"Number Nine"
Ch. 38: Love Crime from the Wrath of the Lamb.
Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains non-explicit cannibalism, references to racism, culture-shaming, homophobia, transphobia, ableism, misogyny, and a general disdain for uncultured people. It is written from the point of view of a specific character that the author doesn't share their opinions with. If it sounds convincing, that's because the author, regretfully, has encountered a fair share of individuals with these kinds of opinions. Tread with caution.
"Oh, the skies, tumbling from your eyes,
so sublime, the chase to end all time.
Seasons call and fall, from grace and uniform,
anatomical and metaphysical.
Oh, the dye.
A blood red setting sun.
Rushing through my veins,
burning up my skin.
I will survive, live and thrive,
win this deadly game.
Love crime.
Love crime.
I will survive, live and thrive.
I will survive.
I will."
- Brian Reitzell (feat. Siouxsie Sioux), "Love Crime from the Wrath of the Lamb"
Despite having spent almost two-thirds of his existence perfecting and polishing a lifetime's work that required the utmost finesse and patience, Edward Sallow had never been characterized for being a delicate, patient man.
Since his most tender childhood, he had known that his intellect had been above many other children his age.
The games they deemed entertaining, young Edward had found those to be nonsensical while he had devoured Poe's 'Tales of the Macabre'.
The raw, demanding ways they employed to socialize had made him distance from them from the very moment he had set a foot into the classroom, preferring to move amidst the company of adults who often would treat him as a rarity, an amusing pet whose opinions they would tolerate to a certain extent.
And he had always used that underestimation to his advantage.
A precocious student, when the rest of his peers had but started with the multiplication tables, he had been well on his way to solving second-degree equations.
Lauded by his teachers, the rest of his classmates hadn't been so fond of the overweight, taciturn boy who never joined in their games and had barely acknowledged the not-so-adorable epithets they would often decide to christen him with. That is until the offender would find themselves mysteriously pushed down the stairs, or their possessions would magically disappear from their school desks and backpacks to end up in the trashcan or the toilet.
And if one of such offenders would dare to pursue enmity with him, he appealed to the justice of the professorate, knowing how to navigate even something as petty as classroom politics from the very moment he had been named Delegate-for-fucking-life.
A power he had cherished and enjoyed with all its due perks.
With the grown-ups' support, no matter the students' suspicions, he had become nearly untouchable even well into his teens when he was sent to Angel's Boneyard University to pursue a Degree in Social Sciences thanks to a generous scholarship earned with the sweat of his brow.
Linguistic Anthropology had sounded like a good plan given that it had been a little niche Degree at that time, thus next to no field competition. Besides, there had been plenty of tribes in the East that spoke this or that creole dialect derived from pre-War official languages in North America, such as English, Spanish, French, German, Chinese, Russian, Arabic, Italian, Vietnamese, and even a little of Brazilian Portuguese.
Thus, plenty of opportunities to travel and see the world if he signed up for a membership within the Followers of the Apocalypse, who had been the charitable souls to take him and his mother in after raiders had attacked their home when he had been a two-year-old.
Unlike her prodigy child, Julia Sallow had never been a very bright woman, and Edward had always despised how simple and artless her train of thought could become. Especially at supper when she would ask him about his studies, giving words of praise that had felt trite and lackluster, to immediately switch to her own day, which had been almost a carbon copy of the previous one.
After all, what can a woman whose profession is cooking and cleaning for a charity Organization opine about Philosophy and social changes? She hadn't even known who Plato or Abraham Lincoln had been.
Hell, she had been fucking illiterate before the Followers had welcomed her and her son in.
Edward had been glad to lose sight of her once he, fresh from graduation at 20, had been sent to the Grand Canyon, Arizona, to establish contact with the tribes that had dwelled there.
A fucking waste of time, in his opinion. If you think it's worthwhile to make smart people learn how to talk like backward savages, you're definitely a Follower of the Apocalypse... or an idiot.
And one of those two things always tended to be an immediate by-product of the other.
Bill Calhoun, his mentor by then, a man who had been well into his twenties and the most renowned linguistic anthropologist that the Followers had to offer, had established contact some years ago with this Mormon tribe, the New Canaanites from Utah - who were far more civilized than your average Wasteland Tarzan -, and they had sent one of their own who had also been specialized in creole dialects.
A man who had shared Edward's ideology on saving humanity from savagery but not following in the New California Republic's footsteps, paving the way up to yet another replication of the Old World, thus the risk of yet another nuclear Armageddon.
A man who had been well aware of what had been at stake when their expansion from East to the West had finally put them against the NCR.
A man who had known the risks a failure would entail.
Now, that man was a ghost, a legend, a cautionary tale his Legion was forbidden from spreading… and yet, five years later, the tongues that whispered that Joshua Graham was still alive hadn't stopped waggling despite the exemplary punishments Edward had personally supervised to be put in effect.
That simple act of defiance irked the Imperator to no end, who had been accustomed to being obeyed for the last thirty-six years of his life.
Thirty-six years of putting up with all the tribal savagery peppering the Wasteland like a bad case of fungal infection, a gangrene he had tried with all his might to correct by cutting up all the necrosed tissue so the healthy one could be preserved and repurposed.
But then again, you can't make a silk purse out of a sow's ear.
At his core, a savage is still a savage, no matter how literate, trained, and clever that very savage may be.
"For fuck's sake, Vulpes!" – he had practically yelled hours ago to the imbecile, who had looked as besotted as the very moment the grisly trophy had been put between his hands – "Take that thing out of my tent! NOW!"
And then, nerve-wracking to the last extremity, the creepy little shit had given him one of those wolfish smiles that Edward knew all-too-well, bowing in a way that had made the Imperator want to slap that pasty cocky face of his until his stupid twisted brain would get straight again.
He hadn't taken off that damnable Pip-Boy of his even when dressed in his field armor, standing by his side, flashing the piece of technology like a goddamn mockery.
Edward bet the cretin fancied himself so fucking privileged when, in truth, he was merely a smooth-talking bastard with a level of luck he didn't deserve.
"As meus Domine commands." – he had the cheek to reply to, immediately, turn heel and depart, leaving the stink of that disgusting rotting head behind him.
Tribal scum. Give them a severed head, and they would act as if they were given a fucking flower bouquet.
But then again, blood does not lie. And what can one expect from one of the disciples of The Serpent, anyway?
Quincey D. Brooks. Ex-NCR, ex-military. One of those weirdos who had worked for their Central Intelligence, spent too many years decoding radio lingo while not getting a single promotion throughout the way. Easy to recruit given the perks Edward had offered to him.
Intelligent man, a pretentious one, though. Cruel but effective in his interrogation methods.
And… a fucking faggot. The kind that's into adolescents. Graham had hated him for it despite having been the hand behind his recruitment.
Edward had also known of his inclinations, yet he had allowed them until he had become replaceable. For, no matter the origins or the services provided, nobody is irreplaceable except Caesar himself in the Legion.
Vulpes had been the first to ask, but at that time, he had been as good as any other veteran Frumentarius. The actual reason Edward had allowed him to challenge his Master had been because he had been too fed up with Brooks' shit. The kid killed him? There were better-prepared men to fulfill the role.
He hadn't even expected that said kid could be that rabid, killing every opponent who dared to challenge him in the arena, keeping his position no matter what.
Edward had warned him what would happen should he didn't fit the bill according to expectation.
And he had surpassed all of his expectations.
If he had ever doubted that The Serpent's star pupil had been as 'malevolent' as the rumors said, Edward had had the pleasure of watching his career trajectory skyrocketing throughout the last three years. He was hyper-productive and insatiable.
Whereas Callidus Anguis' strategies had been oriented more on the infiltration side, Vulpes Inculta wasn't afraid of ordering a big-scale incursion on the other side of the Colorado, conquering territories where the NCR had once believed themselves safe.
First had been Cottonwood Cove, then Quarry Junction, then Nipton, then Searchlight, then Nelson, then a Ranger Station Southwest of Novac.
Hell, it had been thanks to him that the caravans supplying the NCR were completely dismantled. Not even armed military trucks survived his raids, fattening the Bull's armories and pantries while the Bear suffered in silence.
It was thanks to Vulpes that the NCR's demoralization had kept consistently growing the more their forces advanced unto the Mojave.
And then a girl appears, and everyone loses their minds.
Sure, the tale about 'raising from the grave, then seeking revenge' had its charm, alright.
But then, when the bitch doesn't conform with just messing with Vegas' mobs but also dragging the local population, the NCR, the fucking Khans, and even Mr. House into her petty vendetta… hell if he wasn't going to do something about it.
The deal with her being a chick had been inconsequential. His Legion was full of proud men who would dispute the privilege of fucking her. Being as a war trophy or as a respectable member of the Legion didn't matter either.
Then, he had given Vulpes his blessing to court her favor… and it turns out that the one courting Vulpes had been her all the time.
Edward wasn't sure how such a plain-looking chick had managed to get his Spymaster's attention, but damn if she didn't have him wrapped around her pinky so tightly she could end up losing it.
Lucius' report on their behavior around The Fort had been enlightening, to say the least: personal guards to watch over her from a distance (thus, basically allowing her to do as she had damn pleased without being disturbed), eating together, changing clothes together, sleeping together… hell, even Lucius' men had come around with quite the entertaining tale back at the Weather Monitoring Station, when the lights had gone off for good after the quake, and they had to dig the pair out of a disabled elevator.
So, Edward had concluded that despite Vulpes had ended up being as susceptible to the charms of the fairer sex as any other bloke his age, he had let the door open for Edward to play a card with the Courier.
A card he didn't hesitate to use the moment the two idiots arrived at the nightly celebrations.
"Walk with me, Tabellaria." – he had ordered, as it was his right. Then lifting a hand toward Vulpes, who had been ready, Edward didn't know if to follow him or her – "Stay, Vulpes. You have earned a small reprieve from your… vigilance."
If Edward would admit one thing, that was he had enjoyed the look of pure, unadulterated surprise, then apprehension that had played in the young man's eyes.
Fucking weird eyes, by the way, befitting of a weirdo. Maybe it was true when they say that the eyes are the mirror of the soul.
Or maybe it was just Edward's conscience, even though he had thought it nonexistent by now.
"Meus Domine…?" – he inquired, too cautious about expressing what he undoubtedly wanted to say.
Good, that meant Edward still managed to scare him. You cannot trust a man that doesn't fear you to some degree, the more if such a man is tribal trash drooling after the attentions of some chick.
"Don't make me repeat myself." – he replied as coldly as he could muster because he was laughing his ass off inwardly – "Go grab something to eat to fill that armor. Me and the Tabellaria have some business to discuss."
The kicked puppy look that the poor idiot delivered was hilarious, but Edward kept his composure as he put an arm around the Courier's shoulders and turned around.
After all, these retards were all the same. They were a bunch of attention-cravers, wishing for one look from Caesar to feel worthy, dedicating their victories to him, showering him with their shitty tribal gifts under the guise of severed heads of well-known enemies, crucifixions, jewelry, women…
Their servility knew no bounds, and Edward Sallow felt rather gracious whenever he accepted their gifts. After all, they didn't know better, and he wasn't going to tell them otherwise.
It suited no purpose to tell them the truth when all of their idols were based on superstitions and legends. The Blackfoot had been the first ones to bestow the mantle of divinity upon him, but many after them had also deemed his knowledge supernatural.
It had only taken basic weapon maintenance lessons to be regarded as a sorcerer, then making explosives to be made their warlord.
Then, once the Kaibabs had learned of the Ridgers' fate, the weakest tribe the Blackfoot had played guerrilla against until he had arrived, Edward had been proclaimed a god. And the rest, as they say, is history.
And who was him to deny the evidence? Compared to these fools, he was a god.
Calhoun had objected right from the very start; thus, his brief career within the Frumentarii Order once his scruples had begun to show up the more tribes fell prey to Edward's tactics.
He had allowed him to leave once Brooks had shown up. Graham had stayed.
And damn if he hadn't known what he had been signing for. The motherfucker had enjoyed warfare and indoctrination as much as the next legionary.
A shame it had only taken a woman with a forked tongue to make him doubt himself and start forming questions that should have never crossed his weak, God-fearing mind.
And now, all Edward had left were a bunch of tribal assholes, a lot of time to reflect… and memories.
Memories that hadn't left him despite these last thirty-six years and how his decisions had developed into less than desirable outcomes he couldn't help anymore.
She never gave him a choice, anyway.
Back to the present time, by giving a sidelong look to the nervous, tense girl walking silently by his right, unsurprisingly healed after a fighting match that had almost cost her gullet, Edward weighed his options.
She was a fascinating study case, one he bet not many reputable post-War anthropologists could get their hands on.
She hailed from a civilization that had simultaneously lived through the highest techno-social development point of humankind and the lowest since the Paleolithic Period.
These people had invented the Old-World machines that were still functional in some isolated areas two hundred years later. They had discovered and mastered the usage of nuclear energy, giving birth to the reactors that powered vehicles, Vaults, power plants, and whole cities.
They had been so ambitious that they had even conducted viral and splicing experiments that, in consequence, had given birth to some of the most lethal mutations out in the Wasteland, such as Deathclaws and supermutants.
All because they had wanted to win a war.
That's what Edward could only define as ambition. And he wanted that ambition.
He wanted the power that very ambition entailed.
"Well now, Tabellaria." – he began confidently, making her flinch very slightly. Good – "I trust you find the courtesy extended to you throughout your stay here to be satisfactory." – it wasn't a question. She knew how he wanted her to answer if she had already picked up on some 'etiquette rules' while here.
She didn't disappoint.
"Most satisfactory." – she replied without missing a beat, her voice also intact despite the fading bruises still present on her throat. Either she had used a stim powerful enough to be this fresh so soon… or she was quite something else – "Your men are… truly something, sir."
Gallant, yet vague enough to leave things up to the imagination. Quite a gem did his smitten Praefectus Frumentario has found.
Perhaps Edward had to concede why Vulpes was so taken by her… even despite being physically unimpressive.
A trait that hadn't impeded her from winning at the arena… through highly suspicious means.
Edward wasn't a fan of the stunt she had pulled out there by manipulating those animals… if those birds had been, indeed, animals at all. Those Old-World tricks were perceived as supernatural by the men.
And Edward needed no competition in keeping these ignorants under the impression that the 'gods' smiled upon them. They only needed the Son of Mars' authority, not a new deity that, paying homage to Mercury, relied on eloquence, luck, and trickery to obtain victory. It would give them the wrong idea.
The idea that a soldier ought to think before acting.
And his legionaries were better off when Edward was the one doing the thinking for them. After all, it had been through their sheer unquestioning obedience that they had won so many battles.
Whereas it was useful to have a handful of creative individuals such as Vulpes around, the bulk of an army ought to be single-minded to ensure they would commit to a cause, and obey even if the orders could get them killed.
It was thanks to his honestas, gloria, excellentia Triad that Edward's legionaries were willing to die for a Causa. Take the idea of martial excellence, loyalty, and justice from a backward tribal, and that's what you'll get: a backward tribal.
Cold? Yes. Effective? Oh, yes, indeed.
"You mean that bunch of chicken-shits?" – he had replied to her former statement dismissively, giving her a knowing grin that had made her blush. Interesting – "You've made quite an impression on them, though. Especially to Lucius and… to Vulpes as well." – her blush increased furiously. Bashful child. If it wasn't because he had already seen her in action, one would think her innocent and a little air-headed – "I'm sure you found Benny's demise pleasing. The destruction of an enemy... there are few things more satisfying." – flinching yet again, she avoided his scrutinizing gaze as he added severely – "… Or perhaps you need to work on your bloodthirst a little more. We can't have a prominent figure of the Legion shying away from carnage and bloodshed, can we?"
Her dark eyes returned to his'.
"No, sir."
Good.
"Thus, why I am going to entrust you with the destruction of Mr. House."
It had been his plan right from the start… should she prove to be Legion material, which she undoubtedly was.
"Given the current situation, that is a demand I cannot satisfy, sir."
His steps had been brought to a brusque stop, his hand upon her shoulders twitching.
"Care to repeat that?" – he had asked very slowly. Perhaps he hadn't heard her well, with all the ruckus surrounding The Fort.
"Right now, after blowing his missile defense system, House has put a price on my head. Entering the Freeside or the Westside would be suicidal, not to say how impossible it would be to get a free pass to The Strip again."
Edward's left eye twitched, not liking one bit how one little girl was defying his orders right in his face… with such solid reasoning.
He would have thought House a prideful piece of shit who would invite his rebellious protégé just to execute her himself.
"If I am correctly informed, you have left quite the entourage of followers waiting at the Lucky 38 for your return." – he reasoned – "Wouldn't House use them as hostages to get you back?"
"He isn't that stupid." – she replied as well, voice flat – "Any person with half a brain can smell an incoming ambush with such a setup." – she reasoned – "Besides, among those followers are two NCR citizens. House maintains a precarious equilibrium with the NCR embassy, so the moment the Legion charges against their combined forces at Hoover Dam, they wouldn't stab the other in the back… until the fight is over, that is." – inhaling through her nose, she added – "It wouldn't do any good to his image as a reliable, calm, and composed leader if he uses NCR citizens to get at one rogue Courier."
That made sense. Considering how NCR policies work, House would do well in keeping them complacent enough if he wanted to stand a chance at the Second Battle for the Dam while keeping his hegemony over The Strip.
But then again, if he had put a price on her head…
"Any suggestions, Tabellaria?" – he asked at last.
Her response came quicker than thunder.
"First, we need to debilitate NCR and House's power on the Mojave. We need the local tribes to collaborate with the Legion." – she said – "Plus, your men would greatly benefit from the inclusion of Power Armors among their available resources."
"Power Armors?"
"That's right. The ones many Brotherhood of Steel explorers that never returned still have attached to their corpses. Plus, the ones your men can search at a couple of locations in New Mexico and Arizona given that those were tactical points to store military stockpiles before the War."
That was… how in the fucking hell did she know where to search?!
"Enough to train a small squad while we wait for those caches, anyway." – she added as an afterthought – "The Frumentarii are the ones I'm more familiar with. Plus, they aren't likely to fight me at every step for being a woman, so…" – she gave him a timid look – "If you would permit it, sir…"
Wait. Fucking puppy eyes? Was this girl seriously attempting something as basic as…?
"I see you have developed quite an attachment." – he observed mildly, unwilling to stand such cringe-worthy cutesy much longer – "I will permit it just this once. You can have my Master Frumentarius once again and seven of his men. No more and no less." – he warned, pointing an index finger to her freckled little nose – "I'm expecting results, and quickly. We cannot afford to lose more time while House and General Lee regroup themselves."
"Yes, sir."
Looking motivated as she was now, she went on explaining how she would try to make contact with the Boomers, then supervise their frail negotiations with the Khans.
"If we could convince all the tribes that the NCR has forsaken…" – she had ventured – "A good portion of the Jackals are roaming the southern region, and the Vipers…"
Edward's spine tensed inhumanly, his tongue tasting suddenly sour.
"Forget about the Vipers."
The girl looked at him, confused.
"Sir…?"
"Those are a type of Degenerates that I don't want joining my Legion in any way." – he replied brusquely, clenching teeth – "The only good Viper is a dead Viper. They are to be shot on sight, understood?" – seeing that the girl had frozen momentarily, he pressed – "Understood, Tabellaria?"
She nodded, and they resumed their stroll in silence. Neither in the mood to keep talking, but still in need to say more, apparently.
At some point, her stomach grumbled, and, before she could stutter out some lame apology, Edward signaled to one of the slaves with a pot of tea in hand, and the woman made haste in presenting cups of Xander root and honey mesquite tea for him and the girl while some of Lucius' men following them several paces behind asked for a cup of vinum dulce.
The Courier nursed her tea in small polite sips while Edward simply gulped down his' like water. Too sweet this time, blergh.
"Sir…" – she began, and Edward braced himself for yet another building migraine.
Funny, those had been more recurrent since she had arrived at The Fort. One would say her mere presence gave him a headache.
"Tabellaria." – he acquiesced, nodding once to signal she could talk.
"Would you tell me about your men?"
Distraction, that's what he needed. Sometimes, the migraines went away with distraction.
"Hmmm, you will need to specify." – he teased her lightly. At least she could appreciate some humor. The wooden idiots that surrounded him 24/7 didn't even know what humor was – "As you can see, I have plenty of men at my disposal."
She avoided his eyes as she spoke again. The girl was an open book regarding her weaknesses, it seems.
"I meant… your Commanders, sir. The Legio Primi."
Nice accent. She must have been practicing.
"Very well." – he nodded – "Who shall be the first?"
"The Praetorian?"
He almost cackled. Of all the three Commanders, Lucius should be the least of her concerns, no matter the implicit antipathy that the Praefectus Praetor seemed to profess toward her.
"Lucius has been the head of my Guard for five years now. He was a subordinate guard for eight before that." – he answered placidly, digging up the subtle reactions playing on her features – "The majority of my Praetorians have been usually either Legati, Tribunii… or, in exceptional cases, Centuriones. And the minimum age to become a Centurion usually oscillates between twenty-five to thirty years old, depending on aptitudes and achievements."
"That would make him…" – she murmured, quickly doing the math in her mind.
"Old as fuck?" – he finished for her, snorting lightly – "My Praetorians embody the martial ideals of my Legion. Each one of them has done enough conquering and killing to deserve a distinction I usually extend in the form of an invitation to join my Guard. So, the invitee chooses whichever current Praetor he thinks is weakest and challenges him. The fight is to the death. It keeps them from getting complacent." – he explained, relishing her evident horror – "Nevertheless, no invitee has dared to challenge Lucius yet. Maybe it's an issue of respect."
That gave her some pause before daring to speak her mind again.
"Does it mean… that he cannot retire?"
"Oh, he could retire if he wished so. However, you may find that retirement doesn't sound as promising in the Legion as it does in the West. Here, men have their honor and pride." – he explained – "To retire would be to acknowledge that his utility life has expired. And that, to a legionary, is a symbol of shame."
"But… one cannot help getting old, sir."
If only, Courier, if only…
"Tempus fugit, Tabellaria." (1) – he answered instead, stressing his impatience – "Any more questions you wish to ask?"
She took another sip of her cup pensively.
"I've heard rumors of your Legate, the Monster of the East." – she said – "What's his story?"
There we go. Edward wasn't too sure if Lanius' near-legendary fame was a good or a bad thing after the last four years. A fame not undeserved... but dangerous at the same time.
"Lanius is the greatest of my battlefield Commanders. Some might call him a great man, but I'm not sure he qualifies." – he saw it, the smallest of frowns. Oh, Vulpes must have fed her quite the tale… and he might have even adorned reality to spare her being put in the difficult position of making moral choices. A foolish endeavor, given how besotted was she in equal measure as he was. He might as well have told her to accompany him to the Gates of Hell, and she would have followed just like any other horny adolescent – "Once, he was the greatest warrior of the Hidebarks, a tribe of the Arizona. Maniacal in battle. Sometimes, he'd ambush Legion patrols by himself. When, after several months, we found and surrounded the Hidebarks' camp, their Chieftain raised a banner of surrender. The warrior who was not yet Lanius went insane with rage." – he scoffed a little, recalling that day as particularly satisfactory – "He struck down his Chieftain and attacked his own tribe, killing fifteen before they brought him down. He didn't die, obviously." – shrugging, he continued – "I had him tended to. He was… maimed. Most of his face torn off. It was days before he regained consciousness."
Edward relished how rapt he had her attention, impatience visible on her twitching features as she gently pressed:
"And…?"
"And, when he did, I went to his bedside and showed him the helmet I'd had forged to cover his face. I said he could have it if he'd fight for me." – it had been one of the most pleasant days of his life. To hold such power over such a beast of a man… Tribals were so easily bent once you attacked their identity, and Lanius' identity, along with the shame of having been betrayed by his own people, had been but a fragile notion Edward Sallow had taken advantage of to replace it with a new creation of his own. After all, the useless superstitions of the Hidebarks had revolved around shapeshifting mythology. You give a broken warrior a new skin to inhabit, a skin of steel, and you have a most formidable tool you can wield at your leisure – "He accepted... on condition that he be allowed to kill the surviving males of his tribe. I said, make it the adult males, and you have a deal."
Oh, she was disgusted, Edward could tell. The disdain inside those dark eyes couldn't have been more evident.
"Pardon me saying this, sir… but he sounds more like a savage than a General."
Ah, so that was the root of her disdain. She might yet prove to be more than Vulpes' match in her disliking of Lanius.
She should be careful, though. If the Butcher barely tolerated that an insect like Inculta – a chindi, like they called albinos among the desert tribes - would retort his taunts with venom enough to suffocate lesser men already… he certainly would not take a woman's disdain lightly.
Edward malignly wondered, between these two's combined guile and knowledge and Lanius' strength and resilience… who would end up victorious?
That would be a clash he would enjoy watching unfurling.
"Lanius is savage. Savagely loyal, too, but only to me. He has no love for my Legion. But this has its uses." – clasping both of his hands at his back, Edward admired briefly the shadows playing around the bonfires, illuminating the satisfied faces of men and women with shapes that constantly changed, giving their avid eyes a most fitting feral quality – "He has no attachment to his men, no compunction about battlefield losses. All he cares about is destroying the enemy. When another Legatus or a Centurio fails to achieve results, I send Lanius to make things right."
"Still…" – she spoke, a hint of hesitation in her voice making Edward be on alert in no time again. Damn, but he hated how sensitive he felt around this girl. It was as if she knew exactly which buttons to push all the time – "No matter a tool's uses, if a man holds no love for the lifetime work of his predecessor… why promising the throne to a warlord once the man of letters will be around no more?"
Edward almost slapped her while having the laugh of his fucking life for her insolence. Meddlesome brat, she thought she could try her hand playing politics here?
Nevertheless, if annoying, she was the first one with galls enough to come questioning his decisions to his face. It was more than what the rest of these mindless savages had done to this day.
"A tool remains a tool until the very end." – Edward said, putting on an insincere, taut smile – "If the men choose to behold Lanius as the equivalent of a demigod, I won't be the one to correct them. Time will show them what reckless leadership breeds, and they'll end up being the ones dethroning him to elect the right man to guide them… if, for some fateful chance, Lanius manages to survive long enough to become Caesar, that is."
Now she was beginning to understand, for the realization he could read on her features spurred her next question.
"Let's say he won't survive." – she posed cautiously – "Who then would be good enough to occupy the Son of Mars' place?"
Maybe Vulpes was wrong and she was interested in power; maybe she wasn't. However, a little enticement always works marvels on an individual's productivity.
And Edward needed her productive.
"Whoever manages to seize the respect of my Legion."
That should give her something to chew on. If she was so deluded as to believe that his legionaries would listen to a chick, that was on her.
He had promised nothing, the same he had done with Lanius in the past. For those exact same words had been the ones making the Monster of the East the productive, loyal killing machine he was today.
Let them dispute the right to succeed him. Either she would end up blinded at Lanius' tent, or he'll get beheaded with Vulpes being the one sharpening the chopping blade in advance.
Maybe both if the right circumstances willed it so. It was pure dialectics, given that their case was hardly the first one History has contemplated ever. Thesis and Antithesis all over again, resulting in a new Era marking the beginning of a new cultural shift that will elect the most competent individual to guide the Legion… or either perish under the same old ideas.
Darwin once stipulated that it is not the most intellectual of the species that survives or the strongest, but the one that is able best to adapt and adjust to the changing environment in which it finds itself.
If his Legion perished, it only proved they hadn't been good enough to survive.
Anyway, it was a shame that Edward likely wouldn't be there to witness the carnage. Barbaric politics were always the best, even if the barbarians in question hadn't the slightest notion of what politics entail in the first place.
"Will the Legatus Legionis lead the assault on Hoover Dam, sir?"
Clever girl, changing the subject while prodding for answers about who she would have to answer before in the immediate future. She was a fast learner.
"Yes. This time my legionaries will be more frightened of the Commander behind them than the enemy before them." – Edward confirmed – "There will be no failure this time, no retreat, no years of gathering slaves and resources for another assault." – containing himself, knowing how prone he was to likely end up angered on his own by just recalling it, Edward continued – "With Lanius to drive the Legion forward, the Dam will be taken. It will be our… bridgehead across the Colorado."
They had stopped again, and she tilted her head at a weird angle, like a baby owlet.
Weird. The girl was… kind of weird.
Edward didn't know yet how to classify her moods, for she didn't appear to fear him… albeit she was cautious the same around his person.
She would also shift aleatorily between different demeanors such as academically curious to cringey cute… to something darker she, apparently, didn't even notice others saw in her.
The same darkness with which she had presented Benny's pistol to him. A noteworthy, though kind of worrisome incident.
Not that Edward didn't see how her apparent gift had masked her real intention behind such a dramatic performance. It would have been discourteous to give a present to his Praefectus Frumentario in front of an audience without paying homage to Caesar first.
"Lo prometido es deuda."
Naturally, Edward spoke Spanish fluently, and thanks to this is how he knew that Benny's head had been a promise between those two.
If somewhat relieved that his Master Frumentarius hadn't turned out to be yet another slimy faggot like his predecessor as he had feared, Edward knew that Vulpes had always been weird. There was something that didn't work quite right in that boy's head.
And this girl, instead of assuaging Edward's bad vibe, was bringing up more and more questions to the table as her tar eyes dug onto his', bringing up a strange sensation of alertness.
Probably just his own tiredness.
"May I ask why did the Legion lose the first battle?" – she asked after taking yet another sip (could that cup really last so long, or was she merely putting up an act?) – "I've heard that the former Praefectus Legatus, the Burned Man, was responsible for it."
You little piece of…
"And I've heard it's a bad idea to tempt the wrath of Caesar." – Edward replied icily, imprinting enough warning in his tone to avoid misunderstandings. If she chose to pursue the topic, he wouldn't hesitate to call for Lucius to… help her learn some manners, like when to shut the fuck up – "Change the subject."
It irked him that the fucking girl wouldn't even flinch at that, choosing instead to finish the damn cup with a contemplative look, extending it to one of the slaves once it was empty with a polite nod.
"Tell me about your Master Spy then, sir."
Ah, so the favorite one for dessert, huh?
"And what could I tell you that he himself hasn't?" – Edward asked astutely.
"He's rather… secretive, sir." – she answered, lowering her eyes.
Aha, maybe Vulpes would yet prove not to be a complete fool after all.
"Very well." – Edward acquiesced – "As you probably know, Vulpes is the best of my Frumentarii. A remarkable individual from an unremarkable tribe South of the Utah." – this, she already knew. Edward could tell by just seeing how passive her countenance was – "He was brought into the Legion as a boy, survived training, fought well enough as legionary to be promoted to the rank of Decanus." – now was she interested, the curious little rat – "Then, in battle against an… unimportant tribe, he broke ranks and led his contubernium through a hole in their defenses to capture its chieftain." – he smiled at the memory – "Well, his Centurion wanted him crucified for disobedience. So, I made him a Frumentarius."
"Rewarding free-thinking, I see."
"To a certain extent." – he accepted – "I didn't reward his insubordination, though. His Centurion was conceded the satisfaction of dealing with his punishment: ten lashes at the post." – no reaction this time. She already knew this – "If a man has the drive to act above his station, he should also learn that actions have repercussions."
"But if he acted on behalf of the Legion?" – persistent, wasn't she?
"I have no way to read a man's true motivations, Tabellaria. Whether it was for my Legion or for his personal gain, I cannot know, so I must act justly." – crossing his arms, he added – "He got promoted, and he was allowed to keep his life. That should suffice."
"Not many legionaries would deem becoming part of 'the rats', as they call the Frumentarii, a worthwhile promotion, though."
"Oh, I assure you that Vulpes was already a Frumentarius before he even realized that he had a head on his shoulders, Tabellaria. He enjoys his work, which also satisfies that itch for knowledge any good spy should exhibit while mingling with the enemy without becoming sullied." – if this chick thought she knew the best of Caesar's Frumentarii better than Caesar himself, she was sorely mistaken – "Infiltration, assassination, dramatic atrocities to break the spirit of the enemy, imitation of customs throughout extended periods of time to blend in… In all these things, Vulpes is a master."
"I see." – she replied noncommittally.
Unable to resist some poking, Edward pressed the issue.
"You should be grateful I made him who he is today." – he said, feigning slight affront – "Otherwise, you wouldn't be here enjoying the… perks of his company." – he almost laughed his ass off on her face when he saw her cheeks adopting a rosy flush. She was so fun and easy to bully once one knew her weaknesses… - "Am I right, Tabellaria?"
She seemed to hesitate before answering. For she was aware that Caesar would NOT accept silence as an answer.
That was the deal once you asserted your power over another individual: you know what to expect of them, for they, in turn, understand what was expected of them.
"He is an agile conversationalist and an… adequate companion, sir."
"Adequate, you say." – Edward pinched his chin, weighing her words – "Why, one would say you deem my Praefectus Frumentario barely passable by your standards."
She flinched this time.
"I didn't mean to imply such a thing, sir." – she rushed in assuring him, once again politely.
Too politely.
Then again, this was no ordinary Wastelander. Not even a Californian.
It would make sense that a girl like her…
She was no scientist, of course, and she was too young to have acquired a licensed Degree of any kind… and still, she was perhaps the most intelligent creature Edward had spoken with since he had finished his studies in Social Sciences at the University.
Despite her youth, lots of interesting ideas bubbled inside her pretty little head.
When challenged with a puzzle, she would answer eagerly, trying to find multiple solutions to the same problem, rarely overseeing any available angle.
She was also civilized and pleasant enough to have around, thus not to be wasted in some brute who would not tolerate her superior capabilities.
But these kinds of women usually grew quickly bored of morons. He had seen it in his female peers at Angel's Boneyard University. The more intelligent ones never ever dated or they switched partners as easily as they changed clothes. You have to be silver-tongued, have an agile mind, and a lot of cheek to keep those interested. And half the guys usually gave up after the first month.
He would know. He had dated and married one of those… a long time ago.
Besides, this girl was a teenager. Teenagers were whimsical, petty, temperamental, and they were in need of new sensations every week.
Maybe she was already bored with what she had, thus why she wanted a whole group of Frumentarii for herself.
Who knows? Pre-War people had been as advanced as degenerated to the core. There were historical records on how their society had worked that had survived to this very day. Edward had studied those.
The only good thing pre-War Americans had done right had been ethnic cleansing.
After all, it was well-known that only white people were the one true civilized race, while the darker the skin was in a man, the more savage he usually was. Enough conquered tribes had proven to Edward that brawn was the most representative trait of dark-skinned people, whereas their leaders were typically white, thus the brains behind petty schemes that had never ended up well against the power of Caesar's Legion to this day.
Anyway, beyond punctual verdicts made in the face of need, there had been less than laudable sociopolitical decisions that had made the American society impossibly weak.
Such as acknowledging rights for people exhibiting pathologies of gender dysphoria to undergo hormone treatments and surgery to become what their ill minds wanted, legalizing same-sex marriages, permitting polygamy if you were part of certain religious sects, open relationships and marriages, assisted abortions, rights for convicts, rights and aiding for mentally challenged, disabled, ill, useless people… the list went on and on. All of it had made young Edward recoil in disgust back in the day and still did.
She pertained to a sick society, which must be corrected… in due time.
For now, Edward's main priority was ensuring that her interest was held until the Mojave Campaign was over.
After that, Vulpes could use her as he deemed fit. He wanted the Degenerate girl so badly? He can have her for all Edward cares.
"Mmm…" – he spoke again – "You keep delivering results, and I just might have plenty of men fighting in the arena to service you."
She definitely squeaked, all color gone from her face, no doubt embarrassed at being caught.
"S-sorry? What… what are you saying, sir?"
"Don't expect those to be good conversationalists, though."
"What?"
"Also, don't expect manners at all beyond martial training. They will behave if I order them so, though."
"What?"
"We are discussing reconditioned tribals here, and not all of them chose even to be taught how to fucking read."
"S-sir…"
"What's with that face? Weren't you saying just a moment ago that my Master Spy was merely 'adequate' to your tastes, Tabellaria?"
"Y-yes?"
"Then, what else do you expect?"
"I-I'm perfectly fine with his… eh… 'services?'" – she was even making quotations in the air with her fingers. Edward wasn't aware pre-War people could be this… circumspect.
"Oh, are you, Tabellaria?" – he pressed, annoyed already.
"Y-yes, of course?"
"Then you'd better show gratitude for the gifts you've been bestowed, for your neck isn't the only one on the line. Understood?"
"I… I believe this is a huge misunderstanding, sir…"
Shit, his headache was worsening by the minute, and her sudden blabbering was annoying. Edward hated when women blabbered like fucking retards. He was finishing this conversation right now.
"Whatever." – he retorted with a tired gesture of dismissiveness – "You are departing tomorrow, first hour in the morning." – he ordered – "I expect results with the Khans, the Boomers, and the Power Armors in a couple of weeks, not a day more. We cannot afford to lose more time as the day my Legatus Legionis arrives is closer. Complete your mission, then return to me… or don't return at all."
With that, leaving an ashen Courier behind, Edward signaled his Praetoriani to warn his tent slaves, so they prepared him yet another Xander root tea with some Valerian extract and fresh sheets so he could have a repairing, hopefully painless sleep this night.
"Lucius." – he called once he was nursing the beverage in question, all regalia gone to allow his skin breathe a little with a plain white cotton tunic. The old photography he had been contemplating tucked under the pillow – "Call it a night for everyone; fun's over. I'm sick of all the noise these assholes are making."
And so he spoke, the proud Lord of Fortification Hill.
But little did he know that, once his tired body touched the sheets, he wouldn't be abandoning them any time soon.
Three days had passed since she had crossed the river.
Three days of anxiety, despair, regrets, self-hatred, and paranoia.
Three days since he had seen the last of her through the lens of his telescopic sight.
Three days throughout which Craig Boone's fragile psyche had kept cracking across its slim walls until he had simply lost it.
Everything.
He hadn't eaten or even hydrated himself properly throughout those three days, so he had begun to hallucinate.
First, it had been subtle details such as sounds that he was pretty sure couldn't be real amongst the soft hissing of the desert.
Then, the more hours he spent looking through his scope fruitlessly, the more surreal the landscape became.
You brought this upon yourself.
And then, there were the voices.
If you'd never met her, she would still be alive. You should've never gotten close to her in the first place.
They hadn't come back for a while, same as the nightmares. All those months out in the desert with the girlie had made him forget… that life has a way of punishing you for the mistakes you make. Big enough mistake, punishment can take a while.
You never learn, don't you? Didn't learn with Carla, didn't learn with the girl either. If you'd really cared about them, you would've let them be in peace instead of following them around like the pathetic, murdering piece of crap that you are.
And his' wasn't over yet.
Remember what they told you.
He had tried to deny the evidence, to bargain and reason with the voices for so long that now, he couldn't keep running from what he had done.
They told you that there had been a miscommunication, that you did what you were there to do, that lots of people get killed. Maybe looking back, you'd do things differently, but that's not how it works. That, in the field, you hesitate; you or someone you care about will die… They taught you that from day one.
You take out a debt, it's only a matter of time before someone comes collecting.
They justified everything with the old 'that's war' crap, but you knew the truth.
And things just finally caught up with him.
Give a farmer seeds, and he'll create food. Give an engineer an Old-World machine, and he'll try to fix it to the best of his abilities.
Bitter Springs.
Give a soldier an enemy… and he'll create nothing. He'll fix nothing. Because a soldier only destroys. Kills.
Boone had always wondered if there was a God that watches the events that unfurl when men take up arms against men, and if He would care about the things those men had done. The things he had done.
Because soldiers don't question. They act upon their orders.
But what was even more frightening than thinking that something's watching you, waiting to take it all away from you, and it never loses... that was the thought of that very something wouldn't care about anything. That there was a God sitting out there, picking His nails, barely able to summon the energy to judge you.
Because that would imply that all of Boone's suffering had been for nothing. That the lives he had taken at Bitter Springs meant nothing.
That Carla, the baby, Johnny Sullivan, and the girlie's lives were worth nothing in the grand scheme of things.
Because, what then? What if bad men like him aren't judged fairly?
Maybe that's your punishment.
What…?
No burning bush, no smiting. No anything. Nothing… but having to look into the eyes of the people you've wronged. To see their pain, their loss… see the people of Bitter Springs in Manny's eyes.
Manny…
That's why you couldn't look him in the eye anymore. The reason why you accepted Carla's love without hesitation, substituting your childhood friend, your brother, for a woman who wasn't aware of the kind of monster that you are.
Manny hadn't known anything either… but there were questions Boone had never bothered to answer for him. Tell him why the Khans, their friends, and many people from North Vegas, their childhood home, would call them murderers sometimes when they showed up to secure towns.
You ran from Vegas as soon as you took your papers. And dragged Carla along. You couldn't bear to show your fucking face up there anymore.
He had been ashamed. Ashamed and furious at his own complacency, as if his training had killed a vital part of who he was and had put a mindless drone in its place. A machine, only good for obeying and killing.
Then, she started to suspect you. She knew whether you were listening or not, and you tended to space out a lot. Drink a lot. Scream a lot at night. That's why you switched shifts with Manny, to spare Carla the crap of getting up in the middle of the night because you had dreamed that you were choking in your own blood again.
Country… Duty… Honor… But what was all that about, anyway? Had the NCR been his country, to begin with? Had it been his duty to shoot innocents for the sake of following orders?
You never told her, but she knew. She knew the kind of man she had married, and she had wanted her old life back.
It had been stupid. Unnecessary, unfair.
To side with a country that plundered wherever they went and installed themselves in places where they didn't belong. To slaughter people he didn't know.
All for a President Boone hadn't voted for.
In the end… what he had fought for? For money? For his ideals?
For honor?
Covering his dry mouth with a dryer hand, Boone contained his miserable wailing as burning, fat tears cascaded down his stubbled cheeks, taking the desert dust with them. Nails sinking in the left side of his face, itching as if a thousand worms were eating at it, rotten as he already was.
At Bitter Springs, he had believed in nothing. He had fought for nothing.
He had killed innocents for nothing.
Now… he believed in something. He believed that the Legion had to be wiped out for all of the inhabitants of the Mojave's sake.
And if the girlie had died at the other side of the river on House's behalf, on Vegas' behalf… Boone wouldn't let her death be in vain.
He knew she was dead or worse already. That seism this morning… and now the whole fucking encampment was partying. He had heard the distant sounds of music and ruckus all night, as if Cesar wanted to announce to the fucking world that he had already won.
That his invitation had been a trap all along.
The albino. He had been Legion all of this time. He had served the girlie to Cesar in a fucking silver plate.
When the time comes, Boone knew what he had to do. Shot him dead in the eye, like with any other snake.
When the girlie had shown up at Novac almost a year ago, Boone had this feeling that he was supposed to go with her. Protect her, take care of her.
It had been as if life had given him a second opportunity, the chance of finding redemption by providing for a kid that had needed him and had wanted him by her side.
She had been everything he wasn't, and she had been willing to give all the love he hadn't known he needed or deserved.
She had shown him mercy, seen through his armor. Helped him to find some justice for his wife.
And he had failed her in the end.
He should have sniped that albino piece of crap the first time he had walked off the group, no doubt to inform his son of a bitch of a boss. Maybe the girlie would have hated him for it, but at least she'd still be alive.
You cannot undo the past, not at this point. You're a murderer… but then again, as a murderer, you can set scores even. You still can make justice.
Now, it didn't matter. He knew what he had to do.
He would do what he should've done before her arrival. A year ago, when Carla had been taken by these pieces of shit to be auctioned like some animal.
He hadn't had many bullets or even a plan back then.
Now, he had bullets abound for every single Red piece of crap down there, and a plan.
A damn good plan.
A plan he didn't hesitate to put into motion once the distant lights of The Fort vanished in the shroud of the night.
There were sixteen more people he hadn't invited. Officially, that is.
Nevertheless, Robert Edwin House had already counted on having this much extra company. He was even surprised they hadn't brought in more of them, for his calculations had shown up to thirty people at maximum while twenty-one had been the final number showing up at The Strip's North Gate.
Not bad. What was, after all, allowing twenty-one post-Americans – each with a greed or an interest of their own – inside the Lucky 38?
Oh, it definitely would stir some questions among the Families.
Besides, while a good 75% of rumors are irremediably bound to be false… they'll lead people to make assumptions, share their own speculations, come up with conclusions.
Marjorie and her people would clam up as they always did while subtly adding more admissions to the fictional highly-demanded list of reservations at The Gourmand tables to hear what was happening outside without showing their hand.
The Chairmen, now with Swank running the business, would try even harder, work extra shifts, hire more entertainers, and overall fill Vegas with more distractions to show him that they were the good, reliable employees they knew he liked.
And then, finally, the Omertas would entrench themselves behind their doors, waiting for their treachery to be returned to them tenfold.
And they wouldn't be that far from the truth, actually.
"What the hell are we doing here? You first strike a deal with those NCR scumbags, and now's the time for handing over our asses to House?!"
If… repayment for contract breach could be even called 'treachery' in the first place.
"Pace… we've already discussed this, so I'll appreciate it if you wouldn't make a show out of it. Alright?"
"That's it, go ahead, pile up another mistake on top of the fucking mountain you've been amassing with the help of your little friend this last year. By the way, has she returned Rex yet?!"
"Pace, don't do this. Not again. I won't stand with you if you do."
"As if you'd ever have since that Courier kid trotted in, baby-talking the dog so you'd lower your guard and let Her Majesty do as she damn pleases!"
All of Robert's calculations were slowly but surely falling into place, starting with the presence of the King and his lately-not-so-loyal right-hand man.
"I remind you that you were the one letting her in, Pace."
"Yeah. One hell of a mistake. Not that her goons wouldn't have started a riot if I ignored her. A fucking robot, a chick with a Power Fist, and that NCR piece of shit with the beret. Should've suspected her right from the start and called for the guys."
A screeching, rusty link in the chain means exploitable weaknesses. Nothing works better than good oiling to make the rough edges work out smoothly.
This, Robert House knew too well.
"She has done more good in five months than anyone else has done in five years, Pace."
"So, what are the Kings good for now, huh? To play the servile law-boys part whenever House's securitrons bring us another piece of shit not worth wasting a single bullet on?! We've been turned into fucking losers, Aaron!"
"I told you not to call me that!"
"Will you two stop quarreling in front of those bots?" – ah, then again, the only brains worth mentioning outside NCR's Office of Science and Industry were the Followers of the Apocalypse. Robert had once contacted them in the past while searching for parties willing to comb the desert for the Platinum Chip. This had been twenty-two years after reawaking from his system-reboot-induced comma of fifty-six years, in 2138, when he had been able to track encrypted signals pertaining to operative Vaults on the West Coast. However, if primarily beneficial for the people, it was a shame the Followers hadn't evolved despite the century of difference while their leader still chose to copy the well-meaning but ultimately futile endeavors of her historical predecessor – "He's watching us."
"He's been watching us since those NCR assholes woke him up, Julie!"
Ah, so the common rabble now believed him to be pre-War after nine years of wild speculation. Interesting.
"If you won't show restraint because of him, you'd better do it for the rest of ears lying around. We are not alone, Pacer."
Robert admitted he felt pretty entertained, witnessing the mild disdain playing in the faces of the Westside Cooperative leaders and the Queen of The Thorn at the sight of their most bitter competitors whispering among themselves like fussy old ladies. Never say petty rivalries born out of the same branch cannot make up for a good show.
It also happened with ants once the young queens sought to occupy their mother's place in the anthill.
"Good evening, Julie." – Thomas Anderson, a former Follower of the Apocalypse and a quite persistent yet admirable nuisance for all the Republic's efforts about monopolizing all the water supplies around Vegas, saluted curtly, voice intonation mildly irritated.
"Good evening, Tom." – the alluded replied with the same iciness, neither breaking eye contact as if their lives depended on it.
Funny how, after millennia of evolution, the average Homo Sapiens Sapiens still retained animalistic, predatory instincts on territory marking.
"You two done with the pleasantries?" – Crandon, leader of North Vegas Square, spoke up conveniently backed by his lackeys – "That way, maybe someone can come up with an explanation about why we've been invited here."
"You shut your fucking mouth, NCR scum!" – Pacer exclaimed, getting himself immediately restrained by the King's men.
Crandon's right-hand man, that Jules gunslinger Robert hadn't bothered inviting over, pointed his hunting rifle to the enraged man's head.
"Care to repeat that, sonny?"
"Fuck you!"
"Cut it, Pace! How much did you have today?!" – the King exclaimed, exasperated – "I told you to quit that garbage! It's killing your brain!"
Bad move, putting your Second-In-Command in evidence in front of the competition. There's nothing as noxious in the entrepreneurial world as treating a Commander like a friend.
It led to nepotism, excessive leniency, and, ultimately, mutiny.
And the King, evidently, had made his bed regarding Pacer long ago, and now he must lie in it.
"Fuck you too, Aaron!"
Before allowing the atmosphere to turn violent, Robert sent Victor in.
"Now, now, let's not fight rattlers by being first-biters, hey pardners?" – if Robert would admit so, he had always had a soft spot for Old-Hollywood Westerns, and Victor's programming was a personal pride and joy of his'. There were a lot of miscellaneous details that made its personality so unique, for it had required a creator as meticulous as his creation – "Wouldn't be better if we all save ourselves this absolute bosh and do the clean thing by sheathing our irons like civilizees? We're all adults here."
Predictably, Pacer huffed while taking the chance to speak first.
"Great. House's favorite pile of bolts' here." – he spat, eyeing Victor's screen with contempt – "What's this nonsense about sending invitations and shit? Now daddy Fat Cat fancies seeing us, lowly commoners? And they say chivalry is fucking dead..."
Raw material is raw. But nine years back, the tribes roaming Vegas' perimeter had been way, WAY worse than a tantrum thrown by a Jet addict.
For nine years ago, there hadn't even been a pretense of civilization in Vegas, to begin with.
"Ye can consider me your personal welcome wagon!" – Robert programmed Victor to say. To sound and react as smooth and authentic as possible to certain parameters, it had taken to load a complete virtual dictionary on cowboy slang, the neuro-computational matrix of an excellent voice actor with some added tweaks over here and there, and specialized software on speech patterns into the hardcoded AI. For the personality routines to work this flawlessly, even vaguely self-aware, Victor's AI would never be capable of acknowledging that most of its ideas were pre-fabricated – "Now hear this: the head honcho of New Vegas, Mr. House, is itching to make yer acquaintance and has organized a little party. Nothing too grandiose, just a little reception inside the ol' Lucky 38!"
"And the reason for this sudden change of heart?" – if there was something Robert could respect, that was a woman like Red Lucy, who asked the right questions at the right moment and kept to herself the rest of the time.
"Sorry, Miss. Ain't allowed to divulge the details."
"I can smell a trap a mile ahead, robot." – Jules replied, his rifle still lined in front of his nose, loaded to start a firefight any time soon – "And this one's stench's particularly pungent."
"Aw, don't be such an old croaker, pardner. Ya're ruining the mood."
"Says the machine with the funny cowboy attitude passing along its Master's message for some presumable 'reception' inside a 200-year-old building nobody would get out of in case something goes awry, Imma right?"
"Nobody said nothing about this being mandatory, pardner. I ain't no church converter. If ya think Mr. House's terms to be vague and ya feel all-overish, ya can just turn heel!" – Victor declared cheerfully but challenging enough to appeal to that primary human instinct about seeking alternatives, choices.
And that's the first lie human nature tells itself, always seeking that shred of control an individual never truly have: choice is nothing but an illusion.
An illusion created between those who have power and those without it.
Causality, on the other hand, was very much real. Action and reaction, cause and effect.
These people, born in a post-nuclear world dominated by barbarism where any trace of morality is promptly substituted by a simple though powerful survivalist philosophy, were here because they were summoned by him. They were told to come, and they had obeyed.
They didn't know the reason, the 'why'. Thus they had come to him powerless, without a real 'choice' but a vague feeling, a need to quench in the face of the unknown: curiosity.
A curiosity he had created in the first place through his vague invitation, taking any shred of power they might have wielded in this divided city to turn it in his favor.
With their curiosity, their 'choice' to come here had been dictated right from the start, and now they could not escape it.
Cause and effect.
"I haven't come here just to end up not seeing this unfold through the end." – Clayton Ettienne, ex-New Reno citizen and the second leader of the Westside Cooperative, opined, speaking up for the first time – "I've been invited by House, and I want to know why."
Like a domino mosaic falling down. Flipping chips to create a majestic, unstoppable chain reaction.
"I agree." – magnificent, domineering Red Lucy interceded – "Whoever isn't up to the challenge isn't any of my business. This is a risk I'm taking, a challenge the God of New Vegas has issued to each of us. When the land hunts you, when fighting for survival is the norm, your neighbors become either saviors or enemies." – inhaling deeply, she added stoically though with profound emotion – "In the end, Westside, Freeside, the North Square, and The Strip are parts of New Vegas, just as much as the city itself is part of the Wasteland. Let's find out what kind of neighbor Mr. House is."
Not even the irritated Pacer objected, and The Strip's North Gate opened for the large group as tourists, merchants, NCR soldiers, and passengers made way to this new tense, colorful entourage of twenty-one people until the Lucky 38's mouth yawned once again for them.
For a group of armed, tense strangers watching in bewilderment a phenomenon that has been already experienced a handful of times throughout the last months.
They weren't a novelty; their presence didn't behold a prophetic or even cathartic significance for the jaded, intoxicated masses of New Vegas.
But, for the ones experiencing the shift between the measly power they held on ruined slums and the transition to Old-World luxuries they had only dared to dream of for the first time, this sure felt like being chosen.
For they were already following the 'Chosen Ones' script', accepting their role in this play, secretly flattered by the attention. Different agendas meeting in a most basic, universal point of understanding: greed.
Greed for power, for answers, for chances, for recognition… whatever it was the final product, any business always started on the premises of greed.
No matter, for Robert Edwin House's intent for Vegas, his long-cherished dream, will come true. He had never been content with simply indulging in a dream, and he was confident that every dream of his would be realized, whether it took a year or a thousand of them.
And so, once the convenient actors for this Vaudeville stepped into the Lucky, their stage, it was Robert's turn to make a stellar appearance.
He had made his drones entirely clean the Casino Floor, taking aside coffee tables to put on its center a round table.
And he, like a King Arthur of Old, was presiding the aforesaid table from a giant screen he had also made to be installed just slightly above these men and women who had come to be bedazzled by Vegas' many lights and charms.
"Good evening, ladies and gentlemen." – he greeted impeccably, meeting the wary, intimidated looks of the leaders of New Vegas – "Please, have a seat, for we have much to discuss and there is so very little time, I am afraid."
"Time for… what exactly, Mr. House?" – Crandon dared to ask, voicing every single present soul's concerns regarding this meeting.
"Why, to prepare ourselves for the incoming event of a Legion invasion, of course."
And so, without further ado, everyone took their respective seats as their lackeys eyed the roaming securitrons nervously, guns tightly gripped between their fingers.
The show must go on.
Buried amidst debris while sporting broken bones and a severe poisoning running throughout the whole bloodstream, the bloodied, gloved hand of Legate Lanius, Monster of the East, rose like a geyser amidst concrete dust as the rest of his body fought against fatigue.
Don't fall asleep. Don't you dare fall asleep now.
Little by little, he crawled up to the surface until the plumed crest and the horns of his golden helmet rose proudly again, even if the left one was broken.
His ears beeped painfully as his eyes blinked furiously, trying to focus on the blurred surroundings.
His torso felt sore, and he was pretty sure there would be more than one broken rib under his ruined tunic. That, or the abrasions caused by that damnable Old-World weapon were second-degree burns, for he felt every nerve on fire.
Taking his armor's pauldrons, bracers, and cuirass off slowly, a mauled hand with two broken digits grabbed at the opposite dislocated shoulder and pulled until it creaked back into place.
However, forcing his legs to respond took five attempts until he managed to get the right one to support all the weight of his body, given the useless, butchered-up state of the left one.
Grabbing the machete still dug in his left popliteal fossa by the pommel, he plucked it out with a single brutal movement, spraying his surroundings in deep carmine.
He roared in pain and rage, still seething in humiliation.
He had been spared, as Hecate had intended right from the start.
He had been spared… to return to Caesar in shame, bruised, and with a substantially less populated army.
He had been spared, and there wouldn't be enough blood to wipe clean this defeat, this… insult.
By his right, small, distant echoes broke through the beeping in his ears, and his blood froze.
He would recognize those sounds even amidst a hundred voices talking simultaneously.
Gurgles. Wet mastication gurgles.
Leaning against the rock walls of this underground nightmare, Lanius' sight hyper-focused several feet ahead, where a hunched figure feasted on the lifeless body of a legionary freshly dug from the rubble.
Dressed in animal pelts, the figure's limbs were long and bony, sickly ashen as if their owner were more corpse than a living being. The nails, long and jagged, were coated in blood as a long, red tongue swirled around them in delight, poking from between two rows of pointed teeth.
Turning around to face him, as if they had known he had been there all the time, crazed, bloodshot eyes took in his silhouette from behind the sockets of a radstag skull.
The Hidebarks had generally called those creatures 'evil spirits', unwilling to pronounce the name of The Fallen, who had given up their humanity in favor of sating their endless gluttony.
But the rest of the Wasteland, primarily more used to cannibalizing their dead during famines, knew these entities as Wendigos.
Lanius knew nothing about supernatural monsters… but he was well-acquainted with the monsters hidden within human nature.
And this one was the apex predator of all of them, the one the men called 'The Maneater'. Its degeneracy only matched by the fear it instilled in the hearts of men, for those who had embraced the Beast of Hunger turned the more emaciated and corpse-like the more flesh they consumed.
Often, the flesh of their loved ones.
"What have you done?"
Against his will, Lanius' teeth chattered as his perspiration mingled with all the blood smeared all over his body.
"You stink of blood."
Rising from its hunched position, the Beast of Hunger faced the Monster of the East in all its tall, cadaveric glory. A raised, arachnid finger pointed at him as bloodstained teeth twisted in a taut, maniacal grin that spoke out loud three distinct malignant words:
"Daneeznánígíísh tʼáá dahiná?" (A)
Lanius wasn't sure how long he remained glued to the rocky walls or if what he had experienced had been real or a hallucination, but a far cry woke him from his stupefaction once the new words spoken wove the discernible syllables and intonation of the English tongue.
"Over here!" – it said – "He's still alive!"
Able as he was to focus his sight once again, he faced the cautious, guarded expression of nine men. Most of them veterans, Equites and Aurigae, (2) who likely had descended after the explosion to search for survivors.
But then, amongst them, he recognized one of the Milites from earlier, the one who had aided the traitor in opening the pyramid's door.
Barely scratched except for his hands and calves, Lanius deduced he must have climbed the platform's rails to get to the highest point to avoid the worst of the avalanche. In his eyes, nothing but pain and hatred born out of the same betrayal all of them had been subjected to.
In this, at the very least, a lowly recruit and Caesar's inheritor were kindred spirits, it seems.
"Does Centurion Clemens of Albuquerque still draw breath?" – Lanius asked the boy, who flinched minimally at being addressed directly to recover immediately.
"He does, Legatus Legionis, sir."
Lanius nodded silently, allowing blood to slide from one of his nostrils behind his mask down to his throat and chest, reawaking the fire he felt throughout his skin.
For every new wound that would turn into a scar, this claimed retribution.
"Go to Clemens then, and tell him that I order troop deployment a mile around Ouroboros' perimeter." – he decided, grinding teeth savagely – "I want every single one of those cannibals hunted down and brought to me… alive."
If there was a way to enter that damnable Vault, Lanius vowed he'll find it.
There's an Old-World saying about types of people and the way they look at their glasses.
Or maybe it was a proverb. Who the fuck cares, anyway?
All Cass knew was that her glass looked empty enough to ask for another refill.
It must be… what? Her seventh? Still not enough to knock Whiskey Rose out of her drinking routine.
That would take half the display cabinet these Chairmen dorks kept behind the bar to tantalize folks with their golden, rich tonalities behind vintage brands and tall glass shimmering under the Casino lights.
"H-hey… Jimmy, was it?" – she buzzed, giving the unamused barman a stupid, annoying smile, shaking the glass on her hand from side to side in front of his nose – "Pour me some of that sweet shit from the second shelf, will ya?"
The man gave her a tired, long-suffering look.
"It's Jamie, baby doll." – he replied, still on his role of your standard-western-barman drying freshly-washed glasses with a cloth that looked suspiciously pristine – "Don'cha think you had enough already?"
"Enough of abusing the bar tab your boss opened after fucking up with Courier Six and Co., thus moi?" – she asked matter-of-factly – "Nah. I think I'll drink myself down to oblivion, starting with that sweet shit we discussed earlier that reads 'Glenfiddich Janet Sheed Roberts Reserve 1955'." – shaking her glass once again, she pressed – "Be quick about it before I ask for one of those complaint sheets you people love so much instead. You wouldn't like it if House finds about your handling poorly the clientele, would ya?"
Threatening these guys with House was always the most effective method to have her merry way with all the expensive alcoholic brands here. Sometimes she could tell the difference between whiskeys, sometimes was just all the same shit, the same burning down her throat.
The same drowning shit until all that was left was numbness.
She had closed quite a sizable number of bars back at fucking California every now and then, done all the whole saloon pilgrimage thing from New Reno to Arroyo, completing the Big Circle caravan route with her liver macerated in hooch.
And then, when she had been so deep in the bottle at the motherfucking Mojave Outpost that she couldn't tell her butt from her head, that bitch Lacey had to kick her out before she kept pouring whiskey down her tits to incentivize whoever happened to pass by.
And now… since Vegas never slept, she was just going to sample every fucking vintage they had on the menu until her taste buds stopped working.
These three situations had one common thematic: how shitty she felt.
It'll pass. It always passed eventually. The ups and downs, as if her system needed to forcibly feel like crap to be okay again.
Watching mesmerized how the golden liquid poured in again to refill her glass with two extra ice cubes to gild the lily, Cass pondered briefly on her situation.
She always ended up sitting in a bar whenever things didn't go the way they were supposed to.
The kid and her grouchy boyfriend had left first; then Red Beret had decided he wasn't going to miss all the fun, so he had gone after them.
And then… Grandma disappears.
Just like that, without anyone noticing. How complicated would it be to follow a giant, bluish lady wielding a giant, menacing sword while volunteering to prepare her Chocolate Double Surprise for anyone she deemed endearing enough? Quite a bit, apparently.
Doc, Lil' Riding Punch, and Psyker Kid go to Freeside one day, and they return with yet another Follower gal plus a restored ED-E, which now wasn't ED-E, but an intelligent program Six had decided NOT to tell a soul about until she was well on her way to pay the Red Skirts a visit… or some shit like that.
Cass had been sooooo damn wasted that she hadn't paid attention to the long, boring explanation Doc had delivered. Not that the bot had helped with her hangover this morning, chatting nonstop about something on the lines of… Lil' Riding Punch contacting some guy named Elijah about… uh… leads? Cass wasn't even sure if the comm terminal messages thing had been an actual conversation, or she simply had hallucinated the whole thing.
Anyway, Lil' Riding Punch, Doc, the talking bot, and the Follower lady had gone for a walk this morning, and they hadn't come back yet.
Thus, leaving Raul and the weird kid as the only available company at the 38 (not counting House's creepy cowboy securitron, nope, nope, nope), and those two weren't a great company to have around when she was on the mood for… something else.
Leering at a guy sitting two stools away until his apparent lady friend came to his rescue, Cass almost immediately wanted to punch herself.
She always did that. Seeking comfort on casual hookups when the whiskey alone won't work.
That made her recall Tribal Boy for some reason.
No, wait, she knew the reason alright. And it was way too weird to put it into words.
No, she wouldn't fuck a kid like him, not even trying. She still had some morality to answer for.
Besides… she bet he had had enough of that shit already.
Maybe that was why he had joined them, why he enjoyed being a kid around a group of adults that treated him as such, why he liked it better smooching with a girl rather than being in a seedy casino in that ugly brown suit waiting for his next client.
She hadn't been prepared for it, but guess it made a lot of sense now that she thought about it: he and his pals were a small-time gang of data brokers who had managed to scrape together enough to send one of their own to The Strip through, likely, a fake passport.
Then, once the kid had seen how things went in House's territory, he had turned to the escort business so he won't disappoint his pals, who had put so much stock in him.
It was common to see freelancers roaming the Gomorrah, cheating a hand or two at the tables, then seeking potential clients while not raising the alarm among the Omertas, who wouldn't take it kindly to have competitors on their turf.
The boy concealed it well. She'd give him that. Cass wouldn't have suspected a thing… until that pig had attempted to make a move on him.
After the Nero fiasco and that Legion piece of shit running away through the ventilation tunnels, when Tribal Boy had come back with that medallion on him after giving chase, he had gone to have a few words with Big Sal about an agreement Six had bargained with him after taking his asshole boss out of the picture.
She and Doc had been waiting for him should one of those Omertas sons of bitches try some foul play or something.
And when he had come out of the Zoara Club…
"Well, well, well! If it isn't my slippery young friend." – guy had been well into his fifties, decked ad nauseam, and way too confident when he had corralled the boy, not taking his indifference for an answer. The scene had been cringe-worthy enough for Cass wanting to feed him her boot – "It's been some time since I got sight of you. You left some… unfinished business between us, you silver-tongued devil, you!"
The sugary intonation, the suggestive body language, and the liberties he was taking around the kid, who had paled even more than what was usual on him, had told both Cass and the Doc that they had to act immediately.
So, she had slid beside the paralyzed lad and hooked her arm around his'.
"Been looking for your pesky ass my good twenty minutes." – she said before he or the older guy could string a full sentence – "Don't roam around without giving us a holler, capiche?"
Tribal Boy had tensed inhumanly, whereas his unwanted admirer had frowned at her intromission.
"Beg your pardon, Miss, but we were talking."
"Yeah, you were. As in the past." – she had replied flippantly, containing the urge to aim for his fusebox – "And now, you aren't. As in the immediate present. Funny how things change from one second to the next, right?"
"Do we know each other, Miss?"
"No, we don't. Because you'd remember me and the fist I'm itching to deliver right to your ugly face, you creep."
That hadn't sat too well on him. Oh, how she hated guys who could not take a hint and, instead, wanted to throw a tantrum…
"Who do you think you are talking to?!" – great, one of those slimeballs with a wallet fatter than their lazy arseholes and an ego to match. Guess that's the kind of clientele you get when you're a street hustler – "I'll have you know that I'm a very influential figure inside the Republic's Parliament!"
"Yeah, as influential as the toilet paper I wipe my ass with every morning." – she had goaded him – "Keep walking, fat cat, and we might forget about this little incident."
"Who?" – he had replied disdainfully – "The Strip's Most Pitiful Hookers' Association?!"
And then, she could have kissed Doc, for his triumphant entrance had been a hell of a cherry on top.
"No, Robert House's work team of enforcers." – the aforesaid had replied dryly, meeting the startled look of the man, who had gaped at Doc like a fish… or whatever those things were – "And now, unless you want to make more compromising enmities, mister… why don't you make like Odysseus and get lost? Thank you very much."
The piece of shit had done so, and then, between Doc and herself, they had escorted Tribal Boy out of that hellhole without crossing a single word.
None of them had spoken about the incident afterward, and the kid had switched back to normal, being awfully cute with Six and vice-versa. And that had been all of it.
But Cass had kept kicking herself after the incident, knowing how uncomfortable she must have made the boy by throwing all those stupid sexual jokes at him.
She hadn't meant anything by it. It was just her way of socializing… which, to be completely honest, showed perfectly just what kind of social life she had led the last twenty years of her aimless life.
Because she felt aimless now that Six and the others weren't there.
She hadn't realized how much she had grown to depend on the little Courier and her gang of misfits to muster the energy to climb out of bed every morning.
She hadn't realized how comfortable she had felt surrounded by these nutcases, partaking in their lives, their meals, their silly inner jokes, their suicidal plans.
By being part of their weird but strangely endearing ecosystem.
She had found a sense of belonging where nobody else would have had her.
Nobody wants an addict, with her due ups and downs, to burst their happy bubble.
Nobody… but Six and the others.
"Sorry, is this seat taken?"
And then, she hadn't realized either…
"Not at all, Hot Stuff." – Cass slurred, relishing the image she had in front of her: brunette, short straight hair, olive skin, hands that looked strong, and kind of a muscled frame. A soldier girl.
Just like…
"Tease."
That she remembered, Cass had always been more into guys than gals… however, in the past years, she had found herself sometimes so drunk that she hadn't cared who she shared a bed with.
And she had… kind of enjoyed it? Women were wildly different from men when it comes to lower issues. They knew exactly what ticks you off and they were far gentler than their masculine counterparts… but, thing is, Cass liked them rough too.
It seems like she felt a little sentimental tonight, that's all. She wasn't hitting on a gal who could be Lil' Riding Punch's twin sister (well, kind of) because she felt confused. Because she wasn't.
The gal in question was a soldier, alright. NCR, of course.
She had this funny surname she couldn't place… not that Cass would remember it the following morning when her priority number one would be looking after her discarded knickers.
Her name was Mary… María… something. Whatever. She kissed exceptionally well, and she had bought her three more whiskey rounds to get some warming up first.
Cass was sold.
She and Mary abandoned The Tops and went for a stroll down the street, presumably down to Vault 21, where Mary had rented a room. They had shared quite a sweet bit of facetime before, and she was expecting more of where that had come from when two NCR gorillas had appeared out of nowhere, seizing her arms and poking guns into her back. They had worn MP armbands.
"W-what's this shit about?!" – she exclaimed, first eyeing the pair of brutes with distrust, then looking at Mary, who stood perfectly straight as Cass was handcuffed.
"Rose of Sharon Cassidy." – Mary enunciated, I'm-about-to-arrest-you voice mode on and all that – "For the power the Constitution and the Government of the Republic of New California have bestowed upon me, I exercise my duty as a soldier of the Republic without violating the New Vegas Treaty by putting you under temporary arrest under the charges of conspiration, fraternizing with the enemy, and taking part at the terrorist attack resulting in the destruction of Vegas' Monorail."
"You gotta be kidding me." – Cass replied, tongue heavy and kind of sticky from whiskey and making out with this bitch – "Listen ma'am, dunno who the fuck's your remit, but this is clearly a misunderstanding. I work with the Courier, and the Courier works with House. End of story."
"We'll see about that." – the woman replied, making a curt gesture to her men with her chin – "Put her in a holding cell until further notice. I have to make a call first."
"Yes, Captain." – the two morons droned while lifting Cass by her armpits from the ground, practically carrying her on wings until they entered The Strip's NCR Military Police Headquarters building facing the Embassy, and threw her unceremoniously into the promised cell and left on her own. The strong smell of disinfectant didn't quite cover the stink of vomit and piss inside.
It wasn't like Cass didn't understand NCR procedures since she had been arrested quite a few times in the past for being drunk and disorderly. They didn't get beyond 24 hours since the arrest comes into effect if they don't have evidence on the charges she was accused of.
But then again, we're talking about the NCR, and they liked a tad too much their mindfuck games.
A minute passed. Then another.
"La la la, stupid shit always happens to me." – Cass sang tunelessly to herself until she lost her patience almost immediately by banging on the bars and shouting - "Hey!" - but no one answered. The door to the cell's area was so solid she doubted they even heard her.
She spent her good hour looking at the chipped ceiling, wondering stuff like why everything seemed new back in California, people had trucks and other first necessity vehicles, and here all was reused shit. As if they couldn't muster the will to call for stonemasons, house painters, or plumbers, and all the engineers were working 24/7 at the Dam.
Hundreds of people back in the NCR would love to get a stable job beyond shoveling brahmin crap for the Barons, even if it was in this godforsaken desert.
Once the hour had passed, the door opened and the same two brutes from earlier came and unlocked her cell.
"Come with us." – one of them said.
"Fuck you." – she replied, tired and with a hangover already on the way.
"That ain't a suggestion, Miss."
So, they basically had to drag her on wings like before, because she wasn't collaborating.
She was taken through a series of corridors and then pushed into a bright office where Bitch Mary and another man were awaiting her. The man was looking through a window and Cass couldn't see his face.
She was forcibly pushed down into a chair in front of a desk, and then the man finally turned around.
"Please, leave us alone, Captain Pappas." – none other than James Hsu issued the order to be immediately obeyed by the woman and the other two, who retired in silence as the Colonel eyed Cass coldly.
There was a brief silence between them until Hsu's voice cut through it.
"Do you know why you're here, Miss Cassidy?" – he inquired.
"Not the slightest idea." – she said.
"Have you not been informed about the charges filed against you and your group?"
"Yeah, and still don't make a lick of sense."
Turning around once again, Hsu rummaged inside one of the drawers from the desk and came back, shoving a paper in front of her nose.
"What the…" – she didn't understand. Why did these guys have a drawing of Tribal Boy?
"That is a profile drawn by one of our specialists following the description a Legion spy we captured recently provided of their leader, Vulpes Inculta." – he said dispassionately as Cass' back and hands started to perspire violently – "Care to enlighten me why either House or the Courier have a high-profile, extremely dangerous terrorist on payroll?"
LATIN:
(1) - "Time flies, Courier."
(2) - "Cavalrymen and Charioteers"
NAVAJO:
(A) - "Are the dead really alive?"
A/N: ... I'm not queerbaiting, I promise.
Hi guys, it's been a while, huh? Well, the good news is that I passed my C2 Certification exams, so the month I sacrificed in order to study while neglecting writing was worth it ^^
I wrote this mammoth of a chapter between getting the jitters of having been passed or not, lots of bureaucratic nonsense to start studying German next year, and... a nasty, NASTY cold, so I hope you enjoy this despite the constant change in tone ^^
I've also reread this several times to correct redundancies, plus passing it through Grammarly and Google Docs. Should I/my beta find something else to correct/change, I will. You damn sure know I will.
I've changed little things in previous chapters, so the end of this one makes sense. Why neither Caesar nor House are depicted in bold letters here? Because bold letters represent a fear the narrator has over another individual. Lanius fears himself (yes, my dude, it can happen), but Caesar doesn't fear shit (yet), and Mr. House fancies himself invincible, so...
Let's see... long chapter, with a lot of things happening in such a short timespan. Edward Sallow isn't exempt from humanity, same as Burke... but he's a nasty character. I'll never understand why the developers chose to give him Neutral Karma, indistinctly how he might feel that he's doing humankind a favor. Slavery is slavery, misogyny is misogyny, kidnapping is kidnapping, indoctrination is indoctrination, and cultural deletion is cultural deletion, no matter how you want to adorn it.
The rest of characters... please, kill me. It's been SO difficult to write New Vegas' leaders' dialogues, especially the King. And I hate writing Victor; the cowboy slang is too much for me.
Aaaaand... the Easter Eggs from this chapter are: "The Rains of Castamere" (Season 8 Version) regarding Caesar's hubris; "Mickey Never Came Back" from Ethereal Snake for a good chunk of Boone's inner monologue about war PTSD; "Choice is an illusion" from The Matrix Reloaded for House's perspective regarding power... and House's characterization inspired by the Fallout fic "Do It Again" by Shasilison. Please, read it. It's glorious, and it actually makes you think despite the protagonist being annoying, which is a trait I love, BTW.
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R: there are exes in this story, yes... but I'm not disclosing anything :D Hecate/Amelia has become a character I enjoy writing about a lot despite her obscure Van Buren origins. She's kind of a protagonist of her own game, starting as nothing and becoming more powerful as she explores/acquires experience. Her Campaign/Main Quest?: destroy Caesar, then see if she can recover part of what she has lost in the process.
I agree that making a spin-off game about rising in Legion ranks would be interesting. You start as a tribal, pass a tutorial on your Naming Day when you turn out fifteen and show that you're Legion material in front of your superiors... then Main Campaign: conquer Arizona. I would LOVE playing such a thing, even if I cannot be female xD
See ya guys! This ain't dead!
10/03/2022: do not despair despite the lack of updates lately. This summer was pretty hectic, and now my work has quadrupled since the last course. I'm a teacher, and now I have lots of new courses I need to take care of, so, until I feel comfortable dealing with so many children, I have to postpone my writing. I have already written half or so of the next chapter, don't worry.
