Number Nine

by Hija de la Tempestad

Vulpes Inculta is tasked with contacting Courier Six who, besides not being what the Legion might need in the upcoming battle for the Dam, is more interested in adding him to her ragtag group than playing politics. Vulpes thinks he has played this same old game countless times... until he finds that he might be enjoying what she offers. That's when shit starts hitting the fan.

41. Scarface (Push it to the limit)

"Number Nine"

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Ch. 41: Scarface (Push it to the limit).

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Warning: sensitive material ahead. This chapter contains references to PTSD, gore, and violence. Tread with caution.

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"Going for the back of beyond,
nothing gonna stop you, there's nothing that's wrong.
So close now you're nearly at the brink.
So push it, ooh yeah.

Welcome to the limit (the limit).
Take it baby, one step more,
the power game's still playing so you better win it."

- Paul Engemann, "Scarface (Push it to the limit)"

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The bathroom excursion had taken a bit longer than expected.

Not that Six was complaining.

If she had known Zorro would be into aquatic wars using showerheads as a weapon of choice, she would have been the one initiating it.

Because, for once, he had been the one starting the whole thing.

Even if she hadn't appreciated being restrained as he had sequestered her inside one of the showers (without even getting out of the wheelchair) until she had gotten as soaked as a sardine – all for just mocking his Vexillarius headdress a little, saying it was 'cute' having legionaries wearing little ears and a muzzle -, she admitted she could appreciate a good ambush.

After that, they had shared some sweet, sweet facetime and stuff.

However, due to their aquatic fun, they had to resort to wearing Vault suits that the former raider residents had left untouched while waiting for their tactical Power Armor undersuits to dry on their own.

For Six, it felt weird using one of those again. But it felt even weirder seeing her handsome legionary wearing one.

Like, she couldn't stop staring at him from her privileged position behind, pushing the wheelchair onwards.

The damn thing suited him down to a tee, hugging his form in all the right places. She couldn't take her eyes off him.

It didn't help that her addled, swooning brain couldn't resist its nerd nature about finding hidden meanings in the yellow numbers printed on the synthetic blue fabric.

24. Two plus four equals Six. And Six, in Roman numbers, was written as VI. And VI was his Legion name's acronym. His Legion name meant 'Savage Fox', and 'F' from 'Fox' was the sixth letter in the alphabet.

The more those intrusive thoughts kept creeping into her subconsciousness, the more she had to refrain from squealing uncontrollably.

This was Gabban's fault, for appointing himself as her accomplice in her getting her merry paws on the Fox with total impunity.

Epictetus once said that 'a ship should not ride on a single anchor, nor life on a single hope'.

But hopeful, she felt again. Giddily so.

Stupidly so.

To the point that she'd rather put aside Greek stoicism and replace it with Roman romanticism by answering 'Dum spiro spero'. (1)

Which wasn't any close to rational, if she thought it carefully… but who wants reason over the intoxication much sweeter feelings provide to the avid heart?

In the course of a week, she had lost and regained hope about having him all to herself so many times that she knew her mood was quite unstable. She felt giddy, nervous, fearful, violent… all while experiencing how her libido, which had been relegated to the works of her mind throughout her adolescence, was turning more unpredictable as of late.

Meaning by this that she was getting increasingly touchy, nibbling, and grabbing whenever she got the chance with her legionary. He already sported two hickeys on that long throat of his, and she couldn't help how excited and embarrassed their sight made her.

She wasn't sure if she was pushing boundaries (not that he had called her out for it anyway) too far, but the overall novelty was making her bolder than usual.

Again, it was her revived hope.

She drove him to the Cafeteria, dodging raider corpses none of the Frumentarii had bothered to clean, since they didn't plan on staying much longer anyway.

She and Zorro found them eating synthetic burgers and an indecent variety of candy they probably had managed to pry from the vending machines.

"About time." – Gabban greeted them with a full mouth, giving crumbs of meat to Rex from time to time to frown upon seeing their attires almost immediately – "What the hell happened with the undersuits?"

"Filthy and grimy." – she replied without missing a beat, trying to sound casual as the dog received her happily by lapping at her hand – "They're drying now; we had to wash them."

"Well, at least blue's neater than that ugly orange, for sure." – the newcomer commented, eyeing them with envy – "Any chances of more of those around? I'm sick of wearing this shit." – he added, signaling his dirty jumpsuit.

"Sure." – she nodded – "Just rummage around the dressers of the old living quarters. They're all unisex and universal size, so pick the best-looking. Only thing you'll have to check is the boots' size."

The guy beamed at that, got up from the diner seats, and left the Cafeteria as dandy as candy.

She neared Zorro's wheelchair to the diner table where his brother was, Rex tailing her for more meat and, once she came back with pre-packaged heated burgers and more Nukas, her legionary gave her a bizarre look.

"What?" – she asked, sitting next to Miguel, who sandwiched his cousin a little to let her in.

"Nothing." – Zorro said, to promptly picking up his burger and beginning to eat in silence.

She ate hers as well, knowing exactly what was crossing that mind of his.

The newcomer, Erasmus (yeah, she had typed it down on her name database so she won't forget), was Asian. Maybe a bit diluted, since his bone structure spoke of mixed lineages and he had the same electric blue eyes so prevalent among Zorro's family, but Asian nonetheless.

It had unnerved her at first, but the guy seemed nice enough and was quick on the take that she didn't like him close to her, so he kept a respectful distance.

At least, this way, she could tolerate his presence without flipping out.

It wasn't that she wished him any ill… It was more like she wished he wouldn't face her when they spoke.

That way, she wouldn't have to remember that phantom pain very few people, besides ghouls, could relate to nowadays. A pain buried beneath the ashes of the Old World and the glowing, radioactive waters of Boston.

"Present Arms!"

A pain her military Government had forced her to inflict when…

"Ready!"

Please, no… not now… not here…

"Aim!"

Nononononononononono...

"Fire!"

The food she was masticating, suddenly, tasted horrible, and the familiar gag reflex made her cover her mouth as she doubled over. Rex whined by her side.

"Restrain her!" – she heard Zorro barking when she attempted to rise from her seat and make a dash for the bathroom. A pair of strong arms seized her from behind as the familiar long, dry hand of her legionary grabbed her mandible and forcibly inclined it backward, closing her mouth – "Swallow." – he ordered, voice deadly cold – "Swallow."

It took a good deal of willpower to do so, as tears of impotence and disgust rolled down her cheeks until the food came down again and she was released, trembling like jelly, lips dry, nose wet, and with one hell of a headache.

"Shiiiiit…" – Gabban was the first to open his mouth, eyeing her with the same bizarre look Zorro had given her before – "That's gonna be a problem."

"Indeed." – Zorro agreed, eyeing her carefully – "Whose was the brilliant idea of inviting Erasmus over?"

All the men lowered their gazes until Gabban spoke up again.

"It was either him or Cato Hostilius." – he explained – "We still need to cover up Titus' absence. Caesar allowed seven of us to be trained, and I don't think we have as many alternatives as we had before the NCR filled Cottonwood Cove up with radioactive crap." – seeing Zorro's somber visage at that, he added – "Just stating out facts, Fox. We're pretty screwed up as we are right now."

Zorro pinched the bridge of his nose tiredly, nodding absentmindedly.

"Very well." – he huffed – "Everybody, finish your meal and get back to Power Armor training. We are running on a tight schedule." – raising his eyes back to her, he emphasized – "You too." – watching her flinch, unable as she was to conceal her disgust, he pressed – "Eat."

Taking a few shaky breaths, she retook the half-eaten burger, and her eyes got fixed on the meat between the two spongy slices of bread and soft cheese, feeling nausea hitting her again.

Six raised her eyes and noticed everyone was looking at her intently, even the dog, which only served to make her increasingly self-conscious. These macho-men Legion guys must think she was pathetic.

Or worse: pitiful.

She took a bite and knew she was making a face because the more she kept munching and not swallowing, the harder the stare she got from Zorro.

"Swallow it." – he ordered, and she struggled to do so, wanting to vomit pretty badly – "You spit it; you're taking an extra bite of whatever else I can find. You start gagging; I'm doing the very same I did minutes ago." – when she directed him a hateful glare, he responded with an unwavering stare – "Your choice."

He could be quite the asshole when he wanted.

Thus, the rest of the meal went on pretty intensely, with Six hating everything and everyone while the rest kept eating with an eye on her should they have to force her to swallow again.

It was humiliating, and she had half a mind about throwing a fit, which would only serve to worsen things.

"Hey, these are pretty comfy. You guys should totally try them on…" – to make things more awkward, the new guy came back wearing a blue Vault jumpsuit until he noticed the odd atmosphere – "O… kay. I'm not sure if I want to ask who died just now."

Zorro gave him a stern look, and the other actually shrunk on the spot.

"Then it would be wise of you not to open your mouth at all, wouldn't it, Erasmus?" – he hissed, evidently displeased at having to even talk to him, to switch his tune to his current monochord-asshole mood immediately – "Are you done?" – he asked expectantly, warning her with his eyes silently to swallow the last bite she kept postponing gulping down, which she, in the end, did – "Good. Now let us go back to training. We need a half-decent performance if we want to move in those things." – he added, rising slowly from his wheelchair, baring teeth to anyone who dared lend him a hand.

She followed him already picturing in her head in great detail punching him in the face. Or kicking his pesky butt. Whatever worked just nicely for her.

Asshole. He was worse than a drill instructor.

She remained pissy and perhaps a little too emotional when she huffed instructions again grumpily, watching each one of them using the Armors rather clumsily… until it was Zorro's turn.

Doing all the wrong stuff all over again. It was driving her nuts.

Six knew this was an infantile excuse to get back at him for making her swallow one of the worst meals of her whole life, but she took the opportunity avidly.

"Stop! Stop! STOP!" – she exclaimed angrily, turning the wheel on the back until she opened the Armor and kicked the servos' mechanism where it would remain open despite movement – "Stop fighting the armor, damnit." – not waiting for permission, she grabbed him by the shoulders from behind – "Back straight, shoulders relaxed. Hold your stomach. And stop grabbing the manual controls like a machete; you look like my granny on a rollercoaster." – she bit her cheek when one of the Frumentarii snorted at that, earning a murdering glare from Zorro – "Let it slide. Get it?"

"Slide?" – he asked, as affronted as puzzled.

"Yeah, like…" – she stepped onto the opened Power Armor and grabbed a little awkwardly his right arm from behind, struggling with the height difference while resisting the impulse to bite him between his shoulder blades (What? She was pissy, alright, but he was still yummy nonetheless), pinching his forearm to will him to relax his prehensile grasp – "You don't carry the armor. You ARE the armor." – and then, he managed a tentative smooth movement with his arm – "That's it. Like that."

Stepping out and kicking the closing mechanism again, the Power Armor embraced his form once more, and he, for a moment, seemed lost until he started moving his arms and fingers, opening and closing fists.

While he was distracted, she got into the other Armor and faced him.

"Your hand." – she said, extending the servos' hand, meeting a tentative grasp – "Now follow."

They practiced a few steps onwards and backwards, then a 360° twirl.

"Dodge." – she said, throwing a half-hearted punch at him that he, instead, caught in his own fist – "Nice catch." – she complimented – "Now keep your balance no matter what."

She then proceeded to shove him from all angles. He was two or three times this close to kissing the floor, but overall, he was a fast learner.

"Nice. You'll get soon to do even this." – she joked, making a complicated, overall silly dance maneuver ending in a dab pose that only got her blank, intensely dull stares. Legion guys, they got no sense of humor – "Okay, maybe something cooler?" – she then proceeded to search an empty table far enough from them – "Like this?"

And so, without further ado, she bore a hole through the piece of furniture with a single punch.

That got her several 'Oooh!'s until Zorro went walking carefully with his newly-discovered nimbleness on Power Armor and grabbed a raider corpse as one would do with a ragdoll and… dismembered it by merely pulling opposite directions with his arms, showering himself and his surroundings in deep carmine.

Used as she was to gore and blood, the reason she flinched had nothing to do with the result but the action behind it.

She also saw Gabban, Miguel, and Erasmus flinching while the other three roared excitedly, yelling that they wanted to do the same.

Once she got out of the Armor to let them practice, Erasmus got by her side. He didn't touch her, nor did he cross a single look with her, but whispered:

"You have no idea what you have unleashed just now." – he sucked air through his teeth as if what he was seeing was painful – "Look at him." – he added, signaling Zorro with his head as the Master Frumentarius got out of the Armor – "He's like a child with fifty candy boxes all to himself. Dunno if I should be creeped out… or just plain sad, to be honest."

And she couldn't help but agree once he finished instructing Felix, who flinched minimally at the physical contact, and turned around with a taut, scissor-like smile. All fangs and malice.

To think… how easily could her perception of him mutate from one second to the next, how differently she saw him when there wasn't war or Legion in the mix.

How distant in her head seemed the boy she liked from the Legion Commander despite both inhabiting the same body, the same mind.

The same heart.

And her? What would he see when he looked at her? Did he see a friend? A companion? A woman?

Did he trust her at all?

He had no idea… of what Vault-Tec had done to her. To all the military in this country.

Would he feel disgusted if he knew… that the girl he embraced had been two syringes away from turning into a supermutant?

She didn't even qualify for blood donation despite having been a universal donor type before Vault 5. A certain amount of their blood literally ate a regular person's bloodstream, or so Arcade had informed her after having gotten himself acquainted with Enclave data she hadn't known their former base in Navarro had once access to.

He had tried to disguise the deal as if having something akin to inverse hemophilia, given the high concentration of proteins, thus, coagulation factors in her blood. But she had known better.

That was something she would have to solve with Doctor Henry in private, so sensitive data definitely got destroyed. If that shit leaked, the NCR's OSI might want to delve into stuff that was better left buried for good. America didn't need to follow in Victor Presper's steps again.

There were many secrets she couldn't share with Zorro. Parts of her personality, of her old life, that were so ugly and wretched no sane person would like to even know about.

She had betrayed people under her command by hunting them like animals. She had betrayed a Master who always made good on his promises as long as she obeyed.

She had technically betrayed her country by blowing up the Enclave's governmental premises in Raven Rock, pretty much as the Arroyo legend, the Chosen One, a descendant of the American pro-Neo Soviet Vault dwellers from Vault 13, had done forty years ago.

Only a Public Enemy would go against everything and everyone for selfish reasons as she was doing right now.

The people from Vault 13, the same as many other tycoons, Ltds, and political groups that had bought their entry into Vault-Tec's social experiments, avoiding the military cleansing through money, had once worked against the interests of the very country that would look the other way as long as there was money involved to win the Sino-American War. And their descendants, whether intentionally or not, had followed in their steps.

If not, why was the Enclave now so demonized as well as the Brotherhood of Steel was regarded as one of the most dangerous pseudo-religious groups throughout the American Wasteland while, on the other hand, people like the Shi of San Francisco thrived among the NCR, descendants of such a mix of radically diverse ideologies and religions that Vault-Tec had put together inside Vault 15 in order to pit them against themselves, so they ended up killing one another?

Hell, the Wasteland and its inhabitants would have been vastly different if RobCo Industries TM had won the federal government contracts to construct the Vaults instead of Vault-Tec Corporation.

That way, maybe the absolute disconnection she felt toward the New California Republic wouldn't be present.

Because there wouldn't be a Republic, to begin with.

Or a Legion, full of Vault descendants that got the short end of the stick regarding their nuclear shelters.

Six knew she was a terrorist. A mercenary one. Basically, because there wasn't a defined cause she worked for, but more like keeping going on with a side as long as that side's goals helped her further her purposes.

She had killed people. She had wiped out or helped to wipe out entire settlements such as Paradise Falls, Mama Dolce's, and the Republic of… some asshole who thought he could establish his own pseudo-Amish Paradise without paying the due toll to Burke.

She had played a crucial role in vaporizing two whole towns from the face of the Earth. All for a man whose ambition knew no bounds. A man she had mistakenly seen as part of her lost world… for a while.

And now that no longer doing such things suited her needs, she had sided with her pre-War contemporary to basically establish a capitalist technocrat autocracy in the middle of nowhere in the hopes that all of that money and tech would help her solve the humongous problems she had back home at Boston, filled to the brim with radioactivity, fucking Replicants, and fourth-generation supermutants.

With all the insidiousness it had entailed, she had never let go of her Little America. She had never sided with the future or even with the present, but with the past.

She hadn't let the Wasteland grow on her, but instead, she had always forced the Wasteland to bend to her needs.

To this day, she hadn't managed to empathize with the post-War mentality, but rather she wanted the post-War to learn to behave on pre-War terms. To speak her language, to share in her madness.

It wasn't a coincidence that all of her companions were mentally flexible enough to get, or be willing to be 'trained' to get, all of her outdated references.

Did Zorro know any of these things? No. Would knowing them serve any other purpose than making her odious and untrustworthy in his eyes? No.

Even she had to admit that, after Arcade had read such shit about her and he still wished to stick around… it took quite the willpower and stomach to see the real person under such a maelstrom of crap. And not everybody shared Arcade's perspective, nor even the willingness to ignore just how incredibly backstabbing and mercurial her nature was.

She was selfish and purely individualistic, two things Zorro had told her in their first encounter that he despised.

Not that he didn't have some traits she found horrendous as well.

And yet…

Whenever their eyes met, like now, she truly felt that, for a second, there was recognition there. A feeling she couldn't quite translate into words.

Even the strongest, most fearsome creature needs their rest and companionship. Beyond kinship and the pure instinct of survival, there was something more primal about sharing togetherness with the one who resembles you the most.

Embracing the notion that what you ultimately seek is an equal reflecting you, making you accept yourself the same you accept them.

And never letting them go.

"Holy mutfruit. Stop with the mellow staring contest, will ya?" – Erasmus grimaced, reaching for one of the Power Armors once Miguel was done with it – "You two are giving me bloody diabetes." – he huffed, getting into the servos to add effect – "To think I would see the day…"

She lowered her gaze as soon as the huffing-and-puffing Frumentarius got far away, walking undignifiedly like a metallic duck while his Commander inched closer, his malicious smirk having softened considerably.

"Have you found our prowess satisfactory… or do we still remind you of a feeble old lady, Courier?" – the aforementioned Commander whispered as soon as he was but inches shy from where she was, making her tummy flutter.

Her reply was slapping him on the shoulder with one of the flexible sleeves of her Vault suit.

"You deserved it." – she said when he gave her a puzzled look in response but accepted her little revenge in silence, watching his men move around.

There were many unsaid things between them, things she knew he intuited but opted to leave them aside in favor of focusing on the task at hand.

"I think we're all good, Fox." – Gabban said from one of the Power Armor suits once he got the gist of moving around in it – "Enough to keep moving, at least."

Zorro observed his brother critically.

"Decent, I would say." – he corrected gravely, arms crossed, weight shifting from one foot to the other, betraying his nervousness – "But decent should be enough… for now."

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They were royally screwed.

This, Aurelius of Phoenix - former leader of the military post Cottonwood Cove, now one of the few remaining guys playing brochette with the motherfucking Lakelurks coming in waves where the NCR had corralled them - knew it very well.

A year ago, he had been one of the few officials with balls enough to try and set camp West of the Colorado, in the near vicinity of Lake Mohave, given the unavoidable Deathclaw trap that the Black Mountains had been by the time the Camp Malpais had been officially dismantled near Dolan Springs, East of the I-93.

Nobody had managed to get even a little closer to the river other than Caesar himself, and Aurelius had wanted a chance to prove that Ciprian of Sedona, a fellow Arizonicus (2) and one hell of an asshole whose Tribunus' (3) position his connections with some top dogs from the Praetorian Guard had bought him, didn't deserve to command troops under Lanius' direct orders.

Aurelius should have been named Tribunus a while ago. His field conquests proved it.

Besides, were not because of him, the Legion would still be at Phoenix's gates, trying to breach through the city's defenses.

He had betrayed his own city after his people had been driven out when he was still a boy, leaving them to rot out there in the desert until the Legion arrived.

Those sons of bitches had gotten what was coming to them. Their blood had bought him glory, and he didn't regret it one bit.

Not for nothing, Aurelius had also been infamously nicknamed among the troops as Phoenixicus Interfectorus, or 'The Killer of Phoenix'.

Besides, being given an Imperial victory title was already an honor. Thus, being nicknamed after the fall of such a large, impenetrable fortress as the city of Phoenix had been, was a pride Aurelius had never hesitated to flaunt around whenever the opportunity arose.

Knowing that only a victory as great as the one Caesar had won over the Profligates at Hoover Dam by setting camp Northeast and never budging an inch despite the numerous assassination attempts the curs had launched with no success thus far would bring the attention he needed, Aurelius had been all too willing to follow the instructions of the most recent addition to the Imperator's Inner Circle.

Vulpes Inculta of the Strawberry Reservoir. An Arizonicus Maximus – a title only a Legion Commander would typically hold - at the tender age of seventeen after the Twisted Hairs' defeat at Dry Wells, even though the mastermind behind it had been his former Master, Callidus Anguis of Sacramento, a Profligate Convert infamous for being as ruthless with his men as he had been with his enemies.

There had been numerous voices whispering that the Serpent had been tempting fate by teaching the ways of the rats to a Creature of Mąʼii, a trickster by nature, one of the many shapes of the Bringers of Chaos. An evil spirit, a chindi.

Or that's how many ignorants chose to see albinos, anyway.

A savage from Utah who had inherited the Commander title after defeating his Master in singular combat at eighteen, not a single respectable Legion officer had wished to support such an opportunistic cur, giving him the cold shoulder after having publicly declared his open disdain toward the very Legatus Legionis, Lanius of Arizona.

But Aurelius had seen an opportunity in such a character, even more when the last Praefectus Praetor, Lucius of Santa Rosa, had wisely chosen middle ground between Lanius and Inculta, sowing doubt among the Red Okies, their Retenti (4) forces who, in turn, spurred by Inculta's insubordinate attitude, had brought up their opposition about the Monster of the East becoming Caesar's inheritor.

This, subsequently, had created a power schism the very Lanius had kept stupidly feeding to this very day by not abiding by Legion's internal politics, uninterested as he was regarding any other front besides warfare.

And so, instead of chasing after Lanius' dick by politically supporting him like many others, Aurelius had volunteered when Inculta had come before the Imperator bearing a plan on how to start a demoralizing campaign that would weaken the NCR claim on Nevada.

Caesar had asked how. Inculta had replied: by setting a camp where an NCR camp had waved its flag proudly, Cottonwood Cove.

It had been fucking suicidal, and Aurelius had loved it. Caesar had asked for volunteers, and Aurelius had said count me in.

But then, besides Silus of Montrose, Gaius Magnus of Kingman, and himself, there had been no other Legion high-ranking officers West of the Colorado willing to risk their careers by following the otherwise brilliant plans of a fucking insane child.

Legatus Tiberius of Mescalero Reservation had been too occupied with his never-ending Campaign in the Texas border to bother with a land two Estates away from his private war against the mutants.

Legatus Cassian of Trinidad had been too comfy in his holding post at Denver after Lanius' Campaign in Colorado to bite the hand that had bought him such a stable, peaceful position surrounded by amenities and all the women he could wish for.

Rector Provinciae (5) Aquila of Vernal, former Legatus, had retired from military service immediately after the demise of the Burned Man five years ago to avoid a confrontation against the very Caesar due to his political support to the disgraced Legatus Legionis throughout his court-martial, and now had a stable position as chief administrator of Legion law at Flagstaff.

Not even Legatus Valerius of Mesquite, a frontiersman, had wanted to dirty his hands on Nevada, likely knowing what the backlash would be as soon as Lanius finished what his predecessor had started years ago: the Utah Campaign. His fear of the Monster of the East had been so great that he had chosen a no-mans land post at Portland, Oregon, to expand the Empire's borders while watching the NCR and the Brotherhood contend against one another for a bunch of pre-War military stockpiles there.

And so, Aurelius' promotion had been delayed indefinitely, unable as he was to leave his post, lest he wanted to end up crucified at The Fort, and even more vulnerable now that he had lost it.

Just like that, without warning, like a fucking cattle prod rammed in his ass.

"Just die, damn you!" – he yelled, having caught one of the beasts once it had come ashore, hacking and slashing maniacally with his machete gladius as he had toppled it, first cutting its arms, then its fucking ugly head - "DIE!"

Before succumbing to decapitation, the beast had managed to bore a nasty gash on his right arm that burned like a bitch. No matter, since Aurelius was left-handed.

That made him mourn his lost armor.

His bloody, beautiful armor.

Luckily, he was awake when they had been attacked, losing a hefty sum in Denarii like a rookie in front of the motherfucking Slavemaster, Canyon Runner, at poker.

What? Caravan sucked, okay? And he preferred card games where there were allowed more than a single adversary, so Severus, his Decanus, had been present too.

The three of them had run like sissies once the guy at the tower post had raised the alarm.

Ironically, Canyon Runner hadn't run fast enough to make it. In contrast, the Centurion and Severus had dodged the radiation wave out of sheer stupid luck by throwing themselves into the water.

And then, a firefight none of them had witnessed but only heard had ensued.

After quite a bit of swimming, the measly forces they had managed to recover out of the two groups on patrol had informed of a man dressed in camo but wearing a distinctly red NCR beret, having escaped the radiation wave by running in the opposite direction from the Overlook.

There had been a good deal of potshots with unidentified shooters. Still, a close examination of a bullet embedded in one of the men's chestplates had confirmed that the attackers had been, to their endless despair, Republicans.

A group of those pussies had made one of them infiltrate by night… and then, like the cowards they were, had employed radioactivity against them.

If they survived long enough to escape this death trap, Inculta was going to kill him if Caesar didn't do it first.

"Damn it!" – Aurelius roared angrily, dodging yet another of the waves those monsters made whenever they opened their mouths, as if commandeering the winds to obey them to cut the air out of their enemies' throats – "Someone, bring me a fucking spear NOW!"

As soon as he got the demanded weapon, a faraway shot embedded itself in his left quadriceps, making him lose balance.

"FFFFFFF-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-U-CK!" – he screamed in rage as soon as what remained of his men dragged him behind the tall, sharp edges of the canyon ridge to see Severus grab the fallen spear and steal Aurelius' victory by impaling the beast as soon as it charged straight away to the riverside. – "Oh fuck, oh crap, oh shit!" – he continued yelling as soon as Urban, their Capsarior, (6) came as swiftly as he could, dragging his sorry ass through the mud and depositing his overstitched medical bag near Aurelius' injured leg – "Do it, damn you!" – he nearly pleaded as soon as he saw the poor sod giving him a fearful, wide-eyed stare that he promptly substituted by a concentrated frown, digging into the blood-filled wound with an iron stylet and his bare hands, popping the bullet out as well as a stream of crimson flooded around the leg with worrying speed – "Clog it, you idiot, or I'm gonna bleed out!"

He nearly tore off the bandages from the hands of the trembling Capsarior while the young man grabbed a belt from his bag and rounded the quadriceps over the dressings Aurelius had done in haste.

He needed that tourniquet now, so Aurelius gritted his teeth as the Capsarior pulled the belt.

The sudden, violent pressure that was put around his leg at the Rectus Femoris muscle nearly made Aurelius yip like a dog, opting instead to continue his string of insults and obscenities, spitting acid bile before recovering and going to grab one of the few rifles they still had loaded angrily to rest it on the sharp rock edges protecting them, and start taking potshots whenever another of those monsters dared rear their ugly heads out of the water.

It was useless trying to return the fire to the Rangers stationed at the other side of the river, who had been ultimately the ones that had put Aurelius and his men in this situation.

After rendezvousing with the men on patrol that luckily had caught not a whiff of radiation, Aurelius had deemed it better to try to save as much as possible from the booth cabins that had been more removed from zone zero, where the rusty barrels had spilled their deadly shit at the foot of the Overlook.

It had been dawning by the time those bastards had ambushed them.

Never before had the NCR dared set foot within miles of the Cove since they had lost the post a year ago, and now there was a fucking squad with what looked like exclusively Rangers ready to give them the hard time neither Aurelius nor his subordinates had had in a long while.

If the radioactivity had killed already more than half of the camp, the Rangers had taken nearly half of the survivors off, rendering the already-dwindling Legion forces a pathetic group of seven or so men, Aurelius and Severus included, that had had to swim back to the Arizona border lest they wanted to end up filled with lead.

In the past, there had been attempts to expand the Cottonwood post beyond the Western shore, trying to encompass the eastern Levi Cove alongside the southwestern Ski Cove and the Cottontail Cove.

Besides being completely unusable, the pre-War premises of the Blue Paradise Vacation Rentals had hosted a vast Lakelurk nest they had wiped out with the sweat of their brows and several casualties along the way.

Whenever they managed to set camp outside Cottonwood Cove's perimeter, Lakelurks constantly invaded.

Throughout the first months of occupation, Inculta had provided them with several batches of Venatores (7) to help with the plague alongside the fire geckos residing at the nearby Fire Root cavern under the Cottonwood Crater, then the glowing radroaches that continuously descended from the cliffs.

That is, until those Venatores kept dying and Caesar finally lost his patience, subsequently denying further help.

This had been the main reason for the raiding skirmishes that Inculta had engineered in the following months: to deprive the Republic of their precious guns and supplies while, simultaneously, arming Cottonwood Cove to the very teeth, making it mandatory for any able man to wield a gun. A perk many Milites had benefitted from, making their encampment stronger than ever.

And so, while not being able to expand the encampment further, Aurelius and his men had managed well enough by maintaining the critters at bay.

But that didn't mean the bloody monsters had stopped their oviposition cycles.

Last time, when Inculta and his Profligate girl had arrived at Cottonwood, the fucking Lakelurks at been at it again… or so the trophies they had brought back from their nightly hunt escapade had eloquently declared.

It was probably thanks to those two lunatics that now, if barely making it, the Cottonwood Cove survivors still drew breath.

By one o'clock in the afternoon, when the sun burned the most, the Lakelurks had stopped their siege. Still, all of the men were tired and hungry, sweating like pigs at their inability to seek solace in the water despite the respite the Rangers had apparently given them.

Which felt weird, in all honesty.

No, not weird, but outrageous. As if they were toying with them.

"Those sons of bitches…" – Aurelius hissed, annoyed and still sore from his leg wound, in all likely infected given the hasty, unsanitary treatment it had received. And he couldn't munch more healing powder, for their reserves were already running tight – "What in the Tartarus are they waiting for?" – tsking, he poked at the swollen tissue around his arm, where the claws of that beast had sunk deeper than he had initially thought – "I'd give my left eye to have a glimpse into their plans…"

The last part, he had mumbled it more for his own comfort than meant to be heard.

"Sir!" – one of the surviving Milites exclaimed in a whisper, nose barely poking above the protective rocky ledge – "More troops have arrived."

"What?!" – Aurelius replied in kind, his tired voice barely a murmur above the placid rumbling of the waters.

"I can count at least four troopers, a guy who looks like a merc, and…" – he hesitated, a fat, greasy droplet of sweat run down his dark throat, just above the jugular as he swallowed audibly – "Power Armors, sir."

Aurelius sucked through his teeth angrily.

This was it. Power Armors.

If those bastards managed to cross the river, he and his men were as good as dead.

A single shot broke the silence. Then another. And another one.

"Wha…" – the spotter blinked, inhaling a sharp breath, taken aback.

"What is it?" – one of his fellow Milites, a wounded red-haired young man, asked as if fearful even to do so – "What's happening out there?"

Even the very Aurelius found himself barely holding his breath, dying to know as well.

"It's…"

"Spill it out, you stultus!" (8) - the wounded redhead, currently lying on the ground while being tended by Urban, spoke again – "Have the Lakelurks gone against them or what?"

"I'm trying, okay?!" – the dark-skinned spotter snapped, glaring daggers at the mouthy redhead – "The heat has created a mist over the river surface, and I can't see it clearly!"

"As long as Lakelurks go away, Chases-Bugs is happy." – a third Miles opined, making Aurelius' ears bleed with his distinctive rough accent and the tribal crap of talking in the third person – "Lakelurks don't make good soup."

Idiots. Why did idiots have to be so adept at surviving? Otherwise, Aurelius wouldn't be surrounded by them.

The spotter squinted his eyes, trying to discern amidst the aforementioned mist that, by the way, was already filtering through the rocky canyon walls, making the legionaries' sweat even worse.

The spotter gasped, then got down, trembling like a leaf.

"What now?" – Aurelius asked tiredly, wishing for once all to be over.

"Lakelurk king at eleven o'clock, sir." – the interpellated whispered nervously.

Fuck me.

"You sure?" – Aurelius tried again, already seeing the men on full alert mode, grabbing the available weapons at hand, their guns having run out of ammo long ago.

"Yes, sir." – the spotter nodded vigorously, grabbing his machete tighter than his dick – "Glowing yellow eyes, long fins, and distinctive chest coloration. No mistake."

Fuck me twice.

Those motherfuckers' air attacks packed quite a punch. Enough to make you shit your guts out.

And they endured a fair amount of blade attacks, which meant at least two men would have to play bait to distract it while another one would have to keep attacking it.

Lakelurk kings were such a pain in the ass.

"Everybody, ready yourselves." – Aurelius said in the lowest voice the men would understand – "If the beast takes a peek behind the rocks, go for the legs. Once it falls down, crush its skull with the first blunt object you can get your hands on."

And so, a deadly silence ensued, only broken by the occasional nervous gulp. All of the eyes and hands readying themselves for immediate action as the heavy breathing of the beast inched closer.

When it paused near the rock salient as if sensing the air, Aurelius corrected his posture with the spear over his good shoulder, all of his body tingling with adrenaline.

As soon as the bald, scaly head of the thing peeked above the rocks, Aurelius yelled 'NOW!', and knives and rocks flew towards it.

Enraged, the beast rounded their defensive barrier, and, once Aurelius allowed his spear to fly, the counterattack shook his whole world in the worst possible manner, making him sputter blood and mucus as his back and head paid the highest price, being slammed to the ground by the sonic wave's strength.

"Aaaaah!" – he heard one of the men yelling like a little girl – "Miserere mei, Mars!" (9)

Once Aurelius' sight got cleared, he then understood why.

Screeching pathetically, the beast squirmed and trashed within the iron grasp of a menacing Power Armor that didn't budge an inch when its arms stretched the critter's joints to their very limits. Scaly meat tore, and pale muscular tissue, the likes of a giant chicken, protruded amidst rivers of crimson that morphed into a bloodbath as soon as bones gave in and steel won over tissue by tearing the creature in half.

The deal had been so gruesome that the blood had even splattered Aurelius' feet, making him do something he swore he would never do again.

"Fils de pute…" (A) – he blurted out in his native tongue, completely aghast and marveled the same at the extraordinary demonstration he had witnessed just before dying.

But death, same as personal hygiene, seemed to elude the Centurion as of late once the metallic reverberation coming from the depths of the Power Armor helmet turned into a familiar voice.

"Say, Centurion…" – it hissed with the same recalcitrant, know-it-all cadence Aurelius had grown to identify with the wicked, crazy child he had followed to the depths of the Nevada oblivion to carve a name for himself in the annals of Legion history – "How many times, pray tell, did I warn you about that truck? How many times did I order you to remove it from the Overlook's edge? Hmmm?"

If it weren't because he was too fucking damn tired to spar verbally with anyone, Aurelius would have given him a piece of his mind. Particularly where he could shove up that fucking attitude. Rank difference can suck his dick.

"Yeah." – he snorted, not an ounce of dignity left in him as he lay there like a mess, all the tension in his body gone while soreness and tiredness won over him – "For once, glad to see you too, Inculta."

---

The Wasteland had turned into the land of the Old Gods, and he had been freed from his divine punishment, spreading fire and war in retaliation against the very Jupiter.

For Vulpes hadn't been aware of just how limited his bodily experience had been to this day.

A Power Armor rendered a mere mortal the likes of a titan.

And he was playing the part all too willingly.

The first steps had been crude, like a newborn adapting to life outside the womb, but now movement flowed like wearing a second skin, caressing the manual controls instead of clenching them.

Equivalent to taming a creature, his own body had surrendered to the machine, allowing it to carry him, lending him its strength and resilience. Allowing its intimate yet cold embrace to become part of him as he became part of the machine in turn.

For not even the very Lanius, he thought, could ever feel this powerful yet incredibly aware of his own vulnerability, his own finitude.

The Armor was a prison for that vulnerability, gently but firmly containing it, while only the mind remained on the surface, injecting life into this carapace of steel, becoming only the purest, most bettered version of a warrior.

Impenetrable on the outside… while his heart and mind remained on the inside.

"Radiation." – Sullivan announced, like a steely golem spouse walking by his side, making a stop sign while reading the atmosphere – "We better stick to the oriental side of the river throughout this section." – she added, pointing to the cloud of dust filled with glowing particles that awaited them ahead – "Everyone, gulp a couple of Rad-X pills."

Nobody protested as the pill bottle passed from hand to hand, the same as a purified water bottle.

Vulpes took none and treaded the misty waters in silence.

For even gods can weep when they contemplate the horror, naked and heavy, unfolding before their unyielding eyes.

Beneath a mask of steel, with eyes insufflated with variables and data, submerged in the calm waters of the Colorado, Vulpes admired his own sins coming to face him in all their desolated glory.

Searchlight had come to collect its debt, slamming the hammer of its radioactive judgment with a most firm hand.

He never wanted to forget it.

And he never wanted to forget it because… it was pure genius.

As they crossed the river and directed silent, dead stares toward the devastated encampment, Vulpes noticed the bodies inside the Capturae pens. Collars still around their cadaveric necks, still captives even in death, they lay like withered leaves in stilled autumn, shimmering with a film of radioactivity.

He couldn't take his eyes off them.

The genius of such monstrosity, willed by a Nation that proudly declared how righteous and firm their morals were.

But here, in the desert, Vulpes had finally caught a glimpse of what he had been yearning for throughout these short years of futile campaign: raw, unapologetic viciousness. Stripped of any discourse and morals, in this monstrous act of desperate tactics, he saw the primitive form, torn and open for all to see, of the heart of darkness of all wars. This, from an enemy that he, finally, could see as an equal.

In the end, the Republic had shown who they really were, ugly and savage like the very Legion, like the Fox himself, licking the salty sweat accumulating on the bow of his lips as he bore witness to their cruelty.

For, in cruelty, he found a strange, painful solace.

Their enemy was no different from them, and he found comfort in this knowledge.

A gruesome sight awaited them beyond the glowing veil of radioactivity, and Vulpes' chest was inflamed with rage and admiration as his eyes registered the pile of corpses burning, painting the sky with a long, filthy stroke of black.

Many had been boys, like he himself had been once, suddenly realizing he was but weeks shy from turning into a man, still remembering his birthday despite himself.

These boys would never turn twenty-one the same they had never experienced love or passion, but having war and glory to act as a substitute for that. Finding belonging in death.

Perhaps not a single one of them had ever had friends, but only comrades as tired and afraid as them.

Their ears had been cut, turned into merciless trophies hanging from the Rangers' necks and waists like crude collars as the Men of the Bear harried the Lakelurks against the opposite shore, guiding the abominations toward a hidden position, where Vulpes could hear Aurelius of Phoenix's unmistakable voice yelling obscenities in the distance.

If late, thanks to the Centurion's resilience, they weren't too late.

The Fox had been the first leading a frontal charge, grabbing one of the Rangers' heads in his fist that he had squished in front of the rest until the bastard's eyes popped out of his skull. A fountain of gore exploded from his mouth, eyes, and nostrils before the whole body followed, dropping soundlessly and heavily onto the sandy shore.

Fleeting as their momentary terror passed, the retaliation he met was angry and vicious.

Rangers aren't the Republic's elite soldiers for nothing. They were well-versed in gunmanship as well as the art of turning a man into a pile of broken bones with a simple, though well-calculated kick.

Martial Arts were, as Vulpes had discovered after his first encounter with one of them three years ago, a pre-War, oriental lost knowledge that many Vault dwellers had coveted but very few actually knew the basics about.

Boxing or plain dirty street fight weren't as remotely as versatile as Judo, Karate, Kung Fu, or Taekwondo on a battlefield when you run out of ammo and your spear gets broken.

And these guys weren't exactly newbies when it came to dealing with a Power-Armored foe. Cassandra Moore had made this abundantly clear.

However, he wasn't the same newbie from the day before, same as this wasn't the first time Vulpes had to deal with Rangers.

They showed no quarter, and he showed no mercy.

Nevertheless, he didn't unholster his gun once during the battle.

For he wished to savor the feeling of bone and soft tissue crushing and grinding beneath his new hands.

He wanted it to be close and personal, to return the insult as intimately as possible.

For only if he willed himself to hate, to burn in rage and despair, will his own shadow be liberated to overcome any given obstacle.

It was a method he had found to be the most effective whenever he had to deal with an enemy. Like telling a lie with a shred of truth to make it feel authentic.

While killing had come more naturally to him over the years, Vulpes needed hatred to fuel his destructive tendencies. And hatred was easy to invoke when there was affront first. Perceived or not.

He didn't want to lose his ability to hate, ever. Hatred was a thousand times better than numbness or indifference. At least, with hatred poisoning his bloodstream, he still felt alive.

At least, in hatred, he waded known, safer waters.

Sullivan, Rex, and the men joined soon after, all camouflaging pretense dropped as soon as he had shown his true colors.

The mist surrounding the river banks didn't quite manage to cover all the vivid redness that irrigated its burning, tired sands.

However, with the scent of blood, came the vermin.

Lakelurks began appearing amidst the blinding vapors, throwing more than one Frumentarius onto the water with their sonic waves but ultimately meeting either a bullet in the head or Sullivan's unwavering punch, boring literal holes in the creatures' anatomy, making Vulpes miss Veronica… Becky briefly. But only as briefly as his rationale discarded the intrusive thought of the Brotherhood of Steel Scribe joining her formidable abilities for Caesar's Causa.

Nevermind, for it hadn't been a moment for sentimentalisms but for brutal action.

It had been a glorious carnage.

The last Ranger whom he stomped over like a bug until a bloody amalgam of blood, bones, and a dirtied uniform had been all that had been left of the bastard, had managed to quench Vulpes' bloodlust until he had heard Aurelius yelling an order in the distance.

And he had run.

He had run without knowing how to do so, still adapting to this new carapace of steel but managing with more or less dignity until the waters slowed him.

The scarce feet that separated him from the opposite shore felt like a thousand miles until the water poured out of the Power Armor's feet, and he was light and free again.

For some strange, exhilarating reason, the horror of the scarce legionaries he met before addressing the Lakelurk king problem at hand gave him a brief, though intense rush of adrenaline; thinking of Lanius despite himself and how the legionaries' eyes now were meeting his own with that tremor and respect that he, secretly, had yearned for.

There were men of the Legion that had shown him fear, but not so openly, daring to defy him despite knowing how corrosive and inescapable the Fox's wrath could be.

But Lanius? Nobody had dared defy Lanius until Vulpes had come into the picture.

Not even Janus Caius of Fort Apache Reservation and his inglorious bastards from the Red Okie Centuria, the Arizonan Retenti from the savage Painted Rock tribe, had dared to look Lanius the wrong way until he, the Serpent's murderer, had spoken his mind freely in front of Caesar Imperator, earning the Son of Mars' favor and the Monster of the East's scorn.

Since then, it had come to his knowledge that many men in secret had come to name him 'the Fearless Vulpes Inculta'. But always in hushed tones, their cowardly admiration a pittance in comparison to the open worship Lanius received every second of his miserable life. Their favor, a double-edged sword that could cut him if he didn't handle it carefully.

And now, dressed in the garb of a titan, did recognition finally come to him as he restrained the dangerous abomination in his cold embrace and began to pull.

Vulpes thoroughly savored the paralyzed looks of terror and awe he garnered from Aurelius and his men, ultimately baptizing them and himself in blood as he destroyed the creature before them, making them witnesses to his power.

Once he finished the deed, he chastised Aurelius for his disobedience, meeting the man as undone as he would ever see him, tongue still impertinent, but humbled enough to allow Vulpes to carry him on his back since the Centurion could barely stand.

"Never thought…" – Aurelius whispered by his right, tapping the Power Armor helmet like an ape trying to delouse a rock, clearly fascinated with the apparatus' functioning – "… that I will see the day that a Frumentarii squad would come to the rescue of true legionaries."

Still impertinent, definitely.

"Careful with those assumptions, Centurion." – Vulpes replied coldly – "For I can still throw you into the river until your bodily odor becomes somewhat manageable."

Aurelius was not a man who ever laughed, so it was actually shocking listening to the humorous, inelegant snort he let out tiredly.

"It landed home when I suggested you donned a Securitron disguise next time, I see." – the Centurion kept prodding, clearly a bit out of his game after being beaten off so severely. His otherwise powerful shape was now so mauled that invited both laughter and piety the same – "Did you ask your Profligate woman to let you infiltrate Brotherhood ranks to get one of these or what, Inculta?"

"Contrary to your fantastical expectations, Centurion, this Power Armor, I earned it with the sweat of my brown once me and my men brought down a whole Republican patrol." – he explained concisely to meet an aggravating look of incredulity – "Yes, Centurion. Right now, after sneaking our way out of Hoover Dam under Moore and Oliver's very noses, we must have become the NCR's Most Wanted."

Once they reached the Western shore of the Colorado, Sullivan came to greet them.

"We should get a move on as soon as possible." – she said – "One of the Rangers had a talkie, and I bet my pinky that they are mobilizing everyone to get the Cove cleaned up before any communications leak to the nearby camps and safehouses. They don't want the Legion to have even the chance to react. They're moving fast."

Vulpes made a sound of affirmation, distributing orders so everyone got patched up quickly before departing.

"So." – he still could hear Aurelius making his usual snide remarks as Vulpes put him on the ground so his men, and NOT an unqualified Capsarior, could tend his wounds – "Seems like the mailwoman also knows a thing or two about warfare. Who was the gentleman who gave you his place in that armor, regia puella? (10) Hmmm?"

So, he was trying to provoke her. He must feel pissy after suffering such humiliation at the hands of the Republican weasels.

"James fucking Madison when he wrote the Second Amendment of the United States Constitution." – she replied nonchalantly, taking her helmet off – "Which means I got the right to bear and keep arms, such as this beauty." – she deadpanned, slapping the Armor loudly and proudly.

"Yeah, right." – Aurelius retorted, eyeing her visage intently, likely not understanding a word she had said – "And what's with the stupid hood? You look like a baby."

"And what's with the mauled face, Centurion?" – she replied as unfazed as before – "You look like you've seen better days… although, knowing how your face looks without all those cuts and bruises, not really much better, I'm afraid."

Vulpes had to bite the inner side of his cheek to refrain from laughing in Aurelius' face. Without being rude, she had just let the man know she wasn't going to take any shit from him.

That made him weirdly proud.

"You haven't been taught manners around your superiors, have you, Profligate?" – the man snarled; Vulpes wasn't sure if it was due to Sullivan's relaxed attitude… or the exceedingly tight bandages Gabban was dressing his arm with – "Maybe, once you listen the crack of a whip, you'll change your tune."

"I'll have to politely decline your offer. You see, I'm not into BDSM, and you're too old for me anyway."

"What?!"

Ohohohohoho.

It had been a while since Vulpes had seen Aurelius so flustered.

"How dare you?!" – the man literally spat, his face turning an angry shade of scarlet – "Inculta! Why don't you tell your woman she should mind her tongue if she wants to keep it?"

Vulpes could have pulled rank for his insolence, but he instead opted to mess with him a little.

After all, messing with Aurelius of Phoenix was a sort of a pastime of his.

"Me, Centurion?" – he asked, coating his voice with the fake, sugary tone he knew the man detested so much – "Why, one would say you cannot keep up with the conversation!" – and then, the cherry on top by imprinting just the right amount of condescension – "Perhaps you shouldn't start battles you cannot win."

"Who says I have something to lose in front of some mailwoman?!" – the interpellated bit back, eyeing Sullivan and him alternatively, evidently affronted he chose to take her side – "Hmph! As if there is any room for comparison between a Profligate and a Centurio…"

Sullivan rolled her eyes as the Centurion kept bitching, roaring from time to time at the tight dressings Gabban, much to Vulpes' surprise, had decided to punish him with until everyone got their bearings and the Master Frumentarius announced their next destination.

Nipton.

Neither Aurelius nor one of the remaining Milites, a redhead that looked somewhat familiar, could walk at the moment, so it was decided that the two Power Armor pilots would carry them. The last Stimpaks had run out due to the Frumentarii confrontation with the Rangers.

Sullivan ceded her place to Gabban, who was wearing a Vault suit under his NCR armor to act as protection against the Armor's rough edges, making Vulpes immediately suspicious of their sudden harmony. Still, he decided to keep it on the quiet side as he remained inside his Armor and picked Aurelius unceremoniously from the ground.

"Yousonofab…" – the man hissed, not appreciating the rough treatment one bit, remaining quiet throughout the first half an hour of their speedy march West, along Nevada State Route 164, until the girl opened her mouth again to formulate a question.

"Why Nipton and not the ranch or the safehouse?" – she inquired, reading her edited map on the Pip-Boy – "They're closer."

"Yes." – Vulpes concurred – "And also more unprotected and tactically inconvenient should one of the NCR's patrols happen to catch sight of us." – he explained – "Those are safe, hidden locations we want to keep safe and hidden; whereas Nipton, in all likely abandoned or, at worst, turned into a nest for scavengers as of now, offers a most defensible terrain we can also turn into a minefield should they opt to circle the town instead of a frontal charge."

He could practically see the gears rotating inside that head of hers, already calibrating the town's span and making a recount of available resources and powder they could use with some tin cans to construct powder charges.

Vulpes also happened to have left a small cache of weapons and supplies inside one of the nearby caves back in the day, since Nipton had happened to render quite the hefty amount of valuables they, unfortunately, hadn't been able to carry in full with themselves. Hopefully, the traps he had set around would have discouraged any nosy prospector from sticking their paws where they didn't belong thus far.

"I nearly don't recognize you, Inculta." – Aurelius whispered by his right, chin casually seated on one of the Armor's shoulders – "Allowing some newcomer come to question your decisions even for the mere sake of clarification." – he huffed, evidently displeased – "I didn't remember you so… permissive."

The Master Frumentarius contained the rare impulse to squish the Centurion's legs under the steely fingers of the Armor until he could hear the bones cracking.

"Indeed." – he agreed dispassionately, voice even and monochord – "I'll have to decide how I should punish you once we manage to get ourselves out of this unfortunate predicament, Centurion."

"Wha… the hell you're talking about?!" – the man snapped, affronted, completely taken aback.

"I'll have you know that I do find most unbecoming the coarse, arrogant manner you have conducted yourself around a Caesar's Electa since she set foot on what you have mistakenly deemed as your territory." – pressing the man's calves slightly, letting him feel the implicit threat, he added – "I do not hold sympathy for dogs that do not know their place. Much less if they are utterly incapable of warding MY territory."

"You know very well what has happened to Cottonwood has been orchestrated." – the man defended himself – "The Republicans have caught all of us low-guarded, for not a single Speculator knew about Moore's funny move around the river." – how… pleasurable would be… to turn both of his legs into crushed masses of bloody jelly… - "Lucullus is not among you, so I assume your little excursion to Hoover Dam wasn't something you had planned beforehand, right?"

Vulpes counted up to ten before answering. And he did so entirely for the man's benefit, given that the idea of inflicting physical pain was growing the more attractive with each word said.

"Right at the moment, Centurion, you and I need each other to cover for our mutual mistakes here: you for losing a relevant post at the hands of some pathetic Republican soldiers, me for the permissiveness shown in the face of your reiterated disobedience." – the Master Frumentarius hissed, softly but stabbing and precise the same – "From now on, you are put to the test: serve me well in this endeavor, and I shall see you made through the Tribunii ranks." – letting his voice drop an octave, he added somberly – "Test my patience, especially regarding matters of what belongs to me, and your screams shall travel the desert greater and hoarser than the ones the city of Phoenix once rose in your name, Interfector." (11)

He knew his little, hushed discourse had hit home when the man's usual arrogant tone was none to be heard; a petrified, incredulous little whisper was all he dared to usher.

"This is not about the Imperator's orders, isn't it? This is personal; fucking deeply personal." – in his resigned sigh, Vulpes heard Aurelius' pride being utterly masticated and swallowed – "Understood. I shall not pursue enmity, nor demand any sort of respect or concessions from your Courier. You keep your private affairs with her to yourself; I'll be none the wiser."

Glad that the man wasn't as dense as he often made himself look like, Vulpes did not add more than a succinct sound of acknowledgment before the two of them fell into blessed silence for another good hour walking down the burning asphalt of the 164 until Sullivan neared them again with a casual step, disquiet cyberdog by her side, while she whispered:

"Turn your radar on."

He didn't turn his head, nor he answered in more than a whisper once he did so and saw the unmoving red dots at the bottom bar of the helmet's interface, on both sides of the canyon. Perfectly aligned and perfectly camouflaged.

Rex started growling.

"To the count of three."

There were twenty of them.

"One…"

They were undoubtedly armed.

"Two…"

And they had been waiting for them.

"THREE!" – he yelled once they reached one of the derelict pre-War trailers stranded amidst the cracked road – "ABOVE THE CANYON! TAKE COVER!"

And so, in perfect synchrony, twenty Republican Power Armors fell literally from the tall edges of the canyon to land around them with a deafening metallic roar.

And hell broke loose again.

---

She couldn't stop trembling.

As in, her whole body wouldn't obey her even if one of those green humanoid monsters was but inches shy of tearing her face off.

"Watch out, Emily!"

She couldn't even bring herself to flinch when the massive Power Fist almost grazed the point of her nose while coming at an impossible speed by her left, meeting the inhuman visage of the hulking green abomination in a most powerful impact, sending the gooey insides of its mossy cranium in all directions, splattering Emily's hair and glasses in the process.

"Holy- Jesus, Emily!" – Arcade's distant, somewhat distorted voice grew closer as a hand took her glasses off her nose – "You have the safety mechanism on, for God's sake!" – he added after putting the glasses back on their place, greenish goo still smeared on the scratched spectacles as a pair of firm hands got ahold of her own, twitching and immobile around her gun – "Okay… like that. Now, would you mind pointing that somewhere else? Thanks."

As her delayed brain caught up with the reality around her, Emily inhaled a sharp breath, and her index finger fired the pistol by itself.

"Aieee!" – Veronica, the Power-Fist wielder, exclaimed, horrified, having dodged the bullet by a hair's breadth – "Are you trying to get me killed here?! If you keep grabbing your gun like a kid rabid for his favorite toy, I'm gonna need some new limbs after this!"

"Oh, I don't think Dr. Ortal has ever fired a gun, Veronica!" – the floating eyebot that now seemingly accompanied them wherever they went like a lost puppy chirped in a completely dissonant cheery voice. And the worst part was that Emily herself had programmed the AI within it to behave that way. Not her best, most lucid moment after one too many Atomic Cocktails and Benny Gecko's voice whispering sweet nothings in her ear as his hand had crept up her skirt – "I didn't understand why you would give her one in the first place… but then I thought, 'hey, maybe is for decoy to intimidate baddies'!"

She had also programmed the AI to be incredibly nice and helpful… despite that, even she could hear the criticism behind its sweetened synthetic words. In the Courier's hands, her initial creation had evolved far beyond what Emily would have ever thought within the realm of possibility.

Veronica and Arcade exchanged significative looks before the man spoke again.

"Let's… better put the mechanism back on and have a responsible adult taking it, yes?" – half-heartedly, as if fearing she would go ballistic the next minute, Arcade pried the weapon from her rigid fingers – "Okay… now, open your mouth."

She nearly didn't register the hard sphere that was put on her lips, slightly forcing it between her teeth. Once her tongue swirled around it, Emily wanted to hit herself on the head badly: it was candy. Pineapple flavor

Her colleague was trying to pacify her with candy… Even Mentats wouldn't have been nearly as humiliating as plain candy was. At least, knowing she was being fed drugs, she would have snapped angrily instead of letting tears of terror and impotence fall from her eyes as she licked the sweet avidly, trying to get a hold of her frayed nerves with little success.

How the hell had they ended up in this situation?

"We should keep moving." – Veronica opined after recovering from her short fright – "You never know where more giant mantises would appear out of nowhere. We shouldn't have left the door to the cavern from the 5th Level open."

"Agreed." – Arcade nodded, grabbing Emily's arm to position himself in front of her defensively – "Just stay behind me. We are going to board that elevator once we are done here." – gripping his plasma caster tighter, he added, nodding in the mossy cadaver's general direction – "We cannot let these things spread throughout the Wasteland."

The Courier's absence had affected her companions greatly. Not a day since she had stopped retransmitting from her Pip-Boy, and now the group had divided: there was the boy and the dog that had accompanied her, then the somber sniper that followed the girl like a shadow had disappeared without leaving a trace along with the supermutant while House and his securitrons had gone silent.

In this gloomy setting, the caravaneer woman had started drinking heavily while the ghoul would repair random things in utter silence. Then, the strange child who spoke in riddles had also started with his creepy nonsense, murmuring stuff from time to time about a fox and a bull, saying that only instinct shall prevail as the bear awaited its time to strike hidden in the shadows.

Arcade had nearly gone crazy in such a tense environment. Since Emily had known him for over a decade, the man had always been the edgy, hyperactive sort that wouldn't know what a vacation was even if it hit him square on the face. His workaholic nature, unable to cope with so much time left, was backfiring in the worst possible manner while waiting for the Courier to resume contact again.

And so, Veronica had come up with an idea.

"You know, there's no need to wait for Six while we sit on our hands playing Pac-Man on the terminals, biting our nails, and basically getting batshit crazy over what could happen at Skirt Guys Land. We can make a difference by ourselves."

Arcade had been too ready too soon to listen to her. And Yes Man would follow Arcade's lead in the Courier's absence.

Emily had joined this picturesque group not out of the goodness of her heart but basically because her association with Arcade had bought her a golden ticket straight to the Lucky 38.

Besides, she was curious about her creature's awareness development, marveling at the modifications the Courier had written in its code, unlocking new functions Emily would have never thought of.

She wanted access to House's databanks badly, and Yes Man had been the key.

Thus, subsequently, she had agreed to go out with Arcade, Veronica, and Yes Man to prove that she, too, could bring meat to the table.

The problem is… that the Courier's companions are expected to meet certain… parameters. So to speak.

"There we go!" – Arcade exclaimed as one of the mossy monstrosities jumped from a patch of lush vegetation growing in the middle of steely corridors, meeting Veronica's implacable punch as the man turned the thing into green gooey Gruyère cheese.

Because all of the aforementioned companions were, basically, all in their own fields, remarkable individuals.

Emily had never put much thought into how it was possible that a nerd as huge as Arcade was could recite almost from memory Ovid's poems in Latin the same way he could give you a magistral class regarding the usage and maintenance of plasma weaponry. All of this while multitasking around a tent full of wounded people.

And Veronica didn't fall far from that brand of excellency that seemed so pervasive among the Courier's cohorts, for the woman was as adept at using a pneumatic gauntlet as she was one of the best repairwomen Emily had ever seen, no matter if the subject was a humble toaster or high-end Enclave tech. Her ability only surpassed by Raul, the ghoul resident who, besides being a master at his job, was also a lethal gunslinger.

The caravaneer woman, Cassidy? Yet another dangerous gunslinger with a nearly-inhuman resistance to alcohol, extremely proficient at bartering, and also knowledgeable with explosives.

The albino boy that had accompanied the Courier? A master tactician, proficient with any weapon given, and a cold-blooded diplomat that could talk the sanest of men into throwing himself out of a window, if what Veronica said about him was true. And the scariest part was that she said those things with fondness.

The supermutant? A tank of an old lady who enjoyed chopping heads and baking sweets in equal shares while casually sharing some of that lost knowledge only a REAL Vault dweller, and not a descendant, could possess.

God… even the dog, the King's dog, was an Old-World marvel that the Police forces of the military U.S.A. Government had constructed as the ultimate companion and hunter, employing the most sophisticated cybernetization technology not even the Brotherhood of Steel knew how to emulate. A living weapon.

And let's not forget the sniper, who was, to Emily's understanding, the most dangerous of them all.

Not because he was the strongest or the cleverest among them… but because he had the eyes of a man that had nothing left to lose, and the only thread that seemingly linked him to sanity was the Courier.

He was a ticking bomb that needed minimal provocation to go utterly and unapologetically ballistic… or that's what Santiago, a Freeside resident famous for his fraudulent ways, always told to anybody willing to listen.

Hell, even the weird, prophetic child, Clay, felt but a natural addition to such a league entirely composed of extraordinary individuals.

And the Courier herself? Emily hadn't gotten all the details, but Usanagi had insinuated that her recovery from a bullet wound on her head twice wasn't entirely due to having the most unmatched luck in all the Mojave.

She and her group were scary people. Scary because, when put all together, they were utterly unstoppable.

Next to them, Emily Ortal - Informatics Engineering studies and all – was next to nothing. Her studies and competencies didn't include knowing how to pull a trigger, as she had abundantly demonstrated.

The next abomination fell amidst flying chunks of green brain matter, and Emily thought, for the first time in her life, that risking her hide for the sake of accessing pre-War tech… wasn't what she had signed for.

She had wanted to trick herself into believing that she could measure up to an elite group who had confronted and effectively exterminated one of the many remaining monstrosities of the Old World: an enhanced pre-War veteran. A ghoul cyborg soldier who had been terrorizing Freeside for a whole week since his arrival, seizing power as if it had been his right to do so while the NCR had looked the other way as he had killed their neighbors and destroyed their homes.

A group who also had wiped out the Fiends and the Powder Gangers while entertaining deals with the Great Khans and the supermutant town up the mountains as if they were having a walk in the park.

A group who, single-handedly, had vaporized the Van Graffs from the face of the Freeside, uncovered a corruption plot at the Crimson Caravan Company involving its executive manager, and made the Three Families of The Strip kneel before them.

If that doesn't spell D-A-N-G-E-R in capital letters, she didn't know what else would.

House had gotten himself powerful allies to the point that everyone had started to consider him a third wheel between the NCR and the Legion, not knowing anymore where this war would get.

Usanagi had tried to talk her out of this… and Emily hadn't listened.

And now, she had to suck it up and endure all the carnage and violence that came along with the package. Dear God, she wasn't going to set foot in a Vault ever again.

She had heard stories about Vault 22 before. All of them basically from Thomas Hildern, former Follower of the Apocalypse, current director of the NCR's Office of Science and Industry, to whom she still maintained a cordial relationship, unlike Julie, who was in non-speaking terms with all of the Followers 'deserters'.

She knew about the possibility of dangers inside… but she had also thought that, whatever mystery Vault 22 hid behind its blast door, it was well worth the risk, right?

Wrong.

They should have never followed Veronica's lead to a comm terminal in an abandoned shack on the outskirts of Novac that she seemed so proud about. The site had traces of Legion activity and a skeleton, so it had seemed, at the very least, a questionable place to hide something so important.

Apparently, her idea of 'making a difference' worked among the lines of basically buying the Brotherhood's collaboration to aid House on the incoming battle for Hoover Dam by presenting them a tech worthy of their attention. Something that would change their worldviews or something. Whatever.

Once she had downloaded her colleague's (or whatever this 'Elijah' man was to her) notes, they had to choose between three available locations.

There had been the possibility to find two weapons and 'some miracle farming technology the NCR was after'.

Emily had seen her chance to shine, aware that, if she managed to access the aforementioned farming tech, Hildern could become a useful connection with the NCR. This way, perhaps Julie would finally see the light and make the Followers thrive for once.

So, she had opened her big mouth, saying that what the Brotherhood of Steel needed weren't more weapons, but actually some alternative sources of food production beyond the role people like Veronica played in resupplying their ranks.

It had sounded like a perfect, reasonable argument.

Now, she wished she would have stayed quiet for once.

Vault 22 was a maze-like jungle full of dangers, flora, and dangerous flora that gave home to a dark secret: initially designed to undergo experimentation with staple crops to combat global hunger, Vault 22 began developing tests beyond its humanitarian function after the War.

Just like what happened with any other natural crops, the underground facilities of Vault 22, no matter how isolated and sterilized, were also susceptible to insects, drought, and disease; so, the Vault-Tec scientists started to weigh different ideas regarding pest control.

One of those very ideas, the Beauveria Mordicana, initially an entomopathogenic fungus synthetically designed for such an endeavor, had ended up being their undoing.

When exposed to the fungal spores, any organism gets infected as the fungus multiplies and colonizes the host body. However, the dead tissue continues to be controlled by the fungal colony, allowing it to move around and infect more living organisms by spraying spores around the host body. Or so the sparse logs of the even sparser working terminals had said.

Thus, turning a once-thriving Vault community of humans into a bunch of fungus-infected, living-dead monsters.

Not even children had managed to escape such a terrible fate when, around the living quarters, they had met yet another of those mossy humanoids. And then, after Veronica had blown up its head with a single punch, the three realized with an uncomfortable silence that the thing had been substantially smaller than the other ones lying around the grass patches. Not even Yes Man had commented on it, which felt odd given the overly-communicative nature of the AI.

So now, they were going back to the 5th Level, the Pest Control Floor. All because they hadn't closed the door to the cavern while trying to get out of the oppressive atmosphere that permeated the place. The cavern had been infested by giant carnivore plants that spit acid. Honest-to-God acid, for fuck's sake!

However, once they had gotten into the lab that hosted the entrance to the cave, they were in for a surprise when they found the door closed, and another humanoid silhouette came to greet them.

"Took your sweet time." – the aforementioned humanoid, a ghoul woman, approached them without an ounce of fear a person in her situation should feel alone, surrounded by monstrosities – "I suppose the NCR sent you? Or maybe not. You aren't very thorough when searching areas, are you?"

"Wait, Keely?" – Emily said, her voice emerging from her throat for the first time in hours – "Is that you?"

Veronica and Arcade turned around.

"You know her?" – the Brotherhood Scribe asked.

"Yes." – Emily confirmed, meeting the ghoul's cold, milky gaze as the woman crossed her arms – "She's with the OSI."

"Hildern?" – Arcade asked.

"Yes, that son of a bitch that sent me to a fool's errand here in the hopes of getting rid of me." – the ghoul, Keely, replied dryly – "And now, despite the hell of a bit of luck on my part having you playing the fumigators' part, it's not enough. I'll have you know that, in case you haven't noticed, these plants have gotten completely out of control, and getting rid of the infected hosts just won't do it. I've got a plan to deal with them permanently, but I'll need help. Any volunteers?"

Emily hated it when Arcade and Veronica joined in almost immediately.

---

Ranger Milo wasn't having a good day.

Hell, he hadn't had a good day since Chief Hanlon sent him to Forlorn Hope, and then Polatli got rid of him as soon as he started opining about the state of the watchtowers and barricades around the camp by assigning his mouthy ass to the NV-165 checkpoint, Nelson's road.

It had been a month since then, with zero expectations of breaching through the Legion's defenses.

The guy in charge of the occupied town, a rabid dog that had gone by the name of Dead Sea, had maintained an ironclad grasp of the town's entrances while his goons had constantly patrolled a good chunk of the road.

In a word: impossible.

By then, the situation had been hopeless and frustrating.

But now, with the Legion piece of shit's head impaled on a spear at the town's main entrance, raider style, Milo felt humiliated.

A madman enters the picture wearing a First Recon red beret, and everyone loses their minds.

He had been aware that he had held no authority over the laughable gaggle of greenhorn Army recruits that had accompanied him, different branches and all that shit. But he had thought that his status as a Ranger had conferred him some degree of respect among the troopers.

But no. They evidently preferred their own, and the madman with the red beret had been a Sergeant.

He hadn't even had to order them around. The boys automatically had followed his lead as if it was the most natural thing to do, taking his presence as a sort of a signal to put into motion what Milo hadn't had the guts to do throughout this time watching Dead Sea crucify NCR soldiers in groups: attack the town and liberate what remained of the prisoners.

It had been a carnage, confirming Milo's fears that a frontal assault would render more corpses than actually helping. From the initial batch of ten recruits, only two remained alive.

Then, the prisoners: the three who had been crucified were practically agonizing, and Milo bet his hat that, should they survive, they would likely live as cripples for the rest of their miserable lives.

And the remaining prisoners? All women.

And the Legion bastards had already had their fill with them to the point they had become crazed, more animals than humans. It had been nearly impossible to get them dressed, tended, and fed, intent as they were on clawing eyes and biting hands any time a man came near them.

This hasn't been a victory at all, but a motherfucking revenge. Plain and crude.

No matter if the guy with the red beret hadn't opened his mouth after retaking Nelson even once, the gleam in his eye as he chopped and impaled Legion heads had told Milo everything.

That man had enjoyed killing legionnaires the same as that Dead Sea monster had relished their hand-to-hand confrontation.

He couldn't comprehend how two men, apparently different as the day and night, fighting opposite sides of a war that had brought them nothing but loss and dishonor, could be so alike deep inside.

Chief Hanlon had been right all along: this war and holding that damnable dam, covering for Oliver's fuck-ups, would be the death of the Republic.

It had been so many years that people had forgotten about it. Conscription, bringing in fresh troops to die at the Mojave every month. Like those eight bastards that had died for the ruins of a cursed town. Like it was routine.

Like their lives were well-earned cannon fodder for the sick psychos who profited from this war to use at their leisure.

No matter if that very profit was simple enjoyment.

Getting worked up the more he thought about it, Milo went to the barracks where that Decanus son of a bitch and his lackeys had slept, ready to give the red-beret man a piece of his mind.

But he hadn't even turned the door handle when the man himself got out of the wooden cabin with a folder in his hand. His visage unreadable.

"What's that?" – the Ranger demanded, meeting his own reflection on the tinted surface of the man's sunglasses.

The man's nostrils distended briefly. Other than that, the rest of his features didn't shift even an inch.

"Orders." – he replied succinctly – "These bastards planned on attacking Novac with one of their squads. Here." – he said, handing over the folder – "I don't understand half of the fancy shit they write, but the schedules are pretty clear: a group of eight departed this camp yesterday morning. With any luck, we'll be able to catch up with them before it's too late."

"Excuse me?" – Milo spat – "We?"

The man shrugged. As if he didn't have a care in the world, as if watching Milo seethe in front of him wasn't any of his fucking concern.

As if all of this, to him, was pure sport.

"Don't know about you, but I don't plan on letting those Reds do whatever they fucking want." – he replied with a voice as calm as deadly, adjusting his rifle and backpack, ready to depart – "I'm done with Cesar's bullshit." – walking off him, as if Milo weren't even there in the first place, he added – "And I'm done with the NCR's as well."

And so, the bloody madman walked off Nelson with his initial entourage of troopers following suit, nearly half-dead of exhaustion.

Milo didn't follow. He already had more than he could chew, with a raided city full of prisoners, corpses, and only two operatives.

Swallowing his indignation and the gnawing cowardice that had stayed his hand for a whole month, Milo got inside the barracks, hoping that the Reds' radio would still be of use.

After all, he still had a report to send.

---

LATIN:

(1) - "While I breathe, I hope"
(2) - *even despite Roman Imperial Victory Titles being something almost exclusive to Roman Emperors, I've decided to give our Legion some fancy titles so they can boast their victories (and measure the size of their dicks) or something. Whatever. They like it. These titles served to give a summary of which wars and which adversaries were considered significant by the senior leadership of the Roman Empire, but in some cases more opportunistic motifs play a role, even to the point of glorifying a victory that was by no means a real triumph (but celebrated as one for internal political prestige). And we now know this Legion is realpolitik bullshit xD
(3) - Tribune. Commands portions of the Legion army, subordinate to higher magistrates, such as the Praetoriani and Legati
(4) - Veterans. Soldiers kept in service after serving required term (aka forty-year-old legionaries who never advanced in rank and want to prove useful by postponing their retirement. Retirement with no glory in the Legion is considered shameful and dishonorable)
(5) - Province Governor. Official (normally a retired Legatus or Praetor) appointed by Caesar to be the chief administrator of Legion law throughout one or more of the many provinces constituting the Empire.
(6) - Medical Orderly. Either an apprentice or a Servus in charge of the wound dressing and the distribution of Healing Powder
(7) - Hunters
(8) - Idiot
(9) - "Take pity on me, Mars!"
(10) - Princess (Aurelius is being here dismissive to Sullivan, thinking she's being unnecessarily pampered).
(11) - Assassin/murderer/killer

---

FRENCH:

(A) - Son of a bitch...

---

A/N: fu***** FINALLY! I managed to get this headache of a chapter done before the end of the month (well, more or less)! As the plot gets thicker, the more complicated the narration turns out, so I have to revise everything again and again, taking and adding stuff nonstop.

Here are already several Companions' Quests unfolding (with variations, of course), while Vulpes gets Apocalypse Now vibes (same as Boone) and we get to know more of the Legion's inner politics. Because their society, to me, should be more than being warmonger retards accepting a Leviathan as their new leader without meeting fierce opposition.
Besides, it's very subtle but, In-Game, we meet quite a few legionaries that show admiration for Vulpes, unlike how the Fandom usually depicts him. I say that CAN spark divided opinions.
And there's Lucius. Just saying.

And here's more Sullivan being Sullivan (she's the most rabid fangirl ever xD). I intend to address her trauma with Asian people properly, don't worry. Everything will unfold in due time, and the newcomer might play a part in that (also, I love putting her amidst a bunch of brutes that do not know how to behave around her hahahaha).

Aurelius was lots of fun to write. I have quite a few stupid things in mind prepared for him, you'll see ( ಠ ͜ʖ ಠ)

Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R: I ALWAYS play with the Wild Wasteland Perk. Without it, the Mojave would lost a vital part of its charm. And I think the 'Wind Brahmin' can be killed just by touching them (or maybe it was the Uncut MODs I have installed). It's pretty funny, for the Nightkin in charge of them calls them 'doggies' xD

Guest: Thank you! However, it's not about presenting House in a good spotlight, but more like acknowledging his merits. He's a character that the Fandom doesn't explore much beyond being a stuck-up old man that treats you as if you were stupid. And he's not. If you have the Intelligence Trait high enough, you can pass Speech Checks with him, which makes him treat you more like an intellectual sparring partner. Hell, he even acknowledges you as a good investment if you chose him and have Good or Neutral Karma in his ending slide. If you're fair to him, he's fair to you. As simple as that.
As a side note... I, too, like the Ranger Armor (for its Stats, not aesthetically), but I do find the NCR severely lacking, so that's why here they are more dangerous. They just needed more budget xD

Other than that, apologies again for the delay. Hope this chapter meets the due quality and two months (which, I'm afraid, it's gonna be the norm from now on) of waiting were worth it to you ^^

Thank you for the last reviews (they meant a lot to me T_T), they are like cocaine (addictive) wehehehehe! ^^ Cheers!