Disclaimer: I do not own.

He had known she would come. That was a given. Offered the chance to waltz into the Legion's camp, all past misdeeds forgiven, and with him dangled as the prize? How could she resist?

Pussycat walked into Caesar's tent as though she owned it. The Legion didn't like fiends, and she was dressed head to toe like she'd been born and raised in the South Vegas ruins. Pure fiend territory. She didn't even glance at him, which Benny thought was cold—the least the gal could do was acknowledge he was there. He wasn't in the best of shape at the moment, not with the nice black eye and bruises he had going, but the broad could have at least said hello. Even if he wasn't allowed to talk back.

It was laughable how thoroughly unprepared Baldie was for dealing with her.

"A man nearly kills you, and you track him across the breadth of the Mojave?"

And screw his brains out, Benny added silently.

She didn't answer him immediately. Since they had last knocked socks, Benny had come to the realization that she wasn't a talker. Her lips were pressed tightly together, and she looked irritated that Baldie was expecting a verbalized answer. Benny could see how she might interpret it as being rhetorical; and when it was clear that it was not, why she might view it as a question that didn't need to be answered. Of course it was obvious that, yes, she was going to chase him across the fucking desert! She was here, wasn't she?

Vulpes Inculta crossed the distance between and hissed into her ear, loud enough for the tent to hear, "When Caesar asks you a question, he expects you to answer him promptly."

The Courier snapped at him. The tent jumped; she had actually bitten at the air just inches away from the man's face, and if she'd been any closer, might have taken his ear off. It took all of Benny's willpower not to burst into laughter—they looked so shocked!—but he didn't fancy another beating. He could have warned them that she wasn't quite right in the head. Benny wondered if this was his fault; perhaps his bullet really had scrambled her egg.

With as much venom as she could pour into a single word, she uttered, "Yes."

It was easy to see that she and Baldie were like two Bighorner Bulls. They were locking horns, and Benny wasn't even sure if Baldie had a chance of winning this one. Caesar liked to hear himself talk, and his nutso courier liked to keep her mouth shut. It would be a great arrangement if Baldie didn't insist on having a fucking echo chamber. Benny had to admit he had a mouth on him, but he could still dig the quiet chicks. Baldie took silence for insubordination.

"Talk to Benny on your way out," Baldie said, sitting back in his throne. He seemed rather self-satisfied. The courier was silent. "He knows I'm going to let you decide how he dies. Maybe you want to remind him."

Benny grimaced. Yes, there was that little detail. She hadn't killed him back at the Tops, but with this opportunity handed to her, trussed on a golden platter, what was she going to do? Turn it down? Not bloody likely.

But she didn't talk to him. Instead, she left without another word. He shouldn't have been surprised, really. She wasn't much for conversation, and given the sorry state he was in, he wasn't even sure she would find the situation worth gloating over. Baldie might, but not her.

She hadn't been gone for more than a minute before Vulpes Inculta finally found the courage to speak:

"She's a degenerate."

Benny thought that just about summed her up.

He wondered if she was going to destroy the bunker like Baldie wanted. He wished she had come to him first so that he could at least persuade her otherwise. She generally didn't seem to be one for following orders, but if she didn't know the value of what was under the weather station, she might have no problem bringing it down. Possibly just to spite House.

He didn't know how long she had been gone, but when the ground shook, he feared the worst.

When she returned, she was missing her devil-curled horned helm. There were black smears across her face, and Benny guessed that whatever was down there had tried to blast her to bits. It clearly hadn't succeeded. It was almost beautiful, really, how unstoppable she seemed; Benny suspected that she'd react just the same if she had an arm or a leg blown off. Hell, she'd had her brains blasted and that hadn't stopped her. She took a licking and kept on ticking.

Her conversation with Baldie was in low tones, too soft for him to hear, but Benny got the impression that high-and-mighty on his throne was pleased.

And then at long last, she approached him.

"Go ahead and laugh, baby," Benny said, as she bent down on her haunches so that they were face to face. "I ain't blind to the humor in this situation."

She pressed her lips together, and Benny had the idea that she might be thinking.

"Don't tell me you didn't take your own sweet time down in that bunker planning how to off me, baby. Speaking of which," Benny said, leaning forward and lowering his voice for just her ears, "mind telling me what was down there?"

She licked her lips. "Securitrons," she said. And then she smiled, and it was a real smile, like the one she had after he answered all her questions at the Tops. "Hundreds of them. All upgraded."

"So all this time, the old man had an entire army on lay-away?" Benny breathed. "Clever player."

It was a shame he'd never get to use them. He had hoped that if he had access to the terminals down in the bunker, he'd have been able to patch Yes-Man in and reprogram them. That dream was in ashes now, but he was relieved about one thing: pussycat hadn't destroyed them. Baldie wanted the place blown sky-high, and she had clearly lied to his face. He could only imagine the look on Baldie's face when all those securitrons came pouring out on judgment day. He'd pay to have that bronzed!

He was snapped out of his thoughts when she said, "Caesar says I get to decide how you die."

"You don't beat around the bush, do you?" Benny grimaced. "Which way are you leaning, baby?"

Her expression was one of curiosity, like a small child poking a dead bloatfly with a stick. "What if I helped you escape?"

Benny thought his heart might leap out the back of his throat—was she serious?

"Baby, I know I been bad, but it's cruel to jerk me around like this…"

"Crucifixion, then." She stood up.

He was already resigned to the fact that in all likelihood, he wasn't getting out of this shindig alive. But he'd at least been hoping for a quick death, and that meant as far as going went, being crucified wasn't at the top of his list.

"Don't do that, baby, not crucifixion," he pleaded. She didn't look the least bit moved, and he wondered if this was some kind of twisted justice—that he shot her and fucked her brain up so bad that she couldn't spare the human decency to just kill him quickly. "I could be up there for days, with those twisted creeps laughing and pointing!"

She considered him for a moment, and then leaned over. She stuck a hand in his jacket pocket, where the butt of his beloved pistol was just barely visible. The Legion hadn't cared that he still had a pistol on him—he had no bullets, and they had no use for such a low-caliber weapon. She pulled it out, snapped out the magazine to check for ammo, and then stuck it in her pocket. She gave him a last once-over, and then turned to the guard.

"I meant what I said."

The Praetorian gave her a blank look, not quite following her intention.

"Crucify him."

"You sick, vindictive fuck," Benny spat.

"It's no less than what you deserve."

There was zero inflection to her voice, but it didn't matter. The point had been made. Not another word needed to be said—it couldn't be any clearer who had lost. The question, Benny thought bitterly, as he was hauled to his feet, was who had won. Her, or Baldie? Sure, she had lied to his face, but the Legion still got the joy of putting him up on a stick.

He struggled, hoping they might turn on him; there was no way he could escape, but if they lost their temper, they might just dash his brains in for him. He cursed and taunted them as they dragged him out of the tent and across the camp, and past the doors that led to the crosses overlooking the gates below. One of them threatened to cut out his tongue, but Pussycat grabbed the man's hand before he could reach for his machete.

"No," she admonished, as though she were scolding a naughty dog. The irony was that Rex was sitting at her heels, perfectly well behaved, and had fixed the legionnaire with an equally stern look.

Benny kicked him. The Praetorian's fist met with his face. He tasted blood, and spat it on the man's armor.

"Come on!" he sneered, still dragging his feet in the dirt while they dragged him to the cross. "If that's how you punch, it's no wonder the NCR's been kicking your ass up and down the Mo—"

The Praetorian's fist raised for another blow.

"I said no!"

The Praetorian's fist stopped inches away from Benny's face. Benny stared at her.

"At least let me cut out his tongue!" the Praetorian demanded.

His pussycat walked up to the man with a dangerous sway, and slowly placed her hand on his arm. And then abruptly tightened her grip, causing the man to hiss as her nails dug into his flesh.

"I don't like repeating myself," she said softly.

The Legionnaires got the hint. Benny looked at her in disbelief as they hauled him the last few meters to the nearest cross, and forced him back to his knees.

"Come on, Pussycat," he begged. "Anything but this!"

She watched with almost silent indifference as they strapped his arms and legs in place. He wondered if he could bite his tongue out—drowning in his own blood would surely be faster than this!

"Go away."

"I beg your pardon?" The man who had tortured him earlier—Lucius, Benny thought his name might be—did not look happy at being given orders. But she was an esteemed guest of Caesar's, and that meant that for now, he had to be polite to her. Even if she was a woman.

"You did your job. Leave."

The Praetorians all exchanged looks, as though they weren't quite sure what to do. A few scuffed the ground at their feet and turned to Lucius, not sure how to handle this. Normally, Benny was sure, such rudeness would have earned her a beating to teach her place. But she bore the Mark of Caesar and, at least in regards to Benny's execution, they were supposed to obey.

He was glad he was able to find some perverse, twisted enjoyment in their discomfiture.

And then Lucius turned to leave. The rest followed. She waited until they had gone, and then moved to stand in front of him.

"Comfortable?" She asked airily.

"I have nothing to say to you," Benny replied sullenly.

She reached into her pocket, withdrawing Maria. There was a ka-chunk as she replaced the magazine, and removed the safety. She backed up several feet, squared herself, and pointed Maria at him.

"That's fine," she said. "Don't move."

He didn't have time to crack a response. Her finger twitched; the gun fired, and he registered the sharp, sudden pain of the bullet entering his skull.

~o~O~o~

He woke up dizzy and disoriented. His vision was fuzzy, and his tongue felt thick, like he hadn't had a drink in days. He twitched his fingers, feeling the mattress underneath his body, and dug them in as though to hold on for dear life. The room was swaying around him, but he was finally able to vaguely make out where he was. Ceiling fans swinging overhead, plaster ceiling, and sunlight streaming in through curtains…

He squinted. He could make out the faint haze of the world outside through the cracked windows—old rundown buildings, a windmill, bighorners moseying about…

Goodsprings?

He jerked when something crumpled under his head, like the crackle of paper, and he groaned when he turned his head too quickly. There was a chair by his bed, and there was someone sitting in it. When his vision finally righted itself, he realized who it was.

"I'm in hell, aren't I," he wheezed.

Pussycat didn't answer, but she looked pleased.

"You shot me," he muttered, gazing at her with something akin to wonder and disbelief. He reached behind his head and removed the piece of paper tucked under it; a moment to clear his blurry vision, and he realized it was the letter he'd written her before scramming. He let it drop to the bed, where it slid off and fell to the floor. "You crucified me and shot me in the head…"

She smiled.

"I'm not saying I didn't deserve it, Pussycat," Benny said, turning his head so that he was staring at the ceiling again, "but you didn't have to make a big production out of it."

"You keep calling me that."

"What?" His brain worked to try and figure out what she was referring to. He squinted at her. "…Pussycat?"

"My name is Six."

He turned to look at her again.

"Six," he repeated.

"Courier Six."

He frowned, not sure if she was joking. Come to think of it—he'd shot her, screwed her, made her chase him halfway across the desert and then some, and he had never thought to ask her name. Somehow, thinking of her as Pussycat had simply stuck. Courier Six couldn't be her real name. Then again, if his bullet had thrown her for a loop—

"You don't remember your name, do you?" he muttered.

"Do you?"

"Of course," he croaked. "Benny."

She gave him a silent stare. He wondered if he was supposed to feel sorry for her, but all he could think about was the fact that if shooting her in the head had resulted in this, what was a bullet in the brain going to do to him?

She reached down and that was when he realized her cyber-dog was lying at her feet. She stroked his ears, never taking her eyes off of Benny. The dog let out a low whine.

"What happens now?" he whispered.

"Well," she said, straightening, "you have two choices."

"Sing, baby. You got a captive audience."

He reached out an arm and fumbled for the nightstand, where there was a glass of water—at least, he hoped it was water—and she pushed it into his reach. He slowly sat up, his vision blackening for a moment, and then lifted the glass to his parched lips.

"You can decide to walk away," she said.

He lowered the glass and gave her a hopeful look. "You mean it, Pussycat?"

"If you do…" She reached into her pocket and pulled out a lighter. It looked familiar to him, and for a moment, he couldn't place it—and then he realized it was his. The engraved lighter the Khans had nicked off him. "I'll shove this up your ass."

"Baby, you're not serious."

"Jessup sends his love."

"I should have put two holes in your head, Pussycat," Benny said, wetting his lips on the glass before drinking it. "Maybe that would have keep you down."

"I do so love symmetry," she remarked.

"Alright," he conceded unhappily, "what's the second option?"

For a long moment, she didn't answer. She just sat there, scratching Rex's ears, never taking her eyes off him.

At last, she said, "You can help me take over New Vegas."