Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

It was odd how bright the lights of New Vegas really were when one stopped and looked at them. Scarlette had been to many places in her time, but few were quite so full of Old World grandeur and glamour as this city. Sometimes, if you spent too long there, you could almost try to trick yourself into forgetting what lay beyond: of the hardships of the desert and the dust that clung to your hair and got caught in your eyes; of the sad smiles of starving children and the wan faces of their mothers; of an overwhelming and unknown question that there would never, could never, be an answer to.

    She had never been fond of House - had killed him in that tomb of his with few qualms - but she could appreciate the skill and hard work with which he had shaped New Vegas. And now his work would be destroyed, in the name of a man who spoke of an even older world. The Legion had marched upon New Vegas and had conquered it, Caesar at its centre and thousands of men behind him.

    She was no stranger to history. She knew all worlds eventually fell. To actually witness one’s fall was so overwhelming she merely felt numb. Numb, and nauseated with fear. Perhaps this was how they all felt, so long ago. Sick and helpless and clinging to whatever life they might find, terrified of it all the same.

    The brightness of Vegas’ encroaching lights now only made her stomach more queasy as she laid down and peered through a gap in the canvas. It was all too bright, too much of a contrast with the darkness that surrounded her in the hot and stuffy wagon where they had thrown her. Her thoughts moved to the people of New Vegas. Did they know what had happened at the dam? Did they have a chance to flee?  

    Unable to bear the sight any longer, she turned away and came face to face with the dark, lack of oxygen making her feel faint. In her first life, Scarlette remembered blindfolding animals to help them remain calm during transport. The dark helps, her mother had told her. That was how she felt in that moment, a blinded animal being taken to its slaughter. Had the animals known, too, what awaited them?

    When they pulled her from the wagon, she winced. The sun had set hours ago, but she was so used to the dark that the lights truly were blinding. She was shoved down onto her knees with a grunt and glare, silent as her guards muttered in their foul Latin behind her. Their eyes swept over her. What she knew of Latin wasn’t enough to understand them. Not that she had the energy in her to focus, regardless.

    What greeted her were the sights and sounds of hundreds of Legion men preparing for a night of revelry, and it overwhelmed her. She had half-expected Caesar to be there, waiting for her, an arrogant smile painted on his face. But he wasn’t. A small, pathetic part of her was disappointed and offended, but she quickly brushed it aside. After all, she was little more than of shadow of the person - of the people - she'd once been.

    They were outside the Ultra Luxe. She watched the Legionaries and soldiers. It had been mere hours since they had conquered New Vegas, and the celebrations were bound to continue long into the night. They were gorging themselves on food and drink, harassing women, dancing and yelling oafishly, too focused on hedonism to notice her arrival. 

    She was, in truth, and guiltily so, relieved that they cared not for her. She remembered what Siri had told her once, when she had first come to Fortification Hill, about what the Legionairies had said. Trying you out. She thought of the guards, standing behind her and staring hungrily at her. Were they thinking of that, too?

    Perhaps such a fate would be unavoidable, in the end. She was no fool about how the Legion treated captured women. 

    Her eyes moved to the distance, where even her dazed vision was able to see lines of crucifixions stretching into the distance. She gasped quietly and turned away. It wasn’t unexpected, but the sight horrified her, especially since it was her failure that had landed them this fate. How many innocents would die because of her? How many would suffer something worse than death?

    Scarlette looked down at her arms and exposed skin. They had dressed her in little more than rags once she’d been stripped, and she could see the bruises and cuts littering her pale flesh. Torn rags, ripped and bloody. A wave of self-hatred and disgust washed over her. Pathetic, pathetic, pathetic. You weren't enough. You couldn't save them. Why aren't you fighting more? For the first time in what felt like years, she felt like she might cry. 

    Before she had the chance, a new voice from behind her, different from the others, caught her attention and made her tense, breath catching. He spoke smoothly and sharply to the guards, voice coated in that ever-present apathy. Inculta.

    Suddenly she was grabbed by men on either side and moved forward. Instinctively, she struggled in their grasp, but she was weak, and they were strong, and she knew too much of a struggle would only earn her a beating. At least now they were taking her to learn her fate. It was the not knowing that was the worst. 

    They pulled her into the Ultra Luxe, into a grand dining room where Caesar sat at the centre of a large table, his head Legionaries sitting alongside him as slaves served and entertained. She did not see Legate Lanius present, and relief flooded her. Caesar, while hated, was preferable to the beast that had defeated her. She was dragged in front of Caesar and shoved once more onto her knees. Her gaze fell to the floor. 

    “Ave, Caesar,” announced Vulpes, bowing in reverence. A hand fell on her shoulder and lingered for a moment before pushing her forward; he was closer than she had thought, standing right behind her. “I have brought the woman, as you requested.”

    Scarlette was not so much a coward as to hide from the eyes of Caesar when they were upon her. Particularly when he was about to bestow upon her her fate. It was a good habit to look death in the eye. He gave her a smile when she met his gaze, and she was compelled to rip it from his face, to tear and claw at him like a wild, feral animal. Instead, she had to settle with seething in anger.

    He made a broad gesture towards her. “At last, the Little Messenger has arrived,” She glared at him for the name. He took a swig from his drink and she wondered briefly whether it was liquor. If there was ever a time for Caesar to break his rule of abstinence, it was now.

    “Tell me, is the sight of our Rome not glorious? Does the red and golden Bull decorating its streets not make your failure beautiful?" He paused a moment and eyed her. "Even more beautiful still is how eager the NCR were to run cowering with their tails between their legs.” Laughter bellowed from the Legionaries in the room. The Fox behind her stayed quiet.

    She said nothing, though a small, pained smile crept on her face, despite herself. She’d had no intentions of giving New Vegas to the NCR, was using them only as support to defeat the Legion and secure independence, and of course Caesar knew that. It really was quite funny, in an awful sort of way, that they had fled quite so fast once she had been downed. She couldn’t have expected anything but from Oliver. 

    “Well? Is it not everything you had expected it to be?”

    She picked at the skin on her hands and said nothing, only stared.

    “Speak when spoken to, profligate whore!” cried one of the guards behind her, as he struck her in the back of the head. She let out a sharp cry of pain and fell over.

    Caesar raised a hand to stop the man from going any further. “Parce, precor, hoc non est opus,” he exclaimed, voice loud but somewhat humoured. Stop, there is no need, or something along those lines. Her head rang and she felt sick again. “I don’t wish to damage her more than Lanius already has. She has proved a worthy opponent, despite being a woman… A profligate, at that. But even profligates can prove useful once they learn to bow to the Bull.” 

    He was trying to goad her into saying something, Scarlette knew that. He usually wasn’t one to do such a thing, not really, but victory had gone to his head, it seemed. And she couldn’t help but respond. She would not be a coward in the moments before her fate was handed to her.

    “I would sooner burn than bow to you,” she spat, eyes aflame with the burning of the Mojave sun. 

    Caesar chuckled at her words, pleased she had responded. His light nature only made her more enraged. “Perhaps,” he cooed. “But I would not see you burn so soon. You have offered us your aid in the past, and you will do so again. Not willing at first, no. Though in time, you too shall understand loyalty. As all come to.”

    Before she had a chance to consider his words, he turned to where Vulpes stood, and gave the man a nod. “For now, however,” he continued, looking back to the small and frail woman, “your attitude is ruining the evening. We shall discuss more later. Until then, Vulpes will escort you to your room.”

    Hands gripped her arms once more and pulled her up and back, out of the room. “Wait!” she cried, wide-eyed and breathless. Her fate wasn’t to be death? Slavery, hard labour? He had to kill her, it was a mercy, it was what she deserved! “That can’t be it, please!” She tried to break free from the hands that held her but she couldn’t, and she was already out of the room. “Kill me, kill me now, let it be over!” 

    A cold, strong hand wrapped itself around her arm, and she turned with a gasp to look upon Vulpes Inculta, for the first time in weeks. Her mouth closed and she stared back at him, wordless. His ice-blue eyes peered down at her, hair ruffled and lips pursed. There was something small, indecipherable in the way he looked at her, but it lingered for only a brief moment before his typical expressionless manner returned. 

    “Caesar has deemed you worth more than death,” he spoke evenly, and she heard the doors to the dining room close, breaking eye contact with a scowl. His hold on her seemed to tighten when she did. “Do not spit in the face of this gift. Most profligates are not so fortunate.”

    Vulpes let go of her arm and shoved her towards the elevator as the two guards pulled her along. It was quiet as they travelled, and she thought in anger at why they would keep her alive. Slavery of some kind, no doubt. Though considering which type of slave she might be made her ill. 

    She was surprised when they stopped in front of a room, one that seemed to be like any other in the casino. “What is this?” she asked, voice coated in a venom she couldn’t shake even if she wanted to. She hadn’t expected to be taken here, had thought they would throw her in some cage until Caesar requested her presence.

    Vulpes seemed not to care about her tone, and didn’t turn to her as he replied. “Your room, Messenger Bird.” 

    “What?”

    He said nothing as he reached into his pocket to pull out a key, opening the door and swinging it open. He gestured for the men to bring her in. They threw her on the bed, and she collapsed with a groan upon it, quickly turning back around to her captors, eyes wild with fear as the reality of her situation collapsed upon her. Oh God, she thought to herself, not here, not now, he wouldn’t do that to her…!

    “Discedo,” Vulpes muttered to the two men, and they spared her a glance each before leaving. Of course. The fear in her fell away, and she felt she might collapse.

    He closed the door behind them, and paused, back to her. The tension between them was thick. Scarlette stared at the back of his head, his dark hair longer than it had been when she’d last seen him. Her chest heaved in fear and anger, ignoring the suffocating smell of long-undisturbed dust in the air. She dared not make a sound. Who knew what he had planned, but she’d be a fool to let her guard down.

    She didn’t know him, after all. Never had.

    Finally, Vulpes turned around to her. His eyes roamed over her pale, bruised form, bags under her eyes, so vulnerable and tired and afraid. And yet beautiful, still. A small smirk curled at the corner of his lips as he took several steps towards her with a curious tilt of his head. Just as he’d expected, Scarlette - his Scarlette - did not flinch. 

    “It feels strange to see you like this,” he began, voice quiet. 

    Her face burned with anger. “What, as a dog in chains?” 

    “If you prefer to think of yourself that way,” he said, blinking distastefully at the harshness of her tone. “But, no. I meant together, alone. In a hotel room of all places. It reminds me of… Past meetings.” He had meant to make her blush, the thought of their past making her feel a little more at ease. Times when she had not minded working with him when the situation called for it. When things were simpler, her body less battered and her eyes less full of resentment, and full of something more.

    She only narrowed her eyes. “Things couldn’t be more different from that now.”

    Her response seemed to irritate him somehow, and he frowned. Wordlessly, he moved to the bathroom and ran the hot water for a bath. A luxury he would need to get used to, as well. When he came back, she had barely moved from her position on the bed, and he moved closer. She backed away from his reach, pressing herself against the wall with a warning glare, and said nothing.

    “Let me unbind you,” he said, raising an eyebrow in frustration. Despite that, his voice was oddly soft. “Scarlette… I won’t hurt you.”

    “You’ve already hurt me more than you can imagine,” was the reply, but she moved closer and surrendered herself to his nimble hands. The brief thought of escape crossed her mind, and she glanced at the door, but she knew it would be pointless. Outside, there were likely guards, and she didn’t fancy a beating. Whatever fate awaited her would not be made easier by that. 

    He made quick work of her binds, and she tried not to notice how gentle he had been, or how quickly he had taken the ropes out of her reach. Once he’d finished, he moved wordlessly to the bathroom to turn off the water, and then made his way over to the door of her room. “You should bathe, it will help you feel better. There are clean clothes in the wardrobe.”

    He paused once more, in front of the door. It was slightly open, his hand on the handle. She watched him, brows furrowed and heart beating fast. A part of her wanted him to leave, to lock her in and never come back so that she might be forgotten and die peacefully in this room, alone. Another part of her wanted him to stay, to brush her hair out of her face and kiss her cheeks as she cried, and tell her it would be alright. That he'd protect her. She didn’t like that part of herself, and pushed it away.

    Vulpes turned around. Perhaps it was the dim light of the hotel room, but there was something melancholic in his eyes when he looked at her. “It didn’t have to be like this,” he spoke. “We… You could have been more.”

    Their eyes burned into one another's. Scarlette said nothing. He turned, and left, and locked the door behind him. There was a bitter taste on her tongue.

Chapter Text

She didn’t sleep that first night. 

    The bath had gone cold by the time she remembered it, but she forced herself to sit in it, and there she scrubbed away at herself until her skin was red and raw and stinging and the dirt and dust of the Mojave was long gone. Gone, gone, just like everything else. She thought of how easy it would be, to drown herself there, dead in the bath like the skeletons she had found in so many of those Old World ruins. Would he be the one to find her? Would he mourn her, would he cry for her? 

    She had always found it a little odd, and morbidly funny, that so many of them died like that in the bath. It had always seemed a peaceful place to her, one of cleanliness and quiet and luxury. That so many people chose a bath as their place of death felt odd. 

    Those thoughts were ones of a previous life. That night, when she sat there in the cold water, her face stained red with tears, she finally understood.

    The bed was soft beneath her skin. It was strange to be treated in such a way when she had anticipated filth and beatings. One could expect to be handled like wasteland rubbish when conquered by Caesar’s Legion, but as a guest? The window, high above the ground below, let in fresh air from the outside. It was cold in her lungs when she breathed it in, a contrast from the warmth of the blankets she had buried herself under.

    All through the night, screams echoed down from the streets below, slinking through her open window like bad dreams. Sometimes she heard yells, the pained cries of women. The fight not to vomit was aided only by the fact she had eaten little more than nothing in the days prior. The dry retching stirring in the pit of her stomach never managed to spill over.

    She thought of her companions, what had become of them. Arcade had been with her when she had gone to the Fort - had insisted he come. He was her closest friend and she couldn’t bear not to bring him. How selfish that had truly been. It had denied him an escape. They had been separated at some point after Lanius downed her, but where he was, she had no idea. All she could do was hope beyond anything they’d been merciful.

    ED-E had come with her, too. But she had fewer hopes still for her little robot, who had seen and been with her through so much. The Legion had little love for technology, and if he’d been captured, she doubted he was still well. Maybe he had escaped. She found herself clinging to the thought of him flying through the desert somewhere.

    As for the others, the ones who had remained in the Lucky 38, her guesses were blind. Hopefully they’d had the sense and the knowledge to get out before the Legion had arrived. Boone wouldn't have left without a fight, stubbornly brave man that he was. Veronica had likely returned to the Brotherhood, though she was unsure what would happen to the group now that the Legion had the Mojave. Raul, Cass, Lily, Rex, all the others she had come to know and care for… She hoped they were safe, wherever they were.

    The morning arrived and it was both a solace and a curse. When the sun peeked through the window and shone orange upon her face, Scarlette looked more like a corpse than the Courier of the Mojave who had come so close to victory only a few days ago.

    An older slave woman entered and took her from her bed, gently, respectfully, saying nothing as she dressed her. It was a plain white tunic, but it was clean, and it covered her where the rags hadn’t. The woman was patient when Scarlette struggled weakly in her grasp. She was tempted to ask for her name, but found the words got caught in her throat.

    The woman left as quietly as she had come. In her place came the same two men from last night, and while Scarlette managed to find a bit more fight in herself for them, they had no trouble pulling her from the room. Waiting outside was Vulpes, and she turned away from him in spite. If he cared, he did nothing to show it, and he led the four of them down to the elevator and once more into a grand room where Caesar waited. This room was different from the one last night, but the whole casino seemed a maze to her, always had, even back when masked cannibals roamed its halls. 

    Caesar awaited her on a throne in the centre, Praetorian Guards on either side of him. Again, she was shoved to her knees in front of him, grateful now for the modesty of the tunic. Vulpes moved to stand behind Caesar. She felt weaker this morning, tired and starved, could practically feel the bags weighing heavy under her eyes. But that would not stop her from looking at Caesar as she had done the night before.

    He didn’t look as arrogant as the previous night, and regarded her with a stoic, if not proud, expression. There was a glimmer of amusement in his eyes. “Scarlette.”

    “It’s Scarlette now, is it?”

    The guard behind her tensed.

    “Yes, for now,” he said plainly. “Though I can continue to call you Little Messenger, or perhaps give you a new name, if you prefer. Many take new names under the Legion - if I were to be fair, you should really be no different.”

    She averted her gaze and said nothing.

    “No? Then don't you dare talk like that to me again. I won't extend my kindness a second time."

    He paused and gestured for a soldier to stand beside him. One did so, wordlessly. "Which brings me to my next point. I suppose there's no reason in delaying you an answer, is there? The progress of the Legion can’t wait, not when we’ve worked so hard to find ourselves here." He made a broad gesture to the room he sat in, eyes gleaming, and paused. As though allowing himself a moment to take it all in. When he looked back at her, it was with a smile. "As I told you last night, death doesn’t await you quite so quickly as you had likely imagined. No, your future lies elsewhere.”

    She breathed in deeply, harshly, pursing her lips. There was nausea in her stomach again; whether the result of guilt or the thought of what staying alive meant, she wasn't sure. Both, if she had to hazard a guess. 

    “Rest assured, I did consider it. Crucifixion seemed too barbaric for an opponent such as yourself. That punishment is usually reserved for the cowardly, resistant profligates. I considered beheading, a quick death, one of respect,” Scarlette bit back a scream. He leaned forward on his chair. “But, no. My Legion does not waste,” he spat. “And it would be a waste of your use to kill you.”

    She narrowed her eyes, voice somehow steady. The phrasing made her uneasy. The sort of skills she had, she couldn’t imagine they liked anyone possessing, let alone her, a captured woman. “And what use am I?”

    Caesar spoke simply as though he had anticipated the question before she’d asked it. “While you have other... Talents, your use lies in your skill with medicine, your knowledge of healing herbs and the like. I’ve heard things, and your reputation and history with the Followers precedes you. Vulpes Inculta has given me first hand accounts of your medical knowledge and practice.”

   Of course he had. She shot the man a glance, bitter scowl on her face. There had been several times in the past when she’d helped him, had made him some healing powder, had stitched him up and cleaned his wounds. He narrowed his eyes at her, and she could practically see his tongue trying in vain to push a harsh remark through his teeth.

    Caesar continued. “You will work as a chief healer, as the most talented women who serve us do.”

    Despite the feelings of dread, it was not to say she wasn’t in part relieved: as far as servitude went, being a healer of sorts was hardly the worst way to serve the Legion. She should have been grateful to not suffer a worse fate. Yet it felt in her heart more of a travesty than a slow, torturous death, or hard labour, or - God forbid - sexual slavery, ever could have been. She had done all that to them, and they had chosen to keep her alive? While innocents suffered? She deserved death, pain, torture. Not them, never them.

     She could have vomited right there and then at the thought.

     “Under the strictest supervision, of course, and obeying fully," Caesar said. "Since I respect you, you will be treated well. But make no mistake, you are a slave. Your autonomy is gone. Perhaps, as time passes and you work to prove your loyalty, you might earn more freedom. But until then, the slightest sign of treason and I will not hesitate to exert the justice you deserve.” He paused. “Do I make myself clear?”

    Scarlette nodded, finding little strength within her left to rebut. Besides, if she did, perhaps he would exert some of that justice upon her now. And for all the guilt swelling inside of her, she found she had no desire for an early death when actually faced with it. 

    “Good,” he said. He eyed her for a moment before turning toward the soldier beside him. “Put the band on her.”

    She laughed humourlessly at his words, eyes falling to the ground. “Not a collar?”

    Caesar gave her a wry smile. “No, not a collar.”

    The soldier moved to her, and took her arm. He wrapped a band tightly around the bare flesh of her upper arm and moved away. Scarlette stared at it. A leather band, pressed into the skin. When Caesar told the guards to take her away, back to her room, she didn’t struggle. Only looked Vulpes in the eye, unwavering, as was he.

    A restless, uneasy sleep came to Scarlette that night. She felt restrained beneath the covers, their warmth not a comfort but a paralysing poison seeping into her skin. She sensed imaginary figures moving in the shadows, watching her and waiting to pounce. She felt like a helpless girl, the same one who would cower at shapes in the dark, and cling to her mother.

    When morning arrived, there was a knock at her door, and a gruff voice told her she needed to prepare. She dressed, and made her way out. A man whose name she was not given met her by the elevator and took her outside.

    They journeyed through part of the Strip. Soldiers and slaves moved around, the occasional officer. She kept her head down. The man spoke to her in a rough Latin which she strained to understand. He took her to the former NCR Embassy, and told her that she would be working there. That it, alongside the Police Headquarters, would become a hospital, a healing centre, of sorts. She was to work there six days a week, one day off for rest, although that was always subject to change. As all things were in the life of a slave, she presumed.

    Already she could see signs that the Legion were remaking the building in their image. Slaves moved about and set up bedding and equipment, plaques were torn off of walls, technology was scrapped. The Legion worked hard and fast - she had always had a bitter admiration for their dedication, something that neither she nor the NCR had ever quite seemed able to emulate.

    Scarlette was introduced to several other healer women, bodies thin and dressed in brown tunics similar to hers. They bowed their heads at her and seemed rather nervous at her being there. Their anxiety confused her. She met them with kind smiles and soft eyes, but just as the women were beginning to warm, she was summoned away and taken back to the Ultra Luxe.

    Despite the horrors she often felt in that hotel room, the thought of returning was a comfort when compared to the onslaught of Legion-controlled Vegas. The voices, the faces, the sights, the memories were overwhelming. At least here, she could be alone in the quiet. Her thoughts demanded torture and self-hatred, but it was a familiar pain.

    She gave the nameless man a bow of the head in respect and moved to enter her room. He locked the door when it closed, and she pressed herself against it and listened, breath caught in her throat, as his footsteps moved down the hallway. A sigh escaped her lips when she was sure he had left, and she closed her eyes, if only for a brief moment. When had her breath gotten so panicked?

    Her eyes fell to the small table in the centre of the room. Upon it was a sealed letter, and a dried, pink desert flower beside it. Her heart dropped. She knew who had written it. Who had put it there. What the flower meant.

    Her skin burned. The thought of it made her sick. She grabbed the letter and tore it into pieces, unable to bear the thought of what it might say. Her hands, shaking, tossed open the window and threw it out. She spun around. The desert flower was lying there, placed delicately on the wood. Tears she didn't realise had formed fell down her face. She ran into the bathroom and slammed the door behind her.

    Later that afternoon, when she felt more at peace, she took hold of the flower. Stroking it gently, Scarlette watched as her finger pulled a petal away. It fell to the floor. She moved to her bed, face still red, and placed the flower gently beneath her pillow.

Chapter Text

Nipton was burning. Metaphorically, it had been burning for quite some time before Vulpes and his men had set it ablaze. Still, the sight was one to behold: degenerates, lashed to the cross; some taken to slavery; that filthy, pathetic mayor thrown alive into a pit of burning tyres; the flag of the Bull decorating the streets. The Fox did not see himself as cruel for enacting Caesar’s will. Justice was never cruel, no matter how harsh it might seem to the uninitiated. 

    His men had alerted him about an approaching woman, coming along the road from the west. They did not recognise her, had offered him the explanation of her likely being a passing traveller. They asked about capturing her as a slave like some of the others, or taking the simple route of killing her. No, let the woman come, he had told them, I want her to see.

    The woman appeared at the top of the street as he made his way down the Town Hall stairs. The fading sunset light was upon her, and it lit her hair a dark gold. Her skin was pale, her cheeks pink. He thought, suddenly, of a desert flower - the ones that grew among the sand and rock, pink and white and sometimes yellow, a symbol of vulnerability in the hardships of the desert. He blinked, pushing the thought away.

    She stared at him and his men for quite some time before making her way down the road now splattered in blood; an animal cautious of a predator leaping at it if it got too close. Vulpes didn't mind, he had always been patient. There was a pistol on her hip and a satchel slung across her body. The dogs growled beside him, as much a warning to her as it was a plea to sink their teeth and gums into another victim's flesh. But they stayed, obedient, as all good dogs did.

    He gave her a smile as she drew near. His teeth were sharp. “Just when I thought I wouldn't get to meet the fortunate profligate to first lay eyes on this work," he said, "Mars has seen fit to bestow upon me a witness."

    She narrowed her eyes, clenching her jaw. He could see flames flickering in her stare, and took a step closer to her, tilting his head. "And who might you be, profligate?" His eyes fell to the worn satchel slung across her shoulder, a Mojave Express logo upon it, and the pistol she wore with only as much confidence as was necessary. No, not a traveller, but... "A messenger?"

    Her hand moved across her body and pulled the satchel close, holding it against her. Her throat bobbed and she said nothing, eyeing him. A rabbit, tensing to run. He smiled at her, and in any other circumstance it might have come across as warm - now, it was sickening. "Don't worry," he said, eyes tracing her features. "You have little to fear from me. I intend to let you go free, unharmed." He paused. "Well... Not free. Nothing is free, I'm afraid, and I would expect some form of repayment for such a kindness.”

    The woman frowned. He thought she would remain silent, but instead she spoke. "Inaction to allow survival is such a kindness to you?" Her voice was quiet, tinged slightly in an accent that he hadn't heard before. Or at least, not for a very long time.

    A mumble of laughter erupted from his otherwise silent men, but Vulpes blinked beneath his glasses, face falling serious. "Oh, yes, Messenger Bird," he said, and she furrowed her brows at the name. He wondered briefly why he'd said it. "Perhaps you misunderstand. Caesar's Legion does not usually choose inaction, as you so put it, when it comes to dealing with profligates. It is our duty to eliminate moral depravity, and you are very fortunate indeed to be treated in this way."

    Her face hardened at his tone. "What would Caesar's Legion have me do?" She pronounced the C correctly, voice still quiet.

    "We would have you spread word of what was done here, of what lessons were taught."

    She leaned in a little closer, that satchel still pressed tight against her. "And precisely what lessons did Caesar's Legion teach here?” 

    Again his men laughed, but he smiled thinly, and silenced them all with a tilt of his head. He had hoped she would ask questions. It was always more fun when they asked questions. “Where to begin...? Tell me, are you at all familiar with the town that once was Nipton?"

    She pursed her lips. "I can't say that I ever lingered in it for long."

    "And why is that?"

    Her eyes darted from his for a brief moment. When she looked back at him it was with a renewed sharpness. For some strange reason it felt like she was setting him ablaze. "It was a bad town," she replied. "Full of sick people who capitalised on weakness, who never gave you a smile without a glint in their eye. I didn't like it."

    He took a step nearer to her. They were close, now. “Then we are in agreement about their state of... Dissolution. And that is why I selected Nipton to be the perfect object lesson to others who follow similar ways. We gave them absolution from their moral sickness via swift, clean justice.”

    The woman before him glowered. A gust of wind swept around them and blew her hair around her, painting her in the golden light. Her hand inched closer to the pistol at her side, though he could tell it was more an act of caution than a move to attack. Nevertheless, he eyed her warily. “Oh, I wouldn't say we were in agreement," she said with a dry laugh. "I would call this an atrocity before I would ever call it justice.”

    He sighed, making a mock show of his disappointment with a frown. “And here I thought I would be spared this explanation," he teased. When he spoke again, his voice was serious, low, detached. The swiftness of it unnerved her. As though the whole thing were a dreadful bore. "It might indeed seem a rather harsh thing through the eyes of a profligate, but it was deserved. Nipton sealed their own fate, and in the end, for only a pittance."

    Vulpes gestured to the Town Hall behind him. "The former mayor of Nipton, a certain Joseph Steyn, agreed to lead those he was sheltering into a trap. Only when I sprang it did he realise that he, and the other inhabitants of Nipton, were caught inside it, too.”

    The Fox gestured, now, toward the crucified Powder Gangers, the fire pit with the corpses burning, the mangle of limbs dotting the streets. She followed his hand and stared at the bodies and the blood. “I herded them into the centre of town and told them their sins, the foremost being disloyalty. Then, I announced the lottery.” She had turned back to him now, a certain fire in her eyes, a strange understanding of the words was speaking. His own eyes glimmered.

    “Each one clutched their ticket, hoping it would set them free. Each did nothing, even as supposed loved ones were dragged away to be killed. They outnumbered us, yet not once did they try to resist… They stood, and watched, as their fellows were butchered, crucified, and burned, one by one. They stood, and hoped their turn would not come. Each cared only for themselves."

    He smiled at the memory, and she wasn't sure whether it was tinged with any semblance of regret. "Rest assured that a special punishment awaited Mayor Steyn, too." He hummed. "Do you honestly think that those people deserved any form of mercy?”

    She said nothing, staring at him still, searching for something in his face. He stared back, his eyes locked with hers. For a moment he wondered whether she could see through the glasses and the mask that he wore, could see directly into his eyes - a cold blue, a cold that reached into his heart that for a moment he felt melting away, and then- And then, her face became a vicious scowl. She turned away from him.

    In an instant he moved, closing the space between them, and took hold of her chin. He lifted it so that she would meet his gaze. Ice returned to his heart. She froze beneath him, breath catching in her throat, but did not break eye contact. “I think, deep down, you understand,” he whispered, gaze studying her features as she had done to him. “Or are you no more than another disappointing profligate?”

    "Rest assured, I'm no stranger to moral justice,” she whispered back, her eyes burning fire. He suddenly wasn't sure whether he wanted to strike her or kiss her. “I've got my principles and I don't take immorality lightly." Her chest heaved and he realised how panicked her breath had become. "But no people deserve this." 

    He smiled wickedly, baring his sharp teeth. His grip on her chin tightened, digging into her skin. Something itched at his heart. And then suddenly he was taking a step back and letting her go. She fell after him with a gasp, and he enjoyed it, as though she had gravitated towards him, drawn to his touch.

    He tilted his head at her once more before signalling for his men to move. “If you feel that strongly about it, Messenger Bird,” he invited, voice almost mockingly flirtatious, “you're more than welcome to enact your own moral lesson on us.”

    For a moment, he thought she would, as she reached for her pistol. Instead, the stare she gave him was somewhere between anger and regret. Swiftly she turned around and began shooting each crucified victim in the head. A merciful death. He would not stop her - his work was done. He watched her for several moments before turning and making his leave.

    Vulpes awoke in his bed, eyes flashing open. He groaned and rolled over, body covered in a heated sweat. A bitter memory, not forgotten. 

Chapter Text

“Ave."

    The head of Caesar's Frumentarii looked up. From where he sat hunched over at his desk, a slight breeze entered the open window and ruffled the dark curls clinging slightly to his forehead. Pulled back to reality, Vulpes suddenly remembered the heat of the room and the sheen of perspiration that coated his skin. He was tired, and was tempted to send the agent away to have some more solitude.

    But, he did not. He placed the pen down in front of him and leaned back. “Quid novi habes?”

    The agent stood straighter, clutching his hands behind his back. “Oliver continues to fumble, unknowing and lost.” Vulpes recognised the agent; he was Mojave stock, not as confident in Latin as he was in English. It was a fault, but he was too exhausted to reprimand or embarrass him in that moment. “Our sources indicate that Kimball will soon grow tired of him, should he not redeem himself of his failures at Hoover Dam.”

    A small smile pulled on Vulpes’ lips. “Praeclarus,” he said, running a hand through his hair. He cringed - it was wet. “And what of our operations in the area? Do our agents remain undetected?”

    “There was a small problem, an unimportant agent running his mouth to gain the trust of a woman he was trying to bed. But he was quickly seen to,” a brief pause, “as was the woman.”

    Vulpes grew tired of discussion. “Is there anything else?”

    “Uh, one more thing, domine,” the agent spoke quickly now, sensing Vulpes' mood. “I was told on my way to inform you that the Little Messenger had requested your presence.”

    Vulpes breathed in. Now that was something. The men had taken to calling Scarlette Little Messenger as Caesar did. She occupied an odd place in society in which she was too much of a slave to be given a respectful Latin name, yet too important to go nameless or be given a demeaning one. He found it slightly distasteful, given her role and history, but had said nothing. After all, perhaps most of them were unaware of all she had done, how close she had been to snatching victory out of their hands.

    As she had often liked to remind him, history is written by the victors.

    The two of them had spoken very little in the month or so since she had been taken. After his attempt at written conversation had gone unanswered, he'd bitterly decided to leave her be. If she was going to insist on being cold and ungrateful, after all he'd done for her, then so be it. Let her lie in the bed she had made.

    Yet that deep ache in his heart grew more suffocating by the day, threatening to pull his ribcage so tight that it might burst beneath the pressure. Having her so close was both a comfort and a burden: she was always there, so he could never forget her, and yet she had never felt so far away. She was untouchable, a ghost. And he was not so much a monster as to force her - he was not the Legate.

    He tried not to think of her, but in one way or another, she seemed always to return to his mind. In the mornings, he thought of her rising with the sun, and at night, he remembered her laughter and her hushed whispers pressed against his skin. It was the sunset over the desert that reminded Vulpes of her the most. The sky pink and red and purple, decorating the endless scene in a warm, orange glow. Her face, flushed, painted in its light.

    His lips thinned into a line. “What does she wish to discuss?”

    “Something about radiation, I think,” the agent’s face soured slightly. “I’m not sure… Healing matters of some kind.”

    “Perhaps you should pay more attention to these healing matters, puer,” the insult rolled off his tongue as he stood up. Hopefully the agent had enough knowledge of Latin to understand it. It was a shame for a bad word to go to waste. “It might just save your life one day. Now, leave me.”

    The man bowed his head and left quickly, face growing red as he closed the door behind him. Vulpes lingered a little longer, taking the time to sort his notes and stretch. His role had become primarily bureaucratic without an active war effort, it seemed, and he hated it. There was always spying to be done, of course, but Caesar did not want to risk it on his Head of Frumentarii unless necessary. Vulpes understood the man’s reasoning, but sitting in a chair all day left him restless and unfulfilled.

    He moved to the window and stared out. It had been a hot day today, and though the sun was setting, its bite remained brutal. His eyes fell of their own accord on the hospital. Or was it a clinic? In all honesty he had always been a little unsure of which words Caesar liked and which he didn't. Scarlette worked there, as did most of the healers, save for the personal doctors of officers.

    Vulpes left soon after. The walk down the New Vegas - soon to be New Rome - Strip allowed him to feel the orange glow on his skin. There was now room for a market, and people moved and chattered freely, with more arriving everyday from Flagstaff. The claiming of the city and of the Mojave itself was going well, all things considered.

    He had even tried to relax a little, if such a thing was truly possible for someone who seemed to perpetually be on edge like him. No doubt she would have said as much.

    He saw her make this same walk sometimes, arriving in the early morning, and leaving as day was fading. In another life, he might have walked her there to her work as a freewoman, pressed a kiss to her cheek and collected her on her way home. Perhaps with fresh flowers in hand. But that was not this life. 

    Most bowed to him when he entered the hospital, slaves not wanting to incur his wrath. It was still quite an unkempt environment, and stuffy as anything in the heat of day, too. He paid the slaves little notice apart from to ask where she was. They directed him, wordlessly, head down.

    Vulpes found Scarlette in a small ward, tending to a patient, a few other healers wandering around the room. He stood in the doorway and watched her, observing as she worked. She looked healthier now, if not a little starved, dressed in an off-white tunic and a murky red headscarf that covered her hair and shoulders. Some of the colour had returned to her cheeks, contrasting with the natural paleness of her skin.

    Gently, she applied a damp cloth to the patient’s forehead, mumbling words of comfort to him. She stroked away stray hairs that clung to his forehead and pressed a hand to his cheek. A wave of jealousy rolled over Vulpes. Was the man even conscious to hear her whisperings, feel her touch? But then the man's face contorted in pain, and the thought left him in shame.

    Suddenly she paused and looked up, eyes darting to the doorway. She must have sensed him watching her. She’d always had that way about her. He cleared his throat and moved into the room. Her expression turned sullen at the sight of him. He hated how sad and angry one look of hers could make him, even now.

    The other healers gasped and bowed in respect at his sudden appearance, but she did little more than tilt her head. “Ave,” she muttered quietly, and the other healers followed suit.

    His eyes were fixed on her. “You wanted to see me?”

    “Sic feci, Vulpes Inculta.” He had almost forgotten how lovely her voice sounded, how painfully wonderful it felt to hear his name on her lips. It made his heart jump, and he loathed himself for it. Rage and want burned ferociously inside of him.

    “There is a medical matter that I must bring to your attention, particularly regarding the Frumentarii.”

    He frowned, but his eyes glinted. “And you thought you would come directly to me about this issue? Leader of the Frumentarii, with so much already on my plate?”

    She looked up at him with a silent fury. Her eyes were piercing, her words slow. “If Vulpes Inculta does not want to hear what I have to say, he is more than welcome to leave.”

    The other healers in the room tensed in shock and fear. No slave spoke to the Fox like that, lest they wanted to earn themselves a beating so brutal they might not walk for days.

    He waited a long while, staring at her as she stared back. He was angry at her for the disrespect - had half a mind to strike her for such insolence in front of other slaves. Any other officer would not hesitate. But he would do no such thing - could do no such thing. Instead, he raised an eyebrow and nodded, giving her a wordless acceptance as he turned and left the room. He moved nearby to a private office and propped himself casually against a table.

    It wasn’t long before she caught up to him. He turned around to greet her. Although a rage still burned inside of him, being beside her softened him, and he could feel a strange pull to hold her close, to bury his face in her neck. He hid such pitiful feelings behind a nonchalant facade.

    “It’s been a while, Scarlette.”

    If she felt the same way, she didn't show it. “Quite,” she huffed, and moved to the side of the room to bend and pick something up from the bottom shelf. He tried not to notice the way her body curved as bent over, clinging to the fabric of her tunic, but his eyes roamed her form seemingly of their own accord.

    “That was quite the display out there. Showing off in front of your little friends? I could have you beaten for that.” He realised suddenly that he was trying to get a rise out of her, to break her out of that spell of apathy she seemed determined to present him with these days. Anger was, after all, preferable to nothing...

    Scarlette paid little attention to his threat, only threw him a sideways glare. She knew it was empty as much as he did. Still, he felt a pang of regret at having said it.

    Change the subject. "Who was that man you were tending to?" he asked, picking at a bit of dirt on his arm.

    "A caravan merchant," she replied. "He's very ill."

    He frowned. Nothing was said for some time, and silence fell between them. "Will he survive?"

    It took a while for her to answer. She paused her movements and heaved a breath in and out, closing her eyes. He got the feeling she was trying to muster some strength. When the reply came it was scarcely more than a whisper. "I don't know."

    Her hand reached out and grabbed a book, and the tone shifted abruptly. Emotions buried, somewhere deep. She stood and moved over to him, flipping it open and presenting a page to him with a sweep of her hand. He raised an expectant eyebrow, inviting her to explain. She frowned. Had she wanted him to just make sense of it himself?

    Scarlette pointed out a series of figures. “See this?” Vulpes saw, and noticed that it was not so much a book as it was a ledger. The numbers increased down the page. “These are weekly cases of serious radiation poisoning. And I don’t just mean the type of thing you get from hanging by a few too many barrels for a few minutes too long. Most of these men will be ill for weeks.” 

    He enjoyed seeing her like that, passionate and knowledgeable, in her element. Close like this, he could see she looked drained, darkness under her eyes. He feigned disinterest. “I see. What does it have to do with me?”

    “These are your men,” she replied. “Frumentarii, the lot of them, returning from missions all over. The other healers and I discussed it, and came to the conclusion that the most likely reason was faulty Rad-X.” She waited a moment, gauging his response. He nodded for her to continue.

    “I know that, technically, the Legion doesn’t allow the use of Rad-X, but if you'll pardon me saying, it’s something that many Frumentarii do," she said. "It's easy for people to expect too much of Rad-X, to push its abilities beyond breaking, but even that should result in only minor poisoning. Clearly, with these levels, on this many men, something is going seriously wrong,” She closed the ledger. “Hence, my conclusion being issues with the Rad-X.”

    Vulpes tilted his head, quiet for a moment as he narrowed his eyes. He shrugged. “An interesting theory. I shall consider it.”

    Her eyes widened. “You don’t believe me?”

    He smiled down at her. “Does that disappoint you, Messenger Bird?”

    “I worked hard on this,” Scarlette said, face growing upset - and not from anger this time. “I’m not an idiot, despite what the Legion's philosophies on women say. And I would ask you, of all people, to please take my words seriously.” It was a plea more than anything, but one that burned deep. 

    Vulpes’ face turned solemn. “I am being serious. But I need to investigate it before bringing it to Caesar’s attention. He will not take your concerns lightly, and neither will I, but they require more than just your authority to be seen to. Besides, if there is an issue with the Rad-X, who knows what else could have faults, and I have to investigate those possibilities, too.”

    Scarlette pulled away sheepishly. She took the page from the ledger and handed it to him without making eye contact.

    His heart softened. How rarely he could be soft these days. “You shouldn't mistake my words for carelessness, you know.”

    She pursed her lips and turned away from him, moving to the other side of the desk and placing the ledger down upon it. She stood there, her back to him, and as he stared at her, he had the overwhelming urge to grab her and pull her around, just so that he might get the chance to see her face again.

    “Is that all?” he asked, voice apathetic as it always was. 

    “Yes,” she answered quietly, nails fidgeting with the corner of the ledger. 

    Vulpes turned to leave, but stopped himself halfway through the door, and tilted his head slightly towards her. The question had already fallen from his mouth before he had a chance to stop it. “Why did you ask for me directly?" The words hung in the air, but it was too late to retract them now. "You could have told any lackey the same and asked them to bring it to me.”

    She didn’t look at him, but her head craned towards him slightly. It was answer enough; they both already knew why. The words remained unspoken between them as he left.

    You’re the only one here I could ever talk to.  

Chapter Text

The Tops always seemed to have a hum. People coming and going, Old World jazz music crooning in the background; even in the middle of the day, when the entertainment was lying in wait as tourists nursed their headaches, the hum continued on.

    She had been staying there for several days. It had been that long since Benny had run, and Vulpes had expected her to continue pursuing him, fuelled by that blaze in her eyes she’d burned him with on their first meeting. She hadn’t, though. Instead, she had stayed, not stepping once outside of its walls. A tall blond man was with her, dressed in Followers garb. They seemed no more than friends.

    Vulpes had been watching her, eyeing her from where he sat at the slot machines and the blackjack tables. Every day she made her ways around the casino, walking silently, pale, in a deep red dress. Like some sort of Old World ghost. He wasn’t sure whether she was sad or contemplative or white with rage, perhaps she was all three.

    Vulpes had been tasked with introducing the Legion more personally to her, and more politely than their first meeting. She was to be invited to Fortification Hill and to an audience with Caesar.

    Once Caesar had given him this mission, Vulpes had looked into her. Her name was Scarlette, and, like he'd guessed, she was a courier with the Mojave Express. Her history before that was muddied and mysterious; not uncommon in the wasteland, but frustrating. It seemed Scarlette had recently been involved in a delivery gone wrong, and then pulled against her will into a web that pitted the rulers - both actual and would-be - of Vegas against one another. Her own allegiances seemed rather vague, working with whoever she so chose when it suited her.

    Most profligates, particularly in Vegas, were easy enough to talk to. Buy them a drink, settle down with them, and soon or later you'd have them charmed and blabbering. Vulpes had begun this mission thinking that it, too, would be fairly simple.

    Scarlette, however, had proven difficult. Much to his chagrin, he found the woman was already causing a bit of a stir when he arrived. She'd entered the Lucky 38, had presumably spoken to Mr. House - something even Caesar had been unable to do - and it had not gone unnoticed. Though not much, the attention she drew was enough to make the task more difficult. It takes only one curious eye to notice things.

    Other than that, she seemed utterly determined to avoid all company and conversation. People who tried to talk with her swiftly found themselves alone. Even Vulpes had tried his luck to no success: one night, when she sat alone at the bar, he took a seat two down from her and gave her a smile. Before he'd even had a chance to start conversation, she'd already sent him a scowl and scurried off.

    He came to the conclusion that she was a strange person. It was frustrating, given his hopes for an easy task were dashed. But the longer he thought about it, the more he didn't mind that she was giving him a challenge. If anything, her strangeness intrigued him. She intrigued him. And that thought was strange in itself.

    But Caesar's patience would not extend beyond practicality, and Vulpes had to be flexible, he had to adapt. She was still that rabbit tensing to run.

    That evening, he found Scarlette sitting by herself at a small table in the back of the Aces. The crowds had just started entering for the evening's show, and he moved with them. She sat, gaze distant, with a long-neglected drink on the table before her; its ice had melted and water was pooling around the bottom of the glass. Her eyes fell on him as he approached, his own drink in hand. They were as sharp as he remembered.

    “Hello, miss," he smiled. “I'm sorry to have to ask, but I've been been hoping to catch the show tonight, and all the tables seem to be full except yours.” He gestured to the expanse of the theatre - there was, indeed, no clear table in sight. "Do you mind if I sit with you?”

    She frowned, picking at the skin around her nails. “I was just about to leave, actually,” she moved to collect herself and straightened out her dress. “You can have the table.”

    “No, no, please. Don’t leave on my behalf.”

    “It’s fine, don't worry.”

    Vulpes' eyes darkened. He took a step closer, almost trapping her against the wall. “Please, I insist.” 

    She froze, her eyes moving over his form, fully considering him for the first time. They narrowed, a brief gleam - of recognition? - crossing her gaze. Her face hardened. "Alright," she muttered. She pursed her lips and sat back down. One of her legs crossed over the other, revealing to him a flash of white skin before he turned his gaze away and took the seat beside her.

    Nothing was said between them for quite some time. He watched her for the most part, enjoying in some sick way how tense she clearly was. She was hunched slightly over, arms crossed tightly over her chest and eyes pinned to her feet. He did not mind dragging the tension out, to make her squirm until she could stand it no more. Eventually, she leaned forward, placing her arms on the table, and stared down at her neglected drink. Her reflection stared back.

    Scarlette's voice was quiet. “Exactly how long are you going to sit here without saying something?”

    He watched her for a moment longer, ruminating, words waiting on his tongue. “What is there for me to say?”

    “I don’t think that’s for me to decide. Didn’t he give you instructions? A script to follow?”

    Ah. He smiled thinly. “I’m surprised you would think so,” he said. “That little speech I gave you when we met was my own work.” He raised his drink to his lips. “Though I’m honoured you thought my words worthy of my… Employer.”

    She turned to him, then, mouth decorated in a small smirk that didn't meet her eyes. “You’ve certainly subscribed to his philosophy, I’ll say that.”

    Vulpes said nothing. He took a long, slow sip from his drink and watched her. Her lips were coated in a deep red lipstick, the same colour as her dress. Her hair was freshly washed, skin clean. He wondered briefly whether she was wearing perfume.

    “I never caught your name,” he said. Not a lie, not really.

    “That’s because you never asked for it." She was tempted to say something about the things he had said to her that day, but decided against it. "It’s Scarlette... And yours?”

    “Hmm,” he mused, eyes glinting in the dim light. “I’m afraid I can’t tell you that here.” His eyes scanned the theatre. The people certainly seemed enthralled in the show or their own conversations, and no one was directly eyeing the pair of them in the corner. But it was hardly a risk he wanted to take. Everyone knew the name of Vulpes Inculta, even if they didn’t know his face. 

    Scarlette was looking at him still. “Then trace it,” she told him, “with your finger, on the table. I’ll make it out.”

    He smirked at her. V-U-L-P-E-S pause I-N-C-U-L-T-A.

    He’d half-expected her eyes to widen and her jaw to drop, but no such thing happened. Instead, her expression was one of thought. Finally, she spoke, “Fox…?”

    When she met his gaze, his eyes were surprisingly warm. “Desert Fox. Fox of the Wastes, the Wasteland.” He paused. “I’m impressed. Are you familiar with the language?”

    Scarlette tilted her head. “A fair amount, I suppose.”

    Vulpes raised an eyebrow, inviting her to say more. She turned away. It was wise of her not to, though he did find that wisdom irritating, if not intriguing - which again, was irritating in itself. A challenge she would be, indeed.

    "How have you enjoyed your time in the Strip?" he asked.

    "It's been fine." She shrugged, not looking at him.

    "Fine? Most people who visit are amazed, in constant wonder. And very few are fortunate enough to visit. Don't you think you're taking it a little for granted, being a little ungrateful?"

    "No, I don't."

    They settled once more into silence as the shows continued, the crowd cheering and clapping inanely as drunken tourists did. Vulpes and Scarlette remained silent, neither of them actually paying any attention to the show, but both pretending they were. And in return, neither of them were fooled. A dance of stubbornness.

    Eventually the acts were beginning to quieten. Vulpes turned to Scarlette, content to be the one breaking the silence this time. The weight of his mission grew heavy on his shoulders, and he was tired of hauling the burden. "I am here because my employer wishes to send his sincere regards to you."

    "I see..." She shuffled in her seat, moving one leg over the other. "And just why would he do that?"

    "For several reasons, I suspect. The most pressing likely being that you are making quite the name for yourself, and can no longer be ignored."

    Scarlette's eyes met his, then. Hers were narrowed, accusative, and betrayed the shock she felt. "I don't really see how I'm making a name for myself. Most people don't pay me a second glance."

    He chuckled. "Oh, come now. Did you seriously think you could walk into the Lucky 38 and not be noticed?" She curled up into herself slightly, turning sheepish. Realising his mistake, Vulpes continued. "Besides that, you've been making your way around the wastes, meeting people, doing good deeds. He notices interesting people, Scarlette."

    Her eyes widened for a brief moment, before quickly turning away to stare down at her feet. She picked once more at the skin around her nails. “What am I supposed to do with your employer's regards?"

    He shook the ice in his drink before replying. “That is up to you,” he stated. "But, of course, I can recommend a certain course of action -- tonight, I return to my employer. You should consider making the same journey.”

    She guffawed, and then quickly pressed a hand to her mouth to cover it with a cough. Vulpes pursed his lips, unamused. “And just why would I do that?” she asked, voice slightly strained.

    “Because he has requested your presence. Beyond that, the man who ran out of here several days ago? The one you were tracking with the platinum chip?” Scarlette's eyes darkened. “He has undoubtedly made his way there already, and my employer very kindly wishes to leave the decision of his fate up to you.” 

    There was a moment of silence as they stared into one another's eyes, both trying to peer into them like windows to the soul. "It seems strange that he would do all that for me."

    “Why he does such things is not for me to say. But his eyes have been upon you for some time now, and he is a generous man to those whose acts he respects," He paused, his own eyes flickering with a strange flame. "You have… Intrigued him.” Scarlette's gaze met his, then, and narrowed. Before she could reply, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the pendant. “His Mark. A symbol of his good intentions, and which will also guarantee your safe passage through his lands. So long as you carry it, of course.” 

    She eyed it warily. It glinted in the light. She moved to take it, and he let her. Scarlette studied it for a time, tracing the grooves in its metal and reading the Latin engraved upon it. It was beautiful, like an ancient medallion made new. She’d always had a thing for trinkets.

    There was a whisper in her ear. “Caesar awaits."

    Her head snapped up at the closeness of his voice. Vulpes' face was practically pressed against hers, eyes dark and fixed on her own. He reminded her of a cunning animal, a predator flashing its claws. Her cheeks grew red. He was close.

    Casually, as if her embarrassment pleased him, he pulled away. His claws retracting. With a bow of his head, the Fox stood and left just as the audience erupted into applause.

    Back in her suite, Scarlette found Arcade thumbing through an Old World book on the couch. He looked at home there, in the relative ease of the room that had been decorated with shelves and photographs and art. Old World echoes, painted on the walls. She smiled fondly at the thought.

    He eyed her when she came in. “Wow, you seem happy. That’s so... Unlike you. What happened?”

    “Oh, very funny," she said, eyes rolling practically of their own accord. "Has anyone ever told you the Aces are hiring?”

    He grinned and slipped a scrap of paper into the book, closing it and placing it down on the coffee table in front of him. She moved into the bathroom to wash her face, and he followed her, ducking his head under the doorway. “Seriously, though. You were gone for a while. Did anything happen?”

    Scarlette shrugged and ran a cloth under the tap water. The coldness eased some of the nervous heat inside of her. “You could say that. I met someone.”

    He leaned against the door frame, glasses falling slightly down his nose. “Oh?”

    She laughed dryly. “Not that kind of meeting," A sigh escaped her, and it seemed to pull her down, suddenly taking all semblance of happiness she had with it. Her shoulders slumped. “It was… It was very different from that.” She turned to him, and he looked at her expectantly. There really was no easy way of putting it. Poor Arcade. This would be a rather abrupt return to reality from that book.

    “A Frumentarius acquainted himself with me.”

    Arcade’s buoyant mood collapsed upon him like an Old World ruin. “Excuse me?”

    “And it was Vulpes Inculta at that.”

    “Oh, Christ.” He threw his arms up in the air and turned away, taking a moment from her gaze to regain control of his thoughts, before he suddenly whipped back around with renewed intensity. “And what the hell did he want with you?”

    She thought of the Mark tucked into her garter belt. “He said that Caesar wanted to see me, that I intrigued the man or something. I've been invited to see him at the Fort.”

    “Does… Does that mean that Caesar has been having you followed? That he’s been watching you, while you’ve been here? I don’t even want to know for how long. I knew Caesar had spies but it’s another matter entirely to be confronted by one.” The panicked words continued to fall from his mouth before she had a chance to reply. “And here I thought we were relatively safe in Vegas, what with House and his robots and all... You’re not seriously considering going, are you?”

    Scarlette leaned her head against the bathroom mirror and closed her eyes. She breathed deeply, in and out. 

    “...Scarlette?”

    “I don’t know, Arcade!" The words came out angrier than she'd wanted them to, and she winced. Her words were softer, slower when she spoke next. "He says Benny’s made his way to the Fort, and you know I need that chip.” She sighed. “Besides that, I… I kind of want to see what they’re doing over there. I don’t like the thought of Caesar building a war effort that I’m completely blind to. The enemy you know, and all that.”

    Arcade let out a lengthy breath, watching her with a frown. Her face had gone slightly red - it had a tendency to do that - but it seemed that the redness was this time born of frustration. At the situation, and at herself, more than likely. What could he say to her? His lips thinned. There really was only one thing he could say.

   “Well, I don't think you'll have a good time, or that I’d recommend you take anyone from the Legion at their word.” He pushed the glasses back up his nose. “But if you want to go and see what that madman is up to, if you really think it’s the right thing to do… Then I guess I’ll have to come with you.”

    She met his gaze with a tender smile and eyes warmer than he'd felt in a long time. "Thank you, Arcade," she whispered, and even though he was angry, he couldn't help but smile at her in return.

    That night, she visited House in his tomb. The Lucky 38 had remained remarkably spotless over the years, and yet, it smelled always of dust and stale air. She felt suffocated in its hollowness, a meaningless shrine to a world long gone. Quiet could comfort, but this silence crushed you whole.

    It had been days since she'd last seen House, and she informed him of the developments. He was understandably irritated, particularly at Benny's escape, but was nevertheless determined to push on. As usual, House remained secretive with his higher plans, and issued her a series of demands that she took with little opposition. Take the platinum chip to the bunker. I'll see you there and give you further instructions.

    Perhaps a small part of him suspected he was yet to win her completely over. "Get the platinum chip, Courier," he told her, his face frozen in time as it always was, just like the tomb that housed him. "You need it just as much as I do."

    The journey to the Fort was long and tiring, even though they'd hired a wagon. The constant tossing from side to side made her feel ill, especially over such a long distance. Finally the wagon dropped them at Searchlight and turned around, refusing to go further. Searchlight had been the recent victim of a terrible radiation attack. Legion work, the NCR soldier had told them, and Arcade had shot her a glance. Scarlette hadn’t the stomach to ask the man more about it, not when she was about to come face to face with the people responsible.

    Crucified slaves lined the road leading into Cottonwood, and it did nothing to ease her anxiety, nor did it calm Arcade’s deafeningly silent moral objections. There were Legionaries everywhere, but they remained cold yet tolerant of their presence. Some of them nodded as they passed, apparently expecting her arrival. They led her to the water.

    Scarlette's eyes were drawn to a large cage by the water's edge. Splashes of dried blood on the walls. She didn't want to dwell on the thought of what might have happened there, but her thoughts dwelled anyway. Screams, cries, mothers clinging to their children, flesh bruised and bloody.

    Nausea boiled in the pit of her stomach, and she felt dizzy under the heat of the sun. She wanted to turn around and leave, to ignore Caesar's request, Benny and the chip be damned. The Legion were terrible - why should she so much as spare them the time of day?

    But she'd come this far, and running away from things might only lead her somewhere worse. Life had taught her that the hard way.

    The thoughts were shaken from her with a frown, but the sickness remained.

    The boat ride up the Colorado had lasted for a few more hours. When they stepped off the boat, it was well in to the afternoon, and the heat of the sun made her feel all the weaker. Arcade offered her his arm as they stepped off the boat, and Scarlette took it with a teasing My, my, what a gentleman! It was a sorry attempt to lighten the mood, and he could offer her only a wan smile in return.

    A great gate loomed before them, guarded by a dark-haired man. "Have you the Mark?" he questioned. She reached into her coat pocket, fingers feeling for the coolness of its metal -- then showed it to him. He nodded. Scarlette expected him to move aside, but instead, he looked her up and down matter-of-factly. "So, you're the courier woman we have heard so much about? Hmph, can't say you're what I expected."

    Her throat was dry, but she managed to speak. "What were you expecting?"

    "Someone a little more... Foreboding. Given the stories I have heard. But perhaps it is a good thing you are small. You maintain some semblance of womanhood."

    Arcade cut her off before she could do anything, and stood slightly in front of her. "Gee, I bet you say that to all the girls," he said. "Now how about you let us in, huh? Would hate to keep Caesar waiting."

    The gate guard, as though just now noticing Arcade's presence, stepped up to him with a scowl. Scarlette could practically see the steam coming out of his nose. A show of masculinity, no doubt. Did men in the Legion usually feel their manhood was threatened so easily?

    "And who exactly are you, profligate? I see no Mark of Caesar upon you."

    "I'm with her," Arcade gestured with his head, remaining cool. "Her travel buddy."

    The guard looked Arcade up and down. "I was told nothing about a travel buddy."

    "And we weren't told anything about frustratingly difficult gate guards. Annoying, isn't it?"

    "Quiet, degenerate!" the guard yelled, stepping closer to Arcade and shoving him backwards. Scarlette was suddenly aware of the machete that hung at the guard's waist. Her fingers instinctively reached for the pistol at her side. Arcade pulled back with wide eyes and threw his arms up in surrender. "You would do well to remember whose land you are on, and with whose kindness you walk upon it!"

    "Sorry, I'm sorry," Arcade muttered. "I won't make that mistake again."

    "See to it you do not." He stepped back after a final glare.

    He turned to Scarlette, then, gaze falling to the hand that was tracing the pistol. She quickly moved it away, but it was too late. His eyes narrowed at her. "You -- courier," he said. "As you are not yet an ally of the Legion, you are to surrender your weapons to me. Only then may you enter the Fort... Alone."

    Scarlette looked to Arcade, eyes wide. If she had hoped to find comfort in his gaze, she only found worry that rivalled her own. She didn't want to brave the Fort alone, and it seemed Arcade didn't want her to, either. "But--"

    "Alone," the guard repeated, and held out his hands for her to hand him her weapons. With a final frown to Arcade, she sighed and handed over her weapons. She felt hollow without them. Too light. Too vulnerable. The guard merely nodded at her. "Rest assured, courier, you will receive them when you return. The Legion are not thieves." He turned away and went to place them in several crates behind him.

    Arcade moved closer to her, placing a gentle hand on her shoulder. "Scarlette, are you sure you want to go ahead with this? It's not too late to turn back."

    She contemplated his words for a few moments, staring at the guard as he hid her weapons away. Her legs were turning weak again. The guard turned around and raised a brow, wanting her confirmation to open the gate.

    She worried that if she thought too much about it, actually considered the immense danger she was putting herself under, she would indeed leave right this moment. But sometimes Scarlette thought too much. Sometimes she needed to not think, and be careless and risky. For the greater good, or so she told herself.

    "It's fine," she said, not daring to meet Arcade's eyes. "It'll be fine. Wait here for me, I promise I won't be long."

    She moved out of his grasp before he had the chance to object, and nodded at the guard to let her in. He returned her nod and signalled for the gates to open, and she stepped inside.

    Scarlette was greeted with a tall and foreboding hill before her, casting a great shadow down upon the many tents dotted around it. On top of the hill was a great white tent -- Caesar's, no doubt. There were already hundreds of people there that she could see; Legionaries wandering to and fro, slave women dressed in rags and hauling great baskets, young boys running up and down the hill.

   As she moved further inside, she began to notice that many of the Legionaries were eyeing her up. When she met their eyes, they were full of both hatred and hunger. She felt like a piece of meat, a slave who just hadn't been captured yet. The slaves, too, watched her, though they quickly averted their eyes. She wondered who they had been before this. Whether they had anyone to remember them. She didn't want to linger, and kept her head down as she climbed the hill to Caesar's tent.

    Finally, she reached it. Its faded canvas walls billowed in the wind like the red flags that dotted the landscape, surveying all below it like an ever-watching eye. It was a grand tent, well-guarded, and far larger than any of the others. These guards, however, were less challenging to interact with. One glance at her and it seemed they already knew to let her in.

    The flaps of the tent pulled open. Scarlette was suddenly very aware of the dryness of her own mouth. Her stomach bubbled with anxiety. Her feet felt rooted to the ground. Why was she doing this? Why was she doing this?

   Because he's expecting you. As though moving of their own accord, her legs moved one after the other. She stared down at her feet as though in shock they were moving at all. And then suddenly, dreadfully suddenly -- she was inside. And she looked up at the surroundings before her.

    Ornate rugs spanned the floor, covered in dust and dirt from the countless feet that had tread across them. There were sculptures, too, ones that were undoubtedly Old World, chipped and faded, but still beautiful. Many guards stood inside the tent, staring at her intensely. They tensed their weapons at her presence. She got the impression they were more than ready for a chance to use them. 

    Scarlette's eyes, however, were drawn to one thing in particular. At the rear of the tent was a throne, tall and dark and draped in furs. Upon it, sat Caesar.

    Surrounded closely by several imposing men, he stared her down with narrowed eyes, head perched on his closed fist. His hair was white and fading, clothes a mixture of red fabric and black fur. He wore a shining gold Legion pin. She breathed in sharply. Caesar was surprisingly human. And that somehow made her all the more uneasy. Her mouth was dry. Full of sand.

    Vulpes Inculta was one of the men beside him. He turned to Caesar with a slight bow of his head. "Caesar, I present to you the courier, Scarlette."

    Caesar paid Vulpes little notice, continuing to eye her intensely. Was he deciding her worth, or her level of threat? Anxiety clawed like a vicious, terrified animal at the walls of her stomach. She was a prey animal who had wandered directly into a predator's den.

    Caesar's mouth opened to reveal two rows of small, neat teeth. "We finally meet, Scarlette," he said. "I've heard a lot about you."

    She blinked. Somehow she kept her voice steady. "As have I about you."

    He chuckled, but didn't smile. "Yes, the influence and reputation of my Legion spreads far and wide, even into profligate territories." The response sounded rehearsed, and Scarlette wondered briefly whether he'd said much the same thing many times before. "Which raises a good point, actually. You were brought here to talk, yes? So I would ask that you let me talk fairly, to not let what you may or may not have heard about myself or my Legion cloud your judgement."

    Scarlette thought of Nipton; of the crucified choking out cries of pain, of the mangled corpses burning on the tyres, of the blood spilled and the black smoke in the air.

    What she had heard, or what she had seen?

    Caesar continued, eyes flickering. "Truth has a tendency to get muddied, out in the wastes."

    The wastes. She frowned. Suddenly she felt the many sets of eyes upon her, cold and sharp and cutting into her flesh like thorns -- or machetes. She felt dizzy. She picked at the skin around her nails for some tiny distraction to keep her head above water. Her own gaze was drawn inexplicably to Vulpes Inculta. He was already looking at her, and she turned quickly away. Her lips pulled into a line. She breathed deeply. The dizziness subsided. "I'll treat your words fairly, Caesar."

    The Son of Mars smiled darkly, his lips curling, as though someone was twisting each corner of his mouth. For the first time since meeting him, Scarlette felt a flicker of true fear, not just anxiety. A deep, crushing fear. This was the man who had killed thousands.

    "Good," he replied. "And I will do the same."

    He gestured for a guard from the far side of the tent to bring over a map, and then beckoned Scarlette closer. She did so. The map was a map of the Mojave, well-drawn and colour coded. On it she could see three major territories; red for Caesar's Legion, grey for NCR, and green for House. There were empty, colourless expanses where no major presence was felt.

    "Tell me, courier," Caesar said. "Who do you think is the Legion's most immediate threat?"

    Scarlette blinked, unready for the question. "I... I suppose I would have to say the NCR." She gestured to the grey parts of the map. "They hold the most territory in the Mojave."

    Caesar smiled. "A fair answer, likely the one that most would give. But, unfortunately, the wrong one. The NCR are our greatest threat, but as for the most immediate..." He pointed a finger to the green section of the map. "That would be your friend, House."

    She pulled back, panicked. "Oh- Oh, he's not my friend, I'm only--"

    "Using him? Yes, I know. Vulpes has informed me."

    Her gaze fell to the Fox. He was again, already looking at her, a glint in his eyes. She swallowed, and turned back to Caesar.

    "It was a little joke, courier. You shouldn't be so jumpy. I don't like jumpy people," said the Son of Mars, matter-of-factly. "But, I digress. NCR is powerful and has more territory, but we can anticipate the moves of the New California Republic. We know them and their movements well. House, on the other hand, is our most immediate threat because he is unfamiliar and unpredictable."

    Scarlette tilted her head in understanding. "I see."

    "Do you?" There was a dark shine to Caesar's eyes, she noticed. Like he always thought he was two steps ahead of you, and stringing you along for fun.

    She did not answer his question. He smiled at her, and continued.

    "Look, courier, I won't waste any of your or my time. You're a busy woman and I am a very busy man, and I'm sure we both have much more important things to do than talk. Let's cut to the chase -- House has a bunker here at Fortification Hill. The only way to access it is via the the platinum chip, which I have, and which I know you're also looking for. I want you to go in to House's bunker, and destroy whatever sort of things he's hiding down there."

    Scarlette narrowed her gaze in thought. "Why do you want me to destroy it? Do you know what's down there?"

    "I just told you that House is our most immediate threat because I don't know him or his ways. Quite frankly, I have no idea what's down there, and nor do I particularly care. I just need you to go in there and destroy it."

    She pursed her lips. "Why don't you get your men to do it?"

    She had expected the question to irritate him, but instead it made him chuckle. For once, it seemed mostly genuine. "You are the person most familiar with House. No one has spoken to him in living memory, not in-person, anyway. You have an advantage to know what's down there more than any other." He paused for a moment, a smile growing on his face. "Besides, my Legionaries... They're useful, and they're strong fighters, but they're not the smartest tools in the shed, you understand. I don't need my men to be smart. I need them to be killers, not thinkers. But sometimes, a thinker is needed. And that, my dear, is where you come in."

    "To prove my worth?"

    He smiled deeper. "To begin the process, yes."

    The words Caesar was telling her were not the deep things she had hoped for. It made sense, she supposed begrudgingly, that he would not share all his plans with her so readily. As with House, she would have to earn knowledge. A pawn being moved by its masters. Was her fate to be sacrificial for the sake of the king?

    "Oh, and I might add," he began, leaning forward in his throne, "that I also have that pathetic little excuse for a man that you were looking for. Benny, was that his name...? If you do this for me, you can decide his fate. A gift, from me to you."

    Scarlette breathed out heavily. She needed access to that bunker regardless, but not to destroy what was inside. Would Caesar find out if she didn't? She had a feeling that whatever was down there would be useful, and she was in no rush to make an enemy of House. Not yet, anyway. But she also didn't want to make an enemy of Caesar. He was a maniac, yes, but he was exceedingly powerful. Even if she wasn't willing to outright ally with him -- which she suspected he might already know -- she had no doubts that staying on his good side would prove advantageous. Seemingly for both parties.

    "Very well, Caesar." Scarlette nodded her head. "I will do as you ask."

    With a smile, Caesar gestured for the chip to be brought to her. It was cold in her hands. Quickly he bid her leave, and she nodded her head, not wanting to stay any longer.

    "It was good to meet you, courier," he said.

    She said nothing in return. The canvas walls were suddenly blinding white and suffocating and her stomach was turning sour. Quickly she turned and left, making no eye contact as the tent doors closed behind her. She was met with the darkening sky and the smell of smoke.

    Inside Caesar's tent, Vulpes watched as Scarlette left. When the doors of the tent fell shut behind her, he realised that a breath had been caught in his throat. He swallowed, frowning at the thought, and looked to Caesar. Caesar was staring after her as well, chin resting on his fist. He seemed deep in thought. Of what kind, Vulpes wasn't sure.

    He cleared his throat. "What did you make of her, Caesar?"

    Caesar was quiet for a moment longer. "Not sure," he answered, standing up from his throne. He did not turn to Vulpes when he spoke. "She seems capable enough. Though time will tell if that proves an asset or a liability."

    A deep voice called from the side of the tent. "Not bad for a woman, eh?" Vulpes turned and saw that it was Lucius, eating bread at the table. A grin decorated his face. Vulpes scowled at his casual tone, so sharp a contrast to the prior conversation.

    Caesar, however, turned to Lucius with a smile. "No, not bad for a woman," he said, and then he retreated into his quarters. Vulpes frowned. He and Lucius watched him go, silently. Both men knew - or at least, suspected - why he had gone. Neither of them were willing to comment on it to the other, for reasons both practical and personal.

    Then suddenly Lucius' voice broke the quiet. "And hey, she's not that bad looking either," he chuckled, teasing glint in his eyes. He tilted his head vaguely towards Scarlette's direction. "Don't you think, Vulpes?"

    Vulpes raised an eyebrow. "I suppose."

    Lucius took another bite from his bread. "What did you say she was? A courier?"

    "Yes, with the Mojave Express."

    "Hmm," he nodded. "Not bad for a little messenger at all."