Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“I will leave this place, Vulpes. With or without your help.”

“Why are you telling me this? It seems you’ve already come to a decision. Had you expected me to try and talk you out of it?”

“No. I know you better than that.”

“Then we have nothing to discuss.”

“Yes, we do. Now that you know of my intentions, you have two options. Report me to Caesar for my treachery - or let me go. If you choose the latter, just know that you’re complicit in my crimes.”

A life of bondage is hardly a life at all.

And for a woman in Caesar’s Legion, it’s tantamount to a death sentence.

Despite everything she’d seen at Fortification Hill, the Courier believed she would somehow manage to be spared the same fate so long as she kept herself useful, utilizing her skills for the Legion and helping them secure victory at Hoover Dam.

Surely, they would accept her into the faction for her part in recovering the platinum chip, removing Mr. House from his pretentious seat of power, and procuring valuable instruments of warfare through her extensive knowledge of technology - all without question.

Because she knew there was a clear pecking order in the Legion. She’d witnessed too many of her friends and loved ones succumb to their deaths in the unforgiving mass of the wasteland; trading disputes, gambling bets, chem addictions, hostile tribals, radioactive critters straight out of a horror show.

Her allegiance to the Legion, half-hearted as it was, kept her safe – for a time.

The Mark of Caesar afforded her some liberties unseen by even the highest-ranking officer’s wives. To be a subject or citizen of the Legion was one thing; to be a slave was another thing entirely. A true fate worse than death.

Perhaps she’d been lured into a false sense of security. Truthfully, she never particularly liked the other factions vying for control over New Vegas. The NCR were all greedy hypocrites who were vastly out of touch with most citizens of the wastes and the daily struggles their lives were consumed with. The Bear’s intrusive presence did more harm than good for small town folk who were just trying to earn an honest living.

And Mr. House, well, her disdain for the man, the myth, the legend was very personal.

She’d grown up in Vault 21. Known the luxuries of pre-war medicine, consistent meals (the miracle of hydroponics), and access to educational material. Turns out the Vault had only offered its protection within the parameters of its true purpose; experimentation (one of but many, thanks to Vault-tec’s dastardly ways) in the effects of gambling on its inhabitants.

Ultimately, it was their previously harmless way of life that uprooted so many vault residents from their home. Mr. House made a proposition, promising all the things that glitter in the resurrection of New Vegas. While some were aching to leave the confines of thick metal corridors and dimly lit hallways, others, like the Courier, were hesitant to leave the only stability, and the only life, they’d ever known.

A painstaking ordeal in Blackjack guaranteed Mr. House’s victory, and just like that, they were vault dwellers no more.

The first few weeks were the hardest. To make ends meet, she took on odd jobs here and there before settling with the Mojave Express and taking on the ill-fated task of delivering the platinum chip. (Little did she know who the package was for; and if she had, in hindsight, she would’ve intercepted herself before Benny got his paws all over it.)

The wasteland proved a merciless and disgusting place; the air hot, the winds strong, and the scorched earth soaked in blood.

But the Courier could see the beauty in even the smallest things. Blink and you’ll miss it moments.

When small town folk rallied together, offering help and support for their fellow man in need. When children played along the streets, humming old-world tunes. When the city lights of the Strip glowed their brightest, twinkling like stars in the valley.

Would she trade it all for her life back in the Vault?

Hard to say.

But the only thing more suffocating than living underground is the slave collar wrapped tightly around her neck.

She hadn’t expected the Legion to reward her. A pipe dream that would be; a woman, showered with gifts in return for her loyalty to the Bull and everything it stands for.

If the gifts were tattered slave rags and a thin tent for sleeping accommodations, she’s still better off than most slaves.

The injustice of it all made her blood boil. After everything she’d endured, everything she’d sacrificed, her endeavors were all for naught. She’d accomplished more in the span of a few weeks than most legionaries would in their lifetime.

But they were men. The hierarchy was unmoved by the discrepancy in achievement.

Although women were forbidden to fight in the Legion, the Courier made her skills available in other ways. Espionage, engineering, and tactical affairs were far more befitting of her character. Thanks to the vault’s extensive collection of pre-war books and other educational material at her disposal, she’d cultivated quite the appetite for intellectual stimulation.

She’d only wished she hadn’t wasted her talents on the Legion.

Her thoughts are only further cemented upon the rude awakening she receives the morning after she’d been enslaved.

“Rise, woman!” The harsh growl in the legionnaire’s voice unceremoniously jolts her awake.

Before she can move, another soldier shoves his way into the tent, taking firm hold of the chains coiled around her wrists and ankles.

“Caesar demands your presence at once,” he declares, dragging her shackled body along dirt and stone.

The courier struggles against his brutish tugging. “At least let me walk,” she snaps.

Her resistance backfires. “Silence!” the soldier barks, yanking on the chains for emphasis.

After she’s jerked out of the tent, like a petulant child hauled off for punishment, she quickly manages to find her footing, shakily standing to full height as the sun’s glare comes into view and blinds her.

A true vaultie at heart, she’s forever wary of the sun and its daunting glower over the wastes. While its great light may be a symbol of hope for others, she hates everything that follows dawn – the inescapable heat, the harsh penetrating rays, and the putrid scent of ash and decay.

She much prefers the darkness of night, the moon and the stars, a haven for solace and rest.

Not that she gets much sleep nowadays.

With footfalls as heavy as cinder blocks, she obediently follows behind the two legionaries, keeping her head low. Even with her gaze fixed on the ground, she feels eyes on her, watched by surrounding slaves and soldiers alike as she’s escorted to Caesar’s dwellings.

She remembers a time when she’d come and go as she pleased, when her presence was requested and not commanded.

“Ave.”

Her head lifts only to acknowledge the praetorian guard at the entrance of Caesar’s tent. The legionaries and guard exchange a few words before they’re permitted entrance.

Inside, Caesar is waiting on his self-established throne with Lucius, the Legate Lanius, and Vulpes Inculta all perched by his side.

“Leave us.” Caesar shoos the legionaries off, waiting until they’ve filed out the tent before continuing. “I need you to do something for me,” he says, and the Courier knows nothing good ever follows that.

But she doesn’t want to end up nailed to a cross, so she bites back the urge to defy him.

“What?” she asks, dreading the answer.

Her answer is not immediate, sensing hesitation from him in the imperceptible twitch of his jaw, the mindless drumming of his fingers.

“Meet me in my quarters,” he finally replies. Whatever he has to say must be too sensitive to share with the others still present.

Conceding to his will, she paces forward, walking past Vulpes in favor of seeking passage through the Legate’s ironclad position by the throne.

She makes eye contact with the leader of the frumentarii, but only briefly, with her looking away first. She doesn’t need peripherals to know he’s still watching her with her back turned as she enters Caesar’s private quarters.

“How may I serve-” She’s cut off mid-sentence, too stunned to speak once she’s faced with the most shocking of revelations.

Caesar grimaces in pain, nursing both temples with his thumbs, eyes sealed shut.

“They’ve come back, haven’t they?” she asks, mindful enough to keep her voice low. “The headaches.”

Caesar nods. “With a fucking vengeance. It’s like some barbarian’s taken a club and swings away on a repetitive loop. On top of that, my left leg has been dragging. Feels stiffer and hard to move, like it’s numb.”

Nerve damage? The courier ponders, thinking back on medicinal knowledge she’s procured from the vault and the Followers of the Apocalypse.

“And you’ve seen me blank out,” Caesar continues. “Lucius says I stare into space, blink a few times, then keep talking like nothing’s happened.”

The courier represses the impulse to smile, like a knee-jerk reaction. Karma’s a bitch.

And now she knows why his top-ranking officers are absent from this meeting. How humiliating it would be for your second and third in commands to see just how mortal and pathetic the Son of Mars truly is.

“Your symptoms are consistent with a brain lesion, possibly a tumor,” she says, feigning devastation and her best attempt at a frown.

“I figured as much.” Caesar twinges in pain again, shifting in his seat. “Congratulations, you just became my personal physician. Do you have what you need to treat my condition?”

The Courier shakes her head. It’s a half-truth. While she’s incapable of performing such a complex procedure, she knows of someone who can – but she won’t sell out Arcade Gannon to the Legion. He was kind to her (albeit, cynical at times) and taught her many useful things.

Plan B. “Your only option is the Auto-doc,” she informs. “And it’s currently in poor shape.”

Caesar grunts. “It’s missing the diagnostic scanning module.”

What the Courier lacks in medicinal prowess, she makes up for in her expertise with technology.

Then it dawns on her. All vaults were fully equipped with clinics, and their clinics were fully equipped with auto-docs. Vault 21 is out of the question; Mr. House saw to that when he filled the lower levels with cement.

But there were still several other vaults scattered about the wasteland. Some in better shape than others. If she could just be granted permission to leave under the guise of this honorable fetch-quest… she might have the chance to finally escape.

“It’s missing the automatic surgical unit,” the Courier corrects, assessing the machine from a distance. “May I?” she asks, gesturing toward the device. Caesar allows her to peruse its fixtures.

“I can repair this,” she affirms once she’s through with her tinkering and obliging her curiosity. “I’ll need to find a replacement part and swap it out. Easy enough.”

Caesar seems impatient, but appeased by her emphatic delivery. “I’ll send a group of scouting legionaries on the errand,” he says, and the courier sees her window of opportunity fading.

“If it’s not too much trouble, I’d like to join the excursion,” she implores, a little too eager. “I know my way around vaults.”

Caesar rubs his chin in thought, leaving her in suspense.

“My men are capable of handling the task,” Caesar replies, his decision final. “You’re needed here.”

Her small glimmer of hope fades to black.

Chapter Text

The Courier, sworn to secrecy, leaves Caesar’s private quarters in muted defeat.

“Vulpes,” Caesar calls out, brushing past the flaps of his tent. “You are to organize a squadron of scouting legionaries to Vault 34.”

Vulpes reacts as expected, always one step ahead. “For what purpose, my lord?” he inquires.

“To retrieve…” Caesar trails off, unsure how much information is too much information - and what could potentially expose the soft underbelly of his mortality. “A unique relic.”

Suddenly, he has a change of heart – or rather, needs to cover his ass.

With the Legion’s firm opposition to modern medicine, and Caesar’s personal belief that reliance on technology weakens humans, it’s definitely more about covering his ass.

“The courier has happily offered to assist,” Caesar huffs, catching her off guard. “She’ll identify the item and return it to me.” He leaves the implication that she’s to leave the specifics between them unsaid.

And she’s very much aware of the consequences should the secret slip.

Vulpes nods in the affirmative. “Yes, my lord.”

But the Courier has misgivings. She voices her concerns with Vulpes when they’re out of ear-shot and safe from prying eyes, strategizing the mission in his tent.

“He doesn’t trust me,” she risks sharing with the leader of the frumentarii. “I can handle this errand alone.”

Vulpes pulls out a map, noting all the vaults marked in the region. “You’ll need protection,” he contends. “You’re of no use to Caesar dead.”

Sometimes she wishes she were dead.

Rather than carry out her own suicide, she nods toward the pip-boy on his desk. The Legion had confiscated her most prized possession, the one she grew up with in the vault. Granted, they don’t know that. Perhaps they’d assumed she’d picked it off the corpse of a destitute vaultie in the wasteland.

“My pip-boy’s map will be a lot more accurate,” she says. “I have the precise locations of all vaults within a twenty-mile radius.”

“We won’t need it,” he replies, sights still roaming the map.

The Courier’s unsure what she finds more aggravating; being deprived of her own belongings or being largely ignored and dismissed by the man in her midst.

“Why do you have it?” she probes, fearing her question may be crossing a line of sorts.

Vulpes still won’t look at her. “The legate wanted to destroy it. I convinced Caesar otherwise.”

The courier doesn’t press further than that. Maybe Vulpes saw something of worth in her pip-boy. Or maybe he merely wanted to spite Lanius simply because the opportunity had presented itself. God knows he didn’t advocate for its preservation for her sake.

Either way, she wants it back.

It’s not stealing if it’s yours.

Her thoughts of reclaiming rightful ownership come to a swift halt as she peruses the other contents near his desk. Books, lots of them, neatly organized, and most in Latin. She recognizes the names instantly… Ovid, Horace, Plautus, Virgil, and… Catullus. Well, she certainly had not expected that to be in Vulpes Inculta’s private collection.

Disregarding the need for approval first, and since Vulpes seems far more preoccupied with mapping out their route than paying her any mind, the Courier indulges her piqued interest and soon finds herself browsing his anthology of Roman history, literature, and poetry.

She whispers the titles quietly, the words rolling gently off her tongue, and barely grazes a finger along the thick spine of Horace’s Odes before her wrist is seized, caught red-handed by an unexpected legionnaire. Damn brute had crept up on her, as if waiting for the right moment to pounce.

“You really ought to ask before you go about touching things that aren’t yours, profligate,” he spews, his grip on her wrist tightening. “Can you even read?”

“Yes, I can,” the Courier retorts. “Can you?”

Must’ve hit a nerve, because the shit-eating grin on his face disappears, and he raises his fist threateningly, aiming for her jaw.

“That’s enough,” Vulpes cuts in, right before the legionnaire can land the blow. He stands up from his seat, palms planted atop his desk.

“But sir, women are forbidden from reading!” the legionnaire persists, fuming. “She needs to be taught-”

“Do not recite the laws of the Legion to me,” Vulpes interjects, voice low and edging on hostility; a warning. “I’ll reprimand this woman myself. You are dismissed.”

His subordinate knows better than to stay, and so he does as he’s told, tail tucked between his legs as he scurries out the tent.

The Courier remains where she stands, hand hovering over the bookcase with apprehension coursing through her veins.

At first, she thinks Vulpes is toying with her. “Tell me. What does a mere courier know about Horace?” he asks.

She gives pause, supposing she’s better off playing dumb and apologizing for her transgressions.

But when she levels her gaze with his, it’s like peering into the unwavering depths of his soul. He seems… genuinely interested.

Her mouth trembles, but she commits. “Carpe diem,” she quotes. “Seize the day.”

Even illiterate legionaries knew of the famous Latin aphorism. “What else?” Vulpes presses.

The courier feels she’s being tested in some way. Hell, she’d been formally tested on the subject thanks to the vault’s standardized educational curriculum.

If this is supposed to be even remotely challenging, Vulpes is sorely mistaken.

“Solvitur acris hiems,” she replies, arrogance gracing her tone. “A Hymn to Springtime. The changing seasons warn us of the brevity of life. It’s the fourth poem in the first book of Odes.”

She stops, as a means of preventing herself from speaking past whatever limit the Legion’s imposed on women. More than a few syllables often prove detrimental.

To her surprise, this time is an exception. Vulpes’ own fascination prompts her to speak again.

The courier swallows, thickly, before citing another one of her favorite stanzas. “Leave off asking what tomorrow will bring, and whatever days fortune will give, count them as profit…”

“…and while you're young don't scorn sweet love affairs and dances, so long as crabbed old age is far from your vigor,” Vulpes finishes for her. “Vides ut alta stet nive candidum. Winter Without Bids Us Make Merry Within.”

“The ninth poem in the first book,” the Courier recounts, the room stilled to silence.

She waits.

Until Vulpes gives her something no man in the Legion ever has before: regard and something akin to consideration.

He pulls Horace’s Odes from the bookcase and hands it over. “You’re rather well-versed in these literary works,” he comments.

The Courier slowly accepts his offering, reveling in the weight of the book in her hands. It’s been so long.

“We had a small library in the vault,” she reveals. “I studied just about everything in the Roman Lit collection. Although, to be honest, I’m partial to the Greek poets.”

Vulpes quirked a brow. “You’re vault-born?”

Despite having worked alongside the frumentarius in previous operations, namely frequent collaborations in espionage and subterfuge in opposition to Mr. House and the NCR, it feels like she’s meeting him for the very first time.

Nipton hadn’t necessarily cast him in a flattering light. The mysterious figure in the vexillarius helmet who had descended from the town hall to approach her with a message of terror seemed in stark contrast to the man allowing her access to his scholarly wares now.

Their surroundings had made the very perplexing transition from flames and crucified civilians to books and Latin ruminations.

“Vault 21,” she clarifies. “It’s been converted to a gift shop and motel on the strip.”

Vulpes knows all too well. “Ah yes. I’m familiar.” Eyes and ears everywhere. “Caesar mentioned he had other plans for the establishment. The entire city will be reborn under control of the Legion.”

Not the vault… The courier feels guilt wash over her like acid.

“I wish I had gathered some of our library’s best pre-war novels and locked them in a safe somewhere before Mr. House forced everyone out,” the Courier says, willing for the subject to steer clear of Caesar and the Legion’s imperialistic terrorizing. “It’s been a long time since I’ve had the chance to read.”

And maybe it should remain so. The laws of the Legion are clear on the matter of women and literacy.

“Never mind.” Disheartened, the Courier reluctantly slides the book back into its slot on the shelf.

Vulpes studies the shift in expression on her face, like it’s a puzzle he can’t quite solve. Wordlessly, he reaches for another book, this time The Aeneid, and hands it over.

Confused, the Courier shakes her head. Is this another test? What is happening?

“Isn’t it forbidden for women to read?” she asks, arms folded over her chest.

Vulpes hasn’t budged, stoic as ever. “It’s forbidden for women to learn to read,” he amends. “The moronic legionnaire you had the displeasure of meeting earlier meant well, but he was mistaken on the specifics of the law.”

The Courier furrows her brow, creased in uncertainty. “You’re saying the law doesn’t apply to me?”

“You were literate long before you pledged loyalty to the Legion,” Vulpes explains. “That particular law is completely lost on you. Besides, your ability to read has proven favorable to Caesar.” While he has a point, the Courier wonders if his intentions could be misconstrued as… pity.

She doesn’t like the idea of being someone’s charity case, but truth be told, if he had found this encounter even the slightest bit unacceptable, she wouldn’t still be standing here.

Only then does she accept the book, fingers tracing the cover in appreciation.

“What about you?” she tries.

“What about me?” Vulpes asks in reversal.

“Do you also find it… favorable?”

Silence. And then… “What do you mean?”

Fair question. Frankly, she hadn’t expected to find common ground with the leader of the frumentarii at all – let alone inadvertently recite Latin poetry together.

This is about as far as they should go. They still have an expedition to prepare.

“Anything that furthers the Legion’s cause is worth preserving,” Vulpes responds to quell the awkward gap in conversation, and it comes off as zealous. “Your efforts have not gone unnoticed.”

“Haven’t they?” she retorts, bitter.

Vulpes ignores her vaguely insolent tone, a privilege he does not grant twice. “You’re alive,” he reminds her. “I assured Caesar you and your abilities were of value.”

The Courier mentally backpedals. “You assured him?”

A nod. “Yes.” He offers no further elaboration until she finally opens the book and, at his behest, reads a few verses aloud, as though he needed to confirm her competency. Her obedience seems to please him.

As she turns another page, she casts a cursory glance toward the desk behind him, realizing she’s distracting him from planning the mission. Vulpes detects her unease.

“Something on your mind?” he pries, his newfound appreciation for their reading pastime abruptly put on hold.

The Courier clasps the book to a close, sighing. “If you hadn’t convinced Caesar I was valuable to the Legion, what would’ve happened to me?” She knows better than to ask questions she already knows the answers to, but she needs to hear it. To confirm her reality. To remind her she is among foes, not friends.

Vulpes is aware the psychological method she’s applying – and under these circumstances, he might feel sympathy. Might.  

“Lanius would rather see you strung up on a cross,” he tells her. “Caesar had contemplated making an example of you.”

“But he didn’t,” the Courier says, piecing it together. “You persuaded him to spare my life?”

Persuasion is but one of many of Vulpes’ strong suits – but the question of why remains.

“I’ve been watching you, courier,” he explains. From Nipton to the Strip, and from Goodsprings to Cottonwood Cove, he’d made several noteworthy observations about their acquired ally. But the most remarkable of her achievements was her aid in Picus’ covert operation at Camp McCarren. “I informed of your involvement with the monorail sabotage plans. It was impressive how you pulled that off with such ease.”

The Courier takes a furtive step back, the entire bridge of her nose enflamed in scarlet. Flattery was supposed to feel good, not… whatever she felt now.

“Your previous conduct proves consistency as well as potential,” Vulpes carries on, referencing her summons to the Lucky 38, exacting revenge on both Benny and Mr. House for their senseless crimes, and gaining support from the Boomers up at Nellis to name a few. “To dispose of you would be wasteful.”

Not to mention she was privileged with Vault upbringing, knowledgeable when it came to obscure tech, and alarmingly adept in espionage.

He’d also just learned of her affinity for Roman literature; a trait that was all but lost to pre-war ways of living.  

So many in the Legion were nothing more than imposters, thinking they understood Roman classical folklore and culture. But this courier… was different.

The Courier half-smiles, but it’s mirthless. “Wasteful to who exactly?” she asks, daringly. “To the Legion…” Inches a step forward. “…Or to you?”

Vulpes is receptive, and whether it’s to taunt her or because he’s never one to back down, she can’t tell.

“Not all things are mutually exclusive,” he replies, suddenly finding her lips a fascinating sight. But when his eyes venture down to the slave collar twisted around her neck, he composes himself. “So long as we serve the same master, I’ll see to it that you’re always in good standing.”

The next day, the Courier wakes up to discover her slave collar has been ordered to be removed.

Vulpes has finished planning the expedition and anticipates her arrival to Caesar’s tent.

To her shock, he equips her wrist with her old pip-boy.

(“To compensate for her lack of weaponry,” he’d reasoned.)

Faced with the long trek ahead, the Courier weighs the pros and cons of delaying her escape. Under Vulpes’ protection, her getaway plans could be a hell of lot easier.

And with Caesar’s imminent death approaching, it’s only a matter of timing.

She can exercise patience.

Vault 34 awaits.

Chapter Text

Vault 34 was a labyrinth of collapsed walls and barricaded rooms.

The ramshackle lighting had been the least of the Courier’s issues when searching for the clinic. Lethal quantities of radiation presented one obstacle. The ghouls presented another. If not for her own vault upbringing, navigating through the upper and lower levels could have driven her to madness; like a rat in a maze.

With the automatic surgical unit tucked safely away in her knapsack, the Courier had felt inspired to make the most of her time away from being held hostage at the Fort. Traversing the old familiar corridors of a vault was rather nostalgic.

“What are you doing?” Vulpes asks as she types away on the terminal in the utility room.

In the adjacent hallway, his fellow legionaries shout war cries while laying waste to the feral ghouls running amok.

But the Courier remains focused, hands swiveling rhythmically over the keyboard.

“Hacking into the system so we can pump the water out of the lower levels,” she replies, eyes glued to the screen. She selects the correct password and is rewarded access to the main frame. “I’m in.”

Vulpes suspects this is, to use common wasteland parlance, hardly her first rodeo. “You must have experience in operating these machines,” he notes, intrigued but also skeptical.

“Sure do,” the Courier replies, successfully draining the excess water with one last input into the system. Done and done. “When you’re a kid in a vault, you can only play the same board games or run up and down the same hallways so many times. I had to find… creative ways to avoid going stir crazy. As I grew into my teens, I preferred reading and tinkering with terminals to pass the time. I felt like I was always learning something new.”

“Kept you out of trouble, I presume,” Vulpes muses aloud.

But the Courier chuckles, bites her lip. “Not necessarily…” she trails off, reminiscing. “My best friend’s dad was the overseer and whenever he’d be out of his office meeting with the other adults, we’d sneak into his room and hack his terminal. He kept tabs on the other residents, and it was kind of creepy, but it was also really cool that I could access so much information with all the right codes and inputs. After that, I’d practice hacking into other vault terminals and never looked back. I’m a little out of practice, but I’ve got the skill mostly mastered.”

“How naughty,” Vulpes comments. Naughty… yet resourceful. “Did your vault establish laws opposing the unauthorized use of these devices? Surely there were repercussions to follow.”

The Courier shrugs. “Only if you get caught,” she replies. “I never did though.”

That’s always the hard part – retreating from acts of subterfuge unobserved.

It’s also Vulpes’ favorite part; disappearing into oblivion, long before anyone can realize something’s amiss.

Were she a man, Vulpes ponders, she’d make a fine frumentarius. Still, it was fortuitous she was on their side.

It was also strange to see her in this light, as though comfortably in her element. Her entire demeanor had changed back at the Fort when he’d equipped the pip-boy on her wrist. Shoulders squared, not sagged. Eyes bright, not dull. Focused, not distracted. Present, not distant.

She seemed so much more alive, and that did wonders for her productivity. 

Apparently, she also had mischievous tendencies. He probably shouldn’t condone disobedience or blatant insubordination, but he can’t quite bring himself to fully condemn it either.

He himself had broken ranks once in battle – and that particular maneuver had not only resulted in capturing the enemy’s chieftain but also establishing his position as a frumentarius in the Legion.

A risky move, but he thoroughly enjoyed it.

“How about you?” Her voice pulls him from his thoughts. “What kind of trouble did you get into when you were a kid?”

She’d meant to keep things light-hearted. Vulpes’ childhood was anything but.

“None,” he replies, memories of his youth training instantly invading his thoughts like a fist to the face. There’d been a lot of running up hills, bruised and bloodied appendages, discipline in the form of lashes, and… the Burned Man. Trouble was ill-advised - even for children. The impressionable youth were the future of the Legion, after all.

Surviving training had been an honor and a privilege.

The Courier frowns. “I take it you grew up in the Legion.” Was she prying too much?

“I was brought in as a child,” he replies, expressionless.

“From where?” the Courier asks.

“The Utah.”

Despite how forthcoming he’s been so far, the Courier feels he’s omitting so much more than he’s revealing. “Did you grow up in a small town? A tribe?” This is a bit exhausting.

“Why do you ask?”

The Courier only wishes she could shrink behind the terminal. “You seem… different than the others.”

Vulpes studies her. “How so?”

How much time do you have? the Courier thinks, finally standing to her feet. Can’t hide behind the terminal forever. In the distance, she can still hear the screams of the feral ghouls and the loud drones of legionaries’ rippers hacking away.

“There are direct ways of solving a problem,” the Courier begins, explaining to the best of her abilities without entirely spelling it out. “And then there are indirect ways of doing so.”

The legate was a prime example of direct methods in the Legion, whereas Vulpes and his preference for deception and underhanded ploys put him at odds with the vast majority of soldiers who lusted after violence and conquest in its purest form.

Hammer versus scalpel.

But then again, the Courier has yet to see Vulpes in battle. What was he like when engaged in combat?

“So long as the problem is resolved, what does it matter if it’s handled directly or indirectly, as you put it?” Vulpes offers, impassive. “There are many ways to serve in the Legion and fight for our truth.”

“But why fight when you can outsmart?” the Courier maintains. “Not all battles are won with fists.”

She thinks she’s one step closer to earning his trust. Slow and cautious-

Until he reaches for the machete at his waist, swiftly pulling it out in heated anticipation.

“Move,” he commands.

“What?”

Her failure to comply results in Vulpes reeling her behind him, shielding her from the sudden onslaught of feral ghouls charging their way.

He thwarts the attack in a matter of seconds, severing the enemies’ limbs with meticulous precision as well as brute force. Blood sprays wildly in the air, splattering in thick droplets across the Courier’s chest and face.

Vulpes decapitates the last ghoul with a single swipe of his blade, its head collapsing to the floor in a dull thud. He stalls for a moment, breathing hitched, chest rising and falling to a palpable cadence. Then he turns around, inserting his machete back into his utility belt.

“Are you all right?” he asks, confident all threats have been eliminated.

She’s frozen in shock and a bloody mess – but she’s been worse. “Yes,” she mouths, nodding. “Thanks.” She peers down at her wrist, wipes the smudges off her pip-boy’s interface. “Caesar’s relic remains intact as well.”

Vulpes approaches her to make an assessment of his own. “My apologies,” he says, scrutinizing the streaks of blood peppering her face and neck. “You’re covered in filth.” Before the Courier can object, he pulls out a rag and gently wipes away the superficial surface of her skin with one hand, holding her still and composed with the other. “I’ll have my subordinates draw you a bath when we return to the Fort.”

She shivers a little as he works down to her exposed clavicles. His touch is surprisingly calming and delicate.

“Vulpes,” she whispers, gesturing to his arm. “You’re wounded.” Blood trickles down from a jagged slash above his forearm, seeping through the thick material of his armor.

“A scratch,” he says in dismissal, stowing away the rag he’d used to clean her up.

“The clinic may have some spare medical supplies,” the Courier offers. “Let me patch you up.”

“Time is of the essence,” Vulpes contends, leaving no room for argument. “We must first return to the Fort.”

The Courier reluctantly obeys.

At the Fort, the Courier is quickly ushered into Caesar’s private quarters, the contents of her knapsack concealed.

“I did what you asked,” she says, unveiling the automatic surgical unit. “I’ll need some time to repair the Auto-doc, but rest assured it’ll be up and running again soon.” You on the other hand…

“Just make it quick,” Caesar snaps, reclining in his chair.

The Courier gathers her tools and begins reparations, all the while cursing him under breath.

The Courier is rewarded for her success with fresh linens and a hot bath. She burns her old rags, saving the other slaves the trouble of washing them.

Something about being in the heart of Legion territory makes her feel dirty despite her relentless lathering and scrubbing. No amount of soap could wash away the perpetual sense of foreboding haunting her every move.

On her walk back to the slave’s stocks, she passes Vulpes’ tent and remembers his injury. As insignificant as he treated it, she had felt obligated to offer assistance in return for him saving her life.

She enlists the help of Siri, fellow slave and one of the Legion’s appointed healers.

“This should help,” Siri says, sliding over a few remedies at the Courier’s request. “You’ll have to use bandages to seal the wound after properly sterilizing the site. Don’t want to risk infection. Ghoul attacks can be fatal if left untreated.”

The Courier expresses gratitude as she assembles the supplies into her handy knapsack. She’s confident she’s capable of the feat, recalling basic first aid methods from her many travels with Arcade Gannon.

As was the founding principle of the Followers of the Apocalypse, he too had fostered the dedication for acquiring and sharing knowledge. Their own collection of books and educational material rivaled that of the vault’s, and while Arcade was more interested in research, he happily obliged her passion for old world fiction. He’d also enjoyed studying Latin (poetry can do wonders for seduction) and supplied her with all the Roman literature her heart desired.

A shame they parted ways – and she’ll never forgive herself for burning that bridge.

She only hopes he’s safe and managed to get Daisy Whitman and Rex as far from the threat of Legion conquest as possible.

What he would think of her if he knew she was about to offer all the first aid training he’d taught her to the Legion’s most notorious spy…

With no way of knocking before entry into Vulpes’ tent, the Courier is left with only one option – walk right in. Trouble was sneaking past the legionaries milling about in droves, clad in leather patented armor and razor-sharp weapons holstered at their hips.

The proper combination of timing and misdirection is the Courier’s greatest ally in reaching Vulpes’ tent unnoticed – and ironically enough, she’d learned that tactic from him.

“There’s brahmin running loose near the old weathering bunker!” a legionnaire reports, and the Courier seizes her chance. “Must have escaped the herding pen again. The incompetent slaves responsible for this shall be dealt with accordingly!”

Fleeing the commotion, the Courier weaves around the emptied sleeping tents and doesn’t slow her pace until she’s in the Fox’s den.

To her astonishment, he’s seated on his cot, shirtless, carefully stitching the gash in his arm with one hand and the most primitive of tools. He conveys no reaction to the needle piercing his skin, nothing in response to the discomfort of torn flesh.

Not even her presence breaks his stone-faced concentration.

“I received word that your meeting with Caesar went well,” he says, threading the needle higher. “He found your services commendable. A meal shall be prepared for you after you finish bathing.”

“I’ve already washed up,” the Courier replies, politely prying her eyes away from the sight of his muscled torso. “And I’m not hungry.”

Only then does Vulpes pause his needlework and look up at her. She cleans up well, he thinks to himself. A few hours ago, she was covered in blood and vault grime, her hair a ragged mess and her clothing tattered indecently.  

Now she stands before him polished; hair brushed to emphasize its natural length cascading down her shoulders, skin smooth and radiant, adorned in fresh linens swathed in the crisp scent of cotton and broc flower.

He’s never been alone with a woman in his tent before. He’s well-aware of what’s commonplace among other legionaries and how they treat women who’d been dragged into their sleeping quarters. It's a miracle the Courier herself hadn't been claimed by now... 

Except Vulpes has never found such behavior appealing and, in some cases, contradictory to how soldiers in the Legion should conduct themselves. The debauchery made them no different than the profligates of the wasteland, he thought.

The inability to exercise self-control and self-restraint when a woman so much as showed a little skin was a weakness; a pathetic one at that.

Vulpes had no respect nor tolerance for weakness.

Women were vessels, not props for momentary lapses in judgment or the mere satisfying of urges. They had their place, according to Caesar’s dogma, but evidently that place had yet to be appropriately defined. Perhaps it never would.

“You’ve had an eventful day,” Vulpes says. “Your body needs recovery. Away with you. Eat and rest up.”

“Let me help before I turn in,” the Courier insists. “You saved my life. It’s the least I can do.” She empties her knapsack onto his desk, healing powders and poultices scattered in disarray.

“This is hardly my first time having to tend to my own wounds,” he informs. “Your assistance is unnecessary.”

But the Courier calls his bluff, sidling up beside him, gesturing towards the needle firmly pinched between his fingers.

“Unnecessary, maybe,” she muses. “But is it unwanted?”

Chapter Text

They must have been breaking some sort of rule.

Except that largely depends on whose perspective is considered.

Vulpes fears no consequences for having the Courier in his tent. The Courier, in contrast, is risking her status in the Legion for sneaking off; her whereabouts unaccounted for following her deed with Caesar.

Vulpes can corroborate her claims, if need be, she hopes, although she knows better than to trust the word of any man in the Legion.

He had saved her life, but it could have been more for the mission’s sake than her own. Hard to say when the question can never be asked. Instead, the questions she does ask purposefully tiptoe around the subject of her presence altogether.

She’s too close, sitting next to him now. Close enough for him to snake his hands around her neck.

But he doesn’t.

“You may proceed,” he finally permits, releasing the needle to her possession.

The Courier picks up where he left off, sealing the wound in silent contemplation. In the stillness of the room, mending his stitches with careful ministrations and listening to the synchronization of their breathing, she finds peace.

Peace with the same man who’s massacred entire towns. How bizarre that paradox was. Most sane people would steer clear. Most wanted him dead. And yet, here she was, nursing his arm back to functionality – her head still miraculously attached to her body.

The Courier moves on to the bandaging material when another question arises. “Do you usually treat your own injuries?” she asks, dressing the stitches under several layers.

Vulpes tenses, briefly, at the throbbing ache in his arm. “Depends on the severity of the wound.” His threshold for pain is high enough to withstand even the most archaic and excruciating forms of treatment, but rendering aid is not quite the same as enduring it. “In my experience, it’s exceptionally rare for the frumentarii to require medical attention as often as legionaries regularly engaged in combat.”

Experience in battle was not something the Courier could relate to. She hadn’t thought much about Vulpes’ combat abilities either until seeing him defend her back at the vault, swarmed by ghouls, completely outnumbered but fearless, nonetheless. He was a true warrior at heart.

But it was the scars on his body that told of his history in a way words were incapable of. Old lacerations healed in prismatic striations on his back, the marks dark and the skin calloused. Ribbons of keloid traced his shoulders, cascading down his chest and the muscles exposed below.

The Courier internally chides herself, her gaze lingering a little too long. She finishes dressing the wound and stands up, back on her feet.

“Dulce et decorum est pro patria mori,” she quotes, finding nothing more fitting than another nod to Horace.  

Vulpes peers down at his arm, examining her handiwork. “Do you really believe that?” he asks, unconvinced. It was one thing to recite the lyrics of the old poet, but it was another to give credence to their philosophy.

The Courier gives pause, her hesitance damning enough. “It doesn’t matter what I think,” she replies, evasive.

But to Vulpes, it does matter. “There is truth in the old adage you speak of,” he begins, rising to full height and towering over her. “It’s an honor to fight and die for your homeland… but it’s far more honorable to live and endure for your homeland, in my opinion.”

The Courier feels small but does not falter. “What if you have no homeland?” she implies.

“The Legion is your home now,” Vulpes affirms, perceptible to her insinuation. “Consider yourself fortunate that you have purpose here.”

Fortunate? The Courier is rather insulted.

Her anger clouds her judgment, and she speaks out of turn.

“No. I had a home. Just like you had a home,” she says, voice quivering, her fists balled and shaking. “But it was taken from me. And it was taken from you.”

“You know nothing of my past,” Vulpes retorts. “The Legion did not take anything from me except a life of savagery and barbarism. I was spared atrocities a vault-dweller like you couldn’t even begin to fathom.”

“Is that how they spin it for you?” the Courier asserts. “That they saved you from tribal savagery and civilized you?”

“You need to mind your tongue.”

“Or what?” she dares. “You’ll have me crucified?”

All falls silent, but the tension swells, the air thick with unease.

She should be intimidated, she thinks, his gaze piercing into her like a blade, cold and unsettling. His muscular frame looms over her the way a predator zeros in on their prey, casting a shadow over her face, shielded from the gaslamp overhead.

“A waste that would be,” Vulpes finally says. “You’d never realize your full potential.”

“But if Caesar ordered you to execute me,” the Courier persists, unwilling to fold. “You would do it, wouldn’t you?”

Her words, laced with anger and defiance, spur the unpleasant memory of when his loyalty had been tested – when his youth, and an age of innocence, had truly died.

Vulpes only relives that day in nightmares, forever tormented by visions of flames, the stench of burning flesh, and the harrowing screams of a man thrown off the face of a cliff into the dark depths below.

Caesar had ordered Vulpes the task of lighting his former mentor, Joshua Graham, on fire for his failure in the first battle of Hoover Dam. He knew of the bond they’d shared, with Graham having trained Vulpes from a young age after his tribe had been conquered. He was something of a father figure at a time when he needed guidance and structure most – which was exactly why Caesar singled him out for the deed, handing over a match and pitcher of gasoline.

It was the only time in his life he had ever hesitated – but he obeyed without question and struck the match.

He hasn’t been the same since.

Maybe killing the closest thing to family you’ll ever have after losing everyone else you love and care about makes the slaughtering of entire towns no more bothersome than squashing an insect.

So why had the hesitation returned? Vulpes wondered. Why hadn’t the courier been lashed to a cross for her slandering? He’d known of slaves who’d received worse punishment for less.

Could it be that from the moment he first met her in Nipton, lost and timid, pure and innocent, a beacon of virtue in a town of whores, he had believed their paths were destined to cross again?

When he bestowed the Mark of Caesar upon her on the Strip, he admired the subtle glimmer in her eye, how she recognized him and yet made no mention of it.

Her passion for old-world literature only added to his intrigue, enthralled by her proficiency in the works of Ancient Greeks and Romans. Perhaps in another life, she was of the scholarly variety. Listening to her recite verse after verse was rather soothing. Mellifluous, even.

And she was resourceful – knowledgeable with tech, experienced with explosives (shockingly, most legionaries weren’t even aware explosives could be disarmed), and could fix a range of wares with the right tools. Her pursuits had been cultivated through vault-upbringing and her fellowship with the Followers of the Apocalypse, and while her intelligence made her useful it also made her unique.  

The great Roman poets had written about the women of their time- and now Vulpes Inculta was able to make sense of it all.

Catullus instantly came to mind…

“Odi et amo. Quare id faciam, fortasse requiris. Nescio, sed fieri sentio et excrucior.”

This exact sentiment… longing… yearning… was pure torture.

The urge to protect- no, claim- this woman as his own preceded instinct.

“You don’t know the gravity of your words,” Vulpes supplies, compensating. “If you were truly aware, you would repeat no such thing before the mighty Caesar.”

“Is that a threat?”

“A warning.”

The Courier opens her mouth to protest, but she’s deprived the opportunity when a young legionnaire recruit briskly enters the tent, bearing news.

“Sir,” he announces, head tilted in reverence, assuming properly military formalities. “Your presence-” He looks up, jaw slacked, momentarily caught in a daze.

The great leader of the frumentarii appears immensely unimpressed, every bit intimidating as forewarned by the other recruits. Worse yet, the legionnaire’s convinced he’s interrupted what looks to be a rather intimate moment; Vulpes is partially clothed – alone with a woman. The infamous Courier, to be exact…

“You were saying?” Vulpes huffs, irritated by the intrusion.

The legionnaire snaps out of his haze, shuddering. “Sir, Caesar wishes to speak with you.”

Vulpes nods once in acknowledgment. “Very well,” he says, prepared.

The Courier waits until the messenger has hurried off, ensuring they’re alone again.

“What do you think he wants?” she asks, disappointed the news hadn’t been announcing Caesar’s death. She keeps that to herself, of course.

“It’s possible he’ll send me on another errand,” Vulpes replies, turning to his armory. “The night is the frumentarii’s greatest ally.” He dresses quickly, headgear reserved on his desk.

“But your arm…” the Courier points out. “Shouldn’t you take it easy for a couple days?”

“I’ve survived worse,” Vulpes says, and he almost sounds amused. “You should stay here while I’m gone.”

The Courier blinks in confusion. “What if you’re gone all night?”

“You can have my cot.”

The Courier blushes, humiliated by the invasion of scandalous thoughts. “I should return to my own tent,” she says, shaking her head in refusal.

What a marvelous opportunity she’s turning down though. Full access to Vulpes Inculta’s collection of books and private journals, his wardrobe of disguises and fancy pre-war outfits, her own pip-boy…

She can compromise, however. For the sake of the loot.

“You’ll be safer here,” Vulpes reasons.

Women in the Legion are rarely afforded the luxury of safety.

“From what?” the Courier prods.

From the wretched scum who only mean to violate and ravage. I would sooner have them castrated should they even try and lay a finger on you. But Vulpes restrains himself.

“From unwanted disturbances,” Vulpes renders – but it’s not enough.

“You won’t always be around, Vulpes,” the Courier refutes. “You can’t protect me.” If that’s what this is. Depleted of all emotional energy, she turns to leave – only to be caught by her wrist.

“I could,” Vulpes says, emphatic, betraying no frailty. “If you let me.”

The Courier had never known a feeling like this before.

Perhaps she’d read about it in books or seen it in movies back in the vault, exaggerations and all.

But mere theatrics and purple prose could not replicate the warmth rising in her chest, the quiver in her throat, and the rush of heat pooling between her legs.

She was as excited as she was terrified.

“Don’t,” she pleads, turning to face him. “Don’t promise what you cannot see through.”

Vulpes releases her, slowly. “You doubt me,” he says more than asks.

“Your loyalty will always remain with Caesar,” the Courier affirms. “Besides, you’re a spy. Deceit is a part of who you are. How do I know I can rely on you?”

Vulpes can offer no comforts. “You’ll have to trust me.”

Chapter Text

Trust has to be earned, not given.

And actions speak louder than words.

“Show me then,” the Courier implores. “Show me that I can trust you.”

Vulpes doesn’t think twice. “Are you insistent on returning to the slave’s stocks?” he asks, devising a plan.

The Courier nods, resigned to her reality.

“Then I will escort you back,” Vulpes says, though he expects the gesture to be insufficient.

“I’m capable of returning on my own,” the Courier contends.

Vulpes shakes his head. “You may have succeeded in arriving here unscathed,” he cautions, “but leaving will present many obstacles. Legionaries are often restless at night. Most have finished their labors for the day and look for ways to… find release – making them unpredictable and all the more dangerous.”

“Dangerous to women, you mean,” the Courier clarifies.

Vulpes gives her a disapproving look, but she’s right. “Then you won’t be a woman,” Vulpes supplies, his plan hatched. “Not for this evening.” He beckons her to follow him.

The Courier does so, her desire for explanation fulfilled once he’s revealed his wardrobe of disguises.

“Where did you get all these?” the Courier asks, awe-struck. Her hands roam over layers of fabric, enthralled by intricate patterns and designs unique to their own respective factions. Some garments are a bit more lavish, or even practical, than others – perfectly varied and subject to whatever role is to be played.

“On my travels,” Vulpes replies.

“You bought them all?” the Courier pries, pulling out an NCR ranger’s uniform.

Vulpes smirks at that. “Some,” he says. “I had the pleasure of removing that uniform from the enemy myself.”

The Courier imagines things – all of them violent. “Did you kill this man, too?” she asks, pulling out a dirtied suit that only scum like the Omertas would fashion. She can almost smell the stench of evil and greed on it.

“Of course,” Vulpes says, nonchalant. “I slit his throat in the VIP section of Gomorrah. The man was a vile pig who abused drugs, his women, and my own mental welfare. Quite a pain that mission was.”

There was still a little blood smeared around the collar. “Nice trophy,” the Courier breathes, disgust thinly veiled. “No vault suits?”

“Never had the need for one,” Vulpes muses.

“You seem to like… your hats,” the Courier quips, helping herself to a fancy bowler hat. It’s rather large for her.

Vulpes nearly facepalms at the sight. “For as amusing as this all is, I’m afraid time is only against us, Courier,” he drawls, deadpanned.

“And for a man with so many disguises,” the Courier chirps, pointing out another ridiculously large and extravagant hat, “You take things way too seriously.”

“Is this not a serious predicament?” Vulpes relays, settling on a disguise for her. “Here. This ought to sufficiently conceal your identity.”

It’s a plain cloak, stripped of all its prior intricacies, but the Courier recognizes it instantly.

“This is a Brotherhood robe,” she says, scrutinizing every detail. Since both Caesar and NCR forces had driven the Mojave chapter out of the wasteland, she’s surprised he’d managed to procure one for his wardrobe. “How’d you get it?”

“A story for another day,” Vulpes replies, imploring her with an encouraging nod. “Get dressed.” He turns around to offer her privacy.

The Courier complies, stepping into the robe – and quickly sneaking some loot into the pockets inside. “How do I look?” she asks, fastening the waist to a secure fit. “Do I look like a true scribe?”

Vulpes fixes her sleeves and raises the hood over her head, just enough so she can still see from under. “It’s much too large for you,” he says. “But it’ll do. Come now. We need to hurry. Caesar is still expecting me.”

“I’d always thought I’d make a good scribe if I was born into the Brotherhood,” the Courier fantasizes as Vulpes escorts them out of his tent. “Maybe an engineering scribe, or a science scribe.”

“Keep your voice down,” Vulpes chides, holding her by the arm. “And stay close.”

“You know what I think is interesting?” the Courier continues, this time at a lower volume but defiant, nonetheless. “The Brotherhood also spout phrases in Latin from time to time. In greeting, in battle… They say ‘Ad victoriam.’ You know what that means?”

Vulpes huffs. “To victory.” He steers her down another path, making a head count of the legionaries stomping around them. “You know a lot about the Brotherhood for a vault-dweller.”

“I’ve met a few,” the Courier says, revealing no more. “It’s ironic. They could’ve been a useful ally if Caesar hadn’t blown their bunker in Hidden Valley to hell. They hated the NCR just as much as the Legion does. They have tech and knowledge… and knowledge is power.”

“Knowledge they hoard all for themselves,” Vulpes says, disdainful. “They’re paranoid and rely too much on elaborate machinery.”

“But what’s the cliché?” the Courier mumbles, bracing herself as Vulpes quickens their pace. “Amicus meus, inimicus inimici mei. The enemy of my enemy is my friend.”

Vulpes slows their tread as they near a crowd of soldiers, loud and boisterous, barely any room to wedge through.

“And sometimes…” he says, stopping to tie her wrists together. “The enemy of my enemy is far more dangerous if left unchecked.”

“What are you doing?” the Courier asks, blinded by the hood over her eyes.

“You said you’d give me your trust,” Vulpes replies. “You’re my prisoner. Act accordingly.”

“Yes but… wait wha-” the Courier lets out a small yelp as she’s hoisted up and carried over his shoulder. “Vulpes…!”

“Hush,” he commands, and he ventures into the crowd, plowing through the eruption of chaos and clamor aggressively with the Courier incapacitated.

The Courier, although unable to see, closes her eyes, willing herself to think of pleasant memories. The Vault, she imagines she’s safe in the vault… reading in the library…

She hopes the contents of her robe’s pockets remain discreet and intact.

“Move,” Vulpes orders over the noise, and the attentive legionaries step aside obediently. The inattentive ones are promptly elbowed out of the way.

Ad victoriam, the Courier thinks, mocking the shouts and chants of the legionaries viciously ringing in her ears.

When Vulpes clears the crowd and arrives at the gate to the slaves’ stocks, he finally sets her down, but keeps steady hold of her arm. Despite his status in the Legion as leader of the frumentarii, he discovers he is not immune to questioning by the gatekeeper.

“By order of Caesar, all slaves are to adhere to the curfew,” the gatekeeper declares, his delivery worthy of theater. “Any reason in particular this slave has failed to submit to Caesar’s law?” He extends his hand, intent on reaching for the Courier’s hood, but Vulpes intervenes.

“None that concern you,” Vulpes sneers. “But if you must know, they were working under my supervision.”

“For what exactly?” The guard seems unappeased.

“I will not share details you are not privy to,” Vulpes replies. “I only answer to Caesar, and seeing as how there is a clear discrepancy in ranks between you and I, you would be wise to cease this pestering and let us through.”

“You might be the head of the frumentarii, but Caesar has ordered me to keep watch of this gate and conduct a thorough search of everyone seeking passage,” the guard retorts, unmoved. “Remove your hood at once,” he commands the Courier, her identity in jeopardy. “Or I will.”

Vulpes judges when the gatekeeper has gotten too close – as well as on his last nerve, and strikes the man, seizing his neck with the firm grasp of his hand.

“You will do no such thing,” Vulpes commands, voice low and cold. “Know your place, or I will gladly remind you.” He shoves the guard to the ground, staring him down with the unsung promise of making good on his threats.  

Humiliated, the guard retreats to his position and reluctantly releases the hatch to the gate, fuming as it creaks opens.

“Caesar will hear about this!” he snarls.

Vulpes smirks, ushering the Courier along. “I’ll be sure to let him know of the incompetent little man at the slaves’ stocks gate when I see him this evening,” he bids in farewell.

The slaves scurry into hiding at the sight of Vulpes Inculta entering their domain, scattering off into the shelter of their tents and dirt pits.

“We’ve arrived,” Vulpes informs, gently removing the Courier’s hood.

Faced with her reality, the Courier sighs in acceptance, strangely relieved. “Thank you,” she whispers, unsure what to say or how else to express gratitude. “Vulpes…”

Vulpes puts a finger to her lips, urging her silence. “I shall return.” Then he oh-so deliberately traces his finger down to her chin, lifting her head up to look her in the eye. “Be good.”

He turns to leave, and as the gate closes the Courier is reminded of the disparity in their worlds; how incongruent their lives truly are.

It’s more than mere fencing that separates them.

He serves among wolves. She lives among sheep.

Back in her tent, the Courier finds no rest.

She removes her robe and fishes for the contents she’d kept hidden in the pockets. Her search produces a match – and a book from Vulpes’ collection; one of his private journals, she realizes.

She strikes the match, igniting the lamp by her bedroll and reads… and reads…

Each entry offers varying accounts on the daily life of a young Vulpes; his youth had been a difficult one, though equally resonant with accomplishment. He’d ranked among the top three in his class, earning high marks in strategy and combat training.

Some days he’d study and hit the books, other days he’d run and train until his legs gave out.

But what was most intriguing was his time spent under the wing of a disgraced legate; the Burned Man.

August 11^th

The Malpais Legate gave instruction this morning. He was impressed by how quickly I had captured the enemy’s flag in today’s exercise. My squad had been outnumbered, but the others had been outsmarted.

He says I have a unique gift. I mustn’t squander it.

The Courier flips through the pages.

September 15^th

The Legate permits me to call him “Graham” when his subordinates are away. He taught me how to shoot, but admittedly, I much prefer a blade or even my fists.

In some ways, he reminds me of my father. Tall and intimidating. Intense, but also intelligent.

He asked me if I ever think about my previous life, my previous home, my family.

I told him a lie, and for a moment even I believed it.

Flips through more pages. Reads on…

October 4^th

Tomorrow is the last day of my training. If I survive this final task, I will have earned a place in the Legion’s army. The Legate has offered an incentive should I rank in the top three of my class. I would be privileged serving under his command. I cannot afford to pass up the chance for further advancement.

I must rest tonight. I have come too far to die when the worst is finally over.

For my mother and father, for my sisters and young brother, may their souls rest in peace.

The Courier stills, her mouth agape in shock.

“Miss?” a small voice beckons her, jolting her upright. A little girl pops her head through the tent flaps, frightened.

The Courier calms herself, ridding her thoughts of Vulpes as best she can, breathing shakily.

“Melody,” she says quietly. “What are you doing? It’s late. You should be with the other children.”

“I can’t sleep,” the girl replies. “They took Sergeant Teddy.”

The Courier frowns. “They who?”

“I- I can’t say. I’m still in trouble for hiding him,” Melody says.

“Was it a soldier?” the Courier pries. “You can trust me. I only want to help you.”

“You can get my teddy bear back?”

The Courier nods. “Who took it?”

Melody bites her lip, hesitant. “I’ll tell you tomorrow.”

“Fine,” the Courier says, brushing a strand of hair out of the girl’s face. “You can stay with me tonight. And then tomorrow, we’ll get your teddy bear back.”

Melody scoots near the Courier on the bedroll, rubbing her eyes as sleep draws them to a close, slow like curtains.

“What are you reading?” she asks, yawning.

The courier stows the journal away, under the robes and out of sight.

“Nothing,” she lies, blowing out the flame in the lamp. “Goodnight, Melody.”

She has her work cut out for her tomorrow.

Chapter Text

“Goodsprings.”

Caesar names the town and Vulpes knows what is to be done.

“Tonight?” Vulpes clarifies, his subordinates eagerly awaiting orders behind him, armed to the teeth.

But Caesar doesn’t respond, not immediately at least. He stares off, blinking at no thing in particular, chin rested on his fist.

“My lord?” Lucius alerts, his voice the only thing successfully pulling him from his trance. “Vulpes Inculta and his frumentarii anticipate your command.”

“Shit,” Caesar mutters quietly, grimacing. Why have the headaches started again? Piece of shit Auto-doc… “Right. Vulpes, you and your squad take care of Goodsprings. Inform them they’re a part of Legion territory now. If they choose not to concede, burn that shithole to the ground.”

“What of the residents?” Vulpes asks. While his appreciation for town raids is unmatched by even the most bloodthirsty legionaries, he rather prefers to do so with the intention of cleansing the wasteland of profligate hedonism and savagery – Nipton had been a fine example of that.

But Goodsprings was devoid of debauchery, no more than a humble (if not slightly pathetic) town of citizens barely scraping by. The people lived on modest means, worked diligently enough, and posed no threat to the Legion.

The Courier had received care from the town doc, Vulpes recalls. After her miraculous survival, she’d spent most of her recovery in Goodsprings before heading off to exact revenge on the man in the checkered suit.

Raiding the settlement, should they refuse to be annexed, seemed insignificant in the grand scheme of things.

But if it had to be done, Vulpes had no qualms carrying out the task.

“Enslave them,” Caesar replies without missing a beat. “And kill anyone who resists.”

Vulpes gives a single nod. “Consider it done, my lord.”

In this town there lived an outlaw by the name of Texas Red
Many men had tried to take him and that many men were dead...

Marty Robbins’s voice croons away on the radio in Goodspring’s Prospector Saloon to the usual melody of beer bottles clinking, cue balls spinning at the pool table, and faded chatter of the townsfolk.

Sunny Smiles taps her foot to the rhythm, her trusted companion Cheyenne nestled beside her.

“Another one, Trudy,” a patron blurts in a drunken stupor, knees buckling as he steadies himself at the bar. He’s not a local - and he’s certainly overstayed his welcome.

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Trudy replies. “'Fraid I’m cutting you off for the rest of the night.”

She exchanges looks with Sunny from across the saloon, as if preparing for the worst. Sunny and Cheyenne keep most of the troublemakers at bay, though luckily it never escalates to violence. Just a few “shoo”s and “go on, git”s are usually enough.

But the drunk traveler excuses himself rather than complain, sparing the saloon proprietor the headache entirely.

“Fffiiine then,” he slurs. “I’ll juuuust take mmmy business else…where!”

“By all means,” Trudy says, tending to other customers.

The surrounding patrons applaud as the traveler exits the saloon, stumbling past booths and barstools as if his legs were propped on a pair of stilts.

He flings the door open, wide and oblique, before tripping over his own wayward steps and collapsing in a heap of a mess next to the rocking chair of old Easy Pete.

“What in tarnation..!” Easy Pete shoots up to his feet in panic, but it’s not the drunken tourist’s collapse that’s caught him off guard. He quickly whips out a pair of binoculars and surveys the distant stretch of the old highway. Something… no – someone – is coming. “Well, I’ll be damned…”

He calls for Sunny, gestures for her to look into the binoculars, but she can already sense the looming threat. Cheyenne growls as the figures ahead draw closer to town.

“It’s them,” Sunny says, dreadful. “I knew this day would come.”

Easy Pete wastes no more thought and hurries away to scrounge up dynamite. “You alert the others,” he says. “I’ll gather some supplies and tell Chet the residents might need to borrow some of his wares.”

Sunny nods and beckons Cheyenne back inside the saloon, loading her rifle with a fresh round of bullets.

“They’re here,” she announces, loud and urgent. “The Legion’s coming for us.”

Trudy shuts off the radio and the bar erupts in gasps and groans of defeat.

“Now just wait a minute,” Trudy implores, addressing the townspeople with forthright and resolution. “I don’t know about you folks but I ain’t keen on surrendering without putting up a decent fight. This here is our town. Our home. We’ve been through this before with the Powder Gangers and the Fiends… If we want to save Goodsprings, we’ll have to fight for it - again.”

“But this is the Legion,” someone cries out. “They took Hoover Dam and ran the NCR out of the Mojave!”

“They’ll burn us to the ground!”

“They’ll enslave us all!”

“Or they’ll hang us up on one of them crosses!”

Deep down, Trudy knows the odds are against them – but she shoulders on, arming herself with a rifle and a quick shot of whiskey to warm up.

“You’ve got two choices,” she begins, urging the patrons to take a stand. “Either leave this town, for good, and settle somewhere far off from the Mojave or… stay and fight for Goodsprings and all we hold dear.”

Sunny is the first to speak up. “I’m with you,” she vows. Cheyenne barks in agreement.

The locals groan in dismay at first, some more fearful than others, but they reach a universal decision.

“Aw hell…” a settler gives in, throwing back a shot of tequila. “This one’s for Goodsprings…”

“For Goodsprings!”

“For Goodsprings!”

Trudy leads her band of troops outside the saloon, ready for a showdown. Sunny and Cheyenne flank the side of the building, taking on another vantage point. Easy Pete and Chet join the gathering with more settlers and plenty of weaponry.

Not a moment too soon, they’re finally approached by the Legion’s men, their banners emblazoned with the Bull, quietly blowing in the wind with an ominous message.

Vulpes, clad in his trademark headwear and desert goggles, surveys the town’s residents, disdainful of their defensive front. Such rudimentary tactics and ploys. Desperate and disorganized. Like a stray dog backed into a corner. 

Still, even he can admire the attempt – there’s a far more noble cause in defending one’s territory than one’s greedy and hedonistic lifestyle.

Unlike the people of Nipton, he decides, the people of Goodsprings are redeemable and can very well be enlightened by the ways of the Legion – should they choose to accept.

“By order of Caesar,” Vulpes declares once they’re within striking distance. “This settlement is to be annexed by the Legion. Surrender at once or suffer dire consequences.”

The Goodsprings settlers soon find themselves encircled by yet another group of legionary soldiers… and another… and another…

The scene quickly and chillingly progresses from standoff to invasion.

“Cheyenne, heel!” Sunny commands, wary of the Legion mongrels growling at her like rabid beasts.

“We don’t want any trouble,” Trudy calls out, risking a step forward. “Now you boys best turn around and go back to where you came from. Leave us be and that’ll be the end of it.”

Legionary soldiers stifle their laughter. Vulpes remains stoic and unmoved. He raises his hand, gesturing vaguely, and his subordinates acquiesce, dragging out their recently captured prisoner.

“Doc!” Trudy gasps, gripping her rifle tighter.

The town watches in horror as Doc Mitchell flails to the ground before them, bound at his wrists and ankles, jerked around like a ragdoll.

“You bastards…” Sunny curses, finger hovering over the trigger.

The legionaries move in, slowly and tauntingly, but stop before forging an assault. They look to Vulpes, eagerly awaiting his command.

Many of his men are sure to die in this town, he accepts. Casualties have never fazed him.

But out of respect for the Courier, he offers the people of Goodsprings one last chance.

“Surrender at once,” he repeats. “Or suffer dire consequences.”

Sunny takes aim.

For Goodsprings...

The Courier wakes up the next morning to rays of sunlight spilling in through the tent flaps. She instinctively raises a hand to shield her eyes, blinking in gradual succession as she rouses herself upright.

Melody is gone, prompting the question of her whereabouts.

“They took sergeant teddy!”

The Courier skips morning mealtime to conduct a search.

She has a teddy-bear to retrieve, after all.

“The mission is complete, my lord.”

Vulpes removes his vexillarius helmet upon entering Caesar’s tent, head tilted in reverence.

Caesar nurses the base of his skull, tension swelling up towards his temples. “Anything else to report?” he asks, perturbed.

“We’ve captured a few settlers,” a nearby frumentarius informs. “Some may even make fine slaves.”

“We took women,” another chimes in. “In the hopes that we could civilize them. Perhaps they could be used to mother future legionaries-”

“You think I give a shit about that!?” Caesar roars, grimacing in pain. Lucius eyes him wearily but remains silent. “You come into my chambers and tell me you annexed Goodsprings for the sake of breeding a few mares?!”

Vulpes signals for his subordinates to leave, offering them privacy.

After a few beats, Vulpes cautiously proceeds. “Does my lord require anything more?”

Caesar buries his heels in the dirt, his leg tingling in numbness. “Did that town have a doctor by chance?” he asks, all pretense gone.

But neither Vulpes nor Lucius question him.

“Yes, my lord,” Vulpes replies, dutiful as ever – and completely devoid of surprise. “We’d taken the town doctor hostage as collateral prior to the mission.”

“Is he still alive?” Caesar probes.

Vulpes nods. “You wish to speak with him?”

“Immediately,” Caesar mutters. “And bring the Courier, too.”

Vulpes stills for a moment, jaw clenching. “The Courier?”

“I have a bone to pick with her,” is all Caesar’s neurotic state will permit.

But Vulpes detects something a bit more… sinister than that. “She may be working in the fields,” Vulpes deflects, hoping to keep the Courier as far from this mess as possible. “Interrupting her slave work could be received poorly.”

“My word is final,” Caesar insists. “Bring them both to me at once.”

Vulpes leaves the tent, blood boiling and nerves dismantled.

He holds his composure as the last of the Goodsprings hostages are escorted to the slave stocks, watching them as they’re carted off like cattle.

“I heard that one put up one hell of a fight,” he hears a legion recruit murmur behind him, pointing towards the young and foolhardy Sunny Smiles. “They ought to release her to the barracks. Let us have a little fun with her.”

“Yeah,” another recruit snickers along. “Her and the Courier.”

Vulpes tenses, turns to glare in their direction and it’s enough to frighten them back into formation.

The Courier is in danger.

He has to warn her.

Chapter Text

The Courier sets her sights on the man responsible for stealing Melody’s teddy bear.

She hasn’t officially met Antony yet, but she’s heard things. He’s one of the Legion’s top hound masters, hails from a tribe in Colorado (long since wiped out by the Legate Lanius), and is a bit of an asshole.

Before making her approach, the Courier contemplates how to proceed with her impromptu rescue mission. Persuasion has never been her strongest suit, and she sure as hell can’t put up much of a physical fight. There’s always the option of pickpocketing Antony – a little misdirection could do the trick. She’s already at a disadvantage being a woman and all, half-expecting him to silence her with a slap. Unless… she tries her luck at flirtation, or better yet, seduction.

Bad idea. Terrible. She’d honestly rather die.

Cringing, the Courier settles on diplomacy first - and then if that fails, she’ll resort to ol’ reliable; pickpocketing.

“I’m here for Melody’s teddy bear,” she says, skipping formalities and false pleasantries completely. Lupa, one of Antony’s mongrels, flashes an intimidating row of sharp teeth.

Antony scowls, scratches the top of Lupa’s head. “So you’re the Courier everyone talks about?” He chuckles, sizing her up. “You’re not much.”

“Sorry to disappoint,” the Courier says woodenly. “I would really like to-”

“The teddy bear,” Antony interrupts, rolling his eyes. “That stupid little girl should know by now that even the rags on her back are a privilege. Anyway, my mongrels like their new toy.”

“There must be a way for us to compromise,” the Courier drawls, losing hope. She notices the sly wandering of Antony’s gaze trail down to her cleavage and instantly feels sick to her stomach.

She’s not willing to go that far for the teddy bear.

“Actually, there is,” Antony says, pure malice bristling his voice. “Tell you what - you square off with four of my best dogs. No armor and no weapons except a machete. You survive and I let you have the bear. You ready to fight my mongrels, then?"

The Courier’s relief is short-lived and undermined by thoughts of getting ripped apart by dogs.

Still sounds better than having to sleep with a man as deranged as Antony.

With no better options (and the conditions of the exchange not at all conducive for pickpocketing), the Courier offers a half-hearted nod and accepts. Shit…

“Hound master, have you nothing better to do than torment others merely for the sake of your own amusement?” Vulpes appears before the Courier can be escorted to the arena to fight, sparing her a most certain death.

Antony laughs, maniacally. “You’re one to talk, Vulpes.”

“I see my reputation precedes me,” Vulpes deadpans, voice thick with disdain. He grabs the Courier by her arm, pulls her close. “This slave was assigned work in the fields. There had better be a good explanation for why you’re abusing Caesar’s property.”

“She was bothering me,” Antony fires back. Lupa growls as if to corroborate. “I mean, us. She was bothering us.”

Vulpes exhales, loud and deep. “Is this true, slave?” he asks the Courier.

She calms only when he meets her gaze, his grip on her arm loosening, turning gentle- as if it’s just about the only part of his act he’s willing to drop.

Why is he here? she wonders, her mind a disastrous and cluttered mess.

“Yes,” she answers on impulse.

“Why?” Vulpes probes.

The Courier glares back toward Antony, peeved by the unfolding of events.

“He stole Melody’s teddy bear,” she asserts. “I was trying to get it back.”

“And you were willing to fight some of the most vicious mongrels in the Legion to retrieve a toy?” Vulpes puts things into perspective, rendering the Courier humiliated. “No armor, no weapons aside from a machete, and no prior combat training?”

The Courier nods. Antony cackles.

“Incredibly stupid,” Vulpes chides. “Stupid… but brave, nonetheless.”

The Courier perks up at that, musters a half-smile.

“Which is more than I can say for you,” Vulpes rebukes, turning to address Antony. “You, who claim to be master of hounds, are no true master of anything aside from cowardice.”

The smirk on Antony’s face fades, all amusement wiped right off.

“You’re right where you belong,” Vulpes sneers. “In a filthy pen with even filthier dogs. At least they possess some level of decency.” He raises his hand, gesturing threateningly and adamantly. “Hand over the trinket. Now.”

Antony grunts, muscles convulsing in rage. “Fine,” he eventually concedes, inflection spiked. “Bitch can have the bear.” He whistles for his mongrels, and they obediently come swarming. In the chaos, he plucks the teddy bear from the mouth of a young pup and tosses it to Vulpes. “Oops. Seems it’s gotten a little dirty.”

“An easy fix,” Vulpes remarks, fastening the bear to the utility belt strapped around his armor. “As you were.”

They leave Antony and his mongrels to their own flea-bitten devices, with Vulpes less than pleased with the Courier’s careless handling of the quandary.

“That was incredibly foolish of you,” he scolds when they’re out of earshot. “Do you value your life, Courier?”

The Courier stops in her tracks, forcing Vulpes to a sharp halt. “Yes, as a matter of fact, I do. But it’s obvious the Legion does not.”

“Mind your tongue,” Vulpes warns, reeling her in closer. “Might I remind you, you’re still alive.”

“You say that as if I should be grateful to the Legion,” the Courier retorts. “They only enslaved me, so surely they value my life to some degree.”

“An attempt at mockery, I presume?”

“Not at all.”

Vulpes gives her a look; one that she hasn’t quite seen before. His features twist into something akin to concern and unease.

Which immediately worries her – because if Vulpes Inculta is even the slightest bit concerned about anything, there must be a very good reason to panic.

Whatever that reason may be, he doesn’t say it. “To whom were you supposed to return this trinket to?” he asks instead, mindful of the watchful eyes around them.

The Courier absentmindedly follows his line of sight, and understanding dawns on her.

She’s a lamb in a lion’s den.

“Melody,” she finally mouths, wishing she could bury her head in the sand, or better yet, disappear completely to flee the torment of legionaries practically undressing her with their lustful and ravenous gawking.

“And where is Melody now?” Vulpes asks, leading her away.

The Courier instinctively hooks her arm with his, clinging for dear life, and follows in step. “In the brahmin pen,” she replies, tone clipped.

Vulpes stiffens at first, unversed and inexperienced with women seeking his comfort, let alone his touch, in this manner. But he remains steadfast and calm while escorting her to the brahmin pen, focused on carrying out the task at hand.

“I got Sergeant Teddy. He’s a little chewed up, but it’s nothing a few stitches can’t fix.”

Vulpes holds the gate open as the Courier slips into the brahmin pen, making good on her promise of ensuring the teddy bear’s safe return.

“You did?” Melody pipes up, all smiles. She leaps toward the Courier and welcomes Sergeant Teddy back into her embrace, cradling him endearingly. “Thank you, Miss. Thank you so much!”

The Courier softens at that, wishing she could whisk the poor child away; somewhere far off where she could be raised in a loving home and enjoy being a kid.

“Who’s that?” Melody asks, breaking her reverie. “Is he your friend?”

The Courier looks back at Vulpes, patiently observing from the gate. “Something like that,” she says, almost questioningly.

“He’s not gonna try to take Sergeant Teddy, is he?” Melody shifts herself, hides the toy under her rags.

“No, he won’t,” the Courier assures. “He helped me get him back.”

Melody perks up, curious, but still guarded over her prized possession. “Um…” she hums, shyly. “Can you tell him I said thank you then. I have to get back to work now.”

The Courier chuckles, ruffles the little girl’s hair. “I will, kiddo.” She watches as Melody trots off, toy swinging in her hand, before peering over at Vulpes, his expression unreadable from the distance.

But Vulpes is lost in the realm of old phantom memories.

For a moment, he thinks to himself, and ponders the eerie resemblance Melody bears to his youngest sister.

When the Courier approaches Vulpes at the gate, she barely gets a word out before he shares the jarring news with her.

“Caesar wishes to speak with you,” he says, adamant. “He requested that I send for you.”

The Courier is only grateful it was Vulpes who had been sent on the errand and not one of his less than amiable subordinates. “Well then,” she sighs. “Let’s get to it.”

She assumes the position by his side, waiting for him to lead, but she’s met with only his steely gaze and cross-armed disdain.

“He appeared rather distressed,” Vulpes informs, whether as a warning or keen observation she can’t tell. “I suspect he will treat you with hostility.”

“Why does he want to see me now?” the Courier asks, mulling over every possibility. “Did I do something wrong?”

Vulpes offers another hint, carefully. “It seems you are not doing enough.”

The Courier seals her mouth shut, unsure how to traverse the subject without acknowledging Caesar’s illness. “I found the relic that he wanted,” she proceeds, awkwardly. “I did exactly what he told me to do.”

“The ‘relic’ failed,” Vulpes continues, still hinting at the real dilemma. “Despite your best efforts, Caesar was unsuccessful in properly employing its methods.”

The Courier tilts her head in confusion, but she’s following along. “Does he need me to fetch another ‘relic’ as replacement?”

“He might,” Vulpes replies, this time dropping the façade and all subtleties. “But I doubt it will cure him of his affliction.”

The Courier’s jaw drops, her lips trembling and eyes wide in realization. “You knew all along…” she trails off, surveys their surroundings to ensure the truth remains concealed.

“It’s only you and me here, Courier,” Vulpes says. “We are among the very few who know of Caesar’s failing health.”

“He’s never mentioned it to you… or Lanius… or Lucius?” she questions. “And yet, you all know?”

Truth is, she thinks, Caesar is no fool. More than likely, he’s well-aware his most trusted men have had their suspicions. But to admit his deteriorating state would render him vulnerable in far more complicated ways; many of them political. She understands keeping Lanius in the dark, but Lucius had always struck the Courier as a bit more… sympathizing than the other high-ranking officers. And Vulpes, well, he’s too stubbornly committed to Caesar and his ideologies to oppose the man even if he were nearing death; the epitome of “loyal to a fault.”

Vulpes exemplifies his devotion by maintaining the secret, as he is a man of many secrets. Simply the nature of his craft.

But he is also a man of deceit – and the Courier wonders if she ought to tread carefully.

At last, she’s found herself at a daunting crossroads: Does she trust Vulpes Inculta? Should she trust him?

“Lanius is none the wiser,” Vulpes tells her. “Lucius on the other hand spends more time working directly with Caesar, so it is possible he has known for a while.”

The Courier furrows her brow. “How long have you known?”

Vulpes does not hesitate. “For quite some time.”

“Then… you knew why we had been sent to the vault.”

Vulpes nods.

“And you know about the Auto-doc.”

Another nod.

“Why are you telling me all this?”

Her question silences him once more, inspiring fear in her frayed thoughts.

And then…

“Do you recall what I had asked you earlier?” Vulpes finally says, and then repeats: “Do you value your life?”

The Courier swallows down the tight lump in her throat. “Yes.”

Vulpes accepts her candor, tentative as it may be. “Then you must do everything in your power to save that of another’s.”

He pauses, allows for his words to sink in, and makes one last confession in the hopes of securing her resolve.

“Because I value your life just as well.”

Chapter Text

The Courier stills herself, her entire body practically aching upon hearing Vulpes’ confession.

But fear remains buried deep in the pit of her stomach, casting doubt in her cluttered disarray of thoughts.

She’s already asked too much of him. Asked him to prove she could trust him by way of favors and compromises. He’s even saved her life – more than once – and yet, for reasons far beyond her own comprehension, she still can’t bring herself to render unto him completely.

And it’s hard to tell if she’s holding back because of his allegiance to Caesar and the Legion, or if it’s because of who he is; notorious spy and aficionado of all things deceit.

Maybe it’s both.

“Why?” she finally asks, trying to make sense of it all. “Why do you care what happens to me?”

Perhaps she should’ve asked sooner, for she never fully believed Vulpes’ fixation with her was about “realizing her true potential” or “furthering the Legion’s conquests.”

It must be more than that.

“As I’ve said before,” Vulpes replies, entreating her onward to Caesar’s tent. “You are much too useful to be disposed of.”

“I can’t accept that,” the Courier affirms, steadying herself. “I won’t accept that.”

Vulpes huffs, frustration knotted in his brow. “I’m afraid there is no time for debate.”

“I’m not asking for a debate.”

“Then what are you asking for?”

“The truth, Vulpes.”

Her words strike something in him. Something unpleasant. “Are you suggesting I’ve been dishonest with you?”

The Courier shakes her head. “You’re not telling me everything. There’s more going on, I just know it.” She aches to touch him. Elevate her hand to his face and caress the sharp angle of his jaw, the smooth contours of his cheekbones - But she doesn’t. “There’s more going on with you, I mean.”

Vulpes only steels himself, unmoved and unfazed. “I’ve told you everything you needed to know. The rest will be revealed to you when we meet with Caesar.”

“Then I refuse,” the Courier objects, almost daringly. “I have nothing to say to him, and I no longer care to do his biddings. If he’s dying, then what does it matter? I can’t save him.”

“You need not the motivation to do this for him,” Vulpes says. “Only for yourself.”

The Courier wishes that were true. That she had some semblance of autonomy. “Because if he dies, I die. Right?” she blurts, eyes downcast, realizing the full weight of the predicament she’s in.

Vulpes directs her gaze back toward him, his hand tilting her chin up. “If Caesar dies…” he begins, bleak and mysterious, “the Legion dies.”

“Somehow I doubt that,” the Courier contends. “It’s far more likely someone else would take his place.” Lanius instantly comes to mind, sending a shiver down her spine.

“I have reason to believe otherwise,” Vulpes deflects. “The Legion would never recover from the loss of the one true Caesar.”

“How can you be sure?”

Vulpes pauses, committed to keeping the details vague. “An old friend had assured me.”

“An old friend?” The Courier mentally backpedals, face twisted in skepticism. The thought of Vulpes Inculta having friends was rather shocking to say the least.

“Perhaps I am using the term a bit loosely,” Vulpes drawls.

“But you trust them enough to believe that the Legion is doomed without Caesar,” the Courier surmises. “Why is that?”

But Vulpes chooses not to indulge her probing. “It hardly matters now.”

Before the Courier can plead her case and further bide her time, the ugly reality of her predicament jolts her back to the present like the sting of a thousand radscorpions.

Through her peripherals, she catches the faintest glimpse of a few familiar Goodsprings settlers hauled off in a cart, bound in chains and collars – and in silence.

She makes eye contact with one woman among the few and whispers, “Trudy…”

No… It can’t be… Not Goodsprings…

Without thinking, the Courier risks a step forward, fully intent on running to the cart full of captives and seeking out Trudy – but she’s prevented from pursuing her most impulsive urges.

Vulpes catches her before she darts away, his arms encircled around her small frame like the wires of a trap. “We must hurry,” he warns her. “Nothing good will come of your interference with the conquered.”

“You mean ‘the oppressed’,” she whispers back, crestfallen gaze never leaving the cart.

Only then does the Courier finally concede.

She’s not doing this for Caesar. She’s not even doing this for herself.

She’s doing this for all the innocent lives at stake.

Vulpes leads the Courier directly to Caesar’s throne, beckoning her to mimic his own actions and bow before the ailing ruler upon hasty approach.

Surrounding legionary officers mill about the tent, some working under Lucius’s command as fellow praetorian guards, and others under command of the Legate.

“Took you longer than expected,” Caesar says, irate as usual. “You’ve pillaged settlements twice as fast, Vulpes.”

“I apologize for the delay,” Vulpes replies, stepping forward. “I can send one of my subordinates to retrieve the town physician, if you wish.”

Panic swells in the Courier’s chest, her frazzled brain piecing everything together.

“I’ve seen to that myself,” Lanius interjects, swollen ego and massive stature all but gloating as he drags Doc Mitchell into the exchange, tossing him into the dirt just beneath Caesar’s feet. “Were your deeds so significant that you had to keep Caesar waiting?”

“Doc!” The Courier rushes to Doc Mitchell’s aid, kneeling to help him back to his feet.

Lanius scoffs at the scene, finding their struggles pathetic. “What have we here? A reunion of sorts? How heartwarming.” He stomps toward Mitchell again, intent on striking the man with his fist, but is stopped by the sharp inflection of the Courier’s pleading voice.

“There’s no need to be cruel!” she implores, shielding the Doc with only the feeble defenses of her own body. “Hasn’t he endured enough?”

Lanius seethes at her interference, darkness and rage swirling in his eyes. “You dare defy me? Fine. Then you can take his place!”

With a snarl, he lunges forward and comes less than an inch of reaching her neck before Vulpes obstructs his path, pulling out his blade in swift fury.

“You will not lay a finger on her,” Vulpes declares, loud and authoritative, guarding the Courier as though defending prized territory. “She is mine.”  

His sudden announcement quells the entire tent into silence.

The Courier cycles through several emotions, struggling to process each one that courses through her body with turbulent force: shock, confusion, anger, relief…

Lanius is the first to finally break the unsettling quiet. “This slave?” he begins, pointing for emphasis. “You claim this slave as your own?” He releases a harsh series of guttural laughs, but only of contempt and derision, and completely devoid of amusement.

Vulpes ignores the snide remarks and answers with a simple: “Yes.”

“Is that why you’ve lost your touch, little Fox?” Lanius taunts, unimpressed. “All this over a woman.” He snorts. “And here Caesar was worried you’d ran along some trouble on your mission to conquer Goodsprings.”

“The pathetic town of Goodsprings posed little threat,” Vulpes assures, and the Courier stifles the gasp rising in her throat, its pressure practically suffocating her.

Although she’s horrified to hear that Vulpes had been behind Goodsprings’ capture, she’s still reeling from being claimed as his own – and she knows better than to speak while the higher ups are fiercely engaged.

“I can speak for myself, Lanius,” Caesar says, peeved at the squabble among his most trusted men. “But Vulpes has revealed something new.” He shifts in his seat, centering all attention toward the leader of the frumentarii. “I had yet to be properly informed of your intention in taking the Courier to be your bride. There’s a clear and orderly process to these kinds of affairs.”

“Have you no respect for our laws?” Lanius chimes in. Vulpes glares in response. “Your reputation suggests you are primarily motivated by your own self-interests.”

Vulpes restrains himself, slowly sheathing his blade into his utility belt. “I regret not informing you of my intentions sooner, my lord,” he says to Caesar, blatantly disregarding Lanius’ presence altogether. “I ask that you pardon my lapse in judgment and grant me this request at the earliest convenience.”

“Not so fast,” Caesar cuts in, accentuating his disapproval with exaggerated gestures. “Unfortunately for you, Vulpes, you are not the only officer in the Legion that has requested an arrangement with the Courier.”

Vulpes clenches his jaw at that, though he’s hardly surprised. “How are we to settle this matter?” he asks, prepared for anything.

Caesar reclines back into his seat, rests his chin on his fist. “Have you bedded this woman?”

The Courier opens her mouth to decry his outrageous accusation, but Vulpes spares her the trouble, albeit uncomfortably so.

“No,” he replies.

“Interesting,” Lanius taunts. “I’ve heard reports of the Courier coming and going from your tent at all hours of the day and night.”

“Reports or rumors?” Vulpes fires back. “I don’t appreciate slander, especially when it calls to question the validity of my craft. The Courier works under my supervision from time to time. Nothing more.”

Caesar sighs. “Well, consummating your relationship would have been one way to secure her as your own.”

“How do we know she hasn’t already gone and sullied herself?” Lanius sneers, eyeing the Courier with disgust.

“I haven’t,” the Courier asserts, edging on hostility. Doc Mitchell does his best to calm her with comforting hands placed squarely on her shoulders, feeling her shake with anger, her trembling limbs reverberating against his palms.

Lanius turns her way, threateningly. “Are we expected to believe this profligate whore is still of virginal value?” he asks both Caesar and Vulpes, intent on undermining them at their core.

“I do,” Vulpes says, unquestioningly and wholeheartedly. “She is vault-born and has sworn she has never known the touch of a man.”

Caesar looks to the Courier as if for confirmation, and she’s immediately rendered speechless, quivering in fear under the scrutinous gaze of all the men surrounding her.

“Is this true?” Caesar asks her, suspicion etched into the lines and creases along his face.

This isn’t right, the Courier thinks. This isn’t fair.

She shouldn’t have to face this kind of demoralizing judgment. This kind of humiliating torment. They have not proven themselves worthy to be privy to her personal affairs – or lack thereof.

But it’s true. She is a virgin – and while there’s no foolproof way for them to know that, she never wanted to feel cornered like this. Pressured into an arrangement, like marriage, for the sake of self-preservation.

The Courier once had dreams. Desires. She’s always wanted to fall in love. Find her soulmate.

She blames the ancient Greeks and Romans for setting the bar a bit high. Or setting her up for disappointment, rather.

Resigned to her less than favorable outcome, the Courier nods and hopes her word can be enough. “Yes,” she says with conviction.

Caesar accepts her reply, much to Lanius’ chagrin. “Very well,” he says. “I suppose there’s only one way to confirm that anyhow.”

“There will be no shortage of volunteers to fulfill that task, my lord,” Lanius prompts, amused by the terror in the Courier’s eyes and the wrath tightly veiled under Vulpes’ wafer-thin composure.

“And they will all be given equal opportunity to fight for her maidenhood in the arena,” Caesar announces, nursing his temple in circular motions. “It’s been a while since we’ve had a little entertainment around here.”

Maybe the Romans were on to something – if violence and bloodshed were how they chose to settle delicate matters of arranged marriage, that is. Gladiator battles for the sake of glory and honor were back in season, so it seemed.

“I’ll be ready and waiting,” Vulpes affirms, casting one last glance toward the Courier. “Excuse me while I gather the proper weaponry and attire.” He leaves the tent after bidding Caesar farewell, confidence boosted by the legionary soldiers quickly steering clear of his path.

They know better. When Vulpes Inculta sets his mind on something, he is not to be crossed.

“Shall I spread word of this spectacle, my lord?” one of Lanius’ subordinates asks, approaching the Legate with feigned resolve and a shit-eating smirk.

Lanius nods. “Yes. Let us fill the stands with plenty of spectators to witness this great sporting event.”

Caesar chuckles, mirthlessly. “Do you care to officiate?” he asks the Legate.

Lanius bows in reverence. “You honor me, my lord.” With that, he marches out the tent, his subordinates following diligently behind in single file.

“Finally…” Caesar breathes out, vexed. He looks up to the Courier and Doc Mitchell, motioning for them to meet in his private quarters. “Now that we got that bullshit out of the way, there’s an urgent matter I’d like to discuss with you two.”

Doc Mitchell waits until they’re alone, just the three of them, before speaking freely.

“If you think I’d waste a single moment of my time helping the likes of you-”

“I’ll make this easy for you, Doc,” Caesar interjects, brisk and callous. “If you refuse, then you and the rest of the Goodsprings people will die. And it won’t be quick and painless either. You’ll suffer. Every last one of you pathetic imbeciles. Have I made myself clear?”

The Courier reaches for Doc’s hand, her eyes filled to the brim with tears.

She holds them back, and Doc Mitchell reluctantly concedes, knowing full-well he has no leg to stand on. Wouldn’t be right if the entire town was punished for his own stubbornness.

“Good,” Caesar mumbles. “And you, Courier… you’ll have to answer for your fuck-up with the Auto-doc.”

The Courier inhales a deep breath, bracing herself. “It might not be a matter of the machine’s functionality,” she informs, cautious. “Your condition could be… more aggressive than what we’d initially projected.”

“Let’s have you take a look then, Doc,” Caesar commands. “And make it quick. We’re lucky enough to have most of my men preoccupied with sword fights for the time being.”

“Is that why you encouraged that whole charade back there?” Doc Mitchell probes, arms crossed against his chest in ire. “You’re willing to gamble with the Courier’s life for a measly distraction?”

“Welcome to the Legion,” the Courier mutters indignantly.

Caesar silences them both, slamming his curled fist against an adjacent table.

“If either of you care to live, you’ll shut up and get to work,” he grits out, teeth clamped. “My patience is wearing thin.”

The Courier and Doc Mitchell exchange expressions of remorse and hopelessness, equally accepting of their respective burdens.

“If I do this for you,” the Courier begins, resolute, “then I want Vulpes to have me.”

But her attempts are met with ridicule. “That is entirely up to Vulpes in the arena,” Caesar dismisses. “Might I remind you; you are in no position to negotiate.”

The Courier swallows, throat sore and constricted.

She looks away, closes her eyes, and prays to any deity willing to listen.

She prays for mercy.

She prays for Vulpes.

Chapter Text

Vulpes wastes no time.

He sharpens his blades. Assembles his armor. Repeats several mantras in Latin.

As he finishes priming himself in his tent, he recalls several combat tactics and maneuvers he’d learned from his former mentor, Joshua Graham. Honors his memory with the rehearsal of meticulous footwork and the purposeful swinging of his sword, strokes long and sweeping.

The Burned Man had insisted that what he lacked for in size and strength compared to the other recruits he more than atoned for with speed and quick wits.

Problem was, in an open arena where direct combat was inevitable and very much the hallmark of the sport, the conditions were not exactly optimal, per se, for a frumentarius to show off his best work.

A frumentarius of Vulpes’s caliber, however, had the advantage of the Burned Man’s prior training and shared expertise.

Back when he was a young recruit, Vulpes knew all too well the feeling of blood trickling down his nose, falling flat on his back in the dirt, tormented cruelly by the other boys as they laughed and pelted him with their fists.

Until Graham took him under his wing, training him relentlessly, day in and day out.  

His efforts had successfully transformed Vulpes from scrawny tribal youth to fierce and formidable warrior.

The muscles and newfound strength deterred the bullies – and further refined his abilities as a soldier in the Legion Army.

But Vulpes takes great pleasure in using brain over brawn.

Takes pleasure in knowing where the main arteries of the body are – and how to sever them quickly.

“So, what are your findings, Doc?”

Caesar, impatient as ever, demands answers immediately following his medical examination.

But Doc Mitchell is reluctant, exchanging worrying glances with the Courier before rendering a prognosis. He takes a cautious step back, as if expecting violent repercussions.

“I need more time,” he replies, opting to remain oblique. “Don’t wanna go on with cuttin’ you open unless absolutely necessary.”

“And why would another operation be necessary?” This time Caesar turns his attention to the Courier. “Didn’t the Auto-doc get it right the first time?”

The Courier hesitates and withdraws the urge to justify their course of action, studying the shift in his demeanor. Surprisingly, he’s not angry. He’s pale. Ghastly as though his frail mortality has finally manifested before him in the form of premonitions too great to ignore.

“You should rest, my lord,” she conveys, gesturing to his bed. “Lie down while the Doc and I discuss further treatment.”

“But you haven’t revealed your findings,” Caesar protests. “Give it to me straight. Good or bad. I want to know the magnitude of what I’m dealing with.”

The Courier resorts to deceit, hoping her delivery will be coercive enough. “You’re going to be fine,” she says, and Doc Mitchell stays silent in corroboration. “For now, I recommend rest and an herbal remedy to combat the fatigue.”

After Caesar begrudgingly retreats to his bed, the Courier waits until his snores confirm he’s fast asleep before plotting her next move with Doc Mitchell.

“I’m afraid there is no cure for his condition,” the Courier whispers, and a part of her feels sympathy for the odious man in their midst. For how pathetic and desperate he truly is.

“Pre-war medicine had advantages we ain’t never gonna see the light of day again, and they couldn’t cure this disease either,” Doc Mitchell whispers back, solemn. “I say let him rot. Serves him right.”

“We can’t allow that,” the Courier replies, shaking her head. “Believe me, I wish him a world of suffering, too, but the truth is, if he dies then we die. The people of Goodsprings will all be punished for our failure.”

Doc Mitchell grimaces, but there’s no arguing simple logic. This is the Legion. They’re cornered now. “So we’re just keeping the man alive for his pride?”

The Courier refuses to see it that way. “We’re doing this for ourselves,” she amends. “So we can survive.”

“And what are we gonna do when the inevitable happens? What then?”

Caesar stirs in his sleep, prompting their immediate silence. With a groan, he turns to his side, pulling the blanket up over his shoulder, and the snores predictably resume.

“I’m gonna get us out of here before that becomes our problem,” the Courier replies, in a faint whisper but firm nonetheless. “I’m going to get everyone from Goodsprings out of here.”

Doc Mitchell smiles at her then, but something about the worn lines on his face expose sadness and remorse. “No, you won’t, kid” he says, somberness glazing his eyes. “You can’t.”

The Courier won’t be told otherwise. Won’t be told whether or not something is achievable. Not when she should be dead, buried in a shallow grave up on a hill overlooking Goodsprings.

“You pulled a bullet out of my head,” she reminds him. “Everyone else thought your efforts were in vain, but you didn’t give up on me. You saved my life, despite the odds stacked against you. So don’t tell me what we can or can’t do, or what we’re capable or not capable of, because you’ve done the impossible. I’m walking proof of that.”

Her words spark the memory of his blood-soaked hands cradling her head, carefully prying the bullet from the wound at her temple, almost like cracking open eggshells, soft and delicate. He remembers thinking he saw the lopsided contour of her brain, something that still haunts him in his sleep.

Damnit. She’s left him with no leg to stand on.

“For Goodsprings then,” he concedes.

The Courier nods. “You can count on me, Doc.”

At the peak of the horizon, the sun casts its scorching rays onto the marred battlefield, pouring golden streaks of light over grit and gravel like an overflowing pot of molten lava. The reddened soil burns like fire in the aftermath of the fray, streams of crimson etched into the grimy earth like shriveled up riverbeds in a drought.

The spectators clamor and shout, their words distinct despite the overwhelming noise. They fill the arena with roars of applause; thunderous praise for the valiant warriors below, standing tall and flaunting their weapons in hand.

Vulpes emerges from a cloud of dust, blood smeared over his armor like paint, and the tread of his sandals trailing behind him like calligraphy in the sand. The stands erupt once more as he draws his blade, readying himself to engage with the legionaries flanking both sides.

He’s already taken eight lives in this event alone, that of his own comrades, for the sake of the Courier’s honor.

He expects to take more.

When the dust settles, the legionaries charge him in rapid succession, one right after the after as though executing a coordinated attack. They swing with great effort, strike with heavy hands, a bombardment of sharp iron and steel.

But their struggles are futile. Vulpes fends off the assault, evades the blows in swift footwork, and waits until they’ve tired themselves, completely exhausted under the merciless heat of the sun, before spiraling his blade in retaliation.

The crowd swells louder and louder as Vulpes lunges forward, his sword following through with the blow, and guts his enemies like livestock, their entrails spilling in a heap at their feet.

At long last, he rises to full height in victory, the arena chanting his name as though singing an ode to the cosmos. When he looks up, he sees Lanius perched above a high platform overlooking the spectacle, unimpressed as always.

At the sound of a horn, Lanius commands the crowd to settle down, intent on further quenching their thirst for blood.

“Has our little Fox entertained us?” he shouts, his booming voice inciting an equally ferocious response.

The stands of insatiable legionaries erupt in cheers and jeers, and Vulpes knows Lanius isn’t through toying with him yet. He’s certain the Monster of the East is hoping he’ll be killed in the arena, over a woman nonetheless – and not for acts of true heroism or the honorable quest of imperial gain, the vanquishing of profligates.

Lanius calls for silence once more, and the crowd lulls to a low hum.

“There will be more to come,” he announces, the chorus of applause harmonious to his ears. “But first, we must accommodate the arrival of our lord, the mighty Caesar, so he too may witness the final battle.”

Vulpes clenches his jaw, then spits a glob of blood to the ground.

He waits.

Elsewhere, the Courier and Doc Mitchell have devised the beginnings of a treatment plan for Caesar and his ailing state.

“We can use the Auto-doc same as last time,” Doc Mitchell says, keeping quiet. “But the cancer will come back, I reckon.”

“What if you perform the operation yourself?” the Courier asks, presenting an alternative, far-fetched as it may be. Anything to bide their time.

Doc Mitchell frowns, uncertain. “My work ain’t what it used to be, and truth be told, the Auto-doc is a top-of-the-line machine. Infinitely better than any pair of human hands.”

“I could help,” the Courier persists. “You also seem to know your way around the brain… and such.”

“I gotta feeling Caesar won’t be too keen on the idea of his head getting cracked open. Besides, when it was you I was working on, I was merely extracting a foreign object, not a whole tumor. It’s been a long while since I had to perform any kind of operation even remotely close. I’d say the last time was… the vault. You were only a youngin’ then.”

The Courier hums in consideration, undeterred by the caveat. “Then we’ll study up on it.”

“How?” Doc Mitchell can’t help but lack faith. No, faith is practically a luxury in Legion territory. “How are we gonna manage that within the next couple of days? Neurosurgery ain’t like knitting a quilt outta brahmin hide. It’s complex to say the least… and I’m outta practice.”

A couple of days will suffice. The Courier has the settlement marked on her pip-boy.

“The Followers of the Apocalypse had an extensive collection of pre-war medicine texts,” the Courier replies. “There’s several books about neuroscience that could be of use.”

Doc Mitchell regards her with skepticism. “And Caesar’s gonna grant you permission to leave and set out on a book hunt?”

“He’s done so before,” the Courier assures.

“And what about the Followers?” Doc Mitchell presses. “What happened to them after they were kicked out of Old Mormon Fort? Didn’t they take their belongings with them?”

Oddly enough, Caesar had spared the Followers – under the condition that they abandon Old Mormon Fort and leave New Vegas entirely. Perhaps his sordid history with the faction’s founding had afforded a rare morsel of mercy, as he commanded his troops not to interfere with their passage out of the wasteland.

The Courier wonders if that’s how Arcade escaped.

“I doubt they had time,” is all she can deduce. “In any event, there’s only one way to find out, and the Legion occupies the fort now. If we hurry maybe we can make it before they decide to burn it to the ground.”

Doc Mitchell’s objections wither in his throat when they’re startled by loud and boisterous clamoring outside the tent flaps to Caesar’s quarters, prompting the leader’s sudden awakening.

“My lord?” a legion officer greets, idling outside, only his silhouette visible from behind the curtain.

Caesar nurses both temples, sitting up on the edge of the bed. “What, pray tell, is the matter now?” He spits the words out like he’d choked on them, barely lucid.

“My lord’s presence is requested at the arena,” the officer replies. “A great sporting event is to be held in your honor.”

The Courier tunes in, desperate to hear how Vulpes has fared in battle. If he’s even alive.

She wants to see him. Touch him. She’d tell him-

“I thought I told them to go on without me,” Caesar grunts. “Relay this message to Lanius: Although I am most grateful for your tribute, I do not wish to partake in the festivities today. Go on and eat, drink, fuck, and be merry.”

The officer complies. “Yes, my lord.” His shadow fades, but only briefly.

“Wait!” Caesar calls out, and the silhouette returns. “Escort the Courier in my stead. Put her in chains and have her seated next to Lanius at the arena.” He motions for the Courier to leave the room. “You’ll have a front row seat to the action as my gratitude,” he tells her, shooing her away to be dealt with outside.

“And what of the town physician?” the officer asks. “Shall I return him to the slave stocks?”

“No, he stays with me,” Caesar replies. Should be useful having him around if any other medical concerns arise. “That will be all.”

The Courier hardly gets a word out before she’s yanked out of the room and bonded in shackles.

“Doc, the books-” she gasps, but is whisked away.

Chapter Text

The arena roars with anticipation as Lanius returns to the high platform, addressing the crowd with an upcoming twist.

“The mighty Caesar expresses gratitude for hosting this event in his honor,” he shouts, as though performing for the gods themselves. “He also expresses regret in forfeiting his attendance in favor of pursuing other matters.”

Vulpes, still drenched in sweat and blood in the dirtied pit of the arena, halts the absentminded swiveling of his blades. He’d busied himself in the restoration of his weapons while waiting for Lanius’ next announcement, and now he detects a sinister ploy headed his way; an adversary forged from nightmares.

“As consolation for his absence, Caesar has offered his seat to a special guest of honor,” Lanius continues, gesturing for his subordinates to join him on the platform. “Here she is now. The disgraced Courier shall witness the final battle.”

The crowd cheers appreciatively, lecherous and vile like the animals they are. The Courier struggles in her chains, her body thrashing in the legionaries’ iron-stiff arms.

Rage churns inside Vulpes to a vicious rhythm, his blood boiling at the sight of other men manhandling the Courier with cruelty.

Lanius sneaks a furtive glance back toward the pit, reveling in Vulpes’s silent fury. He’s struck a nerve. It’s delightful.

“The victor,” Lanius announces to the crowd, seizing the Courier by the nape of her neck, “shall reap the spoils of war.”

With that, he releases the Courier and faces the belly of the arena. His subordinates promptly take hold of her chains and fasten them to the vacant chair next to Lanius, securing her in place.

Lanius raises his hand, signaling for the gatekeepers to heed his command.

“Watch closely, Courier,” he instructs, hand still raised. “I want to see the terror in your eyes when Vulpes’s severed head falls at his own feet.”

The Courier curses at him under her breath, but he’s too amused to acknowledge let alone care.

If it were up to him, she’d be ravaged by his entire squadron of centurion – with Vulpes forced to watch every second of it. But such were the laws of his people…

Politics and formalities come first. Raping and pillaging second.

After a few tortuous beats, Lanius flags his arm down and the gatekeepers salute in affirmation, slowly cranking open the metal barrier to reveal Vulpes’s final opponent.

The Courier trembles where she stands, her gaze connecting with Vulpes and his stern demeanor of determination. Her eyes silently plead with him that which can’t be said aloud, not that he would hear her given the noise and distance.

“Stay alive,” she would tell him. “Because I value your life, too.”

Vulpes seems to understand, despite the limitations. He gives her a small nod, as if to promise to return to her, and rotates himself to face the fray, sights set on the gate ahead still screeching open.

The crowd dissolves to a low rumble, ominous and foreboding. All had calmed under the gravity of anticipation – until the cranking ceases and through the gates burst a tall, burly man donning the head of a bull and bounding before the crowd to flaunt his extravagant size and stature.

The showboating continues with a gaudy display of his weapons, all the while huffing and bellowing under his mask to mimic the intimidating sounds of a bull set to charge.

Lanius unleashes a menacing howl of laughter, hyping the masses for the glorious match mere moments away. The Courier closes her eyes – to pray, she thinks.

When she opens them, the horn sounds off, and the bull-headed man commences his attack, sword in his grasp, the ground compressed to his heavy tramps and stomps.

Vulpes lifts his blade in defense, levels it with his chest, and waits until Bull Man has ventured close enough. He dodges the onslaught of swipes and strikes, his footwork like a precarious dance with death. Their blades parry in enthused twists and turns, metal clashing with metal at every dizzying pirouette.

On the platform, Lanius assures his men the battle will be over soon. “The Fox doesn’t stand a chance,” he sneers. “Brutus outclasses and outweighs twice the man he is.”

But he has spoken too soon.

Vulpes may lack the size and brute strength of his opponent – but he has speed, wits, and now…

He has a bride to wed.

Vulpes lunges forward, rotating the hilt of his blade to slash at the Bull Man in crisscross pattern, drawing blood from his opponent’s shoulder in its brilliant execution. Brutus leans back and swings in the air, to which Vulpes ducks and rolls aside, avoiding an unwelcome kiss with the dirt. He plants himself firm and upright again, his reflexes quick enough to raise his blade despite the misfortune of having the sun in his eyes. His sword echoes in metallic clanks as he deflects another wave of attacks. This time the Bull Man brandishes a spear, piercing into the vacant air between them with menacing fervor.

Vulpes barrels out of the blinding glare of the sun, but his breastplate is grazed by the spear, torn from the leather seams. Another thrust succeeds in cutting a jagged line above his torso, and Vulpes grunts at the burning sensation of his own torn flesh.

Only a scratch. Nothing critical has been compromised.

Adrenaline fueled, Vulpes blocks the next strike with his sword then kicks Brutus in ribs, sending him to his knees, and promptly knocks his spear out of hand. He levels his blade to the Bull’s throat – but stops.

He's unsure why he stops – feeling adrift, as though he’s lost control and watching his body act independently of his mind.

“Yield,” he commands.

The crowd erupts, bellowing their desire for carnage, appealing to Vulpes’s feral and ruthless nature.

Lanius fumes in silence, the heat of his rage looming over him like steam.

On the battlefield, Brutus refuses to concede and tosses a handful of sand towards his foe, retrieving his spear in the dusty act of cowardice. Vulpes blinks and shields his eyes, having accounted for his mercy to be met with hostility. Before the Bull Man can charge again, Vulpes quickly reaches for the dagger in his utility belt and launches it toward his arm, aiming for the brachial artery. Blood seeps out in rivulets as the blade plunges into vulnerably exposed skin, confirming the target has been severed.

Brutus staggers away, losing his balance, and haphazardly tries to yank the dagger out of his arm. Vulpes sees his chance and delivers the final blow, tackling the giant flat on his back before burying his sword into his chest and twisting it. When the blood stops squelching and the groans cease to a low whimper, Vulpes removes the Bull’s helmet and tosses the prop aside, finding it ridiculous.

He rises to full height, standing over his vanquished enemy before bringing his heel to his head.

“Vulpes!”

“Vulpes!”

“Vulpes!”

The Courier shakes her head in disapproval, entreating him to look at her. To reach him. Plead with him. Tame the bloodthirsty beast the Legion has conjured of him.

Vulpes spots her in the sea of faces, bringing him an unexpected feeling of peace. He receives her message, sensing the final strike of his heel would displease her, so he steps away, lifts his sword above him and marches off victoriously to the chanting of his name in the stands.

“Vulpes!”

“Vulpes!”

“Vulpes!”

The Courier lets out a sigh of relief, tears of joy blurring her vision.

She may live to see another day yet.

Chapter Text

As the exhibition of sword fights and duels in the arena comes to an end, with Vulpes declared the victor and the stands cleared and emptied, a new kind of festivity begins.

A feast awaits the masses of unruly legionaries, prepared by the slaves after harvesting the crops and cooking a variety of wasteland meats procured by legion hunters. A vast selection of wine accompanies the banquet, creating a bit of mayhem inside and outside the mess hall.

Women are plucked from the slave stocks to keep the entertainment flowing as evening progresses, their cries and screams muffled by the laughter and shouts of drunk soldiers wreaking havoc all about the Fort.

Lanius parades throughout the chaos with the Courier dragged behind him, her wrists and ankles still chained.

“Where are you taking me?” she yells above the noise, tugging in resistance. “Where’s Vulpes? I want to see him!”

But Lanius ignores her, smirking at her defiance and its fruitless efforts. He could snap her neck so quickly, so easily. How satisfying it would be to hear the blissful sound of bone crackling like a twig. It’s only a matter of time before Caesar grants him the order, or blessing rather, and the deed shall become realized.

Until then, he must obey his lordship’s will, for he is the son of Mars.

He hauls her up the swerves of a coarse path, away from the spectacle of hedonism and debauchery, and hands her off to the praetorian guards outside Caesar’s tent.

“Caesar requires this woman in his chambers,” he informs. “See to it she remains there as long as it pleases him.” He eyes her in disgust before heading back down the hill, disappearing into the darkness as though allured by the prospect of further bloodshed.  

The guards heed his command and escort the Courier back to Caesar’s private quarters, releasing her from her shackles before shoving her inside. Much to her relief, Caesar is asleep once again and Doc Mitchell is equally calmed by her return.

“He’ll be asleep for a while,” the Doc assures.

The Courier wishes she could invest in the same – except she finds no reprieve when her thoughts are relentlessly invaded by Vulpes and her concern for his whereabouts. It pains her that her last memory of him could very well be his duel in the arena, bathed in blood and feral with rage.

She only wants to think of him as he is when they’re alone, a warm kind of kinship between them. How captivatingly brilliant he is despite the layers of Legion propaganda he enforces ad nauseum. How Latin rolls beautifully off his tongue and flows mellifluously into her ears. How despite her captivity in Legion territory, she only feels safe with him.

What is this feeling… and why does it hurt so much?

“How are you holding up, Doc?” she asks as a distraction from the noise in her head, voice strained. “Anything happen while I was gone?”

Doc Mitchell shakes his head. “Nothing new to report. He’s in rough shape,” he replies. “I’ve been losing my marbles holed up in here, but the guards don’t bother me none and at least it’s quiet.” He yawns and stretches, satisfied by the faint cracking sound in his lower back. “How ‘bout yourself? You ain’t lookin’ too good.” He studies her disheveled appearance with sympathy before it suddenly shifts to horror – as though struck by a stampede of wild bighorn. “They didn’t… those men… they didn’t hurt you, did they?” He’s careful how he phrases the question, but unsubtle in its true meaning.

“No,” the Courier replies, eyes drifting to the ground, stomach twisted. “Not… not like that.”

Tears distort her sight, murky and blurred, as she absently fidgets with the hem of her slave rags. The material is dirty, tattered, and uncomfortable. Something about it itches, like her entire body could swell up in a rash.

It’s all in her head. An illusion. Like how she thought Vulpes would swoop in and save her from the malevolent clutches of the Bull.

Perhaps he had a change of heart.

Perhaps he merely needs more time to recuperate. It had been quite the bloodbath, after all.

Resigned and resolved, the Courier snaps back to reality and picks up where she mentally left off weeks ago: Getting the fuck out of here.

“I’m fine, Doc,” she insists, wiping her nose and squaring herself back to the only objective that matters. “Who knows how much longer he’ll be asleep for. So let’s talk about planning a trip to Old Mormon Fort…”

Vulpes hasn’t eaten anything all day – but the moment he arrives at the mess hall after washing and patching up, hoping for a quick meal and nothing more, his appetite perishes much like his opponents had mere hours prior, their putrid corpses left to rot in the arena.

His fellow legionaries hoot and holler at his grand entrance, chanting praises in choppy and belligerent Latin, their breaths reeking of alcohol and strong enough to cloud the entire room in the scent.

“Ave!”

“Ave!”

“Vulpes! Vulpes! Vulpes!”

“Eat and drink with us!”

“Come! Share a meal!”

But Vulpes rebuffs their coaxing and drunken applause. He’s already wasted too much time scrubbing the blood and grime off his body, the soap and water like acid over his wounds.

He needs to find the Courier. He can afford to forfeit a meal to ensure her safety.  

“I must see Caesar at once,” he says, excusing himself from the mess hall.

His withdrawal is obstructed by a few of his men, their intrusion creating a barricade between him and the path leading up to Caesar’s tent like prison bars.

“But sir! We have yet to honor your victory with the ultimate tribute!”

“Yes, sir! Lanius has insisted you claim your prize before returning to your tent.”

Vulpes suspects another ruse. “I had prior dealings with Caesar himself that I fully intend to see through now that I’ve earned a fair victory in battle,” he says, uninterested in their ploys. “Move. Or you will be moved.”

“What seems to be the trouble, Vulpes?” This time it’s Silus, skilled Centurion and intimidating bully to most, who intercepts Vulpes’s escape. “Why are you running off so soon? Eager to deflower your Courier whore?”

Vulpes is physically and mentally exhausted – but there’s still plenty of fight left in him.

Silus pokes and prods away as if to torture, like a curious child peeling off the wings and limbs of an insect – slowly, one appendage at a time.

“Unfortunately, my friend, she’s preoccupied with tending to Caesar’s needs,” he taunts. “He may very well take your bride in every which way by the end of the night.”

Vulpes won’t give him the satisfaction of provocation. “Caesar will honor our laws.”

“Will he?” Silus scoffs. “Does he?”

Once more, but in Latin. “Legum servi sumus,” Vulpes says, and Silus remains unmoved.

That’s the one thing Vulpes despises most about Silus. He has no honor. When he and his men were captured by NCR forces, they rather slit their own throats than be held hostage.

But Silus allowed himself to be taken prisoner.

He never openly criticizes Caesar’s leadership to his lord’s face, and while his words could be reported and misconstrued as treasonous, none of the lower ranking officials or subordinates would dare testify to such. The risk of being flayed alive outweighs the commitment to integrity.

The risk of retaliation, however, poses no threat for Vulpes, given his higher rank and status in the Legion – and for that reason alone he ought to reprimand Silus. But his efforts to have the Centurion punished for contempt would wilt in predictable fashion. Lanius would interfere, mainly to antagonize Vulpes but also because Silus works directly under the Legate. At most, Silus would get a slap on the wrist. Hardly worth the headache.

Preferential treatment. Nepotism. Playing favorites runs rampant in the Legion. And it’s the same reason most soldiers in the Legion army despise Vulpes. Caesar has bestowed and granted innumerous mercies and honors to Vulpes Inculta when perhaps, in all fairness to their laws, he should have been crucified.

When he disobeyed orders, Caesar made him a frumentarius – eventually promoting him to leader. He’s been rewarded when others would have been executed, all of which reeks of Caesar’s special treatment. Even allowed to keep his collection of pre-war books when they were strictly contraband at the Fort.

First, he was Joshua Graham’s golden boy, and now he’s Caesar’s pet fox.

But Vulpes pays no mind to the rumors spread by envious comrades. He knows the magnitude of his achievements and what’s he capable of. He’s proven both his abilities and his loyalties time and time again.

So he’s unbothered by men like Silus. Men who are beneath him and feel the need to compensate for their pitiful shortcomings by harassing others; projecting how small they feel with words meant to goad and undermine.

Silus barks out a laugh when Vulpes refuses to dignify his advances.

“Ease up,” he says, then leans in to whisper. “I rather doubt the senile man is even capable of performing, especially in his questionable state of health.” He pulls away and gestures for the surrounding legionaries to finally reveal their ultimate tribute. “Tonight has been reserved for the celebration of your achievements in battle. So we’ve arranged for a proper send-off befitting of a betrothed man.”

With that, women are lined up and put on full display for Vulpes, a diverse mix of young and pretty slaves, cowering in fear as they stand in tattered and revealing rags.

“Choose one, or two, if you prefer,” Silus implores, leaving the scene as though bored – but not before helping himself to the procured goods. “Not this one, though.” He grabs a petite woman with silky blonde hair, smirks a little when she shudders at his rough hands. “No, this one is far too exquisite to be wasted on a celibate zealot such as yourself.” He carries the young slave away, bidding Vulpes another taunting farewell with his back turned. “All these women at our disposal and you choose to be abstinent. How pathetic.”

Vulpes endures the insults to resume his retreat unscathed, but then he is faced with another dilemma entirely.

“Sir,” the legionaries remind him. “Which of these slaves shall provide you their company this evening?”

Vulpes ponders the possibility he’s being tested. Tested beyond the limits of his patience. Tested in whether throwing women his way will deter his self-righteousness. Tested in how far he’s willing to go for the Courier – even after he’s laid waste to several opponents in battle for the right to wed.

He’s endured enough.

“None,” he answers, and the finality edging his voice comes off as a threat. “Depart from me.”

The legionaries reluctantly obey, hauling off the women along with them sullenly as though they were caravans left destitute in the wasteland, no sales and no prospects to keep business going. But Vulpes’s loss is their gain – and the somberness is short-lived, long forgotten in the celebrations and festivities they return to.

On his walk up, Vulpes considers offering the Courier a gift of sorts, thinking it would be uncouth to arrive empty-handed before such a significant rite. His former mentor, Graham, had once spoken of passages in pre-war scripture that alluded to brides receiving gifts during courtship.

He’s also read of men offering fine pieces of jewelry to ask for a woman’s hand in marriage in pre-war literature, that of diamonds, pearls, and other precious gemstones. The ancient Romans had their traditions and rituals when it came to wedding ceremonies; something that might shock the Legion and threaten its patriarchal ideologies. Ah, the fascination of history.

The idea is enough to temporarily halt his course for Caesar’s tent, allowing for a brief detour to his own tent in the search for a gift for his bride to be. He must have something stowed away. Something he’s kept from raids. From cleaning out the safes in high roller suites at Gomorrah and the Ultra Lux.

Not that he’s ever been one to loot and plunder – but he does recall one particularly bizarre undercover operation on the Strip that rewarded his efforts with a pre-war ring made of solid gold and encrusted in sapphire. A gift of bribery, courtesy of the Omertas.

He’s unsure why he kept it. Maybe it had to something to do with blue being his mother’s favorite color. It’s one of the few things he remembers about her.

That could suffice.

Vulpes reaches his tent in fleet-footed urgency, but discovers, much to his chagrin, he is not alone.

“Ave, leader of the frumentarii,” comes the sultry voice of a young woman, splayed on his bed as though ready to be taken. The rags on her body leave little to the imagination, her curves as bountiful as the peaks and valleys of the mountains surrounding the Mojave.

Vulpes sighs, visibly frustrated. He’s hardly new to this. Women throw themselves at him at any given opportunity during his routine undercover missions on the Strip, gracing him with flirtatious gestures at the bars and lounges of the casinos. He ignores their advances, dismissing them as distracting and intrusive, but can’t help but what wonder what it is about his presence or appearance they find so appealing – or attractive.

“Your company will not be needed,” he says plainly, turning away as though sparing one glance could turn him to stone. “Leave my quarters at once.”

“But you’ll be so… lonely,” the woman replies, rising from the cot and adjusting her rags to reveal a bit more skin. “It would be an honor to satisfy every last one of your desires.” She inches closer but keeps a safe distance.

“Are there no other men for you to service?” Vulpes still won’t look at her. “Surely there’s an abundance of legionaries in the barracks who will accept your offer without question.”

“Perhaps,” the young woman persists, honey-eyed and pouted lips, swaying her hips with each seductive step closer. “But none of them could hold a candle to the achievements of the great Vulpes Inculta.”

He could force her to leave, he thinks to himself. Or even call for his subordinates to escort her from his dwelling. But he knows what would happen to her. Knows that if he exiles her from his tent, she’ll be ravaged to sunup.

He’s had worse things on his conscience.

But something akin to conviction tells him the Courier would disapprove of his apathy toward an innocent slave forced into rendering her own body for little more than abuse. That’s how she would phrase it, anyhow.

“You would be wise to leave…” Vulpes is not accustomed to repeating himself. A rare mercy he grants for what he can only assume is to appease the Courier.

Ignoring his request, the woman languidly steps into the light, flips her long wheat-blonde hair behind her, and strips the slave rags from her body into a pile on the ground, fully bared before him.

“Take me,” she lures, cupping her breasts. “I shall keep you warm all night.”

When Caesar awakes it’s with an otherworldly shriek, his body jolting upright and his sheets drenched in sweat.

In his crazed, disoriented state, he calls for Doc Mitchell, who comes quickly to render aid.

“Fetch some water,” the Doc instructs the Courier. “And get some cold rags. We need to regulate his body temperature. He’s burnin’ up.”

The Courier complies. “He’d cool down faster if we had ice,” she says, patting the sweat from Caesar’s forehead. He swats her hand away, as if coming out of his delirium, and orders her out.

“One competent physician is enough.” He coughs, thick and gunky, and spits out a wad of blood on his pillow. “You may retire to Vulpes’s tent for the night, Courier. A deal’s a deal – and he is to be your husband soon enough.”

The Courier needs no more convincing than that. She nods to Doc Mitchell as if to assure and turns to leave.

“But I want you back here tomorrow, first thing in the morning,” Caesar commands, collapsing into his blood-stained pillow. “Your work is not yet complete.”

The Courier finds she is not privileged with retreating to Vulpes’s tent by herself. Caesar had assigned a couple of guards the task of accompanying her on the walk to ensure she arrive unobstructed and unbothered.

She expected as much; and whether it was a gesture for Vulpes or for her she may never know.

What she hadn’t expected, however, was to find that Vulpes already has a guest in his quarters.

“Take me,” she hears a sultry voice say from behind the thin flaps of the tent. “I shall keep you warm all night.”

The Courier enters the tent, only to be shocked and repulsed by the nude woman offering herself to Vulpes, flaunting her generously proportioned physique.

Vulpes appears equally stunned by the Courier’s sudden arrival, and for the first time since he was a naïve recruit, he finds himself caught in an ambush far beyond his own wit.

“You-” the Courier stifles the tremor in her voice, glaring at Vulpes incredulously. “Why-”

“Courier!” Vulpes entreats, panic spiking his vitals. “Wait-”

But she’s gone.

The Courier bolts from his tent.

She runs.

And runs.

Chapter Text

Despite the urgency in fleeing Vulpes’s tent, the Courier doesn’t get very far.

Vulpes stops her from running off into the darkness before she ventures treacherously away from the glow of torch fire guiding the marked pathways of the Fort, catching her as though she were falling into calamitous depths far beyond reach.

But she withdraws from him like it’s set her skin ablaze, steadfast in keeping her distance. “Don’t come any closer,” she fumes.

“Courier,” Vulpes begins, his voice devoid of the rancor she expects. “You’ve misunderstood.”

“What’s there to understand?” the Courier retorts. “And why bother chasing after me? I won’t be joining in as your third if that’s what this is.”

“I wish for nothing of the sort,” Vulpes insists, and he has the audacity to mirror her appalled expression when she steps further away.

“You’ll have to forgive me,” the Courier snaps again, sarcasm dripping from her voice. “But I find that hard to believe after what I’ve just seen.”

“I sought my chambers alone after returning from battle,” Vulpes explains, pointedly. “I had not sent for companionship.”

The Courier glares in skepticism. “Do you really think I’m that naïve?” The woes of being a vaultie.

Her gaze shifts toward the distant flickering of firelight downhill, lulled to apathy as uneasy silence settles between them.

“Maybe I shouldn’t be all that surprised,” she mumbles quietly, anger morphed into feelings of inferiority. “You’re the leader of the frumentarii. You could have any woman you want.”

Vulpes has heard those same words before; from his comrades, from Caesar. The implication tends to fringe on patronizing and demeaning, as opposed to flattery or even encouragement. Hearing it from the Courier sheds insight elsewhere, however. As though it’s a projection of how she feels. Inadequate. Unworthy.

It baffles him that she could degrade herself to such a low point, given all she’s accomplished. Could be the adverse impact of serving the Legion as a woman – but to him, she’s so remarkable.

It would be an honor to have her for a wife.

“And you’re the Courier who helped the Legion defeat our enemies,” Vulpes says with noble sincerity, assuring they’re on mutual grounds. “Why would I want anyone else?”

Shadows dance about the Courier’s face in the waning sparks of torchlight, concealing the surge of heat to her cheeks, face fully flushed. Her steps are lured forward at the sound of his earnest voice, towards his chest, towards the sanctity of his touch.

She doesn’t commit, refusing to render herself to him for lack of trust. Had the slaughtering of men in the arena for her sake not been enough? How can she be so blind to the painstaking ordeals he’s sustained to protect her? What more can one do to prove their loyalty?

“If I am yours,” the Courier says, compelling, “then show me.”

Vulpes has never burned like this for anyone. Never bled for something he once thought was unattainable. If what he feels for her is love, he must consider the quality and legitimacy of her well-being.

What is best for the Courier who has stolen his heart? To keep her – or set her free?

Vulpes knows himself better than that. Knows who he truly is deep down, and while he cannot change what the Courier thinks of his dealings in the Legion, he simply cannot change how he feels about her.

“You are mine,” he tells her, and the Legion part of him emerges in the way he boldly captures her into his arms, holding her possessively as if asserting dominance. “What more can I do to prove my devotion?”

He brings her face to his, their foreheads pressed together, his hands cupping both sides of her jaw.

“I’ve slaughtered my own men for you,” he claims, proudly, like there’s no tolerance for regret or hesitation. “There are no limits to the lengths I shall go to keep you safe. I only ask for one thing in return.”

The Courier holds onto him for dear life, eyes mystified by his soul-crushing gaze. “What’s that?” she asks, yearning.

Vulpes leans in ever so slightly, almost imperceptibly. “That you never leave me,” he replies, lips ghosting over tinged flesh. “Stay with me, let us be joined together in marriage, and we can further the Legion’s conquests together.”

The Courier’s heart sinks, conflicted and forlorn.

As an officer’s wife in the Legion, she’ll be protected. She’ll wear better clothes, eat better foods, and she’ll share nicer living quarters with her husband. She’ll even have her pip-boy back.

But she still won’t be free.

Freedom is what she really wants. Not a cushy life as a caged bird.

“We could be content,” Vulpes vows, despite the somber edge to his voice. “We could cultivate a promising future for our sons and daughters.”

The Courier ponders why she’s given the illusion of choice.

But she must draw a line somewhere – and she refuses to raise children in Legion society, only for her sons to become monsters and for her daughters to be treated like livestock.

“There is no future for me here,” she whispers, pulling away. “Certainly not a promising one.”

“You will no longer be enslaved,” Vulpes assures, and he doesn’t let her leave the confines of his arms. “You will be the wife of an officer, afforded all the appropriate amenities.”

Which means the Courier will also be separated from the slave stocks, having inherited her new status. She’ll rarely ever see Melody, or Siri, or the townsfolk of Goodsprings.

“I don’t-” the Courier wavers. “I don’t know if that’s the life I’m meant to live…”

Vulpes heeds her words, knowing the feeling all too well.

“The Legion conquered my tribe when I was a boy,” he shares with her, offering a glimpse into his past to secure the crux of his rationale. “The life I thought I was meant to live was burned to the ground the day I was captured. My father had been beheaded. My mother had her throat slit. My sisters and young brother were all thrown off the face of a cliff. I tried to fight back – but the truth is, Courier, you cannot fight fate. And fate has brought us together. To this very moment.

I have a purpose here, just as you have a purpose here. We may not know it now, but in time, we will realize it, and that is why despite all the suffering and adversity we face along the way, we press onward. We keep fighting – because we have something worth fighting for.”

The Courier feels her skin rise in goosebumps, like tiny pinpricks of needles. “Our freedom?” she muses aloud, because whether Vulpes chooses to accept it or not, he too has been enslaved by the Legion.

Vulpes gives her the faintest visage of a smile, the look in his eyes coated in melancholy. “Are we not free to love?”

Because in a world on fire, where cruelty reigns supreme and death can strike at any moment, there are few comforts in the burning.

The Courier can no longer resist fate, and thus finds comfort in Vulpes’s captivating embrace, fulfilling the forbidden desires of her heart. There is no right or wrong in this precarious warp of affairs. Only living and surviving – and now falling hopelessly in love with the enemy.

Vulpes lifts her chin once more and tips his head down to catch her lips with his own, folding them into a soft kiss. Time seems to move in a blur, and whether it’s inexperience or deliberate caution that slows them down from progressing further, it hardly matters to the Courier. But she’s eager for more, and he’s eager to give.

He deepens the kiss when she presses her body against him, her hands skimming up to his chest and looped around his shoulders. His fingers seek her flowy tresses, carding through her locks to find that they’re as silky soft as he’d imagined. She moans a quiet hum of assent into his mouth, and for a moment she tastes copper, small traces of blood lingering from his battles in the arena.

His lips trail down her jaw to the fluttering pulse point on her neck, nuzzling his nose into the crevice above her clavicle and drawn to her scent as though pheromones radiate from the light sheen of sweat there; hints of sage and cotton. It’s akin to intoxication, hopelessly lost in the bliss of her rosy skin, the allure of perky buds hidden beneath the fabric below leading lines of cleavage.

Vulpes follows these lines, one hand palming her breast, and the Courier shivers receptively.

“Perhaps we should take this someplace more private,” Vulpes suggests, nipping her neck for emphasis.

“I’m afraid that still rules out your quarters,” the Courier replies, struggling to stay quiet when another moan escapes her mouth.

Not tonight, the Courier thinks. She’s not quite ready to… go beyond kissing yet. Her thoughts are not entirely in the right place.

Follow your head, not your heart.

“Let me return to the slave stocks tonight,” she says abruptly, and Vulpes refrains from kissing her again like she’s said something heretical. “I can take the woman back with me, safely, and you’ll have your tent for yourself tonight.”

That’s the last thing Vulpes wants, especially with the agonizing pressure below his belt. He wants the Courier in his bed, warm and writhing beneath him, with more of her lovely moans gracing his ears.

He’s been told there’s nothing quite like taking a woman to bed after a long arduous battle, an experience he had hoped to take pleasure in this evening, victorious in combat and now having professed his love.

He can be patient – but on one condition.

“I will allow this,” Vulpes relents, begrudgingly. “But you must swear to me that this is the last time we are to be apart.”

The Courier slips her hands into his, as if it’s a promise they can physically bind in entwined palms; real and palpable.

“I swear it,” she whispers, words echoing into the wind breezing past them. She presses a kiss to his cheek one last time before they go their separate ways.

Vulpes watches her leave with searing ache, his body throbbing in pain like he’s been all but crushed and trampled on.

He’ll ensure she and the other slave make it safely to the stocks – but in the meantime, he’s resolved to sending a message to the others…

Chapter Text

To say that her retreat to the slave stocks had been an awkward feat would be the greatest understatement of post-war society.

The Courier had assured the woman in Vulpes’ tent of two things; one, that she was understanding of her circumstances (forced into slavery – among other things) and two, that if they wanted to live to see the light of day, they had to hurry.

She knew, more or less, the safest routes to take once darkness had befallen the Fort. Luck also seemed to be on their side once they’d reached the gate. The gatekeeper had been passed out at his post, slumped against the wooden planks of the walls in a belligerent, drunken haze. Seemed he too had partaken in the evening’s festivities.

Like whispers in the wind, the Courier and the slave had squeezed through the small wedge as quietly as they could, holding their breaths as they slipped cautiously between the tight compression of wood and splinters.

“Forgive me,” the woman says once they’ve returned to the slave stocks, unscathed and unobserved. “I had no idea you were to be his bride.”

But the Courier prefers to forget. After all, it’s not like either of them have much choice in the Legion. Especially as women.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” is how the Courier ends the exchange.

There is nothing else to say.

The world is a cruel place.

You do what you must to survive.

Vulpes decides he is up for some celebration after all.

He can hardly expect to sleep with all the commotion wracking about the Fort. The riotous laughter of the legionaries, the screams of helpless slaves, even the howling of the legion mongrels baying at the moon seem to relentlessly torment his futile endeavors to find respite.

All of which are only plaguing him on what was supposed to be his wedding night.

And he knows just who he has to thank for that.

It seems a gesture of gratitude is in order.

Vulpes promptly makes haste for the arena to retrieve his token of appreciation, then follows the noise and ruckus back to where it all began; the mess hall.

He bursts through the thick flaps of the tent, his entrance startling the drunken legionaries from their own seats, and marches straight toward the platform where Lanius and his centurions have comfortably perched themselves.

Without saying a word, Vulpes reaches into the bag nestled in his waistbelt and pulls out the severed head of a slain enemy from his earlier bouts in the arena.

He tosses the head at Lanius’s feet – and all goes silent in the mess hall.

A strained kind of silence. Thick and ominous. The kind you can feel.

Lanius kicks at the head beneath his feet, turns it to face him, and then laughs.

And laughs. And laughs.

But he’s the only one in the entire hall finding any kind of amusement in Vulpes’s act of defiance. The others remain quiet, as though wary of what’s to come.

Lanius finally speaks when his cackling subsides.

“What is this about, little Fox?” he asks, voice booming in exaggeration. “You come bearing gifts?”

Vulpes nods. “You and your men offered quite the tribute for my victories in battle. I only thought to return the favor.” His gaze never wavers, and he stands firmly before the entire room as though taunting a mass of fools.

Lanius smirks, and it’s glaringly obvious he hates this man. Obvious that the sentiment is mutual.

But if petty reprisal is what the Fox craves, he too can oblige.

“I take it you thoroughly enjoyed yourself then,” Lanius drawls, patronizingly. “Short-lived as it may have been.”

Vulpes smirks right back. “I respectfully declined your offer,” he replies, not missing a beat. “I know you went through so much trouble procuring those slaves for me. Much like you had procured your own men, and even Brutus the Bull, for me in the arena. So I brought his head for you – to commemorate this most glorious night.”

Lanius peers down at the head tucked under his heel, finding it rather difficult to recognize Brutus in such… unflattering light. Or when it’s no longer attached to his body.

He scowls. How disgraceful.

“Brutus had taken his own life after his defeat in battle, to defend his honor,” Lanius growls. “And you dare defile his corpse?”

Vulpes glares back, stands his ground.

“You dared to defile my bride.”

Silence pervades the hall once more, with only the crackling of fire and the hushed chime of worn cutlery stilling to a whir.

Lanius envisions Vulpes’s own head at his feet. He envisions the Courier watching in horror as he gouges the Fox’s eyes out from his decapitated skull.

The prospect of the fantasy coming true, someday, soon enough, is the only thing stopping him from leaping out of his chair and strangling Vulpes with his bare hands, ringing his neck and snapping it like the branch of a rotten sapling.

He licks his lips, like he can already taste the blood from his fanciful musings and laughs again. This time, a few of his centurions join him in laughter, but the lower ranking legionaries know better than to assume permission to partake.

“I wouldn’t dare defy Caesar’s orders,” Lanius assures. “Nor the laws of our people.”

Unlike the others, Vulpes sees Lanius for who he really is. He may be an intimidating if not compelling leader, well-endowed with tremendous physical strength, and loyal to Caesar – but he is also dangerous.

Should Caesar meet his fate, Lanius will surely usurp the throne – and he will only lead them all to certain death.

Because he is so blinded by rage. Vulpes is unsure where it comes from. Most of the legionaries who had been captured as opposed to raised in Legion territory all have similar sob stories. They all have reasons for their anger and the vile things they do. While it may not excuse it in the eyes of the profligates or the self-righteous puritanical wastelanders, it does explain it.

But Lanius has no reason for his rage. He’s delusional. Psychotic. Far removed from reality – and he quite enjoys bestowing terror upon others.

And yet Vulpes chooses to goad – because he knows that if he must stop Lanius, and someday carry out his execution, the only way he’ll ever come close to achieving the feat is by heeding his former mentor, Graham’s, advice.

Lull him to false sense of security and superiority, then wait for the right moment to strike…

“Shall we drink to that?” Vulpes proposes under the pretense of conciliation. “In vino veritas.” He helps himself to a bottle of wine and nonchalantly pours himself a glass. He is the guest of honor, after all.

By gods, perhaps he too is delusional in his own right.

Lanius huffs but raises his own glass in tandem. His centurions and the rest of the legionaries haphazardly follow suit, still sensing the tension looming over them.

“To furthering the Legion’s conquests,” Vulpes toasts. “True to Caesar.”

“Ave!”

“Ave!”

“Ave! True to Caesar!”

With that, the tension dissipates and the festivities resume, the volume returning to its previous obnoxious levels.

Vulpes uses this as his chance to get one last word in before satiating his hunger pangs.

“Despite what you may think of me,” Vulpes says, glancing at the severed head still tucked under Lanius’s foot. “We still serve the same master. We fight for the same cause.”

Lanius kicks the head away and then downs the rest of his drink. “Do we, little Fox?” he refutes. “You ought to enjoy the celebration tonight. With all the trouble you’ve been getting yourself into lately – the annexation of settlements, spectacles in the arena, women – it may very well be your last.”

He rises from his seat and curtly walks off, as though indulging any more false cordialities will induce the worst kind of nausea.

Vulpes watches him leave. After claiming his rightfully earned meal, he returns to find Lanius’s chair still empty.

Was it something I said?

Vulpes feasts among his comrades as they sing jolly, drunken cheers in Latin. With every bite and every sip he gradually tunes them all out, thinking only of the Courier and how he yearns to reunite with her.

Until then, he will remember this night as yet another one of his triumphs.

The night is still full of surprises for the Courier.

At this hour, she typically retires to her tent and discovers Melody already tucked in and snoozing away on her bedroll. Except this time, her tent is empty and dark, the oil in her lamp having fizzled out.

She commences a fruitless search for Melody, eventually stumbling upon Siri in the darkness.

“Have you seen Melody?” the Courier asks, frantic. “She’s not in my tent and I can’t imagine they’d still have her locked up in the brahmin pen.”

Siri nods, taking her by the hand and ushering her further into the stocks. “She’s safe, for now,” Siri replies. “She’s over here with the rest of us.”

“Us?” the Courier repeats. Clarification is soon revealed when Siri leads her to a gathering of slaves, circled around a makeshift fire.

It’s townsfolk from Goodsprings, most of the women at least.

It’s Sunny Smiles. It’s Trudy. Melody is among them as well.

“Courier?” Sunny Smiles instantly perks up, blinking as if her sight betrays her. “It’s really you…”

“Sunny, Trudy…” The Courier feels her voice caught in her throat, tears welling up in her eyes. “I can’t believe it… Goodsprings is really gone…”

She’s instantly swarmed into their embrace, clinging onto one another for dear life.

“Not gone,” Trudy asserts. “It was taken. Stolen from us.”

“Our very lives have been stolen from us,” a fellow Goodsprings citizen laments.

“We’re all that survived,” Sunny informs. “They separated us from the men, but I reckon Ringo and Chet are still alive.”

“We’re not so sure about Easy Pete and Doc Mitchell,” Trudy adds.

“The Doc’s alive,” the Courier replies. Trudy and Sunny eye her with skepticism.

“How do you know for certain?” Trudy presses. “We’re completely isolated and cut off from the men’s slaves’ stocks.”

“Because I’ve been to Caesar’s tent,” the Courier replies. “Caesar has appointed him as his own personal physician – for now.”

“You’ve been to Caesar’s tent?” Trudy asks, repulsed. “So what? You work for him?”

“How else do you get special privileges unless you serve the man?” another citizen asks, wary.

“I wouldn’t call it a privilege,” the Courier maintains, as if to caution. “He made it clear that unless the Doc and I render our services, he’ll execute us all. And believe me, he makes good on his threats.”

Stubborn as always, Trudy is far from appeased. “How long have they had you captive for?”

Luckily, Sunny intervenes, deeming their interrogation rather inconsequential with everyone’s lives at stake.

“Trudy, with all due respect, I reckon it hardly matters,” she says. “I’m more worried about us. About where they’ve taken Cheyenne. If what the Courier says is true, then we need to talk to the Doc.”

The Courier shakes her head, remorsefully. “There’s no way to reach the Doc if he’s in Caesar’s quarters.”

“But you can reach him,” Sunny amends, understanding and piecing it all together. “You can relay messages for us and keep us informed.”

“I’m still struggling to understand why Caesar has granted you permission in his tent,” another Goodsprings citizen raises in accusation.

“It’s only for special circumstances,” the Courier replies, desperate for the subject to change. “Otherwise, I’m out in the fields working or sent back here to the stocks. Let me be clear, I am still very much a captive slave.”

“Not for much longer,” Siri interjects, and all heads turn her way. “Rumors have circulated around the Fort for some time. About you and the leader of the Frumentarii. He’s claimed you as his own. That’s why he fought in the arena earlier today. He wasn’t the only one vying for your hand in marriage.”

The gathering collectively gasps, with some staring in suspicion and others whispering their benign words of judgement.

The Courier exhales, visibly tense and frustrated. “It’s true,” she admits. “I will likely be moving to the officer’s quarters soon.”

More gasps, and this time her words inspire fear. Melody emerges from behind Siri with tears in her eyes.

“You’re leaving us?” the little girl sniffles, clutching Sergeant Teddy to her chest. “You’re leaving me?”

The whispers swell, voices growing louder and louder, risking their anonymity and the off chance that the guards outside the gate could catch a whiff of their unlawful meeting and late-night conspiracies.

The Courier ceases their panic with one final attempt at reason.

“I can get us all out of here,” she says, voice brimming with all the conviction she can muster. With the women instantly silenced, she continues. “Let me use this as an opportunity to properly carve our way to freedom. It won’t be easy. We’ll need a plan. It could take weeks, even months, but the closer I am to Caesar, the better chance we have in succeeding.”

Her message is clear – but not as well received. Convincing them is going to take some considerable effort.

“How do we know you won’t end up enjoying the cushy life of being an officer’s wife?”

“How do we know you won't just use this as an opportunity to save yourself?”

“How do we know you won’t sell us out to Caesar?”

Now the Courier knows a bit how Vulpes must have felt when he had tried reasoning with her. Before she truly rendered herself unto him.

“You’ll just have to trust me,” she says, echoing Vulpes’s own words.

She waits. For more scrutiny. For the backlash. For vitriol. For anything.

Sunny is the first to react otherwise.

“I’m with you,” she says, assuring as always. “We’re all with you.” She looks off to the rest of the group, eyeing them one by one, expectantly. “Right, ladies?”

They nod their heads in unison. Trudy blows out a disdainful sigh, but comes around, nonetheless.

“Guess this is the best we got,” Trudy concedes. “Lord knows I’m fresh outta ideas.”

“How soon do you see the Doc next?” Sunny asks, eager to move forward.

“Tomorrow, I believe,” the Courier replies. “If I’m to be married soon, he’ll probably assume whatever role the Legion’s imposed on their leader when it comes to ceremonial rites and passages for high-ranking officers like Vulpes.”

“Can you let the Doc know we’re still alive?” Trudy asks, already tallying a mental list of things she wants to relay. “Maybe we ought to write it all down. Everything we want to say.”

“Sure, I can do that,” the Courier agrees. “But I don’t think we should leave a paper trail of any kind. Legionaries could confiscate any notes we try to pass along. They don’t exactly have eyes and ears everywhere like they think they do, but still… we can’t risk anything.”

“You will keep us informed though, right?” Trudy presses. “We’ll want to know everything. The good. The bad. All of it.”

The Courier nods, opens her mouth to share more but –

“What are we supposed to do in the meantime?” a citizen asks.

“Yeah,” another slave chimes in. “What else can we do to plot our escape?”

“Let’s not get too hasty…” Sunny warns, fearing they’re getting ahead of themselves – but it’s too late.

The Courier is the one to shoot their hopes down, keeping them tethered to reality, and setting the bar low for expectations. But only temporarily.

“Lay low for now,” she advises. “I know it’s hard, and I know it’s going to be absolutely miserable most days, but we all need to stay calm and do as we’re told. Just go through the motions, act subservient, and mind yourselves. That’s the only way we’re going to survive and get through this. If they suspect even the slightest thing, we’re all dead.”

“Or worse,” Siri concurs.

“Right,” the Courier nods, and the women collectively hold hands, creating their own circle of trust. “I can’t do this without you all. We’re going to have to work together to see this through.”

“We’re gonna need to elect a leader for when you’re gone,” a slave comments. “Someone to take charge when you’re off in Caesar’s lair.”

“I agree,” the Courier says. “I vote Siri. She knows more about the Legion and their proclivities than anyone here, I bet.” She looks to her for affirmation, smiling gently. “And she’s a healer. Knows all the right remedies for whatever ailment needs treatment. She’s the obvious choice.”

She’s a real leader, the Courier thinks to herself. Something I’m clearly not.

The women glance toward Siri, awaiting confirmation.

“If you’ll have me,” Siri begins, accepting, “then I’d be honored to take on the role.”

“Good,” the Courier says. All heads nod accordingly. “Even if they move me to the officer’s quarters, I promise to come back.”

“We can meet at night, same time as we are now,” Sunny says. “On a weekly basis, if possible.”

The Courier worries the conditions of their meetups may take some time to calibrate. She, for one, must first adapt to life as a married woman.

There’s also the task of keeping Caesar alive throughout the duration of all this chaos.

She can’t tell them about Caesar’s failing health, for that would jeopardize practically every slave in the Legion.

But she can reveal the dangers she’s learned thus far about the higher ups.

“I’ll do my best to stay consistent with my visits,” she swears. “And if you just so happen to come across a giant burly man with a hideous mask on his face, steer clear.”

They conspire as much as they can before the fire dies and the stars above disappear in the glow of dawn.

The Courier manages to sleep some.

And when she awakes, she wonders if today’s the day she departs from maidenhood. If today’s the day Caesar succumbs to his death. If today’s the day she’ll revisit Old Mormon Fort…

Her plans to escape have gotten significantly more complicated.

Chapter Text

Given his reputation, his austere and cold demeanor, and the way the NCR had villainized his character throughout the Mojave with propaganda posters, it’s hard to imagine Vulpes Inculta capable of loving someone.

It’s hard to imagine someone with a cold, cold heart capable of the sentiment when carrying out executions by the masses never seems to faze them.

How can a monster know what love is?

Vulpes knows – because he’s seen it before.

As a young boy, he remembers his own parents and the way they were. Back then, plenty of families inhabited his tribe, their village teeming with unified couples and their boisterously enthusiastic offspring.

His mother and father were very much in love, and they bestowed their love upon each and every one of their children. There was Hannah, the eldest. Levi, the first-born son. Naomi was born after and finally, the youngest of the brood, Matthias.

Levi’s life was simple enough in those days. He and his older sister would help take care of the younger siblings. He’d help his father with hunting and gathering. He’d help his mother with chores about their hut. He and his siblings would venture throughout and beyond the village, playing games with old-world contraptions and whatever other trinkets they could scrounge up.

He enjoyed reading whatever pre-war literature he could find, a quiet pastime he picked up from his mother.

He learned he had a knack for ambush tactics when hunting with his father, using wits and reflexes to conserve energy; where his talents with strategy compensated for his lack of strength.

But the best times were when they’d reconvene in their family home after a long day of work and keeping busy. He and his siblings would tidy up for bed, occasionally fancying a few rounds of pre-war board games, and his parents would observe their antics while nuzzled in one another’s embrace, sipping on herbal tea, happy and grateful for another day.

Levi never wants to forget what it was like to be loved. To have siblings. To have parents. To have a family.

Vulpes Inculta had all but replaced that family with a new one. Not by choice, of course.

But there’s one thing that can never be replaced.

The love of his family and the way they were.

It’s easier for Vulpes to believe that Levi had also died with everyone else that fateful day so long ago. It’s easier to pretend it was another life entirely; that of someone else’s. A stranger. A distant dream.

But something about the Courier has sparked the return of that feeling, overwhelming and too great to ignore.

He’s already suffered great loss once – and for so long he’d accepted he may never know the feeling ever again.

Until now. Fate has granted him mercy, and now he’s found purpose.

Vulpes is not the weak young boy he once was. He’s older, stronger, smarter, more experienced…

And he’s found love.

It’s as if he’s found his family again.

“How much time do I have left, doc?”

Caesar is no fool. The man may be stubborn as all hell, but even he can see the writing on the wall. Knows when to accept the inevitable.

When he wakes up the next morning, inexplicably relieved to see Doc Mitchell at his bedside, he succumbs to defeat. At least this way he can prepare and there are no surprises.

“About a month,” Doc Mitchell replies after brief hesitation. “With treatment.”

“There’s no surviving this, is there?” Caesar says more than asks. “I bet the cancer’s spread everywhere by now.”

Doc Mitchell stays silent, neither confirming nor denying. Doesn’t matter. Wouldn’t matter.

He’s dying.

“I need to make arrangements,” Caesar muses aloud, and the Doc can’t tell if he’s talking to anyone in particular or just himself. “I need a successor…”

The Doc doesn’t dare speak. He doesn’t move. The room feels suffocating. Hopeless.

He’s trapped.

I never married… Caesar’s thoughts culminate to incoherent mumbling, and it’s become blatantly obvious he’s merely muttering nonsense to himself. “I have no children. No sons. No one to pass on the torch…”

Doc Mitchell loathes the man with every fiber of his being, but seeing him in this light – vulnerable, weak, and pathetic – it’s hard not to pity him as he mentally carves his way through a mountain of regrets.

Despite the conflicted whir of emotions coursing through him, the Doc can’t afford to give up just yet. The Courier’s warning plays on loop in his head, like the static humming from recordings on an old holodisk.

“If he dies, then we die…”

Every one of his Goodsprings neighbors will suffer for his failure.

And that doesn’t sit right with him.

“There’s one more thing we can try,” Doc Mitchell offers, leaving room for explanation to gauge Caesar’s interest.

Luckily, he bites. “Is there?” Caesar pries, looking up, albeit somewhat skeptically. “And what’s that?”

“You’re not gonna like it.”

“Spit it out. If there’s even a one percent chance I’ll live through this, I’ll take it.”

Doc Mitchell suppresses the urge to smile. Lady luck is on his side indeed.

“Well ya see now,” Doc Mitchell begins, clearing his throat. “There’s this place called Old Mormon Fort…”

“I’m familiar. Go on.”

“They have an extensive collection of pre-war medical texts. Neuroscience included.”

“Is there a particular text you need?” Caesar asks, following along. “Give me its title and I’ll send the Courier to retrieve it.”

“Of course,” the Doc replies. “Once I have the book, I’ll need only a short time to study up and prepare.”

“Prepare for what?”

“I’m warning you; you’re not gonna like it.” Stressing it for extra emphasis.

“I don’t have the luxury of choice, now do I, doc?” Caesar grits out, voice raspy and eyes narrowed.

“I suppose not,” Doc Mitchell sighs. Turns out we’re two sides of the same coin. “I’m going to perform the operation myself. Get rid of the new tumor and whatever else has sprouted up. Which means you’ll be going under the knife – again.”

Caesar scoffs disdainfully. “I have the auto-doc for that. What makes you think you’ll do any better?” He gestures to the instrument in question. “That’s a perfectly calibrated machine. You’re a senile old fuck with jittery mitts for hands.”

Doc Mitchell doesn’t take a whole lot personally. Never one to suffer from wounded pride.

But when his craft, his work, his very livelihood is mocked – he refuses to turn belly up.

“What do you know about the Courier’s past?” he asks after a long stretch of silence.

Caesar huffs, perturbed. “You’re asking as if there’s something I don’t know.” He grunts, nursing the ache at his temple before humoring whatever little ploy the Doc’s leading. “She’s a typical naïve vaultie.” Explains how she fell right into the malevolent clutches of the Bull so easily.

The Doc nods. “We’re from the same vault, her and I.”

“No kidding?” Caesar can see at least some amusement in coincidences. “The same vault Mr. House booted you all out of?”

The Doc nods again. “That’s right.”

Caesar heaves a deep breath. “If there’s a point to all this you better make it fast.”

The Doc obliges. “After we were all kicked out of the vault, most of us went our separate ways, scattered about the wasteland. None of us could afford to live on the Strip so we made do in other ways. The Courier never wanted to settle in Goodsprings for long, so she took on odd jobs to save up so she could one day live closer to the city. Even considered enlisting in the NCR but she hated what they stood for.”

“So let me guess? She became a Courier.”

“That’s right. But her career came to a swift end when she took on the errand of delivering a certain package to a certain someone on the Strip.”

“The platinum chip. To Mr. House.” Ha. The irony!

“Right again. Except, she didn’t know at the time who the recipient was. Nor did she know the significance of the package’s contents.”

“Well everyone knows it now. Just like everyone knows what happens next. Her route and the package are intercepted by that idiot, Benny Gecko, and a couple of buffoons from the Great Khans.”

“If by intercepted you mean they shoot her in the head and leave her for dead, then yes,” the Doc further clarifies. “And that’s where the story should end, right?”

He waits.

Caesar shrugs. “Sure. I guess it should’ve ended there. But it didn’t. Your point?”

“Exactly,” Doc Mitchell persists. “She survived a bullet to the head. You know how she managed that?”

“By some miracle,” Caesar replies, sarcasm coating his words. “Is that how I’m gonna get through this, doc? A miracle? Is this story supposed to serve as inspiration of some sort?”

But the Doc shakes his head, keeps his gaze firm and steady on Caesar.

“I was the one who saved her,” he finally reveals. “I pulled that bullet outta her skull and sewed it right back up again. Despite everyone else tellin’ me she was a goner, I wasn’t gonna give up on her without at least tryin’.”

For the first time since their less-than amicable introduction, Caesar listens to what the doc has to say, allowing him the clearance to speak freely.

“If there’s one thing I learned from that ordeal…” Doc Mitchell concludes, making his final point. “It’s that no matter what you’re up against or even if you think you’re doomed to fail, you have to at least try.”

Caesar clenches his jaw, nerves twitching.

This is his best chance for survival. His last resort.

If he has to choose someone to perform this operation, who better than the man who saved the Courier from certain death?

It’s decided then.

“That’s enough preaching,” Caesar sneers. “Very well. We’ll do the operation. But before that, I’ll have to send the Courier to Old Mormon Fort for the text you mentioned earlier.”

Looks like the Courier and Vulpes Inculta will have to put their nuptials on hold…

Before the Courier reports to Caesar as arranged the evening prior, the women in the slave stocks bid her farewell as a heartfelt means of sending her off, knowing it will be her last morning among them.

Vulpes is due to retrieve her at any moment, but the Courier hopes he takes his time so she’s afforded the chance to share any last-minute precautions.

“This isn’t goodbye,” she tells the group, encircled by Melody, Siri, Trudy, and Sunny to name a few. “We’ll meet again. I promise.”

Melody clings to her, burying her face into the fabric of her linens. She nods when the Courier soothes over her hair with dainty ministrations of her fingers, ultimately letting go as though accepting of the circumstances.

“You have to come back for us,” she pleads, Sergeant Teddy dangling from her grasp.

“I will.”

The Courier won’t let Melody be orphaned all over again.

“How do you feel about this?” Siri asks. “About marrying the leader of the frumentarii?”

“How does the man not terrify you?!” another blurts.

“He seems scary… and intense!”

“What if he’s crazy?!”

“Oh, he is,” the Courier remarks in nonchalance, innocently amused by their probing. “And in some ways, he does terrify me.”

True, Vulpes Inculta isn’t exactly… the conventional gentlemanly bachelor that’s romanticized in film and literature.

“But he’s also reserved and intriguing…” the Courier continues. “There’s more to him than meets the eye.”

“He’s still Legion,” Siri cautions. “Be careful… and do not make the mistake of trusting too loosely.”

The Courier nods in agreement.

Too late, she thinks. She’s already –

“Do you love him?”

“Does he love you?”

“Is it real?”

The Courier doesn’t miss a beat.

“Yes,” she answers with conviction. “He saved my life. He protects me.” It’s how he’s shown her that he’s truly devoted that counts. “I know he has a heart.”

Deep down, there’s still light. There’s still good in him…

She doesn’t expect them to understand. She doesn’t even fully understand it herself.

There’s so much she wants to share with them; all the intricacies and quiet intimacies she’s experienced with Vulpes.

She doesn’t have enough time.

“You reckon the same thing’ll happen to the lot of us?” Sunny ponders aloud, touching on a slightly unrelated topic. “Think they’ll pair us all off with these soldier boys?”

Trudy shudders at the mentioning. “I’d like to think I’m too old for that.” Except, she’s not – and she knows it.

But Siri offers some consolation. “I’ve been captive for a couple years now,” she says. “Seems they’ve spared me the trouble thus far.”

She’s only been approached for liaisons she couldn’t say no to, but she’ll warn the women from Goodsprings about that another time.

And as awful as it sounds, she’d rather have her body be used for the occasional legionary’s pleasure for one night than be forced into marriage and bearing children like livestock. At least as one of the Fort’s only healers, she has some semblance of autonomy.

“We’d be wise to lay low then,” is how Sunny concludes her pondering, wary of Siri’s subtle implications. “Wouldn’t wanna get caught up in a radstorm of chaos ‘round these parts.”

The Courier would rather welcome a radstorm of chaos in her life, if it weren’t trodden by an ailing tyrant, the rage of his second-in-command, and a complex relationship with the Legion’s most notorious spy.

She certainly welcomes the chaos of her own appearance in this moment – the others do not.

“Come, let’s get you spruced up,” Siri instructs. “We don’t have much time before your betrothed arrives.”

The Courier chuckles, coy and dismissive. “It’s not my wedding day yet.”

“No but…” Sunny hums. “You look like you just rolled outta bed.”

“You oughtta look nice for the occasion,” Trudy concurs. “And for yourself.”

Exactly. Women ought to have the luxury of looking nice for themselves – and not just for the fancies of men.

Vulpes approaches the gate to the slave stocks prepared and sharp as always.

As he follows the familiar rocky tread down the hill, the other legionaries regard him cautiously, greeting him with submissive “Ave” as engrained in their societal hierarchy but perplexed at the notion of his pending nuptials (and how that could shape the future of the Legion).

Would he produce an heir? Would his sons also become frumentarii?

Would marriage change him just as the Legate has suggested before?

It’s unusual for marriage to change most soldiers and officers in the Legion. Marriage is often nothing more than political. Obligatory for procreation.

Yet while Vulpes has yet to profess his love for the Courier openly and publicly before his comrades, he’s certainly the only one in the Legion who’s spilled the blood of his own men for the sake of one woman.

He’s the only one who dared to defy the Legate to protect the same woman.

And despite all the opportunity to bed any woman he wants, at the Fort and on the Strip, he’s only ever preferred the company of the Courier.

His conduct goes against the current of their ways. Breaks the mold. Fails to conform to what the Legion has become so infamous for.

Then again, he never was one to conform. Always at odds with the Legate and those of like mind.

When Vulpes enters the slave stocks, his presence is received with less scrutiny and fear than usual.

Where once the slaves would cower and run for shelter, they now peek from their tents and observe curiously from behind pillars as if to ensure that the Courier is withdrawn safely.

But Vulpes knows when eyes are upon him. Knows when he’s being watched.

It bears no significance to him. Not when he’s reunited with the Courier again, face to face after spending an agonizing evening alone without her.

“Good morning,” the Courier greets, beaming as he draws near.

She wants to embrace him and be held in his arms, if only to show the others he’s harmless after all, and genuinely has a heart beneath his otherwise steely demeanor.

But she wonders if displays of affection could be received negatively among Legion soldiers; as if she’d inadvertently make a target of herself; a way to antagonize Vulpes by threatening her safety and well-being and using it as leverage to coerce him into horrendous acts.

Not that he’s ever needed much encouragement to commit war crimes… but her point remains.

Vulpes is keen on meeting her halfway, regardless. He offers his arm, which she accepts and quickly takes hold.

“Good morning,” he replies, leading her away. “Caesar awaits.”

He’s taken notice of her gussied appearance. How lovely the woman is, with her deep brown doe-eyes, rosy cheeks, and dark hair. Her smile is as bright as the glow of the desert sun. Her dainty hands warm on his skin. He appreciates her petite stature as she nestles closer against him, as though he’s the only shelter she will ever seek.

Rather than let his inner thoughts slip, Vulpes informs her of what’s to come as they continue onward for Caesar’s tent.

“There is much to prepare for,” he begins. “Caesar will have our scribes devise legal documents to confirm the legitimacy of our marriage. Then we need to set a date for the ceremony and the legal proceedings that follow.”

The Courier is attentive. “Is that how it’s done in the Legion?” she asks. “What are the ceremonies like?”

Vulpes hasn’t seen many wedding ceremonies himself, but he remembers a few when he was a young recruit.

“They typically appoint a priest, or priestess, of Mars to officiate,” Vulpes explains from memory. Luckily, the laws of their people were simple.

“Do the bride and groom dress in wedding attire?” the Courier pries. Is wedding attire prevalent in Legion culture? What about suits and ties? Ball gowns and dresses?

“The officers typically wear their uniforms,” Vulpes replies. “Although they have the option of wearing traditional linen toga virillus, as the Romans did in their time. The women wear traditional tunica recta, but I have also seen women of privilege wear extravagant garb from dressmakers in other Legion settlements.”

“Women of privilege?” That’s a thing?

“The brides of high-ranking officials,” Vulpes clarifies. “Were you aware that Lucius has been married before?”

The Courier shakes her head, eyes wide in surprise.

“I was still in training when he tied the knot,” he continues. “You are aware of the old expression?”

“Of course,” the Courier replies. “Also from the Romans.”

Vulpes quite enjoys their dabbles in historic facts. “For his ceremony, his bride wore an exotic gown as homage to her people. She had originally hailed from a tribe in the East.”

“Caesar allowed that?” the Courier asks. She could see why Lucius would approve, as he always seemed to be… nicer than the rest of them.

But Caesar was an arrogant asshole.

Vulpes nods. “He has respect for Lucius and appreciates his loyalty.”

“Sounds like Lucius had respect and appreciation for his bride, given that he sought to honor her wishes,” the Courier notes.

“He often doted on her,” Vulpes reveals. “Many in the Legion found his affectionate gestures toward her rather off-putting, but he ignored the criticism. Caesar politely advised him to keep his romantic deeds out of the public eye, but he never threatened discipline for his actions. Nor were there any true repercussions.”

Interesting.

“Where is she now?”

Vulpes is forthcoming, but the Courier detects hints of pity in his delivery.

“She died in childbirth,” he replies. “Their offspring suffered the same fate.”

Now it all makes sense, the Courier realizes. Lucius has always seemed… a bit sad. Yet he doesn’t use the tragic death of his wife and child to be cruel. Instead, he rather keeps to himself, works diligently for Caesar, and is even highly endeared by his subordinates.

While the Legate thinks of him as too soft, the Courier thinks he is among the strongest.

To lose the love of your life but still press on, and not lose your soul to a cruel world, takes courage.

If only he knew he was too good for the Legion…

Why is he still here, working alongside these brutes?

“He must have really loved her,” the Courier muses.

“He never married again,” Vulpes says, as if to confirm.

The Courier has also noted his absence from Legion festivities, particularly the ones where slave women are passed around from tent to tent… from legionary to legionary…

“Do you think he regrets it?” the Courier asks, imposing the woes of philosophy between them.

“What would he have to regret?”

“Falling in love. It seems it only caused him pain.”

Vulpes supplies with his own sentiments on the matter. “It’s better to have love and lost…”

“…than never to have loved at all.” The Courier can’t help the half-smile curving at her lips. “That’s not from any Roman library. When have you read Victorian poetry?”

Vulpes averts his gaze. He likes to keep some secrets for himself. “I’ve read many things, Courier.”

The Courier won’t press any further – this time.

“Can I wear a dress for our ceremony?” she asks, changing the subject. The fantasies alone have kept her awake at night; from the time she was a young girl in the vault, she’s reveled in dreams of lace, of elegance, of a truly beautiful wedding dress…

Vulpes admires her enthusiasm. It’s certainly unusual to see a bride glow at the prospect of tying the knot – unusual in Legion territory, that is.

“As long as it’s white, not too revealing, and unaffiliated with enemy factions,” Vulpes approves, and the Courier represses the urge to squeal in excitement.

She can hardly wait to carry out the task.

“Shouldn’t be too difficult to satisfy those terms,” the Courier quips. “We had a similar dress code for weddings in the vault.”

Now the Courier wonders…

“Isn’t it strange?” she proposes, as a means of exchanging more insight. “Marriage, and its traditions, is an almost universal concept. We have it in the vaults, the NCR has their own laws, as do the Brotherhood of Steel, the Legion, even small settlements and tribes…”

Vulpes quirks a brow. “Marriage has been around for thousands of years.”

The Courier shrugs. “I find it fascinating that every culture has their own take on it.”

“I suppose that’s true,” Vulpes says, commencing their trek uphill.

The Courier matches the slow pace he’s set up the rocky path, indulging in the extra time they have for innocent conversation – something she does not take for granted.

“What were they like in your village?” she asks, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear and shielding her eyes from the glare of the sun. She finds his eyes, searching for a reaction of any kind.

But Vulpes fails to remember specific details – it’s been so long. Too long.

“I imagine they were similar to the weddings in your vault,” he replies.

The Courier doubts that. Vault weddings are wild.

“Oh really?” she queries, as if to challenge. “Was there a massive jello cake? Static heavy recordings of old-world music? Malfunctioning Mr. Handys? Did the vault wedding committee have to blow up over one hundred balloons? Did the overseer embarrass everyone with his moves on the dance floor?”

Could everyone hear the bride and groom go at it because the walls were paper thin and the sounds echoed through the corridors like perfectly hollowed caves. (She swears someone purposely left the intercom on in the wedding suite once, and the sex audio leaked into practically every room throughout the vault).

“Ah, I see,” Vulpes says, “So vault weddings are more aligned with the traditions of the profligate weddings.”

“Sometimes they’re worse.”

Sometimes they’re not so bad.

“We had arranged marriages in the vaults, too,” the Courier shares. “That’s more aligned with how the Legion operates, I suppose.”

“Is that so?” Vulpes smirks. “Are you already promised to another man then, Courier?”

Technically… yes…

“My father had arranged for me to marry one of his cousin’s sons,” the Courier replies, disgusted. “We didn’t have a whole lot of options in the vault, especially with the population dwindling.”

“How barbaric,” Vulpes comments. “The Legion has outlawed incestuous marriages – and for good reason.”

Too bad they haven’t outlawed rape, the Courier thinks to herself, disdainful of the discrepancy in morals.

“No matter,” Vulpes says, smirking again. “Saves me the trouble of having to kill yet again for your hand.”

“I don’t think my vault fiancé was keen on marrying me either,” the Courier muses. “We were just expected to fulfill our civic duty as citizens of the vault.”

Nothing romantic about it.

Maybe she is better off outside the vault…

Life in the Legion is hardly a step up, but at least she has the companionship of Vulpes Inculta on her side.

“Did you think you would ever get married?” the Courier asks with piqued interest.

Vulpes mulls over her question, and that alone is enough to suggest otherwise.

“The thought never occurred to me,” he answers honestly. And why would it? Especially given the dangerous nature of his craft.

On a political basis, he’s sure that eventually Caesar would’ve arranged a bride for him – assuming he would’ve lived long enough to see the feat through. With his ailing health now, who knows.

“Your tribe didn’t have arranged marriages?” the Courier presses, and only then does Vulpes realize he’d merely been thinking about the prospect of marriage as an officer in the Legion.

“Actually, no,” Vulpes replies, as though a memory has been unearthed.

Before the Courier can prod away for more, a group of legionaries march past them, chanting in unison, weapons holstered.

“Ave!” they address Vulpes in reverence along the way.

The brief encounter sparks more curiosity for the Courier – and so she asks the forbidden question.

“Why hasn’t Caesar married?” she asks, keeping her voice low and subdued.

Vulpes often wonders that himself, but he’s never prompted the matter to the Son of Mars. That would be heretical, blasphemous…

He also doesn’t much care, as it’s none of his business.

“I don’t know,” he responds, simply. “I’ve only heard rumors, but no one truly knows.”

“Rumors about what?” the Courier asks. “His sexuality?”

Vulpes shoots her a look of disapproval.

As is the case with incest, homosexuality has also been outlawed by Caesar.

But by Mars Almighty, is it rampant, no – abundant – in almost every social class in the Legion. Vulpes pretends he doesn’t know – because again: he simply does not care. Lord Caesar might not even care as much as he lets on, which is why the law is hardly ever enforced. A sort of don’t ask, don’t tell policy.

Either way, Vulpes knows this plays no factor in Caesar’s lack of marital ambition.

“Never you mind,” Vulpes says with a sigh.

But the Courier won’t let it go. “Tell me!” she begs, like a petulant child pleading for a treat. “I won’t tell anyone! This stays between us! As your wife, I am sworn to secrecy!”

“It behooves me to remind you we have yet to wed.”

“Oh come on! I am just dying to know!”

The Fort gossip is always the juiciest.

“Perhaps some other time,” Vulpes tells her.

They’ve arrived at Caesar’s tent.

“There’s the man of the hour!”

Caesar welcomes Vulpes with his best attempt to congratulate him on his victory in battle, all but ignoring the Courier as she enters the tent alongside him, their arms still linked and her heart rate spiking.

“Come to my quarters,” he further instructs, “and we shall raise a toast to the victor!”

Vulpes and the Courier follow Caesar to his private dwelling, under the false pretense of celebration – except they both know better.

When they enter, the room is devoid of mirth or any trivial tributes. Instead, there’s Doc Mitchell seated in the corner, medicine and herbal remedies assorted on a nearby shelf, and damp rags thrown into a heap on the floor, some with worrying blotchy stains.

Turns out the wine hadn’t been fabricated after all. Caesar, finding his footing while weathering his feeble state, scrounges up a couple of goblets for him and Vulpes to drink from. At the snap of his fingers, Doc Mitchell begrudgingly fetches a bottle of red wine from his private stash, hidden in an armoire.

“To your victories in the arena,” Caesar declares, wine poured, goblets clinked. “And to your upcoming wedding ceremony. May your bride bear you many sons. Ave.”

“Ave,” Vulpes drinks in communion.

The Courier and Doc Mitchell exchange looks – a habit they’ve formed as a silent, discreet way to communicate while in the presence of the tyrant.

Caesar lowers his goblet and sets it aside after swallowing down a hefty gulp. Exhausted from standing, he seats himself on a wooden bench, breathing calmed from hitched to stable.

“Before we make the necessary arrangements for you and the Courier to wed,” he begins, “I’m afraid there are urgent matters that require our attention.”

This time Caesar looks to the Courier and the Doc, finally inviting them to this discussion.

“Of course, my lord,” Vulpes replies, obediently. “How may I serve?”

Caesar can always count on his pet fox.

“I don’t believe you’ve ever been to Old Mormon Fort,” Caesar ponders. “Have you, Vulpes?”

Vulpes confirms with a shake of his head. “I have not, but I have frequented Freeside. I know only of the fort in passing.”

“That’s perfectly fine,” Caesar replies. “The Doc just informed me the Courier has visited a few times.”

More than a few times, the Courier thinks. But he doesn’t need to know of her past with the Followers of the Apocalypse.

Same as how the rest of the Legion doesn’t need to know about his sordid history with the Followers just as well.

Strange that they have that in common. A history with the Followers – and then a falling out with them.

“Your only mission is to escort her to the fort,” Caesar instructs. “She can handle the rest from there.”

“What, may I ask, will be her purpose upon arrival?” Vulpes asks.

Caesar remains evasive as always. “She’ll retrieve something of value for me,” he replies, then he turns to the Courier to address her directly. “I believe you know exactly the thing I need. The Doc has already filled me in. Can you handle that?”

The Courier nods. Now she has permission to speak. “Yes, I can – provided that the Legion forces haven’t already razed the fort to the ground.”

Vulpes is only grateful she has minded her tone before the mighty Caesar, but he still considers the possibility she’s said something out of line.

To his relief, Caesar laughs a couple beats, before the laughs morph into guttural coughs, thick and phlegmy in his throat.

“No,” he informs after a brief pause. “I promise you I will make good use of the fort. What a waste it would be to burn it all.” Another pause. “It frustrates me that you think of the Legion as this brainless, brute force of men who only seek to destroy. Our intentions are to civilize this land and the people residing in it.” He waves a hand, in dismissal. “In due time, you’ll see. You’ll see that the Legion is a capable and productive society of warriors and gentlemen. It’s true, they can’t all be like Vulpes or Lanius or even Lucius… but I have plenty of good men in my Legion.”

Plenty of good women, too, the Courier thinks. Instead, she says: “You’re right. They can’t all be like Vulpes.” She looks up to her betrothed, as if he’s her only beacon of light. “There’s no one quite like him.”

Her heart flutters at the faint silhouette of a smile from Vulpes Inculta. It’s blink and you’ll miss it, and something about it seems reminiscent of the way Lucius smiles – but it’s enough to validate her efforts, affirming she has that effect on him.

She holds more power than she realizes.

Caesar rolls his eyes, unsure what he finds more nauseating: the Courier and her subtle wooing of Vulpes, or the leader of the frumentarii falling for her lines and showing even the slightest trace of being… smitten?

If this marriage turns out to be Lucius all over again, he might outlaw these legal unions per their entire institution outright.

If this were any other officer, he’d end this relationship immediately.

But Vulpes could use something… nice for a change. Even his tactics manage to shock Caesar from time to time – a feat he thought impossible after getting to know Lanius and his ways.

Ultimately, Caesar is afraid of what Vulpes could become if left unchecked. He’s a young man, still inexperienced in many ways. But he’s not your average, garden variety kind of unhinged. He’s a special brand of unhinged – what with being kidnapped and watching his people get slaughtered, lighting Joshua Graham on fire at such a young age, rendering judgement on the people of Nipton, and sentencing everyone at Camp Searchlight to a cruel death…

Of course he’s going to be a bit unwell.

Hell, it might be Caesar’s own doing. He’s created the monster that is Vulpes Inculta.

“Right,” Caesar interjects, unwilling to further dissect his introspection when he’s not on his deathbed just yet. “So how soon can you commence the mission?”

Vulpes can accommodate an expedited process. “Within the hour.”

The Courier nods in agreement. She packs light. “Will you be joining us?” she asks the Doc, to which he shakes his head.

“He stays with me,” Caesar answers in his stead. “Besides, it’s not as though you’ll need him. And anyway, you two could use some alone time, I’m sure.”

The Courier blushes, hard – so much so that it feels as if her entire face has gone numb.

“Retrieving your item will remain our first priority,” Vulpes affirms, despite Caesar’s snide remark. “How soon shall we return?”

Caesar gives that one to the Doc. “What is your best recommendation?”

“I’d say no more than a week, or five days to err on the side of caution,” the Doc suggests, turning his attention to the Courier. “And please be careful.”

“I will,” the Courier assures.

“We’ll be back in three,” Vulpes affirms.

Time is of the essence.

The Devil works fast, but Vulpes Inculta works faster.