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Boone first met the Courier when she marched up to him while he was on guard in Dinky’s mouth and introduced herself. He stared at her.
“This is the part where you say hi back,” she volunteered, helpfully.
He kept staring at her. After she gave no indication that she was planning on leaving anytime soon, he relented. “Hi,” he said.
She smiled. “Hello! Are you Manny or Boone? Cliff said one of you would be up here.”
“Boone,” he told her.
“Well, it’s great to meet you, Boone! What do you like to do around here?”
He looked at her. Then he pointedly looked at the rifle he was holding. Then out at the wide stretch of the wastes visible from his vantage point. Then back at her. “Take a wild guess.”
She sighed. “Yes, I gathered. I meant besides that. What do you do in your free time?”
“All four hours of it?” he asked, sarcastically.
She shrugged. “You can do a lot in four hours.”
This was getting tiresome. “I’m trying to figure out who sold my wife to the Legion.” That would probably get her to leave. No one knew how to react to that.
The smile slid off her face. Her eyes went hard. “Someone here did that?” All warmth had gone from her tone, replaced with a cold lethality that made Boone reevaluate his first impression of her.
“No one else could’ve. The slavers knew the area too well, knew exactly what route to take and where to go. There was no way they could’ve figured that out on their own. And they only took her. Someone here sold her out.”
“All right.” She nodded resolutely. “I’m going to help you find who it was. And then I’m going to help you kill them.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Not a fan of the Legion, then?”
“No,” she said, with firm conviction.
He looked her up and down. She looked strong, with broad shoulders and biceps that weren’t for show. There was a shotgun on her back and a pistol at her side. She could definitely hold her own in a fight. Most importantly, she seemed like she might hate the Legion almost as much as he did.
“Okay,” he agreed.
(Later, after he’d killed Jeannie May, he told her about Carla. About what he did. He wasn’t very surprised when she told him that it was the right thing.
“Trust me, Boone,” she said. “I know what happens to the people they capture. How they're treated. That was the best thing anyone could’ve done for her.”
He didn’t ask her how she was so sure. He knew better than to pry into the past, especially this early into a partnership.)
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
The Courier was headed to the Strip, so he accompanied her. He hadn’t been there in a while, but it was a hard sight to forget. She breezed past all of the bright signs and flashing lights, barely giving any of it a second glance.
Instead, she seemed set on making conversation.
“I’m staying in the Lucky 38; I’ll show you around. Oh, and I’ll introduce you to Arcade!”
“Arcade?” This was the first time she’d mentioned another person.
“Yeah, he’s great! He can be a bit rude sometimes, and you don’t want to piss him off, but once he warms up to you, he’s pretty nice. He actually reminds me of you that way! He’s not quite as good a shot as you—though I doubt many people are—but he’s still pretty good, and definitely handy in a fight.”
Boone wasn’t sure how to react to the fact that the Courier apparently considered him nice, so he just hummed noncommittally.
“Oh, and he really, really hates the Legion.”
Boone gave another hum, but this was one of approval. It sounded like they’d get along well, then.
He followed the Courier to the steps of the Lucky 38, where a Securitron—which, for some reason, had the face of a cowboy—was waiting.
“Howdy, Pardner,” greeted the Securitron. While this wasn’t the weirdest thing Boone had seen all day, it was a close contender.
“Hey, Victor,” the Courier said. “This is Boone. He’s gonna be hanging out with me, so make sure he can come and go whenever he wants.”
“Sure thing, Pardner,” chirped the friendly Securitron. “Ol’ Victor’ll make a note of that right here!”
“Cool, thanks,” replied the Courier, treating the entire situation as if it were entirely normal and there was nothing out of the ordinary. And, Boone supposed, maybe for her it was. Traveling with her was going to be... interesting, to say the least.
Still, the Securitron—Victor, presumably—opened the door for them, and they headed in.
Boone would be lying if he said he hadn’t been curious what the inside of the Lucky 38 looked like. To his slight disappointment, it looked much like any other casino, with some gambling tables and a wide assortment of slot machines. It was a little darker than he’d expected, though not nearly enough to obstruct his vision.
He didn't have much time to look around, though, as the Courier dragged him straight to the elevator.
“There's four floors, but House won't let anyone but me in the penthouse for some reason. Arcade says it's because he's a megalomaniacal billionaire with control issues—and he's probably right, but don't tell him I said that. Don't worry, though; you're not missing anything.”
Boone wasn't exactly burning with desire to interact with House anyway, so he simply nodded.
“Anyway, let's go find Arcade! He's probably in the cocktail lounge—he says there's better light there.” She turned to the cowboy Securitron. “Victor, could you take us there please?”
“Sure thing, Pardner!” He ushered them into the elevator, and their ascent began.
When the elevator doors opened and they stepped out, Victor gave a cheery wave and closed the doors behind them.
Boone looked at the Courier and raised an eyebrow.
She sighed. “Yeah, he can be kind of a lot. But at least he’s friendly; the other Securitrons just glare and tell you to get out of the way, so Victor’s a nice change of pace.”
Boone wasn’t sure that relative friendliness of Securitrons would make much of a difference when they were shooting at you, but he kept that to himself. Instead, he looked around the huge circular room they’d just entered.
The elevator had come out in the middle of a large platform, which appeared to house a bar that, presumably, wrapped all the way around. Below the platform were tables surrounded by very comfy-looking couches, and beyond those was the biggest window Boone had seen in his life. He was quite accustomed to heights and had seen many impressive views in his time, but, looking out at the tiny streets of Vegas below them, Boone could admit that this was something else.
The Courier had been watching him take everything in and, as he turned back to her, she grinned. “I know, right? Anyway, let’s find Arcade.” She hopped down from the platform and started walking around to the other side of the bar, Boone following. “Arcade? Are you here?” she called loudly.
“There’s no need to yell,” came a voice from the direction they were heading. “My ears are working perfectly well, despite your best efforts.”
“I’ve got someone to introduce you to!”
“I can hardly contain my excitement,” came the sardonic reply.
The Courier laughed. As they rounded the corner, the source of the voice was revealed, sitting on a couch. There was an array of medical supplies on the table in front of him—to Boone’s untrained eye, it looked like he was making stimpacks. The man stood up as they approached, walking forward to meet them.
Boone didn’t know what he had pictured when the Courier described her friend, but the glasses-wearing man in a lab coat with the Followers’ symbol definitely wasn’t it. He half-wondered if the Courier were living with another person that she’d forgotten to mention.
“Arcade Gannon,” he introduced himself, holding out his hand. Boone shook it, still giving him a skeptical once-over. The amused glint in Gannon’s eye told him that the other man had noticed, but he didn’t say anything.
“Boone.”
“Well, it’s a pleasure to meet you, Boone.” His tone was only slightly sarcastic.
Boone nodded at his coat. “You a doctor?”
He shrugged. “When the mood strikes.”
Boone was pretty sure that was snarky-bastard-speak for ‘yes’.
“He’s a great doctor!” the Courier corrected. “He always fixes me up after I get shot. Or stabbed. Or bitten. Or burned. And there was that one time with a deathclaw—”
“I think he gets the picture,” Gannon interjected. He looked at Boone. “She’s pretty reckless. But I’m guessing you know that already.”
“Yeah. It’s not that hard to figure out.”
The Courier looked offended, but didn’t say anything. Probably because she knew they were right.
“How’d you two meet, anyway?” asked Boone, curious. He wouldn’t have thought a Followers doctor and a gunslinging postal worker would have much cause to interact.
“She helped get me out of a... less than desirable situation,” said the doctor. From the look on the Courier’s face, he had a gift for understatement. Boone wondered just what the ‘situation’ had been.
“And you?” Gannon inquired. “What misfortune befell you that led you to come into contact with this maniac?”
Normally Boone wouldn't give any details, but he was curious to see how the doctor would respond to the truth. The Courier had said he hated the Legion, but he also seemed like he wouldn't have much of a stomach for revenge killing.
“She helped me find the person who sold my wife to the Legion.”
The doctor stilled. His expression was unreadable. “And what did you do when you found them?”
“I killed her.”
Gannon relaxed, nodding. “Good.”
Boone was impressed. “Not gonna lie, Doc; I wouldn't have expected a Follower to be quite so gung-ho about cold-blooded murder.”
The doctor shrugged. “I guess you have a lot to learn about me.”
“I guess I do.”
Boone wouldn’t lie and say he wasn't looking forward to it.
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
The Courier was visiting the penthouse floor again. Neither Boone nor Gannon were fans of how frequently she spoke with House, but they couldn’t really do anything about it.
Gannon had tried, very vocal about his distaste for the “ultra-capitalist, egotistical bastard”, but the Courier wasn’t swayed.
So there they were, sitting in the cocktail lounge while the Courier entertained their mysterious benefactor.
“I know you hate the man himself, but what do you think of his goal to keep Vegas independent?” Boone asked, curious for the doctor’s take on the situation. There was no way a man as opinionated as Gannon didn’t have one.
The doctor hummed thoughtfully, nursing his glass. “It’s not a viable long-term solution,” he said. “Both the Legion and NCR would be vying for control—it's too tempting of a territory to pass up. And Vegas is ill-prepared for a siege on one front, let alone two. Besides, I don’t particularly want the NCR to waste resources trying to annex the strip when they could be put to better use fighting the Legion.” He shrugged. “Independence for Vegas is a pretty idea, but potestas semper dissolubilis.”
Boone reacted on instinct and grabbed the other man roughly by the arm, turning him around. “What did you just say?”
Gannon flinched violently away from his hand, and Boone felt the unmistakable sensation of a plasma defender pressing into his ribs. He hadn’t realized that the doctor was that quick on the draw.
“I’d appreciate it if you’d let go of me,” Gannon said evenly, discomfort only betrayed by his white-knuckled grip on the gun.
Boone didn’t release his arm. “Why do you know Latin?” he demanded.
Gannon chuckled derisively. “Is that what this is about? Are you concerned I’m with the Legion?”
Boone didn’t back down. “Are you?”
“No.” Gannon ripped his arm away and stalked over to the bar. Boone allowed it. He believed him, was the thing. The doctor’s distaste for the Legion, bordering on outright hatred, was obvious. And besides, there was no way anyone with the Legion was that good with energy weapons. Boone sighed. He hated having to apologize.
He followed the doctor to the bar, and took a seat next to him. “I’m sorry.”
“Sorry for attacking me or for assuming that I was Legion?”
Boone shrugged. “Both.”
Gannon nodded. “All right. As long as you don’t flip out on me again, you can consider it forgiven. I suppose I should’ve anticipated that reaction from you before I said something in Latin.”
“How do you know it, anyway?” Boone asked, curious.
“Do you think Caesar was the only one to ever speak Latin? Where do you think he learned it?”
Boone hadn’t really considered what Caesar’s life was like before he formed the Legion, but he supposed the man hadn’t sprung forth fully-formed and ready to wage war. He shrugged.
Gannon sighed. “He used to be a Follower.”
Boone stared. “What?” He didn’t know what he expected, but it certainly wasn’t that.
Gannon gave a rueful laugh. “I know. It’s been kept pretty quiet, both by him and the Followers—no one would look good if it got out.”
Yeah, that was an understatement. Boone wondered how Gannon had discovered that, since—given Boone’s rough estimate of his age—he’d been barely alive when the Legion was established. There was no way he’d been with the Followers back then.
“Anyway,” the doctor continued, “there’s a lot of Latin terminology in medicine, so most Followers know a little. He learned more.”
So had Gannon, if his earlier unconscious familiarity with the language was any indication.
“He was good with languages, which is why he was sent on an outreach mission to a group of tribals. He was kidnapped by members of another tribe, and decided that the only logical thing to do”—derision was clear in his voice—“was to help them wipe out their enemies.” He grimaced. “Then he realized that he enjoyed a spot of brutal, merciless conquest, and kept going. After annihilating a few more tribes, he decided to style his regime after ancient Rome, and adopted the name ‘Caesar’—I suppose he figured it sounded more impressive than ‘Edward Sallow’.”
Boone had never even thought about the fact that the man probably wasn’t born with the name ‘Caesar’.
“And Voila!” the doctor finished, gesturing sardonically. “Thus began the Legion.”
“Huh.” That was... a lot. “How do you know all this?” There was no way any of what Gannon had just told him was common knowledge, even—maybe especially—inside the Legion.
Gannon raised an eyebrow. “I’m very smart,” he said dryly.
That wasn’t an answer, but Boone knew that it was all he was going to get. Fine by him. Sure, he was curious, but a man was allowed to have secrets. And as long as Gannon wasn’t working for the Legion—and there was no way he’d have told him any of that if he were—Boone was okay with letting him keep them.
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
Boone didn’t forget how badly Gannon had startled when he’d grabbed him, though. Now that he knew what to look for, he started paying a bit more attention to their resident doctor.
The first thing that became obvious was how constantly on edge he was—flinching at sudden movements and noises, never being quite relaxed unless his back was to a wall.
He also had a bad reaction to being given orders, and Boone noticed that, while the Courier was normally quite happy telling people what to do, she took pains to avoid doing so with the doctor.
Boone was well acquainted with the signs of PTSD, both in his fellow soldiers and in himself, and he knew that often bringing attention to it wouldn’t help anything, so he was content to let it lie.
After the first time Boone found him unresponsive and staring vacantly into space, however, he decided to ask the Courier what he should do.
She winced. “Yeah, he gets like that sometimes. Usually he comes back to himself after a bit, but if it goes on longer than a couple minutes, you should try to get him to snap out of it. Make sure not to touch him, though!” she hastened to add. “That has historically ended... badly for all parties involved.”
“I wasn’t planning on it.” Gannon had been fully aware when Boone had caught him by surprise and had still almost shot him; Boone didn’t want to know what would happen if he tried to grab him in the middle of a flashback.
“Good.” She shook her head. “Honestly, I usually try to throw a pillow at him. I always feel bad about it, but it’s worked so far and he hasn’t told me to stop.”
Well, Boone had taken worse advice. He nodded, hoping that he wouldn’t have to use it.
Over time, Gannon seemed to calm down somewhat in his presence. He stopped startling quite so much, initiated casual contact (which Boone pretended to reluctantly suffer), and no longer tensed when Boone or the Courier were behind him, as if he trusted them to watch his back.
The nightmares, though, didn’t seem to improve. Admittedly, Boone hadn’t really paid much attention to them at first; Gannon’s were usually quieter than Boone and the Courier’s. He could sometimes hear the doctor softly whimpering from the next room at night, but it hadn’t seemed like a big deal, so he ignored it. But then he’d actually been present when one took place.
It had been a particularly exhausting day. They'd been ambushed by an unusually vicious pack of Fiends, which normally wouldn’t have been a problem, but they were still recovering from an earlier run-in with a cazador nest. Then, to top it all off, a pair of deathclaws had attacked them and they might’ve died if it hadn’t been for Gannon coming in clutch with a Tesla cannon that Boone hadn’t even known he had.
As Boone was about to head to bed, he heard a noise from one of the couches, and when he went over to check, he found Gannon, asleep. He was twitching and mumbling under his breath, almost inaudibly. Boone couldn’t make out much of what he was saying, but he thought that some of it might have been in Latin.
He was going to leave the doctor undisturbed, assuming that he could deal with his dreams on his own time, but then he paused. Gannon was oddly rigid, as if he were unconsciously afraid of drawing too much attention. Even so, his body was wracked with tremors. He was making small, pained noises, and his eyes were flickering back and forth under his lids almost frantically. Still, Boone was hesitating to interfere when, out of nowhere, Gannon flinched violently, letting out a terrified whimper. That was probably not good.
Deciding to take the Courier’s advice, Boone grabbed a pillow, and, moving a respectable distance away, gently lobbed it at the doctor.
He jerked awake with a cry, his eyes snapping open and his gaze darting frantically around the room. When he saw Boone, he initially relaxed (Boone refused to let himself feel touched by that), before tensing up again once he realized the vulnerable position Boone had seen him in.
Boone didn’t know how to put him at ease so he just sort of stood there awkwardly, waiting for the doctor’s breathing to calm down a little.
Gannon shakily exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “Hey Boone.”
“Doc.” Boone paused. If it were him, he’d just want to pretend nothing had happened, but maybe Gannon was different. “Do you want to talk about it?”
Gannon laughed humorlessly. “Don’t even want to think about it, so no, not exactly.”
Boone nodded. “All right.” That was probably for the best. He was shit at comforting people. Still, if the doctor didn’t want to talk, maybe Boone could help another way. He gestured at the bar. “Do you want some coffee?”
Gannon stared at him, then shrugged, huffing out an amused breath. “Yeah, all right. Why not?”
Boone stayed up with him until he’d stopped shaking. He finally crawled into bed hours later, and, even knowing how little sleep he was about to get, he couldn’t bring himself to regret it.
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
The Courier, Gannon, and Boone were wandering in the suburbs to the east of Vegas, once again indulging the Courier’s favored pastime of walking into random people’s houses to see what she’d find—somehow, she hadn’t been shot for it yet.
As soon as they entered this house, though, they were overwhelmed with a rancid stench that Boone was unfortunately familiar with. Someone had died there, and it had been at least a week ago, judging by the severity of the smell.
The Courier recoiled, pulling her shirt up to cover her nose and mouth. “Oh god, that’s just nasty.”
Boone agreed wholeheartedly. He half-wanted to just turn around and leave right now.
Gannon, on the other hand, appeared unaffected, save for the grim expression on his face. He strode past them, heading for the bathroom, where the smell seemed to be coming from, and opening the door. He sighed, shoulders slumping minutely, visibly unsurprised but disappointed nonetheless.
The Courier and Boone followed, peering over his shoulder. The smell was stronger here, and the Courier visibly gagged. Boone barely refrained from following suit. There was a body in the bathtub. Boone mentally revised his estimate of how long it had been there. The strong smell wasn’t because the body had been decomposing for a week, but rather because of the intestines spilling out of its torso.
Gannon walked into the bathroom, examining the scene with a critical eye. Boone knew he must have seen a lot of gore as a doctor, but he still wouldn’t have expected him to be so unmoved by the gruesome sight.
“What the hell happened?” the Courier asked, muffled by her shirt.
“She did,” the doctor replied. He knelt down, carefully avoiding the worst of the mess, and looked closer, considering. “She tried to stab herself in the heart first, but when she couldn’t punch through the sternum, she moved to her abdomen instead.” He grimaced. “Sloppy job, though.”
At Boone’s look of confusion, he elaborated. “The angle she chose would’ve entailed several hours of agony before death. The better approach would’ve been to aim up through the ribcage to get to the heart that way—or just bypass all of that and go straight for the carotid—but I’m guessing she didn’t get much anatomical training.”
Boone wasn’t sure how he could even tell that the bloated corpse was female, let alone the rest of that. More concerning, though, was the detached, cold analysis and judgment of the dead woman’s chosen method of suicide.
“Christ, Doc. Given a lot of thought to how you’d kill yourself?” he asked, mostly rhetorically.
“Yes,” Gannon replied, far too matter-of-factly for comfort.
“Oh.” Boone didn’t really know what to say to that.
The doctor dusted off his hands and stood, still grimly impassive. “We can’t do anything for her now.” He brushed past the Courier and Boone as he left.
Boone looked to the Courier as he heard the front door close. “Is he okay?”
She shook her head and didn’t answer, which did not fill Boone with confidence.
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
While Gannon had been meeting with a colleague at the Mormon Fort, the Courier and Boone encountered a professor who’d asked them to clear out a nest of geckos because she wanted to gather some samples there. Or something to that effect; Boone hadn’t really been paying attention. She seemed to be one of those academic types who liked to hear herself talk more than listen to anyone else. But hey, caps were caps, and it’s not like he was put out by not having to make conversation.
So, they met back up with Gannon, once he finished whatever business he’d had with the other Followers—Boone didn’t pretend to pay much attention to that either—and the three of them headed out to kill some geckos. It was the most underwhelming fight they’d had in weeks. Boone was hardly even sure it deserved the term. It had lasted maybe a minute, if Boone were feeling generous with his estimate. But on the bright side, it hadn’t wasted much of their time. Besides, he wasn’t exactly going to complain about things being easy for once.
This time with Gannon in tow, they headed back to the professor, who brightened when the doctor entered the room.
“You didn’t tell me you were friends with a Follower!” she exclaimed, delighted.
The Courier raised an eyebrow. “I’m friends with a lot of people.”
“Yes, yes, I’m sure,” the other woman dismissed. “But,” she said, addressing Gannon, “you look like a learned man; you must take some time to speak with me! I’m sure it’s been a long time since you’ve had some intelligent conversation, traveling with your companions.” She paused, evidently realizing what she’d just said. “Er... no offense.”
Boone couldn’t care less what some stuffy academic thought of him, and judging by the Courier’s eye roll, she felt the same.
Gannon seemed tense, though Boone doubted it was in response to the slight against his companions’ intellect. “I’m afraid I have to decline. My last... conversation partner and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye. It’s rather put me off philosophical discussions for the time being.”
The Courier winced, clearly aware of context that Boone was missing.
“Oh, but there’s no better way than to get right back on the horse!” the professor said, disregarding his words. “And don’t be so cynical—disagreements are what academic conversations are all about! What better way to develop your opinions than to have them challenged?” Ignorant of how uncomfortable Gannon clearly was, she continued. “In fact—what was their name? I’m familiar with most academics in the area; perhaps we’re already acquainted.”
Gannon smiled thinly. “I sincerely doubt that. And our differences of opinion went rather beyond textual interpretation.”
She sighed. “Well, I suppose I can’t force you. But if you change your mind...” she trailed off, as if she expected him to have reconsidered in the last five seconds. He didn’t say anything. “Well, you know where we are.”
“I assure you that the next time I find myself yearning for some... ‘intelligent conversation’, as you put it,” he said, dryly, “I know where I’ll go.”
She nodded in satisfaction, still happily oblivious as to Gannon’s obvious distaste. “Good. I look forward to it.” She directed her attention back to the Courier. “I’m sorry for getting sidetracked. Still, I’m sure you understand. One must look for opportunities where one can.”
The Courier shrugged. “Sure.”
“Now, how much do I owe you again? I’m afraid I’m not quite familiar with the going rates for this type of work.”
“Usual pay for something like this would be around 400 caps,” the Courier informed her. Boone raised an eyebrow, but didn’t say anything about the blatant overcharging. It’s not like he was feeling particularly generous toward the woman either.
She sighed. “Yes, I suppose that sounds fair. Give me one moment.” She turned to rummage in her drawers, before pulling out a bag and handing it to them. “There, that should cover it.”
The Courier nodded. “Pleasure doing business with you.” Her tone made it clear it had been nothing of the sort, but Boone doubted the professor would notice.
“Yes, you as well.”
The trio started to leave.
“And,” the professor added, addressing Gannon again, “you will consider my offer, won’t you?”
“Don’t worry; I’m not likely to forget it any time soon.” If his tone were any drier, the Mojave would be in for some serious competition.
With that, they departed, leaving the oblivious woman behind.
The doctor still radiated discomfort, and Boone tried to put him at ease. “Well, I can’t say that she’s given me the best impression of academia. Was your ‘last conversation partner’ anything like her? Because if so, I can see why you wouldn’t want to deal with that again.”
Gannon tensed even more at that. “No,” he answered, tersely. “He wasn’t.” He sped up, leaving Boone and the Courier behind. Boone noted the Courier’s frantic head-shaking, and decided not to fuck things up even more by pursuing the matter. He didn’t bring it up again.
(Gannon’s nightmares were worse that night.)
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
Boone and the Courier were leaving the Tops—the Courier with a new 9mm pistol and the smug satisfaction of a job done right—when a man approached them.
“Courier,” he said.
The Courier bared her teeth. “Vulpes.”
He chuckled. “I see you’ve learned my name since we last met.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“I wouldn’t dream of it.” He seemed unaffected by her blatant hostility.
“What do you want, Vulpes?” she demanded. “And what the fuck are you doing here, anyway?”
“To give you this.” He proffered a golden coin. “The mark of Caesar. It offers safe passage to the Fort. Your crimes against the Legion—many and varied as they are—are hereby forgiven.”
“Gee, thanks.” She didn’t take the coin. “Guess I’ll have to start committing some more to make up for it. Way to undo all of my progress.”
He ignored her. “I assume you’re wondering why I’m offering you this.”
“Well, now that you mention it, I am a little curious,” she said, flatly. “Last I checked, you guys were sending assassins after me.”
“Caesar wishes to speak with you.”
She blinked, taken aback. Yeah, Boone wouldn’t know what to say to that either.
“You're joking, right? Are we talking about the same Caesar? What the fuck does he have to say to me? And why the hell do you think I would go?”
Vulpes shrugged. “Because I’ve made it onto the Strip, undetected and unaccosted. And all of your empty posturing doesn’t hide the fact that you’re very, very scared about what else I could do here. Caesar wants to speak with you. There are other things that he also wants, and if you deny him this one then he just might choose to take another in its stead.”
The Courier paled. Boone didn’t know what he was talking about, but she very clearly did. And it terrified her.
“Fine,” she growled, fury in her gaze as she snatched the coin from his hand.
He smiled. “I’m glad we could come to an agreement.” Boone wanted to punch the smug look off of his face.
He finally turned to leave, before pausing and looking back at the Courier. “Oh, and please convey that Caesar sends his regards.”
Convey to whom, Boone wasn’t quite sure, but it seemed the Courier did, because she glared even more venomously. “You know I won’t.” There was acid in her voice.
Vulpes shrugged. “I’m sure the message will be received nonetheless.” With that, he walked away, melting into the crowd.
Boone and the Courier watched his retreating back in silence. Eventually, the Courier spoke again. “We need to get supplies from the Lucky 38 before we head out.”
“You can’t be serious.” To say that Boone was surprised would be an understatement. “You’re actually doing this?”
Her face was grim but determined. “I don’t have much of a choice.” Boone didn’t understand what exactly Vulpes had threatened her with—and it had been a threat; that much was clear—but apparently she wasn’t taking any chances.
She turned to him. “I know how you feel about the Legion, Boone. And I’m not going to lie; this is probably a trap. I’m not going to make you come with me if you don’t want to.”
“You sure you wouldn’t rather take Gannon?” If this were a trap, odds are she’d need a doctor. He was easier to underestimate, too. And having someone around who spoke Latin could turn out to be useful, especially if the Legion weren’t aware that he understood it.
Her face hardened. “No.” The tone of her voice made it clear that it was not up for discussion.
All right, then. They were doing this. “I’m definitely not letting you walk into there alone. And if it does turn out to be a trap, well. There’s no way I’d rather go out than taking down a bunch of those bastards with me.”
Her voice softened, just a little. “Thank you.” She looked him in the eye. “I mean it, Boone. I know this can’t be easy for you. And I’m really sorry to ask it of you. So thank you for doing it anyway.”
He nodded.
They both walked back in silence. Nothing more needed to be said.
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
When they got to the Lucky 38, the Courier took them up to the presidential suite and immediately made a beeline for her room, opening the locker at the foot of her bed and starting to pile weapons into her bag.
Boone wasn’t sure she needed three different shotguns, but he wasn’t going to argue. Better to overprepare than underprepare, after all. And, when walking into Legion territory, Boone wasn’t sure there was such a thing as overprepared.
The Courier looked at him from where she was trying to fit a grenade rifle in her bag. Boone wasn’t sure where she’d gotten one of those. “You should grab your stuff too. I don’t know what we’re gonna need, but better safe than sorry.” Clearly, they were thinking along the same lines.
Boone nodded, and headed to his room to pack another rifle and extra ammo, and, after a moment’s hesitation, threw a few pistols in there as well. He also swung by the bathroom, dipping heavily into the stash of stimpacks and chems that Gannon maintained there. He knew the Courier already had some, but this was another area where there was no such thing as too much preparation.
By the time he made it back to her, she was almost finished packing up. “Got everything?” she asked.
He nodded. “Just about.”
“Good.”
Someone cleared their throat behind them and they both whirled around. Gannon stood there, his arms crossed and an unreadable expression on his face.
“Going somewhere?”
The Courier stood up, a guilty look on her face. “Oh, hey Arcade... I um... didn’t see you there.”
He raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “I gathered.”
There was an awkward silence. The Courier obviously didn’t want to tell the doctor where they were going. Boone understood—he couldn’t imagine that the other man would approve—but he figured that, since they were likely going to need to be patched up by him when they came back (if they came back), it was the least they could do to let him know why.
“Headed to the Fort,” he said.
Gannon went impressively still. “Might I ask why?” His voice was calm and controlled.
The Courier glared at Boone, but evidently decided that there was no point in trying to hide it anymore. “Vulpes Inculta found us when we left the Tops and told us Caesar wanted to talk to me,” she said, carefully.
“I see,” he said, icily. “And you neglected to inform me that the leader of the Frumentarii had infiltrated the Vegas strip—why, exactly?”
Of course Gannon knew exactly who the Courier was talking about. Hell, he probably knew more about Inculta than the Courier did, and she was clearly personally acquainted with him. Boone, on the other hand, didn’t even know what the fuck a “Frumentarii” was.
The Courier winced. “I didn’t want to worry you?” Boone could tell that excuse wasn’t going to fly.
The doctor’s face hardened. “You thought that it would worry me less to find out several hours after the fact?”
“Well—”
“I know you’re not about to say that you didn’t want me to find out at all.” He glared.
She raised her hands in surrender. “All right.”
Gannon did not appear mollified. “And now you’re actually going to the fucking Fort? Because Caesar ‘wants to talk to you’?” His voice was steadily rising. “Have you lost your goddamn mind?” This was the angriest Boone had ever seen him.
“Okay, this?” the Courier said, gesturing between them. “This right here is why I didn’t want to tell you. Because I knew you’d lose your shit and it’s, frankly, not what I want to deal with at the moment.”
“Oh, so now this is my fault?” Gannon cried. “Last I checked, I wasn’t the one who decided it would be a great idea to waltz into the home base of a genocidal maniac who—need I remind you—has been sending assassins after you for months!”
“And you know perfectly well why I agreed to do it!” the Courier yelled, and he recoiled as if she’d just punched him.
“Shit,” the Courier said, realizing that she’d fucked up.
It would be nice if one of them would let Boone in on whatever context he clearly needed to understand the turn the conversation had taken, but he knew he was destined for disappointment.
“Arcade, you know I didn’t mean—”
“No, it’s fine,” Gannon said, all the fight drained out of him. “I’m sorry; I just... you know this is definitely a trap, right?”
“Yeah,” she said, almost apologetic. “I know.”
He shook his head. “It’s a terrible idea.”
“I know that too.”
“And there’s nothing I can do to convince you not to go.”
She gave a weak smile. “There isn’t.”
He sighed, shoulders slumping.
“They’re going to take your weapons as soon as you get there,” he said, defeated. “They don’t search too thoroughly, though, so you should be able to bring anything you can sneak into one of the casinos. They’ll try to confiscate any chems you have too, but if you say that you need them for some health condition, you’ll probably be allowed to keep them. Caesar doesn’t allow chems, so they won’t know the difference between a stimpack and turbo. They’ll just view it as weak profligate dependency on unnatural substances.”
At this point, Boone didn’t even bother wondering how Gannon knew all of this. He was just glad that he'd apparently decided that if he couldn’t talk them out of it, he might as well do his best to make sure they survived.
Though Gannon looked like he was already regretting it, he continued. “Once you’re there, there’s no way you’re getting out until Caesar lets you leave. He wants you there for something, and, whatever it is, you’re either going to have to do it or convince him that you have. I don’t know what it is he wants from you that he couldn’t send a Legionary to do instead, but I can guarantee that it’s not good.” He looked exhausted, the dim lighting of the presidential suite only serving to accentuate the hollows of his cheekbones and the bags beneath his eyes. “You’re going to have to decide whether you’re willing to do it, and then, one way or another, you’re going to have to live with the consequences.”
Boone knew a thing or two about living with the consequences of what he’d done at someone else’s command. He couldn’t say he was eager to do it again. But he also wasn’t going to let the Courier go into the belly of the beast by herself.
“Thanks for the advice, Doc.” He said. His words were flippant, but he held the doctor's gaze and hoped that his serious tone conveyed his gratitude at the other man’s support.
Gannon sighed, looking more tired than Boone had ever seen him. “Yeah,” he said dully. “Don’t mention it.”
Then he looked at the Courier. “If you don’t come back, I’m going after you.” His voice brooked no argument.
She paled. “Don’t you dare. I mean it, Arcade.” There was a tinge of desperation in her tone.
“Well, then,” he said, holding her gaze. “I guess you’d better make sure I don't have to.”
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
Boone stood outside a tent, surrounded by Legionaries and weaponless aside from a knife Manny had given him before their falling-out. As he listened to the Courier make small talk with a murderous dictator, he mentally regretted every decision he’d ever made that had led him to this point.
Caesar was saying something about how impressed he was that the Courier had killed House, and how he'd been looking forward to talking with her. Boone mostly tuned it out, until—
“I appreciate you coming to speak with me,” Caesar said. “It makes for a nice change of pace. After all, I've been starved for intelligent conversation ever since you stole my doctor.”
“Arcade didn't belong to you,” the Courier scoffed, disgusted. “You can't own people.”
Boone froze. Well, shit. Things were starting to make sense.
“Yes, he said that too,” Caesar mused wistfully. “You know, he was the only one who ever dared to argue with me.”
“I can't imagine why,” she replied snidely. “Not when you'd have them crucified for it.”
Caesar was unperturbed. “A firm hand is needed to prevent unrest.” He sighed. “But, luckily for you, you have something I want, so I’m willing to overlook your transgressions for now.”
The Courier bristled. “There’s no way I’m going to—”
Caesar cut her off, exasperated. “Something else I want. However scintillating our conversations were, I’m hardly going to go to such extreme lengths for one man. No, I’m talking about the platinum chip.”
“...What about it?” The Courier’s words were careful now, almost hesitant.
Boone listened to them talk about a bunker that apparently housed an army of Securitrons, only half-paying attention. Christ. No wonder Gannon was so well-informed about the Legion. Boone wondered how he’d fallen into their hands. Had someone sold him out, like Carla? Had the Legion been looking for a doctor specifically, or had his talents been discovered later, after his capture? Why had he attracted Caesar’s personal attention? And fuck, what had he been subjected to during that time?
Boone knew what happened to normal people captured by the Legion; he couldn’t imagine that the experience of someone under Caesar’s direct control could be anything but much, much worse. He shivered. It was no surprise the doctor was so fucked up. It was honestly a miracle that he was functioning as well as he was.
The conversation in the tent was wrapping up, Caesar instructing the Courier to destroy the contents of the bunker, probably through judicious use of explosives. Well. Boone couldn’t say he wasn’t in a mood to blow some shit up.
After bidding Caesar a sarcastic farewell, the Courier left the tent, expression unreadable. “Come on, Boone; we’ve got a bunker to explode.”
He followed her to the weather station in silence. When their weapons were returned to them, he (again) briefly entertained the thought of taking out as many Legionaries as he could before they killed him, but discarded the idea as impractical. It wouldn’t do anything except leave the Courier unprotected.
They descended into the bunker. As soon as they were alone, Boone spoke up. “So. That’s how he knows so much about the Legion.”
The Courier tightened her grip on her gun. “He doesn’t like to talk about it. And I don’t blame him. But from what I’ve gathered, Caesar needed a doctor and so they went out and acquired one. After Arcade did whatever operation they wanted him for, they kept him alive, partially because having such a skilled doctor at their disposal was useful, and partially because Caesar was amused by how Arcade was willing to call him an idiot to his face.”
Boone thought about that for a minute. “I knew something had happened to make him so twitchy, but I hadn’t expected that.”
“I’d be shocked if you had.”
“I’m surprised he’s held up as well as he has.” That was an understatement. If Boone had been in that position, he’d have given up within the week, let alone however long Gannon had to have endured. No wonder the doctor had mentioned contemplating suicide.
Boone was almost impressed. He hadn’t thought his hatred of the Legion was capable of sinking to even deeper levels. Apparently, he was wrong.
He followed the Courier lower into the bunker. He’d never been looking forward to blowing something up more.
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
When they returned, they were ushered back to the tent, Boone’s satisfaction at the explosion already waning. He was once again forced to wait outside and listen to Caesar’s gloating.
The bastard actually had the guts to thank the Courier as if she had been providing him a favor, rather than having been blackmailed into striking a blow to one of his enemies. True, House was already dead, and he hadn’t exactly been on their side either, so it’s not like Boone was going to lose any sleep over it, but still.
At least Caesar had decided to keep this conversation short, and it was already coming to an end.
“Goodbye, Courier. I hope our next meeting will be just as fruitful as this one.”
“I don’t,” she said bitterly, as she started to leave.
“Oh,” Caesar called after her. She stopped in her tracks. “And when you get back to Arcade, do tell him I look forward to seeing him again.”
“Over my dead body,” she snarled. Boone appreciated the sentiment, but thought that perhaps it could wait until she wasn’t literally in the same room as a murderous dictator and his honor guard. Luckily, Caesar seemed to find her disagreement amusing.
He laughed. “I guess we’ll see.”
“Yeah,” she muttered, as she stomped out of the tent. “I guess we will.”
.-.. .. -. . -... .-. . .- -.-
When they stepped inside the Lucky 38, they saw Gannon, pale and tense, sitting at one of the tables near the entrance. Boone wondered how long he’d been waiting for them to come back. Wondered whether he’d expected them to come back at all.
As soon as he saw them, he jumped up, relief breaking over his features as he rushed to meet them. “Thank god you’re okay! Are you okay?” His eyes rapidly scanned the both of them, searching for any new injuries.
The Courier stepped forward and grabbed him in a hug. “We’re okay, Arcade,” she reassured, gripping the back of his neck in an effort to ease his trembling. She carded her fingers through his hair as he took deep, shuddering breaths.
After a few moments, he managed to recover enough to speak. “What did he want?” His voice was muffled by the Courier’s shoulder.
“For us to destroy House’s Securitron army, apparently. It was probably made a lot easier by the fact that House was already dead,” she answered.
“And that’s it? He didn’t make you do anything else?” He pulled back a bit, examining her face for any traces of a lie.
“Nothing else, Arcade; I promise,” she said, firmly.
He looked to Boone, who nodded in confirmation. “We just had to blow up a bunker and then we were out of there.”
The doctor evidently believed them, letting out a sigh of relief and falling back into the Courier’s embrace. “Thank fuck,” he said, voice muffled once more. “Oh, fuck, I was so worried.”
They stood like that for a bit, the Courier rubbing her hand on Arcade’s back and whispering reassurances, while he clung to her and slowly relaxed, losing the tension that had been present since before they had even left for the Fort.
Boone shifted on his feet awkwardly and waited for them to calm each other down—it was clear that they both needed this. When they finally pulled away from each other, he cleared his throat.
“I’d like to talk to Gannon alone for a minute if that’s all right,” he requested.
The Courier eyed him for a long moment, assessing, before she nodded. “I should head to bed anyway; it’s been a long day. I’ll be up in the suite if you need me.” She tossed Arcade an encouraging glance, deliberately choosing to ignore his panicked expression, and stepped into the elevator, doors closing behind her.
Boone sat down at the table Arcade had vacated when they’d come in. It was littered with stimpacks, tourniquets, and just about just about every other type of medical supplies he could imagine. It was easy to picture the doctor sitting alone in the Lucky 38, terrified that they wouldn’t return and frantically preparing for whatever state they’d be in if they did.
After a brief hesitation, Arcade sat down next to him.
It fell on Boone to break the silence.
“Apparently, you’ve been missed.”
The doctor sighed heavily and ran a hand through his hair. “I suppose it was too much to hope that he wouldn’t say anything.”
He hadn’t wanted Boone to know—that much was obvious. If it was just because he didn’t want to talk about it, that was one thing, and Boone could hardly blame him. But there was another, less appealing possibility, and Boone needed to make sure there wasn’t any miscommunication.
“It must have taken a hell of a lot of strength to make it through that. Especially when you didn't know you were ever getting out. You didn’t think I'd judge you for it, did you?”
Arcade grimaced. “Not exactly. But I knew you'd ask why I didn't kill him.”
Well, he wasn’t wrong.
Boone nodded. “The Courier said they had you perform surgery on him; you must’ve been able to fuck it up intentionally.” Sure, he would’ve been executed right after, but Boone highly doubted that he would’ve considered that relevant.
The doctor laughed bitterly. “Oh, they’d thought of that. They said that if he died, they’d kill all the slaves in the camp. Some they’d crucify, others they’d have torn apart by dogs, and still others they’d—well.”
Boone wasn’t sure what was so bad that the other man had decided not to mention it, but it was the Legion; it couldn’t have been anything good.
“And...” Arcade sighed, rueful. “I know you’ll hate me for saying it, but I was kind of glad they did. That way I didn’t have a choice. Because if I’d had to choose...” He shook his head. “I honestly don’t know what I would have done. He’s a monster who’s done terrible things and will undoubtedly do countless more. But... I also swore an oath. Primum non nocere. And I don’t know if I could look at a person who needs my help—asks for my help—and refuse them. That’s what worries me the most about being captured again. Not the torture, or the threats. But the possibility that Caesar would ask me for medical aid and I would give it to him. Because I honestly think I might.”
He chuckled humorlessly. “I know that’s not what you wanted to hear.”
He was right. It wasn’t. But probably not for the reasons he thought. Maybe it would’ve been different if his reluctance had been out of indifference to the Legion’s crimes, but Arcade wasn’t oblivious to the harm the Legion did. He knew, even better than Boone, the danger they posed and the atrocities they’d committed. To have suffered so much at their hands and still hold strong to his ideals, well. Boone wouldn’t have done the same, but he couldn’t fault the other man for it.
“Look, Gannon, I don’t know what it’s like to be a doctor. But I doubt that anyone goes into that profession without feeling strongly about preserving life. And I can’t imagine that would’ve been easy when surrounded by raping, torturing, murderous bastards. Do I wish you’d killed him?” He shrugged. “Of course. But I also don’t blame you.”
Arcade flashed him something that was probably an attempt at a smile but instead came off as a pained grimace. It was obvious that, while Boone may not blame him, Arcade certainly did.
Boone sighed. He didn’t really want to talk about this, but given that the doctor had just bared his soul to him, it was only fair to return the favor.
“Have you ever heard of Bitter Springs?” he asked, already dreading how this was going to go.
Arcade nodded, looking a little confused. “Yeah, the Courier asked me to help train the medic there. Lieutenant Markland, if I remember right. He seemed like a good guy and he learned pretty quickly.” He shrugged. “Aside from that, I don’t really know anything about it; I wasn’t there long. Why do you ask?”
“Yeah, well.” Boone took a breath. “It used to be a Great Khan encampment. My unit got sent there to... ‘clean it out’, they called it. When we arrived, something seemed... off. None of them had any weapons, and most were either kids or too old to fight. We radioed back to command, told them what we were seeing. They didn’t care. Told us to shoot ‘til we were out of ammo.” He scoffed bitterly. “So we did. Then we got back, and found out we’d been sent there on faulty information. That was where the Khans kept their sick, their elderly, their children. They were noncombatants. And we killed them all just because someone told us to.”
He didn’t really want to see Arcade’s expression—he knew that it’d be full of horror and disgust—but he made himself look anyway. And there were traces of that on his face, but there was also sympathy.
“My point is, Doc,” he continued, “as far as doing things you blame yourself for goes, saving a life isn’t the worst one out there.”
Arcade was silent for a minute. Boone waited.
“Look, Boone. I’m not going to lie; that’s fucked up.” Wow, he really was a master of understatement.
“But,” the doctor continued, “you regret it. And you wouldn’t have done it if you’d known.”
Boone nodded in affirmation, though it was probably unnecessary.
“And I’ve saved the lives of dozens of Legionaries who’ve done far worse than that—intentionally—and will do so again. So yeah, I wouldn’t have done what you did, and you wouldn’t have done what I did. But we’re both here now; we’ve both gotten out, and we’re trying to help people. That’s—I have to believe that’s what matters.”
“Yeah.” Boone said. “I hope so too.”
They sat there in a companionable silence for a bit before Boone decided to break it. He gestured at the table, and all the medical supplies on it. “I see you planned ahead.” He looked a little closer. “I don’t even know what half of these are.”
Arcade huffed out a laugh. “I didn’t know what condition you guys were going to be in when you got back. I figured it was safest to prepare for anything.”
Boone smiled. “Well, that’s a good philosophy to have. Though I’m glad you didn’t have to use them.”
“Believe me, Boone, so am I.”
Yeah, Boone could believe that. The doctor still seemed slightly giddy with relief, almost disbelieving with the way his eyes kept unconsciously roving over Boone, as if reminding himself that this was real, double checking that it wasn’t a figment of his imagination or wishful thinking.
Boone knew there wasn’t anything he could do to help with that. Arcade would have to come to that conclusion on his own. But he could at least help carry all that shit on the table. “We should probably bring it all back upstairs.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” Arcade said, as the ghost of a teasing smile crept over his face. “Having it right by the door might come in handy the next time one of you gets injured doing something stupid again.”
Boone laughed. “Oh, c’mon Doc; that wouldn’t help. It’s not like you’d be back here, waiting. You’d be right there with us, yelling at us the whole time.
Arcade chuckled. “You know me too well.”
“I don’t know. Blowing up the bunker wasn’t as fun without you there, telling us to stop being idiots.”
All right, that was bordering dangerously close to sentimentality. Boone cleared his throat. “Anyway, we should get to bed.” Boone examined the doctor with a critical eye, taking in the messy hair, rumpled clothing, and bags beneath his eyes. “When was the last time you slept, anyway? Please tell me you didn’t stay up the entire time we were gone.”
Arcade glared at Boone, as if the thought of taking care of his own health had personally offended him. “Don’t be ridiculous; there was no way I was going to risk not being awake when you got back.”
Boone was also pretty sure that the doctor had been so stressed he wouldn’t have been able to fall asleep if he’d tried, but he’d hoped that Arcade would at least have made an attempt. Still, he supposed he couldn’t fault the other man for caring about them. Fuck, there was that sentimentality again. Clearly Arcade wasn’t the only one who needed rest.
Boone clapped Arcade on the shoulder, making sure to broadcast his movements beforehand (seeing no reason to take chances, especially given the night they'd had), and stood up. “C’mon, time for bed. If I have to drag you there, I will.”
Arcade smiled, standing up as well. “Don’t worry; you’ll get no arguments from me.”
Together, they got in the elevator and headed to the presidential suite.
It wasn’t until Boone was about to fall asleep that he realized they’d left all the medical supplies downstairs. Oh well, he thought. We can get to those tomorrow.
After all, they had plenty of time.