The Courier narrowed his gaze at Sergeant Lena Atwater and it was not because she was being way too fidgety for a Californian Ranger. The cogs in his brain were not registering her identity properly as evidenced by how the century-old Vault-Tec cybernetic tracking system embedded into his central nervous system was sputtering out inconsistent numbers no matter how many scans were run in the few seconds he was looking at her. What the hell? Something ain't right about you, woman, and it's twisting my wires. Focus, Theo. She ain't the only one who's got your gut screeching like a banshee.

"Your Tier-Ones are getting younger and younger, Jimmy," Six remarked dryly, shifting his attention to the two handicapped Remnant ladies sitting behind him. If it ain't for those collars, those two ladies would've been dictating the terms around here.

"We have a lot of volunteers who're eager to serve on this frontier," replied Major General James Hsu.

"Either that or you're running out of bodies."

"Attrition is a factor to be considered, wouldn't you think?"

Attrition sure as hell hurts, don't it? "Just the Wasteland being the Wasteland is what it is."

"Of course. The sudden influx of mutants along the highways coupled with the rather inconvenient string of logistical failures along our normally safe corridors. Truly one of many natural occurrences that just so happened to coincide."

Six snickered. "The roads aren't ever really safe no matter how hard you try to keep 'em safe."

"And patience has its limits."

Aren't we all running low on patience, eh, Jimmy? "Looks like you've been keeping busy."

Snicker. "No rest for the wicked."

Snort. "Yeah, we're all going to Hell at the end of the day. So how're those condolence letters going for you? I mean, you got an entire department for that but I reckon they're getting real swamped as of late."

"Best not to conflate the statistics. May lead to inaccuracies."

Got to hand it to you, Jimmy. Calm as a brick, as you always are. "Well, not that you're entirely transparent with your own numbers, anyway. That's why I make estimates, however accurate you feel they're not. And my numbers tend to be closer to the truth than yours."

Hsu scowled. "Hard to stomach you of all people preaching truth. Especially after what we've accomplished together in the past."

Six sneered. "Sure. We sure as hell got a lot done together 'cause we were both gunning for the same thing. For the most part. Shame that whatever it was we were fighting for dropped off the edge of Hoover Dam. So we had to adapt, make some concessions, go back on some deals, shuffle things around that aren't meant to be shuffled around. You know how it is."

For a moment, the general's face contorted with regret. "... Mistakes were made. The Republic is far from perfect but there are many of us who are trying to do the right thing and fix—"

"Quit the speech." I've heard a hundred versions of it. "James, give me the kids' contracts now."

"It's not that simple and you know it."

"Neither's your job. Hell, the Republic beat the Imperium twice and that was far from simple. You were there on both occasions, if I done recall. Busting your ass under Oliver, getting shafted by Moore, but you were getting shit done. Moving troops from place to place, keeping them all supplied, pulling units back at the last minute to keep 'em from getting obliterated, even getting some action yourself when McCarran got breached. 'In the rear with the gear' but the front still comes to you."

James frowned. "Theodore, I do not have their contracts."

"You have the power to get them, General."

"You don't have the power to compel me, Major."

No. No, I don't. But I got leverage. A lot of leverage. The Courier leaned back on his chair. "... I can make your job a lot harder and a lot more painful, Jimmy."

General Hsu squared his shoulders and his tone, impressively, reminded Six that he was poking a very capable, if not very diseased, two-headed bear. "... You'll just be forcing my hand. And people aren't dumb. The fingers pointing to me will end up pointing back to you and public opinion is as fickle as it is a driving force for change. Theo, if you'll make hell for me, I sure as hell won't make it easy for you."

Six was about to retort when he glanced back at Sergeant Atwater and then at Huntsman Branwen. Those two...

Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

Stay calm, stay calm, stay fucking calm, damn it!

Neo tried to be as still as a statue, standing rigid, keeping her false face neutral, and staring at the wall. Except, instead of staring at a wall, she was staring directly at her current secret partner-in-crime leaning against the mortar with his arms folded over his chest. And Huntsman Branwen was not all too happy with how this was playing out. Hey, not her fault she wound up in this position and she was damn sure he also screwed up somewhere because he wasn't supposed to be standing directly across from her in the same damn room acting like this was all part of the fucking plan.

But, hey, at least they were technically getting intel directly from the source. An easy, even exciting job, on any given day. But this... No, today was different...far from easy...

Because this guy, this mailman sitting in front of her, negotiating with the general...

His chiseled cheeks, his piercing eyes, his gravelly voice...

Holy shit...

Breathe in, breathe out, for fuck's sake, woman! Forget the damn pictures swimming in the back of her head, ripping at the chance to remind of her things she felt like she should completely forget, and focus on playing the part.

Blink. Polished tin star pinned to a coat. Blink. Team of four that did the impossible. Blink. Desert warriors posing in front of an old camera with two wily teenagers and a mute kid. Blink, gulp, blink. Fire. Fire everywhere. Embers burning her skin, ashes filling her lungs, the skies redder than blood... And a pale man wearing a wolf on his head grinning at her as his legionaries started putting up crosses atop where her home once stood.

Neo felt like screaming.

Winter and Glynda were uncomfortable with how General Hsu and Courier Six engaged in an increasingly belligerent tit-for-tat with seemingly no progress being made. Ongoing Vegas troubles, hints at more violence, a fragile balance of power that was beginning to fracture—all of it centered around the contractual obligations of teams RWBY and JNPR towards the NCR.

"... Status quo ante bellum, as the Legion seldom says," the Courier intoned. "You don't have a lot of friends here. Phrase it all you want but the fact is that you're still running Kimball's policies."

"The current policy we have is better than the other alternatives we've tried in the past," reasoned General Hsu. "You can see that."

Snort. "Yeah, could see how all that shit turned out. Can't say not a lot's changed since Kimball let the Senate get away with some of their horseshit. Not that a lot of 'em are really good for the Mojave."

"The Republic is investing significantly in the Mojave. Infrastructure, aid, education, commerce. Vegas is glowing better than it has been thanks to us."

"Yeah, that's your nationalism speaking."

"I prefer patriot."

"What's the difference?"

"Only safeguarding our borders."

"While you're starving out the poor bastards living off the land that you now own."

"We've had this discussion many times now, Major."

"Just exercising my right to an opinion, General."

General Hsu's frown hardened. "Don't let your opinions inform you. We have more robust systems in place to keep order here in Vegas. There is nothing to 'wait and see.'"

Major Vickers scoffed. "Wait 'til you see something big then."

"Is that another threat?"

"Threats can come from anywhere, you know," the Courier growled. "Ain't my problem that more and more of your troops are going AWOL for God knows what. You can barely supply your frontier outposts and already you're bringing in more mouths to feed. Funny how bullets are cheaper than bread. Tell me, Jimmy: can your sinkhole economy take on anymore punishment? Hell, the Strip was one big shot in the arm. Only natural that the Republic's coming down from that high to see that there's still a big sinkhole."

The two ladies gawked when the general said nothing in response. The Republic was skirting a budget deficit? But New Vegas was an extremely wealthy state, was it not? What happened to all the money? Or rather, as they came to realize, where was much of the cashflow diverted to when these Californians inherited this area's immense boon?

Maybe they should have paid more attention to the hushed whispers of discontented soldiers back at Fort Mead.

"The contracts," the Courier reiterated. "No strings attached. Hell, you might even find a few bonuses tucked into the mail coming into McCarran."

"There are terms that can't be easily voided no matter how generous you try to be toward us," the general replied.

"Yeah. One-year minimum service before being eligible for early release. Just like how your brahmin barons run their estates..."

Winter and Glynda shared a glance, both wanting to just say something—anything—to nudge this forward since they were witnessing two rams still locking their horns in a wrestling match.

Then Qrow coughed.

Loudly.

And the conversation paused as heads turned—Winter, Glynda, Sergeant Atwater, General Hsu, and Courier Six—towards the Huntsman awkwardly rubbing the back of his neck and wincing as though he was struggling to hold something in. Then he opened his mouth.

"What?"

Raul had no idea how he ended up running damage control inside the Old Mormon Fort but ¡hijole! He had rapidly been putting out fires as soon they sparked to life.

It started with him haplessly walking right into the middle of another argument between the locals and the NCR troops milling about. He could already see how fast this was going to snowball so the words came out of his mouth before he could really think. Thankfully, one of the Followers volunteers took over from him and the old school ghoul could finally take a seat under the shade...

...of one of the rickety scaffolding set up against the ancient adobe walls of the fort. Raul could hardly blame the Followers for the shoddy engineering (given that most of their professional engineers were either in California, out on frontier expeditions, or drafted into the NCR army). Thankfully, he noticed the rusty bolt coming loose from its hole and leapt up just in time to keep it from popping off and consequently causing the entire scaffolding and all the crap stacked onto it from coming down (on top of him) in inglorious fashion.

He was just about done screwing the damn thing back into place with a borrowed screwdriver before another near catastrophe unfolded in his peripheries. And once again, he was bouncing from point to point helping distribute supplies to the sleep-deprived doctors who were responding to a fainting spell that started among the locals. After all, it was so goddamn hot today and with how packed the fort was at this time, who wouldn't get heat stroke?

Some of the NCR troopers really wanted to help but Raul could tell they were bound by their orders to stay put. The few that did offer were rebuffed rather rudely and aggressively. And that almost started another fight.

All in all, it was as if the shit was itching to hit the fan somewhere and the mechanic wondered cynically how much worse his luck was going to get before the day would end.

"Sounds like things are heating up out there," Qrow muttered after what felt like an absurdly long moment of silence punctuated by the noise seeping through the adobe walls. Seriously, if his Semblance was going to act up now of all times...

"There's always something going on outside, Birdman," Courier Six added before returning to General Hsu. "Back to my point. The contracts—"

"Not possible."

"Oh, it is possible. It's just going to bit more painful to get them but with your battle scars, I'm sure you can handle it."

James scoffed (almost like another James in another world, Qrow mused). "You give me way too much credit, Major. Really, I'm flattered. Might make my contemporaries jealous if they hear that kind of praise from you."

"Yeah, you're the most agreeable piece of bureaucratic shit I've had the pleasure of working with," growled ex-Major Theodore Vickers who then offered his gloved hand. "Contracts, James."

Before the Californian could respond, Qrow 'Birdman' Branwen suddenly cut in. "Maybe we could find a middle ground here."

The sudden silence weighed heavily on his shoulders as all eyes centered on him. In the back of his mind, he cursed his stupid mouth. Then again, negotiations were going nowhere but did he have to suddenly butt in? Maybe he had to. That or this his Semblance twisting things.

Oh, well. Better start talking. "It looks to me like the existing conditions aren't making it possible for General Hsu here to release the contracts of teams RWBY and JNPR as Courier Six right here is demanding."

To which, the General raised a brow. And the Courier almost snarled at his companion with a glare that screamed: did I tell you to speak!?

The veteran Huntsman only shrugged. "Just saying."

Across from him, 'Corporal Atwater' stared agape. About as much in disbelief as Winter and Glynda.

"Birdman, stay out of this—"

"I don't see how any of the existing conditions could be manipulated," James cut in.

Qrow smirked. "Not referring to messing with the conditions, General. More like playing around them. Loopholes."

The general blinked. Then leaned back. "I'll humor this. Go on."

"Oh goddamn it," snarled the Courier. "James, I'm the one who's asking—"

The Huntsman raised his hands. "Come on, Papa Sixer, it's not like the NCR is going to fuck up another good thing going for them."

"And that good thing is?" Six seethed through his teeth while his eyes shot back: quit calling me stupid names like 'Papa Sixer,' goddamn it!

Another shrug followed by folded arms and a nod back at him. "You, Mister Mailman. Think about it, really. You're the best card in their whole deck and, as far as I've seen and what I've heard, the NCR's been tossing away good cards and playing bad ones. They know how much they've fucked up and they don't want to keep fucking up with you."

An incredulous huff. "You think I'm still in their deck of cards? Birdman, I'm starting to think you actually have a birdbrain."

Birdman snickered. "That'd be my sister. You, on the other hand, are getting a bit too petty with this. If you ask me, whatever they're offering is the best you're gonna get 'cause that's the best they can give. I suggest not fucking this up, too."

"I do not fuck up," protested the Courier.

Followed by stares from everyone else in the room. Condescension from General Hsu. Curiosity from Corporal Atwater. Anxiety from Winter and Glynda. And a look on Qrow's face that basically said: seriously, buddy?

"... Not as much as the NCR," Six amended bitterly. "Alright, fine. Goddamnit, Birdman. As long as this ain't making either of us step into some deodorized horseshit. What's your suggestion?"

"We let the kids enlist with the Followers."

Blink, blink, blink.

Doctor Julie Farkas was overworked. Not the first time but still, being overworked was bad for both her and everyone else around her because a lot of them relied on her to keep things running. So many things almost unraveled so many times today and she wondered how much more she could take before she herself would collapse from the exhaustion. Thank goodness people like Mister Tejada were around to help keep order. He even suggested she take a break and offered her a seat.

Julie must have dozed off as soon as she sat down because the next thing she knew, she was being shaken awake and told to report immediately to General Hsu. Apparently, her presence was needed. Neither the NCR troopers nor the Followers were aware of why.

In the corner of her eyes, she saw a thumbs up from Mister Tejada—now helping a patient on a stretcher in the middle of the packed yard. Somewhat assured, she slapped herself to stay awake and walked up to the tower where the two most powerful individuals in the Mojave were having a meeting. (Why at the Old Mormon Fort, anyway? What political mess was happening again?)

Her mind swirled as to how she was going to mediate. What were they talking about? Was her opinion needed? Maybe they needed a third-party observer? Or a witness to an agreement? What the hell was she going to say? Did she even have anything to say?

She barely entered the upper room when she was immediately asked by the unshaven man in the crimson mantle: "Hey, doc. What do you think of the Vegas Wonder Kids signing up with the Followers?"

Blink, blink. "... What?"

A brief rundown of Mister Qrow 'Birdman' Branwen's proposal ended with Doctor Farkas stuttering out that the Vegas Wonder Kids would be a great boon to the Followers. As soon as she was done talking, the veteran Huntsman turned to the rest with a smile.

And waited.

And waited.

And waited.

The Courier started off slowly. "Birdman, how are the kids joining the Followers going to help in this situation?"

"Technically, the Vegas Wonder Kids are NCR agents. Not NCR citizens though so they're not subject to NCR law despite living in NCR territory although from what I hear, that in itself is an issue that's really bogged down in the paperwork. Attorney stuff, you know."

"They're legal squatters to put it mildly," the general said.

"No shortage of them from what I've seen. Kind of like Courier Six, here."

"Birdman," growled the mailman.

Qrow shrugged. "Just saying. Anyway, having them join the Followers means they're joining a group that's independent, not state-sponsored—or, not entirely if you discount volunteers and donors—and functioning outside of the NCR's direct control. A real non-government organization, essentially, with outside contractors operating under justifiable parameters. Again, kind of like you, Courier Six."

"I am not—Ugh. Okay. So maybe I did get involved but outside of the NCR, I wasn't inducted into any—"

"That's a breach of the existing contract with the government," Hsu raised. "You're suggesting that teams RWBY and JNPR violate their contract to us by joining an NGO."

"An NGO that's had a violent history with the NCR and one that neither side wants to repeat," Six added. "Don't tell me you don't know that piece of history."

"Oh, I do know that. I've read up a lot lately so I'm informed." Qrow looked to a mortified Doctor Farkas before continuing. "Suppressing the Followers was bad enough for the NCR, you know, with public opinion being the fickle bitch that she is. The thing is, if the NCR decides to go against the Followers again, regardless of the outcome, it's going to severely damage the Republic's standing both domestically and outside its borders. To most people, it would look like the two-headed bear going after a charity-driven, altruistic puppy whose only crime was helping those who got mauled by the bear or got left behind because the bear was too busy with something else."

"Sir," bemoaned the doctor. "Mister Branwen...you're putting us in the firing line? We're already struggling as it is!"

"No offense, doc, but that's only here. I've heard things don't sound too bad elsewhere."

"How would you know?"

"Like I said: I'm well-informed."

General Hsu exhaled loudly. "You're keen, I'll give you that, Mister Branwen. But that doesn't mean I will endanger an entire group—as wrongfully loathed as they are by many of my countrymen—as a compromise to a demand that I cannot acquiesce to."

Qrow turned to the Courier. "Papa Sixer, are the contracts the only thing you want?"

Six groaned. "One: stop calling me 'Papa Sixer.' Two: the contracts are indeed not the only demands on the table."

"In that case, know that it would take more than dragging the Followers into this to even the scales," James said defiantly.

The veteran Huntsman felt the tension in the room jump and felt the glares from Winter, Glynda, undercover Neo, and even Doctor Farkas. Well, his negotiation skills were not often the best but he could still come up with other ideas if Courier Six was going to keep being so bullheaded.

"Alright. What if—"

Six held up his hand. "Birdman, shut up."

"No, really. There's other ways we can handle this. You see, how about—"

"For cryin' out loud, shut the fuck up. I'll take it from here."

"Hold up, chief. I've got some ideas—"

"Ain't got no time for anymore birdbrain ideas." With an exasperated sigh, the Courier reached into the inside of his duster. "Been goin' in circles way too long and I don't got all fucking day. Jesus Christ, I can't believe I'm doing this..."

This is better fucking work. Goddamn it. The Courier exhaled as soon as he gripped the special package inside one of his satchels.

Oddly enough, Sergeant Atwater did not so much as flinch at what would have looked like a man pulling a gun on her superior officer. Rather, she leered curiously until her eyes went wide in stunned surprise. As did everyone else. General Hsu, in particular, had never looked so stunned since the Second Battle of Hoover Dam.

Six slowly planted the solid twenty-four carat onto his lap. "Here's my offer, Jimmy."

Birdman gawked. "Is that...?"

"Real gold," the Courier replied dryly, noticing that Sergeant Atwater seemed like she was itching to make off with it. Courtesy of the late Frederick Sinclair; rest in peace, you pretentious old billionaire bastard. "Last I checked, the Republic doesn't have much in gold reserves."

"Limited," admitted the general.

Major Vickers suppressed the urge to smile. Republic's running out of money so bad that you're open to cracking open the bigger cash boxes, eh? "So, Jimmy. Still having second thoughts?"

"What else is on your mind, Theo?"

"A lot." This better work because I'm running out of trump cards.

Weiss was not nervous. No matter how much her friends, teammates, and co-workers said otherwise! Really, she had full confidence in herself. She was just warming up here by the bar at the back end of the Aces Theater, returning the occasional smile she would get from folks filtering in through the front doors.

"Miss Schnee?"

She snapped up at the voice of her employer. "Yes, Mister Torini?"

The one-eyed Mister Tommy Torini offered her a stool on the bar where Mister Isaac was. "Water for the jitters?"

"Oh, nothing like that. A little thirsty. Only acclimating to the venue."

"There's no shame in feeling a little nervous," Mister Isaac droned warmly. "I usually have a touch of Bourbon or a bit of whiskey before I get up on stage. Helps soothe the nerves and that's coming from a New Reno native who's had gigs all across California for a decade."

Weiss furrowed her brow while she involuntarily rubbed her hands on the frills of her glittered dress. "I...suppose?"

Mister Torini gestured her over where a glass of water was now waiting on the bar top. "Something on your mind, sweetie?"

She took a seat. "Only my debut performance."

Both performers gave her raised brows.

The heiress shrunk a little. "Okay. More so the persons who may or may not be in attendance for that."

"Papa Sixer?" Mister Isaac posited.

"Bruce," interjected Mister Torini. "Sorry for that. The audience is going to love you, darling. I mean, your voice alone is angelic and you have the stage presence and vocal control that's pretty rare for a lot of singers your age."

"Thank you." Weiss cupped her glass only to realize that her hands were shaking. "I've had training and experience."

Mister Isaac raised his glass. "No denying that. Though I'm still racking my brain of all the gigs I've been to. You haven't been around much in California, have you?"

"I... No, honestly."

"Huh. I suppose there were other venues outside the NCR's borders. And you probably kicked off when I was, uh...indisposed...for a little while."

She nervously chuckled. "Indeed."

Mister Torini chortled back. "Everybody knows the story now about Bruce here. Made some mistakes and had to dip in New Vegas while it was still under 'House rule,' dig?"

Weiss shrunk a little while the two men laughed. She barely knew her new co-workers but she had heard stories. Mister Isaac was lucky he ran into Six who, on a favor from Mister Torini, recruited him for work at the Aces Theater.

"'House rule' must have been quite the experience," she quipped.

"Quite," sniggered Mister Torini, his grin momentarily lacking its mirth. "Not that I didn't mind the man in the high tower keeping order the way he saw fit."

"To be honest, it was hard to tell which was a better place to settle down back then," added Mister Isaac who proceeded to take another shot of Bourbon. "Either stinking up a motel out in the desert with the luxuries of liberty or living in real luxury under a mafia state. But here I am and I felt better enough not to complain. Too much."

Another chuckle.

The heiress fiddled with her glass. "I take it the audiences would be not so different from back then."

"More of the same," Mister Torini assured her. "Darling, think of this as one of the older places where you were comfortable performing in. Everything's going to be alright. Just do your best and we'll take care of the rest. After all, you're our first and only Snowflake Starlet."

Weiss smiled, amused at the birth of her Vegas stage name while she pushed all thoughts of Six or Winter to the back of her mind. "I will. Thank you."

"You know," hummed General Hsu after a long moment of contemplation, "I remember a time when you would walk into my office and everything would suddenly feel better. Like a burden lifted off my shoulders. Everyone on staff would light up because they knew that—"

Major Vickers rolled his eyes. "'Courier Six was here and he was going to fix everything.'"

"More like provide crucial assistance in addressing a few very important issues."

"I didn't sign up to be your handyman. It was a matter of practicality."

"And I am being practical here." The general ran his fingers across the glinting surface of the gold bar. "I can't effect a policy change. However, I can influence several very powerful lobbyists."

The Courier snorted, taking back the bar and tossing it between his hands. "Every medal you got is a brownie point to the rest of the Republic and you got a lot of medals, posing for the cameras in all that glitz and glamor. You'll be spending a lot of those brownie points and this little trinket here will cover the deficit."

"Senate will raise a fuss over that."

"Not unless you play your cards right." Six formally extended his bribe. "What do you say, Jimmy?"

Hsu was quiet for a very long moment.

Slowly, he reached over and accepted the bullion. "... Copies of their contracts."

"Copies? James, the originals—"

The general cut him off. "—will be compartmented, top secret. You'll get copies of the contracts with no changes at all from the originals. They'll be forwarded to you soon. Through our old discreet channels, of course."

"I didn't mention copies."

"I didn't say I wasn't going to give you the originals." Hsu appeared almost smug. "You think I didn't see through what you were going for? Government contracts in the hands of a foreign agent with a spotty history with us? That'll raise a serious fuss in the Senate...if it got public. Do as you wish with the contracts, make your changes and wave it around to the right people. But the original versions will be put in a sealed envelope. Out of sight, out of mind. Their existence known only between me, you, the Vegas Wonder Kids, a select few in the intelligence department, and the president."

The Courier glared. Then scoffed. Then chuckled.

The general simpered. "Contingency planning comes with the profession, Major."

"Yeah. Yeah, that sounds about right, General. You let me have my fail-safes, I let you have yours. Bet Kimball would like our deal. Not publicly, but he'd like the gold as much as the next guy."

"A single twenty-four carat is enough of a significant boon to the Republic," Hsu agreed. "Sergeant."

Sergeant Atwater nodded vigorously, accepting the gold for momentary 'safe-keeping.'

"Not used to seeing real gold, eh, trooper," stiffly remarked Courier Six, his green eyes meeting hers with such intensity that if he had laser vision, she would have melted onto the floor.

That voice.

That familiar voice...

Neo's heart was racing and her hands were starting to sweat.

Gold. Real gold. Real solid gold! And she was being entrusted care to it. She was now holding, in her gloved hands, a massive bribery payment that would ensure that Vegas would keep running smoothly and less folks would have to die. At least, that's what she understood—she would snag the details from Branwen later.

But right now, she was holding gold.

Real gold.

She had held gold before but even then, it was a precious resource that people would literally kill for. As much as Dust. And in a world without Dust, people would be more inclined to kill for gold because gold was still valuable and gold is what funded the Imperium Americana.

"Heh, don't drop it, sarge," snickered Branwen.

"Goddamn it, Birdman," snarled the Courier. "What did I say?"

"Sorry."

Neo took in her reflection on the polish, seeing a mirage of her true self and Roman pridefully smiling behind her. As if to congratulate her for getting her hands on a massive score.

"Sergeant, if you please?" the general reiterated.

Sergeant Atwater nodded snappily and tucked away the gold bar inside one of the satchels on her belt. She looked back to the Courier who was still studying her even as General Hsu was talking to him.

"Major, I can't reverse course so easily. We've already committed to this. I won't recall the troops conducting operations and I won't reduce the troop presence across Clark County. But I will neither renew any further deep operations affecting your assets nor approve further increases in manpower unless the situation deteriorates completely."

Major Vickers exhaled loudly, finally disengaging from her, his lips curled down into a frown and his arms folded. "Good enough for me. I'll see to it that the roads are a bit safer."

"We still lost good men and women thanks to you. And the four Rangers you killed—"

"Neither confirm nor deny."

Hsu scowled. "Courier Six, we have bigger problems to deal with and I'd rather not light any more fires. You can see that the Legion is still very active and, as you've seen yourself, they're recovering faster than expected. If you doubt me, simply ask these two ladies who've carved their way out of Flagstaff."

The very mention of the Imperium's capital wiped all warmth from the Courier. His frown suddenly morphed into a fierce glower and he slowly kneaded his knuckles, shifting his attention to Schnee and Goodwitch.

"Did they now," he sneered.

Glynda pushed up her glasses. The general turned to her and Lieutenant Schnee.

The words came out before her brain caught up. "We did. We launched an uprising with many others and fought our way out of their grasp."

For another long moment, Courier Six observed her and Winter rather fiercely. His expression was one of scrutiny, the red cracks surrounding his pupils seemingly pulsating as he studied them. He narrowed his gaze repeatedly at their slave collars until he leaned back, sighing at the ceiling.

"Jimmy, I think we've discussed what needed to be discussed," he said.

Qrow abruptly cleared his throat. "So, we're set now. You get the contracts, general gets his ceasefire, we're good."

"Not just yet, Birdman." Major Vickers pointed to the two women. "They're coming with me. No sense dragging their asses out of their tent city up in Fort Mead to this shindig if they're just gonna be sitting in their corner listening in."

"I was hoping we wouldn't reach that point," the general confirmed, regarding them apologetically. "Thank you for your time, ladies. I do hope our hospitality has been sufficient."

Glynda kept her emotions in check, meeting the Courier dead fish eyes greener than hers. This was what they had been reduced to; respectable Huntsmen in their home-world of Remnant deprived of their capabilities and relegated as literal bargaining chips for regional power-plays. Not that they themselves have never been through anything similar in their own lives. Knowing Winter, she would take this over any manipulations of her father (or General Ironwood, for that matter, all due respect to him). Glynda herself had accepted this as a facet of her life when she swore her loyalty to Ozpin (wherever he was right now).

Because of their damn collars...

And then there were the others back in Fort Mead. Their fellow Remnant survivors who were likewise collared and were now at the mercy of the Republic now that they—the two unofficial leaders of the uprising—were now handed over to someone else.

Glynda was beginning to think there was a mistake somewhere here.

"Worth your weight in gold, ladies," grunted the Courier. "Packed your bags?"

"We don't have much in the way of possessions," Lieutenant Schnee replied.

"I don't think they'd be hogging up of a lot of space," Qrow quipped.

"A sense of familiarity with them, Mister Branwen?" sniped General Hsu.

To which the Courier narrowed his eyes at his so-called accomplice. "Birdman, seriously, shut the fuck up, goddamn."

Branwen mimicked a zipper over his lips.

"You've seen these collars before," the general remarked offhandedly.

"Not a fun experience getting collared like that."

"So you know how they work. You know how to disable them."

"If I did, I wouldn't've even showed up," the Courier rebutted, standing up. "We're done here, Jimmy."

The general stood as well, once more extending his hand. "Let's seal the deal."

Major Vickers took it, giving a firm shake. "Spend that gold wisely. Otherwise..."

"You're lucky I'm the one you're dealing with. If it was anyone else..." Hsu stepped back, nodded respectfully at Glynda, Winter, and Doctor Farkas before leaving.

Strangely, Sergeant Atwater lagged a little before following suit, as though still in a daze. Even more peculiar was Qrow regarding the sergeant with that nagging familiarity.

"Miss Goodwitch," the Courier said somberly. "How many of you are still stuck at Fort Mead?"

"Barring us, nineteen."

"Nineteen Remnant folk, huh. God knows how many more are still out there then." He regarded her, expression haunted and exhausted. "You ever had kids, Miss Goodwitch?"

She blinked. "No, I haven't."

"Huh. But you wrangled with teams RWBY and JNPR before, have you?"

"Yes. I was their combat instructor for two semesters."

He turned to look at her again, his green eyes noticeably darker than hers. "From what I'm aware of, you're the only one here who doesn't share a single drop of blood with any of them. Do me a big favor in exchange for me trying to get those damn things off your necks. Keep the kids out of trouble. They spent my patience more than once already; I don't want that to keep happening again."

Oh no. He snapped before. Did he...did he hurt them? "Understood."

"Birdman, Lieutenant, I expect you both to do the same."

Qrow and Winter both nodded.

The Courier adjusted his wide-brimmed hat and headed downstairs, muttering loudly to himself about how he wished he had been shot three times in the head instead of two.

Neo passed him by.

She had no idea where she was going when she nearly shoulder-checked the Courier as he made his way through the sea of people.

Still disguised—and with a solid gold bar in her pocket—she stopped in her tracks and turned slowly...

He was staring back at her, himself having stopped to turn.

Branwen was standing next to him, also staring. Along with a tired-looking ghoul. And Schnee and Goodwitch.

And she continued staring...

...at the Courier, whose green eyes (green like hers!) met hers, trying to get a read on her. Like she was a specimen on a table. His brows were furrowed, his lip was curled up in thought, and he seemed as though he was lost in thought, trying to comprehend the anomaly before him.

"Have...a good day," he said, "...sergeant."

Neo sluggishly nodded back.

He resumed walking to the gate while she beelined for the nearest secluded spot where she could switch and get the hell out of here.

'Out of the fryer and into the fire' was the saying that Winter recalled. This felt so much like it. Getting transferred to the custody of Theodore 'Courier Six' Vickers, former NCR officer and the real overlord of New Vegas, felt less encouraging than it seemed. Together with Glynda, they walked with a bit more freedom behind the man who was complaining to Qrow Branwen of all people. Behind the two ladies was the Courier's associate Raul Tejada, a ghoul of immense skill and a veteran with two hundred years of experience.

If it was not for these damn collars... They could have done more, been more...

As they strolled towards the New Vegas Strip, Winter witnessed the reality of the world she was stepping into: the people here smiled and waved and offered pleasantries to Courier Six, one of them—a Kings gang member in his pompadour and leather jacket—running up to the mailman and giving him a wrapped gift, courtesy of their gang leader, the King. This was in stark contrast to the icy cold reception they got when they rode into Freeside, military convoy and all. While General Hsu needed an elite platoon-sized escort just to get around in territories they own, the Courier had free reign to move about with the locals offering themselves up as his bodyguards.

Winter turned to Glynda who had appeared to have been ruminating in the same vein. They exchanged glances, reassuring one another, as they fell in step with their new...associates.

Who were quite loud.

Both women could not help but listen in on the Courier grousing bitterly about the negotiations earlier. In particular, he was upset about the concessions he had to make. Especially the gold.

"...fucking busted my ass for that carat," he snarled. "What the hell."

"It's not too bad," Qrow eased. "Look on the bright side; we got the general to bend. In my experience, top brass like him almost never bend unless you really push 'em hard."

"Birdman, with your way with words, no wonder you're a shit negotiator. Do you even know what so much as a single bullion like that can do in this part of the Wasteland? How far people would go once they realize how valuable gold actually still is and the types of folk who'd go through hell and high water to hoard 'em? Have you even seen Legion currency? Those bastards mint coins with actual gold in them."

Winter and Glynda shared a glance. Legion currency had the glimmer of gold and silver and their Legion slave-drivers had boasted about the mineral purity of their coins. Regardless of the claim, the truth was that the Imperium had access to immense mineral reserves to be able to supplant the more prevalent bottle cap economy in their conquered territories with actual gold and silver.

"Hey, you gotta admit that my suggestion of involving the Followers was pretty good, eh?" reasoned Branwen.

"Oh absolutely, seňor," sniped a visibly tired Mister Tejada. "Bribe the highest-ranking military commander in the whole region to incorporate a civilian pacifist charity organization known for its semi-anarchic and anti-militaristic views into his country's military expansionist operations. A brilliant partnership. Like a match made in heaven. ¡Bravo! ¡Bien hecho!"

Branwen simpered. "Man, are you always that snarky?"

"Just being open with my thoughts is all. Just ask Boss."

"That's Raul for you," Courier Six returned tiredly. "You should've been in the room with us, Raul. You'd probably have better suggestions than birdbrain over here."

"Nah, I probably would have said something similar. Besides, you finally found someone rich enough to take that gold off your hands."

Winter blinked while Glynda coughed out, "Excuse me?"

The Courier groaned. "Goddamn it, Raul."

"Just saying, Boss. You've been griping on and on for months about how almost every high-end vendor you got your hands on barely has enough money to purchase so much as a gold bar. Not even at half-price."

"Look, I have my obligations to the local businesses here."

"I think you mean opportunity to make money off the local businesses."

"I help the local economy."

"Boss, you've unbalanced the local economy more times than I can count in the span of two years."

Qrow whistled amusedly. "Hot damn, you serious? How'd that happen?"

Raul snickered. "Combine compulsive looting with sweating it in the workshops and you got a stockpile of serviceable gear ranging all across the board. Boss was a roving arms dealer with high-quality stock who somehow didn't piss off either the Gun Runners or the Van Graffs and those two supply almost the entire Mojave with weapons and equipment."

The Courier snarled. "It just so happened that I had a lot of junk piling up and had the foresight to recycle them into something useful for the locals. It's part of inventory and resource management."

"Oh, sure, Boss. Not like everybody here found out about who you are because of all the juicy equipment you keep selling to all the vendors they go to. Real business sense there. Even the Legion couldn't say no to a good deal. Pretty sure we kept looting the same weapons off different legionaries."

Winter and Glynda were incredulous. The Courier sold weapons to the Imperium!?

Brawnen as well regarded his newfound friend with a sudden air of apprehension. "Wait, seriously?"

"Jesus Christ, Raul," snarled Major Vickers. "Business is business and practicality dictates that. You and I have been making long hauls across the goddamn desert just to get to the nearest vendor who just happened to be way more friendly to the Legion or someone nasty. Of course, you got to be practical in that situation."

"Uh-huh." Raul held up his hands. "Sounds practical. Like selling chems to the Fiends on an almost regular basis after the Great Khans ran out of chems to sell. It just so happened that you've built up a stockpile from your raids."

Mister Branwen's fingers started pointing as he connected the dots. "You mean, you sold drugs to raiders...and then killed those raiders on your own raids...then looted whatever unused drugs off them...and sold them back to their friends."

"Weird how the Fiend problem persisted for so long after they lost a lot of their ringleaders and their major supplier," the ghoul droned. "But I'm not saying they conveniently found a honey pot to suckle out of. Just that, uh, they had friends who sold them chems that they bought in bulk from a certain someone, you know. Repeatedly."

The Courier hissed. "Business and practicality."

"And politics."

Qrow grunted, a little uneasy. "So that's how you ended up the top dog around here, huh."

"The Wasteland has its own rules. Had to do what I had to do and don't think I'm proud of any of it."

"Some of it," Raul quipped.

Six growled. "Okay, some of it but not all of it."

"Made you rich, that's for sure," the ghoul continued, directing his conversation to the three Remnant Huntsmen. "Not like it's that big of a secret. Everybody knows Boss is the richest man around. They just don't know how rich."

"Yeah," snickered Qrow. "Under all that stacks of cash and bottle caps is a pile of literal gold. Hey, maybe even Dust reserves. You may never know. With so much crap from Remnant popping up all over the place, I wouldn't be surprised if you had some Dust hidden somewhere—"

"If there was, those goddamn kids would'a done used it all up," Major Vickers retorted. "Now shut up so I can think. Got a lot on my mind right now because of you three—"

"Me, Boss?" quipped Mister Tejada.

"Not you, Raul. I mean, these three Remnant troublemakers. I don't run a goddamn orphanage and I sure as hell don't run a homeless shelter but because of how the wind's been blowing, I got—"

The Courier suddenly stopped mid-stride. With his hands dropping close to his holstered revolvers, he glanced around. Up at the windows then down to the streets behind them. His gaze soon narrowing on someone mixing among the stragglers idling about.

Winter turned to see...a short-statured Wastelander whose appearance contrasted greatly with the poverty-stricken residents. Said Wastelander had a holstered pistol along with a carbine slung over her back.

"Don't lag behind," sternly ordered Major Vickers who resumed walking at an even faster pace. "What the hell, you people are making me burn through all my assets."

Qrow laughed. "You're welcome."

"Shut the fuck up, Birdman."

Neo was a mess. Inside and out. She felt absolutely horrible transitioning back into her actual appearance after ditching the NCR troops. For some reason, she was starting to have second thoughts over what she did to the actual Sergeant Lena Atwater as well as her sneaking away pocket change and valuables from the poor bastards sardined up in the Old Mormon Fort.

Since when did she actually have a conscience? Only when Roman was...

Roman.

Torchwick, that dummy. Why did he have to throw himself at the Elder Grimm when they assaulted Beacon? Was there really no other alternative? Did he really have to put himself in front of the living darkness so she could make her escape...because that bitch Cinder Fall screwed them over?

Cinder.

Cinder had known Roman about as long as Neo knew him.

Cinder, who had gone by a different name, had once been the exact opposite of the cynical bitch who wanted to set the world on fire.

Neo shook her head to clear her mind. She needed to focus; this was not the time to rile herself up. Right now, she had to keep her distance and blend with what little of a crowd there was in this part of Freeside. Huntsman Branwen was several paces up ahead, walking next to that mailman...

Courier Six.

Vickers, as a handful of the more in-the-know people in the Wasteland called him.

Theodore Vickers, Arizona Desert Ranger.

She stopped, slinked under the awning of a street shop, and pretended to gaze at the junk on display behind the iron bars installed in place of shattered glass. She dipped her head slightly so the brim of her hat would hide the troubled expression on her face. When he looked at her, something inside her...changed. Like a long lost piece slipping back into place... One among many that were needed to complete a puzzle hidden in the recesses of her memory.

Neopolitan had to pinch herself to get her back on track. She resumed her gait, keeping an eye on the Courier's posse striding proudly through the streets towards the New Vegas Strip. She hoped she could keep herself together until she got there. That and she hoped that the loss of the real Sergeant Lena Atwater wouldn't seriously affect the progress made during today's messy negotiations.

Omake

Arcade Gannon just wanted to sleep.

That was all he wanted. Some peace and quiet and a good night's rest. If anything, that was his only comfort in this penal life. Unfortunately, his new cellmate was busy scraping a tunnel behind the toilet they shared in their cell in the Boneyard Maximum Security Prison in the heart of the New California Republic. Certainly much better and much more secure than the waterless hellhole that was the NCR Correctional Facility all the way over in Clark County but neither facilities were paradises.

Chip, chip, scrape, grunt.

Arcade clicked his tongue and sat up on his bunk before looking down at his cellmate Alex DeLarge who was now crawling out of the hole in the wall with a chipped trowel (still strange to him why the man named himself after the protagonist of a famous Old World novel).

The ginger conman was determined, he would give him that. Never one to back down from a challenge and always looking for a way out in the most improbable of situations with an opportunistic optimism that skirted on the ethical. Just like someone he had known not too long ago...

"Can't sleep?" Alex panted.

"No thanks to you," Arcade whispered.

"Eh, maybe you can lend me a hand down here."

Rationality screamed no. Curiosity won out though, bolstered by how annoyed he was and how much he had stopped caring at this point. There was no point in commuting his sentence which lasted until his last breath so what was left of his future to worry about? Another stint in solitary? More hard labor in New Adytum? Been there, done that.

Alex whistled. "So 'Cade, you in?"

Arcade dropped down. "Shut up."

Their bolted cast-iron door only had one porthole and the next guard pass was in a couple hours. With a grunt, the former member of the Followers of the Apocalypse (technically 'former' despite the protests of the Followers who faithfully kept lobbying for his release) fluffed up their beddings with pillows and what little junk they had in their cell then followed his cellmate back through the rudimentary hole behind their shared toilet. To his pleasant surprise, Alex DeLarge had indeed managed to carve his way through two whole feet of three-hundred-year-old brick and mortar towards the oft forgotten maintenance shafts between the cells and the outer walls. And the tools he used to do it were arrayed neatly behind the mess. It wasn't just chipped spoons or jagged combs; Alex was resourceful and had somehow snuck in a hammer, chisel, awl, and screwdriver from the workshops.

His cellmate looked so proud himself. "Pretty spacious, eh? Took me awhile to break through but you know how ancient these old prisons are. Apply enough force with a toothpick and a whole chunk just turns to powder. Gotta love architectural decay."

"Did you...how did you even...?"

He winked. "Hey, a man's gotta have his secrets."

Arcade pinched the bridge of his nose. "You're a smuggler. Of course, you do. Do you even know the layout of this place?"

Alex flicked his unkempt orange hair back with a smirk, his weighted eyes once concealed by thick liner. "I have a good memory."

"Memory of what exactly? The floor plan, the patrol routes, or today's menu?"

"The way out."

The blond sighed. He dreaded this moment. Because it fueled that part of him that clung to the hope that he would be free regardless of the means. To think he had made his peace when he first ended up here but maybe, just maybe...

"This way, doc," prodded Alex, hefting up a kerosene lamp he had also somehow pilfered from the guards. "You know, if I had a bit more time and a bit more resources, I could've tattooed the whole schematics of this place all over my body. Make it look like angels fighting demons or some shit, you know, just to be subtle. Heh, almost thought I'd shave my head too to complete that skinhead look but, nah, can't part with my gorgeous do."

"What a lovely prison-break this would turn out to be if that were the case. I take it you would've snagged that crime boss from New Reno to join in your plan."

"Almost did but the bastard got shanked by some teabag psycho sent in by this Bishop guy. So much for that. But hey! I got you with me. And you've got experience, too, so I'm not too worried."

The blond almost rolled his eyes. "I'm not a stormtrooper."

"Not asking for one, doc."

"Need I also remind you that I'm more of a field medic than an actual doctor?"

"Good enough to patch the both of us up so we could keep going."

"Alex, for crying out loud, I was a researcher for the Followers. I was in the back of the tents fiddling with beakers and test tubes more than I was administering to actual patients."

Shrug. "Still cared for patients. And didn't your records mention extensive combat experience in the desert?"

The blond folded his arms. "Unfortunate part of the job. Not that I got dragged into the frontlines of a war but it was inevitable given who I...ended up working with."

"Yeah. Some big-shot in New Vegas or something. Now quit moping and come on."

"This isn't going to end well."

Snort. "Be optimistic, man."

Sigh. "Says the opportunist to the realist."

Needless to say, Arcade Gannon and Alex DeLarge were soon caught just short of climbing the third perimeter fence and were promptly beaten, berated, and tossed back a more secure cell just across from solitary with even less privileges. And for some reason, that only made Alex even more determined to get out much to the Arcade's increasing chagrin.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: July 1, 2020 - March 9, 2022

LAST EDITED: July 10, 2023

INITIALLY UPLOADED: July 10, 2023

NOTE: Hi again. Been a while, ain't it? Well, let's just say things happened one after another and my muses had to go on vacation for a while. Events, hospital visits, more events, work, life developments. It is what it is.

Anyway, hope you enjoyed the second round of negotiations here. It was difficult writing the exchange between Six and Hsu, especially now that I'm older and wiser and more informed in things. My writing style continuously evolves so that factored in here as well. I cut out a lot and rewrote several sections of this chapter, especially the talks, so I hope that what came out was sensible in a way and entertaining at the very least.

Six and Hsu negotiated again, this time with significant concessions, while Weiss is about to debut at the Tops.

If there's anything I missed or made a mistake somewhere, do let me know.