September 5, 2281
John looked around the sizable dance hall through eyes that were beginning to blur. They had been in Kansas City for two days; two days of trading and resupplying for Bonzo, two days of binge drinking for John. The last two weeks on the road, with no whiskey or other alcohol, had been beyond unpleasant for him. The headaches had come nearly every day, and with them had come a much shorter temper; making the trip unpleasant for all involved. Only Fawkes and Smith had truly been able to talk John down when he got into a nasty mood on the road; Gale and Bonzo having quickly lost the patience to do so. He knew, in the logical part of his brain, that he was going through withdrawal, and that if he just pushed forward it would pass and the physical need he felt to drink would be gone. That had gone by the wayside when they reached KC and he saw the abundance of bars, clubs, and other assorted dens of vice; all offering their various pleasures for low prices. He had been able to resupply on Med-X, buying enough to last the next two months until they reached New Reno. The length of the trip in front of them had come as a nasty shock when Smith had told him how long it was to his home, another 1,500 miles away.
He looked out onto the dance floor as the band played; the tune an upbeat swing song that had drawn a crowd onto the floor. He spotted Gale dancing with Smith, the older man surprisingly light on his feet despite his age and size. Gale was a skilled dancer; but John had spotted her, several times now, shooting sideways glances at him from the floor. Smith had taken her under his wing, but her looks made it clear she wanted to be dancing with John. The other looks she gave him, ones that he had picked up on several times, made it clear that she wanted to do a lot more than just dance with him. He'd be lying if he were to say he hadn't entertained the thought; particularly as the night went on and he became more drunk. The song reminded him of another time, in the summer of 2280, when he had been dancing with another girl in another place…
The look in Lucy's eyes made it obvious she'd been waiting for a chance to be close to him for some time. Their hands were grasped together as they moved across the ground that surrounded the crater in Megaton. It was Harden Simms' birthday; and a large part of the town had come together to celebrate with him, such was the shine they had taken to the young man. Lucas had raised him well, and he was doing more to help around town. Soon he'd put on his own Regulator duster and badge and help police the area. The job had become easier in the previous year and a half, after the last of the raiders and super-mutants had disappeared from the Capital Wasteland. John had spent most of the day drinking. This party, the entire peace that had descended upon the Capital Wasteland, was the fruit of his efforts; of everything he and Fawkes and Charon and Clover had done. They had gone their separate ways after the war had ended. He knew Charon was in the ruins of Baltimore, where there was a sizable ghoul community; and Fawkes had taken to the road with a long-haul caravan, far away from the Capital Wasteland and safely out of the reach of the Brotherhood, should they decide that there would be no peace until the last two super-mutants in the Wasteland were dead. Clover had left of her own volition; using what she had learned from her travels with John to make her own way in the world. He had no idea where she had gone, but every so often a trader would bring back a story of a chem –lord found with his throat cut; or a child-slaver killed by a seemingly invisible gunman, and a smile would cross John's face, knowing that his friend was still out there.
John looked around at the people celebrating; a celebration not just of one young man's birthday but of the fact that they could celebrate, that they didn't have to live in fear everyday of a raider attack, or of super-mutants dragging them off to convert. And he hated it. He was bored, woke up every day feeling utterly without purpose. He had worked with the Regulators before, and knew Sonora Cruz would welcome his help, should he choose to offer it; but chasing down petty thieves or murderers, as satisfying as it was, offered him no challenge. Coupled with the injuries he had taken during the war he doubted he would even be able to bring in a fugitive alive should they choose to run rather than surrender to him. So instead he drank. The alcohol had the effect of allowing him to remember the war without feeling anything about it, allowed him to remember everything that had come to pass: his father's death, Amata's betrayal, the collapse of his relationship with Sarah and the Brotherhood; and not feel anything about any of it. And with the alcohol came an ability to forget that he was physically broken, spiritually exhausted; it allowed him to, at least momentarily, be the Lone Wanderer again. With that came confidence; and he had found no shortage of lovers since the end of his relationship with Sarah. He had never been with Lucy, though; and he knew he could have her even without the alcohol. She had wanted him ever since he had helped her brother, and he knew it. He had just opted to not take advantage of it; he had, in fact, hardly noticed the woman who had always remained in the back of his mind as a person he knew, that he'd call an acquaintance, if that. The only woman in Megaton he'd had extensive interaction with was Moira, first when they had written the survival guide; and then later, after Sarah and the war, when they became lovers. That had ended too, though; and here John stood, across from Lucy at last. Even sober he would admit that she was quite beautiful; but now, after more whiskey than he could count, he would have sworn she was the most beautiful woman he'd seen.
The song ended and they stood across from each other, hands still clasped together. Lucy smiled at him, and he returned it with his most winning smile. After all his travels he knew what women liked about him. He knew how to be dangerous without being menacing, his boyish smile at odds with his physical presence. A new song started, a much slower one, and John pulled Lucy closer to him. She her right arm on his back, her left holding his as they began to move in a slow circle, bodies pressed together. He leaned forward and whispered in her ear as they moved.
"I had no idea you were such a good dancer, Lucy," he said, closer to her ear than he needed to be. She shivered slightly at the feel of his breath on her neck, smiling slightly before whispering back.
"Can't be good without the right partner," she replied, looking into his eyes as she did; only inches separating them. He smiled slightly at her before deciding to go for it, leaning in slowly as she tilted her head forward to meet his lips…
The end of the song snapped John back to reality, in Kansas City. He watched as Gale laughed at something Smith had said before the two of them began making their way back to where he and Bonzo and Fawkes sat. The memory of Lucy had surprised John. He had made the choice to commit himself to Amata; and here, in his drunkenness, he was beginning to regret it. Not just his commitment to Amata, but leaving the Capital Wasteland in general. You should have just stayed. You could have stayed, and been with Lucy, and had a family with her. Lucy Thompson doesn't sound so bad, does it? And she never betrayed you… A voice in his head whispered to him. He suppressed the thought quickly, but it nagged at the back of his mind as Gale pulled up a seat next to him. She looked at him; a look of sadness that quickly passed as she realized how drunk he was. From the other side of the table they were at Smith looked disapprovingly at him.
"How much have you had to drink, John?" he asked; his voice making it obvious that he knew it had been too much.
"Not enough yet, Smith," John replied, looking to the bartender, cleaning a glass behind the bar. "Another round over here, Logan," he called out to the man, who nodded and began pouring another double shot of whiskey for him.
"Do you think you've had enough, John?" Gale asked, concern in her voice.
"Not hardly," he began as Logan delivered the drink to him. "I can still feel things," he finished before shooting the whiskey; enjoying the warmth of it as it went down his throat and settled in his stomach. Smith just sighed, not at all happy with the answer.
"You know we have to get up early tomorrow to hit the road, right? You're going to feel like shit in the morning," he said, glaring at John. John threw his head back and laughed at that, drawing a look of consternation from the entire table. He never laughed like that.
"I feel like shit every morning, Smith. I don't see what makes it worse if I drink. Mom and Dad are still dead, I'm still broken, Amata's on the other side of the country; everyone I cared about is on the other side of the country."
"That's no excuse to get fucked up every chance you get, kid. You're not the only one who's gone through hard times," Smith replied.
"Please, Smith, tell me more about how bad everyone else has it. I'm sure they've done what I've done," John slurred out as the last shot of whiskey began to hit his system.
"You know, you're a real asshole when you drink, kid. The world doesn't give a shit about your woe-is-me story. You can either deal with it and push through it or sit here moping, but that won't bring anyone back or change anything in the past," Smith replied, giving John a hard look. Gale interjected before it could go further.
"John, why don't we get back to the room? You'll feel better if you get cleaned up and into bed," she said, hoping to defuse the situation. John looked down at the table, scowling, before acquiescing and standing up; swaying on his feet. Gale quickly put a hand on his shoulder to steady him; and he responded by putting an arm around her shoulder to help support his bad knee. With an apologetic look at their friends, she dragged him away from the table and out into the night; trying to support his weight as he staggered forward, barely able to stand.
Achilles looked down from the position he was in, surrounded by the men that had been assigned to him. He had come back to the Mojave to find that Vulpes Inculta had, in fact, taken notice of his actions throughout the Mojave and the NCR; and in reward for his efforts had been given a larger command. The men around him were no recruit legionaries; he had instead been given a squad of legionary assassins to support him in the Mojave where he saw fit. That had been how his time back in the Mojave had been spent: by day, delivering packages and listening for any sort of information that could prove to be of use on the movements of NCR troops, at night, carrying out attacks based on what he and Julius had learned. Tonight promised to be an important one. They waited along a route that he had learned a small squad of NCR Rangers would be traversing, on their way to Camp Golf. He had 7 men, including himself; all heavily armed and in much stronger armor than what low-ranking legionaries wore. They were arrayed in positions of cover on higher ground, about 50 meters away from where he intended to ambush the Rangers; his men armed with modified carbines designed for accuracy and a .50 caliber sniper rifle. He knew he need not worry about his men's competence; they would attack on his command and show no mercy to the Rangers who were approaching. It was a dark night, the Moon casting almost no light down on the desert. In the distance he could make out the shape of the Rangers approaching. He silently raised his rifle, the men around him doing the same, and trained it on one of the Rangers. He had told the legionary with the sniper rifle to aim for the lead man, hoping that the death of the man in front would momentarily surprise the Rangers, buying enough time for the rest of his contuberia to fire on the Rangers before the enemy could return fire and take cover. Achilles knew if he allowed the Rangers to organize a defense they would be in for a fight that they couldn't win; not when the numbers were close to equal.
Achilles placed the targeting reticle of his sights over the chest of the Ranger he had taken aim at, controlling his breathing and allowing the Rangers to come closer until he was confident that there was no chance of his men missing.
"Ave Caesar!" Achilles yelled, the signal to attack. The legionary with the .50 immediately fired; his round punching through the chest of the lead Ranger and dropping the man to the ground, dead from the impact of the massive round. The rest of the legionaries opened up, pouring an insane amount of fire on the Rangers, who scrambled for cover while attempting to fire back. Achilles had chosen the spot for the ambush well; the Rangers having almost no options for cover. The NCR's best fell quickly under the onslaught of the entrenched legionaries; Achilles drawing his machete and jumping from cover to close with the enemy and destroy them up close; his men following him as he raced forward. There had been five Rangers in the column, three of whom lay dead, the other two severely wounded. Achilles raced towards one of the wounded men, attempting to draw his pistol to shoot the oncoming legionary. He had just gotten the weapon out of its holster when Achilles was on him; cleaving through the man's helmet and mask with his machete and splitting his head open. From behind him he heard the other Ranger scream as his men set upon the man with their machetes, hacking him apart. There was to be no crucifixion, no sort of symbolic statement for the NCR leaders at Camp Golf when they eventually sent out search parties, after the Rangers failed to materialize. Finding a squad of their best soldiers dead and left for the Mojave to consume would be message enough; especially with the obvious machete wounds to their bodies. The mutilation of the dead was not something Achilles typically enjoyed, but he knew it would send a powerful message to the NCR. He looked down at the man he had just killed, feeling a surge of anger before swinging his machete at the man again, and then again, until he lost control and simply savaged the body; his mind screaming at the dead profligate all the while. Why can't your people just surrender?! Just surrender and go home and end this war so I can get back to Emily! When his anger was spent the Ranger was no longer recognizable; Achilles' armor and machete covered in blood and bone and other bodily fluids. He wiped the blade on the red tunic he wore underneath his armor before turning to his men, who awaited his orders.
"Collect their weapons and ammunition. Return them to Cottonwood Cove so they can be passed on to Arizona," he commanded. His men silently set about the task of salvaging anything usable from the dead Rangers before assembling again in front of him. They expected no praise; and Achilles would give none. No legionary would expect praise for simply doing their duty to Caesar. His men saluted him, though. Holding their fists over their hearts, they called out to him in one voice.
"Ave domine noctis!" they yelled. Hail the Lord of the Night. He couldn't help but smile in satisfaction at that.
"Dismissed," he commanded, his legionaries setting off into the darkness; Achilles setting off for where he had stored his civilian clothing. He had to change and then deliver a package to Primm the following day. The frumentarius hoped that the thrill of this victory would overcome the physical exhaustion he knew he would feel the following day.
Reilly looked down at her newly repainted armor, turning it over in her hands before putting it on. At first glance it appeared no different than before; it retained the same green color and the same white shamrock on the chest. Above the shamrock, though, where it had said "Reilly's Rangers" before, she had repainted it. Now it read "Thompson's Rangers," the entire company's armor did. She had opted to run with what Three-Dog had meant as an insult, renaming the company and hoping that the mention of the Wanderer's name would potentially deter the raiders from continuing to come out of their hiding. Reilly had realized soon after her visit to GNR that she had irrevocably damaged her relationship with the Brotherhood; reports from the DC ruins reporting that the water caravans were no longer coming to the areas that Reilly's company patrolled. She felt guilty about it; fearing her actions had drawn punishment for innocent people that had played no part in what she had done. Reilly knew what the Brotherhood's goal was: turn the people in her part of the DC ruins against her and her Rangers by blaming them for the loss of water. So far it hadn't worked, but Reilly feared that if the embargo continued her own people would be forced to resort to raiding, desperation overcoming the civility the Wanderer had imposed. And so she had formed her own plan to try and maintain the peace that had been won. Reilly strode out of her quarters to find her specially selected squad waiting for her.
"Let's go," she began, setting out of the compound and into the ruins. Her plan was simple: a multiple day, long range patrol, west through Canterbury Commons and then heading south into Virginia, Megaton and Arefu being her primary destinations. She hoped to convince Lucas Simms, Uncle Roe, and Evan King to side with her; to form some sort of united front to remind the Brotherhood that the Aqua Pura was meant for the entire Wasteland, not just them and Rivet City. Uncle Roe could help with the merchants; and Lucas and Evan ran the two largest settlements that were on the fringes of Brotherhood territory and had good relations with the Wanderer. Reilly knew that, essentially, if the other settlements agreed they'd be agreeing to something that resembled open opposition to the Brotherhood, a fight that none of them could hope to win. Not only were they outgunned and out-supplied, they were outnumbered and outmanned. The Brotherhood had been able to select the best of those that applied to join, Reilly being given the leftovers that had been deemed unfit by the Brotherhood. She hoped that, as long as they avoided open provocation, she could avoid inciting a full-fledged civil war in the Capital Wasteland.
Achilles left the Primm office of the Mojave Express, having completed his delivery. The town wasn't totally disagreeable, as far as the Mojave went. It hardly had the amenities of New Vegas, but it at least had accommodations for him to collapse into. His next destination was Nipton, a town he thoroughly despised; but he was not needed there for several days. Making his way to Bison Steve's, he desired only food and sleep. The tension in the Mojave was coming to a boiling point, something that was palpable in every settlement he had gone to. The tension was carrying over into every aspect of life; people frantically making preparations in fear of a Legion victory; indulging in every vice and losing any inhibitions, knowing that should the Legion win they would be no more. It disgusted Achilles to watch. Caesar brought these people unity; he brought them elevation from their superstitions and from their ignorance and offered them a way forward, the only way forward, and they refused it at best; actively resisted it at worst. In his time as a courier he had been through much of the NCR and the west in general. While New Reno still topped the list of the worst place he had been; and was a city he was eager to see laid low by the Legion, New Vegas and its surrounding areas were a close second.
He reached his room in the Bison Steve wordlessly, stripping off his dusty clothes as he made his way to the bed. Achilles fell into it and quickly fell into a dream filled sleep; one where he dreamed of a future where he held the power to shape the world as he saw fit.
Reilly and her squad reached Megaton in the early afternoon; three days after they had set out from their compound. She had explained the situation to Uncle Roe in Canterbury Commons, and he had agreed to talk to the merchants that passed through his city about carrying Aqua Pura as part of their caravans. Now she had to convince Lucas and Evan to find a way to actually secure enough Aqua Pura for the settlements that the Brotherhood was now ignoring. Lucas met them at the gate as they entered, surprised by the arrival of Reilly and her group. She hadn't radioed ahead; preferring to maintain secrecy instead of broadcasting her plans over an unsecured radio that the Brotherhood was most likely monitoring. Standing next to Lucas was a young woman in a blue and yellow jumpsuit; 101 stitched on the collar. Reilly immediately recognized it as the uniform of a resident of Vault 101. The presence of the Vault dweller came as a surprise to Reilly, but one that she immediately realized could be valuable. Vaults had a large supply of goods; clean water being one of the foremost. If she could include Vault 101 in the plans she had, there could be a legitimate chance of surviving the Brotherhood's embargo.
"What brings you to Megaton, Reilly?" Lucas asked, shaking Reilly's hand as he did.
"Was hoping to talk to you about things that are happening in DC," she began, before turning to the Vault dweller. "I'm sorry, but we haven't met. My name is Reilly," she said, extending her hand to the woman.
"Susie Mack," the young woman responded, gripping Reilly's hand.
"It's good that you're here, Susie. Could you join us? We may need your Vault's help," Reilly said. Susie nodded back at her.
"Sure. But just so you know, I'm not the Overseer. Any decision would have to be made by Amata," she replied. Reilly recognized that name; she had heard the Wanderer say it in his sleep. So that's who he was talking about. A girl back in the Vault.
"That's fine. Regardless of her decision, you all should know what's happening out here," Reilly said.
"Why don't we go back to my house to discuss this in private?" Lucas asked, receiving nods of agreement from the ladies. Turning, he led them back to his house to hear what Reilly had to report.
October 13, 2281
The caravan had been on the road for over a month, travelling across Nebraska to where they now were, in southern Wyoming. The plains spread out in all directions, rolling as far as they could see. Above them was a blue sky; one that made John understand why, before the war, this part of the country had been referred to as Big Sky Country. In the distance the Rocky Mountains rose up in front of them, the very tops of them covered in white. It was snow, John realized; something he had never seen. The nights had been growing colder the further west and north they travelled; an unfamiliar sensation for John. The Capital Wasteland was almost uniformly warm, year round; cold weather, the kind that signaled the beginning of fall and of a coming winter, was alien to him.
"We're not going to get trapped somewhere by snow, are we?" he asked no one in particular. He had gone back to being his normal self, having stocked up on alcohol as well as Med-X for the trip in Kansas City. Being able to anaesthetize himself with whiskey at night and Med-X in the morning kept him much calmer than he had been after running out of the booze on the last leg of the trip to KC.
"No," Bonzo replied. "Snows don't usually come down outside the mountains until December or January. We'll be long passed it by the time it starts to snow here." John grunted in acknowledgement. While he was sure experiencing snowfall would be an interesting experience, he had heard too many stories about pre-war explorers being trapped by blizzards and not making it out of the mountains.
"What's the weather like in New Reno?" he asked, directing his question to Smith.
"Mild, mostly. Doesn't get too cold," he replied.
"Are we going to have problems with the crime families?" he asked. Smith shook his head.
"No. They do their best to protect merchants; people that disrupt trade or tourism usually end up buried at Golgotha by one of the families," he replied. Smith had briefly touched on the presence of mob families in New Reno; organized crime being something totally new to John. The closest he had come was the Tunnel Snakes; and compared to the Bishops or Van Graffs they weren't exactly intimidating.
"Which is the most powerful family now, Smith?" Gale asked from where she walked alongside the caravan. The pain in John's knee had mostly dulled, but he was walking with a pronounced limp that made it clear he had done some sort of serious damage to it, beyond what had happened in the Vertibird crash.
"The Van Graffs and Wrights were fighting for control of the city, the last time I was there. The Bishops and Mordinos still control parts of the city, but not as much as when I was younger," he explained.
"What makes New Reno so bad, Smith?" John asked. It semed strange to him that organized crime controlled the city so heavily, and yet it was the only city he had heard of where that was the case.
"Jet, for one," the man replied.
"Jet? Like the chem?" John asked, slightly confused.
"Yeah. It was invented in New Reno back in the '40s. Kid named Myron developed it and it spread like wildfire through the city. The families control the distribution of it; and so many people are hooked on it there's no way that enough people could unite to challenge the families." John thought about that for a moment.
"It's strange how a small group of people can control so many others as long as they're united," he thought, remembering how the Brotherhood was the dominant faction back home, despite being outnumbered by Wastelanders.
"It's always been like that, kid. With a few exceptions through history, it's always been a case of the strong dominating the weak."
"So Myron made the people weak…what was in it for him, with his inventing Jet?" Smith scowled.
"Money, prostitutes, and a lab. The kid was one of the biggest pieces of shit I've ever met. My buddy John absolutely despised him. Myron ended up getting shanked by a Jet addict a year later; so I guess there was some poetic justice there. I think I'm one of the only people that even remembers he existed," Smith replied.
"Why do you remember him, Smith?" John asked.
"I have a good memory," Smith said, the evasiveness returning to his tone. John decided to drop the issue. He figured at most he'd wait till New Reno and then find out what Smith's actual background was. The caravan fell silent as they continued rolling along the road, the west sprawling out in front of them.
The first thing Achilles became aware of was his head throbbing. Without even touching it he could feel that a huge bump had been raised on the back of his head by some sort of blow, one he couldn't remember. He had been walking from Primm to New Vegas; on his way to deliver something that appeared to be a worthless trinket to the New Vegas strip.
"Standard paperwork here," the man behind the Mojave Express counter had said as he pulled out the small parcel. "I need you to sign on this line to take possession of the package." Achilles looked down the list, his name being on the sixth line. He signed quickly before handing it back to the man. "Next is a standard contract; you're responsible for delivery to New Vegas, any loss or theft and the damages will be incurred by you. Do you have a next of kin you want notified if something should happen to you?" he asked, sliding the paperwork toward Achilles. He pondered for a second before filling it out; the first time he had ever listed a next of kin.
Emily McPherson, C/O Followers of the Apocalypse, Shady Sands, NCR; he had written in the box. He slid it back across the counter to the man, who had replied by handing Achilles his parcel. Without a further word Achilles had left the office and set out, heading south to New Vegas…
He opened his eyes, the world blurry at first before coming into focus. He realized he was lying on his side. He moved his hands to push himself up; before coming to the sickening realization that they were bound. He could tell by a quick feel that his feet were also bound. He twisted and pulled with his hands, desperately trying to break the bonds. From off to his side he heard a voice speaking.
"You got what you were after, so pay up!" a man's voice said, in the rough cadences of a tribal.
"You're cryin' in the rain, pally," came the response, in a much smoother, more educated sounding voice.
"Hm. Guess who's waking up over here," came another voice, as Achilles desperately started twisting at the bonds on his hands. Giving up, he looked up while pushing himself up to his knees to face his captors. He found three men standing in front of him; two who were obviously tribals-Achilles recognized them as Great Khans by their armor and haircuts, and a third man, one wearing a checkered suit and languidly smoking a cigarette. The man rested his eyes on Achilles for a moment before sighing heavily and stamping his cigarette out.
"Time to cash out," he said, turning to face Achilles as he did.
"Will you get it over with?" one of the Khans said; the man in the checkered suit holding a hand up to silence him.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink. Dig?" he replied, hardly taking his eyes off Achilles while he spoke. The legionary's anger flared as the man calmly looked at him. Mars, protect me and release me from my captivity, and I will offer you all of their lives as a sacrifice, the prayer flashed through Achilles head as he pulled again at his bonds, his rage impotent against the knots that bound him. The man reached inside the jacket of his suit and Achilles felt a knot form in his stomach, realizing that the man would likely draw a pistol. He was surprised when the man only pulled out the small, platinum chip that had been his package, and held it up in front of him; speaking while he did.
"You've made your last delivery, kid," the man said, his smooth voice almost apologetic. "Sorry you got twisted up in this scene," he continued, reaching back in his jacket and this time producing a handgun; one that was obviously custom made. Achilles' anger flashed again, his desperation to be released causing him to mentally plead with Mars to protect him. "From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck," he said, holding his pistol at his side. The man raised it and pointed it straight at Achilles' head, before continuing. "Truth is, the game was rigged from the start," he finished. I will kill you. By the grace of Mars and all the furies I will survive this and I will hunt you down and-
A flash of light came from the barrel of the man's pistol; the last thing that Achilles, frumentarius of Caesar's Legion, saw. And then his world went black.
November 2281
John realized as they pulled into New Reno that Smith had not been lying. The city sprawled out in front of them, the largest one that he had seen. It also immediately gave off a feeling of despair; of people hopelessly caught in the same cycle of addiction and debt and vice. He had no idea how Smith had lived in the city for so long. Bonzo guided the caravan to the lots by memory, the area guarded by members of the Bishop family. Smith had assured them that their goods could stay with the wagon; no one willing to risk alienating merchants by stealing from them. The Bishops, for their part, had brutally disposed of those that had tried in the past. Slowly climbing down from the wagon, John fell in alongside Smith and Gale, painfully limping as the group of five made their way to Smith's house. The sky was cloudy, and the sounds from the bars and brothels around them made it clear that the cloudy evening would do nothing to stop the people of New Reno from enjoying their vices. Gale looked particularly uncomfortable, with men outside the brothels leering at her disgustingly. The look on their faces when they saw her alongside Smith, though, made the men cast their eyes elsewhere; their faces betraying something akin to terror. It was a face John recognized, having drawn similar reactions during his time as the Lone Wanderer. They made their way unmolested through Bishop territory until they reached a home that could more closely be described as a palace, with two guards posted at the front gate. They jumped when they saw Smith.
"Sir! We had not been expecting you home so soon," they said, the gate swinging open as they did. Smith smiled at the men and walked through the gates towards the entrance to the house; a large, white building that looked like it would have fit in Imperial Rome.
"This is your home, Smith?" John asked, jaw agape as he looked around the meticulously maintained property.
"It is. Had it for close to 40 years now," he replied as they entered the double doors at the front of the house. A woman's voice called out from some distant part of the building.
"Who's there?"
"It's me," Smith called back. The sound of feet moving quickly began and an older woman appeared; her hair a fiery red with streaks of gray appearing in it.
"Yudhajit! What're you doing back so soon?" she asked, striding forward to meet Smith. He leaned forward to kiss the woman before replying.
"We couldn't take the route through Denver, not with Fawkes here," he replied, gesturing at where Fawkes stood. Miria smiled quickly, eyes on Fawkes, before taking in the rest of the group. Her eyes paused on John momentarily, causing him to shift uncomfortably where he stood. Without breaking eye contact with him she spoke to her husband.
"He's you. The way you were 40 years ago, when we were young." Smith nodded at that.
"I know. He's the one we heard of, the one from the Capital," he began, before looking at John. "John, this is my wife, Miria," he continued. John nodded and extended his hand to the woman, who took it.
"What does that mean, that I'm him?" John asked, confused. Miria looked at him quizzically before turning to her husband.
"You never told him, did you?" Smith shook his head.
"No. I wanted to observe first before saying anything," he replied.
"Observe what, Smith?" John asked. Miria laughed at his question.
"His name isn't Smith, John. It's Yudhajit. Come in and sit down, it's time you were filled in on everything," she replied, turning to lead the group into the dining room. Smith and John remained in the foyer, the confusion on the younger man's face obvious.
"What's going on here…Yudhajit?" he asked, trying out the unfamiliar name.
"I was like you, once. A long time ago. That is what Miria meant," he replied, John beginning to process what Smith had said. He suddenly remembered the story that Smith had told him over two months before, outside of Indianapolis. Miria walked back into the hall, laughing at the look of realization forming on John's face.
"Finally put it together, huh?" John nodded in response.
"You're him, aren't you? The one that you told me the story about." Smith smiled at him, pleased by his realization.
"Yes. I was born as Yudhajit in the village of Arroyo, 60 years ago. When I was 20 I passed my trials and was given a quest by my mother, the village elder. A quest and a new name, the same way you were." John nodded before Miria spoke, finishing Smith's story.
"The Chosen One. When I met my husband that was what people called him," she finished. "Now come sit down at the table, and we can talk."
I have been waiting to do this chapter since I started writing this story. So damn, it was fun to write. Thoughts, feedback, lay it on me. I know I just covered a huge amount of time in this chapter; but fear not, we'll be going back to visit Amata and the Capital Wasteland in the next chapter.