Wasteland Galaxy

by Redentor

Matriarch Lantaya is a brave explorer from the Golden Age of Asari space exploration, and she wants to go home. The Lone Wanderer is a messianic cyborg from a world scorched in nuclear fire, and he wants to save the wastelands. Courier Six is a tribal postman who usurped control of an entire city state. He wants to eat people. Among other things. (Also available on Spacebattles)

19. Sampling the Nightlife

"Fly me to the moon."

Dean Domino's artfully rasping voice graced the room with his own rendition of Frank Sinatra's old classic, one hand tucked into his smoking jacket, the other clicking its fingers in time to the Ultra Luxe's resident brass band. Reminding all that listened why he had been considered one of the most accomplished Lounge Singers in all of Pre-War America. His eyes were screwed shut, one of the rare, wholly genuine smiles spread across his ghoulish features. The smile of a man indulging in his one true passion in life, one that he had poured all of his heart and soul into for too many years to count.

"Let me play among the stars,

Let me see what spring is like on,

Jupiter and Mars."

It was evening in on the Strip, when the nightlife of New Vegas started to swing and sway to a music only it could hear, and the immature and unwise took to the streets to get into trouble. Because if you didn't wake up in the morning, half dead from a hangover, in bed next to a stranger you'd never met before that night, with a knife in one side and the other missing a kidney, then hell – You just weren't getting into the true New Vegas spirit!

"In other words,

Hold my hand,

In other words,

Baby kiss me."

It had been a frantic few days, consumed by almost constant activity and effort. And they needed a rest, here and now, before they began the task of tackling whatever wasteland insanity surely awaited them in DC. To that end, the Courier had rented the private suite at the Ultra Luxe and instructed Marjorie to roll out the reddest of red carpets. All bankrolled by his own considerable account with the Hotel. One night of all the pleasure they could stomach or endure, a full night of rest and resupply, and they would be off in the morning to parts unknown. Or, at least for the Mojave contingent, unknown.

"Fill my heart with song,

Let me sing forevermore,

You are all I worship and adore."

Lantaya sat alone at the table of her choosing, contemplating the events of yesterday. It had taken them some time to finish up in the Divide. Teleporting Ulysses' stockpiled gear and equipment to the Relay Station in the Big Empty to be taken up to the Zeta, locking down the silo in preparation for Ulysses' absence from the Divide. It's one guardian called away at a time when all eyes were fixed upon it with even greater attention than ever before. She sipped her drink, a mixture of New Vegas Vodka and several fruity liquids that she didn't know or particularly care to know, as long as their sweetness masked the taste of the alcohol and aided her in her attempt to drink and forget. The pitch-black evening gown she wore was cool against her skin, split high up one blue thigh in the Thessian style she had instructed the tailor to employ. A little slice of home, even if the fabric was all wrong.

As required by the dress code of the Ultra-Luxe, the Courier's main companions, and allies had adorned themselves in a fashion appropriate to the status of the richest and most influential of the New Vegas Elite. Most had elected for the simple and dignified three-piece suit, like the Alpha and Boone. The former, from the neck down at least, looked very stylish in his charcoal grey suit, his cybernetics aside. Boone looked like a dressed-up lump of a discount thug; despite being squeezed into a custom fitted plain black number that would have made any man except the NCR sniper seem dignified. He looked like any soldier did out of his element – thoroughly disgruntled, with his NCR First Recon Beret jammed on top of his head like an errant tea-cosy.

"In other words,

Please be true,

In other words,

I love you."

Raul had thrown caution to the wind and had decided to break out a traditional Charro suit, cream coloured with golden embroidery and tassels. His sister Rafaela would have loved to have seen him in such an outfit, he had solemnly stated to the tailor. He had made good on his promise to Ulysses, and had sought out the nearest, most abundantly padded Old-Man chair available in the establishment to relax into with a drink in one hand, and a deck of cards in the other. He and Boone were playing Caravan together, ignoring the dancing in favour of something more restrained. The ghoul gunslinger would not be joining them in DC. He needed time to recover further from the bullet he had taken during their escapade in the Divide, and with their roster of gunhands and allies already filled to bursting, he had opted to remain in Vegas and teleport up to the Zeta along with the supplies.

Ulysses, whose glower had convinced even the bravest of the Ultra-Luxe snobs not to dare try dressing him up like some kind of echo of the past, had been allowed in in worn fatigue pants, a sleeveless-tee and his duster with the Old-World flag borne proudly on its back.

"Fill my heart with song,

Let me sing forevermore,

You are all I long for,

All I worship and adore."

They had also allowed him to carry Old Glory; the Courier had described it as an ornamental cane, and they had been loath to disagree with him. It lay now across the tribal's lap as he conversed with Christine Royce and Veronica. The former had been overjoyed to once again cross paths with her former savour, while the latter was carried on by her significant others enthusiasm and her own gratitude to Ulysses for his role in having kept her girlfriend safe. So that she could one day come back to her. Christine's memories of her seemingly endless pursuit of Father Elijah from the Mojave, to the Big Empty, to the Sierra Madre were still fresh in her mind. In the way that memories of extreme trauma tended to stay fresh in the minds of those who experienced them. Seeing Ulysses again, after all that time thinking of how he saved her from the Big Empty, was almost as joyous as having seen Courier Six again after travelling to Vegas in pursuit of Veronica Santangelo.

Christine was dressed in a fitted suit with suspenders, that Veronica commented accentuated her assets in all the right places, in contrast to Veronica herself who had elected to find the most Femme-Fatale cocktail dress she could and play the gorgeous maidan of mystery against her girlfriends outfit, reminiscent of a private dick getup. Ulysses, after spending so long alone in a bunker, looked a bit overwhelmed by the display. Something that Veronica and Christine found endlessly entertaining.

Joshua Graham and chosen to wear a plain white dress shirt, a pair of plain pants with plain suspenders, and his ever-present bandages. He sat some ways away, engrossed in a thick, leather-bound book that Lantaya made no doubt was the religious text of his people. In the midst of opulence, he did just enough to satisfy the White Glove Societies regulations in the interests of honouring his hosts but would never give in to ostentatious display. In a way, he looked all the more regal for it, she decided.

"In other words,

please be true,

In other words,

In other words."

A noise at the entrance to the private suite, causing her to shift her forlorn gaze from her drink to the door. A man stood there, cleanly shaved, hair slicked back and neatly trimmed in a shining wave of grey. His face was aged, dignified, and strongly featured with a strong jaw and a devil-may care grin on his lips. He wore a daisy suit, with a black and white checker pattern. He was conversing with a women, one with a horribly disfigured and burned face, dressed in a cheap dress that stood out like Joshua's sore thumb in the surrounding opulence of the Ultra-Luxe. Lantaya's eyes were inexorably drawn to the man, wondering why he and his suit looked so familiar.

It was only when he retrieved the tarnished cigarette lighter she had seen so very often since her awakening on the Zeta, that she realised who it was. And she stared, with her mouth hanging slightly ajar, as Courier Six lit the woman's cigarette and then brushed a few errant locks of hair away from the burns. He said something to her through a charming smile, something that had clearly been exceedingly witty, for the burned woman smiled bashfully. It transformed her face. That smile revealed the barest hint of a beauty that had once been apparent in the past, and the Courier reached out and ran a gentle finger down her cheek. The woman leaned into it for the briefest moment, eyes closed, savouring the touch.

"I love you."

Domino finished his rendition of Sinatra's classic with a flourish, a deep rasp that gave the song a masculine and sultry air before those who had been enjoying the song most attentively clapped as thunderously as this limited audience could achieve. Domino smiled and winked in his best roguish fashion. The woman with the burned face seemed to come to her senses with the ending of the song and the intrusion of the applause on the private moment she had been sharing. She returned the witty remark, bringing a smile to the Courier's face, now unobscured by the bushy undergrowth of his beard and then exited through the door they had entered through.

The Courier nodded a greeting to the room in general, then, spying Lantaya all alone at her table he strode towards her with the same sly grin parting his lips to display his brilliantly white smile. "Whether yer on a beach surrounded by sun an' joy, or in the most expensive Hotel and Casino on the Strip, I always find ye alone. What's yer poison today, Lani? Found someone to mix ye some elasa?"

He pulled out a chair from the opposite end of the table and made a show of slotting it into the table to sit down, bypassing or ignoring a number of suitable sitting arrangements so he could reside on the closest possible terms with her. The fragrant scent of datura and tobacco wafted across her awareness, announcing his presence to her far more effectively than any visual stimuli. This and his voice both reassured her that she was in fact correct in her belief that this was the Courier. Without his beard, missing his armour and with hair slicked back and trimmed to perfection, he seemed a different beast entirely from what she had grown accustomed to.

In fact, so made up and pruned, she could almost shake the sense of strangeness she experienced whenever she was around human men. She hadn't realised just how much the physical differences between their two races had affected her, until one of the prime exemplars of how different humans could look suddenly removed at least part of the discrepancy. Namely, all the hair.

Dean Domino left the stage amidst the applause, nodding to Follows-Chalk who passed him on route to the stage. The tribal explorer carried his guitar with him, dressed in nothing but a pair of suit pants and the many assorted tattoos that wrapped, snakelike around the skin of all who counted themselves among the ranks of the Dead Horse. A drunk and frisky Cass wolf-whistled from where she reclined, as yet only half a whiskey bottle deep into her impromptu bender. Once she finished the bottle, Veronica would surely pull her away to prevent her from ruining what was left of her liver. She wouldn't wake up with a hangover, at least.

She would either wake up with bruises from a fight or in bed next to a stranger. If her rooming eyes were any indication, Follows-Chalk might be the likely recipient of her ministrations. Much to the chagrin of Emily Ortal, who alternated between gazing at her crush and glaring at Cass. Cass seemed to be both aware of this and determined to continue despite it. Probably had a mind to break Emily of her infatuation as violently as possible, to keep Chalk's limitless charm from leading the impressionable Doctor into something she might later regret. Or she might just be looking for a good lay. Whiskey and Cass went together like fireworks and a lighted match. Pretty to look at, but dangerous if you stood too close.

"Unfortunately not," Lantaya corrected him as her hand rushed skywards to cover her expression from prying eyes, "This is something that the bartender calls a…."

She squinted as her mind cast itself backwards to recall the exceedingly inventive catalogue of names she had been subjected to when she had gone searching for a drink. "…A Bloody Mary, I believe. And what you see before you are the remains of an Atomic Screwdriver," she pointed to the empty glass before her that contained a thin layer of fluorescent yellow liquid at the bottom, "And the Long Island Nuka Tea."

"Sure, I'll join ye then. Misery loves company an' I love bein' company," he returned with a grin. He flagged down one of the patrolling White Glove servers with a wave of two fingers. A straightforward endeavour, as almost every eye had been drawn to his presence the moment he entered the room, his standing in New Vegas society being what it was. The masked White Glove bent at the hip to place his ear next to the Couriers ear, a short journey given the huge discrepancy in height. He listened intently as the Courier spoke over the sound of Follows-Chalk's opening notes onstage.

"Go ask Phillipe if he has any specials goin' today, an' fetch a glass o' bear lad. An' here," he retrieved a glittering piece of Legion gold from his breast pocket with a flourish, depositing it in the servers pocket and patting him companionably on the back, "Get yerself somethin' nice."

The server nodded gracefully in acceptance of the gold Aurelius looted from Fort Defiance, "Chef Philippe was confident you would request the Ultra-Luxe Special. We have it in the hotbox awaiting your request to bring it in, Sir. The Chef also wanted to be informed of your arrival. He wished to be present when you sampled the first bite."

"Is it the wine thing again?" The Courier enquired in a long-suffering voice, but with a jovial grin on his features.

"Indeed Sir, it is as you say, 'the wine thing again'," the server confirmed. It was apparent from his voice that he too was grinning behind the mask on his face. Lantaya noted the fact that the White Glove seemed far more relaxed with the Courier than they were with the other guests. The server nodded to her politely and departed through the staff entrance.

"Folks 'round here always said these lads were creepy," the Courier noted to her, "Never saw it myself. They're just slow to open up. Sound bunch, on the whole."

"The masks are an interesting aesthetic choice," Lantaya spoke somewhat guardedly and at random, as the White Glove did in fact 'creep her out', as Veronica was given to saying.

"Aye, 'tis just custom. Everyone has custom. Tradition. 'Tis a sad thing when a man can't show his real face to the world. Can't be who his is, an' pay sacrifice to the spirits he venerates. That's why I took New Vegas from House, see? There is an Old World sayin' 'bout this city. 'What happens in Vegas, stays in Vegas'," the Courier spoke the words with careful enunciation to make sure that none of his native accent seeped into the phrase.

"Here is the city where the Wanderers an' Vagabonds can come an' be who they are. My little circle of heaven. Never thought I'd know a place to lay my head after I had to leave Ireland. Too many folks that can't be leavin' well enough alone. 'Til I found a way to strike that balance. Now, this is my paradise," he grinned at Lantaya and reached under his shirt collar to retrieve his band of tribal icons to finger and feel with the tips of his rough fingers, "Long may it last."

"You must appreciate why some people are cautious of you, Courier," Lantaya noted as she took another sip of her drink and leaned upon the table, the Serrician-style single strap holding the dress in place, attached to the back by a golden clasp.

"Course I do. I ain't a fool," the Courier remarked lightly, "People like to know ye won't take a bite outta them whenever yer feelin' a bit peckish. But it t'were a long road to tread upon. Never thought I'd find home again, an' I didn't come to Vegas thinkin' this would be the place I'd finally get to settle down in. Didn't seem that much different on the face of it. Civilisation," he spat the word as if he didn't like the taste, "I'll stay right here."

He leant back, then seemed to brighten somewhat.

"Then again," he wiggled his eyebrows with an amused smile, "When ye have an army o' Securitrons at yer back an' the support o' most of the Families o' Vegas and the tribes o' the Mojave, people tend to be a touch more willin' to give ye a chance. There's somethin' to be said for shotgun diplomacy."

Lantaya pondered her reply as the server returned with a trolley of food, followed by a short, clean-shaven man in the attire of the White Glove Society, absent the mask.

"Courier," the man spread his arms and his mouth wide, "You have no idea how much I've looked forward to this moment. Almost none of these fucking inbred ingrates know what a proper meal looks like, and I only get the right ingredients to work with every other week!"

The Courier stood up and embraced the smaller man, clapping him industrially on the back as the server opened the insulated hotbox to reveal a plate filled with a type of thick-crusted meat pie, and several separate bowls of vegetables doused liberally in melted butter and seasoning. "Always a pleasure to see ye, Philippe!"

"Of course it fucking is. I can't imagine any of those overgrown apes you travel with can cook anything more impressive than a gecko steak. And I bet they would overcook it too, the savages."

Philippe spotted the glass beer mug the server was retrieving from the trolley and cried out in sudden outrage, "Don't you fucking dare!"

He lunged across the table and snatched the as yet unfilled mug from the servers grasp and backhanded the White Glove in the same motion, "You don't drink beer with a dish like this, you fucking simpleton! Get the bottle I gave you out of the trolley and get the hell out of my sight!"

The Courier intervened with a heavy hand on the Chef's shoulder. "Settle down. I ordered the beer. Leave it on the table, lad," he ordered the server, who was on his hands and knees retrieving his mask from where Philippe had knocked it from his face and under the table.

"But Courier….!" Philippe started to protest, before a large hand gripped his fine shirt collar and pulled the diminutive man forward to within an inch of the Courier face, that was suddenly turning a dangerous shade of red. "I told ye to settle the fuck down, Philippe. An' don't make a habit o' badmouthin' my friends while their backs are turned. 'Tis not the proper way o' things, see? Yer a sound man. I'd hate to have to kill ya."

Philippe swelled with repressed anger but mastered it admirably. "You will drink the beer after the meal, not before," he whispered in an equally dangerous voice, one of a man obsessed with his craft far past the point that threats to his person had any effect on him. "It would be a fucking travesty to ruin the taste of a vintage bottle of prime red by sullying your palette with a common bear."

The Courier released his grasp on the collar and made a show of straightening Philippe's clothing. "Sure I will, take a load off an' sit down lad. Look on the bright side, right? Plenty more wine for ye!"

Philippe brightened at this, as it was with him as with many of his profession, that he was a confirmed alcoholic. Being a Chef was a stressful job. Doubly so if you were a Head Chef. Triply so if you happened to be the Head Chef for the most prestigious Hotel in New Vegas. He sat down and took the bottle offered to him by the server, twirling the corkscrew in his fingers as he prepared to open it personally. The Courier took the server privately aside and slipped another gold Aurelius into his pocket with a few muttered words. The server didn't seem at all surprised by the whole ordeal but seemed gratified by the sudden increase in his riches.

Lantaya banished the biotic throw she had been building in response to the sudden show of violence, and glance across the room to see that Boone had just extracted his hand from within his suit jacket. Many others were doing the same. Boone gave her a nod as she caught his eye, the echo of the same sentiment he had voiced in the missile silo beneath the Divide making its way across his features. In some ways, Lantaya thought, she had become one of these people in their eyes. One of the Courier's strange group of miscreants and crusaders. And one of the unspoken rules of this eclectic cadre it seemed, was always watch each other's backs.

She returned her attention to Philippe in time to see him eyeing her up, his eyes trailing the length of her leg up to where it vanished beneath the flowing fabric of her dress. His eyes were wandering without a hint of shame and when he finally met her eyes she saw no sense of contrition at being caught ogling her. He popped the cork from the wine and smelled the impaled cap to make sure the wine hadn't gone sour. It was always a professional hazard while sampling pre-war wines. He set the bottle aside and crossed his legs, mirroring her posture unconsciously. A common habit among social species, she noted.

"Have to leave it to breath," he nodded towards the bottle. The Courier was still showing the server aside with particular affability, so she and the clearly psychotic Chef were left alone at the table. "I am aware of the practise. My people are very familiar with winemaking," she pushed forward into the conversation, willing to make a respectable effort at civility befitting a Matriarch.

He raised an eyebrow, a human quirk that she still hadn't come entirely to grips with. It sometimes denoted puzzlement. Sometimes derision. Sometimes a particular brand of sardonic humour. "Your people? Who are your people and where do they come from? Did some sexually confused pre-war scientist hatefuck a squid?"

As Lantaya processed this statement in sheer disbelief at his temerity, Philippe eyed up and down her leg again, tracing the lines of her body encased in the smooth, shining fabric with an approving eye. "Must have been a good-fucking-looking squid."

Lantaya's jaw twitched in distaste. His manner of speech was at odds with his state of dress. He looked civilised, but in reality he was crude and puerile. She considered blowing the diminutive man across the room, but before she could the Courier returned and sat down at the table with a huff. "Thought I told ye to simmer the fuck down, Philippe. Talk to the Followers maybe," he said as he loosened his collar by a button and picked up the silverware to begin his meal, "Get some therapy, or whatever that fancy shite they do with the reclinin' chair is. Know a man in Goodsprings who tried it on me once. Then again, he didn't seem to know what any of it meant, either. Seems to help some people with their spirits, though."

"I don't need fucking therapy," Philippe gripped in a defensive tone, waving off the comment as he watched the Courier take the first bite of his creation with a piercing gaze. When the first forkful of the crisp pastry and meat dribbling with juice and gravy hit the Courier's lips, and the old Wastelanders eyes closed in rapture, Philippe transformed as his face broke out in the same type of smile that Dean Domino had worn on his face when doing the one thing in his life he loved to his very core. Not many people ever found that one thing that struck them that hard or that true, the lance that pierced their heart and made the entire world pale in comparison. To Philippe, this was his calling.

He let out a sigh as the Courier nodded in approval, "I refuse to deal with my issues the same way those slobbering peons do. Paying some book-educated fuckwit to pry up my childhood and look at it through a microscope. Who the fuck do they think they are to tell me how I should feel? If I ever do sink that low, blow my brains out all over my frying pan and feed that gunk to the horde of semi-evolved shitheads who stay here. All those normal, well-adjusted people can just try and cook half as well as I can. But they never will, do you know why?"

"Cause yer the best Chef there ever was," the Courier spoke with a significant smirk, that seemed to convey to Philippe a certain amount of shared kinship. Philippe grinned in response, picking up the bottle and pouring a hearty helping of the liquid into a waiting wine glass. "That's fucking correct. If I can cook a full three-course meal with my sweaty brother bending me over the stove then these New Vegas fucks can deal with my foul fucking mouth in return for the best food their squirming-sluglike tongues have ever tasted. I swear," he continued, as he placed the first glass of wine in front of the Courier and the second before Lantaya, "I am wasted on these third-world cretins. I may have to put pen to paper one of these days and write my biography. I'll interspace the recipes with descriptions of the scarring on my asshole. That'll filter out the fucking weak-kneed assholes who think they can cook. It takes more than that to hold your own with the best."

"Let me know when ye publish," the Courier laughed as he took another fork filled with the delectable meat pie and washed it down with a sip of the red wine, "Could use some light readin'."

The Courier and he shared in the cackling laugh for a moment before the Courier raised his glass towards Philippe. "A toast, lad. To the worst, that only the best o' us have ever seen to tell of."

Philippe chuckled and raised the entire bottle to head height and clinked it against the proffered glass, "I'll fucking drink to that."

And he did so, his Adam's Apple bobbing up and down like a ball on a string, draining a quarter of the bottle as quickly as if he were drinking clear water. He detached the bottle from his mouth with a distinct popping sound of escaping air. "Just came down to thank you for sending the ever-appropriately named Rotface and that fucking sugar-monger Boxcars around with the ingredients for tonight's Special. The rest of the Inner Patrons thank you for your continued support in our pursuit of the most sublime of cooking."

The Courier lifted his fork with a chunk of the delectable looking meat skewered upon the end and inclined his head towards the Chef companionably. "Sure, it ain't the best o' meat, but it'll do. I had a Legionary at Fort Defiance, out Arizona ways that thumbed his nose at the men who were a skins-breadth away from flayin' him alive with red-hot irons. Tasted like steel an' blood filled to burstin' with molten metal. Tasted like strength. I'll tell ya, Philippe, ye should look into goin' out into the field with me an' baggin' a few real fighters for the pot. Maybe we can try out those raw sweet an' sour recipes yer always boastin' of."

"Fuckin' tempting," Philippe muttered to himself, then shrugged, "Maybe as an experiment. It's been years since I killed a man with my bare hands. I'm not squeamish like some of these pampered idiots, but I think I prefer to bone and joint the meat after its already fucking dead. Inconsiderate assholes always squirm and fight, mess up the process. Who was this guy?" He motioned towards the dish that sat before the Courier.

"Some smarmy little shite who thought it would be a smart plan to go botherin' Pretty Sarah an' her girls. Had Boxcars an' Rotface sort him out. Can't be havin' people interferin' with the workin' ladies, now can we?"

Philippe frowned, taking another swig of the bottle. "Pretty Sarah? That blond bimbo from Vault 21?"

"Nah, Pretty Sarah," the Courier corrected him, "Westside Sarah. The pimp with the burn scars on her face."

Philippe widened his eye in recognition of the name, "Ohh yeah, I remember her. She had a run in with that half-rate gutter-chef Cook-Cook. That fool who mistakenly believed that just because he had the best barbecue in New Vegas back in the day that he could cook worth a damn. Glad you gave him his last order. Posers like him give us real Chef's a bad name. She was just here in the Hotel, wasn't she?"

The Courier nodded in agreement, taking another sip of the wine. Philippe finished the bottle with one last giant gulp that ended with him tapping the bottom of the bottle to drain the last scant drops of the delicious fluid into his waiting maw, before slamming it back down onto the table with a bang. "Remember to finish your wine before you dare take a sip of that fucking piss-water you call beer, Courier. I'll have the waitstaff keep an eye on you, so don't even think about cheating."

The Head Chef of the Ultra-Luxe stood up and adjusted his suit with the precision of the consummate professional he was, and sauntered away, his stride barely effected or hampered by the amount of hooch he had just imbibed.

"To yer good health, Philippe!" The Courier called after him, his own glass raised high to honour the man's retreating back.

"Fuck my good health," Philippe countered with the middle-finger shoved over his shoulder, "The food comes first! Always!"

And with that parting declaration, the Head Chef of the Ultra-Luxe departed through the staff entrance as Follows-Chalk transitioned from one technically difficult guitar solo to the next, fingers plying the strings in an attempt to match Dean Domino's singing. He was talented, but simply talented wasn't enough to compare to one of the all-time greats. Lantaya stared after Philippe, silently marvelling at the fact that so profound a philosophy could be contained within so foul an individual.

"He is not what his outward manner would lead most to believe," she commented to the Courier, who was eating his meal with gusto, helping himself to heaped forkfuls of the pie and intermingling it them with the buttery vegetables. His table manners were atrocious. He chewed with his mouth open, and it was not a pretty sight. "Aye, Philippe's a survivor. Like me, like ye. Took his pain an' sufferin' an' dedicated it to the spirits as a sacrifice. Proof o' his strength. An' for it he gained his powers," the Courier smirked through a mouthful of food, "Or he got sodomised so many times he started confusin' people with food. Who can tell?"

Lantaya reached across the table and gently closed his chewing mouth, pining the old cannibal in place with a stern Matriarchal glare. "Chew with your mouth closed, Courier. No-one wished to see that cyclone of half-masticated foodstuffs within your gaping mouth."

The Courier, surprisingly, didn't take offense at being so corrected. Just began chewing with his mouth closed and waited until he was finished with his massive bite of pie before replying. "Ol' habits, see? Most o' the places I've been in my life have been off the beaten track, down roads seldom trod. Down those roads people don't give much o' a damn whether yer not chewin' with yer mouth closed or open. Only that they're not the ones yer chewin' on."

Taking a sip of her wine, the Matriarch found it to be palatable, but clearly past its best. Most wines were not made to be kept for upwards of two-hundred years. In a world of commercial winemaking, most grapes were processed and aged to have the bottle on the shelves within a year or less. The resulting mixture did not last well past a decade. She pined for the master winemakers of Thessia from her maidenhood, who had stocks of expertly crafted wine laid aside that were optimally drunk after two-hundred years or more. To distract herself, she enquired after the women she had seen at the door. "Pretty Sarah, the women you mentioned to Philippe? Was she the lady you spoke with at the door?"

"Aye, that were the lass," he confirmed, finishing up the last of the pie and focusing his attention upon the vegetables. Food vanished into the humans mouth like matter into the eternal depths of a black hole. She had to keep her mind from calculating just how many calories such a large specimen of his species needed to consume in a daily diet.

"You and she seem close," she stated, remembering the gentleness with which he treated her, and the reciprocation of that gentleness that she had observed on the part of the women. "Are you bondmates of some description?"

The Courier, who had shared her mind before and had a grasp of just what being a bondmate entailed, shook his head but waited until he was finished with his mouthful to reply. The brief gap before he spoke made her realised just how interested she was in the answer. She crossed and uncrossed her legs and fiddled with the fabric of her dress. Realising what she was doing, she covered her lower face with her hand and made a conscious effort to be still.

"I ain't the type to settle down. My spirits are too fond o' wanderin'," he supplied after swallowing his food, "She's a survivor. Got a strong will, she does. But she was lonely when I came to Vegas. Said nobody was willin' to look past her scars. As if there were any reason to look past them. The scars tell ya everythin' ya need to know. No amount o' beauty compares to those scars an' what they mean."

He set his cutlery neatly down upon on the emptied plate, clearly making a special effort to maintain decorum for Lantaya sake, then leaned back and popped open the button of his suit jacket and considered the enamelled ceiling as he formulated his next words. Lantaya watched him expectantly, curious as to what he was going to say. "So, you respect that she was able to survive and continue on past the events that scarred her? It sounds as if you might love her. And this is your city. This is where you have settled after long years wandering the globe. Are you, perhaps, afraid of commitment?"

"No, course not," the Courier chuckled to himself, "Just already committed to bein' who I am. Stayin' true to my spirits an' my oaths to them. I'm not the sort to live a sedentary life. She's a good women. An' while I'm in town I try an' make her feel just a little less lonely, see? Everyone deserves a bit o' comfort every now an' then. A warm body to lie next to, a hand in yer hair, a set o' lips on yours. I felt the need many a night, wanderin' out in the Deadlands 'tween somewhere and nowhere. Some people get precious little than they deserve in the way o' affection. I think I do well to spread some love around, every now an' again."

His eyes trailed over Emily Ortal, who was still swooning over Follows-Chalk with a very noticeable air of lovestruck fool, which of course Chalk didn't notice. To Cass, who was currently stripping Follows-Chalk with her eyes and being very noticeable about it as well. Which, of course, Chalk didn't notice either. To Veronica and Christine, who were pressed up close to one another, both sharing an armchair that quite clearly had only ever been intended to seat one. Veronica had her head on Christine's shoulder in the manner of young lovers everywhere.

"You have never considered whether you are stringing her along? Whether she wishes something more, but is too afraid to ask? Perhaps she is unsure of where she stands with you. I cannot imagine you are an easy person to get close to," Lantaya proffered, hand still cupping her chin as her eyes searched his face.

"Lani, we've only known one 'nother less than a month, an' yer already askin' me about my love life. I'm easy to get close to. An' I never mince words. Sarah knows my mind on this. If I ever did commit to a lass, she'd need to be the wanderin' sort, see? The type to keep up with me, not the type who'd be askin' me to settle."

"So, you are a perpetual Maidan, wandering the world without care or commitment to a single partner? Is this common among human men of your age? Among Asari, when we reach our later years we tend towards settling down, starting a family, securing a stable job."

"An' that's why yer here, I take it?" The Courier countered slyly, "Can't get much more stable than this. What about ye? Almost a thousand years old, so ya are. No bondmate, no stable job, wanderin' the galaxy cataloguin' life from horizon to horizon. When yer spirit wants to wander, ain't nothin' ye can do but stay at home livin' a lie, or takin' the leap into the unknown. Into the dark. Into the Dream. That's for folks like us."

He speared her with a significant look, smirking a one-sided smirk that lifted one corner of his lip just high enough to reveal one of his brilliantly white canines, his slicked back grey hair and clean-shaven face quite striking to look upon. "Why the interest all o' sudden? Ye got somethin' on yer mind?"

Lantaya blinked, her hand once more rising to cover her mouth and hide her expression. "Merely curious," she stated, as she cupped her chin and kept her expression neutral.

The Courier laughed, eye twinkling as he took up a napkin and whipped his mouth, laying it across the empty plate to act as a signal to the serving staff that he was finished. "Yer an awful liar, Lani. Ye haven't the spirit o' guile in ye to save yer life, an' yer tell is obvious as sin. Whenever ye raise that hand to yer face everyone knows yer hidin' somethin'."

"I am not hiding anything in regard to this," Lantaya denied with Matriarchal composure, "Merely addressing what seems relevant and ignoring what is not. And it is not a 'tell'. A 'tell' by its very nature implies that it is unintentional. Hiding my expression is a choice. A philosophical one if you must know."

The Courier locked eyes with her, and all the while maintaining his smirk, started tapping the tabletop with rapid yet steady rhythm. She glanced at it in confusion, but soon realised what he was about. It was hard not to. His tapping finger was in perfect synchronicity with the drumming in her chest, and in her ears. He was tapping in time to her heartbeat, showing her how elevated it had become from their brief conversation. She dropped her hand to reveal her unimpressed expression, while he grinned at his small triumph. "Yer curious all right," he commented, "No doubt 'bout that."

"What is this, Courier?" She enquired, somewhat guardedly, "Are you propositioning me? Here? Now? I can list multiple reasons why that would be ill-advised."

"Sure I am, an' not for nothin' Lani, there's a short list o' things I do with my life that ain't ill-advised. An' why not? Three-thousand years is a hell o' a dry spell. An' you've been curious 'bout me since we melded back on the Zeta. Can tell, see?" He kept on tapping the tabletop as the White Glove server from before appeared at his shoulder and dipped in an impressive bow, before taking away his empty plate with a flourish.

Lantaya waited for the server to vanish before continuing, which he did almost as quickly as he had appeared. She matched the Courier's smirk against her composure, less reluctant to offend him as she was to countenance the proposal. She too wasn't one to mince words in times such as these however and replied with equal candour, back straight and eyes as hard as flint. The truth would always be worth conflict.

"You threatened to kill a man just ten minutes ago, Courier. After which, you sat down and had a conversation with a cannibal who had cooked you a dish composed of human meat, which I watched you eat. Yesterday I watched you launch a nuclear missile at a populated city and wipe it off the face of the planet. Filled with thousands of Legionaries, unable to fight back. Surrounded by a world that proves for all to see the folly of such actions."

"An' the thousands o' slaves an' Legion families. Women an' little children," the Courier confirmed, "Don't be forgettin' them, now."

Lantaya's jaw tightened at his comment, but she relaxed it once she realised that his words were not meant in jest, or to make light of the loss of life he had chosen to engineer. His eyes were devoid of mirth, filled with that eery light that she noticed in the eyes of so many of humanities most spectacular examples of itself.

"I'm not sure I can trust you. I am worried. Sincerely worried, about what you and your race will do once you have access to the rest of the galaxy. I may have spoken confidently with Ulysses, but the oath you made me swear weighs heavily upon me. Never to reveal the existence of humanity, nor any details of your capabilities? And what if you commit some travesty against the galaxy, against my people? Must I adhere to my oath, even then?"

"And what manner of position might I find myself in if you and I indulge in some," she swept her hand from side to side in a dismissive gesture, "juvenile fantasy of sexual deviancy with a leader among a race not our own? Curiosity is not a fitting motivation to compromise my loyalty to my people; to voluntarily create a conflict of interests."

"Know this," she tapped the tabletop with a blue finger, meeting his eyes with her own, "Should you commit atrocities the likes of which I have seen on this planet against my people, I will break my oath to you. And against your spirits I will fight. Against you I will contest with every fibre of my being. I will not let it stand. Regardless of your martial prowess, I will not allow some petty, malicious tyrant to hound my people. What you did yesterday was villainy, Courier. You were frothing at the mouth, barely in control of yourself. And worse still, all of those men who follow you participated in your atrocity. I have spoken with many of them. They are good, honest people. They would not have done what you asked of them unless you were the one who did the asking. What happened yesterday is on your head. I trusted you. They trusted you. I thought I knew something of your nature from the time we spent melded together. But perhaps I was premature in my estimation of you."

She shook her head sadly, rubbing her chin to conceal her expression once more.

It had needed to be said, if only just to satisfy honour. He needed to know where he stood with her. But once words such as these had been spoken out loud, they could never be retracted. The Courier, in contrast to herself, didn't seem that bothered by her statement of intent or her warning. He nodded, acknowledging the answer with an air of jovial civility. This worried her, also. She needed to know he was taking this seriously. "That's fair enough, alright. Ya look cute when yer threatenin' me."

Lantaya gave him a 'Look', and he raised his hands in mock submission as if reading her concern in her expression. "All right, all right. Serious it is. Serious as a heart-attack. Serious as a warren o' Deathclaws. Serious as The Little Death."

He leant forwards, far enough that she could see the concealed underarm holster that contained his .45 Automatic, close enough that she could see the pores on his nose, close enough that she could make out the tiny hairs that not even the sharp razor could remove from his chin. "Do ye want to know the why of it? Why I awakened the giant an' sent it on its way?"

"Because your spirits told you to. Which is not comforting in the slightest. I either have to believe that you are insane and there are no spirits from which you receive guidance and wisdom; In which case a madman is in control of a nuclear stockpile. Or that you are a liar, using this as justification for your own petty whims," Lantaya provided her scathing summery with little aplomb. The Courier grinned.

"Or I am speakin' with spirits. An' there is somethin' more out there, somethin' unseen an' unknowable that ye have no collar or control over. Don't forget that" he cautioned with a wagging finger.

The Matriarch remained unimpressed, regarding him with the cold deliberation of a scientist. He shrugged, "Do ye want to know why the spirits told me to do it, or not?"

"I would appreciate an explanation. But I make no promise that I will believe it," she stated.

He considered this answer, returning her regard with equal attention. Then he glanced over his shoulder and caught the eyes of Ulysses and Joshua Graham, motioning them over. Joshua smoothed out the page he was reading, marked the spot with the ribbon built into the spine, then closed it with a snap. Ulysses made his excuses to Christine and Veronica and as one the two men stood. Then the Courier whistled a curious note, that made the Wanderer look up from his Pip-Boy screen. He signed an enquiry across the length of the room, which the Courier answered with the same variation of Chinese Hand Signals.

In no time at all, Lantaya had gone from sitting at a table with one human to sitting at the table with four. Or rather, three humans and a cyborg. The Courier smiled at his colleagues and answered their silent enquiry with casual gesture towards Lantaya, "Lani here is a mite curious 'bout our motivations for nukin' Flagstaff. Thinks I'm off my fuckin' head with malice an' power an' my spirits are hollowin' me out to serve as their mortal vessel."

Lantaya rolled her eyes liberally at this, making those new arrivals at the table know that there was a fair amount of the Courier's own interpretive dancing involved in his summation of her feelings. They all seemed to understand, all except Ulysses, who she did not yet know well enough to get a read on.

"So," the Courier continued, "She won't want to hear it from me. Conflict o' interest, see?" He echoed her sentiments against involving herself with him without a hint of shame. "But she might, if she hears it from ye."

Her eyes flicked around the table, meeting their eyes. Joshua was the first to provide his input. "I understand your reticence. We must always keep vigil upon our own souls to ensure that we do no violence to them in our pursuit of a better world. If we do not, then we risk building a false Eden, a world stewarded by the monsters we became in order to usher in paradise. We must ensure we do not become what we fight against."

"I have entered in upon this world at a later stage than all of you, but I do not believe that the Legion has ever launched nuclear armaments upon their enemies. Or am I mistaken?" Lantaya asked the leading question coldly.

"No. They have just razed town after town to their foundations, enslaved those that they considered worthy stock, put those that resisted to the sword while burning those that did not. Crucifying to make an example of their cruelty, to break the spirits of those that remained. I will not lie to you and say that much of what they have done is not mirrored in our actions yesterday, but our approach spared more lives. It was a cleaner cut than our alternative. To lay siege to Flagstaff."

"Laying siege to their stronghold would have saved more innocent lives," Lantaya stated. She hadn't been on their planet for long, or exposed to their culture for any longer, but from the Courier she had gained some measure of understanding of their warfare and social structure. "For every Legionnaire in Flagstaff, there must at least have been three times the number of civilians, of non-combatants that could not have deserved their fate. Slaves, children, human women who were forced to bond with Legion soldiers for their own safety. Not to mention the Legionnaires who, like those outside Fort Defiance, were conscripted to fight in a war they had no stake in."

"A siege is not as gentle a process as you would believe," Joshua spoke with the benefit of experience, "I will not regale you with stories of the atrocities I committed during my time with the Legion, but many innocents would have died in the attempt."

Lantaya was about to reiterate her point that it would not cost as many innocent lives as the all-consuming fire of a nuclear strike but was silenced as Ulysses spoke. "Frumentarii had many such means. Taught to let the land do the killing. Waste lives on conflict is a fools approach to war. Four paths to break a stronghold. Pestilence, War, Famine or Death."

He stroked the shaft of his flag with one hand, whilst with the other he ran a thumb up and down the widespread wing of Old Glory. His eyes were far away, hidden behind the dreadlocks that sheltered his face. His rich voice began to outline the methods of the Legion agents that would travel to parts unknown, to soften the land for the Legion as it marched ever onwards. "Bring sickness to their gates, let it spread among there ranks. Confined behind stone walls, face to face. Watch as their life bleeds out in a river of puss and disease, caged in with a blight. Let fire take what remains, return it to the land. Favoured by Picus."

"Why kill with bullets or bomb, or Old-World tools, when hate will do? Let the enemy of your enemy kill and die. War at their gates, let the hate and greed serve your cause. Travel to the ends of the horizon, you'll find hate in the hearts of all. Coax it forward, with word or deed. Let the hate spread like sickness. Know this well, was the way Vulpes chose. His silver tongue sent many to their graves."

"Starve them out. Set the fields aflame, place Judas silver in the palms of farmers. Poison the well, salt the earth. Let them cower behind walls as strength slowly departs from shaking hands. Only flaw, the barrier it creates to the march. All armies march on their bellies. Even the Bull. Maybe more than the Bear. Caesar held this apart from the others, not to be used without his command."

"Death," he finally counted the last method, bringing his diatribe to a close, "Mountains of the dead piled as an example to all. The fools way. Throwing bodies at high walls for long enough brings an end to all defiance. But the might of the Legion is not limitless. Even the endless red sea of our warriors must reduce to nothing but a trickle. A sea becomes a river, a river a stream. All of the Legion were ready to die for the cause. Far better to make our enemies die for theirs. Spare those who would have perished under the skies of Arizona fighting the Bull to the Death. Sacrifice the few to end this war now. Better by far than wrestling with the Will of a hostile land. Legion citizens worse by far to control. Made that way by design, the ideas of Vulpes and Caesar. Their words still echo. The Bull is a Nation. Was a Nation. A Nation lives on its people, on their thoughts and their ideas. Let one survive, and both survive. To abandon the tribe must be a choice."

The tribal gazed at Lantaya, levelling his gaze at her. "Want to fight a war without inflicting horrors upon your opponent? Let that thought die with the fools. History shows the folly of relying on nothing but sentiment. Sentiment is the idea that births the will, the will is what builds the Nation. Our Message, the giant awakened, the last cut that severed the vein. The Bull's end is nigh. It's blood will stain the land, birth a new Divide. All will bear witness. The Bear, what little remains of the Bull. Brotherhood, Followers of the Apocalypse, tribes of the Mojave and the Families of Vegas. Proof to them of our Will to conquer. They look now to the Divide and will seek to wrestle the giants from our control. But the Divide will hold. Only two men have ever survived the path from the borders of the Divide to the Temple at its heart. Storm will tear at the armies the Bear might send, but no army can conquer the Divide. Their dead will join the ranks of the Marked."

He brought Old Glory upright, resting the metal cap of its shaft upon the carpeted floor of the Ultra-Luxe with an audible thump. "They lived too long in comfort, basking in the lights of the West, echoes of Old-World Glory to keep them pliant. The Giants threaten all of this wealth. Death is what they fear. Like dogs fear fire. An end to things that they cannot control, intruding upon a world where they control everything. And nothing. 'All this death, for what purpose?' So they repeat the mistake of every fool whose voices drift up from the depths of History. If horror was not horrible, what threat would be worth the breath taken to utter It? What curse would sway the masses? We have the threat they fear, more than any other. Why make the world worse? To show to all that we can. The Legion knew how. Compare us to them if you will. History will judge us, not you, one who follows no flag that darkens these lands."

Lantaya stared at him, a cold gaze that would have chilled the blood of a man bathing in boiling water. Ulysses returned the gaze without flinching. "I did not seek a lecture on the efficacy of tyranny. I asked what separates you from tyrants. Holding sway over your planet through the use of weapons of mass destruction is not freedom."

She returned her gaze to the Courier, here eyes becoming sad as she gazed into his steel-grey orbs. Could she not make him understand? Or did he just not want to know?

"I ask you, you who value freedom so greatly. If a tyrant stood above you with Giants chained to his fist, threatening to burn your world all over again if you should not bring yourself to heel, what would you do? What would you feel? Can you not see that this is wrong?"

"I'd tell the fecker to take his best shot. I know men with the spirits that'd tender such an offer. Either he's bluffin' an' values the world too much as a trophy to truly have the guts to burn it down. Or he's got a soul o' steel. Spirit o' a warrior, o' a conqueror. An' if he can't have it, then no-one can. Either way, it'll handle itself. No walkin' it all back once it reaches that point. Less ye can wrestle the Giants from the tyrants fist before he lets them loose."

"Then can you not understand what I ask? Why I ask? You can't expect me to stand idly by and watch what may be the birth of a tyrant. You, all of you," she swept her arm from left to right in a motion that seemed to lay the condemnation at their feet for all to see, "As much for your own sakes as much as for those you hold in your power. You hold a measure of power that none can challenge. Wanderer," she turned to the only one among them who had not spoken. The cyborg sat, smiling at the proceedings in his customary fashion, mechanical eyes clicking and whirring in his metal sockets. Times were dire indeed when she sought for this inhuman creation to be the voice of reason.

"This cannot be what your creator wished when he designed you. To save the wasteland, that is what you told me. That is your mandate. How is consigning it to languish under the thumb of a tyrant a fitting destination for your movement?"

The Wanderer, at that moment under Alpha Protocols, cocked its head to the side curiously. "We must have the ability to project force. This is not the defining mark of a tyrant in matters of statecraft. That would be the subsummation of all walks of life to the will of a governing presence. Look about you at the mechanisms of New Vegas. What do you see?"

The Matriarch did so, casting about at the interior of the Ultra-Luxe, at the serving staff, at the laughing faces and camping mouths, consuming food from their plates. She cast her mind back, to all she had seen of this City State that blossomed out of the harsh wastes of the Mojave like a jewel on the horizon.

"The Courier does not control it," The Wanderer continued, "He holds sway over it, this is abundantly true in a practical sense. But so must any government that wishes to provide a stable environment for its populace. But that sway was submitted to him voluntarily and is rarely used. I admit that my programming cannot see the deeper philosophical issues that some human beings seem concerned with. Function, reliability, and the elimination of possible points of failure are my domain."

The Wanderer continued to smile, running over the facts coolly, and without undue emotion. "Let me outline what I believe the Courier intends to do with this spectacle he has created. The death of the Legion was itself a worthy goal, of this we can all agree. Their methods and their ethos would have created the tyranny you are so concerned of springing to life. Of this there is little doubt. It would have carried them forwards, but they would have collapsed like the Roman Empire of old. Causing untold suffering before its inevitable dissolution. Better to cut out the cancer now, before its influence spreads and kills its host, spelling the end of both illness and victim."

"The Courier will use this display to bring the Factions of the East Coast together. They cannot storm the Divide to take away his armaments. The Divide is a Fortress. It cannot be breached by armies, only by those singularly remarkable enough to forge a path within. The NCR for example, will be amenable to discourse, for they have no other recourse. They will trust in the Courier, who has maintained good relations with them, despite their ejection from the region after the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. They receive power from Hoover and the HELIOS One instillation, they have an Embassy on the Strip. And the attack was not made against them directly. On the contrary, it was made against a hated enemy."

"And they will agree with great willingness once they understand the weight of what association with our Alliance offers. Settlements upon other worlds, unscorched by nuclear war. Technology that will wipe even the Divide free of radiation. And with us they will comply, and from us they will receive. In the future, we will not need to tyrannise them. We will give them what they desire, freely. A wise approach to such matters, is not to ask what you wish for, and look for ways to manipulate and manoeuvre those around you into fulfilling these wishes. The truer and more reliable approach is to know what an individual or group is likely to pursue and arrange yourself and everyone else to benefit from this to the greatest extent. And what's more, this is as much for the benefit of your people as it is for ours. Imagine a galaxy where humanity roamed unrestrained and without guidance or organised governance. Some faction of our race would anger your people, make no doubt of this. Humans are not so easily corralled without the correct application of pressure."

"I wish what you say to be true," Lantaya spoke after a long pause, during which those at the table regarded one another with great satisfaction at the proposed plan of action. "I know that you do not wish to be tyrants. Or, at least, I hope you do not. I would not have brought this to your attention otherwise. But if you falter upon this path, your world will once again fall to the detonation of weapons that never should have been made to begin with. And there still remains the many ways that your people could harm my own. I cannot see what your future might entail, and I fear what may transpire if the danger is seen too late. As you say, Courier," she said to the man who had prompted this conversation who sat upright and proud next to her, "Once it reaches that point, there is no walking it back."

"The works of Tubal-cain entered this world long ago," Joshua proffered, grim resolution visible in his eyes if not on his concealed face, "And as long as we have lived, and longer still into the past. There will always be those willing to risk taking up the tools of war, no matter how horrendous the wounds they cause. If I could travel back to that moment when Cain first spilled the blood of his brother, would I spill his blood in turn to stop him? But where would I be left, but standing before God, with Cains blood upon these hands," he spread the hands wide as if to illustrate, clenching them before him as if grappling with a great truth, or the most heinous of lies.

"With my Lord asking me, 'Where is Cain? Have you killed your brother?' We are all tainted by this original sin. I ask you not to judge us so harshly. It is our entire race that is so afflicted. Maybe yours managed to eat of the Tree of Knowledge without falling to the revelation of all the evil that might exists if we had the Knowledge to bring it into being. But I ask you, do your people not have some vice of their own that you have struggled with? Instead, speak to us as you have. An appeal to the goodness that exists in all of us."

He lowered his hands, letting them relax and become soft and gentle. Then he placed one bandaged hand upon hers and met her eyes with his. "We have heard you. Make no doubt of this. All you must decide, is whether you can find it within yourself to place trust in the imperfect, knowing that there exists no perfection. Are we worthy, at least, of that small measure of trust?"

The Matriarch sighed deeply, breaking her gaze, and deflating somewhat in the face of the question. It struck her more deeply than Joshua realised. Could she simply trust? As the Courier did in his spirits? As Joshua did in his God? As the Wanderer did in his calculations? Or as Ulysses seem to, in his History? At times like this, she wished that life held more certainty. But nothing in life was certain. Only death. That was dead certain. It would be liberating to simply trust that her own judgement, or in the judgement of another was sound. It would free her of all the nagging doubts and the weight of expectation, self-imposed or otherwise that kept her awake at night, tossing and turning in the grasp of her fears. But could she really let go? Accept the fact that she could only do her best, and to continue on regardless?

"I… I don't know," she admitted, forlornly. "I am not even sure I trust myself that much. Or if I even should."

Ulysses and Joshua, who had at different times grappled with this same query, shared quietly in this sentiment, remembering the times when their hearts had been filled with doubts. Of their purpose in the world, of their lives and past actions. Of their futures. The Courier, who had long come to grips with this, and had settled upon his answer with all the fervour he could muster, nevertheless remembered a time when he had been far less certain and held his council. He wasn't going to speak the magic words that he knew would push the Matriarch over the edge. The Wanderer just smiled his fake smile, calculations flitting like birds wings behind his eyes, measuring, tabulating. Ever watchful and satisfied with the current status quo.

A door banged open, startling many of those that caroused within the private room into silence and causing Follows-Chalk to strum a discordant note on his guitar. Chris Haversam stood in the door, fixing a White Glove waiter with a glare that could curdle milk. "Get out of my way, you masked creep. I could buy you and this hotel if I wanted, don't annoy me."

He was dressed in an expensive suit, a far cry from the grease-stained jumpsuit or lab coat he usually donned, but this was the Ultra-Luxe after all. And he had more than enough money to afford to display it in the midst of opulence. Few men in New Vegas could boast of being wealthier than the proprietor of Saint Christopher's and his other subsidiaries.

The Courier bounced to his feet and spread his arms wide in greeting. "Chris! Welcome to the madhouse. Glad ye decided to join us after all!"

Chris Haversam waved him off with a muttered, "Bah!"

He strode into the room and sat himself down at the table where they all sat without introductions or preamble. "So," he began, stealing the Couriers beer and taking a hearty chug, before slamming the mug down onto the table and meeting the Courier's eyes, "Do you want to tell me what I'm going to be doing, working with you again? Or do you still want to leave me in suspense?"