It's a quiet night on the outskirts of Vegas. A constant cool breeze compliments the distant repetitive lull of weaponsfire, moonlight guides every careful step and maneuver. The stagnant southern ruins sit bleakly in front of the city lights without even a clue that someone was passing through. Aside from the occasional glint of a campfire, no one walks the pathways of packed dirt and sundered gravel.
Anatolius pokes his head out from the side of a derelict home, casting an analytic glance down the 'road'. Nothing. Not even drugged-up Fiends for target practice. With grace previously unseen, he dashes across the street into the shadows of a garage awning and reaches the end. To the west is the Sharecropping farms he's been reconnoitering for several weeks; he keeps his head low as he passes by and skirts the perimeter of the Aerotech Office Park. Neither NCR nor civilian alike detect his presence.
The sounds of life wane out the more he removes himself from this debauched society. He enjoys the silence.
Just a quarter-mille south, a rusted metal shack comes into view. A few blackbirds picking at refuse near the door don't even know someone's approaching and frantically scatter to the sky with trills of protest once they sense the man. Now standing outside the improvised doorway, a key flashes in his hand.
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The Legionary's safe-house is just how he left it-
Clean. Full of guns. Completely functioning with running water and electricity. No vermin, no mold. Not all Frumentarii get their own; just the ones who stick around long enough to withstand the petulance of Edward Sallow and survive for years thereafter. In other words- hardly anyone.
Upon sliding the grated slab of metal to the side, he enters the modest confines, turns on an electric lamp on a table crammed into the back, then lets his body weight hit the armchair beneath him. His taught muscles melt away, leaving him with only the pains inside himself as he looks around. The room appears much larger on the inside. Conventional firearms of all kinds and sizes line the four walls, a bed sits unused in the back corner with a set of armor sprawled on it, all adjacent to a weapon's bench and reloading station. Every square foot is used effectively and is completely devoid of clutter or ineffectuality- a headquarters for a single person.
Anatolius leans back in his armchair, running his hand over his shaved head.
There's a ham radio sitting on the table. It taunts him. The man only acknowledges its existence but with wary glances that are few and far between, seemingly waiting for something to happen. He reaches for a small notebook next to it; a weathered pocket journal with a long forgotten emblem imprinted over a crimson leather casing. Wiping away a few denarius and picking it up, he grabs a nearby pencil and thumbs through the many pages, all detailing his time 'incognitus' among the civilians of New Vegas. There are almost captious amounts of Latin phraseology imbedded in the writing. What little that was learned through experience undercover turns the tone to disdainful and begrudging as opposed to earlier accounts of a more indifferent attitude. Most groups, as well as some of the Families of Vegas, are annotated as almost guaranteed future enemies who will become subservient or will be outright destroyed.
Flipping to a blank page he begins writing…
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Day 44, 12/23/81
I've found her (The sentence fragment has been scribbled out until almost illegible)
I have made contact and done business with the California-based Van Graffs, per my third tour of reconnaissance under Caesar's order. It has taken but two days to realize their true nature typical of most merchant houses; shrewd, cold, and cunning businesspeople whom will kill anyone that undercuts or merely competes with them. They seemed ideal for open-trade relations with the Legion, until I peeled back the layers like a pre-war gilded mantelpiece. Like the architecture, they are cheap and dirty, at the heart a sadistic family business with a troupe of hired thugs led by an even more sadistic half-brother. Their weapons are of poor quality and not to be trusted. Additionally, none of these profligates deserve status in our ranks and should be put to death. There is only one man worthy of service, whose name I have mentioned in the album redemptionis.
That same man has led me to the assumed location of the girl with the platinum chip.
Now it is only a matter of waiting, and time.
Time is just time…
But she won't wait.
Pro Quantum Bonus Vir
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His handwriting gets a little shaky towards the end as he tries keeping it strictly professional, but then the radio chimes and rattles him from his brooding.
Anatolius quickly flicks a few buttons and calibrates the largest knob on the device. A signal comes into focus,
"Ave, Mr. East," a sly, snake-like voice cuts into the cozy atmosphere of the shack.
"Mr. Fox."
"I assume you have made contact?"
"Ita Vero," the man speaks into the microphone, "We've arranged a contractual agreement. Five days, five thousand caps, then I move up. But there's a problem-"
The inauspicious voice on the other line quakes with a cackling, sinister laughter,
"What, you don't like being door man?" Mr. Fox sneers, quieter now, "Even I thought our Imperator had more faith in you."
Brushing aside the rebuke as best he can, the Frumentarius squelches the anger that brews,
"They remain debased, corrupted beyond any village we have pacified. The house is not worthy of business."
"Then find their weakness and give us a way to end their dissolution. It is easy, not a 'problem', Mr. East. You know at least that much."
He wants to cringe every time he hears his moniker. It's a pseudonym he would gladly pass on to the Legate.
"I know where the chip is," the man leans closer,
silence and static permeate the airwaves.
"She still has it."
"How can you be certain?"
"My watch partner told me. She's done business with them."
"And you believe him?"
"He's trustworthy enough," he begins, drawing a deep breath into his lungs, "I want to go after her."
"We have an entire fractioned Centuriae looking for her; all they need is a location."
"They can't go where she's going… I can."
There is a momentary relapse of silence,
"Go on…"
"Westside. The city within a city- even you haven't been there. That's where she'll be."
"Hmm…"
"If she's not there?"
"I have reason to believe she intends to travel to a Vault. Given her trail, it would have to be 19, 3, or 22," unmistakable zeal flavors Anatolius' words.
"Very well. What you do outside of your current job is of your own accord, but do not let your past cloud your sight of the future. We'll have a Contubernia each head towards Vaults 19 and 22, while sending a scouting party to watch the Fiends at the West Ruins. Use them to your advantage- meanwhile- I shall report this to our Imperator."
"Gratias ago." He's relieved- extremely.
"Just remember where your orders are coming from. If it weren't for his vision and leadership, we would still be savages desperate to kill each other… now we stand on the pinnacle of greatness.."
"..Contact will go as scheduled," Mr. Fox's voice gains an edge of finality.
"Understood. Vale."
"Vale."
The radio cuts out, leaving the man with the silence of the night.
Standing up, empowered, he strips back down to clothing and paces over to his bed, examining the black recon armor laid out, a nondescript bottle of purified water in his hand. With the moon almost at three-quarters, the Legionary will need low-reflective gear. Because of the distance, he needs lightweight weaponry, and because of the danger, needs to keep it stealthy and low key. He crosses his arms and stares out at the armaments hanging from the walls, pondering…
Within five minutes, Anatolius is armed and armored to the teeth,
ready to embrace whatever it is his fate may be-
He opens the door and ventures out into the Mojave.
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Just to clarify... mille is a Roman mile (no shit, right?), and is measured at 4840 feet.
Also, I plan on doing a future collab with L.A. Ranger with this story and his own, The Ballad of Mattias Juno
Go check it out!