The Lucky 38 was the jewel of the New Vegas skyline, a glittering spire with its dome-shaped cap visible for miles around, spotlights tracing iridescent patterns through the sky at night. Flanked on all sides by the formidable outlines of the Tops Hotel and Casino, Gomorrah, and the Ultra-Luxe Las Vegas Resort, it was the iconic building that anyone familiar with New Vegas associated with the city of sin.
ED-E soared through the air over the expanse, flying far over the heads of the patrolling Securitrons on the Strip, and the revellers that could always be found praying at the twin alters of depravity and debauchery. Over the bustling streets of Freeside and Westside he flew, the districts of New Vegas that made the city more than simply an oversized luxury resort, but rather the commercial and economic hub of the region.
Almost entirely rebuilt and teeming with industry, Freeside now embodied the more practical side of New Vegas. Vendors, shopfronts, and workshops advertised the essential services that all large cities needed to function, self-sufficient in its ability to provide all that a citizen could require. Plumbers, electricians, bricklayers, and food markets now rubbed shoulders with the likes of The King's School of Impersonation, and the Atomic Wrangler Casino, Mick and Ralph's, and the Old Mormon Fort, which now housed the New Vegas Hospital and Science Facilities.
ED-E, a regular sight on the skyline of the Vegas strip was left unmolested by the Securitrons as he flitted up the Strip and up into a steep climb that terminated in his entry into the Lucky 38 via an open window and beeping with triumph as his spherical form almost took off Dean Dominos head as he attempted to pour himself another slug of the Couriers best fine Scotch. "Watch where you're flying, you robotic rube," Domino snarled, taking a measured sip from his glass.
The rest of the room was packed with figures in all manner of exotic dress, ranging from Emily Ortal in her white lab coat and frumpy casual wear, to Follows-Chalk who habitually wore nothing at all on his bronzed and tattooed upper body unless he expected to be fighting someone, and who Emily was openly ogling through her black-rimmed, nerdish spectacles. Domino smirked and passing by behind her he lent forward and whispered in her left ear, "Stare any harder darling, and you'll start to drool."
She jumped and blushed the colour of her own red hair, looking away from Follows-Chalk's perfectly firm pectoral muscles to the Courier, who was prepping an entire tables worth of explosives. Microfusion grenades, rigged to explode through a complicated series of electronic bypasses and loopbacks, made to rapidly build up to a shattering detonation after activation and a short countdown. Flashbangs, composed of magnesium and phosphorus, designed to create a blinding flash of light upon discharge, standard issue fragmentation and offensive low-frag grenades still stamped with the serial numbers and iconography of the old-world.
Crowning this, a lumpy mass of personally blended plastic explosives and soldered wires, packed tightly within an outer layer of nails and shrapnel. A deadly IED, about the size of a paving slab, it could readily put a sizeable hole in the side of a building, sending shards of concreate and metal girder spinning through the air at terminal velocities. Whilst also shredding a company sized element of men with the resulting shrapnel. The Courier cooed at it as if it were a sleeping baby, ignoring ED-E as he orbited about the room, squeaking, and squawking like a wayward bird.
Lantaya sat not too far away, taking the scene in as she stood slightly to the side of the Wanderer, watching his mechanical digits assemble all manner of weaponry before her eyes. Rifles, some utilising the common propellant-based design she had seen much of during her short association with the humans. Others were less known to her. The plasma rifle, a complicated mess of electronic components, glowing green tubes and odd angles was far and above the most ungainly weapon she had ever laid eyes on. She was vacillating wildly between the extreme desire not to go anywhere near it, and the fascination of one used to the fields of science and exploration, which practically begged her to pick it up just to see what it felt like.
Craig Boone, the human sniper, sat in a comfortable armchair across from her, his long Gobi Campaign Rifle disassembled, barrel and receiver held in a desk vice that he'd carried in and clamped to the edge of the extremely expensive mahogany desk, leaving deep scratches and scores in the vanished and embossed wood. The ghoul, Domino, had sighed audibly at the desecration of the priceless pre-war artifact, and attempted to give Boone a tongue lashing. Which was promptly ignored.
"I am of course not as well-acquainted with human mannerisms and culture as I would like to be," Lantaya addressed the room at large in a deferential tone, "But should you not be more…" She searched for an appropriate words to convey her thoughts, pausing briefly to mentally check her internal dictionary of human phrases and expressions, "…amazed, I think that word should be adequate, at all of these revelations?"
Those present looked at her enquiringly, strange eyebrows raised as if prompting her to continue. All apart from ED-E, who still raced around the room in blissful gaiety, narrowly avoiding several expensive curios and almost capsizing the now deceased Mister House's snowglobe collection.
"About the existence of my race? Of myself? About the discovery of the Mass Relay? Not to mention," she gestured to the Courier, who was neatly slotting grenades into a leather bandolier with all the care and attention of a mother wrapping her children up in warm clothes before they went out to play, "The sudden insistence of your leader to drop everything and embark upon a dangerous voyage into the vast unknown, with no inkling of the possible ramifications? Is this normal for your people?"
"If I had a cap for every time the old bastard waltzed into my life like a prize-winning cock, no explanation, not so much as a 'by-your-leave', and turned it ass-up in the sand," Rose of Sharon Cassidy, resplendent in a tight-cut pair of ranchers jeans and plaid shirt, held in place by the biggest belt buckle that side of Texas, said in her west coast drawl, "I'd be a rich girl."
She looked down at said belt buckle, which glinted the distinctive colour of gold in the artificial lighting of the 38's interior, and her Deathclaw-leather rancher boots, "Well, richer than I already am anyhow. Don't worry about it, Lani. You'll get used to it. Six has his way of making you see the world the way he does if you stick around him long enough. It's fun, in a screwed up kinda way."
"Love ye too, Cass. Brings an old mans heart to burstin' with all these fuzzy feelin's," the Courier smirked as he added the now fully-stocked bandolier to a growing pile on the chair next to him. Lantaya was intently aware that this small penthouse room at the top of this very opulent tower currently held enough weapons and munitions to invade a small city. Or blow the top floor of the building into orbit.
"Still," Veronica Santangelo ventured with her usual sardonic wit, "She's got a point. Usually you come get us for the small things. You know, an uprising over there, a territory dispute here, negotiations with blockheaded Brotherhood Paladins hassling folks on the I-95. Barely back in town for a few hours and your already planning to shoot off into space on a flying saucer, to return a pretty alien Matriarch to her people. You're not one for the quiet life, are you, Six?"
"Sure," the Courier grinned at the assembled group of wastelanders as he packed the gargantuan IED into a canvas pouch and carefully arranged the wires to keep them from snagging on his gear in a firefight. Possibly blowing him and everyone accompanying him sky-high in the process, "We've all got to have a hobby, don't we?"
"Most people," Raul said from the background, playing with the rim of his vaquero hat, legs propped up lazily on the coffee table, "Have a lot safer hobbies than launching off into space. Not sure my old bones can take that kind of excitement anymore, boss."
"Spirits are willin', but the body ain't," the Courier inclined his head towards Raul, "Ye want to sit this one out, Raul?"
"Nah boss, I got plenty of adventure left in me," the ghoul gunslinger replied, quirking his lip in a grin that added life and vitality to his countenance, "And this seems to be just the sort of stupid you usually get me wrapped up in. Wouldn't miss it for the world."
"We'll be needin' more mechanics than gunhands if all goes well. Might even be time to dust off Miguel's jumpsuit, Raul. Still, if ye decide not to come, we always need reliable hands here in Vegas, keepin' the Families in line. That'll be yer job, Dean."
Dean Domino swirled his scotch, sniffing it and savouring the smoky fragrance of the two-hundred-year-old alcohol, specially stored and retained by Robert House in the store rooms of the Lucky 38. The wily old ghoul knew that if the Courier had broken out the bottle just to ingratiate himself to Domino, then he must need something. He was more than happy to oblige.
"Ohh, but of course. The Families have been eating out of the palm of my hand ever since I came here. I may have led them to believe that I had some manner of influence over your actions in regard to the casinos. The simple fools have been lavishing all manner of luxuries on me in the attempt to sway the powers-that-be in their favour," the King of Swing all but purred to those present, "I would like nothing more than to remain here and continue to bask in the lap of luxury."
The pre-war lounge singer and master thief raised his glass in toast to Lantaya, who sat alongside the Courier and the Wanderer on the other side of the Penthouse suite, right underneath the screen that Mister Robert House had used once to communicate with his subordinates. Now however, this screen routinely housed the cartoonish face of Yes Man, who kept an eye on the proceedings as he also processed the data coming in from every Securitron in the Mojave. He was the mind at the heart of Vegas, a major architect of its success. His image was silent at present, however, his focus elsewhere in Vegas and occupied with other matters.
"But I regret not being able to get to know so ravishing a visitor to our little corner of America," Domino smiled his best roguish grin, taking another sip of his drink, his eyes concealed behind his designer aviators. Lantaya inclined her head towards the ghoul, deciding that while he made her feel slightly uneasy he, at least, seemed exceptionally cultured and polite, "I am sure it would have been a pleasure, Mister Domino."
The Courier slipped his mug onto the coffee table and leaned back, spreading his arms wide to crack his back with a satisfying pop. He rolled his neck from side to side, his tribal necklace visible underneath his body armour, and his duster draped across the back of his comfortable armchair. He smiled at Domino and gave him a nod of acknowledgement.
"Just keep the bastards in line 'til we get back. ED-E just got done sendin' The King a message, lettin' him know that he'll be keepin' Freeside in line an' coverin' for us. Westside can take care o' themselves. Always have. The outer territories o' Vegas are covered. Sherriff Meyers, Sheriff Smiles an' Sheriff Vargas all keep their towns in decent order."
ED-E beeped excitedly, warbling out a series of unintelligible noises as he finished his lap of the tower and floated over to Yes Man's screen to interface with the Lucky 38s mainframe. Like a bee flying from flower to flower, spreading pollen as it went, the plucky little Eyebot was assisting Yes Man in his work, and more particularly, helping the Courier organise New Vegas for his departure. With a parting trill, the Eyebot soared once more from the window and out into the midday sun, a streak of gleaming silver that vanished quickly below the lip of the 38's rim.
"I'll have to stay here," Cass spoke up behind the bar, pouring herself another shot of whiskey, "I'm a caravaner, Six, not a goddamn space monkey. And Cassidy Caravans isn't going to run itself. You boys can blast off into the sunset on a moment's notice, but me?"
She fingered the Rose amulet around her neck, reflecting on the heartache that selling Cassidy Caravans to the Crimson Caravan Company all those years previously had put her through. It had been one of the happiest days of her life when the collapsing Crimson Caravan Company, swallowed in a tide of lawsuits back west, had approached her with the intention of sell the rights to her company back to her, for a fraction of what they'd bought it for. Like hell she was going to leave her family name to rot without her there to keep it running.
"I have obligations," she concluded, meeting the Courier's eyes from beneath her red tresses.
"Fair 'nough," the Courier agreed, then looked to Veronica, "How 'bout it Vicky? Come along with us or stay here in Vegas?"
Veronica smiled sadly and looked over her shoulder at the woman who wafted up behind her to wrap her arms around her neck and plant a loving kiss on her temple. Christine Royce gave a thoroughly non-committal look back in return from underneath her faint surgical scars, clearly not wanting to make any decisions on her partner's behalf.
"I'm sorry, Six," she said finally, shrugging at her friend but seemingly resolute in her decision, "I've got my own reason to stay in one place. You'll always have Boone though," she pointed out, smiling fondly at Craig Boones habitually stony expression, "that giant sourpuss while keep you company while you blow up half the galaxy."
Boone didn't respond to the light-hearted jibe, but Veronica imagined that she saw the corners of his mouth twitch just a tiny bit. A girl could but dream. The Courier's merry group of miscreants had a betting pool open, to be paid out to the first one able to get the taciturn sniper to laugh. Currently, the Courier held the closest claim to the pay-out, having made the sniper smile both sincerely and broadly during the assault on the Legion at Fortification Hill; the skirmish that spelled the end of Caesar.
Christine eased onto Veronica lap; arms still wrapped gently around her neck. "If Veronica is staying," Christine spoke in the melodious voice of pre-war singer Vera Keyes, making Dean Domino wince in the background as unpleasant memories welled up around his blackened heart, "Then I'm staying too."
The Courier wasn't perturbed by the string of refusals. He was a solitary man by nature and didn't expect people to share in his sordid love affair with mortal peril. "Chalk? Ye still gallivanting 'round the Mojave in search o' the sights and sounds o' the wide-open world? How'd ye like to play that guitar o' yer's in the Endless Black, lad?"
Follows-Chalk grinned his infectious grin, long black hair shimmering in the artificial lights that illuminated the penthouse. "I would be honoured to see what lies above the stars with you, Courier," he said, his voice much firmer and more decisive than it had been when they first met, "I have seen much of the Back When in my time outside Zion. I am always willing to see more."
The Courier switched his attention to Emily, the Follower of the Apocalypse who had originally helped Benny compromise and reprogram a Securitron unit into the Yes Man they all knew and loved today. She was currently drooling over Chalk, watching the way the light seemed to make his hair shimmer. Ever since the youthful tribal had arrived on the Strip, he had taken up playing guitar from the Lonesome Drifter, a performer at the Atomic Wrangler and one Chalk was well acquainted with from the Drifters previous visit to Zion.
As it turned out, he was a natural born talent. And his powerful physique, coupled with his tribal predilection for wearing as little as possible had made him something of a heartthrob among all the lonely ladies that frequented New Vegas. This, he remained blissfully ignorant of, content to play his guitar on stage and utilise the proceeds to experience the world outside Zion to its fullest.
The Courier cleared his throat, noisily.
Emily looked around, wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and tried to keep her face from blossoming a fetching tomato red. "Sorry," she stuttered out.
"No, don't mind us," Veronica snarked as she and Christine giggled from their shared armchair, "This is just too adorable."
"I have a question to ask you, Ortal," the Courier stated in a business-like tone, "Once yer finished drollin' over Chalk."
Follows-Chalk, completely oblivious to Emily's gaze, raised his arms to head height and examined his body for any sign of a droll-like substance, thoroughly confused by the quip.
"I heard the Followers were dumpin' chemicals into Lake Mead, turnin' the Lakelurks…."
He paused with a playful grin on his bearded face, eyes twinkling, "Into Lakelurks o' a 'homosexual persuasion'. Ye wouldn't happen to know nothin' 'bout that, would ye?"
Emily Ortal blinked, as the room stared at the Courier with collectively raised eyebrows.
"Excuse me, boss?" Raul finally asked, not sure what gay Lakelurks had to do with anything up until this point, and too afraid to ask directly.
"How did you know about that?" Emily queried in a bewildered voice.
In the awkward silence that ensued, where even the most hardened of those wastelanders present questioned their sanity, and Dean almost committed the unspeakable sin of spilling two-hundred-year-old scotch out of intense astonishment, the Courier caught Lantaya's gaze and winked. "Savvy man, that No-Bark," he commented merrily.
"It isn't dangerous, I swear," Emily explained hurriedly, "We're putting chemical treatments into the water to clean it. It's the main water source of the entire city, and the Lakelurks generate a surprisingly large amount of waste that needs to be filtered out. We thought that if we introduced certain chemicals that alter brain chemistry and behavioural patterns in crustaceans, we'd be able to stop them breading, and eventually fill off their population all together."
"Sounds like a grand ol' time," the Courier declared coolly, "But as ye say, it is the water supply for all o' Vegas. An' it would be mighty irresponsible of me if I didn't verify that. So, I'll be havin' Vicky here check that while we're away."
Emily nodded meekly, "Umm… was that all?"
The Courier guffawed with laughter then shook his head, "Lass, would I have invited ye up here to listen in on a private meetin' about aliens and flying fuckin' saucers if all I was lookin' to talk about with ye about was a bunch o' queer Lakelurks?"
Emily, who had been well acquainted with the Courier and his many assorted oddities for years at this point, paused for rather a long while before hazarding a tentative, "No?"
"Watch out, lads. We have ourselves a genius over here," the Courier quipped, "No, Em, I need ye up with us on the Zeta. Yer one o' the best minds that Vegas has, an' the only one that owes me a favour."
"But…" Emily stuttered out, realising that the Courier intention was for her to be voluntold to serve abord a spaceship about to embark on a voyage into the unknown, for an unspecified amount of time, and exposed to an equally unspecified amount of mortal peril.
Knowing the Courier by reputation, however, it would probably be measured in spades. Or dump-trucks.
"But I have so much to do here! I have experiments to run, projects that I have to complete. People are depending on me to produce results. Arcade and the Remnants in particular. They need me to find a way to produce workable replacement parts for their Vertibirds and power armour, and there isn't anyone available in the Followers' ranks who can possibly take on that project."
"You'll get to spend more time with Chalk," the Courier reminded her with a cheeky grin.
She opened and closed her mouth a few times, placed in the intolerable position of an introvert being confronted on her crush, in the company of aforementioned crush. Follows-Chalk, unsure where this conversation was going, but always ready to be obliging and friendly to the best of his abilities, hammered the nail into this particular coffin with all the delicacy of a power fist.
"We will need wise women like you to guide us on our journey, Emily. There will be many confusing things we encounter out in the Endless Black. If the Courier believes you must come to show us the way, then you must come," Follows-Chalk stated, causing a shiver to run up the Follower of the Apocalypse's spine as his smooth voice caressed her first name.
"Okay," she mumbled obediently. Chalk nodded at her and gave a reassuring smile. Emily attempted to disappear inside her lab coat.
The more mature and self-assured women present looked at Follows-Chalk, then silently at each other, exchanging looks. Chalk was dangerous. Like a loaded auto-turret that indiscriminately targeted those that came within its range, and whose must vulnerable targets seemed to consist of young, impressionable women who didn't know any better. Fortunately, he seemed too naïve to attempt anything with the power he wielded. He didn't even seem aware of the fact that he did, in fact, hold significant sway over Emily.
Veronica eyed Lantaya, the only 'women' present who was going with the expedition. An unspoken plea to look out for the timid scientist was written, wrapped, mailed, and received with postage paid. Lantaya nodded her assent, gravely accepting the responsibility.
"Who, exactly, are these Remnants you refer to? A section of the Brotherhood of Steel?" The Wanderer spoke up for the first time, subroutines triggered by the mention of power armour and Vertibirds.
The Courier's eyes widened momentarily, and his hand was already in the air to stop anyone else from answering the enquiry when Veronica, ever the quick-witted scribe with a mouth faster than her common sense, answered. "Arcade? No, he's former Enclave. I'd be happy to take a look at their gear for them. I'm trained with Brotherhood gear which isn't exactly the same, but I'm still the closest match to the job that…."
She trailed off as she noticed the Wanderer's fallen expression, and the Courier, who had risen to his feet with hands outstretched in a placating gesture towards his East Coast counterpart. "Now, hold on Wanderer."
"Enclave, Courier?"
"Aye, but it ain't like that…."
The Wanderer remained seated, but everyone was now uncomfortably aware of the fact that a lethal cyborg, who had an entire table of vicious weaponry in front of him, seemed to be displeased with them. Boone's hand drifted to That Gun the Courier had purchased for him from Cliff Briscoe in Novac, many years before. The revolver, chambered in 5.56 rifle cartridges might be able to penetrate his cybernetic sub-dermal armour. Veronica held her own hands out to the side, "Was it something I said?" She asked, weakly.
Christine, dressed in a leather jacket, had her hand under the open folds. The Brotherhood-trained assassin, unsure what was transpiring, but utterly certain that the first person who dared put Veronica and herself in danger by starting a firefight in a room full of explosives, would be getting sent straight to their grave. "Easy now, we don't want to do anything with all these explosives around."
"Yes," Dean Domino agreed, still taking sips of scotch with a steady hand, "I'd rather not end my days as confetti scattered across the length and breadth of the New Vegas Strip."
The Wanderer was as cool and collected as Domino however, sitting back in his own seat, and crossing one leg across the other. The cyborg regarded the Courier, who was motioning Boone and Christine to take their hands away from their various firearms. Emily was frozen in her seat from the sudden change of atmosphere.
"Why is this the first time I am hearing of Enclave Remnants, Courier?"
"Cause it weren't fuckin' relevant," the Courier proclaimed, "Arcade used to be Enclave, but West Coast, see? Nothin' to do with those feckers ye fought with under Eden back East. They've been disbanded for years. Nowadays they fly 'round Mojave like a bunch o' bloody heroes in their fancy Vertibird, killin' folks that need killin', savin' folks that need savin'. Since New Vegas is Independent, they can do that without the NCR breathin' down their necks."
"And are they trustworthy?" the Wanderer enquired.
"They fought by our side at Hoover Dam," the Courier stated with a finality that seemed to convey all that needed to be said, "An' Arcade is a sound man, a medicine man. The Remnants ain't never done wrong by us, and I won't be havin' wrong done by them. So you best takin' that as my final word on the matter and drop it."
The Wanderer stared at the Courier for a while, gauging him, measuring him. The Courier knew that at this moment all of his biological processes were being scanned, his facial expression, his heart rate, everything that could be considered to determine whether a statement was true or false, was tabulated and organised behind those cybernetic eyes.
Finally, the cyborg nodded. "Very well. If that is the case, I believe I can supply a ready amount of Enclave equipment for them from my own personal stashes. The campaign against the Enclave back East left us with surpluses of captured gear, and I have contacts in the Capital Wastelands who manufacture Vertibird parts for the Brotherhood. I can have them send you a shipment and communicate their specifications for the creation of machining tools."
"Appreciated," Veronica mumbled in the background, thankful that the storm seemed to have blown over as quickly as it came, "So, you fought the Enclave back East? How come you never said anything?"
"I did. Just not to you, apparently."
"Who are these Enclave Remnants?" Lantaya probed cautiously.
"They're what's left of the American government from before the war," Veronica said as she wandered over to get a drink from the bar, to steady her nerves after the near miss. Cass had one waiting, and the Scribe noticed that unseen amidst the tense standoff that had just transpired, Cassidy had managed to load the double-barrelled sawed-off shotgun that Six kept behind the bar with pulse rounds and was now unloading them back into their box. The two women exchanged glances. Close one.
"Then," Lantaya blinked in confusion as she considered what Elliott Tercorien had told her of the world before the War, "Wouldn't that mean they are the legitimate authority in these lands?"
"Not feckin' likely," the Courier scoffed, "Enclave ain't been an authority o' any kind in years. Not since the Red Lady had her way with them at Navarro. NCR rules out that ways now. Enclave may have had fancy toys, but they ain't got the manpower to stand up against the likes o' them."
"I guess, technically they are," Veronica shrugged, sitting back down, this time in Christine's lap with two fruity drinks in hand, "But they have a habit of picking fights they can't win. Almost every time I heard about them they're getting stomped on by some faction or another that they managed to annoy. Luckily for him, Arcade's a sweetheart."
"I see," Lantaya nodded, "And where is this Arcade Gannon currently?"
"With the rest o' the Remnants, doin' good deeds off in bad places, probably," the Courier replied.
"Those prehistoric wrecks check in here now and again," Cassidy added, "Looking to get shitfaced and stock up, but they keep to themselves. Folks around these parts got long memories, and they don't want to have to watch NCR citizens, drunk and jonesing for a good time, get blown away for hassling former-Enclave drop troopers. But like Veronica said, Arcade is sweet. All that needs saying."
"They sound… impressive," Lantaya agreed, "Why are we not contacting them for help with our endeavour?"
"They're a bunch of geriatrics, is why," Cass said between mouthfuls of whiskey. "They stay within flying range of a hospital in case one of them needs a defibrillator, and Arcade won't leave them for all the money in Vegas. We'll be filling him in next time they come through. They'll be good to have around in case the Families want to start trouble with the big man gone."
Domino scoffed, "The Families don't have the imagination to slip their leash. They will do what their master tells them to do. Handled correctly, of course."
The Courier opened his mouth, intending upon filling Domino in on all the various plots to commandeer New Vegas that he had to oust during his rise to power in the Mojave, but before he could, Yes Man's screen came to life and the speakers blared resoundingly, "Well how's everyone doing this evening? Everyone ready for a status update, I have tremendous news for you all!"
"Doing just great, Yes Man," Veronica replied, as everyone either stopped what they were doing or sped up in an attempt to finish what they were currently working upon. "What have you got for us?"
Boone's disassembled rifle practically fly together of its own volition, guided by his practised hands that had disassembled and reassembled it countless times for no other reason than to be swift when it counted. His muscular arms bulged as he turned the lever on the vice, releasing his rifle from its hold, silently counting down the seconds to keep track of his current time. Twelve seconds. Not a terrible performance.
"The productive folks over at the Big Mountain Research Facility are already actioning your requests, Courier! The Brains have teleported over the stockpiles of Saturnite you requested, and a big old pallet of other technical-looking goodies! Mister Klein sends his compliments, and says," Yes Man's face abruptly swapped itself with that of the three screens of Doctor Klein for a brief moment, spilling the voice of the Big Empty's head scientist out across the room in a wave of bombastic pontification that made Lantaya wince.
"GREETINGS FROM THE MIGHTY HALLS OF BIG MOUNTAIN, LOBOTOMITE! WE HAVE RECEIVED YOUR DISPATCH DETAILING YOUR DISCOVERY, AND YOUR PERMISSION TO EXPAND OUR OPERATIONS WITHIN THE CONFINES OF THE FACILITY! DOCTOR MOBIUS, THAT DEVILISH DECIEVER OF A HALF-RATE SCIENTIST IS OVERSEEING OUR WORK WELL! EVEN IF THE FOOL IS PICKLING HIMSELF IN MENTATS!"
There was a brief serious of bumps and crashes in the background of the transmission, followed by a burst of unintelligible noises that sounded like feedback on a radio set. Klein's screens turned to the side to regard the disturbance. If it were possible for a brain held within a glorified robotic jar to look apoplectic with rage, it managed it quite comfortably.
"Hold it right there, Doctor 8! We cannot install speakers and receivers on every single one of the LOBOTOMITES that roam BIG MOUNTAIN! Think of the overwhelming feedback loops. I shall task the CYBERDOGS with patrolling throughout the facility!"
"Doctor Klein," a smoother, more feminine voice cut in, making Klein swivel in the opposite direction to regard the source, somewhere offscreen, "Remember to inform our wayward teddy-bear, softly and slowly into his many orifices, that I shall be accompanying him in the next shipment. And ask him to have a laboratory ready for us! We will need it to conduct our usual… observances."
"I WILL NOT PASS ON YOUR SORDID PLEAS FOR FILTHY FORMOGRAPHY, DOCTOR DALA! THIS IS A PROFESSIONAL TRANSMISSION, NOT A FORUM FOR IMAGES OF LOBOTOMITES, WITH THEIR MANY WRIGGLING PENISES! TAKE YOUR VOCAL MODULATORS ELSEWHERE IMMEDIATELY!"
"Pipe down, Klein," another voice cut in, causing Klein's robotic brain jar to boil with repressed resentment at being incessantly interrupted, "We should really look into turning down your volume. Maybe down to the lowest setting, so we don't have to listen to you anymore! Tell the Boss that I've almost finished installing the control chips inside the rest of the Lobotomites. Most of them are already at work rolling out the new facilities we'll need!"
"BOSS? BOSS?! I AM THE HEAD RESEARCHER OF BIG MOUNTAIN, YOU BUMBLING BUBBLE OF BRAIN MATTER!"
"Ohh go suck on a Lobotomites finger-penises, Klein! You haven't been the boss in years!"
"HOW DARE YOU, DOCTOR 0! MUTINY! MUTINY" Klein yelled, only to be nudged gently out of the way by Doctor Mobius, cracked monitor hanging limply from one damaged antenna.
"Hello there, Six. As Klein has already informed you, the prescribed improvements are already underway. Big Mountain is already bustling with the news, Lobotomites and Roboscorpions all ahoo! If you'll forgive an old brain for saying so, this is the most exciting undertaking we have participated in for hours…no, wait…."
The floating robobrain mumbled unintelligibly to himself as the sound of Klein and Doctor 0 engaging in verbal fisticuffs drifted through the speakers. Lantaya was gapping like a beached carp at the faculty of the Big Empty, wondering if it would be inappropriate to ask where these strange robots had obtained the brains that could be seen, clearly floating within the preserving fluid.
"…years! Yes, that is the word I am looking for! The most exciting undertaking we have undertaken in years! Funny unit of measurement, that. I don't suppose the alien you discovered has a different interpretation of the structure of time? Does she wish to discuss the merits of the Gregorian colander, the elegant reallocation of days in order to account for time lost? Or was that spaghetti lost? Doctor 8, do we know any Italians?"
Another burst of mashed up noises, that sounded remarkably like a flock of eagles playing the bagpipes while riding an old-fashioned steam engine in the middle of a waterpark.
"Really? With a calzone, you say? How incredibly lewd!"
Doctor Mobius returned his attention to the Courier, "Doctor Dala will be our representative aboard your spacecraft. She has graciously promised not to turn any of the crew into Lobotomites. Still, even with the treatments we have been undertaking to regain our previous faculties, I have reservations about letting one of us out of the playpen, so to speak. You had best keep her well in hand. Preferably, with plenty of masturbatory materials close at hand, in case you need to distract her!"
Domino was peering over the top of his sunglasses, his scotch dropping dangerous to one side, threatening to dribble priceless scotch all over the expensive pre-war carpeting. His face was still calm and composed, but internally he was immeasurably grateful that he'd been turned into a zombie-lookalike, rather than one of these raving lunatics in space-age jam-jars.
Mobius was knocked out of the way suddenly, as the beleaguered form of Doctor Klein once more overtook the screen, "WE MUST GO NOW, LOBOTOMITE! THERE IS MUCH SCIENCE! TO BE ACCOMPLISHED! AND BOROS HAS LET LOOSE THE CYBERDOGS, SO WE MUST FLEE QUICKLY BACK TO THE THINK TANK! ONWARDS, COLLEGUES!"
The transmission cut out, and Yes Man's face reappeared in a burst of static.
"Aren't they just the best team a guy could ask for! Those Lobotomites of there's are just a fantastic workforce, always eager to work their hands to the bone. Literally! And when they start falling apart, they just feed them into one of those neat medical harnesses! There's no keeping those boys down!"
Lantaya futilely hoped that wasn't actually what it sounded like. Emily, who had only heard second or third hand accounts of the Brains of the Big Empty from her co-workers, looked faintly pale. "Are they the same ones that…?"
"Made the Cazadors? Yup." Veronica finished her thought for her, pronouncing the last word with a very distinct 'P', "And the Nightstalkers too. You know, I'm suddenly really glad I'm not going with you. I'd hate to be locked up on an alien ship with one of those maniacs."
Veronica whistled a jaunty tune as she cuddled up to Christine, ignoring Emily's look of horror, in favour of stealing a sip of her girlfriends atomic cocktail.
"What's wrong with the Nightstalkers?" Six countered, somewhat peevishly, "They're the cutest little feckers ye ever saw!"
"Aren't they ever! Who wouldn't adore the unholy lovechild of a rattlesnake and a coyote, Six," Yes Man agreed, doing his very best to live up to his name, "And Cazadors are really just misunderstood! All they want is a bit of love and affection. If you can't love someone by injecting them with necrotic poisons that dissolve your flesh from the inside out, then what even is love anyway, am I right?"
"Easy for you to say, Boss," Raul grumbled from his armchair, never having moved an inch throughout the proceedings, or even bothering to unprop his legs when it had looked as if the room would erupt in gunfire, "Those little pendejos never bite you."
"It's 'cause I don't look like ground-brahmin arse, Raul," the Courier snarked.
"No, you just smell like one," Boone quipped through the world best poker-face, the first words he'd spoken in at least an hour or more. Veronica snorted atomic cocktail through her nose, coughing as the alcohol burned her nostrils like gasoline. Christine thumped her liberally on the back, as Lantaya hid her face behind her hand. It did nothing to disguise the mirth in her eyes.
"Et tu, Craig?" The Courier asked in mock sorrow, using a phrase Arcade Gannon had taught him. He tossed over a bandolier of grenades to the sniper, who caught it and strapped them into place, taking care not to obstruct the magazine pouches across his abdominals.
"Alright lads, playtimes over. It's still early in the evenin', the suns still all bright an' shiny, and we have work to be getting' on with. Yes Man, did ya talk with the depot manager over at Happy Trails Caravan?"
"I sure did. The manager says the tribes of Zion are taking a real enthusiastic walk into Arizona, to a place called Fort Defiance! Word is, the Burned Man walks the land once more, wreaking vengeance on the Legion. Which I think sounds incredibly dramatic, don't you?"
"Yes, very dramatic indeed. Who is this Burned Man, exactly? I believe I saw flashes of a human with burning skin in my melding visions. Some sort of… prophet?" Lantaya asked.
Many of those present seemed on the verge of answering. Everyone had heard the legend of the Burned Man, those who associated with the Courier most of all. They knew to respect the strength of myth and legend. They'd seen it in action and understood it in the way that only the witnesses of such events know. The Courier was the first to answer, however. Which was fine by the rest. He had a particular way of speaking that seemed to give words life. It was appropriate for this particular story.
"Aye, he's a prophet. Wouldn't say so himself, but he's been humbled too many times to talk himself up none. He worships an old god, older than the Back When times, 'fore the Old World. His god gives him strength, like the spirits give me mine. If that ain't a prophet, I don't know what is."
Dean Domino, one of the only ones present who remembered the Old World as what it had been, turned away with a scoffing, muttered remark about religious fools and bible thumping country bumpkins. Even he still continued to listen with half an ear, as the Courier elucidated upon the story of Joshua Graham. Six paused to roll up a cigarette before he began in earnest, lighting the pleasurable mix of datura and finest Mojave tobacco without a care for all the munitions that lay about the room.
"Graham was a missionary," the Courier began the story from its start as was its due, smoke drifting about his head like wisps of fog, "A holy man who travelled from place to place, helpin' others to honour the Old God. I give my spirits gifts of flesh, sacrifice o' time and effort, conquer great enemies, walk long roads. Graham's God just tells him to love his neighbour. I laughed at him when I heard that first, turnin' the other cheek just means you'll get stabbed in both, see? But any god strong enough to tame a man with a spirit of rage that strong deserves respect. On one o' his travels, Joshua met a man called Edward Sallow, a Follower o' the Apocalypse, like Em over there."
Emily shifted uncomfortably. She knew that name and didn't like being compared to it in any fashion.
"They, along with another, walked out East many a mile to travel amidst the tribes of Arizona. And while they were there, they walked with a tribe who called themselves the Blackfoot. The legend don't record exactly what happened, and Joshua was mighty cagy 'bout details when I knew him, but he thinks he must have mistranslated. He's a man o' many tongues, see? Like me. An' he says that the Blackfoot were offended by somethin' they said. They were captured, held against their will. But Sallow was a strong man. Not a big man, no. He had a mind full o' Old World spirits. Spirits o' rage, an' war. Spirits o' conquest. An' he spoke magic words."
Boone scowled silently. He disliked it when people spoke well of Sallow. For any reason. He didn't interrupt the Courier though, not while his friend was fully in the grips of his story, sitting as if at the edge of a campfire on the trail, sharing tales of times long past, obscured by the fragrant smoke from his roll-up.
"He taught the Blackfoot the ways of the great Nations of the Old World, the great empires. Taught them to fight, how to survive, an' how to win. An' in time, they conquered. Faught smaller tribes first, put them to the sword, to the fire, let the spirit o' rage that Sallow offered them communion with fill them to the brim. Gave them strength. Edward Sallow took the name Caesar," the Courier pronounced it in the classical fashion, with the hard 'K' rather than a soft 'C', "And made each tribe he conquered take his name, made them into his Legion. Their old names and ways he made them leave in the dust, trampled underneath and left to rot. An' so too did he ask this o' Graham.
Graham abandoned his God's ways for his new master. Took the title o' Legate, the Malpais Legate. An' with each step he took at Caesar's side, he travelled further an' further from the Old God. Let the spirit o' rage guide him, lifted the Legion's banner across the length an' breadth o' Arizona. Wherever his boots fell, the Red Banner o' the Legion Bull rose to the sky. Blades an' bullets could' na harm him, the boots o' the Legion shook the ground wherever they trod. But then came the day when Caesar's Legion met their match. Boone's Nation. The Two-Headed Bear. NCR."
Boone nodded solemnly, "The New California Republic. Legion finally bit off more than they could chew."
"The Bear an' the Bull clashed over an Old-World relic called Hoover Dam. Power plant, strategic crossing point over the Colorado," the Courier continued, "I met the Legion Frumentarii, one o' their Long Walkers, men who travel to distant places to bring word back to the Legion, who was the first to lay eyes on the Dam. He told me that Caesar saw the Bear as his last true test. If he could bring down the beast, then Legion was fated to spread across the whole o' America. And so, he ordered Joshua to take the Dam. His prize general, who had never once failed him."
He paused then, letting the tension build. The Lone Wanderer, who had never heard this tale before, cocked his cybernetically augmented head to the side in simulated curiosity to show he was awaiting the conclusion of the tale. Lantaya once more marvelled at the Courier's ability to hold an audience in the palm of his hand. If he had been a Asari, he would have been world-renowned on Thessia for his stage presence.
"He failed," the Courier said, simply.
"At Boulder City the Bear lured the Bull into an ambush. They set explosives an' traps, faked a retreat, led Graham an' the Legion assault over the Dam and through Boulder, then blew the town to shreds with the Legion still inside. After that, the Bear counterattacked, beat the Legion back 'cross the Dam."
The Courier took a long puff of his roll-up, making the end flare orange within the swirling mass of smoke it produced.
"For his failure, Caesar covered the Malpais Legate in pitch, set him ablaze, and chucked his arse down the Grand Canyon. He forbad anyone in the Legion from ever speakin' his name. From that day on, the legend o' the Burned Man was born, took on a life o' its own, a spirit all its own. An' that, dear Lani," the Courier quipped softly, "Is the story o' the man we're goin' to meet next. So, be on yer best behaviour an' when he starts wafflin' on 'bout his God, ye listen an' nod politely."
Lantaya, fully conscious of the room's mood, listened and nodded politely.