"Number Nine"


Ch. 40: Right here.


Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains violence, references to torture, and non-detailed crucifixions. Tread with caution.


"There ain't no pill for cure,
it's the devil that your' fighting for.
You're waiting for release,
but it ain't easy to live in peace.

You can't start a fire without a spark,
waiting for light in the dark.

Right here and right now,
there's no way out we're talking soul to soul.
Right here and right now,
we're standing face to face.
Take me by the hand and we're flying,
until the end of time.
'Cause right here and right now,
we're talking soul to soul."

- Place Vendome, "Right here"


"So… how's his prognosis?"

The field doctor who had put Lucullus under the syringe raised his bespectacled eyes toward Gabban, who was doing his best to hide his impatience.

"You mean this piece of trash?" – luckily, Gabban's training had also contemplated a long string of whacks in the back of his head whenever Vulpes deemed his ability to hide his emotions insufficient when provoked. Otherwise, he could have unapologetically punched the Republican son of a bitch in front of him – "He'll survive long enough to get through at least one of the Colonel's sessions." – snickering at that, not an ounce of sympathy in his beady, dull eyes, he added – "After that, I cannot respond how he will fare if she overdoes herself like last time. Not like I care, though. Giving meds to these animals is a waste of good resources anyway."

Gabban had never thought he would thank having such a perfectionist asshole of a brother this much… because keeping in check the rage welling inside of him took a great deal of willpower. And he knew he wasn't alone in his sentiment.

Cassius wore the same impenetrable expression as he stood by his side like a wall of rocks while Ignatius was opening and closing his fists intermittently, clearly resisting the impulse to get violent.

This was how the NCR spoke about them, how they saw legionaries.

Animals, they say. While it wasn't quite a shock hearing those words coming from the mouth of a Republican, it only highlighted the Bear's hypocrisy when said Republican also happened to be a medic.

Even the Followers of the Apocalypse or the scarce Wastrel medics out there knew what a Hippocratic Oath entailed.

Hell, even the fucking Praetoriani (1) were far more humane than what the West had shown thus far to their eastern neighbors. At least they knew when to stop and call for the Medicae (2) whenever a torture session got longer than usual.

Later, they would simply kill the prisoner in question once they outlived their usefulness without further ado. Crucifixions usually didn't apply once the target got too trashed, anyway.

That he knew, Gabban had only seen one person in the Legion going too far if a war prisoner wouldn't deliver answers promptly.

And that person was Vulpes.

Yet another creepy trait of his personality, Gabban's brother was particularly apathetic in the face of the suffering of third parties, thus making him quite an adept Quaestionarius (3) whenever a situation required his… personal touch.

Even when they had given that Mortimer cannibal what he deserved, Gabban had to stop Vulpes from turning an exemplary lesson into plain cruelty for the sake of it. The resultant scenography had been grisly enough to do the trick. No need to keep prodding the broken flesh of a man when he was but minutes shy of turning into a corpse.

He knew Vulpes could be particularly vicious if he harbored some kind of personal grudge against his victim. Thus, refer to what had happened at Nipton when that slimeball of Mayor Steyn had dared to give him the lusty eye.

He had been the first the Master Frumentarius had thrown on a pile of tires to burn him alive. After all, his had been the only ticket in the whole lottery rigged to fail in the worst possible outcome.

Due to this particular brand of modus operandi steaming from personal affront, it was pretty tricky to challenge Vulpes' views whenever he crossed the line. For besides being abysmally better than Gabban at oratory, he just didn't want or didn't care enough about finding the holes in his logic. It was like talking to a wall.

Whenever his younger brother would question his methods, Vulpes would shrug as if it had nothing to do with him, saying that was the way his former mentor had taught him to deal with unpleasantries.

Now Gabban understood why Caesar demanded his men commit suicide if they got caught. If Callidus Anguis, a former Republican, had taught his star pupil to torture in the ways of the Bear Army, Gabban could only imagine what these monsters did to legionaries whenever they felt like turning off their cameras.

"Do me a favor and watch over him until the Med-X gets fully into his system." – the bespectacled idiot of a medic told them, beady eyes blinking stupidly as he yawned like a Deathclaw – "Didn't get a coffee this morning, and I'm dying here."

If only.

It didn't take a privileged brain like Vulpes' to exchange quick looks with Ignatius and Cassius to set a half-decent plan into motion once the medic went to the cafeteria.

While his comrades watched the infirmary's entrance, Gabban rummaged the meds' cabinet.

"Huh." – he wheezed, putting his findings against the room's artificial lighting.

Twelve Stimpaks, seven RadAway IV bags, a modest portable first-aid kit, and a Psycho syringe filled to the brim.

He hesitated when he uncapped the Psycho and neared the weeping needle toward the IV dropper connected to Lucullus' forearm.

He was no doctor, so he may be doing more ill than good by injecting such a potent methamphetamine into an unaccustomed system… but they lacked time to cook up something better.

In the end, he had ended up doing what Vulpes or even the Courier would have done had the need for a decoy prisoner hadn't been of the utmost necessity to cross the Dam.

He was treating a comrade as something expendable, a mere bait, so by the time they all got together, he would wreak havoc so they could escape.

So… this is how he feels whenever he has to act like a fucking monster… - Gabban thought as his fingers pushed the liquid forward, his whole arm trembling – Don't think you can get used to this ever…

He hated himself. He hated himself because, in the end, he hadn't been so different from his siblings as he had always thought.

In fact, perhaps his cruelty was even worse. For neither Vulpes nor Alex had ever hidden who they were to get along with people they didn't care about in the first place.

Unlike himself, who had always wanted to blend in, seeking approval up to almost humiliating extremities like a famished dog, begging for attention.

Him... who, without the blinding light of his extraordinary siblings, was nobody.

Gabban hastily pocketed his findings and turned around in time to greet the medic who, if the chem did truly make people as psychotic as the very Fiends, would be dead in a matter of minutes once Lucullus woke.

If he woke at all, that is. Dead or alive, the moment he got himself wounded, he had signed up to become a mere distraction. A tool.

A sad, broken tool. Like all of them were in truth. For the Legion's color represented fairly faithfully what their lives amounted to in the end: blood and guts.

"Let's make haste." – Cassius murmured by his left as the three of them increased their pace while crossing corridors, the Courier's dog following so silently and obediently that Gabban often wondered what kind of aberrations that animal had to endure to adapt so well to human behavior – "My cousin said to rendezvous at the lower level while Olivian follows the Commander to redirect him and the Tabellaria (4) once they're done at the Armory maintenance bay. The place has fewer sentries patrolling around. With any luck, he'll have made contact with Erasmus and Cato Hostilius already."

Gabban prayed for that to be true.

Luckily, they could count on at least two different ways of exiting this fucking NCR anthill without using the big door through the Visitor Center.

And both, luckily, were located at the lower level.

He prayed they didn't have to use the tunnels, however. Otherwise, the Courier would know about it, and their plans would go to hell once the day for the Second Battle for the Dam arrived.

He still didn't trust the girl. Not even one bit.

No matter Caesar and Vulpes thought they could sway her by offering empty promises meant to turn into a consolation prize once everything would be over and she would be deemed only as useful as any other woman living under the Bull's banner.

His brother seemed under the delusion that a girl like her would enjoy the sheltered, safe life he thought he could provide her, and she would only have to look cute and pop out babies while saying 'yes' to everything.

The more Gabban thought about it, the more ridiculous it sounded.

That girl wasn't any different when it came to how Alexus had always wanted to live.

Since they were little, their 'sister' had never behaved or wanted the role women had held in their tribe.

There had been some females among the tribe's hunters, yes, so it hadn't been so unlikely an aspiration when all of them had been Jauría.

But then, once the Legion had arrived and the barrier between women and men had been insurmountable, Alexus hadn't looked forward to getting to the other side of that very barrier any time soon.

Vulpes had known this very well, hence why he had been the most enthusiastic supporter behind the transvestite thing and never had wanted it to be otherwise.

Neither had it ever crossed his mind to try to play matchmaker between their sister and one of their trusted tribesmen so she would be taken far away from the battlefield and play the role she was supposed to. It wouldn't have proven too complex for him to make Alexus the Decanus disappear from their ranks and forge citizenship documents for a new Uxor Non-Civis. (5)

So, taking these matters into consideration, he could have made the Courier do the same in order to get her some degree of dignity and even respect among the men. Given how androgynous the girl in question was, it wouldn't have proven too complicated to dress her like a boy.

But Vulpes didn't want to fuck a subordinate secretly while risking being tagged as a backstabbing hypocrite who would condemn homosexuality outdoors while practicing it indoors himself.

Vulpes wanted the legionary experience every single one of them so desperately hoped for: work hard, then your reward will be waiting for you at home with a big smile and a libido matching proportionally the time you two spend apart because of your duties.

Many Legion men had been conceded such an experience and lived happy, fulfilling lives as paterfamilias(6) but that didn't mean it didn't come with a cost either.

For not all women would agree to live under the mos maiorum (7) of the Patria Potestas (8) if they had so much as lived under better, fairer conditions.

Hence why many camp Capturae (9) and Servi (10) never made it to the slave market. Those who could not be taught how to behave properly in their society were indefinitely stuck with the military life, jumping from Campaign to Campaign, from camp to camp, and from man to man until they either broke or they outlived their usefulness.

And those women were often ones that had lived better than many tribals from the East.

It was a hundred times more likely that a feral, famished raider woman would accept Legion life than an NCR prospector or rancher.

No matter the first one could kill a man with her bare hands, and the second one is defenseless without a gun in her hands. What made those two kinds of women so fundamentally different wasn't their combat abilities, but their mentality.

Even the strongest human being could be physically subdued, even broken with time and skill enough… but what often couldn't be changed was what kind of person their life experiences had forged them to be.

A man or woman who knew what hunger, disease, and outright misery could do to a community was more likely to embrace a life under a tyrant as long as that very life procured them a full belly, a warm bed, and protection enough not to be bothered by barely scraping by alone in the desert ever again.

But the ones who came from sheltered, comfortable lives would always try to bite the hand feeding them.

Thus, why not a single legionary would want them as more than occasional relief to leave their side promptly before they recovered and chopped their balls with a hidden knife. It had happened before, and many foot soldiers still didn't get why the camp slaves would look at them with fear and hatred whenever they tried to behave nicely to them or win their favor with gifts.

They didn't get why those women, if subdued, would rather try their luck out in the desert alone than serve them.

The only thing that scared them more than being perpetually stuck in their pitiful situation was their fear of dying impaled by a well-thrown spear or with their heads blown by a detonated collar.

So they never rebelled… while, at the same time, they never truly adapted.

"They should be around turbine N7." – Cassius whispered once they were inside the ample, gloomy space that connected the four power plants of the Dam. The stench of stale humidity permeated the whole place as the thunderous buzz of the only four working turbines masked their conversation – "Hostilius normally does maintenance work around the N7 and N8, so he should be available. He was the one who found the tunnels thanks to this post anyway."

The Courier was one of such women. One that would never accept slavery in exchange for a protection that she herself was able to procure by alternative means.

Her rebellious attitude toward her former Master, that Enclave man, showed as much.

The same she had readily stabbed Burke's back at the barest opportunity she had gotten, she would also bite the loving hand that Vulpes mistakenly thought he was extending to a poor, helpless damsel in distress.

For the Courier could be many things… but 'helpless' wasn't among them.

If anything, Gabban bet she could be as ruthless as the very Burned Man if given the chance.

"My, my, in all these years, I never thought I would ever get sight of the Subprinceps Peregrinorum (11) dressed alla Republic." – was the dry, informal salutation Cato Hostilius, in all his undercover, greasy glory gave them once Cassius localized Felix and Co. - "What brings you to our humble abode, Gabban?" – raising his black brows, thick as caterpillars, he blew a puff of smoke product of the cigarette in his hand as he added slyly – "Don't tell me you too want to test the waters against the Fox this time around. Tired already of sucking his pale dick? Alerio would be ecstatic… if he didn't hate you so much for stealing his post, that is."

"Glad to see you've grown a beard, Hostilius." – Gabban replied as calmly as his growing annoyance permitted him. He had never been able to put up with Cato Hostilius or the rest of veterans that, when the change in charge had arrived with Callidus Anguis' demise, had bow knee to Vulpes basically to keep their posts while suckling on Mama Republic's tit – "That way, I won't have to see a good deal of your ugly face once I'm telling you how to wipe your ass. For something tells me you're gonna shit your pants as soon as I tell our Commander about your take on his nether parts."

"Ooo, such a loyal dog you are." – Hostilius replied, unfazed, blowing smoke again through the teeth of one of his gross smiles. For the man had this uncanny ability to gross you out by merely twisting his lips in a certain way, a fact he seemed acutely aware of – "Careful about showing off that devotion, though. Once Caesar's Golden Age is over, Lanius will not be so understanding of your political affiliations. And I'd rather suck his humongous balls than sink down with you Fox's Fuckboys lot."

"Really? Care then to repeat that in the very Fox's fucking face?" – that statement seemed to give Hostilius some pause when Gabban added – "Yeah, he's here, you dumbass. So, please, shove those opinions where you like it the most and prepare to run. He'll be here any minute soon along with the Tabellaria."

Cato Hostilius took a long, infuriating drag at his cigar before answering pensively:

"So, the rumors were true in the end." – he snickered humorlessly – "He's been away… what? Three months? All to beg for some random mailwoman's attention that's gotten two bullets in her brain. She must be pretty stupid if she has fallen for that 'I'll take care of you' old trick. But what can you expect from Nevadians?"

Gabban wished he wouldn't be in such need of Hostilius' knowledge on moving around the Dam's premises; otherwise, he would have beaten the crap out of the bastard while shoving his Profligate vice up his ass. Bet once he felt the heat down there, he wouldn't feel so inclined to share his shitty opinion.

These idiots were so full of themselves that they were at the point they only understand the language of plain violence to reason up things.

Guess they missed the times when the Serpent would deal with any incompetence through the whip. Vulpes worked more among the lines of suspending them from salary until he felt like they'd earned it back and, in some cases, even demoting them to plain Immune (12) roles - Venatores (13) for most cases - until they earned back their place into the Frumentarii Order. If they ever.

It wasn't a popular measure, but that had cleansed up their ranks of lazy agents that felt like half-assing their jobs just because they lived among Californians.

For them, apparently, it was better to have a crooked tyrant with BDSM and ephebophilic issues who liked to pit his men against one another as a boss rather than a neurotic, demanding workaholic who spied on his own agents.

Guess the hard work part was less of an issue than knowing you were being spied on.

Because, unlike Anguis, who spied on his men in secret, Vulpes had to proclaim to the fucking heavens that 'the Commander of the Frumentarii is watching YOU'. Like some Old-World propaganda poster.

Hell, even the tales about Vulpes being well-acquainted with the private life of his men by spying on their mail correspondence with their wives and offspring weren't that far-fetched. Gabban himself had helped him out on occasion to make reports on such mail, which he picked randomly unless looking for something specific, using whatever information he could find in it to further his rumor campaigns among the foot legionaries to diminish or boost this or that officer's reputation.

Thus, earning his poor reputation among Lanius' cohorts.

Thus, painting himself a goddamned target on his back. Because Vulpes was that fucking suicidal. His pride was always his undoing.

And yet, despite of it…

"Anyway." – Hostilius kept at it as Gabban exchanged nervous glances with the men, nodding in Erasmus' general direction, who for once had kept his trap shut at the mere mention of Vulpes being here. Erasmus had been once Jauría like them… but he had never managed to adapt either to the tribe's rules or the Legion's, having been assimilated at the age of thirteen and barely making it at the rite of passage test. One of the many reasons why Vulpes wanted him as far away as possible despite him being their blood cousin – "If Alerio wouldn't be so fucking preoccupied with the Omertas, he'd probably have already…"

"Alerio's dead, asshole!" – Gabban snapped, having already had enough of his whining while growing more and more anxious when neither Vulpes, nor the Courier showed up – "As we all will be if we don't get the hell outta this ant trap before Moore grows wise and figures out on her own that she has a rat nest gnawing at her boots!"

"Shit." – Hostilius replied, his nonchalant attitude hastily turning fidgety, shifting weight from one leg to another nervously – "We're definitely screwed up without that idiot. He was the only one trying to smooth things out between the Frumentarii and the rest of the soldiery on a political scale. Without him, Lanius will have all of our hides as soon as the steps into power, your beloved Fox going down the first as soon as he feels like behaving arrogantly as he always does."

Gabban didn't know what had gotten into him when he found his knuckles and Hostilius' jaw colliding in a most painful impact that left his own hand tingling as the other man collapsed on the moldy floor like a pile of bricks.

"That better?" – Gabban asked venomously as Cassius restrained him from going further – "This is the treatment you oh-so-fucking crave, Hostilius?" – he hissed, watching the man eyeing him with newly-founded shock as he absently rubbed his bleeding lip – "This is how you want things done instead of having a no-taking-shit Commander acting as a contention wall between you and a murderous psychopath whose lot in life is making the existence of everyone around him a fucking bloodbath?!" – pointing at him with a jabbing index, he said – "Two years I had to suffer being a mere Miles (14) in Lanius' Campaign in Arizona! Two years listening to his shitty rants about valor, courage, and all that crap while enduring not being fed half of the time and getting two extra hours of training almost every day just to get so angry I couldn't even muster up the energy to mourn my comrades whenever they fell! Two years I couldn't fucking get a wink without feeling like I wouldn't live another day to see the next sunrise, praying never to have to deliver Lanius any message lest he would get pissed off and crucify me for no bloody reason!" – now trembling, he spat – "When you know what fear is, you don't get so picky when someone is willing to defend you even if that costs both of your lives. The Fox goes down? I will gladly follow if that means I die like a man instead of living as a dog."

He had said it. He had said it, and he couldn't even believe he actually meant it, with all the implications that those words entailed.

He had said it… and, for the first time, Gabban held no fear of repercussions, no regrets on expressing himself as he truly was, no doubts about putting his neck on the chopping line, throwing all his hard work to be 'the good guy' to the gutter.

He felt free, even amidst the roar of Old-World machinery, surrounded by enemies, and likely growing out of time.

Even if he hadn't done anything particularly courageous, he felt fucking amazing.

So amazing, he didn't feel as intimidated as he should have when the Dam's automated fire alarms started blaring out, and then, the Courier and Vulpes burst into the lower level hastily not even a minute later. The batteries of their Stealth Boys' fields glitching on and off as they approached, a very disturbed Olivian following close, blocking the entrance behind them to the best of his abilities as Cassius and Ignatius joined to help.

The girl was grabbing her substantially clumsier Power Armor wielder counterpart firmly, literally manhandling him as she exclaimed out of breath:

"Where?! WHERE?!" – she demanded as soon as she caught sight of them – "We gotta get out of here NOW!"

"Do as she says." – Vulpes droned out from the depths of his helmet before any of the guys started with the due befuddled looks, unsure of how much authority the insolent girl carried with herself – "No questions."

It was unlike his brother to be so curt and direct unless there was something going on, so Gabban didn't question anything as he grabbed Cato Hostilius as well by the hem of his greasy engineer jumpsuit collar and shoved him forcefully forward.

"Lead on." – he ordered the veteran as the man, clearly still in shock from his previous display, allowed himself to play the prisoner part when they reached the hydropower plant exit near turbine N8, where two NCR troopers standing guard pointed them with their rifles as soon as they got a gist of the situation.

"Move, and he's chopped liver." – the Courier threatened them as she pointed her 10 mm to Hostilius' head – "Stand aside. I don't wanna have to kill you two."

They hesitated minimally until one of the trigger-happy morons decided to test his luck and got a blast of fire roasting a good part of his fucking arm while the other scattered messily aside.

Panting heavily, Vulpes' pulse trembled around the flamethrower he was wielding as he cleared the area. Then, once he was done, the Courier grabbed him again to make him go the first through the exit door.

Gabban shoved Hostilius aside before going out the last and mouthed 'you've been warned' before disappearing, noticing the barricade Cassius and the others had made burst out in time, so he smashed the red switch at the left side of the door, blocking it temporally.

"Shit." – he heard the Courier's voice before a rain of bullets prevented them from putting a single foot out.

The paved way downstream out of the hydropower plant was heavily guarded and heavily barricaded by arena sacks trenches that protected several Heavy Troopers in Power Armor from getting hit as they took potshots at them with .308 caliber rifles.

"Don't." – the Courier ordered, blocking Felix and Ignatius from charging ahead – "Leave them to me."

Gabban bet her statement left more than one Frumentarius indignant as she sprinted forwards with a speed that looked impossible to achieve sheathed on such a piece of heavy equipment and landed with a heavy thump in front of the barricades.

Then, none of the men dared to move a muscle or even utter a single sound when she charged forward with the same earlier speed, ignoring bullets, and tackled one of the Heavy Troopers hard enough to make the poor bastard lose his balance and fall on the ground with a deafening slam, effectively disabling him as he struggled pathetically like a belly-up turtle.

She kicked his rifle out into the stream as she dodged another one coming her way with an incinerator.

And Gabban couldn't believe his eyes when she managed to fucking roll her way toward her assaulter until she toppled him, then got up with the same ease as she would without having to deal with such massive extra weight and stomped on his armored wrist when he attempted to grab his weapon again.

And so, on and on. The Heavy Trooper that dared to engage her, the Heavy Trooper that ended up on the ground disarmed and impotent, unable to get up as she did, clearly less used to wearing Power Armor than she evidently was.

They decided to take their chances outside while the Courier still struggled to clear up the way out once the mechanical door behind them started creaking, signaling that the NCR technicians were forcing it open manually.

They ended up helping the Courier out with the only remaining Heavy Trooper, already disarmed but struggling as the girl tried to topple him pretty much as she had done with the rest. The bastard didn't get a chance once all the guys overpowered him, took his helmet off, and put a bullet between his brows.

"FETCH THEM!" – a distorted feminine voice thundered behind them – "DON'T LET THEM ESCAPE!"

Behind them, another Power-Armored individual jumped in front of the barricades and started running towards them with an entourage of troopers following close.

Vulpes had fallen behind, definitely slower than hours ago and definitely sloppier when he pointed in the newcomers' general direction and started spraying them with fire.

He was so slow that the woman in Power Armor dodged his attacks easily while the troopers positioned behind the sack barricades and began with the due potshots deal.

If he didn't get out of their range, Power Armor or not, he would end up turning into a colander.

The Courier, who had been tinkering with the back mechanism of the dead trooper's Power Armor, got rapidly up and, with a screech, charged forwards against the armored woman, who had managed to subdue Vulpes once the fuel of his flamethrower had run out, and he was now merely covering his flanks from her continuous assault.

Gabban observed, mesmerized, how the girl, fully suited in that hellish Old-World apparatus, grabbed the other Power-Armored woman by the neck and punched her repeatedly in the armor's breastplate until she dented and twisted its surface hard enough to force the other to release Vulpes from her iron grasp.

After that, she unpinned a grenade and threw it in the troopers' general direction while grabbing Vulpes under his arm to force him to get up again and move.

The Power-Armored woman behind them, if weakened and visibly wounded if the blood seeping through the chink on her breastplate was of any indication, retaliated by shooting them with a modified Chinese pistol that didn't even leave a scratch.

"Run, RUN!" – the Courier screamed, making brisk gestures with her free hand non-stop, clicking her tongue at the dog, so the animal's attention was on her – "Jump into the river!"

Neither of the guys - not even Erasmus, who likely didn't even know what was happening and why he was being dragged along, unsure of if he still should play the prisoner part as Cato Hostilius had done or drop the cover and help – hesitated about following her orders when they reached the walkway's dead end and the only available escape was sticking to the shores of the river canyon.

It was fortunate that all of them knew how to swim, including the cyberdog, but Gabban worried when Vulpes and the Courier got to the very end of the walkway and simply jumped into the water.

Power Armors weren't designed for swimming, so their escapade took on a more difficult level when Vulpes simply couldn't follow if the Courier didn't pull or shove him on forward.

Gabban turned back to help her, returning some of the shots that landed in their general direction into the water.

"Why isn't he taking this fucking thing off?!" – he demanded once he heard Vulpes' labored breath, knowing he would be physically unable to answer him.

"He gets out of the armor now; he wouldn't be able to walk on his own." – the Courier replied icily, pulling Vulpes with all her might – "He's much of a hindrance as he is right now. I cannot afford to carry him while wielding a weapon."

"FUCK YOU!" – Gabban yelled, angry at the situation but angrier at the meddlesome, mouthy wench – "How dare you?! How can you say something so shitty when he's…?!"

"Quit your whining." – she cut him, completely unfazed, borderline psychopathic as she added calmly – "You and I are talking later, Gabban."

And he didn't know why, but hearing the Courier address him by his name sent a shiver down Gabban's spine, not nearly looking forward to having a chat with the bloody madwoman but eager to get out of their current predicament as soon as possible.

As they got out of range, the Courier kept throwing grenade after grenade to keep the troopers from the water until she ran out of those and switched to random shots that always landed either on arms or legs.

She wasn't killing those bastards, only slowing them.

"I don't know what your game is, but I swear if you as much as…" – he began again until she cut him, yet again.

"We. Talk. Later." – she punctuated while being infuriatingly inexpressive – "You open your mouth again to piss me off, I am all for slapping until you shut it. Not warning a second time."

Fucking insolent! She was so unbelievably insolent that he couldn't wrap his head around the idea of her lying to everybody else 24/7, feigning the kind, diplomatic crap when he had seen her without the mask more than once, and nobody seemed to give a damn about it!

Why couldn't Vulpes see it? Why hadn't Caesar done something? Was he the only one that saw what she truly was?

The course river down took what felt like an Eternity until they caught up with the rest, who also were doing their best to keep their arses glued to the canyon wall against the river stream, the only one seemingly at ease being the dog, which kept swimming as if half its metallic body wasn't as much as a sinking problem as Power Armors were.

The buoy cord signaling the end of NCR territory came as a general relief, and everyone got five minutes of rest before helping out with bringing down the rusty barbed wires acting as a safety measure at the eastern side of the river, where the canyon sported pieces of land that were walkable to some degree.

Pieces of land that a good chunk of the Lakelurk population used to build their nests.

However, the moment a pair of those monsters approached them, the Courier had no problem bursting their craniums with a couple of punches despite their telekinetic attacks. After that, the creatures seemed to catch on the news that they weren't edible and let them be as long as they didn't approach one of their egg clusters.

"Vault." – the Courier spoke after a while when the damnable appliances attached to her and Vulpes' left forearms began beeping – "We could use some stims and ammo… if it's still accessible at all." – she added after a brief pause when she scanned the surroundings, locating a higher point in the canyon's wall, accessible by a seemingly steep path carved in the rock leading to a narrow passage – "Over there."

"Absolutely not." – Gabban refused – "I'm not getting inside one of those mortal traps just because we might get some decent loot that could be all moldy and crappy after two hundred years of shit. Not to add the NCR may still be on the lookout for us." – crossing his arms, feeling a little undignified with his blonde bangs sticking to his eyes and nose, he added – "Neither we have the time or the manpower to take over a Vault if it ends up being filled with ferals. We have to get to Cottonwood Cove as soon as possible. It's non-negotiable."

"Well, his exhaustion is also non-negotiable, you see." – the girl replied, unfazed, getting quicker than thunder on Gabban's nerves as she pointed toward Vulpes, who couldn't muster the will to even speak inside his tin can – "He must be at the brink of vomit at this rate."

Clever minx, playing on Gabban's sensitivities to get what she wanted.

In the end, they got into the narrow passage that ended up being a grotto. While the Courier tinkered with the console on the left side of the gigantic cogwheel blast door sporting the number 24 on it, the men finally got to sit to get their bearings, minus Gabban himself and Vulpes, who remained inside the Power Armor even when the girl managed to crack the password.

"Ready yourselves." – the Courier warned before taking position in front of the opening entrance, which blared out with de due deafening siren alarm once the massive hydraulic piston unsealed the nine-cog door.

"Fuck!" – Ignatius hissed when a grimy madman biker armed with a minigun welcomed them almost immediately.

Luckily, once again, the Courier didn't break a sweat when she sprinted toward the aforementioned madman, tackled him painfully against the console where he was hiding, and deprived him of his gun. And, ultimately, crushed his skull using said gun as a plain blunt object.

Like any fucking supermutant worth their salt would have done.

So, she can kill these lowlifes no problem but not the NCR, huh? – Gabban thought bitterly.

"Raiders." – she said after a while, testing the minigun engine as if she were manipulating a mere toy as the dog got by her side – "Wait here. I'll be back in no time."

And so, she disappeared into the Vault with the animal hot on her heels barking aggressively.

"So that's the Courier." – Erasmus opened his mouth for the first time since being dragged along, draining his soaked jumpsuit the best he could – "I like her."

"Don't think she should go alone." – Olivian opined almost immediately as if the mere act of one of them speaking up had unleashed their tongues – "It feels… wrong."

"I agree." – Cassius interceded – "She's supposed to be in our charge, right?"

Gabban couldn't fucking believe these idiots. Hadn't they seen her tackle bloody Heavy Troopers as if she were having a walk on the park?

"Then go if you so fucking care that much!" – he snapped, not knowing what he had expected at all when every single one of them got their machetes and went ahead, letting distant screams guide them throughout the countless corridors these impossible pre-War structures were so infamous for.

"Don't look at me." – Erasmus replied, apparently entertained while raising his hands in a fake gesture of innocence – "I don't have a machete, and our guns are basically unusable after our little dip into the Colorado." – snickering, apparently amused by Gabban's quiet fury, he added - "You cannot stand her, do you?"

"Keep that on the quiet side. He could hear you." – Gabban hissed, stealing a nervous glance at Vulpes' unusually silent figure.

In fact, now that he thought about it, Gabban found his brother way too silent for his liking.

"You think?" – Erasmus snorted, raising his voice toward the quiet Power Armor – "Hey, Vulpes! Do you mind at all if I say that Gabban hates the girl's guts but totally would get in her knickers if given the chan…! Hmph!" – he didn't get to finish the sentence when Gabban's hand clamped over his big mouth.

"You wanna him go berserk on us?!" – he hissed maniacally, giving an edgy, downright anxious look to Vulpes that, ultimately, got no reaction at all – "What the…"

"I knew it." – Erasmus replied calmly once he got his cousin's hand off his lips – "He has passed out."

"What?!" – Gabban exclaimed, rushing to his brother's side and yelling to the Power Armor as if that would solve anything – "Fox! FOX! Answer me! You okay, pal?!"

"Calm down." – Erasmus said, approaching the back of the servos, turning the wheel attached to it a quarter to the left, opening the whole case where Vulpes' flaccid body fell backward into Gabban's arms – "Yep. Out cold like a log."

"What do you mean?! Why?!" – the blonde Frumentarius asked rather hysterically, accommodating Vulpes in his arms so his head wouldn't loll aside, looking desperately for any visible wound or fracture.

"'Cause Power Armor?" – Erasmus replied helplessly, squatting to their level to take a good look at the Fox's face, opening one of his eyes with his fingers before being swatted in the hand angrily – "See? Dehydration. Add to that having run in that shit without getting any formal training before. I am surprised he didn't pass out hours ago." – raising a brow at Gabban's frown, he added – "Well, I have been working at the Dam for a year now. I've observed soldiers thoroughly training even simply to move around in those suits since Ianuarius. (14) You would be surprised how many grown men I've seen go to the infirmary after trying that for twenty minutes. It requires a certain finesse."

Gabban wanted so, so bad to just pull at his own hair like a madman in desperation. Everything had turned out shitty and nonsensical since this early morning, and he was coping with the news of having been wiped out from Cottonwood Cove by the Republicans pretty bad. And now? Their Commander was K.O., and there was an unleashed nutjob of a mailwoman in Power Armor running around rampant.

"So…" – Erasmus sing-sang mischievously and Gabban now understood why Vulpes couldn't stand him. He didn't know when to shut the fuck up – "It's true, then? This frigid ass got himself a girlfriend? That's juicy news."

"That's old news by now, you dork." – Gabban replied bitingly, clearly displeased – "Caesar knows about it. Lucius knows about it. The whole Fort knows about it. Hell, I'll be surprised if Lanius doesn't know about it once he decides to move his fat ass from Utah and stop playing hide-and-seek with Hecate. It's been months since his presence was requested."

"Maybe he likes them domineering, and Hecate is all too happy to provide." – Erasmus chirped, delighted – "You know, a good whip in stilettos, with a massive body like that in chains at your mercy…"

"Please, don't." – Gabban cut him, waving a hand in shushing – "I'm too fucking tired to deal with your black leather drag fantasies while adding Lanius to the mix. Just… don't."

"You were the one talking about fat ass and Lanius. You know I cannot resist."

"You're lucky Vulpes cannot hear your stupid dissertations, you know." – he replied, distributing his brother's weight onto his back to carry him on piggyback – "Otherwise, you'd be the one getting your idiot ass whipped black and blue."

"Oh, he knows I would enjoy that, and that would fry his pretty curly noggin off for good." – Erasmus cackled – "He can't wrap his mind around that some of us just plainly enjoy sucking dick."

"Urgh, I fucking hate you now. A lot."

"You too would enjoy sucking dick if you'd let that curiosity fly, dear cousin."

"Lalala! I can't hear you!"

"Yeah, keep telling yourself that."

They got into the Vault's main entrance once Gabban deemed the coast was clear. It didn't take long until they found the Clinic, which had a couple of stretches still in good shape to be used. He even made Erasmus clean the surface a little, knowing how squeamish Fox was with grime in general.

"Make a quick recount on medical supplies. Discard anything you see with fungi and all that stuff." – he instructed as he himself fished the stolen medical supplies from the Dam from his also stolen duffle bag – "Urgh, no saline. Right." – he grumbled unhappily until the due heavy steps getting closer informed him of the Courier's presence by the entrance. The rest of the men almost following suit with the dog.

"So, you're here." – she said, eyeing the little medical operation they had put up together with an approving nod. Her helmet and cuirass splattered in blood – "You need no fear. The undersuit should have taken care of any fluids. Those are designed to help sweating and blood congealing go a little easier on the body. Unless it's a deep wound, he's out of danger."

"You." – Gabban pointed an accusing index to her, his tone forceful – "We have a pending conversation."

Taking her helmet and the undersuit's hood off, her short hair went out in weird angles where it didn't stick to her cranium with sweat.

"So, that's the face of Courier Six." – Erasmus opined, inopportune again – "I thought you'd be hotter."

The girl turned her eyes to him, and Gabban wasn't sure how to decipher the guarded look she gave him, as if she were dealing with a snake.

"And I thought I would be assigned smarter agents." – she replied dryly – "One cannot have everything."

At that, after an uncomfortable silence, Erasmus snickered.

"That's more like Vulpes, definitely." – he said, big smile and devious slanted blue eyes twinkling – "Dunno what you have done to piss this bittercup here off, but I like you. At least I won't have to be completely surrounded by gorgeous brutes 24/7. One does really miss the girl stuff when all you have to vent out are greasy engineers and an asshole of a comrade watching your every move."

The girl's expression did a whole 360° as her guarded black eyes turned softer.

"Okay." – she finally spoke, addressing Gabban once again – "Come with me. I'd rather have this talk in private."

He hated the pitiful looks some of the men directed at him, but he followed, the dog by his side rubbing its head against his hand insistently, looking for a scratch.

He provided the demanded petting absentmindedly as the Courier guided him into a bathroom and closed the automatic door behind.

"W-what are you doing?!" – he asked, first astounded that she would get out of her Power Armor, then increasingly embarrassed as she peeled off her undersuit.

"I have some medical necessities to be taken care of, and this bathroom's pipe system still works." – was her thoughtless reply as she limped slightly into one of the showers still in her underwear, leaving bloodied footprints that only registered in Gabban's flustered brain once his eyes decided to stop staring where they didn't belong – "So." – she said as if she were talking about the weather as she sat down cross-legged and fished band-aids, a Stimpak, and bloody pliers to pry a couple of bullets off her leg. How she was still able to walk, Gabban didn't know – "Spit it all. Ask me why I tried not to kill anybody at the Dam."

"What?"

"It's written all over your face. You think I'm gonna backstab you as soon as I clear up my 'lapse in judgment' with the NCR."

He couldn't believe her. Was she for fucking real?

"Isn't what you've been thinking since you left The Fort?" – he opted for rhetorical defensiveness – "Don't think I haven't seen you looking for the slave grounds. If you could give them rifles and start a riot, you would do so gladly."

Now, who was being a hypocrite?

"If I told you that's not the case, would you believe me?"

"No."

"That's what I thought. But the deal with leaving witnesses alive at the Dam functions both ways: they believe I have a reasonable doubt regarding you guys while still not getting suspicious of the other man that didn't accompany us." – his shock must have been shown on his face, for she added – "He was one of you, right? The sleazy guy with bad teeth and a beard?"

He hated himself for snorting at her description of Cato Hostilius.

"You mean you've covered up our operative's ass so Moore won't get suspicious of him because we left him alive?"

"Yep."

"You're still covering up your ass too."

"Of course. I know how this game works. And pardon my bluntness, but I've been playing it a little longer than you, so I know building a good double agent story can ensure me some sympathies in the future."

"A future for what?"

"Who knows? I might need to infiltrate the NCR one day. And the public always likes a good story about the lost sheep returning to the flock because she was young and naïve and didn't know better."

Gabban barked a humorless, dry cackle.

"You're unbelievable. How long it took you to come up with such a twisted explanation?" – flinching at seeing her finally fishing the second bullet from her calf and looking at the bloodied product rolling around the drainage with its twin, he snarled – "You think I will fall for your lies?" – taking a step menacingly at her that the dog responded by bumping its nose on his stomach, he added – "You think I don't know you're using my brother for whatever shitty game you have with that Enclave man?"

She stopped showering her gaping wound with the shower handset and looked at him with an indecipherable black stare.

"You mean using him like he has used me for political reasons?" – watching him open his mouth defensively, she cut him while jabbing the Stimpak onto her leg to add effect – "Don't bother. I know. It's fine. That's not what we are discussing here."

"Then enlighten me what the hell are we discussing here, Courier. Because I think I've already heard enough to know whom I'm dealing with." – he countered arrogantly, turning around already to leave her with her inhuman nonchalance, surrounded by the decrepit remains of her forgotten world – "I'm leaving. Don't bother to try to come up to chat my ear off with pretty words again, because it won't work."

However, his wrist was seized before he could activate the mechanical door.

"You…!" – he barked acrimoniously, but she interrupted him again.

"There's something fundamental you're recriminating me that, apparently, has flown right over your head." – releasing him, she gulped before saying – "I love your brother."

A short silence ensued.

"Ha!" – he replied in shock, unable to produce a coherent sentence.

"I love him." - she insisted – "So much, I could just knock him out, drag him all the while back to any of my available 'safe locations', and chain him there until either his heart or his mentality changed. Spare him the senseless war that is coming, keep him safe. But I cannot do that. Not with you lot, his family, who depend on him to keep yourselves alive amidst a system that doesn't smile upon a single one of you."

That left him speechless.

"You may not trust my words, but you can trust my intentions in that regard." – she insisted again – "That was my original plan if I couldn't manage to persuade him, anyway."

"You…" – Gabban didn't even know how or why he said what he said next – "You would do that? For real? Spare him the shit, I mean."

"Yes."

"And the NCR?"

"I don't give a crap about them. As soon as they stop being useful, I'll drop them without as much as looking back."

"Like with us."

"You have him. As long as you have him, you hold interest in my book."

"And what about the Enclave man, this… Mr. Burke?" – Gabban saw it, the shiver running down her spine at the mere mention of his name. She truly feared him.

He couldn't say he couldn't relate to that.

"I'll kill him." – she affirmed, not very confidently, but at least with intention – "I'll kill Burke and, once his shadow wouldn't pose a problem back on the East Coast, I'll return there. Boston is my home, and… I still have some pending business there."

Weirdly, this was something he could believe and even understand. To some extent.

Wait… was that sympathy? Really? For this Profligate?

Shit, no. Like, hell no. Why?

He felt his anger deflating without him having any say in it.

Damn, where did all his beef for this lunatic go? She was an idiot. An idiot in underwear, covered in grime and blood, and with stupid mussed hair and radrabbit teeth asking for… What? His fucking blessing?

"You're serious, aren't you?" – urgh, what a bloody headache… - "You're asking for a ton load of shit that can splatter the both of us in the worst possible manner, you know that?"

"I didn't ask for anything."

"Oh, yes you are. You're asking me to shut my mouth and play along with the charade. You're asking me to help you out with… basically wiping your ass with our covenants and leave you be because that might, and I say MIGHT for good reasons, get my brother out of Caesar's dog chain."

There was a silence between them again. He could practically see the gears rotating inside her head.

"You could come too… if you want." – she offered lamely.

"Look, spare me the pity, I don't need it." – he huffed, angry at himself for considering stuff already – "Let me think." – pinching his chin, he sighed – "I… will need some time to cook up something proper but… in the meantime, I can nudge him your way. Don't expect much; he's stubborn as a mule."

He didn't expect the hug the girl gave him, but even less the strength her two stick-like arms truly had.

"Alright, alright. Enough." – he huffed, annoyed and jittery as he got far away from her. To think this was the stuff girls were into… - "Just… don't treat him like he's a pain in the ass – which he is, by the way – like today. Okay?"

"Okay." – the girl acquiesced solemnly – "I didn't mean anything by that."

"Just… shut up. Clean yourself up, dress your wounds, and go back to the Clinic." – turning around again, he activated the door – "He'll like seeing you when he awakes."

Once he got out and was about to close after himself to give her some privacy, she spoke again.

"Gabban." – he could tell she was as uncomfortable as he was, which was a comfort in itself – "… Thank you."

"Yeah, don't thank me yet." – he grumbled before closing the damn door in her nose.

He tried to work up some mild annoyance that didn't even come throughout his way back to the Clinic, grabbing a couple of Nuka-Colas from the fridge in the Cafeteria, having to wade the field of corpses the Courier and the men had left behind, and to move aside some raider rando with a crushed skull blocking it.

The girl had managed to move the other Power Armor in and close the Vault blast door back with a protected passcode, so he deemed it good enough that they could patch themselves up, eat something, and even take a nap or something until Vulpes awakened. The Stimpak injections and the cool compresses Gabban and Erasmus had treated him with should suffice to ensure he recovered without much of a fuss.

When the girl got back, she looked as good as new and even got the energy to teach them some basic stuff regarding the usage of Power Armor.

Apparently, flexibility played a pretty relevant role, which you worked out by stretching for ideally ten minutes or so before getting into the suit.

The men listened to her, clearly more at ease around someone they had already seen in battle and even gotten to talk to a little. Legionaries were usually that way, even Frumentarii. They didn't trust easily, and it took some time and effort before they grew respect for someone.

However, once that respect was earned, everything should be alright, and the girl was starting to figure things out anyway. Clearly, she knew her way among the military type, was treating each one of them more individually than when they had been but an accidental add-on to her carefully-selected group, and didn't look at them as if they were going to grow a second head or something, like the better part of the female population did.

Which, to some of the men, was a new, though welcome experience. Gabban knew this better than anybody else. Even if it felt kind of weird, it was also a relief to be able to behave normally in front of a girl and not get the 'please, don't rape me' look.

Which, unfortunately, was something a good chunk of their Army had deservedly earned while the rest paid for their guilt.

After that, everyone agreed to leave the Clinic quietly in her hands as she got onto the neighboring stretcher and closed the distance between her and Vulpes, grabbing his hand like the stupid teenager she was.

Gabban couldn't say that he envied them. Their relationship may end up costing everything they had. Truly fucking Shakespearean.

Not that his stupid brother would have it any other way.


Cassandra Moore had been seething for half an hour non-stop.

The remaining anesthesia from the emergency surgery she had gotten with three broken ribs and a swollen breast wouldn't soothe the pain of the humiliation she had suffered today.

Some mailwoman enters her Dam, and Hell breaks loose.

And Oliver… fucking General Wait-and-see had deigned to get his ass out of his private compound to give her the bloody earful of her life while not having moved a finger, neither him nor his gorillas, when the sirens had blared out.

"You allowed some goddamned courier-walk-the-wasteland-fuck along with one of Cesar's top dogs enter my Dam, and you don't know how it happened?! What the hell were you thinking, Cassandra?! I could easily open you a war court expedient for this!"

The technicians had to extract her from the busted Power Armor after the damned Courier had disabled the servos' opening mechanism. She hadn't perforated a lung by sheer dumb luck but had turned her left tit into meatloaf. She'll have to give her thanks to the surgeons that had reconstructed what they could while containing an inner hemorrhage that had almost cost her life… and General Wait-and-see Lee had to come to her post-operation to give her shit.

She still couldn't wrap her head around what had happened. How did they get infiltrated? Did nobody recognize a clumsy Power-Armor wielder when they see one?

That piece of crap had been too easy to spot. The movements too robotic for a presumed officer sent to the field to chase after one of the Legion Top Three.

It had been easy to subdue him. Twice.

No matter that he'd been on V.A.T.S. – that wrist turn had been unmistakable. When you've been with the Rangers for nearly twenty years, you can easily overpower a tin can, the more if the pilot is a newbie.

But the Courier… the Courier had been an entirely different story altogether.

Cassandra had managed to get a lock on the bastard's neck under the helmet after he had tried to punch her, when the most painful punch of her life had come by her ten o'clock, forcing all the air off her lungs violently.

And the next thing she knew, she was being thrown over the steel shoulder of a Power Armor to end up kissing the ground a handful feet away.

Then, they had turned on Stealth Boy fields. The two of them.

Cassandra did clearly remember barking orders to block the exit, but everything had gone too fast and it had been in vain, and she had to get into one of those thrice-damned suits at the maintenance bay full speed.

She hadn't stood a chance against the Courier on her own. She wasn't some inbred ragtag Legion Neanderthal like the other one. She had known her business dressed in servos.

Luckily, since their war with the Brotherhood, there had been some salvaged Power Armor suits still in working conditions that Cassandra had tested out throughout the last five years, so she could move around in one.

No dice once she had finally gotten to them, and the situation had repeated all over again: her getting the upper hand with the Legion trash who could only but try to deflect her attacks like some little bitch when the Courier had turned heel to charge against Cassandra.

She had never seen someone move that quickly in Power Armor, not even the very Brotherhood of Steel.

And she had never seen such an economy of movements when she had punched repeatedly on the same spot, likely knowing where and how to hit the right place to bend the cuirass inwards.

She hadn't stopped until Cassandra had released the Legion scum, so that one must have been the alpha. Not very impressive.

And then, rather pathetically, even with the Courier dragging him along the riverbank, not a single NCR soldier had managed to get an inch near them. And now the infirmary was filled with wounded troopers with bullets lodged in arms and legs.

Few casualties, however. None of them by the Courier's hand.

"Colonel Moore, ma'am!"

Grumbling, getting nauseous and itchy due to fading anesthesia aftereffects, Cassandra got up from her draped stretcher slowly, feeling like puking any moment until she managed a more dignified sitting position.

"Come in." – she rasped, her mouth tasting like shit, words coming out a bit slurred despite her best efforts.

Retiring the white screen, she recognized the same Private from this morning accompanied by another two troopers flanking a man bearing the Captain's double silver bar insignia.

"Colonel, ma'am." – the Private said, saluting emphatically – "Captain John M. Braselli here wishes to hand over himself, ma'am."

"Charges?" – she asked, bored to death, wishing to be left alone for once.

"I was the one who allowed the Courier access to the Dam, Colonel." – the man in question spoke.

Cassandra's pale eyes snapped violently toward the cockroach in question, containing her murdering impulses.

"Did you, Captain?" – she asked as coldly as her current inner ire allowed her.

"Yes Colonel, ma'am." – the man affirmed emphatically, lowering his eyes – "I do not wish my men be soiled by my mistake, nor I want to hide like a coward during an investigation I can accelerate by just being honest: the rats were dressed in our uniforms, carried themselves like troopers, brought corpses dressed as Legion and a prisoner, and there were two Power Armor pilots, not one. I never thought a Red could don one of those suits like it was nothing, when any man here can get sick by using a servos for half an hour." – inhaling heavily, he added – "I'm taking responsibility for my mistake, ma'am."

"A prisoner, you say." – Cassandra replied, pinching her chin and getting grossed out by not being able to feel her fingers on her skin – "Where's that one?"

"I told them to get him to the infirmary and sedate him, since he was wounded."

"That one…" – one of the medics interceded – "He killed one of our medics on shift and several troopers until he was reduced. I was the one running the alarm once I arrived to start my shift and saw all that blood. He made an awful mess that we had to clean up before your surgical intervention, Colonel."

Cassandra licked a fang, still not feeling shit, before continuing.

"Is that rat still alive?" – she asked.

"Still riding the aftereffects of Psycho, but yes, ma'am."

"Psycho?"

"Apparently, either he was injected, or he injected himself with a commandeered Psycho dosage we found in one of the troopers' footlockers." – the medic explained – "Probably a sacrificial lamb, since neither of his comrades came back for him. Bet he didn't kill himself because he couldn't tell his head from his ass when the men reduced him."

Those… were interesting news.

"Bring me a wheelchair." – she ordered, only to be met by hesitant glances that met a steely countenance – "Now."

Once she made sure she was obeyed, she turned to face Braselli again, clearly expecting her verdict.

"You said you wished to take responsibility for your mistake. Didn't you, Captain?" – she asked.

"Yes Colonel, ma'am." – the man firmly said.

"Very well." – making a gesture with her left arm that brought a slight sting of pain to her still tender breast, she ordered – "Private, take this man's uniform and insignia and lead him to the Dam's entrance along with a firing squad to dispatch him."

"But… Colonel Moore!" – the demoted officer pleaded, and Cassandra felt powerful as soon as she saw he most pure, unadulterated form of fear grow in his eyes as the other two troopers restrained him by the arms.

"You said you wanted to take responsibility for your mistake." – Cassandra explained calmly, allowing the trembling medics to help her get into the requested wheelchair – "A trooper, I could have let it go by sending them to jail with half the eating rations for a month or two… But an officer?" – facing the now desperate, shivering man with a cold smile, she proclaimed – "Your fuck-up has cost us a vital opportunity to get the upper hand with Cesar and House. That is punishable by death in dishonor so your example may serve as a warning for the next idiot thinking about not revising the identities of people coming and going from this Dam." – addressing the men restraining him, she ultimately ordered – "Get him out of my sight."

She utterly ignored the pleading screams of the poor sod as she ordered one of the medics to move her and her IV droppers back to her office, where she began distributing orders, making herself a coffee as she awaited what she had requested.

Once they brought the Red piece of shit in front of her, she used her free hand to grab him by the scruff as three men restrained him, backhanding him hard when he tried to bite at her.

"Let's start over again, shall we?" – she said once she was handed her toolkit by her Quartermaster, Bardon, the only man she could safely say was fairly competent under her command. Must be the family tradition with all serving in the military; it bred noteworthy individuals – "What are the Courier and Vulpes Inculta planning to do once they cross the river?"

Five nails, three teeth, and one finger less later, the bastard started talking.


Vulpes awakened with a jolt, then regretted it immediately once the muscular cramps began registering in his consciousness.

"Urgh…" – he grumbled, only to be replied by a mousey voice by his left.

"You're awake. How about that."

While his ears recognized the voice, his eyes, still adapting to the artificial lighting around him, played the nastiest trick ever when he turned his head and saw an undefined human silhouette inspecting guns, sitting cross-legged on a nearby stretcher.

No matter whether there was a wide range of different sorts of guns, the one the silhouette held in its hand at that moment was a .45 auto pistol.

"Come here, boy. You are going to learn something valuable today."

How he had wished that day… for the gun to be loaded beyond a single bullet, so he could have emptied the cartridge between his cold eyes.

"In the Great Basin and Colorado Plateau, all tribes are known for a specific weapon. This type of .45 Automatic pistol was designed by one of my tribe almost four hundred years ago. Learning its use is a New Canaanite rite of passage."

Filthy, murderous piece of crap. He never understood the silent, chilling stares he had received that day while trying to teach a stubborn boy something he shouldn't have known how to use until he would prove himself out on the battlefield many years later.

He never understood why a child he had bestowed the privilege of learning how to use firearms would avoid his eyes the same he had avoided speaking to him throughout the whole process.

He hadn't deserved a reply, for there was nothing left to say. Not after that hellish night that would never erase from the Fox's memory.

Since the day the hellbent Malpais Legatus had set foot in Utah, only six tribes were assimilated. More than twice that number was rendered extinct, indistinctively if there were women and children amidst them. Even captures.

He had held particular contempt toward Utahn tribes, saying they were 'savage and irredeemable, worthy of the purifying scourge the Legion brought to the land'.

Only to, ironically, end up being a Canaanite. Utahn to the core.

His hypocrisy had disgusted the small white fox to no end. Everything in him had been smoke and shadows, a fallacy.

Even his very death had been a lie.

The only thing truly genuine in him had been his unrepentant cruelty. A cruelty he justified even without being prompted, as if knowing his motives to be as fake as his supposed faith.

If it had depended on Vulpes, he would have gotten the same treatment he had inflicted upon his victims: a collar and a scourge following him at every step he made.

Until there was nothing left of that pride, stripped of all identity, deprived of any dignity, asking himself where his God was now.

"Woah! Easy there!" – he heard the mousey voice from earlier exclaiming merely inches shy from his face, grabbing Vulpes by the shoulders when he tried to get up and nausea hit him like a blow to the stomach – "Here. Drink."

His tongue swirled unconsciously around the small plastic tube that was put on his lips, but didn't question anything when he aspired and there was ice-cold Nuka-Cola pouring all over his avid throat.

"Slow down." – the mousey voice chided him gently while a blessed cool hand went for his temple, clearing sweaty curls from his forehead – "I have another one here for you. It ain't gonna grow legs and leave any time soon, you know, so don't be greedy."

But greedy was he when, around the second bottle, his sight got clearer and the despicable memory of the Burned Man was beautifully substituted by something infinitely more endearing: messy black hair, long tar lashes, peppered nose, and full pink lips.

Irresistible.

He went for a kiss almost on instinct.

"Wehehehe." – she giggled, allowing herself to be cradled between his arms messily, his uncoordinated fingers prying in-between her ribs – "Okay, happy to see you t… Hmph!" – why would she talk when she should be worrying about returning his kiss? – "Woah!" – she exclaimed once they stopped to get air – "Wait, wait, wait." – she stopped him with an index upon his lips that he nibbled playfully, only to see her get redder than a tomato – "Not to dampen the mood or anything… but you need a shower first."

He huffed indignantly and she giggled again.

"Don't look at me like that." – she replied, still blushing furiously but smiling – "Our little excursion in Power Armor down the river was no joke. Even I had to shower and pry a handful of bullets from my leg." – his face must have said everything, for she rushed to assure – "It's nothing. All healed… But you passed out even before opening the Vault."

That did manage to reset his brain, setting the amorous fog aside to get back to business. Inhaling through his nose, Vulpes' voice came out parched despite the drinks.

"How long I've been out?"

"Twelve hours, give it or take it."

Vulpes cursed under his breath. The more time Cottonwood Cove spent without getting aid, the lesser the possibilities Aurelius and his men had to get out of Lakelurk territory alive.

"We need to get a move on." – was his stubborn conclusion to end up, once again, cradled between her arms, dizzy and sore once nausea hit him back, making him double over.

"Not to burst your bubble, Fox-Man, but you really need a hot shower and solid food to endure the trek ahead, even without the Power Armor." – that made him frown – "Your men are taking turns to learn how to use it. I've taught them the basics and went with sets of exercises… but I think they believe moving in Power Armor goes through raw strength." – his frown accentuated when she gave him a confused stare – "Wait… don't tell me you've been forcing the servos onward relying on pure brute force." – when he returned the same blank, confused stare, she facepalmed herself – "Shit, Zorro. I don't know if I should be worried or relieved that you didn't burst a kneecap or got your joints dislocated from strain. I've never seen someone put up with a servos that long without getting the gist of its core working throughout the experience. I didn't know you could be so… so…" – he gave her an arrogant stare, daring her to call him any other thing than 'mighty bloody resilient' as she threw her hands in the air helplessly – "Urgh… you drive me crazy."

That worked for him, and he let her know by delivering a shit-eating grin she didn't seem to appreciate in the least.

"Wait there, don't try to get up on your own." – she said, handing him a water bottle this time – "Drink that in short gulps while I go to the Clinic's office. I'll be back in no time."

He drank it with the Nuka-Cola straw since he didn't think he could contain himself, already resenting the small bottle and the bland taste, wishing he could get his hands on one of those 2-Liter Nuka bottles to gulp it down like a madman.

Boy, he was thirsty.

"Okay." – he heard Sullivan's distant voice getting closer amidst the wailing of an old, rusty wheelchair she brought did – "Get aboard."

"I can walk." – he replied, eyeing the transport with apprehension, not liking one bit the implications of riding one.

"No, you can't." – she retorted back stubbornly.

"Says who?" – he defied.

"Says me." – she defied back.

"I'm not disabled, thank you very much."

"Don't be silly and get on the chair."

"Where did you get those weapons anyway? The Vault's Armory?"

"Don't attempt a distraction maneuver, Foxxy. It won't work."

"Cringey pet names now, mailwoman? I wasn't aware you could land such a low blow."

"I'm calling you 'Foxxy' until you wash that sweaty fursuit."

"Not with the Vexillarius headdress' jokes again…"

"Woof, woof!"

"Foxes don't bark, Sullivan."

"Nevermind, be a good boy and hop on to go get a shower."

"I don't need a shower."

"Don't be a musky husky. You stink."

Vulpes sniffed an armpit by pure reflex. He DID stink.

"Very well." – he acquiesced, unable as he was to put up with poor hygiene – "However, I'm feeling better now. I can walk to the bathroom on my own."

"Can you please get on the chair and stop being difficult?!

"No."

"Get on it. Now."

"NO."

"You either get on it, or I'm grabbing the Power Armor and carrying you around your men, princess style."

He got on the damnable wheeled chair in the end.


Nelson had begun to lose its appeal after three months holding post and playing hide-and-seek with the Republicans.

This, Decanus Dead Sea had come to know all too well.

And they knew that, too. The NCR camp up Northeast, the one the Profligates had come to call 'Forlorn Hope' thanks to Vulpes Inculta's demoralizing tactics.

Even if such tactics included making Dead Sea bored to death, wishing the Republicans weren't such big pussies as not to try anything, watching them and being watched all day.

Urgh, what a shitty post. – Dead Sea thought bitterly for the umpteenth time this hour – I'll give anything to see some fucking action for once.

Since his triumphant butchering of Nelson, Dead Sea's thoughts on the battle had been his only company in the coming months of utter boredom: those who hadn't been hacked limb from limb were forced to throw themselves from the cliffs.

He had kept some captures for fun, but he had grown fed up with feeding them, so he had begun crucifying them in groups of three. When they died, he replaced them.

At least the show their dried corpses offered was demoralizing enough for the neighboring Profligates, but Dead Sea still felt bored.

His frustration didn't help either, snapping on a basis so prevalent that half of his men now avoided him.

They had their orders anyway: eight hours on patrol, seven hours on guard duty, one hour of communal services, one hour of drill exercises, three breaks of twenty minutes each for grub, and the rest for sleeping.

He prided himself on his camp working as a well-oiled machinery, and nobody else would dare tell him otherwise.

Lest they want to end up crucified, that is.

The sun burned longer and stronger these days, so corpses dried faster on their crosses, saving them a good chunk of decomposition's odors. The problem were the seasonal radstorms coming from The Divide, which left the aforementioned corpses glowing in the dark once the night fell. The men didn't like touching those; some of them ignorant enough to grasp to their former tribal beliefs, thinking the dead would return to haunt them to avenge their suffering flesh.

Those, Dead Sea took good care in showing them the will of Mars by tying them at the whipping post, leaving them there until the blood would congeal on their backs. Then, there was only Xander root and salt poultices for them, to ensure they remembered.

Dead Sea had been inducted as a baby into the Legion, so tribal customs, superstitions, and rituals were completely alien to him. Such as how this or that typical dish was cooked, discerning the diverse regional accents from in and out the Colorado Plateau, knowing the legends that used to circulate around certain areas, and the weapon of choice that used to be the brand identity along with the distinctive war paints from a particular tribe.

He had been forced to ban long ago camo paint for nightly ambushes since the men tended to disagree on the pattern, no matter how many times they were told it was for camouflaging purposes rather than war paint.

It was of no use, like talking to retarded children.

Slapping a particularly vicious biter off his neck, Dead Sea kept on sharpening his machete, Liberator, intently. One that had already seen many battles and had split a good two hundred heads, if not more, of tribal trash and Republican Degenerates to this day.

It had been a pride to receive such a gift from his Centurion once the Sun Dogs tribe was no more.

But now, resting either on his hip or against a wall at all times, the noble blade had lost its luster, thirsty for blood as it was.

Almost as thirsty as the very Dead Sea, who at the end of the day finished his daily routine inspection of the encampment punctual as always, allowing the men to dine around the fire, bringing his brahmin portion inside the barracks.

He ate the crispy meat in silence, showered in silence, and went to sleep in silence; hating the feeling of being able to rest as soundly as he wished, missing the days when the Burned Man was Legatus Legionis (15) and nobody dared go to bed without the dread of being awakened in the middle of your nap because the bloody madman had decided to strike down an enemy tribe on an impulse.

Those had been the good old times when the Frumentarii didn't meddle in military affairs and Caesar's heir hadn't created a power schism between him and the other Legio Primi because he was a retarded behemoth of a tribal who couldn't stop abusing his troops and slaves.

In Dead Sea's humble opinion, it should be Lucius the one inheriting Caesar's responsibility. Between a traitorous snake and a killing machine, he was the most level-headed of the three. And the one with the most seniority. Unlike the other two, who didn't even have a decade of experience at their backs leading troops.

Lucius was already Centurion when Inculta still was in diapers and Lanius couldn't tell his head from his ass, still immersed in their tribal shit, one sucking at his momma's tit and the other smearing his body with the blood of his enemies, covered in grime and lice like some mangy animals.

Not far from what Dead Sea got as Milites nowadays.

Too many tribes conquered in the last two years, too many boys assimilated in their teens, too many fertile mulieres (16) claimed as Uxores Non-Cives for officers and Retenti, (17) leaving the reproductive pool way too limited in terms of old tribal Servi and diseased raider Capturae, half of them barren due to age and radiation.

Purebreds like Dead Sea himself, educated and trained since their most tender infancy at Flagstaff, getting scarcer every year to be replaced by nitty tribals and daddy's boys, raised in a household surrounded by amenities and pampered by women.

Hell, life was better when Caesar was younger, laws weren't so strict, and females weren't private property but only for a few chosen ones.

He still loved the Legion, though… But couldn't help but notice how things had changed in such a short time.

Boy, but he missed the way things were when he was but a humble Veteranus Legionario. He didn't miss the vulnerability that came with the rookie position, but he missed the respect, the defined chains of command, the unshakeable, clear structure.

When the Legion had been Old School Legion.

Five years later, and he was now a Decanus, and everything was fucked up since they had lost at Hoover Dam.

Sometimes he wondered if executing the Burned Man, then allowing for Anguis and Cornelius to be replaced, had been good decisions at all.

Not that he questioned the Imperator's policies, but…

Since thinking had never been a defining trait of Dead Sea's character beyond military strategy, his inner musings got him immediately tired and he fell fast asleep in a matter of minutes once his head rested on a pillow. Yet another useless amenity that took character away from a man.

He didn't enjoy beyond a couple of hours of sleep anyway.

He had been so comfy in his bed, a weakness in all the sense of the word, that he hadn't heard the shooting… but he did hear the screams.

The sense of urgency that got him rolling out of the bed gave him momentum enough to get his helmet on and the Liberator in his hand in one go.

Crossing the barracks' threshold, a grisly sight welcomed him: littered with burnt legionary corpses as NCR soldiers fought the rest, engulfed in flames lied Nelson. His pride, his conquest.

Enraged, Dead Sea sliced down in one strike a Republican trooper that charged against him, effectively clearing his path towards the center of the camp, where a tall, muscled Ranger was freeing the last prisoners that Dead Sea had left this afternoon rotting away on their crosses.

The man had a combat knife in his hand to cut the ropes, which served him well in countering Dead Sea's rabid attack.

The two circled one another, Dead Sea's red silhouette reflecting on the man's dark eyes.

"The 'great' Republic couldn't find enough soliders to liberate this camp, so they sent you? Pathetic." – he goaded, expecting this foe to be as careless as those around him, meeting Legion machetes with trembling rifles acting the shield part once they run out of ammo.

However, the man didn't answer and didn't budge an inch once Dead Sea locked his machete with the combat knife's serrated blade.

They struggled a bit, getting the Decanus admired at the raw strength of his adversary. This was no regular NCR loser, which sent a jolt of excitation down his spine.

"True to Caesar!" – he loudly declared, ready to dislodge his weapon to get the final hit when the man opened his mouth for the first time.

"Now, Sergeant!" – he yelled to roll immediately out of the Decanus' range, who lost balance and met the cold, sandy ground like a pile of rocks.

Only when he tried to get up again did he notice the blood pooling around his torso.

Choking, Dead Sea grabbed the base of his helmet and threw it aside, fighting to breathe.

The bullet, which had encased in his left lung, had taken advantage of a loose chestplate that his hasty dressing hadn't covered the way it should. It had merely been a tiny, unimportant space that the bullet had penetrated with millimeter precision.

And so, bleeding out on the ground like a molerat, he got to see his killer once the dark silhouette of a man in a red beret and sunglasses cut against the fire surrounding them, a boot stomping on the Liberator, rifle still in hand, flames dancing on his tinted lenses as if the Gates of Tartarus awaited ahead.

"Thumbs down, you son of a bitch." – the man whispered before taking the final shot.

Right between Dead Sea's brows.


LATIN:

(1) - Praetorians
(2) - Physician, combat medic (feminine form)
(3) - Interrogator, torturer
(4) - Courier (feminine form)
(5) - Non-Civilian Wife - Usually former slaves, spoils of war, or gifted to a particularly skilled soldier as a token of appreciation from Caesar.
(6) - "Father of the family" - In Ancient Rome, he was the head of a Roman family.
(7) - "ancestral custom" - Unwritten code from which the ancient Romans derived their social norms.
(8) - "Power of a Father" - Law in Ancient Rome that established that the paterfamilias, the oldest living male in a household, could legally exercise autocratic authority over his extended family (everyone under his roof technically belongs to him).
(9) - Captures
(10) - Slaves
(11) - Praefectus Frumentario's Second-In-Command
(12) - Specialized soldiers who are exempt from the most tedious and dangerous tasks that common legionaries are required to do.
(13) - Hunters
(14) - January ("Month of Janus" in Ancient Rome)
(15) - General of Generals
(16) - Women
(17) - Veteran


A/N: ... I'm dead, as simple as that. I've been working non-stop since the start of December, and I'm still adapting to my new work schedule. I often end up so tired that I cannot bring myself to write even a paragraph. I also sleep a lot, which still doesn't seem enough sometimes, so I cannot get some quality writing until I'm on my free days, and those have been filled with more extra stuff to do, so...

But I digress. Here's the promised Chapter 40. Took longer than I thought, but here it is (I've finally reached that old limit that I didn't want to get at years ago. Oh, well...). I hope you liked it.

Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.:'Spec Ops: The Line', from what I remember, is based on Joseph Conrad's 'Heart of Darkness' (even one of the characters' name, the antagonist, is based on the author's), so I know where you are coming from. The more you get disconnected from civilization and get attuned to your inner hunter, the more you spiral into madness (now, I wanna play it. I saw my cousin playing it, so it doesn't count). I think that could be a cool route for Boone (I was already trying to get some 'Apocalypse Now' vibes, so...), so thanks for the inspiration! ^^

Thank you for the new readers/Favs! Every time I see a new one, you make my day (ノ◕ヮ◕)ノ*:・゚✧