Number Nine

by Hija de la Tempestad

Vulpes Inculta is tasked with contacting Courier Six who, besides not being what the Legion might need in the upcoming battle for the Dam, is more interested in adding him to her ragtag group than playing politics. Vulpes thinks he has played this same old game countless times... until he finds that he might be enjoying what she offers. That's when shit starts hitting the fan.

46. Black eyes

"Number Nine"

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Ch. 46: Black eyes.

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Warning: Wild Wasteland chapter. Happy Spooktober ^^

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"It's that old recurring dream where you're drowning
flailing your arms out, fearful and frantic.
And black waves are curling and pounding
down onto your head somewhere in the Atlantic.
Through the fathoms below you a shadow
is gliding up towards you with singular purpose.
And hundreds of thousands of gallons
of ocean froth and foam as it breaks the surface.
Its black eyes find you almost at once.
You can't hide, swim away or take air into your lungs
to scream for help that won't come."

- David Wirsig, "Black eyes"

---

Another day, another round of radio duty.

Alexus wanted to punch something really badly at this point.

Punching the radio - the Decanus' main source of stress and frustration - wasn't an option, so there was the temptation of punching someone instead.

Stella would do wonderfully... if it wasn't because Alexus' pride wouldn't allow for a slave, no matter how impertinent and enervating that very slave could be, to be mistreated over something that wasn't even her fault.

That only left the possibility of punching that asshole Petronius Probinus of Roswell in the face until that smug grin would be erased amidst blood and broken teeth.

The son of a bitch fancied himself untouchable now that the Imperator gave orders and received reports exclusively through the Praetorian Guard, allowing audiences no more.

And, to make things worse, Alexus' Centurion had denied the Decanus' petition to challenge Probinus in the arena.

"Is not a good time right now." - he had said - "Not with the impending Second Battle for the Dam hanging in the air as Caesar's summons to Lanius have gone unanswered to this day."

The whole camp was tense, ready to snap like a red-hot spring at the slightest provocation, so all the officers across the Centuriae had been ordered by Praefectus Praetor Lucius himself to contain the unstable tempers among the legionaries.

"An honor duel might cause more ill than good now that many loyalties are being questioned due to Lanius' silence." – Alexus' Centurion had explained when confronting the old argument that 'a good fight may quench fiery spirits' – "Also, some officers are nervous because Caesar hasn't pronounced himself on the matter yet, and neither Inculta has shown any signs of movement since his departure with the Tabellaria. With the rumors going around about them, many believe he's been spellbound to the point of colluding with the Profligate witch to betray us all."

Some days, Alexus hated how plain stupid gossip would quickly supersede the truth when there was some political agenda behind it and bored enough ears willing to listen.

For even a dishonored man like Probinus, as long as Caesar himself didn't address the issue personally, could instill doubts around the only Primus the soldiery didn't respect.

The piece of shit thought he had a chance at earning Lanius' trust by slandering his direct competitor, thus securing a position among the Butcher's ranks to regain his honor through the Mojave Campaign.

Little did he know that Lanius, above all else, despised dishonorable tactics to bring down an enemy - especially if that enemy was Lanius' marked prey. A kill that solely belonged to him.

Alexus knew this better than anyone. Two years serving under his command, while enlightening in terms of how real warfare worked, had taught the Decanus that much.

Anyway, until either of the two missing Legio Primi made a move or the Imperator said otherwise, things were at a standstill for the moment.

Which only served to fray Alexus' already frayed nerves to the point of bringing a sleeping bag to the radio post in case any nighttime communications came through. The dogs were trained to notify of any radio transmissions in case of deep sleep, anyway. Stella still hated carrying them down the staircase in the morning, which usually led to an argument with her Master.

Still, it worked as well as any other kind of waking-up call.

Caliban handled morning radio duty, and some days, the man had to practically kick Alexus out of the post just so the Decanus could perform the bare minimum of self-care.

For the lack of news was making Alexus so irritable and paranoid that the slightest sound would make the Decanus turn around, a curse ready on the lips – only to find, ninety percent of the time, nothing but empty space.

Caliban had caught wind of his superior's erratic behavior due to the loud nature of the outbursts. So, after arriving at the radio post the first time to find Alexus pacing up and down frantically while hissing a string of obscenities, the Veteranus Legionario had decided to do what Alexus hated the most: play bloody babysitter.

So, when the Decanus arrived at the post, Caliban turned from his sitting position, arms crossed.

"Did you exercise?" – he asked impassibly, ignoring the glare his superior shot him.

"Yeah." – Alexus groused unhappily.

"Did you wash?"

"… Yeah."

"Did you eat?"

"Yes, I did, for fuck's sake!" – the Decanus exploded – "Happy now?!"

The man cocked a brow, unimpressed.

"It shall do for today." – was his exasperating assessment, getting up from the squeaky chair – "Three updates this morning. All from safehouses." – he added quickly before his superior accosted him with the same pointless line of questioning – "Republican trucks keep arriving from the Outpost, crossing Nevada State Route 164, then Highway 95 up North to Hoover Dam daily. The Speculatores report an increasing number of Power-Armored sentinel patrols between the Dam, Boulder City, and the 188 Trading Post. Highway 93 is no longer safe to travel along the western shore, so I've informed all our patrols to avoid it for the time being. Only reconnaissance Frumentarii agents in disguise are permitted to observe and report from afar. Praefectus Praetor Lucius' orders."

Alexus swallowed hard.

"Has anyone seen Vulpes, Gabban, or the Tabellaria?"

Caliban shook his head.

"If they're still alive, they've avoided capture so far." – he said – "One of the Frumentarii stationed at Boulder City sent a falcon around ten this morning." – he hesitated briefly before adding – "They don't want anyone else involved, including the Praetorian Guard, so this information is strictly confidential."

Alexus frowned at that.

"And why share it with us?"

"They aren't sharing it with us." – he clarified, turning around and handing a folded glossy paper to the Decanus – "They're sharing this with you."

Upon unfolding it, Alexus' stomach dropped violently.

"A… 'Wanted' sign?" – fighting back an imminent panic attack as the drawing artist's perfect portrayal of both Vulpes and the Courier stared back, the Decanus read aloud – "Holy…! Two thousand per head?! And they're paying in caps…"

"Many retired Rangers have turned into bounty hunters since the First Battle." – Caliban informed gravely – "They've even formed associations and have a small bounty office at Boulder City, or so the Frumentarius agent there reports."

"That means…"

"Yes. They are alone out there."

Exhaling loudly, Alexus returned the folded poster to Caliban while pinching their chin pensively.

"Burn that." – instructed before getting back on track with the conversation - "Why don't they want to inform the Praetorian Guard? This is a matter that should be brought to Caesar's attention."

"They suspect foul play of some sort. All requests for a meeting with the Imperator have been denied since the Courier abandoned The Fort."

"The Praefectus Praetor is incapable of bringing harm to Caesar."

"Given the current tensions among the Centuriae, the Frumentarii don't want to disregard any possibilities." – raising his hands to placate his superior's glare, the legionary added – "However, they also have considered the possibility that Caesar's illness has worsened, since the only ones consistently admitted to the Principia daily, besides the Praetoriani, are the Medicae."

"And the Frumentarii want me to check that with Siri." – massaging eyelids tiredly, Alexus groaned – "Gods, I fucking hate it when they come to me when neither Vulpes nor Gabban is available. If it weren't for half of those assholes being family, I'd have given them the finger long ago."

"They come for guidance from the closest thing they have to a Chief, sir."

"Gosh, when are you lot going to stop with that crap? It's been a decade since our assimilation, you know."

"That doesn't change the fact that you're, by rights, third in line for succession."

Licking lips, unsure how to digest the heavy load of bad news, much less how to proceed in consequence, Alexus' head snapped toward the ham radio as Caliban rose from his chair - and, almost in synchronicity, the appliance began emitting loud static.

"… tung…"

Decanus and legionary exchanged wide-eyed looks. They would recognize that voice anywhere.

"Achtung…"

'Attention', it meant. For codified messages, the prompt was always the same word translated into ten different pre-War languages that weren't English – each identified as sources for neo-creole tribal dialects by the Burned Man back in his day - thus making their usage easier for some legionaries, depending on their ancestry. They rotated these languages periodically to keep the NCR comm officers in the dark.

Also, the reply to confirm signal reception constantly changed, and it was always in the same language as the prompt.

"Achtung…"

Nearly knocking over the stack of records on the desk due to a combination of nervousness and relief, Alexus found the sheet with the updated response, struggling to decipher the pronunciation based on the phoneme diagram.

"M-möge der… Kriegsgott dir… who… wohlgesonnen… sein… (+) Shit, V, I really hate reading this crap."

There was a pause in which static filled the claustrophobic, heated space.

"Alex?"

Alexus bit down on a knuckle to restrain the overwhelming urge to cry and laugh at the same time.

"Yeah." – inhaling through the nose to calm down, the Decanus hurriedly asked – "You and the others okay?"

Another pause.

"Yes, we are." – Vulpes' voice, distorted amidst the static, replied after a while – "I don't have much time, and we aren't sure this line is secure, so I'm retransmitting to the left at the count of three."

Alright, even if that wasn't much, Alexus could live with it. Now, to decode the message using the usual Caesar's rotation cipher method.

"One…"

"Two…" – Alexus and Caliban counted along, barely holding their breath.

"Three." – Vulpes finished, then paused – "I spell: 23…" – but soon, static made further deciphering impossible.

"V?" – the Decanus asked, rotating the dial wheel to recover the signal – "Hey! Achtung? I'm losing you. Can you hear me?"

More static.

An indeterminate amount of time passed until Caliban's heavy hand on Alexus' shoulder snapped them out of their reverie.

"I'm going to grab some grub." – the big man said with a small smile, clearly trying to soothe his tense superior – "Do you want a cup of tea or something?"

"Smuggle me a box of Sugar Bombs from the Outer Ring if they have one in stock." – placing two denarii in the man's hand, the Decanus added – "Tell them to fuck off if they try to overcharge you. I know they sell those five caps a box in Vegas." – snorting, Alexus added slyly – "Keep the change."

"You wound me, sir." – the Veteranus Legionario quipped in turn – "Since when have my weekly five denarii dropped by seventeen sestertii?"

"Keep pushing your luck, and instead of giving you a raise, I'll cut your pay for a whole month."

"Such cruelty! To deprive a man of his well-earned resources..."

"Ha! Get the fuck out of my face before I'm tempted to punish your impertinence for real."

Caliban left the radio post sniggering, and with him, all the good humor Alexus might have accumulated from the exchange.

Throughout the day, the situation did not improve one iota, with more and more transmissions from Custodes entrenched in safehouses to the South and East asking for clearance to return to The Fort - each request met with a harsh denial. Then there were Frumentarii trapped at different points, often abandoned farmsteads along the northern part of Highway 95, reporting robotic patrols protecting trade on State Route 157, thus hinting at some kind of business agreement between House and the mutants at Jacobstown.

It wasn't until midnight that Alexus, half-asleep, received a most uncanny visit from the least suspected presence in the entire encampment.

"Ave, Decanus." – the deep, rumbling voice of Commander Praetorian Lucius himself startled Alexus into a near flight-or-fight response that almost made them fall backwards onto the radio equipment by getting up from the chair so quickly – "I believe we need to have a serious conversation, you and I." – approaching the startled young soldier, all draped in a grey cloak that did little to hide the imposing breadth of his shoulders, the Praefectus Praetor added gravely – "Answer me: when and from where have you received a radio transmission from Vulpes Inculta today?"

---

The static filling the room was the only thing occupying Vulpes' mind as he eyed the broadcast control board as if it had insulted him.

Sixty-one working satellite receiver dishes on display, fifty-mile radius around the Mojave desert, Duplex Mode, On Air.

Neo-Soviet construction, stolen and repurposed during the War to spy on China's satellite network from American soil - or so the terminal entries said. All controls were manually labeled with metallic stickers in English over what he assumed must have been Cyrillic.

"Leave it alone, Fox. It's probably broken."

No, it wasn't broken. He had established contact. He had heard Alex's voice.

It WASN'T broken.

"Are any of those Brotherhood heathens nearby the building?" – he asked, still eyeing the control board anxiously, turning knobs and dials up and down, pushing buttons, checking meters, watching the signal screen deliver an unacceptable flat reading, wishing with all his might to fix it by hitting the console hard a couple of times. Preferably with a sledgehammer – "Have you checked they haven't installed yet another ham radio equipment to tamper with the signal?"

"Twice, Fox."

"Have you checked the dish on the roof?"

"We have, Fox. No inhibitors thus far."

"The transmission tower?"

"Fox…"

"What about the surrounding buildings?"

"Fox!" – at that, Gabban's hands grabbed his shoulders, forcibly bringing him back to reality – "Snap out of it! You've been in here three hours straight, damnit!"

True, his head was pounding quite loudly at this point.

But he couldn't give up. Not yet.

Not when he hadn't sent any reports since the Hoover Dam fiasco.

It had occurred to him when he contacted Marcius through the ham radio. He had suspected their signal being intercepted when he had used his Pip-Boy. RobCo manufacture, RobCo satellite network connection.

It had driven Vulpes crazy thinking about it. How he had overlooked such a crucial detail.

Mr. House had been tailing them. There was no other explanation for why that NCR Power-Armored squad at Nevada State Route 164 had ambushed them.

For all he knew, House could have even been spying on his and Sullivan's private conversations.

This Neo-Soviet apparatus, completely independent of the RobCo network, was his last hope.

"I can make it work again." – the Master Frumentarius responded stubbornly – "If the Nightkin could, I certainly can."

Gabban let out a long, exhausted sigh. Since they had set foot on Black Mountain's peak, both the Pip-Boys and the Power Armors OS had been experiencing a series of small glitches that made them nearly unusable beyond the old building the mutants had used as a prison. As if something was interfering with their navigation software.

He remembered everything Sullivan had told him about her little adventure rescuing Raul and getting herself at death's door due to advanced radiation poisoning.

She had told him nothing about her Pip-Boy malfunctioning.

"I made contact not long ago." – Vulpes insisted, not sure if to assuage his brother's uneasiness or his own – "It's not broken. Something must be interfering with the satellite connection."

Gabban swallowed before taking a step forward, lowering his voice.

"I don't like this place, Fox." – he confessed, eyeing the door's bottom rail, verifying nobody was trying to catch wind of their conversation – "You know, the Brotherhood guys… Apparently, they have been here for days, killing and burning the corpses of those… infected animals. Ignatius overheard something about a dead active, infected too. A bullet between the eyes and to the fire he went, even his equipment. It's something fungal and very aggressive."

The Hidden Valley basin connected to Black Mountain through the surrounding canyons, Northeast, roughly fourteen miles - translating into six hours on foot wearing Power Armor.

If there was a strain of some sort plaguing Black Mountain and the Brotherhood of Steel was aware of it, the most immediate affected points, taking Hidden Valley as a reference, should range between the fenced basin and the El Dorado electrical substation.

However, for what his Frumentarii had assessed when climbing the boulders around the irradiated shanty village, neither El Dorado nor HELIOS One had looked anything out of the ordinary.

This meant the strain must be contained within the Sloan Canyon National Conservation Area… for now.

"Have they located the source of the contagion yet?" – he asked gravely, already doing a mental recount of how many legionaries and Auxilia might have come into direct contact with the infected animals.

"They believe it to be the bomb crater Southwest."

Nodding with cold realization, the Praefectus Frumentario took the news as any man in his position would: faking calmness that he didn't feel one bit.

He had led them into a death trap.

And yet, it didn't make sense at all. Radiation mutations weren't something that occurred overnight, but rather a process that could take, at the very least, a species' entire growth cycle after birth or oviposition. Meaning the immediate or remote offspring inherited the altered genetic material, not the affected adults of reproductive age. Or so Gannon had told him once.

The infection they had seen thus far had not discriminated between mammals and oviparous species, yet none seemed to exhibit the usual radiation poisoning symptomatology to meet the criteria: fever, dizziness (meaning less aggressiveness), dehydration, dermic reddening, and purpura due to internal hemorrhaging.

This meant the crater per se, or the bomb impact, couldn't be the direct cause for the malformations they had observed. And these malformations should have been around longer than a few months since Sullivan and her group were here.

Still, these were nothing but speculations. Hardin and his men weren't sharing any information, and the ground zero's surrounding area was currently non-assessable, as a dense dust cloud covered any semblance of visibility from above.

"I don't trust those guys, Fox. Not one bit." – Gabban spoke again, barely registering in Vulpes' mind, preoccupied with how the hell they were going to give Hardin the slip regarding this dangerous situation – "The Courier believes they're here for something related to Brotherhood inner politics, but I think they're hiding something. One of their… Squires, I think they're called? Well, one of them disappeared while you were in here. None of us know why and, most importantly, how."

"Stealth Boy?" - Vulpes asked absentmindedly.

"We suspect that much."

Hurried steps outside woke the Fox from his reverie, making him and Gabban tense as the door handle turned before opening.

At the threshold, Erasmus appeared, out of breath.

"You two here? Good." – he panted – "We need someone to knock some sense into Centurion Aurelius."

No rest for the wicked, it seems.

"What has he done this time?" – the Fox asked impatiently, already leaving the accursed console behind, irked as he walked in long strides that the other two men found quite challenging to keep up with.

"What his woman has done, you mean." – his cousin clarified, struggling to keep pace despite being nearly as tall – "Apparently, the Auxilia wanted to impress you, make themselves useful. I think they fear we'll have them disposed of once they're no longer needed around."

Not so far-fetched, Vulpes thought irritably, given their constant lack of coordination and repeated botching ups. How those small-time raiders had managed to survive the recent southern NCR occupation was beyond him.

Once the three descended the stairs toward the rusty fence that separated the broadcast building from the mountainside, they found the gate open and a crowd of Legion and Brotherhood soldiers arguing heatedly.

Or more like Aurelius of Phoenix threatening Hardin, while the older man silently contemplated him with barely concealed disdain.

"You don't get to do whatever you want with my men, Profligate dog!" – the burly Centurion spat, pointing an accusatory finger to the Brotherhood Commander's chest. Hardin met the gesture with an unyielding, unimpressed stare, despite the difference in size between the two men – "Call them back up! NOW!"

"As you can see for yourself, radio waves don't travel in this area." – Hardin retorted implacably, holding a talkie in one hand – "We sent them with one in the hopes the signal would get clearer the lower they went, but they stopped retransmitting a while ago."

"Degenerates like you belong on a cross! If it weren't for the Praefectus Frumentario ordering us to stay put, I would tear your impertinent tongue into tiny chunks and feed it back to you alongside your intestines!"

Deeming this as good a time as any, Vulpes decided to step in.

"That order might be revoked soon enough, depending on what the problem seems to be here." – he spoke up monotonously, giving both men a glacial stare despite the growing pressure building in his throbbing temples – "Well?"

Silent superciliousness was what he received from Hardin, but the Centurion was vocal enough for the two of them.

"This cowardly scum!" – he accused, still pointing his finger at the Head Paladin – "He somehow tricked some of the Auxilia into descending the hillside to the crater!" – turning around toward a bolt firmly fixed between two boulders, from which a rope hung, he tugged at it as if there was no weight hanging – "See this? It's been twenty minutes since they gave a tug back! Twenty fucking minutes!" – turning back toward a still impassible Hardin, he added venomously – "They didn't even have the decency to send one of their soldiers with them."

"A reconnaissance mission requires the assistance of a Scribe, not Knights or Paladins." – the other man denoted dispassionately – "And our Scribe, unfortunately, fell prey to the contaminated fauna a couple of days ago."

Thus, the fallen active Ignatius had overheard about.

"And who, pray tell, gave you permission to dispose of my men as you please, Sir Paladin?" – Vulpes challenged, his voice tinged with barely contained impatience, careful not to give the man the satisfaction of seeing him fly off the handle even one bit – "That was not what we agreed upon."

"Neither did I agree to wait for hours until you established contact." – Hardin replied, skin thicker than a radscorpion's – "Besides, they volunteered. I merely assisted them in their endeavor." - snorting derisively, he added – "I'd suggest sending more... prepared agents to tackle the issue before there aren't even bodies to haul back."

If they somehow managed to get out of this bizarre situation alive, Vulpes was going to flay this Profligate piece of shit alive.

"Marcius." – he called, not even bothering to turn around as the interpellated approached – "You have been here longer than any of us. Would you recommend sending a Frumentarius to check on the situation?"

Marcius already knew how to play his part, for he shook his head energetically.

'Not alone.' – he clarified through ASL – 'All of the abominations came from that side of the mountain. The minefield wasn't just for keeping these tin-can sons of bitches at bay.' – grinning in that stomach-churning way only Marcius' condition could evoke, he added as deliberately as possible – 'I say we kick one of them down the mountainside, see how far his screams travel. I bet one of his tin-can boyfriends will be losing ass hauling his dead mug back in no time.'

Hardin wasn't stupid, but he wasn't clever enough to hide his emotions. His glowering reaction to the insults told Vulpes he understood what his agent had just said.

"And we're supposed to trust the judgment of… what?" – he hissed accusingly – "A man who's been locked up here for a week and who might as well have cooperated with us sooner if it weren't for his incompetence in establishing a plan to deal with the situation. I don't trust what a coward has to say."

At that, Erasmus and Cicero unholstered their weapons.

"Do fucking kindly repeat that." – the former defied, pointing the gun's barrel at the Head Paladin, whose present men swiftly backed – "Big words from a man who steps out of his Power Armor and has to rely on deceit to get things done, standing no chance against our mighty Centurion." – giving a polite nod to Aurelius, who returned the courtesy with a puffed chest, Erasmus then pointed Marcius with his eyes – "This guy here? Had his first taste of battle at fifteen, got kidnapped by a tribe of cannibals, undid his bindings, and single-handedly stabbed the chieftain's son in the eye. Then he ate the eyeball right in front of the father, so the old man deemed it fair to eat his tongue in retaliation after disfiguring the mouth daring enough to taste his son's blood."

At that, Marcius, ever eager to give the tale his own brand of colorful flavor, opened his mouth wide so the grossed-out Brotherhood men could admire the scarred stump where his tongue used to be.

Even the scar crossing his face from ear to ear did not fall short of grotesqueness. There were patches of flesh that hadn't healed properly, leaving small open indentations all over his cheeks that were more visible the wider he opened his mouth.

"He then used a hand inside his mouth to stall the hemorrhage until we caught up with the group of kidnappers, his stunt buying us time enough to rescue him." - Erasmus kept at it, proudly declaring his comrade's deeds – "He survived that and many more dangerous situations with barely knives and spears to fend for himself, as foot legionaries are not permitted to wield a gun until they have proved themselves worthy to deserve the privilege."

Vulpes smiled at the retelling despite himself. The trials many legionaries had endured in servitude to Caesar would make most Wasteland urban legends pale in comparison.

The sheltered Westerners wouldn't last a single day in Utah bare-handed and deprived of their precious resources.

"Maybe you lot have been around longer since you ditched your pre-War Government, but you've been playing house in California for over a century. Last interesting thing you fought were Unity mutants, Imma right?" – Erasmus grinned, knowing he had hit a nerve when the Head Paladin bared his teeth like a wild dog – "Us? We've been living off the desert and hunting Yao Guai since Vault-Tec fucked us up. Without Power Armor and all that fancy tech you rely so much on." – snorting, he added – "Tech which was worth shit when the NCR kicked your sorry asses at HELIOS One. You're nothing without your pre-War toys."

"You…!" – Hardin roared but never finished his sentence as a metallic plop fell between the antagonists.

"Grenade!" – someone yelled. Vulpes had already tackled Gabban and Erasmus to get them out of the explosion range… but when the due five-second countdown passed, no blast ensued.

Confused, the men exchanged glances, then looked toward the presumable impact zone to find the Courier bending down to pick up the unexploded grenade from the ground.

"I'm starting to get fed up with having to separate you guys whenever you decide to have a catfight." – she proclaimed sarcastically, eyeing the still-crouched men as if they were all idiots – "It's a decoy." – she clarified, earning as many relieved sighs as indignant scowls.

"Hilarious!" – Gabban snarled, stomping angrily toward her and snatching the fake grenade from her little hand – "Idle-headed, clay-brained, mighty bloody hilarious!"

Unfazed, the girl merely arched a brow.

"You've been gobbling up your Shakespeare jam with bread like a champ, didn't'cha?" – she inquired, unimpressed.

"Courier!" – Hardin interjected, approaching the girl with equal anger – "Just what in the hell…!"

Despite the humiliating situation of being a mere spectator, Vulpes couldn't help himself when a wave of indescribable heat rushed to his ears and groin as he watched his problematic girl spin around to confront the Head Paladin, index finger raised right under the man's nose.

"Ah ah AH." – she emphasized, voice high-pitched and impertinent – "The slack I cut expired a century ago for you, Hardin. The funny shit you've pulled here is a dealbreaker, and broken deals get repaid with interest in Vegas, you follow?"

"You don't want to do this." – the man countered, hesitancy showing in his beady eyes – "You don't want to make an enemy of the Brotherhood of Steel."

"No, you don't want to make an enemy of us, my good sir." – she pulled two fingers to her lips and let out a loud whistle – "¡Chicas!" (1) – she called in Spanish.

Soon, a retinue of what was left of the Auxilia Jackals - all women - entered the scene, guiding trembling Brotherhood Squires at gunpoint.

"Why are you doing this?!" – the boy Sullivan had spoken to before, much to Vulpes' perverse pleasure, made his way to the front of the prisoners, hands behind his head, sweaty and wide-eyed as he looked at the girl as if she had just gone mad – "Why?!"

"Dunno, Stanton. Why am I doing this, indeed?" – she replied flippantly, shrugging with faux innocence, her index finger still trailing circles in the air as she kept speaking full speed – "What do you think, Hardin? Your Squire wants to know why. He needs an explanation. Why am I doing this?"

The interpellated man was seething.

"You don't know what you're doing."

"Oh, bother. He says I don't know what I'm doing!" – Sullivan mimicked with faux concern, earning more than one legionary's snicker while Vulpes' rather inopportune lust kept rising.

"We have ways to ensure traitors won't live long enough to tell the tale."

"And they have ways to ensure traitors won't live long enough to tell the tale!"

"You're going to regret this…"

"And I'm going to regret this!"

"YOU!" – the man snapped, pointing at her with his own index finger in return – "Have NO idea what this would mean in the Circle of Steel!"

"Oh no, I think I have a pretty good idea: you fuck someone up, don't want to be held accountable, so you shift the blame by saying they're barbaric and you know better, take whatever the hell you wish from that someone, and then kill them as soon as they dare retaliate." – she retorted coldly, her playful disposition gone – "Different century, same shit from two hundred years ago. You simply substituted the term 'Commie' with 'Outsider' and turned your General of the Army into a High Elder." – nearing the man until their noses almost touched, she added with a dark voice – "You think I don't know how you operate? I was in the fucking Marines, so think again."

As soon as those words had abandoned her lips, the searing heat in Vulpes' body dropped violently, replaced by a sudden coldness that gripped his stomach, worsening his headache, making him involuntarily gag.

He barely grasped the conversation – or rather the orders – that followed, with Sullivan and the Auxilia forcing the confused, angry Paladins and Knights to lower their weapons, holding their young ones' lives hostage depending on whether they decided to collaborate peacefully or not.

"A Paladin and three Knights will accompany a rescue group." – the Courier dictated – "No funny business, or me and the gals here are gonna be very pissed off. We see only Brotherhood members climbing back up that rope, and I'm collecting Squire tabs. Plus, your pretty Power Armors. Simple as that."

To Vulpes' left, he saw Marcius saying 'I like her' to Erasmus, who immediately responded with an enthusiastic, "Yeah, me too".

She certainly deserved praise. And rightfully so. Given the Fox's prolonged passivity in the face of a potential crisis, she had taken the matter into her own hands.

Despite having the respect of most of the men, none of them would have followed her orders, but the Jackals didn't necessarily know that. So, she had played a risky card and had convinced those women to follow her lead.

He sometimes found that quality of hers simply baffling – the ability to talk her way out of almost any given situation, convincing people to join her if she so chose.

After all, he himself was living proof of her persuasion skills: whatever he had been cooking all those months ago at the Gomorrah had vanished as soon as she had started talking, convincing him, gently prodding his boundaries, pulling him into her chaotic world.

And now… now he was in the middle of one of the most dangerous, stupid missions in his entire career, somehow making it work just because she was there with him.

Nevertheless, he really should be doing something – anything - not letting her handle everything while he remained trapped in his own head, battling his desires and the fog the pain was creating, slowing his thought processes.

"Permission to accompany them, Praefectus, sir."

The Fox gave Aurelius of Phoenix a long-suffering look. He was exhausted. These fools exhausted him.

"Bit much personal, aren't we, Centurion?" – and yet, mental fog wasn't so excluding as to forsake Vulpes' favorite pastime of messing with Aurelius of Phoenix – "I didn't take you for a romantic."

The man grimaced at that.

"The feeling is mutual, Inculta." – he said, lowering his voice – "Rest assured, the leader of the raiders will be punished accordingly for this insubordination."

"Five lashes should suffice." – Vulpes nearly rolled his eyes when he saw plain relief written all over the other man's face – "Go ahead with your dashing rescuing effort before I change my mind."

Aurelius definitely wasn't as aware of himself as a man of his station should be, for he nearly swept away the men accompanying him in his impetus. A man full of surprises, that one.

Even Vulpes kept surprising himself as of late. Very few missions got this intense and sidetracked from their original intent. It took a very specific mindset to endure the pressure of constant improvisation while maintaining coherence.

It was easy to lose purpose if you went in too deep, got too much into whatever character you happened to be playing at the moment.

Yet Aurelius and his men were enduring rather formidably, adapting fast to new training, new situations, new alliances.

And Sullivan…

Damn it, but he really wished she didn't have to do any of this to prove her loyalty.

He wished they would have met in quieter circumstances, perhaps in Arizona, with him wearing his Legion uniform in the open, her camouflaged among the caravanners from the East.

Perhaps her Pip-Boy would have caught his eye, and he would have pulled some strings to get her detained, mostly out of petty greed.

She probably would have talked his ear off, but this time without allies to back her, making him her only chance at erasing her trail from those Littlehorn & Associates snakes.

Changing her identity would have been a piece of cake, and Vulpes, at this point of this fantastical scenario, would have likely already been as obsessed with her as he was now.

The rest would have come in due time, and she, right now, could be in Flagstaff, living comfortably in his house, served and protected, while Vulpes, though dying to return to her, would still enjoy some peace of mind.

Unlike in reality right now, where the two of them were surrounded by unnecessary people, going through unnecessary situations that kept popping out of the blue, making it impossible to have any privacy.

For they needed to talk. Urgently. Without moronic legionaries dissecting their every move, grinning knowingly whenever they slept in the same bedroll.

Just when had his private affairs become public domain, anyway?

Yet despite himself and his headache, attracted like a magnet, his eager feet drew him toward the girl's orbit. She was sitting next to the fence and had lighted up a cigarette he hadn't the faintest idea where she had gotten from, admiring the thin trail of smoke rising from the burning cherry.

He frowned at the image, yet worry surged through him.

"What are you doing?" – he asked, sterner than he would have liked.

She raised her head slightly, black eyes finding him almost at once.

"Trying to elucidate what the appeal is about filling one's lungs with something that's not only addictive but can give you cancer depending on your genetics." – she answered, sizing him up, studying his reaction – "Maybe it's more about the moment than long-term thinking. Makes sense. Old age is more of a myth out there than anything."

"Don't even think about starting." – was his forceful reply, his hand already reaching for the offending cylinder - "Give that filth to me."

His attempt to snatch it was thwarted as her arm stretched in the very opposite direction, out of his reach.

"Don't be patronizing." – she warned, her mien slowly shifting into a playful smile – "Unless you want it for yourself?"

Vulpes didn't like this conversation, and the annoying quality of his headache multiplied his displeasure exponentially.

"Offering me vice and illness, Courier?" – he inquired, mildly miffed. Memories from the morning rising, still painstakingly fresh. She and her safety disregard, she and her tears in the aftermath.

"No, I'm giving you a choice. One that you can refuse." – she said intently – "If you wish."

She and her pleas of usefulness. All echoing in his mind.

"Will you have it if I decline?" – his own disguised plea fell on deaf ears, for she wanted to banter. Her usual brand of humor, perhaps the only way she knew to build bridges with him.

"Perhaps I will, perhaps I will not."

He must be doing something terribly wrong if she couldn't speak her mind plainly in front of him.

Accepting the offering, he briefly considered taking a long, satisfying drag before putting it out for good. He entertained the temptation the same he had entertained fantasies of normalcy with this girl he wanted - who was now watching him intently, as if enraptured by his reaction.

With a flick of his long fingers, the cylinder flew across the small expanse between them and the mountainside, falling down alight, silent as the fog engulfed it.

"Funny." – she commented, eyes wandering ahead, lost in the warm tones of the setting twilight – "When given a choice, you opt for the secret option. Says a lot."

"The same way you had the option to have it or not from the beginning. I created that option for myself." – he replied, shrugging.

"While depriving me of my choice."

"I was merely preventing a possibility."

"The way I see it, you didn't trust that I could do the sensible thing." – the pounding in his head grew louder, dulling the accusing edge of her statement.

So, they were having this conversation.

"If we are discussing trust, I might have a few arguments I'd love to expand upon, dear Sullivan… just not right now." – he relented, finding his headache the more unbearable the longer he stared into the fog below, straining his eyes in vain. He could see nothing beyond its thick veil – "I'm afraid I might not be up to the conversational level such a delicate topic requires."

She did her usual avian thing, cocking her head to one side as if questioning.

"Migraine?"

He nodded.

"That bad?"

"Since we arrived, so yes."

She nodded back in acknowledgment.

"Happens the first time." – she commented.

"You mean due to pressure change?" – it took every ounce of Vulpes' willpower to follow the conversation – "Sullivan, I've been to high places before…"

"That's not what I mean."

Before he could summon the will to ask, Gabban approached and let himself fall sitting between them, effectively cutting off communication.

"Those Brotherhood motherfuckers…" – he huffed in a low voice – "They're giving me the creeps."

"Enlighten us, o' Dolce & Gabbana." – the girl snorted.

Neither legionary pondered too much on her likely pre-War reference, too tired to care.

"Don't you find it odd they haven't mentioned anything about the behemoth or the Centaurs it took with it?" – Vulpes' brother asked, massaging his temples – "And I can hardly believe it's easy to ignore a normal mutant, much less one of that size."

Strange, yes. Relevant, no.

"Go on." – nevertheless, Sullivan encouraged him, gesturing for him to continue.

"They seem… strangely fixated on that bomb crater, yet they prefer sending outsiders without anyone from their party to supervise them?" – he reasoned, pinching his nose bridge as if finding it hard to concentrate – "Look, I don't know… something smells fishy, that's all." – sighing at the raised brows he got in response, he added defensively – "What? You tell me. You two are the brains here."

Vulpes groaned, his brain not much of a help right at the moment.

But Sullivan seemed strangely intent on the look she gave Gabban.

"Migraine, right?" – she asked, receiving a weak nod from the Frumentarius – "You see?" – she addressed Vulpes, who was eyeing her with all the 'Please, stop talking' intent he could muster. His head hurt so, so damn much… – "Pattern."

She wasn't going to let this go, so the Fox braced himself before asking:

"What are you getting at?"

"Look around you."

Strangely, as his mental fog slowed even the very action of turning his head, his eyes began playing tricks on him, obscuring the sight of his men the more he tried to focus on their movements, the odd way they moved.

The same was true for the remaining legionaries and Brotherhood soldiers, even Hardin, who was digging fingers into his eyelids.

And yet, neither the Auxilia women nor their Squire prisoners seemed affected.

"Urgh…" – Erasmus' groan interrupted their reverie, doing the same as Gabban and finding a sitting spot next to Sullivan alongside Marcius – "I don't know if we ate some expired shit or something, but I've got a hell of a headache and an upset stomach in the last ten minutes or so. My guy here Marcius is dizzy too." – he pointed toward the aforementioned, who nodded weakly.

"We eat two-hundred-year-old expired shit all the time." – Sullivan opined, grating on Vulpes' nerves for some reason – "That's not the issue."

"Then?" – Cicero interceded, taking a seat next to his Commander. His malicious eyes tired and hazy – "Maybe the kind and courteous Tabellaria could shed some light on this mystery, hmm?"

Vulpes gagged again as she stood up and snapped her fingers repeatedly.

"React!" – she exclaimed in sudden desperation – "Any of you! Connect the fucking dots already, damnit! I can't…!"

"Commander!" - all heads turned to Cassius, who was making frantic gestures as he approached – "The rope!" – he exclaimed with a panicked look, holding the aforementioned rope… or what remained of it.

Hating everything and everyone, Vulpes got up and walked toward Hardin, who was eyeing the naked bolt still firmly affixed between the two boulders with a lost, wary expression.

"Enough of this nonsense." – the young man hissed, grabbing the Head Paladin by the collar of his suit – "You and your men are coming with me, and be thankful I'm not including your young ones in this likely suicidal expedition." – turning toward the Auxilia women, he switched to Spanish – "Vigilad a los prisioneros y no dejéis subir a un solo miembro de la Hermandad del Acero por esa cuerda hasta que yo o cualquiera de mis hombres haya regresado. Cualquier intento de rescate no autorizado lo despacháis con una bala entre ceja y ceja, ¿comprendido?" (2)

"Comprendido, jefe." (3) – one of the women confirmed.

Hardin barely reacted to being manhandled, and soon, he and his men were the first ones to descend the rope into the abyss.

"Stay." – the Fox told the Courier – "I need someone in here to keep control of the situation."

She rolled her eyes.

"Go ahead, dive into the fog." – she said – "It's not like ▒▓ ░▒▓░░▒ ▒▓░▓ ░▒▓▒ ▒▓▓░▒░."

Vulpes blinked.

"I'm sorry?" – he asked, confused – "Could you repeat that?"

---

"The hell is this?!"

---

He blinked again.

He definitely needed a nap. A long one.

In fact, he hadn't even processed how he had descended the mountainside or why he was there, on his lonesome, staring not at a crater but at a hole in the ground.

It had felt like one moment he was there, struggling to understand what she was saying, and the next, he was standing at the edge, staring at the gaping void as it stared back at him. Round and perfect, not done by nature, dug where earth's pores ought to suffice.

He brought a hand to his face and found a breathing mask attached to it, spattered with something wet and sticky that came red in his fingers. Blood seeping from above his brow.

His other hand was occupied with a fire axe, also spattered with blood.

What had he been doing in the last hour…?

---

"Tasty. Lunch, anyone?"

"That's fucking disgusting, man. Don't even joke about it."

"Hey, I'm just conveying what my guy Marcius here said. Hate the message, not the messenger, dear cousin."

"Yeah, well, tell me that shit once you're elbow-deep in this crap. Maybe then you two will shut the fuck up in situations that are about as funny as a Deathclaw's cock in heat."

"If it ain't barbed, it's a fair ride, I say."

"You're fucking sick. Did you know that?"

"Heard it before. All those guys still allowed me to lift their pteruges, though."

"Eesh, dude. Just… eesh."

---

His head spun as he tried to decipher recent memories that only came fragmented, disordered.

Never before had he thought he could really understand what Sullivan's experience with partial amnesia felt like, but if this came even remotely close, it was a terrifying experience, indeed.

Almost like a fugue state, as if his mind had decided to black out while his body had kept moving on its own.

Reading about it hadn't even remotely prepared him for the voids in his memory, for not being the master of his own actions anymore.

---

"Dead end, Commander. Better try another way."

---

His Pip-Boy buzzed with the Geiger Counter's crackling, and then a faint dragging sound came from behind him.

He wished he hadn't turned around.

Conjoined in a sort of grotesque hybridization of raw flesh and fungal infection stood a faceless, humanoid figure. Several distinct sets of limbs from wildly different species protruded from its back and sides, reaching out as if trying to grasp at something invisible.

It advanced, twitching and contorting in ways that should have been impossible for its stitched-together anatomy. It emitted a low whistling sound, like an aphonic gecko.

Vulpes swung his axe to get the abomination out of his shirt. A spray of blood got all over his Vault suit as the monstrosity screeched at the loss of two of its unnatural limbs.

But his feet, way too close to the hole's edge, made the wrong move, and he fell backward, the monster quickly following as it hurled at him.

Then, nothing. Only darkness.

---

"Fox! FOX! What are you doing?! Get up, NOW!"

---

"Hey."

Vulpes inhaled sharply, eyes wide open.

As his vision cleared, his mind briefly blanked as he took in his surroundings.

What in the goddamn…? - quaint that the first thought crossing his head was a literal quotation from Benny Gecko, that Profligate whose decapitated head now rested comfortably on Vulpes' desk.

It must have been late in the evening. Muffled sounds of legionaries busying themselves or heading to sleep surrounded him. He was lying face up on a sleeping bag relatively close to a bonfire – close enough to benefit from the warmth, but far away to get some semblance of privacy with the body he was sharing sleeping space with.

"You okay there, Fox-Man?" – the owner of said body pressed, shorter legs resting between his long ones, head and midsection sprawled atop him.

"What happened?" – he immediately asked, his mind feeling clearer than… whatever amount of time had passed between their descent and now.

"You don't remember?" – she questioned back, meeting his shaking head – "Okay then, don't fret. We're going in easy: I'll throw you a set of questions to help jog your memory, okay?" – unsure how to interpret her direct, almost commanding tone, the Fox threw his reservations aside as his head began to prick again, nodding slowly – "Alright, what's the last thing you remember?"

"We were sitting, you and I, atop the mountain." – he said with some difficulty, fighting the fog clouding his mind as soon as he tried to think beyond that, knowing he was leaving way too many details out. Details that, for some reason, didn't feel so real at the moment.

"Go on…"

"And we were… conversing, I think."

"And after that?" – she pressed.

After that…

"I-I…" – he stuttered, tongue heavy and cotton-like as panic rose within his chest. His body felt far too rested, while his mind carried an artificial weariness, as if he had been drugged.

She shifted in his embrace, and soon their temples were pressed together, her chin resting atop his left shoulder, face buried in the crook of his neck.

"Okay, no need to strain yourself." – she whispered, her tone gentler now, allowing him to clasp her shoulders to anchor himself – "Let's go back to our conversation. What were we talking about?"

It took him a moment to get back on track.

"About… me not trusting your judgment, and you… not trusting mine?" – man, he sounded stupid. Stupider than he, in wildly different circumstances, would ever allow himself to slip into. Even undercover.

There was a limit to his acting skills.

"You think I don't trust you?" – she asked, a slight accusation in her voice.

He really, really didn't have the mental clarity to handle such a tricky conversation right now.

"The rope and Stealth Boys that you brought… to The Fort." – he tried, nonetheless – "And then… not consulting me about… the possibility of rescuing your dog… from that supermutant."

She sighed.

"Seems like we have a pending conversation."

"Seems like it." – he agreed – "Just… not right now. Please."

She sighed again.

"Very well." – she acquiesced – "Let's talk about Nipton, then."

That made him tense, momentarily sharpening his mind as if she had slapped him.

"Why Nipton?" – he questioned defensively.

"If you don't like that, we can talk about Searchlight instead."

That again. That sudden lucidity, like a needle pricking his brain. It came and went so quickly, leaving behind only the fog seeping in once more.

"You don't like that, do you?" – she spoke again, tone slightly teasing… yet tinged with a bit of malice.

"Why are you asking those questions now?" – he inquired, curiosity replacing his earlier affront, urgency fighting to stay above the slow tide of sleepiness.

"Because I need common ground with you if we're going to do this."

"Doing what?"

"░▒▓░░▒▓ ░▒▓ ▒▓░▒░."

The mental fog thickened, rekindling the simmering headache beneath the surface.

"Urgh…"

"Right..." – she spoke again, her erased words forgotten, her tone clear and human once more – "You still need a little shove."

She pressed her temple against his, and the white-hot, searing pain stabbing through his head froze him, blinding him momentarily.

---

"Don't make a sound. Marcius says he got sight of an NCR safehouse around this area, dug deep into the rocks. Best not to test our luck neither with the Rangers nor with the Deathclaws, eh?"

---

"I think this one's still breathing."

The first thing he felt was his shoulders being slammed against the ground. Then, a flashlight right into his face.

"What the… Gomez! I think we hit the jackpot!"

The rest of his body… several spots were literally numb.

Even his eyes weren't reacting with the usual photosensitivity his condition entailed.

"No shit. This is the Legion motherfucker Moore has put a bounty on."

"The one who fucks the Courier?"

"Heh, maybe she's the one fucking him, you know."

"Stop fantasizing, Gomez; legionnaires don't eat pussy."

"Pity. With those lips, there'd be a line of soldier gals eager to sit on his face. That's for damn sure."

"Right. What do we do with him?"

"Help me carry him. He's coming with us."

"You know the radio's not working."

"No matter. If he managed to sneak in here, he must know how to get out."

Then, the sharp sensation of abrasions on his ankles as he was dragged away.

---

"Mars' fucking balls! Ambush, AMBUSH!"

---

The next thing he knew, a punch sent him and the chair he was tied to crashing to the hard-tiled floor, giving him a mouthful of sand and dust.

"I'll kill you like a dog if I have to." – said the voice of the one called Gomez. A Ranger, judging by her punching technique – "Now, be a good boy and tell me - where's the fucking exit?"

Dizzy, yet more awake than he had been near that bonfire – delirious, perhaps, if he'd managed to have such a vivid conversation with Sullivan - Vulpes' only reply was spitting a mix of blood and mucus onto the Ranger's boots.

That earned him a kick in the stomach, one that almost made him thankful he hadn't eaten lunch all day.

---

"Caesar have mercy on us! Even the Brotherhood's guns aren't making a dent!"

---

"Of course you had to go and make things difficult. You bunch of savages in skirts don't know when it's more convenient for you to quit." – she snarled, leaning her brutish face close to his – "Where's your precious Cesar now, dog? Betcha he couldn't give two shits about you and those sods who followed you in here, thinking they'd be admitted into Valhalla or some such crap."

Now they mixed religions and cultures at will? Or maybe they couldn't even tell the difference, since half the population barely bothered with basic education. And this whore's accent reeked of New Reno's suburbs. The Republic's soldiers were proving more and more lacking with each passing day.

The Ranger bitch didn't look too pleased with his taunting smile, wheezing with laughter in her very face, which was turning an embarrassingly angry shade of scarlet.

More punches followed, but they weren't as painful as he remembered a Ranger's blows could be. Or maybe it was the numbness sweeping through his senses, luring him into a deep, comforting slumber…

---

"That was my last cartridge, Chief. But don't worry, this loyal servant will get you out of here. No matter what."

---

"Hey."

Vulpes inhaled sharply, eyes wide open.

Again. He was there again, lying near the bonfire, with his men getting into their bedrolls, deciding the next round of watch.

"You okay there, Fox-Man?"

And she was there as well, lying atop him, small cheek and short, spiky hair upon his chest.

"This cannot be happening…" – he murmured, air stalling in his chest, hand going for his face, which wasn't swollen and didn't hurt the way it should – "This…"

She nuzzled him, trying to get his attention.

"Something the matter?" – she inquired gently.

Vulpes swallowed hard, allowing himself to question the sensations of comfort and safety cocooning him at the moment - too real yet too nice.

If experience had ever taught him anything about the fabric of reality, it was that pain, discomfort, and deprivation were much more reliable certainties than sudden, suspicious ease.

However, something had definitely changed: his alertness.

It was there, present amidst the mental fog, vying for control. The first sign of survival instinct he could recall since descending the mountainside.

Whether it could be interpreted as a symptom of awareness or not remained to be tested.

Was this a dream, or simply déjà vu? Was his experience at the Ranger safehouse a nightmare, a flashback of something that had already passed… or something yet to come?

And the voices of his men…

"I'd like to stand up." – he said, nudging the girl to move.

Something didn't add up. And the blanks in his memory were far too conveniently placed to chalk them up to mere brain trauma.

"I wouldn't recommend it." – she simply said.

"I said I'd like to stand up." – he repeated, more forcefully this time – "Now, if you please…"

With a shrug, she complied, giving him space to sit up straight.

Then, a sudden violent nausea hit him like a ton of bricks.

"Whoa, whoa, whoa!" – the girl exclaimed, catching him just in time before his head - alongside the rest of his body - came crashing back onto the bedroll – "Calm down." – she whispered, kneeling beside him as his body slid down like a sack of potatoes, yielding to her touch as she settled his head back onto the flat pillow – "Here." – then, her temple, cold and refreshing, came to rest against his own, dulling the returning headache to a manageable, cushioned pounding as she lay atop him once again – "Better?"

He nodded, too dizzy to feel either shame or question the strange, surreal moment they were sharing. Finding it increasingly easy to let his thoughts drift as the coolness of her cheek against his took the pain away.

For, if he were going insane, he'd rather descend into madness accompanied than alone.

"Ah, nonononono, don't close your eyes." – she chided, bringing a pair of digits to his drooping eyelids, forcing them open – "It's getting increasingly difficult to sustain this, you know. That is, with you repeatedly going your way instead of letting me guide you through it."

"Sustain, you say…" – he repeated, moving away a little to give her a suspicious look – "Who are you?"

She rolled her eyes dramatically.

"Still me, if that's what worries you." – she stated tiredly – "Like all the other times before."

"'Other times'?" – he echoed, confused – "But this is only the second time."

"Are you sure about that?"

No, he wasn't. And that led him to an uncomfortable realization.

"How long have we been doing this?"

She fell silent for what felt like an eternity.

"… A while." – she finally answered.

"Can you be more precise?" – he pressed impatiently.

"I cannot. I've realized I need to be careful with how I deliver my answers. Whenever I've been straightforward, you slip away."

A now-familiar stab pierced his brain once again, like a red-hot needle igniting whatever nerve endings her touch had managed to soothe into mild numbness.

A pre-programmed response to something he, apparently, couldn't process.

Or wasn't allowed to process.

"So… no direct answers." – he summarized with no small difficulty, unconsciously seeking proximity with her forehead again – "At least, not the ones coming from you." – he looked at her directly, meaning implicit in his eyes.

She smiled knowingly.

"There's always a flaw in the system."

Nodding, Vulpes let himself relax, allowing her cold temple against his to do its job, navigating a precarious balance between a manageable headache and not letting the groggy fog get the upper hand.

"Would you care for a game, Sullivan?" – he asked, licking his lips in deep contemplation – "A guessing game?"

"I'm all ears, Fox-Man."

He inhaled, letting the multiple unanswered questions converge.

"The here and now, this precise moment between you and me… it's fictitious, isn't it?"

"Look around you." – she replied – "Discernment comes from observation. You know this well." – bringing her lips to the helix of his ear, distracting him momentarily, she added – "What do you see?"

Squinting, he swept his gaze over the apparently tranquil scene surrounding them: legionaries coming and going, some already asleep, others murmuring while sitting around the bonfire, roasting game meat.

Then, he realized.

"There's no smell coming from those skewers."

She smiled against his cheek.

"What else?"

He wanted to test something, so he brought a finger to his mouth and prickled the tip with a sharp canine.

"No taste either." – he decided after coating the tip of his tongue in blood – "Senses that are harder to emulate are not present." – he stopped at that, considering the word – "Emulate… are we in a simulation, Sullivan?"

She remained silent.

He decided to take that as a yes.

"If we are in a simulation – together - that means you didn't stay atop the mountain as I instructed."

She huffed at that, entertained.

"I knew from the start that something was off with the Brotherhood of Steel. Something they didn't even suspect at first when they ventured higher up the mountain."

That irritated him.

"Alas, yet another nail in the coffin regarding our… miscommunication. Or lack of communication altogether, for that matter."

"Passive-aggressiveness won't get you further insight into our current problem. And it's becoming more urgent the more you lose track and follow threads that are going nowhere."

"So, we are setting this conversation aside."

"For the sake of brevity and urgency, yes. You're not the only one struggling to stay focused."

"Brevity? Urgency? You say that as if we were on a countdown."

She remained quiet at that as well, so he sighed tiredly.

"Alright, alright…" – no direct answers, indeed – "Nevertheless, if you knew something was amiss from the beginning… why not tell me?" – he insisted, hellbent on any semblance of reassurance that, whether he admitted it or not, felt more important than coming up with a plan on getting out of this… whatever this was. After all, she was the one who told him she needed common ground with him to improve this uncanny situation they were trapped in. Why not kill two birds with one stone, then?

"Because you wouldn't have believed me." – she said, voice distant and apathetic – "And don't bother telling me otherwise. It's happened before."

"When haven't I believed you?"

"See? Losing track again. When you set your mind to something, you're like a dog with a bone."

"When, Sullivan?"

She sighed. Loudly.

"It's really not your fault." – she hesitated – "There are… things out there that are best left alone." – shaking her head, she added, almost as an afterthought – "It's easier to pretend something doesn't exist when there's nothing to gain from it."

"You still haven't answered my question."

She laughed, and it was entirely devoid of mirth.

"You'll remember eventually… I hope." – she assured – "And then, one day, if we make it out of this forsaken desert, I'll take you to a place far East. In Pendleton County, in the valley upstream of the South Branch of the Potomac River, West Virginia. Then, you'll connect the dots easily."

She sounded… strangely eerie. Hopeful even, weaving promises of places he knew for sure Caesar wouldn't give his blessing to visit.

There was no reason for her to think she'd be given special treatment in that regard. She was no fool; she knew what she had signed for when pledging loyalty to the Son of Mars.

Yet here they were, discussing matters not up for discussion. Mere wishful thinking, as though they were free to go on, only onwards, leaving the ashes of Nipton and Megaton behind.

As the heavy fog overtook his subconscious again, he knew the battle was lost when he asked, eyelids dropping, absolutely charmed by the fantastical yet futile prospect of freedom, what that place was called.

"▓░▒░▓░░ ▓▒░▓."

---

When he opened his eyes again, instead of finding himself - as he had feared - still at the mercy of the Rangers, the sight that greeted him was overwhelmingly familiar.

"Caravan, citizen, pilgrim, or...?" - a nasal and slightly bored voice asked him from behind a reception desk.

Vulpes knew he should be alarmed by the uniform, the combat knife, and the 9mm strapped to the man's holster, but felt so dumbfounded himself that all he managed was:

"What?"

"Just need something for the log book, keeping tabs on traffic through the Outpost..." – the man explained, frowning to himself – "Although mostly just in, not out these days."

So, his intuition served him right. This was the NCR Mojave Outpost… or at least a version of it where, apparently, he could safely play the caravanner card.

Once he let the man know, he was made to sign a stack of papers that felt entirely out of place in a dreamscape. Looks like, even in the fiction of unconsciousness, the Republic was as bureaucratic and dull as always.

At least until the boring forms began turning into…

"I'm sorry, what am I supposed to do with this?" – he asked, showing the officer the sheet, which, instead of displaying blocks of text, sported blotchy ink stains that - now that he looked closely - had a certain symmetrical quality.

---

"Brothers, help! It got me!"

---

"Oh, that." – the officer replied lamely, scratching the shaved nape beneath his beret – "That's for…"

Before he could finish, the building's main door swung open behind him, and a familiar voice emerged from outside.

---

"Hack that off, hack that thing off!"

---

"There you are." – and once again, lost and found, the Courier stomped her way toward Vulpes and the flabbergasted NCR officer, grabbing the former by the elbow – "Sorry, no time for Rorschach tests today." – without bothering to check whether the man replied or not, she dragged the Fox outside.

"This isn't real either, is it?" – he asked rather stupidly, struggling to keep pace with her brisk walk.

"So, you're now linking my presence to unreality." – she replied curtly, not even looking at him – "If I weren't so sick of doing this over and over to no avail, I'd congratulate you on even remembering that."

She sounded so utterly done that he didn't dare ask any more questions until they reached the southwestern edge of the Outpost. She then handed him a screwdriver and a bobby pin to crack the lock on the double chain-link gate leading to the Long 15.

"That officer said caravans only come in, not out." – he tried to explain – "That can only mean we will have the whole Outpost on our heels if…"

"Urgh!" – she groaned, hitting the heels of her hands against her forehead repeatedly before turning, finding a shovel resting against the fence enclosing the two main buildings, and promptly assaulting a random NCR trooper behind a sandbag barricade.

"Are you mad?!" – Vulpes exclaimed, rushing to pull her off the man – "Sullivan, what are you doing?!"

Under very different circumstances, the sight of her kicking an NCR soldier would've given him one big bad raging erection… but fantasies, as indulging as they can be, couldn't be savored if jail time was all that awaited them at the end of the day.

And he wasn't just signing up to be detained in a completely fictitious scenario when she had been abundantly clear on the urgency of their situation.

"I'm sick of this shit!" – she yelled, delivering another kick to the unfortunate soldier – "Look! Nobody gives a flying fuck, damnit!"

That made him pause, noticing the eerie lack of reaction from not only the rest of the troopers but also the victim, who simply got up – bruised and all - and resumed his post as if nothing had happened.

Nothing made sense anymore.

"I… I don't understand…"

"Of course you don't understand! That's why you were signing fucking papers instead of finding a way to hack through this!" – shoving his hands aside angrily, she added – "Stop playing by the rulebook and open that stupid gate, joder!" (4)

He had never - he swore, never - seen her so angry before. Not even at that time when he fucked up at McCarran attempting to get her sniper dog killed.

So, he meekly complied, having realized a while ago that in this situation – whether he liked it or not - Sullivan was more in control than him, making her the obvious leading choice.

He only had to follow… well, pretty much whatever she told him to do.

Right?

"You could just… order the door to open or something, you know." – she huffed after a while, watching him struggle with one of the hardest locks he'd ever encountered.

She groaned in frustration when he gave her a puzzled look, then resumed his delicate labor.

Once the lock finally snapped open, she kicked the gate and crossed the threshold.

Following closely behind, Vulpes couldn't help but stare at the derelict buildings beyond the gate.

Because they looked… kind of flat? One-dimensional? All of them stood as single walls, like cardboard cutouts, with all the details looking like they had been… painted? Even the very signs of decay looked cheap upon closer inspection.

From a distance, they had looked very much real.

"See what I mean?" – the girl asked, still tense but not as openly angry as before – "All fake. Everything's a prop."

"Even the man at the HQ?"

He didn't like the subtle shift in her expression.

"No, no." – the girl shook her head – "That one was a… uh, conduit."

"A conduit for what?"

Predictably, she didn't answer. Or maybe she couldn't.

Or maybe he didn't want her to answer, to make sense at all. Easier to pin the blame on her roundabout ways rather than confront the fact that he had to rely on the guidance of someone who, in all likely, had little more agency than he had.

Either way, it was clear that there was something Vulpes had forgotten - somewhat purposefully - after their confrontation with Hardin, and she was here to help him navigate it, no matter how off-putting her demeanor was.

They walked down the 15 until they lost sight of the Outpost.

"What now?" – Vulpes asked, noticing the road seemed to disappear into the desert ahead, as if the sands had swallowed it. The I-15, normally so solid and stark, now dissolved into dunes that shifted unnaturally. No Long 15 NCR encampment on the horizon, no utility poles, no nothing. Only an endless stretch of dunes, twisting and undulating, their ridges catching the light in a way that made them seem almost alive.

"Now, you choose." – Sullivan shrugged – "This is your mindscape, so you're the only one who can go in the right direction."

"It works like that?" – he inquired, but his eyes stayed fixed on the shifting dunes ahead, mesmerized.

He almost missed the weary, sad smile she gave him. A thousand implications, none good, behind it.

"Always."

Considering his choices, which were either going back to the fake Mojave Outpost or going into the desert, Vulpes figured it couldn't hurt to march onwards until something changed.

They followed this course of action for an indeterminate time in silence, the desert swallowing every sound. The further they went, the more distant the world behind them felt.

Under a sun that didn't cast the heated inferno he was so accustomed to, sensations began overtaking thoughts with each step, making Vulpes hyper-aware of the soft vibration humming beneath their feet as they pushed onwards. A strange, surreal sense of calmness hitting in, washing worries away alongside any certainty of time or place.

Then, likely due to boredom, Sullivan began fiddling with her Pip-Boy. A high-pitched, garbled static filled the silence. The noise made Vulpes wince, effectively waking him from the trance he had been slipping into mere seconds ago.

It sounded like more than just dead air - it was fragmented, as if something was trying to speak beneath the distortion. He strained his ears, but all he caught were fleeting syllables – l… et… go… - and then it faded.

"No radio signal. Right." – Sullivan huffed unhappily until she gave up rotating the dial, snapping him out of his focus.

"Then use your Music Database." – he suggested, though his eyes still flickered warily over the horizon, where the light was starting to warp, casting too-long shadows, making the dunes ripple in ways that set his teeth on edge.

"I wanted to hear Mr. New Vegas, but whatever." – she agreed, scrolling through the Pip-Boy's options until she found what she likely was looking for.

Most inappropriate and out-of-place song ever.

"Let's ride into the sunset together,
Stirrup to stirrup, side by side.
When the day is through, I'll be here with you.
Into the sunset we will ride."

The cheerful, Old-World tune clashed horribly with the dreamlike unease that surrounded them.

He wasn't sure why - or maybe he simply was quite the nutcase to match the bullets in her brain - but the moment the cheesy yodeling duo came up in the middle of the song, Vulpes began wheezing in laughter, earning first an arched black eyebrow, then snorting from the Courier until both of them ended up cracking up in the middle of nowhere. Their laughter mingling in a strange, disjointed way.

"You certainly have a… peculiar brand of humor, mailwoman." – he said, the last of his laughter dying in his throat, though the contentment lingered. Seeing her smile, after all this time, felt strangely satisfying.

Since their departure from Fortification Hill, there had been very few instances in which he had seen her truly relaxed and happy.

That… stirred something in him, though Vulpes wasn't sure how to describe it. He knew, with certainty, that very 'something' wasn't an emotion he'd like to dwell upon for long, so he smothered it as swiftly as it had emerged.

"Hey, as far as I'm concerned, riding into the sunset together is a pretty accurate description of what we are doing right now." – she joked, wiping the remnants of laughter tears from her eyes with her fingertips – "Cheesy shit aside, I'm glad you've snapped out of it already. It's very easy to branch off and get sidetracked all the time when all you have to do is focus on keeping your wits and detecting patterns." – she raised a dainty index finger, adding instructively – "Wherever you find a pattern, you know it's faulty, thus exploitable. In a manner of speaking, of course. You cannot hack a computer without knowing what the commands do in the first place."

"The flaw in the system you mentioned earlier." – he confirmed, earning an enthusiastic, somewhat childish clapping with her fingertips as she perked up brightly, like a happy dog with a treat.

"You remember!" – she chirped – "That's good, that's good. That's a continuity symptom, which is more than I hoped for in the first place." – seeing his brows furrow, she giggled – "No need to feel offended. It's not about you in particular; it always pans out like this."

"You sound as if you'd experienced this… distortion before." – he probed as they resumed their walk through Nowhere Land – "Have you?"

She evidently pondered her answer before opening her mouth again.

"Yeah…" – was her vague response.

"Was it when Benny Gecko shot you?"

"No, before that. Although, the Benny incident did… similar stuff to some of my cognitive processes at first. I didn't even remember how to wield a gun, but once I got the gist of it, it felt natural, automatic. Can't say the same for names and dates, though."

"Dates too?"

"It rarely occurs, but it still occurs."

Since she wasn't in a sharing mood for things she clearly didn't want to discuss, they kept walking in silence, each lost in their own ruminating thoughts.

As they walked, the dunes shifted in and out of focus. He wasn't sure how to describe it visually, but it looked like mismatched patches of light and shadows that didn't follow any environmental logic depending on the angle you watched.

It was distracting in ways he couldn't have anticipated, as if his five senses were actively working on getting in the way of focus, mind pulled in every direction at once.

Then, abruptly, as only an unnatural, fictitious landscape could conjure, the terrain changed from endless sands into steadier rocky soil, as if the desert had simply decided to stop existing.

"Lo and behold." – she declared – "About time something changed. I was getting sick of so much desert already." – she groaned, rambling like a pissy squirrel – "I've been, like, years seeing nothing but desert. Put some boring desert in your life! Free radioactive desert for everyone! Vote Mrs. Sandy McFuckingSands for President! Ferals guarantee one hundred percent radiation sickness and roasted giant roaches for supper! Y-effing-uck… It's like a crappy sandwich: between Kentucky and California, everything's a big desert mayonnaise mess. Urgh…"

Vulpes let her vent as he strained his eyes, searching for anything out of the ordinary in this new terrain, noticing the horizon depicted a distant mountain range that looked all too familiar.

The terrified gasp that put an end to her tirade made Vulpes whip around to find the Courier staring at the ground with a frozen, perplexed expression.

Approaching her, he saw what had scared her: a giant, half-buried face of some kind of giant statue protruded from the rock, returning her stare with empty, pupil-less eyes.

"Ah... it's one of them faces." – she said in a small voice.

"Faces?"

"There were plenty of those everywhere before the War. None authentic, of course. Art Deco, because vintage was en vogue back then." – she shivered, tearing her eyes from the offending sculpture – "Blackhall business, because Dunwich needed money to sustain their failing mining company somehow. Two powerful families marry, then America ends up shaped in their image and likeness… even when it comes to architecture."

Vulpes gazed at the statue, still unconvinced.

"I don't remember having seen anything like this in any of the Old States I've been to."

"That's because they were more prominent in Canada and the coast. The real ones, I mean. Particularly the East Coast. Cali has some of these at The Hub and Bakersfield, but…"

"Sullivan." – he interrupted, annoyed. He was doing his best to concentrate as she had instructed him, and she was becoming more and more scattered as she rambled – "Didn't you say that this was, and I quote, 'MY mindscape'? How can I possibly conjure something I have never seen?"

"I-I…" – she hesitated, fidgeting nervously while licking her lips in a way that had no right being that distracting – "I don't know." – turning away from the sculpture just enough so she could have it in her immediate peripheral vision, the girl approached him, still fidgeting and avoiding eye contact – "Would you mind…?" – she extended her arms to him – "Please? Even if it's just me and you don't return it, it's fine…"

Oh, for the love of…

He swept her into a tight embrace before she finished her sentence, and she immediately snuggled into it. Like a child seeking comfort.

They remained a while like that, grounding each other as the impassive stone eyes watched from the ground, nonjudgmental yet unyielding.

"I've spotted a plausible landmark." – Vulpes spoke at last, lifting the heavy veil of silence that so often seemed to fall between them two in this… whatever representation of reality this was – "There." – he said, pointing out the distant mountain range.

She strained her eyes before slowly coming to a realization.

"But that looks like…" – she muttered.

"Black Mountain." – he finished for her.

She gave him a puzzled look.

"It looks like Black Mountain to you?" – she asked.

"What does it look like to you?" – he asked in return, pinpointing the zigzagging road up, the distant satellite array, the shanty village at the top.

She swallowed before answering.

"This isn't good…" – she mumbled to herself before taking his hand – "Let's make haste before it starts glitching again."

He didn't get a chance to ask about that 'glitching' she was referring to when they broke into a sprint toward the intended destination, whatever it looked to each of them.

The sense of distance didn't work correctly in this plane either. It felt as though they were sprinting one moment, then floating through a slow, suffocating atmosphere the next.

The vaguely familiar shape of the canyon labyrinth surrounding the mountain range had transformed into something akin to a nightmare: where boulders and salients once created pathways interconnecting different areas of the Sloan Canyon National Conservation Area, now a vast, dense veneer composed primarily of roots - thick as actual trees - seemed to mantle every inch of the landscape. Giving less and less way to the sky – red as blood, crossed by veiny, violet lightening like the blood system of a gargantuan beast observing them from above - the path of roots swallowed them into near-darkness, pulsating around them, transporting a liquid so dense Vulpes could hear it making its way through the root conducts like the gurgling throat of some monstrous entity.

Then, without warning, the physical sensation of the Courier's fingers laced with his own disappeared.

He grasped at the empty air in a vain attempt to regain what he'd lost. And then, only then, he began panicking.

"Sullivan?" – he asked, voice tinny in his own ears, as if the world was growing more distant, as if he was growing more distant from it – "Sullivan?!"

---

"Miserere mei, Mars! Not like this! PLEASE, NOT LIKE THIS!"

---

The Fox grabbed his temples forcefully, nausea overtaking him as the migraine slammed back into his skull with a vengeance.

Ahead of him, amidst the red gloom, something shifted in the dark, as if stretching.

A beast awakening from a long slumber.

"How long wilt thou forget me, O Lord? For ever? How long wilt thou hide thy face from me?" – a voice he wished he would never have to hear again rose out of the shadows. Dressed in the garments of the Old World, eyes alive amidst blackness like cold blue fire, bearing a blasphemous face that belonged to a most blasphemous name – "How long shall I take counsel in my soul, having sorrow in my heart daily? How long shall mine enemy be exalted over me?"

Shaking his head as if to get the image out of his eyes, Vulpes recoiled instinctively, stepping back like a cornered animal.

"Consider and hear me, O Lord my God: lighten mine eyes, lest I sleep the sleep of death." – the looming beast continued, preaching words of vengeance for empty ears of an empty faith – "Lest mine enemy say, I have prevailed against him; and those that trouble me rejoice when I am moved."

Unarmed, Vulpes' eyes shifted to the gleaming .45 gun in the beast's hand, pointing at the ground, scintillating like a sharpened dagger. Mocking him with its presence, escaped as it had from his private footlocker at The Fort, locked away beneath piles of Old-World books, to reunite with its rightful owner.

A Light Shining in Darkness.

---

"Shit! Kill it, Praefectus! KILL IT!"

---

"But I have trusted in thy mercy; my heart shall rejoice in thy salvation." – the beast sang with grandiloquence, earth and sky shattering in two at its passing as a knife cuts through flesh. The hand wielding the gun pointing its cannon at the Fox, the free one sinking nails on its mask of a face, peeling the smooth, handsome surface away like bloodied bandages – "I will sing unto the Lord, because he hath dealt bountifully with me."

---

"Sed tu, O Mars, Bellorum Genitor, miserere et nefas a nobis averte, et conserva vidas nostras inviolabiles ab omnibus abominationibus impetibus." (A)

---

Shedding its face in front of him, the result was nothing short of repulsive and monstrous. For, beneath flesh and bone, all monsters bore the same visage. Raw, emaciated, and savage at the same time, no matter the years nature spent crafting the deceit of beauty.

A predator is always a predator, indistinctly of how colorful its fur may be.

Then, as this monstrous predator stared at him with dead eyes, Vulpes stared back, sweat dripping from his nose violently. As violent as his hatred.

"Come unto me, my child." – the beast taunted, cruel and inviting – "For you, as you can see, I wear no mask."

If he were going to die here today, he would do so fighting this monster who had terrorized him until this very day.

His hatred will fuel him.

And so, unto his cold embrace, he launched. Hands and teeth seeking purchase to the very throat, a war cry deafening and primal filling his lungs as the gun's sights aligned with his head.

The explosion that combusted his brain inside out seared him all.

---

"Liberate tutemex ex Inferis." (B)

---

GERMAN:

(+) - May the God of War smile upon you.

---

SPANISH:

(1) - "Girls!"
(2) - "Keep an eye on the prisoners and don't let a single Brotherhood of Steel member climb that rope until I or any of my men have returned. Any unauthorized rescue attempt, you'll dealt with by a bullet between the eyes, understood?"
(3) - "Understood, boss."
(4) - "Fuck!"

---

LATIN:

(A) - "But you, O Mars, Father of Wars, have mercy and turn evil away from us, and preserve our lives as inviolable to all of the abominations' assaults." - Adapted excerpt from Silius Italicus' 'Punica' (Book 3).
(B) - "Free yourself from Hell."

---

A/N: the chapter was getting too long, so I had to split it in two. There are at least 4 more scenes until the mystery of Black Mountain is resolved/finished (sorry! T_T). It's on the way, have patience, plz.

Another S.T.A.L.K.E.R.: I heard you, I heard you xD In fact, since you recommended me Spec OPS: The Line a while ago, I was like CRAZY searching for a second-hand copy of the game, since it seems like Steam took it down for some reason (you and I know it was due to that not-so-little detail about white phosphorus as a war weapon, but whatever). I found one in English overseas, bought it, played it... dude, it destroyed me (the loading screens didn't help in that regard). I've been watching YouTube video essays about it non-stop since then. I watched my cousin playing it over a decade ago VERY passively, so I didn't pay attention to the story. To me, it was yet another boring shooter. And here am I now: many feelings, many good ideas, many theories... this is SO GOOD Boone material. If I was already going down the James Sunderland path with him, now I have lots of soldier context thanks to Walker. At the beginning of the game, he's exactly how I pictured Boone to be before Bitter Springs: not funny (obviously, it's Boone we're discussing here lol), yet engaging and cool with his comrades. I'd like to paint Manny as Adams, then my OC Johnny Sullivan (the guy acting as Boone's spotter in Bitter Springs) as Lugo, the funny one.

Curious how one game can change your perspective, give you inner dialogues that never happened between three guys I previously never put together as friends (Johnny was more of a placeholder to justify Manny's absence and little else) despite serving under the NCR. Thanks to your recommendation, these dynamics will eventually show up. I'm so excited! :D