Chapter XXVIII:

Out of the Fallout


Gideon


It was snowing again. The high-octane valleys on either side of us were becoming sleek with the white stuff. Trees barren stumps, poking out of the starkness like tombstones. Cold… I hadn't felt cold like this since I left Montana. I rubbed my hands together, trying to put some warmth in them despite the fact they were double layered in cotton and leather.

"Who ever heard of a desert that snows, eh?"

I stiffened a second, but I relaxed. If I was gonna die, it was going to be from my front, not my back. Besides, it wouldn't be from a woman, either. I shrugged it off with a smile and a shake of the head.

"Things you learn, Jesse."

I clutched the Ruger Carbine closer to my chest, my eyes watching the ridgeline ahead. It would be dark soon.

"So," I heard her slumped down on the rock beside me, "anything interesting out there?"

I didn't bother turning. I kept my eyes on the darkening valley, looking for something ugly to pop its head out.

"Nothing much. Just more snow."

"Got that right," she laughed before she snuggled up closer to me, "like this place can't make up its mind on what kind of weather it wants."

"Hey, don't get too close," I chuckled as I pushed her back a slide, "don't want your head getting popped."

"Oh, don't give me that," she sighed with a slap on the thigh, "we're more likely to freeze to death without a fire than we are from some mutie with nightvision. Oh, that's right! They don't allow muties, or nightvision!"

"Okay, made your point," I relented. And with that, she damn near blanketed me. I could feel her hot breath on my shoulder.

"Hey, that's a little too close," I teased, and she giggled back:

"Too close would be us without our clothes on, Giddy. I mean, unless you're wanting to—"

"I'd rather keep my appendages attached, thank you very much."

She laughed.

"C'mon, admit it. Two of us out here alone? In the dark? With everybody else back thirty feet? That's sounds very romantic, don't it?"

"A girl and a boy in the dark, alone? That's sounds like a horror movie, Jess."

At that, she slapped my shoulder heartily and sending the last three hours' built up snow in a shower.

"You know how to rub the fun out of everything, don't you, Giddy?"

"My job," I smirked as I ejected the magazine of my carbine and gave the action a workover. Sure enough, cold had made it stiff. Gave it a few good pulls, and it was working well enough. Good thing too, I ain't in the mood to piss on it. Especially with Jesse around; she's a regular ballbuster.

"Well," she laughed softly, "whatever mask wearing creep out there ain't gonna find me some screaming damsel in distress."

"Well, you've certainly got the right hair color, Jess," I chuckled as I loaded the Ruger again and started a manual check of the ammo-pouches strapped to my chest under the long coat, feeling the .30-FMJ through my gloves,"y'know, blondes and all that?"

"Fuck you."

"When we get out of this valley, sure."

"Oh sure," she shook her head, and propped her Winchester '86 on her knee, "why don't you go about 200 yards out and I'll fix your urge right quick with a nice .45-70 ointment."

"You'd somehow make that shot in the dark?"

"Yes."

"I don't believe you."

"You wanna test that theory?"

"Not particularly."

"Dickless."

"Twat."

"That all you got?"

"You wanna take it further?"

"Not really."

"Thought so," I smirked so hard my face might as well be oozing smugness, "don't play with fire unless you're planning to get burned."

"Please, you're like a smolder."

"Still don't wanna touch it."

"Tou-fucking-ché, smartass."

"Good thing Roy ain't here. He'd be thinking you were flirting with me."

"'Course I'm fucking flirting with you," she shook her head, "I'm bored out of my fucking mind, and you're the only one I can tease without taking it as an invitation."

"Why, run out of gophers to shoot?"

"Yup."

One could imagine my face at that.

"You're a regular depopulator, you know that?"

"I know," she smiled wickedly, "drive every damn thing not able to shoot back to extinction. Except Roadrunners. They're too cool."

I shook my head. She was never one to bore you. I then took my binoc's and gave the valley another scan. I then stopped on something. Something moving.

"Just a cottontail."

"You sure?" I turned around to see her already downrange with her scope, legs crossed over and her arms resting in a picture-form supported firing position.

"Yup. Just a cottontail. Couple of Jack's, too. Must be love in the air or something."

"Heh, I'm tempted to start singing Elton John."

"Oh, fuck no. I'll shoot you on principle."

"What? Elton's a classic!"

"No, Sinatra is a classic!"

"Sinatra's boring. He sings the same style everytime. Gimme Phil Collins anyday."

"Need I remind you the dimensions of my boot tip compared to your—"

"First off, that's just cliché as fuck. Second, you haven't even seen it! How can you determine the dimensions when you haven't even measured it?"

"Ah, I can estimate! 'Sides, the results will still be the same. What was it the Gunny used to say?"

"'Ram it so far up you'll spit out boot polish.'"

"He had a real thing for you, didn't he?"

"Well, I'm not the one who had to run around topless because of that stupid prank you pulled."

She shrugged and sighed in defeat.

"You got me there."

"Yeah."

I started working my way through the rest of my gear. Funny, double layers plus a trenchcoat, and I'm still freezing my ass off. But, it could be worse. At least it's not raining.

"So what are you doing here, Jess? You're not here to relieve me, are you?"

"Nah, José'll be doing that. Just looking for company is all."

"Why? The love birds at it again?"

"You know it," she chuckled quietly, "Millie's being her typical meanstreak, and Roy's being the usual tool. Might as well just fuck and get it over with."

"Rather not. Could you imagine their kids?"

"Red-headed black children?"

"Well, that. And they'd inherit their mom's sass, and their dad's cockiness… in more ways than one, I would imagine."

"Tear apart the world, huh?"

"Yeah."

"So, how's Cass doing?"

My heart stopped, and the air went silent.

"What?"

"You heard me," she snarled as she stood from her perch with the Winchester at her hip, looking down at me with eyes that would set me on fire, "how's she doing? How's Veronica and Boone and Raul and the rest of that merry band you collected doing?"

"Jess…" I breathed. Suddenly, the air turned to green as arcing flares blared into the night around us as Jess stood highlighted in emerald. A roar so inhuman, so animalistic reverberated through the valley as men in red swarmed along its side like a tidalwave. The wind blew past us, picking us snow with it. Then... her flesh started to whither and peel off in droves; turning to ash with the wind.

"Tell me," she smiled frighteningly, her jade eyes glowing in the darkness, "are you treating them better than you did me?"

"Jess!"

I didn't feel the impact of the bullet. I only felt a sudden coldness as I hit the ground. My head spun. I was seeing white. I didn't know if it was the snow or…

"Are you going to let them die, too?"

My vision cleared. And… she was above me. It was not her, though. Her flesh… gone. Flaked and decayed; crumbling to ash as her eyes grew brighter and brighter. She pressed the muzzle of her Winchester into my face, the barrel burning hot against my cheek.

"Time to wake up, Gideon."

"Jesse…"

BANG!

My eye shot open and I woke up panting. I was… shivering. So… so cold. Why can't I breathe? What's… where am I!?

"Wait… the car… Pacer… Raul!"

Ah, my head! I clutched the side of it, wincing from the sudden church bells ringing in my ears. Ringing… why does everything feel so slow? Oh… that's just great.

"Hey, easy!"

Strong warm hands took a hold of me, resting me back onto the bed as a cold towel was put over my forehead. I… I couldn't tell who it was at first. Everything felt so distant. Like trying to hear sound in water. I could hear the words… but not the voice.

"Arcade, he's awake! Hey, Gideon," feminine hands stroked my face… everything coming clearer, "it's going to be okay. You're going be okay… Wiley."

"Shut up, Tweety," I smiled groggily as her warm face into view before pain arched across my head and made me seal my eye, "ow…"

"Yeah, you took a nasty bump on the head," she then grinned mischievously at me, "nothing quite like waking up with a concussion to stir the mental stewing on a good morning, huh?"

"You and I have… very, different definitions of a good morning."

"Meh," she giggled, "I've come to take pain in strides. Ah, what was it Ramos used to say? 'Pain is just weakness leaving the body!'"

I closed my eyes and I felt somewhere else for a moment. It was warm… hot. Really hot. I was moving… pushups. Heh, we were doing pushups and my arms felt like they were going to fall off.

"That's it Lay-deeees!" a barking, harsh voice echoed through my voice, "keep it pushin'! Pain is just weakness leaving the body! You'll grow nice and st-RONG!"

"Hey, Gunny!" I turned left to see Roy, the redhead, smirking up at the other guy, "What if I like weakness!? What if I want more of it!?"

A grizzled, weathered man with eyes of iron and hair cropped and snow white came face to face with the goofball, smirking as he held up his middle finger to his bottom eyelid:

"Look into my eyes, Private Play-BOY! Hey, what are you laughin' at!?"

"Nothing, Gunny!"

"Oh, you find this funny!? Well, since Private UM thinks pain is so funny, yer gonna give me another fifty! Start PUSHING!"

"Moron," I whispered softly.

"Sorry?"

"Ah," I shook my head as my eye opened again, finding myself back into the present, "just… something else."

"Oh-kay…" she shook her head amused, and for the first time I got to see her face properly. She was haggard and tired; bags forming underneath her eyes as she brushed her hair back into a little ponytail.

"V, when'd you last get some sleep?"

"I dunno… two nights ago? People here were very short staffed, believe me."

"Here? Where's here?"

"The Fort, Gideon. Where else?"

"V," I reached my arm for hers before I noticed something was off, "wait… where's my Pip-Boy?"

It was gone! And… my arm was covered in tape and bandages. Come to think of it, my face felt like it too.

"Oh, it's over here," she quickly reached over to a nearby table, "we had to take it off."

I held the thing in my hands. It was more beatup than usual. Dents and scratches everywhere… and the screen was cracked. That's just great. Wait… I held up wrist and noticed the little red pinpricks over the veins.

"That, Mr. Maddox," the sardonic class voice of Arcade Gannon interrupted my stewing, "would be the insertion point of your recent epinephrine induced trips into the slower side of reality. No doubt to better dispatch your foes in a more exuberant manner."

"Yeah, then puke my guts out."

"Vault-Tec always does love their little secret projects," Veronica mused as she turned the Pip-Boy in her hands, studying every part of it, "yours is actually a special model, come to think of it. Only a handful of Vaults got the 3000's."

"Special in making me puke all the time?"

"Well… sure. But believe me, it could be worse."

"Worse?"

"Addiction, Mr. Maddox," Arcade added as he was off doing something I couldn't see but sounded like something to do with glass, "it puts a whole new meaning to Adrenaline Junkies. Quite common with the Fiends who could get their models working from Vault 3 though… not for long."

"Let me guess," Veronica smirked, "they run it so hard their hearts stops beating?"

"Sometimes. Though sometimes they can… well, only way I can describe it is that their hearts rupture and explode."

Well. There's a disturbing image I'd rather get out of my head sooner rather than later.

"Yeah, thanks for that. I'm not gonna turn into one, am I?"

"No. But if you do," he turned about and grinned, a slight manic glint in his eyes… or maybe that was just his glasses, I dunno, "I do have this nice Brahmin Tranquilizer I've been meaning to test on a live subject."

"Um, thanks. I think I'll just let V knock me out. I mean, you probably could do that in like five moves, right?"

"Five?" she laughed, her eyes becoming suddenly sadistic and manic to the point it actually kind of scared me, "How about one? There's a nice little nerve point right where the shoulder meets the neck! Pinch that, and you go right down! Here, I'll demonstrate."

"Do no such a thing, or I will shoot you with said Tranquilizer!" and somehow, he had a dart gun with this small, creepy grin plastered on his face, "I just finished pulling 23 separate pieces of shrapnel out of him, and I do not need you to cause additional nerve damage!"

"Pff, please," Veronica rolled her eyes at him, "that pneumatic piece of junk is more like to fall apart in your hands than it is to actually hit me. I mean, what'd you put it together with? Ducktape?"

"Wonderglue, actually! And what would you suggest then, my overly confident Tempie?"

"Tempie!? Why, gimme some electrodes, dental floss, and a punching spring and I'll give you a nice 1,000-volt workover!"

I looked back and forth between before throwing up my hands, exclaiming:

"How the hell did I end up on the set of MacGyver?"

I then clutched the side of my head, wincing as fresh pain flared into my forehead. A changed-out towel, and the throbbing went back to a low ache confined to the back of my head. I really need to stop getting blown up.

"So… how are the others doing?"

"Well," Veronica exchanged a look over at Arcade, and he shot it right back at her. She shook her head and gave me a 'comforting' smile,"They're gonna be okay."

Somehow, I'm glad Veronica hasn't gotten any better at lying.

"C'mon, don't bullshit me."

"Mr. Tejada will be quite alright, Mr. Maddox," Arcade replied, turning his back on me to work on something on the workbench, "more or less the same synopsis. Shrapnel wounds, a concussion. Ms. Russell is taking good care of him over at her flat."

"I take it that's the good news?"

"Yes, I suppose. Your sniper friend, Boone? I take it you know about his electroshock trauma?"

I nodded. He then turned around, leaning against the workbench with his arms crossed. Though well concealed, I still detected traces of… well, worry.

"Veronica here managed to get him her just in time. He suffered a mild cardiac arrest, but we managed to resuscitate him before any serious damage could be done."

"And? I'm assuming there is more?"

"And they say I have a terrible bedside manner," he shook his head, "I unfortunately still don't know the full extent of his injuries. I was going to have him transferred over to Usunagi for further testing, but… well, we've been rather busy, so to speak."

"If it's bad, what will happen?"

"Best case, we'll need to operate on his leg to relieve any built up pressure."

"And the worst case?"

"He'll lose the leg."

Veronica stiffened at that, her mask firmly coming into place. Her face just became one forlorn look, but she couldn't hide the growing sense of dread in her eyes. She was practically a walking guilt beacon with the metaphorical neon arrows pointing down at her. Still, it wasn't just that that worried me. Arcade had saved Cass for last.

Veronica read my mind.

"She's… not alright, Gideon."

The dream came back to haunt me. Jesse's eyes… Cass's eyes... it all felt like a dagger to the heart. Panic started to grip and build in my gut, making my head pound even more. I closed my eye, focusing on keeping my breathing low and steady until I had everything back under control. I wasn't going to be good to anybody if I didn't keep a clear head.

I swallowed the last of it and asked the obvious. Arcade was the first to answer:

"Physically, she's perfectly fine."

"Fine!?" Veronica exclaimed, "She won't eat, she won't sleep, she won't even talk to anybody! All she does is just sit in a corner staring at a wall! You honestly think that's fine!?"

"I did say physically," Arcade deadpanned her, "yes, her mental state does match that of someone who suffered severe emotional trauma. I'm currently treating her for shock at the moment."

"Is there anything else you can do?" I asked, knowing full well what the answer would be.

"I'm unfortunately not properly trained in psychiatry. There really isn't much more to do than to simply wait and see."

"Yeah, great plan," Veronica muttered darkly, "real great plan."

"Knock it off, V," I snapped, causing her to glare at me hurtfully but I really didn't care at this point, "Arcade's doing his job, and he's doing it the best he can. To be perfectly honest, we were lucky."

"Lucky?" she snorted, "Guess Freeside could use some of that."

"What are you talking about?"

She shook her head, crossing her arms and letting her head droop to the floor. Oh boy.

"Okay," I sighed, "how bad is it?"

"Bad," she answered with the face of death, "Pacer's dead and the King's been taken into custody."


Major Helena Mariana

Callsign: Raven


You can tell a great deal about a target by how they deal with danger, and by extension, fear. In most, I have found them to flail in the dark like children. That fear taking hold of them, makes them run with the sound of blood pumping in their brains. It's a rather pleasing sound; like a drum playing in the background. One can almost dance to the beat, and I admit, I have.

There are a few, however, who are of course brave, and often stupid. They stand. They fight. The put on a very good show worthy of recollection and review. But in the end, they only delay the inevitable, and so they fall.

And yet, there are the rarer few. Those who know fear, have faced this fear, and in some way, embraced it. Become one with it. Fearless would be the wrong word. No, they do feel fear, but they've long since learned how to put it away to the point it becomes another shadow in background.

These I have found in a rather painful short supply. Though those I have encountered I will always remember by face, and by name. I have killed a few, and even loved one. Loved? I shook my head at the word because it somehow… stings.

And yet, I have never encountered one such as this Presley King. This living, breathing incarnation of a man who passed centuries ago. Before, I once said fearless is the wrong word to describe this type of character. I must make an exception in this case for as he sits there in perfect silence and perfect stoicism, not an ounce of fear escapes him. His face, and his eyes, might as well be carved out of stone.

It is truly something to behold in that way. I have witnessed an interrogation many times over in this cell; observing the talented Boyd at her work. The first, and most effective form I have seen used by her is anticipation. The subtle wait, deteriorating the defenses until at a final pause they crack open to reveal their secrets. It is a subtlety my superiors in the Department never learned.

No, theirs was a reflection of the old ways they so grandiosely proclaimed and venerated. The image of dark dungeons with the colorful assortment of primitive medieval tools wouldn't be too far off the mark. They could rip and tear and ravage the victim, but in every way, it merely hardened them. No, if one is to take their soul in their hands and shape it to their touch, they must pry through with the simplest, and subtlest of touches. It is an irony in a way that a people with all the worlds information and history catalogued and stored away would be far less effective than a people with only basis of their heritage.

I say this, however, with the knowledge that I do not believe this man will not, in the most of common of terms, crack. And, in many ways, I lay that blame on the woman standing at my side.

"He is quite admirable, isn't he, Cassandra?"

"Yes, I suppose that's why they call him the King. He certainly has the posture of one."

She knows me well. An even tone, no change in her body language. I can only see her face from the side, so I cannot be given the full truth on her deceptions.

"Yes. The King of Freeside, right in our pocket like a nice prickly fruit."

At last, she turned her face for me to see. Oh yes, there she was. The Red Bear with all that famous rage bottled up in those blue eyes of hers.

"If you've got something to say, Major, then say it. I don't have time to deal with your needling."

"Alright. This is a mistake, and you know it."

"Do I now? And would you mind telling me what that mistake is, Helena?"

I gave her my rather trademark Headmistress smile. A smile I have reserved for a select few of my superiors whose ego and rank of confidence becomes rather disturbing. I have found a smile and a look can tell better responses than words.

"There was a reason I selected Pacer for this assignment. We need an example, not a martyr."

"You'll have to ask Gloria Van Graff about that, then," she replied with a smirk that reminded me of a certain captain I had the pleasure of dispatching with a well-placed stiletto under the ribs.

"No, Cassandra, I am asking you. Gloria Van Graff did her part exceptionally well. Pacer was ours, and by extension, so was Freeside. With his capture and confession, we would've had the perfect leverage."

"What are you getting at? From where I'm standing, your project was a success either way."

"No, Cassandra, it really wasn't. You see, that leverage centered entirely on the man in that cell. I have studied him greatly, and I know his one true weakness, exclusive in only the most well-constructed of situations. That situation, however, was entirely foiled by the interference—"

"No," she shook her head rather casually, "I will not discuss this issue with you again."

"Cassandra, my dear, you are an exceptional field commander. But for all your cunning, you are not a spy."

"A spy from a defeated enemy, you mean?" she smiled inwardly, "Need I remind you which of us brought the Brotherhood to their knees?"

"You're deflecting, Cassandra. You know I'm right. If you'd dealt with Mr. Maddox and his compatriots, or had simply allowed me to clean up your mess, we wouldn't be having this conversation or be in this situation."

Her eyes narrowed just a slight degree, her smile thinner. More than enough to be mocking.

"Helena, you make the assumption that you're the only one in the universe with all the answers. However, while you were down south, chasing ghosts," she said with a hint of sarcasm, "I put in the proper time to get Mr. House and his rather compulsive behavior."

"Ah yes. You and your theory that he will overextend himself with Mr. Maddox in the field."

"Don't play coy. We've seen more activity from him and his little private army in the past month than we have in ten years. His chief subordinate, perhaps the most loyal out of the Families, decides to turn on him all because of one man and his package? And then that very same man manages to carve his way across the Mojave with House subtly pointing him in the right direction? No, Helena, you don't toss away an opportunity like that."

"And yet that very same man has managed to include himself in perhaps the most delicate of my operations, and came this close to foiling it. Even now, I'm uncertain of its success. He's Murphy's Law in living form."

"I feel you are vastly embellishing him. You're a perfectionist, Major."

"I'm only a perfectionist when the assignment requires me to be one, Colonel. If you'd just taken my advice, and took the Scribe captive—"

"Then we would've lost a chance to finally draw House out in the open."

"In what possible way? With the Scribe as leverage, we could direct and push Mr. Maddox in any manner we wish, and certainly keep him out of our affairs."

She started to laugh. I raised an eyebrow in the most obvious of annoyed glances. She shook her head at me, and I again felt the cold memory of the twitch of the stiletto in my hand.

"Mr. Maddox is a rather simple man to understand. He's loyal above all else. What do you think would've happened had we taken this Veronica captive? No, don't think. I'll tell you. The same that would've happened to any soldier who loses one of his men. He would retaliate. Either then, which would've resulted in the deaths of himself and his compatriots, or sometime down the line. I have no intention of adding yet another target on the back of my head."

"Now who's over embellishing, Colonel?"

The door to the cell suddenly opened, conveniently concluding the discussion… for now.


Presley King

The King of Freeside


I knew what was comin' long 'fore the door opened with a groan that ought to make angels weep. Don't reckon I know what it was. The air, maybe? The general feeling of unease setting into my weary bony-bod. It tasted like somekind of iron, something that clung to your nose and never, ever let go even for a brief sing.

Maybe it was the table I was ironed to. Picture one could imagine. Dried blood, dents here and there. General spookiness. Add in the long hanging light that just seemed to be swingin' back an' forth.

"Might as well be croanin' 'Ichabod, Ichabod' while you're at it."

All of it's intentional. Got that Vlad touch to it. Meant to spook me good. Believe me, it is. It is downright, ungodly spooky to that letter.

But I don't care… I just… don't care, anymore.

CREAK

I don't bother lookin' up. Don't need to. Sound of her boots loud 'nough to make percussions blush. Guessin' room might be padded. But really it was that nice an' thick bud smoke.

Damn stuff was downright rancorous. Worse than a body sunryin' till the flies went home fulla groceries and happy buzzin'. Tells me a lot, really. Lady's got a meanstreak if she wantin' to foul me up first 'fore she gettin' to sticking me. Probably done this down to the art, probably gets a kick out of it.

She sits, an' she's saying nothin'. Just lookin' at me and giving me that hobgoblin glare while she's blowin' away at the stuff. Just glarin'. Huh, funny. I think I'm hearin' a clock in the background.

Well, I know what's going down, and I ain't gonna play. I sat right on back in my chair, made it creak for that good ol' measure, and I look right at her like I'm not even caring. Don't tell your mama 'bout this, kiddies, but ladies? Well, they hate it when you don't give 'em attention. Drives 'em right real nutty.

So, here I am. Givin' her that look an' a little smile, just a little one. Funny part is? She's got this good ol' killer look. Eyes all dark an' such looking to stab me in the heart. But she's… well, excuse me for saying, but she's a doll I'd take dancin'.

Got that darling quality, y'know? Probably why she's such a sour-puss. Then, she goes and proves my point. Leans right back in her chair, groanin' to make mine cringe. Just bobbin' an' smokin' and giving me the Medusa Glare.

I crossed my arms and settle in. She smoked and bobbed, makin' me damn near gag. But I don't show it. I never will. I just smile and smile and play our game.

She then puffs, and uses the table as an ashtray. Wonder if my face is gonna be in it in a moment. And right when I'm a thinkin' if I'll get some more of that iron chokin' air, she goes an' lights up another one. With a smile. And a question.

"What the hell kind of name is Presley King anyway?"

"Could say the same 'bout you," I grinned at her, reading her nametag, "what the hell kind of name is Boyd?"

She smiled a smile that made my blood freeze all spooky. Then she blew a ring into my face, damn near makin' me choke.

"I had terrible parents, Mr. King. The typical sob story one's heard a thousand times. So, what's your excuse?"

"I liked the name."

"A name you stole from an overrated four-hundred-year rotting corpse?"

"Ah, not a fan, I see?"

She narrowed her eyes at me, smirkin'.

"I prefer Blue Grass to be honest, Mr. King. There's a meaning to the lyrics."

"Darling," I smile all my winnin' luck into my pearls, and beam like a star, "meaning's one thing, sure. But it's all about the Jazz, y'know? It's all 'bout the spirit, the energy. Things that oughta make you clap and snap. An' most stuff out there, well lemme tell ya, I'm only listenin' for tears."

"Touching," she smiles again, puttin' out one smoke and gettin' another going faster than you could holler, "and here I was thinking you were just a suit with a cute face and ass."

I raised an eyebrow.

"You noticed?"

"Well," she leaned back in her chair, smirking behind the cloud, "a girl's gotta have an imagination, Mr. King."

Y'know, no need to be all formal at this point. You can call me Presley."

"Why? Am I making you uncomfortable?"

"Well, I'd be lyin' if I didn't say yes. Would you prefer if I called you 'Doll'?"

"A real charmer," she narrowed her eyes, leaning in nice and close, "a wink and a smile, and all your troubles go away? No real consequences for you, huh?"

My eyes narrowed, meetin' hers blow for blow.

"Not always. Oh, and for the record, I didn't steal the name. I took inspiration, sure, but that ain't the same thing."

"Yes. Inspiration," she then plucked out this cliché lookin' folder, an' out came the polaroid's, the sheets… I don't think I've ever seen paper so fine. Then her eyes grew a shade dark, suckin' me in.

"Let's talk about your inspiration, then. The man who inspired you to create a gang of dress ups and give yourself the right to be called King of Freeside."

"I ain't a King."

"Sorry? I didn't catch that."

I leaned in close. Had to resist the urge to snarl.

"I ain't a King. Freeside's never once needed a King, an' I damn well never thought myself as one."

She shrugged, givin' me the 'oh really' look with those dark eyes of hers.

"Well, Mr. King, that's not what your people think. You see, to them, you are their King. They follow you around, obey your rules, immortalize you. So, really, you might as well be one."

"All I do is show them the way. A better way to live."

"Is that what Pacer was doing, Mr. King? Following this better way to live?"

I've never hit a woman, nor I never will. Ain't right of a man. But I ain't got no damn way of excusin' that flushin' feeling there. Hands felt the urge to reach out and—no.

No, I knew this was comin'. It's why I'm here. Why I… I gotta do what I've gots to do. She took my silence as a measure, and she started prying.

"Mr. King, I'm going to be frank with you. 32 people are dead, and if the news I've received is correct, more will be joining them soon."

She then reached into her pile… and they were across my way. Grainy. Black and white. Accusing eyes, and cold bodies. Strewed… mangled… ain't human.

You did this.

A child. Right shade of gray to be blond, and eyes blue. Eyes starin'. Eye's telling.

You.

It ain't real. I know it ain't. But I see in the polaroid's her mouth moving. Her speaking… telling.

Not Gloria. Not Pacer. You.

I close my eyes. I close 'em tight, and I don't open 'em. Somewhere and somehow, I hear the Devil laughing.

"6 of them, Mr. King, were soldiers. Men who were posed there with duty to protect refugees a thousand miles away from home. And the other 26 there? Many of them were fathers. Mothers. Sons and daughters."

I heard her move, slide across the table. Feel her comin' close, that tobacco makin' all the more down and miserable.

"But Pacer, your right-hand man, killed them all, Mr. King. He killed every single one of those people. Soldiers, and civilians, all in one stroke. Without discrimination, without care. So, tell me, Mr. King. Is that your better way? Is it?"

Feelin' hollow ain't a feeling one becomes accustom to… only the dead do. But I know that feelin'. I know the icy, croney fingers making away into my heart to do their deeds and such in me. I felt the feelin' with Nana died. When I was… left alone.

I am alone again.

"Did you give the order, Mr. King?"

I looked up, an' she kept on goin'.

"That is the question, isn't it? The one everybody has been asking. Did the King of Freeside sign the death warrants of innocents? And I must say," she opened another folder, shufflin' through the papers, "the evidence does point that way. Countless confrontations with the Republic Civilians, that little controversy you orchestrated over the water rations? Then, a diplomatic envoy sent to negotiate terms with you and your people ends up in a dumpster, damn near beaten to death. Suffered total loss of vision, but was able enough to identify your people as the perpetrators. And then, you're in the same ditch as Pacer, and he in question is dead."

She then leaned in so damn close I oughta reckon she was the kissin' on the first date type.

"So, tell me, did you order their deaths, Mr. King?"

My eyes bore into hers.

"No."

"No?"

"I did not give any kinda order, direct or indirect, for Pacer to murder those people."

"Maybe," she nodded, leanin' back in her chair as lit another smoke, "which brings me to my next question, Mr. King. Why are you here?"

"Ain't that obvious?"

"To you perhaps. But you see, nobody can make sense of it."

"Let me guess, you do?"

"I have a theory, Mr. King."

I smiled my ol' humbug and I went relaxing in my chair.

"Do tell."

"You've got a big guilty sign around your head, Mr. King. I could tell from the look you had on that pretty face of yours when I threw those photos at each. You see, I didn't really know what kind of man you were. Oh sure, we all heard the stories about you and your loud kind of mysterious. But nobody's ever gotten close enough to see the real you."

"And you can tell me all genuine from just, what… coupla minutes?"

"Oh, you're easy. I expected it would take days to figure you out. Break you down, find the best way to beat you. Might've even had to get physical with you."

"Physical?" I asked with catcher-puss smile, "What way I'd imagine?"

"Notice that dent in the table?"

That I did.

"I put the head of a Raider through it. Knew he was going to be tough, so I figured I would soften him up a bit."

"Did it work?"

She smiled fondly.

"Made his head a bit fuzzy."

I shook my head.

"You really need a new table, doll."

"Nah, I like the table. It's a… nice little reminder of things."

"What things?"

She leaned in close again, elbows and neck craned as she looked me hard in the face.

"That I hold your life, and the fate of Freeside, in my hands."

She leaned right back into her chair, smokin' all without a care:

"Hell, you might as well consider me God. And, by that extension, you should realize that I'm quite literally your only hope."

That's when I felt it. Her hand on mine. Fingers warm and touchy, all got that lovin' grace lookin' to pop you right on in to the stars above.

"I know that you've got a good heart. Otherwise, you wouldn't have looked dead when you saw the girl in the photo. So, work with me here, Presley, and I might be able to help you."

I sighed. I knew this play from a long way aways. Damn right feel like Blue Hawaii, the true King all slung up against the bars, shook up like a coon. But I know this, and I know it well. I ain't got nowhere to go, but forward.

It's why I'm here, ain't it?

"I killed those people."

"I… I don't understand. I thought you said you didn't give an order—"

"No, I didn't. I didn't give no damn order. But Pacer… he didn't kill those people. I did."

"I don't understand."

I closed my eyes. I could see 'em there. See 'em jutting cold dead fingers at me.

"You were right 'bout what you said. I ain't gonna lie, but the thought of doin' what Pacer did crossed my mind every damn time somethin' flared up between my people and your people. Sometimes, it was you're doing. Other times… it was mine."

She didn't say nothin'. Just sat there, an' listened. Works for me.

"I was nine when my Nana died. Didn't have any other family. She worked bone and marrow to keep me fed an' goin' did her damn finest to keep her boy from gettin' into trouble. I ain't afraid to admit that more than once I disappointed her."

I shook my head, gettin' all choked up in the moment.

"Freeside… well, it ain't what it is now. Folks would've gladly used a nine-year old to get a fix or even scraps. One thing I had goin' for me was my wit and charm, and other boys got interested in it."

"Pacer."

I nodded.

"Him, and Jeffie Goodman. Ah, Jeffie… may was always my anchor. Damn boy was that kinda goodie-two-shoes, y'know? Rather work for food than steal. Great kid… but I know deep down, it was Pacer who kept us alive. Pacer was born Northside. Hard kid. Grew up knowin' how to break kids twice his size. And with me, he could've broke me in two."

"But he didn't?"

"Said he liked me. Said he wanted to keep me safe. Jeffie called him a punk, but I didn't care. He was my punk. And so, it went for years. Both of 'em stuck by me over the years. Even when I became the King. Things went the same, really. Jeffie was there to keep me good, Pacer to keep me breathin'. And it worked… but I should've seen it."

"Seen what, exactly?"

"Jeffie was always a'talkin' truth. Never lied, ol' Jeffie. Would say hard truths even you didn't like it. And what he said 'bout Pacer… I should've listened. He always used to say 'Pace isn't about the Cause, Presley. He doesn't care about Freeside. He only cares about you, and that's a dangerous thing. What happens when protecting Freeside and protecting you becomes two very different things?'"

Silence. She was listenin' again. Felt my hands go into my pockets, my head goin' on spinnin' for what's next.

"It was there, too. Goddamnit… I should've put my damn foot down when he started seein' Gloria."

She raised an eyebrow.

"Gloria Van Graff?"

"Uh huh. Sweet on him, she was. I knew the truth, though. Gettin' her talons in him, she was. But I knew Pacer was made of tougher stuff. No damn way he was gettin' twisted."

My eyes closed as I bent chin towards the screamin' table.

"I was wrong. He got twisted. But that ain't it."

"Then what was?"

"Me. Way I went about things. Way I went about your people. I'd seen House squash folks like a bug and I knew same thing was gonna happen to Freeside if I let it. I let that fear shape me… and I let it shape Pace."

I looked up at her, an' I… I damn well had to hold back the cryin'.

"I made him into a monster. I made him, and I let him loose, and now… now everything I have is bein' held at the throat."

I felt her nod, an' I heard the shufflin' of papers my way.

"Major Kiernan stated that she believed you shot him. Is this true?"

I nodded.

"I made him. I put him on the path, an' like a rabid pooch, he bit. He was mine, and mine alone to put down."

"Mr. King… Presley," she closed the air again, "I understand why you did what you did. But you shouldn't have shot Pacer."

"Why you say that?"

"Mr. King, people want blood. People want somebody to pay for what happened. And with Pacer gone… that leaves just you."

"Better that way."

"Why's that?"

"I... Pacer told me I didn't have the balls to do what needed to be done. Told me... told me he took those people from their families cause it needed to be done. And now... now, here we are. My people... your people? Well, a lot of folk are gonna die. Your people... and all of mine. But... what if that didn't need to happen?"

"Mr. King… are we talking about terms of surrender?"

"No, not surrender. Negotiation. Deal-makin' and all that."

"Mr. King, I don't know how my superiors are going to react to that."

"I know," I smiled, "why don't I ask 'em?"

I then turned to my reflection. Trust me, I know two-way when I see it. An' I got a damn-golly good idea who's oglin' behind it.

"I know what you did."

"Mr. King," Boyd laughed, "you and I are the only ones here."

"Run along, doll," I charmed all my charmed through my very fine lips, "you've done your bit."

I knew smiled at the glass.

"I know what you did, an' what you were meanin'. I know you been itching for an excuse to kill us. I know the Van Graff's were your puppets. I know that you set him up for a fall. I know all this."

I leaned forward, my elbows on my knees.

"I also know that you didn't want me. Nah, you been wantin' a piece of meat to flail around. Hold over us. Put 'em on trial, humiliate us? But you ain't gonna do that. You ain't gonna do that with me. You hear me? You're gonna deal. You're gonna deal with me. Cause if you don't... well, you're gonna need to make a lot of coffins... and a lot of flags."

Somewhere behind the glass, I could feel somebody snarl.