"Number Nine"
Ch. 02: Psychobabble.
"Take me for a fool if you feel that's right
Well I'm never on my own but there's nobody in sight
I don't know why I'm scared of the lightning
Trying to reach me
I can't turn to the left or the right
I'm too scared to run and I'm too weak to fight
But I don't care it's all psychobabble rap to me."
- The Alan Parsons Project, "Psychobabble"
She had been dreaming about her again. About her bestie, back when both of them had been little girls.
Odd that she couldn't recall her name for the life of her, but it hadn't mattered much. No one bothers about such tiny details when there's pistachio ice cream, sour cream and onion chips you could dip in nachos' salsa, barbecue pizza with extra cheese, and fucking Nuka-Cola Vanilla.
Her best friend wore glasses, and she was chubby and sweet. Her hair was the color of that Swedish milky chocolate that the two of them were allowed to eat occasionally.
That evening they had been watching 'Labyrinth' on their respective Pip-Boys (they both had wanted to paint their devices pink and rename them 'Pink-Girls'. They had already developed a feminized interface that showed a curvaceous, long-haired caricature of the iconic Pip Boy cartoon doing the same stuff as the original. Her bestie had a knack for arts and design, and she had a knack for programming, so…) and, while they had kept shoving trash down their throats as the world fell down in a bubbled ballroom in front of their fascinated eyes, they both had sighed like the two stupid, hormonal eleven-year-olds they had been at that moment.
Both had been a pair of geeks, so they had supported each other when the rest of the kids in their section made fun of them, calling them 'nerds'.
They had cared very little about what others could think about them when they met each other three years before that thrice-blessed greasy trashy banquet. And they had become fast friends. Both liked the same movies and shows, could quote Morpheus' character from the Matrix trilogy to a fault, liked videogames, and thought that Grognak comics weren't just for boys, and both were studying Latin and French together for fun…
Both were unattractive, geeky, boyfriend-less kids who still liked those old animation princesses that wore beautiful dresses, had pretty long hair… and impossibly narrow waists that no healthy girl should sport while being over eight years old.
And more importantly: both had loved Nuka-Cola Vanilla.
It had been so perfect… so good and right… and they were having so much fun…
Until said trash food had gotten the wrong way down to her stomach, and she had gotten sick.
The oppressing sensation traveling from her tummy up her throat had snowballed painful and fast until she had managed to roll to her left side, and she had started to evacuate the contents of her stomach violently.
"Whoa, easy there. Easy." – she heard a voice speaking as a steady hand secured her thorax to prevent her from falling to the floorboards face down on her own vomit – "Here. You been out cold a couple of days now."
It hadn't been a couple of days but more of a whole week of unconscious dreaming of old times filled with young wishes.
Filthy walls, filthy rusty ceiling fan, flakes of dust impregnating the air… and the perennial sticky heat gnawing at every inch of her sweaty skin. Bodily odor and greasy sweat smeared all over the yellowed plastic covering of the squeaky hospital stretcher.
She had hated that place so much. She still hated it.
The burning sensation filling her nostrils informed her that the vomit had also gotten out of her nose. Disgusting.
Old tanned hands had begun cleaning the mess out of her face, along with tears and a shaming snot trail that had already gotten to her collarbone with a handkerchief. She hadn't cared. Given how much her head had hurt then, she would have allowed a group of junkies to put her over a radscorpion's back to play pony.
Once she managed to calm herself from the post-puke shakings, her eyes focused as she finally got a good look at her benefactor: a bald old man, that was for sure. Around his sixties, she would venture. Hoary big mustache, but no purple sash.
After all, this wasn't bloody Mexico, and they weren't on a honky-tonk, thank god.
The old guy had looked like a frigging impersonation of an Old West cowboy with boiled leather boots and high pants with suspenders, dark leather gloves, the fucking due scarf to avoid swallowing dust out in the desert, old jaded checkered shir…
Wait a minute. She NOW recalled the bastard in a checkered suit that had robbed her at the graveyard hill aided by his goons.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face, but I ain't a fink, dig?"
He had looked so self-assured, so impossibly clean amidst so much dust. His shiny, perfectly styled hair gleaming in the moonlight, as well as the metallic casino chip he had flashed to her before pocketing it again.
"You've made your last delivery, kid."
Her package, the one she was supposed to…
"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene."
No, he HADN'T been sorry. Just the same way she WASN'T going to be sorry the moment she got to kick his balls. She hoped she ended up emasculating him in the process.
"From where you're kneeling, it must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck."
Then the gun, silver and gold and pretty, Virgin Mary weeping from the pristine handle the instant he had pointed its barrel towards her.
Hail Maria.
"Truth is... the game was rigged from the start."
And her world had fallen down, hard and unforgiving. No amount of songs was going to wipe that from her, ever.
She had gripped her aching head with both of her hands.
"Why don't you just relax a second? Get your bearings." – the old man had kept talking, his voice soft and understanding – "Let's see what the damage is. How about your name? Can you tell me your name, kiddo?"
The moment she opened her mouth to answer, her world had just come to a halt when she realized she couldn't remember it.
But the thing that had spooked her the most had been getting her hands out of her skull and finding the left one smeared with dried blood.
"W… whadda happen'd to ma he'd?" – the moment she had slurred those very words out of her tongue, she had realized just how parched her throat had been at that moment and just how high on Med-X they had left her so her tissues could heal without pain.
"I had to go rooting around there in your noggin to pull all the bits of lead out." – the kind old man had explained – "I just don't get it. A stiff breeze'd tear you in two, but a couple of bullets and you're right as rain. With luck like yours, I'm surprised them bullets didn't just turn right around and climb back into the gun, though."
"Bull'ts?"
"Two, to be precise. I take pride in my needlework, but you'd better tell me if I left anything out of…"
She hadn't allowed the man to continue as she had launched her frail limbs out of the gurney and had gotten on her knees and elbows on the floor a good foot far away from the presumed doctor. After scratching the floorboards violently to get to her ridiculous height on two feet, not waiting for the man's help, she had sprinted around the unknown house until she had gotten sight of the broken mirror in the bathroom.
Her hair… her beautiful dark long hair only occupied half her head as the left side had been shaved flush to the chalky cranium skin.
She had looked like a fucking raider instead of a princess… like those of her animated movies stored on the memory of her Pip-B…
"Whoa, kiddo!" – the old man had managed to catch her a few seconds later – "Not to burst your bubble, but your noggin's still tender. Take it slow now. It ain't a race."
As she had been still in shock, watching herself ugly, looking like shit, and smelling awful, she hadn't noticed the man's hands coming for her right forearm, taking out the needle from the surgical saline tube out of her slightly-bleeding artery.
She had allowed him to proceed so far until her dispersed mind had caught up with reality's speed.
"Ma hair…"
"Sorry, kiddo, gotta shave the spot to perform surgery. One of them pretty hairs of yours gets inside while stitching things back together, and you can count on an ugly swollen infection afterward."
She had known that it sounded logical and couldn't argue medical stuff with a doctor.
She had to report about this, about what had happened and the lost package. He wasn't going to be happy about this. Not at all.
"Wh… wher's ma Pip-Boy, doc?"
However, as her question had abandoned her lips, the old man had given her an inquisitive look.
"What Pip-Boy, kiddo?"
Tears had streamed out of her eyes before she could process the situation entirely.
She had puked again. And, while she was forcibly vomiting yellow bile, she had cried; and while she cried, she screamed. Doc hadn't known what to do with her, trying to calm her wobbling form by saying that perhaps her Pip-Boy was still where the Victor securitron fella had dug her out after being shot. He had to restrain her by the arms to prevent her from running out barefoot, clad only in her undies, right up that cursed hill.
It had taken every ounce of patience and goodwill on the old man's part to put up with her stubbornness and hysterical cries, unwilling to let her go until she got a shower, got appropriately dressed, ate something, and spoke with someone called S… Sonrisas? Sonrisas Solares? Sonrisas Como El Sol? (+) It had something to do with the sun and laughing… or maybe not. She could recall the woman and her dog… and the geckos that had almost killed her when she aided said woman in hunting them. But nothing beyond that.
She had taken the food, the borrowed clothes, and a new, formatted Pip-Boy ruefully from the doctor's generosity, but the shower had done her some good.
He had told her his name at some point… but since her awakening, her memory sometimes would find these funny gaps where it would arbitrarily throw random pieces of information, especially names and places if she weren't constantly reminded of them.
After that, she had asked the good doctor to lend her a pair of scissors, a razor, and some shaving foam.
"What are you gonna do with that, kiddo?" – the old man had asked cautiously after her previous display.
"Taking this shit out." – had been her hard answer, pointing at her half-unshaved cranium – "No need for the stupid long hair anymore. I'd rather look like a baldie than a motherfucking raider."
He hadn't argued at that, and she had ended up in front of the quartered mirror again crying, singing fragments of a song she couldn't recall the title, and butchering what was left of her once-glorious raven mane.
"… Those razors hurt, I can't feel fine my love here tonight, tonight…
Bye-bye to this, I can't feel fine my love here tonight, tonight… "
Later, she would confirm, tears still overflowing her red-rimmed eyes, that her original Pip-Boy, her package, and many memories had gone for good.
However, in their place had come a new feeling and a purpose from that very moment on: revenge.
When she regained consciousness, her fingertips reached out to explore her surroundings… and encountered softness.
In fact, she felt this incredibly comfortable, a sensation she hadn't experienced since her stay in Novac, when she had been forced to rent a motel room at the outrageous price of one hundred caps. The deal had included access to a functioning shower, fridge, electric cooking stove (damn good gecko chowder she had prepared after getting herself acquainted with the home appliance), and a goddamned gorgeous queen-sized bed. No matter the thick layer of dust covering every inch of the place.
The sweeter part of the deal had come later, after uncovering Jeannie May Crawford's illicit dealings with the Legion by aiding Boone on his quest to find the motherfucker who had sold his wife and unborn child to the wannabe Roman slavers.
After what had transpired and with Jeannie's brains splattering the ground in front of the green dinosaur still fresh, Briscoe had been left in charge of both the motel and the gift shop, agreeing that she should consider herself now a Novac settler, so, logically, she should have a decent house to rest by anytime she wanted.
Thus, she had gotten to keep the room's key for herself indefinitely.
After that, Boone had joined her and ED-E on their journey to Boulder City. Despite the ill circumstances that had gotten them together, he had felt like he owed her, and he wouldn't allow a 'wisp of a girlie her size to wander alone in the Wasteland with just that floating pile of circuitry to answer for her life' — his own words.
Even with all the emotional burden no man should be forced to endure, and even less at just twenty-six, Boone was a good pal. Since she had known him, he hadn't let her down even once.
And so the rest of them were good pals, since they had seen to her comfort, as evidenced by her current plush surroundings.
But wait a minute: why was she bedridden in the first place?
The last thing she remembered was accompanying Vero to the women's bathroom and then…
"Urgh…" – she mumbled, a slow heaviness sitting over her head as the words slipped through her lips – "Did I blackout…?"
Despite the plush comfort of the bed, its odd shape remained elusive just by touching it, so she started to get up painfully slow to test her feet.
And just when she thought she had figured out the rounded, nest-like shape of the bed, she heard the soft sound of footsteps drawing near.
Raising her head to greet, most likely, an irksome Arcade acting like a mother hen, her mind went on a halt for a few seconds as her eyes focused on the person approaching: dressed in a dapper brown suit that, instead of complimenting his figure, was like a sore eye in contrast with the odd pallor of his skin, stood a very tall, kinda scrawny boy with the prettiest sad magnetic blue eyes she'd ever seen.
He looked way too confident the more steps he took toward her, wet handkerchief in hand, as she finished sitting up by the rounded bedside. He moved with an air of calm precision that defied the typical behavior of a stranger.
"Do… do I know you?" – she inquired, uncertainty lacing her words as she unconsciously searched for the right word to describe his peculiar skin tone and white hair. She was fairly certain the term was written and pronounced the same way (more or less) in both English and Spanish.
He held her gaze, his silence lingering before finally breaking as he spoke in an unhurried tone.
"Yes." – was his reply, calm and composed despite the evident weariness marring his posture – "Yes, I believe so… Courier Six."
After these very words had abandoned his lips, her mind cast back several months, rendering her momentarily speechless. It was astonishingly easy to identify not only the cadence of his voice but also the distinct way he pronounced certain consonants.
Then, the image of two rows of crucified guys at each side of the road and the smell of burning tires returned briefly to her so vividly that she momentarily feared she was there again.
Smooth moves, detached attitude, and twisted life philosophy, all wrapped in a speech full of colorful, pretty words and frightening intentions. He had wanted a witness, and she had obliged.
His actions and his apparent lack of concern at the monstrosity he had orchestrated on that small town full of dark secrets had spoken volumes about the vicious kind he pertained to, and yet… he also had shown her the smallest of kindnesses.
That weird young man with the cold voice, tinted biker goggles, and a coyote's head obscuring his features, all of him draped in Legion colors, had been the first person after Goodsprings who had shown a shred of genuine interest and concern for her even if the situation had been wrong and impossibly dangerous.
She had kept recalling this twisted, philosophical, and soft-spoken stranger while wandering the Mojave. She had found many who had pertained to his faction and profession, but none had been like him. Nobody spoke like him; nobody cared in his twisted, utterly wrong way.
Nobody would defend the eradication of an entire town in cold blood with arguments and thorough reasoning like him. Nobody would feel personally insulted at being called 'cruel' for his deeds. Nobody would try to make her feel better amidst carnage and misery. Nobody would offer a semblance of hope in this bitter land.
Nobody… but him.
"Y… you…" – she stammered after finding her voice again, watching him fold the wet handkerchief with disconcerting ease before tucking it into his trousers. Suspiciously natural and at ease for the realization both knew she had just come up with.
"Me." – he simply stated.
Blinking a couple of times, trying to localize something within her memories as the mental image she previously had of him overlapped with the one her eyes were processing right now. She couldn't place his chin or high cheekbones, but somehow his nose and lips seemed to agree with her dulled reminiscence.
"You are that guy…" – she tried once more, finally finding the right words – "In Nipton, with the lessons and the crucifixions. Vul…" – she frowned, as her tongue stumbled over the pronunciation despite having basic Latin knowledge – "Vultur… no…"
The young man's blue eyes squinted a bit, his whole body keeping that casual still posture while his lips twitched slightly, signaling he wished to speak. However, as the current mental effort was no small thing on her side, she ignored him while stumbling inside her head with words and languages.
"Vul… urgh!" – she groaned in frustration, hitting several times the left side of her skull with a tiny hand as if her brain were an old faulty machine, trying, to no avail, to coerce it to load its contents faster than its processing unit truly could – "Zorro Salvaje."
Arching a pale eyebrow as he registered the familiar yet distant name and language, Vulpes Inculta couldn't help but notice the particular way she had just translated his name to Spanish. She could have chosen 'Zorro Inculto' instead, which would have been an accurate translation of its original intent when he had been renamed at eleven, during his training stage, when the Magister (1) in charge of their group had made fun of him for not knowing how to spell his original name correctly.
'Savage Fox' sounded far more impressive than 'Uncultured Fox', and he was thankful that the girl had chosen to call him so.
"Knowledgeable, aren't we?" – he delivered instead. Calm, collected, and cold, his trademark demeanor – "I wouldn't expect any less from the one who has managed to capture the attention of half the Mojave, Courier. You have left quite an impression on this deserted land during the short time of your whereabouts chasing after the leader of the Chairmen."
Frowning slightly, the girl blinked just once as if deep in thought until she released a soft sigh.
"Guess word travels fast in the desert." – she guessed – "I shouldn't be surprised; it's your job to be well-informed through your intelligence network. You're one of the Legion Commanders." – she glanced at him, observing his slight frown, and hurriedly added – "The NCR has posters of you and the man in the golden mask plastered all over their camps. They know quite a bit about your inner structure… or, at the very least, they know who issues orders within your ranks."
Ah, the infamous 'When you steal NCR equipment, tools, and personal property… You are his bitch!' propaganda. He had a collection of those in his Flagstaff residence - the current Capital of Caesar's empire until New Vegas would bend the knee - since many of his colleagues kept the tradition of leaving them folded at the feet of the door of the de facto leader of the Frumentarii (but they DIDN'T have the guts to leave the OTHER poster at the Legate's doorstep, the bunch of chickens).
The poster didn't even depict him but his former superior and mentor, Callidus Anguis.
A man true to his name, Callidus Anguis had proven to be as venomous as a snake, poisoning his subordinates with his words to maintain control among them.
Ironically, he had ended up outwitted by the cleverest animal of the pack.
Two years had passed since he had claimed his position through fair combat, and Vulpes had no regrets regarding that bittersweet moment when Caesar had given Anguis the thumbs-down, leading to the Fox tearing open the Serpent's gullet to let him bleed in the arena like a pig. The man had taught him well… perhaps too well.
"You know… you're different from what I had envisioned the first time we spoke." – she remarked casually, out of the blue, as if she were addressing an old comrade rather than an ill-timed acquaintance – "I thought you were thirty-something, based on how you spoke. But, without the coyote head, you look around my age or so. I'm eighteen… almost. In about two months, I'll officially be eighteen, anyway. How old are you?"
Taken aback both by her words and the strange, hopeful look she was giving him, Vulpes' cold gaze narrowed slightly as he regarded her. So, he had been right all along: this was no Wasteland hero, but a child.
Not even a young woman.
Ignoring her question, he turned to a wooden chair sitting next to the wall a few paces away. With one hand, he lifted the chair and placed it in front of her, seating himself so that they were almost knee to knee.
"What are we going to do with you, Courier?" – he inquired softly, interlocking his fingers beneath his chin and leaning slightly forward on his elbows, which rested on his quadriceps – "You chase a man all over the Mojave to the very gates of Robert House while, unbeknownstly, managing to leave a trail both of glorified fame and an infamous streak for trouble… The Van Graffs should have seen it coming. I wasn't pleased to discover that our alliance with Gloria and Jean-Baptiste Cutting had come to an abrupt end, their lives reduced to ashes after they sought the head of a certain caravanner from the wrong person."
Ah, yes. After several nights playing guard for the Van Graffs and handling a few minor assignments from Gloria, one day Jean-Baptiste had opened that trap of his to express this dangerous desire (thus, it had to be interpreted as an order) about having a meeting with the former owner of Cassidy Caravans.
Knowing enough about the Van Graffs' operations and how they dealt with competition, Six had set a plan in motion. She had arranged that Boone would be stationed on top of the building across from the Silver Rush's entrance, providing a clear shot. Cass, Raul, and Arcade had been armed with their best energy weapons behind while she, Rex, ED-E, and Vero entered the establishment after Lily had dealt with Simon and his companion at the door. She had carried a loaded Mercenary's Grenade Rifle on her hip… and the outcome, besides the rifle's recoil knocking her backward, had been incredibly messy: Gloria's guards were dismembered in a gruesome display. As for that beast of Jean-Baptiste, though he sustained an injured leg, he had managed to roast ED-E's circuitry, bruise Rexie, and break Vero's Power Fist until Lily had pummeled both him and his half-sibling into a pulp.
She regretted nothing.
"They wanted a friend of mine dead." – she responded carefully instead, knowing she was treading on thin ice with this soft-spoken boy who talked like a seasoned diplomat yet dispatched enemies like a butchering mad prophet – "I don't know about the Legion, but I value friendship and loyalty. And not enough caps and threats are going to change my ways."
That particular last statement had sat immensely well with him. She had learned from Nipton what the Legion would not tolerate and was now leveraging it to her advantage, appealing to his good graces. Whether her sentiments were genuine or not didn't really matter; she had listened to him, and she had learned the lesson he had taught there.
Clever, clever girl.
"Your intervention, however, was balanced by the fact that you implicated the Crimson Caravans' manager, Alice McLafferty, in collusion with the Van Graffs, thereby exposing their plot to assassinate that friend of yours." – he explained, as if this information held little significance to him. A complimentary treat for such good behavior on her part – "With McLafferty demoted and Don Hostetler now heading their Mojave operations, we can exercise better control over their interactions with the NCR." – he stated, searching her features for any sign of distress. He needed to be certain that she was, at the very least, not a covert enemy of the Legion – "This pleased me. And by pleasing me, you appeal to Caesar's goodwill."
Tilting her head slightly as though trying to decipher something from his words, the girl regarded him intently, much as he had scrutinized her. She was measuring him, examining him closely.
He was being assessed through a magnifying glass.
And her eyes conveyed that her evaluation was not unkind. Just cautious.
"Why are you telling me all of this?" – she questioned – "Why bother to contact me a second time? Is this about this morning, when the Lucky 38 opened its doors for me?"
Ah, so she could read between the lines. Interesting.
"Among other reasons." – he conceded – "But primarily for the sake of learning what your posture toward the Legion is."
"Why do you care?" – she pressed.
"Because, my dear Courier, your entry into the Lucky 38 has seated you at a table with bigger players whose motivations you can't even begin to fathom." – he explained in a hushed tone. His voice smooth and steady, his gaze penetrating deeper into hers – "Believe it or not, this goes beyond a man who shoots a girl in the head, robs her, and leaves her for dead, only to be proven wrong by circumstances. Not anymore. Robert House has opened his doors to you, and I would like to know why."
"He's my employer. The Mojave Express was hired to deliver six parcels to him, and mine was the only one that didn't reach its destination."
She wasn't lying. He had already gleaned as much from his network of courier informants.
"And what, pray tell, did that parcel of yours contain?"
After a brief consideration of her options, a quick glance at his inquisitive blue eyes led Six to conclude that lying to him wouldn't do her any good. It was as clear as water (the non-irradiated stuff, anyway) that he possessed a sharp intellect and a sharper tongue. Should he detect any falsehood on her side, she might discover just how sharp his hand could be as well. His handiwork in Nipton wasn't something to treat lightly.
In fact, she had a sense that despite their outwardly civil conversation and him having been nothing but polite to her, that demeanor could quickly shift into something unpleasant if she dared to underestimate him.
It wasn't that she was particularly afraid of him, not really, not the way a sensible person in her position should be, but she knew she needed to handle him with the utmost care if she wanted to stay in his good graces.
And she wanted to stay in his good graces. Not because he was Legion, ergo he could be dangerous or potentially brainwashed and fanatical… but because he was one of the few people her age she knew.
It was an absurd notion, she acknowledged, yet this Zorro Salvaje guy was the only available option of someone understanding what it was like to be a brat amidst this stupid desert full of old cynic, disenchanted farts.
She had already tried with others: Jerry the Punk, an ex-wannabe Great Khan, was more interested in composing emo poetry to express his insecurities and aimed to tug at the Followers' heartstrings than being pals with her.
Alice Hostetler, daughter of the new Crimson Caravans Head Manager, had been more preoccupied with bitching about her parents while entertaining questionable companies than with building a friendship with her.
Melissa Watkins, a Brotherhood of Steel Apprentice, was a bitch. Simple and plain. She treated Vero with such disdain that Six had immediately disliked her. And that had been all. Nobody looked Vero over their shoulder, no-fucking-body.
And let's not start with the Fiends. Sure thing, the ninety percent of them were between the ages of thirteen and twenty-something… but they were so fucked up by their drug-abusing routines that it was impossible to make friends among them. Not that she could get near any of the kids without having to deal with their cries of needing so bad their next fix, but also having to pay attention to dress like a Great Khan while speaking with their leaders: Motor-Runner, who didn't look on kindly to a Khan who hadn't business with them; Driver Nephi, who, since she had brought up the topic of his former friend Bert Gunnarsson, didn't want to speak with her anymore; Violet, who was so high on Psycho sometimes one had to pay attention not to lose a limb around her and her dogs… and Cook-Cook, a motherfucking rapist and also a child molester who always wanted to have a "private chat" whenever he saw her. Like hell she would, bitch.
So… this only left her with this weird albino (that was the word. She had recalled it correctly, yay!) Legion boy.
Hopefully, he wouldn't entertain the notion of crucifying her while attempting to be friends with him… oh well, risky world, risky choices.
Returning to reality and remembering that he awaited a response, she complied.
"A Platinum Chip." – she responded. When he gestured for her to elaborate, she continued – "I don't really know what it does exactly, but microchips are generally divided into three types: analog, digital, and mixed-signal." – seeing his frown at this technical terminology, she added – "The digital type, due to the small size of their circuitry, allows high speed, low power dissipation, and reduced manufacturing cost, so my guess is that this Platinum Chip wasn't one of those. From what I've gathered, it was anything but cheap to manufacture."
Fascinating. Vulpes wasn't well-versed in tech terminology, but he was an eager and quick learner when it came to practical knowledge. And this, certainly, fell under that category. Despite the Legion's stance against technology and its role in the Wasteland's current irradiated state, Vulpes had always been intrigued by machinery and their inner workings.
For, if anything, Vulpes had always been a restless mind who enjoyed finding answers to questions.
And this girl seemed more than happy to provide.
"What functions does a digital type of microchip serve?" – he asked.
Momentarily disoriented by his sudden question, her quick big toothy grin told him he had touched on a topic she would love to discuss.
This wouldn't be a dull, down-to-the-point conversation after all.
"It operates using Boolean algebra, which means it can process 'one' and 'zero' signals, which is, basically, machine language." – she explained, her excitement palpable as the words flowed effortlessly. Her precious knowledge still intact despite everything – "Digital circuits excel analog ones when they deal with signal reading, thus, processing information. Digital are logic, analog are linear, you see? For example: those signals, if transmitted as continuous audio with a sequence of 1s and 0s, can be reconstructed with a digital system without error, providing that the noise picked up in transmission is not loud enough to prevent identification of the 1s and 0s. It's easier to handle by the chip's physical part by just adding more circuitry to deal with a larger amount of binary digits should you wish for a more precise signal representation, resulting in an easily scalable system. Or, in the case of computing-controlled digital systems, you can even just revise the software without changing the hardware at all. However, pure analog chips in information processing have been mostly replaced with digital chips, so they tend to be only power supplies, and… um. Does any of this make sense to you?"
Vulpes actually blinked.
"Does this mean analog microchips are an older, more complex type of microchip now primarily used for supplying power to machinery, while digital chips are standard for logic systems such as those in RobCo terminals?" – he ventured, not entirely sure of where this conversation was headed right now.
Her grin widened.
"Yes!" – she exclaimed, perhaps a tad too exuberantly for his taste – "You're fast! Not many people would have grasped what I was getting at!"
Pride and arrogance weren't values the Legion endorsed at all… but damn if he didn't feel proud and arrogant right now.
"And the third type of microchip?" – he inquired, while discreetly concealing his frivolous emotions from her. No need to come across as a vain or foolish child right now – "The mixed-signal one?"
"Ah, yes, those microchips are subdivided into data acquisition and clock/timing ICs."
"ICs?"
"Sorry, acronym for 'Integrated Circuits'."
"I see."
She went on to explain that an analog-mixed-signal system-on-a-chip could consist of a combination of analog circuits, digital circuits, intrinsic mixed-signal circuits, and embedded software. She explained that those microchips were commonly used in portable technologies, such as her Pip-Boy.
Next, she delved into the distinction between software and hardware, having, again, her Pip-Boy as an example. Windows, Linux, Android, and Macintosh with RobCo Operative Systems hybridizations came next.
"You know, one of these may come in handy in your line of work, wouldn't it?" – she had commented while pointing at her pre-War toy, still wrapped around her bony left forearm.
"Indeed." – he agreed, looking at her device with barely concealed avid eyes.
"Would you like to have one?"
His attention had veered so much from his initial question about the Platinum Chip that this new bait had been hard to resist.
In fact, he hadn't resisted it at all.
"Do you have a spare one?" – he asked, greed and curiosity getting the better of him.
And she had responded with a mysterious smile. One mysterious smile that had intrigued him a great deal.
"Tell you what: help me retrieve both the Platinum Chip and my old Pip-Boy from Benny, and you can have this one, along with all the non-personal data I've compiled about the Mojave. Posts, settlements, towns, Vaults, landmarks, routes… private information on many of its inhabitants…"
Like his namesake animal, Vulpes' ears had perked up at the mention of "private information".
If he had been an actual fox, he would have licked his whiskers in anticipation.
Until that moment, as their conversation had continued, she had been gradually shifting her posture to mirror his: elbows on quadriceps, head resting atop interlocked fingers. Eyes lit with something akin to childish excitement.
They were so close that they could have understood each other by simply whispering.
"Go on." – he encouraged her, his blue eyes, unbeknownst to him, a mirror of her own dark, gleaming ones – "I'm listening."
"Let's go through this one more time." – Vulpes' monotone voice didn't betray his nervousness about venturing into enemy territory with just one asset to have his back. An asset that wasn't one of his men. An asset who wasn't part of the Legion. An asset whose ability to follow his orders to the letter was pretty much uncertain - "Before they ask you, surrender your weapons to the security staff with a smile. Always with a smile, yes?" – he emphasized, ensuring she would adhere to his instructions without any omissions or errors – "You are a girl, and girls are expected to smile and beam in nearly any interaction they happen to exchange with men."
She hadn't looked thrilled during his explanation the first time, and she wasn't any happier now during this quick review.
"That's so sexist I can puke. Right here, right now." – she retorted, scrunching her nose in distaste – "I can't believe society has made so little progress in the last two centuries. Like… people never learn."
Vulpes armed himself with patience.
"Quite true, indeed, that people never learn." – he conceded – "However, when you're aiming to outwit others, you need to identify their vulnerabilities. Sometimes, that means swallowing your pride to obtain what you seek."
And he knew a thing or two about swallowing oneself pride. A bitter pill that didn't become any easier to shove down your throat time after time despite years passing and experience blooming, true, but a necessary one. In the Legion, pride didn't take one far, that is for sure.
"It's not about pride; it's about self-respect." – she countered.
"Do you need others' validation to know your worth?"
"No, but I'd appreciate being treated with basic courtesy and respect. I don't think that's too much to ask."
From The Strip? Her expectations about human decency here weren't too much. They were, to put it simply, completely ludicrous.
"Think of it this way: as insulting as it may be to your gender and your ego, understanding how men perceive women and using that knowledge to your advantage is a significant edge." – he reasoned – "Such advantages can become vulnerabilities to exploit; let others assume, based on your appearance and their prejudices, that you are a bumbling foolish doll while, in reality, you're anything but." - he hoped his subtle acknowledgment of her intelligence wouldn't rub her the wrong way. She wasn't an idiot; her ability to deceive him elegantly attested to that – "Let them underestimate you, let them attempt to manipulate you, and then exploit their weaknesses. That's the difference between an agent and a good agent."
She furrowed those bushy eyebrows of hers. Now that they were a bit trimmed, the change lent her a more sophisticated appearance that could at least pass for remotely feminine despite the still-present combat boots she wore.
He had tried to help make her look like a tasty morsel because, if he knew something about the Chairmen, that was that they were a bunch of guys well into their thirties with money enough to hook up with girls half their ages. And while the Courier Six wasn't conventionally feminine, she still possessed that childlike innocence many perverts found so alluring about teenagers.
He'd never felt quite as embarrassed as when he'd suggested that she apply makeup to look more attractive and mature (although he'd refrained from sharing this thought with her), and she had replied… that she'd never used makeup before.
Ten minutes later, both had been struggling to figure out how women's cosmetics worked in the first place. Even at Gomorrah, all hotels on The Strip usually provided the standard services and toiletries meant to make the client's experience as comfortable as possible: spare nighties and pajamas for both men and women, towels, soaps, shampoo, a small freezer full of alcoholic beverages and… shaving razors for men as well as pre-War cosmetics for women.
They'd sorted through their resources and determined which items were meant for different parts of the face: she had quickly identified a lipstick, while he had spent more time than he had deemed comfortable sniffing colored powders and creams, trying to elucidate if they would transform her into a beauty or a ghoul due to the amount of dust and, he suspected, radiation said cosmetics probably contained after two centuries.
First, she'd thoroughly washed her face and hair. Next, when Vulpes had figured out which shades wouldn't make her look like a cheap whore, he'd asked for a handful of hairpins, which she'd promptly supplied.
He had been no hairstylist, and her short, unruly hair made it a wonder that the hairpins held in place at all. The more they used, the more they'd have at their disposal to tackle any locked doors or safes.
Next came the eyebrows.
She had tested the tweezers and… after a second pulled hair that had left a tiny red droplet where the root had been, she had exclaimed that she was done with that.
So, he had given tweezing a shot on her brows as well. And it was a miracle he had managed to make them more or less symmetrical given her squirming and the chorus of that "Owowowowowowowowowow!" thing that had nearly gotten on his nerves.
Then, the daunting task of applying makeup had arrived.
She had tried, he had to concede her that, and had done an excellent job on her cheeks… but she couldn't for the life of her accentuate her lips or her eyes in a way that didn't make her look like a teary-eyed granny after a few too many vermouths.
In the end, with ears burning from shame and discomfort, he had given it a try aided by his long, dexterous fingers and a scrap of toilet paper to correct and define edges.
And the final result hadn't gone too bad, if he would say so himself.
She looked… intriguing, and almost cute. Almost.
Not bad for a pair of rookies in these… embellishment thingy affairs.
"So…" – he heard her speaking again – "… I gotta be Miss Smiling McSmiles, act a bit stupid… and then what? Wait for this Swank dude to make his grand entrance or what?"
That had been the riskiest aspect of his plan: a means of securing they could operate on Chairmen's territory with carte blanche if everything went accordingly.
"As I've explained, this person Swank is Benny's right-hand man. His cooperation can prove invaluable in making our little tour to The Tops far smoother and immensely quieter than in regular circumstances… providing you manage to capture his attention and then put him up-to-date with the news that his boss is a rat. Depending on whose retaliation he fears the most, he'll side with either Benny or Mr. House… and I'm confident that the scales will tip in favor of the true architect behind the Chairmen." – he repeated patiently – "I only ask a little faith on my sources. That's why I asked you to wait until nighttime to find him at the main counter, where he typically stands on regular days."
"And what makes you so sure he'll notice me?" – she questioned.
"Regrettably, my dear Courier, Swank's position at the counter grants him the ability to filter the type of patrons who frequent the casino daily, thereby… offering numerous opportunities to spot any solitary prey that manages to capture his interest."
The girl's eyes grew so wide that they appeared ready to pop out of their sockets.
"The creep is a pervert?" – she asked, disbelief etched across her face – "Ew, gross."
Her reaction didn't make any sense to him, considering that back at Gomorrah, she had originally planned to "try her luck" with Benny to get him alone and vulnerable. Not that she had shared that particular tidbit with him. Interesting.
"Indeed." – he intoned dispassionately instead.
"I don't want to be pawed at by a pervert." – she declared.
"You won't have to."
"Are you going to be around while I try to engage this guy, so he doesn't get any funny ideas? You did say that if I'm seen with someone, he won't be interested."
"I'll wait for the right moment, and once you have stricken up a conversation with him, I will reveal myself to provide support."
Her gaze locked onto his, and she posed a serious question.
"You promise?" – she asked, a hint of uncertainty creeping into her typically steady voice.
He had inadvertently opened a tiny gap of vulnerability in her without being aware of it.
Yet, her vulnerability had also backfired in an unexpected way, for he had been asked not only for commitment to their shared objective… but also for his word.
And he wasn't the sort of guy who made promises based on hollow foundations when directly confronted. He could evade or dance around questions, true, but he sensed that such tactics wouldn't work with her.
She wasn't one of his conquests; they were nearly strangers, and he had no leverage to try seducing, emotionally blackmail, or threaten to slap her on a collar… by Mars, where had these thoughts even come from? Was it truly so daunting to assure a girl that she would only play the bait part and nothing more? Was it so damn difficult to promise her that she would be safe from the clutches of some pervert?
"I do." – he finally responded after a prolonged silence. His electric blue eyes locked onto hers, conveying how much trust he was placing in a stranger like her the same as she was – "I promise."
He hadn't intended to make any promises. Promises were burdens. Promises were binding agreements rooted in honor.
And his word was one of the few things he could claim as entirely his own, unburdened by the influence of others.
For her own sake, he hoped she understood the weight of what she had just asked from him. If she failed to be the asset Caesar required, he intended to cash in on this favor. His favors, and by extension, Caesar's, didn't come without a cost.
Yet, despite his inner turmoil breeding dark thoughts slithering around his brain like venomous snakes, Vulpes experienced an odd and slightly bewildering sense of satisfaction the very moment he saw her smiling in thanks. Her bony shoulders relaxed a little bit after the sudden tension she had amassed in such a short span. In fact, when she turned toward the entrance of The Tops, a newfound spring entered her step that hadn't been present until now.
He followed her shortly after she entered the casino, and subjected himself to the customary search. He surrendered a standard six-shooter, always present as a visible firearm, and concealed beneath his slightly oversized jacket, just two inches below his nape, he had a small M&A 9mm pistol. This, combined with the slender razor tucked into his right shoe, equipped him sufficiently for safe operations.
"Hey, hey, baby doll!" – one of the security personnel called – "Welcome to The Tops Hotel and Casino! I'm going to have to ask you to hand over any… weapons you might be carrying."
His tone carried a suggestive undertone that prompted Vulpes, if briefly, to roll his eyes. These guys… hitting on a girl who could easily be their daughter. Pathetic.
Thankfully, such cases of older men pursuing young girls were exceedingly rare in the Legion… but that might partly be attributed to the fact that a vast majority of legionaries wouldn't reach their thirties. As much as the NCR propaganda wanted to sell it otherwise, mortality was much higher among Legion men than women.
While many women died in childbirth or succumbed to the occasional flu, the men were subjected to battlefield life and its many derived consequences: blood loss, concussions, infections, radiation poisoning… and many of the traditional remedies prepared by tribal women were largely ineffective against severe cases of poisoning and helped next to nothing with the pain.
Under Caesar's rule, painkillers were strictly prohibited.
Vulpes understood the reasoning behind such an austere policy: reducing dependency on pre-War drugs sooner would mitigate the damage when those drugs eventually became unavailable.
Yet, he couldn't help but recall how fortunate he had been not to contract an infection years ago when…
"Pervert!" – he heard the girl squeal indignantly as she slapped the security's hand in an exaggerated, melodramatic manner – "Don't get so touchy-touchy, daddykins! This sugar ain't made for ya!"
To his credit, the Chairman appeared genuinely embarrassed as she launched into a tirade about what a big complaint sheet she was about to fill detailing just how indecently handsy The Tops personnel were getting as of late.
All of this, accompanied by a high-pitched, shrill voice, combined with histrionic gestures. Clever girl, putting on a show to prevent the brute from reaching the 9mm secured on her thigh with adhesive plaster. This was the result of Vulpes' work and the First Aid Kit metal box in his room's bathroom. Easily breakable when needed, easy to conceal, kept in place.
Then, as if on cue, the background music shifted to a track rarely heard in this part of Nevada.
"Each morning a missionary advertise with neon sign
He tells the native population that civilization is fine
And three educated savages holler from a bamboo tree…"
Unconsciously, Vulpes found himself following the lyrics while the casino security searched him down to his legs after surrendering his revolver. He relished the change from the ubiquitous 'Johnny Guitar' ballad that seemed to have captured everyone's fancy.
"Whoa, whoa whoa!" – another man's voice burst into the scene, accompanied by a disarming smile and an immaculately groomed Pompadour hairstyle that seemed to defy gravity with the help of copious amounts of styling gel – "Ease off, Dale, and pass over the baton with the little lady here, dig?" – he said while casually draping his large hand over the aforesaid little lady's shoulder – "I'm takin' the lead here, pal." – he added, winking to the other man meanwhile he was already guiding the Courier to the right, toward the restaurant area – "Apologies for how that played out, doll. I'm sure my buddy there didn't mean any offense, but security's tight for a reason. Orders from Big Man up top at the 38."
"And that's the line you use with all the girls to cop a feel of their panties, huh?" – the Courier replied coolly.
She was still playing the offended customer while simultaneously putting on an act of the slightly charmed young thing the man thought she was.
"I see how people who are civilized bang you with automobiles…" – Danny Kaye's crooning continued to thread through the musical backdrop.
"Security, baby." – he quipped amicably, his arm rounding both her shoulders – "Can't make the bread if the bakers are full of lead, you dig it? Don't worry; you're safe as houses in here. This here's my joint."
"And who, may I ask, is making me shining promises of safety and warm blankets here, handsome?"
By Mars, she was good.
"(You know you can get hurt that way Daniel?)" – crooned one of the Andrews Sisters to Danny Keye's observations.
The man was quite literally beaming at her compliment.
"Baby, I'm the best thing that ever happened to you. Name's Swank." – he introduced himself, his tone dripping with confidence – "But you can call me whatever your little heart's content."
Vulpes trailed the duo to the restaurant and ordered himself a Nuka-Cherry at the bar. The more the sugar, the better.
Shame that they didn't have Quantum. 'Twice the calories, twice the carbohydrates, twice the caffeine, and twice the taste', read the front label. At least he would have had a little laugh during his next bathroom visit.
"Nice place you've got here, Swank." – the Courier commented while she and her companion settled at a table. Her approach exuded an affected timidity that nearly brought a laugh to Vulpes' lips. She was proving to be remarkably entertaining, especially in the way she single-handedly played the Chairmen like fiddles – "But I thought Benny held the reins around here."
"Benny oversees the business, sure, but I run The Tops day to day." – the man assured, clearly attempting to impress the young thing he thought he believed he had under his spell – "I'm his right-hand guy, you dig?"
"I'd rather 'dig' a bit of time here, if you know what I mean." – she replied, her dark eyes wandering around nervously as if searching for something – "A girl's not always able to treat herself with such views. Luck has been a bitch to me lately."
There it was—the signal they'd agreed upon. Vulpes adopted a calm stride as the lyrics of "Civilization" kept rolling on their famous line.
"So, bongo, bongo, bongo…"
Swank's teeth flashed like a wolf's with the rabbit trapped between sharpened maws.
"Doll, Lady Luck's squarely on your side tonight, trust me." – he whispered conspiratorially, drawing one of her delicate hands between his – "You stick with me; you won't have to work a day in your life. Don't fret about caps; you just sit there and look pretty for me."
"… he don't wanna leave the Congo… "
Six's cheeks started to tint with an angry shade of pink, her back dewed with a light sheen of cold sweat as the situation escalated dangerously out of control. However, a pair of long, pale hands landed on her shoulders, followed by an equally pale chin resting atop her hair.
"Oh no, no, no, no, no." – a calming, velvety voice chimed in, harmonizing with the background lyrics – "Just when I was starting to worry about you." – the speaker placed a chilled Nuka-Cherry bottle against her flushed skin, a soothing gesture to help her regain composure. He sensed a slight shiver in her bony shoulders – "May I tempt you with cherry flavor, Six?"
Grateful for a reason to withdraw her hand from Swank's grasp, she eagerly accepted the soft drink with an enthusiastic – and somewhat relieved – 'thank you!'
Clearly displeased by this unexpected interruption and casting a dubious glance at the now-subdued girl, who was leaning against the tall blonde fella behind her, Swank directed a chilly stare at him.
"Can I help you, pal?" – he asked while wanting to be anything but polite with this unwelcome intruder.
However, Swank's demeanor underwent a noticeable transformation as a silver-engraved lighter was placed deliberately on the table in front of him.
He would recognize that lighter anywhere.
"How…?" – he began, only to be swiftly cut off by Vulpes' icy yet composed voice.
"I'm afraid that this little lady here has quite the tale to tell about your boss and a certain Platinum Chip, property of Robert House, that he seems to have… 'misplaced'."
"What?!" – Swank's voice cracked in disbelief as the blonde… no, fucking white-haired stranger took a seat next to the now very serious brunette.
"Six." – Vulpes intoned dispassionately a touch of amusement stirring within him as he watched this man's bewilderment and discomfort unfold. Served him well, the pervert – "Perhaps you should enlighten the gentleman here about digging from an early grave and two shots on the head, courtesy of a man in a checkered suit."
Swank's skin paled as dramatically as the albino stranger's when Six removed two hairpins and raised her short hair, revealing the twin bullet scars on her scalp.
"Ring-a-ding now, baby?" – she asked gravely.
Inhaling a most satisfying drag of his already-dying cigarette deeply, Benny's thoughts returned to the lame lighter he was forced to use now since that fucker Jessup and his pals got a grab on it. Idiotic finks, he hoped the NCR would blow their sorry asses down to dust. Not that they had, as Great Khans (though he failed to see, knowing what was left of them, why they chose to still name themselves 'great' after Bitter Springs almost four years ago), much to call their own but miles of red dust deep in the Red Canyon. Stupid fuckers.
He didn't want to end up like them, retracing the Chairmen's steps and becoming shameful Boot Riders again, chased down by the NCR and Caesar's Legion if they didn't die at the hands of muties from Black Mountain or the Fiends first. To return to the tribal lifestyle, so full of dirt and grime, the road's dust sticking to the very core of your soul, embarrassing songs about honor and glory long forgotten, empty-bellied cramps, blister-filled feet, sunburned nose, arms, and shoulders, scorching heat by day, chilling lip-cutting wind by night.
And without sex-starved broads ready to service you the moment you flex your wallet a little bit.
Really, what was the appeal, in all honesty?
With their silly and romanticized memories from their old days as Boot Riders, many of his brothers were placing him in the difficult position of disposing of them one by one. Just like it had happened with their old singer, just like it had happened with Bingo.
Like it would soon happen to Swank if he kept saying that their ways were disgraceful. He couldn't have those ideas spreading like gunpowder among his men. Not in his territory, not while he was in charge.
He had no qualms about how many corpses would pave his way to power. He hadn't cared when he had killed Bingo in fair combat to usurp his position. He hadn't cared when he had poisoned the singer to silence his treacherous voice. He hadn't cared when he had overdosed that Great Khan junkie that had almost gotten them killed on their way to Goodsprings. He hadn't cared when he had shot the other one the moment they had realized they weren't gonna get paid.
And he, most importantly, hadn't cared when those dark eyes pertaining to a little girl had been pleading him not to pull the trigger.
So, ultimately, he wouldn't care in the slightest the very moment Maria would be pointing at Robert House's egg to silence his asshole dramatic grandiosity. Pretentious jerk, he would teach him who's boss here, whose cunning would prevail.
The very moment he would confront the Big Man, he would enumerate the complete list of his crimes, a list that contained an innocent raven-haired little girl he had to shoot in the face to get to this point.
Those were House's crimes, not his.
And soon, soon…
Sighing while taking the last drag from his cigar, he carelessly threw the butt on the carpeted floor, not giving a shit about what Swank would say about leaving marks, stinking up the place, and other blah blah blahs he didn't give a molerat's ass about. The business was his, dig? So, what if he stank up the place? He had plenty of caps to pay for some cleaning ladies or even a new set of carpets. Whatever.
He consulted the time on his brand-new Pip-Boy, shifted in the chair he was sitting on, and put on one of the wireless earplugs tucked inside a tiny compartment embedded in the device. The signal indicated they were fully charged.
Navigating through the apparent gigantic database (a hundred terabytes of capacity on the SD alone. These pre-War things were amazing) the previous owner had collected over the years, he accessed the tree file system and tinkered a bit until he found the Movie Database.
The previous owner had a fantastic way of organizing the films, sorting them alphabetically (all the titles spelled correctly, with capital letters and all), by year of release, genre, and even common actors and actresses, all dead people Benny didn't have a clue about, but somehow had made sense to the other person.
He had had almost four months to rummage through the archives this device had in storage, and he had found a gold mine in maps and tons of audiovisual culture that was thought long lost. Hell, he had discovered that music went much further than the pathetic set of twenty-something tracks Radio New Vegas drilled the Mojave with all day.
He had even discovered new languages besides English, Spanish, and French that had been common in music in the pre-War era. Dead languages he couldn't name or understand, but beautiful, exotic, and intriguing to the ear nonetheless.
And books. Lots of digitized texts in various archive extensions that the Pip-Boy, mostly, could read.
And images. Images of such impressive pieces of art that had rendered him more than once speechless. Acquiring such a device with all of this eye-opening collection had been almost a religious experience to him. He hadn't thought of himself as a sensitive man until he had seen Velazquez, Dali, Turner, Gentileschi, Rembrandt, Van Gogh, and many others' paintings and had felt so touched and amazed that he still mourned over how much had been lost to the Great War two hundred years prior.
He had chosen not to erase anything until Yes Man sorted out the value of such an enormous amount of data and how to release it safely to the public... IF he ever thought about sharing such a fountain of knowledge. Bet the NCR would pay good caps for just a handful of these files alone.
Finding sudden peace by indulging himself in watching a bit of this 'The Man with the Golden Arm' movie, strangely starred by the known singer Frank Sinatra ("Blue Moon, you saw me standing alone… Without a dream in my heart…"), where the singer portrayed a junkie (though not like the Fiends, but much more sophisticated, which Benny enjoyed a lot, thinking that, even deep in shit, this Frankie Machine character knew exactly how to swing till the last consequences) who gets clean while in prison but struggles to stay that way in the outside world. A hard story for a hard world, painfully realistic, easy to relate to. Benny could watch it a million times again.
However, he got interrupted barely a handful of minutes into the show by some distant laughter.
Benny tried to ignore it until it became too much, and he, irritated, switched the video player off, putting his earplug back into the embedded compartment so he wouldn't lose it. He retrieved another cigarette from his pack and lit it.
While smoking, he aimlessly scrolled through the many images stored in the Pip-Boy until the laughter resurfaced with force.
Frowning, he raised his eyes from the device's screen to locate the sources of the noise.
There was this couple, a girl and a boy. She was so small, and he was so tall that his collarbone started where her hair spikes ended.
He, blonde; she, brunette. They were giggling like mad cats, arms intertwined. The girl decided to jump, placing her hand over her boyfriend's head to remove his fedora. Once successful, she put on the brown(ish) hat, which was a little too big for her head. Cute.
Benny caught himself smiling fondly at the apparent young love he was witnessing until the two lovebirds inched closer.
And he got thunderstruck the very moment they sat playfully at his table. The boy leaned over the wooden surface on his elbows like a vulture, piercing blue eyes gazing through waving locks of short, nuclear-white hair. The girl smoothed the skirt of her pretty flowery dress before sitting, combat boots swinging below the table, her face obscured by the too-big-for-her fedora.
Raising a dark eyebrow, Benny didn't know what to make of these two, clearly too intoxicated to differentiate between clients, workers, and the boss.
"Whassup, kiddies?" – he asked, clearly amused – "Well in your cups, the two of you, eh? Too much swinging in one night, I bet."
"Oh, but the night has just begun." – said the girl, taking the oversized fedora off her head and giving a very big-eyed black look to the leader of the Chairmen, who watched in horror and disbelief as his most dreaded nightmare came to life before his eyes – "Hi, Benny. I believe we need to talk."
(+) - Sunny Smiles in the Spanish release was re-named "Sonrisas" and I thought it would be cool if Six sometimes stumbles over words and languages given her knowledge of them but also the mental chaos she has to deal with since the bullets.
LATIN:
(1) - Legion Instructor
A/N: Yeeep, here we go, lots of information and lots of Canon and Non-Canon references.
First of all: when I refer to some of Benny's victims before the Courier, I am taking them out of the official comic release "Fallout: New Vegas - All Roads". Take a peek and you'll see where all the references came from. You can find it in readcomiconline . com
Yes, I love Vanilla Coca-Cola (it's tasty, come on...) and I thought it would be fun to add such a flavor to the Nuka-Cola Company ^^ Though in all the Fallout franchise it is NEVER mentioned such a flavor. I know, I'm not 100% true to the original game. Sorry, creator's license ;)
Yes, my Six had a Pip-Boy prior to her "accident". Yes, fucking Benny took it, the bastard.
I know that, perhaps, I got Vulpes a bit Out Of Character, but that's due to two important factors here:
A) He's 20, so he's allowed to have twenty-year-old thoughts and behavior sometimes.
B) His presence in Fallout: New Vegas it's so scarce that you cannot REALLY form a solid opinion on his character other than he appears to be stoic most of the time (except when Caesar dies or you use Terrifying Presence Perk on him), he and Lanius share a mutual dislike, many of his colleagues seem to respect him and he has a VERY dangerous destructive streak towards populations he deems unfit for Legion's standards. Nothing more. Many of Vulpes' headcanons had been originated here, in the fanfiction fandom, so I would venture that I am not diverging from the original character as much as it seems. It's true that I want him not to be purposefully toxic or destructive towards Six, but that doesn't mean that he's an angel. Because he isn't, you'll see ;)
Also, the Vulpes we get In-Game is physically different than how I depict him here. That's due to how he was portrayed in the Collector's Edition Caravan Deck, with pale curly hair and stark blue eyes. I have the deck, so I know. Sounds albino to me, so I go for it.
Again: what do you think? Your opinion is gold to me, promise :)