The simple tent housed much advanced scientific equipment, mostly pre-war machines loaded along the rims of the tent, and around the table that lied in the middle. It was almost as good as a little makeshift laboratory.
From microscopes to raw machinery, the tent housed the miracles of the science of the Old World, only the smartest of man or woman could use such impeccable devices. The Legion doesn't care for science-based equipment, apart from one particular person – Legate Lanius, the second-in-command of all the Legion.
Legate Lanius wasn't wearing his signature forged metal armour and stood in a custom-tailored black one-piece suit and tie; he wasn't in the picture of health he's so accustomed to. The entire left half of his head was re-furnished with advanced machinery: skull, eye, jaw and ear were all replaced with robotics.
From a recent injury, the entirety of his left arm was missing with a cybernetic replacement sitting still on the round table behind him - some repairs were in order. Despite the current state of his person, Lanius was still a healthy middle-aged man.
The commander spent his days in his tent, working on something he claimed would change the world forever, something so crucial he'd directly order his subordinates to venture out in the wastes to hunt for scraps he required.
With his upgrades and implants near completion, he had already set his heart to recall a particular man-made virus crucial for his survival — the Progenitor virus. At a recent breakthrough, Legate Lanius ordered the collection of a descendant to the original organic South African flower, the Stairway of the Sun.
Two legionaries came into the tent, Vulpes Incanta, the cold, watchful eye of the Frumentarius and Lucius, the dependable survivalist leader of the Legion's Praetorian guards. Both being devoted and loyal to Caesar, they were his closest subordinates, Legate Lanius would often think they were no less than Caesar's lapdogs. Time and time again they'd all question his methods and strange actions, making remarks about him being unfit to hold his position.
Lanius was peering down a microscope, never even batted an eye to his subordinates. "Awe. I've been waiting for you two for some time now. For a moment, I almost thought you had forgotten about me. Do you have what I need?"
"We're not your servants, Lanius," Lucius growled.
"Don't flatter yourself, Lucius, you haven't earned that right yet. Not even my type, so don't give your hopes up. Do you have what I need or not?"
Vulpes held back Lucius, who had become offended by Lanius' remark. He stood forward and took a slight bow. "We are due to a shipment tomorrow morning Lanius. Aren't we Lucius?"
Lucius caved. "Yes, we are."
"Was that so hard?" Lanius mocked. "If you were half the boring yes-men I thought you were, I'd be bored to death several times over by now. You sure know how to keep things entertaining for me." He chuckled and came off the microscope, with a flick of his wrist he put on his jet-black reflective sunglasses.
"Apologies Lanius. Vulpes and I just grow curious on what you have planned for the mass amount of broc flowers we're claiming for you; we're exhausting our supply for your research. Caesar is also concerned about your health…"
Lanius sighed. "Only fair you three know of my current plans, the suspense must be gripping." He lit a cigarette and began to smoke lightly. "If I am to serve the Legion I desperately require medication. Otherwise, all of this would be for nothing, and I'll die."
"How can we get the medication you need?" Lucius asked.
Lanius picked up the petri-dish he was looking at from under the microscope. "This isn't traditional medicine I need; it's something much more advanced than that. Strict daily doses are required to keep me in good health. Stims and healing powders both aren't advanced enough to sustain me. There's something in their creation which caught my attention, the flower they share is the compound I need to survive. I finally singled it out."
"What's in them that is so damn important?"
"The broc flowers. They are a direct descendant of a pre-war flower native from Africa - Stairway of the Sun. The flower, like its ancestor, is loaded with a natural virus. A virus my body needs to survive." Lanius placed his cigarette in a nearby tray and presented the petri dish to Lucius and Vulpes.
With a disgusted look from each of the legionaries, they were quite sickened to see a black, tacky substance swirling around in Legate Lanius' hand, inside the sealed petri dish was a black chemical that had the same texture as mercury. It was odourless and lumpy.
Lucius marched to Lanius and took the dish from his hand and examined it furiously. "What the hell is this?! It's disgusting!"
Lanius snatched the dish from Lucius and became offended with his otherwise asinine behaviour. He hid his infuriation behind a crude smile. "What you are looking at is the Progenitor virus – P-virus for short," Lanius said, setting the petri dish down on the table, to resume smoking. It was still smoking. Having to rely on a single arm was pissing him off significantly.
Vulpes threw Lanius a provocative glare. "Are you implying that all our broc flowers contain this muck?"
"That 'muck' is my life source, and not only that, it is also a base for the development of biological weapons. I'll save that for another day. The extracted virus in the flowers is not harmful to humans, unlike its predecessor. To me, it's a different story."
"Why?"
"Daily doses are mandatory for me. The Great War's nuclear fallout destroyed the cancerous mutagens within the broc flowers of today, and now they're more than safe enough for human consumption, it's still good enough to keep me alive also. Best of both species. If I don't get my daily injections, my health and body break down. To survive, I need the exactly 29.71789 millilitres of this virus injected into me daily. An extra percent is added every new year."
"Why is the new year a factor?"
"Why it's my birthday of course; the dose increases every year after." Lanius stubbed out his cigarette in the ashtray. "Missing too many doses is bad for my health. Three days is all it took for my body to break down and rupture my heart, forcing me to waste time implanting this crude synthetic replacement. Time invested in my research will be paid off, but if I am to serve Caesar to the best of my abilities, I need these broc flowers. I should never miss another injection."
Lucius' eyes darted between Lanius and the cybernetic limb resting on the table. "What of your arm, Lanius?"
Lanius squinted his eyes. "What about it?"
"You can't hold the role of legate as an amputee, Lanius."
Lanius felt irritated with Lucius' constant verbal attacks. "Oh, I'll show you an amputee."
With confidence, Lanius fastened the cybernetic limb into his left shoulder and used various tools to tighten it into place. The fixtures on his shoulder supported the extra weight, and he was more than smug.
Lucius squinted. "What the fuck am I looking at?"
"I lost my arm in a little fight long ago. How else am I supposed to restore my missing limb without the use of advanced machinery?"
There was an extended period of Lanius going at his left cybernetic arm with small-sized wrenches and screwdrivers. A strange yellow liquid often spurted from his shoulder but it was quickly sealed after the limb connected right where his missing arm once was.
Lanius flexed his fingers, almost feeling like a new man. "Ha! Fits like a glove! Where's your amputee now, Lucy?"
Lucius wasn't impressed. "Only you could make technology look so disgusting, Lanius."
Lanius mastered his cybernetic arm's movements like a professional, no doubt it was as perfect as his other natural limb, maybe more so. Three-sixty rotation in the wrist was a nice touch, but at the end of the day, he was glad to have two working arms again.
"I'm open to upgrades in the meantime if my A.I. can handle it. I have the Institute to thank for that and their Synths. Exotic breed of science, are they? After all, I wouldn't be here to carry the Legion if it wasn't for them."
"You know how the Legion feels about using advanced technology, Lanius."
"Humans fear what they do not understand. Pity, though, technology like this can harbour secrets to the domination of a global scale. That's more or less my department, to investigate." He lit another cigarette and enjoyed having two arms working ideally. "Is there anything else on your mind gentlemen? I'm listening…"
Vulpes stood up to Lanius and said, "Caesar has confirmed a second attack on Hoover Dam. Right now, we all need to begin preparations for our assault."
"Excellent! The Legion's superiority will cleave through the N.C.R. in the ways they never saw before."
"You'll have the pleasure of leading the Legion to victory on the day the battle commences," Lucius said, sarcastically.
"This is precisely what I signed up for all those years ago. There's always someone fighting to rule the world, and yet again I'm on the winning side. The extraordinary cause of global domination will always be my true calling. So exciting. I cannot wait!" Lanius said with heart.
On David's side, drifting into the late afternoon, Boone stopped at a factory called Gun Runners, the best weapons in the Wasteland. David wanted to see how much of that was true for himself and took a look.
The vendor was a small robot behind a bulletproof kiosk. The wares the vendor was selling was expensive as fuck, the weapons were in mint condition, and some were rare. The beautiful looking assorted weaponry was well worth a look.
Boone redirected David to Vegas that was just beyond Freeside, which were the old remains of a pre-war town centre, with most shops boarded up and very few open for business. It didn't leave a good impression for customers and tourists. The demoralised people, refugees and empty buildings almost void of life.
The Strip was a beautiful place back in the day of the 21st century; now it looks how he feels, battered, desolate and forgotten. The east side was surprisingly active with quite a few people in faction armour and clothing. A different feel of a city in turmoil, torn apart from the crippling depression and addictions, that was apparent to the human eye.
Freeside was crying for help. David took the lead and wandered to Freeside's north gate, often stopping to take in the sights of the battered town. It was horrible to miss; the unfortunate souls deserved some acknowledgement. Outside a small modern fort was a plaque saying, OLD LAS VEGAS MORMON STATE HISTORICAL PARK. What a mouthful on such a small sign. The walls were sturdy and relatively recent.
The fort was full of tents with beds and comforting, all housing refugees, squatters and drug addicts. The sight of such innocent people living like shit hit him like a brick, civilians like these people shouldn't have to live in the state they were. The beggars outside was a different type of unfortunate.
There were some armed hands and doctors around; whatever was going on; it was supposedly making slow progress. One woman with a mohawk was calling the shots around the fort, she was cute, well in her mid-twenties. She looked troubled and stressed. David's hands were getting itchy; his head was sweating; he had to help. Help those in need.
"Hello, sir, can I help you?" the woman murmured.
"Not necessarily ma'am just looking around… Are the people here okay?"
"As okay as they'll ever be. The people here are getting better, and are on their way back to decent health. Are you here to drop off the medical supplies?
"Uhh… no? You must have me mistaken for someone else. I'm just asking if I could help around anywhere."
"I'm terribly sorry, sir; we don't have any mercenary work for you."
"I'm not a mercenary..."
"Oh? I just figured because of your armour, I apologise."
That comment is slowly becoming a stereotype. "I was just asking if I could help around here."
"Even if we did we don't have the caps to spare right now."
"Did I mention that my services are free…?"
The woman smiled and relaxed her eyes on David. She took some time to process her thought like she genuinely considered his services. Why would a doctor need to enlist the services of a mercenary? "Oh my, that's so very sweet of you," she said, "Nice to know there are still good people out there. Sadly we don't have any work for you right now. We had quite a list of problems here for a quite some time now and recently a passing courier had taken a chance to help us in our affairs long before you arrived. I'm sorry, sir, I'm afraid you've wasted your time."
"Really?! This guy is everywhere now. Who is this guy?"
The woman folded her arms and stood in deep thought. "Never mentioned a name… Goes by the name of Courier Six and sometimes just Six."
"Damn people and their nicknames, beating me to the punch. I would love to meet him sometime…"
"He should still be around in Vegas."
"Great," David said sarcastically. "I'll be around in Vegas anyway if you need me…" He held out his hand to the woman, expecting a handshake. "Pleasure to meet you, miss…?"
"Farkas, Julie Farkas," she said, shaking his hand with a gentle touch. Wasn't a tight grip, it was like a posh gentle shake.
"David Wesker."
"Please forgive me, the Followers here have a lot of work to do…"
"The people in white?"
"Followers of the Apocalypse. We help people who are considered less fortunate with the best medical help we can give. This is our base of operations. With everything finally coming back together we're in a bit of a rush. I need to excuse myself."
"No problem. Later Julie."
"Thanks for stopping by, David. Your generous chivalrous attitude is an inspiration to us all."
"I'm the hero the people deserve, just not the one they need."
General Redfield was alone in his personal office within Hoover Dam, at his desk in his full N.C.R. armour. It was a small room with a single large coffee table, polished furniture and some wild exotic house plants.
A large titanium blast shutter was in plain sight behind the good general's desk, there was one opposite the door and opposite the general's desk, all three sides. No one in the N.C.R. knew what he kept behind these shutters.
Speculations suggest he has skeletons lurking in the closets, ones with some meat still left behind with the memories left fresh. Most of the people that would suggest such an insensitive slur were just ignorant.
General Redfield is the N.C.R.'s longest-serving member up to this point, back when the N.C.R. was a young nation President Aradesh personally hired the Edward Redfield to serve as his daughter Tandi's bodyguard - who continued to serve until this day long after her passing. He was the sole founder of Shady Sands of the year 2121 and was one of the first men to enlist in the N.C.R. long ago in 2186.
From his combat experience, he's been the chief advisor to the then serving presidents until the new President Kimbal hired him as general to serve alongside with General Oliver some years ago.
Many controversies, rumours and theories were familiar about him, most to do with his: age, health, habits and origins, kept him from travelling out into the wastes. Publicity was a daily problem; people either shook his hand, praising his name or cursed him and went in for a cheap shot against his morals.
He'd wear his elite riot combat armour every hour of every day, people would suspect of him being a ghoul or even a Synth from his constant life support and the fact his face has never been seen by anyone, how this is possible is a daunting question.
Spending over two hundred years looking for a cure to his unknown illness, the constant threat of the Brotherhood, Enclave, Fiends, Legion, Khans and now Mr House, his progress slowed down to nothing. Not even the Followers or the Mighty Think Tank can help him with his dilemma. One woman was able to sustain him with the power of sigils, but she was elsewhere. That beautiful China Sorrows...
Colonel Cassandra Moore, his trusted confidant, better half and closest friend, stepped into his always private office with necessary documents in hand about current events and some concerns that made herself clear to enter unannounced.
She was one of three people that were allowed to access the office without authorisation. General Redfield had strict orders to maintain the N.C.R. forces in the Mojave and Capital. The Legion are raising the stakes all of a sudden, and he needed to find out why.
The office was small with all the luxuries of a modern office. A desk, row of steel filing cabinets and general seating was all there. On the wall behind Redfield was a large portrait of President Kimbal, he was at the time a man in his early-thirties with a short black hair and a clean black suit. Next to that was a gold pole with the N.C.R. flag on, used only for special occasions.
Moore entered the office of Redfield's and closed the metal behind her quickly. "General, may I have a word?" she asked.
Redfield waved his arm and allowed Moore to speak her mind. "Of course, Colonel. Please sit…"
"I'll pass, General. I got the reports you asked me for," she said, handing Redfield some confidential files. Bright yellow folders with the words: Top Secret in bold red. Generic and efficient. "They're not looking too good, I must say."
"I wasn't looking forward to reading these, but if I don't do no one will. Hopefully, I can address these problems one at a time." He became irritated and stopped reading the files almost instantly upon sight of the first few words. They ruffled his feathers, and he sighed heavily in his hand. "Seriously? For the love of…" He groaned.
"I don't need this right now!" Redfield took a file and threw it away with no hesitation, along with more pages, slowly forming a pile in the corner of the office. "I'm sick of the Legion! The Fiends can fuck right off! And what the hell is this?!" He brought a paper closer to his face. "Camp Hope still needs supplies?!" He screwed the paper up and discarded it similarly. "Where are the rations I'm sending Quartermaster Mayes?"
"That camp is having technical difficulties. I can't get an answer from them."
Redfield sighed. "Send him more and inform Tech Sergeant Reyes that this is Major Polatli's LAST supply drop, given the circumstances."
"Very good, General."
Redfield threw the last few remaining files all over the floor without any regard. It was just junk mail and was no different than the other classified data. "Well that's a crock of shit," he said, leaning back in his chair, resting his feet on his desk. "I need a vacation," he moaned in his hands.
"It's amazing you can remember almost everyone's name and rank, if you don't mind me saying, General."
"I do have everyone in the N.C.R. on file on my terminal here. My memory is equally impressive; thank you for asking, Colonel." He noticed an unread file on the floor, beneath his feet and picked it up to read quickly. It was more bad news. "Aw, here we go," he sighed. "Sergeant McCredie is still having trouble with Corporal Mags' squad? I was hoping I would never hear from this damned unit." In an outburst of impatience, he screwed up the file and threw it across the office. "I have no time for incompetent soldiers right now. Whole Mojave has gone to bloody shit, I tell you!"
"Are you overworked, General?"
Redfield sighed and stood up from his desk. "Yeah… Is it that obvious? I haven't had a day off in months now."
"Really?" She was honestly concerned. She knew Redfield works the hardest out of all the N.C.R., up to nearly a hundred hours a week with no breaks, which said and done could kill a man but how was he still moderately sane? "You need some time off before you hurt yourself, General."
"I can't. I have too much work to do." He sits back at his desk. "President Kimbal is trusting me to keep everything under control, and with all these enemies we have, I think we're in some trouble."
"Things will always get worse before they get better, you know that don't you?"
"If you lived as long as I have Colonel, you'll find that things never get better… only more impartial. Besides, that's just something to inspire our troops. As long as we have Hoover Dam, the Mojave will manage. I wish Sunny was here; she'd know what to do."
"Ah yes, the hero who destroyed Raven Rock."
"Even if she was still here… I cannot ask her to put herself in danger again; she made herself clear of that. That being said, with a rumour of a second attack on the Dam, well, if she was here, she couldn't help us. Not this time."
"You actually believe those rumours?" she uttered
"The Enclave was a rumour, the Sierra Madre legend was a rumour, and the Burned Man was a rumour. I've seen them all. Why is this one any different?"
"I pray this rumour isn't true. We can still turn things around. Just got to see to it one day at a time."
"Time is so short-handed right now…"
Suddenly, General Redfield felt great pain rising in his stomach, reaching up into his chest and heart, he stood firmly trying to soothe the pulsing pain in the depths of his body to no success. Looked as if he had a horrible itch crawling up from his toes to his chest. Colonel Moore stood helplessly with little idea of what's going on with him; it wasn't something she understood. Wasn't something she understands. She was scared.
"General?"
Redfield clutched his chest and adjusted several dials and valves on the life support on his armour's chestplate and helmet. The pain he had was smoothly and thankfully suppressed, with a gout of steam releasing from where his heart should be — a moment of terrible sickness, witnessed by Colonel Moore yet again. He swore and cursed loudly, which was mostly a jumble of made-up words. "Fuck! That hurts!" He soon relaxed in his chair and sighed with relief, the kind you'd get if you had a full-body massage or release.
"You're too sick to be working, General, this job is killing you for Christ's sake!" she said sternly.
"Don't… take his name in vain, Colonel," he said bitterly.
"Please tell me you found something to fix that… disease?!"
"It's not a disease. It's a damned virus! A fuckin' curse!"
"Whatever it is, it's happening far too often. It's only a matter of time before…" She sighed. "The N.C.R. can't lose you. I can't lose you…" she said with a tear running down her softened face. You're my best friend."
"Cassandra… I'm not gonna be around forever..."
"Don't say such things…"
"I haven't told you this before but… My body is starting to reject the drugs I use. I'm not sure how long I've got-"
"Don't say that! Please… We need you now of all times." she sadly said, still tearing up pretty bad.
"The N.C.R. is just bloody lucky I am choosing to stay alive. If it were up to me, I'd sooner blow my brains out than go another year in this constant misery. Momma didn't raise a quitter."
Redfield took a brief moment to pick up a pre-war picture frame from his desk to examine it. "All I can do now is to keep on running," he uttered. It looked like he was reminiscing of the person in the photo, from Moore's view.
The greyscaled photo was of a man and a woman in their early-twenties, with a small child, all were in formal attire. The setting was outside what appeared to be a church with wedding decorations. The photo inside the frame was so old and weathered; it could possibility crumble under the slightest touch.
He put the picture frame down and cleared his throat. "Let's get back to business; I don't have the time to pity myself."
Moore cleared her throat. "I have other things to discuss. Ambassador Crocker wants you to know that someone is causing a stir in Freeside."
"Please tell me it isn't King and N.C.R. related…"
"Quite the opposite actually. It's that courier again, helping around the Followers and the Kings. Even went as far as helping ease tension between our forces there and the Kings."
"Really? It sounds like Courier Six is up to his old tricks again."
"Oh… William Haydock," she mumbled bitterly. "I remember him."
"Inform Crocker to invite him to Hoover Dam. I would like to have him help us again; it'll be just like old times. In the meantime, I'll keep an eye on that 'Merc'. There's something about that guy I don't like, just comes across people and helps for nothing in return and kills anything or anyone stupid enough to try and stop him. Powder Gangers and raiders seem to be high on his list; I wonder how he fares against the Legion…
"We'd best do something about him in case he targets N.C.R. settlements."
Redfield nodded. "Definitely."
"Do you think he's working for Mr House?"
"Not a clue. If he is, though, we have a job to do, and if it comes to that, I want him assassinated quickly and efficiently."
"And if he isn't?"
"Have Crocker invite him to the Dam."
Moore smiled. "I won't keep you, General."
"Dismissed, Colonel."