"Number Nine"
Ch. 42: You know my name.
Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to dismemberment, mild-cannibalism, violence, and murder. Tread with caution.
"Arm yourself because no-one else here will save you.
The odds will betray you,
and I will replace you.
You can't deny the prize; it may never fulfill you,
it longs to kill you.
Are you willing to die?
The coldest blood runs through my veins.
You know my name."
- Chris Cornell, "You know my name"
There isn't an easy way to describe the feeling of an incoming migraine.
For people who have never experienced them, it sounds almost like witchcraft: you can tell it's gonna rain or weirdly predict with accurate precision some other incoming brusque weather pressure adjustments; you can tell there are nut shells' traces (peanut in particular) in your average pre-War processed packaged food without reading the label; and you can discern subtle scents even amidst the most unbearable stinky sewer.
And then, there's the pain.
You know it's coming; you know your average Med-X dosage will do shit about it, and you know it's gonna hit the worse the more your stress and anxiety start to spiral out of control.
However, you can't exactly ask a group of hostiles to postpone a confrontation just because you're feeling like throwing up, can you?
"Hold your positions!" – her handsome legionary's voice echoed from the depths of his Power Armor helmet, drilling into her skull like a thousand needles among the roar of bullets and mechanical fists hitting the rusty walls of the derelict trailer they had taken cover in like canned fish – "The Power Armor that manages to perforate the walls, the Power Armor you shoot!"
At the aforementioned trailer's entrance, he and Gabban were repelling the continuous attacks to the best of their abilities. The rusted trailer's back roll-up door now nearly unusable after taking wave after wave of the bullet storm.
The rest, wounded men included, had been lent whatever guns the Frumentarii had brought with them from Vault 24 and were now forming an unbreakable barrier between her and the trailer's walls in case one of the NCR's Heavy Troopers managed to trash out their precarious fortress.
Even the mouthy Centurion was using his body to shield her from any stray bullet as he had forced her much-smaller form between his muscled legs, his upper body towering over her as the two sat on the vehicle's dusty floor, Rex acting as a wall between them and the entrance while the rest surrounded them in different crouched positions the best they could in such crowded space.
"Quit trashing around, mailwoman!" – the man barked, and his voice fell like thunder inside her throbbing skull, covering her with head and arms every time shooting came from the outside – "I cannot protect you if you keep squirming like a worm!"
Centurions and their predilection for comparing her with crawling invertebrates…
"I'm trying to find a gap!" – she replied indignantly, pointing her gun helplessly around, unable to fire it without wounding either Rex or one of the many legionaries surrounding them.
Yet another round of bullets, and the man's powerful arms enclosed her again. She had lost count of just how many times she had to endure the pungent stench of sweat coming mainly from his hairy chest and armpits. She wanted to puke.
However, the rest of the smells condensed inside the derelict vehicle currently under assault weren't much better, to be perfectly honest.
Due to their revealing battle armors, pretty much like any other raider tribes, the legionaries that weren't Frumentarii gave off an overwhelming amalgam of body odors that she would have found downright vomitive, if slightly tolerable… hadn't those been overpowered by a much sharper, insidious scent: blood.
Usually indifferent to the acrid, metallic quality of blood's odor, Six's nose became quite fastidious whenever a migraine hit, making her queasy stomach and teary eyes accomplices of her discomfort, turning the experience into an awful cocktail of shittiness.
"Stop moving, damnit!" – the Centurion yelled – "Give me that!" – he added, confiscating her 10mm, no matter how much she resisted – "Listen to me!" – he ordered, grabbing her by her shoulders when she gave him a nasty glare – "These men, myself included, are doing their bloody best to keep every single hair of your pretty little head intact, so don't you dare dishonor their sacrifice by playing trigger-happy cowgirl!"
She would have liked to yell him back that she hadn't asked for them to play meat wall in the first place.
That she was probably better trained and ten times more lethal than every single one of them against Power Armors.
That their stupid sexism, and not her presence as he had seemed to imply, could be determinant between survival and death on a battlefield.
Without Zorro, their most high-ranking Commander at the moment, ordering anything of the sort, these men – Frumentarii included – had so drilled in their thick skulls that she, as a woman, had to survive at all costs, that they had rounded her automatically as the NCR Heavy Troopers had descended upon them.
Their first instinct had been to shield her. Not their Commander, not their Centurion, not their comrades, but her.
It had been something she had only experienced with companions and friends, such as Charon or her badass group formed around the idea of Courier Six.
But these guys? Most of them didn't even know her that well… and yet, there they were, defending someone who was being more of a liability than an asset for them.
Someone who was doing shit to help them.
In the end, one of the powerful servos from outside bore a hole in the rusty structure with a well-directed punch. The men panicked.
"Aaaaah!" – one of the younger legionaries, Bug Boy, if she recalled correctly, screeched – "Sweet Mars, pretty Mars. Chases-Bugs knows he should have prayed to you more!" – as he kept rambling, Rex barked loudly as two sets of metallic fingers pried the gape open deeper and bigger – "And Chases-Bugs is sorry! Really, really sorry! Chases-Bugs is so sorry he promises he'll pray every day to god Mars if Mars doesn't let Chases-Bugs die at the hands of the chunky metal Profligates!"
Amidst the hysteria, Six noticed with increasingly maniac hyper-focusing, many legionaries were shooting the Heavy Trooper randomly, wasting ammo.
And they couldn't run out of ammo before the Republicans did, or they'll be as good as dead.
"The junctures! The Armor junctures!" – Six shouted frenetically, her mousey voice shrilling amidst the commotion, wishing the cyberdog would stop barking for once – "Don't let them pry their guns through the hole and aim either at their eyes or neck, crotch, waist, and knees junctures!"
Erasmus was the first to react in time, kicking the nozzle of the Heavy Trooper's rifle out as he forced his own gun through the gap, aiming at a lower target.
The distorted shriek they heard coming from the Republican on the other side as soon as bullets perforated his kneecaps made everyone first turn their heads to her, then to Erasmus.
"She's right!" - the Frumentarius exclaimed – "They have weak spots in close quarters!"
Emboldened, many men began searching for more holes and gaps the Republicans' bullets had born in the trailer's walls to use them as potshot spots, and then, more screams of pain began coming from the other side.
But so, amidst the confusion, Six was the first to notice a shift in the trailer's structure as soon as a noticeable weight made the vehicle creak.
No!
And then, heavy steps resounded throughout the metallic trailer, coming from a higher position. Rex's barking got the more insufferable.
"The roof!" – she shrieked – "THEY ARE ON THE ROOF!"
And then, with reflexes only adrenaline would confer her, she grabbed the dog by the scruff and kicked one of the Centurion's legs aside before a long proton knife-spear penetrated the brassy carapace and harpooned the floor merely inches shy from her pants.
When and how in the bloody hell did the New California Republic get their paws on protonic weapons?! Wasn't this shit exclusive to the Brotherhood of Steel, which more often than not had blueprints for stuff only Science Fiction had dared to dream about stored in their databases?!
As soon as the Heavy Trooper on the roof dislodged the protonic knife-spear from the melting floor, the Centurion grabbed the handle, unwilling as he was to let go of such a weapon, his whole body inhumanly tense as he disputed its ownership with the Republican. Rex rose to help him by clamping his teeth around the handle.
Six took advantage of the situation and recovered her 10mm pistol. She then entered V.A.T.S. and aimed at the Heavy Trooper's crotch through the charred hole the knife-spear had borne, obtaining a good seventy percent of success.
She was sure she had hit target where it hurt the most when the Republican in Power Armor let go a scream, hit the roof square, and rolled aside to fall like a pile of rocks onto the asphalt, enabling the Centurion to claim the knife-spear for himself.
"Nice." – the burly man snickered, weighing his new toy expertly, using it through a hole to charr the helmet from another Heavy Trooper who dared take a peek inside the trailer – "Ha!" – he mocked – "Did that taste good, you Profligate scum?!"
Yeah, you're welcome, asshole. – Six thought as she had to endure his brusque maneuvers, having to stick closer to his chest, which now was damped in smelly sweat – Ew.
Meanwhile, the trailer's back door finally gave up, and Zorro and Gabban did their best to keep holding it as a shield while yet another Heavy Trooper started bending, then prying open one of the trailer's unscrewed lateral iron sheets, using it as a shield so the men couldn't target the helmet's goggles, clearly aiming at the two sole Legion Power Armor pilots.
"YOU!" – Gabban yelled, leaving his brother to handle all the door's weight as he repeatedly kicked the Heavy Trooped in the helmet – "PROFLIGATE MO. THER. FU. CKER!" – he roared, punctuating syllables for every kick he delivered – "GO! SUCK! OLIVER'S! COCK!"
And so, without losing momentum, the Master Frumentarius' Second-In-Command grabbed the jagged edge of the bent metallic sheet and pulled until the structure gave up.
He ended up with part of the metallic plate as a blunt yet sharp weapon he didn't hesitate to use on the next Heavy Trooper that came to aid his kicked comrade, slamming them again and again with the plate's edge.
This acted as a morale booster as soon as many legionaries began cheering for him as he kept throwing insult after insult the more Republicans came to try to cross the hole in the wall, allowing Zorro some respite from holding the door while resisting their incessant ramming.
However, no matter some of the Frumentarii came to help block the gap, Zorro's trembling arms eventually gave up on the back roll-up door when three Heavy Troopers ran into it, making him fall on his back.
Once he got the fallen door off himself, he kept dodging and blocking punches, trying unsuccessfully to roll aside as Gabban and the rest contained three more while another one on the rear began preparing an incinerator.
Since they couldn't enter the trailer, they wanted to roast the legionaries inside alive like goddamn chicken nuggets.
"Shoot him!" – the powerful voice of the Centurion still holding her yelled, making her ears bleed, her sight getting darker and darker the more unbearable the migraine got – "Don't let that bastard load that thing!"
However, no matter how many Legion bullets flew, the guy with the incinerator was substantially far and fairly covered by his comrades still giving the Frumentarii the hardest time of their lives. As long as he kept himself out of shooting range and used his pals as human shields, he could fill the whole fuel tank with no problem.
And she couldn't enter V.A.T.S. again. Her nose was already bleeding so profusely that every gulp of saliva carried a taste of rusty nails. Gross.
Then, a sudden wave of something indescribable shook the trailer and its occupants, making the Geiger counter from her Pip-Boy beep like crazy before she lost the battle against the headache and gave herself to Morpheus' arms as Rex kept barking in the distant background.
Vulpes was sweating rivers from the effort of struggling against the Heavy Troopers that had managed to overpower him, as well as the physical strain of attempting to roll on his side without success. The Power Armor won't budge.
How did Sullivan manage to do so? It was nearly impossible to move the thing once you were belly up like a turtle, and the best he could do to defend himself was throw punches blindly while covering the helmet's face and neck.
In the distance, Aurelius' voice thundered:
"Shoot him! Don't let that bastard load that thing!"
Taking a quick peek before being shoved onto the ground again, Vulpes' sweat turned icy as he saw the Heavy Trooper with a slightly darker Armor load an incinerator.
That was the alpha, but he was so far away… if he only could get on his feet again…
However, a blast of something he recognized instantly as his Pip-Boy's Geiger counter went crazy knocked down two of the Heavy Troopers accosting him while the alpha lost his grip on the incinerator.
Then, the familiar raspy howling.
Necrotics. And there was, at the very least, a Glowing One among them.
They were many, and they quickly overpowered the alpha and the other five minions that came to his rescue.
Vulpes tried again, and at the fifth or sixth attempt, he rolled aside minimally to allow the back of the Power Armor to get enough room to open.
He still had Cassidy's combat knife with him, still coated in the rust of Benny's blood, so he followed the necrotics' modus operandi: climb a Heavy Trooper from the Armor's back, apply a chinlock, then slice their gullet taking advantage of the unprotected space between the helmet and the Armor's neck.
Many legionaries joined him once they caught a peek at their improbable saviors.
For every single necrotic was wearing Legion armor.
Most of them hadn't even lost their noses or a great deal of their hair yet, but their eroded skin full of pustules and corroded teeth still showed glowing specks.
These had been turned recently.
And the Glowing One leading them, no matter how translucent his skin and muscular tissue had turned, still retained the features of the man he once had been: Canyon Runner, the Slavemaster.
Between humans and necrotics, nearly seventy percent of Cottonwood Cove was present and very much eager to give the NCR the hell they had been asking for.
Revenge wasn't an emotion Vulpes couldn't relate to, since it had been the only fuel his intricate plans had kept feeding from throughout the years wishing ill towards half of the world, powerless and embittered as he had been in his teens.
These Milites weren't much different in that regard. And the ghoulified ones already had a taste of how hatred felt.
Hatred is a contagious emotion that spreads fairly quickly on a battlefield; thus, Vulpes found himself partaking in the brutality the ghouls had unleashed when the terrified Heavy Troopers would squish one of them under their armored feet only to find another five going straight to his throat.
It was fortunate not a single of these NCR pigs was female, for ill intent was already available on the platter, and the ghoulified legionaries might not listen if Vulpes as much as ordered NOT to do what he knew they could with an enemy they despised.
After all, the NCR had deprived them of their fertility and, in all likelihood, of their virility as well.
When a man knows he's a man no more, he'll try to prove otherwise, even if he had to get creative on the spot.
And creative did they get as, once they ran out of ammo and ideas, some of the Republicans tried to escape by getting out of their Power Armors to gain speed.
Vulpes joined the chase after those, enjoying throwing Cassidy's knife to see if his aim was as good as he remembered.
Oh, boy, it was.
The rest of the legionaries, once the fleeing bitches got caught, grabbed at arms and legs to pull or chop, dismembering them, turning a firefight into a bloodbath in a matter of minutes, even most of the Frumentarii going with the butchering flow too until Aurelius' voice rose above the madness.
"LEGIONARIES!" – he boomed, his voice clear and martial, making man and ghoul stop as if paralyzed. Even Vulpes himself had to admit that he had gotten out of his trance once Aurelius hit the asphalt with his brand-new prized weapon and added – "You're acting like a pack of rabid DOGS!" – at that, one of the necrotics spat a chunk of… something bloodied and squishy that looked suspiciously like a finger – "And that…" – he emphasized, making Vulpes admire for the first time the man's temper. Level-headed and professional despite the dangerous situation they all were in and how mauled he was, sitting on the trailer's entrance with a dignified posture, legs open like a drunk king – "… will simply not do, gentlemen. Not if you expect to survive. Not if you expect to cleanse your soiled names with Republican blood!"
That must have strung a nerve, because both men and necrotics looked nearly ashamed until the Glowing One, Canyon Runner, apparently sane, spoke with that strange, nearly otherworldly cadence his kind possessed.
"The scent of blood was what brought us here, sir." – he said, sounding almost recriminatory – "And not precisely Republican blood, of all things. A most dishonorable end for Cottonwood Cove and all the men that weren't able to escape Ground Zero."
He then signaled two of his necrotic comrades, who brought a clanking pile they threw at Aurelius' feet. His armor… or what remained of it anyway.
"Is this a bribe or something, Magister Servorum?" (1) – the man harrumphed, trying to sound indifferent but evidently pleased at having his property back – "Huh. At least it looks better than you do." – he added.
The ghoulified Slavemaster, touched at being addressed by his title, symbolizing a tacit acceptance after such a performance, relaxed his shoulders.
After that, he wielded his machete and stuck it on the asphalt, dropping to his knees.
"Please!" – he cried, head bowed, eyes closed – "Let us accompany you, Aurelius of Phoenix! Allow us to exact revenge! Allow us to become one with the Legion once again!"
Aurelius snorted, clearly entertained.
"You're asking me, Canyon Runner?" – he mocked – "Your brain must have gotten rot out of all the radioactive crap you've gulped down in one take." – seeing the Glowing One trembling, perhaps in humiliation, perhaps enraged, he added – "However, fortunately for you, I'm not the one giving the orders here anymore."
At that, all the eyes turned to Vulpes, who considered the ghouls before him.
Many had fallen in battle, but the remaining ones looked like a decent bunch. He had seen their bloodlust, and, more importantly, he had seen what the radioactive Slavemaster could do.
Aurelius had played an intelligent move here by abiding by Legion laws regarding necrotics while, simultaneously, not refusing them by giving Vulpes the power of choice over his own men.
Along with all its consequences.
"From the very moment radioactivity morphed your bodies, you were legionaries no more." – he said, meeting angry and crestfallen milky gazes – "However, you have proven yourselves capable and reliable today, risking your life and honor by aiding a Legion that may recognize you no longer. A Legion that'd rather have you crucified than allow you to wear their uniform. For that, I shall not spurn your aid the same I shall not deprive you of your revenge." – then, the gazes rose, expectant – "I cannot give you back the lives you led, and I cannot ensure you will get further recognition than mine alone. Your lives now are dead men's lives, for you cannot return to your homes nor see your families again." – the sooner they accepted reality, the better – "From now on, you become shadows, wraiths of the men the Republic murdered. Your mission?: kill as many of them as possible. Your goal?: die with honor in battle." – not much different than what they had aspired to when they had been human anyway – "Only then your names shall be remembered not as a footnote on the Cottonwood Cove Massacre, but as ghost riders combing the Mojave out of Profligate filth!" – punching his chest, then extending his arm and fingers, he declared – "Semper fidelis! True to Caesar!"
At that, men and ghouls roared, raising their weapons in salutation.
"True to Caesar!" – they cheered, returning his salutation.
And so, like that, he had just wiped his ass with a bunch of Legion legislations dealing with mutants and other humanoid species deemed sub-human by Caesar himself.
Just because he needed more meat shields now that the Bear had borne its claws.
Semper fidelis, always loyal… what a hypocrite he was.
After distributing orders regarding the Power Armors they could salvage, the dead, and the wounded, Vulpes turned around to face a very nonchalant Aurelius, whose eyes seemed to study him with intent.
"So." – the man said, raising an eyebrow in question – "Ghoul legionaries. That's new, Inculta."
"You offered your men; I took them in." – Vulpes replied as calmly as his growing annoyance allowed him – "I have yet to hear you complain."
"I just follow orders." – the Centurion replied, raising his hands in a fake gesture of innocence – "You want a bunch of necrotics that could turn feral any time soon to play the boogeyman part; it's none of my business."
He deserved a boot. A big fat one. Right in his mouth. That way, he'll get his tongue occupied with something other than speaking insolence.
"Speaking of things that aren't none of your business, Centurion." – Vulpes hissed, hating the self-sufficient grin the man gave him – "The Tabellaria. Where is she?"
Clearly resisting yet another of his usual comebacks since Vulpes's last warning, Aurelius' left eye experienced a brief tick before nodding in the truck's general direction.
Inside, he found, much to his displeasure, his Courier in Erasmus' arms as he tried to make her gulp some water. Rex whining by their side.
As soon as Vulpes knelt near them, having all the intention to take her from him, Erasmus opened his mouth.
"Is she prone to migraines?" – he asked, making the Master Frumentarius pause, eyeing his cousin carefully.
His troublemaking, mouthy, idiot of a cousin.
"Three bullets to the head can do that much." – he replied gravelly.
"Three? Weren't they two?"
"Two at the Goodsprings cemetery, another one at a Goodsprings house."
"Two times at the same place?" – Erasmus asked, arching a brow – "Either she has the most unmatched luck of all time or the earth there rejects her."
Neither, for all Vulpes knew. Not that he would disclose such a piece of information to anyone.
He hadn't done it for Caesar; he wouldn't do so for an idiot he wanted as far from Sullivan as possible.
"Give her to me." – he nearly demanded, extending his arms – "I have her medication with me."
Gannon had entrusted him with that much, since Sullivan could not remember to take them whenever a migraine ensued. Psychoactive drugs that only Vault City made nowadays save the occasional expired blister you could find in decommissioned pre-War hospitals.
Watching him gently force the pills through her lips as she moaned and gulped them with water, Erasmus spoke again.
"You know…" – he said, still eyeing them carefully – "If she has to swallow that crap any time she gets a migraine, maybe the doctors that treated her didn't do everything right."
"It's just two pills." – Vulpes replied defensively.
"You know that's not what I mean. Once she'll be living among us, then what?"
"Then I will get more."
"From where? The Followers of the Apocalypse? They'll be lucky if Caesar lets them live after we enter Vegas."
"I have my resources."
"Cut the bullshit, Vulpes. I can tell the difference between an Ibuprofen and a psychoactive drug. There were plenty of guys at Hoover Dam treating PTSD with Prozac or Quetiapine." – Erasmus replied severely – "Those work with prescription and are incredibly rare. Most of the sods that needed them more often but couldn't afford to buy more than a single pill a day either cooked themselves Hydra or stole Med-X from the infirmary."
"Neither the regular dosages of Hydra nor Med-X work on her." – the Master Frumentarius said, staying his fist from going straight to his cousin's face. Even if Erasmus had always been the family's black sheep, he and the twins shared a common annoying trait: to speak out of turn with him as if rank difference and the need to keep appearances didn't apply – "The alternative would be Jet, and I'm not turning a Caesar's Electa into a filthy drug addict."
"Yeah, as if that would have stopped you were she not special in a very special way."
Yet another moron that deserved a boot right in the mouth. If only Vulpes got a Sestertius for every time his authority had gotten trampled, mocked, or simply ignored, he would be a rich man at this point.
He still wondered what made people, besides his own family, have the irresistible impulse to give him a piece of their mind when what Veronica had called 'his cute resting bitch face' should have given away that their opinions went in one ear and out the other.
The best legionary was a silent, obedient one.
Still, it was annoying. Perhaps he should make a habit of carrying a roll of duct tape with him to address flapping lips that begged to be sealed.
"Are you done spewing out impertinence, or do I have to keep your tongue from unnecessarily moving again?" – he spat back – "Namely with a pair of pliers, perhaps?"
That only made Erasmus' brows rise.
"You were funnier when you were a Decanus, you know that?" – Vulpes glared at him, not wishing in the very least to discuss a part of his life he wished he could forget, and Erasmus' hands rose in yield – "All right, all right. I wasn't looking for a fight anyway, just friendly advice."
"No need to, since I haven't asked for it." – why wouldn't Erasmus shut up? And why was he entertaining his cousin's stupidity anyway?
"I'm giving it anyway." – he was testing his patience. He was testing his patience A LOT as of late – "On the one hand, you have a special someone who needs special treatment given her special circumstances." – Erasmus said, making air quotations as he spoke – "While, on the other hand, you live in a special society that has very special laws regarding drug usage. You follow?"
"Your point?" – Vulpes asked a tad pedantically, a tad impatiently, to get rid of such a nuisance while wetting Sullivan's hair carefully with the water, resenting the searing weather immensely.
"My point being that, no matter how well-connected you are or how many spies you happen to have following Kimball's ass at Shady Sands, you cannot always keep playing the weapon and drug peddler to meet your people's shortcomings, Vulpes. If she's gonna live among us, she needs to know that this special treatment cannot go on forever." – sighing, he added - "Pacified territory doesn't work with the same indulgence and permissiveness as military camps, and you know that."
Unwilling as he was to keep listening to what, in truth, he didn't want to acknowledge at all, Vulpes abandoned the trailer with Sullivan in his arms while the cyberdog followed suit.
He was greeted with quite a sight: not only were his Frumentarii donning Power Armors, but also a handful of legionaries, human and ghoul, wanted to try their luck by pushing onwards with what could be salvaged.
"Casualties?" – he asked Gabban, who seemingly had taken control of the situation by ordering the men to lift the empty Power Armors to see if they were reusable.
"The Capsarior didn't make it, same as half of the ghouls." – his brother replied nonchalantly, used as he was to lose actives – "Olivian has a concussion, Ignatius got a broken rib… but the Republicans had a sizable amount of chems on them. No big deal; both will be able to pilot their Armors in twenty minutes or so."
Vulpes nodded pensively.
"And what's with foot legionaries getting into Power Armors too?"
Gabban shrugged.
"They wanted to give them a try; I'm not gonna stop them. The more Armors, the better." – he explained - "I told them four men per servos, since they'll likely have to take turns." – he added as Vulpes inspected the brave ones – "A shame we cannot take the twenty servos' units, but eleven Power Armors isn't a bad number either."
"Eleven?" – the Master Frumentarius asked, the sums not adding up.
"Ask the Centurion." – was all Gabban said.
And so, after getting himself acquainted with the darker Power Armor from the Republican alpha, kicking his corpse aside like the garbage it was, Vulpes found the aforementioned Centurion leaning on the trailer's shady side. On his two feet and with a sickly pallor only his violent perspiration could explain.
Upon getting face-to-face with the man, he saw the Super Stimpak syringe tightly gripped in one of his trembling hands.
Et tu, Aurelius. (2) – Vulpes thought, giving the man an amused silent stare.
The Centurion answered back with an ugly frown.
"You haven't… seen anything." – he panted, evidently nauseated, as he crushed the syringe between his fingers.
"Of course." – Vulpes concurred, nodding once – "Where did you get that from, Centurion?"
"The Armors…" – he replied, fighting the gag reflex, rivulets of sweat dripping from the point of his nose and chin – "They have… a few of these loaded… in some antechamber, like bullets…"
"And you decided to use them, forbidden substances, to accelerate your recovery?"
"Don't give me… that crap, Inculta…" – Aurelius hissed, nearly burping, eyes and nose watering – "I'm well aware… of all the tricks you Frumentarii do… when no one's looking…"
He knew he shouldn't enjoy the man's misery. Unaccustomed as his body was to synthetic healing chems, he was lucky he merely was experiencing the worst backlash ever after injecting himself with a regenerative coagulant so potent it could, literally, get your glucose levels to drop so drastically you could get unconscious for three whole days worst-case scenario. Or so Gannon had told Vulpes once.
As far as he knew, the average Wastelander couldn't deal with half a dose of such monstrosity while trained soldiers got queasy after a single jab.
The only people he had seen use them as if they were candy were Raul, Lily, and Sullivan.
Oh, well. This should suffice as punishment, Vulpes decided, taking a step back in time to watch Aurelius double over and empty his stomach so violently he couldn't help but snort disdainfully at the sight.
Served him well for trying foreign substances without consulting his superior.
"Cheer up, Centurion." – he mocked – "That is nothing compared to the hell that awaits you inside one of these perverse apparatuses." – he added, patting his own Armor matter-of-factly – "They say the average Republican soldier lasts twenty minutes on his first go. I lasted almost five hours." – and when he thought boasting would get him nowhere, Aurelius raised his head and eyed him hatefully. Challenge shining like a knife in his dark eyes – "Let's see how close your mettle lands between weak, pitiful Profligates and a Legio Primus." (3)
He allowed the other man the same respite he gave to his wounded Frumentarii: twenty minutes before giving the signal to march onward, Northwest.
Nipton didn't look like a safe bet anymore. Not after being ambushed by a Heavy Trooper Squad, which had clearly been sent from the western NCR Mojave Outpost.
McCarran had few Heavy Troopers to spare, and it was literally impossible that the Hoover Dam forces had gotten there so quickly.
The West was sending the best they had. It would be discourteous not to meet them halfway, after all.
There was an hour-and-a-half/two hours trek ahead crossing the McCullough Mountain range to reach the hidden supply cavern. He hoped the untrained legionaries and their Centurion would last that long to get there, although he didn't hold any delusions. Exhausted men could only last that much.
Accommodating the now placidly asleep form of Sullivan on his back and shoulders, the Mojave's Wild Fox led the most unlawful, disobedient, and problematic group of legionaries that the Legion, in its thirty-five-year-old history, had probably ever seen straight to glory.
Or straight to death. There was no middle ground when it came to bringing the purifying light of fire and war to the world's degeneracy.
Not that Vulpes really cared much about it at the moment; for, now, his looping obsessive-compulsive train of thought worked more along the lines of setting scores.
"Legion: 2. NCR: 1." – he murmured with a malicious, angulated grin spreading all over his helmeted features.
"Strictly speaking, it's more like NCR: 5. Legion: 5. It's a tie."
"Wha… where the hell you're getting those numbers from?!"
"Pretty simple: we got Hoover Dam and Boulder City five years ago. Now we got Cottonwood Cove, Nelson, and a Legion raid camp the Sergeant wiped out clean on a solo mission." – the first recruit explained to his interlocutor as if he were a sort of an eminence on the matter – "Then, the Reds got Cottonwood Cove a year ago. Nipton, Searchlight, Nelson, and Ranger Station Charlie a few months ago."
"You seriously gonna count Nipton?" – the second recruit protested – "That shithole wasn't even within our jurisdiction, to begin with!"
"And yet, there were a handful of our men slain along raiders, Powder Gangers, and locals when the Rangers combed through the area after the massacre. We have yet to pay them back by taking a dump at Cesar's camp or something."
"Ha! It'd be fucking priceless getting a squad on a vertibird, pants down, giving the bald bastard what the fucking crows ain't. I'll give just about anything to see the look on his face as he wipes the shit outta it."
The two men laughed loudly, infecting the rest of their battered, exhausted unit with their merriment… save the man leading them at the front.
For Boone's head had been gone on a manic loop since he had abandoned the sniper nest at the Ireteba Peaks nearly three days ago.
He couldn't stop it, nor did he want to for fear of losing momentum.
For fear of choosing the barrel of a gun to be pointed at his head instead of being the one pointing it at plumed, savage Red-necks.
Not even that small pun was funny. Nothing was funny anymore.
It hadn't been funny for a long while, even despite the big stupid grin he usually wore whenever he went around with Carla, back at Novac, when he still thought he could leave Bitter Springs behind.
He had tried to live up to it, the Californian Dream, no matter he had never actually visited Shady Sands and Nevada was but a tentative and very recent addition to the Republic, marking him as a second-class citizen or some such shit that none of the Squatters in Freeside would dare to say in your fucking face. Still, they treated you as if you were in charge of wiping their arses clean whenever they fucked up with the locals.
He had tried to emulate those guys at Camp Golf, exchanging letters with girls back home, being photographed to show up on the propaganda posters, leading morale marches, being basically the heroes everybody admired and cheered at the Capital.
When nobody came back from a tour of duty with fewer limbs than they had gone with.
That had been before the First Battle, when conscripts hadn't composed the bulk of their army, rations were edible, and Hanlon still gave the orders around.
Unlike now, cooped up in his tiny office, like an old dog licking his wounds in an abandoned coyote lair, spreading shit through the radio channels.
Boone had already caught enough weird intel when talking to the Rangers, first to raid the Legion camp he had trashed, then to spread the good news about Cottonwood Cove. Weird enough when all the aforementioned intel, coincidentally, came from Camp Golf.
Supermutant legionnaires, trained Deathclaws from the Khans, heavy casualties near Lake Mead - one of the safest destinations to hold post… you name it.
He didn't need a privileged brain like the girlie's to put one and one together. He could even understand to a certain extent Hanlon's deal: the war had already taken a good portion of the young population back in California through the conscripting campaigns Kimball had imposed along with more and more taxes.
And all of that for what? More fucking electricity? Was it really worth sacrificing so much just to power up the industrial farms only the Brahmin Barons would profit from? To reactivate the old Poseidon power plants under exclusively governmental jurisdiction?
Power generators from wind and solar energy had worked just fine before Hoover Dam… but guess photovoltaic accumulators could only stretch their capacity so much when you're basically trying to resurrect the Old World's endless squandering.
Hanlon knew all of this already, but nobody gave a damn about an old man's opinion when his political support didn't align with the right people, no matter how competent his leadership had proven in the past.
In fact, if it weren't for his decisive role five years ago at Hoover Dam, then Boulder City, he would have been demoted a while ago. The bolder his public declarations became, the less his authority held a grasp in the Bear Army.
Wait-and-see Lee had done a damn neat job at dividing their army just because he was one envious motherfucker. If it weren't for him, maybe the NCR would have resisted the years of stalemate against the Legion better.
Since the Reds and their son of a bitch of a leader had seen the Old-World dam, a wall between them and more territory to pillage, they had wanted to break through it.
And no matter just how firm and well-built a wall can be, a sledgehammer can wreak havoc if wielded by the right hand.
Same as it had happened to Boone's psyche; now that the protective barrier of the girlie's presence was there no more, it had crumbled like a pile of bricks, leaving nothing behind but the same emptiness he had felt at Novac almost a year ago.
Only after failing for a second time, the bitter irony of returning to the hole that had chewed and spat him out kept his senses alert.
Manny would still be there. And there was a small, darker part of Boone's brain that secretly wished the Legion bastards got there first to mount his head on a pike.
He still had pent-up anger only the girlie's presence had managed to quell until she had disappeared. And now… it was like a hungry monster, feeding on his memories, looping thoughts, and paranoia.
It never stopped, even when he ate, took a shit, or slept. It had become as natural for him as breathing.
That, and the voices.
You can feel it, can't you? That sensation of fading down if there's no hatred to cling to. It grows as you approach that mousetrap of a town.
Were he not accompanied right now, he would hit his head. Hard. Repeatedly.
Almost a year later… and you're still wondering what looks you will receive once you get there.
When there's no booze around to tone the voices down, pain is the answer.
Would they look at you and see a specter? A dead man walking?
He hated it. He hated it so much he could just peel off the skin of his face and neck, seeking to appease the nothingness, wishing he wasn't so dead inside.
Or would they give you the same bland, polite looks full of pity you had to stomach every day since Carla was abducted?
For only pain kept him alive. It kept him fighting rather than sinking into desperation.
It was as if your depression ashamed them. A bleak stain upon their pristine community.
Every night, as he slept the days in an alcoholic, rehashed daze, he had to open his eyes again and look at the empty space on the bed.
In their eyes, you were pitiful and bothersome. Terribly bothersome.
Her scent had long gone from the sheets, substituted by his greasy sweat and remnants of cheap, stale booze… but he couldn't bear the thought of changing them.
Those eyes told you what their lips would never speak.
Same he couldn't bear the thought of getting rid of her toothbrush in the bathroom. Her rosy nail polish, colorful hair ties, and golden hairbrush. Her shoes and dresses.
'Wouldn't he get over it?' 'Poor bastard can't even understand that she walked off him.' 'It was to be expected anyway. She was too good for him.'
Because, the moment he would do so, it meant it was over. That he had cast her aside like a bad memory.
You've seen so much evil that you now have adopted it as your own, copying with your hands what your eyes couldn't turn from.
Like the women and children screaming at Bitter Springs.
Through your eyes, you have consumed darkness. And that darkness has made a home in you. You invited it, for it is not its custom to go where it isn't wanted.
Every night he woke up dutifully, relieving Manny from his post as if they still were comrades.
Same as us.
As if this was still the army and they still were soldiers. For soldiers don't question; they act.
You invited us in here.
But then, once the sun rose again, Manny would come back, and he would simply walk off him and his awkward attempts at conversation.
Because you cannot bear the thought of being alone again.
Only to go back to that empty room, get drunk, and fall asleep with a gun in his hand; too much of a coward to pull the trigger.
Alone as you were before she arrived, wounded in a way only you could understand. Wounded so deeply she had to hide her sins the same you hide yours from her.
Then waking up again, feel the empty space on the bed, go to the wardrobe and smell her clothes, go to the bathroom for a shower and smell her hairbrush, mahogany treads still attached to it. Then looking up into the mirror… only to see the same abyss lodged in his chest present in his own eyes.
But she knew. Deep inside, she knew. And then, just like that, she adopted you as family. A wreck of a man, a bad friend, and a worse husband. An alcoholic.
Rinse and repeat.
A murderer.
"Sergeant!"
Swallowing the gasp that threatened to escape from his lips, Boone's mind connected once again to the real world.
"Radstorm from The Divide coming." – Astor, he believed the guy was called, told him, grabbing his shoulder and pointing to the darkening sky to their nine o'clock.
He hadn't even noticed the few specks of radioactive glow adhering to his boots as they crossed the Eldorado St secondary road to the West. It might pose a problem if the storm got a little earlier since that would mean getting caught at the crossroads between Clark Field to the South and the toxic dump site North.
If only the men weren't this tired, they could have already reached Novac.
From their position, they had two options: either press onward to Novac and arrive at a battlefield weak and exhausted… or seek refuge at the Southern Nevada Wind Farm up North. The travel distance was nearly the same.
Besides… what about the Reds getting there before them? Did he honestly care?
Think about it. By the time you reach Novac, the legionnaires will be tired and complacent after raiding the town.
Better to catch them low-guarded rather than risk failure just to rush in to save a bunch of parasites.
It'll be the perfect time to strike.
Novac was his home no more. The moment Carla disappeared, those people had become strangers to him.
Because, in truth, you don't really give a damn about those people. You know why you have come here.
And he didn't give a crap about strangers.
"What should we do?" – Astor asked again, likely getting nervous at his silence. Boone was aware he made the man nervous. He had been aware since he had cleansed Searchlight from feral troopers. Silence, coupled with the skill to terminate whatever he put his eye on, made regular people nervous; for they required to know why you were so different from them. Why the things that made them happy barely touched you, why the things that scared them didn't even make you flinch – "Should we press onwards or…?" – he left the question in the air.
Boone turned around, observing the troopers as coldly as he would observe a bag full of supplies.
For these men and that hypothetical bag of supplies had one thing in common: they were resources.
Resources he had to use carefully, employing strategy and common sense.
"Change of course." – he decided – "We'll pass the storm at the Southern Nevada Wind Farm."
Even despite the relief present on every single face as soon as those words left his mouth, one of the troopers questioned:
"But… what about Novac?" – he asked timidly, morals evidently compromised.
However, those morals didn't apply to Boone. Not anymore.
"The Reds will probably get the same idea as us." – he replied nonchalantly, willing to play the rational part just to soothe their consciences. Mentally troubled soldiers made poor resources in the long term – "As soon as the radstorm passes, we'll be departing, so you guys better get some sleep while you can."
Consciences appeased; the unanimous agreement at the prospect of resting a bit gave a new bounce to their step, enough to get to the farm quicker than the storm.
Not that Boone cared. As the voices had said, he was here for just one reason.
To kill fucking Reds.
The air smelled revolting.
Too many people cooped up in a small-medium size cave, half of them ghouls in their first decomposition phases, and the other half sweaty and hormonal could do that.
That's why Vulpes basically had his long nose stuck to Sullivan's hair. At least, if sweaty too, she smelled nice.
In fact, she smelled so nice that it was making him salivate a little.
It had taken a long, painful trek to reach the hidden supply cavern, and now there was a radstorm roaring outside, the wind so powerful it made the ramshackle cave door rattle, howling in between its creaks.
Aurelius of Phoenix, exhausted as only a recovering man who had put up for two hours in a Power Armor for the first time could be, was snoring loudly in the background while some of the Milites, fascinated by their comrades' ghoulification - Canyon Runner in particular, who was enjoying almost a protagonist attention he didn't seem to mind -, were asking in whispers if it did hurt that the nails, ears, and nose were falling down or if they still could masturbate. Also, in case they could, if the final product glowed in the dark and other distasteful details the Commander Frumentarius preferred not to know.
Gabban and Cassius were fixing dinner, sometimes disagreeing over the number of jalapeños a good brahmin stew should have while, bored to death, Erasmus sowed minor discord between them just for fun.
Vulpes had his eyes closed, resting his sore spine against the cool rocky walls of the cavern, sitting as he was with the Courier asleep in his arms.
It gave him a sweet feeling of déjà vu, recalling their time at Vegas' sewers.
His incipient feelings for her had flourished at that very time, so no matter the mortal danger surrounding them, he recalled those events with particular fondness.
He also missed the thrill of the forbidden back then, when he had come to terms with his desires under his brother's watchful, stern gaze.
Even at The Fort, he had to be cautious about how he presented his dalliance with Courier Six as primarily political rather than this intoxicating infatuation that had him on edge, wishing he could have more chances to have her this close without his behavior being thoroughly examined because of it.
But now… he was on edge for very different reasons altogether.
While he trusted his Frumentarii tribesmen and neighbors to behave themselves around Sullivan… he couldn't say the same either for Aurelius and his men, or even for…
"Go away, Cicero." – he hissed, eyes still closed.
His ears bled as soon as the interpellated answered, voice high-pitched and syrupy.
"Awww, after so long a time, this is the welcoming this poor servant gets from the Chief." – he clicked his tongue twice, giggling like a little girl after that – "A cold, cold heart is what the Chief has for his well-intentioned guardians, indeed."
Before allowing his lids to open in annoyance, Vulpes rolled his eyes. Cicero had already been in the cave before their arrival, guarding the supplies while storing more stuff he got from the occasional solitary NCR caravan. There was dried brahmin meat for a whole regiment.
"I think we already discussed, among your long list of extravagances, NOT to call me 'Chief' publicly." – he replied severely, meeting the exaggerated, almost deranged smile of what he could only catalog as the exception that confirms the rule regarding Vulpes' extremely precarious trust.
Formerly known as Guará of La Jauría tribe, Cicero had been assimilated into the Legion as a slave, given the impossibility of training him as a legionary due to his age.
Cicero had been seventeen when one of the Burned Man's Centuriones present during the tribe's conquering had taken him under his wing as a Cacula or tent servant.
Caculae were a rarity, only fit for high-ranking officers who, half of the time, very much preferred women they could have exclusive access to instead of some male who might strangle them in their sleep.
Knowing this, when one of the said officers took a Cacula instead of a woman as his personal assistant, ninety-nine percent of the cases were due to the officer in question being homosexual.
It hadn't come as a surprise when that Centurion eventually ended up finding his demise when his tent had 'accidentally' caught fire with a brazier that had been strangely close to the canvas cloth.
Weird stories circulated whenever the slave went, strange accidents occurred, and food poisonings spread like the plague.
Eventually, once Vulpes had passed his coming-of-age trial successfully, becoming a Miles in effect under a centuria, he had found himself surrounded by strangers save for one exception: the son of his former tribe's most elderly Wise Women, the creepy Cacula everybody kept their distance from.
As soon as Cicero had gotten sight of him, he had started following Vulpes day and night, chatting nonstop, drawing uncomfortable attention whenever he went, no matter how many times he got punished for not attending his duties as a slave.
If there was a man with more whip marks than Vulpes himself, that man was Cicero.
At that time, the Fox had missed his siblings dearly, so he perhaps had allowed Cicero to be closer than what had been prudent.
Then, a few months later, his Decanus had basically tried to get rid of him, uncomfortable at having to deal not only with a Miles infinitely smarter than him but also his creepy stalker.
Vulpes couldn't blame the man: they had been two troublemakers with quite a sizable number of inexplicable circumstances regarding accidents and corpses on their respective accounts.
No matter, for the Decanus' career had been tragically truncated by an accidental fall from a canyon while on a recon assignment.
After that, Vulpes got promoted to Decanus himself, and Cicero came along.
The more Milites he discarded – by basically getting them killed aided by Cicero - until he got ahold of former members of either La Jauría or Los Nuevos Nahuas, the more infamous Vulpes and his contubernium became in the eyes of the rest of the soldiery.
Much earlier than the twins' coming-of-age trials - thus becoming direct subordinates to Vulpes before his fall from grace – he himself, Cicero, Erasmus, and a fourth guy from Los Nuevos Nahuas had been given already a most humiliating group moniker among the troops due to their respective tendencies to sow trouble wherever they went.
A name, for better or worse, that many legionaries still remember to this day.
And perhaps that was one of the many reasons Vulpes wanted neither of those three individuals close to him. He had made them Frumentarii once he got the Commander position and had sent them as far away as his conscience had allowed him.
Their posts had been relatively comfortable, which had ensured he wouldn't have to have extracurricular concessions to either of them. They were content enough, and he was left in peace, not having to look at constant reminders of one of the most difficult and vulnerable phases of his Legion life.
At least, when Anguis had abused him, the shame had been his alone to bear. Memory being the only tracking record that would serve to feed his revenge.
So now, looking at the deranged yet strangely adoring look Cicero was giving him, Vulpes' memories were overflowing, and his previous sweet reverie had, out of a sudden, turned unpleasant and bitter.
"Chief, Commander… same thing, same meaning." – Cicero replied astutely – "Only that one of them sounds shorter and truer to this humble servant. However…" – he added quickly at seeing Vulpes' glare – "… if the Commander wishes for that soft thing not to hear a word…" – he pointed Sullivan with his eyes – "… this servant understands."
"I am very tired, Cicero." – said Vulpes, closing his eyes again – "Say what you have come to say, and let me sleep."
"As the Commander wishes." – Cicero nodded once before changing his annoying vocal register to something relatively more professional – "The intel this servant had gathered throughout the last two months goes as follows: once the nasty mutants up Black Mountain got dispersed, the Brotherhood of Steel attempted to plant a bug in the radio station atop."
That caught the Praefectus Frumentario's attention.
"Continue." – he encouraged, eyes still closed.
"This humble servant knows next to nothing about tweaking advanced radio transmitters, so… I took the liberty to contact Marcius."
No, no, no, no, no! Not Marcius too!
"So?" – Vulpes asked, feeling a headache already building on the back of his skull.
"So, Marcius went up the mountain five days ago… and hasn't shown signs of life since then, not even a tiny one, Commander."
The Master Frumentarius resisted the impulse to facepalm himself.
Not a bloody week since he had crossed the Colorado to Arizona, and his carefully constructed web around the Mojave was torn into shreds once the wasps of the NCR, and now The Brotherhood, came wielding their stingers.
He was losing control of the situation at a fast pace: first Caesar's warnings at The Fort, then House at the bunker, later the Cottonwood Cove disaster, and now an agent disappears at Black Mountain while investigating Brotherhood intel.
He wished so, SO badly he could just lose his temper and yell like a choleric madman…
Black fucking Mountain. He didn't want even to get remotely close to the accursed place.
It was infested by radscorpions at its foot, then more and more radiation the higher you climbed.
No matter the mutants were long gone. Their lovely pets - Centaurs and evolved Centaurs - still patrolled the area. Or so Raul had assured him when he had been telling the story of a decommissioned Mister… Miss Handy and 'the supermutante loca with a wig and heart-shaped sunglasses' leaving Black Mountain to ride to the sun together thanks to the combined efforts of his craft with Veronica's inventiveness and Sullivan's knowledge.
Vulpes didn't want to go to Black Mountain. He fucking didn't want to go there!
"Is that all?" – he asked, feigning an indifference that the other man didn't buy.
"Oh, yes, it is." – Cicero's voice went up again, screeching and annoying, as if every word were spoken in jest – "Nevertheless, this servant was wondering what the Commander's orders would be, now that he knows."
Vulpes already knew he wasn't going to get any sleep but played the frosty part anyway. It was part of the performance expected from him, and Cicero had always been an avid, demanding audience.
"Let me think about it." – not hearing the other retire, he added – "Ask me again in a couple of hours once I've come up with something."
That seemed to work, for Cicero made one of his overjoyed, high-pitched nasal sounds.
"You are the Commander. Whatever you say." – he replied before getting up and walking away, his steps resounding softly around the cavern.
And then, with his nap officially ruined, the good old gray matter started running full speed again.
"You're not very nice to your men, you know that?" – a tiny voice coming from under his chin whispered.
Nevermind the brain, for the heart was winning the race among the other organs.
"Being in charge means having to make extremely unpopular decisions not everyone can or is willing to understand." – he whispered in kind, lips barely moving – "The closer they perceive me, the harder it is for them to separate duty from personal account. Were I nicer to them, they would treat me as an equal, which is a sure recipe for insubordination and, ultimately, a mutiny. That is why pyramidal structures work in the first place, so people work and obey."
"Were that true, there would never be room for improvement." – she replied calmly, as if they were discussing the weather – "For improvement comes from changes. And changes cannot be implemented without flexibility and creativity. You and your men are proof of that."
"When a system works, it works." – he countered stubbornly – "Why change something that works?"
"Because there's always room for improvement." – stubbornly as well though soft as only she could be, she added – "Besides, History has demonstrated that we are a fluctuant species that abhor stability in the long term. We adapt our surroundings to our needs unless the surroundings force us to adapt to them instead. And then, once we grow bored, we ourselves create instability to start another fight, then seek measures to counter it, and so on. We crave challenge."
Surprised as he was hearing her expressing herself in such terms, his tongue betrayed him when he spoke again.
"You sound like C..." – he gave himself a mental kick before finishing that sentence. Here he was, talking about order and pyramidal structures, to end up comparing her to the very top of said structure, implying the possibility of her obtaining the same recognition when he positively knew it was impossible.
She smiled in his shirt, nuzzling his collarbone a little, making his heart flutter.
"It is easy to be seen as the one who holds the truth when citing widely known facts in a way that makes you sound knowledgeable and rational, isn't it?"
The flutter in his chest gave way to a violent, gut-wrenching twist.
Had she… had she just…?
"I'm sorry." – she apologized almost immediately, perhaps sensing his distress – "It seems I've started the day pretty strongly. Migraines suck a lot." – she offered softly, nuzzling him again, which calmed Vulpes a little – "There's a radstorm going on the outside, isn't it?" – he tensed, unsure how to take new developments. If she said right now that she had some sort of 'gift' for these things, he might feel inclined to believe her – "Pressure changes affect me a lot. I can tell there's one of those whipping full-force outside." – she tensed minimally for a second – "As expected, coming from that place."
"Not very fond of The Divide, are we?" – he prodded.
"Who can be fond of an irradiated place that's hostile from beginning to the end of a humongous fissure on the earth?" – she replied defensively, and he wished he could open his eyes, break any pretension of a façade in front of the men and look at each other in the eye.
That way, he may study her face instead of venturing what she might be thinking.
It had been the same when they had conversed through the Pip-Boy chat. When he couldn't study her reactions, she held a tremendous advantage over their conversations.
"You have been there after the explosion, I assume."
"Huh-uh."
"Why?"
"Got curious."
"Did you scavenge the place, perchance?"
"A small portion."
"And what did you find there?"
"Your Riot Gear."
"And some gas masks, Becky says."
"If you know about that, why do you keep asking?"
"I am as curious as you are."
"Did you know that curiosity killed the cat? It almost killed me there, you know."
"I'm surprised you survived The Divide in the first place."
"I didn't survive The Divide. I took a peek, didn't like one bit what I saw, turned tail, and got back to the Mojave. End of story."
She wasn't being very collaborative, which only increased his curiosity and suspicion.
"And what did you see there, Sullivan?" – he prodded again, itching to know. Not a single Frumentarius he had sent there had lasted long after exposure to radioactivity. Some others had never come back.
Perhaps in revenge, she found a nipple beneath the shirt and pinched it. The action nearly made him jump, sending instead an overwhelming wave of heat straight to his ears.
"You do that again; I am returning the favor as soon as you fall asleep." – he warned once he felt his voice wouldn't quiver.
"You wouldn't dare."
"Test me, and I might be using both of my hands."
"Naughty."
"She said, right after groping him."
He wouldn't be getting answers from her this time around… but foxes are patient creatures.
He'll eventually find a way to ease her into the subject. Preferably when they would be alone.
Which… seemed like a distant goal as to how things were right now.
Upon crossing the river, his plans had been a little more innocuous, perhaps a tad risky regarding the acquisition of Power Armors from places their owners had died inside of them. Or so had been how Sullivan had described their little trek.
But now? Everything had gotten so complicated that he didn't know where all of this would get them.
"Anyway, I'm a little slow on the update, so fill me in: What happened here? Since when the Legion accepts ghouls in their ranks?" – Sullivan asked out of a sudden, waking him from his reverie.
He then willed himself to open his eyes. Hers were suspiciously still closed.
"The Legion doesn't." – he replied tiredly – "I do."
She then snorted. Cutely.
"When a system works, it works." – she echoed his previous words cheekily, making a mocking imitation of his clipped accent – "Why change something that works?"
Why, you little…
He pinched her on the ribs.
She opened her eyes with a faint squeal that immediately made all the men around them turn their heads to her.
She got redder than a tomato, and he relished her embarrassment.
Served her well, sassy girl.
"Now that the mailwoman is awake…" – Aurelius yawned, stretching as inelegantly as a Yao Guai on his bedroll – "… Does that mean Power Armor training starts?"
Sullivan sank in the Fox's embrace, eyeing the illusioned, eager looks she received from the men puzzlingly.
"Um…" – she hesitated, biting her lower lip – "After dinner? Maybe?"
The men held her onto that 'maybe' for the rest of the storm's duration.
"Well now, sucks to be us." – Veronica opined, chewing her half-eaten mutfruit pensively as she eyed the storm brewing outside through the giant cogwheel entrance - "Not very into the idea of getting my outfit some radioactive glimmer, as fashionable as it sounds."
Arcade, by her left, was nursing a coffee.
"The glimmer would help to sell our act at The Tops." – he replied, sipping on the mug quietly – "Think about it: a Brotherhood of Steel Scribe, two doctors, an eyebot…"
"That sounds like a risqué proposition." – Veronica quipped, waggling her black eyebrows suggestively.
"Or the start of a really, REALLY bad joke."
"Aw, you're ruining the mood."
"Not to disillusion you or anything, but I prefer them tall, dark, and ruggedly handsome. Thank you."
"And I prefer leggy brunettes… but beggars can't exactly be choosers, right?"
"Tell that to Diogenes. He chose to be a beggar, which is still a choice. A strange one, but a choice nonetheless."
"I wouldn't trust much the choices of a guy that carried a lamp during the day just to prove a point, Arcade."
"He was fond of pulling off philosophical stunts. You know, awkward sense of humor, disrespect for authority… and authoritarians… and all that fun stuff Ancient Greeks were so much into thousands of years ago." - he snorted at his own nerdiness – "Haha, crazy philosophers. So weird."
"Which makes him an Ancient Greek troll. Still a funny one, though."
"I'm not so sure if this banter is meant to be informative or something in-between humorous and passive-aggressive." – Yes Man interjected, floating around lazily – "Am I analyzing it correctly?"
"Close enough." – the man admitted lightly, taking another coffee sip.
"Let's say we are bored to death, and we like to pass the time playing smartassery while insinuating stuff half of it isn't true or it's a partial truth, Robbie." – Veronica replied, having come up a while ago with a cute nickname for a robot that didn't have two words in it.
"But… for what purpose?" – the aforementioned robot asked, confused.
"To have fun and bond over?"
"Aren't you two already friends? Why would you need more bonding if your relationship is already established?"
"One never stops bonding with friends." – Arcade replied, bringing his speech to a sudden pause – "Or… at least I want to think it works that way."
"You aren't sure how friendship works?"
"Defining friendship as a common term is easy." – Veronica explained, finishing her mutfruit, bringing her sticky fingers to her mouth in the hopes of gleaning remnants of sweetness - "Defining a friendship in particular… well, it takes two to tango."
"What do you mean?"
"Friendship is like a board game: it has generic rules, but every game plays differently." – seeing Arcade's arched brow, she added, giggling – "Hey, don't ask me for clever analogies after wiping clean a whole Vault." – she yawned, stretching a little bit – "I'm literally exhausted."
"You should take a nap." – Arcade told her, smiling faintly – "I'll have the first watch." – raising his cup, he added – "This much caffeine should last me a couple of hours at the very least."
"I'll take that offer graciously." – she nodded, going for her backpack to uncoil her bedroll – "Just two hours. Don't let me nap more than that."
"Sure." – the man concurred even though both knew he would allow her an extra hour.
She was fast asleep not five minutes after having gone armadillo ball inside the bedroll.
Without Veronica, came the silence. And that heavy, uncomfortable sensation floating around since…
"You haven't eaten anything, Emily." – Arcade tried, for the umpteenth time, to reach his disconnected colleague sitting far away from them, dull blue eyes looking in the distance at no particular point.
She didn't reply, which didn't come as a surprise.
She hadn't opened her mouth since they had left the corpse on the 1st Level, several rooms behind.
That ghoul woman, Keely.
It had happened accidentally, but Arcade knew Emily was beating herself for it.
She had been reticent to help with the mission the woman had entrusted them with, terrified as she had been since the mossy monstrosities had woken up from their slumber.
Keely had sent them back to the 5th Level in order to locate a vent where a flammable gas should be pumping throughout the Vault's ventilation system.
"Time is of the essence, so I'll be brief: this place is filled with spores that are toxic to humans, and we need to get rid of them." – she had said, much to their concern, for they had been breathing those same spores for quite a few hours despite knowing that it took months and a constant exposition for those spores to infest a host – "I've pumped the Vault full of a highly flammable gas that, once ignited, should destroy the vast majority of the spores. There's one problem, though: the gas becomes semi-inert on exposure to oxygen."
"Meaning the gas will have to be ignited close to where it's being introduced." – had been Arcade's immediate assumption.
"Correct." – Keely had confirmed – "I need you to find the vents where the gas is being pumped and ignite it. Oh, and survive the resulting blast."
And what a good suicidal mission would be without the suicidal part? Arcade and Veronica had been so accustomed to those sorts of occurrences happening throughout the last year since Six had arrived at their lives that they hadn't even blinked at it.
Emily, on the other hand, had trembled like a leaf but had shaken her head when she had been offered to remain by the necrotic woman's side. As if she were forcing herself to do it, even despite her glaring fear and apprehension.
Even despite his policy of trying to see the best in other people, Arcade couldn't help but be suspicious since she had offered to travel with them.
Strange as it sounded, she wasn't someone Six had invited into their group.
There had been the occasional nut or well-meaning do-gooder who had tried to get into Courier Six's group either by temporal association or direct/indirect suggestion.
She had taken neither. You simply don't choose Six; Six chooses you.
From a Vault dweller scientist that Boone said Six had to play the psychologist part since the man, apparently, had believed himself to be a ghoul just because he was going bald to an actual ghoul: Rotface, the Freeside local beggar whose lips might get loosed with the appropriate monetary incentivization.
Then, two pitiable outlaws who had wanted to fashion themselves after the infamous pre-War criminal couple Vikki and Vance.
And a guy who had been stalking Six from the very Goodsprings just because she had a handful of Sunset Sarsaparilla star bottle caps. Boone had almost skinned him alive.
Also, a couple of members of the Scorpions, Westside's local gang, who had wanted to play cocky until Boone's and Lily's unwavering gazes had discouraged them from taking the joke further.
Oh, and the sweet Brotherhood Initiate, who was head over heels for Six, insinuating he wished to accompany her more than once.
And let's not forget that Zorro Salvaje's tribesmen, particularly his brother, Gabriel, had tried to 'infiltrate' them with no success.
In the end, it wasn't for a lack of offers.
Would Six have invited Emily had the occasion arisen? Probably not.
Besides, Emily Ortal wanted to get something out of this alliance. What, she had made it impossibly evident when, once they had gotten to the 5th Level, she had gone straight to Vault 22's Data Room, spurring Yes Man to follow her.
Then, she had programmed the Data Room's central console to synchronize with the duraframe's radio waves.
She had asked them to wait in case the explosion fried the system until all the information was downloaded into Yes Man's databanks.
After that, she had run for dear life to the elevator, grabbing Yes Man by an antenna.
Since Arcade had trusted more Veronica's arm strength than his own, she had been the one unpinning the grenade she had thrown to the vents' general direction before the two of them had jumped into the elevator before Emily closed the automatic doors.
They nearly hadn't made it, per usual.
Bads news came when Emily had tried to go straight to the 1st Level to avoid Keely when the necrotic woman, perhaps suspecting foul play, had blocked their exit via encrypted password on the automated door to the Vault's entrance.
Emily had tried to crack it, which had given the ghoul enough time to get to where they were.
"Don't you realize what those files represent?! If they get into the wrong hands, this could happen all over again!" – Keely had tried to reason up – "Only this time, the madness won't just be confined to a musty Vault. Do you really want that on your conscience?! I sure as hell don't!"
"Science isn't just about success!" – had been Emily's passionate outburst – "Failures are just as important to learn from!"
"Depending on the receptacle, the warning those files pose would fall on deaf ears. The more if those are Thomas Hildern's ears." – Emily wasn't nearly as good as an actress as Six was under pressure, so her paralyzed mien had told not only Keely, but Arcade and Veronica as well about her intentions – "No, these people died trying to stop a monster of their own creation. Failing to complete their work would mean they died in vain." – she had punctuated – "And that's what I intend to do."
"I cannot let you erase that data, Keely." – Emily had said with a determination that hadn't matched the trembling in her voice.
"Then, you give me no choice." – had been the ghoul's last words.
Everything had happened too fast for, when Arcade had wanted to react, his plasma caster had been in Emily's hands, who had pointed at Keely, who in turn had pointed her gun toward Yes Man.
Arcade was sure she had only meant to scare her or, at the very least, not kill her.
For, as soon as Emily's finger had pulled the trigger, the necrotic face of the woman had turned into a pile of glowing green goo while her body, losing the brain's sustenance, had fallen to the Vault's cold ground with a silent thud.
The scream Emily had let out had been the most terrifying sound Arcade had ever heard coming from a person.
She had soon broken into hysterics to the point that Veronica had to restrain her as Arcade took control of his plasma gun once again.
Then, once overpowered, Emily had cried for a whole thirty-minute-lapse nonstop.
Her horrified, very much human reaction had stirred something inside Arcade.
Something he hadn't been aware he had kept avoiding systematically since his father had died so many years ago.
Something he couldn't even name, just… a sensation, a certainty.
A certainty about something not being entirely alright with him, something his scarce lovers – not even proper boyfriends since his teenage escapades – had always detected, hence why they ended up abandoning him sooner than later.
They always said variations of the same thing: that he wasn't there. That he didn't care.
Just as he felt right now, completely disconnected from Emily's pain and Keely's accidental murder.
Wondering apathetically when did he get accustomed to this, to treat people getting killed as a daily occurrence.
As if it was normal.
When did he become so callous and uncaring? Hadn't ideals and the will to help vulnerable people been the pillars of his drive toward following Six in the first place?
Then why was he behaving like he still…?
Shaking his head, Arcade didn't allow the traitorous thought to get ahold of his head.
No matter his origins, no matter the system in which his parents had lived, one of the few marriages that did actually have feelings for each other despite the eugenic practices among the human population of the Poseidon Oil Rig.
He wasn't Enclave.
His genes didn't determine the kind of man he was.
His actions did.
Finishing his coffee, Arcade Gannon got up from his sitting position to stand in front of his coworker.
"If you think you cannot cope with this sort of thing, we can accompany you back to the Old Mormon Fort." – her eyes reacted minimally to his words – "However, Yes Man stays with us." – when she raised her face, her expression empty, he added – "You are not going to share the downloaded data with Hildern. I won't allow it. We aren't here to play the ambassadors' part with the NCR's OSI. We work for House."
After a long silence, Emily opened her mouth at last.
"How can you?" – she asked weakly – "Knowing what he is, who he is. Knowing he wouldn't lift a finger to make things change for the people outside The Strip despite the technology and resources he has. How can you ignore all of that?"
"How can you ignore the NCR's greed translated into people like Hildern, who sent a lone woman here to investigate a potentially dangerous phenomenon?" – watching her flinch at that, he pressed – "How can you ignore the choices a positively military Government with an ex-military president has done in the last decade, reducing budgets in the public healthcare and national education system but, what a surprise, has promoted an ongoing military campaign disguising it as patriotic crap? How would you call that? Democratic Fascism? We force you to enlist because Legion, promote a racist campaign against all tribals because Legion, and raise taxes for everyone except the Barons because they give you shitty, underpaid jobs so you don't have to enlist and fight the Legion; but it's legal since you voted for us? If you agree, you're a patriot; if you don't, you are branded as a traitor Anarchist."
Emily shrank with every argument thrown to her face, shaking her head.
"We held a near-monopoly for higher education." – she countered, biting her lip – "You cannot fight the military with books, charity, and pretty ideas."
"Then why didn't you join the OSI, Emily?" – he replied, unmoved – "Why remain with the Followers if you see us as some elitist, unrealistic nerds who wouldn't budge in front of a bunch of armed bullies driving high on testosterone?"
"Because I wanted to help us!" – she exclaimed, pinching the bridge of her nose in frustration – "I wanted the Followers to form an alliance with the NCR, just as we did in the past. Have some governmental weight in the Congress." – when she saw him about to open his mouth, she quickly added – "We cannot help people if we keep ignoring the Government, Arcade! It's been more than twenty years since Tibbett and more than three decades since Tandi! The times have changed!"
"Yes, to the point votes in the Congress can be bought to erect a military Government that wants free healthcare and higher education for their friends while the rest of us mortals have to pay for it." – Arcade retorted – "No more administrative laws to limit the number of cattle and acreage per person means more entrepreneurs in the scene. And more entrepreneurs means more expansion, thus more wars and more weapon manufacture. World War VI much? Sure! Why the hell not as long as it is profitable?!" – taking a step toward her, he incised – "At least, with House, I positively know he learned the lesson the first time."
"Probably." – she concurred somberly – "But… at what cost?"
Neither of them exchanged further words that night, letting the storm roaring outside blanket the unsalvageable gap opened between them, aware now of where their respective loyalties lay.
"Dead mother, dead father, life in a post-nuclear Wasteland and not a friend in it. Yeah, you aren't exactly blessed."
After spending five consecutive days in this flying canister, sleep would still evade her.
"Anyway, if my kid looked like that, I'd abandon it too."
They had made a detour in Illinois, searching for the Chicago detachment, founded by survivors of an airship crash.
They had been sending SOS radio transmissions for years, and then, once Arthur Maxson had blessed them with his presence, the Paladin in charge had immediately bended knee.
"Tsk. Tsk. Walked right into yet another obvious trap. Exactly how stupid are you? This is one situation you're not going to be able to fight your way out of, you know."
It had taken less than a day to convince them to join. Now, the beds were used 24/7, depending on which shift they were.
Her bed, her sheets smelled of other people and were greasy.
"You're aware that this doesn't look right, not right at all. And yet, you keep struggling."
It was as if the whole Universe was giving her a big fat middle finger.
"Keep it up, then. You're almost there... wherever 'there' may be... probably nowhere. Per usual, really."
Indeed, she had struggled so much to keep going… and yet, all of her efforts were rendered futile the more days passed and she couldn't get a wink.
"Isn't it funny how everyone you get close to ends up leaving?"
Taking the pillow from her face, unable as she had been for the last three hours to block intrusive thoughts, she sighed in defeat, slapped the accursed pillow back onto the smelly bed, and got up.
Clover was snoring loudly on the neighboring bed, and she felt a pang of envy course her already irritated brain.
"After all, you were never a keeper in the first place."
Hitting her burning temple hard, she directed her steps down South, to the Officers' Quarters, crossing the mess hall as if in a trance, ignoring altogether the cautious glances directed at her hunched posture and dark eye bags.
She spent her good ten minutes looking at the grey door like a braindead ghoul until her knuckles found the cool, polished surface.
He took his sweet-ass time before opening the door, wearing his stupid snobby silk gray pajamas.
His groggy expression did a whole 360º as soon as he saw her.
"Well, well, well!" – he sang-sung with that marvelous, annoying-to-no-end, smooth baritone of his – "Back again, songbird? Perhaps you have reconsidered my offer, hmm?"
She had to contain the murdering impulses that shook her whole being like electricity.
Instead, she elbowed him to make herself way into the room.
As she walked silently toward the inviting bed, she heard him chuckle before closing the door behind him.
LATIN:
(1) - Slavemaster
(2) - "Also you, Aurelius" - Vulpes is quoting Gaius Julius Caesar in Act 3 Scene 1 of William Shakespeare's play 'Julius Caesar', at the moment of his assassination, to his friend Marcus Junius Brutus, upon recognizing him as one of the assassins. Here, Vulpes implies that Aurelius is also guilty of sin because he's using forbidden chems to heal himself.
(3) - First of the Legion (pl. Legio Primi) - Legion Commander, which only contemplates the Legatus Legionis, the Praefectus Praetor and the Princeps Peregrinorium (Master Spy).
A/N: my God, this chapter has been sitting on its penultimate scene for nearly a week until I've managed to wrap everything up together. After reading the Wiki article on the NCR and checking the Collector's Guide, I couldn't resist some poking into the Republic's inner politics. I know In-Game Arcade would never support House, but let's pretend this is a biased Arcade who loves Six and has some beef with the NCR due to him being a Follower and not liking Hildern (which is kinda In-Game Arcade behavior) one bit.
Am I keeping coming up with more Frumentarii to add to the group? Why, yes, dear reader. Is this Cicero a homage of sorts to Skyrim's Dark Brotherhood Cicero? Why, yes, dear reader xD (it's painfully obvious that I'm a Bethesda bitch, TBH).
I've put a lot of work into this chapter even despite it being a resolution for the fight and a continuation for the companions' quests. Arcade should shine more soon, whereas Boone is already going through a transformation that gets plenty of influences (among them, as I've mentioned, Joseph Conrad's 'Heart of Darness'; then Konami's 'Silent Hill 2'; and David Lynch's 'Lost Highway'). I've put Cass aside for some time while Veronica's quandary with the Brotherhood should start rearing its ugly head soon. I still don't know how to make Lily work with what I have in mind; and Raul... it may take a while until he gets his stellar moment.
Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R: I have changed the 'holy bananas' thing into 'holy mutfruit' (less immersion-breaking. It's amazing you have such an eye for these details. Thanks!).
Chases-Bugs HAS to live. If not, who would play the comedy relief part? xD
I have checked TriangleCity videos and BOY, THEY ARE INTERESTING! Thank you so much for the material! ^^
Asians are a playable race since F3, but actual Asian NPCs are just plain rare, so it suits my narration the fact that Bethesda constructed it this way. It's Lore-consistent.
I assure you I didn't get sidetracked with Lanius VS. Hecate on previous chapters. Everything has a why in this story ^^
And, please, sleep when you need to. I'm not going crazy and deleting the whole thing any time soon xD
This A/N is getting too long already, so bid you all farewell till July, probably (2 months now will be the norm for updates, sorry). Cheers!
