Six stifled a yawn upon exiting the NCR Provincial Capitol at close to three in the morning. Across from the compound was the old Las Vegas Police Station and its expanded holding cells in which a good number of Tops clientele were being 'thoroughly searched for contraband.' Meeting with Pappas was another chore that he thankfully got over and done with in less time than usual with the MP lieutenant following him outside.

"They're having trouble with one of the interrogations," she droned. "Apparently, she ain't talking."

"Knows her rights?" jabbed the Courier.

"Doesn't look like she'd know what they are from what I've been hearing. I'll have to personally oversee the issue. Probably just another local who snuck in posing as a tourist."

He huffed in return as he marched off in the other direction, back out onto the Strip, where he noticed a black bird perched atop one of the street lamps. It regarded him curiously with its beady red eyes. He hovered his hand close to one of his revolvers and the bird flapped away into the night.

"Yeah, you get on out of here, Birdman," he muttered.

The holding cells at the New Vegas police station were not so packed with the men and women segregated in separate holding cells. There were a lot less ladies being shaken down so Neo was able to snag her own cell bunk. Thankfully, nobody bothered to get too frisky with her. The subsequent questioning didn't really do her any favors as the MPs really couldn't get anything out of a mute who refused to cooperate and continued to play dumb during the whole ordeal.

It didn't help that she didn't have any NCR credentials or any form of ID on her which apparently made her fairer game than the other schmucks being shaken down for their winnings at the Tops. The commanding officer was apparently going to 'boot her squatting ass back into Freeside' until Neo offered her some of the Chairmen's moonshine to just release her and leave her alone for the rest of her stay inside the Strip's walls. Those MPs were going to be puking their guts out soon but not her fault they liked free unregulated liquor.

Fortunately, they let her sleep in for the night. Unfortunately, she could smell the mildew and the layers of sweat from previous detainees. Fuck it; she was tired and sleepy and a little cranky. She would worry about the rashes later...

Major General James Hsu was stumped. The first order of business was to check in with Lieutenant Carrie Boyd on the case of the missing Sergeant Lena Atwater and her alleged theft of the 'special package' personally delivered to him by the Courier. Only this time, when the two of them walked into his office at zero-eight-hundred-hours, said package was now sitting on his desk.

Plain for anyone to see.

Immediately, he rushed over and began scraping surfaces of the gold bullion with a paper-cutter to prove its authenticity.

"Well that's...unexpected," quipped his subordinate.

The door to his office was already closed and he had dispensed with any guards outside. Ever since the Second Battle of Hoover Dam, there was no need for any guards protecting the offices of their commanders because there had been no serious threat to guard from. But now...how easy it was for someone to breach the perimeter of the base...and slip into his office...then plant this incriminating evidence of corruption on his desk...potentially blowing the lid on all the other unofficial activities his office was involved in...

"Sir, is that... That's...actual gold, right? Pardon my language, sir, but holy shit."

"I think you've seen enough, lieutenant."

Boyd huffed. "Yes, sir. I've seen enough. Though if this was three years ago, I would have had to turn you in."

Hsu unsealed the safe under his desk and carefully placed the bullion inside, atop the various other documents recording several questionable activities conducted by his office over the past three years, most of which were done in collusion with Courier Six and his cronies in and around New Vegas. He could have burned them but he needed them for reference in further deals and also for potential blackmail material that could be twisted to his favor.

"Sir?"

James sealed the safe with a new lock combination. "Keep looking for that missing ranger."

"Yes, sir. We already have MPs asking around in Freeside and we just sent in some plainclothes agents to scouring the place for evidence."

"Good." The general began checking his drawers and file cabinets. "Lieutenant, I also want you to conduct a thorough review of base security. Someone had snuck in here, unlocked my office, possibly went through my drawers, and snuck back out. Undetected."

"Understood." Lieutenant Boyd then appeared to have realized something before pulling out her notepad and flipping through some pages. "... Sir, I think I may have something...correlating this incident."

"Correlating how?"

"According to some of our case files, a similar break-in happened over at Fort Mead. Someone snuck in, got chummy with the refugees, pilfered some supplies, and snuck back out. Happened more than once."

James pinched the bridge of his nose. "Yes, I remember Colonel Polatli had reported conducting daily monitoring of the refugees and security checks but so far, no luck as to who that intruder was."

"Sir, I have a mind that we may have the same intruder here as well. Call it a hunch but you know me, I don't usually have the patience for long investigations and due process. Maybe we're trying to hit the same bird with two stones here."

He went quiet, his brow furrowing as he mentally pulled disparate pieces together, forcing them to fit. "... There was a man. A new accomplice of our old friend. Major Vickers called him 'Birdman.'"

"'Birdman?' Really, sir?"

The general eyed her with a quick smirk. "Birdman formally introduced himself as a 'Crow Brandwin.'"

"'Crow' as in the black bird. Right." Despite her incredulity, the lieutenant wrote it down. "And his last name was 'Brand-win?'"

"Crow Brandwin, yes."

"And he's relevant how?"

"He's Courier Six's newest friend. Brazen, intelligent, looks like he can handle himself in an engagement. Unkempt, notable for his red poncho or cloak. And I suspect he is well-acquainted with our Remnant friends."

Boyd tapped her pen on her notes. "... Yeah. I can see the connections. Not entirely solid but it's possible."

"Consider him a person-of-interest."

"You think he's involved with Sergeant Atwater's disappearance, sir?"

"Not at the moment. Again, just a person-of-interest."

"Crow Brandwin, callsign Birdman, the latest professional associate of Courier Six," she droned, filling up the page of her notepad. "Sounds more like a bad luck charm than an ace in the deck to me. Is there anything else, sir?"

"Keep me appraised of all of this. Discreetly. You're dismissed."

"Yes, sir." With a salute, Boyd left his office. It went unsaid that she would never mention anything about that mysterious gold bar to anyone. As long as she kept discreetly receiving that added monthly bonus, of course.

Qrow yawned and almost dozed off right there on the bar top of the Atomic Wrangler.

"Buddy, you look like you need a bed," remarked the Wrangler's co-proprietor and day-shift bartender Francine Garret.

"Nah, I'm good." He stifled another yawn. "Say, can I ask you something?"

"My brother's the information broker. His shift starts this afternoon."

"Nah, nah, nothing too juicy. I was just wondering...if you've ever seen a short-stacked lady with mismatched eyes? One pink, one brown. Really cheeky. Same with her hair, too. One side's pink, the other brown. Doesn't talk."

Francine paused to think. "... You mean your lady friend?"

"My what?"

"Your lady friend. Not that hard to forget you two walking around Freeside without getting eyeballs. I get it; older man hooking up with a younger woman. Not that uncommon here so you really got nothing to worry about."

Pause. She narrowed her eyes at him.

"She is of legal age, right? 'Cause she looked and acted a lot like a kid from what we've seen."

The veteran Huntsman frowned. "She's a damn scary adult who likes acting like a kid. And for your information, she's just an associate. A work associate."

"Says the old man 'working' with her?"

"I'm not that old."

The bartender snorted. "Uh-huh, sure, buddy. If you want, we can have some of our guys keep an eye out for your 'work associate' if she ever shows her face around here."

"Appreciate that. Though, knowing her, she's probably long gone by now."

"Took off on you? It happens."

"Lady, she's a work associate," he jawed. "Just looking out for someone who I share a paycheck with."

"Right. And who was your employer?"

"Myself, who else?" Damn it, brain. Stop staying shit before thinking! "I meant I employed her. I mean, I pay myself and her. I'm the one getting the, uh, contracts that we're doing. You know how it is."

Francine snickered. "Alright then. We'll go with that. Honestly, it's one of the better excuses I've heard in a while."

"Gods damn it. That's not—ugh, just keep an eye out for her. And stop spreading that shit around. It's not even true."

"Lips tend to get a little loose around here. So, you still need a bed?"

"No, really. I'm good. Just"—yawn—"need a drink is all."

"One beer. That's your last."

Qrow chuckled. "Damn, lady. I haven't been a regular but you seem to know when to stop me before things get out of hand."

The bartender plopped an opened bottle of the local brew next to him. "Less out of how we run things and more out of experience. Besides, we have to follow an NCR law that limits how much someone can drink."

"Thought you people hated keeping to NCR law."

"To be honest, it's one of the few laws they got that I agree with since we can't have our patrons drinking themselves to death or drinking themselves stupid to the point of, I don't know, causing property damage to the establishment. But I suppose I'll allow you an extra and they don't usually come check. Consider it thanks for paying for all the damages you caused that one time."

"Fair enough."

"By the way, in case you haven't heard, word's been getting around town that you've been cozying up with the big man."

"Huh?"

Francine smugly hunched over the bar top. "Courier Six. The folks around here are saying you and your other 'associates' have gotten chummy with him and are hitting it big at the Strip. Like strutting over to the Tops to catch the big man's little girl sing her heart out."

"Heh, yeah. Special privilege. Got lucky with that one."

"Not everybody's that lucky. And since you've been a gentleman, I'll let you in on this: you're not the only one asking around for missing people."

"Really now."

"Yep. Some people have been sniffing around the slums and around the Old Mormon Fort. Apparently some NCR grunt went AWOL and they're out there looking for her."

So they were looking for Neo. Or the person Neo disguised herself as. Qrow nearly grumbled something unpleasant under his breath; Sergeant Lena Atwater was indeed a real person and was most likely stripped bare and getting eaten by maggots in a ditch under the rubble somewhere around here. If they so much as found her remains...

"Sounds rough," he remarked.

"Not something that interest you? Or the big man?"

"Me? Not really, no. Unless I'm being paid to look for that ranger."

"Or whatever's left of her," she muttered.

"What do you mean?"

Her voice dropped to a hoarse whisper. "We found the body."

Pause. "... Did you now?"

"Bill Ronte and the Kings were doing some emergency repairs on the water pump when they found a woman half buried under the corn stalks. Knew right away she was NCR because of the ranger tattoos on her arm. That and she was stripped to her army shirt and combat trousers. Her usual armor was gone along with a lot of her fancy military gear before whoever did her in thought she would be good as fertilizer."

Qrow's drowsiness went away for a good minute upon hearing that. In a morbidly amusing way, Neo's handiwork seemed in line with what Major Vickers would have done. Based on what he had learned of the man through various sources, he was not above going to disturbing lengths to get rid of evidence.

"So you've all been eating corn grown out of human remains?" he quipped.

She snorted. "As if you haven't had shrooms grown out of a box of shit. What I'm saying is that the body was discovered recently. As in early this morning."

"And the NCR hasn't caught on yet?"

"The King knows," she murmured. "And he's keeping this all hush-hush to avoid pissing off those Californians. It was bad enough back then when the NCR was gearing up for the Second Battle of Hoover Dam. That included stationing troops in and around Freeside to contain the riots they knew were going to happen the moment the Legion was going to attack."

"I heard. Tensions were so bad that all it would take was for someone to say something stupid and the whole ghetto would be up in arms."

"Exactly. We got a whole military police brigade crowding up the streets and, unlike the Strip, they're bringing in more than just cattle prods."

"When did that happen?"

"Almost overnight. Right as that fancy-pants general rode in here for talks with the big man at the Old Mormon Fort, NCR MPs starting pouring in to 'properly police' us. And that's just on the surface; some of the sharper townies think there are undercover agents walking around asking the same questions you are."

"Looking for missing persons."

"Probably looking for that dead ranger, too. And, by the way, we moved the body. Put her in a crate and, last I heard, they're going to rebury her with a bit more dignity behind the old train station."

"And you're telling me all this why?"

"Because folks here think you're not NCR. They saw you walking with the big man, heard you talking with him. They think you're with him. And a lot more people around here are starting to think that he's more for New Vegas than for NCR."

"Huh." 'Ain't that the truth,' he didn't add.

Miss Garret leaned away, straightening her back and polishing cups. "So. What're you going to do?"

"Me?" Qrow rubbed his face. "Give me that last beer. I'm going to hit the hay in one of your spare rooms. Got a lot more to think about now and I'm not in the mood to be moving around. And, uh, fill me in on that, uh—"

"Your lady friend?"

"Associate. And also that dead ranger. And what the NCR is doing, too."

She scoffed. "Just 'cause you're with the big man doesn't mean we'll be handing out freebies like that. You gotta earn them."

"And all that you told me just now?"

"Extra thanks for the damage fees. From now on, talk to my brother for information. Don't worry; I'll tell him to give you a discount."

"You're welcome," Qrow grunted. He soon retired to an upstairs room, locking himself in and falling asleep after finishing off his two beers.

Raul was used to going three to five whole days without sleep. Today was his second day and he was feeling a little fatigued but not too much to be unable to keep the peace. Thankfully, he did not have to do much as the kids were well-behaved.

"We're going to be late!"

"Why can't we just have a day o~offff?"

"Can't wait for the weekend."

"We won't get fired if we miss a day of work, right?"

"If it weren't for the benefits, I'd be out there hunting geckos with Six."

"Oh stop complaining, Miss I-Can't-Stand-Eating-Bloatflies, and put on your maid uniform before Mister Torini starts docking your pay over tardiness."

"Easy for you to say, Snowflake Starlet. Mind sharing that fat paycheck from last night?"

The ghoul turned the page of the novel he was reading as the Vegas Wonder Kids tripped over each other as they scrambled out of the penthouse suite to get to their respective jobs.

"Just like their first day at Beacon," sighed Miss Goodwitch. "Be careful on your way down, children!"

Said children beckoned back pleasantries all the way to the elevator at the end of the hall. Raul paid no further heed until he heard someone pouring themselves a drink at the bar.

"Gods, I feel like a parent."

The ghoul harrumphed. "A most astute observation, señora. No doubt you enjoy being the household chaperone while Boss is away stressing over his income."

Miss Goodwitch glared at him. "A little too early for dry wit, Mister Tejada?"

"A little too early to be drinking, Señora Goodwitch." He put down the book and headed to the bar to make sure she wouldn't empty the whole bottle she nabbed from the shelf. "Will Teniente Schnee be joining you?"

"Only water, Mister Tejada," requested the white-haired military specialist from a Remnant army who was now settling onto the stool next to the blonde. "If you don't mind me asking, what does your superior plan on doing with us now that we're here?"

Raul shrugged. "I don't really know. Boss said he'll try to fix your collar problem so he's probably doing that. On top of keeping an eye on the Strip and making sure the little diablos don't burn it down trying to fix everything wrong with it."

Miss Goodwitch groaned. "Their hearts are in the right place. Alas, there is only so much two semesters can do before they're wrenched away to become bargaining chips for generals."

"True," added Lieutenant Schnee. "While I do not condone their methods, I appreciate their intent."

"Still doesn't take away the fact that they've been causing a mess here and there and costing Boss a lot of money," the ghoul said.

"He's been very patient with them so far."

"Patient, sure," he grunted. "Hard to tell if he's having it better or worse now that he's got Señor Birdman scurrying around. Might take a bit more stress off of him. Probably make him a better 'legal guardian' because, I'm sure you may have noticed, talking isn't really his strong point. So what about you two? Any plans for today?"

Said ladies appeared unsure.

"Nothing, really," answered Miss Goodwitch.

"You don't gamble?"

"No."

"There's some books in here. Or you could give the pool tables some use; Boss doesn't get a lot of guests and if he does, they don't stay for long. Aside from the kids, of course."

"How about telling us a bit more about the man himself," posited the lieutenant. "So far, you're the only remaining member of the 'legendary' Vegas Nine that he raised to help protect New Vegas from the Legion. My sister and her friends shared half of the full story and that's all they know."

The blonde downed her glass. "Good point, Winter. That sounds like a lovely topic of conversation, don't you think, Mister Tejada?"

Raul exhaled. Not like Boss specifically instructed him to hide any truths from these people. Besides, what was the Courier going to do if his most trusted mechanic spilled some of the beans? Holding secrets led to things getting broken, after all.

"Like a messed-up telenovela," he acquiesced. "You see, this all started several years ago with an Old World genius named Robert Edwin House and an oversized poker chip made out of platinum..."

It was halfway through the morning when Neo walked back out onto the Strip. She was groggy, itchy, and far from well rested. Her stomach rumbled and she looked around; right next to the Las Vegas Police Station was the NCR Provincial Capitol while across the street across the street was a large workshop ran by a guy named Michael Angelo and beside that was the Vault Twenty-One Hotel.

Neo decided to lodge at the hotel since it was the only place she could stay that didn't involve the Three Families or the NCR (not to mention, it was the cheap). She quickly headed for the public lavatory next to the Vault Twenty-One marquee where she changed to a new disguise: switching from blue eyes to grey, fancy dress to middle-of-the-road blouse, shoulder-length to long ponytail. Then she strode through the front door of reception.

"Welcome to Vault Twenty-One!" greeted a familiar-looking redhead manning the front desk.

Neo had to rub her eyes. Yep, that's definitely Pyrrha Nikos working reception for this joint. Mistral's top tournament fighter, Sanctum Academy valedictorian, and Beacon Academy prodigy before her sudden disappearance alongside a bunch of other students. Also one of the Vegas Wonder Kids, all of whom she had deprioritized on her mental list. That and the kid was wearing a blue jumpsuit with yellow strips and the number twenty-one emblazoned on her back. She even had that oversized computer wristwatch—Pip-Boy, it was called?

"Um, ma'am?"

Right. She was here to get a proper bed because the cots in the holding cell had soaked up way too many fluids from way too many suspects that she may actually need a good shower to mitigate the incoming skin rashes. She help up a finger.

"Room for one then. Duration of your stay?"

Two fingers.

"Two days?"

Nod.

"Okay. Can I get a name?"

She pulled out a Tops napkin, took the pen from the desk, and scribbled an alias: Julia Allegheny.

"Very well. Visiting from New California?"

Neo nodded again. And again at the next question. And the next. And the next until the redhead was done typing at her terminal.

"By the way, Miss Allegeny, I hope you don't mind me asking. This is more for concern of all our guests and details like this are important for us to provide you with the best services. Are you perhaps mute?"

Shrug.

"I see. Uh, well then, I won't press further. Not that I'm implying any unfair treatment for a disability—"

So being mute was a disability here, too, huh? Points to the NCR for recognizing that, she supposed.

"—you won't find that an issue here, Miss Allegheny. Vault Twenty-One is welcoming of any and all. Including super-mutants when the day comes that they'll be welcomed back into society."

Neo doubted that. Super-mutants and ghouls were the faunus of the Wasteland and with NCR running the show, those poor fuckers would more likely be shot up and heaped in front of the gates before being frisked for contraband.

After finalizing their transaction, Nikos thumbed the intercom next to her terminal. "Jaune, we have a guest here. Can you please escort her to her room, thank you."

Jaune? That was a familiar name. Wasn't that one of the other Beacon students? Another one of the Vegas Wonder Kids? Maybe she should reprioritize them if she was going to keep running into more of them...

"Please wait over there, Miss Allegheny."

Miss 'Julia Allegeny' didn't have to wait long for this Jaune guy to show up. Bellboy didn't even dress like a bellboy. Instead, he was also wearing a similar-looking jumpsuit with a Pip-Boy strapped to his wrist. Was this their employee uniform? The promotional posters on the walls seemed to confirm that.

"Hello, ma'am," the blond greeted. "What's your room number?"

She handed him her guest keycard.

"No luggage?"

She shook her head.

"Traveling light, I suppose. This way, ma'am."

Vault Twenty-One was pretty much what it was: an prewar mega bomb shelter that was converted into a luxury hotel. Well, luxury being along the lines of living like the vault dwellers of the Old World complete with vault curfews, vault meals, and vault activities that thankfully weren't as dull as socializing with other vault dwellers or watching Old World movies all day. This one supposedly centered on gambling—as in there were slot machines, roulette wheels, card tables, and a cashier in the corner. A casino through and through except this one was independent, small-scale, and was (for some curious reason) largely ignored by the Three Families.

Tempting as it was to cheat a few suckers out of their winnings, Neo focused on getting a shower because she was starting to feel a nasty skin rash on her cheeks. Damn NCR not cleaning their holding cells...

"Here we are, ma'am. Room One-oh-seven."

Neo nodded blankly back at the Jaune kid.

"If you need anything, you can use the terminal in your room to request for additional services. The password is on your desk. We change it every couple days to ensure security and privacy."

Good to know. More hacking practice for her.

"Other than that, enjoy your stay here at Vault Twenty-One where everything's better when you experience it in a vault!" he chirped with an enthusiastic smile and cheesy a thumbs up.

Neo nearly rolled her eyes. How many times did he practice that slogan?

At least the rooms were clean. Then again, sterile might be the better descriptor here. It was like lodging in an overdecorated science lab. But hey! Clean water and clean food and a clean, comfy bed. She might as well stay here for a full week before moving on; she swiped more than enough Chairmen wallets to keep her going for a month. Then again, Branwen was out there looking for her and he might come here asking questions and those two kids—Pyrrha and Jaune—would be singing like canaries.

Screw a week; two nights max and she would dip. But right now...sweet, sweet shower...

"Well that was an easy start to our day, don't you think so, Pyr?" quipped Jaune as he went through the various features on his Vault Twenty-One employee Pip-Boy.

Pyrrha nodded. "I'm surprised Miss Weintraub wasn't mad at us for being late. Our shift was supposed to start at seven."

The blond sat leaned against the front desk. "I'm surprised that quiet lady was our first guest. It's like half-past nine and the Strip's pretty crowded. You'd think half of them were staying here but I guess that a massive crackdown by the police thinned 'em out?"

"Perhaps. From what I could gather, it was something about contraband smugglers who snuck into the Tops."

"Yeah. Funny that. Supposedly nothing to do with the all the stills Ren and Nora found in the backrooms of the Tops, eh?"

Pyrrha sighed while shaking her head. "Sometimes I wonder how many rackets Six is involved with around here."

Jaune shrugged. "Not a lot, I guess."

The redhead checked the previous entries for Vault Twenty-One patrons at the reception terminal before piping up. "... Jaune, did you notice anything...odd...about that guest? Miss Julia Allegheny?"

"She never said a word. Really timid, nonchalant. Why?"

"I feel like... I feel like we're missing something. I don't mean to sound paranoid or anything but I remember team RWBY talking getting into trouble with a mute before. Back on Remnant."

"Oh, you mean the, uh, the one who beat down Yang pretty bad during the whole Mountain Glenn fiasco?"

"Wow. Mountain Glenn. That whole affair feels like it was a year ago. Do you think we should ask them about it?"

"Wouldn't hurt. Not like that lady's the only mute around."

"I suppose so." Pyrrha shook her head. "This is ridiculous. Maybe I'm just being unreasonable. Suspecting a guest for being someone nefarious."

Jaune chuckled. "Like I said. Wouldn't hurt to ask. Besides, if it's some kind of crazy coincidence and that lady just so happened to be the same mute who was involved with Roman Torchwick, we got Six to help us, right? And Ruby's uncle, too."

"That is true. I'll chat with them after work."

"Breathe in, breathe out."

"Alright. Breathing in, breathing out."

Ren looked over to his employer Sheldon Weintraub, otherwise more publicly known by his artistic pseudonym Michael Angelo. The latter was taking in the former's lessons in meditation quite well, helping to ease his anxiety of working on the main production floor of his own workshop as well as reinvigorating his artistic inspiration. Both were seated across from each other on matts inside Mister Weintraub's office, folded into lotus positions.

After several slow breaths, Ren moved to the next step of their session. "Now clear your mind."

His employer nodded with his eyes closed. "Clearing my mind."

So far, so good. Ren continued to guide him through the next several minutes, softly encouraging him to block out the noise of the ventilators and the machines and the boisterous discussions Nora was having with Michael Angelo's assistants over by the production floor.

"How are you feeling, sir?"

"Better. Much better. I can... I can feel my muses...returning."

Ren smiled. This agreement was proving to be just as fulfilling as it was convenient and lucrative. While technically registered as an assistant on the application form, the stoic Mistralian Huntsman-in-training was proving more helpful as a therapist in the office than an extra pair of hands in the workshop.

Michael Angelo kept his eyes closed as he continued his controlled breathing exercises, keeping to the lotus position with the same vigor of a monastic neophyte. His brows furrowed for a bit and his mouth thinned into a frown, twitching every now and then, before gritting his teeth and exhaling to regain his composure.

"Inspiration does not often come in force," Ren advised.

"Bite-sized pieces, I know. But I feel like... I can't help it. I need to... I need something..."

"Take your time. It may come in the next hour or the next day or the next week."

"You're right. I have to patient. I have to be—"

There was a loud crash somewhere in the building and Ren snapped his head to the door of the office. Outside, he could hear voices hollering and a cacophony of machinery and various equipment cascading like a tower of junk collapsing onto its own weight.

"That's it!" barked Mister Weintraub.

Ren was about to offer apologies on Nora's behalf when he saw his employer leap up to his feet with a manic grin on his face.

"I've got it! I know how to finish my current project and how to start my next series!"

"Sir?"

"Thank you, Ren. I greatly appreciate your help. And Nora, too."

"But Nora—"

The door burst open with one of the assistants panting for breath and reporting that Nora Valkyrie had wrecked a section of the production floor.

Strangely, Mister Weintraub was far from bothered. With that manic smile still on his face, he confidently strode out of his office where he was greeted by a mess of old signs that had fallen on top of some of the machinery. Two other assistants had their heads in their hands comprehending this disaster while Nora Valkyrie sheepishly scratched the back of her head from atop the pile as she waved at them.

"Uh, hey, boss!" she hollered. "Sorry about the mess. I was moving some of this stuff and I kinda, sorta, maybe...tripped?"

"No, no, no! No need to apologize, Miss Valkyrie!" Michael Angelo grabbed a piece of paper and a pencil from the nearby worktable and began sketching the carnage in front of him. "This is perfect. This is exactly what I needed!"

Confused looks rounded onto the artist.

"What do you mean?" Nora asked.

"This is the inspiration that I was yearning for for a good while now! Chaos and disorder and the imbalance that comes with the tiniest misstep. All my projects so far had been orderly and pristine and constrained by these invisible lines that should be followed. Not today, no! Today, I'm pursuing a more liberating avenue, a freer expression of the mind that is untethered by the conventions of the past where lines and scales and all these constricting borders have to be followed and..."

Ren left his employer to ramble on to his dumbfounded assistants while he went back into the office and rolled up the matts. With Michael Angelo regaining his muses in full, perhaps he could move on to helping him with his diet. After all, Mister Weintraub worked with heavy machinery. Perhaps he could offer him some of his empowering smoothies...

The Courier spent the next several hours in the X-caverns of the Lucky Thirty-Eight running maintenance, reviewing surveillance, and fighting back the troublesome voices in his head. Every now and then, he would grip something solid—a tool, the table, the armrests of his chair—to still the constant shaking in his hands. The more he thought about the things Qrow Branwen said, the more he yearned for a stiff drink.

"Pink and brown," he muttered to himself. "Short, sleek, can bend easily like a rubber band."

The voices in his head were screaming now. He paced around the cavern, steadying his breathing while checking on the wires and cables of the experimental teleportation pod that he hoped would restore him access to Big Mountain.

"Neopolitan... Neopolitan... Neo...politan..."

The name just wouldn't leave him. He cupped his fists to keep from smashing them onto the equipment.

"Neo...politan... Neo... Neo... Pink and brown, pink and brown... That can't be right. That's gotta be a coincidence..."

He stomped back to the central control hub, ignoring Yes Man's avatar beaming down on him from the massive screen. He hovered over to the left-most terminal, separate from the rest, and typed in the password. Seconds later, he was given the option to unlock the large air-locked safe under the console platform. With a pained grunt, the Courier opened the safe, revealing a neat stack of gold bullion, all of which painstakingly retrieved from the condemned underground of the Sierra Madre Casino. And atop the pile of gold bars was the metal box given to him by Marcus back in Jacobstown not too long ago.

"Get a grip, Theo," he snarled as he held the box close to his chest as the shivers began to spread up his arms. "Get a grip! Get a solid grip, damn it."

The screen flashed. "I have a solid grip on everything, Major."

"Not you, Yes Man."

Major Vickers pulled off the lid..and winced at all the mementos within. Some he carried on his person since the loss of Arizona, others were recovered by super-mutants from Darwin Village. He almost choked when he held the pair of wedding rings with their initials engraved on it. Setting them aside, he pulled out that damn Desert Ranger star—his own that he tossed into the box hoping to forget. Yet he was running his fingers across the dulled edges, tracing the scrapes. Another Desert Ranger star sat underneath it: it was Tatiana's.

He slumped back against his chair.

That voice in his brain was talking again.

He wanted to shut it up so badly that he almost reached for his hip flask. Which only held water. Not liquor.

Breathing heavily, he picked up the first photograph from the pile. And there they all were: Team Echo of the Desert Rangers, posing in front of the main doors of the Ranger Citadel in Flagstaff. He scowled at himself: Ranger Captain Theodore Vickers, posing awkwardly like Billy the Kid with his repeater by his side. Next to him posed his squad-mates: Ranger Markswoman Tatiana Averis with her sniper rifle, Ranger Medic Cher Vaillancourt proudly holding up her lucky charm black bracelet, Ranger Heavy Bago Odhiambo grinning under his tinted shades.

And standing in front of them...

Eight-year-old Ellie Belle shyly brushing her black hair away from her amber eyes while she tugged on the hem of her favorite pink dress...

Thirteen-year-old Alex DeLarge confidently leaning on a crooked wooden cane with a threaded bowler hat tipping to the right to show some of his messy ginger hair...

Three-year-old Nia Polis Vickers smiling with her little hands folded in front of her little belly, mute lips cracked into a wide grin along with her pink and brown eyes...

"Nia Polis... Neopolitan..." Major Theodore Vickers paused, his line of thought trailing off for a long minute until a grim look settled over his face. "... Nia Polis Vickers and Neopolitan. Pink and brown eyes. Short, slim, acrobatic... Mute..."

He dropped the photograph on top of Cher's scraped bracelet and Bago's cracked shades.

"Yes Man," he called, his voice unnervingly calm and unnaturally deep. "I want you to scan some pictures for me. Match the faces with mine."

"Ooh! Trying to determine blood relations?" the AI suggested.

"Only need to make sure," replied Old Green Eyes, laying out several of the old photographs from the box. Right then, his Pip-Boy vibrated; a message from Lieutenant Pappas.

He read it twice.

"... That can't be right."

He read it a third time and then went to one of the file cabinets from which he pulled out a folder with the paperwork outlining the details of one of his many unsanctioned arrangements with the MPs of the Strip. This one, in particular, reminded him that the next delivery of the Chairmen's moonshine to the police station was not until the end of next month. So that meant that someone else, other than Shaolin and Pancake or any of the Chairmen, got into the stills, made off with some bottles and used that to weasel out of a jail sentence.

He sent back a request for details on the person they let go. The reply came after a few minutes...

...and those old green eyes went wide as he mouthed a few critical words.

"Short, slim, mute."

He hastily asked for confirmation on the eye-color.

Pappas replied with blue.

The Courier slumped stupefied onto his seat, listening supinely to the whirring of the scanner over the pictures. Qrow's voice echoed in his head: "She's also good at disguise. Really good at disguise."

"Yes Man, finish scanning and collate the results," Six commanded. "I'll go through them later. Right now, I'm heading out."

"You got it," the AI replied.

As he stomped towards the elevator, Old Green Eyes cupped Theodore Vickers's trembling hands. "Gotta go get somethin' to take the edge off. Damn hands done been shakin' for way too goddamn long."

Mercury Black was not one for administration. Or management. Or leadership. Or anything that involved running things in general. He was muscle, plain and simple. He was more of an enforcer for whoever was willing to pay and he damn well did his part under Cinder's employ, even getting a bit of fun for himself before things went to absolute shit.

Now, he was the 'living god' of this huge desert empire in some parallel universe where Aura and Semblances were 'divine rights' and the world was filled with an invisible poison called radiation that killed anything and everything if not mitigated enough. That and he was finding the constant (twice a day) meetings with his subordinates to be painfully grating, if not tearfully boring.

For crying out loud, he had an imperator who submitted to him directly and even then, the one-eyed, one-legged, partially burned creep was always asking him for his approval on every. Single. Gods damn. Thing!

Raise a legion here. Approved.

Suppress dissent there. Green-lit.

Proscribe traitors. Go ahead.

Mercury threw his head back in annoyance as his imperator droned on about whether or not to allow consul so-and-so to throw a banquet for legate something-or-other.

"It's fine," he groaned. "Really, go knock yourselves out. Not my place to deny you your fun."

"Surely thou hast cast limitations to one's debauchery," the imperator said.

"Yeah, yeah. Just don't go overboard. Next."

"Very well. Banquet approved. Onto the next matter..."

Fucking hell, if this was what his life was going to be like for the next fifty years or so, Mercury considered actually ditching this whole shindig for something more...exciting (fulfilling). Besides, it was not like this whole desert was no different to Vacuo during the dry season.

"Look, buddy," the 'living god' interjected. "How about we make a list of things that wouldn't need my approval. You guys can clearly manage."

His imperator mulled it over. "But thou art divine incarnate. Surely, there must be something we should be aware of that would not offend thee."

"Trust me, there isn't a lot and I've already seen a lot. Here, how about you tell those ass-naked nail-biters—"

"Association of Nail-Makers, Bolt-Fitters, and Washer-Filers."

"... Right. " Holy shit, did they actually have an organization just for the guys who made nails and screws and all that shit? "You can have those guys direct their petitions to the magistrates."

"They did."

"And you're bringing it up to me."

"Because they need thy divine counsel—"

"This is my final divine counsel. For those nail guys, specifically. Approve their request. And don't bother me again unless it's very, very important." Mercury folded his arms and watched as his imperator read through the petition, sign off on it, and roll it up. "... We done here?"

"Yes, Thine Holiness."

About gods damn time. "Good. Remember, only if it's really, really, really important, then you can come to me for checking. So...is there anything else?"

The older man hefted the bundle of various other petitions and letters and reports laid out on the table, tucking them all under his armpit. "Nothing more, Thine Holiness."

"Good. See you later then, Vulpes."

Imperator Vulpes Inculta, eyepatch resting over an ugly hole above his crooked nose, saluted with his free hand, his purple robe concealing half of the burns on his body, and strode gracefully out of his quarters. Despite his personal displeasure for the guy, Mercury had to give him a lot of credit. Vulpes's career was nothing to scoff at: the former frumentarius had been through hell and back probably more times than any experienced Huntsman on record on Remnant. He even held the Imperium Americana together when their founder Caesar was killed in battle.

Oh well, as long as Vulpes did his job of running the Imperium, all the better. Mercury would rather sit back and relax as best he could...while battling the creeping loneliness and isolation and the fact that he sorta, kinda, actually really did miss his old life and some of the people who were in it.

Omake

Earlier that morning...

Being adept Huntresses with years of experience in the field, Winter and Glynda naturally got up an hour before dawn. Velvet, being the responsible sophomore among several freshmen, eased out of bed shortly thereafter. There was not much to their morning rituals and they soon settled into making breakfast for everyone else except for Mister Tejada who never slept the whole night and largely kept to himself over by the lounge.

"Kitchen is stocked," he said between bites of his sandwich. "Or if you don't feel like cooking, you could order from the restaurant downstairs."

"We'll just cook, thank you," the lieutenant replied.

"I'll go wake the others," the sophomore thrummed.

Glynda set to prepping large portions of broth with thinly-cut slices of meat while Winter began chopping up some of the fresh carrots and potatoes stored in one of the freezers.

"Qrow is a good man, you know," the blonde suddenly quipped. "I will admit without a doubt that underneath his drunken philandering and frequent immaturity, he is a capable and responsible Huntsman."

"Responsible is a stretch," the lieutenant sniped. "If he were to dispense of his immature philandering, he would have achieved leagues beyond where he is now."

"And where do you think is he now?"

Winter paused to regard Glynda with a raised brow. "Are we going back to rhetoric or are you being serious with me right now?"

The blonde pushed her glasses as she stirred the pot. "For all his faults, he keeps to his word."

"When he's sober."

They continued in silence for the next few minutes before Glynda spoke up again. "... He'll be back."

The lieutenant turned to snipe again only to be met by a solemn stare from the former Beacon staffer.

"Winter, I'll not pretend to know your history with Qrow but as his co-worker under Ozpin, I often see his stubbornness matching the extent of his vices," orated the latter. "And that stubbornness usually gets results...often at the cost of himself. You know that, don't you?"

"I do. That's why—"

"You asked him to return when he was done with his latest excursion. Cramming equipment into a wall safe while drunk isn't usually done quietly."

She gulped, holding back her right hand from reflexively coming up to rub against her left arm. "I was concerned. For a fellow professional associate."

Glynda folded her arms. "Of course, my fellow professional associate."

"This is not a topic of conversation that I find endearing in anyway," Winter rebutted sternly. "Inasmuch as you don't entertain queries about your concern for General Ironwood."

"Fair enough. I guess we're both very concerned for those whom we have fostered...prodigious working relationships." The blonde went back to mixing the broth. "Qrow is far from a poor choice, however."

"Excuse me?" scoffed the lieutenant.

Glynda only hummed back a tune as Velvet returned with Weiss in tow, the only other person out of the Vegas Wonder Kids to get out of bed. Apparently, none of her contemporaries could bring themselves to drag themselves out from under the sheets until well after the sun had crested over the skyline.

"Weiss, I've been meaning to ask you about your private encounter with the Major," Winter later posited as they set up the communal dining table.

"Oh, that." Weiss took a moment to compose her answer. "... He and I...had gotten into a bit of a verbal spat and...I overreacted and secluded myself away from shelter...which was a moment of poor judgment, I admit. He then tracked me down and...we had a discussion of sorts..."

"What did you tell him?"

"I... I told him about what happened on my tenth birthday."

Winter stilled; so that's how he found out. "I see."

Her sister waved her hands in defense. "He's not a bad man, Winter. Not entirely. He has some good left in him. It's just that he...he's been broken so many times and...is still broken that he...usually resorts to more violent and unsavory means to reach a goal that he thinks is good."

Much like so many people the lieutenant knew back in Atlas. "And you're trying to fix him?"

"More of mending the cracks that we could mend," Weiss amended diffidently. "Much like how Ruby and Yang have been trying to wean their uncle off of his nastier habits back on Remnant. Unlike him, however, Six has had more recent success with kicking a bad habit. Still, both he and Huntsman Branwen have much in common, as far as I can see."

"Except one is more decent than the other?" Winter kept her composure in check after belatedly realizing the words that slipped out of her mouth.

"I don't know much to have an opinion on that, sister. But Ruby and Yang say that he's a good uncle. And I will continue to press my claim that Six is a good man at his core."

"Very well. I only wish for the best for you and your friends."

"And I wish for you to be free from those binds on your necks."

Winter rested her hand over Weiss's. "In time. Now how about more forcefully waking your friends. It'd be unbecoming of yourselves to be late for breakfast, much less sleeping in on a workday."

Her sister simpered, showing some of that childhood malice that had been snuffed out long ago in the Schnee household.

ORIGINALLY DRAFTED: Late 2022

LAST EDITED: September 7, 2023

INITIALLY UPLOADED: September 7, 2023

NOTE: A bit of cat-and-mouse and hot-potato going on between some of our characters here.

Six is putting together some of the dots and pulling out some relics of his own to keep his head screwed on. Again, I added in stronger references to Wasteland 2 and if you've played that game, you might have some ideas as to where I'm going with Six's backstory here. As to whether or not I will incorporate more and more of that game into this story remains to be seen (although I will be keeping more to Fallout lore than Wasteland lore). Also, we now see a bit more of what's been going on in the Legion.

The omake was originally another outlet for shipping with more blatant dialogue but I rewrote it repeatedly until I was satisfied that it was less shipping and more family bonding.