"Number Nine"
Ch. 36: Stinkfist.
Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains strangulation, a somewhat descriptive process of a beheading, a little gore, mentions of cannibalism, and a possible trigger for people suffering from Ornithophobia. Tread with caution.
"Finger deep within the borderline,
show me that you love me and that we belong together.
Relax, turn around and take my hand.
I can help you change
tired moments into pleasure.
Say the word and we'll be
well upon our way.
Blend and balance,
pain and comfort.
Deep within you
'till you will not want me any other way."
- TOOL, "Stinkfist"
"Pussycat! Ain't this platinum? Had I known, I woulda baked a cake!"
Urgh, after all this time and all the crap between them, the sleazy bastard had wanted to play charming? Smelling of sweat and grime, his stupid hair mussed, and half of his face swelling like a warm cupcake? He'll have to try harder.
"No need for such pleasantries, Benny. The Legion has already treated me with a feast, and I suspect there would be another one as soon as I serve your pretty little head on a silver plate, Salome's style."
That had elicited a humorous snort from the Praetorian Commander, who had borne witness to her decision.
"That's it. Go ahead and laugh, baby." – Benny had lamented, looking at his bound hands, the first two phalanxes of the ring and little fingers of the right hand respectively missing. They were already healed, so guess her aim at that time at the Presidential Suite hadn't been so bad after all – "I ain't blind to the humor in this situation."
"You have no one to blame but yourself."
"Did I say I blamed society? You forced my hand, I forced yours and, amidst the game, someone got herself a vouch to come in here unscathed while I endured Baldie's "hospitality". I know why I'm here, baby." – he had replied with intent, leaning onto her to add – "Do you?"
Six had squatted to his eye level, and then, she had slapped him with all the strength she had been able to muster.
"Aaah! What was that for, baby?!" – he had exclaimed, more surprised than actually sore from the slap – "At least you could have aimed to my bad side! Can't get any worse than it already is…"
"That's for the little farce you put together at The Tops' Presidential Suite, you viper." – it had felt good despite knowing how little difference her laughable bruise would do in comparison to the beating he had endured under the professional hands of the Praetorian Guard.
"Well, kitty cat, what can I say? You're not the first lady who wanted more than what the Ben-Man is willing to offer."
And he still had the cheek to keep on throwing stupid comebacks. Guess he didn't have in him to simply shut the fuck up.
"Keep goading with your stupid flirtation façade and, soon, instead of an outraged slap, you'll get a boot right to your teeth."
"Do these Legion boys have been teaching you how to sharpen those little kitty claws of yours? Or were you too distracted making eyes at your psycho boyfriend?" – however, the moment he had watched her getting up to prepare a blow, he had relented with eyes wide open, bound hands up in the air as a surrendering gesture – "Just kidding! Ain't no room for humor in this place anymore…" – he had mumbled miserably.
"Then, have a laugh at this: Caesar says I get to decide how you die."
His demeanor had shifted in an instant.
"Try not to smile so wide, baby. You might break your mouth." – he had sounded bitter despite that she hadn't been smiling… that she recalled, that is – "Yeah, Baldie said you'd get to decide. So which way you leaning?"
"I've got a few fantasies over here and there. Most of them with you strung on a cross with that stupid suit acting the scarecrow part… or me giving you the Magic Bullet of Doom pretty much as you did with me." – had been her flippant reply – "Shame I wasn't allowed to keep any guns inside The Fort, which leaves us with…"
"Whoa, baby!" – he had exclaimed, big eyes full of fear once again while crawling his way backwards until the Praetorian standing by his side grabbed him by the scruff – "Ow, ow, ow! Quit the handsy act, chap! The Ben-Man's only into ladies!"
The man simply backhanded him, and then the Commander had approached her.
"I have been told that you rose from your grave once, Courier. A grave you fell into by the grace of two bullets." – he had told her while extending her a very familiar 9mm – "We commandeered this singular weapon from the prisoner once we took him into custody. It has only two bullets in its chamber. Fair enough payback for what this man did to you, I'd say."
She had intended to pull the trigger once she had lined Benny's head, trying to ignore his screams.
Turns out she wasn't the spineless coward she had always thought she was.
She wasn't like Benny. True that she had shot bad men in the face in the past. Really bad men.
But this sniveling piece of crap? This was no crime lord or even a bored tycoon who forced prepubescent girls into his bed.
This was just an idiot who fancied himself irresistible and who also had wanted to seize power for… what exactly?
Kneeling once again to his visual level, she had grabbed him by his dirty tie, forcing him to look her in the eye.
"Quit whining and tell me: why did you betray House? You could have lived the easy life just by doing as he says."
"And why would you care, pussycat? You've already destroyed Big Man's dreams of grandeur, don't you?" – he had sounded accusing, clearly believing the story that now circulated throughout all the encampment. It had been better that way.
"I don't really care, but turns out that, depending on your answer, you might get the honorable exit instead of… enjoying the Commander's company once more." – she had let that slip, adding effect by nodding in the direction of the bearded Praetorian, who had given the Chairman a cold, cold smile.
Switching between the imposing man behind her and herself, as if trying to discern whether this had been a trap or not, Benny had sighed loudly.
"Mr. House hides Vegas under his skirt when the bombs fall a thousand years ago, so it belongs to him? Forever? You buy that?" – then, he had snorted humorlessly, shaking his head – "Baby, every boss has a line to explain why he's special, why everyone gotta do what he says. You just figuring that out?" – he had asked matter-of-factly, still accusing – "If it isn't the old man flashing his seniority card, then it's the NCR, the biggest gang of thieves in the Mojave. Only difference is they pass laws to make their crimes legal before they commit them." – shrugging, he added – "And then, there's Baldie and Co. Sure, those sun-kissed legs and the Romanesque flair can win over a few thirsty morons." – the slight emphasis, she had known it had been for her – "But then, once you sweep theatrics aside, here's what you've bought: a bunch of original losers worshipping the King of Creeps like he's some kind of god. No better than roaches, I say."
He had been backhanded once again by the Praetorian standing by his side, but the Commander had signaled him to stop.
"Profligate to the core, yet brave to speak his mind freely." – turning to face her, he had asked the million-dollar-question – "Would you honor your words, or were you just toying with his hopes, Courier?"
She had been still kneeling at Benny's eye level, weighing the situation carefully.
"What would have you done if Vegas had been in your possession?"
Although defeated, the Chairman's dark eyes had shone.
"Making it a town I woulda been proud of."
She had made up her mind on that very instant.
Because he had deserved a chance, and she had deserved punishment for her treachery. To Zorro and her feelings for him.
Everything had passed on a dash, her brains still trying to catch up with her final conversation with Zorro, the only thing she had wanted to say that she hadn't… and the sweet taste of his lips still lingering from that quick last time at the medical tent.
She recalled having left Rex with the healers, one of them, a pretty Afro-American woman saying she would take care of him while giving her a tired smile.
Then, the time had come.
Voices were coming from everywhere, elated in their bloodlust. She could even discern a few familiar faces amidst the multitude. And Sallow, reigning over all from his throne, quietening the roars with a single gesture of his hand, rotating his thumb downwards as in slo-mo. And then…
"I'm gonna ring your bell, punk!"
She had dodged that first attack by inches.
Rolling aside on the dirt, she had found herself accosted, slowed down by the armor she wore and the speed that the light clothing Benny's gaudy suit provided to him.
She had lost count just how many times that rusty blade had fallen too close to her legs or her torso, impeding her to throw an offensive or even defend herself, given the way-smaller combat knife she wielded. Any slash coming her way had to be dodged, never blocked.
If she had entered the arena trembling like a leaf, she now was panicking.
"What's your problem? Getting tired already?!" – he goaded her – "I can do this all day!"
He won't allow her a second of respite. Long gone were the cheesy names, being replaced now by insults and taunting.
She couldn't even think straight, her surroundings a blur, reality mixing with memories as the arena, the tribals in red, and Benny faded into a VR simulator.
"Come out, Captain. Hiding won't save you this time."
Number One.
He had been able to detect her presence, to smell her fear. Like a feral dog, never letting go, sometimes even dismissing the countdown clock by trying to seize more prey before they got disconnected, when they got out of their hiding spots once the Battle Royale sessions finished.
When training had become personal, when death had been as real as the air she breathed, trapped within her pod.
Trapped within her own mind.
"How does that feel, hiding in wait while I slaughter your men like insects? Do their lives mean something, anything to you… or are you intent on outliving all of them, ALL OF US?!"
While in the real world a machete would slice the air barely inches shy from her flesh, she could only see the cleavers Number One would use when he had you within his range of attack. He would use butcher's instruments, going on a mad dash of chopping.
As if all of them were nothing but animals. Meat in waiting to be sliced.
"Don't you understand? We all are dead anyway, Captain. We always were. I didn't know that until now. They did, though. Isn't that why they brought us here?"
The first slash that hit home devolved her back to the reality her mind was trying so hard to deny.
She eyed her bleeding left arm incredulously, rivers of red sliding down slowly, filling the inside of her Pip-Boy, gushing through the gauntlet, making her palm warm and sticky. Her whole arm burning in pain.
In front of her, Benny also seemed to hesitate, his eyes going from the bloodied blade of his machete to her arm. The front of his dirty checkered suit splattered with tiny red dots.
She moved backward, and the Chairman walked in perfect synchrony onward. His eyes hyper-fixated, pupils dilated, brow sweating profusely.
There was desperation in his movements, a slight rattle coming from the blade clattering with its pommel as his right hand shook.
He might have been an ex-tribal and a mob boss, but he wasn't a sadist. He had looked her in the eye as he had pulled the trigger; and now, he wanted to hold her gaze as he did the deed as swifter and painless as he was able, with the best of his abilities.
"Don't move kitty cat…" – he whispered as he grew closer and closer, his voice trembling, his eyes crazed – "Let go… let it all end. I cannot be gentle, but… I'll be quick. I promise."
"Let it all end, Captain. Our families, our homes, our country, our world… EVERYTHING, EVERYONE IS GONE!"
Her back found the rusty surface of the arena walls.
"WE'LL ALL BE TOGETHER SOON! LET IT ALL END!"
With a shrilling scream, she turned on V.A.T.S. and she saw herself, knife in hand, stabbing at Number One, his mad sneer and tearful eyes disappearing in a red vortex of fury and pain as she received another slash across her right quadriceps.
Benny's machete clattered a few paces away as he fell on his back and she on top of him. Her small hands still wrapped around the knife's handgrip.
He got rid of her by shoving her chest, and she fell on her back onto the beaten ground.
Getting up, she saw him sitting up, extracting the knife from his left side as a gush of fresh blood poured from the reddened gap.
"You…" – he hissed, his sight swimming, his balance wavering – "This… you had this rigged… right from the start…"
Under the searing sun, she recoiled, but Benny was quicker and grabbed her wounded leg, making her scream as he got on top of her, a knee pressing onto the open gash at her quadriceps.
"The knife…" – he panted, the sweat upon his brow sliding rivers from his dirty black hair onto his unshaved chin, dropping at an unnatural speed – "… was poisoned. Mother Darkness. White Horsenettle with Bark Scorpion and Cazador venom... I can tell… A classic… You haven't been playing fair and square, pussycat…"
Before she could utter a sound, his hand seized her throat and began squeezing. The other hand soon joined, scraping the tender flesh of her throat with the healed callosities of missing fingers.
"I'm gonna die… but you… you are coming with me…" – his breathing became ragged, his perspiration making his skin shine – "For Vegas… for handing over my city to these freaks…"
As soon as her respiratory tract got blocked, her whole body acted on its own and began trashing. But that didn't last beyond a few seconds.
For the fleeting moment of panic was quickly replaced by a wave of passivity so overwhelming that it froze all her thoughts except for a single remainder ringing constantly inside her head.
Something an anonymous voice had told her months ago, before arriving at the Mojave Outpost, when her curiosity had gotten the best of her.
"You've forgotten. Forgotten everything. Always so careless, as careless with futures then as you are now in the Mojave."
Echoes from her sins, channeling the fire of the Old World into modern fears of dreams long gone.
"Can keep denying it, casting it aside. That speaks to what you are, proves what happened here."
As soon as colorful dots began peppering her vision and the public's roar became thirstier… still, a tiny, hidden part of her fought, unwilling to let go.
"Now... let's test that strength. That... resilience, Courier. For, maybe you just need to be tested. Or you believe in nothing."
She wouldn't… let go… She would struggle… endure… contend… to reach the other side.
She still had a mission to complete.
Her good hand moved on its own accord, and her fingers curled into hooks, imitating what she had seen the one she had feared and now she loved doing. That time at the Presidential Suite.
And those hooks found a home at her attacker's eye sockets.
His scream pierced through her body and soul, a sound shriller than all the music, shaking her inner innocence to her very core, aware of how monstrous and uncaring survival could make one turn into.
"You may not know my voice, but we've walked the same places. The Long 15 to Primm... that wasn't the only road you ever walked. I've been to the place you gave life to, over and over, trying to understand. People forget couriers can keep communities alive... until the day they're gone, and their breath catches in their throat."
That time, at the Hopeville silo… the machines had come back to life, slaves of their own program. The Old America and its issues with security, weaponizing every level, every segment of information. Turning knowledge into a Sword of Damocles, always pending over your head, waiting for the right time to fall over your neck.
And he had borne witness of everything, taunting her at the exit, knowing everything she had unleashed then and now, self-appointed judge and executioner for crimes he had known she had committed.
"Careful if you choose to walk the Lonesome Road, Courier. For here still dwells the pain that you've created… and then, when you confront those who lurk in the darkness, you also envelop yourself in it."
Her fingertips popped something wet and viscous, and then, warmness enveloped her whole hand.
She lost consciousness once her brain couldn't take the lack of oxygen anymore.
Amidst waves of pitch black, she believed she heard distant cawing. And then, oxygen flowed in once again violently as a rain of black feathers engulfed them both when an impossibly monstrous, strident flock grasped at Benny's suit while their clawed feet and innumerable beaks began puncturing flesh.
The Chairman's howl of pain and terror cut through the wild cawing as the maddened birds pecked at his back, hands, ears, and what was left of his eyes.
Six's armor got splattered in a thin red shower before she managed to maneuver Benny's body off her by kicking him in the chest.
The man screamed, twisted, and convulsed under the birds swarming him, impeding him to get up as she sat on the ground again and watched. Horrified and oddly fascinated by the unnatural scene.
One of the corvids flew at her and perched on her tiny shoulder.
She didn't even flinch when the animal's claws sank through her armor, and she turned her head around to face it.
She saw its eyes through the artificial eyeball, taking in the tiny red light coming from the inside.
Around the red light, a diaphragm adjusted beyond the lens.
A camera.
As soon as the creature abandoned her shoulder to fly away along with its enraged peers, she seized the opportunity to grab the machete Benny had discarded and approached his hunched figure, bleeding and raw after the birds' attack.
"P… please…"
She didn't know what he had been asking for, but she granted him the only mercy she was able to.
Raising the machete awkwardly, Six allowed it to fall on his unprotected nape again and again until he stopped moving and the head, in the last extremity, rolled aside from its body.
Instead of applause, the silence around her was deafening. Countless pairs of bewildered eyes rested on her small frame, surrounded by blood and fallen black feathers.
Then, as if the spell was broken, a plethora of murmurs began rumbling up and down. Many hands making the sign of the horns at her.
The ringing had stopped, and she saw the blood coating her hands for the first time. The sun above her head was crimson but still unyielding, making her wounds boil in pain as tissue tightened and swelled.
She probably, perturbed as she felt right at the moment, didn't give much thought to an action a sane person would have believed abhorrent when she took Benny's head under her good arm, carrying it like she would have done with a helmet. Sheathing the combat knife on her tactical belt, she walked on wobbly feet toward the now opened exit where a perturbed Arena Master gave her back her stuff with trembling hands. Among other unimportant possessions, Benny's pistol sat heavy on her belt.
She asked permission from nobody when she took the makeshift steps to Edward Sallow's elevated position, feeling the stair creak very slightly under her weight. Not even the Praetorian Guards tried to stop her when she unholstered Maria - Benny's 9mm pistol - and offered it to the dictator by the handle while kneeling despite the searing pain coursing through her right leg.
She could perfectly have blown his head with the two bullets in the chamber, but this ill, wrong man wasn't her target anymore… if he ever was.
Warm droplets of blood kept tapping onto the ground between the dictator and her until he accepted her offering with a grave mien that didn't match the fear she could read in his eyes.
She then got up, trying not to wince from pain, and saluted him then in the way he had taught his soldiers to, trembling fist upon the heart, then bleeding arm stretched.
I don't need you or your scraps, so take your revenge offer back. For what I truly desire, you cannot grant it to me.
Turning then around, facing her gravestone angel's peaceful, eburnean face, she offered him the decapitated head with burning cheeks.
"Lo prometido es deuda." (1) – she breathed in Spanish, waiting, hoping as seconds stretched between them in silence.
Her gruesome present was ultimately accepted, coating his hands in the same blood coating hers, wet fingers caressing hers under the decapitation spot, as he put the head under his own arm, imitating her, having both come full circle in what they had learned from one another.
She left Caesar's dais calmly and silently, just as she had walked in, eyes following her uneven steps from everywhere as she entered the Valetudinarium. There, she allowed the beautiful healer to take her hand, guiding her to a secluded part of the big tent, where she slid a curtain close, protecting her from the other patients' piercing gazes and the superstitious women muttering in her wake.
For Courier Six, following the rules that applied to any man of the Legion, had become something else.
Something way beyond what Edward Sallow could ever aspire to control.
Years hadn't been kind to Holly. Neither in the physical nor psychological regard.
Her hair had already begun to gray when she had been barely twenty-two, and now, close to her forties as she was, her short mane was as white as the clouds she so often liked to count in the sky.
Many grievances had been her daily bread wandering the Eastern Wasteland, facing reject every day, unable to comprehend her strange, violent impulses… until Vance had found her.
He had found her feasting on a corpse. A human corpse, and not even a particularly fresh one. And then, instead of attacking her just pretty much like the majority of Wastelanders would have done in a beat, he had knelt in front of her, smiling.
"I can show you a better path." – he had said – "One that isn't going to cure you, but it'll make you better."
Skeptic as she had been after crossing paths with so many messed-up cults like the Children of the Atom, promising a salvation that was already beyond her reach, Holly had regarded this kind stranger with mistrust and apprehension throughout the first month. By the second, she had fully converted to his Hematophagy practices already.
One year later, she had been fucking Vance.
He had been a decent enough man… for a cannibal. Or "vampire", as he said they were.
For Hematophagy was the art of gathering strength and aliment through drinking blood.
His teachings had hit home, yes, but he also had been pleasant, clever, and he had had such a nice ass. Nevermind that he had been one decade her senior.
They had declared themselves wife and husband and, from that day on, Holly had dared to hope for a better future in a world where kindness and love were a privilege, and fear upon the unknown, the norm.
And then, out of a sudden, more people like them had begun to pop out of the most unsuspected corners of the Capitol. All outcasts, compulsive flesh-eaters, and, ultimately, terrified of their own dark nature.
That way, the Family had been given birth.
By 2277, they had been a small commune of seven individuals living at the Meresti Metro Station until they had found another of their kind in Arefu, an underaged boy who had killed his parents and had feasted upon their remains.
That had been the beginning of the end for them.
Ian West, the adolescent they had taken in as one of them, had had more family remaining. A sister.
And this sister had paid a merc to get Ian back.
The merc in question had been a beautiful, well-spoken blonde woman who, after infiltrating them through diplomatic ways, had begun to pull the trigger nonstop.
And she, despite the odds, had been impossible to kill. Almost monstrous in her resilience, spurred by a berserk wrath none of them had been able to extinguish despite the many bullets they had embedded in her blue suit.
A year later, through Galaxy News Radio, Holly had learned that the Lone Wanderer had paid them that decisive visit that had crushed her whole world down. A legend among the Wastes, a soulless beast with a thirst for blood greater than all of the late members of The Family combined.
In the end, only Holly and the very Ian had been the only ones who had survived the massacre. She because she had been feigning being dead with a bullet in her arm, allowing blood to pool around her face, and Ian because he had been the merc's initial target. The woman had taken the boy with her by force, and Holly had never seen more of them.
Fearing that the blonde devil might come back to scavenge their meager resources, Holly had packed full speed and had abandoned not only Meresti, but also the DC Capitol once the Brotherhood of Steel's sightings had exponentially multiplied.
With the Brotherhood taking the reins over the Capitol, an outcast like her wouldn't have the slightest chance of survival once they targeted her as an abomination.
Besides, she had had to worry about two lives at that moment: her own and her unborn baby's.
Besides not feeding for pleasure but need, Vance's teachings had included not bearing more of their kind, only welcoming the exile so the taint in them couldn't be passed onto their offspring who would, in turn, carry out those foul actions, beginning the cycle anew.
For that was their fate… or so Vance used to say.
But that's the deal when you're partaking in unprotected sex: no matter the radiation or malnourishment in your body; if even the most nitty, diseased raiders out there got pregnant, you too can eventually end up with child.
The discovery had taught Holly something fundamental: Vance's teachings, if well-meant, had been ultimately flawed.
For, if you weren't a monster, you deserved love. If you deserved love, you'd eventually end up creating life. If so, then maybe some rules were simply meant to disappear. Or evolve.
So Holly, in turn, had adapted those very teachings into a code of her own. Simple enough to follow: feed for need, don't prey upon the innocent, don't waste resources, embrace and help those that are like you, and don't keep the children you bear.
Vance's mission had been good and just, so his widow had taken upon herself to find more cannibals out there, teach them restraint and show them how a sense of community could make them stronger and give them purpose.
But only partaking in blood consumption when there's a ripe field of resources out there? Resources that nobody would miss? What good would come out of squandering good food? The more if that very food is composed basically out of criminals.
For, if cannibal you are, you can also redirect your impulses to good causes. Become a creature of the night instead of human trash.
The term "vampire" had once meant the whole world to her, for she had dared to believe that she wasn't ill, but she hadn't been born human in the first place. If you weren't human, nobody could expect human behavior from you.
So then, as she had pressed West, whole tribes with her same urges had contacted her, seeking her guidance. Savage but not insane, they had recognized a ray of hope in their wretched existence and had listened to what she had to say.
She hadn't been Vance. She hadn't his palaver or his patience to put up with hesitating new members.
But she had his drive, and that, in the West, had been more than enough.
Leaving her former life with Vance behind had also meant to leave her former identity behind, so she had been renamed by the first cannibal tribe she had encountered, the Sybarites, as Vodja, which meant "War Goddess" in their native language.
Because war, she had also been extremely apt at. In the Wasteland, a creature of the night, a vampire, ought to fight to survive, know how to hunt prey. And there were many predators out there. If you wanted to catch those as well, you couldn't remain prey.
And Cesar's Legion had become her favorite predator to prey on once her large, nomadic tribe had hit first Colorado, then the Utah.
Her son, the only child she had borne, had been given up to a peaceful tribe along with the Sybarites' and many more vampire children so those good people could raise them without the taint. In that regard, Holly had deemed Vance's teachings right, for she wouldn't have her son suffer the same fate as her. A baby is innocent and deserves a chance at betterment, no matter how painful it may be for their parents to let them go. It was for the best.
But then, Cesar's Legion had arrived, spurred by that golden-masked beast.
The adults from that wonderful, kind-hearted tribe had been strung up on Old-World electrical poles like animals, whereas the children had been taken into Legion custody, no doubt to mold them into soldiers once they would be of age. Empty, trained drones to play the meat shield part in warfare.
Holly's people had honored the dead by consuming only their blood and giving them dignified sepulture. And then, revenge had been the only purpose that had driven their existence from that day on.
Every spy the Legion had sent to contact them, not a single bone of their corpses Holly hadn't picked clean.
They had erased small formations and scout parties the Legion arranged in key points throughout the Utah, for they hadn't been able to claim the Old State in its entirety thanks to yet another large tribe that hated them with the same burning rage as Holly's: Hecate's Sons and Daughters.
The thought of contacting Hecate had passed more than once over Holly's head, but she had ultimately discarded the notion, sure that them vampires wouldn't be welcomed by a self-appointed goddess fashioned after some pre-War myths.
Well, much to her infinite awe, Holly had been dead wrong.
"And so, the Dark Mother meets the Flesh Maiden at last."
Hecate was a tall, slender woman with cold, slanted blue eyes and a forked tongue worthy of her palaver.
Probably in her early forties, she was all bone and nerve. Her tribal regalia making her look like the bird of prey part, her colorful dreadlocks obscured by dark warpaint she, probably, had put on to welcome them.
Her teeth were tinted purple, likely due to having swallowed mashed violets to fight a buccal infection, and she had such sharp, long canines. Pretty much as the mutant creatures that followed her like pets, half coyote, half rattlesnake.
She looked every part of feral, whereas her discourse, in great contrast, was measured and educated, the likes Holly had rarely heard.
Normally, the people who showed ample knowledge in English vocabulary were either Vault dwellers, Brotherhood of Steel, or Enclave.
And this woman didn't fit in any of those factions.
She didn't fit anywhere. Perhaps that was why there was so much diversity among her people, for there wasn't a single soldier who wore the same outfit or even wielded the same type of weapon.
From raider-like warriors sporting snake-themed tattoos and wielding submachine guns to pure and simple tribal trackers dressed in pelts running barefoot up and down the city in clockwork synchrony, guarding the perimeter with spears.
Despite being revered as a goddess among them, she didn't demand them to convert to a standard, defined lifestyle, to a way in which all of them should dress, think, and behave to fit in.
But still, there was order in her chaos, method in her apparent disarray. An individual who has managed to turn so many different people into a community without using brute force or indoctrination was remarkable. For the ties in which she had woven them together were more potent than fear or faith.
For there's nothing more powerful than rage and despair spurred by love.
When you have nothing to lose and much to gain in turn, you become, if briefly, nearly invincible. That, Holly knew too well.
"There are sacred laws everyone respects here." – Hecate had explained to her once the two women, followed by a small retinue of guards for both their sakes, had been walking beside the other. The Dark Mother showing the Flesh Maiden the ropes around her city, pointing out key points where she suspected the golden-masked beast, Lanius, would likely attack – "Basic get-along rules to ensure cooperation from all the citizens and diminish the chance at cultural differences getting in the way. Communication is essential. Everybody here is welcome as long as they are respectful of one another. Do not stir trouble among my people, and we shall get along well."
"What about the ones I saw chained?" – Holly asked, pointing at a wired, heavily watched space full of tents where several barred cages hosted angry, tired men dressed in crimson rags – "There."
"Those are slaves, captures." – Hecate replied casually, as if talking about slavery wasn't any different than talking about the weather – "Many of the women and children here were once their servants. Now, the roles have reversed, and the men of Caesar are the ones serving us."
"Fitting." – Holly observed idly.
"Very." – Hecate confirmed with a nod – "For every affront, there is little justice to squeeze out of misguided, broken men. But then again, my people grab at what little peace their examples can bring them. That, and the hopes many mothers here harbors about getting their children back, dead or alive."
Holly's heart gave a painful thud at hearing that, thinking about her beautiful boy, who now should be four years old.
He had cried so much when she had handed him over to those good people… babbling in his baby speech, extending his fat little arms to her so she would hold him again.
She had hoped to watch him grow from a distance, protective as she and her people had been of that village and its inhabitants. A pure, untainted extension of their love.
She sometimes thought what would have been keeping him like, raising him on her own terms, perhaps trying to avoid consuming human flesh for a while until he would have been old enough to understand.
Now, her sweet boy was inside the meat-grinding machine, indoctrinated to become a weapon. A slave to a cult of wannabe-Romans that venerated war.
It was too late to try to rescue him, but it wasn't too late to join the forces of those who still dared to oppose the Bull.
"They aren't as powerful as they think." – Hecate said, cutting through Holly's thoughts like a dagger, as if she could read them – "Ten years ago, when their leader was still young and his General wasn't a tribal but a religious zealot, they were unstoppable." – she let out a hum through her long nose, as if finding the situation somehow humorous – "Now, Caesar is old and tired, and the Wall of the West stands between him and the embers of what the Old World left behind: the New California Republic, natural inheritors of pre-War society. And it has been this way for five years since their initial defeat, when they dared to confront technology with machetes."
Holly then had asked why Hecate hadn't sought protection under the New California Republic's banner.
"Because, to them, we are nothing but ignorant primitives, no much better than the Legion in social terms and vastly inferior in the military aspect… which, of course, suits us just well." – the woman had replied mysteriously, guiding Holly inside her pyramid, the center of her city.
Probably constructed on the foundations of a pre-War structure, the pyramid in question was an amalgam of building materials that, somehow, managed to hold together through consistent, solid patchwork. From reinforced adobe walls holding the first level to metallic planks acting the stairs' part up and down stories, whereas the windows were covered by several colored small polychrome crystals held in place through assembled molten lead rods.
The furniture varied from authentic Old-World pieces to handmade ones designed to look as close as possible to the originals. All covered in tribal rugs, roughly-woven tapestries, and all manner of imagery carved out of wood, almost always representing their Lady as a three-headed woman, Trimorphe.
Several people were praying in silence, lighting candles, incense, fragrant leaves, and whatnots, offering food and flowers either to the images or to empty altars filled with written parchment, notebook sheets, or small post-its.
Many of them would sit by the benches, kneel, and even prostrate. No matter the direction or the different languages whispered in quiet prayers, nobody bothered nobody as they would go on with their rites undisturbed.
It was like stepping into an Old-World cathedral of sorts, but peppered here and there with recycled military materials and polished junk.
Holly had never seen anything like that before.
"I do not ask my people to venerate me, but many chose to, as a symbol of appreciation." – Hecate whispered by her left, leaning in her ear from her taller stature – "Many others come from very different backgrounds and religions that they still practice. They know they can express their faith here without being judged or prosecuted for it. It took some time until certain Old-World-oriented practitioners would cease to bother the rest of the congregations, so faith practices are strictly controlled by my guards." – signaling the silent custodians posted every five or six feet around the space, she added – "Any parishioner raises their voice or bothers the rest, they are immediately expelled and sanctioned with an entrance ban. Depending on the aggravation, the ban can go from one single day to a whole month."
'Impressive' couldn't even begin to describe what Holly thought about keeping peace among such a heterogeneous group of believers. For what she had seen out in the Wasteland so far had been cults forcing their beliefs as the only good and true, branding any other practices as heretic, a threat to their imposed orders.
"Come with me." – Hecate told her – "There's still one more thing you should see."
Intrigued, Holly followed the woman and her strange pets to an adjoining room, way smaller than the prayer center and also password-protected by pre-War technology.
The bulletproof door opened to give way to a flight of stairs that went underground into concrete ground, probably an untouched part of the original setting.
They descended two levels that led to an old office door that, besides reading the usual "AUTHORISED PERSONNEL ONLY" placard, also had an extra sign reading "Underground Hangar Elevator".
Another vertiginous set of auxiliary stairs received them this time, pre-War fire extinguishers still screwed to the concrete walls as they descended what Holly thought to be six levels to reach yet another automated door decorated with several discolored hazard signs.
Holly's ears had begun to beep due to pressure change, so she ventured they must be pretty deep below normal ground level.
"This place was an Air Force Base before the War." – she heard Hecate saying – "When we arrived, this was but crumbling ruins, probably affected by the harsh environment and the bombs that fell at the nearby Syracuse and Uintah, making two shock waves meeting to hit this place harder than most. The need to cover what the bombs had left in plain sight was a priority." - she explained - "The Old-World military hid several weapon caches throughout North America, still preparing to face an enemy they had but to push a button to obliterate. Turns out that the Hill Air Force Base hosted more secrets than any of us could have initially predicted."
As soon as they had left the stairs behind, a new, rounded corridor crossed by several pipelines and barely illuminated by orange emergency lights came into view. Hecate kept leading Holly into the dark. The woman's reptilian creatures producing excited hissing as the lights grew dimmer.
It didn't bother Holly, though, for there were guards every ten feet, and her own bodyguards were but paces behind them. This wasn't a trap and, even if it would end up being one, she was too curious to turn heel at this point.
And so, once they had crossed what had felt like a ten-minute ring road down East, a giant ramp met them. It apparently reached far below, descending further into the earth through an industrial heavy-lift elevator that Hecate programmed through a control panel once everyone, including her beasts, were aboard.
It felt unsettling, given the cage-shaped likeness of the aforesaid elevator and the rocky walls of the tunnel they were slowly descending into, as if the Old-World work here were left kind of unfinished, rough and unpolished.
But then, it felt even more unsettling once the ride was over, for a shocking sight received Holly as Hecate stopped beside her, allowing her to assimilate what her eyes were looking upon.
"This is…"
"Turns out that the so-called underground 'hangar' that this base hosted was also repurposed once Project Safehouse was given green lights by the pre-War American Government, which entrusted Vault-Tec Industries with such a task."
Penetrating the opened cogwheel Vault door in front of them, Hecate went directly to a control panel situated on the inside where a young man sat, inventorying by hand a set of laser rifles that made Holly salivate.
"These models you see?" – Hecate said, taking one of the rifles between her hands and giving it to Holly so she could test its weight – "They are merely an appetizer compared to what we found at the Armory, along with a whole batch of T-65 Power Armors. A model that, if our databases are correct, was only produced and distributed throughout key points the Old-World military deemed strategically suitable to build up a counteroffensive should the Chinese missiles managed to penetrate the American security system. We only know for sure of three Vaults that must have hosted these: Vault 79 in West Virginia, Vault 15 in California… and the one we have just set foot in, Vault 9 in Utah."
Holly got a feel at the weapon's handle, testing its weight distribution until the very Hecate extended her a microfusion cell energy production unit, the standard ammo for these guns.
She loaded the antechamber and, at Hecate's signal to direct her aim toward an old dummy for practice sitting on the opposite wall, Holly fired.
The sizzling, ashen hole she left on the mannequin filled her with a dark, powerful desire to test in on flesh, watch how it would burn it through armor to melt into the skin and bone. She could already envision sinking teeth on it, still warm and crispy right from the yelling, very much alive owner.
Oh, these red-skirted fools, they will know pain the likes they'd never experienced before. Not even at their lashing posts.
"Moonchild." – she heard Hecate saying, addressing the young man still inventorying the weapons in a notebook with small, tight calligraphy – "How are preparations faring with the new emergency plan?"
The young man raised his blonde… no, white head from the task he was so engrossed in and looked at his Goddess with eyes as red as blood.
Demon's eyes. – Holly thought, fascinated.
"Every family has been pertinently informed, and our warriors are already working simulacrum drills for the incoming night. Everything is in order."
"And your inventory?"
The man's red eyes gleamed.
"This is the last batch in the catalog's schedule… my Lady." – he replied darkly.
Hecate's pointed canines peeked through a taut, cold smile. Her voice as smooth as honey.
"Good."
It had been already half an hour or so. She still had trouble measuring time even when it came to recent events.
Lying on a makeshift stretcher, Six was beginning to doze off a little despite not having been injected with any painkillers so far.
It might have to do with the nice healer lady who had helped her out of her armor and was currently washing the blood off her wounds. Her movements around her were quiet, soft, and caring; her hands pleasantly cool as they tested her leg. Six felt safe and comfy around her.
Rex had jumped on as soon as the healer had taken needle and thread from a small pot filled with boiled water with pincers. Then the dog had proceeded to lick Six's cheek softly in welcome.
"You have been very brave out there." – the healer told her. Her voice as soft as her hands and melodic, the likes of a siren.
Six blinked, unresponsive to the pain the woman's tending over her wounds reawoke.
"Taking the life of a man marked for death isn't brave." – she opined weakly, her voice still raspy due to her swelling throat, observing impassibly the cleansing of her wounds as fresh water swept away blood to show broken, swelling tissue – "It's just doing what the Praetorian Guard would have done otherwise."
"But you did it because it would earn you respect around here." – the woman opined, not raising her eyes from the wounds she proceeded to stitch after blowing a bit her materials to cool them off and making Six munch a brand-new dosage of healing powder – "Which you have accomplished."
"I wouldn't be so sure about that. More like them believing me a witch or something at this rate."
"Which is still respect. The men here cannot respect something they cannot fear."
Six sighed. So much for dozing off at this rate, risky conversation and all.
"Aren't you even a little bit worried someone might catch you expressing dangerous ideas this freely?" – she wouldn't like having this warm, nice lady strung up on a cross because they hadn't been cautious enough with what they discussed.
"I am a slave, thus I have very little left to lose. And I am the most qualified among the Medicae, so they cannot prescind of me."
"Still…"
However, the woman laughed softly.
"You sure are an odd addition to Caesar's army." – she observed astutely.
"Because I'm a woman?"
"That, and because you have a conscience to speak about too. We need more people like you among the troops."
"Don't get your hopes too high. I've just happened to have the right skillset in the right place at the right time."
"If what worries you is how the Imperator might dispose of you once your role in this war is over, you shouldn't fret about it. He cannot kill you."
"Why are you so sure?"
"Because, today, you have shown them that there are different people from that they are used to dealing with. Different women than the ones they look down on." – smearing a minty-smelling poultice over her stitched wounds, she added – "If he kills you, he'll be admitting the only thing a man in his position cannot abide."
"Which is?"
"That he is afraid of you."
She didn't want to dwell on this. Not now and, perhaps, not ever.
"You sure are an odd addition to Caesar's workforce." – she returned, wishing the good woman would take the hint and stop running her mouth more than the two of them could afford at the moment.
The healer shrugged as she began bandaging her leg.
"I wasn't always a slave." – pausing her endeavors briefly, she smiled sadly – "I often forget how it used to feel to walk around looking people in their faces instead of my own feet, caring for something beyond my own survival. I guess you remind me of those times."
"How so?"
"Your Pip-Boy." – at that, Six attempted to take her arm far from the woman's reach, which was futile, since she grabbed her by the hand – "A 3000 Mark IV model. Only the military and the Vault-Tec scientific branch got these, I believe."
It cannot be…
"Are you…?"
"A Vault dweller? Yes. I was captured when our Vault, the number 70, got infiltrated by the Frumentarii. It was when they had started their campaign throughout the old State of Colorado, twenty-two years ago."
Shutting her mouth immediately, Six suppressed her immediate disappointment and, instead, allowed all of her remaining sympathies to go towards this woman who, probably, had already lived more years under Legion rule than as a free human being.
There was resignation in her voice, but her eyes told another entirely different tale.
This woman still had hope, a hope she mistakenly was putting on Six's shoulders, thinking her actions could change the situation of many Legion women.
That didn't make her feel any better.
From the moment the Platinum Chip had opened the bunker hatch at the Weather Station, she had kept lying systematically.
She had cried all the way down the corridors once the blue force field had propelled Zorro backward and House had begun sending in data about the bunker's layout to her Pip-Boy, demanding she pressed on forward, assuring her he was still alive after she had thrown a temper tantrum, unwilling to move unless she got guarantees that he was alright and the Orwellian man wouldn't touch him.
She had cried when she had hacked through the security terminals to disable the turrets, the sentry bots, and the protectrons. The latter having left a plasma souvenir on her armor before she could get to the control room.
She had cried when she had reached the reactor, wiping her snot in a sleeve of her armor.
"Stop wasting time. Go upload the data on the Platinum Chip to the facility's primary computer. I lost most of my connection to this place after the bombs, so I am entirely dependent upon your success… so is the rest of mankind."
By the time she had found the Systems Room, she had cried so much she had been dehydrated, exhausted, and with one hell of a headache.
"Finally… It has taken you longer than I predicted."
Her lower lip had been trembling, unable to shed more tears but still throwing a fit silently.
"You are very fortunate that I am a tolerant, understanding boss, Miss Sullivan. For this behavior is quite unbecoming, given how much is at stake here."
There had been screens everywhere, showing House's face every twenty feet or so, making him unavoidable on all accounts.
"It is quite unfortunate that your… Legion ally chose to accompany you in the end. We could have worked things out with him in a less… rushed manner."
"It wasn't like he had any saying on the matter." – she had tried to defend him, but then, smaller monitors around the terminal from which House had been supervising her movements had shown images of Zorro first attempting to crack the force field code, then walking up and down the room in where he was trapped, kicking walls and taking his hands to his head in frustration.
He had sported dry blood on his hair, but other than that, he had seemed intact.
"If you are suggesting what I think you are suggesting, the answer is no."
Her hopes had deflated, sinking into the bitter depths of resignation. It had been worth a shot and House had been true to his word. He had done everything in his hand to sway Zorro, but the Frumentarius wouldn't have any of it.
"I have held my end of the deal, Miss Sullivan. I believe it is time that you return the courtesy."
The large space of the mainframe room had been strangely silent, dim. Emergency lighting positioned on the floor flashing intermittently, signaling how precarious was the electricity flow down there. The room had looked mostly empty, with large windows looking out into nothing but gloom.
"I have watched this bunker for years, and it wasn't until the Legion set up camp here that it was disturbed." – House had explained with his perennial business-like, dispassionate tone – "Countless security warnings from the entrance terminal have been sent, year after year, as Caesar concocted yet another futile plan to render the hatch open. I was forced to cut power to most of this place with the best of my abilities, given my limited control over the facility's systems. Fortunately, if damaged, the reactor is still working on its forty-three percent of capability, allowing me to broadcast to a certain extent. Which, of course, has played in our favor by detaining that boy right at the beginning. It would have been disastrous if he had gotten further access into the facility."
She had wanted to get out of that place as soon as possible.
"What do I have to do now?"
"Simple: insert the Platinum Chip once more into the mainframe console and follow my lead through the installation's specifics."
She had done as requested and then, her butt had met the unyielding ground rather brusquely once the facility had reactivated and the whole place had shaken.
"Holy…" – she had barely gasped, getting up and pressing her nose to one of the large windows that, instead of empty darkness, had shown her a gigantic hangar in which rows and rows of securitrons sizzled with life, their usual friendly (well, sort of) policeman avatar showing at their screens now substituted by one of a soldier. Still a cartoon, but way, way meaner.
This hadn't been a simple update on the securitrons' software. House had a whole robotic army underground, ready to serve their master.
An army that needs no sustenance, nor sleep, and fears no enemy.
"You see why this was so important? Your work here has proven crucial to keep the Mojave in better, more experienced hands than the likes of Caesar or Aaron Kimball. With my army working at its full capacity, the odds in favor of our victory at Hoover Dam multiply significantly in comparison to a few minutes ago."
Her mind had simply gone blank for a whole minute, still observing the securitrons completely dazzled.
"While I can appreciate admiration to the point of rendering a woman speechless, the clock is still ticking, Miss Sullivan. Your work here is done. Return to the Lucky 38 at your earliest convenience so we can discuss next steps."
"I… can't."
"Excuse me?"
"I'll need… extra time to get rid of my Legion ties."
"Whereas I am an understanding man, Miss Sullivan, I would not allow you to take vacations until Hoover Dam will effectively be in my power. This is not the right time to allow distractions thwart our tightly-bound schedule."
She hadn't been in the most ideal mindset to negotiate yet another truce with House regarding Zorro… but she had made him a promise.
And she kept her promises.
"You don't understand… Even if I manage to get out of Fortification Hill without raising any suspicions, my Legion ally will still be accompanying me back to Vegas."
"On that regard, I can make arrangements. You still carry the Platinum Chip with you; it wouldn't be in the best of both our interests, be either by Legion or any other wild element out there, that you managed to get yourself killed or held hostage in my detriment. This isn't a risk I am willing to undergo a second time."
Retiring the silvery Chip from the console, she had had quite the epiphany holding it, feeling its smooth, cool surface running between her fingers.
Everything that has unfolded since Burke found out about House's plans to send six couriers, five as decoy, only one carrying the only real item of value…
And the obscure deal between the Mojave Express man and that other courier so she would carry it, the two bullets, the loss of everything that still anchored her to this desolated world…
The amnesia, the chase, the fear, the sadness, the madness amidst oceans of sand and wind down the I-15 accompanied by a floating machine pertaining to a faction that had destroyed her life.
Everything… over so small a thing. So little that she could close her fingers around and hid it in her fist.
She wished she could just crush it. Nobody was worthy of the power and responsibility this puny little thing wielded.
She wished she could just throw it into a lake and disconnect House.
So fleeting a wish… yet ringing so painful and true.
Perhaps she didn't deserve to be happy after all, but to serve the purposes of this brave New World to atone for her many sins buried beneath the irradiated ruins of two cities.
"I don't want him harmed in any way." – she had found herself demanding, holding the Platinum Chip contemptuously, eyeing the static monitor in defiance – "Nor I want him handed over NCR authorities in Vegas."
"Still mourning over this adolescent infatuation of yours, I see."
"Consider it payment for my services." – scoffing, she had added – "You should be glad that I am not making you waste a single more cap in returning the Chip to you. After all, it is already worth 'a sum beyond counting', as you so eloquently described before."
"I am not entirely sure if this small insubordination and the bratty undertones in these tedious negotiations sit well enough with me, Miss Sullivan. You are walking a fine line, and I am becoming quite impatient."
"You enjoy thorough planification the same I relish in tying everything up with a little pink bow, Mr. House. So hear me out, for I believe the proposal I have come up with will help meet a compromise between us."
"We will see about that. What did you have in mind, Miss Sullivan?"
Inhaling sharply at the sudden prick that went to her sensitive left arm, Six's mind returned to the present time to eye first the healer bend over her swelling cut, trying to make the best out of her sewing abilities, then the emptiness of the canvas roof over her head.
"You've barely complained as I stitched up your wounds while conscious. It was starting to be unnerving. Not even the men here endure the needle so casually." – the woman observed gravelly – "I've also observed that the swelling in your throat has diminished fairly quickly and your wounds have stopped bleeding on their own. Have you injected with the Stimpak I procured you?"
Six sighed. So much for losing grasp of reality when a hopeful, opinionated, nosy woman was trying to reach her through the wrong topics.
"What was your name again?" – she inquired.
"Siri, Tabellaria. My name is Siri."
"Okay, Siri… can we please drop risky topics, behave like two prudent women surrounded by eyes and ears from guys with control issues, and just make our lives overall easier? Please?"
"If you wanted an easier life, perhaps you shouldn't have abandoned Vegas in the first place, Tabellaria." – Siri replied severely, tying the knot of her stitches slightly tighter than was really necessary.
"It wasn't like I had any saying on the matter." – Six muttered, frustrated at her attempts to clam up going disregarded.
Siri went silent for a while, smearing the cut with more fresh minty paste.
"Sometimes, there's nothing one can do to escape the works of the heart, isn't it?" – she asked, out of a sudden, smiling knowingly to a very flustered Six, who simply opted to hide under the pillow she took from under her head to put it over her face – "I wouldn't move my limbs so carelessly. The stitches are still too recent."
"I would behave like a model patient if you wouldn't keep bringing up uncomfortable topics." – she replied obstinately, voice muffled under the pillow.
"Ah, so I hit a nerve then?" – the woman teased.
"For being a slave, you're mean."
"As mean as my position allows."
"You aren't going to let this sit, are you?"
"For as long as you stay at the Valetudinarium, not a chance."
"Then maybe I should speed up my recovery as much as I can. Can you please tell someone go fetch my backpack from… ehm… Inculta's tent?"
"That won't be necessary."
Grabbing the pillow she still had on her face at the intrusion of a new voice, Six put it aside to watch, confused, how the two twins, Gabban and Alexus, entered the small space between canvas walls and stood before her.
Familiarized as she was already with Gabban's serious, distrustful mien, Six identified who was who almost immediately.
"Once your wounds are conveniently dressed, we have orders of taking you back to the Master Frumentarius' tent." – Gabban informed, still serious in great contrast with his twin, who looked ecstatic.
"There she is!" – said ecstatic twin exclaimed, a friendly, almost goofy grin spreading throughout his face as he sat down in the stretcher with her. He messed a little with Rex until the dog deemed the Decanus harmless enough and allowed him the privilege of becoming his human pillow. Evidently, the young man was fond of dogs and knew how to earn their trust – "Can you smell it? The guys out there are lining up either to the latrines or the river to wash the crap out of their uniforms. You've made a whole bunch of dicks shit themselves today. That's what I like to see!" – he exclaimed, his grin growing to Cheshire proportions.
"Hum, thank you… I guess?" – she replied, incredibly intimidated in front of the sibling she knew the least who now, out of a sudden, was behaving like her fan number one.
With a total disregard for personal space, Alexus squished her cheeks with his hard, oddly dainty hands in a gesture of fondness that disoriented her.
Were these three really brothers at all?
"How did you do it, mea parva soror?" – he asked, enthusiastic – "Did you control the crows with that Old-World device or something?" – he asked, pointing at her Pip-Boy – "Those trembling assholes swallowed the witch tale to the last drop and, now, they will think twice before looking down at you. One hell of a clever move, if you ask me."
My little sister, he had called her. Just like that. Trusting and open, devoid of the Frumentarius' instincts on suspecting even your own shadow.
It almost made her cry. They had accepted her. Zorro's family had accepted her, and she… she…
She didn't deserve it.
"Something like that." – she replied, deflated. The flock show had been violent and very much unpleasant. Now that she knew that she was being watched even more closely through camouflaged drones, she felt naked and paranoid. If she were to tell this to anyone, nobody would believe her and she would lose candy points with her stalker.
The controlling device thing was as good a story as any other.
Besides, now that she thought about it, there were cases of mind-controlling devices for creatures, such as the cybernetic implants the Enclave at DC had used on Deathclaws. Besides the obvious training instilled on the creatures, those implants basically used a wireless connection with a transmitter that, through microwaves, stimulated a specific part of the Deathclaw's cortex to redirect their murdering impulses to a target of choice.
She… supposed she could present a shortened version of the same principle should Sallow would decide to bring the topic up.
Nevermind, instead of overthinking the lies she was likely going to make up should she'd be questioned about the crows' issue again, she should address the preparations that the two twins were doing parallelly to Siri's dressings. Without consulting her.
Soon, Six had found herself squirming in Alexus' grasp since the young man had insisted on carrying her on piggyback while Gabban took care of the rest of her belongings.
The deal had been that she didn't mind being carried since her leg burned like hell… but with some fucking pants on.
Siri insisted that her wounds should "breathe" despite the bandages, and Alexus had taken her words in the most literal sense.
And now, Six was acting the backpack part to the Decanus while struggling so that her uniform jacket wouldn't hike up past her hips.
Which was easier said than done.
It didn't help that Alexus was all for being noisy as he carried her, mocking the fearful looks they were receiving in their wake.
"Bear witness! I'm carrying the Venefica Corvi!" (A) – he was declaring happily as the men around stood clear from then, occasionally making the sign of the horns from a distance – "She drains vital essence with just her touch, so I'm sacrificing myself to allow you bunch of chickens stay alive!"
Couldn't he just… kind of shut up? Pretty please?
Humiliating ride aside, Six was finally granted a respite once they reached the Castra Peregrina and Alexus put her on Zorro's sleeping pad. It was one of those the NCR used, navy blue and kind of rough but comfortable. Guess raiding parties sometimes got the good stuff.
"That should be all." – Gabban announced dispassionately once she and her belongings were conveniently arranged – "Should you need anything, there will be a Frumentarius stationed at the tent's entr…"
"Hey, where did you get the head's offering idea anyway?" – Alexus interrupted him as if Gabban were invisible – "Were you aware that many guys here hail from tribes in where that's considered a great honor, even carrying religious connotations?"
Gross. – she thought, whereas she opted to answer more diplomatically.
"I… didn't think about it at the moment. I kind of went on automatic."
It was true. She hadn't thought just how gruesome her action had been. She simply had done what her gut had told her to do, and it turns out that the gorier and bloodier you presented your victory in the Legion, the better.
These guys were too much into body horror, then. Guess that's what you get from former raiders.
The more she dug into their culture, the more she realized just how incredibly difficult and stressful it must have been for Sallow to whip a brutish horde of ferals keen on carnage and bloodlust into a somewhat civilized army holding hard work and unwavering loyalty as the ultimate virtues.
How Zorro and his brothers would have turned out if they had never become Legion? If distinctively more rational and cautious than the average legionary, Zorro's people still had traces of savagery. She had seen it, the way they had dealt with the Fiends and the Powder Gangers.
One of them had taken Moto-Runner's helmet as a war trophy after chopping his head off, and Zorro himself had been wiggling Violet(ta? Or just "Violet"? She wasn't sure anymore)'s severed head around as if it had been a toy.
Come to think about it, Zorro had treated the Benny's head deal like receiving a present, whereas Sallow had looked completely grossed out.
Ew.
Anyway, Alexus had kept on his tirade of uncomfortable questions about the duel's details until Gabban had dragged him out of the tent, and she had been allowed half an hour or so of peace half-napping along with Rex until Zorro had come back when she had her eyes closed already.
And, with him, the pungent odor of congealed blood had entered the tent, making her eyes water.
But the worst had come when he had sat at his table with a bunch of cutting instruments, from plain knives to surgeon's scalpels, and had begun to… ewww… peel off the head until he had a perfectly clean human skull between his bloodstained hands.
He had even admired his handiwork a little, lifting the skull in front of his face to inspect it closely.
To be, or not to be grossed out, that is the question. – she thought as he cleansed the mess, fanning Rex away when the dog tried to get a bite out of the remains, washed his hands, and came to lie beside her.
Because, out of the two of them… who was the grossest? The one who gifts a severed head or the one who accepts it?
"Owch!" – she exclaimed once a sharp prick stabbed her bad leg. A Super Stimpak. Those made her slightly queasy, but she had it easy still. Regular people's systems tended to handle bad those, even with preparation.
That had been why the Super Stimpaks had been solely reserved for the U.S. military, the more if the soldiers that were administered were also enhanced somehow.
"We have three, maybe four hours before Lord Caesar summons us for tonight's festivities, so I need you on your two feet." – he offered as an explanation, which made her roll her eyes.
"Couldn't he wait until tomorrow or something? What's the rush anyway?"
"Sullivan."
"Okay, okay. Caesar commands, I obey. Got it."
The silence that followed ensued stretched long enough for him to begin dozing off, for his voice sounded mellow and slightly nasal when he acknowledged her talking to him.
"Hmmm?"
"Wouldn't it look a little suspicious if I present myself all good and almost healed after Benny kicked my ass at the arena?"
He grumbled a little before answering.
"You will demonstrate strength and resilience, which is precisely what Caesar requires of you right now."
"So, he is aware that I'm using forbidden stims in his encampment?" – she asked as if she hadn't heard it right – "Why the special treatment?"
"Because he needs you healthy and ready to depart tomorrow as soon as he relies his plans on you for the incoming weeks."
Aha, so the dictator can feign ignorance upon the usage of banned items as long as it suits his purposes, pretty much as the AutoDoc in his tent. What a hypocrite.
"Great. I'm completely not feeling like a tool at all, Fox-Man."
"We are all Caesar's tools, Sullivan."
It didn't feel right, coming off his lips.
"Doesn't it bother you? Even a little bit?"
"You get used to it."
"What, like being his hammer as Golden Mask Guy is?"
"His name is Lanius, and you'll do well in remembering it." – the warning in his voice had turned its usually soft cadences into something dark, like that time, when he had been describing Nipton's treachery upon its "clients" – "Other than that, becoming one of Caesar's Manifestations to enforce his will is regarded as a tremendous honor. One that I pride myself in sharing with my fellow Commanders and, by extension, with you now."
"Me? I am now a manifestation of his power? How so?"
"It stems from our religion, the Cult of Mars." – he explained – "There are seven epithets or Manifestations of the God of War: Mars Pater and Mars Augustus, the Father and the Majestic respectively, are exclusively reserved for Caesar alone, him being a physical manifestation of Mars himself on Earth. Then, there is Mars Quirinus, protector of the citizenry and guarantor of treaties, thus peace; which Lucius, our Praetorian Commander, takes after." – fascinating. Sallow must be quite the nerd by bringing back from books a cult so ancient – "Mars Gradivus, the most implacable of the Gods and also the one bound intimately with battle, is taken by Lanius, our Primus Legatus. And then, Mars Grabovius, attendant of ritual protocols for carrying out public ceremonies, is bestowed upon our High Priestess at the Temple of Mars, which doesn't go by any name, for her role takes over her identity as an individual."
Erm… that last bit hadn't sounded disturbing at all. Really.
"Okay, and you take after the mantle of…?"
"The Commander of the Frumentarii, collectors of wheat as you know, takes after Mars Silvanus, protector of lands and harvests' benefactor."
"And I supposedly am…?"
"Given your history of enmity with the man that shot you in the head and you, in turn, cut his own to make an offering out of it, makes you best suited for Mars Ultor."
"The Avenger…"
"Precisely."
Little rest did she catch after quite the revealing conversation despite how soundly Zorro had fallen into Morpheus' arms. He must have been exhausted after dealing with a concussion, then detox from radiation poisoning.
Not to mention how tense it had been today overall.
She watched over his sleep while taking in his scent, the way his veined eyelids moved so slightly while profoundly asleep, trusting and beautiful as he was, committing him to memory as much as she could until Gabban came back to inform about Sallow's wish to see them.
The Fort's legionaries had been celebrating already. The smell of brahmin roasters, the sizzling sounds of cooked vegetables and clanking pots blended with the general hubbub of men laughing and enjoying their meals, substantially less fearful and hostile than this afternoon around her.
Even the ever-working slaves seemed to have an easy time around the pots, for many of them were also partaking in the feast either standing up or sitting on the ground with a warm plate of brahmin between their hands.
Guess a full stomach does wonders at making people forget their woes and fears, substituting it for a temporary though cozy amenity in which they are just happy people enjoying themselves.
Nevertheless, the stitches upon her healed leg felt tight when she walked up the hill to meet the guarded countenance of Caesar, who asked her for a stroll. Alone.
Ivory didn't like family dinners one bit.
It was the only moment of the day in which Commander Artemis and her husband were both free to enjoy a meal around their daughter, thus Ivory as well.
It wasn't like he didn't find Watch Captain Jordan Dae to be an unworthy match for his mother. The man was stoic but fair and honorable.
It was just that dining with a family that didn't feel like his own unnerved Ivory to the core. He didn't belong here; he didn't have a strong connection with either of them. Many years had passed since his assimilation… no, his abduction to remember how it used to feel having a family. To have around people he could trust.
And his memories didn't help much either.
"Would you pass me the bread, Dennis?"
Doing as he was asked, Ivory mentally flinched at the name. He hated it. He couldn't recall a time in which he hadn't hated it.
It had been his father's name, after all.
"You going to eat that, Bubba?" – little Laila asked, earning his almost automatic response at putting what she was pointing at on her plate – "Yay!"
Everything felt surreal, awkward, mechanical. As if they were made of flesh and blood, whereas he was but a wooden toy, joints too full of sawdust to move properly.
Even his own mouth felt sewn despite the food entering it, chewing without tasting, swallowing cornbread, potato mash, and fried chicken like he would have swallowed a bunch of nails.
It was a sentiment he had willed himself to ignore for as long as he had been permitted to be around his relatives, since he hadn't been deemed a real threat to the lives any worthy legionary would have taken without doubt, perhaps taking the child to join Caesar's unending meat chain.
Lately, his mind seemed fixated upon torturing him, bringing up the "good old days" that had never been good at all… until he had been rendered a cripple.
A part of his brain relished in imaging himself again at Lanius' mercy, with the Monster of the East looking him down with a disgusted grimace hidden behind that cold mask of his, raising his infamous Blade of the East. Massive, thick, heavy, and far too rough. A heap of raw iron not worthy of even being called a sword, but effective in the same way a sword should be.
Ivory's imagination would conjure this monster wielding his monstrous blade to cut him down in half, ending his misery for good.
But no. Even monsters have fucking standards when it comes to slaying prey. Or eating them.
The Maneater hadn't also abandoned his thoughts, even more when those thoughts conspired against him in the realm of dreams.
And now, the city was filled to the brim with cannibals. The Flesh Maiden, quicker than one too many Wastelanders not very familiar with open war, having been allowed to hold the eastern and western walls, crouched in the shadows where her ilk belonged, distributed throughout households, the market, and the school.
Hecate's Daughters and Hounds would cover the pyramid's surroundings to facilitate citizen's exodus. Their encampments at Southeast and Southwest respectively already swarming with the ferals Hecate had collected from one of her Vaults. Having lost their minds long ago to radiation sickness and being occasionally fed with unruly slaves, those abominations already knew the taste of human flesh and were very much ravenous.
The northern wall was trusted to the blind Deathclaws, whose cages would be opened once the enemy would dare to set foot within thirty feet from them.
Everything was set up. Now, it was up to Lanius to begin with the hostilities.
This morning, the scouts had reported that the Butcher's encampment had been sizzling with anticipation, drill units doing their best as many legionaries mended their armors or polished their weapons. Brahmin after brahmin slaughtered to offer a single communal copious lunch.
To Ivory, everything was all laid bare. Lanius would never order extra drills and extra rations for everyone unless he was preparing to attack. He liked his legionaries sharp and strong as ever but on edge enough, not permitting them to have dinner or rest until the city would fall.
And hunger at dinnertime would assure him that his soldiers would be angry as fuck. It was the same old tactics all over. Ivory knew them too well.
Swallowing his last portion of chicken, Ivory took his leave without saying a word, limping toward the pyramid's higher levels, where Hecate awaited him surrounded by her creatures.
"Moonchild." – she welcomed him, her eyes occupied with long-range binoculars, spying from her elevated position the night ahead, signaling him with one hand to approach – "There you go." – she added, ceding him the binoculars as well as a talkie, the only way they ensured that Lanius' men wouldn't intercept their signal and get a grasp on what was going on in Ouroboros – "Give the signal once the Butcher and his men will be but ten minutes away from the city. No more, no less."
"And you, my Lady?" – it still rankled him calling her that, but she seemed to take it as a symbol of respect, so he could deal with it as long as it ensured him a slice of her trust.
Hecate smiled, and he found it unsettling in some weird manner. It reminded him of something he couldn't quite place. And not something he could either call "pleasant" at all.
"Why, I ought to dress for the occasion, of course!" – she exclaimed, weirdly joyful as if her city being reduced to ashes wouldn't be something to be gloom about – "I shall be the first one welcoming Caesar's gentlemen to my humble abode, since they have been so attentive as to pay me a visit." – amplifying her smile down to a manic grin that disturbed Ivory greatly, she added – "I want for the Butcher to experience Ouroboros' hospitality… and I pride myself on being a most courteous hostess."
That night, while Edward Sallow inwardly gloated at his apparent victory at seizing Courier Six's attention and collaboration to his plans for the Dam, far East his General and his Legio met the fury and cunning of a woman who, for ten long years, had been hellbent on making the dictator pay for his transgressions.
Further East, crossing the Ohio border with Indiana, Arthur Maxson marveled at the speed in which the Prydwen had managed to fly over the country in a single day whereas a somber Burke nursed his wounded pride as well as the sting the slap of a certain angry blonde had elicited upon his cheek before their departure.
Parallelly, the Machine God of Vegas developed a strategy of his own when he sent five securitrons to five specific locations outside The Strip's walls with an offer for each one that night.
The lucky ones being Julie Farkas, from the Followers of the Apocalypse; the King, from The Kings of Freeside; Red Lucy, from the destroyed Thorn on Westside; Clayton Ettienne, one of the two leaders of the Westside Cooperative; and Crandon, leader of the people from North Vegas Square.
Meanwhile, getting yet another restless evening of fruitless interrogation to the Legion prisoner, James Hsu at Camp McCarran shuffled between options, coldly reconsidering what Lieutenant Boyd had suggested about using a third party with less orthodox methods to make the whole deal legal. Impatient over that record he had ordered Captain Pappas on The Strip to write about Rose of Sharon Cassidy, the alcoholic ex-caravanner and by far the most vulnerable cohort among the Courier's group.
That changed over the course of two calls.
Game set, cards distributed, all the players sat at the table, took their assigned stack, and made the best out of the hand they had been dealt.
SPANISH:
(1) - "Promised is debt"
LATIN:
(A) - "Crow Witch"
A/N:... Here I am, promising action when only half-fulfilling my end of the bargain. I couldn't resist more worldbuilding as the Battle of Ouroboros will unravel in the next chapter (I swear! Pinky Promise!). The rest... well, the puzzle's pieces are slowly falling into place. Tensions are building, and Six will have to make haste in preparing her paramour's unit for battle, for my interpretation of Robert House, as you can see, isn't one bit passive.
Yes, I've reinvented Siri's canonical past and age. Problem? xD (It just suits my narration better, you'll see).
PD: also, not-so-hidden references to Berserk? What? Where? xD
IMPORTANT: due to further corrections and Beta-Read, the chapters are susceptible to changes as always. I've changed the Latin designations for the Legion Commanders from "Summus" to "Praefectus", which is historically more accurate. Also, I have corrected a minor issue with the Hill Air Force Base being at Ogden when it is incorrect since it is South of Ogden (thanks, Google Maps).
No, I'm not getting faster at typing, so don't get used to these rushed updates xD
