"Number Nine"

Original Summary:

"Courier Six of the Mojave Express is declared "The Last, Best Hope of Humanity"... although some might beg to disagree.

Vulpes thinks she's trouble. And he needs the work done without unnecessary obstacles in his way.

The Courier thinks Vulpes is weird... but she needs a friend closer to her age than the overprotective grumpies she hangs out with.

Vulpes is definitely NOT volunteering... but that doesn't seem to deter her. In fact, she's so geeky that she's contagious... and Vulpes has always been a curious soul.

However, as the line between duty and genuine interest starts blurring, the Frumentarius' ideals and loyalties will be put to the test when the Courier's group embraces him as the ninth companion.

Meanwhile, Caesar awaits... as well as the rest of the Mojave."

This is a story that contains Politics, Philosophy, World Building, Cultural References, Character Development, and Lore. It explores many unanswered questions in the Fallout Universe that, for me, are important to get into the context of the characters I'm writing about.

This story mixes Fallout: New Vegas and Fallout 3 events without incurring in obviating Canon Timeline. So, purists out there, don't worry. I also mention things that happened in Fallout 1, 2, and what may 4 have in store.

It's a choral work, so expect it to be long-winded and with lots of points of view from very different characters and ideologies. This work isn't taking a particular side on the Mojave Conflict, but fleshing out factions with their due pros and cons.

You can agree or disagree with the characters' views but bear in mind that this is a work of fiction. Nothing more.

Is it a F:NV novelization? Kind of. I am going to cover the Main Quest, the Companions' side quests, and the DLCs... with variations.

Also, the main relationship is a Slow Burn, and it starts sexless. This story is about two people from very different worlds meeting halfway, not about a torrid romance spiced with lots of sex scenes, okay? It's young and somewhat innocent love.

If this is your cup of tea, go ahead ;)

Ch. 01: Libertango.

"Strange, I've seen that face before
Seen him hanging round my door
Like a hawk stealing for the prey
Like the night waiting for the day.

Strange, he shadows me back home
Footsteps echo on the stone."

- Grace Jones, "Libertango"

"Viva Las Vegas 2025!" it read, cropped against a background of nighttime darkness purposefully and poorly Photoshopped in a copy-paste vintage style that resembled the first moon-landing propaganda back in 1969, when the United States of America had boasted to the world their (alleged) triumph over the Soviets along with their famous catchphrase that later became a motto: "That's one small step for [a] man, one giant leap for mankind"; the bicentennial structure of the Lucky 38 towered above the other buildings in all its splendor, surrounded by the classical neon lights that defined the hedonistic spirit permeating and defining the lifestyle in New Vegas.

Once the largest city of the now-defunct State of Nevada, New Vegas was now the only beacon of light amid the sea of scorching sands in the Wasteland, following the post-nuclear 'incident' on October 23rd, 2077, when Humankind had failed itself.

But New Vegas had managed to remain primarily intact, holding onto its core spirit… and its old vices.

The Gomorrah and The Tops, immediate neighbors of the gleaming yet quiet Lucky 38, were the ruling business there.

That, if one doesn't count the refined and exquisitely crafted decrepitude of the Ultra-Luxe for the most discerning clientele… or the consolation prize for the less fortunate gambler with a few caps to his name: The Atomic Wrangler in Freeside, beyond the tight robotic security of The Strip and its reserved yet almost omnipresent owner, Mr. House.

New Vegas, Babylon made flesh, reborn like the mythical phoenix, with wings of fire, flapping them to life from its ashes. The old and the new Sin City became even more alive after sunset.

With arms crossed, he scanned the surroundings with a bored expression. His faded brown fedora magnificently concealed his eyes, casting shadows in the boisterous, greasy, and ill-perfumed night. A man with piercing, magnetic blue eyes maintained an apparently lazy pose, reclined on one of the many dilapidated advertisement posts that dotted the asphalt like unwanted weeds.

However, he was far from feeling lazy. He felt more like a predator crouched in tall grass, eyes fixed on his next prey, ready to pounce.

But he also felt like a tamed bird out of its gilded cage, out of place in an environment that both fascinated and disgusted him to his core, making his wrists itch.

His scheduled date was already late. And if there was something in this world that irritated him greatly, besides ignorance, stupidity, and the constant corruption surrounding his person like a sea of excrements… that was unpunctuality.

Suppressing the burning temptation to systematically scratch his wrists – a compulsion he usually hid under boiled shirt cuffs or leather wristbands, according to the circumstances of his cover - his long, pale fingers, affected by a partial melanin absence condition, twitched slightly inside the worn-out pockets of his jacket.

If this contact proved fruitless – which he hoped wasn't the case – he would have gladly skinned alive the damned cockroach that, with their cursed unpunctuality, was leaving him at the mercy of all the disgusting pimps and their grubby whores, scouring the night for targets to "relieve" their pockets of a handful of caps.

In the extra ten minutes he had waited, he had already counted at least seven prostitutes approaching him for business, shamelessly displaying their ragged, dehydrated, and battered bodies, riddled with countless venereal diseases and who knows what else.

He was already on edge due to the numerous deranged women dancing and screaming obscenities with vacant eyes, high on Med-X, stumbling in their worn high heels, and making a disgrace of themselves. Young, abused, malnourished, old, toothless with sagging, repulsive breasts – it didn't matter. They all competed for customers, announcing the lowest price for a blowjob in a dark corner.

But the debauchery didn't stop there; the horror circus of this Neo Babylon was far from lacking. The catalog of available orifices in where to stick appendages and what else was nothing short of terrifying.

It was simply frightening.

Just thinking about the suave men with fake Spanish accents who approached him, wiggling their tiny, cringe-worthy mustaches while trying to persuade him to part with some caps in exchange for whatever his mind could conjure, made his stomach churn.

The same went for the rotting ghoul prostitutes with cheap blonde wigs, exposing their infected, corroded, eroded flesh while attempting to appear seductive. And then there were the sexbots, the farmers selling out their dogs' and brahmin's rears, the stalls with glory holes on their walls, and the various rates for arranged gangbangs.

Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption, and filth everywhere. – he thought, suppressing a grimace.

The world was sick. Sick and utterly rotten.

The same rotten world ruled by the same rotten society that clung to Old World ideals, the very ideals that had brought them to this point of no return.

Profligates… Degenerates - all of them.

They belonged on a cross, their blood watering the barren irradiated lands, with flesh and bones drying out in the scorching sun. This, while he would silently watch as their world would crumble once again amidst fire and ashes. He would ensure it happened.

And he never failed to deliver.

However, as he abruptly turned his head and scowled fiercely at the next cocksucker begging for his wallet's attention, his eyes flickered to an approaching figure a few steps behind the whore.

Generous, shapely legs were ensnared within painfully high heels and lycra stockings. They led up to voluminous hips, a narrow waist, and a tender bust, culminating in a freckled, doe-eyed Afro-American face.

This was his contact. A woman.

He remained impassive as he stood tall and disgruntled before this tainted beauty. Briefly, he considered the increasing need to scratch his wrists, like a mangy dog itching until he drew blood.

However, he quickly adjusted his mental disposition to match the vocabulary, language, and manners of the Profligates.

"You're late."

"Hey, are you sure you don't want to sit down for a little?"

"I'm fine…"

"No, you're not. You've been running in and out of Freeside all day, doing chores and helping random people with their ridiculous issues, and I still have to see you gather your breath or drink any water."

"I'm not thirsty…"

"You're dehydrated. Your pupils and skin speak for themselves."

"He's a doctor. You should heed his advice."

"Yeah, 'n I've just whatcha need: a pretty lil' bottle of whiskey dat has yer name 'n mine painted all over it, kid."

"Uh… I don't think Doctor Gannon meant that Boss should hydrate herself by such means, Miss Cassidy…"

"Raul is right. Besides, alcohol suppresses your body's antidiuretic hormone, which sends fluid back into your body, while simultaneously acting as a diuretic, causing water to be flushed out of your system much more rapidly than normal."

"'N English, Doc."

"Very well, let me simplify: alcohol has water, yes, but, given its composition, it makes you sweat more and… substantially increases your need to go to the bathroom. Which also is a sure recipe for further dehydration. In the long run, it would do more harm than good."

"And you're just not giving her alcohol. Not in front of me. She's a damn child, for fuck's sake!"

"N'body was askin' yer opinion, Red Beret Man."

"You're slurring again, redhead. Wouldn't seek advice from you right now for the life of me. Go ahead and drown yourself in fucking whiskey. That's the only thing you damn well know how to do, isn't it?"

"Don't get yer panties in a twist, f'cker. 'M still very capable of makin' ye eat me boot… or rather me knickers for all I care. Might make ye loose dat stick-up-yer-ass attitude."

"I think we all should lower our voices. I believe she has a headache."

"Agreed, Veronica. But why won't she sit down for a while and drink some water?"

"Awww, you poor dearie. Rexie here isn't feeling much better, are you, cutie?"

"Arooo?"

"Between an ill cyberdog, a damaged eyebot, and a stubborn, trouble-picking teenager, I already feel like I've signed up for parenting instead of companionship work. Get your canteen. Now. We are not moving an inch from here until you drink something."

"My canteen is empty…"

"And why didn't you say something before?!"

"Owww… don't yell at me, please… The water lasted until this afternoon… and we're running low on caps, so…"

"So, you deemed it more feasible to push your luck in the middle of Freeside, where there isn't a single place that sells water at this hour?! You could have said so! We're returning to the Old Mormon Fort, and I'm giving you a saline injection so you can recover properly! We can enter The Strip tomorrow!"

A sudden stomp on the destroyed concrete that paved the last steps of Freeside before entering the golden prize of The Strip resounded like a gunshot.

Six silhouettes came to a halt, each one of them taller and seemingly older than the one who had caused the sudden commotion. Not to mention the two non-anthropomorphic, cybernetic beings carried by the broadest and tallest of them, nestled in her bluish, muscular arms as if she were cradling two sleeping babies.

"I'm not letting that bastard get away with this…" – the more petite silhouette with the high-pitched, steadiest voice of them all replied, her words tinged with emotion, passion… and bile. Her right hand returned to that spot hidden amidst her short, disheveled black hair – "I've come too far to stand before this entrance and chicken out now…"

The second tallest among them, a man well into his thirties, adjusted his glasses before attempting to reason in a measured tone.

"It has nothing to do with chicken out." – he said, placing both hands on the trembling shoulders of the small girl – "This is not a spur-of-the-moment decision, but rather your health we are talking about. Entering the wolf's den weakened doesn't show courage, but quite the contrary. Can't you see that you're acting again without using your head, but rather that heart of yours that's gotten you into trouble more than once?"

"Gotta agree with Doc 'n dis one, kid." – though reeking of booze, one of the oldest among the eight companions, a red-haired woman who looked like the quintessential cowgirl out of the not-so-far West, spoke with a sudden clear mind despite her toxic habits – "Ye've got nothin' to prove, not to me at least. 'N ye'll enjoy shootin' dat bastard's face off feelin' well-rested, not like dis."

"Dearie, you need to take your medicine and rest a little to feel better." – the massive Nightkin behind sunglasses and a dainty picture hat advised sweetly… or, as sweetly as the growling baritone voice of a supermutant could – "You have played with the other children all day; now it's bedtime."

"Or, you can keep up this act, Boss, until you start throwing up to the point of falling unconscious again, like that time you got that rad poisoning back at Black Mountain and didn't inform anyone until the supermutante loca (1) with the wig and her pet robot got far enough away." – the sarcastic reply from the only ghoul in the group was met with knowing nods – "Then, don't you worry, the decrepit old man here can keep handling not only your body weight, but also all the junk you carry on yourself by a thousand more miles. Really."

Feeling the weight of gazes from the four senior (and not necessarily the wisest) members of her group, she bit her lip in frustration. And when her eyes burned with hot tears, her leg muscles gave out, and she surrendered.

"Easy now." – kneeling to her level, the soft voice of the oddest Brotherhood of Steel Scribe ever spoke in soothing tones – "You're going to be fine, okay?" – then, she turned to the silent man with the red beret who wore dark glasses even at night – "Lily has her hands full with Rex and ED-E, so… Boone, if you'd be so kind…"

Without giving her a chance to finish the sentence, the man knelt silently before the young girl and waited until she relented, accepting being carried on piggyback. Her arms circled his muscular neck and her face buried into his shaved nape.

She trusted him. All of them, in truth.

Since she had started wandering the Wasteland delivering packages about three years ago, she'd felt… perpetually alone. They might not have been friends just yet… but they were the closest thing she had gotten so far. Age differences and all.

Age differences that made her feel like a child whenever they played big bros, Grandpa, and Granny on her and her stubbornness. And she didn't need a brother; she already had one… or used to have one long ago.

So long ago…

Funny how she could remember his face in detail, but not his name. Or even her own, for that matter.

All thanks to a bastard who not only stole life experiences from her damaged brain through two bullets aimed at the center of her memory, but also stole the only memento she had managed to retain from him. It was an issue she intended to fix soon…

But not right now, feeling like crap, limbs wobbly, throat dry and raspy like sandpaper, and eyes playing tricks on her just to stay focused.

In this manner, both moved ahead, Boone and her, back to the Old Mormon Fort

And without saying a word, the other five followed suit, the cyberdog and eyebot resting comfortably in the supermutant's secure arms.

It had been a long day. For all of them.

A couple of days had passed without much novelty besides plucking out several Degenerates' pockets on the Poker table.

He was usually quite adept at guessing bluffs and counting down cards. It only took what he was already good at: patience, strategy, a bit of math, and paying great attention to detail.

He didn't pride himself on excelling at gambling against a bunch of Profligates filled with pitiful addictions, who were willing to throw themselves into poverty and disgrace for the thrill of relative monetary gains they would otherwise squander on alcohol and hookers… Still, it felt satisfactory to wear them under the providential table, unable as he currently was to release pent-up frustration the way he liked most: lashing them to a cross.

It was nearly sundown, and he had yet to hear from Alerio about the new reports on the NCR Embassy and Military Police Headquarters present on The Strip or, as the hypocrites would call it, the 'Free Economic Zone of New Vegas', the main reason why he was still trapped in this horrid cesspool polluted with vice and sin.

The main reason why, instead of acting on his instincts by biting down the fingers, one by one, of the daring manicured hands that were caressing his shoulders, he had plastered a fake smug smile, feigning to show off in front of the rest of the gamblers. As if the way this Profligate whore behind his back getting all affectionate and sluttish with him just because he was winning was a sort of pride. A privilege he had to announce to the winds.

After all, that was the way of the Profligates. The more disgustingly you behaved, the more respected you were.

However, oh, how he hated when Degenerate females felt free to touch him without his previous consent because they thought it was the right way to get his attention.

It was the Profligates' way nonetheless: a woman approaches, and touches you casually while getting closer and closer as the inane conversation she strikes on you goes on, and you have to act like you're interested. Flattered even.

The game usually involved buying a nice meal or, at least, a few rounds of alcohol to said woman… if she proved - during his undercover interrogation disguised as idle, incredibly charming chatter - to be a valuable asset regarding information on the NCR or the Three Families.

And if that wasn't enough to get the lady's lips loose… he usually resorted to seduction.

Women tended to talk way too much after intercourse with a kind stranger. The more if said stranger feigned to be interested in their whereabouts, momentarily making them feel that he cared about them like a devoted lover… or a boyfriend would.

That was the experience they were after in the end; thus, why male escorts were so common in Vegas. It wasn't that difficult to make a woman feel cherished given the kind of men, Profligates or not, they were used to dealing with daily.

And a smooth-talking, pale, blue-eyed, fair-haired young man like him was far too tempting a treat to resist.

To his great shame, he had learned that much from observing and chatting with the male prostitutes at the Gomorrah. Disgraceful and pitiful as they were, being often even younger than him, they usually tended to open up more to other men than the female strippers.

From them, he had learned that older women were usually chatty and blind to the fact that a man as young as him wouldn't have the slightest interest in their wasted bodies or their pitiful sexual displays if it wasn't to obtain something in return.

"Even if they are paying for it, they still think that they're this gorgeous broad they used to be thirty years ago." - one of the manwhores had told him once – "Good money in it if they take a fancy on you." - he had added, probably thinking that the inquisitive young fair-haired man was weighing his chances at getting a job on their field. And their advice on such matters had proven to be correct.

The old lusty crows always left his rented room sated and flattered, undulating their disgusting Degenerate carcass of a body in front of him as they bid their goodbye through his door. Too full of themselves to even notice the intense stare of disdain he would sport after the issue was over, wishing looks alone could kill, adding them to his extensive list of futures belong-in-a-cross.

Then, there were the men.

Oh, it hadn't been any news to him that his short wavy hair, blessed with twenty-year-old features, and tall, slender body tended to capture more attention than he would care to admit from many lecherous old men.

Sometimes he had used that advantage over them as well by leading them, flashing charming smiles and seemingly shy glances, playing the candid ephebe part, but making himself unattainable enough so they wouldn't get the wrong idea. One thing was dealing with disgusting Profligate women and their baser needs… that, he could tolerate to a certain extent… and another entirely different thing was to allow some vomitive animal of a man to get his paws on him.

It was already bad enough when they slipped their sweaty hands under the table so they could grab a handful of his thigh, and he had to contain the murderous instincts that came with the contact, screaming in his mind to cut them in half and feed them their own entrails.

And here, in New Vegas, the apparent lack of respect for any personal space tended to push people to new levels of disinhibition and lechery worse than anything he had experienced in the other territories where he had stayed undercover in all his short life. Here, people didn't care.

Like many others he had found throughout the Mojave Desert, this one was a town of whores. One that begged for a lesson to be taught.

Debauchery. Debauchery, corruption, and filth everywhere. – he thought somberly as the Degenerate wannabe-temptress harlot behind him whispered sickly sweet promises in his ear, leaning on his shoulders, flashing bits of skin, leaving him nauseatingly conscious of the cheap perfume she wore in excessive quantities all over her person.

She belonged on a cross, her and her cheap perfume. Like the rest of them. Like anybody who dared to touch him without his permission.

Effectively masking his intense hatred and disgust towards his surroundings, feeling powerful by harboring such violence on his soul while being able to deceive the world around, a master in the art of masking emotions and extreme control over his body language, his eyes remained on the game the very moment various sets of footsteps, accompanied by also multiple sets of vastly different voice tones, claimed the entrance of the Gomorrah casino.

First, there was this cultured, soft voice of a man asking for a table for five people.

Then, immediately after his polite petition, the slurred voice of a woman in her thirties asked something about whiskey while a gruff young man argued with the receptionist about the policy for surrendering weapons.

While concentrating on the game and tuning out the insistent sexual innuendos from the woman behind his back, the elegant young gambler risked a brief glance from under his brown fedora toward the new arrivals.

And the first thing that drew his attention wasn't the obvious red beret and NCR uniform the gruff young man wore, or the Followers of the Apocalypse's doctor overcoat that the polite blonde man donned like it was the most normal thing in the world… but the small girl in a surprisingly well-preserved white and pink pre-War flowery dress and military combat boots that accompanied them.

Surrounded by full adults who were way taller than her, she looked even more vulnerable and doe-eyed when another young woman in the group, who had remained silent since they had entered, put her right arm around her shoulders. A friendly, although very explicit way to show anybody else around that they weren't game while she guided the small girl with a smile to the assigned table for all of them, both sliding in a soft murmur of dresses amidst the general ruckus.

The cunning fair-haired gambler used his ears rather than his eyes to follow them among the noisy establishment full of music, laughter, wolf-whistling at the strippers on the scenario, and distant sounds from the slot machines.

For he wasn't going to move from his table… at least until his current game was over, that is.

The group ordered an assortment of drinks and some light meals: roasted brahmin bits with jalapeño sauce and gecko egg omelet all wrapped up in maize tortillas for all, plus whiskey for the cowgirl-lookalike woman, beer for the NCR man, wine for the blonde doctor and the quiet young woman… and, to the gambler's infinite surprise, agave fruit juice for the small girl in the flowery dress.

Not many patrons from any of the three available casinos on The Strip would order a juice without any alcoholic addition. She must be pretty young and unused to getting her liver in the compromising position of intoxication.

He immediately liked that. Clean Profligates with clean systems.

He also wondered vaguely if she smoked, for the white teeth he had briefly spotted from a distance in her mouth, all full and even, seemed to suggest otherwise.

"Now, we need to get a plan before making our grand entrance there." – said the voice of the polite blonde man, the unofficial spokesman for the entire group, it seemed – "We wouldn't like half the entire Tops' staff pointing their guns to us as soon as he recognizes her, do we?"

Sharpening his ear at a potential interesting affair inside one of the Three Families, the spying gambler flashed a rather insolent Broadway Straight over the Poker table, earning immediate grunts of exasperation and impotence from the rest of the players. End of the game.

"How about…?" – very timidly, the youthful, high-pitched voice of the small girl hesitated, as if carefully choosing her words – "I've already told Vero and…"

"And I've already told you that such a plan doesn't sit well with me, Six." – the other young woman, presumably the 'Vero' one, interrupted her – "You are not doing such a thing."

"What plan are you two talking about?" – asked the polite blonde man.

As he calmly collected his earnings, translated into casino chips that he would later turn into caps, the spying gambler turned elegantly on his heel, chasing away the harlot's unwanted attentions with a cold blue stare while walking straight to the dinner tables.

In this way, he caught the furious blushing spreading down the neck and shoulders of the small girl, the aforesaid 'Six', as she gave her companions a jittery look.

Rolling up her eyes, the 'Vero' woman sighed.

"She wants to try her luck by… let's say, 'dissuading' the guy into getting with her all private."

The spying gambler didn't have to cast them another glance to know what their faces would look like now if the unanimous choir of gasps was of any indication.

"Are you fucking nuts there, girlie?!" – the NCR dog grunted rather than exclaimed – "You are NOT doing that!"

"Hell yeah, gurl!" – laughed the slurry voice from the cowgirl-lookalike woman – "Dat's not even a half-bad plan t'ere. Let tha bastard's pants slide down 'is ankles… 'n then, shove a bullet right in 'is balls! Ha, ha!"

"I'm not planning to let him get his pants down!" – Six protested, mortification and embarrassment all over her voice as she got it lower – "He will get a bullet first if he fucking dares…"

"I fail to see what's the scariest of the two situations here: Cass encouraging and even laughing at something that it's not funny at all… or you actually considering getting a little tête à tête with the man who almost blew your brains out, Six." – the Followers of the Apocalypse man scolded sternly – "And this, providing you can sneak up a weapon bigger and deadlier than a knife beneath your skirts if you get lucky enough with the security staff."

"I was planning to hide a tiny Police pistol in my panties… They don't seem to search you that thoroughly…"

As he took a seat barely a table far from them and made the customary gesture to order something, the spying gambler scoffed inwardly. Only an amateur would attempt to smuggle a gun with such a big handle inside their undies into one of The Strip's casinos. No matter how frilly or puffy the dress doing the hiding trick, old elastic bands from Old World's underwear were not precisely made to deal with such an inconvenient and extra heavy package. Not to mention the awkward way to keep the walk balanced between not looking suspicious and not letting the pistol drop on the ground.

More likely, she would end up getting the gun along with her undies all over The Tops floorboards.

And it wasn't an amusing or even an enticing mental image at all.

It was a rather pathetic image, even for a Profligate like her.

However, as they were served their order and he got the chance to ask the barmaid for an ice-cold Nuka-Cola, the group shifted their interest to the filled tortillas and drinks and forgot momentarily about their predicament while they devoured their meal hungrily.

He had all the time in the world once he got his soft drink and relished the sweet coolness of caffeine going straight to his brain.

He liked to indulge himself occasionally with this pre-War Dissolute drink that would help him endure many hours of deprived sleep and help him focus on his task. It wasn't deadly addictive (though he suspected that it couldn't be healthy at all even with the rads taken out by the freezers' RadAway coated ice. Caffeine still being caffeine), and it wasn't a luxury he could have very often where he came from.

Not that he had better things to do while he awaited Alerio's report, so…

Sipping on his Nuka-Cola while schooling a carefully constructed mask of idle indifference, he took good note of every member of the strange ragtag group while resting his eyes for a longer time on the small girl in the white and pink dress and military boots.

She was nothing out of the ordinary: short, bony, big black eyes matching short unkempt black hair, bushy black eyebrows, and big white front teeth.

But she had this odd electronic device attached to a gauntlet that she was wearing on her left hand. A Pip-Boy, he recalled it was called.

One of those military pre-War toys that almost every Vault dweller had in their power. The most immediate example?: the owner of the Vault 21 Gift Shop and manager of said Vault lodging, Sarah Weintraub.

He had engaged the blonde woman once or twice in conversation. It had taken minimal prodding on his part for her to start spilling the beans regarding the inner working web with mails and videogames between the users' terminals (not that he knew much, besides the basics, about computers), about her brother living at the other non-accessible part of Vault 21, about her fear of getting outside the Vault and, most interestingly, about her open dislike towards Mr. House and his 'everything on The Strip belongs to me' policy.

If only to himself, he would admit that he felt a bit envious of the girl and her pretty bauble. If the thing was anything like Weintraub's, given how much use the Vault woman gave to it, it would prove… an interesting, valuable item for his field job. He had heard those things had maps saved on their internal memory that could be updated as soon as you walked into a distinguishable pre-War location such as other Vaults. Very interesting.

Now that he thought about it, besides Vault dwellers, this 'Six' girl wasn't the first person he had seen flashing one of those devices out in the open.

And just when he began recalling the other particular individual he had seen with the toy in question, a barmaid brought him another Nuka-Cola he hadn't asked for with a folded note glued at its bottom.

Getting his temper under control as he visualized Alerio's face and how pleasurable it would be to stomp a boot on it squarely for blatantly disobeying his orders regarding how they ought to communicate in Profligate territory while undercover, he unstuck the note wordlessly while he opened the soft drink, pocketed the cap and gave it a long gulp.

He almost choked on the bubbly dark soda when his blue eyes scanned over the few lines written on it.

You are a non-caring rat, from what I see. It seems that there's nothing new under the sun after all.
 Incidentally, and speaking of pretty girls you are eyeing with no shame, rumor says that the brunette with the short hair entered and left half an hour later the Lucky 38 this morning.
 Maybe you should consider checking your goggles. Just saying.

Enjoy the drink.

Blinking a couple of times, first staring stupidly at the dumb encrypted message about nothing new to report on the NCR (Non-Caring Rat, really?), thus, on their infiltrated agents there… the fair-haired gambler folded the note and proceeded to pocket it as if it was nothing while taking another good peek at the small girl with the short black hair.

She was blushing profusely at some crude remark the redhead drunkard cowgirl-lookalike woman had just made between laughs and was promptly comforted by the NCR dog, who put an arm on her shoulders while giving the woman a nasty look.

It couldn't be… she did look like a girl, no mistake about that… Could it be possible that he had…?

His memory then returned almost three months earlier, when everything had been way simpler.

At least simpler than these days with Radio New Vegas proclaiming to anyone willing to tune on the dial about a mysterious fourth force wedging in-between the New California Republic pushing their rifles and their endless politics on the Mojave against the resistance that offered Robert House and the Three Families while, at the other side of the Dam, Caesar's Legion was perched like a gigantic bird of prey, awaiting its next opportunity to seize New Vegas, this post-Apocalyptic New Babylon, from the hands of the meek and unworthy.

The Courier from the Mojave Express, leader of a small, although growing, group of adherents who were warlords in some places and peacemakers in others.

That made him recall Nipton, the debased vices deeply rooted in that cesspool of a city being cleansed through blood and fire by his hand.

Every inhabitant had been a twisted mockery of Humankind itself. Every house a den of debauchery and perversion, every single cry echoing inside their walls a testament of cowardice… and every minute of the eerie silence of the desert against the acrid smell of burned tires and broken flesh, a triumph of purity over corruption and filth.

The lottery had been a success… nevermind that idiot who had earned his chance to leave with both of his legs intact, so he would spread the word about them running in circles until he had almost bumped into a lone traveler who had doubted a while before entering Nipton.

He remembered thinking about what a waste of a winning prize for such an imbecile… until the newcomer entered his field of view.

This one. This one looked focused and sane enough if wearing their head low was any indication that what they were witnessing was, at least to some degree, horrific to watch.

And he could tell that much by just observing the way the walking figure was purposefully avoiding any eye contact with the agonizing crucified men displayed on both sides in neat rows towards the city's Main Hall, where he and his men surrounded by a pack of trained Legion mongrels had waited patiently as the stranger had approached.

Baggy dirty repairman overalls, combat boots, one faded camo glove on the right hand, a full gauntlet holding a Pip-Boy on the whole left forearm, a rusty chest plate tightly strapped to their midsection, shreds of what once should have been a green scarf holding tightly around the chin and mouth, baseball cap and aviator sunglasses… The newcomer had sported the look of a scavenger who didn't know how to strike a look to appear impressive.

Black crew cut, a weathered 10mm old pistol, and an automatic switchblade at their hip, plus a floating mechanical orb buzzing over their head, the stranger looked not more than five feet or so tall.

Again, not impressive at all, which had suited him just fine.

The last thing he had needed at that moment had been a brute with too many chems in their system to know which battles to pick and which not. Better a frightened scavenger kid - for the stranger had looked like a kid in their early teens - than yet another Powder Ganger or a raider to deal with.

"Don't worry." – he had assured the kid with a soft yet very cold intonation – "I won't have you lashed to a cross like the rest of these Degenerates. It's useful that you happened by."

The last thing he had wanted had been for a teenager to start crying or pleading for their life. His and his men's uniforms were a giveaway of who they were, what interests they represented, and what their business with the town had been.

The kid had raised their head a bit, and he would have sworn with his hand over the fire that he had been speaking to a boy. He had looked like a boy, with no soft curves evident under the oversized clothes, and his posture had been a boy's posture. Wary but not shy like a girl would have presented herself.

Or, at least, how he had pictured a girl would have reacted to a group of legionaries.

In fact, it was because he thought the stranger was a boy that he started talking. If he had suspected the stranger to be a girl, he would have merely slapped her on a collar to redirect her steps to Cottonwood Cove.

The younger they captured them, the easier it was for them to be assimilated into their society.

It wasn't personal; the more women of fertile age they managed to adhere to their cause, the earlier their population would substantially increase. Even the filthy female prostitutes from that cesspool of a town who hadn't been too old or sick were valuable assets he had not included in the lottery. They had been put on slave collars and sent promptly to Cottonwood Cove with the first group commanded by one of his most trusted men.

Those had been his orders. Again, nothing personal.

"I want you to witness the fate of the town of Nipton." – he had continued after a brief inspection of what he had thought to be a boy, freckled nose and full cheeks insinuating behind the ragged scarf, concluding that such a little person, despite the robotic device floating by his side, wouldn't give him or his men any trouble – "To memorize every detail." – he had added, giving the other a grandiloquent gesture with his right arm as if encompassing the area surrounding them, his left occupied with the weight of the chainsaw he had had resting against his hip – "And then, when you move on?" – after a few seconds allowing a heavy silence to envelop his words, he sentenced – "I want you to teach everyone you meet the lesson that Caesar's Legion taught here…" – then, he had raised his voice an octave, bringing emphasis where he knew it would claim its due effect – "Especially any NCR troops you happen to run across."

Wrinkling his nose slightly, the boy had coughed a bit as if still not being used to the stench of smoke from burning tires mixed with charred flesh and spilled blood that had surrounded them like black fog against the sunset's red sky.

"Why?" – he had asked, his voice a mere raspy whisper muffled by the scarf, slightly high-pitched. The reedy voice of probably a thirteen/fourteen-year-old – "Why doing this to an entire population? Why the hurry in letting the NCR know? What do you intend to achieve?"

'Intend to achieve'. That was not a phrasing he would have suspected to come from the lips of a scavenger, for they rarely could string a complete sentence without swearing, repeating, inventing, or mixing words to palliate their limited vocabulary knowledge.

That alone had informed the legionary that he wasn't dealing with a common simpleton.

He had felt pleased. Pleased by the evident curiosity behind those questions, delighted to find a young boy educated enough to follow his conversation and the meaning behind his actions.

Pleased at getting, for once, genuine interest instead of outright rebuff coming from a non-Legion member.

If he hadn't suspected that the good-for-nothing of a lottery winner wasn't a safe bet that would provide the NCR the message he had intended to deliver them, he would have offered this lad a place within the Legion. Educated people were a rare sight.

"Where to begin?" – he had smiled, absolutely comfortable with a topic he felt strongly about – "That we intend to let them know that they are weak, and we are strong? This much was known already." – however, recalling the events that had led to the city's demise… remembering how that slug of a man they had had for a Mayor had kept looking at him in that disgusting leering manner as he had offered the pig money in exchange for his absolute cooperation, he couldn't help but put on a grimace of utter disgust – "But the depths of their moral sickness, their… dissolution?" – he had almost spat the word – "Nipton serves as the perfect object lesson."

"What lesson does a dead city have to learn?" – the boy had inquired, oddly profound both in his words and intonation, odd yet pleasant enough to compel an answer – "What did they do to deserve such a punishment?"

Clever, clever little boy.

"Nipton was a wicked place, debased and corrupt." – he had explained, revulsion and affront threatening to spill from his very tongue as he had spoken. The bleary, bulging eyes of Mayor Steyn, bald and greasy, roaming his body shamelessly still too fresh in his memory – "It served all comers, so long as they paid. Profligate troops, Powder Gangers, men of the Legion such as myself… the people here didn't care." – he had concluded with an even tone, bitterness and venom still deep hidden beneath the surface – "It was a town of whores."

Under his oversized aviator sunglasses, the boy had frowned.

"For a pittance, the town agreed to lead those it had sheltered into a trap." – he had continued calmly, knowing he had managed to strike a nerve when the boy's mouth had opened in shock, his big front teeth biting into the scarf's green shreds – "Only when I sprang it, did they realize they were caught inside it too."

After a short silence, the boy spoke again.

"So, they… they…"

"Yes?"

Inhaling slowly as if steadying himself, the boy's response had caught him off-guard.

"They deserved it." – he had muttered with defeat – "That's the message you want to send: that their betrayal was their undoing even if you were the hand behind the deed. That their greed blinded them. Even the very customers deserved it for, following your logic, they were shaming and betraying themselves and the factions they represent." – sighing again, he had raised his head, aviator sunglasses facing tinted biker goggles – "Your reasoning is hard to refute; yes… But your lessons are cruel… very, very cruel…"

Raising pale brows behind his goggles, the legionary had considered the boy in front of him again. He hadn't liked the implications of his response, but he wouldn't accept such a misleading conclusion coming from someone as intelligent as this one. He simply wouldn't.

"Is it cruel to let them know their flaws?" – he had asked, cold yet unusually incensed – "To force them to acknowledge that their egotism, ergo their individualism, ultimately proved to be their doom?" – leaning a bit over the small lad from his tall height like a parent gently chiding their child, he had continued – "I daresay that this warning shouldn't be interpreted as mere cruelty at all, but a small mercy our Lord Caesar deems fit to bestow upon the careless and unfaithful." – however, diminishing his almost passionate outburst, his voice had relaxed again, regaining the perennial pleasant tone he always used, his most lethal weapon – "It has nothing to do with logic or points of view, but the truth, as terrible as it is."

"I… see." – the boy had murmured while idly extending his left hand towards the mutts that had been slowly approaching them as they kept talking.

One of the beasts had briefly sniffed his small fingers and started to lick them gently, the rest of the pack following immediately, swaying tails and drooling panting.

Seeing him surrounded by the dogs, unafraid and at total ease despite the circumstances, the legionary had thought that he liked the boy. Intelligent and polite enough, given enough time, he may prove a fine addition to Caesar's Frumentarii… providing he would survive training, that is.

It had felt disappointing and a shame to let him go that easily, but he had needed someone sober enough to send his message as he hadn't trusted the impaired judgment of the bumbling fool that had won the lottery.

"I'll do it." – the boy had declared without looking at him – "I will deliver your message to the Mojave Outpost. The Rangers sent me here in the first place to assess the extent of the damage."

That… had been a dangerous declaration to make in front of a group of armed legionaries. Whether the lad was incredibly brave or incredibly foolish, he was still very fortunate that all the present men had been Frumentarii and not ordinary foot soldiers.

Observare, colligere, nuntiare... et ulcisci. Observe, gather, report… and strike back. Never in a different order. Not for Caesar's Frumentarii.

"Now the New California Republic uses their young ones for scout work? Pathetic." – he had spat contemptibly, briefly tempted to show the boy just how much disgust he felt by carving it in his flesh.

"I'm not one of them." – the boy had replied immediately as if the notion had been, somehow, insulting to him – "From what I've heard and seen so far, they can't make things progress with so much written nonsense and bureaucracy that they could choke on their forms… But they have beds, warm covers, cool water, and nice packed rations. Good enough payment in exchange for taking a peek, I guess."

Immediately, the sudden violence of his thoughts had gone as quickly as it had come.

A vagrant, hungry child, then. Shamelessly used by the NCR to do their dirty work.

Taking him by the shoulders on an impulse, the boy had not even flinched at the contact.

"Then, should our paths cross again, I will make you an offer. An offer I do hope you will take into consideration given the current circumstances." – he had said in all earnest, giving a gentle squeeze and letting go of the bony shoulders under his hard fingertips – "For now, I bid you vale… until we meet again."

Perhaps they would never see each other again ever… but he had felt obliged to extend the invitation to this one. A glimpse of hope for such a hopeless situation for a lone child striving for survival. He, too, had been a child once.

However, as he had given his men the signal while the dogs had followed suit after he had clicked his tongue twice, he had stopped in his tracks when the boy addressed him again.

"Wait…" – he had said, uncertainty tinting his raspy voice – "Should I want to accept any offer you would extend… Whom should I ask for?"

Turning his head, he had given the other a brief glance over his shoulder.

"Ask for Vulpes Inculta, of Caesar's Frumentarii."

After that, with a quick nod, the child had scurried away, followed by his odd floating toy beeping behind him.

"What do you think?" – he had asked Gabban casually as both had carried on forward in front of the men, miles and miles of reddened sands ahead of them.

Nevertheless, Gabban had simply shrugged. Bushy sandy brows arched, nose dirty and scrunched. Despite his wide gait and robust structure, he still got his nose dirty like an eight-year-old scoundrel. Nineteen years don't make a man yet. Nor twenty. You stop growing when you turn twenty-one.

Many of them were still just boys. Boys playing war and politics, just like the one they had left behind.

"Smart kid, wrong allegiances." – he had simply answered.

And that had been all. He had reported back to his Lord, which should have been the end of the story… until it had proven to be a much more extended and intricate tale than he had initially anticipated.

Because, in the following months, Mr. New Vegas, the self-proclaimed radioman that got surprisingly fast new information on Mojave affairs, had kept proclaiming the whereabouts, achievements, and many virtues of an anonymous Courier that had half the former State of Nevada painted with the signs of revolution.

The newsman and the many people who had dealt with this Courier never gave the same description (or a description at all) of the person above, not even a name… but this Courier was becoming a celebrity at a fast pace. The thing escalating loud enough for Mr. New Vegas to keep calling this person 'The Last, Best Hope of Humanity' at the barest opportunity.

This singular person, in a very singular way, was cutting through the Mojave's issues like a knife cut through butter, and nobody seemed to be particularly alerted that such greatness couldn't be played single-handedly by just one person at all.

Vulpes had a web of spies all over the Mojave Desert, and he had gotten confused and a bit irritated that his men couldn't even get two reports agreeing with one another.

First, there was Picus at Camp McCarran not being able to provide a physical description of the Courier, not even a name, but insisting that said Courier had been helping the NCR with minor local issues that had granted this person a permanent place to rest, wash and eat should the Courier or their companions would be in the area, totally free of charge; permission to purchase any kind of medical supplies with a generous discount… and a sort of an invitation to prove their loyalty to the NCR through entering their ranks.

The NCR wanted to recruit this Courier to their cause, and they had already made arrangements to make them feel at home.

Then, Gladius, the intermediary agent that dealt with Caesar's dealings with the Van Graffs and their possible trading agreement on armament regards. He had actually seen this Courier. Or, at least, a good portion of the Courier's companions. Once. And in the middle of the night. And he hadn't known that it had been the Courier when they arrived at the agreed place.

There had been three people. And a cyberdog. And a ghoul. And a supermutant. And some odd floating device buzzing over their heads.

That one last detail had made Vulpes start to suspect that this Courier could very well be his intellectual little boy with the aviator glasses, even if it had been a long shot… even if Gladius had insisted that the three humans had been, being his impressions correct, all women.

One hooded and the other two, a redhead and a brunette, respectively.

And he hadn't spoken with either of them but had, instead, to deal with the ghoul who, emboldened by the supermutant's threatening stance, besides sassing and making fun of him with a brand of humor as dry as the desert and a Spanish accent as strong as a sandstorm, had kept poking him with odd questions regarding this trading agreement. So much that Gladius had finally lost his patience and had demanded respect in the name of 'a cause greater than what their feeble Degenerated minds could possibly comprehend'.

That statement had made the ghoul and the three women exchange a few glances between them, but they had said nothing.

The ghoul had managed to get some caps out of him speaking of a non-informed negotiated small fee for the sampling drop. And Gladius had been actually glad (no pun intended) that their business had concluded despite suspecting he had been scammed somehow.

Said report had told Vulpes one thing: this Courier was aware of the Legion's presence all over the territory and was cautious enough to get surrounded with, or even send, a group of cohorts to confound people, just in case someone would start to suspect who or what this person was.

Unable to extract any valuable information out of these reports, Vulpes Inculta, Commander of the Frumentarii, had clutched at straws and had presumed that, given the nature of the floating device, a commodity which, if the records from their undercover agents disguised as couriers of the Mojave Express were accurate, had been an exclusivity to the fallen Enclave faction from the Capitol almost five years prior… Situated the device either a possession from an Enclave survivor, his little boy with the baseball cap… or either a person said boy had chosen to sell his electronic pet to.

Either way, he had been adamant with his men when he had ordered them to keep searching for a small, well-spoken Caucasian boy in his teens wearing a Pip-Boy.

Then, Karl's report on the Great Khans, even if filled with exhaustingly dull details about how he found their leader, Papa Khan, and his cohorts to be 'scarcely a match for a Legion recruit' and how 'loathsome their barbaric customs were', et cetera, et cetera… Vulpes had dug quite an interesting fragment out of the long, rambling, and repetitive text about a certain stranger accompanied by a man, two women, and a floating electronic sphere going straight into Red Canyon, Great Khans' territory, that, after getting acquainted with some initiate called Jerry the Punk and exchanging 'some gallantries' with the local drug dealers, had parted and returned several times, constantly sending their respects to Papa Khan through other members of the Great Khans… Until this stranger had petitioned a private audience with him through Regis, Papa Khan's Second-In-Command.

Apparently, they had figured out a deal with the Powder Gangers occupying Vault 19: the Great Khans would accept Samuel Cooke and his boys in their tribe in exchange for supplying explosives and undergoing the due ritual of initiation every Great Khan would have to endure to become a fully active member of the community, a brother.

Both parties had accepted these terms, and the stranger, whom Karl had never actually seen in person, had disappeared from sight.

Again, the presence of the floating appliance amidst the extraordinary achievements of a helpful stranger gaining a community's trust and respect.

Never a name, always lots of rumors about said stranger asking for a man in a checkered suit with a golden pistol.

It had to be the same person, without any doubt. This Courier everyone seemed to know something about, and yet nothing useful.

That was… until one of his undercover agents posing as couriers for the Mojave Express had come with a copy of an incomplete datasheet saying the following:

ID: Z-006M
 Position: Courier.
 Type of Contract: Permanent.
 Contract Start Date: November 5th, 2278.
 Name: _
 Gender: _
 Age: _
 Birthplace: _
 Residence: Tenpenny Tower, Capitol Wasteland.
 Languages: English (Native), Spanish (Native), French (Basic), Latin (Basic), Chinese (Very Basic).
 Can Read: Yes.
 Can Write: Yes.
 Academic Formation: Python, Java, JavaScript, ASL, PHP, HTML, XML, XSD, MS-DOS. Basic Elementary School Generic Knowledge.
 Known Medical Conditions: _
 Health Insurance: Yes (Fully Covered).
 Emergency Contact: W.J. Burke (Tenpenny Tower, Capitol Wasteland).
 Recommendations: W.J. Burke.
 Side Notes: Reliable, responsible, can be trusted with delicate shipments. Polite, diplomatic, non-belligerent. Basic First Aid training. Operating Pip-Boy.

Without knowing who this Courier was, Vulpes already had an approximate idea of what this person could do.

And there was the floating mechanical sphere (Enclave device, Capitol address… it had to be) plus the Pip-Boy thing.

Too many coincidences. Too conveniently missing data.

This Burke person… might be worth sending an agent to investigate. It would take some time, however. The Capitol Wasteland, the Old Washington DC, wasn't exactly close to the Mojave.

What could have been so important to deliver for this Courier to travel across the whole of North America from the East Coast to the West? What routes did this person take? Did anyone recognize or even remember such a person?

It had to be. The boy, the scavenger with the aviator sunglasses. It was his best lead. He had to try.

So, he had written his report and received approval from Caesar himself: should they locate the person known solely as 'The Courier', presumably an educated young boy with a knack for electronic devices and computers, Vulpes himself had to contact him and extend an offer of safe passage through Legion-controlled territory to Cottonwood Cove.

Once there, the men at the camp had specific orders not to attack and/or enslave the Courier or any of his companions (though a word of warning against bringing the ghoul or the supermutant along ought to be communicated to this person before sending them to Cottonwood Cove) and to transport them safely to Fortification Hill on the other side of the Dam.

Once there, the Courier and his companions would be treated as honored guests.

Also, the Praetorian Guard had specific orders only to allow the Courier alone to enter Caesar's tent in order to discuss a possible allegiance for the incoming second battle for Hoover Dam.

Considering everything mentioned above… plans had taken a dangerous turn now that the Courier had been confirmed as a woman.

Vulpes didn't know what to make of the situation at the moment: on the one hand, he had a girl, an awkwardly young girl who would pose not only a direct challenge to what many men of the Legion would view as a mere inferior creature being given a position of 'undeserved privilege' by just being able to speak directly with Caesar himself… but also as proof of Vulpes' incompetence for letting slip such an important detail about a possible Legion allegiance.

In truth, it was just politics regarding the soldiers' views and how their society treated women in general. But politics or not, the Imperator would not be pleased in the least to learn that his head of Intelligence had been fooled enough that he couldn't tell the difference between a boy and a girl despite having engaged in a long conversation with said girl.

However, on the other hand… he had to be sure. Sure that this wasn't Alerio's mistake and this girl wasn't yet another of the Courier's companions who had been casually the one sent by him to deal with the mysterious opening of the Lucky 38.

He had to be sure that this girl was indeed the Courier… sure that this wasn't yet another disguise, and, even if Alerio ended up being correct about the identity issue, that the Courier was a she at all.

From what he knew, it could perfectly be a transvestite trick to confound people. Coming from someone as elusive as this infamous Courier persona, he would expect that much.

And his opportunity came when the two brunette girls, arms intertwined, ruffling skirts, and two sets of noisy footwear, went straight to the main level bathrooms.

He had sipped his soft drink with delectation, calmly, smoothly. And, with that same calm smoothness, he had gotten up from his seat, hands sheathed inside his pockets, and made his way to the bathrooms.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, Six!" – he heard the 'Vero' woman hissing nervously as the sound of water running came next once he approached the bathrooms silently – "You okay?!" – small nervous heels met dresses ruffling amidst choked panting – "Are you going to throw up?" – then, small whimpering noises, like a tiny wounded animal, vibrating in a soft echo amidst the muffled silence of the bathrooms; music and disorder beating outside that precarious bubble – "It is happening again, right? Your head." – two Mississippis passed – "Okay, stay put. I'm gonna fetch Arcade. Keep that wet rag on your forehead, 'kay? I'm coming back in a minute."

And, just that easy, the clicking heels getting farther left behind a singular silence after them, only broken with the occasional dripping coming from a faucet not closed properly.

He had gotten inside the yellowed room, minding himself around the cracked tiles until his dusty leather shoes and brown pants had gotten in front of a small figure shrunken on the floor.

She had both hands over her ears as if wanting to block any possible harmful sounds while she managed to maintain attached a wet yellowish rag against her forehead. Greasy water drops were sliding down her face, dripping from her chin to the neckline of her dainty dress. Closed eyes and reddened face.

She was in pain, totally oblivious to her surroundings and the man standing before her.

Assessing the situation quickly, he produced a linen handkerchief from his jacket's front pocket and a small bottle of Chloroform he always had in hand from one of the side pockets.

The next thing he knew was that getting an unconscious girl whose boots weighed far more than her legs scoped on his arms while arranging her posture as if she were drunk instead of unconscious, was a tricky task. He had the previsory thought of wrapping her in his jacket while trying to balance both of her arms around his neck.

That was how he presented himself in front of the casino muscle, feigning the doting boyfriend act of carrying the drunken girlfriend to their shared room, earning more than one sympathetic look.

He was young; she was young. Nothing suspicious at all.

This way, he had carried her to the lower lobby, then inside a small yet comfy room he had rented only for himself while he supervised from the shadows that the Omertas were keeping their end of the deal with Caesar, and had put her gently over the rounded bed while thinking about his next course of action.

It had been obscenely easy to get her alone and weak enough to put his drugging trick out of his sleeve. He even hadn't to persuade or intimidate her into accompanying him.

It felt somehow… disappointing.

And the disappointment took on higher levels the moment he had examined her face up close and, while switching hands over her facial features, trying to remember how the little boy in Nipton had looked like with eyes covered with aviator sunglasses and mouth and chin partially covered by a ragged scarf, he had concluded that, whether he liked it or not, this was the very same person he had engaged in a conversation three months ago.

Then, as his fingers pried further into her scalp, he felt the uneven scarring two bullets had left over her left ear, deeply hidden amidst short black hair on her temple.

No doubt, this was also the infamous Courier from the Mojave Express if his informants from Goodsprings had delivered the news about the local 'miraculous resurrection' correctly. The scars spoke volumes by themselves alone.

Also, to his splitting growing headache, this person was female. He had assumed that much while he had carried her and had felt no evidence of male genitalia against his arm.

A girl, a transvestite, a courier, and a very influential person whom Caesar sought to enlist in his cause. All condensed into only one person.

This could end up incredibly bad under the circumstances already available on the platter. He could tell by just looking at her.

She was a child. Not young enough to be considered a schoolgirl, not old enough to look passable feminine. With her peppered nose and her (very) slightly tanned complexion full of skin and bones, she wasn't anything close to a whole woman if the absence of hips and breasts was of any indication.

This was a disaster. A big bad disaster.

Pinching the bridge of his nose tiredly, Vulpes' headache got even worse when he got back to the unconscious girl and heard her stirring. He needed more time… enough time to focus and uncoil this huge mess before making a decision.

It was almost an automatic move when he reached again for his linen handkerchief and Chloroform bottle. He needed her under control; he needed…

"Urgh…" – he heard her groaning – "Did I blackout…?"

Quickly hiding the drug bottle and, instead, taking a slow approach to her with a seemingly innocent wet handkerchief to treat her headache, he directed his steps calmly towards her lying form.

Controlled and measured body language. That was the key to ensuring somebody's unconscious trust.

However, she squinted her dark eyes and scanned him from head to toe, taking in his white wavy hair and partial melanin absence condition.

"Do… do I know you?" she asked, unsure, slowly sitting on the rounded bedside.

He didn't blink even once.

"Yes." – he answered, earning a big doe-eyed expression immediately from her, his voice sounding… immensely tired even to his own ears – "Yes, I believe so… Courier Six."

SPANISH:

(1) - "crazy supermutant" (feminine form)

A/N: this story is very detailed in my head and has its due arc and ending... but its writing wasn't planned.

In fact, I should be paying more attention to my other fics, but Vulpes and Six insisted me A LOT to tell their story, so I had to comply.

This is NOT going to be a soft story or a lighthearted one. In fact, I believe you can tell that this is going to be pretty dramatic if the tone in which I have started is of any indication. New Vegas is full of vices, the NCR is full of bureaucratic idiocy, the Legion is full of child soldiers, and Robert House is full of shit. Nothing is salvageable in such an environment except good feelings between broken people. Be this a warning of what is coming ahead.

Yes, Vulpes is 20 here. Why? Because the Garden of Eden Creation Kit (G.E.C.K.) says so. Don't believe me? Go ahead and take a look by yourself. It fucking broke my heart.

Yes, yes, I know the G.E.C.K. is not a reliable source in ages regard, for it depicts Arcade and Cass almost ten years younger than they are supposed to be and Boone is fucking fifteen, so shut up. I already know this fact and it still broke my heart that Vulpes is ONLY twenty years old.

I mean... he's a fucking child! And, if we dwell on the Lore enough... we get that the older people on the Legion are actually Caesar himself and his Praetorian Guards, Lucius the oldest by far. Even fucking Lanius is supposed to be a young man! This is a child army!

I'm not saying that I sympathize with the Legion, because I do NOT... but I can sympathize with the plight of many men-children being robbed from their cradles or from their mothers' arms. They are immature, hormonal, brutalized, brain-washed young dudes who think women are both dollies to play with and mothers to serve them. It's so fucking sad and stupid and unnecessary that it hurts. A lot.

So, this is why Vulpes is so young. And why my Courier is also a kid herself. No oversexualized attraction, no power-play, no mistreatment, no invincible individuals, no rapist Vulpes, no cunning bitch Courier. Just two kids needing a friend and playing war at the same time.

What do you think?