – the gal intervened, taking the duffle bag she had been wearing on her back to open it and show Aurelius its contents.
Lakelurk eggs. Bloody Lakelurk eggs.
These kids were fucking insane.
"Also." – Inculta spoke again, lowering a canvas bag from his shoulder. Aurelius noticed the bottom sported a huge red stain – "In case you'll want to mount this on your wall…"
Aurelius knew he wouldn't like what he'll see, but damn if he wasn't a little curious.
He came to curse his curiosity once he took a peek inside the bag.
"The fuck's that?" – he asked, trying to remain calm while, deep inside, he was a bit spooked.
"Why, the head of a Lakelurk queen, of course."
Impossible. That thing was triple the size of an average Lakelurk head. And it didn't even resemble them one bit.
"You're telling me you've wiped out a whole Lakelurk nest." – he summarized slowly as if trying to understand why one of Caesar's most trusted men would act this childishly with such lethal creatures. As if it was a game. Next thing he knew, Inculta would be asking a pack of Deathclaws for a dance and a fire gecko for a kiss – "Because…?"
"There were alphas swimming too close to the encampment." – the young man explained, unshaken – "They were establishing a colony already. A month or so later, and you would have gotten the river swarming with drones and hatchlings."
Aurelius inhaled a mouthful of air. Twice.
"Have your fucking breakfast and, once you're done, get the hell outta my camp." – he hissed, taking up the offerings nonetheless. Hunting meat was still hunting meat, and his tribe had taught their young ones not to disdain meat so easily – "They radioed a while ago to give you clearance."
That being said, courtesies exchanged, and all that crap, Aurelius of Phoenix finally got his well-deserved peace of mind once the couple of troublemakers boarded the raft along with their third wheel, who didn't look too thrilled by the perspective.
Aurelius had never been a man of many sympathies… but he actually pitied Cursor Lucullus on having to put up with Inculta and his extravagances for so many hours.
Oh, well, that's what you get for not chopping enough Profligate heads during your serving time, he guessed.
LATIN:
(1) - scout
(2) - Quartermaster
A/N: hell-o! I'm back again!
Since I'm crazy, I've started a marathon revision from Chapter 1 to, currently, the 11th. I've corrected grammatical mistakes and more awkward sentences thanks to Google Docs and Grammarly, so native English speakers won't sue me for making their eyes bleed xD (the mistakes, I realize now, were HUGE).
Nowww... the racism. Ivory's racism, to be precise (this is just an explanation due to what I have observed, I'm not looking to make people offended/angry, okay?).
Let me ask you a question: how many Caucasian NPCs are throughout the Fallout franchise? The answer is A LOT. And how many (human) companions are Caucasian as well? ALMOST ALL OF THEM (not you, Preston. Go back to your precious settlements xD). Fallout 3 is the only one that has a Hispanic (Jericho), an Asian (Clover), and an Afro (Paladin Cross) to add to the diversity.
Is not just Bethesda, because Obsidian and Black Isle Studios did exactly the same. Indians like Sandra Kundanika, then Tandi and her father, Aradesh, are a rarity. Slavic people, like Gorobets or Badim and Yefrim Bobrob, are also a rarity. Arabs?: they don't exist. Native Americans?: only Hispanics, the rest of them are, like, a myth. I'm not complaining, but this peculiarity serves my plot purposes fairly well (you know, the pre-War ethnic cleansing) and Ivory just happens to be a narrator (a particularly bitter one) to shed some awareness on this issue. Six's pre-War society explains it while Ivory's POW serves to illustrate how two hundred years have made little difference in that regard (politically speaking, that is). That's all, nothing more to add. Everybody in this fic is American at the end of the day :)
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R: yes! I had lots of fun writing the recruits, even if they are punctual narrators that may or may not have a further role in the story.
And, yes, even if I don't hate the song per se, "Johnny Guitar" begins to be bothersome after the fifth or sixth time in a row. That's why I mainly disconnect the radios in New Vegas, they annoy me.
I hope you are enjoying the ride because I certainly am! I'm not sure whether the next chapter will be a means to "catch up" with other characters and subplots (Burke, I need to write about Burke!), or it will be, finally, when Six confronts Caesar (because I already have part of their conversation written... and it's LONG. Like VERY LONG). I'm still trying to work out the order in which I want to narrate things, takes some time.
Thank you again to Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R for Beta-ing this monster and... Cheese for everyone! :D
