Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Courier Six finds herself visiting saloons and taverns much more often. Sure the drinks are good, but she mostly comes for the card tables- can't miss out on a long night of blackjack and poker. New people come and go every week, so there's never a boring crowd. On weekends, she spends the night sipping a fruity cocktail and flirting with fellow patrons with no real intention of going to bed with them. She mostly does it because it's just how the weekends work. People go out to have a good time and get laid. That's life.

Weeknights, however, are without a doubt the best nights to go out. It's usually quiet and laid back, and everyone knows your name. A lot of the bar-goers are old NCR vets just there to tell their story. The Courier has heard many tales of war, sorrow, victory, and heartbreak from those old bastards. Evenings like this are for whisky and hard liquor.

This particular night was a very slow weekday. Tuesday, in fact. The bar she ends up going to most (probably because it reminds her of the Atomic Wrangler back in Freeside) is called The Rad Stag Bar & Grille. There were only a few patrons that evening: A couple of vets in a corner booth sharing a round of bourbon and showing off their sweetheart pistol grips, a quiet ghoul finishing up her last drink for the night, and some other person she hadn't seen before but didn't bother introducing herself to. Tonight, she just wanted to be alone with her rum and Nuka as well as her thoughts.

A metal stool off to the left, where the ghoul lady sat, squeaked across the old wood floor, and the sound of bottle caps clanking against a table could be heard with a raspy "keep the change." The door jangled on her way out. One less patron in the too quiet bar.

Soon after, the door jangled again, likely some other old coot joining the band of hopeless romantic NCR vets. Ok, one more patron in the too quiet bar. Much to Six's dismay, the new person took a stool not far from her own. If she had to guess, she would say that it was one stool closer to her from where the ghoul lady sat just moments before. Close enough to initiate a conversation. Too close for comfort. Mandy, the bartender and owner, was off somewhere in the backroom either washing dishes or restocking for the approaching busier weekend.

The newcomer, a man, she noticed, wore a poorly tailored suit. She didn't bother to look at him much after that. Very disinteresting, and, besides, flirting was for the weekends.

When Mandy returned, she apologized for the wait- said something about not expecting new customers so late, yadda yadda. It was when he spoke in return that she found herself flinching.

"I'll just have a blackberry brandy on the rocks," was all he said. A typical order, nothing unusual. Yet, she couldn't help but recall that she had heard that voice somewhere, perhaps a long time ago from her days in Vegas as the famed Courier Six. Sure, she still goes by that name, but what else is someone who's only known one name since the time they woke up with major head trauma supposed to go by? Still, she was making connections, and not favorable ones at that.

Names, people, places, and events started whirling through her head haphazardly. She damned her trauma and memory loss for not being able to pin it down right away, but she was almost certain now.

August 18, 2281. Nipton, Nevada. 2:36 PM.

The Courier had just finished up her business in Primm. Some NCR guy she hadn't learned the name of was now the new sheriff. She had tried to look for Deputy Beagle, but he was already dead long before her slow ass could make it to him. She mentally checked a box in her brain reminding her not to agree to save people three days after rising out of a shallow grave. Who cares if she used to be some kind of hero before being shot, when she can't even save one guy from a group of Powder Gangers? At least, she thinks she was a hero? Her memory was very sloppy, but she certainly has the instincts.

Frustrated with herself, she didn't even notice the billowing smoke until she smelled it.

Nipton was in flames. She could feel the heat already, fifty yards from the site. Deep crimson decorated the town where fire didn't. If it wasn't blood, it was the crimson flags bearing a golden bull, a tell-tale sign that this was indeed the doings of Caesar's Legion. She wanted to turn around and head back to the safety of Primm, or even the Mojave Outpost, but she was dumbstruck.

"Who the Hell-" she was unable to finish her sentence when a man, who she later learned was named Oliver Swanick, came barreling toward her, doing what appeared to be a celebration.

"Yeah!" he exclaimed, fists pumping in the air. For a second, she thought he was going to kill her, but he instead grabbed her shoulders and shook ferociously. "Smell that fresh air!" He inhaled sharply, despite the air smelling matter-of-factly a lot like burning flesh and debris. "Couldn't you just drink it like booze?" At this point he was practically in hysterics, laughing so hard that tears came to his eyes. Although, that could have just been from the increasingly bad air quality.

This man was likely on some hardcore drugs, but she still had to ask, "The Hell happened here?"

What he said next was something about a lottery, but it was hard for Six to follow along as she at this point noticed bodies strung up on display across the town. Oh fuck, her brain struggled to fully process what exactly was happening at the moment. Fire was not good. Bodies were not good. Caesar's motherfucking Legion was not good. And on this side of the Colorado River? Vegas was fucked.

"What lottery?" her voice heavily quavered as she asked, knitting her eyebrows together. She was only half actually paying attention as a weight made itself more and more comfortable in the bottom of her gut.

Without letting him explain, Six was already pushing past what was seeming more and more likely the only survivor. He hardly gave her a second thought as she stumbled past the rubble, eyes fixated on the scene laid before her. She wouldn't have noticed, but the man had already started to make his leave, shouting triumphantly for the whole Mojave to hear.

They were strung up on crosses, she noticed, like this one God she remembered hearing about, and maybe even followed at one point. She stared into the sorry face of one man for who knows how long as he whimpered and begged her to end his suffering. She couldn't do it.

She hadn't even thought to draw her pistol until she heard his voice in her ear.

The same voice she would hear seven years later in a saloon in the northern regions of Nevada.

It was him, no doubt about it.

"Oh, for fuck's sake," she gritted, getting the attention of the man she planned to kill in a few seconds.

This time, she did not hesitate to draw her pistol. In a moment, she was already making a fast pace towards the man seated only a few stools away from her. It was a matter of seconds before the whole establishment had their eyes on her and the elaborate scene she was creating. The unnecessary person she hadn't recognized earlier in the night found now the necessary time to leave, and he was out before he could even pay for his drink. Now all that was left was her, Mandy, the NCR vets, and the man she currently had at the end of her barrel. One less patron in a way, way too quiet bar.

The man rolled his eyes and went back to his drink, apparently ignoring Six's threat.

"Calm down, Sixer," ("Sixer" was what Mandy had started calling her, in that loving motherly way of hers) "You're scarin' business away."

Six pulled back the hammer, making sure the man she was threatening could hear it. Mandy didn't understand. Six wasn't sure if she ever would. She hadn't dealt with the Legion like she had.

Mandy got more cautious, "Now, Six, if you shoot that man I'll have no choice but to ban ya." She set down a glass she was cleaning rather harshly and put her hands on her hips, feigning a tough-girl attitude.

All the while, the man at the tip of Six's gun hardly moved. He was too damn calm for having a loaded gun to his head with a very pissed off and equally terrified woman behind it. When he did move, Six jammed the barrel deeper into the back of his head. If she could explain to the owner why she was about to blow brains across her freshly waxed floor, she had a chance of not being banned for life. Although, The Rad Stag Bar & Grille offered the best damn jalapeño poppers in the whole Mojave. Yeah, she wasn't going to risk losing those.

"Pat him down," she said to Mandy, gritting through her teeth, "Make sure there's nothing on him that could kill me."

Mandy sighed relief, tossing her rag down and shuffling out from behind the enclosed counter. Six took a step back to give her room. The agitated man held out his arms for the larger woman to bend over him and check every little pocket and cranny he had in his clothes. She rose with nothing but a well kempt switchblade from his shoe, which she promptly slid across the counter to Six. Six deposited it in her front pant pocket. 

Mandy gave her a look that asked her to please put the gun down, which she hesitantly obliged to. The gun was holstered, but not switched back to safety. She would likely need it later, almost certain this man would attempt to take her life. The man gestured for her to take a seat, rather calmly, so she did (mostly out of fear of being slaughtered for disobeying the orders of a psychopath). The vets in the back settled down, disappointed that they weren't getting dinner and a show. Mandy continued her own business behind the bar, glancing Six and the stranger's way every now and again.

Now seated next to him, Six knew she had made a mistake. She was crazy to get so close to someone so dangerous. The crimes and atrocities this man has committed without feeling the slightest remorse was astounding.

Still, this gave her an opportunity to observe her target more closely. This man had longer hair than she remembered that was also starting to gray. He had a scratchy chin from clearly not having proper shaving equipment.  His appearance came across as more humble and wise than the war criminal she knew he was, and, in a way, that was scary. He could fool almost anyone with just his looks alone. Hell, it was even starting to get to her a bit. This had to have been the guy, though. His voice was way too prominent and very hard to forget. Could it still be a mistake? Her memory was very fuzzy most of the time. She almost apologized to him, and would have if she hadn't made eye contact. There was no way in the Nine Circles of Hell she could mistake those shallow blue eyes for anyone else's.

"What the fuck are you doing here," she whispered just loud enough for only him to hear her.

"I could ask you the same," he replied nonchalantly, his voice reverberating and chilling as he raised his already half empty glass to his lips.

Six narrowed her eyes and chose her words cautiously, "I'm retired, and I'm not wanted by the very people I share drinks with. You can't exactly say the same."

"Not the same," he swirled his drink, ice clinking with each rotation, a sly and very fake smile playing on his lips, "but similar."

"The Hell is that supposed to mean?" Six leaned on the counter, fighting not to bury her head in her hands due to the increasing stress of the situation.

"What does it sound like?" he almost chuckled. She wanted to strangle him so bad.

Six thought about it for a couple seconds. Legion don't retire, do they? They work for Caesar or whoever the fuck is enslaving them for all of eternity, right? She had never ever heard of a legionnaire retiring, especially one of his rank and skill. Yeah, she wasn't falling for such a terrible lie.

"You're not retired."

"You don't know that," he threw back the rest of his drink and sat the glass on the counter softly as an attempt to make it as if he wasn't even in the room. He's rather good at making himself disappear among the crowd, and he already had too much attention on him than he would like.

She released a frustrated and very stress induced sigh, "Even if you are, what are you doing here?"

"To be quite honest," he started, "I wasn't exactly planning on meeting anyone I knew personally when I came here." And that was true. He wasn't. Nobody goes to a small bar in the middle of nowhere to meet with anyone, and Six knew this. Still, she found it hard to believe.

"Ok, but-" Six was at a loss for anything to say. Could it just be dumb luck? She just happens to run into someone she knew seven years ago? Unlikely, yet, plausible. But, this wasn't just anybody! This was the man that kept her awake for so many nights reliving the nightmare that was Nipton. She was so pissed off at him already and he didn't do anything. Yet, she reminded herself, He didn't do anything yet.

The man could sense she had nothing else to say and ordered himself a refill.

"You don't drink," Six pointed out to him, rather boldly.

"What does it look like I'm doing?" If one looked very closely, a tinge of annoyance could be seen in the way his eye twitched.

"Well, you're very obviously drinking, but you're Leg-"

"SSSHHT!" he shut her up quickly by slamming a chilled hand over her mouth. A few droplets of brandy escaped his glass from the sudden movement. His eye twitched again as he noticed they landed directly on his clothes. He checked behind them to make sure the vets in the corner weren't glaring at them, "This is not the place, Courier."

His hand left her mouth and he continued nursing his drink, twirling it when the liquid wasn't passing through his lips. Something about him addressing her as "Courier" made her blood boil. Maybe it was because he had never called her anything but. She knew it was stupid, but she couldn't help thinking how hilarious it would be if she outed him in front of a band of trigger happy old coots who would do anything they could to get their hands on a real legionnaire in this part of Nevada. You know what, she thought, fuck it.

"Ok, Vul-" she started, but immediately regretted it due to the blood-soaked daggers the man was glaring into her, and the hand that had just been on her mouth now grasped her wrist in a death-grip. Just the look he gave was enough to make her shut up and never speak again for all eternity, and the hold on her wrist emphasized his point. She knew what he was capable of. For sure, he would start by cutting out her tongue so she was unable to speak. He would probably feed it to her after that. Six literally kicked herself in the foot and bit her tongue as a reminder to shut the hell up. She was certain if she said another word she would be dead before she could reflect on it.

"I suggest you keep anything about... that... to yourself. Otherwise, our banter would amuse me," he spoke a lot lower and menacing than before. More of that damn glass twirling.

Amusing? To talk to me? The profligate of all profligates? Six thought, amused herself, That one's new. Some time passed as they sat in silence, Six contemplating her next move.

"Sixer," Mandy piped up from behind the counter, startling Six from her thoughts, "would you care for a refill on that?" She pointed to Six's near empty glass that still remained at her original seat, several stools down.

"Sure," Six replied barely audible. She really didn't feel like drinking anymore, but asking for a refill was a Hell of a lot better than sitting in silence with him. Mandy refilled her glass with more rum and Nuka, sliding it her way. Six had to put her hand out and just lightly tap it to keep it from sliding too far. Her hand trembled as she did so, causing her to then notice that the tremble was in her entire body.

In the blink of an eye, the room felt different. The vets in the back of the bar were eerily quiet. It was only when Six turned around to check on them that she noticed they were gone entirely. What the Hell was the time, anyway? A quick glance at the clock told her it was nearing 11:00. What the hell? She could have sworn it was just 10:30 a moment ago. Another quick glance told her that the man she's been sitting with had finished his drink. So, yes, quite some time had passed. Hardly ever before could she recall being so paralyzed and frightened as to completely dismiss her surroundings.

It was only the three of them left in the bar now, and she tensed even more at the thought of the man next to her killing both of them right then and there and getting away with it. After all, it was two out-of-practice drinkers against one very skilled and very deadly war criminal. He could do it with the snap of his fingers. Still, they sat there in a very uncomfortable silence, the man drinking his brandy while she stared into her own untouched drink.

Just when she was thinking of excuses to leave without somehow pissing him off even more, he spoke, "I'm afraid I must call it a night." The man rose from his stool, "Your company was greatly appreciated," he said it in a way that made it quite obvious he was being sarcastic, "albeit your lack of suppression for certain information." That last bit was nearly spat at her to emphasize her insolence, and just in case she was so ignorant that his sarcasm flew right over her head.

Six was grateful for him to be leaving. It was about goddamn time. She didn't know how much more of his presence she could take before she popped a cap in his head, anyways. Or her own, for that matter. It sucked that she had a reputation for being shot in the head and surviving. Sometimes she herself believed a bullet could never kill her.

As he brushed past her, he made sure to speak quiet enough into her ear that only she heard, "Vale."

Oh that asshole, she thought, damn him. She sucked a hissed breath between her teeth as a shiver started low in her back and made its way to her shoulders where she involuntarily shuddered. The jangle of the door told her he was gone, and now it was just her and Mandy in the saloon. A brief wave of relief washed over her before the fear she had been previously attempting to cover took over. Her head fell in her hands and she groaned.

What the Hell was Six going to do about Vulpes Inculta?

Chapter Text

Without so much as a "goodbye" to Mandy, the former courier rushed from the building. Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and her head was cloudy. Six had to get away. But where? Inculta was in the area, but Six had no idea as to where. You can't escape your enemies when you don't even know where they are.

Once out in the brisk night air, she made the thoughtless decision to go left. With no place or friend to go to, Six found herself weaving in and out of dusty streets at full sprint, not slowing down. Once, she fell into a trashcan, spilling its contents all over the street. It didn't even cross her mind to clean it up. She had to get as far away as possible from him, and as fast as possible as well. Another time, she tumbled into an older citizen full bore, knocking him to the ground.

"Watch it, lady!" he shouted with an accusatory fist in the air, but Six never even heard him.

She had to get away.

Her race to get as far away from the saloon as possible ended when she tripped over a bit of roadside curb that jutted out just a tad more than the rest. Falling face first, Courier Six ate dirt. Now disoriented and with a sharp pain in her left wrist, she groaned. Her groan turned into a scream, however, when she rolled over and noticed how disfigured her wrist appeared. No doubt broken, it was almost bent entirely backwards. A good ten minutes was spent with Six on the ground writhing in pain, holding her wrist with her other hand. Anything to take away the pain.

God, she had forgotten what real pain felt like. It's been ages since she was in combat, let alone injured. The hell was she going to do? The closest doctor was in the next town over, and that would take her at least an hour to walk to. Six mustered up some courage and looked at her wrist again. It was hard to tell in the dark, but she could definitely see swelling and bruising. Yeah, she wasn't going to last another hour without breaking down sobbing from both her nerves and the extensive pain she was in.

The only other choice she had was to go back home and risk Inculta tracking her there. She really did not want him to know where she slept. But, at the same time, she had quite the stash of Med-X and Stimpaks from her excessive hoarding. Anytime she came across one, it was a no-brainer to take it with. That's what months of being a lone courier caught up in the middle of the biggest war the west coast has ever seen will do to you.

So the decision was in front of her: Go back home (only about a 10-15 minute walk) and get immediate medical attention, but also risking a possible house-call from the Legion's most notorious war criminal; or, walk seven and a half miles in the chilly and arid desert air, risking passing out in the wilderness, dehydration, yao guai attacks, cazador attacks, deathclaw attacks, Legion attacks- yeah, she wasn't going to do that.

Back home it was.

It took her a little while to address her surroundings and figure out where she was. After that, every step she made was made with caution. Every corner she neared, her heart sped up, anticipating a pale man with a coyote on his head to be waiting for her. Every silhouette she saw, she stayed out of site until she could confirm that it wasn't him. This was absolutely the longest 10-15 minutes of Six's entire life. Well, it was more like 20-25 minutes, due to her extremely cautious behavior. Even so, it felt more like an hour to the poor courier.

She couldn't remember ever feeling so terrified.

Once on the familiar street, she speed-walked (more stumbling than actually walking) to the door of her single story pre-war home. She fumbled for the key with a shaky hand, checking all of her pockets, left wrist aching for the pressure she had only now taken away her whole time walking. Once she thought she had it, she pulled it out only to find the pristine switch-blade Inculta had had hidden in his shoe.

"Damnit," she cussed aloud. She must have lost her house key when she had her fall.

Not a problem though, for she always had a spare hidden inside her unused porch lamp. Struggling to one-handedly twist the cap of the light off, Six's wrist started aching even more. As if it could have gotten any worse, she thought to herself. Successfully snatching the key from the lamp, she quickly inserted it into the lock and turned. For a second, she was afraid that it wouldn't work and she would be stuck out here in the night with a sociopath stalking her, but it turned and she pushed herself into her home, slamming the door shut behind her.

First order of business was to lock the door and draw the blinds. She was going to do anything she could to ensure Inculta didn't find her. When that was all said and done, she tumbled into the bathroom and flicked on the light.

"HOLY MOTHER OF SHIT!" 

Deep purples and blues painted her wrist, and it was swollen to about twice the size of her other one. It was like having a Pip-Boy on without wearing one. Feeling weaker by the second, Six had a hard time sliding the mirrored door of her medicine cabinet where she kept all of her supplies.

First, she grabbed a wad of surgical tape so she could cut off circulation before the injections. Not that it would do much to ease the pain, though. At this point, Six worried she wouldn't ever feel anything but hellfire in her wrist. She used her left canine tooth (the right had dulled down and no longer had any sharpness) to cut the tape once she had unraveled a reasonable length. Even though it worked, Six was sure it made her gums bleed by the metallic taste she now had in her mouth. Six tied a knot in the tape right below her elbow using her right hand and teeth once again. Thank God she never had any of her teeth knocked out on her past adventures, or this would be way harder.

After the knot was secured, Six reached into the medicine cabinet again for a syringe of Med-X. Uncapping the needle with her teeth (she could praise her lack of tobacco use at this point), she slowly pushed the plunger until a trickle of liquid came from the tip. It's been awhile since she gave herself any medical attention, but she was still cautious enough as to not inject straight oxygen into her bloodstream. She injected the Med-X near the injury, but not quite on it. In a couple seconds, her lower arm began to go numb and she was ready for the healing power of a Stimpak.

One last time reaching into the medicine cabinet, she selected a Stimpak from her collection. One last time pulling the cap off with her teeth, she repeated the process of pushing the plunger for the trickle of liquid to spittle out the top before injecting it directly into the wound. It was an odd feeling, mentally. She knew she was inserting a needle into her forearm, yet there was no sensation. It was entirely numb. Pre-war medicine is a fucking miracle.

With the last of the medicine in her blood-stream, Six discarded the used syringes in a metal trash can that she would be sure to take to the doctor at some point for him to properly dispose of. She would also ask him for a splint and/or cast. Stimpaks might be miracles, but the wound still has a chance of not healing right. She didn't feel like being a one-handed cripple for the rest of her life, seeing as to how she struggled so much in the past hour. Using her long nails, she picked at the surgical tape until it came off, returning some of the feeling to her forearm.

Once she put away her supplies, Six slid the medicine cabinet shut and looked at her reflection in the mirror. Her hair was tangled and unkempt, and it had heavy clumps of dirt and sand in it from her fall. Heavy perspiration covered her face, and she could taste the salt on her lip. It wasn't until now that she noticed how dry her mouth and throat were, and she desperately craved a glass of water. God, she looked so tired. It had to have been at least 1:00 at this point. The analog clock above the bathroom door said otherwise- 12:13.

She may be ready to pass out asleep, but she wouldn't do that until she was cleaned up. Six's hygienic tolerance is not what it used to be. Now, she needed at least two baths a week, whereas seven years ago it was more like two baths a month. It's a wonder she was never known as "Crustier Six." She chuckled out loud to that thought.

Six turned on the sink faucet. It didn't matter which one she turned, she was going to get cold water no matter what. She also had to wait until the water ran clear rather than rusty brown. The small town she considers herself a resident of isn't near as luxurious as her previous home on the strip. Sometimes she misses the hot water and air conditioning, then she remembers why she left in the first place- too many memories. Her fame (infamy to some others) made going anywhere hard with the amount of attention she'd receive. It was hard to recount how many times favors had been asked of her, simply because she was The Courier, and they knew she would do it. She couldn't say no. Yeah, those people might have really needed help, but it was too much stress for her, so, she left. Now she lives in the small town of Alamo, Nevada.

Alamo is a sweet little town. It reminds Six of Goodsprings, but a bit bigger. Not everyone knows each other, but they're all homely people. It's about 100 miles north of Vegas, so she's well out of the way of any fanbase (or anti-fanbase) she had become the center of. The doctor that she would be visiting the next day took residence some ways north in a small place called Ash Springs, still in Nevada. It would be a four hour walk, not considering any bathroom, water, or leg breaks, so she would have to suffer a bit longer until sunrise.

Six was thinking about this as she wet an old, but clean rag and applied it to her skin. Scrubbing all the grime and sweat off (avoiding her wrist), she started to feel a bit cleaner. When she felt her skin was good enough to go to bed, she washed her hair. That part was a bit tougher. She had to grab a hair brush and untangle it while she held her hair under the faucet. It was quite an uncomfortable angle, and she could feel the blood rushing to her head. All the same, she kept at it until she felt her hair was decent enough for bed as well. Six turned off the faucet and made sure the water stopped trickling before leaving. Old pipes can be a pain in the ass sometimes.

Six un-holstered her pistol, afraid she wouldn't be able to sleep without it, and set it on the edge of the sink. She stripped of her T-shirt, jeans, socks, and boots, chucking them all in the bathtub to be taken care of some other time. Flicking the light off, she grabbed her gun and made her way to the bedroom through semi-darkness. There, she found a clean pair of cloth shorts and a tank top to sleep in out of her dresser. When she went to crawl into bed, a small yip made her jump.

"Augh!" she exclaimed out of shock, putting her uninjured hand to her chest. Realizing it was just her pet German shepherd, she cooed in a whisper, "Aww, Rexy, you scared me. You're such a good boy, yes you are."

Rex, the dog, jumped up on her, placing his paws (one real, the other cybernetic) on her shoulders while his tail wagged and he licked her viciously. Six struggled to hold his weight and her gun, especially with her healing wrist, and had to gently push him down.

"Not now, Rexy," Six liked to talk to him like he was a baby, "Mommy is really hurt and needs to lie down. You can be a dear and lay with her, though."

She ruffled his ears like a mother would a child, and Rex appeared to be smiling in that dog-like way- open-mouthed and tongue hanging out. They crawled into bed together, both under the comforter. She loves that dumb dog so much. He's also one of the few living reminders she has of her time in Vegas. Him, and well, she guessed Inculta now, too.

That thought did not settle well with her. She held her pistol tight to her chest and fumbled with the safety. To leave it on or not was the question running through her mind. Deciding to take it off, positive that Inculta would find some sort of way into her house, Six placed it under her pillow. Despite her tiredness, Six remained awake for another good hour pondering the events of the previous day. Well, everything was fine, really, until about 9:00 or so. That bastard is somewhere, and she won't let him get away with whatever plot he must be planning.

The last thing Six saw before she drifted to sleep was her old Pip-Boy, that now doubles as a bedside clock, read 1:34.

Vulpes waited around the corner of the Rad Stag Bar & Grille. The Courier would be out at any moment, and he wasn't going to miss an opportunity to follow her home. Leaning his back against the brick wall, he tapped his feet to the rhythm of some old song forgotten in time. He checked his rusty, worn-out pocket watch often- not that he had anywhere to be, just an old habit from years of blending in amongst the Vegas profligates. Passersby would believe that he was waiting on a lady and give him sorrowful looks believing that he was being stuck-up. Those foolish degenerates had no idea.

The door flung open with a loud thump, the little bell jangling. Vulpes never liked bells on doors- they draw too much attention when one is attempting to blend into the crowd. Arms crossed, he watched with interest as the Courier panted like a rabid bitch, scuffling around, hands on her head. If he had never met her before, he would have thought her a madwoman. So, this is the effect he had on people? And she was so close to him without even noticing his presence. He could literally walk a few steps and touch her, and she had no idea. Stupid woman.

The Courier seemed to have come to some sort of conclusion, for she bolted in the opposite direction of Vulpes. Following her was so easy. She weaved in and out of streets with no direct path and ended up looping around so many damn times. All Vulpes had to do was walk in a single direction and follow the sound of her thudding footfalls. How could someone be so loud, especially when trying to get away? He had to smirk one time, when a man called out, "Watch it, lady!" in the general direction he knew she was running in. Ah, the dissolute were so terrible, yet so entertaining!

His amusement came to an abrupt end when he heard a thump, like a sack of meat, followed by a deafening scream. The shit? he asked himself, walking faster in her direction. She was no longer running, so he had to guess where she was. Eyes trained for the dark, he spotted a figure that looked more like a dying mole rat than a human lying on the sidewalk. Yeah, that was definitely the Courier.

Approaching her carefully, he followed the shadows to avoid being spotted by her or any other local residents coming to check out the commotion. As he got closer, he could hear a pained groaning and maybe even light sobbing. Vulpes ducked behind a burned out light post for a good ten or so minutes, watching the courier's stages of hurt, contemplation, fear, and anxiety unfold in front of him.

For a few minutes, he even considered lending her a hand. He pitied the poor woman. He sighed and leaned his head against the lamp post, folding his arms to his chest while doing so. The poor, dissolute woman, lying on the ground, in possibly the worst pain she's felt in a long time. Should he help her up, or no? It was embarrassing, seeing one of the most powerful people in the whole Mojave in such terrible condition. Checking his pocket watch again, Vulpes figured he'd wait a few more minutes. If she got up on her own, good for her. He'd stalk her home. If he actually had to help her up so she wouldn't die rotting in the middle of the street (an embarrassing way to go, really), he'd figure it's not worth it to focus on someone who can't even help themselves, let alone him. If that was the case, she's definitely no longer the woman she once was, and it would be wasting his time to try and get anything out of her. On the other hand, he could really use a time-waster.

Lost in his thoughts, he almost missed when the Courier pushed herself from the ground. Vulpes crouched down farther, shielding his white, light reflecting face with the sleeve of his suit. If the Courier saw him now, it would likely be game over. She still had that pistol on her hip, and he was no longer armed. There he remained still for, say, half a minute before the Courier began to move. When her footsteps sounded far enough away, he deemed it safe enough to follow.

Her steps were a lot quieter now, so Vulpes had to follow a lot closer. This meant sticking even harder to the shadows and ducking behind cover whenever possible. Though the woman checked around every corner and kept a good eye out, it was fairly easy to follow her. Unlike her, Vulpes was not out-of-practice. The extensive training and beatings he's endured over his time as a legionnaire is something one could never forget.

The Courier took her damn time walking back, though, and Vulpes' calves were beginning to hurt from so much crouching and squatting.

Finally, the Courier stopped in front of a small pre-war house. It looked quite homely, and he wondered if he could sleep inside without her even noticing. He cocked his head to the side when she cursed to herself, patting down each of her pockets. Did she lose her key? Was it out on the street somewhere? He'd have to retrace their steps back and pick it up when he was done here. His chest filled with excitement when he saw her retrieving her hidden key from the porch lamp. That was extremely useful to him. He mentally applauded her for that one, for he would have never even thought to check there. This woman really cared about her security, which would make it even more fun when he snuck around inside her house.

When she shut the door behind her, he waited a few more minutes in his position in case she decided to come back out. Hearing the audible click of the door latching and watching her close the window blinds, he concluded she would not be making another appearance outside until the morning. Since that was the case, Vulpes decided he had enough information for now, and that he would now retrace their path in search of her apparent missing house key.

His knees popped when he stood up, and he stretched his limbs before making haste. Each step was full of giddy as he scanned the sidewalk all the way back to where she had fallen. Seeing the silver glint in the dust, he smiled wide. Picking it up, he admired the sheen in the moonlight.

Vulpes Inculta was back in business.

Chapter Text

After a brief four hour sleep on the crummy floor of an abandoned tool shed, Vulpes returned to the Courier's home with a pack on his back. The sky was colored in blues, reds, purples, and pinks as the sun was just starting to rise. He kept his distance, hiding out in a bush across the street, and checked his pocket watch which read 5:15. The wooden fence separating the yard he was in now from the road added some extra cover. The needles pricked and scratched at him, threatening to rip holes in his suit. That damn suit was one of the only clothes he had, and gods willing, he wasn't about to give it up, so he had to remain very still. His eyes were trained on the Courier's front door the whole time.

Vulpes held his breath when he heard the door lock unlatch. A few moments later, the Courier emerged wearing old combat armor and armed with a hunting rifle. She did a quick scan of the street before locking the door behind her and speed-walking away. Being the frumentarius he was, Vulpes so badly wanted to follow her, but he had more important duties on his mind.

You can't stalk someone who's fully armed when you don't have anything to save your skin.

When he was sure she was well on her way, Vulpes slowly removed himself from the bush, cautious of his clothes. He brushed the loose needles off his shoulders, chest, legs, and out of his salt and peppered hair, watching them flutter to the ground at his feet. He would clean up better with a mirror to look in, which would likely be in the Courier's house.

Chest filled with excitement, Vulpes vaulted himself over the fence (earning a splinter or two), and scampered across the street to the Courier's front door. His eyes scanned around the different houses to make sure nobody was watching his break-in. With no wandering eyes about, he pulled the silver key from his pocket. Once again admiring the small item, Vulpes thanked his gods before inserting it in the key hole and giving it a twist. The lock turned, and he would be on his knees kissing Fortuna's hand if he could. Turning the knob, Vulpes left himself into the home of Courier Six.

The first thing he noticed was that the house smelled oddly of lavender. Damn women and their need for scented cleaners, however, the uncanny freshness was sort of welcoming to his Mojave-adjusted nostrils. Sleeping somewhere that didn't smell like rust, blood, sweat, or piss? That was a steal where he came from.

Vulpes pocketed his gods-blessed key and shut the front door behind him with the heel of his shoe. He admired the natural light that entered from the now drawn blinds, and how the rays seemed to ignite the blue carpet. This felt like holy ground, and his mind was at ease.

Vulpes removed his shoes to avoid dragging any dirt inside, and he placed his pack, as well as the shoes, on the floor near the door. As he roamed, he felt his socked feet pushing into the softness of the carpet. Paintings, collectables, and photographs of the Courier and her supposed friends decorated the white walls. Little odds and ends were strategically placed on tables and counters, and really made this feel like not just a house, but a home. It reminded Vulpes of the house he used to have in Flagstaff, back in Arizona.

Vulpes' stomach gurgled, and he figured his switchblade that he missed so much could wait a little longer. It was fridge raiding time.

Walking with light steps towards the fridge, Vulpes almost slipped on the now porcelain flooring. My gods, and she waxes her floors?  This woman was really something else.

He pulled the little metal fridge open, shocked that it even kept its cool. Working refrigerators are somewhat rare in the desolate wasteland. Not much was stored in it, other than some meats and cheeses. Cheese? Where the fuck was she getting cheese from? Vulpes found himself grabbing two packaged blocks of cheddar, one sharp, the other smoky, hoping the Courier wouldn't notice them missing. He also grabbed a tube of meat labeled "Rad Stag Bologna" in black marker, and shut the fridge. Vulpes would be eating like a god this morning.

Standing in the warm, welcoming sun that shone through the window above the sink, Vulpes ate his divine breakfast. He savored every bite, admiring the different tastes. The former legionnaire tried to imagine the last time he ate anything other than random wild animals charred over a fire. He wasn't too good at rotisserie, but he could make a mean ass stew if given the right tools and ingredients. At least, it was mean to his standards. The standards of a man who has been living off of charred wild animals the last year.

As he munched, Vulpes thought about how perfect it would be if he had a glass of aged red wine to finish it off. He doubted the Courier had any, so he settled for a Nuka Cola Vanilla from the fridge. The man uncapped the drink, pocketed the bottlecap, and took a large swig. The fizzy drink flowing down his throat felt like drinking godly ichor. Very rarely did he get to enjoy the sugary carbonated goodness of a soda. Water was way better for him, but he just had to treat himself this fortunate Wednesday morning.

While Vulpes sipped his Cola, he gathered what was left of his meal and returned to the home's entrance, where he jammed the items in a pouch of his pack. His plan was to save at least some of it for later, if he ever needed anything. Good food was hard to come across for Vulpes, and he was running low on bottlecaps. Stealing was a reasonable, and justifiable, option. Justifiable in his eyes, at least.

Stilling drinking, Vulpes explored some more of the house. He made his way down a narrow hallway. Identifying a bathroom on the right, closet on the left, and bedroom at the very end, he decided to start with the bathroom.

Entering the bathroom, he admired the light and warmth the skylight provided. This courier woman really likes her natural lighting, he noticed. Not that he minded; it was very pleasing and welcoming to the senses. Vulpes looked in the mirror above the sink, and cringed at his reflection. How in the world did he pass as a fine gentleman looking like that? His hair was way longer than it should have been, and it wasn't even styled for Mars' sake! It's also been a good week since he last got his hands on some shaving cream, so he needed to take care of that too. Vulpes threw back the rest of his drink and set in on the sink to take out later.

Scoffing at his reflection, Vulpes slid the mirror door of the medicine cabinet aside to take a peek. He scrunched his nose at the many Stimpaks and Med-X syringes the Courier had stashed in there. Closing the door to the medicine cabinet, seeing as it was just medical supplies (as the name suggests), Vulpes moved on to a drawer on the side of the sink cabinet. There, he found a decent razor. The Courier wouldn't notice it missing, would she? No, she's naïve, he reminded himself as he placed it on the ledge of the sink. The Courier likely didn't shave, unless she was some sort of freak of nature, so he assumed the regular body soap on the side of the sink would be a suitable substitute for shaving cream.

Using a rag that was already wet and in the sink (the same rag the Courier used the night before), Vulpes wet his face, wiping any grime he had acquired the last few days away. He then took the green bar of soap from its little container and scrubbed it across his scratchy facial hair. Vulpes stared meticulously at his reflection as he worked the razor across his features. Even as he got older, his jawline and cheekbones remained prominent. Venus was very generous when the gods made him, at least, that's what he liked to think.

When he finished scraping away the thick hairs that plagued his face, Vulpes again used the rag to rub away any excess soap or hair that was left behind. After that, he washed the hairs down the sink. Studying his reflection and running his hands across his face to make sure he did a good job, Vulpes noticed something sticking out of the bath/shower curtain behind him.

Vulpes turned around with a curious eyebrow raised. Seeing that it was the leg to a pair of pants, he ripped the curtain aside. What was revealed was nearly an entire outfit. She just left it in there? He was ready to scoff at her when he also noticed that it was the clothes she wore yesterday. The same clothes that she had stored his switchblade in. Bingo, a smirk played on his lips as he rushed forward to search the pockets. Victorious, he pulled a blade from one of the front pockets. Gods, had he missed that thing.

That switchblade was one of the few things tying him to the Legion anymore. When he was just a boy, he had crafted that blade by hand at a sort of Legion "boot camp." The wooden handle had a fairly well-done carving of a bull, as well as his initials, "V. I." His trainer showed his peers and himself how to sharpen, assemble, and maintain the blade. The purpose of the practice was to teach them how to make a weapon out of the smallest of their surroundings. Since he had lost his ripper in a close call with the NCR, this was one of the few weapons he had, other than his machete. He wished he could take his machete with him most places, but, unfortunately, that was the equivalent of saying, "Hey, look at me! I'm Vulpes Inculta! I'm Wanted for hundreds of war crimes and crimes against humanity!" His machete had remained in his pack that was currently in front of the Courier's front door, so that switchblade was really all he had.

This was the one item he didn't care if the Courier noticed missing.

He made sure the mechanics still worked, pocketed it, and replaced everything in the bathroom to the way he found it (minus the razor that he would be keeping for a little while). Figuring he was done in there, he did one last lookover before leaving. The next room to hit up would be the bedroom. Who knew what all for little treasures the Courier kept in there?

The door creaked open, and the room was considerably chillier than the rest of the house. Vulpes observed how much of a difference there was since the sun did not shine in this room. This room's window faced west rather than east like the windows in the kitchen. That was fine, though, because that bed looked really fucking comfortable. Each second he spent looking at it, Vulpes could feel his legs getting heavier as it called to him. Finally, he gave in and plopped face down and horizontally across the comforter.

There he lay for a few minutes, fighting against the pull of sleep. Another time he would plan for a comfortable rest. For now, he had no idea what the Courier's schedule was or when she would return.

Vulpes sighed as he adjusted himself to lay face up on the pillow. Something hard poked into the back of his skull, and he reached under the pillow. Grasping something metal, he drug it out. Seeing it was a gun, he nearly dropped it because of how close he was to pulling the trigger. It wasn't on safety either, that foolish woman. She'd kill herself one of these days.

Further inspecting the gun, Vulpes realized that he, in fact, recognized the weapon. It was the same weapon the Courier had pointed at his head the night before, as well as the very gun that nearly killed her seven years ago. After all this time, she kept that damn thing. He could vividly remember his Lord Caesar handing it to her, requesting that she decide her near-killer's fate. Benny, was his name, he remembered. Benny was an asshole through and through. Vulpes still couldn't understand why the woman risked hers and his lives to escape Fortification Hill with him.

He could not recall the name of the gun, though, but he recognized the figure on it as a Christian one. The name was on the tip of his tongue, remembering some of the Malpais Legate's beliefs from way back when he was in power. Of course, Vulpes never believed that bullshit. Instead, Vulpes was brought up worshipping the original ancient Roman gods. That's what his Lord told him, therefore, he believed. After all, Lord Caesar was the son of Mars (Vulpes didn't believe he was literally the son of Mars, but rather spiritually- chosen by Mars to fulfill his destiny).

Vulpes ran his slim fingers across the engravings, memorizing every detail. It's a fine weapon, that's for sure. If only he could take this with him as well. Alas, the Courier would likely miss it so much she'd track him down until he handed it back. And when he did, she'd likely shoot him for the inconvenience.

Growl.

The shit? Vulpes' body froze where he lay. His shoulders tensed and a lump formed in his throat as the growling got louder and more intense.

Ruff.

The bark was so low and deep Vulpes could feel it reverberate through every bone in his body. Near paralyzed, he slowly turned to his side and was met with the drooling jowls of a German shepherd. Hardly a dog, he nearly cursed seeing the metallic legs and jaw that could easily tear him apart if so desired. His brain was inside a glass dome that sat upon his head like a weird hat. The canine looked as if he wanted to shred him limb by limb, so Vulpes cocked the pistol towards him.

Hell let loose as the dog pounced onto the bed, pinning Vulpes down. He hardly gave him any time to react, and got a good scratch on his hand. The German shepherd barked ferociously in his face, covering him in dog slobber as the hand with the gun was pinned under his enormous paw. Vulpes struggled severely, scratching at the dog's head, kicking his legs at him, anything he could to get the beast off of him. Once, Vulpes got his arm in front of his face, but that was a mistake, for the canine chomped down. It didn't break through his clothes, but it certainly drew blood underneath, and gods damn did it hurt.

Vulpes pulled his head back as far as he could with the restraint of the pillow beneath him and slammed it forward, making contact with the beast's snout. The dog howled in pain and drew back, giving Vulpes enough time to free himself from the canine's grasp. He scuttled out of the bed and aimed the pistol with two hands, directly at the dog's glass brain-display-case of a head. The dog whined with his snout buried in his paws.

If he shot the dog, the Courier would 100% notice. How couldn't she? It was her damn dog.

However, he might not make it out of this alive if he doesn't. He would run away like he always has been, nowhere to go.

Fuck it, Vulpes thought, positioning his pointer finger on the trigger. No time to think, he began to countdown in his head.

Three...

Two...

One...

But, just as he was about to pull the trigger, the red emblem upon the dog's metal flank suddenly stood out like a sore thumb.

"You're..." The canine started to recover, pulling his head out of his paws with a whine. Growling ensued.

The German shepherd was readying to pounce again when Vulpes asked aloud, "You're Kaizar's hound, aren't you?"

Ears perking up at the name, the beast was no longer beast-like. All menace dropped from the creature, and he cocked his head at the man who mentioned the name of one he used to consider family.

"You are, aren't you?" Vulpes lowered the gun slightly, asking for confirmation from the dog, not that he expected it to talk or anything. Maybe it would, he pondered. After all, it's hardly a dog to begin with.

The canine didn't, though. He just looked at Vulpes with a curious stare. Vulpes extended a weary hand forward, hoping to make companionship with the dog. After all, if he wanted to keep coming back, he couldn't fight off the creature forever. When the German shepherd sniffed his hand, however, the growling started again.

Gods damn me, she trained him after my scent, didn't she? It was possible. The canine had been present, he believes, when he offered the Courier the Mark of Caesar. An ordinary hound should have forgotten a scent after seven years, especially since his scent should have been drastically different. However, this was no ordinary hound.

How the shit does Antony do this? he wondered, attempting to think back on what the Legion's mongrel breeder would do. His methods were... strange... but perhaps they would work in this case, considering the animal in front of him originated from the Legion.

"Are you a... good boy?" Vulpes cringed as he said the words, not understanding how or why they would calm a beast such as itself. Even to himself, it sounded odd to hear the words in that menacing tone of his.

To his utter dismay, it worked. The dog perked his ears again and offered a friendly doggish grin- tongue out and panting.

"Well, damn," Vulpes said out loud. "So, it works?" he offered a light, nervous chuckle to the creature. "Praise you, Fortuna, for I have been very lucky these past hours."

Vulpes cautiously approached the creature, again extending his open palm. The dog froze, and Vulpes was afraid he would bite his hand off, but the creature reluctantly sniffed his hand and allowed Vulpes to scratch an ear.

"Yes, that's a good boy. Very good boy."

As he had the animal occupied, he extended with his other hand the pistol, replacing it under the pillow where he had found it. All the while, he was whispering reassuring words in Latin to the animal. When he removed his hand from the dog's head, he made soft steps backwards, careful not to alarm the beast again. Shortly, he was out of the bedroom, dog watching his every step back from his place on the bed. Vulpes shut the door slowly, making sure it latched when it closed.

He nearly fell to his knees in relief.

Vulpes hadn't even noticed the intense pain in his arm until now. Not before wiping the intense amounts of dog drool off his face, he rolled up his sleeve and determined the few punctures could be fixed with some of the healing powder he had in his pack. Without even considering checking the closet across the hall from the bathroom, Vulpes grabbed his empty bottle off the counter of the sink, scuttled to the front door, and picked up his bag and slipped on his shoes. He would return sometime soon, and maybe with some dog treats.

Chapter Text

Six kneeled in front of the toilet, hair tied up in a messy knot behind her head. Her one hand kept the short wisps that were not quite long enough to stay put in the knot out of her face, while the other hand supported her over the bowl. Tears dried to her cheeks and a gross ball of snot hung suspended between her and the polluted water below. She had been throwing up for the past half hour.

"Unnnng," she groaned, ready to be done, but her stomach would not let up.

Six felt like she could throw up again, but could only dry-heave. As another wave hit her, she gagged and coughed into the toilet. All that came up was a yellow ball of mucus and regurgitated spit. After this fit, she ripped a piece of toilet paper off the roll beside her head and wiped at her eyes, nose, and mouth. God, she was a hot mess.

At this point, Six's stomach eased and she could comfortably stand up without the fear of hacking up anything else. After cleaning up what little throw-up sat on the seat of the bowl, she threw the piece of toilet paper into the bowl and flushed. Rex, hearing the noise, trotted into the room and gave her a big lick on the cheek. Once he tasted the saltiness of her tears, he started licking more eagerly until Six was pushed to the ground in a mess of dog kisses. She tried to laugh, but all that came was a husky groan and a tickle in the back of her throat that made her cough. Rex got off and gave a victorious, yet quiet howl, seeing as he'd cheered her up.

Clearing her throat, Six said to her companion, "Oh, Rexy. You know I love you, right?" to which he responded with a yip.

Six smiled, holding out her arms for the canine to come. He barreled into her, nearly knocking her down again. She wrapped her rather small arms around the dog's neck,  digging her fingers into his soft fur. Holding Rex made Six feel a little better. Her eyes peered up toward the skylight in the bathroom, and she took note of the dark blue that was getting lighter with each passing minute. Stars that she was just able to see two minutes ago began fading into the natural canvas, view obstructed by the increasingly lighter blue strokes of paint. 

"Rexy," she whispered, and the dog perked his ears at his name. "Rexy, I need to get going. This wrist won't cast itself, and I don't feel like chucking some used syringes out for the junkies to use."

The dog followed her command and removed himself from her, sending cold shivers across Six's now exposed skin. Her knees felt slightly weak when she stood, so she had to support herself on the sink counter. Stretching her legs a bit, she wobbled back to her room.

In her room, Six walked over to her dresser and pulled a fresh pair of clothes out. She chose something simple that required minimal effort to put on. After dressing, she made her way to the nightstand to collect a large water canteen. She took a long swig, wetting the previously dry back of her throat, and then she topped off the remaining liquid in the container with some more from a nearby water bottle.

Six carried the flask with her out of her room, and into the closet to the right- once a closet, now her personal armory. It was larger than you'd expect a closet to be, and it was more like the size of a small office. Various armor sets hung around the walls on hangers. Some were raider, some NCR, some just regular old combat armor. Hell, she even had a random Legion skirt and chest plate in case she would ever need one. Though, upon seeing it, she scowled, a sour feeling returning to her stomach. She quickly covered it up by moving a larger set of NCR ranger gear in front of it.

A workbench sat in the middle of the small room with various weapons and tools set out. Nowadays, Six's main source of income is fixing up armor and weapons for those that were traveling more than she. Most of her customers she meets at the Rad Stag Bar & Grille (Most people refer to it as just "Rad Stag," since it's a lot shorter), but she also met some from her brief visits to Ash Springs up north. That was where she was headed today, as soon as she was properly equipped.

Six snagged an older piece of combat armor. Sure, it was older, but from her experience with it she knew it was probably her safest choice. It was heavily plated, providing good protection, yet it left room at her joints to move freely and quickly if it ever came down to being agile over powerful. Pulling it over her head, she latched the few buckles and adjusted the straps until it fit comfortably. She then put the strap of her canteen over her head so that the canteen hung like a satchel on the opposite side of her. Six picked up her favorite hunting rifle, one that had been given to her on one of her birthdays by a good friend of hers. Checking that it was, in fact, loaded, she grabbed a pack of .308 round and stuffed them into an ammo belt she then hung around her neck. The last thing she grabbed was a small backpack.

Closing the armory door behind her, Six walked directly across the hall into the bathroom where Rex still lay, ready to fall back asleep for one of his many daily naps. Six picked up the metal trashcan full of syringes and dumped them into the sink. There she recapped them and placed them in her backpack. She didn't feel like risking a needle to the spine today.

Six walked to the front of her house with Rex at her heels. She patted his globe head goodbye and reached for the door. Her hand instinctively unlocked the door, yet she hesitated to leave. What if he's been stalking her house all night? Would he shoot her when she left? Kidnap her? God forbid, enslave her? A knot clenched in her gut and for a moment she thought she was going to puke again. Taking a few deep breaths, suppressing the returning nausea, Six turned the knob and walked out into the now sun-touched street. Paranoia creeped up on her, and she had the urge to run right back inside and hide under the covers. No, she thought, I need to do this.

Quickly slamming and locking the door, Six forced herself outside. She squinted, scanning her surroundings for anyone who looked like they could have been watching her. Believing the coast was clear, she speed-walked north towards Ash Springs. While navigating the streets, she kept her eye out for the man who's name turned sour on her tongue.

Inculta is not following me, she had to keep reminding herself.

At least every five minutes, she would stop and assess her surroundings, noting any little rock or hill he could be hiding behind. She would then keep her eyes trained on those places until she passed them. Her paranoia only got worse as she continued, sure that she would see him one of these times.

Alas, she did not. When she arrived in Ash Springs, her canteen was half empty and she was two bullets short due to a scuffle she ran into with a gecko. Of course, she scared herself thinking it was the Legionnaire running towards her, and she completely missed the first shot. The second one barely hit, but it stunned the lizard enough for her to make a quick exit. She nearly ran nearly a mile until her nerves were calm enough to walk. She collapsed on the ground and nearly passed out from dehydration and exhaustion, which is where she had drank most of the missing water in her canteen. As her head dizzied, she shut her eyes against the harsh sun. The bright rays still made their way through, coating her vision in red, however, so she laid on her side and caked her sweated skin with Mojave sand in the process.

When her body finally felt relaxed enough, she stood and started towards Ash Springs again as if nothing had happened. She would try to forget about as much about that man and the effect he had on her as she could.

A couple hours later and she showed up at the main roadway into Ash Springs with a sand coated t-shirt, two bullets short, a half empty canteen, and a throbbing wrist. Less familiar with the streets and buildings as she was with Alamo, Six had to peer down each street and alley to the prewar gas station repurposed as a medical clinic. There, a small guild sign hung shoddily from the side of the convenience store front that had a painted red cross. Six's breath hitched, instead seeing a Legion red X in her half delusional mindset.

She clenched her eyes shut, suppressing the image, and entered the small clinic. Unlike the Rad Stag, there was no jangling bell to announce her presence. Instead, a series of beeps excitedly made its way towards her. A half confused man in a lab coat followed not far behind.

"Hey there Ed-E, Arcade," Six greeted nonchalantly.

The man's eyes widened extatically as his robot orb companion, who was responsible for the previous beeps, beeped some more.

"Six... I fucking missed you," he responded, shocked, as he brought her into a great hug. The former courier sucked air through her teeth in pain.

"Shit," Arcade immediately pulled back, "I knew you couldn't have just showed up out of the goodness of your heart. What happened?"

He started examining Six's wrist, turning it to the side, running fingers softly across the bruises, all the while changing the position of his head to get a better look.

"Broken," was all Six responded with.

"No shit. How?" the doctor inquired.

"I fell on it," she bit her lip. Not a lie, yet not the whole truth.

"You're a terrible liar, Six, have I told you that?"

"You have. Seven times as a matter of fact."

"Not enough."

"Just shut up and fix my damned wrist," she sighed.

No further questions ask, the doctor urged her into a chair and asked her to wait there while he ran off to gather any needed supplies. Six tapped her heel against the leg of the chair and patiently waited. When he returned, he had a roll of very thick gauze, a handful of Stimpaks and Med-X, and two wooden sticks that she could only assume were going to act like splints. Arcade dumped the cumbersome supplies onto a workbench and proceeded to go to work on her wrist.

The doctor injected the Med-X and Six's arm went numb again. She didn't pay attention to his procedure too awful much, just asked questions while staring in the general direction of her wrist.

"You ever consider going back to being a researcher?" she asked

"Do you see any other doctors around?" he motioned around them with the arm that was not currently unwrapping the bandages Six had placed herself.

"Well, I mean," she began, "you can't be that awful good at healing if you're literally using a broken broomstick to set a splint."

Arcade paused, looking at the two sticks he held parallel with her wrist on either side, before starting again.

"Part of being a doctor in a desolate wasteland is making do with what resources you have. Mine just so happen to come from the janitor's closet."

"What are you gonna do next? Clean a wound with Abraxo Cleaner?" she teased.

Arcade sighed, "I learned long ago not to let you near Abraxo at all. Last time, you tried to mix it with bleach. You nearly killed us all."

Six smirked at his remark, "Good thing I had a devilishly handsome researcher at my side to stop me. Maybe if he was just a regular researcher, without the handsome, I would have followed through. I'm not exactly the kind of woman who enjoys bloodstains on her floor."

Arcade chuckled before saying, "You're not exactly my type."

"Ouch," Six said in feigned hurt.

A minute passed in silence. Arcade concentrated on his handy-work while Six was lost in thought.

"That was back at the 38," she had finally said.

"Yeah," Arcade's voice dropped an octave.

"Do you wanna go back?" she inquired.

"No, it's just..." he trailed off before coming back, "Can I ask you some questions?"

Six mentally prepared herself the best she could before cracking one last joke before things had to get serious, "That's one."

"How many do I get?" Arcade spoke as a half-joke to lift her spirits before he prodded into her personal life.

Six raised her unharmed hand. Four digits were extended.

As Arcade struggled to keep the makeshift splint in place while he wrapped the heavy gauze around, he shot his first question, "What really happed to your wrist?"

Six's leg bounced, "I told you already. I fell on it."

The doctor shook his head, "I know that by the way there were pavement scrapes. I want to know why you fell. You can't possibly be that hazardous, although the conversation about the Abraxo and bleach may have reminded me otherwise."

"I was running. I tripped on the curb and fell down. Happy?"

"Not quite," Arcade mused, "Why were you running?"

The former courier bit her lip and tapped her nails on the arm of the chair to the same rhythm as her bouncing leg.

"I was being chased," she finally said.

"By whom?" the concerned look Arcade was giving her almost made Six want to cry again.

"That's one question too many. Try again later."

She went to stand, but the doctor held her firmly in place.

"No, it's not. I counted," she struggled a bit against him before giving in, he ironically being the stronger of the two.

Six didn't say anything for the longest time, so Arcade went back to wrapping up the finishing touches on her now healing wrist. When he was done, he pulled up a chair in front of her and sat down. Arcade took both her hands in his and stared at her with pleading eyes. Six met his gaze and choked back a sob. Then another. When she could no longer hold back, she broke down, leaning over so that her forehead rested upon the doctor's shoulder. Small fingers gripped large ones, and Arcade leaned his head on hers as comfort. There they stay for a long while, Arcade rubbing his thumbs over Six's. He whispered calming words in her ear while she got his collar drenched in tears he didn't mind her shedding. When it finally seemed like she was calming down, Six whispered five syllables into his neck that he didn't quite hear. He lowered his head so that she could say them again in his ear. What he wasn't expecting was the name that came from her lips. In fact, it was the last thing he had ever hoped to hear.

"Vulpes Inculta," she whispered. A name that had not reached his ears in nearly a decade.

Arcade was frozen solid until Six began to sob again. He removed himself from her embrace and stood on wobbling legs. He disappeared, leaving Six alone and crying to herself. The doctor returned and sat back down where he was previously. A warm hand cupped Six's chin and urged her to look up a the man in front of her. In one hand, he placed seven bullets, and in the other he placed a .45 Magnum.

Holding eye contact, he said to her, "Put a bullet in that bastard's brain for me, will you? Doctor's Orders."