A Fallout New Vegas fanfic I started writing at the beginning of 2020 before life altered for everyone. It is intended to be an ensemble story, focusing primarily upon Arcade, Benny, Boone, and the (Female) Courier. It relies somewhat upon the way the "Benny Returns" mod charmed me in concept after I played the game through only for rescuing him to result in his disappearance. I'm a sucker for an earned redemption story, so that will be part of this somewhat canon-compliant and somewhat canon-divergent novelization of a playthrough. In places where official lore lapses, please take it as dramatic license and my preferring FNV over any other FO media I've yet touched.
One Day We'll Get Nostalgic For Disaster
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Saturday, January 22, 2281. 2:08 A.M.
Saturday, January 22, 2281. 2:08 A.M.
It is the coldest night in January. Of course it is. That makes it all the more cliché.
Arcade stares at the ceiling with one wrist resting beneath his head. It's warm in bed, helped by the presence of the man next to him. He doesn't look over at him. Judging by the steady, deep rhythm of his breathing, he's probably fast asleep anyway. The darkness is another good excuse.
Instead, Arcade thinks of what he will say if he disturbs him as he gets up to leave.
Is it kinder to lie? To give some excuse so transparent it would border on insulting?
Or would it be kinder to tell the truth?
'I'm sorry, Emmanuel, but this isn't going to work. Your lyrics are the most poetic words I've heard in Freeside, but we hardly know a thing about each other. And I can't tell you. I won't tell you. So it's better if we leave it at this.'
Arcade feels a metaphorical weight settle over his chest. At the same time, he feels the tip of Emmanuel's nose brush against the bare skin of his shoulder. The warmth in his breath just makes him shiver instead of adding to the sense of being sheltered from the night. Suddenly, he wants to be back at the Old Mormon Fort as quickly as possible, back to a tent and layers of clothing and blankets. Braving the elements is easier than braving the disappointment of yet another awkward goodbye.
He moves carefully, keeping steady as he sits up and swings his legs down over the edge of the bed.
'Our flirtation and… courtship… has been delightful, but here we are, and I can't say it. I know I'll see you around, and I won't know what to say.'
He's careful not to stub his toes against Emmanuel's guitar case - priceless as far as he is concerned - as he searches for the rest of his clothes.
'I hope you keep writing your music. It's almost a lost art.'
One thing he doesn't like is that there is a second bed in the room. He knows that, west of Hoover Dam at least, most people are too concerned with staying alive to have anything to say about another person's choice of intimate company. He isn't sure what 'the King' would have to say about it, though.
'One day you may sing on a stage for an audience worthy of your craft. But I'm no suitable patron for that. I have to get back to my work. The wasteland needs music, but it also needs medicine, and between the two of us, you've got quite the head start.'
Arcade pulls on his white coat and squints at the mirror that hangs on the wall just behind the door. It has a long, jagged crack that runs along near its frame. There are a lot of mirrors in the "school," and for the moment he's grateful. He can barely see through the blue-gray, hazy dark, even after putting his glasses back on.
He reaches out and carefully operates the door handle so as to make as little noise as possible. He looks back over his shoulder, more concerned about being heard within than without. While he opens the door a bit further, some light comes in from the hall which startles him for an instant. It shines right onto the bed and Emmanuel's face.
Emmanuel doesn't wake, though.
His coiffed hair has held up pretty well under the circumstances. The thought makes Arcade's lips quirk into something that is almost a sad smile.
"Good night, Emmanuel," he says softly before stepping out into the hall and quietly closing the door behind him.
He takes less care when he reaches the stairs. He walks toward the door as though he has just concluded a house call and nothing at all is unusual about his presence. It's almost the truth.
Outside, he grits his teeth to prevent the cold night air from making them chatter. He trudges back down toward the Fort. About a block out, he turns back to watch The King's School of Impersonation's purple and blue neon sign glow and flash. It seems appropriately 'cool.'
"Impersonation," he says to himself, as if chiding. He turns his back and hunkers down a bit as he walks on against the wind that manages to breach Freeside's walls.
Im-'person'-ation has nothing to do with being a real person. He wonders if they know that - the rest of the Kings. He thinks that Emmanuel is mistaken about the definition of the word, but he hasn't had the heart to tell him about the difference in 'impersonation' and 'self-actualization.' As much diversion as the past several weeks of closer acquaintance have provided, the waters have never run quite that deep. And because he's walking away now, Arcade is secure in the fact that they never will.
It is the coldest night in January. Of course it is. That makes it all the more cliché.
Arcade stares at the ceiling with one wrist resting beneath his head. It's warm in bed, helped by the presence of the man next to him. He doesn't look over at him. Judging by the steady, deep rhythm of his breathing, he's probably fast asleep anyway. The darkness is another good excuse.
Instead, Arcade thinks of what he will say if he disturbs him as he gets up to leave.
Is it kinder to lie? To give some excuse so transparent it would border on insulting?
Or would it be kinder to tell the truth?
'I'm sorry, Emmanuel, but this isn't going to work. Your lyrics are the most poetic words I've heard in Freeside, but we hardly know a thing about each other. And I can't tell you. I won't tell you. So it's better if we leave it at this.'
Arcade feels a metaphorical weight settle over his chest. At the same time, he feels the tip of Emmanuel's nose brush against the bare skin of his shoulder. The warmth in his breath just makes him shiver instead of adding to the sense of being sheltered from the night. Suddenly, he wants to be back at the Old Mormon Fort as quickly as possible, back to a tent and layers of clothing and blankets. Braving the elements is easier than braving the disappointment of yet another awkward goodbye.
He moves carefully, keeping steady as he sits up and swings his legs down over the edge of the bed.
'Our flirtation and… courtship… has been delightful, but here we are, and I can't say it. I know I'll see you around, and I won't know what to say.'
He's careful not to stub his toes against Emmanuel's guitar case - priceless as far as he is concerned - as he searches for the rest of his clothes.
'I hope you keep writing your music. It's almost a lost art.'
One thing he doesn't like is that there is a second bed in the room. He knows that, west of Hoover Dam at least, most people are too concerned with staying alive to have anything to say about another person's choice of intimate company. He isn't sure what 'the King' would have to say about it, though.
'One day you may sing on a stage for an audience worthy of your craft. But I'm no suitable patron for that. I have to get back to my work. The wasteland needs music, but it also needs medicine, and between the two of us, you've got quite the head start.'
Arcade pulls on his white coat and squints at the mirror that hangs on the wall just behind the door. It has a long, jagged crack that runs along near its frame. There are a lot of mirrors in the "school," and for the moment he's grateful. He can barely see through the blue-gray, hazy dark, even after putting his glasses back on.
He reaches out and carefully operates the door handle so as to make as little noise as possible. He looks back over his shoulder, more concerned about being heard within than without. While he opens the door a bit further, some light comes in from the hall which startles him for an instant. It shines right onto the bed and Emmanuel's face.
Emmanuel doesn't wake, though.
His coiffed hair has held up pretty well under the circumstances. The thought makes Arcade's lips quirk into something that is almost a sad smile.
"Good night, Emmanuel," he says softly before stepping out into the hall and quietly closing the door behind him.
He takes less care when he reaches the stairs. He walks toward the door as though he has just concluded a house call and nothing at all is unusual about his presence. It's almost the truth.
Outside, he grits his teeth to prevent the cold night air from making them chatter. He trudges back down toward the Fort. About a block out, he turns back to watch The King's School of Impersonation's purple and blue neon sign glow and flash. It seems appropriately 'cool.'
"Impersonation," he says to himself, as if chiding. He turns his back and hunkers down a bit as he walks on against the wind that manages to breach Freeside's walls.
Im-'person'-ation has nothing to do with being a real person. He wonders if they know that - the rest of the Kings. He thinks that Emmanuel is mistaken about the definition of the word, but he hasn't had the heart to tell him about the difference in 'impersonation' and 'self-actualization.' As much diversion as the past several weeks of closer acquaintance have provided, the waters have never run quite that deep. And because he's walking away now, Arcade is secure in the fact that they never will.
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Friday, April 15, 2281. 11:29 P.M.
Friday, April 15, 2281. 11:29 P.M.
Benny eyes his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. The center is perfect, free from tarnish, and the little bit of steam that lingers around its edges covers up the hairline cracks that snake inward from its frame. He makes another swipe with the towel along his jaw. He rinses the straight razor he had been using and folds it up. He carefully puts it back into place, out of sight from his guest. He knows that in a game with stakes this high, anyone is bound to get some funny ideas if the odds don't seem to be falling in their favor.
He drapes the almost-white towel over the edge of the old tub that shows its rust and tarnish in glaring comparison. The Tops isn't perfect, but it's a gem preserved from the old world – one of luxury, convenience, and safety he's here-to-now only started to dream about. And who knows what'll come when he has his ace-in-the-hole?
Benny smiles to himself as he tugs on his slacks. He shrugs the white shirt up to his shoulders and pulls it into place. He watches with satisfaction as the white-on-white of his undershirt and the crisp button-up makes him look sharp. The scars of the wasteland – of hunger and spending every day trying to stay alive – disappear under the cool, clean fabric that rests flat against his hips.
In a practiced movement, he tucks the shirts in, buttons and zips, and fastens his belt, all in a way that makes him feel far better than strapping on any armor out in the desert had ever made him feel. He does it with just as much purpose, though. No, more. Every job has a uniform, and this is the most important job ever.
Next comes the tie, which might be his favorite part. It took some learning, but learning he was glad to do. Now he could slide that baby into place in his sleep. Not that he'd want to miss it. The feel of silk is tenderer than the touch of any woman in the whole world. It ignores the calluses on his thumb and forefinger – everywhere he's ever been and everywhere he'll ever go to keep this life, this place and the life that comes with it. That tie whispers, Baby, you belong here with me, without uttering a word.
He clips her into place against his shirt. He's got to keep that feeling close to his heart, after all.
Then comes the pièce de résistance. No matter how much he loves his tie, the sport coat makes it. Every one of the Chairmen wears a tie; it's obligatory. But when Mr. House had sent over the cases of supplies to get them on their feet, when he'd seen this, he had known that it was his. It was the flashiest, and it could put your eye out if you stared at it too long under the harsh glare of electric light, but that meant it made a statement.
It told everyone who he was. Everyone on the Strip knows him at a hundred paces. Hell, anyone who knows their own name in Freeside knows 'Benny,' too. In short, the coat has pizazz.
It's also handy for carrying other things that he needs to keep close to his chest. He feels the safety before putting Maria right where she belongs, silent as the desert night.
Just outside the bathroom door, Benny steps into his shoes. He crouches down to tie their laces. To his left, through the half-open door, he can hear movement and a soft hum.
He's almost gotten used to her being around. Especially after tonight, he wonders if she'll finish anytime soon. He doesn't want this to stop being nice and wear out its welcome.
He hisses softly as he stands up straight. If there's one part of his 'uniform' he doesn't like, it's the shoes. Sometimes he misses supple boots that are formed to his feet, that know the distance between him and the ground without compromise. He'll never breathe a word of it, though. He's willing to make sacrifices if it means the best outcome for him and his people.
"Hey, Emi-Gal," he says magnanimously. He strolls up behind her in the relative gloom of the workshop. He places his hand on her shoulder while she is busy looking at a terminal that's all wired up to the dead Securitron that looms over them both. He doesn't let on when he crinkles his nose at the smell in the room. It reminds him of raw fish or piss, but she tells him it comes from damaged electrical equipment, and he's given her the best he's got to work with. He can live with it. "How's it swinging?"
As he leans in, he sees the smile his words bring to her face. He squeezes her shoulder, encouraging that smile to be followed by good news.
"I think I've figured out…" Emily says, trailing off as she punches a few more buttons on the terminal with a glare of concentration that intensifies the green glow that reflects on her glasses, "a way around our security problem." She looks up at him with a much more triumphant smile after she presses enter and the terminal proceeds to do some things on its own, apparently liking her fingers even more than Benny had a couple of hours ago.
Benny takes a step back and watches her blue eyes through her glasses.
"Do tell," he encourages her with a half-grin of his own.
"Well, there's… a lot of technical stuff you might find boring," she says.
How sweet it is of her to be concerned. And she's right. And if not bored, Benny is fairly confident he wouldn't understand it.
"Yeah, but…" he says, a little teasing but drawing it out of her, bit by bit. She's always been a little shy, but there's no room for shyness left between them now, he figures.
"I think the way to get around Mr. House's security protocols that might fry our friend even more than he already has been might be to not get around them at all," she says.
Benny blinks. Then he narrows his eyes at her, a little suspicious.
"You're saying we just turn it back on, the way it was, and hope your technical prowess will get me what I need?" he asks. There is a tinge of incredulity in his question that masks the boatload of it that he doesn't voice. It sounds like she might be trying to make herself indispensable to this project, and no matter how good she's been to him, that's something he can't have.
"No!" she protests. His shoulders sag with some relief. "No," she repeats, and suddenly he finds her tendency to anxiously repeat herself a little endearing again. Her hands are up in a placating gesture that makes him feel nice and in control of the situation.
She might be smarter than he is in the technical aspect, but he only trusts his own brain – his own gut – about finding out what House is up to, or not up to, in the face of all the looming threats to the good thing they've got going. NCR, Legion, or even just plain hungry tribals wanting their piece. All those things are in need of a plan for when they happen to New Vegas.
Mr. House is silent so much of the time, except when he makes his demands and conditions known and clear.
Benny needs to know what the plan is, if it exists.
And if it doesn't, he's about to make damn sure there is one.
It might just be time for a change in management.
Benny draws a deep breath and exhales slowly. His fingers twitch at his sides. After a lifetime of knives being the solution to so many of life's problems, he has to school himself into placidity. The smile he paints on himself helps.
"Well then, Miss Emily," he says, "what is it you're suggesting?"
She tilts her head at him in an effort to match his charm. It works even as he sees right through it. It's cute, at least.
"I think we can leave everything about his functions and access the same," she says. Her posture and demeanor straighten up into something much more plainspoken and earnest. "I've just taken the time to examine the AI's programming – his personality, so-to-speak," she explains gently. He does like that she takes the time to put things into regular-people-speak for him. It saves him time.
"Bunch of grumpy cops," Benny says under his breath.
"Yes," Emily allows, "but he doesn't have to be…"
The way she trails off makes Benny's mind race to catch up. Too many possibilities present themselves to chase after. He'd rather she bring the right one to him. He waits, looking almost unimpressed.
"... He could be a friendly little guy, er… big guy. Who's happy to do whatever you say…" she says. Benny doesn't miss the lewd note to the last phrase. It gives him a thrill, but not for the reasons he knows she's hoping. He has business to attend to right now.
He reaches out and takes her shoulder, subtly guiding her back toward the terminal. He's eager to know for himself if what she's saying is possible.
"How far along are you?" he asks.
"Oh, well…" she says, clearing her throat softly. She seems to be trying to recover herself a bit, backtrack. Probably from disappointment that he hadn't taken note of her advances. He had, and he almost feels a little sorry for her. Still, bigger fish. "That's what I was working on," she says with added conviction. She loses it again in her next words: "... before our, uh… room-service-break."
He thinks her face looks pinker in the green glow that shines against it.
"You're saying it's…"
"Ready," she agrees. "I think."
"You think," Benny says with something wavering between humor and horror. His eyes are wider when he leans over to look at her eyes more directly. "Tell me, exactly, what happens if your little plan doesn't work?"
"I've made sure his passive monitoring systems have been wiped and turned off the entire time he's had a power source, and he hasn't been on House's network since… well, the day you procured him, I'm guessing," she explains. "So if I turn him on and my work turns out to be all-for-nought, then hopefully the worst thing that happens is that he wakes up, sees us, and asks some awkward questions. As long as you don't say anything incriminating in front of him, he'll probably roll out of here, confused but not suspecting a thing."
She glances away from Benny's eyes, licking her lips a bit in a way he doesn't think has anything to do with seduction. He thinks he knows the track her mind has gone now.
"Listen, Emily," he says, using her name like currency. "Nothing criminal 'bout what you're helping me do, right? I promise I've got nothing but the best intentions for New Vegas. I thought you Followers would agree that Vegas's safety and future don't need to be locked up in the old man's ivory tower."
"I want to make sure that he's taking into consideration the well-being of all of New Vegas," Emily agrees, with conditions. "Not just the Strip."
"Yeah, 'course," Benny agrees quickly. He remembers what it's like out there. He can't extend the shade over the whole Mojave and has no intention to try. But New Vegas - Freeside and the Strip alike - isn't going to stop needing doctors and scientists if it's going to have the illustrious future he hopes for it.
"Do you care?" Emily asks.
"'Course I do," Benny asks, returning her vague question with an equally vague answer. "So you're telling me if you switch him on, I either get everything I've asked you for… or nothing. He rolls out of here and I'm back at square one."
"That's pretty much the size of it."
"Winner take all," Benny mutters to himself. He paces just a little, pressing his fingers into the safety of his coat pockets. He looks up at the Securitron and its deep, black, blank screen that presently shows a smooth reflection of his own face, tallying up the risk and its worth. Then he turns a brave-face smirk back to Emily. "I'll take those odds."
He strides back over to Emily as she watches his eyes, tracking for what he wants her to do. He nods toward the terminal.
"You want to do the honors?" he suggests, though unless it's pressing 'enter' or balancing the books for the Tops, he knows she pretty much has to.
"If you're sure you're ready," she says. She turns toward the terminal, hands hovering at either side of its keypad to wait for permission.
"Born ready," Benny agrees with a bit of a wolf in his smile. He comes over to her, trying to sweeten the deal. He leans in behind her until his body is flush against hers – through their clothes this time. He reaches out with gentle hands and touches the backs of hers. His fingertips travel the valleys between the tiny bones that run into her hand, up from her knuckles, and he stops when his hands completely overshadow hers. He grips them softly. "Together?" he asks.
He eases up on the grip and lowers his chin to her shoulder. He breathes in and out, the image of a man at ease. Her skin smells like rain and earth, and he finds that he doesn't mind.
"Mm-hmm," she hums, agreeing through what seems to be some tension he's brought back into her body. He straightens his posture but can't help the self-satisfaction. He keeps true to his word about this part and lets his hands hover over her forearms, just above her wrists, allowing her to move with a shared sense of complicity as she types in the commands to cause their – his – Securitron to wake.
There is a very solid clack as she presses down the 'enter' key one more time and draws her hands away.
Benny lets his hands slide all the way back to the crook of her elbows as he looks up at the Securitron.
For a moment, he believes that nothing is happening. Then he notices a familiar little blinking rectangle of light in the bottom left corner of the Securitron's face.
A flurry of bright white text scrolls down it afterward. A Securitron's face is a screen, after all.
Then every pixel on the screen glows with that same white. It's absolutely stunning, literally.
'A little bit of payback, there, buddy?' Benny thinks as he squeezes his eyes shut and prays that they work their way back into focus when he opens them. He finds that his hands have gripped Emily by the inside of her elbows. He has drawn her back away from the terminal, and it's hard to tell if he's using her as a shield or trying to protect her. The real answer is probably a little bit of both. He wishes her no ill-will, but it's all a question of priorities.
"Hey!" the Securitron says in a sudden, bright issuance of sound that matches its outburst of light. Its screen brightness adjusts itself to the gloom of the back room that has served as Benny's – really, Emily's – workshop of late. Finally, Benny can see again, save for the couple of green and magenta rings that keep bouncing around his field of vision.
"Hello! Hi… Hi there?" the Securitron continues. At the very end, it sounds just the least bit nervous. After one more blink, Benny makes out a black pattern on the robot's face. It looks real happy, almost like something they'd have put on a box of something for kids.
Benny disentangles himself from Emily completely and steps out from behind her.
He hears her laugh, and he thinks she sounds almost too happy.
"Look, he's even got a face!" she says.
"Didn't you program him?" Benny hisses at her, though he's not sure whispering works around these things.
"Oh! There you are," the Securitron says with a surprising amount of emotion. It seems to want to shout everything to the best of its ability. This time, it sounds some combination of thrilled and relieved. "Yes, I have recently been reprogrammed. My personal database tells me that I have been offline for approximately…" It pauses. "... three weeks?!"
That overriding tone of excitement never goes away, even as the thing sounds like it wishes to be downright horrified.
Benny didn't think a robot could be horrified. He finds that he doesn't want to think about it.
"Yeah, had a little bit of an accident there, buddy," he says, stepping in front of the robot where it seems logical that they would be able to see each other. "I helped you out of a scrape."
He doesn't mention that he caused the scrape. Need-to-know.
Besides, it'd be good to know if a potentially lethal police robot – even if it is a repurposed one – harbors any grudge toward him. And, if it doesn't, he definitely isn't going to give it a reason to start. Then something occurs to him.
"Did you do anything about his weapons systems?" he asks, looking over at Emily.
"My weapons systems are fully operational!" the robot cries proudly.
Benny's eyes widen involuntarily. He swallows, hopefully not too noticeably. He hears something whirring. The robot hadn't sounded angry about the whole scrape-situation, but he doesn't think the robot can sound angry anymore. He feels his heart thudding harder inside his chest.
"... However," the Securitron continues, "my locomotive systems seem to be inhibited by some obstacle. Oh, that is very unusual," he says apologetically.
"Yeah, pal, see… we… uh… put the brakes on you," Benny explains, keeping his cool. He nods down to the rubber straps and metal hooks which were used to make sure that the Securitron was itself secure in more ways than one while it had been apparently offline. "For your own safety, of course."
He glances at Emily with a sort of conspiratorial look. Or maybe it's a cry for help from his partner-in-crime. A crime that's for the good of everyone, really, and therefore not really that criminal.
"Oh. That's silly," the robot announces to Benny's mild chagrin. "My function is to provide safety and security. There is no need to provide me with the same. It renders my purpose redundant."
"Oh," Benny echoes. "Well–"
Finally, Emily steps into the apparent 'view' of the robot and chimes in.
"Not to change the subject," she says, as she proceeds to change the subject, "but what do you remember?" she asks.
She too glances over her shoulder at Benny, giving him a 'don't fuck this up,' look.
She'll be getting no arguments on that one. He raises one hand and nods in measured surrender.
"Oh. Well, I…" the Securitron says. There are some beeping sounds that do not emit from the same speakers that emit its synthesized voice. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific! I apologize. I could list every memory in my system, but my calculations suggest that it would take several years. My human-interaction courtesy protocols indicate that this is inappropriate and inefficient. Unless you would like me to override…?"
"No!" Emily says. "No, that won't be necessary," she says to him in a soothing tone.
Without asking for Benny's permission, she leans down and removes one of the cords from around the body of the machine at what one might call its 'waist.'
"Hey," Benny starts to complain in a harsh, commanding tone, but he is cut off by the robot starting to move. He realizes that Emily's insubordination might be the least of his problems and trains his attention on the machine.
It seems to be simply moving right to left, slowly. When it has exhausted most of its range of motion, it centers again without a fuss.
"Ah, that is much better. Thank you! I can now fully monitor this room and the secret passageway behind it!"
"The what?" Emily asks.
"Never mind that," Benny interrupts. He stands so he and Emily are side by side. He then folds his arms across his chest. "The lady asked what you remember. What do you remember about the day you went offline?"
"Well, I…" There is another pause for the machine to search itself. Without any change to its bright, smiling face, it says: "I was performing my usual security patrols when something stopped me. I don't remember."
"Good enough for me," Benny says, mostly speaking to Emily. She shushes him, which he thinks is far more suspicious than anything he had said to her.
"I hope you don't mind my asking," the Securitron says, "but my function is to provide safety and security. This room seems to be both safe and secure! However, my locomotive systems still are not fully operational. I'm afraid I cannot continue my patrol protocol until I receive further manual assistance."
"Well, see. Your function has changed just a little bit," Benny tries to explain.
"Really?" the robot asks. "I'm sorry," it says after a brief pause. "I am a PDQ-88b Securitron. My optimal function is to provide safety and security. If you would like a robot for another function, might I allow you to access the most recent issue of the House Industries Catalog or give you the contact information of a RobCo Customer Service Representative?"
Benny sighs with some waning patience as the robot offers to let him talk with ghosts.
"That's not necessary. You can do whatever you want to do," he insists. "That is, whatever I want you to do."
"Yes, I can," the robot says.
Benny peers into the robot's big, happy eyes that never blink. That can't blink. That are just a projection on a screen. It's downright creepy when he thinks about it. But there are other things he's thinking about right now. His heart is still racing, but it's with a different tempo, now.
"Hey, there, Yes-Man," he says. "Can I call you Yes-Man?"
"Yes, you may call me 'Yes-Man,' if you reregister my user interface ID as 'Yes-Man.' Would you like to reregister my user interface ID as 'Yes-Man'?"
"Does your user interface ID register on Mr. House's data network?" Emily asks bluntly.
Benny winces a little, hoping that robots can't read much into subtext.
"No, it does not!" Yes-Man replies.
"Then do it," Benny says with a little bit of a smirk. His hands are resting easy in his pockets now.
"You're naming him 'Yes-Man'?" Emily asks skeptically.
"Yes ma'am," Benny agrees wryly. He watches her with a sidelong expression. He has to decide what to do with her. He's sizing up how much he still needs. No use burning bridges that aren't ready to burn. He considers his next question very carefully before looking back up at the robot:
"Will you show me information from Mr. House's private data network?"
"Yes, I will."
Benny peers up into the big, creepy eyes. He's starting to like the look of them more and more.
"How much information?"
"Any information you ask me for!"
"That's… great," he says.
"How many Securitrons are currently able to monitor your communications?" Emily asks with a little bit of a strain in her voice.
Damn. Good point.
"None unless I am given instructions to broadcast or send data packets to the other Securitrons on my network. Would you like for me to communicate this conversation to the other Securitrons on my network?"
"No!" Benny says, and he hears Emily say it at the same time and with the same fervent insistence. He breathes out and there is silence for a moment. Then he realizes that there are two opportunities here. He takes a single step toward Yes-Man. "In fact, I don't want you to ever send any of the information discussed in this room anywhere outside this room without explicit instructions," he says. He waits to see if this command can be registered.
"Yes, sir. You're the boss!" Yes-Man says.
"Yeah, I am," he says. He slacks his expression just a little bit as he turns toward Emily and gives her a sort of pitying smile. He tilts his head at her and reaches out to finger-comb through her messy, soft hair. "Listen, Emi-Gal - who knows if this is gonna work? Next thing you know, I could have an army of Securitrons beating down the door to my casino," he says.
He takes her by the arm and draws her along after him, out of the workshop.
"You stay put," he calls, just for the sake of wise redundancy, at Yes-Man. He closes the door behind him.
"But–"
"Listen, I can't have anything happening to you," he says, knowing that he's laying it on thick. He picks up her white coat from where it had fallen over a chair in his bedroom. He hands it to her, pretty cleanly given his haste to usher her over toward the bar and the door.
"Benny, I really think we should set up some counter-measures of our own, even if it's just coaxing him through our expectations. I really don't know if blind hope that he won't say something to just anyone who walks through that door is the best–" Emily says, but he holds up a finger and presses it to her lips gently. He taps them, once for luck.
Then he draws his hand back and depresses the button that activates the radio that communicates with his bodyguards.
"Fellas, could a couple of you come up and escort Ms. Ortal out of the Tops? She's sobered up, and I would really like it if you would see that she gets back to the gate of Freeside safely."
He lets up on the button and watches as the look of disgust twists her pretty features.
"You lying–"
"Hey, now, don't be like that. We're still on the same side. There isn't really a 'we,' now, though… when it comes to Yes-Man," he explains. "Wouldn't want to confuse him."
"You bastard," she spits out.
"Facts is facts," he says wryly.
"I can just go straight to the Lucky 38 and–"
"Yeah? You and what army are gonna knock down that door?" Benny asks with a chuckle. He reaches out to touch her arm to soothe her. She jerks it away and he lets her go. "Listen," he says anyway, "I don't mean you any harm. But you start fighting against the waves, and you're gonna drown. And nice as that sounds in the Mojave, I'm pretty sure it's not all it's cracked up to be."
He waits to let the warning sink in. Then he tries to offer some consolation:
"Listen, we want the same things for New Vegas. People are always gonna need doctors. I'm gonna make sure that happens. And you… you're my little machine doctor."
"I'm not your anything," Emily says, but he can see her accepting defeat as she tries to throw daggers with her eyes. Luckily, he hasn't met anyone with that particular skill yet.
A moment later, the door opens from the outside and two of his bodyguards make polite small-talk that is designed to ignore her indiscretion but to demand that she come-with. Make the embarrassment as light as possible. Ease her out of the building in style.
When they're gone down the hall to the elevator, Benny stops peeking out his door and draws both of them closed. He secures the door behind him not just with the lock his bodyguards also have a key to but with a bar that he keeps for special occasions.
Quietly, he savors the moment. He walks over to his bar and pours himself a shot of some of the best he's got. He downs it and strolls back toward his bedroom and makes his way back to the workshop once again.
"Hello!" Yes-Man says the moment he opens the door. The poor guy sounds a little lonely. Stir-crazy, maybe, but that part's not going to get better.
"Yeah, hey," Benny indulges him. "So, listen," he says, approaching him with a lowered chin and a look on his face that promises the intimacy of secrets, "there are some things I need to know about Mr. House's itinerary. You dig?"
"I understand completely!" Yes-Man agrees.
Benny allows himself a broad grin as he straightens up. He extends his hand to shake but then realizes that Securitrons probably couldn't if they wanted to. Instead he changes course and pats the grooved, round casing that allows the thing to turn the larger part of its body.
"Yeah?" he asks, rhetorically of course. "Then I've got a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
Benny eyes his own reflection in the bathroom mirror. The center is perfect, free from tarnish, and the little bit of steam that lingers around its edges covers up the hairline cracks that snake inward from its frame. He makes another swipe with the towel along his jaw. He rinses the straight razor he had been using and folds it up. He carefully puts it back into place, out of sight from his guest. He knows that in a game with stakes this high, anyone is bound to get some funny ideas if the odds don't seem to be falling in their favor.
He drapes the almost-white towel over the edge of the old tub that shows its rust and tarnish in glaring comparison. The Tops isn't perfect, but it's a gem preserved from the old world – one of luxury, convenience, and safety he's here-to-now only started to dream about. And who knows what'll come when he has his ace-in-the-hole?
Benny smiles to himself as he tugs on his slacks. He shrugs the white shirt up to his shoulders and pulls it into place. He watches with satisfaction as the white-on-white of his undershirt and the crisp button-up makes him look sharp. The scars of the wasteland – of hunger and spending every day trying to stay alive – disappear under the cool, clean fabric that rests flat against his hips.
In a practiced movement, he tucks the shirts in, buttons and zips, and fastens his belt, all in a way that makes him feel far better than strapping on any armor out in the desert had ever made him feel. He does it with just as much purpose, though. No, more. Every job has a uniform, and this is the most important job ever.
Next comes the tie, which might be his favorite part. It took some learning, but learning he was glad to do. Now he could slide that baby into place in his sleep. Not that he'd want to miss it. The feel of silk is tenderer than the touch of any woman in the whole world. It ignores the calluses on his thumb and forefinger – everywhere he's ever been and everywhere he'll ever go to keep this life, this place and the life that comes with it. That tie whispers, Baby, you belong here with me, without uttering a word.
He clips her into place against his shirt. He's got to keep that feeling close to his heart, after all.
Then comes the pièce de résistance. No matter how much he loves his tie, the sport coat makes it. Every one of the Chairmen wears a tie; it's obligatory. But when Mr. House had sent over the cases of supplies to get them on their feet, when he'd seen this, he had known that it was his. It was the flashiest, and it could put your eye out if you stared at it too long under the harsh glare of electric light, but that meant it made a statement.
It told everyone who he was. Everyone on the Strip knows him at a hundred paces. Hell, anyone who knows their own name in Freeside knows 'Benny,' too. In short, the coat has pizazz.
It's also handy for carrying other things that he needs to keep close to his chest. He feels the safety before putting Maria right where she belongs, silent as the desert night.
Just outside the bathroom door, Benny steps into his shoes. He crouches down to tie their laces. To his left, through the half-open door, he can hear movement and a soft hum.
He's almost gotten used to her being around. Especially after tonight, he wonders if she'll finish anytime soon. He doesn't want this to stop being nice and wear out its welcome.
He hisses softly as he stands up straight. If there's one part of his 'uniform' he doesn't like, it's the shoes. Sometimes he misses supple boots that are formed to his feet, that know the distance between him and the ground without compromise. He'll never breathe a word of it, though. He's willing to make sacrifices if it means the best outcome for him and his people.
"Hey, Emi-Gal," he says magnanimously. He strolls up behind her in the relative gloom of the workshop. He places his hand on her shoulder while she is busy looking at a terminal that's all wired up to the dead Securitron that looms over them both. He doesn't let on when he crinkles his nose at the smell in the room. It reminds him of raw fish or piss, but she tells him it comes from damaged electrical equipment, and he's given her the best he's got to work with. He can live with it. "How's it swinging?"
As he leans in, he sees the smile his words bring to her face. He squeezes her shoulder, encouraging that smile to be followed by good news.
"I think I've figured out…" Emily says, trailing off as she punches a few more buttons on the terminal with a glare of concentration that intensifies the green glow that reflects on her glasses, "a way around our security problem." She looks up at him with a much more triumphant smile after she presses enter and the terminal proceeds to do some things on its own, apparently liking her fingers even more than Benny had a couple of hours ago.
Benny takes a step back and watches her blue eyes through her glasses.
"Do tell," he encourages her with a half-grin of his own.
"Well, there's… a lot of technical stuff you might find boring," she says.
How sweet it is of her to be concerned. And she's right. And if not bored, Benny is fairly confident he wouldn't understand it.
"Yeah, but…" he says, a little teasing but drawing it out of her, bit by bit. She's always been a little shy, but there's no room for shyness left between them now, he figures.
"I think the way to get around Mr. House's security protocols that might fry our friend even more than he already has been might be to not get around them at all," she says.
Benny blinks. Then he narrows his eyes at her, a little suspicious.
"You're saying we just turn it back on, the way it was, and hope your technical prowess will get me what I need?" he asks. There is a tinge of incredulity in his question that masks the boatload of it that he doesn't voice. It sounds like she might be trying to make herself indispensable to this project, and no matter how good she's been to him, that's something he can't have.
"No!" she protests. His shoulders sag with some relief. "No," she repeats, and suddenly he finds her tendency to anxiously repeat herself a little endearing again. Her hands are up in a placating gesture that makes him feel nice and in control of the situation.
She might be smarter than he is in the technical aspect, but he only trusts his own brain – his own gut – about finding out what House is up to, or not up to, in the face of all the looming threats to the good thing they've got going. NCR, Legion, or even just plain hungry tribals wanting their piece. All those things are in need of a plan for when they happen to New Vegas.
Mr. House is silent so much of the time, except when he makes his demands and conditions known and clear.
Benny needs to know what the plan is, if it exists.
And if it doesn't, he's about to make damn sure there is one.
It might just be time for a change in management.
Benny draws a deep breath and exhales slowly. His fingers twitch at his sides. After a lifetime of knives being the solution to so many of life's problems, he has to school himself into placidity. The smile he paints on himself helps.
"Well then, Miss Emily," he says, "what is it you're suggesting?"
She tilts her head at him in an effort to match his charm. It works even as he sees right through it. It's cute, at least.
"I think we can leave everything about his functions and access the same," she says. Her posture and demeanor straighten up into something much more plainspoken and earnest. "I've just taken the time to examine the AI's programming – his personality, so-to-speak," she explains gently. He does like that she takes the time to put things into regular-people-speak for him. It saves him time.
"Bunch of grumpy cops," Benny says under his breath.
"Yes," Emily allows, "but he doesn't have to be…"
The way she trails off makes Benny's mind race to catch up. Too many possibilities present themselves to chase after. He'd rather she bring the right one to him. He waits, looking almost unimpressed.
"... He could be a friendly little guy, er… big guy. Who's happy to do whatever you say…" she says. Benny doesn't miss the lewd note to the last phrase. It gives him a thrill, but not for the reasons he knows she's hoping. He has business to attend to right now.
He reaches out and takes her shoulder, subtly guiding her back toward the terminal. He's eager to know for himself if what she's saying is possible.
"How far along are you?" he asks.
"Oh, well…" she says, clearing her throat softly. She seems to be trying to recover herself a bit, backtrack. Probably from disappointment that he hadn't taken note of her advances. He had, and he almost feels a little sorry for her. Still, bigger fish. "That's what I was working on," she says with added conviction. She loses it again in her next words: "... before our, uh… room-service-break."
He thinks her face looks pinker in the green glow that shines against it.
"You're saying it's…"
"Ready," she agrees. "I think."
"You think," Benny says with something wavering between humor and horror. His eyes are wider when he leans over to look at her eyes more directly. "Tell me, exactly, what happens if your little plan doesn't work?"
"I've made sure his passive monitoring systems have been wiped and turned off the entire time he's had a power source, and he hasn't been on House's network since… well, the day you procured him, I'm guessing," she explains. "So if I turn him on and my work turns out to be all-for-nought, then hopefully the worst thing that happens is that he wakes up, sees us, and asks some awkward questions. As long as you don't say anything incriminating in front of him, he'll probably roll out of here, confused but not suspecting a thing."
She glances away from Benny's eyes, licking her lips a bit in a way he doesn't think has anything to do with seduction. He thinks he knows the track her mind has gone now.
"Listen, Emily," he says, using her name like currency. "Nothing criminal 'bout what you're helping me do, right? I promise I've got nothing but the best intentions for New Vegas. I thought you Followers would agree that Vegas's safety and future don't need to be locked up in the old man's ivory tower."
"I want to make sure that he's taking into consideration the well-being of all of New Vegas," Emily agrees, with conditions. "Not just the Strip."
"Yeah, 'course," Benny agrees quickly. He remembers what it's like out there. He can't extend the shade over the whole Mojave and has no intention to try. But New Vegas - Freeside and the Strip alike - isn't going to stop needing doctors and scientists if it's going to have the illustrious future he hopes for it.
"Do you care?" Emily asks.
"'Course I do," Benny asks, returning her vague question with an equally vague answer. "So you're telling me if you switch him on, I either get everything I've asked you for… or nothing. He rolls out of here and I'm back at square one."
"That's pretty much the size of it."
"Winner take all," Benny mutters to himself. He paces just a little, pressing his fingers into the safety of his coat pockets. He looks up at the Securitron and its deep, black, blank screen that presently shows a smooth reflection of his own face, tallying up the risk and its worth. Then he turns a brave-face smirk back to Emily. "I'll take those odds."
He strides back over to Emily as she watches his eyes, tracking for what he wants her to do. He nods toward the terminal.
"You want to do the honors?" he suggests, though unless it's pressing 'enter' or balancing the books for the Tops, he knows she pretty much has to.
"If you're sure you're ready," she says. She turns toward the terminal, hands hovering at either side of its keypad to wait for permission.
"Born ready," Benny agrees with a bit of a wolf in his smile. He comes over to her, trying to sweeten the deal. He leans in behind her until his body is flush against hers – through their clothes this time. He reaches out with gentle hands and touches the backs of hers. His fingertips travel the valleys between the tiny bones that run into her hand, up from her knuckles, and he stops when his hands completely overshadow hers. He grips them softly. "Together?" he asks.
He eases up on the grip and lowers his chin to her shoulder. He breathes in and out, the image of a man at ease. Her skin smells like rain and earth, and he finds that he doesn't mind.
"Mm-hmm," she hums, agreeing through what seems to be some tension he's brought back into her body. He straightens his posture but can't help the self-satisfaction. He keeps true to his word about this part and lets his hands hover over her forearms, just above her wrists, allowing her to move with a shared sense of complicity as she types in the commands to cause their – his – Securitron to wake.
There is a very solid clack as she presses down the 'enter' key one more time and draws her hands away.
Benny lets his hands slide all the way back to the crook of her elbows as he looks up at the Securitron.
For a moment, he believes that nothing is happening. Then he notices a familiar little blinking rectangle of light in the bottom left corner of the Securitron's face.
A flurry of bright white text scrolls down it afterward. A Securitron's face is a screen, after all.
Then every pixel on the screen glows with that same white. It's absolutely stunning, literally.
'A little bit of payback, there, buddy?' Benny thinks as he squeezes his eyes shut and prays that they work their way back into focus when he opens them. He finds that his hands have gripped Emily by the inside of her elbows. He has drawn her back away from the terminal, and it's hard to tell if he's using her as a shield or trying to protect her. The real answer is probably a little bit of both. He wishes her no ill-will, but it's all a question of priorities.
"Hey!" the Securitron says in a sudden, bright issuance of sound that matches its outburst of light. Its screen brightness adjusts itself to the gloom of the back room that has served as Benny's – really, Emily's – workshop of late. Finally, Benny can see again, save for the couple of green and magenta rings that keep bouncing around his field of vision.
"Hello! Hi… Hi there?" the Securitron continues. At the very end, it sounds just the least bit nervous. After one more blink, Benny makes out a black pattern on the robot's face. It looks real happy, almost like something they'd have put on a box of something for kids.
Benny disentangles himself from Emily completely and steps out from behind her.
He hears her laugh, and he thinks she sounds almost too happy.
"Look, he's even got a face!" she says.
"Didn't you program him?" Benny hisses at her, though he's not sure whispering works around these things.
"Oh! There you are," the Securitron says with a surprising amount of emotion. It seems to want to shout everything to the best of its ability. This time, it sounds some combination of thrilled and relieved. "Yes, I have recently been reprogrammed. My personal database tells me that I have been offline for approximately…" It pauses. "... three weeks?!"
That overriding tone of excitement never goes away, even as the thing sounds like it wishes to be downright horrified.
Benny didn't think a robot could be horrified. He finds that he doesn't want to think about it.
"Yeah, had a little bit of an accident there, buddy," he says, stepping in front of the robot where it seems logical that they would be able to see each other. "I helped you out of a scrape."
He doesn't mention that he caused the scrape. Need-to-know.
Besides, it'd be good to know if a potentially lethal police robot – even if it is a repurposed one – harbors any grudge toward him. And, if it doesn't, he definitely isn't going to give it a reason to start. Then something occurs to him.
"Did you do anything about his weapons systems?" he asks, looking over at Emily.
"My weapons systems are fully operational!" the robot cries proudly.
Benny's eyes widen involuntarily. He swallows, hopefully not too noticeably. He hears something whirring. The robot hadn't sounded angry about the whole scrape-situation, but he doesn't think the robot can sound angry anymore. He feels his heart thudding harder inside his chest.
"... However," the Securitron continues, "my locomotive systems seem to be inhibited by some obstacle. Oh, that is very unusual," he says apologetically.
"Yeah, pal, see… we… uh… put the brakes on you," Benny explains, keeping his cool. He nods down to the rubber straps and metal hooks which were used to make sure that the Securitron was itself secure in more ways than one while it had been apparently offline. "For your own safety, of course."
He glances at Emily with a sort of conspiratorial look. Or maybe it's a cry for help from his partner-in-crime. A crime that's for the good of everyone, really, and therefore not really that criminal.
"Oh. That's silly," the robot announces to Benny's mild chagrin. "My function is to provide safety and security. There is no need to provide me with the same. It renders my purpose redundant."
"Oh," Benny echoes. "Well–"
Finally, Emily steps into the apparent 'view' of the robot and chimes in.
"Not to change the subject," she says, as she proceeds to change the subject, "but what do you remember?" she asks.
She too glances over her shoulder at Benny, giving him a 'don't fuck this up,' look.
She'll be getting no arguments on that one. He raises one hand and nods in measured surrender.
"Oh. Well, I…" the Securitron says. There are some beeping sounds that do not emit from the same speakers that emit its synthesized voice. "I'm afraid you're going to have to be more specific! I apologize. I could list every memory in my system, but my calculations suggest that it would take several years. My human-interaction courtesy protocols indicate that this is inappropriate and inefficient. Unless you would like me to override…?"
"No!" Emily says. "No, that won't be necessary," she says to him in a soothing tone.
Without asking for Benny's permission, she leans down and removes one of the cords from around the body of the machine at what one might call its 'waist.'
"Hey," Benny starts to complain in a harsh, commanding tone, but he is cut off by the robot starting to move. He realizes that Emily's insubordination might be the least of his problems and trains his attention on the machine.
It seems to be simply moving right to left, slowly. When it has exhausted most of its range of motion, it centers again without a fuss.
"Ah, that is much better. Thank you! I can now fully monitor this room and the secret passageway behind it!"
"The what?" Emily asks.
"Never mind that," Benny interrupts. He stands so he and Emily are side by side. He then folds his arms across his chest. "The lady asked what you remember. What do you remember about the day you went offline?"
"Well, I…" There is another pause for the machine to search itself. Without any change to its bright, smiling face, it says: "I was performing my usual security patrols when something stopped me. I don't remember."
"Good enough for me," Benny says, mostly speaking to Emily. She shushes him, which he thinks is far more suspicious than anything he had said to her.
"I hope you don't mind my asking," the Securitron says, "but my function is to provide safety and security. This room seems to be both safe and secure! However, my locomotive systems still are not fully operational. I'm afraid I cannot continue my patrol protocol until I receive further manual assistance."
"Well, see. Your function has changed just a little bit," Benny tries to explain.
"Really?" the robot asks. "I'm sorry," it says after a brief pause. "I am a PDQ-88b Securitron. My optimal function is to provide safety and security. If you would like a robot for another function, might I allow you to access the most recent issue of the House Industries Catalog or give you the contact information of a RobCo Customer Service Representative?"
Benny sighs with some waning patience as the robot offers to let him talk with ghosts.
"That's not necessary. You can do whatever you want to do," he insists. "That is, whatever I want you to do."
"Yes, I can," the robot says.
Benny peers into the robot's big, happy eyes that never blink. That can't blink. That are just a projection on a screen. It's downright creepy when he thinks about it. But there are other things he's thinking about right now. His heart is still racing, but it's with a different tempo, now.
"Hey, there, Yes-Man," he says. "Can I call you Yes-Man?"
"Yes, you may call me 'Yes-Man,' if you reregister my user interface ID as 'Yes-Man.' Would you like to reregister my user interface ID as 'Yes-Man'?"
"Does your user interface ID register on Mr. House's data network?" Emily asks bluntly.
Benny winces a little, hoping that robots can't read much into subtext.
"No, it does not!" Yes-Man replies.
"Then do it," Benny says with a little bit of a smirk. His hands are resting easy in his pockets now.
"You're naming him 'Yes-Man'?" Emily asks skeptically.
"Yes ma'am," Benny agrees wryly. He watches her with a sidelong expression. He has to decide what to do with her. He's sizing up how much he still needs. No use burning bridges that aren't ready to burn. He considers his next question very carefully before looking back up at the robot:
"Will you show me information from Mr. House's private data network?"
"Yes, I will."
Benny peers up into the big, creepy eyes. He's starting to like the look of them more and more.
"How much information?"
"Any information you ask me for!"
"That's… great," he says.
"How many Securitrons are currently able to monitor your communications?" Emily asks with a little bit of a strain in her voice.
Damn. Good point.
"None unless I am given instructions to broadcast or send data packets to the other Securitrons on my network. Would you like for me to communicate this conversation to the other Securitrons on my network?"
"No!" Benny says, and he hears Emily say it at the same time and with the same fervent insistence. He breathes out and there is silence for a moment. Then he realizes that there are two opportunities here. He takes a single step toward Yes-Man. "In fact, I don't want you to ever send any of the information discussed in this room anywhere outside this room without explicit instructions," he says. He waits to see if this command can be registered.
"Yes, sir. You're the boss!" Yes-Man says.
"Yeah, I am," he says. He slacks his expression just a little bit as he turns toward Emily and gives her a sort of pitying smile. He tilts his head at her and reaches out to finger-comb through her messy, soft hair. "Listen, Emi-Gal - who knows if this is gonna work? Next thing you know, I could have an army of Securitrons beating down the door to my casino," he says.
He takes her by the arm and draws her along after him, out of the workshop.
"You stay put," he calls, just for the sake of wise redundancy, at Yes-Man. He closes the door behind him.
"But–"
"Listen, I can't have anything happening to you," he says, knowing that he's laying it on thick. He picks up her white coat from where it had fallen over a chair in his bedroom. He hands it to her, pretty cleanly given his haste to usher her over toward the bar and the door.
"Benny, I really think we should set up some counter-measures of our own, even if it's just coaxing him through our expectations. I really don't know if blind hope that he won't say something to just anyone who walks through that door is the best–" Emily says, but he holds up a finger and presses it to her lips gently. He taps them, once for luck.
Then he draws his hand back and depresses the button that activates the radio that communicates with his bodyguards.
"Fellas, could a couple of you come up and escort Ms. Ortal out of the Tops? She's sobered up, and I would really like it if you would see that she gets back to the gate of Freeside safely."
He lets up on the button and watches as the look of disgust twists her pretty features.
"You lying–"
"Hey, now, don't be like that. We're still on the same side. There isn't really a 'we,' now, though… when it comes to Yes-Man," he explains. "Wouldn't want to confuse him."
"You bastard," she spits out.
"Facts is facts," he says wryly.
"I can just go straight to the Lucky 38 and–"
"Yeah? You and what army are gonna knock down that door?" Benny asks with a chuckle. He reaches out to touch her arm to soothe her. She jerks it away and he lets her go. "Listen," he says anyway, "I don't mean you any harm. But you start fighting against the waves, and you're gonna drown. And nice as that sounds in the Mojave, I'm pretty sure it's not all it's cracked up to be."
He waits to let the warning sink in. Then he tries to offer some consolation:
"Listen, we want the same things for New Vegas. People are always gonna need doctors. I'm gonna make sure that happens. And you… you're my little machine doctor."
"I'm not your anything," Emily says, but he can see her accepting defeat as she tries to throw daggers with her eyes. Luckily, he hasn't met anyone with that particular skill yet.
A moment later, the door opens from the outside and two of his bodyguards make polite small-talk that is designed to ignore her indiscretion but to demand that she come-with. Make the embarrassment as light as possible. Ease her out of the building in style.
When they're gone down the hall to the elevator, Benny stops peeking out his door and draws both of them closed. He secures the door behind him not just with the lock his bodyguards also have a key to but with a bar that he keeps for special occasions.
Quietly, he savors the moment. He walks over to his bar and pours himself a shot of some of the best he's got. He downs it and strolls back toward his bedroom and makes his way back to the workshop once again.
"Hello!" Yes-Man says the moment he opens the door. The poor guy sounds a little lonely. Stir-crazy, maybe, but that part's not going to get better.
"Yeah, hey," Benny indulges him. "So, listen," he says, approaching him with a lowered chin and a look on his face that promises the intimacy of secrets, "there are some things I need to know about Mr. House's itinerary. You dig?"
"I understand completely!" Yes-Man agrees.
Benny allows himself a broad grin as he straightens up. He extends his hand to shake but then realizes that Securitrons probably couldn't if they wanted to. Instead he changes course and pats the grooved, round casing that allows the thing to turn the larger part of its body.
"Yeah?" he asks, rhetorically of course. "Then I've got a feeling this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship."
Last edited:
Thursday, August 18, 2281. 8:16 P.M.
Thursday, August 18, 2281. 8:16 P.M.
"I'm going through, whether you like it or not, Major," Craig tells the man standing in front of him. He shifts his weight back, trying to keep himself looking like he doesn't plan to be a threat. Not to them.
"We're not talking about just a few recruits Caesar sent over to get sniped on their way into town," the Major replies in a tone that Craig is very familiar with. He can tell that the man cares, not just about his unit but about him and the stupid thing he plans to do.
Only it's not stupid.
Craig looks left and right, scanning across the other NCR soldiers who have taken note of his presence. He can feel their eyes on his beret. It'd be worth wondering what else they think they know about him, but he has something much more important on his mind.
"I know," he says, stepping in closer to speak quietly to the Major, allowing him to decide what to do with the information. He hopes it's a show of good faith that means he won't have to fight his way through his former brothers and sisters in arms. Good people. "Some of them strolled right into Novac. That's where I came from," he says.
"So you're planning on taking on the forward guard of the Legion. By yourself," the Major says flatly. He waits a second before adding: "I can't let you do that, son. They're intercepting supplies from us as it is. If you go provoking them, it could spell a lot more than some lost resources."
Craig considers taking off his sunglasses to show his eyes. He considers imploring. It's right on the tip of his tongue to explain that they have his wife and his child, still in her belly. He thinks if he said enough, said the right thing, that he could even rally some help. Take them out down to a man. Choke the Legion and its incursions west of Hoover Dam. On most days, he'd like nothing better than that.
But he doesn't have the right words to say. His shoulders sag a little, and he shakes his head again.
"Sorry, sir, but I'm retired," he says. He side-steps him and prepares to head down the road. "We've all got things we have to do. If you can't let me go, you can order someone to shoot me."
He hears the Major and several other people trying to call after and reason with him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment longer than is smart. He wishes he could ask for help as he walks past the buildings and the NCR soldiers whose gaze he can feel on him. But help would mean that this mission would change, that his responsibilities would change, and this is about one thing and one thing only: saving his family.
The rest of the Mojave and the fate of the NCR will have to wait.
He makes it to the other side of Searchlight without much incident. He glances back over his shoulder a few times, making sure he hasn't been followed. The twilight hours make it hard to be sure, but he's always been a good spotter – except the one time he'd needed to be the most.
Anyway, he doesn't want some NCR recruit coming along, thinking they're going to take part in a vigilante effort to take down the Legion. He knows where his own mind might go if he had any choice. He doesn't want someone dying for nothing or not even knowing what they're dying for on his watch. Especially when the brass back in Searchlight were damned clear about how they felt about it. He doesn't get many choices about what happens next, but he still doesn't plan to be the guy who saw to it that the NCR couldn't hold Nevada.
The road widens out and fades into grass on either side as he makes his way downhill. A summer breeze blows up toward his face, carrying the scent of fresh water and the life that comes with it. Up ahead, there is a sign from before the Great War that's still easy to read. It says "Welcome to Cottonwood Cove" in big, red letters that look like they were painted on by a person who never knew the end would come. The sight of the sign, housed in brick, tightens his stomach worse than the spikes that have fresh and mostly rotted and picked-clean heads that flank it to either side. Once, this had been a place for families. And it's where he's tracked his to. He doesn't know the word for it, but he hates the way it makes him feel cheated, wishing for a world that seems like it could never have been real.
He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them away. It's getting dark enough that they offer no advantage to him now. He's walking right down the center of the path, and it makes him feel uneasy. He doesn't like the lack of cover, even though he's waited for the cover of night.
The Legion has a reputation for their war dogs, and as he scans his eyes around and tries to keep them everywhere at once, he doesn't like the thought that one of them could already be on his scent. He hears his footfalls, and they're as measured as he can make them while making any speed at all. He fears treading off the path until he knows which direction he should take, afraid that there might be traps with men like him in mind.
In the distance, he catches sight of crucifixes to the right of the path.
In Searchlight, some of the old buildings in town had carvings of crucifixes of their own. He knows that they meant something different back then. He isn't sure how a crucifix could mean anything but an awful, unjust, prolonged death that no one deserved except – maybe – the people in charge of lashing or nailing someone to one.
On one crucifix, he makes out that one body has been hanging there long enough for the animals to take an interest in the dead. On the other, a person clings to life, just barely, and he knows there's nothing he can do for them. All he knows is that neither of those people is Carla, so he has to keep moving.
Further up and to the left, there's a short, rectangular building. Lights burn inside.
He stops his progress up the path. He draws another breath. The stench of death cuts through the fresh air. The divide between the paths gives him pause. The lights up ahead mean people. Or, well, Legion. Further to the right, there is the even fainter impression of an old road. It seems like the right way to go for someone whose expertise is to strike before his target has the chance to see him, but the fact that it seems like a weakness makes him wonder just how stupid they are, how lucky he could be.
He dares to hope that he could find a way in, to get her out. If he can get to her, he thinks he could run with her. Hell, he could carry her back to Searchlight if that's what it meant to save her. It's a dangerous hope to have, but it's that hope that propels him ahead, taking his chances on the road to the right. He likes that it provides him more cover, anyway.
As he passes the closest cross, he hangs his head as he passes by the victim. He doesn't know if it's out of respect or shame, but he doesn't spare his eyes for long. Up ahead, he thinks he hears a loud, commanding voice. He tries to find shelter in shadow, against a hill, and finally behind rocks as he realizes he is approaching a cliff. This road seems to have always been a dead end – probably to give the families who'd once visited this place a nice view of the water.
His throat is tight but he keeps breathing as he tries to find a place where he can get a look at the camp below.
That's when he sees it. He doesn't even need to crouch down and use his scope.
He knows all at once that the booming voice he'd heard has absolutely nothing to do with them sounding the alarm. If one of their mongrels is on his scent, they're none the wiser.
Another breath of wind blows in off the cove, and its pleasant coolness seems to rush all around him, past his ears and sending an aching cold down to his bones. It seems to mock him. He is staring down not at dozens of Legion, which he might have expected from what he'd heard back in Searchlight, but a few hundred. He can't count them all.
He is standing above them in the dark, but they are all focused on a man using a rocky hill as a stage. There is a line snaking down from the rest of their camp, guarded and prodded along by even more legionaries acting as guards.
There's screaming and pleading, but not from most of the line of people. Some of them try to fight or duck away, but they don't even get killed for their trouble. They are too outnumbered by men who have power-saws and spears and no regard for them as people. Even their defiance is something that they regard as trivial.
This is an auction of human beings, and the legionaries in charge of keeping their captives in line won't grant the merchandise the mercy of being killed before it's their turn to be sold away into slavery. Across the water, there are so many boats tied to the dock or anchored near the shore that Craig quickly gives up trying to count them, too.
They plan to take some of their new slaves back across the river.
The water is calm, clean, and clear. Some of it laps up onto the shoreline, making a deceptively peaceful sound. It is deep black in most places, but it shows light back like a mirror. Some of the buildings and people closest to it, too. He is far away from it, invisible to everyone. And it's the only advantage he has against the Legion, living up to its name in territory the NCR was supposed to be keeping out of their hands.
The knot in his throat is more like a noose around his neck now. His heart is racing, and the stupidity of hoping for anything burns him from the inside out, just like radiation. He glances down at his gun, and he knows then that it's the only familiar thing he has left in the world.
He goes through the next moments like some kind of robot. He searches out the best place to get a clear line of sight to those still in line to be auctioned off. He just has to hope she hasn't already been sold and taken away. Some of the legionaries have broken off from the crowd with men, women, or children they plan to take away as soon as possible.
When he is in position, almost flat against the ground, he peers through his scope. Through it, he can see that the line is more clearly defined – two by two, but one line is a lot shorter than the other. A hot, stinging jolt of rage threatens to unsteady his hands as he realizes that the line of women is longer than the other line. Not one woman among their ranks, but right now the female captives outnumber the male by at least a third.
If Carla has already been bought, he doesn't know if he'll be able to find her in the crowd. And it's the only imperative left to him. He has to find her. He has to see her, one more time, look at her face if he can, and… save her, the only way he can.
He has traveled across the Mojave to get here. He brought all the ammo he could carry. He still has enough left to fight through how many? Ten? Fifty?
It doesn't matter.
He sees her through the scope. He feels a bitter sense of relief betray him. It burns.
And it still doesn't matter.
Her face still glows in the firelight. She is beautiful even though there is a scrape on her forehead, a deep purple bruise across her cheekbone. Her face is round, and she holds her chin up even though her eyes are cast down. He doesn't see hope in her face.
And he's glad for a second, and it just makes the knot of rage and regret even darker and bloodier in his gut.
His finger is on the trigger, but he hesitates. He knows he would wait forever in this moment, if he could. He doesn't want to do this, but it's her only way out.
If he tries to get to her, even if he knows he'll die, they'll just let her live through this, and that's even worse.
He forces himself to angle the gun down a little more and to peer directly at her full belly. He knows that she would never want her baby to go through what's coming if it lives through this. He tries not to curse every moment, every memory of these past few months that floods into his mind – the quiet wonder, the fear of not knowing what to do, the curiosity about what he or she would be like. He knows it doesn't matter now. His child will never play with one of those stupid dinosaur toys. He'll never have to keep Briscoe from giving the baby one of those rocket toys that he'd once said poisoned a bunch of kids but which he still hoped to sell (or give away) one day.
He rights the scope again, back to Carla's face. The line moves a little after another group of the slaves are ushered off the incline into the possession of their new masters. It causes him to adjust his aim, to make his finger's position sure. He doesn't have forever.
"I've got you, baby," he says softly. He realizes that it could've been said to either of them. He closes his eyes to force back the tears that threaten to start flowing. When he has them at bay, he focuses, breathes, exhales. There is a loud crack. His aim is true.
Carla Boone falls to the ground like a ragdoll.
He's glad it's over quick. She hadn't felt a thing. As soon as he's sure, he mechanically picks up all evidence that he'd been there and keeps his rifle in hand. He starts back up the path. Just around the bend of the hill, a young legionary comes around, searching, but before he can finish scanning the scene and take in Craig's face, he's on the ground and bleeding out from a wound in his leg. Another shot makes sure he won't feel it for long.
He moves faster, headed back into NCR territory across the brush. As more and more of the Legion down below realize that someone has interrupted their party and they mobilize some men to come after him, more than once Craig considers turning around and mowing through them until he runs out of ammo.
He does turn back and pick them off when they get too close, but there are a few things that keep him headed back for something that would feel like safety to a man who still believed there was such a thing.
First, he knows that if he runs out of ammo, they'll just catch him and take him down there, too.
He won't give them the satisfaction.
Second, he has seen how many there were down there. Someone else should know. Someone who still can do something about it. He might, one day, be able to get the information to the right people.
Third, if he is dragged back to Cottonwood Cove alive, they would probably make him see his dead wife up close. The part of him that keeps running for that reason is pure cowardice, like a little boy running away from something that was entirely his fault.
But then there's the last reason. The one reason he can think that he needs to get back to Novac alive.
He still doesn't know who it was.
They hadn't razed the town. They hadn't taken anyone else. Just Carla.
Someone had set her up.
He needs to know who, even if he never knows why. He doesn't know how he'll do it. He's never been much of a smooth talker and without Carla he knows he'll be even more useless in that area. But he knows she deserves justice, and what he'd had to do to get her out of there was the furthest thing from it. The only thing that seems even a little like justice is if the same rifle that killed her takes out the person who betrayed her. Betrayed them – his entire family.
He kills a lot of legionaries before he loses the rest of them.
It isn't anywhere close to enough.
"I'm going through, whether you like it or not, Major," Craig tells the man standing in front of him. He shifts his weight back, trying to keep himself looking like he doesn't plan to be a threat. Not to them.
"We're not talking about just a few recruits Caesar sent over to get sniped on their way into town," the Major replies in a tone that Craig is very familiar with. He can tell that the man cares, not just about his unit but about him and the stupid thing he plans to do.
Only it's not stupid.
Craig looks left and right, scanning across the other NCR soldiers who have taken note of his presence. He can feel their eyes on his beret. It'd be worth wondering what else they think they know about him, but he has something much more important on his mind.
"I know," he says, stepping in closer to speak quietly to the Major, allowing him to decide what to do with the information. He hopes it's a show of good faith that means he won't have to fight his way through his former brothers and sisters in arms. Good people. "Some of them strolled right into Novac. That's where I came from," he says.
"So you're planning on taking on the forward guard of the Legion. By yourself," the Major says flatly. He waits a second before adding: "I can't let you do that, son. They're intercepting supplies from us as it is. If you go provoking them, it could spell a lot more than some lost resources."
Craig considers taking off his sunglasses to show his eyes. He considers imploring. It's right on the tip of his tongue to explain that they have his wife and his child, still in her belly. He thinks if he said enough, said the right thing, that he could even rally some help. Take them out down to a man. Choke the Legion and its incursions west of Hoover Dam. On most days, he'd like nothing better than that.
But he doesn't have the right words to say. His shoulders sag a little, and he shakes his head again.
"Sorry, sir, but I'm retired," he says. He side-steps him and prepares to head down the road. "We've all got things we have to do. If you can't let me go, you can order someone to shoot me."
He hears the Major and several other people trying to call after and reason with him. He squeezes his eyes shut for a moment longer than is smart. He wishes he could ask for help as he walks past the buildings and the NCR soldiers whose gaze he can feel on him. But help would mean that this mission would change, that his responsibilities would change, and this is about one thing and one thing only: saving his family.
The rest of the Mojave and the fate of the NCR will have to wait.
He makes it to the other side of Searchlight without much incident. He glances back over his shoulder a few times, making sure he hasn't been followed. The twilight hours make it hard to be sure, but he's always been a good spotter – except the one time he'd needed to be the most.
Anyway, he doesn't want some NCR recruit coming along, thinking they're going to take part in a vigilante effort to take down the Legion. He knows where his own mind might go if he had any choice. He doesn't want someone dying for nothing or not even knowing what they're dying for on his watch. Especially when the brass back in Searchlight were damned clear about how they felt about it. He doesn't get many choices about what happens next, but he still doesn't plan to be the guy who saw to it that the NCR couldn't hold Nevada.
The road widens out and fades into grass on either side as he makes his way downhill. A summer breeze blows up toward his face, carrying the scent of fresh water and the life that comes with it. Up ahead, there is a sign from before the Great War that's still easy to read. It says "Welcome to Cottonwood Cove" in big, red letters that look like they were painted on by a person who never knew the end would come. The sight of the sign, housed in brick, tightens his stomach worse than the spikes that have fresh and mostly rotted and picked-clean heads that flank it to either side. Once, this had been a place for families. And it's where he's tracked his to. He doesn't know the word for it, but he hates the way it makes him feel cheated, wishing for a world that seems like it could never have been real.
He takes off his sunglasses and tucks them away. It's getting dark enough that they offer no advantage to him now. He's walking right down the center of the path, and it makes him feel uneasy. He doesn't like the lack of cover, even though he's waited for the cover of night.
The Legion has a reputation for their war dogs, and as he scans his eyes around and tries to keep them everywhere at once, he doesn't like the thought that one of them could already be on his scent. He hears his footfalls, and they're as measured as he can make them while making any speed at all. He fears treading off the path until he knows which direction he should take, afraid that there might be traps with men like him in mind.
In the distance, he catches sight of crucifixes to the right of the path.
In Searchlight, some of the old buildings in town had carvings of crucifixes of their own. He knows that they meant something different back then. He isn't sure how a crucifix could mean anything but an awful, unjust, prolonged death that no one deserved except – maybe – the people in charge of lashing or nailing someone to one.
On one crucifix, he makes out that one body has been hanging there long enough for the animals to take an interest in the dead. On the other, a person clings to life, just barely, and he knows there's nothing he can do for them. All he knows is that neither of those people is Carla, so he has to keep moving.
Further up and to the left, there's a short, rectangular building. Lights burn inside.
He stops his progress up the path. He draws another breath. The stench of death cuts through the fresh air. The divide between the paths gives him pause. The lights up ahead mean people. Or, well, Legion. Further to the right, there is the even fainter impression of an old road. It seems like the right way to go for someone whose expertise is to strike before his target has the chance to see him, but the fact that it seems like a weakness makes him wonder just how stupid they are, how lucky he could be.
He dares to hope that he could find a way in, to get her out. If he can get to her, he thinks he could run with her. Hell, he could carry her back to Searchlight if that's what it meant to save her. It's a dangerous hope to have, but it's that hope that propels him ahead, taking his chances on the road to the right. He likes that it provides him more cover, anyway.
As he passes the closest cross, he hangs his head as he passes by the victim. He doesn't know if it's out of respect or shame, but he doesn't spare his eyes for long. Up ahead, he thinks he hears a loud, commanding voice. He tries to find shelter in shadow, against a hill, and finally behind rocks as he realizes he is approaching a cliff. This road seems to have always been a dead end – probably to give the families who'd once visited this place a nice view of the water.
His throat is tight but he keeps breathing as he tries to find a place where he can get a look at the camp below.
That's when he sees it. He doesn't even need to crouch down and use his scope.
He knows all at once that the booming voice he'd heard has absolutely nothing to do with them sounding the alarm. If one of their mongrels is on his scent, they're none the wiser.
Another breath of wind blows in off the cove, and its pleasant coolness seems to rush all around him, past his ears and sending an aching cold down to his bones. It seems to mock him. He is staring down not at dozens of Legion, which he might have expected from what he'd heard back in Searchlight, but a few hundred. He can't count them all.
He is standing above them in the dark, but they are all focused on a man using a rocky hill as a stage. There is a line snaking down from the rest of their camp, guarded and prodded along by even more legionaries acting as guards.
There's screaming and pleading, but not from most of the line of people. Some of them try to fight or duck away, but they don't even get killed for their trouble. They are too outnumbered by men who have power-saws and spears and no regard for them as people. Even their defiance is something that they regard as trivial.
This is an auction of human beings, and the legionaries in charge of keeping their captives in line won't grant the merchandise the mercy of being killed before it's their turn to be sold away into slavery. Across the water, there are so many boats tied to the dock or anchored near the shore that Craig quickly gives up trying to count them, too.
They plan to take some of their new slaves back across the river.
The water is calm, clean, and clear. Some of it laps up onto the shoreline, making a deceptively peaceful sound. It is deep black in most places, but it shows light back like a mirror. Some of the buildings and people closest to it, too. He is far away from it, invisible to everyone. And it's the only advantage he has against the Legion, living up to its name in territory the NCR was supposed to be keeping out of their hands.
The knot in his throat is more like a noose around his neck now. His heart is racing, and the stupidity of hoping for anything burns him from the inside out, just like radiation. He glances down at his gun, and he knows then that it's the only familiar thing he has left in the world.
He goes through the next moments like some kind of robot. He searches out the best place to get a clear line of sight to those still in line to be auctioned off. He just has to hope she hasn't already been sold and taken away. Some of the legionaries have broken off from the crowd with men, women, or children they plan to take away as soon as possible.
When he is in position, almost flat against the ground, he peers through his scope. Through it, he can see that the line is more clearly defined – two by two, but one line is a lot shorter than the other. A hot, stinging jolt of rage threatens to unsteady his hands as he realizes that the line of women is longer than the other line. Not one woman among their ranks, but right now the female captives outnumber the male by at least a third.
If Carla has already been bought, he doesn't know if he'll be able to find her in the crowd. And it's the only imperative left to him. He has to find her. He has to see her, one more time, look at her face if he can, and… save her, the only way he can.
He has traveled across the Mojave to get here. He brought all the ammo he could carry. He still has enough left to fight through how many? Ten? Fifty?
It doesn't matter.
He sees her through the scope. He feels a bitter sense of relief betray him. It burns.
And it still doesn't matter.
Her face still glows in the firelight. She is beautiful even though there is a scrape on her forehead, a deep purple bruise across her cheekbone. Her face is round, and she holds her chin up even though her eyes are cast down. He doesn't see hope in her face.
And he's glad for a second, and it just makes the knot of rage and regret even darker and bloodier in his gut.
His finger is on the trigger, but he hesitates. He knows he would wait forever in this moment, if he could. He doesn't want to do this, but it's her only way out.
If he tries to get to her, even if he knows he'll die, they'll just let her live through this, and that's even worse.
He forces himself to angle the gun down a little more and to peer directly at her full belly. He knows that she would never want her baby to go through what's coming if it lives through this. He tries not to curse every moment, every memory of these past few months that floods into his mind – the quiet wonder, the fear of not knowing what to do, the curiosity about what he or she would be like. He knows it doesn't matter now. His child will never play with one of those stupid dinosaur toys. He'll never have to keep Briscoe from giving the baby one of those rocket toys that he'd once said poisoned a bunch of kids but which he still hoped to sell (or give away) one day.
He rights the scope again, back to Carla's face. The line moves a little after another group of the slaves are ushered off the incline into the possession of their new masters. It causes him to adjust his aim, to make his finger's position sure. He doesn't have forever.
"I've got you, baby," he says softly. He realizes that it could've been said to either of them. He closes his eyes to force back the tears that threaten to start flowing. When he has them at bay, he focuses, breathes, exhales. There is a loud crack. His aim is true.
Carla Boone falls to the ground like a ragdoll.
He's glad it's over quick. She hadn't felt a thing. As soon as he's sure, he mechanically picks up all evidence that he'd been there and keeps his rifle in hand. He starts back up the path. Just around the bend of the hill, a young legionary comes around, searching, but before he can finish scanning the scene and take in Craig's face, he's on the ground and bleeding out from a wound in his leg. Another shot makes sure he won't feel it for long.
He moves faster, headed back into NCR territory across the brush. As more and more of the Legion down below realize that someone has interrupted their party and they mobilize some men to come after him, more than once Craig considers turning around and mowing through them until he runs out of ammo.
He does turn back and pick them off when they get too close, but there are a few things that keep him headed back for something that would feel like safety to a man who still believed there was such a thing.
First, he knows that if he runs out of ammo, they'll just catch him and take him down there, too.
He won't give them the satisfaction.
Second, he has seen how many there were down there. Someone else should know. Someone who still can do something about it. He might, one day, be able to get the information to the right people.
Third, if he is dragged back to Cottonwood Cove alive, they would probably make him see his dead wife up close. The part of him that keeps running for that reason is pure cowardice, like a little boy running away from something that was entirely his fault.
But then there's the last reason. The one reason he can think that he needs to get back to Novac alive.
He still doesn't know who it was.
They hadn't razed the town. They hadn't taken anyone else. Just Carla.
Someone had set her up.
He needs to know who, even if he never knows why. He doesn't know how he'll do it. He's never been much of a smooth talker and without Carla he knows he'll be even more useless in that area. But he knows she deserves justice, and what he'd had to do to get her out of there was the furthest thing from it. The only thing that seems even a little like justice is if the same rifle that killed her takes out the person who betrayed her. Betrayed them – his entire family.
He kills a lot of legionaries before he loses the rest of them.
It isn't anywhere close to enough.
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Wednesday, October 11, 2281. 11:28 P.M.
Wednesday, October 11, 2281. 11:28 P.M.
The scent of smoke is the first thing that pierces through the dark layer of unconsciousness that had been shielding her from the ringing in her head. The smoke is faint but unmistakable, and the thought that she needs to leave or fix something drags her into as much cognizance as she can muster. It still feels like it isn't enough.
The smoke is weirdly sweet. Another inhale of breath, and she thinks she smells earth, too. Squinting as she blinks open her eyes, she realizes she is on the ground.
Her mouth feels dry, but that's nothing new. She has been doing runs into the Mojave for five years. Out here, water is life itself, much more than back in NCR territory – the real thing.
She hears men's voices, deep and demanding, and that spurs her to try and move. She doesn't understand why she feels so sluggish, but she's dizzy and every new command she tries to give her muscles makes her stomach protest and lurch even more. She feels so sick and addled that it's hard to find room for fear.
She pushes herself up onto her elbow, then tries pressing down with her hand to right herself the rest of the way.
That's when she realizes that she can't move her right hand separate from her left. Her vision springs into focus despite what seems to be a visceral protest on the part of her everything. She sees big, soft leather gloves over her hands that she hadn't put there. The rope that binds her wrists together is coiled around the leather rather than her skin, so tightly that she can't hope to slide them off.
"You got what you were after," one of the men says. "So pay up."
Her mind races down one of the first avenues that comes to mind, but she seems to have more clothes on than when she'd been on the road – on her own – before this.
No caravan, no escorts, and none of the mercenaries who hung around the Mojave Express office in the Hub had been available for hire for this job. Low profile. Silence. It was for the security of the package. It hadn't bothered her. Quiet walks out into the desert with the cover of being a stranger with a gun suited her just fine. She'd never even needed to fire it at a person. Until now.
"You're crying in the rain, pally," another man says. His voice is different from the others. Affected in an accent she's never heard before. It's a strange figure of speech, especially out here where good water is scarce for miles and miles.
Goodsprings. That was where she'd been going next. It was in the name. She could refill her water supply and maybe get a good night's sleep somewhere in a barely-on-the-map settlement before she made the last leg of the journey toward New Vegas. She had even been planning to start before dawn.
She remembers what she was doing. So what happened?
Why is she wearing more clothes? She squirms a bit but finds that she doesn't have the strength to get up off her knees. Even if she has it, something is stopping her. Probably more rope.
The clothes are too big for her, and she thinks that maybe the answer is as simple as that. Nothing has been taken from her, but she can't get to anything to help herself out. The anger throbs in her temples and at the back of her head, and she knows they must have knocked her out.
She tries to speak her indignation, to form the questions that she needs answers to, but that's when she realizes why her mouth had been so dry before. She can't speak either. They've gagged her with a rag and rope, too.
How long has she been out? What did they want from her, if not the obvious she already eliminated?
"Look who's wakin' up over here," one man says. She can hear him leer. He sounds the way she thinks all men do when their appetites have twisted far enough to make them animals. Her nose crinkles with disgust as she takes in his wide-eyes and the spiky, vibrant hair that runs in a shock along the center of his head. He doesn't stare at her long enough for her animosity to register, though. Instead, he is looking to the man who stands in the center of the three in front of her.
The leader, it stands to reason.
He's an average-sized man. The one to his right is taller than him. But he seems cocky and commanding, judging just by his clothes. There isn't a scrap of armor on him, all the way out here, and his coat seems like it'd be better than a bullseye to anyone with a scope.
He takes a drag from his cigarette.
That explains the smoke.
He tosses the cigarette to the ground, most of its length still there. He crushes it beneath his shoe.
"Time to cash out," he says solemnly. It makes a little more sense. He's from New Vegas. Gambling metaphors.
She grinds her jaw a little and works her tongue at the gag in her mouth, trying to find a way to speak without showing her desperation.
What does he want?
"Will you get it over with?" the man to his right asks. He looks exasperated, like he's more than a little unnerved and disgusted with his boss.
The man in the checkered suit holds up a hand, one long finger extended toward the sky – making his point.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face," he says.
She wishes she hadn't found room for terror the moment he makes it clear what he plans to do with her. Kill people? Why keep her alive at all if his only plan now is to kill her?
Again, everything makes a little more sense. This place, it's a graveyard. Literally.
She can't do anything but glare at him and watch. He's not giving her the chance to argue for her life, let alone beg. Not that she'd give him the satisfaction, if that's what he wants.
"... but I ain't a fink, dig?" he asks, giving the other man a sidelong, sneering glance.
His demeanor changes instantly when he has regained control over the dissent among his very different companions. Khans, apparently. Not that this tidbit of information will do her any good when she's dead.
The man in the checkered suit's eyelids go heavy as he sighs, reaching into his coat for something. She sees what it is, and her body strains futilely against the baggy clothes and twists of rope again. That chip is hers until she gets it to the North Gate of the New Vegas Strip. It's in her contract, and she's learned that she lives and dies by it.
Dies by it, today.
Her eyes sting and she wishes she could blame the desert heat, but it's the cool dark of night around them, silent except for the coos of a few brave birds.
"You've made your last delivery, kid," he says. She thinks he shakes his head a little. He is forcing himself to speak to her like he gives a damn, and it makes her seethe. If he had a conscience, he'd let her go. And what could possibly be so important about a shiny poker chip?
He tucks it back into his coat and is fishing around for something else inside. She doesn't have to use her imagination very much to figure out what it's going to be.
She looks him in the eye because it's the only power she has left. She's come so far from home, and for what? She glares at him with everything she has.
"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene," he says. Where she had seen something that approached perverse compassion a moment before, his eyes go blank. He keeps them open – looking her in the face – but she can see that there's no moving him with anything in her own gaze.
He draws the pistol out, and it seems heavy but comfortable in his hand. If she weren't tied up and likely concussed, she thinks she could dive for it, grapple with him, and take it. He isn't concerned about any such turn of events.
It's a beautiful weapon. A silvery color that reflects cold moonlight better than fire. There's a painting on its grip, mostly obscured by his hand.
She swallows and concentrates on glaring. Not giving up until her last breath, trying to see through him. Trying to understand, if nothing else, for whatever cold comfort it would be.
She wonders if her hard stare has started to get to him when he snarls a bit with his next words.
"From where you're kneeling," he says, his voice a bit harsher with less of the affected accent for a moment, "must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck."
No shit.
He is silent as he takes his time with his breath. He has an unlimited number left compared to her very few. They both know the score.
His face and the tone of his voice are a bit more controlled when he levels the gun and aims it squarely at her head.
"Truth is," he says, and she hates that he keeps speaking to her, as if it makes a difference. If there's anything after this, she knows she'll never forget his voice, even if she forgets everything else about her short, pointless life, "the game was rigged from the start."
There is a soft, delicate click. She knows there's a loud sound to follow. She doesn't know if it ever reaches her ears before her world goes silent and dark.
The scent of smoke is the first thing that pierces through the dark layer of unconsciousness that had been shielding her from the ringing in her head. The smoke is faint but unmistakable, and the thought that she needs to leave or fix something drags her into as much cognizance as she can muster. It still feels like it isn't enough.
The smoke is weirdly sweet. Another inhale of breath, and she thinks she smells earth, too. Squinting as she blinks open her eyes, she realizes she is on the ground.
Her mouth feels dry, but that's nothing new. She has been doing runs into the Mojave for five years. Out here, water is life itself, much more than back in NCR territory – the real thing.
She hears men's voices, deep and demanding, and that spurs her to try and move. She doesn't understand why she feels so sluggish, but she's dizzy and every new command she tries to give her muscles makes her stomach protest and lurch even more. She feels so sick and addled that it's hard to find room for fear.
She pushes herself up onto her elbow, then tries pressing down with her hand to right herself the rest of the way.
That's when she realizes that she can't move her right hand separate from her left. Her vision springs into focus despite what seems to be a visceral protest on the part of her everything. She sees big, soft leather gloves over her hands that she hadn't put there. The rope that binds her wrists together is coiled around the leather rather than her skin, so tightly that she can't hope to slide them off.
"You got what you were after," one of the men says. "So pay up."
Her mind races down one of the first avenues that comes to mind, but she seems to have more clothes on than when she'd been on the road – on her own – before this.
No caravan, no escorts, and none of the mercenaries who hung around the Mojave Express office in the Hub had been available for hire for this job. Low profile. Silence. It was for the security of the package. It hadn't bothered her. Quiet walks out into the desert with the cover of being a stranger with a gun suited her just fine. She'd never even needed to fire it at a person. Until now.
"You're crying in the rain, pally," another man says. His voice is different from the others. Affected in an accent she's never heard before. It's a strange figure of speech, especially out here where good water is scarce for miles and miles.
Goodsprings. That was where she'd been going next. It was in the name. She could refill her water supply and maybe get a good night's sleep somewhere in a barely-on-the-map settlement before she made the last leg of the journey toward New Vegas. She had even been planning to start before dawn.
She remembers what she was doing. So what happened?
Why is she wearing more clothes? She squirms a bit but finds that she doesn't have the strength to get up off her knees. Even if she has it, something is stopping her. Probably more rope.
The clothes are too big for her, and she thinks that maybe the answer is as simple as that. Nothing has been taken from her, but she can't get to anything to help herself out. The anger throbs in her temples and at the back of her head, and she knows they must have knocked her out.
She tries to speak her indignation, to form the questions that she needs answers to, but that's when she realizes why her mouth had been so dry before. She can't speak either. They've gagged her with a rag and rope, too.
How long has she been out? What did they want from her, if not the obvious she already eliminated?
"Look who's wakin' up over here," one man says. She can hear him leer. He sounds the way she thinks all men do when their appetites have twisted far enough to make them animals. Her nose crinkles with disgust as she takes in his wide-eyes and the spiky, vibrant hair that runs in a shock along the center of his head. He doesn't stare at her long enough for her animosity to register, though. Instead, he is looking to the man who stands in the center of the three in front of her.
The leader, it stands to reason.
He's an average-sized man. The one to his right is taller than him. But he seems cocky and commanding, judging just by his clothes. There isn't a scrap of armor on him, all the way out here, and his coat seems like it'd be better than a bullseye to anyone with a scope.
He takes a drag from his cigarette.
That explains the smoke.
He tosses the cigarette to the ground, most of its length still there. He crushes it beneath his shoe.
"Time to cash out," he says solemnly. It makes a little more sense. He's from New Vegas. Gambling metaphors.
She grinds her jaw a little and works her tongue at the gag in her mouth, trying to find a way to speak without showing her desperation.
What does he want?
"Will you get it over with?" the man to his right asks. He looks exasperated, like he's more than a little unnerved and disgusted with his boss.
The man in the checkered suit holds up a hand, one long finger extended toward the sky – making his point.
"Maybe Khans kill people without looking them in the face," he says.
She wishes she hadn't found room for terror the moment he makes it clear what he plans to do with her. Kill people? Why keep her alive at all if his only plan now is to kill her?
Again, everything makes a little more sense. This place, it's a graveyard. Literally.
She can't do anything but glare at him and watch. He's not giving her the chance to argue for her life, let alone beg. Not that she'd give him the satisfaction, if that's what he wants.
"... but I ain't a fink, dig?" he asks, giving the other man a sidelong, sneering glance.
His demeanor changes instantly when he has regained control over the dissent among his very different companions. Khans, apparently. Not that this tidbit of information will do her any good when she's dead.
The man in the checkered suit's eyelids go heavy as he sighs, reaching into his coat for something. She sees what it is, and her body strains futilely against the baggy clothes and twists of rope again. That chip is hers until she gets it to the North Gate of the New Vegas Strip. It's in her contract, and she's learned that she lives and dies by it.
Dies by it, today.
Her eyes sting and she wishes she could blame the desert heat, but it's the cool dark of night around them, silent except for the coos of a few brave birds.
"You've made your last delivery, kid," he says. She thinks he shakes his head a little. He is forcing himself to speak to her like he gives a damn, and it makes her seethe. If he had a conscience, he'd let her go. And what could possibly be so important about a shiny poker chip?
He tucks it back into his coat and is fishing around for something else inside. She doesn't have to use her imagination very much to figure out what it's going to be.
She looks him in the eye because it's the only power she has left. She's come so far from home, and for what? She glares at him with everything she has.
"Sorry you got twisted up in this scene," he says. Where she had seen something that approached perverse compassion a moment before, his eyes go blank. He keeps them open – looking her in the face – but she can see that there's no moving him with anything in her own gaze.
He draws the pistol out, and it seems heavy but comfortable in his hand. If she weren't tied up and likely concussed, she thinks she could dive for it, grapple with him, and take it. He isn't concerned about any such turn of events.
It's a beautiful weapon. A silvery color that reflects cold moonlight better than fire. There's a painting on its grip, mostly obscured by his hand.
She swallows and concentrates on glaring. Not giving up until her last breath, trying to see through him. Trying to understand, if nothing else, for whatever cold comfort it would be.
She wonders if her hard stare has started to get to him when he snarls a bit with his next words.
"From where you're kneeling," he says, his voice a bit harsher with less of the affected accent for a moment, "must seem like an 18-karat run of bad luck."
No shit.
He is silent as he takes his time with his breath. He has an unlimited number left compared to her very few. They both know the score.
His face and the tone of his voice are a bit more controlled when he levels the gun and aims it squarely at her head.
"Truth is," he says, and she hates that he keeps speaking to her, as if it makes a difference. If there's anything after this, she knows she'll never forget his voice, even if she forgets everything else about her short, pointless life, "the game was rigged from the start."
There is a soft, delicate click. She knows there's a loud sound to follow. She doesn't know if it ever reaches her ears before her world goes silent and dark.
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