A/N: Sorry for the delay. Life gets in the way often. Here is another chapter. Bethesda owns all.
Something had changed in her body since she'd come to this place. Six had been experimenting with the Divide's radiation to better comprehend what had happened to the Marked Men. She carried plenty of Rad-X and RadAway, so it was perfectly safe, if by "safe," one meant shooting at deathclaws while standing in a puddle of radioactive sludge.
Pimp Boy 3000 tracked her strength and speed within radioactive areas and without them. After the battle, woman and handy accessory agreed that Six became stronger and faster while being exposed to the radiation. The next step was to determine if rad sickness produced any benefits.
Ed-E would have protested this phase of the experiment, but the tin can wasn't around anymore to beep reasonably at her. That smooth-talking Legion traitor had taken Six's favorite robot pal, and apparently intended to nuke the Mojave.
Ulysses was going to pay, but not for the nuclear weapons. Six would be lying if she said she didn't think sometimes that a good bombing might solve all of the Mojave's problems. The man needed to answer for overriding Ed-E's autonomy.
Being an independent robot, her little ball of lightning had the liberty to do whatever sort of thing machines preferred to do. Often that was to fly around and electrocute enemies, much to Six's glee. The companion protocol allowed some sapient organics to empathize with Ed-E, but obviously not all of them responded well.
Ulysses thought empathy was a weakness, and probably would do until the moment the Courier's empathy put a laser beam through his fucking head. For freedom.
Maybe she didn't have to kill him. Maybe he would go for the old doe-eyed amnesiac spiel, but Six didn't think so. Ulysses didn't seem to care whether or not she remembered doing the things that she allegedly had done. He wanted revenge, and that was something Six knew a bit about.
You couldn't quell the incessant burn of vengeance with shtick. Especially not if the vengeance seared the heart of a persuasive and eloquent motherfucker like Ulysses. Only way to beat him without killing him was to speak the truth and hope that it mattered.
Someone was following her. No way had she killed both of those deathclaws on her own, even with the rad boost and the flare gun. For a while, she thought that Boone and Veronica would climb down from the cliffs. Boone would grunt noncommittally, and Veronica would give Six an apple, and together they would best the man who once bore the Courier's name.
It was a pleasant fantasy, but the wind was kicking up again. No time for daydreams.
Exhausted from splashing around in rad puddles all afternoon, Six decided it was time to find a place to camp for the night. Up ahead, a pipe waterfall sent fresh water flowing into a pool. As radioactive as the water was, it beat sludge on her boots. Behind the pool, the entrance to a cave loomed.
Six checked the time. Sunset soon. No fire out here to keep away the nocturnes. Caves were darker yet, and Pimp Boy had no data available for this one. What if the cave turned out to be an old mining shaft infested with fucking tunnelers? That would be a whole thing, and Six didn't want to get into any more things just before nightfall.
Pimp Boy detected a possible Marked Men post up ahead, and the entrance to Ulysses' missile silo was not far away from it. Another whole huge ridiculous thing. Had to be a better alternative. One of the nearby trucks might provide suitable shelter for the night.
But then the wind grew so violent, Six could barely stand. She quickly assessed her options, and made her decision.
"All right, Daddy-o," Six sighed at the modified Pip Boy. "Let's poke around in a cave."
The robot was gone. Vulpes wasn't sure what had happened, but the Courier was alone. He'd found her that afternoon, standing on the edge of a flat rooftop. Her riot helmet had lain at her feet. Pieces of her dark hair had come loose from their bun and were whipping around her head in the furious gale. In an act of defiance, Six had pulled Benny's golden, wind-resistant lighter from her jacket, and lit a cigarette. For fifteen minutes after that, she'd stood staring northwest, and Vulpes had crouched in the shadows, watching her.
If she'd noticed him there, she hadn't let on about it. Never did until she was ready anyway.
Caesar had not specified whether Vulpes should kill Ulysses, or bring the traitor back in chains. The Good Lord had instructed him to use his best judgment.
Clearly, the spy would have to approach the woman—soon, if his intel was correct—and make a deal with her. First, he needed to decide what outcome would produce the most advantageous results for the Legion and for himself. Ulysses, the deserter, subdued, kneeling before the Son of Mars—this scenario would earn Vulpes accolades, and perhaps a promotion. The image alone would be reward enough. However, if Six managed to tame the treacherous dog, she would object vehemently to walking him home on a leash.
She would spout some balderdash about independence and inherent sapient dignity, and Vulpes would fall dead asleep, allowing Ulysses to slit his throat as he collapsed.
He didn't want a promotion anyway. Best job in the world, this.
The Courier might kill Ulysses straight off, sparing Vulpes any decisions to make. Often, it was difficult to tell whom she would choose to manipulate and whom to murder. (Rumor had it she'd done both to poor Benny.) Ulysses might kill the Courier, and it was in Vulpes' better interests to mitigate that problem.
Most likely, Vulpes decided, Six would try to talk to the defector before she killed him. He was interesting, and the Courier hated to do away with interesting things before taking what she could from them. The dog would listen to the woman before he killed her, because he operated under the delusion that he was not a dog. While she distracted Ulysses with her peculiar eloquence, the Fox could strike. The traitor's head on a pike would win Vulpes a triumph at the very least.
The sniper rifle was out of ammo, so Vulpes discarded it before descending from the cliffs. When he reached the bottom, he surveyed the area. One dead deathclaw, the male, lay directly ahead of him. The female would be on the other side of those stacked buses, near the pool. It would be a stormy evening. The Courier would seek shelter for tonight. Vulpes would afford her the pleasure of his company.
It had been some time since last they had spoken. Contrary to the official story, Six had continued to do business with the Legion well after Caesar had sent the first hit squad after her. She once had told Vulpes that the Legion accounted for one-third of her revenue. The Fox was skeptical of this claim, but he knew their contribution was not insignificant.
He had met her in rundown shacks and abandoned hotels, and one time in an old-world train station. At first, they'd attempted to behave professionally and do business before tearing each other's clothes off. After the third such encounter, they had dropped the pretense.
Vulpes Inculta was focused, dogged in pursuit of his prey, and innovative in his tactics. He was not a man who allowed the weaker sex to distract him. Women were a means to an end, and that fucking Courier was no different. Although, every once in a while, Vulpes did find himself reminiscing fondly about their last night together.
He's staying at the Ultra-Luxe for a few days, trying to strike a deal with the White Gloves. The woman, Marjorie, is being obstinate, and the man, Mortimer, will not even entertain a conversation with him. Vulpes has never had so much trouble convincing anyone to speak to him. What he cannot do—what he must never do—is go back to Lord Caesar with bad news.
Vulpes scowls and swipes his hand through his cropped hair. He sits on the bed and begins to unbutton the expensive white shirt he liberated from an unfortunate young man at the Tops. Perhaps he should not be so reluctant to mention cannibalism. After all, the Legion has a reputation around these parts…
A knock on his door startles him out of his thoughts. He reaches for the silenced .22 pistol he smuggled into the hotel, and clicks off the safety.
"Yes?" he says, rising from the bed and advancing toward the door.
"Room service," says a muffled voice behind the door. "A gift from your host."
Vulpes stuffs the pistol into his waistband and opens the door a crack. Before him stands a masked woman dressed in White Glove attire. Her black hair is gathered into a high ponytail, and her arms are marked with familiar tattoos. Vulpes cannot suppress a smile.
"Mr. Fox," says Courier Six.
"What a pleasant surprise," Vulpes replies. He opens the door wider, and ushers her into his room, closing and locking the door behind him. "What brings you here this evening?"
She whirls around to face him, and removes her mask. Her eyes shine with mischief, and her grin is wicked.
"I'm a White Glove," she says. "I've come to devour your flesh."
He catches her wrist before she can put down the mask.
"Leave it on," he commands.