"Number Nine"
Ch. 33: Highway to the Danger Zone.
Brief Note: this chapter and, possibly, the next two, will be dialogue-heavy with very little happening in-between. That means I had to divide Sullivan's dialogue with Sallow into several parts as not to saturate the reading experience. They will be discussing their personal views and we'll get a glimpse into Legion society a little in-depth, but Sulli vs. Sallow's dynamics will happen in several conversations instead of one.
"Headin' into twilight
Spreadin' out her wings tonight
She got you jumpin' off the track
And shovin' into overdrive.
Highway to the danger zone
I'll take you
Ridin' into the danger zone."
- Kenny Loggins, "Highway to the Danger Zone"
The raft's constant swinging was making her queasy.
It didn't help that her anxiety levels had kept escalating since they had departed from Cottonwood Cove. To the point that she was constantly teetering at the brink of tears. Or vomit. Or both.
Rex seemed to perceive her distress, for he was allowing her to squeeze his cheeks, wrap her arms around him, scratch, and cuddle down to near-ridiculous lengths. The animal's patience and willingness to endure her antics almost supernatural.
She admitted that she had also tried to calm her nerves by listening to music, then reading, then watching a movie – all on her Pip-Boy -, then downing almost all of the candy reserves she had brought with her.
Plus, she didn't want to make small talk with either of the human occupants on the barge.
Zorro had already attempted to reach her several times, either verbally or typing down conversation through the chat.
10:12 AM Friday, April 21, 2282
Fox: Are you alright?
Courier VI: Yep.
Fox: Are you sure you don't need anything?
Courier VI: Nope.
Fox: Is that a "no" for not being sure or for not needing anything?
Courier VI: Second.
Fox: Second what?
Courier VI: Choice.
Fox: Very well. Is there something you'll want to discuss before our arrival?
Courier VI: Nah.
Fox: You don't have any doubts pending or further questions that you would like to ask me?
Courier VI: Some.
Fox: Then name them.
Courier VI: Later.
Fox: Are we going to keep this conversation on the premise of me doing the ninety percent of the talk while you deliver monosyllables or single words at best?
Courier VI: Probably.
Fox: I see.
She and Gabban didn't have much in common other than his brother, and she wasn't in the most ideal mindset for attempting to break the ice.
Besides, she knew he was cautious around her and still resented her a little for the fight he had had with Zorro at that time in McCarran.
And then, the ferryman looked like he had swallowed a lemon since she had gotten aboard.
Not that he had been any nicer with her once they had been about to depart. Maybe partly because he was the only one who hadn't had breakfast.
And also, partly because he was an ignorant, dumb asshole.
"Ave. Are you ready to head upriver?" – had been his monochord, almost dismissive question once Zorro, Gabban, Rex, and she had found their way to the docks.
She didn't know what had compelled her to ask the man about what she should expect once she arrived at Fortification Hill. Orders may have changed since the very Gabban had gotten West of the Colorado. This guy had been the last one abandoning the emplacement.
"You'll be meeting face-to-face with the mighty Caesar himself, founder of the Legion, conqueror of 86 tribes." – the man had droned out like he had rehearsed the same discourse thousands of times. It may be true, given how much time he must spend in solitude going up and down the river – "To my knowledge, this is the first time Caesar has ever summoned one of the Dissolute to see him. Not even tribal chieftains receive this honor. That it'd be a woman is even more surprising."
"Dissolute." – she had deadpanned, matching his bored intonation – "Why, I thought the right word would be 'Profligate'. Or is there a hierarchy regarding who's the least trustworthy in the eyes of Caesar? I've also heard the word 'Degenerate' apply to non-Legion people as well. Care to illustrate the differences?"
She knew she had been playing with fire, sassing the bosun while Zorro and his brother approached from behind. Their boots making the wooden dock creak under their steps.
"All who are not Legion are 'Dissolute'. They live in squalor, unrestrained by morality, lacking moderation, temper, and self-control." – the guy had intonated once again as if he were reciting History in a Primary School oral exam – "Their very existence is a blight on the common good. Even worse are the Profligates, the subtype of Dissolute one finds this side of the river. They hold themselves to be civilized when, in fact, they are corrupt and self-interested. The truth will be made clear to them soon enough."
Great, a brain-washed moron. Just what she had needed…
"And the Degenerates? They're also a Dissolute subtype?"
"Those are the kind that are not even fit for being slaves, for they know nothing about virtue, nor they are predisposed to learn it even if given a chance." – and there, she had seen emotion beyond the dull discourse a thirty-something-year-old man couldn't differentiate from his individual thoughts, drilled as he clearly had Legion diatribe inside that thick skull of his – "Raiders, criminals, slackers, drug-addicts… those are the Degenerates, the ones beyond salvation. They are only fit for exemplary punishments to educate the rest."
Nipton, owch.
Also, contradictory discourse if we took into account that many tribes – among them, the ones who had had deals with them, such as the White Glove Society, the Omertas, and even the very Khans – that the Legion had absorbed had been criminals and raiders as well. As long as they weren't dependent on an addictive substance such as chems, the Legion had absorbed cannibals, drug peddlers, slavers, thieves, and even communities whose cultural identity had regressed to the point of finding human sacrifices to their gods a common, reasonable practice.
Ignorance among the soldiery was inexcusable. They were the ones who shaped the face of their country, the ones protecting its frontiers, the ones who saw all the ugliness that the world had to offer… and also all the ugliness that their Government had in its security policies.
In the case of the Legion, they well damn knew who they absorbed and who they destroyed. Their slave and military forces were part of those very assimilations, setting them apart from free citizenship.
The legionary that chose to disregard what they saw during their serving time was deliberately choosing ignorance by omission.
Sorry to break the news to you, ferryman, but you have been fed a lie. A lie you have chosen to swallow like your daily bread.
This first part of their brief dialogue had presented a moral dilemma in her dalliance with, she realized, one wild hot bastard leading her to the Gates of Hell… but the worst part had been the one that hadn't been said.
"You've mentioned being surprised to see a woman receiving this honor." – she couldn't have stopped herself even if she had wanted to. Her lips too loose, and her hyperactive mind already too set on pursuing gaps in the man's reasoning. In Edward Sallow's reasoning – "Why is that?"
The look of long-suffering disdain, then forced politeness, had spoken volumes for the ferryman even if no actual words had left his mouth, hanging open in interruption as a pair of slender, fine-boned, familiar hands had lain upon Six's shoulders. The distinctive voice of their owner following immediately after.
"I'd be careful with those statements that you entertain around our Lord's guests, Cursor." – Zorro's voice had held a flat yet suggestive quality that had gotten all of the hairs on her body standing. Whether it was due to her attraction or the implicit threat hidden behind them, she hadn't been able to differentiate – "After all, your words as an individual might not reflect the values of our collective, thus, the values of our Lord Caesar. Therefore, if I were you, I would abstain from further opine… about matters that, perhaps, I shouldn't give my opinion at all."
The cruel censorship in his words - even if aimed to save her the trouble of listening to what she had known to be a misogynist remark, maybe even disguised as an explanation – had been yet another morally questionable point to take into account. One that could prove crucial in her dealings with Sallow.
If their culture was so monolithic – unlike what the real Romans had done in the past, adapting the barbaric religions into their own Pantheon as a safety measure to prevent revolts and further control vast territory – that also meant their leader would hold ground on his argumentation even at the expense of facts and evidence. A 'god' couldn't be caught proven wrong in front of his subjects.
Somehow, she had to get him relaxed and as alone as his personal guards would allow. Maybe even flattery might rub on him, for Six bet that the dictator had, to this very day, little opportunities to speak with someone that wasn't (yet) his prisoner or a conquered tribal acknowledging his work, much less when it came to praising the good points his society brought into the Wasteland.
Okay, she could work with that.
She had already mentally rehearsed her take on a political discussion with an ex-Republican man surrounded by tribals that had gone rogue over a dozen times. Taking into account the age gap between them, their political agenda, and the points they possibly might have in common.
But that didn't mean she wasn't scared out of her shit.
This reminded her of that time when she had been led to the Shady Sands Capitol, to the Presidential Hall of Congress, seat of the NCR Senate.
Unlike their pre-War counterpart in Sacramento – now known as Sac-Town, within the 'Short Loop' Treatment, dealing with the main trade routes within NCR territory and beyond – the Californian's HQ was located at the foot of the Sierra National Forest. Roughly where the pre-War Rock Haven used to be, given that the entire post-Apocalyptic city had been built from scratch without using pre-War ruins as the foundation.
Tripled in size and wholly refurbished since Tandi's Golden Era, the building was a blinding, limestone-white giant that had stood menacingly in front of her big-eyed fifteen-year-old as she had been searched by the guards at its door.
But the most intimidating part had been to hold a conversation with Aaron Kimball and his trusted men and women from their upper and lower houses within their State Legislature and Assembly, respectively.
She, a child by then, had been subjected to systematic scrutiny while everyone holding a seat at that table had kept questioning her origins, her motivations, and her political agenda.
Every single one of them had been at least double her age, had been triple the experienced, and had been infinitely meaner than anything she could muster on one of her bad days. And without losing their manners and composure even once.
All this while Kimball had simply watched, hands neatly folded under his chin, directing subtle commands to his senators under the guise of nods, chin tilts, and the occasional harrumph. Clearly, a strategist used to delegate power that wouldn't be questioned. A soldier.
She had felt so small, so powerless, and so insignificant, squirming inside like a worm writhing on the hook and wanting to cry every five minutes throughout the long hours that meeting had taken place… that she, after said meeting had reached a satisfactory outcome in the first round (for there had been more of those before Burke and Kimball had come up with an agreement), had had a full-blown anxiety attack. So brutal, that she had ended up occupying a stretcher at the local hospital, with Followers of the Apocalypse giving her anxiolytic medication and treating her like she was made of crystal.
She hadn't eaten for the next day, unable as she had been to hold anything in her stomach.
And now, if things didn't change for the next hour until they reached Fortification Hill, she would follow the same path.
Unless she programmed the Painkiller Mode on her Pip-Boy.
Zorro wouldn't like that, though. He might perceive her action as an insult to his Lord.
Shit.
The raft kept moving as well as her eyes swam in the expanse. The day was starting to grow hotter by the hour, and she longed to swim again, no matter that the water was still a little reddish.
If she closed her eyes, she still could see him underwater, surrounded by changing coloring, sharp crystal facets undulating in the liquid, like some Dalí painting.
It was a nice memory. One she could take with her far away, to the endless ocean of her imagination, where past and present tended to mix often.
She wondered if, given her brainial traumatism, the picturesque details would eventually fade from her mind, giving way to sepia-like photography.
There have been countless examples of those in the Commonwealth Museum. People from before and after the Second World War. Emaciated people, pale ghosts telling their tales of misery, of lost love, of countless regrets as they posed to be portrayed with the ruins of their bombed houses behind them.
Though Jingwei had been the first to dabble, land, and successfully take hold of American soil, many Chinese warplanes had managed to penetrate their security before being brought down by their missiles. They knew a submarine incursion had been out of their possibilities until 2077, so they had opted to emulate the suicide strategy their hated enemies, the Japanese, had used throughout the Second World War: kamikaze attacks.
They never went beyond the coastline… but their attacks, sometimes, besides crippling the local fishing economy, were enough to dissuade tourists and bathers from pursuing holidays on the East Coast.
Consequently, the waterfront buildings and the fishing warehouses had been removed from the coastline, leaving empty skeletons where the poor and the homeless risked being bombed while they slept. Not that it had mattered much to their military Government.
While the East Coast had resented the effects of being in the direct way of the Red Menace attacks, the rest of the country had bought or rented bunkers while the waiting list to get into the Vaults had held slow progress. Pulowski Preservation Services having been the more competitive company in offering "nuclear protection on a budget" for the more desperate.
The wealthy and idle had spent their fortunes on casinos in Vegas and many other places throughout the country, while the influencers on the social media had advertised an ideal, far-removed lifestyle in luxury, promoting package trips while insisting upon investment in War Bonds, sometimes going as far as promoting the military lifestyle like some fashion of choice as well. Advertising promos and lending their faces to campaigns showing how to fire a tank, the latest models of plasma-based weapons, try the decommissioned Power Armor models at the Museum of Freedom in Concord, take a trip around General Atomics Galleria… Dress in camo-pinup (she was still trying to come up with a definition of what that particular style had been about) while sipping a Margarita cocktail at the Sierra Madre.
Now, everything was just a dog-eared black-and-white picture. Not even History. That, people like Burke or Kimball, took great pains to ignore that it even happened, replicating the very same system they found so comfortable to live in. The only system they could relate to civilization.
Are you guys any different from them… or just another answer to the wrong question? - she thought, eyeing Zorro pensively, who raised his sunglassed eyes from the screen of his Pip-Boy and looked back at her in question.
The barge hit land before she could even react, having been too lost inside her own mind to notice how the shadow of Fortification Hill had grown closer and closer over the last ten minutes.
She was aided rather brusquely by Gabban to stand up, Rex immediately following after her.
A strange, mute communication passed between the brothers when they exchanged glances. Six noticed a small retinue of men that, due to their ages and the peculiar shape of their armors, couldn't be mere legionaries. Not even Decani.
Getting outboard, the three youngsters and the dog faced the men.
"Lucius." – Zorro nodded toward the one Six thought to be the oldest of them, silver tendrils brushing his temples and beard.
The familiar treatment and the beard alone informed Six that this one must be someone important.
"So, the Fox returns to sit at the Bull's hooves once more." – the interpellated returned, squinting his hard, intelligent eyes briefly while giving the three of them a once-over, his sight lingering a small portion of time longer on her in particular – "And this is the famous Courier, I gather?" – at her silent nod, he kept talking, this time focusing his attention on Zorro – "It is the wish of our Lord Caesar to show hospitality to your guest, so one of my men will be accompanying her to her temporary lodgings. She'll have to disarm and relinquish all banned items at the entrance, just like any other visitor."
Six noticed with growing anxiety that this Lucius man hadn't addressed her as a guest of Caesar. As if the entire political move Zorro had made would be a sort of a rogue move on his part.
She didn't like it. She didn't like it one bit.
"That won't be necessary." – Zorro replied, his voice losing all tonality along the way to become a mild, monochord droning Six had come to identify as his default way of speech when dealing with a situation he wasn't in full control of – "My trusted man here can direct her to her accommodations, for she will be staying at my tent."
She wasn't entirely sure if she should feel relieved that he was protecting her by establishing limits for the rest of the encampment… or she should fear for him, given what the implications of sleeping under the same roof would arise.
"Is that so?" – Lucius replied back, directing her yet another inquisitive glance. His dark eyes were unnerving as if he were dissecting her on the spot – "In that case, my man will be accompanying your agent and the Courier to your place. I don't think this may pose a problem… or is it?"
There was something they weren't saying. Not in front of her, at least. Six couldn't discern if there was any ill intent from this man toward any of them, for his body language didn't distill the hostility his passive-aggressive speech seemed to imply.
"By all means." – Zorro answered – "There isn't a greater honor than being escorted by a member of the Praetorian Guard. I'm sure even the Courier, a Dissolute as she is, can appreciate the gesture." – he added, directing her a quick glance.
The Praetorian Guard. These were Sallow's personal bodyguards.
Either her arrival was greatly anticipated… or something nasty was cooking in the background. These guys weren't mere escorts, and the authority they carried was unquestionable.
"Very well." – Lucius acquiesced, signaling one of the men behind him with a nod of his chin to step up as he got his attention once more to Zorro – "Caesar also wishes to have a word with you before receiving the Courier."
Her anxiety levels shot up after that sentence was uttered, and everything else turned into an amalgam of blurry images in which she was bid vale by a very terse Zorro; she was disarmed at the entrance, escorted to the farthest point of the northern area of the encampment, and shown inside of a gloomy space full of mountains of papers neatly distributed over a huge desk.
Her brain had just barely processed the opening image of what had looked likely as crucified slaves and western people in their undies drying in the sun, piles of excrement and urine pooling at their nailed feet, that had received her as a presentation card after crossing The Fort's gates. Then, the rest, she was still trying to 'digest' inside her frenzied brain while containing her hyperventilation as she voiced a request, watching how Gabban was lighting a candle by the desk.
"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?" – the blonde Frumentarius asked, clearly not having heard her correctly.
"Can I have a bucket, please?" – she tried again, her voice shivering very slightly at the end.
"What for?" – the Praetorian accompanying them asked brusquely from the tent's entrance.
Couldn't they just give her the goddamn bucket and get lost for the next, say, twenty minutes? Kind of?
"You see, I'm unused to the constant shifting of that raft we came in, and the trip up here…"
The Praetorian gave her a disgusted glance.
"First the little show with the gate guards, now this." – right, she had forgotten that one. Guess, even amidst a panic attack, she was still up to sassing the guards into giving in by allowing her to keep her Stimpaks. Luckily for her, Zorro hadn't been around; he wouldn't have liked that – "Truly, I don't know why Caesar would wish to speak with such a physically inferior, sickly creature. You better worth all the trouble."
Funny how everybody now seemed like giving her the same crap. Bet inviting a free woman inside Fortification Hill must have created quite an uproar.
The moment the Praetorian let the canvas entrance fall to call for a slave that could fetch that bucket, Six was promptly grabbed by the elbow. In the background, Rex growled in warning.
"What are you playing at?" – Gabban hissed in her ear, shifting his eyes between her, the dog, and the entrance.
She slapped his hand away, which seemed to stun him momentarily before frowning again.
"Do you know how high the risk Vulpes is taking on your account?!" – he reproached, pointing her with an accusing index finger, baring his teeth – "Do you have the slightest idea about what your presence here represents?!"
She wasn't up for this shit. She just wanted to puke in peace.
"If you wanna have this stupid conversation later, I'll be all ears." – she snapped – "For the time being, though, I'm having a fucking anxiety attack here, and I simply want a fucking bucket so I can fucking throw up here instead of showing the contents of my stomach to your Lord." – as Rex came to lick her hand, she added with irritation – "Happy now?!"
Gabban didn't add anything else until the Praetorian showed up again, lifting the tent canvas to allow a bowed woman dressed in rags to enter, put the bucket on the ground, and leave immediately after.
Six took the life-saver container avidly and began her vomiting routine after giving both men her back. If they wanted to watch, that was their problem.
"By order of Caesar, you will not abandon this tent until he calls for you." – the Praetorian recited almost mechanically – "Any request, needs, or urgencies you might have, they will have to pass through me, so I can give or rescind my approval on those."
If she wouldn't feel like shit and knew there would be no consequences of broken or missing digits, she would have flipped him the bird. Asshole.
Vulpes felt ill-prepared on all accounts to have this conversation.
He had arrived prevented, though. Gabban had taken care of that.
"Look, Fox… things are ugly now at The Fort. Damn ugly."
They hadn't had much time to discuss his next move, but both agreed he should come off clear with their Lord.
"I don't know what has happened or who's the backstabbing piece of shit that has rat us out… but Caesar knows, Fox."
Oh, he already had a couple of guesses. Among them, the few imbeciles who were still loyal to the old system, thus Anguis, thus Alerio.
Old agents in deep cover within House's territory, mostly. The name of Cato Hostilius - cover engineer at the Hoover Dam installations - one among many on the list, though not the one he had currently in mind.
The Custos on probationary, Atticus, unlikely. Not because Vulpes truly trusted him, but he trusted his greed more than anything else. After all, Vulpes had left him as a decoy among the Omertas once his private talk with Salvatore had rendered fruit. The deal between them and the Legion intact, but now without unnecessary traitors in the way and a grateful, servile new boss thinking he had been selected to become a future investment among the Legion's Most Trusted.
Little did he know that the Legion had no such a category for Profligates. You can only trust them as long as they're useful and they believe they're gaining something from you in exchange for ensuring their loyalty.
This had happened in-between after dealing with Alerio and before returning to the Lucky 38. Allegiance reinforced, doubts about the Courier's allegiance sown as well. The only good thing he had managed out of an awful day, to be perfectly honest.
No matter. Omertas and traitorous agents along, Vulpes will make sure he took care of them… in due time.
Now, all he had to do was to persuade his Lord to buy his reasoning behind an alliance with an Old-World soldier girl.
Which was easier said than done.
Likely, his current state of attire wouldn't help his cause, but it was a minor inconvenience he was ready to deal with. Along with those other inconveniences he'll have to tackle in one round.
And explanations. LOTS of explanations.
He resented the sun infinitely as he walked up the hillside with his Riot helmet under his arm and a Praetorian at each side.
Lucius had entered a while before him, and he was permitted entrance ten minutes or so later.
Punitive time as to send him the message to wait, to diminish his confidence. His Lord knew his tactics alright, but Vulpes knew them better.
You didn't get much time at the top positions if you didn't know how to keep yourself in them. Mostly by knowing how Caesar's guidelines worked and not allowing insecurities to rule you. If there was a word Caesar despised, that was 'but' when you had to explain yourself in front of him.
If you showed doubts or weakness, the match was lost already.
He approached the throne, saluted, and knelt before allowing his Lord to react upon seeing him dressed in such a way.
There was a pregnant silence before the Imperator spoke up.
"A Ranger armor." – he finally said. A statement, not a question – "Not a disguise, but a gift from the Courier, I assume."
"Yes, Domine."
"Showering you with gifts, is she? You must be doing something right." – the Imperator pointed out mildly sarcastically - "Care to explain why you are wearing it instead of your regulatory uniform, Frumentarius?"
"To disguise as a Profligate, Domine."
The Imperator left out a curt, humorless laugh.
"I don't know if that's supposed to be a joke, Inculta, but I'll have you know that today, in particular, I have very little tolerance for jesters."
Here we go again, the Inculta treatment.
"There was a… situation with a sniper at the Cove."
"A sniper?"
"One of the Courier's allies, meus Domine."
"And you allowed this kind of treatment?"
"None of them is aware of my real identity. And I must add that the majority of that group weren't too keen on allowing their Golden Girl to dabble into our territory on her own. They think of me as an ally, and I intend for them to keep believing so as long as such a setup is beneficial for our cause."
Nice discourse, not an inflection out of place. When he was staring at the ground, it was easier to sell his arguments than when he had to look Caesar in the eye.
"Get up. Now."
Yeah, Karma being a bitch with him again, he supposed.
Doing as told, Vulpes got up from his kneeling position to find an unfriendly though curious gaze in his Lord's eyes.
If he was still curious, that meant Vulpes still had a chance.
"It has come to my knowledge that this 'Golden Girl' happens to be more than what meets the eye." – Caesar drew out slowly, letting every word set in – "In fact, due to the nature of her… antiquity, we could very well call her a Platinum Girl. It suits her undoubtedly well, won't you say?"
Rhetorical question. Not meant to be answered. Now he had to shut up and endure without moving a muscle.
"Now, look at me when I ask you this question, because I won't repeat myself: what the actual fuck were you thinking, Inculta?"
To serve you. To please you. To hold my end of the bargain by doing as you ordered me.
"Here I sit, thinking you will deliver me the next face for the Mojave Campaign, an educated Wastelander with, perhaps, more sense and drive than the common rabble… And what do I get instead?" – Vulpes knew he was being studied. Carefully. Any false move or the wrong look and he'll be decorating a cross in no time – "A goddamn pre-War phenomenon."
Even if he wasn't raising his voice, Vulpes felt the yelling behind a side of his Lord's complicated character that he rarely displayed: the calm before the storm.
A storm Vulpes had to contain before it engulfed him in one sweep.
"A goddamn pre-War phenomenon whose very first instinct, were I in her shoes, would be to recreate what she has lost. And do you know whose society emulates better that of the deceased United States of America? Hmmm?" – inclining forward, as if he were going to share a revelation, he instead deadpanned – "Take a pick, Inculta, you've got fifty-fifty chances to get it right: Mr. House or the New California Republic?"
Don't flinch. You can do this.
"Give me just one reason not to have that girl, and you disposed of right here, right now."
Disposed. As one would do with trash.
Vulpes inhaled before opening his mouth, carefully choosing every single word.
"A powerful, wise man told me once that there is no better advantage over a woman than to ensnare her into her own nonsense." – he recited placidly, misleadingly calm, putting on his best humbling, flattering manner. After all, his Lord had a taste for servility in his subordinates – "He told me about the hopes and fantasies of the fairer sex and, turns out, that this one is not very different from the rest, regardless of the two centuries of difference." – a brief, heavy pause to give his words the conviction they needed before continuing – "In particular, our Courier seeks protection and longs for a home. The latter, due to her unique circumstances, perfectly understandable. The former, though… with good reason. A reason that happens to involve certain alliances that the NCR is even keeping from their own citizenry."
"And what do those alliances have to do with her in the first place? The report your agent delivered to me was kind of vague around that issue in particular. You know I don't like vague reports, do you?"
His inner fox began licking its whiskers in anticipation.
"The man who has stricken a profitable partnership with Aaron Kimball under the guise of lending money to the Republic for the Mojave Campaign for, no doubt, political-economic advantage in the oncoming Elections… happens to be the one holding the leash of the Courier's collar as well." – he explained – "She's a spy… the same way she's also a slave of this man, which happens to be a very unkind master." – squinting his eyes in a suggestive manner, he added – "If we happen to, let's say, offer her a safer, less odious alternative…"
He could practically see the gears turning inside the Imperator's head. Contemplating his options.
He went silent for a while before resuming their talk.
"Very well, let's say that we can rule out the NCR safely." – Caesar conceded finally, nodding once – "What about Mr. House?"
"Precisely, that is a point that I wanted to present to you, Domine, before taking her word for granted: Mr. House has, apparently, asked of her a special favor regarding the hardware at the Weather Monitoring Station… and the entrance to a bunker beneath it. His mathematical predictions – and his mechanical camera drones, no doubt - have found that the leader of the Chairmen, Benny Gecko, might have been taken prisoner in here. Along with the Platinum Chip, the key to that compound."
"Of course…" – Caesar nodded once more, still contemplating options in his head, a hand pinching his chin pensively – "And your plan is convincing her to switch sides by destroying whatever lies underground?"
"Yes, Domine. As a test to her loyalty."
"And how do you exactly plan to obtain her collaboration to do such a thing?"
"By countering House's offer of protection through simple mathematical proportion: we have the numbers, he doesn't. We can protect her from her captor; he cannot." – he explained – "Besides, even if House could, in the end, provide for her, she would be confined within the walls of the Lucky 38, given the political-economic ties House shares with the Republic. One foot outside Vegas, and she'll be at the mercy of her former master once more. Her options are either remain a slave or turn into a perpetual prisoner, I'd say."
"She still will be a slave under my banner."
"She doesn't necessarily need to know that, Domine."
Caesar nodded again, conceding that point to him. Lying by omission hadn't been above his Lord's tactics to work out alliances, for he could always claim later that he did never state otherwise.
He was good at finding cracks in specifics such as this one to make it work out between Sullivan and his Lord without having any involved parties walk out of the deal unless certain circumstances ensued.
Circumstances he could prevent.
"It still doesn't sit right with me knowing how readily she'll betray her masters… should she end up accepting your offer, of course." – the Imperator paused, this time setting up his mind – "I want guarantees of her unquestionable loyalty, Vulpes. What are you bringing to the table?"
So, 'Vulpes' again now. Good.
"If meus Domine wills so, I can accompany her underground to assess the situation first-hand."
"That, you definitely will." – Caesar emphasized with a warning look - "However, ensuring her cooperation isn't the same as ensuring her loyalty, even if she ends up fighting for my Legion at Hoover Dam."
Why such insistence? Once the battle would be over, and Vegas would exhibit the Bull's banner on the very face of its decadence, Sullivan could retire from military life. Maybe even give them some input on the future Campaigns on Republican soil, but beyond that…
"Besides taking into account your invaluable advice regarding the feminine mind, meus Domine, I might have sown certain… notions regarding the dynamics of our partnership on her as well." – he found himself saying, fighting off how profoundly revolting such an admission felt.
How treacherous and vapid his words sounded to address something that had stopped being mere business a while ago.
Caesar blinked.
"Our partnership with her… or your partnership with her?" – he deliberately asked.
"Both."
There was a moment of deafening silence in which Vulpes was acutely aware of the look he was receiving not only from his Lord, but from the silent presence of Lucius and the men guarding the tent as well until the Imperator's impassive mask broke to give way to laughter.
"Well now, Vulpes." – he said, still laughing – "I must admit that I had my doubts… and yet, once again, you never fail to deliver." – now he was grinning in earnest, a signal that he was pleased – "Tell me, are those notions solid enough to ensure at the very least willingness?"
"They are, Domine."
"To the point of unquestionable commitment… or shall I dispose of her once the Dam would be ours?" – he pressed.
"Meus Domine…?"
"Let's not beat around the bush, shall we?" – crossing his fingers under his chin, the Imperator added – "What I'm asking here is about your thoughts on extending that partnership of yours… indefinitely."
Oh.
"If it is the will of meus Domine, I shall obey." – he replied automatically, perhaps a little too quickly.
"And what about the boy?"
Ah, yes. Lest we forget the implications of the original deal.
"Having a cemented partnership with a woman, by the laws of the Legion, would allow me to acquire his custody by legal means, if I may infer, Domine." – he replied as coldly as he was able to muster, as if everything that was being discussed here was no big deal.
As if the chance to regain part of what he lost wasn't the very reason he woke up every morning every single day of his life.
"You are one clever son of a bitch, did you know that, Vulpes?" – Caesar replied, still grinning, but more darkly this time – "Besides obedience, intelligence is something I highly value in a Master Frumentarius, and it shall not go unrewarded… but try not to step above your station too frequently. It might attract the wrong enmities, for my favor is something many covet… and the light that burns twice as bright burns half as long."
Why did he have to say that? Couldn't the same be said about Lanius… or the very Burned Man, for good measure?
Couldn't the same be said about every legionary who died for Caesar's glory?
He delivered a curt nod as the Imperator indicated him to stay by his side while the older man gestured toward Lucius.
"Bring the Courier Six to me."
Refraining from inhaling deeply in relief, Vulpes positioned at Caesar's right side and placed his eyes in a distant, nondescript part of the canvas wall ahead of him.
"By the way, Vulpes…"
He had to gather every single ounce of self-control to refrain from flinching.
"It's been a long time since you have taken care of that hair, isn't it?"
He knew this was bound to come up one way or another. While considerably more flexible for the Frumentarii, the hair policy acted both as a way to prevent lice among military encampments and a form of power assessed from the divine Son of Mars to his slave subjects…
"It has, Domine. Alas, it might take a while until I cut it again."
What was he doing?! Shut up, shut up!
He didn't need to look by his left to notice how the Imperator's posture had tensed very slightly as he turned his head to him.
"Care to repeat that?"
Take your words back. Apologize. Just say what is expec…
"The Courier. She seems taken by it." – no! No! Shut the fuck up, you idiot! – "And a powerful, wise man told me once that, if she says red, then it's red; if she says blue…"
Why couldn't he refrain from opening his trap?! Did he have a death wish or what?!
And why was his heart beating so fast?
Why did this insignificant rebellion feel… like he had just touched the sky?
"… Then, it's fucking blue." – Caesar finished for him; all traces of good humor erased from his voice – "Careful with the debonair attitude, Frumentarius. For women have the peculiar power of turning a proud, worthy man into a dog if he doesn't tread their delicate spiderweb with a cautious hand hiding the dagger."
The bucket had helped a little, but Rex's silent, understanding support had helped even more. Six wouldn't want to imagine what she would do without this dog, that always came to save the day through simple, pure love. He wasn't a pre-War Police dog; he was her big plush dog, and nobody could convince her otherwise.
"Caesar requires your presence, Dissolute." – the oh-so-fucking-nice Praetorian from earlier announced curtly, lifting the canvas door without so much as asking if he could do so. What if she was changing her clothes or picking her nose, huh? These guys had next to no respect for privacy.
"Very appreciated, O Mightier-Than-Thou Praetorian, sir." – she sassed back with her sweetest voice.
The man squinted until he turned his eyes into thin slits. She stared back pedantically.
"Well?" – he irritably asked after a short while – "Get a move on."
If she hadn't cohabited for the better part of her life with so many military types, among them Big Bro's bestie, a man that had spoken even less than him about his serving time, she would have felt personally insulted.
Nevermind, the average soldier type tended to be gruffer than gruff. She supposed being in a wheelchair for the rest of their lives, as Big Bro's bestie and many more who survived the war at high costs, hadn't been much incentive to improve their social skills.
What the hell; these football-draped guys were gruff probably because their food rations were too small to sustain powerhouse bodies like those. She bet every single one of them could eat a whole brahmin cow each. They needed a candy bar or two to raise their sugar levels. And maybe the corners of those straight, boring lines they called mouths. Just a little.
She was conducted by Gabban, Grumpy Praetorian, and… yet another one who looked even less friendly than the latter up to the hill that crowned the entire encampment, where Sallow's gigantic tent rested above all as an ever-watching eye.
Six tried really, REALLY hard to suppress insulting thoughts regarding overcompensation and other bitchy sentiments that wouldn't aid in her quest in the very slightest.
After all, she had come here not just because House said so but because she was genuinely curious. About a lot of things.
But mostly about the mastermind behind a civilization that had risen to greatness in less than half a century. If anything, Edward Sallow delivered what his Roman namesake did thousands of years ago: from his most tender youth, he campaigned for thirty-six years until, barely a year later, while preparing himself for yet another Campaign, he was assassinated in March at the age of fifty-five.
And Sallow, for what Arcade had told her, must be around his fifties.
Truly, the man was a fan through and through. But maybe she shouldn't mention the Ides of March in front of him, just in case.
Crossing the emplacement at a brisk pace flanked by these two brutes, she tried really hard to obviate the guy with arms thicker than her torso sharpening blades at a whetstone he propelled with the sole strength of his unnaturally muscled legs; the guy with a mohawk grabbing an old man by the neck of his tattered shirt and delivering him a knuckle sandwich right in the face repeatedly; the other guy supervising a retinue of chained people in rags while making annotations in a book; then, finally, the creepy guys at Caesar's tent entrance eyeing her from head to toe as if she were an insect.
Hahaha… so many big guys doing so many creepy things around… Crazy Romans. So weird…
She almost jumped when the two Praetorians leading the march halted suddenly, sinking heels on the ground almost simultaneously. End of the trip, she guessed.
"You must enter Caesar's tent alone." – one of the guys at the entrance spoke up, making her effectively jump this time around while he kept talking, his gaze not landing upon her even once. As if he were talking to the empty air – "Anyone… or anything else must remain outside."
Right.
Turning around, she instructed Rex to wait for her while she directed a helpless look to Gabban, who was now looking at some point behind her.
Go ahead, join the party and don't look me in the eye now, asshole. – she thought bitterly before being nearly shoved inside.
The tent, big as fuck as it was, was divided into sections. The first one was roofed, with the ground covered in rugs while a pair of dogs stayed at each side of the entrance to the next section, barely whiffing at her as she passed.
The aforesaid next section sported a canopy on each side, leaving the rest of the space open into a long, beaten-earth corridor that led to the only area that sported a rug. Particularly where the dictator's throne sat.
Because there was he. In an honest-to-God throne.
It was a wonder it wasn't built out of the weapons of his fallen enemies or something, Iron Throne style. It might have been cool. And creepy. And cool. She couldn't rightfully decide.
Granted, several ornamental spears attached at the horned backrest were decorated with long pieces of red fabric, giving the piece of furniture a menacing, kind of impressive vibe.
By the older man's left was the Lu… cius? (she was just guessing, Latin names and all that stuff) Praetorian from earlier, who directed her a brief, although intense warning look before resuming his staring at the empty space in front of him. Then, by Sallow's right, there was Zorro, who, true to the spirit of avoiding eye contact with her as well, was eyeing the canvas of the previous section behind her. Charming.
Knowing she won't gain anything by gawking at him like a retarded fangirl, Six's attention returned to the dictator, whose idle index finger began tapping impatiently over one of the throne's armrests.
Dressed in a sort of tribal regalia, Edward Sallow was an average-height, stout man; a little overweight (for Wasteland standards) but strong at the same time if the defined, bulky muscles of his bare legs were any measure to go by.
Balding and paler than the majority of the people she had seen at the encampment, probably due to being indoors most of the time, the man she had in front of her didn't look like anything out of the ordinary… until she got closer.
He possessed a round, almost affable face brushed by delicate age lines, full lips, and a proud, slightly aquiline long nose. All of these features would have spoken of a gentle nature… if they hadn't been darkened by a pair of astute, prying eyes that were dissecting every move she made as she approached. The impatient index ceased its tapping the moment she stopped at a respectful, comfortable distance for both of them. The other hand, occupied by a Power Fist, rotated very slightly over his lap.
She would have liked to quote the gladiators of the Roman Empire by saying "Ave Caesar, morituri te salutant", but she found herself frozen under the scrutiny he was subjecting her to until he decided to speak up.
"So, I finally get to meet the Courier who's accomplished so much in so little time." – he said, studying her, eyes alert and mildly clinical, voice pleasant but guarded – "I must admit, I thought you'd be taller. A little."
A joke? A test? With just those few words, this man had put her in a situation she should tackle without losing a beat.
"I wasn't a big fan of vegetables when I was a child." – she replied as charmingly as she was able to muster, willing her treacherous trembling to subside so as to not affect her voice.
A short, incredibly tense silence ensued until the dictator began to laugh softly.
"A humorist." – he replied, apparently pleased – "Habits sticks, it seems." – he added, glancing sideways to Zorro, whose manner didn't alter in the slightest save the subtle blush that tinted the helix of his ears – "However welcome, humor isn't the reason I have summoned you, isn't it?"
"Who knows?" – she replied as well – "I gather not many people around you know some good, if any, jokes to entertain you, Caesar. Even a dictator needs a spark of humor from time to time."
Zorro's eyes twitched, and the lips of the bearded Praetorian tightened.
But Sallow wasn't as nearly worried by how she had addressed him and gave her a tiny smile instead, his prying eyes sparkling.
"Don't laugh too much, neither with many things, nor too loud." – he observed astutely.
Oh. My. Fucking. God. Epictetus? For real? Six hated herself for merely entertaining the notion that Arcade, of all people, would actually enjoy a conversation with this man.
Because, if scared out of her shit, she herself was starting to enjoy this conversation.
"Nothing shows a man's character more than what he laughs at." – she returned flawlessly, her inner geek squealing, whereas she maintained a calm, although enthusiastic façade – "But perhaps it is in the nature of the strategist not to show his cards too soon, is it?"
She could tell their little give-and-take was also amusing the older man, for the corners of his alert eyes relaxed.
"Nil adsuetudine maius, mea Tabellaria." – he returned as well, hazel eyes shining in a way that she could only call as captivating, as strange as it sounded even to her own ears. This man, in his youth, must have been quite the charmer. The kind you don't quite like, don't quite trust, but you always come for more once he opens his mouth. An attention-catcher – "Eheu, mundus vult decipi, ergo decipiatur." (1)
"Ergo, tanta stultitia mortalium est." (2) – her inner Seneca swiftly replied to his Ovid and his Gaius Petronius. Words of poets and writers versus the candid logic of philosophy.
She couldn't have asked for more.
"Clever." – he conceded, nodding once – "You do not disappoint, Courier. Neither in words nor deeds: a man nearly kills you, and your response is to track him across the breadth of the Mojave. You arrive on The Strip, and waltz into the Lucky 38 like someone left you a key under the doormat. You visit The Tops, and next thing you know, the Head of the Chairmen is fleeing The Strip like a whimpering little pup." – he enunciated; a strange, oddly flattering tint of admiration echoing in his voice – "Lest we forget the eradication of both the Fiends and the Powder Gangers, two minor inconveniences I happen to approve being swept off the map." – his small smile widened slightly – "And that sweet Coup de Grâce, infiltrating a whole group of my Frumentarii into McCarran to aid on Picus' mission? Beautiful." – inclining slightly in her direction, as if sharing a secret, he added – "When you set your mind to something, you get results. I like that."
Six was too self-conscious about how red she had gotten in the face. The way he had summarized her exploits had been compelling, almost praising.
The way he made it sound made her feel absurdly proud, and she inwardly berated herself for it, allowing him to swell her infantile ego this way, perverting the real connotations behind her behavior.
This man wasn't praising her effectiveness, she reminded herself. He was assessing whether he could or couldn't work with the new tool he had in front of him.
She had done everything she had done out of fear and despair, then rage, then pure political maneuvers.
And that was the primary reason for her presence here. Politics. No matter her curiosity… or her feelings on it.
She had to keep a cold mind. Stimulating chat aside.
"I'll take that as a compliment, then." – she politely replied, bowing her head graciously – "This, coming from a man who has united eighty-six tribes under the same banner. I am truly flattered."
"Eighty-seven, very soon." – the man interjected, pleased. Adulation, apparently, worked well with him – "However impressive the number is, though, there is a notable percentage of eradication coming from the ones that chose death in place of assimilation… or the ones that couldn't be assimilated at all. You are aware of this, aren't you?"
She wasn't entirely sure if his words were meant as a polite warning regarding where she was getting into or pure and simple bragging. Could be both, for all she knew.
"I am." – she confirmed – "Not an uncommon practice. The New California Republic applies the same terms to collectives of… undesirable people they prefer to vaporize instead of implanting their tax system, such as raiders. We do pretty much the same at the Washington DC Capitol. Progress often means collateral damage and necessary sacrifices."
There. She had gotten his rapt attention with that little treat.
"A bold, straightforward opinion I don't happen to hear from the lips of Legion outsiders often." – Sallow pointed out, careful to dance around the 'Dissolute' issue – "How come that the man you seek to break free from has managed to strike a deal with Kimball if his ideals reflect what your words seem to imply, Courier?"
She suppressed the violent impulse to walk straight to Zorro, hoist herself on one of the throne's armrests to get eye-to-eye with him… and slap him until that handsome face of his would get redder than a tomato.
She had known he would inform his Lord of this; she had been prepared to tackle this conversation in particular with Sallow, yet… the feeling of betrayal that washed over her was undeniable.
"Mr. Burke's primary bargaining coin, besides diplomacy, it's coin itself." – she said once she was sure she had gotten her conflicted feelings under control – "The Mojave Campaign has lasted longer than what the President Kimball's initial estimations foresaw, almost his entire candidature before and after reelection. That, along with the Brotherhood War that deprived them of their precious gold, has practically drained the funds of the NCR's public arcs. Kimball's entire political career is bound up with the NCR's occupation of the Mojave. It's his war. He cannot afford losing it lest he wants to become a scapegoat sacrifice offered to the gods, so decent NCR citizens can get on with their lives." – the more she kept talking, the more disgusted she was with herself. Not because she was exposing the Republic in front of their most bitter enemy, but because of the instrumental part she had played in making this a reality – "Only through Mr. Burke's economic backing is that the Mojave Campaign is still in effect to this very day. That also makes him, indirectly, an enemy of the Legion. And Kimball is not his only pet project at this very moment, if you know what I mean."
"Which takes us to the Platinum Chip." – Sallow confirmed, producing something from between the fur of his regalia, toying with it with his hard fingers deliberately, so she could get a good look at it – "That I happen to have in my power in this very instant."
At the mere sight of the small, silvery coin, Six's pores decided to start working a perspiration so brutal she had to sink her bitten nails onto the tender flesh of her closed fists to avoid shivering.
That flashy little thing had cost her so, so damn much…
The dictator's fingers stopped playing tricks with the coin brusquely.
"If hesitant, given the dual nature of the reports gathered by my spies, I'm willing to give you the benefit of the doubt." – he declared, the gentle lines around his mouth tightened as the smile disappeared from them – "I rarely rely on trust based purely on intuition, so I'd call this a… special concession. Courier, this is the deal I offer: render unto me, and you shall be provided by my Legion. Help my people's interests, and there wouldn't be a single day in your life when you'll go hungry or without a place to sleep. Work for me, and you shall be rewarded accordingly." – he enunciated carefully as if making sure where he was drawing the line with her – "And those very rewards can start becoming in effect as soon as you accept what the burden of carrying this small chip entails." – he paused, emphasizing his words by flashing the Platinum Chip one more time before directing a nod with his chin to one of his Praetorians.
The man in question saluted, turned on his heel tersely, and walked to a part of the closed canopies by Six's right to roll up one of the canvases that acted as a wall, revealing another Praetorian guard standing immobile near a kneeling, hunched figure.
Six's eyes snapped fully open as well as a virulent, visceral desire to walk to the kneeling figure and burst off his teeth with the point of her boot first overwhelmed her, then left as soon as it had come.
There he was, the thief that had escaped from her grasp so many months ago. Still dressed in his stupid city boy outfit, but this time around covered in grime and caked patches of congealed blood, a product of the evident beating he had been subjected to during his stay at Fortification Hill.
Likely not being permitted to even raise his head under penalty of death, he was eyeing the sandy ground with the only functional eye he still possessed. An eye that shifted momentarily from looking between his separated knees to looking at her.
In his dejected, disadvantaged position, Benny Gecko was still every bit of a snake, analyzing her with a clinical look, weighing whether her presence there would mean a swift or a slow agonizing death for him.
All of this, she could make out of a single look. The look of a man that, at this point, had very little to lose.
"Granted, this fool you see here was determined. He used a Stealth Boy to get across the river in a Legion boat. It seems the device in question ran out of juice once he got here, but he was dressed like a legionary. He was caught just outside the Weather Station thanks to his vanity. To go through all that effort and fail because you can't bring yourself to muss your hair for once…"
It felt weird looking at him from such a short distance and trying to extrapolate the image she had of him with this dirty, disheveled, submitted man kneeling on the dirt.
If she, much to her displeasure and self-loathing, had found this man attractive at some point, now she found him obscenely common, almost pitiable, with his tanned countenance filled with swellings and hematomas.
That much abuse, she should have been the one delivering it, relishing a vendetta that had been taken from her yet again.
Because… what's the point in exacting pain from a man already suffering?
What was the point of her revenge in truth? She had barely known the man before the bullet, and now she wasn't any closer to knowing him, to understand the reasons – beyond plain greed – that had made him act the way he had acted, first at Goodsprings, then at The Tops.
"He was brought before me, along with the Platinum Chip. And we were waiting for him already. He tried to sell me some adorned fairytale, but Lucius here has a way of coaxing the truth out of captives. Isn't that right, Lucius?"
"It is, Domine."
She realized now that she had hated his complete disregard for her life due to how she had perceived him since her second awakening in this desolated America. She had hated how an adult man hadn't given a crap about cowardly shooting in the face of a bound, helpless girl that, otherwise, could have perfectly broken his neck if he had gotten close enough.
This man, in truth, meant nothing to her. Despite being the former Head of the Chairmen, he was a nobody, a fool who had been at a disadvantage with every single player over the table, herself included, right from the start.
He was a minor pawn who had thought he could overplay his hand, discovering too late just how powerful the cards of his opponents were. He had wanted to play as a King whereas, in truth, he was but a Joker. Like her. Like all the Lieutenants under their respective Kings.
Backup cards among the deck. Powerful, yet easily replaceable. They might occupy a certain position if the game willed so for a time… but then, in the end, once they served their purpose, they were discarded in favor of the Aces.
She thought she had hated this man when, in truth, she hadn't truly hated him, but what his action had brought upon her. The action of a man who wasn't above killing a girl to reach his goals just the same way that very girl wouldn't have been above killing him should their positions have been reversed.
She had already cheated her way to obtain that assignment despite it having been ceded by a malicious hand who had known the Chip could kill her.
Both Benny and she had needed the Chip to meet their goals, as different as they had been… and now, he had nothing, whereas she had his position.
That was punishment enough in her book.
"Tell me, Courier… what would you do if I told you that the fate of this man could very well rest in your hands if you fight for my Causa?"
Nothing. She'll do nothing but allow his ruthless justice to do the deed.
Because what her heart truly, wholly, hopelessly desired…
"I'm listening." – she said instead, turning around once again, permitting herself the briefest of weaknesses by stealing a peek by the dictator's right for a second, imbibing on the image. The reflect of her own mirror: a slave who consciously knew he was a slave… but didn't act like one to keep the illusion of freedom, the mirage of a life where choice was but a dream. She could already see the chain that Sallow had wrapped around the neck of his pet fox, a wild, beautiful animal forced into domesticity against its will – "What did you have in mind?"
The dictator's smile was predatory this time, almost Deathclaw-like.
The black bear by his left grumbled in appeased approval; the white fox by his right spared her a brief, tender blue look.
"The real question is, Courier… are you ready to get started?"
Was she?
"This is a question I want you to treat with all the seriousness that commitment demands and, for that sole reason, I shall not behest an immediate response out of you, but I'd allow you to think about it for the remaining day instead." – she knew her perplexity must have shown, for his smile returned to his previous gentle manner as if all the teeth and predatory intent would have never been there in the first place – "In the meantime, have a look at what my Empire has constructed. Observe how my men work, ask them about loyalty and honor, and you shall not find more committed warriors." – inclining forwards, he added – "I will receive you once again this evening for supper, so you may join me and rely upon my person what your eyes have told you. Both the good and the bad."
She acquiesced by simply nodding, strangely relieved to have more time ahead despite not liking one bit prolonging her stay at Fortification Hill, for what her eyes had already seen had told her all she had needed to know.
Nevertheless, if the old man wanted a review, she shall provide. After all, that was a common Old-World practice from giant Corporations that had asked their clients to review their products so they could improve the services they provided.
She wasn't sure Sallow wanted to 'improve' if it didn't directly benefit him… but maybe he would accept constructive criticism through discussing logistics and politics.
In the end, no matter the outcome of their second encounter, courtesy had to be repaid with courtesy.
And, if anything, she couldn't deny that Edward Sallow had been – if a bit condescending, as she had expected - fairly courteous to the moment.
She had the good call of biding the dictator vale, letting him know she was interested in their customs and very much looking forward to their next encounter despite herself.
And then, while she was returned to Zorro's tent so she could have her lunch in peace cuddling with Rex until she received further instructions, things played quite differently inside Caesar's tent once she wasn't around.
"She's good." – the Imperator conceded, almost admired – "And she seems willing to sell off the NCR if that gets this… Mr. Burke far away from her." – resting his weight over his right arm, he tapped his chin twice before continuing – "I've bought you time, Vulpes. More than you rightly deserve after all these months you have borrowed at your leisure to sway the views of a girl that is doubtful at best." – turning his face to the young man, his hazel eyes hardened when he said – "Use it wisely and convince her to join us. Shoo away her reservations, win her over. Also, do whatever you deem necessary to quieten the men around the encampment, so they'll only echo what I've conveyed for her today, even if that means making some of the louder ones disappear. She'll only see what I say she should see and hear what I say she should hear; no more, no less." – watching his Spymaster nodding once, he added – "Meanwhile, I'd suggest you use that silver tongue of yours well… even for other purposes than talking. Women love to talk, but they get easily bored by charlatans."
Once he was permitted to take his leave, Vulpes Inculta abandoned his Lord's tent seething with humiliation, knowing how quickly rumors ran among the Praetorians until it would eventually spread to the whole camp.
It didn't do well to the reputation of a legionary to act subservient around a woman. And this, his Lord knew too well.
This was punishment for that leisure time the Imperator had recriminated him for, maybe even for playing the smartass part by twisting the odds to his favor earlier.
As he crossed Fortification Hill, wearing his foreigner outfit with a hair longer than what it was permitted, he noticed the odd looks he was receiving, as if the Dissolute here were him instead of his guest. Not a salutation thrown in his direction, not even a nod, as all eyes seemed to avoid his'.
Even before reaching his tent, the insidious tendency that he had forgotten in all these months of savoring another life came back with a vengeance when he noticed how deep his nails had sunk into the flesh of the right wrist he had unconsciously uncovered.
Lucius wasn't by any stretch a man who'll doubt his Lord's judgment on political engineering, given that such a finesse that the exchange of words often required in delicate deals wasn't really the forte of the Commander Praetorian.
However, they say that there's a first time for everything, and he found himself wondering about certain aspects of their tenuous negotiations with the Courier – a child, true to Inculta's reprovable inclinations. Why were always the Frumentarii the most morally questionable? He hadn't known Bill Calhoun personally, but Callidus Anguis... – and, most importantly, how ambivalent the whole deal looked to him.
Not that he could express his concerns without risking the wrath of Caesar, whose patience today was wearing thinner than a plume the more this Courier issue seemed to sink its fangs on their collective conscience.
Inviting this girl over, his Lord had made so many exceptions that now the men felt kind of intimidated, kind of threatened by having around a woman embodying the spirit of war instead of home caring.
She was a Bellona amidst legions of Vestas, a concept his Lord had never openly discouraged, but neither he had endorsed publicly.
His laws were firm on this point: women weren't meant for the battlefield. They were conceived to survive and be cared for so they could also care for their children.
That was the natural order of things. Most of the tribes that now composed the Legion, minus the raiders, had similar views on these roles.
It was all they had known since they could remember.
Seeing raiding, drug-addicted women enraged the men. But seeing them serving as soldiers for the Republic saddened them. Weren't their men strong enough to defend them that they had to use women for war?
And then again: if those women acted like men… what would be left for them then? What could a man be if not a man?
This girl was mannish, bold in her speech, with an agile mind and an even more agile tongue. And the bloodthirst in which she had regarded the bound Profligate with the checkered outfit was undeniable.
Completely queer, unnatural.
And Inculta? He was as unnatural as she was, selling her atrocious deeds as a vantage they could gain for themselves instead of a potential threat to their entire system.
And the worst part of it all was that their Lord, no doubt afflicted by the ill that consumed his head, had consented to this… this…
"Lucius."
Halting his looping thoughts, the Commander Praetorian gave his Lord a questioning look.
"Domine?"
"Gather the men you trust the most and have them supervising the moves of those two around The Fort. I wouldn't like finding my Master Frumentarius harboring the wrong idea regarding the role he's expected to play in this little negotiation with the Courier. Make sure he doesn't take many liberties and inform me of any moves you'll deem suspicious."
After saluting, Lucius' renewed faith in his Lord gave him the necessary energy to go through all the men quartered at the Castra Praetoria despite how sore his knee particularly felt today.
A bad fall is what you need and then all the discretion from the healers as they provide you with the due poultices to alleviate the pain, no matter if such an event had happened almost a year ago.
Lucius was becoming old. Too old for this shit.
And older he felt upon raising his eyes to the unyielding sun of the Mojave midday to find it obscured by a series of small silhouettes perched on the rim of The Fort's metallic walls.
In the shameful ways of his old people, crows were a symbol of death, of souls being carried to the gates of the Afterlife with these fowl acting as guides for the lost ones.
However, when a particular soul cannot find rest, the crow which had guided it takes it back to set right any wrongdoings.
Throughout the day, more crows came to rest around Fortification Hill. And Lucius, upon seeing so many together, setting their preying eyes upon them all, couldn't help but feel like these guides were here either to claim their souls all at once… or to set scores even with the rivers of blood that run through his' and every single one of the present men's fingers.
Lupus had escaped the attention of Magister Arrius a while ago.
He was becoming better at hiding and moving around the encampment in silence. He had even scurried away a few nights ago to infiltrate the Frumentarii Castra Peregrina and watch them from the shadows.
The Frumentarii were kind of… different from the other units that also populated The Fort. Different in a funny, interesting way.
Magister Arrius barely spoke of them, saying they weren't a matter of discussion for anybody… but Lupus had heard the men around the camp making odd remarks about them.
They were a sort of a Boogeyman for many who coveted what little privacy the barracks offered, being often those men who had, in Lupus' opinion, something to hide.
Lupus couldn't begin to fathom what Master Inculta had meant by "something to hide" when he – sort of – had explained it to him, but it sounded bad. If those men were hiding bad things, they should be punished, right?
That was what the Frumentarii work was about, he believed.
Anyway, Master Inculta was always vague about the subject of his work. He'll gladly answer Lupus' doubts, no matter their nature… as long as they weren't related to the Frumentarii Order.
No matter, he had heard that Master Inculta was back at The Fort (basically because everybody was talking about it), and Lupus had a surprise for him.
He didn't want to wait until he would come to seek him. After all, it was a surprise.
He had memorized the roundabouts around the Castra Peregrina sector and didn't find much of an issue sneaking inside Master Inculta's tent from the end that was sticking to the surrounding walls. He just had to undo a weak knot at one of the tent's corners, get inside, and redo it so nobody would suspect a loose side waving with the winds that were so common around The Fort.
It was easier now that Magister Arrius had taught them how to make efficient knots.
Master Inculta's tent was so cozy. It smelled faintly of him. Lupus liked that. It was a familiar scent. One he secretly related with family.
So, he felt at home once he managed to redo the knot. He was sure that, as long as he left things the way he found them, Master Inculta wouldn't mind.
Turning around, however, put Lupus face to face with a row of pointed canines and a low growl coming from inside a… half-metallic, half-organic throat.
He didn't truly register what happened, but soon he found himself face-up on the ground with the beast on top of him, front legs pinning him down by the shoulders, effectively immobilizing him.
He would have screamed had he not been so scared. He lay frozen, not even reacting when the beast sniffed him thoroughly and, deeming him no threat, began licking his face as if he were made of candy.
"Rexie!" – a high-pitched voice exclaimed from a point somewhere behind the enormous beast – "What have you caught, boy?"
Then, a pair of small military boots not much bigger than the ones Lupus himself wore came into his view.
The dog, for the beast was a dog – a big one, replied the owner of the voice and boots with an enthusiastic bark.
"Wha- damnit!" – there was a tiny, pale face with big black eyes and big front teeth looking at the scene in horror as also tiny pale hands pushed the mighty beast, trying to get it off the boy – "Shoo, shoo! Get outta him, boy, get outta him!"
Paralyzed as he still was, Lupus didn't react when the dog finally released him, nor when the small person with the black eyes and the black ruffled hair first extended their hand to him, then grabbed his shoulders to make him sit.
"You okay, kid?!" – the person… was it a girl or a boy? Hard to tell. Girls didn't usually call him 'kid'. 'Puer', yes, but not 'kid', that was a Profligate word the merchants from the outer ring used to refer to them children – "Ew, he has coated you in drool…"
The experience, if surreal, turned out even more strange when the… okay, girl, he had felt tits when she had sat him between her legs and had acted as support as she began cleaning his face with a tissue.
"Don't freak out. Rex can be a little too much, but he's a big softie. He probably likes you already." – once she was satisfied with her work, she stopped, and he opened his eyes to watch a series of facial shifts coming and going over her delicate features until she squinted her eyes, as if trying to discern something – "Oh…" – she gasped softly as her thumbs began sweeping all around his face. It felt nice, so Lupus didn't as much as complain when she started combing her fingers through his short hair, still kind of getting a feel around his features with the other hand – "Oh my god, you're so cute."
At that, he frowned. He wasn't supposed to be cute. He was a legionary. In training, yes, but a legionary nonetheless.
He was tough. Tough as a wolf.
She laughed when he told her as much. She had a nice laugh. Warm, in a way.
"Then, I'll call you Lobo." – she said, making him frown again – "That's the Spanish word for 'wolf'… you know a little of Spanish, right?"
His silence met a disconcerted, then incredibly sad look. He didn't like that look, as if he didn't know something he was supposed to.
"Okay, how about Latin, then?" – she tried once more, the nice toothy smile returning to her features – "Let's see… hmmm…" – feigning a little thinking, she snapped her fingers in a way he felt a pang of jealousy. He couldn't snap his fingers as well as she did – "Lupus! Your name now is Lupus!"
He wanted to correct her by saying that she wasn't the first to name him as such. That honor belonged to Master Inculta and nobody else.
However, he thought better of it. His name was still a secret, after all. Besides, it felt nice how she still combed her hands through his hair repeatedly. He didn't want her to stop.
Eventually, the half-machine dog came closer, and then, if hesitant to engage the animal, the girl assured him that it wouldn't bite him. The dog's head ended up resting upon Lupus' lap as he petted it the same way he received cuddles from the mysterious girl as if she had known him all his life. Not that he minded. Cuddling was nice, and doing so with girls wasn't punishable; many men cuddled with the female slaves, and nobody saw anything wrong with it. Girls were okay.
He felt so comfy between her arms that he wasn't questioning (much) the odd device that she was wearing around her left forearm he had only seen in Master Inculta as well.
He didn't also question the odd outfit that she was wearing, unlike anything else he had seen and kind of out of place in a girl. Girls wore dresses. Or rags, if they were slaves.
This one must not be a slave, then. Was she the girl who owned a cyberdog that Master Inculta had told him about? It seemed like so.
Then, it was okay to stay here with her, he supposed. If she was inside Master Inculta's tent, then she must be on a visit.
Even if she was a Dissolute.
But he'll be fine. Girls were peaceful. Usually. Maybe.
She saw him looking at her device and began explaining to him weird stuff the half of it he didn't understand, but he didn't mind as soon as she put on some moving pictures she said he could watch if he liked.
When he nodded, she put something in his ear, and then the pictures were talking.
With the curiosity and fascination only a child could show in front of the unknown, he allowed her to accommodate behind him as if she were a chair of sorts and hold his waist as she put her forearm across their view and watched the animated pictures with him too.
Even if they vaguely resembled a dog and an elder Profligate couple living in the middle of the desert, Lupus found himself laughing at the animated scenes, which demonstrated just how much of a coward that dog was at the silliest things despite being called Courage.
"Here we are. Where it all began. You remember your mother's favorite passage?"
How not to? The Bible had been the source of her most inspirational moments as well as the source of her worst nightmares since she was a child.
"Revelation 21:6. 'I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end. I will give unto him that is athirst of the fountain of the water of life, freely.'"
The beginning and the end, that's all Catherine - her mother - had been for her. Her so-called 'dream' had given her birth and had practically killed her.
Not that Dad had been very concerned about it.
"No point in wasting time. Let's get to work. There's much to be done."
He had just wanted for her to say 'yes'.
"That's my girl!"
So easy to manipulate…
"I hate to ask you to put yourself in harm's way, but you seem to have learned to handle yourself. Just please be careful out there. This is a dangerous world, far more dangerous than anyone in that Vault knows."
Yes, it was a wild world. Wilder than she had possibly ever dared to imagine.
A world where people lived amidst trash and radiation, a world populated by murdering savages, slavers, mercs, inbred cannibals, and crazy people with dangerous heirlooms.
A world where otherworldly beings came from space to turn this place into their private playground. But she could confide this on nobody. Dad hadn't believed her, that whoreson of Butch DeLoria had laughed in her face, Charon had simply shrugged, and Burke… well, Burke didn't believe in anything he couldn't find a purpose for.
"I think we need to talk, sweetie."
Oh, he had wanted to TALK. More like hearing himself speak, she'd say.
"I've been... hearing things. Things that have happened out there."
Thanks to Three Dog, who had played the part of her personal Big Brother, monitoring every single move she made. Everybody had wanted to know all about One-O-One, the kid from the Vault. The Lone Wanderer.
Owyn Lyons' personal pet project.
That DJ son of a bitch and the old man backing the radio project were better off dead. All of them, with their Codex, their rancid beliefs, and their military structure.
And the Holy Bible could burn in Hell along them.
"I know everything about that place… the old Point Lookout State Park. It was a military prison before the Great War, hosting all manner of secrets the kind American History would like to forget… Honey, why did you go there? What did you expect to find?"
Him. She had been looking for him desperately. Moriarty had refused to collaborate unless she'd repaid him either with money, blood, or her body. Fresh out of the Vault, she had been no murderer, poor as a rat, and with no intentions of entertaining the vices of one old man, so she had clutched at the only trail Dad had left after his rushed departure: the recordings between him and Catherine, her mother.
The half-baked sentences hanging in the air, the secrets some of their phrasings seemed to suggest, the peculiar intonation in certain vowels at very particular conversations…
And the holotapes she had never found, numbered as those had been… All of this had brought her to the schematics for the hydroponics lab at Rivet City and their original provenance; then, if initially unrelated, to the strange addictive properties of the Punga fruit finding a market throughout the Capitol except for the Underworld, for the ghouls were almost immune to these kinds of substances. Madison Li, head researcher at Rivet City, was the first to study the new fruit and dissect its chemical components.
Her investigation had led her to hack the lab terminal to get the names on those records from Dr. Li's encrypted personal files and the reason her old team, among them Laura's parents, had braved the East Coast from Boston to Washington DC for.
Horace Pinkerton had been the first pioneer, but many of his former colleagues had followed in his steps.
Madison Li, Catherine Lewis, James Alden. From the Advanced Systems, Robotics, and BioScience divisions, respectively. Along with many other replaceable, unimportant pawns.
The mission?: to locate the source of the transmissions around the area of the confluence of the Chesapeake Bay and the Potomac River in Old St. Mary's County, Maryland.
The goal?: the possible finding of Professor Yakim Calvert's studies on cognitive robotics. Or the man himself, perhaps still alive by advanced technological means throughout the last two hundred years since the bombs fell.
And the mastermind behind such an ambitious enterprise?: a man whose name she had never found out but known among them as 'Father'.
The same man that had sent a copy of that old scientist, Zimmer, to chase after another copy. A man she once had thought she could have been in love with.
For that was what they did: copying people. Copying humans.
And for what purpose?: to create the perfect infiltrators, the perfect trackers to localize a series of Vaults this 'Father' believed to host the most ambitious experiments from the pre-War under the collaborative partnership between Vault-Tec Industries and the Enclave.
They copied faces, lives, and even feelings. A perfect replica, yes, but nothing that could be real. And she had had enough already of synthetic, insincere love.
"Sweetie… Don't you see? This is all that really matters. The water, the purifier. THIS is the water of life. Your mother's dream." – though devoted to his late wife's last wish, James Alden hadn't been able to abstain from saying the words, sealing that knowledge that shouldn't have come into her possession – "Whatever plans the Institute may have had in for Calvert… they don't matter anymore. We were unable to locate the signal, and we were already contaminated by the toxic environment on the surface. Your mother pleaded for giving Old America a chance to better the conditions outside. She wanted to help the people who hadn't had the same chance as us to lead a sheltered life full of technology, education, and radiation-free. You came along eventually, and then…"
"Mommy, open your eyes!"
And then, the more she thought about it, the less she actually cared.
"Get that whore under control, Jericho! Jesus Christ!"
"Ye ain't givin' me no orders, old fucker."
Or maybe it was the drugs. She had lost the day count since she had surrendered to their effects and had begun her painful journey reliving everything she had been repressing since the incident at the Jefferson Memorial. Since her ties to the Old World had come to haunt her like a curse.
"Mommy, MOMMY! Wake up, mommy, WAKE UP!"
It had been alright for a while… but she was starting to grow impatient. And patience wasn't one of her major virtues… or so Burke's letter said. She had a copy of every single one of his letters in her Pip-Boy's memory.
Even when writing farewells, he was indeed a poet.
But something about his writing had made her think about a lot of things. About either giving up or keeping going. With him.
Together as a man and a woman, like it was meant to be.
If only her memories could be erased so their poison would stop hurting her…
"Here. Better now. Last thing we need is half of the Tower coming in here just because she couldn't keep her damn mouth shut."
"MOMMY!"
Sometimes, she envied Harkness. It would be so easy to rewrite everything with a simple code… or substitute her life with an alternative, less depressing version of what it could have been.
Allowing all the pieces to fall into place, aligning with mathematical precision, filling up the empty spaces like toy soldiers in a box.
Burke would so love the irony… if he could but be in her shoes just for a moment. See the things she had seen.
"Dunno what's with ye sawbones and drugs. Had me good share of those when me lungs work'd all right, but it was always fer havin' a good ol' time. The stuff ye give her to have her in bed all day… gives me the creeps."
"Mommy!"
"It's called morphine or, in layman's terms, Med-X, you simpleton. A precious commodity I'm not willing to waste on this murdering beast anymore, Burke's instructions be damned."
"Mommy…!"
"Ha! Methinks ye're already way past Burke's instructions, old man."
"Mom… my…"
She had known him before they had met in the real world. In a sense.
And it had been when she had taken the seeds from the giant plant, collecting the talking Bobbleheads until she had reached the other side, met with the man in a suit guarding the bomb.
"Well, I wasn't going to give treatment to a madwoman that could very well rip my throat open with her bare hands, don't you think? I had to contain her somehow!"
"M… om…"
"Not tellin' ye what to do with yer fuckin' meds, doc. Given the chance, I would've chain'd her to the bed fer good measure and fuck her raw in the mouth. Shame I'll have to content meself with this lil' cunt over here."
"You're an animal, Jericho. Did you know that?"
She had thought him handsome by then, but the real deal had been even better. You don't just dream about a man you're sexually attracted to and dismiss it as a fever dream when said man happens to exist in the flesh.
"Not the one who's gonna overdose the blonde bitch just because Burke isn't around and ye like suckin' Gustavo's dick, doc."
The flesh… always so tender, so putty…
"Burke isn't coming back, for what I understand, and the Tower will be better off without her around. The world isn't losing anything special."
So weak.
At the slightest prick upon the antecubital fossa, all the muscles in her body tensed instinctively. She then flexed one bicep and grabbed the old man by the throat with one hand, the hand holding the syringe with the other.
The pitiful, feeble old shit froze like a rabbit and didn't even react when she stabbed the syringe through his ribcage, between the fourth and fifth ribs, slightly to the left of the breastbone. She pushed the liquid onto the left ventricle of his heart, then broke the needle at the base, leaving it inside.
She rose from her bed half-naked, ignoring the convulsing body of Doctor Banfield in favor of addressing Jericho, who was holding onto a drugged Clover, the cannon of his pistol pointing to her temple with a trembling hand.
A thin trail of saliva dribbled from one of the corners of Laura's mouth to her chin, dropping slowly onto the carpeted floor. She had been lucky the previous night when she had managed to summon the strength to get the dropper off her forearm and onto the nearby flower pot instead. She had killed the plant, but the absence of the anesthetic had given her lucidity enough to start brewing a plan. For she had known that her days were numbered in the Tower.
Maybe she and Burke should have a little talk about leaving her surrounded by disloyal employees in her most vulnerable moment.
"I wasn't aware that you harbored fantasies about me, Jericho." – she wheezed, her tongue heavy and thick in her mouth, forming words slowly – "Otherwise, I would have searched for one of those blue pills for you."
"Fuck ye." – the ex-raider spat, sweating through all the pores in his body that weren't clogged by grease and remnants of his many toxic habits – "Ye move a muscle, I'm takin' this bitch with me."
"You aren't going to kill her, Jericho." – she replied, absolutely calm, absolutely high on Cloud Nine – "The very same you aren't going to abandon this room if it isn't to take a hike to the river, where the fish will pick clean your bones. Scum like you doesn't deserve a grave."
"And ye think ye do?!" – the man, this time, spat at her feet quite literally – "Ye friggin' mad whore. It ain't a single day I don't regret havin' sign'd up to save yer sorry ass instead of fuckin' blowin' that pretty head or yers!"
"Too late for regrets, raider. Age should have taught you better than trusting a stranger that pays in advance."
"Megaton was me fuckin' house too, damnit!"
"Yet, you took the money. So much for loyalty when there's the promise of caps to buy you booze and women, isn't it?"
"Ye piece of…!"
Having waited for Clover to give her the signal, both women synchronized when the slave dropped to the ground dragging the man's weight with her, and Laura stepped ahead with a powerful knee aiming first at his crotch, then at his teeth.
Clover clumsily took the pistol from the man's hands and pointed at his head while Laura sat on his back, effectively pinning him to the ground. The slave hadn't to waste a single bullet when Laura busted his ears with her thighs, grabbed him by the hair, and bashed his forehead repeatedly against the floor until his face was no more.
Once the ex-raider's body lay limp over the carpeted floors, Clover launched – or rather fell - onto her arms.
"Hi, mommy." – she said sultrily. Her eyelids drooping, her pulse unsteady beneath Laura's clammy palms – "You've been awfully absent as of late."
That earned her a hug. Clover… Clover was the only thing she still had with her.
And Burke. Although, given the circumstances, she'll need some time to cool off until she wished to claw off his pretty grey eyes no more.
Taking their time, both drugged women arose from the floor the best they could, trying not to trip over one another.
"Grab your stuff, Clover." – she instructed, still drooling a bit, knowing how dirty her hair felt despite how lovingly Clover had been taking care of her throughout this nightmarish month – "Let's get the hell out of here."
LATIN:
(1) - "Nothing is stronger than habit, my Courier (feminine form). Alas, the world wants to be deceived, so let it be deceived."
(2) - "Therefore, what fools these mortals be."
A/N: I'm not dead! I've been correcting my Fallout fics to improve their grammar quality, so that takes some time (now, I need to correct the others T_T). Plus, this chapter has suffered several changes throughout its writing, so it's a good thing I've delayed its release (and, STILL, I might come back and change chapter order because there's still a lot of things I want to write about that, probably, should take preference for timeline's sake. We'll see).
I don't know if it has been made clear before, but the zany, "supernatural" stuff both from the Wild Wasteland and Bethesda's obsession with Lovecraft have a place in this story. Sometimes it'll come off as casual weirdness, other times will play a small part in the plot. Just saying.
Today we have introduced our Courier to Caesar and the big dilemma once she sees how little choice she has on the matter. I wanted to avoid the usual "the Legion are a bunch of raping, sexist pigs" narrative in favor of presenting them to Sullivan as scary but familiar in a way. Also, some of the pieces of Sallow's dialogue In-Game don't make sense at all, such as not knowing what a Stealth Boy is, so I have adapted that along with making him a more charismatic leader and less the entitled big child the game presents to us. Kind of the Badass Bookworm he's supposed to be, a man who knows how to negotiate and is rightfully suspicious of a Female Courier wanting to join them but still believes he can sway her views by offering her what he knows she's interested in. A man who can be as reasonable as treacherous if it is convenient for him. Less the petty mass murderer and more like a survivor any time he feels his authority may be in peril.
Deep inside, I like Caesar. He's the most personal nemesis (along with Ulysses) in the entire game, even if you decide to join him. He always treats you like an insect but charmingly enough so you can buy his Mighty Means Right philosophy no problem. It truly feels like a feat once you cure him and he's grudgingly admired, like earning the approval of your father or something. Brilliant. Joshua Sawyer and John Gonzalez knew what they were doing.
GloryToTheEmpire/Guest (I assume it's still you): there you go, the big moment! We'll get more on the next chapters, today has been an introduction and the two involved parts are pleasantly impressed. Though I'm not saying this makes Sallow a nice guy, for he evidently enjoys his power. Funny how F:NV creators decided to give him Neutral Karma, unless... he's so convinced that his ways are right that his conscience doesn't suffer.
Anyway, I recalled the Shepard/Saren encounter being tongue-lashing non-stop (if you decide to verbally repay him in kind, that is) and I've searched it on YouTube to refresh memories. Turns out Saren shares some personality traits with Mr. Sallow (good and bad). Very interesting.
That will be all. I might delay the next update as well to sort out how I want the chapters to work. Cheers!
